a/n: Okay, this is a long one! Enjoy, and please, please, review! I love feedback, and need it now more than ever! Thanks!
Running Anew
The journey was much more peaceful without Decia. It still brought a smile to his face, remembering her disbelief, her new plight. And Arthur would be proud—at least he hadn't killed her.
Tristan figured he had two more weeks of travel before getting to Britain. He was in no hurry though. Part of that time would be by ship to get to the cursed island. At least this time he wouldn't be tied in the hull. Besides that, he decided to take his time. Something worried him, and he did not want to face it until he got closer.
So he lived off the land, killing a rabbit here and there, and sleeping whenever he chose. That wasn't terribly often. He was out in foreign lands, with no one but himself and two horses. He wasn't about to fall prey to anyone or thing, not now, and not after more than 16 years of servitude and hell.
The cry of a bird caught his attention. Tristan leaned back in his saddle and studied the sky. It was a small falcon, probably pretty young still. He wondered if his hawk was still alive. Was she still in Britain, or had she moved on to nest elsewhere?
He shook his head. It didn't matter, as long as she was free.
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The sea tossed him about, not unlike the last time. Tristan discovered being in a cabin wasn't much better, and being topside only allowed him fresh air. He settled up there, despite the captain's protests as the weather turned badly.
His passage had been easy to procure with the proceeds from Decia's enslavement. With money and a confident air, the captain had not asked any questions. It seemed he didn't mind people traveling freely. Maybe it was a side effect of Arthur's rule.
The sea journey ended not a moment too soon, and Tristan savored it. He stared at the land. It was green and lush. Damp, as ever. Even chilly—winter was coming early.
He walked the rest of that day. Something about the land under his feet made him feel better. It offset his thoughts, to an extent.
He'd postponed them long enough. He was practically there, so close to 'home,' and he was still unsure.
How would he be accepted? Tristan wasn't an insecure man; he'd never needed another man or woman's approval before, but things had changed. Maybe that was what bothered him throughout his journey. He didn't know how things were. The last time he was here, Saxons crawled the land and he was certain he was going to die.
Now, who knew? Arthur was making changes, better ones, but what did that mean for Tristan? The Sarmatian scout scowled at the earth. The image of Arthur in Rome, after Tristan had slain Germanius, came back to mind. The knights all knew what he'd done—didn't they? They at least knew about Germanius, his guards, probably Asellio . . . . Realistically, Britain might not be the best place for an assassin.
He knew Arthur wouldn't punish him for what he'd done. Not by law anyway. But the scrutiny and guilt was already settling in, and he wasn't even at Hadrian's Wall yet!
The sounds of gurgling water reached his ears, and Tristan followed the noise as a distraction. It led him to a serene river, one he knew well. Green moss covered some of the rocks, and the water glided effortlessly downstream. It wasn't a large river. In fact, it was easy to cross, and by doing so, he would be at Hadrian's Wall within two days.
Tristan instead followed the river upstream. He could cross the river anytime he wanted.
He slept by the riverbank.
The next day started leisurely. He still avoided the thought of completely returning, so he bided his time by the river. He sat on a large boulder, one leg bent and propped up and the other dangling just above the water. He watched as fish and little critters went by.
The water was cold—nearly icy. Tristan splashed some over his face. He was almost tempted to bathe, but the cold wouldn't be so pleasant. He settled on removing his tunic and throwing some water over his chest and back.
He scratched as his scar, over his right shoulder. The mark of an assassin had healed, but the scar still itched. Tristan wondered why, or if it was all in his mind. Manifestation of guilt, he considered.
Suddenly, it was quiet. The birds weren't making any noise, and the river even seemed quieter. Tristan froze, shirt in hand, and listened for movement. His eyes caught it. Something in the trees, behind him and on the opposite side of the river. Slowly he reached for his sword.
An arrow hit right by his hand, clattering off the rocks, but effectively stopping Tristan. He glared at the trees. Another arrow hit by him, this one by his feet. They were warning shots, he knew, and maybe that was comforting. Although being caught unprepared was not . . .
He stood with his shirt dangling from his fist. He kept his arms at his side, and waited.
Slowly they emerged. Four blue warriors.
Woads Instantly a bad taste came to his mouth, but he knew he should not provoke them. Arthur was their king now too, or so Tristan had heard. The four woads approached him, their bows taut and ready to fire on him.
"What is your purpose?" one of them asked. Good question, Tristan thought.
"I'm traveling through," he said. "I mean no harm." A drop of water collected at the end of one of his braids, and he watched it fall in front of his eyes.
"Your name?" another asked, this one a woman. Tristan didn't answer her, for his own reasons. Suddenly she kicked him behind the knee. Tristan fell to his knees and she held a dagger to his throat. The other three woads seemed unconcerned. "Your name."
