The duel

Two bells after dawn.

There was quite a crowd gathered around the training area today. Usually, only children and youngsters – most of the time, the knights' brood – bothered to watch the knight's training. But today, women, families and men alike awaited the confrontation between Marcus and Tristan.

The scout had not a care in the world; he'd fought in many circumstances before. And this particular one would be over faster than any of them expected. This very night, as he watched Isolde sleep fitfully, her eyes red and swollen, he swore that no one would ever dare glare at his woman, let alone touch her. He would make an example of Marcus.

A few feet away, Madayne and Evhan surrounded his wife. The rest of their sons were in safe hands at the fort with some of Bors' children. There was an age for tales of knights and dragons, and an age for reality. Beside them stood Gawain, a gleam of expectation shining in his blue eyes. Galahad flanked him, still young despite his thirty plus years.

Pup one day, pup forever. Surrounded by her family and friends, he could see Isolde' confidence rising. Her reddish hair shone proudly in the morning light, her features as beautiful as ever, her plain dress showing the curves he so cherished. Ready to face the man who had plagued her nightmares for so long.

Once more, the lady Isolde rose from the ashes, supported by his brothers in arms. And if anything happened to him … he knew he could count on them to take care of his family. Sending one loaded look to his brothers, Tristan turned around to watch the arrival of the idiot that had dared cross his path.

Isolde watched, from her spot, as Marcus made his way to the training area. The Roman didn't seem so proud now. Perhaps, yesterday, he had not listened to rumours and dismissed Tristan's reputation. But today, a terrified gleam in his eyes told her that he knew. Had the guards fed him stories to frighten him? The poor roman, even if well-built and well trained, stood no chance. The length of his gladius didn't amount half the reach of Tristan's Dao. Unless he was particularly skilled, death awaited him swiftly.

None could save him now; diplomacy had failed the moment he insulted the scout's wife. Poor Marcus, always a little hotheaded, always acting before thinking. Thirteen years had brought Tristan some bulk and perspective, but Marcus still acted like a brat. It was too late now, and despite the guilt that stirred within her, Isolde didn't want to save the man she should have married. Would his death heal her heart?

Somewhere, deep within, she realised that, had Marcus not raped her on that fated day, she never would have met Tristan. She would be the sad wife of a Roman in a fallen empire rather than the proud spouse of her knight, mother of beloved children. Somehow, his action, however despicable, had led her to Hadrian's wall. To Camelot. And she wouldn't trade places for the world.

Her green eyes followed Tristan as he tightened the straps of his armour. The set jaw betrayed his fury; the scout was calling his anger forth in anticipation. He would show no mercy.

King Arthur and Queen Guinevere appeared upon a stage, close by, but not close enough that Marcus could call them out of favouritism. The law was the law, and Arthur incarnated it regally. There would be no appeal, no way out.

Sword sheathed upon his back, Tristan strolled leisurely in the training area. His false nonchalance didn't fool Isolde, for she knew her husband's coiled muscles were ready. Yet, it had the desired effect on Marcus whose skin went even paler. Who could possibly face a duel with such calm, if not the devil himself? The roman tried once more to appeal to the King, to the laws of diplomacy, and raged about the commercial accords that would surely be forfeited with his disappearance.

His cowardice disgusted her, and Isolde could only congratulate herself on her rash actions that, thirteen years ago, had brought her to Tristan's feet. The rest of his ramblings went unnoticed as she caught her husband's gaze. Confidence and love poured from him, his feelings plainly exposed without his face betraying any of it. It never ceased to amaze her, how a simple look could make her knees weak. But then his eyes flickered to the side, catching Madayne's gaze, and their daughter nodded. A sly smirk quirked Tristan's lips, mirrored by a feral smile on their little lady's face. Like father, like daughter. How unsettling !

Judging that both duellists were ready, the King stood. But Marcus, knowing his fate sealed, didn't wait for the signal. A collective gasp of outrage greeted his actions as the roman charged, his gladius aimed at Tristan's neck. Isolde' heart stopped then; her husband stood, unmoving, his sword still sheathed. For a dreadful moment, she thought he would drop, wounded to death by the same man who'd stolen her innocence.

