Disclaimer: Not making any money from this, entertainment purposes only.
Rating: M
WARNING: This chapter deals with mature subject matter of a sexual nature.If you think you may be offended by such, please read no further.
As soon as Tristan stepped outside, Sorcha launched herself at him. At first, he went with it, eager to do anything to rid himself of the thought of Damara and Lancelot together. He tried to pretend the prostitute was Damara, but reality kept intruding. Sorcha's heavy perfume; groping hands and her crude way of telling him all the things she was going to do repulsed him. She pulled at his clothing as she backed him into the alleyway.
It became obvious to him that things weren't going to work out tonight – the body part necessary for that just was not interested. Try as Sorcha might to stroke and caress a reaction out of him, he remained soft. He began gently trying to fend her off, but she only re-doubled her efforts.
Finally, he lost his patience with her and pushed her roughly away from him. "Enough!" he snarled.
Stung by his lack of reaction to her charms and further affronted by his rejection, Sorcha lashed out. "Unmanned by drink tonight are you?" she sneered.
"Not by drink," said Tristan coldly. "By the companionship."
Sorcha's face turned white. "You think she's better than I am, do you? I saw you watching her all night - you're pathetic; sitting there cow-eyed over someone who doesn't want anything to do with you. Before the night's over she'll be on her back, spreading her legs for Lancelot like any other whore…"
Her voice was cut off as he shoved her up against the side of the building. "Not another word," he said softly, eyes glittering with anger.
Sorcha was not easily intimidated. Hers had been a rough life, full of rough men and Tristan did not frighten her. Her eyes, full of contempt, met the scout's. What was he going to do – hit her? He'd hardly be the first.
Just then Lancelot and Damara walked by, Lancelot's arm tightly wrapped around the healer's shoulders as she leaned into him.
Tristan's mouth came down on Sorcha's in mock hunger and he roughly pushed up against her. When he heard the couple's footsteps recede he pulled away from the prostitute, who laughed softly.
"You fool," she said. "She's got a bastard and no husband. She was throwing herself at every knight in the place and in a few minutes, Lancelot's going to have her ankles up around her ears. She's no different than I am…"
"Leave me be," said Tristan wearily. It galled him that this is what he had come to, held up for ridicule by a whore. Reaching into his jacket, he felt for a few coins and pressed them into Sorcha's hand. "For your trouble," he said as he walked away.
After a few steps he called back to Sorcha. "And you're wrong," he said. "She's worth a hundred of you."
Full of despair and unbearable loneliness, Tristan reeled away into the darkness. With no where else to go that he particularly wanted to be, he wandered over to the graveyard and looked up some old friends. Long gone, some of them – Dagonet of course only gone a few months. He wondered where they would have buried him had he died – what patch of ground would have been his final resting-place?
Tristan reflected on the wasted months since Badon Hill, and the depression that had haunted him since, with the exception of that one serene afternoon.
What would Dagonet have done if he'd been the one granted a second chance? Raised that boy Lucan as his son, maybe. Found a good woman and had a family of his own. He would have loved and laughed and enjoyed his friends, counted his blessings. He would not, Tristan was fairly certain, have wasted it being alone and angry – desperately trying to hate a woman whose only offense had been to save his life.
Tristan had always taken joy in breaking things. Well, people, to be more precise. As a slave of Rome, for that's how he saw himself, it was his only power, and the only thing he had that no one could take from him. His brother knights? Taken from him one by one. Not being able to trust in the constancy of human companionship, he trusted in the constancy of his sword. The constancy of cruelty because that was what life was.
His coldness and lack of mercy were what made him so good at the art of warfare. And in his hurt and anger, he'd gone to what he knew best. But this time instead of an enemy in battle Damara was the thing he'd taken joy in trying to break. And in doing so he'd lost his only hope of happiness.
In despair Tristan sat down by Dagonet's grave and buried his head in his hands.
ooooo
Lancelot walked Damara up to her room. The baby was with Vanora's family, and well taken care of for the evening, so he had decided to put her in her old room for the night. He felt for Damara. She'd had quite a bit to drink and he knew she was going to be feeling poorly in the morning.
His intent was to put her to bed and walk away, but she was making that very difficult. She had asked him to hold her, which he did - he understood that she needed the comfort. He wrapped his arms around her and held her close to him, and she seemed content. His difficulties began when she buried her head in his neck and he felt the tickle of her breath against his throat.
After a time, Damara slowly pressed her lips against his throat and began to lightly nuzzle him. Lancelot knew he should pull away from her but against his better judgement he stayed, sighing with pleasure at the sensation. Encouraged, Damara pulled away from him a little and tentatively pressed her lips against his.
Still, Lancelot held back, but was undone when Damara's tongue slipped between his lips. He groaned and pulled her against him, hands sliding down her back and over her buttocks.
