Chapter 18: Choices

They were here. An entire army- three thousand men.

Tristan stared at the fierce orange globs of fire in the field a few hundred feet from the fortress walls grimly, alongside the other knights and anxious Roman legionnaires.

The air was cold and thick with tension in the dark predawn hour. Villagers were crowded at the foot of the wall, murmurs traveling within the mass of frightened peasants. A lone wail of an infant rang out, and Tristan turned to Arthur, who was standing beside him, the Woad on his other side. He was too gazing intently at the Saxon camp. Tristan noted the familiar determination in his dark green eyes, and the tight clench of his fingers on the broken ramparts. He glanced at the Woad woman, graceful in her long dress, with her enticing eyes on the forest. Tristan followed her gaze and rested his eyes on the dense woods, he could see nothing save the sinister branches. But he knew what lurked in the gloom.

Woads. Arthur should have known she was of Woad blood now. He eyed his commander closely, then at Guinevere. Perhaps he was doing this for her. She may be one of his reasons- amongst duty, honour and destiny.

Now, Arthur straightened his back, and with one last hard look at the fires he cast a sympathetic glance at the defenceless serfs, then turned to his brothers, and let his eyes linger on every one of them with both grief and pride.

"Knights," his voice was low but one could hear unwavering strength in it- strength of a leader.

"My journey with you must end here," he continued stiffly. "May God go with you."

All let out groans of frustration as Arthur marched by, with Lancelot and Guinevere following suit. Tristan felt his heart tighten ever so slightly as he watched Lancelot trying to change his best friend's mind, only segments of his fiery speech reaching his ears.

"Again," growled Galahad suddenly as he slammed a fist down on the wall. "He has to carry the whole world on his shoulders."

Bors, for once, was silent. Tristan's keen ears picked up soft pads of feet from the stairs, and he watched Vanora approach her lover quietly, a sad understanding on her face. Shock seized her as she took in the sight before her, then Bors gently took her hand and kissed it.

"We leave at first light," he said, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. "Get the children ready."

Vanora lifted her eyes to Tristan's briefly, and he nodded in reassurance. He turned back to the shadows of the field as the others trudged away, leaving him to his own thoughts.

She was right. There was so much to leave behind, much more than he had anticipated. He silently groaned, and ran a calloused hand down the length of his face. She was only a woman, he told himself.

But then, maybe not quite. She had killed Dagonet- Tristan had no idea how he came to overlook that so easily. If she were a man, he would have killed her without a slightest thought. No, he would have killed her if she were another woman, but she her.

Unintentionally, Tristan recalled the other times when he had had feelings for other women. The wife of a filthy rich landlord, the lady promised to a Roman lord in marriage, a dying village girl- always the wrong woman at the wrong time.

Something akin to anger rose within him as he pushed himself from the wall. The taste of freedom had already turned stale.

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They were here.

Abigail's fingers were icy cold as they gripped the jagged stone wall, shivering with fear as the Saxon campfires glared at her, threatening to reveal her hiding place at a collapsed part of the fortress wall.

She had to leave now, another minute at this place meant a greater chance of getting caught. Shakily, she hauled herself onto her feet, slinking in the shadows of the eroded parapet. Her ears were ringing in the eerie silence, her footfalls were too loud as she stumbled over the broken pieces of stones and fallen branches, her breathing constricted.

The moon lent little light as she staggered blindly, unbridled dread making her head pound and, she deemed, half-mad. Shards of memories of black ships gliding in white mist, aflame corpses, watching armour-clad men walk over burning bodies between leaves, blood-curdling screams-

Suddenly, she discovered it was her own screams she heard, then a hand was slapped over her mouth, nearly smothering her. She kicked and lashed at the solid weight behind her, only to earn a brutal kick in her thigh. She tried to cry, but the hand was still covering her mouth and nose, and she could not breathe. She recognized the stink of the hand though, and she stilled as she felt another hand slide down the side of her body brazenly.

"We been worried sick, dearie," a sickening voice whispered into her ear. "Just where you been? My lord is beyond angry."

The filthy fingers trailed over the exposed skin of her neck, and she shuddered. The Saxon laughed, scornfully, as chapped lips replaced the rough fingers.

"My lord wants information," said the Saxon as he continued his assault. "Maps, strategies, everything. You report to me in one hour, or else-"

Abigail felt the pressure of a blade on her thigh, slicing the thin fabric of her breeches open, cold air immediately creeping into the opening.

She could feel the evil grin on the back of her neck before she was pushed to the ground. She ventured a look at the Saxon, then scrambled to her feet, but stopped when she felt a sword at her throat.

