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!

A/N#2: Ah… not for kiddies. And… yeah. Heed the rating and I hope it works for you. Because this is not my shtick. And… that's that. On to the show.

Chapter 10: Touch

Vanora slept fitfully. In her dreams, she beheld their eyes, all of them, swimming with a pain she had never herself experienced. She saw those who had gone before. Men whose faces she barely remembered surrounded her, faces twisted in silent agony. She had never heard their screams or seen them in the rare moments between life and death as her lover had. She had only seen the dead-eyed faces of those left behind, torn between sorrow and jealousy. They closed in on her now, their hands grasping at her clothes, trying to tear the life from her womb. She woke with a scream.

Bors held his knife in his hand before he was fully awake. Now alert, he touched his lover's brow, damp with sweat. "Come now, woman. You're all right." He stroked her cheek with a tenderness that would have surprised his fellows. "What's it been now?"

Blinking slowly, Vanora came up through the surface of the nightmare. "The same as it's ever been," she answered. She turned towards him in earnest. "You are not allowed to die here. You are not allowed to leave me."

Bors laid a heavy hand on her abdomen. "You waste your time worrying over me," he insisted. "You would be better off spending your thoughts on the little ones." He grinned in the darkness. "Which will this be? Eight?"

"Nine," Vanora said, slapping him lightly on the chest. "And you know it."

"Ah, yes. Nine," Bors said thoughtfully. "Perhaps you will give me a boy this time?"

Vanora scrubbed her fingers over her eyelids. "If it were up to me, they'd all be boys. Three girls are plenty enough to worry about."

"How long till we find out?" Bors asked.

Vanora slapped his hand away. "No more than two months, I suspect."

"You're a strong horse of a woman."

"A horse?" Vanora protested. "Have you any idea at all how to treat a woman?"

Bors kissed her cheek. "How many children do we have again?" He pulled her into his burly arms and held her while she drifted back to sleep, thoroughly exhausted.

-

There was a little bit of sunshine, and not much wind. He found her curled in the embrasure nearest the knights' quarters, one of her usual haunts. Tristan leaned down, peering under the narrow ledge that topped the arrow-shield. "Are you never cold?" he teased.

Cariad smiled slightly, reaching out with one pale hand.

Tristan took it, running his thumb over her knuckles. "You smile so often."

"Should I be sad?"

He seemed to consider her question, a measure of warmth rising to his eyes from beneath the lingering absence of his cousin and the grey landscape of the life he had led before her arrival. She had changed nothing but the circumstances, painting a little unexpected color around the edges of his destitution. The weeks since his cousin's death had been eased by her selfless attentions and, on the occassions that she allowed him to share her bed, his own surprising tenderness in response to her nightmares.

"No," he said finally. Tristan raised her delicate hand to her lips. He bent to press a kiss to her forehead. He let a smile creep onto his face when she tilted her face up, meeting his lips with her own. He pulled away slowly, struck for a moment by her sweetness. Eyes closed, her lashes lay dark on her pale skin, her face still upturned, half-shadowed beneath the weak sunlight.

Tristan did not offend her by asking the question foremost in his mind, but resigned himself to believe in the conviction of her emotions. She opened her eyes and regarded him warmly. "Go on, then," she said. "Leave me alone."

He smirked, tracing the line of her jaw with his thumb. "As you wish."

-

Gawain could only grin as he watched his two friends stumbling carelessly about the tavern, coltish and unashamed. He hid a chuckle behind his drink when Cariad tripped over Galahad's foot. The younger man grabbed at her waist, spinning her awkwardly to her feet again. They both laughed, faces flushed with amusement.

Beside Gawain, Lancelot lounged suggestively, half-ignoring the attentions of the young woman in his lap. He held her tight against him and leered across Gawain at Tristan. "Looks like Galahad has stolen your girl," he taunted.

"She's not my girl," Tristan answered nonchalantly. He picked at his nails with the tip of his knife, watching the youngest of them dancing in and out of the torchlight against a backdrop of red Roman cloaks.

