18. Watching You

It was probably a good thing the floor was so uncomfortable. Because of this, Zoe couldn't go to sleep where she was sitting. She shifted and wriggled every so often, but, even so, her bum was going numb and her lower back was aching.

She didn't know how long she sat there, looking from Gawain's too-still face to the candle. Once in a while she'd reach out and touch his neck, just to make sure he still had a pulse, and hadn't slipped away since she'd last checked.

Zoe stood up and stretched, groaning as her back cracked like an old woman's. She winced when the blood rushed painfully quickly back to her feet and sat down on Gawain's bed. Carefully taking the knight's hand, she tried not to press down on the bandages around his knuckles, and found the weak pulse in his wrist.

It was comforting. And as the night went on and the darkness seemed to get heavier and more menacing, despite the light of the candle, Zoe needed whatever comfort she could get. The warmth of the blanket around her shoulders, the light of the small flame and Gawain's pulse all helped, but she was still afraid.

In every shadow she saw death lurking. She'd seen dying men today, she'd seen men die and she'd seen their corpses afterwards. And Gawain, with his pale face and disturbing stillness looked as if he was going to join them. He had lost a lot of blood, and if the woad had cut any of his internal organs he was in big trouble. There weren't any surgeries, no sterilization, no blood transfusions, nothing. Medicine was primitive here, and Gawain was likely to die, no matter what Braewyn said.

Zoe glanced at the candle -only one marker on it had been burned through. It felt like longer. Smothering a yawn she slid off the bed, resuming her position on the floor. She kept her grip on her patient's hand though, needing to have his comforting pulse under her fingers. Zoe flicked her braid over one shoulder and rested her head on the bed next to Gawain's hip.

The shadows seemed closer now, the candle flame smaller. Zoe stared at it, willing it to bring more light to the room instead of flickering, dancing shadows.

Gawain took a strangely deep breath, face wrinkling up, and Zoe leaned forwards eagerly, hoping he would wake up and smile at her. But he didn't. He stayed like he had been before, pale and limp. Dead to the world. Ominous choice of words, Zoe thought, chuckling darkly. She was tired, it had been a long day for her, too, and the only rest she'd had had been interrupted by nightmares and hadn't refreshed her at all.

And Gawain might die if she slept. But she wanted to. She was rather comfortable here, it would be so easy to just close her eyes and drift off next to Gawain, sleeping together until morning.

But if she did that, there was a possibility that Gawain might die because of her. She might have to do as Braewyn said and go knock on Lancelot's door and bring him the news that a knight was dead. And Lancelot would hate her more than he already did. Right now, he just hated her for being a coward, rather than being the one to kill a comrade and friend of his through inattention.

Zoe stared at the candle, waiting for the time to run out. By the candle, only an hour and a bit had passed. Not even an hour and a half.

The flame of the candle danced in Zoe's vision. It seemed to grow brighter and larger the longer she stared at it. Gawain's steady heartbeat throbbed where Zoe's fingers rested against his wrist. Zoe twisted so she was a little more comfortable where she sat.

The candle flame fluttered. It grew fuzzy as Zoe's eyelids got heavier and heavier. She couldn't sleep, though. She couldn't sleep. But she was so tired, and just comfortable enough. She didn't even notice when she drifted off into a light doze, still holding onto Gawain's hand.

And she dreamed. There was a Roman boy, one who she remembered vividly as the young soldier begging his older friend not to die, and he walked up to her and stared at her.

'You wouldn't help him.'

The veteran soldier, the young Roman's friend, was standing there, one hand trying to hold his stomach together, the other outstretched towards the Roman boy.

'She's not good enough to save anyone,' the veteran said. Zoe didn't even know his name. 'Don't blame her. She's just not good enough.'

Then he changed, and it was Arthur standing there, one hand on his wound, blood dribbling down his side. 'Why did you take so long? Wasn't I important enough? Future King of England, a man you respect and admire and I wasn't important enough for you to help? You're a coward.'

