Lancelot lay beside Bryanne on the hill that edged Hadrian's Wall's borders. Summer was drawing slowly to a close, the bitter air turning the leaves from green to red and gold and brown. The breeze had a chill to it, and they wore cloaks to keep away the biting touch. He was teasing her, and using a piece of grass to tickle her neck. She kept batting it away, but he crept it back, until she sat up indignantly.

"Lancelot! If you don't stop that this instant, I'll…"

"You'll what?" He asked, cheekily, with a dimple in one of his hollowed cheeks, and a glint in his deep, soulful eyes. He was thinking something naughty, Bryanne thought.

"I'll leave." She said, standing and storming down the hill. He rushed after her, dropping the blade of grass.

"No! Wait!" She laughed, breaking into a run, and he loped after her, casually snatching her into his chest. Wildly shouting and laughing, they tumbled and struggled, eventually landing up in a breathless heap on the floor. "I hope the fall didn't hurt the baby." Lancelot checked, with concern. She slapped him on the arm.

"Don't be so fretful. I'll know when I'm too weak." He smiled at her as she stood and, brushing dirt from her skirts. The slight curve in her belly was the only sign of her pregnancy, and it gave him a thrill every time he caught sight of it. She began to walk away, but stopped, hand touching the bump.

"Anne?" He asked, as she suddenly doubled over, groaning. He took her by the arms, leaning over to see pain writ on her features. "Was it the fall?"

"No." She huffed, wincing. "No." Suddenly, she cried out, dropping to her knees, clutching her stomach.

"Anne!" The dark red flower of blood blotted her skirt, and spread thin tendrils outwards.

"Lancelot." She gasped, before screaming again. He didn't know what to do, so scooped her up in arms, trying to ignore the heat of blood against his skin. He rushed back to the barracks, people staring as he went past.

"Dagonet!" He shouted. "DAGONET!" The Sarmatian appeared calmly from the stables, took one look at Bryanne and turned pale.

"Bors, get Lorella." He instructed coldly, taking Bryanne from Lancelot and whisking her away to the infirmary. Lancelot held a hand to his forehead, feeling cold and bleak.

"Oh, please let her be okay." He whispered as Lorella rushed past him. Bors held his newborn son, and wrapped his spare arm around his companion's shoulders in a feeble attempt to comfort him.

He waited in the stables for hours, his hand methodically rubbing Solmyr's muzzle, his eyes staring into nothing.

"Please, please." He begged, calling on all the deities, all the powers he could think of to make her okay. Dagonet appeared at the door, and beckoned to him. "Please." He whispered a final time, and allowed himself to be led to the infirmary. Bryanne lay in a cot, her face drained of colour, eyes staring but unseeing. A servant was tidying away bloodied sheets, and Lancelot could smell the iron tang of it, mixed with herbs and medicines that caught in the back of his throat dryly. "Anne?" He asked, but she gave no reply. Lorella was washing blood from her hands and wrists in a basin of warm water. "Lorella, what happened?" The woman turned to him, sorrow etched onto her face.

"I'm sorry." She whispered.

"What happened?" He demanded.

"She went into early labour." Dagonet provided, from behind them.

"The child was stillborn?"

"No, Lancelot." She shook her head. "It wasn't even a child."

"What – what do you mean?"

"Babies grow, inside." Lorella explained calmly. "After a while, they become a child, but this one was too early. I'm sorry." Lancelot felt he would have rather it been a stillborn. Not a… nothing. He sank into a chair, unable to think, let alone speak.

"What caused the labour?" He eventually questioned. The Sarmatian woman shrugged. "Would it have been a fall?"

"No. It would have had to have been a fall from the top of the Wall, if it was… Perhaps her old wounds damaged her internally." There was silence. "Bryanne lost a lot of blood. She's tired. You should let her sleep." Bryanne stirred at the sound of her name.

"No." She said hoarsely, and Lancelot looked at her. "I don't need to rest."

"But, Bryanne…"

"Take me home Lancelot." She ignored Lorella's protests. Silently, he obeyed, gently lifting her and carrying her back to his room, where she soon fell asleep in his cot. He watched her silently, thoughts full of children and sons. She would blame her God for this… but he would blame himself, only himself.

When Bryanne woke, she saw the slumbering form of the knight, still in the chair. She rose, covering him with a blanket and kissing him on the forehead, before wrapping a cloak about herself and seeking out Arthur to ask for more cloth – she'd need another dress. When she returned, Lancelot woke, and looked at her anxiously.

"Are you well enough to be walking?"

"Yes." He pulled her onto his lap, and she ran a hand through his hair. "I don't feel anything."

"Nothing?" She shook her head.

"It is as if it had never been there at all." Lancelot forced himself not to cry. He couldn't bear to show weakness where Bryanne showed such strength. She kissed him softly. "You can grieve, Lancelot. Don't be ashamed." His eyes followed her across the room as she headed for the door. "It was a boy." She told him, not even looking back, as she swept through the curtain. And so Lancelot wept; deep, body-wracking sobs that shook him in mind, body and soul; hot tears that coursed heavily down his cheeks, and moans of deep-set pains – grief that would never be lifted, the grief of a father who has lost his son. Bryanne couldn't grieve. She felt the emptiness where once she had felt life. She felt nothing where she should feel anguish, pain. In desperation, she sought out Genna from Lorella. She took the sleeping baby in her arms and looked upon the face that had saved her.

A week passed, and Bryanne did not go to Lancelot's room. She did not go to the hall, or the tavern, or the stables. She did not go to her paddock or the hill, and did not go for walks in the woods. She did not see Lorella, or the knights, or Arthur. Bryanne abandoned the comforting world she had built for herself, becoming a recluse in her room. Arthur went to Lancelot, whose woe-filled face pained him to see.

