Chapter 16: Break and Mend

The remaining frost that clung to the short, grey clumps of grass crunched under the worn soles of Abigail's boots as she walked in purposeful strides to the stables. She was dressed once again in her riding attire, which was comfortably warm and clean under the same cloak she had worn since winter settled in.

She held in her hand a bundle of clothes Vanora had lent her, she was returning them today. In her other was her white dress, her only possession left from her past. She was hoping to barter for a few days' worth of bread with it, and hopefully something more.

She had decided to leave the next day. The weather had seemed to clear, the clouds lighter and higher, though it still threatened to snow or rain. It would not make a difference anyway. What mattered was her arm- it had, thankfully, stopped hurting. When she woke up earlier that morning, she found it bandaged, and for that she was grateful. She wondered if she was to thank Vanora or Tristan- she had no memory of anyone cleaning her up the night before.

A comfortable warmth rose within her, and knowing the roots of it, she frowned slightly, trying to suppress the image of Tristan that was looming into her head.

She could picture him so well. His lean but strong limbs, his slightly inclined posture, his handsome face veiled behind those black tendrils of braids-

Stop, she commanded herself fiercely. She made a noise of disapproval, and tilted her head to look at the sky, wincing as cold air rushed to greet her exposed throat. What had she gotten herself into?

Tristan. She confessed- he was both the reason to stay and to go. It would be a lie to say that she felt nothing for him. She did feel something for him. But it was so vague, so unshapely, that she could not place a finger on it.

A corner of her mind had been echoing with a word, a word that she had let go of a long time ago. She shook her head, lowering her chin again. It was not it, it could not be. But would it be?

She would not be here to find out, she thought decisively. She did not want to know.

She smiled wryly. Now that was a lie.

--------------

The stables, to her surprise, were bustling with activity. Carts and carriages in bad need of repair were crammed into the courtyard, awaiting their turns. Horses neighed and tossed their heads in irritation as they were led in and out of the stables. Men rushed around with horseshoes and hammers, yelling at each other. Abigail nearly got run over by an upset horse who had broken away from his master and was galloping from the chaotic scene.

Now that she was here, she wondered who she could ask for directions. She would most probably find Vanora at the tavern, she had told her that she worked there. But where was the tavern?

"Ah, it's you."

Abigail swirled around at the icy voice, her eyes immediately narrowing to cautious slits as she regarded its owner. It was the fair-haired knight, the one who had made his hatred towards her known. Whose name was Gawain. He stared at her aloofly, but the contempt was clear in his clear green eyes.

"Yes, it's me," she replied, her voice hoarse for she was speaking for the first time in hours.

Gawain sneered at her as he shifted, crossing his muscular arms across his chest. "I cannot imagine why Arthur kept you alive, other than that you're British." He laughed, sharp and bitter. "It seems that Arthur takes a great liking to this island, eh?"

Abigail glared a him balefully, refusing to respond, then made to walk right past him. But he moved in front of her, blocking her way. She stepped to the side, but he followed, again barring her way.

She gritted her teeth, holding back the urge to throw a fist at his smug face. "I wish to leave."

"Why should I grant your wish?" he spat, his temper flaring. "You are a murderer," his eyes flashed dangerously. "You should be put to death."

Abigail inwardly cringed at the word "murderer", and she clenched her jaw to check the surfacing emotion. She lifted her chin, all the while trying to hold onto the few threads of dignity left in her.

"Well, your commander thinks otherwise," she snapped.

"Apparently," he smirked. "With all the talk of his merciful God. But he wouldn't blame me if I returned the favour, would he?"

Before she could blink, the icy blade of a dagger was pressed to the base of her neck harshly. Without anything in her defence, Abigail stayed still, simply scowling at Gawain with all the courage she could rally as his glazing eyes bore into hers furiously. He was angry, the past few days had done nothing to dampen his jagged emotions, she could see that. And she would be paying for it.

