And I'm back. Sorry for the late update everyone - the holidays went by in a blur and I was focusing on if I wanted to rewrite a few chapters. I eventually decided that I needed to rework the next few chapters to better reflect Charlotte as a human and less of a martyr so it made a bit more sense. Most of us don't simply charge into battle armed with nothing more than good intentions - and I feel Charlotte given her history is a bit more complex than that so I needed to rethink a few things.

Lots coming so be prepared.

Also, as a note, I want to thank everyone once again for the comments but also to those that have reached out about commissions. While I am absolutely honored that many of you would like to create art to reflect my story (seriously, I am beyond touched), unfortunately I am broke and thus unable to afford to pay for such an honor.

Anyway, thoughts and comments are always appreciated! It's good to be back.

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.

"You look awful."

I winced at the blunt greeting, but more so due to the throb of pain that shot through my head at the sudden noise. I looked up from the table, my uneaten porridge in front of me and grimaced.

Upon waking up in the infirmary, several things became very clear very quickly.

The first was that I had had way too much to drink the night before and was currently experiencing one of the worst hangovers I had ever experienced. I had undoubtedly misjudged my tolerance for medieval wine and did what I could to not heave up the contents of my stomach the moment my eyes fluttered opened.

The second was that I was waking in a world free of Bishop Germanus.

Without intending to, I had slept through the night and had missed the Bishop's departure from Vercovicium with his Roman contingent and Alecto and his mother. Horton too was gone, most likely sequestered in the carriage along side his long-time master as they fled the fort Arthur had said no longer would show them welcome. Though a small part of me would have relished at the idea of watching his carriage disappear into the gloom for the closure it would bring me, I realized that there was no farewell I wished to give the man or our history. He didn't deserve it and I decided I was thankful that in my drunken haze, I had completely forgotten about the man who had made my life a living hell.

It seemed fitting in a way. Bishop Germanus, Alecto, and even Horton were painful reminders of my past. By letting them disappearing into the night, it felt as if I was finally allowing myself to let go of the last echoes of my past.

Though it could have been as a result of my hangover, the sun seemed to shine just a bit brighter than it had the day before.

The last realization I had upon waking was perhaps what sobered me most effectively. With the sun streaming through the infirmary windows, I remembered what was coming.

The Saxons.

Dagonet was still resting when I stumbled off of the cot, my mind already buzzing with uncertainty at what we would be facing next. I rested a hand against my head as it began to pound and let out a low sigh, wondering why I let myself drink so much with the enemy so close.

I could only distantly remember parts of the night before - once Bors had left with Vanora, Tristan, Galahad, Gawain and I had fended for our ourselves for several hours. After the third flagon of wine was consumed, things got particularly blurry and I could only remember snippets of what had occured.

I had the faint impression of teaching the knights a drinking game from my college days at one point, but it was intercut with faint images of Tristan throwing knives at Galahad's head while Gawain's soft chuckles rumbled nearby. It was hard to say what had really happened the night before and inwardly I shook my head at my apparent lack of self-awareness given that I had allowed myself to become nearly blackout drunk amongst a group of men I had barely known for a week in a place about to be besieged by a horde of savage northmen.

I managed to not vomit as I stumbled my way to the wash basin lamenting my first day as a freed woman.

Dagonet remained peaceful asleep as I staggering from the infirmary soon after. Despite the early hour, the kitchen was bustling when I entered the courtyard in search of water. Soldiers, townsfolk, and children rushed around in a scene that seemed to blur around the edges. My eyes blinked in an attempt to focus as I found a quiet table in the corner where I could collect my thoughts.

Vanora, eyeing me with a mix of amusement, pity and something a bit more grim, handed me a bowl of porridge. I gagged unintentionally at the sight of food but Vanora insisted that I needed to eat. Too ill to argue, I took the offered bowl and sank onto the table with a groan.

The atmosphere around me was practically kinetic, the Romans and townspeople frantic in their attempts to ready their things for the exodus. Vanora and a stable of kitchen women were churning out bowls of porridge to those who stopped by but I noticed that they too were packing away food into wagons. Provisions for the long journey ahead.

