K. L. Nofziger

Published by Kindle Direct Publishing, a self-publishing group of Amazon, Inc.

This is a work of fiction. Depictions of characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely fundamental.

The cataloging-in-publication date is on file with the Library of Congress.

Copyright © 2021 by K. L. Nofziger 

All Rights Reserved. 

Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

Chapter One

Vivienne

October 25, Present Day

Once I hang my keys, I head straight for the kitchen to put the chips and queso I bought from Qdoba in the fridge for later. The contents of the fridge are a bit sparse. Browsing the clear plastic shelves, I decide to go tomorrow after the tour. 

Going down the short hallway, I shut each light left on by my roommate, Angie. As I reach for the switch, an actual TV rests on the once-barren stand in the living room. Setting my food bag on the coffee table, I take a better look. It’s widescreen, nicely standard-sized, and has a yellow post-it note on its screen: Vivienne, take it for a spin. Everything’s installed. Enjoy. Angie. 

“Hmm, I think I’ll take you up on that offer,” I say to no one in particular. 

I hurry upstairs to change into my usual comfy attire of shorts and hoodie, taking the no-longer frozen ice pack back down to switch it out for a new one. Ready to eat and relax, I plop myself on the large dark suede couch. This time I gently tuck the ice pack under my swollen thigh. My neck is still stiff but the swelling has dissipated. 

There are two remotes: one assigned for the TV itself and a compact Roku one since we only have wifi. After I add the common streaming channels, I search for CuriosityStream. Back when I found out that Netflix for documentaries was a thing, not only did I explore its entire available content, but I binged-watched three different series in eight hours. The next day, I was miserable trying to finish a paper, for another class, which was due the following day as well as editing the current outline of my dissertation. Now I know to limit my time with the streaming platform on the weekends to avoid calamity. Not only for my leisure, but I also try to find videos that have the slightest relation to my research. Whether it’s ancient France, French figures, or even remote French conflict, I’ll make sure to add it to my watchlist. Once I’ve gone through it, maybe jot down some notes, I’ll take the information into consideration when finding sources. I get to see it displayed in color and in a more entertaining form. 

Heading into my list of Continue Watching, I resume Mystery Files which is about influential figures both real and legendary alike. 

This past Sunday, I stopped at Billy the Kid seeing as the latter includes King Arthur, DaVinci, Lincoln, and Cleopatra. Monday would have been Hell if I hadn’t closed my laptop that previous night. 

One of my tacos is nearly devoured as the episode begins with King Arthur as a beacon of chivalry and romance in the Middle Ages. 

Struan Rodger continues narrating, going deeper with introducing a medieval writer named Thomas Malory. A reenactment shows Malory in the Tower of London accused of robbery, extortion, attempted murder and rape. He writes with a feather quill as I scroll through my email on my phone. It’s an unbreakable habit, but strangely it’s never disrupted my comprehensive skills and awareness, especially with titular details and names such as his.

Remembering names has always come naturally to me. Faces are another story. I could be interacting with the filmed historian myself yet I wouldn’t recall his face if we met a second time. It’s always frustrating, particularly back when I first met my mentor. As I scroll past my Mark Twain ticket confirmation Reinhurst sent me, I recall with a slight cringe how it took me three face-to-face encounters to recognize him along with speaking on the phone, texting, and emailing countless times in between. To this day, I’m still embarrassed with my inherently selective memory. 

Though he considers himself a traditionalist, Reinhurst is ironically high-tech. Email and texts are the sources of most interaction unless I make occasional appointments with him in his office. 

Other than the confirmation, I didn’t get my usual string of emails from him. No outlines, no conferences, no workshop fliers, nothing. 

Hmm, I guess that means I get an easy weekend. Maybe even do nothing for a change. Of course after tomorrow’s tour, I grimace.

Firmly setting aside my phone on the coffee table, I reach for the remaining tacos. Now that all communication portals have been checked out, I lean back to get properly comfortable. Crossing my ankles, I relax full-length and properly appreciate the show presented on Angie’s new television. 

“…If some historians believe that Ambrosius alone cannot account for the King Arthur of legend, then there are others who believe that, buried deep in chronicles from the fifth century, there is another character who matches key elements of the myth.”

Mystery Files is a series with episodes no more than thirty minutes, so I hope that this one is a little more enlightening, considering I know somewhat more about the King Arthur subject. Well, more in the perspective of a scholar rather than a child growing up with the stories.  

In French medieval literature, components, such as Sir Lancelot and his widely known affair with Queen Guinevere, were added to the King Arthur legend. I’ve studied this briefly under the branch of literature called the Matter of Britain. However, it’s been sometime since I’ve delved into that. The same applies to the other romance branch in an ancient setting, the Matter of Rome, as I hear the narrator take a step back so one historian and a scholar could speak. They expand on the profile of what and who King Arthur was, as archaeology and history pinpoint that the authentic figure would have lived during the early Fall of the Roman Empire. 

Repositioning the pillow behind me, I slide down further into the cushions. A wave of lethargy hits me and I ignore the mild headache between my eyes. 

Lazily, I pull the blanket resting on the sofa’s long headrest and use my feet to spread the thick fleece over me. Yesterday’s Jiu jitsu practice match did a real doozy, but the swelling has receded. Without budging, I put the half-frozen ice pack on the table. Then I fold my arms over my chest as I try to stay coherent. 

The last thing I hear is Dr. Christopher A. Snyder saying, “One candidate for a historical King Arthur is a fifth century Briton named…”

************

October 26, Present Day

I turn away from a still river. Bracketed by tall willows and alders, I follow the clear, dirt path that ends to a little hill. Clouds shade the spacious greenery.  

Across the grassland, men in long shirts and braided boots clash against soldiers in body-clad, layered armor and cloaks. In clusters, they charge and dodge one another. Others gallop on bareback horses, with spears and swords, and some with bows.  

Whether out of anger, aggression, or pain, not a sound is made when their mouths open.  

The deafening silence is broken when thunder bellows. Behind me, the river is a crescent barrier shouting downstream into the west. 

Night tramples over Day as the storm brews.  

Cracks of lightning stab the ground with such an impact, I titter and fall to my hands and knees. 

Without virtuosity, heavy rain drops fall. It soon soaks my back and hair. Streaming down my face, my eyesight fogs. 

Under my palms, the grass is soiled. As I get up, I struggle wiping the water from my vision. Mud forms and I slip, but I manage to stand. 

The current screams up ahead. Harshly, miniature waves overlap the matted edges as the rain slowly, but progressively, floods the valley. 

The strife in the sky only intensifies the warfare below. Sword thrashes and clanks are more defined. Blows and stabs are deeper and relishing. 

Some are lucky enough to miss a fatal hit when they slip on the dewy surface. Some use the storm to aim lower and mount their adversary. 

One roar is heard over the powerful volley. Instinctively, I clutch the gilded horn around my neck. Without thinking, I run into the direction of the cry. 

It’s him. I know it. 

Gotta find him. Must help him, I think urgently. He’s going to die. I can’t lose him. 

Desperately, I sprint toward the northside as fast as I can. I grapple with the wet slopes until I come to this side of the river’s frame. 

Through the dense rainfall, there he is, sword-to-sword, with the leader of the enemy. Both without helmets, they meet each other’s maneuver. Each swing, as if anticipated on a deadly chess board, doesn’t seem to falter. Even each step they make back-and-forth on sodden grass and mud splash. It’s only a matter of time before Mother Nature decides who meets death.

His short, flaxen hair plasters against his forehead. His slim shoulder armor glistens as water streams down and further drenches the cloth from his chest to his long powerful legs. 

His teeth grind, holding the impact of the bronze against his. The enemy grunts mutely with frustration, seeing as the opponent has yet to be beaten.

The reaction of foes comes with a shove. 

The golden hilt slips from his fist. 

His heel sinks into the mud. 

The enemy spins for momentum to try and wipe his head off clean.

In two giant steps, I slide, bending my knee between them, to plunge the fallen sword just under rival ribs.  

From my own hilt, I draw the knife and impale a final blow to the gut. 

