#hsis series

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The point of my sword drags through the sludgy dirt as I veer toward the edge of the road. The tip of the weapon jumps over thick clumps of bright clover and wildflowers. Despite the sun now warming my shoulders, both the leafy sedge that borders the road and my tunic are still damp from the rain we woke up to this morning. My worn boots are stained with mud. The guard that follows behind me grumbles when my sword kicks up clag onto his shiny greaves. 

The uncomfortable dampness clings to my skin. It looks shinier and more bearable on the clover’s small leaves. I pretend I’m a knight who has just waded through a river, my valiant horse in tow. I imagine it’s the black steed, the horse whose harried huffs and whinnies carry back from where it draws the carriage ahead of me. The sound of the animal reaches to where I take up my post at the rear of the caravan. My irritated companion follows me as I carve ambling lines into the squelching earth.

Up ahead where the budding trees span over the rain-sodden path we journey, a fancy carriage rolls along. But that’s not what catches my attention. I can see Mama is treading in its opulent wake. In her faded aprons, the hem of her skirt is caked with mud where it’s not shredded. Her form curls around herself, as though she wishes to fade into the shadow of the fancy stagecoach. It’s as if she awaits my protection. 

A heavier, wider sword appears amongst the clovers as I skip. I bend to collect it. 

The heavy footsteps of the guard behind me stutter. Rocks kick up around my boots.

“Make haste, boy,” the guard growls. 

Mama’s head snaps to me. She watches as I lift my newly acquired sword to the grumpy goose behind me. 

Later, when we stop to rest, I will make sure to beg him for his smallest knife so that I may carve symbols into the blade. 

The guard frowns deeply as the tip of my weapon centers on his nose. 

A shiny metal fist curls around my sword, and steadies it in warning.

I tug at the pommel of my weapon. Bark scrapes against my palm.

Within his fist, my blade bends.

The twig snaps.

My deepening glare is reflected within the impatient mountain of armor that towers over me. 

Mama calls my name. She beckons me to her. I turn and dart in Mama’s direction. 

She collects me to her side, her fingers gathering in my worn shirt, and her voice falls out of her lips. I hate when Mama speaks to me like this. A shiver works its way up my spine like a serpent through the grass as I stare at the carriage wheel as it totters over stones and ruts because when Mama speaks like this it unsettles me. I shudder like my skin will shed. She’s like one of Ol’ Petyr’s puppets except she’s Ol’ Petyr. Thin, wrinkled mouth unmoving and slightly open while his little people speak and screech and sing. My friends used to be scared of his stories- but Ol’ Petyr and his strange non voice was scarier.

“Do not upset them,” Mama says without saying. A whisper of her usual voice. An edge to it that makes my gut twist and sour. 

My fist tightens around my remaining sword. 

When we first joined this band, Mama had been giddy with relief- her voice a song of appreciation that we’d found safe passage to the next city. But in a span of suns, Mama has been parsing her feelings. Whittling them down to wan smiles that don’t meet her sharp eyes. And then she began portioning our rations. 

Whenever the guard hands her a chunk of bread, she breaks off a few pieces for me to eat, then shoves the rest into her pack. Despite the hunger clawing in my belly, I know better than to ask for more. 

Mama’s behaved like this before. When we left my father during the war. 

Mama is scared.

Soon, we will take our leave, and so I make a plan of my own. 

The guard in our wake sighs tightly, his brows forever furrowed beneath his helmet. That frown etched into his features so he’s carved of an eternal anguish. I’m not sure why he and the other guards carry such heaviness when their position is one of honor and esteem. 

They protect a princess! A real princess! Although I’ve never seen her- she never leaves the confines of the carriage except for one blackened hand that passes parchment to the guards- she has extended her escort to us. Including two handfuls of guards- dark armor glinting beneath the sun and outfitted with a staggering amount of weapons.

I stare at the sword that swings at the grumpy guard’s hip. Tonight, when everyone is asleep- I will steal it. Along with a water skin, and the coin pouch from the guard that reeks of fermented wine every time he returns from the woods to piss. That one always dozes through his watch. 

Then, I will wake Mama and we will disappear into the forest. 

Mama will know which way to go. 

I tilt my head- and find Mama’s gaze scouring the road like she’s searching for a route of escape out of habit.

Shoving my sword into the knotted rope of my belt- I twine my fingers into my mother’s trembling ones and offer her a small smile when her face bends to mine.

“It will be alright, Mama,” I tell her, and her lips twitch. The lines of her eyes- widened as though it’s her natural state despite the way I know they crinkle when she laughs, and softens when she sleeps- become watery.

Her hand tightens around mine as we approach a bridge.

The water roars beneath it and my boots come to a halt before the carriage even slows.

It’s only been a few spans since we’ve joined this party, but Mama and I know the pattern this group follows.

Every passage over water- we must halt.

We must wait while the lead guard- a flame bearded mountain of a man- approaches the carriage door and confers quietly with the princess.

Sometimes it takes hours. We rest in the shade- or out of the rain- and sometimes the princess’s voice lifts more than a whisper. A song of fury and irritation bleeding into the patter of the rain that always seems to start whenever we come to these watery crossroads.

The lead guard will stiffen where he stands- and he’ll cast a worried glance at his men- before it darts to Mama and I and then it’s hastily cast to the dirt where it remains for a long, heavy moment. At first, Mama tried to converse with the guards to pass the time. But they didn’t share in our tales of travel or hopes of what life we would find in the new city- their faces set in grim or harried expressions as they waited upon their leader’s word. As though they hoped for it and loathed it all the same.

“Onwards,” he’d order after an eternity. The word husking out of his frame with some measure of relief rattling through it. The order dissipating through the ranks like smoke. Harsh at first, like they all expect otherwise, before the carriage totters forward and they all release the breath they'd been holding. Despite the warm spring air, the lead guard shakes under the weight of whatever silent burden he bears, like the next gust of wind might reduce him to dust. Like he aches for that fate instead of the one he meets when he turns, stiffly, and takes up his post at the side of the carriage. Like there's a chain around his boot, as though he cannot stray a step further from the distance that the Princess's voice may reach him.

Once, Mama had tried to cross before his permission.

The other guards had blocked her path with their spears and fierce expressions staying her steps.

Despite the lack of shackles and chains, I got the impression that we might be prisoners.

They’d invited us to their party. Promising Mama food and safe travel when they’d come across us upon the road.

So we couldn’t be- even though Mama’s posture had shifted from that moment forward.

Her steps stiff, her eyes wary. Her smile offered tightly, her voice falling to meet my ears with a fearful quality she attempted to mask behind soothing pets of my crown.

Maybe we were like Ol’ Petyr’s puppets. Invisible strings around our wrists and ankles. Our necks. I shivered. Mama clasped me to her tighter. Her movements are stilted with her fear. It's like when Ol' Petyr's characters embrace- awkward and separated by the strings that hold them up. Despite his skill, sometimes they get tangled. I imagine Mama collapsing like dead weight and a shiver worms up my spine, and I stand more rigid to meet it.

I won't let Mama fall.

“Onwards,” the lead guard growls from between his clenched teeth.

Over and over.

At a roaring river with the largest bridge I’d ever laid eyes upon spanned wide across its steep banks. A cargo ship rolled beneath our boots. It took ten breaths for it to appear on the other side.

Next, at a trickling stream that only seemed to have appeared after this morning’s rain. It was scarcely a foot bridge- and there’d been debate of whether we’d need to find a different path forwards for the carriage. To our fortune, the bridge had held its weight although it was a worrisome crossing. Even the lead guard held his breath as the wheels wriggled to the edge of the planks. 

Then, at a gurgling canal that trickled alongside fields of freshly harvested winter wheat for acres and acres before it meandered beneath the old stone bridge. Only just wide enough for the wagon to pass with a few grunted shoves of the guards when one of the wheels wedged against the stone wall.

It’s late in the day. My feet are sore and Mama limps as though a fever spot has developed on her ever swollen foot. Usually we’d have made camp by now, but there’s a haste in the guard’s steps. An urgency as though we are approaching something important. Like the end of our journey is in sight. Despite this, the guards do not look on in relieved anticipation. Instead, the crease between their brows has been carved deeper.

Their shiny crowned heads cast to where they trudge over the road- as though they damn every foot fall. At the crest of the next hill, I think I spy trails of smoke in the distance. We approach a city, despite the lack of hovels in its surroundings. Only the odd farm. A few spare travelers. Of the few that dare to lift their heads, they cast us fearful looks when they pass. The whites of the eyes like silent warnings. Like they know something we should too.

Mama’s head swivels more and more. Every slight parting in the thick tree line draws her focus- as though she wishes to flee into the dense forest.

A building overhangs the road way in the distance. Like a beacon. A lantern in the dark. Bobbing through the dark forest, beckoning safety. Somewhere solid to take a rest and recover.

I point at it with my sword.

“Mama! A tavern!” I remark brightly, hoping to improve her fearful mood- but Mama bites her chapped lip. Her trembling hands petting over my crown like a habit and I think it’s meant to soothe her more than I.

“Will we rest here for the night?” Mama asks the rear guard but he doesn’t reply. Silence expands between us like a threat. Mama’s eyes flick between the guard, the caravan and the remaining escort as though she’s tallying up our odds of escape. The distance between us and the rest and the safety of the tavern or the forest beyond it. There’s a wildness in her eyes, that solidifies when it lands on me, and makes me wish that I’d formed my plan sooner than this afternoon. Yesternoon would have been ideal, if only to spare the frightened look of Mama now. In the deep of the woods, we’d be alone and afraid as well- but something in her fear tells me we’d be better off against wolves than whatever would prey upon us further up the road.

Plodding past us, the rear guard barely lifts his head at the crowd of tavern goers that hang beneath the second level of the inn. The stone faced outcropping is aburst with noise and scents. Slurred speech and too loud laughter that teeters into heavy, muttered silence as the carriage rolls past. The thick scent of oily stew and the sour smell of bubbling ale on the night air fills me with distraction and longing. A fuzzy sort of hope rising in my chest and bursting as soon as it arrives. The barkeep regards us with wide, fearful eyes when we pause. Her maternal gaze locks with Mama’s for a blink before the mug she sets down clatters onto the table and the patron grumbles at the spilled ale.

Mama’s footsteps falter. A heavy hand clamps onto my shoulder as the guard shoves me forwards without a word.

He stares resolutely ahead- metal squeaking when I attempt to jerk away from his hold.

“Onwards,” he says but it’s hollow. Like there's a void inside of him, and it will swallow all in its path. The eyes beneath the shadow of his helm are empty. My sword clatters against his chest plate and my mother’s quiet weeping echoes in our wake.

“Please-,” she begs, her voice thin, “Let him go,” her boots scraping across the ground to follow us as though she struggles to maintain upright. Her pleas smack off the armor and steel of the guard’s set jaw. He ignores her. Pushing me forwards as the carriage continues on past the potential safe haven of the tavern.

“You have no coin,” the guard says, blunt like a strike from the flat side of his sword and Mama makes a pained noise.

We might have nothing to barter with.

But we have honor. Unlike him.

“And you have no honor,” I shriek, despite the fear toppling through my mind at the fierce grip he maintains on me. He merely shoves me forward, uncaring of my protest. Mama follows, helplessly. Like she's one of Ol' Petyr's puppets, and I'm the cross that connects to her strings.

Some of my words or the accusing quality of them seems to shear something in him. For one moment, his face falls- and the stoic seriousness is lost to an agony so horrifying that even my blood recoils inside me- my gut dropping to my boots.

Fear like a knife in my thoughts, cleaving through whatever imaginary glory I’d bestowed upon this guard and his companions when we’d first met.

They weren’t protecting us or the Princess from outside threats.

They were the threat.

 I’m herded closer to the carriage as it approaches another bridge. A grim frown within the lead guard’s flame beard greets me as the wheels stutter to a halt over the stones as my heart slams against my ribs.

Mama’s hands seek for me past the armored guard’s reach but he shoves her away with ease. A shattered sob rips through the air and my own rises to meet it. It's like ice shearing at the edge of a pond to meet the cracks webbing beneath my boot when I place my weight against the next steps that I'm forced to make.

Mama begs for them to release me- her voice verging on a wail while the lead guard’s attention is drawn into the depths of the caravan like a spell lies within. Glazed eyes track sideways from where they’d landed heavily upon me, another shiver shaking through my form at the unnatural way his gaze is pulled from me. 

I’m within hearing distance of this conversation for the first time- so is the guard that wrangles me in his painful grip but the way he refuses to look at me speaks to his prior knowing of what will be discussed. Bastard. He’s tricked us into trusting them.

The thick branch in my hand thwacks against his helm for one satisfying thrum of the metal before he wrenches it out of my grip. I screech in dismay before I begin searching for its true, metallic twin at his belt. Before me fingers can secure a knife, they’re snatched into his iron hold.

Over the sound of my desperate scrambling, a feminine voice lifts above the chaos.

The flame bearded guard nods once into the wagon depths before he turns to Mama.

“Come,” a voice like a song beckons from within the carriage. My own fight falters when Mama obeys. Tears stream from her eyes- her chin trembling as she closes the distance with stiff steps as though she does not wish to approach. Her upper body hangs heavily over her legs as she stumbles forward, like when Ol' Petyr forgets to orchestrate the whole of his puppets.

“Please let us go-,” Mama begs- her voice tight in her throat when an ink stained hand appears from the window. Blackened fingers reach to push a sweaty lock of hair from Mama’s face in what would be a tender gesture if the words that accompanied it didn’t strike fear through me like a lance. They leave a stain of shadow on Mama's sweaty skin, the ink woven through Mama’s hair.

“Leave us,” the feminine voice orders and Mama’s mouth snaps shut. As though Ol’ Petyr were coordinating her movements.

Mama turns.

Silent. Horrifyingly still everywhere except her legs as they lift and drop awkwardly. Plodding away from me without even glance back.

I stare- gawking as she strides in the direction we’d only just come. The fall of her boots is forced.

A sharp wail comes from her- a sound like when my younger sister passed last winter- and then another bursts-- louder as the distance between us grows.

“Mama!” I call out, my struggles renewed in my attempts to follow her but the rear guard’s grip only tightens and I cry out as my bones feel crushed in his cruel grip.

Mama does not turn to me.

Mama keeps walking.

“Mama!” I wail, barely louder than the ones that she makes. It isn’t words, the sound she makes. Nonsensical cries, like a wounded animal caught in the jaws of a predator.

The lead guard throws me an agonized look- as though he shares in my distress. But it’s tamped down into a determined, grim expression when the voice titters out from the darkness of the carriage.

There's no Princess in there. I know it now. Like when Ol' Petyr puts a monster in the cave. The shadows shivering with unseen evil disguised as promised treasure.

“We must make haste,” the princess says, and I expect the lead guard to give his usual order. 

Onwards. 

Instead, the blackened hand makes a dismissive gesture before it retreats back inside.

“You know what must be done,” the princess says and the lead guard nods once but it’s odd. Like he tucks his chin without his own knowing. But there’s pain in his eyes that betrays the awkward gesture. 

The rear guard behind me swallows hard. Metal squeaks and shifts as he thrusts me towards the lead guard’s waiting hands. I’m passed over like one of the letters the Princess hands to the messengers. Letter after letter, one for every hour the sun shines, until her fingers are stained with ink. 

In the process, I snatch a knife from the flame bearded guard’s belt- his shock rippling over his stony features for a blink as I shove the blade towards the break in his thigh plate and his greave.

Before I can sink it into the flesh that lies between- the voice sings from the carriage. There’s a spell in the sound of it. Woven into her words. They wrap around my thoughts. Like when Ol' Petyr stings up a new puppet, his worn fingers working over the wood and hemp with tight movements as he pulls and tightens the bonds.

“Drop it, boy,” she orders and my fingers twitch unnaturally at her words. Strung together like a lyric of a bard or chord from a lute.

A sickening wave crests through my body as the knife clatters against the stones in the ground. Everything in me had grasped onto the blade with force, with the last fight of desperate hope. But the Princess's words had rendered them useless. Like shears cutting a cord. My intention and my actions severed for her command instead.

I bend to collect the blade, but the guard is quicker. Snatching it from me and I’m hoisted into his arms before I can pivot to flee.