"And you'll have me to deal with," he warned in a low growl then faded into the black of night.

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Tristan walked slowly towards the stairs, dragging his steps. His boots made no sound on the grand marble floor of the hall, once glimmering with a milky glow, but now grey and washed with age.

He lifted his eyes to the corridor leading to the Round Table, and he stopped, staring at the dark corridor.

He wanted to see the Round Table again, one last time.

When he was once again at the door of the goddess of war, he heard the shuffle of parchments and a soft hiss of fire. He frowned and shook his head. Arthur should be resting, instead of fussing over maps right now. Without knocking, he pushed the door open, and stopped short.

Blue eyes he had grown used to glared coldly back at him, and he took in the sight before him. Parchments were spread out messily on the Round Table at Arthur's seat, a candle sitting on a stack of yellowed papers, a few bounded scrolls beside them, her head bowed over a large map, a quill in one hand.

She was stealing.

He felt his rage stirring inside him as she continued to stare at him vacantly. She was like a child caught sneaking into her mother's kitchen for a treat that was supposed for after supper. Her seemingly chaste face could feign innocence without effort, and now, she showed no signs of guilt as she returned his gaze openly.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked eventually through gritted teeth, his low voice not failing to carry the anger across the room to her.

She lifted her chin while rolling up the map she was writing on, and replied without looking at him. "I have told you before- I remain loyal to my commander."

"And you betray us?" he felt a cord of his restraint snap, and he took a step firm forward. "After all you have received from us?"

"Duty calls," she responded nonchalantly.

"Duty? To whom?" asked Tristan, his voice rising. "The Saxons?" he spat.

She shot him a glare, and answered in the same tone. "As a matter of fact, yes."

He watched her gather several scrolls in a huff, then shoved the papers into a sack. Slinging it across her back, she reached back for her hair to tie it up with a piece of black cloth. Her fingers fumbled, and her eyebrows knitted together in frustration, using more force than needed and ended up tearing the cloth. With a strangled noise, she threw the ribbon onto the floor and let the whitish strands ripple back into place.

"Goodbye," she said curtly, then made to march right by him.

A red-hot fury seized him, and he grabbed her arm roughly when she passed by, pulling her towards him.

"Don't you think of leaving this room with those scrolls," he growled, his eyes blazing through the mane of dark hair that had fallen across them.

Without warning, a light dagger had been whipped out and rested at the crook of his neck. Tristan glanced indifferently at it. Its blade was razor sharp and its hilt glowing, newly polished. So she had spent his money wisely.

"That's the third time you threatened to kill me," he informed her tonelessly, still studying the rather inelegant symbols on the silver hilt.

"Don't make me do it, then," she snarled and gave him a harsh push before continuing her way to the doors.

His head raving, he plucked his own dagger from his boot and sent it flying. It soared past her and landed with a loud thump, half of its blade sunken into the fine wood of the doors.

Tristan watched her slowly turn around, her face paralleling his. Furious.

"No one threatens me then gets away with it," he said, closing the distance between them slowly.

She did not move as he approach, head held high, her hands fisted and knuckles white. Her face seemed paler than it had been in days, but her eyes were wide and intense, flecks of gold amidst a pallid blue. She seemed somewhat daunting, haunted.

Where was the tenderness, the weakness even, he saw a mere hour or two ago? He thought he had banished the aloof emptiness in her, but he was wrong. It was here again. The detachment as she glared at him the same way she used to. No, he was wrong. He overestimated himself. Why would she change because of him?

Because he cared for her. There was no denying it now, as he returned her steely gaze. He cared for her despite her imperfections and her wrongdoings. He cared for her because she was different, in a bad sense, perhaps, but that did not change his feelings to her.

They were facing each other now, Tristan forcing himself to casually lean against the door while she stood rigidly, her hand on the lever. Reaching over her head and feeling for the bolts, his fingers found them and leisurely slid them into place, the rusty creaks of the metal accenting the silence between them. He could hear his own pulse in his ears, and he was convinced that he heard hers too- racing.

Deliberately, he folded his arms neatly across his chest, letting his hair fall onto his eyes to hide his raging emotions. She was still glaring at him, unwavering.

"What happened?" he asked.

Her lips were a stern, thin line, and her scowl deepened. Tristan felt a jolt of frustration- did she not trust him?

"Nothing happened, I assure you," she replied in a steady voice.

Tristan stared hard at her, hoping to break her resolve. She did not flinch, not even blink. He no longer saw the woman he had held and comforted; he saw the murderer, the cold-blooded traitor he found in the woods. Part of the Saxons. An enemy.

