Chapter 22: Promise
Translucent waves with tinges of blue and green lapped lazily on the rocky beach nestled against the steep cliff above which the grand fortress of Camelot stood majestically, overlooking the calm sea stretching into the golden horizon. Seagulls winged above the sparkling water illuminated by the late afternoon sun, their feathers a rich bronze in the warm light.
An ocean breeze sighed, riding the waves, and swept up the strong outer stone walls of the citadel. Its cool fingers ran through delicate, newly grown leaves on trees returned from long slumber in the past winter, snaking their way through supple blades of grass and blooming flowers, over freshly paved and winding paths, and merely teased a handful of unruly braids before fading out.
Skilled fingers deftly notched a brand new arrow to its place on a beautifully crafted bow, its faded coat of tan giving its age away. Its string protested quietly as it was stretched backwards, the arrowhead slowly adjusted to the left, then to the right, before it settled aiming at a precise dot on the target nailed to a tree a few yards away.
Hearing a faint thud, Tristan lowered his bow and removed the blindfold from his eyes. He awarded himself a fleeting lopsided smirk, then lowered his trusted weapon onto the stone bench that was planted next to him.
He glanced about the empty training grounds- it was a lush location, hidden in the depths of the castle, away from the bustle of town. Tall trees adorned the grassy grounds, along with wooden targets and modern stone and metal devices.
Beyond the line of targets was the soothing picture of the ocean, and Tristan could occasionally see its glint winking at him. His keen ears could hear the serene, lulling rhythm of the waves rolling onto the sandy beach which could only be reached by climbing through a tangle of trees and bushes. It was seldom visited, as the people preferred the larger beach around the bend that could be reached with less difficulty.
Tristan liked that beach. He often went there on quiet evenings, with a tankard of ale if the occasion required, and just stared out at the dark waters perched on one of the sturdy rocks on the shore. He found solace there, and he liked it.
Life at Camelot was much quieter, too quiet for his liking. It was a peaceful time, and Arthur did not send them on missions unless they were troublesome affairs- which were, both fortunately and unfortunately, few in number.
Still lost in his thoughts, Tristan made his way to the target, plucking the arrows from the board and gathering them in one hand.
He was lucky to have survived, he thought wryly. It was more than a year since the battle at Badon Hill, and only six months since he had fully recovered. Apparently, he was the only one among the six knights to have been gravely injured, he had been unconscious for three weeks before he awoke.
Merlin had attended to his health for nearly a year before he released him from his attention, teaching him how to breathe again as his left lung had been punctured slightly. It had healed itself, but Tristan had to be careful lest it broke down again. Other than that, all he had left of that battle were new scars, including one that now embellished his left jaw.
He really had been fortunate- Jols had died bravely in the field that day, and his body had been burnt, with his ashes taken by the wind. It was a sorrowful occasion. Jols had always been more than a squire, but a friend and brother as well who had followed them since their arrival at Badon Hill till his last breath.
Tristan stared at the arrows in his hands and thought pensively that Jols had always made the best arrows.
His ears suddenly picked up a soft whistle, and dove out of the way just in time as an arrow embedded itself in the bull's eye, which would have been his heart if he did not hear it coming. Drawing his dagger from his boot, he silently surveyed the deadly still yard for a movement, a sound, a sign of his assailant.
There was a rustle of grass and Tristan let his dagger fly towards the noise, there was a yelp, a thump and a clear thud. Galahad emerged from the trees a moment later, enraged.
"What the hell did you think you were doing man!" the young knight yelled crossly, the offensive dagger in hand. "If you wanted to kill me, you just had to ask!"
"Thought you were something else," shrugged Tristan apologetically.
"Yeah, and what would that happen to be? Me?" asked Galahad sarcastically, tossing the weapon back to its master. "I'm convinced you got knocked heavily on your head."
"A year and a half ago?" asked Tristan with a rare touch of humour, sheathing his dagger.
"It's not funny," retorted Galahad. "I would've been killed if not for my phenomenal instincts."
