Chapter Six

Helena had managed to get Livia safely in her room when her sister started to complain of feeling worse, and after removing all of the contents of her stomach into a bowl several times, Livia was laid down on her bed, and the candles blown out so that the only light of the room was the warm fire in the hearth across from her bed. Deciding it would be best to take care of Livia rather than allowing her to ride out her illness, Helena wet a towel with cold water from a pitcher and wiped her sister down with it before putting another cold towel on her forehead. It was a joint effort to get her into a nightgown, and once it was done, Helena poured an excess of water down her sister's throat to flush the alcohol from her system and sat by Livia's bed, waiting for her to fall asleep as she had done nearly every day since their mother died.

"Don't go back to your room, Helena. Stay with me. Don't go to your room," Livia was practically begging her.

"I'll stay," Helena promised, intending to wait until Livia drifted off so that she could go to bed herself. Her entire body was aching from the exertions of the day. Killing by daylight, dancing by night, and a rather distressing argument in between. Helena wasn't made of stone, she realized.

"Was that Tristan I saw you with on the dance floor?" Livia's voice was groggy and tired, and to Helena's distress, it seemed that her sister intended to stay up.

"Yes, he and I had been talking," Helena replied. "He's very agreeable once you get to know him."

"I think that you think that he's more than 'agreeable'," Livia teased in a slurred voice, her hands flailing wildly before falling back to the sheets that covered her as if they had suddenly died.

"You know what I think, Livvy? I think you're drunk. Extremely, incredibly, drunk. Now be quiet, and go to bed," Helena replied, putting a hand over her sister's eyes as if it would make her fall asleep. Her sister groaned as if she were in pain.

"Oh, I shouldn't have let Gawain talk me into that drinking contest," Livia complained, taking Helena's other hand. "I think I'm going to die. You wouldn't let me die, right, Helena?"

"You don't die from drinking too much, half-wit. Though I think you may want to in the morning. Father used to get horribly ill after he drank too much," Helena replied, removing her hand from over Livia's eyes.

"Helena would never let me die, she's such a good sister," Livia's eyes were closing now, though she seemed to be fighting falling asleep. "She loves me too much to let me die. I think she'd die first."

"I would. Now go to bed, dummy, or I'll make you," Helena threatened half-heartedly. Livia was asleep and snoring lightly even before Helena rose, releasing her hand and tucking the blankets tightly around her. "You know I love you, even if you drive me completely insane," she whispered before leaving the room.

The hall their bedrooms branched off of was dark except for a few torches near the ends, and Helena found her way back to her room mainly by sheer force of will and the feeling of stone beneath her fingertips, only stopping once she felt the wooden face of her door under her right hand. She was surprised to find it slightly ajar, but figured she had just forgotten to close it all the way when she left for the feast. However, she carefully pushed the doorway open, her eyes adjusting to the darkness. Unlike in Livia's room, a fire had not been stoked in the hearth, and there wasn't a single candle lit upon her entrance. Apparently the servants had accidentally overlooked her when they made their rounds. She would remind them tomorrow.

Still feeling her way with her hands, Helena made her way to her hearth, finding it already stocked with kindling. Maybe they had just forgotten to light it. She found some flint near the stand holding extra firewood and started the fire herself, basking in its growing warmth for a moment before standing and turning around.

Only to realize that she wasn't the only person in the room. A man stood in the corner, his face covered in shadow, and for a moment she wondered if it was Tristan. Until of course, he stepped forward and she realized that while his face was vaguely recognizable, she had no idea who it was. She took a surprised step backwards, almost setting herself on fire before she moved to the other side of the hearth, picking up a heavy piece of firewood deftly and hiding it behind her back.

"What are you doing in here? Who are you?" she asked, hoping her voice was loud enough that someone could hear. Perhaps Livia would awaken and summon the guards. At least that's what she would've hoped until she realized the man was wearing the uniform of a Roman guard.

The man did not speak, but advanced upon her, pushing her against a wall roughly, one hand covering her mouth which she had opened to scream. He pressed his body against her, a knife at her throat, his gravelly voice harsh in her ears.

