A/N: This is a Tris-centric episode and it is depressing I suppose. It seems as if when I'm in this mode (depressed with much too little sleep) he pops into my head. I find it rather disturbing actually.
Anyway, I just wrote this and posted it the same night/morning I've written it and it may be subject to change. Beware, our beloved scout does die as he did in the movie. I'm sorry, but it was the movie-makers that did it. This right here is the face of innocence... Stop snickering.
A/N #2: This, of course, is the revised version of this story, as I have said I might do. Anyhow, wanted to give Tris and Sian a little more background. Hope you like this new one, and if ya don't let me know and I'll put the other back up.
Usual disclaimers apply, because if they didn't those poor knights would be mine. Yes, all of them.
This is the end. He knew it was. The end always comes likes this; swift and cruel, cold and implacable, like a winter blizzard there is no mercy. But when had there ever been mercy? These men did not know the meaning of the word. He was bitter, he knew that. But hadn't he been given every cause to be? One did not survive this hell blithely. No, it was either drink and brotherhood or drink and solitude. He had chosen the latter. Bitter Tristan, always choosing the dark. Was there no light in his soul? Yes, he defied quietly in the silence of his caged mind. There was light and he cherished it, like a mother cherished its child. And he guarded it as jealously as a wolf did its prey. Many memories had faded, but these still burned bright, like the beacon star in the north, they burned on. Even here, in this moment they were there. His greatest love, his greatest tragedy.
His mother screamed, a high pitched keening sound of agony. The sound lasted for a long time, echoing out into the night's stillness like a wolf's lonely call. The boy squeezed his eyes closed and tried not to feel the pain resonate in his bones. His father was inside, comforting a pain that really could not be comforted. He was glad that at least the midwives had let him in. He wasn't allowed. He was male and birthing was strictly female. But Father had been allowed entrance and all knew what that meant. The villagers knew. They stood around the central fire, awkwardly watching the birthing hut. Some of the mothers had come and tried to comfort him, but what comfort could you give a child when their mother was dying giving birth to your first sibling? They had none and he didn't have the grace right now to say thank you for their efforts.
Suddenly Eibhlin, one of the midwives, stepped out of the hut. Her face was drawn and pale, her thickly lined face an ode to sorrow. "She wants to see ye, boy," she said gently.
He knew what this meant and he squeezed his dark eyes closed for a moment and then he rose, not resisting this last chance to say good-bye to his mother.
She was lying atop the cot, soaked in sweat and he could not tell if she was crying or not. His father sat at her side, clasping a pale hand in his with brow rested against their joined fingers, shoulders shaking in grief. One of the midwives was wiping sweat from the dying woman's face. He glanced around the room, his astute eyes as ever taking everything in, as he went to his mother's side. One of the young mothers, Grainne, held a wrapped bundle in her arms and he wondered numbly if his sibling was alive.
He knelt next to the cot and his mother ran her fingers weakly through his tussled hair, her mouth trembling with suppressed tears. "I'm so sorry, my beautiful boy," she whispered softly, her voice thick.
He felt the tears spring to his eyes and one fell upon the hand he now held to his cheek. "It's not true," he whispered fiercely. "You're not going away."
Her tears came then and she closed her eyes as she shook. Eibhlin placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Come, boy, let your mother have some peace," she said gently.
He shook her off roughly. "No! I'm not leaving." He refused stubbornly.
"Let him be, Nell." His mother's voice came weakly. She turned to face her son, tears controlled. "I want you to do something for me, my son." Her voice was fading, weakening as the great darkness called her name alluringly from behind the veil.
"Anything," he promised.
She smiled softly at him. "My loyal son," she whispered lovingly. "What a place the world would be if every mother had a son as good as you." She swallowed, whether against dryness or tears no one knew. When she spoke again her voice was stronger, determined. "I want you to take care of your sister. She lives yet. Your father cannot take care of her now and I want no other to have her. She is yours now, Tristan. Name her and love her."
