Re: A Winter's Tale
Finally, I have got around to the next chapter. Hopefully during the next couple of weeks I'll have more time to add further installments. Just a question to readers - are the full chapter posts OK, or would you prefer shorter posts breaking up the chapters? Oh and since it's been a while, you might want to review previous chapters to explain what occurs later on in this one.
A Winter's Tale: Chapter Five
"If you two aren't ready by the time I count five, I shall leave on my own," Tristan warned as he picked up a knapsack left outside the door.
Abruptly, the heavy door swung open and Brangain staggered through, her hair unkempt and an angry gleam in her eye. "Will you stand your patience?" she snapped, shifting awkwardly under the weight of another saddle bag. "Jesus and Mary, you'll have me dead."
"Well then lassie, if you're to die soon I'd better make use of you now, hadn't I?" Tristan lumped the bag he had just picked up onto the girl's other shoulder.
"Ach, you're the devil in an angel's skin, Tristan ap Cystennin, that you are." Brangain shrugged her new load to a more comfortable position and wobbled up the steps towards the horses that stood sniffing the air some yards away.
Tristan ducked under the lintel and went into the hut. On the rumpled bed, a backpack lay open while Iseult stood by the hearth, fastening a thick woollen cloak about her shoulders. Her hair was plaited tight to her head and she had dressed in tough riding leathers, stitched into a harlequin patchwork of ebon brown and wine red. She looked primitive and shamanistic, an ancient tribal goddess suddenly incarnate.
"Are you misbehaving with my servant, sir?" she scolded gently as Tristan entered. She sensed his admiration and responded at the same hidden, animal level, but continued her outward calm. She finished attaching the brooch and stood straight, letting him look.
"You have spared the rod with that one," he replied, loudly enough for the twitching ears beyond to hear. Then, lowering his voice nearly to a whisper, he said, "You look beautiful....like an eagle home from the mountains. Like you belong here."
She smiled, her eyes windows of her pleasure. "Did you miss me last night?"
Tristan raised an eyebrow at the ambiguity of the question but decided to answer its content rather than its possible meaning. "Everyone missed you. The conversation was of naught but you. You made quite an impression on Mark." Iseult looked at the floor. "Come on, we had better be off. I'll tell you all about it as we ride."
He went over and picked up the bag from the bed. "Anything more to bring?" Iseult shook her head.
"What about that?" he said, pointing at a small bottle in the corner.
"Apparently my mother gave it to Brangain so that I could celebrate."
Tristan snorted. "Good. Then let's take it to celebrate this day together. Your mother wouldn't approve, but then that's another good reason to drink it." He picked up the bottle and pushed it deep into the bag where it would not break.
"Come on, you two, or I shall go without you!" Brangain's voice mimicked his own, drifting wryly through the doorway.
Iseult's eyes twinkled. "I'll race you!" she cried, and without waiting hurtled through the door. Tristan swung the bag over his shoulder and strode after her, shaking his head.
Coming up into the sunlight, he saw that Iseult was already mounted, and with a dry snap of leather and a challenging shout she pulled her horse sharply to the right and cantered off towards the valley centre. Flustered, Brangain kicked her horse into following.
Tristan sprinted over the few remaining yards to his own mount and vaulted into the saddle. The horse reared in surprise, and as it settled he poked another arm through the bag straps to secure it on his back. Just as he stuck his heels into the beast's flank to charge after the princess, he saw Siobhan watching curiously from a nearby doorway.
Dismissing her look with a cursory nod of the head, he urged the horse into a gallop, thundering after the diminishing figures ahead in a spray of flying peat.
Iseult was a fine rider, but had no idea of where she was going, and soon the flat, peaty ground gave way to jumbled tussocks of grass that forced her to pick her way or fall. She was acutely aware that Tristan was rapidly overhauling her on the far side of the wide valley, where the ground was obviously much firmer and more even. After another quarter mile, she saw him drawing ahead and climbing the slope toward a dip between hills, and decided to swallow her pride and cross to his side. As she turned the horse, Brangain muttered in agreement.
Tristan waited patiently at the cleft, watching the two riders tiptoe their way to the firmer ground and then climb the hill to his position. As Iseult rode up to him, he turned his mount's head and set it towards the slope of the next hill. She settled in beside him, staying silent for a time while Brangain trotted along some way behind, an unintrusive chaperone.
"Where are we going?" Iseult asked finally.
"Mark told me you wanted to see the islanders." He laughed. "He was very impressed with your concern."
