#leotawrites

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.

The Bishop’s valet entered first, a thin, wiry man who immediately hesitated at the sight of the room. The Bishop followed a moment later, his step faltering as his gaze landed on the massive table before him.

“A round table?” His voice dripped with disdain. “What sort of evil is this?”

Jols merely raised a brow, his expression carefully neutral, though Thea caught the flicker of amusement in his eyes.

“Arthur says that for men to be men, they must first all be equal,” Jols stated.

The valet, clearly more outraged than his master, stiffened and hissed under his breath, “A woman is not equal to a man! Let alone to a Bishop!”

Jols said nothing, merely returning to his place by the door. He knew Thea’s worth. She was worth ten times more than the Bishop and more than many men he had met in his life.

Thea sat six seats away from Lancelot, four away from Galahad. None of the knights shifted closer to fill the empty spaces—those belonged to their fallen brothers. The room felt hollow without them, but leaving their seats untouched was an unspoken tribute.

The Bishop finally stepped fully into the chamber, glancing at the round table with barely concealed disgust. The knights, bound by duty rather than respect, rose to acknowledge his presence.

Thea wished she could have remained seated. She had no respect for this so-called man of God.

“I was given to understand there would be more of you.” The Bishop said looking to Arthur.

A sharp pang struck Thea’s heart as she sat back down. She missed them—every one of her fallen brothers-in-arms. She could still picture their faces clearly, but their voices were beginning to fade from memory. They had been so many once. Now, they were so few.

Arthur answered, his tone steady but firm. Thea had a feeling he would be the only one speaking tonight.

“There were,” he said. “We have been fighting here for fifteen years, Bishop.”

Servants moved about the room, carrying golden chalices filled with wine. A young man paused beside Thea, offering her one, and she accepted it with a nod. As the wine slid down her throat, she noted the richness of its taste. This was no common drink—this was the finest vintage, likely brought all the way from Rome. Of course, the Bishop would ensure he had only the proper wine.

Once the Bishop took his seat, the knights followed suit.

“Oh, of course,” the Bishop said, his voice dripping with feigned admiration. “Arthur and his knights have served with great courage, maintaining the honor of Rome’s empire in this, the last outpost of our glory. Rome is most indebted to you, noble knight, for your final days as servants to the empire.”

Lancelot scoffed, voicing the thought that was on all of their minds.

“Day. Not days.”

Thea’s fingers tightened slightly around her chalice. Days? Why had he said days? Something wasn’t right. Where were their papers? Why was he delaying?

“The Pope has taken a personal interest in you,” the Bishop continued smoothly. “He inquires after each of you and is curious to know if your knights have converted to the word of Our Savior, or…?”

Arthur’s gaze swept across his men, pride evident in his expression. “They retain the religion of their forefathers. I have never questioned that.”

And it was true. Arthur had never forced his men to kneel before his God. He had never demanded that they pray with him. Unlike any Roman before him, and likely any that would come after, he had respected them.

“Of course, of course,” the Bishop murmured. His lips curled in distaste. “They are pagans.”

The Bishop’s gaze swept over the knights, but his eyes lingered on Thea longer than the rest. She noticed Dagonet’s grip tighten around his chalice, his knuckles turning white. He had seen it too.

“For our part,” the Bishop said, his tone laced with feigned civility, “the Church has deemed such beliefs… innocent. But you, Arthur—your path to God is through Pelagius? I saw his image in your room.”

Arthur met his gaze without hesitation. “He took my father’s place for me. His teachings on free will and equality have been a great influence. I look forward to our reunion in Rome.”

Thea knew of Pelagius well. Arthur had spoken of him many times, his admiration clear. Once, he had even written to Pelagius about her. The response had come swiftly, with the philosopher expressing his desire to meet such an extraordinary warrior. The compliment alone had been enough to intrigue her. She had wanted to meet the man ever since.

The Bishop offered Arthur a tight-lipped smile. “Rome awaits your arrival with great anticipation. You are a hero. In Rome, you will live out your days in honor and wealth. Alas… alas, we are all but players in an ever-changing world.” He sighed dramatically before continuing. “Barbarians from every corner are nearly at Rome’s door. Because of this, Rome and the Holy Father have decided to remove ourselves from indefensible outposts such as Britain. What will become of this land is no longer our concern. I suppose the Saxons will claim it soon enough.”

At his words, a gilded box was placed beside him. The knights stood out of obligation—all but Thea and Lancelot.

“Saxons?” Arthur’s voice was sharp, cutting through the heavy silence. Thea felt the same unease coil in her stomach. The Saxons were ruthless, leaving only death in their wake.

