For the Dream of Freedom
Chapter 2
The force of the waterfall—and his own fall—sent Tristan's body into the boulders at the bottom of the river. He groaned, and water flooded his mouth. The energy of the rescue still surged through him, and he knew he had to hurry. But his body was sluggish. The cold water lulled that energy from him.
He kicked off from the riverbed. Instead of going straight up to the surface though, the water pulled him sideways. He figured it was the current, taking him downstream. Then he saw the white haze of the falls thundering into the river; he was being sucked under the falls.
Tristan kicked away, trying to swim and pull himself from the falls. He spotted his sword at the bottom of the water, and reached for it. He used it to push off the bottom. His shoulder stung, and that cross bolt wound in his thigh made his swimming weaker, but he kept at it. His lungs felt like they were collapsing with the lack of air.
He twisted around, facing upwards, and kicked harder. Bit by bit, he was getting away from the falls. He made himself keep his eyes open underwater, looking for Arthur. He hoped the king wasn't going through the same difficulty.
Tristan clawed for the surface with one arm while he kept kicking. He couldn't stop himself from swallowing the water in his mouth. His body lurched, reacting by clawing for his throat instead of air. Oddly, he wouldn't drop his sword.
An arm plunged into the water, latching onto Tristan. He was pulled up, breaking the surface with a long, loud gasp. He coughed out the water, most of which had gone to his lungs. Arthur clung to a boulder and pulled Tristan towards him.
"Tristan!" The scout could only cough in reply. Arthur slapped him on the back. The impact jarred his shoulder.
Tristan grabbed onto the boulder. He looked over the drenched king, and through his watery vision, he looked well enough.
Despite the cold seeping into his skin, they had to keep going. Tristan looked up at the falls. It didn't seem like anyone had followed; it was too high for someone to jump, unless you were desperate. He coughed.
"The horses are south of here," he said. He was shaking, but he made himself move. The sooner he got moving, the warmer he'd be. Of course, it was dark now. Good for cover; bad for survival.
Tristan stumbled onto land. He sheathed his sword in the scabbard on his back. One step, and he stumbled again. His thigh wound was going to be a nuisance until they reached the horses. Arthur stared pointedly at the wound.
"No time," Tristan said. Arthur didn't protest, though that would only last as long as Tristan didn't show pain.
0-0-0-0
They walked. Running wasn't even any option. Arthur's weakened state was paired with Tristan's injuries, and to his chagrin, Tristan could only be glad they were moving at all. He knew Arthur was tired; Tristan hadn't slept in three days, and he wouldn't sleep until Arthur was back behind the Wall. That was a day away still.
"Tristan, wait," Arthur called out. He stopped, leaning back against a tree trunk. Tristan turned back. The way was clear around them, for now. He wanted to scout ahead, but not with risking Arthur alone. He stepped towards Arthur—and his thigh spasmed, making his leg buckle.
He ended up on one knee with a grunt.
"Let me see," Arthur said. Wincing, he knelt by Tristan.
"It's fine," Tristan said, but Arthur didn't listen.
"Do you have something to bind it?" he asked. In response, Tristan took off his leather armor and ripped some of his tunic. He tied the strip around his thigh, hoping it would appease Arthur enough to leave him alone.
He was about to put the armor back but stopped. A glance at Arthur, dressed in no armor, and he handed it to the king.
"Put this on," he said. Arthur shook his head. "Arthur—"
"And what about you?"
Tristan snorted, and helped put the chest armor over Arthur's head.
And then the men sat, catching their breath.
The darkness was complete now, just the moon to show them their way. Arthur clutched his ribs.
"Guinevere?" he asked quietly.
Tristan looked his way.
"Worried."
Arthur didn't seem appeased with that answer.
"The knights?" he tried again.
"Fighting the Saxons," came the reply. "They'll keep her safe."
Arthur smiled softly. "Thank you." Tristan nodded, and hoped the king wouldn't thank him any further—he wasn't one for sentimentality.