Abigail was aware of the silence that had descended on the yard, even the horses were still as they pricked their ears up in anticipation. A gust of wind howled by, amplifying the eerie hush until a voice spoke.

"Let her go."

--------------

Gawain slowly turned his head to glare at him, his knuckles still white from his tight grip on the dagger, and from his self-restraint. The restraint that kept him from plunging the knife into her pulse in her neck.

"Let her go," Tristan said again, a little louder this time. His horse tossed his head, making his bit jingle, as if telling Gawain to hurry up.

A crude leer lifted one corner of his mouth as Gawain raked his eyes down her body elaborately, then up again, in a leisurely way. Tristan could see that she was holding back as well, her hands were fisted forcefully at her sides, and she was breathing as if she had an incredible weight on her chest. Her humiliation.

"I wonder why you're always defending her, Tristan," Gawain broke the silence, his voice laced with scorn. He lifted his head to stare at the scout, his expression that of feigned ease.

"Tell me," he said, almost pleasantly. His eyes then returned to her, lingering greedily over her chest. "Is it because of her- favours towards you?"

No one ever saw it coming. Even those who had their stares fixed on him barely saw a flash of silver, then all heard a fierce clang of metal as Gawain's dagger was sent flying, then buried itself squarely on a carriage nearby. There was a collective gasp of awe, then a hush fell once again as Tristan swung his leg nimbly over the saddle and landed deftly on the snow, his feet barely sinking into the soft frost.

He locked gazes with Gawain as he walked over to them, his anger- wherever it came from- kept at bay. He did not stop until he was toe-to-toe with him, and they stared at each other, fighting a wordless battle between them.

A few tense moments passed, then Gawain stepped back, a deep frown on his forehead. He shrugged carelessly, falling back as he nodded briefly. Then he let out a spiteful bark of laughter.

"'Tis alright, brother, I understand," he spat, then spun on his heels and left the yard in a huff without bothering to retrieve his weapon.

Tristan watched him go, unfazed, while turning his words over his head. Understand?

He diverted his gaze to a man standing nearby, and he immediately scuttled away, his pony in tow. Activity resumed, and he noted the many prying stares he got from the passer-bys. A brawl between two knights- no matter how quiet it was- was a rare sight. He expected gossips to have reached the marketplace by now.

Tristan finally turned to her, who was glaring at the embedded dagger on the carriage blankly, though the menacing gleam in her hard blue eyes gave her away. He glanced at the bundles she was clutching, then asked quietly, "Are you alright?"

She spared him a distracted glance, then looked down at her the worn tips of boots. "I'm fine," she replied curtly, her voice cracked.

He nodded, then strode over to Gawain's dagger and pulled it out, strapping it to his belt. He bent down and picked up his own, dusting the light film of snow from its polished blade, then latched it next to Gawain's.

He felt her warm presence behind him, but did not turn to acknowledge her, waiting for her to speak.

"Do you know where Vanora is?"

Tristan could not help arching an eyebrow, though he knew he should not have been surprised at her steely tone and impersonal. But after the- events of the day before, he had expected a change in attitude from her. One of the few mistakes he ever made. Women were unpredictable as weather, after all.

"At the tavern."

"Yes, so I've heard," she snapped impatiently. "Where is the tavern?"

He scowled and said, still facing the cold wood of the carriage, idly checking the hilt of his sword. "Down the road behind the stables. On the left."

"And the market place?"

Now he turned to her, mirroring her face of impassiveness tinged with irritation. "South-west of the fort," he answered vaguely in a low growl. Tolerance had a limit.

She crossed her arms, cocked her head to one side, and closed her eyes while inhaling deeply. Tristan watched, somewhat amused, as she apparently counted to ten inside to herself. Precisely what he would do when he felt his mask of aloofness breaching, which rarely happened.

"And where," she opened her eyes to glare at him. "Exactly is the south-west of the fort?"

