![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Title: Knightly Virtues
Author:![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bluflamingo
Fandom: King Arthur
Pairing: None
Rating: PG
Words: 2865
Feedback: Yes please. Even if it’s bad. Especially if it’s bad.
Disclaimer: No, I don't own them, for which I should think they're profoundly grateful.
AN1: Written for the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
fandom_deja_vu First Time challenge.
Summary: Galahad and swords don’t exactly mix, as Gawain finds out.
“Look.” Gawain takes a deep breath and tries to be patient. Galahad’s two years younger than the youngest of them there, and he just lost his brother, then got transferred to a totally new unit. Gawain’s sure he’s usually more personable, less irritating.
“Look,” he says again, looking down at Galahad’s trusting, frustrated face and wishing anyone else had been chosen to train him. “I know you think you’re good at this, but that’s just in practice, with me. It’s different on the battle field.”
“I’m not a child.” Muttering and scowling as he is, Gawain can’t help thinking he looks like one. The empire must have been desperate to take him in the first place. He barely even knows how to hold a sword, and Gawain can’t imagine what he *did* as a knight for the three years it’s taken him to get attached to Arthur’s duty. The only thing he’s really good with is horses.
“I know you’re not,” Gawain soothes. He remembers, just, being Galahad’s age, being a brand new, clueless knight, and shudders to think how much they all must have annoyed their training officers. Maybe this is his punishment. “Not everyone can be good at everything, at least not straight away.”
“Tristan is,” Galahad says, definitely sulking now.
“I know, but he’s a one off. I’m sure even he was less skilled once.” The look Galahad gives him matches the way Gawain thinks about that comment, but anything’s worth a try. “All right, look, we’ll try once more. If you can beat me this time, you can try with some of the other knights, and then we’ll see what Arthur thinks.”
Privately, Gawain’s hoping that, with the way Arthur and the other commanders have been bustling round the fort, the mission that must surely be looming will be upon them before Arthur has chance to agree to Galahad coming with them. That would certainly serve to make Gawain’s life a lot easier, though, so he’s not going to hold out too much hope.
“Fine.” Galahad glares up from under his curls, but it doesn’t cover the hope in his eyes. He really does want to do well here and Gawain feels suddenly sympathetic. It’s not Galahad’s fault that he can’t seem to master this.
“All right then.” Gawain draws his sword. Galahad follows and Gawain pretends not to notice the way it sticks in the scabbard as he does. He looks so earnest that Gawain doesn’t have the heart to correct him again. “Ready?”
Galahad nods, his jaw set, his eyes on Gawain’s sword. Gawain nods and Galahad lunges for him. Gawain blocks the blow easily, pushing Galahad’s sword aside with his own. Galahad yanks his sword up and away, bringing it down fast towards Gawain’s sword arm, but Gawain takes a step back, dodging the blow, and swinging his sword up to meet Galahad’s, twisting it back and almost out of his grip. Galahad grunts, in frustration or anger, Gawain can’t tell, and swings again.
They spar in the same pattern for several minutes, Gawain doing the bare minimum to block Galahad’s increasingly clumsy and careless blows, but not pushing his advantage as he would with another opponent. In the back of his mind, under the familiar dance of sword practice, he’s hoping Galahad will retire on his own, without Gawain having to tell him.
It’s foolish hope, though, Gawain realises. Galahad’s determination, which will undoubtedly prove his greatest asset when – if – he masters this, won’t let him give up until he either gets it or is forced to stop. The way his blows are starting to flail, Gawain’s more worried about Galahad injuring himself than he is about him taking no badly.
Gawain steps into Galahad’s next swing, bringing his sword round hard, so that he feels the vibrations all the way up with arms when they meet. He pushes Galahad’s sword aside, down until the tip is resting against the grass at their feet, the sign they’ve been using in training to indicate the end of a round and defeat.
Gawain pulls his own sword away from Galahad’s, half-turning away to find a rag to wipe it on, giving Galahad a moment to collect himself and maybe calm down before he says anything.
On the edge of his vision, Galahad is leaning over his sword, his posture defeated.
And then, suddenly, he isn’t. Gawain registers the blur of movement just fast enough to get his sword up into a defensive position, preparing to block the blow.
For the first time since Gawain started training him, Galahad anticipates correctly and, rather than aiming for Gawain’s body, aims for where the defence position will put his word. Except that, his body tired from training, he doesn’t quite raise his sword high enough. Gawain sees it all, the intention in Galahad’s eyes and the mistake he’s about to make, just in time to think, ‘stupid child,’ and then Galahad’s sword strikes his wrist and Gawain’s on the ground, trying hard not to scream in pain as his vision whites out.
The world fades back in a moment later as Galahad pulls his sword loose, dropping it next to Gawain and falling to his knees, reaching for Gawain’s arm. Gawain cradles his wrist back against his body, feeling blood soaking into his tunic, pain so bad he feels sick.
“Gawain, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Galahad reaches towards him again and Gawain pushes him away with his uninjured hand.
“Don’t touch me.” His voice comes out low and grating, sending Galahad starting backwards, his eyes wide with fear.
“I’ll go, I’ll get –” Galahad babbles and Gawain wants to shake some sense into him.
“Help me up,” he says instead.
Galahad works his arm under Gawain’s and pulls him to his feet carefully, but the motion still jolts Gawain’s wrist until he has to lean against Galahad or fall over, everything swimming before him.
“Are you sure –” Galahad starts, then looks at Gawain and stops.
The short walk across the fort to the surgeon’s rooms is a blur of agony, every step sending bolts of pain shooting up Gawain’s arm. The surgeon isn’t really supposed to treat anyone but the Romans unless they’re dying, but he takes one look at Gawain and shoos him onto the nearest bed, dragging his arm out and prodding it.
“Cracked,” he says and Gawain thinks, ‘him or me?’ right before passing out.
*
When he wakes up again, the pain is mostly gone and he can feel his whole forearm wrapped in some sort of bandage, from his elbow to his fingertips. He must still be in the surgeon’s rooms, because his bed in the knights’ quarters isn’t half as comfortable as this, so he keeps his eyes closed, feigning sleep.
