Chapter 21: Hope
"Tristan," Abigail called again, biting her lips to hold back the tears on the brim of her eyes. "Tristan, stay with me."
Tristan laid on the ground, his eyes closed, and his face was going cold under her palms. He was hardly breathing, after sucking in sharp and short intakes of air in his oblivion, his breaths seemed to have ceased altogether at the other.
Forcing herself to stay calm, she took out a dagger and began sawing at the protruding end of the arrow with trembling hands, as close to the armour as she could manage, as she had seen the Saxon healer do once. She tried to ignore the sticky blood that clung to her trembling fingers as she worked, and held the arrow as still as possible so it would not pierce him further. She did not know how deep the wound was, but it looked grave enough.
She breathed a small sigh of relief when the top of the arrow came off, then she undid the clasps of his armour, and lifted the metal off his torso. Blood glistened on the rings of the chainmail he was wearing underneath, and under that, it was seeping through his thin tunic, forming a ring of scarlet around the arrow. She dared not pull the arrow out, he might die of blood loss that way. He needed a healer.
Abigail tried to stand up, but her knees were weak and fell back down onto the grey earth. She was exhausted. The thought of lying down next to the unconscious scout was tempting, to just close her eyes and let go. It would be so easy-
"Tristan!"
The coarse voice jerked Abigail out of her trance, and turned her head. For once, she was glad to see the disheveled face of Gawain.
She forced herself up on shaky feet, and said, "Sir, Tristan needs-"
She barely had time to register surprise before she was knocked off her feet as sharp ache hit her jaw. It took her a moment to regain her bearings, and when her eyes were clear of the sudden dizziness, Gawain had struck her in her shoulder, leaving a numb patch where his fist landed.
"Wasn't Dagonet enough?" Gawain yelled crudely at her hunching figure. "Did you have to kill Tristan too?"
He turned to walk to Tristan, and with a growl and sudden fierceness, Abigail leapt at his back. Her fingers grabbed hold of his unruly hair as she dragged him around and hit him in the nose. She heard the fragile bones crack under her knuckles, and was peculiarly satisfied to see blood trickling from his nostrils. She pushed him to the side before he had a chance to react.
"Don't touch him!" she screamed hysterically, having no control of her voice or emotions as she felt warm moisture rolling down her cheeks. She dropped to her knees and felt the dam break. Choking and gasping for breath, she reached for Tristan's face. "Don't touch him."
Gawain looked down at Tristan and the sobbing girl, then his eyes alit on the left side of Tristan's abdomen. Comprehension dawned on him as he took in the severed arrow, the unclasped armour and the chainmail. Wordlessly, he bent down and grasped the girl's shoulder. Her glare was just as piercing through her thick tears, and Gawain gently helped her to her feet.
"He needs a healer," said Gawain softly, still holding her forearms.
She was bewildered, frightened. He understood how she felt. He still remembered his first battle- the fear and confusion. He would have gone mad if not for his brothers who were there with him.
But she had no one- and Gawain would have let it be that way. He hated her, yes, but the naked fear in her face evoked pity in him. So he shook her gently, and she jumped at the sudden movement.
Gawain stared at her sternly, and said, "You have to help me take him to the horse."
She nodded immediately, and between them, they managed to haul the injured knight to Gawain's steed, who stood calmly as they heaved him into the saddle.
"You do not have armour?" asked Gawain as he passed his eyes over her shabby form.
"No," she replied quietly. "I'll take Tristan's."
Gawain nodded in approval, then gathered up the reins. "Take the chainmail, it's lighter. Stay alert, and don't let your mind stray," he lectured as he began to pull away.
"Yes," she said firmly, and watched Tristan disappeared into a black sea of soldiers, limp as a rag doll.
She hated seeing him that way- so vulnerable- dying.
The same heartbreak she had experienced a year ago tore at her again, and she steeled herself, picking up the abandoned chainmail. Her fingers, coated with grime, brushed the wet rings, painted with blood. Tristan's blood. She lifted the metal piece over her head, and her heart began to beat faster, knowing that she had one more person to avenge for.
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Arthur slit another Saxon's throat with more force than necessary, then pushed the revolting corpse to the ground. He took a moment to wipe the sweat and filth from his eyes, then turned in a slow circle to survey the battle.
His strategies worked. Thousands of dead soldiers littered the field, mostly Saxons- the two armies were about even-numbered now. It was well after noon, and the fighting was still vicious. Metal clanged upon metal, screams of death and triumph were heard across the field.
