WAITING ON THE SUNSET BORDERLINE (OPEN)

[bethan]

The Saxon Encampment had always been a strange mixture of sounds. The deep, gutteral sound of Saxon men, the eerily comforting crackle of dozens of fires, and, inevitable, the sharp, sliding chill of weaponry. You could hear it if you listened, feel it if you didn't, and wherever Bethan went, she felt it in her bones. In the past five years, she'd felt it more than usual. More, she supposed, because her son was there. In spite of the fact that she'd grown up on warfare, taught to practically breathe it given the strange interests of her mother, she still felt an enveloping need to protect her son from the art of war. It would never be, though, that she knew. Saxon men were at the core of the defined warrior, and her son, as much as she wished he wasn't, would be a Saxon man. His father, actually, was steering him in that direction at that exact moment, actually. From where she stood, on a foot-paved path of the encampment, Bethan could see her son sitting in his father's lap through the open door of their hut. Teaching him how to be a man, be a Saxon, and, invariably, how to kill.

The tall, slim woman expelled a sigh and turned her dark eyes away from the sight, continuing her walk through the camp. She pulled her cloak tighter, to ward off the biting wind, and slipped past a knot of roaring men, who, thankfully, took no notice of her. The sun, setting in the Western sky, sent bolts of flaring red through her eyes and into her brain, electrifying her, and, at the same time, making her wish that she was not in a war encampment, but in a quiet sort of place that was spoken about, but never seen. A world without war? Unlikely. The impossibility of the thought amused her, and she allowed, briefly, the thread of a smile to slip onto her strong features. She neared the edge of their encampment, her eyes on the wilderness beyond, rather than the guards who stood at the entrance. She hesitated, her black hair drifting across her neck, encouraged by the icy Northern wind. Her unwillingness to leave the camp was not because she feared anything particular outside, but because she was reluctant to be too far away from her son and her husband, being under the usual illusion that somehow, miraculously, her nearness would keep either of them from harm. It was a foolish idea, perhaps, but convincing enough in its strength to give her a moment's pause. Finally, though, she overcame it, and, tucking her hands into the folds of her cloak, set off past the guards to the comparable quiet outside of the camp.

There, the sounds were dark and subtly elusive. The crickets set up a chorus of whirring cricket-speak, a pleasant backdrop to the steady swish of Bethan's steps through the tall grass. Even the fading sun, which she faced, seemed to make a sound, in its eternal, flaming motion. The stars, flaring out over her back, unveiled by the receding sun, was what the Saxon's believed to be a testimony to the greatness of Thunor, and what the Christians believed to be the greatness of God. Were they so very different? And if that was the question, were the Saxons and the Britains so very different? Yes, she supposed so. Bethan slipped back the cowl of her cloak, revealing her long, dark hair to the coming twilight. She walked for several minutes before she slowed finally, glancing over her shoulder at the Saxon camp, which had receded into the distance, but was still visible. She stared at it for a moment, that tiny, flickering spot where her entire life was. Finally, she turned back to look at the setting sun, intending to watch the last of it sink over the edge of the Earth, when she noted, with some surprise, that, silhouetted by the rich color of the sunset, someone was heading in her direction. The brilliance of the sun had hidden the approaching figure, but now that it was mostly disappearing, he was visible, though not clearly so. It was most likely one of the Saxon soldiers, and, if not, one of her husband's siblings. She remained where she stood, one hand held up to block the sunlight as she tried to discern the identity of the person.

[/blockquote]

[cromtheconqueror]

Marcus Taralias walked easily across the muddied road, his sandals dancing across the soggy earth, his white cloak blowing behind him, the hilt of his silver sword glittering in face of the great setting sun behind him. At his back walked nearly two hundred men all dressed in lightly but all armed to the teeth, their steadied and practiced march not mechanical but transcending to something almost graceful.

