(no subject)
Title: The Hunt
Pairing/Characters: Tristan/"Hawk"
Rating: Pg-13
Summary: How Hawk and Tristan met.
Notes: Hawk is an original creation of mine. She is a lover of Tristan's, and not a Mary Sue. There are other stories explaining Hawk and Tristan that are good to, but not necessary to, read in order to understand this fic.
Other Tristan/"Hawk" stories: Hawk, Bird of Prey, Flying
For autumn_whispers, mcee, and __piiracy!
The scent of death was in the air, and all the leaves bent and yielded to their fate. Tristan could smell it on the wind even before the stems began to brown. His breath painted white streaks across the black canvas of night. The stars winked and spoke of the snow that would soon come.
But there was one thing Tristan could be glad of when the cold came, and it was hot ale. He didn't drink like his comrades did. He never swallowed himself blind. But the slow burn of good liquor felt warmer than a fur and often sweeter than the touch of a woman. ...Just as long as he didn't drink blind. His father drank himself mad. Tristan never would.
There was also winter solstice. Gawain seemed terribly fond of it. Bors too. And for all the bitterness Galahad liked to hold in his heart for sick of home, he could not deny the joy that the winter celebration caused him. The three knights gathered around a tavern table and began singing of mountains Tristan had left and forgotten long ago, arms in the air, pottery mugs attached to their fists.
Off past the rivers, the villagers, the trees
Home, home, home, I will go.
To the women, the wonders, the winds and the leaves
Home, home, home I will go.
Down in the valley a lady waits for me
Deep in her bosom a babe of mine!
Down in the valley a good life waits for me
And I will say, "welcome, to this home of mine."
Tristan fingered the blade of his dagger. The metal was smooth and sharp beneath his callussed hands. He picked the dirt out from his fingernails with the tip. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Arthur and Lancelot try and charm the same curly haired redhead. Dagonet tossed dice with a gaggle of stable hands and lost. Smirking to himself, Tristan sunk his teeth into the tart juice of a late autumn apple.
With her father in the ground, it would take another coin out the family's income. Not that it ever amounted to much to begin with. Her sisters did well enough keeping house and working the kitchens for the Knights of the Round. It kept them housed in the staff's quarters of the Wall, but a roof was a roof, as was beef and bread. Still, bustling about hot stew and laundry cauldrons day in and out barely brought in enough money to properly clothe themselves. And so when Vanora told her that another serving girl was needed at the tavern, she leapt at the chance without question.
"Old mugs go to the left, clean ones to the right. Don't spit shine none of them, its not your job. Just make sure the pitchers are full enough and that everyone's kept happy," Vanora instructed her, putting in her hands a pitcher full of ale. The pottery was hot and burned her fingers. "Oh. And don't, under any circumstances, serve to Sir Lancelot. He's no good. You leave him to me, else you may end up in a bed you don't want to be in come morning. Understand?"
"Yes," she repeated. Her wrists were shaking under the weight of the pitcher.
"Good." Vanora smiled upon her sweetly then. She had a pleasing face. It was little wonder all the Knight had at one time or another been after her. She raised her hands and pulled two strands of smooth brown hair out of her student's que and draped them down saucily over her dark eyes. "Now go."
Tristan was never known to embellish the truth or twist his words. He was blunt and honest. So when the hot brown liquid reached past the halfway mark of his cup, he abruptly ordered, "Stop." Before even the ale had ceased to pour he took up his mug and held it to his lips. The liquid spilled onto the tabletop, running in streaming rivulets down the cracks of the splintered wood and onto his lap.
"I'm sorry!" came the low cry from the woman who served him. Another nameless person he never even bothered looking at. His eyes were ever transfixed on the simple things: the sudden change of candle light on a wick or the silent breeze that tossed errent strands of a man's hair. But at length he drew his eyes to her face and appreciated what he saw. She wore a long and proud nose, arched like the beak of a bird. Her lips were full and naturally red. Handsome, but certainly not pretty. Her hands, rag in tow, dove for between his legs and cleansed him of the offending alcohol. She looked up at him again with wide brown eyes, apologetic but sharp like broken glass. "Forgive me, Sir." Tristan nodded and took her wrists up in his hands. His eyes briefly trailed over the sharp length of her fingernails, like talons, and he freed her.
