Disclaimer: I do not own any of the character names, save my own original creations. I do not wish to be compensated for this work, nor do I wish to infringe on any copyrights held by any stakeholders of the movie King Arthur. This work is an original creation, based on the legend of King Arthur and his knights.

5 - Memory

When he returns, I know not what I will do.

Will I run to him? Will I give him an apple? Will he return at all? I long for his presence, the emptiness of not feeling his eyes on me brings me to restlessness.

Knowing what I know now, I am even moreso anxious. The memories given back to me have given my head so much to think on, that it whirls about like a dragonfly on the hunt for blood bugs in the late afternoon breeze.

I have waited for his return each night on the walls, standing, watching the sun slowly fall below the horizon, gaze on the road that would be their path home. This is where I find myself yet again on this evening. It is clear, and warm. The stars are just showing themselves in the pink sky, the moon coming out to watch the land enter into slumber.

It has been over a month, an no word, no dispatch and no sign.

Life here must move forward, and my duties give me distraction. The tavern is empty without him, his eyes, his presence. I eat in my rooms now, slowly filling the time with books, preparing tinctures and decoctions for use in the long winters, the sickness rampant in close quarters al­ways proving to stretch supplies.

My arms are weary from spending hours with a mortar and pestle in my hands. It is the only diversion I have from the images of him, the desire flitting through my body as I close my eyes and see him, his eyes watching me from across the tables.

Many times the rythmnic scraping has lulled my thoughts. I have pulverized herbs to a paste as I held the image of him, and how he looked at me when I handed him the apples.

Gratitude and wonder that I would do such a thing. Our eyes locked and I felt the radiating of his soul to me, the pain it bears, and the resistance he cannot leave behind.

Both of us aware of all eyes turning in our direction.

Would it be so strange for a woman to approach him like that?

It seems so.

Since then, some of the women have asked me if I am his lover. I shake my head and move on. Lover? Only in my imaginations.

For it to be reality, such dreams haunt me, both waking and asleep. But I could not tell them this, so I simply shake my head. The cluck their tongues, I think half of them do not believe me. Why else would I give him the apples?

Could I love him?

I have yet to speak to him. How can love spring from this game we play? My hand always as­cends unconciously to his gift as I think these thoughts. It is my idleness making me think so, and in the past month, as I found myself lost in these thoughts, I doubled my work.

I think it possible, but I cannot know until we again can meet, his return bringing his eyes back to me, his calming presence. Then the next play in this game can reveal itself.

So every night I wait for him until it is too dark, and the watchmen come to light the torches.

Voices echo up to me in whispers when I pass. How can he care for another? He is an animal, not capable of emotion required to be a friend or proper lover. He cares for only himself, his horse, his hawk, and the kill. They say this, fear of an unknown coating their voices with venom.

They all look askance at me now, wondering if I am a killer lover, if I too am mad. I have been given an appreciation for how he must feel, gawked at so. I think these people gossip too much, and stay away from the kitchens unless hungry, lest I end up being cornered once more.

As I was cornered, not four days after he left.

Cornered and explained how, years ago, he beat a Roman soldier to a pulp for threatening one of the younger knights, they think. He was lashed fifty times, and survived, barely. Most think this is what turned him.

Dangerous. Vengeful.

Could kill a woman if provoked, my cornerer hissed, as a warning. I shook my head in vain. They do not know him at all. How could they, they cannot even approach him! How can you understand a man you are too afraid to speak with, to learn about?

Truly I ask myself that question, when I think that I have yet to do the same. But... our game has shown me more of him than they will ever know, or would care to find out. I have seen the man, in our wordless conversations over tavern tables and apples on doorsteps.

And in the gift now around my neck.

I resent their idle talk turning tongues into swords, slaying any chance of a normal existence here for him. He is already doomed, this man, to them. I want to scream and yell at all of them. But hold my tongue. I do not need to kindle the flames of the rumour about my own sanity being gone any further than already being spoken.

I remembered that day he was beaten. I was there.

When recounted the tale, I kept composure long enough to watch the old woman leave back to her duties, then sat to cover my mouth, the images flooding me, making a connection between my childhood memory and my adult knowledge. What to make of it, I wound my hands around my body and rocked.

Sense, I needed sense of this now. Only he could provide it, and yet he is gone.

It was overwhelming to think that he, the one I desire, long to know, to touch, to feel, was that boy, the one I watched lashed for simply being honorable so many years ago.

I was young, just a girl, not ten summers. I can still see all the blood when the boy tied to the post was carried away by his companions. Limp, toes dragging in the dirt, the blood smeared across his back making drip marks alongside his body, patterns pooling if they had to stop and adjust their grip on his arms, the only place left to hold him save his feet. Gashes covered him from top of his shoulders to his ankles. Red, open, oozing life.

His head hung, hair covering his face, lolling from side to side, like one of the dolls my mother would sew from last year's clothing's in the Spring, and I would carry until they fell apart in the harvest season. Never once did I see his eyes, or his face. I would not have recognized him from any other soldier's body, had he presented himself to me for healing in the long years since.

