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 18: Vision
Ending the horse's misery with his own axe seared sharper than the swollen laceration that transected the left side of his face from brow to cheek. "Off you go, lad," he whispered, laying his broad hand against the animal's neck. Dagonet removed his water skein from the horse's harness and washed his face, probing his injury with careful fingers. There was no doubt that the wound would scar.
Dagonet turned, leaving the horse to its well deserved rest. He did not look back. He walked for hours through the woods in search of direction. The sun fell slowly from the sky and the moon rose, mostly hidden by the dark canopy over his head. He traveled like a drunk man, unbalanced, relying on the exhausted vision of his right eye and his tired ears to lead him between the trees.
The forest thinned as the sun rose and Dagonet paused, deliberating. He had no choice but to enter the open field beyond the trees. He was a target, under cover of woods or sun. Night had passed into morning without event. Perhaps they thought he was dead, or near enough that they no longer cared about his presence.
Though he was not the keenest hunter among them, the years had given Dagonet the skills necessary to identify the varied tones of company outside the safe keep of Badon Hill. Hare, hart, woads. The sound that filtered through the trees now was almost familiar enough to put him at ease. A horse, limping slightly, approached him from behind.
Half-blind, Dagonet turned, axe held high. A grey horse sidestepped nervously, backing away from the aggressive gesture. The man on its back swayed, but held on. "Dagonet."
Dagonet lowered his weapon with a heavy, relieved sigh. "Tristan."
-
Cariad's hands still shook an hour later as the midwife wrapped her fingers around a warm mug of herbal tea. "Drink up, then." She slapped the girl lightly on the cheek. She turned to Vanora. "Nervous little bird, isn't she?"
"Hardly," Vanora said gruffly. "What have you given her?"
The midwife waved the question away. "Nothing. It will put her to sleep." She drew Vanora away to the front room, leaving the young woman sitting curled up on her bed, staring blankly out the window at the approaching dawn.
"Is there anything that can be done?" Vanora asked.
"What you have here is a stubborn, foolish girl with a weak constitution," the midwife said matter-of-factly. "She has not lost this one, but she may if she continues to make herself sick."
Vanora sighed. "I will talk to her," she said quietly. The midwife had no way of knowing the real trouble, but there was nothing to be done, so Vanora held her tongue.
Arthur and the knights had risen early and were already in the stables, preparing to begin their search for their fellows anew. It had been nearly impossible to remove Gawain from the rooms, though eventually his greater duty to his brother won out over his concern for his friend.
The midwife pressed a packet of herbs into Vanora's hand. "No dancing, no horses, no cavorting with those dogs you two fancy so much." She shook her head. "Stupid girls. Stupid, stupid girls."
"Madam!" Vanora exclaimed in mock offense.
"Do not 'madam' me," the midwife muttered, pushing Vanora aside with a strength that belied her thin, middle-aged frame. She paused in the doorway. "And you," she said, assessing Vanora with the eyes of a disapproving mother. "No more from you. You have had enough."
Vanora turned the herbs over in her hands, smirking as the midwife left. She set the packet on the board and joined Cariad. "Well, my wonderful girl," she said warmly, climbing onto the bed. She wrapped her arms around her friend and pressed a kiss to her cheek. "Everything is fine, you see."
Cariad nodded sullenly, then came to her senses and offered Vanora a weak smile. "I am so scared," she admitted. She sighed. "He will return," she said, as if trying to convince herself.
"Yes," Vanora said firmly. She smoothed Cariad's hair back from her forehead. "For he is as stubborn and foolish as you." She smiled and laid her head on the younger woman's shoulder. "Drink your tea, my wonderful girl."
Cariad obeyed, swallowing the hot, sweet liquid. "You willfully drug me," she murmured.
"I do," Vanora said easily. "You need your rest. Everything will be all right." She removed the empty mug from Cariad's now steady hands. "You will be all right."
Cariad closed her hand over Vanora's in thanks. For more than twenty years, Cariad's life had been a narrow cell: no mother, a soldier for a father, and no friends to speak of. Now, on the strange condition of her father's death, she had been gifted with what she had missed all those years: a sister and mother, brothers, a lover. And a child. A family.
She breathed deeply, expelling the black thoughts. Tristan would come home to her. She would not give him the choice. She closed her eyes, warm and drowsy.
"I know."
-
Lancelot spotted the hawk shortly before noon, her wings dark and welcome against the clouded sky. He grinned. "Arthur!"
Arthur followed Lancelot's pointing finger, grateful for his friend's confidence. He hoped to find his knights alive and in good health, but knew better than to expect such a perfect outcome. He watched the hawk's graceful flight over a copse of trees in the distance. Bors and Kay had fanned eastward in the morning, Gawain and Galahad to the west, and Arthur and Lancelot approached the copse alone.
Tristan's horse stood half-hidden by the thin trees, tearing tender green leaves from their branches. The hawk screeched from a nearby pine, flapping its wings agitatedly. Lancelot and Arthur circled the copse slowly, weapons drawn and ready. Arthur cleared his throat. "Tristan!"
Lancelot's horse jumped backwards as the trees in front of him shivered. Tristan emerged slowly from behind his horse, hand pressed to his side, slightly hunched over. He stumbled and leaned wearily on the injured animal. He said nothing, but met Lancelot's eye with the nearest thing to pleading the dark knight had ever seen on the scout's face.
