Burdens are the foundations of ease and bitter things the forerunners of pleasure.

-Mevlana Rumi, 13th century sufi poet and mystic

Fall, 442 AD

"Something's gonna gone wrong, I can feel it in me bones," Vanora clenches through her smile as she waves her handkerchief at the departing knights. They're passing south, through the Great Gate directly below her from where she stands on the ramparts, Bors immediately seeing her actions.

"Vanora!" he bellows, causing the departing soldiers around him to laugh. "Ruuuussss!" he roars, completely ignoring them and raising a defiant fist in the air. She can't help but blush as she chuckles at him.

"He's gonna get himself killed bein' all obvious like that!" she shakes her head, though she still laughs. Heraniae gives the girl of fifteen seasons an odd look, even as she blows a kiss to a departing Dagonet. He returns her gesture with a wave and beaming smile, easily seen on this rather clear, beautiful, early Fall day. The sun is shining, the sky is streaked with its usual grey clouds and the leaves of the trees are just beginning to turn their dark colors of golden red and orange. It's been an unusually warm summer, allowing a good harvest and spirits throughout the citadel to run high.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Heraniae hisses.

"You know how she gets," Maeve retorts. She catches Galahad's eye as she waves goodbye and he gives an exaggerated wave in return, causing her to snort with laughter. "She always has 'the feeling,'" she continues.

"Well, sometimes it is right, sometimes it's wrong," Leonius squeaks, his voice betraying him yet again. He has grown quite a bit, lanky and seemingly all arms and legs. At almost thirteen seasons he's constantly tripping over himself, his grace all but gone, face constantly pink with blushing, voice cracking and squeaking as he moves into manhood.

"What do you know?" Vanora retorts. "Besides, shouldn't you be over at the smithy with your father?"

"My arms hurt," Leonius mutters. "All that damn training at the forge. I can barely move my fingers…"

"It'll only help you to grow up big and strong," Heraniae counters, a dreamy look in her eyes as she stares out at the phalyx of quickly departing men. "You'll be a heartbreaker some day…"

"Ewww," Leonius and Maeve sniff together, each turning up their noses.

"Just give it a few years, love, and I guarantee neither of you will be so against such a thing."

"I still say something'll go wrong," Vanora mutters, leaning on the parapet and still staring at the departing men.

"That's only because you're scared for your lover-boy Bors," Maeve taunts.

"I am not!" Vanora counters defiantly. "And so what if I like 'im? It's not like he's the worse sort and he ain't so bad. 'Sides, he's barely a man. No need for him to be getting' his arse killed already."

"No need for any of them to be getting killed!" Heraniae adds. Suddenly she begins coughing, face turning pale.

"Oh no, are you not feelin' well again, lass?" Vanora says, quickly taking her hand.

"Fine, fine. Just a slight spell. I ate too much for breakfast…"

"You've been saying that for the last month or so!"

"I'll be fine…Vanora," she replies, even as her hand goes to her mouth and she chokes back something. Leonius gives her a sideways glance, immediately going to get one of the rain buckets that line the wall. Passing it to her, she takes in both hands, leaning over and starting to take deep breaths.

"You sure you're to be alright?" Vanora asks.

"Yeah…no…" Suddenly the noises of wretching begin and Heraniae throws up into the bucket, Vanora holding her hair back as Maeve pulls out her handkerchief.

"That doesn't sound too good," Leonius mutters.

"Get it all out, love," Vanora sooths as Heraniae continues. She's finally done after a long while, wiping her mouth the handkerchief that's passed to her.

"Keep it," Maeve quickly replies.

"T-thanks."

"You should go to the infirmary," Vanora clucks.

"I'll be fine…just…a bit of bad fish," Hereniae replies, leaning against the wall for support, clutching at her stomach.

"For the last month?

"I'll. Be. Fine."

"Have it your way," Vanora says, though she takes Heraniae by the hand and leads her down the stone stairs.

"Hope she's okay," Maeve says, following them.

"She's strong. She'll be alright," Leonius counters, following her. They quickly go down the stairs and split off their various duties, though Vanora's worries still echo in the back of their respective minds.

