Disclaimer: The story upon which my tale is based, its characters and settings, belong to
David Franzoni, Touchstone Pictures and/or Mr. Jerry Bruckheimer, all of whom I claim no
affiliation with. No monetary gain has been nor will ever be obtained by this story. It's all
just fiddle-faddle-gumdrops, then. All rights reserved.

Summary: When Arthur saves a young Woad woman, he and two of his best knights find
themselves at the risk of losing their hearts. But will their love for her create a war between
eachother, and will their world collide with that of the Woads to create Briton’s greatest war?

Author's Note, Monday 22 June, 2009: If you are familiar with my Arthurian series since its
birth in 2005, thank you so much for revisiting where it all began! If you are just stumbling
across these little fables for the first time ... welcome to the nuthouse! I am truly humbled by
the reception my little series has received, and I cannot thank my dear reviewers enough for
your continuous support. I am at this moment in the process of rewriting this series from the
beginning (without, I hope, altering the je ne sais quoi that encouraged you all to check it out
in the first place) and I do hope you will enjoy this second, error-free (I hope!) edition of the
story of Gaia and her knights. Thank you for reading!

I.I Prologue

One has heard countless tales of the line of knights, sons and grandsons and great-great grandchildren, who fought for years stretching into lifetimes on the tumultuous grounds of Badon Hill and the fixed, glorious fortress at Hadrian’s Wall. Innumerable accounts have come into existence of these men-beyond-men; these unstoppable, invincible warriors. Not men, but gods, as they had transformed through the histories, the firelight passings-down by fathers to their sons over mugs of strongest ale, the young, naive siblings play-fighting around the table legs. A particular image may spark in the eye of most who remember these knights; of men with a heart made solely for war, an appetite for nothing below the stinging, wretched cry of their feeble enemy piercing the surrounding fog. The knights morph from being to being as their stories are told from mouth to mouth, heard from ear to ear. They are ruthless, insatiable, godlike beings to men; to the women they are all-knowing lovers beyond contestation, with hearts and souls brimming to the edge with honour; and they are fearless men of impossible height to the little children, much as they see their own fathers. Through all of these ages of varying accounts and fabrications, some have come to regard these brave knights as figments, the existence of which could be no more real than fairy dust and flying dragons. It is to these souls that the true meaning of courage is lost; it is to these souls that the deepest connection between a man, his king, God and country, so strengthened over time that naught could dare to tempt its separation, has been left entirely in smoke. No such doubts had ever lingered in the minds of men, women, and children at the time when Rome stationed its commanding forces and Sarmatian cavalries on the parapets of Hadrian’s Wall. That was a time before the past had even taken place...

As all tales of honor, romance, mystery and war begin with four simple words, so too does my tale of seven men, one woman, and a passion that threatened to consume them all: Once upon a time…

I – 20 June, 466AD

Once upon a time, there existed a Britain unlike any Britain the world would ever know again. Clouds crowded the heavens, and so dense as to forever deny the rolling green hills their right to be splendid. Indeed, nothing on this land could hold superiority enough to be deemed splendid. The air hung lankly, thick and unmoving, like a breath of strength holding all within it steadily fixed in place. No colors exuded a dull brown or gray or a lingering hazel. This land had so long been consumed by war as to now depict the word itself; this land was War. No light could ever find strength enough to shine upon it with affection, or so thought the men who had spent fourteen years fighting for it.

Among these men whose spirits waxed and waned with the wind, there was Lucius Artorius Castus, or Arthur. He was a legend standing, breathing in his place, with eyes as clear and bright as the sunshine on the sea and a jaw as strong and unyielding as the very walls of the fortress around him. There was a prowess and valiance in him that could be felt from rooms away, and it was these very qualities that made every man who came to know him feel the insatiable need to bow at his greatness. They never bowed; he would not allow it. To himself, he was no greater a man than any he had ever known. But as it happens, the idolized may sometimes find themselves too busy idolizing others to take notice, and so it was with Arthur Castus.

There is much to know of the men whose swords fell for the mighty Arthur Castus, however you will hear little of their tales from me as much more on the subject of their characters will be revealed as this account continues in its way. The Roman commander had in his charge, at the time in the course of their fourteen year occupation in which our story takes place, six Sarmatian knights remaining, each with their share of the uncharacteristic solicitude in regard to their leader. Nobler names have been given them over time, over battles, but here, so early in their legendary roles, they were simply Sirs Bors, Dagonet, Lancelot, Galahad, Gawain and Tristan.

On the particular day in which my fair account begins, a shroud of pain wrapped itself around the fortress inhabitants; the sort of pain that was always present after a close family member or friend has passed away. The unfortunate man’s name was Sir Kay, and he had been killed mere hours earlier. The events which took his life are not of a sort that would shock the folk who resided south of the Wall. Incidents like this had become just as natural as would befit a place of such moroseness. Whether by strategic surprise, unplanned bouts of anger or, quite frankly, as it had come to be over the years, tradition, the Woad attacks were by no means leisurely. Yet, it had been three years since one of the company had been lost forever, and the pain and sorrow seemed to be particularly strong after its lengthy absence.

