Disclaimer: I don't own anything having to do with the King Arthur movie. Please enjoy chapter one…and for further disclaimage, please see the prologue.

Chapter One:

Scouting for Bishops

"Galahad! Aren't you up yet? Breakfast is nearly ready!"

Galahad groaned and rubbed his eyes. "I think I had too much wine…" he mumbled.

Another voice chuckled at this. "No one would blame you, as you had to settle on the milk cow for company last night."

Galahad sat up and glared at his fellow knight, though he wasn't truly angry since they both knew it not to be true. "What, Lancelot, did you lose at gambling again?"

"Lose in one arena and win in another, my friend," he answered. "I, at least, spent my time with a real woman." Galahad stood and stretched, regarding the other man in the room. He was holding up a piece of bronze polished so that it would show one's reflection and running his fingers through his short black curly hair. Lancelot then turned and smirked at him, raising one of his very expressive eyebrows. "Come now, like your brother said. Breakfast is nearly ready."

After Galahad quickly went through his morning rituals he walked into the second room in their barracks, and found the large table in it half-filled – which was as full as it ever got these days. Food was already set out on the table, along with plates and cups. He took his customary seat next to his brother Gawain. Across from them were Lancelot and Dagonet, and next to the latter sat Tristan. These five were the only ones who lived in the barracks, now.

"The bacon is good, Tristan," commented Gawain.

Tristan nodded in response and continued eating his food.

Hearing this, Galahad took some onto his place and tasted it. "Mm," he said between munches. "It is good."

Tristan flicked his eyes toward Galahad. "Then eat it." He shook his head a little to get his long dark bangs out of his face, and once again went on with his meal.

Galahad frowned. "Oh, so Gawain can make conversation but-"

Lancelot and Dagonet grinned, but Gawain said warningly, "Galahad."

Suddenly the door banged open, stopping any further conversation. "Morning, boys!" yelled the man who entered. He was broad-shouldered and well-built, with visible scars, even on his shaved skull.

"Bors," greeted Dagonet, raising his cup to him.

"Ah," said Bors, sitting next to Galahad across from Tristan. "I had some brekkie with Vanora and the kids, but I wouldn't mind having some more." He picked a piece of fruit from one of the plates in the middle of the table, and talked around it after a bite. "Saw Arthur," he forced out. "He thinks we should go out for another ride today."

At this Galahad brightened up considerably. For the past few days, the six Sarmatians and their Roman commander, Arthur Castus, had been going out on rides south of Hadrian's Wall, or "scouting missions," as Arthur liked to call them. Of course all of the knights knew that if any scouting needed to be done, it would be done along the wall, and Tristan would be sent out to do it with his trusty hawk. These "scouting missions" were actually rides to the top of a large hill a bit south of the wall, overlooking the road that wound up to the fort from the coast. Upon that road an important bishop from Rome was to come, who had recently landed in Britain. This bishop, though Arthur did not say it in so many words, brought with him the key to the Sarmatians' freedom…

Quickly the knights finished their breakfast, grabbed their preferred weapons, and went to the stables. There they found two figures, already busy with the horses. One was Jols, a Briton in the service of Arthur who was particularly good with horses, and now served as the knights' groom. The other, however, was Lucius Artorius Castus, commander of the Sarmatian cavalry at Bremetennacum, an important fort along Hadrian's Wall. He was tall, like his knights, and had a proud bearing honed by years of Roman academic and martial study. In contrast to his remaining men, his hair was cut short and he was clean-shaven, as was the accepted Roman fashion. His green eyes, usually stern, now sparkled with a hint of mischief as he turned to the Sarmatians, and he partially allowed his mouth to curve into a smile. "Good morning. I trust you all slept well."

"On the contrary," responded Lancelot, feigning injury. "Galahad and his cow kept me up all night with their racket."

Other men, maybe, may have been confused by the statement if they had not heard the conversation in the barracks, but Arthur knew his men well and Lancelot was no exception- if there was teasing to be done by this knight, then it would most certainly be about what the other men supposedly lacked in regards to women. So he simply chuckled and shook his head, and continued to prepare for the morning's excursion.

