Nightshade

Warmth spreads through me as I awaken slowly.

Snuggling into the blankets, I feel Jamie tucked behind me. He is wrapped around me in such a familiar way that I want to melt with contentment. My dreams were strange and horrifying--a long nonsensical series of events that weave and waver into each other: imprisonment, knights, death.

But, the strong arm restraining me against a hard body anchors me back into reality.

I know if I open my eyes the coffee will have to be made, and then I will have to begin the day. Fighting the writer's block that has recently settled around me will be torture, just like it has been for the last couple of months. I'll sit at my computer, fingers arched over the keys--it will be pointless. My brain will buzz with words and images, idea after idea. Yet, I haven't a word to actually say. The screen will remain blank and I will remain a failure.

An overwhelmed failure.

I don't want that let down today, at least not yet.

Instead, I keep my eyelids shut against the day. My body feels limp, my arms and legs loose and sated. A soft sigh escapes my lips as I press farther into James to rub my naked body against him like an indolent kitten. The heat from my husband's bare chest engulfs me, but I feel a rush of disappointment to find that his lower body is separated from mine by his pajama pants.

As I arch into him, I feel his hardness lazily thrust against my heat. I must have woken him with my movements. His forearm tightens around my waist, his fingers winding up to pinch and tweak my nipples. A groan rattles my throat and I begin rolling my body harder against him, desperate to forget my dream and my frustration.

Jamie's lips are on my neck, kissing me gently. Then, I am rolled to my back.

With eyes still closed, the sensations of him heavy on me are like sparks of flame along my body. The sweet drag of his lips down to my collarbone and onto my breasts prompts me to wrap my legs around his waist.

His sleepy groans match mine as we move in tandem--the only thing separating us is his damn pants.

Smoothing my hands down hard chest, I finger at the waistband of his pajama pants, my knuckles lightly brushing my own heated core.

The action must have obstructed his access to my breasts for he pauses as his strong hands catch my wrists to pull them taut over my head. Jamie leans down to lavish my breasts once more; his teeth ticks against the metal barbels before he releases my nipple. "Julietta."

The moment pinpoints into darkness, my throat closes with the quickened rhythm of my heart.

Julietta.

I am whirring with the wrongness of the sound of my name. The voice is wrong--the pronunciation is skewed.

Julietta.

James never calls me anything but Jules.

I stop at that thought.

No. He never did. James is dead.

Two years ago, car crash, his body barely recognizable when I was brought in to identify it.

Grief and horror grips me while sudden fear freezes my body. Unable to do anything else, I force my eyes open against the grotesque vision of him that still haunts me. The brilliant uninhibited night sky nearly blinds me with its beauty; I cannot relish in it, I force my gaze down.

I know who is pleasuring my peaked nipples before I can even discern it.

Only the top of the knight's face is not obscured by my body. His dark hair falls before his face--the nearly black eyes drowsy and full of lust.

The feel of his powerful body pressing me into the blankets makes panic traverse through me. He seems either unaware of this sudden change in my mood, or indifferent as he continues to rub his hardness against me.

At the sight of him, everything clicks into place: the slick landscape, hitting my head, waking up in a strange place, being imprisoned and...

I shake my head to escape the memory, but it doesn't dislodge.

...being raped by my captors. Being rescued and healed. Being revealed as an outsider, accused of being a witch, the other prisoner--the woman--slaughtering my accuser, and then...

And, then Tristan.

Him covering me with his cloak to save me from the shameful view of the others.

His eyes exploring my body, my tattoos.

Despite the fact that he saved me from what would have surely ended in death, I still fear him. I don't know his motives, don't know what this strange man wants from me, if it will conclude in a painful death at the end of his wicked knives.

I try not to think about last night. His mouth on my body. The pleasure blooming at his touch.

With each memory, my body seems to heighten in its hysteria.

Pulling against the restraint his hand is making against my wrists, I try to writhe away from his body. I can feel tears rolling down my face--the cold night air making it sting.

Sobbing, I arch my shoulders up to pull my breasts from his mouth, "Please--please stop!"

He doesn't seem to hear my pleas as his body follows me in rhythm.