Each knight now sat at the circular table, far more modest at this point than the opulence it would one day exude; each knight sat, lost in the same, long-anticipated bittersweet reverie of a life now ended, far too soon. But, as the saying goes, with the end comes the beginning, and so it was with these men, however much they disbelieved at present. For, as each man sat fingering their chalice of wine, mead, ale or other sort of spirit-healing spirits, there was also a particular young woman on their minds.

Her name was not yet known to them; in fact, there was only one piece of information that was present in their consciousness, and that was the very simple truth that this woman was one of the people of the woods. Those strange, unearthly beings who they had spent their fourteen years fighting, to whom they had just lost one of their brothers-in-arms. It is easily imaginable that these men needed no other motive to search out their deepest, most biting disdain and hold it readily out to this inferior woman. What, however, was going through Arthur’s mind was quite different: this young woman had been brutally attacked by her very own people. Thoughts of reason had fled him when his scout came back to the battle-wearied men, one few in their numbers, and told of the beaten young woman just beyond the lines of fighting; in fleeting moments Arthur had seen the girl, horrified by the image, and without a consulting look to his charges did he order her to be taken to the fortress, to refuge. With the end comes the beginning.

“This is madness.” Six pairs of eyes moved, however languidly, to the young Galahad as he spoke. Five pairs of eyes wordlessly agreed with him. One pair of the five in particular, those belonging to the curly-haired Sir Lancelot, were burning ceaselessly with an anger so well controlled, one might mistake it for something else entirely. And these eyes found themselves directing the sole of their firepower at the Roman commander. “She...” Galahad scoffed as he continued, laughing incredulously at the current situation; “She is one of them. We should have run her through as soon as look at her! Those things, those monsters, they killed Kay!” A fist to the table did well to emphasize his point.

“We know nothing about her,” Arthur’s voice cut across the room, a deep growl of emotion as he ran a large, rough hand over wearied eyes.

“She is a Woad,” responded Galahad; “We know everything about her.” Thunder rolled in the distance, perhaps a warning to the young knight that his tongue wound swifter than it ought. Arthur stretched his gaze around his men once more, sighing slightly.

“You have trusted me,” he addressed them, “these fourteen years, with your very lives. Not idly have these bounds been nettled. What circumstances could put you against me, Knights, I have never imagined.” There was then a scrapping of metal upon wood as the chalice belonging to Lancelot moved slowly away from him, drained of its potion. The knight’s eyes rose steadily to meet his commander’s.

“But these are extraordinary circumstances. Arthur!” A tone, indescribable in its emotion, clung to each word as it left Lancelot’s mouth. His angry eyes seemed to dive into Arthur’s, pleading for him to reach control over his senses. The commander was silenced, but his decision unaltered.

“Why would the Celts harm one of their own?” A voice not often heard by the other knights and their gracious commander rumbled deeply from a shadowy side of the table. All turned to Tristan and his unexpected question; and an answer was not likely to be found, however much they searched for it in their thoughtful reticence. Bors, however, was not one to sit idly and search silently for words or reasons he had no care for.

“Why the bloody hell should we care?” his vicious return resounded on the stone surroundings; “Let them shite their own, and let us have done with their damned kind!”

“If she is not with them, she could prove to be an ally,” Gawain offered.

“Bullshit,” the reply.

Arthur, being well accustomed to such verbal offerings to which Bors was quite reputable, ignored the anger and resentment he now sensed. Attempting another route for which to lay his claim, he spoke of their merciful forefathers.

“By this account, the fortitude of our ancestors was questionably ineffectual,” was the murmured response of Sir Lancelot. “Damn this girl, and damn this entire ordeal.”

The knight’s words were quite enough to set freedom to each man’s oft-controlled fire, and the room erupted in a fury of defenses, offenses and likewise profanities. The room seemed well divided, with Gawain, Dagonet and Arthur demanding a design of mercy and salvation, while Sirs Galahad and Bors and the flaming Sir Lancelot were inclined to be obstinate when directed to adhere to it. After what seemed hours of endless arguing, Arthur allowed his rare temper to strike a new level.

“ENOUGH!” he bellowed. Each knight raised eyebrows in his direction, some perhaps expecting to see a new face with the abnormal voice. Lo, that it was their captain in but his very same form! “You speak of our forefathers,” Arthur, in his more natural tone, continued; “You speak of their strength, the honor which they uphold. I ask you, do you not think I am in possession of such traits? What roads of error and failure have I been so foolish to lead you down before now?” There was no answer, whatsoever. “Should this decision produce evils against us, I assure you I shall take that responsibility. If you have the trust in me which you claim you have, that same trust which leads you into battle, you will understand me now, here, when I ask this change of you, knights.” And the words you see before you do not do the justice to which the voice that spoke them deserves; for, when Arthur spoke of trust and valor, his knights were more than inclined to think themselves bewitched. It was, then, adequately agreed upon that an attempt to save the Celt woman’s life would be made.

You will remember, however, that there was still yet one more knight in the room: the oft-forgotten Sir Tristan. He was not dismissed so easily by the men for reasons of dislike, distrust or disapproval; no, Sir Tristan was quite everything trusted and approved of by the men. It was simply that he rarely spoke his opinion without someone’s first inquiring after it. The ever-silent scout had not raised more than a few words in the heated moments that had passed during this argument, save, of course, several offhanded warnings to passing rooms keepers who had such unfortunate timing as to coincide with a thrown chalice or other reachable object which Bors might have come across in his debate.