Shattered Ice

Title: Shattered Ice, part 11
Author & email: surreal_44 and pharaohs_kitty
Type (slash/het/gen): slash
Pairing: Tristan/Arthur
Rating: NC-17, rape, domination/submission darkfic
Summary: Arthur gives up hope, Tristan doesn't.
Archive: Feel free and if you can do better with this idea, help yourself.
DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own in any way, shape or form the characters, setting, original plot or anybody or anything else mentioned. I make no money off of this to pay my never-ending bills.
Beta credits: surreal_44 and my beloved.
Author's Note: This chapter is a bit on the short side as well, but once again you'll be happy to know the next chapter is mostly done!


-------------------------------------

Tristan gritted his teeth with the effort of cutting his way through the dead weight of rapidly bloating horse with nothing but his eating dagger. The small knife was the only weapon that he could move out of its sheath. His sword had fallen away in the first spill down the ravine and he'd seen it the day before. But that was also before the rest of the hillside had fallen down on top of him.

Grim resolution kept him working off and on throughout the night at freeing himself from the his dead mount. He'd said there was something to return to and he was going to go back. Tristan snarled and spit out the dirt that fell periodically across his face when he moved enough to dislodge another slide of the loose soil. Dagonet was waiting for him.

The morning had dawned bright after the storm and the sun was heating the soil around him, releasing the dampness from the night before. It grew muggier and the air was harder to breathe, seeming thicker as the sun rose higher. A little before mid-morning and another slide of dirt came down from above. Tristan glanced up to see the nose of a horse snorting above him. He stilled. It was probably someone from the fort. Few others than the Roman army had steeds in this area. But it might be some trader - they might be helpful or might take what was his and kill him. Or worse, some raider or Woad with a stolen horse might be scouting the area.

Tristan watched carefully, wishing dearly that he could hear properly, but his hearing was still the pulse of his heart thundering in his head. The nose of the horse shook back and forth as it clearly was objecting to moving further on. Finally, the rider wheeled around and Tristan caught but a glimpse of a leg and hair that streamed with the force of the turn. It had been the bright braids of Gawain.

Sucking in a deep breath, Tristan called out, "Here, Gawain, here!"

There was no answer. He'd waited too long. Or his voice was too weak. It was difficult to tell as he couldn't exactly gauge what he could not hear. Tristan cursed and set himself back to the task at hand. The gods apparently were capricious today, teasing him with life and the possibility of rescue. Perhaps they were testing him, checking to see if he wanted it enough.

Tristan wanted it. He'd been nearly ready to let go, to deliberately drop his guard in the next battle and become free of Arthur forever. But there was much to his life other than the shame and humiliation of submitting to Arthur's bed. Ginnade's sweet kisses, the pride of a student well-taught, the warmth of having Dagonet's friendship... even the infrequent moments that Arthur turned to him and asked him what he thought. Tristan stilled. He liked that.

Being of worth to Arthur other than as a body, it had become important to him. Tristan sighed. How cheap a whore he was that he could be bought by a few respectful words. He hacked at the horse viciously, almost angrier at himself now than he was at Arthur. Respect for him was something that vanished in Arthur every time the lust rose. In those moments he became a thing to be had, a possession to be used. He was nothing to Arthur then except something to be conquered.

And he wanted to go back to THAT.

Tristan sighed. He did. He wanted to go back. Back to when Percival had lived and Arthur had treated him as a friend and valuable ally.

Time, however, had taken that from him. It moved on and the fates took what you loved from you one way or the other until they took you. You learned to deal with the loss and accept what they gave you in return or your soul died. Perhaps they would give him something worth what they had taken from him so far. Perhaps there would be something given to him later.

Perhaps not.

Right now, Dagonet was waiting for him. Tristan got back to work.

-----------------------------

Arthur stood on the top of the Wall and looked to the southward forest. Somewhere out there was the Knight he'd driven away. Lancelot kept at him about sending out a search party, but ... what if... what if Tristan HAD deserted?

Could he bear it if by some chance they found him and dragged him back to be condemned? Could he stand by while they tortured his Knight? Could he watch while Tristan was strung up and hung to death? Stand there and watch Tristan's face turn blue and purple and his eyes and tongue bulge out? Or watch as they cut him open just short of death and pulled Tristan's entrails out?

His hands dragged his cloak tighter together to block out the light drizzle falling. No. Either Tristan returned on his own or he went free. Arthur would not be the one to condemn him to die.

It was hard enough knowing that he sent Tristan to his death every time he needed to know what the Woads were up to. It was hellish knowing that he dragged every reluctant Sarmatian after him whenever he had to confront the Woads. It was that much more painful knowing he took Tristan with him to face death on every battlefield. Arthur would not now compel him to return. He'd done enough to his Knight. If Tristan wanted to be free of this life, he could go.