And then Lamorak and Lancelot were there, too, and Arthur was no longer bloody, but crowned and dressed in his red cloak, armour shining. He looked like the figure from legend and his stern face made Zoe afraid.

'You knowingly endangered the life of the King. You weren't brave enough to touch his blood, to save his life, and no-one will be brave enough to save yours.' The vision suddenly reached up, pulling his face off to reveal a skull with burning green flames for eyes. One skeletal hand rested on Lancelot's arm for a moment before gesturing to Zoe.

Lancelot, dressed all in black armour, stood in front of her, a flaming sword in his hand. 'You will die.'

Zoe screamed, too afraid to run away, holding her arms over her head as if that would stop the blade from cutting into her. But it never did. Instead, Gawain was the one cut by the sword, blood pouring out of him and pooling at his feet.

He turned slowly, his blond hair wet with blood and his hands holding his chest and stomach together. He smiled at her, his teeth bloody and breath rattling and gurgling inside him.

'Why are you crying?' he asked, reaching out a hand to touch her cheek. Zoe grabbed the bloody hand before it could touch her, trying not to scream as Gawain's chest sagged open. She could see his ribs through the cut.

'I'm here, isn't that what you want? I'm here, right next to you. Can't you feel my hand?' Gawain squeezed it gently, smiling. A line of blood dribbled down his chin and more pumped out where his other hand was holding his guts inside him.

Then Lancelot was there again, and he plunged a knife into her calf and Zoe screamed in pain and terror, forced into wakefulness by the shock.

She stood up in Gawain's room, looking around at the man lying still and bandaged on the bed, breathing evenly. Zoe looked down at her calf where, in her dream, Lancelot had stabbed her. The skin was pale and smooth, unbroken but the muscles underneath it were cramping painfully. Zoe sighed and worked the cramp out as best she could.

Zoe looked at Gawain, whose hand was dangling over the edge of the bed where she had dragged it. She picked it up, feeling his pulse, and put it back next to him on the bed. She reached out a hand and felt his forehead.

It was hotter than it had been before, and sweaty. It didn't seem like a fever, but maybe she should cool him down. She dipped a rag in the water that was resting on the table and dabbed at Gawain's face and neck.

She was wiping it over his forehead when she noticed that his eyes were moving beneath their lids. He was dreaming. Was that a good sign? Zoe wondered, squeezing the cloth so that the water dribbled down his temples.

Gawain was handsome, even like this, Zoe noticed. What she had been most attracted to in Gawain, his energy and lightness, was gone, true, but he was still handsome. Zoe traced a finger gently down his nose, across his lips and then down his neck, from ear to collarbone.

Her fingertip, when she took it off Gawain's skin, came away shiny with his sweat and the water she'd wiped him with. Zoe wiped it off on the sheet Gawain was lying on.

She wanted to touch him again. She really wanted to touch him again and she didn't stop herself from touching his hair. It was grimy, unwashed since the battle, so there was blood and sweat all through it. But the few clean strands she found were fine and soft and shining gold in the light of the candle. So did his skin, pale though it was at the moment.

Gawain looked like some sort of sort of sleeping prince. Prince Charming, Zoe thought as she stroked his hair. Would he wake up if I kissed him? It had been two and a half hours since Braewyn had left her, according to the candle and Gawain hadn't woken up. He'd barely moved, and when Zoe pressed her fingers to the pulse in his neck it felt weaker and slower.

Please let him wake up, Zoe thought. If the Princess kisses Prince Charming, does it work the same way?

Zoe leant down to his face, holding her braid away from Gawain with one hand. She could smell his breath (it was rather disgusting, actually, but then she hadn't brushed her teeth for months) and feel how warm he was. She pressed her lips gently against his. They were chapped, not soft, and they didn't move, didn't respond and so Zoe pulled away, trying to ignore the tears stinging in her eyes.

Of course it didn't work, the rational part of Zoe's brain told her. But there was still a large part of her that was disappointed that he hadn't woken. The room was close to silent. Outisde there was no noise, and inside the room the sound of Gawain's steady breaths and Zoe's unsteady ones seemed wrong, as if by breathing they were shattering the calm silence after the battle today. As if they weren't supposed to be breathing at all.

