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Through our long years of dreaming to be one
we grew toward an enigmatic light
(...)
To touch was all we knew, and how to bask.
We knew to touch; we grew to touch; we felt
spring's urgency, midsummer's heat, fall's lash,
wild winter's ice and thaw and fervent melt.
(...)
At last the petal of me learned: unfold
and you were there, surrounding me. We touched.
The curious golden pollens! Ah, we touched,
and learned to cling and, finally, to hold.
Isolde's Song, Michael R. Burch
The evening had been slightly chilly but comfortable, the refreshing smells of pine and salt hanging in the air around their encampment.
They had spent the day laboring around the camp, tending to the small garden where they grew root vegetables and few different types of herbs, cutting and storing wood to last them for the remaining of the season, preparing fish for their evening meal and grounding herbs and spices for the beverage Tristan liked to have before retiring for bed. Both of them enjoyed the repetitive movements, the discipline needed to maintain a camp fit for living. Life along the coast was harsh in autumn and winter, and only slightly more forgiving in spring and summer, but neither of them minded it.
It reminded them that everything in their possession had been well-earned and that each day was not to be taken for granted. Besides, they had plenty of other things to indulge in rather than their way of life.
The comfort and pleasure they found in each other still felt like a luxury, like the most opulent of feasts and the richest of wines. As each day drew to a close and the moon rose slowly in the sky, they gravitated closer and closer to each other. They traded kisses and caresses to thank each other for the labor of the day and traded thoughts and stories over a bowl of a simple but hearty dinner, until eventually one of them led the other into the yurt to end their evening with either tenderness or passion.
The simple pleasure of sharing a bed of furs, the gift of their life side by side was an indulgence to the battle-weary warriors they were. They knew the price and therefore the value of such a simple, uncomplicated life.
Tonight was no exception to their routine. Galahad loved when Tristan was in this mood, languid and teasing. His rough hands were a wonder on his tight back and shoulders, working out every knot of tension until his whole body uncoiled. He took great pride in reducing Galahad to shivers and quiet moans, his skin glistening in with oil, each and every curve of his muscles standing out in the candlelight. When tender care and comfort was all he had in mind, he ended the night with a press of his lips to the back of his neck where his curls were the softest. But on night when the sight and sound of his lover aroused more primal urges in him, he eventually took his hands downward to his backside and press thigh circles in the muscles, regularly running a thumb in the valley between them until Galahad was squirming and panting.
Tonight was one of those nights, and Tristan was apparently set on waiting until Galahad was breathless and aching for it.
"Tristan", Galahad tried to groan in protest, but what came out of his mouth was more of a moan that made Tristan chuckle darkly. The sound sent another shiver down his spine, desire burning between his thighs. He felt Tristan shift where he was sitting on the back of his thighs and a warm breath hit the back of his exposed neck. "Galahad," he whispered in his ear before pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the back of it.
"You know what I want," he murmured, tilting his head to the side so that Tristan could mouth at his neck.
"I do," came the even answer. Tristan didn't even sound affected, but Galahad knew better. From the way his tongue was licking the sweat from his skin, and the way his thighs were squeezing Galahad's, he knew his lover was as hungry for it as he was.
Tristan lowered his body firmly onto his and they both sighed contentedly as their skin met. Sharing warmth, comfort and intimacy hadn't lost its spark since their first night together years ago now, and each time they came together again filled them with a passion they couldn't put into words. Tristan was hard and scorching hot against Galahad, and he reached back to tangle his fingers in the long, thick braids that fell around him.
He panted softly as Tristan breached him in gentle rolls of his hips, almost torturously slow. The stretch was comfortable but no less intense, and the first few thrusts never ceased to make them both shudder. Some nights it was all it took, especially if Tristan had been particularly thorough in his exploration of Galahad's skin, with both his hands and mouth. Some nights they dragged the pleasure for as long as they could stand, until one of them or both were going mad with it.
Tristan never tired of the way Galahad sighed when he sank into him, of the way his thighs trembled under the effort of keeping still and submitting to the pace Tristan had chosen. Slow and steady was the way he liked it best most nights, for the release was much more intense.
Feeling particularly impassioned, Tristan lifted himself up on his knees and pulled Galahad back with him, the other man having to trust him to bear his weight and keep their balance. He laid his head back on Tristan's shoulder and laughed when Tristan bit gently on his ear lobe. He brought him to the edge and over with gentle grinding motions rather than thrusts, and Galahad could feel his love in each second of the embrace.
In those moments, there were no words needed between them.
"What is that?" Galahad asked the next morning as he sat down next to their fire, still sore but satisfied from their night of passion. The ground was still a bit damp from the early morning dribble and their camp smelled of rain over cooling coals.
