Fight !

Time passed at the rhythm of rolling contractions. The pain increased, notch by notch, until Isolde's legs refused to carry her anymore and she had to pause too often. The villagers were adamant to cover some distance away from the dreaded Saxon army; Vanora has to hoist her up at the back of her family's cart.

And in the roller coaster of emotions, Isolde could only protest that every single wobbly turn of the wheel took her away from her man. Still, for the moment, her body managed to handle it. The ever-changing positions – all fours, half propped, extended to grab the cart's frame – managed to bring her a little respite from the cramps. And Vanora's insistent massage upon her lower back made miracles on the joint ache. Soon though… soon…

Her mind never ceased to return to the battle. Every time the breeze blew their way, the scent of smoke reached her nose, the sounds of distant fighting. And Isolde grit her teeth, nor for the pain nor the exhaustion, but for fear that her man may not return. And this blasted caravan went on and on, away from the place where his lips had lingered upon her skin for the last time.

Panic overtook her as she shouted.

"Stop ! Vanora, tell them to stop !"

"We need to move in case…"

The redhead couldn't say it; despite her confident front, her eyes lingered on Badon Hill, even for this far. Her heart, too, was breaking thinking about Bors. And she needed to see Isolde through her first childbirth.

"If they fail, our men will need us to patch them up", the stubborn mother-to-be told her.

"Like you are in any state to do it. You'll cripple you man if you pick up a needle, I tell ya"

Muffled laughter turned into a groan as another contraction hit, and Isolde presented her back to Vanora who buried her fists just above her hip. They both knew a mass grave would await them upon their return. Worse, even, they might be overtaken by Saxons any moment, and never even find their lover's bodies. In that case… nothing really mattered. They'd all be slaughtered, women and children, pregnant and unborn. So instead of voicing the deep, shaking fear that squeezed at their hearts, the women concentrated on their area of expertise.

"You all right", Vanora soothed once the contraction has passed. "Ye're doing fine."

"Really ? Because it hurts like bitch."

And Isolde toppled over, laying aside for a moment as Vanora smirked. Behind them, the children of her brood – minus the ones wandering - were in various flustered states. The eldest girls watched in fascination, boys disgusted, the youngest ones seemed worried while the baby was thankfully sleeping. Vanora send them a wink; a way to convey that, for now, everything was all right.

"The first one is the toughest", she told Isolde. "The next ones will be easier"

The young woman snorted.

"Next ones ? Hell, I'm not even through with this one, don't talk to me about others He's not touching me again !"

She knew it was Vanora's way of telling her to keep hopes. That her man would return to take care of his family, and maybe expand it. But for the moment, she just couldn't think about intimacy with Tristan. Her belly ached, her hips didn't fare any better, and she felt like she was tearing apart.

Ugh ! Yet, the barmaid kept the conversation flowing. Who better than a mother of eleven to know the pain of childbirth and the emotions it brought forth ? After all, she and Bors couldn't keep their hands off each other.

"Yeah, sure. I'll give you some herbs for, you know ?"

Isolde' eyebrow lifted in her mock expression. Somehow, she doubted herbs would keep Tristan at bay. The next cramp announced itself, seizing her upper belly and descending in an unstoppable wave. Damn it !

Slice, dice, slice. His sword went through Saxons like butter, their cries feeding the rage that bubbled in his chest. Those boors, equipped like peasans and smelling like pigs kept him from his woman in the most important moment of their shared life. And they paid for it in blood, endless pools that sprouted from valleys he carved without a second thought, crimsons spurts gushing from blond warriors who had seen better days.

Riding through the smoke, Tristan fell enemies like an angel of death, relishing in their cries, tasting their fear as six horsemen laid waste in their midst while Woad's arrows rained upon them but a moment before. The Saxons were so confused, so terrified that they started shooting at each other. Too late, always too late as the moment they started reacting, all knight were long gone from battlefield. Including him, who might have lingered a few years past. But not today. Today, he had a promise to keep.

