Bryanne brushed viciously at Desra's coat, making it gleam in the sun that filtered down into the courtyard. She hated them, she hated every single one of them… Desra snickered anxiously, concerned at the anger broiling inside the woman. Bryanne sighed, resting her forehead on the chestnut flank and closing her eyes. She inhaled deeply the scent of horse and hay and chaffe. She could smell dung and mud and smoke… they had burned her village to the ground. For what purpose? They had killed everyone. All except herself, and Genna. Why had she been spared? Arthur confused her completely. He was strong and wise – a royal warrior and great leader. His voice carried authority and understanding, justice.

"Woad!" Called a voice. Bryanne set her teeth and turned. It was the Roman from the hall. "Come here." He instructed with a pointing finger. Tightening her grip around the brush, she wished fiercely it was a sword.

"I'm afraid there are no woads around here. Only a Briton." She said as calmly as she could muster. He snorted, dismissing the comment.

"Come here." He repeated. She obeyed, unsure what else to do. He grabbed her chin in sharp fingers and studied her closely, through squinted eyes. He tutted. "I don't know what Arthur sees in you. Some mystery perhaps?" He inspected her closer, dragging her head forward as if to pull it from her neck. She felt sick, and snatched her face away, taking a few steps back to recover herself. Since when had she so blindly obeyed a Roman?

"Stay away from me." She snarled, throwing her brush at his feet and storming back to her room.

Genna was still awake, and Bryanne felt overcome with guilt that she had forgotten about the baby. At the sight of her, Genna began to cry – a thin, desperate wailing that spoke of terrifying hunger. Hastily, Bryanne picked her up, hushing her and jigging her softly to calm the cries. She couldn't get any food for the baby – she didn't know where the kitchens were.

"Is she all right?" Asked a familiar voice, and Bryanne's head snapped up, instantly defensive. Lancelot stood in the doorway once more.

"She's hungry." She answered. "But I don't have any milk."

"Wait a moment." He said, disappearing. As she waited, she wondered where he had gone. He soon returned with a jug of milk. "It's still warm." He said, tentatively offering it to her. "But I didn't know what to put it in." Bryanne took it, gratefully, though reluctant to display it.

"Thank you. It will do fine." She poured some of the milk into an empty ceramic bowl on the table, and then proceeded to dip her little finger into it. She held the finger to Genna's lips until the baby tasted the milk and began to suck on the finger, her hands clasped around Bryanne's knuckles. Lancelot watched in fascination.

"I never thought…"

"No. You probably didn't." She answered scathingly. He frowned.

"I brought you some food too, you look starved." He placed a plate down. There was bread and cheese and an apple.

"I'm sure that's some kind of compliment."

"Not really. Just an observation." At least he had retained some cockiness, he noticed. He seemed to be floundering whenever they spoke, and he was sure he'd somehow lost his footing again in this situation. He watched as Bryanne dipped her finger into the milk again. "I… I could do that if you want to eat." He offered without conviction. He cared about Genna, of course, but he was unsure about Bryanne's reaction to someone else holding her – the last encounter hadn't been too successful. Bryanne eyed him suspiciously, and then glanced to the food. Her stomach rumbled traitorously.

Genna was warm against his chest. She had made him remove his armour before holding her. He stood in just a tunic and breeches, and felt very unprotected. It confused him, as he stared into the innocent, harmless face of a child, that he felt more fear than he did facing woads.

"Dip your finger in the milk." Bryanne instructed, watching him closely. "And hold it to her lips until she tastes it." The soft, warm mouth closed around his little finger eagerly, and the sensation surprised and delighted him. "She'll let go when she wants more." Bryanne added, already picking up the bread and sitting on the cot, watching Lancelot like a hawk. He gently sat on the stool beside the table, his face open with wonder. Bryanne hid her smile. It worried her that she recognised warm feelings towards the Sarmatian. Eating quietly, she observed him carefully feeding Genna the milk bit by bit, talking quietly to the baby.

"How did you get here?" She asked curiously. Lancelot looked up, surprised by the question.

"The Sarmatians struck a bargain with the Romans. I'm to serve here fifteen years. I came when I was twelve." He replied simply.

"How many more years do you have?"

"Two." She could see the joy and expectation in his eyes at the admission. Tilting her head, she looked at him through new eyes.

"You miss your home?"

"Yes." He paused. "Very much."

"And the other Sarmatians? They are under the same bargain?"