He casually ran his tongue over his dry lips, and leaned back on the carriage, crossing his arms as he regarded her through his hair thoughtfully.

"I thought you were a scout," he said lightly.

Her face instantly darkened, and she raised her chin in defiance. A habit of hers, he had noticed. Especially when she felt offended.

"And what does that have to do with you?" she asked sharply.

He did something akin to a shrug. "I thought all scouts have a keen sense of direction. Proves me wrong, though."

He practically saw a scream climbing up her throat, but she bit her lower lip just in time to avert it.

"If you don't want to tell me, fine," she whispered harshly, her voice shaking with frustration. "But don't tamper with my affairs as if you had a bloody right to."

Except that she did not say "bloody". Tristan did not resist his eyebrows this time as they shot up, watching her whirl around, nose in the air, threading her way through the crowd with deliberate long strides, her long strands of blond hair billowing behind her before disappearing into a flurry of horseshoes and flustered stable hands.

Tristan pushed himself from the side of the carriage and reached for his horse, who stood just a few strides away.

Something crunched under his feet, and he looked down.

White fabric among white snow.

He bent down and picked it up, recognizing the soft and sheer fabric the moment it grazed his fingertips. He shook it free of the snow, and balled it into a tight bundle. His horse rubbed his velvety nose against the dress in mischief, snorting as he playfully pushed it away.

Tristan shook his head and gave his loyal companion a pat on the neck, sighing heavily. Women. They were much worse than unpredictable.

--------------

"Vile man," she muttered to herself, frowning so much that her brow ached faintly. "Ridiculous, bloody son-of-a-" she abruptly stopped herself as she noticed that her voice was getting higher notch by notch, and that people passing by her were now giving her queer looks.

She swore once more under her breath, then cramped her mouth shut. Just then a man walked by her, his eyes wide in shock. She glared at him, unleashing a few more colourful curses she had learnt from Cerdic, causing him to dash away from her, startled. Perhaps startled was an understatement.

Damn him, her mind raved. She wondered why it ever entered her mind that she might actually have feelings for him. That obnoxious scout. Well, it was clear whatever "feelings" she had suspected were non-existent now.

A more reasonable part of her reminded her that she should have thanked him instead of throwing a tantrum square in his face considering the fact that he had saved her. Again. Abigail made a face. That man was bruising when it came to egos.

Not to mention infuriating! How dared he act as if he owned the world. She found herself wondering if she were such an exceptional laughingstock. Oh, maybe she was. First, he nailed her under him with a few swipes of his sword. Then, he caught her sending a letter to her commander and made her feel bad about herself. He had then rescued her from a sadistic Cerdic, seen her cry under more occasions than she was willing to, stitched her up, corrected her archery stance, drove her half-mad with uncertainty, took her stitches out, stole her first kiss, then acted like nothing had happened before, and ridicule her after saving her life for the umpteenth time.

She kicked at the snow viciously, venting a tad of her pent-up anger.

Why? Why had she not shot him when she had the chance?

"The market's down the other way, then to the right at the first cross-road."

Abigail jumped a foot in the air when the voice of the man whose death regrettably was not yet actuality, causing her face to flame in embarrassment as she had been caught off guard so ungracefully. Where were her scouting instincts?

"I thought I told you not to tamper with my affairs," she said flatly, considerably dragging the last few syllables to emphasize her point. She kept her eyes on the road, pointedly ignoring him.

"I am wondering what will you be bartering with?" he asked nonchalantly. "You hardly have any earthly possessions, to my understanding."

She snapped her head sideward to glare at him. "I did not steal anything, if that's what you're implying. And I happen to have one earthly possession that I'm willing to barter with." She lifted the bundle in her right fist for him to see her dress.

"I've been led to believe that they are Vanora's possessions, not yours," he replied.

Abigail raised an eyebrow quizzically. Surely he had seen that dress before. Slowly, she turned to the bundle- only to find the dark mass of Vanora's dresses.