There was no knight deadlier than Tristan, dead or alive, in the company that had arrived from Sarmatia. Every single movement counted, every flick of his blade, every blow, awaiting the next to sever yet another life. There was no battle cry, no flourish, only cold and calculated efficiency.

When the next volley of arrows finished the first bataillon of Saxon men, Tristan was barely panting. Now came the rest of the army; they would find their comrades's bodies soon enough and a cruel smirk twisted his lips.

And right before he rode back in the thick of the battle, he sent a prayer to his Gods, to preserve his woman's strength until he could support her with his own.

Isolde grit her teeth to refrain from cursing all the Gods of creation. She was loosing ground, fighting bravely to keep going. Surely Tristan would never surrender, no matter how sore he was ? Her brave, handsome knight, with a will stronger than any stormy sea; he was probably wearier than she was now. Let no one say that she had been unworthy.

But Damn, it hurt ! Still, she fought bravely, breathing slowly into her belly to insufflate life and support to her unborn child, to try to relax those horrible muscles that ached more and more until they were but a giant cramp.

How she longed for Dagonet's reassuring presence and strong hands. How she longed for Tristan !

Control was slowly but surely slipping away as she fought her own battle against the pains of childbirth, and she now lay on her left side, one leg propped on a blanket, helpless. No amount of massage could relieve the crushing agony that tore her body in half, and she dreaded the wave that inexorably tightened around her swollen belly until it plunged its clutches inside. Would it ever stop ?

The pain concentrated there, and there was nothing she could to prevent it from converging down; it felt like a hammer striking her pelvis. Again and again, the respite so short now, contractions so strong and close that she barely breathed in between.

"Tristan…", she whispered. "Come back to me"

Tristan grit his teeth when the Saxon's dagger tore his left underarm, choosing to wield his Dao single handed to keep the damage minimal. Suddenly, his choice to dismount – he had lost speed and wanted to avoid being thrown off – didn't seem so clever. Especially since he had been engaged in battle by the Saxon leader, the result of being too skilled.

Perhaps he could wear him off before Arthur took him, but the damn man was less exhausted than he was, just as adept with his heavy sword, and bulky. Fortunately, the helmet had protected the back of Tristan's head from a vicious slash.

Arthur was nowhere in sight, and he couldn't prevent the Saxon leader to take another pass at him. The strong blows wracked his wounded side, sending sharp twinges up his ribs; Tristan used the pain to call forth his rage. Alas, the wrath he summoned couldn't replace his missing strength. His grip faltered under his opponent's mighty attack and he could only contemplate, appalled, the graceful arch of his sword as it was flung aside. The Saxon smirked under his blond beard, satisfied.

The duel was over.

Tristan panted, holding his ribs to assess the damage. He knew he probably looked a mess, busted lips, blood flowing in his mouth and down his wounded side. His right leg stung as well, as many other places that didn't even register. His keen eyes took the surroundings, then returning to the Saxon leader who nudged his sword with his boot. Taunting him to get back into battle, calling his honour, coaxing his pride.

A few years ago, he would have responded in kind, and met his end with a smile. But a promise kept him on the edge of this cliff, preventing him from diving headfirst into death. His woman awaited him, and she probably was in more pain that he was. How he admired her, awed that she had chosen him, this lonely wolf, as her mate. And to be worthy of her, he needed to lend his shoulder.

Hawk's cry echoed through the dark clouds, as if reminding him that he should hurry. The Saxon's leader lifted his eyes to spot the bird in wonder. Tristan's fingers found the dagger strapped to his chest and flung it with a flick of his wrist. The Saxon barely saw it coming, chasing it away with his blade at the latest moment. The second dagger embedded in his throat, the third, his eye.

And when Arthur found them, the man was gurgling in his own blood before his remaining eye closed for eternity. The battlefield was suddenly much quieter, and Arthur nodded his thanks to the scout before Tristan retrieved his Dao, and whistled for his mare to dart off the path.