Author's note: Have pity on me for this is the first King Arthur fic I've come up with. Some things may not be accurate historically, but then again that goes for the movie as well. After all, though, it is fanfiction and writing about Tristan is the pleasure of it all.
Before I finish my babbling, though, I want to give a HUGE and heartfelt thanks to Solain Rhyo for helping me work some stuff out with the plot line and reading the first chapter to see how much it sucked. She's such a wonderful person and I thank her for putting up with me and my questions.
Alright, enough of this….go read :) And yes, the title stinks, but that's the only thing I could come up with right now.
Silent Knight
I
The rain was blinding. It pierced each man's face as they rode towards the southwest in search of a Roman army in need of help. According to a soldier that barely escaped with his life, having been struck by two arrows in the shoulder during his retreat, the army had been ambushed by a large group of Woads, the natives of the land. These people—these painted peoples—hated Rome and anything that was even in the least bit connected. Whenever they had a chance they'd fight for the freedom they felt belonged to them, for the island they dwelt on was Briton territory the Romans decided to venture into and claim for themselves.
No one quite understood the Woads except that they were a Pagan tribal nation. They were feared by the common peasant and hated by everyone. Roman soldiers found them annoying and would send out any available man to shoot down any single person that crossed the boundary created by a seventy-two mile wall with the name of Hadrian.
And like almost every other time, the job was given to a group of non-Roman knights that served the vast empire after their fathers were forced into an agreement to loan the empire their sons in return for their families' lives. These knights, known as the Sarmatian knights from the land they came from, rode under their commander Artorius Castus, whom they called Arthur.
The riding conditions weren't unusual. In fact, it would be most peculiar if it didn't rain—it hadn't for almost a good week. Briton was cursed in that sense for when it wasn't giving off some sort of precipitation it was foggy and miserably damp. But the knights rode forth away from the hidden sun, their leader at the head of the pack upon his white stallion. The seven others following galloped close behind, ready for any unexpected appearance of the enemy.
But their luck held out and they didn't have to stop during the time while the sun kept high in the sky. By dusk, however, they had each grown tired and needed a chance to stretch their legs and rest with food until the next morning when they'd be on their horses again by sunrise. Arthur chose a spot near a small cluster of trees and dismounted, his knights following suit.
The rain lightened up only a little, which made for a hard time making a campfire under the leafy canopy. If it hadn't been that none of them had eaten since their departure, they would've skipped the food and gone straight to sleep. The tallest of the knights, Dagonet, managed to spark a flame and a fire struggled to keep itself ablaze while he and his closest friend Bors cooked a good hunk of the meat they brought on the trip. Off to the side, Arthur's bondservant, Jols, was tending to the horses. Jols wasn't a knight, but he fit into their 'family' just the same.
Four of the knights, Lancelot, Gawain, Erec and Galahad, settled themselves down in a spot under a large tree, their clothes being kept fairly mud-free from the armor they wore. They made mild conversation while they each drank their small supply of wine. Lancelot entertained them with a story of a charming young woman he had met in the town they lived in, a small town inside a fort next to Hadrian's Wall headed by the Roman military. The others listened intently, throwing out jokes here and there.
The one knight that chose to keep to him self this time was known as Tristan, a quiet warrior that found peace in his own silence and usually traveled ahead of the others to scope out any potential danger. He enjoyed his job; scouting was his preferred way of journeying and killing was not a crime, but an art that he enjoyed practicing.
Standing alone, away from the semi-protection of the rain provided by the arms of the trees, Tristan popped a few berries into his mouth, chewing them slowly as he gazed out at the wet and darkening land in front of him. Although the sun had recently disappeared behind the horizon, he saw that the clouds were breaking up far in the east and a smooth sky struggled to keep them away. The water from the rain dripped down his face and nestled into his short brown beard. Long wisps of his bangs hung over his eyes, but he didn't care. If he had he would've cut it shorter like Arthur, Lancelot and Galahad had chosen; or he could've shaved his head completely like Bors and Dagonet, but he found that much too extreme.
He gave no motion of alarm when Arthur joined at his side and gazed out into the distant land. Tristan kept his gaze in the same direction, giving no acknowledgement to his friend's appearance.
"Those clouds are breaking up in the east," Arthur pointed out, although Tristan could tell by the sound of his voice that he wasn't the first to see this. "We should have a clear ride tomorrow."
Tristan gave only a short nod and finished his handful of berries. He ran his thumb and fingers down the side lengths of his beard and looked up at the rain coming down. Arthur had seen that Tristan wasn't going to talk and turned to join the other knights at the camp. Bors had called out that the meat was pretty much cooked, but Tristan stood still for several more moments before turning to get some.
The knights gathered tightly together so they could each get their share of the cow meat they had brought along. Bors had a knack for cooking, which was lucky for the knights when they were sent out away from the fort.
Tristan found a spot next to Erec, who was probably his closest friend amongst the knights. Their families lived close by in the small village set up after the Sarmatian and Roman battle; therefore he had known Erec since the beginning. They weren't exactly the type that shared every secret and went to the other for help directly, but their relationship was unique compared to the ones they had with the other knights. Tristan felt all of the knights were his friends and he knew he could trust all of them, but Erec was the only one who truly understood him.
