If any readers of this fateful, horrifyingly embarrassing journal of my adventure to a supposedly fictional universe are noticed by the God of Cloud-Cuckoo-Land, I have a handbook ready for you.
Rule Number One: The only way to get respect in a patriarchy is to show these swaggering men that you won't roll over.
Although that didn't explain why I picked the 'I'm-actually-a-thwarted-serial-killer' persona out of the Lucky Dip box that is my imagination when facing down a pack of pugnacious Batavians. I'm not saying it didn't do the trick, but it may have worked a little too well. Giving Lancelot the full force of that psycho stare (when he had never been exposed to it before) was perhaps rather extreme—but it shut him up.
However the mother of all awkward silences that followed screamed at me to retreat gracefully to Arthur's office and do mild-mannered paperwork.
I did not look at the knights, I simply rolled my shoulders and walked away without a word. No one would want to talk to me after that little display. I had probably embarrassed them by fighting their battle—but it would have been so much worse if they had argued; because naturally there would have been shoving, and if I know Tristan (and I flatter myself that I do), the first person to jostle or shove him was going to lose body parts.
Feeling my mood sour and a Gordian Knot of anxiety tie itself around my stomach, I almost collided with Arthur as I half-jogged around the corner of a building.
"Oh! There you are!" Arthur smiled down at me, obviously unaware that I was now officially Persona Non Grata with just about everyone except Vanora.
"Sir," I murmured, forcing my shoulders to relax. "How may I help you?"
"Do you know where Lancelot is?"
"He's in the tavern having lunch with Tristan and the others, sir." I said. "With your permission, I thought I could file the reports coming in regarding the fort's restoration."
Arthur looked very pleased with this suggestion and waved me away with a genial smile. I ran all the way to the 'office', despite the screaming aches of all my muscles… seriously, was it even possible for my kidneys to be wrenched? What a joke.
Sinking behind the desk, I didn't even look at all the reports for a few minutes. I just leaned back in the chair, letting my head rest against the wall and sighed. Anyone can choose to be brave, it's true—but actually doing it is another thing entirely. Especially for years at a stretch. I was mentally exhausted, lonely and scared in ways that no one in this entire universe could understand, much less handle.
Perhaps it had something to do with being briefly dead during the clusterfuck under the gate. I had been killed by a nasty blow to the head which may have looked like simple concussion to the onlookers—but it had the far more useful effect of healing my body of its more serious injuries. But it had taken a lot out of me and death—however impermanent—was always a shock to the system.
"Fucking fuck it all to fuckdom. Shit." I groaned, scrubbing at my eyes with the heels of my hands, strongly ignoring the lump rising in my throat. I needed at least one real cup of Lapsang Souchong, a Terry's Chocolate Orange and someone who understands all the subtle nuances of organic bath bombs enjoyed with an entire bottle of wine, a rock radio station and scented candles.
Just thinking about it made the lump double in size. I gritted my teeth and stormed out to the stables to splash cold water on my face. Feeling more alert, but not much better, I went back to the paperwork and spent the rest of the day filing reports, writing summaries and primary assessments, and generally hiding away from everyone.
Arthur poked his head around the door a few times, but always retreated hastily with the latest summary in hand lest I snarled at him. I was able to ride the storm of my emotions without interruption in the aftermath of the crisis.
It was as I was wiping at a tear that had snuck past the barricade (yes, finally proof that I am female—you'd never have thought it, hmm?) that someone knocked on the door.
I swore and wiped at my damp cheeks, cursing the lack of anything to blow my nose with. I eyed the terminally dull crop reports, but thought better of it so settled for sniffing violently and clearing my throat. "Come in," I croaked.
Tristan barged through the door, looking harassed.
This was a surprise.
Still, had to be professional so as not to let on that I was being miserable for no good reason.
I looked at him for barely a millisecond and then ducked my head.
"You have a report for me?" I asked, reshuffling the documents.
"No," he seemed puzzled.
"Then get out."
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing to do with you, now get out."
Contrary to my polite request, he actually walked up to the desk and planted his fists on top of the paperwork. I tugged at a pinned scroll (now sadly crumpled), to no avail. "Tristan…" I said, by voice sinking to a whisper. "I need to keep working." It would be the only way I could distract myself from further moments of weakness.
"And I think something's wrong."
"Keep thinking then, I'm sure it's a strange and powerful new experience for you."
His fists reached out and grabbed the front of my tunic, dragging me up and halfway over the desk. I kept my eyes lowered.
"Kat…" by then he was growling. Dangerous growling.
"Let go," I murmured.
"What is wrong?" he said, enunciating the words slowly and clearly.
"Nothing, just leave it."
He let me go with a huff of frustration and stepped back. After straightening my tunic, I risked a peep at him from under my ever-growing fringe. He was glaring at me.
"If this has to do with the Batavians…" he said cautiously.
"No, it's not that." I sighed, dragging my hands through my hair and staring at the ceiling. Then I realised that would have been the perfect excuse. Stupid me.
"Then what? Is it your injuries?" he asked, expression morphing into his version of concern. Tristan's face was one of the most impassive countenances you will ever come across, so I can assure you that the change was infinitesimal.
I took this second verbal gift horse (that I didn't deserve) by the reins and ran with it.
"Damn it, it's not that obvious is it?" I said, trying for grumpy and ending up sounding whiny. Great. Very mature and attractive.
"Oh you idiot," he breathed and stood there, like a bloody pillar of strength, inviting me to lean on him.
As if.
I crossed my arms and stared at him with bored expectancy, so he was forced by my silence to speak again.
"Do you want to go see Dagonet about your injuries?"
I shook my head. "If you could grab me some salve, I can apply it tonight."
He looked at me suspiciously and finally shrugged. "I'm invoking an early bedtime, no arguments," he said.
I had to laugh. "Yes mother," I sniped.
He grimaced slightly, clearly unenthusiastic about that appellation, and stepped close to give me a quick peck on the lips. "See you tonight."
"Later," I grinned and nipped his mouth, letting my teeth click. Oh yeah. Risqué flirting where anyone could walk in on us was certainly cheering me up. And distracting him. His expression turned feral and my own blood fizzed in reaction.
When he finally left, I deliberately procrastinated over thinking (or perhaps 'overthinking'?) about my reservations regarding starting a relationship with a fictional character for the rest of the day. It shouldn't worry me since I was as real as anyone else in this world, but I could not afford to make plans. At any time I could return to my own world, and that would be the end of it…
… Right?