The Huntress Chapter 4: The Land, Wind and Senses, a king arthur fanfic

Disclaimer: I own Cerelinde. GO ME.

Author's Note: Okay. So I'm not dead. Nor is this story on a hiatus of any kind. I'm just a really TERRIBLE, EVIL authoress.

SO. SORRY.

I really am. It's just that with all of this sinus infection, my head has been feeling like it's a sheet of plywood being slowly bent. One day, BAM, brain fluid everywhere.

Yeah.

That was disgusting.

Anyway, have fun with chapter four.

Chapter Four: The Land, Wind and Senses

"It has been a while, old friend," said Cerelinde, tilting her head as she unwound the ribbon that held her bow to Faraday. "Many moons have passed since we last rode together." The ribbon loosened, and Cerelinde, in a motion that was familiar, tied it into her hair so the foremost strands were out of the way.

The bow slid into her hand and the worn bone rested solidly in her hand. She found the strings wrapped around the base, and she wound the bow with easy hands. Familiarity, all of it; the quiver resting against her back, the bow in her hands, Faraday at her side – yet there was something missing.

What is it?

But there was no time for this; Cerelinde sensed that in her very bones. She reached over her shoulder and pulled one of the arrows silently from the quiver. She sighted, barely breathing, and released the blue feathered arrow.

It made little noise as it brushed through growth and trees, and only rang as it stuck deeply within the tree a hundred yards away. "Hello, Tristan."

"You are a good shot."

The scout made his way silently towards her. In a few seconds, he stood in the shadows underneath the clearing. The moonlight fell on Cerelinde and her midnight-black horse. Her hair was revealed to have blue and purple highlights, her eyes strains of silver. It seemed that her pale skin was whiter than new snow.

They stood in silence for a while, watching each other. The horse, Tristan did not know its name, made no noise, as other horses did. It too seemed to be watching him, and appraising.

"Her name is Faraday," said Cerelinde, her voice loud and clear. "It seems that I asked Merlin to keep her for me while I was Marius' captive."

"Can you remember?" asked Tristan with a small quirk of an eyebrow. He made mental note of her arrows and their strange feathers, her bow with its bone handle and the horse's mysterious eyes and mane.

"Not yet," she replied. "But I will."

"You seem so confident."

"Would I being afraid soothe your ruffled feathers?" There was a hint of mirth in the corner of her eyes that he hadn't noticed before now. Her lips curled a little at the corners; an elfin smile.

"Are you so sure that my feathers are ruffled?"

"Very much so," she said. "But the question is: if I hadn't told you, would you have known?" This conversation was becoming strange, even for Tristan, but it took an outside observation to realize this. It was as if while he was talking to her, the roundabout answers and unspecific questions made sense.

He realized she was waiting for an answer. "I thought your question was rhetorical."

"Ah," Cerelinde sighed, tilting her head, "Is it rhetoric that asks a man to look within himself?"

"Or perhaps faith?" returned Tristan.

"Do you believe?" asked Cerelinde suddenly. The moment the words left her lips, he did not know of what she spoke, but the answer came easily.

"I believe in the land, the wind, and the senses."

And the moment he said it, he had no idea why. Tristan didn't like uncertainty – it killed people, made them careless. He had vowed to never be careless, so why was he standing in the clearing, talking to a mysterious almost-stranger?

"If you let me," she whispered, "I could be more than a stranger."

"Are you in the habit of looking in people's heads?"

"Everyone has a moment where their thoughts show on their faces," she replied, stepping away from him, towards the path that led back to the campsite. "You are not immune, Tristan."

She looked at him once more with those luminous green eyes, like those of the cat that haunted the pub back at Hadrian's Wall. There was knowing there that he didn't like. Then she turned her face away, and stepped onto the path. The strange horse, without being led, followed her, gently nuzzling her shoulder. She was stroking its nose as the strange pair disappeared from view.

Tristan stared at the moon, hidden between the treetops. "The land, the wind and the senses," he mused.

Cerelinde shook her head rapidly once she knew that Tristan could no longer see her. It was unusual, to be sure. Was she in the habit of making strange conversations? Her memory refused to answer, and yet . . .

