"Peace of mind comes when your life is in harmony, with true principles and values and in no other way."
Peace of Mind
Three years later…
ISOLDE…
Vindomora, at Ebchester, in Durham, Southeast of Badon Hill
Rap tap tap taptap-a-rap rap TAP! Rap tap tap taptap-a-rap slap TAP!
The twelve of us – me, Bran and Itaz, Marrok, Saros, Kuluk, Bersules and Carradas, Galahad, Sagremour, and young Mabon and Palomydes – who had been chosen for this mission sat around the table in the soldier's hall.
It was after hours, so there was no one around but us, with only the dwindling light of the great fire to see by as we tried to plan a strategy to eliminate the ranging bandits from the hills they plagued. The servants would be in soon to bank the glowing coals for the night.
The sole sounds in the big room were the squeaking of rats as they feasted on the crumbs left over from the evening meal and the constant rapping of Saros' hands on the tabletop as he hummed along to a tune.
Rap tap tap taptap-a-rap rap TAP! Rap tap tap taptap-a-rap slap TAP!
"Cut it out, Sar, and help us out for once, would you?" Bran snapped. We were all short of patience, but none more so than Branor, as he'd been placed in charge again as Arthur and the rest of the knights went to aid a besieged fortress to the north. As we couldn't all abandon our current mission, Arthur had left the twelve of us behind.
Bran's best friend Kei, his second half, was with Arthur, and it was obvious that Bran didn't like that fact at all. None of us liked the thought of our brothers in the thick of battle without us there to watch their backs. Maybe it was silly to think we could avert fate if it was determined to take one of our number, but there you are.
"Calm yourself, my friend," said the ever-easy Marrok.
Carradas spoke up. "I say we just surround them – here" he pointed at a valley on the map "and put a little pressure on 'em, but keep out of sight – like those woads did to us near Luguvalium almost two years ago. Remember how we thought they were ghosts till Tris took one down?" I remembered. That was the battle we'd lost Durgulel and Gokhar. It had always felt right that they both go down together, them being so very close and all. I almost missed his follow up.
"They used those darts of theirs that go right in and they're so tiny it looks like there's nothing there at all, like they just open up and die… you reckon we could make some'o'those? If not, we could just use those black arrows – scare 'em."
Itaz looked thoughtful. "They aren't nearly as disciplined as we were… it might work. We'd have to use the black ones. We" he referred to himself, Carradas, and Bersules, our fletchers, "haven't been able to recreate those darts yet, but we've been working on it. Besides that, though, it's a good plan."
The silence continued for several minutes. Then,
Rap tap tap taptap-a-rap rap TAP! Rap tap tap taptap-a-rap slap TAP!
"Saros!" Kuluk roared, thoroughly fed up.
"I can't help it!" The younger knight cried. "It's not my fault they had to sing that bloody song six times in one night! It's fixed in me 'ead, like."
After another long stretch of quiet, I couldn't stop myself. He was right, it was a song that stayed in your head. I started to hum the tune, the sound barely audible in the big, drafty room.
The others looked at me – several as though they could've cheerfully snapped my neck. I smiled at them and kept humming. Carradas began to chuckle, and then to laugh.
I grinned as the others laughed too, Kuluk being the last to give in. We always did feel better with a plan.
We broke into the chorus of the infuriating, unforgettable song, ignoring the shouts of disturbance our singing caused when it awoke the good townspeople.
We'd calmed down again and were beginning to think of retiring for the night when we heard Rap tap tap taptap-a-rap rap TAP!
"SAROS!" we shouted, and the imp grinned at us and sprinted from the room, Kuluk hot on his tail.
We headed out the next morning with our quivers full of black arrows, each of us with all the metal removed from our armor or dulled with soot, and the horses, except for Bran and Bersules' white geldings, had been rubbed with soot or ash as well. All the bandits would see would be the dark shape of horse and rider ghosting through the trees, and the white apparition that was Branor in the fog.
We stationed ourselves around the valley where the group of rebel Britons and Roman deserters had camped for the night. They had only just begun to stir when I climbed a tree – quite close to them, in fact – to give the signal. It wasn't until they had packed up and were preparing to leave that I gave the owl's call the others were waiting for.
Without a sound, six of their company simultaneously dropped. The others grouped together immediately – idiots – took cover behind their shying horses – cowards – and I took the opportunity to swing down into Simargl's saddle.
The rebels, shields now in hand, headed toward the northern end of the valley, charging their horses at the gap between the two rocks.
Branor brought his horse into view between those very rocks, ignoring their looks of shocked amazement. His face was powdered white with flour, and his bow was solid black as he raised it and stretched the string far back, holding his position for only a moment before plunging the missile into the throat of the first man.
From where I sat under the trees, I could see most of the scene as the startled fighters let off a volley of arrows – all of which seemed to miraculously miss him… all but one, which he cut out of the air with Brehus' little trick.
The Britons in the group, being more superstitious than Romans, were the first to scramble back frantically. The Romans quickly followed suit. I saw Branor step out of sight once they had turned their backs.
But when they reached the other end of the valley, several having fallen prey to our skill in the meantime, the same apparition was waiting for them there. Bersules.
He raised his bow and planted an arrow in the eye of one rebel before the mist closed around him and he ducked away. When it cleared somewhat, there was nothing there and they all stood in a circle at the center of the clearing.
It was then that one of them raised a trumpet to his lips and blew a peculiar call.
For a moment nothing happened, and then I heard Marrok, our rear man, scream.
I wheeled Simargl around and charged up the hill, realizing with a sharp jolt of dread just what had happened.
"Bran!" I shrieked in my headlong flight. "Get back to the fort! They've come up behind us! Retreat!"
I heard him take up the call and the sounds of my brothers following his order.
I found Marrok quite by accident, nearly trampling him beneath my horse's hooves. His own mount was nowhere to be found. I swung down to kneel beside him before Simargl had even stopped moving.
"Khors," I breathed. Two arrows had buried themselves in his back; one was perilously close to his spine. He was only unconscious, but that meant nothing. I took out my knife and cut the arrows down. We had no time to do more.
His eyes fluttered and opened, pupils dilated with pain. It took him a moment to focus on my face. Then he wasn't looking at my face anymore and I turned in time to jump out of the way of a large broadsword before it could separate my head from my shoulders.
I drew my own sword and rolled under his next swing. My cut to the back of his knees was blocked and he caught me across the face with his elbow. I spat out blood and part of a tooth and swore. We circled each other warily. Suddenly he charged me with a wild yell.
In a move born of desperation I dropped to one knee at the last moment – giving up all hope of maneuverability – and braced my sword against my thigh. The warrior had no time to slow his momentum and he flew over my knee and landed some eight feet beyond me, my sword through his gut.