“Yes,” the Bishop confirmed. “In the north, a massive Saxon incursion has begun.”

Lancelot scoffed, his lip curling. “The Saxons only claim what they kill.”

“And they do kill everything,” Gawain added darkly.

“They believe themselves to be the perfect race, the perfect warriors,” Thea said, her voice steady despite the weight of her words. “To them, anything else is an abomination.”

The Bishop shot her a scowl, but she refused to shrink beneath his gaze. She would not hold her tongue—not now, not ever.

“So you would just leave the land to the Woads?” Galahad’s voice was sharp, his frustration clear. “I risked my life for nothing?”

No one answered him. The silence in the room was heavier than the walls that surrounded them.

The Bishop cleared his throat and continued as if the young knight had not spoken. “Gentlemen,” he said smoothly purposefully leaving out Thea, “your discharge papers, with safe conduct throughout the Roman Empire.”

He lifted the gilded box slightly, its weight shifting in his hands. Thea’s eyes flickered from the scrolls within it to Dagonet’s face. He was staring at the box, his expression unreadable, but his eyes—his hungry, desperate eyes—told her everything. He wanted those papers, that promise of freedom.

But he would not look at her.

Before she could dwell on it, the Bishop’s voice cut through her thoughts once more.

“But first, I must have a word with your commander,” he announced, pausing for effect. “In private.”

A cold certainty settled in Thea’s chest. Something is wrong.

Arthur’s jaw tightened. “We have no secrets.”

The Bishop’s face twitched in irritation. When he had said private, he had meant private. First a round table, and now this blatant defiance? His lips pressed into a thin line as he slammed the wooden box shut with more force than necessary.

Lancelot was the first to break the tension. Rising with a lazy grace, he lifted his golden chalice in a mocking salute. “Come,” he drawled, tilting the cup toward Arthur before draining the last of his wine. “Let’s leave Roman business to Romans.” With a flourish, he set the chalice down and strode from the hall.

Bors remained in his seat, glaring openly at the Bishop, his fingers twitching as if itching to make a fist. Dagonet, ever perceptive, clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder and gave a firm shove. “Let it go, Bors.”

Bors huffed but stood, muttering curses under his breath as he stalked out.

Thea felt a warm hand press lightly against her back—Lancelot, guiding her toward the door. She let him, but not before casting one last glance at Dagonet.

He still hadn’t looked at her.

“What a pompous ass,” Galahad spat the moment they were out of earshot of the fortress hall. His disgust was palpable, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“I knew something was wrong the moment we came upon his caravan,” Thea murmured, her voice quieter but no less certain. The memory still sat uneasily in her gut.

“Our seer is right again,” came a low voice from the front of the group. Tristan, ever the observer, barely turned his head as he spoke.

Thea scoffed. “I am no seer, Tristan.”

He glanced at her briefly, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. “Could have fooled me.” And with that, he fell silent once more.

Galahad let out a frustrated breath, running a hand through his hair. “Why must we wait? We should just take our papers and leave.”

“It’s Roman ways,” Lancelot said, shaking his head. “They never make anything easy, especially when they hold the power.”

Bors grunted, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the weight of the conversation. “Enough talk,” he said gruffly. “I feel like drinking till I can’t piss straight.” He clapped Dagonet on the back and started leading the way.

“Vanora will be working,” he added, his tone lighter now, laced with the warmth only she could bring out in him. “Let’s get there before all those Roman bastards drink all my damn ale.”

Lancelot chuckled, looping an arm around Thea’s shoulders as they followed. “A noble cause indeed.”

No matter how many fights she had seen, no matter how many more she would face before her life was over, she would never grow accustomed to scrubbing the blood of the fallen from her body—enemy or not.

She stripped off her soiled clothes, tossing them into a heap near the door. Her weapons, carefully placed, rested on the wooden table beside her bed. Her sword would need sharpening soon.

Moving to the small wash basin, she dipped a cloth into the cool water and began scrubbing her skin. The water darkened to red almost immediately, swirling like ink as it carried away the remnants of the day’s violence. She reached for the second bucket of clean water, pouring it over her arms and shoulders, watching as it washed away the last traces of blood.

It took several minutes before she finally felt clean. Pulling on a fresh tunic, pants, and boots, she worked quickly to re-braid her damp hair—only to be interrupted by a soft knock at the door.

Thea moved to open the heavy wooden door, only to be met by Dagonet’s piercing green eyes. He said nothing as he stepped inside, closing the door behind him with quiet finality.

“I was just about to come find you,” she began, but the intensity in his gaze made her breath catch. She knew that look—knew exactly where this would lead if she let it.

