A/N: Firstly, I would like to apologise for that most dreadful and confusing of chapters – chapter eleven. Thankyou to my reviewers for providing some constructive criticism! Things were just too confusing and (to my utmost horror) bordering on Mary-Sue; so I've taken down the chapter, replaced it with this one, and fixed a mistake towards the end of chapter ten. Sorry about all that! So please, UTTERLY erase the dreadfulness from your mind and read from the beginning of chap. 10 onwards. Thanks again for the reviews, everyone – is this a bit better? Hopefully the story is back on track, now :)
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Chapter Eleven: Death and Deals
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The silence stretched between them like a gaping maw, full of shock and unanswered questions, and as long as six years.
"Isolde," whispered Tristran at last. He swallowed tightly as the long-suppressed memories washed over him, painfully bright and clear, even now. A cold breeze ruffles the grass, sending undulations across the green hills… "It's like the sea," she says, and smiles at him. She hasn't smiled for a long time, she's had no cause to… A deep green dress with gold embroidery. She looks beautiful: her hair is unbrushed, wild and tangled, a warm and lovely red… "Pictish bitch," they whisper as she passes, "Not worthy to walk in these halls, they should kill her, what use is a hostage?"
For a hostage she had been, Tristran remembered. The daughter of an influential family of Picts, Isolde had been captured and held as a bargaining tool by the Hibernians. She had been living with a Hibernian lord and his family six years ago, when Tristran arrived at the great Hall accompanying Arthur on a diplomatic mission. While the commander had to spend most of his days indoors arguing politely with the bloody-minded Hibernians, Tristran had been free to wander the Hall, and the small town beyond. He had met Isolde whilst walking along beside one of the great spiked walls that fortified the Hall. She had been the first to speak to him, and had seemed undaunted by his short, reserved replies. After their first meeting, Tristran had returned to his room, bemused and confronted by the woman's easy cheerfulness and forward manner. She was surprisingly civilised for a savage Woad, but he didn't tell her that. He wasn't sure if he liked her or not, and so decided that he would return to the fortified wall the next day in hope of meeting her again. Just so he could decide properly, or so he told himself. As the days stretched into weeks, they met every day at the gate, and did the hour-long circuit around the wall together, chatting quite amiably (well, Isolde, at least). By the end of the third week, Tristran had decided that he liked Isolde the Pict very much.
They were both nineteen years old, and thought their friendship would last forever.
… He's breaking his fast when he hears the news. "She's drowned," they say, "You cannot see her body. It is too damaged." He wants to anyway, but they bar his path and hold him back… They burn her corpse, wrapped in coarse linen. Under the grey skies, he stands alone, no others came to the funeral but Arthur and himself, no one stayed… "I will never speak of her again, and nor will you," he told Arthur, and the commander nods, and holds Tristran's secrets close. Arthur is a good man, he can be trusted. Isolde will be Tristran's secret, the only woman he ever…
"Tristran?" asked Fearghus quietly, reaching out a lean, freckled hand.
Tristran flinched away from the boy, meeting his concerned grey-green eyes with flat brown ones. "Isolde is dead," he said, hating the finality in his words. She's dead, she's gone, and I wasn't there to save her.
Fearghus frowned. "No, she's not," he said, looking at Tristran incredulously. "Where'd you get an idea like that?"
"She drowned," growled Tristran, feeling the lump build in his throat. He coughed slightly, the old, familiar scowl settling over his features. Fearghus merely stared at him, looking surprised.
"Didn't you get her letter?" he asked confusedly.
"Last time I heard, the dead don't send letters," said Tristran bitterly, lacing his fingers together tightly, digging his short nails into the backs of his hands. The pain gave him something to concentrate on as he struggled to force his grief back into the back of his mind, where it usually resided. A sickly, black, bleeding lump; forever pressing on his consciousness.
"The letter," repeated Fearghus, "Didn't your commander give it to you? About the rescue? No?" Tristran merely stared at him incomprehensibly. The boy's shoulders slumped. "He didn't give it to you," he whispered, leaning his head against his hand wearily. "Bloody, cursed Romans."
"I won't have you speak of my commander that way," growled Tristran fiercely, his hackles rising at the lad's rude comments. Arthur was a friend to him, when most others were too afraid even to meet his eyes. Arthur was the only one who praised him for the dangers Tristran went through, for the daring missions and scouting expeditions into Woad territory far from the Wall.
"Oh, he's trained you well, hasn't he?" said Fearghus, a mocking twist to his smile. "You leap to his defence like a loyal dog. Just what the Romans want."
In a flash, Tristran flicked out a knife and held it to the boy's throat. "How dare you," he hissed furiously, digging the point in, coaxing a tiny bead of blood from the boy's pale neck. Fearghus held very still, pursing his lips.
