Was it really possible, for a spirit, to be sad and joyful at the same time? The knight shrugged his nonexistent shoulders, struggling to take a little more form for the sake of his companion. A welcome comity of sorts for a friend he had lost years ago. It didn't matter much – time didn't pass the same way up there. It just flowed, without anguish or fears, peaceful.

The knight floated across the ethereal ground, conjuring a soothing image of clouds and greenery that he knew would be soothing. He schooled his features into something recognisable – the greyish hair short enough, a little beard, squinted blue eyes partially covered by his eyelids. This how he'd seen him last.

Before him appeared the man he'd waited to hug for years, his heart once more swelling with unconditional love. For he had loved him, this brother of another mother. Tristan, his fellow scout with whom he had bonded barely out of Sarmatia in their long journey to the west.

Sadness and joy mingled. Sadness, for he was barely thirty-three. Christ's age. Joy, because he would find solace here. Pride, for the honourable role he'd played during all these years, as he scouted alone. A pang of regret, for he had just opened his heart only to lose his life.

The mighty scout seemed lost, gazing into the unknown. He was probably registering the absence of pain, of blood pouring out of him. How bitter, that he should have to worry about not being in pain. The spirit-knight approached gently, making his presence known by projecting his essence forward.

Tristan whirled around – such a human thing to do when the body was submitted to third dimension elements. Here, physicality didn't matter. The scout would get used to it; the paranoia would fade. No use being on your guard, no cold, no harshness, no wind, no hunger, no attacks.

The knight-spirit felt his face split with a smile – he had forgotten how that felt – as his eyes locked with Tristan's golden-flecked ones. The scout froze, standing tall; he appeared such as he had died below. Later, he might choose to alter his form to suit another he liked better. For the moment, though, his spirit was still attached to the man he used to be. Recognition dawned upon Tristan's features, his jaw agape from the shock.

— "Bedivere !", he whispered.

Then the mighty scout sprang forward, his heavy layers still weighing upon his back. The spirit-knight opened his arms wide, concentrating on making them solid enough to welcome Tristan in his embrace. His fellow scout crashed into his makeshift body, arms tightening around him, eyes squeezed tight. Tears leaked from his eyes, years of sadness pouring out of him like a river whose dam had broken.

Bedivere didn't let go, allowing Tristan's walls to crumble, coaxing his soul to unburden itself. Soon, the former scout was but a mess of sobs. Such suffering, such darkness, oozing out little by little, disappearing in the sky like a disease. Leaking out, at last, until what remained was but a soul. Scarred, and in need of healing still, but Tristan's soul. Bright and pulsating with the light of life.

Tristan eventually pulled away, his features a little more uncertain now that his earthly trials were fleeing. He would remember them all, but the suffering was lessening. With time, a new clarity would settle in its stead, bringing comfort and solace. Comprehension. Bedivere clamped his hands on both of his cheeks, letting his essence sooth the man that used to be his best friend.

— "Tristan. I am sad to see you so soon, but thrilled all the same time."

The scout's fingers covered his, manly pride forgotten, to taste the warmth of this contact.

— "Those were awfully long years without you."

The spirit-knight let go, giving his counterpart a lopsided smile.

— "I can barely imagine. I remember how long the days were down there."

— "What do you mean?" Tristan asked.

— "Time flows differently here, you'll see."

And the spirit-knight made a show to sit on the ground, and only then Tristan seemed to realise that it wasn't an actual forest floor. Still, his usual suspicion didn't kick in as he sat contentedly. It felt like those old luncheons they used to share after a morning spent scouting, away from the others.

— "Tristan. You can send word to your tribe through your mother to let her know that you found your peace."

— "Yes. I'd better do it."

The Sarmatian shamans always knew when one of them passed away. Near or far, their connection with mother earth was strong enough to gather the message.

— "Your sister is there already."

Tristan nodded; he'd always had the intuition that she would die in childbirth. So now, only his mother remained; the old woman was probably lonely. He'd be sure to pay a visit, so she could mourn him properly.

— "She probably already knows of my death, then."

— "It was an honorable fall, you saved many."

Then Bedivere added in a chuckle.

— "I wish mine had had such flourish."

Tristan gave him a started look, surprised by the lack of resentment and sadness over his death in a skirmish. It had been so meaningless. Yet, Bedivere seemed to have made his peace with it.

— "Bedivere. Forgive me"

The knight spirit didn't seem surprised by Tristan's line of thoughts.

