Title: Fille de Sarmatia (Daughter of Sarmatia)
Author: Calex
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. All goes to... the screen writers, I guess. David Franzoni and David H. Franzoni.
Key
Dagonet : Daa-go-nay
Violet : V-oh-lay
Jacques : Jahk
Mariello : Mah-ree-el-lo
Notes: Most that is in italic is another language.
Fifteen years ago came the summons, fifteen years ago. A debt called in from the Romans to the Sarmatians, to give up their able sons for a cause not theirs. Fifteen years ago that two score boys from the ages three and ten up, went to train and fight under the rule, the command of Artorius Castus. Arthur. Half Roman, half Briton; a man whose father was a Roman warrior, died in battle, and whose mother was a wild, free hearted Briton who fell in love with a Roman soldier. Arthur who had seen his mother die right before his very eyes. The story a tragedy, the lady accidentally killed by a group of Woads that were raiding their village, led by Merlin himself. But this is not a story of Arthur and his knights, though they feature greatly in this piece. No, this story is of a mistake made fifteen years before Arthur was crowned king, married to the beautiful Guinevere, after the funeral of his friends and knights, Lancelot and Tristan. This took place in the very beginning, a case of blackmail.
Fifteen years ago, the Romans made one last stop before they went to Rome and from there to retain. A little village, one more family that would lose a son. Like the others, the village was built atop a mountain, better against invasions, and as the Roman guards and the boys travelled at breakneck speed on great big horses with their rippling muscles and travel dirtied coats. The villagers stopped their work as the soldiers arrived and looked on, in their hearts knowing what was to happen. The women took their children back into their cottages while the men stood slowly, spine stiffened. The leader of the Roman soldiers came to a halt in front of a tall, dark haired man whose chin was lifted in a sign of defiant pride against the invasion of his little village.
"Roman soldiers. What brings you to this part of the world?" the man asked, a tone that was almost as chilly as their surroundings. The Roman soldier ignored the less than welcoming greeting and inclined his head to the man.
"You know why we are here. Rome needs to collect on your debt."
"We cannot spare a son," the man said, voice tight and vein jumping from the side of his temple. The Roman soldier looked irritated.
"You are wasting our time, sir. You are the last, we need the boy. We need to have the last child." The man's eyes drifted over the group of miserable looking boys and then finally turned his turbulent grey gaze towards the soldier.
"You want us to entrust a son to you? Uncertain of whether he would return to us well and in good form?" derision rode the man's tone. "Do you think us heartless, fools, to willingly give up what is ours? They are our blood, they are ours. We cannot, will not hand them over to you, and to almost certain death!" The Roman soldier's jaw tightened and his hand went to the hilt of his sword.
"Hand him over, sir," the soldier said, coldly. "Do not make things worse for yourself. We will get the boy, whether it is by peaceful or forceful means. Believe me, I do not care for which. If I have to ransack every single cottage in this little village, burn down and kill every man, woman and child to seek what is ours, I will do so with no remorse. Do you understand me?"
"Jacques," a woman with red hair touched his arm, her voice low and calm, but her touch firm and slightly trembling on his skin. "Please. Do not make this worse for us." Jacques stared down the Roman soldier, neither backing away, when Jacques glared at the man.
"I understand you. Marie," he turned to his wife. "Fetch Tristan, he is needed." He heard a gasp and whirled around. He turned to see the paled face of his second daughter and instantly cursed. "You should not be out here, Violet."
"Papa," the girl turned to him. "Mais non! You cannot possibly be thinking of sending Tristan. Non! I will not allow it!"
"Violet, we have no choice, child." The girl shook back the orangey hair, dark green eyes wide with panic and denial. "Tristan is the best choice, he is our best warrior."
"Non, but that is not true, Papa!"
"Hush, Violet!"
The Roman soldier's eyebrows lifted high at this and turned to Jacques. "You do not mean to send us second best just to keep your best warrior, do you?"
"You are mad," Jacques turned furious grey eyes to the man. "Mad if you think so. Do you think I would willingly send over my own son on this suicide mission just to save the best warrior for the village. You do not know me, monsieur."
