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Entry tags:
Journey's End
Fandom: Popslash
Pairing: gen, Justin, AU
Notes: Companion piece to Summer Song. Still don't think it really happened, right?
journey's end
From the time you bid farewell to those few men-at-arms who lived through that final day at Camlan and strike north along the little-used paths, the journey is as a dream, unreal and shadowed and full of dread. Sir Christopher drifts in and out of wakefulness though you speak to him without ceasing, coaxing him to stay in this world. When you cannot think of a single further tale to tell, nor another question of strategy to ask, you start with the ballads you have learned from Taliesin. He joins with you on occasion, his voice little more than a whisper, but every note whole and true.
Each time you stop to make sure the way, the villagers and innkeepers eye you with unease and give you wide berth. They cheat you, charging far more than is custom for the food or ale they sell, but you do not care. You think only of your destination, and the man you carry, and so it takes you far too long to realize that you would be better asking at abbeys and priories.
The holy brothers and sisters do not care that the both of you wear clothing stiff and stained with blood, or that you ride a horse still dressed for battle. They give you food and refill your water skin. They offer poultices to draw the fever from Sir Christopher's wounds and prayers that his sight might be restored. They lift him gently into your arms in the mornings and call blessings on you as you leave.
When finally you reach the pass at Aberglaslyn, the sun has dipped low, far too close to the mountains. Arawn still carries the both of you easily; you send prayers of thankfulness for his strength and wonder if Sir Christopher will live to know how well his gift to you has served you both. Now, though, he knows nothing of this world; he burns with fever, and is heavy and silent in your arms.
You have moved into a place beyond good sense or fear, for you do not hesitate to turn Arawn to find his way over the pass, even as the light fades from the sky. You have long since lost count of the days, but this is the end; you feel it deep inside you with every labored breath Sir Christopher takes.
You are beyond exhaustion now as well, and do not trust that you will not fall into sleep as you ride, but you know that if you stop, even if he would live through the night, you will never be able to remount. And so you choose to bind him to you, and you to Arawn so that no matter how weak you might become, you will not lose your charge. You do not make the decision lightly, for if Arawn loses his footing, you will both go down with him, but your arms have already begun to shake and you fear that you will not have the strength to bear your burden. It seems right to you to tie your lives to each other in this way; you see it as a fulfillment of the oaths you have sworn, both those taken in front of all Camelot, and those made only to yourself.
***
You had never been more frightened in all your life, but Sir Christopher told you there was no shame in it, that he would doubt your reason if you insisted that you were not. You trust him more than any other save your mother so you had nodded once and turned back to your tasks, comforted by his calm.
You had done those so many times, every day for the two years you had been a squire; their very familiarity calmed you a little. This was what you had wanted; you lived your entire life, from before you can even remember, for moments such as this, but knowing that no force in this world could stop the armies from joining arms was sobering. You had been more excited than fearful at the first near-battle, waiting with an almost giddy determination on the walls of Barham Down but then the High King had attacked Mordred's forces from behind and you mostly watched. This day would be much different.
The sun was not yet up, but the camp was stirring, if ever it quieted during the night. Word spread of a Mass to be celebrated and the servant who told you near quivered in excitement when he added that King Arthur himself would attend. Sir Christopher asked if you wished to go, but you were not sure if that was the right thing for you that day.
In the end, because your mother followed the Christian God, you stood toward the back of the group crowded around the priest, adding your voice to the closing prayer. For yourself, you walked quickly to the edge of the lake. Ynis Witrin was only a dark shadow in the middle of the lake, barely visible as you dipped your hand in the water and asked for a blessing from the Lady before hurrying back through the camp to where the horses were picketed.
You heard the dark mutterings that followed you, especially when men saw the crest on your shield, but you took no offense. You hold the same opinion of him who fathered you. You have taken his crest and colors--adding the baton sinister as your own--only to defy his denial of you, much as your presence here this day defied his betrayal of the High King. Many thought that you should not be there, but Sir Christopher had laughed at the thought.
Galahad could not spend much time with you before he left to seek the Grail, but he spoke openly about duty and honor and the all-consuming need to prove your worthiness. It had been greatly surprising to learn that he, too, felt that inner force; you had never thought the greatest knight in Camelot could know the same inadequacies as the grandson of a miller. You knew that your actions on this day had his blessing both as your brother and as the first knight of the Round Table.
The horses of the Cymry--your horses, you reminded yourself, for you had been accepted as one of Britain, despite your father--were legendary for their strength and fierceness in battle, and were given wide berth by the other squires and men-at-arms. They knew your voice and smell, however, and would not try to kill you for sport, so you busied yourself with saddle and bridle. Sir Christopher attended the final council the king did call, and it was better for you to stay busy then. You might have only been sixteen and inexperienced in the ways of war, but even you could see that there was little hope for your forces on this plain. Mordred held the superior ground and had two men for every one who remained loyal to the High King.
When Sir Christopher returned, accompanied by Lord Bedivere and Sir Lucan, the brothers he has served all his life, he smiled at the sight of the ready horses, and then spent time petting and nuzzling his Cadan. You waited patiently, holding Cadan through the familiar actions. Man and horse had been through many years and much campaigning together and you would not interfere with their bond.
You were, as always, the last in the saddle; none could hold your Arawn, so you had learned to trick your way onto his back. Here again, you were most fortunate, for many knights would not spend the gold to horse their squires as well as themselves. The day Sir Christopher had gifted you with Arawn was the most precious of memories. He outstripped the horses of every knight on that plain, and was equaled only by the king's own mount. Not even Galahad had ever boasted a horse such as yours, and his pride in you that day you received Arawn had done much to soften the sting of your father's indifference.
Once you were mounted and had little to do but sit and wait, the fear returned and threatened to overthrow your reason. Arawn, ever sensitive to your moods, shied nervously at every sound. Sir Christopher saw, and edged Cadan closer until you stood side to side.
"Justin," he said, low and intense. "Look carefully at how the battle lines are drawn." Obediently, you looked where he pointed. "See you how Mordred has bunched his men toward the middle?" It was as he said: a great seething mass of men-at-arms and knights mixed together, moving slowly across the plain toward you.
"Yes, I see, but, my lord, there are so many of them. How--"
"Now look at how our men are set." He grinned--sharp, wolfish, confident--and in that instant, you saw, truly saw what he told you. You answered his smile with one of your own. Mordred's knights were mixed too closely with his foot soldiers and were well-nigh useless for mounted battle.
"We ride with the High King today," said Sir Christopher, and his voice reflected his pride. "He does not intend to lose this war." As the sun rose and the wind pushed the last of the mist away, you looked across the field and saw the dragon standard lifted high on the breeze. "I do not say this day will be easy, but remember you this: no matter how your father denies you, he has no power to take away the skill you inherited from him. You have learned well these past years, but you have an understanding that goes far beyond that." He leaned a little to lay a hand on your shoulder. "Stay with me and keep your wits about you."
