Disclaimer: I don't own the movie king Arthur. It only belongs to Jerry Bruckheimer&Co.
The old poem is owned by no one- since no one really knows the author.
It has existed since the middle age, if anyone should wonder about the strange German...
I am really very, very sorry that I didn´t update for ages. I don´t really have an excuse, only that I was long away from a computer, since I was on holidays (-:... Thanks so much for reviewing, I am so glad all of you like the story and I hope you like this chapter as well. Sachita (-:
p.s. Thanks as always to Priestess for looking over the chapter, you are the best ! (-;
p.p.s.: I have posted the answers to the reviews on my profile...thank you again for them!
12. Ewig Winter (1)
***
Tristan stopped next to the Roman with the red cloak, who was presumably Arthur.
Isolde had calmed herself a bit and was now watching with great interest what was taking place a few hundred metres away from her.
They came nearer and she could see, that he obviously reported something to Arthur.
After all, he was their scout, wasn't he?
Then she had to squint her eyes a bit, when she saw, that he was grimacing and grabbing his arm shortly. Had he managed to injure himself once more? Isolde resisted the temptation to roll her eyes and felt immediately how the nervous butterflies in her stomachs started to move again.
She was afraid- and she was even a bit astonished at that.
After all they had only met by coincidence and- Isolde scowled, suddenly angry at herself. It was no use to think about it now. She had to face the knights.
She stood up and removed the tattered curtain from the carriage.
Ignoring the outstretched hand of the Roman commander, that had been escorting them until now, she jumped to the ground and stepped calmly over to this…Artorius, who had gotten off his horse as well.
He bowed before her: "My Lady Isolde." Isolde looked at him, trying to get a general gist of his character by gazing at him. He was a handsome man, who had presumably seen about thirty summers. His hair was the trademark Roman black and it was slightly curled. He was quite tall and sun- bronzed. He seemed to fit in the usual image of a Roman commander quite well, if it hadn't been for his eyes who were strikingly green and who looked at her now quite penetratingly and kindly, almost.
Artorius Castus also had the air of someone who was used to giving orders and not following them, but, as Isolde noticed, he also seemed to have that certain something, which you only see with outstanding people.
Arthur carried himself in a self-assured posture, at which you really could notice, that he considered his men as equals.
Isolde liked him immediately- and understood a bit more of Tristan's obvious loyalty towards him.
Raising her eyes again to meet Arthur's she shook his hand. "I am glad to meet you finally, Artorius Castus." This time her smile was genuine.
***
She looked past him to the knights, who stood next to their horses. Looking back at Arthur, she asked him, whether he would introduce her to his knights.
Arthur smiled too. "It would be a pleasure to acquaint you to my men."
Isolde followed him over to the knights and the terrible dread in her stomach was ever present again. "This is Galahad" Arthur said. Galahad was a young one, probably the youngest of all the knights with curly, dark hair and a nice smile. Isolde liked him, though she saw that he was still more innocent compared to the others in the way he regarded the world. You could see it in the lines of his face, or rather lack there of; he did not have the hard lines around the mouth that many men wore that had seen too much cruelty in the harsh reality of the world.
"It's a pleasure." he croaked and cleared his throat quickly. He managed to blush furiously at the same time, too.
"The pleasure is all mine, Sir" Isolde replied seriously.
Arthur laughed a little and the next man came over to them. He had tangled, blonde hair and friendly blue eyes, in which the laughter about his friend Galahad's actions towards the Gaul lady still was present.
"Hello m´lady" he managed to get out, still chuckling, what earned him a glare from Galahad.
"May I introduce you to Gawain, my Lady?" Arthur asked and shot at the same time a glare towards Gawain, whose laughter quickly faded into apologizing hiccups.
"Sorry," he murmured as though he were guilty of a crime, and seemed to find great interest in his boots.
"No offence taken, Sir." Isolde grinned a bit at his contrite actions and when Gawain stepped away he blinked at her. She blinked back and had an immediate like for this lion of a man as well.
"My lady…" Arthur started again and Isolde interrupted him.
"If this is alright for you, my Lord, please call me Isolde."
Arthur stared at her a bit disbelievingly: "Yes…?"
"Yes, if this is alright for you as well, my Lord."
Arthur smiled broadly, and it was now possible to read his expressions. "Well, of course that's alright for me….Isolde, but only if you call me Arthur."
