A/N: Um. Yah.
Summary: The inferno had taken everything. All that was left was cowardice and the anger to continue regardless of how much those bloody knights griped. In the end, despite everything that said otherwise, the proof was there. It would be a cold day in Arthur's Hell before she was placed into any path other than her very own fate.
Chapter I: Gyspy Woad? Like Hell.
They had come swiftly within the shadows of a moonless night. Eirwen never heard them come through the village until their sheep and goats bleated mindlessly and with fear only true animals could feel. Someone had slipped into her small hut and bound her mouth and hands before she could even bring her limbs to struggle. Her brother was slaughtered before her eyes could focus and she was dragged away, shocked and listless.
Not Woads, she had thought in her dazed and drifting state of mind, we have done nothing against them. This is a new terror. The sky was dark, no stars burned overhead just as the moon was absent. She feared what would become of her. There were rumors in the North of invaders, Saxons who decided the land was now theirs for the taking. They would kill her, she knew this, for her blood was foreign, muddied and sullen from the line of gypsies and Britons that had come together generations before.
Her hands were bound, but her feet were not. Within the darkness, her eyes focused on a single piece of wood that glinted with the light of a distant torch. The pens. With a low keen from the back of her throat, Eirwen recklessly jerked out her leg and wondered if her ankle would break from the mindless force of her kick. The top of her foot caught the stakes that held the pole into the ground.
The sound of breaking wood alerted her kidnapper to her actions, but by the time he turned to snarl at her for her deeds, the horses whined with fright (from the sound of the pole as it hit the ground) and dove above the wooden planks that held them back. Her holder shouted in surprise and sudden distress. Eirwen could think of nothing more but the hooves that nailed into the ground mere inches from her face. She curled into herself and shook, from the cold night air or the sound of screams, she wasn't sure.
She could no longer hear the thunder of hooves and turned. The invader had disappeared, most likely forced away by the brutality of the freed animals. He had dropped his dagger and Eirwen rolled toward it. Her hands were bound in front and she made quick work to slit the mere cloth that held her wrists together. Freed, she ripped the gag from her mouth and wobbled to her feet.
Her village was set ablaze. Several of the closest huts were already burning in their roots. Figures like walking shadows moved around within the blaze and Eirwen couldn't distinguish friend, family, or foe. The heat of the burning huts glazed her exposed skin and lit her brown eyes, she was forced to squint against the harsh orange light. She took a step forward, a hand raised to block some of the flame and heat, when a grip suddenly manifested itself upon her unharmed ankle. Eirwen screamed.
"Shush, you stupid girl!" The figure croaked. Another hand came up to her knee and bent it against its will. She dropped into the soil with a hiss and the hand from her ankle quickly shifted up to hold her neck. She could recognize the old and wrinkled face of the village's oldest healer. His graying hair was shriveled, burned away from the heat of the flames, his hands blacked by soil and ash.
"Don't touch me!" He hissed and slapped away her trembling hands as she tried to lift him from under his arms. "It's too late, girl – run, Eirwen, run while they know not of your existence!" He released her knee and neck with a feeble shove and threw something at her face. Eirwen stumbled backwards on her rear and blindly reached for the skin that was tossed. The elder's beady black eyes were sharp with pain and anger.
"Take what little herbs are in there, save yourself and tell listening ears what has happened!" There was a shout from the inferno and Eirwen's gaze snapped away from that of her elder's. It was unfortunate timing, though, because as she did another man had barreled through the fire and brought down a glistening blade into the back of her healer. No longer sparing a moment to think, Eirwen snatched up the skin and a handful of soil. She tossed the dirt into the eyes of her pursuer and fled into the forest that surrounded her little village.
For a girl not yet sixteen, the trauma would forever rob her of sleep.
"Another attack, Arthur?"
"I'm afraid so, Lancelot." Arthur replied in a weary tone. "News comes slowly from the North, but many of the neutral gypsy camps and settlements are now being raided without cause or need."
"Neutral," Bors grunted from his place at the round table, "nothing and no one is neutral in this accursed world, Arthur. Gypsy camps and their people are easy pickings. No armor, no fighting men, no weaponry."
