The gently rolling, currently white, hills of my homeland stretch out from me as I stand at the edge of my village, looking at the horizon. It had been fifteen years ago when I had last stared hopefully at the horizon, but the sun is setting and so are my spirits. Somehow, I know. He is not coming back. It has been five weeks since he should have returned, but he has not. Somewhere in the back of my mind, though, I knew weeks ago. I could feel that he was gone. Today was just a formality.
Still, I stand, praying that I am wrong, but as the sun sinks below the horizon line, leaving me in the blackness of a cold winter's night, there is a type of finality that comes which causes me to sink to the ground.
In truth, I am numb. There is no pain; there is no sense of loss. There is nothing. I know that in time, it will come and that I should enjoy this moment while it lasts, but the numbness feels wrong. As I sit on the snow-covered ground, my mind wanders back to before he left, when we were but children.
He was my only friend. None of the other children would talk to me because of the birthmark on my face. It is said that this is a sign of the devil but he did not believe it. He was my only friend, and he was the closest person to me. The two of us would run as free as the wild horses that would roam the hills. Many a day was spent doing naught more than climbing trees. There was one particular tree, a tall, sturdy old ash; from there we would watch the sun set and the twinkling stars appear in the night sky. Now that I think upon it, many a night was spent up in that tree as well. I would oft end up falling asleep leaning against his shoulder, and because he could not carry me and climb down, and he would ne'er leave me nor wake me, he would fall asleep there, too. How we did not both fall and break our necks is beyond my understanding.
Of course, our other favorite activity was horseback riding. Under normal circumstances, women of my village are not taught this art form. Certainly, they are taught to ride, but they are not taught much more than this for it is all that most of them need to learn. Fortunately for me, though, one of the village elders made an exception in my case because of an incident that he said proved that I was different.
One of the younger children was riding with an elder supervising him and a snake slithered out in front of the horse; the horse began to panic. The elder who was teaching the boy immediately ran out to try to calm the frightened creature, but it reared up and kicked him, sending him back into a tree. I had been watching and was the only other person there. I was not quite sure what to do, but I saw the teacher was unconscious and could do nothing.
I almost ran to get help but when I looked back at the child and saw the sheer terror that was expressed on his face as he clung to the horse for dear life, I knew the little one could only hold on for so long. If the horse managed to throw him, he could quite possibly be killed. It was in that moment that I rushed forward, grabbing the reins that the boy had dropped, and I began trying to speak soothingly to the terrified horse.
After a few moments in which the horse nearly trampled my then nine-year-old self, I managed to calm it enough that I could stroke it. I continued to stroke its mane and speak soothingly to it until it had calmed down entirely. When it had, I lifted the boy off and set him down on the ground. As soon as his little feet had made contact, he ran off behind me. I turned just in time to see the boy jump into the arms of our village leader.
The boy was our leader's son. The leader, Galvin the Brave, was apparently impressed with how I had been able to calm the horse. He said I was a gifted horse whisperer and it was he who taught me the art of riding a horse and developing that delicate, yet most important trust between horse and rider, but he would help me practice when Galvin was busy. And I remember back to how he and I both would train for hours on end, riding and sparring. Then the day came when those Roman dogs took him away.
I wanted to go with him so badly. A young girl though I was, I could defeat opponents twice my size. I asked one of the Roman soldiers if I could go, too. After all, they were taking away my one and only friend for, at the least, fifteen years. He was the only reason I had not left my small village. I had naught else to bind me to this lonely place with all of my family gone on before me. But the soldier refused, saying that women were not fit to be warriors, much less a little girl become a knight. I was desperate though and I made the mistake of asking once more and he lashed out at me with his whip.
Even with the blood gushing from my temple and a sharp throbbing sting where the whip had made contact, I ignored it. I would not allow myself to cry. Seeing my "insolence", he pulled back to try once more, but a hand caught the whip. Hehad caught it.
'Enough,' he said with a voice that already sounded much older than his years.
'You DARE give me an order, boy?' the Roman had exclaimed indignantly.
'She is just a girl. Are you so weak that you must abuse her to show your power?'
'You,' the Roman growled, 'will be taught respect soon enough once you are in civilized Roman society, far away from this barbaric place.'
Thus said, he stormed off. I glared after him until I felt one rough hand on my shoulder and the other brushing my hair out of my face to allow a better view of my wound.
'Why would you do that? He could have killed you.'
'Oh, what does it matter?' I had exclaimed, shoving his hand away from my forehead 'I wish he would have. It could be no worse than this torture I have been sentenced to endure.'
'Do not let this be the last I hear from you before I must go or I shall be miserable.'
'Every day that you are gone, some Woad or Saxon could kill you.'
'Just as our people's enemies could do here,' he had pointed out.
He always did love pointing out the blatantly obvious and yet, at the same time, entirely missing the point.
'I know that! But at least...' I stopped not believing that I had almost said it.
'At least what?'
He looked at me with those brown eyes that see straight through to my soul and I childishly looked away, because I knew if he saw my eyes, he would understand. Of course, he ne'er could leave well enough alone and tilted my face up to where he could see it. He then repeated his question, 'At least what?'
I almost answered him, but the Roman interrupted.
'Alright you heathen Sarmatians,' he called, getting the attention of all. 'It is time to leave and for you to begin your usefulness to the Roman Empire.'
He took his hand from my shoulder where it had been the whole time as he turned to look at the man. He then looked back to me a second later,
'I have to go,' he had said.
He made to leave, but I grabbed his arm. He turned back to me once more, surprised, but he did not get a chance to say anything, because I temporarily lost my calm practiced control over myself and kissed him quickly before pulling back.
It was nothing more than a childish, chaste kiss, but he and I were both confused by it. He stared at me in surprise. I think that he was unsure of what his response should be to such an unexpected thing. I was embarrassed that I had let my emotions get the best of me and frustrated with myself for what I had done. I had kissed my best friend whom I had liked, but could not tell the truth. I had panicked and done the only thing that my jumbled mind could think of at the moment. I shoved him down and ran off in the opposite direction.
I could hear him call after me, 'Iseult. Iseult!' but I continued to run towards the trees. I could not have answered him even if I had wanted. Already, the tears I had before managed to restrain streamed down my face. I made it all the way to the tree that he and I would sit in the most and I somehow climbed onto one of our favorite branches in the tree. It was there that I wept.
Now, I find myself running to that tree once more. Upon reaching it, I begin my climb. Being of the age of one and thirty does not hinder me for I care not what the other people of this village say of me. I am an outcast already, entirely alone in the world. What more could they possibly hope to do?
I reach the branch with no effort at all and pull myself onto it. It is this tree that he and I had climbed every day. The same tree where quite a few nights, I had fallen asleep against his shoulder. The same tree that I had run to when he was taken away by the Romans, and now, as he has been taken from me permanently.
I lean back against the trunk of the tree, for he is not here for me to lean on, and I curl up with my chin resting on my knees, my dark brown hair blowing into my face due to the cold night air. As I go to brush it away, I realize a single tear has fallen. It falls into the cold, unforgiving night, and echoes throughout the lonely hills, the wind carrying upon it naught but his name:
Tristan.