Fate/Stained Knight | ✓

II

He blinked  as he watched her struggle with the pain of removing the bandages from  her body with such hesitation yet lots of determination evident on her  features. "Are you certain that you do not need any help?" He asked once  again, his orange eyes trained on hers, "I insist." He added hoping  that she would give in, which he knew he should not expect so much.

Arturia  glanced up at him from the crimson tainted bandages to look at his  facial expression, wishing that it would tell her something about his  intentions. If his kind demeanour was all an act, he was a damn good  actor and she cursed herself under her breath, "Since I cannot deny the  wishes of a loyal knight," she growled as she rolled her eyes, "I only  guess I have to agree."

He took another deep breath and blinked  down at her, "If you do not wish for me to aid you, I will not insist."  He spoke, his voice solemn and serious.

She rolled her eyes and grunted, "It is not as if I have much of a choice anyway." She did not want to admit it, but she had to.

Diarmuid  nodded lightly and took a big and final step forward and towards her,  he knelt beside her and cautiously (and a little nervously) removed the  bandages from her wound. He could feel her eyes burning onto the top of  his head as he tried his best not to harm her or anything. The wound  itself was not all that bad from the first time he had seen it. It was  rather large, but he had managed to sew it with horse hair since it was  stronger. It was about five inches long in length, and if he had  recalled correctly; it was about an inch and a half deep. He remembered  how the blood would flow out even though nothing major had been harmed.  Now, the wound was not the slightest bit the same; there was blood  dripping, but he could see that it would be fixed with a bit more  stitching.

"The water is boiling." The hiss had interrupted his plans and he looked up at her.

He  had not heard the bubbles that surfaced the water any sooner for he had  been engrossed on the messily stitched wound. He had only wanted to  stop the bleeding during that rushed moment and he had been rather glad  that no organs had been harmed. The knight stood from the floor and  removed the pot—of now—boiling water. Dipping the cloth inside, he  walked back to her and gave her a reassuring nod when she looked a bit  taken aback from the steam that left it.

Shaking her head, she  looked back at her own wound; as she was disgusted by it. "You used  horse hair, correct?" She lifted her head to examine his facial features  as he had approached once more, checking if he had any ill intent for a  second time.

With a nod he replied, "Yes," he said softly and  then caught a hold of her cold gaze, "May I?" Diarmuid knelt in front of  her again and asked for permission in order to clean her wound.

She  nodded in slight, and hesitant, approval, "You are better at sewing  than most knights." She shrugged, almost forgetting about her pain and  focusing on what the male was doing; if he even dared to move in the  wrong way, she should not hesitate to end his life.

"Thank you," he glanced at her and smiled as he gently wiped the blood from her  wound. She winced as he had made the cloth make contact with the  moderately sewed-up gash on her right side; right below her rib cage.  "The heat of the water is good for preventing illness and infections."

"I know." She groaned in pain as he continued to clean the wound. "I am not stupid; even prostitutes know that."

"I  never meant to offend you, milady, I was only thinking that it would be  better to explain myself before you stab me with the poker and then run  away." The Irishman gave her a lopsided laugh and a joking look as he  still payed attention to cleaning the blood that remained.

"Of course," She growled, "what knight would?" It was meant as a rude comment but her voice had not come by so harsh.

"So,  milady, do you mind telling me your name?" He raised his eyebrow, still  not looking up at her for he was trying very carefully not to harm her.

Something  like worry washed over her, she was not so sure what it was; anxiety or  distress maybe? It made her feel uneasy as she tried her best to search  her mind for such a simple answer. Her name? It was only a few letters  put together, it should not be so hard to know. She already knew that  she was taking too long in answering the question so she just blurted  something out, "And why should I tell you?"

"Umm," he looked up  from the wound and stared into her eyes, "well, Knights usually exchange  their names..." He wandered off with the sentence as he tried to make  the excuse.

"That is ridiculous." She scoffed and went to cross  her arms; but refrained when she remembered that he was still cleaning  the blood.

He took a deep breath—it was evident that he was  already getting heated over the certain conversation, "It represents a  knight's honour and pride. It is a tradition a knight must keep alive;  we exchange names so that the fight is fair and just." He had been  clearly offended by what she had retorted with because his expression  had hardened and he had dropped his hand from her wound.

"Guinevere."  She had not known where the name came from but she had just blurted it  out, as if she had known someone that had gone by the name.

He  immediately furrowed his brows after the name, "Guinevere? As Guinevere  the betrothed of Prince Arthur of Camelot?" Diarmuid had recalled that  she had said she was a royal, but why on earth would a High Princess of  Logres be in Hibernia—perhaps a failed assassination attempt?

A short and  rapid nod, "Yes, but not the same—I am not her." Camelot? The word had a  nostalgic feel to it, but it did not ring any bells in her mind; not  that there were any.

"Well," he continued to clean and finally  finished, "as soon as this begins to heal; it would be best for you to  return home; your family must be worried." After she had not responded,  he dipped the cloth in the boiling water again and cleaned it over one  last time. "I think that I need to fix the stitching, is that alright?"

Stitching;  it was a horrid word. A needle would make yet another hundred holes in  her body only to fasten a bigger one. A shiver ran down her spine but  she gave a short nod anyway.

"I will return in a little while;  please do not run off or lift the poker again." Diarmuid smiled a tad  bit and she rolled her eyes with extra attitude.

Sitting still and  awaiting for his return she felt a sudden urge of sleep take over her.  Her vision blurred as her eyelids fluttered in hopes to close, she tried  to hold the feeling back but she was not able to.

A scream; loud  yet so distant that it sounded silent. Was it her scream? Was she the  one calling out for her life. Was it for someone to help her? Or someone  to... get away from her? Vision still a blur, her head spun wildly as if she were drunk and someone had made her spin in rapid circles. Her legs  were trying their best to run, but the snow made it hard for her. Her  head ached and although it was cold, she felt something warm emitting  from her head; so warm that it began to cover her neck as it slipped  down. She was shaking a lot, her small hands were trembling with a great  force that it amazed even her. Maybe it was the warmth that dripped  down her body or maybe it was her head spinning insanely  rapidly—whatever it had been made her sink to her knees and fall  forward; the snow engulfing her whole.