'You can't die. You can't!' Zoe whispered fiercely, sitting down next to Gawain again and gripping his hand in hers. 'You're Sir Gawain, you fought the Green Knight and lived. You're…you're one of the Knights of the Round Table, you can't die now. You can't die!'

Zoe could feel the tears falling down her cheek and she fought to stop herself from choking.

'Y-you wanted to prove how brave you were, to prove how strong you were, how good a knight you were when a strange knight in green challenged the Round Table. You were the youngest, and the king's nephew, Arthur's nephew and you wanted to prove yourself. The Green Knight offered and exchange of blows-one now, to be returned in a year. You took up the challenge, struck off his head in one blow and he picked it up as if it was nothing. He told you to meet him at his castle in a year, so you searched for it. You found a castle, and a lord and a beautiful lady who was his wife and she gave you kisses and a girdle that would protect you from all harm, but you broke your bargain with the lord and didn't give him the girdle in exchange for the deer he caught.'

Zoe pressed Gawain's hand to her face. 'You didn't die, because the Green Knight held back. And you can't die now. You can't die now. Don't die on me. Please don't die on me!'

Gawain didn't move.

'You live. You've got to live and do that. You married the loathly lady in exchange for her help for Arthur. You let her choose what she wanted and she became beautiful, the most beautiful woman in the world. You have to live for her to give you your son. You've got to live, because you stood with Arthur to the last.'

Zoe couldn't hold back her sobs, but the words kept spilling out.

'You'd never betray Arthur, would you? It's just like the legends, isn't it? But then, it's not the same. You're not knights in shining armour. There's no Green Knight and no Camelot. You're here, nearly dead, and Galahad's not Lancelot's son and he's sure as hell not as pure as the legends say he is. If he tried to pick up the Grail now, he'd burn like Lancelot did. And there's no Guinevere to come between Arthur and Lancelot. But Arthur, I can see why Arthur's a legend. He's something else, and I can see why you follow him. I can see why he's so famous. But I wish that following him didn't mean this for you. I don't know if I can stand this…seeing you like this.'

Zoe couldn't stop crying, and she rested her head next to Gawain, trying to muffle the sound in the bed. Zoe looked up at Gawain's face, half expecting him to be awake and listening to her. But he wasn't. He hadn't moved. Zoe reached out to his neck, to look for his pulse. It was still there, still beating.

'You're not going to die. You're not going to die because I love you,' Zoe cried. She had a headache, her nose had run and the sheets that she'd been crying on were wet.

'I love you,' Zoe said again, and stopped crying in shock. She'd said what to Gawain? She loved him? Hell no, too much too soon, Zoe thought. She barely told her friends she loved them, and she'd known them for years and years. She'd known Gawin less than six months. And yeah, she was infatuated with him-he was strong and handsome and kind to her in a strange world where men were more likely to grab at her and hurt her. But love? No. It couldn't be.

She shook her head firmly and stood up. She took a few deep breaths and splashed a bit of water on her own face, before checking on Gawain again. Still not moving, but he was still breathing and his heart was still beating.

She sat down again, but the silence in the room seemed to crush her. Her own breathing was more laboured than before, loud and harsh and too loud for the night.

Zoe tried to go back to sitting and watching Gawain, but the silence was…heavy. There were expectations in the air now, and secrets. Gawain couldn't know what he and his comrades would become. And Zoe didn't want Gawain to know how she felt.

She needed some noise. Any noise. She started humming softly, tunelessly. She remembered how, when Suze and Brit would go off to football, her father had sent her to choir. She didn't have the greatest voice, she always struggled on high notes and was crap at reading music, but she'd enjoyed singing in a choir. She was anonymous, she got to stay indoors, and it didn't hurt like the pilates course her mother had encouraged her to try. Eventually, after four years of singing twice a week, Zoe had learned how to carry a tune.