"Oh gods," she breathed, panic swelling inside her. She began picking at the coarse dresses, letting them fall onto the ground as she willed a trace of white to emerge somehow amidst the forest green fabrics. Her hands now empty, she spun around wildly, scanning the snow for signs of her lost dress. How could she have dropped it? Oh, what was she to do? It was the only thing she could possibly give up without freezing in this cold-

"Here."

She turned around just in time for a piece of cloth to land on her face. She plucked it away, and froze when she saw that she was clutching her lost dress in her hands.

"Oh," she breathed a heavy sigh of relief a few moments later after the shock passed, burying her face in the silky textile. "Thank the gods."

"You won't get anything in exchange for that dress," said Tristan slowly.

"Why?" she asked, tearing her numb cheeks away from the dress which was warm- she noted with some guilt as her thoughts flitted back to the ill fate she had hoped would befall him- with his heat. "The cotton was spun from the finest sheep of our village."

"No one cares from what sheep the cotton has been spun while they are fleeing," he said with a hint of annoyance. "Take this."

While she was she brooding over his words on the matter of the source of cotton, for surely, people must care- a black pouch sailed through the air, and on reflex, she caught it with her spare hand. She gasped at its weight, and the quiet tinkle told her what exactly was inside its satin cover.

"I-I cannot take this, sir," she stammered, lost for words as she gaped at the pouch. She lifted her eyes to his, hers still wide from surprise, his fixed on some faraway spot as he adjusted the girth of his horse.

"Buy the provisions you need," he said dismissively, giving the saddle flap a pat when he had finished. "I don't need it."

"But-"

Before she could utter one more word, he had dug his heels into his horse's sides, and they galloped off towards the gate of the fort. Abigail watched his retreating form, intrigued by yet another side of him, when a piercing shriek led her gaze skywards. A lone hawk glided after him, its cry rising and falling with the wind.

She untied the pouch, tilted it upside down, and four gleaming gold coins and a couple of nickels fell onto the hollow of her palm. She gasped again, she could easily afford a horse with four gold coins!

Carefully, she slid the gold and silver pieces into the bag and tied it securely. A warmth of guarantee stirred in the pit of her stomach as she tucked it into her tunic, and she gathered up Vanora's dresses briskly. She then carefully folded up her only dress, silently grateful that she did not have to give it away.

She had yet to thank him- but it was difficult when the man you had to thank had broken your pride and mended it from pieces again too many times before.

--------------

What am I doing here, you say? I'm not supposed to update till this Friday! Well, my friends, it seems that my raving imagination would not leave me alone even during times of darkness a.k.a. examination week. A veeeery long chapter, considering that I should be revising for my History exam now! Naughty me! But I'm particularly pleased with it, a bit of gibbering from a ticked off Abigail, a more irritating Tristan, and a little mad Gawain (please don't be mad with me, MedievalWarriorPrincess!).

I really hope you enjoyed this chapter. Tristan's an annoying pest, isn't he?

Tristan: I heard that.

Me: Yes, I know you heard that, Tristan. Now get out of my sight.

Tristan: -grunt-

Yes, you read that right, folks. Tristan and me got into sort of a fight. And yes, you're right, it's involved with lasagna. So yes, don't ask, it did NOT go well. I'm never letting Tristan into a kitchen again. Ever.

Alright! Enough of my lasagna nonsense! One of my pathetic attempts to be funny, so please, just laugh to make me happy. Of course, reviewing is another thing you can do to make me a happy bunny. If you didn't know yet, happy authors update rather quickly, so you know what to do!

P.S. Sorry if I sound hyper, I just watched Pirates of the Caribbean and it's freakin' awesome! I'm totally drooling over Jack Spar- ahem, Captain Jack Sparrow, I mean. Alright enough nonsense, really, I'm getting sick of myself. Not to mention Tristan's getting jealous (faraway voice: "I'm not!") –rolls eyes- Thank you for your reviews everyone! I'll reply to them very soon :)