The Seamstress

Five months of pure bliss. Five months during which Tristan's arms were her refuge. At night, Isolde slept in his quarters. And despite the few quarrels that were bound to happen between two stubborn souls, Isolde knew she had found her match just as much as he had found hers.

She loved him with all her might… And the more she loved him, the more she worried. Whenever they left on missions, Isolde took comfort in Vanora's strength. That woman never ceased to amaze her, and spending evenings with her brood cheered her up. They had even started a list of names to replace the numbers. The fort was already ablaze with their friendship; two redheads taming their wild Sarmatian knights. The truth was that mutual support was fundamental; said knights risked their lives too often. Without Vanora's support, Isolde might have dissolved into fright altogether.

How many nights, embroidering braids upon a dress, eating her fingers raw when Tristan was away ? The seamstress did her best to distract her, counting tales of her childhood – one so different from hers. Playing catch, when Isolde had been stuck inside with a preceptor. Learning how to make a stew, when she was reciting the names of the Patricians families of Rome… A very different childhood indeed !

The seamstress – Isolde's foster mother now - eventually accepted Tristan, and softened when she saw how well he treated her charge. And so, the plump woman made an effort at civility towards the knight. The first conversation between the seamstress and the scout nearly brought Isolde to tears. The two most important people of her life were laying their strife to rest.

But at some point, even the seamstress had to sleep and Isolde remained, eyes straining in the candelight because she didn't dare closing her eyes. Would Tristan be back tomorrow ? The day after tomorrow ? Never ? What if he died while she slept ?

Then the scout would showed up again, unscathed. And she wept from joy. His lips then searched her own, and after a short trip to the bath house, they would spend the next hours locked in his room. If heaven was real, then it was in his arms.

But five months… enough to know that she never wanted to be parted from him.

Such a short time before the world spiralled out of control again.

It started with an innocent cough. Dry, just a way to clean one's throat after a day spent in the cold. Nothing serious. Then… it became a little heavier, keeping the seamstress awake at night. Isolde fetched a healer, and Dagonet visited to give her some herbs she couldn't afford. Bless his soul. As she took residence beside her surrogate mother's sickbed, Isolde lost sleep to the seamstress' cough.

The herbs were not enough; the fever didn't abate. Every night was bleaker than the previous one. One day, the seamstress dictated a letter to be sent to her son, in Lugdunum.

"Do you think he will come ?", Isolde asked, folding the parchment neatly.

She was exhausted already, and so afraid. The seamstress had not only been her mistress, but taken her under her wing the past year. She was the mother she didn't have; the one who looked after her, and talked down to the scariest man of the fort if need be. Isolde had no doubt the seamstress would have stood up to the whole roman garrison

She was stronger than her own birth mother who had failed at opposing her father's harsh treatments. An anchor in her new world… a wavering anchor, whose features were drawn, and with fifteen less pounds than a week prior.

The seamstress' hand landed on her arm, squeezing her gently as she coughed again. Deep, long and unrelenting coughs that racked her whole frame. So when at last, she could speak again, her foster mother was entirely exhausted.

"Not in time, daughter", she rasped.

Another set of coughs, and Isolde cursed that horrible disease that refused to leave her mistress' body. Not in time… what ?

"What do you mean ?"

"Hush. Let me sleep."

And the seamstress closed her eyes, her hand squeezing Isolde's one last time.

The same evening, Tristan found her weeping over the body of her foster mother.

"Hush, I am here."

And his smooth voice failed at quieting her wails, but his arms winding around her small frame brought her enough solace to cry herself to sleep. She felt him pick her up, and bring her to her straw mattress, dragging the blanket over her as he laid by her side. And when she awoke at night, crying still, he kissed her temple and held her until exhaustion won and she drifted into fitful slumber.

Isolde didn't remember much of the next day; she was too exhausted, too numb. They kept vigil over the seamstress' body, all day long, and the night that followed. Friends, a few knights, Tristan came and went. It all blurred in her mind. She had so much trouble keeping herself awake that artesans next door stood in her stead.

"Isolde."

Someone was shaking her, a familial touch.

"Isolde, it is time."

The apprentice blinked, her head pounding from too much grief and sleepless nights. Then she dragged herself to her feet, taking in the sight of a washed and combed Tristan. The sight of him, respectfully dressed, brought a fresh wave of love in her heart. The scout presented her a dark woollen dress, one that she barely remembered having set aside the previous day.