Reaching out, she placed a hand against his chest, a gentle attempt to stop him from coming any closer. But Dagonet was not so easily deterred. He caught her hand in his own, his grip warm and firm as he pulled her toward him.

“Dagonet,” she warned, though her voice lacked conviction.

He wasn’t listening. They had gone months without a moment alone, stolen glances and fleeting touches the only comfort in the chaos of war. Now that he had the chance, he wasn’t going to waste it.

His lips captured hers before she could protest again, his kiss deep and unyielding. Whatever she had meant to say dissolved the moment his arms wrapped around her, pulling her flush against him. What had started as an attempt to distract her became his own undoing the second he felt her melt into him.

Thea hesitated for only a heartbeat before surrendering, her fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic as she kissed him back. One of his hands pressed against the small of her back, holding her in place, while the other tangled into the damp strands of her hair. A soft moan escaped her lips, and he smiled against her mouth in quiet triumph—only for her to catch herself and abruptly pull away.

“You’re distracting me,” she said, breathless.

“And?” His grin was utterly shameless as he leaned in again, intent on reclaiming her lips.

But Thea pulled back, pressing her fingers against his chest. “I’m serious, Dagonet.”

“What is the matter?” Dagonet asked as Thea sank onto the edge of her bed. He moved to join her, concern etched across his face.

“Bors knows.”

His brow furrowed. “Knows what?”

She hesitated, but when his fingers gently lifted her chin, his thumb tracing the fullness of her bottom lip, she exhaled and said, “About us.”

His touch stilled. “So?”

“So?!” She pulled away, frustration bubbling up. “If Bors knows, then who else does?”

“Why does it matter? We receive our papers tonight.”

“Dagonet.” She turned to face him fully, her voice low and urgent. “What happens if more than just Bors knows? If the Bishop finds out, we could be sentenced to death for this.”

“Then we run.”

“Run where? Back home?” She sighed, standing abruptly. “They would hunt us down.”

“The Bishop is here to give us our freedom,” he argued, his jaw tightening.

“I don’t believe he is. Something doesn’t feel right, Dagonet. We cannot risk it.”

He stepped closer, his voice edged with frustration. “I don’t understand why you keep fighting this. Have you lost your courage? Or your love for me?”

Thea’s eyes flashed as she turned on him. “How dare you?” she hissed. “How dare you even suggest I don’t love you anymore. And I have not lost my courage.”

“Then prove it,” he challenged. “Come with me to speak with Arthur. He is our commander—our friend. He will understand.”

“No.” She shook her head. “Not until I have that paper in my hand. And you have yours.”

Dagonet’s expression darkened, hurt bleeding into his frustration. “I do not understand why we must continue to live in silence. After all these years.” His voice softened. “Thea, I want to take you as my wife. I want a life with you. A family. Can you not see that?”

She closed her eyes briefly, pain flickering across her face before she forced herself to meet his gaze. “Bors and Vanora are not married,” she said quietly. “It is different for us. I am a knight, just as you are. And you know what they told me the moment I was taken in. If any man dared to claim me, if I were to become pregnant—” She swallowed hard. “It would be the end of my life. And his.”

Thea had never seen that look in Dagonet’s eyes before—not directed at her. It wasn’t just anger; it was something deeper, something raw. And though she knew he had every right to feel this way, she couldn’t stay silent.

“I can’t risk losing you,” she said softly.

His jaw tightened. “You don’t think I would fight for you? That I would take on an entire Roman legion just to be with you?”

“Dag—”

“Don’t interrupt me!” he snapped.

She flinched, shocked by the force of his voice. Silence stretched between them, heavy and unyielding. He exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face before turning toward the door.

Slowly, he opened it, his back still to her. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but laced with hurt.

“I would fight for you.” A pause. “Why can’t you fight for me?”

“Dagonet,” she whispered, but he didn’t turn back.

And then he was gone, leaving her alone with nothing but her thoughts—and the tears she could no longer hold back.

Thea had no idea how much time had passed between Dagonet leaving and Gawain’s knock at her door.

“Thea, we are to meet Arthur soon.”

She opened the door slowly, hoping he wouldn’t notice the redness in her eyes. But Gawain always noticed.

“Thea, are you alright?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

She wiped at her eyes and forced a small smile. “I’m not sure.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, with a heavy sigh, she murmured, “We best not keep the bishop waiting.” She moved to step past him, but Gawain caught her in a hug.

The knights weren’t ones to display affection openly, but here, in the quiet of the hallway, with no one else around, Gawain simply gathered her into his arms. The weight of unspoken words settled between them, her walls threatening to break again. She didn’t cry, but he held her as if she might.

