Thanks so much Remember to Feel Real and cleopatra32003 for your comments! I'm glad you like it so far!

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A cold, harsh wind stung against Galahad's face as he wrapped his cloak tighter around his shoulders and urged his horse forward. He wanted to reach the other side of the mountain by nightfall, but the sun was dropping quickly from the sky dragging the temperature down with it. His knuckles had turned white with numbness as his frozen hands firmly gripped his horse's reigns.

On the grasslands, Sarmatia exhibited a mild, benign climate, but its mountain tops were no kinder than those found in Britain. Galahad had quickly realized that the knights' and his memory of their homeland had been nothing more than an idolization. In reality, Sarmatia was no different than any other part of the world and now that his mother was dead and buried, there was nothing left to make it his home. His fellow Sarmatian knights back in Britain were his family now more than ever, and he was eager to return to them. He missed Bors, Vanora, and their little bastards running about and causing trouble. He missed Arthur's good sense and leadership that served as beacons for the young knight who was still trying to find his own way. And, of course, he missed his friendship with Gawain, not to mention their knife throwing contests. If only Dagonet, Tristan, and Lancelot were still among them. Their absence at Hadrian's Wall would make Galahad's homecoming bittersweet.

Snow had begun to fall now from the gray sky and Galahad cursed himself inwardly for not having waited until morning to begin his uphill trek. His horse whinnied and shook its head in fright.

"Shhh," Galahad cooed, stroking the horse's mane, "It's just snow."

Unfortunately, it was not just the snow that was making the horse nervous. The crescendo of hooves in the distance alerted Galahad that he would not be alone for long. A moment later, a gang of men on horseback fully clad in war gear sprang forth through the mist, charging down the path towards him with swords drawn.

"You there!" the leader of the group shouted, "Halt!"

Galahad intended to do no such thing. He reared his horse around and fled down the path in the opposite direction, hoping to lose them on the winding trail. The plan did not work as he had expected, however, and he could hear his pursuers advancing closer behind him as he continued to race on down the path without looking back. Tree branches scraped across his body as he diverged from the path and headed into the forest, once again hoping to lose them. His flight into the trees was to no avail, however, as they continued to gain on him. The whiz of an arrow ripping through the air was not enough warning for the young knight who was unable to dodge it and let out a guttural cry as the bolt embedded itself in his shoulder.

His body wrenched from the pain, sliding from the saddle and crashing to the forest floor, but the resolute knight still had fight left in him. Galahad scrambled to his feet and drew his sword as the gang of warriors rode over and created a perimeter around him. Galahad ran his eyes along each of their faces, glaring and scowling with flared nostrils to prove he was not intimidated. There were eight all together, each of them clearly formidable.

One of the combatants, a cocky novice, dismounted his horse with a pretentious grin and swaggered towards where Galahad stood waiting. Galahad eyed his opponent with scrutiny, noting his superior height and muscle build, but observing his youth and overconfidence as well. It was a familiar sight and Galahad could not help but see much of himself in this young warrior. Their swords clashed and, although Galahad was the more experienced fighter, his wounded shoulder inhibited him from wielding his blade in a full range of motion. Instead, his moves were more defensive, blocking his attacker's swings. Soon he had been knocked to the ground, lying prostrate on his back as his opponent raised his sword over his head to make the final blow. Galahad looked up into the blood thirsty eyes that gleamed from the gratification of violence, but he was done gratifying this enemy. He rolled quickly to the side as his opponent's blade struck the dirt ground, missing its intended target. Galahad saw his opening and seized the opportunity, slashing the blade straight across his enemy's neck in a perfect slit to the throat. The amateur warrior's eyes widened from the shock of the blow and he tumbled lifelessly to the ground.

Provoked by the outcome of the fight, the rest of the warriors, with the exception of their leader, dismounted their horses and circled Galahad with unsheathed swords and menacing glares.

"Drop your weapon!" the leader ordered Galahad from on top of his horse. He was a man of advanced age with a weathered face, but his frame was gigantic and appeared as though it were carved from stone.

"No!" Galahad shouted back in defiance, gritting his teeth and tightening his grip on the hilt of his sword.

Out of the corner of his eye, Galahad caught glance of a warrior charging at him, but he reacted too late. The warrior drove his spear into Galahad's side, piercing the flesh. Galahad yelped out in pain and fell to his knees, clutching his hand to his side, but still refused to release his sword.

"Drop your weapon, Roman!" the leader repeated louder this time.

"Roman?" uttered Galahad in puzzlement, "I'm not---"

Another of the men struck him across the back of his skull before he could finish. He raised his head back up to look the leader in the eyes. "I'm not Roman!" he screamed, his face contorted with pain.

Once again, a warrior advanced toward him to deal another blow, but this time the leader signaled him to halt. "I am Sarmatian," Galahad groaned, rubbing the back of his head.

"He's wearing Roman armor," growled another of the men.

Galahad's breathing was ragged and strained. "I served as a knight for fifteen years," he managed to wheeze out, "I am freed now."

Galahad could feel the heat of their stares radiating off of him. The leader was studying him carefully, evaluating every inch of his face. "Bring him," he commanded.

At this order, Galahad was hauled to his feet and thrown on top of a horse. Everything around him began to blur and soon he was swallowed by unconsciousness.

