Evhan

It took forever for him to reach the caravan, and he cursed every mile of the way that a bunch of villagers had travelled so far in so little time. He didn't care how scared they were of being ambushed by the Saxons, or how close it had actually been, how true and rightful their fear was. Every step of his mare had his side scream in pain, bleeding under caked armor. But at least, Hawk cried in the sky and voices rose in front of him.

"It's a knight !", someone said. "The scout !", another shouted.

And he hoped that Isolde was still alive to hear that he had returned to her, as promised, although a little worse for wear and with a gash that would, without a doubt, make her scream bloody murder.

Villagers swarmed him instantly, asking thousands of questions to which he partially answered as he passed, or ignored entirely in his haste to reach Vanora.

"Are the Saxon dead ?"

"Most."

"Did we win ?", asked another man.

Tristan frowned, calling Hawk upon his arm to instill a little fear. The sight of the fearsome bird of prey sent dread amongst the crowd. Did they win, really ? When he left, Arthur was still alive, and he had seen a few horses and many woads still standing. Yes. They had won.

"I think."

A response for which the mighty scout would be teased for years ahead; he'd never been such a bad informant. Then a young woman practically jumped in front of his horse and the mare neighed nervously. Tristan was nearly flung over, his balance greatly upset by the wound on her side.

"What about the other knights ?", called the maiden.

Had Tristan not been so frantic, he would have given the lass the tongue lashing of her life.

"That's enough! Leave him be, can't you see the state he is in ? Shoo !"

The flock of curious villagers disbanded in the face of Vanora's wrath and Tristan sighed; he had never been so happy to hear her cries than today. Seeing her approach, he dismounted with a wince, sending Hawk to the skies with a promise to reunite later. The redhead eyed him warily, taking in the dreadful state of his armor and the blood still caked on his lips. In any other circumstance, she would have flung something at his head and yelled at him to get cleaned and sorted. The fact that she didn't worried him the most.

"Are you badly hurt ?", she asked, urgency laced in her voice.

"I'll live", came his quiet reply.

Although he was well aware that the ground swam a little under his feet. Exhaustion, pain and blood loss were a bad combination, even for the unbreakable scout. Vanora motioned for him to follow, her shoulders tense.

"Bors ?"

"Alive when I left."

Vanora sighed, then yelled at the top of her lungs.

"Gilly ! Get Tristan some water, help him undress. Now !"

Before she could scurry away, Tristan halted her in her track, his hand firmly grasping her arm. No words were necessary. Vanora looked him in the eye, her frankness as efficient as cold shower.

"She's exhausted. She needs you, remove that mess, clean your face and hands and come quick."

Dread pooled at the bottom of his stomach and his gaze lifted from Vanora to peek at the cart where a flock of reddish hair lay, unmoving. No cries, no yells or grunt, no swear words. Only deadened silence. Never before had he shed his armor unto the ground so carelessly, and despite the searing pain in his side that soaked his tunic he didn't even scold Gilly for being rough with his battered body. Nothing else mattered.

It didn't take long before he was striding to the cart, his face splashed with cold water and hands scrubbed raw. Vanora was hovering over Isolde and she gave him a once over to check how likely he was from passing out probably.

"Don't touch her, she keeps swatting my hands away."

Tristan nodded, careful to conceal the bloody tunic below his padded shirt. When in too much pain, Isolde had trouble with contact. The scout climbed as gracefully as his injury allowed into the cart, kneeling beside his woman. Her gaze immediately found his, knocking his breath away.

Relief flickered amongst the sea of pain, her eyes wide, afraid. A swirl of disbelief, as if she couldn't accept he was there, at last, to pull her away from the haze. Except that he didn't know how. And despite the agony, there were no tears as she whispered his name.

"Tristan."

"Yes, wife. I am here."

And when the next pain came – damn, it was close – she just reached for his hand and crushed his fingers so strongly that he had to bite his tongue. Tristan was at loss, powerless to help her body work its magic, a sorry witness of an ordeal so primitive, so raw that he could do nothing. Well, nothing more than carefully lay down, his face mere inches from hers, holding her hand in an attempt to give her strength.

And on and on it went, wave after wave, her pants so silent in the gentle breeze, her body twitching to accommodate the power of mother earth. And even though there was nothing more he could do, and his side hurt like hell now that the thrill of the battle had worn off, Tristan's eyes never left hers. Silent, as always, more present than he had ever been. Oblivious to the world around them, to villagers and women crying, to Arthur's messengers ordering them back to the Wall, to babies wailing and children yelling victory.

Then something changed.

Terrifying. Her body spasmed violently, and her breathing became erratic, stopping altogether. At once, Tristan sat with a groan of pain. Did this cart have to move so fast, or was it the world spinning around him ? Somewhere above him, Hawk followed at her own pace, sending him a shrill cry to convey her support. The knight shook his head; he might have zoned out for a moment. But Isolde…

"Vanora !", he cried, panic sending waves of heat through his battered body.

"Right here, you moron. Don't shout, you'll wake the dead."

Lifting his eyes, Tristan realized the redhead had never left the wagon.

"She's not breathing !"

"She's pushing."

And Tristan could only shut his mouth, realizing, for the first time, the sheer power the Gods had bestowed upon women. He'd always known how babies were born... but to live through it was another experience. One that fried his mind, so much that Vanora had to nudge his shoulder.