As for Galahad himself, he barely paid attention; far too excited was he to get moving. It could be today, could be tomorrow, could be next week. But the point was that the bishop was coming, and he carried on his person their discharge papers, granting them safe passage through the empire. Yes, fifteen years he had done what he was bid in this cold, wet land, and soon, maybe even as soon as tomorrow, he would be able to shuck his 'duty' and return home.

Home. That was Galahad's main goal since the moment he had first realized what it would truly mean to be a 'servant' to the empire. What he could remember of Sarmatia, or more broadly, Rus, beyond the open plain and endless sky, was a sense of carefree joy and the embracing comfort only a mother could give…It was nothing like this harsh land. All Britain meant to Galahad was obeying orders from people with which he didn't agree, murdering people with whom he had no quarrel, and most importantly, the wrenching wound of maturity. In Rus perhaps, Galahad may have become adult through a season's famine or a bungled love affair, but here, under the Romans' care, his ignorance had been gouged out of his brain by the lash of the whip, his naïveté ground into the earth by the stomp of the boot, and his innocence torn away with the first blood he spilled- all at the tender age of eight.

No, Galahad had no sympathy for the Roman cause. And once he had his paper in his hand, he would barely waste a moment before he left this miserable island behind.

With such thoughts in mind, he sat watching on the hill with the others on his stallion, Elek (borne of Danica). Unlike his region of Sarmatia, their home in Britain was wooded and hilly, so that even though this hill gave them a commanding view of the area, there still wasn't much to be seen as far as movement on the ground went. That, and it was beginning to grow foggy. Restlessly Galahad tapped the butt of his spear into the ground beside him. Even though none of them were heavily armored, as there wasn't much trouble expected below the wall, as a matter of precaution (and habit) they all had their weapons. At length he stopped tapping it and dug the blunt end into the ground to relieve some of his energy. We've been waiting here for so long… I feel as if I've been on this hill for fifteen years alone.

Finally, however, he heard what he'd been waiting so long to hear, in the form of his brother's voice: "Ah, as promised! The bishop's carriage!"

Galahad quickly looked down below him, and saw a caravan of sorts. Indeed it was a carriage, being led and being followed by Roman cavalrymen with their red cloaks and horse hair. He grinned happily and nodded to one of his fellow knights. "Our freedom, Bors."

"Mmm," the knight smirked back. "I can almost taste it."

"And your passage to Rome, Arthur," Gawain added.

The youngest knight gave a mental start at that. He was so wrapped up in the freedom of the knights and himself that sometimes he forgot that Arthur had just as much to gain from their release. Arthur commanded here because that was his duty, not because this is where he wanted to be. Their leader longed to be in Rome, a place he thought to be near to a heaven on earth, full of just people like himself and his old mentor, the monk Pelagius (whom he loved to quote). And since as of yet no more Sarmatian knights had been recruited to this particular post –

The rest of this thought was lost in the gargled cry of a man, followed by the whinny of a horse. One of the leading Roman soldiers in the caravan had been shot in the torso by an arrow that had suddenly come out of the rising mist.

"Woads!" Tristan immediately deduced as the natives of Britain came pouring out the forest to attack the bishop's carriage. They were long-haired and scantily clothed, all of their exposed skin covered in their blue war paint (this came from a certain dye, which was why they called them Woads). The natives bellowed their battle cries and bounded toward the caravan, showering arrows and unsheathing swords.

Arthur urged his horse to gallop down the hill to the caravan's rescue, and before he followed suit, Galahad was left just enough time to allow the Fear to bubble up within him.