The dark figure falls. 

I pull the sword out of the deceased and turn to him.

He is nowhere in sight. 

The rain grows stronger and bolder on my shoulders. 

Rapid movement accelerates downhill. A body rolls with desperate hands trying to break the intended drop into the fierce water.  

To meet him at the river, I impulsively slide down just in time to grab his arm as he’s halfway in. My leg wraps around a sturdy willow trunk. 

Like oceanic waves, the current tumbles down just above our heads. My eyes are burning and I spit out water. He’s coughing as he struggles to hold onto me and the wet grass. 

My mouth opens with no sound. 

I plead mindfully, begging him to not let go. 

Just a little longer. I’ve got you, just trust me. 

He responds with his eyes, it’s going to take both of us. 

The sting in my eyes isn’t from the water. My grip is even tighter as I begin to shift my body closer to the tree. 

A jolt in my leg stops me. My head whips over to see an arrow staked in my thigh. The rain spreads the blood around the thin wood. A looming silhouette without a face darkens over the stain. I can’t see its face.

My only reaction is looking back to make sure he’s still holding on. 

I have two choices: let go and save myself, or hold on and we both die. 

His eyes say he accepts the first. With a glint of love?

Let go, Vivienne. Let go. 

I close my eyes in anguish. 

The first thing I see are the wooden panels of the floor. Instantly, I realize that I’m lying on the couch in my living room. My arm dangles off the cushion. The vast rhythm of my heart heightens as I try to move. In synchronicity, a ringing in my ear begins. 

Disorientation takes such a toll, that I reflexively jolt to the back of the couch to avoid falling off the edge. Half my body clutches to the suede and the blanket entangles around my legs. I cover my eyes with my jersey cotton-clad arm until the dizziness subsides. The strange sense of anxiety takes longer to slow down. 

Looking over at the television, CuriosityStream is still on. I grab my phone from the coffee table to see it’s almost nine thirty. 

Damn, I’ve been out for fourteen hours. 

Now that I think about it, I haven’t slept that long since before grad school. While briefly contemplating a short break in the summer, another text message from my mentor flares reminding me again of my tour at the House today. 

Tossing the blanket aside, I hop off the couch and shut the TV off. I toss the empty food bag in the trash and throw the ice pack in the freezer before heading upstairs. Since I’m awake rather earlier than usual on the weekends, I spend the next two hours at a glacial pace. 

I take a long hot shower, using some time to heat the still slightly, swollen bump above my neck. Then a little more to shave my legs. When trying to juggle a dissertation, part-time teaching undergrads, and practicing Jiu jitsu, regular grooming like shaving limbs no longer becomes a priority. Yoga pants and leggings make it easier.

After the shower, I rub cream in the dry and sensitive areas with a towel turban on my head. I plug in my laptop so that I can listen to The High Kings on Spotify. While they serenade me with “Ride On”, I choose some black compression leggings and my favorite long sleeve shirt, a navy tee that reads in white letters Birkbeck University of London dotted with a tiny crescent and the college’s coat of arms at its left. When I was nineteen, I studied abroad there for a fall and winter semester. It was a place where many firsts occurred, particularly the first, and the only place, I went overseas. 

In fact, it’s one of the few decisions in my life that was neither solicitous nor practical. It was just an opportunity to enjoy myself. 

When I view myself in the mirror, a tiny dose of nostalgia hits me as I flick a piece of lint off the sleeve. Again, time-off possibilities pop into my already jumbled mindset. 

Resolutely, I make a mental note to at least research some vacation ideas before I lose my sanity over this dissertation. 

Like most days, I don’t take much time with my thick, unruly hair. ‘Red is the Rose’ plays while I put the copper mass into a full french braid. The same mentality applies to my makeup. I put on the essentials to hide that I look as if I barely escaped death. 

I search for this one folk song that tells about a man seeing a beautiful woman in the distance. Before he can come near her, she vanishes like a ghost. While this Gaelic and English compilation harmonizes with a tormented violin and a low whistle, I like to pretend I’m her as I paint on some concealer and light foundation. As I play the song again, I relish how much I’d love to hear Darren Holden’s deep tenor voice in person. 

Once the last note of the low whistle plays, I slide into my worn leather riding boots. 

Before heading into the bathroom to brush my teeth, I grab my bag.

I’m out of the house with enough time to get a Starbucks. 

With a jolt of caffeine wrapped in mocha, another headache surfaces to compliment the side ache from my bruise. Turning into the museum’s driveway, I get a dose of drowsiness. Before I change my mind and go back to bed, I chug the rest of the coffee. 

The locked chirp goes off with a click of my key fob. 

I take a couple steps, but I stop. 

The parking lot is entirely vacant. Not a car in sight. 

I turn around to check the sign at the edge of the drive: The Mark Twain House & Museum Shop, 351 Farmington Avenue. 

My phone says it’s indeed Saturday. Then I unlock my phone to check Google. On Saturdays, the place is open from 9:30 to 5:30 p.m. It would say if it was closed for the day and if there was an hour change for holidays. 

Maybe there is another lot behind the ticket office. 

Up ahead by the stairs to the office is a sign. I can’t make it out so I jog over. The sign is nothing more than a standing blank entity. 

Minor anxiety starts to seep out. I shake it off with a deep breath.

The stone stairs lead to another building. More modernized, it’s probably the museum and gift shop. I step two at a time.  

Pulling on one handle of the two glass doors only proves they’re locked. I try its twin but yanking does nothing. The lights are on and the transparent displays of the gift shop are pristine. Yet not a soul in sight. 

I edge around the building to the pathway between the house and another Gothic-like structure. It must be the carriage house Reinhurst spoke of a while back. 

There has to be a custodian or a tour guide somewhere. When I get closer to the house, I realize there is no nervousness or hyper-awareness, considering this odd situation. Strangely, I feel indifferent.

To give myself some validation and relief, I cross over onto the lawn. Stretching my hand, I touch one of the wooden beams supporting the extended porch roof. 

Nothing. 

Every day, I’d drive past this place with a sense of someone watching me. Like the house itself was watching me, or even waiting for me. I exhale and bite the inside of my lip, forgetting the ridiculous notion of this place and retracing my steps. 

It must be a slow day, I rationalize. 

Following the gravel path, I walk under what presumably is where Twain’s carriage would rest waiting for departure. The lane is wide enough for my small Toyota. 

Along the lane is a semi-cul-de-sac enclosed from the elongated house to the carriage house to which I drift onto the grass.

In the midst of Fall, clusters of leaves have yet to fall. The ground is as green as the trees are maroon, gamboge, and gold. Each tree’s surfaced roots and trunks are dull in comparison. Their branches are almost non-existent due to the colossus of colors. 

The immense manor is an extension of the landscape. It fits perfectly. However, I don’t perceive it as the focal point of this estate attraction. The natural property overrides the grand platform so completely, that one can hardly see on the outside while desperately trying to look in. 

In my jacket pocket, I grasp my phone and remember that I should call Reinhurst about what’s happened.

Though it could be the autumn breeze, the hairs on my neck stand up. 

A lump seizes my throat.

Everyone is told to never ignore the senses. I didn’t believe in that notion until I began training with Tony and Jay. 

Though no sound is heard, I feel in the ground that someone’s nearby. The same detection of another being. It could be someone working here, but the vibes send a shiver from head to toe. 

Knowing to never panic in these situations, I act as if nothing’s amiss. Hopefully, I can reach somewhere safe or within sight of people to avoid the physical confrontation of protecting myself. Jiu jitsu is only for defending myself as a last resort. 

There’s a rhythmic thumping behind me. It’s close but far enough for me to walk quickly without suspicion. Curiosity overcomes caution as I wonder what is behind me. The rapid movement sounds almost like trotting. Or galloping. 

Then I think logically back in Twain’s time, horses were used for transportation. The museum could be using a horse-and-carriage bit for the tour. 

I twist around to something I’ve never seen before. 

Someone hooded in dark clothing is charging on a jet-black beast of a horse. Speedily coming closer, I make out the individual holding a long, thick sword. The person-in-question then turns it parallel with the horse’s back so that it’s pointing straight ahead. 

