While it wasn’t his favourite thing to do, taking his turn to keep watch during the night has always served to calm Galahad. Probably because it is the one time where the rest of the knights are finally quiet enough to grant him a few hours of peace with his thoughts.
Well, relatively quiet. The occasional snore or muffled conversation still manage to reach him but it’s better than the constant, raucous laughter and shouts that they are prone to during the day.
Himself included, certain other knights excluded.
Propping his back up against the strong bark of the tree behind him, Galahad slips his knife from its sheath and begins to idly carve patterns into the dirt to give himself something to do while his eyes darted around the clearing.
Of course, his mind isn’t always the most pleasant of places to be. He has the tendency of allowing it to wander to the ever-present, yet always just out of reach, promise of freedom. The snort that leaves him is bitterly amused.
Fifteen years of service to the Romans, then they would be free. But the question is whether they will know what to do once given their long-desired freedom. Will they be able to go back to their families? Their families who were most likely dead.
He’s prepared for the flare of anger that accompanies the thought but still drives his knife into the soil to quell it. Oh, how he wants this mission to be over, to be nothing but a memory. A bloody, battle-worn memory that comprises most of his life, shoved into the corner.