Where Home Lies
Chapter Two: The Blue Warriors
AUTHOR NOTES: Thank you thank you to everyone who reviewed!!!! massive huggles You don't know how happy they made me! Go forth and multiply! Anyway, this chapter is a bit moody and dialogue-less, I admit, but there are so many Tristan-thoughts that I want to get out! The next chapter will probably have more dialogue...and also more knight interaction. I promise! Please review!
Surreal13-- I'm pleased that you picked up on the 'his' Tristan uses when refering to the knights. He cares about them far more than he pretends too. And yes, I will be explaining what happened to his family through slow facts, and flashbacks!
guinevere-- AWESOME name! I'm glad that you like the way I portray the knights..though this chapter is basically entirely Tristan-centric, I plan to have much more knight interaction in the next chapter.
Squallsgurlygurl, koalared, asnowybunny, Tian Sirki-- thank you thank you! :grins happily: I absolutely will keep going, and Squallsgurlygurl...I'm glad it makes you sad..it's supposed to!
They set out the following morning, all of them tall, stony men astride thundering, forbidding steeds. They're surrogate home faded into the distance and the men instead focused single-mindedly on the task that would bring them freedom. There was no banter or casual talk in those first hours.
As they entered the misty woodlands, Tristan's sharp eyes caught the fleeting movement of ghostly figures in the trees immediately. Running, crouching, watching; he could sense them, and he maneuvered his horse to stand beside Arthur's.
'Woads,' he said tersely in the deceptive silence. Tristan was surprised at how he managed to keep the hate out of his voice, how he managed to keep it neutral, the way his knights were accustomed to it being. The men would not understand his passion, or the way his hand itched to loose his own arrows wildly into the darkness, to kill as many as he could before being killed himself. They could not know.
'Where?'
'All around us.'
Arthur urged his horse forward but a swift arrow with a thorny rope attached cut off his escape. The air was suddenly full of the hiss of arrows, criss-crossing thorns across their path. They spun the horses in the opposite direction, only to be cut off again. Slowly, each escape was blocked off until the painted people revealed themselves, arrows nocked, fell light gleaming hungrily in their dark eyes. But they did not strike. Rather, with the deep call of a horn, somewhere in the distant forest, they reluctantly withdrew, and were gone as quickly as they had come.
Merlin did not wish them dead. The other knights were quick enough to dismiss this, eager to leave the haunted place. But Tristan thought on it, as they hastened through the woods, and he was certain Arthur did as well. His distrusting nature sprung the question instantly to his mind: if he did not wish them dead, what did Merlin believe he could use them for? The shadowy images from that mouldering corner of his mind emerged before he could harness them: screams in the night, a flash of blue skin lit by fire, an empty, unnatural silence, and tears. Memories he had quashed for fifteen years. With a grimace, Tristan smothered that day, tucked it away in that ever-present place and charged on with his fellow knights.
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They rode on, their horses holding a steady, loping canter for miles, over tree-less ridges, and before gathering thunderclouds. They slept briefly each night, huddled by a flickering fire, and sometimes Tristan sat away from the other men, his back leaning against the wet trunk of a tree; eyes staring blankly into the darkness of the forest, Iseult on his shoulder.
Rarely did the knights mention his absence; after fifteen years, all but Galahad had grown accustomed to his soliitariety, though secretly, all wondered what the silent scout could possibly think about. But Tristan thought of many things.
They were riding to rescue a Roman family from the approaching Saxons. Tristan could not even put his contempt for this mission into words; he doggedly followed Arthur because he knew the other knights needed his skill(or so he told himself), and because he had never shied away from death. The fact that he had no where else to go hid in the back of his mind.
The other men fought for freedom, to return to their green, unstained hills. Tristan's lip curled at the thought, just the way it always had. Freedom was an illusion, and no more than that; an illusion between those with power and those without. How could they not see it? Who could ever promise him freedom from tyranny? How could the Romans give them their freedom, with the Saxons invading to pick up the reins? His knights were fools, even Arthur, for giving their lives for a cause, and Tristan both loved and hated that naiveté, envied their relative peace, and knew he would die to protect it. Better to live for themselves, to perfect their skills, to choose their own path and die with honour when the day came, for although Tristan would fight for his life, he knew better than most that death came to all men; it was only a question of how and when.