The Fear was something that Galahad had known only in connection to conflict. He had been frightened when he was a child and had a nightmare that seemed real, and he had been afraid when he rode off with the Romans and watched his village sink into the distance, but nothing, absolutely nothing, was like the Fear. It came to him always on the eve of battle, when he saw a flash of blue body paint or heard a war cry in a strange tongue, when he knew, without doubt, without second thought, that he must kill. The Fear would spark and crackle inside him, pinching his throat, reminding him that in a matter of moments he must look another human in the eyes, and make the glint of life inside them go out. He must take the life away from another, the one possession that was most intimate, most solely someone else's, and slice it out with metal he had polished and sharpened with his own hands. Memories of those he'd murdered before would dance in front of his eyes, blurring together to form one accusation, point one giant finger…

But after the Fear, there always came the Rage. He would suddenly recall why he was fighting – not the cause of Rome or the Pope – but that these native warriors had only one intent, and that was to kill them. These people were going to take away the lives and cause pain to his fellow knights, and it was his mission to make sure that didn't happen. The Woads were coming, so what? It was too late now. This was a time for action, a time for metal, a time for blood. And this time, this time it was his freedom at stake. If anything happened to those papers…The Rage would start as a gentle tide in his gut, but then the waves would grow bigger and surge after surge of anger would sweep up and crash against the Fear until it was drowned, swallowed whole in a whirling mass of ire that would abate for no other emotion. Then it would swirl and bubble until it boiled within his chest and within his eyes, an intense fire that added heat and energy to his muscles. As they thundered down the hill, closer and closer to the fray, Galahad gripped his spear grimly just as the Rage was about to explode –

And then came the Calm. The Calm wasn't different from the Rage, but a part of it; it was the peaceful eye of a furious storm. Once in the state of Calm, his senses were heightened – he could see the battlefield with a hawk's vision, could smell the leather and the blood, could hear the splitting of flesh and the twang of a bow, and could feel the tension and excitement of the horse beneath him. Perhaps most importantly, though, as he felt this drain of thought or feeling, as he became this tabula rasa, his action was one with his thinking, and his body wielded itself and his weapons with deadly precision. In the Calm, he was not enacting his training, but simply was his skills, enhanced with the creativity and improvisation that was required of any soldier- any soldier who wished to survive.

The placid wash of the Calm came over Galahad just moments before he skewered a Woad on his spear.

Almost instantly the man was dead, but he fell in such a way that Galahad was not able to extract his weapon. He let it go – efficient. He then whipped out his bow and cocked an arrow, shooting and killing another Woad through the neck, though his horse was still racing along. Elek galloped through the impromptu battlefield as his rider let fly his arrows, and heard the smack of impact and cry of anguish that followed immediately after. If they didn't, he wasn't doing his duty.

When he reached the edge of the melee, he began circling it in order to better pick off his adversaries. Anytime he got a clear shot of a Woad – perhaps he was waiting in the path of a horse to maim it, or maybe he was gloating in the blood of a Roman soldier, or even hiding behind the trees shooting his own arrows – he took it, and they fell. Galahad used his eyes for favorable targets, his instincts for any attack on himself, and his ears for any sound that could warn him of something before either of those could…There! With his keen hearing, a cry came that wasn't British, or Roman.

Gawain!

Galahad quickly turned his steed in the opposite direction and sought his brother. He was over by the bishop's wagon, but a Woad had jumped onto the back of his horse and was trying to unseat him. Galahad had an arrow cocked and ready, but as the knight and the native struggled, he couldn't be sure of his shot. Since he had caught Gawain by surprise, the Woad won and threw him off of his horse. Gawain drew his ax and gripped his mace, ready for the Woad to attack, but he needn't have worried – the Woad hit the ground with a thud, an arrow protruding from his blue body.

Sure that Gawain could now take care of himself on the field, Galahad continued to survey the scene and loose arrows at his chosen marks. As he prowled the perimeter, he heard splashing coming from a nearby stream, and turned to look: Dagonet was coming up out of the water, but a Woad was running at him to block his ascent.

Thud. Another man's lungs filled with blood, drowning him.