"You scream, you call for help, and I'll kill you, then I'll go next door and rape and kill your sister, got it?" he growled in ear, and Helena nodded desperately. She couldn't do anything, she knew it. And she wasn't about to put Livia in danger. "I'm going to remove my hand. If you make a sound, I'll kill you."

His large hand was removed from her face and replaced by his mouth, moving hard and fast on her lips in pure desperation. Helena was terrified. This couldn't be happening to her. Not again. She tried to distance herself the way she had before, imagining herself running about in the fields of wild flowers that used to surround her home. But she couldn't keep herself unaware of his hands roving her body. Helena felt ill. She didn't want this to happen. She couldn't let this happen. Helena was about to knock him on the side of the head with the firewood that had been clasped in her hands when he took hold of her wrists, forcing her arms above her head, the wood clattering to the ground loudly as it slipped to the ground. The roman guard looked up at the sound, his eyes dark.

"You fight. I like a woman who fights," he said, attacking her neck with his mouth and teeth while he attempted to undo the gold ribbon around her torso. Helena felt a few tears trickle down her cheeks as he drew blood on her bare shoulder, though they weren't from pain, not mostly. It was from the helplessness that was invading her body. She was going to be raped right here, possibly killed, in a fortress she was sure was the safest in the land, surrounded by guards, the great Artorius Castus and his Sarmatian knights. It was hard to tell why God hated her so.

"Please... please don't," she barely managed to whimper as the golden ribbon fell to the ground and he began tugging at the top of her dress. "Please."

"Shut up, bitch," the man growled, punching her. Helena fell to the floor from the force, feeling as if she had just been kicked in the face by a horse. The guard climbed on top of her and resumed attempting to remove her clothing, Helena squirming beneath him, weakly attempting to fight him off while fighting off the unconsciousness that was creeping up on her from hitting her head sharply on the stone floor.

Suddenly, the door to her room slammed open, barely missing hitting her as it bounced off of the wall. The man on top of Helena was wrenched off of her and thrown across the room with a loud yell. She sat up from where she had landed, holding her knees as she scooted herself into the corner, watching what was happening by the dim firelight. There was the sound of a sword being drawn, the metal catching the firelight, and another following shortly afterwards. Helena fought the urge to throw up and pass out as she watched the two men clash swords, though she wasn't sure which one she was rooting for as they were both dressed in the shining armor of a roman guard and their faces were obscured by shadows.

Several other people entered the room, summoned by the sound of clashing swords, and Helena found herself surrounded by people, their bodies blocking the sight of her savior killing the man who had attacked her. A warm hand caressed her cheek, and Helena threw herself into Tristan's arms, shaking violently.

"Quickly, let's get her to Dagonet's room. She's bleeding," it was Gawain's voice that was speaking, though she couldn't see him in the darkness besides the silhouette of his long hair. Tristan lifted her from the ground, one arm beneath her knees the other supporting her back once her arms wrapped around his neck. He held her tightly to him, which Helena was more than grateful for, she needed to be held. However the warmth of his body was making her even more tired, and her eyelids began to flutter as her cheek rested on his shoulder.

"Stay awake, Helena," came Tristan's voice, as if he could see her face from the angle she was at.

"She's hit her head hard. Lass is lucky she's still up and about at all. Keep her up Tristan," Bors commented from somewhere behind them.

"Where's Arthur?" came Lancelot's sharp voice.

"Galahad's gone to fetch him," answered Gawain, who was walking next to Tristan. "Damn these halls, I can't see the door."

"It's right there," Tristan answered, apparently motioning somewhere, because Helena could dimly see Gawain step in front of her, his face turned towards the wall.

"Right where? I just tried to open up the wall, Tristan. Where in the bloody hell is it?" Gawain was clearly irritated.

"Stop fighting," Lancelot chastised both of them. "Tristan, give me the girl and you open the door since you're the only one who can see it."

Tristan cursed under his breath, and Helena smiled faintly at the sound, before she felt herself being handed over the Lancelot, who she was far less comfortable being held by. It didn't help that he wasn't nearly as warm as Tristan was. She shivered again, involuntarily, and adjusted herself slightly in Lancelot's arms, feeling herself begin to drift off again.

