Super long Author's Note! :
So, after much reviewing of my story, UNDISCLOSED DESIRES, I decided to delete it and completely rewrite it. I just wasn't happy with it. Thank you to everyone who loyally read and reviewed what I had written; I hope you like this version just as well!
Alright, so, warning … this story is going to be VERY AU. It is set about a year before the movie; the Emperor of the Western Roman Empire at the time of Rome's withdrawal of Britain was Honorius. He was usurped by a man named Constantine III, who was proclaimed Emperor of Britain. I'm taking historical liberties here, please don't kill me. Also, I am naming the fort at Badon Hill as Uxelodonum, which was the largest Roman fort of Hadrian's Wall.
Ummmmmm ….. so, ya. I hope you enjoy! Please review; I love to hear your words of praise and encouragement and even your (constructive) criticism. Thank you!
Disclaimer: Anything you recognize from the movie King Arthur does not belong to me. Unfortunately.
__________
Chapter One
It was barely dawn, and the sun that crept in to the sky was weary and reluctant, still clutching its shroud of mist possessively. The air was sharply crisp, hailing the transition of autumn in to winter, and their breath fogged before them when they exhaled. The trees made the only noise in the silence of the forest, speaking to each other with groans and sighs. A few tenacious leaves, withered and brown, clinging desperately to their branches, stirred and whispered excitedly as a breeze swept through the otherwise barren canopy.
As they moved deeper in to the forest, and the sun moved higher in to the sky, the mist began to dissipate, revealing the landscape around them like an artist revealing a masterpiece. The ground, saturated by the previous night's rain, had assumed a rich mahogany tone, accentuating the brilliant red and gold leaves that littered its surface. Graying moss crawled down the trunks of the russet trees in to the tawny grass. For this reason, autumn was her favorite season; she had no affection for snow or the frigid temperatures of winter, and felt miserable in the humid heat of summer. Spring, a close second, just could not compare to the vibrant colors of autumn.
She studied her surroundings with wide gray eyes and a smile upon her full lips, until her brother, Owain, interrupted her reverie.
"Carys!" he hissed, and her eyes snapped forward instantly. He looked frustrated, and no doubt he'd attempted to attract her attention more than once before she'd finally reacted; Carys was notorious for daydreaming, and it was the main reason her parents had elected to keep her out of the battlefield by only educating her in archery. She raised her brows expectantly at him, smirking as he tossed his head to clear his vision of his stubborn forelock. "Can you hear that?"
Now that she was no longer bobbing in a daze, Carys certainly could hear that. Voices penetrating their solitude, raucous, arrogant Roman voices, no doubt. Scowling, Carys nodded. Trust the Romans to ruin a perfectly lovely autumn morning, ideal for hunting.
Grinning wickedly, Owain jerked his head in the direction of the voices, signaling for them to move closer. While Owain might not have shared Carys's aptitude for daydreaming, they did share a craving for mischief that sometimes drove them to be needlessly reckless. Spying on and tormenting a group of Roman soldiers of unknown size and skill was one of these situations, but they were in Woad territory, and no matter how slight their trespass, they warranted an attack.
Owain dashed ahead and Carys followed, moving towards the voices. Carefully, they picked their way through the undergrowth, and were swift to conceal themselves when the scarlet flash of Roman cloaks appeared against the earthen backdrop of the forest. Pressed against neighboring trees, Carys and Owain exchanged impish glances as they strained their ears to eavesdrop upon the conversation.
"I 've got to take a piss," one man said, and Carys shook her head slightly in distaste; men were such foul creatures, truly. Owain sniggered quietly, mostly at the expression on Carys's face, and then silenced abruptly when the Roman aching to relieve himself came crashing in their direction.
"Don't wander off too far, Blandus, the Woads might get you!" called another man in a taunting tone, and he and several other men laughed heartily.
"It's no laughing matter, Otho," Blandus shouted back, "we shouldn't be north of the Wall!"
Carys and Owain shook their heads ruefully in agreement. Indeed, no Roman should ever dare stray north of the Wall; Woads were vengeful beings.
"Calm yourself, Blandus," another man this time, his voice betraying his boredom, "the Woads pose no threat to us."