"Lass, but 'twould be better then if ye let the sir drop as well," A Sarmatian called out.
"We ain't no bloody Sires."
"Bors…language" Arthur hissed. Isolde smiled faintly.
"I got to tell you, valiant knights, that I am no Lady either."
That earned her a chuckle from the man, who had spoken, a bulky, shorter fellow with a shaven head.
"Greetings, lass" he shouted loudly and Isolde thought if she wouldn't know that he wouldn't do her any harm, she would be truly afraid of him, since his outward appearance was frightening. Arthur next to her looked again quite ready to faint at Bors' language in front of Isolde, for after all, she could tell by the knight and Roman's actions that he had had to scold his knights on more than one occasion about their language in front of a noblewoman.
Isolde shook his outstretched hand. "And a good day to you, Bors."
The man next to Bors bowed and smiled warmly at her, his gruff face becoming that of a kind and generous man. He was a giant of a man as well and Isolde thought after hearing Flavius's tale of them that it had to be Dagonet, the big knight with the even bigger heart for children.
Isolde felt safe around him and had a feeling that you couldn't wish for a better friend than Dagonet.
Isolde smiled at him. "You are Dagonet, are you not?"
He seemed to be a bit surprised to have been recognized by the Gaul.
"Yes. How do you know?"
Isolde decided to exaggerate a bit knowing that it would swell their egos. "The tales of Arthur and his knights are told everywhere." Well it wasn't much of an exaggeration for most children knew of the great Arthur and his brave Sarmatian knights.
Dagonet smiled even warmer, recognizing the flattery.
"You must have heard of me then as well," another smooth voice interrupted. Isolde turned around. Ah, she thought before even having turned around, the womaniser. He had black curls, a trimmed beard and a handsomeness about him, that made Isolde understand why many women fell for him.
However, she didn't fall for his charms.
"Indeed I have, Lancelot. You are the one that is always being chased by women with wooden spoons, aren't you?"
Lancelot grinned. "Such a sharp, wicked tongue you have, my beautiful lady."
Isolde shot him an annoyed look and stepped past him to the next knight, who promptly managed to trip over his own feet and knock her to the ground.
Isolde was quite unprepared for that and when a hand was extended to her, she took it, quite dazed. She looked up, the hand belonged to Dagonet. In that very moment Isolde wished the ground would swallow her. "Th-th-thanks." She had almost lost her ability to speak properly and was quite annoyed at herself because of that. The moment she raised her eyes next, she was suddenly met with Tristan's, who looked at her with a steady stare.
Quickly, she avoided his searching glance and stared to the ground.
A slight cough made her turn around. The small, a bit corpulent knight with the brown, tousled hair, who had knocked her to the ground, had turned a light pink.
"Sorry," he said. "Those things always happen to me."
It is alright" Isolde replied , countenancing herself .
"My name is Kay, my L…Isolde."
Isolde smiled at him and was introduced to Bedivere, Gareth and Gaheris (who looked quite similar to their brother Gawain) and Iwain, who looked at her with a smouldering glare.
Isolde shuddered and stepped away quickly. She didn't like that man. There was something about him…a cruel side, similar to the one Tristan had sometimes, but in contrary to Tristan the cruelty and blackness seemed to dominate him wholly.
Not that Tristan wasn't an intimidating person, but he was different.
Iwain was blackness, pure malice and simply creepy.
Isolde was glad when she didn't feel his eyes on her back anymore.
The next knight she was introduced to was called Erec. He greeted her with a simple, "my pleasure" and that was it. Isolde found that he was quite handsome with grey eyes and light brown hair. He wore a plaited bracelet around his arm and Isolde studied it shortly, curious to know of its origins. He obviously noticed, because he said abruptly, "It was given to me by my betrothed, who died in a Saxon raid."
"I am sorry." Isolde said honestly.
"Don't be," he replied a bit too harshly and upon realizing that he added more softly and apologetically, "perhaps I'll tell you one day of her."
Isolde nodded.
Yes, she thought, these men are really the best men I ever had the honour to meet. They are just like the honourable, courteous men in the tales.
The next knight had a mop of soft golden hair and dark brown eyes. He didn't say anything, but started to perform a poem.
Du bist min, ih bin din: (2)
Des solt du gewis sin.
Du bist beslossen
In minem herzen:
Verloren ist daz sluzzelin
Du muost och immer dar inne sin.
