JuneBirdie: Thanks for reviewing! Yeah, Lancelot is a cutie, isn't he? I really never thought much about anybody but Tristan, but hanging out on Fallen Knights has kind of made me look at all the characters a little differently because everybody has their favorites. So, I thought I'd give it a go. Glad you're enjoying it.
Cardeia: Yeah, it was pushing it just a bit wasn't it? I thought about it and figured oh well, if they delete it, they delete it. I've got it on my hard drive anyway. ;) And it felt like Bors. I think I got closer to him than any of the others, but then Bors is just such a plain, uncomplicated character. It's kind of hard to misread him. He likes to drink and he likes to do the do. Here is what I have chosen for Tristan.Not sure if I got him, but please let me know what you think.
Disclaimer: The usual
Rating: M - no warnings necessary for this chapter.
Reading back over what I've written in my journal, I realize that it may seem that my life has something to recommend it. That maybe it's not a bad life and that going to bed with dashing and handsome knights doesn't sound like a bad way to make a living. It's not quite that simple.
I have written that many times the knights came to me when they were feeling their darkest. I took care of them, held them, saw them through the night. What I haven't written is that there was rarely anyone there to see me through my dark times.
Oh, I could always find someone to hold me, to lay with me, butI was always left even emptier than before, because it's the caring that you need, not the body. I could lay with Dagonet or Gawain and it would feel real enough at the time. But it wasn't. There was nothing to hold on to after their body was absent from mine.
Though one tries to harden oneself as best they can, there is a foolish little corner of the heart that holds onto hope. No matter how hard you try to drown that little ember, to smash it into the dust, it's there, ready to burst into the tiniest little flame. Even when everything you've experienced and everything you know tells you that you don't matter to anyone and you never really will, you think someday, you just might.
I have a theory, something I came up with during one of my dark spells. What if every man you sleep with takes a piece of your soul with him when he goes? Or maybe you just foolishly give pieces away, until you're left with nothing. That's a theory that I like; it makes sense to me. The only question that remains is – how do you get your soul back? Is it even possible?
These are the kinds of thoughts that sometimes run through my head and one could hardly blame me for not being in the mood to laugh and bat my eyes at times like these. Oh I could force myself to socialize and act happy if I needed to, but sometimes I didn't feel like putting forth the effort. I would stay in my room, or go to the tavern and simply observe. It was when I was feeling particularly alone and desperate that I would go and quietly watch people – at those times I needed a distraction to avoid falling into utter despair. Or maybe I hoped that someone would notice I was drowning and come save me.
One night in particular I was sitting at a table at the back of the tavern, simply watching the goings on. I stayed in a dark corner, not wanting to be noticed; my mood that night was quiet.
On a few occasions men had come up to me, to see if I would be interested in spending some time. I was not, and I begged off with a smile and recommended some other girls who might be willing. They had walked away disappointed, but they would not remain so for long. There were many women here tonight. I was beginning to feel that I would need to go to my room after all. I disliked these interruptions to my brooding.
I heaved a sigh and looked down at my hands, restlessly strumming the table. I wished I could pull myself out of this mood, but I would have to wait it out. I was usually a cheerful person despite everything, and I was sure I would return to my usual good humor shortly.
As I looked down at my hands, a tankard of wine appeared on the table. I looked up and was surprised to see Tristan. He sat down, taking a drink of his own wine as he did so.
"Thanks," I said, drinking deeply. Maybe having some wine would lighten my mood, though I knew from previous experience that it would probably only make things worse. But, the wine was here, why not drink?
"Not working tonight?" he asked me.
"I could be," I said, half-heartedly trying to be coquettish. One didn't really turn down a knight; it was bad form. If indeed, that was what he was here for. I could not fathom what else he would want with me, but he had never called on me before. Who knew? It was Tristan and he was beyond my reckoning.
He gave me a measured glance, having seen through my faint attempt at levity.
"No, I'm not working tonight," I said, not really feeling like playing the game anyway. Honesty was something very foreign to me now and it was refreshing to just say what was on my mind.
He nodded at me. "Didn't think so. I watched you send several men away with unhappy faces."
"I tried to be polite; I hope they weren't too unhappy." I said.
"Why?" he asked.
"Why what?" I returned.
Tristan looked at me quizzically. "Why be polite? I wouldn't be."
"You may have the luxury of honesty. I don't," I said simply. I took another drink from my tankard. More to myself than to him I sighed, "There isn't a single honest thing in my life."
We sat in companionable silence for a while, and Tristan signaled to Myrna to bring two more drinks. I shook my head, but he said, "It'll do you good."
"Fine," I said. I lifted my cup to my lips and finished the last little bit. I was feeling only a little light headed and one more cup wouldn't make much difference.
