You sit on your bed, alone in your tent. Today was an ordeal, even for the famed Band of the Hawk. Tudor's knights had ambushed the Hawks on a mountain pass and took even Griffith by surprise. You remember riding next to him, eagerly listening to his philosophical musings and gazing longingly at his hair flowing in the wind. Then Judeau suddenly yelled and Griffith's blue eyes slowly turned to the source of his distress. Tudor's knights attacked the Band's flank and fired a volley of arrows at them. You fought valiantly by Griffith's side and even took an arrow for him. He didn't notice and in the heat of the moment you didn't feel much pain, only relief that Griffith was unharmed.
But now that the battle is done and the adrenaline has worn off, you're feeling pretty bad. The arrow hit your shoulder and, although you snapped off the shaft during the battle, the arrowhead is still lodged in your flesh. You stand and strip off your shirt to have a look in the full-length mirror in your room. Your shoulder isn't bleeding that much, but it's still a problem. If the head remains in there, it could cause an infection. You know you need to let someone know so that they can treat you, but you choose not to make a fuss. You're more than happy to have saved Griffith - a fact that makes you swell with pride - but you desire no gratitude from him. To seek it would be selfish. You wonder how to get medical attention without arousing his when you hear the draping of your tent shifting behind you.
'G-Griffith!' You hurriedly put your shirt back on to hide your wound. He peeks into your tent, his blue eyes twinkling in the dark. He's changed into more casual wear after the battle.
'I just came to see if you're feeling well, brother.' You feel a little glow of happiness at this informal address that he reserves for his close companions.
'Yes, I'm fine,' you sit back down on your bed, angling your body away from him so that he doesn't see the blood-stains. 'You were amazing out there today, as always,' you add. Griffith laughs, his warm, child-like composure setting you at ease. 'Well,' said he, 'I do seem to have the devil's luck.' You think to yourself that he's just being modest but decide not to say so because you don't want to flatter him too much (he might think you're after something). He walks right into your tent and sits down on the bed next to you. You feel a little embarrassed to have him so close to you alone and your wound throbs. He reaches towards you and you blush. What's the meaning of this? Does he mean to- He touches your wounded shoulder. 'What's this?'
'Oh, it's nothing, really.'
'It doesn't look like nothing... wait, you're bleeding!' His concern for you fills you with admiration; surely no other mercenary leader would show so much compassion for a mere soldier. His fingers delicately touch where the arrowhead is embedded and you flinch a little. 'I can feel something there...' he looks into your eyes. His are cold, yet beautiful. 'Mind if I take a look? It could be bad.' You nod your head, resigning yourself to the fact that you're going to have to explain. He pinches the hem of your shirt in his fingertips and gives you a look that asks your consent to be undressed. You nod again and he pulls your shirt over your head, being careful not to aggravate your little wound. He carefully caresses the trembling skin of your shoulder, making sure not to push the arrowhead in more. It looks quite bad, as it didn't go in cleanly and was clearly worsened by you tearing the shaft off. 'I'm going to take it out now,' Griffith says slowly, 'it'd best if we act quick, you could get seriously ill.' You make a little 'mm-hm' and he goes under your bed to get the medical box most members of the Band of the Hawk keep under their bed. He opens it and takes quick inventory of what he has to work with. You're amazed by the way his eyes move, swiftly as if counting the number of enemy soldiers on the battlefield. He was always methodical and calculating. 'Why didn't you tell me about this?'
'I- what?'
'Why didn't you tell me?'
'I'm... not interested in gratitude.'
'What do you mean?' His face is close to yours as he inspects your shoulder, his voice a hot whisper in your ear.
'This arrow that hit me was going to go for you.'
'And you blocked it with your body?'
'Yes, sir.' You look away, but Griffith smiles at you.
'Then why didn't you tell me? Didn't you want my thanks?'
'No, sir. I live and die for you, that much is already established.' He chuckles.
'You're a strange one, aren't you?' He grips the tiny bit of arrowhead that pokes out of the skin with his fingernails. 'This might hurt,' he says as he begins to pull it out. You bite your lip and make a pained sound as it slides out of your skin. 'It's nearly out, don't worry.' His voice soothes you and you relax. His skilled fingers pull the arrowhead out easily and he holds a cloth to the wound to stem the flow of blood. He makes a tiny smile and says 'not so bad, was it? You've had worse.' He semi-sensually traces his finger over one of the scars from previous battles on your abdomen and your blood runs hot. He presses the cloth against your wound and you wince as a twang of pain goes through you. He gently lifts the cloth off of your shoulder and inspects the wound. 'Good, that was quite easy.' He suddenly lowers his lips to the hole in your skin, causing you to move away in embarrassment. It's not as if you don't want him to be close to you physically, but you're not sure if it's appropriate. 'What are you-'
'We don't want it to get infected, do we? I think it's best if I try to suck out any little poisons that got into you through that arrowhead. You never can be too careful with knights of Tudor.' He lowers his lips again and whispers, 'I don't want to lose you to a little infection.' His warm lips grace your hot body and he begins to suck the blood from you, with an almost paternal tenderness. You gasp and squirm as he does this. You're not sure if he really wanted to do this to prevent infection or for your pleasure, but either way, you're excited by his closeness. How long have you wanted to be with him in this way? He finishes and licks his lips. He smiles.
'You taste great,' he says playfully and you laugh, caught unaware by his sudden comment. You're not sure what to say. His eyes laugh at you as he picks out a bandage from the box, as if he hadn't said anything at all. You offer your shoulder to him and he wraps it around it. You try to control your breathing, but you can't quite help showing your arousal. Griffith seems to sense it and his face moves closer to yours, teasingly. His feminine features swallow up your vision. No man or woman could ever be as beautiful as him. He must have been blessed by God, you think. Then, without thinking, you move your lips closer to his and kiss him. He doesn't seem surprised, maybe he was about to do the same thing? He lets you taste his lips for only a second before he pulls away; you hungrily lean forward slightly but he doesn't indulge you any more. He laughs, that innocent sweetness making you feel almost ashamed for having tried that with him. 'I had no idea you had feelings for me, soldier!' He said this, but it was obvious that he had always known. His sudden change of address from "brother" to "soldier" makes you feel as if you might have upset him. You shyly turn away and go to put your shirt back on, but his fingers encircle your wrist and he pulls you close, his nose gracefully stroking against yours. 'But you were brave on the battlefield today... and you did save my life...' His eyes are the thing, the eyes are what drew you in so long ago when you joined the Hawks. He softly whispers, 'How about a little reward?'

fin~