Nine

Galahad's sweaty palms were clenched together, ready to knock Gawain unconcious if needs be. The older knight fell silent for a moment, focusing on his drink once again. He slammed the mug down on the counter and laughed idiotically.

"Come on, Gawain," Galahad said. "Let's get you back to your quarters."

"Yes," Tristan added. "Go home and stop making yourself look like a complete imbecile."

Gawain waved his hand dismissively at Tristan. "You're just jealous of Galahad and me!"

The youngest knight grabbed Gawain's empty mug and smashed it into the back of his head. The long-haired knight fell into Galahad as he was knocked unconcious. Galahad landed with Gawain on top of him on the floor. He pulled his legs from under Gawain's dead weight. Leaning close to him, Galahad heard the quiet snores roll from his tongue. He patted the older knight on the shoulder and looked over at Tristan.

"Help me get him back will you?" he asked.

As Tristan threw the unconcious man over his shoulders, he peered down at Galahad who sat on the floor holding his side.

"Coming?" Tristan asked.

"Yeah, yeah, go on ahead. I'll be there in a minute," he replied with a smile.

After the scout left with the snoring Gawain, Galahad heaved forward slightly and let out a stifled cry of pain.

"Fuck!" he cursed under his breath.

His use of word profanity was not only directed towards Gawain's slip-of-the-lip, but also for how his side felt after it it the floor with Gawain atop of him. Galahad's nails dug into the floorboards as he breathed loudly through his teeth.

After collecting himself, Galahad stood and made his way from the tavern. He went to Gawain's quarters post-haste. When he arrived, the scout had dropped Gawain onto his bed, face-down. Tristan shrugged as Galahad sent him a glance. He pulled Gawain over onto his back, biting his lip at the pain it caused him. He was sure that Tristan noticed his agony, because the older knight pushed him aside and finished getting Gawain into bed.

Galahad wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve, which was also damp. He couldn't understand how he could be so warm when outside it was so cold.

"Ok?" Tristan said, eyeing the boy's condition.

"I'll live," Galahad answered. "Thanks for getting him back."

"Thanks for knocking him out. You did me a favor, but at your own expense," Tristan noted. "Your wound is bleeding."

Galahad lifted the side of his tunic that was stained crimson. "It's not much. I'll have to change the bandages later."

The young man wiped his face, where sweat was now dripping from his skin. Suddenly, Galahad felt tired and weak.

"You need to get back to your quarters, now, Galahad," the scout ordered. "You're feverish; a common element associated with wounds like yours."

Tristan followed Galahad back to his room, making sure he didn't faint along the way. He lay back on his bed, his face now completely flushed with fever.

"Hot..." Galahad muttered. "So...hot..."

Tristan sat the man forward and gently peeled his damp tunic off, exposing his old battle scars and fresh wounds. He draped the article of clothing over a chair and lit a candle beside the sick man's bed. Galahad's eyes were closed and he began mutterting soft words to himself. When the scout decyphered Galahad's words, he realized he was repeated the same line from a song over and over again: We will go home across the mountains. He recollected the words from a song Vanora, Bors' woman sang one night.

Tristan went and retrieved water and bandages nearby. When he returned, he undressed the old bandages from Galahad's wounds and began cleaning and re-dressing them. He had managed to stop the small holes from bleeding and quickly tied off the fresh bandages. Galahad hadn't moved at all whilst he had been working on his injuries, for the fever had taken him in to a dangerous level. His first instinct was to report to Arthur and get the youngest knight proper treatment, but then he remembered that Arthur was away on business. There was no one else to remedy Galahad, save for him.

He covered up the knight to his neck, trying to sweat out his fever. "Hold on, I will return," Tristan told Galahad, though it was not likely the young man heard him at all.

Tristan left Galahad's quarters and immediately went to the stables for his horse. Jols, the knight's squire, smiled up at him as he entered.

"Has Arthur returned?" Tristan asked.

"No, sir, he hasn't," Jols replied. "Anything I can do for you, though, sir?"

Tristan mounted his horse bareback and looked down at the thin man. "Just go about your business."

"Yes, sir," Jols answered as Tristan rode off.

Tristan flanked his dark steed and raced into the forest. He had no armor of any kind, but had his trusty curved blade at his side. He rode quickly to the spot he had seen a special sort of plant the other day on their way back from the mission. It was a long, vine-looking plant that only herb-healers knew about. Smashing it in a bowl until it was paste-like made it perfectly appliable to an infected wound, such as Galahad's. After collecting a handful of the plant, Tristan returned to Galahad's quarters. Jols took his horse and the two exchanged no more words.

He bent over Galahad and looked at the man's pupils. They were enlarged and unresponsive, yet Tristan was relieved that his breathing stayed normal. That was a healthy sign. Tristan mushed the plant in a small bowl with some water until it was paste-like. Lifting part of the loose wrapping along Galahad's flank, he applied the medicine directly into the holes. Then, he re-dressed the wounds.

Leaning close to the youngest knight's ear, he whispered, "We will go home soon, Galahad, I promise. Soon."

Admiring his work for a moment, Tristan sat back in a chair in the corner. He slouched down in his seat as he was prepared to watch Galahad's condition throughout the rest of the day. If he could make it without complication into the night, Tristan knew Galahad's illness would subside and his wounds would continue to heal accordingly.

End, 'Nine.'