Blood of the Sword
Gawain pushed the door open and Blair followed him, feeling glued to his side due to the rule demanding she hold onto his arm. She wished she could have a little more independence than she was granted in this instance. And if this was the way things would be with Gawain all the time, heaven help her. No, heaven help Gawain, since Blair felt she may very well snap one of these days.

Together the two of them crossed the threshold into the banquet hall, and she scanned the room. Tables had been placed; the royal dais was at the forefront. The rest of the tables filled the rest of the large expanse in five long rows. White tablecloths, red and yellow cloth napkins, her mother’s prized crystal goblets. Overall, fit for a king. Or a knight.

The hall was empty, except for…

“Galahad,” Blair said, her voice strained. The girl, Gabe’s best friend and the first female knight of Camelot, stood by the royal dais, searching for a seat.

“Lovely to see you,” Gawain smoothly took over, inclining his head slightly. Perhaps his congenial manner would be an asset in the coming days; it would certainly keep Blair from having to say too much. Just the way Blair liked it. That was possibly the only up-side to this betrothal.

Blair surveyed Galahad, the one who had been promoted to knighthood six months ago. Galahad had practically had her knighthood handed to her because of a lucky incident where she saved Gabe’s life. Blair, on the other hand, had been training for knighthood for two years, and her father still refused to recognize her abilities as valid.

Even her dress was a sign that Galahad was more free than Blair. A deep green dress over blue leggings. Leggings were not permitted for princesses to wear in court, and instead Blair was burdened with a “glorious” white dress, as her mother put it.

Galahad was also wearing her boots, the ones with dragons etched into the leather. Catching sight of them made a memory flash across Blair’s mind, since Galahad had been wearing them the day she saved Gabe’s life.

Blair had been hacking away at a pillar of wood, trying to build up her strength, when the news arrived. The hunting party had ridden through the gates, bearing tales and laud of the praise-worthy deed Galahad had committed. Covered in sweat and dirt and grime from her efforts to prove herself, Blair had to watch as Galahad was greeted by her father and hugged. Hugged! His words of praise echoed in her mind, making her even angrier. She had been striving so hard to earn approval from her father and king, and yet Galahad received them with hardly any effort and a random stroke of luck.

The knighting of Galahad was not much easier to stomach. The irritation at the event was only rivaled by the anger she felt over Gabe’s knighting. Both of them were knights now. Even worse.

She doesn’t deserve the title, Blair thought, anger burning in her chest. Have her prove it!

Sir Gawain led her to the royal dais and sat down on the end. “I assume this is your seat?”

Blair nodded. As always. She sat down, and then directed an icy smile to Galahad. “I’m not sure if there’s room for you on the dais. You might have to sit with the peasants.”

Blood of the Sword

As Galahad wavered over a choice of seats - this one was too far from the king, this one was too near and felt presumptive - she heard one of the side doors open and turned to see Sir Gawain of Lothian walk in with Princess Blair on his arm.

Typical, Galahad thought, gazing at the princess's fantastical white dress that seemed as if faëries had stitched it. Whenever she walks into the room, she has to make everyone else feel ugly. Her own green dress seemed plain and unflattering all of a sudden.

“Galahad,” Blair said flatly.

"Your Highness," Galahad replied as she always did, her tone somehow twisting the title into an insult.

“Lovely to see you,” Gawain said politely, inclining his head slightly.

Young du Lac bore no ill-will to the courteous knight, and smiled back at him, curtsying slightly out of deference for the knight's superior rank. "And the same to you, Sir Gawain."

Gawain turned his attention back to the princess and gestured at one of the chairs placed at the high table. “I assume this is your seat?”

Blair nodded. She sat down, and then directed an icy smile to Galahad. “I’m not sure if there’s room for you on the dais. You might have to sit with the peasants.”

Galahad's face went white with anger. The insult was clearly leveled at her mother, who had been a Saxon. Galahad's own flaxen hair was a clear indication of the mixed blood that flowed through her veins. She met Blair's cold smile with a dark frown. "Fortunately, this night is not a celebration of your knighthood; it's for your brother. And seeing as Gabe was my father's squire, I have no doubt I will be invited to sit at your Highness's table, however much it may soil your gown to sit with the daughter of the greatest knight in the three realms."

