At home and comfortable in the role of storyteller, Aisling should have been perfectly content and well relaxed through out the tale, especially considering was a perfect audience Johnny was—he gasped when we was supposed to and when she pauses he is quick to ask for the rest— but she was anything but relaxed. It came on slowly, starting when he had scooched himself right up next to her, the little hum of electricity in the points of her side where they almost touch, a little pitter patter in her heart that threatens to make her breath hitch every now and then. It had been almost too much for her when he bent down to nudge at her braid; like her little ribbon could be compared to one of shimmering gold, like she could be compared to the legendary beauty of the woman in the story. It had been lucky that the awkwardness of the movement had for a moment taken her eyes from her face, and he hadn’t seen her eyes slide closed for a moment. She hoped he hadn’t noticed in that sliver of a moment she’d held her breath.

The little faerie only smiled and continued her story, hoping the familiarity would calm her. “Near a year later, the Queen of Corné passed, leaving the king no heir and so he knew he must marry again. Now on peaceful terms with the land across the sea, he sent a message to the King of Érie, who had a daughter called Isolde, famed far and wide for her beauty and virtue. As it happens, this was not the only offer of marriage for the princess and so her father declared that there should be a tournament for her hand and invited the Kings and Princes of the neighboring kingdoms to compete.

Now the King of Corné was an old man at this point, and so when he travelled to the tourney he brought Tristan with him to be his champion. They arrived in Érie the day before the tournament was to begin and along with the rest of the visiting nobility were invited to attend the feast that evening. There only as a duty to his uncle, Tristan had no wish to join in the revels but was pressed into dancing by a few of his other companions, deciding it was easier to dance and be dissatisfied with it than to find an excuse other than his true one, which he’d told no one—that though some of the prettiest mares in all the world were there, he would rather look at none, for his heart was already claimed. He moved through the dance, passing desultorily from partner to partner until he looked up to find the next was the golden maiden who had saved him; this was the Princess Isolde.

They danced together, gazing with love in their eyes plain enough for all to see but both were speechless: she with joy for she thought he was there to fight for her hand, he with despair for though he was their to fight it was not him who she would wed if he prevailed. That night he went to his uncle and fell at his feet. For all the love he bore him, Tristan could not be his champion on the morn. The king raged, disowning Tristan and stripping him of the armor and arms he had given him and sent him away.

The next morning all gathered for the tournament, Isolde watching with her father as he presided over the ceremonies. Kings and Princes from many kingdoms were there, all resplendent in the finest armor but none made her heart beat wild with love save Tristan. He appeared, unarmored and unarmed wearing only a single gold ribbon about his neck, before the King of Érie to beg leave to enter the tourney. He was no prince, but his boldness amused the King of Érie and so allowed it, laughing at the ribbon; Tristan merely smiled and so the tournament began. The fighting was brutal, each match leaving its fighters nursing wounds but through each encounter Tristan remained unscathed, defeating all other entrants and by rights winning the hand of of his love.

Tristan’s Uncles was furious, and returned to Corné, which to this day remains a sworn enemy of Érie. Isolde's father remained true to his word and granted her hand to the winner of his tournament. Tristan and Isolde were married the next morning, and so lived together in Érie surrounded with love and happiness for the rest of their days.”

She ended the tale in her dreamy way, engrossed in the beauty of the story and thinking, as she always did, how wonderful it would be to find that kind of love fore herself. The beauty of that drifting though left a smile on her face as her eyes drifted out over the snow, not really seeing the mounds of white but reaching for something far less tangible; the drifted down and found only a deep, emerald green.

It was different than the rush she’d felt with the stallion at the Rotunda, the excitement that had come with a shimmer of fear. This was quieter, gentler, and infinitely sweeter and it trickled through the little mare as she sat captured by the stallion’s lovely eyes. For a moment it might as well have been high summer for the warmth that blossomed through her, as as a steadfast romantic, Aisling was sure she much preferred this kind of feeling over the other. She moved her face, leaning in fractionally closer, swept up in her own fuzzy, floaty dreams before she realized what she was doing.

In a panic the little mare jolted to her feet, flushing with embarrassment and resisting the urge to flat-out run away. “Tá mé chomh-brón orm, ní raibh mé chiallaíonn—“ She started to stammer in her old tongue as she dither ed several feet away, dancing on toes like it were coal she stood on and not snow. How silly you are, Aisling, how foolish! “I mean, I am sorry, I didn’t mean to talk so long. You most have somewhere to be! I just… I mean I’ll just…” she couldn’t quite meet his eyes, and her little stormy seers darted everywhere. She couldn’t quite catch her breath either and she still couldn’t pin down what those fluttery feelings in her stomach were, or why she had gone from being so relaxed when they had first tumbled into the snow together to this jittery, jumpy mess.

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ooc:: @Johnny Sorry again for the wait.