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Chapter One: Warriors and Knights

One unhealthy custom factored by immortality, besides intense longing for a past now faded within the mists of time, is the addicting capability to live within one's own mind. The addiction had reason, for it was an action of mentality that secluded you into your own sanctuary, where nothing from the outside world could really have a profound impact upon you. Immortals could re-live memories, vivid and with such great detail from their lives, and therefore could lose themselves in their reminiscences for hours. The visions came with such inhuman intensity that your attention would fall short of instinctive reaction and awareness of your surroundings.

Morgaine no longer had need for neither instinct nor awareness, for she could barely make it out of her own cell alone. They had to drag or carry her out.

She thought of her homeland at times of unrest, the rippling green hills and meadows of the land, the warriors she had fought alongside and grew up with, the festivals of celebration, the fierce image of her little sister, Liath... How great things had once been…

Happiness ceased to exist now.

The pictures soothed her, made her confinement more bearable than it already was and no matter their methods of torture, mental or physical otherwise, Morgaine held fast. She was a warrior, a fighter, and she "repented" to no one, least of all to fanatical priests and a false God.

They knew she was invulnerable to death and so, weakened her as much as possible during the long, harsh seasons of winter and summer. Their ministrations in their methods always came fierce and unlike captured woads, they couldn't remove the tattoos embedded deeply into her flesh. They were permanent markings, a courteousy of her native people and her comrades of the Fianna.

The priests held great hatred for her. All of their "religious ideals" were hidden under a false guise of righteousness; she was a woman, a Celt, a warrior, a Pagan, and a creature of immortality; an enemy of their faith.

'How Bodhmall would have despised them,' Morgaine mused silently to herself, her eyes distant as she thought fondly of the seer and druidess of her land. She had been a kind, old woman, having taken Morgaine in as her own and allowing her to learn the ways of both Druid and Warrior.

"You will have need of both worlds," she had said to her, gray eyes twinkling in approval. "It will save your life and the lives of others…"

She enjoyed prophecy and riddles, Morgaine thought sadly, the memory fading. She had learned the way of a druidess and the way of a warrior because of her deceased mentor. And for that opportunity, Morgaine could only be thankful. She had once been apart of a family, the Fianna Eireann and Bodhmall. But no more... She had been advised to leave after she had died her first violent death upon the battlefield, much to her lament.

Bodhmall had understood what she was. She had known about her immortality from the moment she had taken Morgaine in as her own daughter. She had been kind, not angry and afraid, as everyone else in her village likely would have been...

"This new path you lead, now having faced death and the Morrigan, you will learn the trials of true humanity. Your soul must expand and explore! Y ou cannot remain on this Isle, child. Centuries of knowledge await you and you cannot allow final death to come to you so quickly. Go and be free, my daughter. Your sister and I shall always hold you in our hearts, as you will with ours…"

She shook her head somberly, tears stinging her eyes, as she remembered the life she had once lived long ago in the hills of Ireland. 'No more…'. It was centuries ago and now she was in Britanna, a territory poorly occupied by the Roman Empire.

'One day I shall return home to the ghosts of my past…'

She would not yet die. Until then, she was here; in this nightmare that she desperately wanted escape from. Closing her eyes as she slumped dejectedly against the wall, Morgaine allowed sleep to overcome her.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Being holed up in a murky prison was a life she had grudgingly become accustomed to; each sound and each smell was always the same, never different or foreign. So when loud, unfamiliar bellows reached her ears, Morgaine groggily lifted her head, her bloodshot eyes opening weakly in alarm.

"ANYONE HERE?!!!" A masculine voice shouted.

The familiar echo of the priest followed, "This is a house of GOD, be gone heathens! ALL ARE SINNERS HERE!!!"

Feet padded in her direction, thick and heavy footfalls of a cautious, yet inquisitive man. They had been found! Had her throat not been dry and hoarse from lack of nourishment, Morgaine would have answered in haste. All that came, however, was a muffled squeak. A reply too quiet to be noticed.

