Fragments of Memories

Unless we remember, we cannot understand.

~E.M. Forster

My name is Aida, and I committed my first act of murder when I was not but two minutes old. It would shape the rest of my life, for good and ill. I am the daughter of Raja and Tristan. My mother has been dead for twenty-three years; she died when she was sixteen. And my father, well, on that day, he died, too. I do not resent him for being the man I knew, when he tried to be a father, he tried to be the best he could be. For those times, he gave me all he had to give. He was but half a man after my mother died, this I came to understand when I met the man I fell in love with. I know if I were to lose him now, I would be half a woman.

Tristan woke to his daughter crying, or rather howling, as if she were being tortured. He groaned into his pillow then lifted his body off of the bed. He stood over her crib, simply looking down on her scrunched, flushed face as she cried. As gently as he could, he took his three month old daughter out of her crib, sniffing to see if she was wet, which she wasn’t. Tristan patted her on the back in attempt to comfort her, her drool soaked through his shirt. He didn’t know if she was hungry, he didn’t know anything anymore. The only thing he was sure of was of gaping hole in his spirit, soul, heart, at the loss of Raja. And in exchange for his love’s life, he got a daughter, Aida, who only brought him grief. His feelings were muddled – anger, resentment, sorrow, guilt were the only things he felt.

During the day, he spent very little time with the baby, leaving her in Vanora’s or Thea’s hands. Even though Vanora already had four children of her own, she accepted Aida with open arms. And Thea adored her, and no doubt was disgusted with Tristan for his lack of attention to his daughter. Sure, everyone sympathized for Tristan’s loss, but he still had a piece of Raja, which Tristan felt was not good enough. If it was not Raja herself, then it meant nothing. He would much rather be holding Raja in the night than this loud infant. That was where the guilt came in. He knew he should be grateful for his healthy daughter, but resentment overshadowed that. Tristan would never say the words aloud or even allow himself to think them in his mind – but he would exchange the life of his daughter in a second to have Raja back.

“Is she hungry?” The wet nurse, Farrah, came out of her small room. Tristan and she shared a small, two room dwelling. At least until Aida no longer needed to be breastfed. Farrah had lost her own child to fever two months ago, she had no husband, and the little baby filled the gap.

Tristan handed the infant over to her. “I have no idea what she wants.” He walked out of his room and into the common room.

Farrah hid her frown at the father’s tone. She understood his loss, yet could not understand his callous dismissal of his own daughter. When Aida nuzzled her breast, Farrah untied her garment, and the little baby instantly latched onto her nipple, relieving her hunger. The woman stepped out of Tristan’s room to see him sitting in front of the fire, sharpening his sword. She gazed at him from behind, her heart going out to him. Quietly, she took the other chair in front of the brazier, Aida still suckling. Tristan paid her no mind, he did not even care that her shift was open, although he could not see her breasts. Even if she was trying to be flirtatious – which she was not – he still would not have acknowledged her. No woman caught his eye; no woman aroused him in the least.

“Tristan,” Farrah spoke hesitantly, the crackling of the fire accompanying her words. He showed no signs that he had heard her, but she continued, “I...I understand your loss, and I do not want to be overly intrusive, but if you ever want to...talk...I mean...I know how you feel.”

Tristan’s response was to sheath his sword so forcibly that Aida stopped her suckling when she heard the sharp clang. “You have no idea how I feel.” His deep voice was ice cold, so cold that it sucked the warmth of the fire from the room. He did not spare her or his daughter a glance before he walked back into his bedroom, the door shutting with the quietest of clicks.

My father disappeared on my first birthday, and was gone for a week after. No one mentioned it when he returned, but their displeasure was evident. They were all passed trying to assuage his hurt, all words had been used. He missed the day I spoke my first word – Fallah – as I could not pronounce my R’s properly. He missed the day I took my first three steps before falling on my rear. My Uncle Lancelot – really my second cousin – was more of a presence in my life than my own father. He would drop anything to spend time with me; he told me about my mother and the pranks she would play on him when he was being an idiot.

