Starcrossed

Chapter Seven

Tristan/OC

Usual disclaimers apply. Please review.
In this chapter, we'll reach the events of the movie. I will use some movie dialogue, for which I claim no credit, of course. I could skirt around it or change it some, but as they say: If it's not broke, don't fix it.

"I figured I'd find you here."
Lancelot did not speak loudly, yet his voice carried easily across the little graveyard. Tristan glanced over his shoulder for a moment, but he did not reply, instead he went back to staring at Bedivere's grave and the hilt of the protruding sword.
Lancelot joined him and laid a hand on his shoulder – the one not still wearing a bandage.
"Tristan...," he began slowly, "I know Bedivere's death is hard for you to bear. And I know nobody will ever be able to replace him for you. But even you need someone to talk to. Please. It is obvious that you're not well."
Fifteen years together had taught them how to read each other. A casual observer might not have noticed the internal struggle being played out in Tristan's eyes, but to his brother in arms, it was easily visible. He squeezed his shoulder slightly.
The scout still did not meet his eyes, but his tense muscles relaxed a little.

"I think I am just uncertain about the future," he said quietly. "When Rome lets us go, I don't know where to turn."
"You'll be with us!" Lancelot told him firmly. "Fifteen years of brotherhood don't just end. If you're not certain where to find your tribe or whether you want to go back there, you'll just come with me." He shot him a teasing grin. "I have a younger sister, you know."

Tristan gave a tight smile in response, but again, the handsome knight caught the short grimace that crossed his face.

"Unless..." he went on thoughtfully, "...your heart is already taken. Am I finally going to find out who's been on your mind for the past weeks? And who cared for you while you were supposedly alone?"

Now Tristan shook of his hand and turned back to the fort.
"No," he replied shortly, "just let it go."

Lancelot fell into step beside him and smiled like a cat that had just eaten a very tasty bird. "Please, you should know me better by know. Come on, tell me. It will do you good, and besides, it will stay strictly between us!"

Just out of earshot from the gate, Tristan stopped walking and turned once more to the other knight.

"Swear it!" he demanded seriously. "Promise me, on your honour, that you won't tell anyone about it. Not even Arthur!"
Lancelot arched a dark eyebrow. "Tristan, Arthur has a lot on his mind. He doesn't pay much attention to his knight's secret lovers... whoa!"

Tristan had grasped him by the front of the tunic and stared at him.
"Swear it, Lance!"

"Alright, alright, I swear it," he conceded, a little taken aback by the intensity of Tristan's plea. "Now, who is the mystery woman who has managed to capture the heart of our so elusive scout?"

...

Cædmon awoke from hearing his sister crying at night. For almost ten nights in a row, ever since she had come back home, she would get into bed after she tought he'd fallen asleep and then start crying, trying to muffle the sound of her sobbing by biting the blanket.
And even during the daytime, she was quiet, withdrawn and sometimes stared into the sky as if it might just hold the solution to her sorrows.

Cædmon sighed. It pained him to see his sister so unhappy, but it hurt even worse that she was apparently unable or unwilling to confide in him. They had always been close, much closer than him and Eivlin ever had been. After the deaths of their parents, he considered her the only real family he had left.
Enough, he decided, as he heard her weeping once more, cast back the blankets and got up.
Caillean's bed was in a niche close to the fire, curtained off from the rest of the room. He drew back the curtains, sat down on the edge of her bedstead and gently touched her shoulder.

"What are you crying about, little one?" he asked softly.

"I can't tell you," came her muffled reply, "I just can't!"
"Hush," he admonished and shook her shoulder a little, "you know you can tell me anything."

She stilled for a moment before turning over and looking at him through teary eyes.
"Not this, I'm afraid. You... wouldn't understand."
"Don't say that! I might not always be able to help you, but I'll always understand."

Caillean hesitated. Her gaze wandered from the circular tattoo on Cædmon's forehead down to his vibrantly blue eyes. She had seen every emotion in them, from love to hate, sadness to joy. But she did not know if she could stand it if he looked on her in disappointment.
"There is a man..." she began slowly and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, "but he is not one of us. I met him a few times, but I will never see him again and that makes me sad. Can we leave it at that?"

Her brother's brow furrowed in a slight frown.
"What man is he that you'll never see him again? A Briton from the other side...?" His eyes widened as Caillean flushed slightly and refused to answer. "Not a Roman, surely! By the gods, Caillean..."
"No!" she cut in quickly, "not a Roman! Please, I told you that you wouldn't understand!" She looked at him pleadingly, but her brother was nothing if not stubborn. Heaving a great sigh, she went on: "He will be leaving Britain soon and go back home."
Watching Cædmon's face at that moment was like seeing a thunderstorm approaching on the horizon. He sat up straight and looked away from her. Caillean closed her eyes and shook her head sadly. Then she turned away from him again and burrowed back under the blanket.
He got up a moment later and returned to his own bed. No further words were spoken that night.

