Roll call. Breakfast. Training. Sparring. Supper. Patrols. Dinner. War Studies. Freedom (if only for a little while). Sleep.
Day after day. Night after night. Week after week. And now, month after month. The constant grind of it is enough to make any man cagey and just downright stir crazy. It had not been like this at most forts further south and even on the mainland of the empire. Those from these outposts had always been allowed some measure of apathetic autonomy, their previous responsibilities only to kill or be killed. Survival of the fittest proved the case for most of them. Training for "the barbarian cavalry" was either outright ignored or barely even touched upon, almost all the various knights' previous Roman commanders finding them barely above contempt or simply too much trouble to even bother to deal with. Hence, the lack of organization meant that many of the younger knights had yet to be involved in any sort of real combat, while the older ones grew increasingly distrustful and defiant for lack of any sort of attention. Apparently discipline, while theoretically held in high regard by these Romans, fell by the wayside in practice. And they wondered why those whispers of the dying empire seemed only too true to believe.
However, life at Aelia Citadel had proven quite to the contrary, with her commander Constinian proving just as curious as well. This one was no ordinary Roman captain, who usually proved either too overwhelmed and preoccupied or too condescending to care. He demanded respect, deference, discipline and most importantly, loyalty. From his Romans and his Sarmatians. Law was carried out to letter, deference given to no one who dared to break it. Education was held in high regard, every enlisted man required to read and write Latin. It proved rather contrary the usual concept of apathetic discontent with the fact the foreigners knew rarely knew anything of the language of the empire, save what they picked up via various orders and formations in training. Even more odd proved his lack of regard to their religion.
If there was one thing these supercilious Romans always prided themselves on, it was the infinite superiority of their rigorously applied Christianity. The Lord proved the one and only savior. Those who did not believe it so were damned, their souls forfeited to the Devil and his minions, along with all false idols, pagan gods, and archaic rituals. Or so the various priests, monks, nuns and other clergy were apt to tell you at your old outpost, sometimes on a daily basis. But this commander allowed an uneasy peace between the religions of his Roman brethren, the Britons, Sarmatians, and even far Easterners who traded within his citadel. Of course, Mass was held on a daily basis, high Christian holidays kept to the letter, clergy scattered throughout the fort. But everyone knew the unspoken regard given to the pagan Britons. Of how on their seasonal holidays some shops remained closed, some of the less life-threatening duties left unattended to. Of how the noise of the drums and bonfires and the wild calls of the frenzied dancers in the forests outside the citadel drifted on late into the night, even as the legionnaires grumbled about infernal racket of the damned barbarians they were enlisted to protect, here at the border between the civilized and primitive world. Some said it was the result of the unholy influence of the Commander's pagan, Briton-born wife, the Witch from the Orcades. Others blamed it on his supposedly addled brain, of how he had "gone soft" in the winter years of his long life. But as far as anyone could remember, since he had become Legatus Legionis of this fort, the oddly held peace had been in effect. No one had so far proven brave (or brainless) enough to question it. So it was and would continue to be. And thus in the same way Constinian's oddly unspoken edict of religious peace continued, so would remain his demands of discipline and other such foreign concepts of duty. Hence, even when absolutely nothing is going on, the schedule remains the same.
Roll call. Breakfast. Training. Sparring. Supper. Patrols. Dinner. War Studies. Freedom (if only for a little while). Sleep.
Which is how the knights found themselves in this rather tiring but static situation seven months in; winter has yet to bring even one Woad attack, while the Hibernian Irish from the island to the east have apparently seen fit to retreat for the season. Combine such idleness with plenty of time to mull on the prospects of serving what seems a lifetime here, it proves no surprise the seeds of discontent are beginning to grow.
Roll call. Breakfast. Training. Sparring. Supper. Patrols. Dinner. War Studies. Freedom (if only for a little while). Sleep.
It proves enough to drive any man mad.
"You'd prove quite the threat if only you'd speed up…"
"Shut it, old man!"
"Old man? I think you're older than me by a bit yes? Sixteen seasons…"
"Quit yer babbling and fight, you blaggart!"
"See? Quite a bit of bite…" the Artorius pants, ducking at the last minute from the wide arc mad by Bors' left hand as he swings his knuckledusters. "If you were faster, that would have proven quite deadly," he continues, sidestepping Bors and swinging his sword through the air in a rather graceful arc, then deftly swinging it around behind him and whacking his opponent on the back with the flat of it. This causes Bors to gasp and stumble. Artorius should follow it up with another blow, but he steps back, allowing the other knight to collect himself. The crowd gathered around the rails of the practice ring (as is usual for the last day of the week when the knights abandon use of the practice swords and use of their own weapons) murmurs, all wondering why the captain doesn't just finish it.
"Now he's just showing off, the dirty Roman dog," Lancelot spits as he leans on the rails that surround the ring.
"Maybe if you proved a little more accurate, you could've won the previous match!" Leonius replies, causing Maeve to snicker. "Then you'd be the one facing your slow little friend there," he continues. Both the children, along with Vanora, are in their usual spot on the other side of the ring. Leonius and Maeve are precariously balanced on the third rung, while Vanora remains on the ground (for she has grown within the last few months, finding she no longer needs the height of height of the rails to see), Galahad on one side and Lancelot on the other. The children, waiting with water and aid and other supplies in case anything should go wrong, watch the match in fascination, a few of the younger knights also hanging about.
"Watch your mouth, boy," Lancelot snorts.
