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They were several days out from the garrison and the relative comfort of the barracks when the first slurry of snow clouded the skies. It danced in the wind, a vision of white against the rich green of the forest around them and the grey silhouette of Hadrian’s Wall beyond.
Artorius Castus, better known as Arthur across Britain, led their party atop his distinctive white mare. Lancelot rode close behind him, Tristan further away to the side as he watched his beloved hawk circle the sky.
Somewhere in their weary procession Gawain had slipped to the back. Eager to escape the dourness of Galahad, he had managed to foist the young man onto Dagonet with little regret. While Gawain had sought to take the younger man under his wing, even his patience could run thin between Galahad’s complaining and Lancelot’s prodding bullishness.
The man sighed into the wind, content to watch its swirling white mass go by him. It bore with it a chill that was blown from the mountaintops themselves, which settled over the heat that prickled his skin and the ache building in his head.
“Do you think Vanora will like the new scars I’ve acquired?” Bors called from where he guarded the end of their travelling party.
“They’ll have to heal first,” Gawain replied tiredly. “I doubt she wants some festering wound in bed with her even if she still lets you in it. Most women don’t.”
Bors scoffed. “You just envy me that my scars are large and the tales behind them larger compared to your piddling amount. Or,” he said more slyly, “That I have someone to bed when we arrive and you do not.”
“There are women aplenty at the wall,” Gawain returned, though his heart was not in it.
Exhaustion dragged at his limbs and hurt at the wounds he had received in their latest fight. The ache had only grown worse as the days wore on, leaving the Sarmatian wanting nothing more than to curl up in his room with naught but sleep to pass the time. The cut on his thigh kept reopening and he had been forced to clean it again in the early hours of the morning before they had set out for the day.
Gawain tore his eyes from where he was watching Isolde glide above her master, rubbing at them with his forefinger and thumb as though that might rid them of their gritty feeling. Gringolet shifted beneath him, snorting his displeasure at his own minor pains. The charger had taken a few superficial cuts of his own, none of which would impede his abilities but which still no doubt stung in the cool air.
“You’re alright,” Gawain mumbled, slumping towards Gringolet’s ear as he petted the horse’s arching neck. “Just a few more days yet, then it will be the stables for you, warm and safe and home.”
Home – a word he was uncertain had an answer for himself. Sarmatia had been the place of his youth before the Romans had come, vast and wild and free. Yet, it had been years since he had seen those endless steppes, years since he had been forced to trade them for dreary weather and stone buildings and idling away in a single place. Even the sun and snow had seemed different, but now it was only Britain’s sun he could imagine on his face, only Britain’s cold that seeped into the memory of his bones.
A chill wracked Gawain’s entire body. His hands clenched against the reins, only instinct keeping him from pulling his arms tight and inadvertently halting his horse. Britain had consumed his childhood memories, but he did not delude himself into thinking he was free. The will of Rome pressed ever against him and that meant Britain too could not be home. Even now he could feel the burn of Rome’s eyes upon him, an oppressive heat he feared he would never escape despite all of Arthur’s promises.
Lancelot spoke of returning home, of seeing his father and sister again. He often wondered whether she had taken up a sword in her time, of whom would prove the better warrior if she had. Galahad spoke of it incessantly, the longing for Sarmatia settled as deep within him as the resentment of being forced to fight for Rome. Even Bors and Dagonet would wax poetic about the steppes when deep in their cups, coaxing Tristian to tell stories of his boyhood hunts upon them.
At some point Gawain had found himself less and less enthralled by those tales, understanding less the glint in the others’ eyes when they talked of such things. When asked his course he would still point to Sarmatia as the end, though the words had grown false in his mouth like ash from a fire that had burned out long ago. But what else did he have but a half-remembered childhood from a half-remembered land with gods he believed in but did not know if they heard him across the sea? That or a grave on a grassy hill that stood in the shadow of Hadrian’s Wall. Or a nameless pit on a blood strewn battlefield where the crows wheeled overhead.
“Thinking is not supposed to hurt.”
Gawain started, the world blurring around him as he straightened. Nausea swirled in his stomach, though he had taken nothing for breakfast that morning and he had not the appetite to raid his saddlebags for food on the road. He swallowed the feeling down with the bile that had risen in his throat, glancing slowly at Bors with an unimpressed look.