Arthur's proclamation appeared to have gotten everyone moving the night before, but with the soft morning light it seemed to make the threat all the more real. Rushing to and fro, it was clear that everyone was holding their breath as we all waited for the Saxons to appear just beyond the horizon.

It did little to ease the sick feeling in my stomach, but I suddenly remembered that I would not be amongst these people on a caravan headed south. Instead, I would be with Woads in the woods beyond preparing for war.

I had remembered my early thoughts of feeling like a ship lost at sea during our ride to the villa north of the wall. Before, I had no compass to lead me home and the dark blue sea yawned around me like a never-ending void that left me confused and afraid for what I did not know.

Yet now that I knew there was no home to return to, the Woads had given me a heading to which I could follow – to stay with them and perhaps create a new harbour to which to anchor myself.

A place I could call home.

The idea of having a home, perhaps even a future, had stirred something within me when Merlin had extended his invitation. I had lived for so long without a home, adrift and weighed down by the fear and confusion. But now, in the cold light of day, I felt almost like a child digging in her heels.

I knew I didn't want to return to Rome or be within the empire they had built. But I also had no guarantee that the Woad would win the battle against the Saxons. Uncertainty swirled. So then why did I suddenly have this feeling that by staying with the Woad, I would be leaving something behind?

It was in this state of hungover confusion that the Sarmatians found me.

"You don't look great…either," I replied evenly as I eyed the man in front me who had unwittingly broken my revere. I glanced up fully to look at him, squinting in the bright light.

My statement was an obvious lie – Galahad looked refreshed and alert, his dark black tunic spotless while his hair glistened in the morning sun. His youthful features lifted in amusement. He gestured at my face.

"I think I fare better than you. Have you seen to that bruise? It'll be a putrid shade very soon."

I lightly touched my cheek. When I had awoken and washed, I was not surprised to find my cheek extremely tender. Though I knew the bruise most likely looked horrendous, I mused as to how bad it must be given Galahad had called it a 'putrid shade'. Whatever those words meant, I knew they couldn't be good.

I awkwardly shrugged, giving up on the strange words. I knew enough that it wasn't a compliment.

"It will go away in a few days. There is more to think about today than my face."

He bobbed his head with a sarcastic huff, no doubt following my train of thought. Sitting on the bench across from me, Galahad leaned backwards casually against the table. His dark grey eyes flicked over the chaos, trailing over the ways in which the Roman infantry rushed around the courtyard carrying sacks of grain and vegetables.

His lips curled in distaste while a hand ran unconsciously over his wound. My eyes flicked to his side.

"Have you had someone look at your cut?" I asked, changing the subject. The knight shifted and I saw the telltale sign of redden cheeks. I smirked inwardly. Though I didn't remember much from the night before, I did remember Galahad blushing several times.

Placing my mug of water aside, I stood quickly. Though my headache remained, I luckily had regained my balance after the first few poor attempts earlier in the infirmary. I maneuvered to the other side of the table carefully and gestured to his side.

"Let me see the cut. I know you have not let anyone look at it."

Galahad spluttered a refusal but I crossed my arms. Keeping my tone respectful, I held his spiteful gaze.

"If your wound has festered, then you won't be free for very long. I don't want you to get sick, Galahad."

Galahad's brows furrowed over his eyes in annoyance.

"You sound like Gawain…" he groused and I shrugged in response.

"Then he's a smart man. I can be quick; so Gawain won't know I've helped you."

At this Galahad smirked, his heavy brows lifting slightly.

"Oh, I doubt that," he mused more to himself but reluctantly he begun lifting the top half of his tunic. He made a pointed effort to look anywhere but at me.

Galahad allowed me to look over his cut, only blushing once when I carefully inspected the wound with my fingers. With access to cleaner bandages, I hoped the Roman doctor (who supposedly worked at the fort but who I had yet to actually see) would not mind if I pilfered a few to redress Galahad's chest. Luckily my stitches had held and the skin remained pink, not inflamed. Though it would definitely scar, Galahad would at least not suffer any other ill-effects from the arrow wound from what I could tell.

I did my best to ignore the way the Romans watched us.