"Like I've ever have before," Leonius retorts.
"How about you shut up!"
"How about you follow your own advice?"
"Dim-witted child," Lancelot sneers.
"Worthless knight," Leonius sneers back.
"Both of you need to shut it!" Vanora retorts, spinning around and shooting them a look that immediately causes both their mouths to snap shut.
"By the Goddess, if you're able to do that now with only twelve seasons to you, you'll be a holy horror when you're grown," Maeve snorts.
"Good," Vanora replies with a flick of her hair. "Can't let these knights get away with everything. Besides," she continues, voice going soft, "Bors ain't that bad. He's good enough, yeah. Just a bit slow. He's got heart, though," she sighs. "You can't deny that…"
"Oh, wonderful," Leonius interrupts. "Lords and Ladies, we have a new love," he continues, rolling his eyes.
"B-but, I thought you worshipped me, my Lady of the Red Tresses!" Galahad replies in mock confusion. "You've only shadowed my every step for the almost a year or so," he implores, a silly grin coming to his face as he takes Vanora's hand into his, bringing it to his lips and kissing it. "What ever have I done to fall out your graces?" She rolls her eyes, yanking her hand out of his, though there are the beginnings of a grin on her face.
"A while ago, I would've found myself speechless at your grace. Now, it proves nothing," she replies. "But don't worry, love. You're still a rather ravishing beauty of a boy" she says with a grin. "But you're a little, well, too striking. You've fourteen seasons to you and you're still prettier than me, which is no hard feat, may I remind you" she replies, exaggeratedly fluttering her lashes, brown eyes flashing.
"I am insulted," Galahad sighs with mock anguish. "You've broken my heart, my fire-headed love!"
"You'll get over it, at least until some other charming beauty crosses your path," she replies, biting back her laugher.
"But they say the first heartbreak burns the most," Galahad replies with a smirk. "Whatever shall I do?"
"Time heals all wounds," Vanora says. Suddenly, she grabs Galahad by the head and pulls him towards her, planting a sloppy kiss on his forehead, causing Leonius and Maeve to laugh aloud.
"A parting gift of the rose-haired lady. I am complete," Galahad mutters as he forcefully wipes his forehead, which only causes them to laugh louder.
"Well, at least it means she'll stop following us around," Lancelot grumbles.
"Thank the gods," Galahad groans, though his eyes sparkle with mischief.
"Shut-up, you," Vanora smiles. "And at least Bors doesn't cheat, like this one,' she snaps, face suddenly going serious as she nods over at Lancelot.
"If you weren't a woman, I'd challenge you to combat right here and right now," he snaps back.
"And if you weren't the most uncoordinated fighter I've ever laid eyes on, I'd accept. Except I don't want to be accused of premeditated murder…"
"Sod off," he retorts.
"Learn how to not get your pretty little tail kicked in the ring, then maybe you can start giving out commands," she smirks.
"How about everyone get a hold of themselves?" a familiar amused voice calls out, causing them all turn around.
"Cai, sir," Galahad replies with a nod, coming to stand at attention for his superior. Lancelot begrudgingly follows suit without a word.
"At ease," Cai retorts with a casual wave of his hand. "Galahad, glad to find you in good health. We were a little worried after that spill you took from your horse during the patrol about a fortnight ago."
"'Twas a mere scratch," the young knight replies, cheeks reddening.
"You sure weren't howling like it was a 'mere scratch.'"
"I was surprised more than anything…"
"Eh, don't fret. You could've broken a rib. Or worse. We don't think any less of you," Cai replies with an easy smile in his usual manner, immediately putting the young knight at true ease. Tossing back his dark red cloak with a bit of flair, Cai leans on the rails, taking a position in between Leonius and Maeve.
"So, did I miss anything?"
"Nah, except Lancelot getting his soundly beaten. He's quick, but no accuracy," Leonius sighs, causing Lancelot to toss him a look of unmitigated annoyance. Leonius ignores him, continuing, "And Bors looks like he'll be on the same loosing end as well…"
"He ain't that bad!" Vanora protests, even as Bors stumbles again, his balance not helped by the slickness of the ground as a result of the fine layer of yesterday's dirty snow covering it.
"Yeah, but he's yet to show his quality," Leonius shrugs.
"That so?" Cai replies with a laugh.
"Aye."
"I need to look out, seeing as you may be taking my job in a few years."
"No need for worry," Leonius shrugs again. "I prefer to be master of my own destiny…"
"All-knowing and cheeky too? 'Tis a wonder anyone puts up with you!"
"You don't know the half of it," Maeve sighs, causing Cai to let out a guffaw of laughter. "Ooh!" he suddenly says as Artorius stands over Bors, his sword point to the other knight's neck.
"I guess he was right," Galahad intones. "Good show…"
"Typical," Lancelot spits. "Must he always win?"
"Considering he's scads better 'n you, yeah," Vanora counters. Lancelot doesn't bother to retort, letting out a grumble as he steps through the space between the rungs and enters the ring. By this time, Artorius is in retreat, his victory decisive. Ignoring his captain, Lancelot steps around him, going to Bors' side and holding out an arm of assistance. Shrugging his shoulders at the other knight's reaction, Artorius makes his way over to Cai.
"Cai," he says, giving a nod of respect, Cai returning it as Galahad arches an eyebrow.
