In fifth century Britain, there are three kinds of people one should be aware of: Romans, Sarmatians, and Britons. In fifth century Britain, there are three sounds that can be heard in the forest: the birds, the trees, and the Woads. Lastly, there are three types of days one can have in fifth century Britain: good, bad, and mediocre.
Day 1
It was another mediocre day for Tristan. In fact, most of his days were mediocre with nothing to make them good and nothing to make them bad either. "Good" and "bad" were such empty words anyway, dichotomies that depended on each other for their meaning. Besides, is there anything that is absolutely "good" or completely "bad"?
Such thoughts and ruminations often came to Tristan in his solitary rides through the thick and often dangerous forests of Britain. Under the command of Arthur Castus of the Roman-occupied Hadrian's Wall, Tristan was a Sarmatian knight and scout, which meant his ventures into the forest were frequent in order to keep the nomadic Woad encampments under surveillance. Tristan knew the sounds of the forest by heart, the rustling of leaves in the wind, the song of the birds overhead, and, of course, the snapping of a twig beneath a Woad's foot.
At the last of the three sounds, Tristan reared his horse to a halt and retrieved the bow that had been slung over his shoulder. With his arrow ready to be released at a moment's notice, Tristan scanned the line of trees around him, trying to detect any unusual movement. Green-leafed branches swayed to and fro, but all else was calm and quiet---too quiet. Tristan squinted with suspicion beneath his disheveled hair, willing his eyes to confirm what his ears already knew.
It was not like Tristan to allow himself to be caught off guard, but when a Woad dove down on top of him from the tree above, he found his readied bow had not been preparation enough for such an attack. The Woad knocked Tristan from his saddle and together they slammed to the ground with Tristan pinned beneath the weight of the blue-painted body. The Woad snarled at him and wrapped his icy fingers around Tristan's throat, but Tristan was not one to be defeated so easily. He quickly slid a dagger out from his sleeve and smashed it into the side of the Woad's skull. His attacker's fingers went lax and Tristan quickly shoved the dead weight off of him, watching apathetically as blood oozed out of the broken cranium.
Tristan immediately sprang to his feet only to discover a perimeter of tattooed warriors forming around him and drawing closer to their prey. Not allowing them the gratification of his intimidation, Tristan gritted his teeth and confidently drew his sword, ready for a fight. Unfortunately, the Woads had numbers on their side and used this to their advantage by charging at the lone knight all at once. Tristan slashed his sword in every direction, hacking away flesh with every swing, but even he was no match for the mob of angry assailants that piled themselves on top of him. He remembered seeing a wooden club raised above his head, but its impact and everything afterwards was lost to darkness.
It was night when Tristan awoke to find himself in a small, enclosed shelter held together only by wooden boards leaned haphazardly against each other. After noticing his weapons strewn aside just more than an arm's length away, Tristan shifted in his position slightly, but found movement near impossible as his hands were bound behind him to a stake in the ground and his feet were bound together by the ankles. He quickly tested the ropes to try to free himself, but they were wound too tightly. He was completely immobilized.
Two figures, a man and a woman, appeared at the entrance and ushered themselves inside to inspect their now awoken captive. The man held a lantern up to Tristan's face and studied him intently. Tristan grimaced from the sudden brightness and heat of the lamp.
The tattooed man then turned back to the girl who was accompanying him and said, "Make sure he doesn't escape."
The girl glanced over at Tristan's bindings and raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Always happy to take the challenging assignments," she mumbled sarcastically.
The man frowned and proceeded to exit the shelter, leaving Tristan alone with the girl who promptly took a seat in the corner. "You're Sarmatian, aren't you?" she asked with a bored casualness.
Tristan did not reply. His head pounded from the blow he had received earlier, which made the normally unsociable scout even less inclined towards conversation. His eyelids felt heavy, and he knew it would not be long before he drifted back into unconsciousness.
The girl leaned over towards him and brushed the dark, scraggly hair away from his forehead, revealing the swollen bump that would soon turn from red to purple. "Your head hurts pretty bad, huh?" she asked empathetically.
Again, Tristan did not reply, but his bloodshot eyes were enough to betray the excruciating pain he was in. The girl nodded in understanding and let the strands of hair fall back onto his face. Then, without warning, she grabbed the sword from her belt and slammed the hilt down onto his kneecap. Tristan bellowed out in agony despite himself, but quickly recovered, wearing a look of pure loathing on his face.
