Okay, even I don't understand the technicalities of how the author's fic includes other POVs. Maybe… they just appeared on her laptop when she got back?
Anyway… let's not question it, but read and find out what further suffering's in store for her!

Warnings: Swearing, violence… nothing special.

Disclaimer: Don't own… TT_TT

TRISTAN:

Tristan would never admit to panicking when he first woke up in a lot of pain with a stranger leaning over him. He knew instantly that he was in danger – out in the open, injured, and with a stranger leaning over him… he sat up, ignoring the agony in his side and leg.

"Stop!" she cried, "You'll hurt yourself!"

He ignored her and was almost fully upright when her hand shot out and checked him in the chest. It was then that Tristan realised he wasn't wearing very much. What had happened?!

"Who are you?!" he growled, glaring up at her – he first needed to establish if she was an immediate threat.

"Calm down," she said, everything about her was steady and seemingly controlled. Her impossibly clear grey eyes were just a little too much like a wolf's gaze. Both saw more than they ought to.

He took stock of his surroundings: it turned out that he was in a forest under a really shitty excuse for a tent; nearly naked, grievously wounded with an unknown and frankly bizarre girl caring for him. But he needed to know who she was, so he repeated the question.

"Who are you?" He said.

"Who are you?" she shot back, clearly just as confused about who he was. This was surprising – Tristan was used to being feared and respected automatically. He'd practically encouraged it.

"Tristan," he said, using the word as an implicit threat. The girl didn't so much as blink; had she truly no understanding of just who she was angering? If he had more strength, he'd have slapped her since clearly she was impudent as well as ignorant. But she simply took her hand off his chest and leaned back slightly.

"I am Natalya," she said, picking up the waterskin and holding it out to him. "Drink; you've been asleep since I found you." The name sounded utterly alien to him – maybe Latin or Greek, but certainly not one he'd heard before. Along with her attitude problem which seemed to be at least as bad as Vanora's – she was a strange girl altogether.

How long had he been unconscious? Were the others looking for him yet? There was no sign of the Roman patrol he'd been accompanying either. "When was that?" He asked, not touching the waterskin. Who knew what she'd put in it.

"Yesterday," she said and dropped the waterskin by his elbow, looking away. She seemed to be thinking about something else.

A breeze chilled Tristan's skin. "Where are my things?" he asked.

"I washed your clothes of blood, they're drying." She said, still not looking at him. She was looking in the direction of the clearing, as if waiting for something.

"Tagiytei?"

Her grey eyes flicked back to him at that. "What?"

"My horse," he said. Had he made it? Where was he?

"What colour was your horse?" she asked. Tristan noticed the roan tied to a tree on the other side of the camp. It was Kay's horse, Sarakos. Oh gods, had Kay been with them?

"Dappled grey," he said.

The girl shook her head, "I haven't seen any dappled horse."

"Since I'm the only one, I presume all the others are dead?" Tristan said, wearily preparing himself for the worst.

She nodded. "The wolves arrived last night, I watched over you rather than them."

Tristan resisted the urge to close his eyes and merely grunted dispassionately. "How good of you," he said sarcastically. "Did you see any other men like me?"

"No."

"Are you sure? He would have been a big man with red hair and a dark cloak."

"I'm sure; I scoured that entire place at least three times." She said, and now there was a hint of annoyance in her voice. Tristan thought about this. Had Kay escaped on Tagiytei?

The girl stood, and as she walked away Tristan noted she was wearing men's clothes – they were clearly too big for her skinny frame and were wet. Had she gotten soaked while washing his clothes? Or had she washed them too? The outsized tunic hung loosely over trousers that were also clearly too big for her, and they only served to make her look even more like a skinny boy. What he also noted was that she was wandering around barefoot – the right foot was bandaged and she favoured it slightly.

Tristan picked up the waterskin and uncapped it. After a cautious inspection, it turned out to be water after all and he drank while pondering the likelihood of a remarkably good-willed (if surly) soul rescuing him in the middle of nowhere, the water amplified the hollow feeling in his gut.

