Sorry that it has been a little while since I updated.
This would have been up last night, but I had a terrible headache and I didn't feel well at all.
Well, here it is, despite its lateness... All NINE pages on TNR size 12. Yes, this chapter is longer than all the other ones so far, which meant I was typing most of the day because of my typing failure. TT^TT
So I hope you all enjoy! ^_^
Chapter 10: Scars
Upon hearing the sound of blades being drawn, Arthur and his knights all rush outside.
"Tristan! What in bloody hell are you doing?" exclaims Gawain.
The man in question shrugs nonchalantly.
"She thinks she is ready for the Woads and the Saxons."
"So… what? You're testing her?" Galahad half yells, horrified by the prospect.
Seeing there would be no response to Galahad's question, Gawain speaks up again.
"Tristan, you could hurt her."
"Better my hand than some Saxon or Woad," he mutters under his breath.
Not hearing an answer, Lancelot spins around on Arthur.
"Are you honestly going to allow this insanity?"
Arthur looks thoughtful for a minute, looking at the set face of the woman who becomes slightly nervous under his gaze.
"She wishes to accompany us; I must know that she is capable," Arthur says slowly, as if trying to talk himself into the idea. Lancelot opens his mouth to protest, but the man cuts him off, this time speaking more forcefully. "Lancelot, I cannot bring her into this without knowing if she can at the least defend herself." Without giving Lancelot a chance to argue anymore, he turns to the knight who had showed her around the night before. "Dagonet, I want you to step in at which point you feel it is needed."
Dagonet nods his understanding and steps forward to easier be able to intervene, then nods to both Tristan and Iseult.
Almost immediately, the two of them lock in on each other, watching intently for any sign of movement as they circle.
Just when the onlookers think it safe to blink, Tristan takes the first swing, hoping to catch her by surprise and throw her off. Instead, she jumps back, the swing glancing off her sword.
Tristan pulls back, returning to his original stance as if analyzing anew, trying to pinpoint any sluggishness or weakness on her part. Not finding one, he tries again, this time trying an overhead maneuver, forcing her to bring her sword up to block. For a moment, he puts all his strength into trying to force her blade down, and, while it does have some effect, it does not do quite what he had intended. Without a second thought, he slides the sword away from the contact and spins, trying to hit her currently unguarded side.
Once more, she blocks, having anticipated his next move due to remembering his own training of her.
'If an enemy tries to strike you high and you block, they will most often try to use your block to attack an unprotected area, like your leg or side. They are counting on you to be slow adjusting. You cannot be slow.'
Tristan breaks contact and backs up once more, debating his next move. He decides and immediately goes into action, becoming serious. He will have to concentrate hard not to seriously hurt her.
This thought in mind, he goes into what many have named the 'Dance of Death' or the 'Deathdance'. His movements become fluid, easily flowing from one move to the next when Iseult would somehow manage to block the blow before.
Inevitably, though, one of the moves lands solidly, slicing her left arm, cutting her sleeve and the skin under it.
She flinches and grits her teeth, but sends Dagonet a warning look when he starts to step forward. He stops in his tracks and steps back once more as she returns her full attention to Tristan.
Before Tristan has time to retry his prior success, Iseult goes on the offensive. Her blows come is such quick succession that even Tristan is forced to keep moving. Her moves aren't always fluid, nor are they particularly strong, but her light blade allows moving quickly to be her specialty. Galvin had easily seen, during his teaching her, that she would not be exceptionally strong or agile, but she was fast.
Even Dagonet, who had witnessed her reflexes first hand, has to admit to being pleasantly surprised. What she lacks in strength and fluidity, she makes up for with speed and an ability to adjust quickly. Dag can't help but think that if it was a lesser swordsman she was fighting, she would have landed several hits by now. Probably nothing fatal, nor a great deal of hits, but enough to start wearing an enemy down. Because it is Tristan she is fighting, though, all but one of her attacks had been either deflected or dodged. The only one that had landed had only barely grazed the scout's left hand.
Then, the unexpected happens very suddenly.
Iseult sees an opening. Tristan's stance had widened slightly during the fight. Just enough for her to get away with the move. Exactly in the middle of Tristan taking a step back, she kicks out and sees Tristan's eyes widen slightly in surprise.
