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The Tristan Effect	By : pharaohskitty Category: G through L > King Arthur Views: 4357 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own King Arthur, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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The crying inside of you

sometimes it gets inside of me

and all I want to do

is lay my head on your back

and listen to you breathe.

Title: Grieving Tristan
Author & email: pharaohs_kitty@yahoo. com
Type (slash/het/gen): slash
Pairing: Tristan/Lancelot/Gawain
Rating: NC-17, rape
Summary: Lancelot and Gawain consider Tristan's past
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.

Lancelot

Tristan was up on the wall again. He sat there staring out at the lengthening shadows on the northern side. The darkness in the forest contained something he yearned for. His hawk swept by on silent wings. She did not bother to land once she saw him sitting there. The body was on the wall, but the mind was someplace, somewhen else.

Lancelot wiped the sweat from his sword training with Arthur off his face with a bit of cloth that only served to smear the summer dust across his face. He watched the still Tristan blending like a grey shadow into the wall and considered him. Sometimes he considered him for hours.

Women screamed as the Romans mangled their village. This was the last stop for them. The Romans were anxious to get home but they needed a full complement of boys for the training. They'd only picked up twenty-nine so far. They needed seven more. Furiously they pulled up the skirts on women and girls, looking for the elusive boys that seemed curiously absent from this place. Where the few adult males got in the way, they simply slaughtered them. Lancelot watched from the rise where he'd hidden, sick from shock.

That morning the Romans had left the boys with two guards. When the captain had gone off to 'pick up' more sons of Sarmatia, Lancelot had burned with curiosity. He'd only seen his own village before now since he was not yet of age to go to the great horse fair. Only grown warriors escorted the valuable warhorses and mares to the trading. It was how the village got their metal goods and heavy cloths. He'd followed the Romans stealthily. Lancelot now bit his lip as Sarmatians died.

The Romans pried a small boy with golden hair loose from his mother. Tied like a rabbit he�d been tossed on one of their horses. What good was the boy going to do? He was too small to have even gotten his first blade. How was such a small boy supposed to guard a Roman holding?

The Roman captain was holding a young woman by the arm. He was dragging her away from her baby on the ground towards his horse. He must have decided he needed SOME reward for his wasted time. An arrow came flying out of nowhere through his arm from a returning horseman. Howling with what sounded more like affronted pride than pain, the captain sent his men after the archer.

The archer fled shedding the deer he'd been bringing to the village to the ground. His horse was already tired and the Roman horses were little used. They simply caught up to him and clubbed him to the ground. They tied him so he could not struggle, taking him in tow back to the village. There they dumped the warrior at the foot of the Roman captain.

For a moment the captain looked as if he would drive his spear through the young warrior, but then he shrugged. Almost casually he turned away only to cast his spear directly through the bodies of the fleeing young woman and child. On the way out of the village they picked up wood from the fires. The Romans tossed the wood onto the hide huts.

It was the first time Lancelot wept for Tristan.

"Lancelot."

Lancelot turned towards Arthur. He was Arthur's left hand, the shield that guarded the commander in every fight. Arthur was what he fought for, what he believed in. Arthur cared whether they lived or died, whether they were taken care of. It was Arthur who created respect for them among the Romans. Arthur who acted as if he was truly a brother.

"Lancelot, why does Tristan never speak of going home? Of what will happen when the fifteen years is done?"

Lancelot thought he knew. Who could call home where no family was? And of what use freedom to a man with no home? He looked steadily at Arthur without answer. Lancelot simply turned back to watching the man on the wall.

Gawain

Gawain was gambling with several Romans when Tristan wandered down off the wall and into the dark beyond. Tristan preferred to sleep in the wood beyond the fort. Wet, cold, none of it mattered as long as it was as far from the others as he could manage before he rested. Gawain watched him go with wistful eyes.

It had been years since Tristan had acted as Gawain's father, older brother, uncle. Gawain had been a small boy in the training yard and full of a small boy's mischief. Tristan stood silent between angry Romans with blue skin from the bath. He dared them to hurt Gawain. Tristan had taken a beating meant for Gawain for cutting the mane and tail off the Roman commander's horse. Tristan had held Gawain's hair back when he vomited after his first battle. Now he could only watch Tristan in the distance as he came and went from his scouting.

