a/n: Just remember, two steps forward, one step back. Don't kill me. :o) And thanks for your awesome reviews! Thanks continue on to Josje for her help! And sorry everyone, this only ended up being 13 pages in Word. ;o)
Never Letting Go
Tristan walked through the halls, back towards his room. He was tired, and looked forward to a night's sleep. He walked quietly, trying to think of nothing but his bed. He wasn't far from his room when he heard voices.
Instinctively, he stopped and pressed himself against the wall.
"I wanted to apologize," came a female's voice. It sounded familiar to him. "I did not mean any disrespect the other day."
"Yes you did." Arthur. Which meant the woman, judging by the conversation, was one of the gossipers. Tristan almost groaned. He just wanted to get to his room.
"Yes, my lord," the woman said. "But you must understand how he frightens the people. Everyone knows what he is." Tristan shut his eyes with a silent sigh.
"What he is?" Arthur's voice rose. "You speak as if he is an animal or object. He is a knight, a man loyal to me and to Britain."
The woman was silent briefly.
"Do you not fear him?"
"There is no need," Arthur said. "He is a brother to me. And if you knew all he has suffered for you and all Britons, you would feel how hollow your words sound now."
"Will you tell me, my lord?" she asked meekly. Tristan rolled his eyes.
"No." Arthur must have seen through her words too. "For you will twist my words and spread it as damnation against Tristan." His footsteps moved towards Tristan. Tristan slid back down the hall to a shadowed corner. "You are no longer welcome near Guinevere. Know that I will advise her to quit your acquaintance all together."
The woman uttered some pathetic sound, and Tristan heard her footsteps flee the other way. Arthur sighed and continued down the hall. Tristan hid himself further in the shadows until Arthur was gone.
He moved on to his room. His motions were automatic. Shedding his shirt, his boots, his weapons, and falling onto his bed. He sighed. What he'd heard was the last thing he wanted in his mind now. He couldn't rid himself of the woman's words. It brought back what she and the smithy's wife had said before.
Assassin.
Punish him.
He put his hands over his eyes, willing the words to stop popping up in his mind. Just sleep.
He turned on his stomach and tried to sleep. It must have worked . . . but he dreamt a familiar dream.
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.
They fought. 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. It was how the battle should have gone, instead of being taken to Rome.
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. 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.
Suddenly, he was in Rome. He was in the fine room Germanius had given him for his service. He returned from an assassination. In his hands was the bloody dagger, and blood covered his hands and forearms too. He went to drop the dagger in some water, but stopped.
The water's reflection showed Tristan with the knife in hand. His hands shook, but he stilled himself. His eyes favored the dagger. And one thought came to his mind: Stop yourself now.
He didn't clean off the dagger. He put the blade's tip to his chest, over the beating of his heart. He drew a deep breath—his last—and with as much strength as he could muster, plunged the dagger into his own heart.
Tristan sat up soundlessly in his bed. His hand went to the hole he'd felt in his chest moments earlier, but no blood poured from the dreamt wound. He shut his eyes and let out a long sigh.
He remembered thinking about ending his life more than once. On his way to Rome, he'd almost drowned in the sea happily. It was cowardly in so many ways. Yet how many good people would be alive now if he had done it?
He threw on his shirt and boots, and left his room. The torches in the hallways flickered and out in the open air, the sky was blacker than Germanius' heart. Tristan let himself walk to the open field that sloped up towards the treeline. The sad, little cemetery . . .
Lancelot's grave was covered by grass, but it didn't bear the normal lump of a body beneath. He was burned. Tristan vaguely recalled that Lancelot wanted it that way. Tristan only came to the cemetery once or twice in the last couple of years.
The scout sat by the twin swords that marked the grave. The nightly wind whipped the grass around the swords. Tristan touched the blades, and he knew that they were cold, but he felt nothing, not even the wind rushing through his thin shirt and pants.
"Sorry I haven't visited more," he mumbled to the grave. He didn't imagine Lancelot cared too much. Tristan sat with his back barely touching the swords and propped his knees up and his forearms on top of them.
He thought about his dream. Why couldn't it have happened that way? Why couldn't he have died in battle? He would be buried next to Lancelot and amidst the bodies of the other fallen knights . . .
Fallen.
They fell honorably. He did not. He fell in dishonor, and was still alive to feel the consequences.
