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.

Note: There is a sprinkling of German in here, because I figured that would be the best substitute for whatever dialect the Saxons used. Translations are at the bottom.

I am really eager to hear what you all think, so read, review, and enjoy!

Ever Homeward

Aerin was only fifty yards away from the thick of the battle when she saw a man fall, clutching a gash on his leg – Crenn, one of the farmers. That was all that was needed for her training to kick in; she hurried forward, thankful that the Saxon Crenn had crossed blades with had hurled himself back into the battle. When she reached him, Crenn was groaning. His eyes fixed on her as she knelt down beside him, tearing open her medicine pouch. The wound was deep, running from mid-thigh to the top of his knee.

"You'll live," she said, trying to affect a calm voice, though she had to shout to be heard above the roar of the battle. Quickly, she poured a few drops of an alcohol-based potion on the wound, causing Crenn to grit his teeth. "Sorry," she breathed as she worked, fingers flying as she wrapped the injury with clean bandages. "But it'll prevent infection. You never know what that Saxon might have had on his blade." She helped him up, directing him to make his way out of this village - he was in no state to continue fighting.

The thick of the battle was moving deeper and deeper into the village as the Saxons pushed further in. Aerin treated a few more men who had been incapacitated and left on the hillside before turning and following the battle.

The village, so peaceful that morning, had been transformed into a raging field of death. Aerin reeled as the stench of sweat and blood hit her. She'd seen deaths - some due to terrible farming accidents, others brought on by untreatable, messy illnesses - but nothing could compare to battle. Men were spilling each other's blood for the sake of it - ending lives, lives that had once blazed with power, lives that were now being coldly extinguished. Oh, the blood! The ground was slick with it, and the men who had given it were beyond her help. Aerin could administer herbs, and try to ease pain, but the death … it was unbearable. Focus, girl! She yelled at herself. You'll help no one if you think any further. From that point on, she allowed her body to operate with a mechanical consistency: assess injury, clean and bind wound.

But the screams that came from grown men, the tears that flowed from their eyes and down their grime-stained cheeks... They thrashed in complete and utter pain. Each time Aerin felt her human emotions try to take control of her, she forced them down. She would have time to think later, if she survived, that is.

Expensive glass from windows was smashed ruthlessly, doors broken down by Saxons intent on looting the place. The scent of burning filled Aerin's senses, and she spotted tendrils of smoke coming from the village church. She helped where she could, though she did her best to avoid the Saxons. From what she saw when she got too close, they looked… barbaric, for lack of a better word. Their beards were long and untended, they smelled worse than unwashed goats, and they were deadly with whatever weapons they held.

Guilt filled Aerin whenever she spotted a Saxon with fair hair - did all savages have to look like that? She angrily shook the thought from her mind as she quickly put tiny stitches in a Rhostyllen man's throat that had been stabbed by a Saxon javelin. He probably wouldn't make it through to the next morning, but she had to try, didn't she?

The frustration and sorrow she felt when the man succumbed to unconsciousness consumed her to such a degree that she did not hear the heavy footsteps of a Saxon coming up behind her. It was the first time that an enemy had really taken notice of her.

"Hübsches kleines Ding, nicht wahr (1)?" he asked in a rough, gravelly voice. Aerin spun around, instinctively drawing the dirk as she did so, and stood up. She didn't understand what he asked; she knew plenty of languages, but none of those that were used by Saxons. This, a part of her mind figured, was some Norse dialect. She would remember the sound - if she survived this. The upset over the dying Rhostyllen man, whose name she did not even know, clouded her mind, making her think slowly.

The dirk felt cumbersome, ungainly, not like the extension of her arm that it was supposed to be. Curse you, Aerin! She mentally yelled at herself as she glared at the Saxon. Why haven't you practiced?

the Saxon laughed, as if he could read her thoughts. "Du denkst, du ausüben kann eine Klinge? Das werden wir ja sehen, meine Kleine (2)."

