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It’s been raining since sun-up, and Galahad is cold.
He shivers and adjusts his grip on the reins. Their small company has been traveling for the better part of the day, and the chill has seeped past his threadbare cloak to coat his legs in a dense patina of cold. He’s stiff in his stirrups, and he lost feeling in his ass and thighs hours ago.
“Cold, Galahad?” Bors calls out from behind him, his voice round with the weight of his teasing. Galahad scowls as a chorus of chuckles rumbles through the men, and while he’s stewing in his irritation, Bors rides up to his side and slaps his own bicep, which is thick and bare beneath his cloak. “Put some meat on those bones, and y’won’t even feel it.”
“I can think of some meat I’d like to put on my bone,” Gawain calls over to them.
“Shut up, Gawain,” comes Dagonet’s voice, layered over Lancelot’s burst of laughter.
Though Galahad cannot see his brothers’ faces, he knows them well enough to envision their reactions: Gawain’s curled smirk and Dagonet’s reluctant amusement, Arthur’s long-suffering sigh. As he might have predicted, Tristan alone remains silent, the erect line of his back swaying unreadably just in front of him.
“If you’re intent on maintainin’ your girlish figure,” Bors continues, undaunted by Galahad’s sour humor, “y’might at least consider wearin’ a pair of breeches.”
“Then how’ll he compete with us?” Lancelot cuts in. “If he can’t flash his legs to all the ladies?”
“Oh, I think he’ll do alright,” Gawain says. “With a moniker like ‘Galahad the Pure’ and a visage to match…”
Bors cackles and slaps Galahad on the shoulder. The pressure of his touch compresses Galahad’s rain-drenched cloak, and water leaches out to trickle beneath his tunic, a cold tickle that speeds down to the center of his chest, his waist. He flinches, and Bors laughs harder, then nudges his horse and trots further up the line.
Galahad frowns and rolls his shoulders, trying to adjust the sit of his cloak and shake off his chill. He ought to have worn his leg wraps beneath his tunic, but the left one needed mending and he hadn’t had time to repair it. Well, he’s paying the price for his oversight now. He hunches forward, dipping his chin to shield his lashes and nose from the merciless rain.
Someone else settles into pace beside Galahad, and he steels himself, jerking his chin to the side and clenching his jaw to hide the chatter of his teeth.
It is only Tristan. His hair is plastered to his forehead, and fat drops of water cling to the tails of his braids, which frame a familiarly—indecipherably—solemn expression.
“You need a new cloak,” Tristan says as his gaze roves over the thin wool draped around Galahad’s shoulders. It’s a point that Galahad can’t argue—acquired in the last days of his youth, the garment is short on him now and rather tight across the shoulders. The material has seen better days, too, worn too thin to provide much warmth and torn in enough places that it does a piss-poor job of keeping out the rain.
Still, despite the truth of Tristan’s words, Galahad resents him for speaking them. “Oh, do I?” he asks, too rankled to take Tristan’s statement as anything other than intentional needling. “I hadn’t noticed.”
Tristan frowns and falls silent, and Galahad feels a swift pang of regret.
“Bors is right,” Tristan says finally. Galahad bristles and opens his mouth to respond, but Tristan beats him to it. “You aren’t dressed for the weather.”
Galahad flushes, and Tristan regards him for another long moment then urges his horse forward, away from Galahad’s side.
By the time they make camp, Galahad can scarcely feel his fingers. He slides awkwardly out of the saddle, one foot catching on the stirrup and nearly sending himself reeling face-first to the ground. But as soon as he staggers, Tristan is there, his large hands pressing flat against Galahad’s chest to shore him up. Galahad meets his gaze gratefully, and Tristan nods in acknowledgment before stepping back and just as quickly turning away, leaving Galahad staring at his back.
He and Tristan have grown distant over the years, without the vehemency of youth to bind them, but there are moments when Galahad imagines they might surpass that distance—when Tristan appears before him, unbidden but vital, as though he can peer inside Galahad’s heart and read the messages hidden there. Galahad chalks it up to a warrior’s yearning, a romanticism of the barren truth in order to render it more palatable. But the flutter in his belly remains, like the sharp snap of a tattered flag.
