PERSISTENT KNIGHT
a/n: This takes place two years after The Fear of Rome. I recommend reading that first, but if you don't feel like it, here's the sum-up: Tristan was saved by Germanius during his battle with Cedric. Germanius takes him to Rome, against Tristan's will. He makes Tristan become an assassin to do his dirty work, and Tristan only goes along because Germanius threatens Arthur and the new Britain. Arthur goes on a diplomatic visit to Rome and sees Tristan. He and the knights try to set him free, but Tristan has to solve things on his own. He returns by himself to Britain, and uneasily settles into life back at the Wall. He's then sent to scout a village and takes on several Saxons. He gets away, along with a girl he rescues and who helps him. The girl, Jaelynn, has a bit of a crush on him, but Tristan goes on with his life—sort of. And then we pick back up in this story. In Fear of Rome I said Jaelynn was 12 or 13—I'm going with the 13 to fit better with the timeline of this story.
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The First Snow (Two years after The Fear of Rome)
Winter again. The frosty cold had already settled in and the people of Britain were readying for worse. At Hadrian's Wall, where Arthur and his court remained, it was no different. The villagers worked hard to bring in extra food. Arthur and Guinevere were no different—they worked side by side when they didn't have more urgent (or dangerous) matters to attend to. Their son waddled by their side, just a mere infant but with the energy and passion of his parents.
The knights also helped. Aside from the normal duties of protecting the land, life had settled down. Only the occasional skirmish with Saxons, Irish, or rebelling Woads led them beyond the wall. Gawain had a fair maid now, while Galahad still tried his best to find a lady. Bors was by far the busiest, mainly because he lived beyond the wall, in what could best be described as his own village.
Tristan had yet to let go of knighthood. While all the knights still served Arthur and Britain, they sought lives of their own. The scout returned to Sarmatia for awhile, and was gone for several months. It was a nice escape from Britain, but Tristan found life had gone on. His tribe had moved and Tristan found he had no family left.
So he returned to the wall, and adopted his ways. Regardless of the rumors or intelligence about peace, Tristan scouted the land around Hadrian's Wall every week. He was gone for two days each trip.
It was completely unnecessary; the Woads more than helped in protecting the land. Many of their skills rivaled Tristan's own in scouting. But it didn't stop him. The gossip around the Wall always pointed to Tristan's colorful history in Rome, when Bishop Germanius took him there against his will.
"He's not recovered from it," some would say. "They made him into a killer. A killer is always alone." Tristan ignored this like he always did—besides, he was a killer before Germanius took him. And frankly, with all the peace around the land, he wasn't killing much.
He sat atop his horse, gazing up at the sky. The clouds were moving quickly, heavy with snow. Tonight would be the first snowfall. He frowned, and turned in the saddle to the north. His hawk circled the sky for a moment until Tristan whistled. Then the hawk turned smoothly in the air and glided down to the scout's arm.
"Time to get home," he said to the bird. The hawk pecked once at Tristan's arm. He smiled lightly and nudged his horse along. He was half a day's ride from the Wall, and had four hours before darkness came. The storm would set in before then.
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The snow fell without restraint. It was very wet, and it wasn't long before Tristan was soaked. Looking up at the sky, he could see the drops falling too quickly.
"Rain and snow," he muttered. Lancelot always believed that to be a bad omen. Somehow, Tristan imagined that it might still bother the fallen knight, even as the snow and water collected on his grave.
The sky was light even without the sun, which had gone down a couple of hours ago. The moon above the clouds did well to make the whole sky glow. It was a gray, purple hue.
His horse whickered. He shook his mane, throwing excess water on Tristan. The scout smirked at the horse, but he didn't chide him. The snow was a good two inches deep already.
Ahead of him, an estate stood out, lit by a few lanterns. Tristan didn't need the light to know where he was. He was another half hour from the Wall, but his fingers were numb. He would stay the night here—unless his sanity was threatened.
"Seven! Come inside, right now!"
The roar was unmistakable. Tristan chuckled, and his horse snorted as well.
"Who's there!" Bors yelled. Tristan came around the walls of the estate grounds and turned on the front path.