The fear was still there, but then it fed the energy pounding through your blood. You dropped back to cover your knight's vulnerable right side, and waited for the call to arms.
***
The path is narrow, and the ground treacherous, but Arawn does not fail you. Though the sun's light does not last quite long enough for you to find the way over the pass, his steps are steady and sure, and the moon rises as you pick your way along the banks of the river.
Glaslyn Abbey is dark, quiet and still in the moonlight, and you do not know how long you stare at it, waiting for it to fade into the night. The gates are closed, but a bell hangs by them, with a mallet near by. It is not until you shatter the night with its ring that you believe that you have not dreamt the peaceful sight.
The abbey rouses swiftly: torches are lit, the gates are opened, and you find yourself surrounded by solicitous men and women. You call a warning, for Arawn does not understand their intent and frets nervously under you. It is all you can do to control him, but finally a woman's calm voice cuts across the excited babble, clearing the space around you.
She looks closely at you, and you know what she sees beneath the blood and grime. All have told you that there is no mistaking your family, that to put you and Galahad and your father in the same room is to see the same face through the ages. When she sees your shield, cracked and mangled as it is, she nods and says quietly, "All is lost, then," before raising her voice to send messengers flying.
When they cut the bindings and try to lift Sir Christopher down, your arms stay locked tight, no matter how you will them. It is not until you see the familiar face you seek, her brown eyes so like his, her voice whispering thanks and prayers, that you can force yourself to let go your burden.
They carry him off, and leave you alone in the crowd with only Arawn for courage.
***
The sun stood high in the sky when you groped blindly for the water skin that you had slung over your saddle in the early dawn. Battle, you had learned, had a rhythm all its own, with quiet moments strangely dropped amidst the frenzy, and by then, you knew enough that you had not needed Sir Christopher's suggestion to take full advantage of any moment in which no one was trying to kill you.
You knew not how the battle went, only that you still lived. The plain had been pounded to dust by the feet of men and horses, and the air was so thick with it that you could see only a few feet around you. Each time all had seemed hopeless, the High King's voice had risen above the shrieks and screams of the battle, and all had rallied to it.
Arawn still danced beneath you, and you laughed a little at his eagerness. Sir Christopher joined with you, and then leaned over to slap lightly at Arawn's flank. "Speak truly, Justin. You have sold your soul in exchange for that devil's strength, have you not?"
It was an old tease; so old that it was one of the reasons you named Arawn as you did. You heard it daily, for once Sir Christopher found humor in something there was no end to it. At the very least, on that day, on the field at Camlan, there were no priests near by to overhear and become so concerned for your immortal soul that they felt the need to pray over you. Sir Christopher still found much amusement in that, even after nine months.
You swatted his hand away from Arawn, and he laughed at your glare. You would have answered him, but you had to concentrate on simply breathing. Your muscles ached with fatigue; your arms were leaden and even your thighs shook from overuse, but you were otherwise whole and unharmed. Sir Christopher had a small cut across his scalp from where you had failed to deflect an errant sword, but he, too, had escaped serious injury.
Before you could do more than swallow one or two mouthfuls of water, two knights charged out of the drifting dust. Your sword was up and moving without thought and you echoed Sir Christopher's laughing shout. You had not known before this day how the joy of close combat could lift you from exhaustion; you understood better Galahad's need for the true battle he found on quest rather than the mock-fighting of tournaments.
Those two fought only half-heartedly, a trait you found common to many of Mordred's knights. Sir Christopher quickly dispatched the first and you were turning your attention to the second when suddenly you faced him alone. Pure instinct drove your sword up and around his shield in an overhand blow that caught the base of his neck. You shoved hard against his slumping body with your shield, freeing your sword while you frantically looked for Sir Christopher.
The panic did not abate when at last you saw him hacking his way across the plain. He rode a straight path, Cadan trampling all who could not dodge, and had sheathed his sword in favor of the morningstar. You wheeled Arawn about and gave him his head, bending low and snarling encouragement, and he responded with a great burst of speed.
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw a flicker and were just bringing your shield up when you were hit at full speed by a group of Mordred's knights. You counted four of them in the sudden fury, two brothers and their squires. You knew them from the last summer spent at court, before the world began to crack at the edges. You had thought them friends, but they gave you no quarter. Arawn staggered sideways and scrambled for his footing, and you were hit again and again. Your last thought before you fell into the blackness was a savage hope that they were stupid enough to try to take Arawn once they pulled you down.
***
They are good people, the men and women of Glaslyn Abbey. They do not push or prod at you, but show you the way to the stables and help you to find clean water and hay. Despite the late hour, one waits for you to finish caring for Arawn, then silently guides you through the passageways. He takes you to a small solar where a fire warms the chill night air, and offers you bread and cheese and a cool sweet wine spiced with a gentle fragrance. A woman enters soon after, but it is not until she asks, "You are Justin, are you not?" that you recognize her as the one who ordered all in the courtyard.
"I am called Joan now," she says. "But I was born Rhyann of Tegyr." She nods at your surprise. "Yes, you know my father and brothers; they are of the court."
They were more than a part of Camelot; you know that they were among the most trusted of the King's council.
She speaks quietly. "My father's last message put them with the King not more than a fortnight ago. I cannot believe they were not with you. Do you know aught of them?"
You keep your eyes down, for you did see the Tegyr crest, more than once in the long night alone on the plain of Camlan, but the faces were nigh unrecognizable in death, and you do not know the words to say that to their kinswoman. Your silence answers her, though, and her voice shakes slightly as she asks, "And the King?"
"Sir Christopher," you start, but your voice is hoarse from the journey, and it is more difficult than you could have imagined to say his name. "He says the Lady of the Lake took the King into her care," you finally manage. "But I do not know how or why, my lady. I am sorry."
"No, you have nothing to apologize for, child." You are not, not really, not anymore, but her voice does something to soothe the boy who yet hides within you. "You deserve only our gratitude for bringing Christopher to us."
"What else should I have done?" The time before Sir Christopher picked you to be his squire is the part of your life that feels unreal now.
Sister Joan touches your shoulder softly. "Come then, and let us see how he fares."
***
You woke to a blinding headache and a raging thirst, but you welcomed the discomfort as proof of life. For long moments you lay without movement, but there was only quiet around you. When at last you opened your eyes, the night was crisp and clear and the stars shone serenely, as though the bloody day had not happened.