With a growl of frustration, I retrieved my blade and wiped it on his none-too-clean clothes. When I turned back to Marrok and saw a figure standing over him, I very nearly killed Galahad, thinking him to be another attacker.
The lad – nearly a man now, I reminded myself – was standing beside Simargl with his bow in hand. His horse was missing, too. I sighed and took a step toward my fallen friend,but wasknocked back on my heelswhen the arrow struck me.
I looked down at the arrow shaft protruding from my collarbone with something vaguely resembling surprise. There was a furious cry as Galahad brought his bow to bear on the archer who had shot me. The man's scream told me his aim was true.
I noticed that I'd stumbled to my knees. Strange, that. I didn't feel weak. I didn't feel much of anything, except the cold. The awful, bone-deep cold. Shock, I realized in the far reaches of my mind.
I became aware of Galahad talking to me.
"-got to stay with me, Isolde…Saros needs…I need your help…have to lift him onto Simargl."
"You know, Gal…" My voice sounds far away. "This is my first time being shot, and I'm not liking it overmuch." His quiet chuckle let me know I'd made some kind of sense, which was a good thing – I'd found that when I was wounded, I had a tendency to talk out of my head.
With his help, I managed to get to my feet. Galahad inspected my wound as I braced myself against Simargl. But when he probed gently at it, my eyes began to roll back in my head and I nearly fainted with the pain.
He slapped me around and I gritted, "I wouldn't do that again if I were you, unless you want two unconscious knights on your hands."
He looked at me a little sheepishly. "Sorry. It looks like the arrow glanced off your collarbone – the bone is broken, but the arrow itself isn't very deep."
"Oh, good. That's supposed to make me feel better?" I gasped out.
"Well, no," he said. "I'm going to go to the fort to see if I can get help for both of you. Take my cloak. Stay awake. I'll be back as soon as I can. And for both of your sakes, stay quiet. I don't know where they've all gone, but I'm fairly sure the others made it back already." I nodded and spread his cloak over the both of us.
"I know, Gal. Hurry back, though. I'm cold," I warned. He frowned, and I knew why. It was a warm day, with the sun pouring down on us where the trees didn't shadow, all traces of fog gone. It must have been approaching midday by now. He turned and set off at a light run.
"Khors guide you," I whispered to his retreating back.
There are six weak points on the common warrior; the back of the neck, the throat, the insides of the elbows, the stomach, the insides of the thighs, and the backs of the knees. Most of these points are the most tender, and so more pain – a distraction to all but the most disciplined of fighters – can be inflicted there. For every warrior there will be different weaknesses – fear, overconfidence, faulty equipment, loved ones, traitors – but these are the most common. There is no dishonor in exploiting an opponent's weaknesses; that is what swordsmanship is all about, after all. While they will still exist, a good fighter will learn to protect his weaknesses.
I recited my father's speech in my head, remembering the exercises he'd put me through over and over to enhance the meaning of the words.
I was halfway through what to do if you are disarmed and caught in a pincer when I heard rustling in the bushes. The person swore in Latin as I slid my throwing knife from my belt.
"-Know they're here somewhere," the voice muttered. Galahad stepped into view and I buried the weapon in the tree next to his head, where it stood quivering. Galahad looked quite close to quivering himself.
"Merciful Azamas," he croaked, looking at me reproachfully. "You should warn a man before you do that." He flipped the knife back to me and I caught it clumsily with my left hand.
"That would defeat the purpose, don't you think? That's the second time today I've almost killed you. And since when is Azamas, a god of death, merciful?" I slumped back against the tree trunk, feeling spent.
The arrow shaft still stuck out of my shoulder – I couldn't have pulled it out alone if I'd tried, even jarring it made me start to lose consciousness. When I'd thrown the knife, I'd nearly screamed. Looking at it now, the bone looked unnaturally bent, and I knew Galahad had been correct in his evaluation an hour prior.
The 16-year-old crossed the distance between us quickly, concern etched across his face. I knew I must look terrible – my face was drained of color, a long, dark stain of blood down my entire right side, soaking into the ground by my hand.
"You've forgotten the reviving part of his nature again, Isolde. So quick to see the bad side. You're a hopeless pessimist sometimes." His attempt to lighten the mood fell rather flat and he checked the wound again, tsking at me. "Did you have to cut it that close, though?" he asked plaintively. "It was very nearly implanted in my head."
"What are you talking about?" I asked, confused. My arm hurt terribly and I felt the beginnings of a headache behind my temples. "I'm right-handed; I missed."
He swallowed hard, and looked over at Marrok. I'd managed to stuff cloth from my torn shirt around the wounds in an attempt to slow the bleeding, but it was a poor job. The physicians back at the fort would have a hard time of…
"Galahad," I said sharply. "Where are the others?"
He cast his eyes to the ground. "It's not good. You won't like this."
"Out with it, lad." I dug my nails into the palm of my hand and hissed. He let his own hand drop from my injured shoulder.
"They're holed up in the fortress. Seems the rebels attacked the settlement itself and they've gained strength – they have numbers we never knew of, or thought they could gather. It's an impressive force, considering what they had to work with. We're far outnumbered, unless they can pull off some miracle."
"But the long and short of it is, there's no way to get in or out, or even to send a message to them. They can't help us, Isolde. They don't even know we're alive."
I rested my head backagainst the tree, thinking. Marrok urgently needed help, and I was beginning to feel woozy. I knew I'd lost blood, but I couldn't help that. I pushed back the pain again. Think, Isolde!
"Marrok needs a physician," I mused aloud. "We only have one horse, and we can't afford to wait until the siege breaks, one way or the other. Right now we're about two day's ride from Badon Hill…"
I bit my lip. If we made for Badon, it would take more than two days to get there. It might take up to four, maybe five days. But it could take much longer than that for the others to break the siege. I didn't like it, but we had no choice.
"We go back home to Badon," I said. "We can't wait here, and we can't go to Bran – if he's even alive."
"Oh, he is," smirked Galahad, "He was strutting around the parapets like he owned the place, and that Roman commander wasn't looking too happy it, either."
I ignored his comment. "We can tie Marrok over Simargl's back, and you and I can walk. You'll have to lead Simargl; I can't put up with his fussing with only one arm, no matter how well trained he is now."
Galahad hoisted me up again, and together we slung Marrok's legs over my saddle and let him slump over the unhappy horse's back, tying him hand and foot to keep him from falling. The poor lad would have some bruises if he lived through this, but it was the best we could do.
We started out with Galahad in front, leading my horse and his burden behind him, and me stumbling along and bringing up the rear.
To avoid the rebels and the woads' attention, we had to stay well away from the road, which made the going that much rougher. I couldn't even take the time to cover our trail, as I would have done under different circumstances.
