KnightMaiden- Nor can I wait. xD That is, for Chapter Ten.
Silver Salamander- You would not believe how –grateful- I am for you to tell me this. Now, I warn you that in the beginning she gets even more perfect. But I am trying to bring her down from that. You will see that later on. She sorta fell off her horse…. Lol. Any more ideas for unperfectionising her?
Sokorra Lewis- I do believe I said somewhere else that I did not like Guinevere. She –is- arrogant. Perhaps her arrogance will come into play later on? Hmm. That's a real thinker. xD I should think about it. I hope you enjoy this instalment as well.
To the rest of my reviews, and to the three I answered, if I –ever- slip at all close to Mary Sue-ism, please! Please! Tell me. xD I get away with myself sometimes. Special thank you to Silver Salamander for doing just that. Enjoy this chapter, my dears.
Chapter Eight
Sometimes he liked to just ride and not look back. He used to love the way the wind whipped across his face. He would look up to the sky and call out in a hawk's cry. Down from the clouds a bird would descend, its wings angling into a dive. Then when it was hurtling towards the ground, it would snap its wings out, breaking its decent a few feet from his out stretched arm. He would coo softly, coaxing it to land upon his arm.
That was changing. More and more there would be no time. They were always off saving Roman lives. When they weren't on the orders of Roman Bishops, they were in the tavern getting drunk and choosing a new bed warmer for the night. He personally did not engage in the entire wench picking up. Occasionally he would though. But never in the manner had the other knights. Lancelot made his intentions quite clear. Galahad was a tad more subtle. Gawain teetered between. Dagonet was by far the most discreet. He would calmly choose a barmaid, whisper in her head, and walk away. On the dot, same time every night, they would leave separately. Bors was vocal about his lover Vanora. No one dared to question if Vanora was his only lover. Ah, but Tristan knew. Bors was a one woman man with four bastards to prove it.
Now, Arthur, he was a different story. He drank with his men, but never took a woman to his bed. On one occasion he had. But never after. No one knew why nor would anyone ask. Lancelot had once though. He had made a joke out of it. That was the only time Arthur had ever hit one of his men. Lancelot had a nice sized bruise around his eye for some time after. The jokes about that lasted far longer.
A sigh cut through his silence causing his eyes to flick to the rider beside him. Everything was becoming routine and she appears. He didn't know whether he actually liked her or not. He remembered riding through the forest. Well, he didn't not like her. Tristan squinted forwards, his fingers rolling his reigns between his fingers. He respected the woman beside him if anything. But he didn't trust her. She was not easy to be read, he couldn't tell her intentions. This frustrated and fascinated him. He refused to see the likeliness between himself and her. He looked forward again.
The roan snorted as he stamped his hooves beside the pinto, both riders gazing far out on the horizon. He had expected her to speak but no words had escaped her. From the corner of his eye he watched her gaze out, staring at something along the horizon. Something changed then, something in her eyes, dark and enticing. They had become distant and clouded. He turned his head, looking at her again. Her fingers rubbed her reigns. He could see the worn, shinning leather.
"Who are you?" She looked almost startled at his words. The look that had come over her when Gawain told her she reminded him of someone had darkened her face as it did now. Then her head turned. Her eyes slowly dragging away from what Tristan now realized was north, toward Sarmatia. A lump formed in her throat, curling down her neck before disappearing into her taught skin. He lifted his eyes to hers, inwardly flinching at the spears deep in the blacks of her dark brown orbs. One solid word formed on her lips, coming out with a solid and final tone, "Leilia."
"I know your name. I asked who you are. Why did the Woads call you Leilia of the Lake? Does it have to do with the sword?" His thoughts returned to her possession in his saddlebag. He admired the reflection of the sun hitting the blade. He drew his memory away from the sword, ignoring Leilia's longing gaze. He sighed quietly as he scolded himself for his outburst. She didn't speak. No, he could see her face turn away. Her eyes shedding her longing for a cold glare. Had this been anyone else, he would have pushed her answer as it was part of his training. But something about the way she sat in silence like she was trying to find the answer herself made him not want to. He understood.