Gawain's mother sang to him of green summer grass and the Wind. He'd just been closing his eyes on his pallet when the horse snuffled in the dark just beyond the firelight. His father had jumped up sword in hand as Tristan ambled into the circle of light on horseback. After a few tense minutes, he'd backed away simply fading into the night. Gawain's mother whispered frantically to his father about murdering thieving Tartars. His father had moved the village the next morning to the river's edge a half day's ride away. It hadn't been much use.

Gawain's mother was singing as she washed the laundry by the river while he played in the reeds. When the song was over, Tristan dropped out of a tree (there were a few by the river, magical things). One of his catch of rabbits had made it�s way into her hands. Tristan faded into the grass before Gawain�s mother even had time to catch her breath to scream.

Somehow they got used to Tristan wandering into and out of their camp perimeter. He tended to show up most when someone was singing or drumming. Tristan would sit listening politely. Before the performance was quite over he�d then leave quietly. Gawain remembered the look on Tristan's face the day the rest of the village rejoined them with the older animals and people who'd needed a slow move to the summer grasslands. Tristan stared at Isil the Sweet so long he forgot to leave. It was only a matter of time before a baby came.

It was only a matter of time before the Romans came.

Gawain opened his hand and let the dice fall outside the circle. He simply left his wager and walked away from the Romans. His mother's singing was in the Wind . Gawain went to listen while he could still hear.

Lancelot

Lancelot lay in his cold bed staring up at the shadows flickering on the ceiling from the dying fire. He still did not like the shadows from firelight or torchlight. Even the lukewarm presence of the Briton sun was preferable . He considered Tristan. How much worse was it for Tristan who'd been in the center of those torches?

Raiders had struck inland nearly sixty miles. The raiders had stolen the wives and children off of a Roman holding to the south of the west end of the Wall of Hadrian. The Sarmatians regarded this with some skepticism. Why would raiders (with HORSES yet!) come inland all that way to steal slaves when there were plenty of weak settlements on the coast? Raiders from the sea with warhorses? Ha!

Several of the yet unproven Sarmatian calvary were sent out with two young Roman officers. Their orders were blunt. Slow down the raiders on their return to the sea until the main Roman force could catch up.

The newly empowered Roman officers had set a grueling pace to come up behind the fleeing party. Racing after the raiders, they'd run straight into them at a ford. The Roman officers found themselves pitching battle unprepared.

Tristan had shot the raider with red cloak and plume through the thigh straight off with a well placed arrow. With the arrow broken off in the leg, it hadn't even slowed the red raider down. He plowed through the officers and Sarmatians alike. His sword was deadly. A sword stroke here and a jugular spouted blood. A down twist there and the tendons in an arm were severed.

Tristan killed several of the raiders after the Roman officers fell. Bors succeeded in killing a couple simply by brute force. The raiders fell on Bors together, a pack of hounds to the fierce boar. The raiders beat him on the head until he lay still. None of the others truly had the skills yet to be effective. The red raider simply toppled the boy children Gawain and Galahad from their saddles on the way by to get to Tristan. Other raiders seized and bound them. Lancelot wounded many, but was pushed off his horse by an axe, a very large axe that split his shield. Dazed and stunned, Lancelot hardly moved as they captured him. Dazed still, it had seemed a dream as Tristan frantically fought the red raider. Tristan was backing away from the vicious attack as he fought to live, to keep his horse alive.

Tristan's sword seemed to leap from his hand onto the ground. He ducked away just in time as the raider's sword swept by his ear. Tristan�s dagger was in his hand in seconds. It slipped off the ends of his fingers as the raider passed him. It flew solidly into the back left shoulder to the hilt. It seemed to really piss the red cloaked figure off. As he passed by the now weaponless Tristan, his sword lashed out and smacked Tristan flat against his temple. Tristan dropped like a stone out of his saddle upon the ground.

Tristan struggled back to his feet before they reached him. He'd unearthed yet another dagger and would have fought on. They simply stood there with knives to the throats of Gawain and Galahad. Tristan dropped back to his knees.

It was the second time Lancelot wept for Tristan.

Gawain

Gawain wandered into the stable. His fair head leaned against his horse. He mumbled into it's mane, "Do you remember your home as little as I do mine, my brother? Do you dream of things you cannot stop from happening too?"

Gawain knew another Tristan. There was a Tristan once who'd patiently showed him how to whet a blade. There was a smiling Tristan who'd encouraged him to sing about the fire with his mother when they were at rest. There was the Tristan who'd held his son in his arm. He�d said to Gawain, "Look you on my future where once there was nothing." Even after the Romans had taken them, that Tristan had still been inside the unsmiling shell left behind. The Tristan that walked and talked now, that was an unfeeling, bloodless being that simply existed to kill.