“What would you know about thinking?” he said somewhat acridly.
Bors grinned and pointed a hand towards the direction of the wall. “I think there waits for me a beautiful woman and a gaggle of bastards that will ease the cold and stiffness from these bones and heart.”
Gawain huffed a laugh despite himself. He winced as it twinged his side, hand going to press lightly over the place where his armour hid a puncture he had been dealt by a knife. The pain slowly whittled down to something more bearable stirred only by the bumps and twists of the road.
“You alright?”
The blond knight gave a wan smile in response to Bors’ concern “As much as any of us can be upon this road. I shall be glad when we return and the worst I have to contend with is Galahad’s snoring.”
“It’s a wonder you sleep at all,” Bors laughed, though his eyes still regarded the other with care.
Gawain raised an eyebrow. “You are just as bad, if not worse. It is a wonder Vanora lets you stay after your lovemaking.”
“My snoring is like music compared to the wailing of a babe, or so she says.”
Another chill wracked Gawain, more sudden than the last, and he shrugged in a vain attempt to ward it off. “One could say Vanora has questionable taste. Then again, she has always liked me well enough.”
“That’s because you don’t break her dishes or scare off those consuming her wares,” Bors laughed. “Not half as much as the others.”
Gawain allowed a small twitch of his lips at that. “Dagonet too.”
“Dagonet too,” Bors conceded, shifting his gaze to his closest friend.
Ahead of them, Tristian had fallen back as he coaxed his winged friend down for a scratch and morsel of rabbit. Dagonet was staring determinedly ahead as Galahad gestured empathetically beside him.
The twitch of a smile bloomed into a more fulsome one, despite the ache that had now rooted itself fully in Gawain’s head. There was a peace in watching his friends so, and while he did not shy from the bloodier aspects of what they did, there were times he wished he could relish such moments forever.
“I see Galahad has him at wits end,” Bors laughed. “That boy could stand to watch his tongue around those who could knock his head askew with a single blow.”
“He merely voices his anger at where we are,” Gawain said, mood sobering. “I cannot fault him that.”
“He wants for a home when his head should be where his sword lays. Better to learn that now or he’ll find himself deprived of both,” Bors replied, the words stinging Gawain more boldly than they should have.
The man turned sharply in his saddle to face the other knight, yet the movement sent his vision swimming. By the time the world had righted itself Gawain realised Bors was now riding close enough for them to brush knees, one meaty hand firmly gripping his bare arm. Tristian had also drawn a lot closer, a crease marring his brow as he looked Gawain over from the other side.
“He’s burning up,” Bors said gruffly, his grip tightening on Gawain’s upper arm. Tristian’s face seemed to twist, not liking those words.
“His injuries?”
“A scratch,” Gawain replied, irritated at the others speaking of him as though he were not there. He drew in a breath and attempted to shake Bors off him, but the other man resisted easily. Too easily for either of their comfort. “I simply long for a bed not made of rock and dust after the constant skirmishes we have had. We are all exhausted, are we not?”
His mild tone did not seem to convince the others.
Tristian urged his horse closer still, fingers darting out to Gawain’s side where they knew armour and bandages hid the worst of his wounds. Gawain batted the hand away, but it found the wound on his thigh instead and the other knight’s expression quickly darkened as he peered past the wrappings.
“This is infected,” Tristian said as he gently pressed a finger against the wound. Agony lanced up Gawain’s leg into his chest and head.
The man gasped, blinking against the white that spotted his vision and clenching his teeth to stop himself from yelping. It took a moment to realise he had stopped breathing and a moment longer to remember how to start again. Voices rang above him but the man ignored them in favour of steading himself on his loyal steed, knuckles white around the pommel of his saddle.
He blinked again and found Tristian had gone, his horse cantering back up the line to Arthur. Bors had a steadier hold of him by the belt. Gawain struggled past the pain that throbbed in time with his aching head, trying to regain his senses. It was then the blond knight realised they had stopped moving altogether.
“No need to delay seeing Vanora and your brood on my account,” he gasped between breaths. “I have ridden with worse.”
“You are paler than fresh milled flour and swaying like a young lad on his third cup of wine,” Bors exclaimed, but he gently nudged their horses into moving towards the others at a slow pace. Gawain withheld a grimace as the movement jostled the throbbing wound on his leg.
