Disclaimer: Goodness, if only I did own them... but I don't, I'm not making any money...and I promise to return everything safe and sound. Though probably not much like I found it.

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Prolog

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Gawain finds him in the far corner of the courtyard, half obscured by those deeper shadows beyond the reach of the bonfire's hungry warmth. He hesitates before approaching him, unable to shake the feeling that he has suddenly become an interloper, that he is imposing himself where he is neither wanted nor welcomed.

Yet it must be done and who else is there? Bors, who still labors under his grief for Dagonet, who cannot see beyond the loss of a friend he had never supposed he must live without? Galahad? Galahad, who cannot decided if he forgives this man the hold he has over him; who cannot decide if he resents his own decision to remain when he ought to be, at long last, free of this damnable country?

No.

Better it be him and better he be done with it.

"It's not good for a man to be always alone," he comments, handing off the jug of wine he's brought with him.," Not even a King."

Arthur gives him an odd, uncomfortable half smile before saluting him with the jug and gulping down a goodly portion of it's contents.," Future King."

He inclines his head slightly, acknowledging the correction, even as he gives a slight, dismissive shrug. It's a small enough distinction to him, to the Britons, yet he knows this man before him well enough to know that he is Roman enough to need the pomp and pageantry and the ceremony of it all as those around him do not. ,"And is solitude any better for the one than for the other?"

"That's why I have you and the men."

Arthur does not stumble nor hesitate over the words, his answer comes as naturally as his every breath and there is even a slight smile upon his lips which could almost reach his eyes. Yet Gawain flinches, despite himself, knowing such a comment from this man was never meant for his ears. Knowing himself to be the worst of usurpers.

He should not be here, he thinks, it is not his place to force himself upon his commander, to nettle and dig at him when he plainly wishes to be alone.

He has never envied Lancelot this.

He sighs and leans his back against the wall, wishing the other Knight were here in his stead, wishing he had the man's eloquence and charm and that ability, or talent, to always know the ways of Arthur's mind and heart which seemed so natural to him.

Not that that last is particularly necessary right now. For what else could be consuming Arthur, heart and mind, body and soul, but that which they were all so desperately grappling with?

Sighing once again he crouches down, unconsciously picking up a stone to roll between his fingers. Only after the fact does he realize that doing so places him lower than Arthur, who hasn't risen from his bench since the festivities began. It makes him smile, though sadly, not because he's amused by the irony of that, but because Dagonet would have been and Dagonet will never again have the chance to be amused by anything at all.

God it hurts to think of that.

And nothing, neither time nor familiarity, has dulled the ache of his losses, though he now imagines there to be a queer sort of comfort in that somehow unrelenting malaise. As if, so long as he hurts, his friends cannot be lost . As if his pain will hold them to him.

He's well aware of the selfishness which gives birth to such thoughts, but what of it? Bors still visits Dagonet's grave every night for a drink, Galahad will still laugh at some jest and turn to share it with the long departed Gaheris, visibly surprised when he realizes the Knight is not standing at his side, and Arthur will still search the battlefield for the sight of men, though some, most, too many, had been boys, now gone.

No, Gawain thinks, he's not the only one amongst their number to find refuge in his grief, in hispain.

None of which has anything to do with why he is here, all but kneeling before his Roman commander, his FORMER Commander, he reminds himself. He's letting himself be distracted by these thoughts, by the shades of his friends, because that is easier than dealing with Arthur in his uncertainty .

He does not like to think himself a coward, and wonders at the fact that he could face a Saxon army and stand, yet hesitates before the man for whom he has so often been willing to die.

That is enough, he chides himself. Be done with it and be gone. ,"And you will always have us Arthur, though our deaths may mean less to you than that of another."

Gawain wants to flinch at the sound of those words, cursing his own lose tongue. Such thoughts should not have been spoken, not tonight when the wounds which birthed them were still too fresh to heal.

Arthur half turns to face him, eyes burning with the reflected light of the bonfire, though through all the times he has seen the sight, across all the camp and cook fires, in the light of every torch or hearth, Gawain has never believed that light to be reflection alone, and regards him with a cool, measuring look he had never imagined receiving from this man ,"It should not have happened."

Something in Gawain flares at that, at the so simple conviction in Arthur's voice. He can recall, perhaps too readily, the sight of Arthur cradling Lancelot's lifeless body on Badon Hill, crying out that it was supposed to be his life put to sacrifice. Not this, he'd called to the Heavens, almost as if he believed he'd made a personal agreement with his God and been betrayed, Never this. And in that call you could hear the devastation, the complete and utter heartbreak which had been absent at the death of those who had gone before Lancelot.

