Starcrossed

Chapter Eight

Tristan/OC

Usual disclaimers apply. Please review. I have to admit to losing enthusiasm for this story, in part because I have an idea for another, and because I'm simply not happy with it. I find my own writing to be a little... "bla", if you know what I mean. So now I am faced with having to make a decision. Do I discontinue this story, finish it in the same style I started, or keep updating a little slower and write the second story at the same time? Any thoughts? For now though, let's continue. This chapter is mostly taken from the movie, but I like this scene so much I didn't want to deprive you of it.

Silence lay heavy on their hearts as the knights left Badon Fort a mere few hours after dawn on the next day. A sense of trepidation hung over them, a dark chill that had nothing to do with the weather. Freedom had been so close, had been palpable, visible, and yet it lay further away than ever before. Only Tristan had ever ventured further north than a few hours ride would take him, and he had returned from the experience with two arrow wounds. Lancelot had said it best, yelled it, in fact, when he had told Arthur that going that far north was insanity, suicide, even. But Arthur had been adamant.

They were riding now, their horses' exhales showing as white puffs of mist in the frigid air. The heavy gate in Hadrian's Wall was being opened for them, creaking and protesting like the joints of an old man. Roman guards saluted them and their gazes, some merely confused, others downright pitying, followed them as they crossed that line between the Britain under Roman rule and the untamed North where Merlin and his fighters held control.

Tristan cast surreptitious glances at the other men riding alongside him. Their expressions were set in varying degrees of grimness, lack of sleep and anxiety etched onto their faces as though carved there with knifes.
He was, perhaps, the calmest of them all. In truth, he couldn't help but feel a strange sort of finality as his trusted mare carried him further north. Their charge, of course, was ridiculous. They were risking their lives to escort one Roman family to the Wall, saving one tiny group of people from a Saxon onslaught that had, according to Bishop Germanius, already begun? Laughable. Thousands more would die as the Saxons cut a swath across the land. Unless this family held a hero in their midst capable of rescuing the entire Roman empire, Tristan could think of no reason why they would risk everything to bring them to safety.
Yet here they were and it still felt right to him. For all the pain they had endured, blood they had shed for Britain, it seemed to him as if this mission, although it was supposed to be their last, might just be the beginning of something else. Maybe nothing. Maybe death. But at least it would be a change.

They kept a brisk pace, eager to reach their destination and be on the return journey as quickly as possible. Their midday meal was taken in the saddle and as dusk approached, they were already far from the Wall. It had started to rain in the afternoon. A slight drizzle at first, it had turned into a downpour as the sun went down.
"We'll camp for the night," Arthur decided, pointing at a vast, sprawling forest looming before them. "We will find shelter there and reach our destination tomorrow."
"Bloody trees," Galahad grumbled, prompting Lancelot and Arthur to exchange a half-hearted grin. They slowed their horses to a trot as they entered the forest, keeping their eyes peeled for any movement. The waning daylight filtered through the canopy of branches and made for an even gloomier atmosphere.
Tristan tilted his head this way and that, listening intently in every direction.
"Woads," he finally declared, drawing level with Arthur, "they're tracking us."
"Where?" the commander asked, to which his scout could only cast a meaningful look around.
"Everywhere."

A few moments later, the stillness of the forest burst apart and a rush of movement went through the trees. Arrows flew from between the bushes, not meant to kill or even hurt, but to bar the way. Ropes, studded with thorns, were tied to the arrows, spooking the horses and forcing the riders back.
"This way!" Arthur yelled, leading them down another path, now at a straight gallop. Again, however, they were impeded, herded down yet another path, the muddy ground a slippery danger underneath the horses' hooves.
Finally they found themselves surrounded, arrows and spears pointed at them from every direction. They drew their own swords, but it was a futile gesture of defiance. This was their land, and should they choose to fight, it would most likely mean their death.

Arthur locked eyes with the man in front of him. He recognized him at once, having seen him only the day before, on his knees, with Excalibur at his throat. Rage burned in the stranger's blue eyes and his arms -and with them the bow he was holding- trembled. He was undoubtedly ready to kill them, but something was holding him back.
Tristan kept his piercing gaze firmly fixed on any movement in the bushes. His arrow was pointed at one of the archers perched on the low branches of the surrounding trees, a gesture no less laughable than the swords in Lancelot's hands, but at least he would take one of the bastards with him, he thought.
"What are you waiting for!" Gawain yelled, his whole body tensed like wolf's, ready to jump at its prey.
Nothing happened and the Woads still did not stir. Suddenly, there was the sound of a horn being blown in the distance. For a moment, the stranger in front of Arthur made a face as though he wanted to scream with fury, then he lowered his bow, nodded at his comrades and they retreated into the darkness.
"Why would they not attack?" Galahad asked, his frustration with the entire situation apparent in his voice. Arthur sheathed Excalibur slowly.
"Because Merlin doesn't want us dead."
None of them knew whether that was supposed to be reassuring or not.

