The Second Heartbreak ~ Isolde's Tale
Title: The Second Heartbreak
Disclaimer: Joss owns the Buffy crew, Bruckheimer, Franzoni, & Fuqua own this incarnation of Arthur & his knights. I own the modernized names and situations, kinda.
Summary: Dawn’s not the only one to share a past history with her knights. The second time her heart‘s been made to break…
A/N: These are little vignettes into four of the Sarmatians’ ladies existence at the fort/Camelot/wherever the hell they all wind up. First part was Willow’s back story. This is about Isolde’s time at the wall. Part three & four will be Elaine and Viviane’s bits.
Pairing: Faith/Trevor, Isolde/Tristan The Second Heartbreak
Faith wasn’t one to look gift horses in the mouth. But this was a pretty big one to swallow. Still didn’t stop her from turning up the steps and slipping in to bed. She was out before she even managed to change out of her clothes. ***** She’d wanted her knees to falter when Morgana had spoken of their deaths. But part of her knew that she’d cursed Tristan to die a lonely death if he’d failed to keep the betrothal. What had she known as a foolish girl? She’d been impetuous and head strong and she now faltered under the loss of Tristan.
Had he even been the same man from the boy she remembered? Had he, like she, never taken a lover? Had he been unable to get over the loss of her? She’d kept her self pure for him. That barely mattered now.
She would not cry. Not bring herself to dishonor his memory with tears. She’d not make a fool out of herself and bear the pain closely to her soul. If she even had one still in her chest. It took very little for her sister to crumble, however. Viviane had to hold Elaine upright, the grief over the loss of Lancelot clear to all. Morgana stood before her then, her all too-knowing eyes piercing Isolde’s very soul.
“She’s stopped crying. Have you drugged her?”
“Honeyed wine,” Morgana nodded. “Though she has not eaten much in the last few days. It did not take much.”
“Has she the right to such grief?” Isolde asked, the bitterness tingeing her voice.
“In her own way,” the Raven sighed. “Not as much as you can claim.”
“Did I curse him? You know of such things, Morgana. Did my bitterness doom him to die, here and alone?”
“Tell me, witch,” Isolde hissed.
Morgana jerked back as if slapped. Isolde would not apologize. There was an unearthly magic to her sister. Just as there was to Viviane. It was old magic, once tied to their people and their land. It was unbearably cruel to demean what magic the goddess had provided them, but perhaps it would bring a clear answer from Morgana. At least for a change.
“Tristan’s fate was drawn long before you were born,” Morgana’s eyes turned dark. “Achilles fell once, because of an unbearable loss. Will you fall as well?”
“Whoever can tell?”
Isolde turned from her sister. Part of her was already dead. Tristan was gone and she was left alone in this cold world. But she was comforted by the fact that his death had not been on her shoulders. She set herself down on the pallet, her eyes unseeing as she remembered the boy she would mourn the rest of her life.
Tall seas of grass had nearly swallowed him whole, as his father taught him how to wield a sword. Isolde felt the tears pool in her eyes, slipping across her face. She’d thrown an apple at him, and he’d sliced through it cleanly.
“Be at peace, my heart,” Isolde whispered softly. “For both of us.”
Trevor jerked upright in bed. Be at peace, my heart
whispered across ears, drawing his gaze up to the oddly opened doorway. Why would he dream of Faith’s grief, 1,600 years in the past?