AN: A big thanks to all who reviewed. I love reviews…they make me feel happy. Anywho, I got this up sooner than I expected. Hopefully I won't wake up unhappy about the content tomorrow. Chapter four probably won't get started until later on this week, but maybe I'll get lucky again. Doubtful, though, because school and work destroy my life. Enjoy
III
For a moment everything was dark and the only feeling of life was a throbbing headache. There was a distinct damp smell in the air; a cool breeze tickled the short hairs of Tristan's beard, and he realized that whatever had happened hadn't killed him, although when he thought about it more he wished it had.
Beyond the headache, his shoulder ached terribly with the slightest bit of movement. Something was tied on both his wrists, and when he moved his arms he figured they were ropes of some sort. The wrist he had thought snapped when falling off his horse wasn't in as much pain as before, so perhaps it wasn't broken? Tristan hated the idea of opening his eyes to see just why he felt so cold compared to before; he had a suspicion that he only wore the lightweight tunic that was usually hidden under his heavier articles of clothing.
Tristan's hands fell to his sides and with this action he was sure he was bound with ropes that would prevent him from getting away. The ground was soft and his hands resting on it felt the warmth and softness of fur, from which animal he didn't know, nor cared. Finally, he willed his eyes open and he saw that he was indeed laying in only his thin white tunic and buck-hide leggings, along with his leather boots. To the side he saw the sleeveless gambeson stained with his own blood, the heavy and long, open front coat and glove he usually kept on his left hand.
The moment he moved to sit up his arm ached with a sharp pain and he gave up, lying helplessly on the makeshift fur bed. Moving his left arm to hold the shoulder proved useless as the ropes tied around his wrist prevented it from moving more than a half a foot. His head looked up and followed the length of rope to see it tied to a tree. Whoever did this didn't want him getting up and taking off.
Above his eyes noticed the sun had fully escaped the clouds and spots of blue could be seen from the leafy canopy of the trees. He had the urge to call for his hawk, but his throat was so dry he didn't bother. He wanted water; he wanted to get up; he wanted to kill whoever kept him captive.
Tristan moved his legs to hopefully give him a second chance of sitting up, but the moment he started to get somewhere with this task, the edge of a sword appeared under his chin and forced him to bend his head back to avoid being cut.
"Don't bother," a female voice said as she rested her foot on his chest. Tristan looked up to see that now familiar face of the Briton woman he was briefly encountered on the battlefield. Up close he could see the hatred pouring out of her brown eyes. Leather cording kept the upper most portions of her dirty-blonde hair back; her face was clean, but her bare shoulders and arms bore the obvious blue markings of tattoos, and the rest of her was covered by separate pieces of leather that tightly wrapped around her.
Tristan eyed her without fear, his face calm yet inside he was agitated. "Why do you keep me like this?" He asked finally, his voice catching her by surprise.
"Be quiet, Roman," she said. "It's none of your concern."
"It's my life," he pointed out, but she ignored him. Her sword moved away from his neck. She traced an invisible line down the center of his chest with the tip, making no cut, but probably to see if he'd flinch. With the wound in his shoulder, the gash in his side and the cut on his leg, another mark on his chest would be nothing to him at this point.
"You live upon my sister's request," the woman stated. "When she's ready she will kill you for killing our brother."
Tristan made no reply as the sword was taken away at the sound of a branch breaking under someone's footsteps. The woman turned around, her long straggly hair jumping over her shoulder, and her foot leaving his chest. Two others had joined them at the spot and Tristan let out a deep sigh as he felt that he'd be stuck here for some time.
"Anchoret," the female of the two said—the same female that Tristan had seen from afar before. "Not yet."
The first woman, Anchoret, stepped away and eyed the two that approached. The younger looking woman stood shorter than Anchoret, but her features were much more becoming. Her hair was that of long, bronze curls that were loosely pulled back; only a few stray strands framed her face. Her lean body was covered in the traditional Woad attire, hers being a full-covering leather, strapless top, and leggings made from animal hide. Any skin that was showing, like Anchoret's, was clean from any blue stain that Tristan had always known Woads to wear, hence the slang name they had earned.
