Chapter one has been completed in the new style.

This is as close to a Mary Sue as I've ever published. And this is probably as far as I'll go.

I don't own any of the characters except my own. Yadda, Yadda, so don't sue my penniless self!

Chapter 1 Rescue

Darkness, and pain, and cold. That's all I had known for... Days? Weeks? I no longer knew, nor cared. All I knew was that Mamma and I had been captured in late summer and though it had always been cold in this hell hole, it had only recently become the bone aching, numbing cold of winter. All I had was my tattered summer shift, and that barely covered what it should.

I curled myself around my aching, dislocated knees and prayed for death to come quickly as I listened to skinny monks chant in Latin, the moans of my fellow prisoners, and the rattle of chains. Tears made new tracks through the grime on my face. I think. I couldn't feel so light a touch anymore.

I looked over at Mamma's decaying body, still lying in the cell with me. They hadn't bothered to pull the "witch" out after she'd died. I longed for the energy to be angry. At least if I was angry, maybe I could fight, even as badly as I hurt, I could fight. Lethargic hopelessness had crippled me far more than the beatings, rapes, and the most recent damage inflicted on my knees. And all had been done in the name of God. I knew these misguided monks were not of God. Mamma and I were not witches and our souls hadn't needed saving. Mine still had no need for salvation. For their version of salvation.

As I drifted in and out of consciousness, new sounds entered my cold, dark world. Footsteps, heavy ones, accompanied by the jangle and clatter of armor and the creak of leather bindings.

And light. I squinted against the light that had seemingly flared into sudden existence.

The head monk stopped chanting and began to whine and threaten the new comers, insisting that they were defiling the temple of God.

I choked. Temple of Satan, maybe. This was never a temple of the Most High.

New voices answered the monks. Angry male voices.

My heart hammered in my chest. They were speaking Briton. There was smattering of commonly used Latin, words, but the thought that worked in my brain was that I could understand them. The fat, piggish Roman, my captor spoke only highborn Latin when he visited to see if any of the prisoners had 'converted'.

I made an excruciating effort to sit up, pain shooting violently through various parts of my body with every slight movement. It was all I could no not to scream. If the new comers were not here to rescue, they need not know I still lived.

"Out of the way!" one of the new voices demanded. Then there was silence for a moment before he continued. "The work of your god. Is this how he answers your prayers?"

"See if there are any still alive," a second voice said in calm answer to the first's veiled accusation.

I flinched at the sudden crash of metal against metal. The following squeak of little used hinges drowned out my whimper from the pain.

One of the new comers retched.

"How dare you set foot in this holy place!" one of the monks hissed, angrily.

There was a strange sound, followed by a death gurgle.

"That was a man of God!" the head monk cried.

I would have been violently sick, had there been anything in my stomach to come up. I shuddered at the unwanted memory of the things done to me in this 'holy place' by 'men of God'.

"Not my god!" the first of the new voices shouted him down.

"This one's dead." the second voice spoke up, immediately followed by a third.

"By the smell, they're all dead."

"And you. You even move, you'll join him." said a fourth voice, younger than the others and sounding a bit shaken, right above me.

More metal clattered. "Arthur!" The third voice. He murmured something else after that, but I couldn't quite hear.

The flame of a torch whipped back and forth in front of my cell. As the light flickered over Mamma's rotting body, I tried to scoot myself closer to the opening and the flickering torch, but the pain made it impossible. The light bearer started to move away, having not noticed me huddled in the corner.

"Help me, please!" The sound of my own voice startled me. It more closely resembled the rasp of an old woman than the lilting voice of a young one.

The metal bars that covered my little piece of hell were moved aside and the face of a golden haired warrior appeared in the opening. His blue eyes glittered in the torch light. With a grimace, probably of disgust, he reached around Mamma to offer me a hand.

As I reached for it, I raised my face fully to the light.

He gasped. Surprised that he was rescuing an ill, broken girl instead of a battered, feeble, old crone? Maybe. Whatever the reason for his surprise, he wedged the torch into a gap in the wall, then reached out both hands to me.

I swallowed the screams and forced myself to move forward. Father, God give me strength to do this!

He lifted me into his arms, as easily as he would have a child, though he seemed to be doing so gingerly, in case I were injured.

He had no idea.