"Far north, my tribe believes, that there are more like the Romans. But they do not speak our language or Latin. They have a language all their own." He looked out, trying to see as far as he could. Her voice drifted, becoming almost dream-like. "They are said to live by a huge sea. Bigger than you can imagine. It's like it goes forever and back. Like Sarmatia, you remember?" He nodded sadly. "But it's water, of course." She stopped, taking a breath, and he nodded again. "They call me Leilia or Lady of the Lake because of an old legend. Do you know it?" He shook his head, not daring to look at her because somehow he felt she would know that he had lied. He did know the legend. His tribe also believed. "The Lady of the Lake lives up there. It is she said is a dark beauty." She smiled. "More beautiful then all the maidens of every race. She made a prophecy. The Prophecy of the True King, they call it. There will come a time when war will come and a true king will arise from the ashes of his true homeland. He will rule with love and kindness and he will marry a maiden of the land. And this king will live for ages. Poems will be written and people will remember him forever." She swallowed. "My own tribe believes this legend about this land and our Shaman believes that I am the Daughter of the Lake, I am some great descendent of the Lady of the Lake. He believes I will someday meet this great king and I will tell him the Prophecy of the True King and he will take his rule when I return for the second time. Load of bullshit if you ask me." She laughed again and he looked down, away from the horizon and away from her. Silence caught on, neither of them talked nor made any move for communication. She returned to staring longingly to the north and he chose to drift away into his mind, chewing her story over in his mind and laughing. A king? There would never be a king here. Especially with this Roman rule and the Woads repelling anything.
"A rider approaches from behind, Scout." He could tell she had not looked back to see this. This also fascinated him. But his fascinations would have to wait. He gripped his reigns, ignoring Leilia's bell like giggle at his lack of weapons. Again he was reminded of how he hated the affect this woman's laughter had on him. He hated the way barmaids laughed. It was so forced, so faked. Yet, she laughed at the simplest things. She was probably the type who would hear a joke told by a man trying to win her as a bed mate and stare, just stare as impressed as she could. Then she would laugh at the man later with her friends. He looked over at her, or perhaps she didn't. Perhaps she was the kind to laugh later, out of earshot, alone with only her. Maybe she even spoke to herself like another person. He looked away, she certainly seemed like she would. In any event, if she figured out the affect her laughter had on him, he knew she would use it against him… or maybe she would be flattered. He shook his head. What was he thinking? He pulled the reigns around, his mount following to face the forest. She did the same, but she held a sword, she sheathed it as one hand pulled the reigns. He was impressed. Tristan smirked though as he unsheathed her precious sword. Silently he watched her sheath the one in her hand and pull out his. He grinded his teeth. She didn't smirk, she smiled.
Her lips parted, revealing all her teeth and she laughed again. He wanted to reach over and backhand that smile off her face. Somehow he knew two men would want to have his head. Everyone else would jeer about Tristan hitting a woman and not just any woman. He would have hit a Sarmatian woman. The kind of woman all the knights would kill, literally, to bed. Hey, you remember the time Tristan hit—No one would know. It was only them. A twig snapped. Only the three of them.
The rider moved out into the open, a grin plastered across his unshaven face. Her eyes quickly, almost instinctively dissected him. She mentally noted each of his weapons. He had a bow, a broadsword, a crowbill and a dagger in his boot. But she knew a good warrior would always conceal weapons for an element of surprise, especially these knights. She had learned this when she had searched Tristan. She had found weapons in the oddest places, even built into clothing and armour. She held the same standards for this man. She could not safely assume anything other then that he would be more then it seemed to her eyes.
"My, my, Tristan. You certainly enjoy the absolute best scouting comforts. A woman and a Sarmatian one at that." The other knight eyed her. His eyes slipping over every inch of her exposed skin. He lifted a brow at the bandaging on her leg; it was the only visible one. All her wounds flared under his gaze as if he was pouring salt over them. Tristan was also looking at her. There was something about the way he did it that bothered her. She couldn't stand it. She gripped her reigns tightly as Arvakur danced around on the spot. She felt threatened by the other knight on his chestnut. She rewrapped her fingers around Tristan's sword, noting that fact her tattooed hand needed retouching. "Now, how'd that happen? She has your sword. They say no man can kill you, no Woad it is said can kill you. Yet, a mere woman can get your sword? Perhaps I have forgotten how crafty Sarmatian women are. Who is she?"