“A hand, Galahad?” Gawain calls, shaking Galahad from his thoughts. Gawain gestures toward the bundle of canvas in his arms and jerks his head for Galahad to follow. Galahad does, but the cold has made him clumsy, and there’s a shiver in his bones he can’t seem to shake. His hands tremble as they set to work pitching their tent, and though Gawain tolerates his ineptitude, as time wears on, Galahad can sense his growing frustration. Like Galahad, all the men are tired and cold, and Gawain is no exception. The sooner the two of them finish this work, the sooner they can retreat from the chill, and Galahad is only extending their misery.
For the second time today, a hand settles on Galahad’s shoulder. Gentler than Bors had been, Dagonet guides him to the side, away from the canvas ties, and settles himself in Galahad’s place. “Go on,” he says. “Go bunk with Tristan. Get out of the cold.”
Galahad glances dubiously out at the camp. The rest of the tents have been pitched already, and the men have begun to hunker down, stripping themselves of their wetter layers and settling their horses. A strange tension draws tight in his belly, and he looks back toward Dag and Gawain, intending to beg off and spare himself a long, aching night at Tristan’s side. But Gawain’s expression has sagged in relief, and Dag has already finished the section with which Galahad was struggling.
With a tight-lipped smile and a weight in his gut, Galahad leaves them be.
He finds Tristan on the other side of the encampment, stripping off his boots. He looks up when Galahad approaches, brows disappearing behind damp mussed bangs.
“I’m to bed with you tonight,” Galahad says, still quivering with cold. “Dagonet will camp with Gawain.”
Tristan flicks his gaze toward Dagonet and Gawain without turning his head, then looks back to Galahad and nods once before dropping his gaze back to his boots.
Uncertain and cold, Galahad shifts his weight and folds his arms across his chest, tucking his fingers beneath his armpits.
“Take off your wet clothes,” Tristan commands without looking up. “You won’t thaw out like that.”
Galahad flushes and glares at him, irrationally aggrieved by his unflappable attitude and eternal composure. Here Galahad stands, shivering like a waterlogged cat while Tristan the Invulnerable instructs him as though mothering a child, cooly shaking frigid rainwater from his braids and stretching his white, pruned toes.
After a time of enduring Galahad’s silent gaze, Tristan looks up from beneath his brow. Their eyes meet, and a twitch of Tristan’s expression is all it takes to sap Galahad’s anger. He sighs and begins undoing his cloak as the vestiges of his hostility bleed out, exposing the drained weariness at his core. But as it was with the tents, his fingers are thick and uncoordinated on the fastenings, and it takes several tries before he gets it to unlatch. Thin as the fabric is, its soaking weight is formidable, and, once released, it swings heavily off Galahad’s shoulders. It’s a relief to be freed from the fabric’s icy trappings, but without it, the chill sharpens and narrows, and Galahad curses even the sheltered campsite’s docile breeze. He flinches as he squeezes out the water that his cloak has sopped up, and once more his teeth begin to chatter.
He doesn’t realize Tristan has stood until Tristan’s hands are bracketing his shoulders, urging him into the tent. Surprise renders him pliant, and for a moment, he is thirteen again and content to let Tristan guide him, to let Tristan teach him, small and vulnerable and still aching for home.
He ducks into the tent and fumbles to hang his cloak up to dry only to falter as he attempts to toe off his shoes. Tristan grabs him, wrapping a strong arm around his waist, and Galahad nearly bites through his lip as he shivers into the contact between them. “You’re drenched,” Tristan murmurs at his ear, dragging his palm over the stomach of Galahad’s tunic. The fabric hangs limp beneath his touch, smacking sloppily against Galahad’s knees with every movement.
“Well, as you’ve all attested,” Galahad says, his voice snapping out brittle and sharp as a flood of apprehension sours to venom on his tongue, “my clothing leaves much to be desired.”