...

Lancelot said nothing for a long while after Tristan had finished his tale. They had found a spot at the foot of the wall, overlooking the little cemetery, where they'd sat down to talk. It was perhaps the most Lancelot had ever heard the quiet scout speak in one single conversation.
"Well, say something," he finally growled. The curly haired knight sighed.
"It is... a bad situation you find yourself in, my friend," he admitted, „and I don't really know what to tell you."
"It's not advice I'm looking for. She's a Woad. If we came across each other in battle, one of us would die."
"You spared her twice already", Lancelot reminded him and grinned for a moment, "You're what they call 'starcrossed lovers'. But perhaps you won't even have to fight the Woads ever again."
Tristan looked at him questioningly and he explained: "We ride out in four days to escort the Bishop... er... something-or-other back to Badon Fort. He'll be carrying our discharge."
As he spoke, he watched Tristan closely. For a moment, a look of sorrow passed across the scout's face, but it was swiftly replaced by his usual stoic countenance.
"We won't be leaving right away, of course," he went on. "After all, you don't pack up fifteen years in a mere couple of hours and sling them onto a horse's back."
"Especially if those fifteen years come with a woman and eleven brats to take care of," Tristan added dryly.
"Although Bors might be well advised to just sling Vanora onto a horse's back... might do her some good." They shared a laugh at the thought and Tristan looked at Lancelot, appearing at least a little more cheerful. He gave him a little shove.
"Thank you."
"Anytime, brother. Anytime."

...

It was a damp and dreary morning. The sun had risen behind a veil of ominous clouds and a slight drizzle had been falling for hours.

"You cannot keep ignoring me!"
Caillean's voice broke the silence of the morning like a whip. Cædmon, who was sitting underneath an old oak try, sharpening the blade of his axe, did not look up as she came closer. A muscle in his jaw twitched.
"I understand that you're angry with me," she went on and got down on her knees next to him, "and I can certainly understand that you are disappointed in me, but please..." her tone turned from insistent to beseeching, "I am your sister and I love you! No matter what I've done, you have to forgive me!"

She put a hand to his shoulder, felt him first tense, then relax under her touch and his hands ceased their movement. After a long moment of silence, he turned his head towards her. His eyes searched her face, looking at her intently as if he'd never seen her before.
"If he asked you to go with him," he asked slowly, "would you go?"
"Well, he didn't ask me," she answered and felt her stomach clench for a moment, "but even if he had..." Caillean shook her head. "I could never leave Britain. I have loved and bled for this country. And I could never leave you." She smiled shakily as new tears came to her eyes. "How could I trade my brother's love for the perhaps fleeting affection of some knight...?"
He laid his axe aside and wrapped both arms around her in a crushing bear hug. She let the breath she had unknowingly held escape her lungs in a puff as she buried her face in his hair and clung to him tightly.
"A knight, eh?" he asked dryly. "I think you'd better finish your story."
Caillean held her brother tight and laughed.

...

Days passed. The inhabitants of Badon Fort noticed a strange sort of tension in the air. The knights seemed more lively than usual although they kept to the fort. Still, the anticipation was felt by everyone and it was not only Tristan who was up at dawn, standing atop the southern wall, staring into the distance as if willing it could bring their freedom closer.

Finally, on the fourth day, they rode out to meet their freedom. The sun had just risen and was glowing like a torch behind the clouds. The wet grass was shimmering in various shades of green and silver and the dew drops on the naked trees caught the light, making them shimmer like ice sculptures.
Two hours from Badon Fort they caught sight of the bishop's carriage and the small entourage accompanying it. Every single one of them heaved a small sigh of relief. Until that moment, they had almost doubted that this day would really come. Yet there it was, winding its way towards them, like a colourful little caterpillar in the distance.

"As promised..." Gawain observed. "The bishop's carriage."
"Our freedom, Bors!" Galahad added, his dark eyes shining with joy and Bors grinned broadly, pursed his lips in delight and nodded.
"I can almost taste it."

...

Cædmon held his knife clenched firmly between his teeth, his battle axe in one hand, the other one held up, signaling his men to wait. He listened. Hoof beats of several horses, the rumbling of two wagons, the creaking of leather. Quiet Roman voices. They were almost past their position. Cædmon exchanged glances with the other men, hiding with him in the brushwork. And then they charged.