The playful tone of his voice and the slight grin on his face told Aerin everything she needed to know. She nervously readjusted her grip on the dirk.

When the Saxon swung his flamberge at her, she had no choice but to parry with the dirk. All the lessons she'd had with her mother and brother slowly came back to her as she reflexively slashed with her blade. Parry. Thrust. Step. Parry. Step. Duck. Parry. Step. Parry again. She was getting tired, and fast, taking uncertain steps back. Ffraid, if I get out of this alive, I promise to train every day.

As she parried for the third time in a row, too exhausted to make an offensive move, the words of her mother tumbled back to her. Aerin, my Aerin. When your arms feel about to give out, you must remember that there is strength within you - the strength to protect your family and friends. Find the courage not just to parry but to strike.

All right, I hear you, Mother. Aerin parried for the last time, trying to gather her strength. As the flamberge started on a course for her neck, she ducked quickly beneath the blade and, in one movement, forced her dirk through the Saxon's leather hauberk and into his chest. The sheer energy that the one action sapped from her was unbelievable, and she barely had the strength to pull her blade from the man as he fell backwards. She turned away, unable to watch his dying throes, knowing that she would be incapable of stomaching them.

Instead, she looked to East ridge. Where was the King in their hour of need? No movement came. Aerin looked back to the village in horror. Village men fell to Saxon steel as mice inevitably fall to a cat. There wasn't much time.

The next Saxon that approached her didn't take the time for pleasantries. Viciously, he made a stab at her with his heavy spetum. Using the same tactic as she had with the first Saxon, she stepped quickly around his weapon and cut his throat, feeling her stomach roil as she felt his blood spatter across her face. Do not throw up. Do not throw up. If you live, there will be time for that later.

Aerin stepped over his body and made her way to a pile of fallen men. Forcing herself to ignore the collapsed Saxons, she sorted through the dead until she spotted a still-breathing villager. "Adda," she breathed. The man was deathly pale. No, no, no, you cannot let him die. Not after what happened to Hydref. Aerin dug through her medicine pouch while simultaneously using her tiny kitchen knife to cut through Adda's tunic. Blood was seeping steadily from a wound just below the man's ribcage.

Aerin took a deep breath and began to clean the cut, obviously made by a spear. She poured a measure of the infection-preventing potion on it, after wiping the grime and most of the blood away. "Adda, please," she whispered. "Be strong. Be strong for Hydref."

The man regarded her from a state of semi-consciousness, through half-closed eyes. "The wound will heal," she went on. "It's deep, yes, but it will mend with time. The real danger is infection, which leads to fever. Please, wake."

"Aerin?" He mumbled.

She nodded. "Yes. I'll sew this up now." Earlier, she had washed all her needles and held them over candle flames in order to make sure they were clean. "Here." She passed Adda the wooden handle of an ax that had been severed from its blade. "Bite down on this."

Hydref's husband did as he was told as Aerin began sewing painstakingly, doing her best to go quickly while still making every stitch as perfect as she could. Finally, she finished, and tied off the sinew she had used as string. "There, it's done," she said. "You'll have to stand up for me to bandage this."

He complied, leaning heavily on her as she wrapped the bandage across his stomach and around his back multiple times. She paused to glance towards the east ridge as she heard the blaring of a horn. "Look, look!" She shouted.

A sea of cavalry had appeared at the top of the east ridge. Even from the valley, Aerin could see the red standard of the King unfurling gloriously in the wind. With battle cries that echoed off the cliffs, the mounted men spurred their horses onward and began a racing descent into the valley. Aerin swore that she could see the glint of the sun on their steel. The sight was so amazing that in her awe, she said aloud, "Ffraid, high goddess of heaven, you have answered my prayers."

She caught Adda's stunned look and felt her cheeks pale, even as slight color returned to his. He said nothing.

Around them, the battle had momentarily paused as everyone gazed at the splendor of the men of Britain. The Saxons, desperate now, shook the wonder from their minds and began fighting even harder.

Aerin turned to Adda. "Go, join the others to the South. You're no use here. We'll be fine now."

