All the old knives that have rusted in my back, I drive in yours.

-Phaedrus, Thrace of Macedonia, 15 B.C. – AD 50

He rolls over with a yawn, wincing as he glances out the window next to his bed. Seeing that it's still completely dark and that snow is falling just as hard as it was last night, he sighs, dropping back down into the warmth of the blankets and closing his eyes.

"Early to bed and early to rise," Cai had warned him the night before when he and Bedivere stumbled in from the tavern. Bedivere simply giggled in return, his customary stoicism completely destroyed in the face of the numerous tankards of cider. Artorius struggled to hold the taller, heavier soldier up, biting his lip and holding back his own laughter. By God, he was drunk. Didn't that prove a sin of some sort? To hell with it.

"Of course," Artorius replied with a nod, his head swimming from the motion. Cai simply chuckled in return, spinning around the young commander and sending him off in the direction of his rooms. "You'll be in a terrible way come morning," he warned with a snort, causing Artorius to simply nod in reply. He stumbled off to his quarters, but not before shoving Bedivere into his own lodgings down across the hall.

As per usual, Cai had proven right. Yet again.

Mumbling to himself and ignoring the steady knock at his door, Artorius turns over and attempts to bury himself in his blankets. It does nothing to stop the increasingly loud knocking at his door. "By all that is holy and pure, Go away!" he groans. In all of his sixteen seasons, he's never felt so much throbbing pain rushing through his head as he does now.

"Forgive me, m'lord Artorius," comes the resolute reply of his squire, who has let himself in anyway, along with two of the serving women.

"Sir," the older one says lightly with a nod, placing the bowl of fresh water on the table and motioning for the other one to place the tray of food beside it. The young girl does so, giving a nod of respect and leaving after reigniting the dying embers in the fireplace. "Will you need anything else, sir?" the serving woman says as Artorius turns over to face them. "Perhaps something for…your situation, yeah?" Is that a smirk on her face?

"Something for this hangover, perchance?" the young captain grits out.

"Aye sir," she replies, producing a vial of liquid from the pockets of her apron as she and his squire exchange knowing looks. "Just use all of this in your drink. The pain should subside in a bit," she replies, voice becoming slightly more sympathetic. "May I fetch anything else?"

"No," he grunts. "'Tis all. Many thanks."

"Of course, my lord," she says, bowing her head. Turning on her heel, she disappears out of the room.

"And how did you get the key to the room?" Artorius snorts, watching as his squire sets it on the table.

"I've got my methods," he replies with grin.

"And does the whole citadel know that I am in a bad way after last knight, Cador?" Artorius growls, sitting up and watching as his squire dumps the contents of the vial into his drink

"No, Artorius," Cador replies with a smirk, handing him the goblet. "I just figured as much when I saw you were not in when I went finally turned in for the night. Not to mention Cai pointed it out it in passing this morning. I had to make sure you would be up, right and ready to go for the drills in the courtyard…"

"Wonderful," Artorius replies with a moan, knocking back the entire contents of the goblet. Wincing at the taste of the stuff, he sets it back on the table and gets up from bed, testing his ankle. It's been a little more than a month and it seems almost healed, save for a slight twinge of pain as he rests his full weight on it. He lets out a mild gasp of surprise as his feet make contact with the cold stones of the floor, groaning again as he finally stands up. Quickly washing his face and hands with the water from the bowl, he struggles to slip into his under tunic and pull on his leather riding trousers over his breeches, Cador moving to hand him his chain mail, cuirass and the rest of his armor.

"Please, not yet," Artorius begs off, waving away the squire as he settles in at the table and starts to eat. Cador simply shrugs, sitting down next his lord, readjusting his position in the chair so that his sits with a leg folded under himself.

"We've only a few minutes before they're expecting you, Artorius. We must be down at half-way past the 5th hour…" he begins.

"Oh really?" Artorius replies archly, raising an eyebrow in disbelief as his eyes flit over him. Of course Cador would all ready be completely dressed, armor shining and in place, entirely prepared to report at any moment's notice. It still completely baffles him how his own page always proves better prepared for every situation than he is.