"Best to be left alone, Arthur." Lancelot agreed waywardly, a cup raised to his face to hide a disgusted twist of his lips. "To leave the Wall and help them in a losing battle... we may as well slit our own throats and be finished with it." Though none of the other knights agreed openly, the silent agreement with tucked chins to their chest spoke volumes to their leader. Arthur sighed heavily and rested an elbow against the stained wood of the table, his forehead soon rested in the palm of his upturned hand.
"The Romans that were settled not far from the last attack were meant to guard the village." Arthur began softly. His forehead came up from his hand and passed over his face, reddening his skin. "They were overpowered, obviously. As much... as I wish I could regrettably agree with you, my friend, this was no mindless raid."
"It was planned, then." Tristan spoke up, his eyes never left the work of his blade and wood carving. "You suggest something against your Empire?"
"I do not suggest it lightly," Arthur acquiesced, "but it has come to the attention of the Empire that these attacks have only been done upon villages with Roman guards or military."
Bors snorted. "Perhaps rivaling villages are jealous. Many have been overlooked, your Empire only guards those who are too weak or small to guard themselves." Dagonet hummed softly and nodded his head behind his goblet. Gawain and Galahad spared a glance to each other, both now unsure as to where the conversation was going, though their suspicions continued to grow.
"So, what does your Church command?" Lancelot's face remained calm, though no one could ignore the sneer that tainted his words. "Are we to save poor, defenseless souls from a slaughter that your very Empire has brought upon them?"
Arthur resisted the urge to glare at his trusted companion. "The Church commands that we see to these raids and stop them. With every raid they may acquire more and more means of overthrowing another, and much larger, outpost."
Lancelot sighed and finished his drink. "To the slaughter house we go."
It had been a week since the raid upon her village. Early autumn had been mercifully kind to Eirwen, the days were still warm and bright, and the nights did not rob her of too much heat and peace. She hardly slept, though, because every time she closed her eyes the inferno would return and her ears would buzz with the resonating memory of screams of her people and frightened animals. She slept when she could, usually in the day with the sunlight that kept the shadows and their inhabitants away.
The waters of the rivers were freezing, but she bathed and used it to cleanse her wounds when she could. She hadn't realized until much later (after her legs had given out from her running) that her neck and lower abdomen had been sliced to bleed. Thankfully, neither was as deep as she had originally feared, so she was spared the slow death of infection (for now) or the need for stitches. Eirwen hadn't a clue as to how far she was from her destroyed home and out of guilt for her cowardice, she resist the constant urge to look back.
No horse, no tent, no provisions. What a stroke of luck I was blessed with, indeed. Eirwen snorted loudly at her thoughts. Her bare feet thudded softly against the leafy ground of the forest and every now and again she would wander back toward the edge of it, to make sure she was still aligned with the gravel and dirt path that led south. She avoided it for most of her journey, for fear of being spotted by traveling Romans or being left open to a scouting Woad. Not that they should attack me, I'm too filthy to be even mistaken for a Roman. Eirwen allowed herself a smile.
Her small make-shift camp finally came into view and Eirwen sighed with a tiny feeling of relief. It was nothing compared to what she had lost, but it was better than nothing at all. A simple structure of wood, moss, and leaves made for a very small enclosure to guard against the rain and wind that blessed their land. A tiny fire-pit was dug out in front of it, and any vegetation was stripped to its roots around it. The Woads might leave her alone, but it wouldn't do to tempt them by burning their forest to the ground.
The hare she had caught dangled from her hip. Thank you, brother, for teaching me even as I resisted. Eirwen had been taught to do nothing more than simple chores. Cook, clean, mend clothes, and wield only a very small dagger (which she did not have). Gypsies had little use for much else than that. She tossed the hare unto the ground next to the pit and quickly built the fire up with the wood she had collected earlier. She retrieved two flat stones from the pouch her elder had given her (they weren't in there, originally) and with some dry leaves, she set the dry wood ablaze.
She flinched at the sound of the burning wood, its hisses and jumping sparks a very little reminder. The grief is still too close, as is my cowardice, it seems. Annoyed, Eirwen snatched the hare from the ground and hurried to skin it. She would have been no good to her troupe, being so young, she only knew tricks that deceived the eye and mind, though not for long, and it would have been useless against a small group of warriors out on a raid. No matter the excuses, her mind still gnawed on her guilt and twisted her stomach with it.
