Chapter Text
Land of bear and land of eagle
Land that gave us birth and blessing
Land that called us ever homewards
We will go home across the mountains
Song of Exile (We Will Go Home)
☩
Tristan was used to it by now. Every few months a cohort of boys was being brought to the wall, some older than others. Some looked like they could still be drinking from their mother's breasts. More often than not, he would lean against the wall of the stables and watch the procession of children walking in line, all of them looking left and right at the inside of the fort.
He'd been older than most when a small unit had come to the encampment where his family lived and took him. Like his uncle and their ancestors before him, he'd been summoned to serve the Romans and the Pope in a fight he knew almost nothing about. By the time they came, he had been old enough for his father to have inked the first marks of manhood into his cheeks and to have trained him intensely. Tristan had been a warrior before he'd even been a man. And so he had left with nothing but the clothes on his back and the sword his uncle had brought back from his own service, a curved blade with carvings that spoke of honor, courage and victory.
The newest arrival of boys had barely been assigned commanders when trouble arose. Tristan was in the stables, tending to his horse and enjoying the quiet company of the animals when two boys came running in, breathless, looking anxiously over their shoulders. One of them had blood pouring out of his nose. He took one look at Tristan and pushed the other boy, a frail-looking thing with sandy hair and teared clothes, towards him.
"Hide him please, he's after us."
Before Tristan could ask who he was, a familiar face came into view. A face Tristan had always dreamed of putting his fist in, which belonged to Marius, a fellow knight in training and the nephew of one of the commanders. The young man had an unfortunate lack of skills with a sword and a taste for torturing the new recruits.
"Come here, you little bastards," Marius growled, and the boy with sandy hair stepped behind Tristan, gripping his shirt.
"Get lost, Marius," the other boy barked, then spat a mouthful of blood at his feet. "Percival isn't here to be your martyr."
"Why don't you pick a fight with someone your own size," Tristan added, taking a step forward.
"Back off, Tristan. This doesn't concern you," Marius snarled, his blonde hair falling into his square face. Tristan noticed with a spark of satisfaction that some of it was tainted red from a wound somewhere in his hairline and that his eyebrow was bruised. He turned to take one look at the boy standing at his side, whose hands were curled into fists. Blood was still dripping from his face but there was no fear in the boy's eyes, only rage and confidence.
He exhaled and rolled his shoulders. "Maybe it does."
"Run, Percival!" the boy shouted as Tristan launched himself at Marius, throwing the first punch. Elation and satisfaction ran through Tristan as Marius' jaw cracked and his head was thrown backwards with the force of the blow. The young man grunted and swayed on his feet but didn't go down, throwing his own punch that Tristan easily blocked with his forearm. He tried to bring Tristan down by kicking his legs, but it resulted in both of them falling to their knees in the mud. They tugged and pulled at each other, trying to gain the upper hand. Tristan took a blow to the mouth and grinned when the taste of blood spread in his mouth. He spat in Marius's face and gripped his hair hard enough to pull it from the root and kicked his knee in his ribs, finally bringing his face to the ground and repeating his earlier punch to the jaw.
He was about to climb on top of him when he felt a hand tugging sharply at his shoulder. He looked over his shoulder and saw the boy he was fighting in defense of. Before he could push him away, he heard hurried footsteps and the familiar clinking of armor coming from the other side of the courtyard.
"Enough!" a voice shouted, and Tristan let go of Marius' hair. He looked up and saw one of the commanders, Cassius, marching toward them, a group of trainees behind him.
Tristan got to his feet hurriedly, pulled the boy by the shoulder and stepped in front of him, shielding him from Cassius.
"What's the meaning of this?" the man barked, taking a long look at Marius who was grunting in pain, struggling to get up, then at the two adolescents in front of him. Tristan was panting, blood running from his nose and mouth. His knuckles were raw, an intense energy pulsing in his veins. He knew he should have known better than getting involved in a fist fight outside of the training ring. Cassius was known for his viciousness and cruelty, never passing an opportunity to enforce his authority with a good whipping, always over bare skin. He took pleasure in seeing the marks he had made on the boys under his orders.
Cassius turned his gaze to Tristan's new protégé. "You, again!" he growled.
"I was the one who started the fight," Tristan protested, suddenly overwhelmed by the unbearable image of the boy being whipped to a bloody pulp.
"That's not true!" the young boy cried.
"Quiet!" Tristan pleaded.
Cassius grinned, his mouth pulling in an uneven way. "Playing knight in shining armor, Tristan?"
"Take the runt," he shouted over his shoulder then stepped around Marius who was slowly coming back to his senses. "Let's teach you all what happens when you decide to behave like savages," he added with obvious pleasure while grabbing Tristan by the scruff of his neck.
Gawain stepped out of the shadows, face distorted in anguish, and pulled the boy from behind Tristan. "He was only defending me!" the young lad kept repeating as he was being pulled along, but Cassius wasn't hearing him over the satisfaction of having found an opportunity to punish Tristan.
