JUST BEYOND TIME
by VINTERSORG
Round and round in circles
live a life of solitude
'till we find ourselves a partner someone to relate to
Then we slow down,
before we fall down.
We've got stars directing our fate
and we're praying it's not too late
'cause we know we're falling from grace
- Robbie Williams
- - -
Chapter II
Day dawned without the promise of rain Tristran was so used to from his years in Britain. The sky was clear blue, almost cerulean like the sea next to the camp. Most of the tribe was gathered to see them off, among those standing closest to him and Isolde as they strapped bags with provident and dried horse dung to fuel the campfires with to their horses' saddles were the woman's parents and many siblings.
Gareth's cocky smile was not present, instead his lips were set in a stern line that told an observer he made a brave attempt not to cry. Three young girls — whom Tristran had learnt last night were younger sisters Lancelot never had met — sobbed quietly as they tried to help their big sister make ready for her journey. The twins, Balin and Balan, clung to their mother's tunic, clearly not understanding what was going on, only sad because everybody around them were.
« We will go to the Iazyges tribe before we head for Britannia » said Isolde quietly to Tristran in the Sarmatian tongue, he had begun to understand her dialect better as he had listened to the other tribe members talking around the fire last evening.
« Why? » he asked as she handed him his saddle bags. He did not wish to tarry on the road, because he had been away for half a year already and they were actually expected home around this time. Not that they would make it in less than three months even it they would ride straight to Britain this very moment, but it was a matter of principal.
« My older sister Iseult married a man of the Iazyges tribe some years ago » explained Isolde. « I will not leave without having given her my goodbyes. »
Tristran caught himself almost sighing and gave the woman a nod in reply. He understood her need to say farewell to her sister, something he had not been allowed to by the Romans when they recruited him. Shailiha had been away hunting when they had come and the Romans would not wait for the hunters to return.
When Isolde hugged her siblings goodbye and they whispered their farewells Tristran mounted his horse and watched them. The only one not teary eyed seemed to be Isolde herself whose face was emotionless and betrayed nothing, but her eyes were like an open book for him and he could see it pained her to part with them.
- - -
Two days passed in the saddle and Tristran was glad to discover Isolde was an accomplished rider who could spend long hours in the saddle without needing any rest. He should of course have guessed she — Sarmatian born and raised as it where — probably learnt to ride before she could walk and take care of the horses before she could talk as was the custom of their people.
They only stopped for short breaks to let the horses rest and so that they could eat before they were off once again. The knight silently hoped the woman knew where they were going because on the third day the terrain began to changed drastically into something that was as close to a natural patch-work as he even had thought possible. Steppe changed into deserts into forests into marches and back to steppe. If she didn't know the way through they would be lost in the labyrinth of different vegetation types for a very long time.
« We are soon there » she said as if answering his thoughts when they had reached the edge of what appeared to be a stone desert. « We have to camp here and set out a first light tomorrow or we will be lost. »
He decided she knew what she was doing – not once had she led them astray in one of the deserts they already had crossed, no matter how difficult they were to navigate. With a small nod in agreement they dismounted and wordlessly divided the chores between them.
Isolde was left with the task of unsaddling the horses and brush them down while Tristran set up a fire and prepared food. It was a strange comfort not to have to search for firewood as they had been given a few bags of dried horse dung to use as fuel for fires; he had actually forgotten that dried droppings from both horses and cows were excellent to use when wood was hard-pressed to find.
Not after long the fire was burning bright and Tristran had dinner half finished. He had sent the hawk away to catch her own — and probably richer — food. Tea made on the leaves of some plant not far from their night camp and bread made of water, flour and tiny bit of salt were what they were having for dinner along with a thin slice of dried horse meat. It wasn't much but it would be satisfying.
« Tell me more of Britain » urged Isolde as she sat down next to Tristran by their small campfire. « Apart from the rain, how is it there? »
She had put out their bedrolls and finished taking care of and unpacking their horses. Those aspects of making camp had been taken care of by the time Tristran had dinner ready.
As she sat down next to him Tristran placed a wooden cup containing tea in her hands and motioned for her to help herself to the rest of their spartan dinner.
« The land is always richly green, save for in winter when it is clad in white and grey » began Tristran, picturing the island before his inner eye as he took a sip of his own tea. « Thick woods and groves; lush green meadows and field. There is hardly ever a day when there isn't a thick mist covering the woods and fields, and that serves to give the land an over earthly feeling. »
He had never thought as Britain as anything else but a post, some place he was put on to do a job and nothing else. But trying to describe the island without being objective seemed impossible at that moment. No, the island had become dear to him and it was a very beautiful place indeed.
