Shattered Ice

Read at your own risk
There are no happy endings here.

Title: Shattered Ice, part 3
Author & email: pharaohs_kitty and surreal
Type (slash/het/gen): slash
Pairing: Tristan/Arthur
Rating: NC-17, rape, domination/submission darkfic
Summary: Arthur takes advantage of Tristan's grief
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

Shattered Ice Part 3


Arthur stared at the ceiling the next morning, waiting for the sleeping man beside him to wake. In his sleep, Tristan had pulled as far away from Arthur as he could on the small bed, lying with his arms crossed over his chest, protecting himself. Tristan slept heavily, sometimes muttering words of protest in his sleep. Arthur's gut roiled guiltily. He knew what Tristan was fighting in his sleep. Shifting on the bed slightly, Arthur leaned over and whispered in Tristan's ear.

"Tristan. Wake up."

Arthur's mellow voice flowed through the rivers of memory in Tristan's dreams. For a moment Tristan thinks Arthur is waking them, Percival and himself, to scout for a mission. Tristan's eyes flutter and then open, but he's still lethargic from the sleep and groans as the pain inside him bellows a broad scream of reality. Percival is gone. Isolde is gone. Tristan is alone in a far country with a man who relishes the pain he causes, who revels in Tristan's shamed protests.

It is all too much for the weary Knight. Tristan draws back from the closeness of Arthur's naked body next to him. He rolls over, his back to Arthur, and curls into a fetal ball: pulling his knees up as far as he can, hugging one arm over his belly to stop the pain with pressure and the other around his knees. The loss of Percival from his dreams is the final grief that looses his sorrow. Great silent sobs wrack his thin body. Cold tears slide out from tightly closed eyelids.

For the first time, Arthur sees him without the taint of lust: wincing at the changes in Tristan's body. Arthur frowns at the variety of bruises Tristan has collected in the last month. The healing tender red stripes of the viper's bite lay across the fading green yellow skin from the whipping which was to be expected. Black fingerprints where Arthur had dug into Tristan's arms, shoulders to hold him were plentiful and Arthur winced as he looked at them. What made him delight so in restraining Tristan's body? Softly he cupped the curve of Tristan's hips where the imprints of his hands lay.

In the last month since Percival's death though, since Arthur had whipped him, Tristan has acquired a number of other strange bruises. Arthur hesitates as he tenderly examines them. Where did these bruises on Tristan's stomach and chest originate? How had he repeatedly bruised his shins?

Arthur traces over Tristan's back and slides the tips of fingers over ribs that didn't show a month ago. Tristan's face is gaunt, the skin pulled so tightly over the pronounced cheekbones that it seemed nearly translucent. The hollows under his eyes are smudged black from the lack of sleep. Arthur lets his hand drop away as Tristan shudders at his touch.

Tristan is trying to swallow back his weeping, but the grief cannot be denied. Finally he lets it loose and wails Percival's name over and over. Arthur shudders with self-hate as he is reminded of Tristan's great loss. He'd been so absorbed in conquering Tristan that he'd nearly completely submerged the memory of Tristan with Percival. His own sorrow over losing Percival rises and he curls himself around and over Tristan. Arthur has yet another sin to atone for.

Pressing light kisses to Tristan's cheekbones, then across the thin shoulder, Arthur tries to comfort Tristan. He strokes as much of Tristan's skin as he can reach as the mourning Knight cries. Eventually the sobs subside and Tristan lays limply in Arthur's embrace.

This lament has been held back for so long that it completely wore Tristan out. His eyes have fluttered back into the semi-sleep of the truly exhausted who have pushed themselves beyond their physical limits. Arthur pulls the blankets around their naked bodies. He gently kisses Tristan's temple, brushes his hand over the still damp lashes and forces Tristan's eyes closed the rest of the way. "Go back to sleep" he softly orders his Knight. Too tired to argue, Tristan obeys and slides into the depths of memory in Arthur's arms. In his dreams, he can remember what joy was.

Once he is certain that Tristan is again sleeping, Arthur reluctantly pulls away to dress and go about the business of the day. When Jols enters, the servant's eyes get wide but he says nothing as Arthur directs him to watch over the sleeping Tristan, to have the Knight cared for when he wakes, and to tell Tristan that he is forbidden to leave until Arthur returns. Jols says nothing as Arthur presses a kiss to Tristan's face and strides out of the room. He says nothing as he notes the wretched condition of Tristan's body and the tracks of tears upon the sleeping man's face. Jols kept all of Arthur's secrets, old and new.

It is an hour after the sun had reached the highest point in the sky, when Jols finally hears some movement from the figure in the bed. Tristan stirs, opens his eyes and blinks at the man polishing Arthur’s armour. A small frown curls the edges of Tristan’s mouth as he takes in his surroundings. “Why am I --?” he starts to say, then hesitates before starting over again. “What are you doing here?”

“Arthur asked me to see to you when you woke.” Jols explains. He pauses for a moment, not looking forward to telling Tristan the next bit of news. The strange mix of emotions on the Knight’s face isn’t encouraging. “He has also forbidden you from leaving this room until he returns.” Jols swallowed his nerves as Tristan’s eyes darkened dangerously. He wonders how Arthur expects him to restrain the Knight if he should go against his orders.

