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: Thank you to all of my wonderful reviewers. I could not and would not be writing this story without your feedback. You are the silent partners in this endeavor and I can't even begin to thank everyone who has read and told me what they feel about this story. And for everyone who told me not to kill the knights--thank you.

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VISIONS OF DEATH

Chapter Ten: The Hill

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The smoke hung over the battlefield in a thick gray cloak, obscuring the battlefield from the view of the fortress. The sounds of steel on steel had faded and now only the sounds of men and women in pain filled the air.

Fulcina had been silent as they tended to the wounded and dying while Brigid talked in a steady stream. What she had spoken of, wondered Brigid. She could have been discussing the recipe for mutton stew for all she knew. She only babbled when nervous.

Her eyes drifted to the window overlooking the wall and the hill before it. She still didn't know what the outcome of the battle was. She stepped to the window, took a breath and looked down on the scene below.

The Saxons were defeated.

Brigid let a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding escape as she gripped the stone casement. Looking over her shoulder, she caught Fulcina's questioning gaze. The smile she offered was reflected on the Roman woman's face, her expression one of relief.

Brigid stepped away from the window and began to pack her supplies in her satchel. "I must go down to the field, my lady. I will be back as quickly as I can," she promised, her eyes scanning the room and the men and women resting on pallets on the floor. So many wounded, she thought sadly.

Fulcina nodded. "We have done all we can for them," she motioned to the wounded in the room. "Go see if we need to tend to any more."

Brigid nodded. She didn't need to tell Fulcina that she would look for seven men in particular. Fulcina knew. She read the request for urgency in Fulcina's brown eyes and slung the satchel over her shoulder.

The door shut firmly behind her, Brigid headed down the spiraling staircase and pushed open the heavy wooden door at the base. Around the fortress proper, men lay dead and dying. Crouching beside a man, she listened for a heartbeat. Nothing. She closed his eyes and whispered a quick blessing for the dead. The same action was repeated too many times to count. Those that were alive, she treated with a grim efficiency born of too much death. Honey was smeared on the wounds to kill infection, the wounds then wrapped in the linen bandages she horded, and then the wounded passed to the few without wounds to be taken to the healing rooms. It never failed to amaze the healer at just how much destruction men could cause.

Watching as her latest charge was carried towards the healing rooms, she wiped her hand against her forehead, pushing her hair out of her eyes and trying to clear the perspiration from her skin. Had she known the frightening vision she made with blood smeared on her cheeks and forehead from tending to wounded or how her dark red curls had darkened to a blackish red from the sooty fires still burning, she wouldn't have cared. Her task was to tend to the injured and give peace to the dead, not paint a pretty picture of hearth and home.

Many more would die in the coming days, she knew, of infection, blood loss, or shock from their wounds. It was a matter of time. She looked around at the carnage surrounding her and swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. Shoving away her revulsion, she continued her search. Many more dead than wounded graced the battlefield of Badon Hill.

Around her, others searched the battlefield, their bodies painted blue and brown with dried blood.

She had been searching the battlefield for what seemed an eternity when she saw a flash of Sarmatian armor in the corner of her eye. She turned and caught sight of seven men, some lying on the ground, some sitting, some standing.

She hurried forward, focused on the men that had battled the Saxons. She watched as Gueneviere, painted blue and streaked with red, slowly approached the men from another direction.

Brigid did a quick mental headcount. Lancelot stood, his hands pressed to his side but alive. She let out a whoosh of air she had not realized she was holding. Tristan lay on the ground but she could tell he was breathing, even if he was a mass of slashing wounds. She looked around the other men. Gawain was bloody, as were Bors and Arthur. Galahad was looking grimly at his friends but seemed unharmed. And Dagonet looked amazed to be alive.

Dagonet looked at the dark creature who had appeared out of the smoke, blue gown smeared with dried blood and red curls darkened to grey with soot. He had crossed the battlefield searching for his comrades to find them alive. He met her eyes as she neared them and watched as she dropped to the ground beside Tristan, slim fingers making short work of the fastenings of his armor. She threw the armor aside, muttering angrily in Irish as she began to inspect his wounds. Her heavy satchel dropped to the ground beside her. She reached forward and began to strip Tristan's tunic from his body.

The scout was the equivalent of a human pin cushion, she decided, assessing his injuries. Some were shallow but several were deep. "You are lucky, sir knight," she reassured the knight quickly, reaching into her bag to pull the jar of honey from the bag, not surprised that it was considerably lighter than before. "With any luck, you'll be bedding some pretty maid in a few weeks," she offered with a quick laugh.

Tristan, unconscious, was unaware of the concern for him from his friends.

Brigid wrapped his wounds with the linen bandages, grey eyes steel in the dim light. She looked at the other warriors, silently praying that none of them would be visiting their version of Tír na nÓg too soon.

Looking to Dagonet, she offered a careful smile. "Sir, can you carry Tristan?" she asked, her voice carefully neutral.

Dagonet nodded and bent to lift Tristan. The much smaller knight seemed to disappear against the Sarmatian healer. Soon knights, Woad and healer were headed back to the fortress.

Brigid held the door open as the knights came into the healing rooms, Gawain's arm thrown around Galahad's shoulder for support as Gawain was helped up the stairs, Bors grunting with pain as he climbed the stairs, Arthur white-faced with strain as Gueneviere helped her lover forward, and Lancelot groaning with each movement. Tristan was silent as the grave as Dagonet placed him on a pallet. Brigid dropped to the ground beside the scout and began to wash the grime and blood from the scout's slim frame.

