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Chapter Two: A Day of Travel

It had been long last since Morgaine had been in the company of humans; in truth, it had been centuries. She was content, draped in a heavy coat of furs, to listen to the banter and conversation around her, to revel in the presence of another human being while suffering the clatter and endless rocking of the moving caravan. Loneliness had been a friend of hers for far too long.

She wandered idly if she were a ghost, one who had physical needs and could be seen by all who passed her, a tortured existence for one who had seen too much and lived for far too long. No doubt, her companions thought oddly of her. She possessed a silent demeanor and she therefore neither talked, nor acknowledged anyone. She merely sat alone with distant eyes and a vacant expression.

There were five others sitting with her. The boy, Lucan, laid next to the healer and quiet knight, Dagonet, who sat attentively at his side to reduce his discomfort from the fever that wrought his small and fragile form. A damp cloth resided within the thick curve of his hand, ready to aid against the perspiration and body heat that now consumed him.

On the opposite sides of her were the silent Guinevere, her fingers set back into the right places and Claire, the ill woad now slumped into the heavy arms of the unclothed Lancelot. Her fever had been one to reduce her body to coldness, a result at having been exposed to freezing temperatures and chilly conditions within her cell. She murmured in her delirium at times, giving cause for the knight's arms to tighten and him to whisper inaudible words of comfort soothingly into her ear.

He was indifferent to everyone, all but those that were weak. He still, however, passed distrustful glances in Morgaine's direction. They were looks that she all but promptly ignored, uncaring of his opinion of her.

The only knight that Morgaine found to be anything but deeply puzzling, a pure mystery at its best, was Tristian.

How had he known and managed to stop her from killing so quickly? Apart of her was infuriated with him, interfering with the blood she wished to shed in payment of a year in hell.

The other part was confused.

She kept replaying the images of her rescue in her head, remembering the way his eyes had gazed and pierced into her with such powerful intensity that it was almost impossible for her to describe it aloud. His indifference reminded her much of herself in a way. Perhaps he was, indeed, much like her, hiding his past and heart away so nothing could crush the invulnerable wall sealed around him? She had been doing it for centuries.

From their respective posts where the knights tended to their charges, sick and helpless, all men watched her warily. They looked as if they thought her to be as much a danger as the oncoming Saxons following their trail... It almost amused her. Her presence seemed to leave an air of unease both among knights and woads alike. Her people must indeed hold a bad reputation within these lands. She had no idea that Celts were feared so profoundly here when they were, in all actuality, connected to this land as much as woads were. The woads themselves descended from the early Celtic tribes of these isles, so why hate the origins that had bred them?

It was likely a result of their people being romanized, corrupted by a culture that sought only for dominance and supreme power. The Britons were weak, their tribes scattered and their culture of origin long forgotten and oppressed by modern invasion and advancement. Ireland remained strong, for the tribes and bands of warriors have long since, for centuries, guarded their land by the thousands.

Morgaine had, at one time in her existence, been one of those warriors. She had been a guardian of her homeland.

She bore the markings of her people, the band of the guardian, knotted and beautiful, across her slender arm and the sacred mark of the Morrigan, the patron Goddess of death and battle, upon her shoulder. All were markings of honor for her people.

"You, my child, will be a guardian to all, both to this land and those of others. Immortality will be a troubled burden for you, but you will shape many lives. Do not throw away the gift given to you by the Goddess. Use it wisely."

The woads were a struggling band much the same as hers, but their fighting skills lacked in precision. She had seen their insufficient, though passionate, method of fighting and quite honestly, Morgaine thought that they could do with more improvement. These knights led by Arthur, warriors less in number, could, in all likelihood, best their army without much toil. How would they be able to defeat the legions of Rome and the Saxon army with that type of military force?

As her thoughts preceeded to drag on endlessly, a voice, hoarse and quiet, broke the silence. "Cad is ainm duit?"

Morgaine's eyes slowly moved, surprised at the familiar question, as she gazed down at the huddled woad at Dagonet's side. She knew Gaelic?

She kept her features stoic, utterly vacant, as not to reveal her surprise. "Morgaine is ainm duit," she answered, her reply quiet.

The Woad nodded. "Guinevere." She then pointed her healing hand in the direction of her companion and Lancelot. "Claire."

"Tuigim Gaeilge shimpli," Guinevere spoke softly, her lips turning up into a ghost of a smile.

Morgaine nodded. "Oiche." She then gestured to the hand that Guinevere had silently held up. "An bhfuil pian ort?"

"Tá mé go maith," Guinevere replied, moving her fingers ever so slowly in front of her. Morgaine nodded affirmably.

The girl appeared as if wanting to break the tension, for it was lingering heavily in the air around them, crackling and sombering their moods; it was so thick that one could most assuredly slice it through with a knife. 'Ironic,' Morgaine thought, smirking inwardly at how the fates worked, 'A wagon full of enemies.'

The Romans, the Celts, the Briton Woads... needless to say, it wasn't much of a pleasant atmosphere. Regardless, however, no one mistreated each other or sought out to kill those opposite of their roots.

Guinevere, sure enough as she had stated, spoke little of her native language and so, remained quiet. Her eyes went back to staring at the Roman that had saved her from Honorius' prison.

'Interesting...'

As she began speaking to him, Morgaine listened intently.

She learned more by their conversation than she had by living here for over three years, having travelled back from the eastern lands. They spoke of Arthur's past, the origins of his mother and the lineage of his father, the first Artorius. A man who kills his own people...? Morgaine knew now what Guinevere had meant by those words.

She spoke of land and she spoke of freedom; Morgaine, having listened intently with a sympathetic ear, now understood what the woads sought for themselves. They wanted their country to themselves, to gain freedom with no master of a foreign country. The Fianna had sought out a similiar path, and their deeds and wishes had been successful.

Perhaps, with the right alliances, they could gain the same?

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For the remaining hours left during their travel to camp, Morgaine merely sat in long, tranquil silence. Her ears listened intently to the barks of laughter and lewd jokes floating from the outside. It lightened her mood a little.

The way the men spoke and laughed gave way to the sense that it was a normal routine, a way of coping with the dangers that may lie ahead of them on their path toward freedom. They were like brothers, a family of warriors; the fondness in their speech revealed their closeness and Morgaine couldn't help but feel like a heavy void was present in her life.

She distanced herself from people out of fear; She feared to get too close, only to have to watch the ones she loved wither from old age or die a violent, bloody death. She was always the one left behind.

Bodhmall had called 'her gift' a blessing, but Morgaine thought otherwise. 'To be Immortal is to be cursed...'

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Okay, I know a little bit of Irish Gaelic (whether my pronunciation is good or not, I do not know since I go by books and a some tapes... I don't know anybody that speaks it!). Anyway, here are the translations for those that don't know it:

"Cad is ainm duit?" (What is your name?)

"Morgaine is ainm duit," (My name is Morgaine)

"Tuigim Gaeilge shimpli," (I understand simple Irish)

"Oiche." (Good)

"An bhfuil pian ort?" (Do you have any pain?)

"Tá mé go maith," (I am well)