My very dear readers, it is my very great pleasure to announce the Interval Show that lets you catch up with our beloved characters ten years' after the events of Tristan's Slave. Yes, it's set during the film's timeline. This mini, multi-chapter fic will then be followed by the Official Sequel that will, as I have said before, be set in another fandom.

Warnings: Swearing and violence from the start. Maybe some tasteful sexy-times later. The rating is a precaution, not a promise. There will also be a lot of jokes. These are intentional, so there is no need to adjust your set.

Disclaimers: The OCs are mine and mine alone. I'm not making any money out of this.

"The Enlightened Witnesses"

Or…

"Arthur, we have no time."

Or…

"For fuck's sake, move it!"

Herein being a true, accurate and in no way libellous account of all the stupid, amusing and downright offensive things committed by the surviving representatives of the Sarmatian cohort stationed at Hadrian's Wall, when either intoxicated, pissed off or just merry.

This shall be a true, accurate and realistic representation of the exuberance and simple joys of military life, betrayal, freedom and the perfidy of religious men, values that the Sarmatian knights attempt to live by.

It shall also serve as a warning of the terrible things that Arthur can do to a person's sanity.

The release papers had arrived. They were already in Britannia. They were being brought by a bishop who had been a friend of Arthur's father.

No one could stifle the anticipation that lingered around the fort. Only one cohort remained, the rest having already been recalled to Eboracum. The fort had been slowly abandoned over the previous two years. People had begun to move away from the Wall too, with the ever-increasing Saxon and Angle incursions. To be fair, many of them had already settled in and were simply living on the island like anyone else. But predictably the more hardcore Romano-Britons and Celts weren't happy about the migrants and preserved their culture by moving west.

Everyone who had survived was cheerful. Old arguments were suspended as much as possible for the sake of a 'happy ending'.

No one had yet voiced the fact that they would have to journey back to Sarmatia together, though, that there was ample time for further bickering.

Tristan, being a deeply selfish creature by nature, saw everything as 'Mine, mine and mine'. Unless he didn't like it, then it was 'Die, die and death'. The knights were 'Mine', his horse was 'Mine', the killer chicken known as Aritei was 'Mine'.

Now would be a good time to describe Aritei to my dear readers. Aritei is a Harris hawk—not present in my own world's Britain for at least another thousand years—and was adopted by Tristan a couple of years previously. I was sure it had been the forfeit of a complex and very stupid dare, but nevertheless, we had carefully raised the ugly little mutant dust-bunny until it had become a large and highly aggressive feather duster. Everyone else—including Gawain—believed that Aritei was some sort of demonic servant that could talk to us. This was nonsense and regardless of the others' superstition, Aritei was just a bird—a reactionary bundle of feather-brained nerves armed with a razor-sharp beak and eight talons that could punch through a leather boot. I can attest to this and Tristan had to buy me a brand new pair.

According to Tristan's unique brand of logic, I was simultaneously 'Mine' and 'Die'. This was because we had long since realised that it is perfectly possible to love and hate someone simultaneously. Not that anyone else understood this, but they accepted we were almost constantly in a state of war against each other and the world in general.

In other words, we were going steady.

But trying to convince Gawain of that was still taking some work—despite the following salient facts: one, despite the constant friendly debates (blazing fights) Tristan and I shared a bed each night. Two, we had committed to owning a pet together—even if that pet was a misanthropic bird whose definition of 'prey' was terrifyingly broad. Three, we'd been 'courting' for ten years already.

What we didn't mention were the strange circumstances that had rendered Tristan and me functionally immortal. It was something we rarely talked about in detail, even to each other. However, concerning our plans after Tristan's release from service, we had decided to travel and make a push to visit Sarmatia while we could. The threat of expulsion from this world loomed like a thundercloud over our heads. I was praying for a message or sign that would let us know how long we had, but after nine years of silence I had given up looking over my shoulder for my sadistic patron god. Moreover, covering up our numerous deaths in the line of duty was pretty trying.

