He advanced upon her, like a predator, and enjoyed the momentary fear in her eyes. He grasped her harshly by the shoulders, and leaned in, so his mouth was next to her ear. "You wanted me to hit you?" He whispered dangerously. And she shivered in his hold.
He heard her lick her lips, and his eyes focused on her mouth. "Yes." She breathed.
'Why?" Tristran asked softly, his lips brushing the side of her face. He had waited so long for something like this...
His grip was hard, and she could feel small round bruises being imprinted into her skin. She pulled away, smiling, and his breath quickened as she struggled. "Release me." She said jaggedly, her heartbeat pounding in her ears.
"No. Tell me why..."
"Release me," She said again, but her protest was weak. Her face dipped forward, and she stared at the dirt floor. But Tristran wanted to see her eyes...needed to see her eyes...
He freed one of his hands to tip her face up...and it was his downfall.
She twisted out of his uneven hold faster than he could blink, and danced away from him. He stared after her, and she loomed near the stable doors. Her breath clouding in the cold night air, and the moonlight glinting off her hair.
He stepped towards her, a wolf after a deer, but with a glance over her shoulder, and a smile twitching across her mouth, she ran...
OOO
Her steps were fleet, and her cloak flew out behind her in a ribbon of green, her slatted skirt slipping between her legs as they stretched out, pale in the light of the moon and stars, and her stride lengthened.
Tristran bounded after her, his lanky and braided black hair whipping around, and away from his face, and he envisioned her taking off into the sky, a black swan on smooth wings...she was so graceful.
He ached to have her trapped in his hold again.
She turned to him, still running, and he saw that she was wearing only a buttoned white shirt, tied at her hip to keep it from flying out open around her and allowing the frigid night air to whisk over her bare skin.
And as the curves of her breasts pressed against the thin white fabric, visible to him, he ran faster...She smiled wickedly...invitingly, at him, and sped up as well.
Then they were in the trees, and she was dipping this way and that, dodging behind the underbrush and her laughter echoed back to him, wild and sharp like he had always remembered it was.
His breathing was ragged with lust and running, and he was grateful she was wearing him out little by little. He knew if he caught her now he would hurt her. Really HURT her.
And then suddenly, there were no sounds of laughter or frenzied footsteps. He looked around, frantic, and angry...and scared. "INA!" He shouted.
But she didn't answer him. There was nothing. Just silence. No snapping of frost covered twigs, no echo of her mirth...he was alone, completely and utterly alone. He stood there, turning 'round and scanning the trees for signs of her presence.
"DAMMIT!" He crowed, and slammed his fist against a tree. He ran a hand across his forehead, brushing away the chilling sweat that was cooling there. The tears stabbed at the back of his eyes, and he damned her for hurting him like this.
She had flaunted the only thing he had pined after for years in front of his very eyes...
...Then vanished like smoke through his fingers.
He wanted to voice his torment and pain like the wolf...howling his sorrow to the moon, or like the majestic hawk...screeching her distress at the sky and tearing across it on blood red wings...
He had envisioned her beside him...Her face flushed, and her breathing ragged from lovemaking with him...Had seen her curled beside him like a cat, her head resting on his chest...listening to his heart. And he had allowed it to cloud his judgement.
He had allowed her to get away. And he hated himself for it. He hadn't even kissed her...He looked down, disgusted with himself. And with a savage roar, he tore off running again.
Determinedly willing the rest of his energy away, so that when he returned to the inn, and paid some woman to warm his bed, she would leave in the morning alive... and perhaps only minorly bruised...
OOOOOO
Lancelot and Gawain congratulated him in the morning, having seen him steal away Galahad's dark beauty and take her to his bed. But they knew little of the reasoning behind the act.
He had NEEDED someone that night, and it was only his predatory instincts gnawing at him, as to why he had stolen the girl from Galahad.
That and the fact that her raven hair reminded him sorely of the one that got away...
The Knights sat at the rough table, and drank mild tankards of watered down wine for breakfast, washing down their hardtack and talking of the night's conquests.
Gawain had gotten lucky, as it would seem...As Tristran had been right about the two brunettes. Galahad sulked, and clouted Tristran on the arm for his thievery. Tristran forced a sly smile, and turned back to his wine.
Arthur sat somberly, frowning at them all. For he was a Christian man; and didn't approve in the least, of their frivolous behaviors.
Tristran reluctantly scanned the room for Lancelot, whom he decided just hadn't awoken yet...and turned his mind back to the dark haired girl he had taken mere hours ago.
He couldn't even remember her name...But the fear in her crystal eyes had been intoxicating, and it had taken all of his will not to harm her.
Dagonet started to talk with Arthur then, and Bors, who came abruptly from the privy grumbling about light, with a massive headache from too much ale, soon interrupted them. Tristran laughed at his friend, and Bors swatted his hand at the noise, protesting wordlessly.
Dagonet scolded Bors soundly, and reminded him that he had told him Vanora would not be at the bottom of his mug...When again, in all abruptness, Lancelot walked in. He threw open the heavy oaken door, and cold morning air washed over their faces. Lancelot's brow was furrowed, and his gaze lingered on Tristran's face momentarily, before he turned back to Arthur.
He stormed over to them then, eyes flashing and murmured quietly, "There's been a problem in the stables."
Tristran was instantly alert, and his eyes narrowed. He knew what was coming next, and kicked himself for behaving so stupidly.
"A stable hand was found dead this morning. His throat was slit. And a horse was stolen." Lancelot's gaze flicked back to Tristran.
"It was a war-horse, one of OUR own destriers. Or, Tristran's, to be exact." He said, slamming his fist down on the table, and grinding his teeth.
When Lancelot lifted his hand, a fraying coil or raven hair, with bits of straw in it was laying upon the surface. Tristran's anger stirred at the sight of it and his eyes darkened...his blood, he felt, must be boiling in his very veins...
And it was only years of practice that kept him from emitting an unworthy burst of emotion. No, he had to keep his anger in check in front of the others, lest they discover how personal this attack on him actually was.
"This was found in the stall." Lancelot finished, and the knights were silent, as their gazes bore into the face of their irate and unpredictable comrade...
And Tristran had never felt so predatory in his entire life.
OOO