Hey, people! I almost made it through an entire chapter with no chocolate! Score! I had a lot of trouble with the ending's poor attempt at romance. If you review, you can tell me how I screwed up! What do you have to lose? Nothing! Alright! Its hard to include Tristan right now while he's scouting, so right now we are kind of focused on Arthur/Guinevere and Sera/Lancelot. I happen to like Sera a lot. She reminds me of me a bit. Let me know how it is!

The caravan was getting ready to move. Everyone had been properly fed, and Rebekah, Guinevere, and Sera returned to the wagon. They discussed battle tactics, and the Saxon's fighting style. The Saxons tended to go more for brute force rather than the stealth the Woads relied on. They used armor piercing crossbows that were very different from the traditional Woad bow. While the Woads fought to defend their land, the Saxons fought to conquer. Rebekah wondered what stories the little Saxon children listened to around the fire. Were they told battle stories too? Were they taught about honor? Did they take pride in their peoples accomplishments? Did they know what went on here? Rebekah had never really been around anyone who wasn't a Woad before, and often wondered what went on in her enemies' heads. During battle, it was best not to think of them as human, but without a blade in her hand, she wondered.

She saw Tristan whispering to his hawk. Beyond the warrior, he was a man. She watched him all morning. He rarely spoke to the other knights, though Rebekah suspected this was normal. Tristan struck her as a man of few words. He had tattoos on both of his cheeks that looked similar to her own. His were black, while hers was blue. He had a curved blade strapped to his back, and Rebekah had no doubt he knew how to use it. Perhaps she would test his skill herself in the future. Tristan rode up to confer with Arthur, and continued on, presumably to scout.

Arthur entered the wagon shortly after. He first spoke to Dagonet, who was charged with their care.

"How is he?" Arthur asked, looking at Lucan.

"He burns. Brave boy." Dagonet was another man of few words.

Arthur approached Guinevere. He reached for her hand and examined it closely. It was wrapped in what appeared to be an old rag. He removed the wrappings and nearly flinched at the sight of her fingers. He had seen them before, but they still shocked him. How could anyone do this to another human? Many who called themselves Christians viewed all others as inferior life forms. Arthur had never seen Pagans in that light. He respected their faith, and expected them to respect his. His knights might jest about it on occasion, but then it was all in good fun. This was not fun. The God he knew was merciful. The God he knew did not approve of violence against those too weak to defend themselves.

"Some of your fingers are out of place. I have to put them back. If I don't do this, you may never use them again." He had his emotions under control now, his face was once again a mask of control and calm. Inside he was screaming with this poor woman as he forced her fingers back in line.

Guinevere's eyes never left his face. She had seen a flicker of shock earlier, but now, his face had reverted to that cool aloof expression that betrayed no emotion. Her father had been right. She was different to him. She knew that as his hands tightened on hers, and the pain ripped through her body. At first she made no sound, but the pain grew until she let out a scream. She collapsed against him, no strength left in her. Finally she lifted her head, and looked into his eyes, ready to search for any signs of emotion.

"They tortured me with machines." Her voice was barely more than a whisper now, her breath not behaving normally. "They made me tell them things...that... I didn't know to begin with..." She paused. There was something there. It was shame. This Roman commander, a Christian, was ashamed of his own people's behavior. He did have a heart.

"I am Guinevere. You are Arthur...The Briton who kills his own people." Her strength gave out, and she slumped over, but not before she saw his brow crease. He was unsure how to respond to such a statement. Yes, he was different.

Arthur held the unconscious Guinevere for a long time, not sure of what to do. Finally, her gently settled her into the bedding, covering her with a blanket. He left with only a glance at the other two, quickly assessing that they were healing. He had to get out of that wagon, away from those thoughts. He had fought against the Woads for so long, that he rarely thought about why he was fighting them in the first place. It seemed simpler to follow orders, rather than question them. He did not want to think about that now, when his freedom was so close.

Sera was growing restless. She had always disliked small-enclosed spaces, and her four-month imprisonment had only increased that dislike. She left the wagon, and walked alongside it instead. Her feet were wrapped in rags, and quickly grew cold. Sera did not care. The wind was biting at her face, but she smiled. She could see her breath and laughed. If a stranger had watched this scene, they would have thought her mad. Sera was happy to be able to feel the cold, but see the sky at the same time. She loved the sound of the trees, the wind, the birds. She could listen and look for as long as she wanted. Before, she had taken such things for granted, but now she reveled in them. She had found her peace.

