What is Eternal

Chronology: Tristan is 41. Raja is 31. Ardeth is 15.

They had been gone for a week. A seven day trek to another village and a seven day trek back. The first half was without event. The second half was filled with more strife than the fifteen year old boy had expected. His best friend, Lucan, was there. Along with the boy's father, Tristan. Lucan's father, Dagonet was there. Uncle Lancelot, Bors and Arthur. It was just a routine journey. Lucan and Ardeth went along for experience in what they would perhaps be doing when they got older.

Ardeth was by a creek in the dark woods. The blood was still sticky on his skin. He had vomited everything there was in his stomach turning into gasping dry heaves. He had never killed anyone before. His temporary sword, until he would get his very own, had been coated in crimson. He had stood over the last Saxon he had killed. Ever since he was a child, he always imagined getting revenge for what they done to his mother. Taking a life was like playing a god. Ardeth had been scared, but he had had to push it back in order to survive. The blood had coursed through his body with a speed he had never felt.

The young boy stripped off his clothes and waded into the cold water, heedless of the slight pain of needles stabbing into his skin when such cold water washed over him. He scrubbed his skin vigorously. He dunked his head under the water, his shoulder-length; raven black hair with its four braids was cleaned of the dry blood that had matted it down just a few hours ago. After he had gotten as much as the filth off, he dug in his sack for the spare pair of breeches and tunic his mother had insisted he take with him. The clean socks were heaven on his feet, cushioning him from his boots. His eyes still stung with the silent tears he had cried in silence. He never imagined being sickened by the thought of killing a Saxon. He hated them all; he had hated them for years.

Thinking of it all once more, he slumped against a tree, fresh tears stinging behind his eyelids. There were the merest slits of moonlight that escaped their way through the trees to light the forest. His horse, Ra, was a few paces away; Ardeth could hear the gentle beat of his hooves. He didn't tether him to a tree; Ardeth knew he wouldn't run away. Oddly, Ardeth had first been worried about Ra's safety, afraid that one of the Saxon's arrows would pierce the beautiful creature's black coat.

Ardeth's own arrows had aimed true, Ra and him a good partnership in battle. His father had taught him well. During the fight, he had caught brief glimpses of Lucan swinging his sword as well. His best friend had survived, and after, when his golden eyes met his blue eyes, he'd seen the same expression he knew was on his face. He knew his friend's heart was beating as fierce as his, and not from exertion. Lucan had vomited then and there, quickly wiping his mouth before any of the adults had seen.

Light footsteps approached him. He rubbed his eyes in haste, not wanting anyone to see the tears that marred his cheeks. He looked up to see his father, staring down at him.

"I was just returning," he said, getting up as quickly as possible.

"It's all right," his father replied. He tipped his head to the side; his son averted his eyes from his penetrating stare. He smelled the acidic stench of vomit nearby. He crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for his son to say something if he wanted to say something. "Ardeth."

Ardeth hid his wince as best he could at his father's firm, but sympathetic tone. Not his father, he could live with anyone else's disappointment at his behavior, but not his father's. A painful lump rose in his throat. His father took another step forward, the moon beams lighting his face. As if his father had silently commanded it, Ardeth's eyes, a copy of his sires, met his. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

Tristan shook his head gently. "Sorry for what?"

"I know," – he cleared his throat – "that I shouldn't be..."

When he knew his son was having trouble going on, he spoke. "There is no one around here to judge you." He put a supportive hand on his son's shoulder. He felt him shake, and then he broke down. Tristan gathered him in his arms, crushing him against his rough hauberk.

Ardeth's fingers dug into his father's back, he held on to his father's supportive gait as tightly as he could. His sobs were choked, they wracked his body. Tristan held him for several moments until Ardeth composed himself. He stepped away; Ardeth wiped his nose with his sleeve. He bent and put his hands on his knees, then plopped onto the ground, not able to hold himself up.

Tristan crouched by him.

