Disclaimer: I do not own any of the character names, save my own original creations. I do not wish to be compensated for this work, nor do I wish to infringe on any copyrights held by any stakeholders of the movie King Arthur. This work is an original creation, based on the legend of King Arthur and his knights.

Scribe Notes:

All: And again the inspiration strikes for this work. Today I was at home with a massive headache that would kill an elephant and it just sprung itself on me. I know I do not update this as often as you would like. Please forgive my gap between chapters.

Calliann: Interesting. You know, since I live in the middle of nowhere I never watched Buffy or Angel or any of those shows. Who was the girl who played Buffy, it wasn't the same girl from the movie was it? We get two TV stations here. That's it. I don't watch much TV at all really. Just a couple of shows (Grey's Anatomy... Patrick Dempsey... ohhhh... CSI Las Vegas... Nick...ohhhh...)

You are right in part of your analysis of who she is, but I won't tell you which part because I think I answered it in this chapter. (wink)

Ailis-70: Memories are important to remember! And I am glad I struck a cord with this! Why did he give it to her? I don't think he knows. You have some great ideas about her, and yes, some are right bang on! Yes they had nurses, and Hospices, but they may not have had those things in a frontier area like Britain. believe it or not, medical care for Roman military was quite advanced for its time! One of hte books I have shows some instruments recovered at Housteads that look really similar to what we use today for some things... like calipers, tongs... speculums... very cool stuff.

It is meant to be hot, sexually charged and romantic to the point of insanity. I hope this chapter provides more fodder for this. I think this chapter sees our Scout thinking about... ohh won't ruin it, go read! Let me know! (wink)

Melosine: Words... words for him are measured in quality, not quantity. So... I hope you get why I did this chapter the way I did (wink). Enjoy, and I hope it was tense enough to continue the escalation of excitement!

Makayla: Thanks! Glad you like it! Here is the next installment for you.

5 - Gesture and Prayer

I can see my gift flashing in the sunlight.

She walks, carrying a load of herbs from the gardens, their stems and leaves bouncing slowly as she swings the arm basket in her stride. Her head is bent, her step light, and she lifts her hand to touch where it sits, biting her lip.

My gift, worn as I hoped it would be. She is intelligent to discover its purpose so quickly.

I like that.

My fingers are twitching to feel the skin where it lays, at the join of her neck and chest, where her pulse would beat. My lips want to taste the softness of that skin. It is enough to make me mount and ride away now, and not wait for the others, and my horse shifts beside me as he sens­es the tension in my body.

My mind has become fuzzy with this desire, what she makes me feel inside. I do not understand what it is I want from her. I still do not understand fully why I left the gift. A trinket long carried in my pocket.

For luck it was used. Now...

I desire her; I know this, yet... I have never craved just for a woman's touch, for a simple em­brace. Nothing before equals this, not even the lust brought on by ale and a loose woman can equal this driving need I feel for her. Brought on at the edge of the pool, and since then, never fully abating.

I yearn to show her who I am, to bring her to me, to mate with her... feel her flesh, taste her...

Hold her.

It must be from her incessant watching, her searching of my mind when our eyes meet. From her blatant baiting of me with apples. Her delicate frame... Images of her body in the pool echo through my head and I blink to escape them. It will do no good to me now to think on such things, yet she has haunted my thoughts day and night since then.

I have had little sleep, and with eventual rest comes dreams, so much more vivid.

I know not how much longer I can keep this charade, waiting for her to come to me. I may bend, and let her win. But in the winning, what would she want? I know not if she would have me. I know she has heard the women talk.

Her eyes, always watching, have spoken of desire. Am I some fantasy that will remain so in her mind until such time she would run from the reality of who I am?

I am an animal to them, and perhaps to her. A killer. I have frightened so many away, I have steeled myself to my solitude for years on end, fully understanding that who I am cannot be changed, and what that means.

This has come with acceptance, and I have relished the quiet and solitude it brings me. I live simply, I look for a good death, I fight, I drink, I breathe. My training has given me this life, my mind has reconciled it, yet for some reason, my heart, long dormant, has roared to life with the yearning for something more.

For the first time in my life, I wish to be other than what I am, even if only briefly, so that I could know her touch. To be other than this monster who fights and kills with no remorse.

This woman, her eyes watching me, has brought this on and I curse her for it.

I look down from my vantage and gather my packs to heft onto my saddle. I ride this afternoon, I cannot be distracted by thoughts of a woman, no matter how haunting she has become to my world, no matter how she tests my patience, will, and control over my desires.

I have followed her, watched her when she found my gift under the apple core, fought the urge to go to her when she found my mark on the wrapping. She recognized it, as I expected she would.

I wonder if she sees me as I lurk, make excuses to be in the same areas as she is. She seems unaware, yet always looking about her, touching the gift, then continuing.

Each night when I find my bed, always an apple waits for me. This game she wants me to play I gladly engage in, and yet... the idea of opening the door and stepping into her rooms when I leave the core is harder to resist with each passing morning. Sometimes I can hear her stirring, her humming, the soft, sweet tune the same as when she was swimming in the pool. I do not recognize it, yet I am lulled by it. To hear her hum that music, soft in my ear...

Just this morning I pressed my hand to her door, wanting to push it open, the wood cold against my palm. Only when the sound of another door further down came to my ears did I turn away.