I thought of all the men as my Uncles, and Vanora, Thea, and Farrah as my Aunts. Arthur was the one who taught me to read, speak, and write Latin. If my mother had been alive, it would have been her to teach me. She was fluent in many languages. Dagonet taught me the art of healing. Bors and Lancelot taught me to fight, and sometimes my father. It was the consensus that he was the best of the best. I also learned that even my mother was an extremely skilled fighter. I wanted to be like her, I wanted to know everything she had known. I wanted my father to be proud of me; I wanted him to tell me he loved me.

Aida wailed like a banshee in the night, waking Tristan up with a start. He walked to her room, and took her in his arms, cradling her, soothing her, calming her. Eventually her cries abated into soft whimpers and sniffles.

“Okay now?” he asked.

Aida held him tightly around the neck. “Don’t leave me, papa. I’m scared!”

At three, his little girl clung to him. As she grew older he saw more of her mother in her. Her hair was as dark as night, some of her facial expressions mirrored her deceased mother’s. Over the years, the tumult of savage feelings dissipated into numbness. It was easier for him to look at his daughter, and be around her for longer periods.

“Will you stay with me, papa?” Aida looked at him with wide, golden-brown eyes.

That look tugged on his heartstrings, making him wish like hell Raja could see her. It all seemed wrong, empty without her. Tristan gave his a daughter a small grin of affection. She cuddled next to him in his bed, a serene smile on her face.

The nights when I was able to snuggle next to my father are the best memories I hold dear in my heart. I felt safe then, as if nothing could ever hurt me. Sometimes, I would even fake nightmares just to have him hold me like he did then.

“Papa!” Aida yelled. She ran to him with her small quiver of arrows slung around her back, holding her bow in her hand.

The deer Tristan had had his perfect aim on ran at the shout of his daughter’s voice. “Damn it, Aida!” he growled.

The little girl stopped in her tracks, her enthusiasm fading.

“What the hell are you doing? Didn’t I tell you to never interrupt me while I am hunting?” When she brooked no response, he snapped, “Didn’t I?”

Aida stared at him in abashed silence, her lip quivering, tears streaming down her cheeks, smearing the mud she had used to make markings on her face like her father’s. Tristan sighed heavily, regretting his loss of temper. He knelt in front of her, wiping the mud and tears from her face. When they continued to fall he enveloped her in his arms in attempt to console her. “Sorry, I should not have yelled at you like that.”

She sounded gasping sobs. “I’m sorry!” she cried.

“No, no,” he crooned, “it’s my fault.” He continued to pat her on the back until she hushed. “Shh, now. It’s all right.”

Aida sniffed, wiping her nose with the back of her sleeve. Quietly, she said, “I wanted to hunt with you.”

Tristan smiled wryly, and then he laughed. It was rare for Aida to hear her father laugh.

“What’s so funny?” she asked, a smile breaking across her face.

His mirth dimmed. “I was just thinking what your mother would say about that.”

“You mean ‘cause she didn’t hunt?”

“Yeah. When she was a kid, first came to this island, she would sneak up on me and ruin my shot just as I was about to let loose my arrow.”

Aida giggled. She wanted him to tell her more, but the light from his eyes flickered out, and she knew that was all he was going to say.

“Well, come on, then.” He stood up and ruffled her hair. “I’ll teach you to hunt another time.”

My father again disappeared on my fourth birthday. Later that evening, I snuck into what used to be my mother’s and father’s room. No one was allowed in there and woe to anyone who dared to step inside. I knew sometimes that my father would go in there for a spell, but what he did, that I did not know. I had never been in that room before, the curtains were drawn, it was cold, but to my surprise there was no dust anywhere. I smelled the pillows, and I knew the sweet aroma was my mother. I opened every drawer and inhaled the cloth of her dresses and shifts. I ran the tip of my finger down the spines of all her books. I did not dare open them for they looked so fragile.

On a table, her swords were lain just so, along with a dagger. I pulled the small weapon from its scabbard and awed at its shininess. I could see myself in the blade, as clear as a mirror. Gently, I replaced it, and set my eyes on the large trunk of lacquered oak. It was a box of treasures. There was eight years worth of vellums in there, her journals. I scanned some of the pages, most of which were written in Arabic – a language I wished I could know. At the bottom, wrapped in a black cloth, was a dragon trinket with ruby eyes, the same one my Uncle Lancelot possessed. I knew she had had one, but not until that day did I see it.

