Chapter 9: Wounds
When Tristan found her lying on the snow with an almost black pool of blood seeping from beneath her, he thought she was dead.
But her pulse was there, though inconstant and rather faint, when he pressed two fingers on the very cold side of her neck. Even without Bors' help, Tristan managed to lift her onto the saddle in front of him. She was lighter than he expected. With her unconscious form in his arms, they galloped back toward the coastline with all the strength that was left in their faithful steeds.
It did not take them long, only three hours or so, to catch up with the caravan, now moving faster in the more tolerant weather of the coast. Arthur was relieved to see them alive, but his tired face registered shock when he saw the lifeless girl in Tristan's arms, blood soaked through the torn sleeve of her tunic and staining his cloak.
Arthur looked at his scout for an answer, and his silence promised an explanation.
The girl was moved to the cart where Guinevere and the boy were, which was now driven by Galahad and his horse. The Woad and boy were quickly relocated to the Romans' royal carriage, and Tristan left the girl to the Roman widow to wash her wounds. He had learnt the arts of healing almost as well as Dagonet, and he would attend to her later.
He then remounted his tired horse, letting him stretch his neck on a long rein, his nose almost touching the ground while he walked in leisurely strides. Arthur drew his horse back to ride alongside Tristan, his face etched with concern.
"What happened?" Arthur demanded. All Tristan told him when he galloped into the camp that morning was to get the people moving, and then left with Bors and a few packs of spare arrows, which had, obviously, been spent.
Tristan ran a hand over his face, rubbing away clotted dirt and sweat. In a hoarse voice, he said, "We came across the Saxons."
Arthur nodded. "I guessed as much."
"They have a full army with them," he continued grimly. "They didn't know, but they were right on our tail, headed straight to the coastline. They would've cut our path a mile or so back."
He stopped for a moment, and Arthur waited patiently. He knew that Tristan was tired, though his face was set, determinedly passive.
"I had to get back and warn you. I left her there to prolong their departure," his voice had gotten lower, as if he did not want to be overheard. "It took more than an hour. But the Saxons were still there. We found a hill near their camp, and started our ambush."
"Must have taken them by surprise," Arthur smiled a little.
Tristan nodded. "We killed a handful, and thrown their off our scent- for the moment. We should have at least two days' advantage. The woods we led them into isn't easy to rid of."
"Was she with them?" asked Arthur, cocking his head to the cart.
Tristan shook his head. "She was badly beaten up when we went back to for her. The Saxons aren't a merciful kind."
Arthur nodded. He glanced at the scout, who was looking straight ahead where Gawain and Lancelot were leading the caravan, and knew that it was all the talking he intended to do that day.
"We should reach Hadrian's Wall by tomorrow if we keep moving today," said Arthur. "Take some rest."
It would not be long until he needed Tristan to go scouting again, both knew that. Tristan gave a curt nod and wheeled his horse around, headed to the cart. Galahad acknowledged him with a slight tip of the head, and Tristan did not bother return it. Leaping off the saddle and onto the driver's seat, he tethered the reins to the cart, and sat down beside Galahad.
"Hungry?" he asked.
Tristan nodded and the young knight tossed him a loaf of bread bundled in cloth. He tore the hard loaf into large chunks, and wordlessly ate his much-needed meal. Now that he was sitting on something solid, he relaxed his stiff limbs, and let exhaustion set in. His shoulders immediately ached from the grueling activity of firing arrows towards the sky he and Bors had conducted as a source of diversion, and his neck felt as if it were tied to a string which was tighter than the one on his bow.
Stifling a groan, Tristan stuffed another lump of tasteless bread into his mouth. He was tired. Something he seldom felt when he was on a mission, when he was alone with his horse and hawk, with no knowledge of what laid ahead of him. Exhaustion had taken over the thrill of danger. So had death.
He was tired. Very tired.
"When will we reach the Wall?" Galahad interrupted the silence after a while.
