Psyche // Wilhelmina Corte-Real (psykhe) wrote in forgotten_past, @ 2010-11-15 07:24:00 |
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Entry tags: | galahad, percival |
Who: Percival [percival] & Galahad [psykhe] (Mentions of Bors; completed log)
What: The past is a complicated tangle made of memory strands.
When: Grail quest- from beginning to end.
Where: Camelot- Sarras
Warnings: Grail obsessing, death, some angst. Pre-prat Galahad. Possibly confusing time line.
The atmosphere is thick and heavy with anticipation in the antechamber. Percival can barely find the strength to blink, because they are finally here, they had found it, and in a moment he could blink it away. This has to be savored. This is a cherished moment, and nothing, nothing can ruin this glorious day.
He settles his eyes upon Galahad, idly wondering what the younger man is thinking as he can barely formulate thoughts of his own. To his left, Bors claps a rough hand on his upper back, and he forces a smile, for words are failing him completely.
It was the strangest thing, like a waking dream, the heavily decorated chamber was nothing compared to what rested in the room in front of him. Everything up to this point seemed worth it, his stare was hungry, eager- finally, finally. It was a defining moment for this knight, like his birth and his knighting, his arrival to Camelot and his departure.
King Pelles and his son moved closer and they are speaking, instructions- the Grail must be taken away from here to Sarras, but Galahad doesn't pick up the words because he just wants to see what he came for. The old king takes Galahad by the hand, leading him forward and for a moment he simply is petrified, elated and- he stops.
He stops because Galahad does not want to rush into the moment, it needs to be savored and taken in. Looking back at Bors and Percival for the first time he simply just smiles- oh he has smiled genuinely before, but this is something else- something that is just purely Galahad, nothing of destiny or knighthood touching it. And then he has left his companions behind into the next room.
Everything grows quiet, Galahad stops breathing for a moment.
The moment is perfect and he grasps it, tastes it, and wants to hold it, but Galahad can't.
Outside, Percival releases a breath he hasn't realized he's been holding in, and it takes all willpower not to drop to his knees in shock. They've done it.
And he watches Galahad's back intently, accepting that of all the people he's met in this world, none are more deserving of this final achievement than the knight before his eyes.
Galahad knelt before the cup automatically, averting his eyes for a moment before daring (oh and how could he not? Just this once, just another glance) to look up. He dared- yes, yes he did- and touched it and it did not vanish at the touch but buzzed with energy.
It was abrupt, as if a light went out as if poison took hold- Galahad should have never touched that Grail.
The knight closed his eyes, back at Camelot- the town, the gates, the castle.
It was Pentecost and sitting up on his horse he followed his father into Camelot, there were whispers and stares. Inwardly Galahad flushed, discomfort at this vibrant new world outside the monastery. Though he is overwhelmed then it does not show on his face, he remains composed and polite.
People whisper that he is unmistakably Lancelot's son.
An old knight guides him to the Siege Perilous, the king guides him to the sword. "Never shall man take me hence but only he by whose side I ought to hang; and he shall be the best knight of the world.” And without effort Galahad takes that sword, he falls into the role fate set out for him.
A knight of the round table, he feels out of sorts when sitting on that chair and feeling eyes on him. He doesn't know most of the knights, and conversations are usually brief and to the point. Already everyone talks of his piety, and how he is not like his father. Galahad doesn't like this.
To his side, a knight with unruly hair and a young face leans in, apparently fearless and uncaring of the whispers circling the table. "Do not feel as uncomfortable as you look," he murmurs so that only Galahad can hear his words of advice. "You are among friends here, no matter what is said."
And he smiles, remembering his first day sitting amongst these men he can now call his brothers in arms.
Galahad jerks, boyish and young still- to risk a look to the older knight sitting by him. He clears his throat, giving himself a moment before replying and then speaks up. "I am not uncomfortable, I am sorry to give that impression." It's not the chair nor the sword, it's the people around him that makes this an odd experience. The chair, sword, shield and knighthood- they were all part of him and the pieces were a perfect fit.
Social norms declared that an introduction was in order, "Sir Galahad," Though he suspects the other knows perfectly well of him, "I do not believe we have met."
The widened smile in return tells all. "No, but it was only a matter of time before we would. I am Sir Percival. It is an honor to sit at this table with you, friend."
This man has an infectious personality, a presence that Galahad cannot shake off easily. "The honor is mine." He repeats automatically and withdraws his eyes to look at the wine cup before him. Normally this would be the end of the conversation, nothing more that needed to be said after all. Not for Galahad, still he lifts his glance once more to meet Percival's gaze.
Galahad's lips twitch in a small, polite smile. It says everything without words.
