I own nothing that seems familar to you in this story, but you know that already. Holly is my own creation. Tristan is very irritated at me for this I assure you.

Many thanks to the beta team! This chapter would not read as well as it does with out your help. Jo- you know what I mean! *wink* :)

I want to thank everyone who took time out of their day to leave this story a review. It really does mean a great deal to me!

"Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth unseen, both when we wake, and when we sleep."- John Milton

Chapter 4

"No." Tristan waved a hand in front of his face as if hoping he could erase the vision before him. The quick, fluid motion caused his elbow to pass through her torso and Holly was taken aback at the sensation. It felt as if a thousand tiny pinpricks shot through her body and she reluctantly moved backward at the onslaught of unexpected feeling.

Taking her withdrawal as a cue that she was just as hesitant about this as he was, Tristan sidestepped her so quickly that Holly hardly had any time to register it. Turning around she watched as he crossed the clearing in no time. He was leaving her-- again. The realization that he was going to pretend that this wasn't happening filled her with a sense of frustration and anger so potent that the moonlit glen was covered in thick fog seconds later. Holly took a deep breath tried to stem the swell of her emotions and failed.

She knew without a doubt that he was blinded by the fog. The sound of his steady footfalls had ceased.

With a tentative swallow she approached him from behind, very slowly. She could see his form clearly, yet he remained immobile. Slowly she forced herself to calm down and the mist dissipated inch by inch until shards of moonlight penetrated through, creating columns of curling pale light.

"Tristan?" Holly called out to him, feeling uncomfortable using his given name when he had no idea what hers was. Her voice was long, drawn out and she felt as if she were yelling down a corridor at him, when really he was mere feet away. Tristan slowly turned around. His hands were clenched into fists, and tension filled his big body. He radiated a kaleidoscope of emotions toward her and Holly felt herself blanch at their raw force. His face was devoid of any emotion-- its strong angles and rough planes were calm as he watched her approach. She wondered how he had become so adept at disguising what he was feeling.

Apparently her second attempt at an introduction wasn't going well either. In life, her social graces had been incomparable. Obviously being dead and alone for a while affected one's ability at even a simple hello.

Tristan's eyes glittered warily beneath a mass of tangled hair, but he looked directly at her and Holly felt a glimmer of hope flare within her once more.

"You are not real." His raspy voice was suffused with such conviction she would have believed him, had she not suffered through one quarter of a century of hell to prove him wrong.

"I'm not?" She asked, though her unused voice was barely above a whisper. The words tumbled over themselves as she formed them and she doubted he'd heard her.

"No." He answered back.

"Then explain why we are having this stimulating conversation." Holly countered with a raise of a skeptical eyebrow. Again the words were faint and drawn out but she could tell he had no trouble understanding her.

Right at that moment a blasted oak leaf caught on the wind and drifted directly through her face. Despite the fact that she could not stop it, she tried to swat it away irritably and failed. It ruined the effect.

Tristan continued to stare at her with that piercing gaze and she wondered if she imagined the shadow of a smile curl his lips.

"We're not."

Holly barely suppressed an indignant huff. This was the first conversation she'd had in twenty-five years and he wanted to turn it into an argument. She flashed him an indulgent grin, swept locks of hair over her shoulder and drew closer to him. He retreated as she expected and held out a hand.

"Stay," he ordered as if she were a pesky, disobedient hound. Feeling her irritation flare once more, Holly folded her arms across her chest and glared at him before she continued her slow advance, ignoring his command. It felt too wonderful, she realized, interacting with someone, and she'd been alone far too long to even begin to contemplate that this man was very rarely disobeyed.

"You will cease your approach, ghost." Tristan drew the last syllable of the word out until Holly had no doubt that he intended to prove a point. Reluctantly she stopped, her glare, however, turned even stonier.

Much to her dismay Tristan appeared unmoved. The multitude of emotions that bombarded her and the fierce pounding of his heart told her otherwise.