"Well then, if you'll excuse me, I think I have…things to do…" Galahad suddenly says evenly. "Cai, Artorius," he continues, giving the usual Roman salute. Turning away from them, a bright smile comes to his face as he says goodbye to Vanora. "My Lady of the Red Tresses," he says, giving a slight bow. "'Tis ashame it did not work out between us," he continues, a look of exaggerated dismay on his face. "Perhaps when we find ourselves less indisposed, eh?"
"Perhaps," she replies.
"Ah, hope is renewed. Until then, may I in the meantime?" he says offering her arm, which she takes with a loud, disbelieving guffaw. As they traipse off in the opposite direction, Leonius suppresses a laugh.
"Those two are so damned silly," Maeve groans as she deftly slides off the rails and begins gathering up various supplies.
"Language, young lady," Cai teases.
"What the hell do you mean by 'language?'" she snorts in reply.
"And we wonder why you're such a pain in the arse," Cai laughs. "Artorius," he says to the young captain as he approaches.
"Cai, my friend," he replies, quickly taking off his helmet and handing over to Leonius who eagerly begins to inspect it. "Young man," Artorius says quietly, "You think you can take that over to your father? It looks as though I may have been on the receiving end of quite a few blows to head…"
"Of course, m'lord," Leonius says eagerly, taking the coins the young captain hands him. Quickly counting them, he gives the extra ones back, causing Artorius to refuse them, raising his hands in surrender.
"For your troubles," he says with an unexpected grin, causing both the children's eyes to go wide at this unanticipated benevolence.
"Aye, sir!" Leonius says with a wide smile, slipping Maeve a few of the coins, causing her to give an excited whoop before she blushes deeply and remembers her manners.
"What, you expect any less?" Artorius says with mock sadness.
"They just weren't expecting so much," Cai says with a laugh, slapping Artorius on the shoulder. "Are you sure your brains haven't been addled by those blows to head, my young lord?"
"I am insulted," the captain replies with mock annoyance.
"Eh, well, be off with you before he changes his mind," Cai says, still laughing as he waves off the children. They give each of the men a nod of respect before they run off, heading in the direction of smithy.
"Ah, to be a young little churl again," Cai smiles with a nod of his head, removing his own helmet in the unseasonably warm sun. While snow litters the ground in various areas, the sun is still out, directly overhead at this noon hour. "I miss the days where one's biggest concern was what time the next meal is and how many toys one can snatch from the unsuspecting child sitting next to them…"
"Frankly, I don't miss it much," Artorius retorts with a shrug.
"No?"
"No. Having a bit more control over one's surroundings and no longer being at the mercy of, well, everything has its privileges."
"I forget, you had to grow up a bit before your time," Cai replies after a while, voice becoming serious.
"Not really," Artorius replies. "'Tis no more tragedy than in anyone else's life. Not to mention I was never quite as immature as you," he says with smirk even he ducks out of the way of Cai's smack.
"Impertinent boy!" Cai retorts. "No matter. Now, what's on your mind?"
"Pardon?"
"Don't you try to run circles around me, young captain. You've been distracted these last few days and I want to know what's up. You even missed dinner last night, and God knows your scrawny self can't afford to miss any meals, especially considering you've got more growing to do, being only sixteen seasons and all…"
"Fine, fine," Artorius replies with a resigned sigh. "'Tis only…well…"
"The men have not taken to you and you're worried that they may slit your throat in your own bed?" Cai finishes for him with an easy shrug, causing Artorius to start at the fact that his friend seems able to read his mind. He's still surprised at the fact that Cai knows him so well after only seven months of being stationed here at the citadel. In fact, he could truthfully say that the older soldier has become one of his closest and most trusted men, there always for him and at his back, ready to support him before he even knows his help is needed. But such musings are better left for a later time.
"Well, not quite as harsh, but, ah, yes, for the most part," replies Artorius.
"Don't concern yourself over it. They'll come around. They've yet to have any major battles, so they won't realize all the monotonous training is not to kill them, but rather surprisingly, to save their lives. Besides, you need a little bit of a challenge and a bit of hazing never hurt anyone, especially you up on that high horse of yours." Artorius arches an eyebrow in disbelief, causing Cai to laugh. "Please, lad," the older soldier continues. "Everyone here knows how seriously you take everything. You need to loosen up sometimes. That's the problem the men have with you. And then some…"
"But there are rules. Precedent. Traditions…"
"And none of 'em will save your arse when you're facing down an angry Woad with a dagger to your neck or an arrow aiming at your heart. Sometimes, you just have to go on instinct, which you don't have yet on account of your lack of experience. Now enough of this talk. I'm famished and I'm sure you are as well."
"Putting it that way, I am," Artorius replies steadily, choosing to drop the subject at hand for a later time. Spinning on his heal, he immediately heads towards the officers' quarters, Cai following suit. When they reach the dinning hall, they are met as per usual by a preoccupied Ectorian. Not bothering to look up from the scroll he's reading, Ectorian waves over the two soldiers, signaling supper is ready. Eagerly digging into the meal, both soldiers begin excitedly talking of the afternoon's coming lesson in strategy and warfare as will be taught by Constinian. As they chatter on, their previous conversation is slowly forgotten, at least for awhile.
"What a bloody mess," Bors grumbles as he gets to his feet, using Lancelot's arm as leverage to moves to get his balance. By now, most of the spectators of the previous skirmish are beginning to scatter, no doubt with other things to attend to now that the spectacle is over
"Must you say that about everything?" Lancelot counters.
"Well, when you get yer arse handed to you on a golden platter, we'll see what you say. Oh right, that already happened!" Bors grits. "He made a fool of me, that one," he nods in Artorius' direction.
