Her expression said that she couldn't believe he expected her to be okay about this situation. Tristan felt lost and angry. How dare she hide such a thing from him! If anyone needed to 'think about this', it was him! But he was an empathic creature—it helped him read people and their motivations—and he knew, though didn't want to admit it to himself, that she was finding this just as difficult to handle.
After waiting for some time, he eventually poked his head out of the window and shouted up to her.
"What?" came the irritated reply from the lip of the roof, she obviously didn't want to be seen.
"Are you coming down anytime soon?"
"… Pass me up a blanket?" she asked after a pause.
He slung up his own thick cloak, which she took with a muttered thanks.
Silence reigned for a further stretch of awkwardness. Then Kation spoke up again: "I'll probably be down for dinner."
"Alright," he said it in an easy, relaxed tone that utterly belied his true feelings. He was very worried about what was going to happen next. He considered what he ought to do in the meantime. Arthur had given him the afternoon off, so he ought to capitalise on the rare break.
He thought for a long moment, wondering who on earth he could seek counsel from. After a couple of moments dismissing names from his mind, he hit upon the nearest equivalent he could think of: Bedwyr.
Getting up and tugging his surcoat on, he immediately made his way to Bedwyr's house, with its workshop attached to the back. The retired Sarmatian knight was a russet man build along massive lines and still formidable as he saw Tristan approaching. He got to his feet with a smooth ease that belied his apparent age. "Tristan," he grunted. "What a bloody mess," he sighed, jerking his chin at the fort over the scout's shoulder.
"Indeed."
"What can I do for you?" Bedwyr asked, always getting to the point.
"I need to talk to you," Tristan admitted, sitting on the stool next to Bedwyr's by the door to the workshop.
"About what?"
"Sunniva," Tristan said, and seeing Bedwyr's eyes flash dangerously, he hastily went on. "I have the deepest respect and affection for your esteemed wife, Bedwyr, I swear upon my life and honour." Seeing his old friend settle again into a more receptive demeanour, he went on. "I… I find myself curious as to why you chose to stay here when you married her. You could have gone back home, but instead chose to make a life for yourself in the very hplace where you were conscripted. Where so many of our people have died for a thousand petty lost causes."
Bedwyr took a long moment to stare hard at Tristan before delivering his answer. "I'm not sure," he admitted. "It was nearly fifteen years ago now, lad," he made a show of stroking his beard thoughtfully. Tristan knew it was a ruse. "I didn't want to return to what little of my family survived only to tell them that my brother and cousin were dead. I would have been a ghost amongst my own people for the rest of my life." He shot Tristan a keen look. "We are changed—some may say tainted—by our service to Rome. We lose the thing that makes us Iazyges, or Roxolani, or Aorsi, or Siraces, or a member of any other tribe."
"If Gawain and Galahad aren't Aorsi, I'll eat my quiver," Tristan grumbled.
Bedwyr smiled, but shook his head. "Think harder, lad. We knights create our own tribe, complete with our own rituals and customs. In a way we died when we left our families. They never expected us to come back as whole creatures. We have lost part of ourselves and will always be set apart from those we once called family."
Tristan thought about this. It would explain the way the veterans in his tribe usually stuck close together, despite the often extreme differences in age. They had shared something that no one else could understand.
"As I and my fellow knights came to the end of our term of service and saw you lads—fresh from the steppe—arrive at the fort we realised just how changed we were. Your grasp of Latin was terrible, your accents and customs so stubbornly and diversely Sarmatian, well I felt homesick just looking at you. And it was then that I realised you would lose that as you grew up here. You would set aside tribal differences to become a family—brothers in steel and leather and pain and horse sweat. It's always the first step towards letting the boys you were before die in the name of survival. I only thank the gods that you are the last to die for Rome."
Tristan felt cold and hard at Bedwyr's words. They were too insightful, too deep. Yet still the compassion that shone from the older man's eyes made him feel like a child with a minor—yet age-appropriately devastating—ailment.
"How do you know that? How could we be the last?" he asked.
"We all know Rome has practically abandoned this island already, so don't take me for a fool," Bedwyr growled.
Tristan grinned and tipped his head to the side. "So, about Sunniva," he said, drawing them back onto the conversational path he wished to tread. "Why stay here? How can you choose to never see home again?"
Bedwyr shook his head. "Haven't you been listening? I have no home in Sarmatia. I made one of my choosing with the woman I love and gladly. The people here accept me and I have a good life here. My children are strong and happy, I am content."
"You're still a ghost," Tristan shot back, angry and frustrated. This wasn't how he imagined the conversation going. He wanted to know how—why—Bedwyr had turned away from the one thing that had fuelled all other Sarmatian souls through their fifteen years of near-slavery. "You walk among the graves of your brothers and forebears," he argued.
Bedwyr shrugged. "I live in this place, I do not mourn or wander in my mind through past times. I remember them, I honour them according to our ways and I am—broadly speaking—happy. What more is there than that?"
Tristan thought about this for a long moment before turning back to Bedwyr, who was smiling roguishly at him. "Sunniva didn't ask you to stay, did she?"
Bedwyr shook his head. "She later told me that she would have followed me to the ends of the earth, but she would never try to imprison me. She wanted me to be free to choose my own fate after so many years of servitude."
"What if Sunniva had hidden something about herself from you? Something so important that knowing it would change everything?" Tristan pressed. "What would you sacrifice to be with her?"
Bedwyr considered the question and understood that they were not really discussing his honoured wife or himself anymore. "Sunniva would have her reasons for hiding such things from me. Perhaps to protect me, or herself. I would sacrifice anything to keep her safe; the greatest exception to this being our children—we hold them higher than anything else in this world or the next."