— "No, thank you for your courage. I will never forget your sacrifice."

— "I could never forget either. It has haunted me ever since."

A gleam of sadness passed in those impossible blue eyes.

— "I know, but you spared me a difficult and very dishonourable ending. I tried to convey my thanks so many times. Did you ever feel me by your side?"

Mouth agape, the scout brushed the white streaks of his beard to keep his composure.

— "I thought I was crazy for seeing you."

Bedivere nodded gently.

— "We all were. The issue of being human. But here … you can heal."

Silence settled upon them and the forest shifted away, like a fog seeping in, engulfing the landscape until nothing was left but whitish wisps. The spirit-knight didn't move, relishing in the company of a fallen comrade, bringing comfort by his mere presence.

Tristan needed time to sort his thoughts, and accept the non-corporeality of death. He'd always been bright, but this was such a massive change. Everything had to be reassessed … from his physical form, to the laws of nature. Death was so different. Time, space, feelings became relative.

Without much surprise, Tristan's first words concerned a little fairy.

— "She was right, he whispered. "She said I had ten thousand years of sadness. I was so angry I couldn't accept it."

Bedivere grinned, finding the pull upon his facial muscles rather strange.

— "So … the Keeper of Time? Of all the women thrown your way, you had to choose the most inaccessible one, right?"

The scout snorted then, slapping the spirit-knight playfully. A smile pulled at his lips, revealing sharp canines that would have made a wolf jealous.

— "Yeah. She's something"

— "You love her," Bedivere stated, his clear blue eyes twinkling.

— "Yes. Better I am dead, then. I can love her from here."

Bedivere barely hummed; there was so much Tristan didn't understand at this point. But again, watching from afar with all that wisdom accumulated gave a much clearer picture. His fellow scout would find out the answers, in time. Better to stick to subject his human mind could grasp, especially since he was still reeling with the shock of dying.

— "I didn't think I'd see the day when you give your heart away."

Truthfully, Tristan had sometimes taken a mild interest in a woman, but never found one he considered worthy of his peculiar mind. If his fellow knights had mocked him, finding he thought too much of himself because of his royal blood – the tattoos caused a few jealousies – Bedivere knew that Tristan's distance wasn't the result of pride. The scout's disappointment came from his sensibility, and his very keen mind.

Then, it just turned to fear… No woman, until now, had truly matched his strength, neither his intelligence. To see that it took the Keeper of Time to connect to his heart, well … it didn't come as a surprise. No other woman could suit him.

— "She's not mine."

The smooth voice didn't contain anger, regret or disappointment. Only the plain truth, as if acceptance had already settled in his bones. As if he thought himself unworthy … but they couldn't have that, could they? So Bedivere butted in.

— "Not entirely."

His words sparked some interest in the dead scout, his golden-flecked eyes turning to him. Already, the wounds he had sustained were mending, the blood disappearing from his clothes. Good, it meant that Tristan showed himself as a knight, not like the broken man on the battlefield. Would he, in the future, shed the weapons? The armour? What would remain ?

— "What do you mean?", he asked.

— "Her soul is split between you both."

The off-handed comment got a rise from the scout.

— "Frances is nothing but fickle, how can you say such a thing?"

Bedivere smiled with indulgence; Tristan still functioned with his old mind structures. Knight one day, knight forever. For a Sarmatian, hinting at a woman's unfaithfulness was a serious offence.

— "The Keeper of Time exists outside of space and time. There are many facets of her soul coexisting."

— "I don't understand."

The former knight shrugged.

— "Neither do I. Not entirely. But I am sure that you will, in time."

— "I was used to the poetry, not the riddles."

Bedivere laughed good-naturedly – funny, he'd not heard his own voice for so long. He would have loved to stay there, basking in the surrounding peace, but something needed to be done beforehand.

— "She's hurting, that woman of yours. I fear she is sinking without your presence."

A wave of worry washed over his friend, and Bedivere watched as Tristan leant over and watched, down below, the young woman struggle in horrible nightmares. They could almost discern them, all that anguish, that human fear that coursed through her veins as sweat gathered on her brow. A fever.

— "What can I do?"

Suddenly, Bedivere was standing, offering his hand to his former brother in arms.

— "Come, I'll show you."

But try as they might, the spirit-knights never managed to reach Frances. Hours passed, and they watched, helpless, Frances suffer in her own nightmarish world.

Frustrated, Tristan threw his hands in the air.

— "I can't reach her."

Bedivere shook his head, amazed by the stubbornness of such a lithe woman.