Straight at me.

Closer and closer, I know deep down this isn’t a joke. It isn’t a prank or a re-enactment. This apparition is real and is coming after me.

Run.

The soles of my boots thump against the ground. 

The parking lot is on the other side of the property.

I must get somewhere high enough. 

Hightailing, I breathe through my nose as I look around.

Not the porch roof. It’s too linear and no nooks or edges to hoist myself up. 

I surpass a small series of trees knowing they’ve no branches I could grab to lift my weight.  

Around the bend of the miniature hill is a magnanimous tree up ahead. With its base rooted like veins and the body like a series of muscles, its stock is strong enough. It has several thick branches I could reach. 

I don’t recall seeing it before, but I don’t question my luck. 

Like the savage on the horse behind me, I charge for the wide tree. 

There’s a root low enough to give me a boost. Once I step on it, I bounce my other foot against the aging bark to steady myself while clutching one of the wiry branches. 

Like rock climbing, I swing my body to reach a shorter branch and pull myself up. My feet manage to land on the middle ground of the tree. Holding on to one of its long necks, I wait for him to startle the tree like a ram with its horns. 

My eyes are shut as tight as my grip. 

The pounding hooves and harsh breathing of the horse are getting closer. 

Faster. 

Louder. 

The horse’s shriek bellows down below. 

Then silence follows.

A few seconds pass. One eye peeks down the tree. Nothing but grass and some damp leaves. 

Leaning on another branch, I check the other side. They are nowhere in sight. 

It’s as if they just vanished. 

If they gave up, I would have heard them turn back or make some sort of ruckus. 

The lactic acid builds up as the adrenaline comes down. I rub my sternum and try to steady my heart. I dare not ask myself who the hell that was or what just happened. It was too real to be anything but unreal. It must be another dream. People can realize they’re dreaming when in a dream, right?

If that’s true then why are my hands shaking? Like aftershocks of escaping death? It sure as hell feels like that. Even in my past encounters, I’ve never reacted this way. Never questioned my sanity or my senses until now.

Observing my surroundings from my position, I try to figure out how to safely get down without the chance of encountering who or whatever that was again. I’m a good eight feet above the ground. If the house was close enough, I could get into the second floor through one of the windows. 

My foot plants on a crooked edge, only to slip and reflexively clutch the branch in front of me. 

Snap. 

The trunk timbers down, taking me with it. 

I slide off as my grip fails. 

Please let this be a dream. 

Everything goes black before I hit the ground.

___________________________________________________________________

Chapter Two

Know Your Latin

Something digs into my side. I roll over and I’m face down in the cool grass. 

Patting dirt and something wooden, I’ve landed on an outer root. 

I groan. Now my head bump is really throbbing. 

Instantly, I remember the broken branch and my fall that followed. As gingerly as possible, I lift myself to my knees. I squint up at the tree that saved my ass then dropped it. 

Flecks of sunlight peek through its thick, rigid elbows. A strong breeze has the collection of beams dancing on the decapitated branchlet next to me. 

I dust my hands off on my leggings while adjusting my eyes to the daylight glare. 

The landscape itself enhances with brighter hues of green in the meadow and shades of gray in the stone road.  

I brush the loose hairs away from my face and blink several times. 

With a sliver of panic, I jerk up to stand. The head rush doesn’t deter the thoughts racing through my mind.

The house is nowhere in sight. Not even the parking lot.

Nothing but a flat expansion of greenland with a forest frame. A few feet away lies a long road, made of flattened stone and clay, that molds to the downhill grain of the ground. I walk to the narrow road and tap its edge just so I didn’t have to tell myself it wasn’t there before.  

A jolt in my chest, and I think, where’s my bag?

I pat my pocket. Where’s my phone? 

Before I get a chance to search the ground, I hear rapid movement a short distance away. 

Someone’s on foot. 

The running is coming from the bend in the road. 

It’s getting closer. Or I should say he.

He’s hightailing in my direction without falter. Then he looks behind like someone’s on his trail. The man is completely unaware of my presence that before I react to jump out of the way, he collides into me. I’m inherently thrown back down onto the grass.

I hit my head against an ingrained tree limb. Choking on gravity, I shake off the identical burst of pain in my skull. 

And the flash of Derek Green on top of me. 

The impulse to fight back stops when I focus up at the bearded, sunburned face. 

I blink a couple times, frowning against the damned sun. Its rays create a halo over him, causing his face to be a silhouette. I watch his head still for a brief second then it nods firmly.

The next thing I know, as quickly as he toppled us both to the ground, he’s right back on his feet hauling me up too.   

Clad in dark layers, wrapped tight by a leather belt, this man tugs out his sword from the hilt and tosses it to me. I barely catch its handle. Lifting his arm over his head, he pulls another sword from the scabbard strapped to his back. 

The weapon in my hand feels as heavy as it looks real. And sharp. What does he expect me to do with this? 

He answers my irked stutter with what sounds like a different language. 

Almost sounds like some sort of…Latin? Who uses Latin in conversation? Maybe it’s code for something. 

“Quid…dicis.” Wrapping my head around Latin I used to study excessively in undergrad, I ask him to repeat what he said. 

This time I believe he orders me to get ready. To what? Fight? 

My question of fighting who is answered with a distant heap of galloping and marbled shouts. 

“No.” Forget Latin. The conviction is there and this rough, dirty stranger of a giant understands. Instincts are powerful senses and mine tell me again that I must react without violence. The echoes of man are getting closer and the only way to outrun them is to not run at all. 

But go up. Yet again.

Since there is no time to explain, I shake my head vigorously and lamely throw the sword back at him. 

Perplexed, he catches it with an unflinching snatch and watches me point to go up the leaf-drenched tree. 

Without a confirmed response from him, I give myself a head start from the opposing side of the stone road and climb up without fail. 

Hoisting myself up, however, brings a twist of pain in my posterior ribs from my previous fall. I have to bracket my weight between the massive tree arms as I look down. 

The man has to embrace the tree’s body to see me through the curtain of leaves. He appears aghast. 

“Come on, get up here,” I urge hushly with a scooping wave of my hand. I know I’m not speaking in Latin code but I think he gets the idea. 

Horse hooves pound the road as hard and fast as the heart in my chest. 

If this is a dream, I know I’m not waking up any time soon. 

I gesture more frantically as he quickly overlooks the road. With next-to-no verbal confrontation, he and I both know he has two choices: he could take a chance and hide in the tree with me, or he can run himself ragged until eventually whoever is chasing him catches up and does God-knows-what. 

I don’t know why I’m thinking this way and how I know this, but I just feel it. 

Again, in the ground and in the tree, I sense the incoming danger and I can’t help but react as if all this is real. 

Everything happening now has to be real. 

And I have to act fast. So does he.

Clearly, this is the last thing he had in mind. But from what I’ve seen on the ground and up here, there isn’t much else to do except let the enemy get past you without detection. 

Whether or not he comprehends, he does the same as I by getting a running start and leaps to grab the large branch to hike himself up. 

Whatever the day or time it may be, it’s obviously Autumn and the tree is camouflaged heavily with leaves. Instantly, the runaway man and I have an advantage of hiding in plain sight. 

I offer a hand to pull him in. He takes it and I grip his forearm to haul some of his weight in.                                          

The tree brackets us in like a birdcage with a blanket covering us. I lean against one of the branches to give what little space available for him. 

Once situated, he supports himself on one of the wooden necks. 

I squint below and see a flash of legs galloping in sync. 

A rough, ashy hand covers my mouth and an arm pulls my body back. 

I’m restricted against his large stature but I had a little room to get free. Not that I’d want to, from the sounds of marching continuing. 

Within seconds, the stampede of horses subsides. 

Yet scattered clicks of broncos remain. Their pace eases as I hear them graze the road, cutting around us. 

It seems like an eternity until all that’s heard is the leaves rattling from the wind. My stranger exhales as his hand loosens around my mouth. 

Snap. 

