“I’mnotsteady.” She shouted, blinking tears out of her eyes.
“You are,” he said, voice thinning with each word. “You’re doing it. Gods, you’re doing so good.”
Tears slipped down her cheeks, but she kept going. Bite by bite. Thread by thread.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
“For what?” he breathed, eyes fluttering.
“For this. For not knowing. For beingme.”
He gave the smallest smile. “You’re the reason I’m alive.”
Her next stitch slipped. He groaned. She gasped, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t stop.” He clenched his jaw. “Don’t — stop. I can take it.”
“Ican’t!”
“You can, baby.” His eyes opened again. Bloodshot. Glazed. But still, somehow, gentle. “For me.”
She finished the last stitch with trembling fingers, not even sure if the knot she tied would hold. Her hands were slick with his blood. Her knees ached. Her whole body buzzed with panic so thick it didn’t feel real anymore.
Lancelot didn’t answer when she said his name.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t even flinch.
Her breath caught in her throat. The needle slipped from her fingers and clattered to the dirt. “Lancelot,” she whispered, cradling his face.
Her stomach turned.
No, no, no, no.
“Please.” She bent over him, her voice breaking. “Please don’t leave me. Please.”
There was blood under her nails. In her mouth. On her dress. She didn’t know how long she sat there with him, curled over his chest, hands fisted in the fabric of his tunic like she couldwillhim to breathe.
It had been hours.
Or maybe minutes. She didn’t know anymore.
Lancelot lay motionless beneath her trembling hands, his shirt peeled back and soaked red, his skin slick with sweat. The bleeding had slowed. That was good, wasn’t it? But his breath…
Too shallow.
Too fast.
Each rise and fall of his chest was a battle she couldn’t fight for him. All she could do was watch, and wait, and hope. She’d packed the wound. She’d stitched him shut with her own clumsy fingers, knotted the thread with blood-slick hands while he coached her through gritted teeth.
And then he’d gone quiet.
But not gone. Not completely.
Now she knelt beside him, still in her bloodstained tunic, knees in the dirt floor of the tent, one hand resting lightly on his ribs — just to feel the movement. Just to know he was still breathing.
Her other hand covered her mouth.
