The Long Way Around

by HeadintheClouds16

She was once told the there is no worse death than the end of hope. Yet after two years trapped in the 5th century AD under the thumb of the Romans, Charlotte no longer agrees with that sentiment. Loaded onto a ship destined for Britain, Charlotte soon realizes she must decide quickly who she needs to be; a woman longing for the past or a woman ready to hope again.

9. The Blizzard

I find I enjoy chapters with a little bit of banter, so to break things up a bit, here you go! Also, rest assured, we will have more interactions with the various Sarmatians as we go. Charlotte is just one woman my friends and technically, it has only been a few days since she met them.

We'll get there.

Also, as you can see, I wasn't lying when I said I had completed nearly the whole story. Just rewriting took longer than I had anticipated. Expect more chapter updates this weekend!

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN ANY OF THE CHARACTERS OR PLOT LINES AS DEPICTED IN THE 2004 FILM 'KING ARTHUR' BY ANTOINE FUQUA. THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION DEDICATED TO THE HARD WORK AND EFFORT PUT FORWARD BY THOSE WHO WORKED ON THE FILM. THE ONLY CHARACTER I OWN IS CHARLOTTE

Alecto had elected to ride with his father, which I was thankful for as it left enough space for myself, the injured woman, Marius' wife (who had introduced herself as Fulcinia), the boy, and Dagonet to fit in the luxurious carriage without having to sit on top of one another.

Every dip in the road caused the wagon to shake, and I had to brace myself on multiple occasions against the posts to avoid falling across the injured Woad woman who drifted in an out of consciousness.

It was a small mercy, I thought as it allowed her to block out the pain she undoubtedly felt from her ordeal. Like the boy, she was extremely malnourished and dehydrated. But since we had left the villa, it was clear she was also quite feverish, which caused her to call out in her sleep in a language I assumed was Woad in way that sounded like she was begging. It pulled at my heart but I managed to stay professional, keeping my mask in place while inside my heart went out to her.

It must have been weeks since she had anything substantial to eaten as her ribs stuck out painfully from beneath her pale skin. However, despite how thin she was and her delirious mutterings, my main concerned remained her mangled hand.

I had gone over to check on the boy once we had set off and was not happy to find that like the woman, his forehead was hot with fever. The woman's fever seemed somewhat mild, but the boy's had begun to rage fiercely. Sweat pooled on his young brow, and he twisted in the furs we had draped over him.

My abilities to sooth his fever was meager.

I had a small collection of water someone had set aside that I had used to cool the boy's head, but I didn't know what else I could do. I didn't have any medicine that would aid in helping him so I was glad when Dagonet calmly informed me he could tend to the boy and joined us in the wagon. Using the herbs in my satchel, it took no time for him to concocted some sort of fever-reducer.

After I wrapped and set the boy's arm with a makeshift splint, Dagonet took my place next to the small boy. Ever the gentle giant, he washed the boy's brow with the small bucket of water and offered sips of the tincture to him carefully.

"I have dealt with fevers before," He said, smiling softly at the sleeping child. "He is a strong one. I am certain he will pull through."

I stared at the large man carefully before nodding. Dagonet had taken it upon himself to care for the boy almost immediately, and I wondered if this was something in his nature. Just like me, Dagonet had taken me in like a stray and ensured I was okay. Whether he realized it or not, he was doing the same thing he had done to me to the small boy.

It was like he couldn't help himself at seeing something broken.

It was heartwarming to know that it wasn't some charade to garner attention, but a true glimpse at the compassion that lay beneath his fearsome exterior. He was as much as a warrior as he was a healer, and I felt relieved that at least there was someone among us who actually belonged to the moniker.

Leaving the boy in his capable hands, I did what I could for the woman while she feverishly slept. Washing away as much grim as I could from her face and neck and allowing her sips of the tea Dagonet had made, I was relieved when her frantic ramblings finally subsided.

The worse of her injuries remained her fingers.

If I had the time, I wanted to march back to the villa, unbrick that wall myself, and beat the men who had done this to her. Saxons be damned, I would revel in seeing them scream in pain as someone broke their hands. I was not a violent person, but when Arthur had the villagers re-walled those men back into that hellhole, I felt a grim sense of righteousness.

Somehow, the monks had pulled her fingers in such a way that four of her fingers had been displaced from the joint but not broken. I could not image how they had done it, to get each finger to shift under the skin without causing other harm and tried not to think of the pain this woman had endured while they held her down.

Luckily for her, while the fingers themselves were not aligned; the bones felt intact. No fractures or breaks which meant that despite the blue tinge at the ends, there was a high likelihood she would not loose the ability to use her hand if we acted soon.

It was clear what needed to be done. Any medical student would have given the same diagnosis: each finger had to be delicately forced back into alignment without accidentally tearing any ligaments in the process. It would take a considerable amount of force to pop each finger back into place.

I tried to determine the best course of action that would not force the woman to undergo intense pain. Had I been back at St. Christopher's, I would have simply informed the on-call doctor of the situation, and within a few hours, the woman would have been sedated and sent into surgery. It would have been maybe a 30-minute procedure at the most, with x-rays and medical equipment at the ready to ensure everything went smoothly.

