Where Home Lies
Chapter Three: The Compassion of Stone
AUTHOR NOTE: Gah! I thought that in this chapter I would have Dagonet's funeral, but I only got as far as his death, so there isn't the interaction I promised in this chapter! :hangs head in defeat: I do apologise, but I WILL have dialogue at Dagonet's funeral, so if your starving for actual :gasp: TALK, there will be some in the next chappie. PLEASE REVIEW!!! I DIE WITHOUT REVIEWS! Now for the thank you's...
Blue Eyes At Night - I know, isn't he just a fantastic character? The possibilities for fiction that he holds are just boundless...and yes, I am also a fan of his legendary story, though it has VERY little in common with the movie character.
queenahems - Please don't think that Tristan is devoid of emotion; he's not! Though you won't see him 'changing' until the end of this chapter, and in the next ones, the compassion is there, just way, WAY down there. He has been brutalised by his life-style, and by his mysterious past, which will be partially revealed in the next chapter. And yes :grins: we should all pay much, much more attention to Tristan! All hail Tristan!
Nini-Mouse - tee hee..I didn't find her name in the movie; 'Iseult' is actually the legendary name of Tristan's lover. [No, I'm not hinting at anything! Get your mind out of the gutter!!!!;)] I thought it was quite fitting though. And yes, the ending of the movie was just beautiful..it was so, so perfect.
Shibbie - Awww...:huggles:...that is so sweet of you! I'm so happy to know people like it...and BTW..your fics are quite well done as well! Lol, though I don't usually go for slash! :grins:
The snow fell lightly; huge, fluffy white flakes that innocently dampened the knights clothing and muddied the trail, drawing muttered curses from Bors. Low mountains rose on either side of Tristan's chosen path, which was lined with looming, lush tress contrasting sharply with the snow weighing their branches down. It might have been peaceful, but for the ever-present, distant drums, which throbbed endlessly like a deer's heartbeat, and for the wagons which creaked and groaned and rustled with lowered voices.
Tristan sat astride Tarquin, atop a low ridge overlooking the tail-end of the wagon train. His far-seeing eyes strained for the following army, but met only desolate wilderness.
Arthur had sent Tristan out only hours after setting upon his trail through the mountains. He had not been surprised, for what else was a scout's use? As he had turned Tarquin to veer off into the trees, Tristan had caught Arthur's meaningful glance at Galahad, who sat aboard his grey horse, his hands resting on the saddle. Ah. Certainly, the path needed to be scouted, the army to be watched.
And fights had to be avoided. No, a fight among the ranks simply would not do, when real battle snapped at their heels, and so Tristan found himself again apart from the knights, his only company the wind and the grey horse between his knees, as ever had been.
His deep brown eyes eventually spotted a dark form swooping from the sky, and with a ghost of a smile, he trust his arm away from his body. The hawk dove at frightening speed, spreading her large wings to their full span at the last moment, landing lightly on her masters arm.
'What did you see this time?' he murmured quietly, and she dipped her russet head. Tristan spoke mainly to himself, as he always had, though Iseult gazed at him with rapt attention. It was not the same attention the knights gave him. The knights listened to him when he spoke because he did not speak often, and because all of them listened subconsciously for any little slip up in which Tristan might reveal his obvious insanity. They turned to him, jests forgotten, easy smiles sliding from their faces, to focus eyes on his dark face, to digest his cool gaze and ponder the question of whether all men had hearts. But Iseult, Iseult gazed on him with the attention one gives to ones friend. In all his twenty seven years, only Iseult had looked at him like that.
Sometimes, Tristan wondered what it would be like to be loved by a human.
---------------------------------------------------
The Woad remained with the train, much to Tristan's displeasure. Often, from his place at the front of the wagons, he would glance over his shoulder to see Arthur's white horse walking alongside the wagon where she lay. He had not spoken to her. She was often there at night, however, when the knights gathered around their camp fire, a little away from the other people. Then, she sat near Arthur, or sometimes Lancelot. Though Tristan would not have stayed with them anyway, her presence effectively repelled his own among the knights. They did not miss him. The first night she had come to sit with them, a shawl wrapped half-heartedly over her attractively positioned dress, he had been sitting with the men, enjoying one of the first moments of dryness he had felt in days. Upon her silent entrance he had stood, and brushed past her, his dark eyes piercing her own as he resentfully stalked from the circle of warmth. The men had looked up as he left, their eyes remaining on his retreating back for only seconds, before turning welcomingly to the woman. Her name was Guinevere.
Tristan had not been shocked to find the men taken with her. She was beautiful, and he had not missed the way she swayed her hips seductively, and sat a little too close. He watched from behind the trees, Iseult on his shoulder, as she laughed appreciatively at one of Bors' crude jokes. But Tristan knew what she was really after. He had seen her draw Arthur into the trees that night, had followed and watched as Merlin had stepped from the shadows. He had not drawn his sword, for clearly the old man was no threat; he was a leader, nothing more. And Guinevere had lead Arthur to him. They had been just a little out of ear-shot, and so Tristan had satisfied himself with witnessing Arthur's back stiffen, seeing him turn and walk slowly from the clearing. His eyes had returned hatefully to the young woman, who remained conversing quietly with Merlin. She had shown her true colours; her actions, more than her tattoos, spoke of her heritage. For Tristan knew well the two-faced soul all Woads possessed. He remembered.
