Chapter 13: Breathless

A fresh mound of soil now marked the final resting place of Dagonet, in the company of those who had gone before him. The sky was grey, weeping for the fallen knight.

The remaining knights of the Round Table stood by the grave, their faces grim and hardened. Fulcinia and her son, Alecto, stood off to one side, heads bowed in respect, while Lucan stood in Guinevere's arms, tears streaking the young boy's pale face.

Arthur, holding Dagonet's sword in his hands, performed a series of religious rituals as he habitually did at every funeral, and the knights bore with them silently. Fulcinia and Alecto had clasped their hands in prayer, heeding Arthur's every solemn word.

"And in thy arms, we leave our brother to thy care, trusting that he will gain his deserved place in thy heavenly kingdom. Amen."

Then, stepping forward, Arthur raised the sword, which had seen more battles than most would in two lifetimes, towards the sky, and plunged it into the head of the grave, burying the sharp blade that had served its master well until the very last day he breathed, so that only the worn, rusty hilt marked the tomb.

Lucan let out a noisy sob, which he had apparently held back for a considerable amount of time. Guinevere hugged his shoulders in a comforting manner, and Fulcinia leant down to wipe his tears away with a handkerchief. The knights stood motionlessly, staring at the hilt of Dagonet's sword, each resigned to their memories of their brother.

Tristan stood with his hands behind his back, his right hand latched to his left wrist loosely. They were once again at the sad, little cemetery just outside the fort of Badon Hill, bidding farewell to another brother- on the eve of returning home.

Arthur broke the stillness, turning on his heels and walking down the slope leading to another part of the cemetery. Tristan knew where he was headed to. He always went to his father's grave when he was troubled, sitting in front of the sword-less grave from which he had drawn Excalibur. He would sit there for minutes, hours- as long as he needed.

Tristan watched as Guinevere gently coaxed Lucan into Fulcinia's arms, then followed Arthur, her dark hair catching the wind as she ran down the hill. He wondered if Arthur knew she was a Woad yet. Tristan deemed that she would let him know in time, if she had not yet.

Sweeping his gaze across the desolate place, the scout's dark keen eyes stopped at the edge of the graveyard's grey grass. Standing by the muddy road that led to the fort, was her. He could not see her face, but he knew it was her by her striking fair hair, curls that fell down to her waist. She was dressed in black, most probably in the black dress he saw on her bed.

A sweet shattering sound of clay brought Tristan's eyes back to the company of knights, with Bors now drunkenly leaving the scene, shards of a wine bottle at his feet. Lancelot gave the grave a sad stare, then turned and trudged toward the fort slowly. The rest followed, heads down in mourning.

Tristan stayed, and waited for her.

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The knights passed by without even glancing in her way, and Abigail observed them silently, her eyes filmed and empty.

Her attention was drawn to the weeping child who was in the Roman widow's arms. He reminded her of Neville- he could not have been older than ten. His sandy blond curls were pasted to his tear-stained face, and he shuddered every time he inhaled sharply, his sobs a choking, moaning song.

She caused him this pain- she knew it.

The boy let out a sudden whine, and Fulcinia knelt down to dry his tears. Abigail stared at his slumped shoulders, and felt something pulling at her heartstrings. He was only a child, yet he had suffered so much. He did not deserve it.

The cries of despair quieted, and Fulcinia straightened up her small frame, took the boy by the hand and quickly left the cemetery. Her son cast Abigail a look of disgust, and she countered his with a glare that suggested as much hostility as his.

Roman dogs, she thought darkly, borrowing a line from Cerdic.

Then, her head held high in dignity, she moved along the narrow, muddy path that wound its way in between two grassy flanks, where mounds of earth protruded from the ground, rusty hilts of swords stood as tombstones for knights long forgotten save for their brothers-in-arms. Their deeds, their saving acts, all lost in the long years of turmoil- nothing was left of them but their rotting corpses and their broken swords.

