Dazzler420, FlamezBlaze1 and Miggyrow: Thanks for reviewing! I try to keep the knights in character -I hate being taken out of a story when a character says or does something that they clearly wouldn't do. I sort of had a hard time with Tristan rescuing Damara and I try to explain his motivation in this chapter. Hopefully it works. And Miggyrow - glad you like Damara. I'm trying to avoid the Mary Sue syndrome. Or at least to avoid hitting too many "Mary Sue-isms" anyway. Either I'll succeed or I won't. :)

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters from the movie King Arthur, nor do I or would I attempt to profit from writing about them. Also, I am broke and in debt, so if you want to sue me, good luck with that.

Rating: M for mature subject matter.

Tristan was amused by Damara's perception of him. He didn't consider himself a kind man, in fact he knew he was capable of great cruelty.

He'd left the fireside when Lancelot had started flirting with her. Lancelot, and his constant chasing of women – even pregnant ones it appeared. From the place he'd settled Tristan had seen her leave the knights and watched her petting his horse. He was bemused by the fact that the cantankerous nag allowed that. A knight's horse was fiercely loyal to his master and was trained to attack the enemy. For that reason, strangers were not always safe around a Sarmatian-trained horse and that held true particularly for Tristan's horse.

When the healer left the horse, she turned in a direction that would have led her away from her campsite. He got up to intercept her and put her on the right path. He supposed he was responsible for getting her back to her campsite safely as he was the one who'd been ordered to bring her in the first place.

He backed away when he saw the Roman approach the girl for what he assumed was a rendezvous. He was surprised by the twinge of regret that he felt. While he mulled over his odd reaction it became apparent to him that this meeting was not one of mutual desire. He looked away – this simply wasn't his business. What some Roman soldier chose to do to a peasant girl was not his concern. He'd seen rape many times and while neither he nor the other knights partook, it was a part of war. It was conquest – taking the woman of your enemy, showing your power. Tristan just didn't see what challenge or honor there was in the defeat of a woman.

He watched as the soldier pushed the girl to the ground. She was helpless in the face of the man's greater size, and could never prevail against him. Tristan hated Romans. They took everything they wanted. Tristan reflected that there could be some satisfaction to be had in ruining the soldier's evening. Surely that was an adequate reason to intervene. When the girl put her knife to the man's throat, Tristan knew that she would either die or be badly injured without his aid, and he made his way towards them. Before he quite reached them, the soldier struck her and Tristan was surprised by the anger that shot through him. Killing the man would have been satisfying, but watching him fume in helpless rage took a close second place.

He had carried the girl to her campsite simply because it was quicker than waiting for her to walk there on her own. But when she had curled into him and wound her arm around his neck he melted just a bit, and found himself enjoying the closeness, the soft, sweet scent of her. He was used to women drawing away from him – he was more wild, more uncivilized than the other knights. His demeanor did not invite approach. The women he consorted with were usually prostitutes looking for a few coins, and he was rarely their first choice as a companion. The other knights usually liked at least the pretense of conversation and drinks before getting down to business. On occasion some of the more adventurous "ladies" visiting the keep would come to him looking for something crude and demeaning. He'd had more than a few rough shags up against an alley wall with the wife or mistress of some Centurion or another. Those experiences were about mutual use, and were every bit as cold as his financial arrangements with the prostitutes. Women did not regard him warmly, or smile at him or touch him. This was mostly by his own preference, but when he set Damara down, it was with some reluctance.

While the healer slept, Tristan busied himself with sharpening his knife and listening to the darkness. He had never required much sleep, and when he did he slept very lightly. He looked at the girl sleeping soundly in her blankets. She was a beauty, and he reflected that the Roman had been right. She had an undeniable air of serenity and innocence about her, despite what she'd apparently been through. He understood why the soldier was driven to possess her –there was a part of her that he could not have.

Throughout his years at war, Tristan had seen the best and worst in men. Some were not satisfied until they took something and ground it to dust. Women, horses – he'd seen both ruined by a man's need to completely dominate. Tristan could pick out such a man at a hundred paces. He knew the Roman, or at least men just like him.

A bruise was beginning to darken the side of her face where the soldier had hit her. Tristan's jaw clenched, and he regretted not returning the favor when he'd had the chance. He leaned back and watched her until he drifted off into a light sleep.

Damara awoke abruptly from a bad dream. Her breathing was rapid and it took her a few moments to get her bearings. She looked across what remained of the fire and saw the sleeping knight lying there. His blanket lay next to him; having fallen away while he slept. With a groan, she got to her feet. Quietly she went to him and covered him with the blanket. As she tucked it in around his shoulders, she took the opportunity to study his face. He was a very handsome man, though he was different from any other man she knew. Even in sleep his face did not relax - he looked as hard and stern as he did when awake. She looked at his tattoos and wondered what their meaning was. Maybe she would ask him the next day. She reached up to touch one of his braids and then stopped herself. What if he awoke?

She went to tend to the fire, which was dying down. She put some more wood on it, and moved closer to get warm. Once her front side was sufficiently warm, she turned around to heat her freezing and aching back. She saw her medicine bag lying there and reached over to get her salve, hoping that would help ease her pain. She lifted her shirt, and the fire felt good against her bare skin. Gingerly, she worked the salve into the bruised area where Aeneas' kick had landed. She sat there for a few more moments, enjoying the heat, and then returned to her blankets to finish the rest of the night.

Tristan had awoken as soon as the girl had gotten up. Even sleeping, he was always aware of movement around him. It was cold and he thought to wrap himself back up in the blanket, but he didn't wish her to know he was awake. He kept his eyes slit to observe the girl and when she approached him, his senses grew taut. He could not guess at her purpose – and it was his habit to be ready for anything. She replaced his blanket around his shoulders and then sat there studying him. He was aware of his heart pounding harder. He considered opening his eyes, letting her know he was aware of her, but he wanted to know what her purpose was. Was she going to try to steal from him? He discounted nothing. He saw her hand go up to touch his hair, and then draw back.

He relaxed as she left him and tended to the fire. She'd merely been curious about him - he was used to strange looks from people. He observed her as she absorbed the warmth of the fire, and then as she tended to the bruise on her back. When she lifted her shirt, he saw that she had been whipped - her back was crossed with scars. Until she settled back down to go to sleep, he stayed alert, silently and secretly observing. He listened to the even sound of her breathing and soon his thoughts faded away as he drifted back into sleep.

Tristan awoke early the next morning – he had to leave much earlier than the others. The girl needed rest, but he did not want her to oversleep and get left behind. He placed his hand on her shoulder, and she awoke with a start. Her eyes were wide, but then she relaxed when she saw it was Tristan.

"What is it?" she mumbled sleepily.

"I have to go," he said. "Everyone will be getting ready to leave soon, so you should wake up."

She nodded and stretched. In mid-stretch, she suddenly stopped and a soft groan of pain escaped her.

"What is it?" Tristan asked.

"It's just my back", she replied, moving gingerly. "I'm a little stiff from laying on the hard ground." As she spoke, she realized her face hurt, and she carefully opened and shut her jaw. "Ow," she said. "How bad does it look?"

"I've seen worse," Tristan said. "You should ride in the cart. We still have far to go and you're too far along to walk the whole way."

Damara shook her head. "I still have a month left to go and there are others who are having more difficulty. They should ride."

Tristan shrugged. "Whatever you think," he said. He picked up his belongings and fighting the urge to turn for a last look at her, walked away.

Jols was up and had his horse saddled for him. He nodded his thanks to the squire and mounted his horse. It was still dark and quiet when he rode away.

TBC