a/n: Thank you very much for the reviews—I hate to admit it, but I'm needy when it comes to reviews, so thanks for "feeding" me on that. This chapter is a bit somber, but I still enjoyed it. The upcoming chapters will be very . . . well, I think you'll like them. :o)

Friend or Foe

Twice in as many days, Tristan had been caught unaware. He could blame it on stress, guilt which distracted him, or weariness, but inside he knew he was getting sloppy. He suspected it was simply because he didn't care anymore.

Even so, it bothered him that Decia Quintas was seated on a stone bench on his balcony, facing away from the night and watching him. Droplets of water fell from his hands, tinged pink with the blood of the man he murdered that night.

Tristan swallowed and calmed himself for a moment. A breeze came through, tickling his exposed chest. It made it that much harder to be still. Despite the traces of blood in the water, Tristan wiped his wet hand over his face.

"What do you want?" he asked. He turned away from her, back to the basin to finish cleaning up.

She didn't say anything for several moments, but he could feel Decia's eyes on him. He reached for a towel and dried off his hands and face.

"That scar," she said suddenly. "Do you know what it is?" Tristan glanced over his shoulder briefly. He hadn't really looked at the mark Germanius had cut into his shoulder, only once or twice to ensure it was healing. It was a cross of sorts, but with the horizontal line that was crooked with a dip in the middle. Beside it was a crescent moon.

He finally shrugged. He crossed the room to a fresh shirt.

"It's the mark of an assassin," Decia said. Tristan froze, the shirt half over his arms and ready to be pulled on. Assassin. He shook off the meaning and finished dressing.

"Does Germanius know you're here?" he asked. Decia tilted her head to the side, revealing the delicate skin and muscles of her thin neck.

"Yes."

That meant she'd paid for his services again. Tristan hated that—he couldn't forcefully remove her from his chambers.

"It's late," he said. "How long do you intend to stay?"

She smiled.

"Is that an invitation? Tristan, I'm flattered," she cooed. How he hated her voice sometimes, slithering, conniving . . .

He sighed. His eyes flickered to his bed, but knew if he sat there, she would misread the action. He went to the balcony, resting his arms on the stone wall and looking over the quiet of the night. Rome was almost serene at times like these.

Minus the powerful and manipulative woman in his room.

"You've been here for several weeks now, Tristan," she said. She came behind him, her voice tickling his ear. "Has Rome made itself a soft spot in your heart?"

A growl rose in his throat. He swallowed it back, and moved away from her.

"What heart?" he muttered. She heard it, and laughed.

"I take it you don't care for it much then," she said. She leaned forward as he did against the stone wall encasing the balcony. "It is a great place, though. Powerful. Civilized. Much more so than Britain."

He bit his tongue. Civilized. Yet they murder just the same here, and fight amongst themselves to get a pace ahead. They scheme to gain power for themselves. Nothing more.

There was no greater good here, no concern for the people—there was only selfishness. Part of Tristan missed Arthur's sentimental "save the people" attitude. He himself felt so far from it . . .

"Do you miss it?" she asked, breaking him from his thoughts. Tristan tilted his head to the side, silently asking a question. "Britain?"

The scout looked out over the city. It extended as far as he could see in the night. Where the Colleseum sat would usually be a line of trees and forest, if Tristan were in Britain. Such greenery and nature were uncommon here.

"Yes."

He surprised himself to admit it aloud. Decia looked a bit startled, but she recovered quickly with one of her victorious smiles. Tristan turned his head away so he didn't have to see her.

"What keeps you from returning?"

The breeze kicked up and made his hair fly over his face. Those braids, still wet from the basin's water, swayed in front of him. He found himself watching the locks of hair.

"You obviously hate this life, Tristan," she said, leaning close to his ear again. "Is what you care about worth it?"

Suddenly her lips found his ear, gently brushing against his earlobe. A delightful shudder went through Tristan. Before he could stop himself, he turned to face her.