Ah, but the strain of thought was lost, beneath the trap door. What would it take to open the rusted lock? She had found Faraday, and the Sotrarr'lun; she knew that there was a third thing, a third part of her being that she had yet to find. But she would find it.

The moon was setting once she made it back to the campsite. The knights, she knew, were already awake, and she patted Faraday twice on the nose to let her know that food was near. "I hope you're ready for a long ride, old friend," she said. "We are out of practice, you and I. That will have to change."

"You found a horse?" Guinevere appeared at her side. "And a bow?"

"Your father was keeping them for me," replied Cerelinde. "And I have a feeling that there is something missing."

"Like your memory?" asked Guinevere, holding her own bow with loosened fingers. She meant it as a joke, but Cerelinde considered it.

"No," she said softly. "I do not know if finding this missing part will even return my memory. But I feel its loss."

"I have the boy!" They exchanged looked and turned a corner at a fast pace. Marius was holding Lucan tightly, a small knife pressed against his throat. Fulcinia was pulling herself off the ground where she had been obviously thrown; Dagonet, face torn, had his knife raised against the mercenaries. "Kill him now!" Marius yelled, face purple with anger.

Guinevere and Cerelinde exchanged a single look, before both raised their bows. Cerelinde's arrow flew a second quicker than Guinevere, and Marius collapsed, dropping the knife held against Lucan's throat. The boy ran towards Dag, tears barely held in. Cerelinde heard others coming behind them, but she did not turn.

"Your hands seem to be better." Cerelinde and Guinevere ignored Lancelot, both drawing another arrow. In seconds, their arrows were burying themselves at the feet of the mercenaries, who drew back, anger and fright scrawled on their faces. Their wide eyes were focused on Cerelinde.

"Artorius!" bellowed Bors from behind them. "Do we have a problem?" Cerelinde raised an eyebrow, drawing another arrow, and the mercenaries almost cowered.

"You have a choice," said Arthur, his voice cold. "You help, or you die."

"I'd be happy," added Cerelinde, training her bow on the lead mercenary, "to help you to the afterlife." He shivered.

"Put down your weapons." He dropped his own sword, but his men did not comply. Cerelinde's cold eyes switched to the next man over, who still held his. Her lips pursed, and the lead mercenary spoke, fear tinting his words; "Do it, now!"

"I'm glad to help, Cerelinde," said Dag, his axe held ready. He was taller than her, bulkier as well, and yet the mercenaries were more terrified of the woman in green than they were of the Sarmatian. They dropped their weapons. Cerelinde smirked, and then casually lowered her bow, returning the arrow to her quiver.

"When," asked Bors casually as the other knights appeared, "did you get a bow and a horse?"

"Over night," replied Cerelinde. "Quite the arrows, aren't they?"

"Mm-hmm," agreed Gawain. "Not bird, are they?"

"No," smiled Cerelinde, suddenly remembering, "Actually, they're Icarii."

"Icarii?"

She laughed. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me."

"Winged men," she said, "from the mountains. Magical, it is said. I killed one, and stole his feathers. An arrow trimmed with Icarii feathers will always fly true."

"Flying men?"

For as much as they ridiculed it, the knights looked a bit stunned for a moment, obviously trying to swallow this. There was a ring of truth in her words that they couldn't ignore, despite their derision.

Cerelinde could finally hear the sounds of the Saxon drums. They weren't as loud as Bors' harsh breathing, but they slipped past her defenses and sped her heartbeat.

Thrum.

"And the horse?" managed Galahad. Cerelinde was shaken out of her reverie.

"Faraday," she replied. "An old friend." The horse snickered in agreement, flashing her mysterious eyes at the knights. "We have fought in many battles together, and will fight in many more." She gently ran her hand down the silky hair of Faraday's neck. "Goddess willing." The phrase, common enough that it was, came strangely off her tongue, as if she was unused to speaking it.

It was then Tristan chose to appear. His eyes barely flickered to Faraday and Cerelinde as he tossed a bow at Arthur's feet. "I killed four. Armor piercing. They're close; we have no time."

