Knightshade Ch. 03

Breakfast is simple this morning, as it always seems to be. Bread, meat, cheese, whatever berries can be scavenged from the brush. We've continued traveling on horseback for nearly two weeks, and I've begun to understand their manner of speech--ascertained that the people who the knights have been escorting have gotten to safety and this specific "quest" is over.

Now, it has been a never ending rotation of riding, camping, bathing when there is water, and riding again. Tristan hasn't taken me, not in the way he did after I had slapped him. He has touched me, rubbed his length against me in the early hours of the morning, but not forced himself on me.

That night, after moving from the banks of the lake to warm us by the fireside, he touched me as if I was fragile. At one point, days later, after bathing myself with a spicy smelling soap that the youngest knight handed me, Tristan sat me in front of him and softly combed out the tangles in my long hair. Now, the curls bounce around to my hips.

He seems to like my hair, twining his fingers through the strands while we ride.

The knights talk to me, and I listen. I've learned the names of the men around me--and to my horror I've found that what I refused to acknowledge before must be true.

The leader they call Arthur. His second, the pretty knight goes by Lancelot; the one who stitched my wounds is Bors; the other bald one is Dagonet; Galahad is the youngest; Gawain is the one that wears his hair long and blond, who held me as I was bound.

I have read of these men--know a bit of their deeds. This knowledge twists uncomfortably in my stomach.

Despite this knowledge, I know little more about Tristan than I learned the first couple of days under his care. The stories about him from my time are ones that I barely recall--not that I could rely on them as reality any way. Despite my being thrown back in time, the dragons and quests and unrequited love of those tales still seem too fanciful.

The idea it might all be real scares me too much to examine.

For the most part Tristan remains quiet and serious. Strange in his way of solitude while being a key link in the chain of these knights. A scout, a man whose natural inclination is to do what is needed of him. Anything it seems. I find him stranger now that he has decided to keep me, I don't understand to what extent he has decided this.

I wonder if not understanding is preferable to the alternative.

Although he doesn't speak much to me other than the orders here or there, Tristan has been gentle; a restrained sort of gentle, as if he is being careful to control his natural instincts. His natural impulse to cause pain. The silence wraps around us like a cocoon as we ride hours upon hours.

Truth be told, I don't mind his silence.

While the others have talked to me, I do not respond. I am resigned to my being here, resigned to being pulled across the countryside, to being held by a madman throughout the day and night, but I have not resigned myself to giving them the satisfaction of answering their questions of me.

They could have killed me. They would have if I didn't pass their ridiculous test, I don't owe them anything.

This morning, however, I feel differently. I feel restless--uneasy with how quickly I have gotten accustomed to the ways of this antiquated time. How quickly I've learned their language, how I awaken before light, how I know how to stoke a fire, saddle a horse.

I feel flames of anger heating my body at my own apathy.

Tristan is holding me on his lap as I nibble on the hard bread. His hand smooths along my waist as he listens to the conversation with the other knights about where they are headed.

Home, they say. I feel myself flinch at the word.

This draws the attention of Dagonet, who always seems to be trying to needle information from me. He examines Tristan and I under furrowed brows, "And, darling girl, where do you come from?"

It is a question asked of me many times, and even though I chose not to answer before--I know I wouldn't know what to say anyway. I can't tell them the truth: they have already decided I am not a witch, and something so fantastical will only cause the suspicion to remerge.

No, the land I come from is too distant, too out of grasp to even speak of anyway.

Instead, this time, I answer the only way I can muster, "Far away".

The words are rusty from my lack of speaking. But, I am able to twist it in the way I know they speak Welsh. A much older Welsh than I had ever thought I would speak while I was taking those extra credits for my English degree so long ago.

Or, rather so in the future.

My words, or my choice to finally speak, bring the other knights to silence. Tristan tightens his grip around me as if he is pleased. Across from us, Lancelot brushes his hair from his eyes and leans in closer.

"How is it that you are here?"

I shake my head. How do I explain this?

"I was... taken." I stumble over the sentence, but my meaning is understood as the knights stare at me silently. I don't want to lie, I've always been a terrible liar, but I figure that I was taken--in some form of the word.

