Disclaimer: Alas, I only own that which I invented in the recesses of my imagination.
A/N: Tristan-lovers rejoice, for I am introducing a Tristan-centric subplot. I don't know where exactly it's leading, but it's something at least. The story will continue to focus mostly on Dayn, but there will be Tristan scenes interspersed throughout. Let me know how you like it—R&R!
Chapter 6—Vengeful Manipulations
The cold had long since become a part of him, seeping into his bones as surely as it had seeped into his heart. He pulled his cloak tighter around him, knowing that the gesture was futile, but hoping to guard against some of the chill nonetheless. Coming from one of the northern Sarmatian tribes, cold did not generally bother him very much, but the chill in the dank garrison prison cut through him with biting intensity. Thoughts of vengeance were all that drove him, as hunger gnawed at his stomach. The guard hadn't brought him any food since that first day when Dayn had thrown it back at him. But even if the guard had brought more, Dayn would not have eaten it. It would have followed the same path that the earlier meal had taken. Apparently, the guard was smart enough to realize that.
His hands still chained in front of him, he remained slumped against the far corner where the soldiers had thrown him after the last beating. He tasted blood on his tongue from the cut at the corner of his mouth, and he spit onto the floor. The cut at his hairline had stopped bleeding the day before, but the headache persisted, and Dayn fervently missed Dagonet—he always had headache remedies on hand, as Bors was generally nursing a hangover in the mornings. But the pain in his head was nothing compared to the rage that smoldered in his heart. He gazed down at the brand they'd placed on the inside of his forearm, the mark of a deserter. Pride warred with shame as he looked upon the object of his dishonor. Someone would pay for this disgrace. Honor demanded it.
Dayn glanced up, his eyes narrowing as he heard the creak of the prison door. Two soldiers opened the door of his cell, allowing two others to carry someone else in. Dropping their burden in a heap near the door, they stepped back, allowing Dayn a first glimpse at this new guest. Hearing a moan, Dayn took a closer look, curious as to the other occupant of the small prison. What's a woman doing in the garrison prison? She didn't move, and Dayn realized that she was unconscious.
"Do the mighty Romans feel threatened by women, now" Dayn asked mockingly, a cocky half-smile on his face that would have put Lancelot to shame.
"Do you need to be reminded of Rome's might," one of them said threateningly. Dayn's face became devoid of all emotion as he gazed back at the soldier with empty eyes. The man stepped back nervously as Dayn's eyes bore into his own. Seeing his comrade's nervousness, another stepped forward, delivering a vicious backhand to Dayn's face.
"You are not worthy to speak to us, Sarmatian filth. You will hold your tongue." Without warning, Dayn lunged forward, and wrapped the chain linking his shackles around the Roman's throat. "You beat innocent women, and have the nerve to call me filth!" He tightened the chain, hoping fervently that the man's neck would snap from the force.
Suddenly, pain exploded in his head, and the world became an indistinct blur. One of those Roman bastards hit me, Dayn thought dimly. He was vaguely aware of falling to his knees as blows began to rain down on him from every side. When oblivion finally overcame him, it was a sweet release from the abuse they were inflicting upon him.
Dayn came awake, opening his eyes cautiously. He immediately regretted his actions as the pain in his head intensified. This is the same damn headache I've had since I got here, he thought with annoyance. It just keeps getting worse. He lay curled on the cold stone floor, where he'd fallen. His body ached all over, a combination of bruises and the stiffness that came from lying in one position for too long. At least my ribs aren't broken...sore as hell, but not broken.
"Are you alright?" He slowly turned his head, to see a young woman staring at him with worry in her eyes. Who is she? How did she get here? Oh, yes...they brought her in last night. Or was it this morning? How long have I been unconscious? Confused, he took a moment to study her. She was older than he, by perhaps eight or nine years, but she still retained the beauty of her youth. Her hair was a shade of blond, so light that it was almost white. Her eyes were a pale shade of green that reminded him of mist-covered grass. Ok, she's not Orainne...Evenin the weak light, Dayn could see the swelling of her jaw and the bruise that had blossomed at her temple from where she'd obviously been struck.
"Who are you?"
