Hi! Sorry, I couldn't update yesterday or the day before because some things happened, thus the update is today (= I hope you don't mind.
Thanks a lot for your kind reviews! You're all truly wonderful! Thank you, Rhysel, Amy, ILuvOdie, Lairiel and Rhanon Brodie!
I hope you like this chapter, too. The next update will be soon.
-Sachita (=
P.S.: What do you think of the chapter title? I am not sure if I am happy with it^^
37. A Silk Thread
***
They buried Bedivere on the first day of the new moon. Winter was approaching and so it was hard to dig a grave in the rock-hard earth.
"Even diggin' a grave is difficult," Bors cursed.
"This just shows how wrong it all is," Dagonet said sadly and Bors stopped digging for a second to give his gruff assent to his friend's words.
A slight drizzle had come up, when they laid Bedivere and his Lady to their final rest.
In an impulsive action, Galahad drew his sword.
"To Kay and Gaheris! To Erec! And to Bedivere and Dilys, an infinite love!"
But the harsh wind, that had come up, wrenched the words from his mouth and plucked them to pieces.
In an unpleasant way moved, the knights looked at Galahad, whose young face was still red from yelling. His curls were tousled by the sharp gust of air and it was to them almost as if the wind was taunting him, mocking his gallant words.
Rendered nearly helpless by a sudden, inexplicable fear, Isolde raised her eyes to look at Percival, who chose that very moment to look at her also. Looking into his eyes was like taking a plunge into darkness and Isolde exhaled sharply.
Percival looked away.
Mere days later, the golden-haired knight had disappeared.
It came to Isolde's attention one day, whilst she was just on her way over to Vanora, who was, together with Branwaine, preparing the tavern for a new evening.
Newcomers were expected to arrive that evening, traders coming from the far Southern Coast, who delivered the long-awaited rations, accompanied by the much-needed reinforcements and regular foot-troops. There was a hectic activity going on, since the arrival of the reinforcements and regular troops also meant the departure of some of the old Roman troops. Many of them looked caught between laughter and tears at leaving this place, yet Isolde could understand them only too well.
With the day of the knights' discharge coming closer at a steady pace, she, too, felt that change was in the air. If it was to be a change for the better or a change for the worse, she couldn't have said. Percival's words hovered over her head like a vulture, ready to strike, ready to kill. The nightmares had worsened again, but now the Roman, Marcellus Aurelius was accompanied by hands, just simple, plain, long-fingered hands, stretching out to grasp her wrists and drawing her in a never-ending darkness.
She always awoke trashing and clawing hysterically at her wrists, hence Tristan had taken to holding her close in the nights.
So caught up was she in her musings, that only the harsh, acrid smell of the forge wrenched her out of her stupor.
"Isolde," a young voice called from behind her, and she saw Three, Vanora's second-eldest daughter, a scrawny thing of eleven years and a head full of dark curls, complete with a mischievous smile, run up to meet her.
"Yes?" Isolde asked, turning around to the girl.
"Did yeh see Percival 'round?" she asked, panting.
"No, why?"
"'E's not to be found anywhere. Pa's told me t'ask yeh…" she trailed off.
Isolde shook her head with a little frown.
"Thankee," Three said and disappeared around the corner.
***
Shaking her head, Isolde continued her walk to Vanora's tavern. When she came around the corner, she heard the loud voice of the fiery red-head, apparently giving out good advice:
"It's necessary to wash 'em from head to toe at least twice a week or you won't be able to stand 'em."
A giggle. Branwaine.
Isolde entered and the two women greeted her with a smile and a nod.
"You have come to the right time, Isolde, saving me from the maternal advice of our dear Vanora," Branwaine smiled, casting a teasing look at the older woman.
"Aye…" Vanora accepted the jibe with a half-smile, but it was absent-minded and she looked rather concerned.
"Isolde," she asked suddenly. "Did yeh see Percival today?"
"No," Isolde answered bemused. "Your daughter asked me the same question moments ago, but I do not know. Why does everyone ask me?"
"Perhaps," Vanora answered seriously, withdrawing a piece of parchment from her dark apron, "because this is addressed to you. A lad gave it to me just an hour ago. Said that Percival had given it to him. 'E got a coin for it."
Isolde automatically took the offered parchment and turned it over.
"What does it say?" she asked quietly.
"I have no idea." Vanora laughed humourlessly. "Do I look as if I could read?"
"I can't read either," Isolde admitted with a smile.
"Ask Arthur," Branwaine suggested and looked over to Vanora, who gave a consenting nod.
Isolde felt how the fear began to crawl up at her again.
"I will go ask him." With a short, almost jerky nod she was gone, leaving Branwaine and Vanora to stare after her in bemusement.
The forest's dense green mass only allowed small spots of light to fall through the treetops. The horse's hooves were muted by the thick moss, that covered the ground. Tristan allowed Byaczt a moment's rest, as he looked for signs of broken branches and damaged leaves.
There! The hawk's shrill cry confirmed his assessment and he continued his journey into deeper, nebulous paths. Even the sun was too weak to penetrate the thick mists of autumn in this area and so the trees' green silence soon muted all sound.