Wrapped in a thick knitted cape, Tristan was drinking the fragrant tea he prepared every day, the one that made his mouth taste of berries and a bitter spice that made Galahad think of night walks in the deep woods. Isolde was perched on his shoulder, intrigued by the reflection of the morning light on a small tin he was holding in his left hand. She made a chirping sound as Tristan turned it in his palm as if weighing it.
Without answering verbally, he handed it to Galahad and the young man unscrewed the lid carefully. Inside it was a black powder that smelled of ashes and ink, and it took a few seconds for Galahad to understand what he was seeing.
"Oh," he said excitedly, looking up at Tristan and the strokes of black on his cheeks. "Where are you going to mark yourself?"
He had always been fascinated with the ink on Tristan's face, carrying centuries of foreign traditions and customs. When they were growing up in training, most people in the camp, the commanders especially, had regarded it with disdain and even disgust, considering the marks as heathen and barbarous. But once Galahad had learned from Tristan what they meant -honor, strength, manhood, he only had even more admiration for them, and respect.
He remembered the time Tristan had gotten the marks on his upper arms and shoulders. He had had the privilege to watch them being inked into Tristan's skin. He had been mesmerized as one of the oldest men in their camp, a healer and seer named Manas had cut the skin with a sharp and thick needle and rubbed the rough paste he had made from the black powder into the cuts. It had looked painful but Tristan hadn't even flinched, his eyes looking at the ceiling of the tent, but Galahad had been able to tell his gaze was far away, perhaps seeing lands and people he would never see again.
Tristan rarely spoke of where he came from, and Galahad never asked. From the little he knew, he was still able to guess there was only loss and suffering in these memories. Still, it seemed important for Tristan to honor his roots and ancestry, as his braids and markings showed.
Tristan licked his lips before answering Galahad's excited question. He looked halfway between amused and sheepish, if such a look was possible on his impassible face. "I'm not."
Galahad frowned, screwing the lid back on the tin. "What do you plan to do with it, then?"
"Getting a mark."
"I don't understand-" Galahad started, then stopped, suddenly flushing at Tristan's intense gaze. The man licked his lips again and Galahad chuckled nervously. "Oh."
"I wouldn't know how to do it," he tried, but Tristan shook his head and took the jar back gently. He turned it in his hands as he spoke, Isolde shuffling forward on his shoulder to observe the foreign object.
"You were there when old Manas did those", he explained, gesturing to one of his arms. "And I will guide you. I'm sure you will have no trouble."
"Where will you want it?" he asked timidly, intimidated by the significance of the gesture and the potential meanings behind the marks.
"I will tell you," he said cryptically before pocketing the item and turning back to his tea and the bits of dried meat he was feeding his hawk.
And tell him he did, the next afternoon as he found Galahad shooting in the space he had made for it a bit further south from their camp.
He was in one of those moods again, frustrated with himself for reasons that escaped Tristan's comprehension for the time being. He always found a way to pull Galahad from his thoughts and eventually untangle the knot he had stuck himself in, but he knew it was sometimes beneficial to let the young man stew in his own musings before attempting to prod him out of them. The night before he had attempted to do so with rough kisses and gentler hands, still, it only had worked for a few hours, as the deep crease between his brows had returned by breakfast the next morning.
He was as beautiful as ever, his form ever perfect as he nocked the arrow and drew the string tight. His blue eyes were bright and piercing, intent on hitting the target moving in the wind. Tristan watched as Galahad practiced, but after a few good shots the young man stilled, an arrow nocked into the string, bow at the ready. Without turning his shoulder and disrupting his form he turned his head, frowning.
"Don't you have better things to do than stand here and watch me?"
Tristan scoffed. "How foolish of me to think I could enjoy the sight of you training, as I have so many times in the past."
"Don't fret, all your years of relentless teaching weren't all for naught," he grunted as he turned back and released the arrow, hitting the target as planned. "I can still shoot straight."
"Weren't they?" he asked teasingly, stepping into the square of dirt that delimited the training range. "All those hours of practice and all those lessons and still no respect for your teacher."
Galahad scoffed, irritated but visibly amused. He drew another arrow as Tristan stepped right behind him, but twisted his posture to look at the man. Before he could ask what Tristan had in mind, rough hands gripped his side and shoulder and turned him again to face the target. Galahad smiled sardonically, the familiar gesture reminding him of the years it took him to master the weapon as well as Tristan expected him to. No matter the scorching sun, the rain or the snow, Tristan still made him practice until he was satisfied Galahad was on the right track, tutting both his approval and disapproval, and occasionally manhandling him into the correct form.
