A/N: Thanks again to my reviewers. Let me know what you think!


Goodbyes

Gawain rested his head against her stomach in silence, Isabelle's hand still tightly clenched in his hair. Slowly he pushed himself away from her, feeling her fingers release him reluctantly.

She looked him in the eye and frowned, unsure of his expression.

"Go and say goodbye to Tristan," he told her.

"Wh – what?" she stammered. She scrutinised his face, but there was no sign of resentment or rancour there, just calmness.

"Not all of us are coming back, Isabelle," Gawain said quietly. "Go and say goodbye to him."

"Gawain, I don't want – "

"I know you love him," Gawain persisted.

"I love you!" she exclaimed, tears pricking her eyes. "I chose you, whether you'll have me or not, I want you!"

"But you love him also," Gawain replied softly.

"I – I…"

"He told me what exists between you two," Gawain continued stubbornly. "A bond that – "

"Gawain, please," she interrupted. "It's not – "

"Don't deny it," Gawain demanded sharply. "I know it, Isabelle. I've seen it myself."

She snapped her mouth shut, too stunned for words.

"I might not have wanted to believe it, but it was hard to deny what I saw," Gawain told her. "So don't."

Gawain looked at her pale face, her trembling mouth and shocked green eyes and looked away.

"I won't deny it," she then said slowly. "It is there, has been since I recovered from the lashes, and I can't undo it. I've tried… It is not as it is between you and I, Gawain. Not at all. And that is what I want. I want you."

Isabelle sank to her knees to look him in the eye. "You must believe me," she begged.

"Isabelle," Gawain began throatily. "It's not about that. Everything's changed now."

She scrambled to her feet when she saw the resignation in his face, hissing furiously, "So that's it, eh? You intend to die out there!"

"I do not intend to die!" Gawain roared, jumping to his feet.

"But you think it!" she spat back. "You think you and Tristan and everyone else are going to die. That's where this noble gesture is coming from. Well, I tell you now," she snarled, grabbing the front of his tunic, "that if you don't come back to me I will drag your bloody carcass from that place myself and kill you in ways too painful for you to comprehend!"

Gawain's nostrils flared and he grabbed her wrists. "You're trying my patience, Isabelle," he growled at her.

"I don't give a damn," she snapped back. "I'm not saying goodbye to anyone but you and I'm telling you to come back!"

Gawain ripped her hands from his tunic and pushed them behind her back, holding them in place, making her body arch into him. Isabelle glared at him, eyes blazing, teeth bared.

He bent down and captured her mouth in a searing kiss. Isabelle's stomach exploded. She tried to wriggle her arms out of his grip, but Gawain did not relent, only kissing her harder.

Lips clashing, teeth biting, they fought for dominance, their breathing harsh, until the atmosphere between them changed strongly and abruptly, and they clung to each other desperately, Isabelle's face hidden in his neck, their bodies trembling.

Isabelle told him softly, "You are my home, Gawain, the only one I know, the only one I need. You are my light, you ignite me. I love you."

Gawain gently stroked her hair, closing his eyes.

"I love you," she whispered. "Come home to me."

He distanced himself from her. "It doesn't change the way things are, Isabelle," he said. "Too much has happened. Whatever your feelings for me, the ones you have for him were there longer. I know you love him."

She gasped, injured by his words. "You do not believe me."

He let go of her. "No, I don't."


Tristan leaned on the battlements, scanning the dark tree line of the northern landscape. It would be up to him to guide his comrades safely through those woods. An impossible task.

That was where Merlin ruled, that was where he decided life or death for every creature that ventured between those trees. Merlin had chosen death for five knights and nobody had been able to change anything about it.

"Ban, Accolon, Agloval, Lionel, Palomedes," Tristan muttered the names of his fallen brothers-in-arms to the cold night air. "Will you be waiting for us there, brothers?"

He shook his morbid mood from him when a shadow in the courtyard caught his attention. The figure of a woman glided from the main building to the fountain, where she bent over and filled her hands with water to drink.

Tristan would have recognised her a mile away. He watched her as she splashed water on her face, the drops turning silver as they caught a bit of the moonlight.

The ethereal atmosphere was disrupted by a loud curse coming from the feminine silhouette. She kicked against the stone base of the fountain and then brusquely sat down on the edge, running her hands through her hair.

Tristan fought his immediate impulse to go to her. It was better if they stayed away from each other. She wanted it – she had made it clear to him that she wanted it – and he should respect it.

But she was right there, dipping her fingers in the water, oblivious to his presence.

If he was to go north the next morning and join his perished comrades, he wanted to say goodbye to her. "Ridiculous," he snarled to himself. When had he turned into a simpering woman?