"There," she said cheerfully, "That should take your mind off it for awhile."
"Bitch," Tristan muttered under his breath.
"Ah, so he does speak!" the girl remarked with amusement, "I was beginning to think you were mute."
Tristan glared at her menacingly, skilled in the art of nonverbal communication. He got his point across. The girl shrugged him off and situated herself more comfortably for her guard duty. Once she was settled, she turned her attention back to the weary prisoner.
"If you're tired, you should sleep," she suggested, "Don't stay awake on my account. I don't sleep at night---or during the day either, for that matter."
She pondered this over for a moment. "I wonder if that's a problem," she remarked thoughtfully.
Tristan was no longer listening. The room was spinning around him and he felt as though he were falling eternally, swallowed by infinite darkness. The light of the lantern faded and then there was only nothingness.
Day 2
Beams of morning sunlight filtered between the wooden boards and danced across Tristan's eyelids, provoking them to open. Tristan reluctantly stirred himself awake, unwilling to find out whether the events of the night before had been real or only a nightmare.
"Good morning," sang the Woad girl's cheerful voice, "Are you feeling any better?"
Yes, this was a nightmare, a very real, living nightmare. Tristan groaned with pain from having spent the night sleeping in one uncomfortable position. He glanced grudgingly at the girl who still sat happily in the corner, enjoying a breakfast that consisted of a measly hunk of bread. No wonder she was so scrawny.
"I'm Ivy, by the way," she greeted warmly, "You know, like the vine? What's your name?"
Tristan stared at her coldly. "You're really not much of a talker, are you?" she asked, "Well, if you don't tell me, then I'll just have to guess. Let's see…Philip, maybe?...No, too pompous…What about Braden?...No, sounds like a self-absorbed prick…Oh! Is it Garrett?...that's a nice name…"
"It's Tristan," muttered the scout, hoping she would shut up.
She did not. "Ohhh, I can see it now," she remarked, examining his features, "Yes, you look like a Tristan."
Tristan really did not care whether he looked like a Tristan or not. His mind was already fully occupied with how he would make his escape. It would be difficult, especially with this girl constantly on watch and ready to alert the others if he made a false move.
Just then, another young Woad, this one male, bounded into room, interrupting Tristan's plotting. "Ivy! There you are!" he chided, "I've been looking all over for you."
"I've been here all night," she replied simply as if to say that finding her should have been no difficult task.
"What? Why? Nevermind, tell me later. I need your help," the man rattled off impatiently, "Mira has left me again and this time I'm afraid it's for good. I cannot find her anywhere. Please help me look for her? I'll owe you forever."
"I would like nothing better," replied Ivy regrettably, "but I've been ordered to stay here. Listen to me, though, have you tried searching along the river? Perhaps she went bathing with the other women."
"Of course!" the man exclaimed with relief, "Why did I not think of that? Oh, my brilliant Ivy!"
The man stooped down and gave her a hurried kiss on the forehead, causing Ivy to blush deeply. He then turned curiously to Tristan as though finally realizing that there was someone else present in the room. "Well, I guess I'll leave you two to your business," he said; then added teasingly to Tristan, "Be careful with this one. She likes her men tied up."
"Wanker!" Ivy shouted after the man who was already half-outside the shelter.
"Whore!" he called back to her.
Ivy laughed as his footsteps faded, but then she let out a sad sigh. "Are all men like that?" she asked seriously.
"Like what?" responded Tristan, who was subsequently surprised at hearing his own voice.
"Are all men that idiotic?" she clarified, "Do they all insist on chasing after women who will cause them nothing but pain, when there are others who would jump at the chance to---well, others who would make them happy, I mean?"
Tristan looked at her in puzzlement and she laughed at herself to hide her embarrassment. She obviously fancied the man who had just paid them a visit. "Well, I suppose I've exposed myself," she confessed in a light, uncaring tone, "Though I doubt it matters much, since you won't be alive long enough to tell him, will you? Perhaps that's why I'm so comfortable with you. Anything I tell you will literally go straight to the grave."
The conversation had taken an interesting, relative turn for the scout and he knew the time had come to start using his voice for his own purposes. "Why am I here?" he asked sternly, "Why didn't they kill me in the forest?"
Ivy smirked. "We don't waste pretty faces here," she said in an ominous tone, "Just remember, it's only rape if you don't enjoy it."