"I always hated when you did that," Galahad commented with melancholy. Thinking back to their training years always brought a strange sort of emotion to his heart.
"No, you didn't."
"I did," he insisted, sounding utterly unconvincing, bow drawn to the ground and target forgotten for now.
"You did flinch every time I got too close," Tristan admitted, his breath ruffling the strand of hair curling around Galahad's ear. He was a wall of warmth and strength behind him, both a comfort and a torture. Despite the intense release of two nights prior, there still was a ball of tension in the pit of his stomach, and Tristan's teasing was akin to prod coals with a burning rod.
With a frustrated grunt, all hope of finding peace and calm in his training, he let the arrow fall to the ground and twisted again, seeking Tristan's mouth. Their beards scratched against the other as Tristan welcomed the rough kiss. When he pulled away, Tristan's grin was wolfish. "Did you dream of doing this every time I corrected your posture?"
Galahad snorted and kicked him lightly in the shin with his bow, fully turning in his embrace. Tristan took the bow from him as his other hand searched Galahad's. He inspected his fingers as if to look for blisters or cuts, and when he looked up again, his eyes were as dark as the sea on a stormy day. The young man raised his other hand to push Tristan's hair out of his face, thinking absently of offering him to trim it for him, but before he could speak, Tristan's voice cut through the heavy silence.
"Here. I want it here," he murmured, pressing Galahad's palm hard on his chest, over his thundering heart.
Galahad made a sound that resonated in the clearing, a sound of emotion and surprise that Tristan had never heard from him. Galahad's eyes prickled and he bent down to press his mouth to their joined hands, hiding his face against Tristan's chest.
"Will you do it?" Tristan pressed, desperate and burning with a fire that only a word of acquiescence from Galahad could soothe.
"Yes," the young man breathed into his throat, dragging his mouth upward to kiss Tristan again. But before Tristan could reciprocate, he had pulled away, a determined and strangely serious look on his face.
"Would you mark me too, some day?" he asked, surprising Tristan.
He swallowed, a lump of joy building in his throat. He rarely thought of his mother, but when he did he saw the markings she bore on her wrists, the ones that had been inked into her skin during the bonding ceremony to his father, the ones that bound them together according to their customs, body and soul until the former died and the later joined their ancestors in the afterlife. It was by those marks that souls recognized each other again, in the world beyond this earth.
"If you wished it," Tristan said into his hair.
It took a few more days for Galahad to work up the courage to do it.
Then one afternoon, without saying a word, he brought everything he thought he would need outside. He set up a blanket, bowls of water and a few clean rags. Tristan pressed a kiss into his hair before retrieving the small tin and the needles he had stored out of sight in their yurt. Galahad waited nervously for him to gather what he needed and join him by the fire.
When Tristan joined him, a look of pride on his face, Galahad smiled sheepishly. He took the piece of parchment Tristan handed him, observing it for a minute and nodding when he thought he could replicate it on Tristan's skin. The design was fairly simple, some sort of character made of curves and a straight line cutting through it.
"What does it mean?" Galahad asked after a minute, suddenly realizing he hadn't asked.
"In my mother tongue, this symbol represents the moon," was all Tristan said. Galahad guessed there was more to it behind it but he didn't push, allowing Tristan his privacy. He gathered everything close to him and picked up a sharpened piece of chalk, carefully replicating the symbol.
Tristan laid down and watched him work with the same calm and grounding look as when he watched him train. And just as usual, it gave him comfort and confidence.
Taking one last steadying breath, following Tristan's guidance, Galahad pushed and dragged the needle into the skin over the mark he had drawn. Like he had been expecting, Tristan didn't move and didn't make a sound, his dark and piercing eyes looking at the ruffling of Galahad's curls in the breeze. He dragged the thin blade over and over on the same line, careful not to cut too deep, but deep enough that the black would take.
When he was satisfied with the depth and definition of the line, he rested the needle on Tristan's right pectoral and dipped his fingers in the small bowl of black paste Tristan had prepared. He glanced at Tristan's face before rubbing the coarse substance into the cut, feeling a heavy weight land on his shoulders at the significance of what he was doing. It almost felt like a baptism, like welcoming a child into a congregation and shouldering the responsibility of their fate. Only he was branding Tristan with the mark of their congregation of two.
He breathed with the same focus and rhythm as he used to when he was still learning to shoot with a bow, steadying the tremors in his hands. He wiped a damp cloth over the cut and smiled in satisfaction when he noticed the ink had stained the skin. He bit his lip and picked up the needle again, ready to trace the next curve.
