-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-
Chapter Thirteen: Revelations and Realisations
-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-
The sun descended slowly through the cold skies, its wintry rays gradually dimming as it neared the horizon. Long shadows were cast out behind the skeletal trees, and the last remaining clumps of snow looked like dirty lumps of bone, crowded in the small ditches and valleys. The wind whistled continuously in Mordred's ears. The cold was deepening. Night was coming.
And still, Tristran did not speak.
Mordred watched the scout ride up ahead, his posture relaxed and graceful as always. Bow strapped across his back, curved sword sheathed at his waist, Tristran gave off an air of dangerous readiness. His dark cloak flapped out behind him, snapping occasionally in the strong gusts of wind that hurtled down from the northern highlands. His words repeated themselves over and over in Mordred's head; their cold reprimand reinforced by the scout's continuing silence. As they continued to ride, following the lead of Banna and Tristran, the first stars began to appear in the icy skies above them; tiny specks of bright-burning frost, or so it seemed.
Tristran remained silent.
They had stopped four times that day since leaving their temporary camp. Twice to rest and forage for food, twice to search for the increasingly elusive trail. The land was becoming hillier; snow-capped mountains, that had once loomed in the distance, coming ever closer. Grainne and Fearghus were the only ones who spoke, and even their conversation faltered after a little while. So the five riders continued north, their passage signalled only by the beat of their horses' hooves, and the flapping of Mordred and Tristran's cloaks in the wind. The sun finally set, and darkness settled over the land like slow-dripping syrup.
And Tristran spoke not a word.
Not a single, damned word.
Mordred was just about ready to throw himself off his horse in guilt and shame. No, shame was not a strong enough word – humiliation, perhaps? Mortification? Once again, he had spoken rashly; his words spraying viciously out of his mouth like blood from a cut artery. Why did he never think? For years, he had thought he had Tristran all figured out: a surly, bad-tempered loner, possessed with ridiculously perceptive senses. He had thought Tristran hated every one of the Knights except Arthur and Percival; that the scout couldn't care less if any of them lived or died.
He had been a fool.
The signs had been there all along. The scout, whose constant presence in the background had always irked him somewhat, had been watching over them, like one of those ancient Roman domestic gods. Now that Mordred thought about it, he could not even count the number of times the scout had put his life at risk for his countrymen. Shaking his head in shame, he remembered Galahad's first battle.
The air was thick with dying men's screams, heavy with the cloying scent of blood. Cries for help were choked off by the meaty thunk of axes; pitiful wails of pain rose above the cacophony of noise. Mordred looked around, wiping a string of something bloody from his face. Where were his brothers? Ah, there were Bors and Dagonet. Off to the left, Agravaine cut down a Woad with a furious roar. Behind him, he could hear Arthur yelling instructions, and Lancelot ran past him unexpectedly, brandishing his twin blades. And then he saw Galahad.
Time seemed to slow around Mordred as he saw the young boy – not a day over ten winters – slide his sword into the gut of a blue-painted Woad. The man screamed like a stuck pig, causing even Mordred's hardened stomach to churn queasily. Galahad yanked his sword out after a brief struggle, and then collapsed to the ground, vomiting violently. Mordred wanted to help him, but suddenly, two Woads leapt on him from behind, tearing him to the ground. They tussled in the dirt, a flurry of stabs and strikes. Finally, the two blue warriors lay dead and bloodied on the ground, and Mordred got up and moved on, forgetting about Galahad in the rush of blood-lust coursing through his veins.
Time passed. It could have been days, seasons, minutes: Mordred did not know, or care. The world had been reduced to him and his sword, and an ever-changing cycle of opponents to join him in the brutal dance of combat. By chance, he looked off to his side as he swiftly beheaded a burly Woad.
Galahad was sprawled on the ground, his sword lying useless beside him.
Mordred felt as though he'd been gutted. Was the boy dead? He breathed a sigh of relief as he saw Galahad's chest rise, praising the gods that the lad seemed to be merely unconscious. As he glanced up from Galahad's prone body, Mordred flinched in surprise as he noticed Tristran. As Woad after Woad rushed at the defenceless boy, Tristran killed them neatly and efficiently, spilling not a drop of blood on Galahad or himself, standing above Galahad's body like one of Arthur's "avenging angels".
Even when the fighting began to slow down, the scout did not move on. He did not leave Galahad.