The average length of a touch before it becomes meaningful is three seconds, Tristan decided. He was ever alert and paid attention to such minescule details. He supposed it came with the territory of tracking and scouting. Every leaf, every clod of dirt had a story to tell.
When she came into the dining hall of the round table in blue, Tristan looked into the emptiness of his chalice. He didn't know why. Her hands were full with a heavy bronze pitcher filled with table wine. The sleeves of her dress flowed behind her like transparant wings as she came beside each knight and filled his glass. They all smiled appreciatively, but Lancelot, as was expected, smiled long enough to be considered a leer. She seemed oblivious to it, however, and she moved past to Tristan. With dark eyes, he looked upward to her and her eyes grew dagger sharp before nodding to him respectfully. Had he been any other man, he would have easily missed the uncouth rose that bloomed upon her cheek.
Her hands reached for the chalice he did not release. The wine flowed. Her palm tangled around the base of the glass and held it still, brushing her skin against his own. One. Two. Three. The glass had already filled. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Something loosened in Tristan's chest, and she was gone.
A chill was in the air when he found her. The knights had all gone to bed after supper, but Tristan found the night perfect to think. The grey clouds lightened the black sky that looked as convoluted as he felt. Pondering always felt more natural in the rainy season. The hiss of steam sounded in the air. The watery breeze blew strands of loose hair around her pale face. Dark eyes that could cut glass stared intently out at the smothered stars.
"Seven. Your hand was on mine for seven seconds," Tristan began as he stepped out of the shadows. She didn't flinch at his sudden entrance, simply took it for what it was and let it pass. "Three is normal. You meant something by it."
"Did I?" she asked incredulously, never tearing her gaze from the sky.
"No track is left without meaning something."
He took her hand in his and wrapped the other around the soft dip in her waist. Tristan tugged her warm body to his and pressed his lips, hot and searching to her mouth.
He was good at his trade.
Her talons tangled in his hair. Her mouth implored him with voracious intent.
"Do you hunt me, then?" hissed she through frozen and trembling lips.
"I think you hunt me."
Pairing/Characters: Tristan/"Hawk"
Rating: Pg-13
Summary: How Hawk and Tristan met.
Notes: Hawk is an original creation of mine. She is a lover of Tristan's, and not a Mary Sue. There are other stories explaining Hawk and Tristan that are good to, but not necessary to, read in order to understand this fic.
Other Tristan/"Hawk" stories: Hawk, Bird of Prey, Flying
For autumn_whispers, mcee, and __piiracy!
The scent of death was in the air, and all the leaves bent and yielded to their fate. Tristan could smell it on the wind even before the stems began to brown. His breath painted white streaks across the black canvas of night. The stars winked and spoke of the snow that would soon come.
But there was one thing Tristan could be glad of when the cold came, and it was hot ale. He didn't drink like his comrades did. He never swallowed himself blind. But the slow burn of good liquor felt warmer than a fur and often sweeter than the touch of a woman. ...Just as long as he didn't drink blind. His father drank himself mad. Tristan never would.
There was also winter solstice. Gawain seemed terribly fond of it. Bors too. And for all the bitterness Galahad liked to hold in his heart for sick of home, he could not deny the joy that the winter celebration caused him. The three knights gathered around a tavern table and began singing of mountains Tristan had left and forgotten long ago, arms in the air, pottery mugs attached to their fists.
Off past the rivers, the villagers, the trees
Home, home, home, I will go.
To the women, the wonders, the winds and the leaves
Home, home, home I will go.
Down in the valley a lady waits for me
Deep in her bosom a babe of mine!
Down in the valley a good life waits for me
And I will say, "welcome, to this home of mine."
Tristan fingered the blade of his dagger. The metal was smooth and sharp beneath his callussed hands. He picked the dirt out from his fingernails with the tip. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Arthur and Lancelot try and charm the same curly haired redhead. Dagonet tossed dice with a gaggle of stable hands and lost. Smirking to himself, Tristan sunk his teeth into the tart juice of a late autumn apple.