As the mark took on a life of its own, Galahad's confidence grew. It felt quite meditative once he stopped doubting himself, and a strange sort of emotion had fallen over the both of them as the mark became clearer and darker. His own chest burned as if he was the one getting marked, an itch deeper than skin.
With the last drag of the damp cloth over Tristan's chest, Galahad's voice wavered. "It's done."
"Well done, pup," Tristan said after looking down. Galahad exhaled, visibly relieved, as if he had just taken some rite of passage.
Galahad kept his look of relief and pride through the next days, cheeks flushing pink when he caught Tristan walking around the camp shirtless, exposing the bandages protecting the freshly inked skin from dirt and dust.
"It's healing quite nicely," Galahad commented one evening as he wrapped a clean stripe of linen around Tristan's upper chest. "Does it itch?"
"It does," Tristan answered absently, his eyes staring at the candles Galahad had lit at the table. He was quiet, contemplating, and had been all day.
"There is something else I would ask of you," Tristan said hesitantly.
His serious tone made Galahad frown. He didn't ask, instead gazed into Tristan's eyes and pulled a strand of his braided hair behind his ear.
Instead of developing, Tristan brought his mouth up to him and Galahad let himself be swept into the kiss, trusting it to lead them where Tristan wanted them to be. He closed his eyes and listened to their roughened breathing as Tristan rid them of the simple robes they wore inside the yurt when it was warm. When his mouth was caught again, he followed Tristan's kiss as the man laid back on the furs, climbing on top of him. But before he could swing a thigh over Tristan's waist to straddle him, he felt a rough palm guide his hip and Tristan's leg coming up around him. He followed the gentle pull and gasped when he found himself in the cradle of Tristan's hips, the man rocking hesitantly into him.
Excitement and nervousness swelled in his stomach and he must have made a noise because Tristan started to stroke his side gently.
They kept kissing as Tristan soothed him and encouraged him to grind more firmly into him. Tristan slid a hand over his backside and to the back of his leg, bringing his pelvis into him at a different angle. His other arm was wound around his shoulder, hand tangled in his curls. Desire bloomed between them, but so did hesitation. Something about the position and the intent were unfamiliar.
Galahad broke the kiss to whisper between them. "Do you want me to..." he started, unsure. Tristan pulled at his hair until their eyes were meeting again. He looked feverish with desire. "I want to be yours, just as you are mine," Tristan said fervently, his voice rough.
"You are already mine," Galahad smiled, breathless. The joy of it had never faded, and he suspected it never would. Nothing felt more exciting and fulfilling than knowing Tristan was committed to him to the extent that he was, in both blood and sweat, in friendship, kinship and love.
"I know. But I want to feel you there," Tristan said, eyes dark and confident. Galahad bit his lip and nodded. The oil was warm and slippery between his fumbling fingers. But he didn't fumble for long, Tristan guiding him with gentle hums and groans, and eventually his confidence and natural boldness came back and he took pride in making Tristan shake with pleasure.
The foreign feeling of Galahad's fingers inside him was just as intense as he had expected. He had often been curious about it, bewildered as the sensation sometimes seemed overwhelming, Galahad sobbing his pleasure while still pleading for him to continue. He now understood it, the raw and vulnerable feeling of it, the aching between his thighs, the fire raging in the pit of his stomach. His mouth was watering with want, hair rising on his skin all over his body, and
"Do not make me wait," Tristan grunted against Galahad's neck. The young man shivered and kissed his cheek.
"How do you want me?" he asked, his voice low and reverent.
"Just like this," he said, pulling Galahad into him, feeling him press against him in the most intimate way imaginable. He swallowed, feeling his lover tremble. More oil between them, more breathless panting, and Galahad was pushing in slowly. A wave of dizzying sensation took him, a pull he couldn't resist and he rocked back into the gentle push of Galahad's hips.
They both groaned, legs and arms entangling, fingers gripping skin and hair, mouths gasping for air. "I don't know how long-", Galahad whined as he breached him completely, but Tristan interrupted him with a fierce kiss.
"Just like this..." he grunted into his mouth and Galahad, who looked drunk with pleasure, complied.
Tristan watched Galahad's face as the young man rocked into him slowly, tentatively. His mouth was red from their incessant kissing, his cheeks, neck and chest glowing pink in delight. This man was the moon in human flesh, Tristan thought. Ever present, captivating and blinding. He couldn't look away, trapped by his influence, submitting himself to the merciless roll of his hips and the enchanting song of his moans.