With a defiant flip of her yellow braid, Galahad quickly slid into a chair mid-way between the King's seat and the end of the table. With a smug look, she clicked her silver spurs against each other - spurs were a symbol of knighthood and the honor of the wearer. That was something Blair would never wear, for all her fine trinkets and jewels.

Blood of the Sword
Blair watched as all the color drained out of Galahad’s face, something that filled her with smug satisfaction. That satisfaction quickly evaporated as soon as the poisoned words flew out of Galahad’s mouth. “Fortunately, this night is not a celebration of your knighthood; it’s for your brother. And seeing as Gabe was my father’s squire, I have no doubt I will be invited to sit at your Highness’s table, however much it may soil your gown to sit with the daughter of the greatest knight in the three realms.”

Blair’s jaw dropped open for just a moment, but then she closed her mouth in a firm line. Anger laced through her tone—not an angry explosive anger, but an icy, reserved anger, which was almost far worse. “Do not insult my father in such a manner; he is the king and far better than you or your father. And don’t you dare speak to me about knighthood. You are hardly qualified to speak on such a subject after having yours served to you on a silver platter.”

Blair swallowed hard and turned back to the table, glancing vaguely at the draperies on the opposite wall.

Blood of the Sword

After his knighting and while people were filing out of the great hall, Gabe got a good forearm hand-shake from his father, “I’ve got something to give you Gabe. But right now, you should go say hello to your mother, I think she’s about to hyperventilate.”

It’d been years since he’d done it, she’d always been ‘queen’ and he’d always had to respect her like a subject. But now, she was mom and he gave her a great big hug. “I will do nothing of the sort, young man. So don’t let your father worry you, besides if I pass out now I’ll miss the party!”

“Hah. She never misses a chance to get at the mead, why don’t we get you out of the ridicules cape, Eh son?”

Gabriel removed his head from where it was buried in his mother’s mass of raven dark hair and nodded. The huge red cloak that Lancelot insisted on him wearing had been choking him throughout the entire ceremony. “Hey, what happened to Blair?”

His sister, not a year younger than him and yet he never really had gotten to know her. Her’s was another face that he would have to connect with a new label. Galahad was his sister if not in blood than in dirt and sweat. He and Lancelot’s daughter grew up together, fought together and fought with one another. That’s what made siblings, not blood.

“Oh, I’m not exactly sure what she’s doing. But she ran off in quite a huff,” said the mother once they had arrived back in the royal solar. That’s a bedchamber for those who don’t know the jargon. Gabe unhooked the cloak and handed it to his mother, who put it away for later.

Meanwhile, Arthur was digging through a wardrobe. He then proceeded to stumble out carrying a long, sheathed dagger. “Son, this was your grandfathers and I’d like you to have it.”

The king handed his son the blade and the son received it as a knight would. “Thank you, my king.” But Guinevere would have none of it, “Gabriel, If I ever here you call your father that again, I’ll wash your mouth out with soup.”

Arthur laughed, “You still don’t get the whole rank thing, do you?”

“No! Now Gabe, I’m sure you want to catch up with your sister. She’ll be down in the great hall, I’ve got some things to do up here, so if you want to make your way down there that’d be fine."

Gabe took his leave, strapped his father’s knife to his belt and headed straight for the great hall.

When he arrived, there was Blair alright, there was also Galahad and they both were staring bolts of lightning towards each other.

“eh, hello?”

Blood of the Sword

Blair snatched her gaze away from the tapestries to see Gabe standing in the doorway. Ah, lucky her—now she had to deal with two people she absolutely despised.

“Eh, hello?” Gabe’s voice echoed through the chamber, seeming lone and tiny in comparison to the expansive dining hall.

She swallowed hard and slightly inclined her head, keeping her tone distant. “Gabe. The illustrious knight.” If one listened closely, one could hear the pain in her voice. She gestured to the decadent banquet hall around them, a slight edge of subtle sarcasm in her tone. “Welcome. You’d better enjoy this banquet. Mother and Father are going to a great expense for you.”

Blood of the Sword

Gabe was a good listener. He heard the pain, he also heard bitterness and anger and he immediately knew this wasn’t going to be a happy family reunion. “It does seem to be quite expensive, but I didn’t ask for this. Blair.” He walked up to the Diaz, continuing to talk on the way. “And I can assure you, I am most grateful.”

