My lovely Marines, how are you today? In today's update we have a little bit of fluff but soon enough, things will come together at last for our beloved lovebirds. This chapter is the pinnacle of pent-up emotion, I don't think they can hold it back any longer, I tell you *evil smirk* Enjoy!
TAKE ME WHEN YOU NEED ME
PART XXI
John looked at the time, on her wristband. 0455.
The room was near pitch black, darkness just held back by the soft bluish glow of the emergency lights. To his augmented eyes, the light was enough to see the entire room. A Spartan would never know true night, not as regular humans knew it. This ability was not without its perks: he could study the entire room in the solitude of night, helping him to ignore the pain that the medication didn't take away. The large bed that accommodated his oversized body, the lonely chair on the corner with its black canvas bag and the ammo crate hidden beneath, the few sketches posted on the panel near the headboard, the beer bottle on the shelf… there were a few sounds; the low beeping of the machine that fed him drugs, a steady IV drip, the hanging monitor whirring quietly. Not long ago, machines like those were the only thing keeping him alive.
He circled back to the drawings with his image. A small pile of books sat near them.
The chair was a strong statement. Cortana had told him of the days she spent sleeping on a cot near his bed, when he was cooled down. She probably wasn't allowed to stay the night anymore, but she had brought the chair anyway, a testimony of her will to resist her mother's authority. John couldn't say that he wasn't impressed, she seemed to have a tense relationship with the good Doctor, someone that most people found hard to resist. Not that he would know how to properly read between the lines of their conversations, it was just the impression he got from observing them. But the chair and the fact that she kept coming back to him...
Once, she slept on a rough cot. Now, she was resting much more comfortably.
By his side and partly on top of him, Cortana sighed, nuzzling her head deep into his chest. John took a moment to study her, as he did every chance he got. Such a peaceful beauty. No worries on her face, only the slight hint of content dreams. John wrapped an arm around her, a hand instinctively going to her belly in a protective gesture. Cortana moaned happily and continued dozing.
If only John never had to wake her up… but the time was growing near.
He found himself longing for a decent shower, trying to recall how long had it been since the last one. Most of the crew subsisted on a dry cleansing foam that once applied was scrapped off the body with a plastic sweeper. With memories of the foam's foul smell, John winced. Well, at least he could shave.
He eyed the clock, waiting until the last possible moment. 0459 hours and 30 seconds.
Kissing Cortana's forehead gently, he brushed strands of dark hair away from her face.
"Daylight cycle." he whispered.
Cortana stirred, a deep grumpy frown on her face. She mumbled something incoherent. John was patient, rubbing her head with his large battle-worn fingers. The lights flickered on at last.
Cortana rubbed her eyes with an annoyed moan. "Can't they keep it dark for an hour longer?"
"Military ship." he said, patiently.
John was still rubbing her head, trying his best to make the transition into wakefulness easier. It had surprised him, how easily he fell into the role of her protector. John knew that the time they had to spend together was draining like sand in an hourglass, but while she was under his watchful eye, he would make the mother-to-be as comfortable and as healthy as he possibly could.
Just like she had taken care of him, once.
Cortana stretched, a couple of bones on her back cracked as she did. John didn't stop the ministrations on her head until she was finally ready to get up.
"I think I have coffee here, you want some?" she asked sleepily, after yawning again.
John nodded. Cortana slipped off the bed, stretched again. Then, she set twin mugs on the table-shelf and pulled two ready-made coffee packets from that mysterious canvas bag. Cortana read the instructions on the back carefully, then she cracked the packs open and poured water from a bottle, closed the packs again and shook them for about a minute. The chemical reaction produced a slight sizzling sound inside the bag. She served the contents on the mugs, the room soon filled with the fresh, familiar scent of the brew; John was truly impressed, it was rare that civilians knew how to properly prepare MRE coffee.
Cortana grabbed a handful of packs of powdered cream and sugar and handed them to her Spartan in waiting. After that, she smiled brightly and gave John his mug, then sat crossed legged on the bed next to him.
"Where did you get MRE coffee?" he asked, curious.
"It was a gift from your teammates, actually." she explained, still smiling. "You give him a lot of crap, but the Lieutenant is very thoughtful."
"Fred is a diplomat by nature."
John went to work, pouring far too much cream and far too much sugar into his mug. Adding and adding until the brew looked almost as pale white as he did. Cortana drank her coffee black; blowing softly on it, she observed him with inquiring eyes.
"So, this is why you don't drink it when I bring you some from the machine down the hall." she said, taking a sip. She didn't sound upset.
"I like my coffee not to taste like coffee." he commented, testing it carefully on his tongue. He approved with a low grunt.
"If that makes sense." Cortana said, eyeing him playfully. "I wouldn't have thought you were such a softie. You don't like beer, you don't like coffee…"
"I do like coffee. Just not black." John growled.
She chuckled, the sound warmed up his heart.
"Fair enough." Cortana stirred the contents of her mug, eyeing the Master Chief as he drank, oblivious now. "So… did you enjoy watching me sleep?"
The question caught John slightly off guard. He finished his sip and set the mug down.
"Yes." he said. "Did you enjoy watchingme?"