Lancelot glanced back from his position at the head of the caravan. The Woad with no sense of humility was walking along, having a private moment. Her legs were holding up just fine now, and she was smiling. The slashes on her cheek had been seen to, and she looked radiant in the afternoon sun. He was concerned about her all the same. Her legs may have been strong before her imprisonment, but it would take time to rebuild that strength. Lancelot pulled back to speak with Arthur. He was uneasy. They were moving to slowly, and the Saxon army would be moving swiftly, having no wounded with them.

"Arthur, we cannot help these people. We are moving too slowly, and they won't make it anyway." He thought of the haughty Woad and stopped. She had a fire about her, a strength. She would heal, given time, and she would help the others. They didn't have time for her to heal. "If we run into the Saxons, we will have to fight!" it ended up being rather half-hearted however. His thoughts about the Woad had slipped in, diminishing his urgency.

"And what do you suggest we do, Lancelot? Leave them behind for the Saxon's? You know what they would do to the women don't you? That girl you pulled from the dungeon, Sera. She would provide some nice entertainment for their army, wouldn't she? If we need to, we can put the wounded on horses. You are right, if we meet the Saxons, we will have to fight. Save your anger for them." And with that, he rode on ahead, not wanting to have to deal with more from his friend today. He was getting too much conflicting advise, from himself and everyone else. He needed to be by himself for now, alone with his thoughts. His men trusted him to bring them back to the wall alive. He could not betray that trust.

Lancelot rode separate from the other knights. He thought about what Arthur had said, and knew his words to be true. He thought of the Woad Arthur had called Sera. Sera being at the mercy of an entire Saxon army. Sera screaming. He had carried her out of that dungeon, he had seen that terror. He never wanted to see that again. Never. He would see to it that Sera was never that terrorized. His mind made up, he rode back to her.

"Would you like to ride with me? You must be tired." He said, before remembering how touchy she was when anyone might suggest she had a weakness. Dammit. Here it was, it was coming...

"As I have told you before, Sir, I do not need a nursemaid. I'm sure you have someone else to pester."

"Actually, no. You are the only one at present who requires my attention. I did not mean to suggest you were weak. You seemed to have held up alright for four months of torture, I doubt a walk would hurt you now." That was a lie, but, as his mother always told him, it was best to humor the invalid. "It was merely, that I could use the company. After too long with Bors, one tires of constant belching."

Sera considered the request. It seemed reasonable, and her legs were getting tired (no need for him to know that.) The man had saved her life after all. She couldn't tolerate more talk of battle, anyway.

"If it is truly company you seek, you may have it. I know the feeling of being far superior to one's fellows." The last part was a jest, and she was happy to see him smile. 'He should do that more often' she thought to herself. A smile transformed his face. He was by far one of the most handsome men she had ever met in her life. He knew it too. He reached for her hand, and she gave it to him. He pulled her up in front of him on the saddle.

"We've never been formally introduced. I am Lancelot."

"Sera."

"Well, now that we've met, who fixed your fingers?"

Damn. She hadn't even thought how she would explain that. Her mind spun, looking for any logical excuse.

"I did. I am a healer." It was a weak excuse but she hadn't had much time.

Lancelot had noticed her pause, and wondered. Why was she lying?

"If you could fix them yourself, why didn't you do it before?"

"What makes you think I didn't? I fixed them a few times, but they kept on dislocating them. After a while, I decided to spare myself a bit of pain in the long run."

That stopped him. He wanted to press further, but he didn't want to cause her to recall painful memories. He searched for a change of topic.

"So... You're a healer?" There. That was a perfectly safe topic.

"Yes. I am I warrior, but I prefer healing when there is a choice. Its harder to give life than to take it." It was true. You could cut short someone's life with a flick of the wrist, but to save them, it took much more time and energy. She saw the faces of the dead in her nightmares, screaming. She didn't like adding more to the mob. She fought for her land, she fought for her people. She liked to move, she liked the exercise, but she did not like thinking of all those souls waiting for her when she made her last journey.

"Then you are a better warrior than I. I was never trained in healing, and have no way of repaying my debts. You will be judged one day, and your Gods will smile upon you."

"My Gods? Are they not the Gods of your people as well?"

"I do not believe in any God. I've been living too long in hell."

