Shattered Ice

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

Title: Shattered Ice, part 4
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 4


It was a new world for Tristan, a lonely world devoid of affection. Isolde was gone. Percival was gone. Tristan was alone in the world without even the odd tenderness Arthur displayed after raping him or groping him. No one else besides Jols was allowed in the room when Arthur wasn't there. When Arthur was there and various Knights entered to give reports or to gain their orders, only Gawain made the effort to speak with him directly. Tristan was mystified by the boy's curiosity.

The first week of his confinement was tense, nerve-wracking as Tristan waited for Arthur's word to fail. Arthur's gaze was often focused on him, watching him eat and sit on the bed. Tristan waited for Arthur to move to him, to speak, to TOUCH. But Arthur always tore his eyes away, prayed and returned to his duty.

Increasingly, Arthur went to and fro from his room with astonishing frequency. It also seemed that Arthur required more time to pray as each new day came. He prayed in his quarters, in the chapel, in the stable, out in the field. Jols reported to Tristan the increasing unease of the other Knights with all this devotion to God.

Tristan started to wake to Arthur's green gaze looking down upon him in the mornings after that first week. Tristan's cautious flat empty stare met eyes that howled pain and hunger, eyes that held back a famished beast, eyes that belonged to a man torn between the two sides of his being. Tristan hated the voracious devil in Arthur even as he still longed for the man he'd once known - the man who'd cared for their lives as their own fathers would. He yearned for the return of the man he had idolized, who set out to make all of their lives better, happier. It became a daily moment of harrowing waiting as Arthur fought himself. Day after day Arthur turned away to pray and Tristan's heart returned to the normal pace of living.

Tristan had been careful to change and wash when Arthur was gone, but there came the day that Arthur walked in while Tristan had on but breeches and was rinsing himself with a cloth. Tristan resisted the urge to drop his head as Arthur stalked forward and WATCHED. Arthur's voice had been hoarse as he ordered, "Finish." Tristan focused his eyes on the floor and finished washing, quivering with the weight of Arthur's inspection, expecting rough hands to grab onto him, to slither down beneath the edge of his breeches.

When Tristan roughly dragged his clean blouse and tunic on, Arthur managed to turn away and went to his knees praying. It seemed that Arthur would be able to keep his word with the help of his religious faith. Tristan's world suddenly seemed less binding. He did not have to fear Arthur's hungers now, or fear that someday he would turn and cut Arthur's throat for the betrayal. He was free again. Or would be as soon as Arthur let him OUT.

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Four weeks later Tristan was still trapped in the room with nothing to do. He had fletched so many arrows that the other Knights had gruffly thanked him for replenishing their own supplies as they left Arthur's presence, even those that hated him. The puppy Galahad had been particularly grateful and made noises about Tristan talking to Gawain which Tristan had answered with a cold stare. Why would he do that?

Every piece of leather he owned was well oiled and every piece of steel either shone or had such an edge that it could cut through flesh without more than a twist of the hand. He'd mended not only his own clothes, but all of Arthur's as well since ..well, he was there, the clothes needed mending and though the first one had made his skin try to remove itself from his bones... it WAS only clothing, and he was bored.

Jols entered Arthur's quarters with an armful of new bedding and paused in the doorway to stare at the odd scene unfolding before him. Tristan's lanky frame was stretched out on Arthur's bed holding an arrow in his slender hands, with about twenty arrows lying beside him. A look of fierce concentration creased Tristan's face as he took careful aim and threw the arrow at the ceiling.

“Tristan?’ he asked. Tristan sat up as Jols shut the door behind him. The sound of rattling wood made him look up in time to see a dozen or so arrows shake and tumble down from the ceiling where they’d been stuck in the plaster. Tristan gave him a rare smile before gathering up his arrows and walking toward the window to look outside up to the sky.

Four days later Jols entered the room, this time with a tray of food and wondered if the confinement had finally driven Tristan into insanity. The Knight was crouching on the table, dagger in hand, scratching at the ceiling. Not certain about the state of mind of said Knight, Jols cautiously entered the room and coughed politely to get Tristan’s attention.

“Jols, do you know how to spell ‘suck’?” Tristan asked without looking down at the squire. When he didn’t get an answer he finally looked at Jols impatiently. “Well?”

“Tristan,” Jols said. “What are you doing?”

“I’m writing.” Tristan replied. He made a few more scratches into the ceiling and stepped back to admire his work. “Romans suck,” he read for Jols’ benefit. Jols blinked and stared at Tristan in a mixture of worry and awe as the Knight hopped off the table.