Cortana blushed. "You've seen the sketches, so…"
"But did you enjoy it?"
Cortana contemplated for a moment. "Those days were probably the worst of my life so far, but yes. You looked peaceful, you weren't in pain. I had never seen you like that."
John was curious. "How do I normally look?"
"Like a grump." she said, grinning. He frowned. Cortana leaned in, kissed his frown. "Like a big grumpy bear."
"Careful." John said, his tone dangerous.
It only made Cortana laugh more. She sat back and continued with her mug.
"You did enjoy yourself. Even smiled a little."
John paused mid sip. "How would you know?"
"I peeked." Cortana said coyly. "Sneaky, aren't I?"
"Very." he agreed, his half-smirk was frisky. "I like watching you sleep."
"And why is that?"
"Because you're beautiful."
The words left the Master Chief's mouth before he realized what he was saying, but he did not regret it. Next to him, Cortana's skin turned a bright shade of crimson.
"That's… umh, thank you, John." she hid her face behind the coffee mug, blushing so hard. "It's kind of funny. I can't remember the last time somebody called me beautiful."
"You are." John said definitively.
Oh God, he was using that tone. The tone of command. Of supreme confidence. The tone that made her believe that Spartan-117 could make anything possible through sheer force of will. Was he trying to make her fall more in love with him than she already was? Was it even possible at this point?
It took a while for Cortana to recover. Why was she so embarrassed?
'The hero of humanity just called you beautiful, silly girl.' the voice said.
'It was never supposed to be like this.' Cortana answered, in her mind. 'He was never supposed to make me feel like this.'
She could feel John's stare on her.
Those intense steel-blue eyes, so attentive. At last, Cortana managed to clear her throat.
"Well, I think you're rather handsome when you sleep yourself." she said, not as embarrassed as she thought she would be.
"Thank you."
This was the only man Cortana had ever known who could pack so much meaning into so few words. It was his tone more than the words themselves, the way he looked at her, that said everything…
Thank you for watching over me.
Thank you for being worried.
Thank you for taking care of me.
Thank you for not letting me be alone. I didn't want to die alone.
Thank you for loving me.
Thank you for treating me like I'm human.
And yes, thank you for calling me handsome.
Cortana digested the meaning of those two simple words. "You're welcome." was all she said, still a little stunned. It was all she needed to say, anyway. A few minutes were spent in comfortable silence until she spoke again. "I've been wondering, did you dream while you were out? Or was it just… nightmares?"
"Sort of." John said, setting his empty mug aside. He grabbed Cortana's for her and set it down next to his.
"About what?"
"Nonsense, mostly. But sometimes, about the two of us." John replied.
"Good dreams then." Cortana smiled, he nodded. "Can I ask what they were about?"
Now it was John's turn to recoil a little: "That's private."
"I think the two of us are way past private." her smirk was rather provocative.
"I'll tell you some other time." he said. "After this is through."
Cortana understood. What would become of them, of this thing they were doing in that very moment, after John was discharged? She could understand why he would not want to share intimate dreams he had about the two of them. Cortana thought about what Kelly had told her, about that refugee girl, Parisa. No, Cortana would not allow that to happen again. Never let him be hurt like that. She would protect him, even if that meant overturning her entire life. It was the least she could do.
'I won't be the ungrateful bitch again.' she frowned to herself.
"What were the nonsense dreams about?" Cortana asked.
"Why so curious?"
"It's just…" Cortana began, pausing as she contemplated whether she should tell him or not. The idea sounded silly even to her, but what the Hell. She had already told John that there was no longer anything private between them. "Sometimes, when I spoke to you, or touched you, or…" she stopped herself again, remembering with a little awkwardness how she would kiss his hands and fingers. Okay, maybe some things could stay private. "Well, whenever I interacted with you, sometimes it seemed like you responded. I know how it sounds, probably it was all in my head."
"It's not." John said quietly. "I thought it was part of my dreams."
"What was?" she asked, surprised.
"Your voice. I could hear you."
Cortana's heart fluttered. Yes, he heard her! She had known it, somehow.
"What was I saying?" her full curiosity had been piqued.
"I'm not sure." John replied, brow furrowed. "It all sounded like stories. But I knew it was your voice, it reminded me that the dreams weren't real. That I had to keep fighting."
A soft smile took over her lips. "I'm glad all the reading I did helped you, after all."
"Oh." John mumbled, glancing over at the pile of books. "Probably should have asked about those sooner." her laughter sounded like music to him, and John gifted her with one of his rare full smiles. "What did you read to me?"
Cortana hopped off the bed and went over to the book pile, gently rifling through them. Some were quite old, and she handled them with the care that such novelties deserved. "Our benefactor seems to be quite the fan of the classics. We have Herodotus, Thucydides, and Xenophon."
"Read them." John said, quickly.
Cortana rolled her eyes. "Of course, you've read all about the ancient Spartans. Let's see, what about Homer?" she held up an old leather-bound copy of the Iliad. John nodded. "Wouldn't have expected you to tolerate poetry." she remarked, flipping through the pages of the ancient war poem, humming to herself. "Helen, Queen of Sparta. The face that launched a thousand ships."
