Hi everyone! A new chapter for you- I hope you like it. Thank you so much for your wonderful reviews, Rhysel, CarolinaJuliette, Lairiel, ILuvOdie, gymgurl and Irish Maid!

I realised today, yet again (=, that I am really, really bad at maths. The final mission of the knights takes place in autumn, right? I miscalculated completely. If you take early autumn (say the end of august) and add five months, it is not late autumn but winter. And the trees still had leaves in the film, so it can't be winter. Anyway, I changed "five months" in the last chapter to "two months", so it hopefully makes more sense now. Argh. So, yeah, I guess I deserve my maths grades...

The next update should be soon!

-Sachita^^


38. Forever Tomorrow

***

It was late autumn and the wind outside brought the cold of winter with it. They hadn't got word from Percival, but none of them really thought, that he would return. So the topic was avoided altogether, like they buried so many things in the cold, unfeeling soil of silence.

They had to bury more than those words, though. Iwain died on a mission. He had blindly charged the Woads, not to be held back, ignoring Arthur's orders and the other knights' shouts. He had taken a lot of them down before being overwhelmed. There had been no way to save him, yet Arthur had blamed himself while the knights had looked on grimly. "He wanted to die," Tristan had said in his short way.
"That doesn't make it any better!" Galahad had screamed, only held back by Gawain's arm while Tristan had looked on with hooded eyes and a grim expression.

Nevertheless, life had to go on, and the day of their discharge approached steadily until it was -

"Only a day now," Galahad chanted, setting his ale mug down on the rickety table, effectively wrenching Isolde out of her thoughts and at the same time ending her unspoken sentence. They were sitting in the tavern, all of them save for Tristan who was out scouting but due to return any minute. She looked at Galahad, who grinned at her happily. Ale dripped down in his dark beard and Isolde watched, at the same disgusted and fascinated, how the single drops glimmered golden in the flickering light of the fireplace. Galahad must have noticed her stare for he wiped the droplets away with a small, embarrassed grin.

"So you are looking forward to it?" Isolde asked the youngest knight, the one she had, in all the years she had known the knights, had the least contact with.

Galahad used a dirty hand to wipe over his face. "I am ! Immensely so!"

"What is it like?" Isolde asked and she couldn't hide the slight waver of uncertainty that made her voice tremble.

Galahad didn't seem to notice it. "Oh! Sarmatia is the most beautiful country you will ever set your eyes upon!" His eyes glowed happily. "Plains of gold and green, a wide sapphire sky, the rash beat of the horses' hooves, the delicious food..."

Isolde smiled at his enthusiasm, which was so different of Tristan's wistful, almost melancholy description of the knights' homeland.

"Why are you asking?" Galahad suddenly asked curiously, turning his head to look at her enquiringly.

"I am probably going to go with you," Isolde replied quietly.

"Oh!" Galahad's eyes lit up. "That is marvellous!" Then his face fell. "But I reckon you will go with Tristan, won't you?"

Isolde stifled a smile and nodded. "Of course."

"That is too bad...Tristan is from the area around the Silk Road, situated far in the East...They use a strange dialect and no one understands them. They eat spicy soups and cook their enemies' bones in them." He shook his head and Isolde was unsure if he was serious or not.

"Shut up, pup," a deep voice growled and someone cuffed Galahad on the head. Tristan, who proceeded to sit down next to Isolde.

Galahad laughed in amusement, even when faced with one of Tristan's dark glowers.

"I was merely telling the truth to Isolde here," he replied, ducking, when another swipe was directed his way.

***

"You encountered the Silk Road traders sometimes, didn't you, Tristan?" Gawain asked from the opposite side of the table. Galahad looked a little insecure. Asking Tristan things about his mysterious past was never a good idea, for the knights had learned that he didn't like to talk about it.

But Tristan didn't seem particularly perturbed. Instead he put an arm around Isolde's waist, and, pulling her closer to him, he replied evenly: "We did. They sold gold and silver and the finest earthenware you can imagine."