Tristan was afraid of her.

She had expected this, so why was she so surprised? Because she believed him to be different—different, yes, she rationalized, but very much a human. A human whose erratic heartbeat and piercing eyes made her regret scaring him. Holly fought the urge to reach out for him again. He did not like it when she did. Instead she hovered there before him, patiently waiting for him to speak. A thick silence stretched out between them as he studied her and for some reason it made her uncomfortable.

"You are not real," he said again, slower this time, quieter as if he were trying to convince himself that it was true. He'd made his way back to that again. This was circular conversation and Holly was unable to hide her irritation. Mist began to rise slowly around them again and she was half tempted to shout "BAH!" at him, something, anything to get a reaction out of him and snap him out of this denial.

Instead, she tempered her impatience with the realization that he did in fact see her. Tristan was staring right at her. If she wasn't real then he was doing one heck of a good job staring off into space muttering to himself.

"If I'm not real, then what am I?" Holly waited patiently for an answer and when it seemed that none was going to be forthcoming she fisted her hand in her skirt and moved away from him. Tristan's avid eyes followed her movements and she smiled at him coyly.

"I'm dreaming." A nightmare. Tristan seemed to shake himself at her look. Holly shook her head in response and moved behind him ever so slowly.

He didn't turn around. She crept as close to him as she dared, enough to see that his tunic was threadbare and patched in several places. She spied the long, curved blade that hung from his waist, the dagger he thought was well hidden within his boot and the grey starting to weave its way through his mass of dark hair.

"This is no dream." She whispered the words, deliberately testing him. His broad shoulders visibly tensed again and she knew that he had heard her. Delight threaded through her when she knew she had his full attention, though he never turned around to acknowledge her. Holly finally reached out to him, giving into the urge to touch him when she knew full well she couldn't. Human contact, she craved it and yet she'd never actually feel it. The irony was not lost on her.

She ran her fingers across one broad shoulder and leaves swirled against his clothing in her wake. Tristan's head turned toward her, eyes flashing. Again that incredible tingling sensation she'd felt earlier radiated up her arm.

"Don't." The way he bit off the word made her retract her hand and regret her boldness, but only for a second. Had he felt her touch? She stared at her own hand, noting with dread that it was becoming more transparent by the second. Holly was fading and she could feel the strength ebbing from her quickly even as she was helpless to stop it.

Finally Tristan turned around to face her. His hand went reflexively to the hilt of his sword and his unusually colored eyes were flinty in their determination as he glared at her.

"Do not seek me out again." The finality of his tone shattered her and Holly felt her expression turn sour. She wanted to point out that he had been waiting for her. How could she not seek him out now that they'd finally made contact? She knew without a doubt that she would continue to crave this sort of interaction, any kind of interaction, even if she were faced with his stony silence.

"I don't know what you want from me, but rest assured you will not get it." Holly struggled to form a reply and found that she couldn't. The sound of her voice was fading as swiftly as she was. Crisp, biting wind drove its way through the glen. The last tendrils of mist dissipating as the moonlight broke through the trees and cast sharp, ominous shadows. Holly continued to stare at him, disappointment unfurling inside her until it threatened to consume her. The emotion must have shone in her eyes and for a single moment, something akin to compassion crossed his dark features. It was gone in a flash and she marveled at how quickly he could change his expressions.

"Go haunt the living. You'll find nothing but death with me." Holly blinked taken aback at his harshly spoken words and watched helplessly as he crossed into the forest once more. She could not follow him and she had not the strength to stop him. Tristan's form slowly faded into the shadows. He blended seamlessly with the landscape as he always did; she noted that the night suited him.

Tristan was a creature of the darkness, just like herself. Amber eyes flashed at her through the night, and she knew he was taking one last look back at her.

As she felt herself vanish completely, Holly knew without a doubt that he would return.

And when he did she would be ready.


