The priests call me "the devil's daughter" they never refer to me by my name, which in my opinion would be much simpler as it is quite a bit shorter, but oh well. I laugh at this which I suppose only encourages them to inflict more pain but being called the child of the devil is simply to humorous a situation to not laugh. For I am in no way related to the devil, I'm not even a distant cousin. My eyes contribute much to their belief of my "relation," they are so deeply brown that the black center almost blends with its surroundings.

I also suppose, to them, my father would be the devil for they are all condemned by his teachings. After he was excommunicated I was sent here. Well not here exactly, the dungeons came later, but here as in my godmother Fulcina and her vile husband Marius's estate.

For a short while I was treated with the respect that my "title"-I say it like this because I abhor being put above others-deserves. But when Marius received word that my father had been assassinated I was locked away here, in this torture pit, my father's teachings inadvertently damning me as well. Not that I resent my father in any way. Quite the opposite in fact. I believe he succeeded as both a philosopher and father in more ways than any dare to hope. I love him deeply, and even now, months after receiving word of his death the pain still twists my heart. He never once complained of my sex, which too many Roman men is considered inferior, or of his lack of sons, leaving no one to carry on the family name. He raised me as an equal, teaching me not only of domestic duties, but all of the things a child of any gender learns. I learned of maps, and history, and politics and gained a deep love of the free country I had once hoped Rome could become.

I suspect that my father knew all along that his teachings would be met with hostility for I was also taught to fight. The bow came easily to me; I gained a thorough understanding of it in a matter of weeks. The sword however was a different matter. It took me three years of practice to win a single sparring match with my instructor. But now, five years after that fateful match I can handle almost any weapon thrown my way. These skills have saved my life on many an occasion. Not that I take any joy in killing, I have only ever done so in self defense. But I expect that one day, should I ever leave this dungeon I will be called on to protect people I love. I would rip off the priests heads right now for torturing poor Lucan but after I nearly decapitated one of the guests Marius was showing his "playroom" to I am always chained to a wall or stone table.

Guinevere has been, as of recently, the most frequent visitor of the playroom. While I pity her I cannot help but distrust her. She seems to believe she is above all this. As though she could leave at any time but is waiting for something to happen, or for someone to arrive.

Lucan enjoys hearing my stories. His favorite is of when Marius dragged me to the dungeon. I managed to head-butt him in the nose and broke it. I was punished, severely, my first taste of Roman torture. But I would do it all again, if only to see the small smile of gratification that touched my godmother's lovely face. She fought so hard for me and the bruises she received for her disobedience were no longer hidden by her clothes where no one could see them. Her cheek had a large purple bruise marring it. But still that small smile made her beautiful because for that small instant in her long marriage to that swine I believe she truly felt free, powerful. She had been told her whole life that men like Marius were better than her, stronger, and here was her 19-year-old goddaughter breaking his nose.

Alecto and she snuck food to us whenever they could so I have not lost too substantial an amount of weight. Guinevere, who arrived a few weeks after I is skinnier, but then she was skinny when they brought her in so I don't worry too much. I give my food to Lucan whenever I can. I feel connected to him, neither of us has any parents, so I look after him.

I think often of my life before the corruptness of Rome became obvious in my eyes. I have little memories of my young childhood, but I know I was a troublemaker and I know that my father loved me all the more for it. If I remember correctly Arthur was always my favorite target. Before he left when I was five, him 19, he was a constant in our home. My father was his. Father even went so far as to name Arthur my guardian should anything happen to him. The only reason I even went to Fulcina was because it had been decided that Arthur would not want me. I personally believe that is a load of rubbish and they just don't wasn't him to know my father is dead.

I used to love sitting in his lap while he would tell me great stories of the Sarmatian knights, the same knights that I here he now leads. I did not seem him often after he left for his post. Only twice more before the excommunication, when I was 9 and 11. He seemed to have aged a lot during his absence but still had the time, and love, to tell me of his new adventures. Thankfully leaving out the gore and killing, sparing my innocent mind.

I imagine Arthur probably still thinks of me as that little 11 year old sitting on his lap. I was always rather tiny, often mistaken as years younger than I actually was. But know I have grown into my age, perhaps beyond it. The gore and killing in his stories would hardly cause he to bat an eye. I have seen it, I have experienced it. I can only hope that my father is watching over me, as I am certain he is in heaven, and will lead someone to rescue us, for I don't know that we will survive much longer. My name is Nova Pelagius and this is my story.