Tarra sat mounted on her horse with the rest of the knights, idling by as Arthur orchestrated the evacuation of the village. Native women shuffled their sleepy-eyed children into wagons, piling in food, blankets, and supplies along with them. Merlin had mysteriously vanished hours ago as he was often known to do. The village men readied their horses and loaded their weaponry into the wagons along with the other supplies.
Tarra turned her head to the cabin door that swung open to reveal Tristan's tall figure emerging from inside, cradling a precious bundle in his arms. He walked with his shoulders back and took long, heroic strides towards his waiting horse. Jillian looked fragile and small like a child with her arms weakly embracing his neck and her slenderness exaggerated as it was lost in his broad frame.
Though they had reconciled after their heated argument, Tristan could still sense a coldness in Jillian's composure. Of course, he had not expected her to recover immediately from the loss of a child, but his heart broke at the sight of the sadness that now overwhelmed her eyes and dulled them into an unshakable apathy to the world around her. Would she ever be the same?
Noticing Tarra's gaze in their direction, Tristan wondered what her role was in all that had passed. Tarra had seemed to know more about what had happened to Jillian than she let on. He would have to ask Jillian about that when she awoke. Ever since the knights had rushed to Tarra's aid, he had wondered how she had managed to gain the favor and loyalty of his brothers in arms. Were they simply blind to the malignance inside her or was it he who was blind to whatever goodness might lie within her seemingly cool exterior?
Tristan climbed up on his horse, seating Jillian sideways in the saddle in front of him with her head resting against his shoulder. Tristan encompassed his arms protectively around her, while still managing to control the reigns of his horse. She looked peaceful and safe, hardly stirring from her sleep despite the jerky movements of the restless animal.
'How incredibly sickening,' Tarra thought to herself with a sigh. May the gods strike her down a thousand times before she ever had to depend on another human being in such a manner. Then again, hadn't she in a way just depended on the knights to save her from the Saxons? Curse the day she set foot on his bloody island! Nothing was going the way she had planned; and she knew there was only one thing left to do.
Once they returned to the wall she would leave immediately, find the first ship leaving Briton, and get as far away from this wretched island as she could. She did not know where she would go, but then that was the beauty of it. She would be independent and free to do as she pleased once again. She would put this whole affair behind her and move on to her next adventure, forgetting all about Arthur and his unconventional band of knights. Arthur could keep his head, Tarra could keep her independence, and Tristan and Jillian could keep their vile, love-induced repulsiveness. Everyone would be happy.
"There's room for two on my horse as well," hinted Lancelot, noting Tarra's extended stare at Tristan and Jillian.
Tarra gave Lancelot a look of disgust. "Why don't you go stick an arrow up your ass?" she reviled in a tone of contempt. The villagers were beginning to mobilize down the path into the forest, so she took that chance to urge her horse forward to join the caravan and escape Lancelot's company.
"Tarra! Wait!" he called to her after the shock of her statement wore off. He nudged his horse forward and called out again, "Tarra!"
"What?" she asked impatiently as he rode up next to her.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
Lancelot paused and let out a sigh. "Well there's no need to get all melodramatic about it. It was just a joke!" he said finally.
"I am not melodramatic!" she replied, appalled at his suggestion, "And I know it was a joke."
"Ah, so that's it."
"What?"
"Your tempestuous remarks and surly countenance must merely be a result of your frustration that my words are made in jest and not in profession of honest ardor and limitless passion," Lancelot answered with a mocking smile.
"You know, Lancelot, I do believe I had you figured completely wrong," responded Tarra coolly.
"Is that so?" he asked in amusement.
"Yes," she replied, "All this time I thought you simply proud and arrogant, but the more I listen to you try to convince yourself of my infatuation, the more I am convinced of your own insecurity. Tell me, are you trying to overcompensate for something with those twin swords?"
Lancelot raised an eyebrow. "Care to find out?" he asked with a smirk.
"No!" exclaimed Tarra immediately. Lancelot threw his head back and laughed. Tarra found herself unable to contain her own laughter as well and joined in his good humor. She really wasn't sure what had put her in such a foul disposition to begin with, but she simply shrugged it off and returned to her usual self.
She observed fixedly as Lancelot tended to his injured arm, tearing a strip of fabric from his tunic and wrapping it tightly around the wound. He struggled to tie the strip into a knot as he only had one hand with which to work, making the task exceedingly difficult. "Here, let me help," Tarra offered suddenly, taking the bandaging from Lancelot's hands and tying it tightly around his arm.
Lancelot stared at her with a look of surprise. "Thank you," he said when she had finished.
"You're welcome," she replied as though she had done nothing out of the ordinary. On the contrary, her gesture had been so out of character that she did not even know what to make of it herself. She felt the heat of Lancelot's stare and asked finally, "What? Do I have a leg growing out of my head or something?"
Lancelot laughed and shook his head, "No, but I wouldn't be surprised if my own head had grown legs whilst running around in circles trying to figure you out."
Tarra raised an eyebrow, "It's not that difficult." She paused for a moment, then drew something out from her pocket and placed it in Lancelot's hand. He discerned it to be a seed of some kind, but was puzzled as to its purpose. "Here," she said as she handed it to him, "It's a Lavender flower seed. Hold onto it for me, and do not lose it because I'll want it back. If you can perform as simple a task as that, you should have no trouble figuring out someone as plain as myself."
Lancelot looked at her quizzically as she gave him his assignment, but he obediently placed the seed carefully into his own pocket without any further questions. It seemed that the more inquisitive he became about Tarra's character, the more ambiguously she composed her answers. Nevertheless, he could not deny that he certainly was intrigued.
