Okay, I simply could not resist. I couldn't leave you all hanging like I did and I think these are two of my best chapters.

Enjoy!

#36 Dreams and Reality

"No!" Kirra cried to no one in particular and guided Fate down the hill towards the battle, not caring if anyone was in her way or not. She had been unable to hang back as Vanora did with her brood. She had to see what was going on and because she was so far away, that was nearly impossible. She fought to keep track of the men on horseback, but all too soon they had been pulled form their mounts and were lost to sight amidst a scrambling press of bodies. She ground her teeth and urged more speed from the black mare.

Fate pulled at the bit and fought for her head. There was too much smoke and blood on the air for her to be comfortable, but Kirra was relentless. She had spotted Tristan and the Saxon leader eyeing one another as she had neared the battle field. In her heart she knew the man was not for Tristan but her brother was too far away and too stubborn to listen, even if she had been able to somehow have told him.

She slipped from Fate's back when it was clear the mare could go no further and sprinted lightly towards her brother, dodging combatants and the fallen, ignoring their calls and praying with each breath that she would make it in time. She placed her slender body between that of her brother and that of the Saxon in the few seconds the Saxon examined their father's sword. She knew if given the chance he would use it to end Tristan's life.

Cerdic looked up from the blood stained blade and regarded her with amusement -- a lone, unarmed woman standing between him and his prey. It was too bad that she was not of his race as she was a rare beauty.

Kirra stood unwavering as her death drew near. She had only her small silver dagger to use to defend herself or her brother -- which would do precious little against a sword, the power bestowed upon her by the goddess and Fates, and she had her anger, fed by her brother's obstinacy and the unmerciful glint in the Saxon leader's eye. She hoped that would be enough for a miracle.

"I refuse to let you kill my brother with our father's sword." She spat at the advancing man then raised her arms to the heavens and murmured words that hung on the air like the smoke.

They were as mysterious and dark as she and the Saxon stopped for a breath of time. The wind picked up and tore the Kirra's hair free of its restraints. It blew about her face, hiding all but her strange eyes which darkened suddenly giving her the appearance of a demon. Her gown whipped around her legs and as she lowered her arms a warrior appeared in front of her.

His countenance was terrifying and it was all the Saxon could do to hold his ground and not to recoil from him. If the woman was a demon then this man, this ghost, was the very devil himself. Tall and strong, he was dressed for battle in dark armor that looked almost slick with blood. His eyes were black as the woman's, emphasized by the pale flesh of his face. The razored edges of his weapons and armor alike glimmered with an unearthly light. Short fair hair was tied back at the nape of his neck. Crossing his arms over his strong chest he stared unblinking at the approaching Saxon and slowly shook his head back and forth, warning the man.

Together the woman and her apparition appeared as the goddess of death, Hel, and her collaborator, Tyr, the god of war.

Cerdic growled and taking a deep breath swung his opponent's sword at the figure. His eyes widened when it passed unhampered through the man. When it connected with the vapor, a surge of energy flowed through his body and the sword dropped from numbed fingers. He heard a low taunting laugh in his head that caused the hair to stand up on the back of his neck and for perhaps the first time in his life, he knew fear, dark and thick, writhing with a life of its own. He ground his teeth and refused to give in to the terror, but somehow he knew the devil knew of it.

Realizing he would not win against the shadow warrior, he snarled and marked the woman as his. She may not be of his race, but surely a witch such as she would never thin his mighty blood with her own, she could only enrich it. He would have her. He vowed that he would return as the devil warrior watched him with cold eyes that dared him to return.

Kirra was shocked to see a hazy form appear between her and the Saxon. It looked like a warrior from the back, but she was unable to tell for sure, but whatever it was, was protecting her from the oncoming man and the rest of the horde. When the ghost turned and grinned at her and she caught sight of a wicked dimple, she knew him. It was Gareth. He said not a word, but in her heart she knew that he had been sent to help her on this leg of her journey. Perhaps that is why he had chosen not to follow her that fateful day so long ago, but rather go to his ancestors. He nodded as if he could read her thoughts and his smile widened mischievously. Kirra raised her hand in a brief salute then returned to her task.

Tristan was gasping in agony. There was so much blood that for a few seconds, Kirra was unsure that she would be able to help him. She ground her teeth at the pain that threatened to overtake her. She would not lose her only remaining family this way. He would not die, she wouldn't allow it.

