Summary: But who's really the hunter, and who's really the prey? A scouting mission on the coast leaves one Sarmatian knight with far more questions than the answers he had originally hoped to find. Five years pre-movie. A Tristan story, but heavily influenced by the writings of Tolkien. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Sadly, it's true in every fandom that I own nothing and make absolutely no profit from this work.

Author's Note: First of all, I cannot post my first King Arthur fanfic without the biggest of Thank-you's to my new friend Mandamirra10 who has introduced me to the fandom and offered tremendous encouragement in my writing. You are wonderful, Manda! Hats off also to my good friend Kat Carbines for reading over this fic in its early stages and offering some insightful guidance.

Now, any of you who very are familiar with Tolkien's works or with my own will have no trouble whatsoever identifying the mystery character in this fic, or picking up some of the more subtle Tolkien allusions. For everyone else who might be reading, it's simply my hope that you enjoy my first attempt at portraying Tristan. He's a most intriguing character, and I've certainly done the best I could with him. Talk to you later!

Hunting Spirits

"Noises? They're being spooked out of their senses by a bunch of noises?"

"That's what I gather from the report. They say that they are 'haunted by the voice of another world – a phantom both everywhere and nowhere, like the air itself'."

"I didn't know you Romans were so superstitious; you typically leave the ghost stories and the fairy tales to us 'pagans'."

The knight standing tall and proud before his commander remained incredulous, but the man seated across from him simply shrugged. "Personally, I see no reason for their fears; but all the same, the outposts on the western coast are growing more anxious by the day, and they have sent word to urgently request our help."

Tristan laughed bitterly, still not understanding. "You know there is an entire garrison stationed in those parts. Why don't they investigate this 'spirit' or 'anomaly,' whatever they like to call it, themselves if they are so concerned?"

Arthur sighed, calmly returning the gaze of his most enigmatic subordinate. "Because they cannot track it. They've tried. You, my friend, are the best scout on this island; we all know none can contend with you when it comes to stealth or tracking, and your expertise has saved all of our lives many times over."

At that last remark, Tristan's eyes turned to stone in the dead of winter. "Not all of them."

A deep pang of regret made Arthur's heart ache for his friend, but the fact remained that Tristan blamed only himself for the knights lost on their last nigh-disastrous campaign against the Woads. And he had made it clear that none might persuade him otherwise.

"I do wish you would stop thinking about that."

"I should have seen the weakness in their lines and advised a change to our strategy sooner. I was no help to those who died that day, Arthur."

"But what about to the rest of us? Those of us who survived did so because of you!"

Tristan had truly fought like a man possessed that day, until the tide of battle had been turned – another boon that had helped them ultimately gain the victory.

"What more do you have to tell me, before I set out for the coast?"

His knight was blatantly changing the subject, of course, but Arthur let him. "The report says that they hear this thing – this spirit – only at night and by the shore, as if the wind itself brought the sound inland."

"Perhaps the sound does come from some smaller island to the west, and it is only the wind they hear?" Tristan suggested thoughtfully. He never had been as superstitious as some of his fellow Sarmatians. So long as any creature had blood in its veins that he could spill, there was never any cause for fear in his able mind.

Arthur chuckled. "It's a thought worth considering, though I imagine you'll have to find out for yourself. No matter what happens, this should prove an interesting challenge for you, my friend."

"What challenge?" The scout had his favorite dagger out now and was idly twirling it between his fingers. "If it is a ghost you ask me to catch, Arthur, then it is a ghost that you shall have."

The following morning found Tristan riding westward, with only his provisions, his many weapons, and his ever-faithful hawk for company. The bird soared above him now, always within sight and sometimes even swooping down with a shriek to playfully cut in front of his horse's rolling canter.

