Starcrossed

Chapter Four

Tristan/OC

Usual disclaimers apply. Please review. I mean that. ;)

Tristan stared at Bedivere's face, now slack, devoid of life, and already the face of a stranger. Slowly, he reached up and closed his eyes, sliding the limp lids shut over the unseeing green orbs, before letting go of the body completely.
„Tristan..." Arthur made a move as if to lay a hand on his shoulder as Gawain had done, but at the fierce glare the scout shot both, they withdrew their hands. He got to his feet, sheathed his sword and picked up his bow. The others eyes him wearily, and Lancelot was the first to grasp what he was doing.
„Don't do this", the handsome knight implored him, „you won't bring him back to life by running off to get killed."
Tristan turned to look at them all, take in their expressions of grief, anger, sadness, but in none of them did he find the rage and hatred that was clawing at his insides. Yes, they had all lost brothers before. But this was Bedivere. And by the gods, he would not rest until he had washed the blood of his friend from his hands with that of his killers. The scout locked eyes with his commander.
„Let me go, Arthur. Do it and I will not have to disobey you."
Arthur hesitated. His gaze wandered from Bedivere's body to the rest of his knights and he finally nodded curtly.

„Go, but know this: if you're not back by dawn tomorrow, we will go looking for you."

…

He moved swiftly through the forest, like a predator on the prowl. The tracks of the running Woads was easy enough to read for someone with as much experience as he: Crushed leaves, broken branches, footprints in soft moss. All exhaustion from the battle had left him, rage replenishing his energy better than any amount of rest ever could.

His prey moved quickly, eager to get back north, but they did not know they were being chased, or they would be running faster. Especially if they knew who it was that was chasing them.

A feral smile turned his thin lips upward.

He stopped, closed his eyes for a heartbeat and listened. They were there, ahead of him, their movements through the underbrush sounded like a strong gust of wind. By his estimate, only five had survived. Those were not unbeatable odds...

His eyes snapped open again. There was movement coming towards him, swift feet, light tread. He drew his bow, knowing who he would be aiming at before she even stepped from the bushes.

Caillean skidded to a halt, her hands thrown up in a gesture of surrender, as she found herself staring once more at a notched arrow.

Tristan took in her appearance, more fierce than on their first meeting. The woad paint on her skin was smeared with blood and her hair had come lose from its braids, a tangled mass tumbling over her shoulders.

„Tristan..." For some reason, the tension in her shoulders eased as she recognized him. „Thank the gods, you are alive."

He almost laughed as he realized that she did not know what had happened, she had turned away after seeing him in the thick of battle. Lowering the bow and returning the arrow to the quiver, he nodded.

„I'm alive."

She came closer, relief spreading over her face.

„Ruadh and Morfrann said that they had aimed their parting shots at you, but didn't know whether they'd killed you... I'm ridiculously glad that they didn't!"

The scout shook his head slightly and held his hand out to her. Caillean hesitated for a moment, but then she placed her fingers in his and allowed him to pull her closer. Holding her at arm's length, he let his gaze roam over her once more.

„You're their scout," he finally stated, „that's what brought you south. Not your sister. And now? What lie did you tell them about turning back?"

A muscle in her jaw twitched, betraying her nervousness. Still, she met his glare defiantly.

„I told them that I wanted to make sure we weren't followed," she hissed. „And since you're here, it was a prudent measure!"

Caillean felt that something was wrong, very wrong. It hung between them like a foul stench permeating the air. She was no novice at reading people, but this man was an enigma to people who knew him much better than she did. During all three of their encounters, vastly different though they had been, she had learned nothing about him that could help her now, she realized.

Fear crept up on her, the longer he remained silent, sizing her up with piercing hazel eyes, the only things alive in a face otherwise as still as carved stone. She should not have turned back.

„Don't look at me like that!" she finally burst out. „How could I have told you the truth, you would have killed me! I wish there was nothing between us, but there is, no matter who we are and what we do, isn't there? Tristan, please..."

She moved closer to him, right up against him, laying a hand on his cheek, her fingertips ghosting over his tattoos.

„I don't know what it is I feel, but I do feel something for you, despite everything. It was horrible, thinking that you might have been killed..."

He turned his face into the caress. His beard tickled her wrist as he brushed a kiss onto her palm.

„But they didn't kill me...," he whispered and gently laid his hand over hers on his cheek.

„...they killed my best friend." And he snapped her wrist with a jerk of his hand.

Her scream echoed through the forest and she staggered back, clutching the broken limb to her chest and bit her lip to stop her cries of pain.

Tristan grasped her by the back of the neck, his hand fisting in her hair, and yanked her closer again.

„Go ahead and scream," he snarled, „bring them back here and save me the trouble."

Bolts of agony shot through her, as the broken bones were rudely jostled and she thought she might be sick.

„How many friends have you killed, eh?" she spat at him, her left hand fumbling for the dagger at her hip. „How many mothers, husbands, lovers...?"

„Not nearly as many as I'm going to kill", he promised her coldly and let go of her.

She tried to take a swing at him, but he caught her hand easily, retaliating with a straight punch to her face. There was the sickening sound of breaking cartilage and Caillean crashed to the ground, blood spurting from her nose. He stood over her, his breathing hardly elevated and there was still no other expression on his face but utter cold. She tried to crawl away from him, her head spinning with pain, but then they both froze.

There was movement in the trees, swift footsteps, coming ever closer.

Her companions had heard her scream and were coming for her.

The feral smile was back on Tristan's face and he drew his curved sword, the hiss of the blade like a whisper of approaching death. In that moment, Caillean knew that none of them would make it out of the woods alive, unless...

