Chapter 15:
"The art of giving back life is a blessing and a curse," explained the older woman as she was busy crushing various herbs and seeds in a bowl.
Isolde, timid and afraid of her new surroundings watched from the corner, in awe and shock from her new teacher. The wild strays of her hair were loose from her bun, while her dress which Isolde assumed had seen a better day was a faded shade of blue, and riddle with faint stains of what Isolde thought was blood, dirt and oils.
She looked at her own hands, small and pink in flesh and pictured herself doing the very same things that Bragaine did. She pictured the blood, the guts, the sweat and the image almost made Isolde's stomach hurl out her breakfast.
"Skilled enough," the older woman continued, "and you can heal some of the most deadly wounds, poisons and inflictions. You must be compassionate but strong-willed. We healers deal with death everyday. It is our enemy, and it can be our friend. We must learn to face death and laugh at him and yell, 'I live another day!' Death is inevitable, but we can only hope to give life back to those whose time has not yet come."
"Aren't you afraid?" Isolde asked shyly.
The healer stopped at what she was doing and turned to look at her young apprentice. She cocked her head to one shoulder and asked, "Afraid of what?"
"Having the ability to take and give life as you please…as if you were some deity."
Her cool grey eyes bore straight into her own, sending a cold shiver down Isolde's spine. "I do not claim I am some sort of God, girl. I do not choose to give and take life as I see fit. If you are to follow my footsteps, you must understand this: We are not gods, but merely human. I do not claim immortality nor do I give it. We embrace death and fear it."
The young girl let out a slight whimper, suddenly afraid of her task ahead and suddenly afraid of the older woman. She wanted nothing more than to find her brother at the training ground and run into his arms. She hated this place. She hated Briton. She hated the Romans.
It wasn't fair.
"And when death is the victor?" she asked, surprised that her voice did not quiver.
Her teacher held a tight smile. "Death is always the victor. We may win the battle, but he will always win the war."
Tristan and Lancelot came close to kicking down the door to the Healer's room, as Bors slowly followed with Dagonet's body hunched over his back with the help of Gawain and Galahad. Carefully placing the giant knight on the table, Tristan wasted no time in starting a fire and calling for a maid to prepare for hot water and clean cloths.
The silent scout was no healer in any high standards, but he would watch Dagonet from time to time and had learned enough to know what was needed.
"Do you think she can help him?" cried out Bors, masking his tears in a wall of anger.
"She's the only one skilled enough," reasoned Lancelot.
"What if she can't? She said herself she doesn't practice the arts anymore." cried out Galahad.
Tristan listened silently to the other knights as they voiced their worries at Dagonet's condition. He dared not to speak his true opinion for he knew it would make matters worse. He knew when he spoke, it was only the truth and nothing more. He saw the fear that ran through Isolde's eyes as she could only remember that grim day. There was even a passing thought in Tristan's mind that she would run away again.
He clenched his fists in anger, in hurt and in fear. He wanted to hate her, ignore her, bruise her and fight her. But he could not bring up the courage to show Isolde the pain that he had gone through when she left him.
Coward, whispered a voice inside his head.
He closed his eyes and turned around to face the fire and away from the knights. I refuse to listen, he said to himself.
You are afraid of admitting the truth…about her.
She is nothing to me, he yelled at himself.
She is everything.
He slammed his fist at the wall, silencing the internal argument within. The knights looked at Tristan, startled at the rare outburst of emotion, but merely only accepted it as a reaction to Dagonet's situation.
"He'll make it, Tris," said Bors. "He's supposed to rule my village with me and help me with Gilly's training. He'll make it! He has to! Curse those damn Romans! Curse them to Hell! This was never supposed to happen. We're free men! Dagonet is a free man!"
She came in swiftly, cutting Bors' pleas and cries to silence. He watched her scan the room, sensing the tension and worry in the room. If she was afraid, Tristan had difficulty reading it for Isolde held a straight look of determination on her face. She looked in his direction and held her gaze with him for only a moment before quickly moving towards the basin. He managed to suppress a grunt in his throat as her eyes bore into his. He saw a flint of fear and raw emotion in her eyes that he felt all too familiar with.
It was the very look she had when Caradoc died. It was the look that haunted him ever since.
"Lancelot, help me out of my armour. I cannot breathe," she said tiredly, as she rolled up the sleeves of her tunic.
On any other day, in any other situation, Lancelot would have made some crude remark or lewd suggestion. But today, he remained silent and was quick to obey without any objections.
He watched her slowly and carefully as she gently touched the few arrows which were still embedded in Dagonet's thighs. He watched her eyes gliding up and down Dagonet's body, and her hands as they made contact to his chest, and watched her fingers twirl around the ties of Dagonet's tunic to remove it. He watched her as if she was a dancer or a seductress, and found himself hypnotized by her every movement.
Sensing his penetrating gaze, she looked up at him. He tensed his shoulders and was quick to mask any emotion that he was afraid had slipped out. Her eyes still held the same intensity, but he was quick to note the tears that were forming around her eyes. He raised an eyebrow at her, silently asking her if Dagonet would live.
As if she could read his thoughts, she called out to him, "I need your help."
The knights looked at their exchange, half helpless and feeling confused at the former lovers. They all chose at the moment to excuse themselves from the room, feeling the increasing tension in the room.
As soon as the door closed, Tristan broke eye contact and quickly removed his own sword and armour and made his way to the basin.
"His heart beats, but is very weak. He's lost a lot of blood and his body is frigid cold. Even if I do seal his wounds and keep him warm, he may not be strong enough to break his fever," she stated quietly.
"Dagonet's strong enough," he said.
"Tristan…," she whispered as if his name was a forbidden word.
"Honour your promise," he echoed.
