Tristan's blade came down in a single, deft swipe that sent blood spraying across the battleground and his final enemy to his knees. The Saxon tumbled to the side and the knight stepped back, wiping his blade clean on the now-dead man's britches as he went.

All around him, the sounds of the fight had died and all that remained was the clink of metal as those who remained walked along the road, and the injured lay moaning their agonies.

"Tristan!"

The voice of the Woad lord he was here to assist called out to him and the Sarmatian knight turned. Tristan nodded in response. "Marc," he replied in greeting as the Woad grew closer, the distinctive sun tattoo at the centre of his forehead marred now by blood. "That was the last of them."

The Woad man grinned, revealing white teeth against his blue skin as he looked down at the defeated Saxon and clapped the taller man on the back. Tristan did not half mind Marc, he was a competent fighter, a decent strategist. He respected the Sarmatian knight's desire to remain aloof but gladly helped teach him the language of his people. Tristan respected him, almost as much as he did his blood-brothers and Arthur. Their bond was drawn up in blood, as it had been with the Sarmatians.

"I am half a mind to request you remain here." Marc ventured, "I know why Arthur would want to keep you, but I feel as though your destiny is to stay with us, keeping raiders at bay."

The Sarmatian knight sheathed his sword. "I go where Arthur needs me to," Tristan replied simply, rubbing a hand along the back of his sweaty neck to relieve some of the itch that had built up there beneath his armour. It was true, he did go where the King requested he travel because he trusted the younger man's judgment. Unlike some of his blood brothers, Tristan had never grown tired of war and killing, indeed it could be said he relished it. It was for this reason that Arthur continued to send him out more frequently than the other knights, trusting the tall Sarmatian alone in the wilds for more than a year, helping the Northern Woads hold back any straggling raiders who thought Brittanica might continue to be an easy target.

The other man did the same with his axes, tucking them back into his belt. "Well I will have to tell Arthur you are needed here then," he replied jovially. "Come, let us return to the village. We have much to discuss before you return South."

• • •

The full moon was bright and ethereal, gently glowing in the dark sky that was littered with stars.

Eseld found herself at the battlements once more. She told herself she was there simply to enjoy the night air, but her traitorous mind told her that was a lie. She would not be disappointed by the sight of an elusive Sarmatian scout, and she tried not to be disappointed when she did not see him there.

As she turned to move away, out of the corner of her eye on the edge of the forest, she saw a flash of movement. Turning her head she just saw the scout in question before he disappeared in darkness.

Her feet moved of their own accord as she followed him to the edge of the forest. From there, Eseld began to track him in earnest. He was not deliberately trying to hide his tracks, she could tell, but it was difficult. Very difficult. Tracking Tristan held all the difficulty of tracking someone with stealth training so ingrained in their very being that they could not avoid it even when it was not necessary.

The light of the moon lent itself to her favour, however, and soon, she heard the rustle of fabric and armour up ahead.

Cautiously, Eseld approached, her steps silent and light upon the forest floor. She became a whisper of the leaves and blended with the trunks of the trees. Suddenly, he was there, ahead and below her, at the edge of a lake where he was slowly getting undressed. Pulling at cords and letting the cloth fall away.

It was wrong; she was duty-bound elsewhere. But still, she could not look away. Pale eyes traced the gentle dips and rises of his back and hips as he stepped from his britches into the calm pool. His movement sent ripples through the water as he slowly submerged deeper and deeper until finally, he was swimming.

Eseld's tongue slipped out to whet her lips. She hung there on the precipice of action and inaction for a moment. He had taunted her and she had returned the challenge with gusto. Now here was an opportunity to be the first to initiate something that she wanted, rather than what was expected of her. But she found herself faltering, unsure if she could cross the line she just knew she would not be able to return from. In the water, he turned back towards her and pulled like some unfathomable force, his eyes roamed through the trees and found her own.

Discovered, Eseld did not move and instead, held his dark unreadable expression. His arms moved gently atop the surface of the water, keeping him afloat. The water, lapping at the nape of his neck, made his dark hair even darker once wet.

The silence stretched between them until finally she made her decision. Slowly, she began making her way down onto the lake shoreline. His dark eyes followed her every step of the way. Once there, she paused, hands resting upon her belt. Was she bold enough to do that?

She looked up to meet his gaze and saw that it was almost hungry.

No.

She was not bold enough to do that. Eseld gave him a gesture with her hands, asking him to spin around so he was not facing her. For a moment, she thought he would not do it, but finally, he did as she requested.

Quickly, she moved behind tall reeds and pulled off her clothing, long tresses of hair covering much of her naked body. Wading into the water, her skin pebbled against the cold, the deep blue where she had been properly tattooed in long serpentine lines up her arms and legs, pebbled with the rest of her clear skin. War paint was one thing, but the tattoos were a permanent reminder of her devotion to her people.

Finally, Eseld fully embraced the cold and submerged until she was covered by the water from toe to neck. She swam around him, circling a good distance away. He trod water and faced her as she circled, hair splaying about his shoulders as he watched her.

"You look like a frog on a rock," she said to him, enjoying the way the cool water nipped at her skin. It was a smart comment, but by making it she could pretend they were talking. "With your hair meeting the water like that."