The hare was skinned and soon skewered with a long stick and placed over the open flame. She pocketed the two flat stones and another one she had shaped into an arrow's head (which she had used to skin the animal) into the pouch. The herbs in it were long gone, but she made good use of the leather pouch. Not only did it hold her rocks, it also hid away a trinket of her father's. Though it was only her grandfather who had been Roman, to her knowledge, her father had kept the small carved cross of Christ that belonged to the older man.
Not that any of us took to wearing it, though. Eirwen thought wistfully. It's far too delicate to parade around with, and the other gypsies would have outcast us all for our mere association with this thing. With nothing to do but wait for her food, Eirwen searched the ground for another stone. She found one, dark like burnt wood and heavy in her slender hand. She took up another one of a bulkier shape and weight. The ebony colored one was set against her thigh and the light brown rock was struck against it. Little by little, Eirwen chipped away at the slender rock until it formed a crude dagger's edge.
"This will have to do." Eirwen murmured to herself, the silence having stretched too long for her liking. It wasn't the best weapon to have out in the woods, but given the circumstances, it was better than nothing. It was as she placed down the bulky rock that she heard the squawk of startled birds overhead, followed closely by the beat of wings much larger than the small birds that took refuge in the trees. Familiars? Eirwen wondered suddenly. Woads use black magick, no? Would they send spies out into their forest on patrol?
The silence that settled over her small camp was unnatural. Something was waiting. Do I run? Eirwen asked herself. Whatever it is, it seems content to wait and watch for me. Father says only the guilty run. Despite the heavy feeling of said guilt that was nested in her stomach, she knew she held no other came that warranted her sudden attempt to escape. I would be shot on the spot, should it be an archer. Are not most scouts? Through force of will, Eirwen set aside her dagger-rock and turned the skinned hare over the fire. Perhaps it will see I am of no danger, or of little value. It will leave out of boredom.
Nothing shifted within her surrounding area and it unnerved her greatly. Normally the forest was alive, it breathed with the breeze through its canopies and hissed with the movement from the animals above and below. Now, though, there was nothing. She could hear every breath she took and the pulse of her heart, but nothing else. Whatever had stumbled upon her had hidden itself well, because not even her gypsy eyes could spot the illusion in the shadows of the trees.
The hare was done and she devoured it quickly. Only twice more did she hear the beat of heavily feathered wings overhead but she refused to glance upward. It must be a bird of prey. So odd, I thought father said they do not hunt in the forest, there is no room for maneuvering. Something must be controlling it, Eirwen thought back to the stories from her elders, of the Woads who placed animals under magick spells to guard and guide them. She allowed her fire to die down slightly, so it would not overrun should she fall asleep for too long. Not likely, that. I have not slept all week. She wondered briefly if she now resembled the old hag that had lived in the corner of their encampment, wrinkled, dirty, and circles so deep around her eyes that her face resembled a skull.
It took a moment, but Eirwen did hear it before it landed with a thud right beside her foot. The arrow quivered threateningly as the force of its bow string's energy coursed through it. Eyes wide in surprise, Eirwen snatched up her pouch and shoved it through the belt of her trousers before she delivered a hard kick to spray the dying fire with dirt. With that same force, she was up and bolting into the thick woods around her. Her ears picked up the very short sound of a second rustle of brush just off the edge of her camp, but she wasn't going to wait to see it.
Her hand was bleeding. She looked down and saw that she had somehow managed to also snag the rock-dagger she had made. A determined scowl came upon her young face and Eirwen pushed what strength remained within her body to her legs. Though her troupe hardly traveled around to entertain anymore, it did not mean any of the future generations suffered from lack of training or practice. Eirwen's small feet were expertly finding open patches of soil among the roots from the towering trees. She would not trip, not willingly, in any case.
It didn't seem to matter, because not long after she had taken flight, the whistling sound of a snapped rope sliced through her ears and a net went up around her. Idiot! Eirwen screamed inwardly. That is one of the oldest tricks! Even Marcel could avoid such a trap. The tiny face of her cousin flashed within her mind, rosy cheeked and high brows, the boy's impish grin was as clear as if she had seen him yesterday. The flames of the fire licked at the memory and Eirwen growled with angry and self-directed frustration. Idiot!
Immediately, she gripped a piece of rope in front of her and set her rock-dagger to it. It only took a few swipes and the rope unwound wildly. She was stopped, however, when a man stepped into the clearing she had stupidly tried to run through. Eirwen froze, her eyes glared darkly at the armored man before her, daring him to take another step and bring his lowered blade to her throat. If the attackers from her village had finally found her, then by all that she knew, she was going to drag them down with her. Eirwen snarled slightly.