"You might want to get a better hold of your animal, boy. It's makin' enough noise to bring on a whole battalion of these damned Woads!" Bors snorts, tightening the reins of his own mount to stop it from moving too fast. "Some of us have things to get to back to at the citadel!"

"Vanora ain't going nowhere," Galahad retorts with a snort. "And even if she does, it's not as though you can stop her. Have you even been around with her yet? Or are you waiting for this supposed apocalypse these Christians talk of?" he laughs as he attempts to reign in his animal.

"Watch yer mouth, you git," Bors stutters, face turning red.

"Eh, let 'im be, Bors," Gawain retorts as he reaches out and lightly tugs on the bridle of Galahad's horse, immediately causing the excitable animal to calm down and skitter to a stop. "Can't you see the poor thing proves far too little for his ride? He's always been on the slight side," he continues with a smirk.

"Shut-up," Galahad mumbles, though he pulls in his knees closer to his animal's haunches to ensure he doesn't go sliding over the head of it should he come to a sudden stop, his too-big armor clinking and clacking with him. Sure, he had grown quite a bit in the last couple of years, outgrowing his old ride. But still, why in the hell did they give him such a large charger?

"Should've given you a pony back at the stables, lad," Peredur laughs, also bringing his horse to a standstill to avoid crashing into Gawain, who rides in front of him. "I'll be sure to thrash 'em somethin' good if you end up falling off and breakin' yer wee neck."

"Not if I break yours first," Galahad counters spitefully.

"I'll break all your necks if the lot of you don't keep quiet!" Lot barks in front of them, turning around on his horse to give the group a rather blood-chilling glare. Most everyone quickly looks away, save Gaheris, who bites back a laugh, Tristian, who's busy silently taking inventory of their surroundings as per usual, and Agravaine, who breezily attempts to carry on his conversation with Calogrenant. Calogrenant's having none of it, sitting up straight in his saddle and doing his best to tune out his best friend's chatter. He's constantly drawing Lot's ire more often than not and he'll be damned if he does it again today.

"Steady on, men," Jols then calls out from behind them, the underlying annoyance in his voice warning them to keep it quiet. "I certainly don't want to hear Lot's rancor, so I'm sure you don't as well." A murmur of agreement floats through the mixed patrol of Sarmatians and Romanized Britons before they fall silent.

"These woods are too damn still, like they're waiting for something to happen," Gareth mutters after a while.

"Not particularly," Gaheris says with a grin as he sidles up next to his brother. "Open season is almost over and nothing's occurred yet."

"Which means they're getting desperate and more likely to attack," a rough-hewn voice from his left says.

"Always looking on the bright side, eh, Geraint? What, with that sort of sour disposition, one would think you're Gareth's twin," Gaheris chuckles, causing his younger brother Gareth to frown and roll his eyes. "Granted, it's not by blood but you certainly look the part." That proves relatively true. For Geraint, with his green eyes and tousled blonde hair that falls on the long side could easily be mistaken for the other brothers. He isin fact of their village, having grown up with all four of them: Agravaine, Gaheris, Gareth and Gawain (in that birth order). The only difference proves his rather sharper features and the fact that he isn't quite so broad as they are despite he was close to being as old as Agravaine. However, what he lacks in brawn, he makes up for in grace and his quiet sense of self.

"It does prove a bit disconcerting…" Geraint hears Tristan murmur beside him, as though reading his thoughts.

"The silence?" he replies with a nod, completely used to the scout's abilities to suddenly conjure himself out of thin air. "Dead on," he continues, giving him a mirthless smile. "Not a sound: no birds, no animals, no shaking branches..."

"We're being watched," Agravaine retorts, finishing the other knight's sentence, also riding up as though appearing out of nowhere. While he'll most likely never be as silent a scout as Tristan, he's taken to his duties particularly well, proving some healthy competition.

"What in the hell? How do they that every time!" Gawain all but shouts in surprise at seeing both the scout and his brother sidle up.