For a moment, the scout was silent, remembering sun-dusted days and the sun-bronzed traders with their narrow black eyes, long rows of mules passing through the yellowed grass-blades, led by their taciturn owners, ornamented saddles heavily-laden with mysterious-looking burdens....They brought the scent of saffron and incense with them, reminders that there were other countries out there, just beyond the pale horizon....children with excited dark eyes and wide smiles running to the village: "They have arrived, they have arrived..." The flickering of a candle on a neighbour table chased the memory away, it was dispelled like the last vestiges of sun and hard labour before the cool evening claimed a land.

"Why are you asking?" he inquired sharply, causing Gawain to choke on his mead.

"No particular reason," the long-haired knight replied quickly. "We just heard that Isolde here will come with us."

When Tristan looked at the two blankly, Galahad clarified: "She will come with us. Home."

Home...What was home? Home was a bleak, empty hut. Home was a deserted fireplace with dust playing in a corner of a dark tent, bringing with it fleeting memories of the laughter of a little sister, the loving arms of a mother and the deep voice of a father...flashes of white teeth and glimpses of dark eyes, while you spent your time waiting, in the deserted tent, waiting for the Romans to arrive, to deliver you from that hell, that nagging pain that had long since stopped to drive tears to your eyes , that- oh the irony!- members of the very same Nation inflicted on you. Home was nothing but an empty memory, all destroyed by the gleam of a sword in a harsh sunlight and not even Isolde's warm touch on his hand could save him.

***

Feeling at a loss for words, Tristan nodded once to his brother knights and got up. Galahad and Gawain didn't show signs of surprise, they had got used to his abrupt behaviour over the years. However, Isolde got up quickly to go after him, dark hair bobbing on her shoulders and gliding over her back in unruly waves, while the hem of her simple red linen dress dragged in the dust.

She gathered her skirts up and ran after the scout, for his steps were quick and it was easy to lose him in the hustle and bustle of the evening. She passed old women, wrapped in dark, rough shawls, little grubby children with surprisingly white teeth that formed a harsh contrast against their dirty faces, hectic traders and stern-faced Roman soldiers with their dark hair and olive skin. She passed dark alleys and foul-smelling pits, where some hens scratched in the mud.

Isolde caught sight of him again after running past two shifty-looking young men with long, tangled hair. He was standing on the wall, looking over the countryside and Isolde's breath caught at his desolate posture. Shoulders slightly down, hands bracing his weight as he leaned against the cool stone, touching it with his head. It was a sign of weakness that Tristan would normally never show. Her heart plummeted to her stomach and Isolde quickly pushed through the crowd, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on the figure up on the wall.

"Look at 'im- it's one of them fearless knights;" a woman's voice next to her griped.

"Aye," another one agreed. "Not so fearless now, is he?"

That did it. Furious, Isolde spun around and faced the two old women who backed away a little when faced with the blazing fire in the woman's green eyes.

"That man," Isolde spat and heard how the Gallic accent tinted her words, "has given fifteen years of his life to protect you! And that is how you thank him?"

The stunned-looking women opened their mouths to reply, when Isolde cut them off with an angry gesture: "No! I do not wish to hear a word from you. None of your apologies, none of our mockeries for this man will always be greater than you could ever hope to be!"

Isolde was out of breath, when she finished. Such fury was unlike her and she knew it. She felt almost ashamed when she looked at the pale faces of the old women, but then her gaze strayed over to the lone figure and she knew what her duties were. With a last, proud nod she passed the woman and walked up on the wall to the man she loved.

The old women watched her go with an expression caught between shame and realisation, as they watched the young dark-haired lass make her way over to the lone knight. "Well, at least he got someone to care for him." But Isolde didn't hear it. She was already on her way over to Tristan.

***

He was aware of her long before he lifted his head to look at her, both indignation and gratefulness written on his sharp features.

"Isolde," he acknowledged her and again, there was that tone in his voice, which reminded her of moulded metal. Not his voice and then it hit her. Exhaustion. He was sounding exhausted as if he was yearning for a long cold sleep, pining for a deep dreamless rest. Quickly, she suppressed the frigid shudder that made her tremble.

"Tristan," she answered, dread apparent in her voice. "Tristan..." Once again, her self-confidence wavered, but she took his arm and led him to a secluded part of the Wall.

