Thanks to all the reviewers.

Eight

(Six years later.)

Tristan sat silently above the hilltop in a tree. He had been crouched there all morning, waiting for the sun to rise. It was his tradition after all. While all the other men slept away their drunkeness and mal attitudes from the previous night, Tristan had been awake for several hours. He had chopped the firewood for morning breakfast, and watered and fed all the horses. He didn't mind, for these chores had become regular for him. Now, he sat in the ancient white oak and awaited the sunrise.

Slowly, the rays of the new morning sun crept over the lands, melting it free from its winter wasteland inch by inch. Today the sun was a warm, vibrant color of orange and red. Somehow, for Tristan, every new sun was unique and freshing. At least by the sun everyday, and the moon every night, he knew that the world had not ended. Although, sometimes he wished it would.

The days at his assigned post had been limited, for he had relocated multiple times. And, although most of the men he encountered were good men, Tristan always felt a sense of loneliness that he could never escape. At least he still had Illiana. The hawk he had saved from certain death had grown into a fine bird and had always stayed by his side. He also had his white steed, that he had received when he was first being recruited...

Tristan couldn't remember those days before he had come to his first post. Or rather, perhaps he didn't want to remember. Lifting the side of his tunic, Tristan ran his calloused fingers alongside a faded scar on his right flank. He had endured many more wounds and scars in the past six years, but he still remembered this one. Tristan didn't want to ever remember and go back to the past, but his scars always reminded him that the past was real.

Snapping back to reality, Tristan realized that he had better get back to his job before the commanding officers had a bird about his absense lately. Jumping down from the tree, Tristan collected his sword and bow and arrows and mounted his horse that stood bseside the tree. He whistled to the skies, and in moments, Illiana was once again on his forearm. He clicked his tongue at the hawk.

"You ready to go out again, girl?" he asked softly. The bird nuzzled against his tattooed cheek in response.

Tristan set off, for his job was most important; he was a scout, and must find a safe road for he and his fellow knights before they were to leave that morning.

Coming to a fork in the road, Tristan halted abruptly. He leaned over his horse slightly, letting Illiana sit upon the horse's mane, and hovered over tracks in the mud. He studied them curiously for a moment, cursed under his breath when once he knew who the footprints belonged to.

"Damn," he muttered, stiing up in his saddle. He took Illiana on his arm and whispered, "Go and warn them, my friend."

With that, Illiana took flight in the direction of his camp. "Damn," he said again, riding his horse hard after the bird, for he knew that woads were upon them.

Tristan drew his sword as he approached his camp. He was relieved when he saw that all the men still slept and that there was not a woad in sight. There was a faint scent of something in the air, but it was so faint that Tristan could not identify its source. After a moment or two, the smell had become more clear, and Tristan knew exactly what it was. Blood.

Dismounting his horse, Tristan ran to the first knight and turned him over. His throat had been cut. No... Tristan ran two a second knight and turned him over. He had been run through by a sword. In a panic now, Tristan turned over the third, fourth, fifth man, only to learn that they were all dead! Every one of them had been murdered while they slept!

Tristan, still kneeling by one of his dead companions, yelled out in anguish. All of his fellow knights had been slaughtered; now, he was truly alone and in danger. Tristan heard movement in the forest as he stayed quiet and listen intently. He could hear the movement of every woad that stood in shadow around the encampment. Tristan knew he would be greatly outnumbered, and that this would be his only chance to escape. As the sound of footprints came closer, Tristan made a break for his horse. Arrows volleyed through the air, but Tristan doged all of them as they flew. Rolling on the ground, Tristan quickly stood and continued to make his way to his horse as woads poured over his dead companions and ran after him.

Placing his hands on the back of the horse, Tristan leapt into the saddle, just as a couple woads reached him. He cut them down easily with his sword, and tried to manuever his horse through the enemy as they tried to topple him over. Grabbing one woad with his hands, Tristan snapped his neck. He suddenly felt one sword cut into his arm and another slice into his back. Tristan grunted, leanin forward in his saddle. As his horse took him away from the fight, Tristan managed to kill a couple more woads with his bow before he was safely out of harm's way.

Tristan rode for a couple of hours without stopping. He didn't know where he was or what direction his horse was taking him. The only thing he could concentrate on was the pain. Finally, after half a day of riding, Tristan caught a glimpse of tents in the distance.

"Must be the next encampment," he said to himself.

He was sure that no woad could have made it to this camp yet, yet Tristan wanted to warn them, to make sure. It was the least he good do for his lost companions, though, Tristan knew it would never make up for his foolishness. It would still always be his fault after all. As Tristan neared the camp, though, the pain from his wounds took over, causing him to fall off his horse and into unconsiousness...

When Tristan opened his eyes, the room seemed to be spinning. He was still groggy, as if he had been drinking, as he tried to sit up. He leaned up on one arm, and hissed at the pain that instantly shot through his body. He fell back onto the bed. Bed...? Tristan's eyes shot open as he felt the presense of another. He reached out to grab his sword, and realized something. Not only was he disarmed, but he was also partially naked! Tristan sat up, still only in his pants and boots. He shook his head and looked over to see a young man standing near the foot of his bed.

"What's going on here...where am I?" all these questions came out at once.

Before the man could answer, Tristan suddenly remembered what had happened. His camp...his dead companions...his foolishness that caused them their lives...the woads...

"Woads!" Tristan shouted, his body jumping forward.

The other man, slightly younger than Tristan, caught him in mid-air.

"Settle down before you hurt yourself even more, man!" the other man said. "I don't want to have to be saving your sorry arse again!"

The words struck Tristan familiar, for he had hear them before. He sat back away from the other man and peered at him from behind his loose hair and braids. The man was younger than him, with narrow shoulders, dark, curly hair, and a devilish grin. Tristan knew almost instantly who this now grown man was.

"What's the matter, Tristan, not going to say hello to an old friend?" Lancelot wondered, crossing his arms in front of his strapping chest.

"I will do such a thing when I see one," Tristan replied glumly. "Where are my clothes and weapons?"

Tristan wrapped his arms around his stomach and waited for an answer. Lancelot sighed heavily and scratched his head.

"Still the same old Tristan, eh?" Lancelot said. "Shows no gratitude for anything."

"Who says that I am not grateful?" Tristan spat back. "After seeing all of my fellow knights dead, slaughtered by woads, who says that I am not grateful for being alive?"

Lancelot's jaw dropped slightly, knowing for certain that Tristan was not lying.

"Woads?" Lancelot repeated.

Tristan nodded. "They slaughtered everyone in my camp while they slept. They could be on there way here now to try the same tonight."

"It isn't your fault, Tristan," Lancelot said.

Of course it is," Tristan said, trying to stand up. "I acted foolish...I should have been there..."

"Then, you would have been dead, too," Lancelot cut in, placing a hand on Tristan's shoulder. "You did all you could."

"And, it was not good enough," Tristan said, shaking Lancelot's hand from his shoulder. "Now, you should warn your companions before nightfall, so they can prepare for a possible ambush."

Tristan noticed his things, and walked over to a chair to collect them.

"I will," Lancelot replied. "But, you will not go anywhere tonight."

"I will do as I damn well please, Lancelot!" Tristan shouted back.

Tristan suddenly felt dizzy and practically collapsed when Lancelot caught him again. Lancelot dragged him back to his bed and layed him down.

"You're not strong enough, you see?" Lancelot said, standing back up. "I will make sure that there is no woad threat. You will stay here and rest. That's an order, Tristan."

Tristan didn't hardly even hear Lancelot, as he quickly descended back into a dreamless sleep.

End, "Eight.'