Arthur closed his eyes and bowed his head. He would wait no more. Turning away, Arthur walked down the steps with resolve. He would grieve no longer. Tristan was gone.

Tonight he would drink to Tristan's memory and tomorrow... tomorrow he would go back to the miserable life he'd had before Tristan had given himself to Arthur. Tomorrow would begin a life without pleasure, without joy, without Tristan.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

The trail for Tristan had gone cold after going past the worst damaged section of trail. Between the falls of rock and dirt it was too dangerous to ride back that way, but Gawain knew that he had to keep an eye out. Either Tristan had also had to move off the trail because of how dangerous it was, or else…

Maybe Tristan was under the trail where it had collapsed.

No. Gawain would not return to the fort without Tristan. He believed that firmly. He would find Tristan this morning. He'd had to give up last night when the night fell, but today was a new start. He would find Tristan today.

There were places where he could move around the fallen trees and boulders. Some of that ground was still too freshly disturbed to traverse, but he could maneuveur around it. Except the area where the trail had fallen away entirely. Even his horse had refused to go farther along what was left of the path there. He'd been tossing his head and stamping in agitation just as he did after battle and the smell of death and blood was in his nose making him senseless. Gawain suddenly came alive with hope!

JUST as he did after battle. Please, gods above and below, let it not have been the blood of his brother Knight Tristan. Gawain vaulted into his saddle and kicked his horse into a gallop. Where the trail had mostly fallen into the ravine just after that glade... that was where he needed to go.

Gawain rode into the small clearing and spotted Tristan’s body immediately. The scout was slumped over a broken stump, as if he’d been resting there and had fallen over. One arm pillowed Tristan’s head while the other arm covered his eyes, as if Tristan could not bear to look at his situation.

“Tristan?” Gawain asked quietly, carefully approaching the scout.

Tristan didn’t appear to be armed but that didn’t mean the scout couldn’t inflict damage on him if he was startled badly enough. When Gawain received no response he knelt beside Tristan and felt for a pulse. The slow throb against his fingertips made Gawain sigh in relief. He looked the unconscious man over and realized with a sinking heart that Tristan’s leg was twisted oddly. Broken.

At least it was the lower leg and would be easier to set.

Tristan’s shirt was torn open at the shoulder where a deep gash oozed droplets of blood and his entire body was caked with dried blood and dirt. There were dozens of smaller injuries that Gawain could see simply by looking at the scout and he hadn’t even moved Tristan yet.

Gawain stepped away - no need to wake Tristan yet since there didn't seem to be anything bleeding still. All the wounds looked clotted already even if unfortunately caked with dirt. He could only hope the wounds weren't too deep and the dirt in too far to clean out. He tethered his horse and set about making camp. He needed fresh water and something to set the leg with. Where
was Tristan's horse? his gear?

Water first. There was a ravine just off the side of the clearing where a small stream wound lazily through. It should provide enough water. Gawain readied a shelter and gathered up firewood, then took the extra water bladders he'd brought. Dagonet had trained him to tend the wounds of the other Knights as he did himself. So very often the Roman medicus left the injured Sarmatians until last that no few of them had died simply because of neglect. Gawain's saddle bags were always prepared to provide the care needed.

Gawain hurried to the ravine and saw where Tristan had dragged himself up and out. A trail was clearly marked in the dirt on the way to the bottom. Flies buzzed about the dead horse's eyes and settled on chunks of raw horseflesh strewn about. Good. Some of the blood caking Tristan's clothing wasn't his but the horse's.

Gawain scrambled down the ragged hillside. It looked as if half of it had fallen to the bottom of the ravine. The stream disappeared into the loose pile of dirt, but upstream there was a wider pool where he could get his water bags filled. His foot hit something with a dull metallic clank beneath the dirt. Bending down, Gawain pulled up Tristan's sword and scabbard. He clutched it in and said a grateful thank you under his breath. It would be useful.

Hurriedly, Gawain filled the bags, gathered what he could of Tristan's gear and scrambled back up the hill by grabbing at the exposed roots hanging out. After considering the situation, he decided to move Tristan to the bedding first, then start the fire before starting to care for Tristan. It was possible that Tristan was feverish already and once he started removing clothing, Tristan would be cold.

Gawain dumped the gear and approached Tristan with his heart pounding. There was no way to move the man without causing him great pain. Gawain knelt next to him and pushed Tristan's arm off his head gently before asking hoarsely, "Tristan? Tristan? Can you hear me?"

