Chapter 61

Frozen, agonisingly bruised, running on a few hours of sleep in the past two days, Tristan's—scratch that, everyone's—antics provoking me to a slow, inexorable descent into lunacy; and I still had the Prefect's assassination to plan.

In that moment, however, none of it really mattered because drastic times call for drastic measures.

At least I knew it wasn't indigestion I was suffering from.

"No." I said softly, as Tristan made a furtive sideways movement. "Don't try to run away—I will say what I mean to, even if that means shouting it after you as we chase each other round the fort." I paused to smile slightly. "But I doubt you would like such things to be heard by everyone."

Tristan looked ready to brave the rooftops to escape.

"I believe that these things are usually preceded by very different actions and phrases exchanged by the two people involved." I said. "But as it has got to this stage, we may dispense with the norm, since we have already deviated from it in every conceivable manner."

"If it's a duel you want, I'll happily oblige you," he growled. His eyes had a gleam that made me feel very odd, but not particularly worried.

"It is a duel, yes, of a sort. Only the weapons are very different."

"I know," he replied, moving a little closer—what was he doing? He was close enough!—but part of me didn't complain, a part of me wanted this. A small treacherous part of me that hadn't existed until I had seen him astride Tagiytei, ready to cut me and Kahedin down in the rain as we fled from our kidnappers.

His eyes flashed. "Oh? So you have done this before?"

"Have you?" he shot back, his tone laced with ferocious inquiry.

"Only once when I was much younger," I smiled ruefully. "It didn't last long."

"Killed him, did you?" he said.

I shrugged. "Something like that. And you?"

"I was young too," he admitted. "And didn't know myself as well as I should have. I also defeated my opponent."

"What a pair of monsters we are," I said with a bitter laugh, feeling something in me grow heavy. "Oh well, so long as we're always primed for a scrap, then we'll be fine."

He didn't bother to answer verbally, being a man of few gentle words he simply closed the distance between us, plucked the knife from my hand and stabbed it into the door above my head. I was crushed in a tight embrace and my arms were trapped between our chests.

If you must know, I was sure I had him right where I wanted him.

"Wait, this wasn't what I had in mind—stop, you're insane." I said, trying to wriggle free. "I don't—"

"Don't you?" He said, taking my chin in his hand and tilting my face up to look into his. I stared back at him, expectant and unafraid. "You are going to make me say it, aren't you?" he sighed.

I nodded. Maniacs must be humoured, after all.

For now.

"If you must know, I am mad—about you. And it finally dawned on me after thinking you were dead. I contemplated a life without your big, bright eyes glaring up at me. If you hadn't said something I may have held you at knife point myself," his arm tightened almost painfully around my ribs and he lowered his head to mine. "My bright, particular star," he whispered against my mouth before covering it with his in a ruthless kiss that was a thousand times better than the staged one all those weeks ago.

Morning stubble scratched at my chin and his hand cupped the back of my head, massaging my scalp and neck muscles as I threaded my own hands into his hair, pulling him closer. We battled for dominance—there was nothing gentle about this passion. There probably never would be. In that moment, however, I wasn't really thinking of much at all.

When we finally surfaced for air, I realised my feet were freezing and that I was probably suffering from hypothermia. With a convulsive shiver, I snuggled against Tristan's chest.

"Cold?" he asked, stroking my hair.

"Very!" I laughed and pulled away, heading back to the bed. He joined me and tucked me against him, raining light kisses on my cheeks, lips and neck. I was so cold that I welcomed this snuggling, while simultaneously wondering if I should kick him out or not… after all, what would the other knights say?

What would Gawain do to us?!

I returned his kisses and we had a steamy make-out session, even more heated than before—then I felt my muscles relax. Something in me came loose and I sighed heavily.

Then I yawned.

"Still tired?" he said in that pleasant growl of his that (unless you knew him) sounded like extreme irritation.

I nodded against his shoulder and clung to him, suddenly hoping he would stay.

"Sleep then," he placed a kiss on my temple. "I'll be here when you wake."

I frowned and cracked an eye open to peer at him. "You won't leave?"

"Never."

"That means you'll sleep here too," I said decisively. "At least take your boots off."

He chuckled softly and slid a cool bare foot against my chilled ones. "Nothing to fear—your sheets are quite safe."

