Chapter 4:
She stormed the halls like a lunatic. She was angry; no, she was beyond that. Her eyes burned with fire. Everybody knew that when Isolde was mad, she was irrational and impulsive, which was why everybody stayed out of her way. She strode down the corridor that led to Marcus' quarters, breathing heavily like a lion, waiting to pounce on its prey.
How could he?
It was a question that kept running through her head. She felt hurt and betrayed. How could he let this happen? She had learned of her new mission late last night from a drunken soldier that served Pelagius. She did not believe it at first, but deep down, she knew it was the truth.
She came upon a servant that was standing outside his door, "Out of the way you fool!" she yelled, and nearly shoved the poor boy into the wall.
Isolde nearly kicked the door open, ready to berate her commander for his actions. She looked around and found Marcus reading some maps. He had hardly looked up to the loud commotion she had caused, which only made her even angrier.
She walked to the table and slammed her hands to get his attention. She stared at him with eyes that spelled death. Marcus simply looked at her and brought his attention back to his maps. Isolde gritted her teeth at the disrespect her gave her.
"How could you?" she hissed.
"Could I what?" he replied calmly.
"You- you could have sent someone else! You know I don't want to go back to Briton! You know I hate babysitting! You know! Why-"
"I cannot refuse an order from a higher authority, Isolde. You know that." He was trying to reason with her, but he also knew that reasoning with an angry Isolde often proved to be futile.
"You should have sent someone else! I don't baby-sit! I'm better than that. A simple soldier can do that! My skills would be wasted! You could have worked your way around it!"
Marcus sighed and looked at her. Isolde flew her hands up in the air and breathed deeply. It broke his heart that she was so angry with him. He wanted to tell her how much he loved her and he was doing this for her. He wanted to tell her everything. But he couldn't; it wasn't the right time yet. So he had to wait.
And that killed him.
He walked around the table and slowly eyed the flustered Isolde. He gently took her shoulders and looked deep into her eyes. He eyed her lips and wanted nothing more to kiss her, but resisted. Even as angry as she was, she was beautiful in his eyes.
"Listen to me Isolde. You will complete this mission. You will go to Briton. You will face your past and whatever demons haunt you and be free. You will return to Rome with a heavy burden lifted off your shoulders, and you will be rewarded with freedom."
"I'm not granted my freedom for another year and a half. Briton is a three month journey," she stated.
She stared at him blankly when he said nothing and that gave her suspicion. Isolde looked up to his eyes and stepped away from him Something was very…wrong with him. He was her commander, and she would make sure it would remain that way. Besides, she was still fuming with anger. She blamed the bishop. She blamed Marcus. She blamed Rome. But Marcus was right. She couldn't really do anything. It was now inevitable; Briton was her past, and now it would be her future. She ran her hands through her hair and let out an exasperated sigh. "I need a drink," she muttered.
Without looking at him, she stormed off again.
He looked at the table that once seated almost fifty Sarmatian knights. It has been so long since Arthur could last remember seeing the table full. Now, almost fifteen years later, it was nearly empty save for six knights. He walked over to the carefully carved round table and let his hands graze over the fine intricate details that had been so meticulously carved in. As he walked around the table, he let his mind wander to each knight that had once occupied each spot.
Percival. A man who could find humour even in the darkest hour.
Kay. A brave soldier who gave his life to saving a child in danger.
Erec. A man with 3 arrows in his chest and managed to fight until his very last breath.
Arthur went on, remembering each and every soldier until at last, he came to the final seat. Remembering this knight was particularly painful for him.
Caradoc.
His death was a tragic one – one that could have been avoided entirely, if it wasn't for his carelessness and arrogance. Caradoc's death pained Arthur the most because his death led to another tragedy at the wall. Arthur could remember the events of that fateful day as clear as water. He could remember the cries. The tears. The aftermath.
Arthur closed his eyes and said a silent prayer for his fallen brothers. His time for reminiscing the past was over. It was time to focus on the present, and the continuous raids orchestrated by the Woads. With one last look at the table that held so many memories, he left to go find his remaining knights.
He only needed to take one guess to figure out where they would be at this hour. The tavern was always a place where dark moods would be immediately lightened – of course, with the help of some alcohol. Turning the corner, a smile crept on his face as he saw his closest friends laughing and drinking.
He saw Lancelot losing his money to some other soldiers, while trying to woo a lady – much to her dismay.
He saw Bors with two cups, drinking and laughing heartily, with his lover, Vanora, close by his side.
He saw Dagonet, mostly keeping to himself by the bar, nonetheless enjoying the comical scenes of the younger two knights.
Galahad and Gawain were trying their best to woo other bar wenches, thought most of their efforts were proving unsuccessful.
For Arthur, it was hard to imagine that these six men were feared and respected throughout the island. At that moment, he did not see warriors, but ordinary men trying to enjoy life.
But their lives were far from ordinary. Taken from their homes at such a small age, to a foreign land, to face a pre-determined fate; it was no ordinary life at all. One more year, and it would be all over, he thought.
