EDIT AS OF 27/2/13: This story will be undergoing major reconstruction midway through the year and will, as such, be partially taken down. As my first fanfiction, there is much of this story that is not up to the standard I would like. Look out for updates in the future! :)

A/N:Hey ya'll this is my first (ever) fanfiction and I hope you enjoy it! It's pretty short and snappy but I'll only be putting up the prologue until I get at least one review. Simply for the reason that I'm really not sure anyone will read it and I'd rather not waste my time writing and publishing something no-ones going to read :) I have written 3 chapters already so if I am overwhelmed I may post them quickly ;)

After doing a fair bit of research, I have based the Sarmatian language on phonetic Ukrainian. Phonetic because the lettering of the Ukrainian language, like Russian and Belurussian is a lot of squares which don't give any indication of how they would be 'said' and what they would sound like. Hopefully it is deemed acceptable. (Translations will be at the bottom of the page!) :)

So read on fellow King Arthur fans and (hopefully) enjoy! :)


...Prologue...

452 A.D.

The thin veil of smoke had lifted in a haze from the ruined village, now only a pile of charred remains on the valley floor. The stench of death and burning still hung over it like a black fog, the echoes of the screams of the dead clinging to the rocky cliffs.

The caravan, on its journey further West stopped at the top of the rise, noticing for the first time the plumes of smoke emulating from the decimated village. The effect of the scene below was immediate, people running and moving to get the caravan underway - to escape the smell of death that hovered in the air.

Soldiers, with their shining breastplates and war-horses - the guardians of the caravan, gathered at the top of the rise before moving down into the small village. All alert and ready for attack.

From one of the wagons, a woman stared down into the valley, watching the soldiers in their hopeless errand. It was impossible that any had survived the attack. The smoke had almost cleared meaning both the attackers were long gone, and anyone who had survived had probably succumbed. Too many villages the caravan had past had suffered the same fate. Burned-out shells. No survivors.

Occasionally the soldiers would bring back a person, their wounds would be treated but there was nothing that could be done, their wounds were too extensive and they would die soon after. Her husband was down there. With the soldiers. He had gone with them before, although he was not a soldier. Every time he had come back safely, but there was always a first time for everything. And so she watched.

Soon enough the soldiers were returning. Relief visibly washed over her face as she saw her husbands form ride amongst the soldiers, his brown clothes a stark contrast to the red of their Roman uniforms. Her Briton.

She didn't notice the small form in his arms until he dismounted and went to her. A child, unconscious, pale and drawn. Not more than four years of age, her long brown hair fanned over her in alternating plaits and tangles. There was blood on her clothes, but it did not seem to be her own.

The woman took all of this in and more, the strong nose, the long eyelashes, the slim form. She was not an attractive child that was apparent. But she felt drawn to the small creature. She hurried over to her husband and the child. Her eyes questioning. He looked at her before averting his gaze and shaking his head. There was no-one else left.

Suddenly the child opened her eyes. Brown and haunted. They glassed over as she stared at the woman above her, uttering a cry of anguish 'Materi ne zalyshay mene!'. She stretched her arms out to her, before falling back once more into the oblivion of unconsciousness.

A strong feeling of tenderness overcame the woman. Pity for this child, a kinship with this small, abandoned creature with no living family left. She decided, and gently took the child into her arms, rocking her back and forth 'Ya ne zalyshu...moya dochka...'.


A/N:BTW the name for this fic comes from the song 'Tell me now (What you see)' from the movie King Arthur (2004)

Materi ne zalyshay mene: Mother do not leave me!
Ya ne zalyshu...moya dochka...: I will not leave...my daughter...