"Then explain what the girl means."
Jacques stared, looked at his daughter with a harried look on his face, but there was pride in there as well. He reached towards her to rumple the boyishly short locks on her head.
"What Violet means to say is that while Tristan is the best warrior in the village, she herself is better than him in areas of sword play as well as with using the bow. Is that not true, ma chère?"
"Oui," the girl nodded gravely. "Tristan is not bad, certainement. But I am the better of the two of us. I believe it is because I am the older."
"Oh?" the Roman soldier looked faintly amused at the adult air the girl seemed to have. She nodded gravely again.
"Oui. I am older than he is by a whole dix minutes."
"Well then," the man said, adopting her grave air. "You are very much the elder, eh?" She nodded eagerly at him.
"Oui, it is what I keep telling him, but Tristan..." she rolled her eyes. "He is, what would you say, very bête. Stupid."
"Does seem to be so." He looked up at Jacques. "Where is this Tristan? We must be off as soon as we possibly can. Mademoiselle, it was a pleasure to meet your acquaintance."
"Enchanté, monsieur." She inclined her head gravely. "But you cannot possibly take Tristan."
"Oh?" The soldier's eyebrows shot up again. "And why, pray tell, not?"
"Parce que, she said, calmly. "You cannot possibly mean to have second best? Why, I expected better from the Romans. Tristan is not the best warrior this village has, why should you take him on?"
"Then what do you propose we do?" the soldier asked incredulously. "Take you in his place?" She beamed at him.
"Why monsieur, what an utterly wonderful idea! I would love to help relieve whatever debt that my country and village hold to yours. Though," she added conspiratorially. "I've always been better at the sword than the bow. Oh, I'm still the best at that too, of course. I'm just more comfortable with a sword. Or perhaps a staff. I'm quite adept at that, too."
"But, but..." the man spluttered. "You're a girl!"
"Oui," she nodded gravely. "I am that. I am glad you can tell the difference between the sexes. 'Tis rather useful."
"We... we cannot possibly take you on," the man looked so perplexed at the idea, so horrified that Violet, even in her determination to make him agree, felt her mouth twitch and the urge to laugh bubble. She squashed down the urge ruthlessly and went on glibly, knowing that she had to, had to go in place of Tristan. Papa was right, if Tristan went, it was almost certain he would die. He was the more fragile of the two of them and, as the older, Violet had always felt the protective urge with her brother. Her twin. From the corner of her eye, Violet noticed her mother come out of their cottage with Tristan at hand and she prayed the Roman soldier didn't notice. She just needed a little more time, just a little more time to get him into the idea. Then Tristan would be safe, that was all that would matter. Tristan's safety.
"Why, monsieur," Violet's voice was filled with utter reproach. "You do not think that just because I am a girl I am not as capable as my brother, do you? Why, 'tis absolute folly. All will admit I am as good as any boy, better than a few. I work well, I'm strong. And you do need the best don't you, monsieur?"
"Well, I..."
"And," Violet cut swiftly in. "I am also adept at healing balms. I help my maman, who is healer of the village. She has taught me what to do. I've mended more than my share of broken bones and cuts." It was the last that had won her the right, Violet knew. At the mention of healing, the man's eyes had cleared and he looked at her in a new light. She knew that they would need a healer and there was none better than a Sarmatian healer. The Sarmatians were just talented people, Violet reckoned. The Roman soldier turned to her father.
"The girl is quite right. The Romans never settle for second best. Pack your healing equipment, girl, you are coming with us." Marie had arrived just as the man had said that and let out a little scream.
"Non! Not Violet, not ma petite fille," she started crying as she pushed through the crowd and fell at the Roman soldier's feet. "Please, monsieur, not my Violet!"
"I have quite decided, madame," the man said, coldly. "The girl has skills that we will need. She seems capable and she will follow to become a healer. And the boy shall come as well."
"Non!" four voices yelled out in unison, all filled with horror.
"Non," Violet said once again, quietly, her voice shaking with rage. "Tristan will not come. I will not allow for Tristan to go."
