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: Not a clue. Help me out here.
Chapter 13: Ache
It was a cold, draining nightmare. Her hair clung dark and damp to her face, stuck to her parted lips. A pair of hands with cool, gentle fingers slipped beneath her head and pulled her hair back to the nape of her neck. A dull ache twisted through her abdomen. She felt as though she was being dragged underwater, weighted down by the wet, heavy flow between her legs. Sweat covered her brow beneath that comforting hand. Despite all of this, there was very little pain.
"Fill the bath. Warm water, not too hot."
"Come, my wonderful girl."
Those hands, lifting her from the narrow mattress, peeling her damp shift from her skin and over her head. Her hair caught in the dress, tangled with the thin fabric. She barely registered the blood on her hand as those careful fingers pulled her arms through the sleeves. She did not have the prescience of mind to be embarrassed.
"Can you stand?"
A strong, unfamiliar arm wrapped across her naked back. She discovered her knees for a few shaky steps before the warm water circled her waist. These hard, sure hands guided her firmly until the water rose to her shivering shoulders.
"Witch hazel." A shuffling of fabric. "Save what you can. Dispose of the rest."
The dry hand slapped lightly at her cheek. She blinked once. Her eyes drooped closed, and the hand slapped her again.
"Wake up."
The cool, comforting hands returned. A rush of warm water sluiced over her head, soaking her hair and running into her eyes. The scent of lilac rose from the fingers that combed through her hair and rubbed gently at the back of her neck.
"I will return shortly. Keep her still."
The door groaned, and his voice drifted through.
"It is immodest. You will stay out."
Her hands floated up through the warm, oily water. She lifted them to the edge of the tub, curling her fingers around the edges as a reflex.
"No, no."
The cool hands grasped her left, kneading her palm gently. She barely registered the pale streaks of blood that the caress washed away. She sighed, drawing the heavy air down through her aching chest. The hands gripped her shoulders, then drew away.
"Tristan, get out. She is resting."
Boots scraped against the floor. "No."
"Tristan, enough," came a second male voice.
The heavy boots left, and she closed her eyes. The water cooled.
-
Bors and Dagonet herded the distressed brood back to the house. After a moment, Kay joined them, half-dragging Galahad by the collar. "She should not have been dancing," the youngest of them said blankly. "I should not have made her dance."
"It is not your fault," Kay muttered. "Just shut up."
Outside the infirmary, Gawain took Tristan's hand in a vice-like grip and hauled him to the nearest water pail. He thrust the scout's hand into the freezing water and held it there while the other man fought him. "Wash it off!" Gawain bit out.
Tristan forced Gawain off him with a sharp jab of his elbow to the other's gut. He made for the infirmary door. Wrapping both arms around his friend's chest, Gawain dragged him backwards once more. "Get off!" Tristan growled fiercely.
"Men!" Arthur barked.
Tristan escaped Gawain's grasp and drew his knife. "Get off," he repeated, pointing the blade at his friend.
Arthur thrust his arm between them. "Tristan!" He took the scout's wrist in his iron grasp and twisted it until the knife angled away from Gawain, harmless.
When Arthur released his hand, Tristan thrust the blade flat against Gawain's breast and stalked away. Gawain's hand rose automatically, catching the knife as it fell towards the ground. He made to follow Tristan, but paused at Arthur's warning hand.
Arthur looked to Lancelot, then tossed his head in the direction of Tristan's retreating form. To Gawain he said, "Leave him be."
-
Vanora leaned over the younger woman's cot. "Cariad." She laid her hand across her friend's cooling brow. "Come back, my wonderful girl."
Blinking, Cariad rose up slowly towards consciousness. Her throat was the thick with the feverish ache of sleep.
Vanora lifted the girl's head with one hand and raised a glass of water to her lips with the other. Cariad choked when she tried to swallow, but reached for the glass when Vanora tried to pull it away. "How do you feel?" she asked, hardly able to guess. She had known the greatest physical pain a woman could bear, but she could not fathom this devastation.
Cariad swallowed. The cool water hit her like a punch in the gut. Shivering slightly, she relinquished the glass. "I… what has happened?" Her vision blurred as she tried to follow the redhead's careful movements.
Turning back slowly, Vanora addressed the girl's question carefully. "You were with child," she said, brushing her fingertips through the dark hair at her friend's temple. "You have miscarried. You will be fine," Vanora added as tears filled her vision.
"I do not understand," Cariad murmured, confused by the dark shine in her friend's eyes.
Leaning down, Vanora kissed her gently on the forehead. "I know." She held Cariad's face between her palms, trying to focus the girl's attention. "When was the last time you bled?"
Cariad closed her eyes wearily. "No."
Vanora ran her thumb over Cariad's trembling chin. "You are all right," she assured her. "You will be all right."
"I…" Cariad tried to find the answer to Vanora's question. "Not since… the first time," she trailed off. She tried to turn her face away. She was near to sleep, Vanora's easy hand as her pillow, when the other woman spoke again.
"Three cycles?" she asked quietly.
Cariad thought she might be ill. She could barely move, and felt she would suffocate if she could not keep her sickness down. She moaned, a low, keening sound the likes of which Vanora had never heard issued from the girl's lips. "Tristan."
