Disclaimer: I own nobody by the characterizations of Bedivere, Lamorak, Percival, and Kay (now Cai). I would like to obtain the rights to the knights of 'King Arthur', but sadly that would be near impossible.

Rating: PG (this chapter's fine)
Summary: When searching Sarmatians, what is noted above all is their history of warrior women. I am surprised, and slightly appalled, that they made no mention of this in the movie 'King Arthur', so I did. Happy day! (More noting) This chapter elaborates on Tristan and Bedivere's relationship, it's occurs before 'The Girl Who Became a Hero', but I know there's going to have to be something that happens that pulls Trist and Bedivere apart since she chose to save Arthur and Lancelot over him. Who knows, but I've already devised that Tristan probably figured out on his own that Bedivere is a girl—he takes notice to details. ENJOY!

Tristan

"Get up, boy."

"My heart's not in it this day, Tristan." I replied tiredly, hoping that perhaps, Tristan would let me slack in my duties.

A hand slapped my back and went it rose, I felt Tristan lift me clear off the cot and shove me ahead. "Get the things."

I watched as Tristan stalked ahead while I stayed behind to grab our practice weaponry. That is what a page boy did, I had come to learn, they did all the work while the older sparring partners dilly dallied. Growling, I rolled my eyes and kept my tongue, taking the pack that was still far too heavy for me. "One of these days it'll feel like nothing, lad," Lancelot had assured me, "if you live that long."

Being trained by Tristan, I had learned to be nearly completely independent, and although we had been sharing a tent for almost a year, we had become like brothers. We lived together, we laughed together, and sometimes we fought together—and I can tell you now, our fights were never civil.

Now I named a time to you when Tristan beat on me, only a pounding to the chest, but get Tristan in a state when he was drunk and have you no way to defend yourself, watch out. Although I was able to duck soon enough, bless my bonnie head, some were not.

More times than spoken of Tristan had swung at me and gotten either Percival or Galahad in his wrath. Only once was I able to hit Tristan, and that was when he was very drunk, but even then taking the rascal down was a bit of a challenge.

"Bedivere!" Gawain greeted me first, Galahad lagging sleepily behind him. "What brings you out so early this fine day?"

"The foul breath of Tristan." I retorted with a grin, but felt the sting of a hand across the back of my head.

My humor had been short lived due to Galahad and Gawain laughing at my reprimand. "Have you any rations yet?"

"No." Tristan answered for us. "And yourselves?"

"Gawain says a boy must feel the strain of muscles when one has no morning sustenance." Galahad replied solemnly.

I glared at Gawain, he was a bit ripe for a man—not skin and bones at all. Did he even have the least bit of knowledge what it was like to go hungry? "Good," Tristan slapped my shoulder, "more for us then, lad."

After a quick farewell, Tristan directed me toward the rations tent as we walked ahead. "Tristan?"

"Yes?"

"Would you do that to me?" I asked curiously. "Deliberately?"

"I'm aware that you are very familiar with the pain of surviving through hunger already," Tristan replied in a comforting tone, "when you first came, that shift you wear hung to your ankles."

I bit my lip. "It was awful…winter was the worst…"

"I know."

Tristan understood—he always understood. You never had to tell him anything, because he always already knew. Tristan had always been like that, with his scout's eye and instinct. He also had a sense of humor in most situations.

"You've grown into that tunic of yours quite well, Bedivere."

When we reached the rations tent, Lancelot was there with Arthur. "Trist," Lancelot turned, his smile as bright as the sun, "morning, Bed."

Tristan nodded as I laughed and gave my loud hello. "Lancelot, you old dog!"

Arthur lifted his brows a bit at my comfort with the older lads. "Oy, lad, here's a seat for you!" Bors announced, making his appearance with Dagonet, and patted a seat on the bench beside him.

I went to sit down when Tristan grabbed me by my elbow, that's when I noticed that there was a nettle on the seat. The men laughed at me, I blushed a bit, but it was all part of this game men had. I was still learning.

Finally we were all having breakfast, the young men talking as the mere boy sat in silence and ate. As usual, my seat was beside Tristan, on the end so I could hear only snippets of what they said between chewing and licking my fingers. Being sloppy and piggish was vulgar, but it made me all the more a boy.

