A/N: Ok, here's the next chapter…no duh. So, I hope you all enjoy and, um, it's kinda choppy, but I'm sure it's not that bad…lol. Oh, and there's some major projects coming up for school, so updates will be slow after this. Sorry.

Camlann: Yeah, Bors' kids are so cute! Anyway, I put Orianne and Dayn in here cuz I said I would…hope that's ok. The battle's coming up next! I'm still not sure how this is gonna end…

Irishfire: Lol…Edima…that's really sad. Too bad I didn't know all about that before! Oh well.

Chapter Eighteen: Preparations

Passebreul's hooves clopped smoothly along the soft, fresh mud. It had rained somewhat in the night, and a cold chill still clung in the air. When the grey horse was pulled to a stop, Tristan dismounted in silence. He held out his hand for Adima, and she took it as he helped her catch her footing. She was sore from the ride, but that mattered little to her. She smiled, reflecting upon her first ride, which had left her feeling much worse; she remembered that she had had pains following her fall for days. Funny, how fate can turn enemies into lovers with the blessing of time. Time- Adima wanted it to stop, she wanted more of it.

A light mist crawled along the forest floor, and seeped through onto the green and brown hillside. Adima could feel the soft silver mist on her skin; it was cool, and refreshing. Breul rocked his head, nervously, eyeing his surroundings like a deer surrounded by wolves. He was not familiar with this place, and the new smells frightened him, and somehow, he thought something was watching him from afar. He snorted, hoping his master would comfort him with a soft pat or soothing word, but Tristan had other things on his mind than the comfort of his horse.

"This is where I leave you," he whispered as Adima glanced towards the woods.

"Thank you for bringing me here," she answered, solemnly.

Tristan cleared his throat, unsure of what to say. "The Saxons…they, fight hard…" he began. "B-be careful, they…they use strength and might to bring down their enemies. They'll have swords and crossbows so…beware of their archers…"

"Tristan," Adima stopped him. "I am not afraid, and you should not worry for me," she gave him a small smile, hoping that is was enough to give a promise, but the knight was not completely assured.

"I saw how you fought them last time," he said, gruffly. "Give me reasons not to worry."

Adima let out a small laugh, her eyes finally coming to life. "I'll be more careful this time," she promised. "And I'll have Guinevere beside me. She is protective…as you know. She won't let any harm come to me, I promise."

Tristan smiled faintly, but his eyes were sad. "Somehow, I cannot stop fretting."

"Oh, Tristan," Adima kissed him and then stepped back with a fresh smile upon her lips. "I will be fine. And what of you? Stay out of trouble on your adventures."

"I will try," he jested.

"Somehow I cannot help but fret," Adima retorted. "Gawain'll look after you," she said with a giggle. "And keep Bors and his children out of trouble."

"I will."

"And tell Vanora I will miss her. She was kind to me, and I never got to say goodbye."

"I will."

"And…" Adima stopped, her eyes filling with tears. She blinked, looking away for a moment, and then turned back to Tristan. "I-I should go," she said, finally. "It is time."

She turned from him, but Tristan held out his hand. "Wait," he grabbed her gently by the arm, pulling her back towards him. He then took a ring off his finger and planted it in Adima's palm. She looked down at it in awe. It was a man's ring, big and wide, but she didn't mind. It was black; perhaps made some sort of dark jewel or stone Adima was unfamiliar with, and on top of the black was a border of silver lines, vines, Adima thought, twisting and entwining in one another to form a bonding circle.

"It's beautiful," she breathed softly.

"Keep it," said Tristan. Adima looked up at him as she slipped the ring onto her finger. It was large, but it fit her well enough. "I will come back for it," he added. "This ring… as long as you wear it, know that I will find you."

"I will wear it until your return," Adima promised him with another kiss. With that, she turned her head and walked swiftly into the woods, disappearing into the soft grey veil of mist.

With nothing more to be said or done, Tristan mounted, still staring off into the woods. He couldn't see the Woad any longer, but he knew she was there, going home to her people. He realized they were doing the same things that day: going home.

"Did ya get lost?" shouted Bors as Tristan appeared on Passebreul's back over a hilltop.

Tristan didn't answer. His eyes were on the sky as his hawk circled above him, screeching. He clucked at her and she flew down to him, perching on his outstretched arm as he rode up beside Bors and the caravan.

"Ahh, I knew Tristan wasn't leaving us," said Gawain. "Packed his things on the wagon this morning."

"I did," Tristan said, quietly. He was about to tell the others what Adima had asked him to say to them, but he couldn't speak. His throat seemed clenched by some fist and beside those two lone words, he could not speak.

Bors and Gawain must have noticed his lack, for they did not speak further to him, other than to offer him a place further up the caravan where they were headed, for Bors didn't want to ride near the back. At first Tristan kept Breul at a slow walk, but then felt too alone, a strange feeling for the scout, so he urged the horse into a trot and joined his friends.

All the knights were there, save Dag, who was long dead and buried, and Arthur, who Tristan assumed would soon join him.

