a/n: I am very curious to see everyone's comments on this. Trust me, of course, though I'm sure you guys aren't terribly worried. But still, let me know what you think. I'll try to update quickly but my week is looking pretty jammed already. Thank you!
Honor Regardless
Hilden was bustling back and forth in the healing rooms. Jaelynn stood at the doorway, stepping aside when she was in the way, and overall just watching as he packed little items in vials and put them in a bag.
He sighed. The hurried manner said he was stressed, but Jaelynn wasn't sure why.
Suddenly he threw his hands in the air and groaned.
"I give up," he said. Jaelynn stepped forward.
"What's wrong?"
Hilden shook his head. "I'm supposed to have this all ready for you to take, and you leave too soon for me to—"
"What?" Jaelynn frowned. What was he talking about?
Hilden stopped, noticing her confusion. "Did I not tell you?" He muttered under his breath. "Of course I didn't. You have no idea what I'm talking about."
He ran his hand over his shorn hair, and blew out a long breath.
"I need you to go in my place with the caravan, and show some people how to use the herbs," Hilden said. "You're supposed to leave this morning. I think Galahad is going with you . . ." The healer went to the window. He nodded at whatever he saw.
"He's out there with the caravan." He turned to Jaelynn and offered a sheepish grin. "Can you be ready quickly?"
Jaelynn blinked rapidly. She tried to take it all in and figure out what had changed in just four sentences.
"I'm going with the caravan to show someone how to use herbs?" she tried. Hilden half-nodded.
"Yes, when you reach the village the caravan travels to," Hilden said. "The healer you should teach is named Opthalus. He's new. The last healer died unexpectedly."
Teach? She was still being taught! How could she teach another when she—
"You better hurry, Jaelynn," Hilden interrupted her before she became frenzied. "Galahad is already glancing this way. Impatient man."
Jaelynn ran from the room. She had much to gather, and no time!
Hilden chuckled behind her.
"I'll just take the supplies directly to Galahad!" he yelled after her. Jaelynn waved over her shoulder without her step faltering a bit.
-0-0-
He was back at the battle—the one with the Romans, who tried to deceive Arthur.
Octavius drew an arrow, his eyes gleaming darkly. He stretched the bow, turning his body ever so slightly to adjust his aim. He released the arrow.
Tristan's eyes followed it. The arrow moved slowly, but still Tristan couldn't move fast enough. He tried; he yelled at her to move. It was already too late.
He ran to Nasica's side. He could see the blood already. Tristan turned her on her back, cradling her.
But it wasn't Nasica anymore. Looking up at him was Jaelynn. Her face was ashen, and she wouldn't last long.
No, Tristan thought. This isn't what happened. He knew he was dreaming, and yet he didn't understand why it was different.
Behind him, he heard Octavius. After gently laying Jaelynn down, he grabbed his sword, and turned to face the cowardly Roman.
But again, it was different. Instead of Octavius, there was Morlo.
Fury beyond what he'd felt against Octavius rose within Tristan. He glanced back at Jaelynn, who was struggling for her last breaths. With a roar, Tristan attacked Morlo.
Something hit him. Twice.
Tristan opened his eyes, seeing Morlo before him. He had kicked the scout in the leg. It was a dream, he told himself. Morlo hadn't killed Jaelynn. Jaelynn was still alive.
But his heart was racing, and he couldn't suppress the anger and pain he felt. He threatened her. Wasn't that reason enough to attack?
Ordinarily, yes. But Morlo was incapable of killing Tristan—he proved that last night. That might change, but it showed that he wouldn't hurt anyone else. His hatred was trained too much on the scout.
"Up," Morlo ordered. The sword was back in hand, but Morlo looked to be on his best behavior. Tristan glanced beyond him and saw why. His grandparents were in the room.
Tristan stood. His back ached. He tried to stretch his muscles before Morlo prodded him forward. He sighed but didn't budge. He stared at Morlo until he had the kid's attention.
"Why are you afraid?" Tristan asked. The grandparents, especially the village elder, looked up. He had their attention too. "Why don't you trust me?"
