Rating: PG (subject to change)
Characters: The King Arthur team.
Pairings: Arthur/Guinevere, Galahad/OFC
Disclaimer: I don't own King Arthur or Galahad, which is a good thing because he wouldn't get much fighting done tied to my bedpost.
Author's Note: I recommend you watch King Arthur before reading this, because the movie is hella good and my fic is my own take of parts of it.

Don't hate me like the people on LJ who want Gawain/Galahadness.


The Shadow's Promise

The woman was barely moving, her mass of raven hair covering her pallid face. Her limbs battered and bruises plagued her skin. Her arms were limp, raised over her head, cuffed in metal shackles. The friction against her skin had etched metallic patterns in, leaving her wrists smeared with dried blood where the bonds had cut. Her breath came slowly and every third breath or so echoed as a wheeze.

Arthur was furious. How man could harm woman he could not grasp, but two women? One broken, the other preparation for a supposed 'Christian' deliverance, a washing away of sins. His gaze fell to Guinevere.

Excalibur's song echoed and fell in an agile, majestic stroke. The shackles were broken as the woman whimpered at the emancipation. Her cloth was poor, a soiled gown. But on better sight of her features, Arthur's fury raged. The woman's cascading tresses parted and her bright hazel eyes opened slightly, lethargically. She was a Samartian woman. Arthur could sense it, down to his very bones.

"A Samartian!" he cried, anger lucid as he brandished Excalibur. "And no doubt...like these villagers, an innocent! You there! What was this woman's crime?"
A shy villager spoke, hunger evident in his eyes.
"She wanted a little more firewood! That's all! Her father's dying!"

Arthur turned his wrath on Marius' guards, who watched him suspiciously.
"This is not the work of God, and God's people do not allow this savagery. Gawain, Galahad! Help the woman, and find her father,"

The knights dismounted their stallions, cringer at the woman's wounds, wandering how one so battered could survive. The company helped prepare for the return to Hadrian's wall, unperturbed by the snow, until the faint drums of the Saxons could be heard, foreboding death.

"We must hurry," Tristan informed Arthur. A nod of agreement had Gawain help the villagers, leaving Galahad to tend to the woman.

Dazed, her hazel eyes studied the Samartian knight who brushed the hair from her face and carefully took her into his embrace, an attempt to aid her.

The woman was Samartian by birth; her ebony locks a melancholy reminder of the land so far away. Her name was Ardra, and she was named for her mother.

:heartbeat: Pat

*******

Ardra stirred the next evening, still covered by her soiled gown, though a heavy cloak had been placed over her shivering body as a covering. She noticed a clean gown by her feet, much grander than any she had ever laid eyes on, let alone worn. She guessed it belonged to Alecto’s mother, a gown that fine could not belong to any other. The woman entered the stationed caravan at that moment, humbly helping Ardra to bathe, helping to wash away the dirt, the blood, the embedded sins and the pain.

“How is my father?” Ardra asked hoarsely. It had been so long since she had spoken. Fulcinia was silent for a moment.
“He passed on before we reached Hadrian’s Wall,”

A sharp pang of emotion took hold of Ardra’s heart, as she clutched it desperately, wistful guilt plaguing her. “This was my doing,” she admitted, ashamedly. Fulcinia‘s eyebrows furrowed, a distinct refusal to believe her.
“No, he was aged…ill,” Fulcinia spoke, empathy in her words.

“He is dead…” Ardra frowned, years of pushing back tears, left her incapable of shedding them now. The only family she had left was gone from the world. His life, the flickering candle in the zephyr, fighting to stay alight, till the world became a tempest.

The Samartian female sat in contemplation as Fulcinia helped her dress and tended to her wounds. A particularly stubborn cloth, uncooperative, whilst being tied onto the young woman’s wrist.
“It is useless, leave it, please,” Ardra said after a moment, taking the cloth with a small smile of thanks. The wearied woman nodded softly, taking her leave after bestowing a comforting pat on the young one’s shoulder.

It was a pitiful fact that in this age, the young were burdened by adult responsibilities, dealt blows in their early years, forced to carry heavy burdens and grow before their time. Ardra had barely seen thirteen summers when her father fell ill, and now, half a decade later, he was gone.

The world was cruel, plagued with evils and sins. Sardonically sensuous, it gave little back. People were born, then hacked down like wheat, monuments of stone the overseers, only structures like these survived, strong fortifications built to celebrate fantastic histories, harbouring their own delicious secrets. Their walls spoke to one another.

Pagans suffered more, as Rome’s grasp on Britain compromised and influenced ancient rituals. The belief in magic drowned out, trampled on by legions of Roman soldiers, all with their belief in one god. A merciful God. To Artorius, only one man taught god’s will correctly. Pelagius was a man of God, legitimate.