Fulcina, meanwhile, guided Lancelot to a pallet, her brown eyes assessing her lover's wounds.

"Remind to move the healing rooms to the first floor," breathed Arthur from his seat on a cot.

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Brigid stood in the doorway of the healing room. Dagonet stood against the wall, watching as Lancelot regaled the still bed-bound knights with current events. Tristan, still on bedrest from his wounds three weeks after the battle, was at least awake if not cooperative. Brigid whispered a silent thanks that none of the knights had been struck with fever. Gawain, wounded in the back, was mending as well, his humor returning with his health. Both men were listening to Arthur's second in command tell them of Arthur's offer of marriage to Gueneviere and of the woad princess's acceptance of the Roman's proposal.

Brigid smiled. Three men who would have died had changed their own fates were in that room. The Woads tasked by Merlin had done their duty, holding off Cedric long enough for Arthur to fight the Saxon leader and defeat him instead of allowing the giant Saxon to slash Tristan to death. The attentions of Fulcina had turned Lancelot's attentions away from Gueneviere so that he thought clearly on the battlefield and killed Cyrnic, rather than leaving the lad to kill him. And Dagonet…

Brigid's smile left her face as she found the Sarmatian healer watching her, his expression unreadable from the patch of wall opposite her that he was leaning against. She dropped the rag she had been twisting in her hands and slipped out of the door, her feet finding sure tread on the steps as she hurried.

The sun was warm for the first time in a long time and it felt good on Brigid's face as she lifted her face. Sighing, she started walking, not quite sure where she was headed. When she saw the tavern, she smiled. The tavern was bustling and Vanora had taken over the tavern when the tavern owner had fled with the Romans. The beautiful lover of Bors made a good tavern owner, Brigid decided as she stepped within the darkened tavern.

She took a deep breath. I did not just run away from the healing rooms, she decided. I came to the tavern to get lunch. Claiming a spot on a bench, she looked around the dim tavern.

A mug of mead was set on the table before her. Looking up, she found herself face to face with a beaming Vanora. The woman dropped opposite and smiled at the healer. "Thank you for taking such good care of my Bors."

Brigid blushed and took a sip from the mead, savoring the sweetness. "I was glad to be of service. Besides, your lover is a brick wall--I'm not certain anything couldn't bounce off his hide."

Vanora grinned. "Aye, he's built like a bull but he's my Bors."

Brigid nodded.

"Am I correct that you cook?" asked the tavern owner, eyes narrowing.

Brigid nodded again. "I used to cook for the priestesses before I came here." She offered a small smile. "I miss it. All I seem to do any more is bury men."

Vanora nodded, staring at the healer thoughtfully. When Bors had broached his little scheme to make the two healers spend more time with each other by getting Brigid into the tavern, Vanora had scoffed at the idea of the healer working in the tavern. But then Tristan had tugged the newly minted tavern owner to sit on the edge of his sickbed during her visit and whispered that Brigid could cook quite well, the scout careful to keep his voice too low for the healer to hear as she fussed over Gawain's dressings. So many of the girls who once worked at the tavern had left with the Romans, fearing the Saxons more than the Latin invaders, that Vanora was hard-pressed to find cooks or serving wenches to tend the men willing to spend their coin. If Tristan thought her a good cook then Brigid would serve well enough for Vanora's purposes.

"I have a proposition for you, lady."

Brigid shook her head, swallowing the mead that she had sipped during the silence. "I am no lady and would make a terrible serving girl, mum. I could never hope to remember what any man had asked for."

Vanora shook her head again then rested her cheek against her hand. "I have serving girls enough to warm the laps of the men. What I need is a cook. If you're willing, I would pay you a decent wage. Enough to keep food in your belly and maybe buy a new dress."

Brigid smiled ruefully, looking down at the dress that had seen so much wear since Fulcina had gifted it to her, the remnants of the blood of Badon Hill washed away with most of the blue dye. "Aye, that would be nice. I accept. I need something to keep me busy."

Vanora swallowed a victorious smile and nodded slightly at the thickly built knight who shared her bed. She watched Bors's eyes light up and turned back to the healer. "Now, let's show you your new domain. After all, feeding men is like giving them life. At least you would think it the way my Bors eats."

TBC….

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Translations:

Tír na nÓg: An otherworld where sickness and death do not exist and is a land of eternal youth and beauty and is the equivalent of the Norse Valhalla or the Greek Elysium.

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To My Wonderful Reviewers:

Homeric: You are an angel. Thank you for telling me how to accept anonymous reviews--I love to get feedback from all my readers so that was really neat to find out. And thank you for your wonderful review. I'm so glad you enjoyed the love scene--I needed to give some loving to Dagonet. And the fight was fun, though sad, you're right. I'm glad you like Fulcina and Lancelot--the man needs someone who can take his guff. I hope this chapter fulfilled your expectations and made you breathe a little easier.

Samantha: I'm glad you like how Fulcina and Lancelot became lovers and how he was surprised that she wasn't some frail flower. I'm glad I listened to my husband about that pairing. I hope I satisfied your request for more with this chapter. I'm also very happy you like Dagonet and Brigid. Thank you, thank you, thank you. And here's more. Sorry that it took me a few days. But more is coming.

shariena: Yay! Glad that you are enjoying! More is coming.

Scouter: As you command, Tristan has survived. So far.

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