#tristan said imma observe!

[forgottentristan]

Sacrifice | Tristan & Eithne

The air tasted differently here in the woods, he'd swear it. Caught high up amidst the wind-swept peaks of Stafford, there he took in the crash of waves, the babbling flow of sweet streams, but here: here was tilled earth and volunteering mushrooms; leaves that, golden at the crest of autumn, wafted lazily to the ground. The air was crisp and salty there; here it was musky and warm, and Tristan found...He found rather liked it.

There had been little enough of warmth in Kolchis, saving the great Flame which roared at the center of the temple, its marble columns turning everyday to green as lichen bit away at them. That and the near-dead tree, whose mostly bare branches raked the sky like gnarled fingers, and whose few unsweapt gold-and-crimson leaves laid down a bed upon the cool marble at this very time of year: those were the only traces of warmth in the stone city where he had begun his life. But Astaira -- all of Astaira -- was entirely different. All was an embrace, but no place, he found: no place was that so very true as it was here in Malconaire.

Above him, a throng of bright-colored birds twittered merrily amongst the green canopy that arced cheerfully across the road, while squirrels skittered from branch to branch, each chirping one to the other as he passed by far below. Yes, the woods were teaming with life, even where they were their thinnest, at the borders of Malconaire. The deeper when drove into the forest, the thicker it grew, till he had heard some Astairan folk tell that the Old Forest at the center of the woods, was indeed the heart of all the world, but what, precisely, that meant, Tristan could only guess. No doubt, he thought with a kind of wry consider, flexing his shoulders as he rode, Godfrey would know. But Tristan did not care to ask.

The castle itself rose graceful, half-sprouting itself from the very earth around it, its stone a fine complement to the great tree that arced elegantly amongst its battlements and through its high rooves. The entry, itself, was at once a humble and an elegant portal: a simple yet broad doubledoor, flanked by two trees seemingly grown amongst its very stones, and crowned with a crescent clerestory window.

Today, these great doors were, he found, flung wide, the Lady Valentina standing just ouside of them, apparently scolding the servant, Cillian, whose expression did not flag in its cheek for all the lady's redresses. Yet, Tristan watched both expressions change at his approach, Valentina's turning from sour to smiles, and Cillian's the opposite way. Dismounting, Tristan smirked to himself as he faced his horse, but managed only to show general friendliness as he turned once more to face them.

"Cillian, take Sir Tristan's horse."

The servant said nothing, only seizing up the reins and treating Tristan to a rather hard stare, a thing Tristan greeted only with thanks.

"Sir Tristan," began Lady Valentina, voice rather pointedly cheerful. "I don't suppose your delightful nephew, His Imperial Highness, Prince Edmund, is behind you. It has, I think, been some days since we've had the pleasure of his company, and we do so long to see him again. All my young ladies, you know, spend all their time sighing their hearts away in his absence, now that dear Prince Arthur has quite abandoned us, don't you know?"

Tristan shook his head. "I'm sure, my lady, His Imperial Highness will return in time."

Valentina's eyes lit. "Oh? Prince Arthur?" she exclaimed, eyes brightening into delight.

Tristan cleared his throat, the oft-played chorus of Jeanie Morrison rattling in his head. "That--that I cannot say."

"Ah," Valentina smiled valiantly through her obvious disappointment, and Tristan was seized with the irrepressible suspicion that his own nephew was more a consolation prize, just now, to Valentina's way of thinking. "Well," she said, entwining her arm with Tristan's. "I daresay our dear Prince Edmund will prove more gallant than his elder brother, and shall not long disappoint us, hm? Between you and I, you know, Sir Tristan, I must say I've always preferred his company."

Tristan just managed to turn his laugh into a cough.

"Something in the...in the light of his eyes, you know. That's integrity."

Tristan arched his brows. "A look? That's integrity, my lady?"

Valentina tittered. "Oh, dear me, Sir Tristan, you must pardon a simple lady's way of speaking. I mean only...integrity shines in his eyes."

"I see," said his uncle. "I daresay in His Imperial Highness' case, you are correct, but I should hesitate, Your Ladyship, in always comprehending goodness in beholding the mere appearance of it."

"Oh, Sir Tristan," laughed Valentina. "How very wise you are! I daresay I can see where our darling prince gets it!"

Tristan looked at her long, and shook his head. It felt quite heavy, suddenly, a weighty crown supportedly only by tender throat. "I am not wise, Your Ladyship. Only wary, as is my calling. But if its wisdom you wish, I daresay my nephew cannot hasten here soon enough."

"Oh, you are so good, Sir Tristan! Then...you shall recommend us in our longing to see him?"

"I shall...convey your wishes to Prince Edmund, when next I see him." He had little doubt Valentina's entreaties wouldn't much appeal to his nephew, though doubtless the lad would still find his way to Malconaire soon enough despite her. The knight bit his lip to hide a smile and did not say so. "I've little doubt, in truth, that he's already planning a venture here just as soon as he can manage it. But, Your Ladyship is far too kind to pay such attentions to me when there's doubtless much to do to be ready for the happy event."

