[ P R O L O G U E | Dust in the wind]
When they were gone nothing would bear witness of their existence – nothing would show the ages to come they had even been there – the green grassland would remain as it always had been. Maybe a few wild horses would wander the steppe as their masters once had done, but nothing would be left to bear witness of their lives.

Anna's eyes swept over the camp - if you were kind enough to call it a camp. A few shaky looking huts were set up in between makeshift lean-tos. Men, women and children were sombrely walking around – mostly women – some were cutting bandages or cooking salve over small fires, but the bigger part of them were injured, and if they had not yet been taken care of they would soon be dead.

The old woman's eyes feel on a young warrioress who's strong, slim and tall archer hands were cutting bandages by the main fire. Her long fingers worked quickly with the dagger and finished bandage after bandage.

Every once in a while Isolde pulled her left hand through her hair. It had not been cut in a long while, Anna figured, and the fringe was long enough to get in the woman's eyes. Her finger nails were rather long, too, unless they had broke on their own accord sometime during the past hectic and terrifying months. Dirt was gathered under the young woman's nails, but she didn't seem to care and worked on.

Like many Sarmatian woman Isolde only had one breast. In most tribes the girl had no choice because it was cauterise when she was still an infant. But some south-eastern tribes, like the one Isolde was from, had a rule that if the girl wished to be a warrior she together with the tribe's Shaman would burn off the breast. This was mainly done because the right breast was in the way when you fired a bow, and for a society where maturity was determined by who had been to war, efficiency was rather important.

On some it looked strange - at least if you were used to women with both breasts intact, but on the young warrioress by the fire it was barely visible she was a woman. Only her tall, leaf formed face and soft almond eyes gave it away. She was tall and wiry with too many sharp angles to her body and far too slim hips.

Isolde rose with a gloomy look on her face when the cloth she had been cutting from was all spent and the long stripes were all rolled up. She didn't spare Anna a second look as she walked over to a young boy lying under a lean-to.

"Where's Clarissant?" Gaheris asked, although he already knew the answer. If he turned his head to the left and squinted his eyes he would be able to see her corpse wrapped in its shroud. He didn't turn his head to look. Even when it became apparent to him Isolde would not answer him and just went ahead cleaning and dressed his wounds.

Anna had born many children, six to be precise, and it was tearing her apart to loose so many. Agreed, neither Gawain, Agravaine nor Gareth were dead as far as she knew, but the chance they were still alive, especially Gawain who had been away for so long, were slim.

Her daughter Soredamors, born in between Agravaine and Gareth, had died amongst the first when the Huns attacked. The girl had been a skilled swordsman - at least skilled for her age, she had been fourteen years old, going on her fifteenth - but against the Hun warriors that had not been enough. Now her youngest had been taken from her, Gaheris' eight year old twin sister had died in the last attack.

Life was not fair, Anna silently told herself as she made her way over to where Isolde was taking care of her son. Gaheris was asking if not Isolde wanted to be his sister because he had lost his own two and wanted someone to hold him close and tell him stories.

"You have two brothers," Anna asked, crouching down next to the pair, "have you not?"

Children, sons taken into Roman service to be more precise, had been much on her mind lately. She wondered often how many were still alive, and how many of those planed on coming back to their native Sarmatia. How would they take the shock that would doubtlessly *take/be instilled in* them when noticing they left the ashes and ridden into the fire? Leaving petty fighting in the Roman provinces only to find flaming war in their own homeland, and too many tribes destroyed?

"Yes, Lancelot and Hector," the woman answered absently, checking over a large gash on the boy's left leg. She held a sigh, not wanting to let it ring over the silent camp, and stated as she gesticulated towards the injury, "this needs stitches."

"Vivienne," called the older of the two women, catching the attention of a middle-aged warrioress who was running errands around the camp. "We need some water, liquor, a needle, some thread and Kanda salve."

"Why do you ask me of my brothers?" Isolde asked when Vivienne had come with the requested items and she was cleaning the wound; first washing away the blood and gore with water and then disinfecting it with the alcohol.

"Someone should tell them of this," replied Anna softly, brushing away some sweat drenched hair from Gaheris' forehead when he whimpered and whined as the cleaning went on. The two women knew how much it hurt, they had both had wounds cleaned in the same manner several times. It always felt as if the whole limb was on fire.

"If they're alive," the younger of the two shot back, threading the needle and pulling out one of her daggers, putting its handle between the boy's jaws, telling him to bite it instead of his tongue when she began sewing.

"Don't you believe in your brothers?" Anna asked, hushing Gaheris as he screamed against the dagger's handle and only a snivelling sound made it past his lips.

"That I do," she answered, making the stitches small and even, putting them as close together as possible to prevent any dirt from entering the wound after she was done. "But I don't trust the Romans."

"Who does?" Anna retorted, glad to find Gaheris loosing consciousness so he would stop making whining noises and trash against Isolde's strong hold on his injured leg.

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[ N O T E S ]

- Arthur's foster father's name is Ector in the legends. But in the legends Lancelot also has a brother named either Ector de Maris or Hector de Marais.
- Kanda salve, I don't know if this is a real thing or not, but I found it on the best site which described how you seal a wound. Apparently Vidari Kanda (Dioscorea spp.) is a desert shrub of some kind, and it's the root you use.- - -

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