Hi! Thank you so much for your amazing reviews, gymgurl, Rhysel, ILuvOdie, Irish Maid ( welcome to the story^^) and Amy!
Forgive me for being a bit short with you today, but this chapter was really exhausting to write and now I am somewhat worn out^^. I hope, however, that you like it. It's a bit dramatic, I would admit that immediately, but still, I hope it's alright.
I am not sure when I'll update the next one. Sometime next week, hopefully. Please tell me what you think about this one.
Sachita :D
36. Somewhere Beyond Our Reach
***
It was early autumn and a dry wind outside shook the splendidly-coloured leaves from the trees. The wind changed gradually, it became a moist wind, an unpleasant one. The inhabitants of the villages and the fort stayed inside as much as they could, as storms pounded on the land and let many wooden huts shiver and quiver in the sharp gusts of air.
Now corned beef was eaten and all that had been stored after the harvest came to good use.
Isolde spent her days often with her old friend Branwaine, who had become a mother in the time that she had been away. A little boy, named Artanus, with hair the colour of fire and eyes like the sea was her whole pride. Isolde had often teased her that the boy bore little resemblance to his black-haired father Flavius. To this accusation Branwaine had always, much to Isolde's secret joy- looked at her wide-eyed and had snapped: "Isolde!" Of course this had led to more teasing.
Isolde enjoyed the time with her friend, even though she sometimes felt a twinge of envy, whenever she looked at the little boy.
"Oh, you will soon have your hands full, too, Isa," Branwaine remarked once off-handedly, wagging her eyebrows.
Isolde's face took on the colour of Artanus's hair and she didn't reply, which made Branwaine chuckle in wry amusement, as she thought of what could have made her friend redden that way. And it was indeed the thought of her evenings and her nights spent with Tristan, that had let Isolde turn this peculiar shade of red.
Their love was stronger than ever and she always waited for him impatiently and anxiously while he was out on one of his scouting trips. But when he came back to the fort after a long scouting trip, exhausted, hungry and bruised, she was always there, breathless and with flying skirts to wait for him.
The evenings were theirs and theirs alone. Sometimes they just lay on the narrow bed and held onto each other, at other times they spoke until the night outside gave way to the pale, waxy colour of pre-dawn and sometimes they collided like shooting stars and got lost somewhere on the way to earth.
It were only two months now until the knights received their official discharge papers and Isolde looked forward to that day with a mixture of trepidation and joy.
Tristan grunted always impassively, whenever she mentioned it, and so she had taken to avoiding that topic altogether, sensing that it made him only uncomfortable.
But something else was to happen, something that they all wouldn't have dared to imagine in their worst nightmares. It was like a black shadow that crept toward them at a steady pace, not to be stopped, not to be evaded.
***
And it all began on a dreary, windy autumn afternoon .
The wind that made Isolde's hair dance was not a pleasant one. It was a harsh, stinging wind that drove tears to her eyes and let her adjust the scarf around her head tighter.
The cool of autumn brought a definite chill with it that crept under bones and coats. The grey mood that hung over it all had even silenced the optimists among them and the cold was not the only thing, which came along with the first days of autumn.
The neighing of a tired horse made her look up attentively and shook her out of her thoughts.
A weary traveller came in, and it was his face that Isolde would later remember with horrific clarity: the sunken-in cheeks, his dull eyes and his straggly hair. He arrived on a bony horse and with him, despair came like a vulture, stretching its talons out.
He suddenly stopped half-way to the fort's inn, and Isolde stared at him with a dark feeling of foreboding. Suddenly the man fell off his horse, like a rag doll with cut limbs.
Once her initial shock had worn off, she had immediately run to him, yet someone else had been quicker. It had been an old woman, who had recoiled in horror.
"He is dead! The fever! It's the burning fever!" she had screeched, stretching her hands out towards the heavens in a show of silent reproach. "The fever! "
Isolde's heart beat immediately faster. The fever! Of course she knew of it, had heard that it had killed the populations of whole towns already and left destruction and terror in its wake. But never would she have dreamed….
