The only thing she remembers is blood, not even her own name.
Waking up in a strange house in a 'far-off' land, Arturia Pendragon cannot remember a single thing of her past life, luckily she is found just in time to be able to keep on living. With...
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Arturia had not responded, never had she answered his question. Instead, she took a deep breath and sat up slightly straighter with a small yawn. She noted, out of the corner of her eye, that he watched her every move and she gave a loud sigh, "I would appreciate it if you would stop staring at me, Diarmuid," she stretched, suppressing the squeak that had threatened to slip from her lips when she moved her right arm.
A blush crept onto Diarmuid's face as he immediately drop the subject and soaked the cloth in the alcohol. The reason he had been looking at her was because he had been awaiting her reply but he now knew she would not tell him a single word, "Forgive me, milady," he mumbled under his breath as he walked towards her with the cloth in hand.
"It is still rather cold out, do you not think so?"
He nodded as he took a deep breath and sat next to her, "It must be because of the rain."
They were making meaningless conversation at this point, just trying to say something so that the room would not feel silent or empty. He responded to her every question because he wanted to show her that he was there for her and that she was not alone. There was barely any emotion in Arturia's voice as she spoke to Diarmuid whilst he washed her wounds over with the alcohol soaked cloth.
Arturia had been speaking about archery and jousting when she winced in pain upon the burning sensation on her thigh. She muttered something in English that he did not quite understand for he was not very fluent. She grit her teeth a little and mumbled the word again—which he identified to be 'damn', but he was not quite sure what the word meant. He guessed it was a curse word, but he still could not fully translate it.
"Forgive me for hurting you," he managed to breathe in Gaelic still. He had retracted his hand and glanced up at her to await her answer but she did not say a word, she did not even signal him to continue cleaning the stitched area.
He noted that her head had dropped as she looked over her injury, her green eyes running over the wound as if they were reading a novel, "We need to go bury him properly." Her voice was so very soft, almost inaudible had they not been close. In fact, he had not understood her mumble at all, he had simply thought that it was the most reasonable thing for her to say.
"You want us to return to bury him?" He repeated as if to assure her if that was what she truly wished for.
Arturia nodded and she mumbled a small 'yes' before standing and letting her dress drop back down to her ankles. She rubbed her face with her left hand as if trying to wipe away her sorrow and depression. She could not cry, she did not know why. But even if she wanted so badly to scream at the image of Lancelot in her arms, she simply could not.
As she looked absentmindedly out the window, she felt a pair of strong arms wrap around her shoulders. She took a deep breath and let it out steadily as she closed her eyes and leaned back into Diarmuid's chest. She felt safe in his arms; there was reassurance in his warmth—like love or simply friendship. She slowly landed her left hand on his arms as a tear slipped from her eyes and she shuffled in his arms to return the hug.