The first day was by far the hardest, with my wound bleeding freely and my nerves strung tightly, ready at any second to hear the sound of a bow being drawn, or the shout of recognition as the rebels prepared to finish us off.
That night we pulled Marrok off Simargl and covered ourselves with our cloaks. I lay flat on my back, a position I never liked, and tried to ignore the fire in my shoulder. Then I grew oblivious to the world and I fell off a cliff and slept.
The following two days were a blur, my mind encased in a heavy fog of exhaustion. I gained cuts and scrapes from my many falls. Without both arms to steady myself, and my strength steadily trickling out through the wound in my shoulder, I had very little attention to spare for trivialities.
The morning of the fourth day, I blinked my eyes open and groaned when the pain came back, seemingly multiplied a thousand fold for my short respite. Galahad was up and about, my ears told me. When I looked over I saw that he'd packed up everything he could with me asleep.
"Gal?"
He saw that I was awake and said, "Morning, Isolde. Time to go."
I pushed myself off the ground with some difficulty. The damp had gathered in my wool cloak, but for the most part I'd been kept safe from the chill of the night. My muscles were nevertheless stiff and sore from the previous day's mishaps and the long trek.
I looked at the arrow still protruding strangely from my broken collarbone – we'd trimmed it down, but so far hadn't made any attempt to remove it – and knew I'd put it off as long as I could.
Once we'd loaded Marrok onto Simargl again, I voiced the dreaded necessity with a good bit of trepidation.
"Galahad," he looked at me questioningly. "We have to take the arrow out." He paled and tried to stammer that he couldn't, he didn't know how, Wynn and Palomydes were the ones who did healing, not him, and-
"Galahad, either this comes out or I die. I can't do it myself, and Wynn is who knows where with Arthur. I need your help." He swallowed and nodded.
He pulled my bag of supplies out of the saddlebags behind Marrok. The wounded boy moaned and opened bleary eyes. He'd slept most of the journey, but had taken fever the night before and was restless with sickness.
"'Solde?" He croaked, out of sorts. "What's wrong? Where are we?"
"Nothing, Mar, go back to sleep. Sleep now." I brushed sweat-soaked hair out of his eyes. As his eyes slid closed, I absently wondered how I could sound so normal when I was in so much pain.
I pulled out a thick piece of tough leather, scored with teeth marks; long linen bandages; a flask of the strongest alcohol to be found at Badon; and a sharp little one-sided blade that the fort's physician called a scalpel. Lastly, I took out a pair of tongs for gripping the arrow shaft.
Because it was a Roman arrow and not Saxon or woad, there was a sharp, barbed metal point at its end to catch in the body and lodge there. It wouldn't come out easily, hence the tongs.
After giving explicit instructions to a queasy, shaking Galahad while trying to keep my own gorge down, I put my back up against a tree, pulled my armor carefully away from the injury, and took a large gulp of the alcohol.
It burned all the way down. Once I stopped coughing and sputtering, I made myself take another, and another. If I didn't, I knew I'd surely regret it.
"After you do this thing, make sure we get out of here as soon as possible. I don't want anyone to hear something and come upon us, and I don't know how sensible I'll be."
I'd saved a good amount of the flask to cleanse the wound afterwards, and I put the biteplate in my mouth and clamped down on it. Then I sat firmly on my hands. I didn't want to be flailing around and hitting Galahad when he was just trying to help.
He nodded silently to let me know he'd heard and visibly steeled himself before bringing the knife to bear.
My screams were muffled by the leather, and I couldn't have held them in if I tried.
Once he'd cut around the shaft, Galahad grasped the tongs tight around the wood and pulled.
I was in a world of pain. Sad, god of the underworld, take me now! Oh merciful gods, let me die! I shrieked in my head. I could hear the high keening I was making through the tough leather in my mouth.
The arrow came loose with a wet pop! and I sagged back against the trunk. The biteplate fell from my slack jaw and dropped to the ground, connected by a string of saliva that I didn't care enough about to wipe away. I took deep, shuddering breaths and tried to recover. A stream of sweat ran down my face and dripped onto my bloody armor.
The arrow was gone, and my collarbone was set as well as it could be, but it wasn't over yet. The coolness of the liquid went unnoticed when the alcohol set in to burning. Without the tough leather strip in my mouth, my screams shattered the silence of the woods until I surrendered to the blissful dark.
MUSE…
Arthur halted when Tristan did. Over the jingling of their horses' tack, he could hear the faint sound of screaming. He shared a look with his knights as one by one they took notice of the noise. They'd completed their mission, and nothing prevented them from investigating.
His decision made, the commander nodded to Tristan and the knights turned their horses and pounded after the scout as the scream faded away.
ISOLDE…
I woke to Galahad slapping me around. I reached for my shoulder and my fingers found clean, smooth cloth. The terrible agony of what seemed like moments before had been reduced to a heavy, throbbing ache.
"Come on," Galahad heaved me to my feet by my good arm. "Can you walk?"
I grunted in response, too exhausted to do anything else.
"I hope that's a yes," said the worried young man.
I noticed through the haze that my supplies had been put away. He offered me the jerked meat and water flask that Arthur insisted we all carry and I took it. I was too hungry to care that I stuffed the food into my mouth and chewed away without any finesse whatsoever. I had no use for manners at times like this one, if I ever did.
He took the reins and started to lead Simargl. I called after him, "Gal," He glanced back.
"You did a good job, and I'm proud of you. Thank you." He nodded to me, and I noticed the dark circles under his eyes and the way his face was pinched and white. It occurred to me through my scattered mind that he'd eaten little and slept less in the past couple days. I felt a faint glow of pride in him. He really was a good lad.
MUSE…
"Arthur," Brehus called. The Roman picked up his pace to catch up to him, the late afternoon sun gleaming on his scarlet-plumed helmet.
"What is it?" The scout led him further into the forest.
"Here. There are traces of a camp. No fire, but this is woad territory, and those rebels Bran's taking care of aren't far off. It's understandable that they wouldn't want to draw attention to themselves, whether they're woad or rebel. Three men, one unconscious – see how there's signs of something being dragged, and this dark spot here – that's got to be blood. At least one of the others is injured, too."
He knelt down next to a tree, where there was a large patch of dark soil. "I found this," he picked up an arrowhead with half of the shaft still attached, the whole thing crusty with dried blood, "right over there. Makes me think they're woad, if they've got Roman arrows in them, unless it's rebels with a woad prisoner."
"Do you think it might be some of ours?" Arthur furrowed his brow.
"Not likely. If it were, they'd be traveling in a large group, and there'd be enough horses for all of them. These three have one badly injured person on the horse, and another who's wounded but able to walk trailing behind them. I followed the trail for a ways and they're making their way steadily northward – toward the Wall. Anything further than that is just speculation on my part."
