Sarmatian Daughter #2 - 15 years later
Probably the fan fiction no one asked for or needed. I literally started this in college lol and finally had the urge to finish it. I hope someone out there enjoys it!
15 Years Later
"Ah, as promised, the bishop's carriage." Gawain announced when the reached the top of the clearing.
Thea’s fingers tightened around the hilt of her sword as she squinted into the misty forest. The bishop’s carriage gleamed ahead, a beacon of Roman arrogance with its polished wood and brass fittings.
Even from a distance, Thea could see the way the Roman soldiers’ galeae with the bright red crest caught the pale sunlight filtering through the fog, as if daring the forest to challenge them.
The Romans were known for their pomp and circumstance but their attire would never let them blend in. These roman soldiers were in Briton to deliver Bishop Germanius.
While Bishop Germanius was to deliver the knights discharge papers so that they would finally be free, it was a long time coming and it was only a few feet away from them.
"Our freedom, Bors." Galahad said with a jubilant smile.
"Mm. I can almost taste it." Bors said licking his lips dramatically, earning a laugh from Gawain.
"And, oh how sweet it tastes." Thea added, her voice light despite the knot tightening in her chest.
"And your passage to Rome, Arthur." Dagonet said looking to his commander and friend, his deep voice carrying a note of solemnity.
Arthur nodded, though his expression was unreadable. He stared ahead, the weight of leadership etched into the lines of his face. Thea glanced at him briefly, but her attention was quickly pulled back to the forest.
Something felt wrong.
Thea stopped smiling and was staring at the forest. She felt the prickle of unease crawl up her spine, an almost instinctual warning she’d learned to trust over the years.
“What is it?” Galahad asked, his brow furrowing as he followed her gaze.
Thea shook her head slowly. “I’m not sure… but something’s off.”
Her voice was quiet, but it carried enough weight to silence the others. Tristan, standing nearby, shifted his stance and cocked his head toward the trees, his hawk-like eyes scanning the edges of the clearing.
“Thea?” Tristan asked, his tone almost imperceptibly softer than usual.
She didn’t look at him, simply nodded toward the forest. “Do you feel it?”
Tristan’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he unslung his bow without a word. That was all the confirmation she needed.
The stillness shattered with a hiss of air and a sickening thud. The Roman officer in front of the carriage staggered, an arrow buried deep in his chest. His eyes widened in shock as he crumpled to the ground, his crimson crest bobbing once before it stilled.
“WOADS!” Tristan’s voice rang out like a battle cry, his bow already drawn.
Thea’s heart lurched, and her sword was in her hand before she could think. Around her, the knights sprang into action, their years of training transforming them into a deadly, synchronized force.
Getting into formation behind Arthur, the knights road towards the impending battle. Even with the small band of roman soldiers, Thea knew they were outnumbered by at least twenty woads.
The Romans had already begun to form a circle around the carriage. Thea took out her bow, holding on with her thighs and legs she took aim, firing at any woad she saw until it was too close to use her bow.
Positioning herself to sit side saddle she waited till she was close enough before jumping down from her horse. Bow still in hand, she used it like a staff, striking down a Woad who charged her. The wooden frame cracked against his skull, sending him sprawling. She discarded the bow and drew her sword in one fluid motion, the weight of the blade a familiar comfort in her grip.
Slicing and stabbing as she went, occasionally sliding underneath a woad just to come up behind him. Her movements were fluid, almost a dance, as she slid beneath an enemy’s swing and came up behind him, her blade striking true. She knew better than to hesitate—the Woads wouldn’t. Unlike the Romans, the Woads fought with wild ferocity, and their ranks weren’t limited to men. Thea caught sight of a Woad woman lunging toward her, her face streaked with blue paint, her leather armor clinging like a second skin. Thea blocked the blow with her sword, their blades clashing with a metallic scream. With a swift kick, Thea sent the woman stumbling back before plunging her blade forward.
Pain exploded in her left arm as a Woad’s blade sliced into her. She cried out, her grip faltering for a moment before she gritted her teeth and swung her sword in a wide arc, cutting him down. Blood seeped from the wound, but she pushed forward, the adrenaline dulling the ache.
Finally, she paused to take in her surroundings. The field was littered with bodies, the clash of swords replaced by the labored breathing of the survivors.
The fighting was done.