"Like he does with us all," Lancelot intones, stealing a glance over to the other side of the ring. Galahad is taking Vanora's arm and walking away while Artorius pulls off his helmet, handing it to the eager little boy, the little girl looking on. After a while, the children run off, leaving Cai and Artorius deep in conversation, ignoring everything else around them.
"Eh, well at least we're done…" Bors says, sliding off his knuckledusters and stepping through the gate of the ring.
"You've got to move faster, like me. You're too damned slow," Lancelot counters following him.
"You sound just like 'im." Bors retorts as they leave, causing Lancelot to scowl but remain quiet. Pushing their way through the crowd, they start the relatively long trek to the barracks.
Walking in relative silence, they finally reach them after a while, the large stone building on the back northwest side of the citadel unmistakable in its use due to its massive size; three stories high, it houses just the Sarmatians, while the barracks located right next to them house various native Celtic soldiers, Romanized for some generations since the empire conquered Britannia some four hundred or so years ago. Other Roman soldiers from the mainland are housed in the building next to that one, with the officers' quarters being the last building in the row of four. The entire living area, while not gated off, is obvious in its being separated from other parts of the citadel. With each building having its own dinning hall and food storages, armory, Roman baths and stable, it proves almost its own little town, self-sufficient and independent for the more civilian parts of the fort.
"By the gods, I'm knackered!" Bors exclaims blinking against the dim, dust filled light as they approach the entrance, the heavy wooden doors on each side of the stone archway thrown open. Few other knights are around, most having gone off to dinner and other duties. Bors flops down onto his bed, facedown, effectively shutting out the rest of the world.
"You oughtta practice you know," Lancelot says, still standing and looming over Bors.
"Fascinating comin' from someone who's had his arse handed to him every single time he's in the ring," Bors mutters, turning over to lie on his back. Staring at the ceiling, he doesn't bother to look in Lancelot's direction as he continues. "You know, maybe if you weren't so flashy with the sword twirling and such and but some more force into it all, you would be quite so sad in the ring. He's always able to disarm of it you pretty quick. Heh, maybe you should carry two, mate. It'll at least make the matches longer," Bors snorts.
"Why in the hell would I do that! Besides, at least I've got some semblance of style about the whole thing," Lancelot sniffs, attempting to sound casual, though his dark eyes flash with irritation. "It makes for a good show…"
"Show doesn't mean a rut when some Woad's got his sword through yer neck," Bors spits.
"Her sword," Lancelot counters. "I hear even their women fight."
"So?" Bors shrugs. "It's still all the same. Same crazed native trying to kill ya. Just because she's well, a She, doesn't mean she's less likely to lop yer head off. You know that."
"I don't have any sisters, thank you very much."
"You unfortunate thing," Bors clucks. "Well I do," he snickers. "Four of 'em. Older. And women can get just as damned dangerous as anything. Worse too, 'cause they're sneaky as hell."
"Someone's got a low opinion of the weaker sex..."
"Weaker my arse!" Bors guffaws, suddenly sitting up. "They're just…I don't know, different I guess. Smart, in their own way."
"Being more intelligent than you isn't exactly difficult," Lancelot says with a derisive laugh, though he swiftly moves out of hitting range away from the bed.
"Shut your yap," Bors growls. "If I wasn't so damned tired, I'll whack you somethin' good."
"I'll do it to you both if you don't shut-up!" a rather spiteful voice to their right says, causing them both to immediately fall quiet, save for Bors.
"Pellinore," he groans, rolling his eyes, though he makes sure say it as softly as possible. In the meantime, Lancelot is fidgeting, looking this and that for a way out.
"Stop being suck a scared old woman!" Bors mutters, though he gets up from his bed and begins making his way out the room.
"Well, well, what do we have here?" a rather large, dark haired knight says, swaggering up to them, light green eyes glittering dangerously despite the dim light. "A couple of fallen warriors, eh? Get yer bums beaten again by that little snot nosed brat?" he sneers, following it up with a mirthless laugh.
"You've yet to beat 'im, at least through any fair means…" Bors begins, but not before Pellinore has come to a stop right in front of him.
"And what do you have to say about that, worm?" Pellinore retorts, tilting his head as though he didn't hear Bors the first time. Bors quickly swallows, eyes shifting over to Lancelot, who's standing behind Pellinore and hasn't been noticed yet. Lancelot emphatically shakes his head "no" while making a cutting motion with his finger across his throat. He then holds his hands up in surrender and gestures towards to the door. Bors looks at him, confused for a bit. Suddenly, he rolls his eyes and lets out a loud sigh, shrugging his shoulders. He hasn't got time for this. Who the hell does Pellinore think he is? Granted, the older knight does stand a full head taller him. And weighs quite a bit more. And he's pretty fast with that dagger currently sheathed in his belt. Not to mention his temper isn't the most stable, worse in many ways then even Agravaine's. At least Agravaine knows the difference between right and wrong, whereas morals for this one don't seem to exist. But still…
"Look, Pellinore," he huffs, hoping to all the gods that his evident exasperation is doing enough to cover up the tight coil of fear slowly unwinding itself in his stomach. After all, this man has already put six of his own fellow knights in the infirmary at one time or another, one even for just looking at him the wrong way. "Yeah, I lost, alright?" Bors continues. Pellinore silently laughs, mouth twisting into a rather ugly sneer, distorting his normally handsome face (Funny how the meanest ones always have the supposed best looks, Bors thinks without warning. Well, the gods do love to play their tricks). "But at least I did it fair and square…" he continues. Pellinore suddenly stops laughing.