Galahad had no sense of time, so he didn't know how long it was until things seemed to be moving more slowly, and the myriad sounds became less distinct. He knew then that the battle was nearly over. Seeing this also, Bors gave a triumphant bellow with only one discernable word in it – Rus. Letting his guard down slightly, he glanced around the field and saw only pockets of resistance left; most Woads were slashed and bleeding on the ground, as were many of the Roman soldiers. Futility of battle set aside, the young knight didn't care much for them, since his own fellows were still standing and healthy. Since his own skills were no longer needed, Galahad did the next practical thing and cantered off with Elek to collect the strayed horses. A few were dead, muscled legs and powerful chests slashed by Woadish warriors, but once riderless, most had been able to escape the battle unscathed.

First he found Sandor, Elek's brother, and Gawain's horse. This stallion was also a dappled grey with a streaked mane. Since Sandor obediently allowed Galahad to take control of his reins, he was easily able lead back to the caravan Bors and Dagonet's horses, as well as a couple of the Romans' steeds. He would have fetched more, but as he made his way to the wagon he noticed that another knight had gone to do the same. It was Tristan.

Galahad didn't know why, but that irked him.

Rationally he knew that Tristan simply had the same idea; he was always practical and logical about everything, and had a way with animals besides. It was natural that he would've gone for the horses. Yet seeing the knight still and calm on his own stallion, shoulder-length dark hair askew but for the couple braids he had scattered in his hair, but otherwise prim and correct made the remnants of his Rage stir a little faster. His comrade's tattooed cheekbones (two small, dark strokes on either side of his face) were splattered with blood, but he carried himself as if it weren't there at all, or as if it were perfectly natural. But mostly it was the way he seemed so unchanged…battle left Galahad with a surplus of nervous energy that made him feel jittery and a bit lightheaded, aftereffects of his Rage and Calm. Not so with Tristan; the way Galahad interpreted it, was that he was always in this constant state of Calm, a sort of grace and tirelessness as if life were a battle, and he needed to observe every detail with the same importance. Maybe a scout had to be that way, Galahad didn't know, but even Bors was breathing heavily after the day's excitement (if one could call it that), yet Tristan looked as if he had been on a morning stroll…with his horse and weapons.

Galahad's reverie was cut short when he noticed Gawain and Bors standing next to the coach, its curtain thrown open. The man inside it, with his ecclesiastical robes inlaid intricately with golden thread, had an arrow wedged into his skull.

A little blood still dribbled sluggishly out of the wound.

Arthur had finished his fighting – all the Woads were either dead or had retreated – so his next priority was the bishop. "Bors," he commanded, as he had not yet reached a point where he could see if the Roman was all right.

Bors pointed and answered wryly, "What a bloody mess."

Concerned, Arthur looked inside, but instead of looking shocked or sad, he looked thoughtful. "That's not the bishop."

"God help us!" came a trembling voice. For the first time, Galahad noticed another Roman, who was neither the 'bishop' nor a soldier. He had short black hair and an absolutely terrified expression on his face. "What are they?" he seemed to ask of no one in particular.

Bors didn't have pity for Romans or Christians – especially cowardly ones. And plus, since it was not the bishop who was dead in the carriage, he was in a considerably lighter mood. "Blue demons who eat Christians alive," he growled, then whirled around and pointed directly into the smaller man's face. "You're not a Christian, are you?" The Roman gasped and as a reflex clasped his hands together and began mumbling incoherently; he seemed to be more frightened by Bors than by the prospect of more Woads. The knight was not finished yet, however. He, too, folded his hands together. "Does this really work?" he queried mockingly, and began mumbling as if he were also praying. Then he stopped and looked up at the sky. "Hm. Nothing. Maybe I'm not doing it right."

Galahad grinned, highly amused by the display, but Arthur had gone back toward the scene of battle, toward the remaining Roman soldiers. Noticing this, the knights followed behind him and unsheathed their weapons out of respect for who seemed to be their leader (and also for possible trouble), but the Romans seemed on their guard against them, though they had helped them in battle. "Stand down," came a voice. Most of the Romans backed away, but one came forward on his horse. He was older, and contrary to common military fashion had facial hair that was streaked with silver, though his large, thick eyebrows remained black. He walked his horse right up to Arthur. "Arthur!" he smiled. It was he who had told the men to stand down. "Arthur Castus, your father's image!" He spoke Latin, but it had a different lilt to it than what the knights were used to hearing. Maybe the Romans in the military had been gone from Rome too long – or had never come from there in the first place. "I haven't seen you since childhood."