He kissed her deeply, and her arms wound around his neck, pulling him closely to her. By mutual assent, they fell back onto the bed and continued their exploration of each other. His bodyresponded to her closeness and he began to work on the laces at the back of her dress, pulling frantically as he tried to loosen them.
A voice in his head told him to stop, that he was wrong to take advantage of her in her current state but at his body's insistence he kept going. Her sweetness and innocent passion were irresistible. To assuage his conscience he asked her a question that he already knew the answer to.
"Are you sure about this?" he breathed into her ear.
"Mmm-hmm," she murmured against his lips before once again sliding her tongue into his mouth. "Oh yes, Tristan."
Lancelot felt as if a cold bucket of water had been thrown over him. He disentangled himself and sat up, frustrated, but wryly amused. He knew he'd been wrong to be in this room, on this bed, with Damara. And here was his punishment.
He stood up, sighed heavily and began to straighten out his clothing. "Where are you going?" Damara cried.
"You have no idea how much I want to stay here and do this with you, but Tristan is like a brother to me. And I like you too much to change things between us," he said.
"But…" Damara started to speak, only to be interrupted by Lancelot.
"And don't accuse me of not wanting you," he said sternly. "I think you felt for yourself how very much I do."
Damara rolled over on her side and curled into a ball. She looked morose, and Lancelot felt a tug at his heart. He sat down next to her and stroked her hair. "I do want you, very much. But I don't want to take the chance that you'll hate me tomorrow, and I don't want to hurt Tristan."
Tears rolled down Damara's face. "Tristan doesn't care." She dashed her hand over her eyes.
"Look at me," Lancelot said. "Damara."
Damara rolled over on her back and looked up at Lancelot, who wiped her tears away.
"He does - deeply. I know him well and I know that if he could have left with you instead of Sorcha, he would have done it. Like you, he strives to show he doesn't care."
Lancelot sighed. "Oh, what a mess you two are." He bent over and kissed Damara on the forehead. "Go to sleep now. We'll talk in the morning."
As he pulled the covers up to her chin he noticed how bleary-eyed she was. He smiled and said, "Well, maybe we'll talk in the afternoon instead." Then he got up from the bed and left the room.
ooooo
It was growing late and cold and Tristan was weary. He didn't feel like going to his lonely room and take the chance of hearing Damara and Lancelot down the hall. He would go mad. So, he got unsteadily to his feet and made his way back towards the tavern.
The tavern was a bit quieter and emptier than when he'd left. Gawain and Galahad sat at a table, talking and drinking, each with a woman on his lap. Declining their invitation to join them, Tristan went to the bar and planted himself.
Vanora walked up with a pitcher of wine and set it down in front of him. He nodded in thanks, but she ignored him. She hadn't really spoken to him since the day he'd bitten her head off over Damara.
He sat, nursing his drink until Lancelot came in and sat down beside him. "Tristan," he said by way of greeting.
Tristan looked over, surprised. What was Lancelot doing here, when he should be in Damara's arms? Vanora brought Lancelot a drink and they sat in silence.
"Well?" asked Tristan.
"Well, what?" Lancelot asked, studying the inside of his tankard.
Tristan ground his teeth. "Where's Damara?" he asked. He knew from long experience that he was going to have to drag every single detail out of the dark knight. He loved him like a brother but the man could be impossible.
"I imagine she's in her room, sleeping off all that wine she consumed," Lancelot said casually.
Tristan buried his face in his hands and uttered a frustrated groan. "Why do you do this? Why can you not just tell me what I want to know?"
Lancelot took a drink. "Am I a mind reader? How should I know what questions you have?" He chuckled, for he was enjoying the scout's frustration. "Very well, I'll tell you."
He leaned back in his chair and slowly took another drink. After he swallowed, he sighed in satisfaction, while Tristan stewed beside him."
Finally Lancelot spoke. "She was exquisite," he said. "Passionate, eager – everything you'd want in a lover."
Tristan clenched his jaw. It was as he had feared. He idly envisioned knocking Lancelot out of his chair and pummeling him into oblivion. But the damnable thing was that it was Tristan's own actions that had sent Damara to him in the first place.
"And then," Lancelot continued after watching the interesting expressions on Tristan's face, "she called me by your name. It had a rather unfortunate effect on things I'm afraid," he added.
Tristan was silent for a moment, contemplating what Lancelot had just said. He looked sharply at the other knight. So, had they or hadn't they?
Lancelot sighed heavily, suddenly serious, tired of playing his game. "I swore I wasn't going to touch her, but she was just so damned sweet, and she wanted to be held. So I held her. Then when she called me by your name it was suddenly like you were there in the room with us, and I couldn't go through with it. So I left her and here I am." He turned to survey the room, to see what pickings were left at the end of the evening.
