Chapter Eighteen: Cavan's Gift
'Do you think she meant to kill herself?' Arthur asked, his voice deep.
'She can't have known that the artery curves over the arm right there. It was clear she was cutting through the brand – but the depth of the cut makes it look as though she meant to do it,' Dagonet replied. 'I don't understand what she was doing.'
Suddenly there was a rushing sound and a man ran into the room, tangled blond hair flying everywhere and his cornflower-blue eyes pale with shock. He pushed past Dagonet and fell to his knees beside the bed. The two other men backed slowly from the room.
'Cavan?' Gawain murmured. There was no reply from the still body in the bed. She looked frail and – he could barely think it – on the brink of death. The colour had been drained from her skin; it was almost porcelain white. Her eye sockets were like two dark bruises, ink-spots, spreading over the eyelids and down to the cheekbones. Cavan's chest was covered by the blanket that was pulled up to her armpits, but her arms lay on top of the covers.
Gawain took her hand. It was deathly cold.
'Please, tell me you won't die,' he begged, his face ashen as he looked down on her. 'This is my fault. I should never have gotten angry. Please, Cavan, forgive me. I was so stupid!'
He kissed her fingers, holding her hand against his cheek. Gazing at her motionless form, Gawain laid his head on the bed beside her hip, closing his eyes. He breathed shallowly, mouthing the words of a prayer to Memir, the pagan god of healing. In time, as the sun began to set over the fort, Gawain succumbed to his worry and fell into a twisted sleep beside Cavan.
He woke the next morning when Dagonet came in to the room.
'Has there been any change?' the healer asked. Gawain shook his head in response, rubbing his tired eyes. Dagonet leant over Cavan's body and checked her neck for signs of a pulse. He noticed her skin had grown warmer – it was a good sign, for it meant that there was more blood in her veins than before. 'If the cut stays closed, she should be awake by tomorrow. Will you stay with her today?'
'Of course,' Gawain replied. 'Do you know where Tristan is yet? I think he should know.'
'I have not seen him since the day we went out to Yoren when it was burning. He rode off and disappeared. It's been two days. He'll be back; it's not unlike our scout to be alone.'
'Yea, I agree. How is the girl we brought back from Yoren?' asked Gawain.
'Walking around, but silent as the grave. Her burns are awful; she stares at them like they are not a part of her…' Dagonet lowered his eyes and shook his head helplessly. 'I do not know how to help her.' After a few moments of silence, the Roxolani healer reached down and smoothed Cavan's thick black hair with tenderness in his eyes, then turned and left the room.
Gawain turned back to Cavan. Her eyelids were still deep purple. She looked peaceful. He imagined she was at peace. When you are unconscious, the last thing you think about is your waking life – it's just blackness. Gawain knew that from experience. He took Cavan's hand again, caressing the soft skin with his rough fingers.
Suddenly Cavan stirred. Then she screamed. Gawain grabbed her shoulder, holding her down on the bed.
'Hush, Cavan. You're safe, I'm here!'
'Gawain?' she mumbled, scared. 'I can't see. It's so black! Tell me I'm not back there, tell me, please!'
'Open your eyes, Cavan. You can see if you open your eyes.'
She blinked and her sparkling green eyes opened. Gawain had not realised before, but they were flecked with pale gold. Beautiful eyes.
Cavan looked down at her arm, at the bandage that was wrapped around the top of it. She ran her fingers over the pale cloth, then looked up at Gawain, guilt on her face.
'He was all over me, the marks he made… I had to cut him off me – I had to!' she gasped. 'I could feel him, he told me I was his forever, wherever I went, he would still be there, cut and burned into my skin. I couldn't… I couldn't!'
'Hush, he's dead, there's nothing he can do to you anymore,' Gawain soothed her.
'I am nothing without him. He is all I ever was. I am nothing,' Cavan repeated. She started crying, tears falling thick and fast from under her bruised eyelids. 'I am nothing, I am nothing.'
Gawain climbed onto the bed and lay beside Cavan, taking her into his arms and letting her sob into his chest. Gently, he stroked her coal-black hair, twining his fingers in the soft curls. She kept murmuring the three words that caused such pain in his heart, repeating them over and over.
'Cavan?' Gawain whispered eventually, as her voice grew silent and her breathing deepened. He felt her hands move on his chest, rubbing against his tunic. As her hand slipped over the cloth, the skin beneath it tingled softly. He shivered.
Reaching over with his free arm, he pushed her hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear. She gazed at him, her eyes shinning with apprehension and – was it? – desire. Cursing the Gods that had caused him to feel this way, Gawain let his finger caress her cheek, lightly following the curve of the bone down to her lip. He felt her tremble at their closeness. Suddenly very aware of the taut thigh pressed against his leg and the warm breasts beside his arm, he slipped from the bed and ran his fingers through his hair, eyes wide.