Iseult scowled at him. "I did want to find out more. I didn't know you were to be my guide until he suggested it."
Tristan tilted his head. "I'm sorry. I should have known you would have taken this seriously." He pointed down a long, winding glen, visible amongst the hills some miles away. "I'll take you to the north coast where you can see one of the fishing villages. The fishermen can meet their new queen and you can ask all you want. There's not much more to the Orcadians than fish and the sea. Everything else they take with the sword, and that's Mark's story."
"So what did he say about me?"
"I really shouldn't tell you," Tristan grinned. "It might go to your head."
"Rather there than my heart," she replied quietly.
"He told us that he thought you very beautiful," continued Tristan, unhearing. "You remind him...you're just what he dreamed of. Dubhgall kept on about a royal heir, and every time stopped in mid-sentence to apologise to me. I think he's even keener on you having babies than Mark."
"Would his child displace you from the kingship?"
"Of course not, princess. Things may have gone Saxon in Erin, but here the succession is chosen and approved by the clan." He winked mischievously. "But your children would be eligible after me."
"My children." Iseult shook her head, wide-eyed. "Do you know how much I've dreamed of children of my own to love, and now it's possible I can't bear the thought."
Tristan chose not to reply. A gull screamed half-heartedly overhead.
"How did anyone persuade Mark to become a Christian?" she said eventually. "There's little gentleness in him."
"No 'turn the other cheek' in King Mark is there?" Tristan nodded. "His reasons are complicated, Iseult. There's the political expedient, of course. Few princes are still pagan, and those that are provide a good excuse for an alliance against them. All in God's name of course, but it's so much more satisfying to destroy an enemy and do God's will at the same time. But Mark doesn't really need to worry about that."
"Not when he has warriors like you," interrupted Iseult.
Tristan bowed his head. "You are kind, but rarely do determined raiders offer single combat. No, the islands protect Mark more certainly than any sword." He saw her expression and explained further. "You haven't seen winter here. For six months of the year, only the bravest or most foolish men dare these seas. Orcadians are born both brave and foolish, and we get visits from the fierce Northmen from beyond the dawn, but the rest of the Cruithne and the Saxons, and even your people are too sensible and civilised to come here. Of course, when they do, they have nowhere to rest and recover because the islands are so small. We are well protected."
Tristan began to lead them up a steepish slope, aiming for the summit of a long, low hill. "No, Mark is a Christian because he feels abandoned by his ancestors. When Cairbre, his first wife died, they had been happy for eight years but he was left childless. He had loved her fiercely and went mad with grief. Everyone in the North of Britain tasted his rage in those next few years and he did a lot of things that he now regrets, which gave rise to his terrible reputation. But finally the monks convinced him that he could be forgiven by God, and that he might be loved again. I don't think he believes it, but he's got nothing else left." He looked at her with that mystical and depthless stare that held everything and nothing. "You are the salvation of his soul."
"And you won't be responsible for denying him that salvation, will you? Tristan, have you ever thought what he will do if I am not what he needs?"
"You have to be. Ridding the islands of foreign tribute is only the beginning for Mark. There are many here who...who have other ideas. He needs strength and stability. He needs you."
"Surely he can't be that weak?"
He laughed, an edge of salt in the sound. "Mark isn't weak, Iseult, just hurt. Like a wounded wolf, he's unpredictable. Equally, there are those who will put him out of his misery."
"And why not you? You could rule here in an instant. They all love you."
"With you as my queen? Lucifer himself has no temptation to rival that, princess. But I am tanaiste. I have my honour. And Mark has you."
"This is ridiculous." Iseult stopped her horse. In surprise, Tristan reined in some yards away. "Have you seen two more foolish people?" The question was shot at the approaching Brangain, and it flashed across the moorland like a swooping merlin. The girl pulled up, nonplussed. Then her face creased into a frown.
"Not so far, Iseult" she said sternly, "but I fear for the both of you if your foolishness deepens. We're an awful long way from home, now."
Tristan shifted in his saddle. "There's no harm will come to anyone, for any reason."
Brangain snorted. "Sure, and you'll cut down every warrior at King Mark's call to protect this lady. And then Conchobhair's hordes. And will you be finding peace amongst this bloodshed? No, Tristan, it's you who must give this foolishness up. Let her be. That is where your courage lies."
"It is not for you to tell me about courage, girl."
"Isn't it? Why are you here then? You both know what's at stake here, but you're still playing these games. You talk of honour while behaving like children."
