Through patrols in the wilderness, snowy winters and unsufferable summers, Galahad suffered them all with a grin on his face and cherished the looks Gawain sent his way. He grew used to Gawain always checking on him, grew used to sharing a bed at night and the feel of a warm body pressed to his own – something thanked for effusively in the cold nights – and he even grew used to Gawain speaking for him.

By the time he turned twenty, Galahad felt he had earned a strong and quiet maturity to him, and that he could even quantify his time with Gawain as perhaps a strange and awkward relationship of sorts, devised in order to keep each other happy and comforted. One of the strangest things was that Galahad never spoke of this to Arthur, despite the knowledge that Arthur would understand, and could not frown upon it without turning to hypocrisy.

They would return from battles and turn to each other, clinging to each other's bodies as though it was their last night upon the Earth. Each battle made them grow more rough in their relations, Galahad more desperate with every kiss, Gawain more forceful with every thrust as he pushed inside Galahad, stretching him out and claiming him over and over. Galahad surrended himself to Gawain's touch, and Gawain would never deny a request from Galahad.

And so it went.

When Galahad turned twenty, he closed his door and tilted back a quiet grin to the sky. Freedom was in sight. He had three years more to survive and this service to a nation he couldn't stand would be over. He turned when the door opened and Gawain slipped inside, the sun's rays shining into Galahad's chamber.

"I've heard it's someone's birthday," Gawain closed the door behind him.

"Is it?" Galahad turned and grinned.

"Twenty," Gawain shook his head in awe.

"Not so much a boy anymore," Galahad replied proudly, puffing out his chest and then recognizing his show of bravado and tucking it back in. He gave a sheepish grin and replaced it with one of sincerity as Gawain edged closer.

"But still young," Gawain teased.

"As are you," Galahad retorted. He shook his head, taking himself out of the lapse into immaturity. He gave a wistful smile. "We're almost there, Gawain. So close to being free. If I close my eyes, I can see Sarmatia. I can still see my village."

"You're still thinking about that," Gawain scoffed. "Why can't you accept this for home? Us for your family?"

"It's never left me," Galahad admitted. "Always, my final destination has been Sarmatia."

Gawain pulled away. He had been so close to being in Galahad's grasp, but now he was inching further and further back, betrayal on his face. Galahad frowned, wondering at what he'd said to set this off before realizing that Gawain was still holding out hope that Galahad would have an epiphany and realize that home was wherever he was.

"Gawain," Galahad said tiredly, rubbing his eyes.

"No," Gawain opened the door. "It's all right," he continued with a broad, fake smile. "I'll leave you be with your memories and plans for when you get your freedom. After all, it's what you want so badly," he added snidely, slamming the door as he left. Galahad sighed heavily, sinking down upon the cot and lying down to face the ceiling, wondering how to best go about fixing this.

He didn't see anyone until nightfall at the celebration for him. He was handed a mug by Lancelot, given a clap on the back and a promise to bring him the best in ales before the night's end. Galahad opened his mouth to answer with a hearty thanks, but before he could do so, his attention was whisked away by Gawain in the corner, a pretty lass sitting on his lap.

He caught Gawain's gaze and was met with a challenging stare before Gawain turned all his attention back to the dark-haired beauty. Galahad chuckled to himself bitterly, shaking his head and knowing that he would be in for a long, cold night. He sat around long enough to finish his drink and went in search of Lancelot to ask for another, but Lancelot was not to be found.

Vanora was singing an old tune, captivating the crowd. In the midst of it, Galahad slipped away to wander the shadows. He sighed and headed to the stables, intending to take a night ride. As he was rounding the corner, a harsh voice stopped him.

"This is too much," it was Lancelot.

"Lancelot, we must not…"

"Whom do you fear? Is it me, or is it your enemy? The Romans tell you that there are Saxons invading villages, but that's not new! The threat of the Woads has never been out of sight, nor out of mind," Lancelot continued on, his voice desperate and angry. "So why do you throw us away?"

"To protect you!"

"Arthur, stop protecting me!" Lancelot growled, and stormed out of the stable. Galahad ducked around the corner, pressing his back to the wall and breathing heavily. He stayed there until he was sure if was safe to move, and when he did move, it was only back to his chambers.

He curled up on the bed, his face blank and his thoughts empty. He wished himself a happy birthday and knew that his world had been shaken and that what was once unchanging touchstones were now gone. There had been finality to Lancelot's words, and Galahad feared that not one, but two couplings had been split that night.

He drifted off to a cold sleep, wondering if in some way, this was his punishment for surviving the Woad's arrow, and if maybe, he were meant to be dead. His dreams were haunted by Woads and taunting laughter, whispering and hushed voices accusing Galahad of being a coward.