He took Tristan to the middle of the training yard and had a couple of the trainees tie him to a fence with rope then tear his linen shirt at the back. The rest of the group had gathered around them, watching the scene with fear and apprehension.
Cassius gestured at Gawain and he brought the boy to stand in front of Tristan. "You're going to count all ten lashes, and you're going to look him in the eyes while you do it."
Gawain pushed him to his knees, bringing him to eye level with Tristan. "I'm so sorry", the boy said hurriedly, looking anxiously between Tristan's face and over his shoulder.
He braced himself. The yard was so silent that he heard the boy's whimper before the whistling sound of the whip registered. He yelled through his teeth as the first lash cut his back and he had to force himself to keep his eyes open and focused on the bright blue ones staring at him.
"One," the boy said quietly.
"Speak louder, worm! Every time I can't hear you clearly, I'll start over."
The second lash hit a different spot, a sharp burning pain that seemed to spread the whole expanse of his shoulders. Tristan groaned and roared in agony, grinding his teeth together until his jaw ached as much as his arms straining against the rope. This time and the next, the boy's voice was loud and clear with controlled rage, but when the fourth lash came his composure broke and his eyes filled with tears. Tristan could feel sweat running down his back, but soon the smell of iron registered in the air and he realized the whip had broken the skin. The fifth and sixth ones were said through sobs, as he was openly crying, only held upright by Gawain, whose hold he wasn't fighting anymore.
After the seventh one, Tristan couldn't register what was happening anymore, his entire back was in agony and his mind was starting to slip away. The pain was making his ears ring and he couldn't hear anything but his own ragged breathing and galloping heartbeat, blood rushing viciously through him. All the while, his eyes wouldn't leave the boy's. His shaking form was becoming blurrier and blurrier by the second, Tristan's vision turning black with the pain.
The last thing he heard before he passed out was Cassius sneering, "Now you'll think twice before starting a fight."
☩
The next day, as he was lying on his front, his back covered in ointment and thick bandages, the boy visited him. There was dried blood at the corners of his nose and his knuckles were scraped raw, but he otherwise looked healthy. Thick black curls were hanging over his ears and forehead, unkempt.
He took a few steps into the room and frowned, probably at the strong herby smell of the ointment and the sorry sight Tristan made. When he lifted the bandages at the top of his shoulders and looked at the gashes the whip had left into the skin of Tristan's back, he heaved, his eyes watering with nausea. Despite the pain, Tristan didn't regret it. The boy's back would have been in shreds, way worse than Tristan's was, a bloodbath long before his first battle. But Tristan was old enough and his skin thick enough to withstand it.
"Save your pity for those other boys out there," he rasped. His voice was still raw from screaming.
"You didn't have to do that," the boy accused.
"Cassius would have beaten you to an inch of your life, boy. I've got enough scars that it won't make a difference," he said, and it was the truth. "In the future, pick your battles. Or if you want to act the righteous knight and defend your friend, do it in a way that won't get you into trouble. Next time I won't be there to save your skin."
The boy nodded, chin trembling in suppressed anger. His eyes were red, but there wasn't an ounce of the distress he had seen in them the day before as he was being punished in his place.
"Still, I'm sor-"
"Quiet. I don't need to hear one more apology."
He had already apologized right before Cassius had taken the whip to his back and for Tristan, it was enough. The young lad looked like he wanted to protest, but it seemed he didn't want to upset Tristan by picking a verbal fight with him. He sat himself in the chair beside the bed and after a few moments of silence, bit his lip and let a joyous, wicked smile spread over his face, which instantly intrigued Tristan.
"Gawain told me you broke Marius' jaw in two different places. He's going to have to eat soup for a while."
Tristan chuckled. "What's your name, boy?"
"Galahad," he said.
"Galahad," Tristan tried, rolling the vowels of the name on his tongue and grinned. "We've got to teach you to knock them out on the first punch."
☩
As soon as Tristan was out of bed, he took Galahad under his wing and seemingly decided archery would be the best catalyser for his fierceness. Whenever they weren't training with the rest of the garrison, Tristan took him to the shooting range and taught him all he knew.
Training with a bow was different from training with a sword, Galahad quickly found. It didn't help that his teacher was unrelenting and single-mindedly focused on each and every one of Galahad's movements. From the way he positioned his feet to how hard in the ground he put them, from the rotation of his hips and the depth of his breaths, from the curve of his shoulders to the height of his elbow.
He wouldn't have thought he'd have the patience and rigor needed for mastering the weapon, but nothing made him flush with pride quite like Tristan's rare praises. The discipline needed kept him focused and effectively out of trouble. He found a strange sort of meditation in the repetitive movement. Nock, draw, release, and repeat. Then either the satisfaction of hitting the target, or the frustration of missing again, which pushed him to try again. Either way, Tristan's only response was always that peculiar tutting sound he made, the same he used when interacting with his hawk.
But Galahad didn't mind Tristan's strange ways.