Iseult frowned. "You speak too freely, Brangain. What Tristan does is no concern of yours."
"Is it not?" Brangain quickly bit her tongue. "Ach, you asked. And I don't want to see him hurt you as he will if this goes on."
Tristan's eyes iced over until neither woman could tell whether he would shout or ride away into the sun. Finally, a smile etched onto his face but left the ice intact.
"You are a wise woman inside a child's frame." Brangain bridled at his faintly patronising tone. "Come on, we'll ride beyond this hill. There is a stream, and shelter from the wind. We can eat and enjoy the sunshine."
Without waiting for their consent, he drove his horse up the hill, keeping a distance between him and the following pair. His back clenched from time to time with contradictions.
Iseult rode in silence beside Brangain, occasionally betraying her anger with sidelong, razor-edged glances. The girl shrugged them off, knowing she had spoken in her friend's best interest.
They topped the hill, and looked down into a natural green bowl. A stream, shining like a bolt of silk rolled carelessly down the far side of the cwm, fed a glimmering pool. After tarrying there a short while, the water cascaded down over a stair of rock-jumbled rapids into a soft mantle of jade-leafed trees. Birds cavorted and danced in the sunlight, which seemed to be embraced and warmed by the steep grassy slopes into even more benevolent radiance. The bird-song blurred and blended in the distance, a soft susurration of natural music that twinkled its harmonies over the metallic percussion of water on rock.
"Tristan, this is magical!" Iseult stood in her stirrups, her angry mood lifted from her by the gentle summer orchestra. Brangain too, looked suddenly spellbound by this enchanted place.
"Not all the islands are bleak," he said in a voice that was. He prodded his horse forward, down towards the pool.
Away from the cutting breeze that seemed a permanent feature of these islands, the air was soft and warm, like the touch of a mother's hand. Iseult loosened the binding of her cloak and let it fall over her horse's rump. Small wild-flowers decked the grass-strewn slope, jewels of colour amongst the verdure. Far away, a rabbit’s tail flicked in the sun and was as suddenly gone. A swift soared around them, its flight a dipping, weaving maze of skill and frivolity, tracing through the blue sky in swooping patterns as it struck at the insects disturbed by their passing. Bumblebees rumbled through the air, disdaining of the swift's gifted mastery, intent on their work between the blooms.
As the riders approached the pool, the sound of the waterfall increased in volume until it clamoured like a gathering of garrulous bards, arguing, boasting and harping with no regard for each other. The pool itself shimmered and small ripples distorted the rocky bottom with wobbling images, made rusty by the peat. Tiny waterboatmen skimmed the surface near the shore, skating like the footprints of invisible starlings from eddy to inlet. The bottom of the pool seemed impossibly deep and far away, even though the water shone with clarity, as if below the surface lay the entrance to another, unknown world.
Tristan's boot-heels clacked discordantly on the flat stone as he dismounted and led his horse over to a flourishing swathe of grass where it could feed and rest. Exchanging a glance, his companions came to a silent agreement and Iseult lowered herself from her horse, giving the reins to her friend. Brangain quietly took the horses over to the grass, where they snatched at mouthfuls of the fresh fodder with undisguised delight. She began to unload some of the packed cups and platters, ready to make lunch.
Tristan was standing, completely still, his eyes glaring into the cascade of water as if it were babbling a litany of accusations at him. His frame was taut as a harp string, ringing with acrimony. Iseult came up behind him and laid a gentle hand on his tensed arm.
Feeling her touch, he pulled away. It was an awkward, disjointed movement, as if the arm belonged to someone else. He froze again, still staring into the water, his immobility an impenetrable wall that was being raised, brick by brick in front of her.
"Tristan?" Iseult's voice trembled with concern. His shoulders softened a little, but he still did not turn to face her. Instead, he walked carefully away from her to sit on a large, hump-backed boulder overlooking the pool. Only then did he raise his eyes to her. Grey as snow-rimmed slate, they had focused on that far-off land which only he could see, looking at her and through her as if she existed somewhere else, somewhere inaccessible to him. Her heart crumpled within her.
"I must go away," he said at length, in a voice that was as calm as the surface of the tarn, "to Cornwall, or perhaps Brittany. I am asking too much of myself."
Though her chest was tight with desolation, Iseult kept her voice calm, as if they were discussing what to eat for lunch. "You are tanaiste. Will you abandon your people?"
"It is the lesser of two evils. It will be in their interest, after all."
