Battlefield

Isolde knew she shouldn't be here, but nothing held her at the fort. Hadrian's wall, without Tristan or the seamstress, was just another foreign place. A temporary shelter where souls had welcomed her, then abandoned her.

So she had joined a column of healers that followed the warriors, albeit more slowly. Tristan would be furious to find her amongst bodies. And she lived for his wrath, hoping she would stand before him, head bowed, taking his tongue lashing for leaving the safety of his rooms and following them. She could hear him already, ranting about how she had put herself in unnecessary danger. What if they had lost, eh? What is the Saxons had prevailed, and fallen upon her on the road?

What then? What good was it that he saved her from rapists, only to sell herself to ruthless enemies?

How she longed for it, his smooth voice, even in anger. How she longed to grasp the lapels of his vest and never let go. She regretted letting him walk through that door, for the moment she lost him from sight, she had known he would not return. Hence the madness of her presence today. But all the horrors she had imagined didn't come close to this.

If all her work lay discarded at the seamstress' home, for the moment, she had not a care in the world. For the battlefield stretched before her, a sea of bodies whose blood seeped in the trampled grass. Isolde's mind blanked as she fell upon her knees. Her stomach lurched, and she vomited the meagre breakfast on the ground. Long, painful retches that refused to abate. The stench of rotting corpses was unbearable, the smell of blood and bodily fluids filling her nostrils.

If hell existed, she had found it.

Further away, a set of riders and soldiers still stood. Arthur Castus, commander of the Sarmatian knights, was still in the saddle. Isolde stood on wobbly legs, then started running. The bag of herbs she had gathered battered against her side, heavy and badly secured, but she didn't stop.

"Isolde !"

The young woman froze, her heart beating too fast, looking for the owner of the voice. She only knew it wasn't Tristan, because her chest tightened in fear.

"Here!"

The young woman pivoted on her heels, finding Galahad atop his warhorse. He was coming to her, his arms bleeding, but otherwise unharmed. His clear eyes sent daggers her way.

"What are you doing here?"

In any other circumstance, Isolde would have cringed at his harsh command. But terror was leading her actions, now.

"Tristan! Where is he?"

His expression changed.

"I don't know. I'm looking for him, and Gawain."

Dread seized her heart.

"No…"

"Don't lose hope, Isolde. Maybe he just broke a leg. Go that way, I'll look the other."

And the young woman nodded, conscious that searching a battlefield this extended was going to scar her for life. The moans of the dying, the cries of the wounded, the stench of the battle were already too overwhelming. But the man she loved was buried somewhere in that mess, and she would walk all the way to hell to retrieve him if need be. She would be his Orphee and drag him back to the light. And so, like a little beacon of light amongst a sea of darkness, Isolde started her search.

She walked amongst the dead and the wounded, ignoring the cries, the hands that extended her way, ignoring the gurgling of men drowning in their own blood, of enemies of allies alike who asked for forgiveness, or cried for their mothers. If she wanted Tristan to have a chance – if he wasn't dead already – Isolde needed to steel her mind. And she cried his name until her voice was hoarse, and her chest ached. Again, and again, she watched every single head of long brown hair, searching for his braids.

In the end, Isolde walked like a dead corpse, her mind numb, her ears raw. She couldn't even cry anymore, and just held a dagger close to her chest. A wounded Saxon had attacked her some time ago; she was now ready to defend herself.

On her way, she found a strange circle of bodies, with gashes of all kinds; efficient strokes, the results of masterful swordsmanship. Like a set of rolling hills surrounding a bigger mountain. And there he was, at the centre of it all. Tristan lay on his side, his blood oozing in the ground, his braids falling over his beautiful face.

"Tristan!" she cried, falling on her knees beside his still body.

In fright, she embraced him. Her dress, once more, soaked with blood. A cruel reminder of the first day they met. Tears streamed down her face, her chest tightening in terror as her fingers landed on his cheek; he wasn't cold yet. The young woman watched his face intensely, searching for a sign that the scout had not succumbed yet. There wasn't any deep gash in his amour, but so many littered the weak points that she wondered if he had been hacked to pieces altogether.

In his arm protruded a bolt; it might have caught him on horseback, probably causing him to fall altogether? And where was his mare?

Isolde laid down beside the scout, full panic seizing her limbs as she started shaking. Then, she stopped breathing altogether, and watched his chest. One moment, and another, then another … until … it moved under the heavy plate! Tristan was still breathing!

Isolde sagged, laying into the blood soaked ground without a second thought. Then she prayed to every god she knew. Irish, Celtic, Romans, Christian and Sarmatian. But nothing happened. So she reached for him, landing her hand upon his cheek:

- "Come back to me, Tristan."

But the knight didn't respond.

Three days later…

Tristan lay in the healer's quarters, unconscious. For hours, sitting by his ashen face, Isolde prayed and talked to him, asking, begging him not to leave her. She had not returned to the seamstress house, and only slept a few hours at night, in his bed, before the need to be close pushed her away. Dagonet, the silent knight, watched over them both. Isolde did not fear him anymore, now that their ploy had transformed into true affection.

She welcomed his company when he could spare the time, and felt immensely grateful for his care towards Tristan. Dagonet had done the stitches to his calf – his main wound – and in so many places that she had lost count. Bandages littered his body, yet he still breathed. As stubborn when unconscious than he had been on the battlefield.

Tristan had fought like the devil, taking on adversaries that might have triumphed of his brothers. Even on the brink of exhaustion, he had been relentless. Stubborn…

So Isolde prayed. Not for his soul, because it still remained within his body. She prayed that he would come back to her, and that they might still have a chance at happiness. Tears had been exhausted on the battlefield. What she had seen there … it would be forever carved in her mind. She had found new respect for her beloved knight, knowing what the horrors of battle truly looked like. Yes. Now, she knew.

The other knights also watched her with new respect now; never had a woman gone to such lengths to save one of their own. But Isolde was stubborn, and sturdier than she looked. For now, hope and care were the key. So she sang to Tristan and the others that died around them in the foul-smelling place. And touched him, washed his hair, caressed his face. She kept his valid hand trapped with her little fingers.

She wrung a cloth over his mouth to keep him from dehydration, and sung some more to the man she loved. And when Arthur came about to have his shoulder checked, he only nodded his respect, and left her in peace.

Her prayers were answered, or perhaps it was her dedication. Fours days and a half after the battle, Tristan once more opened his eyes to the world.

He didn't push her away, this time. His hand squeezed her, and he rasped her name before falling into fitful slumber. The days that followed were difficult, at best. Tristan was in a foul mood. A cripple, he had said. For the moment, he could barely move.

"If I can't fight like the devil, better I die."

His words struck her like a brick wall, bashing her head in the process. After all she had been through to call her back… She fled the healing rooms, weeping to hear that she wasn't reason enough for Tristan to survive.