Well, I never thought I'd be writing another Tristan fic...but here I am!

Firstly a huge, heartfelt 'Thank you' to my dear friend and BETA 'Incognito'

Synopsis: The story of Tristan and Aithne - I'm not really sure how to explain this story…er…. two men, one woman….we shall see...!

Reviews: most welcome :)

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to the characters from the 2004 'King Arthur' Film. I'm only responsible for what they get up to here. No copyright infringement intended and no monies being made from this tale.

Authors Notes: Aithne - pronuonced 'Eff-Na' - very old Celtic name meaning 'fire' which suits her perfectly.

Dawn Patrol

Chapter One – Dawn

Tristan didn't notice the small, inconspicuous figure that stood across the tavern bar talking to Vanora, as he sat alone in his usual quiet corner breaking his fast that early dawn. Or rather, the figure listening to Vanora - as it were few that were strong enough of character to be able to get in a word or be heard above her enthusiastic tittle-tattle when she was in full swing, as she was this morning. Perhaps it would also be more precise to say that he simply paid no heed rather than didn't notice her, because quite frankly, Tristan didn't give a 'donkey's backside' whose ears Vanora chose to assault with her caterwauling and inane gossip, so long as it wasn't his.

However, if had he ever been inclined to look up and take note of the girl that wafted in every morning with the delicious tang of fresh baked bread, his extraordinarily sharp instincts would have easily picked up the subtle scent of reluctance in her soft steps and unease in her quiet voice. But until this particular morning, she had been of no importance to the knight and thus her presence not worthy of any such interest.

The tavern was empty but for Tristan, Vanora and the insignificant baker's girl. The songbirds had not yet begun their morning chorus, but Badon Fort was slowly coming to life as the dawn sun peeped out over the peaks of the far Eastern hills.

Night patrols, their shifts almost over, yawned and rubbed their cold hands together with eager thoughts of their warm beds. Smithies rubbed the sleep from their eyes as they fired up their furnaces and baker's hastily prepared to feed a hungry fortress ready to rise.

Spring was approaching fast this year and already Tristan knew that today the dawn would bring with her a glorious show. He could smell the promise of sunshine upon the air and this suited him just fine, for it had rained solid for last two days.

Swallowing another mouthful of cheese, he quenched his dry throat with the watered wine in his mug. Draining the vessel, he then waved it above his head at Vanora in a demanding gesture which he knew full well would annoy her. Vanora suddenly stopped her chatter and glared across at him.

"Hold yer horses...can't ya see I'm busy 'ere?" She grumbled, her fiery red brows lacing together in vexation. "Lazy, good for nothin'…thinks I'm 'ere just to wait on 'im…" she muttered under her breath to no one in particular, as she turned her attention back to the girl who stood across the high wooden tavern bar.

"Right love, wot do we 'ave here... two dozen as usual…?"

The girl nodded once and handed over a tray of freshly baked cinnamon loaves. Still warm from the stone oven, their delicious aroma gently rose through the linen cloth that covered them, enticing Vanora's taste buds and making them tingle. The red-haired woman grinned as she took the proffered tray, bending over to inhale hungrily.

"Mmmm…yer Da makes the finest bread in the land Aithne, I swear." The girl named Aithne, said nothing, giving only a shy smile in reply.

"Aye…this'll keep the gripes from their bellies"

A loud thump from the table across the way wiped the smile from Vanora's lips once more.

"Alright, alright!" She snapped loudly over the girl's head "Damn, bloody impatient…."

"'Nora… I haven't all day." a low voice growled back.

Vanora huffed angrily, pursing her lips and muttering curses through her clenched teeth.

"Ere love, just take that pitcher to 'is majesty over there, will ya…while I put these in the back."

Vanora stared a moment, amused as Aithne's face grew suddenly bright pink, then drain of all colour all in an instant.

"Don't look so afrit, lass…! He won't bite ya…" She chuckled as she turned and walked away. "Not while I'm 'ere anyways..!" she added, with a mischievous glint.

Aithne cringed as the sound of Vanora's laugh followed her out and her nervous eyes fell on the wine pitcher before her. How many early dawns had she been here, delivering the bread from her fathers bakery for Vanora to feed her hungry soldiers and knights? How many times had she prayed that she would find Vanora alone and that he had not yet risen from his bed? How many times had she felt her heart pound in her chest at the sight of his intimidating figure sat slouched over his morning meal as he prepared himself for his usual dawn patrol? Countless, that's how many.