"Yes." He shrugged, somewhat awkwardly. "Arthur isn't Sarmatian though."

"I know. The famous half Briton, half Roman."

"Don't be so hateful. He's a good man. And my friend."

"I believe it. But he took my home from me. You must know how that feels." Lancelot nodded, knowing that the grief they shared needed no words.

"He never took your home, Bryanne." He took a deep breath. "The Romans did, and whatever Arthur's beliefs, he is not one of them."

"Beliefs." Bryanne snorted. "I believe in a God that has abandoned us. Beliefs, in most, are worthless."

"Why?" Lancelot was shocked at this retort. His hardened shell protected him from things such as Christianity. The Britons had it forced upon them, but he had refused, preferring himself a 'pagan'. And yet, here was a woad, with a Christian God, who still believed when she had been left alone and defenceless, trapped by enemies.

"What do you mean?"

"Why do you believe in a God?"

"Do you have no beliefs, Lancelot?"

"Not many." He replied proudly. "I believe in my home, and my family, and my life. But I do not believe in a God."

"Then you could not understand the comfort it provides when you are all alone in the cold and darkness. When the spirits of those passed haunt your dreams, and the presence of those you hate press against you with violence and starvation. It is a bitter corner to fight, but I fight it because I believe that God will come. One day. Just not today." Lancelot had no answer to that. She spoke of such crippling desolation so openly – so trustingly from someone so defensive and angry. She was shrouded in bitterness, and she had revealed to him deep-set pains like he was a brother. He stared down at Genna, finally beginning to understand Bryanne.

"You said your sister was killed by Romans." He watched her as her lips tightened. It was not a comfortable subject.

"Yes." She replied, staring at Genna as if the baby could interject with some sentence to break them away from talking about it.

"How?" There was silence. He wondered if anyone had ever asked her before. Probably not – she was lonely.

Bryanne took Genna from him and settled the baby across her shoulder, rubbing her back gently. How did she tell a stranger of the destruction of her family? The sudden-wrought desolation that had torn her from comfort.

"We were hiding out in the woods. At the time, Fynn was fighting for Merlin. My sister, Fenella, had just given birth to Genna. We were attacked when we were hunting for food. The women mostly went hunting – the men were too busy raiding the Romans." She paused, taking a deep breath. "I don't know how they found us, but some of us had weapons. I was the youngest in my family, and Fenella told me to hide with Genna until she came for us. My mother was one of the first to get killed – she was unarmed, killed where she ran." Biting her lip, Bryanne tried to regain some composure to the shake in her voice. "Fenella had a sword, I could see her from where I was hiding – she killed two Romans before another took her head from her body. By then, the alarm had reached the men. Fynn saw her body and… it… he… the anger killed him." She had to force the tears away. "Pa tried to help, but he was too old – he had a bad leg that made him limp. When he was killed, I ran… I didn't know what else to do, my family were all dead. I was on my own."

"Where did you go?"

"Nowhere." She laughed dryly. "Of course, the Romans found me. I had time to hide Genna, but… well, I have scars to show where their swords left me for dead." She looked down at the child. "Genna was the one who kept me alive. When I heard her crying, I forced myself to keep breathing. For her sake, if not for my own."

"Why didn't you fight them?"

"With bare fists? Besides, I hadn't the faintest idea where to start."

"You knew how to kill them in the village. And you hit Arthur quite hard." He quirked a smile at her abashed face.

"After the attack, I taught myself how to defend Genna. I practiced so hard with sword, bow, dagger… I even learnt how to use a garrotte. Anything that would help me protect her."

Lancelot couldn't fathom her. After feeling as if he could just start to understand her and decipher her, she surprised and baffled him again. He felt he was going in circles. She seemed to have no care for herself, but the protective layers she held firmly in place told a different story. Her grief and hurt was carefully hidden away – even from herself, he guessed from the fierce battle against the tears shining in her eyes. She stood and placed Genna carefully in her basket, running a finger over one cheek as she looked down at the tiny baby that had given her life, but had also, in some profound way, taken it from her. He stood and approached her so that was only one step between them.

"I'm sorry." He said helplessly. She shrugged, as if it brushed away her burden. "I couldn't imagine the kind of life you've had."

"No." She replied, somewhat resentfully. "For, after all, you are one of those people who have taken it from me."

"I never –"

"You fight for Rome."

"Yes." She turned to him, her eyes hardened.

"Then you are still my enemy."