A/N: Oh, I know it's exciting to have to wait for chapters and all that, but last chapter really was very short, and… yeah. The long and the short of it is that I want to get a move on with all this 'decision-making' stuff, and move onto the exciting parts! So here's another chapter for you :) As always, please review – thankyou to the lovely people who already do. Silent readers, do drop in and say hello sometime! Happy reading :)

-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-

Chapter Five: Alive and Awake

-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-

Banna felt Donaith's blood trickling down her face, heard him crawling over to her, making noises strange and inhuman. Blackness crept in from the corners of her eyes, and she felt herself drifting further and further away from her body.

"He's all yours, lads," she heard a voice say as she toppled to the hard earth, her ears ringing. No, Donaith, no, no, no…

And then she succumbed to the darkness.

Banna came out of the long dark slowly, the pain leaching almost gently back into her consciousness. The slow trickle of awareness grew and grew, gradually building up to a deafening, throbbing crescendo of fear, hurt and, most of all, rage.

Donaith was dead.

And she was still alive.

Banna did not want to open her eyes, refusing to open the twin shields of skin that kept the world at bay. Once she opened her eyes, she would see her best friend's body. She would have to burn him, and then follow his killers north.

She would have to hunt them, stalk them, kill them.

Then, she would have to return home, and tell his family and friends that she failed to protect him.

That she stood next to him, struck dumb by the speed of the woman's death-throw.

That she did not move, even when the hot spray of his lifeblood hit her face.

That she failed as warrior.

As a tracker.

As a friend.

No, Banna did not want to open her eyes.

That is to say, she did not want to open her eyes until she suddenly felt someone's hand patting her leg. She froze, her senses screaming at her to run. A man's voice muttered something inaudibly, followed by a long sigh. He was sitting close beside her, ripping grass from the cold ground loudly. He smelt dreadful, and when he moved he omitted the slightest clinking noise. Armour. A soldier, then, probably on patrol. Judging by the smell of him, he'd been away from his post for a while. The strongest smell was of horse, but that told her little. He could be an important soldier, a mounted Knight, or a mounted soldier on a scouting mission. Preparing herself for the worst, Banna opened her eyes minutely, cursing the dark smudges around her eyes. It would make the whites more visible if he was paying attention.

He didn't seem to be, gods be praised. She recognised him immediately by his long, narrow face as the Roman who had wounded Brennus, and whom she had fought against in minor skirmishes before. He sat with his knees drawn up to his chest, twisting some dead grass around his fingers. His dark brown hair was mid-length and thick, and he wore a worn leather vest over a rough, undyed woollen tunic. His trousers seemed also to be made of some sort of leather, and they were was filthy and mud-stained as the rest of him. A glint of metal indicated that he wore thin vest of chainmail under the leather. He was careful, then. Or perhaps just used to the dangers of warfare. His face was dirty, his downcast eyes a deep, bright blue. Banna noticed with relief that his sword was not within easy reach. She watched him carefully as she formulated a plan of escape in her mind, trying to dismiss the thought of Donaith for now. As she prepared to leap up, the Roman began to mutter to himself in the flowery Roman tongue, rolling his eyes and making odd facial expressions. Ready, thought Banna to herself, easing her small dagger out of its sheath at her side. The Roman chattered carelessly to himself as she waited for the right moment, barely breathing. And…now.

She pushed herself to a kneeling position in one fluid movement, pressing the dagger firmly to the main vein of his neck. He let out a startled exclamation and almost fell backwards, his eyes darting to the blade at his throat. He tilted his chin up in an effort to alleviate the pressure, but Banna pressed harder, fixing him with a cold stare, daring him to cry for help. He said something in Latin, but she had no idea of the meaning. She merely pressed the point in harder, preparing to slit his throat and run. Her head throbbed abominably as she tensed, trying to gather her failing strength.

