Starcrossed

Chapter Two

Tristan/OC

Usual disclaimers apply. Please review.

Fluff ahead. Think of it as a „calm before the storm" situation. Chapters will be longer as the story goes on. (Shorter chapters = more frequent updates)

Contrary to popular belief, Tristan did not see the world as black and white.

While he could honestly say that his allegiance lay solely with his brothers, the other knights pressed into Rome's service, he had learned over the years that there were Romans who were not as bad as others, even a few downright decent ones.
Pretentious bastards they remained, but still, there was no reason to hate them.

Then, of course, there was Arthur, but he did not count as Roman. Tristan would have laid his life on the line for his commander any day.
Britons he did not much think about. They were there, they were easily scared and those he knew more closely, like Bors' lover Vanora, were generally nice people.

Woads, however, he had only ever considered enemies. He never saw any but when they were sneaking among the trees or running at him, brandishing weapons, so it had been easy so far. „Blue demons", Bors had called them, and that's what they seemed like, shrieking to high heavens, painted and clad only in furs and leather and an almost maniacal glint in their eyes. That's how Tristan had seen Woads, for the past fourteen years and six months. He had killed them without question.

Except for that girl a few days past. Scrawny thing, that one. Not beautiful, compared to some of the women at Badon Fort, and certainly not inspiring any protective urge in a man, what with the knife at her hip and the bow. And yet he had spared her life.

He mulled this over as he rode once more on patrol. The sun was beginning to set in the West and cast a golden hue over the thick foliage of the near forest. A soft wind caressed the branches and elicited a slight whisper, as if the plants knew of secret and were eager to tell him.

A rare, content smile spread on his face. He knew that the other knights, while loving him well enough, thought of him as a loner, and in truth, he did enjoy this peace and quiet. It made him feel as if he was quite alone on this earth and for once, there was no one to fight, no one to kill in the name of an empire he despised with all his being.

His hawk had yet to reappear. He had sent her soaring into the sky a while ago, and after circling over him a few times, she had swooped into the forest, presumably to catch her dinner.

Tristan's eyes scanned the sky once more, lingering for a moment on the clouds in the distance, painted red by dusk, like blood spreading on clean linnen. When he returned his gaze to the tree line, he saw her standing there.

She looked different, yet he recognized her at once. Her hair was unbound, tumbling down her back and blew softly in the breeze. Her skin was clean of blue dye and the simple dress she wore hid the markings that would otherwise have identified her as a Woad.

She did not look at him, but at his hawk, who he now spied sitting on a low branch. The bird eyed the girl curiously, or more likely, the piece of dried meat in her outstretched hand.

Her master's sharp whistle had her flying off the branch in an instant, landing softly on the leather guard on his arm.

Caillean followed the bird with her eyes, smiling slightly as Tristan came closer. His free hand rested on the hilt of his sword, next to his saddle, and his expression was guarded.

„Once again south of the Wall", he said as greeting. „You really enjoy pushing your luck."

She tugged on the skirt of her dress. Upon closer inspection, he could see that she had obviously travelled quite a distance through the forest in it. There were stains and tears around the hemline and it was too big for her, swallowing her bony figure in fabric.

„I'm even less of a threat today, aren't I? Just a simple Briton..."

„...stumbling through the forest in the middle of nowhere? Hardly." He dismounted, mindful of the hawk still perched on his arm. She flapped her wings, but kept her balance.

His gaze remained weary as he watched Caillean once more holding out the piece of meat tentatively.

Once more safely seated on her master's arm, the hawk eyed the meat with considerably greater interest, snatching it out of Caillean's fingers finally and gobbling it down.

Once she had finished, however, Tristan cast her in the air once more, which she commented with an indignant shriek.

Caillean smiled, but the mirth died at once as she saw the expression on the knight's face.

She sighed, dropping all pretense of jocoseness and meeting his eyes squarely. For a moment it seemed as if he could look right past her eyes into her soul. She shivered.

„What are you doing here, Caillean?" His soft accent made her own name seem beautiful to her ears. Yet she was once more reminded of the fact that this man was not only deadly, but had slain many of her people already.

„Just adding one more case of treason to my conscience by talking to you, I suppose", she answered quietly. „My sister lives here, at the fortress. She married the blacksmith four years ago. My father and brother haven't acknowledged her existence since, but she is after all my sister. We leave each other messages in the forest, to let each other know how we are doing. That is all."

