The Tristan Effect

Title: The Tristan Effect
Part 3 - Soothing Tristan,part one
Author & email: pharaohs_kitty@yahoo. com
Type (slash/het/gen): slash
Pairing: Tristan/Lancelot/Gawain
Rating: NC17, as usual, sooner or later
Summary: Soothing Tristan's soul would be easy for Gawain, if Tristan would let him.
Archive: Feel free and if you can do better with this idea, help yourself.
Disclaimer: Characters and settings do NOT belong to ME.


Soothing Tristan


Lancelot

Tristan has never taken Gawain.

Not ever.

It's been a long winter, full of nights spent together. Flesh on flesh, lips to lips, body to body. We have shared bodily fluids and ecstasy as if tomorrow there would be no more.

Gawain and I. Tristan and I. Me inside of Tristan, Gawain inside of me, me inside of Gawain, Tristan inside of me, Gawain inside of Tristan. But Tristan has never taken Gawain.

Aaahhh, Gawain.

I lose myself in him.

Gawain is sunshine and warmth. He is the place I go to feel safe, loved, content. He is the holder of my life. My heart beats in time with his. I watch over him like a impassioned demon of the night. I would give every drop of my intemperate blood, the last wisp of air from my mouth, to see him safe - to see him joyful.

Which brings me to the problem.

The other demon of the night.

It has been a long winter since the night last summer when we came together, the three of us. Tristan will take me and allow himself to be taken by Gawain or me. He allows us our lusts upon his body with every evidence of loving the fact we slake our needs upon him. He drives himself into me as if there were no better place to be, but still he wanders away from us into the night and stares into the wild darkness off the Wall. He looks at Gawain with hunger.

Why will he not loose his need? He needs the warmth of Gawain. As I do.

Tristan has never taken Gawain. Not ever.

Not once this long winter.

Gawain

It's a fine thing to be loved. To know that someone is watching over you, willing to give you what you need, waiting upon your happiness, that is a fine thing. It's more beautiful than any of Tristan's little treasures and more valuable.

Lancelot loves me. Tristan lusts after me. But he does not collect the treasure I would so willingly give him. He is so full of pain and I would take all of it into myself if only he would let me. Tristan stills the hungers of his body with Lancelot, but never me.

I love Lancelot and glory in his contentment when he's with me. I know I settle his temper and soothe his soul. He tells me so often enough, but gruffly, in private, where only I can hear.

The three of us pretend, in front of the Romans, that we are but brother knights.

But with our brother knights, when it is only they and Arthur who can hear or see, we show our need of each other. We sit at the fire, Lancelot and I side by side, Tristan at our backs. We ride together, Lancelot and I, with Tristan flowing to and from us into the wood. Arthur puts the three of us around him sometimes and basks in the glow of our joy. Sometimes I think he would like to have what we have, or partake of it, but then he draws back to be just Lancelot's brother again. He is happy for us. Would I could be.

Tristan is in pain still.

It's a fine thing to be loved, but to love....

That is agony.

Galahad

I miss my closest friend in the world sometimes. But not often.

He spends his nights with Lancelot and Tristan, Lancelot or Tristan. But his days are mine yet, and now our days tend to be accompanied by one killer or another.

I have to tease him about his silly goofy smile when he spies the two of them. Occasionally, I even remark upon his riding skills. But isn't that what younger brothers are for?

If only I didn't remember Gawain taking Tristan into his arms, didn't remember the feel of Lancelot's breath moist on my neck as I watched. If only I didn't see it when I closed my eyes, the strength of Gawain's arms gathering Tristan in. If only I... had seen Gawain sooner, truly seen what he was.

Dagonet

I am ... surprised... at what Gawain has done for Lancelot. The hothead is much steadier now. Occasionally, he even thinks before he speaks.