"Practice, mate" the Tristan replies with an enigmatic grin. Suddenly he's gone again, only to quickly reappear far ahead of them along with Agravaine and Palamedes, another of the scouts. They stop just short of Arthur, no doubt to tell him of their findings. Suddenly without warning, Gawain hears a hiss of pain beside him. Whipping around, his eyes widen in horror as he sees the black arrow embed itself into Bors lower arm, the knight clutching at it as he bites back a howl of pain. Eerie animalistic cries fly from the trees as the deadly hiss of arrows fills the air above them.

"Arrow on bow, now!" Jols bellows, already taking aim at the trees ahead of the group. His command is met by a strangled cry as a blue figure falls out of it, his arrow embedded in its throat. And then, it's chaos. Shards of death fly over them, a few completely missing their marks, but mostly decidedly accurate as Gawain quickly finds out, a barbed arrowhead grazing his hand. It would have been in it had he not reached for his bow. He swiftly hears a growl of pain, turning to find a Briton soldier beside him with an arrow embedded in his shoulder. But the soldier does not waver, quickly snapping off the shaft and notching his own arrow to his bow. Letting it fly, he gives Gawain a satisfied nod as another blue painted body falls from the trees.

"Bet you can't get one," he snorts.

"Oh, we shall see, Urien," Gawain retorts, aiming high as a baleful horn calls out and the flurry of Woad arrows thickens. Just ahead, Gawain makes out a dark-haired knight fall from his horse, his throat tightening as he frantically rides up to assist. Galahad! his mind screams.

"What the hell is he doing?" Galahad calls out to Tristan as he watches Gawain gallop forward. The scout simply shrugs his shoulders, shooting off a quick succession of deadly accurate arrows. Already, three Woad bodies lie on the ground, a live one snorting with effort as she struggles to crawl back into the thick undergrowth of the forest, arrow in her back. Tristan would finish her off but he draws back his charger from a new slew of arrows.

"Steady on!" Galahad calls out as he quickly shoots a Woad peeking out from his position low on the branches of a tree ahead of them. The arrow of the enemy intended for Tristan goes wide as he falls to the ground, his last breaths gurgling from him.

"You'd better watch for your friend," Tristan replies nonchalantly nodding ahead of them. Gawain's slumped over his saddle, hand on his thigh as Galahad gives a gasp of dismay and races towards him.

Arthur watches in horror as Lancelot slides from his horse, ignoring Gawain as he rushes up. The young commander quickly dismounts, throwing himself over a barely awake Lancelot, who has struck his head against a thick tree root. He furiously fires off his own rounds of arrows as Gawain disembarks from his animal, dragging Lancelot out of the fray.

"A shot in his side, one in his right shoulder," Arthur grits, giving a satisfied nod as another Woad hits the ground, arrows in his chest.

"Oh," Gawain murmurs, blinking back tears of pain from the arrow in his thigh.

"You're in no shape to be tending to him," Urien smirks as he rides up, breaking off the shaft of another arrow in his arm. A scream tears through the air as a Woad woman falls on the perimeter of the clearing, her lifeless eyes staring up at the grey sky.

"A woman?" Gawain calls out in dismay, scrambling away from the body.

"Your women fight, yeah?" Urien replies. "Theirs do as well."

"Just as good as the men," Agravaine shouts riding up, Palamedes and Jols on his heels. "Gotten rid of the ones from behind," Palamedes breathes. "Looks like some more…" Suddenly the horn calls out again and the melee suddenly stops. The Woad war cry fills the air as the leaves of the trees rustle and then suddenly cease, arrows no longer flying. Silence falls, save for the nervous snorts of the patrol's horses, soldiers and knights looking around in bewilderment, arrows on bow and ready to fire. The stillness of the air hangs over them like a threat for what seems an eternity. But no further attack comes. In fact, the bodies of the dead Woads seem to have disappeared, the only trace of them the marks on the dirt from where they have been apparently been dragged back into the woods.

"He'll need to be lashed to his horse to ensure he doesn't fall from it on the ride back," Arthur orders after a long while, voice flat but eyes glittering with worry as he pulls Lancelot to his feet. Lancelot groans in pain as Jols snaps off the shaft of the arrow embedded in his side. Dabbing at the wound, he nods to Arthur, "Not too deep."

"I-I'll be fine," Lancelot grumbles, wincing as he says it.