I could feel their stares, the hairs on the back of my neck rising as their eyes darted to where we sat in the shadow of the courtyard. Their stares were curious but the tone of their voices suggested something else. I felt my back stiffen at one particularly bold comment that was thrown our way, my lack of Latin knowledge unfortunately good enough to understand the man's suggestion.

Thankfully, Galahad's glare was as potent as ever.

It took only a minute for the Romans to understand that if they valued their limbs, they would avert their gaze. The Romans scurried off quickly and my shoulders loosened as Galahad muttered something about Romans in a tight voice.

"It has…heal well. I don't think the cut has festered," I declared, lowering his tunic. Galahad merely continued to mutter under his breath but his attention was swiftly caught on a figure who all but lurched into the courtyard.

A wicked smile suddenly graced the young knight's face, replacing his previous scowl.

"Gawain! I am surprised to see you up at this hour. How are you feeling this fine morning?"

Gawain grunted, the noise a mix between a growl and a sigh. He altered his course and lumbered his way over to our table before he sagged onto the bench, placing his head against the wood with a sigh.

The blonde man muttered a curse in Sarmatian and Galahad's brow twitched. Casting a look my way, Galahad translated, "He asks after my mother."

I felt my lips curl in amusement. Gawain was far from the untethered wild warrior I had first seen from beneath the Bishop's carriage. Slumped against the table, the blonde Sarmatian knight looked like he had tried to fight a bear and had lost. His dark blonde hair lay in a tangle messed around his head, braids sticking out at awkward angles. His usually healthy complexion looked almost green.

Without looking up, Gawain groaned into the wood beneath him, "How much did I drink last night?"

"As much as she did,' Galahad replied with a smirk. "I fear your reputation may never recover, given you were bested by a woman as thin as she is."

Gawain opened a single blue eye and peered over at where I stood next to Galahad. He took in my appearance before letting out a small huff.

"How are you even standing?"

I hid a smile as I settled back onto my spot on the bench. I offered a weak explanation as I pulled the porridge towards me, "My people have stronger wine."

"Clearly," he grunted before closing his eyes again. Gawain moaned again into his arms. "Remind me Galahad to never drink again. I feel as if there is an axe in my skull this morning. Am I wrong, or did Tristan carry me to my room?"

Galahad inclined his head.

"It was either that or we left you where you lay on the table. However you seemed comfortable enough. You asked Charlotte to join you several times."

I choked a bit on my water, not remembering that particular point of the night. Gawain groaned and rolled his head to the side but I saw a tinge of red staining his cheeks. Galahad's eyes turned mischievous as he regarded his companion. His smile was almost wolfish as he spoke, "Would you like to know what else you said?"

I watched their exchange, idly playing with the porridge with my spoon as they tried to piece together the night before and I tried to follow along as Galahad began to get more animated. Gawain merely answered in corresponding grunts, moans, and in some cases, muttered Sarmatian threats which caused the younger man to smile with glee. I felt vindicated when it was clear that my memory of Tristan throwing knives at Galahad was not a figment of my imagination.

After a spell, Gawain's tired head lifted. His blue eyes met mine softly before his gaze shifted to my cheek.

"You look awful."

I let out a low sigh; it seemed 'putrid shade' was not an exaggeration. I unconsciously touched my cheek in embarrassment.

"It will get better," I muttered. My eyes darted back up and I gave him a pointed look. "At least I can…handle? I can handle my wine. You look awful too."

Galahad snickered while Gawain cast me a mock glare. It would have been intimidating if not for the twitch of his lips under his beard before he placed his head back down on the wood. I faintly remembered his rumbling laughs the night before, but this time I could also remember his warmth of his hands as he helped me steady me as I poured the group more wine.

A swell of something I could not name rushed through me at the memory and I was momentarily surprised by the strength of the feeling.

Where did that come from?

A bit bewildered, and if not somewhat concerned, by the strange way my stomached seemed to warm at the memory, a Roman suddenly appeared at our table. Galahad cast the younger man a bland expression while Gawain didn't even glance up from his arms.

"What it is?" Galahad stated, the levity in his voice gone.

