Disclaimer: I own no rights over the characters and don't intend to make money with it. It's just my take on how the story would continue.

This story picks up right after the battle at the end of the film "Tristan + Isolde". Tristan just died at the banks of the river, wounded deadly by Wictred. To my astonishment, there existed no such story yet. So I decided to write it.

I know in the "original" legend Isolde dies as well (at least in two of the medieval versions), but in the film she just sat beside the dying Tristan. So in my fantasy she lives on. I imagine how the rest of her life - and that of King Marke would play out.

I am a huge fan of Rufus Sewell and his fine nuances in his brilliant acting. He is a reflected great and wise man, with a good amount of humour who played all his roles to perfection, even in productions that normally didn't deserve him. And he was and is still hot in a sublime way. I think, it's his charisma.
So, this is - although a bit late - but better late than never ;) - my hommage to one of the best actors in this world.

Please comment, also your ideas, what you think would have happened afterwards.


Life moves on - Part I

Three days later in the early morning - silence was laying over the land. The smell of death and the remnants of the destruction all over the place.

King Marke was standing at the railings of the wall walk near the drawbridge, gazing over his flayed land.

At least, Castle d'Or was still standing - mostly. A great lot of the men was lost now. Only so few remained. Hardly enough to lead the realm. But - in spite of all odds, they survived and eventually won the fight.

The greater part of the different remaining british noblemen had joined them and together they prevailed. On the other side, only a few Irish survived and made it back with only a couple of boats to sail home. They would leave them in peace for a long time.

Today was the day, where everybody who was still able to breathe would mourn the dead. It was time to initiate the burials. They had not enough boats for every loss, but they would proceed differently this time. They had captured the remaining seven irish boats for this purpose. They would lay all the dead onto those boats in piles and then burn down those bigger boats as "dead ships".

Marke felt leaden, benumbed. For the second time he had lost a son. Tristan had been like a son to him, after his pregnant wife had been murdered by the Irish a long time ago. Tristan would have been the next leader, if he had not betrayed his king….

Marke shook his head to get rid of this train of thoughts. That led to nowhere. Eventually Tristan had proved himself loyal to him. He even risked and lost his life to protect the castle. Tristan had fulfilled his duty.

And now it was his, Marke's turn to fulfil his duty as king. He had to lead the ceremony, he had to communicate with the other british kings. He had to pick up the remnants of this land, to make it strong enough against other enemies, who would undoubtedly come if they heard that they were now weak and outnumbered.

No, he knew that he had to unify the british territories.

Now.

No matter in what emotional state he or his men were. No matter that his right upper arm was still hurting badly from an arrow wound that had become inflamed.

It was necessary.

Based on his sense of duty he snapped himself forcefully out of the numbness and tried to concentrate on the issue at hand - organizing the funerals.


After The Funerals

Late afternoon

Isolde was sitting on the cliff above the bay where the ceremony had taken place, watching the rest of the burning boats floating away. The wind became fresher and she shuddered inside, not knowing whether it was from the cold or from the sorrow. She simply felt empty and sore. For three days she had been weeping and mourning.

Her beloved Tristan was swept away from her. How could she continue with her life? He was the man of her life. No, he HAD BEEN her life.

It had been already hard to not openly living their love. But this…..

Another wave of tears rose up and she let them silently flow.

Evening

King Marke was sitting in his hall beneath the fireplace, a stony face. He drank silently his ale while hearing what the messengers who got back from the nearer kingdoms had to tell him. It was devastating to hear, most of the kingdoms had been bled out during the period of recurring threats from foreign forces, prominently the Irish. The messengers from farer away were not yet there. They would arrive within the next days.

Marke's subconscious registered the hidden resources and possibilities of each kingdom from the reports. Overall, he felt totally numb and reacted barely at all, but an instance deep inside him proceeded the facts he just heard silently and switched into planning and strategy mode. Which was good. At least one bit of him was still able to function, while the bigger part was mourning Tristan and his wasted life.


The 4th day after

The morning dawned. Pale light streamed through the small windows into the chamber. Marke lay on his bed, awoken since several hours. There was no point in sleeping. Sleeping would not tear away the emptiness inside him. There was also no point in getting up.

To what avail? He had no motivation. There would be no heir to his throne. He saw no future for his realm.

But he had to, he was the king!

Groaning and sore he stemmed himself up. His arm hurt badly. Normally he'd had to have somebody tend to it, a healer maybe... or Isolde? Didn't Isolde heal Tristan after he was badly wounded and half dead? Now he REALLY was dead.

Marke stopped himself inside. Wrong train of thought.

He emptied his mind as good as he could.

Then he forced himself to get up. He shouted for his chamber maid, who helped him with his clothes.

Normally he had learned how to cope for his lacking hand, and he was very well capable to clothe himself correctly. But with his hurting arm and the lack of motivation, he was now just grateful, that he as king was entitled help with anything, even with this.

Early evening

Marke's day had been full of more planning and gathering resources together with the two intimate friends and retainers that rested him, Leon and Kurseval. They had to get an overview of what was left, who could still work and what was needed. He tried to prioritise and compensate for the lack of everything. And they had to plan for the winter.

At the early evening he was even more exhausted. And his arm hurt even more. Now the pain began throbbing and he REALLY had to do something about it.

Even though he had no motivation at all and felt only sore and empty inside, Marke knocked on Isolde's chamber door. Bragnae opened. She was as pale as Isolde had been during the burial ceremony yesterday. She let him in, so he could see her lying silently crying on the bed.

He suppressed his impulse to lay himself beneath her to weep together about Tristan's death and instead cleared his throat.

Isolde looked up and dried quickly her eyes with her sleeve.

Marke spoke softly "Isolde, I need you."

She gazed at him, astonished. "What for?", she hissed with a rough voice.

Marke shoved up the sleeve over his right arm and turned the right side of his toward her. "My arm is hurt. Didn't you know how to tend to wounds?"

Deftly she wound herself out of the bed and was in few paces at his side. She turned delicately his right side towards the window, so that she could have a better look.

Then something clicked inside her. She had no idea what happened, but she felt anger creeping up her stomach.

She asked with an enraged tone: "And when did you plan to tell me or any healer that you are wounded?" She snorted agitated. "Men! All the same. Coming only to tend to their wounds when it is nearly too late."

To her and to Marke's surprise, she really was angry at him. Marke stared at her with wide open eyes, astonished.

She dragged him at his left arm and tossed him out of the room into the better light outside. She didn't know where all of a sudden her force of wrath came from. But she knew that now she had an objective to canalise her enragement. She let it flow.

Outside with the help of the rest of the daylight she saw the whole mess. It was dirty, sweaty, badly inflamed and already filled with purulence. Splints of the arrow apparently still inside the wound.

She looked him in the eyes and told him with an angry steady reproachful voice "This is bad and you know it."

He looked with empty eyes at her and said softly "I know, I just didn't care. I was not planning on using the arm anyway. No point with no hand." And after a small pause he added sadly to himself: "No point anyway."