Well, I was going to make you wait until Wednesday for the final chapter, but then I finished it and I couldn't in good conscience let it sit around for two more days. I just want to thank everyone for being so kind in their comments. I really hope that you have enjoyed reading this because writing it has been such a wonderful pleasure for me. I'm actually really sad that it's finished. I'm going to miss writing it so much. Anyways, that's enough out of me and my silliness. Here is the final chapter.
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'You're a bloody idiot, Tarra. A bloody idiot. Fool! Moron! Imbecile!'
'Alright already, I get the picture.'
'And you talk to yourself.'
'Shut up.'
Tarra had arrived once again at the British shore with the sole purpose of leaving the island as soon as possible. She sat resting her chin in her hands and watched the ships arriving at the docks and departing from the port. She noted a sinking feeling in her gut like the kind she always had when she knew she was making a mistake. Yet, she could not help but believe that she was making no such mistake. She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she had done the right thing. Hadn't she?
The harbor began to bustle with activity in anticipation of an arriving ship whose familiar looking sails shook Tarra from her ruminations. 'No,' she thought to herself, 'It can't be.' But it was. The ship docked itself and out stepped the rather disoriented, but regal looking Sultan Arif who was followed by a small band of his advisors. Tarra's heart stopped and her mouth dropped open. She had to be hallucinating. But she wasn't.
Tarra scrambled to her feet and ran over to the dock. "Sultan Arif!" she called over to him, "What are you doing here?"
The sultan immediately put on an air of being equally shocked by her presence there as well, but being herself an aficionado of deceit, Tarra sensed a strange insincerity in his surprise. "Me? What are you doing here, Sadah?" Sultan Arif asked, addressing her by the name of his cousin's daughter as he had always mistakenly done, "And where is 'here'? This place doesn't look familiar at all!" He backhanded his nearby advisor in the forehead. "You brought us to the wrong place!" he exclaimed indignantly.
"Sire," said the advisor apologetically, "You told us to set sail for Briton, the nation recently liberated from Rome."
"What? Why would I make such an order as that?" demanded Sultan Arif, furrowing his eyebrows in discontent, "I clearly remember saying, 'Nadim, guide us back to the Arabian shores.' I am no fool, Nadim! This looks nothing like Arabia."
"But Sire," said Nadim, trying to reason with him, "You specifically commanded us to bring the army north to Briton." Tarra raised a suspicious eyebrow at this, noticing for the first time the Arabian army piled up inside the ship. What were they up to?
"You mean west," Sultan Arif corrected Nadim, "Briton is to the west."
"No, sire. Briton is to the north of Rome," replied Nadim in his usual patient, subservient tone.
"Did we sail north?" asked Sultan Arif.
"Yes, sire," Nadim answered.
"Then this is the wrong Briton," the sultan concluded, throwing his hands up wildly in the air, "We shall just have to head west now to the other one."
"I assure you, my liege, there is only one Briton and this is it," said Nadim, firmly, but respectfully.
"Oh, but you are very poorly misinformed!" interjected Tarra suddenly. The last thing this country needed was the Arabian army storming its gates. By the gods, she thought, Sultan Arif must be insane to drag his entire army all the way to Briton. What had he hoped to accomplish? "Sultan Arif, I am surprised you keep such ignorant advisors," said Tarra, "There is, of course, another Briton and it is to the west, like you said. It would be my pleasure to accompany you and show you the way."
She held her breath, waiting anxiously for the sultan's reply, but he beamed at her and said, "Sadah, my dear child, you warm my heart. Of course you must come with us. We will leave at once! There is clearly nothing of any interest or importance here."
So it was that no sooner had Sultan Arif landed on the island of Briton that Tarra had diverted him away. They loaded themselves back onto the ship and immediately disembarked, sailing west into the sea. The sultan's advisors eyed Tarra with a mix of bitterness and suspicion. They knew that they were headed aimlessly to a second Briton that did not actually exist, but any objection would have proved futile. No one had the influence over Sultan Arif that his beloved Sadah had.
Secretly, Tarra had never been so happy to see Sultan Arif in her life. He was the father she had never had and she had missed him. It was no wonder she always told so many stories about him. She almost felt guilty that she had been lying to him about who she was this entire time. Almost.
See, but therein lay the problem. She should have felt guilty for deceiving the poor old man, but she simply didn't. And why not? She supposed it was because she enjoyed---no, better---she treasured her relationship with the sultan. If she told him the truth, she would lose his regard, his fatherly protectiveness, and most of all his friendship. Perhaps then she was not completely vile for keeping up the pretenses. After all, she had done so out of her own affection for the old man, hadn't she?
Her affection for him, in fact, had never been stronger than it was now. He had arrived right when she had needed him most. Their aimless wandering was just the right anecdote for Tarra's muddled state of mind. She had needed to get far away from Briton so that she could look at things objectively, and Sultan Arif was providing her with the means to do so.
