if no fate is shared, why am i here?
“No fate is shared.” He heard the voice, but could not bring himself to agree with it. What did that magician know anyway? Their fate had been dictated before their fathers and their father’s fathers.
He never thought that freedom would taste so bitter. Lancelot was dead, laying there with an arrow through his chest and Tristan had met much the same fate. And there was Arthur and his Woad girl mourning over their loss. What right did she have to cry? He was their brother, not hers.
Those thoughts bubbled beneath the surface, but never made it to his lips. He knew they were irrational and some part of him was keenly aware that he was only thinking them in self-pity, something he was not given to under normal circumstances. These were not normal circumstances.
Gawain swallowed over a dry throat and put a hand on Galahad’s shoulder. It would do him good to focus on someone else for awhile and it seemed that Galahad always needed someone to keep his emotions in check when he couldn’t do it on his own.
He heard the cry of Tristan’s girl overhead and when he looked up to see her, he was instead greeted by the pounding summer sun. He shielded his eyes and took in his surroundings. His brows knit in a frown. This was heat he had never known before, a forest with trees he had never before seen with animals with cries that had never caught his ears. He shifted his grip on his sword and looked around, keenly aware of any movement around him. Instinct told him to call out for Galahad, but he did not.
Gawain’s face was streaked with blood, sweat, and soil. Some of it was his own, some of it was Saxon. All of it was fresh.
[ooc: Gawain is in the forest near the compound. Open to anyone. Approach with caution.]
He never thought that freedom would taste so bitter. Lancelot was dead, laying there with an arrow through his chest and Tristan had met much the same fate. And there was Arthur and his Woad girl mourning over their loss. What right did she have to cry? He was their brother, not hers.
Those thoughts bubbled beneath the surface, but never made it to his lips. He knew they were irrational and some part of him was keenly aware that he was only thinking them in self-pity, something he was not given to under normal circumstances. These were not normal circumstances.
Gawain swallowed over a dry throat and put a hand on Galahad’s shoulder. It would do him good to focus on someone else for awhile and it seemed that Galahad always needed someone to keep his emotions in check when he couldn’t do it on his own.
He heard the cry of Tristan’s girl overhead and when he looked up to see her, he was instead greeted by the pounding summer sun. He shielded his eyes and took in his surroundings. His brows knit in a frown. This was heat he had never known before, a forest with trees he had never before seen with animals with cries that had never caught his ears. He shifted his grip on his sword and looked around, keenly aware of any movement around him. Instinct told him to call out for Galahad, but he did not.
Gawain’s face was streaked with blood, sweat, and soil. Some of it was his own, some of it was Saxon. All of it was fresh.
[ooc: Gawain is in the forest near the compound. Open to anyone. Approach with caution.]