"Niamh." As though that tells me anything. He slowly sat up, groaning at the pain in his head as he moved to lean against the wall. She slowly came to him, careful to avoid tripping over the chain that secured his shackles to the wall. She knelt down beside him, slowly assessing his wounds with her eyes.
"You bleed," she said quietly, her Latin holding a decidedly British accent. Tearing a strip from the bottom of her dress, she leaned forward, carefully dabbing at the blood that dripped from the gash on his head. Those bastards must have hit me in the same damn spot, Dayn thought irrationally.
"You are no Roman woman," he said quietly, switching to the Celtic tongue. Her face lit up in surprise, and she shook her head.
"No. I am a Briton. How did you come to speak our language?"
"Nevermind that," he said. "What reason do they cite for imprisoning you here?"
"One of the soldiers, he...wanted me to...to lie with him. But I refused."
"And he beat you for it," Dayn finished angrily. "Will your husband not stand for you?"
"My husband is dead," she said quietly.
"Father, then? Or brother?"
"No, I have no one," she said, her eyes filling with tears. "I shall be forced to remain here until I yield."
"You yield to no Roman, do you understand? He is beneath you."
"What choice do I have," she said tearfully.
"I won't let them keep you here," he said decisively.
"But you are stuck here as well. How will you do anything?"
"I won't be here forever." Provided that Arthur comes for me soon. She wiped the tears from her face, and put on a brave smile for him.
"Here," she said, bringing a water skin up to his mouth. He shoved it away angrily. "I will die of thirst before I drink what they have provided."
"That is foolish," she said sternly.
"Don't speak to me of foolishness, woman. You know me not." He closed his eyes, clearly dismissing her, as his head continued to pound. Niamh fell silent, and Dayn welcomed the quiet, as he waited for sleep to come.
"Dayn." Dayn opened his eyes, searching for the source of the voice. He carefully lifted his head, looking toward the door.
"Arthur?" Sure enough, Arthur stood there, his frame filling the doorway. As he watched, Arthur walked closer, coming to the door of the cell. Dayn pulled his cloak around, covering the mark on his arm so that Arthur wouldn't see it.
"Yes. Are you alright?"
"Have you come for me," he asked, not answering Arthur's question.
"Of course. Did you think I wouldn't?" Truthfully, he had begun to doubt as time passed. A guard shouldered his way past Arthur, unlocking the cell door. He came forward, leaning down to unshackle the chains from Dayn's wrists. Dayn kicked out, failing to actually hit the guard, but succeeding in forcing him back.
"Don't touch me." The guard looked to Arthur, who sighed and stepped forward, taking the key from the guard's hand.
"You have never been one to do things the easy way, Dayn. I don't know why I assumed you would start now," Arthur said with a slight smile as he leaned down to unlock the shackles. His smile faded as he noticed the brand on Dayn's arm for the first time. Dayn met his eyes, his jaw clenching in anger as he struggled to hide his shame. Arthur glanced back down at the mark one more time, but said nothing as he inserted the key into the shackles.
As the shackles fell away, Dayn slowly stood, his head spinning. He grabbed at Arthur, trying to remain upright, and Arthur quickly took hold of him. He waited, unmoving, while Dayn attempted to stop the dizziness that assailed him. Arthur motioned behind him, and Tristan stepped forward from the shadows of the doorway, Dayn's confiscated gauntlets and dagger in hand. Sticking the dagger in the waistband of his tunic, he shifted the gauntlets to one hand in case Arthur needed him to help. Dayn motioned Tristan away, for his pride could only take so much—he would walk out of here on his own two feet. He slowly started for the door, allowing Arthur to steady him as the world continued to spin lazily around him.
Over Tristan's shoulder, Dayn saw Niamh gazing desolately at him from the opposite corner. "Wait," he said, clutching Arthur's arm. "The woman, Arthur. Don't leave her here."
"What was her crime?"
"One of those soldiers wants her for himself. She is here only because she refused him."
Tristan looked over at the girl in the corner, intrigued despite himself. Pretty. No wonder the Roman wants her. As his dark eyes bore into her, she met his with a bold stare, raising her chin. Underneath the bravado, however, Tristan could see the fear and nervousness that she was struggling to hide.
"I'll take care of it, Arthur," Tristan said quietly, his eyes still locked on the girl.
"Very well, Tristan. I leave it in your hands." Arthur and Dayn started out of the prison, and Tristan turned to follow.
