The Woad in the Woods

Chapter 12.

Tristan had finally shook off Dagonet, Galahad and the ever persistent Jols. He had eventually been persuaded to stand still long enough for Jols to poke and prod at his injuries, finally announcing that Tristan would live. The bandages were hardly necessary but Tristan had submitted to his administrations as the lesser evil.

Galahad had assured him that Saratos had been brushed, fed and watered. Dagonet tried to persuade Tristan that he could do with the same attention but the knight had had his fill of company and in no uncertain terms refused. He brusquely requested that Jols locate an interpreter so he could question the girl in the morning. The others knew a losing battle when they saw one and subsequently left him to his own devices.

Tristan wanted nothing more than to get back to his room and divest himself of the events of the day. When Lancelot called his name he was tempted to engage in some selective hearing. Tristan gazed longingly at the Knights dwelling which only moments before had seemed so close. He paused and turned towards his approaching brother. So close, and yet so far.

Lancelot jogged good naturedly to catch up with him. Tristan schooled himself to appear disinterested.

"To bed already? Has that demon exhausted your considerable stamina so quickly? My, my, Tris, I thought you were made of more than that!" Lancelot smirked, slowing to a walk as he reached his brother. Before Tristan could form a retort, Lancelot waved off his reply.

"Just wanted to inform you that Arthur said to report to him in the morning. He's very, very interested to hear what you have to say" he said, raising one dark eyebrow suggestively. Before Tristan could say anything, Lancelot clapped him amiably on the back.

"Do try to get some rest. You'll need your strength for round two. And remember, if you need any tips," he stepped away and bowed theatrically, "my door is always open."

Lancelot grinned and quickly made his escape in the direction of the tavern, not giving his angered brother time to respond.

Tristan determinedly continued on to his room. Anyone who happened upon him over the short distance gave the dour knight a wide berth. This in itself was quite normal for Tristan, but this evening the denizens of the fort seemed to scuttle away faster than was usual.

Tristan was seething. To let Lancelot rile him up like this, it was unheard of! How was the juvenile baiting of his tiresome brother managing to get under his skin? The damned man was revelling in his reactions too. Tristan knew there would be more of the same if he didn't get his emotions in check quickly. He marched down the open walkway past the rooms belonging to his fellow knights. When he reached his own personal space he slammed the door closed behind him, sealing out the rest of the world. If there had been someone around to witness it they would have been stunned by any emotive display from the man, let alone what amounted to an all out tantrum by his standards.

Tristan leaned his back against the solid door behind him and closed his eyes. He worked some moments on controlling his breathing, deep and slow until he felt grounded once more. Wearily he opened his eyes, grateful to finally notice that Jols had lit the brazier and lamps in his ordered room, keeping the cold and the dark at bay. Tristan wondered where the man found the time.

He sluggishly pushed himself away from the door and headed towards the large floor-standing cross stationed near his bed. The irony of the two intersected pieces of wood also being the symbol for Arthur's 'God' was not lost on him. He had been raised in the beliefs of his own people, and though he did not actively pay tribute to those old world deities, he also did not hold faith with Arthur's 'Lord'.

Tristan undid the buckle of his sword belt, placing the worn yet sturdy scabbard carefully on his bed. Various other blades located on his person followed suit. With practised fingers he loosened the fastenings of his armoured jerkin, pulling it over his head, already feeling like he was shedding some of the day's tension in the process. Tristan draped the garment over the the waiting cross. He glanced over to the sister display that stood on the opposite side of the generous room. This one's service was already employed in supporting Tristan's full battle gear. The layered plates of leather and metal, the armoured gauntlets and shin guards. Crowning the display was the distinct winged helmet emblematic of his tribe. They were some of the only items he had retained from his journey across the empire, gifted to him by his village on the day he left in anticipation of the warrior he would grow to become.

Tristan liberated himself of the his woven tunic, being careful not to disturb his bandages, and sat heavily on his bed to be rid of his footwear. His tunic and breeches would need a good scrub to get rid of the blood, and a couple of stitches to mend them.

Habitually he reached for his sheathed sword and released the blade from it's home. His father's sword was a thing of great beauty. Simple and devastatingly effective in it's curved design. It was exquisitely balanced so it sat comfortably in his hands. Tristan watched the light from the oil lamps slide lazily across it's mirrored surface as he rotated it slightly between his fingers. He had been somewhat luckier than a number of his brothers fifteen years ago, his village had been forewarned of the Romans' approach.

The night before Tristan left home his mother had prepared his favourite meal of stewed beef. She had thought her glances towards the entrance of their dwelling were inconspicuous but Tristan knew she was hoping his father would appear back in time to join them. Resignedly they ate alone in silence and it was late into the night when he finally lay himself down to sleep. The fires had gone cold by the time Tristan was shaken to consciousness by the dark figure looming over his bed. Tristan could smell the alcohol that infused the air around the large man who didn't appear to be looking in his direction. A bundled package was thrust clumsily into his arms.

"Keep her sharp, boy". The words were a low rumble and only slightly slurred. Tristan felt the large callused hand of his father gently cradle the side of his face and in the dark their eyes finally met. He still doubted his own memory of unshed tears glistening in the chilled room. The moment didn't last however, as his father rose unsteadily to stumble over to his own sleeping platform where his patient wife slumbered on oblivious. Tristan's reminiscence was cut short, brought back to the present with his heart skipping a beat as he saw his father's troubled brown eyes looking back at him from the depths of the silvery blade.

