Galahad learned the hard way that, on very rare occasions, judgment and mockery begat a deep love and affection.
He had felt obligated to earn his place among the knights, despite the fact that the only way he could have lost his position was if he was stricken down in battle or by illness, and was prone to overcompensation to make himself feel worthy of his station. He felt he got on well enough with the rest, joking and enjoying the company of his fellow men, but he could feel a cold blade jamming deep into his side when he was alone with Tristan.
When they were fighting and riding alongside the knights, it seemed easy enough to tolerate his presence. It often seemed to Galahad that Tristan did not feel compelled to speak in the way that Bors or Arthur might, but that only made the task of getting to know the man all the more difficult. They fought together, there was always the chance they might die together on the battlefield, and yet Galahad scarcely knew anything of Tristan.
At dinner, sitting around a fire built only an hour before, the knights talked comfortably amongst themselves, bobbing and weaving in and out of conversation with each other, parrying to whatever half-heard words sounded most intriguing at that moment. Mead and meat fed their morale and made stepping into the middle of a conversation easy, but it didn’t seem to loosen Tristan up enough to do much more than laugh at a joke or stare at whomever he was listening to at that moment. Even during the most boisterous gathering, he would keep his head down, and his gaze would rarely fall onto Galahad. And, just as Galahad was one to do, he took this as a challenge.
He took the seat next to Tristan, positioning himself closer to the fire to fight off the chill creeping over the valley. Galahad tipped back his cup of mead and stared in Tristan’s direction, watching the flame’s shadows dance across his sharp face. He wondered where one had to come from to be born with the features Tristan possessed.
The knights had fallen into scattered conversation as they dug in, but Tristan did not seem to be listening to a single one. He stared into the fire and took bites of his rabbit, one of the many he’d hunted earlier that day.
And just like that, Galahad found his in.
“Did you happen upon a nest? I’ve never seen one man hunt so successfully,” a laugh tickled his tone, and he hoped his attempt at admiration might encourage camaraderie.
If the unshifting look on Tristan’s face was any indication, however, it did not have such an effect.
“Then you must not have seen many men.”
Galahad glanced to the fire, to the men sitting across it, drinking and laughing and gawking while they listened to fantastical stories, and he felt a sharp pang of disappointment. The blade was breaching his side.
“I only mean to compliment your adept hunting. Perhaps you could teach me one day so I’m not doomed to gather our firewood every night.”
Another swig of mead, sweet and pungent, a vain attempt to wash the taste of inadequacy out of his mouth.
“I believe you are more than capable of teaching yourself, if you actually mean to learn,” Tristan dismissed his niceties and ate another piece of meat. “I was not taught.”
The blade stuck deep into his middle, and Galahad resigned himself to leaving Tristan alone for the rest of the night.
In the morning, Galahad followed Tristan into the wood to watch him track a red deer. He opted for silent companionship, simply trailing Tristan on horseback and observing what he did. Hunting, tracking, trapping, it all seemed to come to Tristan as easily as breathing, and Galahad could not wrap his head around the idea of feeling at ease in a life like this. He wondered how Tristan might fare once their conscription ended.
Tristan rode ahead, weaving through a copse of trees to come out the other side, thirty paces from the deer he had been pursuing. She stood in a clearing, eating grass and paying no mind to the men just out of her field of view. Galahad was silent as Tristan pulled his bow from his back, drawing and aiming with a calm precision. He held it in place for a long moment, like he intended to leave Galahad in suspense as he waited for the deer to raise her head once more. She looked up, glancing in their direction, and it was over.
When he released the arrow, it cut through the air like a knife through butter before it pierced the deer’s skull. In the blink of an eye she had fallen, and Galahad was in awe of how he did it. How he did not struggle to hold the arrow straight and release it without driving it upward or down into the dirt, how Tristan could sit so still.
Galahad helped him carry it over to their horses, his arms trembling so much that he swore Tristan was shifting a majority of the deer’s weight to him, and they stopped at Branwyn’s croup.
“We’ll put it onto yours—she rides like she’s still wild.”
Galahad furrowed his brow at Tristan and masked it as exertion as they hoisted the deer onto Branwyn. She grunted, but bore the weight of the deer well. After the deer was secured upon her back, Galahad circled around to her front and stroked her neck. By then, Tristan was mounting his own horse without another glance in Galahad’s direction. Shut out once again, but frustration made him less mournful of that fact.
