Solitude...

Chapter One

His mother's face surfaced in his memory and clouded his vision. He was thirteen again. And the soldiers had come... Had finally come. They had a string of boys behind them, all grim faced, and tear-streaked. And the sight awoke a terror in him like none other.

He had raced towards his village on in a rush of terror, frantically searching for his own family. The others looked on, saddened, clutching their own children to their breast.

He remembered the sounds of that day vividly, though if you asked it of him now, he could not distinguish his father's voice from other men's. For all he could guess, when he thought of his father's wisdom, the voice speaking the words was Arthur's.

His memory showed him all of the things he had loved and lost... His mother, father...the baby sister he would never know, and her...Ina. The pang of remorse and guilt when he remembered her face still struck him hard and sharp...like the blade of a knife beneath his skin.

She had looked so like him, they were often mistaken for twins. With her small angular face matching his own, her straight sharp nose, and pert little mouth. The only things that differed between them were their eyes. Where Tristran's were dark brown and calm, hers were bright, bright green and flashing.

She had always been quick to anger...quick to lash out with words or fists, and she had been admired, though disliked, by the other children for her savage unpredictability. The day she and Tristran had met, both only five years of age, she had pushed him in the mud, and ignored him.

He thought often, that that was the day he knew he loved her.

They had been almost inseparable from then on. When he had been taught to ride a pony, she had stayed and protested, spooking the men's horses and boy's ponies until she had been allowed to join. Why one of the elders didn't just put a stop to her wild behavior, Tristran didn't know.

But perhaps, they knew she was destined for hardship, and allowed her to prepare in the ways she thought best. And so she was brought up mostly as a boy, the only thing distinguishing her from her fellows being her long thick braid of black hair, that she wore, ever growing it longer, until, at age nine, it had reached her tail bone.

Tristran loved that about her. Her hair. When she unbraided it, it turned wild, and took on the look of a horse's mane. And she would have no patience with it, always ripping a brush through it so fast, that he was surprised it stayed rooted in her head.

He had offered to help her once, and she had let him, plopping down cross-legged in the dirt without another word or protest, and handing him the brush. And when he had finished unsnarling nests, and tangles from who-knows when, there had been a curtain of silky black hair just brushing the top of the road behind her.

She had looked beautiful, and tendrils framed her face, making it look softer and less...wild. She had reached back then, with uncertain hands, running her fingers through it, and grimacing. He had sat behind her with a smile.

Then she had quickly and untidily braided it, whipping her hair back into its old frenzied snarled self, and whirled to a stand in front of him, and her green eyes had been heated with anger.

"You did that on purpose!" She had screeched at him, her ten-year-old frame livid with anger.

And he had sat there confused, the brush still poised in his hand, and the smile melting off of his face. "Did what?"

"Made me look like a girl!" She spat out the last word, and stomped.

"But you are a girl." He had said simply, and it seemed to anger her more.

"I know! I know okay? But every day people seem to think they have to remind me! Ina, you can't do that only boys shoot bows, Ina you can't go riding today, you know the rules, you have to help your mother with the chores...Ina, brush your hair, you look like a boy! But I thought you were different Tristran...I thought...I thought...you..."

But she had not been able to finish, the tears had choked the last of her words.

He had stared at her, dumbstruck, and when she realized he wasn't going to answer her, she had marched up to him and shoved him roughly, so he was flat on his back in the dirt. She loomed over him, eyes brimming.

"But what would you know about it! YOU get to be a knight. You get everything I ever wanted! So don't you EVER touch my hair again! You hear me, Tristran! If you touch it again... I'll...I'll cut the whole bloody works off, you hear me!"

And not waiting for him to answer, she had turned to hide her tears, and stormed away. And even though she was upset, and running away like a girl, he hadn't noticed. All he really paid attention to, was her threat. 'I'll cut it all off.' He had never touched her hair again.

Never, for he knew she would make good on her threat. And it seemed to build a wall between them. After that incident, she wrapped her hair into a large knot at the base of her neck. And when her mother presented her with a new dress, in red, the only color she hated, she had taken it with a forced smile, and worn it. Discarding her favorite old brown and faded one.

It had made him cringe to see her in it.

And then, when she was twelve, she behaved like she was told too. Always helping out and smiling at boys, and visitors. And Tristran had been the only one to notice that the anger in her still smoldered beneath the surface.

And at thirteen, she had wholly ignored him. Not even sparing a passing glance, no flash of her even, white teeth in a savage grin. No pressure of her palm of his back, ready to push him face first into the mud...nothing.

And then came her hardest blow... It was midsummer's eve, and he had searched for her, hoping to steal a kiss, and perhaps erect a truce with her...

To finally end the hard feelings between them that had grown so large with time.

And he had found her.

She had been pressed against a tree, her face and Mikhil Boden's joined together in a kiss. But that was not the worst of it...One of Mikhil's hands had been twined in her long, and loosed jet hair, and the other had cradled her one of her newly formed, and finally noticeable breasts.

She had let HIM touch her hair and her body, but threatened Tristran that'd she'd cut off her jet black mane if he even brushed it with his fingertips.

And He had stood there, hurt and confused, when she had opened her eyes. They were dark, and sad, but when they found Tristran's...something else had surfaced in their depths...REVENGE.