Even Tristram, slain with his own blade, had not merited such a show of loss and terrible, voracious grief.

Small though it may be of him, petty as it makes him, Gawain wants to hate Arthur for that, thinks that if he could hate Arthur it would be on account of this thing. It's all he can do to stop himself from taking the man by the shoulders and shaking him; demanding to know why he and the rest meant so little in comparison to the cocky, cynical Knight. Demanding to know why this loss was so much greater than that of any of the others.

It should not have happened, Gawain thinks.

Because it was Lancelot, it should not have happened.

Unmindful of his thoughts Arthur continues on, his voice distant, almost dull, yet there is always that underlying passion; that fire which burns in the soon to be King's eyes and cannot be quenched, though on Badon Hill he had seen it dimmed, had watched it flicker and fade.,"He shouldn't have been there, it was the wrong side of the fire. There was no REASON for him to be there. "

Reason enough the Knight thinks and almost says before he catches himself.

Even his almost anger cannot drive him to such careless disregard of Lancelot's actions and apparent wishes. Lancelot who had almost walked away from Arthur. Lancelot who had, in a way Arthur would never forgive should he come to the knowledge, walked away FOR Arthur. Yet maybe he should tell the man what had drawn his second across the flames . Perhaps the knowledge will make what happened the more bearable for him; that it had been a choice made by the fallen Knight and not another hapless whim of a Fate which had oddly seemed to favor him until that day.

No.

"Not everything is meant to be understood Arthur. Try though we might to make it otherwise.," What good would ever come of it? Besides, it was Lancelot's decision to make and that had not been his choice.,"A battle takes us where it will, regardless of what plans or wishes we may entertain before hand."

"He could have DIED," Arthur snaps, in no mood to be placated, still too raw , too aware to care that Gawain has done nothing to earn his ire.

"He DID die , damn it! He and Tristram both!"

Near the bonfire there is a moment of almost silence, when the world seems to tilt and freeze, wherein the laughter and the music seem to hesitate and Gawain curses softly under his breath before the moment passes and the festivities resume, twice as loud now, as if to make up for the hesitation of only a moment before.

He hadn't meant to yell, and probably wouldn't have if Arthur had only remarked on both deaths and not just the one. If he had only given some indication that a portion, however small, of his grief belonged to Tristram, that he could see the world beyond the fallen Lancelot.

Yet he has done this thing and there is no more to be done about it than there is for the wary suspicion which steals over Arthur's features. Gawain wonders if he will, for even one moment, entertain the idea that all that has befallen them in the course of the last few days as been merely a machination on his part, wonders if Arthur would believe him capable of such a thing, merely to take another's place in the hierarchy of his commander's affections.

He almost smiles, thinking that you could drown in the cynicism of that thought and that it is so perfectly suited to Lancelot that perhaps he ought to speak it. Perhaps the familiarity would lend some comfort to the obviously bereft man who's watching him now as he's seen the common soldiers foolish enough to dice with him watching Lancelot.

In other words, as if he's armed and dangerous, and cannot be trusted not to suddenly strike out and wound.

"I know what happened Gawain. I was there to see it.," Yet as he says it Arthur turns his gaze away from him, back toward the bonfire, and Gawain lets him. After all, how should he reply? With the bitterness and the anger which is twisting his gut, with the weary sorrow which has walked in his shadow for the past three days? Yes he was there, so were they both, so were they all, yet Gawain does not imagine his view of the battle, its outcome, and the losses they'd suffered at the hands of the Saxons would match that of this man before him. He wanted to forgive him that.

He didn't know how.

Such were the ways of Arthur and his teacher, Pelagius, and Gawain has always left them to it. He is a Sarmation, bound by the pledge of his long dead forbearers and the rapidly fading might of the Roman Empire into the service of a cause which had never been his own. Bound to fight and kill and bleed in the name of the very entity which had raped his land and brutalized his people until they were naught but a frail and trembling shadow of what they had been. Of what concern should forgiveness be to him?

"I'm surprised they're not here.," Arthur murmurs, breaking the akward silence which has risen between them, ginning in its malicious joy, and dispelling Gawain's hard and bitter thoughts. It's no less than Gawain expected of him, but the content of his words surprises him. He'd expected to be asked yet again what Lancelot was doing on the other side of the fire, how or why he had ended up there. He'd even been prepared to answer, as he had not been before. Because he chose to be, he would've said. Because he chose.

