Orphans

Tristan ignored the human body could produce so many tears, but Isolde's sobbing was not abating. The scout had said his piece, informing her that her family was gone for good, and she had dissolved in in arms with heart wrenching sobs. His little rounded lady … it broke his heart.

To say that the knight didn't know what to do with a crying woman was an understatement. Would it ever stop ? Already, he had missed dinner, and it was making him cranky. In the end, he decided to grab Galahad in the corridor, and ask him to fetch Vanora. The redhead's appearance, some time after, was received with great relief.

When he returned from the tavern after a good drink, and a great deal of thinking, Tristan found Isolde fast asleep in Vanora's arms. He smiled at Bors' lover, and thanked her sincerely… with a nod. Her newborn – Eleven - needed to be fed, and he was grateful for Vanora's presence given all the responsibilities she juggled; she truly was a strong woman. One he respected.

Tristan bolted the door behind her, and stripped to his chemise before sliding behind Isolde' curled form. His warm hand came to rest upon her pregnant belly and she shifted.

"Shhh, sleep", he murmured in her ear.

Isolde relaxed instantly and he marvelled at that. He, the ruthless killer, was used to scorn, disdain, fear and terror. The mere sight of him caused people to tense; even his brothers were a little wary of him, Galahad the most. But Isolde's body reacted the other way around. When her eyes spotted him, her shoulders sagged with relief, her features brightened, her whole body opened to welcome him. And when he touched her, she seemed to melt altogether. Like butter on warm bread.

He was her peace, just like she was his.

A small kick graced his palm, and Tristan smiled, half asleep. Baby was calling for him. There was another human being researching his presence, offering unconditional love. Trustful.

Tristan didn't believe in Arthur's God, but he knew he was blessed by his own.

Morning greeted the parents-to-be with warm sunrays. Tristan awoke first; he'd always been an early riser. Isolde had turned around in the night, using his chest as a resting place. He watched the slow dance of a loose strand of hair as it oscillated under her breath, savoring the peaceful moment. Wondering if they would ever have mornings like those when the babe was born. Probably not.

There were four months left; it would be a close call, for his freedom should be granted two weeks before she was supposed to give birth. No rest for the wicked.

Isolde groaned, shifting against him, and he kissed her temple gently. How far he had come from the gruff scout. Of course, he was still curt sometimes. He couldn't possibly change his nature. But Isolde had called forth his tenderness, and he found that showering her with affection didn't diminish his manliness. And he loved her skin; every pretext was good enough to taste her.

His hand ran up and down her spine, savoring the feel of her softness under his calloused finger. Who knew that a Sarmatian dog would land a noblewoman ? T'was a good revenge on those depilated romans; his wife was the most beautiful woman of the fort ! Gentle, and courageous as well. Cunning and soft. Not a day passed without Tristan congratulating himself on picking Isolde up on the road.

A soft moan responded to his ministrations, her back arching in the touch. The scout's blood ran south. A little lovin' would do his seamstress some good, after the night she'd had. With her belly taking some more space, he had to be slightly more careful, but his little seamstress' moans were like music to his hears.

For a moment, Tristan dedicated himself to his wife, kissing, caressing, thrusting to his heart's content in her soft core. Isolde didn't open her eyes before he was thoroughly done with her, and he sunk beside her, out of breath. Then, she searched his face in the sunlight, and he remarked how her eyes were still puffy. She addressed him a sheepish smile; shameful.

"I'm sorry, my beloved. This baby makes me even more emotional"

"t's allright", he rasped, his hand landing upon her thick waist. "Lancelot and the other know, now."

Her hands lifted to hide her lovely face; she was ashamed of her origins.

"Oh God. They will shun me now."

Tristan shook his head. If the knights didn't resent Arthur for being half Roman, how could they hold her responsible for her father's cruelty ? Especially since he had repudiated in front of their very eyes… but this, Tristan wasn't about to tell her. There was only so much a human could bear, and hear that your own father wished you dead would break anyone. He'd have to talk to the knights ; Isolde must never learn of it.

"Never. They will protect you if anyone comes around to claim you."

He doubted his father would ever return, but what of her brother ?

"You think ?"

Tristan nodded, kissing the tip of her nose.

"Why would I need them when I have you ?"

Lead settled in the pit of his stomach and he didn't respond; the truth might call another river of fresh tears. But Isolde caught the meaning well enough. Four little months could make a difference between life or death. He saw her swallow the fear, and settle in his arms once more.

"So we're two strangers now. Uprooted. Nearly orphans"

A shadow passed over Tristan's features, the memory of his own father waning. Isolde caught it at once, and caressed his cheekbone.

"Tell me about your parents."

Tristan's breath itched; he didn't talk of his tribe. Of what he had left behind. But perhaps, after fourteen years and freedom at hand, he could open that door again. So he exhaled, and grounded himself in Isolde's warm presence.

"My mother succumbed to winter. After my sister was born she was too weak."

And Isolde' eyes opened, realising that the scout, her husband, had kept those past hurts sealed within himself for fifteen long years. Had she failed at asking ? Yes, perhaps. He was so closed off that she never quite dared digging into his past, wondering if he would open up by himself. But he never did.

"I'm sorry", she whispered, her breath fanning on his face.

Tristan's smouldering eyes didn't leave hers.

"It was a long time ago."

"How old were you ?"

"Twelve."

Isolde gasped; she, at least, had chosen to leave her family behind. At twenty-three, it had ripped her heart, so she couldn't imagine what it felt to loose your mother so young.

"My father went berserk, we had to raise ourselves."

So he was the eldest… surprisingly, Tristan wasn't done with his tale. As if, by opening that door, everything was spilling out of the yurt of memories. With very few words, as was his wont.

"I didn't understand it, at the time. I resented him for being absent", he said, his hand travelling up to her nape. "But now I do."

His meaning was crystal clear; if he lost her… who knew what would become of him. Isolde's breath caught; his eyes were so intense, so full of love… and so she conveyed her own support with a kiss, and encouraged him to speak further.

"I was nearly relieved when the romans came, but I didn't know what awaited me here. I didn't know I'd see my cousin fall. He was the first."

Her heart clenched… what cousin ? Suddenly, her veins boiled in anger for what her father's people had done. The romans. Those despicable cowards that had made Tristan a slave… roman blood flowed in her veins, but she denied it a space within her heart. Isolde was Irish to the core, and Sarmatian by marriage. Her eyes travelled to Tristan's tattoos, those two darts that emphasised his high cheekbones.

"Were you supposed to take over as a chieftain?"

Tristan's tongue passed over his upper lip.

"Yes. But my younger cousin will do. It don't matter, the Huns have crushed the Yazigues. They're probably scattered across the land, or dead."

Isolde thought of her elder brother in Rome, wondering if she would ever recognise him after so much time apart. Was Tristan as estranged from his family than she was with hers ? Where did that left them ?

"We'll find them, right ?"

Tristan's eyes flashed with uncertainty. Such a strange sight; her husband never seemed to hesitate.

"Perhaps. But I have a wife, now, and will stand by her no matter what."

Isolde's eyes misted over and she blinked the tears away, burying her nose into his chest.

"I love you, my knight"

Tristan hummed his assent, and tightened his hold. Four months to freedom. Four months to fatherhood. He counted the days as much as he dreaded them. But this, Isolde would never know. She was far too emotional to handle any of his fears now.