Lancelot laughed out loud, half-drunk and deliberately obnoxious. "I don't know what she sees in him," he said, a little too loudly. "There are more attractive men, and ones that are full grown at that!" The girl on his lap smacked him lightly but did not make to leave.

"He can't be much older than she," Gawain said, casting a sideways glance at Tristan. "Let them have their fun."

Tristan scratched idly at his cheek to hide his amused smirk. He ducked his head, following the dancers' movements beneath lowered lids. Their boots scraped across the tavern stones, caked with mud. Galahad glowed, his hands warm and steady on his partner's waist. Her hair slipped loose from her messy braid, dark fringes clinging to her cheeks.

Rising from the table, Tristan drained his ale. He raised his empty mug to his fellows and to his cavorting friends. Gawain waved his hand absently. Cariad skipped awkwardly over Galahad's feet, grinning.

Lancelot furrowed his brow, glancing from Tristan's retreating form to the girl. The silent knight's head tilted in her direction, so briefly that Lancelot thought he might have imagined it. "I never took Tristan for a liar," he mused to Gawain.

The blond knight smirked, never taking his eyes from his young friends. Galahad stumbled to a halt, nearly dragging Cariad off her feet. They both laughed, still but for Galahad's slightly drunken sway. "Shut up, Lancelot," he laughed. "Mind your own business for once."

-

Tristan rested quietly, not bothering to feign sleep. He ran his calloused thumb along the blade of her dagger. It had been carefully cleaned since its last use. He traced the markings in the handle. Bedwyr. He glanced up when she entered, gauging her reaction to his intrusion.

"What are you doing?" Cariad asked softly. She shifted her gaze from his eyes to the dagger and back.

Tristan took in her face, still flushed from dancing. "Do you ever wake up with this in your hand?"

"Yes," she answered simply.

Tristan swung his legs over the side of the bed, turning over the dagger in his hands. "You can't be more than twenty," he mused.

"Twenty-two," she said, taking the blade from his hand. She placed it on the table beside the bed. "Why?" she asked, studying him carefully.

"You are lucky you were not born a boy."

Cariad sat in the chair by the unlit fire. "Hm?" She made herself busy untangling her boot laces, waiting for him to elaborate. His presence was not unwelcome, only unexpected. Her fingers refused to cooperate.

"You'd have been a year younger than Galahad," Tristan said at length. "And Percival."

Cariad raised her head, loose hair straggling over her shoulders.

Tristan watched her evenly. "You'd have been Arthur's ward long before now. They'd have stolen you from your father twelve years ago, when you were barely old enough to hold a sword." He paused. "You would not have been the youngest among us."

"How many?" Cariad asked quietly.

"I hardly remember," Tristan admitted. "At least four times what we are now."

Cariad finally shed her boots, pausing when she noticed Tristan's on the floor by the hearth. Smirking, she finally looked him in the eye. "Feel free to make yourself comfortable," she said wryly. She pushed her hair back behind her ears as he stood.

"Are you still afraid of me?" he asked, tamping down his disappointment.

Her face was such a mixture of emotions as to be nearly unreadable. "Not as such."

Tristan closed the distance between them in a single stride. He took her face in his hands and kissed her as gently as he could manage. She returned his kiss, timidly at first, then with more confidence. He tangled his fingers in her hair and pressed his palm to the small of her back, pulling her closer. She stilled for an instant before wrapping her fingers in the fabric of his shirt.

When the need for air overwhelmed his senses, Tristan pulled away. He ran his thumb over her cheek, the dark desire in her eyes sparking his own. Reaching behind her to the door, he slid the bolt closed. There was no ignoring the anxious shade in her eyes. Tristan summoned what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "You must not be afraid of me."

Cariad raised her chin defiantly. "I am not afraid." Tugging playfully at one of his braids, she pulled his mouth to hers. Her kiss was clumsy with inexperience, but sincere. Tristan returned her attentions, guiding her tenderly. He pried her fingers from his shirt and lifted it over his head.

Sad horror crossed her pretty features. Tentatively, she raised her hands to the trace the scars that crossed his collarbone and ribcage. His fingers circled her wrists, but he allowed her to touch him where his skin had closed over once exposed bone and muscle, thin ridges of numb flesh whose memories he did not want to recall.

