Across the field, Baelor was looking at Duncan, with Raymond slinging his one arm on the larger man's arm. Steely Pate was looking at the man's injury as he dragged him to the side.
"Is it over?" Ciri said.
"The trial is," Finn said.
She looked at him. He didn't say anything else. He kept his eyes on Baelor, still near Duncan, the crowd still roaring around them both.
But then it hit him.
He felt something cold settle in his stomach that had nothing to do with the wound in his side.
Baelor's helmet wasn't dented.
In the story, Maekar's mace had found his brother's head during the trial. The injury had looked like nothing at first. It killed him later. But Finn and Lyonel had kept Maekar occupied, and Baelor had spent most of the trial handling the kingsguard instead of his brother, and now the man was crouching in the mud with an undented helm with his full health, and now they're heading towards a future that was no longer the one Finn had read about.
He stood there with that thought for a moment.
Then he pressed his hand against his side and started walking.
Ciri appeared beside him without being asked, her shoulder under his arm, taking his weight without comment. He let her. His legs were still working but shaky.
When they reached the cluster of people around Duncan, Baelor saw them.
"Good fight, ser," he said. His eyes moved to Finn's side, to the hand pressed against it, to the dark stain spreading through the gaps in the plate.
Finn caught the look. "Just a flesh wound, your grace. Nothing to worry about."
Baelor said nothing to that. He looked at it a moment longer, then back at Finn's face.
"I'll send my maester to you after he tends to my brother and Ser Duncan."
"No need." Finn shook his head. "There's a reason I came as a mystery knight, your grace. I'd prefer to keep it that way."
Baelor held his gaze for a moment. Then he nodded once and let it go.
A heavy sound drew both their attention. Duncan had gotten himself to his knees in front of Baelor, moving like every part of him hurt, which it probably did.
"I am your man, ser," he said. "Your man."
Baelor crouched in front of him. He put a hand on the big knight's shoulder. "The realm needs good men, Ser Duncan." He said it quietly. "Rest. We'll talk when my maester's seen to you."
—
They left the grounds without getting attention, slipping out through the thinning crowd before anyone thought to stop them. The horses they left where they stood. Finn wasn't getting back on one anytime soon.
Ciri had his arm over her shoulder and was doing most of the work. They moved through the edge of the meadow in something approaching a normal walking pace, keeping to the quieter paths between tents, away from the main crowd that was still buzzing with the trial.
By the time the tent came into view his legs had gone from shaking to simply not working at all. Ciri got him inside and sat him down and started to take off the armour without asking.
The breastplate came off first. Then the pauldrons. When she got the plate clear of his side and pulled the padding away from the wound, she paused for a second.
It was worse than it had looked from the outside. The cut was deep enough that the bleeding barely slowed down.
"Finn…" she whispered, a slight panic came over her.
"Bag," he simply said. His voice was quieter than he'd intended.
She grabbed it and put it in his hands. He got it open and felt through it, and pulled out a vial that was a particular shade of red. He poured half of it directly into the wound, which made him close his eyes and say something under his breath, then poured the rest across the cut on his wrist. Then he upended a bit of what remained of the bottle and drank it just a little bit.
It took a minute. Then the bleeding slowed. Then it stopped. The edges of the wound drew together gradually, not clean, but still it closed nonetheless, and the particular cold that had been spreading through his side pulled back and went away.
He let out a long breath.
Then he looked at the bottle, tipped it toward Ciri, and raised his eyebrows.
She took it without arguing, which told him her injuries were hurting more than she'd let on. She drank what was left and sat back against the tent pole, one arm still held carefully against her side.
For a while neither of them said anything.
Finn looked at the ceiling of the tent. He started to laugh, quietly, which pulled at the healing wound and he stopped and started again anyway.
"I will never do that shit again," he said.
Ciri laughed too.
"It was a bit fun though." Finn admitted.
"You almost died," she said.
"Eh." He shifted against the bedroll, finding a position that his side would tolerate. "What's life without its challenges?"
She looked at him with amusement.
"Though I mean it," he said. "Never again."
The meadow noise came in from outside, distant and cheerful, entirely unbothered by what had just happened on the tourney grounds. Someone nearby was playing music. A dog was barking.
Finn stared at the canvas above him.
"We've changed it," he said, after a while. "The history of this world. I don't know if it's bad or good."
Ciri was quiet for a moment. "Prince Baelor is supposed to die, isn't he?"
"Yes."
"He seems like an honorable man." She looked at her hands. "It feels like a good thing."
"On the surface." Finn exhaled slowly. "But I keep thinking about what comes after this tourney. If Baelor lives through it and goes on to be what he was meant to be, which is a great king." He paused. "I don't know. The world might be better if he dies in the long run perhaps. As it might shift everything that comes after in ways I can't calculate."
Ciri was watching him. "And what comes after this tourney?"
"A plague," Finn said. "If I remember correctly."
She said nothing for a moment. Then: "How soon?"
"I don't know." He looked at her. "But… we need to be off this world before it arrives."
Ciri nodded slowly. She didn't argue. She pulled her knees up and rested her arms across them and looked at the tent entrance, where the afternoon light was coming in high through the gap in the canvas.
Outside, someone cheered at something. The dog was still barking.
"First thing in the morning tomorrow?" she said.
"First thing," Finn said.
He closed his eyes. The wound in his side had settled into a dull and manageable ache, the potion doing what it could. His helm was dented. His wrist had stopped bleeding. He was, as far as he could tell, mostly intact.
He thought about Baelor standing on the mud beside Duncan. About the undented helm.
He thought about what the world looked like after this.
Then he stopped thinking about it, because there was nothing to be done about it now.