Rage flashed in the scout's eyes, but Ivy only laughed at his plight. "No, I'm only joking," she assured him, "But it's not very fair, is it? Women get raped and ravaged when they're captured, but you'll get off easy. They'll torture you to get information, kill you afterwards, and then it'll all be over."
"I won't tell them anything," Tristan insisted firmly.
"It doesn't matter," she remarked with a shrug, "You'll die anyway."
"I'm not afraid of death," he replied.
"Then why are you still living?" she contended.
"What?" he asked, unsure of what she meant.
"You seem like a strong-willed sort of person," Ivy explained, "You are obviously still alive because you want to be, which also means that you do not want to die."
"That doesn't mean that I'm afraid of it," Tristan argued.
Ivy shrugged. "Do you know what I want?" she asked, "I want some fresh air. Come on."
With that, Ivy crawled over to where Tristan sat and untied the section of rope that was tethered to the stake behind him. She then untied the ropes around his ankles so that only his wrists remained bound and led him outside of the shelter and into the fresh air. They sat beneath a tree to which Ivy had re-tethered her prisoner and observed the other Woads going about their daily business at the encampment.
"You see," said Ivy, continuing their previous conversation, "Merlin wants to question you himself, so we'll have to wait until he arrives before we kill you."
"And when will that be?" asked Tristan, who, despite not fearing death, was at least curious about its imminent arrival.
Ivy shrugged. "Probably after dusk tomorrow," she supposed.
Growing bored with the conversation, Ivy looked up and pursed her lips, whistling up at the sky. A graceful, brown hawk soared down and perched itself on her outstretched arm.
"Hello, my beautiful girl," she cooed, stroking it beneath its beak, "I missed you."
Tristan found himself captivated by the pair, watching intently as Ivy pulled out the remainder of her bread from breakfast. She broke the bread into small pieces for the bird who pecked at it from out of her hand. "Are you hungry, girl?" Ivy asked, "Are you?"
"Aren't you supposed to feed it meat?" observed Tristan.
"Look who knows so much," Ivy snorted, "When you have a hawk of your own, you can feed her whatever you like. Beatrice happens to love bread crumbs."
"You named her Beatrice?" Tristan asked, raising a critical eyebrow.
"Yes," replied Ivy proudly, "What's wrong with Beatrice?"
"It's not a very good name for a bird," Tristan remarked plainly.
"How would you know what a bird likes to be called?" Ivy parried defensively. Beatrice proceeded to ruffle her feathers and flew off into the trees. "Now look what you did," Ivy reprimanded harshly, "You offended her."
"She's probably hungry," Tristan muttered, "and went looking for real food."
Ivy rolled her eyes, offended by the knight's accusations. "You don't know what you're talking about," she insisted, crossing her arms over her chest in resentment. Honestly, what made him an expert on birds, anyway?
The sun was slipping quickly beneath the horizon when Ivy led Tristan back inside the shelter and tethered him back to the stake in the ground. The scout was weary and fatigued from the undoubtedly stressful ordeal of being held prisoner and slipped quickly into slumber. Ivy, who never slept, watched him with interest, curiously intrigued by this man who only had one day left to live. She wondered how she would spend the last day of her life.
Tristan awoke to the crash of thunder that rolled across the sky and became suddenly aware of a tiny body huddled next to him, wide-eyed and shivering with fear.
"Ivy?"
Another roar of thunder reverberated against the wooden planks that served as walls, causing the poor girl to practically leap out of her own skin as her breath got caught in her throat. She grabbed at Tristan's shoulder, digging her nails into the fabric of his outer clothing.
"It's just thunder," he said gently, hoping to calm her, "Nothing to be afraid of."
She turned abruptly to face him, her eyes dilated and alert. "Why are you awake?" she demanded, as if he were the one who warranted concern, "Go back to sleep."
Lightning lit up the sky followed once again by the boom of thunder. Ivy buried her head in her trembling hands and would not be consoled. Tristan could hear the faint murmuring of her voice, "Make it stop. Make it stop."
Day 3
The next morning, Tristan once again awoke to a cheery, light-hearted Ivy, enjoying her morning meal of bread. She chewed contentedly with no signs that anything had happened the night before except for the dark circles beneath her eyes. Tristan studied her in puzzlement, wondering if he had only imagined last night's storm. After inhaling the smell of the morning dew and humidity, however, he knew he had imagined nothing.
"Good morning," greeted Ivy with a smile.