"Well…more like an hour," Cador smirks, dark blue eyes twinkling in the dim light from the candles placed about in the room as he filches a bit of bread from the tray, taking a large bite of it. "But you need to have enough time for the remedy to settle in," he continues, mouth full. "Especially considering today is the monthly review of the unit."

"Christ!" Artorius groans. Of all the days to be in such a state, he had to pick the morning the Legatus Legionis, Constinian, will actually be there. This would not go well at all, especially considering part of his troops have proven far too close to mutiny. Their overt disregard his or anyone else's (but especially his) authority has been going on for four months now. Nothing seems to curtail it, from the cut rations, to the endless drills, to the revoking of various privileges. It is as though the ringleaders of the whole plot are impervious to such things, their resolution creating division. Lot wished to flog the whole group of them a few weeks back. But Artorius refused to give his consent, believing such things were unnecessary at this point…or any other. He thought the harsh winter months would tone it down, if only because staying out the courtyard for such long periods of time during various punishments held the threat of them catching cold and even dying from the sickness. "I'll not have my men flogged," he reiterated to the Praefectus Castrorum. He swore he heard Lot mutter something about "Rutting martyr," as he stalked away but he wasn't close enough to be sure.

Artorius gives a sigh of defeat as the thinks on what he will do to quell the men's apparently arbitrary objections to him. As he takes another bite into the warm bread and tears off a piece of the tender honeyed ham, he's somewhat guiltily comforted by the fact that not sharing the barracks with them does sometimes have its up side.

As commander of the new unit of knights, Artorius had been immediately told of his right to his own quarters. At first he turned it down. But Bedivere quickly reassured him of its benefits; he would be sharing the private quarters with he, Cai and Cai's his father Ectorian. It allowed Artorius time away from the various distractions of life in the more shabby side of the camp. It also let him to focus on his studies of strategy and government under Ectorian, who's loyally served rather exceptionally under Uther. Not to mention, it resulted in unforeseen outcome of the old soldier becoming a foster-father of sorts. And no one could have asked for a better foster-brother than the ever-cheery yet exceedingly competent Cai. Then, there was the fact that they had run of the larders, their own rooms, a squire each at their beck and call, and various servants to ensure the running of the household (Ectorian's wife had died long ago, leaving her Keeper of the House, Lavinia, in charge. She was an elderly if austere woman, her deep brown eyes constantly narrowed in concentration, her attention always focused on ensuring her employers could keep their own focus on their "silly war games," as she called it, rather than the mundane tasks that came with keeping a home). At first, Artorius proved entirely uncomfortable with living away from his men. Frankly, the concept of it still bothered him, his ideals of equality and fraternity among them constantly nagging at back of his mind. But Constinian carefully told him of the real issue, as after all these years he still could not condone such distance from his own troops either; however if Artorius did not move into the officers' quarters, the other Romans would not trust him, for he would be viewed as becoming too familiar with the men. Such a thing could breed ridiculous rumors that he proved loyal to only himself and his men, rather than the glory of the empire. Hence, in the end, he was indirectly forced to move into the rather comfortable residences.

So here now he sits, alone in his quarters, save his squire, who always seems to follow him like a shadow on the wind despite his constant efforts to shoo him away. "…which is why you'll need to be dressed and ready, Artorius," he hears Cador suddenly finish, bringing him out of his thoughts.

"Cador?" he asks after a while, thoughts turning back to the present.

"Aye, m'lord?"

"I think I've run out of the number of times I've said that you need not call me by 'm'lord' or 'Artorius.' Simply call me by my first name, 'Lucius,' like the rest of the family does."

"But…"

"By all that is holy, we've known each other since birth almost. We're cousins for god-sakes!"

"That may be, but I am still your squire. Besides, I owe you my life."

"You would have done the same for me on the road here…"

"Aye. But I did not, whereas you did."

