well for those of you that are still reading this...here's the last chapter. i know i probably broke some rule about killing of the OCbut i was getting tired of all the conventional "they lived happily together" stories..'cause life isn't always like that, but i believe things have ways of working out. hope you enjoy the last chapter and that it makes for a fitting ending.
thanks againto those who have reviewed, who keep reivewing and who will review!
same warnings and disclaimers apply...
Chapter 13: Life Continuing
It'd been six years to the day since Mirran was laid in the earth. And from that moment onward, Tristan let himself love no more. He grew even more silent and kept his emotions guarded ever so closely. Even Gawain, whose own quiet nature gave him some insights into Tristan's actions, could no longer read him. The surprising, crushing death of Mirran had clearly changed him, and not necessarily for the better. He honed and fine tuned his fighting skills, in turn becoming even more deadly and determined a killer, yet there was a Zen air about him—as though every move was in keeping with a balance of the world; almost as though lead by an inner force that had every move calculated and all energy summoned to him. None of the knights could really explain it—it was just this air that seemed to fall around Tristan in battles, as though he brought with him a sense of forces beyond anyone in this world's comprehension or knowledge.
He pitted his all in battle now more than ever, his theory being he had nothing really left in this life to live for. Whether it be freedom from service in this world or freedom in death, it all was the same to him. And actually he awaited the day of his death, hoping it would be with honor, and readily willing to accept it whenever it would come, for at that moment he would finally be reunited with Mirran. That day and the chance to face the Saxons were what kept him motivated.
Oh yes, they had soon discovered that their attackers that day were none other than Saxons, disguised as Woads to lead the Romans to war with the Woads, while the Saxons moved to strike, drawing the Romans into two wars at once. No such luck for the Saxons—they may not have had a victory that day those six years ago, but those that retreated fled north and took their stories with them. And now a massive Saxon army was moving southward determined to take the whole island for their own—away from the Romans and Woads alike, killing all in their path.
"We're all going to die someday. If its death by a Saxon had that frightens you—stay home." Tristan had casually remarked upon hearing the knights grumbling about a dangerous mission through Saxon infested country only to secure the safety of one family. And that thought darkly excited him. A chance to get back at those Saxon bastards that killed Mirran.
Every day he was reminded of her, especially now…now as he sat on a hill top with his brothers in arms, overlooking a Saxon army of thousands. Involuntarily his hand rose to a worn wooden cross with a dark sapphire gem in the center—Mirran's.
'There was no sword or mark of honor to be placed on Mirran's grave. The last shovel full of dirt fell into its place as some of the knights stood silently, before turning to leave.
"Tristan." Gawain softly said, approaching the silent, solemn knight whose eyes were cast downward at the mound of earth that would soon be covered in cool green grass. Gawain held out his hand, and Tristan's eyes fell on the delicate, handmade wooden cross that Mirran always wore despite her half-Christian, mostly pagan faith. Without hesitation he took it gratefully from Gawain, nodding appreciatively and turned to walk away as Gawain patted his shoulder in support, a silent thank you passing between them.
"She looks forgotten about already." Galahad quietly said as he looked her grave over, waiting for Gawain. Gawain looked at Galahad with his heavy eyes and could not help but agree. Swiftly and gracefully, he pulled his dagger from its sheath and drove it into the ground at her head. And there it had stayed.'
"Knights," Arthur started regally, "the gift of freedom is yours by right. But the home we seek resides not in some distant land. It's in us! And in our actions on this day! If this be our destiny, then so be it. But let history remember that as free men, we chose to make it so."
The battle had begun. Each knight found himself swarmed by Saxons. Tristan, having spent his supply of arrows expertly well, flew from his horse into the thick of battle. Not soon after he disposed of Saxons half his skill level did he spy the Saxon leader, Cerdic, standing alone, sword at the ready. Tristan moved towards him, always liking the looks of a good fight. Not even a minute and Tristan had cut down Cerdic's second in command who moved to guard his commander.
Tristan threw off his helmet to get a better look at his opponent. Cerdic's eyes locked with Tristan's, both issuing unspoken challenges and silent promises. Instantly their swords clashed, each pitting his all into battle. Cerdic swung around and sliced Tristan's side. Only a moment's recognition crossed the knight's face before lunging back at the waiting Saxon.