Beyond them, Dagonet and Galahad were turning in their saddles to look at what had spurred Tristian’s rush. Their eyes seemed to widen as they landed on their two comrades and the poor position Gawain had found himself in.
As one the pair turned their horses, making their way to the stragglers behind. Gawain fought the urge to roll his eyes, his instinctual desire to dismiss their concern dimmed as another chill ran through him. A second came, then a third, and Bors’ arm tightened around his slumping form. The new position put pressure on the wound in Gawain’s side, forcing a low groan from his throat.
“How did you hide this?” the other knight muttered to himself. Bors raised his head to Dagonet and something must have passed between them for the latter increased his pace.
The world swayed as a wind rushed by them, stirring leaves and the twitter of birds in its wake. Gringolet snorted, flicking his ears as the noise grew until a flock of birds burst forth from the forest edge, several foxes slinking back into the shadows.
Bors pulled his horse up as the birds flew right by them as though the two knights were nothing but air. Gawain raised an arm his face, not eager to feel talons on his skin as Gringolet shifted beneath him. The horse bucked as one bird struck his rear, jolting both of Gawain’s wounds in a bright bolt of pain. The blond knight gave a sharp cry, then another strangled one as his horse bucked again forcing Bors away. The reins slipped completely from his limp fingers and Gawain distantly felt himself lurch to the side.
It was strange feeling nothing beneath him as the air rushed by, crowding away from the Sarmatian’s bulk. It was stranger still to feel Gringolet steady himself too late, to feel a set of hands brush against him before he was greeted by the ground’s unforgiving rock.
Winded, the knight struggled to breathe. His side screamed at his ungainly sprawl and it felt as though his leg had finally been ripped off, agony blurring the world until it was naught but a thrumming pulse. Shadows moved above him. Something nuzzled at his hair. The man groaned, unable to so much as twitch his hands.
“Gawain!”
A steady stream of cursing followed his name and a thud that heralded boots upon the ground. Dirt sprayed near the side of his face as another horse drew up, a second thud echoing behind hasty footsteps.
“Gawain!”
That name again, closer now. He groaned a second time, his heartbeat thready in his ears.
“Hold on,” a gruff voice called. “We have you.”
That was good, Gawain thought, for the world was spinning relentlessly around him.
Hands slipped beneath his shoulders, causing the knight’s eyes to focus on the silhouette above him wreathed in the faint light that stole past the clouds. Perhaps this was what Arthur’s Saints looked like off the text of a page. Or perhaps it was something else, something wilder driven by wind through those distant plains. Whatever it was leaned further over him, a wavering vision of shadow and burning light. His lashes fluttered, then his eyes slipped closed as the world finished greying around him.
This time when Gawain fainted it was to a cry of dismay above.
~ ~ ~
Time was a loose concept for Gawain following that moment, true lucidity even harder to grasp. There was movement and pain and an unbearable heat that consumed him from within. At one point he was between someone’s arms, a hard chest of armour pressing uncomfortably against his back. Another moment he seemed to fly through the air until he had been lowered to something soft upon the ground.
Something cool had been placed upon his brow, thin rivulets of liquid trickling down his temples. Gawain felt fingers card through his hair, unknotting the tangles there and brushing debris from it. The fingers were calm and methodical, patient where those he called friend were so often taken by haste. He wondered at it absently, shifting further into their touch.
Something pressed against his lips and he drank, trusting blindly in his thirst. The drink was cool against his throat but did little to abate the greater fire that ate him. The man’s eyes flickered as the waterskin was pulled away, opening just a slither. He found green eyes gazing at him beneath a dark head of hair, a familiar seriousness and air of command drifting over words Gawain could not find it in himself to understand.
He wondered where his horse was. Gringolet was as loyal a steed as they came, braver than most and not wont to wander when his master set him loose. The man’s fingers twisted in cloth as he struggled to raise himself, determined to look for his four-legged friend, but something pushed against him, pinning him down.
Fear gripped Gawain’s heart as clumsy fingers found his knife absent from its sheath. The knight struck out instead, feeling the weakness in his arm even as he connected with flesh. Something jerked back and he jerked in kind, limbs jerking again as the heat reared its ugly head and sunk its maw deep into him with an unbidden rage.
Gawain lost time. For how long he could not tell, only that those green eyes still lingered in his blurred vision as he slowly came back to his trembling limbs.