At the end of the battle, it was Tristran who carried the boy back to the horses. It was Tristran who wrapped Galahad in his own thick cloak. The boy rode back to the Wall seated in front of Tristran, on Tristran's horse. Tristran knelt by the well and helped Galahad wash the blood from his small body when they arrived back at their post. It was Tristran who gave up his leisure time to teach Galahad how to use a bow. Tristran, who was only sixteen.
And Mordred and the other Knights had teased him for his kindness.
The memory brought a fresh wave of shame crashing down on the second-in-command. Without Tristran's help, Galahad would have died that day. He wouldn't have grown up to be the best horseman of all the Knights; wouldn't have become one of their best archers, second only to Tristran. The more he thought about the cantankerous scout, the more Mordred realised that every one of the Knights, including himself, owed their lives to Tristran. And how had they repaid him? For years, they had avoided him, and mocked him behind his back to varying degrees. The scout's words pummelled him mercilessly, the sheer selflessness of them making Mordred want to shrivel into a tiny ball of disgrace. I want to keep you all safe; I want us to return to Sarmatia together.
"I'm so sorry, Tristran," he whispered, the bitterly cold night air stinging his face. "I'm so, so sorry."
-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-
Tristran rode along in silence, occasional bursts of anger, hurt and embarrassment making his stomach clench uneasily. He wasn't one for verbal confrontation, preferring to settle disagreements with a neat, quick scuffle. His opponents usually left him alone after that, and he went on his way feeling guiltless and satisfied. Arthur had given up on reprimanding him, but the scout could sense the contained disapproval in the Commander's eyes when yet another Roman stumbled off to the healer's rooms. Arthur favoured war with words, taking up a sword as his very last resort.
I don't know how you do it, Arthur, thought Tristran, watching as a rock dove shifted solemnly on a leafy branch. A good beating provides much better…closure.
Gods knew that was what he felt like giving Mordred right now, anyway. He'd preferred the man when he was an ignorant, cheerful idiot. Did the second-in-command think that Tristran didn't notice the tortured sighs, the guilty gazes? No one had benefited from the argument: Mordred appeared to be stewing in a virtual cauldron of torment, Tristran felt even more alone than he had before, and the Picts were treating him as though he'd spontaneously explode at any second. Sweet Mother, none of this angst ever came from a good bout of fisticuffs.
"Tristran," called Grainne, cantering up to draw level with the scout.
Tristran gently tugged at the reins, slowing his exhausted horse to a gradual walk. "Whoa," he murmured to her, patting her neck gently. "Easy, now." The dapple-grey tossed her head and snorted, flanks heaving. Tristran felt a surge of guilt as he gave his faithful companion some rein, allowing her to walk at her own pace as he turned to face the blonde Woad. If only we had fresh horses, he thought, scratching the mare's heavy winter coat softly. His only consolation was that their quarry appeared to have no fresh horses either, Murchadh's men slowing down considerably in the last hour before twilight. We're closing in.
Grainne nodded to him as she approached, the half-dark of twilight shadowing her painted face strangely, and darkening her charcoal-rimmed eyes. "We need to rest," she said, stretching her back slightly in the saddle with a groan. "Fearghus slid off his pony not long ago, you know. He wasn't injured, only bruised, but… he's tired, Tristran." We all are. She didn't need to say the words for the scout to understand. Perhaps the pace he had been setting was a little hard.
"I'll scout ahead for shelter," he said, but the leader held up her hand.
"Banna will go," she said quietly. "The area here is decidedly more… hostile… to any sign of foreigners." She eyed his curved swords and his Sarmatian bow with clear disapproval. "That includes you."
Tristran shrugged, too weary to bother defying the controlling blonde Pict. "Better hurry," he said, scratching at a smear of dried blood on the sleeve of his tunic. "The distance between us and them is lessening."
"For now. It will get difficult soon," said Grainne, her tone foreboding. Tristran frowned.
"What do you mean?" he asked, trying to think of possible dangers. Apart from the fact that the land was crawling with murderous Woads.
"Mountains," replied the leader. "We'll begin to start climbing the hills soon enough. I won't be surprised if Murchadh's planning to go even further north, into the highlands."
"But doesn't that Seer woman live in the far north?" asked Tristran, confused. "Surely her allies would stop Murchadh and his men from kidnapping her own grandson?"
Grainne snorted. "You assume that all Caledonians are friends? Most of us despise one another!" She chuckled darkly. "If faced in battle by a Roman and a warrior from one of the north-eastern tribes, I'd have trouble deciding who to kill first."
"Roman, definitely," muttered Tristran under his breath. "But it would depend on whether you wanted a decent fight or not."
