Disclaimer: I do not own King Arthur or his knights, the legends or the movie(s) they are portrayed in, and am not making any profit whatsoever from posting this story.
I know I only posted the first chapter last night, and this is kind of early, but I had some free time today and when I get into 'writing mode' I can't stop, so yeah, here it is.
Pronunciation Guide:
Dafydd: DAV-ith (Welsh form of David)
Adda: AH – tha
Rhostyllen: RHOS-tee-llen
This is a shorter chapter than the first, and is the last of the "background" chapters (I think).
Thanks for continuing to read! All reviews are welcome. Enjoy! :)
Ever Homeward
Aerin stood well behind the makeshift defense lines – overturned wheelbarrows and some large logs, for the most part – as she tended to the injuries inflicted by the first Saxon charge. The enemy had withdrawn temporarily, giving hope to the village men. Aerin secretly felt relief, as well, just as they all did; when she had caught sight of the nearly two hundred enemy soldiers marching through the wheat fields like an ice flow, she had thought they were all done for. Somehow, though, the thirty or so village men had formed lines of archers, and had caused enough damage to the initial vanguard of Saxons that the two sides had only clashed briefly.
The healer looked up from bandaging Bram the blacksmith's left shoulder. It wasn't a terribly bad wound, only a painful bruise that had come from the edge of a Saxon shield. "There, good as new." She was already feeling grateful for all the monotonously long days of winding bandages at Robert's bidding – by the heavens, she had used nearly a third of the supply already!
The blacksmith flexed his shoulder and hefted his hammer. "Thanks, lass. Much obliged."
Momentarily pleased with herself, Aerin stretched her aching back and wiped her bloodied, dirty hands on her once-white apron, surveying those about her. Satisfied that all the men were properly cared for, she turned her gaze outwards, past the village.
Nightfall, usually one of the most peaceful times of the day, was slowly approaching. Even the air seemed tense, as if waiting for some camouflaged wildcat to pounce. Out of the darkening atmosphere, towards the east, came a spark of light. Aerin thought it was a firefly until she realized with a start that it was a torch, far in the distance. She was about to shout a warning, but a hand clapped over her mouth, muffling her scream.
"Hush, I'm a friend," a man's voice whispered, and the hand was removed from her mouth. Aerin spun around to face her assailant-who-was-not-an-assailant, meeting wide green eyes. He was definitely a Briton, by the looks of him, a few years older than she. He was lightly armed with a dagger – but armed nonetheless.
"Who are you?"
"A messenger, scout, whatever term you please. I've come to tell your men that the village of Rhostyllen has sent forty-five armed militia-men. They are waiting on the eastern ridge; see the single torch?"
Aerin nodded, a spark of hope lighting within her. "Yes. Come and repeat your news to the men. They'll be glad to hear it." She led the man to the small hillock where the men were grouped. They listened to the Rhostyllen messenger and told him to bring his fellows into the village under the cover of darkness. They would need all the help they could get if they were to repel the Saxons a second time.
Aerin watched from the edges of the group as sturdy Rhostyllen men slipped into the village, ready for battle and seemingly unaffected by their long trek. She also caught a few suspicious glances, but brushed them off without saying anything, making it clear that she was a healer. To prepared yet nervous men, with thoughts of the enemy on their minds, she knew she looked more like a Saxon than anything else.
The night wore on, and everyone grew more on edge. Aerin couldn't help but be fearful – even with the reinforcements, what hope could eighty men possibly have against two hundred. She'd heard Bram the blacksmith warning his fellows that the Saxons would not hold back this second time, now that they knew the strength of the villagers.
Ffraid, please, help us. She wouldn't dare to even whisper her desperate prayers to the goddess aloud, not in public. Feeling her eyelids fluttering, she sat down on a box in front of the village alehouse, in the center square. Briefly, she wondered if men would ever again gather there on festival days to celebrate. The square was empty, and no noise came from the north, either. Perhaps, she thought, it wouldn't hurt to close her eyes for just a few moments. She leaned back against the alehouse wall, and slept.
…
Aerin woke to the scuffling of a pair of boots moving quietly across the dirt square. It was still dark, and she didn't know how long she had been asleep. Her eyes widened and she was suddenly fully awake as she noticed an unfamiliar man staring at her from across the square. She caught her breath as she saw that he was wearing armor – only a breastplate, but still impressive. No one in all the land for miles and miles owned armor because of its great expense. It was simply not practical for simple farmers, even those that lived north of Hadrian's Wall.
For the second time that day, she asked, "Who are you?"
Unlike the Rhostyllen messenger, this man straightened up and threw her a smart salute. "Tren of Pentwold, and I've come bearing news from Arthur the King, miss."
King Arthur? The hero turned legend knew of their plight? Aerin felt the flames of hope, so recently at their lowest ebb, grow. "Let me take you to the front lines, sir. They will be eager for your message."