The caravan had advanced considerably through the woods, and they were overall making good time and keeping a steady pace. Arthur and the rest of the knights rode up to join Tarra and Lancelot in their place in the line of wagons and horses. Tarra's glance met with Tristan's, and he seemed to be eyeing her strangely. Jillian had been awake for awhile now and had been speaking to him softly in his ear at a volume that prevented others from overhearing what was said. She presently gave Tarra a smile of assurance. Tristan noted that it was first change in expression that had crossed Jillian's face since she had fallen into her melancholic, apathetic state.
Tarra wondered if Jillian had told Tristan of the assistance she had given her in the forest. Tarra shrugged to herself apathetically. She hadn't cared when Tristan had a poor opinion of her, why should she care if that opinion had improved now?
The cry of a bird was heard in the distance, and Tarra practically jumped out of her saddle as she felt something swoop past her head. Tristan's hawk soared down and perched itself on his arm. Jillian mustered a faint smile of amusement at Tarra's startled state. "There's no reason to be afraid. She's perfectly harmless," Jillian said, stroking the hawk under its beak.
"I don't like things that fly," Tarra answered with a frown, "They're bad luck. Creatures should stay on the ground, not go gallivanting off into the sky. It's unnatural."
"I think it would be wonderful to be able to fly," Jillian said almost wistfully, "There must be such freedom in it."
"Don't get any ideas," Tarra warned, "I've seen very bad outcomes come from that line of thinking."
"What do you mean?" Jillian inquired, tilting her head in curiosity.
"Remember what I told you about Sultan Arif?" asked Tarra, "Well, it wasn't but a few months after the birth of the son I afore mentioned that the sultan got it in his head that he wanted to learn to fly. You see, a traveling merchant had arrived with his newest invention: a full suit of feathers equipped with wings. Despite the pleading of his closest advisors, Sultan Arif was determined to try out this contraption by jumping off a nearby cliff. Of course, the mere thought of this endeavor horrified all his closest subjects. Finally, Sultan Arif saw the light of reason and decided that he would graciously allow one of his loyal guards to be the first to try out the avian vestment. The guard, bound by law to loyalty and service, reluctantly strapped on the suit and fell to his death from the cliff."
"That's terrible!" Jillian gasped.
"Not necessarily," responded Tarra, "You see it was that same guard who was rumored to have been involved in a certain garden tryst with a certain wife of the sultan who subsequently gave birth to a certain child---do you see where I'm going with this?"
Jillian shook her head knowingly, "Yes, I daresay I do."
Tristan, who had up to this point had appeared completely oblivious to their conversation, finally spoke. "Was it you who finally convinced the sultan not to jump?" he asked. The lack of the usual complete, unabated hostility in the question caught Tarra off-guard. Was her half-brother finally warming up to her?
"I might have," she answered discreetly, "But I respected him, you know?" Tristan stared at Tarra with an unreadable expression. If she had been able to read his thoughts, she would have discovered that she had actually shocked him with the notion that she was capable of respecting anyone or anything. Perhaps they had both misjudged each other, whether they were ready to admit it or not.
Tarra let out an extended yawn, expressing her extreme fatigue. They had ridden practically all night, and as the sun peeked its head over the horizon, Hadrian's Wall finally came into view. The rest of the convoy appeared just as tired as she for their pace had slowed substantially and the conversation had long since ceased. Jillian was once again snuggled against Tristan's chest in deep slumber. Tarra felt her own body slump down towards the back of her horses' neck. What she wouldn't give to close her eyes just for one single moment…
"Tarra! Wake up! We're almost there!" came Lancelot's voice which shook her awake. Had she been asleep? She could not even remember the exact moment she had closed her eyes, but she awoke to find the caravan presently entering through the gates of Hadrian's Wall.
Once inside the wall, Tarra dismounted her horse along with the other knights, as Jols, Arthur's assistant, led the horses to the stables. Tarra's jaw dropped at the sight of the familiar figure that advanced towards them. Barak Mahal, that same serpentine miscreant who had offered her his assignment to exterminate Arthur, walked nonchalantly towards them with a wide, confident grin spread openly across his face. Tarra felt suddenly sick to her stomach. There went her plans of aborting her mission and fleeing Briton once and for all.
"Tarra!" Barak called out to her in an overly friendly tone, "There you are! I was afraid I had missed you."
"I bet you were," Tarra muttered sarcastically to herself.
"Are you a friend of Tarra's?" asked Arthur in a warm, welcoming voice.
"Oh, yes," Barak answered with a devious grin that sent chills down Tarra's spine, "We are the oldest of friends, aren't we, Tarra?"
Tarra gulped, "Yes. Yes, very old friends. Arthur, knights, this is Barak Mahal."
"A pleasure," greeted Arthur with a nod.
"You should have a drink with us, then, if you are friends with Tarra" Lancelot offered, eyeing Barak suspiciously, clearly viewing this new guest as an intruder or, worse, as competition.
"Oh," interjected Tarra before Barak could answer, "I'm sure Barak was just leaving, and besides, isn't it a bit early to be drinking?"
"It's never too early for a drink," insisted Lancelot, not once taking his eyes off Barak, "What do you say?"
Barak grinned. "It's certainly not in my nature to refuse a drink," he replied, "By all means, lead the way!"
Lancelot directed Barak towards the tavern, keeping a weary eye on his newly introduced companion. Barak remained the epitome of smooth composure, which was a requisite in his line of work. He turned nonchalantly to Tarra, giving a dangerous look meant only for her to recognize. "Are you coming, Tarra?" he asked coolly.
Every inch of her body told her that she should run as fast as she could and escape from the precarious situation in which she now found herself, but she could not convince her feet to remove themselves from where they lay planted on the ground. She instead found herself replying in a voice that cracked nervously at each inflection. "Yes. I'm coming---right behind you," she called.