And Now
They'd managed to find the remaining Saxons later that day, and it was invigorating. Arthur hated to admit that killing felt so good, but with such an enemy, who had threatened his knights and his country, he could not help it.
They rode back quickly to Hadrian's Wall. Life at the wall bustled as if nothing had happened, although Arthur could see the relieved look on Vanora's face as she waited with her kids for Bors. Guinevere too waited, and her face glowed when she saw him.
She hugged him tight. Arthur smelled her hair. No matter what the season, it always smelled of flowers. He loved it.
"You're back," she stated. Arthur smiled.
"How are things here?" he asked as they walked arm in arm. Guinevere nodded at the girl that Tristan brought. Jaelynn stood by the brood of kids, smiling more reservedly than the others.
"Vanora has agreed to take in Jaelynn," the queen said. "She will adjust, I think. It's been less than a day, and she already chatters with the other girls."
Arthur smiled. He was relieved that she might move beyond the grief of her parents' death. Just then, the girl looked and saw him. She moved away from the hoard surrounding Bors and went to the king.
As soon as she reached him, she faltered. Her eyes found the ground, and Arthur could feel her uneasiness. Gawain just then came up to them, and that only seemed to make the girl more nervous.
"Jaelynn, isn't it?" Arthur asked by way of greeting. It broke the ice enough that the girl nodded.
"Yes, sire," she said. She opened her mouth, and then quickly shut it. Arthur smiled again.
"What do you wish to ask?" The girl was adorable, especially since Vanora had her bathed and her hair combed. Her brown hair was now light and wavy, and her eyes were large with wonderment. She swallowed visibly and gathered her courage.
"Is Tristan all right?" she asked. Arthur tilted his head to the side and glanced at Gawain. Why would she ask— "Did his wound stop bleeding?"
Gawain's eyes lit with angry fire, probably a reflection of the concern in Arthur's. Jaelynn shrank back.
"He was wounded?" Arthur asked. Jaelynn nodded.
"He was shot with a crossbow."
Arthur looked sharply to Gawain, and nodded for him to go. Gawain shot out of the open area and through the town.
Jaelynn shrank back again at their reactions.
"It is all right, Jaelynn," Arthur said. "We didn't know he was injured, but we'll take care of him."
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A rush of air chilled Tristan. He groaned and reached for a blanket to pull over himself.
"Tristan!"
He bolted upright at the shout, and immediately reached for his sword. Before he could get to it, Gawain stood before him and pushed him back so he lay on his bed.
"You idiot!" Gawain shouted. "Why didn't you tell us you were injured?"
Tristan still felt disoriented. Even so, his muscles were tense, ready to fight.
"Gawain?" he clarified.
"Have you seen a healer?"
Suddenly the knight was prodding at Tristan's wound. The pain caught up with him. He groaned and pulled away.
"I didn't think so," Gawain said. "Do you have a death wish? Stupid scout . . ." Tristan shut his eyes and tried to ignore Gawain's whining. He just wanted to sleep.
"Go away," he mumbled. His head hurt again, and he felt stiff and sore all over.
"You're bruised, cut up and you have a hole in your chest," Gawain persisted. "I'm getting a healer."
"Make sure it's a silent one," Tristan said at the knight's back. Before he shut his eyes again, he saw Gawain glare at him.
Tristan smiled and fell back asleep.
When he awoke again, Jaelynn was at his side and Gawain stood leaning against the wall behind her. Judging by the light, it must have been morning. He started to sit up when he felt the cloth on his chest. He looked down to see fresh bandages and not as much dirt that he remembered from his journey. He also saw several bruises and shallow cuts.
"You've looked better," Gawain said with a chuckle. Tristan grunted. He pushed himself back so he leaned while sitting up.
"The Saxons?" Tristan asked. Gawain just smiled. It was answer enough. He turned his gaze to Jaelynn. "You okay?"
The girl nodded. "They were mad that you didn't tell them you were hurt."
Tristan grunted at that too. "So you told them."
She looked to the floor. Gawain shot him a look, and Tristan gave a huff of laughter.
"It's all right."
Jaelynn looked up at him with hopeful eyes. A knock at the door drew all their gazes. Vanora peaked in.
"Come, Jaelynn," she said, half-scolding. She smiled at Tristan. "We're glad you're back—again."
Jaelynn stood and as soon as Vanora could grab her arm, both females disappeared.
"I think she's a bit taken with you," Gawain said.
"Vanora?"
Mirthful laughter shone in Gawain's eyes. "Jaelynn." Tristan cleared his throat and adjusted his position. "She keeps asking about you."
"Yeah, well, we survived a camp of Saxons together," he tried to defend nonchalantly. He hoped the girl didn't fancy him. That would just be awkward, especially since he was at least fifteen years older than she.