The man followed her to the north hill, maintaining a respectful distance. Upon seeing her, a farmer named Sior gripped his pitchfork tighter and asked, "Girl, who is this? It's the second time tonight you've brought a newcomer in."
"The King sent him!" Aerin said, and she watched hope fill the faces of the villagers. Excited talk broke out, but then hushed as Gwion, Ilar's husband, shouted for silence. "Well, sir, what have you to say?"
Tren drew himself up. "Your messenger reached the King's city of Camelot early last evening. Our good King has hastened to your aid with a division of men at his back. We circled around the Saxons and even now wait on the east ridge. This will give us the advantage if the enemy attacks in the morning."
Some of the men nodded their heads in approval. Aerin also understood – should the Saxons make their move at dawn, they would have to face the King's men in the east and be hampered by the strong summer sun.
"What about Tomos?" Someone asked of the villager.
"Your man is with us," Tren replied. "Though his pony is rather tired. I will return now, to report back to King Arthur. Do not fear – we will be ready to help." A few moments later he had disappeared into the darkness. Aerin watched him go, and then spotted her father and Dafydd, sitting on some barrels and sharpening javelins with their knives.
Upon seeing her, Gethin drew himself up and said, "Aerin, I worry for you."
Mustering a stern voice as best she could, she replied, "I'm a healer, father. It is my duty to be here."
"Have you slept at all?" Dafydd asked.
Aerin nodded. "A bit. You?"
"Aye. I want to have enough energy for the morning." If he realized that his voice was shaking, he made no attempt to mask it.
"The sun will rise in less than an hour," Gethin put in. "Aerin, I beg you, please go."
Unexpectedly, it was Dafydd who intervened. "She has made the choice to stay, Father. Would she be mother's daughter if she chose any different?"
Aerin was surprised, to say the least. Dafydd almost never brought up their deceased parent in any sort of conversation. She was, however, thankful that he had, because their father bowed his head in defeat, then kissed Aerin's forehead. "Please use caution, child." He tried to pull away, but his daughter was overcome by a sudden rush of emotion and hugged her father tightly.
"You're the one going into battle." She reluctantly ended the embrace after a few moments. It wasn't often her father hugged her, or showed any kind of feeling.
"I'm not worried to go to my Father in heaven. I have two brave, virtuous, and hardworking children who will take good care of each other."
"Father, don't -" Dafydd protested, but Aerin hushed him with a shake of her head, silently communicated that their father needed to have peace. Dafydd hugged her, and she whispered, "Be careful, and prudent."
Her brother threw back his head and laughed, tension easing away. "Ha! Always." He watched her hand settle on the hilt of their mother's dirk. "I'm suddenly glad that she taught you how to use a blade."
Aerin knew that this rather ambiguous statement was meant as a long-overdue apology, from the times when their mother had schooled them both in fighting. Dafydd, like their father, hadn't thought it proper at all for his sister to learn weaponry, and he and Aerin had had quite a few raging arguments over the subject. That had been when the healer had actually wanted to learn bladework, of course, when they had lived in the Isle to the West.
"Me, too," she replied, thrusting away her memories. She gave a last wave to her family and walked off to see if anyone needed her help. She caught a glimpse of the two waving back; it was then that she realized she might never see them alive again. The urge to race back and tell them how much she loved them filled her, but she forced it down. She knew that they had to go into battle knowing that she was strong and could take care of herself.
Aerin sat alone in the hard-packed dirt of the main street, fingers tapping the ground anxiously as she faced east, watching for signs that the sun was rising. About her, the village was all but silent in its near-abandonment. The livestock had been taken south with the women and children, so no roosters crowed to announce the dawn. A few cottage doors creaked open and shut in the breeze; curtains rustled eerily. It was strange – unnatural, even – to see the village like this. Her whole life, it had been busy and bustling – never deserted. She stood up and began pacing, keeping her eyes fixed to the sky, watching always for the sun.
The sky began to lighten, becoming the pink-tinged gray of summer mornings. Tension beat through the her as if it were a poison. She continued to pace. A drum pounded in the distance, as blatantly clear as a birdcall in the silent air. Aerin felt her blood turn to ice, and her feet froze to the ground in fear. "Oh, Ffraid, please watch over us all," she murmured.
With that, she felt herself running, focusing on not tripping over her dress. Somehow, her luck held, and she managed to reach the front lines without incident. With bated breath, she looked on as the village men raised their shields and tightened their grips on their weapons.
Though she had seen it once before, the vicious nature of the Saxon charge made her feel like turning and running. Arrows barely slowed the enemy. The front lines of the Saxon army crashed into the villagers. Shouts filled the air, above the ringing of weapons.
Aerin watched it all, taking a few fearful steps back, like a rabbit ready to bolt. Stop. They need you. Dafydd needs you. The thought was enough to make her get a hold of herself. She began to hear pained screams, easily distinguished from the mad cries of battle. Go on. This is what you've trained for. She once again put her hand on her mother's dirk, as if it gave her some sort of morbid comfort. She took a step forward, and then another, moving closer to the raging of the battle.
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