11 Adieu

The seamstress' house was cold and empty. Isolde had not the heart to return.

She remained in Tristan's quarters for a while, just for the sake of hearing Gawain and Galahad fight a few rooms down. Every morning, Isolde gathered a heavy basket with the menial tasks she had accepted – mending shirts and trimming hems – and brought it to the fort where she worked. Tristan had not protested much, even if she invaded his space. Ever the silent knight.

His presence was a balm to her wounded heart. Every evening, when she fell asleep in his arms, she knew he would keep the world at bay. Push the darkness, repel the harshness and protect her with his life. For a few months, Isolde mourned her mother figure in peace in the knights' quarters.

Well, in relative peace as Gawain and Galahad bickered all day long, and Bors sometimes got in piss ass drunk, kicked out from their home by Vanora. Tristan, the silent scout, usually handled the ruckus by fleeing in the backcountry. And today, he had offered to take her for a ride to see what Hawk was up to; it was mating season, after all. His fellow brothers were on edge, and it grated on both of their nerves.

The young couple disappeared with a little food stowed in a leather bag. Apples, bread and cheese, a very simple meal to partake in their favourite spot along the stream. Isolde adorned a riding garment she had sewn herself to be able to ride behind him; less romantic, and more efficient. At last, they reached a clearing that allowed for the sun to warm the damp earth. The mare was left free to graze upon spring grass as they settled on rocks.

Tristan sliced an apple methodically, slicing pieces that she would swallow from his hands while she gallivanted about, looking for spring flowers. A few primroses rose from the ground, and violets whose fragrance was so strong that it covered the taste of his apple. Those weren't really suitable for a bouquet, but she allowed Tristan to braid them in her hair.

A swish of air and a screech barely warned them before Hawk landed on Tristan's shoulder, piercing new holes into his padded leather.

"So, no mate this year?" Tristan asked gently.

The bird screeched again, dancing on his shoulder while Isolde searched for meat scraps in their bag. The animal's keen sense of smell warned it that food was incoming, and it altogether flew from Tristan's shoulder to perch upon a nearby branch, closer to Isolde. The young woman jumped, but managed to feed the animal without too much flustering. Tristan's eyes twinkled at the sight, and he addressed Hawk seriously.

"See, I have found mine, at last."

Isolde's heart lurched; he'd never voiced such feelings. And if tavern wenches would have found the term "mate" derogatory, or too animalistic altogether, Isolde didn't recoil from it. Hawks mated for life, so did Sarmatian men. Had she not fled, she would be married to Marcus, the adornment of his house, while he took mistresses, or slaves, or even boys to his bed. There would be children sporting his features, and blows incoming whenever she didn't comply. Her mother's life.

But Tristan would remain faithful; he never laid a hand upon a woman aside from battle. Didn't disparage females, albeit he didn't understand them. His affection was a present. Eyes shining with unshed tears, Isolde prowled to her knight and settled in his lap. His kiss was the sweetest nectar, his lips the softest of caresses. And when Hawk screeched and flew away, they both chuckled.

"I think your bird is disgusted with us," Isolde laughed.

Tristan just shrugged, and returned to her lips. Isolde would have remained in the forest forever, but her scout eventually nudged her nose, and stood.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

"The wind changed," he just responded, holding his hand out to her.

And she wondered what it meant. A change in the weather, or something else altogether? Tristan was the son of a shaman, he seemed to speak with animals, earth and air without even realising it. And so, without any more questions, they mounted his mare again and returned to the wall. His body was tense, Isolde moulded behind him to allow for more haste; the wall wasn't far away.

A strange agitation seemed to have taken hold of the fort, and the sight of Gawain rushing down the cobbled street to greet them confirmed what Isolde already knew; Tristan was attuned to his surroundings up to the point of magic.

"Tristan! Arthur had called for an emergency meeting."

The scout dismounted, and offered his hand for her to follow. Isolde grasped his arms, her stomach clenching painfully. The days of peace were over; she felt is in her bones. And when Gawain confirmed that the treacherous waters of the east had stilled, allowing a horde of Saxons to stumble upon the shore, Isolde blanched. A full army, they said. Perhaps a thousand men.

Tristan didn't flinch, his usual poise unmoved save from a meaningful look. Then he turned on his heels, and climbed back to the fort with Gawain struggling to meet his strides. Hands shaking, Isolde brought the animal back to Jols in the stables, and returned to Tristan's room. What could she do, except resume her work? This, at least, would distract her.

Whispers ran in the corridors as she worked her deft hands on a fine wool dress. She tried to keep the hem even, but when Tristan eventually opened the door and walked in, his gait stiff, she knew.

