Pax Romana – 6

Disclaimer: See previous chapters; I don't like being redundant.
Notes: Well, now the real process is underway – that is, that of hooking the TristanIsolde pair up while still maintaining character. Please let me know how I'm doing as I go along; I'm deathly afraid of losing my sense of character for any of the movie knights. Sorry about how long it's taken to update; if I had lost interest, I'd have posted a note. For better or for worse, I haven't lost interest, but I simply don't have a large amount of time to spend on writing. However, I have been inspired again, so you can expect chanpters to come along with great frequency that this particular one. Sorry for the wait everyone!


A great many changes occurred in the short days that followed. It seemed as though Tristan, ever the silent and powerful storm, had cut his way back into my life and turned everything upon its head. I was resentful, at first, because so many factors were beyond my control. Understand: when you have lived your life for fifteen years in solitude and without trust, the idea of surrendering the details of your life to somebody else is a horrifying prospect. Of course, I'll admit rather begrudgingly that there is inevitably no other person who would be better qualified to attend to those details than Tristan.

That very night, he made simple introductions between the rest of the knights and myself. Even at the tavern tables, they were together like a well-greased system, forever playing and catering to each other's strengths and weaknesses, forming a cohesive whole. I was correct in believing that Tristan would try to keep me segregated from his fellow knights and not distribute the "responsibility". He watched my conversations with the knights with an attentive, appraising eye, the clouds behind his orbs dark and full of mysterious thoughts.

No, he had not changed much himself.

They were a lively enough bunch, however, where he was not: Galahad, with youthful charm and optimism for the fate of the future; Gawain, who based his life's philosophy on living in the present and embracing sensation to the fullest "while his flesh still tasted life," he said; Lancelot, whose stunning good looks and equally stunning cynicism towards everything but drink and women were a heady combination to swallow; Dagonet, with undiscovered grace and honour in his every movement and a quiet, gentle manner that disguised wisdom; and Bors, dear Bors, who was so elated to see Vanora had a friend beyond the castle gossip circles, and who drank until his skin smelled strongly of ale for days after.

I could scarcely imagine them all out in battle, and yet again, I could. There was a distinct sense of jadedness, of severity behind all their movements, a graveness in their hands knowing that those hands had taken the lives of many. They were a living paradox.

And where did Tristan fit into their group, I wondered? Not quiet, but utterly silent, and not strong, but compulsively deadly – his ruthlessness on the battlefield I could easily imagine, even from his gait and speech far from his sword. The darkness in him had grown, like a swirling maelstrom, and if I looked at him too closely I feared sweeping myself up in the waves of blackness and being lost in him forever.

But, for all the wonder and trepidation he instilled in me at every turn of countenance, I could not deny him from my life any longer. If anything, he became the liaison upon which my life and security turned, an axis of strength and covert information. For the first few days after our encounter, our exchanges were short and to the point, without meandering and very haphazardly spread throughout the days. The very nature of our relationship changed, I'd say, a few days later.

He sought me out one fine afternoon, while I worked a slow day shift under the rare sun and clouds that seldom touched this isle. My arms laden with wooden mugs and the last dregs of afternoon pints, I did not pay him much attention as I went about my work – something he was probably thankful for. If anything, Tristan did not enjoy a doting woman.

He called me by name – "Isolde," said he, and asked, "Are you busy?"

It was a menial question, of course, and the very bones of genteel politeness that even Tristan subscribed to, but I snapped back at him anyway out of sheer habit. He brought out the child in me; probably the fault of nostalgia on my part: "What do you think?"

Leaning against an empty table, he regarded me with a glance like cool water, calmly detached. He did not, I add, bother to help me, and so I added, "If you want something, I'd give you my attention a lot faster if you helped me finish my work." From a large barrel of water, I began washing down the used mugs.

He did not move, but smiled – a genuine, small smile of amusement, and my heart panged because it was for me – and answered, "It is your chosen work, so I'll leave you to do it yourself. I don't ask you to kill for me, and you shouldn't do the same."

Happier because of his rare, playful mood, I smiled back, enjoying the vague sense of old camaraderie I once believed we shared, and said, "Just give it a few more days, I think, and you'll be asking far more from me than you deserve."

Smiling that small smile again, Tristan only crossed his arms. "Arthur would like to speak with you," he told me.

I stopped my washing and laid down my hands, my smile perhaps slipping a bit. I did not try to hide it from him; Tristan apparently knew my expressions too well for me to hide my reactions. "Arthur?" I asked unnecessarily. I bit my lower lip very slightly. "Whatever for?"

While Tristan had introduced me to the knights formally, I did not know much of Arthur. He was a kingly man, to be sure, undoubtedly very just and worthy of his new position at the head of this island called Britain. His subjects loved him for his deeds and valour, his bravery and kindness to his kinsmen, and deservedly so. I don't know what it was about him that made me a bit uncomfortable, but for some reason I was. Arthur had always unconsciously held himself apart from his knights; I knew that from my idle observations of the knights before the Saxons attacked. But as king, it seemed as though he was indelibly separated from them…and my only relation to the man was through Tristan.