You pushed to your hands and knees and fought the wave of nausea that threatened to upset your balance. The pain in your head was worrisome, but you could breathe without sharp pain and your arms and legs supported you, if only barely. You stayed there until the night ceased to spin around you and the breeze struck cool through the woolen tunic you wore under your mail. Slowly and with great care, you stood, and then nearly burst into tears when a familiar nicker sounded close to you. Arawn butted his head against your shoulder, upsetting your balance. You tumbled to the ground awkwardly, but he nosed at you until your hands tangled in his mane and he could lift you to your feet again.
By the light of the full moon, you saw the brothers who attacked you lying broken and bloody on the ground. You ran your hands down Arawn's flanks, petting and soothing him as best you can, soothing yourself as well. Arawn and his kin were bred to war; to have lost his rider in the midst of battle would have driven him to a killing frenzy. He was still uneasy, skittish; you felt it in the quivering muscles under your hands, but he stayed with you and his very presence gave you the strength you needed to begin your search. Sir Christopher would not have left the field without you and you had no intention of doing so either.
***
You stay in the passageway outside the small wall chamber where Sir Christopher lies, so that you are close but do not hinder those who care for him. Even here, though, you can hear each gasping breath he takes. His mother and the other women of the abbey come and go, smiling gently at you, and insist upon dressing dress your small cuts and bruises. After the first day, they no longer press you to bathe or sleep, and allow you keep your vigil so long as you make some effort to eat.
You do sleep, though; only it is the half-doze you learned on the walls at Barham Downs. This is not unlike waiting out that siege. There, you waited for the King to move into position and drive Mordred away; here, you wait for the bastard's treachery to take away the last thing you have in this world.
You pray that your mother and her husband fled before Mordred's army reached the lands near Camelot, but you do not hold out much hope that they might have survived. They are gentle people, settled and prosperous, unaccustomed to the ways of war. Galahad seeks the Grail, and find it or not, you saw in his eyes that he would never return. Your father is mad by all accounts, and disclaims you in any event. His kin know you not, through their own choice. All that you have now is here.
Sister Joan brings the lord who holds Dinas Emrys to speak with you, but you cannot tell him much of the battle. The most you can do is name the fallen, and his face grows grave as you speak. You are grateful that Sister Joan stands close and still behind you, for they are more than names to her as well. You take strength from her calm presence. The lord tells you to seek him out if you have need, and you know that he means it kindly, but you cannot think beyond the next labored breath from inside the chamber.
During the fourth night that you wait, you come fully awake as the sisters rush past you. Sir Christopher cries out harshly and the women murmur their prayers to the Blessed Virgin in soft counterpoint. You would stand, but your legs do not move, and the breath catches hard in your chest when Sir Christopher's mother crosses the passageway to kneel with you. You cannot tear your eyes away from the tears streaming down her face while you wait for her to speak.
"The fever has broken, Justin," she whispers. "He sleeps naturally now." Her voice cracks and she buries her face in her hands, sobbing quietly. You are slow to understand, but finally see that she weeps with joy. You lean your head against the stone wall behind you and breathe for what seems the first time since you left the plain at Camlan.
***
Your hope faded steadily, bleeding quietly into the dark night as one by one you found the bodies of those you had trained and hunted and gamed with. After a time, you ceased trying to remember on whose side each had fought. It hardly seemed of consequence.
It was as the darkness began to fade that you found him. For one heart-stopping moment, you saw the dark hair and believed it to be Sir Christopher, but then he moaned. His voice was too low and you saw that were he standing he would have been taller than you.
But you knew him--Sir Kevin--and you remembered that he and his kin fought for Arthur, that his cousin had greeted you quietly before Mass the previous morning. He was far-gone, you knew not how he still lived, but he recognized you and called to you. Arawn was calm; the battle clearly over in his mind, so you risked leaving the saddle. You knelt carefully and tried to give him water, but he choked, and batted it away.
"I cannot," he rasped, and pulled you to him. Even so close, you could barely hear his voice. "Alexander?" he asked, reaching out. "He does not answer me."
Alexander was a few years older than you, not a squire with whom you spent much time, but you did know him. You turned to where Sir Kevin's arms reached and found him close by, crumpled and still. He was where you should be, you thought.
"He is at peace, my lord," you said, and Sir Kevin relaxed but did not loosen his grip on your arm.
"Justin," he said. "Help me." He pulled your hand to his chest and you pushed the cloak away to see that he had unsheathed his knife and positioned it at his heart. "I have not the strength."
In a tiny corner of your mind, you cried that you could not, but your voice trembled only a little when you said, "Yes, my lord," and your hands did not shake at all when you wrapped them around his. "Godspeed, my lord," you whispered, and pressed the knife home. He gasped once and his life's blood flowed over your hands as you knelt beside him. You would have wept but you could not remember how.
***
You find your way back from the river, clean in a way that you have lacked since you woke during the cool, clear night by the shores of the Lake, only to find a lay sister no older than you sniffling quietly outside your chambers.
"What?" you ask, filled with apprehension. When you left, all was well. Sir Christopher had been, for the first time, awake and alert for more than a few minutes. His body heals quickly, though none are certain about his sight.
"He will not eat," she says.
"He will," you say through gritted teeth, and push your way into the small wall chamber. Sir Christopher lies with his head turned away from the door, fists clenched tight in the bedclothes.
"My lord," you say. "The good sisters have wrung the neck of a fine fowl so that you might have a healing broth." You pull the small pot off the fire and ladle a portion into a bowl.
"They would feed me, Justin."
You start to answer impatiently; of course they must feed him, he cannot see to do it himself. By some divine blessing, though, you hear the hopelessness under the anger and stop before you wound him further. There is only one goblet on the small table; you quickly finish the wine it holds and then fill it with the broth. Leaning over the bed, you carefully wrap his hands around it.
"I have no time for that, my lord." You smile as he drinks; slow, cautious sips giving way to greedy gulps. "Arawn threatens to kick down the stables. Sister Joan requests politely that I take him out and tire him sufficiently. It would be discourteous to disregard her wishes," you add piously.
He finishes the goblet and you happily fill it again while he growls, "You indulge that hell-spawn too far."
"Yes, my lord, I do." You cannot help but smile at the familiar argument, but now more than ever, you have no intention of changing your behavoir with Arawn. Hell-spawn or not, he is the only reason Sir Christopher lives, of this you are certain; and is most likely the only reason Mordred's knights did not kill you on the field. He will have anything he might want, and no one will stop you.
Once more you fill Sir Christopher's goblet with broth, and promise to ask if he might be well enough for bread the next day. When he sleeps, you slip out to the stables and saddle Arawn. He is well rested and well fed, and when you give him his head, you both lose yourself in the joy of the long twilight and gently rolling meadows.