"I can relate." he quipped.
Her cheeks burned again. Who was this man and when did he become such a flirt?
"You know, it's said that Spartan women were the most beautiful of the ancient world, rivaled only by the women of Afghanistan. Alexander the Great himself was seduced by an Afghan beauty, Roxana. Of course, if he had managed to conquer the Spartans he might have picked one of their women instead."
"He never conquered the Spartans." John shook his head.
There was a hint of pride in his voice, it made her smile again.
"Well, mister smartass. Let's try some fiction, then." she went through the stack of books with renewed interest. "Virgil, Dante and Milton. Ever read them?" John made a negative gesture; Cortana's smile grew wider. "I could read one of them to you, if you want."
"I'd like that." he nodded.
Cortana beamed at him. Maybe she could civilize this brute after all. Well, maybe not too civilized: savagery had its uses, especially in the bedroom.
"Let's see, The Divine Comedy. How familiar are you with politics of Renaissance Italy?"
"Not at all." John answered honestly.
She frowned. "Well maybe Dante isn't a good choice then. Never cared too much for him myself, though I guess that's not his fault. You could blame my mother. Imagine having to read this beast in Italian at ten years old? Then switching over to The Prince and having your mother harp on you the entire time about how Machiavelli was actually a good role model."
Cortana shook her head at the bad memories and set The Divine Comedy aside.
"How about Milton? Hmm. Similar problem though not as pronounced. Do you know anything about the English Civil War, Oliver Cromwell?"
"A little." John admitted. "Mostly the battles. I don't like politics."
"No one does except the politicians." Cortana agreed with him. Still, she held on to the copy of Paradise Lost with a certain tenderness. "For what can war, but endless war, still breed?" she recited in a soft voice. "I can't help but feel sorry for Milton. An old blind man filled with regrets. Living long enough to see everything he fought for be either corrupted by tyrants or crumble to dust." she half-heartedly set the book aside. "Still, I don't want to have to give you a lecture as I read. I'm guessing you prefer ancient history?"
"Very much." John agreed. He was finding this entire process amusing.
"Then Virgil is probably our best bet." she picked up a copy of the Aeneid. "The tale of Aeneas who led the Trojan refugees across the Mediterranean to found the city of Rome, accidentally making an eternal enemy of Carthage in the process."
"That was inconvenient." John commented dryly. "I thought the Punic Wars started over control of Sicily."
"Well, yes, historically speaking. But history sometimes has to make a little room for mythology. Makes everything more colorful."
"If you say so." John conceded. "Is that your favorite?"
"My favorite out of the three?"
"Your favorite out of all of them."
This made Cortana stop. She bit her lip, nervously.
"I haven't shown you my favorite yet, that's… a bit private…"
"Nothing is private between us." John reminded her.
Cortana frowned. Damn that man. "You wouldn't like it though. It's fantasy. Sappy love story really."
"Try me." he encouraged, shifting to sit better. "I want to know more about you."
There it was, that fluttering heart again. Cortana hesitated for a moment, then grabbed the last book in the pile. It was a thick volume, thick enough to make John almost regret his insistence. She seemed to notice and tried to put him at ease:
"It's not the whole book, just a story in it. Novella size. Maybe shorter, but…" Cortana held the book tightly to her chest. She seemed embarrassed. "But it's my favorite story. My absolute favorite. It's where I got my name from."
"Elizabeth?" he asked.
He could sense that he was threading on something very personal.
Her smile opened soft as a blooming flower: "That's the first time you've ever called me Elizabeth."
"Oh." John was confused now. "It won't happen..."
"No! No, no, it's fine." Cortana said, hastily. "I like the way my name sounds… when you say it."
She was burning red again, holding the book tighter -if it was physically possible-.
John cocked an eyebrow, curious. His half-smile sent tingles up Cortana's spine.
"Noted." he commented. "So, this is where Elizabeth comes from?"
"No." she shook her head. "I meant Cortana, my callsign. This is where it comes from. Here…" she sat on the bed again, next to him.
He read the cover of the book:
THE MATTERS OF ENGLAND, IRELAND, AND FRANCE
She opened the book and flipped through the first pages. There were pictures, mostly. Of knights, grails, dragons, wizards, sword duels, and pitched battles. But there was one picture Cortana lingered on specifically: a sword. It had the look of a Roman gladius, yet elegantly made. Its blade was made in the style of Damascus steel, the folds wove a stylish pattern across the sword, which itself shined with a light blue hue. The hilt was simple, yet masterfully crafted, a perfect fit for the hand that wielded it. On the blade were written words in the language of Olde French. She translated for John:
"I am Cortana, of the same steel and temper as Joyeuse and Durendal." her fingers traced the picture. "Joyeuse, Durendal, Cortana and Excalibur. The four Swords of Power, forged by a dragon's breath when the world was still young." she then read the description underneath the picture. "Cortana, the Sword of Mercy. Wielded by Tristan, Olger the Dane, and King Edward the Confessor."
"Looks short." John commented, wryly. Cortana elbowed him lightly on the chest, she couldn't hide her own smile. He pursued: "Well, it is."
