Disclaimer: See previous chapters; I don't like being redundant.
Notes: Thanks again to all the very kind reviewers for being so complacent with my erratic writing style. This chapter spans both of the timeframes, hopefully in a coherent manner. Also, for my purposes, I am completely disregarding the parts of the movie in which Dagonet, Lancelot and Tristan die. I thought many parts of the movie were ridiculous, but those were high on the list. I am not offering any explanation for it – that's just the way it is.
"She was my ward fifteen years ago in smuggling her out of Macedonia and into Sparta."
Now what on the face of this green earth did that mean? Like an antique scholar sorting furiously through the annals of time, I tossed myself back into my memories of my escape from Darius some fifteen years before. I found nothing within them that might have indicated Tristan acting as a kind of guardian. At most, I can recognize after aging that he was some sort of a forced companion to save me from drowning in my own self-pitying misery, as most hapless maidens were apt to do. It pains me to think that he was right, all those years ago, when he told me that I was "free" of my family, for despite the greatest of my life's hills I have lived fuller years than I had ever thought possible back in Macedonia. But regardless, I, his ward? I had never even meant so much to him.
Stepping forward and out of his potential grasp. I spoke rather boldly to Britain's king and queen, "My lord, if I may…" In the following silence, Arthur Castus only levelled a cool and intelligent appraising look at me. He was an infinitely better looking Roman than that power-hungry urchin Darius. "My lord, Tristan was in no way my guardian; he was but fifteen. He was merely one of the party."
Yes, I fully realized just how little light my interjection shed on the issue at hand. I was actually being rather childish, like I had been to Tristan when I was thirteen years of age, but I was upset at being thus manhandled. Unconsciously, I sought to contradict every word that might pass his lips, however few there usually were.
When nobody else spoke, Arthur took charge as he was ever meant to do. With one hand, (the other loosely clasping the delicate hand of his queen), he rubbed the bridge of his nose, as if in exhaustion. He spared Guinevere a tender glance, and then looked back upon the strange pair of Tristan and I.
It made me mildly satisfied when he addressed his questions to Tristan, who, after all, had started this entire fiasco. "Tristan, please explain."
If he had ever had any qualms about speaking, there were apparently nonexistent at that moment. "Arthur, if this woman is allowed to remain in Britain, war will come to your foothills."
Little to no impact from his words was visible upon the warrior king's face. Guinevere, however, sat up straighter in her chair, her eyes darting rapidly between all the other figures within the room. Tristan's harsh words had registered with him, I suppose, and Arthur looked as though he was rolling them around in circles in his mind. Of course, I didn't even remotely know the man –I had only been living there for a few months, and in anonymity- so I could've been completely wrong in my impressions of him. Arthur only asked further: "How?"
Still and deathly silent, Tristan suddenly appeared to be some dark, overexperienced apparition. I was struck by a sudden sense of realization, finally acknowledging that if I had ever known some inkling about him as a boy, it was nothing in face of this frighteningly deadly soldier. When he spoke from behind his braids, the rest of his body remained very still. "As I said, she is a renowned fugitive of Rome. There is a man who would think nothing of war if only to silence her." He did not elaborate (and I knew why: Romans and their lack of honour, particularly in an affair as grand as the overthrow of Macedonia, was not fodder meant to be lightly tossed around), but I could make out his and Arthur's eyes contact. Guinevere sat, quiet, as if forgotten.
"You will explain this further to me, Tristan. But later." He came to decisions quickly. "You are certain of these truths?" In asking this, Arthur glanced between both Tristan and I. I was not sure of whom was to speak, but should have known. Tristan, it would seem, still took every opportunity to keep his words to himself.
Finally, I said softly, "Yes, he searches."
Straight to the point, the king asked, "Which Roman is this?"
At this, Tristan answered, "A man by the name of Darius; last I heard of it." The way he intoned the name made me think that he still believed he knew far more on the subject than I did.
