Wounded

The door banged, revealing an out of breath, blood splattered Gawain. Jumping in fright, Isolde stabbed her finger with her needle with a curse she could only have heard from a Sarmatian knight. As her lips suckled the injured appendage, she took in the dreadful state of their intruder with wide, fearful, eyes. Frozen on the spot, she was grateful for the seamstress's quick reaction.

— "Good God, son, what happened to you?" asked the plump woman.

Gawain's breath came short as he nodded to the seamstress, hands braced on his thighs from the exertion; the shop was a good deal away from the fort.

— "Ambush… Tristan is badly wounded… Dagonet sent me."

At once, Isolde stood, sending the shirt she had been mending to a stack. Her throat constricted painfully, and she turned to the seamstress with a plea.

— "Go to your betrothed, girl."

Her lovely face contorted in fear, she reached for her mistress' hand and squeezed fondly.

— "Thank you"

— "And take your cloak!"

Right. Snatching the heavy cape, Isolde followed the knight out of the seamstress' little house. Her hands were trembling, probably from the cold winter day. Eight months since Tristan had rescued her from the bandits, eight months spent working as a seamstress where her only social life happened whenever he took her to the tavern or met her at the market.

Tristan had become part of her landscape. The seamstress replacing her mother figure, and he … her betrothed. He didn't talk much, the taciturn scout, but they understood each other. Under the disguise of this ploy, they had come to some kind of friendship. Since they sought to spread rumours rather than avoid it, they could spend much time together without fear. The world upside down, especially for a woman who had been raised to keep her reputation intact until marriage. Yet, it wasn't unpleasant.

Tristan had introduced her to Hawk, his fearsome bird, at the top of the wall. They sometimes wandered, in and out of the fort, to keep people talking. Isolde cherished those moments where her life was more than stitching. Outside, nature spread its wonders; with her protector by her side, she could enjoy the outdoors.

The world he showed her was as beautiful as it was cruel, but despite the scout's silent ways, they shared many moments of quiet discussion. She had never seen him fight, nor shoot. The only side of him she knew was the man who roamed the forest and talked to his bird. The silent witness of nature. It was peaceful, it brought her solace from the hassle of her past life.

In this blessed summer and autumn, Isolde had nearly forgotten that blasted service to Rome. She knew how Vanora waited upon the wall for the knights' return whenever they left. Until now, Isolde had never feared, confident that the scout would fulfil his duty and return to the fort. He was a pillar, an unshakeable figure of stability in her life.

He couldn't be gone. What if …? She feared for Tristan, hoping he would be able to pull through without damage. As her heart constricted painfully, she realised that she shouldn't have cared that much. It was, after all, just a ploy? At least her reaction was realistic enough that no one would ever dare questioning her attachment.

By her side, Gawain walked uneasily, as if he struggled to follow her. Isolde cursed herself, forcing her steps to slow down for the limping knight.

— "How badly are you injured, sir?"

— "I'm good enough, just got nicked in the leg. It doesn't need any stitches"

Accepting his words – albeit she suspected him to downplay his wound – Isolde asked what happened. A veil suddenly seemed to settle upon his gentle features, anger and sadness reflected in his blue eyes. She seldom got to see it; the warrior beneath the man. Gawain was a gentle soul and always made sure she felt welcomed.

— "The Woads were waiting for us, blast them! They got Percival before Tristan fired his first arrow."

Her steps faltered; her face suddenly pale.

— "What do you mean, they got him? He's going to pull through, right?"

Standing still, Gawain didn't even try to disguise the immensity of his grief. And despite the dryness of his eyes, the solemn look her directed at her told her the plain, ugly truth.

— "Percival was dead before he hit the ground."

Isolde gasped, bringing her hand to her mouth, tears pooling into her eyes. Percival, the gentle redhead who knew more poetry than even her former tutor? The man who sometimes talked to her gently without an ounce of flirting, treating her like a lady? Her fingers trembled, touching her lips incredulously as she, at last, understood what it meant to be a knight of the round table. How many had died already? Their numbers dwindled every day. Every single day. And she prayed that hers might be spared.

— "What of Tristan?"

Gawain resumed his walk.

— "He took an arrow to the inner thigh."

A sharp breath filled her lungs; everyone knew that if the artery was split, there would be no tomorrow. But Gawain kept providing more details.

