Two years passed with remarkable swiftness. At eighteen, Art had grown into her role as High Commander with impressive capability, consolidating authority while carefully respecting traditional power structures. Her reputation spread beyond Britain's shores, with emissaries from Frankish and Norse territories seeking audience to assess this unusual leader.
Bobby observed her evolution with scientific detachment overlaid with something approaching pride. Art had developed her own distinctive leadership style—firm but fair, innovative without recklessness, confident without arrogance. She balanced traditional military challenges against diplomatic complexities with increasing sophistication.
Their headquarters had evolved into a proper command center, occupying a restored Roman fortress strategically positioned near the center of British territories. From this location, Art coordinated defense against continuing Saxon incursions while mediating disputes between regional lords and establishing consistent jurisprudence across previously fragmented territories.
Bobby's role had evolved as well. While still serving as principal advisor, he increasingly found Art developing solutions independently, sometimes surprising him with approaches he hadn't considered. Their relationship had matured from teacher-student to something closer to collaborative partners, though Art continued to show appropriate deference to his experience.
On a crisp autumn morning, Bobby found Art in the fortress courtyard, supervising as a craftsman made final adjustments to Caliburn's scabbard. The original sword had undergone subtle enhancements over the years, with Bobby gradually incorporating advanced metallurgical principles to improve its balance, durability, and cutting edge without altering its external appearance.
"The repairs are acceptable?" Bobby inquired, noting the decorative elements that had been added to the previously plain scabbard.
Art nodded. "Functional improvements with appropriate symbolism. The religious imagery satisfies Bishop Aldwin while the older patterns acknowledge traditional beliefs."
Bobby noted this diplomatic balancing with approval. Art had learned to navigate competing religious sensibilities with remarkable dexterity, showing respect for Christian authorities while maintaining connections to older traditions that remained significant in many regions.
"The Norse emissaries depart today?" he asked, changing subjects.
"By midday," Art confirmed. "They came expecting a curiosity—a girl commanding warriors. They leave with proper respect, I believe."
"Undoubtedly," Bobby agreed. The Norse representatives had initially shown barely concealed skepticism, only to be impressed by Art's demonstrated knowledge of warfare, governance, and even their own cultural traditions—information Bobby had provided during their preparations.
As they walked along the fortress walls, reviewing defensive improvements, a messenger approached at urgent pace.
"High Commander," the young man said, offering quick salute. "Lord Bors requests immediate assembly of the Council. Saxon forces have landed in unprecedented numbers along the eastern coast."
Art's expression remained composed despite the potentially devastating news. "How reliable is this information?"
"Multiple independent reports confirm, Commander. Lord Vortigern's coastal fortresses have already fallen. Survivors speak of hundreds of ships and thousands of warriors."
Art nodded grimly. "Prepare the command chamber. Dispatch riders to all Council lords with orders to mobilize regional forces. Send scouts eastward to verify exact positions and numbers."
As the messenger hurried to comply, Art turned to Bobby.
"This isn't a raiding party or settlement expansion. This scale suggests conquest attempt," Art said, her expression darkening as she gazed eastward.
Bobby nodded grimly. "A coordinated invasion. The ships likely launched simultaneously from multiple points along the Saxon shore."
Art's fingers tightened on Caliburn's hilt. "They must have been planning this for months. The question is whether they coordinated with internal allies."
"Lord Vortigern's territories fell suspiciously quickly," Bobby noted. "His resistance against raiders has grown increasingly ineffective over the past year."
"Collaboration is possible," Art agreed. "We've suspected his resentment might eventually express as betrayal."
They descended rapidly to the command chamber, where maps and intelligence reports were already being arranged by Art's staff. The chamber itself reflected their governance approach—Roman efficiency blended with traditional British emblems. The massive oak table in the center bore both Christian crosses and older symbols carved into its surface, surrounded by detailed maps of British territories.
Within the hour, representatives from nearby council lords began arriving, faces grim with the news spreading across the land. Lord Pellinore himself arrived by midday, his aged frame moving with surprising vigor given the urgency.
"Seven hundred ships by latest count," he reported as Art convened the emergency session. "Conservative estimates suggest twenty thousand warriors, perhaps more. They've established beachheads at four points along the eastern coast."
Murmurs of alarm spread through the assembled commanders and representatives. Britain had faced Saxon incursions for generations, but nothing approaching this scale.
Art remained outwardly calm, though Bobby detected the subtle tension in her posture. "This isn't mere opportunity," she observed. "The timing suggests deliberate planning—striking when harvest demands keep many able warriors in fields rather than garrisons."