He sobbed then, an eight year old boy's sob of grief for one dearly loved. "Don't leave me, momma," he pleaded through his tears.
Her hand suddenly strong cupped his chin and lifted his head to look at her. "I will never leave you, my son. No matter what I will always be here. I'm in your heart, Tristan, and that will always be yours. But most of all, I'm in your little sister. I'm dying so I could give her life, like I almost did when I gave you yours. Love her like I love her because she is the rest of me. Love her, Tristan. Love her for me."
He smiled a little through his tears, his grief somehow lessened. "I will, momma, I promise."
She smiled and then the light started fading from her eyes and her hand fell from his face. "That's it, my son. Now go, my boy. I don't want you to see this." Her eyes moved to the girl holding her daughter. "Grainne, give him the baby." The young woman hesitated. "Do it. He will take good care of her."
The woman so addressed moved uncertainly forward with the bundle and the young boy heard the gurgling of a newborn babe. He rose slowly to his feet, with arms held out and he watched as his new sister was placed carefully in his arms. He couldn't believe how light she was, like a sack of goose feathers. He looked down at the little face staring up at him from the soft cloth blanket she was wrapped in. Her already large eyes were a deep blue, like a clean freshwater lake. He stared at her, at the chubby face, and wondered where his mother lay in her little body.
"Come." It was Grainne that was speaking and he looked up into her pretty face. "Your mother wants you to leave now."
He nodded numbly, casting one look back where his mother held tightly to her husband's hand as her body shook with sobs. He turned away again, feeling hollow inside. The weight in his arms was as heavy as an anvil, a mountain of responsibility he did not know if his shoulders could carry.
The members of his village watched him as he emerged from the dim hut, eyes staring, offering grief and sympathy for they knew what it meant for him to leave with the baby in his arms. He ignored them as he found his earlier seat, adjusting his burden carefully, making sure she was wrapped tight. He knew a baby could die easily if exposed to the cold.
He cast his eyes down to stare at his sister. He felt somehow he should recognize the little round face, but he found it a stranger to him. "Who are you that took my mother?" He asked the baby softly.
The cloudy blue eyes stared up at him and he would wonder later if it was just his fancy that had seen the understanding in their depths. A small hand wriggled itself from the blanket and the fingers tried to grasp at a hanging braid. He smiled and placed a finger in its stead. The little hand grasped it, surprisingly strong and something in him made him wonder where that strength came from.
"She looks like your mother did when she was a babe," a voice murmured from over his shoulder.
He looked up sharply, startled. It was Pallas, the old story teller, a man so old many of his teeth had fallen away. He was staring down over the boy's shoulder and staring with misty eyes at the babe.
"How do you know?" The words came harsh from a grief torn body.
The old man took no note of his tone and merely smiled, his snow white hair like goose down around his craggy face. "I am old enough to have seen every member of this village as babes," he responded, not unkindly. "She had those blue eyes, true blue that would remain all her life. This baby has the same." His hand reached down and pushed the fabric a little away from the baby's face, revealing a small pink ear and that craggy smile appeared again, wider than before. "She even has the same mark."
The boy looked at what the old man revealed and saw a small brown mark in the curve of the seashell ear. The memory of seeing that same mark on his mother floated into his mind and he felt the tears arise again as he stared at the babe in his arms. "Love her like I love her because she is the rest of me." The tears overflowed from his eyes as his hollowed body was filled with the loss of his mother. The droplets fell onto the little girl's cheeks and it seemed as if she cried with him and he felt the love his mother had asked of him flow for her. "Love her, Tristan. Love her for me." And he did. The love he could no longer give to his mother he passed to the daughter. He held her close to him and let fall the grief he could no longer contain.
And then he heard the sharp keening erupt from the hut and he doubled over, feeling his mother's soul fly into the sky. Around him the men and women took up the death song, keening their grief for one of their own to their gods, the boy sitting by the fire forgotten.
