a/n: This is a little short, but I hope to follow up with my next chapter in the next day or two. I have a good outline of the next chapter, so it should come together quickly. In the meantime, let me know what you think about this chapter. Thanks for reading!
When It Rains, It Floods
"Tristan." She only had to call his name once and the scout's eyes opened. Jaelynn swallowed.
How do I tell him?
She didn't need to. His eyes drifted to the still form behind her. For a brief moment, Tristan's eyes widened, and then he looked to Jaelynn.
She nodded once.
He stared at the ground, and nodded back.
Neither one moved for a minute. It was still sinking into Jaelynn; she imagined it was just starting to tear into Tristan. But the scout calmly rose. He tried to smile, but it didn't work. Tristan had a hard enough time smiling regularly—forcing it was impossible. Jaelynn felt the tears wet her eyes again. Quickly she blinked them away.
"Tristan . . ." What could she really say? He laid a hand on her shoulder and patted it once. Then he headed for the door.
I'm sorry. Jaelynn tried to say it. It got caught in her throat, but Tristan was already gone.
Jaelynn turned to Nasica's body. She didn't know what to do now.
-0-0-
Waking up in the middle of the night was hardly a great thing, and tonight was no different. Tristan still was fighting his thoughts, not wanting to think about Nasica. He headed to the tavern, knowing it was probably too late, but maybe something to drink could be found.
Sure enough, the tavern was quiet, but two or three stragglers were finishing up. Tristan went to the weary barmaid and nodded at her. She poured him a drink.
"Tristan," he heard behind him. Gawain waved at him from his usual table. Tristan took his drink first, downing the entire cup and getting a refill before he made his way to Gawain.
He sat without saying a word.
"You look awful," Gawain noted bluntly. His nose crinkled. "Have you even bathed?"
Tristan shook his head. He left his armor in the healing room. He'd get it later. He didn't want to go back right now.
"Where you been?" Gawain asked, a slight slur to his words. Tristan glanced at him from the corner of his eye.
"Healing rooms."
Gawain nodded and drank from his dwindling cup. "How is everyone? The woman?"
"She's dead," Tristan said. His voice sounded more hollow than usual. "The others are fine." He tilted back his head and drank several gulps, missing Gawain's stare.
"You cared for her," Gawain said. Tristan almost choked. "Nasica." He let out a low whistle. "No chance with her, friend."
Tristan glared at him. "'Course not. She's dead."
It was Gawain who glared next. "Idiot. No, she is—was—out of your reach."
Tristan tried not to hold Gawain's words against him, but they just twisted the knife deeper within his heart, and Gawain being half-drunk was no excuse.
"So I've been told," he muttered. Gawain grinned.
"Who told? You did something about it?"
Tristan rolled his eyes. He could maybe imagine having this conversation a few nights ago, but now, it grated him. It almost bordered on disrespect.
"Does it matter now?"
Gawain shut up for a moment. But just one moment. The long-haired knight shook his head. "Poor Jaelynn."
Tristan frowned. He wasn't sure why Gawain pitied her. She wasn't dead—he didn't wish that at all, but Nasica's body was getting cold.
"Why do you say that?" he asked. He noticed the warmth of the ale in his empty stomach. It was a little queasy, but he didn't care enough. Feeling nausea distracted him a bit.
"Do you remember the first time you killed?" Gawain asked. Tristan's frown deepened. "For Jaelynn, to heal, and to lose someone, it's like your first kill. She'll take it hard."
He hadn't thought about that. All he could think about once he knew about Nasica was to leave as emotionlessly as possible. Tristan shrugged without considering it further.
"She's strong," he said. "She'll be fine."
Gawain huffed. "Stupid scout," he muttered. Tristan shot him a glare.
"You sound like Galahad."
That made Gawain laugh. The noise made one of the other drunken patrons jump a little from his stupor.
"Well, you are," Gawain continued. He shook his head. "You go after a woman like Nasica—may she rest in peace—and ignore the sweetest woman ever, who loves you for some reason."
