a/n: So sorry for the delay! I had something else that I needed to write and it took me a bit to get back into Tristan-mindset. But I will keep writing and finish this story—never worry about that. Please read and review and enjoy!
Penitent
Daylight was a tricky thing for a scout. Sure, it was good since you could see better. But it also meant you could be seen better by others. However, in the midst of Rome, Tristan discovered a way around that.
Decia's servants included several men, and after searching through their rooms, Tristan found a robe suitable enough. He threw it over his clothes, minus his own armor. It made him too bulky. He left his sword and only had his dagger. If he needed any protection, Tristan wanted it to be a challenge.
He weaved through the streets. The sun cooked the street and waves of heat radiated through his robe. It wasn't particularly pleasant. Tristan mentally dismissed the discomfort, though, and focused on his goal.
Germanius's estate lie behind him, and he was quite glad to leave it. He carried a heavy sack with him now. It was an awkward burden, especially since he tried to carry it unnoticed. It's just bread, he thought, trying to trick himself.
He ducked down a familiar alley. The home ahead wasn't lavish; in fact, it looked worse than last time he'd come. The idea tugged a smidge of guilt from Tristan, but that only toughened his resolve.
He dropped the sack, and it thudded and clanked when it hit the doorstep. Tristan pulled his hood further over his head, and he dipped his head lower so no one would see who he was. With a slow breath, he knocked on the door.
It took a few moments for running footsteps to make it to the entry. When the door opened, Tristan was met with the wide-eyes of a small, dark-haired girl. She blinked at him.
"Where's your mother?" Tristan said. His voice grated coarsely, but it didn't scare the girl. She just kept staring at him, curious.
"Elaina?" came a sweet voice from inside. A petite woman with golden brown hair appeared. Her dress was little more than a sloppy, long tunic, and the holes in it told Tristan much. She draped a protective arm around the girl, and tilted her head to the side as if to ask what the strange hooded figure wanted.
Tristan opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He realized they probably couldn't see a single feature of his face, and his perceived silence just made them uncomfortable. The mother started to step back, pulling her daughter with her.
He wasn't sure what to say. What do you say to someone whose life you've ruined?
Tristan kicked the bag towards them. It barely budged. He nodded at it.
"Take it," he said. The woman glanced at it briefly before staring at him again, almost untrusting. "It doesn't make up for your loss, but . . ." He shook his head and turned away.
"Wait!" the woman called out. Tristan glanced back. The hood swayed into his line of sight, but he saw the woman stare at the golden contents of the bag. She started to say something, but then a sob choked her. She pressed her hand to her mouth.
She tried once more.
"Come inside." She stepped aside and held the door open for him. The little girl smiled now, even as her mother's lip quivered. Too much emotion. He shook his head.
"I'm sorry."
He doubted she understood to what extent he was sorry. The invitation of hospitality was nothing to him, but the murder of this woman's husband was another thing. He couldn't face her much longer. Even now, the memory of that night came to him . . . .
The family of the man slept in the next room. The wife, unaware of the danger lurking…
Someone entered the home.
Shadows moved in the flickering candlelight. Footsteps . . . closer . . . closer.
Tristan's left hand shot out and around the man's head, clapping over his mouth. He pulled the man towards him, and with his right hand, plunged the dagger into the man's chest.
The blade sunk into the heart. Tristan could feel the last beats vibrate through the blade and into his hand.
He shuddered as he walked away. He hoped Germanius's riches might help her. Deep down, he knew it would only make so much of a difference; nothing could bring back her husband. But it was the only thing Tristan could think of.
-0-0-0-0-
-0-0-0-0-
"Arthur, how much longer do we have to stay?" Galahad whined. He was slouched in a chair, his elbow propping up his head. Gawain lazily draped himself over a lounger. The pair of them looked like the epitome of boredom.
Bors, on the other hand, was taking advantage of luxury. He daintily placed grapes in his mouth. Each time he released one into his mouth, he closed his eyes as if it was heaven itself.
Arthur tried to ignore that.
"If we leave too quickly, the senate might take offence. We can't risk that," the king said wearily. It wasn't the first time he'd explained that.
"I'd love to offend them," Gawain said. "They weren't terribly offended when they learned Germanius was dead."
"Yes, well, they're still looking for the murderer," Arthur said.
Gawain shrugged.
"Why must we worry if they're offended?" Galahad asked. "I'm pretty—"
"Ah!" Bors exclaimed, slapping his thigh. "He admits it! He's pretty!" The bald knight chuckled at his humor. The other knights balked. There was silence as they looked to each other and pondered if the grapes might be fermented.