He jumped awake in the middle of night, his breath heavy. His hand immediately covered his wound, a default reaction ever since it had healed. There was only a scar there now, white flesh with pink flecks decorating it. He was sweating copiously, and he realized that he wasn't alone in the room. Across from his cot, Gawain sat sleeping in a chair. Galahad made it to his knees, reaching across and shaking Gawain's shoulder gently.

"Gawain," Galahad mumbled sleepily, rubbing his eyes with his free hand.

Gawain snapped awake, his body relaxing when he saw it was Galahad rousing him. He frowned and brushed his hair away from his eyes.

"Gawain, what are you doing?" Galahad asked tiredly, moving over and making room for Gawain to join him. "I thought you were with that woman tonight."

"Did it make you jealous?" Gawain stumbled over his words as he pushed the chair aside and crawled under the sheet, not quite touching Galahad. He lay on his back, turning slightly to speak. "I was trying to make you jealous because I was stupid."

"Yes," Galahad responded.

"Yes, I made you jealous?"

"Yes, you're stupid," Galahad snapped back. "And yes, I was jealous."

"Good," Gawain muttered with a smug grin on his face, settling into Galahad's side. Galahad merely rolled his eyes and draped one arm around him, glad to have someone close. He hoped the nightmares would be fended away. "Lancelot came back after you were gone. Had a right stick up his ass. I had half a mind to tell him to go back to see Arthur and get it out."

"Whatever they had is over," Galahad replied, hoping against hope that Gawain hadn't said anything terribly idiotic. "I overheard…"

"You have a terribly tendency to eavesdrop," Gawain interrupted, amused.

"And it sounds…" he continued, straining to remember it properly. "Lancelot sounded angry. It sounded as though Arthur was putting an end to things."

"When isn't he a pissant?" Gawain scoffed to himself, he rubbed small circles on Galahad's shoulder, the slow movement and warmth of Gawain upon him sending him closer and closer to sleep. "Well, unfortunately for you then, you're to be stuck with me. I don't think our little round table could deal with more broken hearts."

"Leaving me to my own misery would do enough damage," Galahad murmured drowsily, unaware of what he was even saying anymore.

"Go to sleep," Gawain said evenly.

And, at the fault of his damned exhaustion, Galahad's eyes fell closed and he was pulled back into the deep recesses of sleep, warmer than he'd been before.

The years passed, and Galahad's hands were stained with more blood than he thought possible. Not only were the Woads attacking villages in defiance to the Roman regime, but more and more Saxons had begun to flood the mainland. Galahad could no longer pick apart the faces of men he'd killed. Once, he had killed a woman warrior – she was a Woad – and he hadn't realized his hands were trembling until Gawain had pulled them into his own and inquired as to what had happened.

With every victory came a sombre attitude of anticipation. Freedom was no longer a means to get home, but a means to stop the brutality. Galahad knew he had to protect himself, but this life of massacre was beginning to be too much. His temper was flaring up, his patience was shorter with everyone. No one earned a reprieve, not even Gawain. He was tired of people speaking up for him, he was tired of fighting for a city he had never even seen, and he was tired of killing.

And yet, it was kill or be killed.

With terrifying weeks, he learned that perhaps it might have been better for him to have left the service. When Gawain had volunteered the both of them for that final mission, it may have been better to just leave. That way, he wouldn't have had to watch as Dagonet fell on the ice. He wouldn't have to see Lancelot collapse with an arrow that hit the heart – no near miss for Lancelot, and Galahad felt that Lancelot had paid the price for him to survive. And worst of all, Tristan.

He hadn't sat by graves for a decade now, but he would not leave Tristan's grave, one hand askance and resting on Dagonet's sword. He wept so often now, for the first time since he had been pried from his village. He wept for their lives and wondered why it hadn't been him. He did not see Gawain, and he was left alone at the side of the graves. Tristan, no longer there to pull him away. Dagonet, no longer at his side to tell him it would be prudent to rest. Lancelot, taken from them all.

For one sunset, and two sunrises, Galahad sat collapsed beside the graves, his head in his hands. He wept haltingly, praying to Arthur's god, praying to his own deities, cursing the Saxons and the Romans for good measure and letting out screams into the calm air. He was there in the light of the second sunrise as Arthur came down from the village, settling by Lancelot's grave site – his ashes already having been prepared to be released soon.

Galahad was half-asleep and half-mad as he watched Arthur fall to his knees, digging his hands deep within the Earth, something he hadn't seen in years now. Arthur did not acknowledge, nor seem to care for Galahad's weary presence. They sat there, two Knights in solidarity, mourning for those they had lost. Arthur tilted his head back to the sky, and cursed his god.

He cursed his faith, his god and all his works as Galahad watched with tired eyes and lost hope.

Arthur begged for a trade, for a miracle, but none came.

The sun rose.

