Queen Isolde and King Marke laid awake in their bed. It had a been month since Tristan's death, and Isolde had refused to make love to Marke ever since. Still, fearing that returning to Ireland would stir bad memories of her and Tristan, Isolde chose to remain Marke's wife. In truth, Marke still loved Isolde deeply but had no idea how to console her. How could he? She had been in love with the man he thought of as his son, and obviously had only pretended to love Marke. Of course, Marke was no longer angry with Isolde, actually, he never was; he was more angry at himself for being so blinded by love. A love that still existed.

"Are you awake, Isolde?" asked Marke.

Isolde sighed. "Yes, I am."

"You're thinking on Tristan again." said Marke.

"No. I am thinking on you."

Marke, obviously stunned by Isolde's words, sat up slightly to face her. "On me?" He said.

"You must think poorly of me. What sort of wife refuses a husband's touch?" said Isolde.

"I think no less of you than I did on our wedding night. I still love you, Isolde. With love, comes patience. I'd rather go years without your touch, than never see your face again."

Although cautious, Marke planted a brief, tender kiss on Isolde's brow. He then turned onto his side to sleep for the night.

"Thank you." Isolde mouthed quietly, knowing that Marke hadn't heard her.