"Eh," Tristan greeted. It wasn't your traditional hello, but it identified Tristan easily.
"Tristan!" That was Seven, actually, but suddenly there was excited bustling from the whole house.
"Who's here, Dad?"
"Tristan!"
"The scout!"
"Well, bring him in, now. He'll freeze out there, stupid scout!" That was Vanora, of course, and Tristan smiled at it. Bors and half the children met him outside the house, and Gilly took the horse to the stable.
"Can I take the hawk?" one of the kids asked, bouncing up and down. Tristan gave his hawk a slight raise with his arm, and the hawk slowly flew.
"If she wants you to," he replied simply. The hawk followed his horse. They would stay warm in the stable tonight.
Bors slapped him on the back, not caring that when he did so a spray of water hit him and the children. A few of the kids shrieked at the cold splash, but giggled and ran indoors.
"Come on in, Tristan," he said jovially. Tristan grunted and followed the children.
The fire in the hearth was going strong. The smell of bread met Tristan's senses and he swallowed. Vanora turned circles in the kitchen, quickly placing a bowl full of soup and a few slices of bread on the table.
"Here, Tristan, get some food—you're soaked!" she exclaimed. She pursed her lips together, and shot Bors a look of death.
"What?" Bors defended. "Of course he's soaked! It's coming down out there!" Vanora put her hands on her hips and gave Bors her best wife-ish glare.
"Then get him dry! I'll keep the food warm." She waved Tristan off. The scout smirked at the constant banter between the two. Marriage hadn't changed their bickering.
Bors pulled Tristan by the arm, and involuntarily the scout stiffened. He allowed himself to be pulled over to the fire but for some reason contact bothered him. Bors didn't notice though.
"What were you doing out so late, eh, Tristan?" the bald knight asked. Tristan shed his cloak and then his coat. His leather and metal-studded armor were damp as well, so he handed that to Bors next. Bors tossed the items by the fire. It wasn't straightened out and would never dry as Bors had it laid, but Tristan would fix it soon.
"Scouting," Tristan answered. Bors laughed.
"Good use of your time," he said. "Why didn't you stop for shelter?" Tristan looked up at him through his dripping braids and hair.
"Why do you think I'm here?"
Bors just laughed again and clapped Tristan on the back again. Tristan hid a scowl. He patted down his tunic, testing it, but it was relatively dry. His pants were wet—his cloak only covered him so well—but he'd have to live with it for now. He turned his eyes on his discarded clothes. He straightened out his armor, laying it flat by the fire. Bors looked on with disinterest. Tristan reached for his cloak but a smaller set of hands beat him to it.
"Hello, Tristan," came her familiar voice. Jaelynn eyed him curiously, and without hiding much excitement. She shook off the water from his cloak and hung it by the fire.
"Jaelynn," he said with a nod. He offered her a quick flash of a smile, the most he'd ever allow—especially her. She'd cooled off her obvious enthrallment with him since they survived the Saxons' capture, but part of that was natural since Bors had taken up this new residence away from the Wall and since Tristan was gone for several months.
"All right, come eat now," Vanora commanded from across the room. Bors shot an amused look between his wife and Jaelynn, and then steered Tristan back to the table.
Tristan rubbed his hands together. They tingled, and he could tell they were cold to the touch. He placed them around the bowl of soup and sighed contently.
"You're supposed to eat it," Bors said. "The slop's not half-bad." Vanora wasted no time swatting him.
"Jaelynn," Vanora started, "be a dear and get Tristan a blanket." The girl nodded and left, flickering a glance at Tristan. The scout looked from the corner of his eye. As soon as she left the kitchen, he started on his soup.
"How is she?" he asked between bites. Vanora sat and pulled Bors down by her. She let out the tired but content sigh of a housewife.
"She's a great help," she said. Bors nodded along.
"Vanora here can't live without her," he said. Vanora snorted.
"That's because you don't help at all." Bors had the decency to look offended. Tristan smiled and dipped a piece of bread in the soup. The food was good, warming his stomach and the rest of his body.