The battle was brutal, bloody – and over quickly.
At first, the Romans were taken by surprise. Their horses were spooked by the shrill battle cries and the arrows suddenly whizzing at them, the soldiers couldn't assume formation before the warriors were upon them.
But then the knights came, and with them came defeat. They broke into the battle like a stone thrown into a pool, leaving death in their wake.
Their weapons gleamed even in the weak winter sun and it seemed the gods favoured them on this day, for no one managed to hurt them.

Cædmon fought bravely, and the Romans fell before the savage strikes of his axe, but they were losing anyway.
And then he ran at Arthur Castus himself. But just as he got close, the commander of the knight whirled around and Cædmon skidded to a stop, the tip of Arthur's famous sword Excalibur at his throat. He gasped dryly, staring at the gleaming blade and then up into the intense green eyes of its wielder, let go of his axe and dropped to his knees.
Arthur did not move to sword. "Why did Merlin send you south of the Wall?" he demanded.
"Spill my blood with Excalibur," Cædmon growled at him in his mother tongue, "and make this ground holy!"
Arthur narrowed his eyes at him and glanced once at the axe.
"Pick it up!" he told him, and increased the pressure of the sword tip against Cædmon's throat a little as he made no move to do so. "Pick it up!"
Dropping the pretense of not understanding him, Cædmon slowly picked up his weapon and once more looked into Arthur's eyes defiantly, who in turn let his gaze sweep the tree line once before unexpectedly lowering his sword and turning away from him.
Cædmon let his head sink forward and fought to catch his breath. From the moment Excalibur hat touched his neck, he had expected to die. He would not have expected to be shown mercy by one of the knights, least of all the only Roman among them.
He got up slowly and let his gaze linger on the knights for a moment, wondering which one of them was the dog that had defiled his sister. Some returned the look, watched him suspiciously until he retreated, turned his back on them and ran back towards the trees.

...

Tristan, twirling an apple in his long, dexterous fingers, watched his fellow knights as they enjoyed themselves in the tavern. It was filled with music, light and warmth, and the rich scent of roasted venison and strong, warm mead was especially welcome after the long ride through the cold.
But underneath the merriment was an underlying tension. They wanted it to be over, wanted the discharge papers Bishop Germanius had waved tantalizingly in front of them and then snatched back.
Lancelot was playing dice with a few Roman soldiers, but he was visibly on edge. Every once in a while, he would cast a look towards the door of the main building. The only time he was his usual jovial self was when Vanora refilled his mug and he pulled her onto his lap, earning himself a light slap in the face.
Gawain and Galahad had started a knife throwing competition that yielded poor results, no doubt owing to the amount of wine they already poured down their throats.

Galahad's knife hit closer to the mark than Gawain's had, anyway, and Tristan, passing behind them, casually let his own knife fly. It embedded itself firmly in the hilt of Galahad's, prompting the young knight to stare at the scout in disbelief. "Tristan..."
"How d'you do that?" Gawain inquired, absentmindedly stroking the arm of a pretty dark haired girl sitting on his lap.
Tristan allowed himself the ghost of a smile and gestured at the knives with his apple.
"I aim for the middle."

A short while later, Bors was able to convince Vanora to sing them a song of their home. Respectful silence fell over the crowded room, the wind in the thatched roof and the crackling of the fire were the only sounds beside her voice.
She sang very well and her song carried the heartache and homesickness they all felt or had felt at some point in their lives.
Tristan, however, felt distinctly uneasy, and as he exchanged glances with Lancelot, he saw that he was not the only one. No one could have told it from the impassive expression on his face, but he was sure that their freedom would have to wait a little longer.
And once Arthur joined them after Vanora's song was over, it took only one look at their commander's face to tell him that he was right.

...

Celyn and Caillean ran as though the hounds of hell were behind them, and indeed, that was not far off. What they had seen up north had turned both their stomachs and made fear, cold and clammy, claw its way into Caillean's stomach. The Saxons had massacred another fishing village further north and the two scouts had arrived just in time to witness the end of the slaughter. The Saxons had left none alive, retreating back to their ships. But it was clear to both Celyn and Caillean that they would return home after raiding a few villages, for there were far too many of them for so meager a purpose.

They had been discovered by a Saxon warrior and only the fact that Celyn was extremely quick with his knife and had been able to slit his throat before he could sound an alarm had saved them from a similar fate as the villagers.

Stopping only briefly, taking just enough rest to keep themselves from utter exhaustion, they made their way back to Merlin.
Celyn fell to his knees next to their leader, ramming the knife they had taken from the Saxon deep into the ground.
"Saxons!" he rasped.
All around him were shocked intakes of breath. Merlin touched the knife, examined it for a moment. There was trepidation in his eyes as he looked back to his scouts.
"How many?" he asked curtly. Celyn and Caillean exchanged helpless looks, before Celyn turned back to his leader and answered.

"Thousands."

...to be continued...