Black Sails

Despite the beautiful day, the room was bathed in darkness. Heavy purple curtains hung over the large windows, concealing the most delicate ivory curtains. The only furnishings in the room were an old bed, a small table, and a few chairs. In the corner stood an old-fashioned candlestick. The candles burned slowly, the flames barely flickering.

I sat by Tristan's bed. I kept watch. His forehead was covered with sweat. He had a fever. The wound from the duel was festering mercilessly. The medics were powerless. He had little time left. I suffer, I suffer so much because I cannot help him. He whispers a name that is not mine. His forehead flares up again. I'm surprised he sometimes regains his senses.

Because he has hope, a hope I lost long ago.

A few weeks ago, I sent my brother to Tintagel. We await the last resort. As the medic said, only a spark of faith keeps Tristan alive. That she would come.

The one he loved. Iseult of the Golden Hair, wife of King Mark.

I don't know why I married Tristan. Because I loved him and still do? I was his only salvation when Goldilocks, forced to become Mark's concubine. I don't know what to think.

He's feverish.

I don't blame him. He always felt regret when he said my name. It wasn't what he wanted to hear.

"Iseult..." whispers Tristan.

It's not me. What hurts most is the helplessness. I can do nothing. Just wait. For the ship.

I loved him more than life itself, I would do anything for him. And he? I think he'd rather forget me. He even changed my name so I wouldn't remind myself of his tragic love.

I, Iseult of the White Hands, became Yseult.

Just empty Yseult.

***

We wait for the ship. But the sea is empty. Only the lady's servant, Branwen, and the knight Morholt have arrived. Time is running out. Tristan is getting worse.

If Isolde arrives, the sails will be white. If not, black.

The sand in the hourglass is running out.

***

The supper took place in complete silence. No rustle, no murmur. The air was heavy despite the beautiful spring weather.

Morholt and Branwen sat at the table. Yseult was absent. She kept watch over Tristan. Now she was his only companion in this last crusade against the disease.

"Morholt...

" "I'm here, Branwen.

" "What about Tristan? Yseult won't leave his chambers...

" "Grimness is getting worse... He's got gangrene, it looks terrible..." But she's with him.

" "And he's going, to the prison.

" "All is not lost yet, dear Branwen. The last hope lies with your lady. But will she... will the Golden One answer the call?"

Branwen turned her face and looked at the landscape outside the window. A tear rolled down her cheek.

The sea was empty. The ship wasn't coming.

"I don't know, Morholt. But he believes in her. And waits.

Silence. Full of silence. Sad.

"What a fool you are, Tristan," she whispered.

"Branwen...

" The golden-haired one had long ago become unfavorable to him. Perhaps she had forgotten...

" "Branwen, let us trust. Like him.

" "But in what?" She looked into his eyes. Laughing, joyful Branwen of Tara, who had become the sullen, gloomy Branwen of Cornwall, with eyes that knew. "What a fool he was. Instead of giving thanks for this treasure that is Yseult, he dreams. Dreams of her. And the sand in the hourglass is beginning to run out...

" "

Yseult... Can you?"

Yseult rose from her chair and went to the window. She pulled back the long curtains, revealing the delicate drapes. The light streaming into the chamber illuminated Tristan's face. Thin, gray, shriveled with pain. Beads of sweat ran down his fevered forehead. He had dark circles under his eyes, chapped lips.

"Thank you, Yseult," he choked out.

"Don't say anything, Tristan," she said, sitting up, wringing her long, slender fingers. Out of nervousness.

"A ship...?

" "The sea is empty," she interrupted him with a look. "Rest .

" "Look, once again, my lady..."

She looked at him with eyes full of pain and suffering. She sighed and went to the window. She expected nothing. She didn't want anything. She had completely believed that Tristan would fall asleep before She arrived.

If She did.

Her surprise was all the greater when a ship appeared on the turbulent, azure sea. But the answer from Tintagel arrived. The sails were far away—their color was indistinguishable.

Yseult shuddered. She clasped her white hands and covered her eyes. Tristan noticed the change. Different, nervous movements. He realized.

"Yseult..."

He turned and smiled. Sadly.

"Lie down, rest.

" "A ship...? Can you see the sails yet?"

She hesitated. She wanted to show him her love one last time. But something held her back. Perhaps the knowledge that he wouldn't repay her?

"Maybe it's empty," she lied, feeling disgusted with herself.

