Disclaimer: Dagonet, Arthur and co are not mine.
Warning for some sexual content.
There are benefits to being a Roman noblewoman. There are hot baths and scented pillows, there is the soft caress of silk against skin that is a whisper of a lover's touch that does not come. There are luxuries, fripperies, and the knowledge that such things shape an ideal: a prize that is more admired than appreciated, more owned than loved.
Decima was well trained; long resigned to a role that had her blown unresisting wherever her husband took her. She did not flinch when he eyed the young boys in the baths anymore, and let him place a propriatal hand over hers when they dined with other noble families. He was handsome and she was pretty. Everything they should be, everything that a high born Roman couple could aspire to be. Decima's role was set, and in the darkness when the silken dresses were shed, the gold jewellery gleaming on the table in her room, she sat at the window and breathed in the cold night air. What had happened to the grubby-kneed girl that she had once been? She wondered. What had happened to childish dreams of love and passion, the wild freedom she had dreamt of? There were already whispers amongst her family and so-called friends. To be married a year and not yet produce a child? Barren, they mutter, barren and useless. She let them talk, not that she had any choice in the matter. Better vicious rumours than the truth. Better to be a dried up husk of a woman than an object of pity; a confused virgin whose husband had taken one look at her on their wedding night, made his excuses and had not been near her bed since.
And so things might have continued were it not for an attack on their coach that left six guards dead, two horses stolen and the arrival of Arthur Castus and his Samartian knights. She knew of the legendary warriors - they were spoken of with giggles and reverence by the maids who seemed to think their mistress deaf to their gossip, and with a sneering reluctant admiration by her husband and his companions. In the middle of battle when the blue skinned Woads rushed toward them, feral and savage, cutting down all that stood in their way, Decima watched terrified and exhilarated. She did not scream when she was dragged from the carriage, she did not cry out when her husband's head was severed. She watched the crazed man with the matted hair and wicked blade when he stood before her, and waited to die.
She did not. The Woad pitched forward, eyes suddenly blank, a sword protruding from his chest, before the weapon was withdrawn. Looking up, Decima watched wide-eyed as a giant stepped towards her. The man's huge shoulders blocked out the light, and as he bent down to offer her his hand, she quailed.
"Have no fear, lady." He spoke quietly, and at his words she calmed a little. His face was stern, but his eyes were kind, and he pulled her to her feet as though her weight was nothing. "Are you hurt?" She shook her head mutely. The battle seemed to be over; the Woads had fled, her husband… Glancing around she saw his body half hidden in the long grass. Somewhere behind her a horse was screaming in pain before its cries were suddenly silenced, and dropping to her knees, Decima vomited until her chest hurt and her throat burned from the bile. Her rescuer crouched beside her, a big hand resting on her back until she had finished. "Come," he said quietly, giving her moment to wipe her face on her sleeve. He led her to his commander, watched as she was settled back into her carriage and rejoined his brothers.
They did not speak again until nightfall, although Decima watched him surreptitiously whenever he drew his horse near the carriage. Not a handsome man by Rome's standards, she thought to herself. He was too big, too rough. The scar that traversed his face marked him as a warrior, as did the way his eyes flicked watchfully around their surroundings. Her friends would have dismissed him as a tame savage, but Decima felt the pull of him, the gentleness allied with such strength and did not look away when he met her eyes. She spoke little and he less, but she sat beside him when they ate that night and watched him tear the meat from the rabbits that Arthur's scout had killed, with big deft fingers and shivered. It was three days ride to the wall, and she awoke the first night to see him sat a little way from her. A protective shadow in the darkness, his sword upon his lap. His eyes were tired, his posture slumped. Rising from her makeshift bed, Decima picked up one of her many blankets and walked over to him. He took the small comfort, his hands lingering just a little long when their fingers brushed. She nodded politely and left him at his post, but she did not sleep any more that night.
The next day she listened to the knights Gawain and Galahad bicker, answered Arthur's questions about Rome as best she could and smiled politely when Lancelot made flirtatious comments that were edged with contempt. Her husband's body rested at the back of the carriage. From time to time it bumped when the ground was especially uneven, and Decima looked back at it with a strange mixture of guilt and relief. She had wrapped him as best she could, said the right words, and even mourned in a strange detached way. He had not been cruel to her, and in a strange way he had been just as trapped as she had been. Now she travelled to Hadrian's wall and from there back to Rome, a widow not a wife. Free for as long as it took for her parents to arrange another suitable match, and she would not be given long to indulge in her false mourning, she knew that for certain. Her blood lines were impeccable, her family name enough to tempt any man of rank who wished to further his career. That she had a pretty face and gentle manners was an extra incentive, although deep inside she knew that she would still be sought after if she had the social graces of a pig and the face of a hag.
When they stopped for the night she managed to slip away. She was not stupid: she knew not to go far and remained within earshot of her guards, but just for a moment she wanted to drop the carefully emotionless mask that she hid behind. Just for a moment she wanted to breathe. Dropping to the ground, she leant against a huge beech tree and cried. Perversely revelling in the fact that her dress was getting muddy, her eyes piggy and swollen, her nose running. The sudden snap of a branch beneath a boot made her jump, and looking up, she raised red-rimmed eyes to the tall figure before her, dropping her head in embarrassment when she realised who it was.
"Lady?" Dagonet crouched down before her, reaching out tentatively before thinking better of it. "I know that you grieve for your husband, but it is not safe for you to be out here alone."
