Chapter 12: Scars

Abigail felt something soft below her head, pressing against her cheek. Something dry, warm, clean- and for the first time in months, her head was not resting against mud nor leaves nor the rough bark of trees.

Slowly, she opened her eyes, fearing it was all a dream and that all the warmth would fade away from her. But it did not, and she found herself looking at the corner of a wooden nightstand, and from the corner of her eye, was the soft fabric of the pillow she was resting her cheek on.

Unwilling to wake up yet, she closed her eyes again, relishing the comfort. Lazily, she turned so she faced the ceiling, and started to stretch her arms, but remembered her wound and abruptly dropped them back onto the bed. As if awaking, the wound immediately gave a dull pain, and she groaned quietly.

Turning her head, she glanced at the window, which was closed and fogged from what it seemed the morning mist. The window glowed in a grey light, and Abigail wondered if it was still early or it was just a grey day.

She smiled a little as she recalled the days when she would lie in bed and stare out of the window, which was conveniently next to her bed, guessing whether the day ahead would be drenched in rain or sunshine. She would wait till her mother clanged the kettle impatiently with a wooden spoon, shouting for all of them to get out of bed and help with breakfast. Abigail would be dressing Dolores, and helping Francesca braid her long hair which she refused to have cut. George would be at the shed bringing home an armful of firewood he and father cut every afternoon. Neville would be annoying mother to no ends for permission to go hunting with the men, and father would chuckle as he set the table ready for the first meal of the day.

They would have hot porridge, soft lumps of sweet bread, and milk from Mrs. Hick's goats. It was always noisy business at the table, with the twins arguing over the least of things right from the start of day. George, who always enjoyed picking on the twins, would be teasing them through mouthfuls of bread and gulps of milk. Mother would be nagging at Francesca to keep her hair out of the porridge, and at father to take a hand in controlling his children. He would simply make a stern face, giving each of his children a frown, and all would be silent. Until Neville broke it by laughing outrageously. Then Dolores would complain about their carousing in her young but authoritative voice, and peace would finally descend upon their big family as they devoured their simple but satisfying breakfast together.

Such memories… Abigail realized that she had not thought about her family for a long, long time, for it brought pain, and she did not need any more pain to bear on top of the exhaustion and guilt that haunted her every day since that day.

But that morning, she chose not to be bitter. She closed her eyes and sighed, letting visions of her siblings, her parents, her neighbours, her village flood into her rested mind. She could almost hear the sounds of the village, with goats bleating, children laughing, the distant wash of the sea; she could almost smell the warm scent of smoke from chimneys and fresh bread, the sweet aroma of herbs and flowerbeds; she could almost feel the comfort and happiness she had only known for seventeen long summers of her life- almost.

Abigail almost fell asleep under the enchantment of these pleasant thoughts in her head, when the door creaked and her eyes snapped open once more.

At the door, a woman with untamed red hair dressed in peasant clothes stood, her face unsmiling, but not unkind- more cautious than hostile- unlike Tristan. She balanced a tray of bread, cheese and a cup on one hand, and closed the door with the other. She strode across the room to the desk wordlessly, her shoes scraping against the wooden floor.

She gently placed the tray on the table, then turned to face Abigail, running her eyes over her. Abigail did the same guardedly, and she deduced that the woman was in her thirties, the black circles around her eyes and the faint hint of wrinkles on her white face giving her youth away. She had a sharp face, her green eyes stern yet gentle, her lips set at a tight line.

"You should get up, 'tis afternoon," the woman finally broke the silence. Her voice was soft but slightly coarse, as if she had been shouting all day long.

It was a grey day after all. Abigail gave the woman a wary look, and she waited, leaning against the table with her arms folded across her chest, holding her gaze. Then, abruptly, she straightened up her small frame and exited just as abruptly, shutting the door firmly behind her.

Somewhat relieved that she was left alone, Abigail peeled the thick blanket away from her, feeling rather cold as her bare feet touched the hard floor. She picked up the cloak she left on the table before she went to bed the night before and wrapped it tightly around her shoulders, then sat down in the single chair and stared gratefully at her simple meal.

The bread was cold, but fortunately, it was still soft. She was also pleased to find that her arm did not hurt as much it did, and she could tear the bread apart with relative ease. The cheese was sweet and filling, and by the time she drained the cup of milk, she was felt warmer and happier than she had been in quite a while.

Pushing the tray to one side, she propped up her elbows on the rough wooden surface of the table, and rested her cheeks in her palms. She gazed out of the window, still misty and rattling every now and then when a strong wind blew. Directly outside the window was a bare tree, its broad branches covered with a curtain of melting snow. Beyond the stone courtyard of the quarters, she saw the stables they had stopped at the day before, where a few figures were brushing apart snow to create a safe path for horses and carriages. The village laid out beyond the stables, clusters of humble huts and fallow farmlands, pillars of smoke rising from chimneys. A strong wall enclosed the entire fort, its weathered stone tops white with frost.

