What was I saying? Alright – thanks to everyone who reviewed – I've just realised that I've been blocking anonymous reviews, so if you aren't registered or whatever and haven't been able to review so far, you can now! Aren't you the lucky ones? grins evilly
Anyway, enjoy (I hope that's not the right word, but you decide when you've finished) this over-long chapter, and bear in mind that THIS IS NOT THE END! Got that? Alright – here you go :D
Chapter Thirty-One: No One But You
Arthur refilled his cup with wine and took a deep drink from it, before setting it back down on the table and rubbing his red eyes wearily. It was late at night; in fact, it was probably the early hours of the morning. Arthur looked back at the tablets strewn out across the table in front of him, and sighed. The dancing light of the candles tired his eyes, making the words blur and merge together.
"You should get some sleep," a familiar voice came from the doorway. Arthur glanced up to see Dagonet leaning against the doorframe, a wine cup in one hand.
"You always say that," Arthur commented, looking back down at the work.
Dagonet crossed into the room, and sat down, eyeing Arthur critically. "That's because I always mean it," he told his commander.
Arthur looked up at his old friend, his face looking ten years older. "Work needs doing," he pointed out.
Dagonet did not comment, but filled up his cup again. The two men sat in an amiable silence, Arthur working, Dagonet staring thoughtfully across the room.
Suddenly both men looked up sharply at the same time. None but a knight of seven years would have been so alert so late at night, but the two men were used to living in a state of perpetual vigilance, and so they heard the almost inaudible sound of a man passing the door.
They rose, nothing needing to be said, and moved silently to the doorway, where they looked out on the retreating form of Tristran. Arthur glanced at Dagonet and sighed. Both men knew where the scout was heading: it was hard not to realise, for Tristran was dressed in his fighting gear: his bow slung over his back, and his body bristling with weapons.
"Alennia?" Arthur asked Dagonet, who nodded. "I better go and see he gets to no harm I suppose," Arthur said with a small grimace.
"I'll go," Dagonet stated.
Arthur looked up quickly at the big knight, relief evident in his eyes, "Are you sure?" he asked quickly.
"If you promise me you'll go and get some sleep," Dagonet told him.
Arthur grinned quickly, a tight, thankful grin, and nodded. "Make sure he doesn't see you," he told Dagonet. "You know what he can be like."
Dagonet nodded, already on his way out.
"Stay out of sight," Arthur warned him, as Dagonet headed out the door, towards the stables.
Alennia woke to the knowledge that something was wrong. It was still dark, but a grey light was beginning to creep across the world, heralding the dawn. The previous night's fire had burnt out, and thick dew coated the grass, giving her an unpleasant, damp feeling.
Alennia tossed her blankets off, trying to rearrange her thoughts, and separate dream from reality. She looked around carefully, trying to work out what had woken her. There was something wrong about the campsite, although she could not quite place it.
Her heart was racing, and she could feel her hands shaking slightly as she peered into the dark trees around her. Suddenly she realised what was wrong. Her horse had gone. Her heart, if it was possible, pounded faster and harder, and Alennia desperately fumbled for the hunting knives in her belt. She was just drawing these when it began.
An arrow sped out of the dark woods, embedding itself in her upper arm. With a cry of pain, Alennia dropped the knife that she had clasped in that hand. As if her cry had been a signal, men suddenly began to melt out of the trees, surrounding her. She recognised most of them: chiefs and heads the various tribes, power-hungry men who did not flinch when removing something that lay between them and their goals.
Alennia spun around wildly, still trying to shake off the remnants of sleep, and analyse the situation. There were about twenty or thirty men, all heavily armed, all with threatening expressions on their faces, and yet they hung back, as if waiting for something.
Then she saw a man advancing: a man a head taller than any other. He cut a swathe through the others, a leer on his face. He was tall and muscular, with dark hair, and a face that would be handsome if it were not for the permanent sneer. This was a man Alennia knew well: they had had many run-ins when she had worked for Merlin, and she knew that he was hungry for Merlin's place.
"Carden," she greeted him coldly, trying to mask the fear and pain that she felt. Her arm was throbbing painfully, and blood flowed freely from the wound, though Alennia refused to show any weakness by binding it.
"Alennia," the man named Carden said with a mocking little bow. "How wonderful to see you again," he continued, his voice oozing with sarcasm and derision.
"The pleasure is all mine," Alennia could hardly keep the contempt from her voice.
"Oh I doubt that," Carden told her. "I am sure I shall get some pleasure from our meeting today." He started walking, circling her, and Alennia moved with him, never taking her eyes off him. "You see, there is something I feel I should discuss with you," he told her, his voice civil, as if he were only discussing the weather. "There have been…rumours, that you have been spending time with a certain Sarmatian knight."
Alennia felt her heart grow cold as the words echoed around her mind. 'Please no,' she begged silently. 'Please let nothing have happened to Tristran.' But she said nothing, simply staring with an unwavering gaze of hatred at the man who was capable of tearing her life apart.
"Now these rumours are very unfortunate for you," Carden was continuing.
In her mind, Alennia was still begging with whatever God was listening, that Tristran be safe – even surrounded by thirty heavily-armed men, her thoughts were not for her own safety.