"Well…" Artorius thinks. That had proved true. On the road to the citadel, most of the way through the long trip, there had been the unexpected attack on the caravan by the Woads. Luckily no one was killed. But Cador had almost been trampled by his horse when the poor animal had taken an arrow, knocking his rider off his saddle in the midst of its rather horrifying death throes. Arthur had slid from his own horse in a panic, instinctively yanking his cousin by his collar from under the thrashing animal. That's when he felt the fiery sting of the barbed arrow as it grazed it his wrist, dangerously close to the artery and landing in the spot where Cador's head been only a few seconds before. Cador had looked up at him, eyes wide in shock, through the rest of his face remained oddly blank. It was quite contrary to the look of fear etched onto Artorius' face. As the Roman soldiers sent their own arrows of death into the bushes into the direction of where the attack had come from, the two could hear the terrifying yells of the other knights (all of whom remained on horseback despite the frenzied scene around them) as they chased after the Woads. That day, both men pledged an oath to themselves: Artorius swore to learn the infinitely superior horsemanship of the men under his charge, while Cador swore to protect his cousin's life as though it were his own. It was the least he could do. And it would finally prove a worthy way to pay back all that Uther had done for them after he had taken their family in. Once Cador's father found himself too injured to carry on life as a career soldier at the wall, none of his family had ever wanted for anything under his brother Uther's watch. Just as Artorius would never want for anything under his current watch.

"Still," Artorius continues. "'Tis odd that you call me by such a formal name." Cador shrugs nonchalantly as he gets up from his chair.

"You wouldn't want to be accused of favoritism," he easily replies as he begins preparing pieces of his captain's armor. "So I will continue to refer you in such a formal manner."

"Fine," Artorius replies with a sigh, finishing off the last of his breakfast. "How can one with just fourteen seasons be so damned stubborn?" he mutters, causing Cador to give a self-satisfied smirk. "Just…don't do it when we have no audience," the captain continues, louder this time. "It's curious," he finishes as Cador nods distractedly, helping Artorius into his mail and then his cuirass, setting his bracers and greaves on the table.

"Whatever you say," Cador replies. "You know, some of this so-called stubbornness may come in handy when dealing with that defiant lot this morning," he retorts.

"We'll need more than that," Artorius counters, suddenly groaning as the cuirass causes the mail to shift against some of his old bruises despite his under tunic.

"Sometimes I wished you just would have them flogged already..." Cador says, noticing the grunt of pain

"What, so they step it up to attempting to murder me rather than the usual method of injury? Very good idea."

"You and your infernal patience. Oh well, let us pray that the review goes off without too many disasters."

"It's all in God's hand now," Artorius mutters as he finishes dressing. Cador hands him his cloak, ensuring his captain is protected against the cold of snow on this dark morning. The squire then double checks that his own armor is properly clasped an in place, Artorius double checking as well. Leaving the room, with Cador trailing his slightly limping form as per usual, Artorius makes his way down to the courtyard, various prayers of deliverance running through his head.

"This is going to be disastrous," Agravaine mutters out the side of his mouth as he takes in the scene of the knights ambling about aimlessly before him. Calogrenant nods in reply, wiping the specks of snow out his blonde hair. The rather massive knight nervously shifts his weight from one foot to the other as the rest of the company mills around in the courtyard. "Lord Artorius will be down in a few minutes and bastards haven't even made any move to even attempt to take up their positions," Agravaine continues exasperatedly. "Have they no respect?"

"Funny, I would've though the same of you, what with all the insane muttering and you seemed to be doing on the road here," Calogrenant replies. His tone is polite, even a little giddy as he continues fidgeting back and forth, toying with handle of his spear and straightening his collar. By now, Agravaine has become used to the large knight's constant anxious little twitches. If pressed, he'd even say they were strangely charming in their own oddly jittery way. But he's in no mood to be charming right now.

"You know nothing of me," Agravaine replies, edge in his voice.

"Then why do you defend the captain so much?"

"He is a man of honor, 'tis all," Agravaine counters with a shrug, voice still hard as his pale gray eyes narrow. "He's done nothing wrong and has never sought to impose his beliefs or the culture of his Roman dogs upon us. He goes out of his way to ensure we have the best of supplies, sometimes even better than his Roman brethren. And he's yet to have any of this sorry lot flogged. All he asks is that we trust and remain loyal to him. And yet, they still continue to mock him!" The steadily increasing anger in his voice surprises even him.