"It's very beautiful," murmured Isolde softly. She had heard something else in that poem, it had sounded like the sound of that day, when she was at the small river back in Gaul and Tristan had told her of the sound of silence.
"What language is it in?"
"It's the language of the people who live opposite the channel, in your neighbour country."
Isolde smiled a bit. "And what is it about?"
"It's about an endless love," he answered cryptically and the look on his face was like the look of one, who sees more than other people. His eyes were deep and full of wisdom. Uncomfortably, she changed the subject.
"May I ask you your name, Sir knight?" she asked.
"That's Percival," Arthur remarked, and Isolde jumped, she hadn't heard him coming. "Our bard."
Isolde was introduced to Melan and Geraint, as well to Hermann, who had gotten a faraway look in his eyes, when Percival performed that poem.
Isolde wondered why, but she knew there was so much she didn't know about these men.
Now she couldn't get away. Her legs felt as if she was frozen to the spot.
Slowly, she turned and stared for the second time that day in a pair of dark eyes. Behind her she could hear Branwaine, who had been introduced as well to the knights, giggle at something, that Lancelot had said, but Isolde was frozen to the spot.
Tristan stood there, calmly and looked at her.
Isolde would have expected everything, but not that he would just nod at her and then turn away. Inside she was hurt, but outside, she managed a forced, strained smile. "And what is your name, Sir?" as though she did not know the answer. She wore a cool look as though she was curious yet indifferent. But she wasn't. Inside she was hurting so badly.
Without even bothering to turn around he replied coldly and distantly, as if he knew, it was a trick to get him out of his emotionless mask. "Tristan." Then he turned away to get to his horse, since the other knights were already mounting their stallions. When he didn't even acknowledge her further, something in Isolde broke even more. She realized it was her heart. Her heart felt as though it were in her throat and she fought back a few tears.
However, when he was on his way to his grey stallion, he brushed rather roughly past her and murmured lowly without any warmth in his voice next to her ear, so no one except her could hear, "so we meet again."
Now that she was that close to him and could breathe in his smell of wood and rain, she also noticed the bandage that had been wrapped carelessly around his upper left arm.
***
The moment passed and too soon she found herself sitting again in the swaying and tottering old carriage next to Branwaine.
The countryside didn't change once, it was always the same: woods, a little bit of open fields and woods once again. Isolde sighed.
She stared at the passing forests and felt strangely left alone for the first time in her life, despite the fact that her best friend was sitting next to her.
Until now she had managed to bite herself through everything, but now, in a strange, foreign country, promised to a husband, whom she hadn't ever seen and in love with another man who was as cold as ice towards her, she was not so sure anymore if she could find a good way out of all of this. She didn't want her life to pass before her eyes in a blur, she didn't want it to be an endless boring chain of golden cages, fat old men, who wanted nothing but to have their way with her and a husband who would presumably treat her no better than scum.
She had heard he would have only one wife, who would be her, but secretly he had more whores and concubines, than she could count on both of her hands.
Isolde exhaled loudly, a sad sound, and buried herself in a corner of the carriage.
Outside she could hear the loud instructions of Arthur, the sound of horses galloping and the wind howling.
It was then that she thought about the Sarmatian knight, she had so soon fallen for. Tristan. Now when she thought of it she wasn't even sure of the truth of his words when he had become Tristan for her, not a sir.
But that day on the beach when she had found him, he had offered her that name, Tristan, and she hadn't even thought that it would be more appropriate to call him by the more polite Sir. No, Tristan had been so fitting, as if she had known him for forever.
Rain began to pound against the wooden sides of the carriage and Isolde stared on the ground with hazy eyes. Tristan had been her only backup on that strange, repelling island.
Once she had heard of Arthur being her escort to her betrothed's estate, Tristan had been her only thought in long, lonely nights.
But at the same time she had dreaded that moment when she would see him again, had feared he would react as if they had never met.
Now he had done it obviously- but worse. Hundred times worse than she would have expected, but the bitter tears that welled up in her eyes now, wouldn't be shed that time. No. She was strong. She wouldn't let him gain that satisfaction as well, to get her crying. He was cruel, as hard as stone to her, and she was hurt. So obviously hurt.
Of course she wouldn't have expected for him to hug her fiercely and tell her how glad he was to see her again…she chuckled dryly at this hilarious thought….but she had expected something, even if it had been a slight flicker in his eyes, to tell her he appreciated meeting her again. Not that stony silence. He had spoken four words to her so far.