She knows very well what her opponent, and the knights, will expect from a woman intent on winning. Instead of doing what they believe and/or fear her doing, that which she had never had any intention of doing in the first place, she makes contact with his ankle, hooks her foot behind and yanks back.
The effect is immediate as she and Tristan both crash to the dirt, her having been pulled down due to him catching her wrist in his fall. When they hit the ground, they hit with enough force that both of their swords clatter away. Without a second's hesitation, they roll away from each other quickly and in one smooth draw and lunge motion, each has a dagger at the other's neck, touching, but not cutting.
"Enough!" Dag shouts. He takes two quick strides and roughly separates them.
They both willingly step back another step and put their knives away, never taking their glares from one another. The battle is still going on, except now it is a battle of wills and an unspoken argument.
Finally, Tristan frowns.
"Fine. If Arthur says you can go, go. Get yourself killed. Obviously does not matter to you, so why should I care?"
Having thus spoken, he retrieves his blade and stalks off, disappearing within the stable doors.
Everyone— the knights, Arthur, and Iseult— watches after him.
Lancelot is the first to speak.
"It is true that you have skill with a blade, but what of battle? It is different there. Have you ever actually killed someone?"
She snaps her attention from the stable doors to the dark-haired knight.
"I have defended my village for seven years. I am no ignorant, nor innocent."
A loud snort issues from the barn, obviously from a rather darkly amused knight, but it is ignored.
"Can you protect yourself?" asks Arthur. "You cannot rely on my men to help you."
She sneers, a facial expression that already seems familiar to Gawain for some reason.
"I do not require their help in battle. I can protect myself. The last fifteen years have left me with no choice."
"Well then… Taking into account the fact that you kept pace with Tristan for the most part…" he stops and examines her, starting over. "I suspect that your strong desire to go will allow my answer to change nothing, yes?"
For the first time the knights had seen, Iseult smirks mischievously and shakes her head.
"I would follow after you all left."
Arthur nods, as if having expected her answer.
"I thought as much. I suppose, under the circumstances, I haven't a choice. I would rather you travel with us than follow after. You may come, but you must obey my commands just as my knights do. You cannot act solely of your own accord and disregard what I say. If I say something or issue an order, it is for good reason. Am I understood?"
She nods in way of response and Arthur returns the gesture.
"Very well. The knights and I will be ready to depart shortly," he says turning to walk inside.
All the knights save for three give her strange looks. One of the three, Lancelot, winks at her to which she rolls her eyes. There had been men like him in her village and she refused to fall for his tactics. Dagonet's look, on the other hand, is a kind smile whereas Gawain's eyes search her face, trying to find a reason to explain away the vague familiarity that he has felt towards her since he had first seen her.
She watches as they disappear inside before picking up and sheathing her own blade and mounting her horse. Just as she is fixing to look at her arm, she stops, seeing several men enter the stables. Four to be exact. Two Roman guards and two men dressed well, obviously important people. Her eyes do not leave the doors until the two guards and the most extravagantly dressed man leave the stable.
Once the group is out of sight, she begins to covertly examine her left arm. He had gotten her good. No doubt it would scar. Not that she really minds. It will match some of her others.
Instinctively, she reaches up and brushes a finger over her left temple, tracing the scar there, hidden by her thick hair. Realizing what she will start thinking upon, she quickly returns her hand to the reigns.
Hearing a horse, she looks to the doors. She smiles at the rider as he stops his horse alongside her.
"You really did do well against Tristan," says the man with his deep, soft voice.
"Thank you, Dagonet, but I couldn't have done all that well," she replies, lifting her arm at the shoulder and then lowering it again.
The corners of Dag's mouth turn down ever so slightly as he looks at the still faintly bleeding gash.
"May I?" he asks, holding his hand out in an offer to look at the cut. Seeing that she is about to protest, he holds his other hand up to stop her. "The others are still inside finishing preparations, and that wound needs to be cleaned."
She looks at the big man, as if to argue, but realizes that he is right. After glancing at the stable doors once more, she places her arm in his offered hand.