“Are you trying to get in trouble?” Jols demanded, setting the tray down on the vacated table. “What will Arthur do if he finds out you did this?”

The smile on Tristan’s face was bitter. “I’m hoping he will notice. Maybe he’ll make me leave.” Tristan sighed sadly. “I'm bored. I need fresh air. Arthur hardly lets me leave this room, and even then only for a little bit. I’m not allowed to leave the fort at all.”

"Truth, Tristan, is that I wouldn't have let you leave at first either. You were a hair away from being put in the ground with your friend, Percival." Jols paused. "I agree though that is time and past time for Arthur to put you back to work. Your mare grows both fat and fractious. I will say as much to Arthur that she is becoming too much for us to handle. Perhaps he...."

"Not likely." Tristan's gaze went flat and empty again. "He wants me here where he can WATCH me." The words were angry but Tristan stilled into emptiness. He could not begin to guess what Arthur would choose to do anymore. Arthur had become another man entirely; a stranger, a monster barely leashed.

Once again Jols could only watch helplessly as Tristan went to stand by the window to look up at the wide sky.

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Tristan was gone. He was never coming back. Arthur was convinced. The moment he'd given his Knight some freedom he had fled. Not that Arthur could blame him; he'd certainly not helped by STARING at him all the time. The commander stared unhappily at the pile of work crowding his desk. He was trying. Really he was. Determined that Tristan would NOT be the only thing he would think about, he picked up a wooden slate to figure the grain supplies for the month.

Two minutes later he set it down with a sigh. He should never have let Tristan go out riding alone. He could be injured. He could be attacked. He could…LEAVE. The thought both infuriated and worried Arthur. The monster in him reared its head and roared at the thought that HIS Tristan would dare leave him. The rational part of Arthur did something else. It shrugged and said of course Tristan would leave. Arthur was breaking under the weight of that logic. Of course Tristan would leave a beast that only lived to hurt him.

Leashing the monster for a bit, Arthur dug in and actually managed to get through the grain report and an order for more iron before realizing how much time had passed. How long was Tristan planning to ride? It was getting close to dinnertime. Aargh!…he was supposed to have been at a training session to make up for the one he'd missed yesterday while praying in the chapel.

Jols was waiting in the stable for him. Tristan rolled his eyes in annoyance. That meant Arthur wanted him back in his prison. The few times he’d been allowed to leave the room, Jols had always been the one sent to fetch him back. The happiness he’d felt at being FREE faded yet again as he dismounted. Jols’ face was troubled as he took the reins from Tristan. “Arthur has been frantic since you left.” The squire confided to the Knight. “He missed another training session with the young Knights. At this rate, not only will he have no idea of their capabilities but they will lose all respect for his leadership.”

Tristan leaned the back of his head against the wall while Jols began brushing his mare. The desire to thump his head against the wall at Arthur’s idiocy was almost too tempting to resist. He’d been hearing plenty of rumblings from the older Knights about Arthur, although the commander was too well respected and loved for the Knights to complain openly. Yet.

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Tristan was looking unhappier as each day passed. Arthur had been doing his best to ignore how pale and listless Tristan had become, but with each disapproving look Jols gave him he could feel his guilt growing. He didn't want to release Tristan; he wanted to keep Tristan's wildness and beauty to himself, yet he knew that he was destroying his Knight. He looked over at the slender Knight stretched out once again on the bed, fletching more arrows, an expression of such dejected boredom on his face that it would have been amusing if not for the circumstances.

Arthur sighed inwardly and stood from where he was seated at the desk. He wasn't getting any work done anyway; he might as well just give Tristan the news. He ignored the beast in his head growling at the thought of letting HIS Knight go, and instead concentrated on not sounding like a lustful teenager when he started speaking. "Tristan," he began huskily, then cleared his throat.

Tristan looked up coolly from the arrow he was working on. Arthur felt his hands twitch, so he curled them into fists at his side. He didn't dare take any more steps towards the bed. Tristan looked so tempting there on the bed, he couldn't go near him or he'd TAKE Tristan again…Yes, letting Tristan go was the RIGHT thing to do. Forcing his thoughts to what he was going to say, he managed to choke out, "Go. You're free to return to your room."