Arthur spun his horse around, approaching the pair. "Tristan."
Tristan tilted his head, gesturing over his shoulder to where Dagonet sat resting against the trunk of a heavy oak. "Dagonet is here," he announced, his voice a mere breath passed over a grate of pain. "As well."
-
"Tristan."
He felt the cool trail of her fingers across his brow. His chest opened up a little, the fresh air bringing sight back to his eyes. He caught a glimpse of her shoulder from beneath his lowered lids, then her neck as she leaned over him, brushing the hair away from his face. Her soft smile swam into his vision.
"You came back to me," she murmured, resting her chin on the edge of the cot. She closed her fingers around his and squeezed. She raised his hand to her mouth, held it there like a talisman. In a moment, she understood his unrelenting desire to press his forehead against her own, or his face to her neck, to feel her skin touching his, utterly connected.
Tristan struggled to keep his eyes open. They stung with the heat of his fever. He groaned, ashamed at the quiet emission of pain, despite his exhaustion.
"Sh." Cariad laid her other hand flat on his exposed lower back, below the dressing that protected the angry red burn that stretched across the expanse of his right shoulder blade. There was nothing to be done for his badly bruised ribs. She moved her thumb in slow, gentle circles.
Clumsily, Tristan uncurled his fingers from hers to touch her cheek. She held his hand there, meeting his eye with a sort of easy, loving devotion he never thought he'd know.
"Tristan." She leaned into his hand, pressing her lips together as tears came to her eyes. "I'm pregnant."
Tristan tangled his fingers tightly in her dark hair and closed his eyes. She laid her head down on the mattress by her left shoulder, her hand still splayed protectively across the small of his back. She closed her eyes and listened as his breathing evened out and gave him sleep.
Vanora removed herself from the doorway to touch her friend's shoulder. "Come on, now," she said gently. "We should get something to eat."
Cariad bit her lip. She carefully untangled Tristan's fingers from her hair and gave Vanora a short smile. "All right."
Vanora helped the younger woman off the floor. "What did I tell you?" she asked, hugging Cariad close to her as they left the infirmary.
Cariad bent her head towards Vanora's, stepping lightly across the courtyard towards the kitchens. She weighed nothing, had rediscovered her gravity. Her life, love, and purpose had been restored to her, broken, but hot and rich and alive.
-
Tristan flinched.
"Sorry," Cariad murmured, peeling the day-old dressing from his right shoulder. She wiped the remnants of waleda wax from the burn with a cool, damp cloth.
He shuddered again, against his will. "Stop."
Cariad lifted her hands away immediately. "Sorry," she repeated. After a few moments, she reached for the waleda and a fresh bandage. She tried to distract him as she began to carefully redress the wound. "Would you prefer a boy or a girl?"
Tristan gritted his teeth against her touch. "Any son of mine is a slave of Rome," he said gruffly. "You will give me a daughter."
Cariad bit her lip, suppressing a smile. "As you wish."
"Stop," Tristan repeated sharply, reaching behind him. Blindly, he managed to grasp the sleeve of her dress. He twisted the fabric tightly. "You make me feel like an invalid," he muttered.
"You cannot do it yourself," Cariad answered, matching his prickly tone.
Tristan shook his head and shrugged his injured shoulder away, masking his pain with a low growl. "I do not want you to have to take care of me."
Cariad sat back against Tristan's pillow, legs curled beneath her. She glanced out the window of the tiny infirmary room, trying to hold her temper. Slowly, she said, "You would do the same for me." She paused, leaning around him in an attempt to catch his eye. "You have done the same for me."
"You are a woman," Tristan said, turning his head to the side to avoid her searching gaze.
"And you are a stubborn, infuriating man," she said harshly. "You have taken comfort from me before and you will do so now." She sat back again and forced his shoulders square with firm hands. She finished redressing the burn efficiently, though less gently than she could have. She hooked her chin over his left shoulder and locked her arms around his chest. "Done."
Tristan breathed out the irritation constricting his chest. He raised his hand to hers, circling her wrist easily with his fingers. He would never tell her how good it felt in that moment to have the persistent, willful warmth of her against his back, shielding him from the frustration and anger that constantly threatened to consume him.
-
Dagonet patted the black colt firmly on the shoulder. Only a week ago he had stood here, considering the young horse's form and character. A week ago, Cariad had put the colt's lead in his hand, determined and stoic. This morning, she had insisted that he honor the pact they had made, and he had acquiesced. The horse needed training, for which Dagonet had the time while his injuries healed. His vision had been temporarily compromised but not damaged, and it was only the swelling that made it difficult for him to see out of his left eye.
"Shall we give it a go, lad?" he asked quietly.
The horse shoved Dagonet hard in the chest, then bit him.
Dagonet pulled his shirt from the colt's teeth. The horse was nearly a hand shorter than his grey, and untold years younger. He had mischief in his eye and the promise of loyalty behind it. He thought of Cariad, whom the animal had dutifully carried to the fort the winter before, and the good she had done for all of them with her easy smile. He prayed to the gods that he would not make her regret this gift.
"All right then," he said, forcing a proper bit into the horse's mouth. He secured the bridle while the colt shook its head, instantly dissatisfied with the new equipment. "No time like the present."