Author: Triane

Disclaimer: Not. Mine. Except Iona. Everything else belongs to someone else. Even more so now, that we're into movie territory - I've done what I could to gloss over using the actual dialogue, but if you recognize dialogue or action, its because it's. Not. Mine.

Summary: Iona and Dagonet find what they're looking for

By the time they galloped down the long lane leading to Marius Honorius' villa the next day, a grey pall had settled over the land. Clouds blocked the sun, heavy with snow, and a biting wind was steadily picking up speed. Arthur announced their presence at the gate and they waited, watching with raised eyebrows as a crowd of peasants gathered around them warily. Iona and Dagonet exchanged sidelong glances as they took in the condition of the people, the tattered clothes and skinny limbs, and Iona felt something unsettling fall over her shoulders. Something's not quite right here.

Honorius appeared, a small bustling man with an air of authority, entitlement, and condescension - and, like the bishop, Iona disliked him immediately. His wife was a mouse of a woman, but his son... Alecto was hard to read. There may be hope for him yet. Maybe his mother isn't as much of a doormat as she appears to be. She watched, eyes narrowing as Honorius and his guards bullied the peasants away and she knew, just knew, that Arthur wasn't going to let this go as planned.

And she was right. The knights stifled a collective groan as Arthur strode off, Excalibur in hand, towards an old man, skinny and beaten and shackled by his wrists to a wooden frame.

Arthur, resplendent and towering in his righteous indignation, demanded an explaination from the stammering villager beside him. Iona was too far away to hear what was being said, but she knew Arthur well enough to not be surprised when he broke the man free and began giving orders. Once finished, he strode back to the knights with fire in his green eyes, stopping only to speak briefly with Tristan who had just returned from a brief scouting run.

Then, from over the treetops, ominous and chilling, came the sound of Saxon war drums.

A horrifying hush settled over the property as everyone - guards, servants, knights and peasants - stopped what they were doing to listen, hearts pounding in the same rhythm and mouths suddenly dry. It was only a split second of stillness before activity resumed, but that was all it took for Arthur to notice a pair of men walling up the doorway of a small hut.

Suspicious once more, Arthur again drew Excalibur and dismounted, the knights following on horseback as he roughly questioned the men. The feeling of foreboding on Iona's shoulders grew heavier as she saw the panicked look in Honorius' eye. What is he hiding in there?

Despite the pleas and warnings from Lancelot and Galahad, Arthur remained resolute, turning instead to Dagonet who immediately dismounted and set about demolishing the stone barrier with his axe. Faced with a wooden door behind, Arthur again gave the order and Dagonet reduced it to a pile of kindling within a matter of seconds.

From her position on Ardin's back next to the hut, Iona could see the outline of shackles hanging inside and felt her skin crawl. But the smell was what caught her attention - wafting out of the small hut and settling around her. Her mouth set in a thin line, she looked as Dagonet came to stand beside her.

"It smells like that tent." Her husband nodded, gritting his teeth and stopping only long enough to squeeze her leg reassuringly before ducking into the hut with Arthur, Lancelot, and Gawain.

For a long moment they waited - Iona, Tristan, Bors and Galahad - their horses hopping anxiously beneath them as they simultaneously watched the crowd and waited for the others to reappear. Galahad cleared his throat nervously.

"What do you think is down there?" Tristan shot a look at Iona, who clenched her jaw, her mind filled with the image of flickering torchlight and filthy furs. Her voice was low.

"Nightmares." An uneasy silence descended over them, broken only by the relentless pounding of Saxon drums. Finally, after what seemed like forever, Lancelot appeared and doused his torch in the snow, a sick look on his face. Arthur quickly followed, shouting for water, a young woman clasped in his arms.

And then, Dagonet - and Iona's heart instantly broke, both for the look on his face and for the mop of blonde curls he carried with him. She immediately slid from Ardin's back and crouched beside her husband, her waterskin in her hand. It was a boy, probably only five or six years old, with a sad, scared face. He gulped water greedily as Iona did a quick survey.

"His arm is broken." Dagonet nodded, his jaw working. Iona's voice was a sigh.

"And his family?" He shook his head again, then looked up at her with fierce blue eyes.

"Iona..." A beat, and Iona understood. For a long moment they stared at each other, and then Iona nodded, slowly, her heart already wrapped up in the child, knowing she, they, could do nothing else. She moved so the boy was resting against her knee and gently smoothed her hand through his curls, her voice soft.

"What is your name, child?" The boy looked up at her with fever bright eyes and stared for a long moment, his eyes tracing her face. Finally he spoke, his voice just a cracked whisper.

"Lucan." Iona nodded, smoothing her cool fingers over his flushed skin. She looked up at Dagonet, her heart in her eyes, seeing tears glisten in his as well.

Lucan.