Tristan moved so fast that she had trouble understanding what happened. One moment, he was standing proudly, ready to be butchered, and the next… Cling! The ring of metal told her he'd deviated Marcus' blade somehow – perhaps with his cutlass. His whole body twisted in the opening, his shoulder colliding with Marcus' plexus. A muted sound escaped the roman before the scout head butted him fiercely.

The gladius flew away; Marcus collapsed to the ground with a grunt, holding his nose. Tristan then reached for his sword, and unsheathed the Dao with a graceful arc. The blade danced in his hand until his long fingers steadied it in a reverse grip. Tristan's whole body went down, and when he stood anew, his blade was buried into Marcus's throat, pinning the roman to the ground.

A few convulsions later, the roman was dead, his blood pooling like a crimson river.

Isolde released a breath, and once she was sure that her attacker would never stand again, stole a glance at her daughter's face. Madayne stood, transfixed, her eyes wide. It was the first time she witnessed her father in battle mode. No doubt the little lady would understand why people cowered when Tristan glared. As for Evhan, his smug smile conveyed the full extent of his pride.

When Tristan retrieved his Dao, King Arthur rose. A hush fell over the crowd.

"God has chosen, supporting Sir Tristan as he sook justice for his wife's trials. The Lady Isolde is therefore declared innocent of the false accusations laid at her feet. Let it be known that no injustice shall remain unpunished in Camelot."

A knot dissolved in Isolde' chest and she watched as Tristan spat on Marcus' body, then glared at the assistance. Many eyes fled to the ground, frightened by the scout's purpose, until his gaze fell upon his family.

"Mark my words", he said, his voice carrying across the sparring field. "Whomever threatens my finally will not see the light of the new day."

The great King Arthur should have tempered his words; justice was in the hands of the King after all. But he did not. Sharing one last glance with his scout, he nodded stiffly and turned away, dragging the Queen by his side.

Isolde' heart was hammering. If Tristan's threat would unleash rumours at court, he only meant to protect his daughter. And she bowed to him, her husband, for ensuring that Madayne would never have to endure rape. As for Evhan, he threw his head back and cheered his father's name. Gawain and Galahad responded in kind, and very soon, the whole crowd applauded.

Startled by this unusual reaction, Tristan strode to his wife to steal a well-deserved kiss. Madayne shied away from this disgusting display of affection – Ew, there was tongue involved! – to study her father's bloody Dao. Crimson droplets fell from the sharp blade, staining the dirt. A moment later, a set of familiar eyes caught her gaze. Clear hazel bordering on grey stared back, a question unasked within their depth.

Was she spooked by his brutality? Had he lost her love, witnessing how he'd killed a man without even breaking a sweat? And while Evhan came to clasp his father's forearm like a fellow warrior, Madayne answered in kind, her eyes conveying her admiration for the man who had defended her mother's honour with such skill. Not a word was exchanged, but the small smile her father gave her was enough to brighten Madayne's world.

"Hey Tristan, fancy a sparring session?"

Gawain's voice broke the silent communication between father and daughter, and Tristan lifted his head to the one she called the lion knight – in regards to his wild mane of tawny hair. Galahad appeared then, his sword at the ready.

"You don't seem tired. Can't let you become a rusty old man."

Tristan cocked his head aside, seemingly deep in though. Then he gestured to the training area, his voice quiet as he said:

"Yes. Disappointing man. Didn't even break a sweat."

And while people trailed away, either replete or pissed by the quick execution, Madayne remained by her mother's side as they dragged Marcus' body away. She wouldn't miss a sparring session for the world, intent on watching the legend that was her father, the fearsome scout. More than forty years old, a slight limp due to previous battles, and still able to disarm Gawain and Galahad who trained the new knights every day. Damn, what a man her mother had landed!

So, you might have found Isolde quite subdued here. She's dealing with the trauma of rape, like too many others have before her, and it takes a long time to heal from this. Especially when facing the rapist again. She needs all the support she can get at this point.

Madainn means Aurora in gaelic, and evhan is freedom.