Disclaimer: I don't own anything from King Arthur so please don't sue me.

AN: This was originally supposed to be a one shot, but I liked it so it will continue. This one is quite a bit more lighthearted than any of my other stories, so I hope you like it. Please let me know what you think of it.

Chapter 1: Knives

'One, two…One, two, three…One, one, one,' came the mental notes of a knight who had seen too many battles, and therefore needed too many weapons. Tristan tallied off each knife and weapon that he removed from his person. Some were grouped in sets while others came off alone. Each one was mentally noted before it was put into its chest for the night's safe keeping. Tristan stood over his small threadbare cot as he disarmed. It was usually a quick process, but the arrowhead in his left shoulder was making this process anything but speedy.

Tristan could feel the renewed flow of his hot blood with every unnecessary movement of his arm. He had had far worse injuries than a small arrowhead shallowly dug into the flesh of his shoulder, so he barely noticed the tingling in his joint as he continued to work. The wound had not bled a great deal, nor had it even pained him until a certain angry Woad had twisted it, out of spite for losing an eye to the deft scout. The Woad had soon lost more important body parts of his anatomy than his eye for his trouble, such as his head. Tristan let a small smirk creep unto his features as he remembered the look on the Woads severed head. The man had a look of surprise that seemed as though he had not expected the scout to retaliate. It was almost comical how the natives still underestimated the deadly scout, even though he had probably sent more of them to their graves than all the others combine.

'Three, four…one,' Tristan continued as he removed the blades along his chest and sides. As Tristan carefully relinquished a small dagger from his lower sleeve, the door to his room creaked slightly. Tristan did not bother to lift his head as Dagonet slipped his large frame into the scout's humble room.

"Did you report to Arthur yet," The large knight asked as he sat upon the cot beside the arrangement of weapons. Tristan simply nodded, but he never stopped in his process. "Did you have a good trip," Dagonet questioned as he arranged his own affects upon the bed. Where as Tristan's were objects of war, Dagonet's possession were that of peace and healing. The two men were as different as night and day, but they had forged a strong friendship over the years. They were both quiet, and it was their silent acceptance of each other that made way for their fierce bond.

"Nothing to complain about," Tristan replied as he paused briefly in his disarmament. Dagonet nodded, knowing that Tristan could have faced an entire army of Woads, Saxons, and Romans and would have found nothing to complain about. Dagonet knew that wasn't the case on this night though, because he had only seen a small arrow wound as he had entered the room.

'One, two,' Tristan's mind still buzzed as he continued. 'One,' he finally said as he removed the final dagger from his torso and sleeves. Slowly Tristan began to pull his coat off his shoulders, being very careful of his wounds.

"Here Tris, I've got that," Dagonet said as he gently aided Tristan in removing his coat then his tunic. Once Tristan's chest was bare, Dagonet inspected the arrow head that protruded from his shoulder blade. "It is not deep. You were very lucky," Dagonet said as he watched the scout for any reaction. Most would not notice, but Dagonet could see Tristan let out a sigh as to say that he was just happy to be alive for another day. Tristan faced death far more often than any of the other knights, and it surprised most of the knights that he hadn't been overcome by it yet.

Dagonet left Tristan to his silence for several minutes as he prepared to remove the arrowhead then close the wound. Tristan waited patiently for the searing pain that came with the extraction of any weapon from flesh. He knew Dagonet was as gentle as he could be, but it never felt good no matter how shallow the wound was. Tristan was not one to fear pain, but he was weary from riding hard and just wished for sleep.

As Dagonet pulled the roughly made arrow from Tristan's shoulder, he could feel the younger man flinch slightly. It was only when Dagonet was tending Tristan's wounds that he knew the scout could actually feel the outside world. Any other occasion seemed to lead people to believe that he was no more than a specter that would weave in and out of the forest like the Woads themselves. Dagonet, however, had seen the scout feel the burdens of pain and suffering as well as the joys of love. Tristan was real even though he lived in a manner far from any other.

Dagonet's line of thought brought him to that of love. As he carefully cleaned the wound that had renewed its bleeding, he commented, "Abigail has returned to the village." Dagonet didn't receive the reaction he had hoped for, which would have been any reaction at all. "She is looking well again. I heard that her betrothed was found with another, so the engagement was called off," Dagonet said further hoping the scout would say anything.

Tristan simply began his ritual again as he listened to Dag, instead of showing his interest. 'One, two…One, one,' Tristan's mind supplied once again.

"She asked about you, at the tavern last night," Dagonet prodded further. "She said she missed you."

"I was not the one betrothed to a Roman soldier. She has no right to miss me," Tristan said as he removed a thin but strong piece of rope from his boot. Dagonet just shook his head at the multitude of odd weapons his friend possessed.

"It wasn't by choice, you know. Her father basically sold her off in order to pay for his land. She even refused Lancelot's charms last night," Dagonet said in the sweet villager's defense.

"It is not terribly difficult to resist Lancelot's charms if you are even slightly self-respecting," Tristan said as he straightened up for Dagonet to actually sew up the wound.

"Don't try to fool me Tristan. I know that you missed her when she left with that legionary. She was no happier than you were with the situation," Dagonet growled as he continued to weave the hot needle through the scout's torn flesh. "She still sneaks off with the soldiers' horses when she wants to go for a ride," Dagonet said with a small smile.