Tristan groaned. He threw back his head and drained the ale.
"What's wrong with Nasica?" Tristan asked, wiping his mouth a few seconds later. The question came as a growl; it didn't faze Gawain.
"Nothing," Gawain started, "if you want a beating. You always have to make it hard for yourself, don't you? If you had any sense, you would see how great Jaelynn is."
Tristan rolled his tired eyes.
"Then you court her," he grumbled. He felt guilty for even saying that, but it passed too quickly.
"I would," Gawain started. Tristan almost choked on his own tongue. "If I weren't with Lucinda, Jaelynn would be my next choice. I'm not stupid."
Again, Tristan fixed him with a glare. He leaned back and glanced under the table.
"You sure Galahad's not here?" he grumbled.
Gawain roared, spewing drink with his laughter.
It took him a few moments to collect himself, during which Tristan sat silently. When Gawain finally settled down, Tristan felt the knight studying him.
"I'm sorry about Nasica," he said. Tristan shrugged the words off. He didn't need pity or— "She was a nice woman, and a good fighter." Tristan stared at his empty cup. "Just one question."
Tristan nodded for him to go on.
"What made her so much better than Jaelynn?"
His first reaction was to reject the question. Tristan almost got up and left, but something held him back. The words repeated in his mind. He never considered Jaelynn seriously, even with the awkwardly intimate moments between them, and he knew why.
"Nasica's a woman. Jaelynn's a girl," he mumbled. Immediately, Gawain smacked him in the back of his head. Tristan felt his anger rise, but he controlled himself and just stared impassively at the knight.
"You say that now," Gawain said, "but she's a better woman than most around here. By the time you realize that, she'll be taken."
Silence fell between them. Tristan tried not to dwell on what Gawain said. But he thought about how Jaelynn had cleaned him up. For a moment there, he saw a glimpse of 'woman' that surprised him. There was nothing seductive in how she'd cared for him, but yet, he saw it that way for the briefest of moments. Did it bother him? Or was he really just caught off-guard? Or--
"I'm teaching her to fight," Gawain said suddenly. "I'll get to the sword eventually, but she'd probably like to learn archery."
Tristan grunted.
"Do you want to help teach her?" Gawain asked. Tristan shook his head.
"Can't."
Gawain raised an eyebrow.
"Can't, or won't because you're a stubborn fool?"
Tristan stood. He slid the empty cup across the table. "Can't," he reaffirmed. "I'm leaving soon."
Gawain frowned.
"Another scouting trip? I didn't think Arthur would send you so soon."
Tristan didn't answer. He just turned away as the truth hit Gawain's face. He was half-way across the courtyard when Gawain had his last say-so.
"You'd never run from battle. Since when did you become a coward?"
The scout stopped in his tracks. For a second, he saw nothing but darkness as anger clouded his vision. With one breath, he made it disappear. He thought about throwing his dagger very close to Gawain's head. He thought about arguing with the man, but ultimately, it didn't matter.
He left, with a new label attached to his name.
Coward.
-0-0-
She felt like crying. If there was time, she would have let herself. Soft rays of morning light were shining through the cracks in the shutters. The wounded were in their rooms and needed tending. Nasica's body was wrapped, ready to be removed.
Hilden said her burial spot was being prepared. The healer had returned during the early pre-dawn hours and showed Jaelynn how to wrap the body. It was tragically horrifying. Jaelynn's stomach was in painful knots during the process, and she felt her body waver.
Now, she tried not to look at it. At her. Nasica was still a person, and Jaelynn refused to make her death impersonal by referring to the body as some object. In her heart, with the sickening feeling there, Jaelynn knew Nasica's death was anything but impersonal. It only added to the weariness of her body and spirit.
"Jaelynn," Hilden called, catching her during her daze. He frowned, but there was a sympathetic look to it. He nodded at the door. "You should sleep."
"I'm fine—"
"Now, Jaelynn," Hilden said, his voice louder and more stern. "I've done this many times before without you. Sleep."