"Is there any food?" he asked.

"Not very much," the girl mumbled from behind her long hair as she stroked Sarakos' arching neck. "How far is it to civilisation?"

"Only a day's ride," Tristan said. She clearly wasn't familiar with this place – which only made the mystery more profound. Had she been dropped from the sky like one of Arthur's angels?

"Then we can set off as soon as you're ready," she said, rummaging in the makeshift bundles. She found the food and took it to him.

While he ate, Tristan pondered the ramifications of travelling with this girl: what if she was some sort of spy? By guiding her to the fort would he betray his brothers in arms? He resolved to kill her if she proved him right.

I didn't know how to interact with this man – he was so intense. So wild. I decided to flee the scene and refill the waterskins.

"Natalya," it sounded exotic when he said it. I stopped and turned to look at him.

"Can I have my clothes back?" he asked. I nodded, fetched them and then went to the stream, taking Fizzy with me. While I was re-bandaging my foot on the bank Fizzy snorted at me, misting my hair and face with second hand water.

"Oh yuck!" I yelped. The horse snorted again and then wandered off to graze. I looked at him speculatively; I knew he could carry Tristan and I simultaneously, albeit slowly. But would we evade the Blue People if they came back?

To answer at least part of that question, I faintly heard raised voices from deeper in the forest. The Blue People.

Shit and double shit.

"Fizzy!" I hissed, leaping to my feet. The horse rightly ignored me. I darted over to him, snatching up the reins. "Come on!" I tugged him back to the camp, moving as quickly and quietly as I dared.

"Tristan, we have to go now!" I said in an urgent undertone. Tristan had managed to wriggle into his breeches, but was still bare-chested. He looked surprised. "I think it's the Blue People," I explained, stuffing the bandages and fire-flints into my pack. I left the tent. If the fort was only a day away we wouldn't need it.

"Woads?" Tristan looked stone-faced again. He struggled to stand and I rushed over, helping him to his feet.

"Is that what they're called?"

"It's what we call them," Tristan muttered. I handed him his tunic, packing the rest. There was no time. No time at all.

"My sword…" Tristan began. I pointed to where it was sitting on the packs.

"We need to go," I reiterated. In an effort to stay awake the previous night, I had made a harness of sorts so Fizzy could carry our packs. It was essentially the butchered remains of his saddle blanket and several leather straps which I had tinkered with until they didn't hurt or irritate the horse. Now, I threw it on Fizzy and started to attach the essentials. Tristan limped over to help, and I noticed he'd picked up his sword.

"We're in no position to fight," I said, tugging at the tough leather scabbard. "We have to run or we'll end up like your friends!"

Tristan looked like he might hit me but I stood my ground. For a start I didn't want to be killed, even if I could come back. It would also make for awkward conversation if they tried to chop my head off when I reanimated.

"But we won't get far enough," he said. I shook my head.

"For the moment they don't know we're here. But the more we argue the more time they have to catch us – so get on the horse right now or so help me I will leave you here to your desired fate!" I growled. Tristan seemed to see sense. He handed me the sword and I strapped it to the harness. I then turned to him to see he was examining the harness I'd made, his expression inscrutable.

"You call him… Fizzy?" he said hesitantly.

They probably didn't have carbonated drinks, so I just shrugged. "Why, what's his real name?"

"Sarakos," the horse's ears pricked. Yeah, that was his name.

"Fine, Sarakos," I amended. It sounded cold and hard – not like the goofy animal who'd nibbled at my hair last night. Then I swung myself up onto his back and walked him over to a stump so Tristan could get on the horse as well.

I nudged the horse as close to the stump as possible and then looked at Tristan.

"How do you want to do this?" I asked, holding out a hand.

TRISTAN:

Tristan didn't even bother to reply. There was no time to think about the pain or caution, so he just grabbed the girl's forearm, placed his other on Sarakos' back and swung himself up onto the horse behind her. If she hadn't been bracing herself, Tristan would have definitely pulled her off the horse.

