Disclaimer: See previous chapter; I don't like being redundant.
Notes: Thanks to all the kind reviewers with their nice words. Sorry to all those how want me to continue with the adult knights timeframe, but I want to finish the past so as to develop a good context for the present story. I hope nobody's too disappointed...
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At fifteen, Tristan was a younger shadow of what he is famously known to be now, along with the rest of the famed Sarmatian knights. It had been years since he had last seen the steppes of his homeland, for his method of avoiding the Roman call had been to take a stallion and a weapon, and to make his way in the world. He was a lone warrior in that he depended on no human either for survival or for company – Tristan had travelled Rome extensively under their noses, and then some of the Asia Minor by himself. He would eventually tell me tales of the people he had met – some were warriors like him, and others very different. From the fighters he befriended, he would draw some small skill from their short lessons together, creating the eclectic and elegant style of battle he now employs. Through them he would try many kinds of weapons, and learned to judge for himself which were the most effective.
But, whenever he did talk, Tristan always stressed the importance of the domestic people he had met in his travels – the lessons they had taught him about like. He was a quiet boy, but he listened to every word and in his silence, took it apart until he could use it himself somehow. Through these people he had happened upon his own philosophy – a philosophy of fighting. "Fighting," he would say, "is the truest form of life. As humans, it is the base of what we are, what we do. I am very skilled at fighting, and so I am very skilled at living, at being human. I enjoy battle and taking life, knowing that my will and skill to live is greater than my enemies."
And all this in a fifteen-year-old recluse. There was many a time when I felt that I had squabbled my own short years away in comparison to how he had spent his.
But I didn't know all this yet.
When he caught me in the drapes, I did not even know his name. It was a shock to be so near to him, so much that I froze and became thoughtless, unsure of what to think or do. I had never been so close to anybody outside of my family before. But Tristan being Tristan, he did not care, because there were far more important affairs to be concerned with.
When I began to struggle and pull at his arms, he hissed in my ear, "Be still! Or would you rather I left you to the Romans, whose lord you have so aptly speared?" Needless to say, I stop my movements. His voice was far more imposing than that of any Roman.
A few moments passed, and when he seemed certain that nobody had followed me, he pushed me far enough away to turn and face him. In the dark, I could not make out his features. His grip on my wrist tightened, and he spoke in a hushed, tight voice. "I do not wish to threaten you, but I will if you do not do as I say. Do you understand?"
I turned this over in my head, and then lashed out with my other hand – the one holding the box. "You're with them! Roman scum!"
His hand caught mine, and held it near the other. His eyes glittered darkly when he spoke. "I am no Roman."
And I believed him.
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From what could be seen, the palace quickly erupted into pandemonium – a cacophony of shouts and confusion. I couldn't understand why all this was happening at that specific moment, and I didn't know why I had been some kind of trigger for this Roman uprising in Macedonia. My father was away, gone to battle the Romans as it had been traditionally done for centuries past. It seemed as though Rome was trying to infiltrate the Macedonian royal house even before it perished on the battlefield.
With servants and houseguests running like rats all over the palace and being chased by guards with swirling scarlet capes, the boy and I went almost unnoticed across the expanse of the marble-floored main hall to the entrance. As we ran, my wrist still caught in his hand and my other arm still uselessly clutching my box of weapons, I could better make out his person, if from the back view. He wore haphazard sections of armour over some limbs, and none over others. Later, he would explain this, saying that wearing armour over these parts hindered his movements in battle. A long and curved scabbard hung loosely from a belt at his waist, the hilt of its housed sword visible, and another shorter broadsword hung at his other hip, slapping against his thigh as he ran. His mop of dark and matted hair was visibly dirty and unwashed – hair, I thought with displeasure, which had touched the skin of my neck when we had stood hidden in the drapery.
A Macedonian soldier caught sight of us running to the exit, and my heart leapt to my throat in – what? Hope? Worry? The soldier exclaimed at the boy, "Stop! Unhand the princess!" and I was suddenly unsure of which male I should hope lived.
The boy did not even falter in his stride as the soldier stepped in his path: he released my wrist only to casually pull the curved longsword from its sheath and hold it out horizontally from his body. I, myself, stopped running to watch the fight, and saw the boy bring the sabre to deeply scratch the marble as he ran at the guard – sending sparks into the man's face. His sword followed the path of the sparks, and as the guard stood blinded, cut a long slash diagonally up his front and neck, and then was resheathed in a single smooth movement.
My countryman fell to the ground, dead, and the boy took my wrist again to run outside.
There, a group of similarly rugged and rundown, quietly deadly warriors waited upon horses taller than I had ever seen. An older, bearded man dismounted from his own horse, laughing as he laid eyes upon the boy and I. He brought two riderless horses to the front of the pack, and then ruffled the boy's long hair as we came near.
"Well done, Tristan!" He commended, smiling kindly at the boy, and then turning his eyes to me. "Princess Isolde. I am sorry for this confusion and the lack of proper explanation, but there is no time."
The boy named Tristan swiftly mounted one of the horses, unconcerned with me and looking to his companions. I stood there, biting my lip uncertainly. Finally, I said, "What is this? Who are you people?"
The older man lightly pressed me towards one of the horses, urging me to mount. As I did, he only said, "We are a band of mercenaries, commissioned to take you out of Macedonia to safety in Sparta. Your house has been overtaken by Romans and by traitors."
While he mounted his own horse, I pressed on, "And what of my family then? My mother? My uncle?"
