Falcon's Beginning

Dislaimer. I don't own any of the knights you recodnise. The ones you do not, are miiiiiiine!! *evil cackle*
thank you very much to all of my reviewers!!


Chapter 5- Wine, Haylofts and A New Realisation

“What is going on between you and Tristan?” Lancelot whispered to her that night in the bar. Falcon sighed, burying her face in a mug of ale. “Falcon! Tell me!” He hissed, nudging her under the table. Tristan had retired to his own rooms a few minutes after he had finished bandaging her wounds, claiming he had a headache and needed to sleep. Falcon had claimed herself ready for a good drink. At that moment, Gawain dropped onto the bench on the other side of Falcon, laughing and giggling. The young woman and handsome knight stared. “Gawain?” Lancelot asked, nervously. The blonde knight slumped over the table, howling with laughter and pounding the wood with his fists. Unable to speak, he pointed. The pair next to him looked. Galahad lay in the middle of the floor, pissed as a newt and hanging on for dear life to the boot of Dagonet, who held a pitcher of wine high above his head as he danced on one foot, bellowing, “Galahad, you great ass! Get off!” Galahad only clung tighter and yelped, “Nonononononono! Gimme wiiiiine!” Falcon burst out laughing, the sight of Galahad clinging to Dagonet one that could not, in any circumstances, be missed. Finally, roaring, Dagonet managed to dislodge Galahad, who, for someone as inebriated as he, managed to scramble surprisingly quickly onto his feet. Dagonet took one look at the drink crazed young man, and fled, still holding the pitcher high above his head, the yelling Galahad speeding after him. Collapsing over the table, Falcon gasped, the laughter stealing all the breath from her lungs and the pain of her stretching wounds driving comprehensible thought from her mind. “Ohhh.” She groaned, taking a deep breath and sitting up with only a slight wince. Lancelot wiped tears of mirth from his eyes, his mug forgotten on the table. “I’ll never forget that…” Falcon giggled, taking a drink and leaning on her elbows. Lancelot leant forward, a look in his eyes that said all too well what words could not. “Bors and I got a bit of a shock, Falcon. We deserve an explanation.” He said firmly, looking straight into her eyes. Falcon cast a look at Bors, who seemed to be a little worse for wear- he was dancing madly with child number one- and said, “Are you sure we want to distract Bors at the moment?” Lancelot growled.
“Alright, look, I don’t even know what’s going on.” She admitted finally, sighing. “You want to go to the stables and talk? We could go to the hayloft?” Nodding, the two knights drained their mugs and stood, leaving the noisy revelry of the tavern and heading for the quiet solace of the stables.

The hayloft was quiet and peaceful, the familiar smell of horses and hay clouding the warm air. Lying in the straw, side by side, Lancelot and Falcon discussed the matter at hand:
“So you’re frightened of what might happen?”
“Yes. I could die tomorrow. He could die tomorrow.” Falcon waved her hands around animatedly, trying to vaguely prove a point. “ I don’t want to have to tie my emotions up.”
“You won’t!”
“How do you know?!?”
“Well…”
“Lancelot?” Silence. Falcon turned on her side and studied him. Finally, she smiled, in the dull light, she could see the flush rising up his cheeks.
“Who was it? Haylie, Lavinia, Gruven or Fardira?” She asked softly, the last three names making painful constrictions in her chest. Lavinia and Gruven hadn’t lasted the first year. Fardira was the most recent female casualty. Lancelot looked at her.
“Do you promise not to hit me?” He asked desperately. Falcon frowned. “Promise?”
“I promise.”
“Fardira and Lavinia.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.” Lancelot sighed, wiping the back of his hand across his eyes. “I could have saved them, you know.” He whispered. Falcon lay back down, feeling her second bout of tears in the night coming on. ‘This will have to stop. I’m acting like a child.’ She thought as she wiped her own tears out of her large eyes. “We have all thought that at some point.” She whispered back, reaching out in the straw for his rough, large hand, gently squeezing it comfortingly. For a while, there was only silence, and the sound of their breathing. Falcon could feel the cuts on her back starting to ache, and she shifted a little to stop the pain. Lancelot sat up. “I’m going to bed.” He announced, “Are you going back to the barracks?” She thought a moment.
“No, I shall wait here for a while. I want to think.” Lancelot chuckled.
“I wonder about what.” Falcon kicked him softly, smiling. Lancelot descended the ladder and Falcon, listened to him murmur to his horse and eventually walk out of the stable, leaving her alone with her thoughts and the horses.