A moment later, he registers voices and wonders how he missed them before. People at the other end of the Wall hear Lancelot yelling.
“You stupid fool! What were you thinking?” Three years of listening to Lancelot and Gawain’s learnt to pick out the nuances in his yelling. This isn’t the first time he’s asked this question, judging from the edge of impatience in his voice.
There’s no reply, but Gawain can feel the sulky silence, now he’s aware enough to try,
“Sword tip down means it’s finished.” Lancelot’s subsided to shouting instead of yelling. “It means no more blows, no more fight, over. What were you doing?”
Someone must have been watching them, for Lancelot to know that, unless Galahad’s been incredibly forthcoming. Maybe he feels guilty, or maybe he’s finally come to his sense, Gawain thinks optimistically.
“I wanted to show him,” Galahad mutters, effectively dashing that hope.
“To show him what?” Lancelot demands. “How stupid you can be? How you should never have been given a sword in the first place? How you thank people for trying to help you?”
Lancelot’s had his ear to the gossip again, clearly. Gawain suspects he only bothers so that he can feed it to Arthur, but whyever he does it, it works much more in his favour than Arthur’s.
“To show him I could fight,” Galahad says. He sounds guilty and defiant, a lot like Lancelot when Arthur pulls him up for something, actually.
“It didn’t work,” Lancelot tells him, his tone ominously final. “You’re not doing any more sword training, not until you’ve grown up a bit. You can stay with the horses and long distance archery until then.”
“That’s not fair.” Galahad sounds so young, Gawain knows he’s only going to make things worse. Lancelot’s patience is hardly legendary at the best of times. “I’m a knight, just like you. You can’t stop me training, I’ll tell Arthur.”
Gawain can’t hide the way he winces at those words.
“You tell Arthur whatever you like,” Lancelot says, calm and cold. “You injured one of his best knights by trying to prove something. You’re lucky the empire’s desperate. Go and report to Jols in the stable, he’ll assign you something to do.”
Galahad doesn’t say anything else, just storms out, followed after a moment by Lancelot.
“You can stop pretending to be sleeping now.”
Gawain doesn’t exactly jump, but the jolt of surprise jerks his wrist painfully and he has to open his eyes just to glare at Tristan, sitting at the foot of Gawain’s bed, stroking his hawk and looking as inscrutable as ever.
“Was that really necessary?”
Tristan twitches his left shoulder minutely, his version of a shrug. “You’re not so interesting that I want to spend my evening watching you pretend to be dead. You’re not very convincing.”
“You could be nicer to me,” Gawain says. “I’m injured.”
“Are you dying?” Tristan doesn’t wait for Gawain to shake his head before he inclines his own in a gesture that clearly says, ‘well, then.’
Gawain gives in. “Who told you I was here?”
“Bors is spreading it round Vanora’s mother’s tavern.”
Gawain can just imagine that. He and Galahad will be the laughing stock of the fort within less than a day. “How’s Galahad?” Tristan looks at him in silence until Gawain gives in – again. “I know, he’s sulking.”
Tristan nods. “You heard him and Lancelot. Arthur will probably back Lancelot.”
“Yes.” Gawain sighs. He’d like to throttle Galahad for being so stupid, for behaving so carelessly and disobeying practice code, but he still feels sorry for him. It can’t be easy, being alone in a new place. At least when he was taken, everyone on the boat was as unsure and alone as he was. Galahad’s just lost his older brother, though, and he’s trying to prove himself to an established group of older knights. Gawain can’t help thinking that assigning him to obey the steward is excessive punishment, and says so.
“Arthur will relieve him in a few days,” Tristan says. “But Lancelot is right, he shouldn’t be training, not yet.”
Gawain’s tempted to point out that they were younger than Galahad when they started fighting, never mind training, but Tristan knows this, and Galahad does seem very young. He’s not ready to fight, not if they can stop him, just as today has shown.
“Where’s Arthur?” he asks, mostly to get them off the subject. Arthur has a reputation for visiting all the sick and injured knights, yet it was Lancelot berating Galahad.
“With the other commanders, preparing. A Councillor and his family are coming from Rome in three weeks.”
Gawain doesn’t bother asking how Tristan knows this – like Lancelot, he appears to hear everything around the fort, and he’s rarely wrong. “What does that concern us for?”
“They stay at his house, north of the Wall, for two weeks. We are to go as guards, then escort them to their next stop.” Even Tristan can’t quite keep his voice flat as he says this.
“I knew there had to be disadvantages to being thought of as fearless,” Gawain grumbles, and to his amazement, a smile flickers across Tristan’s face.
*
Time goes by.
The surgeon sends Gawain back to the knights’ quarters after allowing him one night on a soft bed, and Arthur comes by to tell him to stay away from duty for a while. As Tristan predicted, Arthur releases Galahad from Jols’ command the next day, but refuses to allow him back into the sword practice ring. Gawain doesn’t know what else Arthur says to him, but it gets him an only barely-grudging apology from Galahad, and an offer to look after his horse until his arm heals, which Gawain accepts, more because he can’t stand seeing Galahad look like a kicked puppy than out of an actual need for help, but Galahad doesn’t need to know that.
Within a few days, the incident has been forgotten, mostly, though Lancelot still gives Galahad the occasional dark look; the man really knows how to hold a grudge. Gawain’s back on light duties, and the whole fort is buzzing with the Roman Councillor’s arrival.
Gawain’s more interested in Tristan’s hawk, which is just learning to fly, since he, according to Arthur, won’t be going with them.
Unfortunately, the hawk is learning about as well as Galahad did, so Gawain’s standing outside the knights’ quarters waiting for Tristan to find her again when Galahad rounds the corner. He stumbles a little when he catches sight of Gawain, but keeps walking.
“Evening,” he says as he nears Gawain, slowing down.
Gawain nods back and glances along the way for Tristan. There’s no sign of him, and Galahad doesn’t seem inclined to leave.
“I’m sorry –.” He gestures at Gawain’s wrist, still thick with bandages. He can barely lift his sword right now, but no-one except Tristan knows that.
Gawain shrugs. “It happens.” It doesn’t, but they both know that, and Galahad actually seems to relax a little, losing some of the young sulkiness in his face.