Over the years, as Tristan was given more boys to train and Galahad discovered that he was just as implacable and merciless with them, yet that none other than him were under such high expectations and harsh criticism. But he took it in stride. No matter how harsh he could be, Tristan was never intentionally cruel. As time passed, and even after more than a decade of relentless and rigorous training, Galahad never missed an opportunity to practice under Tristan's watchful eye.
Initial guilt and childish admiration had turned into respect and heartfelt devotion overtime, and as they trained and fought side by side, Galahad had gained in Tristan more than a mentor and a brother-in-arm. Tristan was a true friend, a pillar on which he could rely on in times of doubt or exhaustion. Tristen whistood his moods and tempered his outbursts with a constant calm and steady presence. It also seemed that only Galahad was spared Tristan's prickly side, as he was practical and cynical, and at times unkind. But never to Galahad, whose company was the only one he tolerated for extended periods of time.
The man was a bit of a mystery, and even after years spent at his side, he was never quite sure what thoughts went through his mind. All he knew was that whenever he sought out Tristan, the man was there, unwavering as ever.
Pulled out of his thoughts by Isolde's cry over their heads, Galahad picked up an arrow and nocked it into the string, pulling on it, to test its resistance. The hawk was flying in circles over the training yard, never venturing too far from her master, and even though she couldn't be seen in the clouds and mist of autumn. Galahad raised the bow and got into position, string pulled as far as it would go, the tension going from the hand holding the grip all the way to the other, holding the base of the arrow into place. Excruciatingly aware of Tristan's gaze on him, he felt the back of his neck prickle and waited for the inevitable comment.
"Lower your left shoulder and open your chest," Tristan said. Galahad corrected his posture with a sigh and shot.
The arrow hit the target dead on and Galahad let himself smile with satisfaction as Tristan hummed in approval. He kept practicing, hitting target after target until his hands were numb and his shoulders were sore. It earned him a few more satisfied grunts from Tristan and a murmured good as he shot the last three arrows in quick succession, lining them up as close as he could on the target. As he was putting away his bow and arrows, his earlier musings came back to the front of his mind and he decided to ask.
"Why have you always been so hard on me?"
Tristan didn't answer, but also didn't ask for clarification and Galahad knew he had immediately understood him. He sighed and resigned himself to never fully understanding Tristan's insistence. When he turned, the man wasn't looking at him.
"I don't expect as much from the others than I expect from you," Tristan finally said in his usual detached manner.
"What do you mean by that?" he retorted, irritated, before the words could truly register in his mind. Tristan was tempted to retort, curbing the rising infuriation he could see behind Galahad's eyes, then saw the moment it suddenly made sense in the young man's mind. His temper was sometimes volatile and he had exhausted most of his patience for the day. He had none left for another bout of his indignation. But this time Galahad seemed to reign in his anger and for once looked ashamed. He was looking at his feet, kicking absently at the dirt and purposely keeping his gaze down.
"I thought you found me difficult and indolent."
"You can be complacent. There's a difference."
"Complacent?"
"If you're not willing to push past your limits, you might as well go back to the garrison and serve your remaining time patrolling the wall."
"So what you're saying is that you'll never stop training me?"
Tristan didn't say a word, but they both knew the answer to that question.
It had been obvious from the beginning that their tempers were not harmoniously matched. Tristan's directness often clashed with Galahad's easily provoked anger, and his aloofness never ceased to fuel it even further. But there was that passion behind the boy's eyes that Tristan respected and wished to encourage. He was hardworking and tenacious, eager to better himself and prove his worth. Training and teaching Galahad was akin to taming a young animal found in the wild, and Tristan found he had the patience and vision for it. From the start he had been able to see what the boy could become with the right influence and methods. He believed he could become a good knight, perhaps one of the greatest. And he had been right.
So when Arthur had appointed Tristan as one of his Knights and his scout, he had suggested Galahad's name to add to his circle of trusted soldiers. He had trained him under Arthur's orders and supervision, and vouched for him when the commander doubted his decision.
Arthur never seemed to regret it.
☩
"You're too quick to anger. Too easily provoked. You need to control your anger."
Galahad groaned. It was the third time that week that Tristan had reprimanded him about his temper during training. He felt a familiar burst of frustration at the reprimand, as he was weary of being reminded of that unwanted trait of character that he still hadn't outgrown. It was one thing to be a hot-headed child, it was another to be a knight with an anger issue, and nothing brought Galahad more shame than the awful words he was able to say when he was truly furious -it was even worse when he was in his cups. Yet no matter how long and how hard he trained, there was a fire under his skin, an energy that he had a hard time channeling into something that wasn't destructive. Archery helped, for the most part, but nothing seemed quite enough to scratch that particular itch.
Tristan knew that, but as usual the man seemed to take great pleasure into bringing it to the surface, as if seeing Galahad flustered and angered amused him to no end. With a frustrated shout, Galahad kicked the practice sword that Tristan had just knocked out of his hand. Being angry made him sloppy, too. He knew Tristan was right in reminding him how dangerous his temper could be, not for the hurt it could cause others, but for the weakness it was on the battlefield. A knight that was prone to outbursts was neither reliable nor trustworthy. He was a better man than this, he knew it, and that was what Tristan wanted him to remember.