“Do you wish to talk?” he finally asked.

She just shook her head.

A familiar voice broke the silence. “What’s this? Free embraces from our beautiful viper?”

Lancelot had stepped from his room, his usual mischievous grin in place. Thea couldn’t help but return it, stepping out of Gawain’s arms.

“If anyone saw me hugging you, rumors would fly,” she teased.

“Let them,” Lancelot replied smoothly, offering his arm.

She rolled her eyes but took it anyway. He pressed a quick kiss to her brow, and just like that, the weight on her chest felt a little lighter.

“Well, you wouldn’t be saying that if you ever saw me! You’d agree,” Bors shot back with a wink.

Thea smirked. “Oh, I do believe I’ll tell fair Vanora about this conversation.”

Bors’ grin faltered instantly. “Now, hold on—” He nudged his horse closer to hers, his voice dropping low. “You wouldn’t do that to me.”

She gave him a knowing look but said nothing, just enjoying the rare moment of having the upper hand.

Bors, however, saw his opportunity to turn the conversation in his favor. “If you tell Vanora, I’ll have to tell Arthur about you and Dagonet.”

Thea’s amusement vanished. She turned sharply to him, eyes wide. “What?”

“You really think I wouldn’t notice?” His voice was quieter now, serious beneath the usual bravado. “Out of all the knights, Dagonet is the closest to me. I see everything, and I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

She opened her mouth to deny it, to brush it off as nonsense, but lying to Bors was like trying to outrun the wind—pointless. Something about him, much like Arthur, always made her stumble over her words when she tried.

“Bors, please,” she sighed, lowering her voice so only he could hear. “We were waiting until we had our papers before telling anyone. If the Romans were to find out—”

“I’m not saying anything,” he assured her before she could finish, his voice softer now, lacking the teasing edge.

She let out a slow breath, relieved, but the damage was done—if Bors had noticed, who else had?

She had over an hour before they reached the fort. Plenty of time to think. And now, she had no choice but to.

“I don’t like him. That Roman,” Galahad muttered as they rode toward the fort, his grip tight on the reins. “If he’s here to discharge us, why doesn’t he just give us our papers and be done with it?”

Thea glanced at him, noting the tension in his young face. Despite the years of war, there was still a trace of the boy he used to be—flickering, dim, nearly extinguished by the Romans and the battles that had shaped him into a man far too soon.

“Is this your happy face?” Gawain quipped, smirking.

Galahad’s expression only darkened.

“Galahad, do you still not know the Romans?” Gawain continued. “They won’t even scratch their own asses without making a ceremony of it.”

Bors let out a short laugh. “Why don’t you just kill him, then discharge yourself after?”

“I don’t kill for pleasure. Unlike some.” Galahad’s voice was steady, but his gaze flicked toward Tristan.

The quiet knight didn’t react—just looked at him with that unreadable expression of his. Then, after a moment, Tristan spoke. “Well, you should try it someday. You might get a taste for it.”

Bors snorted. “It’s in you, lad. It’s in your blood.”

Thea sighed. “Unfortunately, it’s in all of us.”

“No, no, no.” Bors waved a hand dismissively. “As of tomorrow, this was all just a bad memory.”

“Ohhh,” he added, voice thick with sarcasm.

“All of it, Galahad?” Thea asked, tilting her head toward him. “Even us? Will we just be bad memories too?”

She had always called him little brother, and in many ways, he was. But when he wouldn’t look at her, when he urged his horse forward, leaving the conversation behind him, she got her answer.

She understood his longing for home—she felt it too. But unlike Galahad, she could never think of these men as a memory best forgotten. Blood, war, and death had bound them together in ways few could understand. They had fought, bled, and survived together. For better or worse, these men were her family. They always would be.

Maybe, she thought, this was just a woman’s sentiment.

“I’ve often wondered what going home will mean after all this,” Gawain said, breaking the silence. “What will I do? What will any of us do?” He exhaled, shaking his head. “It’s different for Galahad. He still remembers home. He still has a future waiting for him. But me? I’ve been in this life longer than the others. Home—” He paused, as if testing the word on his tongue. “It’s not so clear in my mind anymore.”

Thea understood that too. Home. A word that once meant everything. Now? It felt like something distant, something that belonged to another version of herself.

And yet, it was all they had left to hope for.

“You speak for yourself,” Bors grumbled. “It’s cold back there, and everyone I know is dead and buried. Besides, I have—I think—a dozen children.”

“Eleven,” Gawain corrected without missing a beat.

“And I’m sure there’ll be more on the way after we get back,” Thea teased as she rode up beside them, flashing Bors a knowing smirk.