"Burn him!" she ordered quickly and pointed to the corpse. The people hesitated. "What are you waiting for?" she asked impatiently. "Burn him!"
A man stepped forward. "Lady," he said, "we are not sure if this is the right way to proceed. The evil spirit lingering in this man's bones could exact his revenge on us..."
Isolde glared at him with all the dignity, she could muster. Even if she held no title, her being with the knights and Centurion Artorius Castus evidently gave her some semblance of nobility in the eyes of the simple people, and she fully intended to use this influence now. This man had to be burned for he carried the seeds of a deadly illness within. An illness, which was not the work of an evil spirit.
"Burn him!" she repeated harshly. "Do it because I say so."
The man hesitated, but a deep voice ordered: "Do as she says! The Lady knows what she is talking about." It was one of the Roman physicians, who went by the name of Aquilius, a man of originally Celtic descent, who had lived among the Romans for so long that he had adapted to their lifestyle.
Finally the man obeyed and both Isolde and the Roman watched, how he and some others covered the corpse with sticks and wood, and then proceeded to pour oil over it and burn it.
Isolde exchanged a grim look with Aquilius over the sizzling flames that burned brightly and greedily. A hard time was coming up to meet them and they could not do anything but pray to the gods, regardless which god they believed in, that they would be shown mercy and be spared from this fiery devil.
But to no avail.
***
Two days later, there was coughing and fever everywhere. Isolde and the others had their hands full, every day, it seemed there were more cases and the fort felt more and more like a cemetery than like a place filled with life. Even the women down at the local market fell silent and the harsh lines in their faces said all that they couldn't put in words. Fear was almost tangible in the air, in the smell of the sickbeds and in the look in people's eyes.
Despair grasped Isolde in overwhelming waves as more and more people fell ill, and one day Tristan found her sitting in the stables, sobbing quietly. He made her rest for a whole day then, and although she weakly protested, she was far too exhausted for real resistance.
But everything that had been bad before only got worse on one dreary winter day.
It was Galahad who came running into Isolde's chambers, out of breath and as white as a sheet.
Isolde sat up from where she had been resting and stared at him with red eyes and disheveled hair.
"Galahad!" she exclaimed shocked. "What is it?"
Galahad let out a sound that was half a harsh breath and half a sob.
"Isolde!" he cried and fear shone strongly in his eyes. He frantically tore at his hair as he searched for words. "It's Bedivere!"
No other words were needed, as Isolde jumped up and grabbed her supplies:
"Bring me to him!"
"Dagonet asked me to get you," Galahad explained while they ran down the corridor.
"How is he?" Isolde panted, her words almost inaudible over the rush of air.
"He is feverish and unresponsive," Galahad yelled back as they crossed a corner and finally came to Bedivere's room.
"Thank you, Galahad," she said, out of breath. He nodded and she quietly entered the room.
***
"Bedivere..." she murmured. Dagonet, who was sitting beside the bed, looked up as she entered.
"Isolde..." he greeted her wearily.
"Dagonet," she said distracted for her eyes were drawn to the still figure lying in the bed.
Bedivere would have almost looked peaceful, if not for the sweat that run down his face in beads and his laboured breaths.
"How is he?" Isolde asked quietly.
Dagonet sighed. "He is bad. He is burning up."
As if to contradict his words, Bedivere suddenly shot up in bed and shivered violently. His teeth chattered with the force of his tremors. His glazed eyes showed no recognition as he gazed about the room uncomprehendingly. Dagonet pressed him down to lie on the bed once again and the knight obeyed. His eyes slid shut immediately.
"It's the fever!" Isolde cried out in sudden recognition. Dagonet nodded sadly.
"I called you to ask you for your knowledge of fever-lowering herbs or powders," he explained. "I have only a limited knowledge of those, as I was rather taught how to treat flesh wounds and worse."
Isolde nodded, already focused on the task at hand. "We lived in swamplands," she said, not looking at Dagonet, while she sorted through her herbs and salves. "Fever was a common occurrence, for we had mosquitoes in over-abundance."