“Piss on Arthur.” Tristan growls. “I’m not staying here so he can – where are my clothes?” he demands angrily as he tries to sit up. The room spun, darkness swept down on him as the pain in his body came roaring up at him. The next few minutes pass in a blurry haze as he struggles to overcome the horrible burning twisting pain in his stomach and ass, old injuries that had slowly been healing were torn back open from Arthur’s rough treatment.

When his vision finally clears, Jols is standing next to the bed, a worried expression on his face, with a mug in his hands. Gasping for breath, Tristan eyes the mug warily. “What is it?” he rasps out. The squire eases Tristan to a sitting position, helping him lean against the headboard so he could drink more easily.

"It is just broth, to warm and strengthen you. I’ll order some water so you can bathe,” Jols offers quietly. “And since I sent your clothes out to be cleaned, I’ll get you some of Arthur’s old clothes until yours have been re-“ he stops as a horrified expression comes over Tristan’s face. “Is something wrong?” he asks in concern.

Tristan shudders, a little of the warm liquid spilling over the edge of the cup and onto his hand. The idea of Arthur’s clothes on him, wrapping him up and surrounding him in Arthur turns his stomach and makes his flesh crawl. “Please…I can’t – I don’t want Arthur’s clothes.” He whispers without looking up at the other man. He doesn’t want Jols to see, to know how shameful his existence has become. “I just want to leave.”

Jols nibbles on his lower lip for a moment, debating on what he should say. Arthur would be furious if Tristan left, and he had been left in charge of Tristan’s care. That meant protecting him, including from Arthur’s wrath. “If you stay here you can rest for a while.” He begins carefully. He has to choose his words delicately or he could upset Tristan further. “Arthur will be busy at least until early evening and no one else will dare bother you in here.”

Tristan looks up at Jols. “You know, don’t you? You know everything that’s been happening.” Jols is surprised that Tristan doesn’t sound more angry or accusing. “You sent the page to tell Lancelot that his horse had been bitten,” the Knight says with some astonishment that anyone would HELP him.

“I don’t know anything.” Jols denied, even as his eyes belied the statement. Tristan looks at him carefully before taking another sip of broth. “I can send someone for your gear. Is it in your room?”

Tristan shakes his head, slowly becoming resigned to the fact that he had to stay put. “It’s somewhere else. I don’t have a door anymore.” He falls silent, reluctant to tell Jols where his equipment is. He doesn’t want to trust Jols, lackey of Arthur’s that he is, yet he’s so weary of fighting against everyone.

He shuts his eyes tiredly as he finishes the bit of broth that isn't enough to silence his hunger, listening as the door is opened and Jols speaks to someone standing outside. He doesn’t want to stay here in this room of torment. He HURT everywhere, a deep throbbing pain in the core of his body that beat in time with his pulse. He could barely sit up, let alone walk. What would Lancelot do to him if he knew? He would be safer in here, at least for a little while.

“Sir?” Jols is standing by the bed again, and Tristan opens his eyes. “Do you want me to send for your equipment?” Tristan sighs. His equipment would probably be safer here too. “Yes. It’s in Ginnade’s hut.”

Two hours later finds Tristan sitting carefully in a chair at the table, dressed in a pair of well-worn brown breeches that were too big and a gray tunic. Dark brown hair curled in damp unbraided tendrils around his neck.

When the water had come Tristan’s hands had trembled so badly that Jols finally took the cloth and helped him wash away the blood and sweat that stuck to his body. The squire kept his touches light and to a minimum, noting how even the slightest contact of skin made Tristan flinch.

Now Tristan is working his way through his second bowl of stew and the other half of a loaf of bread. The Knight is so absorbed in his food that he doesn’t appear to hear the door open, but Jols does and he looks up to see Lancelot glaring into the room. Lancelot's gaze narrows in fury as he sees Tristan’s gear, some of it new looking (Jols having taken the liberty of replacing things damaged beyond repair for the Knight in his care), neatly arranged and leaning against the wall.

He looks about ready to say something when Jols frowns at him and shakes his head. Lancelot scowls and moves to step into the room until Jols strides forward and shoves him out. “Arthur isn’t here. Go look for him somewhere else.” Jols says firmly. Lancelot presses his lips together and storms off.

Jols comes back into the room and Tristan looks over his shoulder. “It wasn’t anyone important.” Jols explains to Tristan. He grins as he notices that the bowl is empty. “I’ll send someone for more food.” A shy near-smile crosses Tristan’s lips as he ducks his head back down to work on the last few bites of bread.

Despite his jealous fury, Lancelot needed Arthur's decision on whether the young Knight Edrovar might join the regular patrols again. He'd been mauled in a fight several weeks earlier and while there was no visible injury, the boy had injured his leg inside and it had swelled into agony. Now, the boy was eager to get out of the fort. He'd been cooped up for so long that the lad was bouncing with energy. He needed Arthur to give permission before he sent the boy out for everyone's sanity. If Lancelot chose to do so without Arthur's blessing, and the boy got hurt... Lancelot shuddered. HE didn't want to be the next recipient of the viper's bite.