"Oh, you stupid, stubborn man," She commented gently as she cut clothing free to better examine his wounds.

Tristan shivered uncontrollably at her touch and Kirra knew that he didn't have long. She could actually hear his heart stuttering to a stop and she watched in horror as his chest rose and fell one last time.

"No." She murmured and got up only to kneel at his head. Ignoring the blood staining it, she laid her forehead on his, squeezed her eyes shut, and with a prayer to the goddess, called his name. The markings on her shoulder and wrist burned with power, threatening to engulf her in flames.

Immediately it was cool and she found herself standing on a flat grassland. The silvery-green grass stretched for as far as she could see in every direction. The sky was as bright and blue as any she could remember having seen before and Kirra felt the familiar feeling in her heart of coming home. A wind blew softly tossing her hair. It smelled of grass and water.

Kirra didn't know where she was. Usually she had always followed those that were dying to a dark forest that had a warm, beckoning light at the end of it. Like the one she had been in with Gareth. Here she was somewhere definite. Was it a memory? Had she done something wrong? Never before had she ever stood in another's memory, for surely she didn't remember to the place and it must be Tristan's doing. Always she had been on the outside, listening and seeing only vivid colors as they swirled and passed around her. Now everything was completely still.

A small smokeless fire was lit in front of her and something glimmered in the sunlight and caught her eye. Beside the fire was a large, shallow stone bowl full to the brim with still water. It didn't ripple when the wind rushed over it; it only laid motionless and beckoning, still and reflective as a mirror.

A thunder of hoof beats tore Kirra's attention from the water. She shoved a lock of dark hair from her eyes as a boy, not yet a man, galloped furiously passed where she stood. Their eyes met for one brief second and Kirra knew the boy to be Tristan.

She knelt by the edge of the bowl of water as he pulled the foaming beast to a sharp stop and turned back to her. When he reached her, he jumped off the dark horse and approached her cautiously.

"Are you a ghost?" He asked his eyes wide and full of wonder.

How strange it was to be in her homeland with this younger version of her brother. She could see in him the man he would become, but she could feel his vulnerability and innocence, two things she had never seen in the Tristan she knew. He was wild and dark and taller then she, even at his young age. Kirra smiled. "I don't believe so. Why?"

"You look like my mother, except for your eyes."

Not remembering their mother, Kirra was curious, "And how are they different?"

"My mother's are dark, but yours are grey. Silver in this light. Are you my grandmother?" He asked, eyeing Kirra speculatively.

"No, not her," Kirra giggled and watched him. "Are you sure you don't know me?"

"No. What is that?" The young Tristan pointed to the water, Kirra had been studying. Kirra smiled at his curiosity, at least that hadn't changed.

"It's a scrying pool. It is used to see the future." She explained pushing back and allowing him room to see.

Tristan approached gingerly and peeked into the water, strangely it reflected only the woman's face, and not his own. He backed away feeling foolish that he would allow himself to be taken in by a woman and her foolish stories. He had more important things to attend to this day and he was wasting time.

"I see nothing and I have to go. Now." He made as if to mount his horse.

"Where are you going?" The woman's question was soft, gentle, and it unsettled the boy.

His brows knit, "That is none of your concern."

"I see. Are you always this rude to your relatives?"

He threw back his head at her calm question, nostrils flaring like a startled horse's, "You? I don't know you. How is it you are here in this place, when you were not earlier when I came through?"

"Why did you come through earlier?"

He was agitated and wanting to leave, but Kirra couldn't let him. In the back of her mind she could feel the battle raging around her. She could feel Gareth's urgent tugging. She needed to return and soon to the older Tristan. But before she did, it was imperative that his younger counterpart look in the water and recognize something.

"I had to fetch the midwife for my mother. She has been laboring long and the midwife from our tribe died this winter past." He could not believe he was telling the witch all of this. She must have cast a spell on him. Could she use him to hurt his mother or the child she was about to bring into the world?

Suddenly everything became clear to Kirra. The flashes of fire, the glimmers of water, of dark curls not her own, her pounding heart. This was the unremembered dream and it wasn't a dream. It had been. She had come to her brother in the moments before her birth and it was fear that had made her heart pound. Fear that she might lose him even as she spoke to him.

