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: I am sure I never intended this to go on so long, but I hope you are still enjoying the story. Woeful thought cookies for all, starting with TRO.

Chapter 19: Belonging

Cariad leaned her chin on her hand, gazing longingly at Dagonet and Ryn as the pair trotted fairly around the indoor arena. The horse had taken to his new master in the past two months. Try as she might, it was impossible to completely rid herself of the sting that came with the knowledge of the animal's devoted affection towards Dagonet. Still, as she watched them, there was no denying that she had made the right decision. The horse was fit and happy. Purpose suited him.

She wallowed, feeling sorry for herself. She had spent the week sewing together two new dresses, and her fingers were tired and sore. Her head was heavy one moment and floating the next. Sleep did not come easily to her these days. Worst of all, she was utterly and interminably bored.

Distracted by her thoughts and the smooth, rhythmic movements of the horse and rider, Cariad did not notice her company until he was close enough to tug on her sleeve. She startled, capturing the offending hand in a defensive motion. She sighed. "Lancelot. You scared me."

Lancelot smirked and sat on the bench beside her. "I had no intention of doing so." He leaned his elbows on his knees. He watched Dagonet take the horse around in silence for a few minutes, happy for the sight and the company.

"Do you suppose you will come with us when we return home?" he asked, glancing at Cariad out of the corner of his eye.

Cariad wrung her hands unconsciously. "I dare hope that I will. I will go where Tristan goes," she said simply. "If that is what he desires."

Lancelot turned his head, surprised by her response. "And what of your desires?"

"I often feel that I do not belong here," she admitted. "Your exile is indeed harsher than mine. But with my father gone, I have felt… homeless," she said softly, watching the horse's hooves brush through the dirt. "I would follow you all."

"What of the company you keep?" Lancelot asked.

"You know better than I that even the best and most faithful company does not make a home," Cariad said, meeting his eye. "You live and fight amongst your brothers, and you would never consider this place home."

"No," Lancelot answered, shaking his head slowly. He watched, concerned, as Cariad closed her eyes and pressed her hand to her forehead. He touched her shoulder. "Are you all right?"

"Yes." She nodded and pulled her hand away. "Just a headache."

Lancelot let his hand fall to the bench between them. "May I ask you a question?"

Cariad smiled slightly. "Is that the question, or do you have another?"

Lancelot chuckled, folding his hands between his knees. He met her inquisitive eye. "Why Tristan?"

Cariad answered his question with a strange half-smile. After a moment, she leaned over and pressed her finger firmly into the center of his chest. "Because he fits," she said. "Right here." Lancelot covered her hand with his, and she blushed and pulled away.

"You are very young," he said gently.

"I am not wrong," Cariad said easily, voice warm with confidence.

Lancelot squeezed her hand with the affection of a favored older brother. "I know. Perhaps it just difficult for me to understand how any of us might find happiness here." He cast off the coming storm with a bright grin. "If you ever change your mind about Tristan…"

Frowning skeptically, Cariad smacked him in the chest. "You are terrible."

"You love me," Lancelot teased.

Cariad grunted, hiding her amusement. "Not by choice," she muttered.

-

Galahad had never been quite so sure that he might die at the hands of one of his fellows. The opportunity for injury was not so uncommon: they were all skilled fighters with enough pent-up anger for an entire army. Sparring with Tristan when the other man was trying to regain his feet – physically or emotionally – was a more dangerous fight than most. It was as if the man had something to prove.

Tristan's weakness, and Galahad's edge, was in the ever-so-slightly limited range of motion in the scout's right shoulder. Though it was clear that Tristan was pushing himself, lashing out through the pain that lingered beneath the scar tissue, he was not at his physical best. He was, however, unusually vicious.

Galahad matched each terrifying slice of Tristan's dao with his short sword. Tristan had already relieved him of his more appropriate long blade, and Galahad was sure that this particular battle would not end with sweat and dust. Someone was bound to bleed.

Galahad struck a well-placed blow to Tristan's bicep, blunt side of his blade to the other man's arm. Tristan growled, slicing back at Galahad with barely controlled anger. Gritting his teeth, Galahad repeated his attack with the business side of his short sword, expecting Tristan to block the ill-chosen move easily. The younger man held back when he realized Tristan would not be in time to defend himself.

Galahad was truly surprised – and slightly horrified – that it had been he who drew the blood that ended the match.

-

"You are afraid to touch me. Why?"

Tristan looked up from the table where he cleaning his knives. Cariad was tearing dried lavender from their stalks, fingers moving nimbly through the pale purple petals. He raised his brow at her when she glanced over at him, then bowed his head to his work.

Cariad sighed heavily.

It was many minutes – he finished one blade – before Tristan spoke. "I barely know myself when I am with you."

Furrowing her brow, Cariad turned to face him, inadvertently dusting the floor with lavender. "Tell me how that is not a horrible thing to say." Cursing her swift emotions, she willed back the tears that might have spilled from her eyes. She clenched her hands tightly, digging her fingernails into her palms while she waited for his answer.

The hot mix of hate and desire to give her what she deserved churned in his chest. "You have no idea what you ask of me."

"Enlighten me," she returned sharply.