"All right. We'll follow this trail on our way back to Badon, but that's as far as it goes. I can't risk us being caught in an ambush because of three men. If we lose the trail, I don't want to waste time searching for it again. We're all tired. I want to get everyone home in one piece."
ISOLDE…
I looked up at the sun, which was inching down below the trees. It was about three hours before dark. We could still get in a good four hours of travel, until it became too dark to continue safely.
I had a vague idea of where we were, but it was Galahad who had to navigate. Every hour or so he'd run off to make sure we hadn't strayed too far from the trail. Quite often we had to adjust our course when he came back.
This time, he came back with a frown creasing his forehead.
"I think we're being followed," he said as soon as he returned to us. "I heard something like a horse's whinny when I reached the trail. And there were signs of maybe ten horsemen who had already passed, maybe five, six hours ago. I'm not a scout, but I'm sure that's what I saw. There's a stream a mile ahead. We should make our way there and travel in the water for a while. Then I want you to try to cover our trail – just for a short time, until we're sure we've lost them."
I nodded and shivered despite the warm day. Galahad looked at me sharply but I quelled my trembling and gave him a weak smile of reassurance.
"Let's go."
MUSE…
Arthur sighed. The strange trail had ended in the creek. In fact, it could hardly be called that. It was more a trickle that was barely wide enough to hide a horse's tracks, but it had served its purpose.
Tristan had found the scrape of something being swept over the dirt by the stream a half-mile westward, but all signs had then disappeared. There were no broken twigs to follow, no bent grass, and it was quickly growing too dark to see anything. They'd have to abandon the search.
Arthur had grown more and more curious as they went on, and didn't like having to give up on it, but they didn't have much of a choice. Whoever their quarry was had obviously realized they were being tracked, and had taken precautions. Anything his scouts found from there on would most likely lead them false.
"Alright, men," he conceded. "Let's go home."
The tavern was a gloomy place when Arthur and his knights returned that evening, fully expecting a happy reunion with their women, only to find Bran and the others were already there. They nursed large mugs of ale and stronger things, all uncharacteristically quiet. Arthur immediately pulled out a chair and slumped down into it.
"Who, Kuluk?" he asked the swordsman. The knight was the oldest of the morose group who was capable of answering the question, as Bran's eyes were bleary from drink and dark with grief, and Carradas sat in the shadowed corner away from the others, looking guilt-ridden.
"Palomydes, Galahad," Gawain moaned and dropped into a chair, "Marrok, and… and Isolde."
"No." Balai, Lance, and Ru spoke at almost the same moment. Dee swiped at his eyes and sought comfort with Johf, his friend and the only other one of the youngest who'd always been close to Isolde. Tristan turned on his heel and left the room, and Wynn soon followed him.
Bran seemed to shrink in on himself as Kuluk listed their casualties. He looked up at Arthur with shame in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Arthur. I tried to keep them safe, but…" Arthur put a hand on his shoulder, and the younger knight buried his face in his own trembling hands and let out a shuddering sigh.
"If I hadn't come up with that stupid, stupid plan… if we'd known about the spy…" Carradas spoke wretchedly from the dark.
"What happened?" Arthur whispered. And they told him.
ISOLDE…
The next morning we left early. Galahad seemed to think whoever was following us had been foiled by the trick with the water, and we went at a less hurried pace. Marrok hadn't improved, but he was hanging onto life. We couldn't be more than a few hours away now.
But the icy mountain stream hadn't done me any good, nor had wearing cold, wet boots all night. I shivered and shook constantly. Colors and sounds came to me in an odd way, distorted and far away.
I focused entirely on making it to the Wall. There was nothing else in my head. Have to get home, have to get home. I put one foot in front of the other, my uneven footsteps plodding along in time with the mantra.
It was noon when I finally collapsed.
My muscles, weak from fever, stress, and overall fatigue, cramped and I went down clumsily, dropping to one knee and falling backwards to sprawl on the sun-warmed ground.
"Isolde? Isolde!" A face and voice made their way out of the bright shining sun and down the well I'd fallen into. My vision went dark around the edges. I felt my good shoulder being shaken and I feebly pushed at the hand doing the shaking. I just wanted to sleep. Why wouldn't it let me sleep?
Reason flashed briefly. "Go." I pushed at his chest. Go. Go now. Get out of here. Let me die in peace.
"Bloody hell, if you think I'm leaving you here, you've got another thing coming, damn you!" I said go away"Up. You're riding in front of Marrok." Nooo. I don't want to ride with Arshak. Why does he have to come, Papa? He's old enough to go on his own! You promised I could go alone!
Why did you have to go away, Papa? I'm so sorry. I'm sorry for everything. I wish I hadn't been on patrol. Then at least I'd be dead with you and Mama and Arshak and Alathea and not here.
"That's it, put your foot there, and up you go. We're getting you home, Isolde. You're not going to die, I won't let you. I should have known you weren't well enough to walk. If I'd put you up here in the first place you wouldn't even be sick."
Don't say that, Gatalas. You don't know that. It's my fault you're dead, anyway. I loved you. Did you know that? I loved you and you died, just like everyone else died. But you don't haunt my dreams. Why can't I remember your face? You're the only one I don't see when I close my eyes at night.
I see you now, though. I see you the way I saw you last, with your beautiful body all charred and mangled, your knife clutched in your dead fingers before I took it, your spear in your other hand ready to kill them all…
Strange... you wouldn't even touch a kontos when we were young; you thought they were useless weapons, and swore you'd never use one. I never thought you would. Yet you took it up in this, your last battle. You always were too much of a hero for your own good.
Don't care, don't care, I just want to sleep, is all. Just go to sleep and when I wake up I'll be there with you, with all of you. Just sleep…
"Take them, quick! Get them off the blasted horse, you damned fools! They're near dead, and you want me to stop and chat about how we've come back from the bloody grave? Are you fucking mad? Don't just stand there, you nitwits, or I'll kill you myself!"
Be nice, you. Just because they don't like ghosts doesn't mean we have to give them reason. Are we ghosts? Does it really matter? Where's Arthur? I have to tell him… tell him…
But I lost the thought in the swirling vortex of my memories, dark memories and childhood memories and memories that were bizarrely surreal and couldn't be true, and there was pain and voices and then there was nothing at all.
MUSE…
Lance slammed his fist down on the table. Why? He asked no one for the thousand-and-first time. Why, why, why? Why, dammit!
