The bird called Iseult
Before he was taken by the Romans, Tristan found the girl, wounded and alone, in the forest.
He had strung his bow for hunting, the arrow taught and waiting, but he could not let loose the death blow. At first, all he had seen were the flutter of wings, large but bent, their movement was more of quivering pain than any earthly motion to take flight that Tristan knew of.
When she spoke, she used the language of the Turks, and never broke eye contact with him. "I know who you are, Tristan of the Mongols." Her voice sounded like the slipping river currents against the still shore. "You were born of eastern blood, but you will die under a Roman banner."
His heart pounded in his chest, and he was hypnotized by the way the long strands of her willowy hair glided across her face when she spoke. "I will never be Roman."
In his tone, he could feel the resolve of the man within him; the man yet to be born.
She smiled kindly at him, and though she did not speak, Tristan could feel the prophetic truth behind her early words.
"What are you?" He asked, knowing from the first that she was not human.
Stepping closer to her he could see the strange unevenness of her face, but behind the frightening aspect of her exterior he could also see true beauty in the stillness of her eyes as she watched him, and in the soft curve of her mouth as she smiled.
"I am Iseult of the Irshi."
"The Irshi?" He knew of these spirits, and the powers they were said to have. His father had told him stories often. Tristan took to his knee and bowed. He had never seen any such spirit in these woods before.
"Do not bow to me, Tristan of the Mongols." Despite her injury, she now stood before him, tall and erect as any statue of conquer that he had seen the Roman's place on the crossroads beyond his village. She laid a cool hand on his cheek, her fingers alighting on the black tattoos that marked the origins of his tribe. When Tristan raised his eyes he could see that her broken wing was still twitching painfully behind her.
"Lady," he spoke simply, in soft whispers. "Let me tend to your wound."
Iseult smiled. "That is two boons you have given me on this day, Tristan of the Mongols—the first in not killing me with your bow, and the second in offering to tend my condition."
"I meant no offence, Lady."
"And you have given none," her tone softened and she became wistful. "The Romans have brought their many gods to our lands… My powers, and the powers of my people weaken with every dawn and moonrise… My wounds cannot be healed by any mortal boy."
"I am more than any mortal boy," he said, affronted. "And I will never let the Romans take me."
She tilted her head, pitying him. "The Romans will come for you in three days' time. You will fight, yes, but they will take you. You will fight in their wars for more than fifteen years."
"I will fight for you, my lady. Keep me by your side. I will kill the Roman gods with my bare hands."
Iseult caressed his cheek again. "You would do it, I know, If I asked you. But you, Tristan of the Mongols, you have a destiny, as do I."
She backed away from him. Her footfalls were as light as air and with her departing all he felt was air rushing through him.
He called out to her, "Wait!"
She turned back to him.
"Will I ever see you again?"
"You will never see me again, but I will send you a sign in your greatest time of need. You will know me by it, and perhaps, one day, we can find each other again."
When he lifted his head up from another bow she was gone, and the forest was still and silent in her wake.
The Romans did come for him three days later. They pillaged his father's stronghold, whipping him in the square for protesting the taking of his eldest son. And his mother wept on the ramparts while they dragged him away. In shame he was made to follow behind one of the legionary's horses with his hands chained and his mouth gagged.
Tristan fought his tears and his anger.
On the fourth day of their travels away from his homeland he noticed the bird circling above him in the sky. It was dark and speckled. The Romans, he noticed, tried several times to take it down, but each time they cleaved their arrows the bird disappeared, darting away into the clouds or trees. Each nightfall, though, the bird glided down from the velvety black sky to perch on Tristan's outstretched arm, tamed suddenly by the stroke of his finger against its breast and her name whispered in secret conspiracy from the Romans. "Iseult."
A/N: Hello and thank you for reading. I don't know about you, but Tristan is one of my favorite parts about all Arthurian Legends, and it always seemed unfair that the Tristan of this film never got any backstory with Isolde/Iseult became he was a secondary character. Here I'm working in a backstory that Tristan hails from the Eastern Empire region i.e. Mongolia or Turkey. I'm also using the Mongol legend of the Irshi, which are described as "fairy like spirits, generally described as a beautiful girl appearing to have magical powers. They're often depicted as young, sometimes winged, tall, radiant, angelic spirits." to present my version of Iseult.
Thanks again for reading, and please leave me a review to let me know what you think. :)