For Disclaimer and story warnings: See Chapter One.

Chapter Warning: No language in this section, but descriptions of blood and injuries.

Again, this chapter is unbetaed, so if anyone spots any errors, please do point them out and I'll fix asap. Apologies for the lack of dialogue here, things will improve later.

Thank you to those who reviewed! I hope you enjoy Chapter Three.

Chapter Three - Carrion

There was a sharp pain in his face.

It was not the all consuming and unrelenting agony of his battle wounds but this other pain that finally woke him. It was a strange, horrible sensation, like sharp knives tapping at his skin, and Gawain opened his eyes with a groan. The crow that had been pecking at his cheek gave a sharp 'cark' of annoyance. Filled with sudden horror, Gawain gave a wordless shout and flailed out with his arm. The bird croaked loudly at the rude interruption to its meal and flew off, a flutter of dark feathers.

Now fully conscious, Gawain began to take in his surroundings. He recognised hard earth and stones beneath his back, the stench of death in the air, the cry of the carrion birds. He'd woken up on enough battle fields to know those signs. The second thing he noticed was that he was still alive. Unexpected, but good. Time to keep it that way; there could still be enemies about.

With a gasp of agony he went to move, and came up short against the weight on his chest. Blinking the blood and long hair from his eyes, he finally became aware of the giant dead Woad lying stinking on top of his body. The corpse had bleed like a stuck pig all over him, and it was that that had attracted the carrion birds. Disgusted, Gawain rolled the body off his as much as he could, and painfully pushed himself upright until he was sitting.

The Knight sat there for a while, forcing down the dizziness. Eventually he felt steady enough to move, and ran his hand to his shoulder first. The arrow shaft had been snapped off at some point in the battle, and now only an inch or so was visible, still attached to the arrowhead. Sickness coiled in his stomach when his fingers knocked the wood embedded in his flesh. It hurt like mad but at least it wasn't bleeding too badly. He didn't need to pull back his armour to see the same was not true of the abdominal stab wound; dark blood was already soak liberally into the leather of his plated brigandine, and his under-tunic. It was, strangely enough, at that moment that he noticed the third thing about his surroundings. The silence.

Well, not quite silence. There was the croak of the ravens, the whistle of the wind. But no clash of weapons, no cries of 'Rus!' from Bors. No shrieks from the dying Britons or hooves of horses. The battle was over, and it had ended in silence.

That was impossible. That would mean...

No! He could not be the only one left!

Please...

Fear finally did what pain could not, and he staggered to his feet, right hand pressed loosely against the bleeding gash in his side, and looked about. The sun was just setting; evening was nearly upon him already. Gawain stared towards the battle field, and was surprised to realise his own fight had taken him behind a small rise and he could see nothing of the main field. Slowly, painfully, he stumbled to the summit of the mound and looked out, desperate not to see the bodies of his brothers lying upon the field.

He did not. There were Woad corpses, scattered across the ground. Patches of blood on the grass; two dead horses, broken weapons. There was not one body of Knight, or Roman. Gawain looked out across that field of devastation and felt only relief. Then, his breath hitched in his chest as a sudden horrible truth struck him. There were no dead Knights. But there were no living ones either. They were gone. The only sign of their passing was fifty Woad corpses and a trail of hoof prints in the dust of the road, leading away towards the south.

And one blond Knight, bleeding and abandoned.

They had left him behind.

They had left him behind.

Gawain felt suddenly lightheaded, but tried to keep calm. They'd left him behind. Why would they do that?

The Roman force clearly hadn't been defeated or their corpses would be here. Arthur hadn't sent for reinforcements, as then he would have stayed to hold the ground. The Knights hadn't been captured by the Woads either. The natives would have taken their own dead too, and probably killed the cavalry not worth ransom.

They had left him behind.

The practical part of Gawain vaguely noticed then that they'd taken his horse too. Bastards.

He swayed slightly on his feet as he realised he was deep trouble.

First things first, Gawain told himself – stay alive. The Sarmatian slowly crossed the edge of the open battlefield and began to limp towards the trees. As much as he wanted to stay right where in was in case the other Knights had somehow made a mistake and came back for him, he knew he couldn't risk it. It would be dark soon, and the Woads would come to claim their dead. He planned to be long gone by then.

With the only piece of good luck he'd had in a long time, Gawain managed not to trip over the sword lying in the grass. He expected his own sword was stuck in a Woad body somewhere, but beggars can't be choosers. This sword was longer than the short leaf-bladed weapon he usually used, but it was undamaged, and any weapon was better than none at all. He had to peel his blood soaked hand away from the stab wound to pick the sword up, but it was worth it, just to be armed again. He slid the blade into the empty axe loop on his belt.

"Now, Gawain," he murmured. "Get outta sight. Trees might be full of Woads but they're still better cover than an open field."

Walking proved to be more difficult than he anticipated. His left arm hung uselessly from the injured shoulder, throwing him strangely off balance, and each step pulled agonizingly the stab wound. By the time he reached the trees, he was coated in a cold sweat and the light was fading fast. He would have to stop and treat the injuries now, before he lost firstly the light and secondly, consciousness.

Gawain looked up through his curtain of hair, and glanced around the shadow flecked darkness beneath the trees. He spotted saw a clump of bushes close by; it was a piss-poor hiding place, but better than nothing. He pushed the shrub aside with his good shoulder and found a small hollow inside. It would do.

Now the Knight paused, ideas beginning to dry up. He had lost a lot of blood. This wasn't anywhere near the worst injury Gawain had ever suffered, but it was the worst he'd suffered alone, and miles from help. He needed to treat the wounds, but with no supplies and only one functioning arm, didn't know where to begin.

Eventually he chose the stab wound, as that was bleeding worse. Close inspection revealed that maybe luck had once again, not entirely deserted him after all; the armour plates riveted to his brigandine had done their job; the Woad's blade had skidded aside over the metal scale before catching beneath one and punching through the tunic. That probably weakened the strength of the blow enough that he was now walking and breathing rather than spilling his guts for the crows. That didn't mean it wasn't still dangerously deep.

Inspection complete, Gawain set about binding the wound. He unfastened the large twin disc brooches that held his cloak pinned to his shoulders and pulled the heavy yellow fabric onto his lap. Cutting strips of cloth proved to be highly awkward, but he could still grip with the left hand even if the arm wouldn't function. Using the tip of the long sword he'd stolen and his teeth, the Knight managed to tear the heavy wool into bindings. There was no way he was going to be able to remove his armour or tunic even if he wanted to, so Gawain settled for pushing wads of material under the brigandine against his wounded side, then wrapping longer strips round his abdomen. Finally, he clinched his belt a little tighter to try and hold the dressings in place.

He felt breathless and dizzy, but did not dare stop before he was finished in case he passed out. Gawain touched the wooden arrow shaft in his left shoulder again. From the way he couldn't move his arm, the Sarmatian guessed the arrow had shattered the collar bone and damaged the muscle too. There was nothing he could do about it here; the projectile was actually stopping the wound bleeding more so there was no point removing it. He was fairly sure he couldn't afford to lose much more blood.

With shaking hands, Gawain tied the last cut cloak strips into a loop and wrapped it loosely around his left wrist and then passed it over his head. The sling was basic but just about functioned, and Gawain imagined the look on Dagonet's face if he saw it.

"Sorry, Dag." He muttered, leaning back against a tree trunk and pulling the now raggedy but still functional cloak around him. Cold, blood loss and exhaustion took hold, and he passed out.

TBC.

Poor Gawain.

More Knights next chapter, and their reaction to loosing Gawain.

Any and all reviews gratefully received.

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