The man could feel his heart with an uncomfortable cognizance, too aware of it pounding frantically in his chest. He gasped for air, breath rattling in his throat. Another gasp and more awareness came, words of worry stealing in with it.
Gawain reached out, suddenly desperate to find someone to cling to. Everything hurt and the little which did not was trapped in a haze of heat. He did not know where he was or who was about him, or if he had been fighting or simply idling at peace. Steel could be hovering above. An arrowhead hiding in the dark. Death loomed in the shadows and there was naught he could do to defend against it.
Dragging in another faltering breath, the knight’s hand flailed further when it met nothing but air. A low whine left him, ripped from where his heart filled his throat. Another gasp and the world grew hazier, closing off what little air Gawain could get. Then a large hand closed his within it, squeezing gently and rubbing small circles with its thumb. It anchored him, driving back the strangling panic.
Gawain drew in a breath, then another deeper one. Slowly, with fingers that felt thick and sluggish, he squeezed the hand back with what little strength he had.
The knight’s lashes dipped. His grip grew limp, hand held up only by the other that still encompassed it. Someone called to him, grabbing at his shoulder when he ignored them, their fingers digging almost desperately into the leather there. More words came but Gawain found he tired of them, eyelids sinking back into the bone-deep exhaustion that gripped him. The face above him seemed frozen in despair.
He slipped away again.
~ ~ ~
Arthur cursed as Gawain fell unconscious, his eyes drifting up to meet the equally worried gaze of Dagonet who held the ailing man’s head and shoulders in his lap.
The fit that had befallen Gawain had been terrifying, though short lived. Not for the first time Arthur was grateful they had chosen to stop when Galahad had raised concerns about a sudden deterioration in his friend’s condition. He did not wish to contemplate what might have happened had the fit occurred on horseback.
“We need to break the fever,” Dagonet said, a deep frown on his face. “This heat will burn the life from him otherwise.”
Arthur pressed his lips together, raising his head to survey their surroundings. The thin snow that had fallen in the night was now nothing but muddy slush, the weather not yet cold enough to sustain it during the day. Aside from the road, trees and themselves, there was little else the place could offer them.
“We have not the supplies,” he reluctantly said at last. “We used the last of the fenugreek and feverfew this morning and I do not know where to find it in these parts. There is little else we can do but get him to the medicus.”
Dagonet’s hands clenched where they held Gawain. Arthur felt a wave of helplessness surge through him. As their commander, he was responsible for their lives and yet here he was unable to do more than brush a wet cloth over his knight’s head and pray.
Memories crept into his head of the last knight he had lost – Kay, a sturdy giant of a man taken at last by a stray arrow during an ambush. It had been some time ago, but the hurt was still fresh, the guilt an unclosing wound Arthur still bore in his heart. Then too he had been helpless. Useless as his man had suffocated on his own blood. Just as useless as Gawain had shaken before him, too much like Kay’s own jerking movements in the last moments of his life.
Arthur’s thoughts were interrupted buy hoofbeats further down the road. Hand dropping to his sword, the Roman lifted his head and saw Lancelot riding to meet them. Tristian was not at his side.
Arthur rose to his feet as Lancelot drew near, watching as his friend dismounted.
“What news?” he called with more steadiness than he felt.
“We are less than half a day from the wall,” Lancelot replied. “Tristian has gone ahead to warn the medicus' we have need of their aid.”
The Sarmatian was leaning heavily to one side having sustained his own injuries in their latest fight. Arthur regarded him with a concerned eye, but Lancelot was stubborn and prideful and would refuse treatment out in the open where others outside their group may see. So too was he loyal and Arthur knew he would not suffer causing further delay when his friend was so ill.
“What of Gawain?” Lancelot asked as though he had heard Arthur’s thoughts.
The commander exhaled, the lines on his face carving deeper still. “A fit. The worst of it is over, I pray, but the fever has not broken.”
“Then what use are your prayers?” The outburst was fierce, but short lived. Already Lancelot was glancing away, deflating as the anger left him. “It will be dark in a few hours,” he said at last by way of offering a truce. “Tristian and I found a cave a little way along if you plan for us to make camp this night.”
“Should we not ride through it?” Galahad asked from where he stroked Gringolet’s face, the horse still agitated from the sight of its master’s distress. The young knight was restless himself, pale faced as he stared at Gawain.