She knew the shift pattern by heart. It was always Dagonet for five mornings, followed by Gawain and then him. It had been this way for months and seemed set to continue as she'd heard no hint to persuade her otherwise.

Being always careful to keep her back to him, never daring to glance in his direction had, up until now, proved successful in ensuring that never a word or a look had yet passed between them. Over time, she had managed to shield herself and blot out the stifling effect of his presence and her morning ritual had become easier to endure. But depite this, she still found herself thirsty for breath as she left, as if indeed she had been holding the air in her lungs the whole time she stood within his powerful aura.

She could never admit why this particular knight terrified her so, but from the first moment she ever laid eyes on him, she had been struck by a powerful furore, suffocation almost, which never failed to leave a tremble in her body and a pound in her breast whenever he was near her. It seemed so long ago now and a mere fleeting moment in time, but that first sight of him riding through the fortress gates aback that gruesome grey stallion of his - both man and horse swathed from head to hoof in the dark tarnish of a battle hard fought - would be forever scorched upon her memory.

Despite obvious exhaustion, he had stepped down from the saddle with effortless grace right where she had stood and for one brief instant his rich, impenetrable ochre stare caught her own wide and mesmerized eyes. What he saw there, she'd not a clue but he had hesitated a moment, his dark eyes fixed firmly on hers as he slowly lifted a blood-soaked knuckle to his mouth, tasting his victory.

Captivated, Aithne could do nothing but stare back; the smell of man and blood beguiling her feminine senses until she could bear it no longer. Her face had slowly shadowed with disgust and she had turned and fled from the wolf-like curl of amusement which ghosted the corner of his blood tainted lips.

But had it truly been the display of the animal's taste for blood that had appalled her so… or was it the shameful heat she had felt tingle and throb between her thighs as he held her under the spell of his bloodied, predacious smile?

Be it fear of him or shame of herself that made her run, Aithne would never dare ask herself. She acknowledged only that she loathed being anywhere within the barbarian's presence.

She loathed how he unnerved her every fibre without his even being aware of her and she loathed how his iniquitous ghost always remained to haunt her, long after he was gone.

She loathed him, because he unbalanced her simple world and yet she knew, she did not even exist in his, for that day had been the first and only time he had ever looked into her eyes…until now.

"You there! Will you fetch me that wine or not?"

The irritated growl sent a tremble through her small frame and threatened Aithne with a strong desire to flee, but after a moment's hesitation, she took an instinctively deep breath, picked up the pitcher and braved the few nervous steps which brought her to his table.

The pitcher was far weightier than she had thought it would be and by the time she had reached the table, the strength in her slender wrist was threatening to give way, causing her to drop the jug down in front of the knight with a trembling panic.

Wine splashed over the pitcher's rim with an indignant 'splosh' – spattering over the table and soaking what was left of the cheese upon the knight's platter.

She sensed his frown rather than saw it, for she was far too afraid to look up at him. Her mouth went dry and her soft, white neck flushed crimson with embarrassment.

"I beg yer pardon, sir…I'm…sorry…" she stuttered, mortified at the sound of her own voice which was more a strangled squeak than a voice at all.

Unable to just walk away but desperate for something to release her from the scrutiny of his dark scowl, she began to mop up the spill with the folds of her skirt, rocking the unsteady wooden table and upsetting the wine some more in her clumsy haste.

"Leave it" he commanded, his voice low with just a slight whisper of impatience. He stood up, poured himself another wine and drained the mug in just a few long gulps.

Aithne withered painfully under his towering shadow but she fought hard to keep some semblance of composure. Daring to glance up once, she saw him staring down at her over his mug rim with his stern dark brows clearly knitted together beneath a long, dishevelled curtain of shaggy brown hair and matted braids which rested upon his finely carved features.

Mumbling another, almost inaudible apology, Aithne at last found the strength to move and hurried away, not stopping to wish 'farewell' to the returning Vanora, only desperate to be anywhere other than near him. Vanora stopped and stared, confused at the determined and silent haste with which the girl fled.

"What did you say to 'er, y'daft clot?" Vanora accused across the room. Tristan dropped his empty mug on the table and scowled at Vanora.

