A/N: All right. I'm surprised I'm posting this already. I have some doubts/reservations about this chapter, but I need to get it out, because the ideas are eating away at me. So don't hate me, and please send me your comments!
Rejecting
He just kissed her.
Morlo.
Jaelynn numbly walked away from him, ignoring his calls after her. She couldn't deal with this right now. Not clearly. Her mind was a fog of excitement, horror, and fear.
Excitement—she'd just had a real kiss. Not some Roman taking advantage of her or some dream about Tristan.
Horror—had Tristan seen the kiss? What would he think? Did it matter?
Fear—what was she supposed to do now? Did she like Morlo back?
She found herself darting between huts defensively so no one could follow her. The woods were before her, and she wanted to disappear within them. Her swift feet took her to the trees, tall and towering above her. The wind picked up, making the branches sway and the fallen leaves swirl around her.
It was by a large boulder that she stopped. She sat on the ground, ignoring the dirt and leaves that got on her simple dress. The thoughts kept flooding her mind.
No, she didn't like Morlo. Right? She suspected he'd been more than just lying to everyone about Tristan's supposed escape. He had reason to dislike Tristan, but to take it beyond that was unpardonable. They were in a time of peace, despite all the bloodshed in previous years. She understood that and held no grudge. And she liked to think that if the Saxons made peace with the Britons, she would accept it, even though they killed her father.
But the ones who killed your father are dead. She would not hold it against all Saxons. Jaelynn sighed. It didn't really matter; she wasn't in Morlo's position, but she knew what she thought of what he'd done.
The kiss, she hated to admit, was nice. Morlo's lips had been soft. The tone of the kiss was pleading, not demanding. She was surprised when it happened. It had made her feel . . . She wasn't sure what it made her feel.
But it wasn't Tristan. Nor was it from a man she liked that way. That's all that matters. Even though Morlo was a closer match for her age, she wouldn't let that sway her. Besides, she was young; there were more options out there for her. She just hadn't really considered any except Tristan.
Was she fooling herself? Was Tristan just a dream that would never be realized? She'd asked herself the question a thousand times. She looked to the sky for an answer.
In response, she got rain. It started to sprinkle down on her. Great. Jaelynn stood and wiped the dirt from her dress. With her time cut short, she came to her own resolution.
She would be calm about this incident. She would tell Morlo she felt nothing for him. And she would figure out whatever was between her and Tristan. Her duties as a healer's assistant still prevailed over her own issues, and she would dedicate herself to them, here and at the Wall.
Life goes on, and is what happens between responsibilities.
-0-0-
He knew he was giving everyone a blank look. He felt it throughout his body; he felt weighed down by the stony façade he put on.
He didn't care. It was necessary for Tristan. The scout snagged some food from the village elder's hut and went to the stables. His horse eyed him accusingly, no doubt wondering where the scout had been. Tristan made peace by offering some of his food.
The horse pawed at the ground as Tristan mounted. He patted his own back, feeling his old sword sheathed to it. Just in case. He left his newer sword in the hut with the rest of his things. For some reason, he wanted the old blade near him.
With a kick, the horse trotted out of the stables. Rain was falling now, but that didn't stop Tristan. He rode through the village, heading for the path he'd been on days before. Galahad saw him and waved at him.
"Where are you going?" he called out. Tristan shrugged. He really didn't know.
"Just a ride," he said. He noticed the hilt of a dagger sticking out by Galahad's waist. Tristan stopped his horse, leaned over, and yanked the dagger from its holder. "Borrowing it."
Galahad stammered, but Tristan urged his horse on.
The ride was a swirl of colors and wet rain. Tristan paid attention to his surroundings but without really seeing them. He felt a bit numb, and not just from the cold rain. His mind kept replaying what he witnessed. Morlo, leaning in towards Jaelynn, kissing her.
Of course it bothered him. But not because he didn't trust the whelp and not because he wanted to protect Jaelynn from him. The feeling was so unfamiliar.
The boy was young enough to be suitable for Jaelynn. He was friendly and conversed easily with her. Morlo could actually court her. And me? It just wasn't something Tristan could do.
And he wanted to.
Angrily, Tristan yanked up on the reins of his horse, earning a disapproving neigh from the animal. Tristan dismounted, wincing at the sudden pressure on his knee. He growled at it, and then fingered Galahad's dagger. He eyed a suitable tree, flipped the blade in his hands, and hurled it at the tree trunk.
With a thud, it stuck into the trunk. Tristan removed his dagger next, eyed the hilt of Galahad's blade, and chucked it. Another thud, and Tristan's dagger was embedded in the hilt of Galahad's.
