(A/N: In going through my fic list I deleted a bunch of WIP's that I was clearly never going to update again / had no interest in working on and stumbled across this one. This ironically enough coincided with me refinding my King Arthur DVD which has been missing for the better part of three years. Finding it meant I had to watch it INSTANTLY and was reminded of just how horrifically in love I am with Tristan haha (I tend to do that, fall in love with fictional characters….it helps when they are portrayed by attractive men of course) and so my muse for this was kickstarted….after like 5 years of not updating it.

Instead of rewriting I just decided to give it a reworking and as such am posting this so if it's familiar (which it may or may not be) it's because this fic was once titled Mea Culpa. Basic plot will remain the same, though I never got far enough into it to really have a plot but you know. This will be a Tristan / OC fic so if you do not like OC's you should run away now.

I do not own any of the knights….as much as I would like to own basically all of them for various purposes. I do however own my OC and any other character you do not recognize that will pop up from time to time.

Reviews are like crack to me…and I'm definitely open to concrit too so don't be shy.

Flame if you must, flames feed my muse :D

I'm rotating writing my WIP's so updates might take a bit as I also have to work and put food on the table and am working on some own writing projects to try and sell / option / publish so I'm juggling a bit but I'll try to be regular about this, no promises. On with the show!)

Prologue

When pushed past the point of breaking, it's incredible what one can often endure. After spending weeks in the grip of forcible captivity the senses dwindle and the veil between reality and wishful illusion becomes paper-thin.

Iona was lucky enough to have relinquished the concept of reality without much hardship. Her dreams, however, were no longer enough to allow her to hope. Her strength had near given out and with it went the belief that she would not succumb to the same fate so many others did; that she would not meet her end as a "pet" to a mad man. Tiny flickers of hope and dreams had abandoned her and left her mind to slip somewhere much darker and disconnected. It was a blessed fact that when reality dissolves into something less than what it is intended to be, even the most horrible acts and events become somewhat easier to bear. Losing one's sense of reality also bore the relief of coating oneself in an armor of numbness and apathy. That was all she had left; Iona had been broken.

If she were pressed to make an estimate, as far as Iona could tell she had been held prisoner for the better part of a month. Shackled to a heavy chain not more than a foot in length, she was kept in a tent made of thick hide at the edge of Marius' encampment. She was little more than the personal property of a Roman soldier of great rank, Cassius, who by his account had rescued her from the long weeks of discomfort locked in a dungeon cell. One form of hell for another did not seem like much of a salvation to Iona, however; in all honesty she would have rather been still caged in the dungeon than be faced with her current surroundings.

Accommodations, after all, were comparable; a hard earthen floor icy to the touch courtesy of the winter's harsh bite; meager, rations consisting of water that had languished in a skin for days, stale bits of bread, and game meat so charred it was near inedible; even then that was when she got anything to et at all. She had nothing to keep the elements at bay but the thin fabric of the plain cotton shift she was clad in; which explained why she had come down with fever and congestion so readily. Her binds scraped at her flesh with even the slightest movement; open sores on her ankle and around her wrists constantly raw and bloodied. There was certainly nothing of physical comfort for her even in an officer's tent.

Everything else paled in comparison to her punishments, unfitting for anyone still drawing breath no matter what their crime may be. Enduring condemnation and the repetitive reciting of righteous scripture; dealing with the various physical tortures at the hands of Marius' 'holy' men; and even having the stench of death hanging heavy in the air of the dungeon would have been more livable to Iona than what she was being put through above ground.

Never would she have expected to be pulled from its depths only to be met with the loathsome task of becoming "personal servant" of the guard. A title bestowed on her, of course, to toy with her mind into thinking she was more than just a common concubine. It was bad enough she was made to tolerate Cassius' advances, his touch and his stench on her; that she could barely withstand on it's own. It was when his mood was favorable and he let any number of his men access to her so gracious services that turned Iona's stomach and made her skin crawl.

Each night, her mind became unoccupied and it was instinctive reaction to reflect on her vile daily duties; horrible images recounted in her mind and scarring her all over again. It was then that she wished for sweet release, never again to see the filtered light of day. But she was trapped in a nightmare and every morning she was reminded that it was one from which there would be no waking from.

Iona's escape was only in sleep, just for the sole chance of catching a dream that was now so fleeting and rare. In sleep and in dream she could be anywhere but confined to the tent and the fate that had become her existence. She longed for an exceptionally vivid dream that enticed all the senses. Perhaps one in which she could feel the gentle kiss of a spring breeze against her cheek or smell the dewdrops and the freshness of the dawn. Or maybe to dream of running through the woodland, free to indulge her inner child and throw caution to the wind. In dreams lay peace and joy, and it was an exceptionally cruel fate that it was dreams now too, that she was denied.

Being confined by chain and shackle, at the very least she had much time to devote to sleep, even if it was spent shivering on a cold dirt floor. Sleep could go on forever and ever. Or at least it could seem that way, and Iona did everything in her power to prolong it if she could; not that it ever really worked that well. The sound of fire and steam, the smell of filth and molten metals being formed into weaponry; the taint of blood in the air spilled from some unfortunate obstinate serf would always send her hurtling back into wakefulness with miserable force.

Reality had broken her spirit and worn her down. Physically, she could feel herself dying a little more with each passing day; mentally, she didn't have the mind to care.

If her dreams were gone and never to return, it was then only death that would be a blessing. It was only in death that she would finally be free.