He reached across the table to shake Gawain’s hand. They had met before, on several occasions and he knew him to be a good knight, “Sir, its good to see you doing well.” He was saving Galahad for last, the two had come to Camelot together earlier that day. But he was sure that she would be impatiently waiting on him.

Blood of the Sword

Hot fury flooded her veins. How dare this simpering prissy princess accuse her of not earning her rank?! She had not been "given" anything - it had been years of dedication and toil that led up to the moment when Gabe was in danger. "Had my knighthood handed to--"

"Eh, hello?" a familiar voice interrupted.

Galahad saw Gabe enter a moment after Blair did. Her blood cooled at the sight of him and she smiled, genuinely pleased. He had taken off the stifling red cloak and looked much more like himself now, like the friend she had shoved into the watering trough only last week.

Blair's voice cut in again, smooth and cold. "Welcome. You’d better enjoy this banquet. Mother and Father are going to a great expense for you.”

Galahad's hand twitched angrily, fingering the hilt of the ceremonial sword she wore at her belt. She was about to fling back a heated remark when Gabe spoke in a much more mild tone.

"It does seem to be quite expensive, but I didn’t ask for this, Blair.” He began a slow, measured walk to the dais, his expression firm and collected. "And I can assure you, I am most grateful.” He greeted Gawain in a polite manner, shaking hands and enquiring after his health before turning to face Galahad.

She grinned broadly, slipping out of her chair and sliding across the table in a most unlady-like manner to greet him, shoving plates and goblets to the side as she did so. "Gabe!" She held her hand out and the two performed several mirrored motions that could only be described as a secret handshake. She took the opportunity to whisper in his ear, "Don't mind her; she's only a snub-nosed twit." As she pulled away, she added more clearly, "I'm so happy for you. You deserve every bit of how much this feast costs, considering how hard you've trained. My father says you'll be an even greater warrior than Uther Pendragon."

As she spoke, she flung a meaningful glance at Blair, as if to say, "Gabe is more my brother than he ever was yours". Judging by the look on her face, Blair did not care much who's brother he was.

Blood of the Sword
Gabe’s response was not as angry as Blair expected it to be, and his kindness took her off guard, nearly making her drop her icy emotional mask. “It does seem to be quite expensive, but I didn’t ask for this. Blair. And I can assure you, I am most grateful.”

Of course you didn’t ask for it. Our parents showered it upon you. Not me.

It was then that Galahad flounced over to her brother and whispered something in his ear. Heaven only knew what snide remark she’d made about Blair in secret. But that didn’t trouble her as much as the look Galahad gave her afterwards, a look that proved that Galahad was most closer to Gabe than she was. The weight of the loss she’d sustained by having Gabe away all these years hit her like a slap in the face. Yes, she hated him for all he’d attained, but he was still her brother, her blood relation. The brother she’d once fought with wooden swords and made pillow forts with. It was only now that she allowed herself to realize how much she missed the bond they’d once had.

Blair’s heart ached so badly over this that she could not bring herself to respond, to either Gabe or Galahad. She just tried to swallow past the lump in her throat and keep her outward appearance as normal as possible, even though she was breaking inside.
___
Gawain stared at the ceiling during Galahad and Blair’s exchange. He didn’t feel like it was his place to intrude. Unless Blair grabbed a candlestick and started swinging it—then he’d most definitely intrude.

Marrying her is bound to be interesting, he thought dryly.

He was glad for the intrusion of Gabe and welcomed it wholeheartedly. He slid his chair away from the table and stood to greet the new knight. “And you as well, Gabe—congratulations on your knighthood.”

Blood of the Sword

Lancelot had attended countless ceremonies commemorating and legalizing a young man as a knight. Three of them had held weight in his mind, this being the final of this series, and so he watched it with all practiced gravity that seemed fitting. Cobalt irises smoldered with the very fires of mellowed emotions, roiling below the cloak of this blue surface. He trained all scrutiny upon the prince, as he knelt and chanted the continuous words of affirmation. King Arthur spoke, signs of memorization lacing his tone, but there was pride and warmth, where before he had lacked this. Gabriel was his son; he had every right to take happiness from his achievements.