I blink and shake my head. Madness has consumed me! I bite the inside of my cheek to will calm. I must have control. As I suck slowly on the new wound, tasting the salty tang of blood, I realize that I will not be here this night to find my apple.

She has looked up and has seen me. I sensed her eyes on me, and I meet them, my hand on my packs, stilling as we watch each other across the yard.

Her basket empty, she is returning to the gardens for more. I cannot look away, yet I see her eyes, watching me calmly as turn then to buckle my scabbard across my back. The weight of my sword across my chest draws the sensation to ride, to be away in my bones, and I twitch to be off, gal­loping. She blinks once, and puts her hand to the gift. She grabs it silently, fisting it, and then quickly shuffles away, her head down.

With a growl, I mount up, swinging my leg over my horse with a jerk that makes him jump. I should not take out my frustrations on him and I sit for a moment, calming my jumping muscles, quieting my horse. This is of my own doing, my own mind playing idly with my de­sires.

But I cannot stop it.

She knows I am leaving, and what that might bring. She has seen it so many times before. I find it strange that I would find a reason to worry, as I sit here and wait for the call to ride out. I have never needed to worry anyone other than myself about my fate.

I stare up at the sky, and then around me to the activity of my companions. The day is clear, cool, and ideal for our ride. My hawk will be waiting outside the fort walls, eager to fly.

My horse shifts again, and I look down.

She is standing at his side. I marvel at how I did not sense her approach, lost in my thoughts.

Foam from his mouth tells me he is now chewing on an apple, the sweet smell of its juices waft­ing to my nose. He shakes his head, and small drops of foam and bits of fruit make their way to the ground. I swivel my eyes to her as a hand comes out to his nose, petting softly.

My warhorse, who has crushed skulls with his teeth, caved chests with his hooves, closes an eye and sighs like an old woman at her touch, cocking a hip.

No woman has ever done this before, and I cannot tear my eyes away from her. Again I feel the battle in my body to keep control. Her eyes, her hair, her skin, the flash of the gift at her throat. I drink in every part of her.

She is holding three apples in her other outstretched hand, towards me. Her gaze unwavering, her eyes not blinking. Her hand steady. Her fingers curled around them, the nails dirty from har­vesting herbs in the gardens.

I can see her stance, straight, her shoulders back. She is proud, brave.

I like that.

A jolt of energy runs through me at the thought of her courage, her flaunting by this move in front of other eyes. Before, the game was for us alone, and now...

I can feel other eyes on us, in the centre of the yard, watching, wondering. Who is this woman who has approached the animal? Out of the corner of my eye I see a kitchen woman with her hand on her mouth, her apron up with it. I see others stopped, staring.

Is it so strange that a woman would approach me so? Even the whores do not do so anymore, that has not happened in some time, the gossip of this place causing even them to stay well away from my invitations.

But yet she stands here, with apples outstretched towards me, another move in this game we play with one another.

My horse obviously knows her; he is nuzzling her skirts for more sweets.

She softly shakes the apples at me, stepping closer. I am clenching my reins, watching her lips moistened by her tongue. I am rooted where I sit. Never have we been this close to one another, and mixed with the smell of crunched fruit is her smell. Of herbs, and earth, and...

I breathe in. I want to remember the way she smells. I reach down, and she pushes the apples into my hand, stepping back, her cheeks flushing suddenly to a fresh pink, like a sunset across the sky, slowly deepening as the sun sinks to rest.

A brief touch of our fingers, and I feel burned through my leather gloves.

I heft the apples, now clenched in my own hand much the same way. I bring them to my nose, breathing in their freshness, out eyes still not broken from the gaze we are sharing. Time has not inched forward, and there is no sound except for my horses soft snorting, jingling his bit, and my own heart beating. She had bitten her lip.

I cannot form words. She has not spoken, and out silent stare seems to speak more than they would matter.

She is not afraid of who I am.

A call out to ride makes her look up and away, her hair swinging back and into the breeze, and her eyes dulling, the moment broken. I take this moment to place the apples in my pack, and then turn my horse from her, my legs squeezing his sides.

A welling of energy comes from within my stomach, and I want to bear my teeth in happiness, slap at my horses flanks and gallop off to scream into the trees, out across the land. I have never felt this before, and I am confused at its meaning. I bite back the urge to yell and spur him forward.

One thought repeats itself through my mind, drumming as fast as I wish my horses hooves to do right at this moment.

She is not afraid... She is not afraid of me.

I turn my head one more time as we ride out the gate towards the road, but she is already gone from the yard.

Yet I can feel her eyes on me.

Watching.

For the first time since coming to this place, so many years ago, I do not send my ritual prayer for a good death as I ride out the gates, my horse dancing, eager to gallop, my hawk, already crying out, her own eagerness apparent in her circling above us.

Instead, I send a prayer that I will return to her.

Dear Reader:

Such muddling of the brain our poor scout has! This woman, their game... could he be feeling something he has never felt before? More than passing lust, more than the need for release... more than just to live?

And yet... they have never spoken, and just barely touched. But... She wears his gift, they flirt in this game of apples...

A connection deeper than two humans passing is made with this, and I hope I have portrayed this well. And I sincerely hope you are enjoying the slow burn of this story, for our Scout does nothing that is not measured first. And she does not leap blindly.

So bear with me and revel in the tension! Thank you for your continued reading.

Cardeia