"I am the son of Morwen, and the grandson of Morgaine, Seer of the North," gasped the man unexpectedly, almost causing Banna to drop the dagger in surprise. "Kill me, and incur her wrath." Banna stared in disbelief. He had to be lying. Morgaine? The Great Seer? But that would make him… No, he had to be lying…

"Dagger down, woman," growled a heavily accented voice from behind her, the tip of something cold and metallic pressing into the nape of her neck. With anger and shame – how did I not hear an attacker again?– Banna lowered the dagger to the ground and raised her empty hands to the air, staring expressionlessly at the Roman in front of her. He looked over her shoulder and shook his head, making a cutting gesture with his hand. Dear gods, were the Romans in league with Donaith's killers? Was she too to be beheaded and mutilated? The weapon was removed from the back of her neck, and she raised her chin defiantly as she prepared to die.

"Can you speak?" asked the Roman Knight in front of her, picking up her dagger from the ground and placing it out of reach. His bright blue eyes burnt into her own with a desperate intensity, as the second man came to stand beside him. The other scout. This would complicate things. "Can you tell us what happened here?"

"Aye, and aye," said Banna warily, watching the two carefully. A Roman that spoke her language? She had thought all Romans were too lazy and ignorant to learn the tongue of the country they had invaded. The scout stared at her coldly through his long, messy strands of hair, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. They did not seem to be about to kill her, and a tiny flare of hope kindled in her stomach.

"Tell us, woman," said the scout impatiently, his words difficult to make out through his heavy accent. Not Roman-born, then, either of them; if the blue-eyed one was telling the truth. Said Knight gave his companion a warning look, then tuned back to Banna and spread his hands in front of him.

"We mean you no harm. Our comrade has been murdered, and we have tracked his killers to this place. We found his body, along with that of another man. And you." He looked carefully at her, and Banna met his questioning look steadily. He sighed, and rose gingerly to his haunches. "We mean to find our friend's killers, and it would be… what is the word… it would be helpful if you could tell us who they are."

Banna paused, mentally taking note of the fact that he was wounded. "They are my quarry," she said finally, her eyes drifting to where two bodies lay neatly side by side. Donaith.

"What is 'quarry'?" asked the blue-eyed man confusedly as he stood up, steadying himself on the outstretched arm of the scout with a wince. Left side, probably a deep wound. Gained in the skirmish? Not fully healed, good weak point. The scout's eyes followed hers quickly, and he gave her an indecipherable stare.

"They are mine to hunt," she repeated, the cold wind brushing her cheek. It had stopped snowing, but the sky was darkening. She had lain in the clearing, exposed and vulnerable, for hours. A shudder rippled through her. She was lucky not to have been torn apart by wolves or other hungry predators of the forest. Turning her mind from such morbid thoughts, she stood up slowly, hands still raised. The men watched her every movement suspiciously. "Will you let me go? They will be far from here, now."

The scout shook his head. "Need information. We kill them." Bow and quiver of arrows, longsword. Well-armed, uninjured. Steady hand, quick movements. Dangerous, and too watchful. Though a worthy opponent, this one would make an escape attempt difficult.

"We have sworn oaths," said the other, still determined. "We must, ah… avenge… our brother. Yes? By the look on your face, you must understand this." Banna continued to stare at him expressionlessly, though her thoughts were in turmoil. The man continued, his voice steady and calm. "You are only one, and they are five. Together, we could catch them. Make them suffer for what they have done."

"Enough to share," the scout said menacingly, sniffing the wind. Banna scowled at him, disliking the emotionless way in which he looked at her.

"You wish to hunt with a savage?" she asked mockingly, raising an eyebrow. "With your sworn enemy?"

"Rome's enemy," said the blue-eyed one firmly, his lips twisting into an odd smile. Bitter?

"Yet I have killed your kinsmen, and you have killed mine."

"Yes. Under the orders of Rome."

"Your friends killed my cousin."

"Yours killed mine," said the scout, glancing at the corpse laid out beside Donaith.

"They are not my friends," hissed Banna wrathfully. With a livid glare, she turned and walked over to where Donaith's axe lay discarded in the dirt; stepping cautiously to avoid the patches of blood-smeared grass. She suppressed the lump in her throat and blinked away the weak tears that threatened to fall. Donaith would not want her to cry. Her tears would achieve nothing. She forced herself to think clearly, gripping the shabby leather-wrapped handle of the axe tightly in her hand.