It therefore came as no surprise that Tarra confided in Sultan Arif everything that had passed between her and Lancelot---well, everything by Tarra's definition of the word, anyway. She of course left out certain details about why she had been on the island in the first place, but the sultan was far too fuzzy in the head to notice the gaping holes in her story.
"But why did you leave him?" Sultan Arif had inquired.
"Because I wanted to find myself," she had answered lamely.
"Have you checked your inner pockets?" Sultan Arif had asked, "Sometimes I stuff things in my inner pockets and forget all about them an hour later."
Tarra had laughed, "If only it were that simple."
For the next five months, they traveled this way and that. The direction did not matter because the senile sultan immediately forgot the destination he had had in mind in the first place. Instead, they stopped at every shore they encountered. After a few days of exploration, Sultan Arif would ask Tarra if she had found herself. "Perhaps she was hiding behind a tree?" he would suggest. It was endearing, but Tarra always answered in the negative.
After a short rendezvous in some place called Geatland, they once again boarded the ship to sail towards yet another unknown destination. Tarra sighed and stared off into the horizon. The sultan joined her at the ship's rail and studied her curiously. "You have not been yourself lately," he noted.
"I'm sorry," she replied somewhat dejectedly.
"It is because of that man Lancelot, isn't it?" he asked, "You love him, don't you?"
"Very much," answered Tarra without hesitation.
"Then you must stop being such a complicated and foolish woman!" exclaimed the sultan in a sudden outburst that stunned even the ever composed Tarra. "Enough of this nomadic wandering," he said, "It will never make you happy. I cannot stand to see you anything but happy. We shall set sail back to that other Briton at once."
"But Sultan---" Tarra started to protest.
"This is not a choice, Sadah," said Sultan Arif firmly, "You will return to this Lancelot person immediately, and I will hear no more objections."
There was no arguing with Sultan Arif. The ship cut across the water in a graceful turn about in the opposite direction---back to Briton. Tarra let out a sigh of defeat and resigned herself to her fate. It was almost spring time, but she did not feel any different. She still felt like the same old despicable Tarra.
What had she hoped to find? What had she hoped to change? These were the questions that ran through her mind as they headed back to Briton. She supposed that she wanted to be a better person. Yes, that was it---but how? She looked over at Sultan Arif and was suddenly struck with the realization that the answer had been with her all along.
They arrived at the British harbor, and Tarra knew what she had to do. As she went to exit the ship, she took Sultan Arif's hand. Yes, she actually took his hand and she said, "Sultan Arif, there is something I must tell you, and I fear that it will make you hate me forever, but I must say it. I've been lying to you this entire time. My name is not Sadah." She paused, "It's Tarra."
Sultan Arif stood staring at her for a moment with a twinkle in his eye that for once seemed to denote something other than senility. "Ah," he said with surprising clarity of mind, "But what is a name but something that is given? If I gave you the name Sadah, then that is your name, and there is no lie."
"No, you don't understand," Tarra replied helplessly, "You believed me to be your cousin's daughter, but I am not."
"Of course you're not," chuckled the sultan, "I have but one cousin and he has only sons."
Tarra furrowed her eyebrows in puzzlement. "Then why---why did you….?"
Sultan Arif squeezed her hand affectionately. "Who you were did not matter to me," he said, "We all wear masks, child. Most of us try to cover our evil with masks of virtue, but you---for some strange reason, you wear a dark mask to hide your goodness."
"You think that I have goodness?" Tarra asked in disbelief.
"I know you do," he answered sincerely.
Tarra swallowed hard. How long had she wished to hear those words and not even known it. A sly smile suddenly crossed her face, though, as she inquired, "And pray tell, what mask do you wear, Sultan Arif?"
His eyes burst with one final spark of soundness of mind before they once again clouded over and the lucidity he had shown her for the first time dissipated from his face. "I'm wearing a mask?" he asked in abhorrence, pulling at his cheeks in an attempt to remove the skin that was supposedly disguising him.
Tarra laughed. It was as she had always suspected. Most people try to hide their ignorance by making themselves appear intelligent, but for some strange reason, the Sultan Arif had hidden his sagacity under the guise of a fool. She found herself suddenly embracing the old man. She kissed him affectionately on the cheek and bid him farewell.
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At Hadrian's Wall, the knights, villagers, and Woads alike, had congregated in the fort's main hall for a feast held by Arthur and Guinevere. Apparently, the king and queen had some sort of announcement to make, but they were insisting on keeping it a secret until the time came to make the toast. The atmosphere in the hall was jovial and merry. After a harsh winter, the warm spring air always improved the temperaments of all, but there was something more driving the lighthearted moods that night. Perhaps it was the anticipation that Arthur and Guinevere had wonderful news to share.