She looked out the window again and froze.

The sails were white. Like snow.

***

The sea was angry and rough today. Silence reigned in the castle, broken only by the sound of waves crashing against the rocks.

Morholt sat alone with Branwen in Tristan's library. Yseult kept watch again. Within a few days, she paled, grew gloomy. She grew quieter by the minute.

"Morholt?

" "I'm here, Branwen.

" "Be..."

Silence.

"How powerful is feeling," she whispered. "It can overturn order. Destroy harmony. If it weren't for Tristan and Iseult, daffodils would be blooming on my grave today.

" "Branwen, please..."

"Morholt, I drowned in Sabrina's Sea. They brought me back to the world. Just like you. During your duel... You didn't survive this, you couldn't survive...

" Tristan defeated me because he fought for his Isolde.

"When this is over, I will return to the sea... I will become the Lady of Alg, She Who Waits.

" "Branwen, we still exist. Our end hasn't come yet, let's enjoy the moment.

" "But for how long..."

He embraced her, pressed her to his chest. He wanted her to let go of her doubts.

"Does it matter? We were brought into being for a legend. We live for a legend, starting a new one. I am here.

" "Be. Love me."

A soft knock on the door. The old gate swings open a few inches and then opens fully. Yseult stood there. She was even paler. Her face, eyes hidden in shadow, full of unnamed fears. Her hunched figure.

The cracking of her fingers.

"Morholt, Branwen," the voice remained the same. Firm, with a hint of nostalgia. "Something we didn't want to see happen, and that kept Tristan alive. The sails are white. Goldilocks is on deck.

" ***

The three of them sat in silence. The atmosphere was tense. Morholt embraced Branwen. Yeult wrung her fingers and stared out the window.

They heard the sounds of the ship docking. None of them dared to look.

Because Tristan must have heard it too.

***

He lay on the bed. It was cold. He felt ill. He was losing strength. And time.

He knew Yseult had lied to him. He heard the ship approaching the shore. It was time to think.

I forced her to change her name, to become an empty sound. She said nothing, did not protest. She only smiled very, very sadly and wrung her fingers. She must have felt disgusted by what I had done, but she was watching.

And she was.

And Isolde? Isolde was just a dream. Yet I still have her image here, in my head. Smiling eyes, full of joy, and long, golden hair. A wide smile, a glint of white teeth. Delicate, studied movements. And a voice.

Impossible to describe.

These two so different. So close to me.

Suddenly, I understood everything. I know what to do, I know she will come to me first.

***

Branwen trembles:

How will she accept her? Will they jump at each other's throats? Will they treat her with studied coldness? Whatever happens to Yseult, she will still suffer. She loves him so. What a fool you are, Tristan. You reject something offered from the depths of your heart. The Golden One has come, but that's not the end. She can hurt like no other.

You know this. You've seen it more than once, so suffer. For Yseult. For every sleepless night she lost. For every twist of your lips when you say that fatal name. For every invocation of the Golden One. For everything.

Repay her.

***

Morholt holds Branwen in his arms:

Isolde will appear soon. The servants say nothing has changed. She's even more beautiful. After all these years of avoiding each other, you find yourself face to face. But how will you behave? It doesn't matter. What matters is what Tristan does. Will he die in the arms of the Golden-Haired One or will he offer his greatest treasure? His love?

Decide, Tristan .

Don't let the ship sail to Avallon empty.

***

Yseult sits and listens to the sounds of unloading. She thinks:

Despite everything, I loved you, Tristan. I could have followed your footsteps to the ends of the earth. I can still hear the hum of your thoughts. Even though you were with me, you carried Isolde's image in your heart. You changed my name. But I remain with you, like a blade of grass in the wind, like those white sails.

I could give much if they turned black.

You gave me so much. Our life together came at the terrible price of humiliation. But I was happy. Whatever happens when Iseult crosses this threshold, when you die whispering her name, when you recover and leave with her,

I will not forget you. I will carry you on the inside of my eyelids for the rest of my life.

*** The silence was broken by a commotion on the castle's ground floor. Loud footsteps on the stairs. Yseult sighed. Iseult stood in the doorway. Tall, slender, yet somehow different. Rays of light played in her long, fair hair. Her blue eyes were full of a studied coldness, like two icebergs. Her lips were pursed in a superior smile.

She bowed her head. Slowly, as if with contempt.

"Welcome, Branwen."

