I resubmitted this chapter because I forgot to put "Chapter One". Yes, I'm very picky. Oh, and reference for future chapters: some of the quotation marks may be different than in other chapters. That is because some of the chapters I typed in Microsoft Word.

Chapter One

The shores of Ireland were calm this morning. The young princess Isolde and her mother, the elder queen Isolde, paced a short stretch of beach near their home, awaiting the arrival of Morholt; her uncle and her mother's brother. He was demanding tributes from King Mark of Cornwall, and had yet to return. The two ladies were rather anxious.

"Where could he be, mother?" The Irish lass, with hair the color of a golden setting sun and eyes greener than the fields beyond, wrung her hands in worry. She loved her uncle very dearly; he reminded her much of her father. "It's not like him to take so long. He's been gone for quite some time."

"Now, now, daughter; I am just as worried as you are. I'm sure your uncle is fine." The elder Isolde tried to hide the worry in her voice, and her daughter could detect it. Something had happened to her uncle. She was sure of it.

A small boat, in the distance, came out of the morning fog. "Mother...is that uncle? Is it him?"

"I don't know...I don't see him, love. We'll just have to wait until the boat is closer to shore." The two sat down on the sand, not caring that it was wet and it stuck to their dresses. They only cared about the condition of Morholt.

The boat finally reached shore, and one of the men jumped out quickly, approaching the two ladies. "Morholt...he's dead."

"Dead?" Isolde gasped, and rushed to the boat, confirming it as the truth. There lay her uncle, once a strong, proud man; now, in a eternal state of repose, his skin ashen and gray. "How? Why? Who did this?"

"Sir Tristan of Cornwall. The nephew of King Mark. An English knight. He gave us a message to take to your father."

"Well, let us hear it first."

"I don't know..."

"Please!" The young girl grabbed a hold of his leather jerkin, pulling him forward. "He was my uncle; my mother's beloved brother! I have a right to know!"

"All right. Tristan said for us to tell your father...'the only tribute you'll get from King Mark of Cornwall is Morholt's body.' I'm truly sorry, m'lady."

The whole world fell away, until all she could hear was the sound of her own heartbeat in her ears. Once again, she approached the boat, and her uncle. The wound he received was very deep--a harsh blow to his chest, his clothing caked in blood. A glint of something in his horrific wound caught her eye, and she reached carefully, pulling it out. A silver splinter, from a sword. Tristan's sword.

"Tristan, I swear, by the Lord our God, I will kill you if ever you cross my path," she said, through gritted teeth, as she placed the splinter in her pocket. As a reminder.