You let him follow the river as it slices through the valley, and circle the lake until you pause for breath in the shadow of Dinas Emrys. Though the sun has dipped behind the mountains here on the valley floor, you can see it reflect off the weapons the guards carry on the walls high above you as they stand watch over the pass at Aberglaslyn.
***
When finally you stood and left Sir Kevin's side, the sun had risen behind the mist and you could begin to make sense of your wanderings during the night. With the coming light, you saw those ghouls who would rob the dead moving slowly across the plain, and the sight hardened your resolve to find Sir Christopher before they did.
With that purpose fixed firmly in mind, you whistled for Arawn and circled slowly out from Sir Kevin and Alexander. Your eyes saw only crests and clothing, and if others still lived, you did not hear their voices. Not until you found Cadan lying in the trampled dust did you even think to stop. He was dead, of course, with great gaping wounds in his side. Arawn shied nervously at the sight and smell of his stablemate, half-rearing in his disquiet, and you dared not come down from the saddle for fear that he would go mad without your weight on him.
Sir Christopher could not be far, you thought, pushing away the idea that he could have found another mount, or walked half the length of the plain in the time it had taken you to find Cadan. You would find him; you entertained no other possibilities. Even if he did not live, you would not leave him to the mercies of those who pick clean the bodies of the fallen. You urged Arawn in a wide circle around Cadan, picking your way though the bodies with care, and only gradually coming aware of the familiar sounds of voices raised in disagreement.
"--I swear to you by all that I hold holy, Christopher, that if you do not cease this harangue, injured or not, I will gag you before I run berserk from the frustration--"
"It is not my fault, my lord, that the blow you took has disordered your wits so that I am forced to say again and again what you must know already--"
"My lord?" Your voice was soft and rasped in your throat from the dust you had been breathing, but both voices paused in mid-shout. You first saw Sir Bedivere in the mist--real and solid and undiminished by all that had happened in the last day. He spoke to Arawn, calming and holding him while you dismounted, and your heart missed a beat when you realized he stood guard over Sir Christopher.
"My lord," you said again as you dropped to your knees next to him. You forced your voice not to shake at the sight of the blood-soaked bandage high on his leg or the feverish flush on his face.
"Justin," he greeted you gravely, but with a hint of the quick humor that was so much a part of him. "It is customary to at least offer thanks when a knight of the Round Table acts as stable boy to you."
"My lord Bedivere," you gasped. "I ask your pardon--I meant no disrespect--"
"Enough, Christopher," Sir Bedivere growled. "Do not tease the boy. Not many could live through this, and bring to us not only himself but his mount as well."
You opened your mouth to say that you did nothing but fail your duty, but Sir Christopher spoke over you.
"Arawn will not change matters, my lord." There was something not right about Sir Christopher; the humor was gone, and a strange defensiveness had taken its place. He was never unsure, even when he did not know the right answer; he would choose as best he could and not doubt his choice. But there by the lake, he would not meet your eyes. The unease crawled up your spine. "You must gather those who will still be of assistance to you and go."
"And I say to you again, you stubborn, thick-headed, witless dolt, I will not leave you here--"
"You must."
"I cannot," Sir Bedivere roared. "I would as soon leave my own child as ride away now."
You did not understand any of what was happening, but you had never seen Sir Bedivere so angered. It was not the first argument you had witnessed between the two--they could not be in the same keep for longer than a day without the walls ringing with their insults, but this was far different.
"The Lady keeps the King safe; you must do as she has done with those who still live, my lord. I will be nothing but a burden to you, and," Sir Christopher breathed deeply, then whispered, "I do not wish to be with you now."
Arawn moved restlessly under Sir Bedivere's hands, but you were frozen by the exchange.
"Forgive me, my lord," Sir Christopher continued. "You took me as page when I was nothing more than a starving child, and all that I am, I owe to you, but if I am to leave this world, I wish to be with my mother at the end."
You thought that you should be more grieved at his words, but all was strangely muted. You heard them, and understood them, but they meant little to you. Sir Bedivere closed his eyes and leaned heavily against Arawn.
"Justin is here now," Sir Christopher said, his voice strong and sure, no longer uncertain. "You would not leave me here alone. You know full well that hell-spawn he rides can carry two. You must do your duty, my lord. Mordred is dead, damn his soul to hell, but there is no one else strong enough to rule until the Lady returns the King. You must go."
Sir Bedivere snarled wordlessly, then beckoned for you to join him. He forced himself to calmness, more for Arawn's benefit than yours, you were sure. "I do not have the time to argue with him; damn him, he speaks truly. I must go. You have been with him to the abbey, have you not?"
"Yes, my lord, we have been there three times."
"Have you gold or silver, boy?"
"No, my lord, but--"
"Take these," he said impatiently, stripping off his leather gauntlet to pull a ring from his smallest finger, then breaking the chain around his neck. He folded your hand around the gold and gemstones. "I could not stop the vermin we fought from near taking his leg off, but he did not lose faith until his sight did fail during the night." He looked over your head and his face was grim. "His will to live is not something I ever thought to see fade, but he can find no hope."
You nodded because he expected a response, not because you agreed. You could not imagine Sir Christopher as described.
"His life is on my head," Sir Bedivere said. "He took the blow that was meant for me, but I fear I will not have the chance to repay it."
He fixed you with a stare that two days ago would have dropped you to your knees, but on that morning was no more than an expression upon a familiar face. "He is a good man, and a good knight, and is as my son. I would not see him suffer at the end. Can you swear to me that he will not, Justin?"
You knew what he asked, and that he did not think you capable, but your tunic and breeches were stiff with blood that was not your own, so you lifted your head and returned his stare as you had seen your brother and your father answer those who would challenge them. You could, if it became necessary, but you swore then that it would not come to that.
***
The guard changes on the walls above you, and you hear the shouts of the men faint on the breeze. The sound is familiar and comfortable; what you thought you wanted from life. You have armor and horse; you have been blooded in battle. You know that you could be welcomed back to that world now, again, with only a word to the lord.
Arawn moves restlessly beneath you, your ally and strength, the only witness to things that you will acknowledge only in your dreams. You think of the man who sleeps in the small chamber, and of the quiet pain in Sister Joan's eyes as she waits for messages she knows will never arrive.
This place is not home, but you know in your heart that your home is no more. It is far from what you had thought would be your life at Camelot, but that was a child's dream that shattered before your eyes.
You turn Arawn away from the path that leads up to the keep, urging him back toward the abbey at the full gallop he glories in. Galahad's final words about duty and honor are ever in your mind; but now you understand. They are not a burden; they are a gift. You see your way clearly and easily.
There is a wild beauty in this valley, and you think that you could be content here.
-fin-
Thanks to C, A, and -k, all of whom helped enormously in my attempt to make this be more than just backstory. Special thanks to J for translating the medical jargon so I could figure out what would be going on with Chris along the way.