"Do you need help ?", he asked, eyeing her slow movements with worried eyes.

"I… no. But I'd love to."

The scout nodded; he liked her truthfulness, so very different from the roman ladies he knew. His hands lingered upon her shoulders, bringing warmth and solace. Then they slid down her sides to tie the laces, and Isolde leant against him. The scout froze, unused to giving comfort. So he gave in to his intuition, and embraced the seamstress shoulders, keeping her tucked against him in hopes it would suffice. She whimpered and buried her little nose against his collarbone with a sigh. The scout relaxed, it wasn't so hard after all.

A knock at the door caused them to part, and Isolde walked, head high, to find not only Vanora, but also Gawain, Dagonet and Bors outside with a large plank.

"We come to take the seamstress to her final resting place", Dagonet said, his face gentle.

Stunned, Isolde could only nod as the tall knight climbed upstairs to retrieve the body, and laid her down upon the board. Villagers and friends disposed a few flowers around her, those who could be found at this early time of the year. Then, as Vanora grabbed her hand, the knights hoisted the board up their shoulders as they would have done with a fellow brother. Tristan and Gawain in front, Dagonet and Bors at the back.

Isolde's eyes welled with tears. The seamstress would be more honoured in death than she had been in life. Albeit her son wasn't here, many villagers escorted the convoy to the cemetery. Her foster mother was well loved; the lot of good artesans that pulled their weight in the tight community of the wall. Isolde couldn't help but wonder how sincere the emotions would be when they buried her father… what about her mother ? There would be wails, and dark veils, and plenty of cries from paid mourners. Would any of their slaves and domestics weep truthfully ?

The village buried the seamstress in a small hole without much ceremony. Then, people scattered about to return to the hardships of their own life. Tristan pulled Isolde to the tavern, and she didn't resist. In her grief, Isolde didn't realise how much that gesture – the knight's homage - meant to her. It came later when, sitting amongst Tristan's brothers, she was presented drinks after drinks.

"Hail to the seamstress", Gawain said, lifting his tankard of ale.

Isolde lifted her cup of wine, and nodded, tears gathering in her eyes. This was the way they honoured their dead, and they dragged her into drunken reminiscences until she couldn't see straight. Tristan eventually called it quits and dragged her back to his quarters.

Needless to say that the following morning was utterly miserable. Isolde might have drowned herself in a well had Tristan not been by her side.

Then the world dissolved into heat and chills, and time passed slowly and fast at once. Isolde could barely open her eyes, and she drifted in and out of consciousness as her lungs expelled the sadness. Cough, cough, cough. Her head hurt, her back hurt. Everything was a blur. Her chest, constricted, couldn't get enough air. Agony.

She heard Vanora's voice and Dagonet's booming order to stay away, not to bring the disease to her brood. She heard the giant's voice, more often than not, and her silent knight who held her at night, despite the sweat that formed on her brow and the shivers that caused her back to ache. She sometimes heard Hawk's cry calling him out.

And when, some time after the seamstress' burial, she eventually opened her eyes, Tristan was there.

His intense gaze greeted her with relief, his amber eyes flecked with gold in the morning light. And just like she had, many months ago, he handed her a cup of water and supported her sore neck while she drank to her heart's content. Slowly, gently, his fingers released her and she mourned the loss of their presence.

"What happened ?", she asked, her voice sore.

"The seamstress' sickness."

Isolde nodded; her head was swimming. So much that she didn't even see him approach her, and the kiss he bestowed upon her temple took her by surprise. Her hands shot up, searching for something to grasp and she found the collar of his tunic. Then, realization set in.

"You must stay away !", she croaked.

The scout chuckled; the sound so foreign after the hell she's just been through. Yet, it brought solace in her heart.

"Don't fuss, little woman. I don't get sick."

Isolde was too tired to argue with a stubborn scout, especially when he climbed in bed beside her with just his tunic, and gathered her into his arms with a sigh.

"Don't leave me, eh ?"

It was probably the most heartfelt plea she would ever hear from him. And in between words, she could hear the fear. Fear that gripped her heart every time he left the fort; a twisted feeling in her gut. A familiar companion now.

"Now, you know how I feel when you ride away."

His arm tightened around her slight frame, and a kiss landed at her nape.

"Sleep, Isolde. We both need it"

And she realized that she was in his quarters, and had probably kept him away from his rest with her persistent cough. So she closed her eyes, and fell into a blissful oblivion.