15 Handfast

Tristan and Isolde, arm in arm, stood in the clearing.

Then, Dagonet and Vanora approached, each of them holding two yards of ribbon. The waitress's deep voice rose the skies in a ballad that had seen countless Brittonic weddings, and for a moment, Isolde was a little sad that they had found no Sarmatian song that would fit the mood. But they had the honey.

So, while Vanora's voice created a bubble of warmth around them, Tristan grabbed both ribbons. He was ready. Heart beating fast, Isolde fished a third one between her breasts, made from the remains of her dress, with Yazigues patterns embroidered in its centre. Then, she started braiding them together, each stroke accompanied by the love song that echoed in the clearing. Behind Tristan, Dagonet held his breath, taken by the solemnity of the moment. He'd attended many weddings, but this one, held in the intimacy of the forest, seemed to be blessed by the spirits themselves.

Isolde's deft fingers plaited the ribbon, backing up as the symbolic bind was created between her and Tristan. Then, at t last, the braid was complete, and both groom and bride stood at an extremity. A moment of eternity passed before the scout tugged at the braid, calling his wife-to-be to him. Vanora's voice faltered when Isolde grabbed Tristan's hand. The young woman lifted her eyes to the man who was, now, her world. He gave her an encouraging look, albeit nothing in his features actually moved.

But Isolde could read him well, now. Like an open book. Gathering her courage, she exhaled, and started lacing the ribbon around both of their wrists.

"I now pledge my life to yours. May your sorrows be my sorrows, your joys my joys, and your thoughts always welcome in our household."

Isolde paused then, tears welling in her eyes. She blinked them away, taking the ribbon another turn around their joined wrists. She couldn't look at his eyes; she knew the raw emotion within would make her cry, and she had more to say. So she went on, her fingers sliding on the embroidered ribbon.

"Tristan… I have loved you from the beginning, even when I didn't know what love was. Now that I do, I vow to keep it vibrant in my chest, for your sake and mine, and to eternity."

Silence greeted her words, and aside from the sputtering of the torch, she couldn't even hear the others' breath. Then, Tristan's right hand caught the ribbon, and he started to lace it in criss-cross patterns. His voice was hoarser than usual; the kind of grating that sometimes happened after a good night's sleep.

"My Isolde…", he started.

And she couldn't resist, this time, lifting her eyes to meet his. Tristan's fingers paused in his lacing as his gaze trapped her.

"I have confided my heart to you some time ago. I beg you to take good care of it, it is the only one I have. But it is yours. In return, I vow to love you to the end, whenever that may be."

She couldn't contain the tears that overflowed, and Tristan brought her to him with a tug on their laced hands to wipe them away. How she loved those fingers, they always touched her with such reverence, love in every gesture.

Dagonet stood before them now, and tied the ribbon tightly, earning an amused glance from her husband, and a scoff from Vanora.

"Softly, Dag. She's not going to escape."

The giant laughed, watching Tristan and Isolde, face to face, lost in their own little world. How the scout had managed to land such a lady was beyond him, but they suited each other beautifully. Behind the ruthlessness dwelt a man with manners and education. And even if Tristan played with his persona, no one was stupid enough to think him a lowlife. Isolde, with her poise and manners, would be a suitable wife to the scout. But he wasn't about to let Tristan know of his admiration…

"Tis just to make sure she stays," Dagonet teased. "Tristan can be difficult."

The scout chuckled, his fingers lacing with Isolde around the ribbon. A slap sounded, and Vanora spoke.

"Shut up, and say your piece."

"Very well. Take your tissue, you're going to wail like a banshee."

And the moment of mirth died as Dagonet's strong voice echoed in the clearing, his meaty hands grabbing the mess of ribbons and wrists.

"Isolde, Tristan. These are the hands that will cherish you through the years, and will comfort you like no other. These are the hands that will hold you when fear and grief fill your mind."

