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 bad, but not for the truly weak of stomach either. Off you go!

Chapter 17: Missing

The fire clung to his back, clawing at his right shoulder. His ribs ached. Tristan bent low to his horse's neck, thrusting his dao into the chest of a young woman whose blue skin soon bled black. She went down fighting, her weapon slicing into his horse's right cannon as she hit the ground. The animal stumbled but gamely kept its feet. Tristan rolled his shoulder against the gnawing heat. He felt the stinging snap of a broken bowstring against the back of his neck. The bow slid to the ground, grazing the horse's heaving hindquarters and disappearing into the roaring flame.

The tree line loomed closer – their territory. Though the forested landscape had become second nature to him long ago, he knew that the woods meant their advantage. Even now, the savages were conducting his every move, leading Dagonet into the edge of the wood and beyond. There were five of them, axes raised, tearing at the gentle knight without mercy.

Tristan closed his eyes briefly, squeezing the pain into the back of his mind. When he opened them, Dagonet was gone but for the scream of his horse through the trees. The blue ghosts had all but faded, the last of them disappearing into the long dark shadows of late afternoon.

His horse stumbled suddenly, pitching him from the saddle and onto the forest floor. Tristan felt as though he continued to fly from there, damp leaves clinging to his hands and face as the treetops flew up and then down. When he came to a stop, face down in a muddy ravine, he had only a moment to note that the burn in his shoulder had faded to a sharp ache before his eyes closed against the miserable sight of blood drying on his hands.

-

The knights returned in ones and twos as the sun finished its slow arc to the west. Their exhaustion was evident before they reached the gates. Their shoulders slumped and their horses' heads hung lung. They did not seem eager to return to the keep. Vanora's girls frowned, leaning their elbows on the watch wall in near unison, a pair of skinny statues waiting to be dressed in moonlight.

"We should tell Ma," the elder said slowly.

The other tugged at one of her braids. "There's only two. Does that count?"

The elder squinted. "There's another over there," she said, pointing to a dark figure making its way slowly across the field to the east. "I think it is Lancelot."

The younger girl giggled. "Lancelot." She pursed her lips in a comical mask of consideration. "I think we should tell Ma." She tugged at her sister's wrist.

"All right," the elder agreed at last. "The others cannot be far behind."

The girls eyed the Roman guard at the top of the stair warily. The younger one smothered a laugh as they passed and descended to courtyard. They ran through the narrow streets and alleys to the kitchen tavern, hands clasped together as if of their own accord. They burst through the door, flushed and breathless.

"They're back!" the younger one gasped.

"Some," the other corrected, poking her sister in the ribs. "Pa and Kay and Lancelot."

"The rest cannot be far," Vanora said easily, unknowingly echoing her eldest daughter's assessment of the situation. "Come on, then," she added, jerking her head towards the board. "Help Cariad with the potatoes."

Cariad looked over her shoulder at Vanora.

"Dogs always come home for dinner," Vanora joked. "Eventually."

Cariad huffed and turned back to the cutting board. She set a peeled potato down in front of the ten-year-old and handed her a knife. "Smaller pieces then last time, eh?"

The girl nodded smartly. "Smaller pieces."

The four of them stayed in the kitchen for the next few hours of out sheer willpower. At the end of the first hour, Lancelot and Kay passed through the door, clearly intent on dining at the large table and out of the noise of the tavern.

"You cannot be the only ones who are hungry," Vanora teased, holding Lancelot's plate out of his reach.

Lancelot stood and stole the plate from her hand without a lascivious word. "Arthur will take his dinner in the great hall," he said.

Kay ate with his hands in messy silence. He caught Cariad's eye and looked away too quickly for her liking. Vanora served a plate and passed it to the younger woman. "I am sure Arthur is famished."

Willing calm the slow churn in her stomach, Cariad took the plate and drink through the dim streets to Arthur's hall. She passed through the decorated door and into the presence of not only Arthur, but Gawain and Galahad as well.