Tristan slipped inconspicuously into the crowded hall, unnoticed by the rowdy commotion of people mingling about the room. He found a safe corner away from the raucous and stationed himself there. This would be a long night. He scanned the crowd until his eyes rested on Jillian who stood at the other side of the hall conversing with Gawain and a few other Woads who were stationed at the fort. Tristan watched her every motion, her every gesture, captivated by the way she performed the simplest movements such as tucking a strand of hair behind her ear or tilting her head to one side to express an interest in what was being said. By the gods, she enchanted him.
Arthur clanged a spoon against his wine chalice to call the room to attention. He wore a senseless grin on his face that betrayed his state of euphoria over whatever news he had to share. Guinevere stood proudly by his side, tucked protectively under his arm with a smile to match his. When he had everyone's attention, Arthur cleared his throat and spoke, "Friends, fellow warriors, my wife and I have some wonderful news to share. You see, we---I mean---well---she is with---she is carrying---" Arthur paused a moment and blushed at his sudden inability to form sentences. He laughed in embarrassment at himself. "Well, I'll just come right out and say it," he said at last, "Guinevere is pregnant. We're going to have a baby."
A cheer exploded and thunderous applause roared through the room, reverberating against the walls. The knights hooted and hollered their congratulations, patting their commander on the back in approval. Arthur beamed from ear to ear like a proud father should.
Meanwhile, Tristan's rage boiled inside him as he tore across the room like a madman. He grabbed Jillian by the arm and dragged her out of the hall into the corridor. He led her by the hand, storming through the passages and out onto the Wall's parapet.
"Are you alright?" he asked, once they were safely out of anyone's ear shot.
"Of course I am. Are you alright? What's going on?" Jillian asked, her face startled and concerned.
"No, I am not," growled Tristan in a blind rampage, "How could they do that to you? How could they be so insensitive?"
"How could who do what to me?" Jillian asked, still not sure what was going on.
"Arthur and Guinevere," Tristan explained, his voice dripping with disdain, "How could they throw their happiness in your face like that? It hasn't even been a year since---" He stopped himself there and stared down at the ground, "They should have given you advance warning of their announcement."
Jillian smiled and caressed his cheek, tracing her thumb across his tattoo. "Don't be angry," she said, her voice calm and soothing, "That kind of news should be shared with friends. I am very happy for Arthur and Guinevere."
Tristan studied her face, searching for any hint that she was not being completely honest. She held his gaze firmly, willing him to believe what she had said. After all, it was the truth. Finally satisfied that Jillian was being truthful with him, Tristan kissed her forehead as a sign of his acceptance.
The night air smelt of spring and Tristan had no desire to rejoin the indoor festivities. He took a seat with his back resting against the wall and pulled Jillian down next to him, wrapping his arms protectively around her. She leaned her head against his shoulder and sighed contentedly as they gazed up at the stars.
"You know," Tristan said proudly, "This morning, Gabilan took that little hawk carving I made for him and threw it right at my head. It hit me square between the eyes. He has a wonderful gift for aim."
"He gets it from me," Jillian said with a smug smile.
Tristan raised an eyebrow. "From you?" he asked in mock offense.
"Of course. After all, I am the better fighter of the two of us," Jillian teased, "And I'm starting his training at an early age. He can already out throw Gawain. He'll make a fine warrior someday."
"Why must he be a warrior?" asked Tristan in the overprotective fatherly voice he had recently acquired, "It's dangerous. Maybe he should be a scholar."
"He can be whatever he wants to be," Jillian said simply.
Her statement struck a chord inside Tristan that required him to stop and think for a moment. She was right. Unlike Tristan who had been forced against his will into military service at a young age, Gabilan would be able to choose for himself what he wanted to do with his life.
Tristan pulled Jillian closer to him and whispered, "Yes, you are right. He's free."
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Back in the main hall, Lancelot took a swig of wine from his chalice. It had been over five months since he had held the delicacy of the female body in his hands, and he ached for it. Such celibacy had not been an easy task, either. So many times had the many familiar hips swaggered in his direction, had the many familiar eyes drowned in their desire for his attention, and had the many familiar lips seductively pursed and waited for him to take a taste. Despite each maddening temptation, he had abstained every time.
Lancelot presently observed a head full of long, golden locks that bounced up and down as they made their way towards him. It was Galahad's ex-lover, the one Lancelot had slept with the night before their journey to France. She advanced confidently towards him with a provocative smile on her face for which he returned only an expressionless stare.
A moment later she was at his side, gazing up at him with beckoning eyes. "Listen," she whispered flirtatiously, "This party is beginning to bore me. What do you say we head back to your quarters and have our own little bit of fun?"
"No," said Lancelot without hesitation, "There are plenty of available beds on this night, I am sure, so go find a different one."