"We should get back as soon as possible," Jols replies, ignoring knight's efforts to shrug off the injury. "A few others are injured, but he's the most serious," he continues as he helps Lancelot mount his horse. Suddenly a low whistle is heard from the forest and a young, wild-haired Woads appears out of the undergrowth.

"Gwenhwyvar," Arthur spits, remembering the Woad girl who threatened his life a few years back. Her eyes burn with hatred as she points accusingly at Arthur, the Woad gibberish falling low and raspy from her lips, as though some hex of hell. And like the flash of lightening currently tearing across the sky, she's gone, leaving the knights to stare at the spot where stood with a mixture of abhorrence and fear.

"Of what did she speak?" Arthur murmurs tiredly to Amhar, who's lashing Lancelot to his saddle.

"This is not over, cursed Roman. Your blood shall run upon our next gathering, the bloody witch," the soldier replies grimly.

"So be it," the young captain retorts, face stony.

The air of the infirmary is laced with apprehensive dismay as the injured knights are helped to various beds. Maeve, having seen their return from the ramparts and counting the injured (breathing a sigh of relief to see her father Jols wasn't among them), made a mad dash to the building, ordering the various healers to stoke to the fires and prepare themselves. Vanora had finished mixing the last of the herbal mulch for the compresses, while Ceridwen tossed out spools of the fine thread used for stitching to everyone. Wiping her hands on her apron, she reaches out and grabs her granddaughter by her shoulders, spinning her around to face her.

"Are you ready, little one?" she asks.

"Yes, mum," Maeve nods, though her eyes go wide with worry.

"If you're not, just say it. I know you've had the lessons and you've got nine seasons to you now, but 'tis better to help along rather than directly and risk injuring any of them further."

"I'll be alright," Maeve breathes, standing up straighter.

"Good girl," Ceridwen replies, squeezing her shoulders in reassurance. Hearing the clatter of metal armor upon the stone floor, she quickly turns around to find Arthur half carrying, half dragging in a dirty, blood-splattered Lancelot, Calogrenant on his other side.

"He's caught the worst of it, but he'll live," Arthur says with a nod towards Lancelot, face grim, green eyes hard set as Ceridwen points to the nearest bed. "A couple of arrows, one in his arm, the other in his side, but not too deep, thank God. And he fell from his horse and hit his head. Most of the blood isn't his."

"Of course it's not," Calogrenant laughs softly, ignoring the blood that trails down the numerous cuts on his arm and drips to the floor. "It's mine," he muses, taking a seat in a chair, already beginning to unroll the bandages next to him. Maeve runs to him, swatting away his hand and pointing to the bowl of steaming water and rough hewn soap on the table next him. He nods in reply as she delicately peels back his bloodied over-tunic, wiping down his arm. Biting back the urge to gag at the sight of so much blood, she instead focuses on cleaning as much of it as possible. "Many thanks, lass," the knight utters. "'Tis is why I fight; I'd make the worst healer in the world," he mulls. He winces as he tosses back the clay cup full of the familiar, foul smelling pain-killer she's handed him. He'll need it for her stitches.

"Bloody Woads'!" Galahad calls out as he drags Gawain with him through the door. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"I thought when Lancelot fell it was you," Gawain retorts.

"I can take care of myself, thank you very much," Galahad sniffs. "Better than getting yourself killed."

"Well, Calogrenant almost bit it," Gawain huffs, wincing as his hand goes to his thigh. "Urien as well."

"Doesn't make it better!" Galahad all but yells.

"You would've done the same for me, I should hope," Gawain mutters.

"But I wouldn't have gotten myself killed!"

"Eh, he ain't dead," Bors bellows, coming through the doorway, his uninjured arm slung around Urien. The Briton gives him a nod of thanks as Bors settles him onto another bed. "Look 'ere, mate," Bors nods, "I told ya there's no need to go proving your Britons are braver than us Sarmatians," he snorts as he begins removing Urien's cuirass, careful not to tug too hard on it to avoid moving the two the arrows in Urien's right arm and shoulder. "It's a given you'll never be as good as us!"

"You wish," Urien grits. "That's why I've two of these damned things in me and you have one, eh?"

"Better at fighting. Don't make myself a moving target!"

