The other men warily circled the knight, swords drawn.
Galahad barely noticed, still focused on Trystan. He looked both relieved and exasperated. “I’m wet, because we’re on an undersea island, Trys. Literally. There are walls of sea water all around us, drenching this whole place. It took me an hour to wind my way through the ruins and get down here, so I’m soaked to the skin.”
“I deeply appreciate that image. Deeply.”
Galahad rolled his eyes. “Hang on for a sec…”
The five men came at him en masse and the knight ducked out of the way. He pulled the ogre girl’s revolver from the waistband of his pants and ducked under the first attacker’s wide swing. It was all one, smooth, perfect movement, which was gratifying to watch. Still…
Trystan made a face at the weapon choice. “Knight, there is a sword on your back, yes?” Trystan was surprised and pleased to see it there, as a matter of fact. “You should use that and not that damn gun.”
“It’s my turn to do the rescuing, right? Let me try it my way, before I resort to killing them.”
Trystan was warmed by that idea. “You would kill these men to rescue me?”
“Of course, I would…” Galahad pointed the revolver at the first attacker’s face and fired. The guy was dressed in armor covered in devouring ravens. A mist of golden dust enveloped his features and he collapsed to the ground.
Snoring.
Everyone in the room froze, like they were trying to make sense of what happened.
“…But hopefully I can find a more peaceful way.” Galahad finished.
Trystan pursed his lips and studied the unconscious man for a beat. “The sleeping sand from Ted-ville?” He guessed.
“Yeah, I invented a non-lethal bullet. I told you that, right?” Galahad shifted out of the way as two knights recovered enough to swing their swords at him simultaneously. Not even Trystan was sure how Galahad managed it, but he somehow slipped from between both blades, like it was a dance he’d practiced a thousand times before.
Trystan tilted his head, mesmerized. No longer feeling the need to backseat-drive this fight. The knight had characteristically underplayed his talents. Galahad didn’t just “know a little about guns,” as he’d claimed. When he fought, he could turn the firearm into an extension of himself. He knew exactly how to use it so that each movement of his body became art.
To hell with swords, Galahad should continue carrying that gun with him wherever he went. It was magical watching him work with it.
Galahad shifted to one side, the revolver coming up like he didn’t even have to think about using it. Like he could foresee every move of the fight, before it even happened. The man wasn’t even out of breath. Sleeping sand exploded in his opponents’ faces and they hit the stone floor, side-by-side and already asleep.
Galahad glanced at Trystan. “See?” He said calmly. “They’re incapacitated, but alive. That’s totally within my not-killing-people rules.”
Trystan nodded. “Fine.”
He was through with encouraging Galahad to slay his enemies. That was not in the knight’s nature and Trystan had been a fool to try and change it. You did not ask moonbeams to change how they shined. You just trusted in their light. So long as the man could defend himself, Trystan was satisfied.
…And he was satisfied the man could defend himself.
He was also fairly certain that the “non-lethal” bullets were going to keep Bedivere’s accomplices unconscious for a very, very, very long time. Galahad was using a lot of sleeping sand in this assault. They might never awaken, which would be no great loss for the world.
The last two men rushed at him and Galahad made a face. “You gonna help me with these guys anytime soon, Trys?”
“No.” Trystan shrugged. “I will watch you save me. I find it… stimulating.”
Galahad’s mouth curved. He spun the gun in his hand and casually shot both men. Not even looking at them. Dead center of their faces. His eyes staying on Trystan’s the whole time.
It was so beautiful.
“Let me guess: You are the greatest marksman in Camelot?” Trystan ventured, his thoughts hot and lustful.
“Of course not.” Galahad smirked his incredible, wicked, sure-of-himself smirk. “Not to sound arrogant… But I’m the greatest marksman in the world.”
Trystan’s intention not to have sex with the man “yet” vanished into thin air.
“Yet” was fucking now.
His mate truly was the best knight ever. Better than all the other fighters, in all the other lands. Better than the craftiest hired killers money could buy. Better than battle-hardened soldiers who only survived on brute strength. Better than decorated generals commanding vast armies to victory. Better than everyone, Good or Bad.
