As usual, I own nothing that seems familiar to you in this story, but you know that already. Holly is my own creation. Tristan is very, very irritated at me for this I assure you.

Many, many thanks go out to the wonderful Beta team. Leigh, Murt and Jo I wouldn't be able to do this without you. Seriously.

This chapter is dedicated to Wintherose and PetiteJeanne your reviews inspire me, enlighten me and always put a smile on my face.

As promised here is chapter 6.

"There are haunters of the silence, ghosts that hold the heart and brain."- Madison Julius Cawein

Chapter 6

Mâtar was having another one of her spells, Tristan realized warily as he pushed aside the animal hide that served as a front door to their hut. She was pacing frantically, mumbling, pulling at her hair. She came to him at once and clutched at him so fiercely that she pierced the fabric of his jerkin and cut into his skin. Tristan barely had a chance to ask her what was troubling her when she cut him off; the look she gave him chilled him to his very bones.

"They are coming, puça. Can't you hear them?" she whispered, her eyes tormented.

"I hear no one, Mâtar. Nothing," he replied in a soft voice, wanting only to console her. Mâtar's madness came and went in waves and she had been of a sound mind now for weeks- until tonight, that is.

Her fingers curled into the thin sleeves of his tunic and she gave him a frantic shake, as if that would make him hear and see the things that had her so frightened.

"They are coming to take you away!" she shouted, dark hair spilling into her eyes, making her look every inch the madwoman the people of their tribe claimed her to be. Tristan refused to cower at her tone. She had yelled at him before and he had withstood her rages, but for some reason tonight there was a sense of desperation in his mother that he had never witnessed before.

Mâtar pushed him away forcefully and his gangly body went careening into a small table, bumping it over. Tristan turned quickly and set it upright before it spilled what little food they had onto the ground. He glared hard at his mother, wanting to understand her and at the same time resenting her fiercely for these fits. She kept him from his friends; she kept him from his horse, Skye, and his desire to explore the lands that surrounded them.

He craved freedom from his mother and at the same time he didn't know what to do without her. She was his only family.

Tristan's chest burned tightly with an emotion so raw he couldn't name it, and with a will he was beginning to hone he pushed it down until it dulled and he could focus again on Mâtar.

She bent over one of the pallets, apparently looking for something. She continued to mumble to herself, seeming to forget that he was even the same room. He approached her cautiously, wondering if he could safely subdue her long enough to find the herb woman and have her make Mâtar a brew that would settle her nerves and force her to sleep.

He had taken three slow steps toward her when she turned with such speed that he was taken aback. Her dark eyes burned with a strange light and she stared at him, almost through him. She continued to mumble words like: protect, punish and death. An oddly shaped bundle of cloth was clutched in her fierce grip.

She brought the bundle to her chest and began a subtle rocking motion back and fourth.

Tristan reached hesitantly toward her and the cloth bundle, not wanting to startle her in any way. To his utter surprise she acceded the parcel without protest, a small smile curving her lips as he unraveled the cloths to discover a sword, a strange one that was half the size of him and had a curved blade, with odd symbols that were carved into the sharp metal.

The blade glinted at him brightly in the dimly lit hut as if it were winking at him.

Tristan grasped the hilt and for a madding second he heard the screams of a hundred men echoing in his ears. The sound was so startling that he dropped the blade instantly. It hit to the floor with a loud clang.

His mother's gasp startled him and he reached for the sword once more. Once he had his fingers wrapped around the hilt there was nothing but the crackle of the fire in the brazier and the sounds of his mother's absent humming. Strange warmth emanated from the blade and radiated up his forearm. He stared in fascination.

"It belonged to your father. It's all I have left of him, aside from you." Mâtar's voice floated toward him and he barely heard her, as he could not take his gaze from the wondrous sword.

"It will protect you once you learn to wield it. He has sworn it to me." Tristan's gaze shot back to her, startled, as she spoke of his father as if he were alive, though this was not the first time she had done so. Her gaze was focused somewhere over his shoulder. For the first time that evening she seemed calm. She approached him this time, her sad, haunted gaze riveted to his face.

"You must promise to always listen, puça, there is nothing to be afraid of," she had said this very thing to him before but he had never truly understood what she meant. "They are here to help you, help us. Keep your eyes open." She brushed her fingers lightly over the marks under his eyes; they mirrored the symbols on her cheeks. "You have been a stubborn boy but there are those who will make you see and you should not turn away from them."