She looked up at the boy, her eyes darkening and piercing his soul, "Your mother and sister will be fine, Tristan." She said.

The boy stepped towards her, hand straying to his dagger, his posture aggressive in order to mask the alarm he felt at her knowledge, "How do you know my name?"

"Put your fear and anger aside," she smiled as if at some private joke, "both are wasted emotions. I was sent from the goddess to you. Come, sit here beside me and tell me what your future holds."

Tristan's aggression left and he hesitantly seated himself beside her, but his eyes told Kirra that he felt more compelled than anything.

"I told you I see nothing," He said after peering into the water for a few moments.

"You are not willing to see. Look," She gently touched his shoulder.

The boy bent over the bowl and it rippled and calmed. In the calm he saw faces, faces he felt he should know; familiar faces. They passed before him so rapidly he was surprised he saw them at all. He blinked and glanced at the woman beside him when her face appeared briefly. Kirra smiled and nodded. It was her memory also so she could see what he saw.

"Do you know them?" she asked gently.

"I am not sure, I feel as if I should, but it is cloudy, like a dream."

The woman cupped his face in cool hands, hands like his mother's and turned his face to hers, "Think hard, Tristan. They need you, but you cannot return unless you know them."

He looked back at the water and searched his memory until sharp pains stabbed at his brain, but nothing came. He slowly shook his head and stood to rise. The woman smiled sadly and rose with him. She stayed at the side of the bowl when he turned to leave, confusion replacing anger as he replayed the faces of the people in the water over and over. Suddenly a light dawned and he turned back to the woman. She was bending to empty the water from the bowl.

"Wait," He called urgently. She stopped and looked hopefully at him. Tears were glimmering in her eyes.

"I know … I remember … I am not sure if it a memory or a dream."

"The two are sometimes inseparable. It is enough that you remember them. Would you join them, in their fate?"

Tristan instinctively felt the importance of the question and knew his survival hinged on the answer. One that, once given, would somehow decide what he would do and where he would go after. He paused and searched his heart. He had felt -- for an instant only, the feeling of intense brotherhood, belonging, and loyalty. He looked into the warm grey eyes of the woman and nodded fiercely. Yes, he would join the men he had seen in their fate.

"Good, now you must go, for your sister will be here shortly and I have things yet to do before this day is through."

Even as she spoke the words, Kirra felt a nagging at the back of her mind. It was as if she had left something undone. In a flash of inspiration she understood. She stopped Tristan once again, "But before you go, there is something that the goddess would like you to have. Come lay before my fire, brother."

If he was surprised at her calling him brother, Tristan didn't show it. Instead he obeyed, his large dark eyes suddenly trusting. Kirra smiled and touched his face, tracing a pattern on his high cheekbones. She looked into his eyes, made sleepy and drooping by her soothing ministrations, "I wondered what these marks meant since the day we were reunited but never knew it was I who put them there." She brought her hands away and in their stead were the fine dark marks he would carry for the remainder of his days.

Kirra leaned closer and whispered in Tristan's ear, "They are the marks of a Traveler, destined to live apart and alone, until one comes to end his loneliness. Both blessing and curse. You cannot leave this world until you find her, brother, else you and she be alone and apart for all eternity."

She pressed a kiss to his temple and the picture of a soft, beautiful, fair woman filled their collective mind. Brother and sister watched as the she lifted a slender, white arm to Tristan in longing then faded into nothingness. The boy's heart leapt in his chest and he turned his head to look into the eyes of his sister. She rose to leave, but he had no such inclination. He felt calm and warmed by her and by the promise of love he had seen in the beautiful eyes of the fair woman. The urgency of his mother's condition felt far away.

"What is your name, sister?" he asked with a thick, tired tongue, for now he understood who she was.

She stooped and tenderly brushed his unruly hair back from his forehead, "You will call me Kirra. Now sleep for a time and then return quickly to our mother. I will wait for you and there will be another who comes to help. You can trust her."

"You are sure the babe is you?" Tristan asked unable to keep his eyes open a moment longer.

Kirra laughed and turned her silver eyes back on his one last time before disappearing behind the rocks.

"I know so. Farewell, brother." She raised a hand, "'Til we meet again." and she disappeared into the black.