He reclaimed the torch, but was careful to hold it away from me so I would not get burned by the falling sparks.

I forced myself to look around the room that would haunt my dreams for the rest of my life.

In addition to the golden warrior who bore me, there were three other strange men. One, a large, frightening man with many scars and a shaved head was tenderly collecting a little boy into his arms as another man, with the bearing of a powerful man and dressed as a Roman soldier, lifted another woman, about my own age with the blue skin markings of a Wode, from the cold stone floor. The third man, with black, curly hair and cold, blue eyes, met my gaze with a dark, surly look. He held a sword in one hand and a torch in the other. A second sword was sheathed across his back.

The sword in his hand was bloodied. I followed the dark, wet stain on the floor by his feet, to the other that was slowly spreading from the crumpled looking heap of rags that had once been one of my tormentors. Father, forgive me. I feel no remorse for his eternally damned soul.

The other two 'monks' were cowering by the archway that lead up and out to freedom.

"Can you walk?" The golden man holding me asked, quietly.

I shook her head against his shoulder. "My knees are out of place and will bear no weight." I didn't even bother to mention how much the rest of my body hurt every time I so much as twitched, and I didn't yet care to ponder the implications of what some of those pains might mean.

The dark man nodded and turned on the remaining two 'monks', herding them out of the hell hole by prodding them ahead of him with his bloody sword.

The Roman bearing the Wode woman followed, then the giant with the little boy. The young man who was carrying me followed last.

"Water! Get me some water!" I heard the regal Roman bellow, but I really didn't care. The sky, which I had not seen for a long time, was heavy with thick gray clouds and spitting snow, but it was still too bright for me, so I was actually seeing very little, shielding my eyes with my hands.

I did feel someone brush past us, then the golden warrior knelt slowly and set me gently on the ground.

"Here. Drink slowly." he whispered.

I did so willingly, though I was careful not to drink too much, too quickly. Even had I not heard my fellow prisoners coughing from trying to drink too greedily, I was raised in a wood wife's hut. I was a healer. Cold water. Empty stomach. Bad combination, especially when the drinkers were already dehydrated, ill, and injured.

I heard an exclamation over a broken arm, just out of my line of sight. "And his family?"

Silence.

Father, is this why you brought me alive through this? So I can help them? But did it have to be so painful? Would I have been here otherwise?

"She's a Wode." I heard someone mutter.

"Stop what you are doing!"

This voice I knew. This voice made me shudder. A whimper even escaped me as he began to shout and scream at everyone.

"What is this madness?" the man who had carried out the Wode girl demanded.

"They are all pagans here!"

Speak for yourself.

"So are we." A young man, who was a darker version of my golden rescuer, replied with a slight sneer.

"They refuse to do the task God has set for them! They must die, as an example."

"You mean they refused to be your surfs!"

Steel scraped and rang as the Roman warrior shouted down my captor, but I was nearing my breaking point. My rescuer was still kneeling next to me. I whimpered in fear and hid my face against his armored shoulder. He had to feel my shaking, though I could not tell how much of that was from fear and how much was the cold. The hell hole's one good thing was the lack of wind and the gust that cut through my rags just then was icy. My breath hitched in my throat, making me hiccup.

I realized the shouting had stopped when he gently lifted me into his arms again and carried me to a wagon. Out of the wind and away from the threat of being returned to the hole, I managed to calm the shaking.

"My name is Gawain," he said softly. "What is yours?"

"Bree." I was suddenly very aware of my filthy, ragged, not to mention reeking state, and though it would do absolutely no good, I nervously she tucked some of by ash blonde, dirty stringy hair behind my ears.

"I must go now, Bree, but I will return. Soon."

"Wait!" I reached out and managed to weakly clasp the edge of his armor.

He looked at me, both surprised and curious.

"I hear the drums, and I know that the Saxons were on their way when I was captured. What direction are you taking to leave this valley?"

The Roman warrior stepped past us into the wagon, carrying the Wode. He was closely followed by the giant with the little boy, and a well dressed, Roman lady, probably my captor's wife. He was not going to be happy with her.

"Arthur?"

He gingerly placed the woman on a pile of furs, then stepped out into the swirling snow before looking to Gawain to explain himself.

"Her name is Bree."

The tone of respect and deference in the young man's voice confirmed what I had already suspected. He was the leader.

