A/N: Wow, I can't believe it's been almost two years since I updated this collection. It's been a crazy two years too, guys, lemme just say. But now I'm back! I'm hoping to update Many Returns soon as well. Anyways, I had the idea for this little piece late last night when I should definitely have been sleeping, and it just kept nagging at me, so I just had to write it.

I know that in like the first chapter/story of The Stories We Haven't Heard, I said that they wouldn't intersect with my other KA fics, but this one MOST DEFINITELY does. It occurs during Chapter 7 of Meeting, but I really don't think you'd have to have read Meeting to follow this. The only reason I set it during that time is because I've had Meeting written literally for three years, and in my headcanon/storyline, it takes place just about a year before the film, and since part of my inspiration for this little bit was "one more year", I just set it in the same story.

Anyways (now that my A/N is longer than the story), I hope you enjoy! Feel free to leave a review if you'd like, to let me know what you thought-or just to say hi!

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1: Gawain.

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The worst part about being here was forgetting. After so many years in Britain, Sarmatia was little more than a distant memory, a place that he had once lived instead of the home that he'd been fighting for so long to get back to. And that memory was fading.

Once, he had been able to recall everything with perfect clarity. His mother's face, the sound of her voice, the smell of her skin, the brush of her hair and lips against his skin when she kissed his forehead before tucking him in at night; every nook and cranny of their small home, the comfort of his thin mattress after a long day working in the fields beside his mother; the long plains of grass that stretched as far as the eye could see in every direction around his village, the way the wind swept waves through the grass as it billowed in warning of an approaching storm.

Now, her face was a blurred shape in his mind's eye. He could no longer remember her voice, and the only kisses he knew where those of the girls in the tavern back home. He remembered the rough shape of his childhood home, but nothing more; it was hardly any more solid of a shape than his mother's face. He remembered the grass—or at least, he thought he did. But he could just as easily have been picturing the much smaller fields of grass and reeds that informed travelers on the island that they were nearing the coast.

Galahad looked up at the storm clouds above him as fat flakes of snow began to fall ever so slowly around them. He didn't remember snow falling in Sarmatia, although Bors and Lancelot insisted that it had, and often, in the winters. He tried to imagine the great grass plains covered in snow, but all he could picture was forests blanketed in wet, heavy snow that coated the tree branches and brought them crashing to the ground without warning. Absentmindedly, he brushed snow that was gathering on his thighs off as it began to melt through his clothes, the cold and damp bringing him out of his reverie.

"Where were you?" Gawain asked softly. Galahad glanced to the side to see that Gawain had opened the blanket Dagonet had pinned over the wagon's open side to keep its occupants warm and dry. Beside Gawain, deeper in the wagon's dark interior and covered in a pile of blankets, Galahad could see his friend's companion, a small, sick girl; she was leaned up against Gawain's side, his arm around her for extra warmth, and stared at Galahad with wide, sunken brown eyes.

"Sarmatia," Galahad replied wistfully.

Gawain's lips quirked into a ghost of a smile. "Trying to picture snow on the plains?"

"Yeah," Galahad admitted, laughing.

"No matter how hard I try, I just can't," Gawain sighed, leaning further out of the wagon to look up at the dark clouds. "It almost seems unnatural. The only place I can picture snow is on the trees of this damn island."

Galahad nodded in agreement. "I know that Bors and Lancelot say that it snowed in Sarmatia all the time in the winter, but I just can't see it."

Gawain nodded but remained silent. They lapsed back into silence, the snowflakes beginning to fall more heavily around them.

"One more year," Galahad said suddenly, many moments later.

"Hm?" Gawain turned back to his friend, having drifted off on another train of thought.

"In one more year, we'll see snow in Sarmatia," Galahad said determinedly.

Gawain smiled. "Probably more like two, until we get our papers and actually make it back to the plains. And then we'll have to actually wait until winter. But it's not long now."

"Not as long as it used to be," Galahad agreed. Silence fell again until a call from Arthur near the front of the caravan summoned Galahad. He left his friend and their silent companion in the wagon with an apologetic glance and rode forwards, leaving thoughts of Sarmatia and snow-covered grasslands behind him.

One more year he promised himself. In one more year, I'll be going home.