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!

Chapter 11: Ghosts, Part I

Dawn crept across the floor, its bruised grey draping across the sleeping companions like a soft blanket. Tristan woke first, momentarily disoriented by the closeness of another human being. He rose a short while later and gathered his clothes. Cariad woke only long enough to receive his kiss before he left.

Tristan jogged down the stairs from the knights' quarters. He stole an apple from the kitchens before collecting his horse and setting out across the snow. There was little wind to speak of, and fewer clouds. The sun rose slowly.

He guided his stallion through the weak sunlight. The horse picked its own path through the knee-deep snow, stepping carefully around the partially hidden underbrush. A sparse stand of trees separated the walls of the fortress from the graveyard.

Swords and axes rose from the snow, standing tall and lonely despite their number. Tristan's contemporaries were only a small percentage of the men whose bodies were interred here. Generations of Sarmatian bloodlines were severed and ended here, husbands and sons never to return.

Tristan pulled his horse up at Percival's grave and dismounted. The horse wandered away, seeking out a mound whose guardian sword had fallen years before. Tristan had long since accepted the animal's habit, thinking it not so different from his brothers' and his own.

Tristan laid a hand on the hilt of his cousin's sword, a greeting. It seemed Percival had been gone longer than these swift weeks. In that short time, Tristan had discovered the zenith and nadir of his own emotions, and hoped never to experienced the latter again.

"You are free, cousin," he said.

He fingered a loose leather on the sword's grip, then whistled to his horse. The animal lumbered back slowly. Tristan laid a hand on the stallion's shoulder. He traveled back to the fortress on foot, stretching his legs beside his horse's and drinking in the new day.

-

Galahad woke from one nightmare into another. Percival watched him still, over his shoulder as when they had been boys. Shaking off the cold sight of the dead, Galahad dressed quickly and turned to leave, almost convinced that he could shut the other boy in his room and out of his mind for the rest of the day. Percival held closed the door.

"Son of a whore," he muttered, scrubbing a hand over his mouth.

Galahad went to the trunk at the end of his bed, slipping the catches open with practiced fingers. He pawed through his shirts and belts. At the bottom of the chest, dusted with age, there lay a thin roll of good paper, covered in Arthur's privileged letters. The wax tablet below the paper was dry and useless after all these years. Galahad tucked the roll of paper into his vest and left the tablet.

The first two years had not been so bad, once he had gone used to his surroundings. Together with Percival and Gawain's traveling companion, Pelleas, Galahad had spent those years learning his letters under Arthur's tutelage. They had been too young to wield swords, and Arthur would not have them waste their time on futile efforts. Arthur had only been eighteen himself, but that had been twice the age of the Pelleas. Arthur's Roman contemporaries had not approved of the lessons and had teased the boys mercilessly in their commander's absence.

Galahad found his friend in the stables, rubbing oil into his horse's martingale. The younger man bit his tongue, holding back the urge to make fun. The martingale was clean and gleaming, and possibly in danger of wearing through at Gawain's attentions. He cleared his throat.

Gawain looked up, squinting against the weak morning sunlight that poured through the open doorway. "Yes?"

Galahad crossed the arena swiftly, Percival's insistent presence shadowing him. He rolled his shoulders unconsciously, brushing off the dead man. He stood before Gawain and held out the small roll of papers. "These are Arthur's," he said quickly. "Mine."

Gawain accepted the scroll curiously. "What is this?"

"Arthur taught us to read and write with these," he offered. "What's left of them anyway. There's some blank space in the margins."

Gawain frowned. "Has there been any use in it?" he asked.

"Not really." Galahad chewed absently at his thumb. "But Kay said you wanted to learn."

"I do," Gawain admitted. He spared his fellow a grateful smile, dutifully hiding his embarrassment at being offered help by the younger man. "Thank you."

Percival wandered away in smug, self-satisfied silence. Galahad rubbed at the back of his neck, chasing away the chill. "The weather is nice," he put forward. "I am going to take the lad out for some exercise." The grey bobbed its head eagerly, as if he had been attending to the entire conversation.

"I will go with you," Gawain said, standing. He thought they could all use a little fresh air and sunlight, frail though it was. There were too many ghosts cooped up inside the walls, and hardly enough space for the rest of them.

-

Four kittens were barely enough to keep the little ones' attention, but Dagonet did not mind. He had volunteered to watch six of the children while Vanora rested and Bors chased hart with Kay in lieu of worry.

There was very little of value left in the kitchens, as snow had barred the merchants' paths for the better part of the month since the first storm of winter had followed the girl to Badon Hill. The eldest were in the scullery now, making use of what was left in preparation for dinner. Another night of over softened potatoes and slightly burned bread did not bother him much, so long as they were blessed with food. It did not take much to keep the stoic knight in his sedentary spirits. He had decided long ago, and wisely, he thought, to trust in Arthur and in the life he had been dealt. The philosophy had served him well.

"Hey, now," Dagonet murmured, pulling the fourth, eight-year-old Gilly, from one of the tortured kittens. He lifted the kitten and placed it carefully in the boy's hands. "Gentle."