However, I had no form of sedation beyond ale to ease her pain. And that meant the woman would be awake while each of her fingers were manually pushed back into place. It would be excruciating, and someone would have to hold the woman down so she did not accidentally bring more harm to herself.

The thought of what I would need to do was not appealing.

Yet despite all this, I also acknowledged there was one more issue; two years of servitude and a severe lack of basic nutrition had withered my body away.

Most of the muscle I had had once upon a time was gone, forcing me to struggle with daily tasks that I had once never batted an eye at. The journey to Britain had only sapped whatever remaining strength I had managed to keep entirely leaving my arms as thin as pieces of pasta and my endurance at a zero.

Back in my own time, I had considered myself quite strong which was ironic since the trend at the time had been to be as skinny as possible. I actively enjoyed going to the gym on my rare days off, swimming on the weekends, and eating a rich balanced diet. The strength I possessed fueled me in my long days in residency but now…

Instead of lean muscle, I was nothing but skin and bones. Faced with this reality, I honestly didn't know if I had the strength to push her fingers back in quick enough to not cause her more pain. Which meant I needed to find someone else.

Dagonet was my automatic first choice.

His eyes were still resting on the boy with utter focus when he sensed my attention. Flicking his blue eyes to mine, he waited for me to ask the question on my lips. Not beating around the bush, I explained the situation but the gentle knight shook his head before I could ask for his assistance.

"I am not familiar with the practice. But I know Arthur has dealt with similar injuries before. I would seek his aid. He would be able to help you with this."

I considered his suggestion. Looking down at the woman, I knew I had little time before her fingers turned completely blue and were permanently damaged. Realizing that Dagonet's suggestion was all I had, I rested a hand on the woman's shoulder and gave her a quick smile.

She stared up at me, having regained consciousness a few minutes before. Her eyes were sharper, more focused than before but she looked warily at me. Though still delirious, her dark brown eyes watched me cautiously.

"I need to go get one of the knights," I said calmly, hoping that she understood. I still didn't know if she spoke Latin. At her blank expression, I risked continuing.

"Your fingers," I pointed to her wrapped hand, "are broken and need to moved. I don't have the strength to do it myself so I'm getting one of the men."

She seemed to consider my words as well as my poor attempts at miming the situation. She looked down at her hand before looking back at me.

With dark brown eyes and pale skin framed by long ebony hair, she was quite beautiful. Even with the sunken cheeks and dark circles under her eyes, the Woad woman must have had no trouble turning anyone's head. There was a sort of regality to her, a glimmer in her eyes I couldn't identify but seemed to invoke respect. Though she was obviously younger than me, she looked at me with a stare that was far too old for her young face.

Finally, she subtly nodded her head.

I managed to crawl out of the wagon before hopping off the back through the cloth flap. The cold wind and snow hit me instantly as my leather shoes crunched in the snow.

Standing in ankle deep, my hair whipped around my face as the snow blew around me. I tugged my hood up, partially to keep my hair out of the way, as well as to hide from the worst of the wind. I had not noticed, while sequestered in the wagon since the villa, that the storm had finally arrived.

Travelling in single file towards one of the mountain peaks, the long procession of villagers and carts stretched out before me like a painting.

Framed against snowcapped mountains, at least forty people trudged their way forward in the unforgiving storm. The caravan was moving slowly, inching over the icy ground only a few centimetres at a time. At this rate, it would take days to reach the same forest where we had escaped the Woads instead of hours but seeing the mountain looming up ahead, I wasn't sure if that was where we were heading.

In the distance up ahead, I could make out the familiar red cape of Arthur as he walked his horse slowly beside one of the wagons. Not wanted to waste unnecessary time away from the woman, I picked my way through the snow as fast as I was able.

Arthur's white stallion snorted as I approached, but I waited until Arthur noticed me as well before I called out.

"My Lord!"

"What is it?"

"The woman…the injured woman," I corrected, squinting up at him in the snow. "I know what I need to do to heal her hand, but I'm not strong enough. Dagonet said I should ask you."

"What must I do?" He asked, easily accepting my request. Sliding off the saddle, he held the reins of his horse lightly in one hand while he gave me his full attention. The large white animal stood patiently next to him.

"You have to do what tell you," I began. I didn't want the man to accidentally push too hard and break her finger bones. Nor accidentally push her fingers further out of alignment. He had to press only in the specific areas I indicated. It would be extremely difficult.

"If you're too strong, you'll only hurt her more so you need to be careful… My lord…"

His lips thinned slightly at the title.

"You may call me Arthur, Charlotte. No titles are needed between equals. My men call me by my Christian name so you may as well."

I searched his face as I tried to assess if he was being honest. I had only known one other who regarded slaves as equals… and I deliberated the odds that Arthur would also hold such rare ideals.

Pelagius was a modern man and therefore had grown up in a far different society. Arthur had not, of that I was certain. So he either was a man ahead of his own time, or held his own secrets that he was not willing to share.

Deciding to not question Arthur's strangely modern views, I bobbed my head in acceptance. Holding out my hand, I demonstrated what would need to be done. Arthur watched carefully.

"Her fingers are not in the right…place. Like this. But the bones are not broken."

