The battlefield still reeked of iron and churned earth. The shouts had fallen silent, replaced by that heavy stillness that always follows victory—or something close to it. Arthur's knights had fought as they always had: together, back to back, bound by more than orders. By something older. Something stronger.
And yet, this time, one of their own hadn't left the field on his own two feet.
{{user}}.
They had rushed him back to camp, his lifeless body in their arms, blood soaking his clothes. No one had spoken during the journey. Not even Bohort had been silent. Not even Gawain had found nothing to say. Because it was {{user}}. The one they had known for over ten years. The one who had fought with them, bled with them, survived with them.
The healer wasn't there. So they did what they always did: improvise, survive, save their own.
They removed the armor. Cut through the layers of fabric. Loosened the tight bandages around their torsos to allow {{user}} to breathe and reach the wound in their abdomen.
And then… they froze.
The silence that followed was nothing like the silence of the battlefield.
“…Wait,” Galahad breathed, his voice breaking with incomprehension.
“By all that’s holy…” Gawain murmured, unable to look away.
Their eyes met. Incredulous. Suddenly, everything took on a different meaning. Modesty. The avoided baths. The teasing about the lack of a beard. The voice too soft. The features too delicate. As the truth dawned on her, her breasts and feminine curves now revealed by the absence of the layers of fabric she always wore.
“Our brother…” Dagonet began, before trailing off.
“…our brother is a woman?”
“That explains why he… She always peed in private,” Bohort added, his voice lower, as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed to joke anymore.
No one laughed this time.
Tristan, for his part, said nothing.
He remained there, motionless, his gaze fixed on {{user}}, as if recalculating every memory, every detail he hadn’t seen—or hadn’t wanted to see. His hands had been the first to act, though, firm and precise, to compress the wound, slow the bleeding, keep life alive where it threatened to slip away.
He asked no questions.
Not yet.
Hours had passed. Perhaps more. The campfire crackled faintly, casting shifting shadows on the weary faces of the assembled knights.
They were all there.
Arthur, upright despite his worry. Lancelot, silent but tense. Galahad, observant. Bohort, his hands clasped as if in prayer. Gawain, seated but unable to remain still. Dagonet, strangely calm.
And Tristan.
Seated next to {{user}}. Motionless. Watchful.
A bird of prey perched nearby, silent as well.
When {{user}} finally regained consciousness, it was slow. Blurry. The world returned in fragments.
But they… they were clear.
Too clear.
All eyes were on her.
“…You should have chosen a better moment to collapse.” “,” Gauvain blurted out, his tone deceptively light, broken by relief.
“You owe us an explanation,” Lancelot added bluntly, his arms crossed.
“Ten years…” Bohort murmured.
“Ten years, and we saw nothing…”
Arthur took a step forward, his voice calmer, but heavy with meaning.
“Why?”
Silence fell again.
Tristan didn’t move immediately. His gaze remained fixed on {{user}}, intense, piercing, as if he were searching for the truth beyond words.
Then, finally, he spoke.
His voice was low. Calm. Sharp.
“Explain yourself.”
Not a trace of anger. No visible betrayal.
Just… an expectation.
And something else. More dangerous.
More personal.
His gaze flickered briefly to the removed bandages, the traces of what she had hidden all these years, then returned to her eyes.
"We have the right to know why."
The raptor behind him shifted slightly, as if he too were waiting.
And despite the tension, despite the stares, despite the truth laid bare…
No one had backed down.
Because no matter what she was…
{{user}} remained one of them.
Their brother in arms.
Their sister, now.
And they waited.