« The natives to the land are called Woads – some say they are blue demons » he told her with an uncharacteristic smile to his voice. « They might be blue, but they are only human. »
« You call them Woads because they use woad to paint themselves? » Isolde asked and went on speaking when the man only shrugged his shoulder in reply, telling her he did not know. « We use it too. To dye the loincloths blue for the Spring Hunt and we use it for bodypaint for the Hunt. »
They were silent for a few moment, both lost in thought before Isolde asked a question he knew referred to his own tribe, « Don't you? »
« I don't remember, it was a long time ago » he answered honestly after another few silent moments. « Our cloths were red and so were the body pattern for the Hunt, I think. »
« Ochre? »
« Yes » he agreed, it made much sense because red ochre was common where he came from, it was even used as a remedy for several illnesses.
The fire sparkled and cast its yellow-orange-red light on them along with its radiating warmth. It was rather comfortable to converse with Tristran, she thought, he was very much like her when it came to carrying on a conversation – neither pushing nor expectant, but still present.
« Did you,-- do you enjoy the Spring Hunt? » Tristran asked after another few moments of comfortable silence between the pair.
« Yes » she replied simply and fell silent to take a sip from her tea, but the two knew she would elaborate the answer soon.
« I've participated since I was thirteen and ever since my sister married I am the one who prepare and ready the Hunt each year, though, that particular headache is now Gareth's to bear. »
« How stressful it must be indeed » joked Tristran and he silently asked himself where that had come from.
« You'd never know » she sighed and put on an air of mock fatigue, following suit and jesting even though she too didn't know why, « You have to make sure the paint is made correctly and that there is enough breechcloths and spears – now don't forget bows and arrows, they that are so extremely important. »
« I have only participated once when I was fifteen — the Romans came not long after — but that is something I always wondered about » said Tristran, once again serious. « Why do we carry bows on the Hunt? They do no damage to the bear – wouldn't it be more effective to have an extra spear instead? »
« More effective? Yes. More interesting? No » replied Isolde. « The Spring Hunt is supposed to be dangerous, otherwise it would not be in the spring nor would be prey be she-bears » she explained. « The bear is fiercely protective of its cubs and will go into a frenzy if humans come too close, the arrows only serve to anger it further, which is what we do want. »
« It's not very practical » argued Tristran, but the skewed logic appealed to him.
« Who said it should be practical? The Hunt is traditional and the angrier the bear is the harder it is to kill and the bigger challenge it will present. »
When she finished speaking she looked at him and traced the tattoos at his cheekbones with the fingers of her right hand; her thumb touched the left tattoo and with a fluid motion her hand turned and her forefinger caressed the right one a moment later.
« This didn't even occur to you? » Isolde asked still looking at the man next to her, catching his eyes, one hand resting fully against his cheek still.
She knew what the tattoos meant. He had brought down the bear on his first hunt, only then would one get the claw marks on ones cheekbones. That one so young — just barely an adult — would do such a thing was rare, but it really didn't surprise her this man had.
« Not at the time. And years later it just seemed odd to me » he admitted and covered her hand with one of his own, wondering if it was only the firelight that made her eyes sparkle or if it was chronical.
Isolde tried to come up with some kind of response, but the man's eyes seemed to eat the words before they even reached her mind – let alone her mouth. They his eyes were like a thick red honey she decided, almost like dark amber, but didn't have those specks you often found in the orange-red stones and in human irises. They were like a dark liquid and the light from the fire made them swim. It was hypnotic and she had to force herself out of the half trance she felt herself being put under.
« You should rest » she forced herself to say and pried her hand from in between his cheek and hand. « I will take the first watch. »
- - -
Isolde had awoken Tristran a short hour past midnight and given him instructions to wake her an hour before sunup so that they could pack and make ready to leave when the first rays spilled out over the horizon. He had nodded and reassured her in not to many words that he would have even if she hadn't even mentioned it.
True to his words — or lack there of, as he had just told her in a look — they had both been up an hour before sunrise and were ready to set out as the sun barely had cast enough light for one to see correctly.
He was greatly impressed by Isolde's sense of direction. Even though she asked him to keep an eye out for certain landmarks she was the one who managed to take them from one point to another without getting utterly lost in between.
Just a few hours before sundown they finally saw the last of the the stone desert as it edged onto another steppe. They agreed to get another mile or so between them and the desert before they made camp for the night.