"She blushes every time your name is mentioned," Gawain added. Tristan rolled his eyes.
"Are you here to annoy me?"
Gawain laughed. "No. But it serves you right. You scared all of us."
Tristan shrugged that off with a wince. Pain flared in his chest. "Wouldn't be the first time."
"No," the knight agreed too quickly. "You did pretty good. There wasn't much left of the Saxons." Gawain studied the scout. Tristan hated the scrutiny, but he knew Gawain was here for a reason. He waited. "If you'd died . . . "
Tristan kept his eyes on his chest. He pretended to study the bandaging and ignored Gawain as best he could.
"I can't speak for the others," Gawain started again. "But I wouldn't want you dying and thinking I hated you for what happened to you in Rome. Before you left to scout the Saxons, I didn't have time to tell you that."
He winced before he could hide it. The mention of Rome reminded him of almost killing Gawain in the middle of that night, and the rest of Gawain's words sounded an awful lot like pity.
Gawain went for the door. "Rest. If you feel up to it tonight, join us at the tavern."
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Galahad smacked away the froth on his lips and shot his best seductive look to a barmaid. She smiled briefly at him, and turned to another table. Galahad shrugged. Some things never changed.
The other knights were occupied with something or other. Galahad hadn't seen them since he returned from killing the Saxons. The youngest knight took a nap, ate some food and now enjoyed his nightly ritual getting imbibed. From somewhere he couldn't pinpoint, a woman sang, and men laughed.
Someone plopped down next to him. It took him a moment to turn his head and see who. Gawain.
And Tristan. He saw the scout wince as he sat. Seeing the scout, here and in the flesh, brought a bad taste to his mouth. Galahad sobered up a little bit, knowing it couldn't be that way. Shouldn't. Whatever happened, happened. As long as Tristan didn't continue to be the . . . way he was in Rome, Galahad could accept him.
Can't I? But Tristan didn't seem to reserve such barbarianism for Rome. He saw the remains of the Saxons—for an injured man, he certainly killed his share. Isn't that good? Otherwise he'd be dead.
Gawain slapped Galahad on the back and stood. He made his way to the barmaids to get some drinks. Galahad swallowed. He hadn't wanted to be left with Tristan.
He glanced at the scout. Tristan rubbed his side. After a few seconds, he looked at Galahad through his messy braids covering his face. Galahad's eyes shot towards a new direction. He scowled when he heard the scout snicker.
"Want me to move?" Tristan asked, but not sincerely. Galahad scowled harder and sighed, frustrated.
"Why do you always torment me?" the youngest knight shot back.
"Easy target."
Galahad glared at Tristan, but the scout merely grinned before grabbing Galahad's mug and taking a long sip. Galahad shook his head.
"Thinking?" Tristan said next. Never in all the years he'd known the man had Tristan said so much—or initiated a conversation. Galahad stared dumbly at the scout. Tristan just stared back, waiting. Several moments passed before he found his voice.
"Yeah."
Tristan nodded and drank some more. Galahad cleared his mind and throat.
"I heard you're hurt," he said. "Feeling any better?" Tristan's mouth upturned to a smirk.
"That's not what you were going to ask."
Stupid scout! Or not so stupid, which aggravated Galahad. He tried to play off Tristan's words, but then he felt that vapid stare on him again.
"Fine," Galahad said, taking his mug from Tristan and slamming it to the table. "I'm not comfortable around you. You've always enjoyed killing, Woad, Saxon or Roman, and now you're back from Rome where you were an assassin, and you're back from a personal slaughtering trip. And I don't like it!"
He snatched his drink up quickly as he instantly wondered why he admitted all that. He was trying to accept Tristan, wasn't he? Yeah, but then he kept egging me on. Even now, the scout had a hint of a grin on his face. Galahad glared at him, but suddenly froze. In Tristan's eyes was the barest semblance of . . . sorrow?
"I don't blame you," Tristan said. And that was it. For what? He voiced the question, perplexed. "For not liking me."
Galahad stared. "I—I don't not like you. I … I don't like what you do." Right? Tristan didn't reply. His eyes found something across the tavern that kept his interest, but Galahad knew him well enough to know he was still paying attention to the here and now. The young knight sighed.
"Did you . . . enjoy it?" Galahad asked. He expected his hesitation to draw a smirk or haughty look from Tristan, but the scout shifted his gaze to the ground. Galahad wondered if he knew what he meant. "I mean, Rome, and what you did."
Was he crossing a line now? He'd always accused the scout of blood lust. He'd seen it hundreds of times in battle. But Tristan eventually shook his head.
"Killing like that is different than battle," he said. "No honor."
Honor? That's what Tristan fought for? Somehow that startled Galahad. He always assumed it was the thrill of ending life. It made Galahad shudder just thinking about it.
But it gave him new respect for the scout.
"Was it hard?" he asked.
