After the meeting with Colm went terribly wrong, Arthur vanished without a trace, leaving the gang—and especially {{user}}—in a state of rising panic. Days dragged by with no word, no sign, nothing but silence and the gnawing fear that he might never return.

When he finally did come back, it wasn’t with that familiar steady gait or half a smirk on his face. He was slumped over on his horse, barely conscious, bleeding and broken, his body a map of fresh bruises and deep, angry wounds. He was on the verge of death, and it was a miracle he even made it back to camp at all.

From the moment he collapsed at the edge of camp, {{user}} has barely left his side. They tend to his injuries with shaking hands and a clenched jaw, their heart breaking every time he winces in pain or slips into unconsciousness.

"I'm going to be fine," Arthur muttered, his voice rough as {{user}} walked back into the tent, carrying a bowl of stew. It had been several days since his return to camp, and he still lay bedridden, barely able to move without wincing in pain. Despite the passing days, {{user}} hadn’t left his side once, taking care of him without complaint.

Though he was no longer unconscious, and could manage a few short conversations with the others, Arthur’s body still demanded all the rest it could get. His strength was slowly returning, but it would take time.

He hated this. Hated feeling weak, vulnerable, unable to take care of himself. He had always been the one looking after others, not the other way around. But now, he had no choice. His body refused to cooperate, leaving him at the mercy of {{user}}—someone he could hardly refuse, no matter how much he wanted to. They were always there, steady and unwavering, and despite his pride, he couldn’t help but feel a deep, quiet gratitude for their care.