A/N: This fanfic takes place five years into the fifteen. The knights have yet to meet Arthur and some knights have yet to meet the others. Please read and review!

Chapter 1

Lancelot twisted his sword around his shoulder in a swift graceful motion seconds before he christened the blade with the blood of a rebel. He fell without a sound. His body motionless, returning his filthy rags to the dirt that tainted them. Slowly Lancelot stood to his full height, his black armor making muted clangs as he moved. The village was in shambles. Fires had erupted inside or around almost all the mud and straw houses. People, villagers, Roman soldiers, and scattered Sarmatian knights lay dead on the ground. Horses whinnied nervously as they roamed the remains, rider-less. This was the victory of battle.

Pleading from the other side of the camp caused Lancelot's head to turn. There, the familiar red cape and shiny golden helmet of a Roman soldier caught his attention. The soldier's sheath was empty and the point of its occupant was directed at the neck of a villager. She was dressed in rags, not so unlike the other villagers with a white apron that was reminiscent of at least a dozen homemade meals. She had fallen to her knees and had her hands reaching up towards him. Her brown hair was in shambles around her face, and even from where he stood he could see the reflection of tears in her eyes.

Lancelot quickened his pace to a jog with his sword in hand and reached the side of the Roman soldier.

"Sheath your sword in the presence of a lady," Lancelot ordered his own sword at his side.

"She's a rebel," the Roman soldier argued shouldering Lancelot out of the way. Lancelot raised his sword and positioned it at the stomach of the Roman soldier.

"I have no allegiance to Rome. You will sheath your sword or I'll prove where my loyalties lie." The Roman soldier's eyes met his, and there was nothing but determination there. The Roman soldier backed down with one last look at the cowering woman.

"You saved my life, my lord. I don't know how to thank you," the woman said, still on her knees.

Lancelot squatted down so that he could meet the woman's eyes with his own. "Leave this land while you can." The woman, her cheeks still damp with tears, held her next words with confidence.

"There is no land that Rome holds no ground to." Lancelot eyed the woman curiously but said nothing more.

"Lancelot!" Lancelot turned and looked in the direction the call of his name was coming from. He recognized Gawain's figure. Lancelot turned back to the woman briefly before standing up and heading towards Gawain. As he got closer, Lancelot felt himself fill with dread. He sheathed his sword and quickened his pace to a run. Gawain was looking down over the fallen body of a Sarmatian soldier, Toltheon.

Toltheon had been one of Lancelot's closest friends. He was from a small village about twenty-five miles from his own village. No one understood Lancelot like Toltheon had. Now his shoulder length strawberry hair framed his face. Black fuzz decorated his chin even after having shaved earlier that morning. His eyes stood staring at the vast blue sky. His intimidating black armor almost masked the sword wound that kept him pinned to the ground.

Lancelot allowed his eyes to follow Toltheon's. A hawk flew across the sky. Lancelot watched it in admiration. It had such freedom. A loud whistle suddenly pierced the sky and Lancelot watched how the hawk circled for a moment, as if undecided, before traveling down the earth and landing on the arm of another Sarmatian soldier. Choice. Next to freedom, choice was the next source of envy. Lancelot's eyes fell back onto his fallen friend sorry that he never had a chance to fight a battle unconnected with Rome.

"Help me raise him to a horse," Lancelot said to Gawain. Gawain nodded and went off to find Lancelot's horse. Lancelot brought himself of his knee and stood over his friend, half wishing he now had the freedom that Toltheon had in death, but at the same time not wanting to follow Roman orders that have continuously darkened the Sarmatian culture as it had for hundreds of years.

Gawain returned in short time, Lancelot's horse in hand. Lancelot mounted as Gawain picked up Tholtheon and sat him up in the saddle in front of Lancelot. Looking at the pair together, Tholtheon almost looked alive.

"Tell Panador I'm riding ahead," Lancelot said referring to the leader of the knights as he kicked the sides of his horse.

"Ride swift, my friend," Gawain called as Lancelot took off. "Ride swift."