Healing

The former roman retreated to the seamtress' home for the first time ; she needed to clear her head. To make something new out of those deaths. To turn the circumstances into something different. So, this day, she invited Vanora to the seamstress' home and they both turned the house upside down. Curtains, washed and replaced. Furniture removed, the bed made anew. A great cleansing, where herbs were hung about the house, and a stew was set upon the fire in the great cauldron.

It wasn't her house, per se. But until the seamstress' son showed up, Arthur had granted her the use of the place. And so, she made that place hers. And once that was done, she and Vanora pleaded their cause to Dagonet, and he released the scout from his care.

Taking him down the street was a great and difficult affair; Dagonet had to half carry him down, threatening to lock him back up in the healer's quarters to prevent him from trying to walk on his own. The truth was… that he couldn't. Tristan raged and yelled, throwing insults to cover his fear. None of his friends took offense at his foul mood; they knew him far too well to know he detested his infirmity. Isolde's tears remained safely hidden; she didn't want him to see how she hung by a thread.

But when he sunk into the mattress in his lover's house, feeling the soft sheets and the fresh smells that surrounded him, Tristan's mind found a little peace.

Isolde brought him a stew, and they ate side by side; warm food in his belly. The apple pie that followed brought the first smile to his lips. She had gone to great lengths to make him comfortable here; it felt different than the prison of his chambers. The house was closer to the forest, and she had positioned the bed so that he could see outside when he sat in the armchair.

A squeak interrupted dinner, and Isolde reached in a bowl to feed Hawk with meat scraps. Perched on the windowsill, the bird seemed pretty content to return to its master.

Tristan sighed. Food, his woman and his bird. Love, and a challenge; the forest awaited him outside, daring him to move from the chair and roams its paths again. Yes, perhaps he was going to make it after all.

Day after day, Isolde nursed her man back to health. Or rather, she watched him as he restored himself, a silent support by his side, a presence at night. She filled his belly with his favourite food, gave him companionship and quiet love. He did all the rest with more stubbornness than a mule.

Isolde watched Tristan as he learnt to walk again. At once, he requested to be the one to go the the market. No amount of arguing deterred him from his goal. If he could walk, he could complete this menial task and unburden her shoulders. And… bring back his favourite apples. So often, she watched him, hobbling up the street. The crutch left at the house; Tristan would never admit defeat nor weakness. When he returned, panting from breath, Isolde never remarked upon it. She'd sent him into such fury the first time that she now kept her mouth shut.

A difficult man, but so beautiful, so dedicated. How could she not love him ?

Isolde watched, mesmerized, Tristan practice his shooting with the forearm that had been damaged. Ignoring the pain, pushing himself to the very limits. She watched him train until his red, angry scars faded into the web of criss-cross patterns that already marred his chest.

One day, he picked the buckets she used to fetch water at the well. Distressed, Isolde cried out.

"No !"

Tristan straightened, favouring his left leg.

"Don't fret, woman, I am able."

He left, limping down the cobbled street to reach the lower well. And she could only bite her lip, and wipe the tears from her eyes as she watched him struggle. He was always so strong, so sturdy that her heart ached for him. Tristan was in pain, day and night, and no herb could relieve his aches in full. He tossed and turned at night, nightmares plaguing him, trying to find a comfortable position. She usually caressed his brow to settle him; it sometimes worked. Other times, he swatted her hand away, asking for peace.

Day after day, Tristan returned, sweat upon his brow, his chest panting heavily. Two buckets full of water. She saved every single drop, dreading the moment he would decide to discard the bad water away to fetch a set of fresh ones. Day after day, he sunk upon the bench at their table, and she served him a bit of ale to quench his thirst. Or changed his shirt because it was soaked, from sweat or rain. Sometimes, he let out a sigh, bare-chested, and let his head rest between her breasts as she circled his shoulders.

Every day was a struggle. But she had to admit that after a month of this regime, Tristan seemed more alert, less spent.

"You don't have to do this", she always told him, wringing her hands.

The Roman noble she was supposed to marry would have considered those tasks degrading. Tristan only shrugged to that, his features tensing from the painful gesture.

