Isolde and I brushed are hands along the tall grasses, looking for untame thyme. We needed to get out of the castle for fresh air.
Once the basket was full, I set it down and we lay back on the green blades and watched the puffy clouds sweep peacefully across the blue banner of sky.
“Brangien, my life sometimes feels like an interminable journey. What will happen to Tristan and me?” Isolde mused.
“Sometimes I like to imagine who or what I could have been and what I would get to do in that role; for example, if I were a sparrow, I would collect the most interesting materials for my nest and flee to the mountains when I needed to get away.”
“What materials would ye use?”
“I would sit near ladies embroidering and carry off their lovely thread scraps to build my home.”
“Ye know it was a swallow that carried a strand of my hair to King Marc. If I were a bird, I would be a different swallow and catch the golden hair before the king did.”
“Is that your pick? To be a swallow?”
“Nay, I would want to be with Tristan.”
“I don’t think this construct is helping ye.”
“Nay, ye are right.”
A companionable silence followed, the play of sun and shadow pulling on our eyelids softly so that we entered a kind of reverie.