He cleared his throat, wanting to fill the silence, a million words ran through his head, too many for his mouth to form. "What was your first battle like?" he asked his father quietly.

"Different," he replied after a moment. "I knew I was going into battle."

"Does it make it any easier?"

"Perhaps not."

Ardeth snorted ruefully, self-deprecatingly. "Did you cry? Throw up?"

Tristan scratched his beard. "I vomited, but I do not recall crying. I sat in silence for a long while, though. Recalling the battle."

"How old were you?"

"Fourteen."

The questions were coming faster, he need to know. "Did you feel badly?"

The slightest of curves lifted the side of his mouth. "Not then. But when I first came here, there was a Woad that was near death. A Roman ordered me to kill him. I had to look at him in his blue eyes. He nodded slightly, like he understood what I had to do."

Ardeth nodded. "Do you...do you really like to kill?"

Tristan took his time answering that. Even after all these years, he was still known as the most blood-thirsty warrior in these parts. He never had taken it to heart, and had never cared...until he met Raja. But he never worried about it, because she did not care. She had seen passed that, and he was able to be himself, relishing a bit of the kill. But now? After so long? "Yes," he said bluntly. "I still take to it."

"I...I don't know if I do. I hate the Saxons; I've wanted to face them..." – he shook his head – "for so long."

Tristan was glad for that. Ardeth had been brought up with love, two parents, he had a childhood. Tristan had been taken away from his mother too young. He had seen too much blood at a young age, and he had had to shut himself off from it. He hadn't had anyone to comfort him during dark times. Ardeth's ambivalence was evidence of a warm heart, Raja would never have wanted him to become cold and hopeless.

"You know..." Ardeth said, breaking the silence, "Walida told me about great Uncle Ardeth. And about how his father had taught him to leave his ka behind during battle, but to always remember to take it back when it was over. So he would not become empty inside."

Tristan smiled, recalling the elder Ardeth. So savage in battle, but when the fighting was over, one would probably never guess that the Egyptian could kill so easily and coldly. Especially when one could see how he took such loving care of his little niece.

"Do you believe that, Baba?"

"I didn't have the same beliefs as Ardeth. But I respected his, and saw the wisdom in it."

"Did you ever try to do that...after you met Walida?"

"It was too late for me," he replied easily, but not regretfully.

Ardeth glared at his father speculatively. "So...are you saying you have no ka?"

No, he said in his mind. "Your mother is my ka."

Ardeth's brow furrowed.

It was difficult to explain such a belief to anyone who had never loved anyone so unconditionally, so passionately as Tristan loved Raja. She was his goodness, his heart, his soul. Without her, he had none of those things. She was his warmth, his light; she brought out whatever humanity he had buried so deep those long years ago. How do you explain that to a young boy, even if that young boy was his son? It would sound like drivel, and frivolous sentiment to anyone who had never felt what he did.

"Maybe you will understand that someday," Tristan told him.

By that time, Ardeth felt better. His stomach rumbled.

"Come," his father said, standing up. "There's good meat at the campfire."

--

When they rode into the courtyard back at the fort, Raja was waiting for them, a ready smile on her face. But her silver eyes flickered when she saw her son. He looked at ease, perhaps to anyone else, but she was his mother. Tristan gave her the very slightest of nods. Jols led the horses away.

Raja embraced her son, a welcoming kiss on the cheek at the ready. He couldn't help but blush.

"Oh, you smell terrible, Ardeth," she rebuked him affectionately.

His mother's good humor cheered him; he gave her another tight hug, standing a head taller than her. He went off with Lucan to the bathhouses.

Tristan gave Raja a firm, lingering kiss.

"And you, smell terrible as well, Tristan," she said.

He was in a hot bath several minutes later; Raja had put scented, soothing oils in the water before he could stop her. Her hands in his hair sent tingles down his spine, she untangled it gently. He got out and dried himself off. While he ate the food she had prepared, she asked.

"Was there a battle, Trissy?"

Tristan swallowed, and nodded.

