Here, there be monsters!

Please note that this chapter contains violence.

Readers, ye be warned!

Oh, and heartbreak.

Free Kleenex tissues at the end of this chapter!

Chapter 20: Battle to Peace

Breamas's speed rivaled that of the wind's as he led Abigail through the maze of the forest, his hooves cleverly sending them out of the way of branches, sharp stones and tangled weeds. The sun's warm rays streamed into the cold forest in golden pillars through cracks between barren branches and fallen leaves, lending the galloping stallion's black coat a moment's bronze as he dashed past strips of sunlight.

Abigail hung onto the saddle like a fragile plant holding onto its roots in a storm. All she saw were flashes of brown and green, and when she looked up, she saw an occasional hue of blue peeking through the treetops. She had no say in what direction Breamas was going, but she was trusting his senses as well as hers, which was assuring her they were headed to the Wall.

Dried leaves littered in their trail were raked up from their slumber, cracking like twigs burning in angry flames. As the one burning in her heart.

Suddenly, she was not in the saddle on Breamas, but on the broad bare back of Ionúin- her family's gentle, dark bay mare. She was not galloping along desolate, unknown paths in a forest, but down the grassy winding road towards the beach she knew so well.

"'Gail! Wait for us!" cried Erlina, her fiery ginger hair catching the wind as she urged her father's old horse on.

"I'll have your head when I catch up with you!" added Maeve, more mischief than vexation in her clear voice as she raced after her two other friends.

"I'll worry about it when you do!" shouted Abigail over her shoulder, laughing when she heard Maeve's groan of frustration.

She was nearing the beach now, she could hear the familiar thunder of rolling waves, then the soothing wash of them when they leapt ashore. She could hear children squealing in glee as they splashed each other with the cool salty water at the edge of the shore, or as they chased each other down the sandy stretch of the beach, or as they found their playmates' hiding place in the same hole inside the abandoned Captain Bonnet's Cave.

The final bend was looming into sight, and Abigail eagerly clucked the roof of her mouth with her tongue, spurring Ionúin on. She could see the black rocks that adorned one end of the beach, the fine golden grains of sand winking in the sunlight, the translucent blue waves, and the rounded pebbles that had endured the seven seas before being delivered to rest on the tranquil shore-

Then she heard Francesca's screams, her voice vibrating with terror and deadly agony. Her father's frantic shouts. "'Gail! Run! Run!" Her mother's sweet voice breaking down into sobs. A flurry of voices of pain, scrambling feet, then silence.

Ionúin had stopped in her tracks, jostling backwards nervously. Abigail nudged her sides, forcing her forwards, towards the beach, but as they rounded the turn, she could see nothing through the thick fog of her tears.

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Tristan never took his eyes off the tightly packed rows of Saxon soldiers, ramming their spears into the earth in a steady staccato with the accompaniment of drums as they chanted incoherently but unrelentingly. He fondled his the arc of his bow nearly absentmindedly, tracing the fine wood and the newly replaced bowstring, his fingers lusting to string an arrow and put it through the hearts of the dirty creatures.

He waited patiently. The battle would begin before long- he always knew when. The tension was high in the air, every man taut with anticipation.

They were waiting for the other to make the first move.

He finally tore his gaze from the army, and looked at Arthur, who was standing a way off, grimly staring at his enemies, gripping Excalibur with one hand and rested the blade on the back of the other.

Tristan decided that Arthur was a majestic sight to behold. He had seen his commander in full Roman military uniform before, but today, he looked exceptionally imposing. The sunlight bounced off the polished silver of his armour, as well as that of his stallion, and mostly, the sharpened blade of Excalibur.

The sword was a legend- he began to wonder if the man was a legend as well.

Suddenly, the chants grew louder, and Tristan diverted his sight to the Saxons. A light infantry was making their way to the open gates, from which grey smoke drifted lazily, yet threateningly. The knights watched the Saxons approach the gates cautiously, then, a single battle cry sounded, and the rest joined while they rushed through the metal gates.

