tell me what the wise men said `

[Lancelot du Lac]

TWAS

[/size] a beautiful morning, Lancelot thought, walking out onto the field they used for training the new recruits and weapons practice. He’d actually managed to get some sleep the night before, thank the gods, so the knight was feeling chipper. Galahad was to meet him shortly if the idiot managed to drag himself from his bed to do so. There had been a challenge issued and if his friend failed to show his face, one could be absolutely sure that Lancelot would not let him live it down. Ever. Running a hand through his mussed curls, Lancelot yawned and stretched. The flesh on his shoulder pulled a bit from the scars his old injuries had left him. They were permanent marks of everything he had survived. They were also ugly and repugnant. At least, women seemed to think so. Lancelot was not quite vain enough to hide the fact that he’d lived the life of a soldier and that life had been hard on him. Still, they made him self-conscious even when he was clothed. Which put a damper on things, since he rather liked being nude but not if the people were going to stare not at his perfect physique but the marks scattered across his body. It would only put him in a frightful mood, to be honest, and moody Lancelot was never a good thing. And he was hard to put up with on a good day.

Though they were to fight, he’d only worn his cuirass and gauntlets over his gambeson. It was all in good fun, if one of them managed to injure the other it would only be by accident. A puff of steam formed as Lancelot let out a sigh, the chilly morning air filling his lungs. Drawing out his sword, he began to work his arm, warming the muscles. He’d left his flamberges behind, knowing that using the two swords as he would in battle would only give him an unfair advantage. The sword he used today would be the one he usually used in practice, to keep his two-handed technique strong, or in training when he helped with the recruits. He also had his dagger hidden inside his boot. Lancelot wasn’t intending to cheat the match, but if Galahad didn’t expect him to carry a second weapon, his friend obviously had not paid attention in the long years they’d known one another. And the years had been long indeed. They’d known each other since they were barely more than boys and all that time it had been Lancelot whose mind had always been on strategy not matter what it was they were up to. Galahad’s mind always seemed to be on the end result. Action over patience.

It was in that way that Galahad reminded Lancelot of his lost brother. In some ways, befriending Galahad had almost been like having Tomas returned to him. Keeping Galahad around, on the other hand, had been honestly for the amusement of goading him beyond control. In all honestly, Galahad was a good man and a good knight -- if he would only believe in himself and his own abilities. It was those doubts that left him vulnerable to attack and a warrior skilled physically and mentally would be able to see it and use it against him. Twirling the weapon in his hand, he swung at the air. Honestly, where was Galahad? If the fool was any later, he was going to trounce him and show no mercy. Lancelot may have had patience with most things, but waiting was not one of them.
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tagged; galahad (:
location; training field
clothing; THIS
word count; 597
notes; sorry it's kind of all over the place. I'm sleep @__@

[Galahad]

He was late, oh Gods he was late! Galahad had not intended to be late, in fact he had hoped to get to the training yard before Lancelot just to prove a point but it seemed his dreams had another idea. He did wake up, yawning loudly and stretching but then the image of a certain blond flickered across his still closed eyes and the younger Knight found himself smiling, willingly drifting back into the dream that had taken over. By the time he woke up, sometime later Galahad knew without even having to look out the window that he was late. In an utter rush he lept from his bed, grabbing everything he needed and wobbling around his small room as he desperately tried to get dressed. Breeches, laces, boots – why were boots always so difficult to get on?! Shirt, leather tunic, buckles… buckles! Why did there always have to be so many buckles to be done when one was late?! Grunting Galahad tugged at the last annoying buckle, sure that it was done correctly he ran a rand through his dark curls and bolted for the door. As he opened he suddenly realised that he had forgotten his swords. Rolling his eyes he spun on his heels and darted to the corner, grabbing his beloved short daggers. Right, he was sure he had everything now and with a final nod he left his room.

Galahad dashed from the barracks, across the court yard heading towards the training field. He was late and he knew before he even laid eyes upon Lancelot that he was not going to live this one down. Grunting in annoyance he pushed his legs a little harder, swords in hand he finally spied the first Knight. Lancelot was already warming up – this was not a good sign.

“I’m not late!” Galahad shouted, both announcing his arrival and defending himself in one breath.

[Lancelot du Lac]

LANCELOT

[/size] tried, honestly he did, to suppress his impatience. Growling under his breath, he stamped his foot like an upset child. If he'd known Galahad was going to be late, he would have slept in and forgotten the whole thing altogether. A morning person, Lancelot definitely was not. On top of it all, it had begun to spit snow. Gods damn it all, he thought snarling his face up. He'd give anything at the moment for a bit of sun. That, or for Galahad to show up so he could knock him over the head and go back to sleep. Blowing at an errant curl that had fallen on his forehead, he watched as the steam cloud slowly rose and dissipated into the air. He should have worn his cloak but he honestly hadn't thought he would need it. Lancelot was of the mind that everyone was on his time. And if they weren't, his patience never lasted very long. Well, while he was waiting, he might as well warm up his muscles. With every passing second, Lancelot was more determined to end this match with Galahad quickly and get back to bed. Or at least to a warm drink. Ah, for the days of summer!