Or perhaps what made me uncomfortable about him was his goodness. I had lived my life in hiding, stealing through dark streets and bargaining with colourful, dishonest people. It hasn't been an honourable lifestyle, and I'm aware of it. But perhaps I wasn't as aware of it as I have become by exposure to Arthur, this great man who has lived his life selflessly for a cause beyond the horizon. Typical of me, I suppose, that my discomfort with him would be caused through a kind of narcissism.

Tristan, meanwhile, shrugged at my question, idly twirling a dagger from his tunic between his long fingers. He squinted through his dark braids, staring out at the people wandering along the square. He answered eventually, "Something to do with Darius, I'd presume."

My fingers tightened into fists. "Do you think he knows where I am?" I asked.

"No."

Tristan stood straight, the dagger disappearing from his fingers to some pocket on his person before I could blink. He added, "Are you finished? I would like to take you to him now." The sunlight that filtered in through the tavern overhang made his dark hair look burnished.

I put away the wooden cups and dipped my hands into the fresh washing water barrel, rubbing them together vigorously. Untying my hair from its traditional knot, I stepped around the wooden counter to fall in step beside him. "Yes, we can go now. If you would be so kind."

We walked together in easy silence, his eyes always sliding over the surrounding surfaces, looking for God knows what.


This time, I decided, I will not humiliate myself before Arthur Castus. Not again.

He was alone this time; Guinevere was elsewhere. She was another person I had not seen much of since that first fateful meeting when Tristan shoved me before them. For some reason that escapes me, I felt as though I had something to prove to them—to Arthur—as though to prove I was worthy of his hospitality in his country. I had been squatting in his land unwanted, with all my dangerous history trailing close behind, possibly bringing war upon all he had worked for. It had been a selfish choice, and I wanted to prove myself. I would not act like a child, and I would not let Tristan speak for me.

Apparently, Tristan had decided the same thing, for he stood back, as if guarding the doorway out of the room, allowing me to approach Arthur on my own. It was a different room than the one I had been in before; this was the room that housed the famed Round Table. The king of Britain sat in the closest chair, pouring over maps and parchments.

He glanced over his shoulder, taking in Tristan and I in a single, unreadable glance before he focused his eyes on me and motioning forward. "Isolde. Come here, please, I need to ask you a few questions."

I stepped forward and Arthur pulled out the next chair so I could sit beside him. My eyes fell on the map in front of him; a map of the Roman Empire. Over his shoulder, Arthur nodded at Tristan in acknowledgment, who responded only by leaning comfortably against the wall.

Arthur turned to me, his eyes bright and intent. "I've had Tristan tell me the story of your involvement with Darius." He watched me carefully, before adding, "Is there anything you would like to add that you feel is of note?"

There was something in what he said that rubbed me the wrong way, but in the spirit of my newly found maturity, I decided to keep from commenting on it. Instead I couldn't help but glance reproachfully at Tristan before answering, "I'm sure Tristan did an adequate job of retelling my life's story."

There was a pause, and then Arthur smiled and casually rubbed his jaw in amusement. "He did indeed." He looked down for a moment at the maps, and then looked very directly at me. "Then I'd like to ask— "

"Actually, your highness, there is something Tristan would not know."

Arthur tilted his head very slightly to the left, like an animal's head cocked in thought. He prodded, "What is it?" and then rubbed his jaw again in what seemed to be a habit. "Please, my name is Arthur."

Looking down at my clasped hands and feeling the heat of Tristan's stare upon me more keenly than that of Arthur, I said, "Perhaps it's not so important but…this Roman man, Darius…he knows of my tattoo…"

After I trailed off, Arthur appeared puzzled, and inquired, "What do you mean?"

Rubbing the site of the tattoo on my forearm anxiously, I elaborated, "The only manner in which Darius or his men can recognize me now, after fifteen years' passing, is by the tattoo I bear on my arm. The insignia of my royal house. The Roman saw it when I met him as a child, and every time his officers have almost caught me, it is due to their recognition of the tattoo."

As I spoke, no expression changed in Arthur's face, save for a small wince at my callous use of the words 'the Roman'; words I regretted speaking to his face.

"May I see it?" He asked with evident delicacy.

Even in Tristan's company, who I now believed would not betray me, I was uneasy in granting the king of Britain's request. But grant it I did, tugging up the wool of my sleeve to expose the faint dark lines upon the white of my skin, marking my identity in my flesh so indelibly that I could never escape it.

Arthur stared at my forearm for a moment, and then met my eyes. He nodded, and I—gratefully—pulled my sleeve back down. With another glance at the map, he asked a new question: "Where did his officers find you last?" He pulled the map of the Roman Empire closer to me.

I reached forward and traced my finger lightly over the lettering on the map, "Northern Gallia. Unlike here in Britain, I never stayed in a single place."

His eyes were questioning, and I told the tale of my journeys as quickly as I could.