"I'm not that short!" she huffed, amused. "Would you like me to read it to you?"
John examined the thickness of the hefty book. "The whole thing?"
"No, just this one story." she said, flipping through the pages. "My favorite story." she stopped somewhere a little less than halfway through. Snuggling on his shoulder, Cortana propped the book up so that they could read the title.
THE TALE OF TRISTAN AND ISEULT
"You ready?" she asked, and John nodded.
Taking a deep breath, she began to read…
.
In a time before Hastings. In a time before the Danelaw. In a time even before the Angles and the Saxons carved their first toe hold in Britannia, the last Roman legions left the British Isles, and the land was plunged into darkness. The druids once more regained their power. Magic, sorcery, and mysticism once again reigned supreme. The land was divided and leaderless. Kingdoms rose and fell, leaving little memory of their legacy behind. The past was forgotten, and the future unthought of.
Yet, out of this darkness legends arose. Tales of heroes and damsels who fought against countless odds and whose hope and daring brought light to the lives of those commoners who wove the tales.
This is one such legend.
In the land of Cornwall, King Mark reigned over his court. He kept a large and martial retinue, yet the greatest among his knights was Tristan, whose sword was Cortana. The short sword. The sword of Mercy. Tristan was tall of figure and strong of limb. Fair of features and brown of hair. Blue in eyes and brave in deeds. It was to Tristan that King Mark gave a most important task.
He was to travel across the sea to Ireland, and there gain the favor of an Irish Princess who travelers had called Iseult. Once he had gotten her favor, Tristan was to bring Iseult to the court of King Mark so that her and the king might be wedded. Tristan, for the love of his king, accepted the task, for the beauty of Iseult was famed.
Tristan left for Ireland, but upon landing on that green and pleasant shore he was beset by the knight Morholt, for the Irish champion had loved Iseult from afar and knew the reason for Tristan's coming. The two fought, and after a long struggle in which both drew blood, Tristan slew Morholt. Taking his sword and armor as spoils, he traveled to the castle where Iseult's father held court.
There he was accused of murder by the king, Iseult herself demanding justice for the slaying of one of her devoted protectors. Tristan defended himself. That Morholt had issued the challenge, and that the duel had been fair and in accordance with chivalry. Still Iseult demanded justice, but her father saw further use.
The king announced his judgement, that in penance for his crimes against the realm Tristan would provide a service. The slaying of a dragon that had long plagued the people of the Emerald Isle, burning crop and livestock and commoner alike. Though he still asserted his innocence, Tristan accepted the king's judgement and set off to slay the foul beast.
A quarter day's journey he traveled until he came upon the dragon's lair burrowed deep into a tall hillside. Burnt ashen white, scattered with bones, and smelling of sulfur, Tristan could hear the dragon sleeping underneath the earth, the ground itself heaving with every breath the beast took. Sneaking upon the hill until he was above the opening to the dragon's lair, Tristan used the stratagem of trickery, throwing his voice onto a far away boulder.
The dragon stirred, a snort of smoke issued from the entrance, and the snake like beast lumbered out. Greenish grey with scales harder than steel, its nostrils flared with flame as it searched for the one that made the noise.
It was then that Tristan jumped.
He landed onto the back of the beast. Raising Cortana high he attempted to plunge the sword between the creature's wingspan. But the dragon's hide cannot be pierced by any weapon yet known to man. Crying out in fury the dragon leapt into the air, wings spread wide. Into the blue sky it soared, Tristan holding on to the brute with everything he had.
In the highest spire of the king's castle, Iseult watched. Her hands clutched her chest when she saw the dragon rise into the air. Her heart stopped when she saw a figure fall.
Tristan fell to the ground, shattering leg and bone. But even as his body broke, he kept his pride, and no cry of pain left his lips. Even as the dragon landed and slithered forward on its belly, fangs bared, Tristan kept his courage. His eyes were blue defiance.
Mere feet away the dragon opened its maw, flames of orange and red leaping forward. Tristan raised his shield, but it melted before the dragon fire. The beast opened its maw again, but as the flames leapt forward once more, Tristan raised Cortana, and the dragon's fire was parried.
For Cortana was a Sword of Power. Like her siblings, Joyeuse, Durendal and Excalibur, her steel had been forged by the Dragon's Breath, and that which had been forged by the Dragon's Breath could not be harmed by it.
Cortana's blade flashed its blue steel, repelling the flames back into the beast's eyes. Surprised and blinded, the dragon reared up on its hind legs, a dreadful cry of pain roaring into the sky. Tristan took his chance.
Leaping forward on his one good leg, he shoved Cortana deep into the dragon's heart.
Hours later Tristan's unconscious body was carried through the gatehouse and past a penitent Iseult. Seeing the brave knight in such a state made her forget whatever anger she may have felt towards him. Silently, she resolved to see him fully healed and obtain his forgiveness for the pain she had caused him.
Forty days and a night Tristan waited for his leg to heal. Forty days and a night Iseult was by his side morning and evening. Forty days and a night and she found his forgiveness. Forty days and a night, and they found each other's hearts.
