Hi guys, apologies for how long the update took. I meant to post this as a one-shot, so I'm really grateful for your follows! This is a prequel rather than a continuation. Thanks for reading, hope you enjoy!

Devastation lay before me and crippled my heart. There was nothing. Or rather, there was nothing as it should have being.

The hairs on the back of my neck had risen over a day ago, when smoke billowed upwards instead of trailing lazily from a few occupied hearths. Then, once night had fallen, the great eerie flame ahead had dimmed with time but was never doused with sleep. I'd exchanged my swift strides for a run, fear licking at my strained muscles.

Now I saw why. Felt why, retching against the waist-high remains of a once tall hut. Had the horrifically familiar scent of charred – executed – flesh singe my nostrils, hazing my vision with smoke and the acute stab of gone.

I cringed against my Mother's hut. Her corpse, sword in hand, stared vacantly at the sky – crude pike in chest, the other hand absently resting amongst the congealed blood. No scabbing, but that was no guarantee of a swift passing. With the pike holding in most of the blood, that wound could have taken hours to end her life. I vomited again.

A covered bucket stood by the cool hearth, half full of frigid water. I rinsed my mouth, washed my face, calmed my breathing in case any of the monsters were left and they could hear me. I wouldn't give them the satisfaction of knowing they'd ransacked a home so beloved.

They were long gone though, whoever they were. The fires that had alerted me to the danger had long since sunk to embers in the few places they still burned. The birds sung in the distant trees; the danger had passed; the brutal loss remained.

Adrenaline granted more than my usual pittance of grace as I walked the village, hearth by hearth, fallen defender by the startled agony of the shocked villager, by man, by woman, by child. Most were like ice, cold as the morning dew. Others were merely cool, the bloodstains of their wounds only hours old. Few were warm, the agony of the aidless, drawn out death etched upon their brows; all alone, too broken the crawl to the others, though two – maybe three – had callously being left with enough life to try vainly before the blackness claimed them.

All dead. All gone.

Until Caitlyn. Just four summers old when I left for Camelot, five the first time bandits ravaged her home. Seven now, and as beautiful as ever, even unconscious.

Seven now, and still warm. Oh, the night had cooled her skin and leeched the colour from her cheeks, but still breathing. Stirring as she slumbered, already out of the unnatural motionlessness of the comatosed. Not yet conscious enough to respond to her name being called fretfully, joyously, desperately.

Probably for the best. I wrapped her in my cloak, a gift from Gaius, and left her to finish my inspection. The examination of the remains of the village passed in a blur of peering into sightless eyes and pressing fingers to lifeless wrists. Always I listened, strained the catch the shocked gasp of the newly awoken, because surely I would have heard it as hushed as the village was, distance be damned. Even the dogs had been silenced.

There were no other survivors. I hadn't expected any.

Soon, with scavenged blankets and water skins, along with the same pack I'd carried from Camelot and a dress I thought to be Caitlyn's sister's – eyes wide, a heavy gash upon her pale throat – don't think, just act, protect – I was bundling Caitlyn into my arms and striding away from the hearths neither of us could ever come home to.

Camelot was 3 days walk away and the two to the border would be the worst. In half a day, I'd stop, check Caitlyn's wounds, make her drink, then carry her to a cave half a mile from the old smuggler's road to pass the night. And pray to the Gods she would wake.

I would use magic if I had to, but I couldn't let her see. She was too little to understand why she couldn't tell.

Half a day, and I set down my burden. Her heart was weak, but thankfully present and steady, skin warm from the blankets. I ripped the cleanest ones into rags, and mixed water with honey to disinfect the gash on her forehead, the grazes on her hands. Hoped the coolness of the water would soothe the deep, blackening bruise alongside her head. Nothing seemed broken under the swelling, and carrying her probably would have killed her already if the bone was crushed. Don't think about it. The rest of the blanket was stripped into bandages to bind her broken wrist. She must have tried to break her fall. The gash on her forehead implied that it was a futile effort.

As evening fell, I used the last vestiges of sunlight to settle Caitlyn into the deepest corner of the shallow cave, and then set up a ward to sidetrack anyone approaching. I massaged some more water down her throat, and then called her name again.

She stirred, no more than the leaves in a gentle summer breeze, but she stirred, mumbled a little.

"Shh…" I stroked her hair; let my hand press against her cheek.

"You're safe with me."

I allowed myself to rest fitfully, but jerked awake at every night time sound to discern the natural from the suspicious, of which there was none. A fog had misted over my thoughts, making it difficult to do anything but repeat; listen, card a hand though Caitlyn's hair, listen, sleep, listen. When she shivered, I noticed I was cold and draped another blanket over us both.

She woke as the sun rose.

"Ealdor…" she croaked, tears slipping down her temples.

"I know," I smoothed her hair, fighting my own sobs, "I know, Caitlyn."

She closed her eyes.

"Where are we?" She didn't ask for her parents; she must've seen too much before she was knocked out.

"Safe. We're going to Camelot," I told her.

"It hurts," she whispered.

"This will ease it off," I half-lied. The tonic would make her sleep, but I could carry her and I only had enough pain-numbing herbs for one day – tomorrow, when she would be less groggy, and more aware of her injuries.

We were back on the road while the sun was still low in the sky, and didn't stop until Caitlyn stirred in my arms. I split some bread – my mother's favourite, I remembered dimly –between us. Then I carried her again, sticking to the trees, speeding over the open ground as quickly as I could manage.

She could walk the next day, but it was slower, so I carried her once we were close enough to Camelot that I wouldn't tire.

As I walked, I told her about the forest and camping with the Knights and Arthur. The best places to find sage, rosemary, the prettiest flowers, the names of the streams that flowed past the city. That most traders came from the West, not the East, so she needn't worry about the quiet.

At some point, she began to cry, slowly soaking my tunic. I kissed her brow and let her. She clung harder, and so did I.

"I've got you," I whispered, because I couldn't force anymore sound out of my choked throat.

Eventually she cried herself out and slept. Now we didn't have to be so quiet I hummed a lullaby, and hushed her as she dreamt. When the sun set behind the clouds, smudging the sky from blue to pink to black, I walked on. The white, intimidating, protective walls of Camelot had never been so welcome, and I had to blink back the burn in my eyes that they would be home now, for me and for Caitlyn.

The sentry on the gate recognised me from my many early morning trips into the forest to collect herbs by moonlight. I thought I managed a tight smile in his direction when he advised me that Gaius was at the citadel tonight; the town was calm. I walked through the streets I knew so well like a sleepwalker. If I passed anyone I didn't notice them. Voices drifted out of the tavern, but I passed it without a glance. I needed Gaius now; my friends, those I'd said goodbye to scant days ago, could wait until dawn to learn of my return.

The citadel guard recognised me too, and let me pass when I declined their aid. Soon I found myself outside of the heavy, wooden door that granted entrance in to my one sanctuary in Camelot, to the one man who knew everything about me; Gaius. He would be saddened by my Mother's death, and I knew not how to break it to him.

Practise allowed me to open the weighty door easily - to hit the angle at which the well-oiled hinged would do the work. The tight band around my chest loosened, and I breathed deeply for the first time in days. I stepped inside, and called softly:

"Gaius?"