Arthur now turned his stead around and faced his men, his tone steely with fortitude. "Knights."

Lancelot gathered his reins, brought his dragon talisman to his lips as habit required, and smiled at his friend. "We're with you, Arthur."

"As always," added Galahad.

Bors snorted, while the others grinned in amusement. Arthur shook his head with a small smile, then straightened his face and regarded each of them sternly. Tristan held his gaze for a moment, then gave him the smallest of nods.

The gates closed with a metallic screech. Arthur now faced the smoky battleground, and the knights followed, standing in the Dragon Formation, Dagonet's place empty.

Then, without warning, Arthur thrust Excalibur heavenwards, then galloped down the hill, bellowing, "Ruuus!"

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Abigail could hear the battle raging, she was very close now. Breamas showed no signs of weariness nor anxiety as they neared the menacing cries of combat. In fact, he seemed to get more eager with each step towards the noise, his ears pricked and his strides smart. She smiled in spite of herself. For once, she was glad to have found him.

She was, once again, shaken by qualms of uncertainty. Her mind was tearing into two, that of reason and of fear. But there was a thread of strength that spurred her on, and she hung onto it with all her might.

There was no turning back now, she told herself firmly.

They approached the edge of the forest, and Abigail frantically pulled back on the reins. Breamas gave a snort of displeasure, but displayed a rare obedience as he skidded to a halt.

She patted the side of his sweaty neck and surveyed the battle from the shelter of the trees.

The battlefield was on open ground, with pits of fire punctuating the wide stretch flatland. A large trench in dying flames in the centre divided the field into two, and on both sides, the battle was in full swing.

Abigail swallowed shakily when she witnessed a Woad cutting off a Saxon's legs, then severing his head as an afterthought. She had seen battles before, but to be in one- it was an intimidating thought.

Breamas started pulling on the reins, as if impatient to be part of the fight. Abigail hesitated. She had no armour, no weapon- except for the horse she was riding- how could she go into a battle like this?

She spotted a Saxon soldier, bloodied and slightly dazed, trotting towards the canopy of trees. Grabbing the chance, she kicked Breamas into a canter, and knocked the soldier flat on his back before he noticed. Then she halted Breamas and leapt off the saddle, kicking the Saxon in his face and knocked him out cold with a broken nose.

She quickly disarmed him, taking his array of daggers and his sharp but heavy sword. She picked up an abandoned Saxon shield, then climbed back up Breamas, who had waited dutifully to her surprise.

Her confidence renewed by the armaments, Abigail spurred Breamas into a gallop, running straight into the bedlam, looking for one person- Cerdic.

She dodged the soldiers- Woads, Saxons, Britons and Romans- not wanting to have a hand in the bloodshed as long as she could avoid it. She had killed before, but never willingly. She hated the stench of blood, and she hated taking lives. She felt a saltiness rising to her throat as the scent of death closed in about her, but she forced it down. Turning sick at the moment was not an ideal plan.

Suddenly, something attached itself to her back, and she screamed as she stumbled off the saddle, hitting the ground hard on her back. Her sword flew out of her fingers and she panicked. The thing threw itself onto her before she could get her focus back, and a sword was at her throat before she could scream again.

"It's you?"

Abigail's head stopped turning, and she frowned at the beautiful face staring down at her in wide-eyed surprise.

"It's me," she said, an unexpected smile hanging on her thin lips. "Guinevere."

She recognized the Woad lady in a snap, and accepted her hand and let her haul her up to her feet.

"You shouldn't use this," said Guinevere disgustedly, stripping her of the Saxon shield. "Wear this."

The Woad took a talisman attached to a long piece of string from her scanty battle uniform which was identical to the one she was wearing herself, and put it around Abigail's neck.

"This will protect you. Perhaps you do not believe it, but it will." said Guinevere seriously, then she pressed her shield into Abigail's hands. "Take this as well."