Outside the fort, was Hadrian's Wall. Abigail gazed at it in wonder, though she had seen it yesterday. It was such a magnificent structure, the sheer size of it astonishing. It sat atop endless stretches of plains, with glimpses of green here and there, but otherwise all was grey and dormant till spring.

There, amongst the grey, laid her path.

An unexpected shiver ran down her spine, and she tentatively tightened her grip on the cloak, shrinking further into the little warmth it offered. Suddenly, she felt hollow and cold. Where would she go? She knew the roads well in the north, but not the southern part of Britain.

It did not make a difference anyway. She had no where to go, she had no one to turn to. Everyone she had once known was dead and her home destroyed.

And there were the Saxons. She knew she could never escape from them.

At that point, the door groaned on its hinges again. The same woman entered, her face flushed from the cold, carrying two buckets of water, and a towel and garments hung on her arms.

Abigail stood up to give her a hand- her future could stay where it was – would be- for the moment.

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Another drop of rain trickled off Tristan's nose. Irritably, he wiped his nose with the back of his hand, which was wet with sweat and smeared with soil. Then he picked up his spade again, and shoved it into the sodden earth. The soil was heavy with moisture, but Tristan tossed it over his shoulder effortlessly, as if it were dust.

It had been drizzling the whole morning, and it seemed likely to continue. The clouds were grey and heavy with rain, but the heavens were holding back. The rain, though light, soaked through his tunic, and the thick fabric clung to his bent back most unpleasantly. He stopped to brush away a few threads of hair that stuck to his forehead, and looked up at Galahad, who was idly pushing the earth Tristan had dug up into a mound.

The grave was already waist-deep. The lad could do the rest.

"Galahad," called Tristan.

The young knight looked up from his boots, startled. Tristan simply tossed the shovel at his feet, and climbed up from the empty grave.

"Make yourself useful," he told Galahad gruffly and made for the fort.

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Tristan's room was dark when he entered as the curtains were drawn, and he did not bother with them after slamming the door shut. His boots left small puddles of water on the wooden floor, and he stooped down to remove them, tossing them into a pile in the corner together with his socks.

He managed to remove his tunic as well before he reached the chest of drawers containing his garments. Fetching a fresh towel which had been placed in the bottom drawer by the maids, Tristan ran the rough cloth over his damp torso. Over tanned skin, toned muscles, tattoos- and scars.

Tristan knew each of them by heart, even those that had faded and hardly left a mark. Each had a story to its name, and he remembered, from the very first one from a fight in the tavern when he was a hot-tempered youth, to the very last one beside his heart that had nearly killed him- if not for Dagonet.

He rested a hand on the top of the drawers, pressing his palm against the cold wood, leaning his weight on it and flexing his stiff wrist. His head was bowed, damp strands of his black hair hanging over his eyes as he let his thoughts wander.

He reveled in the silence, then looked up and swept his eyes across the small, familiar room which had been his residence for the past fifteen years. It would not be his for much longer.

They had not yet spoken of leaving, but Tristan knew they would be all on the road soon. Arthur had asked of them to escort the Roman carriage, which would leave as soon as the aristocrats had rested properly. Tristan took that as three days or four. It was a request, Arthur made it clear, not an order, as their term of service had ended. But they all took it as a command - the last command from Arthur, their commander.

A wind somehow seeped its way into the still room, and Tristan shuddered, realizing that he was still wearing his wet leggings.

Deciding that he had stood around for long enough, he quickly changed into dry clothing, and tossed the cold towel onto the floor. His wet boots were no comfort to his frigid feet, but he resolutely ignored the chills that ran up his spine. He had been through worse things than a mere wet and cold day.

He had started walking down the corridor towards the stairs when he remembered the girl's request. Stopping in his tracks, he pondered for a moment if he should tell her. The men would not be happy to see her, but she wanted to know. She wanted to know badly- it was not difficult to detect the earnestness in her voice the night before.

So he turned back and walked to Dagonet's room, his footsteps on the stone ground light, but sounded loud in the still air. He considered knocking, but decided against it and opened the door noiselessly.

The room was empty, and for a fleeting moment, Tristan thought she had escaped. But he saw her boots lined neatly against the wall, and her white dress laid on the bed together with a black one. A fire was crackling merrily in the fireplace, and a kettle hung on a blackened hook above it, steam streaming steadily from its spout. Tristan stood by the fire for a moment, soaking in its warmth.

Then he heard it. A swish of water, when one submerged one's hand and brought it up again.

He looked up from the red flames, as there was another whisper of dripping water. It came from the private bathroom only Dagonet's room had, and the door was ajar, strong candlelight casting moving, distorted shadows on the floor.

Maybe he should have left the room immediately, or made his presence known, but he stayed rooted where he was, listening to the sweet sounds of trickling water as it was rocked gently, like the sound of waves lapping peacefully against the side of a boat.