He held her, rocking back and forth, crooning softly for a boy was not supposed to cry. The baby watched him, still holding fast to his finger. His tears still fell, dropping upon the upturned face. He freed his hand to wipe away the moisture from the soft skin before clearing his own eyes. Then his hand stroked the soft cheek.
"I will love you," he promised as the song continued behind him. "I will love and I will always protect you. Forever I'll look out for you." And he realized he had not named her as his mother had asked. And without thought it came to him and he understood why his mother had entrusted him with this sacred task. "Sian." And he knew it was true. A gracious gift.
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"Sian! Sian, come back here!" The exasperated boy chased after the little girl ahead of hi, no more than five years old, yet she could run like a doe. And for some reason he could not yet figure out she had her arms spread out at her sides and was waving them up and down. "Sian!" He yelled again. She only giggled and kept running. He felt the irritation rise within him and picked up his pace, his longer legs carrying him swiftly through the tall grass and to the girl. Still running, he caught her up from behind and promptly tumbled to the ground when she tried to squiggle free. He held on, rolling to prevent hurting her and when they finally came to a halt, she was atop him, sitting on his chest and giggling wildly, her little cherubs face pink..
He spat grass and dirt out of his mouth. "Happy now?" He asked irritably. He didn't have time for these childish games. In another two years he would reach manhood and with that came the Romans and his father wanted him to be well equipped to handle the life they would thrust upon him. He had been training relentlessly for weeks now already and on top of that he still had his duties to Sian and he was tired. And here he was chasing her around the countryside when he should be training!
She only giggled to his angry question and held her arms out again as if she was trying to embrace the whole world and began waving them up and down. He stared up at her, curious as to what it was she was trying to do. Sian had always been a bit different, somewhat ethereal, but this was stranger than that.
"What are you doing, Sian?" He asked slowly.
She grinned, revealing a missing tooth at the corner of her mouth. "I'm trying to fly like a bird," she pronounced.
He laughed. It was sudden and unexpected and all that pent up irritation seemed to have disappeared. "You're trying to fly?" His tone was teasing.
She nodded her head vigorously. "Cantha said that if I flapped my arms like a bird I can fly," she informed him knowledgeably. Then she frowned. "But it's not working." Her little chubby face was turned down in a pout.
He felt a small, brief sour thought directed at the ever helpful Cantha then rose to his feet, taking the little girl with him. "Well, seeing as you're still a chick, I had best help you," he said lightly.
"How you gonna help?" She asked, grumpily doubtful.
He grinned at her tone. "Sit still and you'll see." He tangled one hand in the back of her shirt, adjusting it carefully so it would not strangle her, and held the band of her breeches in the other. Then holding his arms out with their little burden he slowly began to turn in a tight circle. As he gained momentum her little body began to float in the air. He laughed as he heard her gurgles of pleasure, feeling the freeness in his own soul.
Long moments later he collapsed exhausted to the ground with Sian atop him again, lying on her back on his chest. He was gasping desperately for air and she really wasn't helping by being on his chest, but he didn't have the heart to move her from her contented position.
"Tristan?" She said after a few moments of silence.
"Yes, Sian?" He responded, still staring up at the soft azure of the sky above him, like a soft thin sheet on a warm summer day.
"Can we always fly together?"
He smiled. "Yes, we'll always fly together, my little bird."
She grinned at the name and they stay out there all the rest of the day until their father called them in for supper. And she would always remain his little bird.
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"Doesn't that hurt?" The question came from the little girl sitting cross-legged on the grass beside the mat where the boy and man sat.
Tristan didn't move his head, only his eyes to glance at the five year old with flyaway hair and large blue eyes. His mouth twitched but he didn't smile. He couldn't at the moment. He was thirteen, of an age to be a man now and his father was marking him as such in the way of their tribe. Two tattoos were being etched into his skin, one on either cheekbone. "Aye, but all aging is painful."