"I believe that was what led to her betrothal to the boar," Tristan said with a hiss as the needle caught a particularly sensitive spot. "She can enjoy her rides and her Romans for all I care. I made the mistake of bedding her once, and I shall not make it again," the scout said with finality.

"There was more than bedding between you two, and you know it," Dagonet sighed realizing he had started a battle that was hopeless. "I simply wished to tell you that she was back, and asking about how you were. I didn't mean to upset you," the gentle giant assured Tristan.

"I know Dag, and I also know that the others probably already have a pool going for whether or not we will return to each other. I just do not wish to go through the trouble," Tristan said as he raised his arms slightly to allow Dagonet to wrap cloth around the wound.

"And running into a swarm of Woads is no trouble at all," Dagonet asked skeptically. Dagonet knew the scout better than any of the other knights, so he knew that the scout did in deed have buttons which could very easily be pushed. However, Dagonet was the only one that ever had the satisfaction of surviving after teasing the scout.

"It is different…Let me guess. Your money is on us getting back together," Tristan said as he rose from the bed to continue removing his weapons and gear.

"Actually, smart money is on Galahad stealing her from you. She complimented his skirt… I mean kilt, last night," Dagonet laughed as he rose from the cot and collected his supplies. "Poor kid doesn't know what he's in for." Dagonet didn't often speak so freely or joke so openly, but the scout managed to make him smile from time to time, and the subject of the scout's former lover always brought light to a conversation.

"Good luck to him," Tristan said as he removed two more daggers.

"Do you ever think that you carry a few too many weapons, Tristan," Dagonet said from the doorway as he glanced back at the covered cot. Tristan just glared at him as he removed several long needles from the lining of his second boot. "Point taken," Dagonet replied. "I'll see you at the tavern later, and if you're interested, Abigail is living with the old seer down by the river. He father refused to take her back after the disgrace of her betrothed leaving her." Dagonet simply shut the door as he left, leaving Tristan to his task.

'One, two… where is one,' Tristan thought as he looked for his final dagger in his pant leg. Tristan never miscounted, even when distracted by Dagonet or the others. He had never miscounted his blades in his stay at the fort. Quickly going through an inventory in his head, Tristan came up one short yet again. Tristan sat on the cot beside his weapons as he quickly removed his boots then searched his breeches in quest of his final blade. The small perfectly balanced blade was nowhere to be found, however. Tristan often lost daggers, hence carrying so many, but he always remembered when he lost one. Today, he could not think of using any of his hidden artillery except for a single blade in his breastplate.

Tristan cursed silently as he tried to recall what could have happened to the small blade. Had it been any other item, he might have let it go without worry since he had many to replace it. However, the small blade that now lay somewhere beyond Tristan's reach was one of a kind. It was a simple dagger, but it was the reason he had met Abigail.

The young Briton had stolen a Roman's horse to go for a short ride, and had been caught. Instead of punishing her, the Roman had decided to sell her to the man who could win a knife throwing contest. Tristan had entered simply for the sport of beating as many Romans as possible. He had won, and in turn was given Abigail for the night. He hadn't bedded her that night, but instead he had listened to her stories long into the evening. She was a fascinating creature. She had deep red hair that looked almost dark brown in some lights, and a pair of brown eyes to match. She always had her long hair braided and twisted up behind her head. To the common eye, she simply looked like another of the hardworking villagers' daughters. However, Abigail was the very essence of trouble.

Tristan had let her go after that night, and he had never expected to see her again. That lasted until she decided to steal his horse to take her ride through the sprawling hills. Tristan had been given a dispatch to carry to the next fort along the Wall when he had realized that his mount was missing. He had cursed and nearly beheaded Jols when the squire informed him that a sweet young woman had said Tristan had given her permission to stretch his horse. Abigail had returned faithfully as the sun began to set, and Tristan had only shaken his head at her antics. Though people feared him, Tristan did have a sense of humor and her stealing his horse hadn't truly bothered him. His mount had been well cared for and the creature very rarely was allowed to run freely. Abigail had told him the night she had spent with him that she had taken care of horses when she was younger, so he knew his steed was in good hands. Though Tristan rarely let another even approach his animals, he could not find it in himself to reprimand that beaming girl. What did bother him though was the fact that because he had had to wait for her return, he ended up riding for hours in the rain that night.

She had constantly been trouble for the scout, but he enjoyed her jovial company none the less for it. She was quite witty and her tongue was as sharp as a knife. It was only fitting that he had met her with the throw of a dagger. She had also been a hard worker. Her father had depended strongly on his fields and in his growing age, Abigail was left to tend most of him crops. She basically took care of her father cooking, cleaning, mending, working. She could not read, but she could tell many stories for all to hear. She could not sing like Vanora or any of the other wenches, but she could dance circles around them all. She could not fall in love with a knight, she was forbidden to, but that didn't stop her from finding Tristan.

They had found a love for one another in their own unique ways over the months they had gotten to know each other. However, their relationship had abruptly ended after her father had basically sold her to a Roman soldier looking for a quick bride. Tristan had been as close to heart broken as a man such as he could get, and Abigail was not so thrilled with her father's pick for her either.

Tristan simply rolled up his cases of weapons that lay on his cot, as he tried to forget the past. Abigail was back, but their relationship would never be the same. Tristan was getting older and with age came a dislike of the unpredictable. Tristan only counted on two things these days: his blades and the fact that there would always be an enemy to use them on.

XxX

I hope you liked this, please tell me what you think of it.