This is Avilon's story. It's in first person, because that was the easiest way. Should be as long as a chapter, but if it's not as long as I want, I'll just make it a short chapter. Okay?

Chapter Thirteen: Avilon's Story

I was born in Sarmatia, in the northern half. I remember very little of my childhood, except those memories of my brother. I have forgotten my family – my memories of them were chased away, like straw in the wind. I was four when my brother was taken. My mother cried, my father was proud. He was to be a Sarmatian knight. I knew I would miss him. That morning, the river broke its' banks, and the water flooded through our village. Me and my brother found two necklaces in the river, floating. I told him I would wear it until he came back, until we saw each other again. I never did see him again; up till this day I have wondered what he'd be like, who he'd be. He can't have been an amazing fighter – he would be with us now...

He left, and he faded from my life. I was only four – there was no staying power to my mind anyway. That is the only memory I have of him, a happy one. I like to remember him from that day – smiling, happy. I don't even know his name. I knew it once, along with my parents' names... but I have forgotten it all, hidden everything away.

Two years later, Romans came to the village. There were about twenty of them. They told us to go to our huts, and so we did. I was six when they burnt our village. I was small – I hid with the chickens, and they didn't see me. I could hear my mother's screams, but I couldn't get to her. The fire – I feel it on my face even now. It has marked me. I can never forget that day – the burns remind me of it every time I see them.

When they had gone, taking our finest horses and stores of food, I came out. The village was like an empty battlefield; it was all dead, everyone was dead. I only remember the feel of a dying horse beneath me, the cold wind, rain in my eyes, mixing with the tears.

I don't know how long I was riding, but I stopped eventually. An old woman found me, starving, dying... She took me in, kept me alive. We crossed the border into Rome's empire, in Greece, and it was not long before she sold me to the slave traders. They didn't want me – the burns made me damaged goods... But she managed to get rid of me all the same, she gave me to Romans.

They took us to Zucchabar, in North Africa. Then to Rome. I was there for a day, maybe two. I don't remember it. Just the pale stones, the wooden cage bars, the people. They stuck their hands through the cages, touched us. So many different people with lives and faces and colours. They sold us in the slave markets.

After a day, we were travelling again. Chained together, walking side-by-side, row-by-row. There were thirty of us, maybe more. The traders spared me no mercy, although I was by far the youngest, smallest, most naïve. I was six, and yet they expected me to be an adult, to walk like an adult. I remember there was a woman beside me – she had black skin – her name was Casscoi. She was from the far away lands, where the sun shines everyday... she carried me some days, when I gave her the bread I could not eat. She taught me to be strong; to never let them hurt me, to always believe in myself. She told me about her family in her homeland. I loved to hear her talk – she sang me to sleep each night.

We walked to Ireland. It took us a year, maybe a little less, maybe more. They said we were to be a gift for one of Rome's most loyal subjects. I was seven by the time we got there. The 'loyal subject' was called Evin Larsen. I learned to hate that name. We were slaves, chattels, working every day from sun up to sun down.

It happened one day, about six months after we got there. Evin Larsen, our gracious master was in the bathhouse. They told me to serve him, to take him wine and a linen sheet. I did – I had to. And he chose me. Then, in that moment. That night, he ordered me to his chamber, and it was the same every night for six years.

I was thirteen when I first tried to escape. There was a man called Lucius. Lucius Tiberious. He was Roman, so I hated him on principle. But he was kind to me, and tried to help me. But Evin found out that I was going to escape, and went to the meeting place. He found Lucius and me and banished Lucius from his lands. Lucius was much higher up in the Roman hierarchy than Evin ever could be, so he couldn't kill him. But he did worse to me.

There was a room in his house that had no windows. When the door was closed, the darkness was complete, utter black. Evin locked me in there for nearly a month after I tried to leave. He cut me and beat me, raped me, whipped me, tortured me. I closed my eyes and kept breathing.

Then, four years later, I killed him with his own knife, in his own house, on his own land. I felt no satisfaction, only hatred, only calm. From then on, I had one thing to live for. Evin had told me it was Artorius who had ordered the deaths of my parents. Who was I to doubt his word? What knowledge did I have that could oppose it? I travelled for three months, and came here. I tried to kill the man that had killed my parents, and instead killed an innocent – a boy – and I regret it, so much.

And now I am here, not dead, as I thought I would be. I was saved by the very man I swore to kill, and the men who serve him. I am no longer the assassin who came to your room, Arthur. I am changed. I wish to live, to love, to feel again.

I hope you can forgive me, Arthur, for what I have done. I hope you, Gawain, can forgive me too, for the death of your brother. I hope I can be forgiven by God, I hope I can be forgiven…