“Good Branwyn,” he cooed to her, smiling when she shook out her mane, “you are never needlessly cruel, like some people that I know.”
Galahad and Tristan didn’t speak for days onward, which only made fighting that much more awkward, but Galahad was intent on standing his ground. Perhaps that only made him look more like a child in Tristan’s eyes, and even when he felt the pull to attempt reconciliation he denied it—they still fulfilled their duties even if they could not tolerate each other.
Soon afterwards malice mellowed into indifference, and once again Galahad became curious about Tristan. It seemed that distance was able to heal some wounds after all.
Tristan sat silent at Galahad’s side during dinner and rode along with him through the south of Britain, and it seemed that they had reached a wordless, mutual understanding. Though, Galahad still could not help but want to ask him questions.
“Soon we will no longer be indebted to Rome,” Galahad said one afternoon as they surveyed the land from the top of a wooded hill, nestled amongst trees and brush. “What will you do then?”
Tristan was squinting into the distance, looking for any sign of roaming Woads attempting to blend into the scenery. At first, Galahad believed he’d gone unheard and was prepared to ask his question again when Tristan finally gave him the acknowledgement he’d been after.
“Ride, hunt, fight, what I have always done.”
Galahad supposed it might have been superfluous to ask a nomad what he might do with no obligations to fulfill, but he hoped for a little more than that. It was becoming clear to him that Tristan intended to keep him at arm’s length and discourage him when he attempted to pull himself closer. But pull, Galahad would.
“Do you not want peace in return for all you have fought and suffered?” He asked. Even a nomad must want a moment to lie in the sun and clear his mind, he thought.
To his left, Tristan laughed.
“You are young, and youth is foolishness.”
Galahad looked to his side, to Tristan, and sneered. “To want peace is foolish? Pray tell, where does your vigor to fight come from, then?”
Tristan’s lips curled into a smile—cold and unfriendly.
“Admiration of the craft.”
Galahad thought that his earlier malice might have been earned, and he avoided Tristan once they traded shifts with Gawain and Bors.
He calmed the hot heat pulsing through his veins by tending to Branwyn, raking his fingers through her mane and loosening the knots and mats she seemed prone to developing. She nickered at him while he spoke to her in a low, soft voice and complained about the boorish man he had the displeasure of keeping watch over the valley with during the afternoon. Galahad patted her neck and smiled when he was done plucking at her mane. While he did quite like all of the horses in their company, Branwyn was certainly the fairest with her pale gray mane like mist in the mountains.
“Let me see if I can find you something,” he said softly, leaving her at their camp while he went out in search of fruited trees.
He scoured the woods, hoping he might find anything Branwyn could eat aside from grass and whatever grains and oats had been packed especially for the horses. It would calm his stormy mood to make at least one individual happy, and Branwyn was certainly the easiest to appease.
What did not calm him, however, was the sight of a figure sitting underneath a gnarled apple tree. He spotted the red and yellow fruit before he spotted the man sitting with his back pressed to the trunk, shadows masking the face of whomever Galahad had stumbled upon. He reached for his bow with a trembling hand, presuming the worst—a Woad had come upon their camp, and they were moments from an ambush.
His breath became as shaky as his hands as he stepped closer, carefully, but not enough so to prevent him from treading upon a branch.
It shattered loudly, the sound echoing in the trees, and Galahad whipped his bow in front of himself. He reached desperately for an arrow, turning away only for a moment to glance at the quiver on his back when he felt a blade press to the front of his throat.
Galahad turned his head slowly, his heart pounding fast in his chest, and stopping when he felt the oddly sticky blade begin to slice into his flesh. His eyes turned the rest of the way, and his breath caught in his throat at the sight of Tristan holding him at the wrong end of his knife. He dropped his bow and let go of the arrow he was attempting to pull from his quiver, his blood running cold.
Tristan held him there for a prolonged moment, dark eyes boring deep into Galahad’s and threatening to pierce through to the other side. He wondered if Arthur’s prayers might have had some merit, staring down what he believed to be his untimely demise at the hands of someone he was meant to trust. Though, maybe he couldn’t blame Tristan for reacting in such a way to someone coming upon him unannounced and brandishing a weapon.
“It’s as if you want to prove me right,” Tristan bit as he threw Galahad backward, and he had not known that Tristan was holding his arm all that time.