"She doesn't look like a Woad, Arthur." The man had remained still but he, like her, turned to the voice just off to her right. The man was dark, his face hidden behind tangles and dreads of hair that had taken a wrong chance at a blade. Eirwen gripped the rope tighter, it was slowly staining with the blood from her cut. She swayed with her breathing and both men watched her thoughtfully. Latin, isn't it? Eirwen thought darkly. Romans. Pigs. I will not speak. If they are to treat me like an animal, I'll be the spitting image of one. There's nothing left.
"Those are green eyes." Another man's voice entered the clearing. Eirwen slowly brought her green-eyed gaze around to her left, and this man annoyed her even more. Pale skin glittered with sweat and dark eyes watched her speculatively. His dark hair wasn't as long as the other's on her right, and it curled tightly against his head and brows. He looked kinder, softer, than the first two, and Eirwen knew that only meant that his hands could be faster.
"Woads don't have green eyes." The first man stated with a tone of curiosity. "Though she has their dark skin and hair, she is not built like them."
"She is too small." The raggedy man added softly from her right. Eirwen did snarl this time, loud enough to give away that she understood them.
"She knows what we say." The one on the left stated with amusement. He stepped closer to the net and glanced at her hand briefly. Eirwen glared back harder and bit the inside of her cheek to resist the urge she had to send him reeling backwards with a punch from the same bloody hand. The hole would be big enough, though she would also open herself to be caught and held. No, she thought, I need both hands.
"What is your name, child?" The first man asked. "Forgive me, I am Artorius Castus. Arthur." He bowed his head slightly but his dark gaze never left her face. Eirwen visibly pressed her lips together into a thin, pale line. I will not speak. Her eyes seem to say. Arthur frowned, but continued: "These are my knights, Sir Lancelot and Sir Tristan."
I refuse to answer you. Eirwen sent silently. Somehow Arthur seemed to catch her message and sighed.
"Who harmed her?" Lancelot asked as he brought his hand up to take her bleeding one. Eirwen took it back quickly and tucked it into her stomach, her fingers curled tightly against the cut.
"She gave herself the one on her palm," answered Tristan with indifference, his toneless voice caused her back to shiver, "the cut along the column of her neck was there when I found her."
How long have you been following me? Eirwen's eyes demanded. Tristan's dark gaze never wavered under her glare and she was the one forced to turn her eyes away as the first one, Arthur, finally stepped forward and closer to the net that held her securely. None of her tricks could save her from the physical hold of rope, and three sets of eyes were hard to fool, especially if one of those sets had followed her for however long before she realized he was there.
"Do you have a name, child?" Arthur question softly. Eirwen answered him with a growl.
"Come now," Lancelot cooed humorously, "we're not going to eat you. A name is all we ask for, or would you prefer to be called whatever we see fit to call you?" Eirwen turned her face away and curled into a ball within the net. Her eyes glared over the guard of her arms at the two men closest to her. You have taken everything from me, Eirwen accused hotly within her mind, I will allow you to take no more unless I deem it worthy.
Both men turned to Tristan, who shrugged listlessly. "She does speak. She spoke Celtic when she was in her little camp."
Lancelot's face twisted with confusion. "Celtic? Then, how was she able to understand our jesting? My jesting, Tristan." Lancelot corrected with a laugh at the glare he received from his companion. Again, Tristan offered no more than a shrug. Arthur continued to stare at her, studying her features. Eirwen's eyes never looked away.
"She must be of mixed blood." Tristan offered quietly. "I have only seen eyes like that within the face of Vanora."
"But Vanora has beautifully pale skin and red-hair." Lancelot countered. "This girl looks like she rolled in the mud." This time, Eirwen couldn't resist the urge to punch him and did so quickly. Tristan was the only man to stand his ground as the other two flinched away from her fist as it collided with Lancelot's chin. The knight held his face in wonder, but his dark eyes were narrowed warily. He stayed his distance now, but Arthur stepped back up and took her hand before it retreated back within the confides of the net.
"Stop," he demanded. Eirwen's muscles seem to freeze upon the command and she glared at her mutinous arm as it was held within his tight grip.
"She is strong." Lancelot admitted softly, though with less humor. "How did you become so strong, my dear?"
