a/n: Thank you very much for your patience and reviews. I took a lot longer on this chapter than I thought, and I hesitated if I should continue, but I'll end the chapter where you see it. Please review!

The Beginning of Revenge

His head hurt. Again. Waking up, Tristan squinted at the bright light flooding his eyes. A breeze swept over his face, and the sounds of birds let him know he was outside. He tried to see again. That's when he noticed he was surrounded.

Roman soldiers—Germanius's personal contingent, including Ortegius—formed a circle around him. Tristan sat up. Directly in front of him stood Germanius.

"You failed, Tristan." He certainly got right to the point. "Did you do so on purpose?"

The recent memory rushed through him. He clenched his jaw so hard he heard it crack.

"You sent me to kill them," he said. His voice was quiet, but not meek at all. As he spoke, his voice sounded louder and louder, matching the rising rage he felt. "I did everything you asked. You broke your word."

Ortegius took it upon himself to step in at that moment. He kicked Tristan in the face, catching his jaw and making the scout fall slightly to the side. The sudden pressure on his left arm made him cringe. The cut he sustained before was clotted, but blood stained his shirt.

Germanius laughed. It sounded so calculated and purposeful. Tristan glared, waiting for some explanation.

"I knew you wouldn't kill them, Tristan," the bishop said. "But they've seen you now—ready to kill them. I think they will leave." He circled once around Tristan. "And when they leave, they'll be safe. Really, Tristan. I have saved them."

Tristan stretched his jaw tenderly. A coppery taste filled his mouth, one he recognized from so many battles. He spat the blood at the bishop's feet.

Ortegius didn't hesitate. He kicked Tristan in the arm, right over his cut.

"I'm a man of my word, Tristan," Germanius continued. "Stay and serve me, and your friends live. Let them leave unharmed for Britain."

Tristan ground his teeth together and covered the throbbing in his arm with his right hand. Germanius wanted an answer, a pledge of allegiance. How he wanted to kill the man, to run him through with the nearest sharp object. Ortegius too, for that matter. But the threats of the past came back to him. He didn't know who else might go after Arthur. Ortegius, certainly. Asellio too. Perhaps their guards, confidants.

"I will stay," Tristan said.

And you will die when that changes.

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Gawain was ready to leap from the bushes and attack the bishop. The Sarmatian warrior stayed hidden, but it took all the will power within him to not act when the bishop and the soldier taunted and beat Tristan. Even if Tristan had tried to . . . well, even if he'd done some wrong, Gawain knew the man didn't deserve any such humiliation. Gawain couldn't hear what they were saying, but finally it seemed to end. Tristan got to his feet, slowly for the scout's usual quick and graceful manner. Blood shown on the man's left arm.

Tristan nodded to something Germanius said and then went up to the second level of the estate. Gawain watched from his hiding spot. His eyes followed until Tristan disappeared up the stairs. He reappeared along the exposed hallway overlooking some of the grounds, and then disappeared again.

Gawain stayed put. Tristan's room was somewhere beyond the hallway, somewhere . . . He at least had a general direction. The long-haired Sarmatian glanced around him. The heat of the day was not the stealthiest time to move about, but that didn't change his intentions. No guards were around him, so Gawain moved. He crept from the bushes and stayed low along the outer wall that surrounded the entire estate. There was a full and large tree further down. He reached it without incident and climbed up quickly.

It was odd for Gawain to act as scout. Being without Tristan impacted the knights more so than Lancelot, not because one was more valued than the other, but because no one else was a scout. Even Gawain's skills at the task were nominal, but he was learning. Hopefully he wouldn't have to anymore.

There were several rooms within the estate, at least four on the second level that Gawain could see. He saw movement from one, but couldn't tell who was inside. As if the person sensed being watched, he came to the balcony.

Tristan.

Gawain wanted to wave or run and fight off any Roman to get Tristan out. But he couldn't.

"Scout. Nothing more, nothing less," Arthur had ordered. Gawain heeded that. As he stared one last time at the room's location, he jumped over the wall and to the rest of Rome, knowing that he would be back.