She closed her eyes to recompose herself and gave him a silent nod, before they both began diligently working at stitching up their wounds. Their arms and fingers danced around each as Isolde pierced her needle into Dagonet's skin, and Tristan's own hands cleaning the wounds and applying a salve and bandaging his friend. The room slowly began to heat up, as Tristan made sure the fire kept burning to keep his injured friend warm.
Neither spoke to one another nor did they dare to make eye contact. When their fingers accidently touched, the other would immediately jolt away.
It felt like hours before Tristan's shirt became drenched in his own sweat. They had done all they could for their friend, and now the only thing left to do was wait. What cloaks or blankets left in the room were now wrapped around the giant knight.
"Death is always the victor," she half-murmured to herself.
She looked up at him, and he saw that her mask was now gone. It wasn't Isolde the warrior, or Isolde the Roman that stood before him.
It was his Isolde. It was the girl he fell in love with, now grown into a woman. It was the vulnerable and sweet-hearted Isolde that shivered at his every touch and yearned for his kisses.
He wanted to run towards her, and kiss her as if nothing had ever changed between them. He wanted to feel her hair through his fingers, and smell the nape of her neck. He was surprised to find his feet walking in her direction, as if his body had a mind of its own. They were dangerously close now, and beneath the sweat and dried blood, he could faintly smell the lavender oils on her skin.
No, he said to himself. She is nothing to you.
She is everything, a voice whispered back.
"Isolde…" he roughly whispered, desperately wanting to replace the lust with hatred, but feeling his entire mind and body refusing to do so.
She blinked away her own tears and placed two fingers on his lips to silence him. She lightly touched his hair and slowly brushed away the braids that fell to his eyes. He was exposed now, feeling his own emotions betraying him.
His hand went up to touch her face and removed the few strands of hair away. She too, was exposed now.
No words were spoken, and they held each other's cheek in their hands, frozen in time. His thumb began slowly caressing her smooth pale skin. In that very moment, they were not the hardened warriors, nor were they broken lovers.
In that very moment, both wanted to be the young lovers they were, careless and naïve – alive and happy.
A whisper danced around the room, each reliving the memories of their past, each not wanting to let go.
"Promise me you'll love me forever."
"I promise."
"Do you love me Tristan?"
"I would love no other but you."
But reason and fear overtook Isolde mind, as her eyes shot open and was quick remove her hand and herself away from him. Her emotions became hidden, her mask back in place.
"I don't expect you to forgive me, nor do I seek it," she said.
And with the blink of an eye, the young lovers disappeared – gone, forever with the wind.
"Why?" he asked.
"You know why I did it."
"We could have helped. I could have helped."
"It wasn't your burden to bear," she said irritably.
"And so you ran. Like a coward," he stated.
She closed her eyes to stop the tears from flowing. "Yes," she whispered.
"We searched the fort for days. We thought you were kidnapped, or worse. I went into the forests looking for you - for any signs that you were alive. Arthur sent dispatches all over the island and we found nothing," he forcefully said, feeling the anger burning through him again.
"I didn't mean for anybody to get hurt, Tristan," she said desperately.
"Well you did just that," he spat in a low voice. "You tore me in half. You ripped my heart out. I lost the will to live."
"Did you think it was easy for me? Running away? Running away from you? I cried every morning and night for six months! Six months! I hope it would numb the pain but it didn't. I cried because I was a coward. I cried for Caradoc. I cried for you! Did you honestly think I wanted any of this to happen? Caradoc wasn't supposed to die! It shouldn't have turned out like this!"
"And now you go back to your Romans," he harshly whispered.
She looked away and turned to the wall but spoke loud enough for Tristan to hear. "Maybe it's for the best…this time. I am not the same Isolde you remember, nor are you the same Tristan I remember. We are different people now. You are free from your service now, while I must return to Rome and complete mine. There will be no victor in our battle, I'm afraid."
"Go back to your Romans," he hissed, angry at the words that came out of her mouth and angry at himself for exposing his thoughts. "Be the coward you've become and run away from everything you hold dear to your heart."
Without taking another look at her, he swiftly grabbed his belongings and walked out the door.
You are the coward, the voice whispered.
She is nothing to me, he angrily said to himself.
She is everything.
Arthur sat in his bed, contemplating at the grave situation that was inevitably to come. Dagonet would probably not make it through the night. Germanius had betrayed him, murdering the man who had taught him how to be a just man. The Saxons would regroup by nightfall, giving almost no time for the villagers to have safe passage. The Woads had sought him out, pleading for his help and asking him to be their leader in a losing battle. He had finally earned the freedom for himself and his men, after fifteen long years and wanted nothing more than peace and solitude from blood and war.
Briton was not his home. He had no obligation to protect it anymore.
Or did he?
He stood up and went over to the basin to splash some water in his face. If he left, the Woads would be leaderless. The people would have defenseless, and the Saxons would surely win. His encounter with Merlin and Guinevere continued to haunt him. Their hope for their people relied on him.
But why?
Isolde's words haunted him. She warned him the Rome was a city of corruption and greed. It wasn't the city that Pelagius had preached. Rome was supposed to be the city of philosophy, morals and justice. It was the birthplace of scholars and scientists, not murderers and politicians. If Marius Honorius embodied what a Roman was truly like, then he feared that Rome was nothing but an idea to him.
What use was there now? Pelagius was dead, or so he learned from Alecto. Rome was nothing to him now. But what was Briton?
A/N: Short chapter, but I felt I needed to end it there. I hope I didn't disappoint in the Isolde/Tristan action, after all the build-up. The next chapter will probably be spent in Rome focusing in on Marcus and Aetius (I feel like I've neglected them enough) The plot will thicken…I promise!