So it begins

"I'd like to see you with birth pains, damn scout!" she retorted hotly.

Tristan's eyes widened, all thoughts of revenge forgotten as she grimaced, replaced by sudden fear. Fear became anger in less time it took to blink; Tristan's typical reaction.

"Now? Of all times …!"

The young woman huffed, her arms circling him in a tight hold.

"Don't yell at me! It's not like I can choose."

Her heartfelt scolding sobered him more efficiently than an enemy's arrow to the chest. He was so used to the way she dodged obligations and his foul mood alike to manage their little household that it didn't occur to him that she couldn't control it. Isolde could, with the barest of thread and piece of cloth, fix his tunics, with a little ingeniosity get a nice supper, with a few words arrange for better bedding, and with her friendship have the blacksmith repair the notches in his sword.

But today she was totally helpless. And scared. He had no doubt his woman would pull it off without a scratch; no need to take a look inwards and realise how frightened he was to lose her too. Sobering up, he slid his arm around her to caress her belly.

"What do you need?" he asked urgently.

"A hammer to the back of the skull, please."

Tristan bit his lip, remembering Bors' advice not to antagonise a woman in labour under pain of death.

"Sorry, no hammer."

Isolde chuckled.

"Your presence shall have to do, then."

Then she tried to change position to straddle the beast as well. Tristan helped her pass her leg over his mare's neck, realising how difficult it was for her to lift it without bumping on her protruding belly. An exhausted sigh greeted his effort and she slumped forward. Tristan frowned; she was already so tired. It worried him, and enraged him at the same time. Had this stupid Bishop not sent them north… Dagonet would be here to greet his baby into the world, and Isolde might have slept before this ordeal befell her shoulders. Childbirth was no laughing matter.

"Hold me tight and pull when I say so."

Her little fingers guided his larger hand to cup her belly, and he could feel the muscle harden when a contraction hit. Damn, he couldn't imagine how painful it must be; he wasn't a stranger to cramps and, for once, thanked the Gods that he was a man. It probably was the first time he didn't curse his gender; a girl never would have served the Roman army. If Tristan had been a woman, he might have remained in Sarmatia and never known the heartache of losing his brothers. And perhaps … died in childbirth.

Pushing those sombre thoughts from his mind, Tristan followed Isolde' lead as she pushed hard against her belly, dragging his hand upwards while the contraction lasted. Once it was over, a sigh passed her lips.

"That helps, thank you, my handsome knight."

The Sarmatian's lips quirked slightly; she never had qualms about telling him how he pleased her. It helped, somehow, to appease the turmoil in his mind, especially when she looked at him with such awe. And so, now was his turn to lend his strength to the wonderful woman who carried and cared for his child. The woman who dared mixing her blood to his, with pride nonetheless. He still had trouble believing it.

That little game went on for a while, Isolde fidgeting and he pulling at her belly to relieve the pain whenever he felt her tense up. All in all, it seemed to work and Tristan started to relax. Trust Isolde to keep her cool while giving birth in a middle of a disband. On horseback. She truly was an extraordinary woman, a worthy spouse of a Sarmatian knight. Soon, very soon, he would meet his daughter and beat the crap out of Lancelot for annoying them about it being a boy. It made him … nearly giddy. Except that Isolde wisely kept her mouth shut about said gender…

The sudden fidgeting of his mare caught them both off guard, and Tristan had to retrieve the reins with both hands, his elbows tightly woven around his woman's body lest she fell over. Isolde' hands flew over her head, catching his nape to stabilize herself as her belly tightened again. The groan that escaped failed at covering the sound of drums echoing in the distance. Tristan blanched, his thighs massaging the mare's sides in an attempt to quieten her. Around them, all the knights had trouble calming their mounts.

Warriors horses; they reacted to the thrill of battle. Danger lurked, and the animals turned around to face the threat. Around them, Galahad exchanged a knowing look with Lancelot, then Gawain and Bors. A nice row of pearly teeth appeared as his lips pulled up, and Tristan couldn't help but shudder.

There it was, their last stand.

The one and only battle of their choosing, their chance to regain the honour so badly trampled over the years. The opportunity to avenge Dagonet. And even though Vanora's face fell when she understood Bor's intentions, Tristan couldn't possibly imagine the wrath of his woman when she would realise where his heart lay.

He couldn't leave her. He couldn't leave them.

Checkmate.

The scout had lost.

Frozen upon his horse, Tristan felt the earth swallow him whole.

Isolde squirmed upon the horse, panting anew as a contraction hit. The knight tightened his hold to keep her upright, his mind blank. But then, she spoke to him.

"Take me down."

And the knight obeyed, eyeing his companions already as they prepared their armours and tested their bows. Yet, he didn't leave his wife's side as she bent over. Gathering her into his arms, Tristan made sure her feet had touched the ground before he gazed into her eyes, pleading his case silently.

Isolde' eye widened in fear, her terror neatly replaced by anger.

"Now? Of all times …!", she exclaimed, throwing his words back at him.

And Tristan knew that all eyes now laid upon them, including Vanora's whose experience taught her everything she needed to know. Isolde was in labour, and her man begging her acceptance.

The young woman steeled herself, fighting off the next contraction by hanging herself to her knight's neck with a roar so mighty that half the caravan turned to glance backwards.

"Damn it!" she cried. "Damn it to hell, Tristan!"

And it wasn't the pain that caused her to yell, but the despair than her man, the father of her child, might very well not see him come to light. Tears ran down her cheek as she stood once more, her eyes firmly planted in Tristan's. The knight was silent; he would beg no more. If his lady refused to release him, he would stay, no matter how strongly his heart screamed.

Galahad, fully armoured, rode to his side.

"Stay, Tristan. She needs you here."

And he clenched his jaw, torn from within between two loyalties that couldn't win above one another. And when her voice rose, quiet at first, then determined, he couldn't quite believe his ears.

"No. Go."

Trapped in her gaze, Tristan's drowned in the storm of her eyes, the swirl of emotions so powerful that it made his body hum. She swallowed then, and straightened, head held high, sweat running alongside her temple.

"Go, save their sorry asses."

Stunned, Tristan could only gape as she bit her lip, worry clearly painted upon her features. She was terrified … not to be giving birth, but to lose him. And the realisation floored him.

"But hear me, knight. You are responsible for this life so I expect you to be there to greet him."

And although it shouldn't have it made him smile, he couldn't help it. Yes, he was responsible for his child and could never thank her enough for judging him worthy of it. Wait, did she say 'him'?

"Get back to me, Tristan," she whispered, her hands tightening around his forearms.

And if his heart feared for her, pride filled his chest, witnessing the courage of his wife as she struggled against herself to release him. Tristan kissed her soundly before sealing his promise, his hand lingering upon the swollen bump that would, very soon, be no more.

"Aye, little wife. I will."

A promise like no other.

And while they darted away, climbing the hill in full armour and ready to lay waste on the Saxon army, they all heard the powerful scream that echoed in the valley below.

"RUUUUUUUUUUUS!"

Arthur startled at the feminine cry, turning around to discover the last remaining knights, fully armoured and ready for battle, reaching for him at full gallop. Contemplating their faces with owe and gratitude, he was surprised when Tristan rode beside him with a stern look.

"Hurry, my daughter is being born. I don't have much time."

A wide smile bloomed upon Arthur Castus's face; if his scout was so adamant to survive this battle, then there might still be a chance.

"You mean your son?" quipped Lancelot.