“Everyone says Arthur’s taking a group of knights out to guard some Roman,” Galahad offers, kicking at the dust.
“Next week,” Gawain agrees.
“Don’t know why he doesn’t just stay in his own country,” Galahad grumbles. “What does he want here anyway?”
“I suppose it is part of his empire,” Gawain says neutrally, and Galahad frowns.
“Will Arthur take me?” he asks.
Gawain raises his eyebrows. “I don’t think so,” he says, trying to make it sound gentle. Galahad still flinches. “I’m sure he will when you’re better trained.”
Galahad shuffles his feet again. “I’ll never get trained, not if Lancelot has his way.” He glances up, meeting Gawain’s eyes for a moment. “I’m as good a knight as you are… I could be.”
“Of course,” Gawain says soothingly, refraining from pointing out that most of the other knights haven’t cracked the bones of anyone but Woads lately.
Galahad must catch something of this in his voice though, because he scowls again and storms past Gawain into the knights’ quarters. Gawain sighs, watching him go.
Tristan strolls round the corner as the door closes, stroking his reclaimed hawk. “What did he want?” he asks.
“I have no idea,” Gawain says.
*
“Galahad.” Galahad straightens at Arthur’s voice, restraining his continued impulse to salute. He still doesn’t quite know what to make of this commander, who seems too fair. Too nice for our own good, Gareth would have said. “I’ve been watching you with the archers, you’re improving.” Arthur starts walking and Galahad falls in with him. “The surgeon tells me several of the knights have been struck with a sickness going round the fort. You are to take the place of one of them, as an archer. We leave at dawn tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Sir,” Galahad says, distracted by Arthur’s words. Finally, a chance to show himself, not just with a practice sword but with a real one. A chance to show Gawain that he’s not an idiot child, incapable of wielding a sword.
“Galahad.” Arthur stops and turns to look at him, his face solemn. “No sword. You may take a pike from the armoury, but no sword. You’re not ready and I won’t have you killed.”
Galahad bites back the words bubbling up. Even Arthur doesn’t trust him. His face burns but he forces himself to nod. “Yes, Sir.”
Arthur sighs, looking weary and suddenly old. “You don’t have to call me sir,” he says.
“Yes, Sir,” Galahad says, partly from habit, but mostly to see the look on Arthur’s face when he does it.
*
He marshals with nine other knights the next morning, leading his horse and armed with bow, arrows and, to his disgust, pike. He’s been at the fort long enough to recognise most of them: Lancelot, eyes roving over the knights like some kind of commander; Bors, kissing the tavern-keeper’s daughter goodbye, and Dagonet not quite watching; Lamerocke and Agravain, circling each other’s horses, Tristan, talking to his ever present hawk; and three knights Galahad’s almost sure he’s never seen before, but who look to be younger than he is.
Galahad suppresses a curse. They’re younger than him, but there they are, fully equipped for the journey, right down to the swords glinting at their sides. Arthur must be desperate, he thinks, with so many knights from their company at a neighbouring fort. Desperate enough to take him, even without a sword, never mind what he said about Galahad being a good archer. He’s just like all the other commanders, saying one thing and meaning another.
Tristan glances over at him, but Galahad ignores him, pretending to tighten his stirrups to avoid looking that way. It doesn’t help, because he can still feel eyes on him, filled with resentment.
Finally, Arthur makes a last check down their line and leads them out. They make the walk through the fort in pairs, neat as parade, but once they’re out on the road, picking up speed, though not flying like Galahad wants, the knights spread out, clumping together and falling out of line. Galahad rides at the back, by himself like always, watching the others and missing Gareth. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, at the fort, with the knights, when it’s so clear he shouldn’t be there. Even Arthur thinks so. They’d rather he went back to Sarmatia, none of them more than Galahad himself. He’d give anything to leave this land with its damp summers and fog-filled winters, not to mention the strange blue people who inhabit it.
The journey will take them two days, Arthur said, and they’ll sleep out overnight. There’s nothing between the fort and the Roman’s house but open fields and trees.
Galahad clicks his horse to join the others, a tiny idea forming.
*
Galahad waits, when he comes off watch, until he can’t hear anyone moving around, except for Dagonet and Bors, watching the road in front of them, and not paying any attention to the sleeping knights behind them. Then he creeps across the camp to where they’ve got their horses tethered and unties his own. She doesn’t make a sound as he leads her away, just looks at him with big, trusting eyes and follows him until they’re far enough away that Galahad risks stopping to put her saddle on, because it’s heavy to carry but he’s not leaving it behind. He can sell it, maybe, when he gets to the port, in return for a ride on a boat, back to Sarmatia.
Gareth used to tell him that he was no good at planning things, that he should leave that to the others and just learn to follow orders, which used to annoy Galahad into listening more carefully when the commander were planning their strategy, picking up what they thought about, and what they said, till he thought he could plan a strategy as well as anyone else. He’s putting it into practice tonight, anyway, scouting out the area round their camp when he went out to collect firewood earlier, asking Arthur to show him where they were going on his maps so he could get a good look at them. The road forks not far from where they are, one fork going to the Roman’s house, the other going back towards the Wall, through a check point which Arthur says isn’t used any more. It runs part of the way alongside a stream, which is what Galahad’s heading for. He’s seen knights track Woads by broken blades of grass, but he knows they won’t be able to follow him in the stream.
His horse looks at him when he straps her saddle on but doesn’t mount. For a crazy moment, Galahad thinks about explaining, telling her how it’s quieter if they both walk than if he rides, how he can’t bear to be marched back to the fort in disgrace, or humiliated in front of the other knights, again. How he doesn’t want Gawain to look at him with sympathy, or Lancelot to glare at him, or Arthur to pretend like he thinks Galahad’s worth having around. How he’d rather risk his life running across Britain to try and get back to Sarmatia than he would stay in the fort and not even be allowed to train with a sword.
He doesn’t, though, just takes hold of her lead rope and starts walking.
“Galahad.” He’s only gone a few yards when the voice comes from the darkness, and he freezes, his hand going for his bow, even though he can’t see anything except the dark outline of the trees along the road.