Tristan crossed a small stream, its water was black in the gloom.
Finally he came upon the one, he had been searching for. A horse was tied haphazardly to a small, sickly-looking sapling. It was Percival's brown mare and Tristan recognised the proud steed immediately. Silently, he dismounted, tying Byaczt to a similar sapling and the horses rubbed their noses together, as the familiar smell of the other hit them.
Tristan meanwhile stepped around a tall oak and stopped in front of the man, who was sitting on the mossy ground, apparently deep in thought.
"Percival," he said evenly.
The other Sarmatian got to his feet quickly and his hand instinctively wandered to his sword.
"Percival," Tristan said again, before Percival could make a move.
Slowly, recognition dawned in the dark, haunted eyes.
"Tristan. How did you find me?" Percival laughed humourlessly. "Well," he added, "I should not ask. It is your duty to find me, is it not?"
Tristan eyed him impassively. This behaviour was as unlike Percival as it could get.
"What are you doing?" he asked coolly.
Then, despite Tristan's usual ways to keep to his cool, he was startled, when Percival's hands suddenly shot out and grabbed his upper arms harshly.
"I have to find the truth," Percival whispered harshly. He seemed hectic and almost feverish, as his dark eyes darted about, full of shifting shadows and an almost mad light.
"I have to find the truth!" Almost a scream.
Tristan freed himself from the harsh grip and rubbed his arms. "What truth?" he asked sharply. "What kind of madness has befallen you, brother?"
"Léleks…" Percival breathed and his voice had an ethereal quality. Tristan, contrary to his usual stoic countenance, shivered slightly in the sudden unnnatural breeze, that had sprung up.
The Léleks! The Sarmatians believed in the existence of those vengeful Wind sprites, long-dead warriors, who were intent on getting their revenge on every living being.
"I have to find the truth…about life and death," Percival suddenly said and some reason had returned to his speech. "I have to find out about the Léleks…"
His dark eyes pleading, he looked at Tristan, who stepped back: "Go! Brother…"
"Thank you," Percival said and a pained look crossed his features.
"Farewell, Tristan! This or the next life!"
"Farewell." Tristan looked to the mossy ground and only when the hoof beats had been muted by the thick silence, he added quietly: "Percival."
"What do you mean, you can't read?" Arthur eyed Isolde in frustration.
"I can't read, that is what I mean;" Isolde said in exasperation. "The Gauls don't use these signs you need to write your spoken words down, so there is no need for me to learn reading."
Arthur looked up in disbelief. "Isolde, there is every reason to learn reading! Even my knights- well, at least Percival- have tried to learn how to read and write. Besides," he narrowed his green eyes in suspicion, "you sent Merlin a message, didn't you?"
Isolde coloured fiercely. "I drew my message," she admitted sheepishly.
"Arthur," she continued, when he raised a sceptical eyebrow, "please, read it to me."
Arthur carefully unfolded the piece of parchment and a look of confusion passed his eyes.
"What does it say?"
"Remember, there is another world. Be careful. P."
Arthur looked at Isolde, who had paled quickly upon hearing these words. "Isolde?" he prompted.
***
But before she could answer, the door was wrenched open and Bors stormed in with his usual lack of tact concerning closed doors. Arthur was just about to reprimand him, when he caught the look on the knight's face.
"Arthur," Bors was practically snarling. "The damned scout has returned. He found Percival."
With that, he stormed back out. Arthur exchanged a quizzical look with Isolde, then they followed Bors to the Great Hall, where the other knights had already assembled.
Arthur took his usual seat and Isolde sank down on the empty place next to Tristan, who was sipping his mead placidly, a contradiction to the glowers directed at him.
She squeezed his hand under the table and he squeezed back, directing a short sideways glance at her from under his bangs. She recoiled a little at the look of resignation that was written in his eyes. Whatever his message was, it could not be pleasant.
"Tristan."
At the sound of Arthur's voice, the scout looked up and addressed his commander coolly:
"Arthur."
"Well, what happened?" The slightest hint of impatience crept in Arthur's voice.
"I found Percival," the scout said plainly.
"And he let him go off again," Bors raged. Arthur directed a sharp look in his direction and the knight fell silent.
"Tristan. You surely had your reasons."
"I did."
"Well, what were they then?" A slight hint of amusement, like the dip of a water skeeter in uncharted territories shot briefly across the scout's features and Galahad bristled at the fact, that his question evidently amused Tristan.
***
But then, all amusement gone, Tristan replied seriously:
"Percival looks for the Léleks and the reasons for life itself. There was no way to hold him back." He let his dark gaze rest on every one of them and some of them moved in discomfort.
"None of you could have held him back." His voice was firm and so they did not object, save for Arthur.
"What am I to say then? My knight got lost because he looked for the reason for life itself?"
This almost satirical question was completely out of character for Arthur and thus his knights just stared at him silently.
"Say he died of the fever," Dagonet suggested softly.
Arthur held the giant knight's gaze for a moment, then he dropped his head with a soft nod and said hoarsely: "I am sorry."
"Don't worry about it," Gawain advised perceptively. "We are all a little tightly-wound at the moment."
