It had not come quickly, she knew. It had crept up on her steadily, stealthily. She had hated him. She had hated them all because of who they were and what they stood for. But in their quiet hours together, in their long talks about nothing and everything, something had changed. She had come to trust him, come to care for him. She had come to love him. Love the sound of his voice, and the thrill of the stories he told. She loved his voice and mouth and eyes. She loved the way he moved, and she loved how he treasured his companions fiercely and loyally and his flippant attitude. She loved the way he made her feel safe, and she loved the way he smiled at Genna when he held her.
But, first, she had hated him. Just as she had hated the man seated next to her now. Arthur. Artorius Castus, Commander of the Sarmatian Knights of the Great Wall. He had pale green eyes, flecked with hazel, and a nose that had once been broken and healed at a slight angle. His unruly mop of dark brown hair and the stubble that grazed his cheeks and the jut of his chin with the cleft in it oddly showed him as proud. His cheeks were slightly hollowed, as if the strain of his position and the divide between his two halves had stretched his skin over his bone ever so slightly. He studied her just as closely. She set her chin obstinately.
"What is it you wanted to talk about?" She asked. They were sitting in the hall, stools facing each other, goblets of wine set on the smooth surface of the round table next to them. Morning sunlight poured golden over the floor from the high windows. Arthur paused, in thought.
"I want to be your friend, Bryanne. If you'd let me."
"And why should I let you, Arthur?" It almost looked as if he had no reply to that. And then he said:
"Because I see something in you, and I know you see something in me. Maybe we can learn from each other. Despite what you might think, I am not your enemy."
"I know that." She admitted, and he looked surprised.
"Then why do you treat me as one?"
"Because I don't know how else to treat you. I heard so many things… and when I do meet you, you're nothing like the barbaric, slaughtering man I'd heard of." Arthur looked slightly taken aback at being called barbaric and slaughtering. "It scares me, I think."
"I don't want to scare you." She pouted her lower lip in thought.
"Why did you save me? A Roman said that perhaps you saw me as some mystery. Is that it? Am I to be solved?"
"No." He hesitated. "But you are a mystery. You have no fear, but you are afraid. You are desperate, but you are strong and confident. You have a passion, but I cannot see it on your face." He looked at her, searching, as if it would reveal to him her secrets. Bryanne pondered his words for a moment.
"I do not fear death, but I am afraid of leaving Genna behind, and I am afraid of being alone. I am desperate because I must live, and to live I must be strong. And my passion…" She shrugged. "Genna is my passion. She gave me life when the Romans would have taken it. She gave me joy when all I could feel was grief. And she gives me understanding, when I am standing in the darkness." Bryanne shrugged again. "I can offer no more explanation than that."
"Then that will suffice." Arthur smiled, and rose. "You are still a mystery, Bryanne. But at least now, I hope we can be friends." Bryanne stood and looked at him squarely.
"I prayed to God, asking what to do about you." Arthur was surprised by a woads admission of Christianity. "Perhaps this is his answer." She reached out a hand, and he clasped it between his, feeling the frail fingers and smoothness of her skin.
"Perhaps it is." He answered, and they smiled.
"Then he has not abandoned me as I had feared."
"God never abandons anyone." Arthur answered vehemently, and Bryanne nodded in agreement.
Bryanne sat outside, in the paddock. She leant against a fence post, with Desra grazing close by. She was sewing Genna's garment again, and the baby lay next to her, playing with the wooden horse again. Someone approached from behind, and from the footfall, Bryanne recognised Lancelot's boots. He rested his arms on the fence above her, staring intently at Desra. Bryanne's fingers never hesitated in her sewing, nor did she look up. But her heart beat a thousand times faster, louder than a thousand galloping horses, and her hands shook with the strain of control.
"It's a beautiful morning." He said eventually, glancing down at the top of her head. She was frowning at her stitches, teeth pulling at her lip in concentration. Genna gurgled at him, but Lancelot ignored her.
"It is." She answered.
"I want to thank you for last night." He said. She didn't reply. "I wasn't myself…"
"I know." There was no emotion in the words, and it stung him. Deciding to give up, he turned to leave.
"It doesn't mean what I said wasn't true." He added, throwing the words over his shoulder as a non-committal comment. Bryanne stopped her sewing, hands frozen in a parody of action. She looked round.
"Lancelot."
"Mm?"
"I liked you calling me Anne." She said, her eyes showing her shyness. She had never been so openly flirtatious as this. "I'd like it if you always called me that." She shrugged, turning back around.
"Always." His voice was above her, and she looked up in surprise, jabbing her finger on the needle as she poked it through the cloth.
"Ouch." She yelped, sucking her finger.
"Oh! I'm sorry!" He vaulted over the fence and knelt by her. Carefully he took her hand from her mouth and inspected the wound. Bryanne laughed.
"It's only a prick." He looked up, mirth in his eyes.
"No. It's a mortal wound that must be attended to." Suddenly, causing himself as much astonishment to himself as to her, he held her finger to his lips and put it in his mouth. Bryanne's eyes widened, and he gently kissed her fingertip before releasing her hand, which dropped to her lap – a limb momentarily forgotten. "Better?" He murmured.
"Much." She replied, her voice no louder than a sigh, her lungs forgetting how to breathe. He quirked his lopsided smile and sat back on his heels. There were no more words said, and after a little while of simply looking at each other, Bryanne tidied away her work, picked up Genna and allowed Lancelot to help her over the fence. They walked side by side back to the quarters, in silence.
They were about to enter the courtyard when Tristan galloped past, a plume of dust rising after him. Above their heads, his hawk flew, calling into the still air. They stopped, watching the bird soar up and away.
"Lancelot!" Arthur shouted, running to the stables. Lancelot began to run, skidded to a halt and looked back.
"Go." Bryanne instructed, waving her hand, a droplet of blood falling into the dust. He smiled and disappeared into the stables. Bryanne didn't watch them leave. Instead, she took Genna to the kitchens to be fed, and listened to the shouts and pounding hooves through the window. Her chest felt tight, and she shut her eyes, fighting away the sensation of being trapped.
It had not come quickly, she knew. She had hated him. She wondered if she wished she still did as the hooves faded. She loved the way he laughed, the way he moved, the way he smelled. She loved the feel of his skin when they touched, and the confidence that oozed from him. She loved the way he said her name, sometimes half-whispered, softly as if it were a precious gift, and sometimes brazenly, as if he were proud of it. She loved the way he joked with the others, and the cockiness in his gait. She loved the way he whispered to Genna and to his horse, as if they were being told special secrets no one else could know. She loved the way his eyes looked at hers.
"Oh God." She whispered, her fingers tight against the table. She loved the way she loved him.