He had tried to sleep and nothing worked. Tristan pushed himself up from the bed wearily. The result of days without sleep was beginning to take its toll, and with it came an increased sensitivity that made him so irritable that even Dagonet was beginning to voice his complaints.

Why had he let Gawain sway him into going to the tavern? He'd known it was a bad idea from the start, but the thought of going directly from the kitchens and into his rooms had been undesirable - the idea had been so abhorrent in fact, that he'd let himself consume vast quantities of ale in a very short period of time. Gawain, with his slick smile had managed to press one tankard on him after another and Tristan found that once he had started he couldn't say no.

After another ill-advised round of ale, Gawain had then proceeded to con him into a game of dice, which was not something he excelled in. Keenly feeling the effects of the alcohol and too little sleep, Tristan had agreed against his better judgment. At some point during the game the stakes had been increased and Tristan had proceeded to lose one of his best hunting knives on a very disastrous roll. The triumphant gleam in Gawain's eyes as he beheld the blade was enough to make the scout want to wipe the floor clean with him.

When he'd left, Gawain had given him a hearty slap on the back --which was enough to make him stumble-- much to his mortification. Once he had barreled his way into a set of borrowed chambers and collapsed unceremoniously on to the bed, Tristan realized dismally that drink once again had proven its folly.

The lumpy bed was foreign, his mud-caked boots were still on and he still tried desperately to will himself to sleep and failed.

Hours ticked by, familiar sounds drifted toward him, and Tristan tried to concentrate on them hoping that a simple distraction would lull him. Nothing seemed to work. He agitatedly kicked off his boots and stripped down, finding that even the weight of his clothing was pressing and irritating.

Tristan settled back on to the bed, he pounded the pillow into submission and buried his face within its deep confines. Finally, after what seemed like an age fatigue began pull him under. Tristan welcomed it despite his intense instinct not to give in to it. As his breathing slowed so did his heartbeat, and with it a sense of fear so acute that wracked his slumbering body in great shudders…

She was cold, so very, very cold. Holly willed herself to get up, she needed to crawl away, hide, but there was no strength left in her body. She could feel the blood seeping from her wound, pooling around her on the forest floor, turning some of the dead leaves and bracken a thick dark black. She tried to cover the hole in her chest, to stem the flow of blood, but her arms wouldn't move.

He would find her soon. Holly could hear him in the distance. The sound of his heavy footfalls tearing through the brush made her tremble weakly in fear. She slid her eyes shut at his dawning approach. She knew the exact moment when his rough silhouette emerged from the thick fog and hovered over her as if he were studying his handiwork.

He knelt down next to her and placed warm, slick hands on her neck. He was weeping, she realized as his warm tears dripped onto her face. Good, she thought, let him weep and regret. Let him weep and know. Afraid of more pain, her mind began to shut down, Holly's thoughts slowed and her senses dulled.

The image of Enid and Dara flashed in her mind and she lingered on them, finding it difficult to breathe. Her lungs felt heavy; blood bubbled up from her chest and clogged her throat, trickled from her mouth.

Everything became dark, but she could still hear the birds in the trees, feel the cool breeze on her skin. She refused to let him know she lived; she wanted him to think she was dead. It wasn't terribly hard to pretend.

Holly lay there on the forest floor, the strength fading from her body with frightening speed. She would recover from this-- she had to. There was too much she had left to do and Enid needed her now more than ever.

Then suddenly and with absoluteness that signaled something was terribly wrong, there was no sound at all and Holly found herself cocooned in silence.

A great, bitterly cold gust of wind kicked up rustling the trees above her, blowing strands of her hair about her, covering her in a mantle of leaves. Holly felt them dance over her face and arms, felt the caress of each and every one of them.

And then she felt nothing.