Gawain cleared his throat.
"I think Galahad means that he's tired of fearing offense. Rome should worry about offending us," he said. "After all, no one cares that a bishop of Rome took Tristan from a freedom he more than earned."
Arthur sighed.
"We'll leave in five days," he said. "A few more social events, meetings with the senate, and then we can go."
Bors suddenly sat up. The grapes' effect must have cleared. "And Tristan?"
Arthur slowly grinned. "We will take him home."
-0-0-0-0-
-0-0-0-0-
"Where have you been?"
Decia sat in her garden, her hands folded in her lap and her back straight as can be. Her neck arched, it seemed, revealing her smooth skin. She hadn't looked at him yet, which Tristan thought was odd, but he didn't care.
"Nowhere of importance," he said. Decia didn't need to know where he'd been. It was his business, his penance—frankly, he didn't want to reveal any such thing to her. It was instinct.
"It's not safe for you to be out there," Decia said. "They haven't arrested anyone for Germanius's death, but if they see you, it will raise questions."
Tristan shrugged. He pulled off the robe he'd worn throughout the city and tossed it at Decia's feet. Decia gave it a nominal glance before running her eyes up his body. He could almost feel her gaze like fingertips tickling over him.
"Enough," she said, turning away to a bowl of fruit. She plucked a strawberry from the bowl and turned back to him. Her eyes watched him as she bit into the berry. "Are you eager to return to Britain?"
He was attentive enough to be surprised by her change in conversation. Even so, Tristan felt a strange and eerie twinge as she chewed on the fruit. He shrugged for his answer.
"So no," she said. She smiled. "I thought so. Why return then?"
"I didn't say I don't want to go." He noticed that she straightened her posture when he spoke. But he didn't say anymore.
Decia waited. Tristan purposely didn't say anything else. He walked past her and to the quarters she'd given him.
The room was nice. It was very sterile though, too formal, more because he was a guest, not a slave or forced guard. He didn't care for it much. He missed the simple rooms at the Wall, with his things strewn about where he wanted them, his weapons tucked in hidden places…
He didn't bother holding back a sigh as he shed his shirt. It was hot still, and wearing that ridiculous robe all over Rome didn't help. The idea of a bath crossed his mind.
"I really prefer that you treat me with the respect I deserve," he heard behind him. He turned quickly to see Decia. Her eyes immediately went to his bare chest, but he gave her a stone face.
Respect. There was something about her that he didn't think deserved respect. Maybe it was because when he first came to Rome, she was just as eager to use his loyalties to get what she wanted from him. She'd threatened it at least. Although she's helped you since then.
He tilted his head to the side, waiting for her to continue.
"Do you think they will accept you?" Decia asked. "Arthur and his knights, I mean."
He blinked but didn't move. Decia stepped to the side and began to circle him. Suddenly Tristan felt a bit chilly.
"I worry for you, Tristan," she said. "For all of Arthur's good, I fear he cannot overcome his strong morality. Do you think he would accept what you've done?"
It was something he had successfully pushed out of his mind for two hours now, and the lady ruined it. Tristan's eyes found the marble floor. He didn't want to go over this again. Doubt was a nasty plague, and it just heightened his sense of guilt. Remember that family. They're at least better off now. It was a feeble attempt to assuage himself.
Her fingertips skimmed over his shoulder blades. She traced his scar, the brand Germanius had given him. His body tensed. Decia moved around to face him, with her fingers still on his skin. Her hand rest on his collarbone. He glanced down at it, then back at Decia.
"I don't know," Tristan said quietly. He looked away quickly. Something about her eyes, always trying to figure him out, bothered him. She swept at his hair that fell in front of his face.
"You are always welcome here," she said. Tristan found himself looking back to her. "I know you are a good man, no matter what you've done for Germanius. I'll always accept you for who you are, Tristan."
Her hand crept from his chest to his cheek. Her skin was so soft, like a rose petal on a cool morning. He leaned into it.
And then he pulled away. She almost gasped, but Tristan didn't stop. He picked up his tunic and threw it over himself.
"Thank you," he said. It was as sterile as he could make it. Despite that, Decia smiled at him and left him.
Again, Tristan sighed. Decia drained him sometimes. He didn't like showing any emotion—he never had—but she constantly seemed to want him to reveal something. It reminded him of Arthur a bit, but not nearly as . . . sneaky.
Tristan removed his tunic again, more comfortable now that the lady was gone. He sat on a lounger, and leaned back, waiting for some form of rest to claim him.