---------------------------

Kirra came to herself quickly. When she looked down, she saw that Tristan's eyes were opened and fixed on her. He looked like death, but was alive and breathing, however painful it was for him.

"You," He whispered, thickly and a thin ribbon of blood trickled from the side of his mouth. "All this time I thought it a dream, but it was in truth memory."

"Shhh," Kirra crooned and pushed the dark locks away from his grey face and mopped the blood away with the hem of her tunic, "As I said sometimes the two are inseparable. We will discuss this later. I am going to have to make you sleep. You won't feel any pain. Do you trust me to do this and heal you and bring you back?"

After what he had just seen Tristan would trust his sister to do anything. He swallowed convulsively and, too weak to speak further, gave a slight nod. Kirra kissed his forehead again and whispered, "I will be here when you wake." Then she began the chant that would send him to the deep painless oblivion he needed to be in to heal.

When he was safely asleep she looked around in panic, her bag with all of her herbs and tools was on the wagon. In her panic she had forgotten it. It would take precious time, time she didn't have, to fetch the bag and return. Why hadn't she thought ahead?

She heard a low chuckle and looked up. Gareth was still guarding her and he gestured for her to look down. There beside her was the scrying bowl. It still held fresh water full to the brim. Gratefully she whispered her thanks to him and reached for the bowl. Wrapping her hands around it as far as they would stretch, Kirra infused the water with her living energy and the power of the moon until it glowed silver.

She turned to her fallen brother and cut the rest of the clothes from his upper body. The great, slashing wounds were extensive and many. She again cursed herself that she had forgotten her bag, but if she could stop the bleeding and get the wounds cleaned and half healed, she could sew them up later.

Having decided her course of action she began at once to stop the bleeding with the pressure of her hands and the lulling chants Niara had taught her. She opened her dress and tore a strip of her under shirt to use as a rag. It was the cleanest thing she had out on the muddy, blood spattered field and it would have to do. Dipping it in the water, she would smooth it over the wounds and press down at the same time in order to staunch the flow of blood and promote heeling.

Kirra worked quicker then she ever had before, but was just as meticulous; the whole of the operation taking mere minutes. When she had done all that she could, given place and lack of supplies. She sat back on her heels and wiped wearily at her head. Sinking into their combined memory and then using her talents to keep Tristan bound to her and force his body to heal so quickly, drained her. She felt woozy and swayed even as she sat. She wanted to close her eyes and sleep for a very long time.

At her thought, Kirra felt a feather-light touch on her shoulder. She turned her dazed eyes upward and recognized Gareth, he was still with her. At his gentle touch, she felt a rush of energy even as he began to fade from her view. He motioned to Tristan's motionless body and Kirra knew that she had to bring her brother back before he got too comfortable in the dark and refused to come at all.

Kirra smiled and addressed the fading warrior, "Thank you my friend, for all that you have done. Go now, rest. We will be with you soon. Trust me to care for Tristan and the others."

Satisfied, Gareth allowed himself to fade completely away. But before he left, Kirra could have sworn that she felt warm lips brush her cheek and she was wrapped in the haunting sound of a warm boyish chuckle.

She smiled as she used the last of the water in the bowl to clean Tristan's face. As she did so, she called to him in a low, persuasive voice and it was not long before he responded and opened his eyes.

Kirra could still read pain there, but his breathing was easier and his heartbeat was strong and sure. He gripped her hand tightly. Hearing a sound to her right, Kirra looked up to see Bors making his way towards them. The battle was all but over and somehow they had triumphed.

The big man was limping and favoring his right side. Blood fell from a few small head wounds, but he would be fine. Kirra would see to that. He stood beside her waiting for Tristan to relinquish his hold on the healer's hand. His eyes were darkened in sorrow.

Kirra squeezed her brother's hand and he released her. She rose gracefully, so full of a radiant power that her whole being shone. She touched the big man's arm and at once he felt his pain ease.

"What is it Bors?"

He looked across the field for once unable to speak and Kirra followed his gaze. She could make just make out Arthur sitting at the side of a fallen man and Guinevere sitting at his head. Arthur was distraught and looking into the sky for something, anything. It could mean only one thing; that his closest friend and brother, Lancelot, had fallen.

She spared not a glance at Bors, but vowed, "That will not be." And she left to make her way across the field to the commander.