"They've studied our patterns," Pellinore agreed. "And likely received intelligence from sympathizers."
"Lord Vortigern?" someone suggested.
Art raised a hand, silencing speculation. "Allegations without evidence benefit our enemies by creating internal division. Focus on verifiable facts and immediate response."
For the next several hours, Art directed a comprehensive assessment of available forces, supply considerations, and defensive priorities. Bobby provided occasional insights regarding terrain advantages and strategic bottlenecks, but largely observed as Art demonstrated the command capability she'd developed over the past two years.
"We cannot meet them at full strength immediately," she acknowledged once the situation assessment completed. "Harvest requirements and scattered positioning prevent rapid concentration of forces. Therefore, we must delay their advance while our main strength gathers."
Her initial orders displayed sophisticated understanding of asymmetric warfare principles. Rather than futile attempts to directly engage overwhelming numbers, she directed targeted operations against supply lines, night harassments to disrupt enemy rest, and strategic destruction of bridges and passage points to channel Saxon advances into disadvantageous terrain.
"Lord Caradoc will coordinate northern response while Lord Trahern manages southern approaches," she instructed. "I'll personally lead our mobile reserve to reinforce wherever pressure becomes critical."
As lords and commanders departed with their orders, Bobby approached Art at the map table, where she studied potential concentration points with focused intensity.
"Their numbers present unprecedented challenge," he observed quietly.
Art nodded without looking up. "But also create logistical vulnerabilities. Twenty thousand warriors require substantial food and water—disrupting their supply lines forces difficult choices between advancing and sustaining."
Bobby nodded approvingly. "You've learned well."
Art glanced up, a hint of wry humor briefly lightening her expression. "I had adequate instruction."
The following weeks saw Britain mobilizing for existential threat. Art established her command center in a restored Roman fortress near the probable convergence point of Saxon advances, coordinating intelligence and directing defensive operations with remarkable efficiency given the circumstances.
Initial reports confirmed her strategic assessment—Saxon forces advanced steadily but faced increasing difficulty maintaining supply lines under constant harassment. Their numbers prevented total stoppage but significantly slowed progress as British forces employed hit-and-run tactics rather than suicidal direct confrontation.
Bobby observed Art's evolution under pressure with scientific interest. Where many commanders would succumb to fatigue or emotional strain during prolonged crisis, she displayed increasing focus and clarity. Her decision-making remained sharp even with minimal rest, her ability to process complex information seemingly enhanced rather than diminished by the stakes.
Three weeks into the campaign, the inevitable confrontation approached. Saxon forces had consolidated from their initial landing points into two main armies, converging toward the fertile central valleys that would provide both strategic advantage and necessary supplies to sustain their numbers through winter.
Art had positioned her gathered forces at Badon Hill, a naturally defensible position controlling access to these crucial territories. By remarkable coordination across traditionally independent regions, she'd assembled approximately twelve thousand warriors—impressive by British standards but still significantly outnumbered by the combined Saxon strength.
The evening before expected battle found Art inspecting defensive preparations with characteristic thoroughness. Bobby accompanied her along the earthwork fortifications constructed according to principles he'd taught—combining Roman engineering with innovations from far beyond this historical period.
"The terrain restricts their numerical advantage," Art observed, studying the approaches Saxon forces would need to navigate. "Their formation options become limited by these ravines."
Bobby nodded. "And the morning sun will rise directly behind our position."
Art smiled slightly. "Forcing them to attack facing into blinding light. Yes, we've accounted for that factor."
As darkness fell, Art gathered her commanders for final instructions. Bobby observed from slight distance as she articulated not just tactical directives but larger perspective that connected individual actions to collective purpose.
"Tomorrow isn't merely about repelling invaders," she told the assembled leaders, her clear voice carrying conviction that transcended her youth. "It represents choice between continued fragmentation or unified British identity. Saxon strength comes not just from numbers but from singular purpose. Our response must demonstrate equal cohesion."
The briefing continued with specific battle plans—initial archer volleys from protected positions, controlled engagements to exhaust Saxon reserves, and strategic cavalry deployments when terrain advantage maximized their effectiveness. Throughout, Art emphasized adaptability over rigid formations, knowing that battle chaos inevitably required on-field decisions.
When the commanders dispersed to their respective units, Art finally allowed visible fatigue to show, rolling shoulders stiff from weeks of tension. Bobby approached, offering a waterskin.
"You should rest," he advised. "Tomorrow requires peak awareness."
