A/N:
Well first, I must give my most sincere apologies. I was nearly sick when I looked at how long it had been since an update. Hopefully, you all may find it in your hearts to forgive me someday. In my defense, let me say I had my fair share of setbacks this past year that have withheld me from updating this sooner: being on a college sports team, the mountains of homework that only a private college could justify, multiple deaths in the family, and a large amount of art commissions coming my way have certainly taken their toll.
But I have made good my word, as I promised not to forsake you. I just…put this on the back burner, so to speak. College resumes again in August, so I have no inkling of how often I'll be able to update. But I vow to you that I SHALL finish this story…it may take awhile, but just view it like wine: it gets better the longer it waits. I pray.
This chapter DOES have a purpose, believe it or not. It may seem like it is meandering, but there is a reason behind all of this. With this one, I wanted you all to see Arthur—currently Artorius—and the beginnings of his inner struggle of his loyalty to Rome against his loyalty to what is good, just and right. This will develop.
I also wanted you to spend more time with Gareth, as he is a character we are not as familiar with…yet.
Besides that, I just have a few things to point out before I let you get back to the story:
-Use of the Irish language: I've decided that I'm keeping it. People have generally responded to it positively, I enjoy working with it, and it adds a little more depth to everything: why WOULDN'T you speak in the language of the land you've spent most of your life in?
-The MacLaughlins/their Irish background: I was actually surprised at how much this bothered some people. Here I thought that I had proven to you all that I knew what I was doing. Believe me; I know these histories, literature, mythologies, theologies, languages, cultures, periods, and legends backwards and forwards. I beg you to TRUST ME. Besides, it wouldn't be in the tradition of a true Arthurian tale unless the readers were sitting there going "Hey…wait. Where the hell did you get THAT knight? You're kidding, right?"
-The Angsty Gawain Problem: Somebody asked why Gawain was being so dark, angsty, and depressing. Lets just say he'll be more like the man we all know and love once he's feeling better. I don't know about you, but I can't say that I'm particularly friendly after being whipped, shot, and dragged across England in the dark. Worry not, our Gawain is going to be himself again...and also remember this tale is set before the film takes place. Characters develop.
-I've begun adding more terminology in there (I.e., Milites, Hibernia, Romanitas, etc…) this is to make it more believable… for me, at least. Let me know if I'm giving you too much to chew on at once. I would be using Latin in there too, but I think that it is too early on in the story to decide if I want to go there yet. Besides, technically speaking, every word the Romans speak is in Latin, the common tongue in this era. It would be a bit redundant to use it as much as I use Irish. Pity.
Anyways, unless you don't recognize the language, assume they are speaking in Latin.
-Roman occupied Ireland: this really hurts to twist history around so much. Ireland was never occupied by Romans, and so it chafes me to do it. But I had to. Otherwise, we wouldn't have the beautiful setup for the classic Tristan/Isolde/King Mark(Fabian) tragedy, or as much color for Gawain (and his parallel to Cuchulainn) and Gareth, or…or…or…oh there's so much I want to say here. All in good time.
-Let it be known: hear ye, hear ye! Ready for a shocker? I KNOW WHERE SARMATIA IS. And I also know where Ireland is. A number of people have attacked this aspect about the story. Trust me, if I didn't know where these places were, then I would have no right to be writing this story. Rest assured…If I don't know something, I go and research it.
Speaking of which, if you have info you would find interesting to integrate into this story, I would love to take a look at it.
-Thank you to all of you for the reviews, as it is good to have input from everyone about what they think of a character, or how well I am relaying info, or whatever else might come up. You guys are great.
So, Brothas and Sistahs, without further ado…I give you…
A new chapter!
"Good against evil, youth shall strive with age,
Life against death, and light against the dark,
Army with army, foe against another,
Enemy fight with enemy for land, find cause for crime.
Ever the prudent man Must think about the fighting in this world;
Felon must hang, and justly pay the price
Because he first did crime against mankind.
Only God knows whither the soul shall go,
And all the spirits which shall turn to God
After the day of death and wait for judgement
In God's embrace. What is ordained to come
Is dark and secret, only know to God
The saving Father. None comes back again
To these abodes who here may truly tell
To men what the Lord God's decree may be,
The home of the victorious, where He lives."
[Anonymous Gnomic Verse, translated by Richard Hamer]
-The South Wall-
Centurion Lucius Artorius Castus awoke before the sun each morning for prayer and meditation.
This morning was no different.
He sat groggily on the edge of his bed, staring at the faintly glowing coals of last night's hearthfire.