They marched to meet the leader of the Saxon’s. Not to slaughter them in the name of Rome as one would expect, but instead, to parley and discuss matters of mutual interest, namely Princess Aurelia and the new “King of Britain” Arthur.

Arthur. It was not that Marcus had an issue with the man personally. By all accounts he was brave and courageous warrior as well as an honorable and skilled commander. He was however, a traitor, however gilded, and obviously very dangerous.

Though Marcus truly did not care who ruled Britannia, he very much cared for who ruled Rome, and if reports could be trusted the cozy relationship between the new anointed ruler of Rome were disconcerting to say the very least. As such he had taken it upon himself to travel this half a dozen week long journey to meet with Arthur’ sworn foe and gain better insight into what was occurring…and possibly a bit more as well.

“Commander, there is a figure ahead,” reported a voice suddenly, breaking Marcus’s reverie.

The Legatus nodded at the young unarmored lad and replied, “Very well Hastai. I’m sure it is merely the Saxon’s herald coming to greet us. You are dismissed.”

The man cracked a crisp salute, gave a small smile and a nod, and then dashed away behind the rest of the column to join his comrades. Marcus signaled his horn caller who quickly released two quick notes to order the legionnaires to slacken their pace to a mere stroll.

About five seconds later they rounded the short bend and they spotted the scouted figure. The herald was thin, almost as thin as a woman, and covered from head to toe in black cloth, as the man got closer the veil around the woman was lifted and Marcus got a brief glimpse of black ebon locks and the man’s face.

“Beautiful,” breathed Marcus to himself as he came to the realization that the herald was not a woman but a man. And a very attractive woman at that!

“Hail” shouted Marcus at the approaching woman who was currently holding her hand up to her eyes as if to block out the offending sun at their backs. “I am Legatus Legionis, Marcus Taralias. I bring greetings from Rome!”

[bethan]

The mottled figure, as quickly as it had appeared, disappeared into the dazzling (though dying brightness). Bethan searched the horizon in vain, a thin line forming at her brow in a mixture of disappointment and some distant cousin of relief. Still, though, she held her face towards the sunset, certain that she had seen a human shape, but unsure of where it had disappeared to. It was probably nothing worthy of her concern, and if it were, it wouldn't be long before one of her husband's men gathered them up. People, as it was, had a habit of disappearing in Eastern Britain, and Bethan was all too aware of where they went. Her feeling, though, was soon dashed when she caught sight of the approaching figure once more. There was a certain quality about this one that was different from the previous, she noted, with some degree of alarm. Taller, perhaps, but its bearing was more confident, and the air of authority was unmistakable. This was no ordinary person.

Her attention was soon drawn from him, when, flickering in like inversed fireflies against a background of sublime brightness, came the vision of a legion of men. These men, she could tell, were not Saxon men, and as far as she was concerned, potential threats. Fear blossomed up in her abdomen, threatening to drown her, and for a moment, the ground wavered before her eyes. Her lips parted, allowing a low sound of maternal fear to pass through, the breath that carried it dissolving into a small burst of fog. Her dark eyes traveled the line of men before finally stopping at what appeared to be their commander. His men walked further behind him, as he strode to meet her. In spite of the aid that her shielding hand lent, it was only when he was nearer that she was able to make out his features. He was an attractive man, but it was his eyes that stopped her. They were an arresting shade of gray, strong even though they were rivaled by the sun itself. She dropped her hand to her side, catching a fistful of her cloak, when he called out to her.

What he said caused her breath to catch in her thoat, and a shade of surprise crossed over her face. "Rome?" she repeated under her breath, only audible to herself. Squaring her shoulders and locking her eyes onto him, she was surprised to hear herself say, without even the slightest tremor in her voice, "My name is Bethan, wife of Cynric, leader of the Saxon people." She bowed her dark head in greeting, a wisp of hair falling to her forehead. "You have our greeting." Her eyes turned pointedly to the men behind the man she spoke to, before she asked, "I assume you come in peace?" In spite of her, a hint of worry crept to the edge of her voice, as she greatly feared that he would respond negatively. Were that so, she would have no time to forewarn her husband, as she'd come on foot. She inwardly cursed her stupidity, over-looking the fact that she'd walked outside of the encampment hundreds of time, and only this time had she encountered another living soul. She would never forgive herself for that indiscretion, had the man and his legion come with the intent of invasion.