Arrogant Roman bastards, Carys said to herself, rolling her eyes with incredulity.
Blandus, finished relieving himself, made his blundering way back to his comrades, saying, "I hope that Constantine can dispose of these barbarians better than Honorius."
Honorius was the current Emperor of Western Rome, Carys knew; her Father instilled in his children the importance of knowing all they could concerning their enemy, but who was this Constantine? She stored the name in her memory, deciding to inquire about it when she next saw her Father.
Casting a sidelong glance at Owain, she consented when he motioned for her to climb the tree at her back. Slinging her bow over her shoulder she scaled the tree until she reached a sturdy branch at a good vantage point. The canopy did little to conceal her, however, and Carys felt uneasy presenting herself as such an obvious target. Below her, the Romans were oblivious to their peril; there were only nine of them, and it would make for quick work for archers of Owain's and Carys's caliber. She watched Owain circle stealthily around their quarry, until finally he ascended a tree almost opposite of where Carys crouched. She notched an arrow onto her bow string, watching Owain intently. He would be the one to loose the first arrow, and as soon as he had positioned himself comfortably upon the bough, he fluidly knocked an arrow, aimed and released.
Carys followed his example, taking aim at a target and releasing the bow string. Before that arrow reached its mark, another followed, this one striking a soldier just above his armor, in the dimple of his throat. The Romans were panicked now; wide eyes scanning the trees, swords drawn.
"Woads!" one man screamed, "We're doom –" His cry was cut short by Carys's arrow plunging in to his right eye. He remained standing, as still as a statue for a moment, rocking back on his heels and then falling backward stiffly. Carys could not help but commend herself on such a perfect shot, no matter how gruesome.
"To the horses!" another man shouted, but the horses would not save the two men remaining. Almost simultaneously, Carys and Owain dispatched of them, and they fell to the ground flailing, mid-sprint.
Feeling a smug sense of satisfaction, Carys reclined against the tree, extending her legs over the bough. Laying her bow across her lap, she watched Owain descend from his tree, picking his way through the cluster of dead Romans towards the horses; terrified, they screeched and whinnied and strained against their tethers as the scent of blood assailed their delicate nostrils. There would be plenty of time to raid the Romans' pockets and eat whatever food they had, but if the horses continued to carry on this way, they would surely be heard.
With his soft voice and strong hands, Owain soothed them, and with a sigh Carys drifted off in to a daze, thinking of nothing in particular; which is why she did not hear the horses swiftly approaching them, and did not heed Owain's cautious attempts to attract her attention until he finally resorted to a much less discreet method.
"Carys!" he bellowed, and she started, nearly toppling sideways from her perch. Her indignation faded quickly, to be replaced by fear when she heard the hoof-beats.
Shit, shit, shit! She chanted in her mind. She was descending the tree much too slowly; the group of riders was nearly upon them. She heard Owain call her name again, and Carys cursed under her breath. She was going as fast as she could! – but the arrow slicing through the air towards her was going much faster. It plunged in to her side, just below her rib cage, and Carys felt the pain through a sudden state of shock. Numb, her fingers relinquished their grip on the branch above her, and the sickening weightless sensation of falling was the last thing Carys was aware of before everything went black.
Owain watched her sail through the air with dread heavy in his gut. She was almost immediately surrounded by seven men, and a feeling of awe eased its way through his fear as he recognized them as the Knights of the Round Table. Crouching behind the wide base of a cedar tree, every fiber of his being screamed for Carys; he must engage the Knights, and save his sister. But he knew that would not save her; it would kill them both. Instead, he squatted low, and listened.
__________
The Knights slid from their horses, and Tristan approached the Woad woman sprawled upon the ground. His arrow had pierced her flesh from the back, and upon her falling on her back on the ground, had snapped and torn a vicious hole through her front. She had been unlucky enough also, that when she fell she had cracked her head upon a rock protruding from the ground, opening a bloody gash upon her temple and rendering her mercifully unconscious.
Tristan stooped, and pressed his fingertips to her pale throat. Her pulse was there, but it was gradually fading. She wouldn't last much longer. He stood, drawing his sword. Arthur, materializing swiftly at his side, stayed his hand.