Tristan snorted, then turned to the arrow. For the first time, he noticed a drab of skin pinned to the board by the head of the arrow. Frowning, he tugged it free and let it fall open, revealing a few scribbled words.
"What's that?" asked Galahad curiously, moving closer.
"I shall see you at the ball."
Galahad laughed instantly at the words, and slapped Tristan good-naturedly on his back. "Really, Tristan, you should open your eyes and see all the beautiful ladies staring at you at the tavern instead of hiding at that little beach. At least take one of them with you if you must."
The scout shook his head and tucked the skin into a pocket, then pulled the arrow out and examined it. It was one of the ones he had been practising with. Glancing over his shoulder at the bench, he noted that his bow was on the ground.
"Oh, Guinevere calls for us to ready for the ball," said Galahad, suddenly remembering his purpose of seeking Tristan out. "And Vanora is going to kill us if we don't get there in ten minutes."
Tristan smirked and nodded. "I'll be there in a few minutes."
After Galahad was out of sight, the perplexed knight pulled the scrap of deerskin from his pocket, and read the note again, something distant stirring in his head.
"I shall see you at the ball."
"So be it," he murmured to himself and hurriedly left for the castle to avoid Vanora's wrath.
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"Oh, sir, isn't this ball wonderful?" breathed the lady- a duchess, if his memory served him well- with an air of excitement, her bright green eyes staring at him expectantly.
"Indeed," replied Tristan woodenly. He wondered idly if she really was so excited that she could not breathe, or whether it was the tight dress that took her breath away.
In truth, the ball had been far from wonderful- as far as his opinion went. It was held in celebration of the king and queen's first anniversary, and it would have been a merry affair if Her Majesty had not made sure that each knight did not have to suffer a moment's loneliness, and better still, that they did not even need to think of leaving the ballroom at all.
As Tristan blocked the rest of what the lady had to say to him, he looked around the crowded dance floor. Arthur and Guinevere were not far away, swaying to the joyous music happily, laughing and talking over the sweet notes of the instruments. Bors and Vanora were dutifully knocking people off their feet as they swirled exuberantly in the crowd, earning both glares and laughs. Lancelot, Gawain and Galahad were all enjoying themselves. In fact, everyone seemed to be having a good time- save for the brooding scout.
His thoughts drifted to the note, which was tucked safely under the new blue tunic Vanora had picked out for him. I shall see you at the ball.
"It was lovely having danced with you, sir," the lady said with a brilliant smile on her face.
Tristan turned to her abruptly, noticing the music had stopped, and managed a stiff, formal smile. "The pleasure was all mine," he replied obligingly with a bow.
"Tristan!"
The said knight recognized Guinevere's smooth voice at once, and turned to greet the queen, who, he noticed somewhat dejectedly, was dragging yet another young lady towards him.
"This is Vevina," gushes Guinevere, her cheeks rosy from dancing. "She's just come to Camelot."
Tristan stared at the woman, his mind paralyzed for a short moment as he took in the mane of blonde hair which awoke something dormant in his memory. But being Tristan, he composed himself before anything showed, and brought Lady Vevina's hand to his lips.
"My lady," he murmured against her knuckles.
"My lord," she replied courteously, curtseying gracefully.
"Do enjoy yourselves," said Guinevere animatedly as another song started. "This song is my absolute favourite! Arthur?"
Neither said much as they moved to the slow and romantic music, as both seemed reluctant to strike up any decent conversation. Tristan watched the lady wordlessly, all the while thinking how he could have mistaken her for someone else. Vevina's porcelain face spoke plainly of her high birth, and her hair was of a richer colour. She was also what one would call dainty- elegant, beautiful, small- like a glass doll.
But her, she was nothing like Vevina. Tristan's face darkened. What had become of her? Had she survived winter in the wilderness? Had she found her way back home?
He had thought of her, but stopped when he realized that she was gone.
His rational self knew very well that he would never see her again.