"Hurry up, Tristan, she's starting to go on us," Gawain hissed in warning. "Come on, girl, stay awake for us."

"The bloody thing's locked, the bastard," Tristan growled, tugging uselessly on the handle.

"What the hell's he doing in there that he needs the door locked?" snapped Gawain. Clearly, everyone was at the end of their patience.

"We probably don't want to know," Lancelot murmured, though only Helena heard it.

"Here, let me take care of it," volunteered Bors, who's look of anger wasn't completely blocked out by the shadows being cast on his face. There was a loud bang, then another, followed by a loud cracking sound. Helena winced, burying her head in Lancelot's neck as the sound ripped through her head. She was so tired. She just wanted to go to bed for a millennia or so.

"What? What's going on?" came the drowsy and surprised sound of Dagonet's voice. Helena felt Lancelot moving forward as he carried her into the much warmer room. Gawain went about lighting candles, casting the room into a bright glow that made Helena's eyes hurt.

"Helena's been attacked," Lancelot replied matter-of-factly. "She's taken quite a knock to her head, and she's bleeding in a few other places."

Dagonet was immediately out of bed, his shirtless form bustling around the room, shifting through his things, barely making a sound.

"On the bed. Put her on the bed," he gestured vaguely behind his back. "Keep her sitting up. Keep her awake."

There was a moment where Gawain arranged the pillows in a rather frantic manner that would've made Helena smile had her brain been able to properly process it. Lancelot laid her on the bed in a reclined position, and Tristan pulled Dagonet's blankets over her when he saw her shiver again. A moment later, Arthur and Galahad entered.

"Sorry we took so long, we were looking after the identification and disposal of the body," Arthur excused himself, immediately kneeling by Helena's side. "How is she?"

"Barely conscious," Bors replied. "And, out of curiosity, what body?"

"It appears one of the guards snuck into her room and attempted to rape her. According to Alaric, it's one of his men. He's dead now," Galahad said, his drunkenness worn off by the shock of seeing a man stab another to death. "Killed by his own commander, who happened to hear Helena cry out. She's damned lucky he was there."

"She was," Lancelot agreed somewhere to Helena's right. However, she couldn't see him, as her gaze was fixed on Tristan, who stood at the foot of her bed, staring down at her with an unreadable look on his face.

"You still with us, Helena?" asked Dagonet, who was perched on her other side, an assembly of medical gear strewn on the bed by her side. "I'm going to need you to sit up for me. Can you do that?"

"I... think," she replied weakly, her arms straining to help her sit up. She was about to fall back down when strong arms caught her, supporting her. Helena looked to her right to find herself face to face with Tristan who had leapt forward to catch her, his face only inches from her own, his breath intermingled with hers. Slightly disoriented, she lifted a heavy hand from the bedspread, touching the tattoo on his cheek softly. The smallest of smiles appeared on his face, though his eyes were still dark with sadness.

"Why are you sad?" she asked, though her mind didn't comprehend the words. Tristan adjusted himself slightly so she could rest more comfortably before he answered.

"Because I couldn't save you," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

Helena could feel Dagonet pressing something to the back of her head, and a sharp stinging sensation made her hiss in pain, squeezing her eyes closed and leaning her forehead against Tristan's. They remained that way for only a moment, but for Helena it felt like an eternity. She could feel his hot breath upon her face, and a prickling sensation told her that he was still watching her closely. She was incredibly aware of his warm hands supporting her, the way that his arms were wrapped so easily around her torso, but so firmly. She didn't know what to make of his reply, nor of the fact that there was an odd fluttering in her stomach at the moment that she was attributing to her head wound until further notice. And Helena didn't have a chance to really think over it because after that eternal moment passed, the room was full of the men's speaking.

"Stay awake now, Helena. No falling asleep on Tristan no matter how well padded he may be," the voice was unmistakably Lancelot's, though her eyes were closed. It had a vaguely mocking, self-assured quality to it that was uniquely his.

"No one's more padded than yourself, Lancelot," came Bors' loud voice, making Helena's head ache. "You've been lettin' yourself go, chasin' those barmaids and thinkin' they won't care whether or not you've got a paunch."