Yet, once again, he let his temper get the best of him. "We can't all be emotionless creatures like you," he spat at Tristan, expecting him to reciprocate with a barbed remark or another critique on his form or stamina, but instead Tristan regarded him with a strange look in his eyes.
The boy had grown both in height and broadness over the last few summers, the lankiness of his youth morphing into lean muscle and a kind of grace Tristan found captivating. That spark of his that Tristan had been initially drawn to had grown with him, a wildfire of passion and fervor that sometimes morphed into an entirely different beast -impulsiveness, irritability and once in a while, fury. His tongue was feisty, when he let himself go, and Tristan wasn't so innocent in the development of that particular trait, if he was honest with himself. He himself was known for his cynical remarks.
Since that fateful day when Tristan had taken a beating in his stead, he had had the privilege of enjoying Galahad's lasting friendship. The bond between them was unspoken, and stronger than Tristan had anticipated. There was an edge to it, at times, in the silences they kept and the glances they exchanged. A tension in the air, like a bowstring pulled too tight, ready to snap. Sometimes, in the heat of the summer, he could feel Galahad's eyes on his bare back, on the scars in which their bond was rooted. More than once he had wished for the young man to forgo his propriety and reach out, run his fingers along the ridges as was obvious he wanted to do.
Galahad's affections were unpredictable. There were days where Tristan felt the heat of his temper more than anything else, and other days where he could only see friendship and devotion in his eyes. The thrill of that unpredictability kept Tristan on the edge, along with their constant banter, and if he was honest with himself, warmed his lonely nights. There was nothing as elating as Galahad's affections, as they were given freely, fully, but never demanded anything more than he was willing to give. It seemed that what Galahad saw in Tristan's guarded demeanor and quiet presence was enough.
Tristan felt free, with Galahad.
"Tristan, please. I didn't mean anything by it. I'm sorry. I know you're not emotionless," the young man said contritely, Tristan's silence having been long enough for his frustration to abate and guilt taking its place. "You're just better at controlling yourself."
"It's fascinating, how you can be so kind in nature yet so prone to cruelty when you are angered," Tristan said with a small smile. "Like a young dog who bites when it's afraid."
Galahad frowned and it only spurred Tristan on.
"But as your talents prove," he gestured at the sword lying in the dirt, his mouth stretching in a toothy grin, "I'm afraid your bark is much worse than your bite."
Galahad felt himself flush at the teasing but before he could respond Tristan turned on his heels and walked out of the training field.
"Come on, pup. Let's get back to your training,” he said, over his shoulders. Confused but intrigued, Galahad picked up his sword with a sigh and followed him out.
After putting away their equipment, Tristan led him to the adjoining forest. It took him a while, longer than he cared to admit, to realize that they were scouting. Galahad was fascinated. He rarely got to observe Tristan in his element, as his role as a scout often led him ahead of the rest of the group. Without a word he followed him, matching him step for step, striving to be as quiet as he could. His heartbeat was steady but loud in his ears, and he felt as though the whole forest could hear his breathing, but Tristan made no comment. In the quiet of the forest Galahad let himself look at Tristan properly, at his mismatched braids, at the broad curve of his shoulders.
After a short trek through the dense woods they sat in a small clearing, Tristan on a rock covered in moss and Galahad on a fallen tree trunk. The air smelled of wet wood and muddy grass. It had rained the night before.
"How many birds do you hear?"
"Are you training me to be your bloodhound as well?" he asked with a smirk, his earlier annoyance at Tristan's humor having abated.
"Do as you're told, pup," he ordered, but there was fondness in his tone.
Galahad closed his eyes, aware of Tristan's gaze on him. He listened to the sounds of the forest, to the wind in the trees and to the chants of birds that surrounded him. For a minute he couldn't decipher how many different songs he could hear, but after listening to them for a while, he started noticing the patterns. A couple of birds were singing to each other, a back and forth of the same four notes that resonated in the clearing but came from different direction - another lonely bird was singing alone, a longer melody that remained unanswered. In the background, further in the shadows, others were happily tweeting and chirping.
Galahad shivered when the wind abruptly changed direction and the sounds that had been faraway a second ago now seemed close to them. He realized he had lost himself in the symphony of the forest when he heard Tristan chuckle lowly.
“Thank you,” he said sincerely as they walked back to the fort, then added after Tristan titled his head in questioning, "For always looking out for me."
Later that night, alone in his bed, Galahad closed his eyes and remembered the forest.
☩
Observing Tristan with his hawk always made a warmth spread through him. Galahad knew what it was like to be the sole focus of Tristan's attention. He sometimes felt the older man's eyes on him and wished for nothing more than to have the courage to turn around and return his intense gaze. Galahad knew he had Tristan's favor, for some odd reason he couldn't quite pinpoint. They all knew it but it was kept under silence, like an unspoken rule of their dynamic.