Art drank deeply before responding. "Sleep seems unlikely given circumstances."
"Nevertheless, attempt it," Bobby urged. "Even imperfect rest improves cognitive function."
Art nodded, though her gaze remained fixed on the distant valley where Saxon campfires burned in staggering numbers. "The scope of their ambition is remarkable," she observed. "Not mere raiding or settlement—complete displacement of British culture and governance."
"Human history follows recurring patterns," Bobby replied. "Population pressures, resource competition, cultural identity conflicts—these forces drive migrations and conquests across all eras."
Art glanced at him with that penetrating look that occasionally made Bobby wonder if she somehow perceived his true nature. "You speak as if observing from great distance," she noted. "As though these patterns repeat beyond any single lifetime's observation."
Bobby maintained neutral expression. "Historical study provides perspective."
"Hmm," Art responded noncommittally. "Your 'historical study' consistently proves more comprehensive than any library could possibly contain."
Before Bobby could formulate suitable deflection, a messenger approached with urgent stride. "Commander, scouts report Saxon movement. They appear to be attempting night advance to secure the lower slopes before dawn."
Art's fatigue vanished instantly. "Inform all unit leaders. Archers to designated positions. Signal fires ready but unlit until my command."
As the messenger hurried to comply, Art turned to Bobby. "It seems rest will wait. They hope to negate our terrain advantage through darkness."
"A reasonable tactical adjustment," Bobby acknowledged. "Though one that introduces coordination difficulties for their larger force."
Through the night, Art directed defensive preparations with calm efficiency. Saxon advances proved slower than their commanders likely anticipated, with darkness and unfamiliar terrain hampering their progress. By first light, they had achieved only partial positioning, leaving their forces awkwardly distributed across the approaches to Badon Hill.
As dawn broke, Bobby observed from the command position as Art surveyed the battlefield. Her expression revealed nothing, but he detected the subtle shift in her posture that indicated strategic opportunity recognition.
"Their right flank overextended during night movement," she noted. "The formation gap creates vulnerability."
Bobby nodded. "Their commanders prioritized reaching position over maintaining cohesion."
Art turned to her signal officers. "Direct Lord Caradoc's cavalry to prepare for flank engagement. Archers to focus initial volleys on their left-center, drawing attention away from the exposed right."
What followed demonstrated Art's evolution from capable tactician to brilliant field commander. Rather than simple application of conventional battle wisdom, she displayed intuitive understanding of psychological warfare—creating cascading pressure points that transformed initial Saxon disorganization into progressive collapse.
The battle's first hours saw carefully controlled engagements, with British forces accepting contact only in positions of advantage while yielding ground where necessary to maintain formation integrity. Saxon commanders, accustomed to overwhelming opponents through superior numbers, repeatedly committed reserves to breakthrough attempts that Art anticipated and countered.
By midday, the battle's character shifted decisively. Saxon forces, having exhausted their fresh reserves while achieving minimal territorial gains, found themselves increasingly vulnerable to the coordinated counterattacks Art had preserved strength to execute.
Bobby observed her command methodology with analytical appreciation. While other historical leaders he'd studied often succumbed to emotional decision-making during battle chaos, Art maintained remarkable cognitive clarity—adjusting plans based on emerging opportunities without abandoning strategic framework.
When Lord Caradoc's cavalry finally executed their flanking maneuver against the overextended Saxon right, the effect proved more devastating than even Art likely anticipated. Saxon cohesion, already strained by hours of frustrating engagement, collapsed rapidly as panic spread through their ranks.
What began as tactical retreat quickly devolved into disorganized flight. Art recognized the transition immediately, ordering controlled pursuit that maximized enemy casualties while preventing British forces from becoming dangerously scattered.
By late afternoon, the outcome appeared decisive. Saxon forces had been driven from their positions with catastrophic losses, their carefully planned invasion transformed into desperate attempts to reach coastal strongholds where their ships might offer escape.
Bobby noted that Art refrained from the traditional victory celebrations, instead focusing immediately on consolidation, casualty assessment, and pursuit coordination to prevent enemy regrouping. Her commanders, despite exhaustion, responded to this focus with disciplined execution rather than complaint.
As evening approached, Art finally permitted herself brief respite, watching from the original command position as British forces secured the battlefield and attended their wounded. The victory's scale was becoming apparent as reports filtered in—Saxon losses approached sixty percent of their committed forces, with many more expected during retreat pursuit.
"A turning point," Bobby observed, joining her at the overlook position. "Few enemies maintain invasion ambitions after such decisive defeat."
