a/n: Okay! Here it is! You can probably tell where I'm going after the end of this chapter, but I hope you'll still look forward to the next one. I'm working on it! Thanks for all your reviews! I look forward to hearing your feedback.
Magnet for Trouble
The candlelight flickered, casting shadows around a water basin. Arthur leaned against the doorway, watching while Guinevere smiled at their son. His son grinned, bearing gums and one tooth.
He moved to her side, dipping his hands into the water within the basin. Guinevere gave him a questioning look. He smiled and nodded for her to put the child in the basin. She did, and together they bathed their son.
"I've heard Tristan left," Gwen said lightly. Arthur nodded. He frowned as he thought about it, but didn't want anything to darken his mood. He made the frown disappear. "What errand did you send him on?"
Arthur looked away from the baby and met Gwen's eyes.
"I didn't send him," he said. "He didn't even tell me he was leaving, or why. I heard from Gawain."
"Why would he leave?" she asked. "He didn't even stay to honor Nasica?"
Arthur shook his head. "She might have been why he left."
The boy gurgled delightfully as the water washed over him. Despite their conversation, both parents grinned.
"Well, he will return when he's ready," Gwen declared confidently. Arthur said nothing in return, and she looked at him directly. "Arthur?"
"Yes," he said finally, "I'm sure he'll return."
Gwen looked anything but convinced. "Really." She stared at him until he noticed her disbelief in his words. Sheepishly, he offered a wayward smile.
"Can you blame me for worrying?" he asked. "That man insists on isolating himself when he should turn to those close to him."
"Is anyone close to him?" Gwen said with a gleam in her eyes. Arthur chuckled.
"We try," he said.
The baby kicked his legs excitedly, splashing water over the basin's edge. Droplets hit Arthur's clothes and arms, but he just admired his carefree son with a loving look.
"He will be ready to accept care when he forgives himself."
Arthur looked to his wife. How she saw into the scout, he didn't know. It was a gift she seemed to have, seeing the soul behind the man. He counted himself lucky that she still loved him.
Slowly, he nodded.
"In the meantime, I'll pray that he does not find trouble," Arthur said. Gwen smiled.
"We've had some skirmishes, but I think he can handle himself," she said. "Why would he be a scout if he couldn't?"
Arthur sighed, a trace of a laugh in his voice. "He is a great scout, and my trusted knight," he said, "but if there's one change I've noticed in Tristan over the years, it's that he is tied to trouble."
-0-0-
Hell. That must be what Tristan was destined for. He found enough of it on earth that he figured it was just a taste of what was to come.
For example, Tristan currently was surrounded by a group of angry men. They looked to be villagers, but Tristan was far enough away from the Wall that they did not recognize him as an ally.
"Drop your weapons!" one man spat at him. Tristan just gripped his sword harder. Idiot. He was just riding along, fully intending on staying a night in the village nearby. That's when he saw one of them. They were trying to hide and take him by surprise. It didn't work too well.
Which is why his horse kept rearing up, with Tristan holding on with one hand and brandishing his sword in the other.
"I'm not your enemy," he said. The men just jittered more at that.
"Prove it," another said, behind him. "Drop your weapons."
Tristan rolled his eyes. He held onto his sword.
Someone to the side yelled, drawing everyone's attention. The man—or boy—couldn't have been more than 20 years of age, and he proved it with his foolish actions. He charged at Tristan. Tristan blocked the boy's first stroke, and kicked him away.
Defending himself was enough to make everyone move. They charged at once. Tristan's horse reared again, kicking out with his front legs. Tristan barely held on. At the awkward angle, he turned to the nearest foe and blocked the attack.
He was simply outnumbered. Luckily, no one actually stabbed him, but they pulled him from his horse. He fell on his side, but he quickly had his sword up against downward blows. They weren't trying to kill him. The sword attacks were aimed at his hand and the blade, just to get him to release it.
Someone pulled at his armor, and Tristan punched at him. It made the man back off, and Tristan scrambled to the hole in the men's attack, gaining enough space that he found his feet. The men circled around him, their weapons—swords, sticks, and daggers—all pointed at him.
He could take them. He'd been outnumbered before, against skilled warriors. These were simple villagers, no doubt passionate about defending their land, but his skill would easily out-do them. There would be consequences though.
They would be wounded, or killed.
And they were Britons—technically, the people Arthur served and cared for. But it's defense.
He knew that wasn't enough of a reason. These were good people, probably. Suspicious of him, misguided in who they attacked, but good people nonetheless.
"I serve Arthur," Tristan said. "I mean to pass through, and leave you in peace."