Tristan was not afraid of being a deserter, either; how could he desert something he had never believed in? No, he stayed because he wished too, and the day that changed, he would ride away from the other men, into the hills, and he would never return. Arthur, perhaps, was the only man who knew this.
Tristan's fingers stroked Iseult's feathers, admiring the sleek power contained in her small body. She had freedom, always. She had gifted Tristan with her presence, chosen him among the many knights, him above the mountains or the distant empty meadows, but still she was free, and the feral, confident knowledge of this glittered in her bright eyes. Tristan knew that a similar gleam often lit his own eyes, and never more so than on the battlefield. There, he stood on the brink of a freedom he could understand, for that kind of freedom was but a sword-stroke away. Life found and lost; all men searched for that final peace, whether they realised it or not.
'Tristan?' Arthur's voice cut into Tristan's thoughts. Iseult ruffled her wings and flew to a low branch, clicking her beak with displeasure. Tristan's eyes did not rise from the dripping grass. 'We're moving out,' Arthur said finally. He did not wait for a reply, knowing there would be none, but tossed a large hunk of bread at the crouching man, who caught it easily.
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They reached the small settling by mid-day. Arthur ordered him out immediately, to scout the movement of the Saxons, and with a wistful glance at the dismounting knights, who did not even look his way, he nodded and spun Tarquin. He did not have to ride far. The great foreign army stretched far larger than any Roman army he had seen. They walked; none of them rode astride horses. And they were fierce things. Tall, strongly built, animal skin clad men, with flowing blond hair. Tristan allowed himself only moments to observe, before he stealthily drew Tarquin back and urged him towards the Roman settling. His hand snuck towards the hilt of his fine curved sword, but he reined in his hunger for battle; an army such as that could surely not be avoided - battle would find him soon enough.
He reported his findings to Arthur, who seemed determined to keep to the plan. Tristan could scarcely restrain from laughing when Arthur solemnly stated that he would be bringing the entire village. Taking the Pope's godson was foolhardy enough, but to bring along an entire train? Tristan's features hardened; it was suicide.
Yet it was clear from Arthur's expression that he meant every word, and so Tristan masked his reservations and watched as Arthur went about his usual good deeds: freeing a stripped old man, shouting words of false encouragement to the villagers, parading his righteousness. He watched, too, from the back of Tarquin as his leader asked Dagonet to ax in the stoned-up door of an unusual looking hut, and disappear inside. He was hardly surprised when Arthur emerged ten minutes later, a young woman in his arms, and Dagonet, with a mere boy cowering painfully in his gentle grasp.
Tristan sighed, and urged Tarquin forward. This was hardly the time for charity; already the Saxon drums drew near - the people should be loaded onto the wagons immediately, before any more time was lost. But all thoughts of Saxons fled from his mind as his breath caught upon recognising the blue tattoos on the woman's legs.
'She's a Woad,' he stated the obvious darkly, reluctantly sheathing his sword as he noticed Galahad's scowl at his dangerous expression. He should slit her neck and be done with it - she certainly deserved less. His sharp eyes did not miss the way the Woad's eyes gazed admiringly up at Arthur, and Tristan turned away in disgust. This one would be trouble.
As it became clear that the boy and woman were meant to be brought along as part of the entourage, Tristan bit back his snide thoughts. Galahad and Gawain's faces showed similar reservations, but they, too, remained silent, though they made no move to dismount and help. Lancelot was eyeing the Woad appreciatively, his expression souring almost imperceptibly when he noticed that her eyes were trained on Arthur.
Tristan walked Tarquin onto the road leading out of the settlement; he could not bare to see the men fawn over a Woad any longer. Had they learned nothing from their endless battles against her kind? Had they forgotten already the countless knights slain by their arrows, their knives? Do they not know what they did to me? his mind echoed. He looked back, at the knights gathered together in a tight clump around the two sick prisoners, Gawain and Galahad craning their necks despite themselves. His mouth twisted bitterly as he realised that his hated separation from his knights had been brought on by himself; days from now the knights would go their own ways, and surely silent, heartless, Tristan would be the first to be forgotten.
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Soon the village was moving out, into the low snowy mountains, as Tristan had suggested, the Saxon drums quickening the hearts of all but Tristan's. His heart lept only at the war cry of the blue warriors who had taken what was his on that day so long ago.