Showing the need to push the fingers one by one into place, I waited until he nodded. "You'll need to do this to her fingers; one and then another one. You have to be careful so you don't break the bones. It'll hurt her so the faster you can do it the better. I'm too weak to move the bones."

"I understand," Arthur said, gesturing to Jols who rode up to us from the back of the caravan. "I have seen it done before."

"You have?"

"After battles many times in the south."

I felt a bit better at allowing the man to assist me. He did not seem squeamish which boded well and seemed to have some battlefield medicine experience which made me hopeful he knew at least the basics.

Handing Jols the reins of his horse to lead away, I moved to follow Arthur when he suddenly paused. I nearly ran into him and had to scurrying to the side to avoid bumping into his back. Looking at me quietly over his shoulder, he took in my form in the swirling snow. After a beat, his brows furrowed.

"When was the last time you ate, Charlotte?"

I did not expect his question.

When had I last eaten? I pondered, thinking back to the hunk of cheese Jols had offered me before the drumming had started. There was the cheese and then there had been the small piece of dried meat I had nibbled on in the morning while we rode.

It had been a busy day and I realized I had maybe only had a few bites at most all day.

"At the villa. Jols gave me some cheese."

"Go to the wagon closest to the front of the line. It has some provisions that the villagers had readied. You should go eat; you look as if you may collapse."

"I'll go after. I should be there…" I started, but he gently placed his hands on my shoulders which stopped my rambling. I tried not to flinch at the gesture. I was still so unused to gentle touches from men or women that it now invoked a nearly instinctual reaction.

Arthur did not react to my recoil, or actively ignored it, as he shook his head.

"I cannot have you becoming ill, Charlotte. Your skills have proven valuable and if you are too weak, it will be a bigger burden for all of us. We need you to help those who will struggle on this journey. Go. I know what I must do, and you may come and check on the woman once you have eaten."

Pushing me gently, he did not wait to hear my protests as he strode purposefully towards the wagons.

Standing in the snow, I had the distinct impression I had been dismissed by the commander. It rankled, more than I would have liked as a voice in my head scoffed and argued that, excuse me but who's the one that went to medical school?

I found myself automatically moving to follow him. I would be the one to make the decisions regarding the woman's health, let alone my own. I was a grown woman. I would eat when I was hungry.

My stomach decided at that very moment to panged in hunger. I clutched my stomach and let out a low oath when my stomach rumbled in protest.

Now that I was thinking about food, I realized I was actually ravenous. All I could think about was eating, and begrudgingly conceded that Arthur wasn't wrong. If I did become too weak, I would just be another body for the knights to drag back to the fort. They were already burdened with more than they were prepared for and with those sick like the boy and woman, at least I could take some of it off their plate.

I came to the conclusion that I was being forced to trust that the Roman commander would do what I asked to the letter. He was a competent leader, so I prayed that he was not exaggerating when he said he knew was to do.

Looking down the slow-moving line, I sluggishly joined in my pursuit to now find the provision wagon Arthur had spoken of. Once I ate, I would return as fast as I could to the woman and the boy. It would take me only a few minutes to wolf something down, so it wouldn't be long before I clambered back into the wagon with the others.

It was helped that it was extremely cold outside. I had no intention of lingering outside of the safety of the wagon canvas for long. As much as Horse was a good horse, I wasn't complaining about being tucked away.

Most of the villagers wandered by me had their heads down against the blinding snow, while others pulled or pushed small carts of food and keepsakes. I went completely unnoticed as I joined their ranks, just another villager trekking their way over the barren terrain.

It was a slow slog, and I passed by the different wagons far slower than I had hoped. The wagons were large and cumbersome, but the villagers also seemed weighed down by the blistering snow and heavy packs on their backs. I had no excuse, but my thin leather shoes were not made for the mountainous path.

I slipped and slided on the snow, which had melted into a quagmire of frozen mud and rocks. My feet struggled to gain purchase despite having no tread and so I resorted to slowing my pace to avoid breaking an arm.

Tristan led the convoy, his figure distance in the front but recognizable due to the silhouette of a hawk that rose above him. He was leading us up a trail that wound it way towards the mountains, which was definitely not the same path we had followed previously in the day. It was no easy trek, and soon I found the road tilting up into a steep incline.

I couldn't see how far up we would have to go before we could level out again.

A few women clutching their children glanced at me as I walked past them. I could already feel the wetness from the snow seeping into my shoes and grimaced at the high likelihood that if I did somehow survive this journey, I could potentially die later from something as benign as trench foot.

Blinking through the snow as I tried to get closer to the wagons that rambled ahead of me, I stopped when I heard my name being called.

"Charlotte!"

From the rear, a familiar dappled grey horse appeared from the blowing snow. Gawain pulled along beside me, and I could see his long blonde hair was nearly entirely white, giving him a strange ghost-like appearance. I could only imagine how I looked in comparison with my own pale hair..

He raised a brow curiously as he stared down at me.

"What are you doing?" He asked, keeping his horse moving at my pace as I continued to walk forward.

"I thought you were tending to the Woad woman?"

He spat the word 'Woad'. Giving him a much of a glare as I could from beneath my hood, I corrected him firmly.