"Because you're scared?" Urien grins.

"Because I'm good!" Bors chuckles. Suddenly he grimaces as the last Urien's mail brushes against his arm, which currently has an arrow sticking out of it at a haphazard angle. One of the other healers comes to them, clucking her tongue in annoyance as she begins attending to Urien, pointing for Bors to go sit by the fireplace.

"You wouldn't be if you were," Ceridwen tosses out as she attends to Lancelot, her dry reply causing most of the other knights to laugh, but for Galahad.

"You've got some nerve!" he snarls at Gawain. "You shouldn't be in here either!"

"Alright mother," Gawain snorts.

"I ain't your mother thankfully," Galahad snaps, sitting on the edge of Gawain's bed. Gawain frowns as the younger knight pulls a leg under himself and begins nervously playing with his hands. His face falls at the way Galahad's shoulders slump and his glassy eyes widen as he bites on his lower lip, his face as pale as a sheet. And suddenly all of Galahad's maturity seems to slip away; in a flash, it's as though the little boy inside has come out to cry.

"Forgive me, mate," Gawain murmurs, swallowing hard. "I shouldn't have worried you."

"I'm not worried," Galahad sniffs looking away from him.

"Sure," Gawain retorts, knowing better. Vanora's next to him now, cutting through his bloodied breeches as another healer quickly goes about getting the arrow out of him. Biting back a loud hiss a pain, he looks up, surprised as he feels a weight on his shoulder. Galahad stands next to him, a hand on his shoulder.

In the meantime, Bors blinks back tears of pain, cursing loudly as Ceridwen breaks off the pointed shaft of the arrow that slices through his arm. "This will hurt," the older woman says flatly as she holds his wrist one hand, bracing herself against the wood post of the bed he sits on.

"You don't bloody say!" Bors bellows. Even in the dim light of the dusk seeping in through the slats of infirmary shutters, he can still make out the thin trails of his blood against his tanned arm. The sight of it causes him to roll his eyes in aggravation. Tearing his vision from it, he suddenly reaches out and clutches at Vanora's hand, for she's the only other one standing by the bed where he sits, having completed her previous task. Her eyes narrow at his action as his grip threatens to break her hand. But she doesn't pull away, instead taking a deep breath. Glancing over at the wound, the color drains from her face.

"Don't faint, girl," he growls, shaking her wrist for emphasis. She snorts in reply. But somehow she has the distinct feeling he's talking to himself rather than to her. "Can't go pullin' ya off the floor with me bum arm and all," he continues, flashing a pained smile.

"I ain't going to go falling down on my arse like some child," she retorts, rolling her eyes at him as the color returns to her cheeks. "Seen worse than this bloody mess. And on some younger than you, old man."

"Old!" he snorts. "Hmph! I got barely eighteen seasons to me, young miss!"

"You sure do whine like you got only eight bloody seasons to ya!"

"Language, Vanora," Ceridwen tosses out distractedly, fingers beginning to grip the shaft of the arrow.

"Sorry, mum."

"Such as it is," Ceridwen counters, impassively. "Forgive me, Bors," she continues as her hand closes completely around the arrow, motions causing Bors to gasp in pain.

"Get on with it," he grits after a while, though his voice softens at the surprising look of concern that comes to her face. "And ain't no need to ask for anything sort or forgiveness or any of that rubbish, unless me arm goes fallin' off after you take this damned thing out. Imagine that! A bloody knight with no arm, stalkin' about and scarin' the children and such. I see you find that funny, lass?" he continues, turning away from Ceridwen and waggling his eyebrows at Vanora.

"Ain't nothing funny 'bout havin' no arm, no, sir," she breathes, biting back a laugh the mischievous expression that comes to his face. She involuntarily squeezes his hand in reassurance as Ceridwen readjusts herself in preparation for yanking out the extraction.

"Eh, don't go calling me 'sir,'" Bors stutters, cheeks turning red. "I certainly ain't no lord yet and you're more a lady than most I ever met. No offense mistress Ceridwen, for you're a lady as well..."

"None taken…" Snap!