Lancelot searched everywhere for the missing Arthur. He'd been appalled to find Tristan in Arthur's quarters seated at a table and wolfing down food in front of Jols. Lancelot muttered as it dawned on him that Arthur was in the chapel ...again. It was the only place left to look. The man spent more time praying than any priest.

"God forgive me my sins...help me God, help me stop. I want Tristan, I need him. Please God, have mercy upon me, forgive me and give me the strength to resist..."

Lancelot snarled as Arthur's voice lanced through his heart. Inside the tiny chapel, he could see Arthur on his knees supplicating God. Lancelot longed to be able to walk up to Arthur and touch the back of his neck, bend his face down to receive a heated kiss. He wanted what that dirty scruffy Iazyge had. Lancelot turned on his heel and stalked away... entirely missing what Arthur said next.

"Give me the strength to resist temptation. Grant me the will to turn from this need to take from him. Grant me the power to pull back before I hurt him again. Let me turn from this path. Help me to turn from this evil... I would do this no more, God...please...I ask you to give me the strength to leave this Knight be for the rest of his days... I have done such evil, Lord, that I can never be clean. Forgive me these sins...Never again... Lord, I beseech thee ...help me, help me!"

Arthur buried his head into his hands and rocked back and forth on his knees. He wanted Tristan. He wanted to pin him down and TAKE and take and take....It only made him want it more that Tristan resisted, hated it, fled it. Never again. He would never again do this.

Arthur returned to his quarters with peace in his heart. He could do this with God's help. He could look upon Tristan and see only his scout. He could keep from burying himself into Tristan's denials, he could keep himself back from trying to force Tristan's rejections into submission. He could walk away ...with God's help.... he could walk away and go to the chapel and find peace.

When Arthur entered his room, he stopped for a moment to survey the damage. Jols was busy gathering plates together off the table. For some reason, Tristan's gear was spread across one wall of his room. Tristan himself was lying on the bed, meticulously fletching feathers to the shafts of new arrows. Arthur gaped at the sight of the lean archer's fingers softly parting a feather with a sharp dagger and binding it with his long fingers to the shaft. For a moment Arthur was lost in the contemplation of having those elegant hands wound around his cock. It was with great effort that he regained his sense of peace.

Jols finished and made to leave the room, only turning back long enough to tell the tense archer, "I'll have one of the carpenters have a look at your door then. We'll see if a new door can't be hung by nightfall so you can return to your own room."

Arthur's voice ground implacably, "Fix the door, whatever is wrong with it, but Tristan stays here. I want him... " Arthur's voice trailed off as he contemplated how he WANTED. "He stays here until I think he's well. Then he can return to his own rooms."

Jols dropped his eyes as he turned away. Arthur knew what he was thinking, and was shamed by it, but still decisive over this point. Tristan would stay here until the bruises healed, until the ribs were hidden under a layer of fit muscle, until Tristan's eyes were no longer black, until Arthur could look at him and let him go.

"Jols... I thank you for caring so well for my Knight."

When the door shut and Jols' disapproving face had gone, Arthur briskly walked to the bed and knelt beside it so that he wouldn't be towering over Tristan. "I know you won't believe me, but I intend to prove it to you. Tristan, this will NEVER happen again. I will NOT touch you again in this way."

Tristan's dagger snipped a bit of waxed thread from the roll. He looked into Arthur's pleading face and thought about the hunger in Arthur when he'd brutally held him down and pushed into him. Of course, Arthur could just stop. Arthur could just stop breathing any time he wished as well. He could stop being Arthur and become a monk. He said nothing, but a deep snort of air escaped him in a wave of sarcasm.

Arthur bowed his head and reached inside for the peace he'd achieved this day. I will not. I will NOT. I will not...please Lord...help me...

Getting off his knees, Arthur went to his desk and sat down. There were plenty of chores to occupy his mind. Dragging the quarterly supply list over, he began reviewing it with care. A fortress had much in the way of needs and he would submerge his own needs in them.

"Arthur, there's only one bed in here."

"...and until you leave, until I let you go, it will be yours alone. I will sleep on the floor."

Arthur looked at Tristan on the bed. There was the place he must never travel to again. He would remain Arthur and not some ravening beast. Tristan looked back at him with empty eyes. What thoughts lay in there? He had forfeited all right to the respect of his Knight, let alone the love with which Tristan and Percival had once carried out his orders. Why did Tristan still carry out his orders? Why did he keep returning when he knew the monster that waited in this fortress for him?

Tristan rolled off the bed gingerly and stood. "I'm going to go see to my horse. I will return."

Arthur nodded. At least Tristan wasn't going to argue the matter. After Tristan had left the room, Arthur found himself walking to the bed and touching the heat where Tristan had lain. His eyes drifted down the mattress and riveted to the splatters of blood there. He'd HURT Tristan. He'd liked it. He wanted to do it, hungered to repeat the rape. With a trembling finger, Arthur traced over the evidence of his madness. Never again.


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TBC....
PeeK and Surreal