Dagonet nodded and watched as she held out some dried flowers to him:
"Elder flowers, yarrow flowers and peppermint leaves. We have to pour boiling water on them now and then give the brew to Bedivere."
"I will see to it." Dagonet took the dried flowers from her hands and left the room, his steps heavy. Isolde looked after him, then back to Bedivere.
***
The usually so lively knight was pale and motionless in the bed. His dark, long hair was plastered to his forehead in wet strands and the grey eyes remained closed.
Isolde sighed and checked his temperature. He was still burning up, but Isolde's cold touch made him open his eyes.
"Dilys…" he rasped. "Dilys…"
"Hush," Isolde tried to calm him.
"Dilys…" he said again in that hopeless, despaired voice.
In that moment, the door opened and Dagonet entered, followed by a slight woman.
Isolde gazed at her and felt that she was someone special.
"Dilys?" she asked uncertainly.
The woman nodded and sank down by Isolde's side. Her long pale hair, up in a dissolving braid, half-obscured a pretty, if ashen face with wide, afraid dark eyes.
"May I have a moment alone with him?"
Isolde nodded and Dagonet handed the tea pot to her. She accepted it with a grateful smile, then brushed strands of Bedivere's hair lovingly out of his eyes.
They shut the door softly, then Isolde turned to Dagonet, a silent question in her eyes.
"Her name is Dilys," Dagonet said softly, "which means genuine, and there could be no person in the world, that is more genuine than her."
"Why have I never met her before?"
***
"Because she is shy and likes to remain inconspicuous." It was a new voice, and surprised, Isolde turned around to Percival, who was standing there with an inscrutable look on his face.
"I am not sure, Percival, if…" Dagonet started, but he was cut off by Percival.
"But I am. If there is anyone who needs to hear the stories and who deserves to hear them, it is Isolde."
Dagonet tensed up. "What do you mean, Percival, speaking in riddles as you do? She does not need to hear those stories!"
A sad light shone in Percival's eyes. "The truth, my friend, is somewhere beyond our reach."
Dagonet stared at him a moment longer, but then, with a muttered oath that was so unlike the patient giant, he turned around and disappeared around the corner.
"Isolde," Percival said, still with that strange glint in the eye.
"Let us sit down."
"Here?" Isolde asked in amazement.
Percival nodded. "It's a good place as any," he said harshly and Isolde winced.
"Forgive me," Percival said and by now Isolde could identify the strange glint in his eye as bottomless despair and an overwhelming knowledge of something, that nearly tore him apart.
She sank down next to him on the stone ground and so in the dim light of the torch, that illuminated the old stone walls, Percival started to speak.
"She is Dilys," he said, indicating the door, where Isolde had just emerged from. "But you know that. She came here as a maid of the Lady Enid."
"Enid?"
Percival nodded firmly. "Enid. She was a Roman Lady, the wife of a high-ranking Roman official, arriving at the Great Wall seven years ago. Erec," his voice was bitter, "fell in love with her."
Isolde remained silent, the parallels to Tristan and her were all too clear.
"We were young fools…Erec met up with her in the night, in silent places, abandoned hallways….he even proposed to her. We felt as if we were invincible in those days. But the Roman was suspicious and he arranged a passage for her back to Rome. Somewhere on the way to the coast…they were attacked by-"
"Saxon Raiders," Isolde finished for him, her voice heavy.
"Aye." Percival didn't seem surprised. "He told you, I presume?"
"Only that his betrothed was killed by Saxons," Isolde replied honestly.
Percival ignored her reply and went on with the story: "Enid died. Erec was heart-broken and he never looked at another woman the way he had looked at Enid. But I didn't want to tell you their story."
***
"Dylis," Isolde said softly.
"Yes. Dylis. She was Enid's maid, but she survived the attack. With grievous wounds and she still has the scars to prove it. The healers saved her life, but it was a hard battle. She lived at the fort for many years to come and from the day on she met him, she has been hopelessly devoted to Bedivere."
Percival sighed, a deep sigh and looked at Isolde.
"But you know my cousin Bedivere."