Murmurs traveled among the men. The young man huffed loudly at that.
"So you say," he scoffed. "He's lying!"
Tristan glared at him.
"We'll find out," said another man. "Surrender your weapons and you won't be hurt."
Again, Tristan rolled his eyes. He wasn't worried about him being hurt at all.
"You're making a mistake," he said. An older man, probably in his 40s, nodded.
"That's what we're afraid of."
Tristan frowned. If it weren't for the slight fear in the man's tone, he might just have attacked the men. But something about it made him see more had happened here, maybe something which warranted the way they treated him now.
Slowly, he lowered his sword.
"I want my weapons back," Tristan muttered at the older man. The man nodded, his eyes focused tensely on the scout's movements. Tristan lightly tossed the blade at his feet. He stripped his dagger from his side, and dropped it as well.
"Your knife," the man said, nodding at the small blade tucked in the chest of his armor. Tristan had hoped he wouldn't notice that, but he complied. The men converged on him then.
He didn't resist. They didn't bind him, but they surrounded him and had the tips of their swords within inches of his body.
"Walk," the older man ordered.
The village was small, but bustling as soon as he walked in view. His armed escort made for a different entrance than he'd planned, but hopefully they would work that out. Tristan was led to a hut, while his horse was led to a stable.
The men forced him to his knees in the middle of the hut. They circled around him, and waited. A white-bearded man came in, obviously elderly and looked to be the leader of the village. The brash young man was with him, helping the village elder along. The young man sneered at Tristan.
It took a minute for the elder to be settled, and then he spoke.
"Who are you?" he asked. His voice shook with age, but the look in his eyes said mentally the elder was in control.
Tristan had no desire to make this difficult. He answered.
"I'm a knight at Hadrian's Wall," he said. "I serve Arthur." The young man whispered into the elder's ear. The elder frowned.
"Why come here? What news does Arthur send?"
Tristan sighed. "None. I'm traveling through on my own errand."
Again, the young man whispered animatedly. The elder nodded along. Tristan wondered why a man of 'wisdom' would listen to such a whelp.
"But you threatened my village," the elder said. Tristan frowned. No, he hadn't. "You fought with our men."
"They ambushed me," Tristan responded. What, did they expect him to just wait for them to attack and do nothing about it? It was unrealistic. He wondered what made them so cautious, especially of someone like him who served the rightful king of Britain.
"My grandson says you have several weapons," the elder continued. Tristan narrowed his eyes at the young whelp. No wonder the elder listened to him.
"I'm a knight," Tristan said again.
"So you claim," the elder said. "But why does a knight have two different swords?" The grandson brought forward Tristan's sword and also his old, curved sword.
"Who did you kill for this sword?" the grandson piped up. The elder shot him a glare, but then he looked back to Tristan. He nodded at the sword. Seeing the old blade, Tristan saw not only the dirt from where he'd found it, but crusted blood from the marauders he'd killed the day he'd lost it.
Tristan could tell this interrogation wasn't going anywhere good for him.
"Both are mine," he said shortly. "I serve Arthur. Are you not loyal to him?"
The elder nodded.
"Then why do you question me?"
Mutterings traveled through the men. The elder glared at the knight. "I do not trust you." He extended his arm to his grandson, who helped the old man to his feet.
"You will stay here until we know the truth," the elder declared. Approval rumbled through the men, and Tristan didn't miss the gleeful smirk on the grandson's face. He made to stand, and he was hit in the back. The pain was sharp and traveled up his back. He fell on all fours.
"Do not hurt him," the elder said sternly to the men. "Trade comes from Hadrian's Wall soon. We will ask them if they know this man."
"And if they do not?" the grandson asked eagerly. The elder cast a weary look to the young man, and then ambled out of the hut with another's help.
Immediately, Tristan was seized. This no longer was a simple misunderstanding to him. For some reason, they wanted to doubt him, and Tristan wasn't about to be some fool waiting for undue trouble. He struggled from the hold on him, making two men lose their balance and fall.
He stood, but could do nothing more before someone tackled him. He was flattened on the dirt, lying on his stomach. Someone pinned his arms to the ground, and then he felt a hard hit to his head.
He didn't look forward to when he awoke.
-0-0-
Jaelynn dodged Gawain's swing over her head. He was still moving slow for her benefit, but Jaelynn tried to keep up and still breathe well. Training today had picked up in pace.
It was good for her, she realized. The physical work relieved the frustrations she had, with Nasica's death, with Tristan gone, everything. If she imagined her foe as someone other than Gawain, she saw the Romans, or the marauders, or even the Saxons who'd killed her father and village.