He still regarded her oddly, as if shocked by her praise to Ffraid. Would he tell? If Hydref found out, Aerin would be in trouble - perhaps she'd be exiled as a pagan, or worse, burned as a witch by some of the more fervent Christians. After what seemed like eternity, he said, "Very well. Thank you. For everything. Be safe." He was gone in an instant, making his way towards refuge.

Aerin thought she could feel the vibrations of the ground as the King and his soldiers rode into the village, breaking through a Saxon shield-wall. Her eyes took in the sight of the fighters as if they were holy emissaries from God. The man at the forefront rode a white horse and had a large but somehow elegant sword. That must be King Arthur. Most of the men who rode behind him had the look of Britons, obviously trained and well-armed. Many wore dark red tunics over their armor. Others were different - Woads, painted blue. Heaven knew that Aerin had seen enough of them, though now they were allies to the kingdom.

It was the three men who most closely flanked the King that held Aerin's attention longest. They, she knew, were Sarmatian Knights. Oh, the tales she had head of them! Incredibly brave, and loyal to the King to the last. She could barely see their faces at the distance, however. The largest knight let out a wild-sounding cry that was taken up by the entire division, including King Arthur himself.

"Rus!"

The sound resonated within Aerin as if it was an angel chorus, and she felt the urge to join in, though she didn't. At last, she managed to tear her gaze away from them and turned back to the battle that raged around her, once more in full swing.

As she wove her way from injured villager to injured villager, she felt the tide of battle turning and the Saxons being pushed back, step by step. At one point, she was pushed along with them, into the main square. It was completely in flames, and the fire was spreading rapidly throughout the village. Aerin forced her way out of the square, coughing from the smoke.

She nearly tripped over another Rhostyllen man, who was breathing even more heavily than she. He had a slash across his chest that looked as if it had been made by some sort of sword. It was deep; there would be no saving him. Even so, she knelt down and cradled his head in her arms, trying to soothe his writhing.

She didn't have the heart to encourage him to hush - he had spent his final living moments as a hero, giving his life for his land. As far as she was concerned, he could end in whatever fashion he wanted. Furthermore, she was sure that if it had been her in his place, she would have had quite a time trying to stay quiet. She did, however, say, "Be brave, the pain will soon pass."

If her supply of poppy hadn't been dangerously low, she would have given him some. "The pain will pass," she repeated. "Do not fear." The surreal quality of the moment disappeared as she felt a sharp blade at her throat. Gently, she set the dying man's head down and stood, trying to hold her head up in a dignified manner.

Her dirk was sheathed - there was no way she could get it into her hands in time. She met the eyes of her assailant. They were wild, bloodthirsty.

I will die nobly. All wounds in the front, she promised herself. No matter the pain, I will not turn my back to him. The Saxon surely intended to kill her. He turned his long knife against her skin until the point of it touched her throat. If he were to put even an ounce more force into it, the blood would start running, and she'd be dead in ten minutes or less. The disgusting smell that came from him made her want to vomit, and the cold look in his eyes terrified her.

"Du bist tot (3)." His leering face was all she saw.

At that moment, the voice of her mother filled Aerin's mind like floodwater. Well, what are you waiting for, girl? Defy him! She couldn't remember if Ẻvlin had ever said that - but it didn't matter, because the words gave her courage.

"Hurry up and finish this," she spat out, but her thoughts had been on her mother, and she did not speak in the common language, Welsh, but in Gaelic. "You think you'll be able to boast to your fellows that it took you hours to kill a mere girl?"

Suddenly, there was a half-moon ax at the man's neck.

"Release her," a voice growled in Welsh. "Like she said, there's no honor in killing defenseless."

It had been heavy fighting - nothing they couldn't handle, but heavy nonetheless. As the group of Camelot soldiers split up, Galahad found himself next to Arthur. Both men were still on their warhorses - a rare thing. Usually they were all unhorsed within two seconds flat. (Except, of course, for Galahad himself, who had always prided himself on being able to stay in the saddle far longer than the other Knights could.)