Then there was a sigh. A soft, contented sigh that caught him off guard. It lured him, called to him, and he found himself walking forward to the threshold. Step by step, each step soundless, until he stood at the door.

She sat in a wooden tub, her back to him. Her blond hair was let loose, water weighing the smooth threads down. Her shoulders were bare, and he stared, watching as a translucent water droplet slide down the slope of her arm.

Tristan was faintly aware that he was holding his breath, and he let it out slowly, his eyes fixed on her back. He knew it was wrong, that he should turn away, but his legs would not budge. He did not take his eyes away as she slowly brought a worn rag to her left shoulder, and slid it down her arm leisurely, almost seductively.

He frowned and swallowed, his breath uncomfortably short. He cursed himself for his weakness, and when he thought he had gathered enough resolve to tear his gaze away from her, she moved- and brushed aside her hair.

Tristan froze. On her back, were scars. At least a dozen of them, scattered over the stretch of pale skin. Most were faded, but some ran deep, and some were still red. One particular caught his eye. It was a pale red, running from her right shoulder blade, snaking its way down to the middle of her spine.

"Vanora?"

Her voice pulled him out of his trance, and he swiftly retreated before she could look around.

He rubbed his face as he walked hurriedly down the stairs, trying to clear his thoughts. He felt his desires stirring inside him, and he shook his head, annoyed at himself.

He pushed the doors of the quarters open, a frosty gust of wind blowing into his face as he stepped out onto the melting snow, and scowled at the persisting drizzle. Another flurry of icy wind sliced at him, and he met it with a grim face. Some wind might do him good.

He trudged towards the tavern, his head down. He would leave the message with Vanora, she might want to attend the burial. He doubted Bors had informed her- he was still cocooned in his grief.

Tristan reflected on this and barely noticed as Lancelot and Gawain walked by, apparently headed to the graveyard.

Maybe they all were.

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Hello! Sorry for the delay in updates, I've been rewriting this chapter several times. It's sort of strange, I guess. I hope you liked it though, and I hope that "bathroom incident" (stolen from the movie… with minor adjustments xD) was not that too tacky.

Thank you for the reviews for the last chapter! And Abi and Tristan WILL be getting together… soonish. Do you think their relationship is moving too slowly? Sometimes I think my characters warm up to each other too slowly, but I can't help it lol… opinions:)

Phantom666: Thanks –hugs- I hope you liked this update :D

MedievalWarriorPrincess: Thank you! I'm so glad you felt their pain! I really want my readers to feel what my characters feel :) Thanks for letting me know!

Lozcollie: Thank you! I haven't tried showing before, I enjoy jumping and dressage more ;)

Eric'sImaginaryFriend: Lol, don't smack yourself! Well, I guess Tristan has superhuman self-control. I would've killed her long ago if I were him… but there would be no story then, right? ;) Aww, thanks so much for your compliments! I agree, they could have done so much more with the knights in the movie. But anyways, I'm so glad you like my interpretation of the scene! I hope you enjoyed this chapter :)

MORWEN12: Lol I hope you enjoyed this update :D

Kasora: Aww, thank you –huggles- Lol, yes, Arthur is too polite xD Sigh, unfortunately, we're studying China and Japan right now. Very modern history :( It sucks. They should teach the Arthurian legends in history class, I'm serious! Good luck on your various exams! Which grade are you up to in piano? I've taken my grade 8 exam and I've completely abandoned piano already ;) Yes, I'm bad. Lol, yes, I jump on horsies! And I do dressage. I love horse-riding with all my heart :D Yes, I enjoyed HTD! Update when you have the time and I hope your writer's block will go away –smacks black- Till we rant again :D

GreenDayzIdiot: Hehe, I don't think anyone can hide themselves for too long. Especially when they are too sad and such, like Abi ;) Aww, I'm sorry to hear that the school dance wasn't that good. I hope your next one would be better lol! A flower that loves rain? LOL! –laughs- I hope you liked this chapter as well!

Mysticpig: Aww, here, don't be upset –huggles- Believe me, I feel no better having killed off Dag… I hope you enjoyed this chapter anyway :)

Nilmelwen: Thank you so much! Your compliments really flatter me :) And yeah, she really should feel sorry, and she is, I assure you!

Shai Nevermore: LOL! You really made me laugh! I'm glad you think she has character, I tried really hard to build a solid character in Abi :) I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Thank you for reviewing!

Evenstar-mor2004: Thank you for your sweet words! I hope you liked this update :)

Peachydaisygirl: Thanks! I hope you liked this chapter!

Thank you once again for your kind reviews! If you're reading this story and not reviewing, it's okay, but a line or two from you can help me further improve my story and give me motivation :) Heh, enough preaching from me. I have a holiday this Friday so I might update in a few days' time, yay! Goodbye for now :D