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Galahad had no memory of being taken down from the horse and brought into shelter. He was vaguely conscious of the fact that he was now lying on his back instead of slumped over in a saddle, but moments of even the slightest lucidity were sporadic at best and consisted only of blurred visions and faint sounds. He had no awareness of his surroundings and had fallen into a deep, restless slumber filled with torments and agitations.

In his dreams, he was plagued by sounds of horses' hooves pounding on the ground and thought himself back on the trail, racing to escape from his assailants. The image of the sword about to crash down upon him replayed in his mind over and over again. Each time, the nightmare would end just before the blade struck him and he would become dimly aware of the cold sweat running down his body. He kept hearing a voice uttering words that he could not quite make out. He thought he heard the name 'Lancelot' and wondered if this were the beginning of his journey into the afterlife where he would be rejoined with old friends. His dreams turned then to memories and images of his fellow knights lying dead on the battlefield, their souls leaping from their bodies in the form of horses galloping across the blood stained earth. Then he would once again hear the pounding of the hooves and would be catapulted back into the recurring nightmare, fleeing down the trail in a hopeless attempt to avoid imminent death.

Time no longer existed for Galahad, so he knew not how long he had remained in that unconscious state before he jolted awake in terror after the conclusion of another vivid dream. His eyes locked immediately with those of a blue-eyed girl who grasped his arm to steady him.

"Easy," she said in a soft, gentle voice, "It's alright."

Galahad stared at her breathlessly for a moment trying to orient himself. She drew herself close to him and her eyes held tears of excitement and relief. She brushed her hand against his cheek and whispered, "You came for me---just like you promised. I knew you would."

"I-I'm sorry?" Galahad stammered with a voice that was dry and raspy.

"It is I," she said with a smile, "Seanna. Did you bring the amulet?"

"Who?" asked Galahad, dizzy with confusion, "What amulet?"

"Seanna," she repeated, "Do you not recognize me? It has been a long time."

"I think," Galahad replied perplexedly, gazing at her in bewilderment, "I would remember such a face."

Seanna was a fair skinned beauty with golden hair that spilled down her back like rays of sunshine from the sky. She studied Galahad for a moment and then looked down at the floor with disappointment.

"You're eyes are blue," she mumbled under her breath.

"What?"

"Your eyes are blue, not brown," she said softly, a blush of embarrassment spreading across her cheeks. She had not been able to ascertain his eye color while he had been asleep. "I'm sorry," she continued, still clearly embarrassed, "I have mistaken you for someone else."

Galahad was completely baffled by her words that to him seemed completely incomprehensible and was, hence, rendered speechless. He was still incredibly weak from having just awoken from his state of unconsciousness. His eyes flittered around the room trying to ascertain where he was, but nothing looked familiar. He remembered he had been on the trail and was chased down by a gang of men and then---his wounds! He quickly felt along his side to discover that the laceration had been carefully stitched together and found that his shoulder was tightly bandaged as well.

"Did you do this?" he asked Seanna, referring to the tending of his wounds.

"Yes," she replied meekly, "You have been asleep nearly two days now."

"Thank you," he said sincerely to show his gratitude, "I wonder if you could also tell me where exactly I am?"

"You are in the village of the Navari tribe," she answered, "Do not worry. You are safe here."

"They are the ones who took me?---the ones from the trail?"

"Yes."

"I am afraid," said Galahad, looking down at his injuries, "I must doubt my safety after the way I have been treated thus far."

"You are Sarmatian like us, are you not?"

"Yes."

"They will cause you no more harm," Seanna assured him.

It was obvious that Galahad was not convinced, but he was too tired to argue. His head felt heavy like a boulder and the room was beginning to spin around him. Seanna, perceptive to his condition and attentive to his needs, helped him to lie back on the mat that had been placed on the floor for him. His eyes lingered after her as she went to retrieve a basin filled with water from the corner of the room. She returned quickly to his side and dipped a cloth into the cool water and dabbed it across his forehead.

"You have been fighting an infection," Seanna explained, "We must keep your fever down."

Galahad nodded his head in submission to her care. His breathing slowed and became less ragged as she continued to run the wet cloth along his face followed next by his limbs and torso. Her motions were gentle and soothing and he soon found himself comforted by her presence. For some reason, she had been able to gain his trust immediately. There was something in her eyes that told him she was honest and sincere.

"What is your name?" she asked him.

"Galahad," he replied.

The injured knight could feel his eyelids getting heavy, but he resisted falling back into sleep that he knew would only bring visions of trepidation and terror. Instead, he remained focused on Seanna whose face held calmness and serenity. She appeared unaware of his gaze as she continued to wring out the cloth and dip it once again in the cool water. He fought to stay awake, but the power of exhaustion was quickly overcoming him.

"Sleep now, Galahad," whispered Seanna, "I will watch over you."

She brushed her fingers over his eyes, inducing them to close, and not more than a second later, Galahad had drifted back into a deep slumber. Seanna sighed sadly as she watched the knight sleep. He looked very much as she imagined Lancelot, her betrothed, would look after those many years with the handsome face and dark curly hair, except that Galahad's eyes were sky blue instead of chocolate brown. If only he had been Lancelot come to claim her hand. She had been so sure that he was. Now, however, her hopes had been dampened. Her twenty-second birthday was only two weeks away, and time was running out.