31 Epilogue

This was his ultimate battle. He was looking forward to it, his arms burning from the strain, his boots lagging in the snow. Fresh flakes still twirled around him, yet the sun shone on the still landscape. Blanketed in its icy clutches, the earth was not even breathing, awaiting for spring to revive the ground. But he wouldn't see it. Not this year. He'd seen too many. More than fifty five already.

Yes. Today, he would push his body to its very limit, fight the strain and the pain while the wind hurled his unruly hair away, trying to push his braid away.

Everything for her. And while he walked, Isolde nestled in his arms in the wide woolen cloak, Tristan couldn't help but remember.

Fifteen years ago, they had lost the greatest battle of history against the Saxons. More brutal than Badon hill, more deadly that any of his skirmishes with the woads, the outcome a piece of barren land and broken hearts.

Arthur died that day, Guinevere… fled back to her people, somewhere in the north. Evhan, his incredible, beautiful, fantastic son was buried with his sword. A piece of his heart went with him, and Isolde' tears were shed for three days and night upon his tomb. Madayne, sweet little Madayne, had become a fierce warrior that saved his life a dozen times on the battlefield. Her daughter's husband – Bors' fifth son - had succumbed all the same.

After a few days of mourning, his beautiful daughter begged him to take them away. And all those Sarmatian families, and many Brittonic ones, decided to leave Camelot behind before it would be swarmed with Saxons. Gawain, Galahad and their respective families followed him to the end of the world. Bors just as well, with whatever remained of his brood. So in they walked, and rode. Three thousand miles, passing through the remains of the Roman empire. They lost more men on the way, good warriors, protectors of their eclectic caravan who passed through Huns territory and barbarian lands. And still they followed him, albeit winter hurled at them, and days were short enough to have them huddle in the forests. A reminder of another time, a suicide mission when Dagonet had still ben alive. Had it been so long, already ? Who remembered the giant man ?

At last, they found some land and struck a bargain with the Huns in west Sarmatia. The earth wasn't great, but they had skill, and will. They worked their asses off, reverting to the old ways. Tristan became their leader, the 'Khan', taking his makeshift village from plain to plain as the weather led them, breeding horses, selling to whomever wanted the best warhorses on the world. For a time, they settled by the back sea, much to his wife's delight. Isolde, being part Irish, spent countless hours basking in the caress of the warm waves.

And he, like the lovesick fool he was, sent his children to work while he indulged in a little rest – the privilege of being old, and their chieftain - watching over his wife. The way her tunic clung to her curves, the way her long reddish hair fell upon her breasts, the way she moved like a water spirit. Those were the happiest years of his life, the most beautiful of memories… until the four remaining spawns of hell – his - descended the hill like a pack of yelling wolves and joined his wife after a hard day's work. And even if, always, he addressed a prayer to his ancestors to take care of Evhan, Tristan found himself dragged into the sea more often than not.

He was proud of them, his children. They were hard working, level headed people. And fearsome fighters, even though Madayne could beat them all. Hell, she even beat him now whenever he dared sparring with her. A true heir, destined to become their next chieftain. For no one contested that right. Tristan had led them here, but Madayne would be the cement to this impromptu colony.

Tribe wars led them further north, where the winds were harsher, but the lands more prolific. Tristan stood tall, an arm around Isolde' waist, as they both greeted the sea one last goodbye. And time flew so fast… Four different Hawks already had been his friend, and died. Yet, Tristan always had a bird in sigh whenever he left the yurt.

Today was no exception. High above, in the cloudless sky, Hawk let on its piercing cry. Tristan lifted his head, nearly stumbling for the weight he carried – his very thin wife – took a toll on his weakened arms. The former knight tightened his hold, squinting to spot the bird before he resumed his walk. One step further, and another. He could not give up. He was not a man to back down from a challenge; exhaustion had never won against his will. One last battle, then…

His breath created volutes in the freezing air, and Tristan shivered. A long time ago, as a young man, he'd been unbothered by the cold. But now there wasn't so much meat on his bones, and even less fat than before. Not much insulation, as his beloved wife would say. The bundle in his arms coughed, long heart wrenching spasms that wracked her whole frame. Tristan paused to kiss her sweaty brow, the shape of his lips molding over her skin tenderly. A tiny whimper answered him, causing him to smile.

"Not much longer now. We'll be here soon", he told her tenderly.

Another cough answered and Tristan resumed his walking. And albeit the muscles of his legs screamed in agony, his arms froze in the effort and his breath was shorter than after a sparring session with Gawain – the ancestors bless his soul – the knight didn't back down. Step after step, he climbed the hill. Tristan walked through the forest onto familiar paths, his eyes taking in the trees, bushes and streams he knew by heart. Then his feet passed the clearing threshold, and he could only marvel at the sight of the frozen landscape under the fierce light of the sun.

Then, at last, when he though that he would not be able to walk another step, Tristan slowly lowered Isolde against a boulder. The movement woke her up, and she coughed again disturbing the eerie peace of the forest. He crashed by her side more than he sat, his muscles stiff, his body half frozen already. Then he circled Isolde's shoulder with an arm, the other pulling the cloak over them both to share a moment of peace. The snow melting below their entwined bodies didn't register much. Little by little, the ice brought them the comfort of numbness.

Isolde' head turned, her wrinkled and tired face searching his eyes and Tristan smiled at her. His beloved companion, always there, not matter what. She'd been his strongest friend, his unwavering support through it all. Her admiration had kept him going in the direst times, her care healed his wounds, her patience soothed his soul. Today, it was time to repay her for her love. Staying by her side in this moment was the only way he knew how.

And through this last kiss, he conveyed how he had loved her, and loved her still, and would continue do so in death. Grabbing her little hand, he pressed it to his chest. Isolde' smile wasn't sad; it could have melted the ice over the great river. For a moment of eternity, he gazed into her golden flecked eyes, remembering all those moments they had shared, good and bad, joyful and heart wrenching, grateful for her presence as she was grateful for his. What they left behind – their children their legacy – was strong enough to fend from themselves. He was immensely proud for her gift; to mingle her blood with his, and show him how worthy his character was to create others out of it.

Isolde' head settled over his chest and the wind swept his cloak over them in hopes of freezing them away. And little by little, Tristan felt her heart slow down, his fingers start to freeze, and his body grow numb. Yet he never let go. When Isolde' expired her last breath, he kept her close against his chest. The sun dipped below the horizon, taking with it the last day of his wife's existence – his little seamstress. And as the night settled its heavy blanket over him, Tristan felt her soul tugging at him. His eyes closed by themselves and his chest heaved one last time. He had not a care in the world, for he was about to die in his woman's arms, and his soul would flee to find her in the afterlife. He sighed in relief.

The last breath of Tristan, fearsome scout and mighty warrior, made no sound in the sleeping forest. A piercing cry was heard in the sky, the cry of a Hawk freed from bonds.

Peace.