Now we are home

A.N.: This story is already finished. I am going over each chapter again and again before posting, since there are a few minor details I don't like yet, but the story itself is done. So you'll never have to fear that I'll abandon this fic or lose interest in writing or whatever. Enjoy and please be so kind as to leave a review.

Prologue

The morning air was chilly and the wind bore with it the scent of snow and winter. The sky, however, was as clear as polished glass and the rising sun painted the rolling hills a delicate shade of green and grey. The forest near the mighty structure of Hadrian's Wall, devoid of leafage in this season, seemed an ominous, looming mass.

The fields were bare, the early sunlight turned the stubbles a bright bronze. And there, in the distance, like a mutated, many-legged beast, came the army of Saxons, pouring over the hills, one big, putrid mass, disturbing the serene picture of a quiet winter morning.
They were headed for the Roman fortress at Badon Hill, guarding the main gate of the Wall, and there was such an air of violence about them that one could be sure that they did not intend to leave much of the fort standing.

Already an ominous cloud was rising over the fields behind the Wall. Black smoke swirled in the morning air, fed from hay fires.
A caravan was leaving the fortress through the southern gate and there were many who cast worried looks behind them, tears in their eyes as they saw their homes disappearing and words of farewell dying unuttered upon their lips.

Within the fortress walls, an eerie silence had fallen. Those who had nowhere else to go were either hiding behind in their homes or preparing for the inevitable battle. The courtyards were empty, the training field deserted. A black and white kitten scampered across the way, chasing a dry leaf and apparently untroubled by the uncommon lack of activity.

One of the places still a-bustle with activity were the healing rooms. They were housed in a separate two-story brick building, nestled against the side of the fortress's main building and halfway between the gate and the stables. The upper floor held the living quarters of the healer Gweir, his family and ordinarily his apprentice, though that room had been vacant for a while now.
Downstairs was a large chamber that housed the surgery and four smaller rooms, barely more than alcoves, for patients who needed to be monitored overnight.

Servants were busily carrying buckets of water and what amounted to the entire fortress's stock of clean linen, to be prepared for bandages, all under the watchful gaze of a tall, broad-shouldered man with grizzled hair and a short, dark beard.

Gweir had been the healer at the fortress for more than twenty years, he had seen knights come and go, had managed to save some and seen others die. But the coming Saxon attack would be his hardest test yet, he knew. He sent a swift gaze to his daughter Marian and a frown creased his forehead.

Once more, he wished he could have listened only to fatherly instinct and sent her away with the caravan of refugees, but he needed what help he could get and he had trained his daughters in his art since they were little.

Marian, the younger of the two, was now seventeen years old and a thin, pale girl, with dark brown hair and large, rather pale green eyes. She was a serious young woman who scarcely laughed and kept to herself. Most people tended to overlook her.

She had become a skilled assistant to her father over the years and many men preferred being tended to by women. It reminded them of their mothers and put them at ease.

On this day, she could not quite keep up her usual composure. In fact, Marian's hands trembled like twigs in a storm as she tied the apron around her thin waist. Fear coiled in her stomach like a nest of worms and she felt beads of cold sweat on her forehead.

Casting shy glances across the healing rooms to her father, she took a few deep breaths and tried to calm down. Gweir seemed as calm as ever as he set up two kettles of water in the hearth and busied himself with the kindling.

Marian swallowed dryly, reached for a jar of willow bark on a shelf by the door and looked around for the mortar. She wanted to be as far away from here as possible, she wanted there to be no Saxons in Britain and much less close by and she wanted her mother to hold her hand. Failing that, she wanted Dagonet.
Alas, they had buried the gentle knight with the healer's touch only a day ago and already Marian missed his calming presence and the sound of his deep, soothing voice. Her father, to whom Dagonet had been an apprentice, had hardly spoken since his funeral.

The fire in the hearth finally started crackling merrily, a cheerful sound that spoke of warmth and home and was completely amiss on this day. Gweir straightened, wiped his hands on his tunic and started inspecting their stock of clean bandages. He clucked his tongue and frowned grimly and Marian felt her heart sink even lower. She almost dropped the jar after pouring some of its contents into the mortar. Thankfully, her father had not seen. Her fragile fingers closed around the pestle and she started grinding the willow bark into a fine powder.

She looked around the room, mentally cataloging where all the instruments were so that she might find them when needed. Bile rose in her throat as she pictured having to use the bone saw on someone and she swallowed quickly, turning her gaze away.

Suddenly, the door swung open, admitting a whiff of cold air and with it, a beautiful young woman. Marian heaved an enormous sigh of relief. Her sister Rhian, who had left them a few years ago to be healer and midwife in another village, had returned upon hearing about Dagonet's death. Gweir had sent a boy to tell her not to come and to keep clear of the Saxons, but as usual, Rhian had decided to ignore his orders and stand by her family.

Her appearance alone made Marian's heart feel a little lighter, but that was not unusual. Rhian's beauty was like a candle flame in complete and utter darkness. Her hair flowed down her back in ringlets the color of a chestnut just sprung from its burr, her eyes were green and framed by long, pale lashes and she had the tall, regal bearing of one who knew of her beauty, making even the simple gown of brown linen she wore seem like the robes of a queen.

She had grown up pampered and admired and Marian knew that, although her sister was a skilled midwife and could put aside all squeamishness when the need arose, she was, in fact, quite vain. Yet she loved her dearly all the same.

Rhian ran to her father and threw herself in his arms.

"Why did you come here!" Gweir exclaimed, even as he hugged his daughter close. "I told you to stay away, my girl!"

"As if I could leave you alone in a time of need," she protested, disentangling herself from him and rushing over to envelop her sister in a flower-scented embrace.

"I'm glad you're here!" Marian told her quietly and was rewarded with a bright smile. "Come, I will bring your bags upstairs and tell you what you need to know on the way."

Gweir watched his children fondly as they hurried up the stairs together and listened to their quiet voices already discussing what needed to be done.

A heartbeat later, his smile froze. In the distance, a new sound echoed over the plane and the fort, like the heartbeat of doom. Saxon war drums.

His daughters came back downstairs again, Rhian now with an apron slung around her waist as well. Fear made Marian's eyes seem twice as huge.

"Father...?" she asked, her voice cracking on the second syllable. Gweir could only shake his head slightly. He found no words of comfort.

They stood quietly for several long moments, listening. Then another sort of thunder rumbled in the distance.

"Hoof beats!" Marian cried out and ran over to the window, her father and her sister at her heels. "There are riders approaching!"

They crowded around the narrow window, staring out at the empty street, while the sounds grew ever closer and finally, a flock of riders galloped past them. Their armour flashed in the winter sun, their banners flew in the wind and on each face, barely visible beneath their helmets, was a look of fierce determination.

Marian's eyes followed Lancelot, who led the cavalcade, until they had turned the corner, heading towards the main gate. Her heart was fluttering in her chest like a little bird.

"They are back!" she whispered, an absurd hope filling her to bursting point. "I knew they'd come back!"

"Yes," Gweir agreed grimly, "I knew they'd be insane enough to die here..."

...to be continued...