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He'd stopped thinking awhile ago. It just started to hurt too much. Tristan was so exhausted from thinking, from feeling, from everything including the injuries he bore. Over and over the thoughts swirled in his mind, until he shut everything off.

He rested on his bed, his eyes shut and his ears open. The sounds outside wafted to him as did the smell of the servants baking. Citizens bustling and shouting in the streets outside the estate annoyed him, but he isolated each noise systematically. It was a fine-tuning process, and it honed his senses.

It sharpened his skills.

After all that had happened and all that he'd deduced, he decided on what to do. He doubted himself and his plan for awhile, but that's when he stopped thinking. Too long he had been the analytical survivalist, scheming for an agenda like a native Roman. And while his objectives in preserving his friends and Britain were far more noble, he'd had enough.

Darkness fell. A servant brought him food, which Tristan heard but did not acknowledge. He lay on his bed as if sleeping, simply resting and restoring his energy. Outside his door, he could hear someone shifting about—probably Ortegius or another guard.

He waited a good half hour for the estate to settle into its nightly calm. The torches were being lit now, so it was indeed dark enough. The sound of the flames flickering in the warm breezes reached Tristan's ears.

He stood up and went to a cushioned bench. On it lay his leather vest and various armor. He suited up quickly but correctly, tightly pulling on the strings so that the armor fit him perfectly. It made him a bit more bulky, but he left off anything too heavy or metallic that would make noise. He would still be able to move quietly.

Silently.

Tristan tucked a small knife into the chest of his armor. He sheathed a dagger in his boot. Glancing at his reflection in the water basin, he noticed his hair was longer and getting in the way. Tristan brushed it aside, but it quickly fell back in his vision. He breathed out, and removed the small knife in his armor. Quickly, deftly, he sliced away bits of his hair. Longer strands he shortened, just so he could see. It wasn't uniform, but his hair had never been done for style. Putting the knife back in his armor, Tristan quickly braided his hair in a few places. It wouldn't bother him now.

Lastly, he turned to his sword. The curved blade gleamed at him, clean from the last kill he'd used it for. It almost felt foreign in his hands. He swallowed, eyeing it. The thoughts started to return.

He silenced them with a metallic zing when he sheathed the sword in the scabbard tied to his back.

Out on the balcony, Tristan used the stone railing and stood up on it. A gust of wind hit him right then, making him teeter back a bit. He clawed for the roof's edge and steadied himself. He glanced around for guards, but he knew their routine.

His arm protested when he pulled himself up onto the roof. He winced at the slight pain, but kept on. In the night of the Roman sky, he walked over the roof, keeping his body low just in case. He moved like an animal, stealthy, stalking through the dark with his eyes lit and fixed ahead.

Like a predator.

He made it unseen. The estate was patrolled by guards, as he expected. Tristan climbed the gates and fell to the other side. His feet hit the ground, ready to run. He jogged over the grounds. One guard was making his way towards Tristan, so the knight paused behind a tree.

Behind the guard's back, Tristan crept on. There was a lattice that climbed up to the personal chambers on the second level, and Tristan used that to ascend. From there, he had to guess which way to go, but his instincts told him he was going in the right direction. That, and the sound of light snoring down the hall.

The creaking of the bedroom door did not compete with the man's snoring. Tristan smirked. As far as he knew, he never snored. He could never sleep so heavily, nor so recklessly. Such racket would surely have meant his death when on a mission.

He didn't stir, and Tristan shut the door behind him. He reached for his sword, not removing it yet, but stepping closer to the sleeping man. When he was within reach, he unsheathed his sword, as loudly as possible.

The Roman man jolted awake. Tristan brought the blade to his throat, making the man freeze.

"Who's there?" the man asked, frightened.

"Stay quiet, and I won't carry out my orders," Tristan said. His voice made the man shudder—the scout relished that. Tristan eased up on the sword and bent over towards a lamp. He lit the wick. Immediately the man gasped.

"You!"

Tristan pressed the sword against the man's throat. As the lamp's light grew stronger, Tristan could see Asellio grow more and more uneasy. It brought a smile to his lips.

