Title: By Our Own Hands
Author: Surreal44
Rating: PG-13, to be safe
Pairings: None.
Archive: If you like :)
Summary: Bors finds an injured Tristan and cares for him. Friendship fic, non-slash. Rated for blood, possible mild swearing.
Feedback: If you all would be so kind, yes please.
"Ah, Bors. I've been looking for you." A wiry man with red hair trotted up to the tall knight and fell into step with him. "I'm glad to see you up and about."
Bors grunted at the man. "I've been 'up and about' for over a week now, Gaius. What do you want?" Despite his gruff tone he gave the quartermaster a small smile. Gaius was one of the few Romans that he found tolerable. "Arthur's orders?" Before Gaius could respond a sharp voice was heard over the din of the fort.
"Gaius! I need to talk to you!" shouted a tribune by the name of Marcus Antoninus Cicero. He was every inch the Roman, from the dark hair down to the arrogant attitude. "I need a new shield. You promised me a new one last week, and I'm still waiting!"
Gaius made a face and rolled his eyes while Bors sniggered quietly. "I'll meet you out here in a bit while you take care of the brat," he suggested. Gaius nodded his agreement then quickly schooled his face to concern as he turned to face the irate tribune.
Still grinning to himself, Bors walked towards the legate's quarters that also served as Arthur's office. If he hurried, he might still have enough time to get a drink at the tavern before Jols or any number of the pages at the fort went looking for him.
"No wonder Arthur spends so much time in that bloody chapel," he muttered to himself as he neared his commander's room. "It's the only place to get away from everyone!"
Bors entered Arthur's room and paused for a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the room's lighting. Arthur hadn't bothered to open the shutters to the window before he left, so the only light in the room came from a few candles.
A few tankards of ale and crusts of bread littered the floor and benches from the evening before, when Arthur had gone over the day's plans with a small group of men. Gingerly picking his way through the mess, Bors made his way to Arthur's desk and started searching the scrolls and papers for the wood tablet inscribed in charcoal swipes with Arthur's instructions. Finally finding the one he wanted, he hurriedly picked it up with a flourish and turned to leave
In his haste Bors knocked a scroll into the other papers on the desk, sending them scattering across the room. Muttering a few curses under his breath he tucked the orders into his belt and picked up some fallen scrolls. He set them back on the desk before he began searching for the scrolls that had slid away into dark shadows.
He stumbled over something. Snatching up the scroll, he turned to see what he'd tripped over and nearly dropped the scroll again. Tristan, one of his brother knights and the best scout he had ever seen, was sitting in the corner, his slender form leaning against the wall in what must a have been a terribly uncomfortable position.
Not only was Tristan a great scout, he was the second best archer out of the knights. He ought to be, I taught him. Bors thought smugly. Then he frowned. His friend didn't seem to be awake, which was odd. Tristan was always the first up at the slightest sound.
Slightly concerned, Bors knelt beside Tristan's slumped over body and quietly spoke. "Tristan-Tristan, it's Bors." His concern went up a notch when he didn't get a response. Carefully, he reached over to gently shake the scout's shoulder, hoping that the motion wouldn't startle his fellow knight into pulling a blade. Brown eyes slowly opened and focused blearily on the large knight.
"Bors?" Tristan mumbled sleepily. "Whatwhere am I?" He lifted a clumsily bandaged hand up to rub his temple as if his head ached. There was a glazed, confused expression in his eyes that made him look so young and vulnerable that it tugged at Bors' heart.
"You're in Arthur's room. Were you waiting for him?" Bors questioned. He kept a steadying hand on Tristan's shoulder and squeezed it gently when the other's eyes started to close again. "Stay awake for me."
"Arthur? Is he back yet? I have a report for him." Tristan said, suddenly awake. He moved to sit up and ended up sagging back against the wall with a soft moan when his stiff muscles protested at the quick movement.