When at last he was fully healed, Tristan once again met the king, Iseult's father. He knelt before the Irish monarch and reported that his task was done. The king, in wisdom, pardoned Tristan for whatever crimes he might have committed, thanked him for the service he had done for the realm, and asked if there was any boon Tristan would ask of him.
Tristan's eye's met Iseult's, and for a moment her heart soared.
But alas, Tristan was a truly chivalric knight. Bound by duty, honor, and loyalty to King Mark. With heavy regret he set about his appointed task and asked the Irish king that his daughter's hand in marriage might be given to his liege lord across the sea. The king graciously accepted. Iseult wept.
Into her room she went, barring the door behind her, tears of heart break and betrayal stinging her cheeks. Not even Tristan's kind words from beyond the door could bring her to open it. Night fell, the castle grew silent, and Iseult settled on a plan to make Tristan forget his duty.
Out of the castle she snuck, swift and silent. Into the darkness of the forest she went, seeking out the power of the druids. After long wanderings she found them in the deepest darkest heart of the forest. Beseeching the druids with her tale, the old mystics took pity on the princess. For her the concocted a potion. A love potion so strong that it would make any man forget his honor for the sake of she who gave it to him. But, the potion had a price. For any who partook in its magic would see tragedy befall their love.
Iseult took the potion, heedless of the warning, and rushed back to the castle. On the next morning the ship that would take her to Cornwall set sail. During the journey Iseult slipped the potion into Tristan's drink. With a single sip the doom of both was sealed.
Tristan forgot his duty, his loyalty, and his honor. All that remained was his love for Iseult. They embraced, whispering words to each other that had long been hidden. Iseult buried her head into Tristan's chest, weeping tears of joy to finally hold the man she had come to love.
The knight, Tristan, looked upon his beloved. She was pale of skin and black of hair. Green of eyes and slender of hips. Beautiful of face and soft of touch. Whatever remaining sense of duty and honor he had left fled him. There was only her.
Alas, their embrace was discovered, and news of Tristan's treachery made it to the ears of King Mark. The sovereign, enraged by the betrayal, ordered the arrest of the lovers. For their crimes Iseult was sentenced to life in a convent. Tristan was to be burned at the stake.
On the day of his execution Tristan watched his funeral pyre be built outside his prison window. Filled with the fear that he would never see Iseult again, the once noble knight fell to his knees and asked God to grant him strength to overcome his enemies. The prayer was granted.
When the cell door opened, Tristan attacked his guards with the strength of ten men. Overpowering them in a hurling melee, Tristan ran to the room where he knew Cortana was kept. Bursting through the door he laid hands on the ancient sword, and not a moment too soon, for King Mark's men were soon upon him. Tristan hacked and slashed. Proving with martial fury why he was the greatest of King Mark's knights, he cut a swath of destruction through his attackers, until he at last had broken through.
With the sound of more men coming, Tristan climbed up to the tallest tower. Overlooking a cliff with the sea below, Tristan jumped. He fell an impossible distance into the frothy water, but by some miracle survived. Swimming ashore, and with Cortana in hand, he journeyed his way to the convent where Iseult was kept. Again, at the convent, he met King Mark's men. Again, no man could best him and he at last found Iseult. With immeasurable relief the two lovers embraced once more, and soon made haste into the forest of Cornwall.
There, amongst nature, and with nature's consent, the two knew happiness together like none had ever known before. A love imperishable, witnessed by nature and nature's god underneath the soft green canopy.
For many weeks they remained hidden, together, and happy in the forest of Cornwall. But, alas, that bliss was too soon broken. King Mark had not forgotten the oath breakers, and once it was whispered to him where the fugitives might be, the King himself led a column of men into the heart of the forest, and though nature marveled at the beauty of their love, it did nothing to shield or hide them from encroaching justice.
King Mark came upon the lovers asleep, a retinue of knights at his back. Drawing his sword and grasping the hilt in both hands, the King raised it far above his head, ready to deal the killing blow. Yet, his hand hesitated, for he saw Iseult's pure beauty laid bare in the forest green, and he remembered the loyalty and friendship that Tristan had once given him.
The blade struck down and landed in between the two lovers. Groggy from sleep, and without sword and armor, Tristan was taken captive by the King's men. However, King Mark's rage had greatly subsided. Though he refused to pardon their crimes, he did offer mercy.
For Tristan, exile. Out of the land of Cornwall, and indeed, out of Britain all together. To Brittany, to France, he was ordered to go. With his life, but upon pain of death if he should ever dare return. For Iseult, marriage, as was originally promised and sworn, for the King still desired her beauty. Even more so than before, having seen it upon the forest floor.
With that Tristan was dragged away. In irons he was taken to the sea, and in irons he rode upon a ship, and out of irons he was at last released upon the shores of Brittany.
Heartbroken the two lovers were, but while time does not heal every wound, it does eventually dull the pain. After many years apart, Tristan married the lady of the White Hands, and though the marriage pleased many it was whispered in private conversation that Tristan had only married the woman for her appearance. An appearance that was strikingly similar to a Queen who lay across the Channel.