There was no response at all so Gawain put his hand to Tristan's braids and shook the scout's head. "Tristan! Tristan! Wake up!"

A low moan answered and Tristan's eyes fluttered open but they were glazed and unfocused. "Why are you waking me up, Gaheris? Where's Percival? It's his job."

Gawain's blue eyes widened in shock. Tristan thought him Gaheris? He looked little like his older brother had or so he'd thought. Gaheris was... or had been a bright flaming bear of a man. His brother's hair had caught up the bright yellow of the sun whereas his own was the duller colour of dappled sunlight in the forest.

"Tristan? I have to move you. It's going to hurt."

"You're always hurting me, Gaheris. Seem to like it. Why do you always volunteer when an arrow is stuck in me or something needs to be sewn up? Like to hear me scream don't you?"

"No. I don't. I mean, he didn't. My brother is..."

"Brother. Your brother almost found me. Boy is a good tracker, Gaheris. A good tracker an' a strong sword..." Tristan's eyes rolled and he passed out.
Gawain cursed, but philosophically shrugged after a few minutes thought. It was probable that Tristan had fallen completely unconscious and therefore wouldn't feel it when Gawain moved him. The fates were being kind in their half-assed fashion. He set to hauling Tristan's limp body over to the bed he'd made. The scout was lighter than he'd thought.

"You need to eat more, Tristan. You're too thin."

Gawain dumped Tristan somewhat ungently onto the bed he'd made, then pinched Tristan's cheek. There wasn't even a flinch. Gawain looked to the sky, hoping desperately that it was a temporary thing and not the deep sleep some never woke from after an injury.

The break in the leg seemed clean enough to Gawain. It looked like he’d be able to set the leg with little problem, but his heart still raced and his hands shook a little. He’d never had to set a broken bone alone before and he was terrified of doing it wrong. The youth went over all the supplies one more time before he began to work, to be certain that he hadn’t forgotten anything, as Dagonet had sternly reminded him many times before.

Tristan’s scabbard would do for a splint and the reins from the dead horse would work as bindings. He needed to lance and drain the deep gash to Tristan’s shoulder. There were plenty of smaller cuts on Tristan but there were simply not enough supplies to cover all them.

Gawain moved to the scout’s injured leg, preparing to set it when he remembered that Tristan could very well bite through his tongue while the bone was being shifted. The last thing Gawain wanted was to set Tristan’s leg only to have his fellow Knight bleed to death a short while later.

Gawain hunted on the forest floor for a strip of bark that would be thick enough to protect Tristan. After finding a decent-sized piece Gawain knelt beside Tristan and wedged the bark between Tristan’s teeth. The scout remained motionless, eyelids sealed tightly against the quickly fading light of the sun. He would have to set the leg now, before the sun set any further - before Tristan awoke.

Sending a quick prayer up to whatever gods were listening, Gawain manipulated the ends of the broken bones until they finally met back up. Tristan never twitched, not even when Gawain fumbled and the leg slipped from his grasp. Once Gawain had splinted the leg he reached a trembling hand over to feel for a pulse, not even certain now that Tristan was still alive. There it was, weak but there.

Bowing his head for a moment to thank the gods and to catch his breath, Gawain sent up a heartfelt thanks once again that he'd been permitted to find Tristan. Then he began to work in the near darkness on cleansing the badly cut shoulder. Tristan sighed and murmured as Gawain wiped the blood and dirt away. Golden eyes opened and looked up at the younger man.

“Gaheris. Your brother almost found me. He’s a good tracker.” Tristan mumbled, his eyes already drifting closed. “Where’s Percival an’ Isolde?”

Gawain carefully smeared some of the salve they used for cuts on Tristan’s shoulder. Tristan wrinkled his nose and turned his head away. “Not now, Arthur. Go away.”

Sickened, Gawain looked down at the salve and a wave of revulsion heaved through him. He knew what other purpose some put this to. Gawain threw the salve into the woods and wiped it off of Tristan’s skin. It was true. Arthur had...

“I’m sorry, so sorry.” Gawain murmured to try to comfort Tristan. The scout did not respond, and instead seemed to sink into sleep a little more deeply and did not move again until after the moon had risen.

---------------------------------------------------------------

Dagonet turned to Lancelot and said, "As I told you, he's worse."

Lancelot nodded dumbly as he watched Arthur down mug after mug of ale. Ale... when normally Arthur would touch nothing but the wine. He acted too as if Tristan had died, telling any Knight within reach about Tristan's accomplishments and remembering the various stories. Many were looking at him with concern - Sarmatians, Romans, Britons... wandering tinkers and traders, monks and bards. This was a disaster. The word would go out that Arthur had gone mad and the rebels, those iniquitous Woads, would see the opportunity to lay waste to an entire Roman fortress and territory. They were all dead.