Tristan acknowledged her with a nod, still slightly perplexed by her strange behavior. She seemed completely unaware that anything should be odd between them, though, and actually held out a piece of her bread to him. "Are you hungry?" she offered, "You must be since you haven't eaten anything since you got here."
She then squatted next to him and broke off a bite sized piece of bread, which she proceeded to bring to his lips, since he had no free hands with which to feed himself. Tristan, however, diverted his head away from her.
"You're not hand feeding me," he growled, his pride stronger than his hunger.
"We'll see about that," Ivy retorted, pinching his nose with her fingers so that his mouth fell open and proceeded to shove the bread into his mouth.
"There you go," she said with a victorious smile, "Don't forget to chew."
Tristan glared at her with contempt, but was secretly grateful for the nourishment. In fact, he had not even realized how truly hungry he was; so much so that he even allowed Ivy to feed him a few more bites, swallowing his pride along with the bread. With his hunger satiated, his mind quickly turned to more important matters such as the fact that he needed an escape plan and he needed one quickly before Merlin arrived that night. He supposed his best chance would come if Ivy took him outside again that afternoon, which meant that at least his feet would be temporarily freed. He knew the key was just to be patient and wait for an opportunity to present itself.
"Well," said Ivy with a sigh, as though she could read his mind, "Today is our last day together. I do hate goodbyes."
Tristan was shocked to observe that she seemed almost sad. He wondered for a moment if he could convince her to help him, but quickly shook the idea from his mind. He did trust people so easily, especially those who were supposed to be his enemies.
"I'll especially miss our conversations," she jested, amused at the memory that she had done most of the talking.
Tristan gave her a scrutinizing look. "You have no regrets in killing me," said Tristan cynically.
"Nor would you have any killing me," Ivy retorted, "Besides, I thought you weren't afraid of death."
"I'm not," said Tristan indifferently.
"Exactly," Ivy replied, "So I won't indulge you with the benefit of my pity or regrets, even if I do seriously doubt your fearlessness. Everyone is afraid of something."
"Like how you are afraid of thunderstorms," remarked Tristan rather suddenly, though it had been on the tip of his tongue for awhile now.
"I am not," denied Ivy bitterly, "afraid of thunderstorms."
"You are," Tristan insisted, "You were last night."
Ivy scowled at him contemptuously. "It's not like it matters if you know my secrets," she spat venomously, "You'll be dead by nightfall anyway."
They sat in the silence of a stalemate for a long while until Ivy finally relented and broke the silence. "I think what we need," she suggested, "is some fresh air."
This was what Tristan had been waiting for. It was already well into the afternoon, and Tristan had begun to worry that his chance would never come. As she had done the day before, Ivy bent down to undo the ropes around his feet and detach the ropes from the stake. She then led him from the shelter to sit beneath the same tree just outside.
Once seated, Tristan immediately began to work at loosening the ropes behind his back, meanwhile scanning the area to determine whether he could make an undetected escape. He was relieved to observe the encampment was significantly more abandoned than it was the day before and suspected that as long as he could prevent Ivy from alerting anyone, he might be able to execute his vanishing act completely unnoticed.
He turned to Ivy who sat happily beside him with Beatrice on her arm. He could not help but feel a certain warmth for her when he saw her like that, so innocent and at peace.
"You know," she said thoughtfully, "If you weren't so chummy with the Romans, we might get along."
How was it that she always seemed to know what he was thinking? "I don't like the Romans," Tristan muttered, "I just fight for them."
Ivy laughed. "It's the same thing," she replied, "I have nothing against Sarmatians, except that you picked the wrong side to fight on."
"We didn't pick it," said Tristan bitterly.
Ivy narrowed her eyes at him skeptically. "No one makes you do anything you don't want to," she countered.
She appeared as though she were about to say something else, but the sight of the Woad man from the day before walking hand in hand with a woman, presumably the one he had been searching for, stole her attention away from her conversation with Tristan. "Well," she remarked lightly, "Looks like he found what he was looking for."
Her lips held a smile, but her eyes held an intense sadness as they trailed after the enamored couple. She really liked him. Tristan saw his opportunity and seized it. There was no one looking in their direction, so no one saw him as he wriggled loose from his bindings and struck Ivy across the head, rendering her unconscious.