"Is she alive?"
Tristan nodded. "Shall I finish her?"
Arthur shook his head. "No, she poses no threat to us now."
Tristan shrugged, sheathing his sword. She would bleed out eventually. One could only hope that she would remain unconscious for the time it took her to do so.
He prowled away, joining his fellow Knights in examining the bodies of the Romans. None were alive, and whilst Arthur was preoccupied studying the Woad, there was nothing stopping them from raiding the bodies for their valuables. Bors was munching happily on a strip of dried venison, and Gawain took a swig of mead from a canteen before passing it to Galahad.
Tristan joined Lancelot and Dagonet in wrangling the soldiers' horses; there were eight horses to seven men. One was missing – the Woad had not been alone. Were they being watched, even now? His keen eyes scoured the area. He saw evidence of a single horse passing through the undergrowth, the tall grass bowed slightly to accommodate the animal's shape, and fresh prints leading away from the site.
Before he could investigate further, Arthur said, "Come, let us return to the fort. We will send a wagon back for these men." Tristan frowned; how unlike Arthur, to leave them laying here, unattended. Much too callous for Arthur. Turning back, leading two of the horses, his confusion was put to rest. Arthur was already mounted upon his gleaming white stallion, and the Woad girl was balanced in his arms. Tristan felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
"What are you doing with that?" Lancelot asked him, gesturing to the girl while securing the reins of two of the horses in his hands to his saddle, and Gawain took the remaining horse and tied it to his own. Lancelot had mounted his black-bay stallion before Arthur responded.
"I will not leave her here to die," he explained, shifting the girl more comfortably across his lap.
Fastening the horses to his saddle, Tristan shook his head and sighed. Arthur and his nobility … Tristan should have known better than to assume that he would allow the Woad to simply die, as he would have, but to Arthur, she was now a helpless girl, not their enemy.
"She's a Woad," Bors said gruffly, dismissively.
"And a human being," Arthur responded sharply.
"She wasn't alone," Tristan said, eager to have Arthur leave her here. Despite Arthur's good intentions, Tristan somehow doubted the Woad would see it as anything other than kidnapping when she awoke, and no good would come of kidnapping an enemy. Mounting his tall gray mare, the leather of his saddle creaked under his weight. Arthur fixed him with a penetrating gaze, his mouth pressed in to a thin white line. "I saw tracks, leaving the area – "
"Then she is alone now," Arthur snapped. It was tiresome to have to defend his actions against his Knights, who found his unyielding graciousness just as annoying. Finished arguing, Arthur urged his stallion forward, and they set off back towards the fort, their pace hindered somewhat by the eight extra horses strapped to their saddles. Though it was not half an hour's walk on foot back to the fort, Arthur prayed the girl would survive the journey.
__________
When Carys awoke, she knew nothing but the overwhelming desire to vomit, and she flung herself over the side of the bed, retching the foul contents of her stomach. The abrupt movement caused the room to pitch violently, and with a groan, Carys fell back in to the bed she lay in, squeezing her eyes shut tightly. She pressed the heels of her hands against her temples to keep her head from falling off of her shoulders and rolling on to the floor, and winced in pain when her hand scraped against a row of stitches in her head.
"Careful, now," a voice assaulted her ears; though the woman spoke softly, her words reverberated in Carys's skull as though she were being bashed over the head with them. Carys's eyes flew open, to see a woman – no, two women who looked exactly the same – entering the room cautiously. Carys's stomach roiled as she watched the woman become two women, the images merging and separating constantly. Her eyes were wide in wariness, but her small, full mouth was tipped in to a kind, yet nervous smile.
Instinctively, Carys leapt to her feet, obstinately dismissing her body's protest against the abrupt change in altitude. She swayed on her feet, and the room dipped and swerved as if she were on a boat on an angry ocean. She grasped the wall for support, gasping for air. A searing pain stabbed in her side, and she groaned, doubling over and grimacing.