Lancelot is the passion and fury that Arthur guides with Arthur's honorable principles. This living we do for Roman rule would be unbearable if not for the good we do in Arthur's name. Closer than brothers are they... but not as Lancelot is close to Gawain. Lancelot looks at Gawain now and is lost, the way he once was lost looking upon Tristan. An easy thing to love someone like Gawain. A difficult thing to love someone like Arthur. An impossible thing to love some thing like Tristan. Wild things, the only way to keep one is not to.

Arthur yearns for what they have, but he will not come between them. He is too honorable for that. He knows too how much harder it would be to send Lancelot into battle did he let himself love the brat as a man, not as a brother. Arthur is so alone. He is one apart.

Is that good for him? for us?

Perhaps I should speak to him about that.

Arthur

I have always loved these days in spring. The snow melts away and the living things come to life again. Tristan lives again. It isn't obvious. Not the way Lancelot's love for Gawain lights the face of Lancelot and spreads the warmth to the rest of us. Lancelot renewed is high summer, lushly alive and living to the fullest.

Tristan HAS come to life again. The cold in his eyes has faded away and he takes an interest in all of us. I notice the small comments he makes now, the sly teasing that is so subtle the others miss it. Tristan lives like the smallest blade of green grass peeking up through the sodden ground. It uncurls into the sun cautiously.

I am happy for him.

I laugh to see Gawain's face light when Tristan rides in the gate. It roars through him as the wind blows in a storm. Gawain becomes a force of nature, a leashed storm. I wonder what it's like to be on the other end of the unleashing.

I smile when Gawain and Lancelot are together. How can anyone not see the love of Lancelot in Gawain's eyes? He undoes Lancelot with patient care. Gawain reaches out and surrounds Lancelot without ever moving. Lancelot is the island and Gawain the sea that holds it up.

I am happy for him.

Lancelot is Tristan's wolf pelt. He covers Tristan in warmth and melts the cold that has sunk into Tristan's bones. Lancelot is Gawain's dog. He loves Gawain with slavish devotion and a still over-protective hand. He will learn in time I think. Perhaps it is too new yet for him to risk losing Gawain.

He is my steady right hand still and the one to whom I can speak of plans, hopes, and fears. I do not speak to him of love. I have no love of which I can speak.

I try to be happy for him.

Bors

You would think that at last I have nothing to fear from Lancelot's endless skirt-chasing ways.

He should be too busy with Gawain and Tristan to be a problem, but nooo....... When Tristan is off scouting and Gawain off hunting, Lancelot is back to fucking the women. He has only to coo at one with that pretty face and off the women go with him to some little corner.

Vanora lets him paw her, she laughs with him and lets him kiss her sometimes.

Vanora is MINE.

You'd think she knew that by now.

I want to kill the little prick.

If only it wouldn't mean killing Gawain...

And getting killed by Tristan.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Galahad

The morning dawned, well, not dawned, more like lightened from black to pale grey. The fog was thick on the ground that morning and the air was, well, how many words for wet are there?

The Roman sentries at the gates saw the Red Knight first, or maybe it was that they heard him first. The clink of armor, a horse pawing impatiently at the ground, all the sounds that say 'an enemy is out there in the fog'. They sent a runner to Arthur to come to the gate and we all went down there since the breaking of our fast was interrupted.

It had been a boring spring, no Woad activity at all, and all of us were restless from the lack of killing. Getting used to not killing was a bad idea. We'd never survive going back to war.

Standing there at the gate, we watched the horse materialize from the fog. His head tossed with spirit and he sidled around and around in his armour. The Red Knight let him wander in circles as he came into view.
We all knew the story of the raiders from the sea, but there was more to it than Bors and Lancelot would say. The horror that Gawain and I had seen as small boys was unreal to me, but Gawain used to scream nightmares for years afterward of Tristan drowning in blood and it was that fear that I knew like the heft of my shield.

I remembered pouring wine and blood on the graves of knights we'd barely come to know in Roman service: Gaheris, Morwed, Sadrovar, and Edric. They were vague blurs to my mind, but not to Bors who had been bred in the same village. They were ghosts of ghosts, mere names to the tongue, but not to Lancelot. He'd shared bed, bread and hearth with them back when there'd been six of us to a room. Six sets of six, disappearing one by one, lost until there remained only six of us left to our commander. Thirty names weighing down Arthur's soul. Thirty names, most of which I could not recall without the help of the others.