“Who goes there?” He takes a step back, putting the bulk of his horse between him and where he thinks the voice is coming from, hoping whoever it is won’t shoot at him if they can’t see him.
Movement in the tree line, and Arthur’s standing at the side of the road, his expression still in shadow. Mortified, Galahad steps out from behind his horse, lowering his bow.
“What are you doing out here?” Arthur’s tone is completely neutral, giving nothing away, though he must know the answer. Galahad keeps quiet – there’s no point lying, but the words – running away – stick in his throat. Knights don’t run away, he’s had that drilled into him since they were first picked up, they stand and fight. As though he’ll ever be able to fight Rome, or the other knights, or be able to prove himself. “It’s late, and we have a long ride ahead of us. You should be back with the others, sleeping.”
“You’re not,” Galahad mutters, remembering not to add sir, just in time.
Arthur sighs, and moves a little closer to him, till Galahad can see his weary expression. “No, this is true. But you take a great risk being out here after dark, alone, on the road.”
Galahad wants to kick himself. He never even thought about Woads, more worried about one of the knights following him and dragging him back. It’s just one more reason why he’ll never make it as a knight. “I forgot,” he confesses quietly.
“Where were you planning to go?” Arthur asks. He steps up to Galahad’s horse and strokes her neck, not looking at Galahad.
“Home,” Galahad says. Arthur doesn’t respond, and Galahad feels all the words bubble up inside him, unstoppable. “I’m no good here, you only brought me with you because you’re desperate, and you won’t even let me train with the others. If Rome wants knights, I might as well go home because I’ll never be a knight.”
Arthur looks at him, his eyes wide and surprised. “You are a knight,” he says simply. “You sit at the Round Table with the other knights.”
“I’m not!” Galahad snaps. He knows he sounds like a child, and that he’s moments away from yelling at his Roman commanding officer, but he can’t seem to stop. “I don’t even have a sword, I can’t fight.”
“Many of the knights fight with weapons aside from swords,” Arthur says. “Bearing a sword isn’t what makes you a knight.”
Galahad glares at him silently. Arthur doesn’t understand, or won’t understand, but it’s clear from all the time they spend at sword practice. Until he learns to fight with a sword, he’s one step up from a steward.
“We should go back to the camp,” Arthur says, pushing gently at his horse’s neck. “We can speak of this more in the morning, if you wish.”
Dismissed, Galahad thinks dismally. Dismissed and sent back, with Arthur to accompany him in case he gets any more ideas about going home.
“Come on,” Arthur says, and starts walking.
Walking down the middle of the road, away from the tree line, on a still night. So why can Galahad hear movement?
He ducks just in time for the arrow to miss him, then both he and Arthur are crashing into the trees on the other side of the road, making too much noise, but it’s not like the Woads don’t already know they’re there.
Galahad strains to see figures in the darkness, but all he can see is the faint movement of the lowest tree branches. Must be Woads, no-one else fights up in the trees like that. Next to him, Arthur has his sword drawn and is leaning forward like he’ll be able to see if he just gets close enough.
A tree branch abruptly changes direction and Galahad sights along his arrow for an instant then lets it go. There’s a satisfying thunk from the other side of the road, and the sound of something crashing through leaves to hit the ground. Of course, it’s followed a moment later by a volley of arrows that come way too close to where they’re hiding.
Arthur waits till the volley’s over, then catches Galahad’s eye. “Four, I think,” he mutters.
Galahad nods, even though he has no idea if Arthur’s right or not. He can’t remember Arthur being wrong in the short time he’s been under the man’s command, though.
“We can’t risk heading back to the camp,” Arthur adds. He glances over the road again, but the movement has mostly stopped. “If you can keep them occupied shooting at them, I can make it across the road.”
Galahad stares at him for a moment, looking for something in his face, but all he sees is Arthur’s battle face, no way of knowing whether he believes Galahad can help or not. Galahad nods, nocks another arrow, and fires into the trees. He doesn’t think he hits anything this time, but he’s got another arrow in his bow before the first one has chance to hit, sighting at what might have been movement and letting it go.
From the corner of his eye, he sees Arthur break from their cover, sword raised as he dashes across the road, then he focuses back on his shooting, and hears the satisfactory sound of an arrow striking flesh.
On the other side of the road, he hears metal against the wood of a Woad pike, then a scream, quickly cut off. The trees are swaying again, making it easier to aim.
Grabbing for another arrow, he risks a quick glance at road level, and sees Arthur grappling with a Woad, stumbling in and out of the tree line. He’s got his sword up, though the Woad is too close for him to use it yet.
Galahad shoots just above their heads, hoping to give Arthur the element of surprise. It works, Arthur shoving the Woad away and slitting his throat. He pulls his sword back, looking around for anyone left from what must have been a scouting party. Galahad follows his gaze, something prickling on the edge of his awareness. He pulls another arrow from his quiver and nocks his bow, not sure where to aim.
Out of the darkness, behind Arthur, comes a final blue figure. Galahad raises his bow, ready to fire at him, but he’s not angling towards Arthur, he’s coming across the road towards Galahad. Galahad barely has chance to think that the man’s clearly an idiot, aiming for the soldier rather than the commander, before the Woad is leaping for him, too close for Galahad to shoot him. He drops his bow, keeps hold of the arrow, and stabs it upwards as the Woad’s hands go for his throat.
The noise it makes when it sticks into the Woad’s throat is squelchy and disgusting, blood pouring from the wound as the man falls to the side of the road, choking for a moment before his eyes glaze over.
Galahad pulls himself up and steps onto the road to check on Arthur, who’s halfway to him and comes to an abrupt halt when he sees that Galahad isn’t actually dead.
For a long moment, they look at each other, in the middle of the road, Arthur armed with his bloodied sword, Galahad with his bow. Then Arthur smiles, just a little, and says, “Perhaps we ought to start your sword training again when we get back to the fort.”
Galahad grins back, he can’t help it. “Yes, S – Arthur.”
That gets him a pleased smile, then Arthur’s expression turns thoughtful. “I wonder how Lancelot would feel trying his hand at some training.”
Author:
bluflamingoFandom: King Arthur
Pairing: None
Rating: PG
Words: 2865
Feedback: Yes please. Even if it’s bad. Especially if it’s bad.