"What do you expect of them?" Calogrenant counters. "They've been made to serve a debt that's not even theirs…"

"That's beside the point," Agravaine sneers. "Do you think Artorius wishes to be here?" he says, suddenly whipping around to face Calogrenant. "You've seen him pouring over his scrolls or writing down his stories and such when he thinks no one is looking. He's a scholar, not a warrior," he continues with a nod, voice rising. "You can see it in those serious eyes of his. He's rather be home or in Ravenna, in front of a roaring fire, reading over some of the archaic philosophical ramblings of his people while he's being attended to by a pretty Roman wife, with their gaggle of boring, ever-so-pious children running around his feet."

"You really think it so?" Calogrenant says, swallowing slowly and becoming alarmed by the increasingly frenzied sound of his friend's voice.

"Hmph. I know," Agravaine replies scornfully. "He contains no soldierly streak of cruelty, no? There's no tell-tale gleam of insanity in his eye as he lives to see us suffer! He only does it out of duty to his dead father. Just as we should," Agravaine counters, voice almost to a yell. "But no. Instead, we act like some pathetic assortment of damned whiny women! Refusing to follow orders, causing trouble, and generally invoking the shame of our ancestors!" By now he's shouting, causing a few of the knights milling about to stop and look at him, a mixture of curiosity and fear on their faces. He's never exactly been considered one of the more stable knights. And this sudden outburst is certainly doing nothing to change that.

"You heard me!" Agravaine continues, waving his spear in his building rage, causing even Calogrenant to take a few steps back. "You're all an insult to your ancestors!" he shouts, face turning red, sweat beading on his brow. "Shame and curses upon you all! Wretches! Miscreants! Scoundrels!"

"That's enough, Agravaine," the one called Pellinore says, suddenly stepping in front of the knight. Seeing the green eyed, dark haired man in front of him, Agravaine swiftly goes quiet, though his eyes narrow even more. Giving him a once over, he suddenly throws back his head and lets out a cackle of contempt, his crazed laughter echoing in the dark, causing Calogrenant to back away even more as some of the other knights gather around the scene brewing in front of them.

"And why should I heed you, you cur?" Agravaine spits. "You're the ringleader of this whole thing…"

"You need to watch your mouth…" Pellinore replies with a sneer, his hand immediately going to the blade of his dagger, his other hand curling into a fist. He's only slightly taller than the lanky Agravaine, but still quite a bit heavier. But that doesn't seem to stop the other knight. He suddenly tenses, subtly shifting his weight as though he's preparing himself to pounce, a cat effortlessly toying with his prey.

"Or what? You'll sick these weaklings on me to do your bidding as you do with Artorius?" he continues.

"Shut-up!"

"Can't face the truth, eh, Pells?"

"Your mouth is going to be the death of you…" There's the distinct sound of metal scratching on metal as Pellinore lightly flicks the top of his dagger out of its sheath.

"Particularly heady words coming from you. Is Lancelot around as well?" Agravaine retorts, looking around. "The gods know you don't have enough brains on your own to carry out such a threat, so you'll call on your other minions…"

"I swear by the gods, I'll end you!"

"Shocking, such words coming from a coward."

Without warning, Pellinore suddenly lashes out, his balled fist flying towards Agravaine's face, his other hand bringing up the dagger to strike. But it never gets there, for Agravaine's easily ducks the swing as his hand swiftly snatches Pellinore's arm, applying pressure to a point in his wrist that causes his hand to involuntarily jerk and open, dropping his dagger. In the meantime, Agravaine's other hand holds his own dagger, which has managed to mysteriously make its way out of its sheath and is now pointing at the other knight's belly.

"You had better be glad," Agravaine's grits out between clenched teeth as he applies increasing pressure to Pellinore's wrist. "That your hand," he continues, applying further pressure, causing Pellinore to begin to sweat. "Did not connect," he goes on, suddenly jerking back the younger knight's hand in the opposite direction to his wrist, causing him to gasp in pain. "With my rather pretty face…stay back!" he suddenly yells at Lancelot, who's been attempting to sneak up on the side of them. Pushing the dagger so that it now most definitely pokes into Pellinore's stomach, causing the knight to whimper in further alarm, a wicked leer comes to Agravaine's face.

"You wouldn't want my hand to slip, would ye?" he says, voice suddenly dropping to a dangerous growl. Lancelot blanches, hands in the air in surrender as he slowly backs up.