A distressed look came over her, and he reached over and put a hand over hers. "He did well."

"And after?"

"He was upset. But got through."

Raja's lips curved upwards just a bit. "Is it time then?"

"I think he's ready."

--

When Ardeth was eight, he left Britain with his mother and father. Galahad, Gawain and their wives had been going back to Sarmatia. Raja had written to her Uncle Memnon in Egypt, securing a ship for them. They sailed to Sarmatia first, which was Raja's and Ardeth's first time on Sarmatian soil. The boy had checked his father for any sort of reaction, and later he had asked him why he did not seem happy or sad about returning. His father had replied: "I may have been born here, but it is not my home."

"What does that mean, Baba?" Ardeth had asked.

"It means that my home is wherever you and your mother are," Tristan replied.

Galahad and Gawain remained in Sarmatia, and are still there. After, the three of them sailed to Egypt, unlike his father, Raja was more emotional setting foot back on her homeland. The Colony where her parents had died was long repaired; the large manse in where she had lived had been fortified. His mother had walked those halls alone, and finally she had gone into the room where her mother had died. And where her life had changed forever, the path that would lead her to Tristan.

Raja had gone to the family tomb. Tristan and Ardeth had waited outside the large building while Raja had visited her mother and father, and Uncle Ardeth, whom had died eight years ago. She had been so quiet after that. They stayed for the winter, and in the summer they sailed back to Britain with funds from Raja's inheritance that would go to the reparations of the fortress.

What Ardeth hadn't known was that Raja and Tristan had gone to the best blacksmith in the Colony, the great-grandson of the man who had forged his great Uncle Ardeth's sword. The son of the man who had forged his mother's own sword.

All this was revealed to Ardeth three days after he returned to the fort after his two week journey.

In the ante-chamber of their wing, he sat in front of his parents as he opened the lacquered, engraved box of ebony. The box was four feet long, five inches tall. When he opened it, there was a silk cloth covered the object underneath. The interior of the box was lined with blue velvet. He pulled the silk back, revealing his own sword, curved like his mother's and father's. The sheath was black leather, Egyptian prayers on one side, Sarmatian symbols on the other. The hilt was carved in intricate Egyptian and Sarmatian symbols, the base of the pommel had an ankh etched on it.

It was sharp, shiny, so much so he could see his reflection which was masked in awe and disbelief that this was his.

He looked up at his mother and father who were staring at him with small smiles. He thanked them profusely in a bumble of Arabic and Sarmatian.

"Why now?" he asked.

"It was time," Raja said. She squeezed Tristan's hand.

"Your first kill, Ardeth," he said seriously. "It is your choice, but you know in my tribe, we are marked for our ascent into manhood."

Ardeth's fingers touched his sharp cheekbones. "Like yours?"

"If you want," he said. He felt a flush of pride when his son accepted with mature dignity, taking the privilege and gift with reverence.

Two days later, Ardeth's cheeks were indelibly marked the very same as his father's. And on the base of his neck was tattooed the Eye of Horus like his mother. It was one of the most memorable days of his life; he had never felt so much like his mother's son, and his father's son.

For the very first time in his life, he felt like a man, even though he knew he still had a long ways to go, and so much to learn. There was a celebration held for him that lasted long through the night.

Tristan's and Raja's feelings were ineffable as they watched their son in his moment of triumph. Tristan thought back to the day of his birth, when he had silently begged Raja not to leave him. Those nine months that he had worried that she would leave him, and even worse, if she left him behind with a son he would never be able to properly care for. He remembered telling his son after he was born that he would never want him for a father if it weren't for his mother.

While their son celebrated with his friends, he and Raja made love in the place where their son was more than likely conceived. The rush of the waterfall accompanied their cries of ecstasy and love, the rush of water was the rush of his seed flowing through Raja. The wind was Raja's breath when she whispered his name; the earth was the solidity that they each provided for one another. The surrounding trees, the noises of the forest animals, the moon, the stars, the universe were their infinite love. Always.

8/11/07