Disclaimer: I own nothing that you recognize from the film and since I am making zilch off this, I'll be keeping my day job for a while.

A/N: Pre-movie. Tristan is a young Knight – maybe about 3 years into the meat of his service – meaning training is done, battles have been fought and he is considered a full-fledged Knight, along with the others. There is a crew of older Knights as well finishing up their obligation to Rome while mentoring the younger Knights. The rest hopefully unfolds itself. Warning for some potentially disturbing topics/images.

Worth

Bedwyr sighed and chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully as he stepped out of the storehouse. He'd searched all over for that damn Scout – the dark, dank corners of the stables; the dark, dank corners of the tavern; the dark, dank rafters of the barn. He snorted loudly and shook his long mane wondering what it was about dark, dank places that seemed to attract Tristan like a moth to fire.

Letting out a combination sigh and growl, Beds strode across the fort to the Knights' barracks and stomped up the steps, not caring that the harsh sound echoed to alert anyone to his presence…or mood. It had been three days since they'd buried Ector. Three days since Bedwyr had caught even a glimpse of their young scout. Pausing outside the door to his quarters, Beds took a deep breath and willed his mind to relax yet couldn't resist a peripheral glance at the door to Tristan's room. It was, not surprisingly, as it had been for days now – shut tight as darkness flooded from beneath. Once again shaking his long, dark mane Bedwyr swore furiously under his breath in Sarmatian and Latin. He didn't have time or patience for this crap since patrol bright and early on the morrow had been bestowed upon him. Godsdamn Roman twits. He stepped through the doorway muttering more obscenities but stopped abruptly when he caught sight of the hunched figure on the floor before the fireplace.

Clearing his throat loudly, Bedwyr closed the door with a solid back kick; swinging the kicking leg forward he let the momentum carry him toward the fireplace and onto a chair near the figure that had not moved. Cocking his head, Beds rubbed the stubble that coated his chin and neck while studying the stony figure thoughtfully. Tristan had established himself as a silent but deadly brother – someone you did not want to cross lest you find him looming over your shoulder…and his looming was rarely done with good intent. Beds recalled the myriad of ways Tristan had honed that particular skill and stifled a laugh remembering that most of that honing had come at Galahad's expense. Though really, all the brethren (Bedwyr included) had, at one time or another, felt their brother's intense golden orbs fixed upon them from the shadows…

"Well I have to admit, this is the one dark, dank place I never thought to check…" Beds let out a small chuckle before reclining, draping his left arm over the back of the chair as he stretched out his right leg until he could nudge Tristan's ass with the tip of his boot. Which he did…and raised an eyebrow when the only response was a slight shrug. Letting out a mixture of a sigh and yawn, Beds blinked rapidly to clear his eyes but before he could say anything, the Scout's head lifted from where it had been tucked between knees and chest and he spoke softly.

"I should not be here…" He rose fluidly with a nearly imperceptible stretch of wiry limbs before turning away from Bedwyr and toward the door.

"You are here because something troubles your mind…sit…talk…" Beds nodded back toward the fire and moved his arm from over the back of the chair into his lap, wriggling fingers that had been numbing rapidly.

Tristan stopped and stared at his boots. "Heard you cursing…" He shrugged and blinked slowly behind shaggy locks before resuming his path to the door and mumbling, "Does not matter…not worth…"

Bedwyr's eyes narrowed and he moved faster than most thought him capable to put himself between Tristan and the door. Grabbing the younger's arm, Beds spun Tris around and shoved the obstinate man toward the fireplace with a command for him to sit his ass down.

Pulling the chair he'd reclined in previously closer to the fire, Beds sat down and leaned his elbows on his knees. There was no way Beds was letting Tristan walk out of his quarters doubting his worth; it didn't matter if he had to stay up all night and go on patrol exhausted – it simply was not an option.