Silence.
The old couple glanced at each other. Morlo conveniently look to the ground. Tristan clearly saw what he suspected when they questioned him—fear.
"What happened?"
Suddenly Morlo's face darkened.
"Out!" he said, poking him in the back with the sword.
"Make sure he gets something to eat!" the grandmother shouted as Morlo pushed him out the door. Tristan wasn't opposed to that, but he doubted Morlo would obey.
The village was coming to life in the morning light. The rain was still falling. Tristan suppressed a groan. He had no desire to be out in this weather again, especially as a captive.
The grate was open, waiting for him. Tristan glanced up at the sky. With the rain not letting up, he imagined the muck at the bottom of the pit was deep.
"Inside," Morlo order, nodding at the pit. Tristan turned to face the lad.
"What happened?"
Morlo glared at the scout, but he didn't object like he had in the hut. Tristan didn't look as intimidating as he might normally; dried mud still covered his clothes and arms. His armor—which he left in the hut—might have been a nice effect to get the boy to talk. But he didn't need it.
"Two moons ago," Morlo started, his voice quivering slightly. Tristan's old sword was still in his hands, but both men knew there was no threat. "They came then—strange men. It was at night, and they took . . ."
Tristan had a feeling he knew exactly what 'they' took.
"Marauders," Tristan filled in. Surprise washed over Morlo's face, but he nodded.
"They took three women," he said. "One escaped. The other two, we found days later."
He didn't need to say anymore. Respecting his sorrow, Tristan kept quiet. Jaelynn. She could have ended up like the other women. Had their enemies not known how quickly the knights would come after Jaelynn and Vanora, Tristan might have found them dead.
That would have killed him. His dream came back to him, but with all the Romans and marauders going after Jaelynn. He could imagine fighting all of them, just to get to Jaelynn in time.
He frowned.
Morlo cleared his throat, and poked the sword against Tristan's chest.
"In the pit," he said. Tristan glanced over his shoulder at it.
"Why didn't you send word to Arthur?" Tristan asked. The only information they'd had from the villages was the marauders' lurking. Had they known any action had occurred, Tristan and the knights would have hunted them down from the start.
Morloa didn't answer. His shoulders sagged, slightly defeated. But then he straightened up, and prodded him back to the pit.
"Why keep me there?" he asked.
Morlo's eyes narrowed at him. "The others do not know who you are, and you are dangerous still." He shoved Tristan in the chest, and Tristan stumbled back. His feet met the edge of the pit, but the slick mud gave him no chance to stay above ground. He fell back, landing in the large puddle within the pit. The muddy water covered him, and though the fall stunned him, Tristan quickly got back up.
Morlo laughed, reverting coldly back to a tormentor. He watched the mud drip from the scout's body. Tristan thought again about killing the lad when the opportunity came up. But for now, he tried a different tactic.
"What will you do when someone comes and tells everyone I really am a knight?" Tristan asked. Morlo's face darkened again. He puffed his chest out, and squared his jaw. It made him look like he was trying too hard to intimidate.
"I don't think you'll live that long," he said. Even with Morlo's boyish impertinence, Tristan listened carefully. "I'll convince the others to kill you by nightfall. My father will be avenged."
Morlo grasped the grate and heaved it over the pit. It slopped heavily in the mud, and sent drops of muddy water raining over Tristan. The scout shook his head, even though it was useless. His landing in the muddy puddle had already covered him from head to toe.
Feeling angry and more than a little miserable, Tristan hoped the rain would either come faster to wash him, or stop altogether. He started to shiver again.
-0-0-
Despite the gloomy weather, Jaelynn felt invigorated. She hadn't traveled much—well, not by choice anyway. This was her first journey with a purpose. She was surprised Hilden sent her. She didn't feel completely comfortable teaching another about healing, but Hilden had confidence in her, and that helped.
Galahad seemed bored. He rode with a blank face, not caring as the rain dripped off his cloak. She wondered why he came along. Protection, most likely. Bors and Vanora probably asked for Arthur to keep an extra eye on her.