Isolde snorted again, telling herself that she obviously stood alone- of course with dear, loyal Brana to her side, but nevertheless alone.
Tristan had made himself clear that they were even now- he had saved her life and she had saved his-and that no further interactions were needed.
But Isolde didn't want to stop. She knew Tristan had another side as well under that ice-cold unfriendliness of his, a caring side; she had gotten a few looks on back in Gaul. So she decided to fight- at least she wanted to know the reason for his coldness.
Life was rough and Isolde wasn't a spoilt princess who awaited for everything to come to her, but she wanted to have a hand in her own life and luck as well.
Since she was not a warrior, but had been raised in a warrior tribe, and knew the ways of those hardened men, she also knew that it wouldn't be easy for her to get Tristan to tell her, why he was like that towards her.
Sometimes Isolde would get infuriated at the ways of those men. They always knew that there was a meal on the table when they returned home, that everything was cleaned and so on…
Isolde's thoughts wandered back to Tristan's cold exterior.
Oh, of course she had noticed, that he was like that with everyone, but she wasn't about to give up now. That man was still due to get his shocking wonder.
She peered outside of the carriage again, wondering about the thick mist that descended from the woods. For a split of a second, she thought she'd see blue faces of demon-like humans that looked viciously at her from the woods.
But before she could be sure, they had disappeared as if they had never existed.
Isolde shivered involuntarily. Little dry leaves began to perform their silent autumn dance mixed with snowflakes and fell down on the little group, as they began to prepare for their night camp.
In the night it was quite cold and Isolde and Branwaine covered themselves tightly with the few blankets they had. Nevertheless it was an unpleasant cold and in the middle of the night Isolde awoke with a start.
She looked quickly at the sleeping Branwaine next to her, then stood quietly up and left the carriage.
No one was awake, except for a silent guard at a little fire.
Isolde stepped quietly through the rows of the sleeping knights and Romans and seated herself opposite of the man.
It turned out to be Percival, who smiled friendly at her.
They sat there for some time, staring both deep in their thoughts in the crackling flames.
"You know him, don't you?" Isolde knew immediately whom he had been referring to.
"Yes, I do. You're very observant, Sir."
"That is just Percival for you."
"Many thanks. But may I inquire why you noticed that I knew Tristan?"
"You looked at him as if daring to greet you somewhat specially."
Isolde took a sharp intake of breath, terrified of his answer. "Are you the only one who noticed?"
"It wasn't easy to see; you have your emotions controlled quite well. Actually it is quite impressive," came the quiet reply.
"Besides, the others were busy with their horses."
Isolde was silent. Percival continued at last. "But Isolde, there's one thing you ought to know. Tristan is a difficult person. I think that he knows it himself too. Tristan…if I should try and find words to describe Tristan, I'd say, he's like a shade or water. You can never hold him back, if he doesn't want to be held back. He's cold, stern and cruel, unpredictable, untouchable and equipped with a cynical dark humour. But that's only one side of the medallion. I've been around Tristan far too long, to not know, that he has another side as well. He cares about few and few care about him. Most of them see him as a man who had no emotions and is nothing but a killing savage. However, he does care about Arthur and us others, as we do care about him. If he didn't care, he could have just disappeared during one of his scouting missions, yet, he never did it, and he'll never do it. He always returns, like a bird to its nest. If Tristan was ever to love someone, he would love only one person forever, and somehow I can imagine it to be someone like you ."
Percival fell silent again and Isolde rose gently from her seat.
The next day commenced with a beautiful sunrise, even if it was short and the sun soon disappeared in the wavering mists again.
It was even colder outside and the grass was full of dew.
Isolde woke up in stiff clothes and yawned tiredly.
Standing up, she looked around and noticed that it was still early morning and Branwaine was still asleep in the carriage. It was about half an hour after the sunrise and no one was up except for the guard- another knight now-who stood unmoving next to the still smoking fire place- and Isolde.
The next moment she looked, a beautiful hawk flew down to land graciously on a knight's arm. It was Tristan's arm. Isolde was quick to get in the carriage again, but her feet made a small sound on the ground, causing Tristan to spin around attentively and look up sharply.
In a split of a second he had also an arrow on his bow notched, but when he recognized her, he let it sink equally quickly.