"I like frogs." came the guttural reply.

Eseld swept backward in surprise, nearly lifting herself out of the water. He had said that. In her tongue, marred by his strange accent. He understood what she had said.

"You…you.." she spluttered, as the corners of his mouth tilted upwards.

"Me?" he asked, the water rippling as he pointed to himself, brows lifted. There! He did it again! His pronunciation barely scraped through but he was speaking her language.

Infuriated, and having very little else at her immediate disposal, Eseld created a wave that she sent splashing over the Sarmatian knight. "You can speak my tongue? Why didn't you tell me?"

The man flicked his now-wet hair back out of his face and had the gall to actually laugh at her. "You never asked," he replied simply. She scowled at him, affronted that he had understood her completely and had let her act out everything she tried to communicate like a fool.

"Did you enjoy me acting out what I was trying to say?" she said acridly, glaring hard enough at him to drill a hole right through his head.

Tristan hummed a moment before replying. "Yes. Yes, I did."

Incensed she splashed him again before the words were quite out of his mouth and he spat back mouthfuls of water as he barked out more laughter. Laughter that was followed by a splash back at her. Eseld gasped as the wave washed over her, and she shook back her own hair that floated around her like the selkies from the sea stories.

Her eyes narrowed at the man. "This means war," she said decidedly.

"To war," he replied solemnly, black eyes shining with something more akin to hunger than mirth.

Beneath the moonlight, splashing and shrieks fettered with guttural, deep laughter pierced the air, breaking the silence with joy.

• • •

"So tell me truly, how long have you spoken my tongue?" she asked him, once they were back in their tunics and britches.

The process of redressing had been an unusual one. Though they had sworn they would keep the other's honour intact, she had felt his eyes rake the length of her as she pulled the wool shirt over her head and let it cover her figure, silhouetted against the light of the full moon. So too, had she watched him boldly from the corner of her eye as he pulled on his tunic, covering the old and newer scars that littered his muscled back with his clothes.

They were as bad as each other, for rather than offence, she merely felt emboldened.

"I have worked almost the last year with Northern Woads to keep Saxon raiders repelled," he replied, pulling on his boots and hauling himself to his feet to fix on his belt. "I learned working with them."

Eseld's nose twitched and she pulled on her own boots over thick socks. "You speak well,' she replied, adjusting her comment at the smug raise of his brow. "Well enough anyway for a Sarmatian goat."

The knight smirked quietly but said nothing as he reattached his sword to the belt at his back. "I like goats." he ventured eventually.

It was Eseld's turn to grin then as she paused with her second boot. "You like frogs and goats?" she laughed, eyes shining with teasing, "You certainly have odd taste."

Her boot was on her foot with a thunk as he replied. "I prefer to think of it as a particular taste," he said, holding his hand out to her, which she accepted to help haul her to her feet. "I do not like many things but things I do like, I like very much."

He was watching her intently as she fixed her own belt about her waist. "So frogs, goats, what else do you like?" Eseld asked as she pulled the leather tight, noting the way his dark eyes followed her movements.

"My hawk," he replied, "My horse, my blood-brothers, hunting, killing…" She flicked her hair up out of the way as she bent over and fixed her quiver to her hip. "Red hair."

She looked up at him, her heart suddenly a beat faster than it was before. He was watching her intently. "You certainly are very sure of yourself," Eseld replied mockingly.

"I have never had the luxury of not needing to be sure of a decision I've made," Tristan replied smoothly. "So, I make a fast decision and I settle on it as the only one I could have made. I will not regret."

In the distance, an owl hooted and Eseld was almost rebuked. "Is it true that you knights were taken from your families as children?" she asked her own bold question, changing the subject but keeping the deep-set line.

"I have lived this life for more than half of it." the Sarmatian knight replied simply. "But it does not upset me like it did others. I have embraced it as my own."

Eseld studied him, lips parted in thought. "You are a strong man." she mused, mostly to herself.

"Strong, hard. All are words that have been used to describe me," he replied with a smirk and a shrug as he stepped closer and she picked up her bow. She caught his double entendre but decided not to react.

"What about good?" she asked, the hint of a challenge in her voice as he moved beside her, eyes fixed intently on his.

He stared down at her with an unfathomable expression, dark eyes studying her own blue ones, before travelling down to settle on her mouth. "Never," he replied, deep voice forming over the guttural word as he inched closer. "Never once 'good'."

"Well," she said, almost breathless, every inch of her on fire and alert as he drew dangerously close. "We'll have to change that then won't we?"

And with that she stepped away from him, looking back over her shoulder in an invitation to follow. "We had best return to the keep."

The look on his face was shadowed and indescribable. But slowly, a smile etched itself across his craggy features and he let out a bark of laughter. With a shake of his shaggy mane, Tristan followed after her and Eseld could pretend it had all been a joke and she had not been in any danger of going somewhere she could not return from. But when she woke the next morning bathed in sweat and aching in places she had not ached in a long time, she knew she had already reached that point. For in her dreams, she had not diverted him as he drew near, instead, she had responded in kind, and in dreams, her true self showed her she would not so easily step away from him again.


A/N: Getting this all out finally is really helping me. If you're reading, I hope you're enjoying reading as much as I am writing. 3