Which he never did.

I thought, as they carried him away, that the boy was dead, and they would prepare him for bur­ial.

I remember following the trail his toes left, my young curiosity at the matters of soldiers spur­ring me forward. Following, watching the stops and stutters in the patterns, noticing that the boot tracks on either side were large, hobnailed, but strangely well-worn across the ball of the foot. The furrows wound in and out as the men had carried him haphazardly along the alley­ways. The tracks ended at the infirmary door, which was closed, more blood pooling across the threshold, on the door handle, on the door frame.

I heard the wails, and screams, and knew then that he was indeed alive. My young mind couldn't comprehend just what was happening.

Until the shouting.

I feel the panic in my breast even now as I remember hiding, seeing more men burst forth from the door. Young men, barely able to sprout a beard, arguing. Screaming at one another, their faces red, chests butting, dust scuffling from their boots. One of them gesturing, eyes blazing. The other, grim-faced, arms crossed...

At an impasse, this passion meeting duty. A large stone wall indeed. Even my young mind could see the desperation in their eyes, for different reasons, but same end. My father had shared that same look so many times, before he had come home with them closed forever.

I was struck dumb by these soldiers, their ferocity. Angry yet powerless. So strong of body, their muscles corded and sculpted, even then. Later I knew they were young themselves, barely fif­teen summers. Children thrown into an adult world too soon to prepare their souls properly.

Young men helpless to stand up to whom they were being punished by, for no wrong doing de­spite.

I wanted to help, I remember then, the compulsion hitting my chest. His pain-filled screams made me feel wretched, and useless, and I cried, the tears coursing down my cheeks like tiny rivers as both screams and shouting continued unabated.

I stayed hidden. What would they think, a scrawny girl-child sniffling in the corner, but a nui­sance? The two men arguing were also quite fearsome in stature for one so young.

That lashing has haunted me since that day, and was the reason I became what I am, what I do. With each soldier I helped, it was him I was calming, the wails and screams subsiding each time I shepherded a helpless man through pain and injury.

I am brought back to the present, on the wall, as the watchmen ready the torches for nightfall, their steps echoing on the walkway, the clacking of the wood and oil soaked cloth being pressed into iron rings. They nod, my presence familiar now.

So many memories I have revisited with his absence. So many connections I have drawn to him. I place my hands on the stone, feeling the coldness under my palms, stretching well used fingers out straight, hearing them crack from the over use I have put them through in this long waiting.

I wonder, as I again slip into thought, if he has many scars from that beating. I think of if given the chance, would I be able to run my fingers over them, absorb their hurt into me, absolve him of the wrongdoing he had not done?

Cleanse myself of the haunting memory, now tied to my silent watcher.

He is so much more to me now than my silent watcher. So much more than the desire in my heart, and loins. The connection I have to him now is deeper. Perhaps I was drawn to him, some­how knowing. Perhaps that is why I yearn to show him comfort, and peace.

Perhaps that is why I watch him in the taverns.

So this night, as I wait for him atop the wall, my mind now wanders to this. The apple is in my skirts pocket, as always. Was this a foretold happening, or simply chance that he would be the same boy, now man? It is a small fort, it could be chance.

My heart is telling me otherwise, and confusing my head. I reach in, and pull out the apple, run­ning my thumb over the green and red skin, holding it. Do I love him? Could I love him? Could he love me? The gossip echoes in my head once more. Would he be capable of letting me show him love?

Such questions I must stop or indeed I will go mad! I shake my head and fist the apple, intending to throw it in the frustration bubbling up at my incessant doubting questions. But I stop, arm in the air, apple poised to take flight above me.

Suddenly, it matters not.

The pondering of the past month stills in my heart. I am shaking, and it is not cold. I cannot take breath, and it has crushed me from the inside out.

I want to love him. I am drawn to this idea.

The sun is sinking slowly, the birds are roosting. I can hear crickets slowly beginning their song of the evening, bringing forth their sound to fill the void the breeze leaves as the pennants sud­denly fold flat against their poles.

A sudden stillness, a sudden realization, all but forgotten as I take in the sight before me, in the dimming twilight. I can hear the sound of voices... hoofbeats...

Horses.

They are home.

Dear Reader:

I can no longer respond to your reviews here in my stories, and for that I am truly saddened. I always enjoyed sharing others thoughts with everyone who read my stories, and I feel that some of the collaborative environmentin this writing medium is now gone.

But! No matter. We can still enjoy each others work, and respond to it in other ways. I cherish your reviews, and despite my lack of updates in the past month, want each and every one of you to know that you have moved my pen this past month despite.

I look forward to your thoughts on where I have taken my female character in this, and her memory serving to bring more depth to her feelings for our Tristan. I always encourage your input. Where will this game go now? What should she do? What will happen when he is again inside the walls?

Thank you for your patience, and for reading.

Cardeia