"I will return for you shortly," he said softly. "Be ready." Hope rose in her eyes, and she nodded, giving him a small smile.
Niamh sat quietly, waiting for the mysterious, dark-haired knight to return. She had no assurance that he was true to his word, but something told her not to fear. It was something in his eyes. There was danger there, certainly, but there was something else, something that told her that he would not break his promise.
It was not long before the door opened once more and the guard came in, pushed ahead by the stoic knight. "Release her."
"But...the captain...he wants...he'll kill me..."
"I'll kill you, if you don't do as I requested."
"On what grounds should I say I released her," the guard asked fearfully. Tristan shrugged nonchalantly.
"I care not. Tell him she's mine."
The guard considered carefully for a moment, but finally realized he really had no options. He unlocked the door, and Niamh came out of the cell gratefully. Tristan took hold of her arm above the elbow, and led her outside, barely deigning to look at her. He said nothing until they'd left the prison far behind them, before he suddenly stopped and turned to face her.
"You should leave this place. It is unsafe for you to remain here."
"But...I don't understand. Why am I still in danger here?"
"Do you think he will give up so easily?" She looked down, her hopes dashed. "I have nowhere to go," she said, tears filling her eyes. Tristan gazed down at her, feeling sympathy stir in his chest.
"Very well. Stay by my side, for a time. They will believe you are with me. Perhaps that will serve to hinder his interest." With a hesitant nod, she agreed to the bargain, and with that, he turned on his heel and began to walk towards the tavern.
"You haven't told me your name," she said softly.
"Tristan."
"I'm Niamh." He nodded brusquely, not slowing his pace in the least. He came to the tavern and pushed the door open, motioning for her to go ahead of him.
"You want me to go in there," she asked incredulously.
"That's where I'm going. So unless you want to go on alone, you'll come inside." Her eyes wide, she stepped forward hesitantly, before she squared her shoulders and marched resolutely inside. Tristan smiled, a rare occurrence for him, as he watched her walk into the tavern as though she owned it.
"Tristan, come have a drink," Bors yelled, holding up a jug of ale as Tristan walked inside. Niamh walked forward, heading straight for Bors as Tristan followed slowly at her heels. She took the proffered drink from Bors outstretched hand, thanking him sweetly before sitting down in an empty chair nearby. She gave Tristan a satisfied look, and he stalked forward, pulling her up out of the chair as Bors looked on curiously.
"That's Dayn's seat." She looked around, seeking him in the throng of people that filled the tavern.
"I don't see him anywhere."
"He'll be along," he responded brusquely. Niamh doubted that, because Dayn had looked none too steady on his feet when she'd last seen him, but she didn't argue.
"So where should I sit?" Not answering, he led her around the table to his customary seat, and with a whistle, gained the attention of one of the serving wenches. She was about the only one paying attention, for the rest were making themselves available to the knights for something other than drinks.
"Bring another chair." The wench moved to do as he said, returning quickly with another chair. He pointed Niamh to the chair, turning his attention to the drink that Caderyn passed him. But Niamh wasn't finished with him, yet.
"Who are these men?" With a sigh of annoyance, Tristan went through the knights one by one, pointing to each and offering their names to her. Those who were still sober greeted her, and she smiled in return. They were a boisterous group, sure enough, but surprisingly, they were not frightening.
Shortly thereafter, Dayn made his way inside, collapsing into his chair, and taking the ale that Lancelot handed him gratefully. He had taken the time to clean up, changing into a fresh tunic and pants, before coming to the tavern to get some much needed refreshment. His gauntlets were secure around his forearms, hiding the brand that now marred his skin. Most of his bruises were hidden underneath his clothing, so he looked none the worse for wear after his stay in the prison. His head still spun, but as long as he didn't make any sudden moves, it was manageable. A little ale, and I'll be as good as new. Leaning forward slowly, hepulled the serving wench off of Lancelot's lap and told her to get him something to eat, smiling evilly at the look of affront on Lancelot's face.
"Oh, cheer up, Lance. There's plenty more where she came from. She'll warm your lap again soon enough, if another does not." He took a big gulp of the ale, feeling refreshed as the liquid quenched his thirst.