Words are hardly a requirement between them, not even through the years, when physicality becomes just as normal as speech. It is never with cruelty or aim to injure, but a playfulness that is almost always initiated by Percival.
With the sun high in the sky, filtering through the treetops and sprinkling the leafy ground with warm light, the two find themselves with arms around the other in a wrestle, each one trying to gain the upper hand. Percival happens to be taller, but Galahad is slighter, and therefore more agile, which makes the outcome all the more ambiguous.
Propped up against a tree, their third musketeer busies himself with some fruit, grinning once in a while at their childish antics.
The only contact Galahad has always been familiar with- that of combat, it is only too normal for him to throw his arms around Percival during the wrestling match. He seeks to squirm out of the others grip, squirm and twist and bend with the intended aim to bring him down.
This contest is not about winning- it's a game, but Galahad is not focused on the outcome (for a change) but in the moment and the simple pleasure of the company. Grail seeking had not been forgotten, not put aside, but this simple exercise was good practice (and not just a game, therefore acceptable).
When there is an opening, Galahad throws all his weight at Percival trying to knock the other to the ground beneath him.
But in a flash, the older knight ducks low and checks his fellow combatant in the stomach with his shoulder, in a move that almost resembles a wrestler's as he heaves both of them toward the ground. He takes care not to whack the other with flying limbs, and in one moment of vulnerability, Percival swings a leg over Galahad's hips. Both hands shoot out and a moment is taken to curl his fingers round those skinny wrists and pin them, along with the rest of him, to the forest floor.
After the struggle, he's left panting, hair hanging into his eyes as he grins down at his friend in triumph.
"Surely you can do-- better-- than that, Galahad?"
There are attempts at squirming while he is being pinned down, but none too successful (not that much effort either- because Galahad is enjoying this, and how things are turning out.) Still, the words come as a surprise and breathing in hard as he tries to catch enough air, but he doesn't care that he's lost this match.
"I can." The simply reply, but there is something challenging in the tone, the eyes. Again, words are not required for much of this conversation, Galahad is content and it should be obvious to his friend that this is a childish, playful and innocent moment between them.
"This is where I would do this." Galahad lifts himself slightly enough to bump their foreheads together- but the blow is gentle- more like a nudge, "And then proceed to take the upper hand again." He does not try it, choosing to drop his head back onto the grass.
The smirk in return is instantaneous, as is the shake of a head. "You cannot hope to best me if you inform me of your movements," Percival chides, nevertheless loosening his hold on the younger knight's wrists. "Where is the strategy in that?"
There is a little reluctance in the others tone, "I don't really want to hit you like that, because then it would have to hurt." Trust Galahad to be matter-of-fact about this, he almost expect Bors to come break up their little match any moment, but it seems he is the most amused of the three.
With a hearty laugh, Percival releases the man beneath him, leaning back to perch lightly upon his lean hips. "There are more painful ways to do me harm, and I assure you this is not one of them. You can rest easy in knowing that you could not harm me, Galahad, even if you tried."
He takes a moment to appreciate the gravity of the situation, and the fact that their friendship has come a very long way from their early days at Camelot. For there are few things that Percival appreciates in his life with all his heart, and of these few things is this irreplaceable companionship.
A friendship that had come a long way from the start. The day they left Camelot was perfect, Galahad recalls the sunlight, sky and breeze brushing his hair. Never as long or unkempt as Percival's, but enough to tickle his eyes causing him to lift a hand to push it away.
He is dressed in a white tunic, simple as possible, plain shield with a red cross. His true shield, sword and belt would come to him (God had said so, Galahad would wait). There is a soundless joy about him, excitement and life- he communicates all that with a simple look aimed at the Percival. They're not the only knights on this quest, but Galahad feels (knows, has been told) that this is his quest.
And in a way this is also Percival's quest. Theirs. For the first time since he arrived in Camelot, the knowledge that he is fulfilling his purpose- finally- makes Galahad feel as if he belongs.
Right in this moment, Galahad fits in perfectly.
Like a child awaiting a great battle, Percival misses the look given to him and twirls his spear in one hand like a baton, despite its length, with deft fingers. He's easy to read: the quest has him impatient, ready to head off at any moment, and if it wasn't for the other two, he would be rushing off on his own. Thankfully, he isn't about to begin this journey on his own, and in his excitement, he very nearly catches Bors in the nose with the blunt end of his weapon.
In his mind, the young knight envisions the Grail, seeing it as a definite goal they must reach no matter the cost. An order from Arthur is as good as an order from God Himself, and he grins stupidly, even when Bors takes an angry swipe at him.
There is a mixture of wanting to tell Percival off or just laugh along with him when Bors takes that swipe. Galahad chooses neither, shaking his head and sighing (though yes, there is a little smile at the edges of his lips). They are young and full of life (laughs in Percival's case) and there is that tempting urge to smack his friend on the back of his head.
