A/N: My most profuse apologies for the last chapter, my faithful readers. I have no idea why I posted it, it was pure crap. Cleanse your mind of it, I beg of you. Here is a brand new chapter, set in a brand new perspective, and I like it much, much better.
I feel so bad about the previous Chapter 14, I've let you all down, and I've let myself down. I promise no such mistake would happen again. For now, please enjoy this chapter.
P.S. I wish to thank Shai Nevermore for waking me up. You made me realize how trashy my last chapter was. Kudos to you, my friend!
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Chapter 14: Heart and MindA curl of harsh wind lashed at Abigail's face without mercy, tugging at her long hair and making it tangle. She moistened her cracked lips with her tongue, and brought a hand up to cup her frozen cheeks, though her palm brought little warmth to them. She longed for the coast- where winds were exhilarating but mild, with the comforting scent of salt, and lazy cries of gulls instead of the eerie silence that now reigned under the screams of the wind.
She surveyed the grey plains that spread expansively in front of her from her perch on the small hill that had broken into the rotten fortress walls, her eyes a dull light blue while sweeping across the landscape with an air of expertise she had acquired from the past year. She noted the landmarks in her head- flat plains with worn roads to the south on the other side of the fort, headed to the shoreline of Southern Britain. Dense forests covered north-west, sparsely scattered woods to the north-east, and a wide path in between which narrowed gradually, leading into Woad territory.
She stood on tip-toe, as if trying to look beyond the black treetops of the forests, then fell back onto her heels. She knew what laid in and behind those trees. Snaking forest paths hidden by undergrowth, winding their ways to remote villages and towns, and somewhere in the dense vegetation, tribes of Woads lived secluded from the world, but were always there. She had seen them herself on several occasions when scouting, blue demons, disappearing and appearing at will. Rebel natives forever seeking their land back with war and blood.
Now the Romans were leaving, the Saxons came. This grey island was again left to a foreign force's mercy.
Bleak clouds were hovering low, and seemed to weigh down on her, threatening to smother her.
Out of all people in Britain, it was her who had come across the Saxons, became their scout, helped them conquer her country little by little; when all she had wanted was to spend her life in her village, with her family, marry a good man, have a couple of children, and live a simple life.
A very plain life, and she knew many aspired more than she did. She had heard so many of her friends declare that they wanted a life of adventure. A lifetime of wandering in foreign lands, a romantic chance meeting with their knight in shining armour, then wander a bit more before settling down, preferably in their husband's stone castle beside the sea.
No, she was a practical person. She never dreamed too far, preferring to live her life to the fullest. She never asked for more than she deserved, but she never got anything less than she deserved either.
Until that day.
She often wondered if she really deserved all that had happened to her. Had she offended any gods to have the misfortune befall upon her? Or was it mere chance? A coincidence?
If she had offended any superior beings, well, she would not have believed it. She was not superstitious, as her mother was.
If it was chance, then she marveled at her luck. Not that she was particularly lucky, nor was particularly unlucky.
Until that day.
Well, many things changed since that day. In fact, everything had changed. All that she had ever known and believed in was taken away from her that day. Even herself, Abigail Langridge. She was killed and reborn.
On that day.
Everything, everything- she blamed it on that day.
Though she claimed to be practical, she wondered over and over again, what would have happened if they had not been at the seaside that day. Maybe they would have found a route of escape, or maybe they would have been killed without knowing what happened- not that her dead family knew anyhow- but she concluded that anything- anything at all- would have been better than this.
She had gone too far to turn back. She was a frightened prey, ever sought after by the Saxons, her conscience, her haunting past. She was afraid of life, of what laid in store for her, and even more of death.
She knew the Saxons were looking for her. They knew she was captured by the Romans, which was even more of a convenience to them, since their plans were to overtake the main fort of the Wall at Badon Hill before moving south to capture the remaining lands, then lastly move north to vanquish the Woads.
When they found her, they would not be merciful. The Saxons did not suffer traitors, nobody ran away from them, nobody escaped. They would find her, and she would die a death more painful than any could imagine. She only knew too well.
She shuddered. She felt suddenly colder, and smaller, as the fields seemed to loom ominously, threatening to drag her down to its earthly depths- into hell.