There was a moment's awkward silence as Sarakos walked to the clearing.

"Ready for a gallop?"

Tristan reached around her narrow waist and threaded the fingers of one hand into Sarakos' mane and the other arm wrapped around her stomach. "Like we have a choice," he said by her ear, steeling himself for the pain of a bareback gallop.

"Okay," she said. There was a ring of iron in her tone – Tristan knew she meant to survive and her genuine terror at the thought of the Woads' arrival would have been hard to fake. But if she wasn't a spy, then how on earth did she come to be here? More questions and no answers. He'd have to start voicing them.

As soon as they were clear of the trees, Natalya urged Sarakos into a canter. Tristan grunted in pain and hugged her to him, pain ripping through his side and leg at the skipping motion of the horse. Sarakos seemed to sense the urgency of the situation because he pushed up into a gallop as they hit the straight path through the trees. The pace was smooth, if incredibly fast, and Tristan instinctively leaned over the horse's neck, forcing Natalya to do likewise. The pain was being replaced by sheer adrenaline as he focused only on staying on the horse and not letting go of the girl. He was looking over her shoulder at the path ahead and noticed that her cheeks were burning with embarrassment. It may have been exhilaration too, but it made him realise just how young she had to be.

Mercifully, Natalya soon called an end to the gallop, slowing Sarakos to a walk. The horse was sweating slightly, but seemed even more energetic. Natalya kept him steady, despite her obvious anxiety about Tristan's closeness. Tristan relaxed his hold on her and let his arms fall down by his sides.

"Does this horse live off speed rather than grass?" she wondered, there was a smile in her voice.

Tristan huffed; it was an apt description of Sarmatian horses. His shoulder was starting to throb and the agony in his side and leg were making themselves known as the exhilaration wore off. Natalya patted Sarakos' neck and then kicked one leg over the horse's neck. "I'll walk,"

But Tristan wasn't going to let her escape that easily. He caught her hip with his good arm "You have no idea how quickly Woads can travel," he said. "Sarakos can carry both of us easily,"

She sighed and returned to sitting astride the horse, head hanging. She seemed tired. Tristan was exhausted too and leaned against her slightly, feeling the heat of her skin through the thin tunic.

"Are you alright?"

Tristan sighed, silencing further fussing. "I'll be fine. You can look at the wounds later," he said.

"Well then… it's alright… to lean on me if you like…" she said sounded like she would prefer to push him off the horse, but Tristan knew she'd have to throw herself off too once he was leaning on her; so he rested more of his weight against her back, surprised by how strong she was. Looping his arms around her hips, he rested his forehead on her shoulder with a sigh. He made a mental note to swear her to secrecy about this later – his fellow knights could never know.

He's hurt, he's in pain, he's your patient… this a definite breach in the doctor-patient contract! I thought, panic rising in my gut. He was too hurt to try anything, and I could always just refuse to treat his wounds. But the bloody stoic would probably deal with it manfully.

"Are we still going the right way?" I asked suddenly.

Tristan grunted an affirmative. "Keep heading north east," he murmured. "Follow the wall."

"Okay," Walls, Woads… and…? Dragons? Surely not…

I whiled away the time pondering this alliterative conundrum – unable to think of a synonym for 'ungrateful douchebag'.

We were very lucky in as much as it didn't rain, and the Woads didn't catch up with us. Then I decided that we needed a break – especially Sarakos who had been doing all the hard work. Tristan sat up and looked about, clearly confused.

I slid off the horse and stumbled as pain lanced through my bad foot.

"Ow, ow, ow…" I said through gritted teeth as I hopped about. I let out a shaky breath as I hobbled back to Tristan who promptly dismounted and staggered into me, his leg having given out. This sent us both to the ground, with Tristan landing on top of me, partially at least, and it drove the air from my lungs.

Tristan groaned in pain – no doubt his injuries had just been made much worse.