"Neither will I allow Violet to go," the male counterpart of Violet said, hotly, green eyes flashing. "I will go as was planned originally. Violet will stay, there is no need for a woman to come."
"They want the best," Violet said, harshly. "They will have the best. They will have me. The debt required one person to follow the Romans and I shall be that person."
"We need knights, girl," the Roman soldier said haughtily. "We do not need the burden of a girl coming in for what she thinks is a bit of fun." The people gathered at the square stiffened and then watched Violet. The girl was shaking, visibly shaking, her head down. The Roman soldier felt only disgust that she would cry over a little thing such as that, but then the girl slowly lifted her head and he realised she wasn't shaking from embarrassment and crying, but with rage.
"And I thought I told you I could fight," she told the soldier, her voice hard. "I will go as your knight, monsieur, leave my brother out of this." The Roman shook his head.
"And I thought I told you that we needed your services in other ways. The boy shall come as designated knight. You can either accept position of healer or..." here he trailed off and smiled at her knowingly. "Leave your brother in our care." As he knew it would, his words hit Violet and her eyes were filled with pure murderous rage as she realised how she had been manipulated.
"Blackmail," she whispered. "Fils de putain."
"Violet!" her father reprimanded her sharply. "Watch your tongue, though I agree completely with the sentiment."
"Pardon, Papa," the girl said, as she glared at the Roman guard. "I could not help myself."
"Quite understandable."
Marie was crying as she rocked herself on the ground. "Not my babies, not mes petits enfants!"
"Marie..." Jacques looked ashen as he helped his sobbing wife up to her feet. "I... We have no choice."
"Maman, we'll be back," Violet ran to her mother and pulled her in a hard hug. "I promise. I will bring Tristan back. I can take care of myself, and I will take care of Tristan."
"I can take care of myself!" Tristan suddenly snapped at his sister. "I might be younger than you, ma soeur, but I am capable."
"Silence, Tristan!" Violet snapped. "I don't need you to try and be the man right now."
"Well I don't need you to be my protector all the time, Viol. I am as old as you are, ten minutes is nothing in the real world. Treat me as you would treat another of similar age as you and with similar capabilities," he said, tightly, then he turned to the Roman soldier. "I am ready."
"Damn you," she said, furiously. "Damn you. I will be ready." With that she took off towards their cottage at a run to pack her belongings. She put them in a little leather satchel her mother had made and slipped on her cloak. Stepping out of the house, she drew her hood on and walked towards her parents. "Au revoir, Papa. Maman."
"Au revoir, ma chère ," her father whispered, pulling her into his arms for a hug. She hugged him back fiercely, then turned to her mother. The woman pulled her into a hug.
"Take care of Tristan," she whispered to her daughter. "And take care of yourself. I mean it to both of you," she said to her son as well. "I want to see the two of you again."
"I promise I'll be back," Violet said, achingly. "And that Tristan is with me."
"Au revoir, maman," Tristan hugged his mother awkwardly. Then he turned to his father. Jacques clapped him on the back, holding back the tears. Then he pulled Tristan into his arms.
"Keep safe, mes enfants," Jacques whispered. "Keep safe. Remember our rules, our ways. Remember us when you are long and gone."
"Always, Papa." Tristan whispered. Then he too pulled up the hood on his cloak. One of the village men walked forward and handed him the reins of one of the best horses of the village. The other he handed to Violet. The two of them hugged the old man.
"May the gods bless and protect this village when we are gone," Violet murmured. Tristan nodded, then swiftly mounted. Violet followed suit and then the two of them galloped away after the others, without a backwards glance.
"Violet!" Vanora ran into the other woman's quarters. "Violet, quick. Someone has sighted Arthur and his knights." The younger woman dropped the wooden stick she had been using to stir a salve she was making and ran outside without a word. She arrived just as the first horses galloped in and breathed a sigh of relief as she saw the familiar figure of her brother, Tristan.