"And what of me?"
His eyes widened minutely, their colour seeming to darken still further. "I'm asking nothing of you, save that you forget me. Forget this."
"You say that as if I were a candle, lit one moment and dark the next. I can't do that. You of all people should know that."
"Nonetheless, Iseult, you must." He shifted uneasily, and a faint shimmer of warmth returned to his face. "Or at least, put me from your mind. I thought we could cope with this. A little willpower, a little restraint. Once you were married, I told myself, it would be easier. I would look on you as a sister, a friend. I've lied to myself believing that would be enough. But Brangain is right - I'm playing with you and myself. I'm denying that part of my soul, perhaps all of it, that wants to touch you, hold you and never let go, but it's far too strong. It's as if there is a part of me missing, an absence that when unseen was not missed, but now is tearing me in half. I feel like I am dying each time I am near you and cannot hold you."
Iseult took a step nearer but his expression warned her away. "But you can hold me," she pleaded.
"You're a fool," he rebuked, harsher than intended. His voice softened. "There is no going back, don't you understand? If I give in, we can never go back. The sky will fall, and we will be alone to face it. No, Iseult, our dice are cast. I will not be responsible for war and dying, if you will."
"Why must there be war?" She wrung her hands in futility. "Why won't Mark understand? He doesn't love me, and you are tanaiste. Surely if we married the alliance would be as good?"
"For honour's sake." Tristan's gaze inverted upon itself like a vengeful gimlet. "The same brutal honour that rules these lives of ours. Your father would be humiliated because Mark would have rejected you. Mark would be humiliated because you would have rejected him. The Church would be humiliated because we would have rejected its alliance and its wisdom. That is a destructive group of angry men. That is a recipe for war."
"So you will leave me to my fate."
"It is a softer fate than many. You will have life, and love and children. It is a better fate than loneliness. With me, you would have nothing. At the very least, Mark would have us both killed. Even if we escaped, we would be kinless, outcasts. Your children would have no clan and no safety."
Iseult sat heavily on a low rock, defeated. She felt bereaved, as if Tristan were dying in front of her. "So, this is our last day together. You're going to leave tomorrow, aren't you?"
He shook his head. "I had made no plans. This course of action only came to me as we rode."
"Then..."
"No. I must be at your wedding, for otherwise it would look amiss. But I won't see you again alone, and I will leave soon after. I must be selfish, for I will not be able to look at you and know..." His voice quavered suddenly, betraying his anguish. "And know that you had been with Mark."
"Oh, Tristan." His pain, inadvertently revealed, brought hot, stinging tears to her eyes.
"Please, don't cry. I am a memory that you will cherish, but I will fade into the remembering of a good and happy life. We have today to ensure our recollection is one of warmth and joy."
Iseult nodded as best she could, struggling to wipe away the tears with her hand, but they refused to be restrained and continued to roll treacherously down her cheek. "I can't lose you, Tristan."
He stood, and for a moment she thought he might come over to her, comfort her. "You won't. Some time, perhaps beyond death, we will find a way to meet again." He looked bleak. "There is a verse from a song that has been much on my mind.
'In Time, all wounds heal, no matter how deep,
Pain but a memory stitched to a seam.
We will be rejoined though God seems to sleep,
Loving for now in the care of a dream.'
"Dreams are all that is left to us." He walked away, over to the horses where Brangain stood fiddling inconsequentially, trying not to be aware of the couple's words or intrude on their pain.
"The princess seems sad," she said as he approached, more to forestall an awkward silence than to enquire.
"I am leaving the islands in a few days," he replied, his voice level and controlled but sounding to Brangain like one long sigh.
"Forever, isn't it?" She studied his face, impassive but lacking the gaiety that habitually rested around his eyes. "Ach, Tristan, you're a brave and tender man. I'll be praying for you." She looked over at the slumped shoulders of her friend, still shaking with sorrow.
"I think I'll be leaving you two alone for a while." At his look, she continued, "It's a rare and painful thing to lose a loved one. If I were her, I should like to be alone with you, just this last time. To say what needs to be said before it no longer matters. Then there won't be too many 'what ifs'. Talk to her, Tristan. Make her laugh like you used to. Be Cai for her, one more time. She'll remember you fondly for it."
"Where will you go?" He seemed confused by her offer, unsure of the change of ground.
"Not too far," she said lightly. "Up yon hill, to where the spring rises. I'll try and see Erin."