Why didn't he end it, even in Rome? Coward. He cringed at the idea still but it was better—or was it running away from the problem?
You should have found your way out sooner. He did in the end, but only after wallowing in the monotony and self-pity of his predicament.
Tristan roughly ran his hands through his hair, bowing his head to the earth as he did so. When would this end? Hadn't he paid enough for his actions? He'd served a good man, Arthur, and saved Vanora and Jaelynn. He'd even saved Jaelynn as a girl. But not her father.
He clenched his eyes shut. Stop. How much more torture would he have to survive to move on with life? How many more reminders and judging words be thrown his way for his—dare he say it—sins?
When, he wondered, would his own mind stop haunting him?
Think of something else.
Jaelynn. She was the only light he had in his life. And she still loves you.
No, she doesn't.Not the way you took forever to realize you wanted.
He wasn't sure, though. His certainty seemed to come and go. He thought about the waterfall, how close he'd been to her. How close she came to him. Holding her during the night after that villager's death . . . how peaceful he'd felt. And she hadn't shown any disagreement about his actions then.
She told you how she felt. Why not do the same?
He scraped the heel of his boot harshly against the grass. He could never just say something like she did. He didn't have the words, the suave nature to pull it off. For the only time in his life, he envied Lancelot for his way with women. Just a hair of his charm might help the scout now.
What could he do? Tristan tried to ignore his wish for his death a few years ago, and instead tried to consider what to do about Jaelynn.
The sky started its morning ritual as it turned to fiery orange and pink hues. It was then that Tristan, covered in frosty dew and numb to the bone, decided to go back to his room and give sleep another try.
-0-0-
Duty called. Jaelynn had no problem with being needed to fulfill her healer duties, as well as to learn more, but there was something she missed in traveling. Traveling was simpler, with the time her own to command.
Stop complaining. She finished tidying the herbs and medicines, then the bandages. There was a young boy with a broken leg, and she almost lost her breakfast when she heard the boy's bone set. Luckily, she didn't have to do that yet. She feared she would vomit all over her patient.
"Bored?"
She looked up from her work. Hilden grinned as if he knew more than she.
"It's okay, you know," he said. Jaelynn smiled; she'd been caught. "I get tired of this too. It's why I prefer going to the patient's home sometimes."
"I'm glad I'm not the only one," she said. Hilden chuckled and handed the boy with the broken leg a numbing drink. The boy drank slowly, making a face as he swallowed it.
"Why don't you go?" Hilden suggested. "His mother will be back soon, and you've finished everything else for now."
Jaelynn started to protest, but the healer cut her off.
"Go, Jaelynn. Come back in a couple of hours."
And so she let herself wander to the market. She had no problem taking a break, but she felt that Hilden did so much sometimes and she always wanted to help and learn. But, she didn't have to be told three times to go enjoy herself.
The market held two things she sought, though she hadn't found them yet. She needed some ingredient for something Vanora taught her to make. Lucinda said she could come and bake at her home when she was ready. And if it turned out any good, maybe she'd offer some to the knights.
The other thing was a comb for her hair. She saw one before her journey, one that had green vines and purple flowers painted on it, just above the teeth. It wasn't necessary, but she wanted something pretty for her appearance.
The ingredient was easy to find. She paid for it and turned to another part of the market—and then she saw Tristan.
He was leaning against the doorway, looking as if the sunlight bothered him. Did he just wake up? It was after noon! He coughed, and from where she stood across the marketplace, she could hear the garbled sound. She abandoned the comb for now, and went to him.
As she neared him, Tristan sneezed. Jaelynn laughed, but quickly quieted herself for his benefit.
"Are you ill?" she asked, placing her hand on his forehead to see if he was warm. He shook his head, stilled for a long pause, and then sneezed again.
"No," he said. Jaelynn rolled her eyes. Stubborn men.
"You will be if you don't take care of yourself," she said. She took him by the hand, catching a glimpse of his eyes behind his hair. His eyes looked red and tired. "Did you sleep at all?"
He nodded.
"You need more," she said, but for now she led him to the market, where she normally purchased some of her herbs. She dropped his hand, not realizing she'd held it thus far, and paid for the herbs. "Come on," she said, nodding towards another direction.
