Awry

45

For two months, Tristan had been in the king’s army, traveling from battlefield to battlefield. It had been a bloody and exhausting journey. But more than that, it had been impossible to escape.

Short of death, there was no way to flee from his duty. Too many men kept careful eyes about the troops and too many men were traitors.

Tristan had been fortunate enough to come thus far without injury. He was grateful for such luck, but impatient to get home.

Had Gabriel and Scarlet already been married? Was Scarlet safe? Was she provided for? Was she happy?

His heart twisted.

He only had one life to live and the girl he wanted to share it with was a thousand miles away and about to spend her life with his brother.

He had given up the girl he loved, but he didn’t regret it. Giving her up meant keeping her safe.

He rolled his shoulders.

It was just before dawn and only two other men were awake: the king’s guard and a young soldier who had joined the army just yesterday.

The young man looked fearful and small, shaking as he sat upright on his sleeping mat.

Death would come for him on the battlefield. It was certain.

Tristan lifted the dirty shirt he wore and began to retrace Scarlet’s drawing on his skin with crushed berries. He did this almost daily, as a reminder of his last moments with her.

The last time he was happy.

“Wh-what is that you draw?” the young soldier asked from across the field.

Tristan didn’t look up. “A reminder.”

“Of wh-what?”

He continued to darken the strokes until Scarlet’s design looked brand new. And, like always, his heart began to hurt.

“Love,” Tristan said simply, throwing down the rotten berries and letting his dirty shirt fall back over his skin.

The young soldier was still shaking. “D-do you have love ba-back home?”

Home.

Ha.

He had no more home.

Tristan looked at the young boy and, for a moment, saw himself just months ago. Before everything had been stripped from him.

“Not anymore.” Tristan stood from his mat, grabbed his bow and quiver of arrows, and headed out to the field for more war.

More death.

Tristan’s first opportunity to escape came in the form of an old monk pushing a wagon filled with ale. Almost all monasteries in the area had been overrun by the land-hungry king, leaving many monks without food or shelter. Spying a monk with any possessions at all was rare.

The king was a greedy man.

Just like Tristan’s father.

Dressed in his battle gear with his bow on his back, Tristan casually made his way over to the old man, trying to pass off his conversation as a barter for ale.

The monk eyed him suspiciously. “What is it you want, archer?”

Tristan kept his eyes steady. “I want to make an arrangement.”

“What arrangement?” The monk looked around at the troops nearby.

Tristan kept his shoulders high and straight. “I can hunt enough game to last you through the winter.”

Tristan could tell the old man was no longer capable of hunting on his own. If the monk wanted meat, he would need help.

“And what would you want in return?” The monk cocked his head.

“Help escaping the king’s army.”

The monk did not look convinced.

“I hate the king,” Tristan explained.

The monk nodded as he looked around. “Well, in that case,” A moment passed as he slowly smiled. “We have an arrangement.”

Tristan’s escape plan went off without a hitch. He knew the king’s guards would search after him if he simply disappeared, so instead, he would die.

He pretended to be wounded in battle and laid his body down in a far ditch, praying the troops would be too lazy to report his death to his father. The last thing he wanted was for Scarlet and Gabriel to think he had died.

When the battle was over, the old monk came upon Tristan’s body and asked the nearby soldiers if they wanted help burying the remains. Relieved to dig one less hole, the soldiers allowed the monk to wheel away Tristan’s body.

As the sun set, the monk took Tristan through the forest, staying covered in the shadows until they reached a small monastery hidden in the trees. Bring his cart to a stop, the monk pointed to a door on the side of the old stone building and said, “You may enter through there. I will get you a bed.”

Tristan looked at him. “I need no bed. I will sleep outside and hunt for you in the morning.”

“Our guests do not sleep outside.” The monk headed for the door. “Do not argue.”

Tristan didn’t.

“What is your name, archer?” the monk asked as he pushed open a short, old door, dark with age and weather.

Tristan hesitated, not sure he trusted the man with his name. “Hunter,” he replied.

The monk narrowed his eyes, clearly not believing him. “Welcome to our monastery, Hunter. My name is Elliot.”

Tristan nodded as he followed the old man through the small door, ducking his head to fit his body through the frame. Once inside, Tristan’s eyes caught on a pile of weapons set atop a large table. He raised his brows. “Are you planning to fight the king?”

Elliot shrugged. “If the king attacks, we will fight for our home.”

Tristan wrinkled his brow. “The king’s men outnumber your monastery greatly. You could all die.”

“True.” Elliot turned to Tristan with a wise smile. “But there is no victory without a battle.”