Brangain mounted her horse, flicking her hair in the wind. "I packed the food in that pouch you're carrying. Leave a little for me, now won't you?"
Tristan watched her ride slowly up the slope of the hill, winding a careful way beyond the crest and out of his sight. When her figure had finally disappeared over the horizon, he remembered about the bag he carried and unslung it from his shoulders. He went back over to Iseult, who sat quietly watching the ripples on the pool, no longer weeping. She turned to him as she heard his footstep on the rock.
"Brangain suggested that we eat lunch together. She has gone for a ride." He sat beside her and pulled open the bag. It was easier to talk now the words had been spoken and the tears shed. "What have we here?" he said, poking a hand into the interior and bringing out various items. "Bread, smoked herring, a little ham. Quite a feast. Och, and a bottle of celebratory wine." He spoke lightly, bidding delicately to lighten Iseult's heart.
She tried to respond, stretching the emotion from her neck and reaching over to unwrap the ham from its linen envelope. He tore a small hunk of bread from the loaf and offered it to her, but she looked at him with a faint hint of admonition. "I'm not a bird, Tristan," she said.
He smiled and tore off another, larger piece. That done, he picked up the small glass bottle and unplugged the wax binding around its neck.
Iseult spoke through a mouthful of bread. "Hadn't you better get some cups for that?"
He nodded and ran lightly over to a flat boulder near the horses where Brangain had laid her goblets when unpacking. He felt encouraged by Iseult's attempt to cheer up and made his way back quickly. "As commanded, two cups." He sniffed the open bottle with a curious savour. "Where in heaven did your father get this?"
She took the bottle and tested the fragrance carefully. It smelt of wild roses, of children's summers, of starry nights. She raised her eyebrows and poured the wine. It flowed, syrupy and faintly greenish in colour, like an old and treasured mead. "I've seen something like it that my uncle brought back from a raid at Caer Uisc. It must be very special."
Tristan picked up his cup and raised it to her. "To dreams, and the happiness they bring."
Iseult ignored his irony and drank from her cup. The taste was smooth, warming and full of meadow flowers, but she coughed suddenly when a fierce herbal aftertaste caught her throat.
Tristan refilled his cup and set about dismembering one of the fish. Iseult watched a swift swoop over the shimmering pool, dodging the rocks as if they were leaping up to catch it in flight. A thistledown floated precariously over the water, chased by eager breezes until it grasped at the long bristle of a grass stem, tired of its coquettishness. A tiny bird settled on the weary branch of an old and tired tree, forcing its drooping, gnarled fingers to splash gently in the mirrored surface. Lazy, irregular ripples struck out from the trembling bough, and the bird began to sing to match their rhythm. She felt her desolation seeping away into the tranquillity.
"Why is it so different here?" she asked, letting the sun steep its balmy warmth deep into her bones. "It's so peaceful, so far away from everywhere."
"I'm afraid I don't know." Tristan drained his goblet and settled back against the giant's pillow of a stone that he leaned upon. He closed his eyes and let a breath of serenity float over him. "The first time I came here, I was quite young, about thirteen, and it seemed to me that I was the first to see it. I used to dream about it a lot, especially being here with...."
Their eyes locked, and stayed tight together. "With whom?" asked Iseult slowly.
Tristan broke the spell with a grin as he stood up. "You're assuming again, princess. I might have meant with a good bottle of wine."
Iseult stood too, brushing the sand from her breeches. "Then why did you stop yourself?"
Still smiling, he ignored the question. "I feel like that child again, you know? Maybe now things are set, I can be free to enjoy this time with you." He jumped up onto the rock that had been his seat. "Yes, I remember it now. Iseult, let me show you a place of dreams."
Exhilarated, he jumped down next to her. Watching the light playing in his eyes, she impulsively stretched out and took his hand in hers. He did not withdraw as she half-expected, but tightened his grip. She felt a shivering, tingling exchange of energy through the tight clasp.
Then he was away, leading her gently along the stream bank, guiding her past tussocks and rounded stones, across scattered bays of greenish-grey sand and towards the flickering brilliance of the trees. Their leaves shivered with excitement in the irregular breeze, a myriad of candle flames burning emerald in the sunshine. Overlaid with the dappled blanket of the wood, the world itself changed colour into a coruscation of greens and yellows, gold shimmers and jade benedictions. The susurrating rustle of the branches mixed with the jangling music of the brook, supporting the impression that they had sunk beneath the waves of a mystic sea. The trees crowded around, protective of their visitors, until in a sudden moment, the couple emerged into a tiny clearing, nearly open to the sky and nestling close to the racing waters.