The Knight didn't move. He was studying Arthur suspiciously, as if he suspected a trap. Arthur didn't blame him. He was certain the expression on his face matched the lustful tone of his voice. "Tristan…go before I change my mind. Jols will see to your things." Arthur purposely turned his back until he heard the door close behind Tristan. He slumped in the chair and let the beast roar angrily at the prey that had been let loose. Maybe with Tristan gone, he could control his urges…

Arthur spotted an arrow beside the bed. His bed now...but so empty without Tristan in it. He got up from the chair and scooped the arrow up before sitting on the bed, lightly running has hand over the bedding, feeling the warmth of Tristan's body still on the fabric. Arthur laid on the bed, pressing himself into the warmth as he had pressed himself into Tristan, and breathed in Tristan's scent, a mixture of green wood and smoky iron tang. A soft growl escaped him as he remembered breathing in Tristan, pushing into him, OWNING him...

With a loud groan Arthur rolled onto his back with his eyes shut, trying to force his mind away from the savage pleasure of hurting Tristan, and reminding himself of his vow. Desperate for a distraction, he examined the arrow in his hands. The arrow was perfect, made with meticulous care by skilled hands. Tristan's hands. Those beautiful hands that clutched the bedding until the knuckles popped and turned white as Arthur pushed into him...Arthur tossed the arrow across the room with a frustrated cry and stared up at the ceiling, vowing not to think about Tristan's naked body kneeling on the floor, hands -- what was on his ceiling? Some lines...wait...is that Lancelot wearing a dress?!

Arthur blinked in surprise. Yes...yes, it was Lancelot wearing a dress and beside it was a picture of Bedivere doing...yech.... That poor horse. There were quite a few drawings on the ceiling. There were several of the same stick figure being shot full of arrows, being trampled by a horse, having his head cut off...'Damn,' Arthur thought. 'That's me.' Tristan, as it turned out, was a creative genius when it came to killing people (Arthur) in unusual and painful ways.

Arthur got up and moved along the bed, examining each way his Knight had drawn him on the ceiling, until he came across a sentence that made him want to laugh and cry. "Piss on Artorius Castus" was scratched deeply into the plaster. Beside it was a detailed drawing of Arthur's face with deep lines slashed and gouged through it as if some predatory animal had clawed at it.

Arthur was still staring up and pondering the depth of Tristan's hatred for him when Jols entered the room with lunch. Jols startled him by clearing his throat deliberately and saying, "I can have all that plastered over if you wish this afternoon."

Arthur's answer shot out of his mouth and startled both himself and Jols. "NO." Arthur shook his head, "I mean, no thank you. Jols, this stays. It will remind me ..." Arthur bowed his head and didn't finish.

It would remind him of the grave sins he'd committed against his Knight. It would be a constant warning against ever touching Tristan again. It would remind him of his Knight's eyes and hands, the sleekness of his body, the way Tristan lay on the bed toying with his dagger and arrows. Foolish and evil both, wanting to remember the feel of the man.

Arthur went to his knees and began praying for guidance and deliverance. He needed help.

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Tristan woke slowly, comfortably for the first time in days. His sleep had been deep and uninterrupted for once. Still sleepy, he cracked his eyes open and looked at the familiar room. HIS room. His gaze fell on the empty bed beside his, that would remain empty forever now. Even after all this time it was still hard to believe Percival was never coming back.

Absently he stroked the rough blanket that Percival had used for so many years, remembering when the corner of it had been scorched by fire while camping out in the field. He grinned at the memory of Percival shrieking like a little girl when he realized the blanket was blazing. The blue-eyed young man had sworn while stamping the blaze out, then turned his wrath on Tristan, who was doubled up with laughter. Percival tackled him, and as they fell to the ground Tristan had mimicked his now lost brother with a mock shriek of his own. They had wrestled furiously for a few minutes before collapsing together in a fit of hysterical laughter.

The happy memory brought along a surge of sadness that made Tristan blink hard to remove the sting from his eyes. He roughly rubbed the back of his hand across his eyelids and sat up. Although he'd been doing some exercises in Arthur's room to keep from getting stiff, he knew he was a bit out of practice. He was looking forward to a day out in the training fields to work off a bit of energy.

Quickly rinsing off with a pail of water and putting on his own clothes, Tristan tossed the borrowed pants and tunic he'd taken off last night into the corner to be taken care of later. He hadn't much worn his own clothes in Arthur's room, wanting them to be untainted with Arthur's scent. His step was full of vigor and strength as he strode out to his door. The minute the door opened beneath his hand, all of that energy deserted him. Despair ate the feeling of freedom and depression sank into his bones as he met Arthur's intent green stare. Would Arthur order him back into what had become Tristan's loathed and hated prison?

Arthur stared at Tristan in surprise, almost as if he hadn't expected the Knight to be there. Tristan kept his gaze carefully blank as he waited for Arthur to speak, but the quivering in his muscles betrayed the tension he was feeling. The commander frantically cast about for a reason for standing outside Tristan's door, other than the obvious one; that he'd been standing there for a while. Arthur's pulse surged with anger that Tristan had locked the door against him even as his rational side felt saddened that Tristan felt the need to put a bolt on the door.