"He didn't reply to her affections in the same way, did he?" Isolde asked, already dreading the answer.
"Yes. He is in many ways like Lancelot- afraid to open his heart to a woman, lest he doesn't get hurt. And so he had shallow relationships with the barmaids, other shady figures…well, you get the picture. She, however, remained hopelessly devoted to him, but of course he hurt her with his careless flings. Another sad player in the game is Iwain, who loves Dylis, yet she won't even look at him."
"Iwain?" Isolde couldn't believe her ears.
"Yes," Percival confirmed. "He has always loved her, yet she doesn't return his love because there is no place in her heart for any other than Bedivere. And now, when Bedivere is on the way to the next world, he calls for her, for she is the only one who has been there for him. Always."
When he had finished, there was a heavy silence and tears shone in Isolde's eyes.
"But why did you tell me?" she choked finally. "What did Dagonet mean?"
Percival gazed at her and sad truth was written in his eyes. He carefully moved a strand of dark hair out of her face.
"We live in a harsh world, full of shifting shadows and ruthless violence. Great loves aren't meant to survive in our realm."
"What-" Isolde jumped to her feet and balled her hands to fists. "What do you mean to tell me?" she asked frantically.
Comprehending his words finally, she choked out: "You don't know what will happen."
He remained silent and gazed at her with those fathomless dark eyes.
Isolde backed away with wide eyes. "You don't know what will happen?" she repeated, yet this time her voice wavered and broke.
Percival got to his feet slowly and his back was bent like that of an old man, who had seen to much, had experienced too much to stand there any different than like an old, gnarled tree, exposed to too many storms. Isolde backed away even farther, until her back touched the opposite stone wall.
"I was educated in the old ways of the shamans of Sarmatia," he said slowly and his voice reverberated in the silent hallway.
"My mother moved around on the plains with me. I learned to read the signs of impending hail storms, learned to understand the ways of the guileless birds, understood the life span of a day fly, so short in our eyes yet sufficient in the eyes of nature."
He paused and didn't seem to belong to this world for a moment. His golden hair was illuminated green by the flickering glow of the torch, that shone on the mossy wall and his eyes were dark and deep, almost ominous.
"There is another world, just beyond our reach. The world of shifting ghosts, gone like grains of sand that run through the fingers of the one who thinks to have mastered the world. The phantoms whisper, an endless whisper, interwoven in the babbling of a brook, the soughing of the wind in dark forests. They tell tales of times past and of times yet to come."
***
A jolt seemed to go through Percival and his eyes snapped back to Isolde.
She was shivering, recognising the old magic, her people believed in and she was afraid.
"No!" she choked out.
Weariness stood in his eyes and the old Percival was back.
"It's not a good thing to know what the future might bring and yet not being able to do anything against it," he said heavily.
"No! I don't believe you." Frightened, Isolde looked for a way to escape.
"Don't go." Percival caught her arm. "I am sorry," he said and his voice was genuine.
"I just want you to be careful and-"
They were cut off by a pained scream, that came out of Bedivere's room. It sounded nearly inhuman. Isolde gathered her skirts up and ran as fast as she could to the door and wrenched it open.
She stopped in the doorway and a feeling of horror came over her.
Iwain stood there with eyes, that spoke of sheer madness.
Dylis was lying next to Bedivere on a blood-soaked bed. A dagger was embedded in her chest and her expression was that of peaceful longing. Isolde didn't even have to look over to Bedivere to know that he was dead.
And Iwain…she gasped as she looked in his eyes. Pure insanity and a a bottomless pain swirled in the blue depths. Malice was added to the mix when his eyes locked on hers.
"You didn't save him!" he screamed. "You didn't save him and made her take her own life!"
"NO!" The scream made its way over her lips, but he didn't appear to have heard.
"You killed her! Killed her. Killed her. Traitorous wench. Killed her," he chanted and lunged at her, the glinting death in his hand.
Miraculously, Isolde managed to evade him the first time he advanced upon her with the dagger aimed at her chest.
Panicked, she pressed against the wall. She wouldn't be able to do evade the dagger a second time, and closing her eyes, so she wouldn't see his leer, she thought of Tristan.