"The gods granted them luck this time," she murmured. Then she sought out the rest of the company. Arthur, Galahad, Gawain, Bors, Dagonet and... Lancelot. The last of them. Over two score young boys sent to Arthur, and a girl. Only seven surviving. The last fifteen years had been hard, hard for all of them. Violet had been immediately put as the healer, at first helping the present healer, then becoming the main healer as it became obvious that she was the better of the two. It was a bitter Violet that never got to be the knight her brother became, a bitter Violet that never got to prove herself above the blackmail that had gotten both her and her brother to this wretched place. However, Violet had her work cut out for her in the village, and when the men came back with their scrapes and bruises. Looking at the state of them... Violet picked up her skirts and marched towards the group of men.
"Grubby and smelly as you were fifteen years before," the disapproval clear in her tone and she was amused to see all standing up straighter and looking slightly embarrassed. "You would think you would remember some of the things I've taught you about personal hygiene."
"Violet," Galahad looked wounded and Violet laughed.
"I was jesting, and you all know it. Let me see how my knights fare. How are you, sweet Galahad?"
"Well enough, Violet," he sighed. "The usual scrapes and bruises, I will live."
"Your back?" she murmured quietly, the concern in her eyes genuine. Galahad flashed her a tired grin.
"Killing, as 'twould befit the seven hour ride I had been on."
"Oh, Galahad," she sighed. "Come to my chambers later on when you have time. I will have the salve, and my hands, ready." He nodded thankfully, taking her hand to kiss it. She smiled after him, then turned towards Gawain.
"Just a big scratch, but I'll live," Gawain informed her. "What I'd like to know is how the fair lady Violet has fared."
"Reasonably well," Violet laughed as she moved to inspect Gawain's wound. He was right, it was a shallow cut, though it was bleeding quite a lot. "I'll need assistants, soon enough, though the gods know where I shall find one. Or two. Old Thomas by the church is losing his eyesight, he nearly kissed a horse last week when he thought it was dear Cornelia." Galahad laughed delightedly at that. "Hold still, I need to bandage and clean that cut up. You're lucky you don't need stitches, chère."
Gawain winced. "You know how I hate needles."
"Very well, considering I was the one who was holding the needle when you realised so." She said, dryly. A grin curved Gawain's face as he was led towards Violet's work station. Realising that the others were moving stealthily away, Violet called out over her shoulder. "Come along, gentlemen. No use in running, you know these ears of mine are still sharp. And back away from Vanora, Lancelot. Bors, see me after you are done greeting your family, or I will come looking for you."
"Yes, ma'am," Bors said as he leaned down to pull his lover into a deep kiss. The rest of the men moved behind Violet, grumbling as ever. She smiled, though, hearing them. They were back, her boys. Her brothers. They might not be her kin, her blood, but they were stronger than that. Only the gods knew how glad she was that they had all returned well and fairly unharmed. She would take their scrapes and bruises any time over their deaths, her heart having been broken enough over the years by the loss of her so-called family. Violet closed her eyes as she took in a deep, shuddering breath and tried to force away the memories, the images from her mind. Memories of laughing faces, of arguments and laughter and playfulness. Memories of people she had known since girlhood and then the memories of seeing them return, one by one, body broken and lives lost. The tears that usually accompanied the thought of them stung her eyes, but she held them back. There would be time for tears, later. Later she knew they would come again, but now she had others to look to, to tend to. As she crossed towards her chambers, though, she saw the familiar form of a Roman guard and smiled, but the smile was slightly strained. He frowned at that.
"Is everything well, Violet?" The knights' chatter abruptly ceased at that question from the guard. Six pairs of eyes homed in on her and Violet felt like squirming from the attention, but she kept her outward image of coolness.
"I am fine, Mariello. Thank you for inquiring after my state of wellbeing. And how fares your leg?" she asked carefully. The guard smiled warmly at her.
"Well, as would be expected after being under your tender care, Violet."