...

They made camp a short distance further into the woods. Taking shelter in the trees had been a good idea in theory, but the rain came down with a vengeance, and they were quickly soaked to the bone anyway.
They had unsaddled the horses and Galahad had, after many failed attempts, managed to light a fire. They huddled around it, eager to get as close to the warmth as possible. Tristan, however, sat a little apart from the rest. He had taken out his sword and was polishing the already gleaming blade once more. There was a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach, a nervousness that he couldn't shake.

Gawain grunted. "I can't wait to leave this island!" He cast a dark look at the soggy ground. "If it's not raining, it's snowing. If it's not snowing, it's foggy!"
"And that's the summer!" Lancelot added, to the amusement of the others.
"Rain is good," Bors grumbled with a crooked grin, "Washes all the blood away."
"Doesn't help the smell," Dagonet countered dryly, prompting Bors to chuckle.
"Hey, Bors..." Lancelot began, leaning a little closer, so as not to have to shout over the sound of the rain, "you intend to take Vanora and all your little bastards back home?"
Bors tilted his head back, allowing the water to catch him in the face for a moment.
"I've been trying to avoid that decision..." he answered, once more giving a crooked little grin, "by getting killed." Gawain and Lancelot chuckled at that, but Bors, apparently only half kidding, nudged Dagonet.
"Dagonet... she wants to get married. Give the children names! Women!"
The others shot him a few odd looks and Tristan, who hadn't joined in the conversation so far, glanced up from cleaning the long, curved blade of his sword.
"The children already have names, don't they?"
Bors shook his bald head. "Nah, just Gilly. It's too much trouble, so... we gave the rest of them numbers."
"That's interesting," Lancelot quipped, "I thought you couldn't count."
Even Dagonet laughed at that, but Bors was unfazed. His expression was unusually pensive.
"You know, I'd never thought I'd get back home alive," he said to the group at large. "Now I've got the chance... I don't wanna leave my children."
Dagonet nodded. The firelight cast flickering shadows onto his scarred face. "You'd miss'em too much."
"I'll take'em with me," Bors went on, his voice still low, "I like the little bastards. They mean something to me." Then he cleared his throat and regained a little of his boisterous tone. "Especially Number Three! He's a good fighter."
Lancelot grinned at him. "That's because he's mine."

Tristan had followed the exchange without further comment. He thought back to the discussion he'd had with Bedivere about Bors and Vanora. No doubt Bedivere would have supported the decision to take the children along to Sarmatia. For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to think of Caillean and what she might have said if he had asked her to go with him, but he couldn't quite imagine what that might have been. Again it struck him how little he actually knew about her. It had never bothered him before about the women he took to bed. Sometimes even knowing their names seemed like time wasted. But Caillean was different. In the short time he'd known her, he had come to care about her in a way he'd never cared before. Since he had little to no experience with love -and, until now, little interest to learn- he was not sure what to call it, yet he knew that he felt a certain tightening in his stomach when she was near, felt content when he saw her smile and by the gods, he wanted her.
Gawain's jarring laughter shook him from his thoughts and he longed for a moment of solitude.

"Going to look around for a bit," he announced briefly, before turning and striding away from the fire. The others took no note of him. It was a common occurrence for him to scout the area once more before turning in for the night. Only Lancelot's eyes followed him a while, a small, bitter smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

...

Tristan walked further into the woods at a languid pace until the sounds of voices and the light of the fire had vanished and the almost ethereal glow of a moonlit forest surrounded him. He stopped, tilted his head to one side and listened. A slight frown creased his forehead and his hand dropped onto the hilt of his sword.
"You know, for a scout, you make an awful lot of noise," he stated.
A moment later, a few branches to his left were pushed aside and Caillean squeezed none too elegantly past, the sleeve of the oversized tunic she wore getting caught and tearing a little in the process. She gave the torn garment a blank look and sighed, before turning once more to Tristan.
"Well, I never claimed to be a good scout," she answered him, a bashful little smile on her lips. "Besides, your knights rely so much on you that they are practically blind and deaf themselves."