'What am I doing?' Gawain asked himself. His mind churned – she is just a child, he thought.
'Gawain?' Cavan asked, sitting up in the bed and letting the covers fall from her. She wore a breast band and linen breeches, her feet and stomach bare. Gawain turned back to her and could not help flinching as he saw the burns over her collarbone. Cavan saw the movement and her eyes dropped. Then Gawain reached out his hand and laid it on her burned skin. She looked up, and he smiled at her.
'The burns are not your fault. We all have scars,' he said, his voice soft. 'Yours are as beautiful as mine.' Gawain lifted up his tunic and revealed the lines down his torso. Cavan let her hand trail over his muscled chest and the raised marks that were caused by his own brother. She felt Gawain shiver as she touched him; the feeling caused desire to rise unbidden in her belly. She removed her hand, and Gawain dropped his tunic and frowned, as though he wanted her to continue.
'I should dress,' she muttered. Cavan had been completely naked in front of a man before, and it didn't bother her in the slightest, but she felt that modesty was the best policy when alone in a room with a man – especially when someone could come in at any minute. At least, with Evin, none of the slaves dared enter whilst he was in there, so they were not interrupted any time that the mood took him and he forced her into his bed.
'Of course,' Gawain replied. 'I'll just sit here and wait.' Cavan scowled at him, but he just grinned as he made himself comfortable on the bed.
She turned to the chest and dug inside it for a new tunic. As she searched through the clothes, her fingers brushed over a soft fabric, which was unusual, as all the clothes were linen, and quite rough. It felt almost like silk between her fingers. Cavan pulled it out of the chest, revealing a dress of almost Greek style – it looked like a peplos. She slipped it over her head and took off the breeches underneath, making sure Gawain couldn't see her legs. The dress fell to the floor like water, almost floating around her frame.
It was basically a large rectangle of silk, folded in half with a slit for the head. It drew a sharp line over Cavan's collarbone – thankfully hiding the burns – and fell almost straight down to the ground. Holes had been cut from the arms, held together with small brooches. It looked – and felt – very expensive. It must have cost much more than a knight in service could afford.
'What is Dagonet doing with a dress like this in his chest?' Cavan asked incredulously, turning to Gawain with a fistful of the cloth clutched in her hand.
'I don't care,' he replied, eyes wide. 'Whatever the reason he had it, it doesn't change the fact that you look beautiful.'
Cavan blushed. She twisted her hair into a loose plait and let it hang over her shoulder, securing the end with a small brooch-pin, then turned back to the chest, mumbling something about slippers. In the very bottom, there was a pair of soft leather sandals. She pulled them on and wiggled her toes experimentally. They were comfortable, and fit her perfectly.
They were the type of clothes she was used to – for ten years Evin had made her wear Greek- and Roman-style dresses and shoes – and she had to admit, they were much comfier than breeches and shirts, but less suited for riding.
Suddenly realising that this was the first time she had worn a dress in about eight months, Cavan spun around, revelling in the feel of the soft fabric on her skin.
'Stop laughing at me!' she snapped playfully at Gawain, as he collapsed onto the bed in fits of hysterics. 'You should try wearing a dress – it's freeing!'
He raised an eyebrow in response, smirking as he raked his eyes up her slender form. She caught his gaze and hit his chest with her fist. Gawain caught her arm and pulled her closer, embracing her in a hug. They stood like that for a few moments, before Cavan whispered in his ear, breaking the silence.
'Why don't we visit Gareth?' she said cautiously, anticipating a negative response. But Gawain nodded and breathed into her hair.
'The cemetery is quite a way,' he replied. 'Can you even get on a horse in that dress?' Cavan could hear the smile in his voice.
Together, they left the room, walking slowly down the corridor. Outside, it was misty and overcast, but there were still remnants of summer's heat in the air. Thankful for this, Cavan took Gawain's arm, feeling the muscles beneath her fingers flex slightly at each movement.
Suddenly, a thought struck her.
'I have no gift for Gareth,' she said.
'Would you like to give him something? I expect that your presence alone will be a gift enough for him,' Gawain replied, rubbing her hand with his.
'If we went to Vanora's – where my room was – I could get him something from there. I know the perfect thing.'
They changed their direction slightly, heading instead towards the tavern, instead of the stables. The courtyard was nearly empty – most of the knights were in the training squares and the working men of the fort and town were labouring. But it was quite early in the morning – it was to be expected.
'Well, if you don't look lovely,' a voice drawled from behind them.
'Piss off, Lancelot,' said Gawain, without even looking round. He kept walking, with Cavan grinning beside him. However, Lancelot didn't give up. He caught up with them and took Cavan's other arm.
