Starcrossed

Chapter Six

Tristan/OC

Usual disclaimers apply. Please review.

This chapter is dedicated to Dagg. You're the best. :)

Tristan heaved himself into a sitting position with a groan. The movement jarred his shoulder and sent a spike of pain down his arm.
Caillean watched him passively until he started to push back the blanket.
„What are you doing?" she asked, frowning.
„Leaving," he stated curtly and tried to get up. The pain in his leg flared and sent him back on the ground again.
„Tristan, you can barely stand," Caillean tried to reason with him, „let alone sit a horse. Stay here tonight and let me look after you. You spared my life three times already. I owe you."
The cold glare he sent her made it very clear what he thought about her looking after him.
„Forget it!" he spat from between clenched teeth and made another attempt to get up.
Caillean frowned angrily, put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him down again.
„Fine! If you insist on being difficult... you're without weapons and you're on my side of the Wall. Consider yourself my prisoner."

She saw the sardonic smirk on his face and tensed, but even in this weakened state, he was still faster than her. He grabbed one of her hands, twisted her arm and kicked out with his uninjured leg. Caillean was thrown heavily onto her back and gasped as the wind was knocked out of her. The next moment, Tristan hat rolled himself on top of her, lips clenched tightly in pain, but a determined glint in his eyes.
She pulled her dagger, tried to bring her arm up, but again he caught her wrist. The dagger lay in between them, a mere hand's breadth from both their necks.

Tristan's braids brushed her forehead and she could feel her heart pounding in her chest like a war drum. The way he lay pressed against her brought back memories that had her body reacting in a very inappropriate way. Slowly, she let go of the weapon and lifted her hands to his face, brushing back his hair, ghosting once over his lips.
The cold fury in his eyes turned to confusion and he let her go swiftly, scooted back to the blanket and watched her warily.
Caillean lay still for a moment, closed her eyes and waited for her breathing to steady. Then she rose, brushed off her clothes and held out her hand imperiously for her dagger. Tristan narrowed his eyes at her and put the blade down next to him.

She pursed her lips. „You might just acknowledge the fact that you are not well enough to ride. If you insist on trying and dying in the process, please. I can't stop you, as you have so aptly demonstrated just now."
With these words, she turned from him, walked away a few paces to where the flickering light from the fire gave way to the shadowy darkness of the night, and sat down, legs crossed, her back to him. He kept watching her, and after a while, he could tell from her shaking shoulders that she was crying.

…

When he awoke again, night was just receding and the first glimmer of a grey dawn crept across the horizon. The air was moist and smelt of damp grass and rain. Mist cloaked the little camp like a translucent veil.
Tristan's leg and shoulder throbbed painfully, his neck felt stiff and his throat scratchy. To add to that, he was about as hungry as a bear. Propping himself on the elbow of his uninjured arm, he cast a look around.

Caillean was kneeling close to the fire, cutting up a roasted rabbit. The dark circles under her eyes and her pallid complexion told him that she had not slept a wink that night. She saw him stirring, dug a chunk of bread from a leather bag beside her and filled it with meat.
„Hungry?" she asked quietly and handed him the food upon his nod. He started eating silently. It was edible, though not particularly tasty. Still, it was food, and he was not one to complain.

While he ate, Caillean straightened up a few blankets and checked her own weapons. Judging by the tense set of her shoulders, she was well aware of him watching her. She did not meet his eyes as she handed him the waterskin. Instead, her gaze came to rest on the bandage around his shoulder.
„I'll have to change that," she muttered and dug into a bag again, producing another length of clean linnen.

He finished his meal, washing down the stringy meat with a few mouthfuls of water. Then he started unlacing the front of his shirt and Caillean pushed it down one shoulder. The bandage was damp and the wound had bled a little more, however, no new blood came as she peeled it back cautiously.

Tristan watched her while she cleaned his wound, the blond head bowed before him, her fingers gentle on his skin, the way she clenched her bottom lip between her teeth in concentration.
When she had finished wrapping the new bandage and straighted again, he caught her hand in his and held it for a moment. She eyed him uncertainly, while he glanced at their entwined hands and then back at her face, lingering once more on her nose.
„I'm not sorry," he finally said, his deep voice coming out in little more than a whisper.
Caillean raised her chin a little, pursing her lips in a defiant smirk.
„I wouldn't expect you to be." She put her other hand over his and he pulled away at once.
„They'll be looking for me. The other knights." There was an unspoken warning in his words, telling her to decide just what to do to him. Her glare turned angry for a moment, then she stood up and began straightening up their little campsite once more.

„You should be better by tomorrow. I'll put you on your horse and you can go back to your side of the Wall." The venom in her voice turned to bitterness. „Don't come back here and have us kill you! I know you only have a little while longer until you are free. Free from your service, free of Rome, free of Britain... and me..." Once again, her eyes narrowed. „And Britain will be free of you."
She turned away, striding hurriedly away from him into the trees.

…

His leg shook a little when he put weight on it, but all in all, it was not half as bad as he had imagined. He'd waited for her to come back until the morning mist had all but receeded, but still she had not returned. If it hadn't been for her weapons still lying by the fire, he might have thought she'd gone for good.

As it was, he was tired of waiting, so he got up gingerly and limped in the direction she had taken.
With the trees being rather sparse, she was easy enough to find.
She stood beneath an old birch tree, one shoulder leaning against the bark, and was staring further into the thicket.

With his hurt leg impeding him, he was not nearly as silent as usual and her quick glance in his direction told him that she'd spotted him already. Yet she made no move as he drew a dagger from his belt and handed it to her, hilt first. Her own dagger.

