Title: Loyal Traitor – Part 2 – The Song of Battle

Rating: NC- 17…of course ;)

Author Notes: Wow, what fantastic reviews – honestly guys, each and every one was highly appreciated! It's been a LONG time since I posted, and I really wanna make a longer story of this. So review, and let me know if you want me to :)

"You look like shit."

For all the welcoming and concerned words he might have heard, those were the first. Gawain stumbled into Badon Hill a full day after his escape, his body screaming from thirst and hunger. Indeed, the fruits of Madwen's generosity had been enough to sate him for a few hours, but never more than a day. He'd made camp at Sundown, because he found himself lost. Bloody lost! It was all brambles, and twisted tree trunks...and shadows. Too many shadows. Had his blue woman warned Merlin of their loss? A Sarmatian was not a valuable captive, but it would surely inspire anger on Artorius' part. Gawain was unsure, but a familiar smirk twitched at his lips when he thought about it. He'd left Madwen at that tree, naked...

A wide smile shaped his mouth, and he pressed a heavy hand to Lancelot's shoulder. He leant his whole weight against the dark knight.

"Missed you too, Lancey."

*

Seven Sarmatian horses stood knee deep in grass. A vast plain of green stretched outwards towards the dark forest, giving the illusion of movement as a wave of wind swept along the grassland. Coiled tendrils of breath travelled upward from equine nostrils, and all the men sat mounted in silent contemplation. It was cold, deathly cold, and the hard winds of Britain bit against their pale cheeks. Strong hands gripped weapons made for one purpose, and all held their breaths. A bow string had been pulled taut inside them, and waited to be released. A fury, a skill, a murderous bow that each one had been trained to bestow.

All pairs of eyes looked to the black trees of Laddrwys, watching, waiting…The empty skulls that surrounded the enemy threshold stared back at them, their crumbling teeth seeming to curl into sadistic grins. The heads of their own kin, and numerous Roman centurions, had been crushed onto wooden spikes. A warning.

Arthur withdrew Excalibur slowly, coaxing a throaty howl as the sword was pulled from its sheath. His fingers tightened around its solid hilt.

Gawain's lips moved, a silent prayer to his Gods. His green eyes stared blankly ahead, and the ghost-like fog simpered over his face. Casting a strange light upon his pale cheeks. He blinked once, steadily, before twitching his feet in his stirrups. This was the price to pay for testing Sarmatian mettle. Merlin's heathens were brave, passionate, and driven by only one dire cause...but each knight had a heart beat as strong as the sharpest blade, and they were growing impatient. The horses stamped anxiously, and Gawain's fingers tightened into his leather rein.

Just one sign….Just one small movement to suggest the enemy's whereabouts…

It came.

A single arrow flew high overhead, an acknowledgement of the battle to follow. Arthur's clear gaze followed its arch in the sky, and he nodded his head curtly. The enemy were there, hiding behind wood and leaf in an insulting and negligent wait of war. The light of the dull Sun glinted against his golden armour, and he shifted in his saddle. His gentle features were hard, almost cruel, and for a single moment, he seemed to become one with the Sarmations. The Commander shouted, loudly, and Gawain's horse reared onto its hind legs.

"Ruuuuusssss!"

***

Gawain's bloodied fingers brushed aside the opening to the tent, and he stepped inside silently. He'd waited all night to slip away from the others, having listened to Lancelot's boastful tales too many times already. No, his thoughts did not lie with the whores of Badon, nor the Romans who liked to lose their money playing at dice. His thoughts strayed to the hostage tent, from which he could see candlelight flickering from the inside. His green gaze had cast upwards frequently, darting across the campfire to where his hostage was being kept. He was growing impatient, and the flickering flames of the fire caused shadows to dance across his dangerous features. How long could Lancelot chatter for? How long could he wait to see her....?

What in the Gods name was she doing here? Although in truth, it made sense that she was fighting. Gawain had seen many women wielding weapons against the Sarmatians, and indeed, they became quite fearful creatures when wielding an axe or spear in their delicate hands. He and Bors had always had a secret fantasy of a blue woman with a blade, her eyes blazing with fury as she attacked. That was of course, prior to his meeting with Madwen…

He remembered Merlin's harsh words to him, the taunting of his homeland, being tied to a tree….and then the cool sensation of water rushing into his open mouth. Madwen had saved him that day, however reluctant he was to admit it…and now he felt indebt to the little woman.

She'd sprung out from nowhere, blocking his path with her small and agile figure. Her mouth had roared a primitive scream, and Gawain was ready for attack. Her body was clad in tight bindings. At first, Gawain had not recognised her, and was blinded by the dark war paint, the messy and matted hair that used to be so perfectly curled…so soft against his face as he'd buried his teeth into her shoulders and spilled his seed within her. But now? She charged at him, and Gawain caught her spear with his axe, metal scraping against metal as it was pushed roughly to the side…

Madwen stumbled forwards, and Gawain shoved her back roughly. She fell awkwardly, and there was a snap of bone. Quiet, but there. Her ankle collapsed, and she tumbled onto her back. Gawain's body sang with the adrenaline of battle, and his blood pulsed violently within him, pressing him forwards for the kill. He pressed a booted foot to her broken ankle, hearing the Woad scream beneath his weight, and then he raised his axe for her face…

And then she'd turned over. Turned over onto her back and truly looked at him. Recognition had flashed across her face quicker than a breath, and she cried out fearfully, recoiling suddenly and covering her face with her bloodied hands. Gawain didn't know what to do. The aim of his axe faltered, and hit the ground with a thud. He lifted his foot from her small ankle, and got to his knees. What was he doing? Helping the enemy? Saving the woman who had attempting to kill him? Gawain's barbaric mouth shaped a growl, and he scooped his arms beneath her trembling body, lifting her into his sweaty embrace. She didn't squirm once, nor fight against him…and instead wrapped her arms about his neck tightly, sobbing hysterically into his neck.