Decima laughed, a choked sound that held no amusement. With a twisted smile she met the knight's eyes . "I do not cry for my husband, Sir Knight, although I thank you for your concern." Rubbing the tears from her eyes, she dropped her gaze to her lap. " I cry because although I am sorry that he is dead, I am not free even now. I cry for what the future holds when I am back in Rome and made the property of whoever will serve my family's interests best." Reaching out, she took Dagonet's hand, detachedly comparing the difference between his calloused palm and her pale slender fingers. "I suppose that you think me wicked," she whispered.
"No." He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles gently. "There is no shame in wishing for freedom. There is no dishonour in wanting to make your own choices." His voice was low, and registering the pain in his voice, Decima felt guilty at whining about her own pampered existence when Dagonet himself was a slave to Rome.
"I'm sorry I…." Wanting to make amends, she scrambled to her knees, only to find her words failing her. Dagonet was very close, his face solemn, but something in his eyes flickered and burned and she could not look away. Reaching out, she traced his scar, bending forward hesitantly to brush her lips upon his. He made no move towards her, opening his mouth only when she became more insistent, pulling her towards him only when she grabbed at his shoulders with nervous inexperienced hands. When he gently disentangled himself from her, he ran a calloused finger over her swollen lips and felt his heart twist at the look of newly awakened hunger in her glazed blue eyes. Getting to his feet, he helped her up and took her back to the camp. Arthur would be worried if they tarried too long, and he would not risk Decima's reputation by having them discovered together. She seemed to understand, although she said nothing, and it was only when night fell that she came to find him.
The camp was quiet - one of the guards had killed a deer and they had all feasted on the venison gratefully. There had been no sightings of Woads nearby, and while Tristan was alert as ever as he took his turn keeping watch, most everyone was sleeping soundly. The scout watched the Roman woman pass by and inclined his head slightly when she hesitated. It was his duty to protect not to judge, and he would keep his friend's secret. He found his solace in the silent forests and the bright brilliant bloodshed of battle. Let Dagonet find comfort with the beautiful Roman with sad eyes if he could. Tomorrow she would be gone, but he would make sure that they were not disturbed tonight; that at least he could do for his brother.
Dagonet watched Decima approach with a bittersweet mixture of joy and sorrow. Her eyes gleamed beneath her hood, and when she looked at him questioningly before heading towards the forest, he stood and followed her, picking up his sword and blanket as he did so. Decima did not go far - she was obviously nervous, and he pulled her against him, revelling in her fragility, the softness of her skin. She was willing but obviously inexperienced, a fact that confused him a little given that she had been married. He stripped her of the heavy wool and silk, kissed the pale marble of her flesh, exulted in her muffled cries and whimpers. Perfect as a unicorn she gleamed silver in the moonlight, her eyes heavy with desire, and he almost left her when she first shuddered and spasmed around his probing fingers, feeling too big, to uncouth to take something so delicate. She had none of his hesitancy however; clawing and biting his shoulders when he covered her, crying out in pain and pleasure when he moved within her. She kissed him as though she were dying and he was salvation, and when they both collapsed sweating and sated, trembling as the last of their pleasure shivered through their veins, she muttered in protest when he slid from her body and pulled her against his chest. They lay together silent and unmoving until the sky coloured with the first flush of dawn, before dressing, helping each other with buckles and ties. Gentle touches that spoke more of comfort than passion, a quiet understanding that did not need explanations or pretence that the night had been anything other than a brief glorious moment that would not be repeated.
Decima slid past Tristan and clambered back into her carriage, doing her best to tidy herself and smiling in the darkness. She was a true woman now. One who had partaken in the pleasures of the flesh and revelled in them. She wriggled a bit, reawakening the soreness between her legs and feeling her skin flush as she remembered the big knight's hands, his mouth, the soft words he had whispered against her throat. It did not take long to reach Hadrian's wall, and while she watched Dagonet when she could and blushed when Lancelot gave a cool appraising look before lifting an eyebrow, she maintained her poise, thanked Arthur and his men for their kindness and courage and walked away without looking back.
That was two months ago, and resting her head against the side of the carriage in which she travelled, Decima watched as Rome loomed ever larger in the distance. The journey had been long and tiring; what had at first seemed to be sea-sickness the first hint that while she was returning without her husband, she was not travelling alone. Resting a hand on her still flat stomach, she smiled when the maid she had hired at Portsmouth harbour looked at her worriedly and offered her their water skin. The child would be welcomed by both her husband's family who were well aware of their son's sexual preference and longed for a grandchild, and by her own family who now had proof that their child was not the barren woman that people whispered about. Closing her eyes, Decima wondered at the life growing within her and felt a deep contentment despite her tiredness. This child would be loved, it would be given everything her father had been denied, and while her heart broke at the thought that he would never know what that one perfect night had brought about, she would honour him by being the best mother that she could be.
The coliseum rose high above them as they passed, the hustle and bustle of the traders and soldiers familiar and somewhat alien as their little carriage wound its way though the streets. Rome had not changed, Decima thought to herself, but she had. She would do as her parents asked - she had no choice in that, but she had tasted freedom, she had tasted passion, and whatever the future would bring, she had the memory of a huge man with gentle hands and a heart as big as the ocean she had crossed.
A/N. ok, so Dag isn't exactly a "beast" ( I have a bit of a thing for Ray Stevenson truth be told - shh don't tell anyone) but to a Roman noblewoman he would be pretty intimidating! Sappier and smuttier than I intended, but meh - that's the way it goes. I'll probably write fairytale type fics for all the knights eventually; Tristan and Dagonet are done, but it might take a while. If you have a request for a certain knight/ fairy tale fic then I'm open to ideas. I think that Vanora has to be "The Old Woman Who Lived In A Shoe" though lol. Thanks for reading, feedback is always appreciated.