Over the last day, he'd taken to destroying things at random times. That morning at breakfast, the cup he'd shattered against the wall… the chair in his room… the deck of cards he'd thrown into the fire… the stable door…
Balai had locked himself in his room and refused to come out. Ru seemed to be following Lancelot's violent example by smashing the nose of the groom who tried to put another horse in Simargl's stall. Gawain seemed to be trying to drown himself in ale and women. Tristan had disappeared from the fort entirely. Arthur had decided to deal with his grief by throwing himself into his duty wholeheartedly. Everyone else had gathered in the hayloft that remained theirs. They'd all had brothers die before, but somehow Isolde's absence was more prominent than anyone else's.
So it was that Lancelot was alone in the tavern when the commotion started. Gawain had gone upstairs with one of the girls several hours earlier, and even if he hadn't, he'd be too drunk to notice much of anything at all.
Lancelot stumbled to his feet, being none too sober himself, and made his way to the door – in time to catch Galahad before he nearly fell into the room.
"You're not dead!" The ever-astute Lancelot exclaimed.
"No," the young knight rasped, "But right now I wish I were."
"How? How did you survive?" Galahad swayed, and Lance slung his arm over his shoulders and helped him over to the table nearest to them so he could lean against the rough wood. Lancelot tried to muster as much relief as he could for the boy who was alive when Isolde was-
"I'd tell you now, but I only stopped here because it was as far as I could make it on my own. If you help me to the infirmary, I think you might want to check on Isolde first."
The older boy nearly ran out the door without his worn comrade, but took his arm again and supported him across the square to the building where the physician was already at work.
But once they got to the doorway, Lance could and did leave him to cling to the doorsill and watch as his friend went almost cautiously to her bedside. She was so pale… a shadow of her usually vibrant self.
Lancelot noticed just how close to collapsing Galahad was himself and he pulled him over to a cot near Isolde. "Sit," he ordered. "Wait."
With that he sprinted to the stables.
"What's your hurry, Lance?" Saros called down, unable to rally a convincing show of enthusiasm. Which was really all right, because Lancelot, usually the gloomy one, was happy enough for the two of them.
"They're alive! Thank Khors and Azamas, they're alive! Galahad, Marrok, and Isolde are back!" He shouted joyously. There was a sudden flurry of activity and he heard frantic shuffling above before he turned and ran to the fortress hall.
Arthur's eyes were red rimmed and bloodshot from looking at battle plans until he wanted to burn them all. He looked up when Lancelot burst into the hall.
"Arthur, come quickly! She's alive, they're all three of them alive! Hurry up, come on!" He sounded remarkably like a child at midwinter with a pile of presents awaiting him.
The commander abandoned the paperwork without a second thought and followed his friend to the infirmary.
There was a crowd of men at the door already. Lancelot elbowed his way through the crowd, though they parted for Arthur like the great Red Sea was said to have parted its waters for Moses in the Holy Book of the Christians.
Lance looked out the window and saw, wonder of all wonders, Gawain running crookedly in the general direction of the infirmary, obviously still drunk. He ran pell-mell with his feet kicking up dirt behind him, a sheet wrapped around his waist, and a half-naked girl hanging out the window behind him, pouting and calling him back to her bed.
He stifled his mirth at the spectacle and turned back to Galahad, who was being showered with questions. "Now talk." The room went very silent. Gal straightened and spoke.
"They got Marrok good. Two arrows in the back. Isolde was amazing, never panicked. But right after she found him those bastards put an arrow in her shoulder, broke her collarbone. Second day in she damn near performed surgery on him with only one arm, and me too ignorant to know that it was far too close to the spine for us to just pull it out."
"I went back to the fort, or tried. I saw Bran but there was no way, no way to contact any of you. They were fighting off those damned rebels, and we couldn't wait for you to kill all of 'em, Marrok needed help. So we put him up on Simargl, me leading the damn nag, and Isolde brought up our rear."
"We made fairly good time until the fourth day. That morning she decided we had to take the arrow out of her shoulder – we'd avoided it because we were in enemy territory, too close to them to consider making too much noise, and also, I think, because she was plain scared to pull it out."
"So we finally did, and that afternoon I was checking our position and I heard horsemen. I went back and told Isolde, and we decided to hide our trail by walking in a stream I'd found ahead, in case we were being tracked by whoever was behind us."
Des couldn't take it anymore. "That was us! We heard someone scream-"
"That was Isolde." Galahad looked pained at the memory.
"Khors. Anyway, we heard her scream and found your trail. We followed you for a day, but lost the tracks in the water. Bloody miserable excuse for a stream, by the way."
He smiled weakly at Des. "She'll be glad to hear it worked. But it was one of those mountain streams that are ice cold even in summer. She had a fever this morning, and collapsed around midday. Babbled nonsense for a few hours, and then just – stopped. That was the scariest part of the whole thing."
They all looked over at her still form several cots over, where the physician and his helpers swarmed about the two patients. Arthur clasped his shoulder
"You did very well, Galahad. Thank you for bringing them both back. You're-" But whatever he was, they would never find out, because just then his eyes rolled and Lancelot, who was closest, caught him as he fainted and laid him back on the cot.
"I think he's just exhausted." He told Arthur. Then they were all ushered out of the room so the physician could do his job properly. He'd already determined that both wounded would live, if only barely.
But oh, it was a different group of young men who went, laughing gaily, to congregate in the hall.
Late that night, when they all sat at the long trestle tables, having laughed and caroused the evening away, there was break in conversation and silence reigned. They mourned young Palomydes, of course, but having three of their number back amongst them made matters seem less grave.
The silence was broken suddenly when, bathed in the light of the dying flames, they heard, rap tap tap taptap-a-rap rap TAP! Rap tap tap taptap-a-rap slap TAP!
"SAROS!"
I woke slowly, in the groggy way that meant I had nothing urgent to do for at least a few hours. As I swam slowly back to consciousness, I became aware of why I was so reluctant to wake up. My shoulder began to throb as though in retribution for putting it through so much in the past days.
I groaned in a fruitless attempt to fend off the hurt. Then a bleary figure that I dimly recognized as the physician at Badon Hill bent over me and I felt a cup against my lips. I drank the bitter liquid inside and promptly fell asleep.
The next time I came around it was dark, but not late. The pain in my shoulder was lessened to a steady ache, and I knew I was awake for good. I spotted Ru lounging in a chair drawn up by my bed.
"How long?" I tried to say, but all that emerged was a kind of strangled croak. I hated fever. I could never talk afterwards, or do much of anything for that matter. I took a whiff of the cup he offered me but could detect nothing to make me sleep, so I drank. I was tired of sleeping, which was a silly thought, but there you are.
"How long since you left the Wall, how long since you were ambushed, or how long since you came back from the dead?" I heard Ru's wry voice. He spoke quietly, as though to avoid waking someone, and when I raised my head I saw why. Marrok lay still in the bed adjacent to mine and Carradas was slumped in a chair with telltale circles around his eyes.
