Starcrossed

Chapter Nine

Tristan/OC

Usual disclaimers apply. Please review. I had a really bad day, I recovered, I'm back in full swing. And I'll definitely finish this story. I have never abandoned one before, I won't start now. Besides, I watched the movie again yesterday, had a few more ideas and regained my inspiration. So please forgive me. I know how I feel about discontinued fics. And Dagg, I'm sorry. I should have known I could count on you. ;)
On with it!

The weather grew steadily worse, the wind whipping the land with an icy hand. Rain turned to snow as they got further north, the hills were painted blueish grey in the dim light and the clouds looked like quicksilver. What little conversations there had been ceased after they had broken their fast. Tristan's hawk soared through the sky, uttered a piercing cry and swooped down to land on her master's arm. Looking around, he realised once more, that the land was beautiful in its own right, a harsh beauty, the kind that gripped the heart and soul and left you thinking on it long after you had seen it. All beautiful images aside, however, the nagging feeling he'd had since the past night would not leave him.

Arthur had them rest at the edge of a frozen meadow. The winter sun cast blinding reflections on the ice coating the trees and made it twinkle.
Horton, the bishop's secretary, was chattering with cold and seemed frozen on his horse and Jols, ever attentive servant that he was, dug an extra cloak out of his luggage. The freezing wind rustled through the branches, tore at their cloaks and tousled Tristan's hair into a tangled mass.
"We will reach the villa of Marius Honorius around midday," Arthur told his knights. "Tristan, I need to know how much time we have before the Saxons get there. Ride ahead and meet us at the estate."
The scout nodded briefly, turned his mare northeast and spurred her to a gallop. He needed no further instructions and was, in all honesty, quite relieved to be on his own again for a while. The increasingly dour expression on Galahad's face had warned him all morning that the young knight would not remain silent for much longer and he was in no mood for another of his comrade's litanies of complaint.

Since he rode alone, he could press on, ride faster than he did with others around. For the first time since Bedivere's death, he was able to put all else aside and concentrate solely on his task. Now and again, he glanced upwards and saw that his trusted hawk was still with him. He knew she would alert him of any danger. Passing the fork in the road that would lead him to the Roman villa, he continued on further north, a short distance up into the mountains and then further east to the coast. When the snow finally let up a little, he had reached a cliff that allowed him to overlook a long, curving bay with a little stretch of shingle beach. Before he even got close to the rim, he could hear the harsh, bellowing voices of men shouting commands. He got off his horse, crept closer to the precipice and peered down. What he saw made the bile rise in his throat. The Saxon ships floated just offshore and more and more of the big, fur-clad men poured onto the beach. Judging by the speed with which they were disembarking, they were unlikely to stay there for the night.

Tristan considered his options for a moment, chewing absentmindedly on his bottom lip. The Saxon force was larger than he had anticipated and Arthur would have to be told. But before he could turn back, he would stay with them a little longer to find out exactly where they were headed. If the ominous feeling he still had, stronger than ever, was any indication, they would come into much closer contact with the Saxon army before they were back behind Hadrian's Wall.

...

Caillean sensed her brother's anger before he'd even opened his mouth. He had arrived back at camp an hour ago, discarded his weapons and went to talk to Merlin in hushed, insistent tones.
She had kept a close eye on the two men, hardly paying any attention to the tunic she had been mending.
Whatever they were talking about, they were not of one mind on the matter. Merlin had his arms crossed in front his chest, his bearded chin raised and his keen, piercing eyes were narrowed, glaring at Cædmon in disapproval. Her brother, meanwhile, was gesturing wildly, a frown marring his brown. His voice was audible over the crackling of the fire, the sizzling of the cooking pots and the muted conversations of the others, as an angry hiss. Finally, Merlin simply turned away from Cædmon and strode away, leaving his second in command in frustrated silence.

Caillean squeaked quietly as she rammed the needle into her own thumb and turned back to her mending, muttering inaudible swearwords under her breath and cursing herself for getting distracted. A moment later, Cædmon joined her at the fire, sat down next to her and growled a short greeting. She eyed him for a moment, taking in the scowl on her brother's face and the way his expressive mouth was set in a grim line. The fire was reflected in his blue eyes, making them burn in a cold flame.

"What is it?" she asked after a while and put her hand on his arm gently. He didn't reply at first, simply ground his teeth a little more and huffed indignantly. Caillean didn't press him, she knew him too well. Since they were children, Cædmon had always needed his time to calm down after an argument. In battle, he was calm and collected, always knew where his men were and always endeavored to be one step ahead of his enemy. Outside of these situations, however, he had a volatile temper and a tongue that was sharper than the edge of his battle axe.