"Lancelot, you have to go to her." He begged.

"And what would I say?"

"Whatever comes to your heart. She needs you now, more than ever before." The Sarmatian shook his head, his lips pursed.

"She is stronger than I."

"No! She is not!" In frustration, Arthur shook his friend. "You see a cold strength inside her, and so do I. But she cannot use it alone. She needs you as much as she needs air to breathe! I see it in her face when she looks at you. Whatever inner vigour she has found, she found it from you. Please, just go to her." He stepped backwards, shrugging lightly. "If not for myself, and if not for her, for yourself. You're not you anymore, Lancelot." He turned away, hoping his words had some effect on the stubborn knight.

His words meant something, for Lancelot visited Bryanne that evening, without waiting for an answer to his knock. She lay in her bed, head turned to face the wall, her complexion ill in its pallor. She looked thin, and there was a plate of untouched food on her table. Genna was nowhere to be seen.

"Anne?"

"Leave me." Her voice held no emotion, no warmth.

"Anne, may I speak?" She turned her head to look at him as he sat himself on the edge of her bed. He rested a hand on hers, and though she flinched, she did not move it away. "I came to ask you one question. Do you have the power to live?" There was silence. "Because, without you, I can't live. You are my power."

"I am nothing." She looked away again.

"Yes you are. You are everything. You made me believe."

"No."

"Yes!" He cried, clenching his hand around hers. He knew he was hurting her, but he didn't care. "You made me believe in something Anne! You gave my heart the gift to beat. You have given me everything." He leant into her desperately. "Don't take it away from me, Anne." She sat up and stared into his eyes, searching, hoping to find something in his eyes, just as she had that time ago. She tilted her head. She did it so often, he barely noticed the habit, but it struck him, in that moment, as beautiful. Suddenly, it seemed that she found whatever she had looked for. Dam gates burst open, and she threw herself into his chest, weeping all her hopelessness into him. He held her, until the moon rose high enough to be seen through her window, and until she finally stopped. They lay down, her whole body wearied.

"I can't look at her anymore, Lancelot." She whispered.

"Look at who?"

"Genna." He frowned, as she continued. "She once gave me life and hope and faith. But now, when I look at her, instead of wonder and happiness, I feel… nothing. I'm empty. I do love her, Lancelot. I love her as fiercely as ever. But I feel I've failed her… I realise now… I realise now that I cannot hope to give her the life she needs." He looked at him, asking him for support.

"I don't understand."

"I can't keep her." Bryanne whispered. Lancelot couldn't answer, and she fell asleep in his arms, head leaning on his chest, her words echoing like a death sentence…

Bryanne still refused to leave her room. Lancelot was at a loss as to what to do – her once bright eyes were dull and lifeless. She barely ate, her skin becoming lacklustre and pallid. It pained him to see her so. Lorella never once complained about caring for Genna, but he knew that the woad would have to face her niece at some time. The baby was growing fast, learning to mumble incoherent words, learning to crawl, to stand (as long as she had the support of someone holding her). Lancelot watched it all with fascination, seeing the life grow ever stronger. He wondered what his son would have looked like, and in the dark nights, as Bryanne slept beside him, her back turned to him, he imagined a child – with tourmaline eyes and curls of dark, ebony coloured hair. He imagined it grow, honey-skin and fine bones, with her laugh and his dimples. It was a bittersweet torture. He imagined Genna as a toddler, playing with his son as a babe… but where he had once found tears, he now found an emptiness. He had spent his grief, and now only plagued his mind with 'what-if'.

Autumn crept up on them with driving winds and heavy rains, and bitter chills that froze the knights to the bone as they rode, and made their horse's breath come out in thick clouds of white fog. A heavy sky, overcast and grey, reflected the mood in Lancelot and Bryanne. They no longer made love, they simply lay side by side, touching and yet so far apart. The laughter was gone. Silenced by the heartache that divided them. It was on a rare day, when the sky hung limp and damp, but had finished with its torrents of rain, that Lancelot begged Bryanne to walk with him. Wearing thick boots and heavy wool cloaks against the cold and mud, they made their way through the barracks, past the tavern. It was mostly empty – a couple of soldiers gambling quietly. Bryanne's head was bowed, her hands sagging at her sides. What had become of the beautiful, fiery creature he had known and loved? What had become of that Bryanne? Was she still in that shell, the cold, listless body that walked beside him? He took her towards the paddock where she had often sat in the Spring. Lorella was there, with her son and Genna and few of her other children. Could he love what Bryanne had become? Lorella looked up, and caught sight of them. She was kneeling, holding Genna's hands as she precariously stood on her own two feet. They stopped a little distance away, and Bryanne watched her niece as she tried to let go of Lorella's hands and stand unaided. With a thump, she sat promptly down in the grass and giggled. Lorella smiled, helping her back up and talking some unheard words. Bryanne took a step closer to Lancelot, and her hand reached for his. He looked at her and smiled as their fingers entwined themselves. Tears shone in Bryanne's eyes, and she looked up at the Sarmatian.

"Do you understand now?" He whispered and she nodded. "Life is so precious, and you have to believe in it to make yourself live." He leant down and kissed her temple. "You made me believe. Can I help you to?"

"I never stopped, Lancelot." She answered, standing on her toes and kissing him lightly on the lips. "You'd never let me." There it was, the ghost of a smile at the corner of her mouth. Genna, who had been her gift and her burden, and made her live again. Lancelot never realised that it wasn't the sight of the baby that had brought Bryanne back, it had been his faith in her, and in her niece. That night, as they lay side by side once more, he felt a tentative hand slip underneath his shirt and run its fingers across his muscles there. As their hands found each other again, after so long, he whispered in her ear:

"There's my little vixen." He heard a soft laugh – the first in a lifetime.