I felt as if an exclamation was building to an unstoppable pressure in my chest. As if grasped by some inane need to justify myself, a fugitive, for taking refuge in this king's country, I burst out saying, "I came to Britain only because it was no longer under Roman occupation. It would be more difficult for him to find me –"
The men ignored me, not so much like they had Guinevere. She, I thought, only spoke when she had something worthwhile saying. She did not mince words. Arthur asked, "What do you suggest then, Tristan?" It was as if a stone wall had been suddenly built between them and I – a reasonable reaction, considering the childishness of my exclamations. But I knew none of this as I took my fury out on Tristan, an easier target because I knew him.
"You'd betray me again to the Romans! Give me as a sacrifice to further your own ends! I understand now – how you have not changed, Tristan." There was a tangible scorn in my voice, but unsurprisingly, he shrugged it off as if it were a fine layer of water upon his skin. He did not look at me, nor did his voice waver, when what he said next did take me by surprise and leave me speechless.
Gravely, his eyes stormy: "She was my responsibility then, and so she is my responsibility now. I will take her, Arthur; out of Britain, in hiding. Her fate is my cross to bear."
Arthur did not consider this, but issued an ultimatum unto Tristan that would change my life. "No. No, that is not possible. I'm sorry, but this woman is not important enough for me to spare one of my knights. Either she will leave Britain, alone, or she will stay here under our protection. You may decide this, Tristan – you are our only link to this woman. If you will not have her here, then Britain will not have her either. What say you?"
A long quiet followed. I was frightened of what the knight might say. Yes, frightened, I was shaking in my boots, right up until the moment when he spoke softly but firmly, "She is my ward. She will stay."
It struck something inside of me, all of this unexpected but probably not unworthy drama, just as everything seems to. I am a woman self-professed to being caught up in the silken layers of my past, the times before and after I encountered the mercenaries, memories covered in grains of sand and bits of dust. I have little to cast my mind ahead to; there be no future for the deposed princess of Macedon to be had – all I possibly have is the next land I might flee to when Darius' spies catch up with me. Why not live in the past? It is a pillowed, inoffensive place, and I was an addicted indulger of escapism.
Arthur's prospect of my staying in Britain under protection cast me into a sphere I had not seen the likes of in fifteen years. For too long, I had sought comfort only in myself, in silence, and in the occasional lover, but the crux of the matter was that I had led a life of necessary solitude – quite like Tristan himself, although the difference between he and I was that he mostly preferred the solitude. In those brief few seconds in which Arthur rested the decision of my fate upon Tristan's hardened, battle-weary shoulders, I got a sense of any things – fear (of his disdain for me, for he had treated me with no silken glove) – exclusion (for I honestly did not belong in this place, nor in this company) – but mostly I felt regret, within myself (for those things which I had said to him in our parting fifteen years ago).
By the time our party had reached Sparta, thereby fulfilling their obligation both to me and to their gold, Tristan had evidently become some sort of an anchor to me. I flush to think of my silliness now, but at the time I did everything and anything in my power to have him recognize my presence, give me acknowledgment, something – because I admired the interplay of dark and light within him so much that I supposed if he ever did favour me, he might pass some of it into myself.
Of course, it was all for nothing. On the day of our parting, I became the fool in so many different ways that sometimes I prefer to believe that I walked to Sparta by myself.
The men who had contracted this group of mercenaries were still swathed in literal and figurative shadows to me. We arrived in Sparta and went promptly to a sumptuous (well, at least by Spartan standards) house of nobles. Each member of the group convened in another room with a set of swarthy men and women –evidently the contractors- save for Tristan, who was designated to see me settled in several rooms of the house before joining them.
Elan, having long since abandoned the Macedonian rules of royal propriety like I had abandoned the country itself, clasped my hand within his and raised it to his lips. All he said to me was this: "Make use of your time here, and of what we have taught you. The Roman will pursue you. My blessings upon you, little lady," and I was to understand that this was our final parting. With acknowledgments to all within the party, I left with Tristan to go to my new rooms.
I found it sad that all my belongings were the clothes upon my back, the few menial survival items the mercenaries had given to me, and the box of garish tridents. I turned to Tristan, holding the box, "I suppose I might take your advice and sell these. They might fetch a good price."
