Morgan smiled, seeming almost happy as he fought. He was graceful, unlike Tristan, for whom every move was a panicked struggle. Despite his smaller frame, the knight cut through his opponents easily, until none were left nearby. He turned back towards him.

Unlike Bran, Tristan did not think the blood was his.

Numb, he managed to grip the offered hand, and Morgan hauled him to his feet. He stumbled a bit, leaning into the other man's chest as he got his footing. The mud pulled and sucked at Tristan's feet as if he had cheated it.

"You-you—were injured—" Tristan stammered.

"Oh? I hardly feel it, now. Now come! Can you walk?"

The edge of Tristan's vision was starting to fade and he felt his knees buckle. The knight grabbed his shoulder, steadying him.

"Hey, now. Are you alright?"

But Tristan was frozen, horror and exhaustion catching up to him. He couldn't make sense of this other-worldly looking thing in front of him.

He couldn't remember how they got to the Tower, limping their way into a corner of the Hall where the injured were being treated. Morgan deposited him against the nearest wall, and he sank against it, staring blankly at the blood-stained ground.

He felt a warm hand on his elbow, and another under his chin, gently pressing it upwards. He came back to himself and found Morgan kneeling before him with a bowl of water and cloth.

"You're injured, my Lord. Let me see."

"What? O-Oh..." Tristan touched his fingers to his cheek, and they came away bloody. Morgan batted his hand away and dabbed the damp cloth to the wound. He seemed entirely different from the man he had just been on the battlefield. He was gentle and quiet, his amber eyes wholly focused on his work. Tristan could only stare.

"Your name...Morgan?"

"Yes, my Lord. Please, call me Mor. Only my mother calls me by my full name. Ah, and Bran. He's rather motherly too, isn't he? Hmm," Mor hummed, turning Tristan's chin from side to side. "Lucky you, it's not deep. I think a kitten could have done worse."

Tristan looked at him miserably, his face still in the other man's hands, feeling small despite that Mor was at least a head shorter.  He watched how his lips and the scars that cut across them curved, how they stretched as he smiled at him.

Mor thumbed at Tristan's cheek, tracing the cut, smearing fresh blood across his skin.

They stared at each other before a yelp sounded out in the room. Bran's wound was being stitched, and the man was looking green. Something sharp pierced Tristan's heart and he looked down, unable to watch.

Mor looked from Bran to Tristan, smirking before going over to the doctor stitching the man's face. He struck up a conversation with the healer that Tristan couldn't hear over Bran's cries.

Tristan swallowed against the lump in his throat and shut his eyes.

"He'll be fine," Mor told him as he returned, hand on his shoulder. Tristan didn't know how much time had passed. "And if it isn't too vain of me to say, I'd say that a good scar improves a man's looks. Honestly, they could have done him a favor and taken some off of that nose, too."

Tristan didn't look up from the hands, watching them shake in his lap. Mor's smile faded.

"You look a bit..." Mor frowned, "Surely that wasn't your first battle…?"

"No," Tristan replied under his breath, "But it…it never gets any easier."

Mor was silent a moment before barking a laugh, incredulous.

Tristan bristled and looked up at him.

"'Starling'—what—"

His anger faded when he saw that the man's eyes held no mockery. Instead, they shone with such intense curiosity that Tristan blushed. The man leaned in, whispering so that only he could hear him.

"I wonder…in what other ways is my Lord gentle?"