Chapter 8: Watch Over Me

Weeks had passed at a time. The Lake's men had still not arrived and thankfully, the Saxons were not upon them as well. All in the fort were restless, fearing for the arrival of the brutes who would rob them of their freedom. The comfort that Ilyaren had brought was only temporary, for all knew that security was but a dream of those who continue to disillusion themselves.

The harvest had finally finished, every bit of grain in the Earth had been taken, for their survival for the winter. Alyanne had lent a hand, despite the insistent protests of Guinevere. The Queen had thought of her still indeed too weak to be doing such strenuous activities, but in the end the fact that Alyanne knew more about harvesting grains than Guinevere won out. Few Woads knew that before the Lady of the Lake took on her command position of the North, she was a farm girl like many.

Days rolled by and not a single bit of news on the impending danger. Tristan's rides to the North and South had become more frequent, but still no news. No one worried more than Alyanne. Her anxiety was not only for her confidante, but also for her men. The fear of their deaths plagued her each passing day.

Alyanne lay there, her back resting on the floors of the battlements. Once again, she was looking towards the sky. It was morning, and all the rest were not awake yet, save her and her kind, hidden watcher. She just lied there, still once more, listening to the comforting song of the Lady of the Sweet Winds. She sang her melody softly, lovingly as if lulling Alyanne into a deep sleep. Still, her song was not enough to lay this lady to rest. Alyanne was wide awake, though her eyes feigned slumber. She just lay there in the cold floors, listening to whatever sound drew her ears.

She had seen him ride into the gates hours prior. It seemed like he knew just where to find her. She was happy to have him watch her, watch over her. It has been long since someone had watched over her. Alyanne had often found herself obligated to protect the welfare of her people, she hardly found herself at the receiving end of such care.

He took such care of her when there were no eyes to watch them. He watched her as a child would watch the burning embers of a fire. He never tired in making certain that she would be safe. He gave a hidden smirk as he watched her lying there. He knew that she was aware of his presence. She always did know. The wind told her all of its secrets. He wondered how much she already knew of the world though her times with the wind. Were there no surprises left for her if she was to be told of everything around her? He gave an inaudible sigh. Thinking on the mind of another never did bode well for they were questions never to be satisfied unless asking the object of such thought. He didn't like asking questions, for he would not bother others with that which he would not want to be bothered with himself.

She sensed a movement in her clandestine companion, as if he had shifted from one foot to the other. It was faint, but clear for those who had taken the time to listen carefully. She kept her eyes closed, but spoke to him as if he were right in front of her.

"Tell me about her." She said to him blindly.

Tristan was slightly taken a back. He was the softest walker in the entire fort, and yet this lady could sense his movement however slight it was. He inwardly smiled despite himself and walked out of the shadows, there was no use concealing himself when he had already been discovered.

"Eiddwen?" The first time he had talked about his daughter was to this woman. She was the likeness of the little girl in both spirit and deeds. Tristan found that he was becoming protective of the her as if she was Eiddwen reborn.

"No, your wife." She replied to him, her eyes forever relishing in the darkness of their closed state. She imagined that he must have loved her very much, or else he would have never made a fine father to the child she left with him.

"Isolde?"

"Yes. Isolde." She smiled blindly. "Whenever you talk of your memories, it is always of Eiddwen and never of Isolde."

"I find that hard to believe."

"Well believe it. It seems that I hear more words out of you than anyone else in this fort, so I should know. Please. Tell me about her." Tristan was a friend to her if she had ever met one. He was kind to her, kinder than most. She was known as the killer of Saxons. Though such a reputation did come with a hero's welcome, there was still a gaze of fear in their eyes whenever they looked upon her. Tristan did not give her such a gaze. He looked at her and saw her, just as she looked at him and saw nothing of the slaughterer men feared.

"Well, Isolde was…Isolde."