But why did the message keep leading up to one woman alone?
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Abigail retreated to the shadowy window seat of the ballroom, fanning herself with a smile on her flushed face. The splendid green dress that Guinevere loaned her swished softly as she settled herself on the comfortable cushions to rest her tired feet and watch the dancing crowd.
Vanora had not recognized her when she approached her earlier that day at the town's largest inn, cradling a newborn child in her arms while bossing her husband around at the entrance of the newly built, two-storey house.
"Good morning," Vanora had greeted her with a rather forced smile. "Can I help you?"
Abigail smiled at the flustered redhead before saying, "Where may I find Guinevere?"
"Guinevere? The Queen?" Vanora arced an eyebrow before scrutinizing at her face. "What business do you have with Her Majesty?"
"I have travelled far to meet with her, please, tell me where I may find her," said Abigail earnestly.
Vanora gave her one more hard stare before saying "very well", and shouted for her lover to take the child.
The Queen was supervising the preparations of the ball in the grand hall, bustling around with the vigor of a child, tasting cakes, reorganizing chairs, giving orders. Abigail took a look at the Woad, then at the frantic servants desperate to please their mistress, and smiled as she thought of their last meeting- there was good reason to fear a warrior woman trying her hand in domestic affairs.
Vanora walked straight up to her, and they exchanged quiet words before Guinevere looked up and gestured Abigail to approach.
She bowed her head and murmured, "Your majesty."
"You have demanded to see me?" asked Guinevere, her voice mellow with regality.
"Yes," replied Abigail, lifting her head. "I have come to find if one lives or the worst has happened."
The Queen stared at her with a faint frown, then asked, "Who?"
Abigail swallowed nervously, then, looking at her in the eye, uttered the name that she had kept to herself the past year, "Tristan."
The rest, as they say, was history. Abigail was knocked off her feet by a screaming Guinevere, and after being assured that Tristan was alive and well, she was whisked off to a flurry of baths, fittings, and even cakes and a bit of wine. It had taken more than a clever plan and a quiet pair of feet to escape the room Guinevere had shut her in, but Abigail managed to slip into the gardens after some trouble in the kitchen distracted the Queen's attention.
It was chance that took her to the archery grounds, and she for once, she was not bitter towards its doings.
Abigail could not describe the feeling of seeing him again, breathing, standing tall, doing what he did best. It was a numbing moment of overwhelming joy and gratefulness, and she had stood rooted to the ground, watching him shoot arrow after arrow, each hitting the bull's eye, each hitting her heart- the dull thuds clashing with her thundering heartbeats.
When she noticed the blindfold around his eyes, a plan invented itself in her head. She grinned at the mischief of it all. She was proud of the fact that she had caught him off guard with that arrow, and the scene that followed had nearly been her death. Abigail twisted a strand of hair around her finger distractedly and thought with a rather melancholic smile that it was a story her family would have enjoyed.
She shook her head and searched the multitude of ladies and lords, finally resting on the familiar face. He was dancing with a lovely lady, his lips set in a firm line, a slight crease on his brow. That was all it took to revive the smile on her lips. Did he not know how to charm a lady?
Sir Lancelot undoubtedly did. He had asked her for a dance earlier on, to her utter disbelief. Did he really not recognize her, or was he putting up a show?
She touched her face instinctively, and wondered if she had changed that much. Her hair was shorter, it hardly swept the small of her back, and her skin was not as fair as she spent much of her time at the Southern shore where the Sun preferred showing his face. She deemed that her hands were more calloused as well, but Lancelot made no comment on that. Surely he must have noticed?
Would Tristan know her then? Would he look past her as if she was naught but air? Did he remember her at all?
She brought her hand to the scar on her right arm, covered by the sleeve of the dress. She remembered. She had remembered all this time. What if he did not?
Then, his eyes found hers across the hall.
Her doubts were wiped away in an instant as he stopped in his steps, his dark stare smothering even from where he was.
