Sir Rowan Williams: Alt

The corridor was silent, the only sound the faint scrape of boots against stone. Rowan moved cautiously, every muscle coiled, alert to the slightest sign of intrusion. He had sensed the shift in the castle all day whispers of suspicion, furtive glances, and now, the unmistakable presence of the man he had warned himself about: her husband.

Jame’s emerged from the shadows, stepping forward with a predatory grace. His eyes, cold and calculating, locked onto Rowan with a dangerous awareness. The tension in the air was palpable, each man measuring the other, hearts thundering in the quiet stone hall. Rowan’s hand instinctively brushed the hilt of his sword, a reflex honed from years of battle, but he hesitated. He had no desire for this fight, not fully, not here. His duty was to protect her, not engage in a duel born of malice. “You think you can sway her?” Jame’s hissed, voice low and venomous, carrying both accusation and amusement. “You think you can turn her from me? A knight meddling where he does not belong?”

Rowan’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. He had never sought to “turn” her, only to defend her, to speak truths the husband refused to hear. And yet, standing here, the truth of his loyalty only inflamed the other man. Rowan’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, the pain of anticipation sharp in his chest.

Before he could react, Jame’s struck. A flash of steel, a vicious twist, and Rowan staggered backward as a knife sank deep into his side. Pain erupted, searing through muscle and bone, stealing Rowan’s breath in a violent gasp. His knees buckled, the stone beneath him cold and unyielding. Blood blossomed across his tunic, warm and sticky, as the husband loomed closer, eyes gleaming with triumph and rage.

“You have overstepped, Rowan,” Jame’s spat, pressing the blade further, driving Rowan against the wall. “You dare interfere in my life, my wife, my claims? Do you think loyalty to her makes you safe?”

Rowan’s fingers clawed at the stone, trying to steady himself, but each movement made the knife press deeper, a relentless agony that stole his strength. His breath came in shallow, ragged pulls. Rage and fear collided inside him rage at the betrayal, at the cruelty, at the man who thought himself entitled to both power and obedience, and fear for the Princess, whose life might now hang on the edge of this violent confrontation.

He tried to rise, to push back, to find a strike of his own, but the husband’s strength was brutal, overwhelming. Another blow forced him down, the tip of the dagger slicing across his side, sending sparks of pain through his veins. Rowan’s vision blurred, the torchlight wavered, and shadows seemed to twist around the husband’s towering form.

“You should have stayed in your place,” Jame’s said, pressing the knife with deliberate cruelty. “Instead, you’ve chosen to challenge me. You’ve chosen death.”

Rowan gritted his teeth, trying to control the tremor in his limbs. Pain lanced through his chest and ribs, every heartbeat a reminder of the knife’s merciless hold. His hands were slick with blood, trembling as he pressed against the stone, willing himself to remain conscious, to endure, to survive. He could not fail her—not while even a single spark of life remained in him. Jame’s crouched slightly, eyes narrowing, a cruel smile playing on his lips. “Look at you, bleeding, helpless, and yet you still cling to your foolish ideals,” he sneered. “Do you really think loyalty will save you? Or that your love will protect her?”

Rowan’s mind raced, each thought jagged and desperate. He had fought countless enemies, survived ambushes, storms of arrows, and battles that would have crushed lesser men—but none of those compared to the intimate, suffocating threat of this man. This was not just physical—it was a war of dominance, of cruelty, of a man who would stop at nothing to assert control.

He tried to speak, to warn, to reason—but his voice caught in his throat, choked by pain and blood. Each breath was fire in his lungs, each heartbeat another hammer driving the knife further into him. Yet even here, in the grip of death’s shadow, Rowan’s thoughts remained on duty, on protection, on her.

“You will not break me,” he managed finally, a hoarse whisper, though even he doubted the strength behind it. “I... will not let you harm her.”

Jame’s eyes flickered, a flash of irritation breaking his cruel amusement. Another shove, another press of steel, and Rowan collapsed fully against the wall. Darkness pressed at the edges of his vision, pain screaming through every fiber of his body. His fingers brushed the hilt of the knife, blood slick, trembling with both instinct and fear. He felt himself slipping, each second a battle between life and unconsciousness as he heard Jame’s walking away.

The world narrowed. The cold of the stone under his knees, the metallic scent of blood mingling with the torches’ smoke, the distant echo of footsteps retreating it all became fragmented, surreal. Rowan’s mind raced despite the agony. He had survived countless battles. He had faced swords and arrows and fire, but this this betrayal, this calculated malice was different. It cut deeper than the blade itself.

He pressed his hands to the wound, trying to staunch the bleeding. His breath came in ragged, harsh pulls. The metallic taste filled his mouth. Pain spread like wildfire, scorching through his chest, his arms, his legs. Every heartbeat pounded like a drum of doom. His vision blurred at the edges, the torchlight dancing in cruel patterns.

