Hey, you can thank Mairi for her idea ! She's the one who suggested I switch point of views sometimes, so there will be one short chapter for each of the knights.
Cheers ! And Please review, it always makes my day even if you think that this story is now complete and I don't need them. It is untrue, I always crave a nice comment.
Dagonet was checking the edge of his heavy sword – again – to avoid conversation. Not that Bors would get the hint, mind you. Every now and then, a jab would be thrown his way. The giant knight barely had to grunt to deflect the attention. Bors, his brother in everything but blood, was used to it by now. Most of the time, Dagonet didn't even bother acknowledging him at all; this is what Vanora was for. The memory of the couple's last fight called a smile to his lips. For sure, Vanora wasn't one to back down. There wasn't a woman in the world that could make Bors squirm with a glare like she did. With her fussing and ordering around, she had replaced the knight's mother figure so easily and he … well. He was their father, because Bors was too busy taking care of himself. Their conscience as well.
It hurt more than he had foreseen. Every loss felt like a piece of his family ripped apart. He had held the hands of most dying knights, be it from wounds or disease, except for Kay who had been dead before he touched the ground. Every time they lost a knight, Dagonet felt the blade plunge into his heart as keenly as Arthur did. For even if their commander was responsible for them, he was still a Roman. Or a Briton. An outsider commanding respect, a man they would die for. But no Sarmatian. He, Dagonet, had started learning the art of healing because he wanted to have a hand in his brothers' health, like a father would have done, or a benevolent uncle. The only one that didn't regard him as such – apart from Bors – was Tristan. Perhaps because they were closer in age. Perhaps, also, because no one could replace the mighty father that had raised such a warrior. Their scout was the sort of man you didn't cross. All rage contained, ready to be unleashed upon their enemies, precision incarnated into a human being. A predator on the prowl.
Speaking of which, Tristan emerged from the woods like a shadow, footsteps silent. Under the moonlight, a flying shadow soared in the sky, circling twice above its master before gliding away. There were many jokes about Tristan's hawk, Lancelot stating more often than not that the bird was the only woman in the scout's life. Dagonet kept his mouth shut about it, wondering in silence if Tristan had ever taken interest in a woman other than to bed her. In truth, he didn't know what made his heart sing other than the wilderness and, of course, the thrill of battle. Despite his observation skills, Dagonet had yet to pierce the scout's secrets. His brothers were oblivious of his approach; his stealth cheating even the most observant ones. But not Dagonet, who shared the ability to remain silent with the scout. Apparent passivity gave more time to observe, and he wanted to know if the lady Frances was still alive. Witch or not, his heart had refused to leave her behind to die. And when his eyes had met hers, he was moved by the pain in her eyes, the earnest plea of her soul. He felt responsible for her life now.
His clear blue eyes bore holes into the scout, interrogating without asking aloud. His impassive mask didn't falter as he sat on a log, and for a moment, Dagonet's heart quickened. He understood Tristan's suspicion; something … there was something the lady wasn't saying. Something HE wasn't saying either, like a secret they shared. And when this very night, Arthur sent Tristan to the young woman, he grew afraid of what might happen. But he trusted their scout, no matter how tempered he could be. Tristan's amber eyes twinkled in the dark, and he barely nudged his head aside. It was enough for Dagonet to follow his line of sight and spot the young woman as she approached the campfire. Arthur spared her a glance, checking that she posed no danger. Then, seemingly satisfied, he returned to his musings.
Dagonet watched as she, too, prowled like a giant cat. Not unlike their scout. She seemed unhurt, and, catching his gaze, decided to settle beside him. Her instincts probably told her he would protect her from anything. After all, Lancelot had been brutal enough in his intentions. Even if Dagonet knew that none of them would ever take a woman by force – Arthur would be enraged! – the young woman didn't. It was a harsh world for a woman to travel alone; she'd been lucky to find them and not a band of outlaws. The tall knight almost shuddered at the thought of what might have happened. Even if she carried weapons, her skill remained to be seen. And no one could outmatch fifteen armed men intend on feasting upon a lovely maiden.
Frances settled beside him with a discreet smile, pulling him out of his thoughts. Dagonet nodded her gently as she rummaged into her leather bag. Then she started unbraiding her hair to pass a wooden brush in the tangled strands. The light of the fire set it ablaze, and even he had trouble tearing his gaze from the long strands that fell over her lap in waves. Her movements caught the attention of the younger knights; their eyes following the rhythmic movement of the brush. But he, alone, could hear the faint hisses and curses – in another language – that escaped her each time she ran into a knot. It took a long time for her hair to be entirely combed out, and when she eventually finished, she gathered its thickness behind her head and started twisting its length to pin it in a bun so compressed that it seemed ridiculous compared to the mass she had just tamed. The movement caused her collar to open slightly, revealing a purple bruise upon her neck. Refraining a growl, he awaited for the attention to shift away from them before asking discreetly.
— "What happened?"
The young woman gave him a doe look, eyes wide open in an innocent expression that almost made him chuckle. With this catlike face, he didn't doubt she could obtain anything she wanted. But Dagonet wasn't fooled, and mustered his best fatherly stare, pointing at her neck. Frances sighed, pulling her collar closer to hide the purple bruise.
— "The scout and I now have an understanding," she whispered.
Dagonet nodded, unwilling to comment to avoid catching the other's attention. Anger seldom seized his heart, but the shape of purple fingers upon the lady's slender neck irked him nonetheless. Keeping silent didn't prevent him from sending a harsh glare to Tristan, promising retribution should anything alike happen again. The scout didn't shrug albeit he could see he longed to. His smouldering eyes lingered instead on the young woman by his side, a strange look hidden behind his fringe.
The giant knight almost smirked. If he didn't know Tristan so well, he might have missed the puzzlement in his gaze. But he could read him better than anyone else… Well, that was interesting. The scout's unshakeable countenance undone by one woman. A tiny slip of a girl; she could be his own daughter. Let her be so for the while she needed it. A shoulder to rely upon to counter the fearsome scout.