"Tristan, I..," Arthur began. What was he going to do? Ask how Tristan was? Pretend that the last two months hadn't happened? "I wanted to tell you that you have been returned to active duty," he finished lamely.

Tristan gave him a cold glare before nodding and walking past him, careful to make sure their bodies didn't touch. It took all of Arthur's self-control to keep from reaching out to touch HIS Knight. Arthur watched Tristan walk off, casting one last look at the heavy door before leaving.

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Gawain looked up from the sword he was sharpening to see why the other Knights had gone quiet. Tristan was approaching the training field, where the older Knights had taken it upon themselves (since their commander no longer seemed capable) to teach the youngsters some battle techniques. Gawain perked up when Tristan did not turn away as he had previous days. Now would be a perfect time to speak to Tristan in front of the others. Then they could see for themselves that Tristan was finally healing.

Bors and Dagonet were both watching Tristan with a mix of concern and wariness. Gawain had the thought as he passed them to speak with them later about perhaps inviting Tristan for a drink at the tavern tables some day soon. Tristan would surely respond to an invitation from them rather than from the wet behind the ears whelp he always termed Gawain.

As the young Knight drew closer to Tristan, he overheard some whispered conversation coming from the group of Knights where Lancelot and Bedivere stood. "I'm going to get that filthy Iazyge one of these days." Lancelot whispered bitterly. Several of the other Knights muttered agreement. "It's time someone taught him his place."

The young Knight was so wrapped in the vicious words Lancelot had spoken he walked right past his intended goal. He quickly turned back around. "Tristan!" he shouted. Tristan, along with many other Knights looked up at him. Suddenly flustered, Gawain dropped his eyes to the ground and muttered, "Never mind, I'll...I'll see you later" and ran off, ears red from embarrassment.

Tristan gazed after the flushed Gawain, feeling a peculiar melting sensation inside of him. It was the first time since Percival's death that he didn't feel like ice was running through his veins when he encountered the other Knights. He resolved to ignore whatever was bothering the imp, turned from the retreating figure and continued walking, and was more surprised when Bors and Dagonet gave him nods of greeting. Not sure how he felt about this, Tristan skirted them and continued toward the practice field. He just wanted a nice uncomplicated practice bout or two. He needed to work the kinks out of his muscles.

A movement in the shadow caught Tristan's eye as he finally retreated from the field all sweaty and weary from improving young Knights through the stratagem of choosing one and showing them where their guard was weak by sparring with them. He nearly moaned in frustration. Arthur was skulking, following him AGAIN. This was the third day he'd been hovering as Tristan went about the fortress. Arthur had finally freed Tristan from his confinement last night only to continue turning the entire world into his prison. Well, it wouldn't work. Tristan would disregard his unwanted surveillance and get on with his life. He wouldn't allow Arthur's hunt of him to change anything.

Gawain debated with himself the wisdom of going to Arthur and telling him what he'd overheard. Arthur might not believe him. Or worse, he might not do anything. He hadn't done anything yet. And not only that, Lancelot and the other Knights might make him their new target if they ever found out he had told. The spiteful jealous face of Lancelot popped into Gawain's memory. No, he HAD to tell Arthur.

"How," Gawain grumbled to himself two hours later. "Am I supposed to tell him anything if the man won't stay in one place?" The young Knight had traced Arthur's path to the granary, the weapon smith, the stable and now the barracks, and he had yet to actually lay eyes on his commander.

He had already checked Arthur's quarters and he wasn't there. No Knights were currently injured, so Arthur didn't have anyone to visit…Gawain considered the possibilities. He knew that Tristan and Arthur had been spending a lot of time together. Maybe Tristan would know. As Gawain hesitated in the door of the surgeon's room, unsure of where to find Tristan either, the scout passed by outside. A few breaths later Arthur followed, clearly shadowing Tristan.

Puzzled, Gawain followed Arthur. He watched as wherever Tristan went, Arthur followed, and usually at a distance. He was so absorbed in watching them that he didn't see Bors in time to avoid running into him. Turning red for the second time that day, he mumbled an apology before remembering that he'd wanted to talk to either Bors or Dagonet.

"Bors, you used to spend a lot of time with Percival and Tristan, didn't you?" Gawain asked. When Bors nodded, the smaller Knight continued. "Now that Tristan seems better, maybe you could invite him to go with you to the tavern..."