"No one could stop Arthur?" he asked, breaking a long silence between him and the others.

Lance turned to him with a frown. "No. He wouldn't listen to any of us. Stupid man's gonna get himself killed."

Arthur watched the caravan as it slowly moved on through the hillside. It was like a tiny worm, inching its way meekly across the land. Red banners of the Romans flapped freely in the wind, and horses snorted and grunted as they trudged through the grass and mud.

He missed them already. He would never see any of them again, he thought, with a heavy heart. A pity; they were good men- good friends, the best he'd ever had, and he thought it an honor to have known every one of them. His heart was heavy with grief, and he wished he was with the knights at that moment, but he knew that his place was not with them, but on this field of battle, soon to be painted with blood.

Though this thought showered him with despair, it did not frighten him. Arthur was a man of justice, and he knew the cause he served was just. He was fighting for something the Saxons would never understand; he was fighting for freedom.

Adima dipped her hands in the cool clay. The blue dye clung to her fingers and as she lifted her fingers from the bowl, the droplets of woad that dripped form them fell like tears back into the bowl, creating a blue ripple of waves upon the surface.

Guinevere could feel her sister's cold fingers as they drew blue dashes and swirls across her back. Adima had already been painted, and now it was her sister's turned.

Talso tapped her finger lightly on Guinevere's brow and drew a swirl leading up to her forehead. Then, backing away, she examined her work. "I am done," she said in her native language. "You are ready for battle, Guinevere."

"You are," Adima agreed, setting the wooden bowl on the earth beside her. "You are finished."

Guinevere nodded in approval. "Thank you both," she said, softly. Talso had already been painted as well.

Orianne, another Woad approached the three friends and eyed them, satisfied. "You three look ready for battle," she complimented with a smile. Her friend, Dayn, came up beside her. He too was painted, but his love was not. "As do you," she said to him. "May the gods be good, and not send you back to me dead or broken."

"They will be kind," Guinevere assured her. "Today will be our day of victory, my friend; I can feel it in the air."

"I'm glad Tristan's gone," she heard her sister whisper.

"What?"

Adima was looking out over the hillside by the border of the forest. The mist had cleared and the sun was growing higher in the sapphire sky. She could see Arthur standing on a far off hilltop, a banner waving on its pole in his hand.

She turned to Guinevere. "At least…he's safe where he's going."

"I wish I could say the same for Arthur," said Guinevere with a sigh. "But it is good that the others will be safe."

Adima smiled at her sister, but her smile quickly faded when she turned her gaze back to Arthur on the hill. The knight was not alone. "Oh no," she whispered under her breath, eyes widening with horror. Guinevere heard her and took her sister's hand; she could see them all herself. Arthur's knights stood proudly on either side of him- all of his knights. "What is he doing?" Adima almost screamed, her heart pounding.

"They are fighting for what Arthur is fighting for," said Talso, coming up beside them. "They've realized what he had long before seen. They are fighting for our freedom."

"No," Adima heard herself say. "He must leave- they must leave," her eyes suddenly were wet with tears. "This cannot be happening."

"They are knights, little sister," Guinevere tried her best to reassure her sister. "They are strong and skilled. I have no doubts the gods will spare them."

Adima could tell she was lying, but she chose to not mention it.

Cerdic smiled. This is a man worth killing, he thought. And I'll bring an end to all his friends too.

He turned to his son, who had been ready for battle hours before. Cynric's scar looked raw and red on his face, and Cerdic smiled. "He's got a plan, this Roman," he said with a wry smile. "Send what's left of your infantry."

Cyrnric glared at his father, his eyes flaring with anger and hatred. "You want to kill my men?" he asked, heatedly.

"They're my men!" Cerdic shouted back.

Cynric stared at him hesitantly. He didn't want to, but he knew he had to obey his father. Turning, he nodded at his captain, and almost a hundred men started for the wall.

"Fall in formation!" his captain shouted.

Cynric frowned, picking up his heavy feet to join his men. "No," his father held out a hand and without even looking at him said, "you stay here with me."

"Knights," Arthur began, as he watched the Saxon move toward the wall. "The gift of freedom is yours by right." His men listened intently. "But the home we seek resides not in some distant land. It's in us, and in our actions on this day!" Tristan nodded slightly in agreement.

Arthur lifted his sword, Excalibur high above his head. "RAWW!" he bellowed.

"RAWWW!" echoed the knights, all but Tristan, as they stabbed their gleaming standards into the earth.

Tristan readied his bow and arrows and turned his gaze to a tree in the distance. Just above the tree, his hawk screeched, circling it twice and then flying off in the distance.

Tristan raised the bow to face the tree and lifted an arrow upon the bow rest. Silently, he plucked the string, and the arrow went sailing into the air, disappearing in the emerald depths of the trees' leaves. He hit his mark. A body fell from the treetop, and that seemed to be the signal for the knights to move.

I am already free, thought Tristan, as Passabreul glided downward. I am free.

Yay! Did I do good? Please let me know what you think! Thanks. Oh, and Dayn and Orianne belong to Camlann!