Ru noticed where my gaze lay.
"He hasn't left since Galahad brought you both back. Bran has been slightly more reasonable, but he too has been in here for most of the time. You came back four days ago. Finally we had to drug Carradas before he would sleep, or he would have worn himself out entirely. He blamed himself, you know. For coming up with the plan and not knowing about the spy. Stupid idea, if you ask me, but no one does, of course."
I managed to keep a straight face. "Of course."
"Where are the others?" I winced as I attempted to prop myself up against the pillow. Ru was at my side in a moment, brow creased in concern. That told me more than he meant it to. They'd been worried sick. And no wonder; they'd thought us dead, after all.
"Lancelot is in the tavern – where else? – with his women, and no doubt Gawain is there with him. It was my turn to watch over you two. Arthur is in the usual place, looking over papers, but I have it on good authority that Bersules is going to drag him out of there to drink with them soon. Balai is playing dice and winning against the Romans confident enough or stupid enough to challenge him, and Saros is whispering useless suggestions in one ear while Itaz is directing him in the other. Anyone else in particular you were wondering about?"
"Tristan?" I asked. His face grew grave.
"He left after we heard you were dead. He hasn't returned yet. I just hope he doesn't kill too many people before he comes back and finds out you're alive." If he comes back. The possibility was left unsaid, for which I was grateful.
"How is Marrok?" The younger knight looked pale and wan, but I could see his chest rising and falling steadily.
"He's fine. That physician is incredible. He took out the other arrowhead without any permanent damage at all. There'll be a nasty scar, but you know how it is. Sticks and stones."
I did know how it was. Anyone in the warrior life was guaranteed to have some nasty scars. I had a feeling my own injury would end up as one of those.
I felt drowsy of a sudden. "You didn't drug me, did you?"
Ru grinned. "Hell, no. You're too dangerous to drug. You'd cut off my head for even thinking of it."
I nodded smugly. "That's right. I'm sorry, Ru, I just…" I yawned. "Can't keep my eyes open." I wasn't sure if he heard that last part, but I didn't have the chance to find out as sleep claimed me and I was lost to the world.
Three days later I was pacing slowly around my room. It was a gray day, drizzling, and the weather looked almost as miserable as I felt, but still I would rather have been out there than stuck in here.
"Are you sure you should be doing that?" Dee, my current guardian, questioned. I'd been moved up to my own room, but still had someone playing mother hen for much of the day.
"Why, no, I'm not sure at all. What do you recommend, Healer Dee?" I laid on the sarcasm as thickly as I knew how. I hated being treated like an invalid. I wasn't as helpless as they apparently thought I was. I stuck out my lower lip and frowned. I knew it made me look like a petulant child who hasn't gotten her way, but I was too cross to care.
We heard some commotion in the hall. Then the door was flung wide and there, dripping on the doorstep, was Tristan. Dee made some excuse and slipped out, closing the door behind him and leaving the two of us alone.
Tristan looked horrible. His dark hair was straggly, plastered wetly to his face, where his face bore a hint of a beard. He shivered with cold but paid it no mind, staring at me as though he couldn't believe what he saw. But it was his eyes that caught my attention, eyes that were circled with dark smudges, and held within their depths a haunting fear that I would be hard put to explain.
I looked at him standing there and an odd relief filled my being. He hadn't been an active part of my life since that night he watched over me, but he had always been a rock, a solid wall at my back, someone who would face any danger by my side. I had feared for him these past few days. I'd missed him.
I swallowed an oath. It was all he needed to break out of his stupor. He crossed the room in two strides and pulled me into his arms, and I couldn't describe the feeling of coming home I experienced then, safe in his grasp. I told myself it was because he was my friend, my brother, in a way closer than blood, but somehow I knew it was something more.
For a minute he simply stood there, with his arms wrapped about me, reassuring himself that I was still here, and still alive. I ignored the jarring of my injured shoulder and the wet that was soaking into my clothes and let him.
What could have been called a sob shook his body, and then I did something I never thought I'd do. I kissed him. I touched his cheek, rough with the stubble of a week-old beard, and turned his face towards mine. I had to stand on tiptoe, but when I pressed my lips to his he groaned and leaned down, cupping the back of my head with his hand.
I slid my hands under his tunic, feeling the hard muscles that clenched under the touch of my fingers. He broke away for only a moment and doffed the wet garment. It wasn't the first time I'd seen him bare-chested, but I splayed my hands against the smooth skin there as though it were.
He walked me backward toward the bed, his mouth never losing contact with mine. I felt the bed frame hard up against the backs of my knees and sank backward onto it. One strong hand supported my back while the other worked the laces at the top of my shirt.
His cold hands came into contact with my bare skin and I gasped. He kissed the spot his fingers had touched.
"No," I managed to say.
He pulled back, hiding his hurt. "No?"
"Not here. Not now. I'm wounded, you're going to catch cold..." I kissed him again to be sure he knew I wasn't rejecting him.
He touched my face gently, as if afraid I would break or fade away. Behind his eyes I saw the exhaustion he had pushed back through sheer force of will. He let me up, and I picked up his discarded tunic and hung it on the windowsill so that it might dry. I built up a fire to fend off the cold and thaw his frozen limbs.
"Sleep here. There will be enough time for you to report to Arthur and to do whatever you need to after you've rested." He didn't protest, and I turned away to prod busily at the flaming logs with a poker so he could remove the trousers that were still wet from the rain outside. I glimpsed well-muscled thighs and slim hips before I did, and found myself blushing fiercely.
Stop that, I berated myself. You might still be a maiden, but that doesn't mean you have to act like a giggling featherhead at the sight of a naked man.
I heard the sound of him sliding under the furs that covered my bed. When I was sure he was decently covered, I turned back and hung up the black trousers alongside the shirt. Then I reached for the sword he'd dropped when he came to me, and propped it up next to the bed where he was already drifting off.
His hands trapped mine between them. "Isolde?" he murmured. I knelt next to the bed and felt the warmth of being needed wash over me.
"What is it, Tris?" I had never called him Tris before. In fact, I rarely called him much of anything. I clasped our gathered hands with the other. His were still clammy from many days in the cold and wet.
"Don't leave." I didn't know if he was meant not to leave the room or not to die and leave forever, but I had no intention of doing either.
"I'm not going anywhere. Just sleep." And despite the banal phrasing, I meant every word.
For several weeks after we returned, battered and bruised but miraculously alive, the far end of the stable was closed to us. Whatever Arthur had up his sleeve, the fort carpenter, the blacksmith, and the architect were all in on it, but were sworn to silence.
They all seemed quite amused by the whole thing. Even Arthur looked cheerful and mischievous at the oddest of times. To top it off, I caught a nice girl by the name of Eithne leaving Arthur's room one morning. It seemed his secret wasn't the only thing he was enjoying.