Bors pointed a thick finger at her. “You listen.” He jabbed the same finger toward Galahad for good measure. “When the Romans finally clear out of here, we’ll have the run of the place. I’ll be governor of my own village, and Dagonet here will be my personal guard and royal ass-kisser. Won’t you, Dag?” He laughed, nudging his closest friend.

Dagonet, ever the quiet one, gave a small shake of his head but said nothing.

“You know, Bors,” Thea interjected, tilting her head. “Perhaps Dagonet might find himself a wife. Maybe even start a family of his own. He might be too busy being a husband and father to be your personal ass-kisser.”

Bors shot her a sharp look, and she just shrugged. They both knew the conversation they’d had earlier was still fresh in their minds.

“First thing I’m doing when I get home is finding a beautiful Sarmatian woman to wed,” Bors declared.

“A beautiful Sarmatian woman?” Bors said sarcastically causing Gawain to raise an eyebrow. “Why do you think we left in the first place?” Bors let out a booming laugh and made a loud mooing noise, shaking his head.

“You do know there’s a beautiful Sarmatian woman riding right beside you,” Lancelot said, nodding toward Thea.

“Why, thank you, my dear Lancelot,” Thea said with a dramatic smile, placing a hand on her chest as if deeply touched.

Bors turned, giving her a skeptical once-over. Then he jerked his thumb toward her and scoffed, “This one?”

Thea arched a brow.

Bors leaned in slightly. “No, my dear, you see—you are not a beautiful woman.” She narrowed her eyes at him.

“You’re a damned viper,” he added with a grin before leaning over and planting a quick, exaggerated kiss on her cheek.

She responded by punching him in the arm.

Bors feigned a wounded look before rubbing his arm with a grin. “But a beautiful viper, at that.”

Thea laughed, shaking her head before slowing her horse to fall into stride beside Dagonet. As she rode back, she caught Bors giving her a wink. She rolled her eyes but smiled all the same as he turned back to Lancelot to finish their conversation.

“And what about you, Lancelot?” Thea asked, glancing at the handsome knight. “What are your grand plans for home?”

Lancelot smirked, his eyes gleaming with mischief as he turned to Bors. “Well, if this woman of Gawain’s is as beautiful as he claims, I expect to be spending quite a bit of time at his house. His wife will surely welcome the company.”

Gawain shot him a dark look, clearly unamused. “Oh? And what exactly will I be doing?”

“Wondering at your good fortune that all your children look like me,” Lancelot replied with an easy grin.

“Is that before or after I split your head open with my ax?”

Lancelot only laughed. “Well, if I could finally convince our lovely viper to wed me, I suppose I wouldn’t need to trouble your household.” He cast a glance over his shoulder toward Thea, who rode between Tristan and Dagonet. “What do you say? Finally going to give me an answer?”

Thea rolled her eyes dramatically. “Lancelot, I love you dearly, but alas, your proposal came far too late. I’m afraid my affection has been lost to another.”

Lancelot clutched his chest in mock devastation. “No! Can this be true? Has our dear viper been tamed by another? Tell me, sister! Who has stolen you from me?”

Thea smirked. “Ah, but if I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

Gawain chuckled. “He’ll get it out of you one way or another. But better you marry anyone else than this vile knight. Or else you’ll be mother to many other women’s bastards as well.”

Thea burst into laughter while Lancelot ignored the jab, his attention already shifting. With a last lingering glance at her, he spurred his horse forward to join Arthur at the front of the group, leaving Thea shaking her head at his antics.

“Open the gate!” A Roman officer on the wall barked the command down to the two soldiers manning the heavy wooden doors. With a deep groan, the gates slowly swung open as the knights approached.

Thea urged her horse closer to Dagonet’s side. “We need to talk.”

His sharp eyes flicked toward her. “What is the matter?”

“Not now. When we can speak alone.”

Dagonet gave a small nod, sensing the weight in her voice, and she pressed her horse forward into the fort.

As they rode into the stables, they were met by Jols, who stepped forward to take hold of Arthur and Lancelot’s horses as they dismounted. Thea caught sight of Vanora and her children waiting just beyond the iron gates that enclosed the stable yard. Smiling, she gave a playful wink to little Gilly, who immediately blushed and hid behind his mother’s skirts.

“Welcome back, Arthur,” Jols greeted, his voice steady as always.

“Jols,” Arthur responded with a brief nod.

“Lancelot.”

The dark-haired knight only acknowledged him with a tense nod, his nerves clearly on edge. The bishop’s presence was an unwelcome weight hanging over them all.

Thea swung down from her horse with practiced ease, leading the animal past Jols. “Jols!” she greeted warmly.

