Arelenne moaned slightly as she woke, the heat of the fire warming her face unpleasantly. There was a stinging pain on her face and a pool of blood on the earth where she lay, and she remembered in a rush that which she had caused.
"Arthur," she murmured in quiet repentance, hoping against hope that her captain had not gone into the wild north.
There were Woads around her, closer and more in number than she had ever seen before. The youth bit her lip to keep from crying out, for the panic rose in her throat more quickly than she could keep it.
A painted face turned toward her, and belatedly she shut her eyes and feigned sleep. The charade was over however, as a rough hand took her by her long blonde hair and raised her to a sitting position.
Rapid words were exchanged between the Woads, what sounded like an argument breaking out among them. From what little Arelenne knew of their language, she figured that they were deciding if they should ransom her or just kill her outright.
More heated words followed until one of the larger savages thrust a wicked knife into the earth. He whispered menacingly to the Woad who held Arelenne, and the other held up his hands in defeat.
Laughing, the large savage took Arelenne from him and held her face very close to the campfire, so close that the knight could feel her eyes heat even as she shut them.
A knife pressed against her throat and she knew then, without a doubt, that she was going to die.
The youth bit her lip til it bled, swearing that she would not cry out. She was a knight of Sarmatia to the end, and she would not give these beasts the satisfaction of hearing her scream. The knife dug into her throat, blood pooling and hissing as it dripped into the fire. A slow death, a painful death, a death unfitting that of a warrior. Arelenne braced himself for the swift cut that would end her life.
It never came.
For from the darkness and mist came a sight that she'd never thought she'd see again; Artorius Castus, striding towards her like some warrior God of old. He was backlit by the campfires and twisted in holy anger, his long sword cleaving a wide arc through the Woads that came to stop him.
The large Woad that had been holding Arelenne dropped her abruptly, stooping to get a great axe from the ground. He met Arthur's charge as the captain leapt over the flames, not giving a single inch of ground.
Sword and axe met again and again, steel resounding loudly throughout the forest. Arelenne rolled backwards to avoid being crushed underfoot, and though her hands were tied she struggled to sit up, to help, to do something.
It was a terrible, deadly dance that the Woad and her captain performed, and when Arthur received a stinging cut across his left arm, Arelenne feared the worst.
"Arthur," she cried out, as the man fell to one knee.
The Woad raised his axe above his head in a sweeping arc, the chants of his fellows rising around him like a fevered drum. It came crashing down as Arthur threw himself to the side, leaping up from the ground and cutting the Woad across his exposed chest.
Blood spurted from the wound and Arthur bared his teeth, wolf like in the dancing flame. It was in this moment that Arelenne at last saw what the other knights had seen days before he was a man and not a boy, tall and strong a true warrior who would not let his comrade fall.
Thus he brought his blade up and through the Woad, bracing his leg against his chest to remove the half buried sword. Arthur crouched low and braced himself, holding his sword at the ready.
The other Woads were furious at their champion's death, and thus advanced all at once against him, ignoring Arelenne who still lay tied on the ground.
They fell upon him like animals on the hunt, a cut blossoming on Arthur's cheek and blood flowing free from his leg, but still he fought against the savages. Woads bit and hissed and spat, thrusting their spears into any part of him that they could see. A lesser man would've left Lancelot to die long ago, but Arthur would have none of it.
He fought to his knight's side, leaving a swath of littered bodies in his wake. "Lancelot," he cried, cutting her bonds with a swift stroke. "Take up your sword!"
And Arelenne, freed at last, spurred into action and took up a blade from a fallen Woad. She pressed her back against Arthur's and guarded his flank, ever watchful of the treachery of the forest folk. Her forehead flamed but still he pressed on, ignoring all that existed but sword and man, all other sounds falling dimly into the night.
They fought like this, just the two of them, for what seemed an age. Arelenne thought all was lost, surrounded by Woads and fighting at Arthur's side, and realized there were far worse ends that she could think of.
Dying alongside an honorable man, she thought.
Then light shone brightly upon them, the flicker of torches held high basking their faces, and the sounds of a battle coming to their ears.
It was Dagonet that came, striding tall with his broadsword and the rest of the knights, and together they pushed back the Woads. Finally their ranks thinned, and only when he saw them flee did Arthur fall to one knee, the multitude of wounds draining his strength.
"How do you fare, Arelenne t?" he asked, when the knight quickly grasped his arm.
"I have not been greatly injured," whispered the blonde, unusual tears filled her eyes. "I did not mean for this to happen."
But Arthur did not reply for he slipped into darkness, and Dagonet and Bors came to take him from Arelenne's arms. Gawain pulled the young knight gently to her feet, not meeting her eyes.
"I did not mean for this to happen," said Arelenne again, sick with shame.
"It matters not," called Dagonet sternly from up ahead. "You are both alive and you will mend; save your apologies for when he wakes."
His manner was rough but his words were not unkind, and Arelenne was grateful for them. Her head bowed low, she trailed behind the other knights as they rode swiftly back to camp.