She heard Bors’ familiar war cry off to her left, near the river, and turned to see him standing triumphantly, his axe dripping with blood. Wiping her blade on the tunic of the fallen Woad at her feet, Thea sheathed her sword and made her way toward the carriage with Gawain and Bors.
“Not bad for an outnumbered lot, eh?” he said, his voice booming.
Thea managed a tired smile, but her gaze drifted to the forest’s edge, still wary. Something about this attack didn’t sit right with her, but for now, she had to focus on the bishop’s carriage—and the freedom it promised.
Carefully pulling back the once elegant blue covering, now stained with dirt and blood, Bors and Gawain look into the carriage to find that the bishop is dead, struck by at least three woad arrows.
Gawain slammed his axe into the ground in anger. “Damn it all,” Gawain cursed. “Without him, no papers. No freedom.”
Thea’s jaw clenched, but her gaze shifted downward. A faint sound reached her ears—fast, trembling muttering. She stepped to the side and spotted a thin Roman cowering beneath the carriage, his lips moving feverishly in prayer.
"Gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus et Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus. Benedictus fructus ventris tui, lesus. Benedicta tu in mulieribus..."
She tilted her head, watching him with a mix of curiosity and disdain. She knew of the Roman god—how could she not? They had brought their faith to her land like they brought their roads, unyielding and unasked for. But Thea had learned long ago that no god, Roman or otherwise, would ever answer her prayers.
His words sounded pretty in their Latin verse but their meaning had no use nor comfort for Thea or her fellow knights. Gawain seems to agree as he addressed the man "Save your prayers, boy. Your god doesn't live here."
The young Roman froze, staring at the knights with wide, terrified eyes. He clutched his cross tighter but said nothing more.
Behind them, Arthur had a Woad pinned to the ground, his sword pressed firmly against the man’s throat. Thea turned her attention to their commander, studying the tense set of his shoulders.
“Why did Merlin send you south of the wall?” Arthur demanded, his voice steady but edged with steel.
The Woad stared up at him, unflinching, and began to speak in his native tongue. The guttural words were unfamiliar to most of the knights, save for Tristan and Thea, who had picked up fragments of the language over the years. Whatever the man said, Arthur’s expression didn’t change.
“Pick it up,” Arthur commanded, motioning to the axe that lay at the Woad’s feet.
The Woad hesitated, his dark eyes locked with Arthur’s.
“I said pick it up,” Arthur repeated, his tone hardening.
Slowly, the Woad reached for the weapon. Thea tensed, but Arthur stood his ground, unmoving as the man grasped the axe and rose to his feet. After a long, heavy pause, Arthur stepped back, lowering his blade. Without a word, the Woad turned and disappeared into the forest.
Thea frowned as she bent to retrieve one of her arrows from the ground. “Why did he let him go?” she muttered under her breath.
“To send Merlin a message,” Dagonet replied, his voice soft but firm. He stepped closer to her, his brow furrowing as he caught sight of her arm.
Dagonet responded taking her arm in his hand, "this needs to be looked at." She had been cut during the battle but it wasn't bleeding all that much. "It is not that bad." Her eyes narrowed as she noticed his dripping tunic, "why are you all wet?"
"Went for a swim with the woads, he did." Galahad laughed as he walked past them, a cocky grin plastered on his face. Thea smirked, but Dagonet ignored Galahad’s teasing, tearing a strip from the edge of her shirt. His hands were careful but quick as he tied the fabric tightly around her arm.
“I’ll check it back at the fort,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
She looked up at him, her lips parting to protest, but his expression stopped her. His eyes, steady and serious, softened just slightly as they met hers. She nodded silently, a small gesture of trust, before turning her attention back to the bloodied field.
"Bors." Arthur called out reaching the carriage. "What a bloody mess." Bors muttered, gesturing to the interior of the carriage with a grim expression. Thea caught a glimpse of the body slumped inside, arrows protruding from the blood-soaked robes.
"That's not the bishop." Arthur turned around looking at all the other men surrounding them in their Roman garb.
"God help us. What are they?" the young man hiding behind the carriage asked in a shaky voice.
"Blue demons that eat Christians alive. You're not a Christian, are you?" Bors said gruffly pointing a finger at him, and then he noticed the man closing his hands to pray. "Does this really work?"
The young man paled, his hands clenching into a prayer position as he began to whisper frantically under his breath.
Bors watched him with amused skepticism. “Does this really work?” He folded his hands mockingly and mimicked the man’s muttering, though his words were a jumble of nonsense. After a moment, he sighed dramatically. “Nothing. Maybe I’m not doin’ it right.”
