Semper Eadum: Bors

He was probably the only of the knights who didn't mind the lifestyle – 
excepting Tristan, of course, but who really knew what went on in 
Tristan's head? Probably because he had the most memories of their 
"homeland", having lived sixteen winters before the Roman legionnaires 
had been able to find his well-hidden village and had done their usual 
murdering and burning before taking the boys. He remembered the 
freezing cold – every season, every week, every day, every hour. So he 
wasn't too disturbed by leaving the village behind.

That had been over fifteen years ago, and he hadn't missed it since. He 
had met Vanora, had some odd dozens of little bastards running around, 
he liked his life. And now that the term of service was coming up, he 
wouldn't have to go through the hassle of the endless battles. He would 
stay at the fortress at Hadrian's Wall, of course, he was far too well 
established there to bother leaving. The knights already controlled 
most of the land around that point, and everyone else except for 
Dagonet would be heading to either Sarmatia or Rome when they got their 
papers.

Yes, life was – and would be – good in Briton.

***

Semper Verus: Dagonet

He had never been the brightest of the knights, and he accepted that 
with grace, knowing that he could more than carry his own in battle. He 
had no special women; no army of bastards, like Bors; nor a hawk, like 
Tristan. He had left no mark on the world, no one to remember him by 
since his and Bors' village had been burned to the ground when they had 
been collected. The other knights would remember him, of course, but 
there were so many long passed on to remember, and the lifespan for the 
others wasn't very long in any case. In twenty, or as short as ten, 
years, no one would remember him or the things he had done, except in 
the capacity of one of the knights.

And he had never minded. He had never desired to be famous, or to be 
known. He had never wanted to leave anything behind other than the 
knowledge he had lived a full life. But in this moment, looking down at 
the small boy he cradled in his arms, he suddenly wanted to be 
remembered, to have someone care if died. And he had found that someone 
in the boy.

***

Semper Vigilans: Tristan

He whistled softly and lowly at the circling hawk, keeping an eye on 
the scouting party at the bottom of the hill. The lead scout glanced up 
sharply and he pulled back, the tree branches hiding him again. The 
Saxon scout was good; perhaps even a match for him. It was a good 
feeling, that of a challenge. It had been a while since he had had to 
work so hard to keep from being noticed – it must have been when he was 
still a child, playing child's games in the vast rolling plains. There 
was no point in trying to hide from the Woads, they knew the forests 
better than he knew his trade.

The hawk, Simargl, landed on his master's wrist and flicked his head 
towards the oncoming army. Tristan nodded back and fed him a scrap of 
meat. Simargl gulped it down hungrily and took off again, this time 
heading away from the Saxons. Tristan climbed out of the tree to where 
his horse waited silently. He mounted, and nudged him gently. He had to 
warn the camp, the preliminary scouts were less than fifteen minutes 
away and the bulk of the men not too far behind.

***

Semper Victor: Lancelot

It would only been a matter of time before the Romans found the 
village; they had all known that from the beginning. Some of the men 
protested, saying they could fight the Romans, but Lancelot knew that 
it would be pointless. Kill one soldier, and twenty would fill his 
place. So he stepped forward and volunteered to go. The other boys over 
ten, the age of enlistment, quickly spoke up as well. None of them 
wanted to appear weak or afraid. Their mothers and sisters cried, and 
the fathers were frustrated by their inability to protect their 
families.

When the Romans came up, Lancelot and the other boys were already 
mounted and ready to go. Elaine broke away from the gaggle of the 
village and pressed something into Lancelot's hand. It was her lion 
pendant, he realized. He gave his family brave words about returning, 
and then they left. "How long will we be gone?" he asked of the closest 
legionnaire. The man gave him an indiscernible look. "Fifteen years. 
Not counting the months it will take to reach your post." Lancelot 
swallowed. Some boys would return, they had to. But he felt that he 
would not be among them.