That made sense, of course, but… "I… it…" he struggled with himself, not knowing how much he could tell Bedwyr.
"This is about your young lad?" Bedwyr nodded, seeing the answer as Tristan blinked hard. "What happened?"
Tristan shook his head. "I'm not sure, but I need to know… is it worth it? Was staying with Sunniva worth everything?"
Bedwyr's smile was so kind and raw that it hurt to have it focused solely on him. "Sunniva was more than worth it for me, lad. After fifteen years of near-constant war, she was the only priceless thing in my life. It wasn't even a choice; our love was all that remained." He got to his feet and Tristan followed suit. "As for Kation, all I can do is wish you happy, and I've never seen you so animated."
"Thanks," he said and they shook hands. I think.
So she was right. How would he feel in ten years' time? In a hundred years? A thousand? Which betrayal would he choose?
He saw Kation waiting for him by the stables, deliberately letting the light from a lamp fall on her face so he could see her from far off. That had to be a good sign, surely.
"So?" he asked as they stood staring at each other.
Kation handed him his cloak back before answering. "So, I've done some thinking. I think we need to speak to our strangely coloured friend before either of us makes anymore potentially disastrous decisions."
Tristan agreed with the sentiment. "How do we contact him?"
"I have no idea…" she said miserably. "And he may not oblige us, even if he did know we wanted a conversation."
"And if he doesn't meet with us?"
"Then we'll wait," she said grimly. "After all, we've got all the time in the world."
And wasn't that just the scariest thought of all? Tristan felt excised from everything he had known: from his Sarmatian homelands, from his fellow knights, from this world. The burden of the secret was already starting to weigh on him, and he knew it would only get heavier.
~oOo~
Kahedin knew the moment they all sat down together at dinner that evening that something was seriously off about Tristan and Kation. They stuck close to each other, but the tension between them was greater than a war bow's. It was only a matter of time before something would cause it to snap, and he really didn't want to be around when that happened. Things tended to get scary when those two fought.
Bickering and sulking was one thing—an everyday occurrence, honestly—but when they really argued, it was best to stay away and let them figure it out for themselves. Kation looked like someone had died, and Tristan was unusually terse, even by his usual standards.
Kahedin shot a puzzled glance at Gawain, who shook his head and shrugged. So it must have happened after the water fight.
Argh, stop getting involved. They're tear you apart and feast on your remains before going back to mauling each other. Stay away, stay alive. He thought to himself with a shudder. He'd approach them when they were both feeling better. In the meantime, he chatted to Cador and Dinadan about the improvements to the fort and the likelihood of Arthur admitting to the governor that the wreckage which had once been their beloved fort had actually been inflicted by their own men. It was going to end in a betting pool, no doubt. Who would hold the book?
Well… naturally…
After they had finished their meal, he approached Kation, who was still stuck to Tristan's side. "Hey, kitten," he drawled, smiling at her like nothing was wrong.
She shot him an empty, expectant look. "Hi," she said quietly. "What can I do for you?"
"I need someone to hold a book for us. We're placing bets."
"Over what?"
"Whether Arthur will admit to the governor the identity of our nefarious saboteur," Kahedin said in a dramatic undertone, so only Tristan and Kation could hear him.
It raised a slight smirk to her features. "I don't see why I can't do that," she said. "Send everyone to me tomorrow with their money and wagers when I get back from early patrol tomorrow."
Kahedin nodded and smiled at them both, unsurprised by their guarded, neutral expressions. "And," he added, "I hope you two resolve whatever's going on soon. I have a plan I need you both for."
"Another infamous plan?" Tristan drawled. "If I recall correctly, the last plan nearly killed two knights."
"Aha, but we saved legate's son, so why whinge about calculated risks?" Kahedin waved his hand, airily dismissing the peril.
While Tristan scowled, Kation actually smiled slightly. Then she froze and all expression fell away from her face.
"Oh!" she breathed.
"What?" Tristan asked.
Kation shook her head. "I've just realised I left the brazier burning in my room all this time, I've probably scorched the ceiling. Excuse me." She spun on her heel and sprinted back to the barracks, leaving the men to exchange bewildered looks.
"Should we follow?" Kahedin asked finally.
Tristan considered the question for a long moment before shrugging. "It could be a brazier, or she might be plotting how to finish us off once and for all."
Now Kahedin really was confused. Since when did Kation wish them harm? "Why would she want to do that?"
Tristan shot him an aggravated look. "Can't you see how different she is from all of us?"
This was getting weird… "Well of course she's different—but what's wrong with that? She's…" he paused. 'Nice' and 'pleasant' weren't the best words for Kation. "She's good." He said—because she was. She did her best to help, even though she invariably used sneaky, ruthless and violent tactics to achieve her goals. Seeing Tristan pause, he jabbed a finger at him. "No, don't try to deny it. She's a good girl."
"That's not what I meant—" Tristan cut himself off and shook his head. "Never mind."
"If this is love, I shudder to think," Kahedin said with a nervous laugh, but quickly shut up as Tristan glared at him. "Touchy, okay…" he shrugged and backed away, holding up his hands. "Look, you can tell me. I promise I won't laugh."
"I…" he seemed to wrestle with himself for a long moment. "No. No, I shan't ask you to pick a side," he said, sounding incredibly tired.
"Fair enough," Kahedin was privately surprised that Tristan was being so consistently mature about these things. "I hope you sort things out soon."
Tristan nodded miserably. "We can never have a moment's peace, can we?" he said, and it wasn't really a question.
"I guess we can't." Kahedin agreed. "We were bred and tithed for war."