Tristan

The Western Kingdom – Castle of Vausterland

Red tapestries embroidered in gold hung down the walls of the large council chamber. Sunlight reached in through the high glass windows, providing light and warmth against the gloomy faces surrounding the long table in the middle of the room.

"We have no option but to negotiate with the Northmen," Tristan said with narrowed eyes.

"But is he even awake yet?" one of the council members asked, only to flinch as he received a dark glare from Tristan.

"It has been a whole silver moon already Tristan," King William turned gently to Tristan who was sitting right next to him.

"Give me one more week," Tristan frowned with determination before he got up to his feet, "and I promise you we will have Grytia back without a single drop of bloodshed."

It had been indeed a whole silver moon since their outrageous defeat at Grytia. Tristan clenched his fists as he walked away from the council chamber, still unable to believe how this had happened, how they had been utterly defeated by some weak Northmen...

One month earlier

They had been so close to victory.

Tristan was leading his men forward, chasing the Northmen who were already fleeing the battlefield. But beyond the sound of his Pegasus's flapping wings he heard a distant low grumble. He would have brushed it off as thunder, but the sound was rising constantly, and next, sudden howls and cries followed from behind. Tristan quickly turned back towards the sound. His heart sank as he saw thousands of black clad forces appearing out of the Western forests that lined the battlefield, charging behind his army.

They did not look like Northmen, neither did their armor nor weapons. Before Tristan could think, he found his army attacked by the foreign savages who mercilessly swung their brutal axes and spiked clubs, severing heads and crushing skulls as they closed in at the Vausterians from the rear. And just as he commanded his men to turn and fight them, the Northmen who were fleeing the battlefield, had come back to attack them from the other side. Tristan's mind froze for a moment, before it started to dawn on him. It was a trap!

The Vausterian forces were trapped by the Northmen at the front and the foreign savages at the rear, cut off from the castle completely. The savages were rapidly penetrating through their lines, and before he knew it, Tristan found himself facing the black clad demons. He quickly raised his sword, struggling to stay alive beneath the brutal assault, hardly managing to keep off the fatal blows that poured upon him from all directions. But one strike meant for his chest that he miraculously dodged had hit his ride.

His Pegasus cried and writhed in midair, before it started diving to the ground. Tristan held on tight to its reins as the large heavy beast sunk below. He closed his eyes as the beast collided with the ground, knocking him off. Tristan went rolling onto the ground, choking on dust and blood before his large body decided to make a stop. It took him a few moments to recover the deadly fall and get back to his feet, gasping for air. He was still staggering, and horrible pain shot through his left leg. It was apparently broken. But he still held his sword, and he growled as he fought off the demons charging at him.

His men were falling rapidly before the massive army of Northmen and savages which outnumbered them by thousands. Tristan realized that if they continued to fight, they would be annihilated. And indeed, his men could not hold against the savages, and they fell one after another beneath the vicious blades and spikes and arrows, their dying cries ringing within the battlefield.

Tristan looked around him, searching for any members of his army, and he realized with horror that within these past few minutes most of the Western army had already been destroyed. Despite being completely circled and isolated from his men, Tristan continued to fight fervently, but his progress did not last for long. The enemy lines pushed further and further. 

"Retreat!" Tristan cried out. And the remnants of his forces soon turned and fled the battlefield.

Left alone in a hopeless fight with a few dying men, Tristan tried to think of any way to escape this trap. His eyes caught Mikal's lifeless body lying on the ground in the distance, shadowed by a great silver Pegasus that kept circling and nudging him. Without giving it a second thought, Tristan leapt up and charged through the enemy lines, cutting off heads and wings on his way until he reached Mikal.

With one swift movement he bent down and snatched the lifeless body, hurling it over the silver Pegasus, before he leapt up and mounted behind him. Placing Mikal before him as a shield, Tristan nudged the Pegasus and it took off to the sky. A few arrows shot towards him, but thanks to his corpse shield that took the arrows in his stead, Tristan was able to escape unharmed. With this, Tristan successfully managed to follow what remained of his men, while he could hear the triumphant cheers of Northern army behind him as they claimed victory.

Tristan could see his remaining men flying before him in the distance. He urged the silver Pegasus to fly faster so he could catch up with them. But he realized that the poor beast could not go any faster because of the weight of the two grown men mounting it. Tristan looked down at Mikal who lay motionless against his chest, his face fully covered in blood and his pale hair dyed red. There was no point in holding to him any longer, as he had successfully managed to flee the battlefield, and Mikal's body was only slowing him down. Yet he knew that the only reason the silver Pegasus cooperated with him was because Tristan had hold of its owner. He would not risk letting go of him now after he had come this far.