"You saying I'm a cheat, mate?" he intones calmly, though his eyes are wide and burning with malevolence, his hands clenching at where he holds them at his sides.
"You hear only what you wanna hear," Bors retorts calmly, though his mouth is as dry as sawdust.
"That right?" Pellinore retorts after a while, demeanor suddenly changing to a far more friendly one. That's the other problem, Bors thinks. The massive swings in mood.
"Well, sir, I'm glad you think so," the big knight continues, taking a seat on Bors' bed without so much as a leave to do so. Bors grits his teeth at move; if there's one thing in the world he hates the most. it's other people in his bed (save a woman of course. He'd never deny them the gift of that). They smell up and wrinkle the sheets, pound up the already lumpy pallet, steal his pillows and generally muck about, fouling everything up. Add to that, his bed is one of the few things around the place he can call his own, anyone ever found so much as breathing hard in the general vicinity of it is very apt to find their well-being forfeit. However, in this case, he makes an exception, biting his tongue and choosing not to bring up the particularly touchy subject. The big knight is still within striking distance in any case, so Bors simply leans back against the wall, relaxing a bit. Lancelot is still attempting to make his way to the exit as stealthily as possible. Well that won't do.
"Lancelot here thinks it as well," Bors continues, nodding in the direction of the other knight. If looks could kill, Bors would be struck dead on the floor judging by the glare of unfettered malice Lancelot's giving him. Bors arches an eyebrow at him, giving the most innocent smile he can muster up in response.
"Well I'm glad of that. Also glad to see he wasn't planning to leave without giving his greetings," Pellinore scoffs. "That would be rude. And we wouldn't want to be thought of as rude, would we, Lancelot?" he continues, again not bothering to turn around to directly address the other knight.
"I…was simply off to the tavern. Quite famished you see," the young knight quickly says, all but scurrying back to stand at the foot of Bors bed. Glaring again at Bors, who simply shrugs his shoulders in bored response, he continues, "It's just that it's been quite a while since I…"
"Ate?" Pellinore retorts. "As though your fat arse needs it." Lancelot rolls his eyes at Bors, who's silently laughing at the absurdity of it. Everyone and their mother can see that Lancelot is one of the slimmest of all of them, outside of maybe Galahad and Urien, one of the younger native Caledonians in the corresponding Roman legion that sometimes trains with them.
"So Artorius has beaten you both? One right after another? Such a same really." Pellinore says, quickly changing the subject.
"What's done is done," Bors shrugs.
"Oh, I disagree," Pellinore snorts. "I say it's high time that the little git be taught a lesson in the art of real warfare."
"By the Gods, if only," Lancelot adds.
"Come again?" Bors questions, something about this whole thing not sitting right with him.
"If you think I'm not fought 'honorably' as you've called it before, you've yet to see anything," Pellinore snorts, getting up from the bed. "It's been seven months and methinks that little Artorius' head proves a bit too big for his helmet, 'tis all," he continues.
"Can't argue with that," Lancelot mutters.
"Actually, you can," Bors retorts. "It's just practice, no need to take it seriously…"
"Says the one who always loses," Pellinore snarls.
"Show me your victory and then we can talk," Bors counters, not even caring about Pellinore's instability at this point.
"Careful what you wish for," Pellinore retorts. "I don't face 'im until the end of next week. Let's just say that after I'm done with 'im, he won't be fighting for a good while."
"You're insane," Bors snorts. "And I'll believe it when I see it," he continues.
"You're dangerously close to a trip to the infirmary," Pellinore tosses out, moving towards Bors, who takes a step back.
"I'd like to see you try," Bors retorts, hand flying to his dagger.
"Hello, what have we here?" a cheery voice calls out from the entrance to the sleeping quarters. Dagonet comes in followed by Agravaine, carrying his usual look of exasperation. Bors quickly takes a seat on the bed, looking casual, while Pellinore spins on his heel, heading towards them, an exaggerated smile on his face. He may be a tyrant to the younger knights, but he knows better than to cross the older, more experienced ones. He's a lot of things, but stupid has yet to prove one of them.
"Dagonet, Agravaine," he nods to them. Dagonet nods back in reply, while Agravaine all but ignores him. They've never liked each other; while Pellinore does his best to hide it, Agravaine, in his usual attitude of not caring of what anyone thinks, doesn't bother to conceal his contempt.
"Just on my way to dinner," Pellinore continues.
"Oh really?" Dagonet says, voice still cheery, though his eyes narrow. He looks beyond Pellinore to Bors and Lancelot, who look back at him and shrug their shoulders. They aren't going to say a word.
"Enjoy it then," Dagonet continues with a sigh. No need to start anything now. It's been a long morning and they still have the afternoon patrol. He needs all the energy he can get. Pellinore nods and heads out the door, stopping only to look back and give Bors and Lancelot a rather malicious smile.
"He's goddamned dangerous, I tell you," Agravaine sniffs after a while, heading over to his bed and watching the other two knights as they quickly leave. "Liable to kill his own men."
"Nothing we can do about for now," Dagonet counters.
"Oh, we could do something about it. No one's willing go that route," Agravaine retorts, taking his dagger out and preparing to sharpen it against the whetstone on the tabletop next to his bed.