He retrieved the blades, but his mind wandered again as he threw the daggers over and over.
Do you really feel anything for her?
He had to be the stupidest man alive. Aside from Galahad. Why was he even thinking about her? He'd pushed the possibility away long ago. It just wasn't right. He could be her father.
So could many of the men who look at her, but they don't care. His mouth curled in disgust as he thought of the Roman, Tacitus. He certainly had no qualms, but he had tried to force Jaelynn.
That decided it in Tristan's mind. Though deep down he knew anything between him and Jaelynn would not be so horrible, he couldn't help but see himself as no better than Tacitus if he pursued anything with her.
Wind blew quickly, and it drove the rain sideways against Tristan. His grip on the daggers' handles was slippery. With a grunt, he hurled the daggers one last time. It was wild and uncontrolled, but still they found the trunk of the tree. Tristan leaned against another tree trunk, and stared up at the rain.
He wouldn't describe his life as happy or lucky, but it wasn't terrible either. Still, he'd never felt as unhappy as he did now.
It was dark when he returned, and the village was quiet. Tristan tended to his horse in the stables before heading to the hut where he, Galahad and Jaelynn had stayed. Quietly, he entered. Water dripped from him, and he frowned at it.
Galahad lay on a cot, and raised his head to see who had come in. Tristan just nodded to him. He looked to Jaelynn. She slept on her side, her back to the fire in the hearth and to him. Galahad mumbled something, but quickly fell back asleep.
Tristan smirked. How the knight hadn't been killed in his sleep, he didn't know.
He removed his clothes, shedding the wet armor and tunic. He stayed dressed in his pants, uncomfortable but necessary. He went to the fire and sat in front of it. Waves of heat soothed his body, and he soon felt the dry, cracked nature of his skin the longer he stayed there.
He watched Jaelynn.
Did she still care for him? Or had Morlo's attention made her realize how sought-after she could be? Tristan rolled his eyes at his thoughts. In all likelihood, she would still care for him. But she deserved better. Any woman did.
Somehow, he thought back to how she'd tried to defend him when Morlo called him a murderer. Honestly, the name was accurate, but Jaelynn had stood protectively in front of him. It was endearing. But was she offended at the name—murderer? Did she still not know that's what he was? She'd once indicated that she didn't hold his past actions against him. But it's not all past. He very well might have killed the villagers after the wolf incident. Morlo, at least.
No, Jaelynn deserved better. And Tristan had always been like this, especially since the battle with the Saxons as Rome left the island. He was who he was, before he ever met Jaelynn. He continued to be the silent, deadly scout, with no emotion.
He would stick to that. It was all he knew.
But maybe. . . . maybe if he hadn't been taken to Rome, it would have been different. Because at least before then, he was led by an honorable man, even if it was in the servitude of an empire like Rome. The moment he was without Arthur or any good leader, Tristan had fallen—succumb to the pressures to do what he was told, and to not choose what he knew to be right.
Tristan scooted away from the fire, and lay down on the floor. He saw Galahad had two blankets, and snatched one from him. The younger knight didn't even flinch.
Sleep overcame him . . .
The battle. Tristan crossed the field, his sword firm in his hands and his eyes zeroed in on his next opponent. Perhaps this one would be a challenge.
The Saxon king was as emotionless as he was. He met each of Tristan's advances, and Tristan felt unsettled. This man was not an easy kill. He truly was a challenge.
Maybe too much of a challenge.
The Saxon king's blade sliced under his right shoulder. Stunned, Tristan felt the blood there. He held up his sword and tried again.
Another cut, across his forearm. His sword fell from his hands. The Saxon king looked bored, but he kicked the sword back to him. Something warned Tristan that he wouldn't survive this if he continued. But honor made him pick up the sword and finish the fight.
The Saxon king had a short blade that he thrust into Tristan's arm. The scout found himself on the ground, crawling away for some space. But the king grabbed him by his hair, forcing him up. As a last effort, Tristan pulled the blade out of his arm, and stabbed it in the Saxon's thigh.
A sharp cut sliced his left arm, and suddenly he felt the stab of a long sword, through his body. Fire spread from the entry wound in his left side, and inside him. He felt the blood leaving his body, filling up his lungs too. Somewhere in his mind, he knew this was different, but it didn't matter.
This is how it should have happened.
He could see Arthur, recognizing his scout on the end of the Saxon's sword. And then, with terribly agonizing pain, the blade was pulled roughly from his body. The Saxon turned before him and slashed the sword across Tristan's body.