"I love you," she said simply. He stared at her, surprise clearly written on his features. "I know," he replied slowly. She smiled tiredly. "I just wanted you to know."

He stared at her for a moment longer, then the exhaustion hushed across his face again. Tristan sat down heavily, leaning against the wall and stretching out his long legs in front of him. She sat down next to him without hesitation.

"What is it?" she asked softly.

Instead of replying, he pointed to the people still busily moving about in the steadily approaching dawn. "Look at them," he breathed derisively. "Look at them."

Isolde looked and all that she saw were tired faces, exhausted after a long day spent working themselves to the bone. And there were lined faces, full of wisdom and memories of a long life.

"I don't understand," she told him simply.

He hissed in frustration and hit the wall behind them with his fist. His hand was so tightly clenched, that she could see the veins. His knuckles were white and she carefully uncurled his fist. He allowed her to do so without resistance.

"No," he said finally hoarsely. "Look at them, look at this place." He made a wide hand motion, including the far cemetery. "Full of broken dreams: this place, those people. And so they try to reach for the stars. All in vain."

Isolde looked at him how he sat there, slightly hunched over, amber eyes keen as he surveyed the people, dark hair slightly falling into his eyes. She brushed some strands out of his face and he leaned into her touch, closing his eyes as he did so in a rare show of vulnerability.

"The others are celebrating," she stated slowly, her inquiry clear.

"I have no reason to celebrate," he muttered darkly, his eyes still closed.

"Why?"

"They are celebrating that they can return home." Tristan paused and sat up, opening his eyes.

"I have no home," he said and his voice was devoid of emotion. "I only remember an empty fireplace."

"We could fill it with life," Isolde mumbled and said louder: "We could fill it with life. A child, maybe two, maybe three...A tent and horses...Spring on those wide plains you call home..."

Tristan looked almost wistful for a moment, and then he shuddered as if struck by an invisible breeze.

"If it were possible...if you are right..." he mumbled, almost to himself and then his face abruptly transformed to such a pain-filled grimace, that Isolde felt the sting of his pain and disillusion in her own heart and it hurt so much, that she nearly bent over.

"Tristan!" It was but a weak sob, and she clutched him tightly as if he were a tree trunk afloat in a raging sea and she a castaway, lost to the workings of a greater force. But he held her just as tight, so the question was who was the castaway and who the tree trunk?

But they did not care to seek for an answer. A long time passed in which neither of them was able to form a coherent sentence, and when they finally, slowly, hesitatingly, released their tight grip on each other, they were both panting as if they had just attempted to climb an insurmountable mountain.

***

Then there was silence. A silence, in which the last bronze light of the sun illuminated the buildings and set the stones of the old Wall aflame. Red clouds danced together with flocks of birds to celebrate the glorious sunset while everyone, human and animal alike, yearned for a new day.

Not everyone did. In fact Isolde wished that this day would never end, that the uncertainty of a new day wouldn't assault her again and again. She wanted that moment to last forever, whilst she was sitting next to Tristan, her hand loosely entwined with his.

Eventually he started to speak and his voice was hoarse from lack of use and tired from lack of...she couldn't have said. Again it was that boneless exhaustion and she gripped his hand tighter. "Years ago," he began slowly, "I sat here on that very Wall and held no hope for anything. My life seemed bleak now that I look back on those days. There was nothing to look forward to, just an endless repetition of the same grey days, worsened by the blood we shed, the tears we shed, even if I preferred to shed them alone."

It was the most honest thing she had ever heard him say, and she knew that it had to be hard for him, so she came just that little bit closer and put her hand on his leg in a show of silent support.

He gazed at her with his inscrutable mask on, the dark eyes fathomless.

"Then you came along and filled my life with sound, with colour, with even joy, an emotion that seemed so alien to me, so foreign, so rarely experienced. And tomorrow we can finally start our life together, so there is no reason not to celebrate. And yet," he exhaled sharply, "yet there is that shadow, that looms on the horizon...as if it tried to reach out for us, as if it tried to get to us..."

In an act of desperate bravery, now that she knew, that he had the dark feeling of foreboding as well, Isolde whispered: "It won't be able to get us." She paused and searched for words.