Yet. Lancelot joined the ripple of laughter that cascaded down the chamber, though in its notes were strain. It was to his daughter the royal referred, and even in mention he stiffened. His daughter. Galahad lay in the crowd around him; settled in his peripheral vision. There was bursting joy upon her becoming visage, as her life-long play mate was given his honors elated her. He noticed the strand of golden hair that was fractionally out of place, and it prompted a pursing of his lips. She was as noble as any knight that pledged their allegiance to Camelot, but it had not been what he wanted for her. Not entirely.

Lancelot returned his observation to his long trained pupil. The blood and sweat they had shed made them more than knight and squire. There was a greater degree of depth to it than that, and it was for this reason he too took satisfaction in his knighthood. He had shaped the unrefined qualities in the heir to be what they were, though he would not take complete credit. Gabe had possessed them; he molded them.

"Well then! By the power invested in me, by God and my forefathers. I dub thee a knight. Rise Sir Pendragon, Knight of Camelot."

Lancelot applauded, watching Excalibur strike firmly the man's shoulders, as it had to him so long ago. Long, long ago. The crowds around him responded in kind, cries of, "Sir Gabriel", being heard behind. It was certainly an important hour for the kingdom. Certainly.

“Ladies and gentlemen, there will be a banquet directly following the ceremony. Please give us some time to set up the tables, and then we will adjourn to the banquet hall.”

The court broke from rank and file, many conglomerating about the prince to shower him with earned congratulations. The older knight knew he would receive every opportunity to due the like later; when he would have to show no manner of valor to reach him. His gaze traced the paths of the king and queen, and the lithe shape of Princess Blair, the later seeming to fly with some manner of fury; resembling an angered hawk. She is a Pendragon, truly. Hatred and pride is in her blood.

Lancelot dispersed from the shifting leather and frocks, smiling and speaking when addressed, dipping his head to those whom required it. Other knights praised him for his mighty work in rearing Gabe, with which he responded cordially and mannerly, lingering to converse then disappearing. He had noticed the absence of his daughter, and guessed her intended location.

The dining hall was arrayed with finely prepared morsels and painstakingly selected decor. Candelabra graced each table, surrounded by platters and bowls, brimming with fruit and venison. Vintage wine had been fetched, torches were alight, and all was colored with the crimson dragon of the Pendragon crest. But it was none of these already anticipated items Lancelot first sought to notice; it was the heated voices seething from several sources and the quieting of them as familiar tones chimed in.

Weariness fringed the sigh he released as, with pose and determined strides, he entered. Darkened cerulean met Gawain, Blair, Gabe, and Galahad, arranged in positions about the banquet table of the king. He might assume whom had been arguing, and when he met her eyes he let this knowledge be seen.

"Milady Blair." Lancelot greeted with formality, passing her chair and nodding. "Gawain." A word was enough to suffice between the two that called each other brother, and onward he went. To Galahad he laid a hand, giving her shoulder a meaningful squeeze, before halting at the prince.

"Congratulations, Gabe. You have earned this. Now. Have you saved a spot for me at this table?" A brow rose in question.

Blood of the Sword

"Master Lance, seeing as I'll be sitting next to my father. Perhaps you'd like to sit on the other side of me?" he motioned to the seat just to the right of where he was going to be sitting. Having Lancelot next to him would grant Gabe the courage to make it through dinner with his real dad.

His father wasn't what scared him, it was topics that might be brought up and he wanted his mentor next to him in the case that he needed help. Politics and court matters weren't his strong points. Then, he shot a glare at Galahad, one that said I'm trying to fix my family relations here. Not break e'm up. And he hoped that it would settle her down.

Blood of the Sword
Gawain glanced over at Blair, wondering if she was legitimately upset or if she was just being as icy as she always was. He elbowed her lightly. “Hey, you all right?”

Before Blair had a chance to respond, Lancelot came to the table and greeted him with one word. “Gawain.”

Gawain smiled, nodding his head. “Sir Lancelot.” Even though he was no longer Lancelot’s squire, he hadn’t been able to drop the habit of referring to Lancelot by his title. Lancelot moved on all too quickly, going to talk to Gabe, and Gawain hoped that they’d get a chance to talk after the banquet.

But he supposed it was a good thing, because his betrothed needed him. He turned back to her. “That was an untimely interruption, but lest you think you got out of baring your soul to me, I haven’t forgotten. What’s wrong?”