A branch broke off to their left. Tristan could tell it was far away, but he instantly went on alert. Arthur shot him a doubtful glance. The scout couldn't see anything from here. It could be nothing of concern that triggered the noise, or it could be Saxons. Not knowing left him no choice.
He silently lent a hand to Arthur, helping him to his feet.
The urgency in his pace must have put off any questions Arthur normally would have whispered. Tristan had no desire to spend time talking strategy, especially since he didn't want to bring up a harsh truth. The Saxons weren't interested in keeping Arthur alive if he escaped; with their goal to make Britain surrender, a dead king was 2nd best to a captured king.
Tristan had to get Arthur back quickly.
0-0-0-0
Galahad sighed tiredly. The fighting had begun; after strategic staging outside the walls, and trying to intimidate the Britons, the Saxons finally got on with it. It was a relief, in that no one could second guess the decision to not surrender. Some of the "nobles" who clung to the queen were talking behind backs and pressuring Guinevere to surrender, for Arthur's sake, or to avoid bloodshed.
And now after a day of fighting, the Saxons retreated enough to rest for the night.
But Galahad would not be resting. It was his watch tonight, a watch over Guinevere.
Thankfully, the queen understood the knights' reasons for one of them to guard her. Arthur had been taken from the Wall—from inside the Wall and areas that were thought well-guarded and secure. Galahad had to admit it looked like an insider had let the Saxons in to capture the king. Or maybe, the traitor—whoever he or she was—took Arthur out on their own.
Guinevere walked by, nodding to Galahad. Over the last few days, Galahad better appreciated the Queen. As a leader, she had remained composed, strong, fearless. And as a queen, there was still a sense of order in the young kingdom. Without that, all that Arthur had dreamed about would be lost in uproar.
Galahad nodded back to Guinevere. He gripped the sword in his hands, at the ready should it be necessary.
Nothing would happen to the Queen. Not on his watch.
0-0-0-0
"I guess we've settled the need for an heir," Arthur mused. Tristan's lips quirked at the comment.
It wasn't as if he and Guinevere had been postponing that responsibility, but it just hadn't happened yet. If he made it back, he would pursue that with renewed vigor. Arthur smiled. How he missed his wife.
He thanked God that Tristan got him away from the Saxons. Being at their mercy, and knowing that his kingdom was at stake, nearly drove him mad. But the second he recognized Tristan in that cave, he felt peace.
Oddly, he felt that way now, even though he knew a traitor was lurking at the Wall.
"I didn't see who took me," Arthur said.
Tristan frowned. "How did they do it?"
"I had a drink," he said. "It must have had a poison of some sort. I don't remember how I was taken after."
He could see his words sinking into Tristan. The lines on his face deepened.
"They managed to take you out through the fort with no one seeing," Tristan said. Yes, that bothered the scout.
"They must have hidden me on a cart or something that escaped the guards' notice."
Tristan muttered something, and Arthur only caught a bit about the guards missing their own lives when he got back. Arthur grinned.
"It was a well-executed plan, Tristan. No need to make the guards feel worse."
He grunted.
"Besides," Arthur continued, "no real harm done."
Tristan looked to the king sharply. "We're not safe yet."
Arthur smiled again. "It doesn't matter."
A few minutes passed, with Arthur stewing over something—something he knew Tristan should not solely be burdened with, but something he trusted Tristan to never fail in.
He sighed quietly to himself.
"I need to ask a promise of you, Tristan," he said, stopping their journey for a moment. Tristan glanced his way. "I have no right to ask it, especially when you've already—"
"Arthur." The scout raised an eyebrow. Arthur smiled; of course, as usual, the scout just wanted the meat of his words, not garnishes.
"Will you protect Guinevere, and the kingdom, should anything happen to me?" He smiled. "She might take offense that anyone needs to protect her—that's the warrior in her."
Tristan nearly grinned.
"But nevertheless, I need to know. Will you do it?"
He looked to Tristan, waiting as the scout thought over whatever was going on in his mind.
And then, he nodded.
"Always."