Taken.

At the thought, grief moves through me, for everything I have lost in the last two years and for everything I have been through in the mere weeks that I have been in this place. I don't feel like talking anymore. I tilt my head down so that my hair covers my face as I pull out of Tristan's arms.

I am almost completely out of the circle before my own question arises. Turning back to the knights, I look directly at Arthur. I force myself to make eye contact, to keep it "what-- what become of me?"

Arthur doesn't answer immediately. He sets down the food that was at his mouth and considers the question. "We will take you home."

I resist rolling my eyes at the knight's answer. How naive, how noble he is just like all of the stories told.

I was hopeful when I was released from my imprisonment, hopeful even through the horror and terrors of learning of this new barbaric world. But now, after being here for what must have already been more than a month, I knew there was no going back. It was a sick twist of fate that brought me here--it would have to take something unimaginable to send me back.

I toss my half-eaten bread into the fire, watch as it is enveloped by flames and slowly withers away.

"Is impossible."

My voice wavers in the way that makes me feel weak; I turn and head out of the camp. The forest here is thick, but from the change of terrain--I can tell that we have left the mountains. There are wildflowers around us, and in any other situation I would have been pleased with the scenery. Now, I am only pained.

I sit in the flowers, watching as bees buzz around to pollinate the landscape.

Lost in my own self-pity, I don't hear Tristan walking up to me until he sits across from me, the flowers crushing under his muscular frame. Leaning in, he catches a strand of hair. "You are mine and I will protect you."

In theory, the words are sweet. But, I think back to his actions--to his relishing in the agony of others and his own. I don't believe I will ever be safe, not with Tristan and definitely not from him.

Shaking, I pull back away from him--my hair slips from his fingertips. "And, to protect me from you?"

Those words tickle him, as the wolfish grin of his spreads across his face indicates. My eyes snare on his facial tattoos as his body leans in to follow my own.

"You are mine." The statement is possessive: an order, a threat, a compliment all wrapped into one.

"Why?"

I want to know--need to know why he is so intent on keeping me. Tristan's stare at me becomes blank, as if he doesn't understand my question. The silence is heavy.

"Why do you keep me? Am I not trouble to you, the way you haul me around this place? Why not kill me, allow me to drown? Wouldn't it be easier. Tell me why. Why, Tristan!"

I realize that I am so wrapped up in my panic that I am yelling this in English, but Tristan seems to understand my meaning, my tone, as he leans in to grab my throat gently. The knight's dark eyes are steady as he looks down at me.

"I like having you."

The panic at his threatening touch, the words he has just spoken to me, pulse through my body. I am reminded of his ruthless actions, the blood from the beheading soaking into my skin, the brutal way in which he didn't even think twice about taking me.

This knight that leaves for hours only to come back drenched in blood, a wicked gleam in his eyes.

It becomes overwhelming. I am no one's to have. To have is to own, it means I am an object--I am expendable. One day, this knight will tire of me and I will be disposed of as thoughtlessly as he claimed me.

With that realization in my mind, I run.

I don't hear or feel or smell, I just run. My vision has become pins as I dodge boulders and creeks, tree limbs that seem to reach in my direction. There are no thoughts in my head. I don't know where I intend to go or how I intend on surviving, all I know is that I have to put space between myself and Tristan.

In the end it is pointless. The stitch in my side forces me to slow down, and when I do I am yanked into the side of a strong body.

My arms are twisted behind me.

"eiddof fi," Mine.

"No. I never will be." My breathless voice hangs in the air, not as strong as I intended--but the words themselves cause a scowl to shadow the knight's face.

"You are mine, Julietta." he growls, taking me by my long locks. I am forced to look at his face, my head wretched back by the pulling of his fingers. His stare moves from my eyes, to my lips.

This man has never kissed me, but as we stand suspended in time I know that he is going to now.

I don't want him to.

My wishes don't matter as he leans down to steal a kiss. It is delicate, his lips soft against mine. In any other circumstance, this kiss would have me melting on the spot. The drag of his lips against mine would have me falling irrevocably and desperately in love.