He wonders if, in his place, Lancelot would have let Arthur so obviously draw the conversation to less volatile ground, knows he wouldn't, and does so anyway. He is not Lancelot.

"I spoke with Vanora and she set the children to them."

Arthur shoots him a look of puzzled surprise and for a moment Gawain can see the man behind the shadows of fear and grief he thinks will forever walk with him now that they have been welcomed, been embraced and accepted.

He shrugs and tosses the pebble aside," Who better to keep them abed? A man they would bully and bloody, a woman they would smile at and flirt with and ignore, but children... who would be thought ill of among children? They'll stay where they've been put."

Arthur smiles, then chuckles, and he knows well enough how the man feels. It is a rare pleasure to best those two in this, if nothing else. So often they would have their way and no one could gain say them, save perhaps Arthur who is ignored nearly as often as he is heard.

"Clever.," the Roman acknowledges.

"On must be."

The silence, which is no real silence for there is still the revelry near the bonfire, the music and the laughter and the drunken antics, but is merely a lack of words between them, returns and this time neither he nor Arthur moves to ease it's weight.

Time passes, and when Arthur is at last moved to speak, his words are quiet, his voice low, "I never thought to lose him."

Gawain starts at the unexpected words and spares a moment to feel sheepish in the face of such actions. He knows what the others would say, to see him acting thus, knows what he would say in their place. It's a child's reaction, and insulting, in one way or another, to both himself and to Arthur. There's no place in this for the antics of youth, however harmless or unintentional. Gods, he thinks,is this how Lancelot lives his life? Thinking these things? Monitoring his every thought and action?

Yet this is not the time to concern himself with Lancelot, who would never thank him for doing so. It is Arthur who is sitting on that bench, eyes distant, voice so cold that Gawain expects to see his breath fog in the scant light which has dared this far corner. Arthur who cannot bring himself to look away from the empty graves which his mind has prepared. That thought makes his voice gentler than he'd thought possible,"You haven't."

"I always imagined that he'd be there," Arthur continues, oblivious to his words,"at my side or near enough, and when the killing blow came and he couldn't step away from it, couldn't escape, I could deflect it, or step into it. And I always did. Every time though it happened only rarely. . .but on Badon hill he wasn't there at my side or anywhere near enough to matter. And I. Didn't. Notice. How could I not notice that he was gone," Gawain would stop him there if he knew how. He does not, in anyway, wish to hear what he knows will be said next. It's too close. To close to the very heart that beats in his own chest. Too close to the fear that every man or woman of battle if it had been Galahad who had crossed the flames to die? What if he had been the one to fight on in ignorance,"How long did he lie there, cold, dead, and I didn't know? I lost him and. . . I lost him."

In his mind's eye he can see Arthur standing over the Saxon Cedric, calm, satisfied with the days work. He'd known Tristram was gone then, had been standing not more than ten feet from the fallen Knight's body at the time, had watched the Saxon commander deal the final killing blow.

Gawain does not doubt that he'd mourned Tristram's passing, could see well enough how Cedric's death had been a sort of sacrificial tribute to send the tracker on his way, yet he'd not lingered over the man. Had barely paused to close his eyes before seeking out Guinevere. He wouldn't have been searching for Lancelot, no doubt expecting him to materialize at his side as he always did when the fighting was done. Hail and whole, perhaps a little bloody and battered, but alive.

"You didn't lose him Arthur, by all the Gods you should have, but you didn't and I doubt you could if you tried. Your fate and his are bound."

"No fate is shared."

Gawain blinks and it's his turn to look away.

Forgive me my Knights, Arthur had begged, for I have shared neither your Faith nor your Fate...

He's clutching at Lancelot as he says it, as if he means never to release his lifeless form, and Gawain can only think that he's clutching at Lancelot but he'd left Tristram to them. That he'd left him, and it was he and Galahad and Bors who'd found him, and Bors who'd carried him this far and would probably carry him off this damnable field of death.

Then the smoke parts and Merlin's there,"No Fate is shared.," he murmurs, lowering himself to kneel beside Tristram, catching Arthur's gaze over the dead Knights,"No Fate is shared."

Something...something almost tangible passes between them and all around Gawain the world tilts and blurs and he blinks ...

With a gasp Lancelot's eyes open and then Tristram's half rising, hacking and spitting up the blood he'd swallowed and inhaled with his dying breath,...and he and the others are shoving the Necromancer away in their rush to get to his side... and Arthur's helping Lancelot to a sitting position...and Guinevere is there and there's noise and confusion ...and soon people will notice this thing which has happened.