The larger Knight grinned, but sobered quickly. "I've been wanting to. I haven't been certain if Tristan is willing to accept yet." Gawain grinned back, glad that he wasn't the only person concerned with the quiet scout. "I'll speak to Dag about it. With the two of us involved, who could resist, eh?" Bors nudged Gawain with enough force to knock him off balance. Chuckling to himself, Bors walked off.

Gawain looked around for Arthur or Tristan and cursed. Neither one of them was in sight. He would have to begin his search all over again. Luckily, due to Arthur's recent careless scheduling, he'd have plenty of time to hunt for his quarry. There hadn't been any planned training in weeks, and the patrols were limited to investigating specific Woad movements.

Days later, Tristan wondered how much more of Arthur's vigilant sentry duty he could stand. While a niggling grateful voice in the back of his head pointed out that Lancelot at least hadn't attempted any more vicious pranks while Arthur was standing guard, another resentful mood was growing within Tristan. He wanted to eat without Arthur watching his mouth. He wanted to fight without wondering where Arthur was dreaming of putting his hands. Tristan wanted to leave the fortress on a mission and Arthur stay behind while he experienced the days of true freedom instead of meeting the monster in Arthur's eyes every time he turned around. So far, he'd only been allowed to ride out in the company of the other Knights and Arthur. So much for his 'return to duties'.

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Arthur faltered once again in leading the Knights to battle. First he ordered Lancelot to lead the flank and then Bedivere. Tristan watched disgusted as Arthur wavered and second guessed himself constantly. Arthur was a man who had lost faith ... not in his God, but in his own ability to do the right thing, to DECIDE and walk the chosen path. The constant praying was getting on everyone's nerves and the hesitations and vacillating orders on and off the battlefield were destroying everyone's confidence.

Tristan had been taking stock all day of his unwanted shadow. The stronger the hunger Arthur felt within him, the less confidence Arthur had in himself. His commander was being undermined by the side of the man Tristan had come to hate. Worse, the Woads were taking advantage of Arthur's poor leadership and striking harder with larger forces. Tristan would not allow Percival's murderers to win. He had to do something to restore Arthur's strength. Tristan could see that it was he that broke Arthur's edge the same as striking bone destroyed the edge on his sword. It was Arthur's hunger to possess him that Arthur was breaking himself on.

Tristan snarled, the decision already made. The rest of the day as they fought the Woads off a tiny Roman estate and for the entire return trip to the garrison fort, Tristan became a man of fury with bitter words and violent temper which he took out on Woads and fellow Knights alike. No longer would he allow any insult. His sword and dagger snicked repeatedly from their scabbards as he put blade to cut throats of Woads as violently as possible to warn off the Knights who were tempted to insult or injury.

Bedivere made the mistake of insulting Tristan under his breath during the fighting, words he'd spoken many times before, "Babykilling filthy Iazyge", and found himself backing his horse away from an arrow pointed directly at him. The Knight Dagonet smiled and rode forward alongside Bedivere. With a casual swipe of the back of his hand, Dagonet knocked Bedivere from his horse into the muddy ground. "About time you woke up, Tristan." Dagonet moved on with an amused roar into the fight with Tristan staring after him in amazed silence. There were more Knights than Gawain then who cared whether he lived or died.

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Tristan's temper later was no sweeter as he watched Arthur leave the stables, leaving his stallion to the ever watchful Jols. Off to pray in the chapel again no doubt. His gut roiled as he contemplated what he had decided. Later, he would think about it, act upon it...later. He flinched as a large hand dropped to his shoulder. Dagonet's rumble took some of the sting of it off, but still....the touch disturbed him as any contact did now.

"Come with us. Bors and I wish to buy our favorite wolf a drink."

Tristan nodded. A drink. He would need the warmth of wine, the bracing of ale, for what he must do. Arthur would not be lurking off the side of the tavern court watching him as long as praying in the chapel took Arthur's concentration. He had perhaps an hour before he must...

Bors and Dagonet kept looking back at the silent Iazyge following them. Both of them would have preferred Tristan to walk between them so they could laughingly tease each other and find some way to include the seemingly lost scout. But he WAS following them to the tables of their favorite alemaster. This was an improvement over Tristan's recent habit of denning himself in his room behind the heavy new door and the solid iron bolt. They carried on their usual conversation and every once in a while shot a question back to the silent man behind. His face remained as blank as ever, only the glitter in his eyes betraying his interest in what was going on.