Thrashing, I scream- searching for my mother from this new height as the guard stalks towards the bridge.

Mama is almost out of sight.

Nearly at the bend in the road.

I shriek and shriek as she rigidly strides out of view.

By the time we reach the riverbank, my shouts are crashing into one another as I struggle to breathe past my panic.

The water is silent save for how it laps against the banks.

It’s dark even in the evening light. It's surface unyielding to my quick fearful glances.

Swift and fast and deep.

It splashes as the lead guard takes the first step into its shallows.

“I cannae swim,” I shout, clutching to the guard as he descends into the dark waves- afraid to be rid of him now. The switch from wishing to flee- to latching to him making me hiccup in fear.

The water fills my boots. Soaks up my trousers. It’s cold- near freezing with us being a bare stones throw from winter- and the guard continues to plunge us both into its depths.

“Why?” I scream and it's shrill, like a rabbit caught in a snare. My voice almost unrecognizable to myself, yet terrifyingly and recently familiar, reflected in my mother's sobs as she left me. I shriek the question on repeat, louder and louder, until I'm sure it rattles the guard's armor with the force of it, I can only hope this is to bathe and not some mage ritual that Ol’ Petyr used to puppet.

Of babes and children sacrificed for dark magic. 

The guard wrenches my trembling hands from where they clutch at his chest plate- his cold fingers and their cruel grip slipping from the water as he tries to wrangle me from his frame.

Searching for an answer, I find only his empty gaze. A hollowness echoing out of his dark eyes as he gathers my wrists in his hand while the other lifts to my face before he shoves me beneath the surface.

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You never thought anyone else would see where you resided in the King’s forest. Well, at least you never hoped. The terrifying prospect of unwanted attention had hung over your head for years ever since you’d established this little sector of woods as your own. A thick rope dangling ominously in your mind. Afraid the weight of your body would one day pull the slack taught alongside the sickening crack of your breaking neck because a guard patrol would discover your illegal inhabitance. 

There would be no trial. You wouldn’t even have a chance to defend yourself before the King. Not that Vortigern would have even listened- and the new King was a mystery better left alone, you surmised despite the rumors that trickled into your ear whenever you visited the city. The townsfolk say the new crowned King was once one of them. That he’d tread in their midst and perhaps, some query, he will be a kinder King because of it. But you weren’t the sort to lay your life into the hands of another and hope for mercy. Not when the option to hide or flee remains instead. 

And so even when Vortigern's cruel reign had ended- still you’d been careful. Covering your tracks, not allowing any visitors, minding your steps to ensure you wouldn’t be followed from the city. Even the trees around your home were left purposefully neglected. The brush wasn’t cleared. The paths you chose to and from the city or the plot of elvium were always varied so that you wouldn’t tread upon one solely lest it betray your presence. 

The squat hobble of your stone cottage is tucked amidst the foliage- nearly swallowed up by leaves and shrubbery in the summer. In the colder months- the density of the fir canopy above makes it so that hardly any sun shines upon the slightly collapsed roof. Deep in the shadows of the woods, you’ve lived your secret life by your lonesome to your great relief.

It’s odd to bring Arthur here. To have another set of eyes witness the life you’ve dug out for yourself. 

Somehow, Arthur’s presence alters your perspective of your familiarity from where you rest at his back. The turn of his head- his voice- all his consideration upon you and your surroundings as you offer directions. Voice strained to be heard above the horse’s breathing as Critter carries you. He’s a good horse. Well behaved and trusting. You’re thankful for your past efforts in keeping the path maintained so that his hoof falls remain sure and safe.

This bit of forest is transformed from the rest. Whatever you could do to help it also helped you in turn. The tree branches above you glitter in the breeze with new leaves. Before their canopies were choked with thick vines. Their bases had been buried beneath rot and their dead fallen siblings. But you’d wrangled this sliver of forest into something healthier. 

Cleared out the old, useless or parasitic plants to give the rest room to breathe. It had been hard work. And you had to be careful- not wanting to alert the King’s guards to your presence. Eventually the swath of trees between your cottage and the elvium plot became less wild. Navigation was easier with the small paths you created. Escape would be too if the need ever arose. 

The forest provided the bulk of what you needed- gathering wild mushrooms and herbs to supplement what you couldn’t grow easily on your own. Between supporting yourself and your small salves business- you had plenty. Everything within a stone’s throw- or an afternoon stroll. Only ever needing to venture further for the company or patronage of other people- of which you kept your visits brief or professional. 

It had been easy to retreat into King Vortigern’s neglected woods like a secret but you never truly felt settled. Everything of immediate need could be gathered up in your arms in a heartbeat and you could flee. The only indication of your presence would overgrow and disappear back into the wild within a few seasons. 

Arthur heeds your directions towards your cottage, clicking his tongue for Critter to adopt a trot. The horse follows the command without complaint- and you grasp onto Arthur’s waist a little tighter when the speed picks up. Arthur’s riding style isn’t as fluid as you remember Silas’s being- but Silas had grown up with the animals. Some shade of guilt threatens to darken your thoughts for comparing the two men but then Arthur’s hand envelops over your own for a moment- his arm holding yours to him more securely as though he fears you may fall.

“I’m alright,” you say, sore voice barely heard above Critter’s exertions. It’d been many years since you’d ridden on horseback- many more since you’d ridden double like this- but you’d been around horses for enough years to adopt a riding style that could compliment Arthur’s easily. As novice as he was- apparent in the stiff stuttering of his hips like he nearly resisted the beast he perched upon- you could compensate well enough especially given Critter’s easy disposition. 

It takes a surprisingly small amount of time to reach your cottage compared to when you travel by foot. It nearly makes you wish you didn’t have to sell Silas’s horse when you arrived here. But keeping a horse in the King’s forest and trying to remain unnoticed would have likely meant you’d hang and Merlin would have ended up on King Vortigern’s feasting table. So by your lonesome it was. Merlin had gone to a caring new owner, and that’s all you could have hoped for to honor Silas’s legacy and life’s work. 

Your late husband had cared for the lord of your village’s horses. A nobleman by birth- Silas was never ingrained to Lord Henry De Vere of Lerbford’s employment. A large stable was maintained on your husband’s land- enough to sell and become a lord of his own if he’d so wanted- but Silas never desired power and coin. A simple man- although also a mage which complicated much under Vortigern’s reign especially towards the end of his young life- Silas only desired his loved ones be well cared for and that included you and the animals in your stable.

Once the slight thatch cottage is before you- Arthur helps you down once more. The strength within him where he holds you causes a swarm of warmth in your gut- and you realize with some giddy sense storming through your thoughts that this was something to look forward to in the coming days. Arthur’s reassuring touch and presence upon you. It feels like a gift and a curse- Silas’s touch a ghost in your memory. Arthur’s real gaze centering you within his charming focus. 

Distracting yourself- you pet Critter’s side absently while Arthur quietly admires your home. A worn down cottage sits buried in a large garden. While it’s still soil and only a smattering of newly grown greenery in the barely warm spring air- the trellis’s and willow arches you’ve built speak plainly to the dedication to your craft. You like to believe that once your garden has fully grown into itself in a few months that it covers the blemish that is the weathered cottage well. However, it’s likely that your attention is mostly for flowers and plants and not run down buildings.

Now, with Arthur’s visit- the only other person that had ever been here in all this time- you can’t help but cringe at the condition of your home especially looking upon its spareness in this Spring time. Perhaps you should have spent more time on upkeep the thatching- or repairing the chips in the clay with ashes from your woodstove. But it made such wonderful fertilizer. How could you waste it on something so silly as the walls of the cottage? Drafts be damned.

“Would you like to come inside?” you ask, tethering Critter’s reins to a fencepost that still wiggled slightly ever since you erected it. Hoping that Arthur will agree if only for the sake of removing his attention from the damage outside of your house. Not that he’d said a word- in fact he seemed more engrossed with your garden than anything else.

“Why don’t you grow the elvium here?” Arthur asks, crouched beside a bed of what would soon sprout and become your summer squash. For all appearances it was an empty plot.

“Not enough sun,” you reply and Arthur nods with consideration. The trees overhead kept you well insulated. Cool in the summer, less frozen in the snow come winter time.

When you press upon the door of the little hut- its wood slanted in its unleveled frame so that the top hinge no longer holds its anchoring- the intense scent of herbs greets you. With effort, you lift the door onto a stone that you’ve wedged against the wall so that it remains in place once Arthur follows you inside. 

Ducking his head beneath the low ceiling- made further lower with the meadows of herbs in various states of drying that you’ve strung across it- Arthur allows himself a moment to adjust to the dim light while you carefully maneuver through the small space. 

It’s one squat room- filled with your life to nearly bursting. It could well be a herbalist’s shop with all the plants and the tools of your trade that you can fit. Every surface available is covered with your work. The scent of drying herbs is intense- nearly reminding Arthur of Doctor Enthiel’s tower and its spilled potions- but somehow your home is far more inviting despite its messy nature.

The sharp cry of metal comes before you stab at the dozing coals in your wood stove. Rousing them back to life with a few spears of your poker until you find the one that glows the strongest. From a tiny shelf above the still warm stove, you grab a pouch of lichen and sap. Depositing the ember gem in its new cozy bed. Before it has a chance to smoke and catch flame, you smother it in the pocket of slightly damp moss. This will become a warm fire with a few targeted long breaths upon a bed of kindling. It would be foolish to travel without given all the rain as of late.

From the corner of your vision as you pack your travel bag with items you’ll need- a travel cloak, a spare apron you use for gardening, a few spools of thread and handful of sealing candles- Arthur remains at the door. 

Lifting a hand to stroke the leaves of a bundle of lavender that hangs beside his face- before he brings them to his nose and inhales deeply. That crisp bundle of flowers was hung the summer of your first year here- positioned near the doorway for luck. 

Something stirs in your chest to think that Arthur is the first one to admire it besides yourself. His long fingers tracing over the rope and stems where you’d secured it to the wall with a rusty nail you’d found somewhere near the road. For a moment, you're jealous of his height- how easily he wraps the rope around the metal to secure it better when it's taken you an embarrassing amount of time to install. 

The gentle King’s guard hasn’t moved from the door. As though he’s hesitant to invade your space more than he feels he has with the plot of elvium. You’d just come from the clearing- after he’d assured you he’d secured care for them in your absence. His friend, Bill Turner, who Arthur had informed you he trusted the man with his life- would mind the elvium after Arthur’s careful instruction. It had shocked you- that Arthur had already determined a solution to the problem you’d been wracking your mind to solve all morning. Who could you trust on such short notice to care for the seedlings in your sudden absence? 

Arthur’s enduring thoughtfulness strikes you in the chest even still. Your sore foot now nestled in a new boot- warm and dry and smelling of freshly tanned leather. While shoving your last blanket into your pack, Arthur regards your space. 

Serious blue eyes find the bed first- and you’re not sure how to interpret the action. If it were any other man- let alone a King’s guard- it would have made you want to crawl out of your skin. But there’s a familiarity in Arthur’s gaze.

The way his gaze sweeps the room and finds your bed seems like a force of habit. As though he expects to find someone within it. You flounder to think of a reason as to why. Perhaps his housing is communal. Perhaps he must choose a new place to lie every night in the guard’s barracks and he’s hasty to find an empty bed. Perhaps he’s used to sharing his bed- your mind wanders to this point as easily as a leaf floating upon a stream. As quickly as it arrives, you sink into a flood of thoughts to push the ones of Arthur and another away- your own bed and all the ways you’ve imagined him with you staring at you as though a bed could glare. 

The threadbare blanket in your hands is thrust into your bag. It’s been cold the last few weeks- all your spare covers have been given to the elvium plot to keep them alive. Shivering in your bed, thoughts of Arthur and his blazing smile in your mind- your hand between your thighs as heat spreads through your body before the cold will shove its way in once more to share your bed as you fall asleep.

Last night at Sigrid’s was the warmest sleep you’ve had in many months. The safest too. 

The spare fire poker you keep by your bed is where Arthur’s eyes trail next. Searching for weapons. It’s perhaps another instinctive appraisal for him. Where Arthur’s expression had been unreadable upon your bed- shoved into the corner of the clustered room- furthest from the wood stove for all the plants you’ve crowded around it in order for them to dry faster- Arthur’s mouth draws into a deep frown as he regards your improvised defense tool.

The irony of a King’s guard stood in your doorway- all your nightmares come to life- and yet you feel a surge of protection in the way he regards you next. 

“Where did you learn to do this?” Arthur asks, bringing his fingers to the curling leaves of a robust bundle of sage you’ve hung opposite the lavender.

Hammering nails into a wall haphazardly? That- you liked to believe- was your natural gift. Empowered with ancestral rage and with the throb of determination in your thumbs- all you needed was a large stick and to imagine King Vortigern’s face instead of the nail head. You muse for a moment, mind caught upon Arthur’s handsome features before you finally catch up to his meaning. 

“My husband taught me,” you say and even behind his large hand where he’s drawn it to him to inhale deeply once more, Arthur’s face blanches- gaze scouring to the door as though to make a hasty retreat.

“He’s passed,” you hurry to tack on before you wrench open the stubborn door of your wood stove with a huff once more. A tightness to your action that makes Arthur believe he’s overstepped his inquisitiveness.

When you reach inside the ashes- carefully plucking out another glowing ember and placing it inside a new pocket of lichen and bark- you only realize Arthur’s silence once the shifting golden light is concealed. Silas has taught you to always bring a spare source of flame. Arthur’s distracting presence had almost made you forget. Tucking the precious satchel into your shirt alongside the first one where it won’t be crushed during travel, you startle at Arthur’s speech.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says, voice tinged with something you can’t place in the dark surroundings. 

When Sigrid mentioned you’d lost your family- Arthur didn’t think as far as to marriage. Not that he didn’t consider you of the marriageable sort- and not that he did in any sense. 

Arthur internally slaps himself. The Princess and her selfish escapades had marriage on his mind more than it ever had been. If he was quite honest- he’d never even considered it for himself until recently. When it’d been thrust upon him without his any say in the matter. And even if the Princess and him had never crossed paths- he’s only now realizing that being wedded would have become inevitable with his new role. A talk of an heir would undoubtedly cross Goosefat’s lips at some point if not already his mind before Arthur had even been crowned.

Arthur drags a hand down his face. Gods, he was making a mess of everything. Whether he intended to or not it felt as though simply his presence alone contaminated everything near to him. 

A memory of their conversation drifts back into his awareness. You’d shared that you had befriended a few mages- that they’d taught you magic so you could help others. 

“Your husband-,” Arthur starts, biting back his words until your face- so open and sweet where you crouch at the wood stove- makes them fall out anyways, “He was a Mage?” 

You nod. It’s only the slightest tip of your chin. It reminds Arthur of your first meeting. When he found your illustrious little plot in his forest alongside the rabbit snares and your guilt was written upon your features without even a word.

It’s dangerous to admit such things. Even still. King Vortigern’s cruelty is a twisted weed around you and he can tell it has thorns without needing to see them. It’s in the way you deflate. Arthur wishes he could tug the reign of Vortigern from you. Rip it away even if it turned him to shreds. He’d undo the past- all of it- even if it meant he never knew you. If only to spare the heartache that sits plain upon your face so that Arthur can’t help the way his own rises to meet it.

“When our marriage was arranged- I was scared,” you admit, with a smile that wavers alongside your gaze- your mind traveling backwards. 

“Of course I knew of him in passing,” you say, sweeping the ashes by the stove out of habit and the stir into the air like your memories, “But my family lived on the edges of our village, and he lived in the stable master’s house,” you continue, “I didn’t even know what he looked like. We’d never met before our wedding day.”

“He was handsome,” you say with a small chuckle and Arthur notes the way you fluster through the next words, “Of course, that’s not the most important thing. He was kind,” you continue with an affectionate smile. 

“I had on my best dress. A worn thing that looked like rags compared to what he wore-,” you say with a small laugh, “But the way he looked at me-,” you recall, a soft sigh tittering against your words. 

“Like I was prettier than a sunset. I felt like the luckiest woman in our village after that,” you say, smiling softly like the light of yours and Silas’s love still shines upon you and Arthur shares in your smile. 