____

Blair tensed at Gawain’s question. “Nothing’s wrong.” She let out a sigh and pasted on a smile. “I’m perfectly fine.”

She glanced over her shoulder at the door to the banquet hall. “I hope the meal is served soon, and the other guests arrive. I’m quite starved.” She let out a nervous chuckle, hoping that did the trick to get Gawain off her case.

A slow stream of guests started to trickle in, lingering far too close to the royal dais for a deep conversation to occur. Gawain surveyed Blair with a knowing glance, then crossed his arms, scarily mimicking her pose. “We’ll talk about this later.”

Blair gave him a strained smile, her stomach sinking. The last thing she needed was someone who could read her like a book. Please don’t get involved with me, she thought, the hopelessness of their situation all too clear. You don’t need this. You need someone much better.

Blood of the Sword

Galahad felt rather than heard Sir Lancelot du Lac enter the room. And nothing repressed her spirits like being in the same room as her father. She instantly stiffened and felt her naughty smile sink into an expression of starched propriety.

"Milady Blair." Lancelot greeted with formality, passing her chair and nodding. "Gawain." For his former pupil, she noticed a slight crack in his visage of sternness. En passant, he laid a hand on her shoulder, giving her a meaningful squeeze of disapproval before halting at the prince. "Congratulations, Gabe. You have earned this. Now. Have you saved a spot for me at this table?"

Galahad yelled silent protests at her father's heavy hand. You blame me for everything! She had not dared to say this openly since she was a little girl, but she felt all the injustice of it, all the times he shoved her down or "taught her her place". If I were a boy, she scowled for the millionth time, you'd have been proud of me. She knew Gabe loved him like a father, but she did not know how. In her mind, Lancelot had been nothing like a father to her, ever. He was master, teacher, and example, but she could not recall a single symptom of affection.

"Master Lance, seeing as I'll be sitting next to my father. Perhaps you'd like to sit on the other side of me?" Gabe motioned to the seat just to the right of where he was going to be sitting. At an opportune moment, he shot a glare at Galahad. She read his expression perfectly - I'm trying to fix my family relations here. Not break e'm up.

He need not have bothered. Her father was damper enough for her tongue - she endured his presence as one would endure a cold rain. All the same, it was some slight triumph to see her family offered seats of honor in front of Blair. That princess would hardly be able to turn up her nose at the du Lacs now!

She noticed servants doing final checks on the tables. She realized with a start that many of the guests were also already in the room and guessed that the feast was about to start. Just as well. Perhaps King Arthur would still deign to notice her at the banquet, since she was his son's best friend. It was odd, though, to think of Gabe as the king's son, even now.

The hound under the table sniffed at Lancelot's passing boots. A low rumble that might have been a growl came from the great dog, but the look in it's eyes was one of humor. It laid down and waited, patiently.

Blood of the Sword

"Of course we never get any bloody live entertainment," Gregory muttered under his breath as they waved through what seemed like the millionth bard, rosy-cheeked and eager to share his latest masterpiece extolling the bravery and gallantry of Camelot's nobles.

Mordred grunted in agreement. Well, let's bring the entertainment to us, shall we? It was the night of the huge celebration for the knighting of Prince Gabe, but for the castle guards, it only meant more arduous patrols or standing in the same position for hours. Luckily, with years of experience, Mordred had developed a special way to make the job more interesting. He waved forward the next poet.

"State your business here," Gregory intoned.

"I-I have come to perform before the royal court," the young man stammered, a bead of sweat rolling down a flushed cheek.

Mordred patted the man's sides, feeling for any hidden weapons. "Hold up, what's this?" He tugged at a little brown flask fastened to the poet's belt.

"A-ale, sir," the man explained. "It helps with m-my nerves."

"The sight of my charming face doesn't already calm your nerves?" Mordred inquired, sounding wounded.

The bard was taken aback. "Er, no. Yes. Sorry, I've never done this before."

"Well, you won't be needing this," replied Mordred, cutting the bag free and throwing it onto the growing pile of various jugs, containers, and other flasks behind them. Gregory snorted softly beside him, trying to disguise his laughter. All afternoon and evening long, he and Mordred had been confiscating every vaguely alcoholic beverage they could nick off the visitors coming through their particular gate. The young bard made an offended noise before he could stop himself.