Pairing: gen, Justin, AU
Notes: Companion piece to Summer Song. Still don't think it really happened, right?
journey's end
From the time you bid farewell to those few men-at-arms who lived through that final day at Camlan and strike north along the little-used paths, the journey is as a dream, unreal and shadowed and full of dread. Sir Christopher drifts in and out of wakefulness though you speak to him without ceasing, coaxing him to stay in this world. When you cannot think of a single further tale to tell, nor another question of strategy to ask, you start with the ballads you have learned from Taliesin. He joins with you on occasion, his voice little more than a whisper, but every note whole and true.
Each time you stop to make sure the way, the villagers and innkeepers eye you with unease and give you wide berth. They cheat you, charging far more than is custom for the food or ale they sell, but you do not care. You think only of your destination, and the man you carry, and so it takes you far too long to realize that you would be better asking at abbeys and priories.
The holy brothers and sisters do not care that the both of you wear clothing stiff and stained with blood, or that you ride a horse still dressed for battle. They give you food and refill your water skin. They offer poultices to draw the fever from Sir Christopher's wounds and prayers that his sight might be restored. They lift him gently into your arms in the mornings and call blessings on you as you leave.
When finally you reach the pass at Aberglaslyn, the sun has dipped low, far too close to the mountains. Arawn still carries the both of you easily; you send prayers of thankfulness for his strength and wonder if Sir Christopher will live to know how well his gift to you has served you both. Now, though, he knows nothing of this world; he burns with fever, and is heavy and silent in your arms.
You have moved into a place beyond good sense or fear, for you do not hesitate to turn Arawn to find his way over the pass, even as the light fades from the sky. You have long since lost count of the days, but this is the end; you feel it deep inside you with every labored breath Sir Christopher takes.
You are beyond exhaustion now as well, and do not trust that you will not fall into sleep as you ride, but you know that if you stop, even if he would live through the night, you will never be able to remount. And so you choose to bind him to you, and you to Arawn so that no matter how weak you might become, you will not lose your charge. You do not make the decision lightly, for if Arawn loses his footing, you will both go down with him, but your arms have already begun to shake and you fear that you will not have the strength to bear your burden. It seems right to you to tie your lives to each other in this way; you see it as a fulfillment of the oaths you have sworn, both those taken in front of all Camelot, and those made only to yourself.
You had never been more frightened in all your life, but Sir Christopher told you there was no shame in it, that he would doubt your reason if you insisted that you were not. You trust him more than any other save your mother so you had nodded once and turned back to your tasks, comforted by his calm.
You had done those so many times, every day for the two years you had been a squire; their very familiarity calmed you a little. This was what you had wanted; you lived your entire life, from before you can even remember, for moments such as this, but knowing that no force in this world could stop the armies from joining arms was sobering. You had been more excited than fearful at the first near-battle, waiting with an almost giddy determination on the walls of Barham Down but then the High King had attacked Mordred's forces from behind and you mostly watched. This day would be much different.
The sun was not yet up, but the camp was stirring, if ever it quieted during the night. Word spread of a Mass to be celebrated and the servant who told you near quivered in excitement when he added that King Arthur himself would attend. Sir Christopher asked if you wished to go, but you were not sure if that was the right thing for you that day.
In the end, because your mother followed the Christian God, you stood toward the back of the group crowded around the priest, adding your voice to the closing prayer. For yourself, you walked quickly to the edge of the lake. Ynis Witrin was only a dark shadow in the middle of the lake, barely visible as you dipped your hand in the water and asked for a blessing from the Lady before hurrying back through the camp to where the horses were picketed.
You heard the dark mutterings that followed you, especially when men saw the crest on your shield, but you took no offense. You hold the same opinion of him who fathered you. You have taken his crest and colors--adding the baton sinister as your own--only to defy his denial of you, much as your presence here this day defied his betrayal of the High King. Many thought that you should not be there, but Sir Christopher had laughed at the thought.
Galahad could not spend much time with you before he left to seek the Grail, but he spoke openly about duty and honor and the all-consuming need to prove your worthiness. It had been greatly surprising to learn that he, too, felt that inner force; you had never thought the greatest knight in Camelot could know the same inadequacies as the grandson of a miller. You knew that your actions on this day had his blessing both as your brother and as the first knight of the Round Table.
The horses of the Cymry--your horses, you reminded yourself, for you had been accepted as one of Britain, despite your father--were legendary for their strength and fierceness in battle, and were given wide berth by the other squires and men-at-arms. They knew your voice and smell, however, and would not try to kill you for sport, so you busied yourself with saddle and bridle. Sir Christopher attended the final council the king did call, and it was better for you to stay busy then. You might have only been sixteen and inexperienced in the ways of war, but even you could see that there was little hope for your forces on this plain. Mordred held the superior ground and had two men for every one who remained loyal to the High King.
When Sir Christopher returned, accompanied by Lord Bedivere and Sir Lucan, the brothers he has served all his life, he smiled at the sight of the ready horses, and then spent time petting and nuzzling his Cadan. You waited patiently, holding Cadan through the familiar actions. Man and horse had been through many years and much campaigning together and you would not interfere with their bond.
You were, as always, the last in the saddle; none could hold your Arawn, so you had learned to trick your way onto his back. Here again, you were most fortunate, for many knights would not spend the gold to horse their squires as well as themselves. The day Sir Christopher had gifted you with Arawn was the most precious of memories. He outstripped the horses of every knight on that plain, and was equaled only by the king's own mount. Not even Galahad had ever boasted a horse such as yours, and his pride in you that day you received Arawn had done much to soften the sting of your father's indifference.
Once you were mounted and had little to do but sit and wait, the fear returned and threatened to overthrow your reason. Arawn, ever sensitive to your moods, shied nervously at every sound. Sir Christopher saw, and edged Cadan closer until you stood side to side.
"Justin," he said, low and intense. "Look carefully at how the battle lines are drawn." Obediently, you looked where he pointed. "See you how Mordred has bunched his men toward the middle?" It was as he said: a great seething mass of men-at-arms and knights mixed together, moving slowly across the plain toward you.
"Yes, I see, but, my lord, there are so many of them. How--"
"Now look at how our men are set." He grinned--sharp, wolfish, confident--and in that instant, you saw, truly saw what he told you. You answered his smile with one of your own. Mordred's knights were mixed too closely with his foot soldiers and were well-nigh useless for mounted battle.
"We ride with the High King today," said Sir Christopher, and his voice reflected his pride. "He does not intend to lose this war." As the sun rose and the wind pushed the last of the mist away, you looked across the field and saw the dragon standard lifted high on the breeze. "I do not say this day will be easy, but remember you this: no matter how your father denies you, he has no power to take away the skill you inherited from him. You have learned well these past years, but you have an understanding that goes far beyond that." He leaned a little to lay a hand on your shoulder. "Stay with me and keep your wits about you."
