SEMPER LIBER

Summary: A dying man's final request sends a young woman to a new life at Badon Hill. TristanOC.

Disclaimer & Author's Note: I like to think that Malory would have his legends of King Arthur belong to the ages, but I cannot lay claim to them nor to those responsible for the 2004 film by the same name. Thank you for reading, and enjoy! There will be some real action soon, I promise. In the meantime, let me know if I'm on course.

Chapter 4: Darkness

Percival loitered. He'd tucked himself against the wall at the top of the stairs nearest the knights' quarters and was scratching idly at a badly mangled piece of wood. He had not seen Tristan the night before after his cousin had departed the stables, and it irked him that the older knight had not returned to the halls for a drink and much sought-after gossip.

Eager footsteps sounded on the stairs below him, and Percival was not in the least surprised to see Galahad trotting up the stones. Galahad paused a few steps below his friend. "What are you doing here?"

Percival tilted his head slightly and slowly shaved a thin curl of sawdust off the wood in his hand. It was much easier to pretend he had Tristan's quiet, sharp take on the world when Tristan himself wasn't around to ruin the game. "Same as you, I suppose," he said nonchalantly.

Galahad planted his hands on his hips. Where Percival made himself an imp and a nuisance, Galahad had perfected the whine and pout of a ten-year-old boy which, considering that he was more than twice that age, was somewhat impressive. When they weren't pestering their older fellows, Percival and Galahad could often be found together, the youngest brothers in a group of stout and brave men.

"Well, has she been out?" Galahad asked.

Percival raised his head slightly. "Do you think I'd be sitting here if she had?"

"She's had breakfast in the kitchens an hour ago," Kay said, climbing the stairs behind Galahad. He clapped the young knight on the back, a little harder than he had to. "Perhaps if you'd gone down to eat with the rest of us, you'd have gotten your chance to blush and stutter like school girls in front of her." He winked, his face flushed to match his hair. "I'm riding out to hunt hare. Either of you lasses care to join me?"

-

Bors lifted his sixth, a boy, from the cold stone floor. The little bastard was soaked head to toe, on his way across the kitchen and out the door. "Vanora!" he bellowed. "I got one!"

"Well, bring him back in, then!" she hollered.

Bors lifted the five-year-old under one burly arm. He dropped two bloodied rabbits on the floor a few feet from the wooden tub. He set the boy down. "Listen to your mother," he said sternly.

Vanora frowned at the dead animals. "I'm such a lucky woman," she said, scrubbing at the four's hair.

"Mama," the little boy whined. "I can do it!"

Vanora dipped her hands into the lukewarm water. "Do it then," she said with a distracted smile. She looked up at her lover. "Have you seen the girls?" she asked, referring to their two eldest children.

"I think I saw 'em sneaking about the dressmaker's house," he mused. "They're the beautiful little redheads that look like you, right?"

Vanora rose from her aching knees. Her mouth twisted in a smile, dragged down on one side by her attempt at a disgruntled smirk. "Lancelot was by," she said coyly. "He told them about Arthur's new girl. I turned my back and they were gone."

Bors stepped around the tub and grabbed Vanora by the shoulders. "You didn't let him in, did you?" He leaned in close, her breath warm and calm on his cheek.

"Mm," Vanora hummed. "Only into the kitchen."

Bors growled and crashed his lips into hers.

-

Tristan meant to follow Cariad, but found himself tracking Lancelot instead. The sun had set whilst they ate with Arthur and the rest of the knights in the tavern's overcrowded kitchen. Nearly two feet of snow made the task of eating and drinking properly impossible, and Tristan had found himself pressed uncomfortably between Galahad and Dagonet, unimpressed with the experience of sharing his space so closely, even with his fellow knights.

Lancelot's footsteps were quieter than the girl's, and they were not particularly challenging to follow. They faded in and out of his view like shadows, stepping into the flickering lanterns and out again, their dark hair disappearing in the dark passages between. After a few missed turns, Cariad found the stables and disappeared into their warmth and quiet. Lancelot looked around, his eyes settling knowingly on the spot where Tristan lounged against the wall of the courtyard. He smirked and disappeared into the stables, and Tristan followed.