0-0-0-0
The horses were waiting as Tristan left them. He held out a hand to Arthur, holding him back. Caution made him check for traps, for someone waiting, for anything different than he planned.
But all seemed well.
They mounted the horses. Tristan's thigh ached even without walking on it. As he spurred his horse towards the Wall, he tried to ignore the throbbing that synchronized with his pulse.
It took a few hours of cautious riding, but Tristan could hear the Saxons outside Hadrian's Wall. He directed his horse away from the front gates. Two guards were posted on the side of the fort to watch for Tristan's return.
He hoped they were vigilant in standing their post.
The Wall loomed ahead, tall and strong as they got closer. Tristan looked around them; he could spot no Saxons, but he knew they were out here. The Saxon army would have scouts everywhere.
Tristan gave a soft whistle. He brought his horse to a halt, with Arthur doing the same after him. The seconds that passed seemed to be much longer—
-until he saw the two guards appear. As soon as they recognized him, they tossed a rope over the Wall.
"Hurry, Arthur," Tristan urged. The rope fell just in front of the king. Arthur grabbed on, not even dismounting from the horse, and held fast as the men above pulled him up. Tristan maneuvered his horse and paced back and forth, his eyes vigilantly looking for enemies.
"Tristan!" he heard Arthur hiss at him from the top of the Wall. The rope was tossed down again. With a last look around, Tristan grabbed the rope and began climbing. That action seared his shoulder with pain. He kept more of the weight on his right arm, hoping that would help.
The men pulled him up. Arthur himself was helping too.
"Arthur, get back!" Tristan commanded urgently. His blood ran cold. He's not safe.
"Nonsense, I'm pulling you—"
And Tristan heard it. That twang of a bowstring, releasing its arrow. Tristan looked to the trees. And there he was, an enemy scout, hiding. Waiting.
He heard a thud above him. Tristan looked up to see Arthur fall back.
"My lord!" the guards shouted. The rope was forgotten, and Tristan fell a good 15 feet before someone either caught the slack again or whatever it was tied to stood firm. His heart beat far too fast, unfamiliar in its speed and the weakness it forced on the scout.
His fingers went for a small knife at his hip. Tristan found the enemy in the trees once more, and threw the dagger at him. It hit home; moments later, he saw the body fall to the ground.
There was no time for smug satisfaction. Tristan gritted his teeth and climbed up the rope, ignoring the cuts, aches and pains.
He grunted with one last pull that put him over the top of the Wall.
The guards knelt at Arthur's sides. Tristan froze. The arrow had hit him dead center. And it was deep, submerged beyond the armor Tristan had made Arthur wear. He stumbled to kneel by the king, his commander. Thick, dark blood seeped from the wound, and somehow Arthur was already pale.
"Arthur . . ." He turned sharply to the guards. "Get Guinevere, now!" Someone said something about a healer being on the way, but Tristan looked at Arthur, and knew—both knew—the healer wouldn't be necessary.
Somehow, all other sound stopped. Tristan felt his throat tighten. Arthur just smiled.
"You got me home, Tristan," he whispered. A gasp escaped Tristan's lips. He felt tears water his eyes. Through them he saw Arthur's smile broaden. "In all these years, I've never seen you cry."
Tristan took Arthur's hand in his. "Arthur . . ." All other words left him. Nothing short, long, or memorable came to him. He just held his commander's hand in a brotherly grasp.
"Remember to protect them," he whispered. A pain seized him, making his eyes squeeze shut. Tristan leaned closer uselessly. How to help the pain . . .
"Make way for the Queen!" someone shouted, enough to penetrate the haze Tristan found himself in.
Arthur looked past Tristan, up at the sky. "Thank you, Tristan. At least I can see my wife . . . one last . . . time." His last word evaporated in the air.
Tristan felt Arthur's hand go limp in his. The king's eyes stared up at the sky, unseeing now.
No. Not yet. His eyes went to Arthur's chest; it did not rise or fall.
A tear fell down his cheek. Tristan bowed his head to his king, resting it on their joined hands.
Behind him, Guinevere screamed.