Dreadful news

Tristan left at dawn without looking back. He knew that if he did, he would never be able to pass that blasted wall, for Isolde's eyes were set upon him.

And so, when the next day he faced the tip of a Woad's arrow, he prayed that his wife would be cared for should he become a rotting corpse in the unforgiving terrain of Britannia.

And when, three days later, they discovered Marius' torture chambers for pagans, he remembered Isolde's soft care for life, and the way she cooked apple pies just to make him smile.

When he slept on the frozen ground, surrounded by fresh, biting snow, he called forth the warmth of her body beside his whenever she draped herself across his chest.

And when, at last, he faced an army of hundred Saxons on a frozen lake with only six comrades – and a woad – by his side, Tristan called forth his anger. He'd done his service. He was free. He would raise his family, and send all those Saxons to hell.

But in the end, it was Dagonet who did it. With his mighty axe, hacking at the ice until it broke and sent the Saxons tumbling down.

Dagonet, who took three bolts, and fell into the icy clutches of the lake.

Dagonet, who died a hero's death and saved them all.

Eight against two hundred. The dreadful numbers threatened to engulf her, and the young woman had to double over to bear the blow, her right hand searching for the wall to keep on her feet.

"Madam, are you all right?"

The young man's voice, Ganis, barely registered through her ears as she struggled to breathe. Eight against two hundred. No miracle could save them now. Doomed. Her man and his brothers were doomed. Her heart wanted to badly to leap out of her chest, her breath coming in pants as she clawed as the rocks beside her. If Arthur had got them killed … she would eviscerate him with her own hands, no matter how much she respected the Commander.

"Madam, please let me help!"

His frantic voice called Isolde back to reality. Lifting her swimming gaze to the dark-haired boy, she could only contemplate the desolation writ upon his features. And the awe of being alive, thanks to the fearsome Sarmatian men left behind on a frozen lake. Their sacrifice for the villagers' lives.

"Please! Somebody help!" he cried, his hand grasping hers as she panted, her legs wobbly.

And a red-haired tornado appeared by their side but one moment later.

"I'll handle this," she said, her voice holding such authority that the man nodded and disappeared.

Isolde felt Vanora's hand test her temperature and rest upon her belly with a frown.

"Is it the babe?"

The young woman shook her head, grasping Vanora's strong arms to steady herself.

"No. Not yet," she whispered. "Have you heard?"

"Aye."

And it was the only answer the barmaid could provide her before both women embraced fearfully.

"I'm afraid, Vanora. I can't lose him now"

"You know how they make a habit of beating the odds. Keep your hopes up"

Isolde sniffed, holding Vanora in a crushing embrace that only heavily pregnant women knew how to summon. Her friend was right; it was no time to despair. Year after year, even as the knight's numbers dwindled, theirs always came back with incredible stories. The tavern, filled with laughter and sorrow, was testimony to the miracles only Sarmatian men could summon. And later, when her knight took her to bed, he would recount the true story without adornment and exaggerations; she still found it miraculous.

"Right"

"And Tristan can be nasty."

Isolde chuckled, wiping her eyes in shame. If she didn't trust her man to come back, who would? Being the scout, Tristan faced the worst odds when riding alone, but somehow he had always made it back to her. And as her bump grew through the year, he came home with fewer and fewer scratches, mindful of preserving his life. If the sun stopped rising, he would find his way back in the dark, Isolde – the Hawk – by his side.

"Come, we'll get up the wall and wait."

And both women stood there, eyeing the caravan of villagers that climbed the grassy slope, their eyes stuck in the woods in hopes of seeing them until Vanora had to get back to work.

Isolde watched her go, her eyes following her incredible fit form – after 11 children! – as she passed the shiny armour of a Roman officer and disappeared down the stairs. What courage it took to be that woman, to give birth eleven times, raise her brood and handle her job. And keep Bors in line! Vanora, in her mind, was the best friend she ever had and the strongest woman she'd ever known. And so Isolde stayed at the wall, her protruding belly – the baby could arrive anytime now – wrapped in a long woollen cloak Tristan had given her. His scent still lingered on the cloth, giving her courage as she shifted from foot to foot. The tightness in her lower back was getting more intense as days passed.

The dull pace of riding should have lulled him to sleep. With the wagon containing Dagonet's body, they couldn't go much faster anyway.

Heaviness didn't even describe how laden his heart was. Shoulders sagged, the knight feared the moment his eyes would meet hers. Not because of her wrath, no. But the grief that would pool into her wide hazel eyes would finish him entirely. His woman, the woman who has refused to relent every time he chased her away from him with hurtful words or indifference. The only being in the world that could love him entirely, even though she knew what lay within the confines of his soul. The warm body that shared his bed and his life, patched him up, fed him and mended his clothes like a dutiful wife. The wife the Roman refused her to be.

But he had married her anyway. The light in her eyes whenever she looked at him baffled him entirely, even if he knew the same brightness shone in his. She was the most beautiful being of the world, the miracle that had barged into his life and decided to take root in his heart. If Gods really existed, they had sent her to keep him from losing himself.

And now Dagonet was dead. Their friend, her father figure, the man who would have delivered their daughter – and not a son, as Lancelot always jabbed – and become his Godfather. She would be devastated, even more than himself. He was used to the loss, it only carved a bigger chunk of his broken heart. But he knew she wasn't ready to handle this one, not in her emotional state.

Who was he kidding? She wasn't the only one. Even if he didn't cry his eyes out like Bors, wailed like Galahad, or brood like Arthur didn't mean that he wasn't affected. The blank mask of indifference protected his heart from being picked apart by vultures, but inside he was crumbling in grief. And he prayed, once more, than his child would not be a son for, fearsome scout or not, Tristan would not survive to give his flesh and blood for the Romans to corrupt.

The wall appeared before their little company, and Tristan heard the sighs of his colleagues around him. Ignoring their glances, his eyes immediately found her form upon the wall, right where he thought she would be. Protruding belly held with her two hands – even bigger than five days ago – long reddish hair dancing in the wind, she looked every bit the woman he'd fallen in love with. And despite being surrounded by death, he couldn't fathom how she had managed to create life. With him of all men. How could a skilled killer like him perform this miracle, if not by the grace of the woman who had allowed it?

And she never left him, although he deserved it a thousand times. Just like the child. Perhaps the baby loved him too, perhaps he found him worthy to sire him. And this child, still embedded in her loving womb, would know his father thanks to Dagonet. The Gods bless his courage for doing what no one else could.

Isolde spotted them as soon as they emerged from the tree line, her gaze instantly meeting his. Even for this far, he saw how her shoulders sagged in relief, her tiny hand flying to her mouth in disbelief as she thanked the heavens for his life. How he knew her by now, every meander of her mind, every little habit. Hawk let out a piercing cry and flew away to join her; a kindred soul for his woman had the eyes of a bird of prey. Just like him.

And when her posture stiffened, he knew she had guessed something was wrong just by looking at his defeated posture. It bewildered him, the way she read him so easily when no one else could. His impassive face, his guarded glances, Tristan knew how to remain unreadable. Except to her. She told him, one day, that she only needed to gaze at him to feel his soul. He believed her, wondering why the others couldn't. 'They don't know how to read' was her simple answer. But she did, and loved him all the same for what was within, even when he despised himself for his weakness.