“Bors!” Thea’s voice cut through the moment, light yet firm as she approached, her horse’s reins in hand. “Leave the poor child alone. He’s most likely soiled himself during the fight—don’t scare him any closer to his death.” Her teasing smile softened the sharpness of her words.
Bors huffed, but the corner of his mouth twitched in reluctant amusement.
"Arthur!" A man on one of the roman horses called out to him. Arthur straightened, recognition flickering across his face.
“Arthur Castus, your father’s image,” the man said with a tight smile. “I haven’t seen you since childhood.”
Thea exchanged a glance with Gawain, mouthing, The bishop?
Gawain gave a small nod, his brow furrowing in distaste as he shrugged.
“Bishop Germanius,” Arthur said formally. “Welcome to Britain. I see your military skills are still of use to you. Your device worked.”
The bishop dismounted, brushing dust from his fine cloak. “Ancient tricks of an ancient dog,” he said dismissively before turning his attention to the knights. His gaze swept over them, lingering on Thea. His expression soured, his tone dripping with disdain. “And these are the great Sarmatian knights we’ve heard so much about in Rome.”
He looked them over, his eyes falling upon Thea, his look of interest becoming one of disgust. "So it is true, there is a woman fighting amongst you. Who would ever believe one could defend herself as if a man."
Dagonet griped her horse's saddle as she made to move towards the bishop, her hand gripping the hilt of her sword. Arthur stepped forward, his voice sharp. “Thea has proven herself time and time again, Bishop. I trust her. She is a skilled fighter and a valuable member of my knights.”
Thea didn’t miss the flicker of annoyance in Germanius’s expression as he turned his back on her, dismissing her entirely. She smirked, satisfaction bubbling despite the insult.
The bishop moved toward his carriage, brushing past the group as if they were beneath him. “I thought the Woads controlled the north of Hadrian’s Wall.”
"They do, but they occasionally venture south. Rome's anticipated withdrawal from Britain has only increased their daring."
“Woads?” the bishop repeated, his tone disdainful.
“British rebels who hate Rome,” Gawain explained, his voice flat.
“Men who want their country back,” Galahad snapped, his defiant tone earning a sharp look from Arthur.
Thea arched a brow at Galahad, thinking, That boy’s going to get himself killed one of these days.
The bishop ignored the exchange, instead asking,
"Who leads them?"
“He’s called Merlin,” Lancelot answered, his tone laced with dry amusement. “A dark magician, some say.”
Arthur’s eyes scanned the road ahead, his focus shifting back to the task at hand. “Tristan, Thea,” he called. “Ride ahead and make sure the road is clear.”
Thea nodded, mounting her horse in one fluid motion. Tristan followed suit, and without a word, the pair rode ahead, leaving the tension of the group behind them.
"You need to be more careful" Tristan's rough voice broke the silence as they road back to join the others, finding the road clear of any other interruptions. The forest stretched endlessly around them, the faint rustle of leaves and distant calls of birds the only sounds apart from their horses’ hooves.
“What?” Thea turned to him, puzzled by his sudden remark.
“You need to be careful not to let that temper of yours get the best of you,” he replied, his tone calm but firm.
Thea sighed heavily, her shoulders slumping as she gripped her reins. She knew he was right. “This I know. But—”
“Arthur said, in front of the bishop, that he trusts you.” Tristan cut her off, his gaze scanning the tree line, ever watchful. He didn’t look at her, but Thea knew his words were deliberate. “That is all you should worry about—not the words of a Roman who knows nothing of us.”
She hesitated, her fingers tightening around the reins. His words were simple, but they carried weight, as all of Tristan’s rare words did. She glanced at him briefly, taking in his stoic expression. “You trust me?”
Tristan didn’t answer immediately, but when he did, his voice was steady. “We all do. Trust is earned, not given. You’ve earned it a hundred times over.”
Thea blinked, unsure how to respond. Praise from Tristan was rare and precious, like finding sunlight in the perpetual mist of Britain.
“Think on that,” he continued, his tone softening slightly, “and quell your anger. There are battles to fight that are worth your rage. The bishop isn’t one of them.”
Thea nodded silently, her head lowered as her thoughts churned. Tristan rarely spoke, and when he did, his words stayed with her long after.
They rode on in silence, the trees casting long shadows across the path as they rejoined the caravan.