The Roman shifted on his feet. He looked nervous, and far too young to be a solider, but he seemed resolved in speaking regardless. The Roman cleared his throat before he looked my way. I tried to hide my surprise, as well as the trickle of fear that coursed through me at the knowledge that it was I he wished to speak to.

"Woman, Commander Castus has requested that all civilians ready themselves for the journey south. You should not loiter here when there is work that must be done. Go to your tasks at once – your masters…" he hesitated for a moment as he eyed Galahad and Gawain. "Can spare you. Make haste."

"She is a freed woman," Galahad bit out before I could correct the boy's assumption. His grey eyes flashed. "She can do as she pleases."

"Commander Castus said all were to ready the wagons," the boy repeated, though with less confidence than before. His eyes darted towards Galahad nervously before shifting over his shoulder at a group of Romans who waited nearby. I was quick to realize he was not the one who had thought of coming over.

I held out a hand, trying to ease the growing tension as I gave Galahad a beseeching look.

"Galahad, it's fine. Sir, I won't be long. I'll eat and then…"

"Commander Castus said…"

"If you continue to speak, Roman, I swear to your gods and mine I will remove your head from your shoulders."

The Roman mouth shut with an audible click as Gawain placed his axe on the table with a clank. He did not once look up from his arms.

Galahad grinned ferally, casting Gawain an amused look at easy threat the blonde Sarmatian had just levelled at the Roman. Galahad cocked his head to the side before he tsked, waving a hand to shoo the man from their table.

"We know exactly what 'Arthur' wishes for us to do. As does Charlotte. So run off with the others, boy, and bother someone else with your demands before you find yourself at the wrong end of my friend's axe. He is no mood for conversation."

With a blink in my direction, as if uncertain I would contradict my companions (which I was not incline to do) the Roman disappeared in a flurry of red and leather. I stared after him, contemplating the casual way in which both Sarmatians had resorted to near violence. I should have been more concerned than I was – instead, I felt a twisted sense of pride that I could sit amongst them while the Romans could not.

I turned a hesitant look towards Galahad who continued to glare into the distance. He caught my curious look and barked, "What?"

"Nothing…" I murmured and returned to poking at my porridge. Though I trusted both men, it was sometimes so easy to forget who they truly were. There was a reason why people feared them and I wasn't fool enough to test the limits of our fledgling friendship.

Gawain remained glued to the tabletop, his axe still lying atop the wood as a faint reminder of the warriors that lingered within. Galahad had fallen into one of his moods, so I remained quiet as he surveyed the courtyard with a familiar glower in place. Whatever good mood the young man had been in earlier was gone and I doubted it would be returning anytime soon.

I eventually murmured an excuse to check on Dagonet, sliding the uneaten bowl towards the other men. Gawain grunted softly in acknowledgement, murmuring that I should be careful around the Romans, but Galahad did not look my way.

The dark-haired man looked haunted, and I knew what it was that he was thinking. He had voiced it more than once during our drinking. But it was a question I couldn't answer- only Arthur would be able to explain why he was choosing to stay and fight.

I left the pair where they were and hurried back to Dagonet.

I spent the rest of the day hidden within the walls of the infirmary, away from the world outside and the bustle of preparation. Besides Dagonet and Lucan, who had appeared by midday without his sister, the infirmary was thankfully empty. I had met the local Roman doctor, Octavian, briefly before he disappeared once again but I was less than impressed by his glassy eyes or his hateful looks towards the Woad boy.

The older Roman seemed almost surprised to see a patient in his infirmary when he sauntered in. Without even attempting to see what may be ailing the large Sarmatian who lay on one of his cots, Octavian disappeared without another word. It had been nearly six hours since then and I was certain that was the last I had seen of the fort doctor.

The Saxons had yet to make their appearance, the sun arching across the sky as patrols roved atop the ramparts in anxious trepidation. I had heard a few mutter about whether the Saxons would even attack the fort, some outright suggesting there was nothing to fear, but I knew better than to think that the Saxons would not arrive. I could practically hear their drums in my head.

They were coming. It was only a matter of when.

