2 Helpless

Tristan approached her as he would a wounded animal. She didn't move an inch. And despite the horrible bruise on her cheek and throat, the dirt and tears, her matted hair and puffy eyes, he found the lines of her face disturbingly elegant. Just like the curve of her calf, prolonged by tiny, well-proportioned feet.

Kneeling close to her, Tristan's eyes kept her gaze trapped as he slowly reached for the woollen garment. The woman tensed, interrogating him now. She was at his mercy, too tired to fight, aware that he overpowered more than these men ever could. Her milky white thighs exposed, her flesh inviting … tempting him to touch their warmth, their softness. His long fingers closed upon the fine fabric and then, only then did she close her eyes. Tears fell down her cheeks without a noise, her body still shaking as she repressed her sobs.

She wouldn't fight.

He knew it, felt it. Like a female wolf submissive in front of the alpha. He knew that she was too exhausted, too emotionally spent to oppose him. A surrender; an honour of sorts, for she had fought those men tooth and nails, but would allow him to have her. Tristan's hand gently pulled the dress over her legs, the gesture so tender that he marvelled at his own ability. His whole body ached but he couldn't tear his gaze away from her lovely face. The pure terror of her expression called his inner self to protect.

Tristan stood with a grunt, tugging at her hand. The young woman stood on wobbly legs, her balance uncertain and he hoisted her into his arms. His screaming muscles insulted him profusely, yet he couldn't bring himself to regret it. Especially when her arms wound themselves around his neck. The exhausted scout maneuvered the young lady upon his mare, thanking the animal for taking this extra weight. The wall wasn't too far, and she was light. Still, it was an extra effort for his loyal steed who had gone through three days of scouting without much rest.

— "Hold tight," he murmured to the young woman.

She shuddered against him as he managed to mount his mare and place her in his lap. A click of his tongue, and they his mount started walking again. By now, fresh blood was seeping from his armoured leather to her dress, adding extra taints to her ruined garment of the finest wool. The lady trembled in his arms, huddled against him so tightly that he hissed. Her embrace rubbed many of his wounds but there was not much he could do expect bear them. She, as well, probably ached from the bruises forming upon her. His hand brushed her arm when he reached for the reins, and Tristan realised that the young woman was frozen. Either from the shock, or from her lack of a protective cloak.

The scout pulled his heavy cape around them both, shielding the lady from the cold with a dusty, muddy, bloody layer of wool that smelt like death and horse. She didn't protest, melting against him with a shake of her head. But not before sending him a very confusing look. For up close, the gleam in her eyes couldn't be mistaken. Trust.

— "Thank you," she uttered her teeth chattering.

Tristan nodded, gritting his teeth as the extra weight pulled at his numerous wounds. One of his ribs was probably cracked.

For a long while, neither of them said a thing. Then, gradually, her trembling subsided. The young woman's posture straightened, easing the toll upon his own battered body as her weight didn't rest so heavily upon his.

Tristan never knew what pushed him to strike a conversation, for nothing could be further from his habits. His curiosity, though, won over his mind. And it would prevent him from collapsing from sheer exhaustion. But his skills left to be desired still, hence the gruff sentence that passed his lips.

— "You shouldn't travel alone, it is not safe."

The young woman had the gall to snort, wiggling in his embrace and hitting his bruised ribs in the process. Tristan's hiss of pain got drowned in her own rant.

— "Neither is home. They would marry me off to this horrible Roman. A disgusting man, I couldn't… I couldn't."

— "The alternative wasn't much better."

His voice was stern, the words cut deeper than it should and the young woman suddenly tightened his blood caked cloak around her as if it could protect her.

— "I was so close to the wall, I've been careless, walking on the road," she whispered.

The scout's eyes roamed the surroundings, looking for threats. Ever watchful, even if they were now close enough to Hadrian's wall.

— "How long have you walked?" he asked.

— "Four days."

His beard tickled her ear when he nodded, his contact strangely comforting despite the heavy equipment and metal scales. A safe anchor after the hardships of the past days…

Intertwined under the heavy cloak, Tristan couldn't understand why her arms felt so comfortable over his battered body, nor how her warmth seeping through the leather of his pants brought him solace. Despite the discomfort of his wounds, the knight found the simple contact, devoid of any lust or seduction, puzzling. Hence the soft tone of his voice as he spoke.

— "I'll get you to the wall."