"We need more time. Who knows, maybe he can be trained to direct such viciousness into other things, like the enemy…"
"Dogs can be trained. That one," Agravaine snorts gesturing towards the exit with his dagger, "Needs to be put down. Most likely permanently."
"Give it time," Dagonet says thoughtfully after a while. "What's the worst he can do?"
"Why don't you at least take a god-damned swing at me, you arrogant little cur!" the burly man screams at Artorius, chest heaving with frustration and breath coming out in hot snorts against the freezing air as he attempts to circle him. Artorius prevents him from doing so, jumping from foot to foot and never letting him out his sight, stony green eyes flitting over him as he attempts to pinpoint his opponent's weakness. He may have found it, judging by the crazed look in the eyes of his adversary. And today, he must be especially careful; it is the last day of the week again, so they use their own weapons. Utilization of real ones, while advantageous overall, drastically increases the potential for deadly accidents. And Artorius has no need for any more "accidents." Quickly shifting his weight to his other side and digging his foot in to ensure he doesn't slip in the wet snow, he still holds his sword in the guard in the offensive, even as the taller, heavier man rushes at him, weapon swinging around in chaotic but forceful arcs. However, the young captain easily sidesteps him as he charges him again. Artorius does have an opening to swing around behind himself and hit his challenger on the back, but he refuses, simply allowing the other man to crash headlong into the rails that surround practice circle where they skirmish.
"Does our young captain find himself too honorable to even raise his sword!" the older opponent sneers as he gets to his feet. Grabbing his hand where the splinters and sharp pieces of the broken rail have caused cuts of various sizes, he can already feel the wetness of blood trickling down his tanned skin, the brilliant red drops of it sizzling as they hit the snow. Touching his bloodied hand to his head, he also feels the warm liquid already beginning to trickle down his temple. Darting his tongue out the side of his mouth, he tastes his own blood, the result of a split lip from dashing into the rails.
"You might want to get that looked at, my lord…" Maeve says, seeing the nasty cuts from her usual vantage point of standing on the third rung of the practice circle.
"Shut-up, girl," the older knight snaps, the unadulterated malice in his voice startling her and causing her scramble back off the rails, the only thing keeping her from falling completely off of them is Leonius quickly grabbing her by the shoulder. The older knight laughs at her scramble as he sucks in his bottom lip, finally licking away the last of the blood in an exaggerated motion.
"Maybe I like the taste of it, eh?" he continues, whipping around to face her, face contorted in a mask of barely concealed ire as he brings his hand to mouth, sucking the blood away from that as well. "Maybe the taste of human blood is the only thing that feeds the lust, yeah?" he continues.
"M-maybe," she stutters.
"Maybe, if a certain little girl doesn't keep her mouth to herself," he retorts, still licking at his hand, "A certain little knight might enjoy the taste of her blood, wot?"
"I-I don't know," she stutters in barely contained horror.
"Think on it, then, my little empress," he smirks, taking one last lick at the wound on his hand and spitting out the splinters from it. "Think on it long and hard, especially as you sleep in your little bed and the shadows of your dark little room move and sway, you not knowing whether they're simply tricks of the light or…something else.
She's at a complete loss for words, the color draining from her face as she fearfully bites her lip in an attempt to keep some semblance of sanity. Pulling her dark red cloak tighter around her, she shivers, though not from the cold.
"I thought so," he scoffs, now licking the inside of his hand where another injury apparently is. "Yeah, so just keep your little platitudes to yourself, cur," he laughs manically.
"Maybe a certain little knight should try winning the match for once, Pellinore!" Leonius sighs, rolling his eyes and hauling Maeve up closer to him.
"The boy should watch his mouth!" Pellinore replies, eyes narrowing in anger.
"The boy should watch his captain," Leonius retorts. "Maybe he'd be able to see when he's coming up strike, rather than crashing into the rails like some blind old wench!"
Pellinore's at a loss for words, though his chest heaves with anger. "I should beat you with the flat of my sword," he sneers after a while. "The whole lot of you," he mutters, suddenly turning his attention back to the action at hand.
As he stalks away, Leonius playfully shoves Maeve away from him, though the look on his little face is serious as he takes in her grey skin and wide eyes.
"Forget 'em," he says. "Everyone knows he's all bluster and no bark, though…wow!" he suddenly snorts derisively. "That was a cheap shot if I ever saw one."
Artorius is on his knees, gasping for air. His sword is still in one hand, though his other hand is around his middle as Pellinore reels his leg back for another kick. Where in the hell is Lot! the young commander thinks quickly as he instinctively braces for the inevitable. This is the 3rd time in as many weeks that Pellinore has bested him using unholy means that apparently no one else sees. Jols! he thinks just as he feels the boot connect with his shin, gritting his teeth to hold back the yell of pain. It would only encourage him.
Suddenly Pellinore's hand comes into his line of vision. "Come now, captain. Let me help you up!" the he jeers. Artorius refuses to hold out his hand or accept his opponent's in the phony assistance. But it makes no difference, as Pellinore roughly grabs him by the shoulders and drags him to his feet.
"And no one is doing anything because…?" Maeve mumbles, voice finally coming back to her.
"Because Pellinore's back to them and we're on the other side of the stall. They can't see. Or hear it over their own noise."
"Pellinore, titim gan éirí ort!" she mutters in reply.
"What?"
"May he fall without rising!" she spits.
"Ah, Gaelic curses. Superb," Leonius sniffs. "I see you are not in the best of moods then."