The knight smiled lazily up at his pet's antics, amazed yet again at how very human the creature could act at times, and then redirected his attention back to the immediate surroundings. There was little to fear on this journey, as he was still far south of the Wall, and the day was as fine as any to be had in Britain. Which, of course, simply meant that it wasn't raining or dangerously foggy – yet.

The hazy sun had already disappeared over the horizon, leaving only rosy streaks of fading light by the time Tristan reached the cliffs, and the roar of the pounding surf grew audible. He had originally planned to stop by the Roman garrison in person to learn more of the "anomaly" that robbed his superiors of their precious sleep, but the lateness of the hour persuaded him to forego that visit. They would hardly have given him a warm welcome, anyway.

Furthermore, Arthur's report had already given him sufficient material to begin the search. Doubtless he would have to employ his sense of hearing over all others to successfully locate this thing, whatever or whoever it might be, if the local sentries could not track it. Yet that in and of itself perplexed him; for surely anything that walked beside the sea must leave a visible trail of some sort in the sand behind it, unless it walked deliberately through the waves. Perhaps it was some strange variety of nocturnal sea creature – or worse, sea monster – that the Romans in this vicinity kept hearing? Tristan certainly hoped not. A life or death battle in frigid waters was not his idea of a routine mission.

And just then, sure enough, he heard it: a haunting, mystical sound that floated on the very air, swirling in the wind around him and assaulting his stunned senses. Never before, in all his travels or all his explorations, had the scout heard anything that might be likened with this. He drew his horse to a halt so that he could better listen, not even consciously aware of having done so. The noise continued to rise and fall, swelling in perfect harmony with the rhythm of the mounting tide, and Tristan dismounted with an immediate understanding that this pursuit would have to be made on foot.

He tethered his horse in a secure alcove, bid his hawk to await him there as well, and then withdrew like a ghost melting into the shadow of the cliffs. A sea-salt breeze bathed his face as he rounded a bend and came at last within sight of the vast body of water that separated him and his comrades from the mainland. The unnatural melody continued, and Tristan set after it like a hound on a scent. Mists were beginning to form now in the absence of the sun, clinging with damp, sticky fingers at his hair and clothes. It would only serve to make the hunt more challenging.

He stopped again to listen for the strange sound and surrendered unthinkingly to his tracker's instincts when they told him to turn southward. It was a difficult business. For even as Tristan realized that his elusive prey must be here somewhere along the shoreline, the melodic trail he followed simply did not lead in a single direction. At one moment, he would seem to be closing in on the creature just ahead; but then all of a sudden, the eerie song would arise in force behind him, or even off to his left from beyond the cliffs.

The Sarmatian scout pressed onward, though he deliberately slowed the pace of his pursuit. Perhaps he should have given this anomaly more credit, after all. The quest had indeed become a challenge, just as Arthur had predicted. But in all his years of warfare, Tristan had never backed down from any worthy opponent, and it had made him stronger.

Then, abruptly, the song stopped, and Tristan paused. When the skin on the back of his neck tingled with foreign discomfort, the knight whirled around in one swift movement, his hand reaching back instinctively for the hilt of his sword – but he stopped. There was no need to draw the weapon. For there in plain sight close behind him, now revealed of its own free will, stood the very prey he had long sought.

It was a tall, human figure, wrapped almost entirely in a cloak of dark grey. Even in the dim light, it was clear the fabric had seen better days. At a glance, Tristan could see no sign of weapons or glint of armor beneath the cloak, but he was far from willing to trust appearances at this point. The almost effortless skill this being had shown in eluding him was reason enough to proceed with caution.

Now straining his eyes to peer more closely at the partially concealed face, the scout marked smooth, milky white skin and long locks of hair as dark as the night in which they walked.

"You're good." The voice that finally broke into the cadence of the rolling waves was low, lyrical, and genuinely impressed. "Almost as good as some of my own kindred – long ago."