He coughed as they walked. It didn't sound life-threatening, of course, but she knew it would only worsen if he didn't take measures now. She stopped at the tavern. The bar wench raised a judicious eyebrow at the scout. Jaelynn chose to ignore it.
"Hot water," she ordered, slapping a coin on the tabletop. Tristan sneezed again. He leaned wearily against the bar. Jaelynn tried not to smile. Some men rocked the town when they sneezed, or threatened to douse it messily. But Tristan's sneeze was cute. He looked somewhere between miserable and trying not to admit he was any different today.
"What did you do?" she asked. "Sleep with your windows open?"
He grunted, and it came muted and nasal. She saw him roll his eyes at how pathetic it sounded.
Just then, the hot water arrived. Jaelynn took the herb she bought and let two leaves of it soak in the steaming water. Slowly, the water turned a grayish green color. Tristan leaned forward, sniffing at it.
"Smells awful," he mumbled. Jaelynn tried not to laugh.
"It'll make you feel better." She put the tip of her finger in the drink. It was very warm, but drinkable. She pushed the cup to him. "Drink."
She heard him choke on it once, but he forced the herbal drink down. When he set it down, she noticed he was glaring at her.
"It's not that bad," she said. She sighed and turned away. She wanted to find the comb, especially if he was going to be difficult.
His footsteps were right behind her, and she was surprised that he was walking along with her as she made her way back to the market.
"You should get some rest," Jaelynn instructed. She heard him clear his throat.
"Done that," he said. She rolled her eyes again. Fine, get sick for all I care. She glanced from merchant to merchant, but she couldn't find the right one. She turned another direction.
"What're you looking for?" she heard him ask. Jaelynn sighed, and stopped. She kept looking around.
"A comb, for my hair," she said. "Maybe the merchant isn't here today." But Tristan pointed in one direction further from them, and she turned and saw the merchant who sold many such trinkets.
Delighted, she half-skipped towards the booth. Her eyes perused over the selection of combs and other beautiful items, until she saw the one she wanted. She pointed to it.
"That one."
The merchant picked it up and held it out to Jaelynn, though a little out of reach until she paid. She fingered the coins she had, sifting through them. She looked back to the merchant with her payment, but Tristan handed him coins already. The merchant nodded to him, and handed him the comb. Jaelynn blinked rapidly. What?
Tristan held the comb out to her.
"Tristan," she started, though she wasn't sure if she should object or analyze what just happened.
"Here," he said. "As thanks for the drink." He nodded at her to take it, and she did. The comb suddenly felt more valuable to her, even though she could have afforded it easily enough. Was this more than just an expression of thanks? No, he said exactly what it was. Stop reading into his every word!
The scout coughed again, laying a hand over the tumult in his chest. Jaelynn snapped out of her daze.
"Tristan, you should go back to bed," she said. "You'll feel better tomorrow." She handed him the rest of the herbs she bought. "Soak this in hot water, and drink it when you wake next."
He nodded before another sneeze assailed him.
"Go, Tristan."
He listened, for once. Jaelynn watched him retreat to the building where his room was. As soon as he was out of sight, she looked down at her hands, where she clutched the comb.
She groaned. What does anything mean anymore?
-0-0-
Whatever was in the herbs made him sleep, and surprisingly, he did feel a bit better when he woke. Of course, it was dark again now, and he was hungry.
He pulled on his leather jerkin and left his room for the tavern. He was surprised how busy it was, actually. The roar of the crowd instantly aggravated his head. Tristan cut his way through the people and asked for a meal. His head pounded the whole time he waited.
The meal (some soup and bread) he took with him. But he didn't go back to his room. The hours he'd spent there today, even asleep, brought to mind his solitude at Lancelot's grave. He couldn't dwell on that right now; it just made his head ache more.
He walked to the Wall, and climbed to its top. He walked west until he was away from the two watch towers. There, he set his soup on the wall and started on it. The soup warmed his throat. It felt like liquid gold, and he groaned contently as it slid down his throat and worked its magic on his stomach.
So consumed he was in his meal, he almost missed the soft footsteps coming from the side. He glanced to his left, and there was Jaelynn. The hunger left him, replaced by anxiety.
He didn't know what she'd think of the comb. Maybe she was insulted that he paid for it, thinking it was pity or charity? He didn't know! He hoped it wasn't too forward either, and maybe his excuse that it was payment for the herbs worked.