"We Sarmatian boys are taught to respect our women", he said in a patronizing tone. "My father used to help my mother. Children play their part as well. I am who I am."

And Isolde had blushed at the idea of children, all the while marvelling at his acceptance; to him, maintaining a household was a collective effort. Status didn't count. And no matter how she tried to bypass him, Tristan always returned to the well. There was no deterring him from his goal. He was like a tide in the forgotten shore of her mother's childhood. Unstoppable.

Isolde accepted, helpless, what stubbornness meant. Her respect for the scout increased once more even if his temper grew only worse. Tristan trained until he was nearly restored to his former self, save for a limp which didn't prevent him from beating Lancelot in the sparring field. But it was the day he bested Dagonet that the scout was plainly satisfied. Things were, at last, in order.

That day, he returned from the market with a present for Isolde. And, finding her working on a set of woolen gloves, he planted both his knees on the ground and claimed her hands in his. Isolde gasped; it was unnatural to have a man at her feet. But Tristan sternly repelled any attempt at squirming.

"Stop fidgeting, woman, and let me say my piece."

Isolde pursed her lips, and nodded. Tristan took a deep breath, and she remarked how his amber eyes shone brighter than usual. His hair, trimmed, left his face more open to her scrutiny.

"Isolde, I have been harsh, and unforgiving, and annoying, and any other name you can call me."

The seamstress shook her head vehemently.

"Don't…"

A finger landed upon her lips, and she kissed it playfully, earning a glare.

"Hush. I know 'tis true, and I ask forgiveness. You have been very patient, and I wasn't myself."

Isolde smiled; it was sweet of him to admit it. True, he'd been difficult somedays, and she'd been smothering. They had both things to atone for, but it wasn't worth sitting at her feet like a slave.

"I understand, Tristan. You are a man of the wildnerness, and you were trapped. I don't think Hawk would have fared much better."

His lips quirked in a smile, but the subject was not left to rest. Isolde felt her chest tightening, something big was coming, and she didn't know what it was. The truce they had, now, with him living in her house may very well shatter. If he was fit to return to active duty, perhaps he would have to leave altogether?

But what Tristan had in mind rocked her world entirely. He fished from his pocket a tiny bracelet of silver with braided patterns that ressembled the Yazigues' braids she had embroidered upon his shirt.

"Am I strong enough, now. Will you have me as your husband?"

Isolde's jaw slackened, her heart missing a beat when she realized what he was asking. He never had the chance to reciprocate her demand to wed her. And now, after slaving for months to restore himself to health, he proclaimed that he was good enough for her. All of this, he'd done it to be a suitable husband to his little seamstress.

Tears welled up in her eyes, and she fell to her knees to embrace him.

"I would be honoured, Tristan."

And he laughed, truly, deeply, for the first time. Before his lips claimed hers, and he very nearly made love to her on the tiles of their little house such was his joy. And when his calf started throbbing – damned wound ! – the knight pulled his lady to her feet and embraced her anew. Her muffled voice, then, called him to his senses.

"But we are not allowed. Not before you are free."

He looked at her very seriously, his eyes feasting upon the blush that marred her cheeks, and the green eyes that reminded him of the forest.

"Who cares ? Let's escape in the woods, and handfast. No one will be the wiser but us. Dagonet can be our witness."

The passion in his voice seemed to abate Isolde's fears, for her lips quirked.

"A secret wedding ?"

The mischievious gleam hidden in her gaze caused his chest to swell with love. He had gone a long way from the hardened scout to let her seize his heart so entirely.

"The fort had known you as my woman for months. It won't change a thing to them."

"Married. To you. This is a dream I won't ever want to wake up from."

"Dream… Yes, why not. Let's get to bed ?"

Isolde giggled, and curtsied playfully.

"There won't be much sleeping involved, sir Tristan."

"Of course, m'lady, I'll sleep after you've taken care of me"

The young woman grinned, then climbed the stairs to their bedchamber. The prospect of a secret handfasting held much appeal, if only to thwart the romans. Of all the knights, trust Tristan to be the one to break the rules so blatantly. Half an hour later, she finished the hem of her glove with a silly smile on her face, lulled by the soft snores of her knight.

Let no one know how cute the fearsome scout was when he slept !