II
Tristan watched from the side as Jols and Dagonet wrapped Erec's body in his cloak and a spare blanket. His sword had been cleaned and sheathed and was presently strapped to the side of his stark-white horse. Jols would be riding back to the fort with the body and when the knights returned, they'd give Erec a proper burial with the rest of their fallen companions. It was a hard thing to do, watch those that one loved and held as a good friend be buried in the Earth, but it was a fact of life and Tristan understood this. The only problem was…he felt that he could've acted to prevent Erec from leaving this world so soon.
Once Dagonet had tossed Erec's wrapped body over his horse and secured him with rope, Jols mounted his own horse and took up the reins of the now-ownerless stallion to lead him home.
"May God keep you safe," Arthur said to him in a hushed voice, for he wasn't much too sure the other knights would want to hear of the Christian God at this point, especially when they were Pagans like their forefathers.
"Shall I find you again?" Jols asked as he turned the two horses around to face the north.
"No," Arthur replied shaking his head and backing away from the horses. "Stay at the fort. We'll be moving as soon as we're ready here."
Jols gave a short nod and kicked his heels into the flanks of his steed; the horse gave a sharp nay and hurried off, the other following directly behind.
Tristan sighed and went to his own animal to prepare it for their journey. Instead of keeping his sabre attached to the saddle to hang at his legs, he decided to swing the strap of the sheath over his shoulder and keep it close in case another unexpected attack came about.
"Tristan," said someone from behind he recognized as Arthur's deep voice. "Tristan, you're blaming yourself."
Tristan stopped pulling the straps of the saddle that tightened it around the horse's midsection and stood still. He knew Arthur was due to make a speech to him, since it was common knowledge amongst the knights that Tristan and Erec were very good friends from day one.
"Save the lecture," he said abruptly and fixed the length of the stirrups on the saddle.
Arthur sighed and looked at the back of Tristan's head where several braids lay atop uncombed hair. "There was nothing you could've done. Don't even start going over it."
"Don't worry," Tristan responded quickly. "I already did."
"That's what I thought," Arthur said with a small smile. "Just don't go over it again. It was God's will—"
"Spare me the nonsense," Tristan snapped, turning around and catching his leader off guard. "Your god's will means nothing to me. Erec's dead; and not even your God can bring him back."
Tristan moved past Arthur to collect the water sack and bag of berries he had brought along. Frustration soared through his mind and he had a need to break something—or better yet, stab something with all of his strength.
Arthur had said no more and went back to the others who also prepared their animals for the journey forth. Tristan kept quiet and said nothing, even to Bors who went over the great deeds Erec had done; Lancelot made light of the situation and pointed out that Erec knew how to treat his women.
Tristan found no humor in Lancelot's words. He found no comfort in anything they were saying. In fact, being away from them was what he needed. Time alone was the only thing that ever helped him heal, no matter what the wound. He kicked his horse lightly and pulled the reigns to the left so he could out pass his comrades and catch up with Arthur.
"I'm going ahead," he said in brief. Without waiting for Arthur's comments he moved his horse onward at a steady gallop leaving the knights behind him.
If he hadn't let himself fall into such a deep sleep he would've heard the Woads attacking. If he had thought clearly instead of jumping right into battle, he would've noticed he left the camp without taking his bow and quiver of arrows, something he never did. Fates have it that the one time he didn't have them was the one time he really needed them.
If anything, he should've paid more attention to the warriors, not the woman that caught his attention. It wasn't like him to be taken by the beauty of a woman like he had experienced earlier that morning. The women he had kept company with in the past hadn't caught his attention because of their features, but more by their actions and comments. Granted, he loved a pretty face, but he wasn't like Lancelot and Gawain that required their women to be perfect.
He silently cursed himself when he caught his mind wondering and thinking of that face that kept him from the battle. If he hadn't stopped for those few moments to stare at her, he would've noticed the aim on Erec—he could've prevented it…somehow.
Above him a screech echoed and he looked up; his hawk circled the sky and called down to him. He gave a distinct three noted whistle and the bird swooped downwards. The massive wings of the creature folded after its talons clutched the two-fingered glove worn on Tristan's hand.
"Find anything good?" He asked, his hand holding the reins coming up to tap the beak of the bird with one finger. "Bet you saw what happened. Probably wonderin' what the hell was wrong with me, eh? Don't worry about it—won't happen again."
The bird gave a screech, yet harmonious chirp and turned its head to look at the distance before Tristan and his horse. The sun was up now, but a grayish blue fog swept over the land like a cloudy veil. Tristan could care less what the weather conditions where; if anything, he felt it should be raining still so his dreary mood could be complete.