“He was a fortunate man,” Arthur replies, something serious in his look that makes you realize yourself and how you’d become lost in both the memory of Silas and the way Arthur’s looking at you now. It’s nearly the same as standing at the altar within Silas’s warm gaze.

“We better get on with it,” you say, hurrying to collect your things. 

Arthur helps you mount Critter once more- the accompanying strength in him that you were looking forward to during the days to come is like a stone thrown into a still pool. It shakes something up in you. There’s a thick layer of grief over the surface of you that Arthur’s kind presence has sent a ripple through. The weight of your feelings that grow for him sinks into what feels like the center of you. An echo of loneliness- an emptiness that hollows out of you and fades whenever he’s close. Whenever the creases of his cheeks deepen as he smiles upon you in that soft, gentle way.

The fact you’ll return to the village where you met your first love- to a life you left behind- for Arthur to witness yet another home where you once lived and yet you know little about his own drives the conversation as you follow the road towards the cemetery. 

“We must stop here for a moment,” you say as you tether Critter to the iron gate at the entrance to the little copse of markers by the church. A small crowd gathers at the front of the looming building. Whispered prayers are offered to a row of coffins that are being loaded onto a cart. It’s the one marked for Potter’s hill- where the dead that society deems unworthy are buried in unmarked graves. The tearful crowd betrays the idea that these souls aren’t worth more than the coins they lacked in their pockets when they met their ends. A cry lifts from them- a woman collapses in another’s arms when the coachman tuts and the cart jolts forward. 

Despite all your current errands and delays- you wish to help- and to your surprise Arthur deviates from the main path and pushes through the crowd.

Pulling a water skin from his fur coat- Arthur extends it to the woman’s friend- who stares at him warily before her gaze lands on you. She’s covered in grime- her clothes ragged- and her distressed friend could be her twin sister with the same bedraggled appearance. The pinched concern on your face matches hers.

“It’s clear water,” Arthur insists and the woman finally accepts with a tentative nod before she uncorks the lid and trickles the water into the distraught woman’s mouth. Slowly, she drinks,as though she loathes to, her breath stuttered through her sobs.

“Thank ye,” the friend says, “Her husband,” the woman tips her chin to the cart that rolls away. Something in your chest thrums an answering song to the grieved woman’s onslaught cries of pain- a mournful tune to match the one that spills out in front of you.

“She works herself up like this- I keep picking her up,” the woman says with a pained sigh, her arms locking around her friends trembling shoulders as though she’s afraid if she releases her- her friend will fall apart. Dissolve into the dirt beneath them if only to share in the ground of her husband’s final resting place.

“I have smelling salts,” you say, procuring a package you keep on hand. Extending a tin towards the friend and she eyes it with a smidgen of distrust.

Crouching, you leave it upon the cobblestone before turning to Arthur- realizing there’s no more aid to offer. Arthur’s solemn gaze is soft on the scene in front him.

The bereaved woman snaps free of her friend's grasp. Snatches the tin before the lid is clawed open and her next inhale is drawn deeply from the contents as though she’s desperate for anything to soothe the ache in her soul.

“Cedar,” the woman sobs through the word so that it’s drawn out on a hiccuping exhale.

“I hope it brings you some ease,” you say with an understanding look, some part of you knowing that what wounds her will never lose its sting in its entirety. 

“I hope-,” the woman stutters through her words- eyes fierce upon you and Arthur, “That you never lose h-him,” the woman says,  her wet gaze fierce upon Arthur beside you as though she sees someone else in his stead. 

Arthur shuffles underneath her statement but he tips his head in solemn acknowledgment as the woman’s cries rear up once more. He doesn’t reject her assessment of your coupling and neither do you. Allowing this grieved woman some belief in living pairings is the least you can offer in the wake of her loss.

The friend gathers her up once more- and they cling to each other as though the world collapses around them. The past is before you- the memories of Silas’s loss as fresh as when they first were felt. When you wished the world would end for all as it had for you.

Arthur’s hand on your arm brings the heart breaking scene back into focus, his gentle touch pushing you away and back towards the path. Quietly, you follow the ruts in the mud that the cart’s wheels have left in its wake. Avoiding puddles from the earlier rain with Arthur’s careful insistence. The gray and white tombstones float past you. Stories and stories for so many lives reduced to carved names and dates. What lay between them now a marker for so much loss. What tales could each stone hold?

Searching for distraction- for an anchor in the sea of your own grief comes back as a great flood in your thoughts- you turn to Arthur.

“Where did you live before you joined the King’s guard?” 

Arthur seems to startle at your inquiry. 

Wandering through the sprawl of tombstones and beneath tall, impressive oaks- you follow the main path towards the family tombs while Arthur chews your question.

A ripple of shock had tracked his features at your question- as though he’s surprised you care to know anything of him at all- and you fear with all the dramatic events as of late that you’ve failed to show your care for him as he has of you.

The length at which he takes to reply makes you fear that you’ve tread into dark territory. For anyone to become a King’s guard it is a trial- let alone under King Vortigern’s reign. And for Arthur- sweet as he is, perhaps his former living conditions were so deeply awful that he would choose to live and work beneath the wrath of the evil King in their stead.

“If you do not wish to share-,” you start to tread back upon your steps but Arthur shakes his head with a small chuckle. 

Arthur sighs- deciding he will land somewhere on the truth if not the entirety of it.

“I grew up in Londinium. A street rat like Theo,” Arthur replies, something guarded in his eyes when he speaks, but his demeanor remains calm if not his spine rigid as he strolls beside you. The hand at your elbow- that’s navigated you away from soaked boots- twitches and his other hand unfurls from a fist he seems to find as soon as it's released. Over and over- a tension in his form that he holds like it anchors him to the present.

“You’ve come a far way,” you say, “From the streets to the King’s guard.”

Arthur nods, gaze reflective while he scans the surroundings. Like he’s looking for an escape route, you fear. 

“It’s there-,” you point at a cluster of raised tombs beyond the next rise, where you intend to meet Eleanor’s sister, Helen, and Arthur sighs- his breath held for a pause before he continues.

“Aye,” Arthur says, his voice calm but an underlying emotion carries through it, “It was challenging, but I would not trade it for anything.” Arthur says with a fond smile.

“I do not pretend to understand,” you offer with a soft gaze, “It must have been difficult,” you add as you crest the hill and regard the ornate family tombs that are nested below. 

“It taught me resilience. I learned how to survive in a world which is often unforgiving,” Arthur says with a shrug of one broad shoulder but the casual action is betrayed when his gaze travels somewhere far away- landing on a hard stare.

“Yet you speak with fondness,” you say, Arthur’s thumb rubbing at your arm in a soothing way- and you think it’s less for you than himself. Still, a flurry of motion in your gut rises to meet his touch.

“I had family,” Arthur says, and his voice carries pain that threads his speech to his throat and you cannot fail to notice his use of past tense.

Swallowing hard, Arthur continues, “Society may have shunned them but to me they were everything,” Arthur says on a heavy breath that rattles out of him. Like he’s releasing a burden. Rolling his shoulders, Arthur lets his head fall back and regards the gloomy sky for a long moment.

“They protected and cared for me. They were kind when they didn’t have to be,” Arthur says, “When the world gave them every reason not to be- they chose love,” Arthur says.

“It sounds like you were raised with a lot of that,” you say, and Arthur nods with eyes that blink rapidly. Arthur swipes at his face, his head thrust into his elbow- the one hand still gently grasping your arm as though he’s scared you’ll still wander off from him. But you’re no longer consumed with your own grief- but the one that envelops him so clearly. Whatever happened to Arthur’s family must have been horrible. And yet he still chose a profession to protect- to align himself with the values bestowed by the people that loved him so.

“Indeed, I was,” Arthur says with a smile that he directs to the heavens, “I owe them more than I could ever repay.”

“Thank you for sharing that with me,” you say, lifting your hand to grip Arthur’s- offering a squeeze that he returns with a warm smile.

In the reverent quiet of this end of the cemetery- where wealthy families lay their loved ones to rest in ornate opulence- a strange sound lifts above the marbled stone. Echoing off the tombs- it’s the sound of a man grunting in pleasure.

Arthur’s hand on yours tightens- his gaze ripping away from you to ascertain the sound. Heat flushes through you when you realize it’s the noise of love making- if not rather one sided. There’s no answering moan from his partner- no manly or womanly cries of returned pleasure.

Arthur strides down the hill- having released your hand- he moves with purpose. There’s something dark in his face- like he’s recalling a terrible experience. 

“Arthur-,” you call, hurling after him because in all the chaos of this day you’d forgotten to inform him of Eleanor’s sister’s- Helen’s- profession. No one would assume these things happen in the resting places of their loved ones- not unless you went looking. 

Which Arthur was doing with an intense focus- running to each tomb to thrust his ear upon the cold, smooth stone- ears straining to locate the source of the muffled groaning.

“Wait-,” you call but Arthur has found the tomb from which the sounds originate and he shoves at the stone door with little care for the inhabitants privacy before disappearing inside. 

“Get off of her,” Arthur shouts as you hurl yourself in his wake- the infinitely dark tomb betraying little of the scene in front of you until a woman’s cursing bursts forth. 

Her offended shriek ricochets off the stone walls with such force it might chip them. The man’s grunting halts- a surprised yelp in its place and a scraping sound of wood against stone to accompany it.

“What the fuck, mate?” The man spits- although it sounds like he’s being choked of breath.

Helen curses up a storm with the same thick accent as her sister. With enough air to her speech to fill the small tomb thrice over with her aggravated swears. 

“Who the feck are ye? If ye want a turn you have to wait! If ye want to watch ye have to pay!” Helen screeches at Arthur who glares at the man in his grip.

“Arthur!” You exclaim and the sliver of sunlight he’s allowed in illuminates the silhouette in front of you. Arthur’s curled over the man- his elbow is shoved against the man’s throat as he scrabbles against a casket. 

Helen is righting her dress with tight, efficient movements. The most pissed off woman in the world glares at the back of Arthur’s head.

“Let me go-“ the man pleads- eyes darting fearfully between you, Arthur and Helen. 

A small fist from Helen’s direction collides with Arthur’s spine. Helen may well have stricken the wall for all it does to move Arthur who grunts but doesn’t release the man in his fierce hold. Blue eyes burn with anger- his entire frame focused on the stranger with an intensity that turns the air to paste.

“Ye heard him-,” Helen insists and Arthur shoves the man out of his grasp and into the wall with a snarl. 

“You don’t deserve that-,” Arthur says, his gaze alight with fury on the man, his voice cast back to Helen who reels- affronted. 

A flurry of fists colliding with Arthur’s sides and spine once more but he ignores her. The impacts barely seem to register given her skeletal arms and slight hands. They’re curled into combat nonetheless- her anger matching Arthur’s. Ricocheting higher when he doesn’t respond except to glare darkly at the client that hurries to right his clothes and gather his things.

“And whose youse- who’s yous to say how I earn my coin-? Are you going to pay for that lay that ye ruined?” Helen screams at Arthur before her gaze lands on you as Arthur moves to stand between you and the man that takes his leave with haste. 

Hurrying to scramble out of the tomb- the man leaves with an unhappy series of grumbles.

“I’m sorry,” you offer to Helen who softens at your appearance although she casts a deadly look at Arthur when he settles at your side- glaring past you to the exit with his arms crossed and his jaw ticking a silent anger.

“He didn’t know-,” you try to defend Arthur and Helen huffs- disheveled and indignant for her lost customer.

She’s a wisp of her sister. Hollow cheeked and messy haired. There’s none of Eleanor’s subtle elegance. The clothes Helen wears look like she’s robbed a grave and donned the occupant’s outfit. The smell is adjacent- even thicker in the stale room. 

Quickly, you produce Eleanor’s gift for her frustrated regard. As though she’s a child, her eyes- so inset in her skull and dark beneath- brighten at the parcel in your palm.

“A present!” she exclaims, collecting the item with pale fingers with dirt beneath her nails. Unlike the Wolf’s Den, these tombs have no access to free water to bathe. Helen is alone- fucking on graves- and although her chosen profession must be lucrative for as long as her sister has worked the brothel, Helen has worked here- there’s none of Eleanor’s luxury despite this.

“From Eleanor,” you say with a bright smile that Arthur can’t seem to share. 

Helen ignores your ruffled sentinel and instead rubs the salve on her grimy skin. A fresh citrus and floral scent fills the choked space that smells of rot and sex.

“My customers will hate this,” Helen says but she releases an indulgent sigh. Closing her pale, vein webbed eyelids as though she’s transported to a place far, far away from where she stands.

“They like to pretend I’m one of them. Stench and all,” Helen says, ticking her head back to the caskets behind her with a gleam in her eye when Arthur flinches. 

“Ohhh,” Helen says with a playful grin to you, “He doesn’t know?” and you shake your head in affirmation.

Despite his usually calm demeanor, Arthur’s distress is clear. Although he tries to tamp down his reactions- it’s evident that he’s disturbed. You don’t blame him. When you first learned of Helen’s- acclivities- in this cemetery- you were alarmed. 

The solitary location. The lack of access to water to clean or drink. The quality of clients that attend- it still makes you lose sleep at night. Helen catered to mourners- comforting the recently widowed with plenty of concealed locations within the cemetery. She also entertained clients with darker desires. Some men paid more if she pretended to be dead. This is what Arthur and you had intruded upon- and to Arthur’s credit by all appearances it didn’t appear consensual. 

His reaction was formidable- and you wonder, now aware of his upbringing, how often he’d witnessed such brutality and violence that his own answered to meet it so immediately. 

The way he’d swiftly descended into the dark tomb like there were worse fates than death. Like he was the grim reaper intent on delivering said agony- still made you shiver.

“I forgive him,” Helen says with another indulgent whiff of the salve Eleanor had gifted her. The nostalgic scent carries her to a place where her heart is more lenient. But still, her pockets are emptier than they would have been due to Arthur’s interference- and although you think Helen keeps her appearance so severe to appeal to her clients- you worry at her frail state nonetheless. 

Reaching into your pouch- you produce a water skin and a parcel of food you’d brought from home. It’s not a lot- but it's more than nothing. Guilt lingers, and you offer a little more to ease her strife.

“Along the far end of the lot, near Potter’s Hill- there’s a plant about to bloom before the next full moon. Only for a day so move with haste when you see it. Wavy leaves, a dark purple flower that looks like a spade. It will attract flies and smell of rotting meat,” you inform Helen and she nods earnestly.

“Aye, it looks like a tongue. I thought they’d chucked someone in the swamp on the other side of the fence instead of burying them because of the hard ground,” she says, recalling that lonely spring morning, “I dinnae know it only stays for a day- I plucked one last year and went back the following week- but it was gone-,” she says with a sad smile, “How do I keep them?”

“Soak them in oil- the slick I gave you last- do you still have some?” 

Helen nods.

“One or two blooms should give a potent smell that will last you the year.”

Helen barks a laugh.

“Ye dinnae know how foul my clients are- it’ll last me a month if I can gather the whole field,” Helen says and you try to smile but the thought of it all is staggering.

“Thank ye,” Helen says with a meaningful look. 

Arthur shifts his weight and focus on your conversation breaks to a rustling sound outside before a different man’s face appears in the opening to the surface. 

“Time to go,” Arthur says, something distant and business-like in his tone which Helen seems to appreciate, throwing you a suggestive raise of her brow.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says, a handful of coins slides onto a ledge by the exit before he disappears outside. 

Helen casts her gaze to you with a happier smile.

“Take care,” you say and follow Arthur while Helen ushers the strange man inside. 

Leaving the tombs behind, Arthur’s discomfort fades in the length of time it takes to reach Critter. 

Pressed against his back once more, you hold onto Arthur’s waist while he directs Critter to the main road. Arthur’s stiffer than he was before— his solid frame held upright like a rod is attached to his spine. By the time Critter meets the fields on the edge of the city, Arthur relaxes in your embrace.

|||

The afternoon passes with your arms wrapped around Arthur. The sun hides behind gathering grey clouds and the canopy of a forest only just grown in with its leaves.

The gentle sway of the ride presses your face to the soft suede of Arthur’s jacket. His muscles bunching and rolling as he tugs the reins. 

