Chapter 8: Wed me !
That's it, she had had enough! The tear in that vest matched the graze on Tristan's neck. And if none of his fellow brothers had dared voicing what had happened, Isolde knew. She remembered Percival readily enough; it had taken just a bolt to fell him. If she was to be robbed of Tristan, she at least wanted him to know how she felt about him !
Undeterred by the scout's aloofness, Isolde took the stairs of the seamstress' house with decided steps. Preened, dressed in her most beautiful gown and hair set free, the apprentice's heart was beating hard in her chest. The decision was taken now, and she hoped the feeling of elation that came with her decision would last until the tavern. She hoped, so dearly, that her resolve wouldn't crumble like a soufflé.
The seamtress' compliments – bless her gentle soul! – fed her courage, and very soon, Isolde was stomping up the paved road to the tavern. Her determined gaze alone would have deterred anyone from annoying her, but again, she was Tristan's woman. So despite the change in demeanour and the fact that, for once, she wasn't hiding in her clothes, people only graced her with admirative looks rather than lustful ones.
Laughs and noise reached her ears as she approached the tavern, and Isolde's chest tightened uncomfortably. She usually didn't barge in like this; Tristan always escorted her at his convenience. Until today, she had never dared supplant his demands. Adrenalin coursed through her veins, making her heart beat so much faster. Her breath came in pants, from the exertion of walking up to the tavern of her own anxiety; she didn't know.
Her entrance failed to pass unnoticed. Good. Today, she was aiming for the kill. Her blue gown swished around her legs as she strode into the tavern, her goal clearly marked. The knight's table. Her eyes found Tristan instantly.
Standing tall, an apple in his left hand, his embroidered shirt hiding the graze at his neck. Leather vest upon his shoulders, with a hole inside ! His hair was wild, as usual, but clean, his tattoos hidden behind loose strands that braids failed to restrain. His gaze focused on a stool where Gawain and Galahad seemed to be launching daggers. Then he moved, so graceful, and with a nonchalant flick of his wrist, a blade flew to embed itself in Galahad dagger.
Isolde fought a smile; he was so good at riling them up. Gawain's disappointed sigh nearly sent her into peals of laughter. How often they fell in his trap! But she knew that behind this, Tristan was only teasing them. Did they not realise the twinkle in his carefully hidden eyes? The slight twitch at the corner of his mouth?
So when he pointed to the pincushion stool and told them, with his most even voice, that he barely 'aimed for the middle', his mouth still munching on the apple, Isolde could only smile at the disgruntled moans that welcomed his quip, biting her lower lip. Tristan chose this exact moment to catch her gaze, as if he had known all along that she was there.
His features, impassive, watched her like a hawk, but his eyes seemed to brighten; he liked what he saw. Then his spine stiffened slightly; he obviously wondered why she had gone to such length when it came to her attire. Or why she was there in the first place. Or whether she was going to shout at him altogether.
Before she could deflate entirely, Isolde let her affection for that man – her man! – course in her veins. Her chest expanded, and she feared she would lack air if she didn't move this very moment. Her gaze locked into his as she walked, her chin held high. Tristan stood, immobile, facing her. Open.
As she caught up with him, Isolde grabbed his neck and pulled his mouth down to hers. Her lips engulfed his instantly, and she refused to shy away this time. Her tongue called for his and Tristan, stunned at first, obliged willingly. He tasted of ale and apple, sweet and bitter, his own masculine scent surrounding her as her little nose brushed against this skin. His strong arms wound around her frame, pulling at her waist to crush her body against his while she circled his back. He was so strong, so solid in her arms, so lively.
Isolde had never known such ecstasy, her senses overwhelmed by his presence; her knees buckled. Tristan pulled so tight that her feet nearly didn't touch the ground, his hand settling on her pulsating flank as it circled her small waist. As their lips danced, tongues tasting, licking, suckling without shame, whistles started to echo into the tavern.
Tristan threw his apple to his brother's table without even breaking the kiss, dragging Isolde in a corner as he tasted her rosy lips. And when at last he released her, breathless, the young woman wound her fingers into his hair and laid her forehead against his chest. Her whole body tingled; her heart absolutely thunderous. Her breath came in short pants, and for a moment, she felt faint.
When she eventually lifted her head, Isolde was surprised to find a genuine smile upon his swollen lips. But it wasn't over; she needed to gather her wits and courage before the day ended.
"Will you wed me when you're free?", she whispered.
His brown gaze held her steadily in their thrall.
"Do you wish me to?"
His voice was so sensual, like a caress to her soul.
"Aye. There is no other man for me. I love you, Tristan"
Her words affected him so much that he straightened, escaping her grasp for a moment. But his eyes, smouldering ambers about to burst into flames, didn't leave hers. His assessment seemed to last forever, and Isolde cringed. She had just asked a man to marry her, forgoing any convention, trampling a male's pride, and furthermore, begging for an attachment he might not wish in the first place. Still, his answer was steady.
"Aye, I will wed you."
Isolde almost fainted with joy, falling into Tristan's arms like a doll.
"I was so afraid you would refuse me. So afraid…"
The scout, stunned, said nothing. He just held the young woman, surprised to find himself engaged without a second thought, and even more surprised that it brought him such joy. She was so soft, so warm in his arms, her whole body vibrating against his. Trembling, even.
"Do not worry, eh?", he said as he buried his nose in her soft curls. "You have been my woman for some time, now. No need to change that"
Isolde smiled, a full, beaming expression he had never seen on her face. And to think she addressed it to him, that he was the reason why she thrived so felt so foreign. And when she whispered in his ear, Tristan couldn't help but smile back.
"Ever since the first time you kissed me, I have been waiting for you to do it again."
So. He wasn't the only one who had found that first kiss rather endearing.
"Your wish is my command, dear lady."
And Tristan endeavoured to kiss the seamstress' apprentice senseless, relishing in the elation of being free to have a woman who didn't shy away from him. In the background, Bors was yelling, and Vanora singing. The longing of her voice registered in Tristan's mind while his tongue gently danced with Isolde', his hands getting bold as he caressed the side of her breast.
Home.
Isolde' plump and swollen lips left him, hovering just out of reach as she searched his hooded eyes.
"Will you want to go home?", she asked. "Back to Sarmatia?"
Tristan licked his lips, thoughtful.
"If I did, would you come?"
A reddish eyebrow climbed upon pale skin, surprise written on her face.
"Where the husband goes, the spouse follows."
Isolde was of noble descent; her education had taught her to submit and care for her husband no matter what. Tristan frowned; this is not what he wanted to know. His callous hand cupped her cheek as he searched for the right words.
"But would you want it? Sarmatia is … far away."
It wasn't just the distance, but the culture difference as well. Isolde nodded, understanding what he meant. Sarmatia was akin to another world; they had talked at length about it. She now knew how the tribes lived in the endless steppes of the eastern lands.
"I want to be by your side. Here, or anywhere else in the world."
Something clicked in Tristan's mind; the surprise of being sought out, and accepted. It wasn't protection she was after if she was ready to travel thousands of leagues to his homeland. His whole world had just shifted upon its axis again, and he had trouble reconciling his earlier thoughts – survive until his service was over – with this evening's events.
And thus, the fated question was answered. Yes, he would take Isolde back to Sarmatia. As his wife.
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