He landed on his knees, the breath knocked from his lungs as his body collapsed. Galahad brought his hand to his throat and locked his gaze on Tristan, grimacing at him.
“I did not know it was you!” He huffed, his voice harsh in a way that he had not heard off of the battlefield. “I only meant to defend myself!”
Tristan wiped his blade across his leg and sheathed it, malice making every move harsh and startling.
“If it had not been me, you would be dead right now. Rome should be relieved that you are not its only line of defense.”
Tristan gathered his things from beside the tree, and Galahad spotted him placing a sliced apple in his pack. Only then did he remember seeing Tristan eating fruit slices from his blade when they were stopped on the road, and he felt rather foolish.
“You don’t need to leave,” Galahad said roughly, “I only wanted to pick an apple for my horse. I will be gone from you then.”
He approached Galahad, offering his hand and helping him back onto his feet. That seemed far too kind for him to do of his own volition, even when they were sparring. Perhaps it was an apology for attempting to slit his throat, though Galahad would have asked for more in return.
He looped his bow back around his body and trudged to the tree, picking an apple for Branwyn and one for himself, having to dig about in the foliage to find another so ripe and gaily-colored. Galahad could feel Tristan’s eyes upon him the entire time, and when he turned on his heel he found that Tristan had not moved. Suddenly, Galahad was not sure he wasn’t the red deer thrown across Branwyn’s croup.
He crossed the forest floor to Tristan, standing a comfortable distance from him. Though, no distance truly felt comfortable when he reminded himself of Tristan’s excellent marksmanship.
“Are you going to uphold your end of our bargain?”
Galahad schooled the disappointment off of his face and crossed his arms over his chest. “Why can you not speak to me without venom rolling off of your tongue?”
Tristan scoffed, a grin creasing his face, and he chided Galahad with an easy “What do you mean by that?”
“Whenever we are alone,” he started, anger trembling his voice, “you do not hesitate to make comments and jokes at my expense. It seems that you always seek to demean me or question my very nature, when all I am after is to know you better. We have been conscripted together for over ten years now—is it so wrong that I might like to know about the man whom I fight alongside day in and day out?”
Tristan raised a pale eyebrow, and Galahad felt that expression light a fire within him.
“If you do not like me, I wish that you would simply tell me, because it is madness trying to offer friendship when you seem to spite it!” He bit, feeling like a small, feral creature hanging off one of Tristan’s fingers.
Galahad’s breathing was heavy once more, his rage cooking him from the inside, and he turned to storm off. Bors might have some dirty story to tell them all come sundown, and Galahad would actually be glad to hear it now. That was, until his storming was involuntarily stopped.
He only had a moment to process the rough hand on his arm before he was spun around, another half-moment to process that Tristan had been the one doing the stopping before he felt an entirely new sensation: a mouth upon his own.
Galahad did not take lovers when they rolled through towns or found themselves in any establishment with an excess of women asking for their thrymsas in exchange for bedly companionship. As such, he had no idea what he was supposed to do when another mouth was pressed to his, certainly not when that mouth was attached to a man whom, only a few moments ago, Galahad decided hated him with utmost certainty. He could no longer be sure of that assessment.
Tristan pulled away from Galahad before he could gather his thoughts, and it felt in a way like another form of mockery. Like they were practicing sparring and Tristan had knocked him to the ground after telling him of an infallible defense technique. He initiated it, he had kissed Galahad first, and now he looked as if he was scrutinizing him for not fighting back.
He inhaled sharply, wetting his lips and finding it strange that he could taste something unfamiliar on his mouth. Galahad was, rather suddenly, at a loss for words.
He often noticed that Tristan would not take those women up on their offers, either, but he presumed that he saw himself as somehow above those women—in hindsight, he might have thought the same as Galahad and wanted to use his coinage for wine and mead instead. Now, he could think of even more reasons that Tristan would not seek that kind of companionship.
His eyes were sharp like his hawk’s, piercing through Galahad like he was something tasty. His heartbeat was a thunderous cacophony in his chest as Tristan parted his lips to speak.
“I hope that makes things clear.”
Tristan returned to the apple tree and sat, Galahad’s cue to disappear. He wasted no time stumbling out of the wood, attempting to moisten his dry throat all the way and failing spectacularly. Galahad was resolute and stern when he came out the other side of the thick copse of trees, feigning indifference as he wandered back to camp and forcing a bright smile onto his face as he passed Lancelot and Arthur. If his odd disposition was noticed, it was not commented on.