Chapter Two: The Blue Warriors
AUTHOR NOTES: Thank you thank you to everyone who reviewed!!!! massive huggles You don't know how happy they made me! Go forth and multiply! Anyway, this chapter is a bit moody and dialogue-less, I admit, but there are so many Tristan-thoughts that I want to get out! The next chapter will probably have more dialogue...and also more knight interaction. I promise! Please review!
Surreal13-- I'm pleased that you picked up on the 'his' Tristan uses when refering to the knights. He cares about them far more than he pretends too. And yes, I will be explaining what happened to his family through slow facts, and flashbacks!
guinevere-- AWESOME name! I'm glad that you like the way I portray the knights..though this chapter is basically entirely Tristan-centric, I plan to have much more knight interaction in the next chapter.
Squallsgurlygurl, koalared, asnowybunny, Tian Sirki-- thank you thank you! :grins happily: I absolutely will keep going, and Squallsgurlygurl...I'm glad it makes you sad..it's supposed to!
They set out the following morning, all of them tall, stony men astride thundering, forbidding steeds. They're surrogate home faded into the distance and the men instead focused single-mindedly on the task that would bring them freedom. There was no banter or casual talk in those first hours.
As they entered the misty woodlands, Tristan's sharp eyes caught the fleeting movement of ghostly figures in the trees immediately. Running, crouching, watching; he could sense them, and he maneuvered his horse to stand beside Arthur's.
'Woads,' he said tersely in the deceptive silence. Tristan was surprised at how he managed to keep the hate out of his voice, how he managed to keep it neutral, the way his knights were accustomed to it being. The men would not understand his passion, or the way his hand itched to loose his own arrows wildly into the darkness, to kill as many as he could before being killed himself. They could not know.
'Where?'
'All around us.'
Arthur urged his horse forward but a swift arrow with a thorny rope attached cut off his escape. The air was suddenly full of the hiss of arrows, criss-crossing thorns across their path. They spun the horses in the opposite direction, only to be cut off again. Slowly, each escape was blocked off until the painted people revealed themselves, arrows nocked, fell light gleaming hungrily in their dark eyes. But they did not strike. Rather, with the deep call of a horn, somewhere in the distant forest, they reluctantly withdrew, and were gone as quickly as they had come.
Merlin did not wish them dead. The other knights were quick enough to dismiss this, eager to leave the haunted place. But Tristan thought on it, as they hastened through the woods, and he was certain Arthur did as well. His distrusting nature sprung the question instantly to his mind: if he did not wish them dead, what did Merlin believe he could use them for? The shadowy images from that mouldering corner of his mind emerged before he could harness them: screams in the night, a flash of blue skin lit by fire, an empty, unnatural silence, and tears. Memories he had quashed for fifteen years. With a grimace, Tristan smothered that day, tucked it away in that ever-present place and charged on with his fellow knights.
------------------------------------------------------------------
They rode on, their horses holding a steady, loping canter for miles, over tree-less ridges, and before gathering thunderclouds. They slept briefly each night, huddled by a flickering fire, and sometimes Tristan sat away from the other men, his back leaning against the wet trunk of a tree; eyes staring blankly into the darkness of the forest, Iseult on his shoulder.
Rarely did the knights mention his absence; after fifteen years, all but Galahad had grown accustomed to his soliitariety, though secretly, all wondered what the silent scout could possibly think about. But Tristan thought of many things.
They were riding to rescue a Roman family from the approaching Saxons. Tristan could not even put his contempt for this mission into words; he doggedly followed Arthur because he knew the other knights needed his skill(or so he told himself), and because he had never shied away from death. The fact that he had no where else to go hid in the back of his mind.
The other men fought for freedom, to return to their green, unstained hills. Tristan's lip curled at the thought, just the way it always had. Freedom was an illusion, and no more than that; an illusion between those with power and those without. How could they not see it? Who could ever promise him freedom from tyranny? How could the Romans give them their freedom, with the Saxons invading to pick up the reins? His knights were fools, even Arthur, for giving their lives for a cause, and Tristan both loved and hated that naiveté, envied their relative peace, and knew he would die to protect it. Better to live for themselves, to perfect their skills, to choose their own path and die with honour when the day came, for although Tristan would fight for his life, he knew better than most that death came to all men; it was only a question of how and when.