He had to get Arthur out of here.

"Dagonet, go start a fight."

"What?"

"Pick. A. Fight." Lancelot growled, "I care not who with, but make it loud and speedy. I need to drag Arthur away and I would prefer no one notice that I am doing so."

Dagonet looked at him with eyes that suddenly narrowed with glee and laughter. "Am I going to get punished for it tomorrow?"

"I'll see to it that everyone thinks you have been. I'll get Arthur to assign you to the stables for the next fortnight."

Dagonet nodded. The Romans were stupid enough to believe that a punishment. No Sarmatian would though, but they'd keep their mouths closed. Two weeks in the company of their fallen brother warriors would be no hardship. Indeed the opposite would be true. He could look them over thoroughly before the winter came. He'd have had to do that soon anyway. The nights were lengthening and the fog was thinning daily. Soon it would give way to the heavy rains and then the snow. He'd just inspect them early this year.

Slapping a fist into one hand, Dagonet waded into the knot of onlookers and shoved one against a wall. When the hapless man protested, Dagonet snarled an insult and shoved him more. Soon the irate trader was fists flying and Dagonet ducked, moving entirely too swiftly for such a large man. The thrown punch landed in the gut of a fat monk who went down and took an entire table with him. It took but moments for the fight to spread further and faster and louder until crockery was smashing and voices were shouting and screaming.

Lancelot snuck up on Arthur and grabbed his commander by the arm, tugging him up out of the table he'd been sitting at. Arthur obstinately tried to sit back down but Lancelot hissed at him, "Hurry, Arthur, you have to come. I need your help."

Arthur protested faintly, but the insinuation that Lancelot needed his commander to deal with some problem set off every duty bound fiber of his being. Obediently, he lurched to his feet and let Lancelot guide him out of the tavern area. He was to return to his duty-bound life, his dry tasteless responsibility laden life, tomorrow anyway. What was the point of running from it? He might as well begin suffering this moment.

Holding up the frame of the heavier and larger man while guiding him through the back ways, the dark ways, was proving difficult. Lancelot grunted every time Arthur leaned on him too hard and knocked the breath out of him. Well, at least Arthur wasn't puking on him.

He realized abruptly that they had a long way to go yet before they reached Arthur's room.

---------------------------------------------------

Gawain was adding logs to the fire when Tristan stirred once more in his sleep. “Isolde.” Tristan spoke the name reverently, and Gawain lowered his head. He didn’t want to listen to Tristan; somehow it seemed like he was invading Tristan’s privacy. “Percival?”

The name of the fallen Knight caused Gawain to lift his head up. Tristan was looking at him. No, not at him. Through him. The scout seemed unaware that Gawain was there. Frightened, Gawain moved over and knelt beside Tristan.

“Tristan, my friend. Percival isn’t here.”

Tristan’s eyes tracked to Gawain, a small frown on his face. “Gaheris? Percival found you in the life beyond then? He waited too long to speak. I'm glad he found you. He loved you so much... so much." Tristan's eyes began to drift closed. "All here then. I am ready... if it is time.”

Gawain felt his heart drop. No. Gods, NO!

“Tristan? Listen to me. Please. You need to stay with me.” The scout’s face was flushed and Gawain moistened a cloth with some cool water and brushed it gently across Tristan’s brow.

“It’s Gawain. Please stay with me.”

The next few hours turned into a nightmarish blur with Gawain repeating his litany over and over again while Tristan mumbled to the ghosts of his past. His family, Percival, Gaheris. Isolde. The way Tristan spoke her name caused Gawain’s heart to twist, especially after one horrible dream where Tristan howled her name and spoke of her death.

Finally Tristan fell silent. His fever slowly began to drop and he rested quietly. Gawain sat beside the lone scout who had given so much of himself to protect others and watched him sleep. The youth had learned so much about Tristan this night... he gently reached over and brushed away a few strands of dark hair from Tristan’s face. Had he done the right thing, saving him? Should he have released Tristan from this life?

No. Gawain listened to Tristan’s deep breathing and nodded to himself. Tristan had the right to do as he wished with his life. When Gawain had found him slumped against the stump of the tree it was obvious that the Iazyge had dug himself out, hauled himself up the sliding hillside. Tristan wanted to live.

So Gawain waited and watched over Tristan until the scout found the strength he needed to wake and face the world again.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Arthur's head spun. What was he doing here in the hall with Lancelot? The door to his room opened quickly as if it had been kicked violently and Lancelot pushed, pulled him over the threshold. It slammed shut just as suddenly and the inevitable violent sound split Arthur's head. He moaned in distress.