Days passed without acknowledgement of what happened in the woods. Galahad would allow Branwyn to fall behind when Tristan emerged at the front of their traveling party, take strategic seats wedged between other knights to avoid even catching Tristan’s gaze by mistake, and treat their scouting and watch missions as nothing more than business. Galahad would no longer pursue a personable relationship with Tristan, still rattled by the confusing nature of that singular kiss they’d shared, and Tristan did not seem fazed by this change. If he had intended to jilt Galahad, he more than succeeded.
While he did think back to those nights spent in each other’s silent presence, the comfort that came from having someone as competent and deadly as Tristan at his side, Galahad had to allow that regret to pass. If he allowed himself to dwell on it he would be no good to the knights, and he could only imagine that his self-pitying would get them killed.
Galahad found safety in the lack of confrontation he was subject to with Tristan no longer speaking to him. He had a peace of mind that felt so foreign when they were close—as close as Tristan allowed him to get.
He had finished gathering firewood along the edge of the forest and was preparing to take it back to camp as Tristan emerged for dinner. Dusk rolled over the valley and washed him in an indigo glow that stunned Galahad. Some part of him had always found Tristan to be beautiful, from the black ink on his cheekbones to the way he carried himself. Just this much of him, a quick glance, had already tamped down that peace of mind Galahad was just starting to appreciate.
His heart blossomed in his throat at the sight of him, far enough away from the other knights that they could speak frankly, though they would not. Galahad would avert his eyes, turning his attention to the wood in his arms in some foolish attempt to soothe his racing heart and mind, but that did nothing to help matters. It only encouraged Tristan to approach him.
“So you are avoiding me,” he said with a slight swell of pride in his voice, pleased that he’d figured Galahad out so thoroughly. “I gave you just what you asked for, didn’t I?”
“I only wished to know if you disliked me.”
Galahad felt silly as the words passed his lips: unless it was a strange intimidation technique, he could assume with some certainty that Tristan more than liked him. He just couldn’t figure why he showed it by taunting Galahad and making him feel younger and stupider than he really was. His head dipped down and he felt warmth spread across his cheeks.
“If I disliked you,” Tristan’s voice sounded as if it was growing closer, which Galahad could confirm to himself when his boots came into his view, “I wouldn’t look your way at all.”
He met Tristan’s gaze and let the tip of his tongue flit across his lips. Galahad was lost somewhere in his eyes, lost in yet another place entirely when he skimmed down to Tristan’s lips, wondering if they would again taste vaguely of apples.
“Why have you let me avoid you for this long, then?” Galahad, for all the bravery he could harness in combat, couldn’t find even a speck of it in his being when he was exhorting himself to close the small gap between their bodies and kiss him back. He had no use for words when what he wanted to express was purely kinetic, but that was all he could offer Tristan in that moment.
“I thought you needed time to reflect. I suspect you have never even considered being with a man if your reaction to a kiss was to stammer and run.”
That felt like a blow to the gut. Still, Galahad couldn’t say his line of thinking was wrong.
“I did not even know men could feel that way…” he trailed off, shaking his head and laughing uncomfortably. “I did not know it was possible for men to feel for each other what they feel for women.”
Tristan smiled back at him, one that no doubt had an ulterior motive to it but he still took as sincere. “That is something I have known for quite a long time, Galahad.”
His name sounded lovelier than an early morning in spring coming off of Tristan’s tongue, inelegant syllables and all. He reached one hand out and touched Tristan’s chest delicately, like Galahad was seeing him off to war. There was nobody around that could spy on the two of them, and yet he felt anxious at the mere thought of attempting to press a kiss to his lips.
“I want to know what it’s like. ‘Being with a man,’ like you say.”
Tristan took his hand and removed it from his chest, holding it low at his side.
“Come into the woods after lights out. Bring oil.”
His fingers slid across the backs of Galahad’s, and it felt as if the breath was being sucked from his lungs as Tristan caught his gaze once again, throwing him a small smirk as he stepped away to rejoin the others at camp.
After dinner was put away and the other knights were preparing for bed, Galahad volunteered to tie up the horses and whatever other unsavory chores were to be done. He emptied his water flask into a shallow dish and offered each horse a drink, wishing them good night as they lapped from the bowl.