"What about your lad there, Trist?" Lancelot asked. "Maybe he'd like a journey up to Hadrian's Wall."

I lifted my head a little and saw the men, except for Tristan, turn to me. "He's only a boy," Arthur insisted, "would you really want to drag him to Hadrian's Wall?"

Tristan never stopped eating, never gave me a glance. "Would you like to go, Bedivere?"

I certainly didn't want to be left behind to be preyed upon by Cai. "I wouldn't mind."

"Give us a straight answer." Bors insisted.

"Don't pressure him." Dagonet quieted the boar. "Surely you don't want to go, Bedivere."

"Of course he does." Lancelot commented and flashed me a grin. "Perhaps we'll find him a fair virgin."

My stomach went cold and I turned to Tristan. "I'm finished."

He glanced at my plate. "No your not."

My discomfort made me squirm and then Tristan raised his voice. "I've no time to go to Hadrian's Wall this night," and then he turned to me, "and should I see you sneaking out, I'll give you a beating with the flat of my sword, boy."

It was embarrassing, but he made no idle threats. The others had no trouble beating their sparring partners, or those boys who had sparring partners. This year the numbers for recruits had been lower than more. Next year would be more successful, they claimed. "Come now, Trist!" Lancelot sighed.

Arthur became curious, looking to me as if I may have the answer. "What have you to do?"

"Night practice." Tristan slapped my shoulder, nearly making me choke. "The lad's well ahead of the other boys his age—most are older than he."

When Tristan led me away from the other men, both of us side by side, I struggled to keep up with him as usual. For a time the two of us were silent as he led the way to practice—he liked practicing alone. If I would ask him to wait up, Tristan would only go faster to teach me a lesson.

Tristan crested the mound and disappeared, so I hiked up to come after him. In moments, I was on the ground, swords and arrows clattering all over the place. At first I expected Tristan to kick at me or shout at me like other boy's trainers did, but he only grabbed me by my arm, lifted me up, and dusted me off. No Saxon would do that for you.

"Are you all right, Bedivere?"

It was Tristan's way of showing he cared—using my name instead of 'lad' or 'boy'. "Yeah, I'm all right."

"Good," Tristan sighed, helping me gather the things, "you must be careful, you wouldn't want to die with your own sword through your belly, now would you?"

"No sir."

Any other trainer could turn temper without a moment's notice, so I kept wary as we lifted the things, Tristan taking half this time. I'd seen Lancelot kick a boy once when he'd gotten in the ebony haired young man's way and even Lamorak terrorized his own poor brother. "Tristan?"

I knew he heard me, but he didn't answer. "Tristan, why did you stop me from sitting on that nettle when you could have laughed at me like the others?"

"Look at me, Bedivere."

Stopping in my tracks, I gave Tristan a cautious eye. "I wouldn't harm you lest you give me cause," Tristan replied, speaking the most for all the time I'd known him, "and you're a good boy, a little bold and pigheaded—maybe a bit filled with air—but I'd not give you pain unless I'd see it fit."

I raised my brow at him. "But you swing at me when you're drunk."

"That's because you should know better, boy." Tristan retorted. "Someday you'll forget to duck and I'll smack that silly grin right off your face—then what lips do you have to talk back to me with?"

"So you like me then?"

Tristan laughed at me and knuckled me in the head as he went on down the mound. "Don't let it go to your head, lad."

"Someday, Tristan," I assured him, following, "there will be a time for me to repay you all you've given me—and I will."

"Don't get too far ahead, little brother," Tristan teased, "who's to say you'll live that long?"

"I survived a winter my own twin didn't—and this past one."

"The weather is nothing compared to Saxons, Woads, and beasts." Tristan replied. "You must always be on your feet, boy, always keep your eyes open."

"Someday we'll be knights, you and I." I replied confidently. "And soon enough, you'll be able to go home, Trist."

At that comment Tristan seemed a little aloof. Fourteen more years, I assured myself. Tristan only had eleven, the lucky dog. "I would have liked to ride home with you," I went on, "but Galahad and Percival will be there for me to cross the channel with and get off this damned isle. Then, someday, perhaps in the future, we'll see each other again."

Tristan finally stopped, and hesitated, then looked at me as he raised his curved scimitar. "I couldn't bear leaving another brother behind."