He stood up straight.
"This will only make you feel worse," she said. Tristan frowned. "Being in the cold," she added.
Tristan shrugged.
"Just eating," he said. Jaelynn raised an eyebrow at his lame excuse.
"What was wrong with the tavern?"
He grabbed his bread, just to have something to do, and tore off a piece.
"Too loud," he said. "It was hurting my head." He quickly ate the bread. He offered her a piece, but she shook her head.
"It's the herbal drink," she explained. "It helps you get better, but you'll have a headache for awhile after."
He grunted and tore off another piece of bread. "The taste of horse dung and the pain of too much ale."
She giggled at that. Tristan leaned back to watch her laugh. He noticed she had the comb in her hair.
She settled by him, standing and gazing out at the dark field beyond the wall. A few years ago, he stood here and looked over an army of Saxons. He liked the darkness better than the firelight from that night. There was an assurance of peace in it.
"I've missed our conversations," she said after awhile, breaking their silent revelry. Tristan blinked.
"No one's ever said that to me," he said. Jaelynn laughed again, and clapped her hands once. Tristan smiled.
"True," she said amidst her laughter. "Though you've never given anyone else a chance."
She was right, but he couldn't tell her why that was. He cleared his throat, wincing at the ugliness of the sound coming from his chest.
"Are you all right?" She frowned. Facing him, she stared at his chest like it was a perplexing war wound. Tristan nodded, but his eyes were on the comb in her hair.
He hadn't noticed the design before. The flowers were, well, flowers, but he thought it simple and befitting of Jaelynn. She didn't need elaborate decoration to enhance her beauty. He reached for the comb. His fingers touched it, and he felt the rise of the paint used for the designs. His eyes wandered to her hair, which smelled like he imagined the flowers on the comb would. And then he saw her eyes, staring back at him, confused.
He stepped back and dropped his hand to his side. He went back to his soup just so he could keep his face down. Blame it on being sick. He had no idea what he was doing anymore.
He heard Jaelynn move. The dress she wore whispered with each step. She was moving away.
"Get some rest," she said, and then he heard her footsteps retreat.
He shut his eyes, willing himself to wake up back in his room and find this a delusion. Instead, he heard footsteps nearing him again. He glanced her way. She was walking back towards him, and she looked mad suddenly.
Alarmed, he stood up and stepped back, while she matched his steps. She passed his bowl of soup and hit it with her hand.
Tristan blinked when he heard the bowl crash below.
"You can't keep doing this!" she said, her voice seething. She jabbed a finger at his chest. "You can't keep acting sweet, and then indifferent. It's not fair to me!"
He held up his hands, but he had no idea what to say.
"Why?" she asked. "Why make this so hard for me? You said there was no chance between us." His heart plummeted like a rock to his stomach. "But you're killing me, Tristan. With Gawain or Galahad, there are certain things they never do, lines they never cross, but with you, I never know what is normal or not!"
She breathed heavily, and he saw tears glisten when she moved. He would have wiped them away except he felt he might do something else wrong.
"I can't understand you, Tristan," she said, shuddering with an emotional sigh. She paced in front of him, while Tristan stood straight and still. "I don't know how you feel, because you said there was nothing, but then you act like—"
"Okay!" he said a little loudly, gaining her attention and a brief respite from her assailing words. You've done it now. Why was he the way he was? Well, no one knew why, and no one understood him. But he thought she did, at least more than anyone else. Tristan paced, his left hand on his belt and his right running through his hair.
"I'm not Lancelot," he started. Inwardly he swore—she didn't know Lancelot and how he was. "I don't . . . say how I feel."
"Then how do I know?" she shot back. "How am I ever supposed to understand how you feel, one way or another?"
She had him there. How to explain . . . She wasn't just asking to understand him. She needed to know how he felt about her. Tristan didn't want to lie anymore, or hide the truth. Everything he did lately was with her in mind. Every time he went out to scout the land, it was with her protection in mind, her well-being. The thought of her brought more joy than he deserved.
He closed the distance between them, cupping his hands on the sides of her face, and gingerly leaning into her.
His heart hammered distinctly in his chest, but he had to do this. He wanted to do this—to show her. He kissed her, something that felt so foreign and so familiar at the same time. He wasn't the kissing type. It was an act of such affection and love that he really hadn't partaken in its joys often. And while when he kissed Nasica, he'd felt dark and cold, suddenly he felt warm. Hope.