He blinks for a moment, clearly surprised that she had complied without much argument, but he quickly recovers and spreads open the tear in her sleeve to examine the wound.
It's not all that deep, but Tristan had obviously been trying to send a message. Her arm will no doubt scar no matter how well it is tended to.
He sighs and then looks up from the wound to her face.
"Can you roll your sleeve up?"
"No," she says and this time it is her turn to silence him, "but I can do something else."
That said, she reaches with her other hand to the seam in her left sleeve, undoes a knot, and pulls at the bottom of the sleeve until there is a sizeable gap at the elbow.
Seeing Dagonet's questioning look, she elaborates.
"I find it useful to be able to wear long sleeves or short sleeves depending on the weather without having to carry so much. I made my shirts so that I can undo the elbow seam, which allows me to detach from the elbow down in warm weather."
Dagonet nods, actually somewhat impressed by her creativity.
"Helps get to wounds, too," he smiles good-naturedly at her as he pulls out a bottle of cleaner from his saddlebag. She can't help but return the smile. "This will probably sting."
She shrugs and he starts cleaning the wound, glancing up at her occasionally to make sure he's not hurting her. Her face is calm, barely showing a sign of discomfort. Apparently, Tristan had taught her more than fighting.
As he cleans and bandages the wound, silence falls over them. It lasts until he finishes and returns his supplies to their proper places and straightens up, noticing her eyes studying him.
He can't help but think she's staring at his rather ugly scars. Most women would recoil at the sight of them. Figures that even a warrior woman can't look past them.
"For a man of your build," she begins thoughtfully, "you have very gentle hands. You are a healer and have been trained as such, yes?"
The simple statement and question throws him off. Was that what she had been thinking?
"Yes," he says finally, upon remembering that she had asked him a question. "My grandfather. He was the village healer. He taught me what he knew of healing."
She nods her understanding as she looks over his work, nods once more, and fixes her sleeve.
What he does not tell her, what he has not told anyone, is why his grandfather had taught him.
He had always had a large build, not quite like he does now, but he had always been taller and had more breadth to his shoulders than most his age. Due to this, he always seemed to injure other children by accident. After one particular incident, he had been particularly upset and had told his grandfather about how he thought he was particularly cursed.
He remembers how the elderly man had merely smiled gently, his eyes filled with knowledge.
'Dagonet. You may think your height and build a curse now, but one day, it may very well help those you care about.'
'How, grandfather? All I do is hurt people. I don't do it on purpose. I just…'
Again, he had smiled warmly at him.
'Dagonet. Would you like for me to teach you what I know of healing?'
'Father says that you wouldn't teach him. Why would you teach me?'
'Because you, unlike your father, have a healer's heart. You care for people. All those around you, despite how they may treat you. Now, do you wish to learn from me?'
He had stared at the man a moment, trying to find a motive, but he had still been young then. Only ten summers old. Finding none behind the old man's offer, he had nodded and his grandfather had immediately begun to teach him.
Looking back now, he knows his grandfather had helped him greatly. The other children had not been nearly as upset with him for injuring them when he knew how to fix it. He had become quite popular among the other children because he knew how to fix their scraped knees and broken bones.
How he misses the old man. He had died a year before the Romans had come to get him. In a way, he is glad that he died before then. Had his grandfather still been alive, it would have been harder for him to leave.
Iseult watches the man's face. He seems as though he is far away, but when his eyes start to get misty looking, she turns away as if scanning the horizon, giving him his privacy.
He blinks quickly, forcing himself from his remembrances just as he catches movement at the stable door. He and Iseult both turn to see Tristan leading his horse out of the building and mounting, not even sparing either of them a glance.
Dagonet looks at Iseult out of the corner of his eye. He sees her slump ever so slightly and her face falls just a little before she catches herself and straightens, acting indifferent as she turns the other way.
Dag turns a heavy stare toward Tristan and shakes his head. He understands the scout isn't happy about her accompanying them, but he could at least not ignore her. She had, after all, travelled all the way from their homeland to see him. Judging by the time of her arrival, she had probably meant to either accompany him on his way back to Sarmatia or to travel and stay with him wherever he would go. Her plans had probably only changed upon hearing of the final mission in the tavern last night.