Thrum.

Arthur nodded. "You ride ahead." The knights complied, and as Guinevere watched, Cerelinde swung up on Faraday without saddle or bridle. She hung the bow diagonally across her chest and rode astride, her dress managing to flow elegantly. With a small nod to Guinevere, she and Faraday joined the knights.

"Where did you really find your horse and bow?" asked Gawain, and the others didn't bother to hide their curiosity.

"Merlin had them," replied Cerelinde, looking straight ahead at Tristan. "Apparently I asked him to watch them while I was in Marius' prison."

"But if you were captured . . ." said Gawain.

"It seems that I knew I would be taken by Marius' guards," she answered, Faraday shifting gently to avoid a tree branch.

"Know?" snorted Bors.

"I hardly have the memory to tell you why I believed that I would be capture," retorted Cerelinde, and she tilted her head back so she could look at the sky. Her hair shivered at the movement.

"Thank you," said Dag suddenly in the silence that followed.

"It was hardly something that requires gratitude," Cerelinde returned, tearing her gaze from the sky to the tall man to her left. "I've always wanted to kill the old bastard. Now I had a proper reason." She laughed throatily. "Not that I would have needed one."

The knights joined in her laugh, and Tristan's voice cut through the merriment.

"Do you permit her to enjoy killing?" Cerelinde knew without being told that it was directed at the young knight – Galahad. There was a pause, and a moment of tension-filled silence.

In it, over the racket of the rickety wagons and crunched snow, Cerelinde could hear the drums.

Thrum.

Saxons. She shivered, and felt a fear, more for her people than for herself.

And there it was again – she was referring to the people of Britain as her own. Why, why did she do this? But the answer was locked away in a place where she could not travel.

"Who are your gods?" asked Cerelinde suddenly. It was, as she had predicted, the right question to destroy the hostility and tension between the knights.

"Now, there's five of them," began Bors, but he was cut off by rowdy protests from the rest.

"Just one!"

"Two, you idiot!"

"Six!"

"Wait . . . it's four, isn't it?"

"We all have different faiths," Lancelot explained over the loud voices of the rest of the knights, with the possible exception of Tristan, "each with different gods."

"How . . . complicated," said Cerelinde, to numerous laughs.

"And what about you?" inquired Gawain, barely taking his eyes away from the path in front of them. "What do you believe in?"

"Belief is apart from knowing," replied Cerelinde.

"What?"

"I have no idea," she said, shaking her head lightly. "That came from nowhere." She shook her head again.

"So what do you . . . know?" countered Gawain.

"I believe in the Old Seven, ancient gods from this land. From a time before the Goddess, they come. Six brothers and their youngest sister – all said to be waiting until the time when they will once again be needed to save Britain from true death." It had a ring of a prophecy about it that unsettled her.

"Sounds depressing," muttered Galahad.

"To the contrary, it's inspiring. Britain can stumble about, tearing itself apart one way or another, but eventually . . . eventually it will all be saved, by entities so old that few remember their true names." She smiled. "Saved from true death by true names. Certainly sounds like a prophecy to me." Silence settled again.

Thrum.
Thrum.

Thrum.

Ahead of them, around the bend in the trees, stretched an icy lake, mountainous hills lining the edges. Cerelinde could taste on the back of her tongue the blood that would be spilt here in the next few hours. Next few minutes, perhaps.

Thrum.

The pulsating beat of the drums grew louder as Faraday stopped without any direction from Cerelinde. The horse showed no signs of skittishness, which Lancelot's steed was beginning to betray, for all of its battle experience.

THRUM.

Blood.

BUM BUM BUM.

I promise that there'll be a fight next scene.
Because we all know how much chemqueen LOVES her fights. Remember (if you read my bio) the mucho promised umbrella fight from the on-hiatus Something Witchy Over the Hellmouth?

Well, seeing as this was set in, like, 350, there aren't any umbrellas.

YOU GET THE PICTURE.

So, in order to receive my AM-ZING fight soon . . .

YOU MUST UPDATE.