Starcrossed

Chapter Eleven

Tristan/OC

Usual disclaimers apply. Please review.

Tristan felt a comforting sense of calm as he brought his horse to a halt next to Bors', lined up with his brothers in this final stand against the Saxon invaders. Arthur's face betrayed no surprise as the other knights, like himself decked out in full armor, joined him atop Badon Hill, their banners flying in the wind, but a proud smile spread across his lips and there was new luster in his green eyes.

He thrust his banner into the ground and turned his white gelding to face his knights, his brothers in arms, and they could see the passion once more burning in him, the knowledge that what he did now, he did for the right reasons.
Tristan took a deep breath and the cold air pricked his throat. His hands were steady on the reigns and on the banner he held tightly and once again, all his attention was commanded by his commander, his thoughts solely on the battle before him.

"Knights!" Arthur called out to them, his voice firm and strong, conveying confidence in the ability of his men regardless of the odds. "The gift of freedom is yours by right. But the home we seek resides not in some distant land, it's in us, and in our actions on this day!" He locked eyes with every single one of them, seeing in their eyes the same resolve he felt. "If this be our destiny, then so be it. But let history remember, that as free men, we chose to make it so! "

He drew his sword, hoisting mighty Excalibur up at the sky and yelled a battle cry which the knights joined into, their voices echoing over the smoke filled plain. They thrust their banners into the soft ground beside their horses and Tristan pulled his bow from its sheath. There, behind the curtain of soot, lay Hadrian's wall and behind it, their enemies gathered in a coiling mass. He notched an arrow, pointed it up, drew back and let fly, a Sarmatian greeting to his enemies.

Across the wall, a traitor fell dead.

...

Caillean felt sick. Cold sweat beaded on her forehead, smearing the blue paint on her skin and she shivered violently. Her clammy hands clutched each other, the knuckles were pressed to her mouth and she had her head tilted back against the tree she sat at, her only thought: don't throw up again!

Shame, fear and anguish were at war within her, tearing at her insides and wrenching sporadic sobs from her.
How, by all the gods, could she have been so stupid? Yesterday, for all her grand words and ideas, life had seemed to go on forever. It had seemed noble and sensible to send Tristan away, to stay behind and fight for her country, die in the pursuit of freedom. But dying was not so easy a prospect to face when it came down to it. Right now, she would have given her left hand, or even her right one, to be safe in a wagon with Eivlin and her children, being taken to safety by someone stronger than she was.

She closed her eyes tightly, felt tears drip from her lashes and willed the world to go away. It was thus that Guinevere found her.

Her friend knelt down beside her and put a hand to Caillean's forehead, a concerned frown on her face. "Are you ill?"

Caillean shook her head and wiped her eyes, too ashamed to meet Guinevere's gaze.
"No, not ill... merely frightened to death and sad and stupid at once. I didn't even wish Tristan farewell, Guen..." she whispered harshly, "I let him leave here thinking I didn't love him. But I do! By the gods, I do!"

Guinevere sat back on her haunches and sighed.
"You're my friend, Caillean, and I trust that you'll keep your head when you hear this... the knights did not leave. They stayed, they are fighting with us." She motioned behind her. "We have no more time. Can you pull yourself together?"

The honest answer would have been no. Her limbs felt like brittle twigs as Caillean nodded, rose and picked up her bow and quiver. Beneath the blue paint, she was as pale as a sheet and she needed two attempts to straighten her belt, with the unfamiliar weight of a battle axe pulling at it.
Side by side, the two women left Caillean's little refuge behind a hazel thicket and walked through the forest. There, at the edge of it, overlooking the field before the Wall, the warriors had lined up, arrows at the ready before them on the ground, bows in hand, their expressions grim and determined.

Caillean left Guinevere, who would take charge of this section of their fighting force, and lined up with the rest of them, taking her quiver down once more. There, among her own arrows, were the two Tristan had left her with and Caillean's stomach tightened further. She cast a quick look around.

The smoke from the tar-fed hay fires stung in her eyes, but at least she could make out the knights near the foot of the hill, blurry silhouettes only, but it was enough. There, a little further along, she knew her brother to be with Merlin, commanding the war machines they were setting up.
All of a sudden, calm enveloped her. They were here now, there was no turning back and whatever end this day would bring, it was the gods' will. And Tristan was here, out of his own volition, not by Rome's command. She knew where her loved ones were and she was not alone.