"Mm. Probably north-eastern, then. The Fisher King's men always put in a good effort," said Grainne, flashing Tristran a blood-curdling grin. I could almost like her, thought Tristran approvingly, if only I hadn't fought against her in the past. For all he knew, it could have been one of her arrows that punctured Agravaine's lung, or her knife that had spilled Cai's entrails across the frozen ground. Grainne turned her horse away, and cantered back down the line to talk to the tracker. A moment later, Banna galloped past him on her indefatigable grey pony, bravely forging a path into the gathering darkness and danger. Is that Mordred's Sarmatian bow strapped to her back? He was too distracted to care.
This new information from Grainne was troubling, and Tristran glanced around their small group with fresh unease. If relations between the tribes of Picts were as bad as the blonde leader hinted, their mission was even more perilous than he had thought. The presence of the three Picts in their hunting party would not keep them safe at all; perhaps even endangering them further. And in his current state of emotional distraction, he simply could not afford heightened danger.
Thankyou, Grainne, he thought sarcastically, staring hard into the hazy dusk that surrounded them. I may as well take first watch; as I, for one, will not be sleeping tonight. Somewhere, faint and very far away, an owl called.
-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-
"Look at these markings, Arthur," called Dagonet unexpectedly, gesturing for the Commander to come over. The Knights had stopped for a short break, their leg muscles aching from the long ride.
"It looks like someone's…" began Arthur, frowning as he bent down to examine the odd shape in the dirt.
"…fallen off their horse," finished Lancelot, crouching down beside Arthur. The Commander fought the urge to groan. Of all the times for Lancelot to come and pester him. But the curly-haired Knight did not follow up his observation with any cheeky comment, instead standing up once more and surveying their surroundings with a critical eye. "Not Tristran or Mordred, though," he continued, pointing to the hoofprints around the scuffled mark. "The horse isn't shod."
"Assuming that they're still in possession of their own horses," murmured Dagonet thoughtfully, as Bors strode over.
"What 'ave we here?" he enquired gruffly, his jovial mood wearing off. Arthur knew the feeling.
"Someone's fallen off their horse," he replied, shrugging. "So it seems. I think we're getting closer."
Bors grunted. "What I want to know is why they're off gallivanting across the wilderness with three Woads. 'Ave they been kidnapped? Are we being led into a trap? We'd better bloody well find them, that's all I can say."
"When do you think we'll catch up with them, Arthur?" asked Lancelot, his brow creased slightly with concern.
"Soon," said the Commander tiredly, "I hope." The other Knights grunted in agreement.
"I'd kill for an ale," grumbled Bors, seemingly finding more to say after all. "An' one of Van's…"
"We don't need to know, Bors," said Galahad quickly, cutting the older Knight off with a disturbed look.
Bors chuckled. "I was goin' to say fruit loaves, but now that you mention it…"
"Enough!" said Arthur, raising his voice. "Come on, it's time we're off again." Ignoring the chorus of groans that followed his order, he wearily hauled his aching body into the saddle. If I don't rest soon, I'll be the one falling off my horse, he thought ruefully.
"What's that noise?" exclaimed Galahad suddenly, holding up his hand in an effort to silence the Knights. Everyone fell quiet, listening carefully.
"Just an owl, pup," said Lancelot at last, breaking the silence. "And far away at that. You're becoming quite the scout."
"Yeah, Tristran'll 'ave to take you on as 'is full-time apprentice," joked Bors, causing Galahad's pale cheeks to flush slightly.
"If he's still alive," muttered Gawain sullenly, checking his axe was properly strapped to his back.
"What, are you going to kill him rather than give Galahad up?" teased Lancelot as they nudged their horses into a trot.
"Knights…" called Arthur warningly for about the twelfth time that day. "We need to cooperate. Keep a look-out, I've heard this is dangerous territory around here." Perhaps he should have bought more of the Knights with him, after all. He had told Ector, Lamorak and Bedivere to return back to the Wall, and report to the Roman supervisors at their post. No doubt the Romans would be highly displeased with Arthur and his foolhardy actions.
Surely we'll find them soon, though, thought Arthur, narrowing his eyes as he stared into the misty purple twilight. Surely we must be getting closer.
-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-
A/N: I know the Fisher King isn't meant to have ruled in north-eastern Scotland, and nor was he meant to have been around at the time when this story was set, but I hope you don't mind too much :)
Hope you're enjoying, and I'd be really grateful if you left a review to tell me how you think the story's going! Hugs and thanks to my faithful reviewers out there, you guys are the best :)