Nobody could match Galahad of Camelot. …Except maybe Trystan.
His arousal redlined at the thought. Gods, regardless of who won the match, every sparring session they held was going to end in Trystan ripping the man’s clothes off. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind. He would never be able to watch Galahad fight and stay in control of his need for long.
Galahad arched a brow, seeing Trystan’s smoldering desire. “Give me two minutes.” He promised and stalked towards Bedivere, who was still cowering behind Trystan. “Get out here, you little punk.”
“Blow me!” Bedivere screamed back, fumbling in his pockets. “I’m not going to fight you! I could never win.”
Trystan grunted. It was a fair assessment.
“I know that I can’t beat you!” Bedivere slammed something sharp into Trystan’s arm. “Maybe you can beat him, though, gryphon.”
A needle.
Trystan made a frustrated sound. Bedivere had just sent more magic coursing through his system. Of course he did. Gods, so many of the wingless could just never fight fair. They were always jabbing Trystan with needles, or drugging him, or…
The world spun and Trystan blinked rapidly. It didn’t help to fix his vision. Everything was already doubled and getting worse.
“Trys?” Galahad’s voice rose in alarm. “Are you alright?”
“I am fine.” He said automatically, trying to push through the magic.
“Amnesia potion!” Bedivere crowed. “It didn’t work on you, but I’ll bet it works on the gryphon. In about two minutes, he’ll think he’s back in the War.” He laughed nastily. “Then we’ll see how far your love for the winged-devils really goes.”
Shit.
This was an amnesia potion? Trystan’s mind frantically worked as the magic began to take hold. If Bedivere was right… If he thought this was still the War… If he did not remember who the knight was to him…
“Trystan will know who I am, even under a spell.” Galahad scoffed.
Would he?
Trystan couldn’t be sure. The knight seemed unconcerned, even scornful, about Bedivere’s plan. But, Trystan was… scared. His head was already beginning to fog. He had asked Galahad for trust, but the knight now seemed to be giving him too much trust.
“He’ll murder you, you idiot!” Bedivere shrieked, like he was disappointed in Galahad’s calm reaction to his big plan. “He’ll only remember that he’s a gryphon and you’re a knight. Either you’ll kill him or he’ll kill you. And either way, you’ll fail! For once, you’ll finally fail!”
“Maybe I will fail one day. And maybe that’ll even be okay, because everyone fails sometimes. …But, right now,” Galahad shrugged, “I’m still on a winning streak, asshole.”
Galahad fired the gun directly into Bedivere’s chest, the force of it inadvertently knocking the man backwards a step. Bedivere balanced on the cliff’s edge for a timeless moment, grasping at air. Then, he tumbled backwards, slamming onto the solid surface of the Looking Glass Pool far below.
“Whoops.” Galahad muttered.
Trystan glanced downward and saw Bedivere’s carcass lying on the unforgiving silver mirror. Indisputably dead. He’d probably been in a coma from the sleeping sand before he made impact, which
was a better end than he’d deserved. The Looking Glass Pool slowly shifted beneath his body, sucking him under like it was devouring him and entombing his corpse forever.
“That wasn’t my fault.” Galahad defended, like Trystan had been arguing the fact. “That was gravity. It doesn’t count as me killing him.”
Despite everything, Trystan nearly smiled at that passionate assertion. The knight was coming around to his way of tallying dead bodies. “Fine.”
Galahad nodded, taking that as agreement. “So… is that the Looking Glass Pool.” He asked, peering over the cliff. “I didn’t expect it to look like that. Is it a rabbit hole, do you think?”
“I do not know.” And at the moment, he did not care. He was fast losing consciousness, still trying to fight the spell.
Galahad slowly shook his head, still looking down at the pool. “I think it’s enspelled water.” He decided. “Keeping out people who come looking for the graal for the wrong reasons. I think we could get through it. I think it would let us pass. The gryphons in my head think so, too.”
