Tristan and Isolde

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 ?