His father snorted, an amused expression on his face and the boy's eyes went to him, studying in that way of his. He was a man old before his time, his hair still thick but iron gray, face cut deep by a hard life. He had aged much since his wife died five years ago and the grief had never left him. And the girl sitting but a few feet away never ceased to remind hi of the woman he had held so dear..
"And what would you know of aging, boy?" He asked with good humor. "You have all of thirteen summers under your belt." He was sliding a long and thin bone needle, covered in black dye, just under the skin of his son's cheek. It was a highly painful procedure that took several sittings to accomplish. This was the final one, the finishing touches for the marks that would last forever. He was highly specialized and skillful in his art, countless generations manifested in him. He performed all the markings for the village boys, a tradition passed down from son to son, a sacred and holy art. Forever now Tristan would be marked as man and with it all the responsibilities that came with that title. His would be different though. He had been marked by the Romans long ago to be taken away and forced into service. Tristan thought much about that looming day when he'd be taken now that he was of age. He wondered when the exact day would be, when he'd be torn away from his family, if he would live to see them again. But most of all he wondered about Sian. Who would take care of her when he was gone, if he died? His father? Yes, he'd provide for her, find her a good husband when she was of age, but love her? His father could not do that. There was too much pain, too much of his dead wife in that innocent little face. He could barely stand to look at her as it was. The little girl seemed to sense it for she never pressed her presence on her father, never asked him for anything. Instead she went to Tristan, to the one who loved her unconditionally, cared for her in every way he could. He mended her hurts, chased away the demons in her sleep, taught her the games of the village kids. He was always there, no matter what. 'But who will love you when I'm gone?' He wondered. He never had an answer.
Later that day after the markings were done he had taken a walk with Sian. He had sensed something was on her little mind and knew she always liked to tell him her problems. He supposed it was part of their closeness, that inexplicable bond that they seemed to share with each other. Everyone agreed it was strange, everyone agreed it was unusual, but most of all everyone agreed that it was unbreakable.
Now they lay on the grass, her pale blond head rested on his arm as they stared up at the sky, watching a few bunny clouds bounce around the vast expanse of blue. She was braiding grass stocks together and he waited patiently for her to speak.
"Tristan?" She finally asked.
He didn't move to look at her. "Hmm?"
"Can I go with you when you leave with the redcloaks?" She asked, twisting her head to stare up into her big brother's face.
He looked down at her now, slightly startled at the fact that her question ran so close along the lines his thoughts had been on earlier. But this had happened before and occasionally he wondered how deep and powerful this bond must be for them to feel each others emotions, to read each others thoughts. "No, Sian," he finally answered. "You cannot go with me."
The grass stocks lay forgotten on her chest now as she watched him sadly. "Why not?" There were tears in her voice.
He leaned on one elbow and his hair fell across his face. "Because where I'll be going is too dangerous for you," he answered calmly enough.
The tears welled over now. "But then won't it be too dangerous for you, Tristan?" Her little voice was earnest.
He smiled softly. "I'm a boy, Sian. I'm bigger and stronger than you." He tugged a little bit of her hair in an effort to lighten her dark mood. "Besides, father and the other men have taught me well. I have generations of knights in me."
She smiled bravely through her tears but he could still feel something was bothering her. Presently she came out with it, twirling the stocks again. "Will you forget me, Tristan?"
And he understood with an aching heart that this was the root of her sorrow. Their bond was a double-edged sword, giving them the world when together, and tearing them apart when separated. He wrapped his arm around her thin little shoulders and pulled her close to him. "I could never forget you, Sian. You're my sister, the same flesh and blood, but most of all you are mother's last gift." She looked up at that and he smiled at her little face. "I'll always have you with me, Sian," he told her gently. "Here in my heart and you will always have me there as well, little one." He placed a kiss on her brow. "My little bird," he told her softly and he knew she smiled.
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The hut was dim and smelled of death. It always smelled this way now. Father was gone, died just last week, and still the stench of death lingered, like smoke cast from wet boughs lit ablaze too early. There was no fire here though, only the extinguishing.