Arthur's eyes scanned the tables, and he noticed there was one knight missing. Unconsciously, he scanned the shadows and corners, for he knew Tristan liked to keep hidden. Unable to locate him, he concluded that he must be in the stables caring for his horse. As Arthur went to turn around, he caught Dagonet's eye. The larger knight raised his cup, silently asking his commander to join him. Arthur slightly lowered his head, responding the same way. Thanks, but maybe another time.
15 years together, made communicating almost psychic between them. No words needed to be spoken.
Making his way to the stables, he found Tristan doing what he did every night. He watched as the scout groomed his horse with such care and grace, it was almost mesmerizing. Of all the knights, he knew Tristan the least. He was one of the older knights and liked to keep to himself. He smiled sadly as he could recall that fateful day when everything changed with him. It was a day of sadness; a day of death.
"Arthur," the scout called out. Tristan straightened up as he saw his commander at the doorway. After years of friendship, Tristan still looked at Arthur with respect. He walked towards him, knowing that it was time to deliver his report.
"Tristan," Arthur replied. "What news of the Woads?"
"They've been getting more daring ever since Roman posts along the wall have been withdrawn."
Arthur pursed his lips upon hearing this. So it seemed that the Romans have begun losing interest in Briton. "Is there going to be attack on this fort?"
"I doubt it. Their activities have been mostly along the roads, but so far none on the villages. But there hasn't been anything when I was out. There's no strategy to it, Arthur. I can't tell what they want."
Arthur smiled, "They want Briton back. And with the decrease in support of the Romans, they may get their wish." He paused then continued, "I need you to go back and track their attacks. Go along the coastline. The Romans have left their post there, leaving the villagers to set up their own defenses. Make sure they've set up the proper protection."
Tristan said nothing, but simply nodded. He had never defied any orders, for he always welcomed whatever the challenge. He immediately grabbed his saddle and placed it gently on his horse. It was his way of responding to Arthur. I'll go tonight.
It was her fourth cup as Isolde downed the last drop of her wine. She aggressively slammed her cup on the table. "More!" she yelled.
Tonight, she would drink until she passed out, and she didn't care what would happen. She needed to rid away the anger and pain she felt in her heart at the moment.
"Don't you think you had enough, Isolde?" Titus asked as he drank from his own cup. He was getting slightly concerned when she finished so quickly. It usually wasn't like her to act like such a … drunkard.
"Tonight is," she stumbled slowly, "an exception, my friend."
"You're fumbling your words. That's not a good sign."
"I'm fine, Titus. No need to worry about me." Again, she took a huge gulp.
"What's happened Isolde? What's wrong? You know you can tell me."
"Nothing! Nothing's wrong! Everything is just perfectly fine! Hey! You there, fill the jug up will you?" she yelled across the room at the server.
Something was definitely off. Titus could sense it, but more importantly he could see it in her eyes. They were filled with sadness and distance, when they were usually filled with such warmth. He watched as the cup continuously kept meeting her lips, and as the alcohol entered her body. He now lost count how much she drank in such a short amount of time and it was beginning to show. Her eyes began to droop and her cheeks began to flush. More noticeably, her movements were slowing down. Titus stood up and grabbed her by the arm, pulling her up from the table. "Titus! What are you doing? I'm not done here!"
"Yes you are Isolde. Anymore and you'll be sorry you drank so much."
"Let go of me Titus!" She struggled in his grasp but her attempts were futile. Titus was bigger, stronger and sober, so he ignored her, walking to the stables so they could talk.
Upon reaching his desired destination, he gently dropped her on a pile of hay, to which she immediately almost fell asleep in. "You better tell me what's been bothering you or I swear Isolde, I'll break your legs."
She laughed, but whether in a good or bad way, Titus couldn't tell. "Isolde…"
"I'd rather you break my legs so I don't have to escort his holiness to that wretched island."
"Why do you hate Briton so much? What pain has it caused you?"
"Enough pain and misery," she replied between hiccups. After some contemplation and silence, she decided to explain herself. "I was suppose to be a healer, you know. The sword…wasn't my destiny. I was supposed to give life, not take it."
Titus nodded in acknowledgement, "You are well versed in the healing arts."
She closed her eyes as she remembered that painful day that changed everything. "Someone very dear to my heart died on my watch. Someone I loved very much. I couldn't bear the guilt of not being able to save his life. And I suddenly became afraid of not being able to save the lives of my friends. So…I left; hoping that it would numb the pain. But it never did."
"Oh Isolde." Titus said softly.
"It's been hard, Titus. I wish it would just all…go away."
"Then perhaps the return to Briton will give you peace."
Isolde laughed, "I doubt that Titus. I left without a sound. No letter, no warning. I left…certain people who cared so much for me. And I hurt them by doing so. If they are still alive, I don't think my arrival would be welcoming."
Tristan. The name lingered in her mind. The name ripped her heart in two. She closed her eyes and turned on her side and slowly drifted to sleep, his face haunting her dreams.
A/N: It's slowly developing. (hopefully) Patience! more to come.