Author: Triane

Disclaimer: Not. Mine. Except Iona. Everything else belongs to someone else. Even more so now, that we're into movie territory - I've done what I could to gloss over using the actual dialogue, but if you recognize dialogue or action, its because it's. Not. Mine.

Summary: At the fort

Frozen.

Frozen and silent. No room for thought, no room for sound, no room for anything

Iona completely shut down, moving on autopilot as she helped place Dagonet... the body... carefully onto Agravain's back, covering him... it... gently with the big black cape that had covered the two of them for countless nights beside countless fires.

Sounds occasionally came in and out of focus, but she was only able to shake her head, mute, unable to answer whatever was being asked of her. Then, mercifully, they stopped asking her, leaving her to her silence, to her numbness.

They rode carefully, slowly, following the path left by the villagers, tracking the shore as Arthur had ordered, until they were south of the wall. Iona stared, sightless, as they came near to the fort, stared at the guards raising the alarm, at the villagers crowding the barrack gates.

She dismounted stiffly, her leg buckling beneath her as she vaguely remembered her wounded calf and the arrow they had pulled out after the battle. Gritting her teeth she forced herself to stand, knowing that she could so easily crumble and never move again.

No, don't think.

She heard the shouts from the guards as if from a distance, and was buffeted from behind by a small person who wrapped his arms around her and clung for dear life.

Lucan.

Then everything came into focus as, from across the courtyard, she saw him - the bishop, the snake, the reason - staring at her in all his finery, his wealth, his safety, his Romanness. Gently untwining Lucan's arms from around her waist, she stalked across the yard, her eyes never leaving Germanius' face. Her breath grew shorter with every measured step, her chest constricting with fury and pain and grief, her hands clenching into fists. She had never, not once, fought like a girl, but she could feel how satisfying it would be to scratch, to gouge, to reach for her sword only after he was bleeding and torn, his flesh under her nails.

Close enough now that she could see the panic in his eyes, hear the shouts of the guards around him, but she would kill him, yes she would, for Dagonet, for his freedom, for his life, for their life together. Her hands reached, grasping, clawing, as she screamed at him, accusing him, vilifying him, cursing him in a mix of languages that changed so rapidly there wasn't a full sentence in any of them.

But her hands fell short as he scrambled back, an iron bar around her waist as Bors caught her up against his chest, and then her arms were held tightly, Gawain and Galahad each taking a hand and clasping it in their own, struggling to keep her contained as she screamed and railed and pleaded with them to let her go, please let her go.

A strangled sob to Arthur... Artorius! and her commander stood with tears glistening in his eyes. And then Tristan was there, Tristan with his scarred hands holding her face, thumbs at her jawbone, Tristan with his dark eyes, and Iona was drowning and drowning and latched onto his gaze and let him pull her out.

He saw the fight go out of her and nodded, and suddenly her hands were free, free to grab onto his wrists as she stared back and took a breath. Just a breath, just one, then another, and another - and they breathed together until the roar in her ears quieted and Tristan could feel her pulse slow under his fingertips.

With her rage went all her strength, and if Bors hadn't still had a hold on her, Iona would have crumpled to the ground - down into a little ball and stayed there, letting the earth leech the life from her until there was nothing left, there is nothing left,

"There is nothing left."

Tristan simply nodded, sliding an arm around Iona to clasp her to him, her head on his shoulder and hand feebly clutching his armour, turning them both to walk slowly towards the keep, away from prying eyes, away from the still form under the cape that would never again hold her or comfort her or love her.