“And risk one of the horses breaking a leg?” Lancelot replied.
Arthur remained silent. He looked up as though he could find salvation in the heavens above them. The sky was beginning to grey again, hinting at the possibility of a harsh storm. It would not do for Gawain to be caught out in it in his current state. Nor would it be best for the rest of them who were also weary and bore their own hurts from the fight.
Mind made up, Arthur called his orders. He glanced at Dagonet who gave a short nod as both men shifted into a crouch. The pair hefted Gawain between them, moving towards the horses.
Bors met them with a grim expression and took his friend from Arthur as the Roman mounted first. With excruciating care, the three managed to situated Gawain in front of Arthur, who carefully secured the unconscious man between his arms. Wheeling his horse around once the others were back in the saddle, he bade Lancelot to lead the way as they followed behind.
The ride was a short one, but every step seemed to span an age. Arthur could feel Gawain’s head where it lolled limply against his shoulder, the weight against him as lifeless as a corpse. He tried not to think on it as he rode. Took heart in the slight breath he felt against his cheek and ear every so often.
When they reached the cave, Arthur exhaled in relief. The wind was already turning to that which heralded rain and he was eager to get away from the chill in the air. The cave itself seemed small, but it was tucked away well enough that there would be little risk of other travellers, friendly or not, stumbling upon them.
Dagonet was the first to dismount. He made his way directly to Arthur’s horse and took Arthur’s charge from him, carrying Gawain in his arms as he strode into the cave. Galahad hurried after him once he had secured his horse and Gawain’s, a cloak already in his hands ready to spread on the ground.
Arthur dismounted himself once he had been relieved of Gawain, raising a hand to steady Lancelot as the other stumbled, and followed his knights into the mouth of the cave.
A short time passed as they busied themselves with setting up the camp. Gawain was laid on Galahad’s cloak with another spread atop him, the knight’s brow pinching into an expression of pain every so often but remaining stubbornly unconscious. Arthur seated himself by the man’s head, damp rag in hand and one of their last waterskins beside him.
Lancelot was poking at a meager fire, letting Galahad examine the injuries he had taken. The youngest knight soon sat back on heels, relief shining in his face. It would seem there were no more festering wounds hiding among them, waiting to lay its bearer low. Arthur let out his own breath of relief at that.
Bors kept watch by the mouth of the cave. The man’s hands had drifted to his weapons, tension and worry keeping him on a tighter edge than usual. The horses milled around behind him, seeking what little shelter they could from the rain that had begun to fall.
Meanwhile, the knights’ commander wrung water over Gawain’s brow. The gesture reminded him of some of the baptisms he had seen, though it was nothing of the sort. Gawain, like the others, followed his own Sarmatian gods, and if this were a baptism Arthur feared it was one that granted entry to death alone.
Lord, he prayed as he cast his eyes to the heavens once more, I ask that you show this man mercy and grant him a reprieve from the illness that grips him. Let me keep my promise to see him free, that he might die in the lands of his people as his ancestors before him.
Shadows flickered around the cave. The fire crackled loudly in the silence between the men. It was no divine answer, just a torrent of orange flame.
Dagonet, who was kneeled by Gawain’s side, deftly undid the bandages there and those on his leg, inspecting each wound for further signs of infection. The tightness of his face as he surveyed Gawain’s leg had dread curling in Arthur’s stomach, though there was a spark in the other man’s eyes that gave the Roman hope yet they might all survive this with life and limbs intact.
A stillness settled over the gave when Dagonet at least shifted back, rising first to his knees then his feet as he stretched. Every eye was turned upon him,
“The wound has not worsened,” the large man said at last. “It holds steady and the bleeding’s stopped.”
Arthur looked down at Gawain, curling his hand around the crook of the man’s neck. His fingers tangled in blond hair, that slight hope within him turning to something harder.
“We ride at the first hint of light,” he said.
The others shifted where they lingered, their shoulders straightening as a glint reflected in each of their eyes. Arthur knew that same glint was mirrored in his own. They would see their brother-in-arms whole and hale, safe yet from the graves in the shadow of the wall.