A piercing shriek brought her thoughts jolting back to reality. Abigail looked up at the grey sky, where a lone hawk was winging idly, its brown feathers spread at full length. She admired its fierce beauty, tilting her head backwards to observe it as it glided in circles, sounding another dominant cry.
"You should be indoors."
Startled, Abigail whipped around sharply. The Sarmatian scout was standing at the edge of the hill, his hands behind his back, his unruly locks sprawled across his face.
She brushed away a few wisps of her own hair that were covering her eyes, and met his coldly, her heart pounding heavily.
"What are you doing here?" she asked with as much venom as she could muster.
"I believe," he replied, taking a few steps towards her, "that I should be asking the question."
"And the reason is?" she retorted, raising her chin in a defiant manner.
He did not answer, but diverted his stare to her arm. "How is your arm?"
"Very well, if it hadn't been sliced in the first place," she answered rudely.
His face darkened, and he allowed the winds to sweep his hair into disarray, covering most of his tanned face.
"Let me look at it," he said gruffly, reaching out for her arm.
Abigail pulled back instinctively, remembering what happened the night before all too clearly, and he stopped, letting an awkward silence linger in the air while she eyed him hostilely.
"If you don't let me take the stitches out, they will get infected," he informed her almost pleasantly, as if telling her that there would be sunshine instead of more rain.
She frowned, somehow annoyed by his calm façade. Reluctantly, she nodded, and he moved forward again.
Abigail turned her attention to her thick clothes, thinking it would be a handful to deal with. She took off her cloak and let it drop onto the grass, then, gingerly, began to extract her arm from her battered fleece coat. Unfortunately, halfway through, she found the stitches in the way, threatening to tear apart, leaving her in an clumsy position.
Damn, she thought with a scowl.
She jumped when Tristan's hands gently pulled her arm from its confines, and quickly but carefully rolled up the sleeve of her thick tunic, revealing her fraying stitches.
"Sit down," he commanded.
She obliged, and wrapped her abandoned cloaks around her shoulders, leaving her bare arm in sight. The freezing air lashed at her arm, and it became numb with cold in no time.
Abigail watched as Tristan pulled out a small and sharp knife from his boot, and a leather flask. He knelt down beside her, and ran his eyes over the stitches.
"It might hurt," he stated.
"I anticipated as much," she muttered offhandedly.
Unfastening the flask, Tristan tossed her a nonchalant look and poured some liquid which smelt strongly of alcohol over the cold blade of the knife.
"What's that?" asked Abigail.
"Gin."
"What for?"
"Disinfection," he clenched his fingers around her elbow, and pulled her closer to him. "Hold still."
The gin burnt her skin, and she bit her lower lip to suppress the shriek that rose in her throat. Regrettably, she managed to sink her teeth into the bruise at the edge of her lip, and she grimaced as she tasted the salty tang of blood.
If Tristan noticed her bleeding lip, he did a commendable job of overlooking it. Abigail pressed a sleeve up to her lip, letting the fabric soak up the blood as she watched him.
He was deftly probing for the ends of the thread with his knife, which was accomplished within moments. He cut the knot that held the stitches together, and began undoing them by dipping the sharp tip of the knife under the thread, then slid it out of her skin.
Abigail hardly breathed as he worked on her stitches, fearing if she moved a muscle, that knife would plunge into her skin- which she most definitely did not want to happen again. But his hand was so steady, his movements so confident, that she felt assured despite of herself.
She felt her skin tear, and she winced, peering warily at her arm, but the knife blocked her view. New skin must have grown over the thread.
Out of the corner of her eye, she studied him. That face, sober and tanned, was curtained by his hair as he bowed over her arm. Her eyes sidled over his features, and rested on the tattoo on his high cheekbone. Two narrow stripes, midnight blue, as if it was etched there eternally by two claws. It had been so close to her. Those lips, clamped shut in a stern line, that had grazed her skin ever so gently as they slithered over her neck. Those eyes, now moving with the movement of his knife, that had been staring into her own as if he could see her very soul.
He made her feel vulnerable, breakable. Especially when he was looking at her. He was not afraid to look into her, as most were. They said her eyes were too blue, too icy and untouchable. She merely had to harden her gaze, and they would look away from her.
