This simple story about Sir Tristan coincides with my other King Arthur story Nova. Not everything in this particular tale is going to happen in Nova, though, just so y'all know.

Enjoy!

Silent Knight

Death has been my constant companion since I was young and it is nothing new to me to have people hate and fear me because of it. In the winter, when I was only six years old, both of my parents died of mysterious causes. At least, they had been mysterious causes to everyone except me. Although I had been so very young, I still remember every detail of my parents' death.

It had been an extremely cold winter in Sarmatia and it had turned many honest men into petty thieves. Famine does horrible things to those who are unprepared and causes them to do rash and sometimes terrible deeds to those who are prepared. Such was the case with my family.

My father was, by preferred choice, a hunter and trapper and, consequently, he had enough meat and furs to care for his family, my mother and I, throughout the entire duration of the harsh winter. When Spring was only about a month away, a threesome of apparently homeless and starving men came to my family's house seeking shelter from the weather. The men spent several days at the house, acting as pitiful and needy as they looked. But I, even at age six, I could tell that something was amiss.

I had, after all, been trained by my father in the ways of reading people and situations and my naturally more quiet nature helped me to blend into the background and merely observe the actions of those around me.

It was the fourth night after those men had shown up and I had just climbed up to the loft above my parent's bedroom to go to sleep. As I lay there on my blankets, staring at the ceiling, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. Hearing an unusual sound coming from the room next to me, I quickly grabbed my bow and quiver, and quietly crawled through the rafters until I was above the main room.

"What is the meaning of this?" My father asked, his hand going instinctively to the curved sword at his waist. He was in the main room of the house and two of the three men that he had invited in and cared for had cornered him with drawn swords. He looked around quickly, almost frantically, and it seemed to me that he was searching for something. "What have you done to my family?"

One of the other men grinned wickedly, "We have done nothing, yet. But I would advise you to remove your hand from your sword."

The man motioned to the other. The only door that led outside was thrown open and I stared in shock at the scene before me. My mother was being held by the third man who had a rusty dagger to her throat. My jaw clenched and I readied my bow.

"Now," the first man took a step closer to my father. "We have a proposition for you. And it would be in your best interest, not to mention your woman's, to listen closely to what I have to say."

My father nodded curtly. "I'm listening," he said quietly, glaring at the man.

"We're going to take anything we want from your home." The man stated, "Including your woman."

I could see my father stiffen at hearing those words and I could see his eyes linger on his wife, my mother, "And what do you expect me to do, stand here quietly and let it happen?"

The leader let out an eerie cackle and pointed his sword at my father, "I expect you to do just that. And if you don't, then both your woman and that brat of yours will be killed right before your very eyes before you are also disposed of. What do you say to that?"

My father hung his head as if in defeat, but I knew my father better than that. He was not the type to just admit defeat.

"Well?" The leader was getting impatient.

"I...cannot." My father whispered.

"What? What did you say?"

My father raised his head and stared at the leader, a look of fiery vengeance seeming to flow from him. "I cannot." He repeated, his quiet voice echoing in the still room. "I cannot–I will not–just stand here and let you take everything that I hold dear."

As his final words faded, my father drew his curved blade, and waited.

"You are more stupid than I thought!" The leader growled. He lifted his hand to signal to his men and several things happened at once. The man who held my mother slit her throat and let her drop to the ground; my father let out an animal-like roar, easily dispatching the first man who came charging at him; the man who had killed my mother suddenly fell to the ground, an arrow between his eyes.

"Father!" But my warning shout came too late.

My father turned just in time to have a sword thrust into his chest. His eyes widened and he looked up, past the man who had stabbed him, at the figure of his son in the rafters.

"Tris...tan." He spoke in a harsh whisper. "Sho...ot..." He fell backwards, sprawled next to my mother.

I had heard what my father had said and I had also seen what my father's charcoal eyes had conveyed to me. I raised my bow and sighted along the arrow with tear-filled eyes.

"For my parents!" I whispered through clenched teeth and released the string, watching as the leader of the men crumpled to the ground. I quickly slung my bow over my shoulder and hurriedly made my way down from the rafters and onto the ground.

"Father! Mother!" I dashed towards my parents and knelt down at my mother's side, gripping her hand tightly.

"Sh-she's...go-ne..."

I barely heard the words that came breathlessly from my father's mouth. I gently laid my mother's hand on her stomach and scuttled closer to my father. I stared down into the charcoal depths of my father's eyes, willing him to stay alive.

If only for a little longer! I thought frantically.

"T-trist..." My father suddenly gripped my hand, and his words rushed out in a hoarse, barely perceivable whisper, "My son...find your Uncle...tell him your mother...and I got sick...trust him to care...for you... promise me...promise me you'll go to him!"

I nodded through the tears that poured unbidden down my face, "I promise, Father."

My father smiled briefly and gripped his wife's cold hand with his free one. "Live on...my son..." He uttered and his grip on my hand relaxed.

