A/N: Well, this installment is… different. I don't know whether I've created the effect I was going for, but I severely doubt it. Lol. Please, however, bear with me – this is an entirely different form from that which I normally write in and a bit of experimentation on my part. I also want to apologise up front if you find the layout difficult. It's meant to be.
DISCLAIMER: See previous chapter for notes on family lineage. ;-)
WARNING: Non-consensual activities. Not overly graphic but if you're squeamish…
I want to blame this chapter on faeriedance at livejournal. Lol. Without her, I would have just wandered into the bliss of anonymity. As it is, she produced the inspiration and, though it wasn't what she suggested, she let the damn plot bunnies go again.
Damn her. ::friendly grin::
"Galahad, there you are."
His dark eyes bored into me and I was transfixed.
The youngest knight was in the stables, vigorously rubbing down his stallion. His eyes, fixed on the coarse, white hair, were burning with anger, and he was desperately trying to quell the feeling of nausea in the pit of his stomach threatening to overwhelm him.
He moved towards me, graceful and silent as only a scout can be, and smiled.
I will never forget that smile.
A hand reached down and grasped his shoulder and he immediately stiffened and jerked away, heart racing, turning quickly to survey the other man; relaxing slightly when he took in Gawain's familiar features.
"I've been looking all over for you!" The man's face was slightly annoyed. "Why didn't you reply to my shouts?"
Galahad shrugged, noncommitedly.
"How much did you drink last night?" the other knight asked, suspiciously eyeing his friend's pale face and the slight tremble in the hand holding the horse brush.
"Not enough," Galahad mumbled, turning his back to the other man.
"Kneel." A command.
Anger was welling up inside of me, refusal on the edge of my tongue, but desperation held me firm within its grasp. I couldn't move. Torn.
Gawain watched his friend's back for a moment, consideringly, then turned to the large beast beside him in the stall.
"How is the brute?"
Galahad smiled slighty at that. His warhorse was infamous this side of the great wall and it had never appreciated Gawain much.
He reached up and stroked along his horse's haunch. "Tired. He wants to go home."
"Home?" There was a slight chuckle. "This is his home, Galahad. He was born and bred here in the mud of England."
"Ah, but he dreams of the flat plains of Samatia, of the fresh southern wind, of the endless horizon…" He stopped, biting back his words, unwilling to go on. "He knows he doesn't belong here."
There was a faint sigh from behind him. "You are a fool, Galahad."
A slight pressure on my shoulder, him pressing me down to the grass floor of his chamber, was the end of me.
His agile hand moved to the front of his tunic, slowly undoing the lacings there. Reaching in between the folds of cloth, he pulled his manhood forth, and stood infront of me, his flesh not a half foot from my face.
"You need to talk to Arthur."
Galahad raised his head slighty, forehead drawn into a frown. "Why?"
Gawain placed a hand on his back, rubbing slightly through his thin shirt, soothing him, recognising the anger in his voice. "I don't know how much of last night's words you remember, but your reaction was harsh. Too harsh. He hesitates in his duty because of you, and Arthur needs his duty more than anything. You need to talk to him," he repeated, firmly.
Galahad took up the brushing of his horse again, long, hard sweeps, making his muscles ache. "I don't see why I should. He has betrayed us."
Gawain's eyes flashed angrily, but his words were spoken softly, "No, our commander has not betrayed us, Galahad, and well you know it. Do not let your hatred for the Romans poison things between you two. It would be disastrous."
The younger knight shrugged the warm hand on his back off. "You cannot understand my reasonings."
"You are not the only one that misses Samatia, boy."
Galahad shut his eyes, frustration and deep regret forming into a tight knot in the back of his throat. "You prove my point."
I hesitated, unwilling, then looked up at him, hoping he could see the loathing on my face.
"I hate you."
"I know." His voice was soft, as if he was talking to a lover. "But I gave you a choice. This is your decision."
I shut my eyes tightly, wishing it all away, knowing I was being foolish: I would never escape him.
Gawain cautiously moved around the front of the large horse, jerking away from the animal when it raised its head and made a halfhearted lunge for his unarmoured arm.
He glared at it.
"How it ever suffers you to get on its back and ride it, I have no idea."
Galahad shrugged, trying hard to keep his thoughts on the innocent conversation and companionship Gawain was offering.
"He just likes me, I suppose. Don't take it personally. He doesn't like anyone else." He paused. "Except Tristan, of course," he finished, bitterly.
Gawain nodded, sagely. "Every animal likes Tristan. It's his way. I often wonder if there is a wild thing out there that he couldn't tame."
When I first felt his hands on me, I couldn't supress the shudder that run through my body. Stroking through my hair, over my shoulders, a soft, firm touch, as if he was trying to soothe a jittery colt.
Slowly, his hand at my head, he pressed me towards him, until I could feel the heat radiating from him.
And I did.
"So why are you doing this?"
Galahad jerked his head back up to regard the unsmiling face of his friend, confusion and panic shining in his eyes. "What?"
"Why are you doing this?" Gawain gestured to his horse. "I lost the bet. I'm meant to be doing your horse."
Galahad closed his eyes in relief, the fear that Gawain had been referring to something else fading to the back of his mind. "Do you want to be doing my horse?"
The older man laughed. "Good gods, no."
"Then don't complain. I felt like doing him."
"Right." A pause. "Are you sure he likes being brushed quite that hard?"
Galahad glanced at the brush in his hand, surprised to see he was holding onto the wood so tightly his knuckles were white. His very enthusiastic brush strokes also explained the cramping in his arm. He stopped and shook his head ruefully, then patted the animal's rump, removing the brush from his grip, clenching and unclenching his fist to prevent stiffness.
He could feel Gawain's eyes on him questioningly, but ignored them, not looking up at his old friend, not being able to.
"Take me in your mouth."
I baulked and tried to withdraw, but his hand was in my hair, preventing retreat.
"I won't ask you again, Galahad." His voice was firm, a hint of a threat in the words.
I couldn't look at him. Instead, I moved forward and slowly, trembling, placed my lips around his hard manhood, bile rising in my throat.
"Are you alright, Galahad?"
His tanned hand moved in my hair, tugging at it slightly, then pulling it back from where it had fallen over my face, leaving me totally exposed to his eyes.
"Look at me."
I shut my eyes then did what he commanded, shame and guilt bringing heat to my cheeks. His dark brown eyes stared down at me, drinking in my misery, my humiliation and my hatred, and he came, not uttering a sound, not allowing me to pull back as his hot seed hit the back of my throat.
When he finally let go of me, I had to put a hand to the floor to steady myself, coughing and choking, retching, unable to rid myself of the taste in my mouth. Unable to see anything but those dark eyes burning into my conciousness..
A hand reached for his shoulder again and this time he didn't jerk away, just turned to stare up into Gawain's light blue eyes, concern obvious in their depths.
"Are you alright?" he asked, worriedly.
Staring up into Gawain's handsome face, the memories of last night slowly retreated, brown replaced by blue.
A/N: I just want to mention the fact that I am very fond of Tristan. I do not hate him. I do not think he is a homicidal maniac... well, maybe just a bit. But that's what I like about him. :-D