It sounded like such a definite answer. If she could have seen his face at that moment, she would have seen something else there. Lancelot wanted desperately to believe in something...anything. He didn't want to believe he was alone in this world of sadness and death. He tried so hard to believe in the Gods of his homeland, but he had seen far too much over the last fifteen years to justify such beliefs. What kind of God let innocent women and children be slaughtered in their sleep? What kind of God let men fight each other over something as dead as this land? So many men had died at the edge of his blades. Men that believed in these ever-elusive Gods. They were far better men than he. They were fighting for their land, their freedom, their lives. What was he fighting for? This was not his land. These were not his people. He had no love for Rome. Rome had taken him away from his homeland, from his people. He was fighting for his own worthless life. No one loved him, for all he knew his family could be dead. He loved his friends, but when they were released, they would go their separate ways. What would he do? He might jest with Gawain about sleeping with his wife, but Lancelot would never be satisfied with what was someone else's. He could go to Rome with Arthur, but he didn't think he could stand to be around all those hypocritical bumbling fools for too long. No matter how pretty the women were, they would not be worth the trouble. He could go back home, but what if nothing was left there for him? Could he handle that? When he had left his family, he had promised to return. Now, he was not so sure. He had been in this cursed land for fifteen years, and dammit, it had become a home to him. He loved the terrible gloomy weather. It gave one something to complain about, if not something to talk about.

He could think about this later. At the moment, he had a lovely lady sharing the saddle with him, and now was not the time for such depressing thoughts.

"We all have our own beliefs, our own thoughts on life, even if we do not claim a religion. You are not alone." Sera said quietly. She had meant to be reassuring. His long silence had made her think. What visions haunted his dreams?

It was as if she had read his mind. Lancelot was surprised at how observant she was. She couldn't even see his face, yet she had picked up his train of thought. That was a new experience for him.

"How are the others?" He asked, changing the subject again.

"Rebekah-the one with the tattoo on her cheek-had her fingers reset, I bandaged her up. She'll be fine. Guinevere's the same. She doesn't have burns like Rebekah, though. Lucan, the boy, his arm will heal, and his fever is going down. He'll be all right. We all will."

"You certainly seem to be feeling better than you were last night..." he said, teasingly.

"That was a once in a lifetime occurrence. I wanted to make you feel needed. You looked so pathetic, just standing there. I figured it was the least I could do to appear helpless in your presence. You did save my life, after all."

"Ah, so you are a real softie at heart, wanting to help poor pathetic me...what with my desperate need to be a hero..." He was grinning.

"What can I say...perhaps it's those puppy eyes of yours that get to me. That need to feel needed. You need to work on your stern face, you know that, right?"

"Duly noted, my lady Sera."

"That's another thing we need to talk about. We cannot keep up the pretense that I need special treatment. All this 'my lady' business must stop. Really, I'll be spoiled by the time we reach the wall!"

"You've never been spoiled before, have you? Well, you're in luck. I happen to have special spoiling talents. What shall it be first, a back rub or a foot massage?"

"Actually, I was in the mood for some sparring. When we stop for the night, would you oblige me?"

Lancelot had never fought a woman outside of combat with the Woads. Even then, he liked to pretend they were men. These warrior women always reminded him of his mother and sister back in Sarmatia. If Sera really wanted a good work out, he would give it to her. It was the least he could do. If he didn't, she would find someone else to spar with, who wouldn't necessarily be watching her for signs of fatigue. He would spar with her, but he had no desire for her to crumple up into a ball from exhaustion afterward.

"Certainly, my lady. It would be an honor to spar with such a lovely opponent." He knew it would irritate her, the constant signs of chivalry. He couldn't stop grinning. He really was pathetic.

Sera was grinning too. No matter what she said, it was kind of nice being treated like something special every so often. She would enjoy their sparring that night. He had better not go easy on her. She needed to be able to gauge her strength properly.

As they rode on, they spoke of their homes, their traditions. Lancelot had only seen abandoned Woad settlements, and was interested in knowing what an inhabited one was like. Sera had never been anywhere but her homeland, and wanted to know about this place, that had produced so many legendary warriors. Sera was careful not to mention her status or anyone else's in the tribe. She liked this man, but still...He was not of this land. She was not sure were his loyalties laid. She asked about the other knights. She was told entertaining stories about Bors' eleven bastards, Galahad's terrible luck with women. She laughed with him. She would enjoy getting to know these Sarmatians.