The woman seemed to literally deflate against him, her trembling starting anew. She had, after all, barely escaped defilement and death at his hands. Perhaps the experience was starting to seep into her soul, branding it, forever marked. Had her innocence crumbled before, or was it the first straw?

— "Thank you, sir," she whispered her breath fanning against his collarbone.

Tristan tightened his hold with his left hand, ignoring the pang it sent through his side.

— "I am Tristan, no sir."

— "All right, sir Tristan."

The knight sent her a glare, hoping to convey that he was a man not to be mocked. Curiously, instead of cowering away, she met his gaze head on with a wavering smile.

— "I can't help but respect the man who saved my life, and denied the urge to take advantage of me."

A gleam of steel shone in her eyes, a determination that quelled Tristan's anger. Her respect wasn't false nor misplaced. For once in his life, he could actually accept her admiration; if not for him, her fate might have been sealed in the most gruesome way.

— "I am Felicia," she eventually said.

Tristan nodded wearily. Exhaustion was slowly but surely washing through him, and keeping himself on the saddle took a toll that didn't leave much room for conversation. For sure, he'd never talked so much before. Silence settled for a while, the young woman trying to keep herself upright as well. Riding sideways on someone's lap probably was as uncomfortable for her than for him, and her frame still shook from time to time. Not that he could do anything about it.

When at last, they emerged from the forest and the Wall soared above them, the young woman gasped. For a second, Tristan wondered if he should have her dismount and enter the city by herself. Passing unnoticed would surely benefit her condition greatly… His hopes were dashed the moment her trembling voice reached him.

— "Will I be safe at the wall … from men?"

The knight frowned. He had to admit she had perspective, and asked the right questions. The only issue being that … no. She was far too lovely to be safe from men, especially being a lone woman. At best, she would end up as a tavern wench, serving meals at day, whoring at night. Lancelot would probably try to woo her to death. And leave her afterwards, heartbroken.

Tristan's silence lingered, heavy, upon their heads. And despite his horrendous smell – it discomfited his sensitive senses – her arm snaked around his back and she huddled against him, searching for his warmth. Her move startled him; was she seeking reassurance from him? Of all men, he was the one to which she entitled her trust?

Word blurted out of his mouth before he could squash them mercilessly.

— "Say you are my woman, that will keep men away."

Horrified by his own proposal, Tristan could only stare at Isolde' bruises features as her jaw hung open.

— "But your wife sir…"

— "I have no wife."

Little fingers settled on his armoured collarbone, her eyes searching for his. Tristan met her inquisitive glance without flinching.

— "Surely you have a lover."

Tristan almost snorted. The naïveté of her words would have coaxed a laugh out of him, so long ago. But she truly believed he deserved a woman to love him; it was written, clear as day, upon her features. Her arrival at the wall would lift her blindness soon enough. There, she would withdraw her trust and learn how feared, how heartless the scout truly was. There she would hear stories and rumours, some of them partially true, and shy away from him until she trembled from his presence. Left to wonder why the ruthless scout, the man who relished in the fight, had not raped and killed her when he had the chance.

In the meantime, he could provide his protection. A masquerade that engaged his name and reputation, and would keep the little woman safe enough from Romans and other patrons.

— "Are you much respected at the fort?" she asked shyly.

Tristan braced himself for the truth; that illusion of being a knight in shining armour had warmed his heart while it lasted; a break from heartache and self-loathing. Sadly, it couldn't be further from the truth. His voice was harsh when he answered.

— "I am feared. This is enough."

She only nodded. Afraid. The knight didn't linger on it; he was used to the fear and contempt. His fatigued mind, instead, was already busy finding solutions. Not that he cared about the woman, mind you. But it wasn't worth it if she got raped and ruined after he'd gone out of his way to save her life.

— "You are noble, you know how to sew?"

She didn't ask him how he knew. The material of her dress and perspective of a forced marriage was evidence to whomever was intelligent enough to put the pieces together.

— "Aye, sir, more than most"

There, the solution looked him in the face. How convenient.

— "The seamstress will have you, she owes me. Better you change your name, though"

The young woman turned to the wall, her wary eyes taking in the looming shadows projected by the massive structure. Her jaw squared, her fingers fisting his cloak as she took her decision. Yes, Felicia was dead now.

— "Thank you, sir. I will be the seamstress's apprentice, and your woman if you allow it."