"Woad or not, she's just a woman. One who was hurt very badly by those monks for days. You should have some… I don't know the word but just don't. You shouldn't think of her so badly. You saw what it was like in that place."

My skin crawled at the memories of the crypt and Gawain visibly grimaced as well. I knew he remembered the smell of death that hung in the air, the bodies littering the cages. Even if she was their enemy, the Sarmatian had to have some compassion for her after what he had witnessed in there. I wouldn't have wished it on my worst enemy and the Bishop ranked high on the list.

I let out a low sigh as I ran a hand over my face tiredly. I felt guilty at my snappish tone but I was hungry, tired, and cold with the day that seemed to only be getting worse as it went.

I didn't mean to be so sharp with him, but I couldn't let him curse a woman who had been tortured nearly to death while I stood ankle deep in snow while my stomach rumbling painfully.

I held my hood on as a blast of wind threatened to tug it from my head. I stumbled at the force of the wind but manage to stay upright, biting back an oath in English. Steadying my feet, I waved a hand at Gawain.

"I'm sorry, Gawain. I didn't mean it."

He shrugged from his position, looking unbothered by my change in mood.

"Anyone would be miserable in this snow; I don't take it personally. And you're right. That place was evil… not a good place."

I nodded, secretly relieved he explained what the word 'evil' was. I filed it away in my mind.

"What are doing out here?" He asked again. I pointed behind me.

"Arthur is helping the woman now. He told me to eat something from a wagon at the front before I go back."

"You didn't get any of the stew earlier."

It wasn't a question, but a statement as he remembered the soup Fulcinia had supposedly provided the knights while I cared for the old man. I nodded my head.

"Jols gave me some cheese."

He scoffed lightly.

"I can bring you," he offered, holding out his hand to me. At my confused look, he gave me an exasperated glare. "It'll be faster if I bring you to the front then letting you walk. You'll freeze at this rate."

Looking down at the muddy snow and the distance I still had to climb to reach the front of the convoy, I immediately decided to accept the offer. My feet were already freezing and the sooner I could eat, the sooner I could get out of the wind.

"Thank you." I said, and gripped his offered hand. His palm was rough, which was not surprising given his occupation.

With ease, he swung me up behind him as if I weighed nothing more than a child. I let out a breath of shock at the casual show of strength, but he positioned me behind him without a word. His bulk blocked out the worse of the wind and I huddled closer to him on instinct.

Setting off at a slow trot, I wrapped my arms around Gawain's waist as we set off. Much leaner than Dagonet, I was able to reach fully around his waist, even whilst he was wearing his armour. He smelt of leather, as well as something almost earthy which was hard to ignore given how close I pressed my face to his back to avoid the whipping snow. His dark brown cloak brushed roughly against my cheek but I remained glued to his back.

No one seemed to take notice of us as we passed and it didn't take long before Gawain pulled up next to a large wagon stuffed to the brim with barrels and sacks of grain at the front of the line. He had been right – though it took us no longer than a minute or two on horseback, it would taken me a while to reach the wagon at the pace I was going.

I was immensely glad I had taken him up on his offer.

Seeing we were at the wagon, I made a move to slide off the grey horse. However, before I could, Gawain placed a hand over my arms that remained wrapped around his middle. The move was strangely intimate, so naturally I balked.

Jerking back at the touch and away from the man, I sucked in a startled breath.

"What are you doing?"

Gawain peered over his shoulder but was distracted when a man, who was pushing at the back of the provision wagon, perked up at the sight of the knight.

"Is there something you be needing?" He man asked, his eyes widening dramatically at the windswept knight and the woman huddled behind him. The man wore a thin knit hat that was pulled low over his eyes, revealing little other than an impressive grey beard that hung to his chest.

"Some bread and meat, if you can spare it," Gawain asserted, his voice carrying over the howling winter wind.

The man jerked to attention and called out loudly.

"Thomas!"

A young boy, no more than twelve, popped up from amongst the barrels. His long brown hair fell in knots to his shoulders but he looked practically entranced at the appearance of Gawain. Gawking, he ignored who I supposed was his father in lieu of immediately asking the blonde knight a series of questions.

"Are you a knight?! Have you killed a Woad before? Have you been to Rome? If you've been to Rome, does that make you a Roman?" The boy asked in wonder, his questions melding into a stream of words I could barely catch.

Gawain smirked slightly, quirking a brow.

"Do I look like a Roman to you?"

The boy shook his but his father shouted at him again.

"Thomas, leave 'em alone and quit askin' 'em questions!"

Drawing the boy out of his stupor, the man reiterated the instructions, and the boy bounced into motion, disappearing into the clutter.

"I can get my food myself," I argued, feeling a bit embarrassed at having the boy do it for me. I tried to wiggle off the horse once again but Gawain kept a tight hold of my arm and grunted.

"Can you please stop fidgeting?"

"I don't know that word. Can you let me off the horse?" I shot back, a bit confused as to why I was suddenly being held prisoner. The blonde knight merely looked back at me askance.

"If you wish to eat in peace before returning to the woman and boy, then stay on the horse. You can't eat and walk at the same time in this weather. I'll be on the receiving end of Arthur's anger if he finds out the healer took a tumble. So stop moving – that's what that word means. You're worrying my horse."

