Lets say Tristan survives the Battle of Badon, and leaves Britain to pursue his visions that have tormented him for years. Sarmatia is being taken over by the Hun, and in this land long thought of by our hero, a destiny awaits. Kind of fast paced, I don't like the dally around. Enjoy. This is the first time attempting a Tristan fic.
He knew something dwelled within his soul; it was far more than a yearning to return to his homeland. It was a need to seek the truth in the visions that overcame him, the visions that crept inside only while he slept. It was in the darkness that he saw the same recurring dream, of his mother burning within, her screams fading as her body turned to dust. He awoke once more sweating, his breathing harsh and rapid. The yearning that he despised overtook him once more, eating inside his heart. He longed for what was forbidden but restrained himself. His thoughts drifted to the day before his mother had mysteriously disappeared. Her strange words repeated through his mind.
"You are headed done a hard path, my son" she sadly stated, kissing him on the forehead. Tristan was merely twelve, but could track and fight as good as a grown man. His uncle had seen to his training since birth, teaching him the intricate ways of the eastern combat; unbeknownst to most Sarmatians. His Sarmatian father had died when he was just three. His mother was half Sarmatian, half Egyptian, one of the last royal descendents of the ancient empire.
Her voice was always soothing, though it bellowed deeper than most of the village women. Her skin was the color of cinnamon, and even in a hot summer day her hands were cold as ice. Tristan took after his father in terms of looks; his skin was the color of the sand and his hair a dark brown. His personality without question shadowed his mother. He was quiet but kind, his spirit restless. He preferred the dark; the light sent shivers down his spine.
"I had the same dream last night, mother," the twelve year old Tristan repeated in his thoughts. "I heard you screaming."
She sighed heavily but attempted to smile. "They are just dreams, Tristan. They will stop…when you are ready."
"Ready for what?" he timidly asked.
"To meet your destiny."
A year after she had disappeared he was taken into the service of Rome, headed on a ship to a land called Britain. But the dreams still came.
He awoke once more as the sun made its way up into the sky, the light shining in through the window. The girl beside him did not stir, her hand well placed on his chest. Tristan rubbed his eyes, and got up. The girl moaned softly and turned over, her eyelids still closed.
Tristan titled his head, trying to remember who she was. Ah, yes, the blacksmiths daughter. She had been eyeing him for months, and finally after long hours of drinking he had let her come to bed with him. He swiftly tore off the sheets, leaving her naked body exposed on the bedas he stood up.
"Out" he declared, no emotion shown on his face. She looked around for the sheets, and then at Tristan.
She smiled and sat up, eyeing him as if she had conquered some prize. "Last night was amazing…"
He proceeded to putting on his pants without reply, as she stretched and fumbled to find her own clothes. Once she was properly dressed she went over to him and slid her fingers down his chest, kissing him fervently on the lips. "Will I see you again tonight?" she whispered.
He grabbed her hand and released it from his chest. "You had your fun. Now leave."
Taken aback, she narrowed her eyes in confusion. Tristan stared hard at her, willing her to go. She started to say something, but stopped, and instead packed up her things, mumbling under her breath. "A waste, you are…"
When the door slammed behind him, he walked over to the window. It had been months since the Battle of Badon, when he had nearly died from his wounds. But he did not die, and the wound healed quickly. He was always quick to heal.
He watched as Gawain and Galahad walked into the practice yard, unsheathing their swords. They began sparring and paid no notice to their witness from the window. Arthur was now King of Britain, and he had married the daughter of the Woad leader Merlin. In the short months since the battle against the Saxons, Arthur had set up his own army, with Gawain their commander. Tristan had only stayed this long to see that his friend was safe and everything was in order. Today he would tell Arthur his plan.
In the Room of the Round Tristan found his comrade, buried in parchments. "Your Highness?" Tristan called, bowing slightly.
A man in his thirties looked up over his work and sighed. "I believe I know what you are going to say, Tristan."
