A quick Introduction:

This story is supposing that there passes a considerable amount of time between the withdrawal of the Roman Legions from Hadrian's Wall at the end of the 4th century and the massive invasion of the Saxons which is preceded by some minor incursions by the Barbarian threat on the Islands. The saving of Marius Honorius and Alecto has not taken place. Dagonet is very much alive. Arthur and Guinevere are not an item (yet) and a truce between the Woads and the knights has been decided, in fact they're starting to fight the Saxons side by side.

For those historically interested among you: I had to advance Pelagius' death about 11 years… Which means we're just somewhere in September around 408 AD, only days before Alaric I. (Germanic leader of the Visigoths) lays his first barbarian siege to the heart of the Western World: Rome. Unfortunately for any political correctness, my Saxons speak (or at least sing) German. Please bear with me.

All changes to actual historical facts are solely made in favour of the story and I apologise in advance if someone feels annoyed by the errors that might follow from those changes.

Note/Disclaimer: All depicted actions of war and battles are fictitious in regard to their exact place and date, if not mentioned otherwise. All similarities with original places or persons, other novels, films or work of art are purely meant as a reverence to said pieces of art or simply unintentional.

No slash-content intended. The reader may read into every line what he wants, but beware of secondguessing any intentions of the author.

Comments and Reviews are always much appreciated and will earn you my deepest thanks!

Rating: PG-13 (battle, blood, mild language and possibly erotic content as the story unfolds)


I. Foreboding

Softly the first grey light crept above the rim of the hill, while the sky above the knight's head remained in its nightly dark blue, as if fighting against the rise of the new day. Already, the stars were waning and yielding their shiny force to the rising light. Milky mist – so elemental of this island – covered the lush green plane that lay drinking the early morning's dew.

A soft neigh rose from the last trees on the foot of the hill, followed by an uneasy shift of balance and impatient hooves.

"I know, Nascien…" The knight softly patted his steed's neck to calm his own uneasiness. "It's too calm to be true, is it not?"

As if in agreement, the mount shook his head and shifted again. Both, knight and white steed, had kept guard throughout the night when all around them appeared to be soundly asleep. Nothing had bothered them all night, not even the nightly animals of the forest had stirred.

A soft rustle of leaves that sounded unnaturally harsh in this silence, made him turn around and prompted his hand to the hilt of his sword.

"It's me…" came from among the trees and suddenly a figure appeared in the darkness of the woodwork.

Exhaling, the tensed hand relaxed its grip on the sword.

"Tristan! You bloody fool…" he hissed. "You of all should know better than to creep up on me like this…"

A hint of a smirk appeared on the usually stern face of the newly arrived man. Although his appearance could be called shaggy in the best of situations, it didn't really mask the sturdy and battle-proven body of a great warrior.

"If I had really wanted to 'creep up on you', you'd be dead by now…" he offered in a hushed tone, grinning and pushing some of his plaited hair back.

The knight offered a sound of frustration from his perched position. "Anything…?"

"No. I just came to offer you something to eat…" Tristan said as he started playing with an apple that somehow had appeared in his hands, "…but seeing that you're in such a foul mood, I should probably keep it".

Another sound of frustration, this time rather dismissive.

"Keep it then." - "What is it? You itching? Not seen enough action lately?" Tristan offered, suddenly struck by the knight's tensed composure.

"Nah… It's just…" He shifted in his saddle. "…something. I can't say what."

"I know. It's too calm. Even the trees are holding their breath." An unseen shiver crept up Tristan's spine. Yes, something was afoot. But covered in the soft rising morning light, it hadn't shown itself yet. To the instinct of a warrior however, everything was screaming danger. Louder than a picket ever could.

"Ease up." He said, looking back up to the knight still seated on his mount, betraying his own apprehension. "How is your arm anyway?" and, apple still in hand, he pointed at the knight's left arm covered in white linen.
"It's fine." Came the short (and annoyed) answer.
"The Saxon blade did cut rather deep, if you ask me. Which of course you don't." The scout said, raising one eyebrow and biting heartily into the apple he had offered before.
"I didn't say that it didn't hurt, now, did I?" More annoyance.
"Let me have a look…" and with that Tristan moved to the knight's left side, stuffing the half eaten apple in his belt. He was careful not to show the disquiet that had befallen him at seeing the pale face of his friend only moments before.
"Leave it, Tristan." But his fellow knight had already taken his arm and started to unwrap the bandage that covered a fierce slash to his upper left arm, dealt by a Saxon blade the morning before. He hissed as the last piece of bandage come off the still open wound and the cool morning breeze hit his arm. Stupid, he thought.

"It's infected" Tristan only stated the obvious. "And the pallor in your face and your sour mood only show it too well." He started pulling out a new bandage and a small water skin from his friend's saddle bag.
"Well, that cannot be helped now, can it?" The knight answered impatiently, still keeping his eyes on the land below him, still tensed. Bloody stupid.

"No." Tristan said while dressing the wound and noting how the skin around it had turned fiercely red.
"How are the others?" The question finally came.
"Gawain… well, he's still weak, but not feverish, as you are. Which is a blessing, really. Couldn't stand both of your bad tempers as it is. We're all strained and tense, but… Hold still, boy." He pinned the end of the white cloth under the rest of the bandage and looked up, the ending of his sentence lost.