Guinevere notched her first arrow as the great gate in the Wall swung open, admitting the first surge of enemies. They stumbled through, yelling their Saxon battle cries and their advance slowed as there were no immediate opponents in sight, the smoke obscuring their visions.

They drew their bows, aimed high and let fly. Before the Saxons could even raise their shields, a murderous swarm of arrows rained death down upon them, and a good number of Saxons crumbled. Then, like wraiths, the knights charged out of the black fog, their weapons flashing, slaughtering and gleaming red in the sunlight, before they disappeared back into the dimness. They were too quick for the Saxons to even strike one blow in retaliation.

Scared now, they looked around, stared into the soot-blackened air until their eyes were red and bloodshot, but there was no helping it. And there was no cover, for again it rained arrows from the sky. And again the phantom-like riders came, swept through them, leaving death in their wake, while around them, the hay fires smoked and smoldered like funeral pyres.

...

They had beaten back the first wave of attackers and it afforded them a moment to catch their breath. The hay fires would die down soon, but they had done their duty already. The air was still thick with smoke and any oncoming force would not see what lay waiting for them at first.

When the gate swung open again, Arthur led his knights past the rows of archers, passing Guinevere and giving her a firm nod. She barked a command, and a moment later, Celyn paced along the line, bearing a torch and lighting each archer's arrow aflame.

When the second part of the Saxon army burst onto the field to find their slain comrades, they shot their burning arrows, each one blazing across the sky like a shooting star. Whether they hit man or ground hardly mattered, for the oil-soaked ground burst into flame as readily as the Saxons' fur cloaks did. Screams of shock and pain echoed and Caillean could see a grim smile etched onto Guinevere's face, a smile she felt echoed on her own lips. They dropped their bows and drew their hand weapons. Caillean's fingers gripped the axe and knife tightly and she heard her brother's voice once more, his low, insistent words as he had gifted her with his weapons.

Stay on your feet. Be quick, don't hesitate. Don't give them the opportunity to strike you, for they are stronger, but you are faster. Duck, strike, run, don't get caught up in a longer fight.

She took another deep, bracing breath. Then Guinevere raised her arm in a triumphant salute, screamed and charged. They followed her, a blue wave of fury crashing into the stunned Saxons and cutting a deep wound into their flank.

...

More shooting stars streaked through the air as the war machines launched their flaming projectiles into the main Saxon force, creating even more panic, and the thunder of footfalls and the hoof beats of the knight's warhorses, accompanied by the insistent battle cries, did the rest. The two forces collided and chaos reigned on the battlefield.

Caillean felt feverish. She was once again afraid, but this time, instead of paralyzing her, it seemed to give her further speed. She kept close to Guinevere, flitting past the brutish men and hacking away at their arms and backs in passing. Once, she saw two knights on horses overtake her, but they were gone too quickly for her to make out who it had been. Indeed, there was no time to look around. She fought hard to stay on her feet and ducked away from any oncoming blows instead of trying to parry them, knowing full well that her skinny arms could not catch a Saxon broadsword without pain.

Still, after what felt like an eternity and was probably only half an hour, her arms trembled with exhaustion and she bled from several shallow cuts and scrapes. For a brief moment, there was no enemy in front of her and she straightened up, gasping to catch her breath and cast a quick look around. She saw Lancelot get dragged from his horse and felt a brief spell of panic as she realized that his was not the only riderless horse cantering off the battlefield. Where was...?
Her inattentiveness almost proved fatal as a large bear of a man suddenly launched himself at her, his two-handed axe high above his head. She shrieked and fell back, raising her meager weapons on instinct, but he never got close to her. Abruptly, he stumbled and fell dead, and behind him stood Galahad, giving her a nod and a grim little smile.

With renewed vigor, she threw herself back into battle, ramming her knife deeply into the side of a Saxon who had just shrugged of Guinevere's attempt to strangle him. Together, the two women brought him down.
Caillean attempted to follow her further but as she got back up, something slammed into the back of her skull and knocked her down. She lay in the grass and for a while, everything around her was foggy.

...

Tristan saw that he was the last of the knights still astride his horse. His quiver was empty, his bow long since discarded, the curved blade of his sword dripped blood. But there, right in front of him, he caught sight of his quarry. His fierce eyes locked with the cold blue gaze of the Saxon leader, and both men gripped their weapons more tightly.

