[Laiudanama]

Trystan had slipped discretely out of the stable shortly after Saeryn had entered and this new woman, this Medreth, had begun questioning her about her relationship with Eodwine. He shook his head to himself, wandering out towards the woods not far from the Mead Hall, no clear direction in his mind except to put some distance between himself and such conversations. He knew already what Saeryn’s answer would be; after all, was it not the same answer that she had given to every nosy busybody who wanted an insight into gossip. An apprentice only; nothing between Eodwine and Saeryn; yes, the titles can be confusing; he is my mentor, that is all.

Trystan picked up a stick and childishly swiped at a nearby bush. How many mentors address their wards by the name ‘love’, combined with a swift wink, before they ride off on business? Aye, he’d seen that exchange before Eodwine had ridden off, had seen the look that he had given her before turning away without a backwards glance – but, much to his frustration, the youth had been unable to see whether Saeryn’s expression had reciprocated such surprising affections. What did it matter what the Lady Saeryn’s feelings in that direction were though anyway. It wasn’t as if she would be – interested – in – him…

Each word was punctuated with a swift chopping blow against the undergrowth, childish, petty acts of violence that did little more to relieve his anger and frustration than had his previous inactivity. It simply reminded him of what a child he must appear in Saeryn’s eyes – why, she was barely older than him, surely! Yet she seemed so much older, a Lady, wise – and noble, of course. Unattainable. Always reaching for something you cannot have, Trystan – after all, wasn’t that the problem with Tamarin: just had to have something you shouldn’t have gone near…

Trystan glared at an inoffensive looking shrub that, to its own misfortune, momentarily took on the features of the Lord of the Hall and drew back his stick to deliver a splendid back handed blow—

The sound of sharp voices nearby made him freeze, stick frozen in mid-air.

“Garmund, get back here!”

Garmund? Garstan’s son? And the other, deep, curt and Rohirrim, was Thornden: a life in the shadows had blessed Trystan with a skill at recognising voices without the help of faces. The sharp command was followed by a softer exchange, the boy protesting against Thornden’s firm hand, and Trystan found himself drawn towards the voices. As he arrived soundlessly behind them in the space of the ruins, Trystan was just in time to see Thornden’s form disappear into the wood, leaving Garmund alone in the ruins. The boy certainly was unhappy with the situation, hanging back, but just barely, and apparently inwardly torn between Thornden’s clear request to stay and his own desperate desire to follow. For a moment, it seemed that the latter would prevail and Trystan decided now was as good a time as any to announce his presence.

“Not so fast – wouldn’t want to be rushing into things now, would we?” Trystan’s wry voice, with more than a hint of irony, made Garmund spin around immediately to face him, and the panic on his young features quickly settled into a scowl at the sight of the youth watching him, his slim form leaning unconcernedly against one of the lone trees that had crept daringly forward from the general line of the wood. Trystan gave him a quick grin then turned his gaze upon the wood, nodding towards the path which Thornden had taken a few moments previously. “May I ask the cause of the fuss from which you and I appear to be excluded?”

Garmund surveyed Trystan for a second, then shrugged, with maybe a little too much nonchalance: this was his story, his adventure, and evidently he didn’t appreciate the older boy’s gate-crashing. But the desire to share the adventure won over his initial resentment, although he kept his tone carefully casual. “Oh…well, there was this man hiding in the ruins, and he was huge, hiding there—”

He trailed away. Trystan had suddenly tensed, straightening up immediately from his lazy position against the tree, and a decidedly hunted look had taken itself into his grey eyes. His fingers itched, ready to grab for the knife in his boot – after all, though one remained on a shelf in the stables, an admission to Leofric of his horse-thieving intentions if he was ever to reclaim it, Trystan was not unarmed, and a similar, slender knife remained within his high boots. He’s found me; he’s come all the way from Minas Tirith, just for this, just to make me pay – gods, he’ll kill me, he’ll kill me all over that blasted Tamarin…

“What did this man look like?” he asked, softly.