He really didn't want to tell her, although now more to see if she would attack him. His eyes drifted to one of the men, rifling through his things. Tristan gritted his teeth.
"He's Sarmatian," the man called out. The woads instantly perked up at that. They looked to each other, and Tristan wondered what they were thinking. The woman with the dagger peered down at him.
"You'll come with us," she ordered. She stepped back, but the dagger was still out, and so were the men's bows and arrows. Tristan glared at them. They grabbed his things and his horses, and nudged him to cross the river. He sighed.
He pulled his shirt over his head. As he trudged through the chilly water, he wondered how easily he should go with them. Depends on their intentions. If they were loyal to Arthur, then that meant he was going to . . .
He sighed again. He still had two days.
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The woads weren't friendly, but they didn't treat him like a prisoner. That was a nice change, Tristan thought. However, they didn't entirely trust him either. At night, they surrounded him and kept their weapons in hand. His own sword was in their possession, along with the few things he'd brought. They hadn't returned his weapons thus far, and he didn't expect them to until they arrive.
One thing he appreciated was their silence. They were good, at scouting, tracking, or whatever they were doing. They didn't engage him in useless prattle. Tristan felt nearly comfortable.
They moved quickly, and judging by the pace and their expressions, they wanted to be at the Wall by the next nightfall. They pressed hard, and kept Tristan with them. It amused him that they rode in a square around him. The woads kept this up throughout the next day, even as the Wall loomed into view.
Tristan pulled on the reins of his horse and stared ahead. The woads stopped as well, but more out of caution and suspicion. They did not understand this Sarmatian. Tristan didn't either. He took a few deep breaths.
He was back.
"Come," the woman said, urging Tristan forward. His horse responded before he did, and the group continued to the wall. As they approached, Tristan heard the familiar groan of the gates opening. It reminded him of all the times he was coming home from a mission.
Shouts rang out from above the gate, and over the land as they headed to the town. The woads encircled him tighter. It gave him the impression that he was more a prisoner now.
They stopped in the courtyard and handed off their horses to a stable hand Tristan didn't recognize. Where's Jols?
One of the woads pushed him forward, after the others. He shot a glare at him, but followed through the halls he knew too well. They were headed to the Round Table. Tristan's heart beat harder, wildly. His body tensed, and he clenched his fists. Suddenly he felt a little sick.
He swallowed it back as the woads stopped, just outside the room.
"Wait here," the first one said, and he slipped inside. The other three stood their ground around him.
The woad's words filtered through the door.
". . . found him two days from here . . ."
". . . a Sarmatian, we think . . ."
Tristan swallowed again. The door opened, and the woads nudged him inside. Tristan stumbled a little, again shooting them glares. When he looked forward, he stopped altogether. There stood the only Roman he respected, and by his sides three Sarmatians who lacked sense but made up for it in friendship. Even so, Tristan just nodded at them, and gave a plain greeting:
"Arthur."
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They'd just been discussing where to search for Tristan when the scout himself appeared. Arthur was surprised that four of his Woad scouts surrounded Tristan, but that passed quickly from thought as he and the knights stood and practically cheered his return.
They celebrated in the tavern, cramming around Tristan. The laughter rang out over the drunken words of the other inhabitants. The town knew the scout was back, and all eyes were on him, even if they were intoxicated. Arthur sat across from the scout. He watched as Gawain slapped him on the back.
"I'm sure glad you're back," he slurred. "I was a miserable scout." Tristan looked at him as if he'd said nothing of sense. He shifted his gaze to Arthur, who nodded.
"We made him the scout while you were gone," the king admitted. He saw a flicker of amusement in Tristan's eyes.
"Tell him about that village where you spied on that girl," Bors said a little loudly. Instantly, the knights broke out in laughter. Arthur smiled, and leaned back in his chair. Bors related the incident, but Arthur found himself just watching Tristan.
The scout had a trace of a smile on his lips, but his eyes were cool and detached. He sat a bit stiffly, and every time Bors or Gawain or Galahad slapped him on the back, Tristan tensed.
So far the conversation—or celebration—had not addressed anything of Tristan's absence or . . . activities while in Rome. Arthur certainly didn't want to bring it up, but his thoughts lingered on it. He knew Tristan was not to blame. If anything, he himself was. Were it not for his idolization of Rome, maybe things would be different. If Rome hadn't forced Tristan's initial servitude. . . . if Rome was full of good men, who would not kidnap and enslave someone already victim to a life of violence and death . . . .
The men exploded into laughter again, spraying drink across the table. Tristan didn't laugh, but the knights were too drunk to notice.
Guinevere walked into the courtyard of the tavern. Arthur straightened up and flashed a smile in her direction. The knights didn't even notice when he left them. He joined her away from the raucous celebration.
"And how is my lord this evening?" she asked, a twinkle in her eyes.