Rising from his low cot, he strode over to the water bucket in the corner and knelt, splashing water on his unshaven face to retrieve his drowsy mind from the fog of sleep. The water, chilled by the night weather of north Britannia, soon cleared his senses. He shuffled on his knees to the hearth and meddled with the coals, and soon had a small fire illuminating the room. Standing up, Artorius walked to where his shaving blade rested and commenced to scrape it slowly across his strong jaw, meticulously shaving off his short stubble.
Perhaps someday I will give up this constant fight and grow a beard, he thought to himself, squinting at his work in the dull reflection of his small copper mirror. He smiled to himself, amused at the thought of how he would look with one. Ridiculous.
During his military training, he had been constantly reminded that military officers who were born of Rome were not to allow their faces to be shadowed with whiskers.
It was considered unseemly and barbaric.
He felt mild resentment at this stringent rule, but fulfilled the routine daily out of forced habit.
In contrast, the auxiliaries and legionaries often grew scruffy beards, probably because shaving was arduous, slightly hazardous, and time consuming. But perhaps the underlying reason they grew them was because beards were synonymous with many of their homelands, and were considered by many as the symbol of manhood. The majority of the men were from the many races conquered by Rome; in fact, the auxiliaries had not even earned Roman citizenship. Thracians, Spartans, Sarmatians, Carthaginians, Gauls and numerous other nations were joined into the ranks of Rome, and though they were forced to leave behind almost all of their cultural freedom, beards often prevailed over Rome's discipline—especially among the auxiliaries.
Still staring in the mirror, Artorius' bright eyes grew somber once more.
Even though it was just a subtle act of not shaving, the Milites stubbornly showed their hope and loyalty to their true nations.
Though torn from their lands, these men still hold more patriotism than any true Roman will ever experience.
He suddenly felt sad.
Why can't I have that?
He wanted to take pride in Rome as much as the Spartans took pride in their homeland. To long for his land as much as the Gauls longed for theirs. To strive for Rome as the Thracians strove for their native soil. The Picts, rejecting the offer of Romanitas from the Holy Roman Empire, fought like demons to defend their land and to rid it of the new civilization. Why could he not fight and believe like that?
Why can I not love like that?
His father was a Roman and he himself had dwelled within the city since he was eleven years of age. He risked his life daily for the Empire—should that not make him fiercely loyal to Rome?
Sighing, he tried to rid himself from such troubling ruminations; he would not allow his thoughts to continue, knowing full well that his mind would walk the paths of Treason if he let it.
Though he shied away from the idea, he felt in his heart that Rome's mask been removed on this island, revealing her monstrously distorted face for what it truly was.
Good men are treated like dogs.
Women are abused and unprotected.
Homelands are taken.
Peace is destroyed.
Cultures are lost.
And all because of Rome and her greed.
Injustice is our crown in Britannia, and the land itself screams beneath our tyranny.
It must stop. He shook his head. No...this must stop.
"What blasphemy does the Devil whisper in your ears, Castus?" he said quietly to his reflection.
Turning sharply on his heel, he walked over to his table where his armor laid waiting. With well-practiced hands fastening the familiar buckles, he began preparing himself for the difficult day ahead: the second group of soldiers may arrive, while the first group was about to begin their very first day of duties.
The Lincoln troop—for lack of a better word—was assigned to him, which made him glad. And, if the Hibernian troop arrived today, Fabian would probably put them under his command as well. He did not relish the idea of trying to control the legendary company from Hibernia, but was determined to take on the task should he be ordered to do so.
Just as well; the fewer men Fabian puts under Falco's command, the better.
Now that was one thought he felt no guilt for.
Falco was cruel and abusive to his men, and Artorius hated the black sinner for it with all of his heart.
After fastening his crimson cloak upon his shoulder, he took his crested helm under his arm and walked from his quarters in the direction of the chapel.
This day, he would especially pray to the Lord to grant him patience and to preserve, strengthen, and comfort the new arrivals.
They would need every heavenly blessing available to survive the years ahead.
The weary troop drew away from the dark forest hurriedly, despite their injuries and fatigue. The slaves filled the center of the company, while the soldiers took the front and rear, marching doggedly. Very few mounted Romans remained, but the few that did regulated the sides of the group, pacing on their fidgety horses up and down the ranks to keep the slaves in check. This drill was not necessary however; the once stubborn and defiant slaves had no fire left to even think of escape—all they currently wanted was to rest and be warm. Their sleepless night of blood, struggle, and forced travel through the eerie forest had taken its toll.