— "There was so much blood that we thought … we had lost him too. But he's stubborn, and still breathing. Hopefully he will make it. We thought … that maybe his lady could be persuasive"

Isolde nodded, a derisive smile lifting the corner of her lips. For once hating that they had been lying to Tristan's brothers in arms. She was no lady of his, but she knew, clear as day, that no one else would be by his side while he recovered. She would play the part, and bestow her attention to return the favour of his protection. And pray for his wound to behave, and his body to remain clear of infection. Pray the lord, or any of his Gods. Whomever was prone to listen could do the trick.

Despite everyone's hopes, infection had settled, leaving Tristan unconscious as he fought the fever. In his delirium, the knight remained silent, hazy dreams coming and going with the waves of infernal heat that washed over his broken frame, followed by the icy clutches of death.

Little hands he so seldom touched wiped his brow, a gentle voice humming songs he'd never heard; a solace in between the agony of bandage changing and wound drainage. In moments of consciousness, Tristan deplored that he'd been so slow. That stupid hole was going to take a while to mend.

His sleep was restless, every single muscle aching after fighting off this strong fever. But death had lost, once more, to the fierce scout. Tristan idly wondered when would come the day for him to surrender to the ripper. For the moment, though, a set of quiet voices lulled his wandering – and inconsistent – thoughts. A deep, rumbling sound that barely registered as words reverberated in his bones. Dagonet. The other one was nearly hushed, soft sounds covered by the crackling of the fire in the healing room.

Then there was a quiet rustle and retreating footsteps, followed by the shuffling of fabric close to his head. Silence anew, with nothing more than the amber's noise to fill the room. But the scout could feel her presence by his side, even though her breathing wasn't discernable. She was a quiet woman, yet her smell was unique. Eventually, Tristan's eyes opened to a low-lit room.

— "Why are you here?" he asked to the woman by his side.

His throat was parched, his question coming out like a growl. Locking eyes with him, the seamstress's apprentice searched his face, probably irked by his abrupt remark.

— "Your brothers fetched me since I am your lady," she responded sternly.

— "It is just a ploy."

The young woman winced at the bitterness of his voice, levelling him with a hash look. For a moment, he thought she would throw the piece of cloth she had been working on into his face, and he was grateful that his vision slightly swam. It somehow abated the anger in her eyes. Then she abruptly disappeared from his field of vision, her long braid like a trail of fire down her back.

The noise or rushing water being poured caused his body to lurch in delight; he had sweated all his liquid in the last few days and was dry like a dead tree. The goblet was deposited carefully by the bedside; her elegant fingers leaving it as they reached for his back. Tristan braced himself, tensing his muscles to lift his sore neck as she presented the goblet.

The cool water washed over him like a river in the heat of summer. But the sensation that threw him of the most was the gentle touch upon his nape. Her warm fingers supported him, curling with a firm, enveloping grip to help his aching body. Truth be told, Tristan wasn't used to being handled with such care. The last time someone had touched his nape ever so tenderly … his mother, probably, before he grew into a man.

And the scarce wenches he took to his bed now – asking for the utmost secrecy under threat of a good beating – didn't even dare laying a finger upon him. Most of the time he led the dance, and whenever they did, there was nothing delicate in their lustful touch. It didn't help much when their faces morphed into the seamstress' apprentice.

— "More?"

Her voice almost startled him; he seemed to have dozed off for a moment. Or not, for her warmth still seeped through the base of his skull. Tristan grunted his assent and the sudden contact left, leaving him strangely bereft as she went to fetch another goblet of clear water. Once his thirst was quenched, the young woman resumed her post by his bedside, retrieving the piece of cloth she had been working on previously. Silence settled between them once more, a companionable silence only disturbed by the shuffled of fabric and the slight noise of her needle as it flew in her nimble fingers.

— "What are you doing?" a gruff voice asked.

The young woman's eyebrow lifted, her deep emerald eyes sending him a thoughtful gaze. She didn't have to tell him how she had interrogated half the fort to lay hands upon Iazygues traditional patterns, or reworked them with the shape of Hawk's feathers.

— "Embroidering the collar of your new shirt"

Tristan frowned and she knew what was coming.

— "I didn't order a new shirt."

— "I know"

Her voice was sharp, her response brooking no arguments, closing the discussion effectively. Would he be stupid enough to refuse the gift? There was such a self-destructive streak in Tristan that it wouldn't surprise her the least.

— "You owe me nothing," he eventually said.

This time, Isolde huffed loudly, but didn't stop the needle's movement. She couldn't interrupt her braid now lest she messed up the pattern. Frustrated, she realised she shouldn't have started such a difficult part of the collar knowing Tristan could wake up. He was, after all, always catching her off guard.

— "I owe you my life. I still owe it to you every day you keep the facade."