Arthur waved her in silently. Cariad laid the plate and drink down in front of him, not daring to break the heavy silence that hung between her guardian and his knights. She smiled weakly and took a step back, hands folded in front of her.

"Our friends are hungry," Arthur said, green eyes boring into her own. "Perhaps you would accompany them to dinner."

Nodding, Cariad turned and took Gawain's proffered arm. Galahad was decidedly more sullen than usual, and Gawain's reticence was disheartening at best. The knot in her stomach built with every step until they reached the kitchens.

Kay and Lancelot were near to finished, and Bors now sat on the bench between his two eldest daughters. His lower arm was bandaged and face dim, but his appetite was unaffected by whatever it was that the knights were not telling.

Vanora forced her friend to take a seat with Gawain and Galahad, served each of the newcomers a plate, and then settled at the table with her own. The silence was suffocating, and with every breath she could spare, Cariad followed Vanora's unspoken order to them all: "Eat."

-

Tristan woke in the darkness. He lay still for several moments, flexing his fingers experimentally in the damp debris around him. Groaning, he pushed himself to his knees. His right side ached and his shoulder stung terribly. A soft nicker drew his attention. He lifted his throbbing head until the silver grey figure of his horse appeared in his vision. He clucked softly to the animal.

"Hey, lad," he said, wrapping his hand around the horse's cheek strap. He leaned heavily on the animal as he rose to his feet, dizzy and sore. He slammed his eyes shut and pressed his forehead to the horse's neck. When he opened his eyes, he scrutinized the animal carefully. His right fore was stained with blood, but he seemed to be bearing his weight well enough. Aside from a few scrapes and patches of mud, the animal appeared to be fine.

Tristan, on the other hand, was having a difficult time catching his breath. His ribs ached. He gritted his teeth against the pain that shot through his torso as he pulled himself up into the saddle. With a gasp, he clawed at the back of his right shoulder. His fingers found the burnt edges of his vest and the tatters of his tunic underneath. His skin was hot to the touch and stung painfully. "Damn," he hissed.

Laying his palm flat against the horse's neck, Tristan took in his surroundings. He was at the bottom of a ravine, its slope scarred with the memory of his descent, thick tracks of mud marking his fall and that of his horse. Determining that climbing out of the ravine from this position would be near to impossible, and likely to cause at least one of them further injury, Tristan turned his stallion to the left, following the dry streambed that ran along the bottom of the slope.

The horse limped slightly. Tristan squinted through the darkness, trying to determine the measure of the animal's discomfort. As if sensing his master's thoughts, the stallion shook his head and snorted softly. He marched on gamely and took care to step around objects in their path hidden from Tristan's inferior sight.

Tristan held one hand firmly to his right side as the horse meandered along the ravine floor. After what might have been hours, the steep slope on his left leveled out and opened onto the leaf-blanketed forest floor. He let the animal drift in that direction, giving the horse the benefit of the doubt. Tristan was only vaguely aware of his position himself, and acutely aware that his assessment might have been wrong.

As the stallion led him through the night towards pale sunrise, Tristan dozed feverishly. He dreamt in dizzying flashes: blue savages dancing through fire, a circle of blackened cottages, the green fury in his commander's eyes, and Dagonet, his horse's hooves disappearing at last into the dark, leafy shadow of woad territory.

In the dim blue of morning's first light, Tristan opened his eyes to the heavy, rounded barrel of a dead cow. His horse had stopped, its head hung low to the other animal's shattered hind leg. Blinking rapidly, Tristan wiped the sweat of restless sleep from his forehead. When his vision cleared, he saw not a dead cow, but the once-handsome form of Dagonet's warhorse. Blood trickled from the animal's ear and nostril, its poll cracked at an unnatural angle.

Tristan nearly fell from his own horse in his hasty attempt to reach the ground before he emptied his stomach. The part of his mind that wasn't burning with fever was ashamed and confused at his own reaction to the dead animal. After a few minutes of heavy breathing and blurred vision, Tristan hauled himself to his feet. "Good lad," he rasped, patting his horse lightly on the shoulder. "Now find Dagonet."