Anger surged through him as well, raw and burning. It was not just the pain of the blade it was the betrayal, the deliberate cruelty of a man who claimed to be her husband. Rowan’s teeth clenched, his fingers digging into the stone floor as if he could hold himself upright by sheer force of will. He had warned her, had tried to shield her from the consequences of a marriage built on lies and malice, and now his own loyalty had been repaid with blood.

Rowan’s mind flickered to her. The Princess. He imagined her discovering him like this, the shock, the fear, the helplessness. He wanted to speak, to tell her to flee, to know she was safe but his lungs screamed in protest. Each word became a struggle, each movement agony. The knife pressed against his heart, relentless, heavy, and merciless.

Time stretched. Minutes felt like hours as he struggled to stay conscious, to remain upright, to hold onto the last fragments of control.

He felt cold seeping into his bones, felt the warmth of life slipping through his fingers like water through a broken vessel. He thought of duty, of honor, of the oaths he had sworn. Even now, even here, bleeding and betrayed, he felt the weight of his responsibility—protecting her, even if he could no longer protect himself.

His vision flickered. Shadows bled into shapes, the torchlight wavered, and for a moment he glimpsed the faint outline of her figure. Relief surged, but it was laced with pain so intense it nearly stole his breath. He tried to rise, to reach her, to warn her of the danger that would follow if her husband realized her awareness of his betrayals. But the knife held him fast, relentless and unforgiving.

Anger, sorrow, and helplessness warred within him. How many times had he drawn sword for her? How many nights had he silently endured hunger, exhaustion, and battle to keep her safe? And now he was here, broken, stabbed by the man he despised, almost at the threshold of death, and powerless to move.

The torchlight danced over his features, highlighting the strain of his muscles, the sheen of sweat and blood that coated his skin. He tasted iron, felt it trickling down his chest, and tried to focus on the rhythm of his breathing, fighting to hold consciousness. Rowan’s mind kept returning to the Princess, to the life he had silently hoped she might one day have without pain, without betrayal.

Each heartbeat became a battle.

The pain was unrelenting, each heartbeat a hammer against his ribcage, the knife lodged deep enough that every breath felt like fire ripping through his chest. Rowan’s vision swam, the torches along the corridor stretching into wavering streaks of light. His legs trembled beneath him, and he sank lower onto the cold stone floor, fingers scraping against the uneven surface to hold himself upright. Blood ran warm and heavy down his chest, staining the fabric of his tunic and pooling beneath him.

And then he heard her.

The quiet shuffle of her dress, soft but unmistakable. The weight of her presence hit him like a gust of wind, stirring something primal in him: relief, terror, desperation. Rowan’s chest heaved, each inhale burning, but the sound of her near steadied him in a way nothing else could. He tried to lift his head, to meet her gaze, to reassure her that she would be safe even as he bled, but the knife held him fast, stabbing deeper with every heartbeat. Pain stole the strength from his limbs.

He could hear her footsteps drawing closer, hesitant yet deliberate, and it tore at him that she would see him like this helpless, bloodied, near death. His hands, slick with his own blood, scraped at the stone again, trying to shift just enough to ease the pressure, to breathe, to make the pain tolerable.

A cough tore from his throat, bitter and wet with blood. He pressed a trembling hand to the wound, hoping against reason that somehow the bleeding would slow, that he could hold himself upright long enough for her to reach him. Every movement, however slight, sent jolts of agony through him. His fingers shook violently, leaving red streaks on the stone floor.

When he finally felt her presence so close he could sense the warmth, Rowan’s chest tightened not just from pain but from the fear that he might never see her whole, that he might leave her burdened and alone. He tried to speak, to tell her to flee, to warn her of her husband’s cruelty—but words failed him. A choked rasp escaped instead, wet and ragged, a sound that was barely human. “F-fuck.”

Rowan’s fingers brushed against the floor, slick with his own blood, and he tried to shift slightly, the motion sending a wave of agony through him. His vision blurred further, each flicker of torchlight like a cruel reminder that he was slipping, that he might never rise from this stone floor again. Yet he could feel her presence, the pull of her nearness, and it gave him a strange strength, fragile but vital.

When she finally knelt beside him, when he could feel the warmth of her hands near, it sent a jolt through him stronger than any pain. Relief, sharp and overwhelming, collided with the agony in his chest. His lips trembled, trying to form words, but the knife pinned him fast. His vision blurred, tears mingling with blood, streaking down his cheeks.

Even as darkness pressed at the edges of his mind, Rowan clung to her presence. He felt the shaking of her hands, the quiet panic in her movements, and the guilt rose hot and bitter: that she had to see him like this, helpless, bleeding, torn by the violence of a man she had been forced to call husband.

He tried to lift his head, just enough to meet her gaze, to tell her it would be all right, but the pain exploded anew, burning through ribs, through lungs, through heart. His fingers dug into the stone again, trembling violently, anchoring himself to the last threads of consciousness.

“Princess.” he rasped in his mind, though the words could not form. “You must go. Leave. Run far away from here. Away from...Him.” He looked into her eyes even as the pain got worse and worse. “Please. You need not to worry about me, my love. Just go.”