Tristan dismounted, his movements as fluid and graceful as ever. The helmet would only limit his vision on the ground, so he cast it aside and made his way slowly towards the Saxon. Any foe that crossed his path, he cut down with swift, precise blows until they were face to face. As their blades crossed for the first time and the shriek of grating metal rang through the air, he knew he had found the only foe worthy of his skill. And perhaps even his master.

...

Caillean rolled onto her back and groaned, her blurred vision finally clearing. Right in front of her, Guinevere, now more bloody then before, got thrown to the ground by a young Saxon, his bald head gleaming with sweat and a nasty scar marring his right cheek. He grinned maliciously as he brought his sword down, but it was caught before it hit its mark, caught by the twin blades of Lancelot, who stepped over Guinevere's body and forced the Saxon backwards with swift blows.

...

Their swords flashed, met in mid air, were diverted again. Neither had yet drawn blood, but suddenly, a knife flashed in the Saxon's other hand and caught Tristan in the chest. Hot blood wet his skin. He tumbled back a few steps, his sword knocked from his hands, and eyed his opponent warily. Swiftly, he reached for one of his many hidden daggers, but the Saxon, realizing as he did, that they were a close match in skill, took a step back and kicked his sword towards him. He ducked, reached for it, and in rising lashed out already, seeking to catch his enemy off-guard.

...

Lancelot's swift handling of his twin swords looked almost like dancing. He caught his foe's sword with one weapon, turned, blocked the shield with the other and then struck him in the leg, dropping the bald man onto his knees. The Saxon had to scurry away and glowered darkly at the handsome knight who, twirling his swords once more effortlessly, answered with a cheeky grin.
The man attacked again, knocked Lancelot off his feet, but was thrown backwards once more as the knight kicked him off him. Then, however, the Sarmatian's attention was diverted as another Saxon charged at him and Caillean, struggling to her feet once more, could see the bald man reach for something on the ground.

As he rose up again, she could see that he was clutching a crossbow – and Lancelot had his back turned. Before she could think twice about it, she flung herself at him, embedding her axe deep into his arm. Something hit her in the belly, a dull pain flared for a moment, but then Guinevere was at her side and her blade cut the Saxon's throat. She smiled at her grimly and Caillean felt a bittersweet sense of achievement.

She straightened, her eyes roving across the battlefield and suddenly, she spied Tristan in the distance. Tristan, going down before a large, blond Saxon. Her Tristan, dying.
She cried out in horror and started to move forward, but something held her back. Her legs would not work properly, her arms suddenly felt too heavy to lift.

Lancelot turned towards her, a grateful smile on his handsome face, but his expression turned to alarm as he looked at her. Caillean followed his gaze down her front to the crossbow bolt sticking out of her. Not fired, she realized with a sort of sick amusement, for that would have killed her instantly. The swine had stabbed her with it. It was a strange sight indeed, and there was hardly any pain. Her fingers closed limply around the quarrel, then her knees gave out and Lancelot and Guinevere caught her before she hit the ground.

"Save Tristan," she breathed, her voice scarcely more than a whisper, before darkness claimed her.

...

The Saxon was too quick, even for him. He turned into Tristan's blow, was suddenly right in front of him and plunged his knife into his arm. Once more, the scout dropped his sword, fell and gasped in pain, as the Saxon plunged his sword into his side and then pushed him away violently. He tried to crawl away, put some distance between himself and the enemy, but the Saxon grasped his hair and pulled him up again. This, he knew, was the end. Above him, his hawk cried.
He took a deep breath in anticipation of the final blow, but it never came.

Out of the dense throng of people, a horse charged at them, barreled right into them and knocked the Saxon away from the scout. Lancelot flung himself out of the saddle, his breath coming in swift and heavy gasps and his swords were a flurry of movement too quick to anticipate. He drove the leader of the enemy army backwards, until Arthur stepped between them. His face was set in fierce determination and Lancelot relented, knowing that there was no way his commander would fail him now.

He turned back to where Tristan had fallen and saw Galahad already crouched down by his side. He knelt down next to him and saw with relief that Tristan's eyes were open, his gaze a little unfocused and his lips smeared with blood.

"Lancelot... Galahad...," he mumbled, "did we...?"

Galahad nodded and roughly petted Tristan's hair with one grimy hand.
"Aye, we won. Don't worry. We got you now, old friend."

Comforted, Tristan closed his eyes and allowed unconsciousness to dull his pain.

...to be continued...