"And you're just a hunk of muscle yourself, Bors," replied Galahad.

"Has anyone awoken Livia?" asked Arthur, interrupting their good-natured jesting.

"There's no need," Helena stopped him before he suggested anyone awaken her twin. The precious moments Livia spent sleeping without nightmares weren't something Helena was about to interrupt, no matter what. "She needs her sleep, I'll tell her what happened in the morning. I don't imagine she'll be much help anyway, in her condition. It would be best to leave her in bed."

"Did you know that guard, Helena?" asked Gawain, and Helena opened her eyes and sat up a little so she could look at him.

"I knew his face. I suppose I'd seen him elsewhere, but I didn't know him personally. Why?" she asked.

"We're trying to determine whether or not we should feed Alaric and his men to the dogs, or if we should just forcibly remove them from the fortress," Tristan replied, his voice momentarily losing its calm, and becoming something close to vicious. Helena's eyes met his again, slightly surprised by the ferociousness in his voice, a different kind than the voice he had used on her when they had argued. It was one that was truly dangerous sounding, and Helena wouldn't be surprised if she was told in the morning that Tristan had gone out and killed every Roman guard within the fortress. She squeezed his upper arm reassuringly, giving him a weak smile.

"The dogs would get sick, and there's nothing less useful than a mutt poisoned by bad meat," she replied, and the others laughed. Tristan remained stoic however, though he seemed to calm slightly, a fact that Helena was quite thankful for. Dagonet wrapped a bandage around her head before moving from behind her so that Helena could lie back on the pillows once again.

"What's that on your shoulder?" asked Galahad, pointing to the bleeding wound left behind by the guard when he had bitten her.

"Oh... he, uh..." not knowing how to explain herself, Helena just gestured vaguely to the wound before giving up any attempt at making him understand. "It's just a... you know..."

"He bit you?" Lancelot sounded surprised, a hint of anger hidden deep within his voice, a sound that surprised Helena far less than the same sound being played within Tristan's. Lancelot seemed the kind of man that was easily thrown into a passion, whether it be anger, love or joviality. Tristan, on the other hand, was rather self-controlled and far less likely to fly into a fit unless there was something really bothering him.

"Aye, a bit," she replied. The men all mirrored the same look on Tristan's face now, and Helena wondered if she hadn't made things worse. If Arthur and his knights acted rashly against the Roman guard they could get into quite a bit of trouble, and she didn't want to do that to them. Dagonet cleaned the wound with a strange tenderness, and bandaged it lightly, patting her cheek with the slightest of smiles.

"You'll live," he promised.

"Though once again you've managed to bleed absolutely everywhere," Arthur said, and even in the dim candle light she could see the slightest of merriment building in his eyes as he spoke.

"Like I told you, it's a self defense mechanism. If I had been given a few more minutes, the man would've been scared off because the stuff would be inches deep and still going. Not that I minded being rescued, of course," she replied half-heartedly.

"Of course not. Alaric will receive some kind of reward for his valor. I don't imagine it's an easy thing to kill you own men," Arthur replied, glancing about the room as if he were wondering if he would be able to do such a thing without some serious thought beforehand.

"Who is this Alaric you've been speaking of?" Helena asked, recognizing the name, but unable to put a face to it.

"He was the leader of the Roman guards that brought the Cardinal here. I believe you spoke with him when you made your daring rescue," Galahad replied.

Of course, Helena realized, remembering the young man she had spoken with, the one with the twinkling blue eyes and the strong voice. He had been more than helpful during the Woad attack, and now he had saved her from inevitable rape. She would have to thank him personally once she was up and about.

"You seem less hysterical than I would imagine anyone else being," Gawain observed, leaning against the bedside stand with his arms crossed as he watched her closely. Helena knew he was right, she should have been crying or shaking or something of the sort. However, she felt like do no such thing. Truthfully, she felt a little numb of emotion, the same feeling she had felt when her sister rushed out of the house to the field where she was working to tell her that their mother had been murdered. She knew that she cared at least a little bit, but for some reason her heart and her head wouldn't pick up the same beat, so instead she just felt nothing. It was the least pleasant feeling in the universe.