While the fort caravan was nearly ready to depart by early evening, some of the townspeople lingered within the cobbled streets. From the open doorway of the infirmary, I watched as they roamed around the cobblestones and wood structures with a sort of glazed wonder. They would leave the moment the Saxons arrived to ensure that they would not be caught off guard if the Saxons chose another route in which to attack, but the villagers seemed the most reluctant to see their homes lost. In contrast to the mournful way in which the townspeople grieved their homes, the Roman soldiers were well on their way in getting rip-roaring drunk by dusk.

The rowdy Roman soldiers had been parading around the courtyard nearby, having found what must have been a barrel of wine given their cheers earlier. They had been whooping loudly, shouts and laughs filling the barracks with noise. Dagonet's lips had been drawn into a tight line as some of the Romans passed by the infirmary doors.

They staggered, letting out loud laughs as they clutched one another in the flickering firelight. A series of wolf whistles erupted, and someone had let out a call for women to be brought in. I understood in a way why they were acting this way. Hadn't I also the night before gotten drunk to avoid the reality of what was to come?

Dagonet had mentioned that some of the Roman soldiers had volunteered to stay with Arthur – though volunteered was perhaps a strong word.

"Rome would punish them for leaving," Dagonet had explained and I nodded in understanding. The Romans prided themselves on their strength but above all else, they prided themselves on their own legacy; the dishonor of letting a Roman fort fall into the hands of the barbarian horde would be worse than death.

Dagonet murmured quietly to close the main door when another call rang out for more wine and women. I did what I was told, secretly relieved to be tucked away with Dagonet as the night crept closer. I was terrified of what was to come, but I was beginning to realize that my time with the large knight was coming to a close no matter what my decision was.

The thought of leaving the tall Sarmatian stung, and so I focused all of my attention on his health which was already enough of a concern.

Though his colour had returned, sweat still beaded at Dagonet's brow. The fever was mild so far, but Dagonet's injuries were not healing as well as I would have liked. The raised burn along his chest was ragged and red. Along the raised skin was a small bruise that was a deep purple. It highlighted how hard the crossbow bolt had struct him on the ice but I felt somewhat nervous at how tender the whole area still was whenever I changed the dressing.

While I understood that pain remedies were limited in this time, I worried that perhaps there was more to the way in which Dagonet would wince whenever my fingers brushed his chest than simply pain.

I had no MRIs, no x-rays, no blood panels to better assist me in diagnosing if there was something that I had missed. I had continued to check his heart rate, his breathing, even his mental capacities as I hovered over him throughout the day in a state that fluctuated between worry and dread.

Dagonet easily brushed away the worse of my concerns, but he did not realize how desperate I felt. It was as if I was doing medicine with one hand tied behind my back and a blindfold on, allowing me to do nothing but worry at what I could not know.

I hated that feeling more than I could describe.

Fretting over my own decision to potentially stay as well as Dagonet's fever, the man in question watched on with a sort of understanding. Seeing that I needed to do something other than pace, Dagonet had calmly taken on the role of mentor and began dictating what I could do with my time.

Retrieving a variety of pots from nearby at his command, Dagonet walked me through applying various tinctures that the Roman doctor had on hand. His voice was smooth as he explained what each salve was, doing his best to make it clear to me what each pot and ingredient was even if I could only guess at some of the words he used.

It gave me something to focus on and for that I was grateful. It allowed me to focus on being in the man's presence without lingering on my doubts and fears of what was to come and what was out of my hands.

Lucan had appeared as Dagonet was explaining a tea that could help blood clot, his messy blonde hair appearing out of the corner of my eye as he settled onto a cot. He made no mention as to where Guinevere was and I decided not to ask.

The boy was quiet but he seemed eager to bide his time like I was. He helped me start a fire so I could boil the water for the tea, ably coaxing the fire into the roaring blaze. While only partially distracted from the approaching Saxons, rowdy Romans, and my own inability to do more than that of a glorified field medic, I put all my effort into working alongside Lucan to do as Dagonet instructed until it was all I could focus on.

After drinking a strange smelling tea, Dagonet fell into a restless slumber.