Gawain, the most steadfast adoptive brother a girl could wish for, was supportive of the unspoken cares that caused Tristan and I to occasionally whisper to each other in the shadows, even if he would never know the secret. Deep down, Gawain knew that Tristan and I wanted—needed—to be together, but he didn't seem ready to let me go. Perhaps it had something to do with Sarmatia not being the far off Eden of peace and redemption that it seemed to be in Galahad's rose-tinted dreams. There was something of a divide with the remaining nine: the romantics and the cynics. The former comprised of Galahad, Dinadan, Dagonet and (surprisingly enough) Lancelot. Oh, the dear Second in Command like to pretend he was all hard-bitten and world-weary, but beneath the veneer of jaded grimness he felt the wounds that still lay open.

Gawain was a cynic because out of him and Galahad, someone had to be. He was steadfast and laidback where Galahad was fractious and sensitive. Gawain had recovered from the loss of Brenna, but it had taken time and it had changed him. Kahedin and Cador had been cynical from birth, the latter a counterweight to his twin's unashamedly manly tears. Meanwhile Bors knew that he would not suit the life of a nomadic herdsman if he returned to Sarmatia. He would take his chances with Vanora in Britannia, and try to convince Dagonet to stay too.

And Tristan was alone in knowing that it was out of his hands. He was still not a free man, having chained himself to my fate by choice. I worried about this, despite his reassurances that he had no regrets. He would not react well if we were transported to the galaxy far, far away rife with Jedi and spaceships.

And to make matters more interesting, Kahedin and the twins were away in Londinium arranging for our journey to Gaul and from there across Europe to Sarmatia. Except for Arthur who was going back to Rome—as he had been telling us at least once a week for the past ten years. None of us wanted to hear another word about Rome ever again.

And so out of a possible thirty, there were only nine knights alive when the term of service finally came to an end.

Not that I could be included (nor did I want to be) in that number. I was a useful agent, but not a knight. Nor should it come as a surprise that I was not invited on the final excursion to baby Bishop Germanus back to the fort.

I went along anyway, believing that it was my final chance to annoy Arthur on official duty.

I smiled innocently and waved the men off with Jols at the gate until they were safely on their way. Then I dropped a wink at Jols, who smirked back, and I ran back to Numa's stall where she was already tacked up—her saddle hidden by a blanket. I didn't bother to take weapons—beyond my usual dozen knives—and set off after the men I had watched over for so long. I didn't take their chosen route, but cut through the woods and was surprised when Aritei swooped down and landed on my shoulder.

"Ouch! Get off!" I yelped, immediately bringing my arm up—Aritei saw this as her signal to hop onto my gloved vambrace, which was a far better place for her. I huffed and glared at the bird—whose mad golden stare reminded me of the futility of trying to reason with a particularly stupid animal. I looked around, on the alert. The only reasons why Aritei would bother to swoop down and visit was to say that trouble was imminent or that she was carrying a message from Tristan. I reined Numa into a halt and listened, my eyes scanning the deep undergrowth. Damn, the bird was right—something was off.

Numa picked up on it too and snorted, tossing her head and stamping her foot. I laid a hand on her neck and she stilled. Good, well-trained horse. Then I nudged her forward at a walk. With one arm busy holding up the damn bird, I had only one hand free to fight.

Hmph.

Stalemate.

I edged Numa forward, scanning my surroundings for clues.

Then, out of nowhere, I heard a familiar war cry.

Woads.

"Damn them!" I sighed and urged Numa into a speedy trot. The last thing I wanted was for her to hurt herself, but I had to see why the Woads were south of the Wall. Their incursions were increasingly frequent, but if they sought to destroy the last of the knights, I would hunt Merlin down and kill him myself. I had no long range weapons, no sword, nothing. How absolutely bloody typical!

I launched Aritei off my arm, unwilling to hurt the murderous pet, then dismounted Numa and tied her to a tree before setting off at a dead run towards the sounds of violence.

I slid down a bank, miraculously staying on my feet before springing across a creek and running up the slope. It was only then that I realised I had inadvertently managed to sneak up on the rear guard of the Woads' party leader.