His straight forward and unsympathetic reply shocked the poor woman who was not used to rejection. "Is it because of Galahad?" she asked in disbelief, "I am sure he no longer cares…"
"It has nothing to do with Galahad," said Lancelot dismissively, growing impatient.
"Then why?" she demanded.
"Because you're not the one I want!" he reviled with finality.
A speck of hurt flashed in her eyes, but she quickly covered it with a hateful scowl and stormed off, leaving Lancelot once again alone with his wine.
"And who is it that you want?" came a voice suddenly from behind him. Lancelot whipped his head around to find Tarra standing before him with an amused smile on her face. He thought his heart would leap out of his chest from the excitement he felt. It took every last bit of restraint inside him not to gather her up in his arms right then and there. She had returned. Finally she had returned.
"This must be some woman," Tarra continued, "for Lancelot, renowned philanderer and seducer of all things female, to forgo such a tempting offer."
"Well certainly not all things female," Lancelot corrected and then added with a grin, "But yes, she is some woman indeed."
"Tarra!" called Galahad from across the room, "You're back!"
"Galahad!" returned Tarra brightly, as Galahad strode over to where she and Lancelot stood, "I missed you so much!"
"And I missed you!" replied Galahad warmly, "Where have you been?"
Tarra laughed, "Where haven't I been?"
"Well I want to hear all about it," replied Galahad.
Lancelot rolled his eyes, annoyed at his fellow knight's monopolizing of Tarra's attention. "Come," said Lancelot impatiently, grabbing Tarra's hand, "You can catch up later. There's something I want to show you."
"We'll talk later," Tarra called over her shoulder to Galahad, as Lancelot led her quickly out of the hall.
"Where are we going?" she asked her guide who seemed in a terrible rush.
"To the stables," Lancelot replied, "Hurry!"
They sped through the fort and reached the stables, where they retrieved two black steeds. Together they flew through the gates of Hadrian's Wall, riding side by side in the open air. Their horses raced neck in neck through field after field. Tarra laughed as the breeze swept through her hair.
The sun had just begun to lift its head over the horizon when Lancelot brought his horse to a sudden halt at the top of the hill. Tarra pulled on her reigns and stopped directly beside him. Lancelot felt his heart race with anticipation as they dismounted their horses.
He took her hand once again and led her to the edge of the hill where it began to slope down into a valley. "Look down there," he whispered. Tarra took another step forward and peered down into the valley below. The sight knocked the wind from her chest.
Hundreds---no---thousands of lavender flowers carpeted the valley floor. Their little petals quivered in the breeze, rolling across the field like the tide of a purple sea, each flower so tiny, so fragile, but solidified together in their rippling wave of motion. After all they had put each other through and after all that had happened, Lancelot had not forgotten.
"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."
"You were supposed to hold onto it," said Tarra, trying to maintain her composure despite the feeling that her skin was the only thing keeping the rest of her from spilling out into every direction.
"I thought it might do greater service in the ground," Lancelot replied, trying to read what she was thinking or how she was feeling. "And I planted a few more while I was at it," he added. His palms were wet and clammy as he waited nervously for her reaction.
"I can see that," she said, "Though 'a few more' is quite an understatement, wouldn't you say?"
"Well I had nothing better to do to bide my time," he explained with a shrug, "So what do you think?"
What did she think? She wanted to cry out with happiness and throw her arms around him. That's what she thought. As always, however, she decided to play it cool. Tarra gave Lancelot a playful shove and forced herself to laugh only so that she would not cry. "What I think is that you are a preposterously sappy lover and a hopeless romantic!" she said, and then added, fighting back her tears, "And if I hadn't sworn to forever be bitter and indifferent---I---I think I might melt, it's so beautiful."
That was enough for Lancelot. He scooped her up in his arms and planted kisses all across her face and neck, and in that moment the world was a little bit more beautiful as they melted together in their happiness. "I am yours and only yours forever," he vowed.
"I have been yours and always will be yours and only yours---forever," she answered, and they sealed their promise with a kiss.
Beyond Hadrian's Wall and beyond Badon Hill and further still beyond the Thames river, deep in the forest, an ancient oak twists its mighty trunk in defiance to past tempests and torments that sought to force the leafed giant into a submissive bow. Like a coat of arms worn and tattered from battle, the oak bears a faded etching upon its breast, "He who hath nothing to die for hath neither anything to live for." What is worth living for? I say love: the love of your God, the love of your country, the love of others. What is worth dying for? I say freedom: the freedom to love your God, the freedom to love your country, and the freedom to love another. But what of those who have never felt God's mercy nor the pride of their ancestors nor the warmth of a neighbor's touch? Who will weep at the deaths of the lifeless? Who will weep for those lives of no certain consequence?
Tarra looked up at the sky and smiled. 'Do not weep for me, my friends,' she thought, 'Do not weep for me.'