More years passed. Wars were waged, and battles fought. The fame of Cortana grew upon the continent, as did the fame of he who wielded her. Until one day Tristan was wounded by a poison blade, wielded by a most dishonorable of foe. His gut a rotting green, his once great strength fleeing him, Tristan sent a letter across the Channel. A letter begging Iseult to come so that he might see her one last time. If she agreed to come, then she should do so on a ship with white sails. If the answer was no, then send a ship whose sails were black.
The days past, and Tristan grew ever weaker. His wife of the White Hands cared for him, but in his fevered dreams it was not his wife he called for. Jealousy grew, and when at last a ship was spotted on the horizon, and Tristan asked in desperation whether or not the sails were white or black, the lady of the White Hands allowed her jealousy to get the better of her.
Black, she lied.
With that one dark stain ringing in his ear, Tristan died. Iseult arrived too late to see her long lost lover one more time.
Iseult flung herself into her lover's sick bed. She wrapped Tristan in her arms, lifeless, as her tears soaked the sheets. In her grief Iseult noticed a crust of poison on Tristan's lip. She kissed her knight, the hero that had won her heart, one last time. Then, stretching out her body to lay beside him, she died as well.
Of Cortana, her blade would know of more great deeds yet to come. From Tristan's hands she found her way to Olger the Dane who served in the court of Charlemagne, King of the Franks and Emperor of the Romans. From Olger she made her way back across the Channel, this time wielded by an English King. Edward the Confessor, and it is from there that Cortana has remained in the possession of the English Kings and Queens in perpetuity.
But of Tristan and Iseult, the power of the love potion had not yet diminished. They were buried side by side, and side by side grew two rose trees, their branches and roots locked together in an eternal embrace.
.
Cortana closed the book slowly and held it close to her chest. Something warm wetted her cheeks and she realized that it was tears. Deeply embarrassed, she wiped them away quickly with the back of her arm, leaving long salty streaks on her pale skin. She really was acting like nothing but a school girl lately.
"Sorry." she muttered. "I know it's silly. It's why I don't usually share things like these with others."
She was beginning to realize what an awful mistake this had been. She should've just read Virgil or something else that would've impressed John with how knowledgeable she was. Not this, it only made her look foolish. A hopeless girl with hopeless romantic ideas that she tried to bury deep down and hide from everyone, including herself. She was just about to get up and apologize, maybe even run to the shower to avoid further humiliation, when John spoke up:
"It's not silly." he said, looking at her now. "Nothing about you is silly."
Cortana's heart trembled, she tried to steady herself. Perhaps he was just being polite.
"Are you sure you liked it?" she asked, turning a little more, to face him. "You didn't say anything while I was reading."
"I was listening." John tilted his head down, positively. "The sound of your voice is comforting." now it was his turn to be a little awkward.
He wasn't a man known to betray his emotions easily, but Cortana could read him well enough. They had been too intimate too many times for her not to be able to understand him. She scooted herself a millimeter closer, hopeful. The bed was made for a Spartan but not exactly for two people, which meant that their bodies were pressed close against each other, snug and warm.
"What did you like about it?" she pressed on.
John contemplated her question for a moment, trying to put his thoughts into words. "It made me feel like I was getting to know the real you for the first time."
Cortana blinked. Well, that was a strange thing to say.
Which was the real her? The woman of wealth, power, and influence? She was a brilliant mind, a young prodigy. Twenty-six years old and already congratulated with every professional achievement she could ever possibly want. A tireless workhorse, who's skin was pale white due to lack of real sunlight. A cold, calculating, ungrateful bitch. The spitting image of her mother. A bitch in heat moaning in the arms of her lover, minutes later acting like nothing was going on between them in front of others. The cold-hearted girl that had discarded her first two young lovers for the sake of ambitions. The reckless vixen that fucked a married man, knowingly…
Cortana forced herself to stop thinking. She didn't want to cry again.
"I don't understand." she said, unable to meet his gaze. "What do you mean by the real me?"
Instead of answering John surprised her with another question: "Are you happy?"
If before she was surprised, this rather shocked her. Cortana sat in silence for a minute or two, running everything through her head. Analyzing, dissecting. All the things should could use to describe herself. Their eyes met. With anyone else she could laugh the question off and say of course she was happy.
But not with him. She couldn't lie to him at that precise moment:
"No." she admitted, her voice unsteady. She looked down at the book in her hands. "I'm happy when I read these stories." without meaning to, John had hit her trigger. Tears came uncontrollably now, working themselves up into soft sobs that she couldn't stop. "It's why I wanted a baby." she confessed, holding onto the book for dear life, again. "I didn't want to be alone. I don't want to be my mother, but I just can't stop…"
John put his arm around her, this time he felt that this was the right thing to do. Cortana let everything go and sobbed against his shoulder. He had seen her cry before, although not like this. Not even the moments when they had been closer together, merging into one, compared to how vulnerable Cortana was allowing herself to be in that moment.
And it felt so damn good. When had she ever allowed herself to be like this, with anyone? It was a relief more than anything.