Eventually, he and Critter find an easy rhythm. Enough that Arthur’s arms list at his sides, against yours. Offering a comfortable warmth and weight that reminds you of when you rode astride Silas. Those long,endless evenings where the fields glowed with fire bugs and the long gaze of the summer sun. Where the village you rode towards now yawned and stretched in its sleepy way. 

Before the war. 

Before everything changed. 

If Arthur notices the way your hands clench around him, like you’re trying to keep him at your side the way you’d clutched to Silas before he left to join the other Mage’s fight against Vortigern, he doesn’t say anything. 

A cold drizzle makes you straighten. Draws you away from the past. The forest you pass through thins, the freshly budded leaves barely covering the road. A branch slides over your cowl, nearly tugging it from your crown. And then another grazes your face. A leaf smacks your hand as you shield yourself from the sudden onslaught of foliage.

“Arthur?” you ask, but his arms don’t correct Critter who has taken a sharp descent away from the road and into the ditch. Critter loyally steps amidst the trees while you struggle against their branches even with Arthur seated before you.

Leaning to the side, you try to look beyond the broad expanse of Arthur’s shoulders– perhaps another traveller intends to pass. Arthur slides the opposite way, and Critter obeys. More leaves and branches slide over Arthur’s form, and you duck to avoid them.

The road ahead is clear. Confusion slaps you as another branch whips past Arthur’s form and you curl into him, legs raising to balance against Arthur’s sudden turn. 

Except Arthur’s weight bears into your leg further like he’s about to topple off Critter.

“Arthur!” your hands grasp at his sides, all your strength pushing forwards as you try to both anchor him to Critter and in search of his arms. They hang listless, and you grope along their firm length until you find his limp hands, tugging the reins to correct Critter’s path through the trees.

“Wake up, Arthur, please,” you beg and the man stirs in front of you. 

Strong fingers clasp yours as he startles into consciousness. Arthur pulls at the leather in your grip, and Critter comes to a stop with a huff. A shake of his mane as though he doesn’t wish to accept Arthur’s apologies.

“M’sorry,” Arthur says, words slurred with sleep- exhaustion, before he releases your hands and with less grace than any of you can hope for, including the beast he dismounts, Arthur slides from the saddle, leaving you to take his place.

Arthur leaves one hand upon Critter like a quiet apology, steadying himself, the other dragging a path down his face as he tries to wipe the last remnants of his slumber from himself. It does little to remove the dark shadows beneath his eyes, or how they crease with tiredness.

“There’s an inn ahead,” you offer, and Arthur’s worn gaze lifts to yours, uncertainty and consideration mixing in his expression before he shakes his head. There’s still more hours of sun left to travel with.

“You need rest,” you implore and Arthur sighs tightly, your sore voice wearing him further.

You need rest too.

“We need our wits about us. The road is dangerous,” you say before casting a look about you, “The forest, as well. Will you accept a warm meal? Perhaps a bath?” 

Arthur’s gaze falls to the pack of supplies he’s brought. He should refuse, however, he’s not one for wilderness, and the thought of attempting to light a fire when he’s used to matches, candles and torches makes him cringe. 

“As you wish, but I’d prefer to walk for a while,” Arthur says before he grabs the lead and guides Critter back towards the road. The horses steps are more sure than Arthur’s. 

“I’m sure our loyal steed will appreciate the respite,” you say, dismounting even as Critter walks and falling into a gentle step behind Arthur. The landing wasn’t as elegant as you’d hoped, your new boots unusual to you, and you’re grateful to Arthur’s turned back. Still, he looks up to where you’ve just sat with a smirk as though expecting you there, before finding you at his spine with a small look of surprise.

“Where’d you learn how to do that?” Arthur says with a deepening crease of his cheek, like you’ve just told him a most amusing secret.

“Another life,” you say, with a small smile, but a lance of grief spears it to your face for a moment too long, and Arthur spots this. The remainder of the walk is spent in silence, until the back of your heel begins to feel warm. Pausing you settle on a rock, pulling off your boot and procuring your salves.

Arthur ties Critter to a branch, as you apply an ointment to the blister that has begun to form before carefully wrapping it with a piece of cloth. When you’re finished, you catch Arthur’s stare- a crease between his brow at the bruise across your ankle.

“You do not heal with haste,” Arthur says, blinking away his focus as though he’s intruding with it. 

“Some of us do not live in courtly abundance,” you state, as Arthur procures a package from his supply bag. Unwrapping it carefully he offers you a slice of dried meat and a wedge of aged cheese.

“We’re nearly there,” you say, nodding towards the seam of smoke curling above the trees in the distance.The sun peers from behind a dark cloud and the jagged edge of the treeline. The air is growing colder.

“Eat,” Arthur says, but there’s no order in it, just gentle hope. Like he’s used to putting wordless pleas into his voice. Like he’s courted a woman towards appetite before.

“Join me,” you say, taking the offered food, your fingers brushing his, and that same sparking tug alights at the touch. The one that speaks to intertwined magic, and the longing that pulls in your gut. Somehow they feel both separate and the same.

Just like you suspected, Arthur acquiesces. The drizzling downpour has maintained, and you’re grateful for the warmth he provides when he settles beside you. There’s a mindful amount of space between you, but Arthur casts his elbows to his bent knees, heat pouring from his frame as he blocks the wind from your form.

Carefully, Arthur carves pieces of meat, cheese and a slightly bruised apple with a small blade. Passing them to you as he works thoughtfully. It stings your throat to chew and swallow, and despite this, there’s always another piece for you no matter how long it takes to finish the last. He must be eating the gristle or rinds to maintain the same pace as you. Not wanting to rush you until you’re full.

Perhaps it's your years spent isolated, but the words arrive into the air between you before you have a chance to lock them in your thoughts.

“You eat like a lady,” you say and to your surprise, which lessened the more time you spent with him, Arthur laughs softly.

“Aye, I’ve been told the same often,” Arthur admits with a smile that curves not only for you, but for the ones he’s amused before.

“I do not mean to insult-,” you say, and Arthur shakes his head.

“S’not,” Arthur says, a seriousness crossing his face like he wants you to know he means his words, “Least not where I’m from.”

“You said you had a family” you inquire gently.

Arthur’s blade pauses where it worries over the bruised apple, like he’s considering the edge of truth.

Of what harms and what heals.

“I was raised in a brothel.”

Arthur offers this directly, his voice bearing no hesitancy, as though he hedges himself in advance for your reaction. The silence shifts. Like you’re both considering the weight of his words. 

Arthur turns to you stiffly, unsure where it will land. There’s something worried in him, like he’s unravelling a threaded tapestry with the smallest of tugs. Like he’s piled up stones that an entire kingdom is poised upon. Like he’s waiting for a landslide to erupt in the quiet between you.

“The women there worked harder than most Kings ever had,” Arthur continued while you chewed his words, “They taught me to notice things. Be polite. Wait your turn. How you take up space tells others what you think of them.”

Arthur passes you another slice of apple. It has pieces missing. The flesh of what he offers you is unblemished while he eats the bruised ones. Like he only wants the best for you. Like it doesn’t matter what it takes from him.

“You were loved,” you say and Arthur nods once, solemnly. A lifetime of grief flies across his face- like a sparrow crossing the sea, with nowhere to land but your words are like ships, offering safe harbor.

“Aye,” he says, “Even if no one else thought I was worth the trouble,” Arthur says, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“And raised quite well, if I may say,” you remarked, and Arthur nods deeper with a building laugh. It shakes a layer of grief from him, if only momentarily.

“Aye, you may. They would love to hear you say it,” Arthur says with a fond look. “Not many would believe it, but they taught me everything worth knowing.”

You believed it. Arthur was honest and kind when the world was not. When it rewarded the opposite. 

Behind you, Critter lifts his head from where he’d been snuffling the grass to peer down the road. It narrows before rounding a curve by a stone ridge. 

A small garrison patrols towards you, its banners sun faded and tattered but unmistakably in Vortigern’s colors. 

Arthur tracks the horse’s focus before the fleet of men’s armor and drunken conversation can be heard. Arthur stands, quickly packing away your supplies before he offers his hand.

When you stand, you move to pull your hand away but Arthur tightens his grip, his other hand moves to your lower back, gently pushing you towards Critter.

“Up you get.” Arthur says, eyes still locked on the garrison while he grabs your waist. 

You’re lifted up onto Critter, and Arthur only releases you to press a blade into your hand and then the reins.

“If they draw their swords, you ride,” Arthur says, looking imploringly upon you and the approaching garrison.

“Arthur-,” you start to protest- but his ice blue eyes cut to yours, as he draws Critter behind him, placing himself in the way of the potential threat. 

Your hands tighten on the reins, your heart thrumming in your ears.

“Promise me that you will,” Arthur says, using the last few moments to wait for your reply while the garrison spreads wide across the road, blocking the way forward. Arthur's intense attention upon you like he waits to find your sincerity.

“I will,” you say, nodding tightly, although your breath is held in your chest so that it aches to think of leaving Arthur behind with this potentially fearsome lot.

“Good girl,” Arthur says, before his head swivels back to the road, and your breath is caught all over again as you draw your cowl upon your crown. Something unnamed burns within you, quiet embarrassment joining for being distracted at a time like this.

One of the guards strides forth. He bears King Vortigern’s old colors and banner. The rest of them stare through slatted helmets. Their black leathers and crested helmets remind you of a murder of crows. You could only hope you would fare on luck’s side. 

“Good afternoon, lads,” Arthur calls out, offering a jovial wave that looks friendly aside from the tightness to his frame. Like he’s ready to snap into place- like a blade finding the space between armor and skin.

“Afternoon, to you,” the guard says gruffly. He’s older than Arthur. His black mask shoved upside his head to reveal his unimpressed face within his leather cowl. Unshaven, his mouth and leathers dripping with grease and reeking of ale. He’s plump like a fall pheasant, with all the peacocking as he surveys you and Arthur. 

He eyes Arthur’s clean coat, the weight of the saddlebags with interest. 

Arthur sees it but maintains a friendly smile.

Arthur’s hand tightens on the lead when the man’s gaze slides up your form. First, your boots, then a lazy path up the shape of your leg beneath your cloak which you pull firmly around yourself until finally he meets your gaze with a syrupy smile.

“Afternoon, miss” he says, slurring and sleazy and you nod once before you carefully turn your gaze to his men. They stand side by side, some with flag banners, others spears. None of them with horses, but a fierce front nonetheless. They've closed most of the distance between you and them. Your breaths meet each other quicker than before at the realization.

“What can we do for you?” Arthur asks, no longer smiling. There’s a pulse in his jaw as he glares at the guard, although he tempers it by stepping further to your side as the man stumbles with the effort of looking up at you, drunk as he is, and his slick gaze falls back to Arthur, slightly annoyed.

There’s disregard where he stares between Arthur’s face and his jacket- like he thinks both are too good for Arthur.

“What can you do for us?” The guard parrots and his men laugh, his accent more rural than Arthur’s so that it comes out more like “Wot carn yoo doo for oos?”, the last word drawn out until he laughs like he’s telling a joke. 

“Aye,” Arthur says with a curt nod.

“Hmmph,” The guard says, a disgruntled hiccup of a sound.

“Where yous headed?” he asks, and Arthus nods towards the garrison and the road behind them. 

“An inn, down aways,” Arthur offers, allowing some of his former friendliness to line his voice. You’re not sure if the weariness astride it is another farce, or a genuine reflection of Arthur’s worn state.

The guard nods, strolling towards Critters rear, although his eyes are trained on you. 

Arthur lifts a hand to the back of the saddle, leaving it there, casually blocking the man’s intended target. 

The garrison shuffles, a rippling squeak of leathers and weapons, and Arthur’s other hand comes up to rest on his belt buckle, clearly displeased at his attention being torn in both directions. His focus remains locked on the guard that’s closest to you.

You stare resolutely at the ground, tense. Fingers clasped tightly around the blade in your cloak, like it might steel your nerves. The guard’s armor clangs as he inspects the supply bags.

“You dinnae need supplies,” the guard remarks before he strolls back towards Arthur, securing him in his swimming sights.

Arthur shrugs, his hand that rested upon the saddle behind you now coming to your thigh. He pats it twice, before he grasps it firmly near your knee.

“Aye, we dinnae need supplies, but a warm hearth out of the rain to recover from our travels,” Arthur says before his hand slides higher. 

You resist the urge to clench your thighs.

A small breath through your nose makes Arthur’s lips quirk.

Arthur hugs your leg into the crock of his arm. You manage to look shy beneath the guard’s leering stare. It’s less pretending to be reserved than the very real feeling of Arthur’s fingers digging into your upper thigh and his frame hanging off your form. Like he needs as much of himself to be pressed against you. 

Possessive. Protective of the leg that the guard is transfixed with.

The guard’s captivated by Arthur’s brazen touch, licking his grease covered lips before smiling knowingly. 

“I would not keep a man from the comfort of his wife,” the guard says with a suggestive laugh before he regards the direction you’ve come from and your overfilled saddlebags once more.His laughter cuts off on a derisive sound.

“We don’t get a lot of wealthy folk with days worth of camp supplies round here,” the guard says, pinning Arthur with a searching stare. Arthur pats your leg again, holding his smile.

“We enjoy the fresh air, and the lack of servants. My wife is shy, you see,” Arthur says and you avoid the guard’s gaze as a few men in the garrison remark lowly among themselves.

“So why are you going to an inn, with all tha’ food if yous don’t like having neighbors?” the guard implores, and Arthur’s smile thins.

“Ran into some bad luck last week. Another patrol turned us back from a dry tavern. I cannae let my bride go hungry. Thought it best to be prepared,” Arthur’s grip on your thigh softens. 

Brushing your leg with his thumb, he casts one adoring look up at you, like you raise and set the sun and moon. It’s enough to convince the guard of his farce.

Wealthy man.

Charitable husband.

Just on the right side of soft to not be a threat.

“She’s quiet,” the guard says, like he’s throwing bait. Arthur doesn't flinch, like he's been expecting this, despite the way you twitch in his grasp.

Arthur’s eyes cut to his- bright, sharp, but his smile remains. It’s tighter across his face than when it was directed at you, like he’s baring his teeth at the guard.

“She’s had a long journey. And I’ve kept her busy,” A few of the garrison chuckle amongst themselves at Arthur’s words.

He lets them land where he’s intended before adding, ”My bride prefers the comforts of an inn and I’ve promised her a bath,” Arthur says, something folding into his smile when you shift slightly on the saddle. 

Your eyes pinned to the ground just beyond your boot that Arthur now grasps and pushes gently. Unable to make eye contact with anyone at what Arthur has insinuated. 

The first guard opens his mouth- but another, older guard barks from the line.

“Let them pass, Carrick. You were a young fool in love once.”

Carrick scowls, but throws up a hand at his men, who step aside.

Arthur gives a gracious nod, nearing a bow of his upper body, before he turns to you. Grip tightening on your boot, Arthur removes your foot from the stirrup to place his own, and you shift back to make room for him, expecting him to mount Critter as before but Arthur merely stands, pulling you towards him by your thighs.

Critter shifts, and Arthur overcorrects- at least you think so at first. 

Blue eyes center you, as he leans into you.

And then further.

Your breath catches.

Arthur’s lips graze yours. Softly. Like an apology. Like he’s aware he’s not supposed to be here. His mouth finds the curve of yours with practiced ease. Like you’ve shared a lifetime of kisses before this moment.

Arthur takes up your surprise with his hand, lifting to your face, his thumb brushes your jaw. Fingers collecting your startled edges into something believable as he pulls away, lifting your chin so that your gaze meets his.

A few within the garrison holler lasciviously.

Arthur pulls away slightly- his gaze drops to your lips for a breath. Long enough you half think he might kiss you again before blue eyes cut to yours with a meaningful expression. Subtle enough some might mistake it for adoration.

“Let’s go, my love. My undivided attention awaits you,” Arthur says, head lowering closer to yours as he leans further into you once more. This time to whisper some loving words as a doting husband might, but instead he whispers guidance for your next moments. He must have felt you tremble amidst the kiss- and assumed it was fear of the garrison going back on their decision.