The hawk stood quietly perched on Tristan's arm, his head turning in every direction to keep a lookout for any danger. The knight, however, rode his horse down to a slower trot while his mind was elsewhere. He couldn't help but remember those days in Sarmatia, the thrill of hunting with his brothers and the mellow mood that always surrounded them. How much his life had changed in a matter of seconds when those Roman soldiers appeared so suddenly…
Tristan tossed his head to relieve his eyes of the ends of hair that hung over his brow. He wanted freedom, yes, but would he ever be able to return to his previous life in Sarmatia? Probably not, he had told himself several times when he was in this sort of state of mind that made him wish he were someone else. He cursed the Romans for doing this to him and his fellow knights. The only good thing he found out of it that he had a sort-of sick pleasure slaughtering people in battle and triumphantly looking down upon them as they struggled with their last rasping breath.
"Whatever," he said to himself as he looked ahead at the edge of a forest lying in his path. "C'mon," he commanded his horses and nudged its sides with his heels. The horse whinnied at him and hurried along, its legs jumping in a full gallop.
As the trees grew near, the more his hawk looked around. Tristan tossed up his arm and the bird took flight, heading into the darkness of the boundary before them. The horse slowed down, its ears twitching about. Tristan saw this and reached for his bow. There was something…or someone lurking in the shadows. He patted the horse's neck, urging it to move forward into the misty darkness. It seemed quiet; almost too quiet. He was sure he was being watched—by whom, was the next question.
A flock of birds leapt out overhead and scurried to the treetops, leaves rustling as their wings clipped the edges of branches. Tristan's horse jerked its head, but moved on in a walk. Trusting his horse to be steady, Tristan released the reins to rest on the saddle-horn; he pulled an arrow from the quiver strapped to the left side of the creature's shoulder and prepared it into the bow.
The screeching cry of his hawk caught his ears and he looked up in alarm. He was being tracked and his faithful companion saw this. His heart pounded in his chest with anticipation. He hoped he'd find someone—he had a bit of frustration to get out.
There! he said to himself and pulled back the string of the bow to his ear; he quickly released it and the arrow soared through the air and hit the center of a person's chest. The man, dressed in only brown pants and a closed vest, fell from the limb of a tree. Tristan noticed he was painted blue, which could only mean there were more of—
Without warning, without even the sharp shrill of air being sliced, Tristan felt something bury itself with intense force and a precise point into his upper-right shoulder. He let out a yell, the arrow having nearly peaking out from the other side; blood dripped down to his semi-mailed vest. He looked around quickly, seeing bodies jumping down from trees and emerging from bushes.
His steed called out in fear, the sound of more birds escaping and the cries of the Woads that jumped forward made the animal rear up. Tristan fumbled for the reins, commanded the horse to calm down, but another arrow kept him from completing this task. It brushed the side of his right arm, the tip cutting through the fabric of the heavy green tunic, but not embedding itself within his flesh.
The forces were too much and Tristan lost his footing in the stirrups and started to fall back. He landed with a hard thud on the semi-dried dirt ground; his left arm had jumped out to break his fall, but he feared that the snap he heard was his wrist breaking when it twisted upon impact. Before he knew it the Woads were upon him. He quickly yanked out the arrow from his shoulder and threw it to the ground—it would've gotten in his way if he had left it there. His arm, though screaming at him with pain, reached up and grabbed his curved sabre, pulling it out of its resting place and pointing it to the angry faces of his enemies.
The Britons scowled at him, some hissed, but they all held out one weapon or another, ready to attack at any sudden move he made. Tristan circled around; sweat dripped down his face from loss of blood from the wound in his shoulder. He kept his stiff wrist against his stomach, hoping that he'd have some chance of taking more than one warrior on with a wounded right shoulder and broken left wrist.
An older Woad jumped down at him, an ax raised and dagger held tightly in the other hand. Tristan held up his sword with an unsteady grip, his head tossing quickly to get the hair out of his eyes. He knew he looked calm, but in fact he was starting to get nervous…he had no hope of winning this skirmish.
The man struck down, Tristan dodging the swing of the ax, but having no luck doing the same with the dagger. The Woad man came about, dagger arm outstretched; the blade narrowly hit Tristan's side, but it did just enough for him to jump back and reach out with his bad hand to catch the first gush of blood.
He looked at the man who turned around with a vengeful sneer. Tristan held up his sword again, trying to ignore the wounds he received. He turned around to meet the face of the same woman he was going to kill back in the field…but behind her was another. The same girl he saw with the bow, yelling out after he stabbed that kid. He wondered why she stood unarmed watching him as he stood greatly outmatched amongst her people.
Then, something struck him from behind. He felt a sudden bolt of shock and a pounding feeling on the back of his neck, but that's all he knew as he fell to the mossy ground.
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AN: Chapter 3 will hopefully be along soon. Every time I go to write it, though, something pulls me away.