***
The whole world seemed to slide to an abrupt stop as a powerful voice shouted:
"STOP!"
Arthur. Isolde wrenched her eyes open and saw that the knights stormed in, led by Dagonet.
There were several horrified gasps as they took in the horrible scene.
"Isolde!" Tristan. He was the first to address the frozen Iwain.
"What did you want to do, damn you? Kill her?" he snarled and his face was distorted by the darkest anger, Isolde had ever seen on him.
With a feral snarl he launched himself at Iwain and they both toppled to the ground.
This was no game anymore. Sickened, yet through a veil in front of her eyes, Isolde watched as they rolled around on the ground.
"You fool!" Iwain ground out between clenched teeth. "It's her fault! Dylis is dead and it's her fault!"
"No!," Tristan yelled back, holding Iwain down in a death grip.
"Dylis chose her own fate, but you're about to kill the only woman I have ever loved and I won't let you do that, damn you!"
That elicited finally a soft gasp from the knights, both at Tristan's admission and the scene that was unfolding in front of them, yet they remained frozen.
A terrible hoarse yell escaped Iwain and his hands were around Tristan's neck, while the dagger glinted in his hand, ready to strike.
***
"Nooo!" Isolde screamed, finally waking up out of her rigidity. "Do something, will you?"
Her words reached the frozen knights in exactly the right moment and Dagonet, together with Bors grabbed Iwain and pulled him off Tristan.
The scout rolled on his side and coughed, sitting up. Isolde rushed to his side and helped him up.
"Thank you," he said and his calm voice was such a contradiction to the crazy circumstances they found themselves in, that all of them fell into silence.
The silence was shattered by a horrible howl, coming from Iwain, who, released by Dagonet and Bors, slowly sank to his knees.
The madness in his eyes had lessened somewhat. He seemed more lucid.
"I am sorry…I am so sorry…."
Slowly he got to his feet and limped away.
Dagonet made a move as if to follow him, but Tristan's composed voice held him back:
"Let him go."
They looked at him standing there then, how he used a gloved hand to wipe blood from his chin and repeated quietly: "Let him go. We are brothers. We should never raise a hand against each other."
There was a long, exhausted silence, then Arthur said hoarsely: "He is right."
Again they were silent and stared at each other and in the corridor, everywhere but not in Bedivere's room. Isolde clung to Tristan and he held her in such a tight grip, that she was almost suffocated.
***
Then, suddenly, as if the world had started to spin around again, there was the sound of quiet muttering.
They all turned around to Percival who had been forgotten in the turmoil.
He stood there with an absent-minded look on his face and muttered : "Didn't see it, didn't see it…"
They looked at him puzzled, but Isolde, who understood, slipped out of Tristan's grip and walked over to Percival, putting a hand on his shoulder.
"You are only human," she told him softly.
"But I should have seen what would happen," he said and his voice was so full of the tired confusion of a child that Isolde felt how tears slipped down her face.
"Percival…"
But there was no way to hold him back, and they watched as he, too, disappeared around the corner.
Another silence fell, but then Tristan said: "Come," and gathered her in his arms, walking away from the room, away from the other knights and away from Arthur.
He stopped walking when they had reached the wall-top.
It was past sundown and the world was peaceful, blue. So different from the green, hectic realm they had emerged from.
Isolde couldn't hold her tears back anymore and she clung to Tristan's tunic, deeply inhaled his scent of forest and nature and cried.
He held her tightly and didn't say anything.
"Never die," Isolde whispered hoarsely. "Promise me…never die, never die, never die…"
Tristan didn't say a word, but pulled her to his body and kissed the top of her head.
"Never die…" Her voice was but a broken whisper. "Never die…"
They stayed there for a long time: two dark silhouettes against the indigo night, lone figures in the star-spangled darkness, while the moon shone on the land and its pale light smudged the fine line between that, which was real and the infinite world beyond.
tbc...oh, and when they speak of "the fever", they mean Influenza, but this word was first used in England in 1734 (at least that's what Wikipedia says (=)