The brief moment in what small light there was told Bors that exhaustion wasn't the only thing wrong with the younger man. "You're hurt." He ignored the faint protest that Tristan put up; instead he tugged the left arm out of the shadow so he could examine the blood soaked scrap of cloth tied around it. "Is there anything urgent in the report?"
"No. Just some troop"
"If it's not urgent, then Arthur can wait. He's not here anyway." Bors interrupted. "He left me in charge." He stood then, and offered a hand to Tristan to help him up.
A small, wobbly smile made its way across Tristan's face. "Why would he do something stupid like that?" Resolutely ignoring the hand that Bors offered him, he climbed to his feet on his own, his face turning an alarming shade of white. "See? I can walk." He gasped out the words right before his legs gave out under him.
Bors caught the slender scout around the waist, bracing himself so that he could keep the other man from hitting the floor. He still nearly lost his balance when Tristan gasped in pain and suddenly went slack in his arms, the dead weight almost knocking him over. Bors gingerly shifted the knight in his arms so he could brush away the hair from Tristan's face to see if the scout was still conscious. His fingers grazed across a lump and a sticky mess of blood close to the temple. Too close. Bors thought. Another inch down…
Very gently now, Bors eased the limp body onto the floor, careful to cradle his friend's head to prevent more injury to it. Determined now that Tristan needed to be looked over by the surgeon the giant knight worked on reviving his friend. He held Tristan's uninjured hand in his and rubbed it, hoping to get a response from the unconscious man. "Wake up, Tristan."
Tristan stirred, moaned, raising his hand up to rub his head before letting it drop onto his stomach. "Tristan?" Bors ventured after a moment when his friend still hadn't opened his eyes. Tristan turned his head towards the sound and finally lifted his lids. "Bors?" The soft voice was rough from exhaustion and pain. "What happened?"
"You passed out." Bors said flatly. "Now let me help you." His tone allowed for no room to argue, but that didn't stop Tristan from doing his best to be disagreeable. As soon as Bors had gotten him into a sitting position the younger knight tried to scoot away.
"I promise I'll rest," he wheedled. "Just as soon as Arthur gets back I'll go to my room." Bors drew in a breath and tightened his grip on the scout's shoulder and arm to prevent him from moving. He was seriously considering knocking the boy over the head and dragging him to the surgeon. "And besides," Tristan pointed out in a reasonable tone of voice, "You're still injured, so you shouldn't really be helping me anyway."
"You are not waiting for Arthur," Bors said firmly through gritted teeth, his patience clearly spent. "You are getting up and you will rest now. Understand?" Tristan winced as if Bors' thundering voice caused him pain then nodded, the scout's tense body relaxing in the Bors' grip as the last shred of defiance seeped from his slender frame. The vulnerable look was back in his friend's eyes, making Bors feel a little guilty. "There is no shame in letting others help sometimes." He chided gently.
"I know." Tristan murmured, leaning heavily against Bors as they finally managed to stand up. "It's just that Arthur depends on me..." his voice trailed off as he swayed uncertainly on his feet. "I really should wait."
Bors ignored him and began guiding his friend to the door. He noticed with dismay that Tristan was favoring his right leg. "What happened to your foot, brat?" he demanded. The archer frowned and looked at the offending appendage.
"Not my foot," he explained between labored breaths. "It's my ankle. Caught it in a tree root." The two friends made their way outside. The bright sunlight caused Bors to wince with a sudden headache. Beside him, Tristan stumbled and fell against his sturdy friend and whimpered as the light hit his eyes.
"Bors." Tristan gasped, his voice oddly choked. "Bors, I think I'm going to—" he never finished as his body was seized by a violent spasm, and the small amount of food he'd eaten splattered on Bors and the ground. Tristan let go of Bors and dropped to his knees, bracing himself with his arms as his body continued to retch.