When he was certain the others had finally gone to bed, he retrieved a specific item from a packet they’d been given two towns ago.
Galahad carried the small unguentarium of olive oil with care as he stepped into the forest, crossing through the threshold and into the wild world yonder. A world Tristan likely knew better than the rest of their party, one he looked at home in when Galahad happened upon him sitting alone. He quieted his breathing and took cautious steps through the bush, hoping he might get the chance to sneak up on Tristan for once.
He pushed onward, and after quite a good while of walking he felt as if he was lost. Galahad could not see the light of their camp through the trees and even if the world went silent when he screamed, he doubted they would hear him. Somewhere deep within him he wondered if Tristan had not been honest before, and all he sought was to make a bigger fool of Galahad than he already felt.
Galahad could not have been far from where he’d entered, but his hope was starving. He stood in the middle of a clearing, the unguentarium held tight in his grip, and he asked himself why he did not return to camp. There was still a scrap of flesh on the bones, a plea that Tristan would not lead him along.
Once again, when he finally felt that there was no reason to stand around and wait, he was set upon. Galahad gasped as something warm and strong wrapped around his throat, not tight enough to suffocate him but just enough to tell him somebody was there, and a body pressed flush to the back of his. The hand did not press into his throat, but the thumb traveled up to his unshaven jaw and stroked it gently. Galahad was proud that he had not dropped the unguentarium.
“I thought you were speaking in jest before you arrived,” Galahad exhaled roughly.
Tristan tipped his head back onto his shoulder and ran his thumb across the angle of his jawline. “I believe fully in the thrill of the hunt.”
His hand moved downward, breaching the neck of cuirass and making him hiss in delight. Galahad had not ever been touched in such a way, and he could not have anticipated just how exhilarating the feeling of a hand on his collarbone would be. Tristan caught Galahad’s mouth and kissed him, a much more violent endeavor than their first—Galahad could not be scared away now, and he found himself enjoying the feeling of a harsh mouth crushed against his own.
He was turned to face Tristan, and once again his hands wandered until he was grabbing at the clothes on his chest and pulling him closer.
“How does it happen between two men?” He asked in between kisses, his hand racing up to hold Tristan’s neck. Instinct kicked in and he stroked it, which Galahad was thankful seemed to only encourage Tristan.
“You will see.”
Galahad was forced up against a tree as Tristan undid his trousers, pushing them down his legs and quickly turning him around so his ass was left exposed to his fellow knight. Suddenly, it was made clear in his mind, and he gasped both in shock and excitement.
“I should feel some shame if you are to make me into a woman, shouldn’t I?” Galahad asked as he braced against the tree, sticking his bare ass out and gripping tight onto the bark.
“I did not,” Tristan responded easily, and his cock fell into line with Galahad’s hole. “I have always allowed myself the freedom to give and receive. One day you’ll know what both feel like.”
Galahad blushed and attempted to glance over his shoulder, curious what it would look like, Tristan penetrating him. He couldn’t find the proper angle before he felt a tight pressure pressing in against his foundation, and he gasped for air as that pressure grew. One of Tristan’s hands took hold of his hip and grabbed tight, keeping him as still as he could while he broke through Galahad’s barrier.
The chill of olive oil on his skin and the burn of Tristan opening him made Galahad shudder, every hair standing on end as he soon felt the breech. Galahad gasped as Tristan slid in fast, their bodies falling flush together. He groaned and pressed his forehead to the tree, his nails tearing into the bark.
“That was the worst of it.” Tristan reassured him. His voice poured directly into his ear as he kissed the folded ridge down to his lobe which he then took into his mouth.
Galahad bared his teeth and moaned, racking his hips back into Tristan. The unnatural stretch felt all at once fantastic and bizarre, and the sensation only became stranger still when Tristan moved his hips backward.
A grunt caught in his throat and melted, turning into a watery noise when it finally stopped. Tristan both held Galahad’s hip and braced one arm across his chest; his fingers dug into the cuirass and attempted to grasp onto his slight muscle. Next time, and Galahad would truly be broken if there was not a next time, he wanted to be entirely naked to Tristan. Though, he supposed he already had been when they washed, but it would be entirely different standing nude before him with a swollen erection.
He felt sweat beading at his hairline as Tristan pushed in once more. Galahad’s breathing was rough but rhythmic and in no time Tristan was matching the beat, creating a harsh melody between their bodies.