"That's enough, Agravaine," Calogrenant whispers. "Please…"

"Come now, Calogrenant. Don't go soft on me now," Agravaine replies calmly, though he still retains his increasingly murderous hold on Pellinore.

"C'mon then. He gets it…"

"No, no, he does not. Some of us are more hard-headed than others."

"It's just not…the most fair of positions to be in…"

"Who say anything about fair, Calogrenant? After all, if life were fair, none of us would be here right now, would we?" Agravaine retorts, voice rising to a shrill yell, causing the circle of knights surrounding them to suddenly take multiple steps back. Calogrenant does the same, head dropping in defeat.

"Now," Agravaine says, voice suddenly dropping to a dead calm, his attention going back to the knight he holds captive. "Where were we? Oh yes," he continues as though suddenly remembering. "My pretty face, right? Now, again," he says, applying renewed pressure on the captive knight's hand as he pushes it back further towards his wrist, causing Pellinore to let out another louder exhalation of pain. "You are rather lucky you didn't strike me. Or else, I'd be forced to cut off your hand right here. Instead," he grits out. "I shall be merciful. Isn't that what the Romans and their lovely Christianity teach us? The wonder and compassion of Mercy and her angels? Pellinore, why don't you speak up?"

"Y-yes! Mercy! They t-tell of mercy! M-mercy?" Pellinore stutters out, breath coming out in short bursts at the pain of his hand slowly being forced back to his wrist and the fact that the dagger point of his opponent is dangerously close to slicing through his skin.

"Aye, my lamb. Mercy. So you see, I won't cut off your hand," Agravaine replies evenly, letting off a little of the pressure. "Shouldn't you thank me?"

"Thank you!"

"I can't quite hear you…"

"T-thank you, m'lord Agravaine!"

"Ah, thank you, Pellinore, for allowing me to show the good people here the concept of mercy. I shall stay true to my word and not cut off your hand. Too much blood you see. Contrary to popular belief, I'm not quite the rumored savage that some of you speak of. I contain the sacred virtue of mercy after all, yes? However…"

Suddenly Pellinore's screams rip through the air. But they are not loud enough to cover out the sound of the sickening crack that fills it as well as Agravaine savagely shoves back Pellinore's hand completely, effectively breaking the knight's wrist in one horrendously smooth move.

"I do not forget, Pells," Agravaine continues, backing away as Pellinore falls to his knees, still screaming as he grabs his flopping hand. Most of the knights rush to his aid, save a few of the older ones who cling to the edges of the fray. "Just as you shall never forget, Pellinore," Agravaine continues coolly, sheathing his dagger. "Everyday that your precious sword-hand is bound up and you find yourself unable to participate in the little skirmishes in the practice ring that you use to attack your captain," he goes on. "You shall never forget the one who showed you the same mercy, done unto you just as you do unto him!"

"As for the rest of you," the young knight continues to the rest of the crowd. "I have things to do, so this drill and review had better go off without one bloody damned hitch! Or I swear, the same fate will befall the lot of you." A murmur of agreement flies through the crowd as Agravaine walks away.

"You're mad!" Lancelot mutters as he shoves pass Agravaine, trying to make his way to Pellinore, who still kneels crumbled on the ground, his screams beginning to turn into pitiful whimpers.

"And you're fortunate I don't do the same you right here and right now," Agravaine retorts, snatching up Lancelot by the collar and all but dragging him off his feet. "As I said," he continues. "Should anything go wrong with the drills or review today on account of you and your lot purposely fouling it up in an attempt to undermine Artorius, thus resulting in punishment for the whole company, the same fate will befall you. I swear it on my dead ancestors."

"So that's the way it's gonna be, eh?" Lancelot sneers.

"That's the way it shall be," Agravaine sneers back, though he sets Lancelot back on his feet. Suddenly the older knight leans over, grabbing Lancelot by the collar again and whispering into his ear, "Your friendship in the beginning of this whole nightmare was truly a gift. And I thought you'd be better than the rest of 'em," Agravaine murmurs, voice suddenly full of disappointment. "You should be the best knight here, young pup," he continues with a hiss. "Fighting with strength, honor and courage. Instead, you're no better than a petulant child, a shame to your tribe and ancestors" he finishes, quickly shoving the shocked younger knight away.