Ardra fussed with the cloth, finding that it was much more difficult typing it on her own. She cursed her stubbornness as the sound of a knight’s footsteps echoed through the hall. Ardra’s gaze left her wrist and fell on the door and to the lithe figure that stood there.

Galahad watched her intently, for a moment, his gaze lingering for just a second too long. She was a beauty beyond words, one he had never laid eyes on before, in that moment, his heart yearned for her love, for a purpose. She became his beautiful stranger.

Galahad’s gaze unhinged her, and as a faint crimson flush took her face, she turned her gaze back to the tourniquet, frowning at her inability to tie it. The knight at her door pursed his lips slightly, contemplating over what to do or say, whether to speak or stay silent, and if he did speak, what to say; he wasn’t the wittiest man. Instead, he crossed the distance between them, slowly and laid his eyes on what she fussed over, cringing at the wound. He bent down slowly, level with her and took her hand in his, as she silently gave him the cloth and he the young knight tied it expertly.

“Thankyou, Master Galahad,” Ardra spoke, bowing her head slightly in respect, hoping she had not unsettled the slumbering beast that was her erratic headache.

“The title of Master was bestowed lightly,” he smiled. Ardra smiled at the boy’s kindness, letting her wrist be tended by him. The tourniquet was tied but the young woman did not take away her hands. The long, slender hands of Galahad held hers gently, as the two sat in a comfortable silence, eyes fixed on the other, boring holes into their flesh, into their very souls.

His left hand, fumbling and shaky slowly left Ardra’s and came to brush her raven hued hair, like he had done what seemed like forever ago, when he first saw her. The sensation of his fingertips brushing the skin of her cheeks made her shiver, the anticipation a sweet yearning.

A cradling wind chilled them, but went unspoken.

The jade eyes of the boy enchanted her as he studied her visage, finding a purpose in every curve in every concavity her face harboured. His eyes danced with the delight her visage’s shadow placed upon her neck, and he couldn’t stop his fingers from gently passing over the supple flesh of her throat, caressing the slightly sun-kissed skin, as tendrils of sensuous feeling trickled over Ardra’s body, feeling her temperature rise. She closed her eyes at his caress, finding solace in the quixotic circles he traced under her jaw. She fell into intoxication, he became her ecstasy.

When the hazel eyes opened again they influenced the head to lean in closer…much closer. Galahad’s lips were poised inches from hers and he closed the distance between them, trembling lips meeting their destiny.

The kiss ended after a few moments, the aftertaste sweet, both youths glowing with a foreboding prospect. They kissed again, more fervently, deep meaningful caresses, their hearts aching at the birth of a new love.

:heartbeat: Pat

Sincerely, my angel, you are a writer indeed, and a poet. Your grasp of language is masterful, eloquent, and elegant. Your style in this particuar story reminds me of a marble stature, pure, flawless, cold, the work of gods through mortal hands. Truely you are the Michaelangelo of prose.

Thanks Sweetheart. Here's some more. Just some info, this is a couple of weeks after they kissed. Imagine them being all lovey dovey around Hadrian's Wall.

******
Hadrian’s Wall

Stubbornness walked hand in hand with youth. The knight stood at the fort, watching the sinking sun slumber beneath the rhetorical horizon. Eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed, he grasped a stone from his sentry position, fumbling with it in his hand, annoyed at the knights who had left him to guard the fort. Deeming him ‘too young’ and ‘just a boy’ not ready for this task. He couldn’t understand the reason. He had never been a coward when faced with peril, never had he run, never had he put a fellow comrades life in danger. Yet, here he was, a boy of twenty summers, a man. The scruffy beard was proof enough of his manhood, another part; he had planned to prove to Ardra when the time was right.

He gripped his cloak tighter about him, mulling over the sun’s fading rays, the crimson hues slowly fading into darkness as Selene awoke as the moon, rising for the curtain call. The night became distant as the all too familiar pang of nostalgia took his heart.

Samartia, and a family he knew had not survived the winter in which he had been taken away; burdened his mind. The lone salt jewel that trickled down his cheek was wiped away furiously. Never again would he reminisce, a man would not. Never again would he wail or cry, a man would not. Tears brought nothing; they joined the rain, to be forgotten.

The tending and cleaning of his stallion beckoned Galahad to the stables, finding the steed was in much the same mood as he. Restless and pacing, fearing its own weaknesses, too proud to admit it. Too young, and somewhat too naïve.

He brushed the horse’s mane gently and superbly, seemingly unaware of other happenings. The hide came next and the stallion whinnied in thanks, lingering for the hope of a feed, but was disappointed.

