Beyond The Stone

Chapter 1

Somewhere in England 1172...

"Thou can be a real lout when intoxicated," Welby grumbled.

He was a little flushed from his friend's teasing.

"Are not we all louts when true to our nature?" Tristan argued with a chuckle and a rude gesture with his pelvis.

"Aye, I can't argue that," Welby replied with a little grin, "but thou takes matters too far even for me at times, old friend."

"Ah, Welby, thou chaff too easily at my provocations! 'Tis as if the voluptuous Elnora hath whipped thy heart into submission, causing it to cower and simper at her heel," Tristan teased mercilessly before taking yet another mouthful from his flagon.

Welby looked peeved at the inference – or perhaps it was a response to the somewhat crass description of his betrothed. It was hard to tell at that point. They'd both had one too many quite a few drinks ago. Tristan was characteristically boorish and merry by that point, and he'd lost the ability to discern when his words cheered and when they injured. The truth was that usually around that point in a night of merry-making, Tristan really didn't much care. The world seemed a jolly place full of foibles and harmless delinquencies, and he, for one, intended to enjoy it to the full. If he were a little more honest with himself, he might admit that he was just the tiniest bit annoyed at his friend's decision to get betrothed. He was annoyed, because although he was almost eight years his junior, Welby was his best friend and comrade in social deviance. Their entire courtship had been a woefully placid time in Tristan's life, one which he was trying to compensate for somewhat during this one last night of revelry. Deep down inside he knew that it was the end of an era for them both. They would no longer be bosom buddies deep in... well... bosoms!

Tristan threw the flagon on the ground as they walked. He didn't even remember carrying it out of the inn. The innkeeper would be annoyed to find it missing. Did he care? He stumbled a little and caught himself against a tree on the side of the road. Then nature called and he started unlacing his trousers to relieve himself.

"Shouldst thou be doing that here?" Welby noted with a hint of concern.

"Is there a better place that thou know of, old friend?" Tristan replied with a stupid grin of enjoyment as a thin wisp of steam rose from the ground while his bladder emptied itself.

"'Tis just... tis just that this be very near Mod Hollow. Tis said to be a gateway to the faerie realm. T'would not be wise to anger the spirits," Welby replied, sobering up somewhat on realizing where they were.

Mod Hollow was surrounded by more superstition and folklore than left any normal man at ease. Welby noted with some discomfort that a drunk Tristan was anything but normal. As a pair they'd come so close to the noose on several occasions that it was a miracle that their necks had not yet been stretched.

"A faerie lady – that doth sound like the perfect end to a merry evening," Tristan mused with a grin.

"Tristan, thou cannot be in earnest!" Welby hissed as Tristan veered off the path and started stumbling along through the thin undergrowth.

Tristan's eyes sparkled with mischief – another bad sign.

"Can thou just imagine the depraved deviances a faerie lady might concoct for the bed-furs?" he mused as he pushed on.

"They say a faerie woman would render a man insensible and mute if ere she were to bed him," Welby cautioned.

Tristan paused and turned to his friend with a hint of glee.

"Ah, can you imagine the depth of pleasure? What a way to end this life!" he smiled. "Thou shall go on to thy new life with thy wife, and I shall end mine early in the arms of a love goddess. 'Tis perfect."