Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story.

Author's Note: So far you, my readers, have so far exceeded my hopes for your reactions that my brain is now kicking out more and more of the story at a quicker and quicker rate. Thank you for such wonderful reviews. You all are wonderful. And I promise longer chapters, especially the next one.

8#8#8#8#8#8#8

Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?

Chapter Four: Family

8#8#8#8#8#8#8

Dagonet had handled the news with the stoic expression that was as much armor as his studded vest. He'd asked very few questions of the women lying in the sickbeds. He'd listened to their stories of death and destruction with guarded eyes. And when the stories were done, he'd simply left, a thunderous expression warning any who saw him to leave him alone.

The door had shut with a quiet thud, leaving the four women to their own thoughts. They hadn't been alone very long when a soft rapping on the door drew them from their thoughts. Fulcina peaked her head into the room, taking in the lost expressions on her friend and charges.

"Is everything alright?" asked Fulcina, crossing to Brigid and touching her arm.

Brigid nodded, shaking her thoughts from her eyes. "Fine." She tied the last bandage on Zaria and straightened, her hand automatically moving to her back.

"Where did you get that?" growled Zaria, noticing the amulet that the Roman woman wore around her neck.

Fulcina frowned. "Get what?"

Zaria pointed and Fulcina looked down to where the Sarmatian woman was pointing. The carved black bear amulet rested over her heart and she stroked it with a smile.

"My lover gave it to me."

Zaria's eyes narrowed. "And what Sarmatian did he steal it from?"

Fulcina shook her head, confused. "None. Lancelot is a Sarmatian himself."

8#8#8#8#8#8#8

Dagonet stood at the bar, a cup of ale in his hand. He hadn't yet ventured to the table that his friends occupied. He still didn't know what to say to them. How was he to tell them that their homeland was destroyed? How could he tell Galahad that the land he remembered was now a barren wasteland, villages razed by the Hun and graves filled by plague? Or tell Gawain that the closest he would ever come to the Sarmatian bride he dreamed of would be one of the tattered women in the care of Brigid? And Dagonet had no concept of how to even tell Tristan, who had lost so much already, that his people had been decreased to a single girl in the healing rooms?

He stared into the cup of ale, looking for answers in the liquid. A thump against the bar signaled Bors arrival, as did his best friend's chuckle.

"So. Sarmatians."

Dagonet closed his eyes. "Yes."

Bors sipped from his cup of ale, eyes watching his friend's stoic face. Whatever was troubling him, the giant had no intention of letting it loose yet. "Makes you wonder what it would be like to go back." His voice turned wistful as he watched Seven and Nine playing chase with Lucan.

Dagonet let his eyes slide to his friend, eyes shuttered. His task would be harder than he had thought it would be if even Bors, who had created so much in this land with his wife and children, thought of going home.

Meanwhile, Arthur watched the two oldest knights standing at the bar, Bors talking and Dagonet silent. He let his green eyes wander around the assembled knights, for the first time since Badon Hill wondering if these men who had bled with him would leave this fortress they had made a home. Gawain and Galahad were in deep discussion about the women of Sarmatia and how the women in the sick rooms measured up to their memories. Tristan was paring an apple with studied nonchalance. Lancelot was rolling dice lazily, his eyes far away.

What would this fortress be like without his men? He hadn't even considered the thought of them leaving-not since they had turned back to stand with him. Dagonet had found a stubborn healer and Lancelot had found a quiet Roman. Would they leave now that there were women to remind them of home?

8#8#8#8#8#8#8

Stasja of the Cercetae leaned back against the pillow propping her up and allowed her amber eyes to sweep the room she had awoken to. The Sarmatian-speaking girl who tended them was very pregnant and would birth in a matter of weeks, she decided. Winding a thick black lock around her finger, Stasja looked at Zaria. Her friend of more than a year looked as if the world had caved in on her.

"What is it?" she whispered, careful not to arouse the attentions of either the Roman woman who called herself Fulcina or the pregnant healer who had wandered across the room to join her friend in folding linens.

Zaria raised haunted brown eyes to her friend. "I think my brother may be here."

Stasja shifted and winced, the stitches in her belly pulling. "Good. I want to see if the great and powerful brother is as godlike as you claim," teased the dark-haired girl.

"You're just jealous because you had eight sisters," countered Zaria.

"Ah, you know me too well."