For days on end, the three craftsmen would go through the door in the hastily erected barrier, lock it behind them, and begin hammering and sawing and pounding until sundown. Several times we saw the smithy and his apprentice ferrying large metal pegs that vaguely resembled massive nails to their temporary workshop, which only served to make us more curious.
However, not one of them would even squeak when we tried to get it out of them, even when we threatened them with the most gruesome of fates.
MUSE…
A passing peasant paused when a terrible scream rent the air, coming from the direction of the knights' stables.
"What was that?" he exclaimed to his cousin, whom he was visiting. He'd arrived in the town only two days earlier.
"Oh, I suspect it's only the knights trying to make the fort's architect tell what Lord Arthur's up to." His cousin said, carrying on his way and not sounding perturbed in the least.
"It sounds like they're killing him!" cried the first in dismay, eyes wide in shock and horror.
"Why, yes, it's meant to," replied the cousin. "Come, we have to get these loaves to the market or Mhairi will have my head."
ISOLDE…
That particular incident had met with no success whatsoever, as the architect quickly figured out what we were up to. Saros had looked sheepishly up at the craftsman when he pulled open the door of the stall where Ru, a brazier, a hot poker, and a juicy haunch of venison sat with the young knight. Grinning, Ru touched the poker to the haunch and Saros let out a deafening shriek.
"Please, no more, I beg you, NO! AIEEEEEE!" He imitated the lower baritone of the carpenter.
The architect, an older man with a rather long, white beard, had shaken his head at us and left the stables. Down came the poker again, and Saros hollered loudly at his retreating back. I could've sworn there was a glimmer of a smile on his face as he hitched up his trousers and left the stables, whistling merrily. Saros looked at me, standing at the door of the stall and shrugged.
Who knew the little rascal had such a powerful pair of lungs?
"Ho, Quin, how fared the fort in my absence? Did the women miss me? Did they pine for me and refuse all sustenance in fits of grief? I have heard their piteous cries with the ears of my heart." Lancelot pressed a hand to his chest.
"Watch it, boy, or you'll find yourself with more than woads to worry about." Quin was clearly amused.
"If his heart heard half as much as he says it does, perhaps he'd grow a conscience." Tristan murmured so only I could hear. "Or a brain," he added as an afterthought. I snorted and quickly turned my laughter into a long and transparent coughing fit. I could tell that no one was convinced.
We passed through the outer wall to happy welcomes from the villagers. It had been a successful mission, though I hadn't been allowed to do any more than ride with the main group, an order that made me almost as testy as my equine counterpart. For one reason or another, Arthur had brought along our entire company, though it was only a simple matter of watching over a supply caravan along some roads to the south.
But what his motive was, we would find out soon enough. We'd gathered in our usual place in the hayloft that same afternoon in late Augustus. I lay on my back with my head pillowed on Tristan's stomach as he played idly with the plaits in my hair, illuminated by the sunlight that poured in through the open door of the loft. I had my eyes closed and was nearly asleep in the heat of the day when Jols stuck his head up over the edge of the loft. I lifted my head off of Tristan to better hear whatever the squire had to relate.
"Arthur calls for you. He says he has something to show you all, something you'll very much want to see."
With his cryptic message delivered, he ducked back down. He was thoroughly gone before we could question him further, and we'd no choice but to make our way to the hall where we ate our meals and which we used as an official gathering place. Bors muttered to himself, presenting multiple guesses as to what our leader had in store for us.
I saw Vanora hanging up the last of her washing and invited her along with a gesture. Doubtless she'd be as interested in this surprise as her lover was. Though we still weren't exactly chummy, we'd struck an accord, balancing feminism and respect as a truce between two of the few unmarried, honest women within the fort's walls. Mostly honest, anyway.
She left the basket in the dust and came up to my elbow, asking the cause of the invite with an arch of her eyebrow. I shrugged and rolled my eyes. Sometimes it was nice to have these moments of understanding with another woman.
Arthur was waiting outside the closed doors of the hall with Jols, looking as pleased as punch with himself. I noted the common expressions of impatience blooming on the faces of my friends, and felt the same creasing my own brow. It was time for him to stop playing this game and just spit it out.
"What's this about, Arthur?" Wynn voiced the question I wanted to ask.
Our lord grinned boyishly at us. It was times like these when I remembered he was only three years older than me.
He gestured toward the doors, where two Roman regulars stood ready to open them on his command.
"The fruits of our labors, and another step toward brotherhood." The words were formal, like he'd decided on them only after careful consideration. I was sure he had. That man did nothing without much forethought.
He nodded to the soldiers, and they heaved open the heavy wooden panels that we knew so well.
I was near the front, or I would never have seen anything with all my lads towering around me. As it was, I had to elbow my way through the first rows and shut a few gaping mouths before I saw the room in its' glorious entirety.
Gone were the woolen wall-hangings and low trestle tables. So, too, were the sputtering oil torches with their thick, black smoke and the crackling rushes underfoot. In their place there were strange, woven creations that looked to be softer than lambskin or ermine. Adorning the walls were new tapestries of fine cotton thread that attracted the eye to brightly colored fairytales, and lamps of oil of the best quality that provided an even, clear flame. Even more precious were the glass globes that surrounded them.
But all of these warm, homely details were lost in the wonder of the table before us. We filed in, oblivious to all else in our state of curious wonderment.
In its' center was a great brazier, larger than any I'd ever seen, cold in the summer heat but sure to warm the most frozen of wanderers in wintertime. Round it stood what resembled a great, flat wooden ring on stout oak legs that curved in fantastic designs. I saw the hand of the British artists in the embellishments around the edges, but the real art was to be found on the polished black surface.
Copper motifs embossed the fine timber. Symbols of half-forgotten Celtic gods, and also the signs of the Christian Higher Power, Arthur's god, interspersed with the marks of our own deities. A horseman on a deer for Afsati, the magic pipe of Azamas, the hybrid woman with snake arms and bird wings, hair plaited in two long ropes of coppery thread, that depicted Komarovo. There was a miniscule herd of cattle to honor Falvara with Tutyr the Wolf snapping at their heels, the moon of Jázon, and a large sun dominating every man's place, as Khors dominated every realm.
He'd thought of everything. The dear man, he was brilliant and wonderful and every other good thing that could be said of a human being. I hesitantly traced the names inlaid in the marvelous construction. My fingers stopped on Huddan's name, the first of tento leave us. My heart filled with the tears that I could not yet shed and I looked up at Arthur's smile of anticipation and met it with a strange smile of my own, neither joyful nor sorrowing.
