Waiting

Isolde was sore, and tired. So damn, dead tired. And worried.

She had two shirts and a gown to finish still, and no one to help. The seamstress' absence left a sore spot in her heart; she had been a better mother than her own. After the battle that had nearly claimed Tristan's life, Isolde had taken the seamstress mantle. It was more difficult than she expected. Especially since she couldn't help but falling asleep before the sun set at night.

But it wasn't what upset her the most.

Her eyes lingered at the door, where the braid of their secret marriage hung. The symbol of their union. Where was her husband ?

Tristan had not returned yesterday, neither the day before. Sick with worry, Isolde had eventually conceded and asked for news at the Fort. Commander Artorius had received her, without ceremony, at the round table only to tell her he had no news of the scouting party. His face, honest, had not been too reassuring. That man cared for his men, and the lines between his eyes told her everything she needed to know: Arthur was worried for Tristan.

So now Isolde paced. Mending shirts, sewing a hem, and keeping the stew hot. She had even managed to make an apple pie, hoping that she smell would carry over hills and valleys and bring her man back to her. Hoping, once more, than he would come back unscathed. Or at least, mendable.

After the great battle of the plains, she knew she would never consider a wound the same way again. Tristan had been hacked on the battlefield, the scars still bothered him. So did his left arm, pierced by a bolt on that fateful day. And his calf, the one that created the limp in his gait. Still … he had survived, and recovered admirably. Out of sheer stubbornness, of course, for Isolde had never seen a man push himself so strongly.

But she knew, now, that short from a blade in the heart or an arrow to the skull, her man could overcome the rest. As long as he made it home…

The sun had not yet touched the horizon when the door banged open. Isolde started, prickling her fingers with a needle as she did so. Had she fallen asleep on her chair?

"Ow!"

Then her eyes settled on the door, and the dark silhouette, covered in blood, that had just stormed in the house.

"My goodness, Tristan!"

She was on her feet this very instant, taking in the dire state of her husband. Grime, dirt and blood covered him, and he seemed to sway slightly. Blood rushed through Isolde' body, and for a moment, faintness overcame her senses. Putting her hand to her brow, she closed her eyes to prevent from being sick all over the floor. When she opened them anew, she caught Tristan's gaze below the mess of his hair. His eyes were hooded, defeated. Approaching slowly, the young woman offered her hand.

"How badly hurt?"

Isolde had got used to short sentences with her silent knight, and he appreciated the effort.

"Not much. I didn't die."

His voice was but a rasp, and Isolde stilled; others had died in his stead. Darkness seemed to swirl around her knight, the light of the fire dancing upon the caked blood that probably wasn't his. Isolde couldn't tell him how relieved she was to see him relatively unharmed.

"The others ?"

"A few scratches."

She gathered her courage instead, and rolled her thumb across his knuckles with a soothing motion.

"Sit, husband. I will take care of you."

And as she had done countless times before, Isolde replaced the stew with a cauldron of water over the fire, and started her routine. It didn't matter than, by law, they were not allowed to marry. Ever since the handfasting ceremony, they considered themselves husband and wife.

Like a bee in a hive, his little lady gathered medical supplies while he removed the sword from his back and shed his leather vest. Those, he would take care of himself. The soldier's sword already was in Arthur's possession. One last homage to a man far too young to die. A man who had taken an arrow to protect him from an ambush. A man without the opportunity to take a wife, or built a life. All because he had been too slow to detect the signs. How had he missed it? Tristan remained still, lost in the recesses of his mind.

Isolde' hands helped him shed the tunic, soaked with another's blood. Then she plunged a piece of cloth into the cauldron of warm water and washed his wounds, gently prodding cuts and bruises. Today, there was but one slice to stitch close, behind his thigh. She deftly took care of it, applying a poultice and bandaging tight to prevent infection from setting in. By now, she was so used to mending him that she didn't even flinch when he came back scrapped and bruised. One more scar to add to his ugly skin, or so he thought. He would never understand the light of delight in his wife's eyes whenever she undressed him.

Isolde needed not worry anymore for infection; Tristan was too vicious to allow it to settle in his bones. It had been the key to his survival those many years, no softness to spare. A hardened core, with an even thicker hull to prevent the world from hurting him. Strength and skills. Tristan watched her lovely face as she worked, her hands soothing his hurts. She looked tired; she moved with less agility than she used to. The scout frowned.

"Isolde."

The young woman wrung the cloth, facing him with an interrogative hum.

"Are you ill?"

The little seamstress gave him a lopsided smile, one so secretive that he wondered what he was missing before she addressed his worries.

"I am fine, do not fret."

And had Tristan not been so depressed, he might have laughed to hear his usual words in her mouth. For the moment though, his head fell backwards against the wall as he sighed.

Isolde took his cue and started washing his body from blood and grime. The warm rag softly soothed his tense muscles, her breath sometimes brushing his face as she bent over him, her plump breast touching his skin whenever she reached for his flanks. Tristan closed his eyes, relishing in the solace this simple ritual brought him.

Isolde was so soft, even when she gave in to passion. During all his years as a knight, Tristan always thought he would only settle with his match in skill. A fellow woman warrior, a Sarmatian who could shoot a bow and kill as efficiently as he did. He had never thought he would settle for a delicate woman. The idea, in itself, had made him scoff for years whenever Lancelot chased after tavern wenches.

Albeit Isolde' temper seldom flared, choosing to smooth things rather than aggravate, she still could hold her own against him with her gaze alone. He, only, knew how scary she could be when angered. But beside the fiery flames that resided deep within her soul, Isolde couldn't hurt a fly if she wanted to.

And now, Tristan knew he'd been wrong all along to look for a warrior to fill the position by his side. Isolde understood his moods, despite not being a fellow fighter. Whenever he talked – not often – she would listen intently and connect the dots of his murky mind. Whenever he didn't, she still paid such attention to him that she deciphered his thoughts with more ease than should have been comfortable.

Her touch, her words, her attentions were gentle and soothing. The reassurance he never had, the safe haven to go back to. Something akin to home, like the gentle crackling of a fire in a family yurt.

As curious as it seemed, Isolde was holding him together.

"Do you love me?", he suddenly asked.

His chest constricted painfully, like a man about to lose his head in battle. Isolde blinked, taken aback, and knelt in front of him to fully gaze into his eyes. The response was written there, in the depth of her bright emerald eyes.

"Aye. I do love you, with all my heart."

"Why?"

Barely a whisper, but she heard it nonetheless. His second question was as puzzling as the next, and he saw how she furrowed her brow. Seeing her confusion, Tristan discarded the wet cloth and grabbed her hands into his. Her lovely, delicate hands, compared to his callous ones. Hands of a seamstress, hands of a killer.

"How? Why didn't you run away when you heard the rumours?"

Understanding dawned on her features and she cupped his cheek, diving into his gaze with such intensity that he felt his heart thunder.

"I love you because you are a good man, and a good husband to me."

Tristan snorted.

"Because I fetch the water for you?"

Isolde frowned at his derisive tone. Like every Sarmatian boy, it was embedded in his skull; two people worked better than one. So he fetched the water at the well, and did the heavy lifting so that his little seamstress wouldn't have to. She already worked all day long, after all. No need to add to the burden when he could easily help her.

"You take good care of me, protect me, and give me your affection. I wouldn't have dreamt of a man like you, Tristan."

Silence. Neither Isolde nor Tristan moved, time suspended as they watched in each other's souls. Until a gleam of uncertainty shone in her eyes as she whispered.

"And you will be a good father."