He can sense Tristan’s grin, but that is the extent of his response; he is quiet as his fingers drift up to unfasten Galahad’s belt, and he unbuckles the first of its fastenings with deft composure. Arousal flashes through Galahad despite his chill, and he jerks and slaps a hand over Tristan’s, trying to pry his fingers away. “What’re you doing?”
Tristan huffs an amused breath into his hair, and his wet braids swing against the back of Galahad’s neck, painting it with a cold dampness that makes him shiver. “Easy, Pup.” Galahad’s stomach twists at the old endearment, and something clenches painfully in his chest. “I don’t want to spend the night waiting for you to untangle your laces.”
Irritation throbs in Galahad’s temple, a twin to the ache in his chest and stifled stirring in his groin. He doesn’t trust his voice, so he falls silent, shivering mutely in Tristan’s arms as he is peeled out of his clothing, one wet strip of cloth at a time. His eyes flutter shut, and he furrows his brow in concentration, cataloging each touch as he endeavors to halt the desperate trembling of his body.
They have done this once before, he and Tristan—it is impossible not to think of it. Ages ago now, in the earlier days of their servitude. Galahad had not taken as easily to a soldier’s life as some of the others; from the time he’d learned of his father’s curse—that affliction that had been bestowed upon his forebears, destined to burden their family line—he had dreaded taking up the mantle, and he’d ridden into training with thoughts not of honor and glory but of despair.
Time had trudged on, but that disquiet followed Galahad like a shadow. The first time he felled a man with his sword, once the clamor had passed and the bodies lay cooling on the blood-soaked grass, Galahad had stared down at his red, dripping blade and trembled as the world closed in around him.
It was Tristan who’d found him, just as it was Tristan who’d once taken Galahad’s bitter tears in stride, who’d soothed Galahad’s childhood grief with blunt, patient truths instead of cruelty or laughter. Tristan had guided him back to camp that day and cleaned his wounds, stripped him of his bloodied armor and wrapped him in fresh clothes. He’d sat beside Galahad until his trembling ceased, and Galahad had fallen asleep on Tristan’s shoulder, with Tristan’s breath warm and steady against his curls.
That tenderness between them seems so distant now, a wildflower that has withered and threatens to crumble. And yet despite its fragility, Galahad cannot resist turning it over between his hands, as though vainly hoping that the brittle petals might once again sweeten and swell.
Goose pimples stiffen across Galahad’s newly bare flesh, and his hair rises against the cold, no longer tamped down by water-soaked fabric. A shudder flinches through him, larger and more volatile than his incessant shivering, and he allows Tristan to guide him beneath the blankets with the soft touch of a calloused hand, feeling very much like a child put to bed.
A pang scorches through his chest—want of his family back on Sarmatian land. Want of Tristan as he once had been.
Galahad draws a fortifying breath and settles with his back to Tristan’s chest, scooting forward so that he is not touching him and curling his body tight. His toes and fingers throb as they begin to thaw, but his teeth continue to chatter, and his muscles have developed a tight ache. It’s hardly the worst Galahad has suffered, but that makes him all the more miserable. To suffer a wound is necessary; to suffer a chill is deplorable.
Tristan makes a small noise then reaches over Galahad’s waist and tugs him against his body. Galahad stiffens, his heart speeding in his chest. Even with a layer of clothing between them, to be so close to Tristan is nearly intolerable; it only taunts Galahad with hope, with longing. Only reminds him of what he cannot have.
Still, his body appreciates the feeble warmth—even the soft pressure of a weather-chilled tunic is an improvement to the temperature of his own skin. He sighs and closes his eyes, counting the quick, rabbiting beats of his heart. He wonders whether he’d feel Tristan’s heartbeat against him if he could cease his shaking—whether it would beat in time with his own.
Tristan’s palm settles over Galahad’s belly, radiating warmth out from a point just above his navel, and the sleeve of his tunic drapes over Galahad’s side like a second blanket, ever so slightly damp and yet still warm. Though Galahad’s body aches for the warmth of a fire, for a heat to chase the full extent of his chill away, he finds he is willing to endure the cold if it means abiding in this closeness even a moment longer. His discomfort is not so insufferable if it means Tristan will hold him through the night.