"That is all?" She smiled. True, the Knight was a man of few words, but surely he could describe his wife in better words than her name. She opened her eyes and looked on him. He was sitting with his back against the wall of the battlements. She sat up, sitting beside him, but instead of stretching out her legs as he did, she curled them and enfolded them in her arms against her chest. "Forgive me. My tongue knows no propriety." She said after a while. Maybe it had not been wise to tempt fate by asking him more on his past. She should have had enough of a sense to respect the passing of his spouse, as he had chosen to respect hers by sparing her invasive questions.

Tristan looked upon her with an unreadable mask on his features. She thought that he would have been cross at her at the very least, but he opened his mouth and surprisingly spoke to her with a soft and gentle tone. "She had these light dimples on her cheeks whenever she smiled. She loved laughing as much as I love the quiet. Her eyes were the deepest color of emeralds that you had ever seen. She had red hair that she always tied into a plait because she thought it all too wild to be kept untamed. I never encouraged it. I loved her hair unbound." Every detail of Isolde was imprinted on his memory; she never aged for him, nor lost luster or glory. She remained as she had always been to him, beautiful. "She never liked the way I walked without her hearing, so for her sake, I would cough slightly when approaching so she would not be startled."

"For someone who has spent more than fifteen years away from his wife, you remember quite well." She smiled at the look on Tristan's face. He had closed his eyes as he spoke, mayhap in picturing his beloved wife. Though she could not see what secrets his eyes held, the tone of his voice held that of a man in love. After fifteen years of war and torment, she could sense that this man was still completely and utterly in love with his late wife. Such devotion was something few men possessed. "Please go on."

"Well, Isolde was feisty, to say the least. She could not help it if things would not go her way. She was very insistent in everything."

"And you would follow her?" She laughed slightly.

"Every time." He gave a faint laugh. He would give in to her silliest whim every time she asked. He sometimes thought if he had married a mad woman, but she was the mad woman who was his life's completion. Never did he want more after all that she had given him. "I had neither the heart nor the will to deny her anything. You should have seen her when she was pregnant."

"Aren't all women at that stage of life?"

"Aye, but she was Isolde. She had very odd cravings then. Once, she even ran after me in the forests while I was hunting, just because she needed to run her fingers through my hair." A smile graced his features, not faint or almost invincible, but a smile that was worth reciprocating.

She had never heard Tristan talk as such, with such a carefree air about him. She knew it deep in her heart that this man would give anything to have one more day with his family. And his words at Ilyaren rang true in her ears. He had spoken the truth. To have had such a life, one would be prepared for death rather than seeking it. "You loved her very much didn't you?" she smiled at him.

"More than my own life."

She knew the feeling. It had been exactly the same with her and Bragdon. Her Bragdon. How she loved that man. He drew her from a world filled of darkness and death. Slowly, her mood changed. Memories. She cursed them and clung to them all at the same time.

"I can't remember his eyes." She whispered suddenly.

"What?"

"You seem to remember everything that there can be remembered about Isolde and the daughter that she bore you. It has been more than fifteen years and you still commit to memory every little detail, but I can not even remember the color of my husband's eyes." She had forgotten the shade of his eyes. They used to spend hours in silence; she loved looking deep into his eyes for it was in those moments that she felt utterly safe. The way he looked at her, it was as if she would be assured for the rest of her life, but right now, she could not even remember their color.

"I am blessed with memories."

"I envy you. It has only been not two summers since his death and I can't even remember the color of his eyes! What kind of a wife am I to forget such a detail with such ease?" Tristan did not know what to say. What could you say to a woman who had just admitted that she was starting to forget her life's love? The truth was, there was nothing he could say. He never knew her husband, and thus the answer was not within him. What would he say to her "I am starting to forget him Tristan. I am slowly starting to forget him. Little by little, he is slipping from my mind. I owe it to him to remember." Tears were threatening her eyes. Her smile for him had faded, dissolved into a murky pool of loneliness and depression. Her eyes gave him a window into her soul. Many thought it empty, but one just needed to know what they were looking for, now he found despair.

"Tell me what you remember." He said, looking at her with a soft expression in him.