Tristan never spoke of his disappearance at all.

I looked over at Gawain and let the confusion show in my eyes. An enemy knight? Here alone? But he was watching Lancelot with something like fear in his eyes, so I too turned to see what so frightened him; Gawain the even, the placid, the implacable.

Lancelot burned with fury. He trembled with the force of the battle lust upon him.

He was ready to kill.

Bors

It was a gut-wrenching sight. The Red Knight circling just there beyond what was anyone's range for shooting except Tristan's. He circled what seemed an endless time and faded back into the fog.

Good thing, because Lancelot was about to go out there and challenge him on foot.

We called for supplies and went up to the stables for our war steeds. Arming was a matter of moments, stuffing our bags with supplies took but minutes, and we raced out through the gate after the Red Knight. Lancelot and I were in the lead, for only we burned with the need to STOMP the bastard into a red smear among the mud.

Gawain is a good tracker, but not like Tristan.

We lost him.

Arthur

It was nightfall before we returned to the fort, weary in heart and body. Lancelot and Bors were mute the entire day. I feared what that meant. Lancelot shakes with barely contained rage. He burns with the battle lust that usually only comes upon him once the metal starts to fly. Lancelot burns and I fear it will consume him in unholy flames, this wrath he maintains.

We had gathered in the courtyard to drink grimly. Bors and Lancelot's sullen anger and bitter fury infected us all. They hated this Red Knight as they hated no other we fought. It was simple to see it even though they spoke nothing of it.

The others finally left the two of them to brood at the tables. Separate, each in their own space, they hated. I felt helpless in the face of such great emotion. What could I do? Nothing.

Bors lurched to his feet finally. I thought he would go to Vanora for such comfort as he usually seeks before and after battle. We battle a great deal, no wonder there were ample results of such comforting as she provided him. But I was wrong.

Bors went to stand by Lancelot and held out his hand. Lancelot took it and allowed Bors to pull him to his feet. These two, who bicker constantly over Vanora's attentions, clasped each other tight until I thought Bors would kill Lancelot by merely hugging him to death.

There were no words, but tears began to rain down their faces.

How do I heal such pain?

We must find and kill this Red Knight.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lancelot

The NEED TO KNOW battled with the NEED TO KILL THAT BASTARD. When Tristan had returned this last trip out, none had spoken of the mistborne visitor. By some tacit unspoken pact, they had avoided the speaking of the frenetic search for an enemy that didn't seem to exist.

Bors had merely grunted and turned to speaking of his children when Tristan had observed Bors staring out the gate into the fields one fine morning. Lancelot and Gawain had trailed along with Tristan on a hunt. Both of them had started to speak and then - looking at the other - subsided. A mystified Tristan had seduced the obviously grieving Lancelot into something vaguely resembling the wicked demon Lancelot usually was.

It had worked fine until the night that Gawain screamed in the dark of blood, rivers of blood, oceans of blood... endless skies of gouts of blood raining upon him. Struggling in the dark dream against a vision of the past, Gawain's body dripped sweat in their bed. Tristan watched as Lancelot shushed Gawain, "He's gone, Gawain. He's gone. Rest now. He's gone."

Gawain subsided without waking into the encircling care of Lancelot's arms. Cold, flat eyes observed the way Lancelot held Gawain protectively, away from Tristan. Lancelot's eyes flared hot with anger, with rage. Tristan withdrew further. When Tristan drew back so far that no touch of Lancelot's could reach him, Lancelot twined himself around the wide chest of the drowsing bull next to him. Gawain burrowed into Lancelot's long arms, sighed and fell deeply into sleep. Tristan was wide-eyed as Lancelot turned his face away into Gawain's hair and he too closed his eyes.

Neither of them slept, Lancelot wrapped comfortingly around Gawain's golden skin and Tristan crouched over in the corner of the bed - keeping vigil.