She released a shaky sigh and he tilted his head at the sound. His mother had never addressed him so and he wondered what was going on in her muddled mind.

"I have dreaded this day, the day you would leave me and I can not bear to see you go." Tristan looked at her sharply, wondering what she was implying.

"I go nowhere, Mâtar. Do not fret." She smiled at him absently, her strangely colored eyes swirling again. She patted his cheek affectionately and Tristan couldn't help but lean into the contact. He watched as she settled on her pallet, once more pulled the blankets over her slight form and informed him that he should go ready Skye.

"Ready Skye for what?" But she did not answer. Her eyes closed and her body stilled. Tristan sank down on to his own pallet and stared at his mother from across the room. He watched the firelight play over her features and wondered what caused her strange fits. It did not matter. She was calm now. Sleeping. He set the sword by his bedside and forced himself to lie down. He closed his eyes and heard nothing. Saw nothing.

The following morning when he awoke, a strangely clad Roman soldier stood at his bedside. They had come for him. The soldier tossed Tristan out of his bed and forced him outside. He tried to pull from the man's grasp as he called for his mother. But there was no answer. Her pallet was empty, the very essence of her presence absent from the hut.

The realization that hit him like a slap to the face as he was forcibly dragged out into the bright morning sunlight: Mâtar was gone and Tristan would never see her again.

Tristan stumbled into the tavern the next morning with a foul taste in his mouth and a slight throbbing behind his eyelids. He had slept poorly these last few days. Dreams of his mother plagued him at every turn. He wondered if Mab had cursed him somehow that morning he had met her in the forest. The woman was evil, but he wasn't about to push aside the fact that Mâtar had been haunting him as of late and he had seen no hint of mist in the forest for three days.

Tristan forced himself to sit, leaning heavily on his forearms. A disapproving noise that was distinctly feminine sounded to his left. He didn't have to turn to know who was standing next to him. Without a word of acknowledgment Vanora slid a bowl of steaming white beans and oats in front of him before pouring him a strong mug of ale. The smell of food roused him somewhat.

"You look ill," Vanora said flatly, one hand on her hip. Tristan's mouth quirked at that.

He slid his bloodshot gaze toward her and blinked at the yellow haze that surrounded her; it practically blinded him.

"You look pregnant. Again," Tristan provided without preamble, turning away from the glow. Vanora's grip on the pitcher of ale faltered slightly and her eyes widened.

"How did you…?" But she didn't finish. Her lips pressed into a fine line and her irritation flared at him. Being used to her fits of temper, Tristan didn't pay her any mind and began shoveling the food into his mouth, hoping that it would prevent an awkward conversation from starting.

Vanora huffed impatiently but knew better than to prod him for information when he was eating. She walked away to serve another table, leaving him in blessed peace. For about five minutes.

Someone jostled the bench next to him and shouted for food. Tristan barely managed to suppress the urge to roll his eyes. Lancelot glared at him silently with an air of impatience so strong it practically pushed at him. Tristan set down his cup rather forcefully and wiped the dripping liquid from his beard on his shirtsleeve before he acknowledged him.

"No."

Lancelot blinked at him in surprise. "You don't even know what I was going to say."

"Yes, I do. And no, I won't."

Lancelot let loose one of those long-suffering sighs and turned to his own food. They were silent for a moment.

"You know the forest better than anyone, particularly that part of it. I need your help," the other knight ground out, as if it were very difficult to ask for his aid. Knowing Lancelot, it probably was.

"Have Arthur send Gawain in my stead. I want no part of that crumbling old villa." Lancelot had approached him days ago about this favor, and hadn't stopped bothering him since. Tristan did not go near that place. Never went towards it. There was a sense of evil there. Dagonet was the only other one to feel it. It affected no one else. Now Lancelot wanted to see if he could restore the place. See if it was habitual for his new wife. Arthur had absorbed the lands and the villa into the kingdom years ago, as it had once been a fraction all its own at one time.

There was only one small kink in Lancelot's restoration plans. A dying roman lord had sent several missives to Arthur in the last few months. It seemed that the villa had once belonged to his family and he wanted it back and entailed into his estate, an estate he planned to leave for a daughter. This was a thing unheard of. Men did not leave lands to their female offspring. The roman's unusual request had intrigued Arthur and had dampened Lancelot's plans.