— "No, she's pushing the light away."

— "Why?"

The spirit knight concentrated again, finding the same high walls in place around her mind. The Keeper of Time had such strong defences that, even unconscious, he couldn't penetrate it. He didn't know so much of her past; only that she had come across many weird beasts and beings. There also was a strange aura around her, as if higher beings were protecting her from unfriendly intrusions.

Yet, the foundations of the walls were hers. The sturdiest rocks, bigger than those of Hadrian's walls, firmly planted in the ground. Disturbing the earth with blood and tears, regrets and guilt.

Bedivere understood, then.

— "She's mourning you, and blaming herself for her choices."

— "Stupid fairy," Tristan raged.

The spark of anger felt foreign, a reminiscence of times past fuelled by fear.

— "She loved you probably just as much as you did her."

Tristan's eyes locked with his, and suddenly, the colour seemed to drain out of it … maroon, earth bound, leaked out, leaving a stormy grey in its wake. As if the scout could now see, without the veils of his wounds blocking his foresight. But what he saw didn't agree with his heart.

— "How could it be? I saw the light in her face when she spoke of her betrothed."

— "She loved him just as much," Bedivere said. "But she linked her soul to yours when she tried to cure you. Your death is splitting her."

Tristan's human would have said, 'I won't be shared.' Tristan, as a spirit, has no such qualms. Bedivere landed his non-corporeal hand upon his shoulder, proud to see that peace infusing his being. The sense of worthiness slowly creeping in. Realisation, dawning upon him like a bright light coming from the skies.

— "She knelt at my feet, she begged for my life."

Clear blue eyes locked with stormy grey.

— "Yes. She has given her blood, her life force to you. She will mourn you dearly…"

Bedivere's sight returned to the bloodied woman whose collarbone was entirely shattered.

— "Perhaps die from it."

He felt Tristan's hand reach for his, looking for support. A gesture the proud man would have recoiled at as a knight, but accepted as a spirit.

— "She's strong. That elf is waiting for her, she can't welcome death", Tristan eventually said.

— "The Keeper of Time cannot give up. It seems that she will have to handle it by herself."

Tristan squeezed his hand once, then released fingers that shifted out of phase once more. In this moment, the scout looked like that prophet that had come, two thousand years ago, speaking word no one would understand for millennia. Long hair billowing around his face, sharp cheekbones, and a look lost in both the future and the past.

— "The Keeper of Time is always alone."

Bedivere shook his head, calling Tristan back to him.

— "No," he said, and the words landed like a hammer upon Tristan's spine. "She's not alone anymore."

And the scout remembered his promise:

I'll watch over you, from up there.

And it is precisely what he set up to do. Bedivere floated in and out by his side, and they both watched as the Keeper of Time eventually awakened. Broken, but alive. They watched her fake smiles, her anger towards Guinevere. They wept with her when the scout's lifeless body – barely a shell – was burnt in the wind, let her voice infuse their souls as she sang on his grave.

— "She is inspiring," Bedivere whispered, tears leaking down his face.

The knight spirit didn't know he could cry in this form.

— "Aye, that she is."

And he watched his brother's face, features peaceful, when he realised the other knights would take care of Frances in his absence.

They watched some more, side by side, in the peace of nothingness as weeks passed and she regained a little strength. Until…

— "What is that woman doing!"

Tristan leapt to his feet, metaphorically, before his expression turned to indignation.

— "Damn it, she's impossible. I'll get down there."

— "Tris… !"

But the knight was gone already.

— "Oh blast," Bedivere exclaimed. "Whatever."

And he watched as Tristan descended like an angel of wrath upon a beach, the wind trying to whip at his hair, and failing miserably. Awed, Bedivere could only shake his head; in necessity, Tristan had already found the way to make himself corporeal, if only for a moment.

It had taken himself more than a few months to actually manage to appear, for barely an instant, in their favourite clearing.

He watched, again, as the young woman gasped, half lost in the icy waves, when she spotted him. Well done, Tristan!

Bedivere let its non-corporeal senses be lulled by the waves, the mesmerising movement of the grey sea where a lone figure bathed, lips blues and hair fiery red. On the beach, Tristan stood, his soul so bright now that the traumas of the past had been shed. Bedivere gasped; he's never seen someone so full of light.

Yes. Tristan was going to fare well in the afterlife.

Hey ! I've worked on this chapter for a long time, but I really love the mood of this afterlife moment. I hope you enjoy it !