Galahad sighed deeply, sitting amongst the hay, unperturbed by his distaste for the texture. He lay down gently, kicking off the shoes he wore, nonchalant as to where they fell. He sat dazed and sleepy, as the emerald eyes closed gently, naïve to the shadow that crossed the stable floor and loomed over him. Eyelashes flew open to reveal astonished pupils staring at bright hazel orbs, partnered with strawberry lips, which had a moment ago, given his own a sweet greeting.

“Ardra,” he began softly, smiling. “You startled me,” he spoke with a slight tremor in his voice, something about her dazzled him. She was so beautiful.

He lips curled into a sweet smile, a hand playing with his hair. “I promise I will not tell Gawain,” she replied, chuckling softly, enchanted by his bright eyes that gazed over her lovingly.

The young knight took her into his embrace, their lips meeting passionately, a kiss fervent and full of love, a want for the bodily union. Ardra kissed him again, beckoning for the removal of his cloak and uniform, with trembling hands that untied the clasps. The anticipation aroused the youth and he responded by sucking on the tender skin of her poised neck. Ardra sighed softly, closing her eyes for a moment, savouring the tenderness. Her eyes opened again as he hands undid the final clasp and she helped the knight pull his undergarment up over his head. His mass of overzealous curls were unsettled and she smiled gently, brushing her hand through them, as she came to straddle him.

He was a vision, expertly crafted; the eight years of war had hardened his body, limbs were muscled and slightly tanned by the years of riding horseback. Ardra smoothed a hand over his thudding chest, minute tendrils of hair meeting her fingertips.

Galahad stared up at her, the two youths sporting looks of innocence and fear at what would come next, neither had ever experienced the foreboding circumstances. The boy blushed a furious red when Ardra’s chemise was removed, his eyes, stubborn. Though his head and ethics commanded him to turn away, his emerald gaze lay glued on her, on every shadow and on every inch of flesh illuminated by the dim candlelight.

His breath came slow, and an anxious giant awoke in the pit of his stomach, his hands clammy as they rested on her hips. Ardra kissed him again and a new confidence rose in him, his hands tracing patterns over her hips, venturing further south.

They were nonchalant about the hay, finding the comfort of it of little concern. Galahad placed clumsy kisses across her shoulder as Ardra slowly caressed his back, tracing a scar that ran parallel to his spine, fingers trembling. Their lips met again as he took Ardra into his arms, laying her gently over the makeshift blanket that colloquially belonged in his travel pouch.
Galahad’s body pressed against hers sporadically, the youth fearing his weight over her. Ardra traced another battle wound that had his upper arm, her ebony eyebrows furrowing in concern.

“You’ve been in many battles,” she spoke softly, her other hand at his waist, persuading him to secure himself over her. His elbows rested at the level of her shoulders, his fingers playing with the hair that had escaped her loose braid.
“They symbolize a life I am not proud of,” he frowned softly, concentrating on an ebony curl that caressed her cheek, his fingers playing with it. Back and forth.

The compassion filled her hazel eyes as she bent to bestow a tender kiss on the mark. Galahad turned his head to watch her, loving the soft caress of his skin. He watched as her kisses headed up his arm and across his collarbone, to their own rhythm, soft and graceful. He sighed softly, and took in the sweet scent of her hair. Jasmine oil invigorated his senses, etched in by the scented cloth Fulcinia had offered Ardra to use for bathing.

“You are intoxicating,” she spoke with a heightened sense of reassurance as he pressed against her, finding his way effortlessly; he had this courage, no doubt.

She gripped his back hard with her fingertips as a pain exploded through her body, her eyes clammed shut as he throat let out a painful moan.
Galahad cringed at the reverberation, stopping; his arms supporting his weight over her, the rippled flesh taunt. Now immersed in a thin layer of sweat.

“Ardra, have I hurt you?” His eyes were round and innocent, fear of causing her pain, the sincerity and concern evident in their emerald recesses. His hand brushed the side of her perspired body gently as she shook her head softly.

“You’re wonderful…I love you,” she replied, leaning up to kiss him tenderly, breathless. Galahad closed his eyes in the splendour, and was lost in the moment.

“I love you, Ardra,” he whispered into her ebony locks, the young woman running her hand over his side slowly, and indication for him to enter her again. He did so, this time at a pace so slow, one could slumber to the rhythm. His tenderness was unmatched as he gave his love to her, his soul, a love requited as she responded in the most sacred way. Crying for the heavens, a feeling of ecstasy taking them both, in the damp stable; an emotion so pleasurable, so foreign, it was godly.

:heartbeat: Pat