"Na plis paid! Tristan!"

Whether it is my butchered Welsh or his name that draws his attention, I do not know. But, the man on top of me stills for a moment.

Pulling his upper body away from mine, his lips pop from my breast. This mortifying sound briefly fills the air to accompany my heavy breaths. Tristan looks down at my face, his wild hair creating a curtain around us, his shuttered eyes seeming to trace the tears and panic etching my features.

Taking his hand from my side, the knight touches my tears, smearing them against my skin. I turn my face away from him.

His hand leaves my cheek as he leans down to settle his face to the juncture of my neck and shoulders. Tristan's hand is still restraining my own, and his body weight settles on top of mine once more.

It doesn't crush me, but I am pinned--unable to move.

I can feel his breath against my neck and hair as his face burrows into me and his other hand weaves down to grip my waist. My heart doesn't slow down, but I force my body to go still under his weight. I cannot move, and I know this. His touch is not unpleasant, so I endure it.

He is murmuring something--too low for me to pick up the words, but there is music in it. A drifting in the way his voice tangles with the quickly receding night.

A moment later, Tristan is off of me and walking away. I take the opportunity to sit up. Curling my body around myself, I draw my knees to cover my naked chest and watch him through the snarled hair that has fallen in front of my face.

I do not dare take my eyes off of the man for fear of something I cannot articulate.

Although it is freezing, he walks around half-naked like it is nothing. He's muscular in the way a man gets with hard work. There are scars littered across his body--gashed silver marring his tanned skin. The tattoos on his face are echoed in the patterns that appear here and there on the rest of his body: thin patterned lines etched at angles.

Tristan pulls a shirt over his head, the muscles of his biceps bulging from the movement. When he turns back to me, I try to look away quickly but I can tell by the smirk that crosses his face that he has caught me. I can't help but think that the smirk is attractive, just like everything else about him.

Sudden shame at that thought hurtles through me, and I want to squash the musing away.

Still looking at the frozen ground, I feel his presence hovering over me. My heart picks up at the feeling; I fear what is going to happen. Does he intend to finish what I started when we woke up? Kneeling down, Tristan presses clothes into my arms. I hardly notice him walking away again as I scurry to get dressed in what I am pleased to find is a pair of trousers and a shirt.

The clothing is loose on me, the shirt falling to my knees like a dress and the trousers having to be tied to my waist with a piece of string, but I feel better than I have in days. I feel like I might survive; gratitude overwhelms me with each slide of fabric against my skin.

Turning back to the knight, I find that he is waiting for me beside his saddled horse. The blankets have been rolled and placed on the side bags. There is a sword strapped to his back which I attempt not to think about as I carefully make my way towards him.

I take a deep breath before I speak.

"Thank you" I say in Welsh.

Tristan leans in to brush a finger on my cheek. His touch is gentle--forcing me to shiver from something other than the cold. I attempt to extinguish that thought too.

By the time the sun is rising, we have caught up with the others.

...

We ride for hours through a valley of the mountain. His hand remains on my bare skin under the shirt that he has given me. At times it weaves patterns against my stomach, at others it inches to my breasts to hold their weight in his palm.

I do not stop him. Do not move away or towards him--I only endure the touch silently. I don't know where we are going, but he has not hurt me. Not truly, atleast. He has drawn pleasure from my body without me fully wanting him to, yet it was nothing like what the other man did to me.

Tristan has shown me gentleness.

So, I endure his touch.

Even when his hand slides down lower to cup the junction between my thighs, when his fingers continue to draw patterns through the thin fabric, until I am trembling in the saddle in front of him--his breath heavy against the back of my neck.

I endure it, at least until I find a way home.

I am thinking of home when the curly-haired knight, the leader, trots his horse to us. His focus is on Tristan as he talks rapidly.

The knight behind me tenses, his hand lowers to flatten against my stomach as he answers. His gruff voice is low and melodic as I have learned is his way of speech. The leader nods at his words, then Tristan stops his horse to dismount. His large frame curls around me as he pulls me from the horse and carries me to a nearby wagon.

Setting me in the wagon, he says something to me--touching my hair gently, before mounting his horse and galloping away into the forest.