“What are you doing?”

Aida pivoted sharply to see the malevolent figure of her father standing in the doorway. He came out of the shadows, his eyes flashing, his lips set in a severe line. She stammered, willing a reply.

“I said what are you doing in here?” Tristan’s voice rose.

“I...just...” She had no expected him to be back so soon. He usually disappeared for no less than a week on her birthdays. “I wanted...”

“What is that?” he hissed, eyes slithering to her hand. He snatched the trinket from her hand. “What the hell are you doing going through these things?”

“Tristan?” Dagonet had approached, unbeknownst to them both. “What is the problem?”

“Get out, Dagonet,” he spat. “This is not your concern.”

The tall knight saw the look of terror on Aida’s face and stepped further into the room. She stood closer to him for protection; even though she knew deep down her father would never, truly harm her. Dagonet saw what Tristan was holding in his hand. Tristan challenged him with his eyes, daring him to say something – anything.

“Come.” Dagonet took the little girl’s hand. With her head down, she followed him out of the room.

Tristan sat in that room for hours, his head in his hands, wondering why, after all these years, he still resented his daughter. How disappointed Raja would be. But he had so little to give Aida. When his love died, so did the tender parts of him.

Later the next day, he found Aida in the stables with Jols. She was still too small to ride Odin, but she groomed him and took painstaking care of him all the same. The horse and Horus were her favorite companions, as the only companion Tristan welcomed was Penelo. When her father entered, Aida looked at him, and then away. Jols excused himself to leave them alone.

“Hey,” he said.

She sniffed. “Hi,” she said quietly, cautiously, as if she were expecting another uproar from him.

It hurt him that she was afraid of him, but he knew it was his doing. He rubbed his eyes with his forefinger and thumb. “I wanted to apologize for last night, Aida. I know I say that a lot to you, but I mean it.”

Her head bobbed up and down.

“You should have this.” He held out the dragon trinket to her. She looked back at him and the object in his hands, disbelieving. “Your mother would want you to have it, and it was selfish of me to keep it from you.” Tristan slipped it around her neck, thinking that it suited her just right.

Aida held it in her palms as if it was magic – she finally had something that had been her mother’s!

Tristan cleared his throat. “Listen.” Aida tore her eyes away from the carved dragon. “There are a lot of things up there that...you have every right to explore. Everything in there, what was once hers, is yours. Just...be careful.”

“I will, papa! I really will, I promise.”

My father and I spent the next few days sifting through everything in the trunks. The dagger she once carried with her, I then carried with me, and still do. I took impeccable care of it. And he said when I got older, and was big enough; my mother’s sword would be mine. I know it took every bit of my father to be able to talk about my mother, explaining about the items in the bedroom. I felt the weight on his shoulders, the emptiness inside of him when he spoke her name, or even thought of her. Because he continued to spend more time with me, it meant that he and Farrah would run into each other more than usual. Even after I had stopped breastfeeding, she remained a constant in my life.

“Papa?” Aida smiled at him hopefully while he tucked her in.

“Hmm?”

“Um...Farrah’s pretty, isn’t she?”

Tristan froze, his eyes locking onto his daughter’s in stark surprise. During her six years, she had never mentioned anything of a sort. “If you think so,” was his blithe reply.

“I do,” Aida said. “She’s not married.”

He said nothing.

“You’ve known her all my life, too,” she went on.

“Yeah.”

“Do you think...” she bit her lip, phrasing her words, “...that maybe you and Farrah might...get married or something...someday?”

Tristan was silent for a moment...two. “Who put that idea in your head?” his words laced with agitation.

Her eyes opened wide. “No one, papa. I just thought maybe if you did...I would have a mother...”

“You do have a mother, Aida,” he flared.

“I know-”

“And no one,” he clenched his jaw, “will ever take her place. No one will ever be your mother, because your mother is dead. Do you understand me?”

Aida had by then pulled the covers up to her chin. She nodded wordlessly. Her father’s jaw remained tight as he left the room. Her eyes filled with tears as she turned on her side, curled into a ball, and there she cried silently.