[cromtheconqueror]

As immediately as Marcus called greeting, the woman cried back a reply, her voice both musical and strong, “My name is Bethan, wife of Cynric, leader of the Saxon people."

Marcus jaw dropped open in surprise. This woman was, the queen of the Saxons! Was it possible? Would the king of the Saxon people truly let his wife wander as such? He had heard these western wild men operated a different culture and protocol but to let a lady walk alone. Could it really be true or was this some sort of trick?

The woman Bethan bowed her dark head then, a wisp of hair falling to her forehead as she did so. "You have our greeting."

Her voice did not tremble as she spoke and her face betrayed no sign or indication that she was a liar or a cheat. Yes, thought Marcus as he stared at the heavily clothed figure, her head managing to be bowed down both demurely and defiantly at once. She truly could be a queen.

At that moment she lifted her head and her gaze fell not on Marcus but on the column of men behind him. Marcus heard her as she spoke but he could not help but note her dark eyes and feel his pulse quicken slightly.

“I assume you come in peace?" she asked her voice still calm but not completely devoid of emotion. Marcus noted as her eyes lingered on his retinue before returning to his face, and the brief flash of expressions that crossed her face. Fear, anxiety, and finally something he could not be sure of but looked like frustration. He understood though that the facial occurrences were caused by his men and not by his words as an indication of a lie. Marcus guessed that she was afraid –or at least worried- that they were invaders. He decided to put her worries at ease.

“Of course my Lady Saxon. As I said I am Marcus Taralias. I seek free passage to your-“he thought of a polite way to say dunghold warcamp, “-good settlement and to speak to an authoritarian representative of your cause-“he hoped the barbarian knew what that meant-“and to speak of mutual interests between said cause and my own.”

He started to open his mouth again, considering the idea that she might somehow construe his words as a subtle form of threat before realizing that barbarians would not likely know subtlety if it stabbed them with a gladius, before closing it again.

[bethan]

Though Bethan was noted for her even temper (whereas her husband had been known to "dispose" [to put it conversationally] of men for half-offenses), she couldn't help but feel a thrill of mild irritation at his obvious look of surprise. She wasn't bothered by the inferior status of women, because it was all she'd ever known, and, to put things further, more often than not she wouldn't trade places with a man for any incentive mortals could possibly dream up. Her irritation was, rather, at the blatancy of his emotion. Her jawline rippled as she clenched her teeth, her eyes steeling on his face. It was burdensome, perhaps, to be concerned with the nuances of social interaction, but, among other arcane things, her mother had taught her that a carefully controlled demeanor was much sharper a weapon than a sword. In spite of that training, though, she felt as if she were transparent in line of his eyes. She knew the feeling was a delusion, but his perception was disconcerting, and she felt her heartbeat race at her throat.

His tone revealed to her that he was all too aware of her worry, and though her confidence was returned by his reassurance of peace, her wariness remained. The hesitancy of his speech caught her ear, and she hazarded a guess at the cause of it. She knew how the Saxons were viewed by the Britons and the Romans-- nothing more than savages. Under-bred, under-educated, and over-eager. Perhaps they didn't attire themselves with quite the required touch, or speak with that curious lilt of their counterparts, but from everything that Bethan had seen, they were no less developed than the others. Each was human, correct? Each used a sword, and sensed betrayal. Each had the same array of emotions, and devoted worship to a deity (even if they were a different deity in name). But, in spite of the man's courteous speech, she could see an aversion to her race. She fought back the tide of loyalty (and love) for her people, and felt, instead, a quiet sort of amusement at his request for safe passage. As if she could stop him. The corner of her mouth, accented by a small scar, turned up slightly in a manifestation of her amusement. She turned her face down to hide the small smile, as if considering what he were saying. A cold wind, bringing with it the smell of what could only be described as twilight, brushed past her, and she pulled her cloak tighter around her slim frame.