Battle was no place for a woman.

Indeed, he'd received strange looks when he took her back to Arthur. Lancelot cocked a perfect eyebrow in his direction, his dark eyes swarming over the girl with lusty interest. Gawain merely growled in response, dropping her suddenly at Arthur's feet and walking off.

As Gawain entered the tent, he cursed his own curiosity. He wanted to see his captive, and his mind reeled with impatience, confusion. She was a bitch, feisty as hell, and she'd tried to kill him...but now? She looked helpless, useless. She was bound to one of the tent's holdings, and her head hung limp against her chest. Her eyes were shut, and her blue lips parted to breathe. She looked pathetic, and her muddy hair fell messily over her face. Having tucked one foot underneath her buttocks, she stretched her other leg out awkwardly. Her broken ankle was crooked, her foot bent awkwardly and out of place. He had expected her to be crying in pain, in anguish, but she was silent. Broken. His green gaze dropped for a moment, and moved quietly to where she sat.

Dropping to his knees beside her, he placed two bloodied fingers to her chin. He lifted her face to him, and she groaned loudly against his touch.

"I was wondering when I see you again." She spoke, her voice hard and rasped. Her throat was bruised, and Gawain used to his other hand to brush his fingers over the mottled skin. Had he inflicted that? He didn't remember doing it…But it looked angry none the less, and felt fevered against his fingertips. Whoever had inflicted it...she was lucky to still have a head.

Madwen felt the knight's hands on her throat, and she opened her eyes slowly. The Sarmatian watched her pupils darken against the shadows, and he observed the change in her eyes. She looked…colder, aged, and weary. Indeed, he had barely noticed how the blue paint made her appear harder and less welcoming, and he wrinkled his nose when he saw the dried blood on her lips. She looked like a barbarian, a heathen woman who welcomed death with open arms.

"A Roman put his hands on my throat. I didn't like him; I spilled his guts to the grass."

Gawain raised his eyebrows at her words, and his lips twitched into a smile. Her manner was as blunt as he remembered, and her defiant words still managed to stir something within his loins. Releasing her throat gently, he dropped his hands from her body. "You could have died out there."

"So could you." She spoke indignantly, before coughing violently. Her whole body wretched forwards, and Gawain thrust a waterskin to her lips. She looked at him, suspicious, before curling her lips around the top of it. It was a gesture she remembered, a simple action which promised temporary safety from cruelty's grasp. Drinking down the liquid, she felt Gawain's hands on her chin, cupping her face backwards to allow her to drink a little easier. What did he want? To help her? To humiliate her again? He had looked truly fearful caught up in war, his green eyes hard and his lips curling into a growl. She remembered the flash of his axe as he'd contemplated slicing her face with it. She remembered her own scream of terror…

"You should have killed me." She stated, turning her lips from the waterskin. Gawain withdrew it from her, and laughed at her coltishness.

"I only kill those I consider a threat, or an insult to my ego." He smiled slightly, before sitting cross-legged beside her. Lifting the drink to his own mouth, he slurped the rest of the water down himself, before wiping his chin with the back of his hand. "And I think we've already established that you are neither."

He winked at the Woad, watching the lack of amusement on her face. Indeed, she had not changed at all, and her lips set into an even harder line. Her grey eyes watched him intently, and she remained deathly silent. She lacked the vigour of her former self, and Gawain blamed battle for this. The bitter smile of war either made you stronger, or destroyed you completely, and Gawain had seen many of his brothers fall prey to insanity. He'd seen men mess themselves in the face of the enemy, seen large men run screaming from the battlefield, only to be speared down by his own comrades. It took a certain sort of person to stare death in the face, and Gawain doubted that any woman was capable.

The Sarmatian's hand rested upon his knee, and he drummed his fingertips there. "I didn't kill you, Madwen, because you were frightened of me. And unlike the fair Romans, I don't get a thrill from breaking already broken men." He paused, resting his chin upon his hand. "I don't like slaughter, and I know you don't either."

"You know nothing about me, slave!" Madwen screeched suddenly, pulling hard against her bindings.

She pushed her face forwards, but Gawain remained unflinching. Leaning forwards, he moved closer to her. Her mouth was shaped with a snarl, and she bared blue teeth at the Sarmatian, challenging him with wild eyes.

"If you wanted slaughter, my blue woman," Gawain spoke, the timbre of his voice both low and dangerous. He tipped his head to the side, looking at her lips. "Then you would have killed me long ago…"

The Sarmatian moved forwards quickly, catching her hair in his hands and pressing his mouth to hers. It was hard kiss, desperate but unfeeling. He did not tease her lips apart, nor opened his own, and he felt her struggle beneath him. She tried to pull her head away, but Gawain held her firm to his lips. Opening his eyes briefly, he saw that hers remained closed, and he pulled away sharply. His bloodied fingers remained in her hair…and Madwen's eyes were closed.

He regarded her expression with a dark look. Her features seemed schooled to calm, and her lips opened slowly.

"You should have taken me with you." She whispered, before allowing her eyes to flutter open. It was only then that Gawain saw the tears in their blue depths, the despair and horror that plagued her. Her bottom lip trembled, and Gawain pulled away quickly. Getting to his feet, the Woad looked up at him, pleading. "If you believe you are in any debt to me at all, then kill me now."

The woman before him choked back a sob, and Gawain moved closer to her, ready to crouch down again. Only he didn't, he saw the desperation in her face, the desire for death trembling as her body. Hysteria.

Shaking his head, the knight turned away from her. "Goodnight, Madwen."