Disclaimer: No, I don't own them, for which I should think they're profoundly grateful.
AN1: Written for the
fandom_deja_vu First Time challenge.Summary: Galahad and swords don’t exactly mix, as Gawain finds out.
“Look.” Gawain takes a deep breath and tries to be patient. Galahad’s two years younger than the youngest of them there, and he just lost his brother, then got transferred to a totally new unit. Gawain’s sure he’s usually more personable, less irritating.
“Look,” he says again, looking down at Galahad’s trusting, frustrated face and wishing anyone else had been chosen to train him. “I know you think you’re good at this, but that’s just in practice, with me. It’s different on the battle field.”
“I’m not a child.” Muttering and scowling as he is, Gawain can’t help thinking he looks like one. The empire must have been desperate to take him in the first place. He barely even knows how to hold a sword, and Gawain can’t imagine what he *did* as a knight for the three years it’s taken him to get attached to Arthur’s duty. The only thing he’s really good with is horses.
“I know you’re not,” Gawain soothes. He remembers, just, being Galahad’s age, being a brand new, clueless knight, and shudders to think how much they all must have annoyed their training officers. Maybe this is his punishment. “Not everyone can be good at everything, at least not straight away.”
“Tristan is,” Galahad says, definitely sulking now.
“I know, but he’s a one off. I’m sure even he was less skilled once.” The look Galahad gives him matches the way Gawain thinks about that comment, but anything’s worth a try. “All right, look, we’ll try once more. If you can beat me this time, you can try with some of the other knights, and then we’ll see what Arthur thinks.”
Privately, Gawain’s hoping that, with the way Arthur and the other commanders have been bustling round the fort, the mission that must surely be looming will be upon them before Arthur has chance to agree to Galahad coming with them. That would certainly serve to make Gawain’s life a lot easier, though, so he’s not going to hold out too much hope.
“Fine.” Galahad glares up from under his curls, but it doesn’t cover the hope in his eyes. He really does want to do well here and Gawain feels suddenly sympathetic. It’s not Galahad’s fault that he can’t seem to master this.
“All right then.” Gawain draws his sword. Galahad follows and Gawain pretends not to notice the way it sticks in the scabbard as he does. He looks so earnest that Gawain doesn’t have the heart to correct him again. “Ready?”
Galahad nods, his jaw set, his eyes on Gawain’s sword. Gawain nods and Galahad lunges for him. Gawain blocks the blow easily, pushing Galahad’s sword aside with his own. Galahad yanks his sword up and away, bringing it down fast towards Gawain’s sword arm, but Gawain takes a step back, dodging the blow, and swinging his sword up to meet Galahad’s, twisting it back and almost out of his grip. Galahad grunts, in frustration or anger, Gawain can’t tell, and swings again.
They spar in the same pattern for several minutes, Gawain doing the bare minimum to block Galahad’s increasingly clumsy and careless blows, but not pushing his advantage as he would with another opponent. In the back of his mind, under the familiar dance of sword practice, he’s hoping Galahad will retire on his own, without Gawain having to tell him.
It’s foolish hope, though, Gawain realises. Galahad’s determination, which will undoubtedly prove his greatest asset when – if – he masters this, won’t let him give up until he either gets it or is forced to stop. The way his blows are starting to flail, Gawain’s more worried about Galahad injuring himself than he is about him taking no badly.
Gawain steps into Galahad’s next swing, bringing his sword round hard, so that he feels the vibrations all the way up with arms when they meet. He pushes Galahad’s sword aside, down until the tip is resting against the grass at their feet, the sign they’ve been using in training to indicate the end of a round and defeat.
Gawain pulls his own sword away from Galahad’s, half-turning away to find a rag to wipe it on, giving Galahad a moment to collect himself and maybe calm down before he says anything.
On the edge of his vision, Galahad is leaning over his sword, his posture defeated.
And then, suddenly, he isn’t. Gawain registers the blur of movement just fast enough to get his sword up into a defensive position, preparing to block the blow.
For the first time since Gawain started training him, Galahad anticipates correctly and, rather than aiming for Gawain’s body, aims for where the defence position will put his word. Except that, his body tired from training, he doesn’t quite raise his sword high enough. Gawain sees it all, the intention in Galahad’s eyes and the mistake he’s about to make, just in time to think, ‘stupid child,’ and then Galahad’s sword strikes his wrist and Gawain’s on the ground, trying hard not to scream in pain as his vision whites out.
The world fades back in a moment later as Galahad pulls his sword loose, dropping it next to Gawain and falling to his knees, reaching for Gawain’s arm. Gawain cradles his wrist back against his body, feeling blood soaking into his tunic, pain so bad he feels sick.
“Gawain, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Galahad reaches towards him again and Gawain pushes him away with his uninjured hand.
“Don’t touch me.” His voice comes out low and grating, sending Galahad starting backwards, his eyes wide with fear.
“I’ll go, I’ll get –” Galahad babbles and Gawain wants to shake some sense into him.
“Help me up,” he says instead.
Galahad works his arm under Gawain’s and pulls him to his feet carefully, but the motion still jolts Gawain’s wrist until he has to lean against Galahad or fall over, everything swimming before him.
“Are you sure –” Galahad starts, then looks at Gawain and stops.
The short walk across the fort to the surgeon’s rooms is a blur of agony, every step sending bolts of pain shooting up Gawain’s arm. The surgeon isn’t really supposed to treat anyone but the Romans unless they’re dying, but he takes one look at Gawain and shoos him onto the nearest bed, dragging his arm out and prodding it.
“Cracked,” he says and Gawain thinks, ‘him or me?’ right before passing out.
*
When he wakes up again, the pain is mostly gone and he can feel his whole forearm wrapped in some sort of bandage, from his elbow to his fingertips. He must still be in the surgeon’s rooms, because his bed in the knights’ quarters isn’t half as comfortable as this, so he keeps his eyes closed, feigning sleep.
A moment later, he registers voices and wonders how he missed them before. People at the other end of the Wall hear Lancelot yelling.