"It could be poison," Mordred explained with a straight face. "Very risky."

"Sorry. Right. Thank you," the bard muttered, flushing. He began to walk through the gate. Instantly, Mordred swung his spear up.

"Hold up! Where do you think you're going? You haven't been approved yet," he scolded.

"What?" the bard stepped back, eyes wide. "What else do I need to do?"

"To prove that you really are a professional poet, and not a deadly rogue assassin, you must perform an original ballad for us." Mordred nodded confidently. "Why don't you compose one about us?" he suggested, gesturing to Gregory, who was snorting in regular intervals of about half a second. The younger guard, bless him, was still not used to Mordred's...unique work methods. "You have five seconds."

"Uh...Behold! The mighty guards of Camelot!
They hold their spears...a lot," the bard hesitated. Gregory was doubled over and softly squeaking.

"That's lovely, keep going," Mordred said encouragingly. The bard looked bewildered. "How about something about our outstanding looks?"

"Right! The guards of Camelot are devilishly handsome!
They protect the King from being held as ransom!
In fact, they protect all of the royal heirs!"

"And work our bums off to preserve theirs," offered Mordred. He clapped the bard on the shoulder. "Good effort. Go ahead."

Blood of the Sword

The streets were crowded. No, the streets were not just crowded they were overflowing with men, women, children, horses, oxen pulling carts, etc, etc. The knighting of the Kings son was clearly a time for celebration among the lower class of Camelot.

Eh, at least this means the taverns will be well stocked with food and drink...

A tall, cloaked figure riding a road weary horse slowly made his way through the city streets till he reached his destination: the MacBeth Tavern and Inn. It was more tavern than inn, but for short stays, it served its purpose.

The familiar aroma of burnt wood, various brews, unnamable stew and human odor greeted the man as he entered the establishment. Winding his way through the crowd of men in various stages of intoxication, the cloaked figure finally arrived at the bar.

"Room for one for a single night. The usual accommodations if they are available." the man said in a distinct, low Irish brogue. Reaching into his cloak, he retrieved a small bag and set it down on the counter. The unmistakable rattle of coins was heard when the bag hit the wooden bar.

The inn keeper looked the man over, then glanced down at the small bag before turning around and unhooking a small key from the wall full behind him. "Good to have you again, Mr. Wallace." the burly man said with a knowing half smile as he nonchalantly took the bag of money while handing over the room key.

The cloaked man merely nodded as he took the key. Hoisting the travel bag he was carrying over his shoulder, "Wallace" headed towards the staircase and up to his room.

Blood of the Sword

Lancelot stiffened as the sound of a hound growling its apparent displeasure sounded. Cobalt irises, smoldering darker in suspicion, darted beneath the drapings of the table. His scrutiny met with a gentle shifting of the fabric and the miniscule protruding of an ebony nose. Its identity was likely that of one of the castle's trained dogs, yet its reasons for showing animosity were perplexing. He had known several of the animals for a greater portion of their lives. This occurrence filed into the reaches of his mind, being allowed to slip just far enough so it would not display at all on his visage that what he had seen interested him.

Lancelot did not miss the signs of vexation upon his daughter's face as his brown head turned, yet he allowed them to settle as his conversation with the prince persisted. To his offer, he nodded in satisfaction. "Quite ideal. I thank you." His hand made its way to the younger man's arm. "Shall I persist in my disrespect and continue to refer to you as Gabe, or will Prince Gabriel suffice for your new status?" His lips pursed, and mirth creased his features. You are a Pendragon, Gabe. Du Lac raised or not, you shall never truly be one of us.

"Would you desire to be seated beside me, Gala?" Lancelot executed a reserved shift upon his heal, eyes softening as they were confronted with flaxen tresses. "If you wish." Though there was the flint of command in his gaze, the man's tone suggested he allowed her choice. Her subdued ire lent itself to his observation and an indiscernible sigh threaded from his nostrils. I do not want us to be separated by Pendragons Galahad. You are my daughter. The daughter of my precious Elaine...

Unease hardened his sinew as the sound of increasing populace and servants scurrying met his ears. It would be a mere matter of moments before the banquet began. Yes. The feast... The delicacies would surely be succulent and the wine a fine vintage. Soon.