This time the chores were reverse and Isolde took care of the fire and food while Tristran unpacked the horses and bushed them down. He was rather impressed to notice she had found anything not grass to make tea of, but decided not to inquire about what it was, the tea was drinkable after all.
« Tell me of Arthur » asked Isolde as they had eaten in silence for a few moments. « How is he like? »
« He is... » Tristran contemplated what to answer, it was a lot harder than what Britain was like. Because in contrast to Britain Arthur was a complex and levelled being who he had always liked, while the Roman province of Britannia was just an island.
« Arthur is a strange man » he finally decided. To be honest that was what he thought, because as much as Tristran was an enigma to everyone around him, Arthur was very much one too.
« He is part Briton and part Sarmatian, yet he puts Rome high on a pedestal. But unlike the Romans Arthur believes in equality and free will. Like the rest of us he is a knight and views us as his equals, very unlike every other Roman commander in the Empire; we can argue and disagree with him all we want without receiving any reprimands whatsoever. His is stern, but also one of the kindest men I have ever met – Dagonet not counted. His God is important to him — a Briton monk raised him after the death of his parents — yet he has never tried to convert us. »
« So he is a Christian. Do you think he'll expect me to convert my faith? » Isolde asked. The religion of his men was one thing, she mused, but the religion of his wife another.
« Maybe » replied Tristran and then asked, « Would you? »
She remained silent for a while, thinking it over. Would she renounce her gods because someone she didn't know, but had been set to marry since the day she was born, asked her to?
« No » she simply answered. « Would you in my situation? »
She glanced at her companion from the corner of her eye, wishing for some reason she hadn't ask the last, he was looking down into his eat with a small frown between his eyebrows, something clearly bothering him. It was strange how much more open he seemed to be with showing feeling and emotions when it was only just the two of them, she thought, back in her tribe's camp he had appeared passionless – she too for that matter.
« What of Lancelot » she suddenly ask only to break the strained silence that had followed her reply. « Is he like Gareth, a breaker of many hearts, or is he monogamous? »
« Lancelot will settle for only one woman when pigs fly and cats bark » answered Tristran with an amused quality to his voice and the frown disappeared.
« Good to know » replied Isolde as she stood and stretched her arms above her head. « He used to say he was going to marry Iblis or no one else. »
« And she? » Tristran asked, musing over this new piece of information.
« Died five years ago, but she had promised the same. »
- - -
The rock desert had been since long been left behind and the pair had ridden over greening fields all day. Tristran's hawk had flown over their heads the entire time as if she was scouting the road ahead. The two humans had not spoken since the evening before, not even when Tristran had awoke Isolde to take over the watch. But it was a comfortable silence, they somehow knew on a subconscious level what they other meant with a certain gesture of look and that was enough.
It was just past noon when they could see a large Sarmatian camp on the horizon. The tribesmen had been able to see the riders for longer than the riders — save maybe for Tristran who seemed to be more hawk than human — had. Two children met the riders who had been riding at walking pace half way to the camp.
Zdravko had easily made out his aunt and had gathered his younger sister Jasna before running to meet the two riders. His sister had reluctantly followed, she didn't share his fascination with the warrioress. In all honesty she felt intimidated by the black haired woman with the many facial tattoos.
« Hello » the seven year old boy greeted the riders confidently, and his six year old sister echoed the words gingerly a moment later as she stood a bit behind her brother.
« You've grown » stated Isolde as she dismounted and helped her nephew into the saddle of her horse and then lifted up his sister in front of him.
« Pâpâ's been teaching me to use a sword » said Zdravko happily as his aunt begun to lead the horse towards the camp.
« Draco keeps dropping the sword » added his sister, using her brothers nickname.
« One handed or two handed sword? » Tristran who had until now been ignored asked.
The young boy looked at the man on the grey roan, taking him in as one does a curious beast. Like Isolde the man was travel clothed, the boy saw, and his horse carried just as many bags and weapons.
« Tristran » said Isolde, both to introduce him to the children and to get his attention, and then she presented the children, « Zdravko and Jasna. »
« Your sister's children » stated Tristran quietly. « They take after their father. »
Isolde caught herself almost smiling at the observation, she knew Tristran would be able to see that without even meeting the children's parents. Unlike Isolde's siblings and parents the boy and the girl on the horse had light auburn hair and green-brown eyes, features that could not come from the mother's side.
« Dejan is teaching you to wield a two handed sword, am I right? » Isolde asked her nephew and the boy nodded proudly.
« By time you will be strong enough to swing it without loosing it » said Tristran surely, careful not to mention that the boy looked so frail he was certain a gush of wind would finish him off.