Tristan bent his head to kiss her temple, committing himself to the tenderness he knew she'd need. As her fingers trailed over the six-inch scar on his left side, he sighed, burying his face in her hair. She pressed her lips to the scar over his collarbone, the place she'd pressed her fingers after he'd frightened her so badly that morning so many weeks ago, searching for the wound that had enraged him so.

Turning Cariad towards the window, Tristan untied the belt at the waist of her simple dress. She shivered. He laid his hands heavily on her shoulders. Her skin was warm beneath the cloth. Brushing her hair over her shoulder, Tristan breathed in deeply. He pulled her dress carefully over her head, keenly attuned to the whisper of the fabric over her pale skin.

Cariad breathed his name, her heart fluttering madly in her chest. She gasped when he dropped her dress to floor and cupped her breast in his hand. The battle-hardened skin of his palm burned against her flesh. She leaned into his touch instinctively. Her stomach fluttered when he laid his other hand flat against her abdomen. She closed her eyes, reaching back to cradle his head in her hand. His lips caressed the skin above her tattoo, mouth hot and wet against her flesh. She shuddered, tortured by the slow slide of his hand, her control shattered by the strange but pleasant sensation of his fingers between her legs. She felt deliciously weak.

Hooking one arm across her chest, Tristan pressed his fingers against her, aroused as much by her complete submission as by the dampness between her thighs. It did not take long for her to break, pulsing against his hand. He matched her soft cry with a groan and held her shivering body against him.

Cariad floated from his arms to the bed, senses softly blurred. She stroked his face with tentative fingers, still shaking from the newness of his touch, the fear and exhilaration. Tristan bent to kiss her mouth. She blushed when he pulled away, making quick work of his pants. He climbed gracefully into the bed beside her, skin damp and hot against hers. He studied her face, her eyes wide with something on the line between trepidation and anticipation.

Taking her hand in his, Tristan wrapped her fingers around his erection, her palm damp on his over sensitized flesh. He closed his eyes and bit his lip as he directed her fingers, rubbing himself between her thighs. Her breath puffed erratically against his cheek. She gasped at his touch, her blood pulsing to the rhythm of his ministrations.

He poised himself carefully at her entrance and tangled his other hand in the hair at the base of her neck. He entered her swiftly, smothering her surprised cry of pain with his mouth. He soothed the hurt reflected in her eyes with a gentle kiss and a promise. He waited until she nodded silently, reaching up to pull his mouth down to hers. Sliding a hand over her hip, he lifted her leg over his, opening her to his intrusion.

Cariad wrapped her arm around his shoulders, nudging her hips experimentally against his. Groaning, he pushed back, rocking against her with the barest control. Her arm tightened around him when he pressed into her, the strange sensation of him inside her knotting pleasantly in her stomach. Barely able to catch her breath, she buried her face against his neck, murmuring her pleasure in time with his thrusts.

Tristan's hands traveled her hips, fingers tightening instinctively as he felt his release approaching. He reveled in the way she clung to him, desperate and strung tight with need. The pressure became unbearable and he let himself go, crashing into her mindlessly. She shuddered weakly beneath him as he came, growling his release into the curve of her neck.

Rolling to the side, Tristan reached for Cariad's hand, twining his fingers through hers tightly. His kissed her lowered eyelids, each in turn, tasting the salt on her skin. He pressed his forehead to hers, listening as her breathing slowed to normal, cooling the sweat at the hollow of his throat. "I love you," he murmured, the words sliding past his lips with unexpected ease. He brushed the damp hair away from the face, smiling softly when she opened her eyes.

"I love you," she repeated, something at once safe and lost swimming in her gaze. She willed away the stinging ache between her legs. Even now, her stomach fluttered when his hand skimmed down her side, trailing a path from her arm to her ribs and over her hip. He pulled the heavy wool blanket from the foot of the bed and spread it over them, trapping the heat of their lovemaking.

Warm and content, Cariad tugged her lover close. Tristan put his arms around her easily, cradling her head against the curve of his neck. He tangled his fingers in her hair, and wondered at the sensation of a second heartbeat fluttering against his skin.