Tristan looked at Lancelot, one more question in his eyes.
"That night I stayed at her house, I only slept there. I swear to you. It was late and so I stayed, but it was completely innocent," Lancelot said.
"And the kiss that I saw?" Tristan asked, wondering how Lancelot would explain that away.
"A kiss between friends, that is all," said Lancelot, unknowingly echoing what Damara had told Tristan earlier. "I won't lie to you; she has come to mean a great deal to me. But it is her friendship and her company that I value and I would not want to risk that. Nor would I want to risk my friendship with you," Lancelot said in all seriousness.
Tristan was touched, though he would never admit to it.
Lancelot continued. "Let me just say this - Damara is in love with you. I don't know what you did, but what ever it was hurt and angered her deeply. How you're going to fix that I don't know, that is up to you."
"She told you she loved me?" Tristan asked.
Lancelot chuckled. "Actually, no. She kept saying how much she hated you." When Tristan's face fell, Lancelot added, "She was only trying to convince herself of that, but I saw the truth of it. I saw her face when you left with Sorcha - she was devastated."
Lancelot took another drink and then as an aside said, "She would kill me if she knew I told you, so don't say a word about that."
"Not a word," Tristan echoed.
Lancelot caught the eye of the girl sitting on Galahad's lap. He beckoned to her, and she got up and walked over to him, winding her arms around his neck. Galahad shot an annoyed look at Lancelot, but then shrugged. He and Gawain would simply share.
"I put Damara in her old room, just in case you're wondering. And remember this. if you mess this up with her I may change my mind and decide to finish what I started. So think about that before you go making her angry again," Lancelot said.
He got up and wrapped his arm around the girl's waist. Seeing that Vanora was standing nearby, his eyes lit up mischievously. As he and the girl started to walk away, Lancelot looked at Tristan and said, "Now I know how Bors feels every time Vanora screams out my name." He laughed and easily ducked the drinking cup that Vanora sent hurtling towards his head.
After they had left, Tristan took his last swig of wine and got up to leave. Vanora walked past and as she did so she said sternly, "As Lancelot said, she's very drunk, just so you know. You mind yourself, for you'll answer to me if you hurt her." Then she turned around and said, "No – you'll answer to Bors."
Tristan smiled at Vanora, which surprised her, as it was something she had rarely seen. He leaned forward and said in a conspiratorial tone, "Actually, I'm more frightened of you than Bors."
Vanora laughed, and things were right between them again. "I don't know what you did to upset her. But I thinkshe wants to forgive you – you just have to ask her to."
Tristan nodded. "I intend to." He turned away and then said, "Thanks, Vanora."
Driven by liquid courage, Tristan mounted the stairs and down the hall to Damara's room. He knocked, but heard nothing. He then opened the door slightly and looked in. "Damara?"
"Hmmm?" came a noise from inside the room.
Taking a deep breath, he slowly entered the room. It was dim, with only one lantern burning. Damara was flat out on the bed, with one bare foot on the floor. "Room's spinning…" she said.
Vanora had been right, thought Tristan. She was drunk indeed, on the verge of passing out. Well, at least if things went horribly wrong she'd probably never remember.
"Damara?"
"Mmmmm?"
"Are you alright?" he asked.
"Tristan?" she mumbled. She sat up and slurred, "What are you doing here?" Awkwardly, she pushed herself up from the bed and stood there, swaying slightly as she regarded him.
"I wanted to talk to you, but maybe we should do that later," Tristan said. The problem was, he wasn't sure he'd have the courage later.
"Why aren't you with Sorcha?" Damara wondered.
"She wasn't who I wanted to be with," Tristan said gently. "Damara?" he asked.
"Hmmm," she replied.
"You probably won't remember this tomorrow but I am sorry for what I said. It was unforgivable and I didn't mean it." Hewatched her as he spoke,trying to guage her reaction. "I wanted to hurt you," her continued miserably. "I thought you had lain with Lancelot and wanted you to hurt like I did."
"You said you couldn't be with me," Damara reminded him.
"I was wrong," he said simply. "Forgive me?"
Warm feelings washed over Damara. Whether it was how she truly felt or the wine, she didn't know. She looked up at him, into his eyes, and then she nodded.
Tristan breathed a sigh of relief but wished that Damara wasn't in her cups – would she even remember forgiving him? At least he knew she was inclined to forgiveness, and if he had to do this dance again tomorrow, he would. "Can I come see you tomorrow?" he asked.
Damara smiled and happily nodded again.
"Well, then," he said awkwardly, "I'll leave you to get some sleep." He turned to leave, and then back again. "I'll see you tomorrow, right?"
"Tomorrow," Damara said, wobbling where she stood. "Right."