It took him only a second to comprehend that it was his own reflection he was seeing thrown back at him. Tristan wasn't a vain man. He did not invest much in personal grooming and was not in the habit of checking his appearance. It surprised him to realise how he had grown into some resemblance of his father. The thought that he could become like the man made his blood run cold. He had never been violent towards Tristan or his mother, he had provided for them and Tristan supposed he had shown his love for them in the only way that he had known how. There was no real affection or warmth in Tristan's memory of him. The man had spiralled into a darkness that only the fleeting solace of inebriation seemed to lift.

Tristan tore his gaze from the blade, his mind even more troubled than before. In an attempt to create a semblance of normality he removed the whetstone from his bedside table and began methodically sharpening his blades. The routine brought some peace to his mind and when he was done he arranged the swords and knives neatly into place upon their brackets on the wall.

With no more possible distractions to occupy him Tristan finally snuffed out the flames of the lamps and returned to his bed. He did not feel like getting beneath the covers that night and instead opted to lie upon the bedding. Interlacing his fingers, he placed them beneath his weary head and lay on his back, but he could not convince himself to close his eyes just yet.

Thoughts of the wildling girl which had danced patiently on the edge of his mind now demanded his attention. He sincerely wished he had never brought her to the fort. His feeling were so utterly conflicting he was unsure if it was possible to untangle them all. He figured going right back to the beginning was a place to start.

He should have killed her there and then. It would have saved him all of his current strife, but then, upon discovering her body the Woads would have been alerted to the fact the Romans were scouting the area. He considered that he could have taken her farther away and found a suitably obscure place to leave her to die, but that would have increased the risk of crossing paths with others and he had been running out of daylight. Tristan toyed with other possibilities, but a little shadowy part of him knew that if he could go back to that very point, that moment she had closed her sharp eyes and surrendered to his blade, the outcome would have been the same, every time.

The thoughts of letting her go had not even occurred to him. Tristan believed in being honest, at the very least, with himself. He began to question his own motives. The hungry look in the eyes of the soldiers at the small fort as they settled upon his prisoner was enough to illicit feelings of protection, of responsibility, within him. He had brought the lamb amongst the wolves and he had not been willing to leave her behind. Tristan's nature was hard, but not cruel. He knew full well the appetites of men.

It was only when those closest to him had come into contact with the Pict that his thoughts had turned darker. Picturing her in Lancelot's arms, or under the administrations of Jols clinical hands stirred a brewing anger in him that disturbed him immensely. It felt...territorial. If Tristan wanted something he would go out and get it, or just take it. Had he taken her? Did he want her?

The thoughts of forcing himself upon a woman was abhorrent to Tristan. She had certainly been put through her paces that day, and he had left her in a cell exhausted and in pain, though he suspected she was not yet defeated. There was no attraction for him in the act of beating someone down and forcibly taking what was not offered freely.

Tristan's mind drifted to the woman as he had first encountered her, all furious energy and righteous anger. Alive and sparkling, resourceful and intelligent. Tristan couldn't help the immediate reaction his body had at the thought of such a woman willingly directing the same energies into more carnal activities. He admonished himself for such thoughts, whilst fighting his natural urges. The fact that she was his prisoner, not the knowledge she was a Woad, was what he found distasteful in the direction his musings had taken.

Tristan could admit that this somewhat revelation to himself was why Lancelot's teasing had managed to get to him. Perhaps he'd gone too long without release and that was the cause of his lustful thoughts. Of course, the opposite could be said of Lancelot. Tristan could not find the energy nor the inclination to head out again that night, if he did he could have spent some of his frustration by bedding one of the fort whores. They were always happy to part the Knights from their coins.

Tristan absent-mindedly rubbed his beard before brushing his hair back off his forehead in a tangle of knots and braids. He finally closed his eyes, setting his mind to order once more. He pushed aside how he would have to explain bringing back a Woad woman to the fort, one who was strategically useless. In the morning he would question her, find out what she knew about the attacks on the Wall. If there was a village near where he had encountered her it stood to reason that the attacks stemmed from there. The growing frequency of the skirmishes gave an air that something was brewing North of the Wall. Like their defences were being put to the test. Would she talk, and if so, what then? He realised he would have to defer to Arthur's good judgement on what was to be done with her. Tristan felt some of the burden lifted from him, knowing that her fate would be out of his hands, whilst refusing to dwell on what that future may hold.

For now, at least, she was safe in the cell.

No one was suicidal enough to interfere with a Sarmatian prisoner.

A/N - Or are they? Mwahahaha.

Thank you so much to everyone who has ever reviewed this story, in particular for Chapter 11. That means you guys: Gaara-frenzy, Persephone Targaryen, Concrete63, JoFrench22, selene344, AvalonTheLadyKiller and Shalise40.

Many thanks to all the new followers too =)

Always encouraging, endlessly motivating! I love to hear all of your thoughts on how the story is progressing. I can't thank you all enough.

The next update will be sticking to Tristan's POV, just too much to fit in to one chapter. How do we feel about Tristan viewing Kyla in a more sexual way? Will it change how he acts towards her when they see each other again?

Are you enjoying delving into Tristan's past? Let me know what you think. x