Maybe she was too tired to argue. She left the healing wing.
She held off thoughts and emotions until she was in her room. As soon as her door shut, the tears spilled over. Little paths formed down her cheeks. Jaelynn covered her mouth to muffle her sobs. She fell by her bedside and just buried her face in the blankets.
It was too much now. Too much to endure in a composed fashion. Nasica, dead. The lack of sleep. Tristan, and the look of sorrow on his face.
Tristan, and the quasi-normal, tender moments they shared.
She let the tears come without restraint.
And then someone knocked on the door. Jaelynn gasped, and then hiccupped over a sob.
"Jaelynn?" she heard.
Tristan!
A whimper escaped her lips, then a sob. He couldn't see her like this. Jaelynn wiped furiously at her face and tried to control the sob-hiccup pattern that she was developing. She didn't realize Tristan heard her.
He came in unbidden, and immediately he frowned at the sight of her. Great, Jaelynn thought. She tried to turn away or keep herself out of—
"What's wrong?" he asked.
What's wrong? He was there! Only hours had passed since Nasica's death. Jaelynn gulped on a sob, and it came out as a strangled cry. She shook her head, almost to say she was fine. She doubted it was effective.
Tristan kneeled in front of her, and grasped her by the shoulders. He turned her towards him, making it impossible for her to hide. Jaelynn kept her face down, but then she felt one of his hands leave her shoulder and touch her chin. He tilted it up, and she saw the unease over his features.
"Jaelynn," he said, and despite her distress she reveled in the mumbled smoothness of his voice. "What's wrong?"
She tried to say something—it came as nothing intelligible. She settled on shaking her head and turning her head away from his touch.
He asked her again, but somehow his words just triggered more tears. She hated how she sounded. Why could some women cry gracefully, and look pretty, and here she was bawling and puffy and red and a blubbering mess?
Tristan leaned back, so that he relieved his knees and sat on the floor. With his movement, he pulled Jaelynn to him. She was concentrating too much on controlling her bawling, and it took a minute to register that Tristan was holding her. His arms felt so strong around her.
They sat like that, with Tristan just holding her while her cries slowly abated. What was he thinking during that time? Jaelynn knew what she was thinking—her thoughts flew about like a flock of birds, a dozen different thoughts and directions, moving so quickly through her head that she never came to any conclusion. Most of those thoughts were about Tristan, and the minority about her silly crying.
When she finally got control of herself, she expected Tristan to release her. But he didn't. Jaelynn didn't know if she should move first, or wait and see what he would do. She knew she wanted to see what he would do, but then she might be seen as being too needy, or—
Shush!
She hated herself sometimes.
She took a deep breath and released it slowly. It came out shuddering.
"You all right?" she heard from his chest.
You should pull away now. Reluctantly, she listened to herself. She swiped her eyes and nodded.
"Thank you," she said meekly. A ghost of a smile came over his face.
"It's okay," he said. "I came to thank you." When she frowned, he kept going. "She wasn't going to live. You took care of her anyway."
A small blush crept over her face, but she figured it would blend in with her splotchy red face anyway. She glanced at him. His hair obscured his eyes a bit, but she could see the tattoos on his cheekbones. He was looking down too as he spoke.
"Thank you," he finished up. And then he looked at her, and she stopped breathing for a moment as their eyes met.
"I'm sorry it didn't make a difference," she replied sadly. Tristan shook his head.
"It did. To her," he said, "and to me."
Despite his compliment, she felt her heart constrict. He was grateful, because of the kindness she showed Nasica—the woman he loved. 'Love' was probably a strong term, but his words were a testament that he did care for Nasica, and not her.
That's not true.
He did care for her. And Jaelynn was grateful she held a small place in his heart. But it wasn't the place she wanted; the place was too small. She shook the thoughts from her mind, knowing Tristan was watching her.
"Are you okay?" she asked back. He shrugged at first, and started to nod but then stopped.
"I'll be fine," he said.