This time, Tristan answered. "They are not involved in our contract." He shrugged carelessly, and then whistled to his horse. He trotted out of the group and then broke into a gallop, and the rest followed suit. I was to understand that I was leaving my home –alone- with a group of mercenaries. My horse started after them of its own volition, and we were soon riding far away from the confusion of the palace, from which people were then pouring out of, chased by Romans.
I thought of the man, Darius, who knew my face and knew the design of the tattoo on my forearm. The Romans had committed diplomatic suicide in taking over my household before any battle took place. I began to wonder if this Darius had actually been ordered to do this by Rome, or if he was serving his own interests. Either way, my education in politics told me that I was a witness of his political heresy, and I knew he would hunt me to maintain my silence.
I was right. Darius has chased after me these fifteen years since I last stepped foot in Macedonia. Those were my first few moments as a fugitive.
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After a time when we were far out into the anonymity of the wilderness, this strange and foreign group made sign to each other. The horses stopped, and I understood that we were to make camp amongst the characteristically low and gnarled underbrush of the land, the faded leaves nondescript and inelegant against the dusty Mediterranean hills. We slid from our horses – I perhaps less smoothly than those seasoned fighters – and the older bearded man of before gently took my arm and led me to sit on a large rock while the others concerned themselves with the camp.
"My name is Elan," he said simply, "and I mean to explain what I can to you now that we have time."
There was a kindness, an honesty that lay unguarded in his eyes, as if he were offering me gold and jewels with no thought of their value, and I was unsettled. In the palace, there was always a sense of secrets, for what you knew could either be your power or your undoing. There was a hierarchy based upon manipulation and black hearts, and this man's honesty with me – even as a mercenary – was entirely foreign.
He seemed to sense this, and so began to tell me what he could without any words on my behalf.
"We were all separated commissioned to take the Macedonian princess away from the palace, because spies and scouts had heard solid reports of Roman plans to overthrow the house of Perseus even before the king was defeated in battle." He noted my confused look, and explained. "Macedonia and Greece, you see, are like jewels to the Empire – they represent the ancient ways, ancient knowledge. But their people would never share their ancient customs and education with the Empire while the ancient Antigonid Dynasty was still in existence, and so Rome has planned to take the royal house first, and then take the country. Your father…Perseus," he looked at me sharply, "is very much a fallen king already, and of little worth. But a case was made of you and of your mother, who are still deeply loved by Greeks and Macedonians alike, and so taking you prisoner was probably the reason for what has occurred today."
I became temporarily indignant. "But my father will destroy the Romans in battle when he hears of this –"
" – No. No, he won't." Tristan looked up from his place building a fire, and continued talking in the general direction of the firewood. "Perseus will lose in battle because he is a fool. The Romans will take him as a prisoner and make a mockery of him." He looked back at us once again, his eyes gleaming intelligently behind the lank strands of dark hair.
There was a palpable tension in the air, and I suddenly disliked this open need for honesty that these mercenaries tossed around. The world was much hazier – softer – when one was surrounded by liars. Elan only added to it with his parting words before he rejoined his companions: "We will take you to Sparta because you will be safe there and because you know the area well enough. The last free heir of the Antigonid Dynasty. What you do with your life after that point will not be of our concern."
After those words I became silent, retreating into the fortress of my thoughts. I was silent as I watched them make camp, unloading bedding and canteens and food from their packs. I was silent as Tristan built the fire, and then took a battered flintbox from his pack to light the first spark. Silent as they began to cook a meal over the flame, and silent still when Tristan walked over to me, handing me a crudely hewn bowl of broth and a cloak.
As I wrapped myself into the heavy wool, he sat down heavily next to me. He breathed a sigh and then tore into his own food, ripping large chunks off of his bread and wolfishly devouring his own broth. He spared only a single glance at me, and then offered me the last piece of his bread.
I took it from him slowly, gratefully, just as I was taught to do politely in the palace. He took little to no notice of my genteel manners, and I consciously decided to abandon them in order to become better suited to my company. As I ate, I tossed him an evident look of question.
He caught it, and shrugged, saying, "I was named to be your specific guardian in this commission, as I am the closest to you in age." He closed his eyes.
I regarded him, remembering in vivid detail how he has so easily and quickly dispatched the challenging soldier back in the palace's main hall. I softly inquired, "And how old are you, Tristan?"
His eyes remained shut as he murmured, "Fifteen summers." He cracked open one eye, and then added, as an afterthought, "You are thirteen."
After enduring a silence of about five seconds, he closed his eyes again and settled into himself. I was burning with curiosity about such a savagely deadly boy, but contented myself with asking, "You are a mercenary?"
He nodded, eyes closed.
"Do you like what you do?"
He didn't answer, but he smiled.
"You enjoy killing?"
The smile grew, and he answered heavily, finally, "We all have our talents."
I pondered this, and then asked, "And why are you doing this mission?"
"Gold." He apparently had few scruples with admitting that there was nothing but material interests involved in saving me from chasing Romans.
"If you want gold, then why not serve the Romans?"
He had no answer to this, only a tense silence, before he opened his eyes and turned to me. He looked weary and almost old when he did, eyes with no innocence left in them. They were clear but guarded as he said, "If you are no longer hungry, you should take your rest. We will ride hard tomorrow." Then he stood, and made his way into the dark of the trees. I was not sorry to see him go, but I did as he told me.
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Well?
