"How old are you?" he asked, looking back down at the sword in his lap.
"I'm seventeen, same as Galahad,"
"A woman for a year and we didn't even know it," Iseult glanced at Tristan as he watched her intently through his ragged hair. "Your marks, you never got them."
Iseult looked down at her hands sadly. The women in her tribe were marked by the tribe elder on their sixteenth birthday as a symbol of passing from childhood to adulthood. It identified them as belonging, and signified to all they met the pride they felt for being part of their tribe. Only the most dishonourable women, and traitors were not marked. "The Romans have taken much from us Tristan, this is just one thing more", Iseult spat out, picking up a twig and tossing it violently into the fire.
"You should get them done," Tristan said calmly. "It's a matter of honour. I could do it," Iseult looked at him questioningly. "I remember the design from when our tribes used to trade. I'm no elder, but you would have your marks".
Iseult sat there staring at him for sometime, the immensity of what he was offering to large to comprehend. "You… you would do that," she faltered.
Tristan answered by rummaging through his saddle bag, after a short time he managed to fish out his tattooing tools. He tossed her a twig which she caught with a confused expression. His lips twitched at the corners again. "Draw the design in the dirt, I remember the basics but the details elude me".
Tristan watched as the most radiant smile spread across Iseult's face. She busied herself drawing with care the design of the mark into the soil by the fire. "It should come down from my hair line, and finish between my eyebrows," she explained, her eyes intent on her work. Tristan was struck by a strange thought. Bent over in the dirt, her face a perfect picture of concentration. Her lips were slightly parted and a smile kept tugging at the corner of her mouth. Iseult had turned into a striking woman. Tristan was at a loss as to how he had not noticed this before. Their little warrior girl had disappeared, only to be replaced with something much more precious. The men at the fort would surely be clamouring to get her into their beds, and that thought made him uneasy. Tristan was pulled from his thoughts by the sudden realisation that she was looking at him. "I'm finished," she said, her eyes dancing with the fire light.
Tristan cleared his throat, thrown off balance by the fact she had caught him staring. He looked down at her drawing. It was a simple design of lines and dots, seemingly unimpressive, but Tristan knew that every line meant worlds to Iseult. He sat crossed legged next to her, and she lay down on her back, resting her head on his legs. She shut her eyes as he swept the hair from her forehead, and Tristan found himself smiling.
"This will sting a little," he warned her softly, before starting his work.