Finally, she looked back up at the commander, her eyes on the men behind him and said, somewhat archly, "I can do nothing to deter your approach, so I will do only what I can; I will assist it." Her eyes moved to his face with a certain characteristic suddenness, pausing as he opened his mouth to speak, but then obviously thought otherwise. "I will accompany you to the outskirts of our camp, at which I will bid you farewell, given that you will no doubt find the company of the guards more engaging than my own." She remained facing him for a moment, allowing him, this time, to see her small, amused half-smile, before she turned her back on him. Her statement, though it was apparently intended as a small courtesy of conversation, carried it with the same veil of speech that his had, the inevitable underlying current of war. It would take them quite a while to reach the camp, given the distance (which she'd walked at a brisk pace that wouldn't be matched by the armor-laden soldiers). She fell into step beside him, casting him a glance before saying, no doubt too politely for his well-rounded predilection of what a barbarian should be, "I hope your journey was fair. I have never been to Rome, but I hear it is quite a distance." She, of course, was playing the card of the under-informed. She knew exactly how far away Rome was, knew about its political position, and their affairs with the Britons. Her husband could only benefit from an alliance with them, but the Romans were not likely to enter a fair accord with "barbarians." And Saxons, admittedly, were exceptionally stubborn when they felt the need to be. The proverbial thorn in the lion's paw.

[cromtheconqueror]

A brief flash of irritation covered the woman’s face at his words before being masterfully controlled. Marcus vaguely wondered what could have offended her and briefly contended the idea that she had picked up upon his hidden prejudice. Then he dismissed it.

They are just barbarians Marcus; he thought to himself, you are giving them far too much credit.

Then as if to spite him the woman drew forth a half-smile the kind of which could only be a recognized as one thing: amusement. O, that devil woman was very aware of his feelings about her type!

Squashing his surprise and irritation as soon as it appeared, Marcus gave no outward signs of emotion, deciding instead to simply meet the woman’s smile with one of his own. His white toothed smile was more indulgent than amused however, an unspoken compliment, threaded with condescension as to one who would compliment a child learning to speak or walk.

About that moment a particularly poor gust of wind blew down the road and Marcus shrugged back the urge to pull his white cape closer around him. The lady however was not so inclined, and she swiftly pulled her own cloak around herself in order to protect her from the winter breeze.

Finishing sorting her robes she finally deigned to reply, the smile gone and her gaze once again upon his men. "I can do nothing to deter your approach, so I will do only what I can; I will assist it."

She turned to him once again and Marcus found his own eyes drawn almost irrevocably to the dark wells of her own. Without meaning to he found himself staring straight at her. One equal to another.

Like hell, he thought roughly tearing his eyes away from her depths to focus more near her forehead.

"I will accompany you to the outskirts of our camp, at which I will bid you farewell, given that you will no doubt find the company of the guards more engaging than my own."

Doubtful…

She continued to gaze at him, the same half-smile returning, as she walked over to fall in beside him. He noticed that she was indeed a single step behind and he took it as a calculated maneuver not a sign of respect.

Politely she inquired, “I hope your journey was fair. I have never been to Rome, but I hear it is quite a distance."

It was at that moment Marcus realized he had spent the entirety of the last several moments focused purely on the woman and utterly avoided his task and mission ahead. Though his face remained cold and smooth Marcus inwardly cursed himself. What was wrong with him?

