Name: Seven Years

Rating: PG

Summary: It's been seven years since Tristan's sacrificial death, and his love still keeps the memory of their love alive.

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, but one is mine.

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Tristan said they would be known as the lovers that brought down a kingdom.

Isolde, daughter of the perished King Donnchadh, stared out into the lapping ocean, listening to the water ruffling, and knew he had been wrong. Her eyes drifted to the city, flourished and settled, and willed herself not to cry. She looked back to the ocean, gazing at the low sun, overcast by gray clouds.

After Isolde had watched Tristan, the love of her life and the keeper of her heart, die in her arms by the river in his city, she had ventured back into the prisons walls only to learn that her father had been captured and executed. The conspiracy within was cleared after a few weeks and a treaty was signed to finally unite the countries, now that their primary traitors were dead. Isolde had left with King Marke to Ireland, on her request, and they had rebuilt there. A grand city, atop the one she had lived in, was born. King Marke was still king, still the most eligible, but he had changed.

His nephew was dead, as was the warrior he called his son. He admitted to Isolde one night that he understood her fiery love for Tristan had been real and wished her the best of luck. He let her live on without his suffocating embrace, but allowed her—for she was a princess—to live in the castle he built. In silence, Isolde mourned Tristan; she knew she could never love again.

His funeral had been the darkest day of her life. Dressed in a black dress, covering her pregnant stomach, with a lace veil hiding her face, she stood on the pebble shore and watched Tristan float out into the sea, officially dead in the wooden boat that would carry him home. Arrows of fire were shot and he burned, casting off in ebony flames. Isolde had watched him, sailing away, and cried. Was it supposed to turn out this way?

That day was seven years ago, exactly. Isolde held the bouquet of flowers in her hands, wringing the green stems against the palms of her fingers, and turned around, putting her back to the ocean. The white sand crunched as she walked forward, her feet slightly sinking with each step. She approached the hidden cottage, the same one covered by grass and fitted into the hills that she had hid Tristan in when she had found him. The same beautiful place that marked the beginning of their tragic love.

She pushed the makeshift door open and peaked inside, the cobwebs and black shadows flying back with the sudden disturbance. Nothing inside had changed; she feared changing it. The bundle of blankets was still piled where Tristan had slept and unused herbs lay abandoned on the table in the corner. Isolde turned away, her long blonde hair falling across her eyes, and faced the memorial piece leaning on the side of the cottage. Upon her return, the first thing she had done, she had run to the cottage and hid inside for days. She wasn't ready to face the fact that Tristan was truly gone, washed away, and would not return.

Isolde stared at the broken side of the boat that Tristan had arrived in. Though it was previously embedded into the firm sand, she had slowly worn it out and dragged it to the house, putting next to it. She knelt down and placed the flowers on the sand, in front of the boat, watching through blurry vision as the delicate petals swayed in the light sea breeze. She bowed her head, tears slipping down her pale cheeks, and stroked the white bracelet on her wrist, feeling the smoothness of the white shells.

She looked up, lingering tears rimming her eyes, and stared at her surroundings. She sat down on the sand, leaning back on the stone wall, and watched the small figure of a little boy running through the water, smiling and laughing at himself. He was young—merely seven years old—but he resembled his strong father already. His curly brown hair fell across his intense eyes and his face was chiseled and pale like that of his warrior genes.

A wind swept over Isolde and she shuddered, suddenly feeling chilly. She wiped away a tear and looked at her hands. "It's been seven years, Tristan." she said aloud, speaking to the spirits that still lingered in her presence. "Yet I see you everyday." Her eyes fell on the boy again. "He acts more and more like you everyday. He wants to be a warrior, and can already beat half the children. I fear he'll become you, inheriting every thing from you. I miss you, Tristan, and nothing will change that. I still love you, perished or not. Besides the memories of us together, the feel of your touch, the sight of you smiling at me, or the look in your eye, what I have is our son. You would be so proud of him."

With that said, she carefully stood and brushed her dress off, careful with the delicate fabric. The wind blew against her as she walked, her hair and dress flying behind her. She turned her head back and looked once more.

"Good-bye Tristan. Our love stills lives with me…I'll keep you." she admitted into the wind.

A shrill scream for her drew her back. Smiling broadly at the sound of her son, she met face the running child, lined and perfected like Tristan. She took his small hand in her own and gazed down at him, listening to him trying to regain his breath.

"Is it time to go already?" he asked, frowning slightly.

"I fear so." She titled her head to the hills, illustrating her response, and tugged him forward. "Come David."

David nodded his head and waved at the cottage behind him, his bracelet clinking against his wrist. "Bye, Father." he bid.

Mother and son strode across the deep sand back to the village, back to the reality without their warrior.

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FIN