~ ~ ~
The first time he awoke with any sort of clarity Gawain found himself in a bed in the room he shared with Galahad and Tristian at the barracks. Someone had stripped him, though the feel of bandages around his waist and thigh hinted as to why. Blankets had been drawn up to his chest to keep him warm. The sharp scent of a poultice tinged the air.
Despite his aches, there was a calm that seemed to pervade the space. It settled over Gawain like the leaves trees shed in fall. Stillness and silence laid in its wake, so different from the usual bustle of day-to-day life at the wall.
The man inhaled, breath catching at the dryness of his throat.
Turning his head, Gawain flickered his lashes as a mess of blond waves fell over them. With a lazy hand he brushed them back, marveling at the cleanness he felt. It seemed someone had taken the time to wash the worst of the blood and dirt from his hair, for though it was soaked in sweat it seemed lighter than it should have been after a fight that bore him wounds. Gratitude swelled within Gawain at the thought. His fingers clumsily moved to tug at a lock and found several braids instead, each ending with a bead or feather – the work of Galahad or perhaps Dagonet, or even Bors who whose fingers often deftly twisted the hair of his daughters.
Breathing sharply, Gawain cast his awareness further around the room. There was a chair and several stools by his bed, all empty. The thin light that stole in around the edges of the half-open window and the muffled shouting from below indicated that his fellow Sarmatians were being paced through drills.
A fluttering drew his gaze to one corner where he found Tristian’s hawk preening its wings, one beady eye trained on him.
“Hello,” he croaked, offering a smile to the bird. “Taking leave from your master, are you?”
Isolde regarded him further before abruptly taking flight, swooping through the window into the day Gawain could barely glimpse. The man sighed, wincing as his side twinged in pain. He was unsure why he had expected anything else. The hawk was bonded to Tristian alone, though Gawain had hoped he had been making some headway in befriending the creature by slipping her the occasional scrap of meat.
Without anything to distract him, the man found himself sinking back into his thoughts. He remembered the fight and the Woads he had slain, the blinding pain from the stab to his side and thigh. The fight had been quick and vicious, more brutal than most. Lancelot had almost been disemboweled, but at the end he remembered they had stood seven strong as they had been when it started.
The time from when they cleaned their weapons and started back was less clear. There was Galahad and his angry ranting. Bors’ laughter. Shouting, falling, burning-
Gawain dropped his hand, eyes opening to find the sun again. He let himself drift away from the aches and the worry, away from the room he had spent so much of his life in. In the lonely calm, he let himself drift to that edge where the grass swayed across an endless plain spotted by tents and ringing laughter. The banners were frayed, the faces blurred, but the memory sweet and there he stayed for a time.
It was noise in the hallway that drew him back to Briton, the echo of footsteps more hurried than a messenger’s growing louder as they neared the room. Gawain shifted as the doorway opened, Dagonet and Galahad spilling through.
“Gawain!” the younger cried as his eyes alit upon his conscious friend. “Tristian said you were awake.”
“It is good to see your eyes open without the cloud of fever to dull them,” Dagonet added as he drew closer to the bed. One large hand hovered over Gawain’s chest in an attempt to dissuade the other as the injured man made to sit up. “How do you feel?”
Gawain grimaced, quickly giving up a half-hearted attempt to push himself upright when his arms shook beneath him. Even that small effort left him exhausted. “Like Lancelot knocked a rack of spears into me during training again.”
“That only happened once.” The words were drawled from the door as Lancelot stepped through, his put-upon tone belied by the smile that split his face at seeing Gawain.
Tristian followed behind, a shadow to the rowdier presence of the others, but steady and bold in his own right. The man also sent a soft smile in Gawain’s direction, inclining his head as he leaned against the corner his hawk had perched in not long ago.
Lancelot took the chair by the bed somewhat stiffly and Gawain remembered he too had been injured. When he enquired after the other’s health, he only received a dismissive laugh in return.
“The medicus' were done with me in less than the time it took Vanora to stich the gash in Bors’ pride that my scars will be bigger than his,” Lancelot said. “You, on the other hand, they spent two nights and a further day with before deigning you well enough to move to humbler rooms.”
“We can’t all have the tastes of a king,” Gawain returned to the light hearted jab, though the rest of the other’s words sat uneasily in his chest.
Flexing his fingers, the man tugged on a braid. He cast about for something to fill the silence, but it was Galahad who leapt first as ever.
“You’re a fool,” he said, his jaw and fists clenched. “Why did you say nothing?”