“Don’t look back once we pass,” Arthur whispers, his lips ghosting over the shell of your ear where it’s tucked into your cowl before he’s stepping back down and replacing your leg in the stirrup. The absence of him before you replaced with the leering eyes of the garrison, you grasp at your cowl, thrusting yourself further into it.

Playing along only as much as Arthur’s actions have caused a stirring within you, your hand reaching out to brush his fingers when you hand him the lead. Arthur takes it without a glance back at you. You suppose it’s for the best, flustered as you feel, your hands clenching around the reins for a different reason than when the guards had first approached.

Arthur guides Critter past the garrison at a slow trot. You stare at the back of his golden crown until you’re past the stone ridge. Until your breathing settles. Your heart is still thrumming in your chest like a bird in a cage. Arthur doesn’t turn around until you’ve met the next curve in the road, his shoulders dropping tension when he rounds on a long sigh.

“Are you alright?” Arthur asks after scouting the road behind, your own gaze snapping to the empty road as soon as he’d rounded himself.

You nod, lips still remembering the feel of his against them, your chin still warm with the coarse brush of his beard.

“You w-were convincing,” you offer, words stammering out but bright with the rush of what Arthur had just managed.You’re not sure if you mean Arthur’s kiss, or his ability to skirt the guard’s suspicions.

“I’ve had practice,” Arthur says with a shrug, wide shoulders and expression still tight with disregard for the previous interactions.

You lift an eyebrow, curious. Unsure of what Arthur has decided your meaning was.

Arthur meets it with another shrug.

“Some people fancy a bedding like that,” Arthur says, memories tracing back to his years at the brothel. You’re not sure if you want to clarify if he’s had firsthand experience or if it was something he learned from the women who raised him.

“How did you know- that we shouldn’t look back?” you ask instead, and Arthur’s face becomes serious.

“I didn’t,” Arthur says with a half shrug, “I knew what he expected of me. A man with money- power- he wouldn’t flinch. Wouldn’t look over his shoulder because he thinks nothing behind him could hurt him. The world falls in line for men like that. And that includes a patrol garrison and his woman. The world steps out of their way. There’s no need to fear when you believe everyone is meant to kneel for you.”

Arthur shakes his head, something like disgust flitting over his handsome features, but somehow it doesn’t look ugly on him, perhaps stern, but you decide it suits him, “I don’t think that way. But I’ll play the part if I have to.” Arthur says it resolutely, like he’d have met every blade between you and the garrison with all his strength if they’d seen through his act. Like he wouldn’t have thought twice about it.

The herbalist sat, captured in thought, her brow furrowing.

“Is that how I looked to you,” you ask, “Like a woman that will fall into line behind a man like that?” You mean the man Arthur acted as. The one that believes everyone is meant to kneel for him. Arthur’s stiff words repeating in your mind, His woman.

Arthur gapes- caught off guard- mouth moving around silent words he desperately tries to collect while his head shakes fiercely. Like he would banish the thought in your mind before it could have even arrived.

“No,” Arthur says, fists twitching over the lead before he thrusts it towards you. When you accept it, Arthur shuffles his weight over his feet, suddenly anxious that he’s offended you.

“Good,” you reply, “Because I didn’t see a man expecting me to follow. I saw you making room for me to go forward.”

Arthur’s gaze flicks to yours, suddenly hesitant yet his chin tucks to his chest, affording you the top of his golden crown, accepting your appraisal of him with a deep nod until he meets your look full force, lips curving as he smiles mischievously.

“However, I recall you nearly following me into a river,” Arthur says with a sideways glance.

It’s your turn to gape- scowling. Mock affront and a sliver of embarrassment vying for estate in your features and feelings.

“I should have let you drown,” you muse, playfully dark and Arthur laughs. Bright and indulgent like he can argue your statement by the sound alone. The stutter of your heart agrees.

“You wouldn’t,” he remarks confidently with a smug smile. The dimple in his cheek is folding like he has more to say. A tease of words he tucks into his smile. But he only chews on them thoughtfully as he stares up at you fondly.

Your eyes meet the road ahead, suddenly all too aware of Arthur’s attention. Your thoughts meet the task you’d signed up for and you shake your head softly.

“No, I wouldn’t,” you admit, quieter, almost like you hope he won’t hear you, but it’s unlikely, because Arthur’s awareness never leaves you, not completely,  “You’re someone worth saving.”

Arthur’s smile shifts- breaking for a brief moment, before it returns, somehow brighter than before.

“That’s not how most people see me,” Arthur says, cocking one eyebrow in some measure of disbelief.

And yet, some had. 

The women that raised him.

Goosefat. Bedivere. Rubio.

The Mage. 

His father.

And now you.

“Well, then most are fools,” you remark with a too casual shrug, boot tucking into Critter’s sides so he trots forwards. Eager to place more space between you and the garrison, and the way your words speak to your feelings.

Arthur follows, his laugh reaching you before his words. The clouds above break, revealing the brightest stars of twilight. They blink like the spark in Arthur’s playful eyes.

“Still, you shouldn’t follow me into rivers.”

“Then follow me to the inn. I do desire that bath,” you call backwards, Arthur’s soft chuckle thrown into the approaching night before his boots meet the dirt at a quicker pace in your wake.

“As you wish.”

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Thank you for reading!! Please engage if you enjoyed- likes, comments and reblogs mean ✨ e v e r y t h i n g ! ✨Thank you dear reader! ^_^ 💖💖💖

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Pyre - a heap of combustible material, especially one for burning a corpse as part of a funeral ceremony.

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Emerging from your room and into the inn once again, it feels like leaving the narrow, insulated seed pod of fireweed about to burst, and being thrust into a thick hedge of blackthorn. Your ears prick with the sound of men- lots of them and they’re loud, drunk and boisterous.

The soft, gentle embrace of the sleep you’d only just been lulled into, is torn away as though it were as thin as a poppy’s petal. Suddenly, you feel fragile, like the moments of being cared for have worn you transparent.

You hold yourself, clinging to your cloak out of habit, tugging it close and you think if you were to look at your hands, you’d see the fabric through your fingers.

Like you hadn’t enough time to grow a protective layer around yourself. Raw and delicate. A freshly budded leaf, shiny and curled around itself, wanting to reach out for the sunlight. And that would be Arthur.

Because of course it’s him. Whose made you feel less like a husk of yourself, and more like something about to bloom.

The noise of the garrison reaches you as soon as Arthur cracks the door. Men shout slurred jests and jibes, tankards meet the worn wood counter of the bar for just a kiss before they’re lifted to ale slick lips. The innkeeper’s pleas to not raid his dwindling pantry are lost amongst the din of the crowded main room.

Your hand tightens around your coat even further, pulling your hood over your crown with an old habit. The urge to hide is great, and you loathe the steps ahead that will bring you to your next resting spot.

Arthur pauses at the landing of the stairwell, allowing the innkeeper’s children to dart past him and disappear into their father’s abode. The eldest assures Arthur that your tent is prepared, even as his hands are busy collecting his brothers and his expression assures their safety with a maturity that betrays his years.

Three grim faces peer up at you before they disappear behind a door that locks with haste, each younger than the last, and your heart pangs alongside them. You know what it feels like to lock yourself away, out of reach of danger and threat.

Arthur casts one look back at you, his face twisted into something solemn and serious. One hand grips the straps of your supply bags over his shoulder, and the other reaches out for yours.

As naturally as planting sage with cabbage to protect from slugs, you slip your hand into Arthur’s solid, warm grip. It makes an awful sort of sense, to continue the charade of your pairing, at least until you were clear of prying eyes. The burst of warmth in your gut at his firm hold, of your feelings for Arthur taking root in your being, are no farce though.

Descending into the main room, you fold yourself into Arthur’s wake. Despite the way you keep your head lowered, Arthur’s body language doesn’t escape your notice. It’s like he commands whatever room he steps into.

Straightening in front of you, Arthur takes the steps at a pace you’d deem too slow for your liking, although your own would be closer to fleeing, and you decide the confident air he adapts is more suited to going unnoticed than your usual fearful approach to being in the vicinity of scary King’s guards. It’s strategic, the way Arthur moves. Aware of how he adopts space, and filling it the way he’s expected to. He does it with such ease, that it’s easy to forget your false pretenses, and slide into the role you’re allotted aside his.

His woman.

With ease, Arthur joins the fray of the crowd. His grip on you remains firm, holding you closely in his wake, so that your nose nearly brushes the soft leather of his coat at his spine. The scent of him surrounds you- the sage and feverfew from his bath, and something that’s all Arthur. He’s lowered the supply bags, perhaps to draw you more comfortably into his shadow, or to have his hand closer to the hilt of his sword, but either way you feel gratitude bloom in your chest. The entirety of your vision is eclipsed with his broadness, and it feels like gazing upon the sea. Vast and certain, overflowing with a mysterious power that he commands with nearly terrifying ease.

Your steps are short, given you cannot see well, but Arthur’s stride does not falter as he aims for the inn’s doors. Whatever expression he’s adopted, which you suspect may be more annoyed than the friendliness he’d assumed earlier on the road, assures that whoever notices him, and you next, their interest is fleeting and easily given over to something else. It seems you’ll escape the garrison’s attention this time without interrogation, and relief is a breath away as you cross the threshold of the inn without any interference.

Your belief in being unconfronted is lost however, when the yard is swarming with the garrison yet. There’s more than you met on the road out here, and they’re drunker than the lot inside. A few stumble towards the door that swings shut in your wake. One, smelling of retch and sweat, knocks into Arthur’s shoulder with enough force that you're taken back with it.

It’s enough movement to draw attention.

First, you yelp in surprise at the sudden jolt, unaware due to Arthur’s frame blocking the path ahead of the incoming collision.

Then, there’s the soft oof as you collide with the wall of Arthur’s spine.

Next, comes the dull thud of your head meeting the door behind you. Thankfully cushioned by your hood, but a thrash of pain spikes nonetheless from the base of your skull, up and over to your eyes.

Your pained hiss is met with Arthur’s low curse as your hand slips from his as you try to collect yourself.

The slurred apology of the soldier gives way to a moment of silence as you right yourself against the wood before it begins to pull away from you with a creak. Just on the wrong side of catching your balance, you tilt backwards into the opening void.

In a blink, Arthur’s hand closes around your wrist- unfortunately your injured one, and another pained sound escapes you before you can bite it back. It’s worse than the first and Arthur’s apology rapidly follows another growled curse. You know his dark words are meant for the drunk guard, and all his place in your hurt. But Arthur keeps them low enough between you to not garner unwanted attention, ever aware of your position in regards to threat.

Pulling you back to center, Arthur releases his grip as fast as it comes, only allowing a lingering pass of his thumb over your skin, a silent apology as his other hand comes up to caress your crown. Arthur tugs you into his chest, pulling you into his embrace with a fierce look at the guard that gazes upon the scene as though he’s yet to process it. Swimming eyes and mind lost in drink.

“Mind whatever words you’d put to your temper, son. This one gets mean when he drinks,” A gruff voice comes from your back, muffled with your hood and Arthur’s arm, but you recognize it from earlier. It’s the oldest guard of the garrison, the one that had ordered Carlick to stand down and let you and Arthur pass on the road.

Now, he’s ordering the same of Arthur it seems, a warning along with it, and Arthur’s answering growl rumbles from his chest and into your ear and what feels like your entire being with the darkly protective quality of it.

“Perhaps your men should mind their step if they do not wish to meet my vexation,” Arthur says, the words bit off with his aggravation. Silence comes from your back, as though the guards are weighing his words, so Arthur offers more weight, as though to settle their debate before it begins.

“I promise you, I can be meaner when it comes to protecting my wife,” Arthur says, voice tight with fury, sharp as the point of an arrow. Tense like a bow drawn, ready to be loosed. Still, his hold of you is careful, although his entire body is rigid with anger.

Your face pressed to his chest, you feel the heat of him grow, pressing into you as though you embraced a fiery hearth. There’s a flash of blue in your vision, as though dawn had arrived in an instant, and you shove your face further into him, hoping to impede his magic from anyone else’s view.

It wouldn’t serve you for Arthur’s magic to be discovered by anyone else. Especially those loyal to Vortigern’s reign. They might believe him a Mage.

Arthur senses your unease, and perhaps the reason for it, his arms wrapping around you further as though he could cage you from harm. As though he could contain his magic from sheer force of will. Perhaps he can, because it does not appear again, but still you lift one of your hands and press it between your cheek and his chest, a firmer and more consistent application than when he’d slapped at his magic before.

It seems to settle him, for the guard that collided with you disappears into the inn without a word, and the older guard hums with an accepting “Aye, lad, git on yer way” before the door swings shut.

Arthur’s hands find your face, fingers brushing your jaw as he draws backwards, eager to look at you.

“Are you alright?” Arthur asks as your own hands find his, squeezing as you try to implore him to move from the door, your own gaze scouring his chest for any indication of magical flames.

“M’fine, please, let’s make haste,” you say, eager to put space between you and the inn, from any further interactions with this garrison.

Arthur sighs tightly, seemingly unsatisfied with your answer, but he bends to collect the supply bags, and turns his attention to locating your camp.

His hand remains fast around yours, like he’s loath to release you. Like you’d wish to be anywhere else but near him, especially given the swarm of guards about the yard like hornets invading a bee hive.

Around the side of the yard, close to the treeline, tucked in like a secret, a small tent sits in the shadow of the hedge that borders the inn. Arthur presses you gently onto the makeshift seating, an old worn stump near the circle of stones meant to be your firepit. Careful to keep the inn and its trespassers in his eyeline, Arthur sets to making you comfortable.

First, the supply bags are placed at your feet. Then, Arthur drops to his knees beside them, his face centering in your vision with a strange intensity in his expression. Your head throbs, and your wrist hurts, but the pain feels separate. Like you're floating on the surface of it and it’s somewhere deeper within you.

Arthur’s hands find the hem of your skirt and before you can react his fingers ghost up your calf. Your knees snap together, a startled gasp captured by Arthur leaning into your neck, his lips pressed into your skin as he speaks.

“Your knife,” he says, and then one deft hand finds the strap around your leg, and the weapon it sheathes before his touch disappears completely on his retreat. The hilt is simply pressed into your hand, your fingers grasping for the weight of it as your mind tries to wrap around the moments before. Anyone observing would believe it a brief lover’s exchange, and not the supply of protection that seems to settle the last of Arthur’s lifted edges when he sees the blade in your grip.

Arthur snaps kindling over one of his wide thighs, before tossing it into the pit. He casts small glances between you and the inn beyond, like he’s assessing both for threat.

“M’fine,” you attempt to implore, but your words are higher than you intend, and float across the space between you like the smoke that begins to curl from where Arthur prods the fire to life. As easily as he’d ignited the flame in your body- like it was there all along. Just waiting for the right moment to catch. The heat between you is like a mullein torch. Burning with fuel and strength enough to last. A bit unpredictable but never unwelcome.

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He’d fucked up.

Arthur knows it like he knows his fate.

He shouldn’t have gotten angry with the guards. Not when he knew they’d camp near the inn tonight. Not when he knew his magic had a tendency to flare with his emotions.

Arthur knew it the moment he’d heard your head meet the planks of the door.

That dull thunk echoing in his mind. Feeding into his fury like it found the center of him and pulled him inside out.

Arthur feels it like it’s carved into him. The urge to protect you and the one to wage his wrath on those that would do you harm feel like the two edges of a blade, and he’s being cleaved beneath it.

Once they reach the little camp, you sit on the stump like a wildflower that’s been pelted with rain. Wilted. Like pulling yourself upright might take too much effort. Like it might cost you something you cannot reclaim with ease.

Your hands tremble around the blade he pressed into them. You wince every time your wrist brushes your thigh. Your teeth clench every time you turn your head to glance at the inn, clutching the knife. Looking cold and needlessly brave and like you’re the one protecting him.

The darkness softens everything but he spots the pain in your features as clear as if it were his own.

Gods, he wants it to be his. All of it. Would take it from you and pull it over himself and feel every measure of it for the rest of his days if it would spare you.

Arthur kneels by the fire pit and forces himself to busyness. Stealing glances of you, only allowing himself to truly look at you whenever he thinks you are unaware because he’s coated with enough pain as it is. Covered with a sharp wrongness of desiring what he cannot have. That isn’t his despite what he’d told the guard.