„If you want to be free of me," he said softly, „there's an easy way."
She looked at the dagger disdainfully and made no move to take it.
„I am in no mood to play games," she told him, her voice as tired as her eyes.

Tristan's own were, as ever, unreadable beneath the fringe of unruly hair, his long, slender fingers played with the blade a little more, before he shrugged his good shoulder, tossed the dagger to the ground, cupped her face in his hands and kissed her.
Caillean eagerly met his mouth with hers while his hands moved to her back and pulled her tightly against him. This kiss was different than the ones they'd shared before. It was slow and sensual, a kiss for its own sake, without leading up to anything. Her fingers caressed his neck and threaded through his hair while his tongue eased past her lips. They took their time, exploring each others' mouths as if they were kissing for the very first time.

When they finally did pull apart, he rested his forehead against hers and brushed a slight kiss onto the bump on her nose. As much an apology as she was ever going to get from him.
„What are you doing to me...?" she asked, pressing herself to him and tugging a little on his hair. It was softer than it looked.
Tristan smiled slightly, a mere quirk of his lips, and put his hand over her heart.
„Making sure you'll never be free of me."

…

The sun's warm rays were painting warm patches of light onto the blanket. He watched the play of light and shadows while his thoughts whirled in his head.
„You're frowning," Caillean observed, her head still on his chest and one arm slung around him. He pulled her a little tighter against him, let his fingers wander up and down her spine and nodded. She sighed, snuggled closer and trailed her lips up his neck until they hovered over his.
„Do I want to know, what you've been thinking about?"
His hand wandered from her spine to the back of her head and pulled her down. After a very thorough kiss, he let go of her again and his eyes wandered back to the small spots of warm light on the blanket covering both their bodies.
„I'll have to leave," he finally said, „today."

It was her turn to frown at him.
„But you're hurt! You can't travel like this!"
„It's not far," Tristan replied evenly. „And they'll be wondering who cared for my wounds, anyway."

A dozen of replies lay waiting on the tip of Caillean's tongue, but she swallowed them bitterly.
„This is... goodbye, then."
She glanced at him quickly, but she caught him nodding anyway.
„And I won't see you again, because you'll be leaving Britain soon."
Again he nodded. Caillean took a deep, shuddering breath and blinked as tears started to cloud her vision. After a few attempts, she managed to force them back.

This time, no dream scenarios about how they might stay together popped up in her head. This, with his bandages rough beneath her fingers, felt too much like reality. And in this reality, she knew that they would probably never meet again. He would not go North and she would not venture South, and soon, he would leave Britain forever.

…

Tristan mounted his horse carefully, but it was a painful feat nonetheless. Caillean watched him apprehensively and then, at his nod, came closer.
„This is it, then..." she said, cursing herself for the triteness of her words. They seemed to fall between them like bricks, separating them once more in their respective worlds.

„Take care of yourself," he told her, his voice back to his deep growl, his expression once more guarded.
„I will," she promised and attempted a smile, even when faced with the stony cold side of him. „And please promise me that you will, too. Survive this and go home. Be free of Rome."

She wanted to tell him to think of her, once he was free, but she didn't. Instead, she looked at him intently, tried to memorize every line of his face, from his hazel eyes, the tattoos on his high cheekbones to the curve of his mouth and the brown beard, flecked with grey. Her eyes lingered on those lips and she wanted to kiss him one last time before he rode away. But she didn't.
She stood and watched him go, saw him disappear. His hawk circled above him.

…

To Tristan, the hours seemed like days until he finally saw the tall, magnificent structure of the Wall and its gateway looming before him. He made it past it, waving away the concerned questions from the watchmen about a possible Woad attack. Badon Fort was close, and he felt cold sweat on his forehead. The pain in his leg had turned from a dull throb to a constant bright hot flare and every movement his horse made was agony.

The call from the Roman guard to open the gates of the fortress was the second most welcome sound in the world, right after Arthur's deep bass, which he heard a scant few minutes later. He had just directed his mare towards the stables, where Arthur and Lancelot were waiting for him.

„Tristan!" his commander called, „Welcome back! We were beginning to worry..."
He broke off when he noticed his scout's sallow complexion and the beads of perspiration on his face. Lancelot hurried over to him and steadied him as he dismounted.

„I see you found you're share of trouble, too", he commented wryly.
„What happened?" Arthur asked, his jovial mood gone as quickly as a snowflake in June.
Tristan gently but firmly disentangled himself from Lancelot's helping hands and brushed Arthur's question off in the process.

„Woads", he simply replied. Only then did he become aware of Lancelot eying his bandaged shoulder, a feat he couldn't possibly have mastered alone. Tristan could see the myriad of questions in his brother's eyes and shook his head almost imperceptively.
Thankfully, Lancelot sighed and nodded slightly.

Later, as he sat in the tavern and nursed a mug of ale, he thought once more about what had happened and what would happen. He watched his fellow knights, his brothers, the only family he had left. But soon, they would be torn apart and the others would have homes to go back to.
While he could not begrudge them that, he couldn't help but wonder where he would go and whether or not he was really so eager to leave. Here, he had a duty to perform, he was given orders and acted on them. He killed, because it was something he was good at, something he even enjoyed. What would he do when his term of service was up and there would be no one left to give him something to do?
In all honesty, he was not as eager to leave as some, because then he'd lose that semblance of purpose he'd had before.
He kept telling himself that it was the only reason.

...to be continued...