Disclaimer: King Arthur and the characters and etcetera don't belong to me, they belong to…ummmm…uhhhhh…they belong to…who do they belong to, anyway?
Note: This is several years before the movie. There are still a few other knights alive. And Bors has a few less children.
Tristan slumped wearily over his horse's neck. The exhausted horse's weary plodding jarred his infected wounds. The one in his ribs was particularly painful. He could feel the arrow head that was lodged between his ribs grating roughly against the bone every time he shifted. Besides that, he had wounds on his back, arms, and legs. He was too fuzzy-headed to count them all, or even to firmly separate different aches. Blessedly, he didn't have to feel the wounds all the time. He'd been drifting in and out of consciousness for what felt like years. At one point, he seemed to recall his hawk sitting on his shoulder, but it might have been a dream. Also at the back of his mind was a dim recollection of a chase turned into a vicious ambush, with the knights outnumbered a hundred and fifty to one by savage woads. He thought he might have received his wounds there, but he couldn't be sure, as this, too, could have been a dream. He had only dim impressions of his surroundings, impressions of trees, and at one point water up to his waist. He dreamed of his family at one point, his long dead twin sister talking to him, talking desperately, but try as he might, he couldn't make out what she was saying. When he was conscious enough to register the arrow in his ribs, he contemplated ending this on his knife or sword, but couldn't muster the strength to lift himself upright, much less draw one or the other. He dimly registered his horse settling to the ground; he lapsed, and when he returned to consciousness, the horse was moving again. It seemed as though it must have been at least several days. He half-wished his loyal horse would dump him, so he could die in comfort, lying still. The other half of him wished he would be found, so he could heal and hunt down the damn woad that put an arrow in his side. He lapsed, and dreamed again.
He was sitting in the tavern with his knight-brothers. Gawain and Galahad were throwing knives, as usual. Bors and Dagonet were getting drunk and (in Bors' case) flirting with Vanora. Tor and Lancelot occupied a table with Hector, who still showed signs of a leg wound given him by a woad's arrow a couple weeks ago. Percival and Lancelot occupied another table with several roman soldiers, and gambled. Tristan himself sat backwards on a chair near the gamblers and watched Percival laughing and tossing the dice.
"Ah ha!" cried Percival as he threw a winning hand. Grinning, he twisted in his chair and cajoled, "Come, Tristan, throw a hand or two, and share in my good luck!" Tristan merely bit into his apple and leaned a little heavier on the back of his chair.
"No?" Percival grinned, "So you hold to your coin? Ah, but you truly need to live a little more, my brother."
"My skills are used on the battlefield, and occasionally in bed, Percival. I won't waste my time on losing money." Percival threw his head back and laughed.
"So be it!" he chuckled, "But you'll regret not living more fully someday." Tristan shook his head and took another bite of his apple, then sent his knife thunking neatly into the back of Gawain's. Gawain's groan of frustration set Arthur, Tor, Hector, and Galahad into a round of laughter.
The world swum back into semi-focus. A grating pain in his chest reminded Tristan that he wasn't back in the tavern. A distant part of his mind noted the increased jarring that indicated his horse had picked up speed. Mostly, he had a blurred sensation of speed, and a searing ache spreading through his body. Eventually, the horse returned to its exhausted walk, and the pain lessened. He dimly thought he recognized the sound of water, but then it was gone. A bird cry may have been his hawk, or something else entirely. His horse had returned to its exhausted plod, and Tristan once again lapsed.
They were all on their horses at the archery buttes. He was thirteen, and just starting to get good at fighting from horseback. He was ahead of the others at archery, and the best at throwing knives. The soldiers called him a prodigy. The bow came naturally to him, like the birds that came to him for food. He didn't even need to practice that much. He just, aimed and shot. It almost always went exactly where he aimed it. The soldier overseeing them gave the signal. They started at a walk, and everyone hit their target, although few near the bullseye, and none but him on the bullseye. They repeated the exercise at a trot, then a canter, and finally a gallop. He hit the bullseye every time. Galahad was a pretty good shooter as well, and Lucuis. He was the best though. It felt good to be the best.