"Tomorrow. Before nightfall."
Another nod. Tristan listened to the steady creak of wood as the cart rolled forward, the horses' hooves making soft noises every time they sank into the snow and were drawn up again. Such soothing sounds. Every rock lulled him further into closing his eyes-
"My lord?"
Tristan turned around and found himself face to face with Marius's wife, her pale face lined with concern.
"She's coming round, but her wound on her right arm is bleeding profusely," said Fulcinia quietly. "It needs to be stitched."
"Will you do it?" he asked, abandoning the last of his bread.
"I am not experienced in that area," she admitted.
Tristan nodded and turned to Galahad. Without another word, Galahad shoved a worn wooden box into his hands.
It was a battered, small box with a rusting bolt. Tristan instantly recognized it as Dagonet's healing box, its jagged surface familiar to all the men carved with Sarmatians symbols. Everyone of them had seen the box too many times. Painful times. The two knights locked eyes for a moment, the wooden box carrying much more than what could be said in words.
Galahad dropped his gaze first, blinking rapidly and clearing his throat uncomfortably. Evenly, Tristan turned around and climbed into the cart, clutching the box, while Fulcinia held the flap up for him.
The girl was lying down on the wooden floor of the cart, a fine handkerchief embroidered with Latin characters on her forehead, blankets piled on top of her sweating body. Part of her tunic's sleeve was ripped off, revealing the festering wound which was resting on a cushion of old clothes. It was emitting yellow fluids as well as blood, the brims black from the cold it was exposed to.
Frowning, Tristan knelt down to take a closer of the wound. It looked much worse than it had been three days ago, when it was a mere cut. It had torn open to a nasty gash, and it undoubtedly needed to be stitched.
"Do you require my assistance?" asked Fulcinia in a soft voice, kneeling beside him.
Tristan shook his head, and she took her leave. Opening the box, he found the supplies he needed- a threaded needle, a match and bandages.
As he washed his hands in the shallow basin that had been prepared by Fulcinia, the girl stirred, muttering words under her breath. He stopped to look at her. A cold sweat had broken out on her forehead, a few drops of respiration slid from under the handkerchief, and down behind her ear. Only one word escaped her mouth. She said it repeatedly, louder each time until he heard it loud and clear.
Dolores.
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She was there. On the beach, picking shells. Small waves lapped upon her bare feet, and her favourite little white dress billowing in the gentle summer breeze.
They loved the seaside in the summer. They went there once or twice every year when the weather was warm, and it always guaranteed a relaxing afternoon.
"Dolores?" Abigail called.
The child turned around, Abigail could see her now. Her unsmiling face, the dear face she had not seen for so long.
"Dolores!"
She was clutching a handful of seashells, some broken, some complete. She stared at Abigail in her solemn way, the way father always teased her about.
"Dolores! No!"
She was walking out into the water now, still hanging onto her assortment of seashells, wading into the shallow water. Abigail ran after her, calling her name. She continued to walk, but the water only reached her knee. Abigail had lost her footing already, fraying her arms urgently to keep herself from drowning in the cold sea.
"Dolores!"
Her eyes flew open. Her ears ringing with the sound of rushing waves, and the name she had been calling out. Visions of the dream were still fresh in her mind, the tranquil beach, the soaring gulls, the little girl. Her sister.
Dolores.
As the remains of her dream faded, she became aware of the fact that she was lying on her back, her breath heavy, her forehead cold with sweat. She did not feel anything else, everything seemed numb and distant.
She tried moving her arms, and through the numbness shot a burning pain. She winced, not only from the pain on her arm, but also from the foggy heaviness of her head.
Where was she? Her eyes were out of focus, and she blinked a few times rapidly, trying to rid of the haze that clouded her vision. It only seemed to worsen her sight. Frustrated, she squeezed her eyes shut again.
Her ears started to detect noise around her. The groans of aged and rotten wood, the snort of horses, a dry cough, her own breathing.
