Of Stubborn scouts

1. Of stubborn scouts

"I owe you my life. I still owe it to you every day you keep the facade."

There was barely a grunt at that, and the knight closed his eyes. Isolde finished her intricate braid, then tied a knot at the back to keep it from slipping away.

"It is merely a gift to thank you, Sir Tristan."

"I am not asking for gratitude."

His stubbornness called a fire within her, and she struggled with the sudden urge to bash him with the pitcher. Refraining from hurling something at his head – he was wounded after all – she only sent him a death glare.

"You'll have it all the same, you insufferable man."

The ghost of a smile quirked his lips at the name calling, yet he didn't open his eyes. How he confused her, this knight! Reaching for his sleeve – she didn't dare touching his hand – she swallowed nervously before speaking in a gentler tone.

"I didn't come because I was summoned, I came because l was worried about you."

A pair of amber eyes suddenly trapped hers, pinning her in place with the intensity of their depths. Sadness and anger reined in masters within his soul, and her breath caught.

"You shouldn't, I am not worth it."

Was this about Percival's death? Would the scout even talk about his fallen comrade rather than walling himself in grief? Isolde steeled her spine, regaining her fire.

"It is up to me to decide who I deem worth."

His head gently rolled, the movement tightening his features – pain – before he set his intense gaze on the ceiling. For a moment, he seemed to contemplate the orange hues playing with the shadows. Isolde thought he would speak no more until a whisper surprised her.

"I want no woman out of obligation."

'But you do want a woman,' she thought. Squeezing his forearm slightly, Isolde struggled for a moment. The thoughts left her frighteningly exposed, especially before the fearsome scout who could break her with harsh words. Would she dare? Or keep it to herself and remained protected behind the walls of her mind?

"What about affection and admiration then?"

It was almost tentative, so softly spoken that the scout wondered if he had dreamt it. Surely she couldn't mean that…

"You know nothing about me."

And this time, it wasn't an accusation. It almost sounded like gentle probing, like a question. What do you even know about me to bestow your affection? Isolde reclined in her seat, her work forgotten as she roamed her memories.

She could have told him about the longing look in his eyes whenever he watched his bird flying free, or the satisfied hum when sunrays hit his face and warmed his tanned skin. About the way he always seemed to prowl, even when hiding an injury, or the careful look he sported around people, betraying his lack of trust in humanity. The gentle way he handled his animals compared to the harshness that sent people scurrying away. She knew how he enjoyed silence, giving him more room for observation rather than joining in the bantering of his fellow brothers, how he loved his blades and weapons that kept him safe. How, even, when his knife sliced an apple, his body slightly relaxed from the familiar routine. That he loved them crispy and juicy, for both the sweetness and the tasteful experience of biting in the flesh.

Isolde' lips drew a timid smile upon her features; the scout wasn't the only observant one.

"I know enough," she retorted.

His jaw tightened; the now familiar sign that he was about to lash out and deal some damage. Wondering why he felt the need to push her away, Isolde braced herself for the explosion. Contrary to Bors, Tristan never yelled nor smashed things when angry. No, Tristan wasn't one to make a scene, but his voice dropped to a hiss, oozing venom upon his peers and, sometimes, upon her.

"You think so, little girl, eh? You should listen to the tales."

She didn't know why his words sent her over the edge. Usually, she would have bitten her lip and lowered her eyes to hide the sting. Perhaps it was the fear of losing him, the tension of the past days eventually uncoiling. Perhaps she was feeling bolder today. Perhaps it was the pain of him crushing her feelings when she had exposed herself. Her stool went flying backwards, surprising them both when it clattered on the tiles. Her cheeks blazed with indignation, a gleam of steel shining in her eyes.

"If I know nothing, neither do all those peasants talking nonsense. I have no care about rumours, Sir knight!"

Surprised by the intensity of her anger – there was a woman who could match his temper when unleashed – the scout rose upon his elbows, fuelling his ire with the pain that shot through from thigh to stomach.

"But you should, you naïve girl! I am just like them! Not a 'Sir', I'll never be a 'Sir' !"

His accent, thicker when he lost his cool, caused him to stammer slightly. Her mouth rounded into a silent 'oh', understanding dawning upon her. Short breaths caused her chest to rise faster than usual, calling his attention to the small, rounded breasts he could peek at when she sat in his lap in the tavern. By her side, her fists gradually unclenched as she cocked her head aside. Something unknown washed over her lovely features, some kind of hope, as if she had unravelled the mysteries of the world.

Tristan sneered; foolish girl! She was too young, too innocent to imagine how Sarmatian people lived. Nomads with huts, hunting at will and barely surviving the harsh winters of the steppes. In her golden Roman palace, she had been pampered in silks. She called them peasants, those people of the wall! Couldn't she see the rudeness of his manners? How he wasn't suited to anything else than scouting and killing?