If he's being honest with himself, he has to admit it. He's not terribly comfortable with her coming with them either, despite his previous good word on her behalf and his compliment about her competence against Tristan. Women do not belong in such dangerous settings.
Of course, he knows there are many Sarmatian tribes in which women are warriors in equal standing with the men. Even within his own village, there had been women who had hunted and fought alongside the men. In many tribes, it is even custom for, at the birth of a baby girl while they are yet babies, the mother to heat a bronze instrument constructed for the exact purpose of cauterizing the right breast, preventing its growth so that it would not later impair the child's archery skill.
Simply thinking about this, he winces. He cannot bear the thought of such an act. Even as a battle-scarred warrior, the thought turns his stomach. What a horrible thing to do to a child.
Of course, Iseult had obviously either not been meant to be a warrior or had not been in one of those tribes, for he had seen her in her tunic the night before as he took her to the tavern, and that custom had clearly not been performed.
He quickly busies himself with rechecking his supplies as a light blush starts to creep up his neck. Oh, how thankful he is that Bors is not yet out to give him a hard time. Despite the fact that Bors is not one of the brightest of the knights— that title would be split between Lancelot and Tristan— he always seems to know what others are thinking, especially Dagonet.
Another movement at the stable doors distracts him as the very man he had been thinking of rides up to him.
"Dag, you been keepin' the lady comp'ny?" he asks, winking at Dag before looking Iseult over skeptically. "So you're a warrior, huh?"
Dag and Bors both watch as she straightens.
"Yes," she responds shortly, knowing that he is being patronizing.
" 'ow many battles you been in?"
"No battles, just fights to protect my village."
"Ever killed a man? Had 'is blood covering you, staining yer clothes and skin—"
"Bors. Enough," Dag proclaims. He knows what Bors is trying to do, and he does not approve of scare tactics.
Iseult shakes her head, "It's fine, Dagonet. Bors is not bothering me. He is concerned that I'm not ready and will endanger you all. He has every right to ask me questions. I am the only unproven among you."
She then leans toward the two of them and focuses her gaze on Bors who fights back the sudden urge to flinch from the sudden coldness in her eyes.
"As I said before. I am no ignorant, nor innocent," she starts, lowering her voice. "Yes. I have stood in the midst of a fight and been covered in other's blood mingled with my own. I have seen the blank, staring eyes of those who fell by my blade. I have stood over them as they issue their final death rattle and depart from this world. I have watched as people from my village have fallen, and I unable to do anything. I have not fought battles on the scale that you and the others have, but I am no stranger to blood and death."
Bors and Dagonet shift uncomfortably in their saddles, clearly having not expected such a dark answer, though, Dagonet would almost swear that he had seen the corner of Tristan's mouth upturn at seeing their discomfort. No doubt he had heard her answer to Bors and found some dark humor in their response to it.
Fortunately, Iseult straightens up, a tiny smirk visible on her tanned face as she once more scans the horizon.
Dag shoots an accusatory look at Bors who shrugs and mutters something to the affect of 'I can see the resemblance' while looking between Tristan and Iseult. The giant knight barely chokes back a chuckle as Tristan's gaze moves to Bors, who once more shifts nervously. Bors' horse, sensing its rider's nervousness, paws a hoof in the dirt. Seemingly satisfied by the reaction, Tristan turns his calm gaze back to the road ahead.
Not a moment later, all four already outside look to the stables as the remaining four riders emerge, followed by two others who are leading pack animals.
Arthur nods to them and kicks his horse into a gallop, everyone else following suite.
As they start forward towards the wall, Iseult can't stop a cold shiver that runs down her spine.
Their mission has begun.
Okay. Own up. How many people thought Iseult was gonna fight dirty against Tristan?
Don't lie. Even Tristan thought/feared what she would do.
What do you guys think so far? Good, bad, ugly? Do you hate it, love it?
Is Iseult believable?
Here's another question, but it's kinda random. Did anyone like how I explained Dag becoming a "healer"?
Anyway. I'd love to hear what you guys think.
I will try to update again soon. ^_^
~Kanae~