"Pardon me?"

"Tell me what you remember, so when you feel you are forgetting again, I can refresh your memory." He knew what little of her pain right now. To forget Isolde or Eiddwen would have been his life's undoing. He gripped to their memories. They were what kept him from being eaten by desperation. He kept hope, so that he would be proud to face them once he had reached the afterlife. Alyanne deserved the same. "Don't be worried Lady, I am blessed with a vast memory. I can remember enough for the both of us." He put his hand gingerly atop hers, and waited for the story that would unravel.

She didn't need to look at Tristan for him to see the gratitude that swelled within her. She had never known such kindness to come from a man of such horrible reputation. His gesture was more than magnanimous in her eyes. She fought the tears threatening her eyes and she cleared her throat to keep it from cracking. Slowly, she began to talk. "He had brown hair. Not brown like a chestnut, but more of a brown that resembled mahogany. It was long, straggly and just barley passed his shoulders with a light beard to match. I always did tell him to get rid of it, but he said he liked the way it bothered me."

Her eyes lit up as she talked of him. Bragdon. He saw the light within her. She owed it to him never to forget.

-o-

Lancelot came upon the desire to be up in the battlements again, on the eastern wall, to get a few breaths of fresh air. Since his encounter with the Lady Alyanne on that very same wall, he found it pleasing to come there and try and resolve all that were going on inside of him. What was he feeling for the Lady? Once, he had mistaken himself to be in love, but it turned out that it was merely a connection stronger than friendship, but less than love. Guinevere and he knew that very well now. But, then again, the emotions he felt for Alyanne were of a totally different caliber. Every time he saw her, he wanted to smile, if only to make up for the fact that she did not smile on her own. He wanted to make her smile so badly. He wanted to see her laughing had happy. If need be, would act like a complete and utter fool if only to gain one smile from her. That was how he felt every time he caught a glance of her. He didn't feel this way about Guinevere, nor any other maiden in the past. But what did he know about love? For all he knew, it was nothing but a shear desire to see her immerse herself from the shadow. But it did not feel that way. It felt absolutely different.

He was climbing the stairs to the battements, when he heard a soft, distinctly soft laugh. He had been beaten to the top. It was probably one of the maidens from the fort with a young lad, he thought with a smile. He continued to climb up, being slightly amused of the girl's laughter, when he heard another laugh, this time a deep, baritone laugh. So it was not a young lad, but one of the knights. He smiled even further as his mind started to wander, trying to guess which one of the Knights it was. He knew of nothing of the Knights having a woman. This would be fine news indeed. He started quickening his pace and in a matter of minutes, came upon the wooden door. He opened it, slowly and quietly. He took a peak outside, but was totally taken a back on what he saw. It was Alyanne, and she was laughing with Tristan.

In all of his years, his fifteen years, spent with the Scout, he had never seen him smile as he did at that very moment. He could not find any trace of the hardened killer that he saw in the battle fields, but he could see a man…in love. He did not need to be as observant as the Scout to notice how his years of torment left him as he talked with the Lady. And what seem to be the most mystifying of all, was that there was a smile on Alyanne's face as she listened to Tristan's words.

Lancelot knew he had no business what so ever as to what the two did during their own time, but he could not help but watch. He could see her smiling, smiling at Tristan for that matter. What was Tristan saying to her at that moment that earned such a reaction from her?

Lancelot watched on from the small niche of the opened door. He felt wretched. Maybe it was because of the fact that he had stooped himself low enough to be spying on those who thrived in privacy. Or, maybe it was because that he could not bear to accept the truth that she was smiling at Tristan. But a third theory popped into his mind, and it seemed like the most believable thus far. He watched, spied, just to see her smile a little longer.

But then the mood changed, her face became blank. She interrupted Tristan as he spoke and her face was suddenly set. Once again, she spoke. She seemed to be openly distressed about something. At that moment, instinct told Lancelot to get out of the shadows and go to her, comfort her, but Tristan had beaten him to it. Tristan placed a hand on hers and spoke. His words seemed to calm her, console her. She seemed to visibly relax, and started speaking once more, her smile creeping back.