Her sudden movement caused him to flinch; he wasn't used to having someone by his side when he lay, vulnerable. She picked up the stool with careful movements, setting it upright without a noise. But she didn't sit again. Bending over him with a gentle sigh, she let her graceful fingers graze his cheeks, tracing the ink of his tattoo. Tingles erupted under his skin, her touch so welcome that he barely refrained closing his eyes and leaning into the warm palm of her hand.

"They mean the same as in the Huns' culture, right?"

Tristan froze. So she knew. She knew that his lineage was considered like royalty in the Iazygues tribe. Damn that woman! Seeing the 'deer caught in the headlights' expression upon his face hardened her gaze, and she dropped her hand.

"Understand this, Sir Tristan. My father is an educated man. A horrible, twisted educated man that thought that teaching me would allow him to make higher bids when it came to my marriage. I have nonetheless retained much of what my preceptors said. I do not call you 'Sir' because of the whims of a wounded girl."

A pang of regret settled in his chest, its origins rather fuzzy. Yes. He was, in fact, higher in status than she could ever hope to be. First son to a line of chieftains, the equivalent of a Khan. It didn't mean much, though, for in the steppes, chefs worked just as hard as their fellow tribesmen.

There was no golden tent, no silks and no privileges for their wives. A life of duress he had left behind to become Roman's pawn, and today … today he couldn't even remember which of those lives he appreciated the most. Hence the guilt that gnawed at his insides, and the feeling of betrayal when he contemplated his youth. What was he, now?

"Now, since my presence seems to be unwelcome, I bid you a good night, and the best of recoveries."

Gathering her work in a basket, she lay in his hands a single, red apple. His favourite. A token of friendship. Her eyes didn't meet his again; he didn't search her gaze for fear of seeing tears. The seamstress's apprentice was back, hidden in the layers of softness and shyness. The steel stowed away. She wasn't the kind of woman who would bear arms; she'd fight her battles another way. He shouldn't be the kind of man who would take up arms to fight her, but he had.

The door clanged when she left, leaving him alone in the darkness. The low rumbles of a familiar voice in the corridor told him she had met a fellow knight, and was conversing with him. She knew them all by now, and as surprising as it was, didn't fawn over Lancelot. But then, given her revelations this very night, she was more acute than he had given her credit for. No wonder she didn't buy Lancelot's act. Isolde was a practical, intelligent woman who knew what a romance with the dark night would entail; heartbreak, loneliness, a stained reputation and maybe a child. Better to stick by his side; she chose the stained reputation over heartbreak and a child.

Mulling over her departure, Tristan tried to make heads or tails of … them. The little seamstress was used to sitting in his lap by now; she didn't get flustered so much. But he never kissed her again; she had been sweet and delicious under his tongue, but kissing her meant more than he was willing to give.

The short burst of cold hair – damn winter! – escorted Dagonet inside the room, the giant knight settling on the stool where his little lady had sat but a moment before.

"What have you done, you stubborn fool?"

Tristan scowled.

"Scared her off. She needed it."

The tall knight gave him a stern look that should have been scary had Tristan not known he could take him anytime with a sword, and that no harm would come his way until he was recovered. Over his brothers, Dagonet was the only sensible one.

"How stupid do you intend to be?"

From any other man, this comment would have bought a dagger into one's gut. But coming from Dagonet, the comment struck closer to home than should have been possible; perhaps because the scout actually listened to his elder.

"I am not that kind of man," he growled, bitterness seeping through his hushed tones.

The giant's quiet enquiry sent shivers down his spine.

"What kind of man?"

Tristan mused over his answer, swirling his tongue in his mouth; he very rarely said words he regretted. There was something frightening in his future, something he'd been pushing back from the day his mare had set a hoof upon the island of Britain, persuaded that death would find him before long. At home, they would expect his return; he'd be their chieftain, and have to take a wife, raise a family. They wouldn't understand how he had changed, how different the warrior was compared to the boy who had left.

Tristan didn't shy away from his bloodlust; it kept him alive, and made him this incredible fighter that saved lives every day. Expect for Percival … and Kay, and so many others. Their death a remembrance to the limits of his skills, of his power. But even if he accepted it, he knew the others wouldn't. No one could, really, outside of Dagonet who never judged him. Dagonet, whose massive hand now landed on his shoulder to provide unwavering support.

"Tristan… Once this is over, you can be anything you want."

"No, not… A husband, a father, a lover. None of it."

And his voice was so defeated that his brother's silent chuckle threatened to bring forth his wrath. How dare he laugh at him?!

"If Bors can do it, so can you."

"Yeah, yeah."

The dismissal was brutal and swift, irony laced into a voice who could either coax a wild animal into his hands or send acidic barbs. Pissed, Dagonet slapped his shoulder with enough force to send a pang of pain through his thigh. Then the tall knight smirked, and picked the apple that lay on the scout's chest.

"In that case, you will not be needing this."

The message was clear; the apple representing much more than a fruit. Faster than a snake, Tristan retrieved it from his brother's hands.

"S'Mine," he growled.

Dagonet left the healing room with a laugh, hoping that his subtle hint would shake some sense into the depressed scout.