"But don't you need it?" asked Abigail, touched by the lady's kindness.

"I'll be fine," she said confidently, turning to go. "Keep your Saxon weapons out of sight."

Abigail nodded and watched her go, leaping towards a Saxon agilely and killing him swiftly. She shuddered at the sight, then turned and started running towards the direction of the trench, all the while scanning the grounds for any attackers.

Hearing a loud shriek from her right, she quickly whipped a dagger from her belt and swung to the left, seeing a Woad warrior sprinting towards her with his spear raised.

"Stop!" she yelled, putting her hands up. "I am not your enemy!"

But he did not, and started to pull his arm back to ready for the launching of his weapon. Reluctantly but resolvedly, Abigail flung her dagger at him with all her might, aiming for his bare chest. He easily dodged, then let loose his spear. Suddenly alert, she watched the movement of the spear carefully as it mounted the air, then began to fall- and rolled out of its deadly spike just in time as it hit the earth with a monstrous force.

For the second time within minutes, Abigail found herself struggling against a huge weight upon her chest. She gasped as she blocked the violent blow of the Woad's broad sword with the small dagger she had been hanging onto, and gritted her teeth as she strained to hold the blade from slicing her throat.

"I'm an ally!" she managed between strangled attempts to breathe.

The Woad simply pushed harder on the hilt, and Abigail screeched in frustration. She felt that her right leg was free of any constraints, and brought it hard down onto the Woad.

Wherever it hit, it must have been painful, for he yelled aloud and rolled off her. She jumped to her feet and knocked the sword of his hands, fitting the heel of her foot at his throat.

"I am not an enemy!" she spat at him, holding up the talisman Guinevere gave her.

Only did then she realize that he did not know her language. A look of apology washed over his painted face after he took a good look at the charm, and he scrambled to his feet. He hurriedly offered her a shorter sword, muttered a few words in which she recognized in Gaelic, then bade her farewell.

Abigail staggered to her feet, panting, already feeling exhausted from two encounters. She looked around the vast fields where fights and killings were going on continuously, and felt all of a sudden vulnerable.

She was in a battle. A real battle, that might last for hours, days or even weeks. A battle in which people died, and killed without mercy. There was no one or nothing to protect her, she had no one to rely on. She had only herself to watch her back.

She had seen many a battles, but not one this large or this fierce. And never had she been in one.

She was very afraid.

Without a horse, it was much more difficult to navigate the grounds. She crossed blades with those who challenged her, and thankfully, Woads took over every time when they saw her talisman and her sword. Abigail continued towards the trench, her head getting dizzy from veering her head from side to side, her blue eyes were wide and watery from the burning pitch. Her throat was uncomfortably dry, and she nervously swallowed, trying to moisturize the near scorching column.

Then a Saxon came into sight, and without any hesitation, he hurtled towards her with his sword raised. As he drew near, Abigail recognized the ugly scar that ran down the length of his face. She smirked grimly. He was one of Cynric's men, who had taken pleasure from beating her, until she dragged a dagger down his always sneering face. She steadied herself- she was ready for revenge.

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Abigail was covered in grime, sweat, dried blood and whatnot, wielding a newly acquired sword from a fallen Roman soldier. She was raving- she felt her pulse running wildly, her heart wrongly exhilarated, her breath heavy with anticipation.

So this was how one survived in battle- by losing oneself in the brutality and indulging oneself in pain.

She had lost track of the minutes or even hours, and the tally of men she had slain. She had nearly let her quest slip behind her mind if it were not for the constant pain deep inside her. The sorrow that kept her from being wholly consumed by animal instinct.

She was unharmed save for a number of mere scrapes and bruises, but she was aware that her muscles were starting to ache, and her vision was blurring ever so slightly. She shook off these worries though, and took a moment to survey the field.

Strangely, there were times when the battle would quiet down- slight as it might be- as if allowing the warriors an instant to take a breather, then when they had caught their breath, the fights would stir up. It was a balance that was naturally achieved, and despite the circumstances, Abigail found herself marveling at the untold order.