She stepped forward and thrust her wooden sword at Gawain. It tapped him in the stomach.
"Oof!" Gawain grunted. He lowered his sword, grinning. "Well done!"
Jaelynn smiled tightly and relaxed her stance. The knight was going easy on her, so she didn't delude herself into thinking she could seriously defeat him. But she was making progress. A week ago, she would barely have known how to hold a dagger.
"Should we take a break?" Gawain asked, eyeing her carefully. Jaelynn shook her head. Whenever she took a break, or had a lull in her day, she started to think. She didn't want to think anymore.
Gawain frowned, but he didn't say anything. Jaelynn bet he knew what bothered her, and luckily he was kind enough not to ask her about it.
They sparred for another hour, with Jaelynn losing frequently. Her thoughts kept wandering to –
"You're distracted," Gawain said after winning another fight. "If your mind isn't on your fight, your head won't be on your body for very long."
She grimaced at his words, but nodded somberly.
"You should rest," he said. Jaelynn frowned.
"I'm all right," she said. "Let's continue." Gawain crooked his eyebrow up.
"We've practiced for three hours already," he said. "You should go back to your duties. Besides, I need the rest too."
He smiled, and managed to draw a grin back from her. Jaelynn nodded.
She grabbed a medicinal log to read, one of many Hilden recommended, and moved to the edge of the town, out in the fields just outside the Wall. There was a particular tree, standing alone but fully in the field.
She waved to the guards on duty, and they waved back. She knew they kept an eye on her, even though the tree was just a stone's throw from the gates. It was something she accepted, after all her adventures.
The tree was slightly slick from the cold, damp air, but Jaelynn held firmly to the limbs and climbed up the tree. It certainly was easier in the tunic and breeches she wore from when she trained. Jaelynn pulled herself up to the heart of the tree and settled against the trunk and on a sturdy branch.
She removed the reading material from the waist of her pants, and started to read. Drawings and unusual words popped out at her, but she started to skim over them. Her mind wandered again.
She wondered if Tristan was all right. He'd distanced himself to grieve, but Jaelynn knew it could take a long while to heal from the death of another. And since she knew he loved Nasica, it would be harder.
How she hated herself. She knew Tristan couldn't see her beyond his protective charge, and yet she still hoped. Was she pining after him now? She rolled her eyes at herself and balled her fists.
Stupid girl, she thought. When will you move on?
She didn't know. But half of her didn't want to move on. She hadn't yet in the few years she'd lived at the Wall. What was another day?
She shook her head, and tried to focus on her reading. She needed to finish it before she reported to Hilden this afternoon.
-0-0-
When he awoke, Tristan found himself in a pit. Cold air assailed him, and glancing up, he saw why. The pit was dug in the earth, and all that kept him in was a wooden grate. The sky was easily visible, and he could see that he was near one of the village homes.
Except he was a good 12 feet lower.
He rubbed his head gingerly and stood. The villagers hadn't bound him. He thought that was odd, but then again, he was in a pit 12 feet below ground. Tristan tried his footing on the walls of earth around him. It was muddy, but he found enough leverage to get higher. He clawed at the walls, pulling himself up, until his hands met the wooden grate. He grasped it.
It was strong, and wide. It covered his pit and more, making it heavy and awkward. Tristan pushed on it, but something held it down. He turned and found large stones on top of the widest edges of the grate.
Tristan held onto the grate and peeked out. He had to bend himself at an awkward angle, but he could see the main part of the village.
The sun was setting, and villagers were lighting torches here and there for when night fell. A woman cast a glance in his direction, and she gasped when she saw him looking. She stepped back and hurried into a hut.
Tristan sighed and let himself drop to the bottom of the pit.
The pit was large enough for him to pace, which gave him something to do. Of course, it only took three moments to go around the whole space, but at least he could move. He wondered if they intended to keep him here the whole time, until someone came and vouched for him.
He sighed. If it was a simply townsperson, they may not vouch favorably for him.
"What is your name?" came a voice above him.
Tristan looked up. The annoying young man was there, kneeling over the grate and pit. He wore a disdainful expression, almost as if he would spit at any moment.
Tristan ignored him, and resumed his pacing. He wasn't about to give any information to this weasel. He'd already seen how the young man was eager to not trust him. Being that he had the village elder's ear, the scout saw no point in reasoning with him.
He fought a smile when his silence annoyed the young man.
"Answer me, you murdering bastard!" the grown grandson exclaimed.
Tristan glared at him. Who was this kid, to be so angry and demanding? Maybe he should have just given into instinct when he encountered the village men before, and just killed them. Or at least this one lad.
