A/N: Sooo… I got to thinking about some of the unexplained and, frankly, rather mysterious characters in King Arthur; such as the Woad that Arthur spares when defending Bishop Germanius, and the traitor who helped the Saxons. Who are they? Well, here's an attempt at explaining them, with a bit more added in. Though I'm not rushing into anything, there'll be some Tristran x OC, and another Knight x OC. Btw, if you think I've rated it too low (it can sometimes be a bit violent) do tell me!

Disclaimer: I don't own King Arthur. Just in case you were wondering.

Thoughts are in italics. The x-o-x-o etc are line-breaks. The POV will swap around sometimes, but it should be easy to follow (tell me if it's not). Please do send me a review telling me what you think / liked / didn't like / found utterly and totally confusing! This will be a multi-chapter fic (well, hopefully).

Onwards, dear readers! Tally-ho, and all that.

-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-

Chapter One: Brothers and Blood

The twelve men rode through the heavy mist that obscured the path, making no sound but for the clink of their armour and the hoofbeats of their horses. They were heavily armed, but that was to be expected. The further north they rode of Hadrian's Wall, the more hostile the landscape became. Or rather, its inhabitants.

At the back of the line, a huge dapple-grey horse trotted along, its dead master strapped over its back. The horse's steps were nervous, flighty, despite its great size. The body was wrapped in a wool blanket, mottled and stained with dried blood, torn in some places. It was near the end of winter, but no matter how much they esteemed their dead comrade, the other riders could not spare a thick mantle to cloak his broken body.

For broken it was. Dreadfully. Gaheris had not been killed neatly; his killers hacking and slicing wherever their swords and spears could penetrate. It had not been a quick death, either, and it certainly had not been painless. Their brother had died alone amidst the screams and gore of battle, with no one to kneel beside him and speak the prayer to guide him home. It was almost more than Gawain could bear.

He rode along in deep thought, his dead brother's horse tied to his own with a long rope. It was not long until they arrived back at the Wall, but the body was starting to smell vaguely off despite the cold weather. He still could not believe that the limp, shrouded corpse was Gaheris. His brother by blood, three hours older than himself. His playmate until they were old enough to fight; his sparring partner until the Romans took them away from their tribe; his comrade and fellow Knight as they served in Britain. Gaheris – kind, gentle, ever-joking Gaheris – was all of this and more, and Gawain struggled to breathe when he thought of his twin dying alone in the cold, muddy clearing, lying in a pool of his own blood. It was not meant to end this way. Never Gaheris, never any of them. In his deepest moments of despair and grief, Gawain cursed their ancestors, those who had survived the great past battle with Rome and were consequently bound into pacts with the grasping, greedy victors. Had they died that day, he and Gaheris would have been able to live out their days in Sarmatia, drifting from place to place on the great steppes. They were born to be nomads, he and his brother, not virtual slaves tied to duty and a pointless Wall.

"Gawain," came Tristran's steady voice, devoid of the suffocating sympathy that thickened the voices of his fellows. "Do you want some?"

Gawain glanced at the dried meat that Tristran held out as he rode beside him. "Not hungry, thanks," he said finally, looking away. The last time he had eaten a meal, it had been with Gaheris. They had shared a hunk of stale bread, dipped in hot water to soften it. Gaheris had made some sort of joke about the bread, and they had laughed. The bread had already passed through him, but he refused to eat all the same, hoping to keep some sort of memory inside him. It was stupid, he knew, but at the same time he did not care.

"Take it," said the scout quietly, reaching over and pressing it into his hand. "You might feel like it later. He wouldn't want you to starve yourself." With that, the scout dug his boot sharply into his horse and galloped off to the front of the line, leaving Gawain with an angry retort on his tongue and an ache in his throat. As well as an unwanted piece of meat.

-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-

Tristran drew level with Arthur and Mordred, giving a nod of acknowledgement to the two men. Mordred's face was pale and drawn, his posture uncomfortable as he rode along. He had received a fairly deep spear wound in his side during the skirmish, as well as a long cut to the neck. He was lucky to have escaped with his life – if the attacker had applied any more force to the swipe, Mordred's corpse would have joined Gaheris' at the end of the line. Bedivere, the younger Knight who doubled as their healer on missions, had been reluctant to ride out because of Mordred's wounds, but had eventually given up in despair. The second-in-command was nothing if not determined, but it looked as though he was paying for his stubborn streak. The tight smile he directed at Tristran held none of its usual easy humour, and in the chill blue light of early morning, he looked very sickly indeed.

"Tristan," greeted Arthur amiably, gesturing for the scout to join them. "What news?"

Tristran shrugged, his horse falling into step with the others. "The trail's gone cold. They've a good tracker with them to cover it, that's my guess. I don't think they expected to meet us – you noticed the stark differences in fighting quality between them." It was not a question. Arthur had been trained well by his mentors, and was observant besides.

