Author: Triane

Disclaimer: Not. Mine. Except Iona. Everything else belongs to someone else. Even more so now, that we're into movie territory - I've done what I could to gloss over using the actual dialogue, but if you recognize dialogue or action, its because it's. Not. Mine.

Summary: Iona discovers what Sarmatian widows do, part 2

There is nothing left.

Her earlier words to Tristan echoed around her as Iona stood looking down at Dagonet's grave, feeling as cold as the earth that covered her beloved. Sounds tricked in and out; the wind in the trees, the quiet murmuring of the villagers as they made their way back to the fort - but all Iona could focus on was her own tenacious heart that refused to stop beating.

Once she and Bors had finished with the burial preparations, Tristan was again there to lead her back to her room where a bath was waiting behind a screen. He gave her as much privacy as possible, but let her know in no uncertain terms what would happen if she couldn't or wouldn't continue on her own. Acting solely on autopilot, and thankful that someone else was thinking for her, Iona bathed and dressed in clean clothes, ignoring the desire to sink under the water and never come out. When she emerged from behind the screen, her heart sank even further when she saw Lucan waiting for her.

Feeling neglectful and rotten, Iona sighed and started to apologize, but he wrapped his arms around her waist as if he didn't have a care in the world. He was also freshly bathed and dressed in clean clothes, well worn and patched and a little too big for him, and Iona recognized a shirt that she had seen being mended several times.

"Vanora?" Lucan nodded excitedly.

"Gilly's going to teach me how to shoot a slingshot!" Iona sighed again and nodded, smoothing Lucan's mop of curls, feeling overwhelmed now with this small boy that she dearly wanted to keep, but didn't know how without her husband. She had completely forgotten about Lucan after the courtyard and cursed herself for being so negligent, but she could barely gather enough strength to remember to breathe, let alone think about the boy. She vaguely realized that Lucan was tugging at her hand, so she let herself be led to sit on the edge of the bed, where Lucan placed himself in front of her, their eyes almost at the same level. His little face solemn, he held out his hand to her - displaying Dagonet's wedding ring.

Iona's heart broke all over again, and for a long moment she couldn't breathe as she stared at the intricate design, the band that had fit Dagonet's finger so perfectly but was almost bigger than Lucan's palm. Through the roaring in her ears she heard Lucan explain that one of the other children had seen it and was going to take it, but that he had grabbed it instead, before Gawain had seen him and ushered him off to Vanora.

Iona felt herself nodding and tried to thank him, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, she unwound a leather cord she had tied around her wrist and strung the ring onto it, tying the cord around Lucan's neck. The boy looked pleased and shyly patted her cheek before throwing his arms around her neck.

Iona hugged his little body close and drew in a few shuddering breaths, running her thumb over the design on her own ring, drawing comfort from the repetitive movement, the feeling of the smooth metal. She didn't know how long they stayed like that, but when she heard Lancelot clearing his throat in the doorway, she looked up to see him holding out Dagonet's cape and she suddenly found that she couldn't move.

Everything is the killing blow.

She held out her wooden arms and felt Lancelot place the heavy fabric onto them. Folding the cape into her arms she breathed in Dagonet's scent, that woodsy, smoky, wholesome smell that was his and his alone.

Everything hurts.

She felt the bed dip as Lancelot sat beside her, and almost protested when she felt him take the cape away from her again, but subsided when she felt him unfolding it and wrapping it around her shoulders. Wrapping his arm around her, he kissed the top of her head, but she felt nothing beyond the weight of Dagonet's cape around her.

Now she stood looking down at Dagonet's grave, wrapped in his cape, confused at how her heart was still beating when it was so clearly buried with her husband. The funeral service had been mercifully brief, and her brothers had been protective of her, making sure that none of the villagers had disturbed her. She had felt their curious eyes, wondering at this novelty of a knight's widow, but she had ignored them all more from inability to react than actual conscious thought.

Arthur had been the one who had driven Dagonet's sword deep into the ground, and Galahad had silently placed the bishop's ornate box on the grave. Iona knew without asking that it contained Dagonet's discharge papers, and her eyes flickered to the young knight briefly. She wanted to thank him, but the words wouldn't come - but she could see on his face that he understood.

With Bors at her left side and Lucan at her right, the rest of the knights filed past, paying their last respects to both Dagonet and herself. She accepted their hugs and chaste kisses woodenly, silently, not able to think of what she should say.

Finally, it was over. Tristan melted into the background and Lucan ran off with Gilly, and finally she was standing alone beside the grave. Bors was slumped against it on the other side, drinking from a jug that Vanora had brought him. With bleary eyes he offered it to her, and she sank to her knees as she accepted it.

"This is what Sarmatian widows do?" Bors nodded and belched, and Iona took a drink.

It was after sunset when Gawain came for them, striding up the hill with long steps, his sword buckled around his waist. Bors, by this time, was sullenly and angrily drunk, but Iona had only managed a few mouthfuls of wine before the effort became too much and she lapsed back into inactivity, her arm wrapped around the handle of Dagonet's sword, cheek resting on the crossguard. She looked up at Gawain with dull eyes when he cleared his throat, his face apologetic.

"We are needed at the wall." He held out his hand to Iona, and after a long moment she grasped it, allowing herself to be pulled to her feet. She stumbled as she took a step and would have fallen if Gawain had not caught her, which caused Bors to lurch to his feet in concern.

She waved away their helping hands and worried questions, taking a limping step down the hill, wrapping the cape around her arms to keep it from dragging on the ground. Her muscles were stiff and cramped from being in one position all evening, and her calf was aching from the Saxon arrow - but she used the pain to focus and propel herself down the hill and towards the keep, Gawain and Bors following like concerned, ineffective mother hens.

Once in the fort she stiffly climbed the stairs to the wall and peered out to the plain below to see the Saxon fires glinting in the dark like so many jewelled fireflies, completely covering the field north of the wall. Despite her apathy, Iona's breath caught in her throat at the sheer number and size of the invading army. The force on the ice had been a mere percentage, and Iona could feel her heart start to race.

It is not over yet, Ai.

The thought came to her through the fog, and her hand clenched reflexively, as if she held her sword. For the first time since Dagonet fell, she felt something burning in her heart, something to hold onto, something other than the aching blackness that surrounded her.

She heard a commotion behind her and felt, rather than saw, Arthur arrive. For a long moment he stood beside her and looked out at the masses below, then turned and met the gaze of each of his knights. When he spoke, his voice held a note of finality that they had never heard before.

"Knights... my journey with you must end here. May God go with you." He turned and strode down the steps, Lancelot and Guinevere following after a few moments. Iona's gaze returned to the fires, but had caught the look passing between Gawain and Galahad, uncertainty and shock.

Iona felt neither.

Jols, ever the prepared one, appeared bearing their sword belts in the event of a possible night attack. With a whispered apology he handed Iona hers, expecting refusal from the wounded widow, but Iona thanked him quietly and buckled it on, feeling sure of herself and complete now that her sword-arm was whole, arranging Dagonet's cape so that it draped over her left arm and not her right.

Everything she had gone through up to that point had prepared her for that inevitable conflict, that moment when she stood with whoever would stand with her, against the Saxon army.

To get her revenge.