“You stupid fool! What were you thinking?” Three years of listening to Lancelot and Gawain’s learnt to pick out the nuances in his yelling. This isn’t the first time he’s asked this question, judging from the edge of impatience in his voice.
There’s no reply, but Gawain can feel the sulky silence, now he’s aware enough to try,
“Sword tip down means it’s finished.” Lancelot’s subsided to shouting instead of yelling. “It means no more blows, no more fight, over. What were you doing?”
Someone must have been watching them, for Lancelot to know that, unless Galahad’s been incredibly forthcoming. Maybe he feels guilty, or maybe he’s finally come to his sense, Gawain thinks optimistically.
“I wanted to show him,” Galahad mutters, effectively dashing that hope.
“To show him what?” Lancelot demands. “How stupid you can be? How you should never have been given a sword in the first place? How you thank people for trying to help you?”
Lancelot’s had his ear to the gossip again, clearly. Gawain suspects he only bothers so that he can feed it to Arthur, but whyever he does it, it works much more in his favour than Arthur’s.
“To show him I could fight,” Galahad says. He sounds guilty and defiant, a lot like Lancelot when Arthur pulls him up for something, actually.
“It didn’t work,” Lancelot tells him, his tone ominously final. “You’re not doing any more sword training, not until you’ve grown up a bit. You can stay with the horses and long distance archery until then.”
“That’s not fair.” Galahad sounds so young, Gawain knows he’s only going to make things worse. Lancelot’s patience is hardly legendary at the best of times. “I’m a knight, just like you. You can’t stop me training, I’ll tell Arthur.”
Gawain can’t hide the way he winces at those words.
“You tell Arthur whatever you like,” Lancelot says, calm and cold. “You injured one of his best knights by trying to prove something. You’re lucky the empire’s desperate. Go and report to Jols in the stable, he’ll assign you something to do.”
Galahad doesn’t say anything else, just storms out, followed after a moment by Lancelot.
“You can stop pretending to be sleeping now.”
Gawain doesn’t exactly jump, but the jolt of surprise jerks his wrist painfully and he has to open his eyes just to glare at Tristan, sitting at the foot of Gawain’s bed, stroking his hawk and looking as inscrutable as ever.
“Was that really necessary?”
Tristan twitches his left shoulder minutely, his version of a shrug. “You’re not so interesting that I want to spend my evening watching you pretend to be dead. You’re not very convincing.”
“You could be nicer to me,” Gawain says. “I’m injured.”
“Are you dying?” Tristan doesn’t wait for Gawain to shake his head before he inclines his own in a gesture that clearly says, ‘well, then.’
Gawain gives in. “Who told you I was here?”
“Bors is spreading it round Vanora’s mother’s tavern.”
Gawain can just imagine that. He and Galahad will be the laughing stock of the fort within less than a day. “How’s Galahad?” Tristan looks at him in silence until Gawain gives in – again. “I know, he’s sulking.”
Tristan nods. “You heard him and Lancelot. Arthur will probably back Lancelot.”
“Yes.” Gawain sighs. He’d like to throttle Galahad for being so stupid, for behaving so carelessly and disobeying practice code, but he still feels sorry for him. It can’t be easy, being alone in a new place. At least when he was taken, everyone on the boat was as unsure and alone as he was. Galahad’s just lost his older brother, though, and he’s trying to prove himself to an established group of older knights. Gawain can’t help thinking that assigning him to obey the steward is excessive punishment, and says so.
“Arthur will relieve him in a few days,” Tristan says. “But Lancelot is right, he shouldn’t be training, not yet.”
Gawain’s tempted to point out that they were younger than Galahad when they started fighting, never mind training, but Tristan knows this, and Galahad does seem very young. He’s not ready to fight, not if they can stop him, just as today has shown.
“Where’s Arthur?” he asks, mostly to get them off the subject. Arthur has a reputation for visiting all the sick and injured knights, yet it was Lancelot berating Galahad.
“With the other commanders, preparing. A Councillor and his family are coming from Rome in three weeks.”
Gawain doesn’t bother asking how Tristan knows this – like Lancelot, he appears to hear everything around the fort, and he’s rarely wrong. “What does that concern us for?”
“They stay at his house, north of the Wall, for two weeks. We are to go as guards, then escort them to their next stop.” Even Tristan can’t quite keep his voice flat as he says this.
“I knew there had to be disadvantages to being thought of as fearless,” Gawain grumbles, and to his amazement, a smile flickers across Tristan’s face.
*
Time goes by.
The surgeon sends Gawain back to the knights’ quarters after allowing him one night on a soft bed, and Arthur comes by to tell him to stay away from duty for a while. As Tristan predicted, Arthur releases Galahad from Jols’ command the next day, but refuses to allow him back into the sword practice ring. Gawain doesn’t know what else Arthur says to him, but it gets him an only barely-grudging apology from Galahad, and an offer to look after his horse until his arm heals, which Gawain accepts, more because he can’t stand seeing Galahad look like a kicked puppy than out of an actual need for help, but Galahad doesn’t need to know that.
Within a few days, the incident has been forgotten, mostly, though Lancelot still gives Galahad the occasional dark look; the man really knows how to hold a grudge. Gawain’s back on light duties, and the whole fort is buzzing with the Roman Councillor’s arrival.
Gawain’s more interested in Tristan’s hawk, which is just learning to fly, since he, according to Arthur, won’t be going with them.
Unfortunately, the hawk is learning about as well as Galahad did, so Gawain’s standing outside the knights’ quarters waiting for Tristan to find her again when Galahad rounds the corner. He stumbles a little when he catches sight of Gawain, but keeps walking.
“Evening,” he says as he nears Gawain, slowing down.
Gawain nods back and glances along the way for Tristan. There’s no sign of him, and Galahad doesn’t seem inclined to leave.
“I’m sorry –.” He gestures at Gawain’s wrist, still thick with bandages. He can barely lift his sword right now, but no-one except Tristan knows that.
Gawain shrugs. “It happens.” It doesn’t, but they both know that, and Galahad actually seems to relax a little, losing some of the young sulkiness in his face.
“Everyone says Arthur’s taking a group of knights out to guard some Roman,” Galahad offers, kicking at the dust.
“Next week,” Gawain agrees.