"Why are you here?" Asellio asked. His eyes narrowed as he recovered from his initial shock. Tristan didn't answer, quite on purpose. He just stared, his arm straight and firm in holding the sword to the conniving man's neck. Slowly, Asellio breathed out. "Germanius."

Tristan nodded slightly.

"That cowardly scum!" Asellio said, spitting at Tristan's feet. The scout raised an eyebrow.

"Quiet," he said simply. He removed the sword but held it loosely in his right hand. "If I wanted to obey Germanius, your throat would be slit."

Asellio swallowed.

"I can still choose to kill you," Tristan said. He kept his voice low and steady. Asellio barely leaned forward, trying to catch every word the scout said. "But Germanius is wrong to think your death will be accepted."

Asellio tipped his chin up, understanding Tristan's point.

"And you would be caught and executed," he filled in. Tristan huffed at that.

"If they caught me," he clarified. He started to pace. His steps were precisely even, and he twisted the sword by the hilt almost absent-mindedly. It was a casual habit, just spinning it around, but it made Asellio shift in his bed. "It's your problem. Germanius wants you dead."

Asellio's eyes suddenly widened as he realized a solution. "I will compensate you greatly if you kill him for me."

Tristan let his pace falter. It was momentary, and then he resumed his pacing. "I can't. He'll kill Arthur."

"No, he won't," Asellio said. He was more confident suddenly. He leaned forward from his place on his bed; his eyes were wide with excitement. "Only I know about Germanius's arrangement with you."

Tristan stopped. That was a lie—Decia knew as well, though maybe not so openly that Asellio realized it.

"He said others knew, and would destroy—"

"He lied, Tristan," Asellio interrupted. He was so eager now, that it made Tristan smile. He suppressed it and instead stared at the Roman, waiting. "No one else knows. No one else will threaten Arthur." He leaned back, as if his energy was so rapidly expended. "Kill Germanius, Tristan, and you will be free. You can return to your friends."

Free.

He expected that. And he suspected that Germanius might have bluffed about how many people would go after Britain. Tristan's services had been bought by several in Roman society, but none extensively enough to know about him, or Germanius's exploits.

With the exception of Decia, but she didn't matter right now. Asellio waited anxiously for an answer. He swallowed quite noticeably. Tristan stepped towards him, the sword still at his side unthreatening.

"I have one question," Tristan said. Asellio nodded eagerly. His eyes were alight with hope, and slowly Tristan smirked right in front of the man. "Why should I not kill you?"

He raised his sword before Asellio could even blink. With one upward slash, he cut Asellio across the neck. The gracefulness of the precision movement left little blood splatter across the walls, although blood spilled freely from the man's throat. The Roman's hands flew to it, trying to hold his throat together, as if that would preserve his life.

Tristan let pretenses drop. He moved closer to the man, feeling the anger return inside of him. Ten, twenty, hundreds of words flooded his mind. They were replaced with images, scenarios wherein he decimated the man's body into oblivion. And suddenly, Tristan just stood up straight.

With Asellio watching with his last moments of life, Tristan calmly wiped the blade clean on the soft bed linens. He even licked a spot of the cloth and dabbed it over a stain on his blade. He resheathed the blade before staring hard into Asellio's eyes.

The Roman fought to keep his eyes open. Tristan often wondered why men fought at those last moments. By then, they should know they would die, inevitably. Why panic? Over the years of dealing death to current enemies, the scout figured it was a matter of security. When a man was ready to die, he held no fear of passing. He truly believed in whatever cause led him to his death. They simply closed their eyes, or calmly looked off into the coming of the next world, and drifted into it. Tristan admired those men.

But not this Roman. Not Asellio, nor his obvious panic now. Tristan watched, unmoved. He knew the man would act this way. But it was satisfying to watch it, especially Asellio.

When enough blood had drained away, Asellio's head slumped to the side. His eyes stared off, wide and unfocused. Tristan turned away from the corpse.

He wondered how Germanius would look as he died.