Her eyes were vibrant, staring at him with passion, seduction, and worse, possession. Decia leaned in, even as Tristan stood there, almost frozen. Her lips lingered near his for a moment before she let herself close the distance.

At the last moment, Tristan put a finger over her lips.

She stared at him, dumbfounded finally. Anger started to simmer there as Tristan just looked back, unaffected, or so he hoped he appeared.

"Yes," he answered belatedly to her question. He pushed her away with that one finger, and turned back to his chambers. He hadn't made it to his bed when he heard Decia storm out with exasperated sighs.

He smiled a victorious grin of his own.

But as the silence settled, a familiar thought plagued him. Was this all worth it?

0-0-0-0-

0-0-0-0-

"Arthur?" Guinevere called. He'd taken to staring off over the land lately, sometimes for several minutes as if nothing else was important. Given how busy her husband was, she knew he needed the moments of quiet thought. But it was starting to disturb her somewhat.

He turned his head, his trance broken. "Yes, Gwen?"

She smiled a bit worriedly at him. "Everything all right?" She knew he would nod without thought, and he did. But after a second, he stopped himself and sighed. Arthur leaned forward against the city wall.

"Not really," he admitted. Guinevere's heart sped up. This was the first time he admitted it, although both knew something had been bothering him for months. Despite the peace and restoration to Britain, Arthur was haunted.

Guinevere leaned against the wall, her back against it and her body comfortably close to her husband.

"Tell me," she urged gently.

Arthur looked past her, over the green hills and fields. He drew a deep breath.

"We're growing," he stated rather plainly. "And with that, we'll have to start acknowledging the rest of the world. Rome won't be blind to our progress."

Guinevere felt her heart freeze, but she tried to maintain a neutral façade.

"You think Rome would feel threatened?" she asked.

Arthur shook his head. "No. And I don't think the church would pursue any hostile course of action." He sighed. "But to keep things peaceful, it would be helpful if they heard from someone here."

"You," Guinevere filled in. Arthur looked at her sharply. "Well, it certainly won't be me. You're the only one they respect. They won't listen to a Woad."

"Briton," Arthur corrected. Guinevere rolled her eyes.

"Regardless," she continued, "we both know it must be you." She paused as Arthur looked away again. "Why does it bother you so?"

Arthur shook his head, as if that were answer enough. The movement made his dark curls rock back and forth. Guinevere reached out a hand, staying those curls and tilting his chin to face her.

"Arthur," she chided softly. Arthur shut his eyes.

"I can't help but feel like a fool," he said, "when I think of all the years I idolized Rome. I proclaimed it was the best place on earth, having never been there to really know for myself." His eyes claimed a familiar far-off look. "And what a price was paid for my foolishness." He sighed and shifted his gaze to his wife. "When I go there, I just don't want to feel the guilt stronger than I already do."

She laid a hand on his chest.

"When you go," she repeated, "you should honor them." Arthur smiled slightly, and took her hand in his. He turned her and put his arms around her slim body.

"I will."

0-0-0-0-

0-0-0-0-

Another month passed, and Germanius couldn't really complain. His scout had earned him wealth in ways he hadn't planned. Not only was the knight a skilled assassin, elusive as ever, but the constant attentions of Decia Quintas added up to political currency no money could buy.

Of course, she paid the bishop with money as well for her visits with Tristan. The religious man in him did not dwell on why she constantly wanted him. Decia could do what she wanted, and Germanius was far from worried about his scout's salvation.

But Tristan hadn't revealed a thing. He was silent, and didn't elaborate about what Decia wanted.

"We talked," Tristan would say. Germanius snorted at that. Talked. He doubted it was just that. But it was very much like the scout to be so secretive.

Decia never told about her visits, and Germanius didn't dare ask her. There were certain lines you just didn't cross with a woman like Decia Quintas. She was growing less powerful though, or at least it seemed so.

Usually she made every man in the senate cower. But her constant attention to Tristan distracted her normal dominance over the senators and politicians of Rome. As such, her usual crowd sneered at her now. Behind her back, of course.