“Don’t know why he doesn’t just stay in his own country,” Galahad grumbles. “What does he want here anyway?”
“I suppose it is part of his empire,” Gawain says neutrally, and Galahad frowns.
“Will Arthur take me?” he asks.
Gawain raises his eyebrows. “I don’t think so,” he says, trying to make it sound gentle. Galahad still flinches. “I’m sure he will when you’re better trained.”
Galahad shuffles his feet again. “I’ll never get trained, not if Lancelot has his way.” He glances up, meeting Gawain’s eyes for a moment. “I’m as good a knight as you are… I could be.”
“Of course,” Gawain says soothingly, refraining from pointing out that most of the other knights haven’t cracked the bones of anyone but Woads lately.
Galahad must catch something of this in his voice though, because he scowls again and storms past Gawain into the knights’ quarters. Gawain sighs, watching him go.
Tristan strolls round the corner as the door closes, stroking his reclaimed hawk. “What did he want?” he asks.
“I have no idea,” Gawain says.
*
“Galahad.” Galahad straightens at Arthur’s voice, restraining his continued impulse to salute. He still doesn’t quite know what to make of this commander, who seems too fair. Too nice for our own good, Gareth would have said. “I’ve been watching you with the archers, you’re improving.” Arthur starts walking and Galahad falls in with him. “The surgeon tells me several of the knights have been struck with a sickness going round the fort. You are to take the place of one of them, as an archer. We leave at dawn tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Sir,” Galahad says, distracted by Arthur’s words. Finally, a chance to show himself, not just with a practice sword but with a real one. A chance to show Gawain that he’s not an idiot child, incapable of wielding a sword.
“Galahad.” Arthur stops and turns to look at him, his face solemn. “No sword. You may take a pike from the armoury, but no sword. You’re not ready and I won’t have you killed.”
Galahad bites back the words bubbling up. Even Arthur doesn’t trust him. His face burns but he forces himself to nod. “Yes, Sir.”
Arthur sighs, looking weary and suddenly old. “You don’t have to call me sir,” he says.
“Yes, Sir,” Galahad says, partly from habit, but mostly to see the look on Arthur’s face when he does it.
*
He marshals with nine other knights the next morning, leading his horse and armed with bow, arrows and, to his disgust, pike. He’s been at the fort long enough to recognise most of them: Lancelot, eyes roving over the knights like some kind of commander; Bors, kissing the tavern-keeper’s daughter goodbye, and Dagonet not quite watching; Lamerocke and Agravain, circling each other’s horses, Tristan, talking to his ever present hawk; and three knights Galahad’s almost sure he’s never seen before, but who look to be younger than he is.
Galahad suppresses a curse. They’re younger than him, but there they are, fully equipped for the journey, right down to the swords glinting at their sides. Arthur must be desperate, he thinks, with so many knights from their company at a neighbouring fort. Desperate enough to take him, even without a sword, never mind what he said about Galahad being a good archer. He’s just like all the other commanders, saying one thing and meaning another.
Tristan glances over at him, but Galahad ignores him, pretending to tighten his stirrups to avoid looking that way. It doesn’t help, because he can still feel eyes on him, filled with resentment.
Finally, Arthur makes a last check down their line and leads them out. They make the walk through the fort in pairs, neat as parade, but once they’re out on the road, picking up speed, though not flying like Galahad wants, the knights spread out, clumping together and falling out of line. Galahad rides at the back, by himself like always, watching the others and missing Gareth. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, at the fort, with the knights, when it’s so clear he shouldn’t be there. Even Arthur thinks so. They’d rather he went back to Sarmatia, none of them more than Galahad himself. He’d give anything to leave this land with its damp summers and fog-filled winters, not to mention the strange blue people who inhabit it.
The journey will take them two days, Arthur said, and they’ll sleep out overnight. There’s nothing between the fort and the Roman’s house but open fields and trees.
Galahad clicks his horse to join the others, a tiny idea forming.
*
Galahad waits, when he comes off watch, until he can’t hear anyone moving around, except for Dagonet and Bors, watching the road in front of them, and not paying any attention to the sleeping knights behind them. Then he creeps across the camp to where they’ve got their horses tethered and unties his own. She doesn’t make a sound as he leads her away, just looks at him with big, trusting eyes and follows him until they’re far enough away that Galahad risks stopping to put her saddle on, because it’s heavy to carry but he’s not leaving it behind. He can sell it, maybe, when he gets to the port, in return for a ride on a boat, back to Sarmatia.
Gareth used to tell him that he was no good at planning things, that he should leave that to the others and just learn to follow orders, which used to annoy Galahad into listening more carefully when the commander were planning their strategy, picking up what they thought about, and what they said, till he thought he could plan a strategy as well as anyone else. He’s putting it into practice tonight, anyway, scouting out the area round their camp when he went out to collect firewood earlier, asking Arthur to show him where they were going on his maps so he could get a good look at them. The road forks not far from where they are, one fork going to the Roman’s house, the other going back towards the Wall, through a check point which Arthur says isn’t used any more. It runs part of the way alongside a stream, which is what Galahad’s heading for. He’s seen knights track Woads by broken blades of grass, but he knows they won’t be able to follow him in the stream.
His horse looks at him when he straps her saddle on but doesn’t mount. For a crazy moment, Galahad thinks about explaining, telling her how it’s quieter if they both walk than if he rides, how he can’t bear to be marched back to the fort in disgrace, or humiliated in front of the other knights, again. How he doesn’t want Gawain to look at him with sympathy, or Lancelot to glare at him, or Arthur to pretend like he thinks Galahad’s worth having around. How he’d rather risk his life running across Britain to try and get back to Sarmatia than he would stay in the fort and not even be allowed to train with a sword.
He doesn’t, though, just takes hold of her lead rope and starts walking.
“Galahad.” He’s only gone a few yards when the voice comes from the darkness, and he freezes, his hand going for his bow, even though he can’t see anything except the dark outline of the trees along the road.
“Who goes there?” He takes a step back, putting the bulk of his horse between him and where he thinks the voice is coming from, hoping whoever it is won’t shoot at him if they can’t see him.