"You were not at fault, Tristan." Bedwyr spoke quietly and calmly, keeping watchful green eyes on the man who had again once contorted his lean frame into some godsawfully uncomfortable looking position in front of the fire. Beds took a deep breath and sighed as he realized his words had no effect on the younger. Scooting his ass forward on the hard seat so he could recline and stretch his legs, Beds tried again. "What happened to Ector was not your fault…not your responsibility…"

Tristan snorted derisively and looked up into the shimmering flames. He closed his eyes and it all came back vividly: the thrill of discovering the Woad campsite; the heated, hushed disagreement between him and Ector on how to proceed; and, finally, Ector's abrupt rush forward doing precisely what they had just decided against with his charge forward – into the camp…into his death… His voice was a low growl as he shook his head to clear the memories. "It was my duty…my responsibility…HE was MY responsibility…OUR SAFE RETURN WAS MY DUTY…MY RESPONSIBILITY…" Tristan stopped when he realized he was now on his feet, though he did not remember how or when he got to them, and that he was yelling while alternately pointing to and thumping on his chest for emphasis. Tris fought to regain his composure while his breaths came in ragged, short gasps. He felt his cheeks flush ever so slightly as embarrassment at his outburst in front of one of the Knights he respected most registered in his logical mind. Golden eyes closed tightly, along with his fists, as he struggled to stop shaking before he opened them, meeting the emotionless gaze of the elder Knight sprawled in the chair opposite him.

Bedwyr blinked impassively while the youthful Knight unraveled…or at least unraveled as much as Tristan was inclined. Beds had learned early on that Tristan held his tongue in-check and his emotions even more so. It was what made the scout both a reliable and deadly member of the crew. There were no feelings or attitude to get in the way with what needed to be done; like some of the older, jaded crew members, Beds observed that Tristan had mastered the art of detachment from what was asked of them as servants of Rome. But yet Bedwyr knew from his own experience that the emotions, no matter how controlled or deeply buried, occasionally bubbled to the surface to pop and belch their foulness. And he would rather the youthful scout let them burst here, in the privacy of his quarters, than out on patrol or during a mission when a few of the far less compassionate brethren were within earshot.

He was shaken from his ruminations when the wiry man snatched a log and tossed it onto the embers, followed by another and then stabbed at them viciously with the poker. Bedwyr knew Tristan was imagining it was a someone rather than the heat blistered wood bearing the brunt of his assault…and, Bedwyr mused, it was likely a recently buried someone. Beds sighed and noted that after a particularly angry flurry the fluid movements became jerky and the sharp jabs missed more than hit the intended target. Despite that observation, the elder still jumped slightly when the crash jarred his ears as the iron bar dropped from slack fingers and Tris' head drooped. Green eyes watched intently but their owner made no move toward his brother-in-arms…he knew too well the internal battle Tristan was fighting and knew the best way to help his brother through was to simply remain silent and wait until Tris was ready to hear words of reason.

Tristan tried to push the memories away…tried not to recall those last moments when he'd been unable to believe his fellow scout had rushed into the heart of the Woad camp while he, Tristan, had stood paralyzed by shock and, admittedly, by a bit of fear when he'd realized the Woads had finished Ector and their attention was focused upon him. It was then that he'd dropped the arrow he'd pulled but never nocked and taken off at a dead sprint toward the horses. He could hear the Woads behind him, gaining on him in fact as they yelled for his blood (or at least that was what he assumed they had been yelling for since he did not speak their language and could only surmise it was not an invitation to sup). He'd vaulted onto his horse and grabbed the lead for Ector's before kicking his mount so hard he was positive he'd left heel imprints in the poor animal's sides. He'd ridden hard until he'd nearly run over two other groups returning from their patrols. Thankfully, he had not been forced to explain why he had Ector's horse but not Ector as the Woads that had been giving chase closed in and the fight had been on. Later, though, he had told Bedwyr about the camp…about Ector's demise… He'd been relieved when Bedwyr had merely nodded and not asked questions that Tristan had not been prepared to answer; instead the older Knight had listened and then gone to fetch a group of brethren to retrieve Ector's corpse. Tristan suspected Bedwyr had pieced together what took place though his mentor had never said a word, never mentioned anything…nor had he allowed anyone else to question Tristan. When the questions had arisen, Beds had quietly told whoever it was to shut their godsdamn trap and followed the statement up with a meaningful look.