You aren’t his wife.

You never would be.

This knowledge burns as brightly as the flames that jump beneath his fingers. He hadn’t even used a flint. The fire had appeared, as quick and hot as his thoughts as they burned in his mind.

And now they grow hotter, every time he looks at you- which is too often- he knows this, but it cannot be helped. Not when you’re trying to appear fine for his sake.

For him.

Something in him unravels. A knotted rope coming undone. Arthur feels like a ship unmoored. Missing its anchor.

He should tell you.

He should admit to you the truth of who he is.

About the danger that follows him closer than his next breath.

But if he did….

Arthur’s hands shake.

The reality of it, of you knowing, might place you further into the path of threat than they’ve already strayed. Into the kingdom he never asked for and was overrun with the bloated pests of Vortigern’s prior reign.

Arthur glares at the garrison as they stumble around the yard.

A spark catches. Eager to meet his disgust.

Flames jump beneath his hands as he spears a log into the smoking kindling.

Arthur barely notices the fire climbing towards him.

The only movement he focuses on is the herbalist when you jump forward.

“Arthur!” you shout, reaching towards him and the bright lick of flame that snaps towards him. Like a hand reaching out, keen to meet his ire, yours is just as quick.

Arthur reacts quicker than thought, his hand releasing the log before yours can cross the threshold of clumped stones surrounding the pit. But his retreat is not obeyed by the flame, which follows until it seems to change its target. Its trajectory folding over itself, seeking new flesh.

You cry out, your hand snapping back from the heat. Boots scraping the dirt as you throw yourself into the stump you’d been perched on.

“Did it burn you?” Arthur asks, launching around the pit and to your side.

Your eyes are wide upon him before they flit over your skin. It’s free from blisters or scorching.

“No, m’fine, the fire grew is all,” you say, a slight stammer to your words that Arthur hasn’t heard before. His stomach clenches. His breath thins.

You say it as though the flame doesn’t come alive when he’s near.

As if he weren’t the reason for it’s disobedience.

It's a clear affront to its own nature.

And you speak as though you’re trying to disguise your fear.

Guilt storms through him.

And yet you look upon him with concern.

Like he deserves that.

And not your fear. Not your distrust. And yet he finds none of that.

It’s worse than if he had. At least, he’d know what to do then.

Arthur sighs through the hand that drags across his face.

Your voice comes, soft and impossibly kind, wrapped around his name in a way that makes him feel like he might break. Might cleave apart and spill all he’s ever been and might have been.

He should tell you.

That he’s the true threat here.

Not the flames. Not the guard in the market. Not the garrison and the other loyalists to Vortigern. Not his magic. Although Arthur is beginning to believe it all is connected. And all still a danger…

But he is the greatest one.

And if you were to know the whole of it - of him - then you may never be safe again.

Arthur cannot bear it.

Could he bear your fear? Your distance? Your absence?

Arthur thinks he must. That when all of this is over and he returns to his castle, and you your home in his wood, that he will.

But for now, the best thing he can offer you is his silence. His own separation. As far as he can bear it.

The fire pops. Cracks and bursts and splits the night.

Arthur forces his breathing to steadiness. His face calms before he looks at you again.

“You should sleep,” he says, and you blink at him, “I’ll keep watch,” he adds, voice thick with something you cannot place.

“It’s less suspicious if we bed together,” you say, and Arthur’s shock ripples through him. His hand pauses its scouring of his jaw, a stress tic of his fingers brushing the coarseness of his beard, his gaze finding yours as quick as a burst of spark from the fire.

“You glare at them like you wish for a fight,” you say, but there’s no accusation or tease in your voice, it’s merely fact. Arthur sighs with a deep nod.

“Aye, you may be right,” he says quietly.

“And you need to have a clear dream,” you continue, and Arthur nods his agreement again. Chin tucked to his chest, the firelight dancing over his features, gone impossibly serious.

Your words repeat in his mind.

A clear dream.

You sound certain. Assured.

If only you knew how much he loathed sleep. The years of nightmares. The brief reprieve since he’d been crowned had not been long enough to remove his anxiety over sleeping. And now, the nightmares have returned. Worse than before. Twisted with darkness and smoke and evil.

Something hunts him there.

Something that burns hotter than the flames in his chest.

It glows behind his eyes and scathes a line over his head where the crown should lay. Makes him feel like he’s made of ash.

Arthur swallows. Forces himself to nod.

Just once.

If you note his next breath does not take root behind his ribs as solidly as the ones before it, you do not say anything. Instead, you slip your hand into his when he offers it, and you do so without pause.

Because you trust him.

The thought needles into Arthur’s awareness. Slides into the spaces between his ribs.

“Come,” Arthur says, holding the tent flap open for you, his voice steady only through practice.

You duck beneath his arm, and Arthur tries to ignore the limp in your gait but he can’t. Noticing every injury you’ve ever sustained in his presence and wishes them absent. Forcing the worse ones that flood his thoughts as he frets to be buried somewhere he can’t look at the whole of them.

Not when the flap falls shut behind him and in the darkness you fold yourself into the blankets and you’re so near he can sip from your next breath. Can be close to you in this small way that makes him feel alive in ways he hasn’t felt in a long time.

He settles beside you. Leaving space between you even though everything in him begs to leave less than nothing. Yearns to gather you to him. To shield you from everything beyond the thin fabric of the tent. The cold that leeches in through the flimsy walls. That sets your body to shivering so that he sheds his coat and lays it over your shoulders before he lays down once more.

It’s the only warmth he can trust himself to provide.

The residual heat of himself, adorned upon you but not in the way he wishes it to be. He’d hold you until he was only bones and beyond. Until he could give of himself to whatever beautiful thing you would become next. You would grow and bloom without him, but he’d become the dirt you lived in if he could. The earth that would cling to your roots. That would steady you in a storm and give you nutrients and water. And if he could, also, he’d be the sun you reached for. The warmth and light of your days.

Arthur feels like he’s in a grave of his sad musings. Buried beneath his longing.

“You’re shivering,” you say, and Arthur huffs a laugh.

“M’fine,” Arthur says, a reflection of your earlier lies so that your answering breath is full of disbelief- at his and your own deceit.

It’s soft enough of a sound not to leave the confines of the tent, but sharp enough it cuts through him.

There’s movement on your side. Across the imaginary line Arthur’s drawn between you that starts and ends with the blanket he’s shoved between you. The furs rustle. Scrape against the canvas of the tent walls as said furs are adjusted. You’re tugging a thread, and Arthur’s drawn taut like he’s stitched to the other side. The one you’re intent to reach, but Arthur cannot tell this in the dark.

Arthur stills, waiting for the tent flap to open, for you to order him out.

Instead, cool fingers wrap around his wrist. A light touch. Searching.

An invitation of the silent sort.

Of the kind that he doesn’t deserve.

Carefully, Arthur takes your hand in his, like it’s the last thing in the world he has the right to hold.

He stops trembling.

He thinks, if he looks hard enough, he can find the shape of your smile in the darkness.

Eventually, you move closer. A careful, but purposeful drift. Like the tide when the sea meets sand. Settling into him like you’re meant to be there. Like there’s comfort to be found in him.

He should tell you the truth.

Arthur agonizes for what must be hours as you sleep beside him. Soothed into rest with the abnormal heat of him. Your soft breathing is like a balm to his senses. Still, he worries. What if you reach for him in your sleep?

He could protect you from everything. But what of himself?

His thoughts are reckless. He knows it but he cannot help them.

Aside from all his troubles he allows himself the indulgence of daydreaming. What would it be like, to hold you in his arms like this for the remainder of his nights? How much easier would it be to bear the weight of the crown, if every evening he could retreat into your embrace? Wasn’t a kingdom better led by a well married King?

Arthur mulls. If there was one thing he would ask his father, it might be this.

The fire outside dims. The garrison retreats into the inn. The cold nip of a spring night bites at the edges of the tent, crystallizing along its edges with late frost.

Arthur falls asleep, you in his grasp, in his thoughts, in his heart.

|||||

You wake comfortably nested in Arthur’s warm embrace. One of his heavy arms slung over your waist, his chest at your back- pressing and retreating with drawn breaths of sleep. His long legs are folded into the crook of yours, as though you’ve found this familiar nearness for a lifetime before now. Beneath the furs, you allow yourself a few moments of waking bliss. Your eyes closed against the dark beyond the tent flap. The cold that seeps in when you lift your hand to grasp a blade of frost covered grass just beyond the fabric wall.

The night presses in. The only light from the lanterns glowing on the stable. It must be near dawn, but not quite. Carefully, you extract yourself from Arthur. It’s like coaxing a vine of clematis away from its trellis.

Arthur’s fingers curling around you with a small grumble of displeasure- more of a growl with his voice coarse from sleep. But it's worn to near nothing with his exhaustion. The sound shudders out of him and into you where you’re still pressed to him within the small confines of the tent- barely able to crouch without your crown skimming the fabric walls.

It shakes something up in you. A memory of slow days with Silas. Long mornings made more so with love making. Silas’s sighs of pleasure were more a sensation than something you can hear- especially now. Barely able to pluck them out of your memories with this much distance between you and those moments.

Arthur’s solid- beneath your pressing hands as you pitch off the bed roll and towards the tent flap. The heat emanating from him like some part of him senses your desires on an unconscious plain of awareness. Promising comfort. Strength and purpose. With haste, you remove your touch from him, trying to force your mind to less scorching thoughts.

The urge to relieve yourself is great, and you leave the tent with a swirl of disappointment that you may not share such closeness with Arthur for the remainder of the trip. The air is even colder, compared to Arthur’s great warmth. It bites at your face and hands, and you wrap yourself up in Arthur’s fleece lined coat that he’d offered as an additional covering for your rest.

You cast one last look at your dozing companion before you depart. Most of the furs have been flung from his overheated frame. One hand rests close to his sword, the other reaching beyond his head- to where you stand. In sleep, his expression is less troubled than in his waking hours. The pinch between his blonde brows smoothed to near nothing. The set of his jaw looser with his breaths. His shoulders slack and unguarded.

You remember the first time you witnessed his rest. Passed out in the clearing beside the plot of elvium. When you’d taken his sword and hidden it- not the one he carries now. That one was more intricate and beautiful. It suited him more somehow than the simple, practical blade he carries on this journey. You wonder what he’d done with the former. Perhaps it wasn’t his.

The call of nature tugs more insistently, and so you leave the sleeping guard.

The inn is surprisingly quiet given how late the garrison had drunk and feasted themselves into a combined stupor. Still, you don’t dare venture inside, instead opting for the familiar forest that surrounds the yard.

You wander ten paces into the woods, then find a tree to answer the call. When you’re done, you wander in a little further, your eyes having adjusted better to the darkness, and what light the half moon provides where she lays near the horizon. By habit, you scour the surrounding trees, making note of which types are most prevalent, then your gaze finds the forest floor. Searching for forageables.

A creeping mass of chickweed blankets some of the ground. Stellaria media. Its small, white ten petalled flowers mimicking the stars they gaze upon through the forest canopy.

You collect some, and use your dress as a makeshift cloth to carry them. It could be useful for skin rashes, eaten plainly, or added to stew. You chew some immediately, to ward off the cramps that have clawed in your lower stomach. The pain had been part of what roused you. Your courses announcing their impending appearance.

On your return, you spot a small grouping of scarlet cups. Their bright red bowl shapes are nearly covered by leaf litter, but you grab the rotten branch they perch upon for a closer look. With better inspection, you note the edges of the fungi are frayed and nibbled. A mouse had reached them before you. They might have sold as pretty table decor had they been intact. You put them back where you’d found them.

By the time you’ve made your way back to the edge of the forest, dawn has arrived. Soft, pale light glows across the tree lined horizon and blooms upon the inn and you spot a Hawthorn shrub a few yards away.

Within its branches, one of the innkeeper’s sons grabs handfuls of fresh leaves and buds, taking turns adding them to a basket, and shoving them in his mouth. It’s the eldest- the one that had minded Critter in the stables when you’d arrived yesterday.

“Bread and cheese,” you say on your approach, if only to announce your presence, and the boy’s head snaps to you, his mouth caught mid-chew as his hands still. He looks ready to bolt, likely expecting a soldier in your stead, but your amused smile must soothe him, because he simply nods and returns to his task.

From behind the trunk, its bark rough and scaly with age, a smaller face peers up at you. One of his younger brothers, shyer than a field mouse, regards you carefully.

“Mother taught us,” the boy says once he swallows, holding out a handful for you to take. Apparently he’d been taught his manners well by her too. Quietly, you chew the nutty flavored buds as he works. Every so often, he offers a bunch to the smaller child.

“Before she died,” he adds, and you reach for the fresh growth just out of his reach, and add more to his basket, which earns you a smile from his grief stricken look.

The younger one chews, unaffected by the turn in subject to sorrow. Perhaps he was too young to remember, or too preoccupied with assessing strangers for threat to care.

The older boy glances at your own collection, and then to the path from which you’d come, and nods in approval.

“Cheken-wede,” he says, “We used to feed it to our hens, before this lot ate them all,” the boy shakes his head with disgust as his chin tips to the inn.

As though remembering himself, he brushes his hands on his ragged shirt, and rounds to face you more completely. The smaller one steps up behind him, like an ever vigilant shadow.

“Did you sleep well? Do you need anything? I can get more firewood. Breakfast will be ready right soon. I’ve fed your horse and brushed him down,” the questions are loosed rapidly, his eagerness to please one of their first true guests in god knows how many suns is evident as he waits for your answer.

“Yes, thank you,” you offer, about to ask after the firewood when the boy interrupts. Despite the rising sun, the frost is still holding fast to the sparse clumps of grass in the yard.

“Did you know his teeth are soft?” the boy asks, something too grown in his look, a seriousness that betrays his young years. The littler one smiles up at you, the gaps in his teeth offered with a growing ease at his older brother’s pleasant eagerness to be of your service.

Confusion marks your face, so the eldest boy continues, chin tipping to the stables.

“I mixed his oats with water,” the boy tells you, speaking of Critter.

You shake your head. “No, that was thoughtful of you.”

The boy nods solemnly.

“Most horses would be meat with a mouth like that,” the boy tells you, and you cringe, unable to explain that Critter is not your horse, but it might give away yours and Arthur’s fib. So instead, you play at ignorance, but resolve to look after Critter more closely going forward.

The boy leans towards you, his voice dropping to a whisper as his gaze scours the inn for any company that could overhear him.

“But I know he belongs to the King, so I won’t spill, promise,” the boy says and your brows nearly approach a vertical position with your shock. Critter bore no branding. The only evidence that could align with the boy's conclusion is that he’s a well kept horse. Well fed and minded. It’s clear whoever runs the stables at the castle cares much for its horses.

“What makes you say that?” you ask, worried suddenly if the child has made this connection with such ease. What if the garrison had taken notice too?

“He’s got the King’s crest on his shoes,” the boy says with a casual shrug, “I cleaned them last night.”

You’re a bit dumb struck. You’d expected a brush down. A meal or two for Critter. Not a complete service. However the stables had been empty aside from Critter, and based off the boy’s industrious hands with the Hawthorn tree- it made sense.

Perhaps he hoped for more supplies as you’d tipped him yesterday, if he went beyond your expectations. Perhaps he didn’t wish to be idle. In any case, you want to return to the tent to inform Arthur, and gather the supplies as a trade off for this secret.

The boy’s smile turns proud at your surprised expression.

“I was going to apprentice in Lebfordshire. Before the war,” he says, looking a bit sad as he speaks.

“John. The farrier,” you supply, and the boy's face brightens once more.

“Aye! You know it?”

You nod.

“We will travel there today,” you admit.

The boy’s grin widens, his voice going up a pitch.

“Take me with you!” he whisper-shouts, latching onto one of your arms so that you overcorrect to avoid spilling the chickweed. He releases you with a quick apology, but gathers up his basket, throwing his younger brother over the other shoulder with an unhappy squawk of protest from the smaller child, and darts off to the inn with a gleeful laugh. Calling back to you with joy bright in his voice.

“I’ll ask Papa!”