---------------------------------------------
On the eighth day after leaving the Roman settlement, the knights came to the edge of a frozen lake, and knew they had no choice but to cross. But the ice was thin, and while the camp was ordered to make their way carefully across the remainder of the lake, the knights remained behind. The time had come to face their Saxon enemies at last. The drums drew nearer by the minute, and the knights stood in a single line at the far end of the lake. Guinevere had stayed with them, to offer what help a Woad could. Tristan did not underestimate her; a Woad woman could kill as effortlessly as a man.
When the army came at last into view, over two hundred strong, Tristan did not tremble, and neither did the other knights. The Saxons fired with their inferior bows, the arrows falling far short of the knights, but Tristan and Bors' arrows flew true into the Saxon ranks, striking down their marks. So it began. In a fire-fight that followed, Tristan drew and shot time after time, picking the edges of the regiment off, pushing the burly men together on the ice, which creaked ominously under their feet.
When Dagonet dashed forward to hurl his enormous ax repeatedly into the ice in front of him, ignoring the arrows that struck only inches from his body, Tristan paused for only a moment. When the first arrow struck the tall mans chest, Tristan's bow fell, just a little, in his hands. When his knight at last achieved his goal, falling forward as the ice collapsed before him, Tristan's face flickered with something akin to confusion, if only for a moment, before drawing his bow string back again. When Bors and Arthur raced out to draw their friend and comrade out of the icy waters, Bors' strangled plea drifting across the ice, to drag his already dead body across the rapidly collapsing lake, his bow fell at last from his hands as he stared at the lifeless form of Dagonet.
All of this progressed in mere moments, the battle begun and over before five minutes was past, the stain of Sarmatian blood spreading across the crisp snow of this foreign country. By the time Tristan had made his way over to the body of his silent knight, all emotion was wiped from his face, and he stood over the bluish figure and tamed the turmoil within him. The other knights did not bother, but shed tears that crystallised on their faces as they fell. And when Tristan strapped the mans body to the back of his black horse, who would bear just this last burden, no one was there to see the stony knight touch the face of his comrade, and wonder at the impossible compassion held within his shaking hands.
End Notes: See? Compassion. Didn't I say you would see it? :D Review, pretty please with kisses on top. And I shall punish myself for not writing in the dialogue...tune in for the next chapter...it'll be there!
Chapter Three: The Compassion of Stone
AUTHOR NOTE: Gah! I thought that in this chapter I would have Dagonet's funeral, but I only got as far as his death, so there isn't the interaction I promised in this chapter! :hangs head in defeat: I do apologise, but I WILL have dialogue at Dagonet's funeral, so if your starving for actual :gasp: TALK, there will be some in the next chappie. PLEASE REVIEW!!! I DIE WITHOUT REVIEWS! Now for the thank you's...
Blue Eyes At Night - I know, isn't he just a fantastic character? The possibilities for fiction that he holds are just boundless...and yes, I am also a fan of his legendary story, though it has VERY little in common with the movie character.
queenahems - Please don't think that Tristan is devoid of emotion; he's not! Though you won't see him 'changing' until the end of this chapter, and in the next ones, the compassion is there, just way, WAY down there. He has been brutalised by his life-style, and by his mysterious past, which will be partially revealed in the next chapter. And yes :grins: we should all pay much, much more attention to Tristan! All hail Tristan!
Nini-Mouse - tee hee..I didn't find her name in the movie; 'Iseult' is actually the legendary name of Tristan's lover. [No, I'm not hinting at anything! Get your mind out of the gutter!!!!;)] I thought it was quite fitting though. And yes, the ending of the movie was just beautiful..it was so, so perfect.
Shibbie - Awww...:huggles:...that is so sweet of you! I'm so happy to know people like it...and BTW..your fics are quite well done as well! Lol, though I don't usually go for slash! :grins:
The snow fell lightly; huge, fluffy white flakes that innocently dampened the knights clothing and muddied the trail, drawing muttered curses from Bors. Low mountains rose on either side of Tristan's chosen path, which was lined with looming, lush tress contrasting sharply with the snow weighing their branches down. It might have been peaceful, but for the ever-present, distant drums, which throbbed endlessly like a deer's heartbeat, and for the wagons which creaked and groaned and rustled with lowered voices.
Tristan sat astride Tarquin, atop a low ridge overlooking the tail-end of the wagon train. His far-seeing eyes strained for the following army, but met only desolate wilderness.
Arthur had sent Tristan out only hours after setting upon his trail through the mountains. He had not been surprised, for what else was a scout's use? As he had turned Tarquin to veer off into the trees, Tristan had caught Arthur's meaningful glance at Galahad, who sat aboard his grey horse, his hands resting on the saddle. Ah. Certainly, the path needed to be scouted, the army to be watched.