After a moment of silent grieving over my dead parents, I stood and wiped my eyes, the knowledge of being completely and utterly alone burning in my mind. I dragged my parents' bodies to a deep ditch and rolled them into it, covering them with any loose stones that I could find, the ground being too cold for me to dig a proper grave. After that task was complete, I managed to pile the bodies of the three men in the yard and set fire to them. I watched the flames leap and dance with a completely passive expression on my face, my eyes dry. No more tears would come from me.

So I lived by myself until Spring was in full swing, and the weather decent enough to travel in, when my uncle and aunt suddenly showed up at my house. They soon came to realise that I was all that was left, though I myself hardly spoke a word to them.

I took what little belongings I had, which included my father's sword, and went to live with my uncle and aunt for the next three years of my life. I was treated as the household servant, doing whatever my uncle, aunt and younger cousin commanded and if I ever gave any sort of indication of disobeying, I was severely punished. But I took everything in stride, keeping any and all emotion locked up within myself and spending as much time as I could on my own in the surrounding forest.

When I was nearly ten years old an unknown illness struck my uncle's family and within three months my uncle, aunt and cousin were taken to the earth, leaving me on my own once again.

At this point in my life, I was used to taking care of myself and I preferred the peace and solitude of the forest and its creatures to whatever company my fellow humans might give me. Consequently, I was looked upon as an outcast and as a "bad omen" and the majority of the village ignored me, making signs against evil whenever they saw me. None of the villagers had ever learned the truth of the passing of my parents and they believed that I had called down the sickness that had struck my other relatives. They had no love for the lonely, strangely silent boy who lived among them and I, in turn, had no love for them.

I lived by myself in the house that my uncle had left behind, using my bow and natural hunting instincts to catch any food that my needed. When my clothing and shoes wore out, I cut my uncle's extras down to size to fit me, though they still hung loosely on my small frame. Every day, rain or shine, I would take up my father's sword and practise with it. During this time, no wolf or any such predator came near the village and what the villagers didn't realise was that their safety was due solely to my swordsmanship and bow skills. But I had no interest protecting the village or its human inhabitants; I only killed the wolves to perfect my weapon skills.

The autumn after I turned twelve was the autumn that the Romans came. I knew that they were in the area long before anyone in the village got even the slightest inkling, but I paid the Romans no mind and didn't even bother to warn the villagers.

Let them find out when they may. I thought, starting to pack up my few belongings. They will be glad to see me go.

Within an hour the Romans rode into the village and the villagers themselves were in a mild state of panic. Mothers clung to their children, hiding in the darkened doorways of their houses, while the fathers stood outside, guarding their families and eyeing the Romans with little to no respect. The leader of the Romans looked around at the fearful villagers, his face creased in a permanent frown. Continuing to look around the village, the Roman's gaze rested on the lone boy who stood in front of a small house at the edge of the trees. My brown eyes held no emotion whatsoever; I merely stood there, holding a sword, a small bag of belongings, and a blanket, with a bow and quiver slung across my back, staring back at the Romans.

"You, boy!" The Roman called to me, "Come here."

Making no sound on the freshly fallen leaves, I walked towards the Roman, coming to a halt ten feet away.

"Your name." The Roman commanded.

"Tristan." I replied in a quiet, rough voice.

"Where is your father?"

"Dead."

A slight flicker of emotion swept across the Roman's face, but was quickly erased and replaced by a calloused indifference.

"Come with me." It was not a command but a request and I recognised it as such, nodding once in reply.

"I had planned on it." I replied, only loud enough for the Roman to hear.

"Have you a horse?"

I nodded again and whistled. A fine mahogany gelding came trotting up to me, nuzzling my shoulder affectionately. I lifted the blanket I had been carrying and arranged it on the horse's back, laying my bag across its shoulders. Untying a length of rope that was wrapped around my waist, I attached an end to each side of the horse's halter. I held the sword in my right hand and jumped up easily onto my horse's back one-handed.

The Roman looked at me for a long moment, silently studying me as I sat straight and easy on the horse. I stared right back at the man, managing to mask the slight nervousness that I felt. The Roman looked away and swept his gaze around the village again.

"Just this one will be enough." The Roman told the villagers.

A noticeable sigh could be heard and several villagers began voicing their opinions on the Roman's choice.

"Please, take him!"

"Rid us of that boy!"

"Prevent him from haunting us!"

The Roman scowled at the villagers and turned his horse, motioning for his men and I, to follow him. We rode out of the village at a steady lope and the Roman called for me to join him at the front of the group.

"Why does your village hate you so?"

"It is not my village." I replied, "They do not understand."

"What?" The Roman asked, "What do they not understand?"

"Me."

The Roman was silent, thinking. After a few minutes he looked over at me, nodding his head to the bow that was strapped across my back.

"Can you use that?" He asked.