The fear was still there, but then it fed the energy pounding through your blood. You dropped back to cover your knight's vulnerable right side, and waited for the call to arms.
The path is narrow, and the ground treacherous, but Arawn does not fail you. Though the sun's light does not last quite long enough for you to find the way over the pass, his steps are steady and sure, and the moon rises as you pick your way along the banks of the river.
Glaslyn Abbey is dark, quiet and still in the moonlight, and you do not know how long you stare at it, waiting for it to fade into the night. The gates are closed, but a bell hangs by them, with a mallet near by. It is not until you shatter the night with its ring that you believe that you have not dreamt the peaceful sight.
The abbey rouses swiftly: torches are lit, the gates are opened, and you find yourself surrounded by solicitous men and women. You call a warning, for Arawn does not understand their intent and frets nervously under you. It is all you can do to control him, but finally a woman's calm voice cuts across the excited babble, clearing the space around you.
She looks closely at you, and you know what she sees beneath the blood and grime. All have told you that there is no mistaking your family, that to put you and Galahad and your father in the same room is to see the same face through the ages. When she sees your shield, cracked and mangled as it is, she nods and says quietly, "All is lost, then," before raising her voice to send messengers flying.
When they cut the bindings and try to lift Sir Christopher down, your arms stay locked tight, no matter how you will them. It is not until you see the familiar face you seek, her brown eyes so like his, her voice whispering thanks and prayers, that you can force yourself to let go your burden.
They carry him off, and leave you alone in the crowd with only Arawn for courage.
The sun stood high in the sky when you groped blindly for the water skin that you had slung over your saddle in the early dawn. Battle, you had learned, had a rhythm all its own, with quiet moments strangely dropped amidst the frenzy, and by then, you knew enough that you had not needed Sir Christopher's suggestion to take full advantage of any moment in which no one was trying to kill you.
You knew not how the battle went, only that you still lived. The plain had been pounded to dust by the feet of men and horses, and the air was so thick with it that you could see only a few feet around you. Each time all had seemed hopeless, the High King's voice had risen above the shrieks and screams of the battle, and all had rallied to it.
Arawn still danced beneath you, and you laughed a little at his eagerness. Sir Christopher joined with you, and then leaned over to slap lightly at Arawn's flank. "Speak truly, Justin. You have sold your soul in exchange for that devil's strength, have you not?"
It was an old tease; so old that it was one of the reasons you named Arawn as you did. You heard it daily, for once Sir Christopher found humor in something there was no end to it. At the very least, on that day, on the field at Camlan, there were no priests near by to overhear and become so concerned for your immortal soul that they felt the need to pray over you. Sir Christopher still found much amusement in that, even after nine months.
You swatted his hand away from Arawn, and he laughed at your glare. You would have answered him, but you had to concentrate on simply breathing. Your muscles ached with fatigue; your arms were leaden and even your thighs shook from overuse, but you were otherwise whole and unharmed. Sir Christopher had a small cut across his scalp from where you had failed to deflect an errant sword, but he, too, had escaped serious injury.
Before you could do more than swallow one or two mouthfuls of water, two knights charged out of the drifting dust. Your sword was up and moving without thought and you echoed Sir Christopher's laughing shout. You had not known before this day how the joy of close combat could lift you from exhaustion; you understood better Galahad's need for the true battle he found on quest rather than the mock-fighting of tournaments.
Those two fought only half-heartedly, a trait you found common to many of Mordred's knights. Sir Christopher quickly dispatched the first and you were turning your attention to the second when suddenly you faced him alone. Pure instinct drove your sword up and around his shield in an overhand blow that caught the base of his neck. You shoved hard against his slumping body with your shield, freeing your sword while you frantically looked for Sir Christopher.
The panic did not abate when at last you saw him hacking his way across the plain. He rode a straight path, Cadan trampling all who could not dodge, and had sheathed his sword in favor of the morningstar. You wheeled Arawn about and gave him his head, bending low and snarling encouragement, and he responded with a great burst of speed.
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw a flicker and were just bringing your shield up when you were hit at full speed by a group of Mordred's knights. You counted four of them in the sudden fury, two brothers and their squires. You knew them from the last summer spent at court, before the world began to crack at the edges. You had thought them friends, but they gave you no quarter. Arawn staggered sideways and scrambled for his footing, and you were hit again and again. Your last thought before you fell into the blackness was a savage hope that they were stupid enough to try to take Arawn once they pulled you down.
They are good people, the men and women of Glaslyn Abbey. They do not push or prod at you, but show you the way to the stables and help you to find clean water and hay. Despite the late hour, one waits for you to finish caring for Arawn, then silently guides you through the passageways. He takes you to a small solar where a fire warms the chill night air, and offers you bread and cheese and a cool sweet wine spiced with a gentle fragrance. A woman enters soon after, but it is not until she asks, "You are Justin, are you not?" that you recognize her as the one who ordered all in the courtyard.
"I am called Joan now," she says. "But I was born Rhyann of Tegyr." She nods at your surprise. "Yes, you know my father and brothers; they are of the court."
They were more than a part of Camelot; you know that they were among the most trusted of the King's council.
She speaks quietly. "My father's last message put them with the King not more than a fortnight ago. I cannot believe they were not with you. Do you know aught of them?"
You keep your eyes down, for you did see the Tegyr crest, more than once in the long night alone on the plain of Camlan, but the faces were nigh unrecognizable in death, and you do not know the words to say that to their kinswoman. Your silence answers her, though, and her voice shakes slightly as she asks, "And the King?"
"Sir Christopher," you start, but your voice is hoarse from the journey, and it is more difficult than you could have imagined to say his name. "He says the Lady of the Lake took the King into her care," you finally manage. "But I do not know how or why, my lady. I am sorry."
"No, you have nothing to apologize for, child." You are not, not really, not anymore, but her voice does something to soothe the boy who yet hides within you. "You deserve only our gratitude for bringing Christopher to us."
"What else should I have done?" The time before Sir Christopher picked you to be his squire is the part of your life that feels unreal now.
Sister Joan touches your shoulder softly. "Come then, and let us see how he fares."
You woke to a blinding headache and a raging thirst, but you welcomed the discomfort as proof of life. For long moments you lay without movement, but there was only quiet around you. When at last you opened your eyes, the night was crisp and clear and the stars shone serenely, as though the bloody day had not happened.
