A/n: Thank you for the reviews! Please keep them coming!

About "Briton"—I've noticed this is the old way of spelling it, and I thought it was the old name for the country. But I've found it's the way to refer to inhabitants of Britain. So my apologies—I'll correct that in my future chapter.

About Lancelot—yeah, I thought about including more mourning about him, but there's just too much to do and cover in this story! You'll see. ;o) Also, it really baffles the knights that Tristan could be alive, and yet is nowhere to be found. With Lancelot, there's no mystery. Not to be cold, but you know . . . Anyway, I appreciate these thoughts and questions. I hope you all don't mind that I answer them like this. It allows me to explain myself, and why (for the most part) I write what I do. Thanks!

Depths of the Ocean

The next day led them to the south coastline of the island. He'd seen the coast a few times, and even been on the ocean once. Now Tristan would be traveling by water again.

The soldiers and Germanius boarded a ship that seemed to be waiting just for them. They cut the bindings on his feet and led the scout to the ship. Tristan's side was healing somewhat, but that didn't make him feel ready to be defiant. He wasn't sure if he would anytime soon.

Germanius watched as Tristan was rebound at the feet and left to lie on the questionable floor.

"Rome could come with a wave of my hand, Tristan. That's all it takes, and everything in your life in Britain is destroyed." The bishop seemed to take pleasure in that grim reminder. He left Tristan to the darkness of the hull.

The journey began as rocky as possible. The waves were tumultuous, tossing the ship from side to side. In the depths of its hull, Tristan tried to sit up steadily. He leaned against some crates and tried not to focus on the movement of the ship. He emptied his stomach twice by the end of the day. There was a reason he was a knight, and not a sailor.

It was estimated that the journey by boat would last at least three weeks. Tristan tried not to think about that much as he sat in the dank hull. Water slowly started to seep in, and occasionally a sailor would come to pump it out, but no one seemed concerned that the knight was marinating in it, dressed in the same thin shirt and pants as when he first awoke.

Germanius visited after a week. Tristan was surprised the bishop didn't come more frequently, not that he missed the company.

"How is our fearless knight?" he asked, his voice cheerful enough that Tristan imagined what it'd be like to behead the man. He glared at him.

"We're in the middle of the ocean?" Tristan asked. Germanius nodded, a smile on his face at any vocalization from the knight. "Where could I really go?" He gave a nod to his bindings on his feet and tugged at those behind his back over his wrists.

Germanius frowned for a moment. Tristan held his eyeline.

"All right." The bishop smiled, but his eyes were cold. "But I warn you, Tristan. The whole ship knows what to do if you try anything."

Tristan showed nothing but boredom at the warning. The bishop left, and for a moment, he wondered if he'd changed his mind. Tristan hoped not; the seawater around him chilled his body and stung his raw wrists.

Two soldiers came for him. They nervously cut his bindings, and held their swords ready as Tristan stood. He grasped a wood support, trying to steady himself. His legs were weak and the rest of his body didn't feel much better. He stretched out his arms, recoiling slightly at the twinge of pain in his side.

"Go," a soldier said, prodding him in the back. Tristan glanced over his shoulder, but headed for the stairs.

Daylight spilled from the deck and Tristan half-shielded his eyes from the intensity. He stood on the deck with partially closed eyes, waiting for his sight to adjust. A brisk air whipped by him and ruffled his wet clothes and stringy hair.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" That pointed Roman accent left no question as to who addressed him. Slowly Tristan opened his eyes and took in the sight.

The ocean was deep blue with froths of white as the waves moved around the ship. The sun made the waters lighter blue at some points. A squawk of a bird made Tristan look around sharply.

It was a gull, a pair of them actually.

"Your hawk hasn't been seen since we left Britain," Germanius piped up. Tristan couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment. He swallowed it though, and turned to the bishop.

"Where are my clothes?" he half-demanded. Germanius raised an eyebrow, but didn't fight him on his tone.

"There is a cabin ready for you, with your belongings," he said. Tristan glanced at the bishop abruptly. "But not your weapons."

