Disclaimer: These characters (in this incarnation) belong to Jerry Bruckheimer and Co.
The Freedom of Flight
Tristan lies on his back on the grass, listening to the world going on around him. They are on their way back to the fort after a particularly successful sortie against the local tribes, and Tristan has several more kills to his credit. It is a peaceful summer's day and Arthur has called a halt so that they all might rest. Tristan does not need to rest, but he takes the opportunity anyway. It is not often that he has the chance to set aside his tracker's skills and simply be.
Not that his skills are ever truly dormant. His eyes are closed, but he is listening intently and building a picture in his mind of all that is going on. The slight breeze brings to his ears the rustling of the nearby trees, and the soft footsteps of Galahad and Gawain as they pad quietly into the woods. Galahad's footsteps are lighter, more graceful than Gawain's; his strength is in his slenderness and speed, while Gawain's is the power in his sturdier build. They like to think they are discreet, but Tristan knows better. They might keep their love out of the sight of their comrades, but it is still written all over their faces, every glance and word that passes between them making it all so clear, for those who are able to see.
Arthur and Lancelot are talking quietly as they keep an eye on their surroundings. Tristan cannot quite make out what they are saying, but it is not important. The real meaning lies in between the words, in the silences and the words they do not speak. They are both afraid of what they share, afraid of the future and what it might hold. Too bound to their respective duties they are, too blind to what really matters.
Bors is as loud as ever, holding forth about Vanora and all his hordes of children. Dagonet says nothing, for he does not need to; Bors fills the silence with no room for another's words. Tristan hears Dagonet, though, hears what he does not say, the empty longing for a child of his own. There have been no bastards for Dagonet, and the quietest knight thinks he hides his pain well, but there is very little that Tristan does not see.
His hawk cries overhead, her hunting call shrilling through the air. She will make a kill of her own, but she will return to him when she has eaten her fill. They are a part of each other, Tristan and his hawk, and they communicate in a way the others will never understand; sometimes Tristan thinks that he gets more sensible conversation out of the bird than from his fellows. She is unencumbered by fears and worries, her only thoughts for the hunt and for her human. Tristan feels in her a kindred spirit; if he could ask the gods for one thing, he thinks, he would ask to be able to fly with her, to see through her eyes.
But Tristan is happy with his lot. He does not ache for the land of his birth, cares not for people or things, actively enjoys the hunting, tracking and killing that are a part of every day for him. He is a hunter, a hawk, and he does not need Rome to give him his freedom. In his heart, he has always been free.