It was true that she was one against five. Banna was more a tracker than a warrior, used to treading hidden ways on soundless feet, reading the patterns of the wind and earth and sky. She could hunt, of course, and she was good with a knife and a bow, but against warriors such as that Morag, she was… Banna inhaled sharply, realising for the first time in her life that she was simply not good enough. She needed help, at least until she reached her kinsmen back at the training camp. From there, Grainne would know what to do. With her leader's tactical skill and her own knowledge of the land, Banna was sure they could track down Murchadh and his companions. But what to do with the Romans once she got back to her own people? Banna could not deny their right to avenge the death of their friend – there were, in fact, laws among her people that freely condoned such vengeance. She had also seen the pitiful state of the corpse, and understood their pain and fury. She felt the same about… No. She would not think of it.

It was this last thought that decided her. Taking a deep breath, and hoping that her decision was not as foolish and dangerous as she feared it to be, she turned her face back towards the men.

"If you choose to travel with me, we leave now. My camp is several hours north of here, and we will stop there and seek advice from my leader. Know that in coming with me, you risk both your lives." She paused, and the men nodded, Blue-Eyes looking particularly eager. She glared at them, and continued. "I will not hesitate to kill you, should you cause me any trouble. The one we hunt is named Murchadh, and he has three companions that I know of: Morag, Ivar, Failbhe. His brother is back at camp, and his name is Iurnan." Luckily, there were plenty of warriors to keep that one under control until she got back. By the gods, she would get information out of the sneaking bastard in one way or another. Though not in the same ruthless league as warriors such as Grainne and Brennus, Banna was not averse to the use of violence to achieve objectives.

"Murchadh and Iurnan, are they heavily, uh… they have the pictures? On their skin?" asked Blue-Eyes.

"Tattoos? Yes." The two men exchanged a look. "You know them?"

The scout grunted. "They kill our brother badly."

"Gaheris," supplied Blue-Eyes, his face darkening with anger. "They butchered him in the skirmish."

"I saw it," said Banna, touching her fingers to her head in a gesture of apology. Blue-Eyes nodded in acceptance, and she continued. "We will put aside our status as enemies for now, but should you do anything, anything at all to anger me, then I will not…"

"… hesitate to kill, yes. We should leave." Banna frowned once more at the scout as he interrupted her, but she nodded grudgingly. It was darkening by the minute, and they were losing time. She had a feeling that she was not going to like travelling with the churlish Roman scout.

"We will talk as we ride," said Blue-Eyes peaceably, apparently sensing the antagonism. "Is that… your horse?" Banna glanced Donaith's once-elegant bay mare slumped bloody beneath the trees, and shook her head.

"Mine will be nearby. What is your name, Roman?" She could hardly travel with two nameless strangers, no matter how dire the circumstances.

"I am Mordred, and my comrade here is Tristran. We are Sarmatian Knights, under the command of Artorius Castus. And you, lady?"

Banna snorted. "I am no lady. I am a tracker, and my name is Banna."

"And your comrade?"

"Donaith. Donaith, son of Eoin."

The scout looked pointedly at the sky and cleared his throat. "We should go, yes?"

Banna tried very hard not to roll her eyes. "Yes, scout. Just let me find my horse."

As she wandered into the trees and whistled for her pony, she wondered if this was all a Very. Big. Mistake.

Well, she thought dejectedly, with the possibility of Murchadh, Morag, Ivar and Failbhe lurking around every corner from here to the highlands, enlisting the Romans-who-were-not-Romans was her best chance of ultimately disposing of Donaith's killers. And surviving, for that matter.

Now all she had to do was find Grainne.

-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-

A note on the pronunciation of certain names:

Donaith – DO-nee (rhymes with "bonny")

Grainne – GRAWN-yuh

Murchadh – MOOR-a-chu

Iurnan – YOOR-nun

Failbhe – FAL-uh-vuh

Eoin – EE-un