Dagonet glanced at Aldric, warning him with his eyes to watch Dayn carefully. When he was drunk, anything could happen. Suddenly, a small figure maneuvered through the crowd, coming to a stop behind Dayn. Covering his eyes with small hands, a childish, high pitched voice said, "Guess who?"
Dayn smiled, playing along. "Is it...Dagonet?"
"Nope."
"Caderyn?"
"No, silly!"
"I give up! Who is it?"
"It's me, Dayn," the voice said gleefully. The hands left his eyes, and Dayn came face to face with the grinning figure of Bors' six-year-old daughter, affectionately dubbed Hummingbird for her tendency to flit to and fro. He didn't know her real name, because he could only recall Bors referring to her as Number 8. Surely that's not her real name, Dayn thought as the little girl grinned up at him. She climbed up in his lap, making herself comfortable as she so often did. No matter how vigilantly Vanora watched the child, she still managed to come into the tavern frequently. "I fooled you," she said gaily.
"You sure did."
"You don't look good today. Did you bump your head?" He nodded, but she kept going, not waiting for his answer. "Number 10 does that all the time. But not so badly as you. That's a really nasty cut. Does it hurt?"
"Not so much, now." He sat back, allowing her to entertain him. Hummingbird resembled her mother in looks, with her reddish-blond hair and the freckles that adorned her nose, but her personality was all Bors. She always had a smile and a story to tell, with the latter not always being true, but nevertheless entertaining. Dayn looked up when he heard Vanora shout out at Bors from the door.
"Bors, you'll have to watch the little one," she said, plopping their youngest child squarely into Bors' lap.
"Aww, Vanora, I'm drinkin' here."
"Don't you even try to get out of it. If anything happens to that babe, I'm holding you personally responsible." She spun around, sweeping away to refill another jug for a group of travelers near the other end of the tavern. Bors looked down into the face of the little one in his lap. Now...which one is this? Ten? Eleven? As if sensing her father's confusion, the baby looked up at him, giving him a toothless grin. Bors smiled back down, pleased to see the resemblance she shared with him.
"She looks just like you," Niamh said, leaning forward from across the table. Bors smiled proudly, looking rather pleased with himself.
"She didn't necessarily mean that as a compliment, Bors," Lancelot said snidely from the other side of the table, a cocky smile on his face.
"Nonsense. May I hold her?" Bors passed the baby across to her gratefully, glad to get back to his ale. The baby settled into Niamh with a soft sigh, and Niamh slowly rocked the child back and forth. Sensing someone's eyes on her, she looked up to see Tristan watching her over the top of his mug. "Did you want to hold her, Tristan," she said with a smile.
"No," he replied curtly.
"Oh, I think you do. You just don't want to admit it." With a gleam in her eye, she set the baby on his lap, knowing that he would instinctively grab her to keep her from falling. With a happy squeal, the baby grabbed one of Tristan's braids, tugging on it playfully. Tristan looked down at the child in his arms with a look close to panic in his eyes. He looked to Niamh, begging her with his eyes to take the baby back, but Niamh had already turned away, looking on in amusement as one of the serving wenches tried to teach an inebriated Caderyn how to dance. Leaning back against Tristan, the baby reached up and patted his face before slowly closing her eyes, her body relaxing into slumber.
Dayn watched the panic slowly recede from Tristan's eyes as the baby stilled, listening with one ear as Hummingbird continued to talk about everything from the small puppy she had to the latest exploits of Number 4 and Number 6. Did Bors have his children calling each other by numbers? Surely not. The door of the tavern opened and Dayn stilled as a very familiar Roman soldier came walking in. Looks as though the Goddess of Fortune just turned her lovely eyes on me, Dayn thought with a sardonic smile.
"Go sit with your father," he said, cutting Hummingbird off in mid-sentence.
"But, Dayn..."
"Now," he said sharply. He set her down on the floor, nudging her in Bors' direction. He turned his attention back to the guard, watching as he came closer. Dayn waited until the man was about to pass by when he stuck his foot out, smiling as the Roman tripped, falling face-first onto the floor.
"You should watch out—it's easy to trip in here. You might get hurt." He gave the Roman a friendly smile that was belied by the cold gleam in his eyes.
"Dayn," Aldric spoke up, in a cautionary tone. "Watch it, boy. You can't afford another incident."