Gawain

The morning rituals went awkwardly. Lancelot and Tristan danced around each other, two wolves vying for dominance. Washing up and dressing, Gawain eyed them hesitantly. It WAS his room. Maybe it would be a bad idea to leave. The urgent call of nature insisted that it was a perfectly good idea to leave the room, preferably to find a jakes. Immediately.

Gawain bit his lip nervously. He could not solve every problem between the three of them. He could not even find a way to inveigle Tristan into relieving his pain on Gawain's body. With a last furtive glance at his two lovers Gawain passed out of the room. Some things they were just going to have to work out for themselves.

He smiled. Lancelot was becoming more of a match for Tristan in every way. Gawain wondered how long it would take Tristan to realize Lancelot's new depths. Between the two of them was the only place he wanted to be, safe and loved on both sides, and between the two of them right now was the LAST place he wanted to be.

Lancelot

"He's gone, is he? WHO is gone?" Tristan's low voiced inquiry was hoarse with anger. Lancelot knew that anger. It tended to solidify into ice and result in someone's death. Tristan was freezing in front of him, had been since the night before when he'd moved away from the touch of their skin. 'Freezing to the point of insanity.' Arthur had said that. Apt words.

"Who's hurt Gawain? Who's gone?" Tristan's voice changed. It tremored across the name of the one he would not let himself take. Lancelot burned with wrath that yearned to lash out at Tristan. Inside of him a voice insidiously insisted that Gawain's pain was somehow Tristan's fault. Gawain's nightmare and Gawain's need unfilled, all Tristan's fault. Didn't Tristan love Gawain enough to see how he was hurting him?

Hurting... Tristan's eyes were full of it. Lancelot had never seen so far into Tristan before. Tristan bled inside, cold ice ripping him apart. He froze in front of Lancelot, sanity a thin line, all because of Gawain's nightmare, looking to Lancelot to explain it... fix it. Lancelot couldn't help himself.

He smiled. Wolfish teeth and raised eyebrow, Lancelot grinned.

"You LOVE him."

Wonderment coloured Lancelot's voice soft. The scary sweetness filled his face and Lancelot forgot to hold onto his anger. All the small hollows of his soul awoke in the light of the sudden flood of protectiveness Lancelot felt.

Despite the vicious rape and torture Tristan had endured, Lancelot had never once felt Tristan weak. Tristan could take care of himself. Take care of Arthur. Take care of them. Tristan was strong, deadly, sudden. A lightning strike in motion. Tristan was looked to, adored, needed. Tristan did not NEED.

But he did.

Lancelot sat back down on the bed. He raked his hands through his hair and flopped prone on his back. He whispered something so soft, so breathy that Tristan strained to hear it. Tristan came closer to the bed to hear him speak, only to be entangled in Lancelot's arms.

Lancelot tugged Tristan down inexorably. He was gravity itself. Tristan held himself back as long as he could without hurting Lancelot to be free. When it became obvious that Lancelot was NOT going to let him loose, Tristan surrendered to Lancelot's whim and lay loosely alongside Lancelot's lanky form.

The shards of ice in Tristan's eyes melted inside the circle of Lancelot's touch. Long slender fingers stroked through Tristan's clothes in circles of tender shielding until Tristan rested against him loose and nearly drowsing. Lancelot found in himself the NEED TO HEAL. At this moment Lancelot loved Tristan with his entire being and still loved Gawain no less.

"Tristan." Lancelot nuzzled at Tristan's hair, marveling that the archer fit so neatly against him. "Sometimes you make me insane."

"Me,?!" Tristan chuckled at that incongruity. "You and Gawain have been making me mad since..."

Tristan's voice trailed off and a small wry twist of the lips that was Tristan's pleasant smile (the other fully toothy smile was only gifted to those about to die) was the only movement he made. It was the best moment of Lancelot's life. Tristan admitting NEED.

"Much as I would like to lie here forever, Tristan, I need food. Gawain quite wore me out with all his caterwauling."