He sat quietly eating and drinking, listening to the babble Galahad finished up; next came Arthur's speech on their newest adventure.
"Knights, the army we seek has supposedly been dismantled enough where they need assistance getting home," he explained.
"What else is new? They are, after all, Romans," Lancelot said with a smirk to Gawain next to him.
"Lancelot," Arthur warned and turned his attention away from his right-hand man. "Their horses have been either seized or slaughtered and the journey back to the fort is much too far. According to our fugitive friend, there probably aren't many survivors."
"Wait," Gawain laughed and looked around for support as he spoke, "You didn't mention this no-horse thing before. How the hell are we supposed to get them back? Carry them?"
"More importantly, why the hell are we making the effort if this jackass claims there probably won't be many survivors?" Bors spit. "Sounds like a waste of my time, if ya ask me."
"These are our orders," Arthur pointed out. "We cannot go against them."
"Whatever," Gawain said and leaned back on his elbow.
"Don't worry," Erec said standing up to stretch. "In less than five years we'll be off this damn island and on our way home. If I have to pick up shit for the Romans to get me there, so be it."
"Here, here!" Galahad said and raised his mug.
They finished up their meal and spread out for the night. Tristan went to his horse to remove his weapons strapped to the saddle. It was a nightly ritual when away from the fort to clean his sword and daggers, even if they hadn't been used. To him, he felt that his first kill of a battle deserved the cleanest of blades.
"Polishing again, old friend?"
Tristan turned half around to see a smiling Erec walking his way. "Diving into other's business again?" He countered.
"Ah, but of course," he said and patted the other man on the shoulder. His hand moved to stroke the snout of the dappled horse. "Where's the bird?"
"Out," Tristan replied simply. His pet hawk, a great aspect to his scouting trips, was out hunting as it always did during the night. The other knights questioned how Tristan managed to train the brown-winged hunter to soar above the tree tops in search of seemingly-invisible danger, but the only answer they would ever receive was that Tristan learned it from his father.
Erec was silent for a moment as he stroked the horse's velvet nose, his eyes watching Tristan's dirty hands running a rag over the shiny blade of his sabre. "You know," he said finally, "I thought that we'd eventually be getting worthy tasks once we were a few years into this Hell hole, but it seems that whatever those scumbags don't want to do they give it to us."
"Does that surprise you?" Tristan asked in return, his eyes making no gesture to his fellow Sarmatian.
"Not really," Erec sighed. "I'm just sick of it, ya know? That bird of yours is damn lucky; it can get away whenever it wants. Five years, Tristan; just five and we're gone."
"Keep thinking it and the further it'll be," Tristan said returning the sword to its sheath.
"Such optimism," Erec replied sarcastically. He released the horses head and walked away.
Tristan sat still for a moment looking at the side of his grey and white horse. Erec knew he wanted to be free—which one of the knights didn't want it? Fighting for Rome under a cause not their own wasn't something they had chosen to do. Even Arthur, a Roman in part himself wanted his freedom to live as he pleased. It was a curse they all had to bear and survival wasn't always easy. They had started their journey as knights with a group of twenty-five and slowly they were being flicked off so that their number was down to eight.
Shrugging the thought off, Tristan pulled off a blanket from his horse's saddle and laid it out on the soggy ground next to a tree. The rain had pretty much disappeared now, which would make for an easier rest. Sitting down and finding a comfortable position, Tristan relaxed and closed his eyes. Freedom was all he ever wanted…even if he had to pay the price to get there.
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Tristan awoke with a start when he heard a shout coming from beyond the trees. The sun was barely starting to peak over the mountains in the east and fog blanketed the moist fields. He looked around and listened carefully. The sound of metal striking metal made him jump to his feet, grab his sabre and hustle off.
A battle had suddenly broken out and his fellow knights were striking at half-naked people covered in a bluish paint, their cries unknown to foreign ears. At least three dozen Woads had scurried out of hiding to attack the Sarmatian knights, probably with hopes to get rid of the ever-going threat.
Tristan ran forward, striking down a Woad man who had his back turned at the time. Another turned around, his ax being raised in the air and a powerful yell emitting from his mouth. Tristan let out a deep sigh and held his weapon on a horizontal angle, waiting for his opponent to attack.
As expected, the Woad lunged forward, arm swinging down while his eyes burned with hatred at the knight. Tristan raised his free hand up as if to hold onto something, then his right arm twisted and swung, the silver blade of his sword slicing through flesh and spilling blood onto the damp grass.
Tristan waited and turned his head slightly when he heard a faint gasp behind him. Quickly he twisted around, his arm pulling back and then jumping forward to insert the sword straight through the oncoming Woad. The man struggled for breath, his brown eyes fixed on Tristan's face. Tristan watched with no expression; the only gesture he gave was a shake of his head to remove a thick braid that had fallen over his nose during his turnaround.