I grip the fabric at his side as his arm keeps mine at my sides. 

His hand holding my elbow reacts in kind. 

I could only swallow as I glance up at him mutely. In his alert eyes, I know he senses it too.

Someone is here. Or rather they decided to stay behind. 

More specifically, behind the tree we are hiding in. 

Whoever it is, they aren’t in front of me below. The unexplained sensation of another presence lingers. And wherever I am, this isn’t a time to be brave and take a chance like he who holds me close. 

This is a time to be still and soundless as the dead. Otherwise, we’ll meet them soon enough by the devil below. 

My nasal breathing is so cautious to where he shifts his paw to rest around my throat. 

I lick my dry lips. 

A kick against bark comes out of nowhere. 

My stomach jolts against the sound and his fingers flex against my skin. 

Soon the blow at the base turns repetitive that I assume the individual in question must be dusting off his shoes. 

Silently, I tilt my head towards the gruff noise. I see the dark hairline of a broad man with his hands on his hips. He’s looking down at his worn boots as he observes the residue under his heel. 

If it wasn’t for his movement, his clothes could easily have camouflaged him. 

Except there was a distinctive tattoo of lines intersecting across his outer bicep. Each thick, black definitive stroke of the symmetrical web is emphasized as the muscles contract. 

Then the arm, and the man attached, silently vanish out of sight. 

I give it at least a minute before making a sliver of movement.

After counting to twenty, I try easing out of the constricted embrace to end with failure.

I jerk my shoulder to wake him out of his survivor state.

Still nothing. The grip neither tightens nor lessens.

Ten.

My back begins to tense up and restlessness crawls down as goosebumps.

They create fists.

I know the man below is far enough to which there’s no longer another being.

Just as I’m about to twist and elbow him in the ribs, he releases me. Like a door suddenly opening, I’m free yet I have to catch myself after gravity strikes down the resistance from the lock.

A heavy breath gusts out of my chest. 

Finally, I can take a moment to collect myself before I start to grasp the situation.

For a moment, I am able to access the man who literally ran into me.

He’s tall enough to which I crank my chin to the fullest extension my neck would allow. His thoroughbred hair is streaked with sunshine, but it isn’t dyed, and long enough to rest on his wide meaty shoulders. While he cocks his head to get a glimpse of the ground, a frown pronounces his already broad forehead and straight nose. 

Strangely, he reminds me of my friend, Shaun, only this one could use a shower. 

And from the slight gaunt disposition around his eyes, some food and a good night’s sleep too.

I ask who those men were. 

He shakes his head in confusion. So, I try again. 

“Quis…sunt?” I regurgitate the basics of the dead language from the back of my memory. 

Alert, I have his full attention, but he hesitates to speak. 

Instead, he jumps the eight-foot drop, landing on his hunches with his hands to steady himself. 

With less finesse, I climb down cautiously to avoid yet another fall. 

Facing him on the safe ground, I ask again. Then I demand, “Who are you?” since he clearly won’t respond in English. 

He’s assessing our surroundings almost as if he’s refusing to answer me. 

“Quaeso,” I plead simply. Please.

The man closes the distance between us to step toe-to-toe. 

I maintain eye contact, unafraid. 

“Sone,” he says. 

I frown. “What?” 

“My name is Sone.” The Latin is coming back to me in clearer spurts. 

“Sawn? That’s really your name?” That can’t be right. It must be an alias since he won’t speak a word to me in the world’s dominant language.

“Yes. It is.” He shows little response and says nothing further. 

I let out a deep breath. 

Content with that for now, I place a hand on my hip and introduce myself. 

“Vivienne.” I stick my hand out intending for him to shake it. 

Instead, he looks down blankly at it then clasps the indent of my elbow. This touch creates a link of our extremities, nesting them together, almost like a sign—a chain—of mutual respect. Something more final than any handshake. I complete it by holding his arm end as well. 

For a couple seconds, I stare at our flesh chain. 

The more I hold on to him, the more it feels as familiar as is customary. 

We release each other. 

The short silence is broken when Sone speaks first. 

“I must thank you for saving my life.” His accent is thick, emphasizing his vowels.

“It was nothing. I simply told you to climb a tree.”

He replies with a humorous smile. “It was something I didn’t intend to do as a last resort.”

Then I remember the weapon he tossed at me only moments ago. “I’ve never used a sword before.” I hesitate, reverting back again to some of my Latin lessons. “I…I never use weapons when I fight. Well, when I practice fighting.”

Sone nods, then he gazes in the distant landscape of green, yellow, orange, and blue. 

I ask the other burning question he has yet to answer: “Who were they?”

“Saxonum,” he answers, then steps back before facing me again. 

Saxons? What is this, the Middle Ages? “Saxons?” I echo doubtfully. 

“They massacred my men during an extended patrol of the territory lines. None of them managed to get away as I and a few others were on horseback. I was forced to flee when they threw me off my horse and I’ve been sending them in circles as I try to get back–”

I halt his story by waving my hands mildly at him. “Whoa, slow down. My Latin is a little rusty. It’s been a couple years since I spoke the language.” 

I know my words were said in broken pieces but his expression shows he got the general picture. 

Sone urges me to walk in the thicker edges of the forest as he generalizes his situation again to me in plainer terms: on a simple patrol scan of the eastern corner, his men were ambushed by these “Saxons” who have been pushing his territory lines. They crossed their path by surprise and slaughtered next-to-all his men that he had to run. And has essentially been running for days trying to derail them. Yet just as he starts to take the path back to camp, wherever that may be, these barbari he calls them, manage to track his moves. Today’s encounter with me was the first he was actually able to out-maneuver them. 

Just as I begin to configure this whole fox chase of his, I inquire, “So if you have been running all over the land, how do you know where your camp is? How do you know where you are to get back?”

He narrows his eyes at me. “As I suspected, you’re neither Saxon nor Briton.”

I open my mouth but I recant to respond. Is he serious? He sure looks sincere and confident. There isn’t any delusion or a mentally unstable look in his eye. If he’s playing a part, he’s strikingly convincing enough to the point where it scares me a little. 

Not of him. But of where I am and what is occurring in wherever this neck of the woods may be. 

I need to figure out my next move. And from the looks of it, Sone is my only hope of what that next step may be. I have to work with him, even play along, until I have a good sense of what this world is coming to. And how to escape it. 

The notion of this as a dream is long gone.   

“What, what do you think I am, then?” I ask carefully.

“Gaulish. You must be a Gaul.” Gallia?

“What makes you think that?” I counter back.

The towering man points a long finger at my shoulder. 

Confused, I touch the slope between my neck and where my thick braid rests. 

“Your hair. It’s common amongst Gauls,” he explains, then observes, “though I see no markings on you.” 

Tattoos? Why would I–must be some kind of identification like that Saxon had on his arm. I mean, I do have the one, but he clearly can’t see it.

“I just haven’t considered any more yet.” Which is technically true. 

Sone lifts an eyebrow. Then he flicks a glance at another piece of road some distance away. 

His stride is more defining as if to get ahead. But instead, he stands in front of me, bringing me to a halt from the direction intended. 

Sone folds his massive arms across his chest. 

“Who are your tribe? Where are you from?” he interrogates. But he sounds more concerned than suspicious.

I’m not frightened of him. The vibe isn’t there. Nevertheless, I gulp at the blunt questioning. 

Meekly, I answer, “I don’t know.” Then I amend, “I can’t remember. I fell hard out of that tree. Before you ran into me.”

His stony expression merges to a brow furrowing with perplexity. His arms disband to his sides. 

At least, he believes me on that, I confirm with relief. Almost like a signal, the bump above my neck itches. Gently, I rub it away. 

“So, you are alone? On your own?” 

“Looks like it,” I quip at him. Discomfort worms its way through my body, unsure of how to handle the outright solicitude on this stranger’s face. 

“Then you’ll have to come with me. To Cadabyrig. For your safety. And mine,” he finishes, sounding like a confession. 

“What do you mean?” 

“You said you fight. Yet you urged me into that tree instead,” Sone begins, but I cut him off.