The thick woods of the mountain's valley roll past at a snail's pace. Large trees curve over our path, and I shiver at the look of them. I feel as if the woods are haunted, as if we are being watched. But, the path goes on and on, and we continue unchecked.

I lay my chin on my hand, the wagon swaying me back and forth. No one talks to me, or even looks at me, as time passes.

By the time that Tristan returns it is near dusk. His horse is sweating as it rushes back, however the knight looks calm as he speaks quietly with the small group of knights. While Tristan looks unbothered, the other men look worried. From where I sit, I can see the men drawing in another man to discuss what has brought the Knights into the small group.

I wish I could hear them and decipher what has the men in such a state, however it doesn't matter for as quickly as Tristan arrived the knights set off into the forest.

The wagons and the people continue their steady pace. The lilting movement finally gets the best of me--I feel my eyes drift shut.

It can only have been a moment of sleep, before I am woken by heavy footsteps near me. My mind is barely coherent when I feel two sets of hands pulling and twisting me out of the wagon bed. Blinking against the dim sky, I find the two men are members of the people walking along the trails, and before me appears the religious man who travels with the knights.

He begins to speak smoothly, the pitch heightening and lowering in the way one manipulates their words during a speech. I realize that this is no speech, but a sermon. The grips around my arms tighten as the meaning of this dawns on me.

Now that my protection has left, fear of my strangeness has led to an attack. I bite my lip--holding in the begging that sits at the tip of my tongue--and instead pull at the rough movements my captors make as they pull me farther into a clearing.

A small crowd begins to form as the religious man's voice loudens.

The men release my arms momentarily, but before I can get away the wiry man to my left grabs onto my shoulder and slams me to the ground. I am on my knees as the religious man picks his way towards me. He is elegant in his prophesying, moving his hand to indicate to me as I hear the gasps and whispers of those I travel with.

Shakes whittle their way through my body. They still believe that I am a witch, and one that is believed a witch does not survive in a time like this.

The religious man is standing directly over me. His disgust is all I can see no matter which way I try to look. Despite the torture I have been through since arriving to this strange place, I don't want to die. I want to live--find a way home. I wish that Tristan was here, that his gentle hands were on me rather than the two men who seem to find pleasure in twisting and bruising my skin as they hold me in place.

Hope has completely disappeared when the sound of hooves fill the air around us.

The man in front of me turns as Tristan astride his horse gallops into my view. His body and face are covered in blood, and from where I kneel I cannot tell if it is his own or another's.

The knight is hissing words, forcing the religious man back with the assertive steps of his horse. My captors respond in kind as the other knights, also bloody, arrive to cluster around the four of us. The religious man responds, turning to appeal to the other knights--his arms extended to emphasize powerful words.

The wiry man at my side takes the opportunity of the knight's distraction to push me further onto the ground, his fingers wrap around my throat squeezing with such force that I fear my neck will be crushed. Without the ability to breath or make a sound, I scratch at his hands and pull at his wrists. He looks determined at my struggles and I realize that this man is going to kill me.

In a fell swoop, Tristan has separated himself from the group. All I see is the flicker of silver and Tristan's smirk, before the man who grips my neck falls to the ground, his head rolling to my feet, his hot blood spraying me.

The picture of gore slithers its way into my mind and body. I can't see or hear or feel anything else as strong hands pull me up, up, up and flying wind chills my entire body.

The knight's demented smile haunts me, as through the haze of blood, I find that I am being carried off a horse and set on the ground.

It is dark when I finally come back to reality. I am sat near a large body of water, and a fire is going close to the banks. There are a few knights, but not all of them, sitting around the flames. I spot Tristan sitting on the other side facing towards me, the glinting light creating grotesque shadows across his body and face. He is no longer covered in blood, but I am.

I didn't want to die, the feeling of being strangled was another notch in the meter of things that would forever haunt me. But--but the look on Tristan's face as he effortlessly beheaded the man has seemed to wrap around me in a blanket of fear. It was so easy for him to take another's life in such a ruthless manner.

What will become of me when he is tired of playing with me.