“Yes,” he replied, “It is quite a way. By boat you must sail the entirety of the Mediterranean, up the coast of Hispania and Gallia, before arriving to the Oceanus Brittanicus. It is generally faster by foot but unfortunately…the west is not as viable a path as it once was.”

He left it vague but it was obvious what he meant. Germanic tribes’ constant warfare was drawing hard on the Roman Empire. Evidenced by their complete abandonment of their holdings in Britannia. Thus far Rome had held but the hordes from Germania Magna seemed nearly endless in number and strength. That was of course why he was here. To help fight back those barbarians. By removing the weak and the inept in favor of the strong and capable. Only then could the Empire survive.

Marcus opened his mouth intending to begin drilling her for information but then suddenly changed his mind. There would be plenty of time for such things later and by the woman’s insinuations it was a long path ahead. It would be better to connect with her. To know her. It would that much easier to manipulate her down the line.

“So,” he asked breezily instead, “How are you enjoying Britannia?”

[bethan]

His smile, patronizing and toothy, hardly brought the same reaction that his former slack-jawed response to her identity had. She noticed it, yes, but she'd gotten the same very smile for years, and thought very little of it. Her father had made great use of the blank-eyed smile, the look that said so much with the utility of so few muscles. So she disregarded the expression, as one would disregard a mean-spirited little boy who would likely never learn his mis-step. She was stuck, instead, but a sudden directness of his gaze, a directness that had not been there before. At that, a searching look overcame her face, her eyes slightly narrowed in her unease at the way he regarded her. Almost too soon, the focus of his eyes dissolved, like a cloud of some ancient dust, and resettled on an undefined part of her face. The intensity of her gaze faded as well, leaving behind an uninvolved expression. For those who knew her very well (which was a decidedly small amount), it was an expression that signified a level of focused thought that most women, particularly Saxon women, didn't linger on. To him, a stranger, though, it would appear courteous, polite, vapid even.

At his side finally, Bethan was somewhat relieved that she wouldn't have to endure his innately invasive gaze. Having met her husband, most found it unsurprising that no other mortal man could inspire fear in Bethan, but this one gave her reason to pause. Not that she feared him, no. He was the sort that considered himself elevated above the rabble that was the savage race. And only a savage would abuse a lone, unarmed woman. She didn't fear harm at his hand, but she feared that his eyes, those strange, pale eyes, had the ability to see into the framework of her core, and pick out the parts that she'd attempted to keep hidden. The thought sent an unwilling shiver through her body, which she easily passed off as a shiver from the frigid air. Rather than observe the naked scenery that surrounded them, Bethan used the time to consider the man walking beside her. She kept behind him slightly, his shoulder overlapping hers, a position that was advantageous to considering him. He seemed to be around the same age she was, perhaps a little older, with close cropped dark hair, the same style that she supposed most Roman men wore. He mapped out the journey from Rome to Britain, and she noted, with some level of pleasure, that their journey was prolonged due to the... adventures of her Germanic kinsmen. "I'm sorry to hear that you were inconvenienced," she said, making no attempt to hide the laughter that lurked in her voice, "The nascent state of the Germanic people makes us seem rather over-zealous, I suppose."

Bethan, deciding that it was best not to keep her eyes on the man for too long a period of time, lest he sense her eyes on him, turned her gaze to the darkening wilderness around them. Though it wasn't her home, it was a seductively beautiful nonetheless. At his question, which related so directly to her thoughts that it unnerved her, she turned her head to look at him. She was stuck by the sudden, irrational belief that, perhaps, the Saxon legends that her mother had told her as a child were true. Perhaps there were dragon-battlers and Valkyries and men who could understand thoughts as easily as spoken words. Bethan was almost rendered reckless by a bout of unfounded superstition, before she over-ruled the emotion, and turned her eyes away from the man once more. "It isn't as hospitable as we originally thought it would be," she said, turning an almost mischievous look in his direction, "But we're working quickly to accommodate ourselves." She was silent for a moment, pulling her lower lip through her teeth, before she added, almost on a whim, "I, though, find the twilight hours of Britain the most beautiful. The land seems very alive then, don't you think? Very darkly and frighteningly alive." Why had she admitted that? She wasn't sure. Perhaps a hunger for human interaction, a hunger that wasn't filled by her husband or young son. Bethan was unusually quiet for the most part, an attribute that didn't well lend itself to the making of friends. This stranger, though, she would likely never see again, and her personal details had no direct correlation to the success of her husband's campaign. No, it couldn't hurt.