What useless lives knights lived. They lived to save those of people they did not even know, they risked their lives, they disturbed peace. When Abigail was a little girl, she had heard tales of selfless knights, of honour, and she had once adored those stories. But now she had seen the world- a cruel place- she knew that honour was a fancy thing, invented by those sheltered from the harsh reality.

Honour did not play a part in the way things unfolded.

Preoccupied, Abigail realized with a start that she had arrived at Dagonet's grave, and she stopped. She stared at the wet mound, her eyes wide and slightly bewildered. Her grasp on the daffodil she had picked on her way there tightened, and she wondered if it was silly to place such a feminine thing on the grave of a knight.

She felt his eyes hard on her, and, swallowing her insecurity, she drew her hand out of her cloak, and slowly crouched down, leaving the single yellow flower on the middle of the knoll, then stepped back as if the ground would open up and bury her alive.

Abigail continued to gaze at the grave, and with a sinking feeling, she realized that her dead family had never been buried. They had been left on that beach to burn to ashes.

But at least they had not been left to rot till their flesh became part of the earth. The wind would have carried their ashes away, set them free.

Images of that day flashed into her mind, tormenting her. She could hear that faraway screams and smell the horrible scent of burning carcasses. She shuddered.

Bad memories.

She lifted her eyes to meet his gaze- steely, impenetrable.

Both of them experts in hiding inside themselves.

Knowing she had stayed for long enough, she readjusted her cloak which was starting to soak in the light rain, and walked away.

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The fire burned strongly, and Abigail moved her chair a little bit away from the flames, its wooden feet producing an unpleasant screeching sound as they rubbed against the floor.

Vanora's wet dress and her own cloak were drying by the fire, and she was wearing her riding breeches and mended tunic, clean thanks to Vanora. On her lap was her thin white dress, and her right arm moved clumsily as she patched up a torn sleeve.

She had always loved sewing and embroidery, but her fingers were rusty from lack of practice and her upper arm felt heavy, though the wound had, as far as she saw, closed up. She bit her lip as the needle pricked a finger, and she sucked on the spot of blood on its tip.

Vanora had been kind enough to lend her clothing and shoes, as well as her sewing kit. Abigail could tell that she did not like her, she guessed that she had been close to Dagonet. Their conversations were short and to the point, and she never asked Abigail for her name.

She resumed her tedious job, which was once as easy as lifting a finger for her. The light outside was dimming, and her eyes felt weary from the hours she spent on mending the battered dress. Having completed stitching up the hem of the sleeve, Abigail decided to call it a day. She yawned and stretched her left arm over her head, then disposed her dress on the bed.

She allowed her thoughts to drift to the graveyard earlier that afternoon. She could not describe her feelings- there was regret, sadness, nostalgia. It roused memories of her family, which she had so cleverly concealed in the past year when she served the Saxons.

Sighing heavily, she rubbed the coarse fabric of the cloak between two fingers and decided it was dry enough. She folded it carefully into a square, then stopped suddenly, her emotions taking control as she flung it forcefully onto the floor, and stamped on it. Once. Twice.

She was strangely short of breath as she glared at the black cloth in disgust. It belonged to the former scout, and she was forced to keep it, as they did not have any spare clothing. Abigail recalled the dread as she reluctantly draped it over her shoulders, the blood of the dead scout still wet on the front of the cloak. She recalled the stench of blood and dirt as she slept on the cold forest floor in it, trembling with fear that her fate should follow its previous master's.

The fear that was black.

The black fear that blinded her to follow Cerdic, the fear that intensified with every massacre, and dulled her senses, taking the person out of her.

But it was coming back, she could feel it. Emotions were resurfacing, and she was beginning to regret everything she had done. Every hateful thing that helped the Saxons to murder her own people in return of a living, breathing Abigail.

She was a coward.

She hated herself.

Tears rolled down her face, her shoulders shaking as silent sobs consumed her. She was weak, she was afraid to stand up for what was right.

She was wrong, honour did matter.

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Her room was empty.

Tristan frowned into the darkness, the dying embers in the fireplace being the only illumination in the room. Her boots were gone, so was her cloak. But her white dress laid sprawled on the bed.

It was near midnight, where could she have gone?

