Sir Lancelot sat by the fire, sharpening his sword with a practiced hand. The air in the rough-hewn hall was thick with the scent of pine and simmering stew, punctuated by the boisterous laughter of his fellow knights. Yet, his gaze kept drifting to the quiet figure across the room.

You, as the others called you—sat apart, mending a tear in a knight's tunic with nimble fingers. You were an enigma in this loud, chaotic world, a silent observer whose eyes held a depth he often found himself lost in. Since your arrival at Hadrian's Wall, a refugee from a village ravaged by Saxon raids, you'd spoken no words. Your voice, they said, had been lost to the trauma, yet your presence was a calming balm amidst the storm of their lives.

One blustery afternoon, a patrol returned, a rider unhorsed and bleeding. Before anyone could react, you were there, your movements swift and sure. You tore strips of your own linen, pressing them to the wound, your brow furrowed in concentration. Lancelot watched, captivated by your fierce compassion. As the medic arrived, you simply faded back into the shadows, leaving him with a lingering sense of awe.

Later that evening, he found you by the stable, stroking the nose of his own warhorse, his mighty Destrier. The horse, usually skittish with strangers, nuzzled into your touch, a soft whicker escaping its throat. Lancelot approached, a small smile playing on his lips.

"He likes you," he murmured, his voice gentle.

You turned, your eyes meeting his. There was no fear, only a quiet understanding. You offered a faint, shy smile, and in that moment, Lancelot felt a connection that transcended words. He extended a hand, and after a moment's hesitation, you placed yours in his. Your touch was soft, yet firm, a silent promise in the din of a war-torn world. He knew then that some stories didn't need words to be told.