Gawain flopped down into the straw beside his horse. Maybe he could sleep here for a change instead of lying awake. Gawain tried to recapture memories that slipped ever further out to sea. Except of course, the memories that he fervently wished he could drown and wash away.

The raiders had dragged their five captives with them. At the time, it had seemed senseless and odd behavior. For days, the captive knights rode bound upon their horses. It hadn't taken any of them long to realize the "kidnapped" women and children were being rescued.

The raiders paused to let the women and children down to take a piss in the woods in the fading light. One of the raider's scouts came riding in fast. The horse bearing the scout was nearly blown out. Foam oozed dripping from the horse�s mouth. Straightaway the scout stumbled to the red cloaked knight. The knight�s face they still had not seen beneath red cloak and red plumed helm.

The red raider had given quiet orders. Four of the freshest, fastest horses were led forward. Two of the lightest raiders mounted up trailing the extra horse behind on a line. The boys Gawain and Galahad were thrown up into the saddles before them. Gawain had looked back in anguish as the woods swallowed up Bors, Lancelot and Tristan's faces.

The raiders rode straight for the sea with the boys, switching horses as they went to give the other a rest. Gawain and Galahad clung together at every stop for water, food and precious little rest. Stolen by Romans and now stolen by the sea raiders, they were brothers whose blood was sealed together by terror.

Lancelot

The sweat poured down Lancelot�s back until he was soaked even though the fire had completely died away. He sat up roughly and pulled his tunic over his head. With a cry of disgust he flung it at the wall where it slid down leaving a snail trail of dampness behind. He put his head in his hands snarling out loud, "Why won�t the gods let me sleep tonight? It�s not even my damn nightmare!"

Tristan had started cursing as they�d taken away Gawain and Galahad. Lancelot heard him call upon every god of every land he�d ever heard of and many whose names he did not know. The horses loaded with women and children were carefully led away into the lengthening grey evening shadows. None of THEM looked back at the remaining captives and the dismounting raiders.

Lancelot watched the red cloak give orders to one of the others. The oldest warrior he�d ever seen came to stand before the tied Sarmatians. Years later, the white braids and wrinkled face remained etched in his mind. The eyes gazed at them flatly. Time itself stood still while six of the raiders seized them.

The old man spoke in halting Roman as if the words were not only long unused but foul in his mouth. "Tomorrow with the sunrise, the ox and the wolf will go free. The Roman legion is not far from here."

Lancelot had seen then. He had seen the terror in Tristan�s eyes just before he became still. A single tear escaped and carved a slow waterfall down the stone Tristan had become.

Lancelot didn�t understand. He still didn�t understand as the raiders bound Bors and himself to trees. They lighted small fires in a circle. Tristan was struggling now, but his face was as blank, as cold as winter snow. The old warrior stood to Lancelot�s side and spoke harshly, "You will watch all. Turn away, do not look, and it will be worse."

In the end Lancelot wondered if it COULD have been any worse.

Gawain

Gawain huddled into the straw. Deliberately, he picked his mind for the memories of good things, the memories of minutes, seconds he had been happy.

His first kiss - Vanora when she first came to the fort. He�d helped her set her things in one of the huts abandoned by the dead at Tristan�s orders. Her mouth had been warm upon his lips and chaste for all that she was a whore. It was as if she knew it was a first thing, a special thing.

His first weapons - Tristan sighing as he realized such a small lad wasn�t going to be able to wield a dagger much less a sword with enough force to kill. Tristan getting that "Aaah!" look in his eye as he hauled Gawain out of harm�s way after he�d let fly a stone at the Roman Captain�s horse neatly plonking the exact spot on the sensitive nose guaranteed to make the placid beast run mad. Tristan patiently cutting the axe heads then binding them to the wood with rabbit gut. Tristan taking the time to show him how to let them fly. Tristan endlessly competing with him to build his arm`.

His first swim - Tristan hauling him and Galahad to a spring. Tristan had thrown them in, then diving in after them to steady them as they floundered.

His first horse - Tristan slapping the reins of dead Ector�s fractious mare into his hands and grunting, "Well, no one else can handle her."

Gawain wryly considered the fact that all of his good memories contained Tristan. All of the memories that haunted him too.