I realize that my stare has alerted the knight of my coherence, for he beckons me with a wave of his hand. My body doesn't move, rather I turn my head to look at the rolling waves of the cold dark water.

I fear Tristan.

I fear his brutality.

"Julietta."

My name is spoken as a command; I know that I cannot ignore him any longer.

My body barely cooperates as I stand up. The shakes impede me as I slowly walk towards where he sits at the fire. I can feel the stares of the other men as I stand before Tristan. Wrapping his fingers around my wrists, the knight pulls me into his lap. His eyes are on my throat, and when he raises a hand to touch it I feel the ache of bruising that has set into my skin. Leaning my body into his own, he sets his chin on my shoulder and his nose into my hair.

There is soft talking, and--despite how scared I feel of this man, of the blood staining my skin--the rhythmic breathing pressed against my crumpled body emphasizes the absolute exhaustion that I feel, that I have felt since arriving to this place. But, before sleep can take me, the sound of horses shakes me from unconsciousness.

My instincts are to run, but Tristan holds me in place as the rest of the knights arrive by the fire.

They talk. I know it is me that they are talking about. Tristan growls back using my name in that low tone of his. At times they talk over each other, arguing and glancing down at me nestled into the knight's lap. When the pretty knight speaks, the one who seems to be the leader's second, they silence and listen to him. He talks for a bit, smoothly and what appears to be intelligently.

When he is finished, Tristan stands, his grip on me is so tight that I remain cradled to his chest. He yells words and a brief moment of silence follows before the leader speaks.

His words seem to be final.

The knights turn towards us, as if expecting something and with a growl, Tristan sets me down onto my feet.

Moving to my side, the leader grabs the bloody shirt that hangs from my shoulder and begins pulling it off. With a gasp, I clutch onto the hem in an attempt to keep it on my body. Panic burns my cheeks as I struggle to stay clothed. I don't know what they have planned or agreed to do, but in this world it seems that any option is likely.

"Don't do that, leave me alone!"

For a moment the knight hesitates, a look of pity warping his features before he continues his progress. I turn to the knight still standing behind me to take in his expressionless look, "Tristan stop him. Please, Tristan."

He remains unmoved as the bloody shirt is torn off of my body. Curling into myself, I cover my breasts with my arms and allow my snarled hair to fall in an attempt to cover my modesty. I am only allowed to shield myself for a moment before the knight behind me forces my wrists behind my back and bows my body so that the top half of me is completely revealed.

Shame burns through me as tears fall down my face. I cannot hide humiliation at the stares of the men around me. I fear that they will touch me, take me the same way I was taken within my prison cell.

But they do not.

The pretty knight turns to me and asks me a question that I cannot decipher, so I do not respond. Tristan answers him instead, and I catch the word "markings" as his free hand brushes the dragon tattoo on my stomach. The bald knight, the one who teases the youngest, spits at the ground, "Gwrach"

Witch.

It is the same accusation as before, only this time spoken in Welsh.

The other bald knight and the long haired blond one nod in agreement and murmur words. Shaking my head, I try to pull from Tristan's grasp, but it only tightens. At the man behind me's side, the leader speaks words. He sounds exasperated, but determined. My arms are released, and for a moment I believe that they will let me go. That this is over.

I am wrong; in a swift motion, Tristan unties the rope holding up my pants and pulls them off of me. Completely naked, I stand in shock until I spot the rope in the knight who healed me's hands.

At the sight of the rope, all I can think about is getting away. Scrambling and pushing hands off of me doesn't get me far as the long haired blond knight grips me around the waist and hoists me over his shoulder. I am beating my fists on his back and tearing at his head, screaming and begging, as he holds me for others to tie the rope around my ankles.

Once my ankles are restrained, I am placed onto the frozen ground. The same knight holds me down as the knight who healed me makes quick work of the ropes around my wrists. Once the ties are secured, he loops and attaches them to the ones at my ankles.

I am completely restrained and bent in half when the knights move a step back. Tristan is the one who scoops me up over his shoulder this time and slowly begins to carry me away from the fire. As the cool scent of water hits my senses and the water comes into view, I realize what they intend to do.