Anthony Brennan ჯ Tristan (ofmisadventures) wrote in mythologs, @ 2012-06-07 02:18:00 |
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Entry tags: | isolde of the white hands, tristan |
[completed/closed]
Characters: Isolde (brokenly) & Tristan (ofmisadventures)
Date/Time: May 31st
Location: NewYork-Presbyterian, Tristan's room
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: none in particular.
Summary: The Breton Isolde visits her husband from long ago.
Upon arriving at the hospital, Bianca waved her guards away with an almost irate flick of her hands. More courtesy might have been paid the men who'd been hired to assist her, but, with Anthony's health in questionable condition, she was far jerkier and jumpier than usual. The guards protested initially, but backed off as her urgency became more evident. Having eventually gotten her way, she inquired with the hospital reception about an Anthony Brennan and was escorted to his room without further delay or interruption, alone in her worry and in her grief.
She didn't know what to say to him upon seeing him, only that it was absolutely imperative she ascertained his condition. With her own eyes and hands, she wanted to make sure he was alive, blood coursing through his veins as a result of a heart that was yet beating. She could not give him words of love and comfort, not when the indignity of their previous relationship weighed so heavily upon her pride, but showing that she cared was, in itself, a painful admission of her feelings.
The nurse left her at a door with a quizzical glance - of course, even medical specialists did not deal with mutes on a daily basis. Steeling herself up, Bianca pushed open the door. In a nervous gesture, she raised a hand to her braid, fingers looping into the stray strands. (She'd never had perfectly obedient hair.) A reflex borne of Rome had her throat working, non-existent chords attempting to produce sound. But there was only a slight, strained whistle before she snapped her mouth shut.
He could not stop observing his shoulder wound. It felt unreal that he was alive, that he had been pierced in such a manner. Tristan could remember all his deaths before but none felt like this. It was a mixture of depressing, of uncertainty and, oddly, curiosity.
But all of that, for the time being, was overridden by the knowledge his wife was coming. Oh the squirming he did in his bed. He wanted to see her and he wanted to wait on seeing her. This was not a woman who was happy with her and for excellent reason. Perhaps he should have been more accommodating to her wishes, never arguing at all, but he'd just come back to life and felt off-balance, unsure. In the end, he relented because he didn't want to give her the wrong idea.
He would endure anything as long as he could start trying to repent. And odd sound at the door would catch his attention, pulling him from his thoughts. Looking up, he felt a squirm coming on and caught it in time.
"Is--Bianca," he greeted neutrally, feeling anything but that.
She nodded, trying her hardest not to bite her lip (and failing) as she approached, settling into the seat beside the bed. Unable to fight the growing feeling that she was intruding, an unwelcome presence in his life once again, she found herself miserably uncomfortable. In Rome, with a voice, she'd been more confident, more able to voice her feelings, even over paper. But mutism muted her spirit inasmuch as it denied her a voice, and she found herself struggling to work up her prideful feelings and to create a facade of self-righteousness.
She leaned over, peering at his shoulder with a soft, downward curl to her lips. And then, suddenly, as if the sentiment had to get out before she could contain it, she leaned back, signing,
"I'm sorry."
It took him a moment to comprehend that had been an apology and another to wonder why. What had she to apologize for at all? She'd done nothing wrong (he'd even admit that for their first of lives). Frowning, he reached to touch her as he would have with such ease before. The hand stopped short of contact when he realized things couldn't be the same, that she wasn't just Bianca.
Tentatively, that hand came to rest near her, fingers curling into a fist from frustration against himself.
"You have nothing to be sorry for," he informed her quietly. "I do. I always will. But not you."
And he had so much to apologize for - she would never forget that. But in this setting, so reminiscent of a former situation, one wherein her temper tantrum had inadvertently led to his death... She was choked up by her own guilt, though she'd spent so long convincing herself she'd reduced it to the dust. It was too difficult to be indifferent, not with fresh memories of his death, of their twins...
Quietly, Bianca reached for his hand, gently laying her own over it. She did not deny him contact, but she didn't grasp his hand in hers either. There was nothing for her to say, but hopefully that tiny gesture would speak the volumes she dared not attempt in words (signs).
Why was she being so tender? Was it because of the time they spent ignorant of the other's existence? Was it because she was luring him down a path of reassurance before she ended him? Why would Isolde (always Isolde in his mind) want to treat him so kindly?
It only made the guilt worse. Yet pulling his hand away from hers appeared to be the worst idea. It was sheer selfishness that kept his hand beneath hers, taking from it warmth and comfort. He'd repent later for it, he would but Tristan wanted this for as long as it could last. Before the effects of his being Tristan and her Isolde of the White Hands truly began.
He'd definitely have to find a new job, he thought wearily. When he was better, he'd bring it up with her grandfather and hope that the man would give him a glowing recommendation.
For once, Bianca was thankful that she could not speak. She might have ended up pleading for him not to leave her, for him to try to love her, at least this time. But God was good: her voice did not suddenly leap back into life, and her proclamations of devotion remained unspoken and, more importantly, unheard.
She wondered if he would try. If, in this life, he would attempt to be the husband he never had been. But with a quick, wry smile, she realized he had no idea what she was after. He was caught up in the idea that he had to repent, to make it up to her, but in thinking that she was a violent beast to be placated, he had already taken the wrong direction. When she'd said, "black" -- she had no idea he would die so soon, so suddenly. Iseult had been on her way, anyway; Isolde had only wanted to see his face fall, to see him hurt as she had hurt all these years.
She had not imagined it would hurt even more to see him die.
Exhaling softly, she closed her eyes. Today, there would be no words between them. Just silence, and the steady comfort of knowing that they were alive.