After a moment, Tristan sighs and draws back. Alarm races through Galahad, and the warmth that had begun to build between them dissipates. The blanket falls away as Tristan sits up, and Galahad scrambles upright too, uncertain what has prompted Tristan to leave him, only to be pressed back down again.
“Be still,” Tristan murmurs. “You’re very cold.”
“I’d be much warmer if you’d put the blankets back.”
Tristan frowns disapprovingly down at him. “Warmer still if there were no barrier between us,” he says.
Galahad’s mouth falls open, but before he can muster a response, Tristan has pulled off his tunic and breeches and laid them beside their bedroll. When he hunkers back down, he guides Galahad to lie in the cradle of his body.
Galahad sucks in a shocked breath and flinches at the sensation of Tristan’s skin against his, his heart galloping within his chest. There is no true novelty in his and Tristan’s relative nakedness—privacy is a luxury that belongs to the free—yet seldom has Galahad been granted an intimacy quite like this. Just a moment ago, he was thrilling in the pleasure of Tristan’s touch, and now he has been granted that gift again, sevenfold. He is still trembling, put on edge by a combination of physical discomfort and monumental desire, neither of which are helped by the feel of Tristan’s nipples hardening against him. Their blunt, pebbled nubs drag over Galahad’s shivering back, as do the raised lines of each and every one of Tristan’s scars, his ill-healed wounds.
Galahad squeezes his eyes shut and considers their frailty, the ease with which iron pierces skin, and the luck they have both had thus far—the luck their fallen brothers lacked.
“You should wear my cloak tomorrow,” Tristan murmurs.
Galahad flushes. “Oh, and I suppose you’ll go without?”
Tristan says nothing, and Galahad gnaws on his lower lip, feeling raw and a little bruised. His brothers’ disparagements would harry him less if he didn’t fear their aim to be true, but doubts, once adopted, are not easily cast off. In his heart, Galahad still sees himself as the boy he was when the Romans dragged him away from home and shoved a sword in his hands. It is easy to believe the others see him that way too, and it is Tristan’s contempt that burns the most of all.
“Galahad.”
When still Galahad neglects to respond, Tristan pushes up onto one arm, likely so that he can regard Galahad’s expression. But Galahad, feeling ungenerous, avoids his gaze as another chill overtakes him. He tugs his shoulder out of Tristan’s grasp and pulls the now-loosened blankets more tightly beneath his chin. As he continues to shiver, his knuckles rasp against his beard, his clenched fists forced into a pattern of motion that doesn’t match with the tremble of his head. Petulantly, he wishes that Tristan had just stayed quiet. Whatever fragile peace he felt between them is in danger of shattering now, whatever comfort and solace he found in Tristan’s arms slowly tainted by Galahad’s insecurity.
Tristan has never been good with words—they have that in common, though Galahad imagines their reasons differ—and so, after a long moment of silence, Tristan settles down without attempting to speak again. When he is once again tucked on his side beneath the blankets, he brings his hand back to Galahad’s body, and his palm settles over Galahad’s chest, fingers splayed wide—an apology.
As befits their station, the two of them have learned to speak truest through physicality as opposed to dialect. They are weapons of the Roman Empire, valued for the strength of their arm and the truth of their aim; unlike Arthur, they have no need for pretty words. Galahad hears Tristan’s appeal as clearly as any shouted order, and he settles, accepting both the touch and the sentiment provoking it. Tristan’s heat seeps into his breast, melting through skin and sinew to warm the heart beneath.
Galahad swallows hard, and his hurt begins to subside along with his chill. In its place, a wistful longing arises, so large and swift that he fears he cannot contain it. He sinks into Tristan’s touch and into memory alike, each moment of closeness with Tristan strung before him like fine clay beads on a silver wire. His throat burns, and he swallows to soothe the pain, blinking hard around the growing wetness in his eyes.