It was one of the few times Tristan smiled. "It is time, my Lord. My work here is done." To this Arthur nodded, though his eyes spoke of sadness at losing his friend.
"I knew this day would come, though I cannot deny I wish you would stay here. You are my eyes and ears, and my best Scout."
"Perhaps I will return. For now, my destiny lies elsewhere."
Two days later, Tristan walked his horse out of the stable as a few close friends gathered to wish him well. Guinevere approached him.
He bowed, and kissed the lady on the hand. "You take care of yourself, Knight. Don't forget you are welcome back whenever you wish." She beamed at him, and he nodded his head in appreciation, placing one hand on her stomach. He winked at her, though she looked back quite surprised.
Bors grunted and rolled his eyes. "Oh….make it quick, I got to take a piss…" he grumbled, giving his fellow Knight a large pat on the back. "Kill as many men as you can along the way. Atleast one of us will get some action…" He looked grudgingly at Arthur.
Gawain laughed and clasped arms with Tristan. "Careful of the Hun on your way. Rumor has it they're swarming the southeast, ready for war."
Tristan looked around, but did not see Galahad present among the semicircle. Suddenly a horse whinnied from inside the stables, and out emerged Galahad, dressed in a simple tunic and trousers, sitting atop his black mare, a look of sheer delight plastered across his face.
Tristan raised an eyebrow. "And where do you think your going?"
Galahad showed his teeth and winked. "Home."
Gawain rolled his eyes. "Come off it, Galahad, I thought you decided to stay?"
"Tristan?" Galahad, looking longingly at his brother in arms. Tristan thought for a moment, biting his lower lip. He was sure he was supposed to take this journey alone. It had been nice to think of taking a journey of solitude to clear one's thoughts. Still, their were advantages to bringing Galahad along. With Galahad comes excitement and adventure. He scratched the back of his head and cracked his neck.
"You better not slow me down" was his reply. All Galahad did was smirk in response.
It took several days to reach the southern port where they would cross the Channel into Gaul. Because of their release papers that were given from Germanus, they could safely pass through Gaul into Italy and then northeast toward Sarmatia. It would be a long, arduous journey.
The dreams were happening more frequently, with every step he took closer and closer to home his heart grew louder, beating intensely as his chest pains increased. As usual, he did not tell his comrade of his strange yearnings. Instead, Galahad took his mind off of it by visiting every local bar they could find, and spending the night at each inn with a new girl wrapped in tow. When towns were scarce, they slept under the stars, regaling each other with countless memories of knights long gone.
"You think Dag fancied Vanora?" Galahad asked one night in Gaul, sitting his back against the tree. Tristan laid nearby, not looking at his friend but smiling. They were on the border between Gaul and Italy, only a day's ride to the Mediterranean Sea.
"I suppose I'm the only one left alive that knows that story…" Tristan began, his mind wandering back years before. Galahad sat up straighter, intent on hearing Tristan's words.
"What do you mean?"
The Scout sighed, his left hand unknowingly playing with the grass. "Vanora was the first girl Dag ever took to bed, did you know that?"
Galahad's eyes widened. "You scoff! I was certain Bors was…well, atleast Bors thinks he is…does Bors.."
"Do you remember when Vanora lost her first child, and Bors was upset?"
"Don't tell me the baby was Dag's?"
Tristan shrugged his shoulders. "No one knows…Vanora took up Bors a few days after Dag, and from then on they were inseparable."
Galahad furrowed his brow for a moment, thinking heavily. "Dag's always been the brooding type…I suppose now that you mention it this would make sense, especially the way he treated Lucan." Tristan simply nodded, and began to close his eyes. Galahad was his last link to his life in Britain, and he did not know if he would ever set foot on the island again. The restlessness began filtering its way inside him, and he willed his body to rest, not wanting to deal with it anymore.
Somewhere deep within him, a familiar voice whispered, "Soon, my son. Your destiny will come soon."