She looked at Gawain again, saw that he was still sleeping, and still a little warm, and so she dabbed at him with a damp cloth again. Her humming gained a tune, and, as she put the rag away and perched at the foot of Gawain's bed, she started singing Lavender Blue.

It made Zoe feel better, and Gawain couldn't object, so when that song was done, she moved onto others. Mockingbird, a Scottish one she'd heard Suze singing to her cousins a couple of summers ago when she'd helped babysit them. Then she sung Greensleeves, the Last Rose of Summer and Scarborough Fair, holding Gawain's hand, feeling his pulse and watching his face for any sign of awakening.

She was singing Danny Boy, a song her German father had a strange reverence for, when she felt something tickling her neck. She shrugged her shoulders, but the irritant remained, so Zoe raised her hand to brush it off.

But it wasn't just a fly, or a stray hair or something like that. It was a hand.

Zoe stifled a shriek and whirled around, dropping Gawain's wrist and leaping off the bed.

'Tristan!' Zoe exclaimed, pressing her hands to her heart. She sat back down on the bed as her knees buckled in relief. She'd thought it was some sort of attacker, but no, it was Tristan.

Tristan was standing there, not even an arm's length away, watching her. He didn't say anything, even when Zoe turned around. That's a bit creepy, Zoe though, trying and failing to avoid his stare.

He was made even creepier by the fact that he looked like some blood-spattered villain in a horror movie. There was blood all over his boots; spots on his tunic and his hands were red with it. His face had spatters of it and there was congealed blood in his ratty, messy hair.

'You scared me,' Zoe said. It came out like an accusation.

'That was not my intention,' Tristan said. His voice was level and a bit scratchy, as if he hadn't spoken in a while, and it had a strange accent to it.

'Cough or something before you sneak up on me like that,' Zoe commanded, standing up so that she didn't feel quite as small in his presence. 'How did you get in without me noticing?'

Tristan just looked at her, and Zoe bit her lip, looking away from him. So much for not feeling small, Zoe thought. There was something about Tristan that just made her feel tiny. Maybe it was the way she barely seemed to matter to him, or the way he held himself apart from people in general.

There was an uneasy silence, with Zoe looking between Tristan and Gawain, Tristan staring at Zoe like some sort of prey and Gawain lying unconscious on the bed.

'You have Braewyn's paste,' Tristan said, eventually.

'Yes. You need some?' Zoe asked, relieved that Tristan seemed to have a purpose here other than staring at her.

Tristan nodded, and Zoe got up off Gawain's bed and reached for the jar Braewyn had left in the room. Gawain wasn't going to bust his stitches open by lying in a bed. She felt safe giving it to Tristan.

He reached out for it with his blood-spattered left hand.

'Wait,' Zoe said, pulling the jar away from him. 'You're hurt.'

Tristan gave her a look that said 'Isn't that obvious', but Zoe ignored him as best she could.

'Your right arm is hurt. How are you going to tend to that with just your left hand?' Zoe asked.

Tristan didn't reply, but his eyes flicked from Zoe to the jar Braewyn had left with her. He looked as if he was going to just take it if Zoe didn't say something first. And, as creepy as Tristan was, he still needed some help, and she was the only one awake to give it to him.

Zoe looked from Gawain to Tristan. Gawain could do without her constant surveillance; he was lying peacefully on the bed, and showing no signs of waking. Tristan did need the help. And if Gawain woke up, Zoe would be right there to help him.

'Take off your tunic and shirt,' Zoe ordered briskly.

Tristan raised an eyebrow and his lips twitched into a smirk. Zoe flushed, irritated and embarrassed.

'Shut up.'

Tristan's smirk grew wider and Zoe glared at him.

'Just take them off. I can't help you if you won't let me at the wound.'

'Who said I'd let you help?' Tristan asked in that irritatingly level voice.

'Don't be an idiot,' Zoe snapped, turning around to the table where Braweyn had left all the healing supplies she'd need. Tristan was still walking and calm and creepy so he couldn't be too badly off.

