Here is the "final" revised version of Worth It? There may be a few formatting issues just because of how it was set up.

I have to dedicate this final product to my amazing Beta Reader who has been so ridiculously patient with me. I also must dedicate this to two of my teachers who have continued to encourage me with my writing. And lastly, I must dedicate this to my friend who inspired me to finally deal with the formatting issues to post the entire, finished story for my readers.

Thank you.

~Kanae~

Prologue: A Single Tear

The gently rolling hills of her homeland stretch out from her as she stands at the edge of her village. It had been fifteen years ago since she had last stared hopefully at the horizon, but the sun is setting and so are her spirits.

Somehow, she knows. He is not coming back. It has been five weeks since he should have returned, but he has not. Somewhere in the back of her mind, though, she knew months ago. She could feel that he was gone. Today is just a formality.

Still, she stands, praying she is wrong, but as the sun sinks below the horizon line, leaving her enveloped in the blackness of a cold night, there is a type of finality that comes that sinks her to the ground.

In truth, she is numb. There is no pain; there is no sense of loss. There is nothing. She knows that in time, it will come and that she should enjoy this moment while it lasts, but the numbness feels wrong. As she sits on the ground, her mind wanders back to before he left, when they were but children.

He was her only friend. None of the other children would talk to her because of the birthmark on her face. It is said, in her village, that this is a sign of the devil but he did not believe it. He was her only friend, and he was the closest person to her. The two of them would run as free as the wild horses that roam the hills, and many a day was spent doing naught more than climbing trees.

There was one particular tree, a tall, sturdy old tree; from there they would watch the sunset and the twinkling stars appear in the night sky. Now that she thinks upon it, many a night was spent up in that tree as well. She would often fall asleep leaning against his shoulder, and because he could not carry her and climb down, and he would never leave her nor wake her, he would fall asleep there, too. How they did not both fall and break their necks is beyond her understanding.

Of course, their other favorite activity was horseback riding. Under normal circumstances, women of her village are not taught this art form. Certainly, they are taught to ride, but they are not taught much more than this for it is all that most of them need to learn. Fortunately for her, though, one of the village elders made an exception in her case because of an incident that he said proved that she was different.

One of the younger children was riding with an elder supervising him and a snake slithered out in front of the horse; the horse began to panic. The elder who was teaching the boy immediately ran out to try to calm the frightened creature, but it reared up and kicked him, sending him back into a tree. She had been watching and was the only other person there. She was not quite sure what to do, but she saw the boy's teacher was unconscious and could do nothing.

She almost ran to get help but when she looked at the child and saw the sheer terror that was expressed on his face as he clung to the horse for dear life, she knew the little one could only stay on the horse for so long. If the horse threw him, he could quite possibly be killed. It was in that moment that she rushed forward, grabbing the reins that the boy had dropped, and she began trying to speak soothingly to the terrified horse.

After a few moments in which the horse nearly trampled her then nine-year-old self, she calmed it enough that she could stroke it. She continued to stroke its mane and speak soothingly to it until it had entirely calmed down. When it had, she lifted the boy off and set him down on the ground. As soon as his little feet had made contact, he ran to somewhere behind her. She turned just in time to see the boy jump into the arms of the village leader.

The boy was the leader's son. The leader, Galvin the Brave, was apparently impressed with how she had been able to calm the horse. He said she was a gifted horse whisperer. It was he who taught her the art of riding a horse and developing that delicate and most important trust between horse and rider, but he would help her practice when Galvin was busy. And she remembers back to how he and she both would train for hours on end, riding and sparring. Then the day came when the Roman dogs took him away.

She wanted so badly to go with him. A young girl though she was, she was a surprising adversary who could, if not taken completely seriously, quickly overwhelm an enemy. She asked one of the Roman soldiers if she could go, too. After all, they were taking away her one and only friend for, at the least, fifteen years. He was the only reason she had not left her small village.

She had naught else to bind her to this lonely place with all of her family gone on before her. But the soldier refused, saying that women were not fit to be warriors, much less a little girl to become a knight. She was desperate though and she made the mistake of asking once more and he lashed out at her with his whip.

Even with the blood gushing from her temple and a sharp throbbing sting where the whip had made contact, she ignored it. She would not allow herself to cry. Seeing her 'insolence', he pulled back to try once more, but a hand caught the whip. He had caught it.

'Enough,' he had said with a voice that already sounded much older than his years.

'You DARE give me an order, boy?' the Roman exclaimed indignantly.

'She is just a girl. Are you so weak that you must abuse her to show your power?'

'You,' the Roman growled, 'will be taught respect soon enough once you are in civilized Roman society, far away from this barbaric place.'

Thus said, he stormed off. She glared after the Roman until she felt one rough hand on her shoulder and the other brushing her hair out of her face to allow a better view of her wound.

'Why would you do that? He could have killed you.'

'Oh, what does it matter?' she had exclaimed, shoving his hand away from her forehead. 'I wish he would have. It could be no worse than this torture I have been sentenced to endure.'

'Do not let this be the last I hear from you before I must go or I shall be miserable.'

'Every day that you are gone, some Woad or Saxon could kill you.'

'Just as our people's enemies could do here,' he had pointed out.

He always did love pointing out the blatantly obvious and yet, at the same time, entirely missing the point.

'I know that! But at least...' she stopped not believing that she had almost said it.

'At least what?'

He looked at her with those brown eyes that see straight through to her soul and she childishly looked away, because she knew if he saw her eyes, he would understand. Of course, he never could leave well enough alone and tilted her face up to where he could see it. He then repeated his question, 'At least what?'

She almost answered him, but the Roman interrupted.

'Alright you heathen Sarmatians,' he called, getting the attention of all. 'It is time to leave and for you to begin your usefulness to the Roman Empire.'

He removed his hand from her shoulder where it had been the whole time as he turned to look at the man. He then looked back to her a second later.

'I must go,' he had said.

Thus spoken, he turned to leave, but she grabbed his arm. Surprised, he turned back to her once more, but he did not get a chance to say anything, because she temporarily lost her calm practiced control over herself and kissed him before quickly pulling back.

It was nothing more than a childish, chaste kiss, but he and she were both confused by it. He stared at her in surprise, unsure of what his response should be to such an unexpected thing; she was embarrassed that she had let her emotions get the best of her and frustrated with herself for what she had done.

She had kissed her best friend whom she has liked for a long time, but could not tell the truth.

With such a realization, she had panicked and done the only thing that her jumbled mind could think of at the moment. She shoved him down and ran in the opposite direction.

She could hear him call after her, 'Iseult. Iseult!' but she continued to run towards the trees. She could not have answered him even if she had wanted. Already, the tears she had before restrained streamed down her face. She made it all the way to the tree that he and she would sit in the most, and she somehow climbed onto one of their favorite branches in the tree. It was there that she weeps.

Now, she finds herself running to that tree once more. Upon reaching it, she begins her climb. Being of the age of one and thirty does not hinder her for she cares not what the other people of this village say of her. She is an outcast already, entirely alone in the world. What more could they possibly hope to do?

She reaches the branch with no effort at all and pulls herself onto it. It is this tree that he and she had climbed every day. The same tree where quite a few nights, she had fallen asleep against his shoulder. The same tree that she had run to when he was taken away by the Romans, and now, as he has been taken from her permanently.

She leans back against the trunk of the tree, for he is not here for her to lean on, and she curls up with her chin resting on her knees, her dark brown hair blowing into her face due to the chilled night air. As she brushes it away, she realizes a single tear has fallen. It falls into the cold, unforgiving night, and echoes throughout the lonely hills, the wind carrying upon it naught but a name.

Tristan