"No, please," the woman said, her voice muffled through the pounding in Carys's head; "You need to lie down." She stepped closer to Carys, arms outstretched as if to embrace her, but swiftly Carys dodged her, her hand gripping the mantle of the hearth to keep herself upright. Her legs were trembling beneath her, and her head was spinning. She squinted her eyes in an attempt to keep the room in focus, but objects floated and tipped with the motion of the room. She swallowed the acrid bile that bubbled in her throat, and her free hand, swinging low, brushed the length of a cold shaft of metal. When the woman approached her once more, crooning soothingly to her in words Carys could no longer understand, Carys evaded her once more, fingers closing numbly around a fire poker. Her arm feeling frail, she managed to raise the fire poker up in to the air, and very nearly struck the woman with it. She backed away quickly, mouth drawn taut and face pale, hands raised in a gesture of surrender.
"Who are you?" Carys croaked, her voice sounding entirely foreign; rough and breathless.
"I am Bronwyn," the woman replied gently, "I am a Healer. I want to help you."
The fire poker wavered in the air, and Carys could feel the muscles in her shoulder cord as she redoubled her effort. "Where am I?" Carys demanded.
"You are at Uxelodonum," Bronwyn told her, "at Hadrian's Wall." In her mind's eye, Carys briefly saw an image of an enormous wall, gray and menacing, like a huge angry dragon stretching endlessly across a vibrant green landscape. As quickly as it had appeared, it was gone, and Carys's stomach began to churn once more. Her skin was burning. Why was it so hot? The walls were pressing in on her. Her heart began to race in panic, and she felt lightheaded. She had to get out of here before the walls crushed her between them. Slowly, she retreated towards the door, and the cold air from the hallway beckoned at her back, caressing her smoldering skin. Carys cast a longing glance over her shoulder towards the outdoors, and hesitated no further; she spun around, and reeling and blundering as if drunk, stumbled from the room.
"No!" Bronwyn shouted, "Please come back!" Shit, she thought to herself, gathering her skirts in her small hands before following the Woad. Angharad will have my hide for this. Just picturing Angharad's weathered face, slim, downturned mouth and icy blue eyes fraught with disapproval was enough to chill her heart.
It was approaching dusk, but the sunlight, however dim it was, pricked Carys's eyes maliciously, and she recoiled from it, ducking in to the shadows that clung to the walls. Carys staggered through the streets, oblivious to the stares directed at her, disregarding the cold that assaulted her bare legs and arms. She was dimly aware of Bronwyn's voice chasing her, and it motivated her to continue. Her body, however, was in violent disagreement. Her knees began to quiver, and she was barely able to slip in to a narrow alley before her legs collapsed beneath her. She fell to her hands and knees on the wet cobblestone path, heedless of the stones biting in to her bony knees and the palms of her hands, and vomited profusely. She grimaced as it splashed her arms, and struggled to her feet once more, wheezing, clinging to the wall for support.
She heard footsteps but paid them no heed; surely she was hidden well enough? But no, she was not. A voice, pleasantly deep and soothing came from before her. "Hey," the man said, "are you alright?"
Carys looked up, to see a tall, burly man with a lion's mane of golden curls, bright blue eyes and rosy cheeks above a thick russet beard standing there, crouched to peer into her face with ease. Carys now regretted having relinquished her trusty fire poker at some point during her escape. "Who are you?" she said, her voice dry and hoarse and strained for breath.
"I am Gawain," he said, taking a step closer. She made a pathetic sight, he thought, hunkered over like some sort of deformed creature, swaying where she stood despite one skinny arm extended to the wall for support. Her stormy gray eyes shone with tears, and were red-rimmed in her gaunt face. A mixture of vomit and spittle coated her chin, and the black slash of stitches at her temple was stark against her pale skin. Her skinny knees were scraped and bleeding, her bare feet and shins splattered with mud and dirty water. "What's your name?"
Carys opened her mouth to respond, and then closed it again, groping for her name. Her head ached with the effort, and her pulse skyrocketed when no response came to her probing. I do not know my name. Promptly, her eyes rolled grotesquely back in to her skull before her eyelids fluttered down, and with a perfectly maidenly sigh she collapsed.
Gawain lunged forth as her knees buckled, and she fell limp into his arms. She was much lighter than he'd anticipated; for a woman so tall she was very thin – all bones and lean muscle. He hoisted her easily in to his arms, spotting at once the circle of blood blooming upon her tunic. He hustled her back towards the healing rooms, and Bronwyn met him on the way.