"We were just talking about that. Mordred recognised one of the women."

"Unfortunately. The blonde one, long braided hair," said Mordred darkly. "She's a real she-wolf. I'd kill her if I had the chance, but she darts in and out with her bow like a wraith. Bows and arrows are a coward's weapon." He paused, and smiled quickly. "No offence intended, Tris."

"None taken," replied the scout lightly. Mordred often did not think before he spoke. They were all used to it by now, and had learned over the years that he rarely meant to be rude.

"Anyway," Mordred continued, going to run his hand through his short hair, but stopping with a wince, "Bloody spear. What was I saying?"

"She-wolf," supplied Arthur calmly.

"Ah, yes. She's one of their better fighters, and Perce says he's seen her leading a group of youngsters once when he was out scouting." Percival was the other scout, currently riding ahead and checking the trail for any dangers.

"Training exercise. That explains things. Or a hunting party?"

Arthur frowned. "It might have been, but there were too many of them for that. Did you get a count, Tristran?"

"About twenty."

"I think we could rule out a hunting party, then. Even for them, twenty would be too much trouble. Did Percival note anything?"

Tristran fished around in his pocket, trying to find another piece of dried meat. He withdrew a questionably furred specimen and dusted it off, earning a look of revulsion from Mordred as he popped it in his mouth. "No more than we did," he mumbled as he chewed. Was this ever actually meat? "They got away as soon as they possibly could, it seemed. The better fighters appeared to be covering for the escape of the less skilled ones."

"And they were less skilled," interjected Mordred, shaking his head angrily. "Did you see the way the two tattooed ones slaughtered Gaheris? It was disgusting. He deserved to die a better death. He was a good man, and those two bastards took him down like a dog." He looked away sharply, taking a sudden and intense interest in something on the far side of his mount's neck. Mordred and Gaheris had been good friends, and Tristran was fairly certain that Mordred's wan countenance was not solely due to loss of blood.

"He did not deserve to die at all," said Arthur quietly, peering into the mist and allowing Mordred a moment to compose himself. "It is not a matter of deserving death. There are patterns in the world that are larger than we know, and we each must play our part. There is a plan for each of us, though the world may seem cruel and full of madness."

"That it does. Tell us more, Tris," said Mordred unsteadily, taking a deep breath, his eyes still averted. Arthur's words, noble and wise as they were, would have little effect on the grieving man at this stage. It had been the same when Lionel died, and Agravaine before him. Mordred felt too much, and nothing could change that. Tristran was thankful that he could easily distance himself from his emotions, but he sometimes wondered how much suppression they could take. Perhaps one day, he would simply explode like an overripe melon. With an effort, he drew his thoughts back to the current conversation.

"There were others that I recognised as well," said Tristran. "The three with limed hair, the short one with the scarred face. They have all fought against us before, and have survived."

"We shall have to make it our business that such a thing does not happen again," said Arthur firmly. "I will not lose more men."

"Then mark my words," said Tristran quietly, finally giving up and spitting out the mangled strip of jerky. "Watch for the two tattooed ones. Untrained, they are fierce and terrible enough; but if that was indeed a training exercise, their leaders will soon hone them into true dangers. I would go as far to suggest a small party to hunt them down and dispose of them."

"I would second that," growled Mordred, finally looking up with red-rimmed eyes. Arthur's face remained impassive as he shook his head.

"I will think on it. There has been enough killing for now, and we must focus on returning to the Wall. We have a brother to bury, and a report to make."

"What?" Mordred's face twisted into an expression of anger and dismay, and Tristran found it hard to contain his own exclamation of irritation. They will have moved on by the time Arthur sends us out, he thought, already formulating a plan in his mind.

Arthur cleared his throat and glared at them both. "I am your Commander, and in this you must obey my orders. It is too dangerous, and we must return. Do you understand?"

Tristran and Mordred both nodded wordlessly. Oh, I understand, Arthur, Tristran snarled soundlessly. I understand that if you have your way, the next time we meet them we will lose another brother. You are my commander, but I will do everything in my power to make sure as many of us as possible return Home. Our real home, not our godsforsaken outpost at Wall. As they rode along in tense silence, a light snow began to drift down about them. The clouds above them were low and heavy, and Tristran cursed himself for not thinking to look earlier.

"I will go to…" he began, but was cut off by a shout further down the line. Tristran, Arthur and Mordred swung around as a horse appeared out of the mist to their left flank, clattering wildly down the rocky slope.

"No. No, no, no…" groaned Mordred, his low and desperate voice sending a chill down Tristran's spine.

The scout felt the fury rising in him as he beheld the sight before him. Damn it all, Arthur. You will not stop me from riding out now.