Lancelot wanted to prove that the estate was uninhabitable (in a sense) and hoped that the old lord would let it go so that he could be able to build on the land. Arthur had granted Lancelot this one concession: If he could find someone who knew the land, and who, upon inspection, found the place in sorry condition then Arthur could with good conscience write to the lord stating that the villa and lands were worth nothing and Lancelot would have free reign over it.

Tristan hated the place and wanted no part of it. Lancelot would prod him with questions and accusations until it became too much for Tristan to bear: how could he explain to his friend that the place crawled with evil without revealing things he had no intention of revealing? Instead, Tristan remained characteristly silent, as it usually proved to be a very useful tactic on his part in the past. Lancelot, however, would not let this go.

"Come with me this afternoon," came the order, disguised as a request. Tristan looked at Lancelot sideways.

"No." He pushed his bowl away from him and stood on steadier legs, fully intent on leaving the tavern. He wanted to see if there was any indication of fog today.

"Your horse will be saddled and ready for you in one hour." Tristan turned to look back at his brother-in-arms. His steady gaze spoke volumes and for once Lancelot looked equally determined. Lancelot's devotion to Reagan and his obvious desire to build a good life for the pair of them seemed to win over Tristan's uncanny wariness and strong sense of foreboding.

As usual, Tristan did not give a reply. Instead he strode from the tavern, already reluctantly aware that he would meet Lancelot in the stables in one hour despite his earlier protestations.

Tristan lifted himself onto the back of Skye in one practiced motion. The mare barely moved, so attuned was she to her master. Tristan felt his lips curl into a smile as he affectionately patted her neck. He adjusted himself in the saddle and wondered at the fact that his position on his horse always felt like home.

Grabbing at the reins, he followed Lancelot and Malachi out of the sables at a slow trot. The weather this early winter morning was fine and there was barely a nip of snow in the air. The weak British sunlight filtered through the clouds, pale yellow beams lighting upon bare tree branches.

The ride to the edge of the forest was uneventful and Tristan was reluctant to admit that he was enjoying himself. He watched as Lancelot turned back to motion him forward.

"I want you to lead. You know the way better than I do." Tristan had expected this. Suppressing the sigh building in his lungs, he moved forward. Skye was a competent companion riding in wooded areas and she seemed just as reluctant as he when he steered her toward the east.

The scents of the forest in early winter bombarded him. He had hoped to sense something else, but there was no mist on this clear cold day. The marked disappointment he felt at this realization startled the scout. He shook off the feeling easily, not wanting to think of it again.

The two men made their way through the forest with nary a hitch in their ride. Little was said between them except for a few comments here and there directing their steeds over bumps and precarious places in the long overgrown trail.

Soon enough the outlines of a structure came into view between the barrier of trees. Tristan knew they were getting close as an air of apprehension began to grow stronger within him. He easily spied the first crumbling remains of what once had to be a great gateway. The old structure must have been grand indeed in its day. Someone important, and wealthy, had been housed here.

The land that surrounded it was fine and rich, and it was no wonder that Arthur wanted it absorbed into his lands. It would make for a prime area for a village, so close to the Wall, and who better to oversee it than his second in command? Lancelot in his eagerness nudged Malachi into a fast trot and rode ahead of Tristan with an air of purpose that was nearly contagious.

Tristan followed him slowly, the hair on the back of his neck rising in awareness seconds before he was besieged with the scent of lavender. His eyes darted back and forth but there was nothing to alert him to Holly's presence. Nothing but that sweet smell that was so incredibly out of place.

Trying to still the pounding of his heart, Tristan finally met Lancelot in a flat area that must have at one time been the courtyard. Lancelot had already dismounted and was cautiously walking the structure's perimeter. Tristan knew at once that he was oblivious to any changes in the air. He doubted very seriously that Lancelot smelled the lavender scent as he did.

The decaying villa sat there, surrounded by overgrown flora looking more ominous than anything Tristan had seen before. Wild vines, now barren in winter, looked like black veins crawling up the faded grey walls. The outer western wall had started to crumble; large chunks of grey stone littered the ground nearby. It made Tristan keenly aware of how old the edifice was. He knew, on an elemental level, that something unsettling had happened there.

Tristan took note of Skye's mounting trepidation and took it upon himself to tie her and Malachi outside of the gates. The further the horses were away from the villa, the better, he thought to himself. He turned then, something flashing in his peripheral vision: it was nothing more than a spark, but it was there nonetheless, and he knew suddenly why the villa had so disturbed him. The crumbling structure was not as empty as it appeared.