What had happened? She vaguely remembered meeting Cerdic, being assaulted, then knocked out cold. She could not remember anything beyond that.
Once again, she opened her eyes. To her relief, the haze was gone, and tattered, dirty rugs hanging in an arc met her gaze.
They looked strangely familiar, but she could not recall where she had seen them before. Her head ached, and her thoughts in disarray. But they were so familiar! She could almost tell where she had seen them. But her head- it felt ready to collapse.
Heaving a sigh, she attempted to bring a hand up to her head, but the excruciating that followed caused her to yield immediately. The pain seemed to run all the way down to her very toes, gushing through her veins, bringing life and sensation back to every muscle in her body.
"Don't move."
Upon hearing the low, rough voice, Abigail knew where she was. Turning her head towards the source of the voice, she found herself looking at Tristan, who was kneeling next to her, holding a needle over a burning match.
She was back in the cart. She felt warmth radiating from her body, and saw a blanket draped across her torso and another across her legs. Only her arm felt chilled. She again turned her face to the right, and nearly gasped upon the sight of her wound.
It was ghastly. It was one of the worst wounds she herself had ever come across, with a glistening layer of blood and fluid coating the long and narrow gash. She saw a basin sitting near to her, and tried to reach out for it. However, reaching over meant putting pressure on her wound, and the pain once again caused her to give up.
Tristan did not hide the fact that he saw her move, but he did nothing to help. He continued to hold the sharp needle over the small flame, which was now glowing with the least hint of red. She noticed that it was threaded, and dread filled her heart.
He intended to stitch up her wound. The mere thought of needle going through flesh caused her to shudder. She had seen the Saxon healer stitch soldiers up, and it looked painful enough. She could not imagine the pain. She dared not think of it.
"Get up," Tristan's quiet voice interrupted her thoughts.
She eyed the needle he held between his thumb and index finger with exaggerated disgust, trying to hide her fear. She waited for him to help her up, but when he made it clear that he had no intention to assist her, she leaned her weight onto her left side, biting her lips as pain shot through her stomach. Cerdic must have kicked her there.
Stubbornly ignoring the many other stings and aches that burst from various parts of her body, she struggled to sit up. Her back felt as if it would snap in two any moment, and her left arm, which she was using to support herself, was apparently unfit for the job.
"Care to lend a hand?" she asked through gritted teeth, mustering all her strength to glare at him.
Tristan looked up from his needle, glowing red-hot, and leaned forward to jerk her upright, then shoved her against the wall. Abigail hissed in pain as her back hit the cold wall, feeling dizzy from the abrupt change in her posture. She immediately felt chilly without the blankets, and shivered involuntarily.
The scout dragged the basin to her right side, picked up the rag resting inside, and brought it up to her wound. Abigail flinched from the sting the water, and still more, his coarse rub, caused. He wiped the cloth across the wound a few more times, until the basin of water had vessels of her blood floating in it.
Abigail's heart pounded wildly as he blew out the match, shaking the needle as if to cool it off. Casually, he turned to her and grasped her arm. She scowled at him, and at the needle, her lips pressed tightly together at a grim line.
"What are you doing?" she asked, though she knew the answer. She did not even bother to keep the panic out of her voice.
"I need to stitch you up, it will get infected," he replied tonelessly, twisting her arm slightly, angling the needle.
"It's already infected," she protested obstinately.
He glanced at her, then back to the wound. "Then it shouldn't get worse."
She thought her heart stopped beating as the hot needle slipped under her skin, the coarse thread grazing her tender tissue. She sank her fingernails into her bruised palm as the needle slid under her skin again, pain fighting against pain. Tears threatened to fall, and her nose stung unpleasantly.
"Stop," she whispered harshly.
He ignored her, his hold on her arm tightening, and for the third time, the sharp end glided into her skin. Gasping, her left hand shot out, seizing his wrist brusquely, her pain triggering a new surge of energy.