She knew the knight would ride off at first light, and meet the horde of Saxons head on.

Dread seized her heart. Not him! She had lost the seamstress already, she couldn't lose him too!

The scout bolted the door, his eyes smouldering ambers that reduced her to tatters. Isolde blanched, and did not protest when Tristan gathered wool, thread and needle in a ball and threw it in the basket. She didn't flinch when he dragged her to her feet and attacked her mouth, his tongue begging for entrance. She welcomed his large hands when they gathered her skirts up and roamed her skin, the callouses upon his fingers caressing her hips, her spine, her aching belly.

She wanted him, just as much as he wanted her. Her body pulsated under his touch, calling him within, where he belonged. Isolde watched, mesmerised, the hard planes of his chest when he shed his tunic. Such a beautiful man! The scars only emphasised his muscular built, decorations upon coiled muscles, dusted with chestnut hair. A true warrior.

Tristan prowled forward, step by step, chest exposed, goosebumps dancing upon his skin. Isolde retreated until her knees hit the straw mattress. Then she reclined languidly, daring him to cover her. The knight smirked; no challenge remained unanswered and he disposed of his breeches.

Isolde's eyes flashed, the throbbing need to be filled making her brazen. She diverted herself of the dress hastily, earning an appreciative glance from her scout. Although he never pronounced the world beautiful, she knew, by the way his eyes lingered, that he liked what he saw. Feverish, Isolde reached for him, craving the sensation of his skin upon hers.

Tristan grabbed her long legs and fastened them behind his hips. Then both his mouth and his manhood descended upon her, and she arched to accommodate him. He stretched her so delightfully; the perfect fit. Tongues mingled as he made love to her mouth, thrusting slowly into her. Isolde's hips met his, demanding, needy, calling him in, asking for his full length to return where he belonged. Deep within.

Tristan grunted, the need to mingle flowing in his veins, clawing his way further while he clung to her delightful body. So beautiful, so compliant, so incredible supple in his hands. Isolde was made of clay, offered and wet, awaiting for him to take form. The knight buried his nose in her hair, encasing her face with his forearm. Then, when she was fully secured against him, he picked up the pace.

Isolde' cries rose to the heavens, muffled by his hungry lips. The best compliment a man could ever receive. Unleashed, Tristan wound his arms around her shoulders, pulling her up.

Isolde was too far gone in her own passion to fight him. She arched, hands grabbing his neck for support, head thrown backwards. Tristan gasped; she had never been more beautiful. He swore to remember her, always, as she looked now. Long ringlets of fire swaying upon milky skin, of her rounded breast, her rosy lips parted in ecstasy as she let him lead their sensual dance. His hands settled on her hips, guiding her while his lips feasted upon an offered beast.

The pressure increased in his loins, uncontrollable, as his hips rose to meet hers stronger and stronger. Impaling her to the hilt. Tristan's hand grabbed her nape, pulling her down. Isolde moaned and exposed her beautiful neck, shuddering when his sharp canines nipped at the skin. Marking her. The wolf undone, slamming his body into hers, relentless.

Isolde was lost … lost in his embrace, lost in the throes of passion, lost in the man she loved more than life itself. His mouth, his hand, his body surrounded her; he was everywhere. The built up became so intense that a white veil stole her sight, and her body shuddered. A spam overtook her senses, she wound up her arms around his shoulders with a cry. She felt her walls clench around him, pleasure shooting up her spine, spreading in her belly, so intense that she called his name. Repeatedly.

Tristan's grunts turned into a powerful cry as he shattered in her arms. When he sank, like a disarticulate puppet, Isolde sighed. His heart beat so strongly against her ribcage that she had trouble breathing, and for a while, none of them moved.

He remained sheathed within her for a long time. Descending from the mighty high they'd just experienced. Sated, perhaps. Or stunned altogether. She didn't want to release him, and kept her arms around his shoulders, draped over her panting chest.

At last, Tristan lifted his head, and plunged his intense gaze into her eyes. Her breath caught; so many emotions swirled upon his usual impassive face. He was, for once, totally open. And he searched something in her eyes, observing, keeping her trapped, enthralled, mesmerized until…

"I love you, Isolde."

His words rung like an adieu; he'd never voiced his emotions so strongly. Tristan was a man of action. She tightened her hold upon him, and let the steady beats of his heart lull her to sleep.

She dissolved into tears when, at dawn, Tristan extricated himself from her embrace to adorn his armour. She watched him add layer after layer, mesmerised; the scout preparing for a battle from which he didn't expect to return.

And he didn't.