"You really think so?" she snaps, just as Pellinore strikes his captain's back with the flat of his sword, a painful sounding snap echoing in the air. Even though Artorius proves further away from them, they both wince at the exhalation of pain that comes from his mouth as he all but doubles over, matching the groans of the crowd. Then swiftly, without warning, the young captain is up, whipping around, his sword clanging against Pellinore's. The other knight attempts to unblock the move and use his strength to push him back, but fails as Artorius unlocks his sword, snaking it around so that comes within millimeters of Pellinore's chest. But at the last moment, he slashes down, using the flat of his sword to strike Pellinore first across his stomach and then the side of this his thigh. Hitting a nerve and causing his leg to spasm, Pellinore's forced to fall to his knees as Artorius is rewarded with a yelp of pain. He then backs away, casually twirling his sword through the air in a lone arc as he allows his opponent due course to collect himself. But Pellinore is still on his knees, cursing and panting as he fights the pain in his thigh. Pointing his sword into the ground, he leans his weight on it in a vain attempt to get to his feet.
"A little aid here, mate?" he implores through gritted teeth after a while.
"You've all the help you need," Artorius replies evenly. "I'll allow you to recover, as would be the respectable thing. Though in an authentic sort of skirmish against the Woads, your opponent would save such mercies…"
"Must you always shove it in our faces!" Pellinore replies harshly, his words only audible to his opponent due to the noise of the surrounding crowd. "The fact that you are so much better than the lot of us, damned Roman pig!"
"Pardon?" Artorius replies, arching an eyebrow in confusion.
"You heard me, you son of a whore!"
"I'll take that as an outburst of anger, rather than outright insubordination as most captains would," Artorius replies steadily, though the corner of his mouth twitches. "No offense is taken…"
"Naturally. Leave it to our dear captain to show mercy!"
"Why? Do you expect any less? Such is your due…"
"From the Roman bastard? Of course, dear friend. You're all so self righteous, one would think mercy is beyond you…"
"Well," Artorius interrupts. "I am sorry that you should think it so. I truly have your, as well as the rest of my men's interest at heart…no matter how much most of you try to deny it."
"What are they saying?" Maeve says, leaning over the rail in an attempt to get wind of the conversation.
"Don't know," Leonius replies, grabbing her cloak and pulling her back so that she does not topple over.
"Why does he not strike!" Maeve replies impatiently. "He could end it now…"
"Not the captain's style," Leonius replies with a nod. "You know how close he holds his honor. And not all of us are as vicious as you, you little imp."
"I still say he could end it now, 'specially with a bit of serious injury," she pouts, crossing her arms in disappointment, which only causes her friend to let out a loud guffaw.
"So you truly think of us as equals?" Pellinore continues, voice softening. "Is that so?"
"Aye. 'Tis so," Artorius replies.
"Well," he pants, "A bit of aid, then?"
Artorius stares at the other knight, eyes narrowing in suspicion. But what's the point? The knight obviously finds himself in a bad way and it's a waste of time to let him sit there. He could wait him out and allow him to yield, but it looks like the stubborn git plans on doing no such thing. Besides, they both need the practice anyway. Setting aside his misgivings, he moves towards the other knight, holding out his arm in assistance.
Without warning, Pellinore's hand snakes out, yanking his captain's hand so fiercely that it causes him to stumble forward, so that even as Pellinore gets to his feet, Artorius is still slipping, trying to dig his boots into the snow. But it is to no avail, for Pellinore whips his sword around, slicing at his captain's back in a treacherous move of combat. The only thing that saves Artorius is the fact he's wearing the usual cuirass over chain mail. However, the force of the blow knocks the wind out of his lungs, causing him to pitch forward. Suddenly, Pellinore is in front of him. The last thing the young captain distinctly remembers is seeing the butt of his opponent's sword heading for his head followed by the clang of metal reverberating off of his helmet. His vision suddenly explodes in a burst of flashing white brilliance, the pain slicing through his head like some lightening bolt of agony. And then it goes black, the dull, shocked roar of the crowd fading from his ears.
"By all that is unworthy!" Leonius yells, attempting to slip through the rails and get to the center of ring as Artorius hits the ground.
"Holy hell!" Maeve replies in Gaelic as she attempts the same. But they are both held back, a meaty hand on each of their shoulders, the Roman soldier giving them a nod of warning.
"No place for youngins," he snorts, dark eyes narrowing in derision as he easily jumps the rails of the gate and is immediately at Artorius' side. He's at once followed by a younger, slimmer, black haired Roman soldier. From the other side of the ring speedily come Tristan, Dagonet and Agravaine, the latter threatening for everyone to make way or else.
"Where in the hell were you?" Agravaine sneers to the younger Roman soldier, shoving him away from Artorius, even as the Roman cradles his captain's head in his arms. "By the fires of your hell, are you not his page! Shouldn't you be at his side at all times!" he all but shrieks.
"Peace, Agravaine," Tristan intones, hands already unclasping Artorius' helmet, tossing it to the side into the snow. "Cador was getting help. This thing was already escalating beyond anyone's control," he continues. "Much thanks, Cador," he finishes with a nod.
"Y-yes," Cador replies, rapidly blinking his dark blue eyes to hold back his tears.
"Has Jols arrived? Maybe you should fetch him, yeah?" Tristan replies, the uncharacteristic sound of sympathy in his voice as he glances over at Cador. The page has only fourteen seasons to him. No need to get him even more addled. Seeing his captain in this state would do him no good.
"Go on ahead, Cador," the other Roman soldier nods.