Tristan knew this man was larger and stronger than he from the start, but never could he back down from a challenge. He parried a blow and Cerdic recoiled, suddenly thrusting forward, slashing and banging Tristan twice, forcing the knight to his knees. But Tristan, doubled over in pain, hating the weakness of his flesh, kept his sword ever pointed and raised to the Saxon. He attempted to rise again, determined not to lose. Cerdic inwardly smirked, loving the wounded state this brave and gallant knight with the nerve to fight him was in. He brought his sword around and into Tristan's sword arm, watching the knight's sword fall with pride, before forcing the knight to his knees once again.
Tristan knew he was losing—anger, shame, rage consumed him, but weaponless and injured in body, he found himself powerless. Cerdic looked at the crawling, ground-hugging knight in glee, honing in on something small and wooden hanging from the knight's neck. Cerdic's eyes momentarily widened before narrowing evenly.
"That cross about your neck…I have seen that before…," Cerdic stood over Tristan's sword, watching the knight listen, "some whore in a Roman post tavern held it tight in her fist, believing something so simple would save her…her and her child." Cerdic filled with glee at seeing the knight stiffen before continuing, "she was with child…or so she claimed, but necessity is necessity. The order was spare no one, so instead of a quick clean death; a more painful, non-instant death was deserved for both mother and child." Instantly he kicked Tristan's sword to him, watching his hand clench the grip in rage. Tristan immediately moved, trying to get his feet. Cerdic smiled maliciously and struck Tristan back down to the ground, now taking the fallen, curved Sarmatian blade in his hand.
This was perfect—a knight in anguish and powerless to fight back. Tristan coursed with anger both at the Saxon and himself—Mirran's murderer and he found his body injured and unresponsive. Cerdic marched towards the knight, who riddled in shame and anger was slinking away to whatever end. Tristan felt himself roughly pulled back and jerked to his knees—the prefect chance. One swift movement and the Saxon hollered in sudden pain as Tristan drove his hidden dagger into Cerdic's thigh. Cerdic pulled his sword back, reeling in anger and pain, and sent it straight through Tristan's torso.
Released, Tristan sunk to his back, overcome by his screaming mind, yelling at his body to do things it was incapable of. A distant hawk's screech filtered down to his ears and he saw her soaring fully across the sky, living on in her freedom, a reminder of things to come in this life and beyond. Suddenly every thought left him, an unfettered peace fell about him. As though that indifferent mask he always wore was now the reality of his soul.
Cerdic was convinced the knight would die where he lay—his work was done. That was until he spotted Arthur. A maliciously evil glint came to the Saxon's eyes and he pulled a near-to-death Tristan to his feet. Turning around, he stared pointedly at Arthur until Arthur held his gaze. Without warning, Cerdic swung his sword high and around, cutting Tristan down forever. Tristan fell back against the blood stained earth, his body having breathed its last, his soul free.
XXXXXX
Lancelot had joined him. Arthur's most trusted knight, friend and confidant. It shocked them all that Lancelot and Tristan—two of the more highly skilled knights—were the ones struck down.
Lancelot's ashes had been dutifully and sullenly gathered by Arthur who waited for the right day to set them free. Tristan's curved sword rested at the head of his grave, forever identifying him as a gallant, skilled, honorable knight. His unusual armor from his eastern Sarmatian tribe lay atop his gave, forever a reminder of his sacrifice in battle. Gawain looked over his friend's gave, sighing silently and shaking his head. He raised his eyes from Tristan's grave and immediately they wandered to Mirran's. He softly smiled before letting his eyes roam skyward.
"Lucky devils." He muttered, shaking his head laughingly, his smile turning more mischievous, content and knowing. Mirran and Tristan were now both home and finally together. He moved away from their graves, hoping someday he too would have something like that to look forward too—that they all would. And that, only time would tell. Only time would tell.
end.
well that's it. that's all i got. hopefully a fitting ending to a fitting tale. we'll see...thanks to all who stuck with it and kept reading and reviewing. no clue when another story will be ready for posting.. but it'll be sometime.
thanks again!
