After fifteen years of saddling his horse in the stable, in the dark and in the day, Tristan learned to do it by touch, if need be. He could shut his mind off, turn away from what his hands were doing and think about something else. And despite the fact that he wanted to be thinking of anything but, his mind kept going over and over the events of the day. The return to the fort. Their discharge papers. Dagonet's funeral. How he had felt as he watched another of his comrades be buried, the aching need to have Toril beside him as he stood at the grave. The numbness that had set in as he went about his usual business, without the sense of purpose he usually had. Nightfall. Gazing at the dark mass of trees in the distance, searching for any sign of Toril. Turning around to see the Saxons moving onto fields he had protected for the last fifteen years.
Tristan knew Arthur would fight. Knew that the man he had followed since he had reached this forsaken island had finally found something greater than Rome to live for. He also knew that nothing would happen until the next day - that these last few hours of darkness would be set aside for warriors to spend with their loved ones, maybe for the last time.
So that's why Tristan was in the stables, saddling Filia with quick, practiced movements. Once she was ready he swung aboard and headed out of the compound, towards the woods where Toril was. He didn't have to go very far - there was a clearing just inside the treeline, a straight line across the field from the dusty road inside the wall.
His heart heavy, Tristan slid off Filia's back and took in the contents of the clearing. It wasn't very big; roughly the same size as his quarters back at the fort. To his right stood Medwin, his long neck lowered so that his nose snuffed gently against the grass. Karina appeared out of nowhere, as usual, and took her place on Medwin's back, staring at Tristan with her unblinking blue eyes. Tristan held her gaze for a moment, then turned to look at the fire that was directly across from him. And at Toril, who was standing on the opposite side, her eyes glinting in the light.
Neither of them spoke as Toril moved slowly around the fire and walked towards him, her face oddly immobile, almost an emotionless mask. Tristan's eyes narrowed slightly at this, but before he could open his mouth to ask, Toril's arms were wrapped around his shoulders, her mouth desperately pressed to his. Caught up in the sweet taste of her lips on his, for a moment Tristan didn't feel the moisture on his cheeks. Pulling back in surprise, he saw tears coursing down Toril's pale face and her eyes so devastated that he felt like a stone dropped into the pit of his stomach.
"Toril..." At the sound of his voice, Toril totally broke down; her hands clutching at his shoulders for support, her face buried in his chest, her slim body heaving with silent sobs. Not used to people turning to him for comfort, Tristan awkwardly patted her back a few times before he gathered her in his arms and settled beside the fire. Then he silently waited until her tears subsided somewhat before gently tipping her face up towards his, searching her blue eyes.
"What is it, Toril?" Toril sighed raggedly before curling into him and resting her head on his shoulder.
"I didn't see, Tristan. When I looked for a way to defeat Cynric, when I looked for a way to get you all safely back to the fort...I didn't see. I saw Dagonet run, I saw the ice break, I saw the death of Cynric's men, but I didn't see Dagonet...I didn't see him die, Tristan. If I had looked, I could have done something, could have prevented it, but I didn't know! And now..." Fresh tears rolled down her cheeks, but she impatiently wiped them away. Tristan shook his head.
"We die, Toril. It is our life - fight well, and die while fighting. But we lost none of those under our protection. Dagonet lived to protect. Even if he had known that death was coming , he would have done the same thing, because it was the only way." Toril's eyes slid shut in defeat, and she rested her forehead against Tristan's for a moment, breathing in his woodsy scent and calming herself. A few minutes later, she looked up again and met his gaze. Tristan waited only another heartbeat to be sure of the look in her eyes before crushing her to him and claiming her lips.
Night flew by on softer wings than Karina's, and in the darkest hour before dawn, Toril left Tristan sleeping by the fire. Silently, carefully, she unbound her blonde hair and brushed it until it shone and fell in soft folds around her hips, replacing her priestess' circlet on her forehead when she was finished and weaving it into her hair so that it would not move. She washed her white limbs with the freezing water that trickled past in a small stream, and rubbed oil into her skin. Finally, Toril stood in the middle of the clearing facing east, naked and gleaming, with her arms slightly lifted, palms forward. Then she began to chant.
She chanted the wild, barren land of her birth, with its sharp mountains and icy fjords. She chanted her life as Cerdic's priestess and the conquests she led him to. She chanted her first vision of Arthur and his knights, her first vision of Tristan, and the war host's journey to this island. She chanted Marius' dungeons; her capture, imprisonment, torture, and rescue. She chanted her relationship with Tristan, and the night they had spent. She chanted all the death she had seen, all the battles she had foretold and participated in. She chanted life. And as she chanted, she felt her spirit rise and expand, filling the clearing around her and soaring above the forest, above the wall, above the enemy war host, the Woads, the peasants, the Romans, and the Sarmatians. She felt her inner sight quicken and expand with her, racing over space and time, searching through the camps, searching the past and the future.
Then, as the sun began to rise red on the horizon, she chanted the coming battle. The departure from the wall. The meeting of Cerdic and Arthur. The decision of the knights. The rejoining of Arthur's war band. The first alliance of the Woads and their future king. And one last time, she chanted death, but a smile pulled at her mouth as she did so. She chanted death, but she also chanted freedom - and she felt her heart lift inside her.
Finally, with dawn's first light creeping into the clearing, Toril turned away from the east and strode towards Medwin, catching a glimpse of Tristan sitting bare-chested and cross-legged by the fire, sharpening his sword. He watched in silence as she marked herself with red paint; a straight line from her forehead, down her face and body. He watched as she dressed herself in leather garments so light they were almost white - trousers and boots that laced to her knees, and a long band of leather that she wrapped tightly around her chest instead of a shirt, careful to bind her long hair to her back as she wrapped. Her wide belt she strapped around her hips, checking for her collection of throwing knives. A dagger was slipped into the sheath at her belt, and another slid into the top of her right boot. A great broadsword in its scabbard was strapped across her back, a quiver full of arrows attached to it within easy reach. Her longbow she left attached to the packs across Medwin's shoulders. When she was ready, she turned to Tristan and saw that he had also dressed and was holding Filia's reins loosely by his side.
"What did you see?" Toril gathered Medwin's reins in her hands, grasped his mane and swung onto his back.
"Death. And freedom." Tristan nodded once, and swung onto Filia's back and led the way out of the forest without another word.