Exhaustion, starvation, a body battered and broken--- she couldn't move, only turn her head slowly in the direction of her cell. Her eyes, green and lifeless, stared wordlessly through the decayed bars of her prison, clashing with the dark, foreboding gaze of another.

Emotion was vacant, holding only a stoic face and an intimidating presence. Yet, the eyes of him felt as if he were staring into the depths of her very soul. An Immortal trait, she thought wistfully. But it was a mortal man that stood before her, quiet and intense; a mysterious figure clothed in black and dark, metal armor.

Thick silence hovered over them and she wondered in that fleeting moment if he would take notice to her tattoos, to the fact that she had neither allegiance to Romans nor Britons and, in all likelihood, kill her for it. In this country, the act wouldn't surprise her. Natives and Romans could both be ruthless, uncaring for life, and her trust of either was diminishing; she trusted neither Roman nor Woad.

He caught her off guard when he unsheathed his sword, his blade hammering upon the thin, metal chains locked around her cell, to release her...

...Would he release her only to kill her...?

The door cricked open and Morgaine, face blank of emotion, stared up weakly at his quiet silhouette. The voices of his comrades echoed in the background, followed by muffled clinking of bars and irons. They were taking out prisoners, but to where?

She allowed her distrust to show, visibly and stubbornly shrinking away from his presence; she would not show fear nor pain in front of this man; he could very well be her enemy.

He took immediate notice of her apprehension and so, crouched down cautiously to her level, his eyes never leaving hers. "Be still, woman," he spoke gruffly, his hands reaching out to touch her, "I am only here to help you."

She stilled at this, but inwardly remained vigilant, for centuries of life had taught her to be so.

The constricting bonds, bloodied and stained with grime, were untied from her chaffed wrists and Morgaine, weak and tired, soon found herself wordlessly hoisted into his arms.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()

He carried her with surprising gentleness, his steps silent and cautious, as he led them outside. "Do not move," he advised, "Your wounds need time to heal."

They neared the entrance as she burrowed her face into his shoulder, the piercing sunlight knifing through her eyes with painful intensity. Deep voices reached her ears-- masculine, loud, angry...

Her rescuer laid her gently atop the prickly grass beneath them, allowing Morgaine time to slowly adjust to the daylight so long denied to her.

Fresh air found its way into her lungs and she gasped weakly as she tasted the first thing granted to her in over a year. Freedom.

His form hovered over her, outlined by fiery rays, as his brown eyes clashed with hers. His eyes, windows to a quiet soul, were the first thing that she saw and as she laid there in silence, staring above her, Morgaine almost thought that she saw a flicker of emotion in them... Compassion...?

"Two are woads," a deep voice, filled with distrust, spoke. "The other... she's a foreigner."

"A Celt," another confirmed.

Morgaine could see nothing of the quarrel beyond the man above her and so, listened intently.

"Stay here."

The man, her rescuer, left her momentarily and Morgaine saw three men standing near her. One was brawny, with blonde, unruly locks cascading down his back, his face set with a disapproving scowl. On his left stood a much bigger man, a bald and pudgy figure, wielding a sword angrily within his hand. The last was younger, his eyes gazing around sympathetically.

Her gaze flew to her side, her eyes seeing that three others had been discovered. Two woad women and another, a mere child. All were being attended to and cared for by the other soldiers.

'Soldiers, Rogues, or Wanderers...?' When her eyes caught sight of a man kneeling above one of the helpless woad women, his colors and armor flashing, Morgaine felt dread overcome her.

Roman.

But why would a Roman help a Woad?

Her rescuer returned to her, his form kneeling to cradle her head gently into the crook of his arm. His other hand reached and presented a water skin bottle to her lips. "Drink," he commanded, his voice gruff and indifferent.

