Galahad is half-heartedly going through the motions of sword practice out by the lake when he sees a fair-haired woman leading a horse not far off. After a moment of indecision he half-jogs over, sword still in hand.

"Excuse me. Miss. Are you Susan?"

It's exactly as it was - exactly - and that was only months ago but in many ways it's been centuries, and that's what it feels like. Galahad fastens the clasp slowly, not in any state of mind to notice that it's been fixed.

The last time?

The smell of blood and the screams of horses, somewhere, and some poor man come to tell him that his prince ( Read more... )

Galahad is almost asleep. His French edition of Les Miserables is beginning to slip from his grasp, and he's read the page at least three times. He blinks a few times and begins again, eyes half-lidded and stubbornly bright.

Galahad pauses outside the door to their room, unsure of whether he should go in or seek alternate accommodation for the evening. This is hardly a new experience; he wouldn't care to count the times he has walked through the cold halls of the palace to Mordred's room, face or arms or torso still aching from whatever frustration or insecurity the ( Read more... )