-

Cariad raised her head from her horse's dark, warm shoulder. She knew she'd been followed, and would have lashed out if she'd known him better. She wanted to be alone, but not in the loneliness of her new quarters. She murmured quietly to the horse and laid her hand flat against his barrel. "Lancelot," she sung softly.

"Yes, my lady?" Lancelot stepped from the shadows to lean his arms on the stall barrier between himself and Cariad.

She smiled weakly. "Why are you following me?"

Lancelot leaned on one elbow and smirked. "It's not safe for a woman to wander around the fort alone after dark. There are a number of lonely men cooped up here in the winter months."

"I can see that," Cariad said, raising one delicate brow in annoyance. In her head, she relented. He was amusing and, as far as she was concerned, harmless.

Lancelot laughed, a rich, haughty sound, but full of real mirth. "Bors has gotten to you," he said knowingly.

"Aye," Cariad said. She paused. "Vanora, too."

"And I suppose you believed every word," he said lazily.

"I didn't," Cariad sighed. "But all the same, I am not likely to choose your company to keep me safe from those lonely men."

Lancelot grinned. "And what makes you think I have anything other than good intentions in engaging you?"

"I believe you have as many good intentions regarding any woman as you have bad ones." She pressed her lips together, suppressing a smirk.

"You've got a sharp tongue," Lancelot mused. He sighed at last, and when he raised his eyes again, she saw the goodness and sincerity that lay beneath the bravado. "I hope you will be happy here. As Arthur's ward, you have all of us for guardians." He chuckled and motioned to the loft. "I'll let Tristan see you back to your rooms. You took quite a few bad turns on the way here."

Cariad closed her eyes, and when she opened them, the dark knight had gone. She turned her face into her horse's neck again, breathing in his familiar, earthy smell. Many slow minutes passed before she spoke. "And you, Tristan? Why do you follow me?" She heard his near-silent descent from the loft and his quiet footsteps across the barn floor. She waited, and he said nothing for some time.

"You want to be alone," he said finally.

Cariad twisted her fingers in the horse's mane. She met his dark gaze with her own, and was torn by the sadness she saw reflected there. She ached.

Tristan tore his gaze away. "Lancelot's right. I'll wait outside until you are ready to go to your room." He turned and strode away purposefully, but his mind raced, tripped, fell. It took everything in him to keep from going back, taking her face in his hands, and forcing her to tell him everything. He wanted to draw the pain out of her like a thread, tugging until there was nothing left. He wanted to see her break.

"Tristan," she called softly.

He paused, but did not dare turn towards her voice for fear of indulging his cruel impulses.

"Thank you."

Tristan shook his head and slipped out into the cold night. He watched out of the corner of his eye as she pressed her forehead against the horse's neck, her shoulders shaking. She cried for some time before a tortured sob broke through the shuddering silence. Over the violent quickening of his heart, the near-sickening rush of compassion rushing through his veins, he heard himself whisper, "You'll be all right, you're all right."

When she emerged a short time later, Tristan offered her his arm. Cariad looked up at him curiously, her dark eyes dull and rimmed red. "Come," he said, closing his free hand over her wrist where it rested lightly on his own.

The silence between them was at once comfortable and tumultuous. At her door, Tristan turned Cariad towards him suddenly. He took her face in his hands, his fingers curling roughly through her hair and around to the nape of her neck. Cariad gasped, searching desperately for breath when Tristan pressed his forehead against her own, his eyes closed in pain.

"Tristan?" she whispered.

Tristan's eyes flew open. He pulled away from her violently, his fingers catching in the dark tangle of her hair. He ripped apart the darkness that had drawn them together. "I'm sorry." He held her gaze, searching futilely for something to explain the attraction he felt towards her, the undeveloped affection. "Good night," he said finally.

"Good night," he heard her whisper.

He wanted to tear her down and put her back together, and see what he had made.