Art nodded, though her expression remained solemn rather than triumphant. "Yet the cost remains substantial. Nearly two thousand of our own lost, with more likely to succumb to wounds."
"Victory without sacrifice exists only in myths," Bobby noted. "By historical standards, today's exchange favored Britain remarkably."
"Cold comfort to families receiving death notifications," Art replied, though without rebuke in her tone. "Though you're correct regarding strategic implications. This victory provides breathing space to address internal vulnerabilities that enabled invasion scale."
Their conversation paused as a messenger approached with urgent stride. Before the man could speak, a flash of movement at the forest edge caught Bobby's enhanced vision. His temporal perception accelerated automatically—nanites detecting potential threat and adjusting his neural processing accordingly.
The archer materialized from dense undergrowth, Saxon clothing partially concealed by hastily gathered foliage. The bow came up smoothly, arrow drawn with practiced efficiency. Bobby calculated trajectories and recognized the impossible angles—he stood too far from Art to physically intercept, the distance too great for reliable telekinetic intervention without revealing capabilities beyond human possibility.
"Commander!" the messenger shouted, finally spotting the threat, but too late for warning to matter.
The arrow flew with deadly accuracy. Art began turning at the messenger's cry, but motion proved insufficient to avoid the projectile that struck with sickening impact just below her right shoulder, angled downward toward vital organs.
Bobby moved instantly, reaching Art as she staggered backward from the impact. Meanwhile, guards spotted the archer attempting retreat and gave chase with shouts of alarm and rage.
Art remained standing through sheer force of will, her face pale with shock but expression composed. "Assessment?" she asked through gritted teeth, one hand gripping the arrow shaft protruding from her chest.
Bobby conducted rapid visual analysis, nanite-enhanced senses providing detailed information about entry angle, likely internal damage, and blood loss rate. The prognosis appeared grave—the arrow had penetrated deeply, likely damaging lung and possibly heart tissue, with extraction risking catastrophic bleeding.
"Significant," he replied tersely, supporting her weight as her knees finally buckled. "Remain still. Minimize movement."
Commanders and guards converged on their position, faces shocked at their leader's condition. Bobby issued rapid instructions, maintaining outward calm while internally calculating survival probabilities based on available medical knowledge in this historical period.
The calculations produced dismal results. Without intervention beyond current capabilities, Art's survival chances approached zero. The wound's nature, combined with primitive medical understanding, virtually guaranteed death within hours at most—either from direct damage or subsequent infection.
As they carried Art to her tent, Bobby made rapid decision analysis. His mandates regarding non-intervention in historical development had already been compromised through his extended interaction with Art. The technology within his own body could potentially save her life, though application risked further contamination of the timeline.
The logical course—allowing events to proceed naturally—conflicted with something less quantifiable that had developed during their years of association. Bobby recognized the sensation as something approximating personal investment in Art's continued existence.
Inside the command tent, physicians examined the wound with grim expressions that confirmed Bobby's assessment. Art remained conscious through extraordinary will, issuing instructions regarding battle aftermath despite her deteriorating condition.
"The victory must be consolidated," she told her commanders, voice weakening but authority undiminished. "Pursuit continues through the night. No Saxon force regroups unchallenged."
When the commanders had received their orders and departed, leaving only Bobby and the physicians, Art finally allowed pain to show in her expression. "Your assessment?" she asked him directly. "Without diplomatic modification."
Bobby calculated briefly, then opted for partial honesty. "Conventional treatment offers minimal survival probability."
Art nodded slightly, grimacing as the movement shifted the arrow still embedded in her chest. "I suspected as much from their expressions." She met his gaze directly. "Does your knowledge extend beyond conventional options?"
The question presented decision point. Bobby analyzed potential response paths, weighing timeline implications against immediate circumstances. After brief calculation, he reached conclusion.
"Yes," he acknowledged. "Though application involves significant complexity."
Art's lips curved in slight smile despite pain. "I've suspected your knowledge surpasses even Roman understanding. If survival possibility exists, I request access to whatever methods you possess."
"Physicians must leave," Bobby stated. "What follows cannot be observed or replicated."
Art nodded to the healers, who departed with obvious reluctance and concern. When they were alone, Bobby moved swiftly to secure the tent entrance, ensuring privacy for what would follow.
"The procedure involves technology beyond current understanding," he explained, returning to her side. "It will appear unusual, possibly frightening. Maintain calm regardless of sensations experienced."
"I trust your methods," Art replied simply. "Proceed."