"The Lady of the Lady," he spoke softly, as if he did not believe it himself. His eyes moved to touch her face once more. She ground her teeth, glaring at the other scout. Behind the red anger he saw the cold fear. What was she so afraid of? What was she still hiding? Who was she really? He still did not truly know. He turned back to his fellow knight, his face cold but his eyes smirking. She was the Lady of the Lake.
"She is not. That's a tale told to children who can't sleep." He flicked his eyes over to Leilia, making sure not to turn his head. He sensed no rising anger from her. Perhaps, that had not insulted her. Maybe she did not believe she was the Lady of the Lake.
"Do not be so sure, Coward Knight. You downcast upon a legend that could hold to be true." She self-consciously brushed her reign hand over a lump under her cloak and stopped herself when Tristan's eyes flared over it. No, no not yet. She cautioned herself with this new knight. He was more then threatening. She couldn't place it though and it didn't help that she did not wholly trust Tristan. After all, had these men not spent the past ten years becoming like brothers? Pant and her father had told her that was what happened to them. They all became brothers and even more so if you were already brothers. Her thoughts innocently fell onto Lancelot before she could stop herself. Perhaps if he hadn't left… Maybe if he had hidden like she pleaded… She forced thoughts back onto the knights with her. But a not so innocent thought played in her mind. What if she had only been stronger, she could have prevented this. What if she had hit him and dragged him off against his freewill?
"Such childish insults. Bah, no matter. Tristan, orders are we ride northeast. A caravan was attacked by Woads." He grunted and she too noticed the malice the knight held in the word Rome. Completely understandable, she though. Yes, yes she could understand. She could empathize even. Tristan nodded beside her and set into motion in front of the other knight. She followed behind, silent as none spoke.
It did not take long for the trio to gallop into the fight. Three light travelling riders moved rather fast. There was fighting all around them. The evidence of the prior events was easy to see. Everyone was sporting it. There were many Roman soldiers killed and many more dead Woads. Her eyes touched the knights, not in worry. There didn't appear to be many serious wounds. Her vision fell upon Lancelot. Somewhere inside her relaxed as she saw that he held no injuries. But she shut that part of her down and smirked as she watched him decapitate a Woad. Disgusting vermin, she thought.
She heard him and before she could do anything, Tristan unsheathed her sword from her saddle. She growled, watching him disappear into the battle with Ector to aid the other knights. In her hand she gripped her bow; she nocked an arrow and shot it into a soldier's opponent. A stream of arrows screamed from her bow as she aimed and shot every Woad she could, missing some and watching them whiz off in different directions wide of their targets. What was getting into her? She continued until one wrapped his meaty arms around her waist. She dropped her bow and an arrow as she felt the pull. Arvakur squealed as he felt her grip his mane tightly. But she fell, a tuft of long, coarse, and black hair coming away with her. He reared, his horse-scream ringing through her ears as his hooves pounded the earth. She struggled against the squeezing force of the man's legs now around her stomach. If she could only reach her boot…
An arm wrapped around her neck, sealing off her throat. Instinctively she clawed at it, gasping for air. Her eyes watered as she fought against him. Tears streamed her cheeks. She coughed, rasping for help. Her head swam, her eyes grew confused. All she saw was sky. She kicked her legs around, trying desperately to connect with something. But she did not. So instead she tore her hands across his blue painted arm, find her solace in the long lines of blood she drew. The edges of her vision frayed, falling away to redlined black. She blinked, finding it harder and harder to reopen her eyes. Her arms felt like lead, she rasped for help again but it was less then silence in the loud thriving sounds of the battle. Her flame slowly flickered until… until it all stopped. She opened her eyes to a swarm of bleeding colours. Something warm lifted her away. Her body fell into their armour, cool and inviting. Her senses switched off and she slipped further into black.