Ok, I wrote this during math...seriously, we did mean, median and mode during 7th grade. Anyway, I wasn't originally planning on posting this, but with a little bit of helpful peer pressure, lol, here it is. I hope you like it, no idea how long it'll be...well, I have a rough idea, but you know how that is. Anyway, I'll shut up now. Enjoy and please review!

Legend

Prologue

Artorius Castus had never defeated in battle and by the form he displayed the reason was obvious. The sword he carried, the mighty and legendary sword of his father forged by the metal of Britain, was Excalibur. It was rare that an enemy survived contact with the sword unless it was intentional.

Arthur was the Roman captain of a band of Sarmation knights, forced into service by an ancient pact formed by their fore-fathers in exchange for their lives. Though he be of Roman decent, Arthur did not condone the way Rome treated his knights, taking them from their homes at a young age. Galahad, the youngest, had only seen 13 winters and Lancelot, Arthur's most trusted knight and friend, only 16. Arthur himself was barely older than 18 at the time of his first command.

It was ten years since Arthur and his knights took their post in Britain. Less than one fourth of the original number of the Sarmations remain...

Chapter 1 – Blood of a Legend

To the average man, a farmer for example who had no training or knowledge in the use of weapons, a battle appeared to be only mass-confusion with no resemblance of order at all. But to Lancelot and Arthur it was a dance. A dance of survival. Battle was a form of art; it had to be. A mistake, a miss-step, anything could result in death.

Lancelot's dance was smooth and practiced. Every movement flowed gracefully with speed and accuracy. The twin swords in his hands hummed in the air, trusting, parrying, blocking.

Fighting at his back was Arthur. His dance was more deliberate and thought out than Lancelot's. Instead of the graceful and fluid twin swords, Excalibur required a powerful style. Combined, the two warriors were unstoppable. At least they were almost unstoppable.

It was actually Dagonet who saw the archer first. "Lancelot!" he shouted in warning.

The younger Sarmation didn't have a chance to turn, the Woads were closing in about them. Even if he had, it was too late and Arthur knew it; there wasn't enough time to avoid the arrow. He couldn't push Lancelot out of the way, he was too far. Arthur stepped into the arrow's path; the archer's aim was too low, the arrow embedded itself deep in Arthur's upper right leg. The Roman didn't scream, he didn't cry out, but he kept fighting and clenched his jaw trying to block out the pain.

Woads ran towards them, seeing the weakness of the two men; without one they could be overtaken. It was a trap, that was obvious now. Arthur grunted at the pain increasing in his leg, but at least it was him and not Lancelot.

A knight yelled from across the field; it was young Galahad. Lancelot gritted his teeth as several Woads attacked him at once. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Gawain and Galahad working their way over to help. Suddenly a Woad slammed the hilt of his weapon against the side of Lancelot's head, sending him backwards, his left sword cut something behind him. The Sarmation's eyes went wide as he turned around. Arthur had been behind him. The large Roman's hand now clamped over a gash in his side from Lancelot's own sword.

Arthur stumbled forward and fell down to his knees, the arrow wound in his leg combined with the gash on his side finally becoming too much to fight with. Lancelot caught him before he fell forward. "Oh gods, Arthur, I'm sorry!" the younger man cried, "I didn't mean to!"

Looking up at the Sarmation's brown eyes brimmed with unshed tears, Arthur's vision started to blur. He shook his head weakly, trying to tell Lancelot that he was no to blame. Arthur's body was on fire, he hurt...he wanted peace. It was so welcoming, the darkness. Lancelot was talking, he could vaguely hear him. Finally, the pain was too much to bare and Arthur gave into the peace of unconsciousness, slumping against his friend's chest.

Lancelot sat there on the battlefield as the last of the Woads either ran or were killed, holding his wounded and unconscious captain, cradling the man against himself, Arthur's head resting on his shoulder. It was his fault, it was his fault Arthur was wounded. Lancelot rested his forehead against the dark hair matted to Arthur's head with sweat. He didn't even try to stop the tears of guilt that came.