Morgaine accepted the offer freely, her parched lips allowing the cold, nourishing liquid to slide with ease down her throat. "Go raimh maith agat," she spoke softly, deciding to speak her native language. It was safer that way, at least for her.

The man sat her up wordlessly, his hands gently supporting her back. She couldn't walk without help, and the soldier knew it.

"Arthur," He called, addressing one of the men helping the woads. The Roman. "A Saxon army is coming upon us. They should be here by daybreak tomorrow. We must leave soon."

Arthur nodded, his face grave.

A Saxon army in these lands meant danger, for them as well as any other person residing in this area. They would destroy anything and everything within their path...

A distant bellow suddenly erupted, breaking the heavy silence set upon them. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! These people are Pagans!"

The Lord of the house, a presence thick and full of commanding anger, was suddenly the center of attention. And the center of everyone's malice. 'Marius Honorius', Morgaine realized with intense loathing. A Roman swine.

"So are we," The youngest of the group hissed, his voice laced with unmistakable fury.

"These pagans refuse to accept the place God has set for them. They must die as result for their mistake! As an example!" He bellowed, his short and stumpy form halting in front of their leader, Arthur. "An example!"

"Refused to accept their place...? You mean they refuse to be your serfs!" The tone of Arthur's voice was icy, dripping with the very same disdain that Morgaine felt towards this man, the "representative" of Christianity.

The malice in everyone's gaze was unmistakable and Marius, noticing their unrelenting stares of anger, continued. "Yes! YES! You understand!"

Arthur stood up, his shoulders squared with rage, as he strode toward Marius, his hands grabbing him roughly by his tunic."Of course," he corrected, "As a Roman knight you would understand... as a Christian..."

Roman knights? This group was most certainly a mystery; their leader was a Roman and a Christian while the others, having still their faith in the one that led them here, were Pagans.

Morgaine watched in silent curiosity, her mind whirling to assess the people surrounding her, before turning her attention to one of the familiar on looking women. The wife of Honorius. The one who now leaned down sympathetically over the victims treaded out of her husband's prison. She was a kind and compassionate woman. She had defied her husband to feed both her and the others.

Marius took immediate notice to her movements and angrily began to stalk toward her.

Morgaine, forgetting her injuries, tried to stand, her mind and body instinctively reacting to defend her. Her body, however, was gently pulled down.

Her eyes found those of the knight, grave and silent, at her side and Morgaine gazed back at him defiantly. She wished to stop him.

"And YOU! You kept them alive!" Marius roared, enraged. The Lady Honorius stepped back shakily away from the woad, her eyes wide and fearful as a doe's. Her face pleaded with him, a tell tale sign that his rage was indeed about to be physically dealt upon her.

Morgaine and the boy, Alecto, were the only two aware of the threat he posed to her. At least, not until the man, restraining Morgaine forcefully to him, spoke. "Gawain, keep him away from the woman."

Gawain, the man with the plaited blonde hair, seemed all too happy for the request. As Marius raised his hand toward his wife, he caught his wrist and pushed him back, sending the man sprawling onto the ground.

His round eyes shot daggers at them as he looked up, dirt smudged into his face. "When we get to the wall, you will pay for this heresy!" he spat.

Arthur stood above the fallen man, placing his blade threateningly across his throat. "Perhaps I should kill you now and seal my fate then?"

Everyone froze.

That is, all except Morgaine who's attention fell back toward the wall.

She had heard the heavy, apprehensive footsteps exit and the familiar, often dreaded, scuffle of dirt crunching beneath worn leather boots towards her.

She shrank into the arms of the man at her side as the priest emerged, his furious gaze set upon her. "THAT ONE! That one must be punished! She is inhuman and spawned from evil. The King of Darkness has made her invulnerable to death so that she may not be redeemed!"

He walked, eyes blazing and fingers pointing, towards her. "SHE MUST BE KEPT HERE OUT OF ALL OF THESE SINNERS! LOCK HER AWAY!"