Tristan almost smiled. Of course not. He stared back over the ocean. In the distance, he saw dark clouds. It was in their path. He frowned, but said nothing.

After some time, he asked for his cabin. He was pleased to find he had a decent place to stay, and without constant guard. His outer tunic and coat lay ready for him, as did a fresh shirt and his pack with another change of clothes. Everything even looked clean, which made Tristan smirk.

He discarded his thin shirt and studied his marred skin. The gash in his side had mended together. Surprisingly, it didn't even look infected. But the wound had been deep. He wasn't sure how he really survived.

Tristan breathed out a long breath and looked around the cabin. There was a small port window, letting in the light. A mirror and small desk sat in a corner as well, by a strange hanging cloth. Bed, Tristan thought. He vaguely recalled seeing such things below deck on his way up.

It wasn't a bad existence—not compared to the hull. Tristan frowned and stared at the small mirror. His face was pale, slightly green even. The queasiness in his stomach reminded him why. His hair was messed up more than usual. Tristan sat at the desk and watched in the mirror while he undid and rebraided parts of his hair.

His eyes drifted from his face in the reflection to his wrists. The skin had been rubbed away by the ropes. He shrugged off the observation. Just another mark . . .

That night, rain set in. The boat tossed from side to side again, and plunged forward and back. Tristan put back on the thin shirt, still dirty but suitable for now. He went up on deck.

It was empty except for a couple of sailors. He could tell they were eyeing him cautiously. Tristan didn't care. He felt the fresh rain fall down on him. He welcomed it, cleaning off the grime on him and rinsing through his matted hair.

The water dripped down his sides and over his face. Tristan swiped at it to clear his vision. It amazed him how much he couldn't see out here. Even on cloudy nights on land, he could make out details. But out here, he had to rely on sound. The only thing he heard was the waves crashing against the ship.

Tristan leaned forward against the railing, leaving the rain to beat against his back. The waves swelled high and quickly disappeared before rising up again. It was fascinating. The power out there . . .

It could easily kill everyone on board. He smiled grimly at the thought. Seeing Bishop Germanius drown . . . not a bad idea. Easier yet, he could just jump overboard now, and give Germanius no control over him.

It bothered Tristan that Germanius figured out something to hold over his head, something that was working quite well. What surprised Tristan the most was to discover he really cared about Arthur, his country that he would create, the knights . . . . Since when did I have a heart?

A large wave rose in front of Tristan. The scout merely stared at it and stood still. If it swept over the boat and took me with it . . .

Someone shouted behind him, no doubt a warning, but the wave crashed down anyway. The force of the water smacked Tristan against the deck and swept him across it. Seawater filled his mouth, and the saltiness of it made Tristan gag. The wave receded, spilling from the deck. The sailors shouted back and forth, and Tristan could see them hurrying towards him.

Suddenly another wave crashed down on the ship, and Tristan felt it slam him into the side of the boat. The rush of water lifted him slightly, up on the railing. The boat rocked, and Tristan felt himself falling towards the depths.

He closed his eyes and waited for the water to envelop him. Suddenly something caught on his arm, and it jerked as his body stopped falling. Tristan looked up to see one of the soldiers.

"Pull him in!" someone else yelled. The soldier was joined by another, and they pulled him upward. Tristan thought about wriggling from their grasp, but it wasn't the death he wanted. A gleam came to his eyes as he stared up at the struggling soldiers. With his other arm, Tristan grabbed one of the soldiers and let his body go slack. He pulled down, and sure enough, the first soldier teetered overboard. The fall caught the second soldier off-guard, and he quickly followed into the ocean.

The soldiers were still in their armor, a fact that made Tristan smirk when the men sunk beneath the waves. Death should always have a purpose . . . and taking two Romans with him gave him his. Tristan eyed a wave as it loomed near him, towering taller and taller. Death . . . Germanius could not warrant an attack on Arthur for such an 'accidental' death. Tristan smiled as the wave crashed on him.