This thing which should not have been possible.

"You're not dead ," he can remember hearing Arthur chant, over and over again, refusing to loosen his grasp on his friend, rocking gently back and forth," You're not dead. You're not dead."

And Lancelot, cynical, cocky Lancelot, had looked at him with that belovedly arrogant smirk, though his eyes were vague, his voice weak, as if he were speaking from some unimaginable distance, and asked, "Should I be?"

Yes, Gawain thinks, you should've been.

By the fire Guinevere is dancing with one of Bors and Vanora's older boys, twisting and whirlingin the warmlightand the sight catches and holds his attention. She looks so young, he thinks, watching her laugh with the boy as they stumble over the complicated foot work of the dance. It's easy, seeing her like this, to imagine why Arthur might love her, probably does love her.

But this girl who laughs and dances and flirts with the ten year old in the firelight is not the whole, this girl he's watching could never have survived the depravity of Marius Honorius's dungeon, or stood on Badon Hill in defiance of the Saxon charge.

She'll make a good Queen, he thinks, not for the first time, knowing that it takes strength and it takes courage to face the horrors of your own war ravaged country and still laugh and smile and find joy. Or she will, he amends, if the equally immovable forces which she now stands between don't pull her apart.

As he does not envy Lancelot his position with Arthur, so he does not envy Guinevere her place between them.

"You should go back to the celebrations.," Arthur murmurs, jolting Gawain out of his thoughts yet again.

Turning to answer him, Gawain's a little surprised to see that the future King is watching him now and that whatever distance there had been between them is gone.

For the moment.

He wonders, and thinks he knows, if the man had been watching his future wife as he had been. Wonders what he saw there.

Wonders why he CAN'T see.

Because they don't want him, to, he admonishes himself, he'd see it if they'd just let him.

But that's no concern of his, not yet, and he puts it away. It will have to be dealt with, soon he thinks, because something's you can't hide from the prying eyes of the envious and the petty and the cruel. More than a few of which are bound to find their way to Arthur's court. Eager to curry favor with the fabled commander. Eager to discredit those who sit in his favor.

Vultures, the pack of them.

Yet even he, who is sure of his place at Arthur's side, can see that Lancelot and Guinevere would make the best and easiest targets. His wife, and his best friend. His Queen and his Second. The one he'd taken from a torturous death in a Roman dungeon, the other he'd reclaimed from Death itself. Of them all who else could be more loved and more hated by the sycophants who'd so soon be knocking at the gates?

He lets his gaze wonder back to Guinevere.,"You should dance with her Arthur. It would make them all happy, make her happy.," he smiles, but only a little, and adds," And then you wouldn't be alone anymore and I wouldn't be obliged to "see" to the matter."

"See to the matter" Is it," the Roman doesn't smile as he says it, but you can hear the amusement in his voice, just the same.

"People worry.,"Then, because he can feel the moment slipping past, because he knows there will be no better time than this,"He's not dead, Arthur. He's NOT DEAD. Say it as many times as you need to to believe it, but BELIEVE it. Go seek him out, he and Tristram both, sit with them, touch them, whatever you need to do. Let them tell you they're fine and listen to them complain about their confinement. And then, when Lancelot curses you and tells you to come back out to the celebrations LISTEN to him. He's alive and there's no point in your acting as if it were otherwise, or dwelling on how easily it might've been. What's done is done. Give your thanks to whomever you chose and be done with it."

"Gawain..."

In an uncommon show of impatience he launches himself up and is momentarily disorientated by the sudden elevation, by the fact that he is now towering over his friend," Few have ever been as blessed as you, even in my own land where the old ways still hold true and miracles are far more common than your Church would have us believe. How many mothers and fathers, wives and children, brothers and sisters and friends, have shed tears over their fallen loved ones? How many have wept for that which you've been given and they were denied? Do you think you could even count them all," Arthur says nothing, but mutely shakes his head, caught off guard by Gawain's terse, unforgiving, delivery.,"Neither do I. Yet here you sit. A man who could go to Rome if he chose and live a life of wealth and comfort and influence. A man who chose to remain in Britain, to marry the "fair Princess" and be King. You act as though you have nothing Arthur when I have never seen a man so well favored as you."

Arthur meets his gaze and for the first time in all his memory the fire which has always burned in his eyes is not merely banked, not merely dimmed or faded, but gone. He stumbles back a step as his stomach drops and bites his tongue to keep himself from calling out against the sight. There's no reason to further disturb the celebrators, no reason to drw attention to what he sees.

"At what cost," the other man breaths.