Starcrossed

Chapter Three

Tristan/OC

Usual disclaimers apply. Please review.

Two chapters in one day. Go me. If no one minds, I'll just continue with the shorter chapters in favour of more frequent updates. Some fluff, last to be had for a while.

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.

They fit against each other perfectly. His arms came around her waist, holding her tight, just as hers wrapped around his neck.

His kiss was befitting his personality: direct and to the point, no butterfly wings brushing rose petals or some such nonsense, just the insistent pressure of a warrior's lips on those of a woman, his beard tickling her chin, his tongue gently but firmly demanding entrance to her mouth. She obliged happily, grinning slightly against his lips before surrendering to his embrace.

After several long moments, they broke apart. Words failed Caillean as she looked into his eyes, for once not guarded, but quite simply content, and she could almost imagine the boy he had been once.

His hands trailed up her back, his fingers threading through her hair and finally coming to rest on her shoulder blades.

She felt strange in his arms, as if she knew everything about him and yet nothing at all. A part of her still screamed that this man had killed her people, on Rome's orders or not, but she for the moment, she stubbornly refused to listen.

In the distance, they heard someone shouting Tristan's name. He looked at her, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear.

„Our stolen moment is over, hm?"

She nodded sadly. No further words were spoken. This time, he did not turn back as he walked away swiftly towards the edge of the woods.

„Tristan!" Galahad yelled his name again, loudly and anxiously, sending a squirrel back up a tree in fright. The young knight had dismounted next to Tristan's horse and now held both animals' reigns, while his eyes scanned the landscape apprehensively.

Whatever flippant answer might have been on the tip of Tristan's tongue, it died the instant he saw the expression on Galahad's face.

A moment ago, he had been telling himself that some manner of peace was, after all, possible, and already fate was cursing him for a fool.

„There you are..." Galahad's relief at seeing the scout alive was palpable.

„What happened?" the older knight asked shortly, although he could almost guess it.

„It's Lamorak. He is dead."

…

Silence lay heavy on the assembled knights as they buried their fallen comrade the next day, laying another friend to rest in foreign soil. Somehow, it hurt even worse that this was Lamorak. He had been one of the kindest men any of them had ever known, an eternal optimist who always spoke of home with a certainty as if he'd be back there any day. Now he would never return, never again see the plains of Sarmatia, the oceans of grass, the endless sky.

Many of those assembled around the freshly dug grave were only still alive because Lamorak had been there when they needed him. Lancelot would not have seen his twentieth birthday without the brave knight being buried just now. Bedivere, who stood at the foot of the grave, silent tears running down his stony face, owed it to Lamorak that he had only lost a hand six years ago, and not his head.

As Arthur thrust Lamorak's sword deep into the earth to mark the knight's final resting place, Tristan let his eyes wander over all the other swords in the ground, connecting a name and a face with each of them.

Cei.

Parcival.

Erec.

Yvain.

Medraut.

All of them had desired nothing more than to go home and find some peace and all of them had died before their time.

Tristan found himself thinking of Caillean.

Perhaps you'll bury me. And I for one like to know the names of the people I lay in their graves.

…

The continuous rasp of the whetstone was a soothing noise, blocking out all but the most basic thought, he discovered. A blade had to be clean and sharp. Very basic, very easy to grasp.

Shhh...

Shh...

Shhh...

„Tristan, talk to me!"

Bedivere's voice startled him so badly that he almost sliced open his hand with his own sword. Disgruntled, he looked up at the tall man standing in the doorway of the tack room.

„'m busy," he growled, but the other knight was having none of it. When he tried to turn back to his work, Bedivere simply took the whetstone from his hand.

„I'd be careful if I had only one more hand to lose," he warned, but then he laid aside his weapon and got up from the bale of hay he had been sitting on. „What do you want?"

Bedivere tossed the whetstone onto a folded blanket on the ground. His narrow face was set in a worried frown.

„Tristan, what is wrong? You've hardly spoken since Lamorak's funeral. We all miss him and grieve his death, but it's been days. Not that you're usually talkative, but this is odd, even for you."

His first instinct was to deny that anything was out of the ordinary, to take refuge in sarcasm, but then he realised that he had no strength left for that. Besides, this was Bedivere, who knew him better than anyone and whom he could never fool.

He turned away from him, running his hand over the smooth leather of a saddle, neatly placed on its peg. While Bedivere waited patiently, Tristan cast around for words.

„I'm not... I don't like talking about these things, you know...?" he began haltingly. „Is it enough for you if I say that I forgot for a moment how close we all are to death? And just then, Lamorak fell. Lamorak, of all people!"

He closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of leather, hay and horses. After a moment, Bedivere placed his hand on Tristan's shoulder. No further words were spoken, but it would not have been necessary either way. Those two, brothers in everything but blood, had never needed many words to understand each other.

…

Caillean knelt at her brother's bedside and watched him sleep. They had given him willow bark tea to numb his pain and something else to make him rest, but for her, there was no rest to be had.

She softly stroked his light brown hair and watched his face relax into almost childlike innocence.

He had to survive, he simply had to! The healer said that there was no cause for pessimism, but he had not offered much hope, either.

Only when his face blurred before her eyes did she notice that she was crying.

„Oh Cædmon..." she whispered, her voice barely audible. „I am so sorry..."

Her eyes strayed to the bandage around her brother's torso, stained red with blood. It was a strange sight, red spots upon white, like red poppies blossoming in snow. She could not help but wonder if he had received this near fatal blow while she had been in the arms of his enemy.

And yet... and yet... Tristan.

Her thoughts could not stray from him for longer than a few moments. Whenever she shut her eyes, she saw his face before her, saw him gaze at her with those captivating eyes, half shadowed behind the locks of his hair, saw his handsome face, the dark tattoos on his cheekbones, the small smile on his lips, the silver flecks in his beard. Tristan.

Shame flooded her when she realised that, upon first hearing that a knight had been killed, she had felt nothing but relief that it couldn't have been him.

Her senses seemed to have heightened unbearably. The air in the hut felt stifling, the furs too scratchy and every log bursting in the fire sounded to her like the crack of a whip.

Now, as she watched over her ailing brother, her thoughts wandered south once more and she wondered whether Tristan was grieving.

…

Ten days had passed and both Caillean and Tristan had decided not to return to that place in the forest. It was too difficult to even try, they both thought.

And yet, surprising even themselves, when dusk fell on the tenth day, they found themselves near the small creek by the tree stump, as if their feet had carried them there despite their convictions.

Tristan felt foolish. He stood there, watched the setting sun through the leaves and listend to the slight rustling of a forest preparing for nighttime. He did not expect her to come, hoped, in fact, that she had more common sense than he did. And yet, he heaved a quiet sigh of relief when he heard approaching footsteps, too light to belong to any man. He turned his head towards her.

Caillean had bound her hair with the ribbon her sister had given her. Her dress fitted her a little better than the previous one and she, too, stopped dead in her tracks and exhaled when she spotted him.

They both started walking towards each other at the same time, stopping only when they were nearly touching.

She saw the grief in his eyes and it pierced her like a sharp needle right through the heart. How she would ever cope if he were to fall, she did not know. Something about him cut through her like a blade, leaving a scar no time would ever erase, even if this was the last time they would see each other.

After a moment of silence, Tristan reached out and crushed her to his chest. She fisted her fingers in his hair and closed her eyes tightly.

„Promise me something," he whispered roughly. „If this is to be stolen time, let us not talk of war." She drew back a little. A strange feeling pooled in her stomach, a sweet, burning sensation that made her laugh and cry at once. She thought briefly of Cædmon, still warding off death at every turn, and once more felt the fragility of life.

„Fine," she agreed, her hands slipping from his shoulders to the fastenings of his leather jerkin, „in fact, we need not talk at all."

His eyes widened for a moment as her meaning sunk in. Tristan was by no means prude and he had had his fair share of experience with women, but none had been so open about her desire unless she wanted coins in return. He hesitated for a moment. Then his thoughts strayed to Lamorak, who had not known at dawn that he would not live to see dusk.
Casting his doubts aside, he allowed her to help him out of the leather garment before reaching down to gather up the hem of her skirt. His lips caressed hers in tender kisses, until they had to break apart in order for him to pull the dress over her head.

As her body was slowly revealed to him, he thought back on his first impression of her. No, she was not beautiful. Right then, in that moment, she was breathtaking. He lifted her in his arms and then laid her down on his cloak, with soft green moss as their pillow.

…

Afterwards, he fell asleep on his side next to her, one arm curled protecively around her waist, the other one cushioning her head. For Caillean, however, sleep was the furthest thing from her mind. He had not been her first lover, and yet she had never known that being with a man could be like this, could feel so right. Tears gathered in her eyes, but not from any physical pain. Her mind, still reeling from pleasure, kept inventing elaborate fantasy scenarios of just how they might manage to stay together after all, each one increasingly unlikely.