I couldn't even make a sound. I just lay under him, taking tiny sips of air as my vision clouded from lack of oxygen. Tristan managed to roll off me, but only so far as to lie on his back beside me.

He cursed briefly and I wholeheartedly agreed with the sentiment. In such a state, what a pair we made. After a long moment, I felt ready to try speaking and managed a half-hearted croak. "You alright?" I managed.

There was a neutral grunt, which I took to mean 'no' – but Tristan didn't want to admit he was hurt. I pushed myself up into a sitting position, which took more effort than I'm willing to admit either.

"Let's have a look then…" I said, turning to him. But Tristan slapped my hand away.

"I'm fine," he said, voice choked.

I knew he didn't like me. But he didn't have to; I wasn't going to force him. I got to my feet and went back to Sarakos, fetching the cloak-bundle full of bandages. I wanted to change the dressing on my foot for starters.

More groaning from Tristan as he sat up. I unwrapped my foot while leaning against a tree. It looked alright; clammy and white from all the trapped moisture, but miraculously clean. I poured a little water on it and let the wound dry while I glanced over at Tristan. The man was glaring at me horribly.

"Attend to me!" he snapped, hand clutching at his wounded side. I thought I saw red seeping between his fingers.

"Alright, alright…" I mumbled, setting aside enough bandages for my foot and then limping over to kneel beside him. What was I, his slave?

He groaned as I peeled his tunic up. The bandages were sodden with blood.

"You are such a liar…" I mumbled, shaking my head at him. I got a slap round the cheek from an iron hand for that.

"Don't be so impudent to your betters!" he growled.

I glared at him. "And don't you ever hit me again!" I spat, the shock of the blow, however light, making me vent my frustrations at him. "In case you've forgotten, I saved your life back there – so for the time-being you are reliant on me to get to the fort!"

It wasn't a proper rant – I could have gone on for hours about all my grievances (top of the list being the fact I was there in the first place) but it was what I wanted to say to him. So instead of having to glare into those hateful green, green eyes any longer, I stood and limped back to the bandages for my foot and began to wrap up the wound again.

TRISTAN:

He stared at her, surprised at her sudden temper. Usually women cowered or even cried once they'd had a hand raised to them. This girl's eyes grew icy as she flew back into the fray with twice as much fury; she had also told him a few uncomfortable truths – he had struck someone he owed his life to. But by all the gods above and below, she was infuriating!

She, meanwhile, was sitting some distance away, bandaging her foot. Sarakos ambled over to her and messed her hair with his velvety lips. Natalya actually smiled at that and she reached up to stroke the horse's head. Tristan realised it was the first time he'd seen her smile – it was even more odd that she had forged such a strong bond with the horse in such a short time. It was a Sarmatian relationship with their horse, not a pesky little Britain's – the scene jarred something in him.

The pain of his injuries eventually forced Tristan to talk to the girl again. He sighed, clutching his wound and praying for deliverance from this monster. He knew the only way to get her attention would be to do what Bors did on countless occasions with Vanora…

"Sorry," he said gruffly. Natalya's back stiffened and she turned around very slowly to stare at him. Her expression was inscrutable.

After staring at him for a moment she sighed too, pushing a hand through her hair, which simply slipped back over her face again. "Apology accepted," she murmured, standing and fetching the bandages. She also snagged an extra waterskin from the harness. Without coming any closer to him, she began to knot some of the bandages together, making a loop. Only then did she limp over to him and re-bandage the wound on his side; her expression was closed and hard, as if she was waiting for him to hit her again. In such close proximity, Tristan could see the red lines already appearing on her pale cheek from his fingers. The sight made him feel worse, despite his continued dislike for the girl: it was dishonourable to treat someone who had saved your life with disrespect. Then she held up the loop of bandages and put it around his neck, making a sling for his injured shoulder. She then leaned back, hands on her knees as she stared at him solemnly.