His face remained unchanged, immoveable. He regarded the box thoughtfully, though he had seen it thousands of times before. "Perhaps, but this is a city of war. They will know the difference between good and bad weaponry." Tristan, oh Tristan, a young man of blunt-ended honesty.
In an effort to prolong conversation, I asked him something that I had been wondering since my flight from the palace. I expected no sympathetic words from him, as I had received none thus far. "What is it that I am supposed to do here?"
A shrug. "What you will." He began to peer around the room, probably searching for valuable items to steal on his way out. I imagined with great despondency that he must be incredibly gladdened and relieved to get rid of me.
I clasped my hands behind my back, after setting the box down on the pallet nearby. "Perhaps I will learn from the people, like you have." I watched him closely.
The wistful look in his eyes returned, and he replied in a monotone, "You would greatly improve your chances of survival in doing that."
I smiled. "Then I will start tomorrow." By now, he must have noticed that I was staring quite intently at him.
He suddenly looked as though a last-minute thought had happened upon him, and he lightly swung his rucksack down from his shoulder. "Before I go, I meant to –"
Here is where the tale gets embarrassing. Young Sir Tristan, ever cold and immobile, and at that exact moment distracted, was then accosted by a thirteen-year-old version of myself. He heard the movement of my feet, looked up, and it was then that I rather inelegantly pressed my lips to his.
Silence. Stillness.
Of course, as a sheltered and beyond inexperienced young girl, I had no inkling of what I should do after that moment, having expected him to take the reins of whatever it was that was going on. Tristan, again being Tristan, did nothing.
Until another second later, when he pulled away from me, an intensely quizzical look adorning his visage, and gave me an honest question: "Isolde, what are you doing?"
Never would there be a madder tint that could emulate the shade of my flush in that moment. I stammered, falling over myself in mind and in body, and finally stammered out, "I thought that—"
A man at the door interrupted me, and I was shamefully grateful for it. "Tristan. You have business downstairs." The opened door let a cooling breeze upon my face, and Tristan gave me one last curious glance before following the man out.
I sank onto the low level of my new pallet, my box jarring into my side, and I ignored everything for a few moments. With my face in my hands, I willed myself not to cry, to conduct myself like a girl of my station, and to be strong. The heat in my face did not diminish, and I went over to the window to stick my head out – wishing to find another breeze.
Instead what I found – or rather, saw – was a brightly decorated carriage in the street, just before the door to that very house. It was a richly furnished carriage. Adorned with scarlet trappings. Scarlet. I momentarily forgot my humiliation. Romans.
I raced down the stairs with as much quiet as could be found in my bones to find Tristan, Elan, someone and to tell them of our plight. I was at the base of the stairs when I saw the swish of a red cloak in the nearest room, and Tristan himself's armour clad body beside it.
A hush came over me, and I watched the short scene unfold.
From his vantage point, Tristan held himself as he ever did – without any discomfort or indication of his internal feelings. "What?" He demanded of the Roman officer, and of the officers behind him.
The first one spoke to him, again in that traditional Roman accent that I recognized from Darius' voice. "You're name is Tristan?" No response. "And you are from Sarmatia?" Again, no response, only Tristan staring back stoically. The Roman pointed at the exposed skin of Tristan's forearm. "From whence did you get that scar?" I peered at what I could see of his skin, and noticed for the first time an ugly faded scar marring the inside of Tristan's forearm. I also wondered where he had received that scar.
The Roman, having received no answers thus far, made up his mind on his identity. "You are Tristan. We have been sent to inform you of your obligations to Rome as a bred Sarmatian knight. Your post has been selected." There was an atonal way about how the Roman spoke these words, almost as if they were part of a script. I, however, was too astonished to consider such subtle things.
The other Roman officers had tightened their grips upon their swords, as if expecting a fight. None came from Tristan, who merely stood as he ever had and said not a word. "Will you not fight?" The first Roman asked again.
They received a single answer from behind the dark hair. "There is little honour in that."