When Arthur spoke, he spoke quietly, so as not to break the reverent silence that had fallen upon us. "Knights," he said, "Look around you. We are brothers. In this room, I am not your commander, or your lord, or your leader. My place is the very same as yours. Yours is identical to that of the man next to you. For men to be men, they must first all be equal. And women," he conceded with a nod to me.
"In this room, we are each only another being who walks this earth. Let us never forget this moment of equality and rejoice that we are here and together and whole, and remember and honor those who are not." There came a general murmur of assent. Unlike those he'd spoken before we entered the reformed hall, these were entirely spur-of-the-moment and heartfelt. I looked back down at the names I traced with gentle fingers.
My inspection came to a halt at my own name, ISOLDE, carved deeply into the wood and shining like gold. This was my place. This was where I belonged. For once, it felt right to be here, in this hall at Badon Hill, on this island that was Britain. For once, it wasn't just a word. I was home.
Arthur ordered a fine feast be prepared to celebrate the completion of the Round Table. The men who, with skilled and able hands, had fashioned this symbol of our equality sat amongst us at the places of the fallen knights with minimal friction from the others. So, too, did Vanora sit with Bors for this one evening, sharing from his platter like the ladies of the old halls had once done. With a little stretching, I could almost imagine that we were all together again.
The food was beyond wonderful, and as I drank from my bronze goblet and absentmindedly fingered the copper inlay where my name was writ, I speculated that finer could not be had in a king's hall.
When the food had been carried away or devoured, Bors pushed back his chair and bellowed, "Shut up!" in his usual blunt way.
"Vanora and I… have somethin' we wanna say." He obviously had something on his mind, and had given this much thought, but wasn't quite sure how to go about it. Vanora took matters into her own hands. I idly sipped at my ale.
"We're having a baby." She couldn't have astounded me more if she'd cracked me over the head with a staff and danced naked on the tabletop. I choked on the mouthful of ale and coughed loudly. Whatever I thought Bors wanted to announce, it wasn't this.
There was a moment of awed silence. I suppose we'd all become accustomed to the end of life that a new life seemed almost alien to us. It certainly seemed that way to me.
Finally Wynn clapped, and Marrok whistled and hooted. That set the rest of us off and we wasted no time in pounding Bors on the back and in my case, hugging both him and Vanora enthusiastically.
"A whole new generation to torment," Lancelot reveled happily.
"You're not gettin' anywhere near my kid, Lance, so forgit about it." He used the slang term for child. Lancelot narrowed his eyes at his arch-rival. "This babe's gonna be as strong and fearless as his papa," Bors bragged.
"He certainly is," interjected Lance, "because he's mine. I meant to tell you all, Vanora and I are secretly lovers and she's having my love child."
Bors' face turned ruddy and he balled up his fists. "Say it again and I'll bash yer face in," he warned. "You stay away from Vanora, hear? She's mine. And so's my son."
Lancelot's eyes lit up at the success of this new game, and he pestered Bors some more before letting the matter go in a rare show of self-preservation.
I frowned. Who said his firstborn was going to be a boy? I didn't want this child to feel unwanted if it turned out to be of the female variety. I tried to pretend it was basic humanity, but inside I knew I was quickly warming to the idea of having a little "niece" or "nephew" running around the fort, making who knew how much trouble. I never realized how much I missed the carefree laughter of happy children. The young ones hereabouts had far too much experience with tragedy.
I saw Vanora mirroring my frown and for a moment our eyes locked in perfect understanding. Then Ru called something to me and the mood was broken.
Our stomachs full and thirst renewed with the need for celebration, Arthur called for wine, something we didn't often have. When our cups had been filled, our leader got to his feet and took up his drink. We followed, and I ignored the twinge in my healing shoulder.
"To peace and health, and the finest knights in the known world!" He toasted. We gave forth a cheer that echoed through the fort. We happily drank to that. Kuluk stood next.
"To Bors and Vanora, if they have one babe may they also have ten!" I smiled amiably as I lifted my cup to my lips. The next was from Bran.
"ToMarrok and Galahad. We're glad to have you back with us, and safely out of Sad's clutches, if only for extra target practice." We roared with laughter and drank again. We all knew what was coming next.
When it came, it was Kei who spoke, surprising me. We'd never been particularly close. "To Isolde, the prettiest girl we'll ever meet, the deadliest fighter we'll ever face, and the best and most loyal friend a man could have."
But before they could shout approval and drink for the fourth and final time, there came a derisive snort form the entryway.
"A good and loyal friend, is it? Funny, that. All I see is a fake, and a dirty traitor to her people."
My smile faltered as I turned to the speaker, and died altogether when I saw his face.
I stumbled back with a choked cry, knocking over my chair. My breath caught in lungs frozen with shock and a measure of fear. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't do anything but stare at the ghost of my long-dead past come back to haunt me.
I never noticed my brothers' questions or the threatening way the advanced on him with demands of who he thought he was. I only saw the burnt and crumbling corpse clutching a familiar knife in the midst of the wicked, greedy flames that claimed my village. I didn't feel Tristan, standing next to me, catch up my hand in an effort to anchor me to the real world.
"Now, now, Isolde, you know who I am. Come and give your betrothed a kiss."
End Chapter.
Oooh! Gatalas is back! Remember him? Now, how do you suppose he escaped from the village unscathed? You'll find out in the next chapter! I can hardly believe it how evil I am.
For something more solid, I've decided to base Badon Hill (or more accurately, the fort there) at the town and wall fort of Corbridge, which is around the middle section of Hadrian's Wall. If you looked at a map, you would find that that particular part of Britain is fairly narrow.
And the lovely romantic friction between Tristan and Isolde… I was so tempted to put them together right there, but that would be just a bit too easy, for her to just jump him and get it over with. Hell, I would've jumped him already. I'm impressed with her self-restraint. And it really wasn't the right time. Sorry, folks!
I'd like to thank plzkthx, who seems to be trying to be that special someone who reviews first and foremost every time I post a chapter. I love habitual reviewers, although I myself am nothing of the sort. So just for fun, and because I'm feeling benevolent, this chapter was dedicated to you, plzkthx. You're the best kind of reviewer – the dedicated, helpful kind! (hint, hint)
And before I forget, thanks also to Scouter for your continued support of my story. While I love getting suggestions from people, your short and sweet reviews can make my day just knowing that there's someone out there who thinks it's just that good. And also to Hera's Vengeance, who has a way with compliments that make me blush and say: Oh, stop. No, really, I mean it. Oh… well… okay.
I actually had to actively restrain myself from posting this right away, but… eventually, I gave in. I was going to wait till Saturday, but… I just couldn't do it. Damn my innate desire for everyone to like me (unless they're assholes, in which case I don't give a damn)!
What? Don't look at me like that - it is rated T for a reason.
Ribhinn