"Leave off, Aldric. This isn't your concern," he replied, his jaw clenched tight in anger, as he watched the Roman turn to face him.
"Did you trip me, Sarmatian?"
"I think you mistake me for your own clumsiness."
"Don't lie to me, boy!"
"What are you going to do," Dayn said, his voice taunting. "Are you going to teach me another lesson? Do you think you can? I should think not—after all, I'm no longer chained up. It's not easy to take on an armed man, is it?"
"You dare insult me, you Sarmatian cur!" He took a threatening step forward, and Dayn came to his feet, sending his chair crashing to the floor. His earlier dizziness was gone as a cold, deadly feeling overtook him.
"Better the Sarmatian cur than the Roman ass," he replied smartly.
The Roman, enraged, suddenly drew his sword, and Dayn smiled in triumph. He allowed the Roman to take one swipe at him with the sword before he pulled his dagger. He waited until the Roman overstepped, and then, sweeping around, he grabbed the man from behind, pulling his head back and neatly slicing his throat. The Roman grabbed at his throat as Dayn stepped away. The room was silent, everyone's attention riveted on the dying throes of the Roman guard. Hummingbird's face was buried in Bors' chest, and he silently rubbed her back, unconsciously soothing the child. Niamh stared at Dayn in silent horror. Vanora merely looked annoyed about the mess, obviously used to such incidents.
Dayn gazed down, unfeeling, as blood pooled beneath his feet. He knelt, wiping his dagger clean on the man's cloak before he righted his chair and sat back down to finish his ale. Lancelot slapped Dayn on the back in a congratulatory manner before he turned his attention back to the serving wench.
"Did you see that," Dayn heard Galahad ask Gawain. "That was cold...the way he just maneuvered that fellow into fighting him..." Dayn stood and leaned over, planting his fists on the table as he looked Galahad in the eyes.
"Perhaps you'd like to be locked up in a cell for three days while the Romans amuse themselves by beating you. Then, maybe you would understand."
"But, Dayn...you just killed that man, simply for walking in. You goaded him into fighting you, and then you murdered him."
"Ah, but Galahad, you forget—he drew first. I killed in self-defense, as anyone here could attest to."
"Well...technically, yes. But we all saw that you taunted him..."
"Yes, and he was stupid enough to fall for it, wasn't he?" Galahad looked down, wanting to say more, but knowing that there was nothing left to say. He glanced at the soldier's body, and with a sick look on his face, got up from the table and left. Dayn stared after him, his eyes narrowing before he turned to Gawain.
"Do you have anything to add, Gawain?"
"Um...how about another ale?" Gawain stared up at him with a sloppy grin, ale sloshing over the mug he held up as he fought to maintain his coordination. Dayn grinned suddenly, and took it from Gawain with a hearty slap on the back. He hardly gave a second glance as a few of the servants picked the dead Roman up off the floor, and serving wenches came to clean up the mess.
Bors held the ever wakeful Hummingbird on his lap, paying her no mind as she played a game of dice with Caderyn. Unfortunately, Tristan noticed, Caderyn was losing quite a bit of money to the small child and was too drunk to realize it. With strategy that was uncanny in a child her age, Hummingbird was well aware of Caderyn's drunkenness, and was taking advantage of it. It was certainly a gamble, for if Bors realized what she was doing, she would be made to give it all back. But it wasn't too much of a risk, Tristan knew, for the child was also aware of how drunk her father was.
Vanora walked over, taking the sleeping baby from Tristan's lap with a smile. "Thank you, Tristan. Goddess knows I can't count on Bors to watch more than one of the children at a time, and sometimes not even that." Tristan gave her a noncommittal grunt before turning his attention back to the activities of the various knights. Aldric had long ago decided to leave, not wanting to be around for the usual results of the knights' carousing. Dagonet would follow shortly, Tristan knew, after he had finished his third ale. A creature of habit, Dagonet was, much like Tristan himself. Gawain was singing, badly enough that the serving wenches were imbibing him with more ale in vain attempts to shut him up. Cei had passed out long ago, his head down on the table, his hand still on his mug of ale. Bors was watching Dayn and Lancelot compete with one another to see who could drink the most ale. Not the smartest diversion, but you can't reason with those two, Tristan thought. Well, with Lancelot, Arthur at least had a chance, but Dayn was another story. No one could reason with Dayn. Tristan thought Dayn like a wild animal, for he reacted on instinct with little thought as to the consequences. There was a lot of pain underneath all of that anger, Tristan knew, but Dayn hid it well from the others.
