Silence reigned in the shadowed room, broken only by the laboured breathing of the man on the bed, and Lancelot took a moment to let his eyes adjust to the gloom, so different from when he had seen it last, remembering with a shudder the hectic activity that had filled the tiny space only hours ago.

The heavy scent of herbs had assaulted his nose then, doing nothing to cover the thick smell of blood that had settled into every corner of the room. Almost gagging, he had stood back with gritted teeth, had watched Gawain and Dagonet carefully peel away the heavy tunic and blood-soaked shirt to reveal the ugly black and red gash on Tristan's back that went from skull to ribs in a ragged line and let his life bleed freely onto the floor.

Surveying the room thoughtfully now, taking in the quiet figure on the bed, the table and oil lamp next to it and the collection of herbs, powders and bandages, sensing the fragrance in the air that only just covered the sharp underlying smell of iron, a shiver ran through him, and cautiously he took a step closer to the bed.

They had placed Tristan on his side, a rolled blanket firmly in his back to keep him steady, and from where he stood, Lancelot was able to see the uneven rise and fall of his brother's chest, swathed in bandages as it was, covered with only a sheet. For a moment, he listened to the breath that now and then caught ever so slightly, and almost winced in sympathy when he saw Tristan's brows drawn together in pain.

″How is he?″ he asked softly over his shoulder, and from the corner of the room, Arthur's voice rose equally quiet, just as he had known it would.

″He has not woken yet, and the fever is rising.″ Exhaustion was pouring from Arthur's body in little rivulets as he wearily got up and, joining Lancelot by the bed, watched Tristan's pale face with concern, the fever already flushing his cheeks and burning his body. From what Lancelot suspected, Arthur had, from the moment he had clasped Tristan's hand and spoken his name, the moment Tristan had lost consciousness, not left the room.

Taking a deep breath, Arthur turned to resume his seat, but Lancelot's hand on his arm stilled him, and patiently Arthur looked up, waiting.

″Tell me about the scar?″ Lancelot said, then watched Arthur's eyes narrow in surprise, sensed the unconscious tensing more than he saw it in the uncertain light, knew that, for a moment, Arthur debated questioning which scar he alluded to, for certainly, considering the life they led, one more scar was the least of their troubles. A scar, when it came down to it, meant that they had survived yet another day.

The bodies of the men around them were maps of the battles they had fought, of battles they had won, and lost. Every one of them carried scars that would forever remind them of a lifetime spent as slaves to a nation their forefathers had had to succumb to, scars that hurt, inside and outside, scars that slept in the summer and returned in damp weather to haunt their bearers and keep them awake at night.

For as long as Lancelot could remember, there had been shaky jests about the fact that Tristan, unlike the other men, only carried scars on his back, proof to anyone that the only way to overcome Tristan was to take him by surprise or outnumber him - and not many lived to tell the tale. This time, no one had lived to boast, yet the gaping wound that ran from skull down to his side in the crooked line that only crude stone axes left was a high price to pay.

Still, as they had discovered, there was one more scar, and from the corner of his eye Lancelot had seen Arthur unconsciously touch his own throat at the sight of it.

It was not the scar, however, that had surprised them. It was the fact that the thin, ragged line that ran down the length of one collarbone and down Tristan's chest was flanked by two black arrows, the same signs that marked Tristan's face. What ad surprised him was the knowledge that Arthur had a scar in the same place, right below the throat, a scar that they had seen time and time again, sparring, a scar that was as much a part of him as the scar on his back, courtesy of a Saxon attack ten years ago, or his Roman ideals.

Remembering the morning, sensing Arthur's tiny gesture, Lancelot knew that some scars weighed more heavily than others. He was startled from his thoughts, however, when Arthur spoke abruptly.

″What happens to a soul that cannot bear a life in slavery, Lancelot?″ Arthur asked quietly, ″not able to bear captivity, not to be able to go where it wants, to choose its own path?″ Tiredly he laughed, his eyes sad.