As the evening turned into night, after sating their hunger for each other, they reclined against the furs, Galahad's back resting against Tristan's chest. He was feeling pleasantly sore, the sensation a bit foreign but he suspected he would get used to it and grow to crave it as much as he craved the warmth and tightness of Galahad's body.
He was humming under his breath as Galahad basked in the sweetness of their embrace and the giddy satisfaction of having brought Tristan to completion in this previously unexplored way. It was as thought a new path had appeared, and they had taken their first step on it together. It seemed that there was no limit to the pleasures their flesh could bring them.
Interrupting his lecherous thoughts, Galahad felt Tristan pull a strand of his hair back, unfurling the tight curl, then another and a third, and the rhythmic pulling that followed told him his hair was being braided. He had let Tristan cut it when it had become impractical, but the man had refused to cut it so short he wouldn't be able to braid it and Galahad hadn't objected. He enjoyed those quiet moments, Tristan's gentle humming as he wove his hair into plaits, huffing with laughter when it refused to stay in place and the curls eventually bounced back into their original form.
"I was thinking of going to see Arthur again," Galahad said hesitantly. Tristan stopped his braiding and humming, intrigued. It had been only a few months since Galahad had been back from his first visit.
"Guinevere was round with child, she must have given birth by now. I wonder if it's another son," the young man continued. "Almost six years we've been here now..."
"Why these musings. Why now?" Tristan asked, a bit harsher than he meant to, but Galahad took it in stride, amused at the hidden jealousy and worry.
"I thought, maybe we could go together this time," he said instead of answering. This seemed to soothe Tristan and the man tightened his embrace, kissing the back of Galahad's shoulder absently.
"Getting restless, again?"
"Quite," Galahad admitted. He turned in Tristan's embrace to look the man in the eye. "I feel useless here."
"Something happened, when you went to see Arthur, did it not?"
When Galahad didn't answer, he pressed. "You hated that life, perhaps more than any one of us. You never saw it as a duty, as honorable."
"It's true I didn't do it for Rome. But I did find honor in it. In serving Arthur," he said, his voice wavering before adding, "in making you proud."
"I thought you believed we had given enough blood to this cause."
"We have," he said gravely. "That's not why I want to go back. They're settling, all of them. Building something good. But there's a lot to do and they need helping hands," he explained and Tristan hummed at that. Galahad was quiet for a minute before adding, almost as an afterthought, but they both knew he was weighing his words carefully. "There's a lot of children, too."
And there it was, the root of his restlessness. "A child, huh?" Tristan asked, and Galahad was startled by his amused and fond tone.
"You're not mad?"
"Why would I be mad?" he asked. "A child is the most natural thing in the world."
"A few years ago you would have said that we're not meant for families. That we're meant for war."
"You taught me otherwise," Tristan said and Galahad's eyes started prickling with emotion.
"You're a good teacher. You could teach those boys a lot. And the girls too," he said with confidence. "You were always good with Bors' children."
Tristan didn't answer. Their time along the coast and their slow way of life had mellowed his cynical temper a bit, and his armor and weapons were stored in a trunk in their yurt, but Tristan knew they couldn't be ignored forever.
Underneath his breastbone, under the mark Galahad had inked into his skin, still beat a warrior's heart. There was nothing to him quite like the thrill of the battlefield and the satisfaction of an arrow hitting its target. He had been raised a warrior and continued to live as one, even in the slow living of their temporary retirement. Their freedom was never meant to be spent idly for the rest of their days. This corner of paradise was meant to rest their weary bones and grow new muscle and skin over their wounds. Now both time and each other's care had healed them enough for the itch of the fight to come back to Tristan.
He still tended to his armor and weapons with care, making sure they were clean, polished, honed and sharpened. He didn't let them collect dust, and neither did he allow his skills to wither. While Galahad tended to their garden or fished in the stream he often took Isolde for a hunt in the woods above. The familiar pull of the bow kept his mind sharp and the callouses in his hands rough. A similar roughness could still be felt on Galahad's hands when he pressed them to Tristan's skin, a testament to his training and his skills that equaled Tristan's.
Galahad and other boys his age wouldn't be the last he trained, he'd known all along. Just like his father had passed on to him, he would pass on his ancestor's knowledge of blades and bows. And eventually they would pass it on to those who came after them, and again long after Tristan's memory would be gone.
"I'm your shadow," he said solemnly, as an answer. "I was by your side into battle, and followed you into this new life. If you want to fight for Arthur again, I will follow you."
Galahad nodded, lips pursed. "We will always be brothers in arms, no matter the rest."
"And you will always be my freedom," Tristan murmured against his lips before Galahad turned his face into his hand. He stroked his thumb over his cheekbone and Galahad smiled, soft as a secret.