"S-sounds right, Amhar," Cador replies, addressing the other Roman. "Sir…" he nods to Tristan.
"No need to call me sir. Go fetch Jols," Tristan replies, the urgency in his voice making itself evident. Cador bounds out of the ring, on the lookout in the crowd as Dagonet kneels by Artorius side, lightly smacking him on his face to get him to his senses. The young captain isn't completely out, but it's obvious he's disoriented, the activity going on about him not registering in his mind.
"C'mon, you ponce!" Agravaine hisses, worry in his voice. "It's gotta take a lot more than what that bastard's doled out to knock your empty block off!"
"Aye," the other Amhar replies. "Don't go disappointing us."
"I'd say he'll be fine," Dagonet replies, voice blithe though he bites his lip with worry.
"mphmImfine…finewhatsgoingonwhat?" Artorius slurs.
"Just a little knock about the head," Dagonet replies, forcing a grin to his face. "Rather cheap shot, eh?" he says. Looking across the ring, he sees Pellinore standing against the rails, surrounded by a few other knights, who are openly laughing, though many of the older ones look on in disapproval. Narrowing his eyes in what can only be described as bloody murder, he turns his attention back to his captain.
"I-I'll heal…" Artorius continues
"Don't go showing any heroics," Agravaine blusters. "The gods only know that you infernal Romans aren't capable of it," he continues, trying to remain casual.
"Same for you knights," Amhar replies, smacking Agravaine on the back of head for show as the knight picks up Artorius' sword.
"Think you can get to your feet?" Tristan questions, hauling his captain up even as he speaks.
"Should…should be fine," Artorius slurs, struggling to his feet, supported by Amhar on one side with Tristan on the other.
"Just a short distance to the rails," Agravaine says, attempting to sound nonchalant as he leads them away. "I think you should be able to handle it."
"Yes…I will," comes the reply.
"Next time you might to want to give us all a decent show!" Pellinore abruptly calls out, an ugly smirk on his face as he leans against the rails in the other side of the ring. "What a shame, wasting all of these good people's time!"
Unexpectedly, Artorius stands up straight, his former pain seeming temporarily forgotten as the noise of the crowd simmers down. Still supported by Amhar and Tristan, he turns around to face his opponent, slowly making his way over until he stands a short distance from him.
"I yield," he intones. His face is calm but for the tint of his green eyes, murky but burning with some renewed fire.
"Of course ya do," Pellinore smirks, his own light green eyes dark with malice.
"There really is no point to it," Artorius continues calmly, shifting his weight and withdrawing from Amhar's grasp. "Agravaine? My sword, please." The knight hands it over without delay.
"My surrender," Artorius intones, holding out his sword in usual sign of submission.
"You don't say?" the other knight snorts. He ignores the proper gesture of his captain, refusing to officially end the duel and take the sword, his head held up in defiance and pride. With a snarl, Agravaine makes ready to draw his dagger at the open show of disrespect, but Dagonet stops him, trapping his wrist in a vice-like grip. "There will be other times," he murmurs, the caution in his voice and the look of warning from Tristan immediately causing Agravaine to go still. Artorius simply shrugs his shoulders, tossing the sword at Pellinore's feet.
"Of course," the captain replies easily, though his lips are pressed together in barely concealed irritation. He turns his back to his opponent, holding onto Amhar and Tristan for support again. They make their way over to the other side of the ring, Artorius doing his best to maintain his balance and hide his limp, ignoring the pain of the ever-widening bruise on his shin and the way his head swims every time he attempts to take a step. "There is no point when your opponent proves completely unwilling to play worthily," he continues deliberately as they walk away, loud enough so that the crowd hears, causing a ripple of murmurs to pass through them. "I have no time for such disgrace. Enjoy your win, by whatever methods it was gained," he finishes, none of them bothering to stop walking except for Agravaine, who turns around and goes back for his captain's sword.
"Artorius may be unwise and forgiving, but you deserve no such regards," he hisses just loud enough for Pellinore to hear as he collects the weapon.
"Does that prove a threat, cur?" the other knight chuckles, though he finds he involuntarily takes a step back.
"'Tis but a promise, love. We shall see."
The rest of the party reaches the other side of the ring. Dagonet swings open the gate as Agravaine sprints to catch up, growling at the crowd and pushing his way through them to clear a path.
"Now that," Leonius begins with a fiendish grin as he hops off the rungs of the gate, taking Maeve by the hand and pulling her down with him, "is pretty damned cold."
"I must say, considering how many hits he took, the captain handled it rather well," she replies, eyes now wide with genuine admiration. "I would've killed him."
"You bloodthirsty little thing," Leonius chuckles as he pulls his heavy green cloak tighter about him. "C'mon. Captain's probably going to head to the infirmary. You'll most likely have to attend to him."
"Always more lessons," she sighs, following him.
"Well, you're the one who wants to be a healer."
"Come now, straggler!" she retorts, waving for him to catch up.
"Fine, fine," he replies. "Looks like it'll snow again tonight," he says to no one in particular, looking up at the dark grey sky. "At the very least a bit of sleet."
"Wonderful," she replies with a grin. She's always loved snow. The only problem is when it hits the ground and becomes disgusting and dirty to the point where one can no longer play in it.
They make their way to the infirmary as the rest of the crowd disperses, oddly silent at the scene that's taken place. Save a few knights who amble around, Pellinore's left standing in the ring alone, suddenly left with only his murderous thoughts of wounded pride to keep him company.