Lancelot had seen enough. He closed the door, softly and turned his back on it.

-o-

Thoughts were enough to drive a man mad, for they made him think, to think on life and everything else in it. He did not know how the scout managed to live in seclusion all of these years. Did he never think on how empty it was to simply go to war and know no other life than it? To be quite honest, this was another one of Lancelot's many laments. He had lived by the sword for so long. Truth be told, he thought that he would die by it in Badon Hill, but for some reason, he was spared by what deities he still refused to believe in. He suffered a mortal wound and survived. Now at last, in the freedom and peace that he had spent a life time trying to attain, he did not know how to live such a life. How did one live in peace? How did one live without inhibitions and restraints? Anger for Rome and a hunger for home had filled him with meaning back in his days of servitude, but now that he was free of them, he knew not how to live his life. What was to fuel him, to drive him to take each day? What would be his meaning now?

There also came another thought. Alyanne. The mysterious Lady of the Lake. He did not know what to believe of her. He had heard many a story about the illustrious woman. About how she was the slaughterer of a great many Saxon hordes that dared to threaten her territory. He heard stories of a ruthless and unrelenting woman, an ice woman, cold and heartless. But upon meeting her, upon seeing her deep gray eyes, he knew that all the stories of her were wrong. She was neither ruthless nor heartless. If at any rate, she was kind, though shroud in the shadow of her own desolation. Her sadness defined her. It filled her every being. Such a consummate surrender to melancholy, it embodied her in every way. It robbed life of duality's balance. There could be no death without life. No treachery without loyalty. No truth without lies. No sorrow without joy. No one deserved such a life, for it was one only half lived.

In the next following days, Lancelot had found it very hard to avoid the two, but attempted it nonetheless. He could face neither Tristan nor Alyanne. He resist the urge to look at her whenever she passed by. He tried his best not to go up to the battlements. But as far as it went, he still could not erase her from his mind. He evaded her, but he could not steer clear of his thoughts of her.

Today, his weapon of choice was a brush and his battlefield, the stables. He found that busying himself was the best way of keeping his mind somewhat clear of any thoughts. He relieved Jols of his post and groomed the horses himself; just to have a little bit of peace.

He heard the great door creak open. At first he thought it to be Jols come to relinquish him of his solace, but the steps were to light to belong to any man. He laid down the brush and looked behind him to see who the intruder was. She was a sight for sore eyes. He had not seen much of her in the days that had passed half because of the harvest and half because he didn't find himself hospitable to any company during those days. Lancelot half smiled and pulled up a barrel for him to sit on. He dusted his hands of the dirt that covered it and welcomed his guest with whatever warmth he could muster.

"Oh, Lancelot, there you are." Guinevere exclaimed. She felt as if she had searched the entire fort for this illusive man. At first, she had not deemed it such a challenging task, but it proved more of a quest each time she failed. She gave a sigh of relief upon finally seeing him, in the stables no less. She walked up to him, missing the fact that he seemed less than thrilled to be interrupted.

"Guinevere, what an unexpected surprise." He offered her a seat to the haystack next to him. His relationship with Guinevere was complex, no doubt on it. They had history to them that none would think reputable. But, the past was indeed the past. They held no remorse for the decisions they made. Arthur loved Guinevere, and Lancelot didn't. It was a simple fact. But though he did not love her in a way a man loves a woman, he did love her the way a brother loved a sister. "You've been looking for me." He asked curiously.

"Yes, for the better part of an hour if I do say so myself. When you don't want to be found, you are never found are you?" She laughed. Ah. There, Lancelot thought, was Guinevere's difference from both of her female kin. Alyanne never laughed unguardedly. Even in what he saw with her conversation with Tristan, she laughed with restrain, for she had been weighed down by her imbedded downheartedness. Elaine laughed with childish innocence, a polar opposite from the earlier. In what respects lay, the Priestess was still young looking just past twenty summers. She still had a light within her that time extinguished as it passed. Guinevere was the impasse between the two. She was neither Alyanne nor Elaine. She was a balance of both innocence and guilt. Her laugh was one that had mystery within it. It told you of what she felt, but it kept enough secrets to itself.