« How long are you staying? » Zdravko asked; he had decided that this Tristran was brilliant (though, his little sister would say the man looked dangerous in the same manner as a scorpion does). « Can you teach me? »
« We're leaving early tomorrow » his aunt replied in the man's stead and she could rather feel than see — as she wasn't looking at anyone — that the scout was relieved they would not linger too long, but the boy was disappointed.
Not much later the quartet arrived at the camp of the Iazyges tribe and was greeted by a group of tribesmen – both children and adults.
Drejan smiled brightly when his eyes swept over the two riders and their mounts and when Isolde had successfully lifted the children safely down to the ground his eyes settled on his sister-in-law.
« Is it so, dearest sister, someone finally managed to boil your frozen heart – have finally taken yourself a husband? » Drejan asked and closed the distance between the two and kissed both her cheeks.
« No » she simply answered, but returned the gesture of familiarity the greeting suggested and was caught in a similar embrace by her sister Iseult.
« Arthur sent me » clarified Tristran when had dismounted his horse and walked over to stand next to Isolde.
« So, you're here to say goodbye? » Iseult sadly asked her sister, receiving only a nod and a simple yes in reply.
« But you're staying the night here » the woman announced, glancing sideways to seek her husband's approval even though she didn't need it. Happy to see he seemed to be of the exact same opinion as her she added, « I won't have it any other way. »
« That's the plan » she agreed.
- - -
Several hours later the horses had been unpacked, Dejan's nephews Slavko and Stanislav had brushed them down before joining the rest of the tribe for dinner, and the saddles and various bags had been put in Iseult's and her husband's hut.
Iseult had taken to watching her sister eating and interacting with the people around her. It was hard for her to understand she would probably never again see her little sister in this life — what the gods hold in store for your next life no one knows — and wanted to burn the image of Isolde eternally into her memory. The way her eyes sparkled even though her face remained passive when someone told a great joke. How her flowing hair glistened like a dark river in the firelight and streamed down her shoulders. And her strange habit of scratching just below her ear with the opposite hand when she answered a tricky question.
It was by watching her sister that Iseult noticed something else and completely new to her sister's behaviour. She noticed the way Isolde and Tristran would communicate with one another without words and without either one of them really noticing. How she would ask something of him with a look or a small touch and he would reply accordingly and the other way around. That was a closeness she had never expected to see her sister be a part of, Isolde had always been more of a detached person who would never allow herself to be near enough to anyone to develop it – even her family.
She hoped she for ever could keep the memory of how Tristran touched sister's elbow when he would retire and how Isolde acknowledged with a soft look on her face. Silently she wondered if Isolde was even aware of the connection and would marry this man Arthur, whose father had arranged the engagement, without any second thoughts. She hoped not, because what were the chances another man could share this kind of link with her little sister?
- - -
A little more than one hour after Tristran had excused himself to go to bed the camp was quiet and most of the tribesmen had retired for the evening. Iseult found her sister wrapped tightly in an old travel-worn cloak she couldn't remember ever seeing before at the edge of the camp, looking out over the seemingly endless steppe.
Isolde didn't acknowledged her when she sat down next to her, but she knew her sister had sensed her presence long before she walked over.
« It's beautiful » said Iseult after a few moments of complete silence.
At first Isolde made no sign of having even heard, but after another few moments she turned her head and looked at her older sister and then back over the plain.
« Yes, it is » she agreed, falling silent again.
Moments past and the sisters just sat there and after what could have been mere seconds or long hours Isolde broke the quiet.
« Tristran tells me I will miss it when in Britain. »
« I'm sure you will, if what the Romans tell of the land is true » she replied, pausing before turning to her little sister and asking, « So, what's the story with him? »
« Arthur sent him to fetch me » was the answer delivered. « But you already know that. »
Iseult nodded and smiled playfully as she said, « No, I meant was What is between the two of you? »
« And I told you, he's to bring me to Britannia and my husband to be » replied the youngest woman, slightly annoyed.
« Isolde, you can't fool me » chortled Iseult. « It's more than that, isn't it? »
« No. I'm going to marry his commanding officer – and he's not even that good looking. »
Her big sister was rather simple minded when all was said and done: If you had regular sex your life had meaning, but only if you there was love in the relationship – mind you. To be honest it was short of a miracle Iseult only had two children and not ten, but prophylactic herbs might be the answer for that.
« Well, then why are you marrying him? » Iseult asked innocently.
« Iseult, I'm talking of Tristran. I never met Arthur » her sister responded annoyed.