I fell back against the stairs, then scrambled up to my room. It was silence as I now finally thought of the family I had left behind, the only people who truly cared about my well-being without involving gold. Silence, as I looked into my mind's eye and saw them at the mercy of Romans, the pride our culture is so tied to stripped away, the mockery they who survived would endure. Silence, as I saw the bloodstains upon the walls where I would so cheerfully pass each blissful, ignorant day. Silence, as I saw the red of the Roman cloaks in my mind, coming ever closer, suffocating, always closer and closer andcloserandcloserandcloser – look, one, two, three of them, oh four and fivesixtoomanytocountnowcomingcloser –
Having finally reached my destination in Sparta, I then allowed myself to grieve. To weep. After all, it didn't quite matter what Tristan thought anymore.
"I have news that may interest you," he said to me when he returned, without conscience and most definitely without shame. I sat upon my pallet, and I did not look at him once. That time, I did not face him, not for shame of what I had done –kissing him without reason or thought- but for shame of what he had done. Conferred with the Romans. The Empire which had effectively slaughtered my life, burned the remainders of it in a pyre of greed, and then scattered the ashes into the winds of time so that history would forget my family's name. This boy whom I had so believed in. Traitor. The word was sour in my mouth, and I could not rasp it into life, into being just yet.
When I did not respond, Tristan continued speaking from his side of the room. "Perseus has been defeated in battle; his army massacred. Macedonia effectively belongs to the Romans."
Come to gloat at me, Roman sycophant? My life, my breeding came back to me. My intellect. What had I been doing all this time as we had journeyed from my home to Sparta? I had lost myself and my intelligence in a flurry to grasp this boy, this fickle fickle boy's, attention. I was ashamed of myself and of my actions. I could not be redeemed. But though transplanted, there was still enough honour left in me to defend my nationality. I would not be silent and allow him to walk away unscathed, having reduced me to the bottom so effectively.
"Traitor." I finally spoke the word, just like he always speaks: from under a curtain of my hair. "Traitor." It was a bitter word to employ, but employ it I did. And worse. "I call you by name: traitor." The words spilled from my lips like pearls fallen from a pirate's chest, never-ceasing. "Treacherous, treasonous, betrayer. Tristan be thy name." I met his steady gaze with a shaky one of my own, each breath I took rasping through my throat and adding to the shudders that then racked through my body. "The Romans own you. To think that I felt shame after that first time I questioned your allegiance." I cocked my head to the side, an acid chuckle escaping my throat. Then, broken: "How could you?"
Even under that onslaught of words, young Tristan remained ever the same. "I owe you nothing." He spoke it as a certainty.
I laughed again, a near hysterical laugh. I fancied myself mad with rage, despair, heartache, betrayal. "So you would have yourself believe. What did they offer you? What will they give you?"
Tristan responded with little else. "I owe you no explanation."
I demanded answers of him with my teeth clenched. "Am I a part of your bargain with them? Will you receive a nice heap of gold for delivering me to them?" I imagined myself delivered to Darius' feet. I imagined the Roman's fury. I imagined the hollow hole my trident had left in the centre of his palm, so much like the Roman's beloved Christ.
"This does not concern you." He was deadly still.
I spat at him: "Romans concern me, as you so aptly kept reminding me, because they are out for my blood. Romans! And you! You are their pawn!"
Finally, I broke through to him and he hissed back, "Be silent!"
My rage continued from my huddled corner, my voice taking up the space in the room like wings unfurled. "I don't owe you any silence! Stupid, stupid, wretched boy." My voice broke, sadly, pathetically, and I wept for so many reasons that I thought my body might split into pieces, so each might effectively mourn a separate grief. Alas, it was not so.
All that happened was this: Tristan retrieved an item wrapped in cloth from his rucksack and placed it gingerly on the pallet, before slinging the bag again over his shoulder, and leaving without a glance over his shoulder.
I shall never see him again, I thought to myself, and was glad and despondent at the very same time. I did not go to look out of my window to watch him mount his horse, for fear of seeing him ride away in a pack of trotting scarlet cloaks – which was, in fact, exactly what happened.
That was when my life began anew. And when my sobs subsided, I happened upon a heavy burden of a discovery: I was thirteen years old, and I was so, utterly alone.
Well?