Trudging the few yards to a post set in the ground specifically to practice swordsmanship solo, and glared at it. He rolled his shoulders, before beginning to practice his two-handed technique. It was a little bit rusty -- Lancelot couldn't remember when he'd last used it. It was probably a good thing he'd decided only to use the one this morning. It wouldn't do to rely so heavily in his flamberges or his daggers. Then again, all of his techniques weren't what they used to be. It had taken months after he'd healed from his wounds after Badon Hill before he'd even been able to get his stamina back up. Obviously his skills were all a little rusty. Still, he prided himself on being one of the best fighters in Britain. Unless he lost a limb or something, that wouldn't change. In his opinion, it was one of the only credits to his name. Lancelot swung at the post, the blade landing squarely in the wood with a satisfying thunk. Pulling it out, he took a few steps back, his breath misting the air around his face. Taking a moment to consider the post as he would an opponent, he did a series of steps, each time landing the blow. Of course. It was a post. It stood there and graciously let him attack it.

Finally, he heard Galahad's voice ring out from behind him. Rolling his eyes, though his fellow knight couldn't see, he swung at the post with more voraciousness than was needed and the wood where his blade entered the post splintered. Breathing heavily, he turned to face his friend. His mouth was dry from exertion and Lancelot had to spit in the dirt to wet it again. He ran his arm across his face and considered the other knight for a moment, his expression blank. "You know, Galahad," he said, looking down at the toe of his boot, messing in the dirt with the tip of his sword. "I look at you sometimes and I wonder..." Lancelot trailed off as he looked up at Galahad through his lashes. "I wonder that we might not tie a rooster to your head since your sense of time seems to always be running behind everyone else." He tossed his sword slightly up in the air and caught it by the hilt, blade down, before stabbing into the earth. So what if he was showing off a little bit? Lancelot wanted to intimidate Galahad...just a little bit. He went to work tightening the laces on his gauntlet and cuirass, giving his friend time to prepare. After a few moments, he pulled his sword out of the ground and gave it a twirl before raising an eyebrow at Galahad. "Well, come on then," he said. "This was your idea."
[/blockquote]

tagged; galahad (:
location; training field
clothing; THIS
word count; i dun even know xD
notes; sorry for the lateness[/size]

[Galahad]

As Lancelot brought his sword down into the piece of wood an all mighty thud suddenly burst into the air. It echoed throughout the training yard and Galahad flinched, watching with a mixture of horror and awe as the wood cracked and splintered under the sheer force of the strike. Watching Lancelot train, or better yet watching him in battle, was like watching a dancer perform a sacred dance. It was like Lancelot moved into another realm when he fought, his twin blades becoming extensions of his arms. He moved with ease and grace, such power and force hidden behind a veil of calmness. Galahad had always been in awe of the First Knight right from the moment he had first seen Lancelot pick up a sword. There was no doubt he was the better fighter – Galahad had never been under any allusion of that.

Both men had been taken from their homes in Sarmatia, both men had been slaves to Rome and both men had fought and killed – but there was one difference, one major factor that made both men so very different. It had always seemed, at least to Galahad, that Lancelot was born to fight. It was as though to wield a blade and to enter into battle was just as much a part of him as the blood that ran through his veins. Lancelot did not need to be taught to fight; it was simply what he did. Galahad on the other hand was nothing of the sort. His heart still lay on the plains of his village, with the horses he used to tend and the forest in which he used to hunt rabbits. Unlike Lancelot he had to be taught how to hold a sword, how to fight, how to kill. And that was what Galahad always believed made Lancelot the better fighter, and always would – because fighting was in his blood.

Not that Galahad would EVER in all his years admit that he was secretly in awe of Lancelot. They had been friends, brothers in arms for nineteen years and never once had the younger Knight spoken of his admiration for Lancelot. Nor would he ever tell him. It was like a secret knowledge between the pair that needed not be spoken. Instead they teased and ribbed each other endlessly, taunted and fought but at the end of the day Galahad would always have Lancelot’s back.

At Lancelot’s words Galahad’s eyebrows shot upwards and he looked upwards as though trying to look at his dark curls. He snorted loudly as a smirk formed upon his lips. “Even with a roster tied to my head I would look better than you do in the mornings!" He jested back, trying not to look impressed as Lancelot tossed his sword up in the air and then caught it perfectly, thrusting it into the earth. It was quite a stunt, but Galahad knew he would ruin his smirk if he appeared at all impressed.

Taking a deep breath Galahad placed one foot firmly on the ground slightly in front of the other setting his stance. He lifted his chin as he raised his sword in front of him. He held his weapon with a loose grip (a technique he had learnt from Lancelot as it allowed him better movement of his sword – a tactic Galahad had found worked well). Standing in a battle stance Galahad raised an eyebrow as Lancelot spoke again. “Actually I was waiting for you old man…" He said with another cheeky grin.

(OOC: *HUG* Sorry that I didn't see your reply hun)

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