"Never. I am a sneaky little minx that way." Lancelot tried to jest. He did not want to be hostile to such a friend, especially not to one who was a Lady and a wife of his brother at arms. Whatever amount of cad he was, he could never be considered without honor. Lancelot was the best of men, as well as one of the worst.

"At any rate, I have a favor to ask of you."

"A favor?" He looked with mild interest. It was not often that Guinevere would ask for favors. Pride was one of her greater faults only being surpassed by her stubbornness. Sometimes he would even wonder why Arthur put up with such a woman who would not submit to any man, but then he sees the look Arthur gets in his eyes whenever he sees her or talks of her. It is there that he understood. Arthur loved his wife with all the passion and dedication in the world. He would over look any fault of hers, and he was certain that she would do the same for him.

"Yes. Have you gone deaf as well as invisible?" She tried to hide her obvious discomfort in her task. It took all of his strength not to laugh at her at that moment. He had not seen her so fidgety before. Could this favor she asks be worth all her discomfort? For her sake, he hoped it was.

"No, I just enjoy exasperating you." He told her in mocking. Oh how he missed their banters with each other. It was most enjoyable seeing a woman of her countenance to be fidgeting at the thought of asking something from him. It was a well known fact that Lancelot mostly enjoyed getting a rise out of people. He enjoyed their reactions to his meaningless words. He was always amused on how words could make a man cry, laugh, kill himself or bring others to life. "What of this favor?"

"I was wondering if you would take my cousin out for a ride...at the time most at your leisure of course…" He had not expected that. Lancelot would have thought the favor be of menial labor, talking to Arthur on some matter or even ridding out to be a messenger of sorts. He had not expected Guinevere to ask such a thing of him.

"Surely Tristan would be a more suitable and agreeable companion for Alyanne." Lancelot replied somewhat begrudgingly. He knew not where such venom came from. Tristan was his brother in arms. He was not one to be treated with such hostility. Lancelot was not that kind of man.

"No. I meant Elaine." Guinevere corrected him at an instant. Of course, Alyanne was indeed another one of her worries. She worried for the Lady of the Lake as a sister would. Guinevere knew what it was like for a heart to grieve loss, she had experienced it once herself, but she moved on. She opened her heart once more and she found a love truer than she had ever known. Alyanne needed to do the same thing. But she was strong; she would find her way sooner or later. No. It was not Alyanne for which she worried. It was little Elaine that had her somewhat apprehensive.

"You want me to take the Priestess out for a ride?"

"Talk to her, for she does not confide in me." She was afraid. Elaine, despite her position and responsibility, was fragile. Her parents died before consciousness streamed her mind, and thus she had no memories of them. Her brother was all the family she had, and she lost him in an instant to an unknown source. The death had clouded her mind too much, almost blinding her completely.

"Why me?" He said, desperate to evade such a task. Though he did come out of his hermitage to appease the worried Guinevere, he was not eager on entertaining anyone else of late. He could not be blamed for it though. There was nothing he could do to stop his nagging feeling. One could not tell another not to feel. But more importantly, he was unnerved at the thought of talking to the Priestess.

"Elaine has a lot of things on her mind. A ride would do her good. She loves horses." She said in a somber tone which surprised Lancelot. "But I don't want her to ride out on her own, and for some odd reason, I think you would suit best as a companion. She seems to enjoy your company." Guinevere finished with a slight smile on her face. It pained her to think that her own cousin did not confide in her. Her desire to know the truth could easily be mistaken for desperation. The line was thin. "Lancelot, please." She knew what haunted Elaine was what haunted them all, but she refused to speak about it, much like Alyanne. It was ironic in a way, Elaine hated Alyanne with a passion, and yet they were more alike than one would think.