"By the gods and all that is holy…hell…bloody whore of the sky, son of a bitch!" Bors howls, new tears springing to his eyes as Ceridwen suddenly shoves the shaft clean through and pulls it out completely, her other hand moving almost faster than he can see as she presses a compress into the rather gaping hole left. Vanora looks on completely mollified, her hand all but crushed in his grip. He leans over, sending off a string of what's most likely the foulest of curses in his native tongue. Wiping at his glistening face with the back of his hand, he quickly sits up again.

"You…alright?" Vanora murmurs, quickly handing him a bottle off the shelf behind her. He slurps most of it down, wincing at the bitter taste.

"F-fine lass…just…fine," he groans. "Like ya said…seen worse…right?"

"Aye. I also seen far worse reactions," she intones. "Better not drink all of that. It's liquor but laced with a sleeping draught," she continues taking the bottle out of his hands.

"Well, at least it didn't hit any tendons," Ceridwen says matter-of-factly as she casts arrow into a bowl filled with other bloodied ones. "Move your hand, boy," she orders and he does so, albeit painfully. "Your fingers too," she continues, to which he flexes them. "Good. You shouldn't use your hand for at least a fortnight or so, no question 'bout it," she warns as Bors lets out an exasperated sigh. "You'll have to come to the infirmary to get it cleaned daily. Twice a day if you're especially active. And I suggest you do so if you don't want any rot to set in and end up losing your arm… Vanora, can you mend this?" the older woman asks.

"Not too difficult," the younger woman replies with deferential nod as Ceridwen takes the bowl of arrows with her and leaves.

"Yer mum's a bit matter-of-fact," Bors begins as Vanora cleans the wound again.

"Aye," she replies distractedly.

"I guess yer dad's the one with all the jokes in the family, eh?" he continues.

"Wouldn't know," she shrugs. "Dead before I could remember 'im."

"Oh. Sorry then," he mutters. "Must have been hard on her."

"Who?"

"Ceridwen. Yer mum."

"My mum died havin' me," she replies looking up and raising a quizzical brow. "Ceridwen's all I remember. Granted she's not my mum by blood, but it doesn't matter. Might as well be."

"Um…" he clears his throat uncomfortably.

"No need to be feeling sorry about that," Vanora snorts. "As much trouble as I give her, she'll always be my mum. Just as I'll always be 'er daughter."

"Nice to be looked after," Bors replies, voice uncharacteristically quiet.

"You should know," she chuckles, finishing the stitches and dressing his arm. "'Ole Dags' always keeping an eye on you."

"Eh, he don't have too. Just does," he shrugs

"Like Ceridwen does with me. There, all done," she says, pulling his bandage tight. "Ain't no need for you to stay in the infirmary. Other folks need the space," she replies, reaching out a hand. He takes it and gets to his feet.

"So…" he begins giving her an appreciative once over as she begins cleaning up. Finding he can't say anything as he watches her, he begins to pick up his sword and bits of his armor. Having quickly finished that, he stands by the bed, shuffling his feet with a huff loud enough so that she stops what she's doing, turning around to face him.

"Yeah?" she asks. "You haven't gotten anything else that needs mending?"

"Uh, no. Just…"

"C'mon, out with it," she sighs in exasperation. "I'm hungry as hell and haven't eaten all day, so say what you want so I can raid me mum's larders."

"Well…see…Vanora."

"I think I know my own name," she tosses back, ignoring the snickers of the other knights whose attention is now riveted to the scene before them.

"Of course ya do, but I…"

"Oh, by the Gods! See here, Bors, do you want to get somethin' to eat?"

"Come again?" he says, eyes going wide as he nervously scratches at his chin, trying to keep from pacing the room.

"I think she asked you to go eat, mate, since you ain't too keen upon doin' it yourself," Urien calls out. His mouth snaps shut Bors spins around and gives him a solid glare. However, the mischievous look returns to his face as soon as Bor's back is to him again.

"You should listen to dear Urien there," Vanora snorts. "That's what you were goin' to ask, wasn't it?"

"I think it was," Arthur drawls, his eyes sparkling with laughter as he casually leans against wall next to Lancelot's bed.

"Why don't you mind yer own business, sir?" Bors grits. "And No…I mean yes," he mutters quickly as he sees the irritated frown come to Vanora's face.