"I cannot imagine how she manages," Cariad said absently. She stroked the tousled brown curls of number seven where he slept on his belly on the hay. The child mumbled and shook his head, but did not wake. In her lap, the youngest of them, not much more than one year, dozed fitfully. The other three scrambled in the space between the girl and the gentle knight, waving wisps of hay at the kittens.

The children reminded him sorely of his own offspring, a girl and a boy, the oldest less than four years when he had been summoned away from his home and the young wife he had been reluctant to take in the first place. He loved her dearly, and still did, but had never been able to relieve himself of the guilt that came with marrying her, spoiling her for the second-born sons of his village and damning her to a life solitude. The boy would be nearly thirteen now, almost old enough to care for his mother, but Dagonet had very little hope that his son remained at his mother's side. He would be in Thrace or Galatia, or any number of foreign lands Dagonet had heard whispers of from the few men who returned. He had never allowed himself to entertain the thought that the boy might be brought to Britain. The endeavor was too painful.

The life Dagonet had left behind had been half-lived, half-full. Despite his misgivings about his wife's safety, and his sweet little girl, he had been given the opportunity to love and have life before Rome called him away from everything he knew. He did dare to hope this: that his daughter would marry an understanding man whose would take her mother in as well, kind enough to give to his people what he had not been forced to give to Rome. Sometimes he dreamt of them, gold-haired and shining and happy on the green plains of his homeland.

"She loves them," he said.

Cariad glanced up. "Yes. Of course."

Dagonet did not need to ask who had put that blissful sorrow in her eyes. He would never express his surprise at her choice, though he understood Tristan's all too well. There was nothing so unfair of silent knight as to take the girl in as his own, and nothing he could do otherwise.

-

The knights were in relatively good spirits, celebrating the brief winter sunlight with drink and easy camaraderie. Bors's eldest ate with them in the dining hall, away from the raucous carryings on of the Roman soldiers and their British whores. Number three, a nine-year-old boy, was throwing small bits of lumpy potato at his older sisters.

"Stop it!" the eldest snapped. Despite her sharp tone, the girl's skittish demeanor was a mystery to both her parents, and her scolding had absolutely no effect on her sibling. Under her reproachful glare, the second snatched up the well-aimed missile and ate it herself. The eldest slapped her hand.

"Girls," Dagonet warned quietly. He tapped the boy on the back of the head. "Eat your meal."

At the other end of the table, Lancelot leaned on his elbow and leered at their third female companion. "You are in a good mood," he teased.

Tristan's low growl drowned under Gawain's protest. "What have I told you about minding your own business, Lancelot?" he said sharply.

Slapping Gawain lightly on the chest, Cariad answered calmly, "I am." Squeezed between Tristan and Gawain on the narrow bench, she felt quite safe kicking Lancelot swiftly in the shin.

The dark knight winced before he could stop himself. "You," he said, glowering at her, "are a brat."

She nearly choked on her bread. "Cad," she countered breathlessly.

Gawain clapped her soundly on the back. "Easy there, little one."

"Stop it, I said!" The eldest's high-pitched squeak seemed to split the conversation down the center of the table.

Cariad popped a last bit of slightly burned bread into her mouth and stood. "Take what you can," she said, pulling the boy up from his seat. He hurriedly grabbed a handful of potatoes. She raised her brow at the girls. "Up."

Dagonet hid a chuckle and rose to help. He lifted the squirming boy easily away from the table and set off in the direction of the children's home. "You will be good for your mother," he ordered.

Cariad slipped her arms through the girls'. "Good night," she called over her shoulder. Dagonet nodded his leave-taking as well.

"Not your girl, eh?" Lancelot said slyly, luring Tristan's gaze away from their departing friends.

Tristan furrowed his brow. "She does not belong to anyone."

"Right," Lancelot laughed, watching the girl depart, her thin frame swaying between Vanora's daughters', the three of them heads shorter than Dagonet and his cargo. "I never thought you would take to a pretty little girl such as her." He glanced back at Tristan, but the other man steadfastly refused to take the bait.

Gawain glowered at Lancelot over the rim of his drink. "Lancelot," he warned.

Lancelot dismissed Gawain with a roll of his eyes. "She seems too sweet for your tastes."

Tristan met Lancelot's gaze, hiding his irritation behind a veil of casual boredom. He shrugged and took another bite of rare hart, licking the juices off his fingers insidiously.

"You are an ass," Gawain declared, stabbing his knife into the table. Fixing Lancelot with an angry stare, he pulled the blade free and stalked off in the direction of the stables.

When Lancelot spoke again, there was something profoundly poignant behind the lewd expression in his eye. "No Roman will dare touch her now."

Draining his ale, Tristan stood from the table. He set the mug down with tightly clenched fingers. "Leave it, Lancelot."

Sighing, Lancelot watched the other man walk away. He caught Galahad staring, but the younger knight looked down hastily at his plate. Too pensive for company, Lancelot left the hall in search of starlight and sleep.