"I am pregnant, Tristan." The words sounded foreign to her own ears, as if it had not been her who had spoken them. "I am pregnant." She repeated them, just to assure, that it had been indeed her speaking them.

He, who was never shocked, looked up in heavy surprise. "You mean- you- you-"

Stammering was even more out of character for Tristan and she smiled wanly, helping him out.

"-are with child. Yes."

***

He started violently and she caught his arm before he could topple off the Wall.

"Is it so bad?" she asked hesitatingly.

"NO!" he very nearly shouted. "No," he repeated quieter and traced the outline of her face with a trembling finger. "This is the best news I have had for a while," he mumbled gently. "How far along are you?"

"The midwife I asked, said, that I still have seven moons to go. I came to her because I wasn't sure if it could really be possible."

"We are going to have a child," he repeated and suddenly a huge smile broke out on his face. His teeth gleamed in the dim light.

Abruptly, he got up and she stared up at him, badly startled by this strange behaviour.

"Tristan?"

"You need to rest now," he told her firmly, and even though she was glad that his voice held his trademark steadiness, she couldn't help but protest. "I am pregnant, Tristan, not sick!"

He stared at her for a moment, then he shrugged and smirked. "No. But Vanora always has to rest when she is with child. Bors said that it is necessary-"

"-but Vanora is then in another stage of pregnancy-" she shrieked, but he ignored her and went on.

"-and for once, I will pay heed to his words and do as he says."

"Why are you listening to Bors out of all people?"

He scooped her up in his arms and she finally stopped protesting, relaxing in his arms that had always held that promise of security and safety to her. He had such a strong, yet tender grip.

Tenderly, he showered her with kisses and she giggled, as he hit a sensitive spot, right under her collarbone. "Tristan..." she protested lazily, but he cut her off with a kiss and she melted right there in his arms.

"We will go up now," he told her and carried her up to his chambers. He pushed the door open with a foot and put her down on the bed.

***

Suddenly, the door swung open, only seconds after they had entered.

A clearly drunken Lancelot stood there, staring at them.

"What are you doing here?" Tristan growled, his eyes blazing with a dark anger. His hand strayed to his dagger, but Lancelot seemed oblivious to it.

"I was- was-" he slurred, completely unfazed by Tristan's angered expression, "jus' lookin' for you. So t'morrow we're goin' to be free men, aren't we? Free men..." For a moment, he sobered and looked almost as if he was going to cry. "Free men. Free men," he repeated numbly.

Tristan looked at him wordlessly for a second, before said: "Lancelot, get out."

"But-"Lancelot protested and then he laughed, a sound, that rang somewhere between despair and hilarity. "But..."

Tristan took his shoulder in a firm grip and steered him to his room, leaving the door to his own room open. Over his shoulder, he said to Isolde: "I'll be right back."

"Yes," she replied softly and watched the knights' backs. Even though her announcing that she was pregnant, had brought the topic of the bad feeling that assaulted them whenever they thought of the future to a stop, it had certainly not chased the dark clouds away.

If only...if only...everything would be well. She prayed to every god she could think of that all would be going alright.

Light footsteps signalled Tristan's return. Isolde quickly forced a smile on her face, but she already knew that he would see right through it.

Tristan sat down next to her and put a cool hand to the side of her face.

"Rest now," he said. "Rest."

Isolde felt how the blanket of weariness was drawn over her, and she caught Tristan's hand as he adjusted the blanket some more. "Stay," she mumbled softly.

He stilled in his movements and she peered at him through her eyelashes. "I am staying," he said firmly. "Now and forever." She smiled at him and entwined her fingers with his. Tristan stayed at the bedside and watched his Lady sleep.

****

"How long is forever?" Tristan mused quietly. The shrill shriek of his hawk answered and he strode over to the window, pushing the animal skin that covered it out of the way to gaze at the pale, waxy moon. Again the hawk shrieked. "You are right," he told her. "Forever might be no longer than the heart-beat of a mouse."

As if to concur, the deadly hawk swept down to sink her talons into an unsuspecting prey, effectively ending another mouse's life.

tbc