Sensing movement to his left, Tristan turned, seeing Niamh struggling to keep her eyes open. He stood, holding his hand out to her. With bleary eyes, she looked up at him, and smiled. Taking his hand, she let him pull her to her feet before he led her from the tavern.
As they walked back towards the garrison where the knights were housed, Tristan allowed her to maintain a hold on his hand. He was uncomfortable with the intimacy—it was closer than he'd allowed anyone to get to him in a long time. It simply wasn't practical to let someone get so close. It was like handing someone the dagger with which to slit your throat.
"You aren't angry about me making you hold the baby, are you?"
"No." Anger wasn't practical, Tristan thought, for it had no purpose. It was nothing but a distraction, one that could prove fatal. That was one thing about Dayn that Tristan could never fully understand. How Dayn could allow himself to be so consumed by his anger was a mystery to Tristan.
"So what is it, then?"
"What are you referring to?"
"Why you do not speak to me."
"I do not speak because I have nothing of importance to say." Before she could reply, someone stepped out of the shadows and grabbed her arm, jerking her away from Tristan.
"Stop," she cried, struggling to escape the figure. Tristan could see that it was a Roman, of considerable rank judging by his garb. Tristan pulled the dirk from his boot, and set his feet.
"Let her go."
"She's mine. You have no claim on her." In a surprising move, Niamh twisted out of the Roman's grip, rushing back to Tristan's side with a choked sob.
"Come near her again, and I will kill you," Tristan told him calmly, his voice betraying no emotion.
"If you kill me, my soldiers will hunt you down like an animal."
"Not if they think you died in an unfortunate accident. Think you I cannot make it look so?" The Roman looked startled at Tristan's words, and he paused while he considered whether Tristan was telling the truth. Seeing something in Tristan's eyes, he realized with fear that Tristan meant every word he said.
He looked at Niamh with licentious eyes, promising retaliation even as fear of Tristan forced him to back down this time. He fingered his sword hilt, and Tristan stepped forward, his eyes promising retaliation if the Roman drew a weapon. Seeing that he could not win, the Roman captain slowly withdrew, stepping back without taking his eyes off Tristan. Tristan maintained his grip on the dirk as he took Niamh's arm in a gentle, but firm grip. She looked up at him with questioning eyes, wondering why he still held the dirk.
"I don't trust that one," he told her quietly the Roman vanished into the darkness. This was far from over.
A/N: As far as Niamh's name goes, I've found two different ways of pronouncing it:
Nee-av or Nime...I personally like Nee-ma, but pronounce it any way you like. Also, I had to push back a promised scene between Lancelot and Dayn, because it just didn't fit into this chapter. But it should be in the next chapter that I've already started. Busy week coming up, so I don't know how long it will be before my next update, but I'll do my best.
Oh, and before I forget...while Hummingbird serves absolutely no purpose, I really liked her scenes. She's just so funny to me...anyways, let me know how you like her! R&R!!
Shallindra: I hope you enjoyed the Tristan scenes that I added. And I'm so glad you like Dayn. Keep reading and reviewing for me!
HGandRHrforever: Glad you liked the chapter...please keep reviewing for me, because I love reviews!
chiefhow: I guess you were happy to see more Tristan scenes as well. I'm trying hard to include he and the other knights more often.
When Fire Meets Ice: Yes, Dayn does have a penchant for trouble, doesn't he? He's what you might call impulsive...not so much foolish, just hot-tempered and a bit reckless.
ModestySparrow9: When are you going to update? I'm eagerly waiting for your next chapter...as far as how the Romans knew about Dayn leaving, I left that out because it just wasn't all that important, but since you want to know, here's kind of what I was thinking: when Arthur and the others were given another mission, Dayn was of course, nowhere to be found, so Arthur told the soldiers to be on the lookout for him. Arthur didn't tell them to throw him in prison or anything, he just told them to be watching for him. Nor did Arthur tell them that Dayn was a deserter — the Romans came to that conclusion on their own. Tristan wouldn't have sold Dayn out to the Romans.