"Arthur!"
He turned at the sound of his name, and smiled when he saw Jols canter by on a handsome stallion, wielding the sword he gave him at the wall that morning.
Good old Jols, he deserved to be more than a squire. Arthur made a mental note to promote him when the battle was won.
Now, the task at hand was to find the commander of the Saxons. He had been hiding well, Arthur thought wryly. But the battle was starting to dwindle, and he would have to entertain his presence sooner or later.
An exceptionally agonizing scream filled his ears, and he whipped around at the familiar voice. He watched in dread as Jols fell from his horse, and was immediately beheaded by a dirty, scruffy man swinging a large broadsword.
Cerdic.
Arthur gritted his teeth to stop the trembling sorrow for his loyal squire from penetrating through his heart. His grip tightened instinctively on the warm hilt of Excalibur, his eyes trained at his advancing enemy, his mind bent on one thing.
Revenge.
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The Saxon fell onto his knees with a howl of pain, desperately clutching the arm that was no longer there. Arthur, panting heavily, grabbed Cerdic's hair and pulled his head back so that he was looking down at him straight in the eye, and pointed the deadly tip of Excalibur at his throat.
"As promised, I am the last thing you see on Earth," hissed Arthur, his teeth grinding.
Cerdic did not answer, but glared at him with stubborn resolve. Arthur inhaled and pulled his sword back, ready to plunge the blade into the Saxon's black heart.
"Wait!"
He did not, but a sword deflected his stroke at the nick of time. He looked up and saw the British girl.
The Traitor.
"Am I supposed to fight you?" asked Arthur grimly, holding his sword loosely.
She shook her head, all the while eyeing Cerdic in disdain.
"I have unfinished business with him," she said quietly.
Arthur looked over at Cerdic, who had a crooked grin plastered on his bloodied face.
"Yes," he croaked, his breath shallow. "We have unfinished business."
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Abigail's heart beat violently against her ribcage, so violently that it almost hurt. Her knuckles were white from gripping her sword hard, and her jaw ached from holding back the anger that simmered inside her.
He dared to grin at her.
Her eyes followed the trail of blood that spurted from where his arm should have been to see the severed limb. A ghost of a smile touched her lips. Good. She wanted to see him tortured, go through the excruciating pain she had gone through. Better still, she wanted him to rot to death, let falcons peck away at his infected flesh, hear his dying screams-
Abigail shook herself. Do not let your mind stray, she repeated Gawain's words to herself. She immediately raised her sword and aimed it at Cerdic's neck, then slowly- dauntingly- she walked around him.
"What do you want, girl?" Cerdic broke the menacing silence, his voice conveying pain and impatience. "You're in the way of the battle."
"I want you to suffer," she replied honestly with an air of calmness she did not expect. "I want you to pay for the deaths you caused."
"Ah, playing the honourable heroine, are we?" Cerdic managed a strangled laugh before sneering at her. "There's no honour among traitors and murderers."
Abigail pressed the blade to his neck angrily, wrath lacing her words. "You made me a traitor. You made me a murderer."
"It's not the time to evade responsibility, my dear," said Cerdic mockingly. "I gave you a choice."
She wavered, and seeing it, he pressed on, his voice low. "You're a coward, my dear girl."
Humiliation flooded her, and she stiffened at the heat that was rising to her cheeks. He was right. Tristan was right. A coward. That was what she was. A worthless, pitiable coward.
She thought of all the children, mothers, fathers who had been slaughtered. All of them innocent- payment for every breath she drew.
"You know I'm right," continued Cerdic.
"No, you're not," Abigail shook her head briskly, swallowing back guilty tears. "You are the sinner."
"We are all sinners," he countered quietly, almost inaudibly. "But sinners can be great people, as well."
Abigail stared at him, bewildered. "What?"
"There are many ways to achieve greatness, and not all are righteous. But it is right as long as it is achieved," answered Cerdic smoothly, his eyes locked with hers.
"What do you mean?" she asked shakily.
"I will not last, and my son is a failure," Cerdic near-whispered. "But you, my dear girl, you have skill. You can lead my army. You can continue my campaign. Glory can be yours."
"No-" Abigail started to back off, but Cerdic's remaining arm shot out to hold her.
"Think of what will be yours," he growled. "Land, wealth, power-"
"No!" shrieked Abigail, her thoughts incoherent as the half-mad man clung to her. "Let me go!"