He returned her smile. “Welcome back, Thea.”

“Thank you. Everything quiet here?”

“Nothing we couldn’t handle,” Jols assured her, but his gaze drifted past her shoulder. Thea followed his line of sight and immediately tensed. The bishop was descending from his luxurious carriage, Roman soldiers flanking him on all sides like he was some fragile treasure.

Thea let out a quiet scoff. “Ah. May I present the most holy Roman bishop,” she murmured to Jols, her tone laced with sarcasm. “Come all the way from Rome to grace us with his divine presence.”

Jols smirked at her words, shaking his head slightly. “Let’s hope he presents you with your papers and leaves just as quickly.”

She exhaled, nodding in agreement. That was the hope, wasn’t it? But something about this man gnawed at her.

Arthur approached the carriage, ever the dutiful commander. “Bishop, my quarters have been made available to you.”

The bishop barely glanced at him as he descended, his robes pristine, untouched by the filth of travel. “Oh, yes. I must rest.”

Thea clenched her jaw, watching the man’s exaggerated weariness. Yes, because you look absolutely exhausted after reclining in your cushioned chariot the entire way here.

She turned back to her horse, gripping the saddle as unease curled in her stomach. Something about the bishop felt wrong.

Indiana

She stood at the crossroads, just like the book said. The tattered book had been a lucky find on a dusty shelf at a garage sale. The owner had practically shoved it at her, his hands trembling slightly.

“Take it and leave,” he’d said, his voice low and urgent. “I don’t want money. I just want it out of my house.”

The chapter—Chapter 11, to be exact—on summoning a crossroads demon had been oddly specific. They could only be summoned by burying a container of ritual items: a photograph of the summoner, graveyard dirt, a black cat bone, and yarrow if you had it handy. All of it had to be buried at the exact center of a crossroads.

The instructions didn’t say where the best crossroads might be, so she decided to perform the ritual back home, during a visit to see her family. Indiana, after all, was nicknamed the “Crossroads of America” for a reason. Her family thought she was out with friends for dinner, but instead, she was here—kneeling in the dirt, about to sell her soul.

The dirt road she’d chosen looked like it hadn’t seen a car in decades, flanked by dark fields and dense woods. Only the occasional sound of a cricket or the distant cry of a barn owl broke the stillness. Her flashlight cast flickering shadows as she knelt in the middle of the crossroads and began to dig. The earth was hard-packed, but at least it wasn’t paved over, which made it easier to work with her small, rusted trowel.

Three feet down—that’s what the book demanded. Sweat dripped from her forehead despite the cool night air as she finally finished the hole and placed the box inside. Her heart pounded as she carefully pushed the dirt back over it, stamping it down with shaky hands.

She hoped she was doing this right. She hoped this would work.

Nothing else had.

Doctors couldn’t help. Medicine had failed. She’d prayed—oh, how she’d prayed—but it was obvious God wasn’t listening anymore. Her mother’s pain was a constant, unyielding force in their lives, a shadow that grew darker with each passing day. She couldn’t bear to see it any longer.

This was her last option.

Ten minutes passed, and she was still waiting. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, the flashlight beam wavering as her grip on it tightened. Her breath was visible in the cool air, a reminder of how alone she was.

She glanced down at her watch for the sixth time, the glowing numbers mocking her. “Alright!” she finally shouted, her voice cutting through the stillness. “I’m here! I—I want to make a deal!”

The silence stretched, pressing in on her like a heavy weight. She wrung her hands and shifted again, her heart racing. This had to work. It had to.

What would they look like? The thought crept into her mind as the minutes dragged on. The book hadn’t said anything about appearances. Would they be monstrous? Or maybe they’d look like the red, horned devils she’d seen in childhood cartoons? Growing up in Catholic school had planted vivid images of hellfire and brimstone in her mind, even though she hadn’t been to church in years.

Her breath hitched as she realized how little she knew about what she’d just done. Was it even real? Was she wasting her time?

After what felt like hours, she sighed and knelt down again to unearth the box. If this didn’t work, she’d need to come up with another plan—somehow.

“Whatcha doing out here all alone, Sugar?”

She froze.

The voice was smooth and playful, but it sent a chill racing down her spine. Slowly, she stood and turned toward the source. A beautiful woman stood just a few feet away, her lips curled into a sly smile. Her dark hair tumbled in waves over her shoulders, and her sharp eyes glinted in the moonlight.

“Oh, I—I’m sorry,” she stammered, glancing around nervously. She didn’t see anyone else. “I thought I saw… something. Maybe a deer or—or something like that. Must have been my imagination, so I’ll j-just go.”

