A/N: Normal disclaimers apply to this and future chapters.
So...this has been on my 'puter for a while. I finally broke and posted it. Go figure. I can't guarantee fast updates, but I will NEVER just leave a story, so have faith.
I tried to do research on the Sarmatians and such, but this will probably be riddled with inacuracy. Just like the movie we all know and love. I do have a book on them, with shibby pictures, so some of it is real.
As for the story itself...it will PARTLY be a re-telling of the movie, however I don't plan on stretching it out. Hopefully most of the story will take place after.
Review and Enjoy!
The sword whistled towards him and he quickly blocked, dancing out of the way before attempting a strike of his own. The sound of metal clanging on metal could be heard through the camp.
"Good, boy," his father praised. "This time, quicker."
The boy did not complain, despite the burning in his muscles. He would make his father proud. He blocked the next attack, and moved even quicker, just as asked, but his father noticed the lessening strength in his returning blows.
"That's enough for now, Tris. I'm fast becoming an old man and you're wearing me out." The tall, lean man looked down at his rapidly growing son, warmth in his hazel eyes. Planting his long sword in the ground and leaning his weight on it, Jarek continued, "Find Geheris, go check on the girls, and see if you can't sneak us something to eat, supper's too far for me."
The boy grinned, a brief flash of white teeth before running toward the makeshift archery range to find his friend. Geheris was a year or two older than Tristan, making him around eighteen winters. But despite the age difference, Geheris treated him as an equal, and they were in many ways. Where Tristan excelled in archery, Geheris was better skilled with a lance, both formidable weapons for a horseman. The older boy was of the same height as Tristan, although his build was broader, already showing a hint to the muscle to come. Tristan was not jealous; his father had taught him that speed could be just as deadly as brute strength.
Waiting for his friend to let loose his last arrow, Tristan shouted over, "Hungry? Da said we could get some food!"
The two boys moved quickly toward their hut. Geheris and his little sister had come to live with them after their father Marek, a fellow Sarmatian who hand served with his father for fifteen years, had been killed. The young boy had travelled here, his baby sister in tow, at the last request of his dying father. Tristan didn't know much about what had happened to their mother, but he knew they had no other family.
They found the girls outside, braiding leather and telling stories under the watchful eye of his elderly Great-Aunt Zoya. The girls were as close as sisters, though they couldn't be more different in appearance.
The youngest was five winters old, and to his eternal annoyance, was clearly his kin. Despite her chubby cheeks, she had the same light brown hair and quick hazel eyes. Veta. Little Veta. His only sibling, whom, in the way of all brothers, he secretly loved, but would never admit publicly.
The older girl was perhaps six or seven winters, though he did not know for certain. Although Marika clearly resembled her own brother with her features and her inky-black hair, her appearance was still disconcerting for many. While her brother was a little unusual with his darker hair, his features were the normal sharp angles of the steppe-dwellers, his eyes flashing brown. She, on the other had had tilted light violet eyes, witch eyes, some said. And for a child, she viewed the world around her with surprising clarity. The tribe healer had said she may one day be a seer, but no girl had ever got the sight before womanhood before.
No one knew who their mother was; they hadn't even known that Marek had taken a woman until they rode in with a note from him proclaiming them as his. Who ever she was, she obviously wasn't Sarmatian. Some said she was from the north, one of the vicious Norse peoples. Some said she was from the south, one of the darker skinned people from the deserts. Others said she was from the east, Goth maybe, or even further, one of the tilt-eyed merchant people who traded in silks and finery with Marek's people, the Aorsi.
He had asked his friend many times over the years, but he had refused to answer, saying only that she was a good rider. High praise among the Sarmatians, especially when given to an outsider. It didn't matter, not really, because they were Aorsi, brothers to the Iazyges, and Sarmatians through and through.
As they drew closer to the hut, Zoya's head snapped up, and the two girls smiled at their approach.
"What do you two want?" Aunt Zoya asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion unique to older relatives who still remember bearing the brunt of childhood pranks.