The man, dark, and mysteriously different from his comrades, shielded Morgaine behind the protection of his body, his sword suddenly unsheathed. "Go anywhere near me or her and you'll pay with your life," he warned icily.

The priest relented. The knight's quiet, yet foreboding nature wrought fear in him and his threat of death, far more so. "I was willing to restore her and die with them, to lead them to their rightful place. It is God's will that these sinners be sacrificed!"

Arthur looked at him disgustedly, as did the others. Morgaine, however, had her attention elsewhere. She was enamored, utterly speechless, by the knight at her side. This man had been willing to protect her, to help her even though he knew nothing about her. And yet, these men worked under the legion of the Roman army?

So confused was she by the man's willing display of humanity on her behalf, Morgaine scarcely heard the order given by Arthur to the villagers. "Wall them up!"

She saw them being dragged. Then her attention remained on them.

Her eyes narrowed, visibly disagreeing with the Roman's command. She had better ideas.

Her fingers and wrists, discreet and silent, worked diligently beneath her ratty clothing, her trained eyes gleefully set upon their retreating forms. She had stolen a knife from her rescuer, a trick well learned from her younger years. He hadn't noticed it.

They were well in range of distance and her eyes, old and well-trained, coordinated their deaths with ease. She ignored her injuries, calmed her mind as Bodhmall had once taught her, and then sought out the right moment.

...'Now!'

Her hand shot out in a blur of swift and deadly movements, the blade already aimed to strike. But it was never released.

A firm grip clutched and constricted her weak, blistering wrist, effectively cutting off her kill. The blade rustled past the blades of grass to the rich soil of land beneath her, leaving the monk alive and captive to the serfs of Honorius.

Her eyes glared openly, seething in silent rage, as they met the emotionless pools staring vacantly opposite of her. He clutched her wrist, almost effortlessly, and waited in silence. "Damnú ort," she cursed quietly at him, "Go hifreann leat."

His eyes, piercing and cold, never left hers, as he pried the blade from her hands. She hissed as his grip upon her wrist tightened. "For one so weak," he spoke quietly, "Your movements are not so crippled. You shouldn't steal from someone who just saved your life."

She said nothing in return, only gave him an expression as vacant as his own.

Gawain, watching the spectacle alongside Bors and Galahad, spoke humoursly, "Well, you two seemed to have hit it off rather nicely. A woman outsmart our scout? It has never happened in the fifteen years I've known him!"

"Aye. But if she can get a weapon past Tristian," Galahad added, "Perhaps we should kill her? She could very well kill one of us while we're sleeping."

"She cannot yet use her legs," Tristian replied coolly. "I doubt that she'd pull off such an action."

Morgaine, her face still expressionless, continued to stare at him unabashedly.

Bors raised an eyebrow at their locked gazes. Few ever really gazed at Tristian in the eyes, for most found him unnerving. "If you two stare any longer at each other, you'll burn a hole in the other's head."

Tristian, ignoring him, turned his eyes toward Arthur. "We need to move. They will come here soon."

Arthur nodded agreeably. "Get all the wounded into the wagon!" he barked sharply. "We're leaving, Tristan."

The scout nodded in silent reply and then turned his attention back toward Morgaine. "I'm going to take you to the wagon. You are to remain there unless otherwise ordered."

His tone was indifferent, impassionate. He knew not, however, why she sought to kill - she had been starved and tortured, both mentally and physically, by priests and raped by common household guards for amusement for over a year. She sought vengeance for her treatment, one that greatly surpassed the other women in her presence. They had been there for two months; her sentence had been for far longer.

She remained sitting in silence, not giving a reply, as the man, Tristian as he was called by his companions, lifted her gently into his arms. She would not utter a single word of their language, deciding that it were best if she kept a pretense of being shattered and not of their land. They would then leave her in peace.

Her decision now made, Morgaine relaxed, her head resting quietly against Tristian's broad chest.