Tristan wasted no time, but quickly crept back into the shelter where his weaponry still lay on the dirt floor. Once he retrieved his effects, he hurriedly fled into the trees, making sure that no one noticed his hasty departure. The sun was setting now, and he had gotten out just in time.
Tristan raced through the forest, trying to cover as much ground and get as far away from the encampment as possible. This was no easy task, however, as his muscles were cramped and fatigued from being held together in one position for so long. He soon had to rest, leaning his back against the trunk of a tree in order to catch his breath.
A twig snapped behind him and Tristan spun around to find Ivy standing bravely before him with a sword in her hand. Her face held a solemn, cold expression that seemed resigned to an inevitable fate. "I didn't want things to get difficult," she said gravely, "You know that I cannot allow you to escape."
Tristan's face held no emotion. "It's beyond your control now," he said plainly.
"I suppose you're right," she admitted with a heavy heart, "One of us will die here. Either I will die and you will win your freedom---or you will die and I will have only to explain your attempted escape."
"You don't want to fight me," Tristan warned.
"Why not?"
"Because I will win."
Ivy shrugged, adjusting her grip on her blade. "I wouldn't be so sure," she said confidently, looking him straight in the eyes, "I want to see how afraid of death you really are."
A faint smirk crossed Tristan's lips as he unsheathed his sword. Ivy was the first to strike, clanging her blade against his in provocation. They stared menacingly at each other for a moment before Ivy spun around for another swing, which Tristan once again blocked. Their parries quickened and Ivy was soon on the defensive, struggling to fight off Tristan's aggressive advances.
Ivy's confidence was boosted as she managed to clip the flesh of Tristan's forearm with the point of her sword. She smiled devilishly at him and he nodded respectively to her in return, acknowledging her brief moment of victory. The moment did not last, however, and soon Tristan was once again on the offensive.
"We can end this," Tristan said very seriously, a tone of urgency in his voice, "Put down your sword and we will both go our separate ways."
"I cannot," replied Ivy, taking another swing, "I would sooner die than betray my people."
"So be it," said Tristan, blocking her blow.
They parried on for several more minutes, Tristan easily overpowering the young, inexperienced girl. It was as though he were stalling, giving her a chance surrender and hoping she would take it. But she did not. Instead, she became angrier and more desperate, throwing her entire weight behind every swing. She struck at him time and time again, growling in frustration as he deflected every blow.
In a final, hopeless attempt, Ivy raised her blade above her head and threw it down with all her strength. Tristan caught her arm and halted it mid-swing. Their eyes met for the briefest of seconds before Tristan plunged his own blade into her chest.
She gazed at him blankly as the faintest of smiles crossed her face. "Coward," she whispered and crumpled to the ground.
Tristan immediately scanned his surroundings cautiously, expecting a gang of Woads to burst out of the trees at any moment.
Ivy's voice suddenly rose weakly from the ground. "I came alone."
"What?" Tristan asked, kneeling down beside her.
Her eyes were glazed over and the blood was pouring out of her chest. "I came alone," she managed to utter in a strained voice, "I did not alert them to your absence."
"Why?" asked Tristan in bewilderment.
"Perhaps," she whispered painfully, "I wanted you to escape."
Tristan did not know what to do or say. He looked down at the dying girl with a stoic face, but inside his heart was flooding with pity and regret. Killing was normally second nature to him, but not this time. Not now.
Unable to bare the sight of Ivy's face contorted with pain, Tristan removed a dagger from his belt. "Listen to me," he said firmly, though his eyes were filled with sympathy, "You don't have to suffer. I will end it quickly."
"No," she pleaded, clinging to his sleeve, "Please---just don't leave me. I'm not afraid, but---I don't want to die alone."
Tristan lifted her shoulders in his arms and lay her head down on his lap. "I'm here," he said, gently stroking her hair.
Ivy looked up at him with sparkling eyes, a strange calm sweeping over her face. There was something so beautiful, so profound in watching the last moments of her life slip away. "I think I could have loved you---" she whispered, "---in another time."
"Now," he said and leaned over, pressing his mouth to hers. Their lips united in a single motion as he deepened the kiss, willing his life into her, begging her to stay…just a little longer…
But he tasted the blood rising up from inside as her lips turned to ice. The last breath evacuated from her body, leaving her cold and empty. Tristan stood slowly to his feet, her blood dripping from his clothes.
A hawk cried from above, soaring high above the trees. Tristan held out his arm and the bird flew down to him. "Come on, girl," he said softly, "Let's go."