With her father in the ground, it would take another coin out the family's income. Not that it ever amounted to much to begin with. Her sisters did well enough keeping house and working the kitchens for the Knights of the Round. It kept them housed in the staff's quarters of the Wall, but a roof was a roof, as was beef and bread. Still, bustling about hot stew and laundry cauldrons day in and out barely brought in enough money to properly clothe themselves. And so when Vanora told her that another serving girl was needed at the tavern, she leapt at the chance without question.
"Old mugs go to the left, clean ones to the right. Don't spit shine none of them, its not your job. Just make sure the pitchers are full enough and that everyone's kept happy," Vanora instructed her, putting in her hands a pitcher full of ale. The pottery was hot and burned her fingers. "Oh. And don't, under any circumstances, serve to Sir Lancelot. He's no good. You leave him to me, else you may end up in a bed you don't want to be in come morning. Understand?"
"Yes," she repeated. Her wrists were shaking under the weight of the pitcher.
"Good." Vanora smiled upon her sweetly then. She had a pleasing face. It was little wonder all the Knight had at one time or another been after her. She raised her hands and pulled two strands of smooth brown hair out of her student's que and draped them down saucily over her dark eyes. "Now go."
Tristan was never known to embellish the truth or twist his words. He was blunt and honest. So when the hot brown liquid reached past the halfway mark of his cup, he abruptly ordered, "Stop." Before even the ale had ceased to pour he took up his mug and held it to his lips. The liquid spilled onto the tabletop, running in streaming rivulets down the cracks of the splintered wood and onto his lap.
"I'm sorry!" came the low cry from the woman who served him. Another nameless person he never even bothered looking at. His eyes were ever transfixed on the simple things: the sudden change of candle light on a wick or the silent breeze that tossed errent strands of a man's hair. But at length he drew his eyes to her face and appreciated what he saw. She wore a long and proud nose, arched like the beak of a bird. Her lips were full and naturally red. Handsome, but certainly not pretty. Her hands, rag in tow, dove for between his legs and cleansed him of the offending alcohol. She looked up at him again with wide brown eyes, apologetic but sharp like broken glass. "Forgive me, Sir." Tristan nodded and took her wrists up in his hands. His eyes briefly trailed over the sharp length of her fingernails, like talons, and he freed her.
The average length of a touch before it becomes meaningful is three seconds, Tristan decided. He was ever alert and paid attention to such minescule details. He supposed it came with the territory of tracking and scouting. Every leaf, every clod of dirt had a story to tell.
When she came into the dining hall of the round table in blue, Tristan looked into the emptiness of his chalice. He didn't know why. Her hands were full with a heavy bronze pitcher filled with table wine. The sleeves of her dress flowed behind her like transparant wings as she came beside each knight and filled his glass. They all smiled appreciatively, but Lancelot, as was expected, smiled long enough to be considered a leer. She seemed oblivious to it, however, and she moved past to Tristan. With dark eyes, he looked upward to her and her eyes grew dagger sharp before nodding to him respectfully. Had he been any other man, he would have easily missed the uncouth rose that bloomed upon her cheek.
Her hands reached for the chalice he did not release. The wine flowed. Her palm tangled around the base of the glass and held it still, brushing her skin against his own. One. Two. Three. The glass had already filled. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Something loosened in Tristan's chest, and she was gone.
A chill was in the air when he found her. The knights had all gone to bed after supper, but Tristan found the night perfect to think. The grey clouds lightened the black sky that looked as convoluted as he felt. Pondering always felt more natural in the rainy season. The hiss of steam sounded in the air. The watery breeze blew strands of loose hair around her pale face. Dark eyes that could cut glass stared intently out at the smothered stars.
"Seven. Your hand was on mine for seven seconds," Tristan began as he stepped out of the shadows. She didn't flinch at his sudden entrance, simply took it for what it was and let it pass. "Three is normal. You meant something by it."
"Did I?" she asked incredulously, never tearing her gaze from the sky.
"No track is left without meaning something."
He took her hand in his and wrapped the other around the soft dip in her waist. Tristan tugged her warm body to his and pressed his lips, hot and searching to her mouth.
He was good at his trade.
Her talons tangled in his hair. Her mouth implored him with voracious intent.
"Do you hunt me, then?" hissed she through frozen and trembling lips.
"I think you hunt me."