When my father’s service to Rome was over, I anticipated the next chapter in our lives. We were going back to Sarmatia, and despite the fact that I would be leaving the only home I had known for six years, I was excited to see my father’s homeland. But it was not to be, for the Bishop Germanus sent them on another mission which was the catalyst of the battle at Badon Hill. I was scared to death when my father left on that mission, because it was in Woad territory, North of the Wall, and extremely perilous. But all of them came back safe, Uncle Dagonet was wounded only slightly when he ran out in the middle of the ice to break it. Later on the evening they returned, I stood on the Wall with my father, gazing out at the mass of Saxons that had camped themselves on the exterior. My heart plummeted when Arthur said he was going to stay, and the next day when we all were making our way on a back passage, my Uncles, my father, decided to stay and fight.

The knights exchanged glances, coming to the ultimate decision. Aida’s body shook when she saw what was happening. Bors’s children watched with sadness, as did Vanora, but Aida would not let her own father go so easily.

After the men had armored themselves in their battle gear and about to mount up, Aida hopped out of the cart, scrambling to her father. “Papa! Papa!” she shouted. She held onto his leg, imploring him with her eyes that he stay. “Don’t leave me!”

“Aida,” Tristan said firmly.

“No!” she screamed. “I won’t let you!” She sobbed into his thigh. “I won’t let you go!”

Tristan pried her hands from his person, bending down to face her. “This is something I have to do. This is the life I live-”

“No!” she yelled into his face. “You are not a soldier anymore, I know that! You don’t have to leave!”

“Aida-”

“You’re leaving me on purpose!” Tears ran down her face like a waterfall, each drop made up of agony.

Tristan pulled her tightly to him, his armor digging into her chest. “You listen to me,” he said in her ear. “I am a warrior” – she sobbed in his neck – “and I must fight this day. When you get older, you might understand.” He looked at Vanora as she came to take Aida away from him.

“Let’s go, love,” she soothed.

Aida continued to protest with sorrowful wails. “Papa! Please stay!” If Tristan had looked back as he rode away with his brothers, he would have seen Vanora and Farrah trying to hold her back from running after him. He would have seen the flood of the land that his daughter’s tears wrought.

By some miracle, all of them came out of that battle alive. Lancelot and my father were grievously wounded, taking months for them to heal, but they got through it. I cried and cried by my father’s bedside as he lay unconscious, I held his hand whenever I could, and I put cool cloths on his head when he became feverous. And I was right there when he woke up.

Tristan’s eyes fluttered open, the room was hazy, and he hurt all over.

“Papa?” He heard the distant sound of his daughter’s voice. The last thing he had remembered was seeing Raja’s face on the battlefield, telling him it was not his time to go, that their daughter needed him more than ever, but when it truly was his time, she would be there.

“Papa?” Aida stared over him.

Tristan groaned. “Hmm? Aida?”

Her face lit in a relieved happiness. “You’re awake! I thought you were dead, papa.”

He struggled to grasp her hand, and when he did, he brought it to his mouth to kiss it, suddenly filled with relief that he was able to see his daughter again. “I love you, Aida, you know that? You’re my daughter, and I love you.”

Tears ran down her cheeks, for her father was alive, and for the first time, she heard him telling her that he loved her.

“I love you, too, papa.”

When I was sixteen, my father died. He died saving Lancelot’s life of all people. I mourned for the loss of him, and I cherished the fact that he had told me he loved me before he went off into that fight. But I did not feel a deep sorrow for too long, for I knew that wherever my mother was, now he was, and he was no longer half a person. And since Badon Hill, he gave me every little piece of goodness, tenderness, and love he had to give.

“Trissy?” Raja’s form hovered over him as he lay sprawled on the bloody field of corpses. She held out her hand, which he took, surprised that she was solid. He stood in front of her, looking all around him, then looking at his body on the ground.

“Raja?” He stroked her cheeks, feeling the velvety softness of her. “Gods, Raja!” He crushed her against him, and he inhaled, smelling the meadowsweet aroma of her.

“I missed you,” she said.

“You have no idea...” he choked, “how much I have wanted to hold you all these...”

“I know, Trissy. I have longed for you, too.”

He stared into her glittery, silver eyes, her hair shone blue in the daylight, the pure aura of her blotted out the death around him. And when his lips met hers for the first time in sixteen years, he was met with a burst of blinding light that carried them to a place where darkness would never touch them again.

4/19/07