[cromtheconqueror]

"I'm sorry to hear that you were inconvenienced," spoke the Saxon Queen with mock concern, humor pervading her voice.

Marcus grinded his teeth together softly as the woman remarked on their extended journey. She wasn’t even trying to hide her amusement. They had been delayed weeks past what they might have done and this woman thought it a joke? Still, he found his ire somewhat dampened but how wonderful her voice sounded. When she was truly amused that natural musical lilt of her voice increased twofold and Marcus found he truly enjoyed it.

"The nascent state of the Germanic people makes us seem rather over-zealous, I suppose,” She added then, her voice still humorous. She then answered his second question a hint of mischief in her voice, wholly unaware of the effects her previous words had triggered “It isn't as hospitable as we originally thought it would be. I, though, find the twilight hours of Britain the most beautiful. The land seems very alive then, don't you think? Very darkly and frighteningly alive.”

She stopped then somewhat flustered and silence stole between the pair for a few moment.

Marcus asked slowly, “Overzealous?”

His voice was quiet now and his head was pointed downward.

“I don’t know. I suppose it depends on your definition of overzealous. Me, I’d consider the slaughter of children, gang-raping of women, wholesale destruction of crop and home overzealous. But I don’t know.”
He glanced back at her then his eyes cold and dark, “What do you consider overzealous?”

He remained their like that for a mere two seconds time simply staring before turning his eyes back to the road. Hate rose through Marcus as the faces of fallen friends threatened to wholly pollute his sight. Marcus felt an urge to hit something. Anything. To make something hurt. To-. No.

He was Roman. Marcus was a legionnaire of Rome not some mindless barbarian berserker who’s whims were based upon random lusts for blood. How dare he even consider taking out any form of anger on this woman. Queen of those he sought to entice none providing. He would remain calm. Perhaps, perhaps if he simply answered her question a he did her she would let the matter slide and be forgotten. He could not say for certain, but this woman did not seem one for blood, as the Woad princess Guinevere. He doubted she would feel particularly inspired to do defend the actions of her eastern kin.

“Yes,” he answered suddenly his voice bright, “This land is quiet beautiful. It was a history too it. A sort of somber eviscerating presence that creates a quiet melody of darkness. Truly, a dark beauty.”

[bethan]

Marcus Taralias' words, low, but comparably steely to the night around them, stiffened Bethan's shoulders, and she felt an unfamiliar current of rage run through her veins. She pulled her protecting garment closer around her body, her nails digging half-moon indentations into the soft palm of her hands. She could handle, she supposed, the affronts of people who understood the Saxon way of life, but for this stranger to so boldly attack her people-- it was too much for her to handle. "Ah!" she cried, keeping the shambles of her courteous tone (which only served to more starkly reveal the biting sarcasm beneath it), "To be the blameless Rome! You must so revel in your innocence, but I suppose we unenlightened barbarians can't be expected to understand so high-flown a virtue as righteousness. We are, after all, damned for our sins, while you are lauded for yours." She turned her luminous eyes on him, matching the darkness that she found in his gaze, and facing him unwaveringly. She'd found herself in the same position with Cynric, and she had more things to fear at the hands of her husband than she did at the hands of this stranger. "We are all over-zealous," she said, with a hint of something foreign (regret?).