The woman tilted her head, her smile never faltering. “Don’t you want to help your mamma?”

Her blood ran cold. The words hit her like a punch to the gut, freezing her mid-step. She turned back slowly, her legs trembling. “How do you…?”

“Isn’t that what you want?” The woman stepped closer, “To make your mamma all better?”

The flashlight slipped from her hand as the woman’s eyes flashed a deep, unnatural red.

“Oh, God,” she whispered, stumbling back.

The demon laughed, a low, melodic sound that seemed to echo unnaturally around them. “Isn’t that why you’re here? Because there is no God?”

The demon sauntered forward, her movements slow and deliberate, as if savoring the moment. The woman stumbled back, her heartbeat roaring in her ears. Her mind was reeling—this was real. This was all real.

How was this happening? How had it come to this?

But then her mother’s face flashed in her mind—frail, pale, and wincing in constant pain. That image ignited a spark of courage within her. She straightened her back and forced herself to stand tall, trying to calm the trembling in her hands.

“I’m here to make a de—”

“A deal,” the demon interrupted smoothly, her crimson eyes glinting like embers in the darkness. Her smile widened, exposing perfect teeth. “Yes, I know. Your mother’s health for your soul.”

She swallowed hard but nodded. “And my mother will be completely healed? No other disease will take her, and she’ll live a long and happy life?” Her voice was shaky but determined.

“Of course,” the demon purred. “Completely healed. Immune to all other sicknesses.”

The offer was almost too good to be true. She hesitated, her breath fogging in the now-frigid air. “Alright… how many years do I get?”

“Standard is ten,” the demon said, her tone laced with false sweetness. Then her smile turned sharper, almost predatory. “But that’s not how THIS deal works.”

Her stomach dropped. “W-wait, why? What happened to ten years?” Her voice rose, tinged with panic.

The demon’s expression shifted, annoyance flickering across her features. The air around them grew heavier, colder, and the faint scent of sulfur filled her nose. “Oh, sweetie pie, that’s not how these things work.”

The demon’s smile vanished, and her tone hardened. “That’s the deal, sugar. Take it o—“

And then, she was gone.

The woman stumbled back a step, her eyes darting around the crossroads. The shadows seemed deeper now, the night pressing in on her from all sides. The stillness was deafening, broken only by the faint rustling of leaves in the wind.

“Was that it?” she whispered, her voice trembling. She glanced down at her hands, turning them over as if expecting to see some kind of mark. “Did I just sell my soul?”

She didn’t feel any different. No burning sensation, no oppressive weight on her chest. Just the same gnawing dread.

And then, a voice—a low, smooth drawl—cut through the stillness.

“Hello, love.”

She spun around, nearly dropping the flashlight. To her left, where the woman had stood moments ago, was a man. He was immaculately dressed in a tailored suit, the faint scent of expensive cologne lingering in the air around him. His dark eyes glittered with intelligence and amusement, his lips curled into a smirk.

He wasn’t frightening—not in the way she’d expected a demon to be—but the way he appeared out of nowhere confirmed he was anything but human.

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice wary and her heart pounding.

The man tilted his head, his smirk widening. “Crowley. King of Hell.” He stated mater of factly

Her breath hitched. “King of Hell?” Her mind immediately conjured up the only king of Hell she’d ever heard of. “Does that make you the Devil?”

He arched an eyebrow, clearly amused by the question. “No,” he drawled. “I’m not Lucifer. He’s rotting in a cage where he belongs. As of right now, I’m the one in charge.” He gestured casually with one hand, as though being King of Hell was just another day job. “And as of right now, I’ll be handling this deal for you.”

She blinked, her mind spinning. “But what about the woman—”

Crowley waved a hand dismissively, cutting her off. “Don’t worry about her. She wasn’t going to give you a good deal.”

Her stomach twisted with unease. “And you will?” she asked, her voice laced with skepticism. “How do I know I can trust you? That you’ll keep your word?”

“You don’t,” Crowley said simply, shrugging as if it didn’t matter.

The air between them grew quiet. He watched her closely, his dark eyes studying every flicker of emotion that crossed her face. She bit her lip, her thoughts a whirlwind. This was her mother’s life on the line. Could she risk this?

Crowley smiled again, slow and calculated, as though he could see the battle waging in her mind.

She was young—just 23 years old—with short dark hair that curled around her face and dark eyes framed by long lashes. Crowley knew everything about her: an artist, passionate about traveling, accomplished in her career too. Far too young to be making deals like this.

Typically, he worked with older clients, people who had lived long enough to feel desperate or jaded enough to gamble their souls. Someone this young? It was unusual. Even the Winchesters, those meddling morons, were older than her when they first crossed paths with Hell. But a deal was a deal.