Isolde's fingers tightened around Tristan's; he already had comforted her in grief, held her in sickness and saved her, even. She remembered his very first touch, the day he had pulled her tattered dress over exposed legs. Somehow, behind the gruff exterior, the scout had been nothing but a knight to her. And today, he looked the part; he wasn't hiding anymore. She was glad she would never have to share.

"These are the hands that will countless times wipe the tears from your eyes; tears of sorrow, and as in today, tears of joy. These are the hands that will tenderly hold your children, and give you strength when you need it."

Isolde froze, wondering if she would be able to give Tristan a family of his own. Wondering if he would hold her when she writhed in pain, pushing a baby out of her. They had shared a bed for a while now, and if Vanora was pregnant again, Isolde had no symptoms to account for. Perhaps she was barren, after all. Would Tristan mind? He had never talked of children, surviving was difficult enough.

Oblivious to Isolde's fears, Vanora smiled, and, taking her place beside Dagonet, brought a small pot of honey before them.

"Now you will feel no rain, for you will be shelter to each other. Now you will feel no cold, for each of you will be warmth to the other. Now there is no more loneliness, for each of you will be companion to the other."

Isolde closed her eyes an instant, feeling Tristan's warmth, his sturdy presence beside hers. Those words resonated in her soul, so true.

"Now you are two bodies, but there is only one life before you. May this honey symbolise the sweetness that you will bring into each other's world."

The young woman opened her eyes as Vanora held the bowl before her; the designs were Sarmatians, as was the recipient. A token, hunted by Tristan over former Sarmatian households so that they could perform the ritual. Isolde plunged her pinky finger in honey, then brought it to Tristan's mouth. The scout wrapped his sensual lips around it, his tongue coated in honey as he sucked it out sensually. Isolde barely refrained from whimpering, the dance of his appendage sending her blood south when he released her with a "pop".

The scout smirked, satisfied with his little effect. Cheeks ablaze, Isolde watched as his pinky finger, bigger than hers, dipped in the liquid honey. A mischievous idea came to her mind, and she accepted the offering with a smile. Her little tongue wrapped around him, removing the sticky substance with a hum of satisfaction. Oh, the scout knew to bestow some sweetness over his little woman for sure. And to show him her appreciation, Isolde decided to take a little nip of her husband's flesh.

It was fairly discreet, just a nick with her front teeth. A way to assuage her need for him to belong to her.

Tristan didn't move a muscle, but his eyes twinkled at her gall. Then they turned stormy, and Isolde knew she was in for a very rowdy night… The bride blushed profusely, glad that the darkness covered her flustering as Vanora's closing words ended the ceremony.

"May your days be good and long. Tristan and Isolde, you may now walk the earth as husband and wife."

Silence returned in the clearing, only interrupted by the sparks that escaped the torch as the breeze played with the flames. Tristan lifted his free hand to cup Isolde's cheek, his finger sliding at her nape to pull her further in. Isolde released a shaky breath – it was now done! – before his lips captured hers in a slow kiss.

There was a promise here; the retribution of her little nip at his pinky finger as well, all in due time… Isolde's hand rested upon his chest, searching for the beating of his heart. The gentle "thud thud" never failed at bringing solace, even now when her sensations went haywire. But the public prevented her from melting against him altogether, and she promised herself that, before dawn came, she would taste every single bit of his skin.

A throat cleared, marking the end of their sensual kiss. Tristan rested his forehead against hers for a moment. His breath fanned upon her face, sweet and warm.

"Come, you two," Vanora said. "There's a basket with cake and mead. Then we'll leave you to your … ahem. Night."

"Lead the way," Tristan responded, lacing his finger through hers.

They dipped below the canopy once more, walking along the stream until they found a secluded spot. Furs had been laid, and as promised, a basket and a blanket laid on the ground. The gurgle of the stream echoed against the rocks that surrounded the area, and the moon provided for enough light to sit and talk face to face.

The newlyweds settled on the blanket, and extracted cake and mead with only a few struggles. Isolde laughed, wondering how long they would last with their hands tied together. Tristan seemed pretty unfazed, but the hint of a smile that disappeared into his neat beard told her it amused him.