Braids shook to and fro, whipping his cheeks as Tris went from looking down at his boots to up at the ceiling to the flames consuming the logs…slowly turning them to ashes. Golden eyes squeezed shut and he took a deep, shuddering breath trying not to think of Ector – willing away the thoughts of the remains of his fellow scout…of his friend…of his brother…buried under the soil in the cemetery… Tristan blinked hard against the tears that made his long lashes cling to each other. At one point or another, every one of them had confided to a trusted brother their wishes should they fall in battle. But they were supposed to be just that – wishes or plans and nothing more…at least not for a long, long time. Only a few weeks ago, the topic had come up during one of their patrols and Ector had confided to both Tristan and Tegyr his wish to be buried in the cemetery, like the noblest of the brothers that rested there, with his sword at his head and his best daggers laid beside him. Tristan shook his head and bit the inside corner of his bottom lip until he could taste blood…then he bit down just a bit harder, wincing slightly at the pain.

Sensing that the scout would remain forever tight-lipped unless he prompted the conversation, Bedwyr spoke matter-of-factly. "It was not your fault, Tristan…" Beds watched the lean shoulders lift slowly in a half-shrug and shook his head. "Tristan…" Beds paused and ran his fingers through his hair, debating on sharing the discussion between him and Kay from a few weeks prior. Deciding that perhaps it would assure the scout of his blamelessness, Beds spoke softly. "Kay and I spoke weeks ago…about Ector…about the change we saw in him…" He blinked slowly as Tristan turned and fixed his eyes upon him wonderingly. "Things were not well with Ector. Something had changed. Kay noticed it when they were on guard duty together…said that Ector was too quiet, too…indifferent…difficult to speak with…and when he did speak, it was only about the cemetery, about the mounds and the noble, brave brothers buried there."

Tristan swallowed hard and gritted his teeth as he listened to his mentor speak. What was Beds trying to convey about Ector? Yes, Tristan had noticed all those things…noticed that his friend, his fellow scout had become more and more withdrawn…more and more difficult to talk to…seemed to care far less than before about anything that the Romans had to say or any assignments they got… The remarks under his breath and rolls of his eyes had ceased during briefings. Tristan could remember after one particularly trying day of briefings and assignments during which Ector had been more silent than a mouse, Tris had pulled him aside to make certain he was alright. He recalled the coldness in Ector's voice as he'd assured him that nothing was wrong and Tristan need not worry over him…then in the next breath had suggested an evening of drinking and whoring before he'd turned and strode off, leaving Tristan standing and staring after his brother. He had also noted Ector's increasing appetite for drink – thought of the nights he and Tegyr had carried their drunken brother to his quarters, along with the many times Tristan had found himself pounding on Ector's door trying to rouse him for briefing or duty. And the times he had not been doing that, Tegyr would usually…or Dagonet…or Sagremor…

Beds sighed quietly as he watched Tristan revisit the past few weeks. He knew the scout was wracking his mind trying to make sense of it all. Taking a deep breath, Beds licked his lips, rolling them inward to bite them slightly then swallowed hard before speaking again. "Kay and I had discussed all that…we had seen it before and certainly will see it again… Ector simply could not handle the strain of being a Knight…he was not capable…" Beds didn't get to finish his thought before he was hauled out of his chair by two fists curled in his tunic and found himself nose to nose with a hissing, snarling, spitting Tristan.

"Do not say that about him…do not ever…" Tristan snarled low and shook his head vehemently. "Ector was a good Knight…a good scout…a good brother…" His fists tightened in the material and he shook the man in his grip slightly as his head dropped then snapped back up, eyes full of fire that faded as quickly as it had come and his voice was no more than a whisper. "And it is my fault he is not here…"

Large hands wrapped around Tristan's wrists, prying his hands from Beds' tunic who watched as the lean Knight let his arms fall limply to his sides before backing away shaking his head.

