Author: Triane
Disclaimer: Not. Mine. Except Iona. Everything else belongs to someone else. Even more so now, that we're into movie territory - I've done what I could to gloss over using the actual dialogue, but if you recognize dialogue or action, its because it's. Not. Mine.
Summary: Iona discovers what Sarmatian widows do
Iona followed Tristan blindly out of the courtyard, grateful for his arm around her to keep her from stumbling. Not aware and not caring where they ended up, she roused only when she saw that he had led her to the room she had shared with Dagonet. Heart pierced at the sight of their bed, she turned to run, but Tristan again stopped her, unbuckling and removing her armour with gentle but business-like hands, placing it on the chest where it would be cleaned by the squires.
From there they walked the few steps to Tristan's room, where he pushed her gently into a chair while he removed his own armour, then again gathered her to himself and walked with her to the infirmary where Dagonet's body was waiting.
With a low moan of pain, Iona looked at her husband's still form, bloodied and wet, skin white and chest still, broken arrow shafts protruding from his well-worn armour. She swayed on her feet, but stayed upright through sheer force of will - why, she didn't know, when all she wanted to do was die as well.
Dagonet's body was gravity, pulling her in with as much ease in death as it ever had in life. With Tristan ever-present beside her, Iona moved forward in a daze, stumbling only slightly, somehow winding up at Dagonet's side without being aware she had even moved across the room. With cold fingers she traced his eyebrows, his nose, his mouth, committing his features to memory for the last time. His still hand she pressed to her lips, willing some sort of feeling into her dead heart, willing the tears to fall, willing herself to do something, anything, other than stand a broken, empty shell with her husband's hand clasped to her.
A movement at the door and she turned slowly, Dagonet's hand pressed to her heart. Two young servant girls peered into the room, wary looks on their faces and bundles of cloth in their hands. Tristan's voice was quiet.
"They're here to prepare his body for burial."
For a long moment Iona stared at them, her mind sluggishly processing what Tristan said.
"No." Her voice cracked, hoarse from screaming at Germanius. The girls looked from her to Tristan and back again, uncertainty written in their faces, their movements. Iona could almost hear their thoughts - the knight's widow would cause a scene, probably attack them, refuse his burial... she was foreign, after all, and who knows what barbaric customs her people had. Iona cleared her throat and tried again.
"No - I will do it."
"I'll help." Bors' voice came from the chair in the corner and Iona turned slightly, not knowing until he spoke that he was even there. She watched as he took the burial cloths from the girls and shut the door behind them, then came to stand beside her. For a brief moment she leaned into him, and he smoothed a rough hand over her hair like a father would. Her voice was soft.
"Is this what Sarmatian widows do?" He nodded.
"And then they do what they've always done." Iona's eyes slid shut, not knowing how she could do what she'd always done without Dagonet there to do it with her. She felt Bors move away from her, heard him walk to the other side of the bed, felt his patient gaze. With a broken, shuddering sigh that came from her toes, she nodded slightly, tenderly placing Dagonet's hand back on the bed.
They worked silently, carefully, gently removing Dagonet's armour and clothing, pulling the repulsive arrows from his chest, washing him with lightly scented water, rubbing his cold skin with herbs, binding him tightly with strips of cloth. Every once in a while, Iona felt Bors' tears fall on her hands and she wondered why it was that he could cry when she had no tears in her. The thought fell back into the emptiness that consumed her and she forged on woodenly, concentrating only on what she was doing.
Finally, all that was left was Dagonet's shaved head, with his scars and beloved features. For a long moment Iona stared down at him, her small hands framing his face like that first night in the tavern so long ago. She bent and pressed one last kiss to his cold lips, then nodded to Bors. Slowly, turn by turn, he wound the cloth until there was nothing left to see but the burial shroud.