Hello again, looky! I posted for the third day in a row GASP. Ok, LOL, I love getting the guesses on Marcus, that is so cool. I love hearing what you guys think you know? If I hadn't have had this all planned out, I might have used some of those ideas. Now, the moment you've been waiting for, this chapter will tie it all together. Oh and lurker823 has won Spot The Typo for chapter 1. It's a new game I've started, if you spot a typo, I'll mention you in the next post, lol. Ok, lame, I know. I don't know when I'll be able to write the next chapter, I have a research paper looming in the distance tomorrow, so it depends how thatgoes and such. But we'll see how things go.Well, I'll shut up now. I'm anxious to hear what you guys think about this chapter, please do review! Enjoy.

Chapter 3 – A Hero's Shadow

We are saints and we are sinners
We are heroes we are thieves
We are all of us beginners on the road to Galilee

-Mary's Eyes: Gaelic Storm

Marcus fingered his dagger in the dark, brushing the carved handle with his hand. His dark eyes never left the door of the other room where the Roman was, his knight asleep in the chair next to him as if standing guard. It was silent in the house, only the soft sounds of the rhythmic breathing of sleep broke it.

He clutched the handle of the dagger until his knuckles turned white. But no, now was not the time. It took a great deal of control to release the dagger again. Marcus knew…but what he knew also had to be known to the other before any action was taken. He would remember, even if it took Marcus telling him before he killed him to do so.

With the help of Antonius' skill and knowledge of herbs, he broke Arthur's fever early. The wound wouldn't take long to heal now. Lancelot was relieved. To tell the truth, he couldn't wait to leave. No doubt the others would be wondering why they hadn't met up with them again, granted they already hadn't gone looking for them. Lancelot smirked, it wouldn't be the first time. But there was still the issue of this boy. Neither Lancelot nor Arthur felt terribly comfortable around him. The knight wasn't sure why. But he could see it in Arthur's eyes more so than his own feeling.

"Hey, hold still Hadrian," Lancelot looked up at the horse who was objecting to having his knee examined again. Hadrian snorted, nudging Lancelot's shoulder. "I'm almost done, be patient."

Hadrian suddenly stiffened; his head jolted up, ears forward. So did Conquest next to him. There were voices, not far from them. A raised male voice; it sounded like Marcus.

Lancelot stood up quietly, his hand on Hadrian's neck to settle the horse. There was no sound from his footsteps as he approached the source of the noise. Lancelot crouched behind a bush and listened.

Victoria was getting water from the stream, Marcus was talking at her, his voice angry. "Mother you know who he is!"

Victoria gave no answer.

"I have never forgotten that face, and neither have you. He still carries the scar. How can you let Antonius do this!"

The woman stood up to her full height, looking her son in the eye. "Your father is dead, Marcus. And you are not yet a man. Until then you will do as Antonius says since he was the only one in this village willing to put up with you," she said softly, but harshly. It didn't seem to phase the young man.

"I swore I would do this mother!"

"No." Victoria stated firmly, putting up her hand, "There will be no more death."

"You can't stop me," Marcus narrowed his eyes.

"Then you will live with this guilt, Marcus…"

Lancelot had heard enough. He silently got up and made his way back to the house, unseen.

Arthur was asleep, his left arm across his forehead, trying to block out the light threatening to invade his peace. But it wasn't the light that entered his dreams. His hand twitched; a bead of sweat dripped down the side of his face. Memories that had been long buried in the shadows of the past began to surface again.

Suddenly he awake, not jolting awake, gasping for breath, as a nightmare from battle normally did; but in calm realization – at least on the outside appearance. Arthur reached over and rubbed the scar on his left shoulder. He remembered now…

The soldier cried out, clutching at the gash on his arm, blood staining his hand and the handle of the dagger. He pulled it out with some effort. The farmer pushed the boy's hands with the dagger towards his throat.

Images flashed in the soldier's mind, of the farmer killing his men. Boys really, not much older than he. His grey eyes flared with rage. Another cry left his lips and he shoved against the farmer's attempt to disarm him. The dagger lodged itself in the farmer's throat. His life's blood spilled over the shoulder's hands, mixing with that which was already there.

The soldier's rage consumed him. Traitor. Murderer. He wasn't even aware of the desperate, bloodied hand of the farmer reaching at his face, smearing the crimson liquid across his nose and cheek. Rage kept pushing the dagger farther, even after the man had stopped struggling.

Another shout brought him back to the present, "Arthur!"

Arthur Castus stopped. He looked down at the limp body, blood soaking in the dirt around him. Releasing his now shaking hands from the dagger, Arthur slowly backed up. His breathing came in short gasps as he stared into the open eyes of the man he had just killed. It wasn't his first kill, nor would it be his last. But this was different, it was much different.

Running footsteps approached, slowing down as they reached them. Arthur was still shaking; his stomach churned uneasily. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't tear his eyes away. Two men helped him up, asking if he was all right. All he could do was nod vaguely as they spoke, but their voices didn't reach his ears.

"I've never seen a man so bold to attack an officer like that."

"He's lucky he lasted as long as he did."

"After what that traitor did, he deserved it."

As another soldier started to drag the body off, Arthur blinked and saw something move out of the corner of his eye. He turned to see what it was. A six-year-old boy stood, half hiding behind a tree, staring straight at him. A pair of dark eyes that Arthur would never forget, not after 11 years. Marcus Livius.