"Don't touch me," she spat, a tear trickling down her face.
Tristan continued with his task, as if Abigail's hand did not exist, weaving the threaded needle in and out of her torn skin. Blinding pain struck her, and she impulsively dug her fingernails into his wrist.
She kept her hand on his wrist as he moved the needle. In, out. In, out. She felt every entrance and every exit the needle made. She felt the fiber of the thread rubbing against her raw skin.
Pain. All she felt was pain. Scorching her skin, testing her limits, teasing her, as if asking, how long could you hold on?
So she let go. She relaxed her strained jaw, her back, her wound up stomach. She let go of Tristan's wrist, and he looked at her for a moment. She let her eyelids fall and her shoulders sag as she embraced the torment that was tearing at her.
Why should she fight it when it was clearly a lost battle even before it had begun?
Tristan worked faster without her resistance, and earlier than she had anticipated, he gave the needle a decisive tug, then cut the thread with his dagger.
Abigail felt as if she had fought a hundred battles, her breath laboured and her head faint. Slowly opening her eyes, she looked down at her newly stitched wound.
The black stitches were neat and followed the curve of her wound, holding her arm together for the moment. She could not help but wonder glumly if it would leave its mark even after it had healed.
She did not like the idea of another scar. Another imprint of her miserable life.
She looked up to direct her bitterness at Tristan, but he had already left.
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Hello! Sorry for not updating for more than a week, I've been busy and not really that inspired to write. I hope this chapter was okay. Not my best, definitely. I was racking my brains thinking of what to write besides the "pain" Abigail was going through. I don't think I pulled it off. Sigh. I'll do better next time. I promise. And I have just skimmed through this chapter twice, please excuse any careless mistakes.
Thank you for the very sweet comments! Here are your shout-outs:
MORWEN12: Here's an update, I hope you enjoyed it :)
K-Neptune: There, Tristan saved her ;)
Mandamirra10: Yes, she's breaking down. I'm glad you think she's a great character!
KnightMaiden: Blocks suck! But I love your latest chapter, take your time with the updates :) That'll be pretty soon, the story won't be going much longer… less than 15 chapters, I should think :)
MedievalWarriorPrincess: I love your pen name! And thank you for your compliments! I hope you enjoyed this update.
Kasora: Lol, great idea with Phaedra! I've always seen Galahad as the cute one. You know, the one whose hair you ruffle when you go by lol. I'm pathetic xD Yes, yes, DTB badly needs an update… sigh. I'll try tomorrow. I promise. Those cookies do have an effect, not to mention Tristan xD Ah, enjoy your holidays, my friend! School's pure torture. Post that story of yours soon! I can't wait to read it! And remember your update-every-two-days promise! –huggles-
greenDayzIdiot: Hehe, I'm glad you like her now! An even softer side of her this time, she's not as numb as she seems to be –nods- Gosh! Your school's bio lab burned down! That's both bad and good news at the same time, I'll bet ;D Update your story soon, I miss reading your updates! –hugs-
the sarahnater: I hope you liked this chapter :D
butterflyKisses26: I hope this chapter wasn't too disappointing ;)
Eric'sImaginaryFriend: Aww, I'm glad I got you thinking! I tried thinking from her point of view too, and I got really confused lol. I guess she's really confused herself, so she's being evil at one time and sorry at the other. I hope you liked this chapter and thanks for reviewing!
Nilmelwen: I totally agree. I think it's partly because Tristan is the one who captured her. Lol, I would be scared to death if I were her, Cerdic looks like a nasty man in the movie. Thank you for understanding! I'll be attempting a chapter for DTB soon, let's hope I'll manage to write something that isn't shit ;)
I'll try to update asap, but again, with my hectic school life, I can't guarantee anything. Do review though! I love to hear from you! You have no idea how much motivation you give me. That's all for now, have a nice week everyone!
