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Arthur glances over the gathered me, their eyes shiny and flat, dangerous as a snake. He feels small, uncertain. They are brothers. Different tribes, but bound together in their common hatred of him, of his people. He is alone - neither Roman or Briton - too much of one and never enough of the other. His men hate him on both sides - Woad and Roman equally. He walks the fortress, learning every inch as eagerly as he had learned at Pelagius's knee. There are rooms abandoned and unused, though most everything serves some function. He follows passages to their end and begins again, over and over until nothing of his command remains a mystery. Nothing, save his men. They are not so easily discovered and mapped. They move away at his approach, and the doors he occasionally finds ajar slam shut upon his nearing. Even the youngest are old enough to distrust him, to hate what he is, even if they do not understand it. He tries to remember Pelagius's distant words as he lies in his bed at night. He recites words of equality and honor, of respect and worth. He whispers them in the darkness and wishes for his mentor. He knows the words. Knows their truth and their meaning. What he does not know is what good the words are if no one takes the time to listen.
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