"I asked him why he called us back," he said abruptly after several more moments of silence. Caillean put down the tunic and turned her full attention to her brother.
"Called you back...?"
"Why he would not let us attack the knights yesterday."

He did not look at her yet, and Caillean did not mind at all. She picked at the newly sewn seam and waited for him to continue.
"Well...?" she prompted after a moment.

"He would not tell me!" Cædmon growled. "He said that there is a purpose to Arthur and his knights yet. Damn them all, I see no purpose they could serve in our country!"

Caillean frowned and looked up at him. "Don't be unfair. Even you have praised Arthur Castus many times. Our enemy he might be... or might have been, but he has always been a very honorable opponent. Remember, you yourself owe him your life!"

Cædmon shot her a very sour look, apparently not too happy to have been reminded of that fact. He bared his teeth for a moment in the mockery of a smile. "Please tell me that he's not the one you've been sleeping with!"

She flushed a dark crimson and lightly punched him in the arm. Not even from her brother would take comments like that lying down.

"I don't see what that would have to do with anything... but no, he is not. And I would thank you not to bring that up again," she told him waspishly. Cædmon, sensing that he had overstepped his bounds, raised his hands in surrender.

"Fine, as you wish, sister. We have enough enemies without antagonizing each other. But maybe you will consent to tell me, why Merlin wishes to see you upon his return? Talk to you alone?" His words startled her as well. It was certainly not the first time she'd had words with their leader, but so far he had never asked for her directly. She shrugged.

"I'll tell you as soon as I know. Maybe it has to do with scouting further north."
She turned back to her mending. "Nothing to do but wait."

...

Merlin returned in the early hours of the next day. Caillean had been asleep, her dreams untroubled by either knights or Saxons, and she did not take kindly to being shaken awake. It was an exceptionally cold morning and the fires, though they had been tended through the night, did little to warm anyone not standing directly next to them.

As she pulled on her leather breeches and boots, she thought longingly of her village further west, where they slept in sturdy huts, rather than canvas tents that hardly warded off the cold. They had been on the march for days now, with no one but Merlin knowing what exactly they were hoping to achieve. It spoke of the great trust they had in him that there had been no protests so far.

Caillean wrapped herself in her cloak and stumbled out of the tent, shooting a death glare at Cædmon, who, after shooing her out of bed, clambered onto her pallet, grinned at her broadly and burrowed under the covers that were still warm from Caillean's body heat.

A few of the people at camp were already busy making breakfast, and the scent of porridge mixed in with the smell of a snowy winter morning.
Merlin was waiting for her at a small, separate fire. His bearded face was grim and lined, his eyes for once more tired than alert and his shoulders slumped a little, the posture of a very tired man. He did manage a small smile for her, however, and bade her sit down on the small stool opposite him. She sat, drawing her cloak tightly around herself and wedged her hands between her knees for warmth.

"The knights of the Great Wall... have rescued Guinevere," Merlin began without preamble and Caillean issued a great sigh of relief. The fate of Merlin's daughter had weighed heavily on her mind, for she had been a friend since childhood.

"Where is she?" she asked eagerly, casting a quick look around.

"They are taking her with them to the fort. She is a little unwell and they are looking after her." Something in his tone made her narrow her eyes suspiciously, but she knew better than to question him. "I met with Arthur Castus last night, Caillean. The man is a true leader."

The young woman shrugged her shoulders and wished he would tell her her part in this. Tired, hungry and cold as she was, she was in no mood for mind games.
"I know little of Arthur but what hear told of him. If only half of that is true, then the man could command the respect of the gods themselves. But what does that have to do with me?"

Merlin's gaze came back to rest on her and he regarded her thoughtfully.
"Ah, yes. You see, I believe Arthur to be the man destined to hold back the Saxon invasion. I will offer him our forces to do so. He will have command of our army and with his knowledge of warfare, we will cast the invaders out, for once as a united country."

Caillean's eyes grew wider the longer she listened. "A hefty charge for someone who was our enemy not three weeks ago, I think. And why would he do it? Is he not bound for home just as his knights are?"

The slow smile spreading on his lips told her that she was behaving exactly as he would have wanted her to and it did not lessen her irritation. He brushed back his cloak, as though the cold was not affecting him at all, and folded his hands on his knees.
"Arthur is just as much Briton as he is Roman. And as for his knights... I am sure they are loyal to him. As free men, they might decide to stay with their commander after all. I will leave for Badon Fort in the afternoon and I want you and Cædmon to go with me."