Isolde couldn't do anything but admire the hawk now perched on his shoulder. Her feathers were a dark brown with little white spots and her eyes where sharp and clear. Tristan pet her head, when she began to move anxiously around and she was calm once again. Isolde decided to walk over to him, because she was quite aware of how ridiculous it would have looked if she would have disappeared in the carriage now.
So she now stood bravely next to him and said softly, after clearing her throat in an attempt to swallow her fear of being rejected again: "Tis´ a beautiful hawk. What's her name?"
He looked quizzically at her for a moment, trying to determine the reason why she was asking him about his hawk. "She doesn't have one, but normally I like to think of her name as ´Freedom."
"Liberté," Isolde added. Tristan didn't look startled and Isolde thought that he was quick to figure out, that liberté did mean the same as freedom, only in her native language.
Isolde was very tempted to slap him now.
Instead she grabbed his upper arm harshly, causing him to breathe in sharply. She winced.
"Your arm is in dire need of being patched up."
"It is already."
"It is not," Isolde hissed angrily back.
He stared at her and Isolde stared right back, just as irritated.
After some minutes of lasting silence, she stomped furiously back to the carriage, to fetch her supplies.
.
When she returned, more knights were awake.
Tristan was seated now in front of a big oak tree, with his hawk sitting on his arm once again. On her way over to him, Isolde had the strange feeling of being watched, but when she spun around to face the woods, no one was there, and only some mists hovered there.
Isolde gave a small, unsure laugh and sat down. Tristan held his arm out to her.
"They are there in the woods, watching us," he said suddenly and his voice was severe.
"Who?" Isolde asked sharply.
"Inish," Dagonet breathed. "The vicious ghosts from the woods"
"In other words Woads." Lancelot's voice was like frosty steel and his eyes had gone as cold as the chilling winds all around them.
Isolde shuddered. This side of them was in place again, the merciless side, the cold side.
Gone was the light atmosphere and a unnatural silence hung over the little group of knights and the few Roman soldiers settled in the damp grass.
Isolde felt Tristan's warm breath on her neck and shuddered again. Her fingers brushed lightly over his cold arm and she rubbed the dirt off the nasty looking wound with a soft linen.
"Where did you get it?" Tristan looked up sharply and his eyes surveyed her warily.
"An Ambush. Woads." His answer was always, short and to the point.
Isolde poured alcohol on the wound and he didn't even flinch. Only a short flicker of pain in his eyes told her that he felt it.
Her fingers shook when she touched his arm again and wrapped the bandage around it. She let them linger there a bit longer than necessary. He looked at her, his expression unreadable as always and took her hand from his arm, simply nodding at her again.
He hadn't released her, however, only his fingers stroked lightly the back of her hand, and Isolde understood suddenly, that it was his way of showing her that he still cared.
"My Lady…Isolde… many thanks."
Isolde was still a bit surprised from the sudden load of emotions that came crashing down on her from his touch, but Tristan tensed suddenly.
***
"They are coming closer," he said, his voice hoarse. "Many of them. Too many for us."
Arthur got on his feet. "We should leave."
Percival murmured, "the rumours of Rome's withdrawal from Britain is inciting them to come south of the wall."
"Mere Rumours," Erec interrupted harshly. "Aren't they, Arthur?"
Arthur avoided his knight's eyes. "We are leaving now. Get to your horses."
The men hesitated. "Who cares?" Gawain grumbled finally.
"In three years we'll leave this wretched island. Gawain is right; who cares?"
"I want to know!" shouted Galahad suddenly. "Did we risk our lives for nothing? Arthur! Answer me! Did so many Sarmatian knights die for nothing?"
Arthur called strictly, "We are leaving now, knights."
"I want to know, Arthur." Galahad was furious, his eyes ablaze.
Isolde watched the exchange sadly. She knew now of the simmering arguments right under the surface between them all and dreaded the moment, when they would come to their breaking point.
"Save your breath, boy," Tristan growled suddenly behind Isolde, dark anger evident in his words. "If Arthur says, we leave, we will leave now."
"Oh, the scout, who never cares about anything. I am envying you for your calm ways, Tristan." Galahad was shaking with fury, oblivious to the warning glances of the others.
"And what about Agravaine? About Sagramore?" he continued. "What about Dinadan?"
Tristan flinched suddenly when he heard that last name, and all of them noticed, including Galahad. "Did he give his life for nothing, Tristan? You could have saved him that day."