He focused again, and realized his feet were cold, and wet. Something soft was brushing his face. One of his braids was tugged on gently. Something was sitting on his back, just below his right shoulder… hawk, he realized with a surge of relief, as she called by his ear. He struggled to form words, and only managed to speak a soft, slurred,
"Hey…" His hawk gripped his braid in her beak and tugged gently. He groaned as her claws dug into the cut on his back. She called again, then took off. Her cry echoed on his ears, and he again wished for help or death, one as much as the other, anything to end this, this agony and dreaming. He lapsed…
He was turned sixteen, just starting to grow his beard, and fresh from his first battle. He stood with Arthur, in the forest. They were alone. It was his manhood ceremony, when he would get for the first time the marks that all the men of his people had born from their sixteenth birthday onward. Arthur was helping him, performing the adult part of the ceremony, because he was the only person Tristan trusted enough to reveal his past to, and because Arthur wouldn't speak of it to the men. He knelt before him on the ground, his eyes on Arthur's.
"Do you, Tristan of Assage, claim to have slain a wolf and burned his heart as according to the manhood dictates?" Arthur's voice was as solemn as if he were a true Assage priest.
"I have" Tristan answered.
"And have you passed your fifteenth winter?"
"I have" Tristan answered.
"Very well. Unto you I shall now bestow the marks of manhood." He made the marks.
"It is sunset; I will return at sunrise. Do you meditate upon manhood during this time." He left Tristan alone in the clearing. Tristan bowed his head. He had much to think on.
Tristan jarred awake. His horse tossed its head and pranced in place. The action jarred his side; Tristan gasped in agony. The horse pranced again, snorting in terror. Tristan heard a voice; someone was approaching the horse. He struggled to muster the strength to speak. Just a few words… The horse leaped backward abruptly; this caused one of the throwing knives hidden in his jacket to shift; the horse jerked back again; it came loose and stabbed into his chest wound. Someone screamed; he would later realize it was him. The world dissolved swiftly in welcome blackness.
Atia recovered from the man's horrible scream just in time to grab the horse as it made to bolt. Holding tight to the bridle with one hand, she spoke soothingly to the horse and caressed its neck. It took her several minutes to calm it enough to get a look at its rider. He had several wounds that she could see, and probably more that she couldn't. A large slash wound went from his right shoulder to his left hip, and his ribs on his left side appeared to be soaked in blood. There was an arrow hole in his right thigh and what looked like a bite wound in his left calf right below the knee. Everything looked to be infected. The blood was completely dry and crackly, which pointed towards a fight at least three days ago. She was amazed the horse hadn't shucked him by now. He had one loyal horse. The horse looked exhausted, and it was covered to the belly in dirt, river mud, scratches and scrapes, and what looked suspiciously like oversized cat scratches on its left leg, just below the saddlebags. All in all, this duo needed help immediately. Gently, Atia tugged on the hanging reins, and, to her relief, the horse followed her obligingly. She set the pace at a fast walk and quickly located a game trail. Thank Roan-rump we're near home. This fellow might not make it else.
"He has several shallow lacerations on the torso, arms, and legs. A deep cut on his back-whatever made it didn't cut through the spine, luckily for him, or he'd have been long beyond our help-that was infected pretty badly. An arrow head to the ribs is the worst of his wounds. It didn't puncture his lungs, and luckily for him it didn't break the ribs either, just chipped off a bit of the bone, which should heal quickly. He also has several burn wounds, not too serious on their own, but infected. He's been extremely lucky; whatever god he worships has had a close eye on him. If you'd found him a couple days later, he'd be dead. Your quick actions gave him a good chance at life." Atia looked up at Doctor Brennon from her seat by the mystery warrior's bed and asked,
"So he'll live?" Brennon smiled,
"It's very likely. He's a tough fellow, to hold on as long as he did in the elements. He also has many scars, which hints at a life of fighting. A soldier perhaps, or a Knight." Atia inspected the strong fingers on her mystery man's right hand and noted a scarred one.
"This one was nearly cut off" she mused. "Probably by a knife or axe. There are no long marks, which indicate use of a sword." Brennon nodded his agreement.