She cocked an eyebrow and Merlin laughed a little, a short, rather exhausted sound.
"We will go under flag of truce. I will talk to Arthur and with any luck, he will agree to my proposal. Why I want Cædmon with me should be obvious. You, on the other hand, have to help me keep your brother in check. I will not have his hot head and hatred of all things Roman ruin this chance for us. Besides, I thought you might like this chance to see your scout again."

"So I am to believe that you would cart me along, unqualified as I am for diplomacy, simply so I can tell my brother to calm down and to see my lover one last time?" she asked dryly. Merlin's smile faded and he straightened up, his tall, broad-shouldered frame towering over her.

"You will come with me because I command it. It is that simple!" He waved a hand at her. "And now you may leave."

Caillean got up slowly, turned away and took a few steps before looking once more over her shoulder.
"I won't be Tristan's reason to stay, if that's what you're hoping for. He wouldn't stay and die on my behalf, and in any case, I would tell him not to!"
He did not answer, but she hadn't expected him to.

...

It was a very bitter return to Badon Fort. Once again, they brought a brother home dead, but this was worse than any time before.
They left behind the snow and the ice when they back south, but none of them were warmer for it. Tristan felt hollow inside. He had known that the chance of all of them surviving had been slim, very slim indeed, but never would he have expected just Dagonet to die. Not Dagonet, the healer among them, the gentle giant with the kind heart and the somber face, best friend to Bors as Bedivere had been to him.

The unease he had felt had intensified tenfold when he'd returned from his scouting trip to find that Arthur meant to relocate an entire village before the Saxons' arrival. He had seen all their fates sealed in that moment, but Dagonet's selflessness had saved them. He had given his life on that frozen lake, had helped them prevail against impossible odds. And now they bore him back home, dead, wrapped in his cloak and slung on his horse like a piece of baggage.

It was a testament to both their strength of will and their exhaustion that the damnable bishop was not immediately slaughtered as he presented them with their discharge papers directly there in the courtyard, mere moments after their return. Arthur did not stay and exchange words, he simply turned from the revolting man and left it to Lancelot to hand out the parchments bearing their release. Tristan took his and looked at it, his mind almost blank. It was supposed to be a profound feeling of relief, of delight, to once again be free and he had looked forward to it for years. But as he now held that scroll of parchment, its clean surface already marred with dirt from both Lancelot's and his fingers, he felt nothing.

They lowered Dagonet into the ground a mere few hours later, and with him they buried his freedom. It really was beyond bitter. Tristan did not stay long after they had said their farewells. The restlessness was returning and though he was bone-weary, he knew he would not be able to sleep.
Lancelot fell into step beside him, casting one more glance backward at Arthur and the Woad woman Guinevere, whom they had rescued from the madman Marius' dungeon.

"You look about as cheerful as that graveyard," Lancelot remarked as they climbed the stairs to the Wall together and leaned against the battlement. Tristan did not bother to answer, knowing that Lancelot did not really expect him to.
"Still," he went on, unbothered by his companion's silence, "tomorrow, as Galahad said, this will all be a bad memory. We'll finally quit this place and then may it go to the dogs, I shall not care!" His keen dark eyes regarded Tristan shrewdly. "Have you decided where you will go? My offer still stands. Unless you want to go look for your girl."

Tristan had been silent during his friend's monologue, looking out over the vast land before him instead, dipped in bronze by the rapidly setting sun. The clouds were spots of red and purple on the horizon and the sun itself was a burning circle just sinking ever lower over the edge of the world. And then his sharp eyes spied them, before even the towerguards saw anything. They came out of the forest, a white flag held aloft and lit torches in their hands. There were six of them, their skin for once not blue, but the dark markings on their faces and arms showed them clearly for what they were.

The guards spotted them a short moment later and the call quickly sounded for Arthur Castus to come to the gate.
Lancelot and Tristan abandoned their conversation and joined their commander and the girl Guinevere in the courtyard as the gate was heaved open and the six Woads entered. The guards had formed a protective half-circle behind Arthur, keeping a close watch on the strangers.
Tristan, however, nudged Lancelot and nodded at the one woman among them. She looked small and frail among the broad men, and she looked plain next to Guinevere's beauty, but she held her head high, her stormy grey eyes ever watchful, as they swept across the assembled people, smiling once at Guinevere and then coming to rest on Tristan. Her smile changed then, became something different, private and meaningful.

Lancelot didn't need Tristan's short mumble in his ear to know who that was.
"No need to look for her. That there is Caillean."
And somehow, he thought it unlikely that Tristan would be going anywhere come morning.

...to be continued, definitely...