But he was different. He made her look away.
She was not used to that.
A burning sensation searing into her numb arm sent her jerking away in alarm, and she nearly tumbled backwards, if Tristan had not snatched her hand and pulled her forward.
"Be careful," he frowned, and replaced his small blade in the inner side of his leather boots.
Abigail twisted her arm slightly so she could see the wound. There were faint marks of the stitches on the pink, tender flesh, and blood cots. Otherwise, it had recovered well.
She looked up and forced herself to look at Tristan, while pulling down the sleeve.
"I believe I owe you my thanks," she used Arthur's words, her voice flat.
Tristan responded with something of a shrug. He tucked the flask into the depths of his cloak, then sat down on the grass beside her, staring out at the horizon. She caught the glint of his eyes as he lifted his chin to see through his hair.
"When are you leaving?" she asked, shrugging her coat back on, with much less effort now the stitches were gone.
"Arthur has yet to decide," he replied. Abigail detected a slight foreign accent in his voice, as well as a soft slur, as if he were tipsy.
He turned his head a fraction and peered at her. "When will you leave?"
She shrugged and turned away from him, averting her gaze to the north.
"Soon," she answered curtly.
"Where will you go?"
"To the north," she decided on the moment. "I know the roads well there."
"The Saxons are coming from the north," he said in a hard voice.
"Then why are the Roman lords not leaving? The Saxons are headed to the Wall, any fool can see that."
"There are religious rituals, as I have been told. And the Romans have to rest, as well as repair the carriage," he said, his voice so low that Abigail had to strain to hear him. "Why are you headed north then? After what the Saxons have done to you." He gestured to her arm.
"If I remember correctly, it was you who cut my arm open," she snapped. "And you have no idea what the Saxons did to me."
He stared at her steadily, so steadily she had to drop her gaze once again.
"No, I have no idea. Would you care to enlighten me?" he said lightly, his tone hinting at scorn.
Abigail hesitated. "No. I would not."
There was a howl of wind, and it blew with such a force that Abigail felt like she was a leaf in a breeze. She drew up her shoulders protectively, guarding her exposed cheeks while waiting for the gust to pass. Tristan, however, sat still as a stone. Only his hair moved, swept to the side, revealing his tired face.
"Who is Dolores?"
Abigail froze. His words were quiet, but they rang in her ears as clearly as if he had yelled at her. Slowly, she turned to stare at him, her eyes wide in disbelief.
"H-how, I- how-" she opened her mouth, but no words came out.
"You called her name in your sleep after you were injured," explained Tristan softly.
Yes, she remembered. That dream. She closed her eyes and envisioned Dolores. A white, unsmiling angel, picking shells. Her eyes a dark forest green of their father's, instead of mother's blue, that always looked on solemnly. Those soft pads of her tiny hands gripping hers, her fat fingers tugging on her dress when she demanded attention. Abigail could see her standing in front of her.
"She was my little sister," she answered his sudden question in a whisper.
He stayed so still that she doubted whether he had heard her, but then he was gazing at her again. Her heart clenched. It clenched from the pressure of his gaze, the grief of losing family in her renewed.
She tried to breathe, but a sob in her throat was choking her, causing her to let out a strangled noise. He did it again. He broke her walls, with a single, innocent question she did not even have to answer.
A warm droplet made its way down her numb cheeks, and slid off her chin. She bit the insides of her mouth, and determinedly inhaled deeply. She must not cry. She had not shed a tear during the long year of her service to the Saxons, why now?
Steeling her heart and setting her jaw, her sparse tears subsided. Colour rose to her cheeks, this was not the first time she had cried in front of him.
A warm and calloused hand covered hers, and she looked down to see Tristan's long and tanned fingers enclose her frozen hand. Another went under her chin, tilting her chin upwards and turning her face towards him, till she had nowhere to look but into his dark brown eyes.
Impulsively, her other hand grabbed the one he had laid on hers, drawing warmth from him, and he obliged, his large hand easily wrapping both of her hands. He felt so warm. She wanted to be near to him. She was cold, very cold.
