Alennia was almost exhausted by the time they reached the cave, and though she knew she should be wary of the recklessly charming stranger who had offered her shelter, her tired body and mind no longer cared, and she dropped, shattered onto the dry floor.
The man called Tristan took his horse to the back of the cave, and following him with weary but cautious eyes, Alennia saw him put the animal in a small pen, complete with feed and bedding, and proceed to rub the animal down.
When he was finished he took dry wood from a pile and started to lay a fire in a blackened ring in the centre of the floor.
"What is this place?" Alennia asked in a wondrous voice, staring around at the neat piles of food, blankets, and firewood, cleverly hidden from prying eyes by a deceptively small opening.
Tristan glanced up at her momentarily, before turning back to the small fire as he spoke. "My father found it. He set it up for use by those he knew. Slowly, the people who he had told about it were killed, usually in battle, and now I'm the only surviving one to know about the place. I still keep it stocked up, even though I haven't been here in years."
"And yet you showed me where it is?" Alennia asked curiously.
Tristan looked at her for a moment, surprised at the question. "I didn't think about it especially," he shrugged. "I trust you won't tell everyone you meet about it?"
Alennia shook her head quickly. She stayed where she was for a minute, looking longingly at the fire, before inching closer, basking in the warmth of it on her wet body.
Tristan looked up, immediately abashed for overlooking her comfort.
"If you want," he said hesitantly. "I'll get you a blanket so you can let your dress dry out."
Alennia looked up at him, doubts rushing through her mind. Was this a trick? What did he want from her? But she saw no lie, no deception in his eyes, and not for the first time that day, her exhausted body won.
"Thank you," she said, nodding shyly.
Tristan looked relieved, as if he was afraid she might have spat at his indelicacy, and immediately stood and went to fetch her a blanket. He turned, giving her some privacy to change, and wondered what on earth he was doing, bringing her to the cave.
There was something about her, he decided, something about her stubbornness on the mountainside, pride, despite her pitiful condition. The way she moved, the way she spoke…no woman Tristan had ever met had been so insulting to him, and yet so alluring. As she called softly that she was done, he turned back to those enchanting eyes, to see her wrapped up in the blanket, sitting on the floor, looking nervously up at him.
Their eyes met for a minute, and it was all Tristan could do to tear his gaze away and go to find food from his saddlebags. They sat in silence as Tristan cooked some meat over the fire, and both their thoughts were with the other. Alennia finally spoke, having been studying Tristan unashamedly as he cooked.
"You're Sarmatian aren't you? A knight?"
Tristan turned quickly with a pained expression, ready for disgust or hatred on her part, and yet she just sat there, the blanket pulled up firmly under her chin, studying him with the same attentive and fascinating expression that Tristan had always seen in her.
"Yes," he said finally. "I am a knight."
"And a Sarmatian?" she probed deeper.
"Half Sarmatian," Tristan replied carefully. "My father was a knight," he continued when it was obvious she wanted him to continue. "My mother was a Briton. I was born on the Wall, and have served Arthur Castus as a knight simply because there was nothing else for me to do."
Alennia considered this, her delicate chin resting on her hands.
"And yet you saved me?" she asked finally.
Tristan shrugged, turning back to the meat so she would not see his face. "I bear your people no ill will."
"Then why do you fight?" the question was not accusing, but simply curious.
"For the joy of fighting," Tristan answered plainly, not trying to justify or excuse his actions.
"You like to kill?" Again, there was no malice in Alennia's voice, but merely curiosity needing to be satisfied.
"No," Tristan spoke firmly. "Not to kill. To fight, yes. But never to kill."
Alennia said nothing, for there was nothing to be said, and yet far from being scared to sleep in a cave with a Sarmatian knight who fought for the sheer love of fighting, she was strangely comforted.
Tristan held some cooked rabbit out to Alennia, one eyebrow raised in question. She took it gratefully, and he watched her eating, wondering why he had told so much to a girl he scarcely knew, when his friends could rarely get whole sentences out of him.
Something about her: the inquisitive look in her eye, her subtle movements, the delicate tone of her voice, made him feel protective towards the girl who had put her whole faith in him.
That night, Tristan sat up beside the fire, watching her sleep. His mind was in turmoil: thrown off balance by one woman when whole armies would not cause him the slightest worry. He was falling, with no one to save him but her, and yet he would not have wanted it any other way.
He chuckled deeply to himself. Why he was sounding almost as bad as Lancelot, who protested he would die almost weekly for some woman or other's love.
And yet his eyes were drawn inexplicably back to the slim frame of the sleeping girl, with the ghost of a smile playing about her lips.
A/N – I'm having a complete mind blank over good chapter titles, and I don't generally like it just to be 'chapter 1, chapter 2' etc, so any suggestions would be greatly appreciated!