Death had been on his doorstep a myriad of times. Never had he had any inclination whatsoever for goodbyes. Death was there, it was inevitable. Tristan had always accepted death's presence hovering over him without as much as a blink. His life was mingled with death and tonight was no different.

Unfortunately he was fully aware that he was fooling himself.

A mere moment later she looked up, taken by surprise, not having heard him approach. She scoffed. "Come to tell me you're going to die as well?"

"Most likely," Tristan shrugged.

"Well, that's nice," she growled. "Doesn't seem to bother you in the least."

Tristan did not understand her anger. "All our missions are dangerous, you know this."

"Oh, I know!" she snapped. "I've seen you bloodied and cut more times than I wish to remember. I can't believe you! None of you! You're letting yourselves be dragged to the north like lambs, expecting and accepting your death. Is this what you've fought for all those years? What is wrong with you people?"

Tristan looked at her in silence, taking in her distressed face. "Isabelle," he said quietly. "What else can we do? The estate of the family is easily accessible by sea. That is why they were able to live there. But the Saxons have cut off that route. That family is already lost. The bishop's mission is nothing more than a gesture towards the pope, to show them he attempted to save the family. Our lives mean nothing in this. If we refuse this mission, Rome will proclaim us deserters and hunt us down. If we accept this mission and follow Arthur, we will follow him into death. Why distress yourself over an inevitability?"

"Why distress myself?" Isabelle shrieked. "Maybe because I don't want to lose you!"

"This is the way it is," Tristan shrugged.

"Oh my God," Isabelle huffed. "You and Gawain, I don't know why I even bother with you. You're insane, both of you!"

"Why?"

"Gawain sends me to you, because he thinks you are going to die!" Isabelle shouted. "He thinks he is going to die, that everybody's going to die and I don't want you to die!"

Isabelle stood opposite him, shoulders and fists shaking, clenching her jaw. Before he had time to check himself, Tristan had grabbed her arm and pulled her to him. She pressed her nose hard into his chest, hissing, "I am so very angry with you."

"Just me, or all of us?" Tristan asked her dryly.

"Shove it, you bastard," she growled. "I hate you."

"Aye, I can tell," Tristan remarked, looking down at the top of her head as she was still leaning against him.

Furious, she pushed him away, glaring daggers.

"Isabelle…" he tried to appease her.

"I do not understand you! How can you accept this mission?"

"You do not need to understand," Tristan replied. "Arthur is not to you what he is to us. You cannot understand."

"No, it is your willingness to die that I cannot understand," she bit back.

"I do not want to die," Tristan told her. "But I do not avoid it either. Everybody dies, you must accept this."

"But you are free," she protested. "It is unjust."

"There's nothing I can do about it. Neither can Gawain, or Arthur."

Isabelle turned her back on him, muttering foul things under her breath. Tristan heard the bishop's name several times. Her back was straight as an arrow, her hands in her sides.

"Oh God, Tristan, I don't want to say goodbye to you," she suddenly burst out, bending her head.

He was surprised. "I thought we already had," he said softly.

She ran her hands through her hair. "We had," she whispered and took a deep breath. "Yet here we are again."

"Why can't I stay away from you?" he murmured, more to himself than to her.

Isabelle turned back, taking in his figure, an eerie calm descending on her. "You will go on this mission, won't you? Nothing I say is going to stop you."

"Aye," he answered, and looked at her, spotting the odd tranquillity in her eyes. The hairs on his arms began to stand on end.

"I cannot have anything stand between us," she continued. "I won't allow it."

"Isabelle…"

"I walked out on you the last time," she said. "I shouldn't have done that. Tristan, I love Gawain. And I love you. I know I am not what you need, and you are not what I need." She smiled teary-eyed, but steadily.

"But I love you. I simply do. I know you don't want me close to you, but you are to me. You hold a piece of my heart, as Gawain holds the other part. That won't change."

She stepped closer to him, putting her hand on his cheek. "In the stables, I was furious with you, but that is of no consequence now. There are more important matters. I want you to come back – I need you to come back."

"Isabelle, this is not right," he told her, taking her hand off his cheek. "You belong with Gawain."

"Aye, I do," she answered, her face fierce and defiant. "But it does not change the way I feel about you. You can try to push me away again, I won't stand for it. Will you deny me?"

Tristan gave up. He'd spent nearly a year of his life fighting her, fighting himself. This was probably the last time he would see her. "No," he answered her. "I won't do that." He held on to her hand, their fingers intertwining.

"I won't either." She squeezed his hand tightly.

"We are what we are," Tristan said. It was not an apology.

"I know," Isabelle smiled.

Their kiss was chaste, a kiss of acceptance and of goodbye. Tristan rested his forehead against hers, breathing in her scent. Isabelle sighed.

Tristan kissed her brow. "I will bring him back to you."