Gawain and Galahad were tied back to back wrist to wrist upon the shore. Small boats were guarded anxiously by the few raiders left behind. A great cry went up as the horses laden with women and children came into view. A great deal of crying and laughing through tears was going on as the "kidnapped" women and children were rowed to the waiting ships.

Only tense silence greeted the warriors who came trailing along behind. They were stripped of their armor quickly. Each warrior swam his horse out to the ship where it was lifted onto the long ships with a belly band. Most of the horses screamed in terror and with the fear pervading the entire herd, it became a dangerous task. Finally only a few sea raiders were left upon the beach.

The boys were cut apart and left at a fire to their own devices as the last of the loading began. A huge bundle of cloak wrapped cloth was dumped by the fire. Eventually one of the raiders came with a bucket of cold stream water and a huge pot. The old man carefully unwrapped the sticking cloth to reveal the body within. Between the dirt and the vast quantity of blood on the naked body, it took Gawain a long time to realize it was Tristan.

Blood oozed from all over Tristan. His body was black from deep bruising. The endless supply of slash marks on his arms and legs had drained so much of his blood that he was left as pale as the dead the Sarmatians buried. Galahad had thought they were preparing the body for burial. He�d started a tiny mewling cry into Gawain�s shirt. Gawain had shook the smaller boy and said "Look, the wounds still bleed. Only the living do so, Tristan himself told me to look for that on the battlefield." This only made things worse for then Galahad thought the raiders were going to bury Tristan still living.

The old man carefully wrapped the cleansed and salved Tristan into a new clean cloth much as the Sarmatians did for burial. Then two of the raiders came to lift the body up. It wasn�t until they loaded Tristan into the boats that Galahad finally stopped his bawling. The old man came to them saying , "Stay here by the fire. The Romans will come soon."

Gawain had cried then too. They were taking his brother, his father away.

Gawain fought the sorrow off. He began to recall every good memory he had of Tristan deliberately. Tristan reassuring him when he woke with a hardened cock for the first time. Tristan standing behind him teaching him to trim his beard and hair. Tristan naked in the pond with Gawain making sure he could dive. Tristan naked on the surgeon�s board being slowly, patiently stitched up all while he was giving his report to Arthur. Tristan naked in the firelight in the cave after they�d soaked their clothing to the skin in the first winter storm.

Gawain ruefully gave himself into it. He knew from experience that it did no good to fight it. He gave himself over to the images of Tristan naked ANYWHERE. His hands trembled with anxiety as he unlaced himself. Once he could reach down and bring himself to silent solitary pleasure, he�d settled deeper into the hay. He�d gotten good at biting his lip so that none could hear his whimpers or that final deep grunt of release. The mere touch of his own rough fingers on the tender skin of his cock rolled his eyes up wildly. Imagine the long slender archer�s hands wrapping lightly, gripping (all archers grip firmly) with an iron strength around the touch sensitive skin. Imagine Tristan�s bright teeth as he swallowed the heavy weight of Gawain's cock into the warm pocket of his cheek.

Lancelot

Lancelot paced his room, the unbearable memories building in intensity inside him. He couldn�t force them away back into the darkness. The amulet in his hand reminded him of better things, sweeter things. The night brought only bitterness to him.

Lancelot and Bors watched in ignorance, the horror was yet to settle into them. The raiders stripped Tristan slowly, lazily as if there were no Roman legion a short march away. They made a game of it. This raider would hold him and that raider would cut away part of his clothing. In the meantime their hands slipped into and under that clothing. Their rough calloused hands fondled bare skin where it was available. They stroked him with their hands. They spoke to him of things they would do. Tristan fought mechanically and remained frozen eyed.

Tristan remained unmoved even as he was made naked before them. The red raider remained off to the side unmoving, unspeaking with helm yet in place. One of the raiders slid his fingers around Tristan�s manhood and cupped it gently. As faithless as always, it rose to the slightest sense of pleasure. The raiders threw a pack down and covered it with cloth. They laid Tristan upon it with his slightly hardened cock to the sky. He was held down one raider to an arm, one to a leg and one to hold his head. One of the raiders swigged out his mouth with ale then bent down to swallow the faithless organ whole, repeatedly. Tristan�s face remained unmoved as the heat of the raider�s mouth, HIS mouth excited the errant staff . The raiders tongue inside that hot cavern slid in it�s own rhythm separate from the lips that gripped the wayward creature. The tongue slid under the foreskin and into the eye of his cock. Tristan could not help it then, he bucked and duly fountained gloriously into and upon the mouth that so perfectly seduced him. His face never revealed it. It remained stony and cold.