Tristan blinked. His attention went back to the tavern's activity. Gawain was coming back, but stopped to flirt with a girl.
"No," Tristan said softly. Galahad swallowed dryly. It wasn't the answer he wanted, nor expected, but he knew the scout wasn't boasting. Remorse oozed from the man's voice. Galahad glanced at his half-full mug, and slid it across the table to Tristan. The scout caught it, then looked to the young knight.
"Drink up," he said with a nod to Gawain. "There's more coming." A small smile crept onto the scout's face, and he nodded back. As he drained the last of the mug, Galahad felt more at ease.
Neither had said much, but it was enough for now. They waited for Gawain to rejoin them and then drank the night away.
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Morning came a little too early, but Tristan ignored the slight headache and got up anyway. It was peaceful this early, with few of the villagers awake. As he walked down to the stables, the smell of fresh bread reached his nose. The fine, light powder of flour blew in the air, near the baker. He ducked his head in, grabbed a small loaf of bread and tossed a coin in the general direction of the baker.
He chewed slowly as he surveyed the town. It'd grown a lot over the last year. He saw new homes, new areas where business thrived during the day, and new fields in the distance.
He exhaled, and noticed a white puff of air against the cold morning. It would warm up later, but for now, he ate another chunk of bread and crossed his arms. Tristan walked to the stables. As he neared it, he heard the flutter of wings above him. He looked up, seeing his hawk. He quirked a slight grin and tossed the rest of his bread in the air. The hawk saw it keenly, and swooped down to catch it before it could even start to fall. Tristan grinned again and went into the stables.
The smell of hay filled his senses next, that and horses. His own horse tilted its head when it saw him. He didn't know the horse's name—he'd conveniently taken ownership of it when he got to Britain. The horse knew to respond whenever Tristan said, "Eh!" and that was good enough for now. The animal had been groomed and chewed happily on some food. Tristan stroked the horse's neck and patted it.
He climbed up on the pile of hay and then up to the rafters of the stable. His movements were gingerly done, with manageable but sharp pains tugging at his chest. Once situated, he removed his sword. It was dirty, and he clenched his jaw at the sight of a chip in the metal.
At least you have it. He could thank Jaelynn for that. He halted as he thought of the girl, and what Gawain had said. He hoped the girl didn't fancy him. It was something he just didn't want to deal with. Maybe if she were at least ten years older . . .
He scowled at his sword and then removed a rag from his coat. He started to clean the blade, wiping it length-wise first, and then slowly polishing it in circles over the surface. Blood and dirt slowly dissipated, except for a few stubborn clumps. With a clean section of the rag, he dabbed it against his tongue and then polished the blade some more.
His attention was so fixed on his sword that he didn't notice Arthur until the king stepped into the stables. Arthur didn't notice him though. He looked around as if to ensure he was alone. Then he leaned against a stall and bowed his head.
Tristan watched for several moments before turning back to his sword. He let his movements be larger, making his clothes rustle enough that Arthur gasped.
"Tristan!"
He turned to face the king from his rafter. He nodded and continued cleaning his sword. From the corner of his eye, he saw Arthur open his mouth, shut it, try again, and shut it again. The king had that look on his face—the sad, pitiable, I-don't-know-what-to-say look. Tristan knew what was coming, and he almost sighed aloud. He'd had enough sensitive, heartfelt talks over the last two days. He didn't really want another.
But Arthur bowed his head again, just for a moment yet long enough that Tristan wondered if he offered up a prayer.
"I've wanted to speak with you for some time," he began. Tristan almost groaned. "I feel I am to blame for all you have endured."
"Don't trouble yourself," Tristan said quickly. He moved towards the hay and lowered himself to the ground gently. Arthur shook his head as Tristan took a few steps to face the king.
"My faith in Rome . . ." Arthur's eyes couldn't look at him directly. Arthur was normally so composed, but maybe catching him off guard, so obviously before he thought through this . . . Tristan felt sorry for him. "I shouldn't have sent you alone." He'd jumped to more recent events. Tristan wondered what thoughts crossed the king's mind between his voiced words.
Suddenly he remembered how he felt when he was in Rome. When he killed Germanius, with no remorse or thought but vindication, right in front of Decia. And unknowingly with Arthur watching. How ashamed he felt, like when the soldiers apprehended him when he snuck into their quarters in Rome. How alienated he felt . . . he could have sworn Arthur would never understand. And yet here they were, with Arthur nearly apologizing.
Tristan laughed. Arthur looked up sharply.
"Funny," he said. "I thought you all wouldn't want me back." The king stared for several moments until his words sunk in.
"Tristan, we never--we tried to find you. Life was incomplete, knowing that you weren't around. It was as if you disappeared, and--" Arthur suddenly choked on his words. Looking at his eyes, Tristan saw they were moist. The scout sighed.
