Work Text:
In the wilds beyond Camelot’s reach, where the trees still held magic in their branches, Tristan and Isolde moved like ghosts through the underbrush. They had to keep off the roads until the heat died down, neither eager to stage another jailbreak.
That night, they camped in the hollow of an ancient oak, its roots tangled like old secrets in the dirt.
Isolde pulled her hair back as she pressed against the old gnarled wood of the shelter, haphazardly twisting it with her hands into a braid with practiced hands. Tristan watched, softness in his eyes as her old chain necklace shifted as she moved, one of the few reminders of her days at court. Gone were the silken gowns and the perfect poise. What remained was worn leather, a dagger at her hip, and steel in her gaze.
Gods she was beautiful.
Tristan kept his eyes scanning, though in the silence of the forest he had to slowly relax. It was impossible not to. A breeze stirred the leaves above them, carrying the scent of moss and distant rain.
Tristan’s grip on his sword loosened.
Isolde finished her braid and sat beside him, her shoulder brushing his. For a moment they said nothing. The silence between them was familiar, worn like the leather of their boots.
It didn’t need filling.
Then she spoke softly, “You’re staring again.”
Tristan smirked, eyes shifting to hers, “I thought you liked being admired, Princess.”
“I like being worshipped,” She teased, “Back when I had a throne and a dozen suitors who’d faint if I sneezed.”
He turned to her fully, the light that slipped past the leaves catching the edge of his grin, “And now?”
She looked down at her dagger, then at him, “Now, I like being seen by you.”
The words hung between them, heavier than the dusk of the soon setting sun. Tristan reached out, brushing dirt from her shoulder, “You’re more than I ever saw at court. More than any story the knights of Cornwall told.”
Isolde rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her, “Careful, you’ll make me sentimental.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, though his voice softened. “Not out here. Not with the bounty still fresh.”
She leaned back against the oak, eyes tracing the stars through the branches. “Do you think they’ll ever stop chasing us?”
Tristan followed her gaze. “No. But I think we’ll keep outrunning them.”
A rustle snapped through the underbrush. Both were on their feet in an instant—dagger and sword drawn, backs to each other.
But it was only a fox, darting through the leaves with a rabbit in its jaws.
Isolde exhaled. “Even the forest’s hunting tonight.”
Tristan sheathed his blade. “Then we’re in good company.”
She laughed softly, and laid down to rest again.
Tristan stayed standing a moment longer, listening to the hush that followed the fox’s departure. The forest had its own rhythm, one he was learning to trust without his men at his back. He glanced down at Isolde, her eyes already half-closed, the small firelight flickering across her cheekbones like a blessing.
Tristan sat down beside her, sword laid across his lap, and leaned back against the oak, the hollow was open just enough to let them see the stars starting to emerge above them.
“I used to think the stars were fixed,” Isolde murmured, not opening her eyes, “Like the court. Like my duty. But they move, don’t they?”
Tristan tilted his head, “They drift, I think. Slow enough to fool you into thinking they’re still.”
She smiled faintly, “Like us now?”
He didn’t answer, but reached out and draped his jacket over her shoulders. The nights were growing colder, though the two would never admit it.
“I remember the first time I saw you,” He said softly, staring at the few branches in their small fire, “You were standing on the palace balcony, arguing with a diplomat twice your age. Didn’t back down at all.”
She hummed softly, “I remember that, he said I was too young to understand the trade routes. I told him he was too old for it.”
Tristan chuckled, “You were radiant. Terrifying.”
“I was trapped.”
Tristan could have argued it, but instead let the silence hold her truth, sharp as any blade she wore.
So a silence settled between them, not heavy, but sacred. The kind that only comes when two people have bled together, run together, and survived it all.
The seasons turned.
The forests grew familiar, but danger never stayed far. With it came kin, found in the tangled woods of the north, where the law wore a crooked face and mercy traveled in stolen wagons.
Though, it began with a trap.
A merchant’s wagon, overturned and baited with spilled silver.
Tristan spotted it first as the two strayed close to the path, but the glint of the coin was too clean. The wagon’s wheels were snapped, but the breaks were neat. The silver too artfully scattered. He raised a hand, signaling Isolde to halt as she lagged behind him.
She had twisted her leg a few days back having outrun a handful of knights in a town so small they hadn’t thought to scan ahead. A foolish move, and one they wouldn’t replicate again.
She crouched beside him, eyes narrowing. “That’s got to be a lure.”
“Or a test.” Tristan murmured, “Either way, someone’s bound to be watching.”
He gestured to the opposite side of the road, and at first Isolde saw nothing, then watched a shadow shift slightly against a tree. At least six she could count.
