Galahad had always been asked why he took residence among the commoner districts of Cauróst, rather than a dignified spire overlooking the citadel.
What he typically told people in response was a sorry front of humility, that he felt no calling to the illustrious manors of aristocrats or luxuries of sovereigns, but in reality the city simply lacked the funding during its construction. He worked closely with the architects and engineers during that time, and though some avaricious part of him secretly wished for luxuries and opulence, they were constrained by various logistical challenges along the way that prevented his more viceful inclinations. It was misleading at best, two-faced at worst, but he never lied to be deliberately deceptive of his intentions. Some part of him just felt better when he convinced himself he can settle for simple, ordinary things in life, even if he knows that to not be the case. He was always a dreamer, always looking towards the horizon.
But he didn't dream tonight. Slumber was as welcome to him as it was to any other elvish justiciar or diplomat, but he never felt more restless than he did now. The sun had set long ago, replaced by a silvery crescent moon on an onyx canvas of stars, whose light shafted through a window at just the right angle, just right enough to catch his eyes and keep his quarters illuminated. He tossed a blanket over his head hours before, but something else yet kept him awake. His mind weighed heavily on him.
He quietly crept downstairs, mindful not to rouse Carys from her sleep elsewhere in the house, and slipped outside. The door clicked shut.
While the streets are empty during these hours, otherwise mingled with citygoers and sparsely seen wayfarers, the distant call of tree frogs and insects create a backdrop of croaking and pulsating chirps instead, harmonious and reverberating throughout the valley woodland. It complimented the rest of the city nicely, the way its spires and pointed rooftops glimmer against the ink-pooled sky and cast a glow upon the lake it watched over.
Galahad had half the thought to leave his window open and let the forest sounds lull him to sleep, but he already set foot out the door.
Sometimes his walks took him to the outskirts of the city, across the thicket near the illuminated lake water, while other times he ended up back in the same place he started. But tonight, as with so many, he walked without destination. He had always praised those of a free-spirited lifestyle, people who went with the wind and needed nobody but themselves to guide, nor highborn nobles or providential rulers to hold them down.
But he always felt an obligation. Sometimes it would be for things he didn’t even have, even in the absence of written responsibility. His brother Rúmil always acknowledged that he possessed a stalwart sense of duty and guided heart, but it was never something he heard from him directly. Often, the appraisal came through their shared peers, always from a third-party. Though part of Galahad might have been bitterly offended that his brother wouldn’t deign to simply tell him how he felt, the other part of him is just a touch more appreciative knowing he just did it when he wasn’t looking anyway. Stubborn bastard.
Eventually, the sky became blocked by a low-hanging shroud of trees that encircled the city’s glade as he moved along, and among their branches, lanterns of woven elvish metalwork dangle, flickering with light that casted a warm air over the periphery. He followed its path inward, eyeing various statues of marble as he passed, and came to a stop. Ahead, a figure wordlessly brushes debris clean of one of the garden’s many marble statues with a cloth and some sort of paste.
Upon a closer glimpse, a weak smile touches Galahad’s features.
“What’s young Prince Rúmil doing out here so late at night?” he taunts.
The figure turned with a mild jump. A pale elven man not dissimilar to Galahad’s complexion, whose skin is fair, but of a faint bronze undertone, and hair that of a silvery sheen that catches the light of the glade nicely. Short, and lightly waved. He dons deep burgundy vestments, cuffs of the sleeves only slightly frayed from age.
“Me? Look who finally emerged from his looming tree to mingle with the lowly commoners like me.” Rúmil retorted, vaguely gesturing towards him as he brushed his hands over with the cloth.
His eyes met Galahad as they always had. Young, brash, and full of untamed spirit. It wasn’t particularly unlike Rúmil to set forth on his own journeys, his heart was without borders, and one that yearned to face the unknown. In their early years of adulthood, it wasn’t uncommon for him to vanish without notice for days on end, much to the displeasure of their mother, father, and sister. But Galahad believed were he to stifle his limitless wanderlust, too would it stifle his goodhearted nature. So he begrudgingly played along with his brother’s antics. He had learned to chase horizons as well, to become the zealous visionary he had always hoped his father would take pride in.
But as Galahad’s dreams each grew more vivid and lucid than the last, he noticed Rúmil struggling to keep up at times. He didn’t move at Galahad’s pace, even though it was clear that he wished to at times. One of them raised banners, while the other stood in its shadow. Self-eating comparison and guilt worked its course from there.