"Jarek told us to get some food," Geheris told her, putting on his best 'respectful to elders' face.
"Nice try boy, but you'll just have to wait for supper like everyone else. Now off with you!" she said, waving her wrinkled hands at them, her eyes turning back to her work.
The boys however, remained standing there, Geheris shooting his little sister a pleading look. Marika shook her head, Veta working away oblivious at her side. Tristan watched his friend glare at his sister, jerking his head towards the hut behind the old woman. Marika sighed and rolled her eyes, giving a slight nod of ascent, and Geheris flashed a grin.
"Was there something else, boy?" the old crone said, not raising her head from her work.
Geheris elbowed Tristan sharply in the ribs. "Um, Da wants to see the girls. Don't know why."
His aunt sighed, and was about to speak when Marika very deliberately reached over and pinched Veta's arm hard. Tristan watched as his sister looked up at Marika, then belatedly burst into tears.
He knew the dark haired girl would never do anything to hurt Veta, and it was only his sister's ability to cry on demand that that made it work. His aunt, who was barren and therefore had little experience with childish ploys, fell straight into the girl's trap. Alternately fussing over the crying girl and scolding Marika, she was distracted enough that he and Geheris could slip inside the hut unnoticed and steal a few hot loaves from beside the central hearth.
They made their silent exit and jogged back to the training fields where his Da was waiting, leaving his aunt twittering behind them.
"How went the mission, boys?" Jarek asked upon seeing their return. The two proudly displayed the food they had swiped, and they sat down to eat, the girls soon joining them to share the spoils of war.
Veta was still sniffing back tears, her round face a blotchy red, and Marika was rubbing her ear, obviously a victim of Zoya's famous cuffing, but both had huge smiles on their faces. Any win against Zoya was considered a great victory in a battle Jarek had been fighting since he'd dared to fall in love with Tristan and Veta's mother, who just happened to be the old bats favourite niece.
Jarek looked at the two dishevelled girls, and back at the two, still chewing on some pilfered bread. "Do I want to know?" he asked, good humour twinkling in his hazel eyes.
The three eldest shook their heads, but Veta spoke before they could stop her. "'Rika pinched me so I cried so the boys could steal the food from Zoya and Zoya made her ear hurt!"
Jarek sat there, a smile tugging at his lips, torn between punishing them for the trickery as he knew he should, and laughing at the wickedness of it all. "I'm sorry, I'm getting old. I didn't quite catch that, did you say something?"
Tristan slapped his hand over his sister's mouth before she could naïvely repeat herself. Marika picked up the last two chunks of bread, absently giving the larger piece to Veta. The younger girl smiled adoringly at her older friend, but she didn't notice, already having turned towards her brother. Marika always seemed unaware of the way his little sister hero-worshipped her.
"Did training go well? Were you riding?" she asked in her soft voice, eyes eager. As good Sarmatians, the girls could already ride quite well, but Marika seemed to share her father and brother's fierce nature, while Tristan's own sister was happiest when she was tending to the steady stream of sick and wounded animals she always seemed to find.
Geheris considered her question for a moment, then nodded. "Better. No riding, just shooting." He shrugged. "I'm still not as good as Tris."
Tristan flushed, ducking his head.
"Be proud of being the best at something, not matter what it is. It's a gift the Gods have seen fit to give you. Like Geheris with his lance." Jarek grinned. "Or Veta with her tears." Veta giggled, then Jarek became mock-solemn. "Or Marika's ability to survive, torture at the hands of the most skilled and terrifying of enemies."
They all laughed at that one, and soon the two boys were bickering over who was best with a blade. The argument moved from verbal to physical, and soon they were playfully wrestling on the grass, Jarek shouting pointers while Veta clapped and giggled.
But Marika's young eyes were fixed on the horizon, beyond the distant camp. Jarek soon noticed her distraction, and the cessation of his laughing shouts drew the other's attention as well. They all squinted hard at the horizon, and could just make out the distant blur of riders.