She had reached the edge of the trench, and she looked into the deep depression. It was filled with black liquid and the remains of a large fire was evident in the heavy smokes that rose from its depth. It was too wide to jump across, but as she looked on, she found that she had nearly gone far enough to go around it.

A fresh peal of aggressive cries pronounced the end of the grace period, and Abigail picked up her sword and ran to the gap that would take her to the other side of the battle.

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Tristan almost serenely picked off a dozen Saxons with the last of his arrows, each dead before they could utter a yelp of pain. He would have shot them with less force so they would have to writher to death, but with the fact that they were sorely outnumbered even with the participation of the Woads, it was not worth the risk.

His stallion brought them into the centre of the battle where the fighting was vicious and unforgiving, and he leapt off the saddle, sweeping out his sword as he landed on the ground left barren by thousands of tramping feet.

He slowly circled, his weapon tilted to the ground, as he waited. Not an instant later, a possessed Saxon rushed at him with his axe held above his axe. Easily enough, the scout thrust his sword through his guts, and the Saxon fell dead with his eyes, still bearing the slightly deranged expression.

He carefully preserved his energy, using minimal time to finish off his attackers, and hardly moved from his ground. The enemies seemed willing enough to throw their lives away as they flung themselves at Tristan, who took no more than a blink of the eye to plunge his sword into their hearts or severe their heads with a clean swipe.

A circle of dead men surrounded him, and Tristan stepped over the corpses, mercilessly grinding his heels into sliced flesh and some yet undead, groaning men. He swept his gaze across the field, and saw Bors, still horsed, dragging a dying Saxon by the tip of his sword for a distance before letting his horse trample him to death. Tristan smirked humourlessly, then started towards a few stupefied Saxons who Arthur was fighting skillfully.

"I'll leave them to you, then," he grinned at Tristan as he reached the crowd with only three Saxons alive, swerving their swords blindly.

He simply nodded and completed Arthur's unfinished task by stabbing the done in Saxon in the neck. Then he turned rhythmically and parried a stroke by the other, kicking him in the middle before spinning to cut the third diagonally from shoulder to hip. The Saxon howled in pain and dropped to his knees, while the other growled and leapt forward to strangle Tristan, only to find a sword sticking out from his stomach. Tristan stared at the contorting Saxon struggling to stay alive, letting his disgust show, before jerking his sword from his guts and bore down on his throat with the heel of his boot. He watched the Saxon thrash about, trying to ward off his foot, then he sputtered and a thin line of blood ran from the corner of his mouth before he stopped breathing.

"Havin' fun?" bellowed Bors as he cantered by, hitting a wandering Saxon on his head with his deadly axe.

Tristan grinned briefly but sobered when he saw a trio of Saxons run towards him. He immediately noted the exceptionally strong-built bodies and newly polished armour, and knew that the fight would not be pretty.

A dagger embedded itself in one of Tristan's targets before he even reached him, and he acknowledged Galahad with a quick nod before meeting another's challenge, evading his forceful thrust with a practiced flick of his sword. He let the Saxon hammer his sword on his, knowing that he would wear out in a matter of moments if he continued to immerse all of his energy in his strokes.

From the corner of his eye, Tristan watched Galahad clash swords with the other Saxon who was inches taller than the boy was. He noted satisfactorily that Galahad had once again improved as he killed off the Saxon with a few quick and precise lashes of his sword. Then he turned back to his enemy, still hacking at his blade mindlessly, and put an end to the nonsense with a swift deflect of his sword and a thrust at his chest.

As he turned away from the dead man to let him crumple to the ground, he thought he saw a flash of gold. A gold so pale that it could have passed as white. But he dismissed it as he engaged himself in another combat.

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Abigail thought she was going to die when the looming Saxon prepared to bring his axe on her skull, and she had closed her eyes, resigned, but never felt the blow strike.