My, my… I thought, silently drawing a knife. They really must be feeling confident to have sent Merlin himself south of the Wall.

I was in a quandary. I could retreat and approach the battle from a different angle, or I could be a brief and suicidal assassin and have a real crack at Merlin's destruction.

Then I heard Bors' foghorn battle cry and figured that six knights and the unwary idiot soldiers (who had likely never seen a Woad before in their lives) escorting the bishop were outnumbered and could use my help in an obvious quarter.

Besides, it would annoy Arthur.

I had the hood of my tunic pulled up over my long hair (yes, after ten years it was finally back to full length!) and I slithered back down the slope before running at a distance-devouring lope to the narrow clearing where the fight was still raging.

I burst from the tree-line in hot pursuit of a Woad who was trying to sneak up on Lancelot. "Hurry up, you're missing all the fun!" I shouted at him as we hurtled past at a dead run.

"Huh? Chickie?!" Lancelot exclaimed, chasing after us.

That tiresome nickname earned only one sort of response from me. "Sheep-fucking pillock!" I retorted, ducking under another Woad's wild swing and letting Lancelot (right on my heels now) deal with him.

"I heard that horrible insult you ungrateful midget!" he roared after me, fully engaged in deadly combat on my behalf.

Lancelot was hardly original in his insults.

Then Dagonet caught sight of me and rolled his eyes. "Does Gawain know you're here?" he bellowed, striding over to me and looking deadly earnest.

"What's Gawain got to do with this?" I asked, settling into stride next to Dagonet. We proceeded to cut a swathe through the remaining Woads who stood in our way. "And why are you soaking wet?"

He grunted as he chopped a Woad almost clean in half. "Focus," he reminded me. I found the breath to laugh as I dodged the wild lunge of a Woad, grabbed him by the wrist and swung him into the path of Dagonet's whirling sword. We worked in diligent harmony for a few more minutes before I spotted Tristan on the periphery of the group, taking pot-shots at the archers. I knew it was only a matter of time before he dismounted and started slicing away on foot—as the only scout left at the Fort, he had been run ragged in Kahedin's absence. Which, of course, meant that I had also been over-worked and under-appreciated.

'Standard Operating Procedure!' I hear you cry, and yes, you may be right, but have you ever tried to counteract guerrilla warfare from the natives while simultaneously moving house? If I were in a position to do so, I'd have taken up smoking since alcohol (much like failure) was simply not an option.

"I go to my knight!" I cried, breaking from Dagonet's protective shadow and sprinting towards Tristan, who was doing a damn fine job of not letting any Woad escape the playing field. I gave the bishop's carriage a wide berth, since I could hear Gawain's roaring from that general area. However, before I could get to Tristan, Galahad's horse cantered up beside me.

"Get on, Brat!" Galahad called.

It was as if I hadn't been going by 'Kation' for the past ten years.

Ten. Years.

They persisted in trite nicknames and it was useless to protest. They just created more and increasingly unflattering epithets when I scowled or muttered. So I tried to rise above it and affect insouciance to their childish behaviour.

I considered the invitation for three more strides before grabbing the pinion loop behind the saddle and swinging myself up onto the horse behind Galahad, who kept firing off arrows. I waited until we neared Tristan, and then leapt off again with a shout of thanks to Galahad who swore at me before galloping away to cause more havoc.

TRISTAN:

He had a cold. That alone was enough to make him want to murder everyone with unstifled nasal passages for having the gall to exist near him. Head throbbing and breathing stertorously through his mouth, he exercised his wrath on the Woads who so thoughtfully presented themselves in his path.

And then there was Kation. What the hell was she doing there?! A narrow blur of dark clothes and black hair whirled past him, chasing down a Woad.

"Hi darling!" she called cheerfully, not breaking stride.

"You!" he snarled, and set off after her. She hadn't even brought her sword! He overtook her and killed the Woad before rounding on her. "Are you out of your mind?"