“No! Do not jump into that…” A sudden spasm overtook him and Trystan staggered to his knees. “P’don.”
“Trystan!” Galahad rushed to his side, seeing his genuine distress for the first time and forgetting about everything else. “Shit. Don’t struggle against the magic, you’ll just hurt yourself. Here. Let me help you up.”
“No.” Trystan tried to push him away, even as he collapsed to the ground. “Leave me in this place.” He ordered, weakly. “Hurry. The magic is strong and I cannot risk harming you.”
“You would never harm me.” Galahad reiterated with total faith. “I’m in your care, remember?” He knelt down beside him, refusing to flee. “You’re going to be okay. This spell is a pain in the ass, but it isn’t dangerous to either of us. It’ll fade. Don’t worry.”
Trystan was worried. Deeply, frantically worried. Under the very best of circumstances, he wasn’t sure that Galahad could defeat him in combat. They were too evenly matched. Under these circumstances, though, Trystan was positive that he’d triumph. There wasn’t even a doubt. Galahad would let him win, if that’s what it took to keep Trystan safe.
“If I think we are back in the War, I will not know any of my emotions for you.” He told Galahad, trying to make him see reality. “Whatever it takes, you must protect yourself from me. Even if it means killing me, you must do it.”
“I’m not going to kill you, Trystan. You know that.”
He did know it.
Shit.
“And you won’t kill me, even if you forget who I am.” Galahad soothed, seeing his panic. He ran a hand over Trystan’s hair. “You told me that yourself, back in the Fire Cave. You said that even if you’d captured me during the War, you would never have been able to torture me to death. You said you would have met me and been lost.”
“That is what I believe, but I cannot take a chance on…”
Galahad cut him off. “It’s going to be alright, then. If you’re confused for a minute, I’ll just reason with you.”
Trystan was more horrified than ever. “You will use reason?”
“Yeah. Once I talk to you, you’ll recognize me.” He sounded supremely confident in his plan, as he always did just before disaster struck. “The spell will be broken.”
“We do not know how this amnesia potion works. We do not know how deep it might go.” Trystan would never take such a risk with his ha’yan’s safety. “You must kill me now, before the magic fully takes hold.” He meant it with everything inside of him. His body was now too weak to move or he’d have done it himself. “I would always choose your life over mine, Galahad. Always.”
“I know you would. But I wouldn’t choose that life.” Galahad shook his head, his expression resolute and serene. Filled with unbreakable conviction in Trystan’s ability to know and protect him, even through a haze of magic. “I wouldn’t want a life, at all, without you.”
Trystan met Galahad’s trusting purple gaze, fear deeper then he’d felt since the zoo chilling him. It was no use. Galahad would never raise a sword against him, no matter what Trystan said or did. Trystan was going to chop the man in half within seconds, the way he had with countless knights during the War, and Galahad would just let him do it.
Trystan was about to murder his own mate.
“At least, shoot me with the sleeping sand gun.” He whispered, still trying to get through to him. “Please, knight. I do not care if it sends me into a coma. Please. I cannot lose you.”
“You won’t.” Galahad soothed. His lips brushed Trystan’s in a reassuring kiss. “I’ll think of something to get through to you and fix all of this. I promise. I’m great at improvising.”
Lyrssa fucking save them…
And after that, Trystan remembered no more.
***
“Trys?”
A voice filtered through his consciousness. A voice with a wingless accent.
“Trystan, can you hear me?”
Trystan opened his eyes and had no idea where he was. It looked like a basement of some sort. He blinked, pushing himself into a sitting position. How had he gotten here? The last thing he remembered was the Battle of Flags. Yes. That had been yesterday.
Hadn’t it?
He held his hands to his temples, trying to think through the pounding in his head. He wasn’t sure what was happening. He needed to… Trystan’s gaze fell on the knight, sitting a foot away from him. A man with shimmery hair and no wings.
His enemy.