"Gypsy, then." Tristan answered for her. "She moved through the forest blindly, yet not once did her feet betray her. She made a blade from rock and built a camp like the Woads."
"A gypsy Woad, then?" Lancelot teased. Arthur shot him a look of warning and the younger man acquiesced with a faint smile. "Perhaps not."
"She must be from the troupe that was attacked a week or so before." Arthur mentioned. Eirwen's eyes flashed angrily and she suddenly began to struggle against his hold. Arthur gripped her other hand as it came forth to free the first. Tristan and Lancelot moved quickly beside her and enclosed her with the walls of the net, not completely trapping her, but making it very difficult to put up much of a fight. Once again, she was curled into herself, her arms thrust out awkwardly to one side. She glared at them through her tangled hair.
"Oi!" Three of them were startled to hear yet another voice come into the clearing. Tristan did not move, but Lancelot and Arthur turned their hands to greet the newcomers. Eirwen could see nothing of them.
"What is taking so long?" The voice was rough and deep. Eirwen assumed it belonged to a man of girth. His footsteps were heavy against the soil and Eirwen winced with every step he took and the twigs that snapped under him. There was another set of feet behind his, softer, but just as heavy. Arthur stood and Eirwen smiled smugly to see that she had been correct. Both men sported bald heads and heavy frames.
"Is that it?" The shortest of big men grunted. "Is that what holds us up?"
"She," Arthur corrected, "and I do believe she is from the camp we have set out to find."
"Arthur," Lancelot groused as Eirwen wiggled within the net, "could you does us all a favor and not mention the camp? I think it makes her a bit fussy, that." To Eirwen, it seemed as though Arthur ignored the words of his knight and nodded to the others. Tristan soon disappeared and not moments later, the net dropped the last few inches to the ground. Eirwen grunted as her rolled up body bounced and she hissed as her arms came above her head because of Arthur's hold.
"Child," Arthur was abruptly beside her, kneeled in the dirt, "listen to me. You must tell me what happened at your camp."
Eirwen answered him with a glare.
"Leave her, Arthur." Lancelot snapped. "She will say nothing to us, that she has proven."
Arthur sighed heavily and then began to remove the net from around her. Eirwen watched with distrustful eyes and quickly took her arms back when Arthur released them. Once the net was gone, Arthur stepped back and gestured to the others to do the same. The circled her and Eirwen stood on weak legs. No, a week without proper food has left me useless. I will never outrun them, and the day grows late – I cannot make a shelter before nightfall. Eirwen turned her eyes to the sky and frowned.
"Come with us." Arthur suggested softly. Eirwen's head snapped back to level and she stared. When no other words were forthcoming, a slender brow rose to her hairline, inquiring.
"Arthur," Lancelot warned.
"I will not leave her here, despite how resourceful she may yet be." Arthur replied to his knight's silent question. This time, her eyebrow's partner also rose and gave her face an expression of disbelieving curiosity. He is dressed in Roman armor and yet he takes pity on a wandering gypsy? Man must be mad. Eirwen took an experimental step backwards, away from the semi-circle of knights that surrounded her. All eyes came to focus on her and she stilled.
The short, bald man laughed lowly. "Oi, Dagonet – give her a talking to, she seems to speak your language." A faint grin came upon Lancelot's face and a look of curious thought painted Arthur's. All men watched as the one called Dagonet stepped toward her, the biggest of them all. Eirwen swallowed shallowly and stood her ground, knowing now that she could not run. It would not be so much if he caught me, but the matter of how he catches me is frightening enough.
Dagonet held out his hand. Come, he commanded with his stern gaze, come now.
Eirwen tucked her hands into her stomach once again. I refuse.
Dagonet eyes narrowed. Why?
Because. Eirwen's eyes darted over to Tristan, then Arthur, before finally coming back to Dagonet. The large man held her eyes, but his brow was furrowed and his mouth frowned crookedly. Dagonet dropped his hand a few inches from where it was, it now came closer to his hips than directly pointed at her.
His eyes, though still stern, inquired softly. Now come? Please.
Eirwen did her best to resist with one more glare.
"Dagonet," the man suddenly said. Despite his soft tone, his abrupt step into noise sliced through her mind like a shockwave.
Eirwen sighed and reluctantly took the man's hand. "Eirwen."
I... don't know. ;-)