"Calm yourselves." Arthur tried to soothe them, but it didn't help anything anymore.
Tristan, the calm, emotionless Tristan was angrier than he had ever been in his life.
"Shut up!" he barked. "SHUT UP! Shut up lest you lose your head!" His voice lowered with the last sentence; it was hard to hear him, but all shuddered at his deadly tone of voice.
Only Isolde who was closest to him heard the slight tremble to his voice.
Galahad went on with his cruel taunting, wanting him to pay for not allowing him to find out the answer to his dire question. "Isn't it like that, Tristan? You could have saved him."
"It is enough, Galahad!" Gawain said suddenly. "Hold your tongue."
Galahad froze and turned around to Gawain. He looked like he was frozen, his mouth agape and his face red from yelling. Isolde didn't like him then. She could feel Tristan's pain as vividly as if it was her own, even if his face was emotionless again.
The Gaul princess wondered what had happened back then with that Dinadan, but she didn't dare to ask.
Instead she watched the men getting on their horses and turned back to Tristan.
"I am sorry. "
"Don't be," he whispered and Isolde who would have expected a dark glare, because she knew how much he despised weakness of any sort was startled. "Don't be" he repeated, voice stronger and there was no shaking in it.
Tristan looked shortly at her, mounted his horse and rode off, smirking a bit to himself, when he looked back and saw the confused expression on her face.
When he looked forward however and saw Galahad riding there, his heart clenched painfully, even if his face remained stoic. The words of the pup had stung, though he knew that Galahad hadn't really meant to hurt him; he'd just interfered with the desperate question in the young man's mind. He could understand his need to know if all the lives that had been lost were for nothing. That he had wasted a third of his life for nothing and was still wasting yet another three years.
His thoughts flew back to Dinadan. Tristan thought of two chocolate brown eyes and dishevelled brown hair, a mischievous smile and a cheerful soul. Yes…and these were barely enough words to describe the kind person Dinadan had been. Such a good brother in arms, his cousin, his true blood family—not a brother in arms.
He, Tristan had been supposed to look out for him, to protect him.
Tristan traced absentmindedly a long, deep scar on his forearm: He would never forget that day; it was branded in his memory forever, the day he had lost Dinadan… His hands found another scar, just next to the long one. It was a small one, one could almost oversee it, but yet, for Tristan it was another scar that told of a day, he would never forget.
This scar had hurt the most, yet not physically so. It had been three years ago…
Tristan was sitting on the wall, gazing out over the silent land, while long shadows began to creep over the hills in the last light of the day.
He looked down to see Arthur talking with Dinadan and Sagramore and to the silent watcher it looked like they were arguing.
Silently he went down and came to stand next to his young cousin.
"No" Arthur was saying, "I don't want you to volunteer and go on this mission. You're both far too young and inexperienced to do so."
"But how can we prove that we are old enough to prove that we are hardened warriors as well, if not like this?" Dinadan asked acidly.
Arthur looked hesitant. "I will think about it."
When Arthur and Sagramore were gone and Dinadan still stood there, motionless, Tristan said strictly, "You won't go on this mission. Arthur is right."
Dinadan stared at him angrily. "You can't tell me what to do."
"Yes, I can." Tristan had slipped in the Sarmatian tongue, because he didn't want all people to understand their argument.
"Why?" Dinadan was still furious.
"Yllona, your aunt told me to look out for you. And even if she hadn't, I would do so, because you are the closest thing to a brother I ever had."
To admit such feelings, had taken a lot from Tristan and he shuddered inwardly. Dinadan turned around and went away, without saying anything anymore.
But Tristan knew he would try to convince Arthur. Dinadan had always been good at convincing others.
That evening he went to Arthur himself and had a long talk with him. Arthur agreed finally: he wouldn't allow Dinadan to go on that dangerous missions yet.
Satisfied, Tristan made his way to the wall again the next morning. Arthur had given his accord. Tristan didn't want Dinadan to be hurt. Yes, he loved him very much, like a brother would do, and he would get him back home, even if this would be the last thing he would do.
Sudden, loud, angry footsteps alerted him immediately.
"Cousin," someone growled.
Tristan replied warily, "Yes?"
"You convinced Arthur to forbid us to go on this mission." Dinadan's voice was like acid and Tristan felt himself flinching inwardly.
