Tristran rode out of the garrison in a foul mood. He irritably pushed his horse forwards into a canter. His mare felt his mood, and was restless enough herself from months of being cooped up, and so took up the challenge gamely, and launched herself forwards into a flat-out gallop, happy to throw her whole heart into running and burn of all the energy from her long confinement.
Tristran didn't try to slow her down as he usually would. Instead he leant forwards, giving her full movement, and let the speed wash over him and bear his rage away. At least he could blame the wind for causing the tears in his eyes.
When he eventually slowed his sweating mare down to a walk, he no longer felt the sharp pain that had haunted him since Alennia had woken. Instead there was a dull ache in his heart, and he could feel a scar forming, a scar that he would carry for the rest of his life. A scar didn't necessarily have to be visible to be a constant reminder to the person who carried it.
When Alennia finally moved, it was if in a trance. She rose from her bed, and dressed and washed mechanically, without showing any emotion on her face. Alennia moved around the room automatically, silently, her face devoid of all feeling, her movements emotionless. She picked up a comb from where it lay on the table beside her bed, and stood for a moment, the comb in her hands, staring down at it, transfixed.
Suddenly she spun around, flinging the comb across the room with all her strength. It hit the mirror, sending shards flying across the room, and Alennia's legs buckled, and she fell to her knees, sobbing hysterically.
She didn't understand how one man could affect her so much, how one man could show her a glimpse of heaven one night, and then cast her down into hell the next day. But what was worst was that she couldn't blame him. For all that she wanted to hate him, curse his name and spit on his face, she couldn't.
When it came down to it, the blame rested on her shoulders alone. She was the one who had given in to him. He hadn't forced her to do anything. She knew what the knights were like: she knew how they bedded woman with little or no thought as to the feelings of their lover, she knew all this, and still she went to his bed, expecting it to be different. And yet for all the shame and humiliation that she felt, what hurt most was losing him.
She didn't know how long she stayed that way, curled up into a ball, weeping into her hands, but when there were no more tears to fall, the detached aura of calm descended once more, upon her, and Alennnia stood, her eyes red and puffy, but her face impassive.
She washed her face, and smoothed away all traces of the tears, and then went to where he comb lay, among the shards of glass, and retrieved it to brush her hair. She wound her hair into a coil on the back of her head, and replaced the comb gently on the table, all traces of her violent anger gone.
And there she stood, in the middle of her room. She did not move again until all signs of pain and grief were eased from her face, and she was able to laugh and smile almost naturally. And then, when she was finally prepared, so that nobody would see what agony and grief she was in, she left the shelter of her room.
All that day Alennia went about her life as if nothing had happened. She joked with Galahad and teased Lancelot as she always had, so no one but the most observant could see any traces of her suffering.
None, but the most observant. And there was one knight among them, one knight who had watched Tristran storm out of the garrison in a black mood. One knight who had just happened to see the hastily concealed look on Alennia's face when Tristran's name was mentioned. One knight named Dagonet.
He watched Alennia laughing and joking with the others. He watched the eyes that usually shined so brightly, fill with a dull pain when she thought nobody was watching. He watched, and he felt his heart break for the woman, so fragile and vulnerable, acting with a strength he couldn't have believes she possessed.
It was mid-morning by the time Alennia had plucked up enough courage to go and speak with Arthur. It was ridiculous really, she thought. The idea of charging into battle made her nothing more than slightly nervous, and yet she could scarcely bring herself to speak to one man. But find the courage she must, and so she steeled herself to knock on the door of the room he worked in.
Arthur looked up, surprised, when she entered. For all Dagonet's predictions, Arthur had not truly expected Alennia to come to him.
"Sit," he said, setting his work aside and inviting her to a seat.
Alennia sat down nervously, trying to find the right words for what she wanted to ask.
"I need to be getting back to my people," she began, throwing aside the need for any introduction and getting straight to the point, so that she could get out of Arthur's presence as soon as possible. The big Roman made her nervous: his chiselled looks and impassive features were too hard to read, but his dark eyes seemed to look straight through her. Alennia felt exposed in his presence, as if he knew her deepest thoughts. "I want to thank you for all that you and your knights have done for me, but I must leave you."
Arthur leant back, folding his hands as he considered her. How could he keep her for another day when she was so hell-bent on going?
Alennia took his silence as hesitation, and spoke up quickly trying to convince him, "I'm perfectly fit enough to leave," she said, studying his eyes in vain for some sign of what he felt.
Arthur didn't doubt this. He also knew that she had been fit enough to leave for days, but did not voice his thoughts. "How am I to know that you will not report all you have seen here to Merlin? That you will not betray us?"
Alennia's face registered shock. She had not for one moment considered the possibility that Arthur would not trust her enough to let her go. "I fight the Saxons!" she told Arthur hastily. "Romans are of no interest to me."
Arthur raised his eyebrows slightly. "And what is the great rush to be leaving?" he asked easily.
Alennia shifted nervously. "I want to be going so that I can reach my people before dark," she told him.
"You want to leave today?" Arthur asked, his voice incredulous. "Impossible. You need at least a day to prepare, to pack food and clothing, to find a horse."
"If I got going soon I wouldn't need food," Alennia said, slightly irritably. "And I can walk."
"And you are going to wear those clothes?" Arthur asked, raising one eyebrow slightly as he looked over Alennia's thin dress and delicate sandals. "You would be cut to pieces if you went back to your people dressed as a Roman. No," he said decidedly. "You will not be leaving today. Perhaps I may be able to let you go tomorrow." Arthur turned back to his work, dismissing Alennia by his actions.
Alennia sat still for a moment, and then stood, very slowly. "You won't let me go?" she asked quietly.
Arthur did not even look up. "Not today."
Alennia stood static for a moment, and then turned abruptly towards the door and left quickly.
Arthur looked up when she was gone and sighed. Since when had women ever done anything but complicate his life?
Alennia found that she was shaking as she made her way up onto the wall. She needed to be somewhere quiet, to give her time to think, and the wall was the best place she could think of. It was rarely occupied, save for the Roman infantrymen patrolling it, and so Alennia found that she could stare out across the homeland unchallenged and undisturbed.
She had been banking everything on being able to leave before she had to see Tristran again. She didn't want to have to see the face, once so enchanting, curl back in a derisive grin when he saw her. She didn't want to see the other knights laughing with Tristran as he told them of his conquest, for in Alennia's mind, he undoubtedly would tell them of it.
It was the shame, more than anything else that was killing her. She had given everything up to him, willingly making herself more vulnerable than she had ever been, and he had thrown that in her face, scorning her and leaving her disgraced and humiliated.
And in that moment, when she stood, tall and angry on the wall, gazing out across the barren plains with the wind whipping her hair back, she hated him more than she had hated anyone in her whole life. More, even,than she hated the Saxons.
A/N – Woo hoo! We have the internet back! The excitement is simply killing me! OK so I'm in a melodramatic mood. Anyway…what did you think? I quite liked this chapter, but please tell me what you think! I'm off to write the next chapter: I'm on a roll! Love y'all!
Oh yeah, and I'm not sure if the Romans had mirrors, so you'll have to bear with me on that point. If they didn't, well, I'm sorry, but I wanted her to break something, and I couldn't think of anything else more convenient.