"No, I'm out of breath," she said. "Now come on!" And she spun away and began running back to the fight which was dying down somewhat as the knights and surviving legionaries brought the fracas under control. Tristan whistled, summoning his horse Tagiytei and he mounted up before following at a weary plod. He had aged, unlike Kation who was still twenty-two on the outside, while he was now in his late thirties. When the silver had appeared in his beard and hair, Kation had laughed herself into stitches. There was a reason behind Dagonet and Bors' shaven heads and chins.

Unlike Galahad. It had to be the most surprising and amusing beard ever to sprout from a man's face, which had been grown to prove he was all grown up. Kation and Kahedin had been running a book on whether Galahad could produce one at all, but his hairy Sarmatian blood had not failed him. Dagonet had won the whole pot.

When he reached the spent scene of carnage, Kation was being shaken forcibly by her adopted brother Gawain. And he was yelling at her.

"You cannot resist, can you?" he snarled in Sarmatian. "At the very moment of our release, you do this!"

"Kation?" Arthur's voice cut across Gawain's tirade. He looked stern, but Kation remained unrepentant.

"Sir," she said, reverting to her gruff boy's voice. Ten years down the line, and Arthur still hadn't twigged to Kation's true gender. It seemed to Tristan that when a man does not want to see something, he became steadfastly blind. Moreover, it was a closely guarded secret between Gawain, Tristan, Kahedin and Vanora. Some other knights suspected, but they respected (feared) Kation too much to voice their questions. But fortunately, Kation was a very lean, curveless and flat-chested woman with an angular face, so it was easier for her than it would be for someone of Vanora's physical calibre.

Arthur was attempting to interrogate the Woad warrior he had spared, but since he didn't speak a word of their language (unlike Tristan, Kahedin and Kation, who had taken great pains to do so) it was a useless gesture. Once he let the man go, much to everyone else's disgust, he turned back just in time to reprimand Kation. He looked ready to start joining Gawain in shaking Kation till her teeth rattled in her head. "You were told to stay at the Fort," he said.

Kation shrugged, her mouth a thin line of suppressed amusement. "Couldn't resist one last scrap?"

"And how did you know there would even—?" Arthur asked. Then he realised who he was talking to and shook his head. "Never mind. I don't want to know."

Kation shot a smug look at Gawain, who muttered something under his breath and stomped off to his horse. Arthur waved a hand. "Go, get back to the Fort before I have you whipped."

Kation's smug look deepened and she threw a wink at Tristan before openly strolling back to the misty treeline on the ridge where doubtless more Woads lurked. Tristan felt anxiety seize his heart for a moment. Even after ten years, knowing that she would always come back from death was a secondary thought to the idea of her actually being killed. Not a shot was fired, nor was Kation's severed head thrown back out at them from the shadows.

Then Arthur told him (utterly predictably) to 'Ride On Ahead' to secure the road while the knights stayed to augment the bishop's escort. He did so, and at the second bend in the road, he found Kation waiting for him on Numa, her little roan mare.

"How's the cold?" she asked.

"Fuck off." He knew she said these things deliberately.

"Aw," she crooned in mock sympathy. "Want me to run the patrol?"

Tristan, wondering for the umpteenth time what on earth he liked about her when she was being this patronising, made a great show of sniffing and wheezing while hunting about his person for one of the things she had made him. She called it a 'handkerchief'. Kation laughed in a distinctly mocking way and rode off to complete his assignment. She often doubled up with Tristan in his duties, not because they were too great for him, but because they could achieve even more if there were two of them at work. It also lent to the growing superstitions that he and Kation were demons incarnate, because they always seemed to be in at least two places at once.

And in moments like this, it meant that he could actually recover from illness and injury while Kation picked up the slack.

He walked Tagiytei back to the others, several of whom grinned at the sight of the handkerchief that he was hastily stuffing up the cuff of his tunic sleeve. So he cast them such a foul look that they hastily moved their attention back to other things.

Ha! At least he still frightened most people.

So, there is the first chapter. Hope it's not too awful, I am going to zip through the timeline of the film and no more, because I've got so many writing projects on the go and dare not linger.

Go ahead, hit me with your feedback, I can't wait to read it.

~L.