He fell.
And though things went dark in his mind, he heard the voices around him. Arthur. Crying out that two knights were slain. Two? Lancelot. And Tristan was the other.
He felt constricted, like he was wrapped in something. For burial. He wanted to move, to be free of it, but of course his limbs weren't working. Then there was something falling on him. Clumps of it, and then sprinkles.
Dirt.
He felt it compact down on him, and knew he'd been buried. The darkness, the tight confines of the grave, the sound of people visiting him above ground.
Frantically, he kicked out. The thick cloth around him stayed put; worse, it felt like it tightened around him. Tristan jabbed his limbs out, trying to get free from the death shroud.
"Tristan!"
He kept fighting the shroud, kicking out and trying to move his arms. Warm, live hands held him down, and he opened his eyes. Hovering above him with the most worried looks ever were Jaelynn and Galahad.
Immediately, he stilled. His breathing was erratic. He forced his mouth shut and controlled his breathing through his nose. He glanced around him. The blanket he'd taken from Galahad last night was twisted tightly around his hips and legs. Galahad and Jaelynn had their hands on his arms, holding him down. They released him. Slowly, he sat up, quite aware of how stupid he must have looked.
They stood back and let him get up. His knee wobbled a bit until he found his balance. He felt their eyes watching him, concerned. And then he remembered that he had no shirt on, which wasn't a big deal, but it just added to his vulnerability.
He ran a hand through his hair.
"That was embarrassing." He quickly found his shirt, and pulled it over his head.
"What happened?" Galahad asked. Tristan ignored the question and looked around for his sword—either one of them. He grabbed the nearest, his old sword and nodded at Galahad.
"Spar?"
Galahad shot a confused glance to Jaelynn.
-0-0-
The stupid knee was really annoying Tristan. As he met Galahad's attacks, his knee kept throbbing and reminding him that he had an obvious weakness. He scowled and lunged at Galahad.
The metallic clang of their swords sounded loud in the village. It was early yet, but Tristan didn't care. Some of the villagers were awake and going about their daily activities. The caravan was readying to leave. Tristan just needed to spar.
"So," Galahad said in short puffs. "What happened in there?" Tristan dealt a downward blow, forcing Galahad to go to one knee and block it.
"Nothing," he said. He saw Galahad roll his eyes.
"Brick wall," he heard the younger knight mutter. Tristan wasn't in the mood. Normally Galahad's name-calling and muttered remarks would make him smirk. Right now, he just wanted to fight.
He pivoted his body and slashed at Galahad. The younger knight jumped back, surprised at the scout's suddenly ferocity. Tristan backed off and waited for Galahad to regain himself.
"Nightmare?" Galahad asked again. He swung his sword above his head, stretching out his limbs, and then lunged again.
Tristan barely had time or space to nod. He was forced back, and ducked to the side as Galahad's sword came at him. From the corner of his eye, he saw Jaelynn standing, watching.
He couldn't think about that now.
Tristan stepped forward and twisted his body, bringing his sword the long way around to go for Galahad's unguarded side. The younger knight quickly turned to the attack, just as Tristan pivoted the opposite direction and came at the newly defenseless side.
"Hey!" Galahad objected, but Tristan twirled his sword with a roll of his wrist. The younger knight glared at the scout, and Tristan smirked.
"Need some help?" came a voice. Both knights glanced to the side, and saw Morlo standing there, a sword in hand. He came closer, and stood by Galahad. Galahad crooked an eyebrow up, and glanced to Jaelynn, then Tristan.
Galahad shook his head.
"No."
Morlo was unfazed by the rejection. "Can I fight the victor then?"
Galahad glanced at Tristan, and shrugged.
"Might as well fight him now then," Galahad said. He shot Tristan an amused grin, and went to wait by Jaelynn. "Save me some trouble," he grumbled.
Morlo prowled over to take Galahad's place. His eyes gleamed darkly at Tristan. Tristan smirked. He wondered if the boy had a death wish.
He also wondered if Morlo hoped to kill him 'accidentally.'
That won't happen.
Morlo lunged forward, jabbing the sword at Tristan's midsection. Tristan twirled evasively, bringing his sword up and then swiping at the kid's head. Morlo lost his footing when he dodged the blow. Tristan smirked at him.
But the boy came back, using his speed as an advantage. It wasn't his skill with the sword that was fast; he was all right, probably a good little warrior. His speed in just dodging around, though, kept him afloat in the sparring match.