"Sit, put your back to the side of the wagon, I think she's ready."

And Isolde' cheeks gained colours again as she rose by herself, life returning to her, and crawled to rest her back to his chest. His wince didn't go unnoticed, neither the hiss of pain, but either women were too busy to handle it right now. Isolde braced herself; it was as if she didn't think anymore, obeying mother nature in the most primitive of ways as she opened her legs to Vanora and grabbed both of his hands in a vice grip.

"Go on, Isolde, you can do it."

The contractions spaced out a bit, giving her time to breathe while she pushed the baby out with all her might, oblivious to the ears and eyes set upon them, ignoring the stares upon her half naked form. Tristan, though, distributed a few glares that settled the matter, until his hands got crushed again, and his side twisted by the strength of his wife pushing against him.

And he couldn't help but marvel at the tremendous power of such a little woman as she shuddered and trembled in his arms. Such courage, for she never cried out, even though this baby was tearing her body apart.

Tristan had never been one of those men that considered women weak. He was born in Sarmatia, where shamans and mothers were respected and revered for their power. But today… today he was understanding the full extend of what it meant. As terrifying as it was beautiful.

And he could only hope that his presence helped Isolde, for the fearless warrior, the man who had claimed so many lives, couldn't do squat when it came to giving it. Yet he held on, and pushed against her to give her leverage, holding her tight as she shook from the strain.

"Good", Vanora said, and she wiped Isolde' brow with her sleeve.

Another contraction came, then another. Both their bodies coiled as one, both giving their very best effort to welcome this baby in to the world. And still Isolde pushed and trembled, crushing his fingers, gritting her teeth as he clenched his jaw. Then his wife sagged against him in surrender, taking a long-needed breath and despite the pain pulsating in his ribs, Tristan froze.

End of the battle.

A long, heartwrenching wail tore his sensitive ears, Vanora's smiling face presenting a newborn, still attached to his mother by an ugly whitish cord. His heart soared. Speechless, Tristan's hawk eyes contemplated the reddish baby that landed in Isolde' arms. Exhausted, she received the wailing child, grateful for his additional support as he circled them both to help her hold him.

"A beautiful, healthy son", Vanora said.

And Tristan started, his intense gaze mesmerized by the baby's deep blue eyes. There was an ocean of emotions, of curiosity held within and he couldn't help but marvel at the tiny human that he had called in the world. A son. And so, Lancelot had been right.

"Hey", he greeted his son. "You are free."

And Hawk gave them a piercing screech, but the baby still watched his father's face, soothed by the silky tone of his voice.

"He looks like you. He is perfect", Isolde said.

Tristan hummed his assent, kissing her brow with a tenderness he usually kept from public places. But today was special. Today, he welcomed his son into the world. A child that, thanks to this last battle, who would grow without the threat of being a slave. Here, there would be no Rome, no Saxons and no Sarmatia dominated by romans. Here, they would make their home, and their children would be free.

Flabbergasted, the knight realized that he could have as many sons as he wanted, for none of them would be tied like he had been. Well, provided Isolde still wanted him after going through THAT. And for a long time, Tristan contemplated his wife and son as the babe suckled at her breast, counting little fingers, caressing the sensitive skin of his newborn, whiffing at his peculiar scent.

He offered his chaffed pinky, the baby latched onto it tightly, as if to say 'you're MY dad, now'. There was no stronger miracle than what he'd just witnessed. Women were magic. At last, the pain of his injury dislodged him from behind his family, and he crawled from his resting place against the side of the cart. Every muscle ached, bruises and scratches stinging now. Exhaustion threatened to floor him.

Then his eyes landed on the pool of blood at Isolde' feet, a trickle still sliding down her legs. There was so much… so much, probably much more than what he had ever lost himself. Aghast, Tristan felt the world spin around him.

"Vanora, there's too much blood."

And he passed out.

On the day when Arthur and Guinevere were married, Evhan – freedom, in Sarmatian - was presented to the world as the first free Briton born on King Arthur's soil. And despite Lancelot's death, Tristan proudly held his son in his arms, sending a word to the heavens to tell that cad of a knight that he had been right all along.

His wounded ribs still ached, and lack of sleep certainly didn't help the recovery, but in his chest now resided a warmth he had been chasing all his life. The sense of purpose, of belonging. And whenever Isolde looked at them both, he could still see pride in her eyes, and he wasn't jealous that she now looked at their son as he was the most precious thing in the world. For that chubby little man was the light of his days and the bane of his nights. Still, he wouldn't change it for the world. Tristan had found his place, and was now a proud father who would think thrice before getting in the thick of battle.

His family looked up to him, and he thrived to be worthy of them. Perhaps, if he managed, Isolde would be amenable for more…

"I'm going to have to marry your mother, now."

Bors' words caused the scout to smirk.

"Who said I'd have ye !", Vanora retorted playfully, making him laugh fully.

The bald man gave him a nasty glare, vexed by his woman's response.

"Don't mock me, scout. You'll be tied up soon enough."

Isolde scoffed, Vanora dissolving into giggles by her side. But the women gave him full berth when it came to handling his fellow brother. And thus, the scout watched Arthur kiss Guinevere before he turned to Gawain, Bors and Galahad.

"We've been married for a year, Bors. Deal with it."

And this time, it was Gawain who laughed out loud, especially when Galahad's jaw went slack.