He had come to remove her stitches. If they stayed any longer in her skin, they would become infected. He moodily rotated the dagger in his hand. Now he had to find her.

Wait, he told himself. He did not have to look for her. She could rot in hell, for all he cared. Why cause himself the trouble?

He turned around to leave, but a shaft of moonlight drifted lazily into the room, and fell upon the bed. The dress seemed to glow, and he remembered the first time when he saw her, wearing the ridiculously thin frock when a snowstorm was brewing.

How incredibly stupid.

He ran his eyes over the simple dress. It was laid vertically, stretched out to its full length. If you just glanced quickly at it, it looked as if someone was asleep on the bed.

Tristan seemed to catch a hint of black on the hem of the dress. Curious, he went to the bed and flipped over the border.

Indeed, on the white fabric, an elegant script embroidered on in inside of the hem spelled out a name.

Abigail

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Thud.

Another arrow embedded itself near the center of the bull's eye.

Angrily, Abigail drew another arrow, notched it, and sent it flying.

It landed inches from the bull's eye.

"Bloody ridiculous," she grumbled to herself as she repeated the process.

Her aim was off target, her arm ached, and her eyes seemed to be playing tricks on her. Damn it.

She had no idea what drove her to the archery grounds. Maybe it was the fact that it ceased to rain, or maybe it was the fact that she could not sleep.

Most probably, however, was that she had to vent her fury.

Only a few arrows hit the actual bull's eye, while others scattered themselves randomly on the wooden board.

She was badly out of practice. She could not believe that a single wound was dragging her down. She had shot down people with a dislodged shoulder, she had ridden long hours with a bleeding foot, she had fought with a sword when her wrist was near to snapping.

Yet she could not handle a mere wound on the arm. A stitched, recovering wound.

It was a funny world, she thought sarcastically to herself.

Her instincts told her that someone was behind her, and she whipped around, arrow notched, glaring menacingly.

It was Tristan.

"Ah," she said simply, her tone sardonic.

He made no response, he just stared at her. He did not look pleased, as she noticed the deep frown on his brow.

"How may I help you?" she asked snappishly, not happy with the fact that she was interrupted- especially when she was angry.

"Nothing," he replied to her surprise. She noticed a faintly amused tone in his answer.

"Then, I must ask you to leave me to my solitude," she snapped back.

"How would I know if you would kill me with my back turned?" he asked, eyeing her bow.

"How would you know if I would kill you now?" she retorted, raising her bow to the level of his chest.

He stared at her impassively, then raked his eyes up and down her posture, as if sizing her up.

"You are incapable of killing me," he said coolly.

"Yes, I am," she replied arrogantly. "I simply have to release the arrow, and you would be dead."

He smirked.

He smirked. And he walked towards her, slowly, deliberately.

"And I would only have to dodge," he said quietly.

He was closer now, his eyes never wavering as they bored into her own, stark anger evident in those clear blue orbs. She tried not to tremble as her arms grew tired from gripping the mercenary bow, which was idiotically heavy.

"I. Have. Done. It. Before."

He closed the distance between them step by step with each word, till the tip of the arrow was pressed against his chest.

The air was still as they locked gazes, her glare hot and piercing, his stare steady and veiled. They stood like that for a few moments, and Abigail's mind raved.

"You simply have to release the arrow, and I would be dead," he said under his breath.

She flushed, livid. He was mocking her, insulting her. He knew she did not have the courage to kill him.

Hot tears of humiliation blurred her vision, stinging her tired eyes, and she blinked irritably. She made to drop the bow, but his hands shot out, holding her arms in place.

"You would never kill anyone this way," he informed her gruffly.

She froze as he lithely moved behind her, aware that he left a safe distance between her back and his body.

"Drop your elbow," he commanded as he dragged her right elbow down until it was level with her waist.

"Right your bow." His left hand ran along her arm, and grasped her hand, righting it so the bow was erect.

"Relax your shoulders." His hands forced her uptight shoulders down, and she released her tense muscles.

Then he was holding the bow with her, his calloused palms on the back of her hands, his arms supporting hers, and slowly turned her around.