Tristan's grace, on the other hand, and the agility he'd engrained in himself over the years, made him the superior in the fight. And he wasn't even trying really hard, especially since he didn't put his full weight and ability on his knee.
Tristan ducked beneath a lateral blow. He spun and raised his sword, meeting Morlo's mid-air. The clang sent vibrations through his arm. He wondered how it felt through younger, less experienced arms. Morlo crossed blades with Tristan again. The scout calmly parried, taking a step back. Suddenly, Morlo kicked out, and his foot connected with Tristan's wounded knee.
He fell down. Jaelynn gasped behind him. Tristan parried Morlo's follow-up attack while still on his knees.
Morlo, it seemed, had no problem taking an unfair advantage even further. With their swords crossed, grating metal against metal, Morlo kicked Tristan in the chest. He fell back, and Morlo flicked his wrists just right so that Tristan lost his sword in the process.
For a moment, Tristan was stunned. For a moment, Morlo had a menacing, victorious gleam in his eyes. For a moment, Jaelynn and Galahad's jaws dropped.
Morlo launched into a renewed attack, even though anyone with honor would have stopped or accepted a victory. Galahad shouted something, but Tristan couldn't pay it any attention. Morlo's sword fell heavily towards him.
Tristan rolled over the ground. His sword lay too far out of reach, behind Morlo. He wouldn't be able to get to it. Morlo swung at him again, making Tristan roll out of the way again. Jaelynn shrieked behind him.
The sword struck the ground where he'd been, and Tristan made his move. Though it hurt his knee more than he cared to admit, he kicked at Morlo. His feet solidly hit Morlo in the jaw, and the lad reeled back from the force. His hands still held strong to the sword, but Morlo was dazed.
Quickly, Tristan kicked out again, sweeping his feet behind Morlo's. Morlo fell to the ground, his sword landing by him. Tristan got to his feet, and his knee buckled. Grimacing, he pressed on. He grabbed the nearest blade—Morlo's—and stood over the lad. The tip he pressed against Morlo's throat, hardly bothering to be careful. The tip scraped over the lad's throat, a reversal from a few nights ago. Blood trickled down his throat, but Morlo stayed completely still.
"Tristan?" he heard Jaelynn questioning behind him. He ignored her. His eyes bore into Morlo. Morlo was panting but trying to hide it and control it so he didn't increase the damage to his throat.
"Try anything again," Tristan said so softly that no one but Morlo could hear him, "and you die." Morlo glared at him, but he stayed silent. "I killed your father. I can't change that. Stop wasting your life."
He didn't move away. He just waited. The tension was palpable. He could hear Galahad and Jaelynn shifting nervously. The village seemed to be noticing the scene as well. The normal morning bustle was gone.
But slowly, the message sunk in. Morlo lowered his eyes and gave the slightest bob of his head.
Tristan kept his eyes on him and stepped back. He tossed the sword at Morlo's feet, and went to pick up his own. His knee ached, and when he bent over to pick it up he felt a sharp sting. He shook his head to hide his face and the grimace on it.
He glanced back to Morlo, who was oddly subdued but angry. Jaelynn, though, came to Tristan's side, and prodded at his knee.
"I need to redress that," she said. Tristan gave a short nod.
He sheathed his sword on the scabbard over his back and left them.
-0-0-
Typical Tristan. Leaving the scene of some danger and drama. Galahad still wasn't sure how seriously the men fought, but he did know Morlo had well-stepped over the line. As soon as Tristan left, Jaelynn turned to Morlo.
With the meanest look he'd ever seen from her, Jaelynn glared at Morlo. She took a step towards him and raised her hand. Galahad thought at first that she was going to slap him, but then he saw a small dagger in her hand.
Jaelynn held the small blade to Morlo's throat. Galahad went to them, ready to stop her. But then he heard her speak.
"You are the worst scum on this earth," she said heatedly to Morlo. Her tone was low but harsh. It surprised Galahad. "I've encountered men with no honor before. Men who would try to get what they want at any cost. You make them seem worthy of the highest accolade."
She pushed him away, which Galahad thought was forceful and unnecessary—she could have just stepped back. She spat at his feet, and tucked the dagger back into some fold in her dress. Turning to Galahad, she said:
"When do we leave?"
Galahad wondered how Tristan would have reacted, had he just seen this display.
-0-0-
The journey back to the Wall was . . . quiet. Uncomfortable. Even Tristan felt it. He still stewed over Morlo and the imbecile's actions. I should have killed him.
He knew he wouldn't have, even if Jaelynn and Galahd hadn't been watching.