″Of course you know,″ he said, answering his own question as Lancelot stayed silent, dismayed, then glanced over at the bed at the still dark form that held a soul much darker than his own, a soul confined in body and spirit, and Lancelot suddenly remembered days long forgotten, days when wind and horse had directed him, when no human spirit but his own had commanded his way, remembered never-ending meadows and a sea of green. How had Tristan borne it, he wondered, wild-spirited and fiercely independent, how had he managed to survive, Lancelot wondered, the proud animal the Romans had caged in their attempt to tame it, the unbelievable seed of a thought that had just clawed its way to the surface of his mind making him shudder. He looked at Arthur for confirmation he didn't need, and met a sympathetic gaze that sent a shiver down his spine.

How had Tristan borne it, and indeed he hadn't. The image that returned to Lancelot's mind was all too vivid, showed him clearly the child-man that Tristan had been, flogged for escaping more times than he could count, always guarded, ever watchful.

They had been children, able to adjust, except one. That child had carefully kept his distance and independence from all of them, his mind silently screaming in rage and hatred. All of them close to him, all of them who shared the same fate, all of them who watched him saw him kill the despised Romans over and over in his mind and feared the moment the shell would break.

Lancelot's raised his head when he saw Arthur absently touch the scar on his throat, and the shiver settled uncomfortably in his stomach, envisioning what had transpired.

″He tried to kill me,″ Arthur said gently, his voice tinged with sadness and the tiniest fraction of the surprise that he must have experienced when Tristan faced him. Lancelot exhaled softly, then started when Tristan stirred uneasily in his fevered sleep, groaning when the movement tore at the hideous wound in his back.

Mind still numb, Lancelot watched as Arthur silently turned to him, watched as he lightly touched Tristan's hand, stilling him.

″What happened?″ he asked hoarsely, then cleared his throat.

Arthur's green gaze was fathomless in the dark as he looked at him.

″I woke one day with a knife at my throat,″ he said simply, then shrugged, as if the fact was hardly worth mentioning.

″It was before sunrise. I could feel the cold steel on my skin and I waited, watching the blade, waited for the moment when the steel would turn and stab into me. I wondered whether I would be brave enough not to cry out.″ Arthur snorted at his own naivete. ″Of course I never stopped to think that you can't scream very well with your throat cut.″

″I suppose not.″ Lancelot grimaced, trying to swallow the bitter taste in his mouth. Rome's education had been thorough in that regard, and he wondered what else might have gone through Arthur's mind during those moments.

Arthur's gaze returned to Tristan, and when he continued, Lancelot had to strain to hear him.

″For what seemed the longest time I could only stare at the dagger. When I finally dared to look up, his eyes were burning with anguish and pain, and his face was so pale that I thought I could see right through him.″ For a moment Arthur seemed lost in his memories, the strain of the night clearly displayed on his features.

″And then I did see - saw everything that he had lost, everything you all had lost, paying a debt that should never have been imposed upon you, punishment to your people for centuries, for desiring what is yours by right!″

Abruptly Arthur broke off, and, letting his anguish ebb away into the silence, took a deep breath, then consciously unclenched his fists. When he continued, his voice was, once more, carefully controlled.

″i wondered how I could command you, when the very thought repulsed me that not loyalty bound you to me but duty, and self-preservation.″

″Arthur ...,″ Lancelot wanted to interrupt, unwilling to follow the way the conversation had taken, ″you know it's not like that.″

″Isn't it?″ Arthur's hard gaze tore into Lancelot's until he averted his eyes, slightly uncomfortable, and disturbed by the way the conversation had unexpectedly taken, he tried to revert it to his original question.

″Tristan...″

″He led the knife to his throat.″ Arthur's voice was void of expression, his mind lost in the past. He hadn't even noticed Lancelot flinch.

″I wasn't quick enough. When I finally got hold of the blade, we were on the ground, bleeding all over the new rug. It was a most memorable moment.″

Lancelot could see Arthur's mouth quiver, yet his eyes still had that faraway look as he stared sightlessly into the lamp. Then he started and, running a hand over his face, shrugged apologetically. Lancelot, still trying to overcome his own shock, saw that he consciously tried to pull himself from his memories.

″I offered him leave,″ he said quietly, as if to himself, but at Lancelot's sharp intake of breath he turned around, staring at the man opposite of him.