His eyes narrowed in suspicion. „What kind of messages? Show me where."

Darkness was beginning to seep into the sky and already the faint outline of the moon could be seen through holes in the dense foliage as Caillean led Tristan into the forest. He had his sword in hand and kept his eyes open for any movement in the underbrush. They crossed the clearing where they had met a few days ago and then went just a little further.

The woods were quiet here, save for the chirruping of a small bird in the hazel thicket and the soft murmur of a clear little stream. A treestump sat prominently next to the brook, its base overgrown with moss and several mushrooms clinging to its sides like little gnomes with oddly shaped hats, poking their heads out of their windows to catch a glimpse at the intruders.

And there, on the flat surface of the stump, sat a little basket with three apples in it, a little wooden figure of a dog and a length of colored ribbon.

„It's what she left for me," Caillean said, her voice small and timid, quite unlike her earlier tone. As Tristan looked at her, he could see tears in her eyes and noticed for the first time that they were grey, like the sky before a storm.

He sheathed his sword and shook his head slightly.

„That's indeed treason," he said flatly, and Caillean laughed a little, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

„What's to be my punishment, then?"

„You lose one of these." He picked up one of the apples, prompting her to laugh once more.

Silence fell between them again. Both felt an odd sort of peace, as fragile as a snowflake.

Out of impulse, she took his hand in both of hers, examined the narrow palm, the long fingers, calloused from wielding bow and sword for half his life. He allowed it, taking his own time studying her and trying to understand what it was that tempered his usual hatered and contempt for her people down to virtually nothing when it came to her.

Again he noticed that she was not beautiful, merely pretty in the way most young girls were pretty. Her hair, when clean, was the color of ripe wheat, her face was narrow and tanned from the sun. Long, pale lashes rimmed her eyes, casting fragile shadows onto high cheekbones. Her body was thin, but sinewy, whatever feminine endowments she might possess almost hidden in the folds of the overlarge dress.

„How many of my people have you killed with these hands?" she asked quietly.

„Many." She nodded once, the matter-of-fact tone of his answer apparently unsurprising to her.

„And you are going to kill more."

„Yes, probably."

„I should hate you then." She kept her eyes on his hand, her fingertips tracing the ridge of a small scar across his palm. He closed his fingers over hers.

„Mhm, you should," he agreed. Insanity, probably. Why else would they behave this way. Temporary loss of common sense. „Keep away from here and stay north, where you belong."

She nodded while threading her fingers through his. He put the apple down on the tree stump again and took her other hand.

Her fingers were cold and he could feel her shaking. With a reluctant sigh, he let go of her hands and met her eyes.

„You really should go. This cannot end well."

She was silent for a moment, cocked her head to the side thoughtfully and looked at him.

„You're right," she said softly. „Either of us might end up having to kill the other in any number of circumstances. But... do you hear that?"

Tristan listened closely. The wind rustled in the trees, the little stream splashed softly against a few pebbles. An owl hooted in the distance.

He shook his head. „I hear nothing."
Caillean smiled. „Neither do I. If this is to be a stolen moment, Tristan, knight of the Wall... you are not allowed to think about anything outside of it. So unless you hear your brothers' war cry right now..."

„That's childish," he interrupted her, wondering for a moment about her age. Around twenty, he guessed.

She shrugged, any hurt she might feel hidden beneath an indifferent air. „Then leave."

He took a step back from her, picking up his apple and turning it thoughtfully his fingers.

„Come here often...?"

The question made her smile sadly. „Once every ten days, if I can."

„Hm."

He turned away from her, but after a few steps, he stopped and looked back.

Something Bedivere, his best friend on this earth, had once told him, came back to him in that moment. They had been talking about Bors and Tristan had called him foolish for taking lover and siring children when there was no guarantee he would even live to see them born. Bedivere had disagreed.

Rome took us from our homeland, from our families, put swords in our hands and told us to risk our lives for their affairs. They might tell us who to kill, Tristan, but I'll be damned if I let them tell me who to hate or love. We only have this one life, and chances are our lives won't be as long as some. So Bors is right in living it now, not waiting for some distant day of freedom he might never see.

As on their first meeting, Caillean had remained at the same spot, watching him leave with an unreadable expression in her stormy eyes, her left hand raised in a gesture of farewell. This time, however, he tossed the apple aside, turned around and strode back to her.

„Stolen moment, eh?" he inquired. „Not only a traitor, but also a thief..."

And then he kissed her.

...to be continued...