Movement in the tree line, and Arthur’s standing at the side of the road, his expression still in shadow. Mortified, Galahad steps out from behind his horse, lowering his bow.
“What are you doing out here?” Arthur’s tone is completely neutral, giving nothing away, though he must know the answer. Galahad keeps quiet – there’s no point lying, but the words – running away – stick in his throat. Knights don’t run away, he’s had that drilled into him since they were first picked up, they stand and fight. As though he’ll ever be able to fight Rome, or the other knights, or be able to prove himself. “It’s late, and we have a long ride ahead of us. You should be back with the others, sleeping.”
“You’re not,” Galahad mutters, remembering not to add sir, just in time.
Arthur sighs, and moves a little closer to him, till Galahad can see his weary expression. “No, this is true. But you take a great risk being out here after dark, alone, on the road.”
Galahad wants to kick himself. He never even thought about Woads, more worried about one of the knights following him and dragging him back. It’s just one more reason why he’ll never make it as a knight. “I forgot,” he confesses quietly.
“Where were you planning to go?” Arthur asks. He steps up to Galahad’s horse and strokes her neck, not looking at Galahad.
“Home,” Galahad says. Arthur doesn’t respond, and Galahad feels all the words bubble up inside him, unstoppable. “I’m no good here, you only brought me with you because you’re desperate, and you won’t even let me train with the others. If Rome wants knights, I might as well go home because I’ll never be a knight.”
Arthur looks at him, his eyes wide and surprised. “You are a knight,” he says simply. “You sit at the Round Table with the other knights.”
“I’m not!” Galahad snaps. He knows he sounds like a child, and that he’s moments away from yelling at his Roman commanding officer, but he can’t seem to stop. “I don’t even have a sword, I can’t fight.”
“Many of the knights fight with weapons aside from swords,” Arthur says. “Bearing a sword isn’t what makes you a knight.”
Galahad glares at him silently. Arthur doesn’t understand, or won’t understand, but it’s clear from all the time they spend at sword practice. Until he learns to fight with a sword, he’s one step up from a steward.
“We should go back to the camp,” Arthur says, pushing gently at his horse’s neck. “We can speak of this more in the morning, if you wish.”
Dismissed, Galahad thinks dismally. Dismissed and sent back, with Arthur to accompany him in case he gets any more ideas about going home.
“Come on,” Arthur says, and starts walking.
Walking down the middle of the road, away from the tree line, on a still night. So why can Galahad hear movement?
He ducks just in time for the arrow to miss him, then both he and Arthur are crashing into the trees on the other side of the road, making too much noise, but it’s not like the Woads don’t already know they’re there.
Galahad strains to see figures in the darkness, but all he can see is the faint movement of the lowest tree branches. Must be Woads, no-one else fights up in the trees like that. Next to him, Arthur has his sword drawn and is leaning forward like he’ll be able to see if he just gets close enough.
A tree branch abruptly changes direction and Galahad sights along his arrow for an instant then lets it go. There’s a satisfying thunk from the other side of the road, and the sound of something crashing through leaves to hit the ground. Of course, it’s followed a moment later by a volley of arrows that come way too close to where they’re hiding.
Arthur waits till the volley’s over, then catches Galahad’s eye. “Four, I think,” he mutters.
Galahad nods, even though he has no idea if Arthur’s right or not. He can’t remember Arthur being wrong in the short time he’s been under the man’s command, though.
“We can’t risk heading back to the camp,” Arthur adds. He glances over the road again, but the movement has mostly stopped. “If you can keep them occupied shooting at them, I can make it across the road.”
Galahad stares at him for a moment, looking for something in his face, but all he sees is Arthur’s battle face, no way of knowing whether he believes Galahad can help or not. Galahad nods, nocks another arrow, and fires into the trees. He doesn’t think he hits anything this time, but he’s got another arrow in his bow before the first one has chance to hit, sighting at what might have been movement and letting it go.
From the corner of his eye, he sees Arthur break from their cover, sword raised as he dashes across the road, then he focuses back on his shooting, and hears the satisfactory sound of an arrow striking flesh.
On the other side of the road, he hears metal against the wood of a Woad pike, then a scream, quickly cut off. The trees are swaying again, making it easier to aim.
Grabbing for another arrow, he risks a quick glance at road level, and sees Arthur grappling with a Woad, stumbling in and out of the tree line. He’s got his sword up, though the Woad is too close for him to use it yet.
Galahad shoots just above their heads, hoping to give Arthur the element of surprise. It works, Arthur shoving the Woad away and slitting his throat. He pulls his sword back, looking around for anyone left from what must have been a scouting party. Galahad follows his gaze, something prickling on the edge of his awareness. He pulls another arrow from his quiver and nocks his bow, not sure where to aim.
Out of the darkness, behind Arthur, comes a final blue figure. Galahad raises his bow, ready to fire at him, but he’s not angling towards Arthur, he’s coming across the road towards Galahad. Galahad barely has chance to think that the man’s clearly an idiot, aiming for the soldier rather than the commander, before the Woad is leaping for him, too close for Galahad to shoot him. He drops his bow, keeps hold of the arrow, and stabs it upwards as the Woad’s hands go for his throat.
The noise it makes when it sticks into the Woad’s throat is squelchy and disgusting, blood pouring from the wound as the man falls to the side of the road, choking for a moment before his eyes glaze over.
Galahad pulls himself up and steps onto the road to check on Arthur, who’s halfway to him and comes to an abrupt halt when he sees that Galahad isn’t actually dead.
For a long moment, they look at each other, in the middle of the road, Arthur armed with his bloodied sword, Galahad with his bow. Then Arthur smiles, just a little, and says, “Perhaps we ought to start your sword training again when we get back to the fort.”
Galahad grins back, he can’t help it. “Yes, S – Arthur.”
That gets him a pleased smile, then Arthur’s expression turns thoughtful. “I wonder how Lancelot would feel trying his hand at some training.”
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Do you have a beta? I am crappy at the big stuff like story arcs, but I am decent at editing for spelling and grammar, and I would be happy to help if you would like.
Thanks for the great read :)
mm
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I don't write much KA fic these days so I don't have a beta, but if I write any more, I'd love to have someone look at it for me, so thank you.