A hand touched his cheek and he looked up, haunted eyes staring into the woman's face. "They are come and she will not last," the healer whispered gently.
The tears touched his eyes and he turned away, back to the girl prone upon the bed, fever ravaging her tiny body, eating away at the thin flesh. As it had done to his father and she was so small. "They are come and she will not last." The words echoed in his ravaged soul and he knew them to be true. He only had moments before he would be taken away. Taken away forever and not to see her face again. He never would anyway.
Her head lolled to the side and those too large eyes opened in a glaze of fever. "Tristan?" She whimpered.
His heart bled, a hundred thousand drops for the pain he could not share with her, the same pain he'd been unable to share with their father. "I am here, Sian," he murmured brokenly, taking her little white hand in his. "I am always here." He pressed the little hand to the side of his face and held back his grief. "I will always be here."
She smiled through her fever and then a spasm wracked her little body and he held her shoulders tightly, pressing her to the bed until the fit left. There was bloody spittle on her mouth and the rasping of her breath was worse. No, she would not last. Outside he heard the Romans, demanding the boy they would take away. He heard some one begin to explain and ceased to care. He eased himself onto the pallet, next to his baby sister as the healer watched, a hand pressed to her mouth to try and hold back the tears.
Tristan murmured to the little girl, large hand caressing the side of her pale face burning with fever. She coughed and he felt a moan issued against his chest. He pressed his face to her sweat sodden hair and let a few of his tears mingle in the pale depths.
"Tristan?" She moaned again.
"Yes, my little bird?" He inquired softly.
Her little fingers clutched in his shirt as another spasm claimed her. "Papa is calling my name." Her frail voice was distant, coming across a plain he could not cross.
He pressed her face tightly to his shoulder as he heard some one barge into the hut, tears flowing freely from his eyes. She coughed again and he let his world fall away. "Then you should go to him," he whispered tightly, his throat clogged.
Her suddenly clear eyes found his. "Will you be here when I get back?" She asked, and he smiled through his tears.
"I will always wait for you, my little bird," he promised brokenly.
She smiled and tucked her head under his chin and then another coughing spell claimed her, and she didn't move again. And Tristan knew she had followed their father's call to a home he would have to wait until joining.
The Romans dragged him from the bed, from the little body that lay limply on the coverlets. And he screamed as the pain tore through him, as he watched the warmth leave the last of his family. He screamed for the fact that he would never be able to see her lain in the ground, mourned by the last of her family, as it should be. And then he felt the rage, the cool hard anger that made him lash out, striking an officer in the face. Another responded with the butt of his sword against his skull and then there was sweet oblivion.
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His greatest love, his greatest tragedy. Sian. She still shone so bright and clear in his beleaguered heart. The last one to touch it's hollow depths. He had never cared for anyone like he had for her again. He couldn't. One heart could only take so many blows and the last had nearly killed him. But he had endured, living on the memories left to him. These were the bright rays of his hope, his guiding star on a moonless night. So many moonless nights, but she was there, guiding his way. My little bird.
Oh, to the gods he had so rarely worshipped it was all to be done now. He had danced well all his life, better than many and none could ask more of him. But the foe he fought this day, this end of days, had been the better dancer. As it should be. There was no other way he wished to die, dancing the dance, the flame of life and then the quick extinguishing, like the snuffing of a candle. He could not ask for more, not even mercy. But it was to be granted to him, a swift end instead of one lying upon the field, silently begging. A bloody smile tinged his mouth as he stared to the sky and saw her soaring so high.
My little bird.
And then it was done and he was home, galloping upon the winds with his fallen brothers, and as ever, she was by his side. My little bird.
Okay, to the reviews I received from the first version. Thank you to: moonymagpie, darkdestiny2000, & Priestess of the Myrmidon. It was great hearing from you!
Okie-dokey. The pronounciation (according to online name sites) for Sian is SHAN and it means "God's Gracious Gift". It seemed to fit her, so there she is. I hope you all enjoyed and feedback is always enjoyed, no matter if I deny it or not.