The bitter truth was, that they were enemies in every other place but this one. There would be no happy ending, no sudden peace between their people, no bright and glorious future for them and the children she would never bear him.

„Tristan..." she said softly, her voice a strangled whisper, „why do you tug so at my heart, and yet I know next to nothing about you...?"

He stirred slightly, yawning and stretching like a well-fed cat. Then his gaze locked with hers and he propped himself up on one elbow.

„Will I see you again?" he asked, his throat still scratchy from sleep. She leant forward and kissed him gently, a world full of promise in the caress of her lips, but she could not bring herself to answer.

…

The grief over Lamorak's death still dampened his spirits, but over the next few days, Tristan coulnd't help but notice that the world seemed a little brighter to him. For once, he understood Bors' good humour, for once he found himself laughing at Lancelot's antics when he tried to woo every barmaid in the tavern.

Dawn mostly found him at the wall, his hawk perched on his arm, his eyes looking far into the distance. The Badon Fort seemed so small, now that there was so much life to live, so much feeling where before there had been nothing but daily struggle to live one more day that would bring him closer to home. For the first time, he felt a glimmer of affection for this dreary island, and the notion began to take root in his heart – tentatively, mind you – that this land might just become home for him.

Bedivere noticed the changes in his friend, but chose not to ask, until Tristan was ready to tell him.

However, the one-handed knight also noted the brief look of unease when Arthur led his men to safely escort a Roman caravan until they were well south of the wall.

Midday came and went, the caravan continued on its way peacefully and the knights started to relax a little. Hardly ever did the Woads come this far south and on a fine day such as this, their minds strayed to more pleasurable pursuits than fighting.

Then, suddenly a shrill piercing warcry rent the air and the drivers toppled of the carts, pierced with arrows.

„Woads!" Tristan yelled, spurring his horse to a gallop and yanking the bow out of its scabbard. He turned his horse sharply, using only his legs to guide the well-trained mare, notched the first arrow and let fly.

Their attackers came pouring from the nearby cluster of trees, from the shrubs lining the street and from a narrow ditch further away. A quick glance around put his estimate to about twenty warriors, with a few archers hidden in the trees.

The other knights had drawn their weapons. Galahad had jumped from his horse onto one of the carts, using the stacked up cargo like a shield and firing his arrows with exact precision at those fighters still further ahead.

Bors, Gawain and Lancelot had dismounted, dispatching their enemies on the ground, the former two with a great deal of yelling and brutal energy, the latter in an elegant and no less deadly dance, wielding his twin swords as if they were extensions of his arms.

Arthur and Dagonet both still remained on their horses, using both their speed and the longer reach of their weapons to their advantage, and Bedivere... where was Bedivere?

Tristan shot two more arrows, felling another couple of attackers swiftly, before swinging one leg over his horse's neck and dismounting quickly. He drew his sword and looked around again for Bedivere.

Instead, he saw Caillean. When their eyes met, she almost dropped her bow. Gone was the sweet young woman he had loved on the soft moss, gone was the gentle girl who'd fed his hawk from her hand. In her place was a warrior, skin stained once more with blue dye, fingers closed tightly around a bow, drawing back the string...

He could not even move. A memory crashed down around him, something he should have realised earlier.

I for one like to know the names of the people I lay in their graves.
This girl was no hunter. They were still staring at each other, even as she lowered the bow, pressed her lips together tightly and ducked back into the trees.

Tristan did not know how long he had been standing there. Although it felt as if it had been forever, it couldn't have been more than a moment.

„Tristan, look out!" Bedivere appeared at his side suddenly. The sounds of battle crashed over him once more like a wave against a cliff, as the numbness fell off of him. He turned, tried to see what it was Bedivere was warning him against, but it was too late. His friend flung himself in front of Tristan and two arrows thudded into his chest.

Tristan caught him as he fell, bedding Bedivere's head in his lap.

The battle around him was over, the surviving Woads retreated. Tristan paid no attention to that. Bedivere's breath was coming in short, laboured gasps and a faint trickle of blood dripped from the corner of his mouth.

„Don't do this to me," Tristan implored his friend, his voice breaking like thin ice. „Don't you dare die! We're supposed to go home, damn you... together!"

He was only remotely aware that the others had gathered around them, hardly even felt Gawain's hand on his shoulder.

Bedievere smiled, a mere quirk of bloody lips.

„I'll be home very soon." His voice was very quiet, each word riding on a painful exhale. „'s good to die for someone you love and..." He could not finish, dying right there on the street, having paid for Tristan's life with his own.

Suddenly, the world was a bleak and dreary place once more.

...to be continued...