"Nowt." He grumbled, vexed that Vanora should immediately jump to the conclusion that it had to be him that had upset her. She was the ninny that had spoiled his breakfast for the love of the Gods, and he had been enjoying that cheese.

Slowly, Vanora's glare relaxed and she began to grin knowingly.

"Y' know you terrify her, don't ya?" she chuckled, as she sauntered over to his table and began to clear away the remnants of his spoilt meal.

"Who?" Tristan asked as he scratched at his greying whiskers, looking a tad baffled and thinking, 'That clumsy mouse that had just scuttled off?' What had he ever done to her?

"Aithne…!" Vanora replied, as if he should know exactly who she was referring to. "Have y'never seen the blush on 'er cheeks and those frightened doe-eyes whenever you're 'ere of a morn?"

Vanora laughed again at Tristan's bewildered expression. In truth he'd never noticed anything about the girl except the mouth-watering smell of cinnamon that drifted in with the swoosh of her long skirts every morning.

"Aye, she's either scared stupid, or she fancies the breeches off ya. It's one or t'other, for thems the only things I know of that strike a woman dumb when they're around a man….and believe you me, she aint touched like that when you're not 'ere! Did y'know that?" Vanora chuckled again as she walked away with the dishes. Tristan just gave a nonchalant grunt and began to gather his kit from under the table.

"You shoulda seen her face when I told her to take you the wine…poor little bugger...You'd a thought I were sendin' her to the gallows…mind you, I think I'd prefer the noose to you…"

"Yeah, yeah…." Tristan grumbled as he threw his sword across his back and prepared to leave on his dawn patrol "You're just pissed cos you've never had a real man like me, 'Nora…"

"Oh really!" Vanora's narrowed eyes flashed with mock threat as she thrust an indignant hand on her hip "I think my Bors would 'ave somethin' to say to you 'bout that!"

"Like I said..." He grinned "you've never had a real man!"

Tristan ducked just in time to avoid the flying wine mug that came his way, his step never faltering as he strolled out towards the stable - his deep, smoky chuckle echoing behind him.

"Away with ya…Parasite!" Vanora hollered after him, but she was laughing as she turned back toward the tavern kitchen.

...

Outside, the sun was now lifting away the night shadows and Tristan stopped, taking time to glance over at the girl he now knew as Aithne. He had thought she would have been well out of sight by now, but instead she stood in conversation with the blacksmith's lackey, just outside the forge which stood across the from the armoury stables Tristan was heading to. It was then he realised his mistake.

Her being small of stature and so fearful to meet his eye had given him the impression she was but a young girl, but from here he could see now she had surprisingly strong features and a comely, mature curve to her figure. She must be more than a score and three, four maybe, Tristan couldn't be sure but she was certainly no girl, not with those curves that was to be sure.

The large, brawny young man stood before her; a broad white grin shining out from his soot-blackened face as he loomed over, whilst she stood straight-backed, head turned up, with eyes fixed upon his - so unlike the timid little chit who had spilled his wine and ruined his meal just a few moments ago. He could see she was smiling, but not convincingly, at least it seemed not to Tristan.

At first, the scene reminded him of something like that of a large bear about to gobble up a trusting and unsuspecting lamb. But as he watched more closely, he could see the woman was not as gullible as it first appeared. However, the young man didn't seem to recognize the subtle body language that was under his very nose - the faint way she edged her rod-like body backwards as he leaned ever nearer and the uneasy brush of her finger tips as they played unseen, with the folds of her skirt.

It was all so obvious to Tristan, the observer – Ironic really, as just a few minutes ago he'd so little interest in the woman that he hadn't even noticed that he had been scaring her witless most every morning for the Gods knew how long, at least that's what Vanora had just told him.

Maybe this Aithne was just afraid of everything and everyone for no sensible reason at all. For he honestly couldn't recall any deliberate offence he was guilty of toward her. He ate his meal, he drank his wine, and he left for patrol – nothing more.

Ah well, women were a strange breed, if he lived to be eight score and ten, Tristan would still never understand their irritating ways and baffling rationale and besides, some people were just born lily-livered were they not?

But then, what was that other thing Vanora said?

'…or fancies the breeches off ya…?'

Tristan gave a dismissive grunt, and then turned his attention toward the stables, swiftly brushing aside all thoughts of silly women, split wine and breeches as he set off in anticipation of a long and peaceful morning on dawn patrol.