"Arthur? Are you going to be ill?"

The close-cropped black locks dangled limply and Arthur's face was grey. Surely he was nauseous too. Lancelot looked desperately around for the night bucket. As a commander, Arthur wouldn't have to stumble out to the jakes every time he wanted a piss in the night. It had to be here somewhere, but Lancelot had never spent the night in this room like Tristan had and had no idea where it was kept. On the way to the bed, guiding a weakened and stumbling Arthur, Lancelot kept up the search. It would be much easier on both of them if Arthur had SOMETHING to puke into.

Gently, he let Arthur slip through his hands onto the bed and swiftly he unlaced Arthur's boots and dropped them onto the floor. He was about to start searching for the errant bucket when Arthur hoarsely asked, "Lancelot, help me get this cursed tunic off."

A bead of sweat rolled down Arthur's temple and if Lancelot was any judge of it at all, Arthur was about moments away from letting fly the contents of his stomach. He sighed. No doubt it would end in his lap. Turn about was the way of the world.

Lancelot leaned down by Arthur and unlaced the bindings until the leather over-tunic came free. He cast it into the nearest chair and began to back away from the bed. Now he could...

Arthur's hand on the back of his left thigh brought him to a stop. Arthur was looking up at him through his eyelashes and half-closed lids. He looked very nearly asleep except for the sliver of olive-green that so clearly was possessed by some impish demon. Lancelot stopped and watched the fascinating view as Arthur slid his other hand up to Lancelot's waist and traced a trail down over Lancelot's right hip until his fingers curved around it to seize Lancelot's arse to pull him back to the bed.

The tug forward toppled Lancelot and he fell abruptly onto Arthur's chest. There a pair of firm lips captured his own supple mouth and a tongue hotly invaded between his teeth. No fool he and he opened to Arthur's demands immediately. He wanted this so much!

Lancelot squirmed in Arthur's grasp as hands kneaded at his buttocks, pulling him down crotch to crotch with Arthur. Hard cock met hard cock and the pressure of it, the heat of the cloth rubbing against him, the feel of his skin moving drove Lancelot to a frenzy quickly. He moaned into Arthur's mouth, inadvertently opening himself to deeper tonguing. Arthur firmly battled Lancelot's own tongue out of the way and stroked the top of Lancelot's mouth until all thought was driven out. All that was left was the need to come, the need to surrender to Arthur's direction.

For a drunk man who'd been unable to wriggle out of his own gear minutes ago, Arthur proved surprisingly nimble about stripping Lancelot. Between relentlessly acquiring the imminent nudity of Lancelot, what little Arthur had left on also fell beside the bed. When they were both fully naked and rolling together in a frenzy of hands pawing and exploring, stroking and seeking into and out of, Arthur gruffly demanded Lancelot turn beneath him.

"Arthur, are you certain you ....?"

"Lancelot, do not argue with me. Not now."

Obediently, Lancelot turned until Arthur had him pinned face down on the bed. A hot mouth sucked at his neck and hands spread his legs wide. Fingers stroked the cleft of his ass downwards... down and down until they passed over the tight sacs of his balls to cup them. He felt the fingers caressing him slither past his cock, the brief touch exciting him and hardening him. His breath came faster and faster as Arthur fondled him into a tumultuous whirl of excitement.

Arthur pulled Lancelot closer to him and slid his own cock between Lancelot's legs.

"Close your knees. Tight now. And press your legs together."

Lancelot had no trouble obeying instantly. Arthur's cock pumped back and forth between his legs, the length of it stroking Lancelot's balls, the head of it weeping onto Lancelot's own shaft. Fingers deftly stimulated the entrance to his ass, pressure softly applied with the rough pads of a swordsman's hands.

Soon...soon. Arthur would take him soon. His bones melted at the very thought of it. To be completely Arthur's, to surrender himself...

A mouth caught at his ear and a tongue wriggled there like an eel. Then Arthur cursed and pushed Lancelot away. A litany of damnation followed; a heaping helping of wished for punishments were enumerated one by one. Lancelot gaped as Arthur let vitriol pour from his mouth... and all of it was aimed at Tristan.

The last words died away and then the tears came.

"He's gone, Lancelot, he's gone."

Arthur rolled so that he looked not on the body beside him and collapsed; sobbing until he could barely breathe for all the burning tears on his face - the mucous in his mouth and nose. He felt Lancelot move to hold him close and the warmth comforted him, but he could not stop the despair.

Tristan was gone.

-------------------

TBC...

Surreal and PeeK