Tristan was not afraid of being a deserter, either; how could he desert something he had never believed in? No, he stayed because he wished too, and the day that changed, he would ride away from the other men, into the hills, and he would never return. Arthur, perhaps, was the only man who knew this.
Tristan's fingers stroked Iseult's feathers, admiring the sleek power contained in her small body. She had freedom, always. She had gifted Tristan with her presence, chosen him among the many knights, him above the mountains or the distant empty meadows, but still she was free, and the feral, confident knowledge of this glittered in her bright eyes. Tristan knew that a similar gleam often lit his own eyes, and never more so than on the battlefield. There, he stood on the brink of a freedom he could understand, for that kind of freedom was but a sword-stroke away. Life found and lost; all men searched for that final peace, whether they realised it or not.
'Tristan?' Arthur's voice cut into Tristan's thoughts. Iseult ruffled her wings and flew to a low branch, clicking her beak with displeasure. Tristan's eyes did not rise from the dripping grass. 'We're moving out,' Arthur said finally. He did not wait for a reply, knowing there would be none, but tossed a large hunk of bread at the crouching man, who caught it easily.
-----------------------------------------------------
They reached the small settling by mid-day. Arthur ordered him out immediately, to scout the movement of the Saxons, and with a wistful glance at the dismounting knights, who did not even look his way, he nodded and spun Tarquin. He did not have to ride far. The great foreign army stretched far larger than any Roman army he had seen. They walked; none of them rode astride horses. And they were fierce things. Tall, strongly built, animal skin clad men, with flowing blond hair. Tristan allowed himself only moments to observe, before he stealthily drew Tarquin back and urged him towards the Roman settling. His hand snuck towards the hilt of his fine curved sword, but he reined in his hunger for battle; an army such as that could surely not be avoided - battle would find him soon enough.
He reported his findings to Arthur, who seemed determined to keep to the plan. Tristan could scarcely restrain from laughing when Arthur solemnly stated that he would be bringing the entire village. Taking the Pope's godson was foolhardy enough, but to bring along an entire train? Tristan's features hardened; it was suicide.
Yet it was clear from Arthur's expression that he meant every word, and so Tristan masked his reservations and watched as Arthur went about his usual good deeds: freeing a stripped old man, shouting words of false encouragement to the villagers, parading his righteousness. He watched, too, from the back of Tarquin as his leader asked Dagonet to ax in the stoned-up door of an unusual looking hut, and disappear inside. He was hardly surprised when Arthur emerged ten minutes later, a young woman in his arms, and Dagonet, with a mere boy cowering painfully in his gentle grasp.
Tristan sighed, and urged Tarquin forward. This was hardly the time for charity; already the Saxon drums drew near - the people should be loaded onto the wagons immediately, before any more time was lost. But all thoughts of Saxons fled from his mind as his breath caught upon recognising the blue tattoos on the woman's legs.
'She's a Woad,' he stated the obvious darkly, reluctantly sheathing his sword as he noticed Galahad's scowl at his dangerous expression. He should slit her neck and be done with it - she certainly deserved less. His sharp eyes did not miss the way the Woad's eyes gazed admiringly up at Arthur, and Tristan turned away in disgust. This one would be trouble.
As it became clear that the boy and woman were meant to be brought along as part of the entourage, Tristan bit back his snide thoughts. Galahad and Gawain's faces showed similar reservations, but they, too, remained silent, though they made no move to dismount and help. Lancelot was eyeing the Woad appreciatively, his expression souring almost imperceptibly when he noticed that her eyes were trained on Arthur.
Tristan walked Tarquin onto the road leading out of the settlement; he could not bare to see the men fawn over a Woad any longer. Had they learned nothing from their endless battles against her kind? Had they forgotten already the countless knights slain by their arrows, their knives? Do they not know what they did to me? his mind echoed. He looked back, at the knights gathered together in a tight clump around the two sick prisoners, Gawain and Galahad craning their necks despite themselves. His mouth twisted bitterly as he realised that his hated separation from his knights had been brought on by himself; days from now the knights would go their own ways, and surely silent, heartless, Tristan would be the first to be forgotten.
------------------------------------------------
Soon the village was moving out, into the low snowy mountains, as Tristan had suggested, the Saxon drums quickening the hearts of all but Tristan's. His heart lept only at the war cry of the blue warriors who had taken what was his on that day so long ago.