"She'll be sixteen tomorrow," Bors added. Tristan stopped eating mid-bite.
"Has it been that long?" he asked. She was only thirteen when he brought her to the Wall.
"She turned fourteen within a couple weeks of her arrival," Vanora explained. "Two years—it goes by fast."
Jaelynn reappeared then. Her brown hair looked a little neater now, or maybe Tristan just hadn't noticed it before. She offered a demure smile through her thin, pink lips, and stepped closer to Tristan. The scout tensed but did not move. Jaelynn unfolded the blanket from her arms and laid it over Tristan's shoulders. He felt her touch through the blanket, and it made him tense more. Despite his discomfort, he kept his face expressionless.
"Thank you," he mumbled. He took another spoonful of the soup while Vanora eyed the two. Tristan didn't miss her amused grin to Bors.
"Jaelynn, will you get a place ready for Tristan to sleep?" Vanora asked. Jaelynn nodded and turned away dutifully. Bors waited till she was gone before he spoke.
"She'll make you a good wife one day."
Tristan choked on his soup. It sent Bors into fits of laughter that shook the whole house. Vanora swatted at him repeatedly but it was harmless. Tristan could see her smile as well. The scout just grunted and finished his soup.
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He ended up sleeping by the fire. Vanora intended for some of the kids to double up in rooms for the night, but Tristan interfered. Vanora didn't press the issue, probably because Tristan spoke a full four sentences to get his point across, and that was always impressive.
The fire went out half-way through the night, and Tristan felt the difference immediately. His eyes opened partially for a second before he grabbed the furs and cloth blankets and pulled them closer around his body.
Sleep reclaimed him. Quickly, dreams came. Memories.
Of Rome. He could see himself sneaking over rooftops, a sharp dagger ready at his side. He'd sneak into an open window or an unsuspecting estate, slip into a room, and slice at a person's throat. He could see the dagger flash in candle light. Gasping—a wet gasp, spraying blood over the victim's throat, and then the gurgling as the blood drowned him.
Tristan grasped for his throat and sat upright. His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath. It didn't take long—he was a master of control over himself. But Tristan sat amongst the bedding and leaned his elbows over his knees. He pressed the palms of his hands over his eyes. When would it all stop?
He sighed and leaned back against the furs. He stared up at the ceiling, studying the workmanship even though he'd stared at it before on previous visits. After a few minutes, his heart was settled enough to shut his eyes. But sleep wouldn't return quickly.
He lay there and listened to the night. The wind blew through the trees outside and against the side of the home. He could hear the trees swaying and the wind sneaking in through the cracks. Something small and rodent-like scurried in the kitchen. Chills raked his body, either from the cold or the rodent, and Tristan grabbed the furs and covered himself.
The dreams weren't too uncommon. They came frequently, but varied each time. Tristan touched his right shoulder, his fingers finding his scar through his shirt. He didn't know if the dreams would ever stop. He wouldn't complain if they did, but he knew they'd always stay with him.
He figured he deserved it.
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He awoke to darkness again, but dawn wasn't far off. The house was still. Tristan rose and dressed quickly. He wanted to leave before anyone woke and made a fuss.
The cloak was dry, but the leather in his armor was still damp. He frowned and put it on anyway. He folded the furs and blankets and set them in a pile on the floor. It was his way of saying thanks, and Vanora knew him enough to appreciate that.
His horse was waiting for him, alert and nudging his saddle as if to berate Tristan for being late. His hawk was gone, probably off hunting already. The bird could eat enough for two grown men sometimes.
Tristan was about to leave the path from the house to the grander land when he heard the front door squeak. He pulled up on the reigns and turned in his saddle. In the predawn light, Jaelynn stood, watching him. She didn't wave, but just waited.
The scout stared back. He nodded and flashed her his lightening-quick smile.
"Happy birthday," he said, barely loud enough for her to hear. But with that, he turned ahead and hustled his horse to the Wall.
a/n: Please review! I really appreciated everyone's feedback--especially Hessa. I'm eager to continue on this story, but be patient as I may not be able to update more than once a week. I'll try to do more though! Thanks!