Jamie didn't even kiss me this way.

Jamie.

The thought of my deceased husband draws me back to the real world. Brings me back to this moment and what this kiss actually means: possession.

I know that my impulsiveness is going to get me killed one day. I don't think I care anymore. I bite down on his lip, hard. A grunt of pain escapes the knight in front of me as he pulls his face away from me. Tristan's lip is already bruising from my teeth and I feel sick delight in his pain.

Clutching the back of my neck, Tristan shoves two fingers between my lips and into my mouth--they hit the back of my throat, forcing me to gag. I try to lean back, away from him but he has me trapped as he draws out his fingers just enough to depress my tongue.

"When will you understand, Julietta, that I find pleasure in your anger?" His low voice crawls around me. I cannot reply as his other fingers wrap down under my jaw, effectively grasping my mouth.

He draws me down to my knees in front of him and lets go of the back of my neck. With my face in his brutal grasp, Tristan unsheaths a knife from his side. The gleam of the blade sends a shiver of dread through my body. Have I finally pushed him too much?

The knight drags the metal against my cheek and down my throat. The pressure is light enough that it doesn't cut me, but the cold blade to my skin is warning for something horrific. I force myself to still as it lowers even further to trace around my nipple.

"Take me out of my pants."

His words--at first--don't make sense. I scramble to understand what he is ordering, when I do, my eyes rise to his. The pressure on my nipple deepens. I feel the sting of the tip puncturing me just slightly. At my own gasp of pain, Tristan's smirk darkens his face.

I raise my hands slowly to his pants and work my fingers on the ties in order to loosen them enough to plunge my hand inside.

I'm met with smooth hardness. Glancing momentarily back up at the knight, I see his eyes are glazed over with anticipation. Pulling the fabric down with one hand and his length up with the other, I feel a shiver of fear--and something else--rumble through my body.

When I had been taken by the knight, I hadn't looked at him--only felt him. I had been sore for days afterward, but looking at him was a completely different experience. He was both long and thick, veins pulsed throughout his length. I couldn't believe that I hadn't ripped in half when he had taken me so brutally.

"I know I need not warn you about your teeth," the blade taps against the metal of my nipple piercing, "you will not live to tell the story."

I find it hard to breathe after his threat, after the confirmation of what he is ordering me to do; a lowly chuckle reverberates at the look of understanding twisting my features as his fingers fall from my mouth and to his side.

Focusing on his stiff length in front of me, I hesitate before leaning forward. I know how to do this, it is hardly as taboo in my time as I assume it is here. And, while I could refuse--I know that the knight will find a way to force me to do it anyway. Whether that is with his knife or with his strength.

The horrible part, the part I refuse to completely acknowledge, is that I am intrigued by doing this. I wonder at his reactions, I wonder at my own. Setting my lips against the head, I allow my tongue to dart out to wet the skin. The response is instantaneous: the fingers that have left my mouth cling to the hair at the back of my head. Tristan twists the strands as I suck his tip into my mouth.

He is too large to take completely without choking myself, but I do my best to take the majority of him. And with each inch I feel the man above me tremble; I am the one in power for just a little while.

Despite the fact that I can still see the blade glitter at his side from my peripheral vision, I scrape my teeth lightly against his taut skin. Then, I lap at the spot.

The movement causes the knight in front of me to stiffen, a pleasured groan escaping his lips. I repeat the motion again, before sucking on him. This time, Tristan becomes frenzied. The knife drops to the ground beside us as his other hand twines into my hair--pushing and pulling my head in rhythm with his hips.

I hold onto his legs, the movement of him causing darkness to spot my vision and heat to pool at my core.

The knight's reaction to my ministrations is intoxicating in a way I can't understand; his control of my body is pushing me towards my own pleasure.

It takes only a few more minutes before Tristan completely stops moving, a strained growl is followed by his throbbing and my mouth is filled with his seed. I could spit it out.

I choose to swallow it.

When I look up, I find that Tristan is staring down at me. He is still panting. I lick my lips. His pupils blow wide.

At his swift movement downward, I fear he is going to hit me for biting him before. But, my body is pulled up and crushed against his hard chest as he kisses me. Hectic, violent, and needy. I find myself kissing him back, just as crazed.

