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AN: Instead of diving right into a sequel to my other story, I chose to post this one which I actually began before writing Reluctant Thieves. I was going to take a nice long break from writing, but I couldn't stay away so I decided to post this one. I really hope that you like it, and please tell me what you think!

Carried on the Wind

The frail figure sat beside the glowing fire swaddled in several layers of blankets. Still the tiny body shivered with fever. She wouldn't be the first of the village to die from such an ailment. Her once bright and innocent eyes were now sunken and dull. Her long flowing ginger hair was now matted to her head with sweat. Her once fit figure was now weak and frail from weeks of illness.

The tribe's healer gave her no more than a couple days left on this plane, yet still she clung to every breath hoping that it would not be her last. Too weak to even stand on her own, she now waited for her brother to come back to their hut, so she could be led to her bed once again.

Winter was not even upon the tribe in the deep forests of Ireland, but disease had already begun to sweep through with its icy hand which held only death for those it touched. Bodies had to be burned instead of buried for fear of spreading the terrible plight. No one was safe young, old, man, woman, or even child.

It did, however, prey hardest upon the already weak. Lyra had been a sickly child since the day that she was dragged into this world, but by the grace of the gods she still held onto her weak pulse. This disease, however, was far more than her already failing body could take and she now lay upon her cot of furs watching the spirits of those gone before her, dance around her head.

It was because of this plague that the normally nomadic tribe sat stationary waiting for a break in the deaths. It was because of this disease that they were unprepared when a group of rogues raided their camp.

They had come just before dawn, in black cloaks and fur boots. They killed the watchmen and tore women and children from their huts and made them watch their loved ones perish to a scourge far worse than any illness. Lyra's mother had been gathering water to cool her daughter's brow when the rogues had snuck into the camp. She had witnessed the first be murdered by their disgraceful blades. Horrified, she hurried back to her family's hut and roused her children. Even though Lyra was far too sick to travel, her mother covered her in furs and sent her and her brother as far away from the camp as their legs could carry them. Even dying of illness in the bitter could was a more respectable than experiencing the atrocities that would be performed upon the tribe.

Lyra stumbled and fell quite often but her brother, Torin, carried her when she could no longer carry herself. When they were several miles away, they looked back upon what was once their home. All that was left were the burning huts of their family and ancestors. They stood there within the endless expanse of hills and glens, not truly understanding the loss they had sustained. All they knew was that they could never return to what they once knew and loved.

4 years later

It had been an endless winter at Hadrian's Wall for Arthur's knights. Illness had been common though, thankfully, none had fallen to it this year. Bedivere sat recovering in the darkness of the healing chambers, while his brothers continued their endless training. "One could never be too well prepared," their commander would always say as he spared right there beside them. Training was no longer a chore when Arthur became their commander, after several years of grueling service.

Bedivere stared out the small window above his cot wistfully, as his body was wracked with a fit of coughing. He was slowly healing after receiving a blow to the ribs which resulted in a high fever that had nearly killed him. Now, after three weeks of rest, he was finally beginning to recover. The others visited daily and regaled him of their many exploits, but all that Bedivere could think of was to escape his small prison and be out fighting again.

Bedivere knew that the knights had a mission coming up. Arthur had yet to announce anything official, but being in the healing ward Bedivere heard plenty of gossip. All the healer's assistants had spoken of for the past four days had been about a troupe of soldiers headed their way. If Bedivere knew anything, he knew that Arthur and his knights would be sent out to greet the new forces. The ill knight nearly kicked himself for being incapacitated. It was rare to be sent out in the winter because most rebels were just fighting to survive the harsh weather rather than causing trouble. It was luck indeed to be allowed outside the dreary gates of the fort during the winter months.

Only Tristan was lucky enough to be permitted to go scouting or hunting. However, that was more of a precautionary method that the Romans used. It was better to let the beast roam free than to have him turn on them, and possibly kill someone. Tristan was known by the Romans as a vicious and wild creature, but his fellow knights knew the gentler and almost shy scout for what he truly was. Everyone's fear was what protected Tristan from being hurt in more ways than one. The fact that Tristan was also the most lethal with just about any weapon also didn't help him win any popularity contests.

Bedivere chuckled to himself as he thought about how small the scout had been when he was enlisted, or enslaved might have been a better term for it. Tristan had been over fifteen, but he had been shorter and less threatening looking than even the ten year old Galahad. The guards escorting them to the Wall had made the mistake of picking on the boy one night. That was the first of many times they had witnessed Tristan give himself over to his deep blood lust, and he nearly killed three guards before he was subdued.

They always said not to corner a wild animal because it would fight blindly to the death before being caged. Tristan had been no different from a cornered wolf then, and he had changed little in that respect over the years. However, now Tristan was one of the tallest knights as well the most rugged looking. It only added to the fear and gossip of the entire fort.