Bors was satisfied that Dagonet was right. Tristan was awake again and had discovered the will to live without Percival. Bors snorted at the ideas some of the other Knights had about Tristan and Percival. Them two was brothers from the old country, no doubt of it, no matter that they were from different tribes. Too many times Percival had sniped at his silent companion about some childhood mishap or adventure. Since Tristan never spoke of such things, Percival had to have been present when they occurred. Then too, there was the yearly ritual they undertook to honour someone dead, the name of which they did not speak. Bors had seen, Dagonet had seen. They honoured someone lost to both.

Bors scooped up the pretty redhead with the fire inside at the tables and swung her gaily in circles. He found her fascinating. Such a backbone. When he set her down, she sashayed over to Tristan and pulled him forward. The boy flinched from her touch even as she dragged him to the tables where Ginnade and Galahad were tossing dice. Galahad grinned and tossed the pair of dice across the table to Tristan who caught them easily. Ginnade cried out gaily as she saw Tristan and dragged him down beside her. Tristan smiled, a thing Bors had thought long gone except on the battlefield when Tristan was chopping Woads to pieces.

Dagonet stood at Bors shoulder and nudged him with his own. "The man still lives, eh?"

Bors griped, "Yeah, but look... he's got the two prettiest women here fluttering over him and look what happens when they touch him."

Dagonet surveyed the table. "He flinches. He did so earlier when I touched him as well."

Bors muttered, "Well, we'll just have to keep people from touching him... man needs to be alone for a while mebbe." He snorted. "I'm sure Arthur's mother hen attitude where Tristan is concerned hasn't been helping. You trip over Arthur and Tristan is only a few feet away, guaranteed. Except when Arthur is holed up praying to that Christian God of his."

Dagonet looked at Bors, considered what he'd said and looked back at Tristan who gave every evidence of being glad to see Ginnade and still managing to keep a few inches between them. He considered the way Tristan used to carry Ginnade off with Percival trailing behind and waiting outside the hut. Dagonet was left breathless as thoughts came to him ...thoughts about Arthur and Tristan and the last few odd weeks of behavior from both of them. He closed his eyes and his mouth. What good would it do to say his fears aloud?

"Come. Let us join them and show the others that he has guards now. It is past time they shut their mouths and began treating him with dignity. We all owe him our lives many times over."

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Arthur was in the chapel again. Gawain didn't understand why Arthur needed to pray so often, but at this point he was grateful for the man's devotion to his God; it guaranteed that Arthur would be in one place for at least an hour. Gawain opened the door to the small chapel and entered quietly. He even managed to close the door quietly so it didn't slam shut.

Arthur was close to the front of the chapel, on his knees, head bowed, hands clasped tightly together. Thankfully no one else was present in the room, because in the next moment Gawain had managed to bump into the base of a statue of some woman and knock several pots of flowers to the ground. Arthur got to his feet and turned to see who was there.

"Sorry." Gawain set the flowers back into the clay containers and placed them underneath the statue as Arthur joined him.

"What is so important that you couldn't wait until I was through, Gawain?" Arthur spoke urgently, knowing that whatever Gawain had to say must be needful. Typically, the boy kept silent until he was directly asked something by another. Gawain would grow into his confidence someday, but right now he was still tentative in his actions and unsure of his right to speak.

"It is about Tristan."

Arthur recoiled as he considered what Gawain might say to him in regard to Tristan. What might the boy have seen? How much of what Gawain had seen would reveal the depths of depravity Arthur had sunk to?

Gawain's faltering voice instantly relieved him as he continued to speak, "...or Lancelot actually." But then the beast within bared teeth and snarled as Gawain suggested, "or Lancelot AND Tristan." Tristan was HIS! no other's! "I mean, that is... Lancelot has been doing things to Tristan."

Arthur's jealousy built by the moment. Lancelot and Tristan? Doing THINGS together?

"Lancelot really hurts him sometimes, Arthur." Like HE hurt Tristan? Did Lancelot dare to touch what was Arthur's?

"Most of the pranks have been just that, pranks. But sometimes he goes too far, and I... I think someone needs to stop him before he does something that gets Tristan killed."

Pranks? Arthur's rage curled in on itself. Lancelot had hurt HIS Tristan? "Tell me exactly what has been happening, Gawain. Start with the first thing you saw."

Gawain took a deep breath. Maybe now, Arthur would fix things. Maybe now, he'd come back from whatever place his religion had been miring him in and start being their commander again. One they could be proud of. "The first time I noticed was actually something the gate guard said about Tristan's mare being nervous and flighty all the time lately. I asked him...."