Germanius did ask her once—what was it about Tristan that fascinated her?

She just smiled cryptically, and flipped a strand of hair over her slightly exposed shoulder.

Women.

0-0-0-0-

0-0-0-0-

Tristan was more than used to the darkness. He found himself up at night anyway, and sleeping more in till late morning. It was more comfortable that way. And it made it easier when he had a 'task.'

Tonight, the moon was out in just a sliver. He touched the crescent moon scar on his shoulder, a conscious gesture of his purpose. The air was muggy and still, but Tristan still wore his leather and chain-mail vest. He ran lightly atop the building's roof, leaping to the next and crouching down to observe the street below him.

It was still, with a slumbering pair of guards outside the door of a simple estate. It was large, to be sure, but not as ornate as others. The owner was a sloppy man, one who bought influence and respect, but never really earned it. He was known for his nasty nature and absurd ideas. Frankly, he was a bother, or at least that's how Germanius spoke of him. Occasionally, Decia mentioned the man as well.

The kill was automatic, first the guards, then boldly and steadily walking inside to the main chambers. He unsheathed his sword, something he'd started using lately. It was more artful, and with it Tristan could vary the monotony . . .

Two slashes. It was always over too quickly.

Tristan resheathed his sword and slowly walked back towards Germanius's estate.

He took a detour, a familiar one. Tristan kept to the shadows but made his way to the marketplace by the seaport. He ducked inside one building, and climbed to its roof. Facing the ocean, he sat and waited.

As the first rays of the sun hit him, he closed his eyes and just savored the slightly warm feel. It wasn't much warmth, not that Rome was cold, but somehow it made Tristan feel a small measure of peace. He didn't feel that much anymore. Did he ever before?

How would he know? All that his life entailed now was death.

The rays intensified, making his face hot. The marketplace took its time coming to life, as if the sun rose too early today. Tristan just listened to the normal, everyday occurrences. They soothed him . . .

In some ways, he wished he were the apple merchant, or a baker or a fish monger. Maybe things would be better . . . or maybe then he would wish he were a scout, a fierce fighter, a knight . . .

Tristan stood and brushed off the dirt on his clothing. His eyes lingered on the ocean and a few ships that bobbed a bit on the water. His stomach still churned a bit at the sight, but he welcomed it. At least some things still sickened him.

The rest of the day passed without incident or anything of interest. Tristan merely lay in his chambers, waiting for darkness to come and his restlessness to continue.

0-0-0-0-

0-0-0-0-

Tristan was changing. She could tell. He'd never been a warm, affectionate man. His words certainly didn't reveal anything. But his manner changed. He was weary and downtrodden, but obedient as ever.

He did what Germanius asked. He tolerated Decia's visits. But he didn't speak much. He didn't to begin with, but the spark in his words was gone. Decia used to be able to get him to reveal some emotion or a long sentence. Over the last few months, Tristan was just there.

She tried to pique his interest. Decia tried her best attire. Her most seductive words. Her intense passion. Her caresses and whispers. Never once did he blink an eye. She might as well have offered him a rotten cake.

Decia sat in the courtyard amidst a slew of senators. She listened half-heartedly. Her eyes moved about the room, trying to find someone to charm with her looks.

"Arthur Castus sends word that he comes to Rome," Senator Patrius announced. "With him come the famous Sarmatian knights, those that are still alive."

"He is king now, is he not?" another senator piped up. "Self-proclaimed, but what can one expect of Britain?"

Chuckles resounded around the courtyard. Decia frowned, but leaned forward intently.

"Even so, it would be good to welcome him. He is, after all, Roman."

Decia stood and left as the senators moved on to mundane matters. Inside, her blood raced and her mind was in a flurry of thoughts and plans. Arthur, King of the Britons . . . perhaps he might know of a cause that Tristan was so loyal to?

And Sarmatian knights . . . it was not all coincidence. Decia smiled. She would see to it that she finally discovered the mystery behind Tristan. For her, it would be like breaking the knight. It would be a pleasure, after all this time and waiting . . .