Cortana soaked his skin with her warm tears. John held her, silent, stoic. He offered no direct words of comfort, but were any really needed? He was a rock that she could lean on when tired. The only person she didn't feel the need to be strong in front of. Just as he had shown her that Spartans could be hurt, she was laying bare all her insecurities. He squeezed her side, his fingers running up and down her forearm. Cortana regained control of her breathing, though the tears kept coming for long minutes after that.
When they finally subsided, she wiped her eyes with the back of her arm.
"Thank you." she said, pushing herself away a little. "I needed that."
"Anytime." he nodded, sharply.
Her hair had become a tangled mess and John did his best to brush it off her face.
Eyes still red, she rewarded him with a small smile. "So, are you sure you liked it?"
"Parts of it." he admitted. Satisfied that she was better, he leaned back to rest on the lightly inclined bed, crossing his arms over his chest. Cortana sat her head on his biceps. "I didn't like the ending."
"Oh?" Cortana raised an eyebrow. "Not a fan of sad endings, huh?"
"Not a fan of losing." John huffed. "They just gave up."
She shook her head. "Being unarmed, surprised, and surrounded by knights is starting the fight with a few handicaps."
"I would have fought." John said. "And I would have won."
"Dreamy." she snorted, nuzzling his arm. "You're the only person that could say such a thing and make me believe it." she reached out and placed her hand onto his. "I suppose you're overlooking the part where Tristan forgets his duty and honor in order to be with the woman he loves."
"I didn't. I also remember a love potion that made him forget."
Cortana shrugged. "In these old stories, you have to sometimes read between the lines. The love potion is symbolic of something… much more scandalous, you could say."
"Like what?" he asked. Cortana raised both eyebrows suggestively. "Oh."
She giggled. "You can be so thick when you want to be."
"You should know, ma'am." now it was his turn to be suggestive.
Cortana opened her mouth to reply, but closed it again and smiled, excited. Damn that man. He could be one hell of a flirt when he really wanted to be, too. He just didn't have the chance to exercise it much. She looked away to try and hide her momentary awkwardness. After clearing her throat, Cortana picked up the book and flopped it onto the Spartan's stomach.
"Alright, now it's your turn."
John looked down at the book: "To read?"
She rolled her eyes. "Now you're being thick on purpose. No, to tell me something you like, something personal. It's only fair."
John continued staring at the book, pondering. "I've never really read much fiction."
"A song then?" she insisted, hopeful. "Your favorite type of genre."
"Classical is fine." his frown showed that the subject elicited no deep inspiration.
Cortana sighed. "And I'm guessing you're not a big fan of poetry either."
Well, that was a clear challenge. "I know a few poems, actually." when she tilted her head up in mild surprise, he quickly added: "I've been to a lot of funerals."
"Oh." she winced, immediately regretting having pushed him. "I'm sorry. You don't have to…"
"I've memorized one." he interrupted, quickly. "Just one."
Cortana swallowed. "May I ask why?"
"It spoke to me." he grazed the book with his large fingers. "Like that story did for you, I guess."
"Do you mind if I hear it, then?" she requested, humbly. Her hand moved to where his lay, onto the book, intertwining their fingers together. "You don't always have to be strong in front of me. We don't have to, not for each other."
John took a deep breath. It felt like the whole bed moved when he did that, his chest rising and falling. Everything about him was larger than life, but as Cortana squeezed his hand and snuggled closer, he seemed to shrink. The demigod of war turning into a man.
"Tell me, please." Cortana insisted.
John nodded once. "Alright."
He took another deep breath, and began:
.
Oh, gather 'round me, comrades
And listen while I speak;
Of a war, a war, a war…
where hell is six feet deep.
.
Along the shore, the cannons roar.
Oh how can a soldier sleep?
The going's slow on Anzio
And hell is six feet deep.
.
Praise be to God for this captured sod
That's rich where blood does seep;
With yours and mine, like butchered swine;
And hell is six feet deep.
.
That death does wait
There's no debate;
No triumph will we reap
The crosses grow on Anzio,
Where hell is six feet deep.
.
When he finished, the room was deathlike silent. Even the whirring of the machinery above seemed to have faded. Cortana laid her head back on his biceps, thinking.
Was that how the great Master Chief thought of himself, deep down? Nothing more than a butchered swine. Bound by duty but with no real triumphs to call his own. All sacrifice and no reward, because Spartans should not want rewards, and what was waiting for him when it was all over? Hell. A hell that was six feet deep.
Well, it was what she had been looking for, wasn't it? A good hard fuck and a baby. A masturbation accessory that was good at following her orders. A mindless automaton that would probably be dead within a few years, out of the way and easily forgotten about except by nostalgic propaganda. A soulless weapon that didn't have the capacity to care about her or her baby, and so could easily be pushed out of the way once the time came.
But John did care. Despite her mother and father's best efforts, John cared about more things and with more strength of feeling than Cortana could ever have imagined.
'Yes, thank you John.' Cortana thought, her eyes welling up again. 'You're saving me from turning into my mother.'
Seeing the tears coming to her eyes once more, John looked at her with a hint of alarm. His steel-blue eyes widened in surprise when, instead, Cortana leaned forward and planted her lips onto his.