"For it puts you in a rather difficult position," Carden continued. He suddenly moved towards her, and it too all of Alennia's willpower to keep from stumbling backwards and away from him. "It puts you in the position of a traitor," she hissed, his face right in hers.
Alennia did not let her expression change. It had taken years to perfect the blank mask that she wore now, but inside, she was shaking. To call her a traitor before all these men meant only one thing: she would not be leaving the clearing. Not alive at any rate.
Carden stepped backwards, so that he stood a couple of feet away from her, and his voice no longer sounded anything near to civil. "Do you know what the punishment is for traitors?" he asked her.
Alennia said nothing.
"Death," Carden stated.
Alennia said nothing.
"Will you not deny that you are a traitor?"
Alennia said nothing. It was pointless now. Carden was simply stirring the crowd up, anything she said would be twisted around to sound like an admission, and Alennia would not give them that satisfaction.
She took long, deep breaths, trying to steady her nerves as she shifted anxiously from one foot to the other. Carden turned back to her, and their eyes met. And in his eyes, Alennia saw her death.
Carden moved quickly, faster than Alennia would have given him credit with. He raised a dagger, and plunged it into Alennia's flesh, with a cry of 'Traitor!' that sent the birds bursting from the trees in fright.
The knife had hit Alennia in her left shoulder: not at the mark it was aimed for, which was the base of her neck, but it was good enough, and Carden stepped back, satisfied, as the Woads, unleashed, poured towards her, stabbing, kicking, hitting, scratching her skin.
Alennia never took her eyes off Carden, even as her legs gave way beneath her, and she sank silently to the ground, stained with her own blood. She did not cry out, or fight back, but simply locked her eyes onto the face of the man who had arranged her death, so that she could carry her grudge to the underworld.
Suprisingly, Alennia noticed that there was no pain, but her limbs wouldn't work, and so she lay helpless, not even trying to shield her face from the blows that rained down on her. And her eyes rested on Carden, watching him with an icy calm that struck fear into the very depths of his soul.
Tristran rode like a devil through the night – he kept his horse at a fast gallop, his mind oblivious to all around him. Suddenly he heard noises through the trees up ahead, and his heart turned cold, for it was the sound of a lynch mob.
He burst into the clearing, screaming with pure rage and hatred. The Woads took one look at him, and scattered, but Tristran paid them no heed. He could see nothing but the broken body, lying in a pool of blood.
Somehow he got down from his horse, though he had no memory of it, and the next minute he was at her side. Alennia blinked, the movement an obvious effort to her, and smiled up at Tristran.
"You came," she said, her voice a hoarse whisper.
Tristran realised he was shaking, and sank to his knees beside her. Alennia was covered in multiple stab wounds, and rivulets of blood streamed down her body. One arm lay at an impossible angle, and bruises were already beginning to appear on the surface of her once beautiful skin.
"It's alright," Alennia said, seeing his face. "It's alright."
Tristran reached out one shaking hand, and touched her cheek. Alennia smiled gently up at him, trying to give him some of the calm that filled her.
"I'll get you back to the wall," Tristran said suddenly. "Dagonet will be able to treat you."
"Tristran," Alennia managed to say, though her voice was fading fast. "No. It is too late for me."
Tristran shook his head mutely. His mind was unable to accept what he was seeing: the one woman in the whole world who mattered more than life itself, dying, because of him. Because of him. It was his fault. No matter how he tried to twist and turn, he could not escape from the fact that she had died because of him, because of his love. He had, effectively, signed her death warrant, and yet she smiled up at him, strangely serene.
"It's alright," Alennia repeated. "I've lived my life. My time is up."
Tristran shook his head again, tears running down his face.
"Don't cry for me," Alennia told him. "For tonight I will be free."
Tristran's whole body was shaking as he sobbed. Alennia, looking up into the face of the man she loved, suddenly realised something. She had never told him how she felt. Not in all the years that they had known each other, not even when they parted the previous day.
"Tristran," she said softly. "I love you."
Tristran suddenly realised that this was it. She was going where he could not follow, and he was damned if he would sit back and let it happen.
"No!" he said, his voice shaking angrily. "No. You're going to live. You're going to grow up and die an old woman."
"Ssh," Alennia told him, and with an immense effort, brought one hand up to touch his cheek, wet with tears. "I have accepted this, Tristran. Do the same."
Tristran shook his head wordlessly, but he could see the barely disguised pain in Alennia's face.
"Hold me," she whispered. "It's so very cold."
Tristran scooped her body up, cradling it to his, unconscious of the blood seeping into his clothes. Alennia rested her face against his chest, breathing slowly. The pain, which she had not felt earlier, was beginning to slowly creep through her body. She felt the warmth of Tristran's body on her cheek, and knew that he was weeping for her.
And yet she was strangely happy. She realised now, why Armelle had been laughing. As the pain began to engulf her: to block out the light and sound, only one thought was in her mind. She remembered a distant battlefield, where her last wish before potential death, had been that she wanted to die lying in his arms. Now, she knew, that the Gods had granted her that last wish.
Tristran felt the body go limp in his arms. He stared blindly at her face, whispering her name in a hoarse voice, but she didn't answer. Never again would words pass those lips. Never again would those eyes flash with fire as she teased him. Never again.