She was glad though. At least she had someone she knew on this trip.
Somehow, her thoughts turned to Tristan. Part of her kept thinking the caravan would stumble upon him. She doubted it, but couldn't she hope? She just wanted to see him, those random braids he always had in his hair, the tattoos on his cheeks, and that blank look that she could read every now and then.
Unknowingly, she sighed.
"What?" Galahad asked. Jaelynn jumped a bit.
"The weather," she lied quickly. He shot her a look.
"Liar," he said. "What were you really thinking about?"
Jaelynn looked away. "I'm just tired of traveling." He didn't look convinced, but Galahad wouldn't push her.
"We've barely started, and you're tired already?" He shook his head. "I don't know how you'll survive the rest."
"Are we really going that far? How long will it take us?" she asked. Sure, she'd made up her discomfort, but Galahad had her worrying now.
The young knight shrugged. "Probably tomorrow afternoon," he said. "Maybe tomorrow morning, if we keep a good pace."
"Well, you'll have to keep me entertained then," Jaelynn said, trying to find some good in the trip. Galahad chuckled.
"And how do you suggest I do that?" he asked. Jaelynn smiled as she thought. She had one idea, but was it too bold to ask? Galahad must have seen a turn in her thoughts.
"What?" he asked.
Jaelynn opened her mouth, but couldn't bring herself to ask. A nod from Galahad encouraged her.
"I have heard little about your battles," she said. Galahad raised an eyebrow. "I don't mean to pry. I know serving Rome wasn't grand, but I'd like to hear about the knights, and your lives . . ." She trailed off when she felt a blush coming over her.
Galahad blinked as he tried to understand. "You want war stories?"
Sheepishly, Jaelynn nodded.
"Just remember you asked for it," Galahad said.
-0-0-
Shivering was getting old. Tiring, too.
Tristan tried to preserve what little warmth he felt in this muddy, earthen pit. Without the extra protection and layer from his armor, the scout felt the cold more severely. Night was upon him again. It wasn't raining this time. Tristan feared that meant he might have to stay the whole night out here.
The old woman, Morlo's grandmother, had come by earlier and dropped a small loaf of bread through the grate. Tristan caught it and ate it gratefully.
He'd heard shouting an hour ago. Mustering a little energy, he had pulled himself up, hanging from the grate and peeking through it. The men from before, including the village elder, spoke animatedly. They kept their voices hushed, with their glances continually flickering towards him.
He wasn't oblivious to the mistrust in many of their eyes. But the village elder appeared differently. He was cautious still, but his eyes betrayed a sense of sadness. He said something to the others, and the men dispersed.
For once in his life, Tristan didn't want to be alone. He didn't enjoy the dark. He'd had his share of loneliness in both dark spaces and bad conditions. Now, he was waiting for something to happen. Even when he was being tortured by the marauders, he had something to do during the quiet times—heal.
Of course, he might fall ill from the wet and cold, but that hardly counted in his mind. Tristan cleared the scratchiness in his throat and leaned his head back against the dirt wall.
When the moon was at its highest in the sky, Morlo came. Tristan tensed. Why was the boy alone? The lad's threatening words echoed in Tristan's head. He wasn't worried about the danger to his life though—he worried about what he may have to do if Morlo tried anything.
Morlo lifted the grate and motioned for Tristan to come out. The scout obeyed, but his eyes never left Morlo.
The village was completely silent. The animals in the stables made a little noise as they stirred, but other than that, no one noticed the two men. Tristan's sword poked him in the back, with Morlo prodding him forward.
They went into the woods. Tristan looked ahead for a something to use to defend himself. Fallen trees limbs were the best he could find.
Don't. He wasn't sure if Morlo was really going to do anything. Besides, hadn't he decided that it was all right, this vengeance on behalf of someone Tristan had killed? If he had to die, it was okay by Morlo's hand, right?
No.
Tristan felt he did have something to live for. He had a life, albeit a sorry one, at the Wall. He had people he could trust: Arthur, Gawain, Bors . . .