He was always frank and direct, but his affections were not always so decipherable. Tristan never touched him more than necessary to put him into position while training, never let himself linger even though it was obvious he wasn't averse to Galahad welcoming his touch. There were no casual touches between them, no clapping on the back or the shoulder, no easy camaraderie like there was with the other members of their guild. Every touch between them was intentional without ever crossing that unspoken boundary.
Until the day Galahad took a life for the first time.
Tristan didn't remember much of the first man he killed. It was a Woad, nameless, faceless, just a blue shadow at the edge of his vision during a regular patrol. That shadow had hung with him for a while after that, but had quickly disappeared, fading into the countless, nameless and faceless others that lost their life under his sword or arrows.
On a rainy day at the edge of summer, when the air was both hot and damp, Tristan found Galahad after a small ambush with a group of Woads. The young man was propped against a tree, eyes wide and looking far away beyond what was in front of him. Namely, the body of a Woad where his sword was still planted. Tristan pulled the sword free and kneeled in front of Galahad.
"Don't let him come with you," he said roughly, shaking him once by the back of his neck. "You must leave him here, or you'll lose yourself."
Galahad inhaled shakily and gripped Tristan's arm as he helped him to his feet. He swayed, disoriented, and for a moment Tristan worried he'd been wounded. He pressed his forehead to Tristan's chest and held on to him as he tried to find his breath. He was shaking violently under Tristan's hands. They stayed this way for long minutes, Tristan breathing deeply and Galahad trying to follow the movements of his chest to calm his own frantic heartbeat. His ears were buzzing and nausea was rising in his throat.
Tristan held him by the shoulders as he emptied the contents of his stomach at the foot of the tree.
"You killed a man. He won't be the last. Don't let his ghost follow you."
"How?" he croaked, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve.
"Stay close to me," was all Tristan said. Galahad went with him when he rode ahead, keeping his horse close to his right, and all Tristan had to do was turn his head to see the familiar wild curls bounce in the wind. Later that night, after the fire had been reduced to ambers and the others had gone to their respective furs and cots, Galahad came to sit beside him at the edge of the camp.
"Did he follow you?" he asked. "The first man you killed."
Tristan nodded grimly. "He was a Woad, too."
"How did you get rid of him?"
"I killed some more. Got a taste for it, eventually."
It was not the answer Galahad had wanted to hear. Killing more men until the first blended with the others was the last thing he wanted, but he knew that Tristan was right in a way. Soon he would probably forget the fright of that first fight, as it would be replaced with a bloodier battle. He bit his lip and pulled his cloak tight around himself, shivering with a feeling that had nothing to do with the cold.
Tristan shifted his weight against the tree they were leaning on, opening his side to Galahad's, and after a moment's hesitation, his head of dark curls came to rest against Tristan's hard shoulder. He fought against the urge to wrap an arm around him -the prospect of opening the door to casual affection made him feel like walking on unsteady ground. Instead he moved his leg until their thigh and knee were pressed together, the warmth seeping through their clothes.
"Close to you," he murmured and Tristan hummed in agreement.
☩
"I must say, I am anxious for you to get back to the training field," Gawain said wearily.
Tristan bit into the slice of apple he had just cut and waited for him to continue. He was bedridden with a leg wound and the knights were taking turns keeping him company and changing his bandages. Yet strangely, Galahad was nowhere to be seen. Tristan had taken a sword to the thigh during a scuffle north of the wall. Dagonet had stitched his wound in the field while Galahad was holding him down. He still remembered vividly Galahad's trembling hands on his shoulder and other leg, the young man repeating reassuring words as Dagonet's hands and shirtsleeves were growing crimson with the blood pouring out of Tristan's leg.
He watched as Gawain sighed in frustration and sat down on the chair opposite of his cot. "Galahad has been even more insufferable than usual since you've been bedridden. Training from dawn to dusk, barking and hissing at anyone who comes too close and dares suggest that he rests, even for an hour."
"Training?" Tristan asked.
"Target practice," Gawain specified. "He's been challenging himself, trying to beat your scores at archery. He's driving himself mad that he can't quite reach your accuracy and speed, and driving the others to madness along with him with his awful temper of his."
Gawain sighed again, and Tristan was starting to get annoyed at the noise. Also, he couldn't seem to understand why Gawain, who was undoubtedly the closest to Galahad, was anxious for him to deal with the boy's temper. "He blames himself for your injury," Gawain supplied. "He got it into his head that if were faster, you wouldn't have gotten hurt."
"So, get back on your feet, drag you ass to the training field and knock some sense into him before anyone gets hurt," Gawain commanded before leaving the room.
It was two more days before Tristan was able to get up and out of bed without obviously wincing in pain. He chewed on some willow bark and herbs, and after tending to Isolde, found his way to the training field. Like Gawain had said, Galahad was there on horseback with his bow and arrows. A path had been drawn into the grass by the horse's steps, back and forth in a straight line parallel to the targets a few yards from it.