Tristan carefully relaxed his guard, though his calculating eyes never left the stranger, and his hand still hovered purposefully over the hilt of his sword. Contests of words or wit had never been his personal favorite; but he could still play them well enough, especially if it meant learning more of his enigmatic prey.

"It couldn't have been that long ago," he remarked with forced casualness, while taking a few measured steps forward. "You cannot be much older than myself." But even as he spoke, Tristan finally caught sight of the eyes beneath the hood and knew in an instant that he was mistaken. Now that he was close enough to see them, the brightness of those orbs took his breath away, glistening as though they fed on the source of light which fueled the stars themselves. And yet there was a darkness, as well, telling of eyes that had seen too much.

"You have great skill beyond the ability of common men; you would have done well, in earlier times." The voice had grown distant now, and Tristan vaguely wondered if his presence been forgotten.

"I might have done well," he concurred slowly, "if I were not also a slave then as I am now."

A raven eyebrow arched in surprise, the movement scarcely visible from within the shadows of the hood. "I have seen many men enslaved, by any number of means. But you do not have the look of such a man. You are yet proud, and walk as one who chooses his own steps."

"I am a knight of Sarmatia, conscripted here in the service of the Roman Empire by the agreement of my fathers," Tristan explained simply.

The stranger nodded. "I see. It is a sad thing, is it not, when later generations must reap the bitter fruit of seeds sown by their forebears? At least those who originally swear to such things do so by their own volition; although their grief, I think, is often greater than that of those who follow after."

Again, the stranger faltered, lost in his own thoughts, and Tristan spoke to win back his attentions – all the while wondering why it was suddenly so important for him to do so.

"But it is not a permanent arrangement. Only five more years of this life, and our debt to Rome will be fulfilled. Five more years, and then I'm a free man."

The stranger turned his gaze back to the knight. "Ah, yes, of course. And tell me, where does a constrained killer go once he is a free man, if not to kill again for someone else?"

The young knight's eyes flashed dangerously, and his hand itched again for his sword – this time in anger. Tristan was infamous among his comrades as being a difficult man to read; but this stranger read him as easily as an open scroll, and such questions struck far too close to the trepidations of his own long-guarded heart.

"I shall go wherever I will," he retorted at last, suddenly wishing this conversation to be over. "I can decide my own fate."

The stranger regarded him sadly. "As you wish. But I fear you may find that the paths we choose for ourselves in anger seldom lead to the outcomes we had envisioned."

"Enough of this!" Tristan rounded on him in an impatient fury. "Why do you patronize me? Treat me as though I were a child begging for the food that will make him sick?"

The stranger did not flinch at his outburst. "It has simply been my observation that all too often a life of killing ends only with the destruction of ourselves – and of those we hold dear."

"And I suppose you speak from personal experience, do you?" Tristan replied tersely. Interpreting the stranger's ensuing silence as an affirmative, he continued, "Yet you are still alive."

"True. But I am the only one."

"Don't pretend that your words warn me of some dark, inevitable fate," Tristan growled menacingly. His ire was quickly rising, but still he did not draw his sword. "Whatever madness may be had in the life I lead, rest assured I have already found it."

But the stranger silently stepped forward then, and reached over without warning to gently brush the strands of untamed hair from Tristan's eyes. Every instinct in the scout's body screamed at him to brandish a weapon and reestablish the distance between them…but he could not move. Could only stare as those eyes like stars came so very near. And then there came a glimpse of hands, of tender palms scarred an ugly red by burn wounds that were neither young nor old. Much like the owner of the hands himself.

"Nay. There may yet be time, I think, for you to avoid the bitter destiny of others. You will never know them of whom I speak, but I pray that you would learn from them – for your own sake." The melodic voice took on a softer tone now, moving from one of warning to one of peculiar understanding. "Still so young. Why do you carry the weight of the world, when you can know so little of it?"

"So little…?" Tristan balked. His chest was tight, his breath almost refusing to come in the light of that piercing gaze. This had to end.