The grove was softened with grass so deep in colour it would shame the sweetest apple. The greensward was silken and short, as if it were tended, but the grove was so obviously wild its gardeners could only be from beneath the hills themselves. The sky above shone in azure tranquillity, unblemished by clouds. The stream rushed over grey rocks, gurgling with delight, splashing and splattering like it was newborn. A breath of wind hardly stirred the leaves, not daring to impose more than an accent on the quietude of this place.
Tristan seemed not to be breathing, and Iseult could not bring herself to speak. The gentle beauty of the grove was overwhelming, and she could sense that a miracle was dancing lightly amongst the gentle saplings. After more than a lifetime, Tristan turned to her and let the veil fall from his eyes.
"I love you," he said, simply. He let go of her hand, but with a reluctance to lose her touch. He opened his arms gently, inviting her in. "You are my heart and soul and the harsh world will drown in my love for you."
A grab of conscience momentarily kept her motionless, something preventing her step. Then, just as suddenly, all trepidation, all misgiving, all restraint left her. She flew into his arms and grasped him close tight.
There was a rushing, reeling sensation of happiness as the world around was splashed away by a wave of utter completion. She felt his heart beat, the surge of his hot blood, the gentle strength in his iron muscles. Her heart felt like a falcon, swooping into the sky, exuberant with the thrill of life. She could hear all the wonderful sounds around her, clearer than ever before, as if she had been born once more into a different world, a world nearer to heaven. The trees seemed to whisper and laugh with joy, exulting with her in this sudden paradise. She felt like she had come home, contented as if in a soft, new-made bed on a cruel winter night but exhilarated like a child watching the blizzard blow in.
She clung to him, never wanting to let go, until she felt the caress of his breath on her neck. Shivering at his touch, she lifted her head and looked deeper into his silver eyes than he had ever allowed her before. She felt her lips part and he kissed her, fierce with his passion and full of the weeks of longing. She responded, her body arching with the vibrancy of his embrace, harnessing it, loving it and returning it to him in a wild-storm of desire. Time and time again their lips parted for a fleeting second, their panting breath intermingling in the island air, but unwilling to stray far or too long they kissed again and again, dancing with their lips and tongues in a whirling scherzo of love.
Suddenly, his touch appeared at her bare neck, lighter than a down feather but so intense that Iseult gasped with the thrill. She looked at him, eyes wide with expectation and want. He bent again to her lips, knowing her heart but seemingly unsure of the enormity of her need. She brushed his lips with hers, teasing, evasive, and lifted her hands to the laced neck of her jacket. Carefully, fluidly, with a sparkling smile playing about her eyes, she loosened the lacings, letting the leather fall languidly apart to reveal the soft skin of her neck. Tristan watched her delicate movements, spellbound, completely enchanted by the magic she wove, anxious that should he touch her at this moment, she would fade back into the dreamscape from which she had sprung. She pulled the final knot from the thong, and the jacket hung enticingly from her shoulders, only the thin white fabric of her undershirt keeping her breasts from his gaze. Still he did not move, hardly daring to breathe. Gently, she took his hand by the wrist and brought it up in front of her. She kissed the palm softly, tracing a circle with her tongue, touching his ring-finger with her lips. Reverently she laid his hand upon her breast.
Under that touch, their individual worlds dissolved. Lost in the universe of themselves, they blended, interwove, shuddered, shouted, touched, smiled, danced and loved.
***
Soon they lay quietly, breathing softly in perfect synchrony. As the wonderment faded into simple joy, she looked over to his resting head, and stroked his hair, marvelling in the touch of him and the truth they had found together. "I love you," she whispered, and he raised his head to look at her. His eyes smiled with a deep, secret smile that would be theirs forever. Never again would she fail to read their message.
"You are my heart," he said, kissing her breast. "I love you too."
"Can we stay here forever?" she asked, looking at the trees that shone benevolently around them.
"We may have to," he replied, still stroking her skin, exciting little shudders to run along her body. "But I cannot think of a sweeter exile."
She luxuriated in his touch, the sense of being bound to him, two people with one soul. "Make love to me again, Tristan. Don't ever stop making love to me."
He kissed her gently and held her tightly to him, while above a bird sang sweetly, celebrating the union of true love, and the miracle of happiness that shone in the hearts below.
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Re: A Winter's Tale
Originally Posted by Banquo's Ghost
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