Somehow, that just made her feel more disappointed.
"I'm leaving today," he said. Jaelynn frowned. "I'll be back in a few weeks."
"Where are you going?"
He shrugged. "Don't know."
She understood. "This isn't for Arthur, then," she said. He didn't answer. His eyes just moved over her. Jaelynn felt exposed, like he was analyzing her. Could he tell she was saddened by his plans? She dreaded him leaving, being alone and maybe being in danger.
"Gawain says he'll keep training you," Tristan said out of the blue. "Be careful." He stood, no doubt to leave abruptly as he always did. Jaelynn stood with him.
"I will, if you'll be too," she said as he turned for the door. It made him stop, and even with his back turned towards her, she saw a smile tug at the corner of his mouth.
"I will."
-0-0-
He left as soon as he said goodbye to Jaelynn. Arthur wouldn't be terribly pleased, but Tristan didn't feel bad. Like Arthur had told him several times before, there were plenty of Britons to scout if needed.
His hawk was flying ahead, gliding on the gentle winds. He didn't call for her. She wasn't needed, but he was glad for the companionship.
Even so, he was alone. That's what he wanted—space, time to think, to be away from everyone.
He didn't want pressure right now. He didn't want the knights wondering about him, now that things had settled a little. He didn't want Gawain bugging him about Jaelynn, or Nasica. And he didn't want to wait around for the next attack or crisis.
He was tired.
Old man, he thought with a smirk. He was hardly that, not even close really. But the last 17 years, since he was taken from Sarmatia, were filled with experiences many did not have in three lifetimes.
Like being a servant for Rome.
Taking the lives of Woads.
Protecting vain and worthless men.
Suffering from countless wounds and scars.
Going to Rome.
Being an assassin.
Returning to Sarmatia.
Being an outcast.
That summed up where he was now, didn't it? Tristan fit in less now than ever. He didn't need to fit in though—he didn't care what people thought, right? But maybe he was tired of being on the outskirts of people's good opinion. He was tired of being feared, even if it had its uses.
He thought about Bors and Vanora. As insane as they seemed to be, especially with 11 or more children, Tristan envied them. At least Bors had a semblance of a normal life. The family life reminded him vaguely of what he'd left when he was a boy, in Sarmatia. Wouldn't his family want him to be happy now?
He didn't know.
He thought about Gawain and Lucinda. How happy they were. Thankfully, it was Lucinda, and not Jaelynn.
Tristan frowned as he rode his horse through the forest. Gawain had been joking, hadn't he? He was just trying to get a reaction from Tristan.
So what? What if he was with Jaelynn?
Why did that bother him?
A clap of thunder jolted him from his thoughts. Tristan glanced to the sky above and found clouds darkening. He could hear the rain starting to fall ahead of him, not quite reaching him yet.
He wrapped his cloak around him, and waited for the wet drops to hit him.
The next morning, his things were still wet. It had rained through the night, and he had stopped for some cover under a thicket of trees, but it didn't help that much.
It only served to dampen his mood too. He scowled at the world while he rode through the soggy forest. He recognized where he was a little. He was crossing the path he'd taken when tracking the marauders.
He hadn't meant to, but now that he was here, he spurred his horse to follow the slight path. A dead body was nearby, judging by the smell.
A bit further, he saw something that caught his eye. It was half-buried in leaves and under a bush. Tristan pulled up on the reigns and slid off his horse. He went to the thing, somehow knowing it was important.
Kneeling by it, he brushed the leaves aside, and then stopped.
Slowly, he smiled.
It was his old sword. It was dirty, wet and in need of a good polish, but the curved edge of his blade was still sharp. He picked it up with a degree of reverence. Some semblance of peace filled him as he held it again.
He had his new sword, one he was growing accustomed to. But the Sarmatian sword was as much a part of him as his tattoos. Tristan wrapped the sword in a spar tunic, one that was only partially damp. He tucked it beneath the saddle strap, and then rode on.
He felt a little better now.