- 3 / In Debt -

'Here' mumbled the blond man, handing Morgaine a piece of roasted rabbit on a stick. The meat was still half raw, dripping with grease-diluted blood, and the priestess grimaced with distaste. He shrugged. 'If you don't want it, I'll have it.'

She snatched the stick away, glaring at him, and he chuckled. 'Hungry, eh ?'

Morgaine gritted her teeth in helpless rage. The day kept going from bad to worse : first the stupid farmer had forced her to kill him, then the bunch of retarded Woads had tried to rape and kill her, and now she was forced to endure the company of these two village idiots. Hurry up ! pleaded Morgaine inwardly, impatient to regain her full powers. The men did not seem hostile, but she'd better be safe than sorry.

The three of them chewed at their bits of rabbit in gloomy silence, listening as the subsiding rain cried its last droplets on the trees' leaves, high above. Morgaine and her silent saviour seemed perfectly content with the lack of conversation, but the blond man kept shifting uneasily beside the fire, glancing in annoyance at the other. Finally, he exploded.

'Gods, Tristan, I really hate to scout with you.'

Morgaine's head shot up. A simple coincidence, she thought, trying to appease the rising wave of worry. The man named Tristan looked up slowly, and Morgaine observed him attentively. A strange, yet noble face, partially hidden by braided dark hair, with unsettling golden eyes that seemed to glow in the light of the fire. The pale skin on his cheekbones was marked with dark tattoos. Another Woad, maybe ? she wondered, as Tristan chuckled softly at his companion's annoyance, what earned him a string of muttered curses. 'What is your name ?' he asked suddenly, and the blond man looked at her in expectation, seemingly overjoyed at this beginning of a conversation.

'Morgaine' she answered with hauteur, 'Priestess of Avalon.' 'I'm Gawain !' he supplied eagerly, extending a hand, but something indescribable flickered in Tristan's eyes, and he grew even more serious than before. 'Are you Woads ?' she inquired, observing Tristan's reaction, but he looked away, hiding behind the curtain of braids. 'Woads ?' repeated Gawain, 'Bloody hell, no ! We are knights. Knights from Sarmatia, stationed at Hadrian's Wall, in Camboglanna. Our commander is Arthur – Artorius Castus – surely you have heard of him ?'

Morgaine nodded slowly, balling her hands into fists under the cloak. 'Avalon.' The name seemed barbaric, almost desecrated in his mouth. 'Where is it ?' 'Far away' she snapped, preventing any other questions. 'Goodnight.'

'Oh, not you, too !' he mumbled, as the priestess turned away brusquely, snuggling deeper into the folds of the cloak.

How could she have been so careless ? How could she have allowed this to happen ?! Her target was sitting a few feet away, with only one other knight to help him ; she would have regained her strength in an hours' time… Here, in the middle of the woods, they would be no match against her. Save for one thing, one bloody little detail…

She owed them. She had a debt, a geis, that could only be undone when she, in turn, would save their lives, or when they decided to free her from it. Only then could she accomplish her task, fulfill the mission her despised family had bestowed upon her, and earn – finally – her freedom.

The disappointment, the anger at her own fault did not allow Morgaine much rest, that night, as Gawain lay back near the fire and fell asleep. The young woman wondered that they had not been attacked again, for the blond knight's snoring was sufficient to pinpoint their location with terrifying accuracy. Tristan, however, kept watch as she tossed and turned, trapped in a debt, between her honour and her freedom.

'Listen, if you prefer to walk, it's up to you !' cried Gawain, exasperated. Morgaine's hands itched for a fireball, or even some good old-fashioned mental torture, but she balled her hands into fists, forcing herself to remain calm. 'I will not ride with you.'

'Well, Tristan rides alone, so it's either me or walking.' Stubborn silence. 'Fine, walking it is.' 'Fine !' snapped Morgaine. He rolled his eyes. 'But I'm sitting in front of you.' Gawain's knuckles whitened as he threatened to crush the handle of his axe. 'Fine' he growled. Morgaine smiled despite herself. She was having fun. For if she could not kill Tristan (and she doubted that Gawain would just stand aside and whistle a tune, waiting till she was done if she did), she was not entitled to make the cooperation enjoyable for them.

She hopped lightly onto the saddle, relishing the grumbles of 'Bloody women, bloody Tristan, bloody island' behind her. The knight took his place behind her ('Bloody tall women') and kicked furiously the horse into a gallop, following Tristan down the forest road. Morgaine felt the warmth emanating from his body, her back pressed against his leather tunic, his arms around her – he had insisted on holding the reins. She felt strangely comfortable, so close to him, despite the desires of murder he could give her whenever he opened his mouth.

Morgaine was not ignorant in the matters of sex : her studies as a priestess of the Goddess allowed her to know much more about the physical aspects of reproduction than most women of her age and social position. Often she had prepared a potion destined to cure infertility, or delivered babies. But as a princess, and possibly a future bride for some lesser Lord, she had never been allowed to participate in the rites of Bealtaine. She had only watched the other priestesses walk away into the warm summer night, swaying, dancing, fingers entwined with the man of their choice, and return come morning, a dreamy, knowing expression on their face.

Morgaine huffed in annoyance at the memory. 'What again ?' snapped Gawain into her ear, and she winced. 'I was wishing you had used the rain to take a bath' she answered dryly. The knight growled in response. 'Maybe you'd rather walk, then ?' he asked, his voice so full of hope that she laughed. 'In your dreams, sir Knight.'