I moved Lucan to one of the empty cots and got him settled, knowing that it was safer to keep the Woad boy here with Dagonet and myself than to be wandering around the barracks so late at night. The Romans eventually settled down for the night, their shouting and cheers stopping around midnight but I was unable to rest.

I watched the boy and the Sarmatian knight on the cots quietly, allowing my thoughts from early to return to the forefront of my mind.

I owed it to Dagonet to tell him the truth about what Merlin had asked of me – what he had offered me. As one of the first to help me, I knew it would bother me to not properly tell Dagonet what my decision would be if I decided to stay.

If I was being honest with myself, the day had given me more of a chance to think over Merlin's offer. I still knew deep in my heart that the right thing to do would be to help the Woads, but that strange feeling from the morning continued to persist.

I wondered if it was because I was afraid. And I also wondered if it was because having been granted my freedom, I was reluctant to let it go so quickly.

My own insecurities and fears had kept me company for two years, rising within me like a whirlwind whenever danger reared its head. I had done what I needed to do to survive, and my fear had in large part played a role in ensuring I made it to the next day. My uncertainties about my decision were becoming difficult to tamp it down as the silent night air echoed around me.

Pelagius would have wanted me to stay, that much I knew. And I knew I would never forgive myself for leaving men, women, and children behind when I could do something. If I could lend a hand to these people in exchange for the possibility of a home, why would I not take it? Even if staying meant death, would it not be better to die a free woman than to wander aimlessly in the hopes of finding some kind of purpose?

A loud cry suddenly rang out from the fort wall and I almost sighed in resignation. My time had run out.

Dagonet's eyes blinked open in an instant. Lucan, awake in a flash, scurried to his side and Dagonet placed a comforting hand on the boy's head. Turning to look at me, Dagonet and I regarded one another silently until another call sounded from beyond the fort. Suddenly the barracks seemed to come alive and the sound of feet pounding over the stone floors began to echo throughout the building, joining the rising cries from the ramparts.

Dagonet grunted an oath as he tried to lift himself from the cot.

"You are still healing," I admonished, hurrying to his side and pushing him down. "Stay still!" He begrudgingly listened, most likely due to the fact that he was too weak to argue, however his eyes were sharp.

My eyes flicked to the doorway as a low bell began to ring. The noise seemed the cut through the night like a knife. Pressing Dagonet more firmly back into the cot, I quickly gathered the brown cloak Vanora had left earlier when she had brought Dagonet some broth and tossed it over my shoulders.

"I'll go see what's happening. Wait here…and don't move. I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Be careful," Dagonet said, and I tried to not shiver at tension in his voice. Dagonet was no fool. We both knew what I would find.

I nodded and hurried off, moving swiftly through the main barrack courtyard. Roman soldiers, sobered by the reality we had found ourselves in, rushed around in the dark. Torches suddenly burst to life around me as the centurions on guard woke the others who had not been roused by the noise. None of the Romans paid me any mind, and if anything they seemed oblivious to my presence, nearly running me over as they barrelled towards the outer wall with their weapons in hand.

Scuttling to the side to avoid the men, I whipped my head around as I tried to determine the best direction to go.

My first thought was that I needed to find the knights. If anyone would know what was going on, I knew it would be one of the Sarmatians. I scanned the faces I could see rushing by me but couldn't make out much beyond white cheeks and wide eyes beneath their helmets.

Frustrated, I grabbed the closest Roman and dragged him to a stop. The man's brown eyes widened beneath his helm. I realized with a start it was the same boy from the morning who Gawain had idly threatened from the confines of his arms.

Now framed by nothing more than moonlight and torches, I felt myself recoil at the youth I saw. He could have been no older than 16. He gawked at me like a frightened dog, desperation clawing at the whites of his eyes.

"What's happening?" I asked, having to raise my voice over the sounds of clattering metal. The boy continued to stared in shock. His eyes could not seem to focus on my face, his pupils blown wide as I repeated my question. Shaking his head, he pointed a shaking finger at towards the border wall.

"The Saxons are at the gates!" he cried, as if amazed I didn't know. "There's an entire army - over a thousand at least! They must have gotten past the scouts!"