“What the fuck…?” He was on his feet in less than a heartbeat, angry and confused. The gryphon battle mask descended on his face, obscuring his features with the misty profile of an eagle. “Do you think to capture me?” He reached for his axe and found it wasn’t there. Why was he unarmed, unless he’d been taken prisoner?
“No.” The man held up his palms, slowly getting to his feet. “I just want to talk to you.” There was a gun in his hand and the man deliberately tossed it over the edge of the cliff next to them. “I’m Galahad. Do you know me?”
Trystan frowned. This was Galahad of Camelot? Holy shit. He’d had no idea his greatest foe on the battlefield was so beautiful. “Yes, I know you.” He snapped, irritated that he’d even noticed. “You’re the imbecile who let us escape at Flags.”
Galahad smiled, as if the answer amused him. The brightness of it was like moonbeams shining down on a dark night. “That’s me.” He agreed. “I was demoted for what happened at Flags. That was a long time ago.”
“It was yesterday.” Why was the man lying?
And why had he tossed the gun away? It shot sleeping sand. Trystan wasn’t sure why he knew that, but he knew that. The knight could have used it on Trystan. Why hadn’t he?
It had to be a trick.
Suspicious and ready to fight, Trystan grabbed one of the spare swords lying on the floor of the cellar. It had apparently belonged to an immense knight in too-small armor, who was currently sleeping on the ground. Galahad’s handiwork. Why had the man incapacitated his own kind?
Not willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, Trystan swung the sword at Galahad, driving him back. “I don’t know what you’re plotting, but it will not work.”
Galahad stepped away, his hands still up. “You always think I’m plotting.” He complained, but he didn’t try to strike back with a weapon of his own, although a sword was strapped to his back. He also didn’t call for reinforcements or try to flee the room. He didn’t do anything a trained warrior would do. He was just trying to stay alive.
No one ever won a fight by just trying to stay alive. Surely the man knew that.
“You’re not going to survive this way.” Trystan warned. “I have been planning to kill you for a long time and I will take the opportunity now. Arm yourself.”
“No.” The knight said calmly.
Did he want to die? It made no sense. But then little the man did in combat ever made sense to Trystan. Galahad of Camelot was the on
ly wingless man Trystan had respect for as an opponent. He was unpredictable, but he did not cheat. He won through cunning and skill, not through slaughter. As much as he detested the knight, even Trystan saw his skill as a warrior. He could do far better than this showing, if he tried.
“Fight back.” Trystan ordered.
The asshole still didn’t make a single offensive move. “I’m not going to fight you.” He said, half-heartedly dodging a blow. “And you don’t want to fight me. You and I are on the same side.”
“Bullshit.” When had knights and gryphons ever been on the same side?
“It’s true.” The knight insisted. “Stop for a second and think. Try and see through the magic. You know who I really am, Trys.”
The shortening of his name triggered something in his head. A vision flashed through his mind of this man in firelight. Galahad’s hair shimmering gold, and his eyes sparkling blue, and he was laughing at something that Trystan had said. Laughing like he was having a good time, and wanted to be there, and cared for Trystan.
Also, he was naked.
P’don.
Trystan instinctively jerked back on his sword’s next swing. The blow went wide. Too wide. Just wide enough that another trained warrior should have been able to take advantage of the opening he left. This was the knight’s chance to win.
…Except Galahad didn’t move.
Trystan stood there, breathing hard, and met the man’s violet eyes. In his head, he suddenly heard voices whispering. Ban’s voice. Clear as it had been the last night he was alive, telling Trystan how to get home.
Purple is the path.
As insane as it was, the tip of Trystan’s sword dipped towards the ground.
“Let’s look at this reasonably.” Galahad suggested, like there wasn’t a life-and-death struggle happening between them. Like Trystan hadn’t just nearly beheaded him. Like this was all going to be easy to resolve, if they just talked it out and hugged or some shit. “I’m great at using reason.”
“You are?” He doubted that.
“Not usually, no.” The knight said honestly. “But I know it’ll work this time.”
“Why’s that?”
Best Knight Ever (A Kinda Fairytale Book 4) Page 49