A/N: Hello! This is chapter 1 of the first of three (for the moment) fics set in the King Arthur universe. I currently have this entire fic written, but parts of it need to be reworked, so I'll have to do that...

If you enjoy this fic, I encourage you to check out "The Stories We Haven't Heard", which is also set in the King Arthur universe and contains/will contain (mostly) oneshots set from the time of the knights' conscription up until the movie. Thank you!

Disclaimer: I own nothing from the movie, only the story itself and any OCs.

.*.*.*.*.*.

"Ugh!" Gawain groaned loudly, shaking water from his shoulder-length bronze curls as he stepped inside.

"Do that again and I'll cut your hair off in your sleep," Tristan muttered darkly.

Gawain ignored the dark-haired scout and stomped over to the fire. He squeezed himself between Galahad and Lancelot, both of whom hurriedly made room for him when they caught a whiff of the smell of rain, sweat, horse, and blood that wafted off of him.

"You reek," Galahad wrinkled his nose, leaning away from his friend.

"I hate this island," Gawain growled, sticking his hands towards the fire to warm them. He slowly started to steam dry in the heat from the flame in front of him.

"Doesn't everyone?" Lancelot teased.

"Doesn't everyone stink or hate this island?" Tristan muttered, unheard by the other knights.

"On the bright side, we've got less than a year left here," Galahad pointed out optimistically.

"Ten months," Tristan put in. The four knights sat in silence around their fire, burning in a fireplace in the entryway of the knights' barracks. It was the warmest place in the building during the colder months, as their own rooms had no place for a fire to burn, and the knights tended to congregate there on the rare occasion they had nothing else to do and weren't in the tavern.

After a few moments of silence, Lancelot spoke again: "If you really want to look at the bright side, none of the rest of us smell like Gawain. I think that's the greatest blessing any of us could ask for."

Gawain glared over at the dark-haired young man beside him. He swung an elbow into Lancelot's ribs before getting up and stalking out of the room. The effect of his angry exit was lessened considerably by the squeaking of his wet boots and the dripping of his cloak.

.*.*.*.*.*.

The next morning, Gawain woke to a pounding on his door. He sat up, rubbing his eyes and staring blearily at the door as it swung open and Lancelot swaggered in.

"Good morning!" Lancelot sang out, making Gawain wince at the volume.

"Go away," Gawain growled, flopping backwards and pulling his blankets up over his head.

"Can't," Lancelot teased, pulling the blankets away and heaving Gawain out of bed. "Arthur's called a round table meeting in two hours. You need a bath before then."

"I do not," Gawain grumbled, eyeing his weapons where he had set them the night before, but Lancelot had wisely dragged him in the opposite direction from them.

"Trust me, if you could smell yourself, you'd agree with me," Lancelot grunted as he shoved Gawain into the hallway.

Gawain opened his mouth to retort, but choked and sputtered as he was drenched in a bucket of ice-cold water, flung over him by a cheekily-grinning Galahad. With a growl, he launched himself at the smirking knight, but the smaller man easily dodged the sloppy tackle and took off running down the hallway. Gawain followed, ignoring the fact that he was barefoot and dressed only in the trousers he'd hastily thrown on before going to bed the night before. The two tore through the hallways of the barracks, shouting insults, threats, and taunts back and forth.

They stopped short as a door in front of them flew open and a tower of brawn and muscle stepped out into the hallway. "Enough!" Bors bellowed at them, his glare sending them flying back the way they came.

Giving up his battle, Gawain gathered his things and headed for the Roman bathhouse near the barracks. The baths, in his opinion, were one of the few good things the Romans brought with them. He avoided the other occupants as he stripped, washed, rinsed, and redressed, mindful of the time. He hurried back to his room to strap his weapons and light armor on before heading for the meeting hall. He met Tristan on the way there, and the two nodded to one another before continuing side-by-side in silence. They entered together, the last to arrive, and took their seats at Arthur's round table. Their half-Roman commander eyed them, an air of disappointment about him, but did not comment on their tardiness.

"Knights," Arthur nodded to the six rag-tag men seated around his table. "Good morning."

"Good morning," Lancelot replied saucily. "Hope you slept well."

Arthur sent his second in command a look that informed Lancelot that the commander would be taking no attitude from him that day. "Rome has sent us a new mission," Arthur continued. "We will be escorting a Roman family from their estate near here to the coast of Britain."

"Another one?" Bors commented. "That'll be the, what, fifth one we've had in as many months?"

"Third in sixth months," Gawain corrected, prompting an eye-roll from Bors.

"Whatever," the older knight grumbled. "Why are all the Romans leaving?"

"That is not our concern," Arthur replied. "Our concern is our mission: getting them safely through Britain. We leave in an hour."

With that, they were dismissed. Wordlessly, the knights stood and filed from the room to prepare for the mission. They met again in the stables not long after, preparing their horses for the journey ahead.

Gawain stroked his horse's flank. The beast was tired from their ride the night before, he could tell, but would bear him for the coming quest.

"Oi, little one!" Bors called and Gawain scowled at the childhood nickname. He was the youngest of the knights and always had been, having only been ten years old when the Romans stole him from his home and family. Galahad was the next oldest of the surviving knights, two years older than Gawain. For most of their lives, Gawain had been small and decidedly less than strong, but a few years ago he had grown suddenly. Now, he was as tall as Lancelot and Bors, and taller and easily stronger than Galahad. While Gawain sprouted, however, Galahad had not grown quickly at all. He was still slight and thin, the smallest of the knights, and remained incapable of growing a proper beard. This made Gawain look several years his senior, which irked him to no end.

"I'm not so little anymore," Gawain retorted, as he had every time Bors had called him 'little' over the past several years.

"Little enough," Bors taunted as he led his horse from the stables.

"He meant to ask if you're sure Gringolet can make the journey," Dagonet, the tallest, biggest, and quietest of the knights, stopped by Gawain and the big grey and white dappled horse.

"Yes," Gawain nodded firmly. "He'll carry me fine."

Dagonet nodded and continued from the stables after Bors. Lancelot went next, followed by Tristan, and finally Gawain. Arthur and Galahad already waited in the courtyard with their horses, Arthur imparting a few last-minute instructions to Jols, his steward, and the captain of the Roman guard. The two men nodded to Arthur and headed in opposite directions.

Arthur glanced around at his knights and wordlessly mounted his horse. The knights followed suit, and, at Arthur's command, rode out from the fort.