They stood a few feet apart, once more unsettled by their meeting. Caillean's gaze fell to Tristan's hand, still resting on the hilt of his sword.
"Are we to do this every time we meet, then?" she asked wearily. "Because I strongly suspect that you could once more overpower me quite easily."
The knight looked perplexed for a second, then he followed her pointed stare and dropped his hand quickly.
"I didn't think I'd see you again", she went on as he still remained mute. "Much less here, under these circumstances."
"And what circumstances would that be?" he asked, his gravelly voice neutral, although his hazel eyes narrowed a little and he cast a quick look around.
"I am alone," she answered the unspoken question first. "And you and your men will not be harmed by us. Not since we have a common enemy."

"The Saxons." Nothing in Tristan's voice indicated that it was a question, but Caillean nodded anyway.
"Yes, the Saxons. Every Saxon you kill is one less for us to worry about." A sardonic smile curled her lips that did not fit her pretty face in the slightest. "Besides, what are nine men compared to thousands."

Tristan frowned. The wind was picking up, his wet clothes stuck unpleasantly to his skin and tendrils of his damp hair curled against his neck.
"Thousands?"
She shrugged. Her fingers were playing with the tear in her tunic, fraying the edges beyond mending.
"I'm not sure how many they are. Northeast of here is where we saw them."

She looked frail in the semi-darkness, a thin, scrawny thing, fragile as a little bird. Her blond hair fell unbound over her shoulders and reminded him too much of the dead bride in the fishing village. For a horrible moment, he pictured her dead, the stormy grey eyes glassy, empty, forever staring up a nothing, the skin pale as fresh snow, the sun kissed hair red with blood.

"Come with me!" he blurted out, crossing the distance between them in three long strides and gently clasping her shoulders. She stared at him, unblinking.
"And go where?" Her voice was brittle and he knew that she'd understood, yet he elaborated anyway.
"Away from here, away from Britain before the Saxons overrun it. Come home with me."

For a moment, he allowed himself to entertain the notion of coming home to this woman night after night, kissing no lips but hers, lying with her, in her embrace, and seeing her belly swell with a child begotten from his seed... The defeated look in her eyes told him no before she even opened her mouth.

"Cædmon, my brother, wanted to know what I would do if you asked me that."
Her voice was barely audible, a whisper as quiet as the wind in the dried autumn leaves. "I told him... what I have to tell you now. I could never leave Britain, Tristan. Never. This is my home. I buried my parents here. Now, for the first time, we have a chance at making Britain ours again... and I cannot leave my people. Not in times like these."

It surprised him how much her words hurt, a stabbing pain in his chest that made his breath hitch.
She reached up, traced the contours of his face gently and tilted his head up, until he met her eyes once more.
"I think I love you," she said softly, "and yet I am afraid of you. You confuse me, you hurt me, every time I see you and part of me wants you gone... and at the same time, I cannot bear the thought that I might never see you again, that there is no place for me in your life and that there is no way we could ever be together!" Tears clouded her vision, clung to her lashes for a second before sliding down her cheeks. "I grow so very tired of saying goodbye to you and thinking I might never see you again!"

He didn't answer, merely pulled her into a tight embrace and bit his lips until he tasted blood.
"I will keep my eyes on you until you make it back to the Wall," she murmured into his shoulder, "and once you're back there, you will leave this land and be safe. You will go home and you will take a wife and you will..."

"Shut up," he cut across her sharply, his hands gripped the back of her tunic roughly and his mouth came crashing down on hers, in a kiss of bruising force. He hitched one of her legs around his hips, until she was pressed as closely against him as humanly possible, while his other hand curled almost too tightly around her neck. Her own hands gripped his hair until she nearly yanked it out by the roots and she arched into him. It was a viciously hungry kiss that left her eyes half-lidded with lust and her lips red and wet when their mouths finally separated.
He still held her firmly against him and she could feel that their kissing had had a notable effect on him, too. As she shifted her hips slightly, he bit his lip and tightened his hold on her. They looked at each other, unsmiling.

"What now?" she asked bleakly. He stared down at her, his eyes almost black in the half-light. His posture was strained, his broad shoulders tensed as if he was poised for movement. Caillean's hands sank onto his back and she could feel his muscles bunch under the tender touch of her fingers. No words left his mouth, no possible comfort or explanation or tender word. He could think of nothing to say, nothing that would make this moment any better. He longed for the times before he'd known her, back when everything had been simple.

After a few more moments of silence, Caillean broke free of his embrace and retreated a few steps. He took a deep breath, preparing to say... something. Anything. She shook her head and grinned, looking a little like she had on the day she'd first fed his hawk from her hand.

"I don't know what to say, either," she admitted and the tension eased, like fog lifting on a meadow.
"I'll see you," he told her and her grin turned into a quiet little laugh.
"You probably will," she agreed, already disappearing back into the trees, "like I said, I'm not exactly a good scout."

...to be continued, unless there's no further interest.