Author: Triane

Disclaimer: Not. Mine. Except Iona. Everything else belongs to someone else. Even more so now, that we're into movie territory - I've done what I could to gloss over using the actual dialogue, but if you recognize dialogue or action, its because it's. Not. Mine.

Summary: Things never do go smooth.

The tavern that night was the same as every other night of carousing over the last fifteen years. Lancelot, gambling with the Romans and flirting with the serving girls. Galahad and Gawain, having a knife throwing competition. Bors, with a baby slung over one arm and a mug of ale in the other hand. Even Tristan was there, alternating between eating apples and astounding Gawain and Galahad with his knife skills. Iona and Dagonet stood in the doorway and took in the scene with almost imperceptible smiles on their faces before Dagonet smacked Iona on the backside and strode towards the bar for a drink. Iona rolled her eyes and shook her head, then spoke briefly to one of the serving girls before following him.

She reached the bar just in time for Bors to hustle Vanora out into the middle of the courtyard, cajoling her, as usual, into singing for them. Amid shouts of approval, a request from Galahad, and an admonition from Gawain to not drop the baby, she shot Iona an exasperated smile, took a breath, and started to sing.

A hush settled over the tavern as she sang, a thrall of nostalgia, longing, and fierce, bright hope. From her place nestled against Dagonet's side, Iona watched the expressions on the knight's faces as Vanora sang of long-awaited Sarmatia. There was joy, certainly, but also uncertainty and sorrow. Tilting her head, Iona was not completely surprised to see tears glistening in Dagonet's eyes - and as Vanora's voice washed over them, Iona tightened her arms around her husband's waist and laid her head on his chest, hearing his heart beat in time with the song.

And then, with Jols' call, the spell was broken. Pulling themselves from their reveries, the knights slowly clustered around their commander, joking and laughing as if they hadn't a care in the world. Iona saw the grim line of Arthur's mouth, however, and knew.

Speaking as if the very words pained him, Arthur told them of the Roman family north of the wall, told them of their mission, told them of the bishop's order. And watched as his knights faces went from happy and contented to angry and betrayed.

Bors, furious, struggled to keep his voice controlled as he stared at Arthur, his eyes suspiciously wet.

"Every knight here has laid their life on the line for you. For you. And instead of freedom, you want more blood? Our blood? You think more of Roman blood than you do of ours?" Arthur's jaw worked as he slowly replied, the words as distasteful to him as they were to everyone else. Bors, however, was having none of it, and slashed through the air with his hand, his voice rising to a shout.

"I am a free man! I will choose my own fate!" In the background, the baby began to cry - and Tristan nonchalantly sliced a piece of apple with his knife, his voice as expressionless as ever.

"Yeah, yeah. We're all going to die someday. If it's death by a Saxon hand that frightens you, stay home." His gaze slid over each of them, challenging - and then landed on Iona. Eyes softened, and Iona knew he didn't mean it in the same way to her, but she squared her shoulders anyway. Galahad, in typical Galahad fashion, was letting his youth get the best of him, and she gritted her teeth.

"Enough!" Her voice was a lash through the air. She turned to look at each of them, her brothers, her friends, and let them grasp onto her calm gaze like a lifeline. Her voice was softer.

"Yes, Galahad, you have something to live for. We all do. And that doesn't change until we get that piece of parchment. Our duty to Rome ends with that scroll. What is one more mission? In fifteen years, what is one mission?" They looked at her, at each other, at the ground, at the air - anywhere to try and find a valid argument, a valid reason... but instead just lost a bit of their fury.

Dagonet's voice rumbled from his usual place behind Iona.

"The Romans have broken their word. We have the word of Arthur. That is good enough. I'll prepare." He smoothed his hands over Iona's shoulders and looked down at her briefly, an unspoken agreement flashing between them. He turned and began striding towards the stables, calling over his shoulder for Bors as he went. Bors wiped the unbidden tears away with a burly forearm and started after Dagonet, his loud voice still full of anger and hurt.

"'Course I'm comin'! Can't let you go on your own, you'll all get killed!" He stalked away, Tristan following on silent feet. Bors' voice echoed through the yard as he left.

"I'm just saying what you're all thinkin'!" Arthur looked to Gawain, who nodded.

"I'm with you." His eyes slid to his young cousin. "Galahad as well." The young knight scoffed, then half-sobbed, half-laughed before pouring out the last of his wine, smashing the pitcher on the ground, and stumbling angrily away. Arthur's voice was soft as he looked at Iona.

"And you, Ai? You have more choice than any of us." For a long moment Iona didn't say anything, just stared unseeing at Arthur's armour. Finally she sighed and met the Roman commander's eyes.

"I've been saying it for years, Artorius. Someone needs to look after you lot." She smiled sadly, then turned to join the rest, leaving Arthur and Lancelot alone in the yard.