He felt her kissing back, hesitantly but her lips were firm against his. He let his hands roam to her hair and the back of her neck. But then Tristan pulled back; this wasn't the time to lose oneself in a moment. He had a point, and he had to gauge the rest of her reaction. She looked stunned. Confused still. But hopeful.
"My actions," he said, answering her question finally.
-0-0-
She had to ask, just to be sure. After he kissed her, she asked him if this meant he felt something for her. And he nodded.
"You're the reason I do anything," he'd said.
And then she blushed.
It was an awkward walk back to their rooms, luckily not just for her. They walked stiffly side by side, each flickering glances at each other, but not sure what to do. She wanted to grab his hand or tuck herself beneath his arm, close to his body, but yet it seemed too foreign and too soon. He must have felt the same way, because he reached out to her a couple of times, rolled his eyes at himself, and then tucked his hands in his pockets.
He walked her to her room. She went in but turned to face him as he coughed several times.
"You should sleep," she said, offering a sympathetic smile. Maybe that would give her time to calm down and convince herself that everything hadn't just been a dream.
He nodded, but he didn't leave. He stood, leaning against the doorway.
"I was outside last night," he said. He looked to the ground. "At the cemetery, until morning."
The words echoed in her mind until she understood what he was saying.
"That's why you got sick."
He shrugged, but yes, that was the reason.
"Why were you there?" she asked. Men didn't just go to the cemetery at odd hours of the night for any reason.
"Dream," he answered. Jaelynn read into it.
"You mean 'nightmare,'" she said, and he nodded. She remembered when she'd seen him thrashing in his sleep before, and how her heart wanted to break for the torment he suffered even in his dreams. "Do you have them often?"
He shrugged. She was beginning to think that meant 'yes' all the time.
"What are they about?"
He opened his mouth, crossing his arms over his chest. He said nothing though, and shifted to lean against his other shoulder on the other side of the doorway. Slowly, he looked her in the eyes, still without speaking a word. He doesn't want to tell me. Rather than feel resentful, Jaelynn understood. She leaned into him, standing on her toes, and kissed him chastely on his lips.
When she drew back, she saw his normally blank expression soften. She smiled for him.
"I'm willing to listen, anytime," she offered. He nodded, and she saw a small smile tug at his mouth. He stepped towards her, and she found she couldn't tear her eyes away from his. He never did either. He just came close to her, resting his hands on her hips, and kissed her.
She'd always heard that kissing was like lightning. But that's not what it was now. For Jaelynn, it was so much better. There was a tenderness in the scout's kiss, the way his mouth pressed and moved against her lips. She felt so warm, so safe, so good. It was perfect.
He drew back slightly, and kept his arms around her. She had her hands gently resting on his arms, where his muscles were thick below his shoulders. She laid her head against his chest, and she felt him tighten his arms around her body. He sighed, which she thought echoed what she felt at the moment.
When they finally separated, he said:
"I should go."
She nodded automatically, but she didn't want him to go. He moved back for the door.
"Wait," she said softly. He turned back, and she didn't miss the hope in his eyes. He didn't want to go either. She held out her hand to him, waiting for him to take it, and then she pulled him back in her room. She shut the door, and led him to the bed.
His eyes went wide for a moment, but Jaelynn just got on her bed. She sat in the corner with her legs crossed, and motioned for him to sit with her.
His face was blank, but he carefully got on the bed. She grabbed his hand, and pulled him closer.
"Lie down."
He did, with his head near her legs. She grabbed him under the shoulders, and gently pulled him closer until he rested with his back against her. She felt him sigh, and saw him close his eyes. She held him, her right arm resting on his chest. With her left hand, she caressed his face.
Her fingertips brushed aside his hair, showing off his strong cheekbones and the tattooes etched there. She lightly touched his skin, skimming her fingers over his features. He sighed again, and she felt her heart lurch, in a good way.
This is really happening. It wasn't a dream. There was no misunderstanding. Tristan cared for her. And she cared for him. Now, he lay in her arms.
And he was even sleeping. His breathing was deeper. Jaelynn smiled down at him.
Rest, Tristan. She prayed no dreams would haunt him tonight.