Abigail smiled, drew her cloak around her, and stepped out of the ballroom.
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It was her. It was her.
His eyes followed her out of the hall, and, releasing Vevina's arms, he traced her steps to the threshold.
He had the urge to run, to run like he had never run before, to run like a predator after its kill. But he fought the impulse and calmly walked to the door leading to the gardens, where he stopped and scanned the darkness.
A glimpse of silver materialized then vanished around a corner, and Tristan followed, knowing a stranger to the castle would not easily find his way around the maze of marble statues and tall bushes.
Flickers of silver were his trail as he walked almost leisurely after his prey, the full moon casting an ethereal glow on the stone ground over which his booted feet passed soundlessly.
Then, he heard panicked, frenzied footsteps, and the scout smirked as he knew his prey was trapped. There were hasty brushes of leaves, snapping twigs and a muffled shriek.
He stopped in front of the little forest barricading the populace from his exclusive piece of nature. Tonight he had a guest.
And for once, he did not mind.
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Abigail recoiled as yet another branch threatened to break her skin, barely retaining the exasperated sigh as she stamped her foot into the wet earth. Why did she come into this forest? She could hardly see, stumbling blindly over stones that dug uncomfortably into her silk slippers, and leaves rubbed against her skin, leaving dots of moist dirt on her exposed arms.
The forest was eerily quiet, but she knew he was here. He had been extremely quiet, but still, her ears picked up the almost inaudible scrapes as he trailed after her.
She cursed under her breath as she bumped into the rough bark of a tree, and turned around wildly, searching for her sense of direction that had faded in the darkness.
She released a frustrated sigh. It was no use- all she saw were branches and silhouettes of trees.
She screamed as she was grabbed from behind, arms on her waist dragging her backwards. Somehow, she managed to slip past the obstructions, and took flight without missing a beat. And she saw it- light! A hole in the line of trees!
She broke out of the forest with an inescapable laugh, the moonlight brighter than it had ever seemed to her. An ocean breeze greeted her and tangled with her hair, and she welcomed it with closed eyes.
Over her own footfall she heard sand shifting behind her. Her eyes snapped open, but did not turn round. She hitched her dress higher in her hands and ran as fast as her sore feet would take her.
The roar of the waves had never sounded so beautiful as she ran along its silver border, laughing again as she heard him getting closer, and closer-
She let out a yelp as she tumbled over her own feet and onto the fine sand, falling onto her back gracelessly. She managed a choked chuckle of mirth before she collapsed into gasps for air, panting heavily.
She stared at the cerulean night sky as she caught her breath, running her eyes over the specks of gold and silver. She raked her fingers through the velvety grains of sand and sighed at the perfection of the night.
"So beautiful," she whispered, her soft voice washed away by the rolling waves.
He had not spoken yet, and she said loud enough for him to hear, "Would you not even check if I am alive?"
"I can see you breathing," came the faint reply.
Abigail grinned and sat up, shaking the sand out of her hair. And for the first time in one and a half years, she looked at him- in the eye.
They were silent as they regarded each other, her grin faded into a small smile, and his face solemn as always.
"I'm afraid I cannot walk, sir knight," Abigail softly broke the silence.
Tristan did not reply, and when she thought he had not heard her, he moved forward and knelt down in front of her, their eyes locked all the while.
"I'm afraid I'd have to carry you, then," he replied.
"Yes, I'm afraid so," added Abigail in mock distress. She swore that she saw a glint of amusement in his eyes.
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Abigail woke with a jolt as she felt her back making contact with a yielding surface, but kept her eyelids sealed as she was lowered onto what she assumed was a bed, letting different sensations flood her bleary mind. She listened to the tap of boots on wood, then stifled by –most probably- rugs. There was a swish of water, and a clink of glass on hard surface.
Such deliciously homely sounds.
Her eyes fluttered open to a carpeted ceiling, shadows dancing across the fine stitches in an orange glow. She turned and was met with a lively fire in a marble fireplace a few feet away across a breathtaking rug.