And He, not knowing what else to do, had turned and walked quietly away, and burying his feelings for her in the deepest chasm he could imagine, he vowed to be, and continue to be, solitary till the day he died.

That morning... the soldiers had come. He had spotted them from the back of his sturdy and quick-witted mare. And his heart had sunk into his belly. Ina's words from so long ago rang in his ears, "YOU get to be a knight."

And when he had finally made it back to the village, in a wash of terror, and confusion, his mare frothed with sweat, she had been the first person he saw. Her hair was back properly tied in its place, and her eyes were flat and emotionless. He hadn't needed to tell HER that the soldiers had come, she could read it off of his features.

Then he had shouted for his family, and they had come running out of their small sod hut, soon to be a little emptier. In his mother's arms, his tiny sister, Bajarni, wailed her protest. He dismounted quickly, and announced "They have come."

And the next few minutes went by in a blur of sorrow, and packing. His bow, and clothes, and blade, all strapped to, or in a pair of saddle bags. When all eyes turned to his horse.

His proud mare was breathing heavy; her coat blotched with sweat. And one of her forelegs was slightly raised off of the ground. He vaguely remembered her stumbling on their retreat home, and his heart sunk lower as he realized she would never make the journey. One more thing Rome had robbed him of.

His father had walked up then, a young, dark stallion at his side. And his mother, having passed Bajarni to a neighbor, unsaddled his mare, and quickly settled the tack upon the new horse. And within minutes, Tristran had been seated upon him.

The soldiers topped the crest. He tugged on the reigns and felt the tears prick at his eyes. This horse was sensitive and moved with the slightest pressure. Not like his mare, who made him work to get her to do anything.

He had loved her stubbornness, and had looked forward to battling with her, and having her to distract him. Now he had nothing. He ran a hand roughly across his eyes, and swallowed his tears.

Tristran scanned the crowd silently, and picked out Ina's face. It was blank, and stony, and her eyes locked with his. Then, reaching back, she had pulled her hair free, and allowed it to spill in a curtain around her, settling wildly.

She kept their eyes locked, and her arms dropped back to her sides, and she stood there staring at him, and said not a word in solace, or farewell.

And Tristran saddened even more, turned his gaze back to his parents, and leaned down to kiss his mother's forehead and her eyes were over bright with tears as she looked at her son, her first-born.

His father had come close, and whispered words of wisdom, but now, Tristran could not remember what they were... and had patted him lovingly on the back. And then, Tristran turned and trotted towards the hill.

There was no call of victory for him, no shout of farewell, just stunned and perhaps relieved silence...Now that the day had finally come. And he had fallen into line, not a question asked, and his long journey of bondage to the Roman Empire began...

OOO

"Tristran!" Gawain said sharply. And with a snap, he was pulled from his daydream.

He was back in the dingy stables of the inn they were staying at, his hand still poised above his stallion, brush in his palm. He dropped his arm to his side, and turned to look at the redheaded man in the next stall.

"You coming?" Gawain continued, and he nodded, setting the brush down, and schooling his features to blankness. Gawain chuckled, and ambled out of the barn, eager to get into the bar, and find a woman to dandle.

Tristran shook his head clear of the thoughts of home, and walked slowly after him, liking the way his footsteps crunched the remaining snow on the ground, that had escaped the warmth of spring.

He wondered what was wrong with him. He had used to care when he caused others pain. Had cared about women, and drinks, and glory. But lately, all that loomed before him...was his self-induced solitude.

He was twenty winters old, and fit. Taller than most men, and his beard had come in fully. It had been seven years since he was snatched from the place he had known since the day he was born, and he hoped in seven more, all the now painful memories of it, would dissipate completely...

When the warmth and smoke and laughter reached him, and his footsteps sounded on the wooden floor, he realized his time would have been better spent bonding with his horse.

With a sigh, he walked up to the bar, repelling the glances of the women near him with his stony face and silence. They soon realized that he wouldn't be wanting company in his bed for the night, and pouted.

A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth, in light of their disappointment, and he asked the bartender quietly, if he had any apples. The man nodded, and tossed him one, a bewildered look on his face. And Tristran thanked him, and went to an unoccupied chair close to the fire.

He pulled out his dagger, and began slicing away, eating slowly, and watching the faces of the others in the room...

Lancelot was playing at dice with a couple other men, a buxom redhead in his lap, and apparently doing so well in the game, he was soon accused of cheating. Lancelot smiled. And Tristran itched to tell him not to be so cocky.

Then his eyes sought out Bors...who was drinking close to Dagonet, whose face was somber as always. While Bors's was taught with lament for Vanora, though he would never admit it. And Arthur, seemingly sorry for him, tried to strike up a conversation, and bring him out of his glum retreat. Tristran looked away...

Gawain and Galahad were engaged in a knife throwing contest, demonstrating their skills, and showing off for the brunettes who were seated nearby. He shook his head as he noticed them both watching Gawain rapturously, their eyes alight... and wished Galahad solaces.

He started, when his solaces took the shape of a jet-haired woman. And his heartbeat quickened. But he swallowed his hope when the woman turned, and he caught sight of her full, heart-shaped face. And cursing silently, he pushed his chair back roughly and got up to go back outside.

The apple had gone sour in his mouth, and he decided to give the rest to his horse...

OOO