'I mean it, my lady. Attractive is, in this case, a dire understatement,' he said. They crossed the courtyard and went into the taproom. Cavan saw Hani washing cups and pitchers behind a half-closed door in the taproom. She felt Lancelot let go of her arm and whispered a sarcastic 'good luck' as he slipped through the door to flirt with the red-headed barmaid.
'This way.' She led Gawain to the room she had stayed in for one night when she had first arrived at the fort. The door was locked, but Cavan wasn't fazed by it. She pulled the brooch pin from her braid and stuck it into the lock, twisting it this way and that until she heard a satisfactory click. Turning to Gawain, whose eyebrows were raised so high they were unseen behind his fringe, Cavan put the pin back into her hair with a grin, and pushed the door. It creaked open.
'Welcome to my humble abode,' she said sardonically, gesturing into the room.
Everything was just where she had left it, except with the one change of a thin layer of dust laying on every surface. Cavan reached over and picked up an iron box, with an Irish design carved into the lid. It was full of jewellery and coinage. Pushing aside the top layer of riches, she gently pulled out a thin chain with a blue pendant on the end. It was in the shape of a cross, with a large 'A' carved into it.
Happy, Cavan clipped the lid shut and put the box on the bed. She turned round and showed the necklace to Gawain, who took it in his fingers and smiled.
'A gift?' he wondered aloud.
'From Lucius. The only Roman I ever trusted.'
'And what about Arthur?' Gawain asked, cocking an eyebrow.
'He's not a Roman. Arthur is too human to be a Roman,' she replied quietly.
'Do you really hate them that much?'
'How can I not? My whole life has been dictated by Romans. Every Roman I have met has caused me pain. They burned down my village, killed my family, sold me into slavery, imprisoned me… And the worst one of all. Evin was a Roman.' Her voice was filled with spite, but her eyes echoed the years of pain she had been subjected to.
'Come, let us go and visit my brother.' Gawain offered her his hand, and she took it. He rubbed her palm with his rough-skinned thumb and led her through the door and down the stairs.
They went to the stables, where Gawain tied Arican's reins round his neck and slid onto his back. Cavan grabbed his arm and jumped up into his lap, sitting with both her legs on one side of the horse.
'I don't have a saddle big enough for two,' Gawain said, slipping his arm round her waist. 'You don't mind, do you?'
'Let's see how I feel when the horse starts moving and I fall straight off the side!' she giggled back.
'Oh, don't worry, I'll hold on to you nice and tight.'
Gawain spurred on the horse, one hand tied in the reins, the other tight round Cavan's waist. She leant back into him as they galloped through the town and out of the gates, where Gawain slowed Arican to a brisk walk.
'I have never been to the cemetery before. Is it far?' she asked of Gawain. He let go of her waist to point at a red flag rippling in the wind, about half a mile away. It was just discernable through the mist. As they grew closer, more flags came into view, fluttering gently, their ends tattered from years of exposure to the elements.
Gawain pulled gently on Arican's reins and the horse stopped, snorting quietly. A group of Romans in full armour marched past them, heading towards the fort. Cavan jumped off Arican, followed by Gawain. He whispered to his horse to stay put, and took Cavan's hand. Together they climbed the hill to where the flags stood, their poles firmly embedded in the ground; the flags were surrounded by the raised lumps of the graves, marked by swords and armour.
As they walked slowly past each grave, Gawain whispered the name of the knight who lay under the earth.
'Ector, Callan, Agravaen, Saer, Engres – he was of my tribe – and Gareth.'
Gareth's grave stood out – the soil was dark, and fresh. A long, serrated sword stuck out of the ground beside the grave, saluting the sky. Gawain knelt beside the sword and bowed his head over the grave; Cavan kept back, understanding that the knight needed a few moments alone with his brother.
'My brother,' Gawain murmured. 'I miss you.'
Cavan put her hand on his shoulder, and he took her hand in his, standing back from the grave.
'Gareth,' Cavan said, twisting the necklace she had brought round her fingers. She leant down and tied it to the sword hilt, letting the pendant clink softly against the metal. 'A gift to guide you through the darkness, and give you hope. Please forgive me.'
As they left the cemetery, Cavan gazed one last time at the grave of the second man she had murdered. 'Bí i síocháin,' she whispered, the words slipping easily from her lips. A breeze swept through Cavan's hair, bringing the scent of pinewood and smoke to her nostrils. It sighed and moaned at the sight of the graves, as though grieved by what it saw, and rushed away, leaving Cavan standing, shivering, surrounded by dead men.
The words Cavan speaks at the end are Irish. It means 'be in peace.'
Please review, it makes me really ecstatic to know that people actually read this crap. But thanks, in advance.