I glanced down at his horse and stopped, not wanting to be bucked off. I turned so that I could eye the landscape. The snow as only getting deeper as we cut our way up the mountain. Even if I stood and waited for the wagon with the woman and boy to rumble up the path, I would be left expose to the elements for several minutes.

Gawain struck a fair point. At least hidden behind him, I could eat in peace will not freezing to death.

Seeing that I was not immediately arguing, Gawain gently released his grip on my arm.

"I will bring you back to the wagon with the… woman as soon as you are done so you can continue with your healing."

I noticed how careful he was with his wording. Letting out a reluctant sigh, I finally stopped fidgeting. Even if I felt incredibly awkward seating on the back of his horse, trench foot or 'taking a tumble', as he put it, were less appealing.

Keeping my hands around Gawain as gingerly as I could, I muttered my thanks.

"I'm only saying yes because I don't want wet feet."

"I am glad to know that riding with me is considerably better than wet feet."

I snorted in amusement despite myself.

"It's not you," I amended, seeing the slight smirk under his beard. "I'm happy to be not walking. But…"

"But?"

I tried to think of the words in Latin. It was always a struggle, and I had grown to appreciate those who had learned multiple languages in adulthood. Having only spoken English my entire life, I realized how difficult it was to fully express myself in a different tongue.

I cursed quietly as I fumbled for what I wanted to say. Arthur had said the word earlier, but it was gone from my mind.

"I don't want to be a weight…umm a big weight? But like…not a weight that is heavy…a mind weight?"

How did one say burden?

He furrowed his brows in thought. He made a face and then shrugged, looking incredibly lost.

"I'm not sure what you are trying to say, but you are quite light if that's the concern. I assure you, my horse won't collapse."

I sighed.

"That's not what I mean… I'm much smarter in my language just so you know."

Gawain actually chuckled.

"I'm not surprised," the man quipped, casting an amused look over his shoulder. His wild hair, flecked with snow, blew around his head like a halo. He looked so much like a lion it was almost amusing.

"I can see your mind working when you're trying to come up with the right words. I remember how it was when I learned Latin. Barely spoke for months."

I had forgotten that like me, the Sarmatians were not native Latin speakers. It was almost nice to know I wasn't the only one who struggled with the language. I smiled in relief.

"You're not bad," he added thoughtfully. "Give it time and you'll have as much of a silver tongue as Lancelot."

"I don't know if I want that" I stated bluntly, pulling a face. Even though Lancelot was a clever and strong warrior, his tongue was as sharp as a blade with a penchant for the inappropriate.

Gawain leaned forward as he laughed heartily; the noise surprisingly loud. I could feel his chest shake from underneath my hands.

"You are probably right. I pray to the gods that man never has a son - I don't think I have the strength to deal with two of him."

I let my mind wander to the knight in question, with his dark intense eyes and classic good looks. Yes he was a classic case of a player (circa 5th century), there was something about him that drew me to him.

Not wanting Gawain to think I thought poorly of his companion, I spoke again.

"He isn't bad. He's just… how do people say, charm-ful? Full of charm?"

"Charming," Gawain corrected with a roll of his eyes. He shook his head. "Don't let him hear you say that. Lancelot takes pride in collecting beautiful women. But should I just leave now to find your handsome knight for you? I'm getting the feeling that even though I saved you from wet feet, you'd rather be on the back of another horse."

I patted him across the stomach with a laugh, not realizing what I was doing.

"I'm sorry, you're right. Thank you Gawain for 'saving' me from wet feet. You're charmful too."

"Charming," he stated again, but the faint smile that tugged at his lips belied his true amusement.

We lapsed into a comfortable silence. The wind continued to blow around us but tucked behind Gawain's body, I was for the most part protected from the worse of it. He seemed less bothered by the wind and snow than I was and stared ahead stoutly.

The boy continued to rummage through the bags however as we waited I found myself thinking back to the villa. And the crypt beneath it.

"You keep surprising me," I said, my voice causing Gawain to tilt his head backwards to better hear. Though he didn't turn, I could see he was curious.

"Oh?"

"You and the other knights are not like what I had thought. Or how the Romans said you were like."

This seemed to amuse him. He chuckled darkly.

"And what do our friends the Romans say about us?"

"That you're barbarians and pagans, who kill everything and everyone," I responded easily, feeling that Gawain would be amused by the Romans curses against the Sarmatians.

Unlike Galahad, who I suspected would have marched up the closest Roman he found and shot him in the back if I told him half of what I had heard (and understood) from the Romans during our trek north, Gawain was far too even-tempered to be bothered by such a thing. As if proving my point, Gawain's smile deepened.

I thought back to the hushed tones in which the centurions would talk around the fires, murmuring about the strange men who guarded the wall in the north. I hummed in thought.

"When I was coming here with the Bishop, many of the guards talked about you all. They were afraid of you. The talked as if you were all in a…"

I said 'ghost stories' in English but did my best to translate.

"Stories about scary dead people..."

"Ghost stories," Gawain supplied, a smirk pulling at his lips at my creative explanation. He considered my words for a moment before he shrugged good-naturedly.

"And what do you think? Do you think their stories are true now that you have travelled with us?"