"Forgive me," he managed, "but I did not come here to seek your counsel."

"No. I'm sure you did not." The stranger stepped back again to widen the gap between them, and Tristan thought that perhaps he saw the shadow of a sad smile grace the fair face that stood apart from him. "But why, then, have you sought me out?"

All at once, Tristan faltered. What was his business with this houseless wanderer, again?

"It seems your presence in these parts has…caused a great disturbance at our nearby garrison. They fear you." But why? Thus far, he had seen only wisdom and incredible perception, with no ill will whatsoever, from this mysterious being.

"At the order of my superiors, I must see to it that you vacate this area. Immediately."

The poor knight almost winced saying it. As a scout, Tristan had often been the bearer of bad news, and the delivery of it had never daunted him. Until now. Because this, somehow, felt wrong. It was wrong – as though he were casting out the land's only true and rightful owner.

He reflexively braced himself for a retaliation, and even sent up a fleeting prayer to whatever deity might hear him that none would come. Tristan had no desire to kill this stranger now, and would not do so if it could be avoided. But what made his skin truly crawl with apprehension was the unnerving question of could he kill this being if he wanted to? Not only in a matter of will, but of actual competency. How much more was there to this elusive stranger beyond what even his keen eyes could see?

But thankfully, surprisingly, there was no resistance from his companion – only a nod of comprehension. "Very well. I shall leave these lands as you request, and not return again until the Roman presence on this isle is nothing more than a memory in song. You have my word. Farewell."

With that, the stranger turned to go and was soon lost among the mists and shadows of the cliffs. The knight observed his silent retreat for as long as he was able, all the while pondering those final words. They had not been spoken as a threat, yet never before had Tristan heard anything so foreboding. A cold shudder passed through him, the unwelcome sensation tingling along his limbs.

Had the stranger spoken from some foresighted knowledge that the Romans would be withdrawing from Britain soon? Or had he meant rather that it did not matter when the Romans left, because he would still be here? Somehow, a part of Tristan strongly suspected the latter, and the rest of him hoped fervently against the former. If Rome were to pull her troops out of Britain anytime in the near future, after everything he and his comrades had done and sacrificed to ensure this island's safety for the empire…it would be devastating. To all of them.

Arthur could not recall the last time he had felt more relieved than when his elite scout came riding easily back inside the sheltering walls of their fort. The Roman commander received his knight joyfully and ushered him inside where they could share the findings of Tristan's journey, as well as a goblet of wine.

"Well, did you find it? This apparition that had an entire Roman battalion afraid to go out at night?" He smiled. "I can only assume you did, otherwise you would not be back so soon."

Tristan nodded levelly. "Yes, I found him – or perhaps, I was permitted to find him. But he is gone now from that part of the country, and the garrison will hear no more of him."

"And the noises?" pressed the older man.

"I could be wrong, but to me, it sounded much like singing. Like nothing we've ever heard around here before, I admit, but still – little more than a gifted voice."

Arthur blinked in surprise. "So it was just some derelict, then? A homeless human wanderer?"

"He seemed human enough."

"But who was he?" the Roman inquired eagerly. "Or what was he, if you think that a more appropriate question?"

Tristan opened his mouth to reply, but the words stuck in a dry mouth, and his stomach churned at the sudden, horrid realization.

"I…I don't know." It was the only thing he could force himself to utter.

Arthur frowned, puzzled and at once concerned by the abrupt change in his companion's countenance. "You mean he wouldn't tell you?"

"No – I never even asked him. I don't know why not."

The battle-hardened knight slowly shook his head and raised his vacant eyes from the floor until they met his commander's worried gaze. Was it shame and humiliation that Arthur read there, or rather awe and wonder?

"I think he learned much more about me last night, than I did of him."

Silent questions burned as relentlessly as any fire; but for the first time in over ten years, Tristan the Sarmatian, master scout and unrivaled warrior, had no answers.