He had the respect and care of Jaelynn.
Tristan blinked.
He had to do something about Morlo, preferably without killing him. He'd promised Jaelynn he would be careful.
"Stop here," Morlo said. He took a step back from Tristan and held the sword steady. Tristan stood calmly.
"You changed your mind?" Tristan asked. Morlo's eyes narrowed. His dark hair stood out against his paler skin. With the moonlight, Morlo looked half-dead. Only his eyes were very alive, dark but burning as they studied Tristan.
"You think I'll spare you for what you've done?" the lad asked. Tristan shrugged.
"I've done many terrible things," he said. "Sooner or later, you have to accept it and move on."
Morlo scoffed and started to pace around Tristan. "Have you no shame then? No remorse?"
"Plenty," he answered quickly. "But shame doesn't make a difference. Actions do." Tristan frowned. Did those words really leave his mouth? More importantly, did he actually believe that?
"Tell me then," Morlo said, a sneer twisting on his face. "What makes your actions now atone for the bad? For killing my father?"
Tristan eyed him. There was nothing he could really say to appease Morlo. He shrugged.
"I've changed." It was true, though Tristan didn't really see how much. On the outside, he was the same, silent scout. He was a killer. But he didn't enjoy it now; he just happened to be good at it.
Morlo smirked. He lowered the sword, leaning on it as the tip pressed into the ground. Tristan looked pointedly at Morlo for the treatment of his blade. The look went unnoticed.
"I'm not going to kill you," Morlo said. Tristan raised an eyebrow. "Do you know why I brought you here?"
Tristan neither said a word nor moved a muscle. Morlo reached for something tucked in at his waist. It was a length of rope. He moved cautiously to Tristan. The scout eyed the rope, not liking it despite Morlo's resolve not to kill him.
Morlo stood to his side, glaring at the scout. Suddenly he raised his arm and brought it down on Tristan. The scout moved quickly, but the hilt of the sword glanced off Tristan's head. Tristan grasped where he was hit, even as his knees gave out. Darkness beyond the night clouded over his vision.
Morlo shoved him to the ground, and Tristan fell on his side, still clutching his head. Get up! He started to move, his eyes seeing unclearly. Then Morlo kicked him solidly in the chest.
"I cannot kill you," Morlo said, circling his body. "But I can leave you for dead." He kicked Tristan again, this time in that sensitive spot where his back and hip met. Tristan's body arched unnaturally in an attempt to alleviate the pain. He vaguely could tell Morlo was tying his feet together with the rope.
"There is a pack of wolves that hunt nearby," Tristan heard Morlo say. The lad was tying his hands together. "It won't take them long to find you."
Tristan tried to move but the blackness kept covering more and more of his mind. Given the pain in his back, his body lulled him further away from Morlo, while Morlo dragged Tristan by the length of rope attached to the scout's hands.
-0-0-
Galahad's streak of stories was continuous, and though she'd slept through the night, the knight was ready to pick back up where he'd left off this morning. Jaelynn was already caught up in one tale.
"There he was, just waiting to be stuck by a sword," Galahad said, "completely unaware of the danger behind him. Gawain swears to this day that he knew all along the man was there, and he was just waiting to turn and surprise him."
Jaelynn inched closer to the carriage window, nearer to Galahad. "So what happened?"
"Lancelot yells, 'Behind you, you dolt!'" He started to laugh just at the thought. "Right in the middle of the battle. Gawain turns around, and Tristan beat him to it. He shot him from across the field. After that, we teased Gawain that he only knew what happened five feet in front of him, while the rest of us could see the whole battlefield."
Jaelynn grinned. She'd have to remember that story the next time Gawain tried to tell her she wasn't paying attention to her surroundings.
"What was Lancelot like?" She'd never heard much about him. Galahad's laughter subsided rather quickly. Jaelynn didn't miss the somber look that overcame him. Instantly, she regretted bringing the fallen knight up.
She knew he had died—half of the names Galahad mentioned were knights that had died. But she thought it would have been all right by now. When did he die?