The Knight closed his eyes and muddled over his Queen's words for a bit. She was asking him to take a maiden out for a ride about the countryside so as to discover in her what she could not gather for herself. And to hear from Guinevere that Elaine enjoyed his company. What it simply a rouse to making him do what she wanted…or was it the genuine truth. He knew not what to make of it, what to make of the whole thing, but Guinevere's request was too sincere to be ignored. It was not a Queen ordering a Knight, but it was a woman pleading with a friend. His face softened and a kind expression graced his features as he opened his eyes and looked to Guinevere. "We ride out in the morning."

She smiled at him softly. She needn't reply for the look in her face expressed all that she wished it to. It was one of gratitude and immense relief. Guinevere bowed slightly, mutely taking her leave, leaving the Knight alone to contemplate over the implications of his answer.

Again another chapter has ended. Tristan is slowly trusting Alyanne, even with memories of his wife, his Isolde. Alyanne in turn is accepting Tristan, making him a safeguard for her memories. When I think about Alyanne's situation, of forgetting the man you loved, it breaks my heart. We owe it to those we love to remember them and keep them alive within us. Tristan has ensured that for her, making certain that she would not forget those that have passed.

Lancelot, we are given a glance on the troubled man that is Lancelot. troubled, not in the normal sense of the word. he is more of confused in himself. The last battle with the Saxons, he almost died, but it was in that battle in which he gained more perspective in life. Is it not true that it is in the face of death that all becomes clear to us. In his case, there is still more to be revealed.

And what of Guinevere's request? She has asked him to talk with Elaine. In a way, Guinevere thinks them both stray souls, perhaps able to find the answers together, but did she make the right choice in the man she chose and in the woman she worries about?

I hope you liked the chapter. I know it is more muddled and disorganized than what I normally write, for that I apologize. There can be no excuse for bad writing. I do hope however that you will notice the details that have come into the last chapters, they will certainly be valuable in the next update. Many pieces will come into play for we are nearing the coming of the Lake's Men. Exciting is it not? Well I do hope you stick around long enough for that because it is when the Action/Adventure part of my fic starts kicking in.

As for the questions I asked, thank you to all those that replied. Your answers have provided me with much perspective. But as of now, I have yet to come up with answers of my own. But don't fret. I will sooner or later.

Here are another set of questions for you (I somewhat feel like I am conducting a survey...but oh well)

1. What do you make of Lancelot's characterization? I know I have gone a diffrent route than other fanfiction writers, so I would like your honest opinion on that matter.
2. What of Guinevere's characterization?
3. Is Tristan still believeable? I have given him a kinder side, but I don't know if he has turned to someone else completely.
4. Is the story's pace dragging in anyway? Or perhaps it is too quickly paced?

Of course, I would be reiterating 3 of my valuable previous questions for those who have yet to answer them

5. What are your thoughts of my original characters Alyanne and Elaine?
6. Who do you think suits Alyanne for the best? Lancelot or Tristan or someone else entirely?
7. Should Tristan find love again or should he remain faithful to the memory of his 'life's completion' Isolde?

Trivia:

Did you know that the romance of Tristan and Isolde predates that of the romance of Lancelot and Guinevere. It is probably what influenced the Arthurian tale in the first place. The story of Tristan and Iseult, immensely popular as it was, was too genuine to satisfy the taste of the court for which Chrétien de Troyes was writing. Moreover, the Arthurian story was the popular story of the day, and Tristan did not belong to the magic circle, though he was ultimately introduced, within its bounds. The Arthurian cycle must have its own love-tale; Guenevere, the leading lady of that cycle, could not be behind the courtly ladies of the day and lack a lover; one had to be found for her. Lancelot, already popular hero of a tale in which an adventure parallel to that of the Le Chevalier de la Charrette, figured prominently, was pressed into the service. Mordred, Guinevere's earlier lover, being too unsympathetic a character; moreover, was required for the final role of traitor.Chrétien states that he composed the poem at the request of the countess Marie de Champagne