"So?" she rejoins. "Aren't you going to ask me?"

"What?"

"If she wanted to eat!" Lancelot slurs as he rolls his eyes, fighting to stay awake against the sleeping draught he's been given. "Bloody hell, man! Ask her about before I die already. Or ask her around, for I must say, even in my near death, my dear Vanora, your beauty shines brighter than sun of this or any other land," his voice lilts as he struggles to sit up.

"Oh, you ain't going die, boy!" Vanora snorts.

"If you all don't shut the hell up!..." Bors roars, hands going to the non-existent sword on his hip. The other knights snicker, though they do go quiet. "Riveting!" Gawain whispers loudly, causing Bors to roll his eyes.

"So I want to eat!" Vanora snaps, voice getting high as she drops her supplies on the table and crosses her arms. Dark eyes flashing with increasing anger and causing Bors to take a step back, her words speedily tumble out of her mouth. "Jesus, what is wrong with you? You can go out there and scream my name to the ramparts, fight the Blue Devil Ghosts, fall off your horse and almost get trampled to death, take an arrow to the arm and drag your bloodied self back to the citadel with nary a care! But got forbid, you can't ask me to go eat? We've been dancing around with this for half the year already, and I'm getting bloody tired of it! My eye ain't going to stay just on you. They're plenty of other pretty knights and soldiers and such wandering around…"

"Like me!" Galahad whispers loudly.

"They may be pretty and all but they ain't me," Bors growls as he takes a step towards her, ignoring Galahad.

"So what?" she retorts, not flinching in slightest, her face lighting up with a feral grin. "They at least have the courage to ask me around!"

"So you're going around with someone else?" he grumbles, kicking at the stone floor in frustration.

"No, but I could be!" she counters, lifting her nose into the air as she pushes back a few runaway strands of hair behind her ear. "I ain't the brightest beauty, but I can get by pretty well. Not to mention I'm charming as hell if you'd bother to remember it!"

"How can I forget when you're standing right 'ere, love?" he murmurs, taking another step towards her as he attempts to straighten out his over-tunic and wipe the dust from his breeches.

"Don't you love me, sir!" she sniffs, crossing her arms.

"I ain't," he grins. "Vanora, love, do you want to go get some grub? Last I heard, you haven't eaten all day. And we can't have some slip of girl like yourself starving away. It just wouldn't be right," he finishes, reaching out a hand to her.

"This doesn't fix anything," she says grimly, though her mouth begins twitching with the beginnings of a smile as she brushes away his hand. "But it's a start."

"That's all I need," he chuckles with a loud laugh as they leave the infirmary room, the hoots, hollers and whistles of appreciation of the other knights shouted in their wake.

"What in the gods is wrong with you?" Tristan murmurs, finishing off his tankard of ale and giving Dagonet a sideways glance as the big knight slams his own down on the table and goes back to holding his head in his hands. The yard of the tavern proves rather empty this night, most likely on account of the rain that has only just now stopped.

"Why would you care?" Dagonet sniffs, his warm blue eyes red with what looks to be tears as he looks up at the other knight.

"You'd be surprised. Not to mention you're quite the contented drunk most always."

"By the Gods!" Dagonet groans, snatching another tankard of ale out of Brangaine's hands before she even has time to set it down. The barmaid raises a questioning eyebrow, to which Tristan only shrugs as he slides her a few coins.

"Don't worry about him," he snorts, dark eyes flitting over her figure.

"I ain't, mate," she shrugs with a grin, palming the coins. "Just glad to see some of you made it back without any injury," she sniffs.

"Of…course," he replies.

"Anything else? Especially for that 'un? Looks like he'll need a bit 'o liquid courage."

"Yeah. More of the usual, though he'll be fine…"

"The hell I will!" Dagonet counters.

"Alrighty then," she sighs, moving away from them and to the next table as Tristan nurses his drink. "You know Bors'll be alright," he begins after a while. "I believe Vanora's seeing to that when I checked on him…"

"Well, you tell him to be careful with all the seeing to he gets!" Dagonet retorts, voice falling. "He doesn't want to see himself in a pickle he can't get out of."