Abigail shuffled forward, leaning over the edge of the spacious daybed draped with delicate silken blankets and cushions to take a closer look at the stunning craftsmanship sewn into the rich fabric.
"Impressive," she thought aloud.
"I thought you were asleep."
She looked up and watched Tristan approach with a small basin in his hands and a towel hanging from his arm. There was a sweet scent of ointment and she shuffled to make space for him.
"I woke up," she stated matter-of-factly, propping up a cushion to lean against. "What's that?" She gestured to the bowl which he laid on the carpeted floor.
"Not gin, I assure you," he answered with a dash of wry humour.
A laugh slipped past her guard and she said, "No need for disinfection, obviously."
Tristan made no response, but sat down at the end of the bed and slipped off her shoes, tossing them to one side.
"Which ankle?" he asked, looking very interested in the state of her feet.
"The left one," she replied. "It feels sprained."
He kicked off his worn boots, then wet the towel with the liquid in the bowl. Sinuously, he climbed onto the bed and arranged his long limbs so that he was sitting easily, then very deftly placed her left foot on his knee.
"I can't remember you being so gentle," Abigail commented idly, her eyes following his every move.
He shrugged, and squeezed the towel so her ankle was moist with a pungent ointment mixed with warm water. He started massaging the blend into her skin soothingly, his calloused fingers drawing circles on her skin.
"People change, I suppose," he said slowly, almost uncertainly.
Abigail nodded thoughtfully. "I suppose so-"
He touched a particularly sensitive spot, and a shiver travelled through her body. She was sure that he noticed, though he made no indication. Nothing ever escaped his eyes.
"It doesn't hurt anymore," said Abigail in a near-whisper, afraid that he would hear the tremor in her voice.
He stopped, but his hands lingered on her ankle. Warm from both the fire and his unwavering gaze, she unclasped her cloak and let it slide from her shoulders.
"You're a good actress," he remarked dryly, pulling back- much to her dismay.
"I did not act," protested Abigail, feigning a look of innocence. "It did hurt- until now."
Tristan smirked. "A sprained ankle should be nothing when compared to what you've went through."
Her lips curled upwards mirthlessly. "Thanks to you."
He widened his eyes in pretended shock, then sobered. "May I see it?"
Abigail cocked her head in question. "What?" He motioned at her arm. "Oh." She paused, then nodded.
Her skin warmed as he sidled to her right side, the heat and exhilaration of being near to him taking its toll. She bunched up the silk sleeve so that he could see the remains of the wound that had brought them together so long ago.
"I had hoped that it would leave no scar," he murmured.
Abigail looked down at the scar as well. It was a beautiful arc, like the elegant curve of a new moon. It had faded to a dull brown, but it would always be there. A permanent mark.
"It's not so bad," she said with a shrug, letting the sleeve fall back to place.
His hand shot out, and he folded the sleeve up so it was held in place. Then, ever so softly, he traced the scar slowly, his finger invoking a deep tremble within her.
"I'm sorry, Abigail," he said and brought his lips to blemish, his tongue darting out to taste her skin.
She breathed in sharply, shivering as he took his assault upward, his nose pushing aside the fabric to plant a kiss on her shoulder.
"You have nothing to apologize for," she responded, her mind hazy with the intimacy she had longed for.
He leaned back against the wall, and pulled her to him so that she was straddling him. She sighed contently as he wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her securely. He stroked her cheek tenderly as she linked her hands at the back of his neck.
"I'm sorry for letting you go," he said solemnly, his eyes so dark that Abigail thought she could drown it their intensity. "It was foolish of me."
She shook her head firmly. "It was my decision. You did nothing wrong."
He was quiet for a moment or two, then he leant in and asked, "Why did you come back, Abigail?"