Bobby placed his hands carefully around the arrow wound, establishing direct skin contact. With precise mental control, he activated specific nanite protocols within his own system, directing a carefully calculated quantity to transfer from his body to Art's through dermal contact.
The initial programming was straightforward—stabilize vital systems, prevent further damage, begin basic repair of critical structures. More comprehensive healing would require extended nanite presence, but immediate survival took priority over longer-term considerations.
Art gasped as the nanites entered her system, eyes widening at the unusual sensation. "Cold... then heat," she described, voice strained. "Spreading from the wound throughout my body."
"Normal response," Bobby assured her. "The discomfort is temporary."
The arrow remained problematic—removal risked damage, but continued presence prevented complete repair. Bobby opted for technological hybrid approach, using nanites to stabilize surrounding tissue while manually extracting the projectile with careful precision.
"This will cause momentary pain," he warned before gripping the shaft.
Art nodded grimly, bracing herself. The extraction proceeded with calculated efficiency, Bobby monitoring nanite activity through his mental connection to the transferred units. As the arrowhead cleared, fresh blood flowed briefly before nanite activity sealed damaged vessels.
"The worst has passed," Bobby informed her as he disposed of the blood-slicked arrow. "Rest is essential for continued recovery."
Art's color had already improved marginally, though exhaustion clearly overtook her as immediate crisis passed. "What did you do?" she asked, voice fading as consciousness began slipping. "It felt... impossible."
"Rest now," Bobby directed, avoiding direct answer. "Explanations can follow recovery."
As Art finally surrendered to unconsciousness, Bobby maintained physical contact, continuing nanite transfer at carefully controlled rate. The microscopic machines would require approximately seventy-two hours to complete critical repairs of foreign body before beginning programmed withdrawal—returning to Bobby's system rather than remaining permanently within Art's body.
The arrangement represented calculated compromise between intervention and preservation of timeline integrity. Temporary nanite presence would save Art's life without introducing permanent technological contamination to this historical period.
Throughout the night, Bobby maintained vigilant monitoring, adjusting nanite programming as repair operations encountered complications. The arrow had indeed damaged lung tissue and nicked the pericardium surrounding her heart—injuries invariably fatal in this era without intervention.
By dawn, Art's condition had stabilized sufficiently that Bobby permitted the physicians to return, though he remained present to ensure their primitive treatments wouldn't interfere with nanite operations. The healers expressed amazement at her improvement, attributing it to divine intervention or extraordinary constitution rather than recognizing the actual technological cause.
For three days, Art drifted between consciousness and sleep as her body underwent accelerated healing. When awake, she remained remarkably lucid, continuing to issue strategic directives and receive battle reports despite her condition. Bobby noted this resilience with scientific interest—her psychological response to injury appeared as exceptional as her physical recovery.
On the fourth morning, Art woke fully alert, pushing herself to sitting position before Bobby could intervene. "Enough invalid behavior," she declared, though her movements still displayed residual weakness. "The command needs visible leadership, particularly after assassination attempt."
"Premature exertion risks recovery regression," Bobby cautioned.
Art gave him a penetrating look. "Yet I feel remarkably improved for someone with an arrow through the chest four days ago. Almost unnaturally so." She touched the bandaged wound area gently. "What exactly did you do after sending the physicians away?"
Bobby calculated response options, balancing truth against comprehensibility within Art's existing framework. "Applied healing methods developed through specialized knowledge. The techniques remain unknown to conventional physicians."
"That much was obvious," Art replied dryly. "What I felt was... nothing resembling any medical treatment I've witnessed. It seemed more akin to magic than medicine."
"The distinction between advanced knowledge and apparent magic becomes meaningless beyond certain thresholds," Bobby observed. "Results matter more than mechanisms."
Art studied him with that increasingly perceptive gaze that occasionally made Bobby reconsider her classification as merely human. "One day, Merlin, your cryptic non-answers will no longer suffice. But for now, I'll accept the gift of continued existence without demanding complete explanation."
Her recovery continued with remarkable speed over subsequent days. By week's end, Art had resumed limited command duties, though Bobby enforced reasonable restrictions on physical activity while nanite repairs completed and systematic withdrawal proceeded. The wound, which should have proven fatal or at minimum debilitating for months, left only a modest scar with minimal internal damage.
The Battle of Badon Hill, as it became known, marked decisive turning point in Saxon expansion efforts. The comprehensive defeat inflicted under Art's command established her reputation beyond Britain's shores, with tales of the "Sword Maiden's" strategic brilliance spreading throughout western territories.