He leaned forward and whispered harshly in her ear, "You are not walking out of these doors with those papers, traitor."

She was quicker this time, Tristan did not even see the dagger before he felt the same coldness at his throat, pressing mercilessly onto his skin.

"You underestimate me, sir," she spat back, gritting her teeth.

"I think I do," he said, looking at her meaningfully. "Abigail."

She might as well have been told that her baby sister had come back to life. Shock filled the empty void of her blue depths as she gaped at him, wide-eyed. Taking advantage of the situation, he grabbed her hands and pinned them to the door, easily pushing her against the door.

"You've played enough games," he said, his voice gruff.

With a growl, his lips crashed onto hers- there was no holding back this time. He felt her body stiffen under his, and her lips were passive. He frowned, but persisted. He needed her to know how she made him feel.

A loud clang was heard when she dropped the dagger unceremoniously, and suddenly, she was responding vigorously to his every move. A pair of smooth hands encircled his neck, pulling him down, closer. She let him in, and he tasted every part of her mouth, satisfied when she moaned in lust for more. The walls seemed close in around them, and he was getting dizzy with the heat. She broke away first, gasping for air. He moved down to her neck without delay, his lips gliding over her skin as she leaned back against the door, her fingers threading in his hair, breathing heavily.

"Now, tell me what happened," he breathed hotly into her ear, pushing back the hair that was strewn over the side of her face.

"They found me," she panted, lifting her chin to give him space as he buried his face in her throat, lightly nipping the tender skin. "They want information."

Tristan heard the fear in her voice, and he reached out and touched her cheek gently. She leaned into his hand, closing her eyes, and he planted a kiss on her eyelid without thought.

"I have to report to them in less than an hour," she continued, pulling his face down to her own. She barely brushed her lips across his. "Or I don't know what will happen."

"You don't have to go back," he said against her lips, hoping to sound comforting.

She shook her head. "You don't understand, Tristan. They will find me. No one betrays the Saxons, no one runs from them."

He pulled back slightly to look at her. To his surprise, she looked serene, a calm acceptance in her delicate features. He opened his mouth to ask her to go with him, but stopped himself. It would be selfish, to ask her to abandon her home. He had been craving for his home's embrace for fifteen years, wanting somewhere to belong to. How could he ask her to leave?

As if reading his mind, she gave him a crooked smile, then said, "I am of this land. I was born here, I will die here as well."

Their lips met once again, tongues twining in a slow and lingering rhythm. His hand slowly slid down the side of her body, over alluring curves, down to her thigh. His fingers grazed a short length of silky flesh amongst rough fabric, and she arched into him, doing explorations of her own.

"Your breeches are torn," said Tristan breathlessly as he drew away.

"I- got them caught in some- branches," she replied rather hesitantly.

He frowned in suspicion, then traced the rip thoughtfully. It was a clean slit, with no frays. It could not have been branches.

"They have hurt you?" he asked quietly.

She refused to look at him, but idly fiddled with the neckline of his tunic.

"They would have," she said, giving a careless shrug.

"Abigail," he said, turning the name slowly over his tongue. She seemed to start at the sound of her name, but did not look up. Sliding a finger under her chin, he tilted her head upwards, catching her gaze again.

"You said you have no choice," he recalled her words that night in the woods, strangely alike to this night. "You're wrong. You always have a choice."

"Do I?" she whispered dubiously, drawing circles on his tanned face.

Tristan nodded. "You have a whole life in front of you. You can choose to live it, or you can choose to waste it."

"Thank you, Tristan," she smiled weakly, but her words were true.

Taking both of her hands, he brought them up and kissed them, his eyes on hers all the while.

"Don't choose to waste it," he said.

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Merry belated Christmas! Gosh! I'm back from Beijing and I've updated this story! I'm so proud of myself:D And I bought a pair of jeans today! Okay, I'm sort of random today, but yeah, the whole Beijing trip was random, so my new motto is: "Be random!"

Tristan: You are so random. (magically pops away)

Me: (blinks) Now that's random!

Anyways, thank you for the wonderful comments! It's awesome of you to take time to review even during the hectic holidays! Thanks again, love ya all! (huggles and chocolate and strawberry knight cookies to everyone) I'll be updating soon-ish, I can't promise anything, I have some stuff to do during the holidays, but I'll try!

And for those waiting for updates in my other stories, I can just say that I'll try my best. I've lost my muse for Destined To Be, and it sucks, but I'm open to any suggestions!

So that's all for today, I hope you enjoyed this chapter… they are more "officially" together now, aren't they? ;) Buh-bye!