Mustering what courage, strength and energy remained to her, she grasped her dagger firmly and launched herself off the ground, sprang at him, the blade aimed for his throat. It never even got close, as he turned towards her, blocking her thrust with one arm and hitting her across the face with the hilt of his sword with the other.
She collapsed once more, darkness swirling at the outer edge of her awareness, closing in fast. The last thing she saw were her four companions breaking through the bushes in an attempt to get to her. She fainted.

…

Darkness had fallen. There was no time and place more peaceful and serene than a grove at nighttime. An owl hooted, squirrels darted down one tree and up the next. The moon was almost full and the stars shone brightly in the sky, like fireflies frozen forever over a vast black lake.

However, there was a strange smell in the air, one that bespoke danger and suffering. It hung over the little clearing like a poisonous fume, like mist over the meadow.

Caillean blinked as all this filtered slowly into her consciousness. It was hard to draw breath through her broken nose, her cheekbone throbbed and the pain from her broken wrist intensified as soon as she started thinking about it.

As she turned her head, the first thing she saw was an arrow sticking in the ground next to her face. She recognized the fletching, she had one such arrow already...

...shot and missed...

The memory returned and Caillean bolted upright. Dizziness almost made her fall again, pain flared as she put pressure on her wrist by accident and she took deep, gulping breaths to fight back the urge to vomit.

The stench was one of blood and death. There, sprawled on the ground, were four bodies.

Ruadh, Morfrann, Hywel and Cynyr. Brave boys, but foolish. And dead. Judging by the way they lay, they had each lived no longer than a few moment after crashing onto the clearing, intent on her rescue.

Caillean threw back her head and screamed, shrieking her sorrow to the sky.

…

No one said a word to him after Tristan returned to Badon Fort at dawn, covered in more blood than before, no one made a move to stop him as he went straight to his room.
No one forced him to speak at Bedivere's funeral either, as he watched the body of his friend being lowered into the ground. They had been of one tribe, only a few years apart in age, and they had been through everything together. Tristan had been there when Bedivere vomited after his first battle, his then-fourteen year old eyes unaccustomed to bloodshed, Bedivere had been there when Tristan's first horse was killed, the one that had carried him from his homeland, and he had not scolded him for his tears. They had confided in each other after their first nights with women, they had been each others caretaker after one of them got wounded, sick or simply plastered. And now that someone was gone, and Tristan was not quite sure how to go on.

After the funeral, he kept to himself even more than usual. The others could see him on the training grounds, riding out on patrol, with only his hawk for company, or passing them in the hallways, but he never spoke to any of them, and they knew better than to pester him.

Days passed, weeks passed, and finally, after almost two months, he suddenly came to the tavern. He said not a word of greeting, but the others exchanged a short grin. Dagonet jabbed his elbow at Galahad to make room and the young knight almost toppled off the bench, grinning eagerly. Gawain handed Tristan a mug of ale.

Lancelot smirked. „I'm so glad you decided to join us, Tris. We need your opinion. That girl there..." He shot a not very inconspicuous look at a buxom young woman with dark, curly hair, who promptly returned that look with a saucy wink. „Is she or is she not much too pretty for Gawain?"

Tristan looked the girl up and down, shrugged and took another swig of ale. „Yeh... she's alright. Too pretty for you, though."

As the others laughed and Lancelot pretended to sputter in outrage, Tristans lips curled up in a small smile.
Strange. Life did indeed go on.

…

„Your wrist is healing well, is it not?" Merlin asked, touching the young woman's forearm tenderly. Then his gaze swept to her face and he sighed slightly. There had been nothing they could do for the nose, except try to set it in way that allowed for her to breathe. It was still noticeably crooked, however.

„It is," Caillean replied, taking her arm back and tugging the sleeve of her tunic down over it, „but I stand by my request. I will keep an eye on the Saxons for you, or do whatever you like, but do not send me south of the Wall. I will not face the knights ever again if I can help it."

The Woad leader's eyes searched her face and his throaty voice remained calm and measured, despite her defiance.
„I have known you and your brother from the day you were born", he began slowly, „and while I know you took up fighting with us to be near Cædmon, I had thought you, too, believed in what we fight for."

This talk had been long coming, ever since the funeral of the four men Tristan had killed, but Caillean suddenly felt cornered, despite her previously thought of arguments.

„I do believe in this cause... and I don't want to leave Cædmon alone in this, but I have my reasons for not wanting to go near the knights again. And it is not cowardice."

She took a deep breath, thankful that they were having this discussion in Merlin's hut, alone and removed from the noisy ears of his council. Far away from Cædmon, who, if he knew, would never look at her the same way again.

„I... know... one of the knights. Their scout." She looked up at Merlin hesitantly. From the way his eyes widened, she could see that he'd understood the special emphasis she had placed on the word „know".
„You love this man?"

„No," she answered swiftly. Whatever there was between her and Tristan, or whatever there had been, it had not been love. Love was not born out of blood and war and hatred. Lust, perhaps, sprinkled with something she had no name for, and on her part fascination with the enigmatic man, so foreign to her in both charakter and appearance. „No," she repeated, „I don't love him. But I cannot swear that I would be able to kill him if I had to. And that would make me a liability."

Merlin pondered her words for a while. The smoke from the fire, the scent of herbs and the heat made the air in the hut stifling and Caillean longed to leave it.
Finally, Merlin nodded once. „I accept your reasoning, Caillean, and I will keep this between us. Rest here, until you are fully healed. We will find you a new task then."

She nodded, a grateful smile on her lips that did not quite reach her eyes, and left the hut.

Outside, she took in deep gulps of air. A hawk circled over the village and a small, lonely part of Caillean wished that maybe it was Tristan's. It would be the only thing of him she'd ever see again. Life had to go on.

...to be continued...