"Where are the Sarmatian knights? Where is Arthur?"

The boy shook his head in a jerky motion. He ignored my questions and muttered a prayer before announcing with a broken sob, "They will kill us all. We are all going to die…"

Realizing that the boy was near collapse, I gripped him more firmly and shook. He blinked rapidly, his soft sobs halting his throat.

"Where are the knights?"

"On… on the wall." He stuttered, and I shook him again. I tried to ignore the sting of how hard I had to shake the frighten boy. But I had no time to waste.

"Where on the wall?"

He pointed vaguely at the far end of the fort and without another word, I ran. I wove my way through the rush of Roman soldiers, my feet carrying me swiftly as I made my way out of the barracks and further into the middle of the town. Regular townsfolk began pouring out of the various buildings in confusion, their voices calling out in fear as they took in the frantic Roman guards with varying levels of realization. Like myself, the villagers seemed to have the same idea and soon everyone was rushing for the wall.

I managed to narrowly avoid being trampled once again as a column of Roman centurions raced by with a wagon, the horses billowing loudly as they thundered down the cobblestones. Hooves flashed and I had to duck out of the way to avoid being struck amongst the crush.

My heart was firmly thundering in my chest at this point. Amongst the crowd, we surged towards the border wall as if compelled by some unknown force. It was almost as if we had all accepted what we would see beyond the wall, but until we saw it with our owns eyes, it remained nothing more than a figment of our own fears.

Like cattle racing towards the edge of a cliff, we moved as one towards the towering grey walls.

Calls for more weapons went up as we approached, soldiers darting across the upper ramparts while others rushed down the stairs to gather what they could. I heard more than one prayer be uttered and several women had begun to cry as the fear ebbed and flowed like a wave over the crowd.

Fighting my way through the maddening crush of bodies, it took what felt like hours before I reached a point where the outer wall connected with Vercovicium's own inner stone barricade. I pushed futility against those around me when I spotted a set of stairs running up the length of the dark stone to the left. Weaving my way through the mob, I managed to break from the heaving mass of sweat and rolling emotions as I reached the foot of the staircase.

I took the steps nearly two at a time before I finally spied a familiar face. A strange sense of relief filled me as Lancelot, dressed in his armour, stood quietly a few paces ahead along the length of the ramparts. His stoic form was reassuring after my mad dash to the wall.

Seeing nearby the others, I quickened my pace to reach the group. My relief quickly shifted into dread as I took in their expressions. I breathed heavily but forced myself to follow their eyes as I sidled up next to Lancelot who gazed silently out at the field beyond. He did not even react to my presence but I thought I heard him sigh when my eyes settled on what had drawn everyone's attention.

My breath caught in my throat.

"Dear god…"

Thousands of campfires roared to life across the outer field like hundreds of fireflies as an army straight out of a nightmare appeared from the dark.

Despite the darkness, I could already see the flashes of chainmail and weapons as hundreds of men and horses moved about the field in numbers I couldn't even fathom. The orange glow of the fires flickered against their forms, casting shadows that seemed to claw their way towards the fort like vengeful spirits.

My heart thumped painfully in tune with the steady beat of their shields.

Batting their wooden shields like drums, the Saxon army roared in triumph as they stretched across the once peaceful expanse of land. Somehow only a few hours had past since I had stared down at this same field from the graveyard on the hill and suddenly it looked entirely different.

Where farmers had once been collecting their crops now stood over a hundred strong dressed for war.

I knew they would come but…

Hearing and seeing were two very different things. The young Roman solider had not been wrong when he had begun to pray. This wasn't an army sent to conquer; this was an army sent to annihilate.

I forced myself to not stagger at the sheer number of men before me, placing a shaking hand against the stone wall. The Woads wouldn't stand a chance. There was no way.

I heard someone race up the stairs behind me but my attention was fixed on the Saxons.

An armour-less Arthur, and a slightly dishevelled Guinevere, appear swiftly. If I hadn't been distracted by the knowledge of what was to come, I might have wondered at the distinctly pink tinge to Guinevere's cheeks as she trailed after the Roman commander.