He was almost out the door when Damara called out to him. "Tristan, wait!" He turned back to her and she took a deep breath, gathering her courage.
He looked at her, waiting to hear what she would say. Embarrassed, she looked down. "I was wondering if you…that is, would you like to…"
"Yes?" he asked.
To his utter shock, she began to strip off her dress, the laces already having been loosened by Lancelot. In moments it fell to the ground in a pool of red.
Trying hard not to look anywhere but at her face he asked, "What are you doing?"
Damara stood there, stark naked, swaying slightly. Her face pleaded with him not to reject her. "Damara said it would be different…with a man of my choosing…" She looked at her feet and went on. "Right now, I can do this. I'm not afraid, so I want to get it over with."
She came up to him, putting her hand on his arm. He tried not to look at her, which was difficult because she stood directly in front of him.
"Don't tell me no," she pleaded. "I might not be able to…be with you…later. And I don't want to disappoint you."
"You mean when you've sobered up?" Tristan asked. He looked at her, but she was looking at her feet. "Look at me," he said. He bent down so that he was eye-level with her and looked into her face.
"Damara, you could never disappoint me. Never. I'm a patient man, and if you're frightened we'll wait until you are not."
Damara was frustrated. Why could he not just do as she asked? She had worked up her courage and was ready now. Hoping to sway his resolve, Damara reached for his hand and placed it on her breast.
Tristan's eyes closed and he swallowed heavily. This was pure torture – he wasn't going to be able to restrain himself if she kept this up. Idly his thumb caressed her nipple, and he groaned when it stiffened in response.
Encouraged that he did not pull away, Damara pressed herself against him and wound her arms around his neck. With a growl, he lowered his head to cover her mouth with his own. His tongue slipped into her mouth and eagerly, she received it. His hands went to her waist and pulled her tightly against him.
Damara frantically pulled at his tunic, desperate to feel his skin against hers. He released her for a moment to pull it off, and within seconds it had joined her dress on the floor.
They came back together in a frenzy of kisses and caresses. Damara's hand slid down Tristan's chest and across the tightness of his stomach, and lower still.
Abruptly Tristan pulled away from her. His breathing was ragged and he restrained himself only by the merest thread.
"We can't…" he gasped. "Not right now."
Damara looked at him, confused and frustrated. "Why? You don't want to?" she asked.
"That's not it. Gods, do I want you. But not like this."
Damara stumbled back to the bed. "I don't understand…"
"You won'tremember this in the morning. It's not right." Tristan sat on the bed next to her. "I do want you. But I want you completely."
Damara lay back, moaning. "You can't…leave me like this. I ache… I want…" All day long she'd felt the undercurrent of desire running through her. The last few minutes with Tristan had brought her to a fever pitch and her physical need was almost unbearable. She closed her eyes and tears of frustration squeezed out from under her eyelids.
Tristan knew how she felt. He ached with an almost intolerable longing, which he would ease as soon as he was back in his room. But he watched her writhing in sweet agony on the bed and felt guilty for his part in it.
"Damara," he said softly. "I won't take you tonight, but I can ease your suffering. Do you want me to do that?"
She wondered how, but then she decided that it didn't matter. She trusted him and would just give herself over to his ministrations. She nodded her assent. "Please…" she sighed.
Tristan lowered himself to kiss her. Her arms wound around him and she pulled him against her. Fearing that she would be the ruin of his good intentions, he pulled her arms from around his neck.
His lips worked their way down her throat, and lower still, to her breasts, and her cries of delight were nearly his undoing. He slid further down her belly. Lower still, to her thighs. He tried to part them, only to meet with resistance. "What are you…"
"Ssshhh…" he reassured her. "Relax…trust me…"
To calm her uneasiness, he backed away and simply lay there, gently stroking her thighs. Slowly his hands moved ever higher, towards the source of the ache that was nigh unbearable. Then his fingers were there, caressing her so lightly that she could barely feel it, though the shock of it caused her breath to hiss between her teeth.He cruelly teased her with his fingers, caressing her everywhere but where she most needed him to. Her need grew and she squirmed and moaned in frustration as the promised relief seemed further and further away.
Then he took pity on her and lowered his head, giving her what she so desperately craved. In shock, her hips rose up to meet him, thrusting against him. Something was happening…she wasn't sure what, but she craved it, ached for it. Oh…gods…she was dying…there was something waiting there, just beyond her grasp…and she sobbed with the wanting of it. Then it was there and she was swept away. She screamed her ecstasy, not caring who heard or knew.
Falling back on the bed, she almost immediately fell asleep, a look of deep satisfaction on her face. Tristan stood up slowly, breathless and aching with his own need. He looked forward to when he could be with her, but that would not be tonight. He gazed for a moment at her beautiful face, and then covered her with her blanket and made his way to his own bed, to his own fevered dreams.
TBC