Tristan ran the edge of one freshly prepared blade along his thumb. "When they came, I was not sixteen," he said to the gleaming knife. "I never had the chance to imagine a life. I was not old enough to want anything but my freedom, and that was a hopeless desire." He did not once look up at her. "I did not expect you," he finished nonchalantly.

Cariad softened, brushing the last of the lavender from her lightly stained fingers. She crossed the floor with light, forgiving steps, and reached out to touch him. His hand shot out, a frighteningly quick reflex. He wrapped his fingers around her wrist before her fingertips could brush his shoulder. She gasped in surprise, but secretly welcomed his bruising grip.

"I do not deserve you," he said darkly.

Cariad had missed the tender affection that had captured her almost a year prior. Since his return, it seemed he wallowed in this shadow more often than not. His bouts of quiet desperation left her feeling quite alone, even at night as she lay beside him in their warm, comfortable silence.

"What are you afraid of?" she insisted.

Tristan loosed her wrist and pressed his hands flat to the table. "You could have done better."

"You insult me," Cariad answered. She repeated, "What are you afraid of?"

"I hardly feel like I belong," he said, looking up at her sharply.

"You deserve life as much as any man," she said, forcing kindness into her voice. "Why is it so difficult for you to accept that?"

"Because of you!" Tristan said, much louder than he intended. With more than a little effort, he softened his words. "Because I care for you, and I fear what would happen to you if I am no longer with you at the end of these three years."

"Please, Tristan." Cariad closed her eyes for a moment, frustrated and quietly sad. When she opened them, she was more than a little surprised to find that he met her gaze. "I wish you would quit that talk." She reached again for his hand and pressed it firmly to her swollen abdomen. "This belongs to you. I belong to you. Please do not be sorry for that."

Tristan flexed his fingers against her pregnant belly, a kind of discovery. He stood slowly. He raised his hand to her face, tracing his fingers down the line of her cheek. He took in the sadness and the hope in her dark eyes and felt immediately sorry for what he had held back from her because of his own guilt. Still, it was not easy for him to speak to any of these emotions, and it was a struggle he did not always have the strength to engage in. "You are so young," he whispered.

Cariad pressed her lips together, smiling weakly. "So I have heard."

Leaning in, Tristan kissed her temple, then her eyelids as they fell closed. He took her face in his hands and pressed his lips to hers. It took all his strength to speak the words. "Thank you."

-

Gawain's letters were getting longer, though he had very little to write of. He had tired of Arthur's gift of Pelagius after the first few days, finding it difficult to stomach the philosopher's beliefs regarding free will and the nature of man. He appreciated Arthur's fervor, but the manuscript was a torture he refused to put himself through on a regular basis.

Galahad read the sloppy letters with no small measure of admiration. In Percival's wake, Gawain had become as dear as real family, though it was awkward at first to be the younger brother. Galahad ate up Gawain's hopes and dreams for returning home like happy fairytales. He imagined his friend's happy family somewhere on the shores of the Black Sea, absolutely free.

Folding closed his response, Galahad rose from the small table crammed into the corner of his room. He traded stories of his childhood for Gawain's hopes for the future, stringing these half-secrets between them like the ties of true family. Smiling slightly, Galahad left his room for the stables, slipping the letter under Gawain's door as he passed.

-

Vanora ladled out a large bowl of chicken stew and put it down on the table in front of Cariad. "You are too skinny." She handed the younger woman a spoon and two thick slices of bread. "Eat!"

Cariad widened her eyes incredulously. "I barely fit in my own bed!" she exclaimed, gesturing to her swollen abdomen. Seven months into her pregnancy, she felt twice her size, and found it increasingly difficult to believe that she would grow for another two months before the thing was done.

"You look like a girl," Vanora insisted, joining her at the table with her own meal. The men would be hungry soon, and she was bent on removing Cariad from the kitchens before they arrived. The young woman was visibly exhausted, and with good reason. "A woman should be plump and round. You will never have the strength to go through with this as you are," she joked.

"Watch your tongue," Cariad warned, steering the conversation away from her not-so-secret fear.

Vanora rolled her eyes. "I am only trying to get you to eat," she said firmly. "You will be fine."

Cariad admitted her hunger, consuming half her meal eagerly before she spoke again. "How have you done this nine times?" she asked, licking her lips. "I have not found it to be a particularly pleasant experience."

"I…"

"Because she is a horse and a bully," Bors interrupted, entering the kitchens with Dagonet and Kay. He leaned down to kiss his lover fiercely, grinning obnoxiously when she returned his kiss with a slap to the chest.

Cariad laughed. "Oh?"

"You are a bully as well," Kay said, sitting heavily on the bench beside Cariad. "Not a horse, though." He assessed her for a moment, shrugged, and stole her last slice of bread. Vanora reached across the table to smack his hand, but the deed was done.

Cariad raised one eyebrow skeptically. "How am I a bully?"

"Ah," Kay said, a familiar flush coming to his face as he laughed. "As if you do not know. You are decidedly unladylike and you tease us relentlessly. If you were a man, I dare say I would have put you in your place a long time ago."

Cariad's mouth fell open in surprise. "Are you threatening a pregnant woman?" she asked as Dagonet served himself and sat beside her with a gentle pat on her back. He slid a slice of bread onto her plate to replace the one Kay stole.

"Oh, no," Bors answered for his friend. "Even Kay is not quite that stupid."