“Only because men on horses against you and I aren’t great odds. It’s common sense.” He gives me a conflicted look, so I assume he isn’t comprehending. “Uh, it’s a matter of good strategy. Better to hide than to have it out with men who outnumber you. The last few days would have been all for nothing. For you.”

My slight outburst surprises him, however, I’m not deterred. “Sometimes it is better to outsmart the enemy without force and violence. There’s always another time for that.” My voice winds down as I finish my small lecture. 

His silence lengthens to where I question my Latin. Whether I even used it just now. 

Nevertheless, I verify with him, “Do you understand what I mean?”

Instead, Sone states firmly, “You’re coming with me. Riothamus will need to meet you.” 

___________________________________________________________________

Chapter Three

Be Aware of Your Surroundings

Who? 

Out of all the other questions hammering between my brows, that’s the only one that has my attention. 

No longer do I have clarity of his eyes. The focus on his face becomes blurry.

The wind brushing my cheek is all but faint. 

The ground beneath me is soft yet slanted. 

The air in my lungs can’t reach my diaphragm. 

The last shred of denial is shriveling.

There are more of him? I don’t know how much more of this I can take.

I don’t know what to say. 

To organize my thoughts and questions would involve logic and rationalizing my surroundings. Everything appears, feels, and smells real. Yet I know deep inside I’m not supposed to be here. 

But here I am, I acknowledge weakly. Stuck in this spot with an otherworldly man in front of me.   

“Vivienne.”

Sone’s voice snaps me out of my daze. 

“Come with me. Riothamus can help you.” He makes a move to lead but looks back to see that I’m not following. 

“What day is it?” I ask wearily.

Sone says nothing. 

“Please, Sone. I’m not going anywhere with you…until you tell me what is going on.” I sound incredibly calm even though my heart is beating rapidly, ready to burst out of my chest. “Who are you, really? Who is Riothamus? Where are we? What is this place?” The questions pour through my lips, giving me hope that voicing my thoughts would ease the fear of reality.

This reality.

Sone replies with nothingness in his eyes as he walks leisurely back to the tree. He places a hand against its jagged bark. 

As if finding the answer within its wooden grids, he confirms, “It’s done something to you.”    

“Come again?”

Sone reverts his attention into my direction. “Though I be a Christian, in my land, I was also raised with stories of the old religion.” 

Antiquam religionem? Pagan. Great. More to wrap around my rattled, and potentially concussed, brain.

My fingers flex briefly into a fist, then relent as he continues. “Every living thing, anything that grows and dies has a spirit inside itself. You and I have the same force. The same life source as this tree. And this tree did this to you.” 

Or I had an accident that knocked me unconscious for God-knows-how long, I dismiss. 

Yet I recant my mild aggravation, thinking what other possible explanation could there be for me to be here and not on a tour through Twain’s townhouse. 

“Did what?” I inquire lamely.

“Seized your memories. Due to this fall, all you have now are your actions. And your thoughts. Until it decides when they can be returned to you.”

Only half-listening, I can’t shake my first question. “Sone, please, tell me what day it is,” I beseech. “I need to know.”

“Octobris. If my memory serves me well, I believe it’s the thirteenth,” he replies tentatively. That’s impossible. When I woke up this morning, it was October 26th.

“Are you sure?” Thirteen days behind. That can’t be right.

Sone then gives me a questioning look.

I shake my head, this time forgetting to use Latin, “Sone, is it really the thirteenth?”

Now his expression becomes more worrisome than confusing. 

A nerve strikes inside me. And a splinter of panic follows as I push, “Please, don’t you understand? That’s not possible. There must be some mistake. Some miscalculation. Something!” My bellowing words echo mildly in the open air. 

His eyes widen at the additional outburst. 

Instead of taking a step back, he carefully treads back to me as if to not frighten a skittish animal.

Like searching for an answer in the grass, my gaze scatters over the green. 

The final question, that confirms whatever clarity I have left of my surroundings, purges in puffs of erratic syllables. 

He stops in his steady tracks when I ask myself, “What year is it?” 

I give in to ignorance and ask again with resolution in our mutual tongue: “Sone, what year is it?”

He clears the remaining distance, standing so close that I see his pupils dilate. They show daring defiance as if I am about to challenge his answer. 

I hold my breath.

“Ab urbe condita anno viginti duodecim.” 

The repressed air leaves me. Some kind of twisted relief passes out of me now that I have an answer. Any answer, really.

“The year from the founded city is twelve twenty-two?” I confirm monotonously. 

Not only does he communicate in Latin but uses the former AUC calendar to keep track of time. History has taught me that that method changed to the Anno Domini dating system, in other words the AD, in the early sixth century.

The rule of thumb to translate to the Gregorian, or modern day, calendar is to subtract seven hundred and fifty-three. 

So if my calculations are correct, this year would be…469.

Oh god, as in the fifth century. 

“Yes. The year true under the Christian God.” 

The denial is gone as is the rationality of my surroundings, and yet my senses and consciousness stays intact. 

I’m not supposed to be here. Yet here I am.

I should be laughing, or screaming, in mild hysteria because I know he’s serious. Because this is a place and a time where I’m not internally prepared for. Because something has been misplaced. Maybe even manipulated. 

Never have I felt so aware of my existence. So alive in this reality.  

I need something else. Something that will concretely prove this isn’t some sick game of larping in which this Sone won’t break character. 

Something to validate my coherence. Something to confirm my instincts.

“True under the Christian God, huh?” I echo audibly. “Well, then.” 

“Vivienne, you need to come with me,” he persists. “T’is better we stay together and see what can be done. We’d both be safe.”

Safe? How can I be anymore in danger than I already am? I suppose that question is a bit redundant considering the series of events occurred. 

“You saved my life,” he begins, “and I want to repay you by giving you sanctuary. There you will be protected.”

“I don’t need protection. I need clarity,” I counter unsteadily. Then I simplify, “Answers. I need answers that I have to find for myself.” 

“I see. Well, while you seek for your answers, you can follow me to camp where we needn’t look over our shoulders,” he states declaratively without lacking dismissiveness. Sone walks past me and continues his intended trail. 

I trot to catch up. “And where exactly is this camp?”

“Cadabyrig.”

“Yes. I know that. But where is that?”

“Southwest. At least several hours. I can’t be sure as Saxons could turn up again.”

I huff out an agitated sigh. “No, Sone. Not the direction. But where is the camp itself? Where are we now?” I guess anger and frustration are great motivators for recalling proper translation. I’m just about ready to knock him upside the head.

“Well, Anglia, of course.” Sone stops and pivots to me. “You really don’t know what island this is? Surely, you see this isn’t Gaul. You would have to cross the waters to get back there.” 

My brain fogs over everything hearing the name of this place. “I’m sorry. Say that again,” I check for clarification. 

Anglia. Gaul. 

I know those places.

I read about them in the Matter of Britain. 

“Logres. The land we stand on is the island of Logres. Gaul is too far out. You’d have to go south till you reached the ocean. And then go across to reach the Gaulish shores.” He points in the direction we are heading. 

“Wait. Didn’t you say…you said Anglia first.”

Sone drops his extended arm. “No, I didn’t. To call this land that name is an offense to my fellow men. That’s a claim from those barbarii. Saxons, Anglii, they are all the same. Never associate my home with those savages again. Now, come.” 

Without another utterance, he continues on the path he began. 

Suddenly, all the fire inside me is snuffed out. Then something else causes a spark. 

Logres. Anglia. 

What the hell am I doing in England? 

England. During the Dark Ages. Under the Roman Empire.

************

We haven’t spoken for some time. It’s tough to figure out how long we’ve been walking. 

More like hiking. I must have been following Sone for at least two hours, considering my legs are a tad stiff. My feet are another story.

What time is it? I contemplate. The October sky is bright and clear so I’m assuming it’s early afternoon at the latest. 

Sone hasn’t faltered in any way. Though the road is no more than thirty yards away, he’s distanced us just enough to stay out of sight through this backwoods route. Not once have I seen him direct his head to the road. A road he’s probably taken countless times. 