You pushed to your hands and knees and fought the wave of nausea that threatened to upset your balance. The pain in your head was worrisome, but you could breathe without sharp pain and your arms and legs supported you, if only barely. You stayed there until the night ceased to spin around you and the breeze struck cool through the woolen tunic you wore under your mail. Slowly and with great care, you stood, and then nearly burst into tears when a familiar nicker sounded close to you. Arawn butted his head against your shoulder, upsetting your balance. You tumbled to the ground awkwardly, but he nosed at you until your hands tangled in his mane and he could lift you to your feet again.
By the light of the full moon, you saw the brothers who attacked you lying broken and bloody on the ground. You ran your hands down Arawn's flanks, petting and soothing him as best you can, soothing yourself as well. Arawn and his kin were bred to war; to have lost his rider in the midst of battle would have driven him to a killing frenzy. He was still uneasy, skittish; you felt it in the quivering muscles under your hands, but he stayed with you and his very presence gave you the strength you needed to begin your search. Sir Christopher would not have left the field without you and you had no intention of doing so either.
You stay in the passageway outside the small wall chamber where Sir Christopher lies, so that you are close but do not hinder those who care for him. Even here, though, you can hear each gasping breath he takes. His mother and the other women of the abbey come and go, smiling gently at you, and insist upon dressing dress your small cuts and bruises. After the first day, they no longer press you to bathe or sleep, and allow you keep your vigil so long as you make some effort to eat.
You do sleep, though; only it is the half-doze you learned on the walls at Barham Downs. This is not unlike waiting out that siege. There, you waited for the King to move into position and drive Mordred away; here, you wait for the bastard's treachery to take away the last thing you have in this world.
You pray that your mother and her husband fled before Mordred's army reached the lands near Camelot, but you do not hold out much hope that they might have survived. They are gentle people, settled and prosperous, unaccustomed to the ways of war. Galahad seeks the Grail, and find it or not, you saw in his eyes that he would never return. Your father is mad by all accounts, and disclaims you in any event. His kin know you not, through their own choice. All that you have now is here.
Sister Joan brings the lord who holds Dinas Emrys to speak with you, but you cannot tell him much of the battle. The most you can do is name the fallen, and his face grows grave as you speak. You are grateful that Sister Joan stands close and still behind you, for they are more than names to her as well. You take strength from her calm presence. The lord tells you to seek him out if you have need, and you know that he means it kindly, but you cannot think beyond the next labored breath from inside the chamber.
During the fourth night that you wait, you come fully awake as the sisters rush past you. Sir Christopher cries out harshly and the women murmur their prayers to the Blessed Virgin in soft counterpoint. You would stand, but your legs do not move, and the breath catches hard in your chest when Sir Christopher's mother crosses the passageway to kneel with you. You cannot tear your eyes away from the tears streaming down her face while you wait for her to speak.
"The fever has broken, Justin," she whispers. "He sleeps naturally now." Her voice cracks and she buries her face in her hands, sobbing quietly. You are slow to understand, but finally see that she weeps with joy. You lean your head against the stone wall behind you and breathe for what seems the first time since you left the plain at Camlan.
Your hope faded steadily, bleeding quietly into the dark night as one by one you found the bodies of those you had trained and hunted and gamed with. After a time, you ceased trying to remember on whose side each had fought. It hardly seemed of consequence.
It was as the darkness began to fade that you found him. For one heart-stopping moment, you saw the dark hair and believed it to be Sir Christopher, but then he moaned. His voice was too low and you saw that were he standing he would have been taller than you.
But you knew him--Sir Kevin--and you remembered that he and his kin fought for Arthur, that his cousin had greeted you quietly before Mass the previous morning. He was far-gone, you knew not how he still lived, but he recognized you and called to you. Arawn was calm; the battle clearly over in his mind, so you risked leaving the saddle. You knelt carefully and tried to give him water, but he choked, and batted it away.
"I cannot," he rasped, and pulled you to him. Even so close, you could barely hear his voice. "Alexander?" he asked, reaching out. "He does not answer me."
Alexander was a few years older than you, not a squire with whom you spent much time, but you did know him. You turned to where Sir Kevin's arms reached and found him close by, crumpled and still. He was where you should be, you thought.
"He is at peace, my lord," you said, and Sir Kevin relaxed but did not loosen his grip on your arm.
"Justin," he said. "Help me." He pulled your hand to his chest and you pushed the cloak away to see that he had unsheathed his knife and positioned it at his heart. "I have not the strength."
In a tiny corner of your mind, you cried that you could not, but your voice trembled only a little when you said, "Yes, my lord," and your hands did not shake at all when you wrapped them around his. "Godspeed, my lord," you whispered, and pressed the knife home. He gasped once and his life's blood flowed over your hands as you knelt beside him. You would have wept but you could not remember how.
You find your way back from the river, clean in a way that you have lacked since you woke during the cool, clear night by the shores of the Lake, only to find a lay sister no older than you sniffling quietly outside your chambers.
"What?" you ask, filled with apprehension. When you left, all was well. Sir Christopher had been, for the first time, awake and alert for more than a few minutes. His body heals quickly, though none are certain about his sight.
"He will not eat," she says.
"He will," you say through gritted teeth, and push your way into the small wall chamber. Sir Christopher lies with his head turned away from the door, fists clenched tight in the bedclothes.
"My lord," you say. "The good sisters have wrung the neck of a fine fowl so that you might have a healing broth." You pull the small pot off the fire and ladle a portion into a bowl.
"They would feed me, Justin."
You start to answer impatiently; of course they must feed him, he cannot see to do it himself. By some divine blessing, though, you hear the hopelessness under the anger and stop before you wound him further. There is only one goblet on the small table; you quickly finish the wine it holds and then fill it with the broth. Leaning over the bed, you carefully wrap his hands around it.
"I have no time for that, my lord." You smile as he drinks; slow, cautious sips giving way to greedy gulps. "Arawn threatens to kick down the stables. Sister Joan requests politely that I take him out and tire him sufficiently. It would be discourteous to disregard her wishes," you add piously.
He finishes the goblet and you happily fill it again while he growls, "You indulge that hell-spawn too far."
"Yes, my lord, I do." You cannot help but smile at the familiar argument, but now more than ever, you have no intention of changing your behavoir with Arawn. Hell-spawn or not, he is the only reason Sir Christopher lives, of this you are certain; and is most likely the only reason Mordred's knights did not kill you on the field. He will have anything he might want, and no one will stop you.
Once more you fill Sir Christopher's goblet with broth, and promise to ask if he might be well enough for bread the next day. When he sleeps, you slip out to the stables and saddle Arawn. He is well rested and well fed, and when you give him his head, you both lose yourself in the joy of the long twilight and gently rolling meadows.
You let him follow the river as it slices through the valley, and circle the lake until you pause for breath in the shadow of Dinas Emrys. Though the sun has dipped behind the mountains here on the valley floor, you can see it reflect off the weapons the guards carry on the walls high above you as they stand watch over the pass at Aberglaslyn.