Tristan watched as Galahad launched the horse into a gallop, then nocked, drew and released, hitting the first target with precision. He did it again, then again, three arrows fired within seconds of each other and hitting the targets each time. It was obvious in his movements that he was in pain, his shoulders and back were rigid and lacked their usual grace, but for some reason he was pushing through. It was only when the horse reached the end of the field and turned around that Galahad noticed him, lowering his bow.
Tristan started to walk down toward the field and Galahad brought the horse back to the beginning of the trail at a brisk pace. He stopped and dismounted when he arrived a few feet away from Tristan, leading the horse by the bridle. "Should you be out of bed?" he asked heatedly.
"Should you be out of yours?" Tristan bit back. Galahad frowned. "Gawain tells me you've been training yourself into an early grave."
"Gawain shouldn't have bothered you with that," he snapped.
"Your posture is too tight. You need rest."
"I still have several rounds to get through", he protested.
"Galahad," Tristan raised his voice. The young man almost jumped, Tristan so rarely used his name, and even so rarely spoke in a tone that wasn't either dispassionate or mocking, when he was in the mood. He needn't say anything more. Galahad nodded feebly and shouldered his bow before turning to lead the horse back to the stable. All the while he could feel Tristan's unwavering gaze on his back and his eyes prickled with unshed tears at having been reprimanded by him like a child once again. All it had taken was two sentences and the use of his name for him to comply, and he wanted to laugh at himself for the love he felt for Tristan, and his eagerness to do as the man wanted.
Neither him nor Gawain, nor any other knight from their company mentioned Galahad's strange behavior again.
Yet in the weeks that followed Tristan's injury, he found that the man was always there, on the edge of his vision. Leaning against a tree, watching him train. Observing him from his seat in a corner of the tavern, more obvious than he'd ever been in the past. Tristan never did anything without a good reason, but he didn’t ask, for fear of getting an answer he wouldn’t like or worse, driving the man away.
Eventually he grew accustomed to his new shadow, finding reassurance in Tristan’s constant yet silent presence. It should have been suffocating, Tristan’s brooding aura always hanging in the air around him. Instead it was grounding. From time to time, Tristan would graze Galahad's shoulder with his own, and Galahad would respond by bumping him gently. Sometimes, he'd press the side of his head to Tristan's shoulder instead and the man allowed it with a low hum. It was like an unspoken question and answer, a mutual reassurance that they were both there, both in one piece.
Still, they didn't speak of what was brewing between them as months passed.
☩
Spring turned into summer and brought back the familiar glances to Tristan's old scars.
In a few months they would be free men, and slowly, almost imperceptibly, the closer that horizon got, the further away from him Tristan retracted. The man that once was a constant presence over his shoulder retreated in the shadows and seemed to get out of his way to avoid being alone with him. It was natural, Galahad thought with bitter sorrow. They were all preparing their departure, making plans in their heads, drafting itineraries, road maps and nautical charts.
Whatever Tristan was planning, company was obviously not part of his plan. He shouldn't feel surprised or betrayed, but he did.
A strange sort of pain had lodged in his chest, the expectation of the heartache and grief that were coming, when the moment of farewells would come. Tristan would turn to the forest and the valleys, where he could let his hawk fly free and Galahad would turn to the coast and roam the shore. Maybe pick up fishing, build a cabin somewhere along a stream. He felt foolish for once considering that Tristan and him could leave together and build something more than the brotherhood that had been weaved between them by time and fighting side by side on the battlefield.
The apprehension and worry were pointless, he knew, but he couldn't rid himself of them.
☩
On their last night as Arthur's guild, on the cusp of their hard-earned freedom, Tristan refrained from drinking, unsure of how his composure would hold under the influence of the wine. Instead he kept his focus on the knives they were throwing, trying to enjoy wha probably was the last night of companionship he would have until a long time. Longing pulled at him, and he felt more and more restless as the night progressed. He watched Galahad openly, hoping the younger man would be the one to reach out to him.
When Vanora started singing, Tristan came to stand a few steps behind Galahad and listened to him hum under his breath, his deep and melodious voice singing of hope and home. But as usual the peace and joy never lasted long, and this time trouble came in the form of Arthur's new orders. Already pained and bitter, Tristan felt he had nothing to lose. He saw Galahad's anger take shape as Bors shouted at Arthur about choosing his own fate.
"Yeah, yeah, we're all going to die some day. If it's a death from a Saxon hand that frightens you, stay home," Tristan said, and the fact that he seemed unconcerned ignited the spark of Galahad's pain and feeling of betrayal. His control tipped, his sorrow feeding into his anger and he couldn't stop himself from lashing out at Tristan, while all he wanted was to lash out at Arthur.
"Listen, if you're so eager to die you can die right now!" Galahad shouted, taking a step toward him, but Lancelot held him back before he could launch himself at Tristan. The younger man had spent the evening working up the courage to talk to him, to beg him not to leave without at least a proper goodbye. He was getting both increasingly desperate and frustrated, the desire for closeness growing stronger than ever before. He took one look at Tristan's unaffected demeanor and unleashed the burning anger that was brewing in his chest.