Cringing, wondering if Critter’s kingly relationship will be held over your head to endear you to this newfound task, you hope that Arthur won’t mind the added company on your journey as you make your way to the campfire in the center of the yard.

Soft snoring comes from yours and Arthur’s tent as you wash the chickweed with the supplied bucket of water. Debating whether to wake Arthur, when one of the side doors to the inn swings open.

You expect the innkeeper, or his eldest, instead a soldier stumbles out and pisses on the wall.

Irritation lances through you and you chew your next bite of chickweed a little harder. Chasing it with the sweeter Hawthorn leaves as you work through preparing a part of your breakfast.

The soldier disappears back inside, to your great relief. A few moments later, through another side door, another child emerges. The middle one, his hands full of steaming mugs. Hurrying, as though under duress, he spots you across the yard, and makes a beeline in your direction.

“Gruel,” the boy says, placing the mugs on a stump that’s a makeshift stool and now a table.

“Thank you,” you say and the boy- the second oldest- his shoes more worn than the older’s, as though they were passed down, sways where he stands- looking apprehensive at the inn. When it’s clear to his approval, he swivels back to you, his voice lowered to a whisper much like his older brother’s.

“Is it true?” he asks, eyes wide and eager upon yours as you reach into Arthur’s supply bags for an apple.

Producing your small blade, you slice pieces of the fruit into your mugs. The boy watches thoughtfully for a breath, before his eyes find you with rapt focus.

“Is he really the King’s horse?” the boy asks, and you still, worried all over again for yours and Arthur’s farce.

The boy bends to align his face with the angle of your lowered head, his expression pleading.

“I won’t tell a soul, promise,” the boy urges and you tip your chin, just once, but it’s enough for a grin the same bright shade as his brother’s to cleave his face.

“You truly musn’t tell,” you whisper back, trying to impart seriousness in your stern look and the boy nods with his entire body.

“I promise!” before he darts back to the inn. Disappearing inside with a skip in his step, leaving you to wonder if you’ve just salted the roots of yours and Arthur’s journey.

Dread coils in your gut, enough that although you add herbs and spice to the gruel, your appetite wanes.

Would Arthur be upset? Would he even have the chance to be- if the children couldn’t keep this secret?

Would the garrison believe him to be one of their new ranks- would they even respect it given their allegiance to Vortigern? Given Arthur’s apparent affluence in his position, and their thieving, scrounging ways. Arthur has clear favor with the new King, while they desperately cling to the rotten memory of the former. The disparity may be too great to bridge.

Caught in your dark musings, you lift your head to find three pairs of eyes watching your gruel enhancing work. The innkeeper’s sons peer at you from the stables, their own mugs steaming below their rapt faces.

They look torn between remaining where they stand- likely out of their father’s warning- or seeking your company.

With a resigned sort of sigh, you beckon them over. The youngest and oldest stumble forwards, while the second retreats just as quickly into the stables and out of sight. Eagerly, they place their mugs aside yours and Arthurs just as their brother joins them- the supplies you’d given them yesterday held out to you. A few apples, a bundle of cheese. You lift your hand- but only to push the offered supplies back, instead reaching into yours and Arthur’s pack once more.

Methodically, you slice fruit, cheese and dried meat into the gruel. Theirs are more watery than what’s been given to you and Arthur. It makes something tug in your chest as you season each one. If your knife cuts the wedge of cheese and dried meats with clumsiness, and extra large chunks fall waywardly into the children’s, then it’s merely a coincidence.

The brothers watch, the youngest aligned to your side. His boots are nearly falling apart, but have been carefully wrapped with cloths, likely by his brother’s care. The youngest eagerly hands you more supplies and you feel loath to refuse him, even as their mugs nearly overflow.

The oldest smiles happily, which makes you believe his father has agreed to the travel arrangements while the second pockets their supplies, with a cautious look back to the inn’s upper floor where the soldiers rest. The windows betray no sound or movement, to your relief.

Apparently, it's to the children’s comfort as well, because the middle boy whispers conspirationally. The way he looks at you makes him look nearly as young as the little boy at your side. Like he still believes in fairy tales with his whole heart.

“Are you a princess?”

A soft laugh escapes you, before you dole out the mugs. The boys eat like they don’t need to breathe, but their attention remains on you, as though hungry for stories as much as the food.

Scooting Arthur’s mug closer to the warm stones around the fire so it will keep warm, you shake your head and the children deflate slightly.

From within the tent, a burst of movement and noise comes. It’s not the sound of a man coaxed to consciousness. You can tell Arthur rouses with haste. Akin to when Silas would wake to the crack of thunder. Before he’d slip from your bed to check on the animals.

For a few moments, you’re drawn back to your wedding night. The sky had threatened rain all day, and the storm had arrived, fierce and loud, in the early morning. Only shortly after you and Silas had collapsed into your new married bed. Your feet sore from dancing, yours and his bodies succumbing to exhausted sleep, only after Silas had assured your nervous self away from the thought of consummating your marriage with a gently amused laugh.

“We’ve the rest of our lives for that. Rest now, my sweet wife.”

And then the thunder rolled in, rousing you from sleep as your new home illuminated with lightning. Silas has slipped from your side, a kiss pressed to your crown as he murmured his soft farewell.

“I’ll be in your reach once more, my love.”

You’d stood at the door, the one that Silas had only just carried you across its threshold. The rain pelted the ground, splashing against your bare feet as Silas ran to the barn. Your breath caught in your chest as the air shook with wind and sound.

How easily Silas threw himself into the chaos, to offer his calm to those that were afraid. How your own anxiety at the thought of venturing out into that wild stirred nature made you shake like an unweathered seedling.

You knew then you’d love him. That perhaps, you yet did. Like a seedling bursting from its pod, but still remained buried beneath the soil. Unseen, untouched by sunshine. But knowing it was there. That it was something to reach towards because it’d had it once before. In another life. Where it grew and bloomed and had the chance to turn to seed.

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Arthur recognizes the throne room but it’s wrong. The banners along the walls are those of his father, not the ones that had been erected since he’d been crowned in Vortigern’s rotten wake. The room is packed as well. Crowded with noblemen and women from the doors that lead out to the Great Hall, and all the way up to the base of the dais. From his vantage point, Arthur cannot see who stands at the front. Perhaps he catches a glimpse of Goosefat’s crown, but there isn’t enough gray threaded through the man’s brown hair for Arthur to truly ascertain him as Bill.

Still, he hopes it’s him. Arthur isn’t used to this large of a congregation in the castle, and especially how barely any of them turn to acknowledge his presence. He wants to ask Bill what all the fuss is about, and why he wasn’t made aware earlier. And why is everyone acting strangely?

He’s used to every gaze in every room he enters to land on him within a few breaths. But these people ignore him.

Those that do spare him a glance though, do not bow, or offer a polite ‘my liege’ as Arthur has still yet to become accustomed to. No, instead, their eyes widen with shock and whispered gasps rip through their masses as he slowly makes his way to the front. They sound far away. Muffled and distant. As though he listens from beneath the surface of the sea. It’s odd.

Even his stride feels wrong. Like his step is shorter. As though it falters. The more he dwells on it, the more he’s drawn into his body and he pauses to assess the damage that is screaming in his mind. His breath is quick and short, hauled and hissed past teeth that clatter like he’s cold to his bones. At the depth of every inhale, his lungs burn with a sick, bubbling wet heat.

Something is very wrong.

Arthur tears his focus from his destination. Fat drops of water strike the stone around his pale, bare feet. His small, very feminine, very much not his feet.

Arthur peers through damp strands of dark hair still shedding water onto a dress that’s soaked through. The drenched skirt hugs his skin and cages his legs, clinging and stilting his steps. The white fabric is nearly translucent, except for a dark red stain blooming at his side. Pierced fabric and flesh do little to betray how far the wound sits within him. It feels like when he’d take a punch to the ribs, but it reaches his lungs in a way that clips his breaths. This injury is deep. Deeper than any Arthur had ever received and it lays just below a set of breasts that, again, are very much not his.

What the fuck?

Arthur pauses, digesting all the new knowledge that feels like it’s slammed into him all at once. 

He’s bleeding. Crimson stains the torn fabric, cascades through delicate not-his-fingers to splatter on the stone floor and while he’s familiar with the scent of blood- he’s more familiar with the salt water smell of the sea that he’s apparently just hauled himself out of.

It coats his tongue. Briney and bitter and sour with the taste of retch alongside it. It reminds him of when he’d been nearly drowned in the river as a boy. When he’d played a game of thimble rig with the wrong set of rival street rats. It had taken him a while to return to the brothel that evening, as though the water had reached his brain and water logged it along with his pride. His sense of direction and purpose diluted. 

But that was before. Or is it after this? Whatever this is. Arthur cannot gain a foothold in his current state. Slogging him, or herself, up towards the dais.

Every breath burns with effort. With pain. With betrayal. With rage.

It isn’t his, but somehow it still is. All of it.

A loud voice calls out, and Arthur marks it as his father’s, even with the muffled quality of it. Uther is rushing from where he’d been speaking with a local clergyman to her side. Goosefat at his heel, as always.

“You’re hurt, sister. Tell me what has happened? Who did this to you?” Concern is rife in Uther’s voice, and Arthur wants to turn to meet his undoubtedly worried gaze. But this woman plods ahead, determined to avoid his father’s focus and Arthur cannot understand it. Why wouldn’t she look to him for aid? It’s all Arthur has ever done- ever desired. 

And yet, when Uther’s hand wraps around her arm, she wrenches it free with an enraged shriek. Shocked, Uther stills, and Arthur freezes internally, although the woman climbs the dais with trembling legs, putting more space between them.

Uncaring for her treatment of Uther, only one mark in her vision– the throne. There’s a hitch in her breath as she draws one leg up- the same side as the wound– 

Arthur feels like he’s being ripped apart. Rended from himself- from all he’s known. The woman lets out a shaky sob that she sinks her teeth into. Clenching hard around her pain until her breath hisses out on a shredded growl.

Fuck the King. 

Fuck them all. 

The thought spears around Arthur’s mind. Burning. Scorched with fury and hurt.

Swords are drawn at her back and a few men call out to their King in warning.

“Be wary, my lord! This reeks of disloyalty to the crown!”

“Is it a coup?” Goosefat asks, somewhere behind him- her- them, as the guards close ranks around his father, distrustful glances cutting to where Arthur- this woman- had just come.

Uther is of one mind. Ascertain the damage done to his sister. Arthur knows it without even needing to regard it. That night on the pier- when he’d stared down the Demon Knight and heard a splash at their backs. When Ygraine had fallen into the sea, her heart having already met it at the end of Vortigern’s spear. He’d known it then. Arthur had felt his father’s care in the fierceness of his embrace. In the slice of Excalibre between his palms. Uther was never reckless. Everything he did was with intent. With purpose driven by an underlying, unending love.

It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks– not to Uther, not when it comes to those he loves. He would adore Morgana always.

 Uther disregards the dark words of his right hand man when Goosefat mutters, “Has your brother finally grown a spine he believes strong enough to bear the weight of the crown in your stead?” Goosefat laughs- but there’s no humor in it as he grips the hilt of his sword like he already imagines the blade severing said spine with it.

“Fetch the healers,” Uther barks, and for one long moment, no one moves. Even Arthur- this woman- pauses before the throne. There’s something wrecked in Uther’s tone. Like all his worst fears have come to face him. There’s no shred of the King within his words. All the years he’d been taught to lead, to adopt the throne’s responsibilities with sensibility and a kingly manner, are stripped away, and leave only a brother, distraught and afraid for his sister’s sake.

The order comes again, louder. Steeled with command and it shakes something up in Arthur. The reminiscent quality of it from the pier, the echoing Run, son! Before Excalibre had pierced his father’s heart and the legend had been borne.

“Find the Queen. My son. Ensure their safety,” Uther remarks, the protective quality of his father’s voice stirs someone to their senses, and the crowd’s shocked silence gives way to small bursts of panic. A woman screams in the distance. Armoured boots pound the stone floor in retreat.

Shivering with hurt, Arthur- the woman, she lifts herself onto the throne. An awkward climb, not the graceful seating she’d once imagined it might be. No, she will not claim this throne by lowering herself. She will force them to see the whole of her. Everything she’s sacrificed- both willingly and not- to it.

Almost losing her balance, she grips the back of the chair before she turns. The velvet beneath her bare feet sinks beneath her weight, and darkens with dampness as seawater sloughs from her trembling form. Lifting her chin, she glares out from beneath the soaked curtain of her hair- splayed across her face as firmly as the hurt that lays beneath her glower. 

The throne room has gone quiet. Councilman, guards, Uther, the servants- they all look upon her with confusion and to her great anger, from Uther and Goosefat, with heavy concern. The rest look surprised to see her. Like she’s a ghost come to life. 

She feels hollow. One fierce shiver away from disappearing. If she doesn’t speak- if she doesn’t say her truth now- she just might dissolve like sea foam.

Arthur understands her. While he has no more wisdom as to what has transpired before this moment than his father or Goosefat, he knows that familiar desire for honesty. For the waters of truth to run clear and swift. To not allow misunderstandings to stir up silt and clarity to become muddy. It’s as he wishes to speak with the herbalist- to not wade further into waters where he cannot see the bottom. Where the current may grab him and wash him into depths he cannot pull himself from. He’s terrified he will become submerged in this false identity- and that the herbalist will view him stuck beneath the surface of shallow waters- poorly reflected and drowning in deceit of his own making.

With danger on all sides- his timing needs to be precise. Not long enough that the threat will take root, but not too soon that should doom show its face that it would be too late.

It’s perhaps too late for this woman. Blood pours heavily between her fingers that tremble against her stabbed side. Her breath is weak. Shaky and tight with sobs she tamps into some insane sounds she can’t even hear past the crashing waves in her mind.

Like divine fate, Vortigern appears at the doors that yawn into the great hall, now swarming with guards. Like always, his eyes meet the throne first. Disdain gives way to shock. His face drains of color, his gaze widening on her like he cannot believe his mind. 

“Sister, come down from there. You’re bleeding,” Uther urges, hands reaching to her shivering arms but she wrenches them out of his grasp once more.

“No! Unhand me!” she shrieks, wild and furious.

Uther flinches- shock mixing with his worry. But he collects himself as fast as it comes, an irritating habit he’s picked up from their father. With a stern look, he grabs her again, tugging at her so that her balance wavers on the cushion.

Behind him, Vortigern storms up, one hand on the hilt of his weapon. His surprise gives way to determined focus. Goosefat eyes him with distrust, his own sword ready to be drawn.

“Come on now, sister,” Uther nearly orders, something cold and clipped in his tone, but an underlying distress lines his words as he attempts to drag her from her post. 

Vortigern’s voice rises above his boots, slapping the stone. Quicker now than before. He’s almost upon the dais. Goosefat scours his form, demanding as ever with the King’s back turned to the potential threat.

“Where have you been? Why are your clothes soaked?” 

Vortigern ignores him. Instead begging his Uther’s focus.

“She’s deranged! Do not listen to her, brother,” Vortigern calls, hand contorting into fists as his pace quickens further.

Something like fear joins her hurt as Vortigern closes the gap between them. Goosefat looks as though he wishes to intervene, but she knows him too well that without Uther’s explicit order, he will step aside.

Part of her wants to give to Uther’s troubled look. To fold beneath his arm and dissolve into the tears that burn at her eyes.

But how many times had she done that? And what had it gotten her? 

Nothing.

Nothing at all.

Fury bleeds back into her with a vengeance. As though it were its own beast. Upset at her for holding space for anything other than it. 

The throne room glows brighter.

The crowd shouts in surprise. In fear.

Vortigern’s step falters. Goosefat offers a low, cautious My liege like he wants to whisk Uther away from whatever madness is building.

The torches flare as though they mean to rival the sun’s glare.

Uther’s grasp tightens around her arm, his unease carved into his stern features.

“Release me,” she says, some ancient magic woven into her speech, and Uther’s hand falls from her like he’s been struck by a blade in battle. He stares at his hands, as though they’ve betrayed his will, before his gaze cuts back to her. Amazement, fear and some growing awareness flits across his face all at once. Goosefat sucks in a breath, fingers twitching at his hilt. Gaze cutting from Vortigern to land upon Morgana.