"The roof is solid," Lancelot called out to him, breaking Tristan from his disturbing thoughts. "And the standing walls seem strong enough." Lancelot kicked at the base of one as if to prove an example, and Tristan suspected that he shouldn't disturb the daunting structure that way.

"Let's venture inside," Lancelot offered, unable to hide his eagerness. I'd rather not, Tristan thought to himself but followed Lancelot, despite his misgivings. As he ambled slowly towards the building, he had to wonder: if Lancelot had possessed the keen senses that Tristan did, he would not be so enthusiastic to move Reagan into a house that was more than likely possessed by spirits and tumbling down around their ears.

As he followed Lancelot, the scent of lavender became stronger until it was all that he could smell. The heady fragrance was so overpowering that he could practically taste it on his tongue. He wondered if Holly was watching him this very moment. Her presence was here, but it was faint, weak, and he was curious if she had any ties to this place. If she did, why didn't she make herself known to him?

Holly had always seemed eager to seek him out and that she should back away from him at such a time and place was puzzling to say the least. His eyes scanned the outlying forests once more, yet there was not a single tendril of mist to confirm his suspicions.

Was she hiding? Or was there someone else out there watching him?

Again, that same bright flash caught the corner of his eye and he pivoted on his heel towards it. This time he caught the glimpse of a figure darting behind the back of the house. Tristan blinked and craned his neck around to get a better look.

"Are you coming?" called Lancelot impatiently from the front of the villa.

"No. I want to check out back first," he replied, his feet already making strides around the side of the house. He stopped abruptly, as a familiar dark and cloying presence instantly filled him with dread. Mab was near and every instinct inside Tristan warned him to stay away from her. Her dry chuckle was carried on the wind and for some reason he knew she sensed him as well.

Tristan's hackles rose but he'd be Gods damned if he shied away from an old crone, one whom he could easily fell with a single swipe of the sword strapped to his hip. He wrapped his fingers around the hilt and he felt that familiar comforting warmth radiate up his forearm. Tristan's footfalls were light as he crept up behind her, but Mab turned with uncanny speed for someone so old. Her thin lips curled upward and her remaining eye took him in as sharply as ever and he felt his skin crawl in reaction.

She appeared to be standing in what was once a garden. Mab was obviously in a hurry. She spun away from him, pulling at sodden, dead weeds with a strength that startled Tristan. Once her fist was full, she turned back to him and scuttled toward the edge of the forest placing a dirty gnarled finger to her lips. Mab motioned to the villa then to the side of her head. She tapped her ear in some sort of signal and then was gone.

Tristan stood there pondering at the strange encounter when the weak sun dipped behind a cloud and it the wind gathered in strength. A bitter cold ripped through him and he turned back toward the villa. He could hear Lancelot inside, rooting around and Tristan wanted to shout at him to disturb nothing, but knew it would do him no good. And then he heard it. It was low and soft and at first Tristan thought he was imagining it. Gooseflesh arose on the backs of his arms as a haunting melody drifted toward him, a woman singing a lullaby.

Drawn towards the source of the sound, Tristan moved closer to the villa and reluctantly entered what he suspected had been a servant's door. The rotted piece of wood hung on its hinges and all but crumbled in his hands as he pushed it aside. The interior was damp and smelled of moldering decay, laced with lavender. Closer he crept to the source of the sound, his heart pounding, all the while suspecting what he would find and at the same time afraid of it.

He rounded a corner and entered a dark room. Dim light filtered through holes in the roof, offering him enough light to make out shapes of broken furniture and earthenware. A vermin-eaten rug covered the floor in front of a filthy hearth. The sound of the woman was the strongest in this room and a feeling of deep melancholy settled over him as he stepped over the threshold. It was so strong that he felt his chest constrict in reaction. He closed his eyes to steel himself against the emotion and when he opened them, he saw her.

She sat on the rug, gently rocking back and forth. Her image was nothing like Holly's. She flickered as if she were a weak candle flame that would be guttered out by sudden movement. Tristan stood there, rooted to his spot, mere feet away from her. She did not seem to notice him. Her fair complexion was waxen, her golden hair eerily pale and glowing in the darkness of the room. Her features were familiar, but not so much that he could place her. The woman held a tightly wrapped bundle in her arms. She caressed the child's face with reverent hands. The ghost-woman kissed the babe and then her image flickered and she was gone.

The lullaby abruptly stopped.