I nodded, "Would I carry it otherwise?"

The Roman chuckled and I raised an eyebrow, but neither of us said anything. I knew he was observing my every move but I pretended not to notice.

"You will make a fine scout someday." He whispered, only loud enough for me to hear.

I merely shrugged but said nothing.

"You will learn to trust me, boy." The Roman commented, noticing my aloofness and unwillingness to talk.

"But will you learn to trust me?" I asked in a barely audible voice.

He just stared at me for a moment, before smiling and shaking his head.

The trip to Britain was really uneventful; we stopped at several other villages on our way and picked up another half a dozen boys who were all around my age. I was actually one of the older ones. A lad named Dagonet was the oldest, being three years older than I, his younger brother, Bors, was my age. While Bors and I never really got along, Dag actually tried to get me to take part in a full conversation and every now and again he would succeed. I was not really one to talk much, and never one to complain, so I had no interest in more than half of the conversations that took place.

Dagonet was really the only boy in our pre-assigned group that I considered to be my friend. Bors was too cranky, Bedivere was too loud, Gawain was too insulting, and Lancelot was too stuck up on himself. That left only Dagonet and Galahad. Dagonet, being the oldest of the group, was someone steady, someone you could always count on to do the right thing at the right time. Galahad, he was the youngest, the 'pup' as most everyone called him. He hated the nickname and hated the fact that almost everyone treated him like a baby. The fact that he was only nine didn't seem to phase him any.

Once we arrived in Britain, we were settled into Hadrian's Wall and got to meet our commander, Arthur Castus, a boy Dagonet's age. We spent the next fifteen years working with Arthur and going on missions to protect the lands that Rome had gathered. During that time I gained another friend, a true friend who I knew I could always trust. I named her Hawk, for that is what she is. The other Knights claim that she belongs to me but I always tell them that she only belongs to herself.

My companions, I can't really call them all friends, insist that I enjoy killing and that I don't have a heart. Bors especially likes to attempt to pick fights with me. I ignore him. I ignore all of them, except Arthur and Dagonet. They have no idea what I've had to live through, and they can never understand the memories that I subdue by fighting. My companions call me the Silent Scout and my enemies call me Death's Messenger. I prefer to not claim either of those as my name.

After so many grueling years of seeing our brothers in arms die around us, there are only seven of us left: Dagonet, Bors, Gawain, Galahad, Lancelot, Arthur and myself. We were supposed to have been released from the service of Rome five days ago, but, the bishop who was supposed to give us our papers, talked Arthur into one last mission.

Our final job was to rescue a Roman family who lived above the wall from the Saxon army that was headed in their general direction. We arrived at the estate and started everyone packing up, but Arthur couldn't settle for just the family. Being the fair and just ruler that he is he wanted to get everyone possible to safety. That included a few prisoners that the master of the estate was holding in an underground torture chamber.

We rescued a woman and a young boy from that place. The woman, a Woad named Guinevere, took an immediate liking to Arthur and he, surprisingly, returned her affections. Dagonet took in the boy, Lucan, who was also a Woad, and acted as a father figure for him.

After our little rescue, we had to flee the estate as quickly as possible. The Saxons were on our tail. We reached a lake that had been frozen over and sent all the women and children on ahead, planning to make a stand there. Guinevere insisted on staying behind with us to help. We won that battle, but it was only due to Dagonet carving into the ice with his great axe. That battle cost us Dagonet's life and Bors never forgave the Saxons for that.

We made it back to Hadrian's Wall yesterday, before the Saxon army, only to discover that the bishop had talked most of the population into leaving. Arthur, after much discussion with Guinevere, has decided to stay behind and fight the Saxons with aid from the Woads.

All of us Knights who are still alive have chosen to stay with our beloved commander, though we all know it means certain death. Lancelot is convinced he will die in this battle. He asked me when I thought I was going to die. I told him that I didn't really care when, so long as I go down fighting.

The battle draws nigh; I must put down my pen and draw my sword. I released Hawk and told her to live on without me. I don't expect to live through the battle, it's just this feeling I have. I suppose that since I have taken so many lives it's my turn to be taken. I would have liked to have seen my homeland again, but I guess Galahad will have to see it for me. He has grown up into such a bright young man I am sure he will live on for many years.

This is the end of my story.

-Sir Tristan, Knight of the Round Table

Sir Tristan and Sir Lancelot were buried after the battle was won by Arthur's forces. After a seven day period of mourning, we held the royal wedding. Hawk came back, looking for her friend Tristan. She decided that I wasn't so bad and has chosen to stay with me now. I think Trist would be happy to know that Hawk is alright without him. Bors is trying to drag me off to the tavern for a drinking contest; I suppose I should stop writing for now.

Oh, Rome left all of Britain to Arthur. Bors, Gawain and I are all freemen now!

Long live King Arthur and Queen Guinevere!

-Galahad, freeman (no longer a servant of Rome)