It was not chaste like the peck that she had given him earlier, nor was it the passionate whirlwind that had characterized the later days of their arrangement. Cortana kissed him with the tender curiosity of someone who was exploring another's mouth for the first time. In some ways, she was.
She left no stone unturned. Placing a hand on the back of John's head and guiding him in, after some hesitation he found his drive and his hand went to the small of her back. He allowed her to lead as Cortana made a meticulous survey of his mouth. Tasting both lips, biting gently, planting kisses on the corners of his mouth that made those wonderful smirks that drove her insane. Her tongue was the next trail blazer. Timid at first but with increasing boldness, until she was lazily swirling her tongue around his, unconsciously undoing the massive Spartan bit by bit with those tender caresses.
They broke apart and stared into each other's eyes. Then Cortana laughed softly:
"You are probably the worst kisser I've ever had."
Whatever bliss was on John's face left quickly. He frowned, hard: "I will get better."
"No!" she hurried to say, rising her eyebrows in shock: "I love the way you kiss me." John tilted his head to the side, clearly confused: "It feels… honest. You're the only man who has ever been honest about everything with me." She clarified, leaning forward again until their noses were touching. "Don't you ever change the way you kiss me."
They kissed again. It was a little awkward and poorly executed, with little talent.
And Cortana loved every second of it.
Perhaps she loved it a little too much, because a warm tingling below the waistband of her fatigues set off warning bells. A make-out session was one thing, straight up sex on a hospital bed, however...
Cortana stopped to consider it for a moment.
Just a moment, but perhaps a moment too long. This was the closest she'd been to actually...
"Are you okay?" John asked, when she pulled back.
Cortana made a negative gesture and resorted to lying: "I'm alright, I just… need a shower. It's getting late in the morning."
More like she was running away before things went a little too far.
John nodded silently and allowed her to leave the bed, taking the book with her. She hesitated before putting it back in the crate with all the others. "You know, you're the first man I've been with that actually took an interest in these silly things."
"Like I said, they're not silly."
She smiled wide. "You're full of surprises, Chief."
TO BE CONTINUED
Alright you guys, if you were paying attention you may have noticed the change in writing style. That's because, shocking twist, I am not Ladywolvesbayne. I am her, umhh (coughs) "special" friend. Yeah, we'll go with that. Her very, very special friend, Cor Tenebrae.
Anyway, Lady really wanted a scene where John and Cortana got to nerd out together over classic literature. Unfortunately, she doesn't know much about the classics, so I offered to step in a write it for her. And I finished. With a smashed finger. And no, I will never allow her to hear the end of it. I'll close off with giving some credit where credit is due. First, regarding Tristan and Iseult: yes, it is a real Arthurian(-ish?) legend. The original version is lost to time, and what survives are about a dozen different versions that sometimes contradict each other. So, while I based it on the work of others, the summary you just read is my own original work.
As to the poem; the title is "The Crosses Grow on Anzio" written by 1st Lieutenant Audie Murphy. The original poem can be found with a quick google search, but I myself first discovered the poem through the song "To Hell and Back". Listening to it, the whole thing felt like such a great fit for Chief that I had to include it. It can be found on YouTube as the first search result if you are interested.
And lastly to Lady who created this story. She's a wonderful writer and an even more wonderful person. I'll make sure to keep kicking her butt to finish this beast of a tale, so you guys aren't left blue balled. I already know how the story is going to end and trust me, I think you'll be well satisfied. Godspeed!
THANK YOU VERY, VERY MUCH FOR THE AID AND THE EFFORT, LOVE! Now, back to our usual programming, here's some salutations for the non-logged users, Ladywolvesbayne answering:
For the GUEST that for some reason believes I update once a month... I update EVERY SUNDAY. I don't know if you're RexSoka as well, but I think you might be confusing this story with another one. I literally can't push the updates any further. In any case, thank you kindly for your enthusiasm, it's very refreshing. It's been a while since anyone asked me to update more often LOL.
Now, for REXSOKA itself, thank you for giving yourself a name :D I'm glad you're liking the development so far, soon enough Halsey will show her real colors and we'll start wondering about other things, and of course Cortana is in love with her Spartan and he loves her back -even if he doesn't realize, the poor thing-. There's a lot to sort out before they can finally come together in the way we all want, please stay tuned to know more about how their relationship grows :D Thank you very much for the support!
Then there's another GUEST that has no clue where the story is heading and I'M GLAD. Because there's plenty of surprises ahead to see, yet, hopefully you will be surprised. All I ask is for you to be patient and endure, because John and Cortana won't have it easy in their path to being together the way we all want them to be, but they will be together eventually. I promise.
Mister REKT, my dear. Don't worry if the issue with Parisa seems confusing, it's confusing for John himself as well. It's a fuzzy part of his past that left a mark in him, no doubt, but the details have blurred mostly due to Halsey's meddling. LOL I had my reservations about revealing that John had seen baby Cortana when he was younger but I'm glad I decided to go through with it because I think it gives a real sense of the true difference of age between them and how it impacts on their relationship. Thank you very much for the support!
So, tell us what you think, my lovely Marines! Make Cor happy, these days he barely has time to write at all and this was a major gift for me to share with you. See you next weekend!