Tristan’s other hand began to wander as well, and soon it was wrapped around Galahad’s cock, stroking it fiercely and with clear intent to set him over the edge. Even without harsh words, he still would find a way to agitate Galahad; though, he much preferred this means of agitation.
“You’re at a loss for words,” Tristan teased. He licked a stripe up the side of Galahad’s neck, breathing hard against his skin.
“What would you like me to say?” Galahad huffed, arching his back as warmth filled him low in his belly.
His erection ached in Tristan’s hand, leaking onto his fingers and twitching with each additional pleasure being given to him. He threw his head back and exposed the column of his throat, which Tristan was quick to find with free fingers. They traced along the knot of his throat and moved downward to his collarbone, dancing there while his mouth worked on Galahad’s jaw—kissing the junction where it met his neck, biting at the bearded skin and making Galahad turn wobbly in his grip.
Now his breaths came out in resolute bursts, short and hard as pleasure tightened itself into a knot within him. Both ends were being pulled but the knot held firm, though Galahad knew it couldn’t hold for long. His cock being stroked in fast, well-practiced pulls, the other hand exploring his body while Tristan’s mouth found purchase all across his neck and ear, beginning to drift toward the junction of his neck and shoulder, all on top of the cock pounding in and out of him with feverish delight. Galahad had worked himself to completion before, but that had only taken a few undisturbed moments when he was certain the other knights were asleep, only to deal with a problem that had presented itself earlier in the evening.
Tristan had started from nothing with him and brought him to perfect hardness, his face hot and sweating as he panted desperately.
“Tell me how it feels,” he said against the side of Galahad’s throat, “to be fucked by a man.”
Galahad pressed the side of his face to the tree, the bark scraping his cheek with each hard thrust into his body. His hazy, half-lidded eyes found Tristan’s in the dark and he felt a renewed spark within him.
“It feels as if I’m being pulled open and all of my parts are being removed.” He smiled, grunting as he felt Tristan’s hips slam against his ass—he had stretched Galahad fully, filling him with all that he could give.
“And that is a good feeling?” Tristan must have known it was, as Galahad could see his eyes glimmering.
“It shouldn’t be,” he said. The muscles in his thighs tightened, and he saw stars in the corners of his vision.
Galahad was tipped over the edge when Tristan began to squeeze his cock, kneading it in one hand. His hips jolted forward and his knees trembled, the entirety of his body lighting up as his muscles tightened and relaxed repeatedly. He moaned loudly as he spilled his seed onto Tristan’s fingers and the tree before him in two spurts. Only a few moments later, as his convulsing muscles ceased and left him feeling both heavy and as light as air, he heard Tristan grunt into his sweat-dampened hair.
It felt like it had not gone on long enough as Galahad caught his breath and slumped against the tree. Tristan had even stayed inside of him after he finished, waiting until his cock went flaccid to step away from Galahad and redress. There was an odd sense of camaraderie in the gesture, and one that Galahad did not let slip him by.
“What is it that you like about riling me?” Galahad asked as they walked back to camp, the emptied unguentarium held loosely at his side.
Tristan stared ahead, and Galahad would believe that he had not heard him if it were not for the smirk curling his lips.
“You’re pretty when you’re flustered. And now I know you make the same faces when you’re being fucked.”
He flushed bright red and glanced away, feeling the need to hide even as a smile crept across his cheeks. Galahad winced with each step that brought his thighs too close together, and his body was racked with exhaustion, yet he felt better than he had in days.
As they reached the edge of the wood, Galahad turned and cut Tristan off, his arms crossed over his chest.
“I promise to not avoid you again so long as you promise me that we will sneak off again.” It was a simple request, and one that Tristan seemed more than pleased to uphold.
“I will have you as often as you will have me.”
They parted without another word, just a stare that was held until Galahad stepped through the threshold of the copse, back into the real world—one where he was not pinned against trees and made into another man’s wench. Galahad got some joy out of that idea, though; he would like to see what reaction he could stir out of Tristan if he referred to himself as his woman.
He rejoined the others after a short walk across the field, finding his sleeping roll laid out and undisturbed. As he lowered himself onto it he winced, quickly turning onto his side and alleviating the pressure put onto his backside. He wasn’t sure how he’d tolerate riding Branwyn in the morning, and as he drifted off into slumber he began to contrive a story as to why he had to stay at camp for the day, preferably accompanied by Tristan.