Removing the sword, the man fell to the ground, face splattering into mud. Tristan twirled the handle of the curved blade in his hand and looked at the fight behind him. Lancelot was the closest, fighting it out with his two identical swords; Arthur and Erec were on either side, slashing at the enemy with their own swords, Erec currently beheading one Woad that sliced at his leg.
Tristan moved towards them, since no others came to him. As he approached, he noticed a few Woads standing off to the side—women, in fact, each of them holding a bow and loading an arrow to fire into the fight. He quickened his pace, his eyes set on the two women who aimed towards Erec, Lancelot, and Arthur. He had no fear of killing a woman—if they held a weapon against him he'd bring them down without regret.
A sharp yell snapped in his ears, though, as he approached the two archers. When he turned a young blonde Woad ran towards him, dagger held firmly in one hand and a bow in the other. Tristan waited, his fingers flexing over the handle of his oriental-styled weapon as his new opponent came.
Only seconds before the man was at him, Tristan held out his sabre low and curved edge pointing towards the sky. When the time was right, he'd swing it up and cut through the side of the other. He waited for what seemed like an eternity, the fierce face of his enemy shining with white and blue eyes; mouth opened wide and yells jumping out.
Yet something unexpected happened. The footing of the young warrior was unfaithful, and one step made him slip on the slick grass. Tristan was caught off guard and although he was not hurt at the sudden swing from the Briton, he did lose the format in which he was going to kill him with. The man quickly turned over, mud covering his blue-painted body and eyes filled with fear. Tristan stood over him, his soft brown eyes looking down with pity. The Briton hissed something in his native tongue, which Tristan did not understand; it made no difference, though. As he always thought, a good Woad was a dead one.
Taking his sabre he stabbed the man unmercifully in the gut, blood spewing up and down the body of his victim. The Briton choked, his hands moving towards the newly inflicted wound in his abdomen and cried out in utter pain.
"Seoras!" A woman's voice screamed out violently.
Tristan looked up, still holding the weapon where it was lodged into the pit of other warrior's stomach, and set eyes on another archer he hadn't seen moments ago. Even with the blue paint and even darker blue tattoos littering her body, he could tell that she was beautiful. She stared at him with both deep hatred and complete astonishment.
As he stared her down, Tristan yanked his sword from the body of whoever he had just killed. But his eyes couldn't focus on her for long—the archer standing behind her let lose an arrow…that pierced the heart of Erec.
Tristan's world stopped as Erec jumped and immediately dropped his sword to clutch the arrow that had struck him. Tristan witnessed a second arrow leaping down and joining the second in his chest. The two archer women disappear as he ran forward without consciously realizing he was doing so. He had no care what was going on around him—his best friend had just been mortally wounded.
Erec had sunk to his knees, blood visible from the lightly-padded, fabricated armor he wore. If they had been fully prepared with their battle armor, the arrow probably wouldn't have done as much damage; but as Tristan ran towards him, he saw the anguish in his friend's face.
But he couldn't get there—a woman jumped in front of him and raised her ax high to strike him down. Adrenaline rushing through his entire body, he easily knocked the weapon out of her hand with his sabre. She jumped at him, but his leg came up and his foot shoved her to the ground. She lunged back quickly and cut his thigh with a small knife she produced from who-knows-where.
He had no choice but to finish the fight with her. Before she had a chance to get to her feet he slapped her down with the back of his hand and waited to see if she'd get back up after falling down into the muddy ground. She lay there moaning and turning as blood spilled from her mouth. The woman began to turn over to get up, but Tristan had already given up on her—he was more concerned with getting to Erec if there was a chance he could save him.
Arthur had seen the attack as well and had already joined Erec at his side. Bors came running up to prevent an attack on the two knights from an older Woad. Tristan stopped only a few feet from where Erec laid, Arthur holding his limp head and shoulders. He didn't need to move any closer; he knew Erec was dead.
Whatever Woads hadn't been killed retreated in defeat. The other knights made their way through the dead bodies of their enemies and gathered where Arthur knelt next to their fallen comrade. Tristan's hand tightened on the handle of his sword.
"Two arrows," Galahad said softly, although they all heard his words. He sheathed his weapon and shook his head. "Damn it to Hell."
Tristan stood still, his ears hearing a distinct gasp for breath from behind. With fast reflexes and precise aim, he twirled around and pitched his curved sabre forward; the blade dug into the skull of a dying Briton trying to get to his feet, the blade cutting through his face directly between the eyes.
The other knights stood in silence as Tristan went over and pulled his weapon from the corpse. Without saying a word or even looking back, he headed back towards their camp. The young man he had stabbed in the stomach earlier was still alive, bleeding to death, but still conscious. Tristan stopped and looked at him; the Briton's face cringed in agony. He watched as hands covered the hole caused by Tristan's weapon, but alas, death took him over and his bloody fingers slipped away and arms fell to his sides.
Tristan continued back towards the camp; another knight had fallen. Five years left and they were down to seven. Whenever this happened, he questioned his own mortality, and although he was not afraid of death, he wondered if any of them would see the days they were freed from the Romans.
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AN: In case you were wondering, Erec was a "real" knight in the legend of Arthur and his knights.