The only thoughts in my head are whether he can taste himself on my lips and that something is very wrong with me.

...

When Tristan is scouting, I ride with Gawain.

Long-haired blond Gawain. The first time it happened, I refused. The memory of his hands restraining my naked body as I was tied up burrowed into my mind. With part shame, part anger I stood beside his horse, dodging back whenever he moved to grab me in order to place me in front of him. I could tell I frustrated him, but the others laughed at him, at us, at the game I played to goad him.

Finally, the knight dismounted to grab me. He yelled words into my face as he held me by the shoulders and essentially flung me onto the saddle. I moved up as far to the front of the saddle as I could in order to not touch him as he mounted behind me, while pouting the entire hour we rode.

With time, I have found myself relaxing back. Still, there is tension between us--a general dislike--and I am surprisingly relieved when Tristan gets back from his duty each day.

I rationalize the relief as being attributed to the simple fact that I understand Tristan's temperament. Nothing else.

Today, the dark-haired knight is out scouting for longer than usual. Nearly the entire day passes, and still I ride with Gawain through the forest over creeks and rivers, along fields. It is mundane. I find my mind wandering to what happened this morning with Tristan. It haunts me, I can't stop thinking of it and how I reacted to his treatment of me. Regret and mortification ache the ridges of my body and I clench my hand and scrub my face to try to lessen the feeling.

I try to hide the ticks, but I can tell Gawain is getting exasperated with my constant movement. Finally, as I scrub knuckles against the side of my face--an immature attempt to scour away the memory--the knight behind me sighs dramatically.

"Can you stop that?"

My hand falls into my lap.

Even though we both know that his words were not truly a question, Gawain continues, "what not talking, again? You didn't seem to have a problem speaking this morning."

I don't react, I know he is provoking me out of pure boredom.

"Or is it just me that you refuse to talk to?"

I want to bite my tongue and continue my self-assigned muteness, but it seems talking once has opened the floodgates.

"It's you." My voice comes out quiet, but snotty.

There is a beat of silence that the sound of hooves on the beaten path fills.

The next time Gawain speaks, it is at the shell of my ear, forcing me to jump at the change in distance between us, "and why, dear maiden, do you despise me so much?"

I feel the memory of hands grabbing me--when I am so close to getting away--tingle on my body. I dodged and fought, then there he was--this knight who threw me over his shoulder and carried my back to that wretched witch test. Rationally, I know that if it wasn't him catching me, it would have been one of the others.

I don't care.

I want to direct my anger at somebody, and it is so easy with this smug knight.

Before I can speak, the man continues, "Why is it that you allow Tristan to touch you while you blush so prettily, but can't even stand the presence of me?" I scowl at his words; I do not 'blush so prettily' for Tristan. "I could make you scream more than he does if I was the one to sit between your thighs, I'd even take you in my bed rather than bucking you in the dirt."

I clench my eyes shut. I knew there was a chance that the knights had seen Tristan take me on the banks of that lake--that they saw my body betray me to his actions, that they heard me.

There is no privacy when traveling like we are.

Still, the knowledge makes me want to jump off a cliff to my instantaneous death, either that or push a couple of the knights off instead.

Before I can even get close to formulating a retort, Lancelot slows his horse to meander next to us, "Gawain, stop terrorizing the girl."

Turning towards me, the handsome knight smiles, "We will stop to camp soon, just a little bit longer now."

Thankful for the coming reprieve, I peek over to examine the handsome knight through my hair. Sir Lancelot. I wonder how much of the tales I've heard of him are true and how many are twists of fiction due to his charming looks.

I nod, and turn my head to look ahead.

Still no Tristan, only trees.

...

I sit cross-legged near the light of the fire, a delicately bound book in my hand. Reading old Welsh, I have found, is much easier than speaking it. Written, the words are not so far removed as time has made the pronunciation.

The book is a collection of poems that Bors had been reading one night aloud as we sat and ate. I could hardly understand the words at the time, but the sound intrigued me--along with the fact that I hadn't touched a book since I found myself in this time.