Tristan was indeed on her mind, and the thoughts whirled and danced like autumn leaves in a gale. What was she going to do? Lazily, her eyes began to drift shut, sleepiness taking over. Knowing it wasn’t a good idea to fall asleep in a stable when there were most likely drunk Ostlers about, Falcon shook herself awake. She heard the stable door bang and the sound of foot steps heading to her end of the stable. What made her try to sit up was the sound of someone ascending the ladder. “Falcon, if you sit up, your cuts will re-open.” Muttered a calm Tristan as he entered the hayloft. Falcon fairly collapsed back into the hay, glad that it was soft and plentiful enough to cushion her back as she fell. “Tristan! Give a person warning.” She growled mock-angrily. The scout chuckled as he lay in the straw beside her, leaning in close. Falcon felt her insides clench as his warm breath blew gently across her cheek. “Stop that.”
“Stop what?” The cool breath again.
“That!” She yelped, tossing bits of straw at the prone scout. She giggled as they landed in his braids and the nimble fingers of the scout gamely tried to grab the offending strands. “C’mere, you fool.” She muttered, reaching over and grasping the bits lightly, tugging them out of his hair, flicking them instead at his nose. Smiling, Tristan flicked them back at her. Silence. There was always a lot of this, Falcon realised. It was never uncomfortable. In the four years she had known the scout, she had spent most of it in companionable silence. Finally, Falcon struck up a conversation, feeling relief that the situation was not rapidly dissolving into a dire, emotional strangeness.
“I thought you needed to sleep?” The scout studied her. “I did, and I have.”
“So your headache does not plague you?” Falcon asked, staring at the thatched roof. “No.”
“Good. Are you ready for tomorrow?” She felt the scout lie down. “I am. And you?”
“Everything is in my rooms.” Falcon sighed, flinging a hand above her head and feeling comforted by the fact Tristan was there. “What are we going to do?” Tristan asked suddenly. Falcon frowned. “What do you mean?” She asked, a hint of uneasiness in her voice. Tristan turned on his side, watching her. “You know of what I speak, Falcon.” She faced him, wincing as her cuts pulled. Gently, her breath catching in her lungs, she brought a finger up to stroke the bruising on his cheek, gently, so softly making her presence and feelings known. The scout simply watched her, unmoving, his eyes seeming to drown her in his feelings. His large hands reached out to cup her chin, and ever so carefully, the knight drew her face towards him and pressed his lips to hers, a seemingly chaste kiss, until one of his hands moved to the back of her neck, pressing her to him, his mouth turned searching, needy. Falcon smiled against his lips, gladly kissing him back with as much need and fervour as himself. Sliding back down to lie on her back, Falcon groaned slightly of pain and pleasure when the Scout tugged her under him, his lean, strong frame filling over hers perfectly. The kiss grew more passionate, loving and caring with each passing second, Tristan digging his hips into her pelvis as he ravaged her mouth, letting the young woman feel his growing need press against her. Suddenly, and without warning, a voice rang out below. “’Ere! What are you two doin’!?” Screeched a very drunk Roman soldier from beneath them, and the pair in the hayloft laughed quietly, laying their foreheads against one another as they heard him stagger into a bucket and curse, trying to dislodge the item from his foot. Shifting, Tristan heard the fairly well concealed gasp of pain from under him, and he remembered with a flash of guilt about the well sculpted back he so lovingly catered to a few hours earlier.
“We should just sleep.” He whispered, rolling swiftly so she lay on his chest, tucking her head under his chin. “What? Up here?” Came the drowsy reply. “Yes.” He murmured, humming a slow, sad song in his chest to send her to sleep. Falcon’s last thought was the song. Her mother used to sing it to her, it felt like home.


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