Arthur listened, horrified by all the things he hadn't seen happening because he'd been too focused on caging his lust. As Gawain's voice monotonously recounted incident after incident, some Gawain had seen and some he'd heard of from others, Arthur started pacing back and forth. His second in command had succumbed to a monster of his own. Finally Arthur gasped, "Enough, Gawain, enough. I...can hear no more." He lifted his head to Gawain. "I will see to it that it stops."

Gawain nodded and walked out the door, leaving Arthur to contemplate just what he needed to do.

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Even as Arthur approached the square where Tristan sat dicing, Galahad set up a steady lament over Arthur's shortcomings of late. The boy complained of the lack of discipline for the Romans, the endless changing of the orders, the lack of training sessions. With some of his bellyaching came the assents of the two hulking warriors watching their table. Bors in particular had many words to add when it came to the food supply lately: there had been a surplus of beets and a lack of beef or mutton. Dagonet finally put a stop to it with a muttered, "Galahad, he is still Arthur, our leader."

Tristan had been getting more and more miserable with every word. He knew why Arthur had changed. He knew what he had to do and it made him sick to his stomach. Tristan looked at Galahad and considered what the boy would say if he knew the reasons for Arthur's recent indecision. He considered the boy a long time, seeing for the first time really, how attractive Galahad had become. Arthur must be blind to have chosen Tristan rather than Galahad. Tristan blanched. The thought was frightening. Arthur's appetite for conquering loosed upon the boy... Regretfully, for the time spent here with the others had been more pleasant than he'd expected, Tristan rose from the table. He had to make certain that Galahad never discovered what monster lay in Arthur's bed.

"Thank you." It was brief courtesy to Bors and Dagonet for their invitation but it sufficed. Dagonet merely lifted his chin in acknowledgment. Like Tristan, he was a man who did not feel the need to speak to fill the silences. Bors grunted but he was occupied with feeling up the bottom of the pretty redheaded wench while relieving her of their new drinks. Galahad's face fell, a kicked puppy look in his eyes. Tristan leaned over and told the boy, "Tomorrow or the next day, we must work on your guard work. You nearly got yourself killed today."

Despite the seeming harshness of Tristan's pronouncement, Galahad perked up. Tristan was so handy with the sword that he rarely practiced with anyone. To have Tristan work with him was an honour in Galahad's eyes and the fact that Tristan had noticed him on the battlefield made his ears flush red in embarrassment combined with pride. What would his friend Gawain say to this when he'd spent so much time trying to reach the taciturn archer?

Tristan drained his mug, "Tell that young whelp Gawain to come. He can stand to learn some new things as well."

Tristan started drifting away across the square and was halfway gone when Ginnade leapt up to go after him. Mutters from her about her idiocy in chasing after Tristan reached the ears of Bors and he laughed boisterously to Dagonet. "That little tart seems to like mad dogs. She'll soften him up some maybe."

Arthur was walking down the dark alley even as he saw Tristan coming straight towards him from the courtyard with the pretty blue-eyed whore in hot pursuit. He was searching for Lancelot and didn't want to be distracted by closing in on Tristan and his own insanity, so he stepped aside into a doorway dark with shadows.

The figure of his scout had barely passed by when the little prostitute caught up to Tristan. She caught at Tristan's sleeve and begged as Tristan stopped to look at her, "Please ...you haven't been in so long. I'll take you tonight without being paid if you like. Please come." She wriggled her lithe body with all of her bountiful gifts up to Tristan's side. "You can call me Isolde like you usually do. I don't mind, really I don't. Being called some other woman's name doesn't bother me."

"Don't I call you by your own name once in a while, pet?" Tristan was amused, yet still backing slightly off from the lovely woman. "When you lock those beautiful lips around me, and make me crazy with the pleasure, don't I call you Ginnade then?"

"Yes, Tristan ...I just meant... please...please come. I...um, I ...well, I miss you." Ginnade pleaded gently, but no longer attempting to press against Tristan. "I miss when you talk to me. The others... they screw and leave."

"Ginnade." Tristan swept soft fingers down the side of her face. "I like you too, girl, as much as I like any. But I cannot." He paused, searching for words to explain the discomfort he felt being this near her. "Not now. I cannot. Right now... "

Ginnade drew back from Tristan with a soft melancholy sigh. "When it pleases you then. You may visit as you like."

Tristan hugged her gently but loosely so that no part of his body pressed to hers, "I have always enjoyed our time together. You are not my Isolde, but it is pleasant lying with you. Perhaps later, someday when... when I can again."

Arthur squirmed with the needs in him. He wanted to send the little bitch packing, and drag Tristan back to his quarters. He wanted to fall on Tristan and hurt him for DARING to touch another. He wanted to silence the woman's words as it dawned on him that Tristan met his needs with but one person and it hadn't been Percival.

