After Guinevere and her champion Lancelot, the second greatest lovers of Arthurian legend are Tristan and Isolde. Yet, as with all legends, it is part truth and part fiction, history interwoven with myth as years turn into centuries. The true story of Arthur and his knights goes before the Dark Ages to the crumbling Roman Empire. It was a different time from chivalry and courtly love, but that does not mean it could not be found even in the war-torn landscape of Britain.
The drabble that follows is based on a personal perspective as to how Tristan and his Isolde would fit in movieverse.
Title: Senses
Author: trinchardin
Fandom: King Arthur
Pairing: Tristan/Isolde [canon]
Rating: PG
Summary: A tracker has his skills.
Disclaimer: The myth owns itself, Touchstone Pictures owns the movie.
He is a tracker. It is something he is exceedingly good at. He has to be to survive. His skills are often what keeps him and the surviving knights alive. All it takes is for him to miss an enemy scout or misread a trail, and they could walk straight into an ambush. One learns quickly from a mistake on the battlefield for many times, one will not live to make it a second time.
Yet, his skills serve him just as well in other ways. He finds that out when he meets her.
Sight is waves of spun-gold swept up by the evening wind. The same shade of wheat at harvest time becomes a rushing river's silver in the glow of moonlight. The cold infuses alabaster cheeks with color in turn. Then, there is the grey of a stormy sky caught in wide windows of fluid expression, a pert nose and a pout of lips, the hue of peaches. Even the sun-kissed freckles on her nape cannot hide from him.
Scent is the light musk that anoints her skin. It is the captured sunshine in her hair and the spring flowers she gathers each morn. Then, when noon-time comes, it is the smell of herbs carefully picked for her kit, releasing their heady smell as she crushes them with a pestle. To mend their wounds, she says. The sharp aroma of a salve still lingers in her hands from when she healed a burn the day before.
Touch is always accidental on his part. The graze of his callused fingers would surely mark her delicate skin, a sacrilege against a mortal goddess. But, she graces him with hers, a soft pressure on his arm to catch his attention, even though he felt her presence as soon as she was near. He dreads her concern, the flutter of hands on scarred skin that want to heal wounds that go deeper than she knows. Pulling away as gently as he can, the hurt in her eyes burns his skin in a way the sun would envy.
Sound is her laughter, soft and lilting. She laughs even more than she speaks in her stilted Latin. Her Germanic roots escape when she gets caught up in a conversation, the words tumbling out of her mouth to be punctuated by laughter at her realization. He has also started to play his flute by the fireside just to hear her hum in tune, but he is not deaf to his fellow knights' amusement either. When she raises her voice in song though...she shuts out everything else and he is silent once more.
Taste is the bitterness of forbidden fruit. It is the acrid poison of an arrow that has found its mark, canker seeping slowly through the body. One is numbed and cold even in the bright of mid-day, clinging frantically to denial at the face of death. It is the copper taste of blood as one bites back one's tongue and forces a smile of farewell to a lady one has escorted to the estate of her betrothed.
His skill is just as much his ruin as keen memory remembers even as heart yearns to forget.
The drabble that follows is based on a personal perspective as to how Tristan and his Isolde would fit in movieverse.
Title: Senses
Author: trinchardin
Fandom: King Arthur
Pairing: Tristan/Isolde [canon]
Rating: PG
Summary: A tracker has his skills.
Disclaimer: The myth owns itself, Touchstone Pictures owns the movie.
He is a tracker. It is something he is exceedingly good at. He has to be to survive. His skills are often what keeps him and the surviving knights alive. All it takes is for him to miss an enemy scout or misread a trail, and they could walk straight into an ambush. One learns quickly from a mistake on the battlefield for many times, one will not live to make it a second time.
Yet, his skills serve him just as well in other ways. He finds that out when he meets her.
Sight is waves of spun-gold swept up by the evening wind. The same shade of wheat at harvest time becomes a rushing river's silver in the glow of moonlight. The cold infuses alabaster cheeks with color in turn. Then, there is the grey of a stormy sky caught in wide windows of fluid expression, a pert nose and a pout of lips, the hue of peaches. Even the sun-kissed freckles on her nape cannot hide from him.
Scent is the light musk that anoints her skin. It is the captured sunshine in her hair and the spring flowers she gathers each morn. Then, when noon-time comes, it is the smell of herbs carefully picked for her kit, releasing their heady smell as she crushes them with a pestle. To mend their wounds, she says. The sharp aroma of a salve still lingers in her hands from when she healed a burn the day before.
Touch is always accidental on his part. The graze of his callused fingers would surely mark her delicate skin, a sacrilege against a mortal goddess. But, she graces him with hers, a soft pressure on his arm to catch his attention, even though he felt her presence as soon as she was near. He dreads her concern, the flutter of hands on scarred skin that want to heal wounds that go deeper than she knows. Pulling away as gently as he can, the hurt in her eyes burns his skin in a way the sun would envy.
Sound is her laughter, soft and lilting. She laughs even more than she speaks in her stilted Latin. Her Germanic roots escape when she gets caught up in a conversation, the words tumbling out of her mouth to be punctuated by laughter at her realization. He has also started to play his flute by the fireside just to hear her hum in tune, but he is not deaf to his fellow knights' amusement either. When she raises her voice in song though...she shuts out everything else and he is silent once more.
Taste is the bitterness of forbidden fruit. It is the acrid poison of an arrow that has found its mark, canker seeping slowly through the body. One is numbed and cold even in the bright of mid-day, clinging frantically to denial at the face of death. It is the copper taste of blood as one bites back one's tongue and forces a smile of farewell to a lady one has escorted to the estate of her betrothed.
His skill is just as much his ruin as keen memory remembers even as heart yearns to forget.