The youngest knight thrust his sword into the back of a Saxon who had tried to sneak up on Arthur from behind. A heartbeat later, Arthur had decapitated three men who had advanced on Galahad in seamless, powerful strokes.

Damn it! They'll all hear about this in the mess hall tonight. And no one will hear that I just saved Arthur's sorry Roman life! Though he did have great respect for his commander (he would never admit it, not even under torture) - the heat of battle was getting to him.

Bors was bellowing, unleashing death with his wrist blades farther away from the main party, closer to the center of the village. He felt something crash into his back and spun around, nearly killing the Woad out of habit before he realized in the nick of time that they were fighting Saxons, and that this time the Woads were friends. He hauled the blue-painted fighter to his - or was it her? (one could never tell) - feet with a quick, "S'rry." Sure, he felt rather stupid for his mistake, but someone else - definitely Galahad - was bound to do something, well, stupider.

He looked up from the carcass of a Saxon he'd just skewered to see a familiar form on a horse not ten spans away. "Gawain, watch your back," he called out as he noticed a sneaky-looking enemy approach the other knight from behind.

Gawain heeded Bors's warning and turned in the saddle an instant before he saw a man lunge for his head. He ducked, and stilled the Saxon permanently with a well-aimed dagger. Unlike Galahad, Gawain saw nothing, thought nothing, but the battle around him. His mind was enveloped in a red haze that hovered around the corners of his vision. Somehow it did not hamper him; instead, it aided him, sharpening his focus.

A few minutes longer and he was unhorsed but uninjured, managing to regain his footing as quickly as the animal he was always compared to. As luck would have it, the current of the battle separated him from his mount and forced him to a less crowded area, away from the burning village square. Gawain began to pick off whatever Saxons were around, but mostly this area had been abandoned.

Out of nowhere, he heard a Saxon voice say in whatever Norse language, "Du bist tot." Gawain didn't know many Saxon words - every new invading group spoke a different dialect - but he did know one, "tot." Dead?

He spun around to see a knife-wielding Saxon menacing, of all unexpected things, a young woman. Yeah, she's dead. Or would be, if I weren't here. Gawain stepped forward, expecting the girl to scream for help. To his surprise, he heard her speak in a measured, angry voice - in Gaelic. Gaelic? Why the bloody hell is she speaking Gaelic? That was a language Gawain did know.

"Déan deifir agus críochnaigh. Cé chomh fada a thógann sé ar chailín a mharú (4)?" She spat at the Saxon. It took the knight's mind a moment to translate, but when he did, he was mildly impressed. Well, that took guts. Not that he can understand her. All right, all right, time to step in.

He came up behind the Saxon, and put his ax to the man's neck. "Release her. There's no honor in killing defenseless."

The Saxon turned to face him, raising his hands above his head and dropping his knife in indication of surrender. "Sit down, against that wall," Gawain commanded, gesturing so that the other man would understand his meaning. The Saxon obeyed, immediately moving to sit with his back to the outer wall of a cottage.

The woman nodded at him, though her blue eyes were icy, as if she were still gazing at the Saxon. "Táim buíoch," she said, once more in Gaelic. In an instant, though, she adopted an expression of fear and said sharply, "Taobh thiar duit!"

Behind you! Gawain registered the warning and turned to meet a Saxon's falling hammer.

Translations:(German)

Hübsches kleines Ding, nicht wahr?: Pretty little thing, aren't you

Du denkst, du ausüben kann eine Klinge? Das werden wir ja sehen, meine Kleine:You think you can wield a knife? We will see.

Du bist tot: You are dead.

Translations: (Gaelic)

Déan deifir agus críochnaigh. Cé chomh fada a thógann sé ar chailín a mharú? Hurry up and finish this. You think you'll be able to boast that it took you hours to kill a mere girl?

Taim buioch: Thank you.

Taobh thiar duit: Behind you!

So, what do you think? Review or PM with any comments or suggestions, please!