-

Gawain watched, wincing, as Cariad tore at her hair, its long dark waves sparking in the candlelight. She had been at it for almost ten minutes, and each stroke sounded to Gawain like ripping fabric. Finally tiring of the torture, he rose and pulled the brush gently from her hands. "Stop."

Cariad shrugged of his hand and bent her head, tying her hair back into a messy braid. "You first," she grunted back, looking up at him sharply. She sighed. "I'm sorry."

"You need some sleep," Gawain insisted.

Cariad arched an eyebrow at her friend. "As do you, and yet here we are."

Gawain perched on the edge of the bed and rested his elbows on his knees. He gave her a sideways look. "They are not dead," he said firmly.

"No," Cariad agreed, drawing her legs up underneath her. She yawned.

"Sleep," Gawain said, reaching out to grip her shoulder firmly. "We go back out at first light."

Cariad breathed deeply, eyes downcast. She could not force the aching worry from her gut; it twisted like a tightly coiled snake. She rubbed absently at her brow, her fingers pale and shaking with an exhaustion that had nothing to do with Tristan's disappearance. She sighed again.

"…all right? Cariad?"

Looking up quickly, she met Gawain's confused gaze with one of her own. "I am fine," she promised, thinking that the best answer to the question she thought he had asked. "Just tired."

Gawain offered her a weak half-smile. "Exactly. Get some sleep."

Cariad nodded and curled into her blankets, pressing the lingering scent of Tristan against her cheek. She splashed down almost immediately into the warm pool of sleep. As if in a dream, she heard Gawain's footsteps approach, felt the warm heavy weight of his hand on the crown of her head. The footsteps retreated, but there was no sound of departure from the door. "Go home, Gawain," she murmured, but she was already asleep.

-

Gawain slept the sleep of a traveling man. He dozed vigilantly on an unused wool blanket in the corner of the front room, back to the wall. Whenever he woke, it took a moment to snap the pieces of his surroundings together into reality. He adjusted quickly to the sounds of life on the first level of the keep: a pair of dogs scratching in the alleyway, the slow drip of a stone gutter two doors down, and Cariad's soft, even breathing in the next room.

If Tristan had to sleep on the ground, Gawain would sleep on the ground. If Tristan could not watch over Cariad, Gawain would. The girl had become almost as dear to him as his brothers. His vigil came from a sense of duty to all of his friends, and a balm he hoped would soothe the guilt at having given up the search and returned to the Wall for food and comfort, abandoning his fellows in their hour of need.

He woke again to the strange hitch of her breath, listened carefully to the gasping pause that followed. She cried, a sound with the delicacy of lace whose deeper notes grew ugly as the minutes passed. Gawain finally stirred. He had been determined to leave her to her sorrow – it was what he would have wanted for himself, and what any of them deserved – but the undercurrent of her tears troubled him.

Gawain crept quietly into the bedroom. Cariad cried with her back to him, curled tightly in on herself, shoulders shaking. He touched her hair carefully. "Little one?"

Sobbing, Cariad shrank away. "Leave me alone," she gasped.

Gawain sat, reaching across the blankets to pull her out of herself. She refused his touch, wrenching her arm away with a muffled cry of pain. She hid her fisted hands against her chest. On instinct, Gawain's hand shot out, his fingers closing tightly around her wrist. He pulled her roughly towards him, forcing her clenched fingers open with the cruel pressure of his thumb.

"Just leave me alone," Cariad begged.

Gawain grasped her chin tightly with his free hand, forcing her to look at him. "Do not move. Do not even breathe." He released her hand. "I will be right back. Do you understand me?"

With all the confidence of a lost and faithless child, Cariad nodded. Gawain stood abruptly and left, slamming the door loudly. When he had gone, she returned to her side, curled up against the wall, and let her eyes kaleidoscope the watery traces of blood that decorated her fingers.