“Do you remember the night after your second scouting mission?” Galahad asks when he no longer fears he might cry. In the quiet of their tent, his voice is no more than a murmur.
It seems so long ago now. Galahad hadn’t gone with the men, as Arthur had taken only a small handful of the oldest and most competent of their unit. He’d spent the three days they’d been gone seized with terror, convinced that Tristan and the others wouldn’t return to him—that he’d wake one morning to news of their capture or defeat.
Galahad’s fears had been founded, but not in the way he’d imagined; he did wake to news of a death, but it wasn’t Tristan’s. When the company had ridden in through the gates, Galahad’s gaze had locked upon Tristan alone. He’d been dirty and worn, his armor smeared with blood, and Galahad hadn’t known how to comfort him. Tristan had claimed the experience didn’t affect him, but the fallen knight had been dear to him, and he’d remained quiet throughout that day and for a long time after. Galahad had watched him that evening, staring blankly up at the ceiling—caught in the trappings of his mind. He’d tiptoed out of his bunk and slipped in beside Tristan, curled his small body around Tristan’s until Tristan’s eyes closed and he fell asleep, his mouth pressed to Galahad’s forehead.
That was one of the last times they’d slept together, and one of the last moments of unfettered intimacy with Tristan that Galahad had known.
Tristan’s fingers curl slightly over Galahad’s heart—a wordless acknowledgement, an affectionate gentling. This time, when Galahad trembles, it is not from the cold.
“It feels like a dream to me now,” Galahad admits. “A memory carved out of someone else’s life.”
The length of his back is growing warm, and the heat generated by the pressure of their bodies quells his shivering. Tristan’s chest feels like an open flame against him, though Galahad knows logically that he, too, must be cold. He shifts backward, loosening the tension in his muscles so that he can relax into Tristan’s embrace. So that he can savor this moment, as he doubts he’ll be blessed with its like again.
Tristan’s breath trickles through Galahad’s curls and is ferried to the nape of his neck, raising the fine hairs there and sending a pulse of sensation into his low belly.
Rendered suddenly, thoughtlessly brave, Galahad continues. “You seemed so lost. I don’t think you’ve ever been the same.”
Tristan shifts. He does not respond at first, but his fingers play thoughtfully over Galahad’s chest. “We’ve all changed,” he says finally, then pauses and amends: “The ones that lived long enough to do so. Such is the nature of growing older.”
“Growing older as we have, you mean,” Galahad says bitterly.
“Many have suffered similar fates.” As always, Tristan is unafraid to wield his blunt-edged truth. It is a trait that Galahad has long admired in him, but one that pains him all the same. Tonight, his tone doesn’t sound confrontational so much as contemplative, but it still makes Galahad itch.
“That doesn’t make it right,” he says, growing tense once more.
Tristan hushes him and strokes down over the length of Galahad’s chest. “I didn’t say it did.”
He is quiet for a long moment after that, and Galahad forces himself to calm, to focus on the touch of Tristan’s body, the slow mitigation of his chills and hurts. Silence extends between them, no sound except the quiet rhythm of their respiration, Tristan’s chest expanding at Galahad’s back as Galahad’s lungs fill with air.
When Galahad has resigned himself to the thought that they will speak no more tonight, Tristan ruptures the silence.
“You will know peace again, Galahad,” he says.
In death, perhaps, Galahad thinks. His body tightens with the notion—he has come too far to fail now, on the last stumbling legs of their servitude, but the prospect rings more true than false. They have already lost the better part of their company, and Arthur’s round table has begun to feel like a tomb.
“What will you do with your freedom?” Galahad asks, swallowing around the sudden burning in the back of his throat. It has begun to sink in recently that, as much as he despises his service, these next few months will likely be the last span of time he has with Tristan. Someday soon, Galahad will be faced with the last meal they share, the last laugh, the last quarrel. Imminent loss seizes in his chest, and his fists spasm on the blanket.
“Whatever I please,” Tristan says, which isn’t an answer at all.