The man, however, looked like he hadn't cleaned off any of the blue paint from his body. His torso was bare, save for his arms that had wrist guards and a piece of heavy fabric covering his right shoulder and strap that diagonally wrapped around his chest to hold it in place. He wore the similar, but baggier pants the women did, but his were torn on the left side. He looked unhappy to say the least, his dark eyes looking at Tristan with pure hatred through the strands of thin hair that hung over his face.
For a few moments the three spoke in their native, British tongue, leaving Tristan feeling bored and annoyed. He felt that if they were going to kill him they should get it over with. Lying there with his arms tied and his body aching wasn't the way he'd want to spend his time.
"Savea," Anchoret said as the bronze-haired girl turned to Tristan, "we get what we need and cut his throat."
Savea moved next to Tristan's side; she swung her leg out and kicked him where the dagger cut was. Tristan held his breath and closed his eyes, his body trying to roll over away from her, but the restraints kept him from moving more than a few inches, which brought back the pain in his shoulder. "Bloody Roman," she spat and knelt down next to him.
"I'm not from Rome," Tristan said through partially clenched teeth.
The British woman kneeled down next to him, producing a knife that was previously hidden in her small boot. She played with the small weapon while she waited for an answer, most likely thinking by doing so would intimidate him to talk.
Tristan took a deep breath and pushed away the anguish that threatened to take over his mind. "I am from Sarmatia," he told her simply.
"You're lying," she hissed softly and held the blade up to his throat.
"If you're going to kill me, do it," Tristan said calmly. "I'm not one to like threats that never happen."
Savea pulled the knife away and held it to his arm, dragging the tip down and making a narrow slit through the fabric of his white tunic and skin. Tristan held contact with her green eyes that looked for any sign of pain as she did this, but he was determined to stay still. She pulled the knife away and stood up, looking at the bloodied knife and then back down to him.
"Who do you fight for?"
Tristan didn't answer her gentle question.
"Answer!" The man said, appearing next to the questioning woman.
"If you do not answer I'll cut your ear off," Anchoret threatened.
"Is that a promise? Or just more words?" Tristan asked with sarcasm.
The man kicked him again and Tristan let out a ragged breath. "Forget it," he said and started away. "Anchoret, Savea, come!"
Tristan didn't look at them; instead he kept his eyes closed and took deep breaths to calm his agonized body down. If they'd only kick him on the other side, maybe it wouldn't hurt as much—but to kick him where he had that gash made him feel like someone was trying to cut out his muscle.
"If you're telling the truth and you're not Roman, then why are you on our island?" the tame voice of that Savea girl asked. "You're not Saxon."
Tristan opened his eyes but turned his head away from where she stood alone. "It's not my choice to be here," he said and then closed his eyes again. He didn't want to talk any further—he had said enough for now.
He heard the rustle of dead leaves and a branch snapping, but the sounds became more distant. Opening his eyes, Tristan found that he was once again alone, still restrained to his spot on the ground. He felt the coldness of what he assumed was blood trickling down his side, down and under his back. The idle thought of where the knights were came to his mind and he wondered if they realized he wasn't coming back anytime soon. If he could escape from his present situation he'd have to find his horse; even then, he doubted he could survive riding with open wounds and defend himself properly if something came up.
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Tristan hadn't realized he had dozed off until he was aroused suddenly by the sound of someone moving next to him. He quickly opened his eyes when a hand touched his injured shoulder. He was a little surprised to see Savea sitting next to him.
"What are you doing?" He asked when she continued pulling the fabric away from his shoulder and down his arm.
"Hold your tongue," she said as she tore off a patch that had been pressed down before to stop the bleeding. Tristan hadn't realized someone had already somewhat tended to his wound, but it seemed that she was either going to apply more damage, or finish the undone work.
