Chapter 2: The Bears

Today is a beautiful day, one of the first after the frost has melted from the ground, leaving the dregs of winter behind, and Galahad is relieved to be out-of-doors. The air in the manor was beginning to feel stale. All winter long, he imagined he could smell the sweat of those around him, everyone huddled round the fire at night, hoping for spring. It was enough to drive a person mad.

Now that spring has finally arrived, he and Iseult are headed for the woods to see if the animals have begun to emerge from their slumber. They’re both in good humor when they come upon Tristan at the edge of the manor grounds, where their father’s holding meets the forest.

Tristan is dressed for warm weather, arms bare despite the chill still clinging in the air. The corded muscles of his arms flex as he cleans and oils a sword with slow, methodical strokes—a real sword, Galahad notices, not one of the wooden practice swords he’s seen other boys their age using. Tristan hums a tune to himself, something haunting and strange that feels like a dagger in Galahad’s heart.

He looks up at their approach, although Galahad would have sworn he could not hear them. Their kidskin boots make hardly any noise at all against the soft-packed earth.

He smiles at them. “Well met, Lord Galahad. Lady Iseult.”

Iseult wrinkles her nose. “Don’t use our titles. It’s stuffy. We’re all of an age, besides.”

Tristan’s smile deepens, crinkling the corners of his eyes, and he nods. “As you say.”

“What are you doing outside?” Galahad asks. “The men usually tend their weapons in the barracks or the armory. Why don’t you?”

The question comes out rude in a way he doesn’t intend—even Galahad can hear it—but Tristan takes no offense.

“I’m outside for the same reason you are, I’d wager. It seems a shame to waste such a lovely day. I prefer the outdoors. I begin to feel stir-crazy cooped up inside for too long. It makes winter a trial.”

“Fresh air is a balm,” Iseult agrees, “And the first air of spring more than any other.”

Tristan inclines his head to her. “Wise beyond your years.”

Galahad dislikes Tristan instantly, although there’s no mockery in his tone. Iseult smiles, flush with pleasure, and Galahad dislikes him still more.

“Come play with us, Tristan,” she says in her sweet, lilting voice.

“I’m sure he’s busy,” Galahad says, already trying to steer her away. “Let’s leave him to his task.”

“I’m not,” Tristan says, sheathing his gleaming sword as if to prove his point. He bows first to Iseult and then to Galahad, courtly as anything. It should be a ridiculous gesture on a boy his age, but it makes Galahad’s cheeks heat all the same. “I would be honored to accompany you. If you don’t mind.” That last is addressed to Galahad.

Tristan watches him, something like hesitance in his face.

At last Galahad nods, but not before looking away. “Do as you like.”

“I shall,” Tristan says brightly.

Galahad expects that Tristan will lead them into the forest. He’s surprised when Tristan falls in behind Iseult as comfortably as he. He asks no questions about where they’re going or what they’re doing, seemingly content to go where they lead.

Galahad recognizes the trail Iseult leads them down, feeling a slight smugness at the fact that Tristan does not—that he alone is following blind. There are cloth strips tied here and there around saplings on the trail—some placed by he and Iseult, made from the fabric mother could spare; some tied by hands unknown, others who walked these paths before their time.

He and Iseult have often made up stories of forest sprites, of gods and goddesses who must inhabit these woods. He likes to imagine such fey creatures left these markers just for them.

He touches an older cloth, one made of roughspun that gleams oddly in the light. He fingers the edge of it and jealously hordes his thoughts to himself. He consoles himself that Iseult’s smiles may be for Tristan, but his innermost thoughts are not.

Though the path they tread is familiar to Galahad, their destination is not, for they walk further than they’ve gone before. Perhaps Tristan’s presence makes Iseult brave, or perhaps she’s caught up in the sunlight, dazzled by the beauty around them. Either way, she leads them on.

They walk deeper into the woods until Galahad’s legs begin to ache with the first sign of fatigue and his belly begins to rumble. The woods themselves begin to look altogether unfamiliar. It happens so gradually that Galahad can’t pinpoint the moment when it occurs. He just suddenly looks up and recognizes none of the cloth lining the path—surely none of the flags waving in the breeze were ever part of their mother’s dresses, nor the noblewomen’s, nor even the servants of the manor.

Though the sun shines bright overhead, a deep chill passes through him.