His stride is consistent. His shoulders and hands are relaxed. 

I suppose his mind is a million miles away. Or focused on his task at hand.

What else can I say to him? Plenty. 

To myself? Only what I know before waking to all this. 

My name is Vivienne Llyn Rousseau. I’m twenty-seven years old. I was born on November 21st at Mass General in Boston. 

I have subtle red hair and blue eyes. My parents are Christopher and Kimberly Avalon. I, unfortunately, am an only-child. I had a black giant schnauzer named Bruin who slept at the end of my bed until he passed at twelve when I was a senior. My hobbies are writing, Jiu jitsu, and collecting knowledge, paperback or otherwise. 

My first friend was in pre-school named Abby Deeter. We were inseparable until the first day of high school when she acted as if we never met. She ignored me enough to which I gave up asking what I could have done wrong. To this day, I still have no inkling as to what deteriorated our friendship.

I have a tattoo of a small triskelion between the winged slopes of my ribs. A symbol of life, resilience, and to always listen to my gut. My instincts and intuition. 

Tattoo. I stop and quickly untie the belt used decoratively to secure my hooded trench coat. The buttons seem to ease open themselves as my fingers pull the sturdy fabric apart.  

I lift my shirt up to see the tattoo in bold black. 

As I rub the soft graffiti, more relief exhales out of me.

Having the reassurance that there’s more than just the clothes on my back connecting me to my life outside this…this place, this time, again proves I’m not supposed to be here. 

But I am. The whole of me is here. I have had physical contact with Sone. Clearly, I’m not imaginary nor is the man ahead of me.

Yet if my whole being is here in the fifth century of Dark Age England, what’s happening in the twenty-first? Has anyone noticed I’ve been missing? 

Then I overthink the worst: When I got hit by Derek in the head, did it create a domino effect to which I can’t wake up? That I might be in a coma or a dangerous state of unconsciousness? But why would my other body leave while its physical one is trying to heal from the possible trauma?

The bruising behind my ear remains tender when I graze its surface. 

Endless scenarios burst one after another into my mind that I shake them away and rush up to Sone out of mental necessity. 

The last thing I should do is cause distress in any way if my body is trying to heal in a dormant state. 

Once I catch up, I extend my stride to stay in sync. 

Sone jolts mildly at the sight of me walking alongside him. Then he smiles a little in relief. 

So I was right: he was far away in his own world. Slight discernment comes to me unexpectedly that I can’t help wanting to get to know him further.  

“What did you mean before? ‘My safety with you’. What did you mean by that?” I only ask to distract my anxiety through sheer curiosity. This world is a rural place, yet the unpredictability is somewhat exhilarating. 

A half-smile cracks his rough profile. Then he briefly nods his head like a restless horse. “Though I was raised with farmers, I trained to be a warrior. My mother believed if I worked all morning and the rest training till dusk, I would have more discipline. Be too occupied to get into trouble.” The curve of his mouth takes a nostalgic turn. “Even after the heavens welcomed her, I never outgrew my impulsive nature. Where there’s potential danger, my blood boils and my heart’s pounding.”

“You become…” What’s the word for excited? “Effervescent.” 

Our mutual expressions of understanding meet. 

“Yes.”

“I know. It’s…” I frown, thinking how to explain the feeling. “It’s a hunger that no food could fill.”

When he tilts his head in affirmation, Sone frowns down at me. Like I only state that to imply I know the feeling all too well. Maybe I did a long time ago, I reflect. 

He doesn’t ask though. 

And, honestly, I can’t recall the last time I felt so sensitized and alert. So invigorated. 

However, Sone says, “I act first, Vivienne. I believe thinking can create hesitation in battle.” Coming from the words of a typical man: he acts without thinking. 

I roll my eyes.  

“What do you think strategy is?” I retort. “What did you think climbing that tree was? It was an act based on quick thinking. You had time to figure out your next move. Instead, you ran and ran. And ran. For days. And what did that choice of action give you?”

He interrupts, “You.”

I open my mouth about to continue, then I stop. The slight agitation dissipates. I ease up on him. “I was going to say had you thought ahead, you could have gotten some rest and a good meal instead. You have shadows under your eyes.” I only say it like that because I can’t remember the translation for circles. 

“You’re right.” Sone ducks under a low branch limb in passing. I’d have to be a half-foot taller to follow his action. “I haven’t had much sleep. Food is hard to find when you’re the one being hunted. But I’ve managed.” His tone becomes declarative. “But now that you’re with me, I sense better fortune ahead.”

“How so?”

“Not only have you saved my own hide, but you have the strategy and the thinking I apparently lack.” He tosses a jesting smile over his shoulder. 

“Are you mocking me?” I throw a pointed look back.

“I am merely speaking of you as a protector. From others. And myself. To see beyond what is in front of me.”

I glide my tongue across my top teeth to hold back the scoff. Even in a time of uncertainty and anarchy, a woman is asked to be the security and keeper of confidence in the aggressive man. And asking a stranger, no less. My head is swelling from the irony. 

The disbelief is evident in my voice. “You mean I am your common sense? Someone who can help your self-control? That I can make you see reason.”

Even with the mild redness, I could see his ears blush at his admission. “Yes.”

Though I feel the urge to tease him, I spare him until another time. This is a fresh interaction where strangers cross the bridge to become acquaintances. Yet it’s as if we decide to take the plunge into the river beneath and ride the current.

The irrationality is anything but ambivalent. Yet the sentiment remains.

“How much further is your camp?”

Sone slows, then turns briefly to peruse my neutral cast. 

My eyebrows lift pointly. “Sone?” I tilt my head. “How much longer?”

He releases an affirmative breath. “Well, uh, let me see for sure.”

I retract my head. “Huh?”

Sone walks a few yards away. I follow some paces away then stop when he plants his feet in the middle of the sun’s wide overcast. It’s splayed across the grass like a spotlight. Squinting against the glare, he extends his right arm towards the sun with his palm facing him almost to block it. 

But he doesn’t deflect the light in his eyes. In fact, the shadow made by his hand only covers his nose and mouth. Then he uses his other hand to line up directly underneath. He has his left index and middle fingers positioned. Then he adds another. And another. 

Bewildered, I witness Sone measuring time with his hands. 

He drops his lengthened arms. Shifting his back to the sun, Sone appears to be taking a moment or two more to configure estimation. 

Sauntering over to me, he announces, “Less than three hours until sundown.”

“Okay,” I respond steadily. “Does that mean we will reach your camp before dark?”

“We should. Hopefully, without any delays or detours, that is.” 

“Saxons?” I confirm. Or whatever else is out here. 

He nods. “Amongst other beasts. Let’s go.”

I reluctantly gaze out at the landscape. Explicably incandescent yet heavily misleading. 

My boots bring me alongside Sone. 

I gulp down the uncertainty of danger. Jiu jitsu can make you fearless but it can’t make the fear completely disappear. I’m scared beyond belief and I don’t know what to do except follow a strange man to a place filled with more strangers just like him. 

But I suppose that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. He has been extremely kind and helpful as if I were his own flesh. 

Why would he do that? Just because I saved his life? Because I’m a woman? I could be like one of those Saxons and he wouldn’t know until it would be too late. I wouldn’t need a weapon to kill him if I had to. 

Please never let it come to that, I plead fearfully to myself. 

My eyes shift and my lip trembles. A warm hand rests between my shoulders. I react with start. 

Sone doesn’t look at me. “There’s no need to be frightened. We’ll take care of each other when we reach Cadabyrig. You will be protected, just as you have done for me.”

“You believe so highly of a stranger, Sone.” The weary skeptic inside me refuses to be silent. 

The comfort of his palm drops. “Vivienne, I thought you a spirit when I saw you. Instead, I stumbled upon a savior from God. You may think differently, but,” he pauses, then finishes firmly, “a stranger has more to lose on their own than with another person beside them.”

His credo humbles me. And for a moment, I feel a twinge of guilt. My mind has made me see this man as a dangerous curiosity, forcing me to overlook the heart and soul of this person. 