"I've got something to live for!"
Tristan didn't answer and soon left the tavern, following Dagonet in silence. He walked around the fort for a little while, Galahad's words resonating in his head, unable to let the pain he'd witnessed in him go. It was true, he wasn't one for prolonged company and heartfelt conversation, but he didn't want the last interaction he had with Galahad before the mission to be the young man shouting at him. Never part in anger, Galahad had told him once, as he believed it to be bad luck, and luck was in short supply in the season of life they were in.
He sought out Galahad, searching for him in the usual spots he favored when he was upset. He felt a pang of dismay when he walked up the stone stairs to one of the lower towers of the fort and realized that Galahad was there, with company already. Gawain was with him, sitting on the low wall. If Gawain turned and paid attention, he could spot him.
"We risked our lives and it was all for nothing," Galahad was growling and whining like an angry little pup, and it would have been endearing if it wasn't so grave.
"It wasn't for nothing, Galahad," Gawain answered calmly, and a ruffle of fabric and leather told Tristan of some sort of embrace, an arm around the shoulders perhaps. No one soothed Galahad's moods quite like Gawain, a trick Tristan sometimes envied him.
"And in the end, even if it wasn't for Rome, we did it for ourselves. For honor. We are better men for it," Gawain said, then murmured soothingly, "You are a better man for it. Better than the lot of them."
Galahad chuckled wetly. "Thank you, brother," he said sincerely, then added with mirth. "I wish I could say the same about you."
They both laughed easily at the jab and Tristan felt out of place, intruding on a moment of friendship and comfort that wasn't meant for him.
"Don't fret. Tomorrow, we'll set out to rescue that wretched family and when it's over we'll find you the most boring river and you'll follow it 'till the sea. Build yourself a little cabin on the shore. Maybe I'll visit you and you'll teach my children who look like Lancelot how to fish."
Galahad laughed again, a bright and merry sound that warmed Tristan's heart at the same time that it made it burn with bitter jealousy at Gawain.
As if Gawain could feel the heat of Tristan's envy, he whispered in connivence, "Your shadow is here to talk to you, I think."
He got up and walked out, clapping Tristan on the shoulder as he passed him in the stairs.
"You want to talk to me?" Galahad asked without looking up at him.
"Never part in anger," Tristan answered. He crossed the room and sat where Gawain had been sitting, which was closer than he usually sat next to Galahad. He could feel the heat from the young man's knee against his own. He took an apple and his knife from his pocket, cut a wedge and lifted it toward Galahad. A peace offering of some sort, the only one he could think of. Sometimes he wished he had the same proclivity for comfort and camaraderie as Gawain or Lancelot. But Galahad never seemed to hold it against him. He accepted the piece of apple.
"I have a bad feeling about tomorrow. Don't you?" he asked lowly, then bit into the tart fruit.
"Yes."
They ate their peace offering in silence, Tristan giving every other wedge he cut to Galahad and listened to him chew and swallow. It was loud in the otherwise silent room, the muffled sound of the tavern in the background. When the apple was finished, he pocketed the core for Isolde and put away the knife in the interior pocket of his tunic. Tristan inhaled deeply through his nose and took the plunge.
"You've been expecting something, these last few weeks. You look at me like you've got something to say, but you never say it. Better say it now, pup. We might be dead by tomorrow."
Galahad winced and elbowed him half-heartedly in protest of his last statement, then pushed on his feet and took a few steps, arms crossed against his chest, head bowed to the ground. He started kicking around the dirt in frustration. "It doesn't matter."
"Doesn't it?" Tristan prodded, an edge of desperate emotion in his voice. It was uncharacteristic enough that Galahad stopped in his tracks. "I've got something to live for, is what you said. Does it mean that I don't?"
"You've never talked of any plan, of where you'd like to go to enjoy your freedom."
Tristan shrugged. "I'll go where my feet take me. I'll enjoy my freedom as it is, with no plan, no orders to follow."
Galahad made a face, like he was expecting Tristan's answer but was still disliking it.
"Is it truly how you intend to spend the rest of your life, in some kind of self-imposed exile?"
"It isn't exile if I have no home to go to in the first place."
"You could make a home, somewhere," he protested.
"Is that what you intend to do?" Tristan asked harshly. "Settle down somewhere, build a home? Get a woman, father some children?"
Galahad shook his head in defeat. They both knew. There was something wild underneath Galahad's skin, bright and unpredictable like his anger, something untamed that would suffocate if bound to one place. Something that reminded Tristan of the vast opening of the sea and its treacherous waves and currents. For a second he pictured Galahad with his hair full of sand and sea salt, curls wild and untamed, his skin golden from the sun, his eyes bright and vibrant.
"I was hoping you would come with me", he said, not meeting Tristan's eyes.
Tristan stood up from the low wall and approached him like he would a spooked horse, taking cautious steps and lowering his shoulders until his head was at the same height as Galahad's.