"Tristan…it is not your fault…there was nothing you could have done…" Bedwyr held his hand up and growled as he stepped forward and tapped the slighter man on the forehead with his forefinger, staring intently into conflicted eyes. "Hear what I am telling you… This was a discussion Kay and I had…we had hoped against hope that we were wrong but…godsdamnit Tristan, when you have been on this bloody island as long as we have, seen the things we have…you have experience – wisdom – on your side and you see shit…you piece it together even if you do not want to, if you do not wish it to be true…" He stopped and sighed before resuming his speech. "I am not denying Ector was a good brother, a good Knight and a good friend…but the one thing he was not good at was this life. He was not able to detach himself from the things that Rome commands us to do…he had no stomach for the battle, for the killing, for the death that engulfs and dictates our lives." Beds shook his head and studied his boots before looking back up into the face of his brother. "This exact reason was why I took you aside, lectured you after that first battle…told you to learn to put it out of your mind, to put it on Rome where it bloody well fucking belongs because if you hold onto it, if you hold it close and dwell upon it…then it will fester…rot your gut and you will end up seeking out a Woad horde to put you out of the pain, the misery, the insanity that this life will inflict upon you." Beds leaned in and snarled the last bit in Tristan's ear before backing away and watching the younger, hoping his words sank into and rang true in the logical mind he knew Tristan possessed.

Tristan shook his head and looked up at his friend, his mentor, as his eyes brimmed with tears and he spoke softly. "I know, Bedwyr…I know and I remember that…but I do not…" He shook his head again and chewed on his lip before continuing. "I should have known…seen…I should have stopped him…"

"Who are you now? Agravaine?" Beds snorted and shook his head with a chuckle. "Try to usurp his place as the great protector of the group…go ahead…see how quickly you end up on your ass with his boot crushing your chest and the point of his sword between your eyes while he tells you a thing or two about what he does and why you are shamefully unfit to perform such a task…" A deep laugh escaped as Beds recalled once when Agravaine's own brother had tried such a maneuver and failed only to find himself in the position Beds had just described. And if Agravaine would do that to his own flesh and blood… "And do not even think of sweeping someone into your shadow to protect them… Gawain has done that quite well with Galahad and gods know we do not need another of either of those two…" Beds stopped and rolled his eyes. He knew Gawain had the best intentions but godsdamnit shielding the boy from everything... Beds could only shake his head as that had been the topic of entirely too many conversations between him and Kay.

"But then…" Tristan stopped and sighed heavily. It seemed everyone else had found their niche, their place within the group while he remained alone – outside… "I do not see my worth, my value to the group…"

Beds reached out and rested his hands on lean shoulders. "We do not need another protector…we do not need another saviour of us all…we are men who have earned our places as Knights…" Beds squeezed the shoulder he gripped and leaned in so he could speak quietly. "What we need – or, I should say, what your group needs since my group is nearly ready to hang up our shields – is a Knight who is not afraid to be the calm, steady brother with the quick intelligence…or ready with words of sage advice. Provide focus through the chaos; willing to observe from the outside, to see and speak the difficult truths that others often do not wish brought to their ears. And I see that in you, Tristan…I saw that from the day you entered this fort… That is your value…your worth, not only to them but to the Roman commanders." Beds nodded toward the fort outside his door then shrugged. "Tis nay a glorious role and no one will envy you…but they will respect you and you will find as time wears on they heed your words with less argument; they listen closer to you than to their bloated senses of self-worth – that goes for both the Romans and your brethren." Beds stopped and stepped back, his head nodding as he studied the Knight in front of him before he jerked his head toward the door. "Now go…be off to practice your looming somewhere else as my weary old goat ass has early patrol and needs sleep…" Beds paused and winked mischievously. "Besides, I hear Galahad is feeling quite lonely as of late."

Tristan inclined his head respectfully and headed to the door. Pulling it open he headed out into the hallway while chewing his lip in thought. He turned and began to ask something of Bedwyr only to be met by solid wood as the door shut in his face and he heard the latch slide into its groove. He stood for a few moments, contemplating knocking before shaking his head. So…Galahad was feeling rather lonely, was he? A small smile curled Tristan's lips as he thought up a myriad of ways he could help the Pup get over his loneliness...