I considered his words curiously.

Was I afraid of the knights?

Had I been asked three days ago; I was certain I would have said yes.

Their ferocity in battle was terrifying. In the first moments I had seen them, fighting hand to hand with the Woads, I had never seen such unbridled violence before in my life. The knights each contained a sort of untamed wildness that made me nervous but now, even though that wildness remained, I did not feel the need to cower under their stares.

Sitting on the back of Gawain's horse, with my arms around his waist, there was no way I could deny that surprisingly, I was no longer afraid of the Sarmatians.

I found myself shaking my head before the words were even out of my mouth.

"No, I'm not afraid. You are all more kind than I had thought. The Romans would have left me to walk in the snow. Or would have left these people to die."

"Maybe," The blonde knight conceded, "But I wouldn't say bringing these people with us was our choice. Arthur made that decision. We just follow his command – If given the choice, I would have left these people for the Saxons."

"I don't think you are the same as the Romans," I interrupted. "You're not cruel. That is the different… I mean difference."

Gawain studied me for a moment from over his shoulder. The little boy suddenly popped back up from the wagon, ending our conversation when he chirped in pride.

"I found some!"

He handed a small loaf of dark bread and a chunk of dried meat to Gawain with a slight bow of his head. He still gawked openly at the knight but managed to only blush cutely when the man thanked him, ducking his head to hide his glee.

I took the meal thankfully from Gawain who passed it back, my stomach growling loudly at the sight. I was famished and the slight scent of the crusty bread was mouthwatering even in the snow.

Before tucking in, I remembered myself and thanked both the man and his son.

"Thank you lady," The man countered, bobbing his head at me in a sort of bow. I frowned, a bit confused at the honorific.

"What for?"

"For helping with Ol' Gregory. Tending to his cuts and such."

"The old man from the villa?" I asked after I pondered out who Ol' Gregory was. The man nodded again. I leaned down so that I could see the man more clearly, my food somewhat forgotten as I thought back to the poor elderly man.

I had not seen him since we had left and I wondered how his wounds were doing on such a rugged road.

"How is he?" I asked.

"He is further down that a way, Lady…" The man answered, gesturing back the way we had come. "And he was speakin' the last time I heard. Gabbing like he always does and moaning. But I think that's a good sign, right?"

I bit the inside of my cheek.

"I nearly forgot about him. I should go check on him to make sure he's not gotten worse…" I murmured in English.

I turned from my position on the horse to look behind me at the long procession. Gawain had kept pace with the provisions wagon, so we remained at the front.

I couldn't remember which wagon it was I had loaded the old man into. I would have to hold off until I saw to the woman and checked that Arthur had not butchered her hand but then I could visit the old man to ensure his cuts were not worse. I could even bring some of the tea Dagonet had made…

I gently tugged on Gawain's armour, earning a look.

"Can you take me back?"

"Eat first," Gawain instructed; however he wheeled his horse around regardless. "I'll find out which wagon the old man is resting in so that you can find it again after you speak with Arthur."

Taking a small bite of the hard tack, I nearly moaned in ecstasy, forgetting to thank Gawain for his thoughtfulness. I thought I felt him more than heard him chuckle but I wasn't really paying attention.

Though it was not flavourful at all, I savored the taste the preserved meat. I truly had forgotten how little I had eaten both the night before and today so the piece of salty jerky was the best thing I had ever tasted.

Checking to make sure if I was eating, Gawain urged his horse further away from the provision wagon. He began asking some of the trudging villagers after Ol' Gregory, earning a more than a few wary looks. With his braided and tangled long golden hair and gruff voice, Gawain was far more wild in appearance than his companions.

If only they knew what lay beneath his scruffy appearance, I mused.

A few of the villagers dodged his questions, moving onward quickly to avoid him. Others said they were not sure, so Gawain changed tactics and started asking those directly on the various wagons. Several of the villagers peeked up at where I sat hidden behind him, their eyes curious at who I could be.

They clearly wanted to know who the woman was who travelled with the infamous Sarmatian knights. I wished that I could tell them I was no one, but I knew it would pointless. Instead, I avoided their curious stares and focused on wolfing down the rest of my food.

It became abundantly clear that Gawain was a human furnace as we walked down the line. Despite the snow and wind that seemed to snap at the others around us, I found I was perfectly content behind the Sarmatian knight. I relished in the warmth he provided and remembered how warm he had seemed the night before in the rain.

He didn't look bothered by the weather, despite grousing about it often. I inwardly wondered if Sarmatia was a cold country which would explain why all of the knights seemed so unaffected by the elements.

I had no idea where Sarmatia was other than was not in England and lay somewhere 'east' of here but I was beginning to wonder if it was near present-day Russia or the Ukraine. It would explain their indifference to the cold.

Hadn't I read once that there were famous horsemen in the steppes of eastern Europe? Or was that Asia? I should have paid more attention to history class.

I let my thoughts drift to my woeful lack of historical knowledge while I finished off the last of my food, idly listening as Gawain continued the search for the old man.

He pulled his horse to a halt as he let some of the wagons move forward, their wheels rumbling past us in the snow. He did not seem inclined to ask the driver of the coming wagon about the location of Ol' Gregory so I peered around, wondering if we had somehow reached the end of the convoy.