The sense of melancholy deepened until it threatened to consume him.

"Why are you here?" a familiar voice asked from the darkest corner of the room. Holly had finally appeared, her ghostly figure glowing so brightly, like a beacon in the blackness and that made his eyes sting. Fingers of mist crept along the cold stone floor, wrapping themselves around his calves while dead leaves swirled over his boots. The intense sadness he'd been feeling faded slightly at her ethereal touch. Holly had never seemed more real to him than she did at that moment.

"What?" Tristan replied, having already forgotten the question, his voice sounding discordant even to his own ears.

"Leave now," she ordered, her voice firm. He had grown used to her smiles and welcoming eyes, but now she looked hard and sad and frightened. Before he knew what he was doing he had taken three steps toward her, startling himself at his desire to console her.

"Where have you been?" he found himself asking. Her features softened at the question and her eyes looked startled when the sounds of Lancelot's plundering inside the other rooms of the villa reached them. Lancelot was shouting things at him, from other rooms, as if Tristan cared if the kitchen was still in one piece or that the great room looked to be in the best shape.

"Take him and go! You've no desire to be at this place, trust me, I can feel how much you hate it here." This gave Tristan pause.

"Who lived here? Did you?" Holly's startled gaze shot to the door and she pressed herself closer to the wall, sinking into the solid stone as if it were a feather tick. Lancelot's heavy footfalls came ever closer down the corridor.

"Don't you disappear on me again!" he demanded. "Who was the woman with the babe?" he asked quickly, sensing their time was running short, as she had never appeared to him in the daytime before and he could feel her growing weaker by the second. Holly's eyes narrowed as she stared at him.

"How do you know of her?"

"I saw her just now!" he replied impatiently.

"You did?" she asked surprised. "Did you speak to her? Did she say anything to you?" Hope suffused her voice and her face transformed into wonder.

"No, she didn't even acknowledge me. She was singing to her babe." Holly's face crumpled at his words.

"My sister. You saw my sister Dara." Her eyes were sad as she said this but that was all he could get out of her before Lancelot came stomping into the room.

"What in the name of the Gods are you doing?" he asked as Tristan turned toward him. Tristan knew how it must have appeared to the other knight as he stared at him. Though how did one explain that he was in fact not talking to himself and staring at an empty corner of a room? He could tell by the look on Lancelot's face that he thought he was cracked. He turned back to Holly and she gave him a small wave before she sank completely into the wall, disappearing as she usually did.

Tristan choked back his frustration and rounded on Lancelot. "We're leaving now." The sharpness in his tone brooked no room for argument. Lancelot, completely unaware of the strange and otherworldly events that had happened this afternoon, looked at him strangely.

"Were you talking to yourself a moment ago?" Knowing any type of answer would lead to more questions than he was prepared to answer, Tristan said nothing. Instead he stalked back out of the servant's door, around the corner of the building. He mounted Skye and untied Malachi, hastily tossing the reins to Lancelot. He needed to find Holly again and he knew that dusk was hours away.

"You can find your way back, I trust?" he tossed over his shoulder as he steered Skye in the direction of his glen. Lancelot stood there staring at him, his dark brows drawn over his eyes in concern before he looked back at the villa.

"What were you doing in that room?"

"Talking to ghosts." Tristan replied honestly, and Lancelot snorted in disbelief at his answer. He rolled his eyes heavenward at Tristan as if he were making a huge concession to take him at his word.

"So you're saying the villa is possessed by spirits?" he asked, unable to hide a tinge of mirth in his voice.

"Yes. If you enjoy your sanity and the sanity of your bride, I'd think twice before I moved into it." Tristan nudged Skye into motion, leaving Lancelot standing at the dilapidated gateway of the villa, looking more baffled than he'd ever seen him before.

AN: Sorry again for the LONG wait. I have good excuses this time I promise. I've started a new job while at the same time enrolled back into college, I already have a degree but two can't hurt right? ;)

While writing this chapter I found myself listening to La Roux a lot. Strange as it may seem, Armour Love sort of became Tristan and Holly's theme. It really is a beautiful song. Also Gnossiennes No. 1- Lent by Lang Lang- from the Painted Veil Soundtrack supplied the backdrop for this story. The music is good, the movie is even better although I would warn you to watch it with a box of tissues.

Until Chapter 7 where we meet up with Reagan, Lucan, and much more of Holly and Mab I promise!

Happy Reading

~S