They were well out of the battlefield, and well far from Grytia by now. Tristan had caught up with his men, and they stopped for a short rest deep in the middle of the forest. It would be a good opportunity to burn Mikal's body, or just leave it there for the crows, he didn't care. 

Tristan had barely laid the dead body down onto the ground, when he found a hand suddenly grabbing his shoulder. Tristan looked in horror at the corpse in his arms, where he found it clinging to him. And as he looked down at its face, he could swear he saw its blood stained lips quivering...

***

Tristan reached the other end of the forest two days later. Along with the remnants of his men, most of his household and servants had also made it safely, having managed to escape Grytia before the Northmen reached the castle gates. 

He limped solemnly through the campsite, watching as uninjured men worked around setting the tents. Women cooked and helped healers tend to the wounded. Muffled groans and hushed cries of pain and loss filled the cold air. 

Having suffered enough pain and loss himself, Tristan turned towards his tent in hopes of seeking a moment of peace. But unexpectedly, his eyes fell on Merina in the distance. He froze in place at the sight of his little daughter, safely snuggled in her governess's arms. His chest tightened, his throat grew sore, and he quickly turned back the other way. It had been several moons already, but he still could not bear seeing her. He could not face those sparkling round grey eyes. Her mother's eyes...

It was late at night as Tristan sat next to Edward, his best friend and advisor, staring darkly towards the campfire that glared back into his eyes. He had been losing a lot more than he could afford lately. First, his wife. And now, his castle. Perhaps when he went back to Vausterland he would lose his position too after leading King's William's army to such a disastrous defeat. No, I would not let that happen...

Tristan quickly stood up with dark determination on his face.

"Where are you going?" Edward asked as he looked up at Tristan, the warm fire reflecting in his worried honey eyes.

"I will be back shortly," Tristan said as he patted his friend's shoulder, before he turned towards the darker end of the campsite, until he reached a small tent guarded by two large winged guards.

"How is he?" Tristan asked as he entered the tent where two healers stood tending earnestly to the wounded victim that lay before them. Despite the cold and darkness outside, the inside of the tent was glowing with light and warmth.

"He's not getting any better," the younger healer, a beautiful blonde, said at once.

"The wound is too deep. It is not healing," the other healer, a calm winged woman with long black hair said. "He's severely feverish as well. I don't think he will make it past tonight."

"No! He must live," Tristan scowled as he approached the bed and looked down at Mikal who lay shivering unconsciously in bed. A large bloodstained piece of cloth covered the right half of his face, while the other half was drenched in trickling sweat. He was indeed terribly feverish. The young healer continued to wipe his body with a cold compress, while the elder one removed the cloth on his face to apply more healing potions. Tristan grimaced at the unsightly mess of torn flesh and blood.

"You must do something," Tristan insisted. Mikal's life was more valuable than anything now. Tristan knew how important he was in the North. With him held prisoner, they could have a chance at negotiations with the Northmen. They might as well be able to exchange him in return for Grytia. "He must live by all means!"

"It's out of our hands," the elder healer said calmly. "It's the fever. If he doesn't cool down by tonight, or tomorrow at the most, he won't make it."

"Then make him cool down!"

"We are trying our best," the young girl said as she pulled Mikal's long hair out of the way and raised it above his head, so she could wipe his neck and shoulders with the cold compress. "With all this hair and wings he would barely cool down."

"Cut it off!" Tristan said at once, and the two healers turned to him in confusion. "Cut his hair off," Tristan added as he realized his order might not have been clearly understood.

"My Lord!" the elder healer stared at Tristan with wide horrified eyes.

"This would help cool him down, wouldn't it?" Tristan said as he took out a knife from his pocket and handed it to the healer, but she only took a step backwards while staring at the knife in horror.

"But my lord, it wouldn't help that much."

"It doesn't matter. Just do it. If there is the slightest chance it would save him, then do it!"

The healer took the knife from Tristan reluctantly. But as she reached towards Mikal's hair, she only paused and her hands shook.

"I... I can't do such a grave thing. You know how sacred a winged one's hair is!"

"What use will his fucking sacred hair be to him when he's dead?" Tristan snapped, before he took the knife back out of the healer's hand. 

He could hear her gasp as he placed the knife high close to Mikal's head. He paused for a moment himself, contemplating the graveness of what he was about to do, before he let out a short determined sigh and chopped off a large chunk of hair. Strangely it felt gratifying. Apart from doing this with the purpose of saving his life, he also felt as if it were a little revenge for his earlier arrogance before the battle. Tristan chopped off another lock of silver hair, and another, and next Mikal's long glorious hair was falling to the floor one chunk after another, as Tristan continued to cut it off indulgently. It felt good, having that arrogant bastard lying all helpless and vulnerable before him, being unknowingly punished and reduced by none other than the human slave he belittled.

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