"Pardon?" Tristan replies, visibly taken aback by Dagonet's increasingly melancholic slurring.

"Heraniae's…oh, by the gods! She's…well…p-pregnant!" Dagonet sighs. "I-I'm going to be a…a…a father!" he continues, shoulders slumping as he leans back against the wall, taking deep gulps of breath.

"Oh," Tristan replies easily, his lack of surprise causing Dagonet to narrow his eyes at him.

"What do you mean 'Oh!' You…you didn't know about this, did you? Why in the hell didn't you tell me? What the bloody hell is wrong with you! " Dagonet begins, sitting up straight, his body going deathly still. "I thought we were mates! Friends, even!"

"Get a hold of yourself," Tristan counters, eyes flashing with annoyance. "We are…mates," he murmurs uncomfortably. "'Friends,' erhm, as you call it. But she came to me about a fortnight ago. She was scared…"

"Of what!" Dagonet bellows, causing the other patrons around them to begin staring. Tristan gives them all the once over, his unyielding gaze immediately causing them to go back to what they were doing, actively ignoring the two knights in the corner.

"I think she was worried about this" the scout continues with a curt nod. "Your current state certainly doesn't prove comforting."

"Yeah, so she went to you first!" Dagonet snarls.

"Jealousy's an ugly thing," Tristan warns.

"You don't say!"

"I do say," Tristan warns again, voice dropping to deadly calm. "It took a lot of courage for her to seek me out, especially considering she doesn't like me much…"

"Right," Dagonet mutters.

"And," Tristan continues, ignoring Dagonet's comment, "She did it because…erhm…she thinks I know you…well, the best. At least that's what she relayed."

"So she's scared of me?" Dagonet says, a terrified look coming to his face. Tristan finds he's now beginning to feel sorry for him rather than annoyed.

"Not of you. More…uh…of the…situation," he counters awkwardly. "She worries that…things will change."

"Of course they will!"

"That they will change for the worst, you frellin' idiot," Tristan mutters, rolling his eyes. Women. It's why he refuses to tie himself down to one for an extended period time. Things of this sort causes any sort of relationship to be completely out of the question. If this did this to Dagonet, the gods only knew what it could do to him.

"It will be difficult. But not in a bad sort way, I guess," Dagonet shrugs.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because she told you.

"Shouldn't you be telling her?"

"Well…uh…I think so."

"Yeah, you think so?" Tristan snorts. "I'm a knight, as terrible as that may be, not a messenger! Of course you should tell her!"

"Well…"

"Son of a whore," Tristan grumbles. "Look!" he says more loudly, shrugging his shoulders in annoyance, "You need to go and settle this right now. It's simple…"

"But the…baby."

"Aye? So you can't marry, at least not according the supposedly Roman customs. You have your own. And her family has money and the means…"

"Her father despises me."

"But her brothers don't. All three of them are some of the few of the cursed Romans who don't go out of their way to make our lives a living hell. Heck, the oldest one's wife isn't such a bad sort. I wouldn't to so far as to say they're our mates, but they adore her and by extension, don't hate you. Unless you continue to act like the bloody fool you are now. You two certainly aren't the dumbest of this bunch. I'm sure you'll be the decent sort of, uh, parents, with her brothers decent sort of uncles, as they call it." Tristan then takes a long drink, grousing about "idiots and the women who tup them." Or at least that's what Dagonet thinks he can make out. Silence settles between them as he contemplates this information.

"And when did you get so insightful?" Dagonet suddenly says with a drunken grin.

"When imbeciles like yourself and the mother of your future child got to be so foolish," Tristan lightly retorts.

"So it is," Dagonet slurs. "Tristan," he suddenly beams. "I'm going to be a father. A father!"

"You don't say," Tristan snorts, though he does raise his tankard in toast to the child of his best mate.

A/N: Man, oh man, sorry that update took so long. Life's been busy and my job has been ridiculous (which probably explains why I'm looking for a new one!). Anyway, I'll try to update soon, but I'm going on vacation in a couple of weeks, to London of all places. Hopefully, being there will give me some inspiration. I will be, afterall, on Arthur's home turf in a way.