"Yessss..." Tristan swung off the bed and put one hand down to help Lancelot up. When they were eye to eye, Tristan's eyes were flat. "You WILL explain that later, will you not?"

Lancelot leaned his head against Tristan's, a pup seeking comfort from the nearness of an adult.

"Yes."

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Galahad

Word of the traders came to the stable where we sat tending our equipment. Tristan was being picky over the edge of my shield. It seemed a hundred times I'd cleaned it and sharpened the edge, only to have Tristan pick it up, grunt and hand it back to me. Not a single word and you knew that it wasn't good enough. He'd been pointed enough in his remarks before that I knew the grunt meant "if you're going to make the shield a weapon, make it a good one".

As much as I wanted to rush off with the others to see what goods they'd brought, I sat back down and went back to work. Tristan sat with one of his daggers putting a finer edge on it than any of the rest of us would, but then the rest of us didn't sneak right into the heart of Woad territory to find out news and plans. If you use your dagger to slit throats in the middle of your enemies, I guess you'd want it to have the sharpest edge possible.

"Come, boy, or do you want Gawain and Lancelot to have bought every pretty thing the traders have?"

Gratefully, I put my shield away and wondered that Tristan chose to wait for me when Gawain and Lancelot had gone ahead. It wasn't often that he walked with me as he tended to treat me as Gawain's younger, very annoying brother. So it was I who saw the look on his face as we came upon the traders. A shadow dropped over it as Tristan watched some woman bespell both Lancelot and Gawain with a fine wool cloak. Although both of them seemed to admire MUCH MUCH more than the cloak. It was always this way with us. Any new woman brought out the need to compete. Or it always had been, before last summer...

The moment of... dare I call it jealousy?... seemed to spur Tristan to some action. Before, before the night last summer when Lancelot and Gawain had hunted him to ground, Tristan would have turned to some other trader and quietly made off with the nicest goods at the lowest prices leaving the rest of us to gnash our teeth in frustration. Not today.

I watched open-mouthed as Tristan tidily cut out both Lancelot and Gawain. Everyone watched in stunned bemusement as Tristan completely monopolized the woman's trade and time. It seemed a dour wolf amused her, because her endless chatter about the goods faded and her laugh seemed to take over the very air about her. An enchanting laugh it was and her tired eyes filled with a light of appreciation as Tristan went about wooing her compliance. Soon she was fluttering and breathing deeply every time he brushed against her. It surprised no one when Tristan made some comment about possibly trading some of his goods for hers and spirited her away to his rooms.

As Lancelot and Gawain stood by helplessly as Tristan whisked her away, I laughed at them to see the tables so turned. The woman seemed infinitely more interesting as she trailed after Tristan, her short legs unable to keep pace with him so that he had to turn to face her and wait for her to catch up. I noted that they still seemed to be talking and wandered after them in curiosity. They didn't go to Tristan's rooms.

Instead they went to the stables and ducked inside where Tristan stood speaking urgently to the woman and she answered him in kind. Finally, whatever she said lit his face with an unholy glee and he SMILED at her and LAUGHED. Tristan seemed free in spirit as he took her into his arms and hugged her. I didn't see any sign of lust in him, but just then he caught sight of me and bent his head to hers kissing her thoroughly.

I'd never actually seen him kiss someone before other than Gawain and the thought fluttered through my head disturbing me greatly. Tristan's hands wound into her long black braids and I had the yet more disturbing thought of Tristan's hands, long-fingered and firm, on Gawain's skin. It irked me. There were things I didn't want to remember.

Defiantly I strode into the stable and picked up my shield again to clean it some more. Tristan left with the woman in his wake. He seemed full of some great purpose and I wondered at it.

Dagonet

It was certainly good entertainment watching the startled amazement of the young hothead and his beloved Gawain as Tristan walked off with the woman they'd been playing with. Good for them to experience a little change in their views. Not good for Arthur who seems torn about whether to go to Lancelot and speak to him or not.