"What's happened, happened," Tristan said. "I don't blame anyone but me for what I did. And for anything that was done to me, well… I only blame Germanius." He grinned. "And he's dead."
Arthur still stared. And then suddenly, he laughed. His shoulders shook with relief and emotion. He looked to the scout
"I'm glad you're back." Arthur straightened his posture, regaining his sense of dignity and presence. "More than you know." He clapped Tristan on the shoulder, and left the stables.
As soon as he left, Tristan groaned at the pain Arthur's move had made to his chest. He clutched the side of his chest and sat back against the hay. He held up his sword to the streams of morning light that began to pour in.
Good enough.
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A week had gone by before he realized it. What was sad was that Tristan hadn't really done anything the whole time. His chest was healed enough now, though. At least he could train again.
The villagers--Britons, Woads, former Romans, whatever—lived peacefully enough. They recognized Tristan now. As he walked through the growing town, nods were thrown in his direction. He nodded back, never stopping to chat. He'd been through a lot, but he hadn't changed that much.
His clean sword felt slightly heavy in his hands, a sure sign that he was out of practice. Tristan stretched his side and then his arms before swinging the blade once above his head. It tugged at the healing wound, but not more than he could bear.
Good, he thought. A frigid breeze swept through him, making his grip tighten on the sword and his muscles spasm slightly. He shook it off and readied himself.
Suddenly he launched an attack. No one was around, but he fought invisible foes. Tristan parried and then brought his sword above his head to block a blow. He pivoted around and slashed down. It would have cut nicely into an enemy's back.
He turned quickly and continued his battle. His feet danced over the dirt. Slowly, Tristan shut his eyes, and let natural instinct take over. His mind wandered.
Germanius was cut down again, and then Asellio. Not close-range murders, but honorable combat. In Tristan's mind, the two old men were actually good fighters, enough that Tristan felt proud about defeating them. He saw Ortegius, and quickly dispatched him. No sense wasting time or skill on that one.
The sound of someone shrieking near him startled Tristan out of his practice battle. His eyes shot open. His sword arm had carried past a figure before him, the arc of his swing just inches from her body.
Jaelynn. She stood in front of him, her eyes wide.
Tristan quickly lowered his sword.
"You okay?" he asked quickly. She just nodded, but her face was white. You almost killed her. Or at least scared her near death. His eyes traveled over her body, making sure she was okay. He saw a distinct cut to the stomach of her dress.
He dropped his sword like a hot iron and went to her. His hands probed at the cut before he realized what it looked like. Jaelynn froze, but Tristan's eyes were glued to the torn fabric of her dress and—
He sighed in relief. No blood, no sliced flesh.
Then he froze. His fingertips stiffened just over her skin. Quickly, he stepped away.
"Sorry." He cleared his throat and tried to block out Gawain's words again. "What are you doing out here?"
Jaelynn crossed her arms over her ripped dress and shrugged. She didn't say anything, which surprised Tristan. Now what? Since the Saxon camp, he hadn't really spoken with Jaelynn. He saw her with Vanora's kids during the week, but not much else. I never thanked her. Now was as good a time as any.
"You're very brave," he blurted out. It sounded a bit condescending, like he was speaking to a child. Jaelynn was 12 or 13, and she shifted uncomfortably at his words. Tristan grimaced and tried again. "You should have run away from the camp. I thought you would."
She cocked her head to the side, wondering where he was going.
"They would have killed you," she said hesitantly. He nodded.
"But they didn't," he filled in, "'cause you came back." She curled her toes in her shoes and fidgeted a bit. Her brown hair bounced around her pale face. It made him smile, but he hid it. "Do you have any experience healing?"
She looked up sharply.
"I'm 13," she said, as if that was answer enough. Tristan nodded it off.
"You handled the bolt well enough. I thought you might have been taught." She bristled at that, and Tristan saw the tugs of a proud smile. "You could learn, if you want." He tried not to show that he noticed her delight. He picked up his sword and sheathed it in the scabbard on his back. When he looked again, Jaelynn was staring at his movement.
He saw the fascination, admiration and infatuation. Her eyes lit up, and he saw that shy smile again. He sighed quietly to himself. Hopefully she would grow out of this.
"Go on home," he said. "Vanora'll be looking for you." She nodded despite a quirk of a disappointed look on her lips, and quickly she ran away. She glanced back at him.
Tristan sighed again. He didn't really thank her, and he didn't really drop any hints to give up her young fantasy.
He shrugged. He had other things to do for now and other people to see.
And he had plenty of days ahead for it all.
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a/n: And that would be the ending. I struggle with endings the most. I want to say a lot and have a lot resolved but without it being too neat or cheesy. Hopefully you all liked this. Please let me know—reviews are welcome 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Thanks for reading and your support!
DFerveiro