However, I belatedly realized that the wagon approaching was that of Marius' own private carriage. Far finer than the one I had been travelling in with the others, the rich wood and thick canvas fabric spoke of wealth and luxury. The grey canvas sheets were drawn tight against the wind, but one section had been left open.

Alecto leaned out of the gap, draped in furs as he watched the scenery past with blank eyes. The young Roman seemed lost in thought, until his gaze shifted to where Gawain and I waited. He looked at the knight without emotion, but then his dark eyes caught sight of me hidden behind the burly knight and his expression changed.

It was like a light at be switched on, and suddenly the blank stare from before was replaced with an intense focus. His eyes met mine and I could see the recognition flicker in their depths, as well as the subsequent revulsion.

I unintentionally gripped Gawain's torso tighter.

"Do you know him?"

Gawain kept his voice low but regarded the passing Roman boy with barely concealed indifference. Alecto continued to stare and then, a brief flicker of his eyes towards my shoulder. I sighed inwardly. There was no mistaking the way he winced.

So he does remember me.

I swiftly turned my head away so that I no longer had to look at him. I waited until the wagon had fully passed us before I let out a breath of relief.

"So you do know the Roman boy," Gawain murmured thoughtfully.

"I do."

"How?"

"From Rome," I answered, pinching the bridge of my nose as I tried to remember the word for uncle. "He's the… brother's son of my master."

"The Bishop Germanus is his uncle?"

I shook my head, but realized the knight couldn't see me. I cleared my throat.

"No… my master in Rome. His name was Lucius Honorius. Alecto lived at our villa for two seasons when I was there."

"But I thought you served the Bishop?" Gawain asked in confusion. "Isn't that how you ended up in this land?"

"The Bishop is not my master," I adamantly declared, wrinkling my nose in disgust. Shaking my head, I spoke again.

"I ran away from my master in Rome but the Bishop caught me. He took me to the fort so I could be punished. Because I'm a slave, I have do what the Bishop says – but he is not my master."

I tacked on the last word with a snarl, to which Gawain hummed in understanding.

"That then explains your rather… interesting expression from this morning," He supplied, causing me to frown for a moment as I tried to understand his words. I rolled them around in my mind, momentarily confused.

"'Interesting expression'? What do you… oh. Oh."

I remembered the words I had spat at Horton earlier today and grimaced. Had that only been this morning? It felt like an entire lifetime ago.

"I didn't know anyone else heard me…"

"Well, we did. Galahad nearly choked on an apple."

I smirked despite myself. I really was proud of shocking Horton into a stunned stupor. It had been a long time since I had spoken my mind without worrying about the consequences. I felt my chest puff up a bit in pride.

"I do not like Horton."

Gawain scoffed in agreement.

"No one likes the monk. I doubt you would find any of the knights thinking of the Christian beyond the way one would think of cow shit. But the words you said…Is that a common saying in your tongue? I've never heard an insult like that."

"It's hard to say," I answered vaguely, looking askance at the back of the knight. "Some English words do not make sense in Latin but others do. I was angry at the monk for being...well, for being Horton."

"That much was clear. What did the monk say to you to cause such a response?"

"To make me angry?"

Gawain nodded in front of me. I shifted on the horse and muttered quietly.

"It's a long story…"

"Unless the Saxons suddenly attack, I believe we have time," Gawain retorted easily. "I also think the old man is in the last of the wagons. Tell me the tale, or I will keep wondering about what other sayings your people have regarding certain limbs."

I felt my cheeks redden.

"You'd like to know, wouldn't you?" I mused in English quietly. Gawain secretly grinned.

Though the blonde knight was far quieter than Lancelot or Bors, he had quick wit that I was fast appreciating. Unlike Lancelot's sharp tongue, Gawain had a gentler humor that he hid beneath a veneer of sarcasm. It made it exceedingly easy to speak to the man, which I wondered was the reason I had not insisted he let me down off his horse.

"When I was taken to Rome, I was sold to a Roman man in the city," I began. I sobered as I thought of Pelagius.

"He was my friend and he taught me Latin so I could talk with others in his villa. I liked him but the other Romans… they didn't. People like the Pope… Do you know who the Pope is?"

Gawain shrugged. "I am guessing he's an important Roman?"

"Yes, well he's very important if you're a Christian. My master was… different than other Romans. He kind to his slaves and taught other Romans to be kind too. He thought everyone should be… equal. He wanted everyone to be equals, and that slaves should be free. The Pope didn't like that."

"What was this man's name? He sounds like Arthur."

"Pelagius," I replied. My voice only wavered over his name slightly, but Gawain caught the wobble. He shifted in his saddle.

"He was good man," I reiterated sadly. "I miss him a lot."

"I'm sorry," Gawain answered and I appreciated that he actually sounded sincere. I awkwardly shrugged, my arms tightening around his armour at the action.

"The Bishop also hated Pelagius. He would fight with Pelagius because he didn't like when he said slaves should be free. When I met the Bishop, I didn't like him. I didn't…trust him? But I also did not know how… big he was in Rome. He made Horton tell other big Romans that Pelagius was a bad man. And then, Pelagius was killed. Just like that."