Immediately, Valentina's face hardened, only softened by the thinnest veneer of politeness. "Yes...my poor son is quite set upon the wedding coming quite soon."

He swallowed hard, past the hollow thing which still rasped somewhere at his heart. It had done so since he'd heard the news, scraping cold and cruel at his bones. He'd half-wished to hear it contradicted. But he'd not expected it. Still, he felt heaviness like a mantel. He pressed disappointment aside. None of that. Not now. If this was to bring Eithne happiness, then he wished nothing less for her. Still, Tristan wondered what Valentina considered to be quite soon, its spectral hand looming across the future like a waste.

"If you would be so good, my lady, I will detain you no further than to request that you might point out where I can find Lady Eithne? I have already expressed my congratulations to Lord Cassimir, but I must give all my best to the lady, herself."

Her face twitched, and Valentina quickly looked away. "Yes," she sniffed, gesturing vaguely with her handkerchief in hand. "I believe I last saw her heading that way, in the general direction of the Old Forest. Perhaps if you are quick you may catch her before the trees devour her altogether."

If Tristan wasn't mistaken, there was a touch of wistfulness to her tone. His thanks, when he gave them, were consequently stiff, and he began his march. Fortunately, it did not take him terribly long to find her, but now that he saw her, he hardly knew where to begin.

Eithne was everything she ought to be: something he'd thought, before meeting her, quite beyond the ambition of mere mortals. A true lady of her stature, after all, ought to be impossibly kind and gracious, gentle yet strong, giving and firm, unfailingly patient. A veritable saint in the guise of mortal garb. Yet, she managed all this and more with an easy smile, blue eyes twinkling like brilliant pools of clear water. Indeed, he could not fault Lord Cassimir for wanting her: only for claiming her when he did not deserve her.

Yet, Eithne had accepted him, and his well wishes were as genuine as any could ever be: to her, above all others, belonged only good. If the god was good, she would have it, and nothing more to trouble her.

The sun shone through the glade, dancing in pale dapples through the bower of leaves overhead as Tristan approached her, navigating the high grasses as they waved. He was struck, suddenly, with the notion that she was no much a part of Malconaire, that he did not think he could picture the place at all without her. They were right, indeed, to say that the heart of the world was the Old Forest, Tristan thought forcefully, then: they were right to say it so long as Lady Eithne stood there. For what else could be Malconaire's heart, than Eithne, herself?

"Lady Eithne," he began, as he approached, at last allowing his smile its freedom. "I'm glad to have found you. Malconaire feels lonely, I confess, when I do not see you here." A pause. God, he'd said too much, implied too great an ache...it would not do. "Your stepmother would, I think, attribute that to a...power of the blood," he teased softly. "But I don't pretend to understand such things. I only know you are...a part of this place."

He was beyond this, now: the formalities of his form more Varmont than Malconaire, after the years threaded togetherof their friendship, yet they were his safe harbor. How could he, feeling as he did, dispense with the security that came with such forms? No, familiarity was undeserved for him. He'd seen too much, done too much, but Eithne? Eithne was all things goodness. He did not deserve to so much as kiss her hem.

Yet, she was a balm, all the same. He quite forgot the heft of his head as she turned and looked at him, eyes brilliant as the sky above, cheeks round and rosy as apples, her lips warm and soft as petals. Yet, such descriptions did her no justice. The power of her eyes wasn't to be put down as something so untouchable, nor the warmth of her cheeks and her lips so remote as that: he felt her power thumping in his breast. Singing in his head. He'd do better, he thought, to compare her to the forest around her: radiant and fresh and achingly beautiful.

Yet...yet, despite her smile...there was something beneath it, something that wasn't any excitement he'd ever known. His breath was gone; his gut clenched. Something was worn taut in her, as if she'd opened her mouth and inhaled all the world's sadness, keeping it trapped just behind her teeth. He studied her, gaze sharpening on her own. Surely...surely, he was misreading her, but his fist clenched at his side, notwithstanding.

But he was late in coming -- he ought to have come when first he'd heard but...somehow he could not. He'd known he'd need to be composed to face her, it was the greatest kindness he could offer her, but it'd taken some doing. She was not to be the lamb: she was too precious. But perhaps she'd go to the altar, happy, after all, and that was, indeed, what he wanted for her, what he prayed she'd have. But it was not what he thought he saw in her, now, though he did not dare say so. Perhaps this would be the last occasion he might be alone with her, for he could not imagine Cassimir should wish to be parted from her ever again, once they were wed. No, no sadness now: now was a moment for cheer, for hope. All their lives spread before them, and none could say what they might hold, but now -- now he was with her. And that was enough for him.

Looking down a pace, he closed the gap between them before he found her eyes again, offering a soft smile. "I've heard your news, my lady." He swallowed hard. He offered a gentle smile, despite himself, and, gingerly, his hand to take if she chose. "I've come to wish you joy."