"Come where?" he murmured. His heart was beating wildly in his chest, but the weight he had carried there these last few weeks seemed to have turned into a tender pit of heat.
"I don't know," Galahad whispered back. "Wherever you wanted. We could wander, let that bird of yours lead the way."
Tristan nodded absently, like he was contemplating Galahad's words, then took a step forward and into Galahad's space. Without a word, the young man bowed his head and pressed against him.
"Is that what you want?"
"More than anything", Galahad murmured against his shoulder, and finally, Tristan reached up and wrapped his arms around him, pulling him against his body. Galahad closed his eyes and breathed in Tristan's scent. He smelled of sweat, of pine and apples, like the forest and meadows he liked to wander in. Galahad felt a sudden surge of desire, and for the first time since he first understood what wanting someone meant, he didn't resist it. He slid his arms into the lapels of Tristan's outershirt, wrapping his arms around his waist, feeling the warmth of his body through his linen shirt. Tristan hummed in obvious contentment, burrowing his face into his hair.
He wanted to cry with how good it felt to be held by him and forced himself to commit this moment to memory. He was sure he was trembling but that only made Tristan hold him tighter. He was smoothing his hand up and down the nape of Galahad's neck, tangling his fingers into the soft curls with a tenderness Galahad had never known from him.
"I'll follow you. You know I'll follow you," Tristan said, his voice rough. "I'm your shadow, aren't I?"
Galahad nodded, but before he could answer, footsteps came up the stone stairwell and they broke apart. Gawain called for them and with a last, longing glance to Tristan, Galahad turned and followed their brother-in-arms' call.
The night was spent planning and preparing their equipment, the memory of Tristan and Galahad's embrace lingering in the air between them.
☩
The nervous anticipation of the battle was brewing in the fort, soldiers and trainees alike gathering weapons and armor. Sorrow was weighing heavily on Arthur's knights at Dagonet's death, and they all itched to avenge his sacrifice.
Galahad found Tristan in the aviary, tending to Isolde. He leaned against the doorway and watched him feed her small pieces of dried meat, murmuring senseless things in a soothing tone. The bird seemed distracted, like she could feel what was to come.
“You asked me once, how can I be certain she’ll come back to me," Tristan said. "I never am, not entirely. But I trust her.”
He marked a pause, letting his words hang in the air between them, then turned toward Galahad. “Do you trust me?”
It took him a second to understand what Tristan meant.
“Yes,” he answered fervently.
Tristan nodded once and turned again to tie Isolde's jess to her post. "I think she'd like to see the ocean. Chase around some gulls."
Galahad felt his chest constrict with both joy and despair.
He held Tristan's intense gaze as the man approached him with purpose and leaned forward. He thought for a frightening second that he might kiss him, but instead of pressing their mouths together he pulled their foreheads to rest against each other, noses brushing. It was the same odd affection that he showed toward his hawk and Galahad felt as though an arrow had pierced his throat. He inhaled roughly through his nose, a breath that rattled his shoulders. He felt Tristan press harder at that, his own echoing ragged breath hitting him in the face.
They breathed together, soothing each other without a word, and the air they shared was growing damp. The sudden, unusual intimacy was overwhelming, an invisible thread that was pulling them closer and closer together. Tristan wet his lip, hesitating.
“If you don’t come back I’ll cross the gates of Hell and drag you back myself," Galahad murmured, fervent as ever.
Tristan laughed and pulled back until he could see the fire in Galahad's eyes. “I might be tempted, just to witness your fury. I really do enjoy it.”
Galahad regarded him with unguarded adoration and Tristan pulled him in by the back of his neck again. He bent down and pressed a rough kiss to his temple, the act more tender and intimate than any mark of affection he had ever shown him before. Galahad shuddered and pulled him closer by the arms, his fists tight in the thick material of Tristan's armor.
"Don't you dare, Tristan," he murmured against his jaw, then turned his head, seeking, his beard scratching against Tristan's. Tristan pressed another rough kiss to the shell of his ear, and Galahad heard him breathe in into his curls with intent.
Then, in a moment of madness, of pure, unbridled longing and desire, Tristan turned his head and sought Galahad's mouth. Galahad surged against him, his face flushing and his body coming alive. They kissed, tangled in each other in more ways than one, mouths open against the other, unpracticed and hurried. Like a tide rising and swiping everything in its way, years of aching and yearning for the other poured into their kiss. Tristan's lips were chapped, his tongue hot and relentless, and Galahad could only let himself be consumed by the passion burning inside of him, returning his lover's ardor with all the fire he possessed. He trembled violently and whined into Tristan's mouth, and they both felt like the current would take them under if they stopped. For long minutes the world around them faded as they lost themselves in each other, in the passion they shared.
Eventually, as the sounds of men preparing for battle grew louder and louder outside, they broke apart.
"Give me your word, Tristan," Galahad pleaded, his eyes still closed.
"Death won't do us part today, Galahad. You have my word."