I sighed heavily and blinked back tears, forcing myself to ignore the image of Pelagius' bloody body. I pushed past it and decided to not elaborate exactly how he had been killed. I didn't think I had the strength to explain it when I was only just beginning to be able to say his name without falling into despair.

"When Pelagius died, I was sold to Lucius Honorius. I stayed for a moon working for my new master but… it was hard. Lucius was a cruel man and was not like Pelagius. He would hit the other slaves with a… umm, this big stick and scream at us. And when he was mad, Lucius would make us eat our food on the ground."

I laughed darkly as I added, "I tried to run away many times."

Gawain did not interrupt but I could tell he was listening intently. The man had gone still, his head tilted to the side to better hear over the whistling wind. I absentmindedly rubbed at my shoulder as I remembered the last time I was dragged back to the villa.

"Alecto was there when they brought me back one day. Lucius made Alecto mark me as punishment..."

"Mark you? What does that mean?"

"Umm… Like with animals," I tried to explain, unsure how else to describe branding without showing him the mark on my shoulder. I pressed a hand to the top of his arm lightly. "With a hot stick on my shoulder like this."

Gawain sucked in a breath. I felt the muscles under his armour flex beneath my hands as he shifted uncomfortably. His voice came out quietly, but somehow his quiet tone seemed far more deadly than a yell or scream. My hand on his arm dropped to my side quickly.

"Branded. You were branded," He stated bluntly. His voice cut through the wind like a blade and I could almost hear him grit his teeth when he cursed.

"Roman bastards."

I rolled my shoulders. It was not a fond experience, but I also knew I had been lucky. Lucius' made Alecto brand me to teach him some sort of lesson about slaves. The poor boy had been petrified, and as a result, he had only pushed the metal rod against my back for a second. It was almost a mercy that it had been the boy and not Lucius himself given this had not been the first time I had tried to escape.

"I'm okay," I said calmly. "It was not bad. Some slaves when they run away get a… brand on their head. It says 'Fugitus' so others know. You can't see mine so I'm lucky."

The knight didn't speak. I regarded his profile carefully from where I sat, unsure if maybe I had said too much. This had been the longest conversation I had had with any of the knights and suddenly worried if I had overstepped whatever odd alliance I had made with the men.

I inwardly cursed. Remembering what he had asked to begin with, I decided to sum up the story in a single sentence.

"But Horton said this morning that I wasn't serving the Bishop well on this trip. So I got angry because… the Bishop has caused a lot of pain. That's the story."

We drifted into a tense silence. Gawain seemed lost in thought while I mentally kicked myself. Whatever possible friendship we could have had I had blown to pieces by unloading my trauma onto the man.

And how could I blame him?

The Sarmatians had their own history with the Romans. Maybe my story had triggered something in him from his own past. Or maybe he was just showing me a kindness in giving me lift, but nothing more. I winced at the thought.

God, why did I open my mouth.

The last of the wagons slowly rumbled past our position. I spotted a familiar face of one of the men who had helped me with the injured man sitting at the front of the last wagon. I hesitantly prodded Gawain's side.

Unlike Galahad's armour which was a series of leather straps underneath thick metal plating, Gawain's was very different. Tighter to his body, his armour looked more like an intricate series of metal squares sewn onto a leather chest piece. The metal under my fingertips was cold but Gawain did not show he had felt my hesitant nudge.

I had to grasp the chilled armour firmly on his side and give a sharp yank to draw the man's attention back to me.

"I see the old man's wagon, Gawain. I need to go back now to see Arthur. Thank you for the ride."

"You're welcome." He replied, however he still seemed lost in thought. Unsure if I should just slide off the horse or wait, I tapped his bare arm.

"Gawain?"

"Is that why you ran off last night?"

I startled at the random question.

"What do you mean?"

He seemed to mull the question a bit in his mind, hesitating before he spoke again.

"After you stitched up Galahad's wound, you disappeared into the woods. Then when you came back, your eyes looked haunted?"

Do not let them take everything from you.

Lancelot's words echoed in my mind again harshly. I let out breath.

Remembering the way I lay shaking on the forest floor, trying to breath as I was forced to relieve Pelagius' last moments I tried to not physically recoil. But now I was able to withstand the images to a degree, I felt the words leave my lips before I could think to stay silent.

There was no reason to hide the truth from the man. The Sarmatians had seen me break but they also had a right to know how their supposed healer was barely holding it together.

"Sometimes its' like I can't… I can't breathe. It started after Pelagius died and last night I remembered something and I just, couldn't breathe right. I don't know how to explain it."

"I'm sorry," he said but I waved him off.

"I'm not the only person who has been hurt by the Romans. And I don't think I am the last. Lancelot told me what I needed to hear and I feel better. He's a smart man."

"I liked it better when he was only 'charm-ful'."

He turned his head to look at me and I recognized the familiar glitter in his eye. It was a peace offering of sorts, and let out a relieved breath that I had not bungled the odd friendship that was growing.

The man smiled faintly under his beard and I found my own smile bloom across my face unbidden. Meeting his gleaming eyes, I tilted my head to the side playfully as I patted his armour.

"He may be charm-ful. But you Gawain, are charming."