"I have killed," Tristan said, still ignoring the request for his name. "That happens when Sarmatian knights serve Rome."
The young man balled his fists.
"You call it service, but you killed so many," he said. Tristan's brow furrowed. "Too many."
Somehow, Tristan doubted the sheer number of his kills was what bothered the lad.
"You know I'm telling the truth," Tristan analyzed aloud. He knows I'm a knight. Judging by the young man's lack of a reaction, Tristan was right. Why, then? Why lie about it, and keep me here?
He blames me.
Tristan raised his chin a little higher. "Who did I kill?"
The anger kept building in the young man, but with his rage came a look of young naïve revenge. He seemed like a twelve-year-old boy, instead of a young warrior.
"My father," he hissed. "It was you who attacked him in the woods."
Tristan raised an eyebrow. "How do you know?" He didn't doubt it. He'd killed a lot of Woads. Part of him was amazed that the land was as united as it was when the king had previously killed so many Woads himself.
"I saw you." Anger was turning to desperate grief right before his eyes. The young man's eyes were welling up, but they still glared at Tristan like he would strike him dead right there.
"Morlo!" someone called from beyond where Tristan could see. The voice sounded frail. The village elder.
The young man—Morlo—looked sharply towards the voice, but his features softened obediently.
"I am coming, grandfather." Morlo glanced back to the pit, and Tristan saw the anger still there, but in complete control now. He left without another word.
Tristan was glad to be alone again. He thought about whom Morlo's father might have been, but the number of men he slaughtered over the years was too great. But how long ago was it? At least three years ago, Tristan figured.
The sky was darkening quickly, and Tristan could hear the wind whipping through the nearby trees. It wasn't just the night coming.
Thunder rumbled in the distance, and rain answered quickly. The rain fell through the wooden grate freely. It started out light and steady.
Tristan sat in the dirt, bending his legs so that his knees popped up. He leaned on them with his arms and just brooded over his latest dilemma. That's when the storm worsened. He could hear the rain falling harder, and the large drops soon soaked him through. Little streams of water poured over the edge of the pit, bringing with it runny mud. It collected at the base of the pit, right where Tristan feet were.
Great.
He thought about sleeping, but the rain was coming down too loudly. To be honest, Tristan was growing concerned about it. More and more muddy water was filling his pit. He didn't think he'd drown or anything—rain like that wasn't too common this time of winter—but he had to stand now, or wallow like a pig in the increasing muck.
His body trembled. Tristan folded his arms across his chest, cringing at the cold wetness of his clothes against his skin.
". . . stubborn. I don't care if you don't trust him," came a woman's voice. It was hard to hear for all the rain, but she was getting closer. Tristan faced the direction the voice was coming from, curious and hopeful. "Bring him inside right now!"
A sigh.
"All right."
The grate was lifted, and there stood Morlo again, and by his side an elderly woman. She wore a sour expression on her face, but luckily it wasn't directed at Tristan.
"Climb out," Morlo ordered. He held Tristan's curved sword in his hand. The thought crossed his mind to kill the lad right there for handling the blade.
But first things first. Tristan pushed the tip of his foot into the muddy wall and reached up. His fingers slipped, but he dug in, one hand first, then the other. Morlo seemed to enjoy the messy spectacle.
"Go on in, grandmother," Morlo said. "This could take all night."
Tristan glared at him quickly before reaching higher for another hold. He had to rush to sink his fingers into the mud before his awkward position and his weight made him fall back.
He pulled himself up a little further and got one arm over the ground. Mud coated him, all over his clothes, and a decent amount underneath. He scowled.
"Hurry up, murderer," Morlo goaded. Tristan had his chest balancing on the edge of the pit when Morlo grabbed the back of his armor and clothes and pulled the rest of him to higher ground. Tristan grimaced; the mud was rubbed into all the crevices in his armor.
Tristan stood. He was about to wipe some of the mud off, but it was useless. He glanced up at the sky, hoping the rain would do some of the work.
"Inside." Morlo poked the sword against Tristan's back. The men moved towards a large, warm-looking hut. Anything looked warm to him at this point.
The old woman clucked at him when she saw the mess he was. Morlo frowned when he saw his grandmother fuss over Tristan. Part of the scout wanted to grin and rub that in, but he was shivering.
"Off, off!" she said. She pried at his muddy armor, while Morlo tried to maintain some defense for his grandmother. Tristan smirked.
"Stand back," Morlo said urgently. "Don't go near him, grandmoth—"
"I've killed more men than you have, Morlo," she snapped. She turned to Tristan. "The fire's strong. Go warm yourself." She handed him a clean length of cloth and swiped it over his face before he took it.