Tristan blinked slowly. The sharp images of the dream clung to the corners of his eyes and he could not shake them. An intense, searing pain in his chest arose so quickly that it forced him upright. Swallowing back the pain, he was startled to find that he was reflexively rubbing the spot where the girl in his dream had been wounded. Trying desperately to soothe the sting, he glanced down and noted darkly that chest was unharmed. The area that had caused him so much distress was red and raw, but completely unscathed.

Pushing his legs over the side of his bed, the comfort of the cold stone against his bare feet anchored him. For a single startling moment Tristan knew that the dream hadn't been a dream.

It had been several days since he'd visited the glen and with every day that crawled by, night would follow and the dreams would come. Tristan had tried and failed to prevent them in any way that he could and last night had been evidence of that. During the days he had worked himself into a stupor on the training grounds, hoping that exhaustion would make then stop. Like to night, he had tried to drown them in drink, hoping that the bliss of drunkenness would wash the images of them away, but so far nothing had worked.

He'd even gone so far as to try sleeping elsewhere, but even that had failed. The dreams had not ceased.

The memory of the blood pooling around her body and blooming onto the edges of the leaves that surrounded her would not leave the forefront of his mind.

Grabbing his breeches and tunic he dressed quickly. He had to get out. There would be no more sleeping this night that much he did know. Not bothering to clean up after himself, he made sure he had his usual cache of weapons and left. Galahad didn't bother to use these rooms anymore so Tristan seriously doubted that he would notice the mess.

The chill of the early morning air hit his skin immediately and it was a welcome sensation. The sun had yet to rise and only a small fraction of villagers were beginning to stir. The guards were changing shifts, he noted as he took the stairs two at a time toward the battlements. Two of the guards stood at attention and he dismissed them with a casual flick of his hand. He was not there to inspect them, at that point he wouldn't have cared if he'd found them sleeping. At least someone would have been.

Tristan approached the edge of the wall slowly, casting quick eyes over the familiar, darkened landscape. It was a clear crisp morning, but that did not hinder the mist that threaded its way through the tree trunks and ferns, toward the edge of the forest and creeping slightly into the clearing. He watched it with a cautious eye as it trailed back and forth gracefully.

Was she pacing?

How did no one else see it?

He looked at the others standing there and noticed that not even a single one of the guards looked in that particular direction.

Tristan gripped the stone of the wall in front of him with two hands, fingers biting into the surface as his eyes avidly followed the mist. That undeniable pull he'd experienced before yanked at his insides, but he staunchly resisted it. He could argue with himself that she was not real, but their encounter had been all too staggering for him to deny. The ghost existed; her reasons for seeking him out in particular were still unclear.

The memory of her cold fingers touching the marks on his cheeks was seared into his brain. The fact that he could feel her touch at all was remarkable, but did she know what the marks had meant? How could a ghost possibly know? How old was she? Who was she?

He knew of her death, he had witnessed it these past few nights in astonishing clarity, but the matter of her death was puzzling. There was one question that had pressed on him like a needle under a fingernail; who had killed her? The hazy image of her murder was the one thing aside from her pain that lingered in his mind.

It was an ominous shadow and he could feel her dread as her killer hovered over her in the darkness.

There were too many questions left unanswered, and as he studied the mist through narrowed eyes, he could have sworn he spied the telltale swirl of dead leaves drifting through it, though there'd been no wind to speak of.

It was the lady, and she was waiting for him.

Even as he fought the urge to go to her Tristan knew that in the end he would give in. Just like the night of their first encounter, he needed answers and despite his intense denial about the situation there was something about her that called to him.

He would go to her and he would find his answers, he just hoped that she didn't disappear before he could get the ones he needed.

An: Chapter 5 is currently in the works. It is a very intense chapter and we learn a bit more about Holly. Tristan isn't going to give her an easy time of it and she wouldn't have it any other way. Holly, just like myself loves a challenge, and to say that Tristan is a challenge is an understatement! I love him anyways :)

Until Chapter 5, happy reading!

~S