“You remind me of two idiots I know,” Crowley said casually, his sharp eyes watching her every move. “Always willing to give up their lives for each other. If I had a soul, I might find it touching. You’ll probably meet them soon enough. Some of my dealings overlap with theirs.”

She stiffened slightly, but her expression remained calm. He could almost smell her apprehension, though she hid it well beneath her composure.

“I’m in need of an assistant,” Crowley continued, his voice light, almost conversational. “The King of Hell can’t be expected to handle all his errands alone, now can he? And I thought, why not hire an intelligent career driven individual to help?”

Her eyebrows knit together in confusion. “You… want me to work for you?”

“I do believe that’s what I just said.” Crowley smirked and started to pace around her, his polished shoes crunching against the gravel. She didn’t move a muscle.

“So,” he said, spinning on his heel to face her again. “Your mother lives. She’s healthy, happy, and will never want for anything for the rest of her life. That’s the deal.”

She swallowed hard. “How many years do I get?” she asked softly.

Crowley’s smile turned sharper, predatory. “Oh, darling, you misunderstand. I’m not taking you in ten years. Your soul is mine right now. You’ll go on living, but you can never see your mother again. Those are the terms.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “Never?”

“Never,” he confirmed, his tone unyielding. “As of this moment, your mother will think you’re dead. To the rest of the world, you’ll simply… disappear. You’ll be free to live, but never with her.” He paused, watching her expression crumble, and then added with deliberate care, “Oh, and being my assistant? It will grant you certain… qualities.”

“Qualities?” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper. “You mean like… a—a demon?”

Crowley chuckled. “To put it bluntly, yes.”

Her knees felt weak. She looked down at her trembling hands. “Can I at least… say goodbye?”

“No.” Crowley’s voice was firm. “We’ll handle your disappearance. It has to look authentic. A car accident, perhaps. Something believable. Your mother will grieve, but she’ll heal, and she’ll have a long, happy life. That’s what you’re buying with your soul.”

Her vision blurred as tears filled her eyes. She thought of her mother—no more hugs, no more early morning coffee chats on the porch, no more spontaneous convertible rides or belting out Christmas songs in the middle of July. Her throat tightened, and a sob escaped her lips.

“Shall we seal the deal?” Crowley asked, his tone almost impatient.

She hesitated, glancing around. There was no one else here, just the two of them, alone in the middle of rural Indiana. She wiped her eyes, steeling herself. This wasn’t about her. It was about her mother. Her soul meant nothing if it couldn’t save the person who meant everything to her.

Slowly, she nodded and extended her hand.

Crowley laughed, a low, amused sound. “Oh, sweetie, that’s not how we seal the deal. A proper deal is sealed with a kiss.”

Before she could react, Crowley leaned in and pressed his lips to hers. The kiss was brief, yet binding, sealing her fate with a finality that made her stomach twist. When they parted, he smiled darkly.

“Welcome to the family, Brittany, I’ll be in touch,” he said smoothly. And then, with a faint whiff of sulfur, he vanished.

She collapsed to the ground, her body wracked with sobs as the weight of her decision crushed her.

————

The next day, a body was found along a rural road—a car accident victim. The remains, charred and unrecognizable, were identified as hers. She watched from the shadows as her mother and stepfather arrived at the hospital to confirm the body. Her heart shattered as her mother’s anguished cries filled the sterile hallways.

————

Three days later, there was a funeral. Some of her ashes were buried in the small cemetery beside her grandfather’s plot; the rest were taken home, where her mother kept them on the mantle. Crowley allowed her one brief return to the house to gather a few things, but there were rules—no taking anything that would raise suspicion.

She slipped into her old room, the familiar pumpkin-spice scent of the house overwhelming her. Her cat, Tally, backed into a corner, hissing and growling. “Tally, it’s me,” she whispered, tears spilling down her cheeks. “It’s okay, baby.” But the cat wouldn’t come near her.

She filled a small duffle bag with sentimental items—photographs, a blanket from Mrs. Shoda, two favorite books, a few sweaters, and little trinkets her mom wouldn’t notice missing. Walking through the house one last time, she said goodbye to every corner, every memory.

Her stepsister’s room was the hardest. The girl was only ten, still so young. She would never see her grow up.

Returning to her room, she picked up a piece of paper and wrote a small note to her mother, finishing it with their special quote: “Let’s fly, McFly.” She tucked the note into her copy of Timeline by Michael Crichton and placed it back on the shelf.

With a final, shuddering breath, she picked up her bag and disappeared, the faint smell of sulfur lingering behind.