Tristan blinked.
"Be nice, Morlo," the woman said. She disappeared into another room. Tristan took her advice and went to the fire, with Morlo a step behind him. He heard Morlo draw a quick breath, right before he hit Tristan.
The punch landed in his lower back, to the side. Tristan fell to one knee, gasping at the sudden pain that multiplied up his whole back and through his stomach.
"Murderer," Morlo muttered. Tristan made himself sit just so he wouldn't fall altogether. Slowly, the pain started to dissipate, but he knew he would be sore. Wherever Morlo hit him, it was very effective. He'd have to remember that for later.
"You sure it was me?" Tristan asked. His voice held a slight rasp but he didn't really care. He grabbed the cloth the old woman had given him and started to wipe away the mud and dry himself.
"What?" Morlo glared at him. He seemed to have no other expression.
"You sure I killed your father?" Tristan repeated. Morlo raised the curved sword.
"Yes."
Tristan didn't say anything, but he could tell Morlo was thinking about it.
"I was watching, in the woods," he said, his voice falsely emotionless. "Ten years ago. You killed him—the knight with the tattoos on his face." Angrily, he jabbed the tip of the blade in Tristan's arm. Tristan hissed but quickly bit his tongue. It was naught but a slight cut, but it stung.
Putting his sorry physical state out of his mind for now, he thought about what Morlo said. Knight with tattoos on his face. . .
Obviously, it was him.
He considered apologizing but it just didn't make sense. Morlo didn't want an apology. He wanted his father back. And since that was impossible, he wanted revenge. No doubt he'd thought about—lived, dreamt, breathed for it—for the last ten years.
And here you are, the perfect opportunity for that revenge.
Tristan decided he wouldn't sleep that night. He understood that Morlo hated him, rightly so, but if he tried anything, Tristan wasn't going to just accept being killed during the night.
Morlo sat rigidly across from Tristan, the blade never lax in his hands. It was an awkward length for the young man, and Tristan wondered if the kid was any good with a blade. Maybe, with a blade that suited him. For some reason, he thought back to when he first trained with that sword. No one thought he'd ever be able to handle such a long sword, and with an awkward curve to it.
They were wrong.
"You have nothing to say?" Morlo said. "No reason or excuse?"
Tristan shrugged. His cool demeanor threw Morlo off. Good.
"What's to say?" Tristan mumbled. "I killed for Rome. I killed Woads, among others."
A look of disgust crossed over Morlo's face.
"Dogs," he spat, "all of you. You couldn't think for yourself? You knew what you did was wrong, and still you murdered."
Again, Tristan shrugged.
"You know Sarmatians had no choice," he said evenly. "You know what's wrong, and you plan to kill me."
Morlo didn't like that. He got to his feet and kicked Tristan across the face. The scout saw it coming, but he did nothing. The impact whipped his head to the side.
"Don't ever compare us," he said lowly. "I have cause enough to kill you and your entire line for what you've done."
Tristan raised an eyebrow. Morlo wasn't getting it. The scout decided not to call him on it for now.
"My entire line?" Tristan repeated. Morlo nodded. "Good thing it's just me left."
Morlo's anger faltered for a moment, digesting what Tristan said. He hadn't said it for sympathy, yet if it made Morlo think about his obsessive anger, Tristan was all right with it.
Morlo's face darkened. "My life changed that day, never to be the same," he said. "You will pay for it. You and anyone you hold dear."
For some reason, Tristan quickly thought of Jaelynn. Not now. He stared blankly at Morlo.
"If you want your revenge," he started, "take it. Now."
Morlo eagerly put the tip of the sword to Tristan's throat. His breathing quickened; he was really considering it.
So be it. Of all the opportunities for death over the last few years, maybe this one would be the most deserving. He had killed this boy's father. How fitting to be avenged years later—more fitting than being killed by the marauders for the slightest association with their grievances. It was more fitting than dying an unfulfilling death in Rome as an assassin. Maybe it was more fitting than dying at the hands of the Saxon king in battle.
Tristan didn't move. He didn't show any fear or pleading. He just waited.
The blade shook in Morlo's hand. Frustrated, he grasped the blade with both hands, but the shaking continued. The tip scratched back and forth against Tristan's throat. He could feel a bit of blood from it, yet Tristan did not move.
Morlo growled like a dog, but the sound became lower and more pathetic, until the lad realized he couldn't do it. He withdrew the blade and sat down angrily across the room.
Another time, Tristan might have smirked at the boy's incompetence. But it didn't seem right now. He glanced at Morlo, and then wiped away the drops of blood from his throat with his muddy cloth.