When she opened her eyes again, the menacing shadow was gone, and she spun around to see the bald-headed knight towing the dying man on the blade of his axe. Bors gave her a grim nod before ridding his axe of the Saxon.

Abigail stared at his retreating figure, stunned. Why was Bors here? Was he not supposed to have left? Vanora had told her that they would be leaving at first light, should they not have gone by now?

But then she caught sight of the handsome face of Lancelot vigorously dueling with a Saxon officer of a higher rank, and her heart leapt.

Tristan. He must be here.

She saw him then. It was like watching a dream as he deftly sidestepped a fatal blow of his opponent, and was grace itself as he brandished his sword with the deadly accuracy only he possessed. She had fought him before, so as to speak, and it was terrifying. But watching him was an entirely different matter. It was mesmerizing, entrancing. Abigail did not realize that she was hardly breathing and took in a few hasty gasps when she became short of breath. Her eyes followed his every movement, the clever footwork, the unlikely placidity of his arms, the masked face that would have been enough to unarm a soldier.

She knew not how long had she stood there, but an abrupt blur of movement pulled her out of her trance.

"Tristan!"

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Tristan started at the scream of his name, and he promptly killed the Saxon before whipping around to the cry.

But a sharp pierce hit the left side of his ribs before he could locate the voice, and he fell a step back, swaying with a sudden lightheadedness. He looked down and was not surprised to see an arrow protruding from the source of pain.

He had shot enough arrows to know that this one had sank deep. He slammed his sword into the earth as a means of support as he felt himself falling forward, and he went down onto his knees as the pain began to fan out like poison in blood. His breaths came out in short breaths, laboured and burning. Through the haze now veiling his eyes, he saw a pair of worn boots of animal hide making their way leisurely towards him.

Tristan sucked in a breath as deep as it could be, and forced himself onto his feet, pulling his sword from the ground with trembling hands. He stood as tall as he could, and regarded his assailant coldly. It was a Saxon, grinning like a madman. He stopped two feet from Tristan, and raised his sword in challenge. He mirrored his move, trying to hide the excruciating pain every shift of his muscles gave him.

Tristan did not see him strike, but his instinct saved him. The pain exploded, blinding him for a split second, then he felt an intense pain in his thigh, and he stumbled as it gave way under his weight.

He vaguely remembered hearing a dynamic clanging of metal as he rolled onto his back, specks of dark gradually dotting his vision, his breath becoming shorter with every attempt to take air into his deprived lungs, and his consciousness fogging.

Then he felt a pair of hands on his face, and they felt so soft and gentle. A long lost sense of serenity descended onto him, and he slowly closed his eyes.

"Tristan. Stay with me. Tristan-"

I could not stay, he told the tender voice. Darkness shrouded his sight, and the burning of his lungs was replaced by a soothing coolness. Was this death? It felt good. It was as if he had slipped into the comforting depths of the sea as noises faded into silence, and the last of the light petered out. He let out a sigh and sank deeper into the water, finding peace as he let oblivion take him.

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Free Kleenex tissues as promised!

My first battle scene. And I'm proud of it -grins-

How was it?

As a reminder, Tristan's fate is in my hands. -grins crookedly-

-flashes to scene with Tristan bounded like a mummy on a chair in a black, empty room. An empty pizza box is seen under the chair. The scene turns black completely, then the spotlight turns on again with the pizza box gone.-

Ahem. Stupid backstage people. Anyways, be nice and comment on this chapter! I need spiritual support! Seriously! It's my first battle scene after all. And I wrote nine pages! collective gasp I reeeaaally want to know whether I did a wondrous or monstrous job. And remember the position Tristan is in… -evil crackles-

I'm sorry it took me nearly two weeks to update, but I had to write till that point and I couldn't find time until today. Thanks for the reviews for the last chapter, I really appreciate them! I'll try my hardest to update sooner this time! Hugs and kisses to all my readers and reviewers!

P.S. IT'S THE TWENTIETH CHAPTER:D