Chapter Text
Galahad is the shortest, by a hairsbreadth, by inches in some cases, amongst the boys gathered from Sarmatia. He does not mention that he is the youngest, protecting his secret closely. He has changed places with his oldest brother, only just tall enough to pass it off.
His mother needed the able help, and to have Galahad instead would be a burden to her.
One of his companions sees it anyway, a ragged child on a horse that is very fine. The contrast is strange to Galahad. He brings no mount with him, his family unable to spare their two horses to plow, but here was a boy who looked wild and dangerous and yet he rode what must be the finest mount in his village.
'You're too young to be here," the boy says, when they make camp the third day. Galahad has felt eyes watching him, measuring.
He draws himself up and faces into those dark eyes, defiant.
"You're too filthy to be a soldier."
It is a callous and heartless cut, a defensive strike. The other just laughs, and his voice is already beginning to change, turning the sound to a low and sudden rumble.
"Despite both our faults, they took us anyway," he offers a hand, arm straight, a man's grip. "I'm Tristan."
For the first time and years too early Galahad gives his own hand as a soldier, and not a boy at play.