“Forgive me for what you see as ignorance, but you are no longer a stranger to me. Even if you are a stranger to yourself.” 

He’s right. I don’t have to trust him just yet, but we can still take the situation one step at a time together. 

“Okay. I understand. We were brought together to help each other.” The admission calms me. 

My answer appears to satiate him. 

Now that his emotional intensity has dialed down, I try to revert to lighter distraction. “Sone, you say I must be from Gaul. But where are you from?”

“I was born in the north, on the island of Mona, thirty-three summers ago. My mother said when I came into the world, her first act was placing me on the sand. To bless me with the land and sea.” 

“How long did you live there?”

Without delay, Sone picks up a long stick to fiddle with. He keeps his hands occupied while he speaks.

“Until my twentieth summer. My grandsires crossed the water from Hibernia for open land and farming. Mostly for protection. When the squabbles between their countrymen became too dangerous, they needed to leave. They hoped the land ruled by Romans would give them refuge. They did. But not for long. Most were on the mainland, you see. Then one day, the soldiers guarding the shore just left. Not much time passed before seamen from the motherland followed. My grandmother would tell me stories, to make me stronger. I was the first, you see, for my parents. Food and supplies would be taken and their survival began to be questioned. It frightened her for some time. Especially when she had her first child, my father.”

“So what did she and your family do? Obviously, you all survived.”

“Days became weeks to months. One pirata after another reigned over us. And then came Cunedda of the Gododdins, and his son, Einion. Word of tyranny went to their land. East Lothian of Caledonia. They came and got rid of them. Misfortune it was so, those tyrants weren’t the last. Still aren’t. But thanks be to God, Cunedda stayed. Since then, he and his family have ruled over my people fairly and well. Though we still wage against the Hibernians, even when I left, I still retrieve news that they are prosperous.”

“More from Hibernia are still invading?” 

“I’ve had more enemies and battles here in Logres than at home in Mona. But I have fought my fair share there. Against outsiders, vagabonds, and even traitors.” I can’t imagine a life like that. Always on your guard, wondering if someone will come in and take away your freedom. To take away a chance of living a life that was yours, even if it was a small, simple one.  

“How did they do it, your grandparents? Live in a new land with nothing?”

“They grew with the land. And their children. And I too. Once Cunedda came, we thrived. With lots of cattle, sheep, tin, and coal. And plenty of crops. Even with the harsh winter and ocean close by, we never went hungry. We were blessed.” With every sub-branch broken off the stick in his hands, Sone tosses it ahead nonchalantly.

“The new religion tells us, Vivienne, that doing good for our fellow man will bring peace and prosperity. Make men of all places equal. Strangers can begin friendships, and alliances, with one act of kindness.” He bobs his head into my direction, implicating a sudden point.

Then it hits me. “So, you’re saying we’re like this Cunedda and your people? Someone who comes out of nowhere and helps you out of sheer goodness? A mere stranger, who changes your life for the better, will become more?”

“If you choose to be more than a stranger. We could. And I believe you will. Because I intend to help you in any way I can.”

For someone from this rural and violent world, and a warrior no less, he sure looks for the best in everyone. So positive and forthcoming, I’m stunned at how much faith and optimism he has for humanity. And in me.

He’s a survivor. And a redeemable one at that, I think. An affectionate smirk forms at the idea. 

Then my mouth becomes a grin when my stomach growls. It’s mid-afternoon and, from the looks of it, I haven’t eaten all day. 

“Food will have to wait, unfortunately. But we can at least quench our thirst. Up ahead, there should be a stream.”

“How do you know that?”

“See those trees? Their branches make an arch above. I’ve crossed through that natural door, time and time again.” Two wooden giants, several feet apart, have a long, curved limb aligning opposite with one another. As we walk through, I sense another presence a little further. 

Sone is eerily quiet as he grips my arm. His steps are careful as he speaks with his eyes.

We aren’t alone. 

I answer mutely with a shift of my eyes. Where?

Sone gravitates toward the sounds of trickling water. 

Where he steps, I step.  

The glare of the sky brightens the forest floor. In turn, the stream is a dark contrast. 

A couple yards from the crystal water is a man. He resides on the dry dirt, facing a condensed pile of unlit logs. With one leg perched, his knee supports his elbow as he scrapes at a long, thick branch with a short sword. Similar in dress he may be to Sone, the only difference really is that he has brown hair and fair skin. From the side view, he appears like any average man.

However, judging by the guarded look on his face, Sone sees him as a threat. 

He retains focus on the man and orders me to stay where I am with a halting hand. 

I crouch down slowly, leaning against the thickening brush. 

Carefully setting aside sprucing branches, I observe Sone stealthily moving to the entrance of a grove. Unsure of his tactic, I stare at his suddenly still stance. 

For a moment, he does nothing but stand there until the wind picks up. The grove becomes harshly rattled to which Sone jumps into it almost like a big cat. 

No visible reaction returns in kind from the man. 

He remains in tune with his task, though he pauses for a moment to drag some thick, straight sticks nearer to his body. The loner stores the short bronze at his side hilt. 

Squinting over, I notice a thick, carved piece of wood snug under the man’s stretched leg.

His hand grips one of the sticks besides him. 

The tip of his index finger presses against the grid, closer to the sharp edge. Almost as if holding it like a pencil. 

His chin veers toward the grove. 

Or like a weapon.

He knows. 

“Sone!” 

My involuntary shout of warning brings his full visage into focus.

Above his right eyebrow, his brow bone is decorated with an arrow designed like the tracker’s arm tattoo. Straight, harsh, no nonsense. Quite to the point. 

It’s enough distraction for Sone to spring, from behind, onto the gruff man facedown. 

With his large frame mounting the stranger, Sone roughly pulls his head up by the hair and slices his throat in one swipe. 

Sone’s determined expression crumbles when he lets out a howl. He impales his unknown adversary in the back. 

The dying assailant struggles for air, his body squirming as he chokes on his spilling blood.  

A frightened gasp bursts out of me. I cover my mouth, shielding against the gruesome act. The shock keeps me from shaking. It gives me the strength to stand up from behind the bush and see Sone wipe the blood off the blade with the corpse’s clothing. 

The same short blade the corpse was using only moments ago. It’s missing from the hilt. 

Somehow in the scuffle, he had managed to grab it. 

The thought evaporates as I notice Sone still crouched over. His eyes and hand scan over the carved wood injected into his leg. 

Just below his knee, the long piece dips due to its counter weight. Slowly the grayish, coarse fabric spreads darker around the wound. 

“He stabbed you,” I state the obvious with a shallow breath.

“Not well enough,” he replied. “Still, it’s going to be hard to continue.” Sone then jerks the arrow out of his limb with a discomforting grunt. “Did you see his horse?”

My eyes widen at his casual manner. This occurrence must be another nuisance to him. “You killed him.”

“I had to. He was Saxon. See his eye?” 

“I did. But why kill him? Why not just knock him out?”

“Because he was hunting us. Like the other one who stayed behind. He was waiting for me. For us.” Though distracted, he speaks with resolution.

Sone rips the cloth of his pants to observe the damage. Indeed, there is some broken skin. A hole that has red gradually dripping down his shin. Without a second thought, he tears some cloth off the dead man’s sleeve and uses it to wipe away what he could. Then he yanks another piece to wrap tightly around his punctured flesh. 

“Vivienne, did you see the horse?” Right, he asked that already. Gently, he bends over to stuff the soaked material under the body. And out of sight, it looks like.   

“Uh, no. How do you know he has one?” Anxiously, I eye Sone’s every move. 

“He isn’t a foot soldier. He is a Saxon archer.” He secures his bandaging. Before reaching his full height, he jerks out a smooth wooden bow from under the lifeless man. He steps forward on his good foot, then tentatively alters his weight on the injured leg. 

With no sound, he winces. 

I flinch at his awkward gait. 

Catching my movement, his stony eyes soften. “I’ve frightened you.”

“Just a bit.” I swallow. 

“If I had told you what I intended to do, you might have changed my mind.”

“For good reason.”