Gawain frowned, struggling to remember the details of his illness between the expanse of shrouding black. “I did not realise how bad it was.”
“Bad enough you had Arthur praying to that god of his well past the moon’s peak when we returned,” Lancelot said, his own expression tight. Yet no accusation marked his face, the other Sarmatian too often scolded himself for ignoring his health. “It happens to the best of us.”
Galahad huffed, collapsing onto a stool and grasping Gawain’s hand tightly. His eyes were bright in his young face where they peered beneath his curls.
“Here.” A cup appeared before Gawain’s face, Dagonet holding it aloft. His face was kind, though his eyes concerned, as he helped Gawain into a half-reclined position so the latter might drink with ease.
Accepting the cup with a weak hand, tightening his fingers in a refusal to spill the water as they shook at the weight, Gawain took a sip. “Where is Bors?”
“Went to tell Vanora the news,” Dagonet replied. “He should be along soon.”
“Oh.” Gawain shifted, then folded over when a flash of pain lanced through him. The cup slipped from his hand but Dagonet was ready, catching and putting it aside. The blond knight forced himself to breath while Dagonet fussed around him. By his side, Galahad compulsively tightened his grip until Gawain flashed him an irritated look and the younger man loosened his hold.
Eventually the pain subsided and Gawain gave a strained smile from where he laid back against the bed. Only Dagonet returned the gesture, the others wearing more dour expressions. Lancelot’s face was dark and anger seemed to flash in his eyes. Gawain only hoped it would not spur another argument between the man and their Roman commander. By contrast, Galahad’s expression was less angry for once and more worried. Tristian’s face was as indecipherable as it ever was.
“You look as though I lay on my death bed,” Gawain said once he felt steady enough, seriousness and jest mixing in his tone.
Lancelot’s scowl deepened while Galahad looked away, but it was Tristian who answered.
“Not so long ago you were,” he said. Even Dagonet’s forced cheer slipped at that.
Gawain mulled over his words, deliberating how best to respond. “How long?” he said at last.
“Seven days from when you fell from your horse,” Tristian answered. “Four from when we returned.”
The mention of his loyal steed sparked a seed of concern in him. “Gringolet?”
“Safe and cared for in the stables,” Galahad said with a quick smile. “Though he has been irritable to say the least. He misses you.”
“But you’ll not be walking to see him yet,” Lancelot added wryly. “I doubt you can stand as it is.”
Gawain pursued his lips at the other as Dagonet hovered warningly at his side lest he take the words as a challenge. Yet, Gawain was no fool to test the larger man nor in the mood besides. His energy was fading though he rallied himself in the presence of his friends, determined to stay away at least until Bors arrived.
As the fates would have it, he did not have to wait long. Not several moments later Bors burst through the door with a small bundle in his arms that smelled of Vanora’s cooking. The man divvied it out, eyeing Gawain up and down as he did.
“You look better,” he grunted. “A good sight better than when you were swooning in my arms.”
Gawain grimaced. “I do not swoon.”
“And Lancelot doesn’t make a rival out of every man here by sleeping with their favourite women,” Bors returned.
“Don’t fret. You can be the maiden in the tales of heroism,” Lancelot added. “You have the hair for it.”
Gawain would have thrown a pillow had his arm been stronger. As it was, he settled for a withering glare.
“It was not him who shrieked like a child when a rodent fell on him from above,” came Tristian’s voice from the corner.
Lancelot flushed. “I bid you remain calm when your bird drops its kill on you, guts and all.”
“Isolde would never waste her kill like such.”
“So you keep saying.”
The old argument picked up pace, Lancelot and Tristian trading increasingly crude barbs between themselves. Bors took the chance to clasp Gawain’s shoulder, looking him over more thoroughly.
“Ah, I should knock your head for the fright you gave me,” the man said with a sigh of relief and Gawain offered a wan smile in reply.
Soon the argument morphed into idler conversation, the men picking at the bread Vanora had supplied them with. Gawain ate only a little, nausea and weariness dragging at him. Instead, he listened to the others as the recounted their training that day.
As time passed, the occupants of the room dwindled until it was only Galahad slumped half-way on the bed in sleep and Tristian still secluded in his corner carving something with his knife. Gawain had been listening to the repetitive sound with his eyes drifting closed until a faint knock came at the door. A few moments later it pushed open a crack and Arthur’s eyes peered through it.