"Come. Let me return you to Galahad who also finds it pleasant to lie with you." Tristan teased her and tugged on a lock of her hair. "I have heard it said that he will talk afterwards given the slightest provocation. Mayhap he doesn't realize that he should stay and enjoy himself more than once with you. I can hardly believe such an energetic young man cannot find the ability to please you."

Ginnade flushed and mumbled something incoherent that sounded suspiciously like 'once is plenty with Galahad, like to wear a body out' but she allowed Tristan to escort her back to the light and tables of drunken revelers. He flagged down Vanora and told her to bring another ale to Galahad's table. With gentle care he brushed his lips over Ginnade's forehead even as he was pushing her down into Galahad's lap.

"I expect you to take good care of her tonight, Galahad." Tristan withdrew several jingling coins from inside his tunic and handed them to Ginnade. "Morning had better find you still in her bed."

Galahad flushed and tried to protest Tristan's generosity even as Tristan was already once again halfway across the square to where he'd seen Arthur lurking in the alley. Strange how something Tristan abhorred had become the most important thing he had to do. His choices had narrowed to one of two paths and he wasn't ready to take the one into darkness. He didn't have anything to live for except the killing of Woads, but oddly it was enough of a reason to want to exist.

"What's the matter, Iazyge? Can't perform with the women now that your manhood has fled into the ground with your lover Percival?"

Tristan wheeled on Lancelot. Like a wolf, no sound escaped him as he attacked. His dagger was in his hand and slicing across Lancelot's cuirass covered chest. Bors and Dagonet roared as Tristan's dagger lifted again and again striking against both skin and armour randomly. It took both Bors and Dagonet to haul Tristan off of Lancelot, indeed they had to pry his fingers off of Lancelot's throat where he was attempting to crush Lancelot's windpipe while his other hand flailed out with the blade. A mad light was in his eyes as he then howled at Lancelot. "HE WAS MY BROTHER! He was my BROTHER. He was ...my brother...my BROTHER!"

Arthur stepped out of the alley with his heart caught in his throat. Percival HADN'T been Tristan's lover. Tristan liked only women, he was sure of that fact now. No one had ever seen him with a whore until Ginnade. It was widely assumed that Percival and Tristan had no need of other lovers as long as they had each other. Arthur's steps were leaden as he paced forward between the groaning Lancelot on the ground and the still bellowing Tristan. With a heavy heart, Arthur placed his hand on Tristan's shoulder and grabbed his throat with the other to still him.

"Enough, Tristan, enough. Bors, Dagonet,... take Tristan up to his room." Not even looking as Bors and Dagonet literally dragged Tristan away (Arthur was proud of his self-control for that), Arthur turned to Lancelot's still prone body where Bedivere was stanching blood with his own tunic. "How bad is it, Bedivere?"

"He'll live. For all the times Tristan raked that dagger down him," the bare chested Bedivere pointed at the dagger fallen on the ground, bloody blade having been fouled with dirt already, "nothing vital was hit. A bit of blood loss and flesh wounds, just requires some cleaning and stitching. More worried about the way Tristan slammed his head into the ground."

Arthur knelt next to the dazed Knight on the ground, the dark eyes filmed with pain. "I was searching for you. I can see it will have to wait." This was not unkindly said because Arthur had realized what drove Lancelot was the same monster as the one inside him screaming to rip the little blue-eyed whore's eyes out. "Let Bedivere take you to the surgeon and have those cuts seen to, stay there for the night." When Lancelot had recovered would be soon enough to discuss the foolishness of damaging what was Arthur's. He ran a hand over the crop of dark curls and ruefully considered the way Lancelot looked at him. This is how he himself must look when watching Tristan. "Take care of him, Bedivere. I charge you with seeing to it. Stubborn jackass will try to leave the surgeon's care so make him stay there."

Arthur got to his feet and traveled blindly into the fort, Tristan's filthy dagger in his hand. He owed Tristan an apology before he had to mete out discipline for the attack on Lancelot in the morning. This time, he would have someone else wield the lash and tend the welts. Arthur didn't trust himself to look on Tristan without hungering to possess him, to control him, to MAKE Tristan surrender.

Arthur hated himself for it, but the knowledge that Tristan had never been Percival's lover, that he was not a lover of men, only increased his appetite to HAVE Tristan beneath him, crying out as Arthur drove himself into Tristan.

---------------
TBC and all
PeeK and Surreal

Arthur needs a spanking, doesn't he?