Galahad thinks of calling out to Iseult who wanders before him, but he looks behind at Tristan, who gives him a quizzical look. He would not have Tristan believe that they have lost their way, so he says nothing. Before them, Iseult sings softly to herself, the same lullaby that keeps them company at night.

There comes a time when he’s ready to call a halt no matter what Tristan thinks, when they’ve gone so far into the forest that he worries they may not find their way out again. He opens his mouth to ask to turn back, but before he can draw breath to speak, Iseult gasps.

Galahad’s heart leaps into his throat, and he runs forward to see what the matter is. He finds not danger, but wonder there. The trees thin, and the woods open up into a clearing that Galahad has never seen before. It looks like something out of a tapestry, the whole world painted with colors more vivid than he’s ever seen.

Without the cover of trees, sunlight streams down upon a carpet of grass in thick, warm sheets that chase away the last of winter’s chill. At the center of the glade is a clear, blue pond bordered by rushes, glittering as a gem.

“Would you like to go exploring?” Tristan asks beside him.

The words bring Galahad back to himself. He’s nettled by the implication that he requires either Tristan’s permission or encouragement to explore the glade with his sister—his sister, who’s nowhere to be found. In the time he’s been transfixed by the sight before him, Iseult has already made it halfway to the water’s edge, and Tristan alone has stayed behind.

Galahad doesn’t dignify Tristan’s question with an answer. He strides forward without a word, going to meet Iseult at the edge of the pond without turning back to see if Tristan has followed him.

“It’s beautiful,” she says as soon as Galahad draws even with her.

“More than words,” he agrees. He’s soothed by her presence, her solid calm beside him.

“Why are you so cruel to Tristan?” she asks, cocking her head and studying Galahad with clear blue eyes that seem to reflect the light of the pond.

“I’m not,” he says, shaking his head. “Not cruel. Be fair, sister.”

“Not cruel,” she agrees, thoughtful. “But not kind either. Does he bother you so?”

“Yes,” Galahad says mulishly.

Iseult turns back to watch the water, crouching to the ground to trail her fingers in its depths. It looks like glass. “Tristan is kind.” She looks up at Galahad and smiles. “As are you. The two of you should get along.”

Galahad tips his face up to the sun, letting its warmth carry his cares away. He doesn’t have the words for why he dislikes Tristan’s company, why he’d prefer to stay as far from him as possible. He doesn’t answer, and Iseult doesn’t press. She’s keen that way.

Still, the pleasure of basking in the sun’s glow can’t sustain him forever, and he grows restless before Iseult does. She hums to herself, gazing out on the water when Galahad’s eyes start to wander. He seeks out Tristan despite himself, realizing he hasn’t heard a sound from the other boy since they arrived.

He spots him at the very edge of the glade, crouched at the foot of a tree, studying the earth. Galahad sneers to see it, for Tristan looks foolish indeed. He turns to Iseult, expecting her to share in his joke at Tristan’s expense, but she rolls her eyes.

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“Be nice. For me, if nothing else.”

He nods, grudgingly. “For you.”

Tristan still hasn’t moved. His attention remains fixed on something at the foot of the tree, and Galahad studies the line of his back, frowning. In time, his curiosity gets the better of him. He takes one last look at Iseult, who is occupied with the water still—with thoughts of her own and too busy for him—and leaves her to it.

He goes to find Tristan kneeling at the base of a great pine tree and gasps when he sees the reason why. Two bear cubs blunder around the roots, clothed in black fur dusted with loam. They snuffle at the ground and totter drunkenly, seemingly unconcerned with the humans in their midst. He’s never seen a bear so close, and never one so young.

He gasps when one comes up to sniff Tristan’s hand, bold as anything. From his vantage point, Galahad can see a wide grin split Tristan’s face—the only move he makes, the rest of his body still perfectly still. He wonders that the cubs are so brave.

“Come,” Tristan says after a time, voice pitched low so as not to scare the animals. “Come and see.”

Iseult has come to see what they’re staring at, finally finished communing with the water. She hangs back, even as Galahad creeps forward, as silent as he knows how. He draws even with Tristan before kneeling beside him, extending a cautious hand. One of the cubs sniffs it before giving him a lick with a smooth, wet tongue.

He lets out a soft laugh of surprised pleasure. Emboldened, he reaches out and pets a hand over the bear’s downy fur, transfixed. It’s just as soft as he imagined.

“Brother,” Iseult calls after a time, careful lest she startle the animals. “I don’t like this. We should go.”