When Zoe turned back, Tristan was sitting on Gawain's table and his tunic and shirt were halfway off. He looked like he was having trouble pulling it over his wounded arm without moving it. Zoe hesitantly stepped in and, when Tristan gave her permission simply by not gesturing her away, she gently pulled the shirt away from the cut and down Tristan's arm.

He grimaced in discomfort when Zoe pulled his clothes; off the blood that had dried around his wound, but he quickly controlled himself and nodded his thanks to Zoe, completely ignoring the fresh blood dripping down his arm.

Zoe looked over his chest for blood, either dried or fresh-there was a small cut to his left side that had mostly stopped bleeding and what looked like an arrow graze along the right side of his neck. The graze had stopped bleeding, so all she'd need to do for them was to wash them, put the paste on and bandage them.

His right arm, though, had a deep cut to the shoulder. It was what had hampered his movements and, probably, driven him to find Zoe. The edges were clean, so Zoe could guess that it had been a blade that had done the damage. That would need stitches.

'The cuts on your side and your neck will only need washing and the paste. Then I'll bandage them. Your arm I'll need to stitch,' Zoe said, turning around to dip a rag in the water.

Tristan only tensed when Zoe ran the damp cloth over his wounds, and didn't even do that when she smeared the paste on them. She managed to bandage them up quickly and moved on to the one in his arm.

She washed it, and saw the arm tense underneath her hands, but when she looked up at Tristan's face it was calm and not twisted up in pain.

She washed her hands by wiping them on another damp cloth and reached for the needle and thread. Zoe managed to thread the needle on her first try, and reached over to press the edges of the cut together. Blood oozed around her fingers, and Tristan's muscles tensed, nearly trembling.

'You don't have to be so stoic,' Zoe said as she pushed the needle through his flesh for the first time.

Tristan just turned to look at her, head tilted at an angle that suggested curiosity.

'This has to hurt. I won't think anything less of you if you, you know, actually show that you're in pain,' Zoe continued. She quickly stitched up the wound, ignoring the blood and tying the thread off quickly and as gently as possible. She ran her finger gingerly over the line of neat stitches, to see if they were secure.

Tristan grabbed one of her bloody hands and pulled it to his chest and down his stomach. Zoe tried to pull away, not sure what he was doing, but he stopped at a wide, silvery scar that ran across his muscled abdomen. It ran from his left hip, to the bottom of his ribcage on the right in a jagged line.

'Do you think that what you just did would have hurt as much as this?' Tristan hissed, pressing Zoe's hand more firmly against the scar on his hard stomach. Zoe couldn't stop staring at the scar, but Tristan's other hand grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him.

His eyes were wild and more than a little scary, the shadows underneath them making him look sinister. Zoe tried to pull her hand away from his stomach, but he held it there tightly. The skin and scar tissue under her hand seemed hot, and the smell of blood was making Zoe queasy again.

'Y-you need to go to sleep. Rest. Sleep is the best healer, they say,' Zoe stammered.

Tristan released her as suddenly as he had grabbed her, and Zoe turned away to look for a damp cloth to clean her bloody hands on.

She concentrated on that, and then she checked Gawain, feeling his pulse and checking his temperature. She started to clean the things she'd used, and, since the room was so quiet and Tristan wasn't on the table anymore, she assumed he'd left. That was why when he spoke again it was such a surprise for Zoe.

'What were you singing?' He was standing in the doorway, tunic and shirt hanging from one hand, bare chested. Zoe could see a bloody handprint on his stomach, and a smear where he'd dragged her hand down his chest. It was Tristan's blood painting his torso, and he looked as relaxed and calm as if he hadn't just been stitched up. As if he wasn't covered with his own blood.

'I-I was singing…' Zoe suddenly realized that everything she'd been singing was in English, in her native language and not in any tongue recognizable to Tristan.

'I've been to the East, you know. Where Arthur thinks you came from. They are not Eastern songs,' Tristan said.