Moments in life like this are rare, he taps Percival on the shoulder to call his attention. Galahad is still too excited for words, but he moves to mount his horse, easily swinging one leg over and taking the reigns. Prim and proper, white seems to suit this knight all too well. Both for its plainness (lifeless) and for what it symbolized (purity).
Then he calls to his companions, "Sirs, shall we get started?" And for once he actually smiles- it is small, but there, not a product of anything- just a genuine and impulsive (human, human, human) gesture.
It doesn't take much to get the other two up on their own steeds, both of which are much darker in color -- but no less beautiful -- and packed with traveling gear and weapons. Unable to help himself, a grinning Percival directs his horse forward, moving past Mr. Perfect as he speaks.
"I thought you would never ask." And then he is trotting off, his impatience clear.
Percival is like a child sometimes, Galahad thought he would benefit from some good-old-monastic discipline. Then again, Percival was who he was and that suited the Grail knight just fine. Even if his words made Galahad gape. (His friend made Galahad's jaw drop often.) Stunned, but then amused Galahad nudges his steed a little to catch up with Percival. It could well have been a trick but it sounded like he laughed.
There is no laughter at the end of this road, just a heavy crown and an ill suited throne- to guard something Galahad can no longer touch but wants. He should have never touched that cup, it curled around him like a slow-moving poison.
This poison seems to course through Percival's veins as well, but it is a hateful poison that makes his blood boil and his heart pound painfully. He accepts that destiny plays its role, and that God has his will so he should understand Galahad's decision, but he can't. He won't.
Wetness pricks at the corner of his eyes, and he doesn't succumb to tears, but he wishes he could unleash some of his agony on something. Later, he'll angrily smash a vase, and storm out of the castle. Bors won't follow him. And neither will Galahad.
Percival doesn't want to watch, doesn't want to be within a mile, but he stays, quiet. Conflicted.
It had started as of late, Galahad staring off into the air as if he could hear something no one else could, as if life was no longer enough (it was not, you touch something holy and it changes you forever. If you keep staring at it, slowly but surely it will consume you.) He has never been a part of this world, but now it stands out so much more that he is no longer capable of existing- living- breathing in this world.
The smiles stopped months ago, and he had suggested to Percival- released him, told him it was fine to leave this place. (Though Galahad was not okay with being alone after years of companionship from that knight- regardless, he did it selflessly.)
It is a poison that makes him pale, thin- fading from existence, yet Galahad is perfectly at peace with this. At moments there is the sadness, but then everything is still again.
And when he sleeps Galahad leaves another piece of himself in that other place where the Grail waits.
A cold wind is what stirs Percival from his own slumber, and when his lashes flutter open, it is almost dark. It is not the castle he finds himself in, but in a small clearing amongst a collection of trees. There's enough light to glimpse a shivering Galahad next to him on the forest floor, with Bors some few feet away, fast sleep. The horses make quiet snuffling amongst themselves from their places tied two trees away.
He groans, disliking the irritating kink in his upper back, before shuffling closer to the younger knight, seeking the proximity for heat's sake.
Galahad is not someone who stays still in his sleep, it seems like all the carefully controlled movements when he is awake are gone in this state. Limbs shift and he makes faces in his sleep- frowns, scowls but also smiles. (Mostly scowls though.) As if sensing an invader of his personal space - but a familiar one- Galahad shifts allowing the other to draw closer.
He yawns, one eye opening- unsure if he were asleep or dreaming- but he draws Percival to offer some warmth, arm around the others waist.
The movement is strange, though not unwelcome, and not at all mindful of what Bors will probably say in the morning, Percival slips his own arm around the other, palm smoothing between shoulder blades and resting there. Together they rest, loosely intertwined as a reminder of bonds that may break but never diminish completely.
This particular memory escapes him until the very last moment as he lies in bed many years later, a bed that feels foreign and cold and has him shifting in discomfort as he awaits the end. Shadows paint the back of his mind, and he knows: now, it is his time to leave. Over a year gone from the time they first discovered the Grail, and Percival wonders if it really has been so long.
Over his last days, he refuses food and drink. They acknowledge he is near, and leave him to his solitude. Bors is the last face he glimpses before his eyes drift shut, and he recalls the happy times along with the bad. He remembers his family. He remembers leaving home to become a knight, and serving under his king with pride. He remembers the journey, the before and after. He remembers Galahad.
When Percival is taken in his sleep that very night, the last remaining musketeer ensures him a proper burial. The grave is not fancy by any means, but it serves its purpose. And when Bors leaves him next to their parted companion's grave, their crosses nearly identical, he knows that wherever the man is, he is once again reunited with his family and fallen comrades.
Death is not the end.
It is only the beginning.