Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters from the film King Arthur, nor do I own the myth, or anything else, Dzerassa's character. This story was written for entertainment purposes only, no money was exchanged. Please don't sue, just tell me if I need to change something.
I have a feeling that this chapter will stir up some criticism; all I can say I bear with me. She's a person like anyone else, and will stay true to her character while developing as a person. (Well, a fictional person…never mind, just read)
Chapter Thirteen: A Flicker of Joy
Today I can leave the healing halls. My first appearance as a girl. I know it is vain of me, but I want to look nice, but not changed. I am still the same Dzer-- well, Dzerassa at least. Will they accept that? Or will I be sent off to go raise children or something? Anxiously, I slip on the loose brown pants I've always worn. But instead of my shapeless and now bloodied over shirt that I wore to hide my figure, I put on a tight fitting tunic that laces up the front. It holds my bandages in place, though I think the wound is soundly healed. However, I notice that it makes a certain part of my body look especially noticeable, and so, blushing, I wrap a brightly colored mantle around my shoulders. The added splash of color shouldn't look out of place because there is some sort of festival tonight, something to do the moon. Sounds like "dreaded paganism" to me, but it's another excuse to get drunk so the Romans allow it. I glance at the reflection of my petite figure in a washbasin, and then run my fingers through my dark hair. I haven't worn my hair down for years, and its extra weight and bounce seem cumbersome. Lastly I slip on my calfskin boots, but then pause by the wall. I hate that I am feeling so nervous. I take a deep breathe: this is stupid, they aren't going to judge me, they are my friends! Right? Suddenly both determined and slightly annoyed, I march resolutely to the door and shove it open forcefully –right into Gawain's face. He goes down with a colorful array of obscenities (in at least four different languages) most of which seem to be directed at me. But after a minute he picks himself up and tries to regain his composure before informing me that he will be escorting me down to the tavern. Despite my protests that that is a ridiculous notion and I've walked to the tavern dozens of times, quite capably on my own, he proceeds to take my arm and half-accompanies, half-drags me down the stairs.
I try to enter the tavern hidden behind Gawain, but at the last minute he pushes me in front of him. All the knights turn around and look at me. And laugh. I guess they are still unused to the idea of me as a girl, or at least with the body of a girl. It is extremely embarrassing. I look around for something hard to throw at them, but there are just so damn many of them! Galahad assures me that it is the expression on my face that they find so amusing, not my appearance. I roll my eyes but accept the drink that he hands me anyway. After a few more minutes of heckling, a lewd suggestion from Lancelot (he was kidding—I think,) and a drunken challenge to a duel with Lancelot from my 'brother' Galahad in defense of my honor, things started to settle down. Discussion turned back to its normal composite of random comments and remarks, and I set back and listened and watched the activity around me, feeling, for the very first time in years, perfectly content and safe.
The others are content to stay at the tavern drinking until the wee hours of the morning, but by the time night falls I have already joked, lost miserably at a game of chance with Lancelot, nearly murdered someone trying to throw a dagger, and drunken a whole mug of mead, enough to make me rather tipsy. Which, I suppose, would account for the aforementioned events. In any case, I step out into the cold night air and walk away from the noise of drunken men. I look at the stars above. They are very clear this night; they seem like beacons in the dark. I am startled by a sound behind me, and whirl around to see Tristan standing there. He looks to me, and then to the sky,
"What do you hope to see in the skies?" he questions.
"I don't know. Nothing. Everything. Why are you here?"
"Same reason as you, I suppose. I like the quiet." He looks me over, "Perhaps you should not stray so far away from the others." I am insulted, I reply defensively,
"You doubt my ability to take care of myself?" He doesn't reply, he doesn't need to. He reaches into his cloak and pulls out a sheathed dagger. He hands it to me and gets up, "Just in case." Then he leaves. Slowly, I examine the weapon; lightweight, elegant, curved. It's beautiful, really. I attach it to my belt. He is a strange man. I wish he would reveal more of his thoughts, but his silence tells me nothing, leaving me only with my own contemplations.
I look back up at the stars, but their mystery doesn't seem to compare to his. Both have intangible secrets, yet he can never be as distant as the stars. He is flesh and blood; if I can never understand the stars, I want to understand him. I step forward to watch him go. He is not headed towards the knight's lodging; rather, he is walking towards the forested edge of the complex. Where is he going? I follow him, around the bend near the edge of the forest. I think I should leave him be, but he turns around and smiles at me faintly through the distance. He heard me following. I laugh quietly, of course he heard me. He is a scout. He is still about two hundred feet ahead of me when he makes a small gesture with his wrist, and continues walking. I follow, up a seldom-used earthen path that weaves across a rolling hill, and then up to a second, larger hill. I don't see him anymore. I think I have lost him and am about to turn back when I feel a hand on my arm. Tristan smiles lightly at me.
"Why did you lead me here?" I ask.
"Why did you follow?" he retorts. I can't answer that. I don't know why I did. But as if to answer his own question, Tristan spins me around to face the direction we came from. I gasp. Below us lies the entire fortress. It is illuminated by dozens of torches. They flicker against the night, swaying with the festival music as if rejoicing. The sight rivals the stars themselves. "It is amazing," I murmur, mesmerized. "Yes," he agrees. But he is not looking at the lights.
He moves closer and gently brushes his hand across my cheek. I lean into him and tilt my head as he pulls me towards him with strong arms. I tense as he runs his hand down my spine, and slowly, we sink down to the earth.
I wake up and feel an icy breeze across my skin. I lean my head back down on Tristan's warm body. It is still that strange time before sunrise, when the air is silent and still, and it is barely light out though the sun cannot be seen out. Suddenly I am restless. I rise quietly. I slip on my clothes, I pick up the mantle and play with it for a moment, seeing what the colorful cloth would look like as s skirt or dress. I sigh and roll my eyes at my childishness. I am becoming such a girl! Ultimately I end up wrapping it close around Tristan, like a blanket. I walk down the hillside and find the small stream trickling through it. I rinse my hands and face quickly, but the water bites at my flesh. I spot a small field of wild berries at the base of the hill. Perhaps I should bring some back to Tristan. The thought makes me blush. Then again, there is no one around to see me act so sentimental. It is nice to have someone else to think of. It is nice not to feel alone.
I am crouched down gathering fruit at the edge of the field when I hear a branch snap behind me. I think that Tristan must have found me, and I smile at the thought. However, when I look up the face I see is not Tristan's. It is a drunken Roman soldier, grinning stupidly down at me. I rise, drooping the berries, and then nod courtly, not making eye-contact. I try to sidestep his form, but he grabs me roughly by the arm. I subtly reach for the dagger at my waste, but it is not there. I left it on the hillside, by Tristan! Instead, I knee the man in the groin and flee, only to find myself surrounded by his more sober buddies. I take a deep breath, but one warns me, "Don't scream or by the time anyone gets here, you'll by dead." I can see the logic in this statement: they are all armed. Drunk as they may be, I cannot hope to defeat them all. I don't speak. My eyes flicker about, trying to find a chance to escape. I can't fight my way out: despite a stubborn sense of pride, I acknowledge that I am one small woman and they five fully grow, militarily trained, armed men. One takes a step closer, leering, his eyes look dead and vacant. Screw this, I think, and start to scream, but it is too late, and a sweaty hand is clasped over my mouth, and I feel a sharp pain resonate from the base of my neck. I slip into unconsciousness and my fear dissolves into black.