"This isn't the end of this!" Lancelot scoffs after regaining his balance. "You cannot protect your precious Roman all the time!"

Agravaine quickly turns around, fixing the younger knight with a withering look that immediately causes him to go completely silent. After a moment, Lancelot looks away. Agravaine gives a sneer of derision, spinning on his heal and wandering off to join the older knights who remain on the edges of the company.

"Bastard," Lancelot mutters, going over to Pellinore.

"I see we woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, yeah?" Tristan says coolly, still observing the frenzied scene as Agravaine comes to a stop next to him and a few of the older knights who have stayed out of the fray. By now, Pellinore's on his feet, a few of the knights leading him away to the infirmary. The others begin quickly taking the familiar positions of the standard formation used during inspections. A few of the braver ones look in Agravaine's direction, their shocked whispers floating on the air. However, many refuse to even look at him, fear of attracting his attention overriding their horrified curiosity.

"You'd have done the same, scout," he mutters in reply to Tristan as he leans back against the wall.

"Aye, but not in front of all these people. The best hunt is when the prey is taken completely unaware."

"Since when is subtlety his strong point?" Palamedes counters with an tight laugh as Gareth nods in agreement, though his serious eyes still warily watch Agravaine.

"You mean to tell me you're not tired of their childish games of insubordination?" Agravaine asks, genuine confusion in his voice.

"I am," Tristan replies. "Bloody frustrated with the whole situation frankly. But I'd rather them learn on their own. As much as breaking bones proves appealing, the lack of subtlety is bothersome," he retorts.

"Sometimes, such displays prove worth their weight in gold, though," Gareth counters in his usual deliberate fashion. "Who wants to place wagers on the fact that the formation will be perfect today" he continues with a shrug.

"He has a point, he does," Dagonet replies, his own face thoughtful.

"Of course I do," Gareth counters. "It will be nice to get something else done today rather than standing around at attention in this infernal courtyard, on punishment yet again for some egregious infraction caused by those insurgent little snots."

"Assuming everything goes off without any issue," Tristan drawls.

"Oh, it will. Especially after that little display of barbarism," Gareth replies lightly, waggling his eyebrows in amusement. "Thanks for that little performance, brother. At least the morning didn't get off to its usual dull start."

"You're welcome, you little git," Agravaine shrugs, mindlessly picking the dirt out of his nails with the point of his dagger.

"What about retribution?" Dagonet says aloud, face clouding with further concern. "Pellinore will not take this lightly..."

"Did you see his face?" Palamedes questions with a snort. "He was terrified. Sometimes it does prove better to maim rather than kill. He'll remember Agravaine every time his wrist click-clacks, signaling the coming rain." Palamedes' simple statement causes Dagonet to lose it, his laughter tearing through the courtyard. Even Agravaine and Gareth fail to hide their smirks, tears coming to their eyes as they rock with suppressed laughter.

"You're deranged!" Dagonet laughs.

"I thought that was this one," Tristan retorts, nodding to Agravaine. "I'm the assassin of the lot. Just as lethal, but with less of a homicidal tendency towards aggravated assault."

"You're right," Dagonet counters. "Have you heard, Agravaine?" he says, throwing an arm about the knight's shoulders "Your brains are positively addled, mate!"

"I've heard rumors," Agravaine says, eyes bright as his mouth curls into a feral grin.

"You had better watch yourself," Gareth adds with a snort. "He's liable to snap your wrist. Or something equally dreadful."

"You're all loony," Tristan mutters. "Enough of that now," he says, voice suddenly serious, eyes shifting over to the stairs. "Here comes Lord Artorius, along with Constinian," he murmurs.

Tristan whistles a warning, causing the knights to suddenly come to attention, the scout watching with appreciation as the rest of the company swiftly follows suit. Though evidence of the previous conflict has been completely cleared away, the younger knights still nervously watch the older ones, following their lead to the letter. No one wishes to incur the wrath of any of them, especially the pale, grey-eyed knight who seems to have eyes in the back of his head.

Gareth is right. The inspection of the company goes off flawlessly, all formations executed impeccably and with little fanfare. Apparently such displays of the previously occurring barbarism are worth their weight in gold.