I moved my finger across the map to rest in Peloponnesus, in Greece. "Tristan's company left me in Sparta, where I remained for several years. I finished my physical and intellectual education there, and then travelled," I traced that path across the map from so long ago, "to Corinth and Athens for some time, before doubling back to Sparta. From thence I took a boat to Alexandria, in Egypt, and joined a caravan through Syria, Mesopotamia and Armenia. The rest of my years have been in crossing Sarmatia; I took the route to avoid the inner Empire." I circled my finger around the Black Sea, "So I travelled through Sarmatia Asiatica into Europea, quickly through Germania. I was last in Gallia, as I said…" I trailed off, but amended, "…before hearing Britain was no longer under Roman occupation. It was an easy voyage from there to this isle, and so here I am."

Arthur sat back in his chair, watching me and what I thought would naturally be very strange thoughts about me. Finally, he glanced at Tristan, who kept his silent vigil at the door still, and then chuckled. "What a pair you two are," he commented, easing forward.

Tristan stared stonily and stoically back.

Now looking back at me, Arthur smiled very openly. It was a smile that pooled warmth into my limbs, and in those moments, I probably felt the most at ease I had in many years. There was a casual acceptance in his smile, as if his hesitations and reservations about me had finally been disparaged. There was approval.

"Well," he said, rolling the map back, "I would have you know that I will be sending a number of men into the north area of Gallia for reconnaissance, and scouting. They will search for information regarding Darius' activities and," he met my eyes warmly, "I will do what's in my power to prevent him from retrieving you." Along with his approval, there was finality in his eyes, "You're safe here, in Britain."

And there are no words I can use to describe how that moment made me feel. Like energy had just been infused in me, like the capacity I had for life that had for fifteen years been ignored by necessity had come back to me. Like I had a new life.

Arthur must have understood that, because he did not wait for me to express my thanks, or give any kind of response at all. He stood, and I stood with him, his arms outstretched to allow me to walk forward first. I took hesitant, shaky steps—steps of an infant, almost—towards the door and Tristan caught my arm firmly, holding my posture straight as by transferring his strength into me by touching.

"Isolde," Arthur said from behind me—I turned back to see him standing still at the table, watching me. Quietly, and seriously, he added, "I am no longer an officer of the Roman Empire, but I would offer you my apologies." His look was honest and sober, and it astonished me. "Your treatment by Rome has been terrible, but I am honoured to be given the chance to redeem your time here in Britain."

This man—this great, kingly man—was going to have me weeping. I nodded to him, very shakily, and turned my body almost into Tristan's, eyes stinging. I was less ashamed of showing weakness and emotion in front of him than in front of Arthur—after all, I had humiliated myself at Tristan's expense too many times before. He led me out of the room silently—for which I was grateful, because I don't know what I would have done if he had spoken.

In that silence, he led me through the blindness of my almost-tears to my chambers, opening the heavy door and naturally scanning the room for danger before allowing me to walk in. Again, he stood between the door and myself, and because I did not want to meet his eyes until I was fully composed, I looked around the room for something to focus on.

Noticing a large foreign wooden box on my bed, I walked over to it and picked it up, weighing it in my hands and briefly wondering where it had come from. A stupid thought, honestly, because who else could it have come from but—

"Tristan, what is this?"

His dark eyes watched me closely as he shifted his stance and inclined his shaggy head very slightly. "Open it."

Adequately distracted, I inelegantly scrubbed my hand over my eyes to completely clear them of any tears, before finding the catch of the box and opening it carefully, unsure of what exactly to expect.

Inside, I found a pair of tridents, not at all glittering and shining like those that had been given to me by my uncle. These were harsh and grey, with a matte gleam to them that suggested violence as opposed to ceremony. The styling was simple, and I picked one up in my free hand, weighing it and testing how it cut through the air.

I was delighted.

I looked back at Tristan in question, and he said, "Difficult to find, as they're such archaic weapons, but a trader from the Asia Minor gave me a good price. They are actual weaponry, as opposed to the wall ornaments you owned as a child."

Smiling, I retorted quietly, "I'm surprised. It seems unlike you to give gifts."

His eyes narrowed, and he answered easily, "You're right. They are no gift. It's a sad truth that you are more useless as a fighter than you were fifteen years ago. Even now Britain is a dangerous land. You're my ward, so I will teach you to use them properly."

Oh, the possibilities.

"Your ward? I'm a grown woman, Tristan." I smiled.

The small, arrogant smirk that decorated his face infuriated me. "A grown defenceless woman. And there is nothing recommending about a useless woman." His eyes scanned the room again restlessly, and he turned to walk to the door. He stopped only briefly, his hand resting on the wood, and said, "I will see you again tomorrow for your first lesson, and every day after that." Tristan turned, his eyes catching mine very quickly, and his smiled—a true smile. "Or perhaps tonight. Galahad, you know, has a tendency of taking all the knights to your tavern along with him."

He was gone before I thought to answer, but he left a very tangible presence in the room, and my thoughts were with him for hours long afterwards.


Well?