"Isolde is not dead, Tristran. Cathalan's brother and his friends staged her death and rescued her, for they heard the Hibernians were planning to kill her. They stole a boat and left under the cover of darkness, leaving an explanatory letter with your commander." The knife remained unmoving at the lad's throat.
"How do I know you're telling the truth?" demanded Tristran, a horrible mixture of dread and hope and doubt spreading through him. "But how do you know if your family is not dead?" he asked her one morning, as he escorted her along the wall. She looked at him, cocking her head in that funny way she had. "I'd just know," she said finally, shrugging one shoulder. She placed a hand over her heart. "As ridiculous as it sounds, I know I'd feel it, if they… died. In here." She patted her chest, and Tristran smiled faintly. "You're right," he said at last. "I'm always right, Tristran," she responded, a bright grin lighting up her face. "No… It is ridiculous," muttered Tristran, and Isolde laughed, giving his shoulder a light smack.
Gods, how he missed her.
"Well…" said Fearghus uncertainly, his brow creasing slightly. "If you saw Cathalan, then you'd know right away. They're very alike."
"I want something more immediate," Tristran growled, shifting the knife slightly against the boy's warm skin.
"Tristran, I have nothing. Only my word," replied the boy, a note of panic creeping into his tone.
"I'm unwilling to take that after seeing how you lied to the tracker."
"Tristran, you have to trust me! Please, Isolde has been looking for you for six years!"
"I'm not hard to find."
"Well, she's not going to walk right up to the Wall, is she? Your men would kill her!"
Tristran glared at him. "She could find a way. If she was alive."
Fearghus' shoulders slumped. "Tristran, I don't know how to make you believe. Isolde. Is. Alive. I wouldn't lie about something like this."
"I won't believe you," said the scout coolly, removing his knife from Fearghus' neck, "until I see her. Alive. Breathing."
Fearghus shook his head. "You can't get to her, well, especially you. She's Coinneach's daughter, remember? And sister to his heir! You're a Sarmatian and a Roman slave, so…"
"I am not a slave," hissed Tristran, feeling the beginnings of a dreadful headache.
Fearghus winced. "Um, very well. Anyway, what I was saying was… what was I…? Oh, yes. The only way you could possibly see her is if you bought Cathalan home safely. Their father would be in your debt, and I'm sure he'd allow you to see her."
"This is a trap," said Tristran flatly. "You need more help to rescue your friend, so you try to net Mordred and I into the mission with lies."
"We do need you, Tristran, that's true. I can't fight, and Banna may be fast but she's a hunter, not a warrior. Grainne's our only hope, and Murchadh and Iurnan and their reinforcements would kill her. But I want to help Isolde." He paused, taking a deep breath. Oh gods, he's going to cry, thought Tristran in horror. "We grew up together, Tristran. Isolde and Cathalan are my best friends."
"How can you have seen her? She's been in Hibernia for six years, and you've been hidden further south with Cathalan for, what… six years?" Tristran raised an eloquent eyebrow, and the lad blushed.
"Some friendships run deeper than years," he replied quietly, his ears red. "I would do anything to help Isolde or Cathalan. Please, Tristran. I need your help."
Tristran looked at him incredulously. "Are you forgetting that you're Picts, and I'm a Sarmatian? Are you out of your mind?"
"Our enemies are Rome, not Sarmatia. Besides, Rome's beginning to pull back." At Tristran's surprised look, Fearghus shrugged. "We may live in huts made of mud and straw, Tristran, but we're not fools. Anyone with eyes can see the Romans are beginning to leave Britannia."
"Hm," grunted Tristran, trying to cover his shock. And we thought they had not noticed.
"Look," continued Fearghus, "You want revenge. Murchadh, Iurnan and your friend's killer are heading north, with Cathalan. We're after the same people, we've even formed a temporary truce, and if it all turns out well, we'll be capturing the same people."
"Killing," corrected Tristran blandly.
Fearghus looked mildly disturbed. "Er, yes. If you're there when we rescue Cathalan, he'll make sure you get safe passage into his father's lands, even into his father's hall. And that's where Isolde is."
Tristran frowned at the lad for a moment or so. "It's a lot of guesswork on your part," he said grudgingly.
Fearghus shrugged. "Not really. Cathalan's my best friend – sometimes I know what he'll do before he even does it."
"Let's hope this is one of those times," replied Tristran coolly, getting up and sheathing his knife. Fearghus stared at him in confusion.
"You'll do it?" he asked, comprehension dawning on his young face. "You'll actually do it?"
"Yes," muttered Tristran. "But I'd better bloody well see Isolde."
Fearghus leapt up and clapped the scout on the shoulder. "You will, I promise. Oh," he sighed, sagging with relief, "You must really love her."
Tristran scowled menacingly.
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