Arthur smiled and turned back to the table of knights.
"Better," he said. "He is home." Guinevere laid a hand on his shoulder, gently massaging it. She stood behind him, watching the scene.
"Does it relieve you?" she asked. "One of your knights is back. It's not Dagonet, nor Lancelot, but it is one of them. Does it help?"
He found himself nodding. He never expected Dagonet or Lancelot to come back—somewhere inside of him he knew that was ridiculous. And Lancelot was his closest friend, his voice of reason. But Tristan was a silent support that he didn't recognize until he was gone.
Now that the scout returned, Arthur appreciated him more. He also wasn't blind to how Tristan was acting. Neither was Guinevere.
"He hasn't adjusted, has he?" she whispered in his ear. Arthur shook his head.
"He has endured much," he said softly. "From what the scouts reported, he was not eager to return."
"Part of that is just Tristan," she objected. Arthur nodded half-heartedly. "But perhaps he has not found himself."
Arthur frowned. "Found himself?"
His wife shrugged. "Help him find his place here. He needs a purpose."
"He's my scout," Arthur said. Tristan's purpose was clear, wasn't it? Guinevere leaned up to him and kissed him on the cheek.
"Then give him something to do."
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Galahad was angry that Arthur was sending him out already. Tristan was a bit surprised at the assignment, especially since he knew there were plenty of woads around who could do it. But he wasn't about to complain.
He left the wall early, just the third morning after he'd arrived. He was to go to a village north of the wall, and see their status. Reports of Saxons caused some alarm throughout the land; they weren't all gone, but neither were they a terrible threat since last year's defeat.
His horse traveled steadily, galloping along the dirt paths etched into the land. Tristan set his attention to the environment. The trees swayed with the breeze. The wind was picking up—a storm, he judged, that'd hit in the evening. He frowned; he'd be drenched.
Interesting, he thought. It bothered him that the rain would make him uncomfortable. A month ago, he had bigger things on his mind. Freedom changed things, he supposed.
The call of a bird made him look up sharply. It was a hawk. It circled above him, and then swooped down at him. Tristan grinned and held out his arm.
"Eh!" he said. The hawk landed on his arm, and he felt the grip of her sharp talons through his tunic. He stroked the bird beneath the beak. "'Bout time you showed up." The hawk almost cocked her head to the side. Tristan huffed. If the hawk could speak, he could almost hear the words—where had he been? What took him so long to return? Tristan thought back to when he'd seen her last. It was when Germanius and his soldiers were caravanning to the ships. Along the way, he'd seen her, following him.
Tristan was glad she was alive. It was something that was the same. His hawk didn't judge him for what he'd done—probably didn't care at all. What did the knights think? He wasn't oblivious to Arthur's concerned looks. The Roman still thought about what he'd done. Did Galahad, Gawain and Bors think about his crimes as well?
The hawk nipped at his hand and cocked her head to the side, eyeing him. Tristan raised an eyebrow. She nipped at him again.
"Go," he said, and then he raised his arm for her to take flight. She floated in the air above him as he continued to the village.
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He was close to the village, that he knew. It was too quiet though. His hawk eagerly flew ahead for him. Tristan was grateful for it—he kept trying to listen, but he felt like it wasn't enough.
He was rusty. He hoped that didn't extend to using his sword, or throwing daggers—well, he wasn't too worried about that. He had plenty of practice in Rome.
The hawk squawked above him, a warning cry. Tristan reached for his sword. Adrenaline surged through him, which was another signal that something was—
A scream permeated the air. Tristan turned his mount sharply to the source of the scream. Ahead, beyond the trees and where the land opened to a clearing, were tattered remnants of a hut. And beyond it was a smoldering fire, where three men held swords at the throats of two villagers.
He kicked his horse a little harshly, but it got him moving quickly. Tristan let out a roar, drawing the men's attention. They were Saxons, judging by their size and their weaponry. One of them hit a villager over the head and turned to Tristan.
The villager fell to the ground, and the other one—a young girl—screamed. Tristan gripped the hilt of his sword tight and swung it over his head. He brought it down on the first Saxon, and the head split like a melon.
The second Saxon ran towards him, but stopped and readied himself. Tristan lunged forward in his saddle, his sword ahead and about to impale him, but suddenly the Saxon spun and hit Tristan in the back with the side of a crossbow. It sent Tristan off balance, even more so when his horse skidded to a stop.
Tristan fell to the side. The impact rolled him and he landed on his back. His hair covered his eyes. Tristan swatted the braids aside and started to stand when the two Saxons converged on him.
He kicked one's feet out from under him, and that's when he noticed at least a dozen more behind the other Saxon. They formed ranks behind the Saxon. Their weapons were drawn and by the looks on their faces, Tristan knew he didn't stand a chance.
Slowly, he got to his feet anyway.