And fights had to be avoided. No, a fight among the ranks simply would not do, when real battle snapped at their heels, and so Tristan found himself again apart from the knights, his only company the wind and the grey horse between his knees, as ever had been.
His deep brown eyes eventually spotted a dark form swooping from the sky, and with a ghost of a smile, he trust his arm away from his body. The hawk dove at frightening speed, spreading her large wings to their full span at the last moment, landing lightly on her masters arm.
'What did you see this time?' he murmured quietly, and she dipped her russet head. Tristan spoke mainly to himself, as he always had, though Iseult gazed at him with rapt attention. It was not the same attention the knights gave him. The knights listened to him when he spoke because he did not speak often, and because all of them listened subconsciously for any little slip up in which Tristan might reveal his obvious insanity. They turned to him, jests forgotten, easy smiles sliding from their faces, to focus eyes on his dark face, to digest his cool gaze and ponder the question of whether all men had hearts. But Iseult, Iseult gazed on him with the attention one gives to ones friend. In all his twenty seven years, only Iseult had looked at him like that.
Sometimes, Tristan wondered what it would be like to be loved by a human.
---------------------------------------------------
The Woad remained with the train, much to Tristan's displeasure. Often, from his place at the front of the wagons, he would glance over his shoulder to see Arthur's white horse walking alongside the wagon where she lay. He had not spoken to her. She was often there at night, however, when the knights gathered around their camp fire, a little away from the other people. Then, she sat near Arthur, or sometimes Lancelot. Though Tristan would not have stayed with them anyway, her presence effectively repelled his own among the knights. They did not miss him. The first night she had come to sit with them, a shawl wrapped half-heartedly over her attractively positioned dress, he had been sitting with the men, enjoying one of the first moments of dryness he had felt in days. Upon her silent entrance he had stood, and brushed past her, his dark eyes piercing her own as he resentfully stalked from the circle of warmth. The men had looked up as he left, their eyes remaining on his retreating back for only seconds, before turning welcomingly to the woman. Her name was Guinevere.
Tristan had not been shocked to find the men taken with her. She was beautiful, and he had not missed the way she swayed her hips seductively, and sat a little too close. He watched from behind the trees, Iseult on his shoulder, as she laughed appreciatively at one of Bors' crude jokes. But Tristan knew what she was really after. He had seen her draw Arthur into the trees that night, had followed and watched as Merlin had stepped from the shadows. He had not drawn his sword, for clearly the old man was no threat; he was a leader, nothing more. And Guinevere had lead Arthur to him. They had been just a little out of ear-shot, and so Tristan had satisfied himself with witnessing Arthur's back stiffen, seeing him turn and walk slowly from the clearing. His eyes had returned hatefully to the young woman, who remained conversing quietly with Merlin. She had shown her true colours; her actions, more than her tattoos, spoke of her heritage. For Tristan knew well the two-faced soul all Woads possessed. He remembered.
---------------------------------------------
On the eighth day after leaving the Roman settlement, the knights came to the edge of a frozen lake, and knew they had no choice but to cross. But the ice was thin, and while the camp was ordered to make their way carefully across the remainder of the lake, the knights remained behind. The time had come to face their Saxon enemies at last. The drums drew nearer by the minute, and the knights stood in a single line at the far end of the lake. Guinevere had stayed with them, to offer what help a Woad could. Tristan did not underestimate her; a Woad woman could kill as effortlessly as a man.
When the army came at last into view, over two hundred strong, Tristan did not tremble, and neither did the other knights. The Saxons fired with their inferior bows, the arrows falling far short of the knights, but Tristan and Bors' arrows flew true into the Saxon ranks, striking down their marks. So it began. In a fire-fight that followed, Tristan drew and shot time after time, picking the edges of the regiment off, pushing the burly men together on the ice, which creaked ominously under their feet.
When Dagonet dashed forward to hurl his enormous ax repeatedly into the ice in front of him, ignoring the arrows that struck only inches from his body, Tristan paused for only a moment. When the first arrow struck the tall mans chest, Tristan's bow fell, just a little, in his hands. When his knight at last achieved his goal, falling forward as the ice collapsed before him, Tristan's face flickered with something akin to confusion, if only for a moment, before drawing his bow string back again. When Bors and Arthur raced out to draw their friend and comrade out of the icy waters, Bors' strangled plea drifting across the ice, to drag his already dead body across the rapidly collapsing lake, his bow fell at last from his hands as he stared at the lifeless form of Dagonet.
All of this progressed in mere moments, the battle begun and over before five minutes was past, the stain of Sarmatian blood spreading across the crisp snow of this foreign country. By the time Tristan had made his way over to the body of his silent knight, all emotion was wiped from his face, and he stood over the bluish figure and tamed the turmoil within him. The other knights did not bother, but shed tears that crystallised on their faces as they fell. And when Tristan strapped the mans body to the back of his black horse, who would bear just this last burden, no one was there to see the stony knight touch the face of his comrade, and wonder at the impossible compassion held within his shaking hands.
End Notes: See? Compassion. Didn't I say you would see it? :D Review, pretty please with kisses on top. And I shall punish myself for not writing in the dialogue...tune in for the next chapter...it'll be there!