"Coward!" Cerdic screamed at her. "The weak should not live-"
From the corner of her eye, Abigail thought she caught a metallic glint. There was a earsplitting clang as her sword caught the dagger Cerdic made to stab her with, sending it revolving through the air. Without hesitation, Abigail swung the sword back straight at his neck, separating his head from his body.
She fell into a heap and began vomiting as the fresh scent of blood reached her nose. She leaned on her sword as her stomach emptied itself, and tried in vain to erase Cerdic's words from her head.
"He was insane," she said to herself.
"Are you alright?"
Abigail wiped the vomit from her mouth and looked up to a concerned Arthur, who looked indifferent to Cerdic's death. She nodded slightly, then ventured a glance at the gory mess.
"You don't believe him, do you?" he asked gently.
Abigail was surprised at his mildness towards her, and she shook her head unfalteringly.
Arthur smiled softly, then looked up towards the heavens. "The battle is won."
Abigail followed his gaze, and saw a pillar of sunlight break through the thinning grey clouds.
"Arthur!" cried a boisterous voice that could only belong to one person. "RUUUUS!"
The victorious thrust their swords into the air, the wind carrying their triumphant voices far beyond Hadrian's Wall. And when the sun showed its face for the first time in days, Abigail closed her eyes and let the warm rays caress her cheeks.
She knew then that she was at peace- with herself, with the world. When she opened her eyes again, she felt a swell in her heart that was comforting and promising- hope.
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It had been a week since the victory at Badon Hill, and the people were trying their best to pick up the threads of their old lives to sew together the little town again. Many fell in the battle, and there was much mourning and tears shed, but amidst the despair was hope- and it was growing by the day when brave warriors were buried ceremoniously, when widows dried their tears and when the separated were united with their families.
The wounded were housed at anywhere possible, from cottages of villagers who knew the arts of healing, to the Roman stone castle where the gravely injured were fighting for their lives- not by sword, but through herbs and magic of the Woads.
The hem of a thick black cloak barely brushed the cold stone floor as the figure enveloped in it walked soundlessly down the corridor of the castle, its head down and pace quick. The feet stopped at a wooden door, and a hand emerged from the black fabric, gently pushing the door open.
The door merely yawned lazily on its hinges as it clicked shut, and the person swept back the hood, revealing a tired, pale face.
Abigail crossed the floor silently, her eyes a mixture of blue and orange as warm flames snapped up solid wood blocks like twigs in the fireplace. Kneeling beside the bed, she gazed at Tristan's sleeping form.
He had not woken nor shown any signs that he would in the near future. His breathing was occasionally laboured, the healers could do nothing but treat his wounds to the best of their knowledge.
Her eyes fell on a large gash on his left jaw, and she gently traced its immaculate stitches, recalling the same stitches he had administered on her arm- not two weeks ago.
Her fingers moved to caress his face, savouring the canvas-like roughness, tracing his tattoo, and stroke his bearded chin. They ghosted over his lips- chapped, split.
A few drops of perspiration caught her eye, and noting a bowl of water, Abigail walked to the table in the corner. Having wrung water from the towel, she gently wiped the sweat away from his feverish face, and brushed aside the black strands of hair from his brow.
Once again settling on the floor, she wondered if he would ever wake from this slumber. Her hand found his, and she entwined her fingers with his. His hand was hot with fever, but Abigail feared that a few days later it might be cold with death.
Still holding his hand, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. There was no heat, no passion, but there was longing and hope.
Running her fingers down the side of his face once more, she stood up and replaced her hood over her head. Without turning back, she left the room and walked hastily out of the building and into the night.
Breamas carried his mistress to the top of Badon Hill, his head held high as Abigail looked back at the fort where she had died and was reborn. The handsome steed tossed his head and snorted, anxious to leave.
She patted Breamas' neck softly, then whispered to the strong night breeze, "Goodbye."
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YO! AND IT IS FINISHED!
-wails and sobs from the authoress while silent scout looks on mercilessly…-
GOTCHA:D
Hell, no! This story is not finished yet! The "Angst" part is, but not the "Romance"… -wink-
Major angst, huh? Not much to say except apologies once again for taking so long to update. It's difficult when you've got three stories in progress, a lazy big butt, and a party to host tomorrow.
Well, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. I'll get back to my lovely reviewers very soon, thank you so much for your support! –gives out Tristan cupcakes-
Oh my God. I just found out that one of my classmates' sister died yesterday. Oh my God. I'm shocked. They don't know why she died yet, but I knew her and she was a sweet girl though annoying sometimes… oh God. I can't believe it. This is so unbelievable. R.I.P.