« You're awfully familiar with each other » she sent back coyly, taking the mentioning of Tristran's name as a cue the subject was open.
« You're imagining things » her sister answered. « We've known each other for six days. »
« I know and that's why I'm asking. A really short time to reach the level of intimacy you share, don't you think? » Iseult asked rhetorically. « You know, you don't actually have to marry Arthur. An engagement is really only parents or guardians that say wouldn't it be practical if our children married and then they all agree and that is what an engagement is. We've had a lot of dealings with Romans out here. »
« Father say,-- »
« And what does Mother say? Arranged engagements are not in our culture – betrothal full stop is not in our culture. How can the parents know what lie in their children's hearts? Right, they can't. »
« The Romans do it all the time » she pointed out when her older sister couldn't be easily reasoned with.
« That's because they're hereditarily stupid » came the reply.
« So you're saying I shouldn't even give Artorius a change? » Isolde asked, stressing her fiancée's name and saying it in its formal form.
Iseult smiled brightly, it seemed she finally had got through that thick and stubborn skull of her sister's enough to make her at least play with the thought.
« You should give Tristran a change first and then you can think over what to do about Arthur » she advised her little sister, rising gracefully to her feet and leaving her sibling with the thought.
- - -
Moments of hours later Isolde found herself back at her sister's and brother-in-law's hut. Her and Tristran's bedrolls had been set up in the foreroom next to their packing.
« Where've ye been? » Tristran mumbled in his half asleep as Isolde lay down next to him and pulled her felt tighter to her body to keep the chill out.
« With my sister » she replied softly, feeling sleep slowly creep up at her and her consciousness slip away.
« I missed you » muttered her companion as he turned in his dazed state to lie face to face with her.
« I'm here » she mumbled back and fell asleep feeling herself being pulled against a warm body and a mussitated affirmation that sounded very much like umhu in her ears – and maybe it was, she was already sleep.
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A/N: Sorry it took me to long having this chapter up, I know I promised it would just be a day or two, but I ran into a writer's cramp and have just learnt what a pain in the back regions writing with an empty head is... I just wanted this chapter away as quick as possible so it's not re-read a million times and nitpicked like my others are... Anyhow, here is it, c. 11 pages in AppleWorks!
To explain what I meant about Isolde and Tristran feeling comfortable speaking with one another is that they subconsciously created a relationship that is very much alike that one I had with my grandparents (I spent a lot of time with them as a child – seeing as I grew up with a single mother). Neither one of us expects the other to talk nor demand the other to talk so when you do speak there's a mutual respect and nothing about the conversation is forced. This way you feel secure enough to just drop pretences and façades and you can talk about as good as everything you come up with.
In one version of the legend Iblis is Lancelot's wife.
Zdravko is a male name derived from the Slavic word zdrav that means healthy .
Jasna is a female name derived from the south Slavic word jasno and means clear, sharp .
Slavko is a male name coming from the Slavic word slav that has the meaning glory .
Stanislav is a male name put together by the Slavic words stan (which means camp glory or government glory ) and slav.
If you have regular sex your life has meaning, is that so? I can't take credit for this theory because it is the annoyed response/question by Thomas la Cour (Lars Brygmann) to Allan Fischer (Mads Mikkelsen) in the Danish TV series Rejseholdet when the latter has spent the entire episode pesting him for details about an ex-lover that he thinks la Cour should — you know — get reacquainted with (chuckles)
A/SN: Black currant and chocolate ice cream shakes are underestimated.
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A very big THANK YOU to all my lovely reviewers:
LANCELOTTRISTANBABY, Priestess of the Myrmidon, BlackPaintedWhite, Elessar King of Gondor (x2!), op, Babaksmiles, Sandies (x2!), June Birdie, and newsieskane.
Sorry it took me so long to update, let's cross our fingers I won't take this long 'till I have the next chapter up!
BlackPaintedWhite: Woads is the degeneracy nickname for the celtic warriors who painted themselves with woad, so they did exist – in a way. The celtic people(s) living in Britain at the time was the Picts (Scots invaded from Ireland in the 5th century A.D. after the Roman Empire fully or at least partially had with drawn and left Britain to its own device).
Snadies: Oh, Guinevere was married to Arthur, only man she actually married, but she ran away with Lancelot to Joyous Gard and had a bunch of children and a load of luv (smiles) Though, in the legend she ends up in a nunnery... she's a Christian in the legend you know.
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Please REVIEW, this is my second ever fanfic and I need those reviews to keep feeling inspired to continue writing!