Galahad sighs, and Tristan smiles into his hair.
“I don’t envision it as you do,” Tristan admits. That old inadequacy knots yet again in Galahad’s breast—Galahad the Pure, Galahad the Gentle, wishing once again to be freed from the chains of a life that does not suit him, a duty that he has resented from the start.
As though sensing Galahad’s pain, Tristan fingers begin to move, rubbing lightly over Galahad’s waist, and Galahad exhales, sighing out his fears. He stretches his legs out, away from his body, and they brush against Tristan’s, tangling with them lightly. “I know you think little of me,” he says, “but can you truly fault my desire for freedom? Man is not meant to have his fate ordained except by the gods. We’ve served Rome long enough.”
Tristan stills for a moment, then grips Galahad’s waist more firmly and noses at his curls. “I don’t think little of you, Galahad,” he says quietly, and Galahad’s chest burns. “I never have.”
Galahad doesn’t know what to say. Hope smolders in his chest, and he slides his foot against Tristan’s, skimming against him, flesh to flesh.
“I will go home,” he says with conviction, afraid to try the fragile tenderness that has bloomed between them, imagined or otherwise. “I want to see the Sarmatian plains again. Take them in with a grown man’s eyes.” He blinks into the darkness of their tent as images unfurl before him, and his lips twist into a small, wistful smile. “Can you smell it?” he asks, his voice thick with yearning, even to his own ears. “The tall grasses, the summer wind…”
Tristan is quiet, but Galahad hadn’t expected him to return the fantasy in kind. Of all of the knights, Tristan has shared the least about his home; he doesn’t cling to the memory of it as the rest of them do, has never spoken of it with the same fondness and desire. As Galahad often does, he finds himself wondering whether there is some reason Tristan has taken so well to this indentured warrior’s life—if there was some loss or brutality that smothered his childhood love for their homeland.
“I think any free air would smell sweet,” Tristan says. “Even this damp, cold land could be dear to me if I could choose it for myself.”
Galahad scoffs, his face screwing into a scowl. “This land will never be dear to me,” he spits. “Nor those who seek to conquer it.”
“And what of your brothers?” Tristan asks. “Or are we not counted among that number?”
Galahad twists in Tristan’s arms, turning so they lie face-to-face. He frowns, searching Tristan’s expression for some clue to his demeanor. “You know we’re not,” he murmurs. “There’s a line between a conqueror and those compelled to serve him.”
Tristan’s gaze has shifted to skim a point just above Galahad’s head, and Galahad reaches a hand up to guide his attention down again. “We do what we must,” he says, “for as long as we must, and no longer.” Galahad brushes back Tristan’s damp hair and lets his thumb settle lightly over Tristan’s cheekbone.
Still, Tristan does not respond.
Galahad draws in a breath. He thinks of Tristan’s persistent attention, Tristan’s piercing gaze and gentle hands. He has taken Tristan’s distance for distaste, his concern for patronization, but perhaps it is not so.
He will never know, if they continue to skirt around the limits of each other’s presence.
“You are dear to me,” Galahad says quietly. His gaze flits down to Tristan’s mouth and up again, his heart hammering in his chest. He wets his lips, worried he has said too much, and cannot resist amending his statement. “All of you are.” His thumb strokes slowly over Tristan’s skin, and Tristan closes his eyes, relaxing into Galahad’s touch. Galahad smiles and presses one leg forward, catching Tristan’s ankle with his. “Whatever jibes, whatever quarrels… I would lay down my life for you, even if you wouldn’t ask it of me.”
And I would follow you, he thinks, but only if you ask it of me.
Tristan opens his eyes, and Galahad can see concurrence written in the lines of his face. He would do the same, Galahad knows. Perhaps that is enough.
“Let us hope it doesn’t come to that,” Tristan says. He covers Galahad’s hand with his own and leads it gently down to his lips, then presses a kiss against Galahad’s knuckles, which have ceased their trembling.
“Go to sleep, Galahad,” he murmurs.
In the safety of Tristan’s embrace, Galahad does.