"Mmm…" I mumbled, kissing his jaw and gripping the front of his tunic tighter. I went to sleep to the sound of his steady heartbeat under my cheek, and the feeling of his callused fingers carding through my shorn hair—not doubt turning it into a rat's nest.

The next morning came too soon, but I awoke to the feeling of solid muscle and warmth against my back, and a strong arm holding me close. Recognising the raised scar along the thumb, I smiled sleepily and didn't bother to get free. From the feel of it, my hair was tousled beyond my ability to tame it. Heaven only knew what I looked like—part of me cringed to think I might resemble one of Tim Burton's creations: skinny, pale, tired looking and mad hair. All I was lacking was a bondage jacket and cutlery for fingers.

Then I realised what was wrong with this blissful moment, which prompted me to sit bolt upright in an instant, startling Tristan awake in the process.

Something unnatural was happening in my chest… was this… feeling?!

"What is it?" he mumbled, thrashing against the blankets.

Wordlessly, I looked over my shoulder to stare down at him. His hair was almost as bad as mine, his skin slightly flushed from the warmth of the bed, and his eyes still screwed shut with sleep dust. This—previously commonplace and uninspiring—sight made the sensation intensify to the point where I felt my throat close. I swallowed, huffed humourlessly, and bent over him to gently peck his cheek. He stopped fighting with the blankets and his lips curved upwards slightly at the corner.

"Nothing," I murmured, "just a waking dream." If only it was that simple. I was in love with a fictional character and was going to hate myself for the rest of my life when I finally got back to my own world.

"Hmm…" he pulled me down onto his chest and held me there, rubbing my back. He was clearly still half-asleep.

However I was wide and slightly panicking… how could I do this? To deny my feelings would be to excise a part of me that I had long sworn was dead and buried—not to mention deeply wound Tristan by my naturally inexplicable reasons for calling it off. With these anxieties whirling around my brain, further sleep was rendered impossible and I slipped out of bed and hastily put together fresh clothes and my wash kit in a bundle before tugging on my spare boots and throwing my pseudo-'poncho-with-sleeves-grafted-on'-tunic on.

"Where are you going?" Tristan growled, now fully awake and sitting up in bed, the blankets pooling in his lap.

"To have a bath," I said, trying to flatten my hair. "I want to smell of soap, not of a green slimed-well."

"I'll come too." He said and got to his feet, stretching.

"Okay," I shrugged and waited for him in the hall while he grabbed his bathing appurtenances. As I leaned against the wall and studied my stubby nails—no glamorous manicures here—I heard a door creak open.

I must tell my readers that Lancelot's bed-head look is not sexy. He resembles a poodle with conjunctivitis in dire need of a haircut. And I was unable to look away… it was with a sort of disgusted fascination that I stared up at him for quite so long. This was one bitching hangover. I'd only ever seen it's like before on suffering university freshmen.

"Oh. You." He mumbled.

"How much did you drink last night?"

"Not much," he said. "But I don't think they watered down the wine very much."

It was as he said this that Tristan appeared beside me. "Don't think you can sit around all night drinking neat wine like it is ale. That stuff will hit you all at once," Tristan lectured sternly, staring at Lancelot with less than skilfully concealed disgust.

Lancelot peered blearily at our deeply judgmental stares and shook his head with a wince. "Where are you going?"

"To bathe," Tristan said curtly. "As should you."

I froze… Lancelot couldn't come with us. He'd see that I was a woman and it would be the end of everything. I'd have to leave.

"Fine," I said quickly, grabbing Tristan's elbow and dragging him away before he could say anything further. It was only after we had reached the baths and made sure it was empty (hardly a problem this early in the morning), that I realised I had certain misgivings about bathing in front of Tristan.

After a moment's hesitation I gave myself a mental bitch slap. If he doesn't like it, that's his problem. You are proud of every inch of yourself, inside and out, you wonder-woman, you! I told myself sternly, furiously conjuring up images of Hypatia, Frida Kahlo, Simone de Beauvoir, Olympe de Gouges, Wangari Maathai and Concepción Arenal (to name a few). With such role models goading me on, part of me wondered why I was even disguising myself as a boy. Of course sanity prevailed against that potentially disastrous feminist train of thought.

Fuck it, I thought crossly, and quickly stripped before striding confidently into the hot pool of the caldarium. Ducking under the blissfully hot water for a long moment, I heard the 'plunk' of someone else entering the water and quickly surfaced to see a very naked Tristan wading in after me.