At midday after the second sunrise, Gawain and Bors finally came to pry Galahad away from the grave. He fought clumsily, pushing away at their grasp and finally letting himself be hauled away. They had both been drinking, that much was clear by their breath. Galahad wondered if Gawain had chosen a girl to take to bed to spare the vain remorse of the pain. He idly realized he wouldn't blame him if he had.

"We've another funeral," Bors commented quietly, his voice deadened.

They carried him by the arms until he found it in him to walk, and when he did walk, he lagged behind them by at least five paces. They were heading for the cliffs, where Guinevere and Arthur were already sitting. Guinevere. She had taken somewhat of a shining to both Arthur and Lancelot, and in the back of his mind, Galahad hoped that Arthur would not close his heart to her.

When he finally trudged up to the rocks, Arthur was standing, his cape fluttering in the wind, his eyes out to sea. Galahad sat himself down on a rock, his eyes on the ground. Gawain sat beside him and Bors stood behind them. All three of them sat in silence, their faces drawn and tired.

"Knights," Arthur quietly spoke. Gawain and Galahad rose to their feet, and the four of them placed their hands on the urn that Merlin had given as a gift. Gawain wiped away at his eyes, stray tears not quite falling, but sitting there. "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Our brother in arms, our fallen Knight. Lancelot shall always be remembered by us in our minds," he faltered. "In our hearts," he continued.

"To Lancelot," Gawain commented, his voice breaking.

"To Lancelot," they all echoed.

The wind whipped about their heads, sending hair flying and dust into the air. As Arthur stepped out to the edge of the cliff and took the top off of the urn, that same strong easterly wind carried the ashes of a fallen Knight into the unknown, setting him free. Arthur paused before flinging the urn out to sea, watching it crash upon the rocks. He stood there, frozen, until Guinevere gently tugged at his arm, pulling him away from the edge and down the path.

Bors turned, watching them go.

"The young ones," he started, "they've never been so happy to see me. And Vanora's been so good to me, I'm starting to fear she may never give me a slap for a good while. It's strange."

"They're happy you're alive," Gawain said simply.

"I'm not," Bors grunted. "I love my lot, and I love my lass, but in the middle of the night when it's dead quiet and all I can do is think…we stand united, we fall together. When they fell, I should have gone with them," he added quietly. "But if that's not the way it's supposed to be, then I'll just have to love my lot and lass quite a bit more to make up for it."

He gave a sad smile before following Arthur and Guinevere down the path.

Galahad stumbled, making his way to the grasses and sat down upon them, happy to feel strong earth beneath him. Gawain hesitated, but sat beside him. They stared out to sea together, and the wind brought about tears in Galahad's eyes.

"I'm glad we survived," Gawain finally said. "I miss them. I already do, but I'm glad we didn't die with them." He turned and with prying and gentle fingers, he began to lift up Galahad's shirt. Galahad pulled away defensively, shoving Gawain to the side. This was met with a rough shove back. "Stop it, you idiot. I just want to see what scars this battle left you with."

"Not so many that you see," Galahad murmured, lifting up his shirt and revealing a long, shallow scar across his chest. He brushed aside the flaps of his tunic and displayed a deep spear wound. "More on the inside."

Gawain tapped his arm. "I'll say this for the Saxons, they can't shoot straight, just like a young boy I once knew. I am endlessly grateful for their terrible lack of skills when it comes to archery."

Galahad remained silent, crossing his arms over his legs and resting his head upon them.

"Tristan's…" Galahad stumbled with the name. This was the first time he'd spoke it aloud. "Tristan's hawk came back to the outpost."

"I saw."

"Tristan set it free, but it came back," Galahad continued, frowning. He didn't flinch, nor move as Gawain leaned over and smoothed out the furrowed brow with his thumb. Galahad sighed. "You kept me alive. You kept your promise all these years, you haven't let me die."

"No," Gawain agreed.

"I was thinking, in my time out in the graveyard," Galahad began slowly. "That perhaps I was too quick to judgement in thinking I would return to Sarmatia when my service was over. There's become another option since then."

"And which option do you choose?" Gawain asked hesitantly.

"Well," Galahad started, getting to his feet. "Because of the fine job you've done protecting me over the years, I started to think that perhaps," he continued, offering a hand out to Gawain, which was taken. Galahad pulled Gawain to his feet before brushing his hands off on his sides and continuing, "perhaps I shouldn't change a good arrangement."

"Home is where I am," Gawain replied cockily.

"Besides, we've Bors' children to watch over. I'm sure Lancelot would want us to keep an eye on his bastards," Galahad finally smiled sincerely as they began to walk back to the village, the sun dipping into the sea behind them. "And you can't be trusted to survive on your own."

Gawain shrugged as darkness began to set upon the land.

"We're not so young anymore," Gawain commented. "I think we can take care of ourselves."

"Or earn more scars trying."

They walked off side by side, brothers in arms, and Galahad finally felt the last pieces of the intricate puzzle he had been carrying with him for years click together and complete itself.

He understood.

THE END