Gawain sighed with relief when the dark outline of Hadrian's Wall appeared on the horizon, dominating the surrounding plains. As they approached, Morgaine could distinguish the sentinels posted regularly on the ramparts, the fires soaring towards the evening sky, the immense iron spikes of the massive wooden gates. The simple, military architecture was impressive, towering above them as they rode down a dusty road, following the Wall.

Tristan whistled, and with a piercing cry, a hawk descended to perch on his gloved forearm. The tattooed knight caressed delicately the grey feathers, whispering something to the bird, a mysterious smile on his face.

Morgaine suddenly understood what must have attracted her sister in this man : he was untamed, graceful like a wildcat, and at the same time possessed an uncommon control over himself. Exotic and dangerous : enough to make the flighty Isolde forget all sense of decency. And as for Tristan… The eldest princess of Ireland was beautiful beyond words, it was undeniable, and could be innocent or seductive, mysterious or forward if she wanted. No man could ever resist her charms, despite Isolde's ugly temper, a flaw too easily overlooked.

Gawain pulled on the reins abruptly, and Morgaine realised they had stopped in a small courtyard built in Roman style, surrounded by short columns and narrow archways. The blond knight jumped swiftly to the ground, extending an arm to help her dismount ; a gesture she ignored. 'Gawain, Tristan…' greeted them a tall, green-eyed man. Morgaine studied him attentively : his stance was proud, his demeanour that of a man used to command. This must be Arthur, she thought. She bowed her head slightly, showing him the strict minimum of the respect due to his rank. 'My Lady…' he inclined his head as well, 'My name is Artorius Castus, commander of the Sarmatian knights. What is your name ?'

'Lady Morgaine, priestess of Avalon. And daughter of Angydd, King of Ireland' she added with distaste. 'Your presence honours us' bowed Arthur, glaring fiercely at Gawain, who was grumbling in disagreement.

'Indeed' said a silky voice, and a tall dark-eyed knight entered the courtyard. 'My Lady, it is a pleasure' he smiled seductively, extending a hand for her to accept. Morgaine ignored it pointedly, for she knew well the likes of him. The first to dance on Bealtaine, never leaving the celebration alone ; never to be heard of again by the heartbroken girls they left behind. This was Lancelot, whose beauty was much spoken of amongst the youngest priestesses : Arthur's second in command, a fierce warrior and a skilled lover. The knight smirked, not deterred by her icy attitude, but Morgaine knew she should not flatter herself. It was not her beauty that attracted him, only the possibility of a shared night with no tomorrow. Lancelot would've probably flirted with anything possessing the right number of breasts.

She followed the knights and their leader inside, through dark, humid corridors and into a large room hung with moth-eaten tapestries whose centre was occupied by a round wooden table. Several knights looked up from their meals as the group entered, their eyes curious when they saw Morgaine.

Arthur gestured to the occupants of the room : 'Knights, this is Lady Morgaine of Ireland. Lady, this is Bors' – a stocky, bald man nodded while chewing on a piece of meat - 'Dagonet' – a huge man with scars all over his face stood up, bowing politely. His gentle grey eyes demented his intimidating appearance. 'And Galahad.' The youngest knight rose from his seat as well, smiling, but Morgaine could see the weariness behind his brash behaviour. A beard was covering his handsome face. A disguise for his youth, thought the priestess.

She accepted their bows as due to her rank, acknowledging their names by an imperceptible nod of her head.

'Now, my Lady' spoke Arthur, inviting her to take a seat, 'What brings you to Camboglanna ?' 'A geis', she answered, frowning. 'A debt. These knights' – she gestured to Tristan and Gawain – 'Saved my life. My honour commands me to enter their service until I can repay them.'

Galahad snorted, spilling his drink on Dagonet, who glared at the younger knight. Bors guffawed, Gawain gaped at her, Lancelot lifted an elegant eyebrow. Arthur remained serious, though Morgaine could see it was taking him a lot of effort. Only Tristan seemed unfazed, looking at her through his braids, his golden eyes narrowed in… could it be recognition ? Did he see in her face the familiar lines of a one-night stand ? Did he remember the woman he seduced and left, six months ago ?

The sound of a goblet smashing on the ground distracted the priestess from her speculations. Still laughing, Bors had involuntarily knocked over his drink. 'Bors…' growled Arthur warningly, but the stocky knight seemed too amused to be entirely sober, and therefore was impermeable to reason. 'A woman…' he hiccupped, 'At your service, Tris…'

Morgaine smiled. A bad, bad smile, full of unpleasant promises curled up her lips ; a chilling gust of wind slammed the doors open, extinguishing the flame that roared in the fireplace. So this is what they thought of her : a weak woman, ridiculous in her caprice. A servant for the night, perhaps ? Anger fuelled her power, screaming to be freed.

The knights glanced at each other, the feeling that something was severely amiss creeping into their minds. Staring right into Bors' watery eyes, Morgaine watched all colour drain from his face as the broken goblet materialized on the table in front of him. 'Lord !' swore Arthur quietly, crossing himself, and Morgaine looked around, deep disdain written on her features. 'As I said' she said pleasantly, relishing the fear she saw, 'My magic is at your service.'