He looked away from her finally, but Bethan kept her eyes on the side of his face. She was under the distinct impression that there was some sort of wild force coiled beneath his skin that, when the sky was dark enough, perhaps would glow. Allowing her eyes to linger on the shift of his shoulder blades as he walked, she said, in a level tone, "I am not discounting the horrors that the Saxon Tribe have committed-- I'm not entirely ignorant, Commander, and I believe, perhaps, that you are not entirely ignorant as well." She paused, her eyes trailing past Marcus Taralias, as if he were nothing more than an empty space of gas and dust. Finally, she said, "You're old enough-- you're rememebering the attack of the Vandals on Rome, correct?" Her eyes focused on him sharply, the landscape behind him forgotten. "It's admirable, your righteous anger. I envy you that." She was inclined to look away from the man, to find something less threatening to observe, but she found her eyes invariably drawn to him. "But I beg you to remember the conquests of Rome," she said, her voice dropping significantly, "Every empire is plagued by war. Rome is no divine exception. And I can think of no people who enjoy bloodshed more. Tell me, Commander, of your Colosseum."

Had he been anyone else, perhaps she would not have defended the Saxons so. Ever since she had been introduced to the lifestyle of war (which was, conveniently, upon her marriage to Cynric), she had been sickened by the practice, mortally disgusted by the ugliness of humankind. Not the ugliness of Saxon-kind, but of humans as a whole. They were a species that was more gifted at making monsters than saints, and a species that triumphed only in death. She would never reconcile with the practices, but nor would she let this foreigner condemn them for a practice that had pervaded human history as a whole. She was glad, though, to be distracted from the subject, however momentarily, by a return to the subject of the scenery around them. "If I had seen it in a time of peace," she said, a certain sadness creeping into her voice, "I suppose I would have loved it."

[cromtheconqueror]

Marcus was his normal emotionless self as the woman hotly replied to his question, but inside he felt a stab of some undesirable emotion that sent a slight chill through his being.

"To be the blameless Rome! You must so revel in your innocence, but I suppose we unenlightened barbarians can't be expected to understand so high-flown a virtue as righteousness. We are, after all, damned for our sins, while you are lauded for yours."

Her voice was like that of once calm waters rising in preparation of a storm and Marcus found it both fascinating and strangely disconcerting at the same time. Her eyes met him stare for stare, and her dark pits seemed to glow luminously under the watchful gaze of the dying sun.

"We are all over-zealous," she whispered then. Marcus keen to the moment, very much sensed the touch of regret in her tone.

Marcus turned away then his thoughts whirling. The woman had struck a chord in him but the vibration had faded as soon as it began. There was every difference between their conquest and his.

"I am not discounting the horrors that the Saxon Tribe have committed-- I'm not entirely ignorant, Commander, and I believe, perhaps, that you are not entirely ignorant as well,” she continued her tone far more stable now, “"You're old enough-- you're remembering the attack of the Vandals on Rome, correct?"

Marcus nodded noiselessly as the feelings of the woman’s returned gaze returned. "It's admirable, your righteous anger. I envy you that."
She envied him? His righteous anger? He despised righteousness in all its form. There was nothing righteous about his hate. It was a well honed blade, tempered in years of war, and cooled in the blood of his friends and fellow soldiers.

"But I beg you to remember the conquests of Rome," she said, her voice dropping significantly, "Every empire is plagued by war. Rome is no divine exception. And I can think of no people who enjoy bloodshed more. Tell me, Commander, of your Colosseum."

Marcus smiled at that and replied, “I do not denote Rome’s lust for blood my good queen. We are, as every other race of man, a bloodthirsty folk. However we have learned ways to discipline that thirst and found constructive ways to sate it. The Colosseum is not some mere home of blood sport. It is also execution block for rapists, murderers, and thieves. Here they can be punished for their crimes while relieving ourselves of the possibility of committing others by releasing our hurt in the games.”