"Oh, Gawain," she said, relieved, "Thank you." She too noticed the blood at the girl's side. "Stupid girl; ripped her stitches." Gawain followed Bronwyn back to the infirmary and in to a small room that had obviously been occupied by the Woad before she'd decided to flee; her puke still smeared the floor and her blood stained the white linens. Bronwyn stood aside while Gawain laid her gently down on the bed, and then gripped him by the arm. "Please don't tell Angharad," she begged. "She's supposed to be my patient, and if Angharad finds out she'll never trust me again."
Gawain pictured Angharad, the foremost Healer at the fort. She was a wispy woman, with black and silver hair, icy blue eyes and a face that reminded him of old leather. Her thin mouth was constantly turned downward in to a frown, and her surliness rivaled that of Bors's in a temper. It was Angharad, and not the fear of pain, that motivated him to keep from getting wounded in battle. He shuddered. "I try to avoid Angharad," he told her, and Bronwyn chuckled ruefully.
"Thank you for your help," Bronwyn said, and Gawain smiled and nodded at her before taking his leave. Muttering beneath her breath, Bronwyn set to work cleaning the girl up and redoing her stitches. She hoped that the Woad would be more cooperative in the morning; the Gods knew she had a few other things she would much rather be doing than chasing this foolhardy Woad through the streets. Blushing, she thought of her sweet husband Kay, of his strong arms and sweet kisses. They had been married just two weeks ago, but she had loved him long before.
He had been one of Arthur's Knights, until he had suffered a critical injury to his thigh had rendered him unable to ride a horse; he was now the farrier and the stable manager for the fort. Tall and handsome with immaculately groomed mahogany curls that fell to his shoulders, and an equally tidy goatee that framed his full, smiling mouth. It had been his eyes, his beautiful evergreen eyes that had first entranced Bronwyn, and then his kindness and easy laughter; their enlistment in the Roman army and their life of violence had turned most of the Knights bitter and angry, but not her sweet Kay.
It was Kay who met her in the hallway that night, after Bronwyn had finished tending the Woad and scrubbing the vomit from the floor, his smile a beacon in the darkness. He kissed first her lips, and then her collar bone (he said that was one of his favorite places to kiss her; he could feel her pulse in her throat and stare in to her cleavage at the same time), and then took her hand and spirited her back to their little hut where he held her gently in the circle of his powerful arms after they made love.
__________
Owain arrived back at camp late that night; the fires of the rough huts were all extinguished, save for one. Dismounting from the back of the tall, sturdy chestnut mare he had taken, he approached his Father's hut, filled with remorse. He secured the mare's reins to a post outside his door, and then slowly entered, chin to his chest.
"You have returned alone?" Merlin's voice was soft, barely audible above the crackling of the fire. It was more of a statement than a question, and Owain immediately suspected his Father needed no confirmation from him - that he knew for certain already.
Owain listened to his sister's deep breathing as she slept, her face turned away from the fire. He studied Guinevere's mahogany curls, gleaming in the firelight, and then glanced at Carys's empty bedroll, wishing to see her raven's-wing black crown, her smooth ivory brow. She slept facing the fire, with the fur pulled up over her face to her proudly arched black eyebrows ... said she liked the way the heat of the flames lapped at her skin and everything away from the fire was bitterly cold.
"Yes, Father," he answered, at long last. There was no one in Carys's bed, and staring at it would not change that.
"Does Carys live?"
"I know not; she was injured and Arthur Castus has taken her to the Wall."
Merlin nodded sagely. "Then, she lives," he said, his tone certain. Owain felt relief ease the heavy weight in his chest. Though he did not pretend that his wise Father was omniscient, he would cling desperately to even the slightest sliver of hope. "Sleep, my son," Merlin said, "I will have words with you tomorrow."
Obediently, Owain crawled between his furs, his eyes sliding shut, but did not sleep. I am so sorry, Carys, Owain thought dismally, I have failed you. He prayed to the Goddess to keep his sister alive. I will save you, he vowed.