Visitors weren't uncommon, whether they were traders, emissaries from other tribes or just travellers looking for some food and warmth overnight. But when Marika turned back to them, eyes wide in fear, they knew it was something very different.
"They're here," she said, her voice still soft. She turned and looked at the boys still sprawled on the grass. "It's time."
Veta wouldn't stop crying. She didn't understand what was happening, only that her brothers would be going away. Tristan didn't cry. He wanted to, from the loss, from the fear, but he just couldn't get the tears out. He was numb. He would leave in the morning, along with Geheris, and they would be gone for fifteen years, in some Gods-forsaken distant land, fighting, and possible dying for a cause that was not their own.
Geheris was quiet, and accepting of his fate. Jarek was trying to put on a brave face, but he knew more that anyone the fate that lay before them. Tristan could see his Da was trying to keep a brave face, but he was struggling.
The camp was quiet now, night have come long ago. Veta had cried herself to sleep, and Geheris had gone to bed early, stating that they'd need the rest in preparation for the long journey ahead of them. His normal easy-going manner was gone, replaced by resigned dignity, and Tristan didn't know what to say to his friend.
He hadn't seen Marika since the Roman soldiers had ridden into camp. No-one was surprised that she'd been right about their visitors, just like when she'd quietly told Jarek that the trader from last year would try and steal their supplies, or when she warned that one of Veta's new pets would bring sickness.
Somehow, the girl just knew; she could see the truth of things. She could see the soul of a person, see the truth behind the lie, and sometimes, the possibilities of the future. He wondered if she knew his fate. He wondered if he even wanted to know.
He was sitting by the central hearth, staring into the dying embers, listening the soft, steady breathing around him. The susurration around him was punctured by the occasional rustle of furs as someone shifted in their sleep. He hunched his shoulders, running his hands over his face, trying to clear his thoughts enough to rest.
He looked up just as the door flap was lifted, his troubled gaze meeting knowing violet-blue eyes, wise beyond their years. Observing – but never judging. "Were've you been?" he asked gruffly, forgetting for a moment that he was talking to a child.
She started at his harsh tone, hurt flashing through her eyes, and Tristan felt instantly guilty. He remembered that she was losing her brother too – the only blood family she had left. He shook his head in silent apology, his tense shoulders slumping once again.
After a moment he heard her move further inside the hut and settle next to him in front of the fire. They sat for a while, watching the small flames dancing, and Tristan felt the same hopeless desperation begin to crawl over him again as the silence grew.
Just as it was about to become too much, he felt a small hand on his shoulder, and suddenly the tears were rolling silently down his cheeks. After a moment, he felt her small arms wrap awkwardly around his neck and he held on tight, grateful for the comfort as he sobbed out his frustration. He knew come the morning he would pull himself together and be the man his father wanted him to be, but for now, he would be what he was – a scared boy who's life had just changed forever.
She didn't have visions of the future like Seers were supposed to, and she knew that was not her calling. But she couldn't deny that she had a gift, a knowing of sorts. Still being a child, she didn't understand all of the impressions she got. That night, comforting Tristan the way her own brother did when she was hurting, she got a small glimpse of what would be. She didn't understand all of it, and told him even less, knowing some things were best kept to herself.
She told him what he needed to hear, but every word she spoke was still the truth. "You will live to see your freedom."
She felt him tense, and almost didn't hear his next question, his voice was so quiet and hopeful. "And Geheris?"
She frowned, and he pulled back at her hesitation.
"He will gain freedom also."
His quick hazel eyes searched her face for any sign of untruth, but found nothing. He smiled, his heart lighter. If Marika seemed a little sad, he simply put it down to her brother leaving in the morning.
"Sleep, Little One," he said, his own brotherly wisdom poking through. "Veta will need your strength come morning."
She took his advice and made for her sleeping palette. Tristan was right, it would be a tiring time to come, and she had already stayed up later than she was used to.
But though her eyes were close, Marika found little rest, her young dreams haunted by acrid smoke and the piercing cries of a hawk circling overhead.