-0-0-0-0-
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Gawain was quite happy to leave Rome. Of course, that wouldn't happen until tomorrow, but at least it was close enough to taste. It was late afternoon, and just mere hours until they departed.
He was also glad to leave Bors, Galahad and Arthur for a time. This particular errand from Arthur provided a much-needed escape. Bors especially was becoming unbearable. He was acting more drunk and spontaneously joyous each hour. Vanora would think he'd lost all sense, and he had little to begin with.
A servant showed Gawain into a receiving room at the lady Decia Quintas' estate. He wandered around the room, eyeing odd statues and tapestries. One statue seemed to honor a naked man, who was surrounded by more naked men.
Romans.
"Ah, one of Arthur's knights."
Gawain turned from the statue. Decia strode in smoothly, her pearl gown flowing behind her as if she arrived via cloud and a gentle wind. Her dark brown hair was placed atop her head, with ringlets of curls framing her flawless face. Her eyes sparkled at him, and Gawain almost envied Tristan.
"Lady Quintas," Gawain greeted, bowing slightly. That was the custom, wasn't it? He couldn't remember all of a sudden. "I've come for my friend, Tristan."
Instantly he berated himself. What other friend of yours would be staying with her! He cringed, and the lady seemed to notice. She raised an eyebrow at him, scrutinizing his peculiarities.
"The scout," she said, affirming it for some reason. She moved across the room, closer to him. Her eyes never left him, and Gawain was both unnerved and exhilarated by it. Gawain nodded, waiting for her to call for Tristan.
"I've not seen him for three days," she said. Gawain's stomach hardened painfully. "He left one morning, without telling me where or why. I thought he'd gone to Arthur."
Gawain stepped back. His blood was suddenly pounding in his ears. He tried to think clearly.
"He left?"
Why would Tristan leave? Where would he go?
What if someone saw him?
"Although," Decia Quintas continued, "he did seem quite excited about Britain. Perhaps he journeys there already."
Gawain frowned. "Excited?"
Decia waved a light hand in the air. "Well, as much as he has ever shown. The man is a complete wall. I've never met someone so expressionless." She cleared her throat. "But he's kept his belongings packed since he came here, almost like he was ready to leave at a moment's notice."
It didn't make sense. Well, it did, but it bothered Gawain. Why couldn't Tristan just stay put and do what he was told? Scouting was always easy—he always did was he was told, found what he needed, and kept out of trouble. But with his personal life or anything beyond the realm of missions and scouting, Tristan did just as he pleased.
Gawain groaned. Arthur wouldn't be happy that Tristan left alone, unprotected. Arthur didn't trust anyone. Neither did Gawain, for that matter, not after what Germanius did. The long-haired knight sighed.
"You say he left three days ago?" he asked. The lady nodded.
"His things are gone," she said. "I thought he might return, but obviously not."
Gawain gave a slight bow to her. "Thank you, for housing him. I must go." He was half-way out the door when he heard her bid him farewell.
"I hope you journey safely."
Gawain hoped he found Tristan had journeyed safely.
-0-0-0-0-
-0-0-0-0-
Tristan had been sleeping a lot lately. He knew it, and he knew it was sloppy. It would only dull his senses and abilities. But given a purpose and danger, he was certain he could still perform as a scout.
The sun was setting when he awoke this time. The afternoon rays bathed him, and his body was slick with sweat. How he hated this climate.
Tristan stood and went to the balcony. He didn't bother with his shirt. He needed the air to dry him first anyhow.
As he stood on the balcony, he heard voices drift up to his ears. One was Decia—hers was honey-sweet but shrill at times, and it was as easy to pinpoint as a bird's call. The other was familiar too, but definitely not shrill. It was mumbled, lackadaisical, and low.
Tristan walked silently across the marble floor. It helped that he was barefoot. He left his room and snuck down the hall, keeping his body in the shadows. The voices grew louder as he approached.
"You say he left three days ago?"
Gawain. How did it even take him that long to identify the speaker? Tristan rolled his eyes. No more naps, he told himself.
"His things are gone. I thought he might return, but obviously not."
Who's gone?
You, you dimwit. It was clear they were speaking of him. Who else would Gawain be concerned about? But I'm here…
"Thank you, for housing him. I must go." Tristan heard Gawain leaving. He stepped forward to stop him, but then Tristan stopped himself. He wasn't ready to see his friend, if that was what they were. And he was a bit confused.
"I hope you journey safely."
Decia
Why would she—
Tristan stood straight. A cool wind made its way through the hall, chilling him to the bone.
Decia
He hadn't expected this.