When finally you stood and left Sir Kevin's side, the sun had risen behind the mist and you could begin to make sense of your wanderings during the night. With the coming light, you saw those ghouls who would rob the dead moving slowly across the plain, and the sight hardened your resolve to find Sir Christopher before they did.
With that purpose fixed firmly in mind, you whistled for Arawn and circled slowly out from Sir Kevin and Alexander. Your eyes saw only crests and clothing, and if others still lived, you did not hear their voices. Not until you found Cadan lying in the trampled dust did you even think to stop. He was dead, of course, with great gaping wounds in his side. Arawn shied nervously at the sight and smell of his stablemate, half-rearing in his disquiet, and you dared not come down from the saddle for fear that he would go mad without your weight on him.
Sir Christopher could not be far, you thought, pushing away the idea that he could have found another mount, or walked half the length of the plain in the time it had taken you to find Cadan. You would find him; you entertained no other possibilities. Even if he did not live, you would not leave him to the mercies of those who pick clean the bodies of the fallen. You urged Arawn in a wide circle around Cadan, picking your way though the bodies with care, and only gradually coming aware of the familiar sounds of voices raised in disagreement.
"--I swear to you by all that I hold holy, Christopher, that if you do not cease this harangue, injured or not, I will gag you before I run berserk from the frustration--"
"It is not my fault, my lord, that the blow you took has disordered your wits so that I am forced to say again and again what you must know already--"
"My lord?" Your voice was soft and rasped in your throat from the dust you had been breathing, but both voices paused in mid-shout. You first saw Sir Bedivere in the mist--real and solid and undiminished by all that had happened in the last day. He spoke to Arawn, calming and holding him while you dismounted, and your heart missed a beat when you realized he stood guard over Sir Christopher.
"My lord," you said again as you dropped to your knees next to him. You forced your voice not to shake at the sight of the blood-soaked bandage high on his leg or the feverish flush on his face.
"Justin," he greeted you gravely, but with a hint of the quick humor that was so much a part of him. "It is customary to at least offer thanks when a knight of the Round Table acts as stable boy to you."
"My lord Bedivere," you gasped. "I ask your pardon--I meant no disrespect--"
"Enough, Christopher," Sir Bedivere growled. "Do not tease the boy. Not many could live through this, and bring to us not only himself but his mount as well."
You opened your mouth to say that you did nothing but fail your duty, but Sir Christopher spoke over you.
"Arawn will not change matters, my lord." There was something not right about Sir Christopher; the humor was gone, and a strange defensiveness had taken its place. He was never unsure, even when he did not know the right answer; he would choose as best he could and not doubt his choice. But there by the lake, he would not meet your eyes. The unease crawled up your spine. "You must gather those who will still be of assistance to you and go."
"And I say to you again, you stubborn, thick-headed, witless dolt, I will not leave you here--"
"You must."
"I cannot," Sir Bedivere roared. "I would as soon leave my own child as ride away now."
You did not understand any of what was happening, but you had never seen Sir Bedivere so angered. It was not the first argument you had witnessed between the two--they could not be in the same keep for longer than a day without the walls ringing with their insults, but this was far different.
"The Lady keeps the King safe; you must do as she has done with those who still live, my lord. I will be nothing but a burden to you, and," Sir Christopher breathed deeply, then whispered, "I do not wish to be with you now."
Arawn moved restlessly under Sir Bedivere's hands, but you were frozen by the exchange.
"Forgive me, my lord," Sir Christopher continued. "You took me as page when I was nothing more than a starving child, and all that I am, I owe to you, but if I am to leave this world, I wish to be with my mother at the end."
You thought that you should be more grieved at his words, but all was strangely muted. You heard them, and understood them, but they meant little to you. Sir Bedivere closed his eyes and leaned heavily against Arawn.
"Justin is here now," Sir Christopher said, his voice strong and sure, no longer uncertain. "You would not leave me here alone. You know full well that hell-spawn he rides can carry two. You must do your duty, my lord. Mordred is dead, damn his soul to hell, but there is no one else strong enough to rule until the Lady returns the King. You must go."
Sir Bedivere snarled wordlessly, then beckoned for you to join him. He forced himself to calmness, more for Arawn's benefit than yours, you were sure. "I do not have the time to argue with him; damn him, he speaks truly. I must go. You have been with him to the abbey, have you not?"
"Yes, my lord, we have been there three times."
"Have you gold or silver, boy?"
"No, my lord, but--"
"Take these," he said impatiently, stripping off his leather gauntlet to pull a ring from his smallest finger, then breaking the chain around his neck. He folded your hand around the gold and gemstones. "I could not stop the vermin we fought from near taking his leg off, but he did not lose faith until his sight did fail during the night." He looked over your head and his face was grim. "His will to live is not something I ever thought to see fade, but he can find no hope."
You nodded because he expected a response, not because you agreed. You could not imagine Sir Christopher as described.
"His life is on my head," Sir Bedivere said. "He took the blow that was meant for me, but I fear I will not have the chance to repay it."
He fixed you with a stare that two days ago would have dropped you to your knees, but on that morning was no more than an expression upon a familiar face. "He is a good man, and a good knight, and is as my son. I would not see him suffer at the end. Can you swear to me that he will not, Justin?"
You knew what he asked, and that he did not think you capable, but your tunic and breeches were stiff with blood that was not your own, so you lifted your head and returned his stare as you had seen your brother and your father answer those who would challenge them. You could, if it became necessary, but you swore then that it would not come to that.
The guard changes on the walls above you, and you hear the shouts of the men faint on the breeze. The sound is familiar and comfortable; what you thought you wanted from life. You have armor and horse; you have been blooded in battle. You know that you could be welcomed back to that world now, again, with only a word to the lord.
Arawn moves restlessly beneath you, your ally and strength, the only witness to things that you will acknowledge only in your dreams. You think of the man who sleeps in the small chamber, and of the quiet pain in Sister Joan's eyes as she waits for messages she knows will never arrive.
This place is not home, but you know in your heart that your home is no more. It is far from what you had thought would be your life at Camelot, but that was a child's dream that shattered before your eyes.
You turn Arawn away from the path that leads up to the keep, urging him back toward the abbey at the full gallop he glories in. Galahad's final words about duty and honor are ever in your mind; but now you understand. They are not a burden; they are a gift. You see your way clearly and easily.
There is a wild beauty in this valley, and you think that you could be content here.
-fin-
Thanks to C, A, and -k, all of whom helped enormously in my attempt to make this be more than just backstory. Special thanks to J for translating the medical jargon so I could figure out what would be going on with Chris along the way.