There were times in their youth where Galahad felt he’d have to choose between staying by his brother’s side, or the future that awaited him. Although his obligations called to him and eventually guided him towards duty and policy, he promised himself that he’d one day choose Rúmil instead.
“Alright, you got me,” Galahad raised his palms in mock-surrender as he sauntered forth, lightly clasping Rúmil’s shoulder as he gazed upon the statue he previously cleaned. “Why are you out here?”
“I couldn’t sleep. Same as you, I’d guess.” murmurs Rúmil, whose eyes met the same.
“So you came to do the labor work of the garden keepers?”
“It’s dad’s tribute.”
“I know, but—”
“And I did a great job.”
“Oh, don’t get carried away.”
Rúmil smacked the back of his fist into Galahad’s shoulder, but regarded him with a visibly humored grin. He moved on afterward, motioning the older brother along and out of the glade. “Come on, let’s go for a walk.”
Galahad smiled towards Rúmil’s back before he followed.
They walk one of the beaten down paths on the outskirts of the city, one that follows the thicket of the lake it sat on. The water catches the light of the radiant spires upon the rooftop of each building, illuminating the surrounding land just enough for them to navigate as they pass through the shadows of birch trees that parted the path from the lake.
As they walked, their conversation became more and more superficial. Small talk. Although Galahad had mastered the art of pleasantries, especially when demanded of it so often in formal or social settings, it was never something he particularly cared for, and in truth he didn’t know anybody who did. But he’d always listen to Rúmil.
He'd like to, at least. It was difficult to keep his mind from wandering, and part of him felt like it hadn't stopped racing since today's trial. The crowds themselves weren't what startled him, no matter how many eyes were on him, it was the expectation that demanded he meet some sort of standard. In the past, it could be forgiven— he was a boy and his mistakes could be attributed to brash immaturity and arrogance— but not anymore.
“Hey, Gale? Did you hear me?”
Realizing he had hardly heard of what his brother was saying, Galahad shook his head. “No, sorry. Lost my train of thought.”
“What's on your mind?”
“Not much.”
“Come on, yes there is.”
There weren't many things Galahad could get past Rúmil. Although there were certainly times he wished he could, maybe it was for his own good that wasn't always the case.
“I lost a friend today. Haraldr. You knew him.”
He could see in his peripheral how Rúmil's features softened as he watched the path they followed. Haraldr was a friend to him as well, but to what extent Galahad wasn’t sure. It’s part of the reason he hesitated for as long as he did to share his passing, even if only a few hours had gone by since finding out.
The last time he told Rúmil they had lost someone was when their mother vanished, many years ago. At the time, the guilty part of him felt it was the least he could do to cauterize the wound he had created among their family. Other times, he’d try to convince himself that what occurred that night wasn’t his doing. But how is a mere boy supposed to rationalize such a thing when everything leading up to that point indicated otherwise?
In their teenage years, their fights became less childishly trivial, and more pointedly-bitter towards one another. They never used to end the day mad at one another, but there were times where their arguments lingered into the next morning, unspoken, but the animosity felt like it poisoned the air at times. He often failed to discern if Rúmil’s wrath was pointed towards him, or if he was just justifiably hurt.
Galahad never told Nefeli any of this, of course. He told her what he said to his mother, but not the aftermath. Not the following days in their household, what was arguably one of the most difficult points of his life, because he could never come to terms with the guilt he felt. He kept that part close to his chest, where his heart hurt most.
“Oh.” Rúmil eventually says. Somberness weighs his eyes and weakens his voice. “Really?” he asks of Galahad, looking his way.
Galahad nodded.
“I’m sorry. You knew him better than I did.”
“I just thought you should know.”
One morning, Rúmil too had disappeared when their animosity towards one another reached what felt like its boiling point the night prior. What he left behind was a terse, few-lined note on his bed that denoted no destination, and no why. Only that, one day, he would return. Galahad understood why Rúmil left; though he couldn’t bear it at the time, he doesn’t blame him anymore, knowing full well had wanted to leave too.
But had he left, he believed the heartache too would have killed their father. So he stayed, and he pursued better things, perhaps with the fleeting hope that what he’d one day accomplish would make things better.
Even if just a little bit.