The girl left Morholt's arms and reluctantly knelt.

"Welcome, Morholt of Ulster. "

A nod.

"And you," a cruel twist of her lips, "Yseult...

" Yseult clenched her white hands, fighting back the anger she had stored up over the years. Especially for this meeting.

"You did answer the call after all." Her voice was dry, like the desert air. "Sit down."

Isolde approached and took one of the seats. Something didn't sit right with Morholt. Her dress was strangely wide.

"How's Tristan?" Goldilocks asked, adjusting her pale eyes.

"You know he's not well," Morholt said curtly. "The sand in the hourglass is running out.

" "His time is running out," Yseult added calmly, pursing her lips. "He... is waiting for you.

" "And he won't." Isolde looked at the ceiling.

"I don't understand," Morholt said, raising his eyebrows.

Suddenly, something occurred to him.

Strange movements. The dress was too wide.

"I didn't come here for Tristan." Goldilocks smiled maliciously. "I'm pregnant, as you've noticed. With my husband, Mark.

" Yseult sighed, knowing he'd guess.

"I stopped loving him. I stopped missing him. I forgot. Besides, what could he give me compared to Mark? A dwelling in the cursed mountains?" she snorted and continued. "I came here to end the legend. There will be no great love story. Because that legend would have tragic consequences. Who needs a fairy tale about a beryl tomb and a flower that grows from it to entwine another? One of chalcedony? I don't want this story to grow into people. I don't.

Everyone is stunned.

" "Why?" Branwen's voice trembled.

"Do you smell apple blossom? The boat from Avallon sails without you. Without you, Drowned One, from the Sea of ​​Sabrina, and without you, Knight Bus. You have trespassed against fate by starting a new legend. But it won't sail away empty. It can't.

" "So what will you do?" Yseult whispered, wringing her fingers.

"He's already bad enough," Iseult shrugged. "I'll go there and pretend to be a distraught lover. Tristan will die in my arms, knowing nothing. Naive, stupid Tristan.

" Yseult covered her eyes. She saw only the name of her destiny.

*** Yseult appeared first in the doorway. She approached the bed and smiled very, very sadly.

"Iseult," he whispered, calling her by name.

She didn't understand him.

"No, Tristan. I am not her."

She sat down by the window.

Branwen and Morholt entered next. They quietly took their places next to each other.

Iseult entered last. She immediately assumed the mask of a distraught woman. She threw herself on Tristan's bed and took his hand.

"My love..." she whispered, sobbing.

Branwen looked away in embarrassment. The insincerity of the Golden-Haired One was obvious.

Yseult watched Tristan's face. He guessed. He looked anxiously at the strange form of the Golden Haired One. He turned his head.

Even Iseult noticed this. She stopped her spasms and said, as if reproachfully,

"It's me, Tristan." She looked at Yseult with disgust. "I'm not her.

" "You're not," he admitted, choosing his words slowly. "You're not the one I'm waiting for. "

The meaning of these words reached the Golden Haired One only after a moment. She jumped to her feet.

"You orchestrated this, Paleface!" she shouted, spitting. "It's your business! I thought, Tristan, you would die in my arms with a blissful smile, but no! You prefer a madman's death. Please!"

She slammed the door.

Morholt took Branwen's hand, and they both left the room, leaving Tristan and Yseult behind.

The Lady of the White Hands sat frozen. A solitary tear ran down her cheek.

"Isolde..." the name sounded ominous in the silence. "Forgive me. Thanks to you, I understood."

She slowly approached the bed and smiled.

"I'm here, Tristan.

" "Be there. And love. That's all I'm waiting for."

He collapsed onto the bed.

Iseult of the White Hands kissed the lifeless forehead of Tristan of Lyonesse.

***

Morholt held Branwen's hand. They stood together on the dock. They smelled apples.

They looked at the ship. It was not from Tintagel. It had tattered, black sails. A wolf's skull was nailed to the upturned prow.

A boat without a rudder.

Pale and fleeting. The trees along the shore showed through its sides.

Iseult walked along the harbor yard. Even paler, even whiter.

They needed no words. Their eyes said everything.

Iseult of the White Hands had boarded the Rudderless Ship.

Avallon sails away without Lady Alg and without the Knight Bus. But not empty.

Morholt sees Iseult disappearing into the mist, wrapping her arms around another, gray figure.

Even death was powerless against this great love.