Bors abruptly stood up and stormed out. The door shut behind him with a loud thud.
Arthur sighed and shook his head. "I will call this briefing to an end now. Tristan, you must be exhausted. Rest and then come to me tomorrow for the details."
Tristan nodded and rose, Isolde followed. His presence was still something of a shield for her, and after Percival's disconcerting words and even more disconcerting message, she felt as if she had to hold on to him even tighter.
***
When the scout was already half-way to the door, Arthur suddenly shot up in his seat.
"Tristan!" he called impulsively and Tristan turned around, an inquiring look on his face.
"And…there is no way to get him back?"
Arthur's despair was almost palpable, but Tristan, who had ever believed in telling the truth in his honest, sometimes brutally so, way, simply said lowly: "No."
Isolde's last impression of Arthur was how he sat down and whispered: "Another one lost."
He stared at his hands. Then the big doors swung shut and she was left on the corridor, alone with Tristan.
He looked at her unreadably for a moment and then turned away.
Isolde didn't allow him to shut her out, though. She caught his hand and got another of his impenetrable stares, but she did not let it bother her.
"Come," she said firmly.
"Whereto?" The question was impassive.
"I can't tell yet."
He allowed her to lead him through the maze of corridors to the exit of the building and to the stables. His strange disposition almost frightened her a little. He was like moulded metal in her grip, ready to be formed as she wished, but that was not Tristan's way.
Tristan's role had ever been being the watchful hawk on the lead bird's right side, always alert, invisibly pulling the strings in the background, firm in his assessments and constant in his decisions. Not like that.
"Tristan," she said and part of her unease must have been audible because he gave her an inquiring look. She quickly shook her head, a silent no and halted her steps in front of Byaczt's stable.
"Byaczt?" he questioned, still that odd tone to his voice.
She nodded shortly, almost jerkily. Tensely, Isolde watched as he saddled Byaczt up, an action he never allowed anyone else. She feared to say something wrong that would put them even more on edge, so she decided to refrain from mentioning Percival's message and his cryptic prophesy.
After Tristan had finished preparing Byaczt for the ride, he lifted her easily up in front of him.
***
They passed the gate without speaking and afterwards Tristan urged Byaczt into a light canter. The hoofbeats echoed in the star-adorned silence. There was, it seemed to Isolde, no one there save them and the sky, which seemed to stretch on endlessly.
She couldn't tell the sky from the ground, it was all of a dark, deep blue that encompassed the whole island. It was cold and their breaths left white clouds in the air.
Yet the stars were bright and for once, no mist hid them from view, as it was often the case.
Tristan urged Byaczt into an even quicker canter and there was no ground beneath them, nor a sky above them, they just raced into a deep blue something while the occasional bright light of a star flashed by.
Forgetting about the earlier tense atmosphere, Isolde stretched her hands out as if she could catch those bright, radiantl passers-by…the wild ride abruptly came to an end, as they stopped on a wide hill. Long grass-blades danced their silent dance on this hill, while they were affectionately tousled by a soft breeze and it felt to Isolde almost as if they were intruding on a private love scene.
Yet Tristan did not dismount, and stunned, Isolde stayed where she was.
"Tristan?" she asked hesitatingly and her voice echoed strangely.
"I should have stopped him. The others were right." Tristan's voice was filled with self-loathing.
"You did the right thing."
He laughed bitterly, shortly and it reverberated in his chest. "Who says that?"
"I."
"You?"
Isolde half-turned around to him. "Am I not enough?"
"You are more than enough," he breathed in her ear and she shivered, as his beard stubbles tickled her ear.
***
"We could dismount."
"We could," he agreed and a hint, a suggestion of humour was in his voice.
She was the first to dismount, but he followed suit.
A surge of her old playfulness overwhelmed her, as she stared at the moonlight-flooded land, that stretched out in front of her in the forms of hillocks and bigger hills. A slight chuckle escaped her and she began to run, there in the star-spangled solitude.
"Isolde!"
He was advancing, catching up with her, but she could not let him do that and so she ran even faster. With a leap, he reached her and pulled her in his arms. Not missing a beat, Isolde pushed him to the ground and shrieked, as the ground suddenly moved under her.
Laughing like children, they tumbled down the hill and fell in the soft grass, that grew everywhere.
"You are crazy!" Tristan accused with a rare laugh.
"You must be going crazy!" The words of a mad, old woman flashed through her head, but she brushed them aside and replied easily: "So are you."
His amber eyes were firmly focused on her face and he bent down to kiss her:
"Isolde…"
"Tristan…" Laces were untied, clothes cast aside. But it was a tender love, a love much like the serene beauty of the stars, kings and queens above.
However, eventually they had to return and upon seeing the fort, all problems came back to haunt them. Percival, who was on an odyssey to discover life's meaning, Iwain, ever equipped with a snarl and a dark glower in their vicinity, the daily problems they faced-…- but for the moment they were alright. For the moment they were content, hanging onto a thread. Yet the thread was made of silk and inside, the structures were being damaged by the weight hanging on it, stretching to fit the new demands of holding it all in balance.
Isolde wondered when it was going to snap.
tbc