"You are too bold, sir," Lancelot said, an edge to his voice. Violet looked up at him in surprise, and was further surprised by the hardened faces of all the knights. She sighed. When would they ever realise she did not need to be protected, especially from the advances of men? She was hardly an innocent, and she was already nearly three and twenty, yet they all guarded her like she was a maid of six and ten. She pushed through the men, stepped up to Mariello, and pulled his mouth down to hers. She could feel his surprise, and his reluctance to do anything in front of the knights, so she raised a hand, as though to hold on to his neck, but instead turned so that her nails dug sharply in his neck. His mouth opened in a gasp and she used that to her advantage to kiss him as she wanted to. Automatically, he returned her kiss in kind, and she heard the clatter of his staff as his arms encircled her waist to bring her closer to him. When she pulled back, both were breathless and there was a glitter of promise in their eyes. She lifted herself on her tiptoes so that her mouth brushed gently on the shell of his ear.
"Tonight, ma chérie," she murmured. He nodded imperceptibly, for this had actually happened before, more than once. With his acquiesce, she kissed him one last time, chastely on the lips and stepped back. He lifted her hand and placed a kiss on her fingertips and the action brought a smile to her lips. He nodded to the rest of the knights and strode away. Violet was aware of the eyes drilling holes into her back and sighed. She was tired, too tired for this. Far too tired. "I am nearly three and twenty, my friends," she said quietly. "I am no longer a child, I am a woman. I am no innocent and have not been for years, and some of you know that better than others. He had every right to be familiar with me as he was, for he is more than familiar with me in other areas." She turned then, to look at them, saw their confusion, their hurt, their betrayal. "Why do you feel this? I am not some young maid you should protect. I am more than capable of taking care of myself, and you all know that for a fact. I was once able to beat most of you at the swords, remember that." With a last furtive look at the group, she turned. "Galahad, Gawain, and Lancelot come with me. The rest of you may leave." Without a word, she entered her room.
"Violet..." Gawain said, quietly. She shook her head as she walked towards her work table. She looked at all of the jars, then selected one. She looked over at Lancelot.
"Give me a bowl of warm water and some linen." Lancelot complied without a word, her room as familiar to him, to any of them, as their own. Soon, she had Gawain sitting on a chair, his tunic off, with her on her knees and dabbing at his cuts with the rapidly pinkening piece linen. The room was filled with tense silence, Lancelot and Galahad pacing about and the only noise breaking the silence was Gawain's occasional grunts of pain. Finally she finished cleaning the cuts, and so she covered each one with the salve and here he cried out harshly. Violet ignored his pained cries until each and every cut was duly covered. Then she stood up and placed a kiss on his brow. "You should remember not to get hurt."
"I keep forgetting how much that salve of yours burned," he smiled. Violet stroked his cheek, lightly. She leaned her forehead against his and breathed in the scent that was Gawain. He was the only one of her one time lovers from the knights that still lived, the others... Galahad was like a younger brother to her, one that replaced Tristan as he grew older, colder to her. It broke her heart, his coldness to her, but she would not make him change his mind.
"Well, let us hope that this makes you remember and try not to get hurt," she said, lightly. "You'll live, Gawain."
"I could have told you that," he grumbled as he stood up. Violet felt her breath catch in her throat as he turned his back to her to pull on his tunic. She couldn't help the hand that lifted to trace the multitude of scars he had and he stilled his movements, turning to look at her from over his shoulder. "Violet?"
"So many," she murmured. "So much more than there used to be. It's healed badly, you didn't come to me."
"I couldn't," he said softly, not turning, but closing his eyes as he felt her slightly rough fingertips trail over scar tissue. "Sometimes I was too far away, others I was alone and I just... couldn't."
"Oh, Gawain," she whispered achingly. "They've hurt you so."
"They've hurt all of us, Violet."
"All of us," her eyes clouded and the tears that had stung her eyes previously came back and again she was besieged with memories. "Oh, not now, not yet." Gawain turned around and saw her with her eyes screwed tightly shut and her breath leaving her in deep heaves. Suddenly a sob broke through from her throat and he pulled her to him. Gawain looked up with Violet in his arms, clutching at his shoulders, her tears wetting his bare skin, and he met the gazes of his friends. His fellow knights. Galahad walked over and pressed his face to her neck, stealing his arms between the two's bodies to wind themselves around her waist. Lancelot merely stood to the side, eyes hooded and jaw tight. "I miss them so much."