He gave me a slight bow by inclination of the head. "I am Arthur Castus."

"The leader of the famous Sarmation knights, defenders of the wall." I was not asking a question, even though he responded as if I had.

"Yes."

I startled him then, as I pulled enough of my old self together to meet his steely gray gaze. For a moment. Then my confidence shattered and my hands started to shake as I looked away.

"Why do you ask about our direction, Bree?"He sounded suspicious.

"Because I hoped to be of service. I'm a healer, skilled with herbs. My home is- was on the East trail. If you are leaving that way, I'd like to stop there and retrieve some herbs and things necessary for helping my fellow prisoners." I hesitated before plunging on. "And there are a couple things that I would be loathe to lose to the Saxons' fire."

"How did you know about the Saxons?"

He did not appear to be liking what I was saying.

I took the time to slowly draw a calming, deep breath. "My brother is a woodsman in these parts and further to the North, as far as the sea. He helped take down a small reconnaissance group of the barbarians last spring and by that, he guessed that they would soon try to invade again. He told us he would be back soon to let us know what was happening, then returned to the Northern coast. That was early Summer. In late Summer, my mother and I were accused of witchcraft and imprisoned." Movement over their shoulders drew my eyes out of the wagon and onto the scowling face of my captor as he climbed into another wagon.

The shaking instantly spread to the rest of my body. He'd never actually touched me in any way, but he had watched, and occasionally directed the 'monks' to do... Things.

Arthur looked where I was looking, and scowled.

The highborn Roman scrambled into his wagon. His son followed hesitantly.

The leader of the Sarmation knights turned back to face me. "One of my men found a clear trail to the East. I believe we may be able to stop briefly, but Bree, you must hurry and gather your things. You will only have minutes."

"Yes, Sir. I understand. I will need someone to pop my knees back into place and bring me some sticks to lean on."

Arthur called over the giant. "Dagonet, this is Bree,"

The large man looked briefly at me and nodded.

"She is a healer, in need of some healing herself, but she'll help as much as she can." the Roman warrior turned back to me. "Dag is a man of few words, but a good man. He and the lady will help you until we are moving. I will return once we are and set your knees before we reach your home."

I nodded, my fingers absently trying to find more loose strands if hair to smooth into place.

Arthur turned and strode away leaving Gawain standing next to me.

His blue eyes glinted with unvoiced emotion. "I'll come and help him, then take you home." He hesitantly moved his hand, as if to touch my cheek, then drew back suddenly and turned to follow in the wake of his commander.

I wondered if he had noticed me flinch, but he was gone before I could utter a single word of thanks.

Dagonet carefully moved me to a pile of furs so the wagons could get moving.

We had not been rolling long before Gawain and Arthur returned.

"How is he?" Arthur asked the giant.

"He burns." was the frank reply. Then tenderly, "Brave boy."

"I may need your help a moment."

Dagonet nodded.

Gawain laid a pair of crutches near the opening of the wagon and carefully maneuvered around the small boy and the Wode woman to where I sat, now wrapped in furs, my hair tamed into a single braid.

Arthur was kneeling before me, gingerly prodding and feeling one of my knees. I knew he was trying to figure out the damage and how best to pop it back into place, but it was all I could do to keep that thought in mind. He looked up and straight into my eyes. "Bree, this will hurt. A lot. Do you need something to bite down on?"

I shook my head and purposefully gritted my teeth, my nostrils flaring as I carefully breathed only through my nose.

"Gawain, get behind her for support."

He knelt behind me and gently slid my body against his.

To force myself past the panic of being surrounded by so many men, I reached over my shoulders and found the edges of Gawain's breastplate. I then gripped them with all the strength I could muster.

"Dag."

"Yes, Arthur?"

The Roman commander gently adjusted his grip on my leg and nodded to the other. "If we can set both knees at the same time it will hurt more, but shorten the experience."

The large man nodded in agreement and knelt opposite Arthur, gently fingering my other knee before also settling into a preparatory grip on my leg.

Arthur met my gaze again. "Ready?"

"Yes!" I hissed through gritted teeth.

Gawain and Dag gave him affirming nods.

"On three. One. Two."

I squeezed my eyes tightly shut.

"Three."

I felt myself scream. I felt the scrape and crunch of joints popping back into place.

Then darkness swallowed me and carried me away from the pain.