“Come in,” the blond knight called. “No need to stand in the door’s shadow.”
Galahad stirred but did not wake as the Roman entered. Tristian only paused his carving to give their commander a respectful nod. Gawain smiled up at Arthur as he halted by the bed, tired but willing to battle sleep for a while longer yet.
“It is good to see you well,” Arthur said before wincing. “Or at least well enough to hold conversation with company.”
“A hard feat indeed with this lot,” Gawain said, jerking his head to his fellow Sarmatians. Tristian shrugged and Galahad snored, and Arthur gave a soft chuckle.
“That is true,” he said, before eyeing his knight more critically. “I do not mean to keep you up. You have need of rest.”
“I have done nothing but rest,” Gawain returned, successfully fighting back a yawn. “Sit.”
Arthur did, though not before adjusting the blanket that had fallen low on Galahad’s shoulders as he sidled past. The Roman sighed as he sat, shoulders seeming to sink below a great weight. He opened his mouth once, twice, three times as he attempted to speak his mind. Gawain waited patiently, though it seemed Tristian tried of the tension the fourth time Arthur went to speak. The other knight rose from his corner and exited the room with a nod of deference to Arthur and one last veiled glance at Gawain.
“Never been much one for conversation,” Gawain said idly as the door closed behind his retreating friend. Galahad continued snoring softly at his side.
Arthur twiddled his thumbs, seeming to muse on something before he sighed a second time and his green eyes pinned Gawain with a familiar stare.
“Gawain-”
“Do not feel guilt over me,” the other cut in plainly, grinning wryly when Arthur looked up at him in surprise. “I may not be Lancelot, but you forget I know you well.”
Arthur sighed, leaning back in the chair with a wry smile upon his own face. “You are right as ever, but I do not think my guilt will be so easily eased. I am your commander and yet I failed to notice you were ill.”
“I failed to notice I was ill,” Gawain said. “Knew it was off that morning and the night before but thought nothing further of it.”
“Likely because you were ill. I should have insisted someone else look you over.”
And that was Arthur, generous and always forgiving of another’s faults, eager to take the blame for himself. It was as endearing a trait as it was infuriating.
“We can go round in circles passing blame,” Gawain said at last, once he was certain he would not snap. “I am familiar with the treating of wounds, more so than the others save Dagonet. You are responsible for us. Lancelot, ass that he is, commands us after you. You may even blame the Woad that gave me the wound in the first place, that this misfortune might stem from it.”
“You make a good point,” Arthur conceded, though the regret in his eyes did not fade.
“Someone has to be the sensible one about these things,” Gawain replied. “And it won’t be you or Lancelot or any of the others.” His fingers found Galahad’s hair and he tugged lightly at it, twisting a lock before remembering he had nothing to hold the braid.
Arthur shifted in his seat and Gawain rolled his head back to face the man. He blinked slowly, stifling another yawn as he fought to raise his eyelids. When he finally managed to open them, he found the Roman’s eyes upon him once again.
Arthur huffed a breath, a soft smile finally gracing his face. “You need rest, my friend, not my self-condemnations.”
Gawain inhaled, closing his eyes again and keeping them there. His lips tweaked tiredly up. “The world would end if you did not reproach yourself for the harm that befalls us here,” he said. “You are a good commander, even if we give you more trouble than not. Better than some of the others I’ve seen.”
“It means much that you think that.”
“We all do,” Gawain replied. “Even this lout here for all his complaining.”
Arthur was quiet and Gawain too weary to pursue a response. In the silence he sank further into himself until at last sleep had him in its grasp.
Arthur watched his knights as they sighed in sleep. Worry still gripped his heart at the sight of Gawain’s pale face, but the fever was gone or so the healer’s had assured, and his rest seemed a normal slumber. He allowed him several more moments to linger, sending a quick prayer of thanks to God. Then Galahad shifted and the blanket slipped again, prompting Arthur to rise to fix it.
On his feet the call of his duties was louder, whispering he had already taken too much time for his own personal tasks. There were ledgers to check and missives to write, and it was with regret Arthur turned towards the door. Still, he lingered one more time in the doorway, looking back over the two sleeping forms and steeling the resolve in his heart.
He would see them home, all of them, whatever it took.