"We all do, Violet," Gawain murmured. "We all do." She shook her head against his chest, her tears unceasing.
"I still see their faces, hear their voices in my dreams. I can hear them laughing and sometimes I forget that they are not alive. Sometimes when I see you come back and I see the seven of you, I strain myself to look for the others, wonder what is taking them so long. But they do not come back."
"We've all lost friends."
"But at least you got to see them one last time before they died!" she burst out. "How do you think I feel waiting day by day, just for one sign to see that you all were fine, and finally seeing you not in victory but in sadness for the fall of one of us? Damn you, do you think me heartless? You are my family, all of you, and throughout the years I have seen my family fall and I was helpless, helpless to do anything but sit and wait for the best. Damn all of you."
Lancelot, Gawain and Galahad shot each other looks at this. Then they looked at the girl, nay, woman that was in Gawain's arms. Her shoulders were shaking, slightly. They didn't like that. She shouldn't cry, she should be happy. That was their job, to keep her happy. They were meant to protect her, had done all they could to protect her. Instead... instead they had done the very opposite thing that they had set out to do. They had hurt her, hurt her by leaving her. Gawain laid his cheek on the top of her head and started rocking her. Galahad let go, and Gawain swung her up in his arms like a little child, and she clung to him, clung to those strong shoulders and let her head rest on him for a little while, just a little wile. He sat back on the chair, rocking her while she cried and the picture of them, the big, happy Gawain, silent tears trekking down his cheeks while a look of sadness so deep they could not know the very depth of it, rocked the woman sobbing as though her heart had been broken, clinging to him. Lancelot looked at Gawain, then he tipped his head towards the door. Gawain nodded, thanks written on his face, and Lancelot pulled the reluctant Galahad away, out of the door. When the door closed behind his companions with a soft "click", Gawain started to sing. Softly, soothingly.
Times past gone by and still
In our minds faces swim forward
Crest a'top yonder hill, friend
Look for answers that ye cannot find
Oh, when the ground is bathed in crimson blood
And the salt of tears on your lips
Sing to me, your sweet voice singing
Let me rest, let me still and quiet be.
Nightly I pine, my heart
Quietly I abide, my heat not whole
Each passing day and year a new wound
One and then one more fallen, died.
But year upon year, I return to ye
Your smile and your gentle touch
Ye wound while ye consume
Ye cut deep while ye heal.
Oh, when the ground is bathed in crimson blood
And the salt of tears on your lips
Sing to me, your sweet voice singing
Let me rest, let me still and quiet be.
Let the spirits of our loved ones rest
Let us leave them in peaceful memory
While we mourn we stoutly hold by
Their faces while we do what we do best.
Oh when the ground is bathed in crimson blood
And the salt of tears on your lips
Sing to me, your sweet voice singing
Let me rest, let me still and quiet be.
He finished the song in a quiet tone, but knew, even while his heart broke from what he had just told her, that she was asleep, soundly asleep in his arms. Gawain sighed, then stood up. He walked her over to her bed, then laid her down gently, pulling her warm blankets to her chin. Then he leant down and quickly, chastely, placed a kiss upon her lips. With a last look, he turned and left the room, snuffing the candles as he went by.
Translations
Non : no
Mais: but
Monsieur : sir/mister
Ma chère : my dear
Oui : yes
Certainement : certainly/of course
dix minutes : ten minutes
Enchanté : delighted to meet you
Mademoiselle : Miss
Parce que : because
Maman: mother
ma petite fille : my little daughter
Fils de putain : son of a #$%£
Pardon : sorry
mes petits enfants : my little children
ma sœur : my sister
Silence : quiet
Bête : stupid
I'm assuming that the Sarmatians are French, here, as they said that they had to go through the entire breadth of Rome to get back home. As well, Tristan and Dagonet are French names, as is Gawain. One would assume they still remembered their mother tongue, no?
The song is one that I made up. Presumably in those times, they sang ballads of old stories and also of their feelings. They're really rather good at that kind of thing. So poor Gawain, eh?