Silence. Only a distinct frown on the man's face showed that he had even heard what the scout had just told him.
"It's not your fault. None of it is."
"If I had kept a better vanguard…" he started. "Galahad." Tristan cut him off, shaking his head. "We have had enough battles in our lives. Stop battling yourself for once, will you?" he said, looking up into the greenish brown eyes of the younger knight.

Galahad only dropped his head in accordance with Tristan's advice and remained silent.
"I'm back to camp now…" – "I'll be along shortly." He said as Tristan disappeared into the wood like a spirit from an unspoken myth.

Bloody annoying. That's what it was, he thought.

After the first small wave of Saxons on British soil and the first burnt villages, Merlin, together with Guinevere – his second in command – had finally come to Hadrian's Wall to seek help with their deadliest enemy: Rome and his representatives.

Merlin must have seen what the future held for his people to dare such a hopeless plea for help. Or maybe he had seen what fate held for Arthur Castus, the British born Roman, destined for some higher purpose only known to the Mighty Powers.

But after a lot of pleading and discussion, the Round Table acknowledged the inhumane brutality of the new enemy and decided a truce with the Woad leader. Since Rome had decided to remove itself from the British Isles, nothing of the ultimate goal of a 'pax romana' had remained to be fought for. Neither for Arthur, nor Rome. Rome had abandoned the cumbersome outpost Britannia, in wise anticipation of the Barbarian threat of the Goths and Saxons moving west all throughout Europe, threatening the Empire's very core.

With his inherited allegiance to Rome gone and his beloved mentor Pelagius dead, Arthur had taken the only responsibility that had remained: protecting the people under his care at the garrison, now empty of any Roman troops, at Mons Badonicus and the ones that had decided to put themselves under his care. Just as Rome and the Pope were preparing for the Barbarian threat, Arthur and the Wall seemed to prepare for something, possibly for the same threat, but for different reasons. It was never clear to the people around him what had kept Arthur, the Roman, there. Everybody knew how he had once longed to see Rome again, he was a citizen of Rome by birth and it would have been right for him to return to the eternal city of his father. He stayed for reasons only obvious to him. Maybe it was Arthur, the Briton, staying at Badonicus.

And since he had stayed, his brothers in arms had stayed with him. There was no rational explanation for any of the knights why they had stayed. Maybe it was a deep felt opposition to Roman politics. Maybe they did finally see that this land had grown on them. They all had spent so much blood defending it, that it seemed futile to leave it behind, just because Roman officials had decided that Britain was expendable. It was a choice and it had been the first one offered to them in years. And there was Arthur of course. None of his remaining knights had a heart to leave him behind. He was their leader, their brother and their only guidance in this world. He had become their home.

And then Merlin had come to the Wall.

In peace, no less. Galahad thought sourly.

Then he laughed under his breath, for to him it still seemed like madness. Only months before had they fought against the blue painted natives of this land and seemed locked in an eternal struggle of power of these hills. And now a common enemy had aligned them together in one chain of resistance. He wondered at the shocking mood of fortune that had decided for them to help these blue demons who had killed many of his companions and wounded all of them more than once. But he couldn't keep himself to think back at the first burnt village, he had seen destroyed at the hand of the Saxons. At the brutality and the merciless anger towards their victims that made no difference between sexes or age. No, he would fight with the Woads against these Saxon devils who seemed to honour nothing, nor even care for their fallen comrades.

No, as long as Arthur saw fit for him to fight, he would. He had abandoned the dream of his native land long ago. Or rather it had been replaced with his allegiance to Arthur. Merlin's truce had made this quite apparent to all of them.

Why continue to dream for a homeland that only existed in fainting memories and unspoken images?

That dream had vanished like the mist below him under the majesty of the sun that had now risen of the top of the hill behind him. It had been replaced with the only thing and person they knew to be real: Arthur and their love for him as their leader and brother.

So now, whenever a cry for help was heard over the country the knights from the Wall rode out to help the ones that had willingly put themselves under their protection: the Britons.

They had done so three days ago, when word had reached Arthur that a new Saxon force of about 100 men were reported to have reached the eastern coast of the British land, this time to the south. They had ridden out, prepared to take on the Saxon horde from two sides in a perfectly Roman cavalry move that showed the knight's military training.

But none of them had counted on the Saxons' speed.

Too soon had they fallen on the enemy forces. They didn't meet them unprepared of course, but the knights were still taken by surprise. The Sarmatians had clashed with a Saxon vanguard of about 30 men. As usual the battle had been vicious and when the rest of the Saxon force made its appearance Arthur had called them back to regroup. All pulled back more or less unscathed except for Galahad – who had been hit by a Saxon blow aiming for his shoulder but glancing off his armour, had sliced open most of his upper arm instead – and Gawain who had been hit by an arrow the last surviving Saxon archer had managed to let loose before he was cut down by an angrily brandished Excalibur. The arrow had embedded itself into Gawain's upper left thigh, but hadn't caused too much damage.

And here we are. Regrouping and waiting for them, Galahad thought. He didn't like one bit of it. None of it. He felt like wild game giving sport to a pack of hunters.

And with that last thought on his mind, he turned his horse and went back to their camp.