His words brushed against her ear. "Aim- and shoot."

There was a whistle of air, and the arrow hit the dead center of the target with a triumphant thump.

Neither of them moved, the night silent, only their breaths could be heard. She tried to stop the shiver that ran down her spine as his lips grazed her earlobe, his breath warm on her cheek.

Before she had time to think, he moved down her neck, bit by bit, his lips hardly brushing her tender skin yet leaving a scorching trail behind. One hand convinced her to drop the bow, and the other placed itself on one side of her hip. She closed her eyes, trying in vain to deny the sensations that rushed through her veins as his coarse stubble rubbed against the base of her neck.

She was breathless as he turned her around to face him, his face calm and his eyes safely hidden behind his braids. But she could feel them, staring intensely into hers.

A breeze picked up and swept aside his locks, revealing his dark eyes. She could hardly see them, but the moonlight reflected in those treacherous depths, and she watched as they travelled down her face to her lips. Uneasily, she chewed on the insides of her mouth.

He was leaning down, his hands on the small of her back pulling her closer. She could hear her own heart's pounding, racing wildly in her ears.

He was so close now, she could see the ruggedness of his tanned face, the fine spots of the tattoo on his cheekbone, the lust in his eyes-

She pushed him away. Hard.

And she ran.

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-hides-

-reappears with a peeved Tristan in tow, fiddles with fingers and stares at you with puppy eyes-

Me: Well? What do you think? Review for more Tristan goodness!

Tristan: Psh.

-runs away giggling, dragging a reluctant scout behind me-

Lol, I'm high xD Thank you for the reviews for the last chapter! I love my reviewers -sends giant Tristan posters and virtual Tristan hugs to everyone-

Evenstar-mor2004: Thanks! Hehe, now you got your answer about the funeral :)

MORWEN12: Thank you! I hope you enjoyed this chapter!

Lozcollie: Thank you very much!

Katemary77: Thank you for your compliments! I'm glad you like Abigail, and her flaws xD I hope you enjoyed this update :)

GreenDayzIdiot: Lol, yup, tsk tsk to Tristan. I'll read your new story very soon! I promise! I'm a bit caught up with school and such at the moment ;) Ah yes, I must update DTB soon. Sad thing is I seem to have lost all my muse for DTB :( But I'll see what I can do!

Mysticpig: Hehe, you're right! I hope you liked this chapter… he actually didn't gawk xD

Kasora: Lol! You're always hugging back xD Well, actually, it's not as interesting as it sounds. I SO hope they would go back to the Renaissance or something. THAT is interesting, my friend! Ah, I wish they would teach medieval stuff too, but sadly, it is out of syllabus. Evil exams! Hehe! You're a lawyer! –cheers- That SOSE thing sounds fun, I wish we had something interesting like that to do in school. School is killing me with its boredom / Aww, riding is great fun, I hope you'll ride again soon! I just went riding this morning, and I have three competitions next weekend :D Weeeh! Ah, you still have writer's block? –whacks stupid writer's block- AWAY WITH YOU, EVIL! –breathe in, breathe out- I'm glad you liked the chapter! I hope you liked this as well :D –whispers back- Yes! It is very long… did it set a new record? xD Till we rant again! -huggles-

KnightMaiden: Thank you! They're finally getting together… sorta ;) Whaddaya think?

Lovinallenman: I'm glad you're enjoying it! Thank you for reviewing and I hope you enjoyed this chapter :D

MedievalWarriorPrincess: -smiles back- Thanks! I hope you liked this update :D

Phantom666: Thanks :)

Peachydaisygirl: Thanks! I hope you enjoyed this update!

Shai Nevermore: I like your story! It's very interesting, I hope you update soon :) Lol, I'm glad you don't think it's tacky. I hope this chapter isn't too rushed or anything… Ah, it pained me to have to kill Dag, seriously. But I did it. Sigh. I won't be killing any more knights though, so I am sorta guilty as well ;)

A longer chapter than usual, I hope you liked it! Till the next update! Bye!