-
Tristan came back around on his own, an hour later, to find only Arthur still lingering in the alcove outside the infirmary. Their fellows had disappeared into the night. The celebration had ended in tragedy, and there was no company that would do. When the midwife left, it was Arthur who hauled Tristan back through the doorway with a harsh word, and Arthur who waited with him in the darkness. His green gaze burned into the side of the scout's now passive face when the midwife returned, alarmed and relieved that his fellow did not attempt a second ambush.
"You may come in now."
Tristan stumbled to his feet and pushed rudely past the midwife. Arthur took the old woman's steady hand between his own. "I am sorry. Thank you."
"She needs rest," the woman said. "You will not keep her long."
"No," Arthur assured her.
Tristan towered over the cot, staring blankly down at the pale shade of the girl who had given his life color. "Will she live?" he asked, eyes dull and lifeless. He did not dare touch her.
"Of course," Vanora said hastily. She glanced back at Arthur and the midwife. Hesitantly, she drew Tristan down to take her place on the narrow mattress. She placed Tristan's hand on Cariad's. "She will be better now that you are here," she soothed. Her words had little effect on the silent knight's dead-eyed misery.
Tristan stared at Cariad's abdomen, covered with a thick wool blanket, then at her drained face. "She did not tell me," he said finally.
"I do not think she knew," Vanora said, pulling her hand back just as she meant to lay it on Tristan's shoulder. His muscles tightened, and she thought he felt the burn of the unwanted touch regardless.
"Leave," he said, voice low.
Vanora cast a worried glance at Arthur and the midwife. "Perhaps it would be best…"
"Leave!" Tristan shouted, body tense with unreleased anger. He did not turn from the bed. His eyes did not leave Cariad's face.
"This will not do," the midwife said, pushing Vanora out of the way.
Arthur took the old woman gently by the arm. "Lady, please," he implored. His green eyes bored pity into hers, and she nodded, tight-lipped and visibly displeased. "I will post a guard to fetch you if you are needed, and see that you are paid extra for your services and your kindness."
The midwife left. Vanora followed shortly after, sparing the lovers a sorrowful gaze. She laid her hand gratefully on Arthur's as she went.
"Leave," said Tristan for the third time. "Now."
Battling his own despair, Arthur left.
-
Cariad woke to his ragged breath on her cheek. Tucked tightly beneath a thick wool blanket, she could hardly move, though she did not know if there was any purpose to it. The fringe of his hair brushed against her temple, his head bent close in the desperate need for nearness that so terrified her. Stinging, unexpected tears fell from the corner of her eyes and slid down her cheeks.
"Tristan," she breathed.
Tristan raised his head immediately, his face twisted in confusion and alarm. He had never wanted words so badly as he wanted them now. There was nothing to say. He brushed her tears away with his thumbs. Her skin was cold, and it burned beneath his fingertips.
"I am sorry," she cried.
Tristan shook his head. "You… have done nothing wrong," he uttered with difficulty. He bent his head to kiss her carefully on the mouth, as if afraid he might hurt her.
Cariad struggled beneath the blanket, itching to touch him and to get away. Tristan freed her with careful fingers. He drew her up against him, one hand spread wide across her lower back, where the ache still sang in her muscles. He curled his other hand around the back of her head, tangling his fingers in her hair and pulling her close. She did not have the strength to resist him.
Closing his eyes, Tristan listened closely for the hitching sound of her breath. She shook violently against him, a primal agony stealing the air from her chest. "Please," she cried. He did not know what she asked for.
"You are all right," he promised weakly. He was not sure she would be capable of resurfacing from this pain. Broken bones and flesh wounds were nothing to a broken heart, and where physical injuries scarred, the heart never healed from the poisons that bled through it. Heartbreak fractured everything that came after, forcing the good into the spaces between those living grievances. "It is not your fault. You are all right."
"No," she whispered. Her lips were wet with tears where they brushed his neck.
Tristan pulled away suddenly, holding her by the arms as he assessed her appearance. The blanket pooled around her waist, and he tore it away thoughtlessly. From her narrow, shaking shoulders to her bare calves, there was nothing but thin, white cloth, plain and clean. She gasped, then choked on the sound. She braced herself with a hand on his shoulder, meeting his eye with helpless terror.
"Cariad," he pleaded, ashamed by the desperation in his own voice. He rubbed her back tentatively, easing away the broken cry. "Lie down," he instructed.
"Tired," she murmured, eyes glazing over as she stared beyond his face at the wall.
"I know," Tristan said. "Lie down."
Cariad slumped back against the mattress, bone-weary. "I am sorry."
Tristan guided her gently, pulling the blanket up to her shoulders. For a time, he could do nothing but brush her hair back from her face, worrying over this little care until his fingers felt numb. She blinked up at him, as if confused. "Tristan?"
"Shall I stay?" he asked, masking his heartbreak with his words.
Cariad nodded sleepily. "Please."
Tristan lay down, putting his arms around her with care. She would not break, he knew, but there was no telling his body that. He hid his face against the back of her shoulder. He pressed one hand tentatively against her abdomen. "I love you," he whispered against her skin. Lips moving silently he added, "You will not leave me."