"Lancelot was a passionate warrior," Galahad said. A small, respectful smile tugged at his lips. "That's the best way to describe him. He was passionate in what he believed. In women. In hating Rome. In fighting."
He glanced at Jaelynn. "If he were here today, he would try to woo you, assuming he hadn't already."
Jaelynn grinned, wondering what a character the man must have been. "I would have liked to meet him." Galahad nodded and glanced off at the forest ahead of them. His features softened but his jaw was clenched. He seemed to fight between the good memories he was telling Jaelynn about, and the bad ones.
"He died in the battle with the Saxons," Galahad said. "The day after our freedom was granted by Rome." He shook his head, making his curly hair bounce a bit. "That was a bittersweet day." Jaelynn waited for him to go on, sensing this was more than just a story to tell.
"Just a day or two before, we'd lost Dagonet, a giant of a man with a warm heart and a quiet way," Galahad said. "And in the battle, we lost Lancelot. And Tristan, we thought."
Jaelynn sat a little straighter.
"I still don't know how Tristan got to Rome. You probably know more than I," Galahad said. "He and I don't speak much."
Jaelynn grimaced, having observed some of the awkward moments between the two knights. She always wondered what drove them apart. Tristan wasn't really warm with anyone, but Galahad was definitely cold with Tristan.
"Why not?" she asked. Galahad smiled, but it was one of those guilt-laced smiles, sad and remorseful.
"Bad blood," he said cryptically, "over spilt blood." He shook his head. "It's not so bad now. He just likes to keep to himself."
Jaelynn almost rolled her eyes. That certainly is true. Tristan kept himself away from everyone, not just Galahad.
She didn't ask any more of Galahad, and the young knight seemed to have lost his jovial mood and fun memories. Sitting back in the carriage, Jaelynn tried to imagine what life was like for the knights when they served Rome.
She didn't envy them. For all the excitement and unique experiences they'd had, she knew they were essentially slaves to a cause they did not believe in. From what she knew, the Romans had taken them from Sarmatia when they were just boys. She tried to picture them younger, younger than she was now, coming to a strange land and fighting.
No wonder they all had their own issues. With Tristan's own nightmares in Rome and with the marauders, no wonder he had even more problems than the rest.
His problem, Jaelynn decided, was that he insisted in being alone to cope. While others went to talk to a friend or loved one, Tristan did not. Maybe he didn't see anyone like that. Jaelynn scowled but moved ahead in her thinking. Would the scout ever feel connected enough to someone to confide his troubles?
Even if it weren't her, Jaelynn wished he had someone.
"We're here," Galahad said suddenly, breaking her thoughts. She leaned out the carriage window and glanced ahead. Sure enough, smoke from early morning fires signaled a settlement ahead.
The villagers met them eagerly. But Jaelynn saw something in their eyes.
They greeted her and the rest of the party. But the villagers kept looking to one another. An old man came up to Galahad, who stood by Jaelynn a bit distrustfully. He could tell something was amiss too.
"I must ask," he started, his voice unsure to Jaelynn's ears, "is there a knight at Hadrian's Wall with markings on his face?"
Her heart beat faster.
"On his cheeks, yes," Galahad answered. The old man's shoulders sagged, and his face instantly showed distress.
"What?" Jaelynn asked.
"Forgive us, sir," the old man pleaded, addressing Galahad. "We did not know." The man's legs started to fail him. Galahad grabbed him by the shoulders.
"What is it?" he asked. "Where is the knight?" The old man took a deep breath and looked Galahad in the eyes. His own eyes were filled with tears.
"I'm sorry, sir," he said. "The knight is dead."
Jaelynn's heart skipped a beat. Her lungs suddenly froze. She couldn't breathe.
No.
It couldn't be.
Not Tristan.
She reached out, trying to hold onto something as she felt her knees shake. She felt someone catch her, and an unfamiliar pair of arms encircled her. A young man with dark hair held her. She just stared blankly, but she saw his dark eyes.
How cold they seem.
Jaelynn fought the urge to scream as another thought hit her.
Tristan is dead.