Two hours into their resumed trek, the weather that had scourged them began to give way to a pale grey morning. The wind, though still strong, was no longer aggressive and opposing, merely rippling through the scrubby brown grass and sallow patches of trees that stretched around them for miles. The gusts tousled Gareth's dark hair as he sat astride his horse lost in thought. Although usually a determined optimist, he now rode in dark silence; he was exhausted. And his brother had an arrow in his shoulder. And they had been ambushed by the Woad demons and taken casualties, many of whom were his comrades. And—perhaps worst of all— they were on their way to the northernmost stronghold of the Roman Empire, where they would either complete their years of service or die trying. Hadrian's Wall was the place Rome sent her least favorite soldiers to die.
Staring out at the bitter terrain, he decided that the land must be cursed. Why else would it be so barren? Why else so luckless? Why else would they have been attacked by the men of Woad? Why else would—
"Tá brón orm, A dheartháir."
Snapping out of his reverie, Gareth looked over at his elder brother. Propping himself up on his good arm, Gawain leaned on Gringolet's strong neck for support and growled the words again:
"Gareth, tá brón orm." His face was utterly pale.
Why the hell is he apologizing?
Confused, Gareth leaned over and clapped a falsely reassuring hand on his wounded brother's knee.
"Hush, Cuchulainn. Don't speak, aye?" he murmured, glancing cautiously back in Falco's direction. "He has it out for us, that one. So keep your wits sharp and your mouth shut, lad, for he wishes us both dead."
Gawain set his jaw stubbornly, but when Gareth glared warningly at him, he grudgingly switched his speech over into the Latin tongue.
"I'm sorry, Brother," the Lion quietly repeated, "So sorry that we are here in this—this—this Hell. I should have found some way to…"
But here Gareth interrupted him in a low, urgent voice. "…Gawain, enough—enough, Brother! D'you really believe that all this,"here Gareth jerked his head at the company behind them. "Or this," he continued, lifting his bound hands, "or even that—that pointed piece o'wood in your shoulder—d'you believe any of it is your fault? Well, Cuchulainn, I've got a right fair bit 'o news for you: the fault is not yours. Don't you ever be thinkin' otherwise either. Gods, man, look at yourself. You have done all you can."
Gareth couldn't figure if his brother was convinced or not, but regardless, he knew Gawain had temporarily lost any taste for argument. The wounded man had turned his face away, and was now resting his brow on Gringolet's mane, and did not respond to his brother's words. Gareth attributed Gawain's silence to his unattended arrow wound, but knew the man's mind was still in turmoil and needed further reassurance.
He glanced briefly back and saw that Falco was still paying them no heed, probably unable to hear them over the noise of his men marching. Turning back to Gawain, the dark MacLaughlin resumed speaking in a low voice. "Come now, man. Any fool can see you've done all you can to prevent everything from a' happening this way; ever since they bundled us up smartlike on that damned boat from Éire, you've been a' giving these Sassenachs nought but trouble. You've been degraded, whipped, threatened, and shot—and still, you stand and fight right alongside me. So don't you even begin to be a'thinkin you've somehow failed me, Sunshine, or any of our comrades. Come, Brother, don't be—"
"—Gareth, shut your mouth and look." Interrupted Tristan, who until now had rode in mute silence.
Gareth glared over Gawain's back to the scout, and was opening his mouth to retort when he saw what the scout was pointing at.
His face went slack when he saw it.
The Wall of Hadrian.
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Nine feet thick at a minimum, twenty feet tall, and seventy-three miles long, Hadrian's Wall was the largest man made structure Gareth had ever seen. By Danu's Rain, it was massive!
He looked in disbelief over at Tristan, who returned his gaze with a flat indifference that smacked of amusement. The scout then turned his fierce, hooded eyes ahead and scanned the horizon. He inhaled slowly, scenting the wind as it rolled towards them from across the plain.
"How far are we from the Fort?" asked Gareth, staring breathlessly at the distant wall.
"One hou—no. I estimate about..." the Scout began, but trailed off mid-sentence. He smelled the air again, and twisted in his saddle to see the company behind them. He turned to the northeast again and then spoke.
"…about seventy-two minutes."
Amused by Tristan's obsessively accurate prediction, and oddly encouraged by the knowledge that they were near their destination, Gareth grinned at the Scout and sat up straighter in the saddle.
"Well then, Sunshine," he grinned, "let us see if we can make it in seventy-one."
A/N:
Hopefully, this will at least put a Band-Aid on the massive wound I gave you when I left the story to rot for a year.
More to come.
Worry not, my people, I shall not forsake thee!
Read.
Review.
And keep an eye out for the next chapter, which is currently in progress.