“Vivienne, this man wouldn’t hesitate to do what I did to him. It had to be done. Sometimes, it’s better to end a life to survive.”

Kill or be killed. 

“I didn’t lie when I said we can protect each other. Because I believe it.” I stay put this time as he hobbles over to me, bow in hand. “You warned me.”

“I couldn’t help it.” 

“And for that, I’m grateful. Now I need you to help me walk to the horse. It’s grazing not far from here.” 

Sone drapes his arm over my shoulders. Automatically, I wrap mine around his waist to support some of his weight.

Slowly but surely, he guides us to the grass adjacent to the stream. He points out an average, but sturdy, brown stallion munching on the foliage. Thin straps wrap around the horse’s lengthened muzzle while a simple blanket and seat pose as a saddle. 

Within a few minutes, we reach the horse. 

Chewing on green, the animal’s head rises to take a look. It stares for a brief second then goes back to his business like an echo of its former master. 

Sone untangles himself from me to hop near it. He hands the rosy wood recurve bow to me. It’s lighter than I thought it would be. Compact but well-made. The bowstring is malleable but retains its original position as I tug it back. Controlling the grip with my left eye shut, its nocking point rests in the exact alignment with the sight window. 

Whoa, since when I do I know anything about archery? I retract the weapon and blink my eyes. 

“Vivienne,” he murmurs. Sone blindly urges one of my hands onto the horse’s strong shoulder. 

Carefully, he places one of his on its neck. The beast reacts against both touches by simply lifting its head again. It titters its hooves for a moment before easing into mostly Sone’s contact. 

Like calming a child, he speaks with a hushed tone. I can’t hear what he’s saying but I know it’s not Latin. Most likely his native tongue? Mona, he said? And it’s up north so it has to be Welsh or some variation. 

It sounds beautiful. Maybe he could teach me some, sometime, I contemplate dreamily.

Wait, what? No, forget that. I need to figure out how to wake up, or get out of here, or something. I can’t afford to get attached here. I don’t belong here. 

I’m not supposed to be here. 

I toss my discerning thoughts away, as I see Sone cup a hand under its big, rolling lips. 

“So, what do we do with him?” I ask, unsure what to do next.

“Ride him, of course. I just had to ask permission first. He is another man’s horse, after all.” 

“That’s what you were doing? Getting its approval?” I don’t know much about horses but it can’t be this simple. A whole new breed of companion. 

“Yes. Horses are extraordinary creatures. Their souls are gentle and eager of service. You just have to be patient with them. Haven’t you been around horses before?”

“Not that I can remember.” I’ve never ridden a horse in my life. And if I ever did here in 469, I sure as hell wouldn’t know. 

“Let’s hope it will come back to you. I’m going to need your help to get on the beast.”

“Where’s the stirrup?” There wasn’t a step to connect the saddle. As there is barely anything other than a strap, as thin as the bridle, to hold the seat in place, you might as well go bareback. 

“You know, the loops, or straps, to lift yourself onto the horse,” I elaborate, when he doesn’t answer. 

He sighs while padding down its barrel-shaped ribs. 

“Sone?” 

“This sella is neither Saxon or Briton. This design is of foreign origin. He must have taken it in passing.” His hand burrows between the seat and covering like he’s searching for something. And he does. “Which must be why he didn’t bother to strap it on properly.” Sone drags a leather loop attached to the underbelly of the saddle. 

He beams with satisfaction. “Now hold onto the horn right here and put your foot in the strap.”

“What?” 

“For me to get on, I need you to be on first. So you can pull me up as I lift my leg over.” 

I switch my attention from the saddle to Sone. “You can’t be serious.”

Sone raises his brow at me. The horse sniffs and works its jaw almost as if chewing on air. Mildly, it glances at me with tilted ears like it’s telling me it couldn’t care any less. 

Still, I’m a little nervous.

“Are you afraid of him?” His question draws my eyes back to him.

“How can I be afraid of something I’ve never been around?” I counter. My voice lowers. “I’m a little uneasy. That’s all.” Then I protest, “What if he pushes me off?”

“He won’t. Trust me, just get on, Vivienne.”

About to flick one final look, Sone orders, “Don’t look at him, Vivienne. Just get on the horse. You will be safe.” I slide my arm and head through the space between the bowstring and the arrow rest. The elastic-like string molds with my shoulder.

Without further hesitation, I grip each end of the seat and slip my right foot through the loophole. As I give a good jump, Sone assists lifting my lower body over the curved back. 

I’m on, being a good five or so feet off the ground. The stallion takes a couple steps, getting accustomed to my weight. Leaning forward, I grasp the horn in front of me.

I dip my head to see Sone smile up at me. “He likes you.”

“How can you tell?”

“He hasn’t thrown you off his back yet,” he states, throwing my worry back at me. “Here, hold the reins.” 

I try to laugh. Carefully, Sone sets the long leather band over the horse’s head to rest on the groove between its neck and spine.

“Now, hold on to the horn and take my hand. Hold tight and I’ll do the rest.” 

I do as instructed and, in one swift move, he’s sitting behind me. But I hear the hiss of pain. 

I look over my shoulder. “You all right?”

“Yes. Just my leg. Forgot about it for a moment, then I bumped it.” 

“You sure?”

“Vivienne, the pain will ease. But we need to go. Hand me the reins.” I don’t argue. His arms slide under mine to handle them.

For a distance, Sone keeps the horse at a brisk walk so I can get used to the vibrations of its steps. Trying to keep my balance, my thighs stay clenched to its body.

“Are you well?”

“Fine. You? How’s your leg?” Rolling my shoulders, some of my tension leaves.

“As long as we keep a steady pace, the pain is bearable.” 

“Does it feel heavy?”

“A little. But the bleeding stopped.”

“You’ll have to clean it and put on a fresh bandage.”

“As is expected. We have a few great healers in Cadabyrig.” I hear the affection in his voice.

I perk up. “What?”

“You speak like a caring sister. Are you worried for me, Vivienne?”

“Of course, I am. You were stabbed after escaping death. You’re lucky it’s only a flesh wound. But a wound, nonetheless. I don’t want it to get worse and have you lose that leg.” There I go again with the lecturing tone. He’s learning fast how to push my buttons. 

At least most of my Latin has returned to memory. Not sure if that’s a good sign.

“Well, we can’t have that, can we?” 

 Holding in my audacious laugh, I swing my jaw to the side. 

“Now, shall we ride? It won’t be long before we view camp.”

************

While my legs and feet are no longer sore, my ass is another story. If we don’t reach this Cadabyrig soon, Saxons be damned, I’m walking the rest of the way. 

Like on a boat, I go with the flow of the powerful live transportation under me.  

I swear the closer Sone says we are, the steeper each hill gets. We’ve hiked five already, and I had to lean with the horse to avoid pressing against Sone and accidentally pushing him off. This whole time he’s had to sit on its flank no matter how much I scooch up, inching the seat with me. 

“Just up this hill now.” We are coming towards the base of a real doozy. It has to be at least two hundred feet above sea level. 

“You said that about the last hill.”

“I was misguided. I promise, you’ll see it in all its glory.” 

I sure hope so. The sun is beginning to go down, trailing behind us. 

The lay of the land is a shaded sea of green and orange. The trees darken into sharpened shadows as the swirl of colors merge in the sky. It is quite spectacular to witness such an organic phenomenon. No city lights or the glare of metal rolling down on man-made paths to bring back the harsh reminders of reality.

The moment of serenity with nature deflects when we reach the top of the hill. 

Down and far, a condensed entrance gate lies at the base. Flickers of light are evenly spaced in three circular rows. Torches. 

Somehow, a river brackets around the entire base aligning with the lowest row. Wait, no, they’re walls. Tall ones too. And ditches.

Smoke filters above within the highest wall. Fire pits. 

This high camp wall borders a series of long wooden buildings and rows–sections–of houses surrounding them. 

Even from this distance, I make out lots of activity. Lots of people.

This isn’t a camp.

It’s a fortress.

To continue reading, click here.

Available on Amazon and Kindle Unlimited.