Somewhat nauseated himself, Bors knelt beside Tristan anyway, rubbing his back and muttering soothing words until the illness passed. The buzz of voices had grown louder, and when Bors looked up there was a crowd gathered, watching the two knights. Tristan's head hung low between his hunched shoulders, his gaze avoiding the faces of the soldiers surrounding them. The older knight gently drew Tristan against his chest, and cast a glare that promised retribution at the people around. "What are you lot looking at?" he snapped. "Don't you have some training to do, or do I need to give you some drills?"
Bors was not the most highly respected or well liked of the knights, but he could inspire fear when he wanted to. Immediately after he had spoken the crowd dispersed. Satisfied that they were alone again, Bors looked at the trembling figure he held in his arms.
Tristan looked terrible. His face was pale, except for a high color in his cheeks caused from the exertion of throwing up. Dark circles shadowed under his eyes, and a few tears of pain still clung to long black lashes. Tristan's skin was cold to the touch, and Bors wondered just how much blood his friend had lost. How long have you been injured, brat? What happened out there?
"Just like the first time you drank too much ale, eh?" Bors asked, trying to mask his growing fear. Tristan let out a sound that was a mix between a laugh and a sob. "Not even close," he said hoarsely.
When Bors felt that Tristan could stand, he helped his friend to his feet and they continued on with Tristan using him more and more as a crutch. "Bors, I could wait in Arthur's room." Tristan grumbled, his stubbornness rising to the surface now that he didn't have to concentrate so hard on staying on his feet. "Wait…where are we going? This isn't the way back to our room." He said, noticing for the first time which direction they were moving in.
Bors stopped and glared at Tristan. "You can barely stand, Tristan. You are going to the surgeons."
Tristan yanked his arm free from Bors, an annoyed expression crossing his ashen face even as he weaved dangerously on his feet. "I'm fine, Bors. I'm not a child. I can take care of -" as he attempted to step away he stumbled, landing hard on his right ankle. He crumpled to the ground and didn't move.
Bors rolled his eyes, gazing at the sky to ask whatever gods resided there to give him patience. It was so typical of Tristan to collapse after declaring that he could take care of himself. He knelt down and turned the knight over. Tristan's chest rose and fell unevenly, his eyes flickering partially open, a dazed expression on his face.
"Will you listen to me now?" Bors asked gently, wrapping a strong hand around a slender shoulder and gently brushing Tristan's hair out of his face with the other. Tristan blinked up at him. "I don't think I can get back up," he answered, sounding surprised.
"I know, Tristan." Bors responded. He had wondered how far Tristan could push his body before it finally gave out. He knew Tristan would resent what he was going to say next, but there was no other option. "I'll carry you."
Tristan shut his eyes, defeat etched in the lines on his face. Bors squeezed his shoulder sympathetically. "No one is watching, lad. Let me do this for you."
Tristan looked up at Bors, the memories from a different time and place passing between them, and finally the young man responded with a barely audible "Fine."
"You're a bit taller than the last time I had to do this," Bors muttered, pondering briefly the best way to carry Tristan. He helped Tristan to sit once more, the little color on Tristan's face fleeing at the motion. "Just another second, Tristan…I don't think I'll be able to carry you in my arms...still have stitches in the one."
Tristan simply nodded, too sick and weary to argue how he was carried. The fact that Tristan had stopped arguing frightened Bors; Tristan never gave in without arguing the entire time. With a grunt Bors hoisted the weak knight onto his shoulder. He tried to be as gentle as he could, but Tristan still moaned, twitched and went still. "Tristan?"
There wasn't a response. Warm liquid seeped from the limp body, soaking into Bors' shirt. Bors quickened his pace to the surgeons, real fear driving him now as he realized Tristan was injured more badly than he had first expected. Gaius, the gods bless the man, was clearing a path through the mass of staring soldiers for him so he could concentrate on not jarring Tristan so much. With each step the blood seemed to flow more quickly. "What the hell did you do to yourself?" Bors muttered to the unconscious man on his back. Finally Bors reached the surgeon's and hurried inside.
tbc...