"I know," she replied with a sigh. "I guess it bothers me less than it did the first time."

"'The first time'?" Tristan asked, though she was sure he had suspicions about it ever since the night she had told them all the truth. You would have to be dense not to be suspicious about her refusal to tell them exactly what happened when the men in black cloaks had taken her out of the cell she had shared with Livia during their capture. Rape wasn't the only thing they did, but it had been painful enough that the first time it happened the normally unshakable Helena wept for days afterwards. The torture and other things were more painful, and left many scars, but it was the rape that stayed with her.

"When I was imprisoned by the men after Livia," she answered him in a dull voice. "They never took her out of the cell, I never let them, so I was the only thing they could use to figure out which of us was the mystic and which wasn't. I always had my suspicions that they knew all along, as it couldn't be more obvious that I worked outside all day while she was within. I suppose I was more of a plaything than anything."

"Do you have any idea where they are now?" Bors asked, his voice slightly less loud than before to Helena's relief.

"If they aren't already here, then somewhere close behind. I waited too long before we picked up and left last time. The only way we avoided capture was by riding hard for several days straight," Helena said with an indecisive shrug. "It was difficult with an arrow sticking out of me and no healer to speak of, but we managed alright."

"This gives me much to think on," Arthur said after a moment of silence. "You get some rest, Helena, you look exhausted. Tristan will stay with you and stand guard. Dagonet, you're needed in the guard's quarters. Alaric managed to take a few blows and could use some tending to, nothing serious. The rest of you are free to do as you will."

"Wake her every hour, Tristan," Dagonet advised. "That hit to the head could be something serious.

"Goodnight, Helena," Lancelot said, leaning in and patting her cheek comfortingly with a slight smile before rising and exiting the room. The others wished her goodnight and left as well, and Helena found herself alone in the room with Tristan, who pulled up an armchair next to the bed and set to sharpening his daggers.

"Perhaps we should check on Livia," Helena realized, eyes wide. "Who's to say she hasn't been attacked as well?"

"She hasn't," Tristan confirmed. "Galahad told me as much when he entered with Arthur. She's sleeping, as you should be. Go to bed, I will not leave."

Helena inched a little closer to where he was sitting in before settling down and closing her eyes, suddenly aware of how weary she was. Her tiredness had been completely forgotten in all of the excitement, but it immediately came back to hit her hard now that she was surrounded by silence and Tristan's calm aura. She felt his warm hand take her own right before she drifted off to sleep.

Tristan didn't feel anything near contentment as he sat in Dagonet's room, holding Helena's hand while she slept. He wanted to go out and kill something. He wanted to make Alaric's men pay for what happened to her. He hated himself for not getting their sooner and being able to take care of the attacker himself, but when he had seen Alaric already taking down the man, and the sight of Helena cowering in the corner, he had chosen her over helping finish the guard off. The feeling of holding her in his arms was an unforgettable one, the way that she pressed herself against him for warmth, the feeling of her warm breath against his neck. It made him shiver just thinking about it, though he couldn't explain it.

What was it about Helena that was so utterly captivating? What was that undefinable allure? Tristan knew she was beautiful, but that wasn't it. Was it that she was strong at times that other people could not be? The way she was so selfless, asking after her sister's well being only a few moments after she had been attacked? No, he realized, the selflessness was actually a bit distressing to him. It made him dislike Livia more and more every day, thinking her selfish and too dependent on her already worn down sister. Perhaps it was her tact, the way that she could change any conversation to suit her better. Or was it the fact that she rarely lied, and when she did the lie was more believable than the truth? Maybe it was all of that and something else, Tristan realized. There were too many good things about Helena to name them all in one sitting.

And why did he keep thinking about her? Tristan couldn't get through a minute during training without wondering what Helena was doing, if she was in trouble, or maybe upset. He fought back the urge to go check on her almost constantly. Was it just that she seemed like the kind of person who could use protection? No, that had never affected him in such a way before, it had to be something else. Was it... no... Tristan didn't even want to consider the idea that he actually liked the girl. It was more like he had some horrible obsession with her that he couldn't get over because of some influx of lust.

Yes, that had to be it. Lust. Because it just couldn't be love. It couldn't be.