"You found him, and I've a feeling it wasn't an accident" the old healer said firmly, "I'm going to let you take care of him, help him get well." She nodded eagerly, but he had a warning look on his face.
"I'm letting you take care of him; that makes him your responsibility now. If you accept this, there is no backing out. It's hard work, bringing someone back from the edge of death. You can't just slack off, or run out on this chore for a day. His life is dependent on you. You'll have to bathe him, feed him, take care of him, stay by his side. You have to be vigilant, so you can catch any problems before they get serious. This is like your scouting for the army; very serious business. You willing to do that? Before you agree, be aware that this could take weeks, or even months. It's not a short task."
"I'll do it" Atia declared firmly. Brennon nodded.
"I'll send one of the runners up with dinner later this evening. And I'll have Daniel keep an eye on him at night." Atia turned to the mystery man.
"I'll take good care of you, you'll see. You'll be better in no time." Two weeks passed without the knight waking. During that time, Atia learned how to administer water, vegetable beef broth, and water with mushed fruit in it to the unconscious man. She also got to the point she could wash him without noticing, and awkwardly trying to avoid looking at, between his legs. It was also during those first couple weeks that the hawk showed up. It first appeared four days after she found the man. She'd just taken over for Daniel and opened the shutters to let morning sunlight through, and the bird flew right in and landed on the man's chest. Then, obviously familiar with the man, it hopped up his chest, took a braid in its beak, and pulled gently. She'd immediately called for meat from the kitchens, and with that lured the hawk to her. And ever since, it had come there for feeding. This morning it was waiting when she got there to relieve Daniel.
"Hungry eh?" she smiled as she set down the plate of boiled beef chunks and bowl of water she'd brought for it. It called once and settled to its meal. Atia looked at the mystery man and sighed. "Seventeen days" she told him, "Seventeen days, and you haven't woken once." He didn't reply. "I'm beginning to see why being a healer is considered such a tedious job. 'Cause you sit and stare at sleeping people all day." She whistled, and the hawk flew to her hand.
"You're well trained" she observed to the hawk. It lifted its wings and screeched. "You are a magnificent bird, yes you are." she crooned. Standing, she said, "Let's go get a treat for you" she stood, and told the sleeping man, "I'll be right back, don't you go anywhere." She stepped out the door.
Ohh, I ache. Tristan groaned as his eyes fluttered open. His side ached, his back ached, his legs ached, everything ached. His legs pulsed with pain in a number of places, and the muscles in his right arm were sore, as though he'd been swinging a huge stick continuously. With cautious fingers, he felt his left side, where the deepest pain was centered. Halfway down his ribs was a thick bandage covering a wound of some sort in his ribs. He lifted his hand and slowly felt the back f his right shoulder. There were stitches there, closing some kind of slash wound. There were smaller stitches on his arm too, and his legs. He also bore several new scars, among them healed burn marks. He touched one of the healed burns, and recalled the battle.
They carried it, whatever it was, in sewn together skins that burst on impact. He was the first to get hit with the new weapon. It was odd, sticky like preserves, and when it touched bare skin, it clung and burned. He shouted a warning to his brother-knights; it was too late, Dagonet had already been hit, and Percival. He scraped at it, trying to get it off; it came off eventually, but not before it burned through the skin. The distraction was what the savages needed; they jumped on him, clinging like the burning glop, stabbing and slashing. He managed to throw them off and draw his sword. He looked around and saw almost all of his brothers still on their horses. Hector was down, and Ryon and one of the twins, he thought it might be Balan. Quickly, he put an arrow through a woad archer climbing a tree. It happened then, suddenly; two or three woads ripping open his trouser legs and throwing burn glop on him. He kicked out, knocked one away, killed the other with an arrow. He could see some of the burn glop on his horse; the battle was raging out of control. Distantly he heard Arthur yelling; when he focused on him, he realized Arthur was ordering a retreat. Dagonet fought over to Hector and Ryon and helped them get back on their horses. Ryon's horse was dead; he climbed up behind Dagonet. "Come on!" Arthur was yelling, "Ride, Knights!" Tristan was cut off from the others by a thick, living curtain of woads. Something hammered into his ribs. He reeled, caught by surprise and pain. Something ripped across the back of his right shoulder; he yelled a battle cry and put his heels to his horse. It jolted forward, plowing through the savages to get away. When they broke clear, he urged his horse to a gallop in a random direction. He felt himself bleeding…
"Oh!" Tristan jolted and gritted his teeth as it caused his wounds to ache. "Oh, you've woken…how do you feel?" He lifted his eyes to stare at the young woman standing the doorway, his face betraying nothing. She was shorter than his five feet eleven inches of height, at about five feet five inches. She was built boyishly, with small breasts, broad shoulders, and a sturdy frame. If given a guess, Tristan would say she weighed around 130 pounds. Her eyes were a curiously intense shade of blue, with bits of white and black. She was peering at him with warm curiosity, and a friendly, inquisitive smile.