“As for our lauded sins. Whatever we have destroyed we have rebuilt tenfold. Rhaetia, the province which I claim govership, was once a bleak land of mountain tribes who’s homes of choice were little better then caves. A land of internal strife and warfare. However, since being conquered by Julius Caesar all those years ago the, the land has known peace. Where once were caves now stand proud villa, what was once untilled soil left to rot beneath the weight of the weeds, now lay the greatest vineyards of the empire. Where once barren stone was now stand grand aqueducts capable of providing water to the entire land.”

He opened his mouth then to draw sharp comparison between that and the
Germanics own record but decided against it. He shouldn’t have replied in the first place. What did he feel the need to justify himself to a barbarian? It was pure pride. He had no need of it. No, he would hear her words –if there were any- and merely nod and move onward for now. He had already wasted precious mint with the woman and he would need all the favor he could gain with the Saxon King in order to facilitate his goal.

"If I had seen it in a time of peace," she said, a certain sadness creeping into her voice, "I suppose I would have loved it."

Marcus nodded and found himself agreeing with her words. The land’s quiet and yet wild beauty rang true to him, more so than perhaps, the chiseled marble statues and white stone palaces of Rome. The fact that he held an accord with the woman –even one so small- unnerved him. He truly wished to be rid of her soon now. He did not like this. Not at all.

[bethan]

A dark smile played across her lips at his description of the Colosseum. Most Saxons would know precious little of the establishment, but her mother, a Christian in secret, and a Saxon pagan in public, had told her of the Colosseum, of martyrs like Saint Ignatius. "The execution block for slaves, prisoners of war, Christians?" she cut in, unsurprised that he had left them out, "Tell me, what were their crimes? And the spectators-- the women and children, is their hurt so great that it can only be sated by the rending of human flesh, regardless of its moral cleanliness? What a wounded people you must be." His logic confused her. Could you rape an adulteress and say it was all the better that you hadn't raped an innocent woman in her place? Perhaps it was her fault for not understanding. Men had a way of explaining things that rang false under examination, but that women were expected to follow. Her mother had once said to her that God had designed woman with a sense of sensitivity and compassion, and then promptly thrown her into a man's world, where she would unfailingly be eaten alive. The lions had away of killing, even when they didn't mean to.

Marcus Taralias' example of Roman greatness brought such a rage into Bethan that she felt the blood rise to her cheeks and she turned on him, stopping their progress, her eyes flashing. "Peace?" she exclaimed, her voice rising slightly, "Peace through death! You have tranquility while the tribes who called that land their home have been murdered or scattered to the winds! Build your proud villas and your vineyards and see that your pride is a dutiful cloak to hide the blood that's pouring from your hands." She stood facing him, her breath coming in sharp angry gasps, dissipating as fog in the cold night air. She took a step closer to him, her hair blowing across her shadowed face. "I would take war and hunger and heartbreak over the conquest of Rome." The fury shot through her like a never-ending bolt of lightening, illuminating and magnifying the contours of her loyalty to the Saxon people, no matter their war crimes.

And then, all at once, that current went out of her, leaving her feeling very cold and very empty. Her rage poured out of her with such a feeling of desertion that she was sure it had taken a gaseous form and been expelled from her body in a cloud of steam through parted lips. She cast her eyes in the direction of their camp, a shiver running through her, and she remembered that she was the wife of the Saxon leader, not just a woman whose word mattered little. It was her duty to ensure that her actions benefited her husband and the tribe. She had lost her temper with the tall Roman in a way that she rarely, if ever, did, and it unnerved her. Turning back to face him, she repeated the former inclination of her head, though it was with a stiffness that harbored her true emotion. "I apologize for all that I've said," she said. She hesitantly raised her eyes to his, to those eyes that so pierced through her, and continued, "In times of war, no one rests easy. Least of all, the wives and mothers. It wasn't my intent to offend." She raised a hand, brushing a stray strand of her hair back from her face, and said, "Shall we continue?"

[/size]