Zoe tried to say something that would explain it, but she could come up with nothing. Arthur had assumed Zoe was a member of a caravan of people from the Eastern Empire and had taken her in because of that. If he found out Zoe was not, in fact, a member of that group, he could have her thrown out of the village, or even killed.

'I don't know the tongue you were singing in. I could tell the priest you were chanting over Gawain's body and he would accuse you of witchcraft and try to burn you. I could tell the knights you were practicing black magic on their brother. I could tell Arthur you sing woadish songs and have you die a traitor's death.'

'What?' Zoe was surprised at the threat-Tristan didn't strike her as the type to verbally threaten someone. He was more of the stand there and loom type of menace and this seemed very out of character for him.

'You talk with men like equals, your accent is not Eastern, and the clothes you were wearing when Arthur found you were not from the East, and didn't look like any cloth I have seen. I don't know where you are from, but you act more like a wild woadish woman than a Christian sister of the Eastern Kingdom.'

'Tristan!' Zoe protested as loudly as she could, before flinching and looking over at Gawain, to see if her outburst had disturbed him. The blond knight was still and calm in his bed, so Zoe turned back to Tristan, who was still staring at her.

'How could you think I'd be one of the people that did…this,' Zoe gestured to Gawain, 'to him? To Arthur?'

Tristan shrugged. 'Tell me where you're from, then.'

'I…I…' Zoe couldn't tell him she came from hundreds of years in the future. It sounded insane and that would get her thrown out of the comparative comfort of the village as a crazy woman. But no longer was the assumption that she came with the caravan protecting her. Tristan was too suspicious, and knew too much for that to work. But she had no better lie!

'Spies are usually better liars,' Tristan commented.

'I'm not a spy! I'm not. I'm just trying to live here. If I was a spy, would I have sewed up Arthur? Watched Gawain like this? Would I have taken care of you?' Zoe hissed; angry and frustrated at her own helplessness. She had no proof that she wasn't a spy, and Tristan had Arthur's trust in a way she didn't. If he said she was a woad Arthur would listen to her as well as Tristan, but would believe the knight.

Tristan just looked at her for a while, as if judging her reactions. Zoe felt like screaming at him, but a glance over at Gawain reminded her of why it was a bad idea. She swallowed down the invectives she wanted to spit at Tristan, and settled for glaring at him instead.

'I'll be watching you,' Tristan said calmly. 'And if you are a woad, or any danger to the knights, I'll kill you myself.'

'Bastard,' Zoe snarled, clenching her hands into fists and trembling with anger.

Tristan nodded to her. 'Thank you for treating me.' He turned around and stepped out of the doorway. 'By the way-you can keep that shirt. It suits you.'

Then he was gone, closing the door behind him.

Zoe wanted to scream, to yell, and to punch something, to kick something. But she couldn't because Gawain was right there and he needed quite and rest and not a screaming, angry, hysterical girl.

Zoe took a deep breath and looked down at the shirt Tristan had said she could keep. It had fallen off one shoulder and was gaping open. She furiously tugged it so that it exposed less of her breasts.

Damn Tristan! Zoe thought, picking up the woollen blanket and sitting on Gawain's bed. She scooted to the far edge of the bed, on the side closest to the wall and leant against it, drawing her knees to her chest. Gawain still didn't move.

She glanced over at the candle. There was a little less than half a mark left, Zoe estimated.

Half an hour, Zoe thought wearily. Half an hour until this is over.

xxx

A/N: Sorry this chapter took so long-I was fighting fires for a week and a bit up in the mountains. Yes, it was that bad. Also, my uncle's house burned down, so I've got my two little cousins and an aunt staying with my family while my uncle looks for a new place to live. So writing has not been my top priority for a while.

Anyway, here's the chapter and I hope it was worth the wait. As always, any advice on characterisation is appreciated. The reviews that I've been getting have always reminded me that there's better stuff out there than smoke and fire.

Finally, thank you to my wonderful beta, homeric. She's doing a kickass job.

Disclaimer: Knights aren't mine, but I wish they were.