As if reading her mind, he close the distance between them, her chin still trapped in his fingers. He loomed over her now, and she could see every detail of his face. She saw a small scar at the edge of his eyebrow, it looked like a scratch that ran too deep. She could see the dots of colour on the borders of his tattoo. She could see his eyes, warm, offering solace, if only just for now.
His breath was hot on her cheeks, and she closed her eyes, savouring the comfort the closeness of his body.
Intimacy and solace- they were foreign to her after a long year of cruelty. She wanted it. She wanted to be told she would be alright. She wanted to be comforted. Just this once.
She opened her eyes as she felt his lips brush hers, and she met his stare, dark and intense. Her eyelids fell as he kissed her with a stronger force, her breath catching as his tongue ran over her bottom lip, over her bruise, paining her. She whimpered, and he withdrew slightly, lingering over her mouth, his hand falling down to the small of her back, his arms enveloping her.
"Tristan, sir?"
Abigail's eyes snapped open, and her mind snapped awake. She fell back from him, her eyes wide in shock. He had already stood up, facing the edge of the hill, waiting for the owner of the voice to appear.
It was the Woad woman. She bustled up the hill, hitching her elegant dress, her brown curls bouncing about her slim shoulders.
"Sir, Arthur told me I could find you here," she smiled triumphantly, reaching the crest of the slope. "He calls a meeting, and requires your presence now."
Tristan nodded, and without looking back, descended the hill.
Abigail sat with her lips pursed, her mind hazy with confusion. What had happened? What madness overcame her?
She had forgotten the other woman's presence until she spoke. "Your lip is bleeding."
Abigail immediately brought a hand up to her bottom lip, and wiped away a smear of crimson blood. It was warm, warm with his touch. She felt her face flush, and she turned away from the Woad, standing up rather unsteadily onto her feet.
Abigail could feel her eyes on her back as she walked down the hill, her mind trying to reason with her heart, and her heart refusing to listen.
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MORWEN12, katemary77, lozcollie, peachydaisygirl, Randomisation: Thank you so much! I'm glad you're enjoying this story! I hope you'll continue reading and reviewing :)
KAfan: Wow, thank you for your compliments! I'm glad you think Abi is a unique character, and yes, she is flawed. Seriously flawed xD Yeah, I know, I've had difficulty in finding reasons to keep her alive! I'm glad you like the way I portray Tristan! I guess he has a rather distinct character in my mind, so it isn't really all that difficult to write about him. I hope you enjoyed this chapter- thanks for reviewing!
KnightMaiden: Lol, be patient! They will be together soon. Very soon –hint, hint- Ah, yes, Tristan does seem lonely, but he has his hawk and horse, so don't worry too much about him ;)
GreenDayzIdiot: Calm down, my friend! Yes, I know, she shoved him away, which was bad, but hey, revel in the suspense! xD Aww, thank you so much! I'm flattered, really! -hugs- Yes, your new story is very interesting! Update both your stories soon, okay? Ahh, yes, I promised I would update DTB but I didn't :( Well, I guess I need some new ideas before I could update it! Adios!
Mysticpig: Hehe, you should be relieved now the stitches are out ;) Yes, it is confusing. Neither of them know what's going on yet, but they will know eventually :)
MedievalWarriorPrincess: Thank you! I'm glad you think it's realistic. I hope this chapter isn't too unrealistic, since Vanora seemed so happy around Abi. But she does have a reason to be happy, right? ;) Lol! I'm glad you liked the A/N thing! –fans you- Hehe, calm down, my friend! Though you are right, I wouldn't mind taking away Tristan and Lancelot xD I hope you enjoyed this update!
Shai Nevermore: LOL! You're making me laugh again xD You're totally right about the not-so-innocent little girl part! I hope you liked this chapter!
Brunette-barbie14: I hope you're not too disappointed that he didn't follow her! Thanks for the compliments, I'm glad you like my story!
JessipurrMalfoy: LOL! I totally agree with you! But, unfortunately, the plot refuses to bend hehe. I hope you liked this chapter!
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Please review this chapter! I need to know what you think of it, it's the turning point of the whole story… well, sort of. It's of great significance anyway! Please take a moment to tell me what you think! I'm really anxious to know. Thank you for reading!