They circled wide, blades drawn and boots silent against the damp earth. The forest held its breath.
Then came the whistle.
From the trees, stepped a woman with a bow slung across her back and a grin like a knife’s edge. Her cloak was patchwork, stitched with the sigils from half a dozen outlaw bands Tristan could recognize. Behind her, three others emerged, rough, armed, and watching.
“You’re late.” The woman said.
Tristan didn’t lower his sword, “Were we invited?”
“You were expected, Sir Tristan of Cornwall,” She replied, “Names Branwen. Of Aldercourt.”
Isolde straightened, eyes scanning the group, “Right. You set a trap?”
Branwen shrugged, “Had to see if you were actually clever, or have just been lucky.”
A man with a crooked helm stepped forward, “We’ve heard of you, the escaped Princess and the Knight who broke his oath.”
Branwen nodded to their wary stances and worn gear, “You’ve also got the look. Not nobles, or peasants. That makes you interesting.”
Tristan kept his hand on his blade, “We don’t want to be interesting.”
Branwen waved her hand, “Nah, interesting is for the nobles, right? You want to remain as you are, hidden. We can help with that.”
Isolde placed a hand on Tristan’s arm. Tristan hesitated, “We don’t steal from the innocent.”
Branwen’s grin widened, “Great, we don’t either. We move goods from the cruel and the careless. We burn lies. We don’t kneel to no king. And we share.”
Tristan glanced at Isolde, and she gave the smallest nod before turning to Branwen, “I suppose we can always do with more allies.”
Branwen tossed a coin toward them. It spun in the air and landed between their feet. “Then welcome to the Crimson Riders,” Branwen stepped forward, boots crunching softly over fallen leaves, “We ride at dawn towards Mercia. If you’re in, you’re in. If not, well, best to vanish before the sun finds you.”
Tristan held out his hand to Branwen and shook it, “What’s the job?”
“Caravan of enchanted steel bound for a lord who thinks rebellion is a game. We’re going to reroute it.”
Isolde raised an eyebrow, “Reroute it?”
“To the people who actually need it,” One of the rugged men with a cut lip said.
Branwen turned, already walking. “Camp’s two leagues east through the trees. We’ve got stew, maps, and a bard who sings like a drunk angel. Come or don’t. But if you do—ride hard, lie well, and never look back.”
The ‘Crimson Riders’ as they called themselves melted into the trees, leaving only the coin behind in the dirt.
Tristan looked at Isolde. “We could still walk away.”
She knelt, picked up the coin, and tucked it into her belt. When she spoke, her voice wasn't weary, though it was resolute, “We’ve been walking long enough.”
So they joined.
Nights became louder, filled with songs and schemes. Tristan sparred with the ex-knight, learning tricks born of desperation as Isolde poured over maps with Branwen. They raided supply caravans meant for tyrants, freed prisoners from corrupt lords, and with Branwen’s maps, Tristan’s sword, and Isolde’s knowledge, they carved routes through the kingdoms.
Tristan and Isolde weren’t just thieves anymore, they were smugglers. Isolde kept a ledger tucked into her satchel, tracking shipments and forged documents, her royal education made her fluent in the politics of trade, and her charm could turn a border guard into an ally with a few words.
Most often, they moved by moonlight. One week, they’d deliver healing herbs to a plague stricken village in Mercia then the next they’d ferry enchanted steel to Caerleon. Always under threat. Always moving. Their wagons bore false crests, sometimes the seal of a minor noble, sometimes the mark of a traveling theatre troupe. Their new gang had a poet who could mimic any accent quite well, and a pair of twins who could manipulate magic just enough to vanish for a few moments.
One night, as they crossed into Camelot territory with a shipment of dragonroot—illegal, potent, and desperately needed—Tristan pulled Isolde aside.
“This route’s watched,” he said. “Uther’s men are hunting smugglers.”
Isolde smiled, pulling a cloak over her shoulders. “Then let them hunt ghosts, beloved.”
They disguised themselves as pilgrims, singing hymns and carrying fake relics. When stopped, Isolde spoke of visions and miracles. Tristan played the mute guardian. The guards let them pass, unnerved by the twins’ eerie silence and the bard’s tale of a saint who wept blood.
Later, around the fire, Branwen raised a toast. “To the Crimson Riders, keepers of the goods no crown dares carry.”
Isolde leaned against Tristan, her voice low. “We’re more than outlaws now.”
“We’ve become part of the veins beneath the crown's skin," Tristan said, "Impossible to cut clean. And I’ll take care of you, no matter how far we ride.”