I'm no lover myself, but if Tristan has chosen to teach his two companions a lesson, then it probably should be left so. I wandered casually past Bors who was buying a bit of cloth for Vanora (when would he admit to being thoroughly caught and marry the woman?) and dropped my hand on Arthur's shoulder. He started, perhaps guiltily, although when is Arthur not guilty of something, at least in his own mind? He should have taken Lancelot to his bed years ago, but that moment has been lost since last summer.

"Arthur, come. The head chief has a fine bottle or two he keeps aside for those of rank. He will not sell to me, but you... you have the rank to impress him. I want a good bottle or two to drink besides the general slop they'll trade to the master of quarters which we'll then have to pry out of him with generosity unwarranted."

"Dagonet. Yes, of course."

Arthur turned to walk beside me and I bethought the kindness of the gods that at least there was one man who could match stride for stride with me. The Romans in the legion often called me a giant in no kind phrasing, but Arthur was no less of one.

After we purchased the bottles, it seemed important that we try the quality of one. I persuaded Arthur that examining the attributes of the wine was most important and we wandered off to my quarters for mugs. It was rare that Arthur would let himself be only Arthur and not 'Arthur, Commander of the Knights'. If he guessed my intent to make him speak of things lost, he gave no sign of it. Arthur seemed focused on the here, now... mainly the wine.

I found myself centered on Arthur.

Edging that besotted look out of his eyes had become a personal priority. A need if you will. I wanted him to look at some other in the way he looked at Lancelot. I wanted Arthur to look...
at me.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lancelot

Trailing along after an unhappy Gawain was disheartening. The usual calm contentment that Gawain radiated was missing and the same as an absent sun, you noticed the effect more that the actual event.

"Tristan hasn't had a woman in years." Gawain's mystified voice echoed inside the hall between their rooms.

"That may not be true, Gawain. He is often far from here. Perhaps he keeps a woman in another village. Perhaps he pays whores in other places than this fort where we must share with every disgusting Roman for miles."

"He spent the entire afternoon with her. They were gone for hours." A faint whine crept into Gawain's voice. Lancelot heard the result of too many years in Galahad's close company. He reached out a hand and pulled Gawain to a stop before the door to Gawain's room. Somehow it had mysteriously evolved into 'Our Room'.

Lancelot tugged the unhappy boy into his embrace and settled his head on Gawain's braids. Inhaling deeply, he breathed the scent of green earth and the almost heady scent of sandalwood that Gawain obtained from traders at great expense to tuck among his clothes. For a moment Lancelot could forget Tristan. Breathing Gawain settled his world into order. Tristan's odd betrayal became as nothing. Never mind that Gawain, or himself, had intended the same thing. Tristan never had before.

Sometimes he forgot how young Gawain was. Only a year or two older than the baby Galahad. Lancelot chuckled to himself. He'd recently had more than enough proof that Galahad was no 'boy'. It was time to stop thinking of Galahad in those terms. Galahad was a determined enough killer when it came time for all that he hated himself for it. He was the most popular with the women as well. He admitted that he'd never inspired the devotion in a woman that Galahad seemed to without even intending to.

With Gawain tucked under his arm, Lancelot pushed the door open. Tristan sat cross-legged on the bed flipping a dagger impatiently.

"Thought you two would never get here. Been waiting for hours."

Arthur

I remember when Lancelot and I first met. He was a terror. The Roman commanders hated him for the bitter way he spoke the truth. 'We're better killers than you are. Let us do what you enslave us to do.' They hated him for ruthlessly mocking them when they planned foolish tactics. They hated him for ignoring their orders in battle and just doing what he liked anyway. Especially when the other Sarmatians fell in behind him, following as they did for no Roman.

I wanted him. Wanted that fire and intensity in my command. Knew that together we could do great things. I knew that he should have had a command of his own. It has always been there in the back of my head. I could never get for him the honour that he was due.

How I wanted him. I turned down the chance to lead Roman calvary, the offer to command a fort in the South where the Alan kept guard against the Northmen where it was relatively warm and a hell of a lot safer. I wanted to lead the Sarmatian knights. It was my dream.