Tristan turned inward. Thoughts kept coming to his mind, but he blocked them out. He didn't want to think about Jaelynn, or about Morlo, or about them together, which he knew would never happen. He didn't want to consider why he wouldn't just kill someone who made it blatant that they were enemies.
So he rode ahead of the caravan, scouting. His hawk seemed to sense his mood and brought him a fresh rabbit when they stopped. For the rest of the time, Tristan kept his face blank, his back straight, and his heart hard.
It's no wonder why everyone steered clear of him.
He dumped his few possessions in his room when he got back. Arthur was trying to find him, and Tristan knew the king was seeking out yet another brotherly conversation, no doubt to ease his own conscience. Tristan made a point of not being seen.
He took his bow and a quiver of arrows to the furthest field from the dwellings. There was a cluster of trees he intended to make his target. He made himself breathe deeply and focus before firing the first shot.
The arrow landed just left of the knot on the tree he'd meant to hit. With a stern frown at himself, he notched the next arrow, and let it fly.
Better.
He went through his entire quiver of arrows, splintering a few when he hit one on top of the other. Tristan pulled them from the tree trunk. He had about half of them out of the arrow-ridden tree trunk when he heard someone approach from behind.
Tristan's hand went for the hilt of his sword, but he didn't draw it. He was glad he didn't. Jaelynn stood there, an eyebrow raised at his reaction.
"Good to see you too," she chided. Tristan smirked back, and it drew a smile from her. He turned back to his arrows. Her footsteps neared him, until he saw her to his side, watching him work.
It was kind of unnerving, being watched like that—mainly because it was her. He straightened himself and cleared his throat.
"You want to learn?" he asked. Sure, that will make things easier for you. He almost groaned at himself, but she nodded enthusiastically.
"It'd round out my training," she commented. He nodded, and resumed his work, plucking out the arrows. Something was wrong though. She wasn't talking—not that she was a chatterbox, but she normally made some conversation. Instead, she just watched him. Slowly, he could feel it, that tension.
Ignore it.
He walked back to where he'd left his bow, with Jaelynn following quietly behind him. He held out the bow to her. It was big for her, but it'd do the job to show her some basics. She held it awkwardly. Pulling it near her body, she drew back the string. It only moved a few inches. Baffled, she glanced to Tristan.
"It's hard, but you'll get it," he said. To show her, he moved behind her, wrapping his arms around hers to guide her. Immediately he felt her stiffen. This was the predicament of teaching someone archery. Trying not to let it get to him, Tristan covered her hands with his, and facilitated her grip on the bow. He drew back the string to its release point, and held it there.
Jaelynn nodded uneasily.
Suddenly she wiggled within his arms, trying to step away. Tristan released the string, and it almost snapped at his wrist. But he dropped the bow and faced Jaelynn. She paced a bit in front of him, and he could tell she was shivering.
"What?" he asked.
"I . . ." She sighed, clenching her fists. She shook her head. "I mean, I was. . ."
Frustrated with herself, he saw her roll her eyes. She took a deep breath and made herself be still. Tristan just stood there, confused and slightly amused at her actions. Then she finally voiced her thoughts.
"Tristan," she began, "I have to know something. I am sure you know that I care for you, more dearly than anyone."
Tristan swore in his mind. No, not now. He didn't need this—
"It's not just because you've saved me over and over again," she continued. "I feel I know you well, and I . . . I love you beyond the friend you have been to me."
How was she saying these things? It took a great deal of courage, he knew, and something more that he didn't.
"I just need to know." She stopped and sighed. "I need to know if you could ever feel the same way."
There it was. She had finished, and now she expected something from him. Tristan blinked several times, willing himself to come up with something to tell her. He knew it wasn't a matter of what he felt. He thought about what he had decided before.
Jaelynn watched him carefully, and he had to mask his face more. She looked so vulnerable, but also strong in presence. Her light brown hair blew around her head, but Tristan felt no wind. She looked beautiful. It was a reflection of her spirit, of who she was.
He would only taint that.
Slowly, he shook his head. He tried to open his mouth and say something. His throat dried up on him, and nothing came. He settled for bowing his head, somewhat in respect of her proclamation and also in shame of himself.
"Thank you for being honest with me," she said quietly. He heard the sincerity in her voice, but it still felt like a jab to his heart. Honest. She gestured to the bow and arrows. "I . . . maybe later." With that, she turned from him and walked away. He saw the stiff, forced way of her back and shoulders. She wasn't crying, that he could tell, but he felt the pain she must have felt too.
Maybe later.
He knew she wouldn't ask him again.