Ladies, I could have grated parmesan on his abs. Hell, I could have demolished entire wheels of cheese on his various muscle groups. Broad shoulders tapered down to a narrow waist, adorned with several curving blue-black tattoos—the one on his shoulder marred by a purple and silver scar that had been incurred just before we first met. Seriously, I was in awe. Nature had given him godly proportions… in all relevant areas of interest.

Mouth very dry, I pretended nothing was wrong (even though I really wanted to jump his bones) and went back to scrubbing at my arms and ignoring the sting of the various scrapes and cuts all over my body. With my slightly accelerated healing, they would close and the scars disappear within a fortnight or so.

~oOo~

Tristan watched her from behind the cover of his hair as she frowned fiercely and then stripped without one look at him—not even asking him to avert his gaze. She acted as if she was completely alone and was naked in no time.

Tristan was delighted.

Her limbs were long and slender, the muscles sharply defined under nearly white skin. White skin marred by a myriad of blue and purple bruises, annotated by scrapes and cuts. Shoulder-blades shifted and the long back curved down to a dark smudge of a birthmark just above her tiny toned arse. She slipped into the water with barely a sound and he noted with a twinge of disappointment that there was barely a hint of breast on the flat plane of her torso, but this was Kation. He wouldn't want her any other way, since what she lacked in figure she more than made up for in every other way. He had come to… yes, alright, love everything about her.

He paused as that word repeated itself a few times in a species of white-hot panic across his mind. Because before this, he had been absolutely certain that he only loved his family back in Sarmatia. And how on earth would someone as wild and mercurial as Kation react to the word 'love'? This had 'future disaster' written all over it.

Quelling any outward signs of agitation, he undid his braids and washed his hair in a basin (so as not to spoil the main bathwater) before sliding into the water with Kation, who was sitting on the underwater bench and concentrating solely on scrubbing at her feet.

Her perfectly clean feet.

Hmm…

He strode over to her through the waist-deep water and folded his arms over his chest.

"Yes?" she asked, not looking at him, but transferring the sponge to her other leg.

"If you are clean, we should probably go," he said, forcing himself not to stare at the graceful curve of her long neck.

"Mmm, right. Just let me wash my hair." She stood, barely sparing him a glance as she made to move past him, but he caught her elbow and marvelled at the delicate bones that moved under his fingers. How could she be so fragile and yet pack such an almighty punch?

"I'm deceptive like that," she replied with a wry smile, gently pulling free as he stared at her, stupefied.

He'd said that aloud, hadn't he?

The amused gleam in her eyes gave him the answer and he huffed through his nose in amusement and sank into the pool up to his chest, soaking in the heat as Kation hastily cleaned her hair before pouring the used water down the drain. Thus finished, he got out of the pool and hastily dried himself and yanked on his leggings. Kation, meanwhile was already back in her own vest and leggings, her wet hair shedding rivulets of water down her skin.

The sight of those glistening pearls on her skin made him want to lick them off and make a sally upon the rest of her oddly tantalising body.

Giving into temptation, he leaned forward and brushed his nose over the soft skin of her neck, a rumbling purr rising unbidden in his chest as his hands encircled her waist and drew her closer. He heard her sharp intake of breath and pulled back abruptly. "I haven't hurt you?" he asked—not permitting the worry to bleed into his voice. She had been very badly battered—it was a miracle she wasn't seriously wounded.

"N-no," she said a little breathlessly, not meeting his gaze as she pulled away, hands flicking through her hair to dispel the excess water.

Suspicion curled through him. "What's the matter?" he demanded, eyeing her closely. She looked tired, gaunt and ill.

"Nothing important," she shot him a flicker of a smile and tugged her tunic on before winding her sash and kidney belt around her waist. "That was… wonderfully teasing." She admitted, a faint blush mantling her cheeks.

Her diversion tactics, while flattering, did not deter him. "It is important," he insisted. "I'll take you to the medicus after breakfast."

"Don't, it's just deep bruises—others have far worse." She rolled her shoulders and managed a stronger smile for him, her gaze steady as she stepped closer. "Really. I'm not suddenly made of glass."

They left the baths and quickly went back to the barracks, where he impulsively wrapped an arm around her shoulders and tugged her against him with a warm smile.

But as she chuckled slightly, they realised their fatal mistake when the stables erupted with noise.