It is my personal hell that now I realize perhaps I wanted more, could have had more. Taking another drink of wine from Dagonet's hand, I try to kill the regret that my chance had passed.

Dagonet

Arthur is drunk. The kind of drunk who doesn't realize how off his reactions are. When he reaches for the mug I have to take his hand and wrap it around the pottery. One slid from his hand a while ago and I was not quick enough. It shattered on the floor. Arthur never noticed. I filled another of the brown fired mugs and passed it over quietly.

He is lost in memory and speaks of those times when he first became our commander. It took us a long time to trust him. No Roman commander before had ever cared what became of our lives. He cared about us and I have taken great care to be what he believes we can be. It is better than I would have been without him.

Arthur speaks of Lancelot with pride. He has always been most delighted that Lancelot chose to serve him, and then chose to be more - a friend. Lancelot hears Arthur's dreams, Arthur's fears and Arthur's guilts. He alone seems to be able to point Arthur back to what MUST be done and shake off the darkness that seems to grip Arthur sometimes. For that alone, I would forgive Lancelot for never seeing that Arthur could have been more to him.

Arthur has drunk enough that his sorrows have filled him. When he starts weeping, I gather him into my arms and pat him roughly on the back. I have no grace in this. I cannot charm Arthur out of his unhappiness. I cannot tease him out of it with silliness nor distract him with some other thought. So I hold him as I would hold any brother knight and wish it could be... otherwise.

My commander turns to me after the gale of pent up sorrows for what might have been has spent itself out. I do not know what he would have said but I stopped him. I worshiped this man, believed in him that he could make the world better, us better. I would lay my life at his feet to achieve what he asked. I loved him and if he needed someone who would hear of his love of Lancelot, it could not be me.

Gawain

Tristan slid off the bed and over to the table. There were some things bundled there. He shook out a black cloak and handed it over to Lancelot.

"Wanted to give you this. Lancelot. Asked for it before the winter when I was on the coast delivering Arthur's supply list."

Tristan wrapped the cloak around Lancelot's shoulders. "The finest wool. To keep you dry. You're always complaining about the cold." Tristan snorted. "I'm tired of it. Wear this and shut up."

Tristan turned to Gawain and handed him the bundle. "Here."

Ducking away, Tristan went back to the bed while Gawain's shaking fingers opened the oiled leather wrapping. Lancelot grew impatient with Gawain's fumbling and wrenched it out of Gawain's hands. He sliced open the bundle and dumped the contents onto the table.

Gawain lifted up a green tunic that felt soft, as the downy fur on the underside of a rabbit in his hands and caught his breath. Tristan had bought, probably parted with his one precious treasures for him. Had done so for Lancelot. Who was playing with a long length of dark blue cloth. It slithered like a snake in Lancelot's hands. Lancelot handed it to Gawain who ran the tips of his fingers over it. It was cool to the touch.

"Tristan, what is this?"

"Plain samite."

They both gasped and touched the cloth more reverently. Samite was the property of kings, spoken of by traders in hushed whispers so that none would know they carried it. It came from a place so far that the knights could not even imagine it.

"What are we supposed to do with it?"

Tristan smiled. Only this time it wasn't the small twitch he usually gave when he was amused. It wasn't the toothy almost evil smile he gave his enemies when they were about to die. It was a grin, almost boyish, innocently gleeful. Gawain thought he'd never see Tristan so full of joy. He'd certainly never seen him smile like THAT.

"There's five pieces in there. I'm sure we can do SOMETHING with them." Tristan turned the smile just beyond Gawain's shoulder. "To Lancelot."

Tristan's face filled with lust, and he tilted his gaze back to Gawain, inviting him to share. It took but seconds for Gawain to understand and his face echoed Tristan's suddenly. Turning to Lancelot, he viewed the complete non-comprehension there and a laugh rolled up out of him with gusto. It seemed a shame to treat such valuable material so, but then Lancelot was one of Tristan's treasures as well.