Isolde was glad Vanora got to make the basket; she absolutely hated Kumy – that sour milk Sarmatians were fond of – and had settled for mead instead. Awkwardly, Tristan poured it into clay cups that she held. The first one went to Vanora, the second to Dagonet. And the third into their joined hands, so that they took a turn into the drink. At last, they lifted their cup to their friends.

"To your happiness," Dagonet stated.

"Aye," both Vanora and Tristan responded.

And they all took a gulp of the honeyed drink under the moonlight, and partook in the cake supposed to represent their new life. But the marriage would not be sealed until they consummated it, and so, after a merry moment and a few laughs caused by involuntary movements, Vanora and Dagonet left the newlyweds to their evening.

But neither of them felt like moving yet, for the night was fair, and the breeze not cold enough to chase them away from the blanket. And so, side by side, Tristan and Isolde ate and drank until the seamstress started swaying against her husband, and the scout was too filled to swallow anything more. Alone under the moon, the forest swathed in darkness and silvery light, the music far, far away and Beltane's fire forgotten, they laid upon the blanket, limbs intertwined, and blinked at the sky.

A sharp cry shook them out of their slumber. Hawk landed beside the basket with an indignant cry, startling Isolde who squeaked. But Tristan only smirked, and dug in the basket to feed his companion. Hawk remained a few moments, feasting upon scraps of meat as Isolde watched, mesmerised, its powerful beak tear the pieces apart. In the end, Tristan picked the bird up, and brought their bound hands to caress its breast.

Isolde's breath caught when she buried her hand in the feathers; they were so soft. She understood, now, why Tristan loved to brush her hair with his fingers; he yearned for softness.

"Hawk. This is my wife. Care for her, like you care for me, and she will return the favour. Right, little wife?"

Isolde smiled, her fingers spread upon the bird's breast.

"Yes, I will."

Hawk's sudden cry caused her to retrieve her hand brusquely, tugging on the braid that still linked them together. Isolde tumbled aside, causing the bird to take off with a reproachful cry.

"All right. I don't think my message went across so well."

Tristan laughed gently, righting her by his side, his free hand caressing her temple.

"Feed her and you'll win her."

"Is that how I won you?"

For a long moment, Tristan didn't respond. His fingers just played with her skin, his eyes roaming the intricate braids, interwoven with ribbons and flowers, contemplating her eyes, almost gray in the moonlight. Love shone within, pure raw emotion without the seed of a doubt.

Here he was, holding the most beautiful woman of the fort in his arms. Married. She had tied her hand to his, and her destiny just as well. Denied her origins for him, and shed all matters of pretence to give him her heart. He was proud and humbled all the same.

"Nay," he whispered before his mouth descended upon hers.

She had won him a thousand times over. Her courage, her bluntness, her manners, her gentleness and her care were just the tip of the iceberg that complimented her great beauty. There were too many reasons for his admiration, none of them enough to cause that great love that swelled in his heart.

Fate had put her on his path; he just had to pluck the wildflower, mindful to keep her happy and nourished. And now, he accepted that if he wanted her to thrive, he needed to nourish her. If, for a long time, that dependency terrified him, the scout now knew to be Isolde's sun.

The young woman melted against him, and he dragged her down, tasting her lips as if the earth was about to crumble. And they made love under the stars, many a time, their hands still fastened. It was their own ceremony, the moment they became husband and wife to the spirits of the forest, and those of earth and sky.

And when dawn greeted the newlyweds, dragging them out of their furs, they unfastened the ribbon and slid it into the basket. Then, Tristan unsheathed his dagger and cut a strand of his hair. Gently, he unplaited all of Isolde's long reddish hair, dropping the flowers as his fingers caressed her long silky ringlets. Once he was satisfied, her gathered three strands, and incorporated his own into a side braid. There. She was marked as his.

Isolde then returned the favour, cutting a piece of her own hair, below the nape, and braiding it into Tristan's. There. Now the scout belonged to her.

And thus was sealed her fate. Once more, she became the lady Isolde, wife of Sir Tristan.