″What was I to do? I was very young, but I had seen enough animals die in cages, Lancelot.″ Unconsciously, Arthur raised his voice. ″Some men cannot bear captivity. Better he risked his life trying to get to his homelands than die before my eyes.″ Breathing deeply, he turned away, and heavily Lancelot sat down, his mind in turmoil, unable to grasp what he had just heard.

Idly he wondered if that would have been the way out for the others knights, if they had just not been desperate enough, too accepting of their fate, wondered whether it had even lain in Arthur's power to set Tristan free, remembered, too, Arthur's claim then that he had not seen Tristan for hours. Lancelot closed his eyes in incredulity.

And yet, Tristan had come back. Two days after his disappearance, after what Lancelot now knew was the night Arthur had offered him freedom, he had returned, bringing with him a calm acceptance and serenity that were hard to understand - and a mocking smile in his eyes that taunted the guards while he endured his punishment. The tiger had gone to sleep, however, and Tristan had seemed to find his place. No one had ever asked him why he had returned, afraid of waking what only slumbered, and Lancelot wondered what else had happened that night in the darkness.

The question must have been clearly visible on his face, for when he finally raised his face, Arthur's eyes were watching him in kind.

″It happened a long time ago, Lancelot.″ Arthur cast a quick look down at Tristan, then moved toward the door. The note of finality in his voice was clearly discernible, and Lancelot knew that the questions reeling in his mind would remain unanswered for it was obvious that Arthur was not willing to share any more.

″Arthur ...″ he couldn't help saying, however, and there must have been something in his voice which made Arthur hesitate.

″For a man to live like a man, he needs choices, for we are judged by the decisions we make,″ Arthur said softly, not looking at him, and from his careful intonation Lancelot knew that the words were not his own. ″I think I need to step outside for a moment.″

Lancelot stared after him. All of the sudden he felt tired, worn beyond measure, and wearily he let himself fall into the chair Arthur had vacated. Arthur's words had, once more, brought back memories he had pushed into the darkest corners of his memory to keep them from choking him, from concentrating on a present that much too often attempted to take their lives. He had learned early that, in order to survive, all of his being needed to focus on what was happening around him, had learned that the time for remembering were the late hours of the night when the fire sang and called out loud to kindred souls. Still, their memories had faded with the songs that shrouded their minds until they could no longer keep truth and dream apart. Rome had taken children from their families' fires, but they had taken their history, too, turning them into shadows wandering the earth, neither Roman nor Samartian.

Numb with the realisation, Lancelot clenched his fists until he felt his nails cut deeply into his callused palms as he felt memories surge through him he had long since forgotten, emotions surface that had been dulled and weakened by long use and conformation. Suddenly, the invisible chains around his chest, so long softened by his pride in his skills, by his accomplishments as Rome's valued fighter, tightened once more, suffocating him, and in the sudden need to release the anguish building up inside of him, he got up, impatiently pacing the room in the attempt to keep the hopelessness that threatened to engulf him at bay.

A stifled groan broke into his thoughts, freezing him. Hurrying over to the bed, he bent down low, carefully searching Tristan's face for any sign of waking, but as his eyes travelled over the spent features soaked with sweat, the lines of pain deeply carved into the ashen face, they came to rest on the scar that lined his collarbone and was forever reminder of the day when Tristan had chosen to be bound to Arthur not by duty but by honour.

Silently Lancelot sat down, not caring that the cold ground numbed his limbs, a sudden peace settling over him for the first time since he had entered the room.

Tristan had made his decision a long time ago, but, evading Rome, they had all, more or less, bound themselves not to the state that had enslaved them but to Arthur alone. It was to him that they looked at for guidance beyond the battlefield; it was his respect and approval they sought because he had earned theirs. It was because of him that they all knew their worth, would know their worth the day they would be discharged, and Lancelot smiled softly. The day would come when they made their own decisions, and until then he could wait, and bide his time.

It was then that he looked up, the echoes of a smile still in the corner of his lips, and found Tristan's dark gaze on him, tired and worn, eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion, the spark only just visible.

Lancelot smiled softly. ″Welcome back,″ he said.