Lancelot had watched torn between fascination and humiliation. He could not take his eyes away even had the old man not instructed them to watch.

Lancelot struggled against it, this NEED that took him when he was driven by these nightmares. He dragged his hands through his hair, beat them on the wall, but sooner or later they slid down to grip his own stiffened rod in his hand with the other fondling his balls. He cried bitter tears as he did it, but he brought himself to the pinnacle of pleasure again and again leaning against the wall before backing off in undeniable guilt at the very thought of finishing.

They turned Tristan over and it was then that Lancelot heard him break. The raiders poured oil upon his back in a warm puddle. Tristan began to whimper, just slightly. One raider smeared the slick stream down the sharp back bone into the crack in Tristan�s ass. As the raider took fingers slick with oil and probed into his ass, Tristan began to beg.

The raiders tired quickly of the teasing. They began to free their own cocks of their constraints. Lancelot had watched in horror then, unable to tear his gaze away, wondering if he was next. They shoved their cocks into the wildly bucking Tristan one by one until he stopped struggling. Repeatedly they fucked him, each cock leaving streaks of blood behind on Tristan�s legs as they withdrew from his rigid body. Over and over they used him until finally they shuddered to a halt, none able to continue. The last one rolled off the limp beaten Tristan who rolled into a fetal ball whimpering. They were through but it wasn�t over. It would NEVER be over.

Lancelot could no longer stop himself. His seed exploded upon the floor. At that moment he hated himself. How could his body take PLEASURE in the memory of Tristan�s rape? He laid down upon his cot guilty. Eyes closed once again against the storm, Lancelot was swept away by the nightmare as he tried to rest.

All this time the Red Knight had watched unmoved off to the side. Now he gestured and two of the raiders strung the unresisting Tristan up to the tree. The unrelenting Red Knight came forward with a many-ribboned lash in his hand. Slowly, methodically, with machine precision he stripped the flesh off Tristan�s back and left great bloody wounds on his arms, his legs. The blood flowed in great clumps, partly congealing as it fell, partly skin and tissue.

The raiders turned him over against the tree. The Red Knight striped Tristan�s chest. So much blood washed down his chest onto his legs that it must have felt as if he was pissing on them. For the last cruelty the leather lashed directly across Tristan�s crotch evoking an unearthly shriek of AGONY from the nearly senseless warrior. The raiders cut down the now unmoving body and walked away.

The old warrior cut the bonds on Bors and Lancelot. They were dragged away from the lump of flesh lying on the ground howling like mad things. Bors struggling to get loose, to GO to their brother, their shield. Lancelot simply striking out, mad from the grief.

Before they were turned loose, the old warrior spoke to them in that odd flat tone, "Where are the boys we took away? Gone, sent ahead, riding to the sea upon the swiftest horses until they reach the ships. If the women and children do not reach the sea behind them in seven days..."

Lancelot understood then. What happened to Tristan was PROOF that it would happen, that they were evil enough to do it wholly. The threat to the boys was so horrible that a Roman commander with even a shred of conscience might slow down long enough to let the raiders slip away, to save the boys. It was up to them to either convince the Roman commander to let the raiders go (inside he laughed, the Romans would throw the lives of Gawain and Galahad to the dogs) or to lead them astray long enough. He nodded firmly and took the still benumbed Bors by the arm as they stumbled away.

It was the third time Lancelot wept for Tristan.

In due time they arrived on the coast to see the ships slipping out to sea. On the beach were the slight figures of their brothers huddled around a fire. He had only patiently pointed out to the Roman commander that *really, how could you expect them to have tracked well, they were not scouts like the missing Tristan*. The furious Roman captain forced the young Sarmatians to all sorts of vile disgusting chores, but Lancelot and Bors merely did them while silently rejoicing in the lives of their young brothers.

It wasn�t until days later that Gawain was finally able to speak to Lancelot. "He never twitched, but his chest lifted and fell under the bloody bandages. Tristan lives."

Gawain

His comfort taken care of for the moment, Gawain lay sprawled in his horse�s stall hidden by the hay. It was then he heard the soft footfalls coming into the stable. The melodic tones of Tristan�s voice floated over to him. He was readying his mare for yet another run into Woad territory. Hot blood flooded Gawain�s fair face as he lay still in the straw hoping DESPERATELY that Tristan would not hear him breathe yet wishing that one more time Tristan would LOOK at him, not through him.