She shook her head, then bent over and pressed her lips to his. This time, he reacted without hesitation, parting her lips skillfully and delved into her soft mouth. All the lost months, all the time apart was made up as their passion and desire molded into the kiss. She kissed him fervently, venting the sorrow of missing him, the bliss of being with him. She gasped as a hand slid down her thigh, stroking the unexposed flesh, making her short of breath.
"Tristan," she broke away, struggling to breathe.
He buried his face in her neck and ran his tongue over the hot skin, and she clutched his shoulders weakly, drunken in the dizzying sensations.
"Abigail," he hissed into her ear, placing a kiss on her earlobe before nibbling on it. He then withdrew and studied her, reaching out to tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear.
Abigail smiled at him, then leant forward and lightly kissed him. Toying with his lower lip, her fingers fiddled with the hem of his tunic, then pulled it over his head.
"What are you doing?" he asked with a lopsided smile, pulling her towards him and kissing her collarbone.
She grinned impishly and teasingly slid a hand down his muscled chest, feeling the wild beat of his heart under her palm. His lips caught her in a gentle kiss as she continued to feel her way down, until her fingertips touched a rough mass of lines.
Their lips separated as she continued to caress the rough scars, and she felt a choke in her throat. She lifted her eyes to his, who were watching her inquisitively.
"I didn't know if you would live," she whispered, palming his rough cheek. "You didn't wake up for days."
"You were there?" asked Tristan, perplexed.
She nodded. "I found you."
"They did not tell me," he said with a cross scowl.
"Only Gawain knew, I asked him not to tell you," she explained in Gawain's defence.
"Why?"
A single word that triggered a thousand feelings. She attempted to answer, but the words would not come to her.
"I didn't know," she answered honestly with a sad smile. "I still don't know. I suppose I didn't know what would happen."
Tristan nodded, then took her hand and kissed her palm. "It matters not."
"I'm glad you're alive, though," she commented with a teasing grin.
He chuckled, a deep sound vibrating in his chest. He kissed her jaw and leant back, a true smile adorning his lips. "You've changed."
"So have you," quipped Abigail. "You're smiling."
"Then we'll have to learn about each other all over again, won't we?" he asked, rubbing her knee nonchalantly.
"That's a good idea," she beamed, propping her elbows on his shoulders and intertwining her fingers with his hair lazily.
"Shall we start with what you have done in the past year," he suggested against her lips, sliding his tongue across her lower lip.
Abigail moaned and pouted at him. He merely arced an eyebrow and kissed her cheek apologetically.
"I went home," she replied to his question, an affectionate smile on her lips.
"Home?"
She nodded, and rolled off him so that they laid side by side. Tristan snaked an arm around her middle and she shifted closer, resting her head on his shoulder.
"What's it like?" he asked quietly, pulling a blanket over them.
"Why don't you see it for yourself?" she replied, tilting her head so that he could see her smile.
"I think I will," he said, running the back of his hand down her cheek.
"Is that a promise?"
"Yes," he said firmly, and kissed her languidly. "It's a promise."
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-tear- And they're back together.
Yes, this fic is drawing to an end. One more chapter and it's over –bursts into strangled sobs- Omg I can't believe it. Thank you for the lovely reviews for the last chapters, you guys! And thank you for those who added The Traitor to your favourites list! 40 of you! I can't believe it! I love you all!
Well, I'm not sure about this chapter. It took me a long time because I didn't want to split it and I wanted it perfect, but it turned out that I don't have enough time to go through every detail of it… I hope it's alright though!
Anyways, HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY! I don't have a date, but well, it wasn't too bad lol. I hope those who have dates will have/have had a great time!
Again, a big THANK YOU and chocolate banana walnut brownies to you all! (I made chocolate banana walnut muffins at school today, yummy!) You have no idea how much your reviews mean to me! And thank you to everyone who has followed this fic so far!
And oh, I'm glad my false "IT'S FINISHED" sign actually scared some of you –crackles evilly- Lol, I'm just plain evil! I'll reply to your reviews tomorrow- it's already ten and I have to go to bed! Good night everyone! And I hope you enjoyed this chapter!
