Sorry it took me so long to update this! For those of you who don't already know, i work full time, go to college and I'm studying nursing. So I barely have time to think, let alone write a new story. But I promise I will get them up as quickly as possible. Thank you to all my previous reviews, they mean a lot to me. I hope you enjoy this new one!

love,

BWR


Chapter Three

Tristan had never known fatigue like what he was experiencing after four months of travel across the open country to a land in which he had no desire to see. Their destination was Britain. The Roman officers felt little need to cater to their needs and two boys had already died along the way. The young knights were given a scarce supply of food and water. It was barely enough to sustain a small child. Yet the strong survived.

It wasn't long before the boys began to pair off in to groups. Each found a companion suitable to their characters. All except a cocky dark haired boy named Lancelot whose bitterness kept him from growing attached and Tristan, who barely spoke more than two words at one time to anyone. This irritated the guards and he would often receive a swift blow for not properly answering an officer.

"I believe you're digging your own grave my friend," said the oldest of the knights. A young man of twenty named Percival. His tribe was small and he was the only man who was capable of wielding a sword or at least surviving the trip.

"My grave was already prepared the day I left my home."

A few of the boys turned to stare at him. Their eyes were dark and filled with hopelessness. Tristan turned away and rode off in to the front and away from their stares. He preferred to be alone. He could focus harder, pay more attention to his surroundings and less to his heart. It was the one voice that was screaming without seizing, begging him to turn around and return to the one he loved and yet there was the other voice in his mind that knew that she was dead. This was an even more painful thought. So he kept his mind focused on his skill, it was the one gift from the gods that never left him.

"You boy…what are you doing?" came a rough voice from the second in command of the Roman Legion. Each time he heard that voice, the hair on Tristans arms stood up and he felt a deep hatred penetrate his soul. It came from the lowest of all human beings. It was by his hands that ran a sword through Loralies stomach for doing nothing more than protecting his father. It was those same hands that carelessly tossed her body to the dirt.

"I am watching the land," Tristan said. He kept full eye contact with the devil and never looked away.

"We already have a scout," came the reply.

"You know as well as I, that he is no scout," was all Tristan murmured and then turned his horse around and continued to watch the ground.

The guard of whom he spoke grew angry and before anyone could respond, he swung out his horse whip and it latched firmly around Tristans bicep. The young boy screamed in pain and was pulled sideways off of his horse. Tristan instinctively turned so that he landed properly and yet the impact still caused pain to jolt through his right side.

There was a commotion around the group. The boys were hollering out the injustice, while the guards were trying to get them under control. They were tired of being bullied and an uprising was beginning to take place. It was clear in the eyes of the commander, who hollered for the men to control themselves, that he feared the consequence of the boys banded together against them.

"We have lost enough already. It would look bad if we returned with nothing but a handful of mangled boy. So keep your hands to yourself."

"But Sir, did you see the disrespect…"

"I SAID ENOUGH! You will do as I say or you will find yourself resting upon the ground beside the boy…except you won't be getting back up."

Tristan looked down at his arm. His tunic was tattered and blood was seeping from an open wound that ran from his shoulder to his elbow. He knew that the Romans would do little to help and decided to speak with one of the other boys to see if anyone was skilled in healing. It was his wielding arm and it was important to keep it in the best condition possible. A wound such as that, if not properly treated, could lead to infection and even death.

Not that death was such an unwelcome thought to Tristan. When he thought of death, he thought of love. He thought of Loralie and knew that only in death would he be reunited with her now. The only thing that kept him pushing forward was the thought of retribution. Tristan vowed that he would deal the same fate to the man who had dealt hers. He would not rest until there was justice for her death. Even though not justice could make right the wrong that had been done.

Never again would Tristan feel whole.

Loralie was everything good inside of him. Tristan would have been cold and lost without her guidance through the years. They were young and yet they had learned from each other. Loralie knew exactly what to say to cool his hot temper. Her smile alone could remove the frown that seemed to constantly stain his face. She taught him what it means to truly be alive and now he wasn't sure how to live without her.

Tristan knew that Loralie would have smacked him for even considering the thought of giving up. Her temper was very rarely seen and almost always felt. She was like a ray of sunshine to almost everyone she knew. Tristan was the only one who had ever saw her anything but happy and that was because he was the only one whom she felt that she could trust.

"Let me look at that," sounded a deep voice from the right. Tristan pulled his arm away instinctively and eyed the newcomer with caution.

It was the tallest and quietest of the knights, other than Tristan himself. The boy's name was Dagonet and he came from a village not too far from Trisans. "Do you know what you're doing?"

"My father was the tribe healer, he taught me what he knew."

Tristan didn't respond, he just nodded his head and reached out his arm slowly. Dagonet could tell that Tristan's trust was not given freely and must be earned. He hoped to do that someday. After all, they were now brothers.

Back in Sarmatia, a funeral was being held. Rows of people lined the seaside, torches lit within their hands and flowers littered the shore. They were honoring the life of one of their own. Standing at the head, before the group of people was Tristans mother Zara. Her soft voice traveled upon the air as she sang a sorrowful tune of mourning. Beside her there stood a young woman barely out of her youth. Her dark hair fell down to cover her bruised face as she leaned against the arm of her father. Loralie could hardly breathe.

She stood with tear stained cheeks, looking down upon the elder image of the boy whom she loved. Tristans father Terran, had died. His heart had failed only a few weeks after his sons departure from their homeland. Loralie, wounded and unconscious for days, had barely made it as well and yet she was now able to stand and join the others. She knew that she had been only a brink away from death. However, something inside of her refused to quit. She knew that the God's had a purpose for her life.

Loralie couldn't help but wish that Tristan could have been there beside her. That his strong arms could have wrapped around the tortured frame of his loving mother and shelter her from the pain. The mother and the girl both shared a common bond. Within a two week time, they both knew what it felt like to have their soul mate torn out of their lives. With no warning, they were left alone.

Now that everything had changed, of only two things Loralie was certain of. That Tristan left Sarmatia believing that she was dead and that she was to love no other man but him. So she vowed to wait. A small black circle now marked the corner of her right eye. It was a tattoo to symbolize the first year of his service. She would get a new one each year until the fifteenth one marked her skin. On that day she would set out to find him. She could only hope that Tristan would still be alive and waiting for her.

It was hardly plausible and yet somewhere deep in her soul, she refused to lose hope.

Hope was all she had left.