"Bishop Germanius, welcome to Britain," greeted their commander with a hint of humor. "I see your military skills are still of use to you. Your device worked." He glanced back at the wagon, where a couple Romans were removing the body of the decoy bishop.

"Ancient tricks," grinned the Bishop, clearly pleased with himself, "of an ancient dog." Then he surveyed the area around the wagon, and caught sight of Arthur's men. "Ah," he said thoughtfully. "And these are the Sarmatian knights we have heard so much of in Rome."

Galahad and the others simply stared back at him from the backs of their own horses, not sure of what to make of a bishop in military uniform. Galahad, for one, didn't like him. There was just something sort of…greasy about him. Slippery.

Seeing that he would get no response, Bishop Germanius dismounted to better converse with Arthur. "I thought the Woads control the north of Hadrian's Wall."

"They do, but they occasionally venture south," he responded as they began walking toward the now empty carriage. "Rome's anticipated withdrawal from Britain has only increased their daring."

"Woads?" came the tremulous voice of the civilian Roman.

"British rebels who hate Rome," Gawain answered with a hint of reproach in his voice.

Galahad did not bother to hide his own disapproval when he added, "Men who want their country back!" Fought against by men who want to go back to their country.

The bishop looked a bit sour at the fact the knights had spoken without being asked to do so, but decided that getting information was more important. "Who leads them?"

"He's called Merlin," Lancelot said. "A dark magician, some say."

The tone of his voice held impatience and a hint of something else, but before the bishop could respond, Arthur averted the trouble and instead got back to immediate business. "Tristan, ride ahead and make sure the road is clear."

Without a word, the scout peeled away from the group and cantered away. Tireless.

Arthur turned back to Bishop Germanius. "Please do not worry, bishop; we will protect you."

"I've no doubt, commander," the clergyman smiled sleekly with one foot already inside the carriage. "No doubt."

The other Roman, whom Galahad figured to be some sort of assistant to the bishop, began to follow him inside. "Dozens don't worry me nearly so much as thousands," he commented to his master before the curtain was drawn in his face.

"Thousands?" Lancelot repeated menacingly. The aide's eyes grew a little wide, and darted from knight to knight, frightened.

Galahad didn't like the look of that.

---

The Sarmatians had escorted the caravan along the road toward the wall, and now that they were quite near the fort (and Tristan had come back to report nothing out of the ordinary), the knights let down their guard and relaxed, trotting side by side. Galahad was still a little edgy, however. He just couldn't get his mind off of the bishop, and the way he had regarded them all, appraising them as if they were a commodity to be sold, or tools to be used. He looked to his right, at Bors, and then further on to Gawain, with whom he was riding abreast. Deciding to share his apprehension, he announced, "I don't like him, this Roman. He's here to discharge us, so why doesn't he just give us our papers?"

Gawain raised his eyebrows and asked wryly, "Is this your happy face?" Bors chuckled and Galahad couldn't help but smile; he knew that he should be joyful that it was almost over, not worrying about whether or not the man about to give them their freedom was a likable fellow. His brother continued, "Galahad, do you still not know the Romans? They don't scratch their asses without holding a ceremony."

"Why don't you just kill him, and discharge yourself after?" Bors suggested playfully.

Though Gawain had cheered him a little, the knight was still seeing the Woads running bloodily across the back of his eyes. He could not yet joke about killing this soon after battle. "I don't kill for pleasure," he told him huffily. Then he felt a presence next to him on his left, and saw that it was Tristan. "Unlike some."

Tristan deigned to look mildly interested in the conversation. "Well, you should try it someday; you might get a taste for it."

Galahad glared (Tristan was really bothering him today), but Gawain laughed. Bors seemed to agree with Tristan. "It's a part of you. It's in your blood."

"No," disagreed the young knight, trying to hold his temper. "No, no, no. As of tomorrow," he said wistfully, "this was all just a bad memory."

