Grief

By the time the Bishop handed the knight's papers, Vanora and Isolde were standing on the other side of the grid, hands held tightly, tears running down their faces. She couldn't help it, hiding the hiccups in her cloak, eyes glued to Dagonet's lifeless form, his arm sticking out of this despicable carriage. Her lifelong friend, her surrogate father. Dead. Damn pregnancy for making her so emotional that the slightest vexation made her cry. And losing Dagonet was like losing the earth she walked upon, the pillars that held her life together.

Bors' outburst called a new wave of fresh tears to her eyes; his grief oozed out of him like a giant storm, hitting both women with such force that they wavered. But Vanora was stronger than most and she stood her ground despite her broken heart, leading her lover to their home in haste. Exhausted, Isolde lay her head upon the grid, closing her eyes as dizziness overtook her. This child was stealing her strength.

A hand suddenly landed on her arm and she whirled around, nearly toppling over as she faced Lancelot's sad eyes.

"Need a hand?" he asked.

And there was none of his flirty behaviour, concern replacing cheesy comments as she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Today, Lancelot only meant to be a friend, and she was thankful for his kindness for his arm steadied her as she wobbled on her feet. Worry had only added a burden over her already sleepless nights and back pains. Isolde was spent.

A nod was her only response, for behind the dark knight, a familiar figure was approaching.

"Take care of our scout," Lancelot said, his hand lingering just a moment over her arm in support.

"Aye, you know I will" was her wavering response.

Shoulders slumped, body aching from the roughness of the past days, Tristan's long legs closed the distance in no time. His proud posture burdened, the purpose of his strides lessened, the weight upon his frame so tremendous that she wondered, for a moment, if he would topple over. And despite the unkempt beard and shaggy hair, despite the dried blood and mud caked on his clothes, despite the smell, even, of sweat and horse that made her gag, Isolde couldn't help but find him beautiful. Her man, her handsome knight, worse for wear and rough around the edge, the father of this insufferable child that now moved around in her womb, frantically awaiting for a caress of his graceful fingers. A smile graced her lips to welcome him.

Tristan stopped a breath away, his tall frame causing her to crane her neck so that she could lose herself in the beauty of his ever-changing eyes. There was no depth to the endless pool of sadness that lingered there; Isolde' tears flowed freely upon her face, sharing his pain, expressing it for him. Then his rough hand landed upon her belly, hesitantly, feeling the life inside her womb. They both bowed their heads, watching the fascinating ripple of her swollen belly as he caressed it. His braid tickled her ear as he bent closer, whispering.

"I am sorry, little one."

And she knew what he meant – their child had lost his godfather – pressing herself against him to embrace him awkwardly.

"Thank you for coming back to us."

A lump formed in Tristan's throat, preventing him from answering that it was not of his doing. The knight grit his teeth instead, holding her close but refusing to dig his face in the crook of her neck for fear of breaking down altogether. His jaw remained thus, holding grief at bay in the bath house as he washed grime and blood. Not a word passed his lips as Isolde dressed him in clean garments, eyeing the box he had saved for Dagonet's burial. Stoic, or made of stone? He wondered. But Isolde' warm gaze never judged, never demanded as she stayed by his side, a comforting presence with her rounded belly and soft curves. She didn't attempt to hug him, sensing his unease, the need to stand tall before his fellow brothers.

She didn't speak either as she wrapped into the heavy cloak, fingers intertwining with his as they climbed the hill that led to their sorry little cemetery. Tristan remained silent until Dagonet was buried properly and Bors left on his tomb to drink to his health, release papers safely enclosed in the ridiculously ornate box. And his heart bled, drop by drop, leaking internally until he couldn't hold it together and dragged Isolde out of the tavern to take her to their bed.

Free, at last. He was free. Free to make her his wife officially – she probably didn't care about another marriage – free to dote on her and his child who would soon see the light thanks to Dagonet. And he wondered if the giant had thought about his goddaughter before he lifted that axe and exposed himself to Saxon bolts. Somehow, he owed it to him to be a good father, a good husband. But before he could do that, he needed to let go of his sorrow.

And he cried his grief as he cried his pleasure in Isolde' arms, bodies mingling, her legs encasing him, her arms protecting as he panted, giving up all pretence. She was the only one who would ever see him cry. He gave it all to her, unleashing his pain in the act of lovemaking until he was but a sobbing heap in the safe circle of her arms. Not a word, only tears, the silent scout even in private. And in the depth of his despair, he failed at noticing how she winced after his release. Contractions always happened after intimacy, nothing to be worried about, right?

"I love you, my Tristan," she whispered, his arms circling her belly while his head rested upon her now ample chest.

And she caressed his hair while he fell asleep, the exhaustion eventually settling in.

The next morning

Mounted on Tristan's lap, Isolde couldn't seem to keep still as they progressed. Smoke lingered in the air, sometimes blown by the wind over their caravan and the knight worried that it might hurt his child. It surprised him that his first thought would be for the well-being of his unborn daughter – son, would have protested Lancelot if he'd heard his thoughts – rather than the imminent demise of his friend and Director. But the dark knight was in foul mood. Did Lancelot blame Arthur for Dagonet's death as well? Or did he mourn the Director already?

Isolde squirmed again in his lap, her extra weight already cutting the circulation in his legs and Tristan snapped with impatience.

"Stop fidgeting, woman."

"My back hurts, I'm sorry."

Her voice was stained, dark circles under her eyes indicating how poorly she had slept recently. Probably not even better than he as he roamed the wilderness. Tristan softened, trying to massage her lower back as she bent forward. Truth be told, the capacity of women to adapt to a child left him rather speechless. Magic.

"A little more, my love, and you'll get your body back," he crooned in her ear.

In any other circumstance, a blush would have crept up her face to redden her cheek; he knew how she reacted to his voice, especially when he felt flirtatious. But today…

'RUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUS'

Bors' mighty call echoed in the valley, his eyes misted with tears as he saluted their Director's last stand. That big brute was so emotional, especially now that he was a father, and they relentlessly teased him for it. But on top of the hill, Arthur waited, clad in shiny armour, his flag flowing in the breeze. An image they would never forget, carved in their memories like the plains of Sarmatia. For a moment, they thought Arthur would remain still until he lifted his banner and unleashed his rage…

'RUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUS'

The Sarmatian war cry caught them all off guard, a heartfelt call from a friend who had bled and nearly died with them. The last goodbye. And Tristan's chest tightened, regret pooling in his mouth to leave him to die up there. Alone. But their service was over, his duty, now, was to watch over his family. And said family was rather impatient to meet him.

Isolde arched backwards with a whimper; the movement so sudden that he barely had time to catch her before she toppled over. Frustration won over patience and he growled aggressively.

"Damn it! Are you out of your mind, you nearly fell from the horse!"

He regretted his angry words at once, for he knew what came next. Her wide chocolate eyes would mist over, her lovely heart hurt by his venom before she bowed her head in sadness.

'Twack'

The slap surprised him so badly that his jaw went slack. Anger shone in her eyes, fierce and determined rage that would have make a lesser man cower. But not him. Retribution would be swift; pregnant or not, his woman was not entitled to attack him.

"I'd like to see you with birth pains, damn scout!" she retorted hotly.