The winter was long and the Romans cruel to the "useless brats". Prayers to every god of a Sarmatian warrior were offered up. The choicest bits of everything laid upon makeshift altars. His name was never mentioned but at least one of them was free. Tristan was either living or dead in another land, hopefully one without Romans.

The Sarmatians were unsurprised when the first spring winds blew in Tristan upon a fine new mare. They just accepted that he was back. The day he came back, he�d first looked THROUGH the joyous Gawain. He came back deadly and icy and full of a grace of movement that seemed to connect him to the wind and the trees. He came back cold.

Since the day Tristan returned, he rode or walked into the forest to sleep. He never went with the Sarmatian knights to the Roman baths anymore (the only GOOD thing about being in Roman service according to Lancelot). He never went whoring with them.

Since the day Tristan returned, he sometimes sat on the top of the wall. He stared north into the forest for hours. Since he came back, Tristan smiled that cold, cold smile as he killed. Since he came back, he rode alone ... straight into the face of death.

Lancelot

Lancelot woke with his heart beating so fast that it felt as if he�d been fighting for hours upon an endless battlefield. The light fog hazed what was left of the moon as he stumbled out into the hallway. When he reached the yard, he could see that it wouldn�t be much longer until dawn as the lightening of the grey had begun.

Lancelot paced in the yard suddenly furious with Tristan for never speaking of what happened. Bors and Lancelot had kept silent on what exactly happened that day. Tristan never spoke of any of it to anyone. Hades and Hell, Tristan never spoke to anyone about anything personal unless it was about someone else. Then only if he could not find a way to avoid the conversation. Lancelot suddenly wanted, needed to KNOW.

He paced from one side of the yard to the other until he calmed down. His NEED still drove him so he wandered into the stable�s open door to groom his horse (yet again. The poor thing was so slick and magnificent that it had taken to shying away from the brush.) And there, there was Tristan leaning up against his own mare whispering into her ear as he loaded the packs on her. Lancelot stomped the rest of the way into the stable. He sprawled gracefully across the nearest hay bale to Tristan. Tristan turned to him amused at the childish temper, "Can�t sleep?"

"Not when your nightmares ride upon the night."

"My nightmares?" Tristan was decidedly less amused and his eyes iced over.

Lancelot found his voice breaking. He looked away into the wispy fog. "The... the whipping and the..." his voice deepened with shamed sorrow, "...the other."

Tristan�s voice lightened into amusement. "Do you by chance, Lancelot, think I sleep OUT THERE because of nightmares?"

Lancelot turned to answer discovering Tristan squatting next to the hay bale with his mare�s reins in hand. His face was mere inches away. Lancelot got caught in Tristan�s eyes. HE couldn�t answer because apparently he�d forgotten how to think. The NEED grew inside of him, that pervasive NEED to KNOW..... It blossomed full force into a raging inferno. His heart began to beat heavily as if for battle.

Tristan looked steadily back at Lancelot. "It�s my dreams that drive me out, Lancelot. My dreams and fear that someone might hear... might hear..." Tristan�s voice trailed off as he looked down at the expanse of bare skin Lancelot was currently sporting. A trickle of sweat slid off Lancelot�s cheek onto his chest. It made a small rivulet down that hot skin.

"Might hear what, Tristan? I don�t understand." Lancelot leaned forward intently. "TELL ME."

Tristan�s hand snaked out. One finger softly trailed across Lancelot�s cheekbone. He felt Lancelot freeze beneath the touch even as a deer would freeze in the face of a predator. Standing up Tristan stepped away with his mare out the door. At the last minute he then turned back to face Lancelot.

"Might hear me cry out for Gawain�s mouth to suck me, might hear me beg for Arthur to fuck me, might hear me call out Lancelot�s name as I come in my dreams or maybe when I come in my hand. Someone might hear and never stay to be near me again."

Tristan walked out the door with his horse before Lancelot could focus. He sprang up to follow but it was too late. Tristan was long gone.

"Gods, how stupid have I been? Why didn�t I reach out and stop him? I am such an idiot!"

"Hear, hear....and you�re not the only one."

Lancelot turned to see a straw covered Gawain following him. Lancelot looked at Gawain. Finally he UNDERSTOOD something.... They both grinned joyously and filled with the spirit of KNOWING flung arms around each others shoulders as they went in search of food, drink and the patience to wait for Tristan�s return.

Lancelot would be damned if he�d weep over Tristan again.
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The Tristan Effect