In short order, Myrna brought over our drinks.A very sweet girl, but Myrna was plain and simple. She would have made a wonderful wife to someone, a great mother, and maybe she still would one day. We spoke for a few moments about how busy it was tonight and how the other girl, Rowena, was not pulling her share.
She rarely did, if she could get away with it. Rowena much preferred to spend the time lounging in some man's lap than carrying drinks to and fro. I never let her get away with it, but Myrna was too sweet for her own good.
"Well, I'd better get moving; they're all thirsty tonight," she said. She cast a glance at Tristan, and then at me and giggled before she left.
Tristan looked over at me. "What was that nonsense?" He grumbled.
"I imagine she thinks you are taking me to your bed tonight," I replied.
We continued drinking in silence for some time and then I said, "Why haven't you?"
"Why haven't I what?" Tristan asked.
"Taken me to your bed," I replied. He looked at me, perhaps wondering why I should want to know. "I'm curious," I said. "There has to be some reason."
"Honestly?" he asked me.
With a wry smile, I said, "By all means."
"You're too young," he said.
I had been taking a drink but I nearly spit it back in my cup with the sudden bark of laughter that erupted. Men with granddaughters my age had been known to proposition me. But I was too young for Tristan. It would be rich if it wasn't so sad. Tristan was wrong. I should be young, but I wasn't.
"No, I'm not," I said. My voice sounded tired and bleak. "Not anymore." I didn't know what I was thinking. I never spoke like this to any of the men, or indeed anyone really. With the men, you didn't want to ruin the illusion that your only happiness was to serve them in any way they desired. With the other women, you didn't want to ruin the illusion that the first was true.
"How old are you now anyway?" Tristan asked.
"Fifteen," I replied. "Almost sixteen," I added.
Tristan looked down into his cup and swirled it in his hands. "You would have been three years old when I first came here," he said.
I held my cup in two hands and brought it slowly up to my mouth. "I'm not three anymore," I said, into my cup. Then I took my drink.
Tristan gave me a long, appraising look. "No, I guess not," he said.
"What does my age matter?" I asked curiously.
Tristan picked up his drink. "I don't like the crying," he said.
I studied him over the rim of my cup. As I said before, Tristan was beyond my reckoning. Whether he was telling the truth or amusing himself I had no idea. As I had never heard of anyone leaving him in tears, I decided he was playing with his fierce reputation.
He looked at me and I could see the amusement in his eyes. I'd been right. A joke. From the man who reportedly had no sense of humor.
"I never cry," I said. And it was very nearly true.
"Well, then," said Tristan. "Maybe sometime."
"Sure, sometime," I said.
We sat for a while longer, not talking much, just sitting and watching the people in the tavern. I had switched to water after my second cup of wine; I had no wish to awaken with a raging headache. It was a companionable silence, I felt no need to speak and neither did he.
"Well," Tristan stood up and stretched. "It's late. I'm off."
I felt a pang of regret. I'd enjoyed his company, though we'd spoken very little. I'd be on my way soon after he left. Otherwise I would end up fending off the advances of the men who hadn't found anyone to be with, men who would be offering more money than I'd want to turn down.
Tristan was standing there looking at me. "Do you want to come?" he asked.
Actually, I did.
We went to my room, and he took me in his arms. Like our evening, our coming together was companionable. Two people staving off loneliness, comforting each other. There was no subterfuge. I did not have to strip, perform, laugh at stupid jokes, or pretend amazement at his sexual prowess. It was honest, the most honest thing I'd had in ages. I fell asleep in his arms, smiling.
When I awoke the next morning, I was still smiling. He'd woken me twice during the night and I was remembering every kiss, every brush of his hand.
He got out of bed and I felt his absence immediately. I wondered when I could see him again. I'd always thought him distant and cold, but he wore a mask, as did many people, myself included. Last night those masks had fallen away for a time.
After he got dressed, he leaned down to kiss me. I sat up, my eyes drinking him in as he started for the door.
He pulled out his purse and began to pour coins into his hand, began to count them out.
"You know that's not necessary," I said.
He looked over at me, his eyes questioning. "I enjoyed you last night," he said. "I'm paying my bill."
I laughed lightly. "I don't want your money, Tristan. It wasn't about that." Surely he knew.
He looked into my eyes. "What else would it have been?"
I felt my heart, that foul traitorous thing, drop to my feet. "Just leave it on the table," I said.
I lay back down in the bed, turned away from him. "I'll be seeing you," I said, trying desperately to keep my voice as casual, as even as possible.
He didn't like crying.
I sensed that he stood there watching a few moments longer, and with the sound of the coins dropping on the table, what was left of my heart shattered into a million pieces.
"You've overpaid," I said, trying to keep the bitterness from my voice. "You didn't exactly get my best performance."
In answer, there was only silence. It wasn't until my door closed and his footsteps receded down the hall that I allowed myself to cry. It was the last I would cry for a very long time.