Bors made a sarcastic cooing noise in response, but Galahad had already blocked them out and began trotting ahead of all of them. He refused to believe that killing was just something he was born to do. No, no, that wasn't him. That was his job, and had been for years, but that was not who he was. Here, next to the wall, the land was flat and mostly treeless for awhile, allowing room for the vicus, or neighboring village, and grazing for herds. Galahad stared at the view, and thought maybe if he blocked out the trees at the horizon, and imagined that the little houses were of sod and not wood, that maybe, just maybe, he could feel at home again. But even with that, something was wrong…he looked up to the sky and watched the clouds roll fast across it. That was it: the clouds moved too quickly, as if they were rushing away from the small bit of land, as if it were not worth their time. Hastily they came and went whereas in Sarmatia, one could lie on his back all day to watch the clouds slowly roll by, giants pacing the bright blue.

A sharp whistle pierced the air. Galahad jumped and glanced up to see Tristan looking up to the sky and crookedly holding up his left arm. Galahad gazed as well, and saw Isolde, Tristan's hawk, swooping down to meet her tamer, or perhaps comrade might be a better word. His fellow knight's countenance didn't change (it rarely did) but Galahad just felt something sort of…soften. "Where've you been, now?" he asked the bird. "Where've you been?"

"And what will you do, Arthur," came another voice to intrude upon his thoughts, "when you return to your beloved Rome?" Lancelot said it with a teasing lilt to his voice.

Arthur smiled. "Give thanks to God that I survived to see it."

"You and your god," said Lancelot amiably. "You disturb me." Galahad smiled at this.

Arthur ignored the jab at his religion, as he always did when it was done in a playful manner. "I want peace, Lancelot. I've had enough." He paused to regard his friend. "You should visit me." The knight scoffed and looked away, but Arthur didn't let it go. "It's a magnificent place, Rome," he told him, emanating the glow he always did when dreaming about it. "Ordered, civilized, advanced-"

"-a breeding ground of arrogant fools-"

"-the greatest minds of all the land have come together in one sacred place to help make mankind free." Arthur was absolutely beaming.

Lancelot leaned in toward his friend with a raised eyebrow. "And the women?"

Their commander grinned knowingly and the two laughed, feeling carefree now that their tour was nearly over…

Galahad wondered perhaps if he was worrying needlessly.

At length the caravan reached the entrance to the fort, and they all cantered into the compound. The gate closed behind them with a clang and they all dismounted as Bishop Germanius stepped out of the carriage. Jols was there to greet them, and since they had been in battle, the knights were content to trust their steeds to the capable groom and get some rest, unless-

"Bishop, please, my quarters have been made available to you," said Arthur dutifully.

"Ah, yes," responded the clergyman, still wearing the shorts, breastplate, and red cloak of the Roman soldier. "I must rest."

So they wouldn't be getting their papers right away. Rest it was then, and perhaps some time in the bathhouses?

Suddenly Galahad heard a smack. "Where've you been? I've been waiting for you!" Vanora, long auburn hair half-pulled back and flanked by eleven children, was scolding Bors.

"Oh, my little flower, such…passion!" He pulled his lover into a fiery embrace and kissed her deeply.

Dagonet, who was ahead of Gawain, walked by without so much as a glance at the couple, but Gawain grinned and gave his brother behind him a look. Typical Bors and Vanora, these public displays! Galahad smirked back, and then caught up with his older sibling, who motioned for him to do so. "Arthur says that tonight at sundown, we are all to come to the Round Table. The bishop has requested that we meet at that time."

"So then!" said Galahad, relieved that a time for their freedom had actually been set. "What shall we do, our last afternoon as 'servants' of Rome?"

"Utilize the one thing that the Romans have ever done well," answered Lancelot, who also had caught up with them. "Go to the baths."

"Here, here!" agreed Gawain.

Galahad followed the knights to one of the largest buildings in the compound, and, as he entered the tepidarium and began washing away the grime of battle, he was finally able to relax and close his eyes without seeing red blood staining blue skin, or the wide-eyed look of the bishop's aide.