He watched her delicate hands pour water from a small jug over his shoulder and wipe away the dried blood. The wound was still semi-fresh and started to bleed again. He did hold his tongue so he could not yell out if a sudden wave of pain struck him. The Woad reached behind where she sat and brought up a wooden bowl of a light green substance that Tristan was unfamiliar with.
Without a second thought, she took a large glob up with her hands and smeared it over the damage done by the arrow. It stung, but not so much that Tristan couldn't handle it. He moved his head to look away from her, wondering what the hell was going on. He would've asked, but he had no desire to speak to her any further for their previous encounter.
Once she was done with the coating of whatever-it-was, the girl put a fresh piece of clothe over the covered hole and wrapped a fabric-bandage over his shoulder, going under his arm and pulling tight. He gasped slightly; the sudden movements of his arm finally made him realize just how deep that arrow had traveled.
He thought she'd be done, but she yanked his shirt up and applied more of the goop on the slash in his side. This one didn't sting as much, but he now thought that the cut was worse than he originally thought if she was putting the medicine on it.
"That should help it heal properly," she said finally while wiping her hands on the extra fabric pieces she brought.
"Why?" Tristan asked again, wanting answers.
"I want you to get better so I can fight you and kill you," she said simply as if what she said was common sense.
Tristan raised his brow, having not expected such an answer. "That makes no sense," he told her. "What's the point?"
"You killed my brother, therefore I will kill you," she remarked with a deathly stare from sharp green eyes.
"You and your people killed my friend," he replied. "I have every right to kill you. And I will if you fight me."
"I will stab you the same way you stabbed him. I will let you lie on the ground and suffer for the last moments of your life."
"You Woads are vile and disgusting creatures," Tristan said much more softly, but kept his eyes directly on her own to show that she did not intimidate him.
She slapped him harshly across the face and stood up. "You say this when you're people come storming onto our land and claim it for yourselves! You think you're stronger, smarter, and have the power to conquer whatever land you think should belong to you! How dare you say such things to me; you're the disgusting man that's lying helpless at my mercy. I could've let them kill you the moment you fell off your horse."
"Then you should have," Tristan said back without hesitation.
The girl said nothing further and stormed off. It was then Tristan noticed the other woman, Anchoret, standing off to the side watching what had just taken place. She looked after the other as she passed with fury, and then turned her attention to the knight who was trying to ignore them both.
She stepped to the side of him, holding a sword in one hand and a bow in the other. On her back was a quiver and Tristan could see the bundle of arrows peaking from over her shoulder. Without a word she lifted the sword and brought it down to slice away the ropes that bound Tristan to the distant trees.
He brought his hands together and cracked each wrist from the one position they had been forced to keep; his head lifted up a little as the Woad woman walked around him and sat on a fallen and rotting tree trunk in front of him. Tristan dared to sit up, careful not to apply much pressure on his right side.
Anchoret rested the sword against the tree trunk, and then pulled out an arrow from its resting place on her back. She held it against the bow, holding the weapon down, but ready if she needed it. Tristan wasn't stupid enough to make any sudden move, so he mentally told her that she could give up and rest easy. He pushed himself back to a tree and leaned back against it, relaxing his weary body.
Above him he heard the sound of a hawk screeching overhead. He glanced up, having the feeling that was his bird telling him that it was there.
"Go ahead."
Tristan looked over to the woman and gave her a faded questioning look.
"Call your bird down here and tell it to find your friends. When they come, they'll find you hanging half dead and upside down. Then, we'll kill each of them and put their carcasses under you so you can stare at them as you slowly die."
Tristan grunted softly and looked away from her. The other had called him a disgusting man, yet they went around thinking of different ways to torture and kill him. When and if the knights came looking for him, they'd be prepared and wouldn't lose as easily as these Woads anticipated. But at the moment, all Tristan could do was sit and wait.
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