Galahad sees the sense in it. Even he knows that a mother bear is never far from her child, and they’d do well to be nowhere near when she returns. Still, he’s loathe to leave this moment that seems so magical and fine, cast in crystalline clarity.

“We should,” Tristan agrees quietly. Even so, he doesn’t move until Galahad does, until Galahad sighs and gets to his feet, backing away from the little den as quietly as he’s able. Tristan follows on silent feet, moving quickly without making a sound.

By unspoken consensus, they don’t speak until they’re away from the little glade. Galahad thinks that perhaps Tristan and Iseult are too awed by what has just befallen them to utter a word, just as he is.

In the end, he breaks the silence first. “That was amazing.”

“Yes,” Iseult agrees.

When Tristan smiles, his face looks like the sun. “It truly was.”

Although they don’t speak again, the walk back is easier than the trek into the forest. The mood between them feels easy and light. It’s as though a weight as been lifted.

The easy mood lasts only as long as it takes them to reach their father’s manor. As soon as the great stone building heaves into sight, Galahad remembers himself once more. He expects they’ll part ways with Tristan at the edge of the forest, as though Tristan were a fixture of the estate to be left right where they found him. The foolishness of the thought doesn’t occur to him.

Instead, Tristan walks them as far as the manor itself, pausing only when they reach its doors. He places a hand on Galahad’s arm, and Galahad starts at the unexpected touch.

“That was brave of you to approach that bear,” Tristan says with a solemnity that makes Galahad feel like squirming.

He wants to smile and shove Tristan away all at the same time. He splits the difference with his words.

“It was just a cub,” he says, embarrassed at how petulant he sounds, how childish. “And anyway, you did it first.”

“Does one brave act diminish another?” Tristan asks.

Galahad’s mouth opens. He gapes like a fish for a long moments before Tristan breaks the ice, tugging on one of his curls.

“Cat got your tongue?”

Galahad’s tongue, ever sharp, ever ready with a clever retort, has again been stilled by Tristan’s openness, his utter lack of guile.

“Why do you do that?” he asks, frustrated.

“Do what?” Tristan tilts his head, pale eyebrows coming together in genuine confusion.

Galahad has never noticed how beautiful Tristan is until just this moment with the sun slanting through the trees, painting his face golden. The feeling hits him with a severity that makes him feel sick. Now he does shove Tristan away, pushing him aside in his haste to escape, no thought in his head save running from his presence—his kind smile, his knowing eyes.

Galahad turns and bolts into the manor proper.

Iseult is left staring at his retreat, she and Tristan both, but Galahad doesn’t stop to consider it. He can’t. The door bangs shut behind him as he runs down the hall, launching himself up the stairs as fast as his legs will carry him. He nearly careens into a maid in his haste, who gasps, stepping aside and flattening herself against the wall. Galahad pays her no mind, not even slowing to apologize.

He doesn’t stop until he reaches the safety of the room he shares with Iseult. He throws himself onto the bed, collapsing face first onto the downy mattress. He takes his pillow and claws his hands into it, pressing it to his face and mashing his nose into its comforting softness. He rubs his cheek against it aimlessly, until his pounding heart slows and his breath stops stuttering forth in quick, desperate huffs.

He’s not sure how long he lies there, eyes shut tight to block out the rest of the world. If only the darkness behind his lids could block out the unsettled feeling roiling in his gut as well.

Iseult’s arrival is heralded by the soft sound of the door opening. Galahad doesn’t bother looking up from his pillow. He only curls in on it and tucks himself away more firmly, keeping his back to the door.

“Is something the matter?” Iseult asks. “We were worried when you ran.”

Her words rattle loose a mulish snort. “We?”

“Of course. Tristan and I were both concerned.” He feels her sit on the bed, although she stops short of touching him. “Are you all right?”

Galahad grunts, pulling further away, but Iseult is more patient than he, and they both know it. She waits him out, humming the soft melody they made up when they were babes. He sighs at last, uncurling and flopping onto his back with arms outstretched, ungainly as a starfish.

“I don’t like Tristan,” he says at last, turning to look at her.

Iseult’s mouth quirks up at the corner, a sad smile that looks like a stain on her normally happy face. “I know, dear brother. But I do. Will you try to bear his company, for me?”

Galahad looks up into her face, a mirror image of his own. Her liquid blue eyes are beseeching, so full of hope. At last he nods. “Yes, sister. For you.”

Iseult bends and kisses him on the cheek. She squeezes his shoulder. “Thank you.”

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