But there was no time to think of such things when the enemy was literally a stone throws away.

Arthur's green eyes took in the Saxon army in one single look but I saw a wave of emotion rolled through him despite his attempts to school his features into something unbothered. Shock. Resignation. Determination.

Guinevere peered over the wall as well and her lips pulled into a tight line. Though she did not say a word, the slight furrow of her brow was enough to speak volumes. The fierce Woad woman was nervous. And if she was nervous, then I had more than every right to be petrified.

We all stood in silence as we stared out at the field.

Arthur let out a low breath as he looked away from the Saxons, gazing heavily at each of his knights before turning to those that waited with bated breath below the ramparts. The townspeople and soldiers stared at their leader with equal parts hope and fear. I had never seen Arthur look so overwhelmed as he did in that moment. The great commander, the one that the villagers spoke about in awed whispers, looked suddenly so tired. So immensely human that I physically placed a hand over my heart as if to ward off the pain that filled me.

But then, somehow, his back straightened. The sorrow in Arthur's eyes shifted into a determined glint and he held his head high. He was once again Artorius Castus and once more he would do what he needed to do.

"Knights," Arthur said, his voice soft yet edged with the same authority I had come to recognize from the man. "The time has come for us to part ways. May God go with you all."

The knights did not speak but remained where they sat. Galahad's head was hung so low that his black curls obscured his face. Gawain refused to look at his commander, his eyes fixed on the Saxon camp with a fierce expression and even Tristan for once looked affected. With his lips pulled into a tight line, Tristan looked more agitated than I had ever seen him. Bors, on Tristan's left, shook his head, his teeth flashing as he snarled in frustration.

Lancelot just looked tired.

Their hard-earned freedom hung around the Sarmatians like a miasma, the knowledge that they were free to leave only at the expense of the fort clear in every face. Everything they and their fallen comrades had fought for was to be left behind for the wolves, and the sacrifices they had made in the name of another land would be for nothing.

Arthur began leaving the rampart, but Lancelot was quick to follow. I only made out the gleam of anger in his eyes before he called out to his commander in one last desperate plea, "Arthur, this is not Rome's fight!"

Guinevere moved and quickly hurried off after the two men, but not before meeting my eyes. I could see the unspoken request in their depths. She needed to know my answer. Would I stay to help her people, or leave with the others?

I merely stared back in quiet panic.

Seeing I was not going to answer her then and now, she raced down the stairs, leaving the rest of the knights and myself atop the wall with nothing more than our aching hearts. I could still faintly hear Lancelot yelling but the silence once more descended upon us.

Looking at the rest of the knights, I could see their pain. And their confusion. This was not their fight – and yet none looked relieved by that fact.

Bors caught my eye and stood; his lips turned downwards into an impressive scowl but I knew it was not directed at me. He suddenly seemed much older in that moment.

"I need to tell Dag," he grunted by way of explanation, and moved to past me. He placed a heavy hand on my shoulder in passing. The weight was not comforting.

I stared back out over the wall and now understood Merlin's plea. His people would not survive such an army. Though he believed my abilities to be magical in nature, I honestly didn't know if I possessed the courage to stay in the face of such destruction.

I was only a woman and currently I was a woman afraid for her life. I wanted to live.

I heard Galahad huff in quiet frustration before he stalked off, disappearing down the stairs in a rush of anger and shame. Gawain and Tristan followed, leaving only me to watch the Saxons ready for war.

I stared out at the mass of bodies and felt a familiar fear grip my heart. My own decision, similar to that of the knights, lay entwined with this battle. It was my decision to make – and I for once had the freedom to do as I pleased.

When sitting next to Gareth's grave with nothing more than Gawain's comforting presence to keep me company, it seemed an easy decision. I had wanted a place to call home, a place I could rediscover who I was and who I wanted to be. I could rebuild my life and the pieces of my soul that the Romans had ripped free in a land that would let me fight for my right to start anew.

But now, staring out at the army that readied themselves for destruction, I wavered. I was a healer afraid of blood and death. What could I do in such a battle?

Watching the swarm of campfires beyond, I feared that perhaps my time as a freed woman would be a short one.