"And how does your leg feel?" she asked. There was no emotion in her voice; it was as if Tristan had knocked all the goodwill from her with that slap, replacing it with nothing but dutiful attention.

"It will hold," he said truthfully. It wasn't that he didn't trust her to care for it; he just really didn't want her to get him out of his trousers again. The thought was too emasculating.

Then Natalya did something unexpected, she stood, fetched a cloak from Sarakos and returned to wrap it around his shoulders. He looked at her in surprise, but she seemed to ignore his reaction and walked away again with a curt nod. For a rude, stupid girl she was surprisingly thoughtful. He fastened it deftly with one hand and sat watching her. She'd left him the waterskin and some of the food – clearly she was taking some sort of break.

Tristan mulled it over as he nibbled at the jerky – probably venison – and reached the conclusion that he'd been unfair on the girl. While the apology had been a lifesaving necessity, the gift of the cloak from her was an unfathomable gesture. By rights she could have let him catch a chill, but instead she'd shown him kindness in the face of his impulsive brutality. Was she attempting to shame him?

He managed to limp behind a tree to relieve himself when the girl disappeared to probably do likewise. And when he reappeared he noticed her standing by Sarakos, looking about worriedly. So she was truly concerned about him? She didn't… she wasn't attracted to him, surely?

That horrifying theory was mercifully blown out of the water when she caught sight of him and despite the way her shoulders dropped in relief, her face closed into that near-scowl once more. She was still wearing only the light tunic and thin trousers he'd first seen her in, and she looked cold, especially in the way she huddled slightly against Sarakos' shoulder. Tristan felt the breeze's chill and pulled his own cloak a little tighter around his shoulders. Natalya was watching him with hooded eyes as he struggled to walk to her. He made it, but felt physically ill and swayed alarmingly when he reached her. She darted forward and caught him, again showing surprising strength as she threw his good arm over her skinny shoulders and helped him sit down as painlessly as possible.

"Why are you doing this?" he said once she'd given him some water and retrieved the rest of his clothes from Sarakos' harness.

"You need my help," she said simply. It wasn't enough for Tristan. Her selflessness reminded him of Dagonet or Arthur – they pitied those who were too weak or afraid to help themselves, even at the cost of their own safety.

"But why? Even after…" he trailed off, biting his tongue. To give voice to what he'd done would be to shatter the tense peace they had recreated.

"After you hit me?" she said. Well, if she was going to say it…

She actually smiled self-consciously as she considered his question. "I suppose because I've already worked hard to save you, I'd hate to see all that effort go to waste simply because you're being ungracious about it." She sighed, looking him straight in the eye for once. The shock of those piercing, clear eyes staring into his, still marred by that awful iciness from before, seemingly reached inside with reptilian precision and looked around at what went on in his head.

But that was impossible. No one could do that.

"I apologise," he said, fighting the bile that was rising with the words. "I swear on all my gods and yours that I will guarantee your safety until I can repay the life debt." The words felt like vinegar, but he was honour-bound to say them. The notion of this brat being tied to him filled him with a strange nausea.

Natalya pulled away from him, her face falling into shadow as her hair fell around her face. But her expression was slightly more relaxed. "Then let's get you to a real surgeon: you're long overdue some stitches and willow-bark tea." She said, and the lightness was back in her voice again, as if they had just been discussing the weather or patrol rotas. But the eyes were still cold.

Trying to instil respect by force had failed miserably, Tristan surmised. But he had won her co-operation and good will when he had been kind. Or at least, not hitting her and shouting at her. She shook out his clothes and helped him to dress in his outer tunic and surcoat as the afternoon's chill intensified. She, by contrast, had nothing to keep her warm. Tristan resolved to share the cloak with her when they were on the horse again. Generosity didn't come naturally to the scout – not in the same way killing or intimidating did. He didn't have to remind himself that they were tied together now by a life debt. He had given voice to it and sworn to protect her.

What had he been thinking?

What had he been thinking indeed! They aren't really getting on are they?
Please, please, please review.