"Water" he croaked, "Food."
"That isn't an answer" she chided as she grabbed the water pitcher and poured him a mug. Bringing it over, she slipped an arm under his well-muscled shoulders to help him sit up enough to drink. He drank half the mug, paused for breath, then finished it.
"Who are you?" He rasped, "Where am I?"
"I am Atia. You are in a village by the name of Cedarstone, near the Great Barrier. You've suffered some bad wounds, including an arrow to the ribs and a deep cut on your back." Tristan frowned at her, thinking. Most of the cuts and burns on him were healed, which meant he'd been here a while.
"How long?" he asked slowly, unsure he wanted to know the answer.
"The time you've been here? A little over two weeks." She watched his face anxiously. Tristan relaxed slightly. That wasn't so bad. The door swung open and Tristan and Atia whirled. A boy, no more than seven, came in slowly, all his attention fixed on a tray loaded with a mixing-bowl filled with some kind of steaming stew, a pitcher with dewey sides, and a plate loaded with steaming rolls. Tristan's stomach rumbled loudly and his mouth watered heavily. Enticing scents drifted from the tray, hot meat, tomatoes, and veggies, fresh-baked rolls. The boy continued to take baby steps towards them. Tristan's belly was loudly complaining. Finally, the boy reached them.
"Lunch" he announced, "Fresh-outta-the-oven rolls with fresh-churned butter, Beef stew, and fresh cooled goat's milk."
"Thank you, Dale" Atia said with a slight smile. The boy nodded, peered eagerly at Tristan. "You can go now" Atia hinted when the boy continued to stare. Tristan shifted upwards a little and asked quietly,
"Has the kitchen any apples?" Dale nodded.
"Would you fetch me one?" Tristan requested. The boy nodded again, but continued to stare. Atia cleared her throat. The boy jumped, squeaked, and left hurriedly. The girl produced two bowls and ladled stew into both.
"Eat" she ordered, "You need the sustenance." Tristan gladly complied. His bowl was soon empty. By the time the boy had returned with a small mixed stack of red, yellow, and green apples, most of the food was gone. Tristan grabbed a fist-sized yellow apple and took a big, crisp bite. The boy handed the apples to Atia and returned to staring at Tristan. Suddenly self-conscious, he frowned at the boy.
"Dale" she said, catching the frown the awed boy failed to see, "Don't you have duties to attend to?" The boy blushed, shuffled nervously, then said,
"Please sir, may I see your scar?" Atia scowled sternly.
"Dale, don't bother him about it" she scolded, "He's probably self-conscious…" She stopped as Tristan reached to his right shoulder and carefully undid the knot that held the bandage over his back wound in place. Shifting stiffly, he turned his back to the boy.
"Wow!" Dale's voice was awed, eager, and worshipful. "That's like, the coolest scar ever! I bet you're best knight ever, to survive that!" Tristan was amused, though he didn't show it. It appeared he'd gained himself an admirer, like Gawain and Lancelot and Arthur had back home. The thought of his brother-knights saddened him. He rolled stiffly back over, no longer wanting to be stared at. Atia perceived his change of mood and shooed Dale out quickly.
"Go to sleep" she murmured kindly as he lay back, face expressionless, rapidly sinking into one of his dark moods. His brother-knights would have perceived this and immediately set to sparring with him, to lighten his mood. But this girl didn't know about such things. She was a stranger.