As Bedivere was contemplating this, the door to the healing rooms opened silently. Before the ill knight knew it, he felt a presence beside him. Bedivere nearly fell out of bed as the subject of his thoughts materialized beside him. "Tristan," he gasped in shock. "Do you wish to finish the job for those blue monsters? Gods, you're more silent than the grave," a flustered Bedivere admonished. The scout only smirked as he sat beside his friend's cot. "What brings you to my humble corner of the fort, brother," Bedivere asked as he finally regained his composure.

"I'm heading out within the hour," Tristan spoke in a low growl that still made the older knight smile. Tristan was always considered silent, but he had never truly mastered the Romans' language even after nearly seven years of service. Tristan could speak Sarmatian, several rebel tongues, and the language of the Celts to the east, but he could barely form a coherent sentence in Latin. He had found that it was best not to say anything and let them wonder than to say something he would regret. Even now, Tristan still kept tight lipped.

"Only you? Or is Arthur going to follow," Bedivere asked interestedly.

"They shall follow when they are ready. There is little rush, we are not at war at the moment," Tristan replied with a sigh, his dark eyes conveying his discontent toward the mission.

"What ails you, brother? Be glad that you are not confined to an uncomfortable cot. What could possibly be so terrible," the older knight asked as he studied the scout closely.

"I just have a bad feeling about these soldiers," Tristan replied as he weaved his fingers through his unruly hair, effectively pulling it out of his face, for the moment.

"Have you spoken to Arthur about it, or is it just a dislike to the idea of more Romans milling about the fort," Bedivere pressed as he noticed the shadows under the scout's eyes. Arthur had obviously been letting Tristan come and go as he pleased. To most, this would seem a luxury, but Tristan took it as a duty to scout as much as possible for the safety of his brothers. Now, Tristan was obviously exhausted and in need of rest.

"It is nothing, I'm sure," Tristan said as he gazed out the window. "It is just that when I hear the Romans talking on guard or in the tavern, they always speak of these soldiers as a band of warriors, or hunters. I do not know what their purpose is, but I do not have a good feeling about bringing them into the fort, even if they are under contract to Rome. Assassins, no matter what they prefer to be called, never bring good fortune," Tristan finished as he leaned back in his seat.

"Why haven't you spoken to Arthur? This sounds serious to me," Bedivere asked as he watched Dagonet enter the room quietly. The large knight had come to change his bandages as usual, but was surprised to see Tristan taking the time to visit. The others visited daily, but Tristan was rarely if ever seen visiting the healing rooms, even when he should be staying in them himself.

"What can he do? Tell them that they cannot stay here. That would be foolish. I just came because I knew you would listen to me without making a scene," Tristan admitted solemnly.

"Why do you both look as though someone walked over your grave," they heard Dagonet ask as he sat on the edge of Bedivere's cot. "Lift your tunic," he said as he went to retrieve bandages.

"Tristan was just telling me that he is to leave on a mission shortly," Bedivere answered as he lifted his shirt to reveal the bandages that still swathed his wound.

"Ah, yes. You are going to find our mysterious guests," Dagonet said as he brought a salve with him reclaiming his place on the cot.

"I should be going," Tristan said regretfully as he noticed the sun dipping toward the horizon in many shades of red and orange. "I shall see you when I return, Bedivere," Tristan said before turning to Dag. "Make sure that Arthur follows the eastern most path when you decide to follow me. It is the most direct route, and the least treacherous. I will see you shortly," the scout said in clipped speech with a nod, before disappearing from the healing quarters.

"He needs rest," Dag sighed as he watched the scout leave. The large knight may have looked menacing, but he was the gentlest of the knights. He took it upon himself, as eldest, to watch over the rest when they were too stubborn to do so themselves.

"I noticed that he looked a bit ragged when he entered. Hasn't been taking care of himself, has he," Bedivere replied knowingly. Bedivere and Tristan were not the closest of friends, but the injured knight was closer to the scout than most of them. They had found friendship only after they had watched Kay slain by an ambush of Woads. The death of the jovial knight had destroyed Bedivere, who refused to be consoled by any of the others. Tristan was the only one who didn't try to bestow his sympathies upon the grieving knight, and was sought out because of it. Bedivere found that it was easier to speak to one who would neither coddle nor condemn him. From then on, it seemed that through an unspoken pact they would share their wants and fears with each other when they could not tell any others.

Dagonet just shook his head as he wrapped Bedivere's ribs with fresh bandages. "If he were anyone else, I would tie him to a cot and force him to rest. But Tristan is different. It would probably do more harm than good to cage him up," Dagonet said as he thought about the scout.

"So long as he knows his limits, I guess that there is little we can do to stop him," Bedivere sighed as he relaxed onto his cot.

"I suppose so," Dagonet agreed before rising. "We leave at sunrise. Should be back within the week. By the time we return, I hope to see you walking around again. Your wound is finally healing nicely," Dag said before slipping from the room as well. Bedivere just sighed as he further relaxed on the rough cot. He wished that his ribs had healed nicely nearly a month ago, but that just wasn't Bedivere's luck.

XxXxX

I hope you enjoyed this so far, and I promise that the next chapter will have more action. Please tell me what you thought of it because your input is what keeps me writing. Or if you hated it, feel free to tell me, and after I have a good cry I'll try to improve it.