Gawain just wished that he knew he was as well.

Arthur

Arthur woke and could not figure out where he was. He swung his feet off the bed, nearly landing on the sleeping mountain that was Dagonet. Ah... he was in Dagonet's room still. Arthur heaved himself off the bed. With care he walked over the sleeping guard to the pitcher of water that Dagonet kept on his table. Splashing a little in his hand, Arthur wiped his face off then swigged a little to rinse out the mouse that had crawled into his mouth and died. With the wet came a feeling of relief so intense that it was pleasurable.

He itched terribly and though Arthur didn't wish to use all the water Dagonet had brought to his room for his own morning wash, he needed to get rid of some of the sweat on him. Arthur yanked off his tunic. The cool air spread across his chest. It was still spring and spring was still cold at night. Taking a small handful of water he splashed the back of his neck. Setting the pitcher down quietly and turning away, Arthur came face to face with Dagonet.

"Here." Dagonet took up the pitcher and drenching it, proferred a cloth. "Wash properly. I will get more for myself."
Arthur reached to take the dampened piece, but stilled when he met Dagonet's eyes. Eyes that looked on him... the same way Gawain and Lancelot looked at each other, at Tristan. The knowledge hit him in the gut. He stood perfectly immobile watching Dagonet watch him and wondered how he'd been so blind all his life. Loneliness ate at him and Arthur wondered if he had the courage to...

Bors

Lancelot had limped to the table this morn. He'd sat down carefully and winced as he wobbled about trying to find a spot that was comfortable. Gawain passed by and squeezed Lancelot's shoulder gently. Never would have thought that Gawain would be the one to...

Hmph. Dagonet followed Arthur into the room. Glad to see him, I bellowed out a welcome. He had to pass by the place Arthur chose to sit this morning. Wriggling about in his place too, Arthur was, like he'd fallen off a horse yesterday and ached all over. As Dagonet passed Arthur, they looked at each other. It was that stupid smirk that Lancelot trades with Gawain all the time when they look at Tristan. By the blood of my horse, am I the only one left who still beds women?

Galahad entered. I humphed. At least the boy... I watched suspiciously as he accidentally locked eyes with Lancelot. They both coloured and looked hastily away. What was THAT about? I AM the only one left, by all my gods.

Tristan had taken his seat before I noticed him. Lancelot was watching him with that thumped between the eyes look he gets. Gawain glowed beside him . Like the sun.

I was never so glad as to see one of my children as when one came to the door, no matter that he wasn't supposed to be in the fort. Least until he opened his mouth.

"Da, he's come back."

Arthur

They all froze in their places except Tristan. Lancelot and Gawain were statues looking intently down at the table, they hadn't told him yet then. Tristan looked at Lancelot with ice in his eyes but said nothing. He looked to me and I could only rise to my feet.

"Where?"

"Gilly saw him in the trees beyond the fields."

I gulped the wine out of my goblet, set it down and left, knowing the other knights would trail behind obediently. It's a long way from the Round Table through the rest of the fort to the gate. A long way.

We walked up the stairs to the top of the gate and watched off the top of the wall. No one had said anything. Tristan waited patiently to the side, his hawk having long since joined him. We waited in silence because no one knew what to say.

The Red Knight appeared among the edge of the trees. A far figure that only a few of us could see clearly. I knew Tristan saw him. He saw everything.

I turned to order Lancelot to take out a troop to search. The words left my mouth when Tristan spoke, "Don't bother. They'll be gone before you get there."

Tristan shook, his hand clenched on the hilt of a dagger. It looked as if he would spring into the very air itself and rush after the Knight in the forest.

"What should we do then?" Tristan's advice was always valuable, real... his word something you could hold in your hand because it was that solid.

"Wait."

Tristan grabbed Gawain by the shoulder. "It'll be all right, boy. Nothing to fear." With no other words to explain, Tristan turned away and flowed down the stairs. At the bottom he turned back to view us.

"Come on then. I want one of those apples Jols had for us."