reflections on a perfect soul
Tristan was dead. She stifled a sob, and reached a hand forward to brush a stray lock of curly brown hair behind his ear. He would never open his eyes on the darling sunrise, never be able to ever again smile at her. She had lost him, and that tore her to pieces.
Why had he pushed her out into the river? Why hadn't he have been selfish for once and his life and had came with her, securing a lifetime of happiness. Marke had given them a chance for peace and Tristan, honourable, courageous, beautiful Tristan, had thrown it away like ashes in the wind.
Isolde shook her head placing it on Tristan's chest, the red blood seeping onto her mass of curls. She didn't care. Tristan was dead, and that was all that mattered.
A week ago, she had been expecting her monthly bloodshed, but day and night had passed, with no sign of the dreaded curse. Isolde hadn't wanted to say anything, to bring misfortune down on the tiny spark of hope, but she felt in her heart that she was with child. But whose was it? That had been the question, so she had kept her mouth shut. If it was Marke's that would have distanced her further away from Tristan, and if it was Tristan's that was only solid proof that they had been together.
She regretted her silence now. Tristan would have died happy, ecstatic even, if she had told him, and- even though she didn't believe it herself- that small fact, that only tiny joy, could have possibly willed him to live.
If or not she was with child, it didn't matter. If she was, it could be a forever memory of Tristan, and if she wasn't, it wasn't of much use to cry about it. God had his will, and she had to bow down to it.
Isolde dried her cheeks with her fingers, smiling down at the peaceful face of Tristan. He couldn't have escaped death, cheated God, for a second time. It was his time, and she had to respect that.
She stood up, on shaky legs, before casting her eyes around the grounds fearfully. It was nearing dawn and no sounds had been coming from the castle for the past two hours. If her father had won, and slain Marke, than she would be to endure a life of misery with a suitable husband, one much like Morholt had been.
But if Marke had won, Tristan's sacrifice had not been worthless, and so she wished that it had been so, wholly in her heart.
Casting one look down at Tristan's face, forever committing it to her memory, she fled, a hand on her stomach, and a tear in her eye. Tristan was at peace, and the trees, forever entwined, were an ever-lasting symbol of their love.
Love had been greater than life or death, but both had succumbed to its wilful woes.
Isolde would love him forever. She would see him in only in her dreams, until grateful death came to take her too, to heaven, where he waited, patiently and lovingly, waited for her to come and join him.
Tristan of Aragon.
Eternally young.
He would live forever in her heart.
Just watched the movie again today, and fell in love with it all over again. James Franco + Sophia Myles= hot! :D