"Yes. Why can't you understand, Dinadan? I only want you to come out unharmed out of all this."
"No! I cannot understand, Tristan! I am not a little kid you need to look out for anymore!" The anger in Tristan grew as well.
Darkly he replied, "Perhaps I should have let it be then, if you want so desperately be killed."
He knew, it had been wrong, but the words had been said, and nothing could be taken back. Out of the blue, Dinadan lunged at him. Tristan was surprised and reacted far too slow.
Dinadan hit him with surprising strength and suddenly his nails were on Tristan's forearm, leaving bloody traces. Tristan, the calm Tristan was shocked and his expression showed for once the betrayal and the shock he felt.
Dinadan's face showed nothing but guilt and surprise at his own actions.
"I am sorry, Tristan." Then he slowly turned around and left the wall, leaving Tristan to his troubled thoughts. Groaning, the dark scout buried his face in his hands, wondering what on earth he had done wrong.
Now, it was the same with Isolde. After all, she was nothing but a princess they were to escort to her betrothed. Nothing more.
When he heard from Arthur the name of that princess they were to escort, he had been surprised at first…or that feeling had been more like a plunge into ice-cold currents of a wintery river.
However, he had decided that he wouldn't let him affect it. The best thing was to avoid her at all costs, and be as unfriendly to her as he could muster. That was what he tried to do for all costs: avoid her.
Isolde was to be married and he wouldn't even try to show her that he fancied her. Of course it was more than simply fancying, but that was another aspect of that dreadful theme. It shouldn't have affected him that she was to be married. He didn't care either about Roman laws or the laws their ridiculous church had made up- but…Ah, well.
He sighed again and thought about her betrothed. Tristan had never made himself any illusions when he had heard whom she was to be wed to. Marcellus Aurelius had never been known for his kindness, neither had he been ever known for his ways to treat women with the honour they deserved. He had more whores and concubines at his court than, so Tristan thought at least, at the Emperor's court in Rome existed.
The only thing that had the pope of the Christians kept from doing anything against Aurelius, when the rumours had reached His Holiness, had been the money sent to bribe him, which had been successful. Everyone knew about it, almost everyone in Britain who knew Aurelius, but the Romans kept their mouths tightly shut about the whole ordeal.
Tristan's face contorted in a snarl. The whole Roman nation seemed to do nothing but bribe and fool each other. Tristan was disgusted by them.
However, Arthur, Arthur was a whole different person.
Arthur was probably the only one of the entire nation, whom Tristan trusted with his whole heart, because he had proven himself more than necessary to be more than worthy of that trust.
His thoughts wandered back to Isolde. She wouldn't lead an easy life there with this Roman lord, but he tried to tell himself that he didn't care. No, he didn't. He would also stop thinking about her, because, he didn't care.
Or…did he? Bloody hell….
Tristan was suddenly and roughly shaken from his troubled thoughts, when he heard the sudden sound of dozens of running feet.
These sounds were almost inaudible, since the Woads moved lightly over the ground like deer, but Tristan heard them nevertheless. He always heard them. Woads.
He cantered quickly and hastily to Arthur's side.
"They will attack soon, Arthur. I fear we have stayed too long."
Arthur nodded, his eyes scanning the forest as well.
"When will they attack? We should try to avoid an open fight, since we are outnumbered by them."
Dark eyes stared unblinkingly back to Arthur. "I don't know," was the honest reply, "but I think they won't wait until we're on the open plains again."
The quiet sound of a horn being blown alerted Tristan again.
Arthur didn't hear anything, so he looked quite confused, when his scout appeared to listen intently to seemingly nothing at all. However, he knew, Tristan's ears and eyes were far better than those of normal people. If they weren't they'd all be long dead and buried in the sad little graveyard,' which is what Lancelot liked to call it.
Tristan heard the horn again, and with a sudden understanding of that new signal, he breathed painfully: "They will attack. Now."
Arthur didn't waste any time. He turned around to the men and shouted loudly.
"Woads. Prepare for attack."
Immediately the Sarmatians as well as the few Roman soldiers accompanied the knights to the fort as well had their weapons drawn.
They formed a tight circle around the carriage and waited full of tension for the inevitable.
Translations:
Forever Winter (1)
You are mine , I am yours,(2)
You can be sure of that.
You are closed
In my heart
The key has been lost:
You have to stay in forever
Warning: That's a very free translation of that old medieval German poem in English (-;