Vortigern shoves his way forward. One hand reaching in his brother’s stead, the other attempting to wrench his sword free.

“Allow me, Uther.  I’ll take her,” Vortigern says simply, as though she isn’t even present. Like she’s some treaty to toss off the desk, some rebellion to flick off the map. Like she’s one of his stupid birds that’s escaped its cage and simply waits for its wings to be clipped instead of flying away. 

“Kneel, brother,” the words are ground out from behind her clenched teeth, pressed against the sickness that rolls her guts at the sight of him. The command that’s weaved into them nearly a song, pressed with the ache of her stabbed lung. 

The words are wet with blood and sea water and vomit that coats her tongue. Iron and malice and hurt linked into one.

Vortigern stiffens- his hand suspended in the air just short of her trembling form. His gaze locks to her face, like he’s searching for something before recognition glints. Horror creeps into the whites of his wide blown eyes, like he’s laid them upon a monster.

Uther’s lowering himself to one knee- head descending into a bow so that he misses Vortigern’s furious glare as he follows. Knee striking stone with a heavy thud to echo Uther’s, as though their bodies were meant to meet this moment from the beginning. Whatever fear Vortigern had managed to feel now turned over to his own fury at her disobedience. At her gall to demand him to obey.

By the time Vortigern’s neck is bared to her, she’s unsheathed Excalibre from Uther’s hip. The weight of it strains her already weakened arms. Arthur never felt the weapon be this heavy. Not even when he was with the Lady of the Lake. 

Goosefat moves to draw his sword as the tip of Excalibre sways between her brothers. The guards that hug the walls of the throne room swarm into action but she lifts a hand. The sword falls, but she rights it as she shrieks out a raw “Halt.” 

They obey. A concerned hush of whispers and cries lifts from the council. The King shouldn’t bow to anyone. The knights should protect the throne. Goosefat’s low curse grumbles over the lip he bites as his body remains rigid and useless to his King’s aid.

Something is greatly amiss.

“Look at me,” she orders Vortigern. Glaring at her from behind the curtain of his dark hair- soaked with water and the same shade as hers- he lifts his face with a sneer that fractures into a frown when she lays the sword against his throat. Shoves the tip of the carved blade into the hollow between his collarbones and presses so that a trickle of crimson descends and blooms and bleeds into his shirt. 

Vortigern swallows. Throat working painfully around the sharp weapon as he shivers with rage when he meets her eyes, but his gaze cuts sideways to Uther a moment later. As though she wasn’t the real threat in this room. As easily as he’d discarded her earlier. Throwing her into the depths of the siren’s cove with a stone cold look. 

Like she meant nothing at all. Like she never would.

She’s the bird in his magic tricks. The ones he crushes beneath the pocket cloth to impress his admirers while another is pulled from his sleeve to flit around his charming smile like a moth to a flame. 

She’s expendable. 

A pretty thing in a cage. 

Her magic rages. Torches explode on the walls of the throne room. Banners catch flame and the air singes with heat and smoke.

Goosefat’s curse is vicious, like he admonishes himself for not anticipating all of this. 

She calls for her magic. The control that lies deeper. It tugs at a frayed edge of her mind. Slipping, but she reaches further, grasping it with blood stained fingers as Vortigern’s twitch at his sides. 

“Do not listen to her, brother! She’s bewitched. Possessed. A mage, perhaps. We must resist her charms. Disregard her lies,” Vortigern hisses as Uther’s gaze claws between them. 

Desperate for clarity. For truth. 

She will provide it.

Turning back to Vortigern, she presses on Excalibre once more, enough that another trickle of blood descends down Vortigern’s neck and stains his collar. A warning to be silent, as afraid as she is to use her words. She could command him to quietness. To never give breath to another word- another lie- for the rest of his life. And he would listen. 

Her newfound magic crests inside of her like a wave. Floods her with power that makes the blade shiver at Vortigern’s neck, which he takes as weakness. If they were younger, less at murdering odds, perhaps he’d tease her about the weight of the weapon in her grasp. But as they stand, her perched upon the throne, and him kneeling at her command, his lips merely curl into that cold, calculating smile.

Nonetheless, he winces beneath the blade, playing up the youngest sibling role, and Uther raises his voice in what he must consider as to both their defenses. Always playing all sides. Trying to be the mediator to the very end. He’d been born into the midst of them, and it seems he’d die in the same position.

“Please, sister, what’s going on? Tell us what it is that you do. Let us aid you,” Uther urges, uncertainty struggling in his features.

“Aid me?” She spits, a fresh set of sharp teeth thrashes her tongue to ribbons as she speaks, and flecks of blood land on her youngest brother, the recipient of all her ire. Vortigern flinches but remains stoic. Turning, not to her, but to their brother, his brow furrowed on Uther, as though to convince him of her madness by sheer force of will.

“You stabbed me!” She screams at Vortigern and Uther only has to look at her for half a breath before he’s ascertained her sincerity- his gaze cutting to Vortigern whose jaw tightens. 

The younger man’s eyes roll, a habit that no amount of their father’s wrath or the court’s royal teachings could strike from him, and at the end of it, lands not on his sister, but beyond her. Through her. To the throne behind.

“Have I not given you enough? My birthright?” Their sister demands, her words wet with water and blood. Her speech is so heavy with hurt that Uther feels it echo across the space between them and pang in his own chest.

The guilt he carries, for her being born before him. The one she’s carried twice as heavily. Watching her brothers be tutored for the role she was owed if she’d only been a boy like them.

Birthright.

The word spears around the room that flares with light from the remaining torches as her magic rips about. Seething with rage.

Vortigern laughs. 

It’s not loud. Not cruel in the way it's been directed at her before. It’s heavy with incredulity. Like she’s the one that spins lies from thin air.

“Do you truly intend to play it this way?” Vortigern sneers at her, before he turns his attention to Uther. 

She stiffens. Uther’s face twists in the way it does before he’s about to demand something, but Vortigern is quicker to offer his voice.

“She came to me,” Vortigern says, one finger gesturing lazily in her direction, as though she does not hold a blade to his throat. As though his pulse does not thrash against the tip of the weapon like it owes her his blood. As though he’s recounting her midnight garden visits with one of their guards that she seduced when they were all teenagers. Like she’s simply a silly, misguided girl that needs rescuing.

“Last night. She came to my chambers and said she found a way to end her marriage, the alliance with Haworthia. To end the pressure father had placed upon her and with that- my ties to Mordred could be severed for good as well.” 

Arthur’s breath hitches. 

“That is not what transpired-” she attempts to say, the words tumbling. Raw with the need for Uther’s belief.

“She lured me to the cove beneath the castle,” Vortigern explains, cutting his sister off, “She claimed she learned old rites. Ancient magic.” He looks at her, briefly. Assessing her reaction as the blade trembles beneath his chin.

“I thought she meant to teach me. So that I may bargain with Mordred for my release, and hers.”

The room expands with murmurs. Goosefat mutters something like Lying scoundrel but it’s lost to Uther’s voice.

Uther’s gaze scours between his siblings, before it lands on his sister- and Arthur within.

“Sister, is what he says the truth?”

Arthur feels his jaw clench and loosen, over and over as his head furiously shakes. It isn’t. Arthur isn’t sure how he knows this but he does.

From beside them, Vortigern sighs softly, like they’re going over a land treaty. Like he’s bored.

“She was going to sacrifice me,” he says, his voice even and just on the wrong side of quiet so that Arthur’s gut tightens. Goosefat makes a derisive noise.

“I almost realized too late,” Vortigern adds, and his gaze slides to Uther, as though to see if his lie lands, and the woman feels it settle like a blade between her ribs. Driven towards her heart. Hard and sharp and wrong.

“You stabbed me,” she says, voice breaking despite her efforts to remain steady. Excalibre wavers, dropping towards the center of Vortigern’s chest. 

“I defended myself,” Vortigern counters, “Because you frightened me. You weren’t yourself.” The condescension weighs heavily across his words. This is always how it was between them.

“I begged you to help me,” she says, turning fully towards Vortigern now for a heartbeat as warm, wet tears join the seawater plastering her hair to skin and lips, “I begged you not to throw me in the water.” She isn’t sure why she looks at him, when he’s as flat and dark as the sea he’d pitched her into.

She turns to Uther, desperation clawing within her salt stung eyes. 

“I begged him to talk to you. To listen.”

Uther looks like he’s yet been cleaved in two by Excalibre. His gaze searches between them, trying to make sense of the truth.

“She spoke nonsense of offering blood to the deep. She wanted to wake Arthur and bring him with us. Luckily, I had the sense to stop her. I thought it was madness. At worst, perhaps ambition,” Vortigern says, the smallest curve to his lip when Uther’s eyes go wild with concern. 

Arthur’s heart thrums at the protectiveness flaring in his father’s expression, just as it shears for the woman he stands within.

Her chest heaves.

“I never-”

Her words cut off on a strangled sob when Uther’s jaw tightens in the way it does when he’s decided something important. 

“You stabbed me.” Disbelief coats her words, and fury lights the fire within them. “You stabbed me.”

Vortigern stares at Uther when he speaks, but addresses her with his words. That cold, calculated edge lining his speech as he talks over her.

“Everything I’ve done has been for the crown.”

“You tried to kill me!” Her voice is a sharp, raw sound that makes Vortigern scowl like it annoys him. Goosefat and Uther flinch, the King deflating while Goosefat lifts his chin, securing her with his full focus.

“I had to stop you! To protect all of us!” Vortigern shouts, only turning to look at her with his fury. His anger, although he’s clever enough to allow a wounded rise of his voice along with it.

“Ever since she decided that duty applied to everyone else except her, she has whined and bemoaned her allegiance to Haworthia. And now she has schemed and plotted against the crown.” Vortigern spits, addressing her and also not, his anger flaring in his eyes as though he’d turn the blade upon her once more.

Her magic rises to meet it without hesitation. Heat pours between them like a blazing flame. Excalibre shivers, hot and furious in her grasp.

“She’s weak, brother,” Vortigern says, and Uther makes a pained noise, taking in her injured state, while Vortigern insinuates more of their sister. That his sin lies with her alone, and that’s all she’s ever been good for. 

“Our brother carries the crown whilst our kingdom bleeds in the wake of Father’s death,” Vortigern adopts the same furious lecture of the former King, laced with the terrifying intensity he’s learned from Mordred- some wild, animalistic wrath in his gaze. 

“You would have killed me,” Vortigern accuses, “I saw it in your eyes.” He lies, but then the truth flows, as though he cannot help tying it to his own sins. 

“You think I wanted my lot in this life? Do you think I wanted to spend my youth as a token of father’s diplomacy? A hostage dressed up as an apprentice? Traded across borders like a coin?” Vortigern spits the words. Uther’s breath catches. Goosefat glares at the youngest Pendragon.

“I learned obedience,” Vortigern sneers, cruel and heated, and for a breath, the torches glow brighter with his fury. With all eyes in the room on her, she thinks she’s the only one that notices, “Restraint. I learned how to appease monsters who can cast spells you cannot comprehend. Meanwhile, you,” His mouth frowns deep as his gaze rakes over her, “You wept over a marriage alliance.”

Her vision blurs. Excalibre drops enough that either of her brothers or Goosefat would have easily disarmed her yet, but as her command still echoes in their ears like a distant song, they remain unmoving. 

“I begged you to help me,” she sobs. Arthur feels like a shoreline in a storm. Violent waves pounding against sand, wearing him smaller and smaller. He’s barely himself amidst this woman’s suffering. Drowned in it. Merely a witness, and the strikes keep rolling him under.

“You think your suffering is singular?” Vortigern asks, tone dripping with disdain. “All you had to do was shut up and open your legs.”

Uther’s harsh curse shocks all of them.

“Vortigern.” Uther says in warning.

Heat blooms along the walls. Arthur feels her magic tugging. From somewhere deep. Old and heavy, it insists with a sharp pull on their combined awareness. Tighter and tighter. It’s not reacting merely to her brother’s anger- but to the injustice of it all.

“Would you not trade your fate with hers?” Vortigern asks Uther, eyes wide and eyebrows arched upon his older brother, like he wouldn’t trust an answer otherwise. “Your only labor is that of fucking and bearing heirs? Is that not a comparative heaven to our roles?” Vortigern casts his words like filth, like he won’t accept any counter argument.

“You do not know of which you speak,” the woman says, her words low and dark with malice. 

Vortigern laughs, equally dark and endlessly cruel.

“You have anguished in castles and luxury. Every need you ever had met with abundance and excess,” Vortigern counters. There's no humor in his words, only icy distance and contempt, “I have seen war, dear sister. And you would bring it here. To us.” 

Vortigern turns to Uther again. The most devastated King stares back at the both of them.

“She would have your throne.” Vortigern says simply, a too casual shrug offered with his words, as though the truth can be distilled to this and only this.

Goosefat mutters in their wake. And you would not?

“She has power now. More than you or I,” Vortigern leans towards his brother, expression held somewhere carefully serious, “Perhaps even more than Mordred.” 

Uther swallows hard. He spares a singular glance to Goosefat, who doesn’t have enough experience to know what to do with the half second he’s given by his King.

“Our people will fear her,” Vortigern continues, “She frightens me.”

For this moment, their sister, Arthur and Goosefat wonder if Vortigern has finally spoken his first and only truth. When he turns to regard her after he’s found doubt creep within Uther’s features, the answer is found.

He looks at her.

Truly.

For what might be the first time in their shared life. 

She isn’t a nuisance now. Not something to be used like a pawn. To be put aside until it's useful like a toy upon a shelf.

No, she’s something out of his control now. Something that can undo him. Something that has already tried, and now, despite the real fear flickering in his gaze, he must destroy her.

As though it’s been waiting for this moment, her magic answers. Excalibre is lifted once more.

Arthur tries to tamp the energy moving through them. The anger coursing through their veins. 

It’s futile. 

Heat surges. Merciless and brutal. The crowd screams as banners and clothing burst into flames. Vortigern, Uther and Goosefat cower beneath the violent wave of fire. The walls groan. Tapestries peel from the walls, coated in red flames. 

Uther shouts, his words lost to the crackling of fire, and at her back, the sound of surf begins to fill the throne room from its edges while smoke blankets the ceiling. The crowd noise is drowned out as they trample and flee in the chaos.

Beneath their knees, still pinned to the floor, Uther, Vortigern and Goosefat watch as cold water rises between the stones. It’s sudden. A violent flood of sea and foam that roars and soars to their throats within a few breaths.

Within it, she freezes in terror as the water climbs the throne. Her feet, her thighs, her ribs are seized by waves. 

Flooding into the wound Vortigern had made, swirling around her heart and pulling her back towards the deep, dark drop. There, she hears the song of the sirens. Sweet and weighty.

Excalibre slips in her grip as the water surges, forcing her to her knees. Uther and Vortigern choke and gasp as they struggle to remain above the surface while she descends. Coughing when all they pull is smoke from the scorched air above.

Goosefat shouts, but the words are drowned with chaos.

Arthur tries to breathe. 

Water fills his nose, his mouth, his throat. 

||||

Arthur awakes with a gasp that he swallows- expecting brine with it. His nose and lungs burn, but it's merely the smoke from the campfire outside drifting into the tent. Hauling huge gulps of air, Arthur tries to settle his heartbeat which slams against his ribs.

He isn’t sure what terrifies him more of the nightmare. 

The strange woman, that he’s sure Goosefat, if not the entire kingdom, should remember. The extent of her magic and the rage that she wields it with.

The certainty that, for one horrible moment, he understood Vortigern. Not his cruelty, but his words. 

“Everything I’ve done is for the crown.”

To fill the silence with lies. Choosing control over the truth. 

How easy it may be to become the thing he hates.

||||

Despite the frost on the first morning of Goosefat’s newest charge- minding the plot of elvium- he was optimistic in his efforts. Shaking off the cloth covering the bright plants, their purple edges reaching for the sun through the thick clouds above, Goosefat followed Arthur’s instructions with efficient care.

In the mornings, he removes the cover from the seedlings, to allow the light to touch them. He even bothers to warm the water he showers them with, so they won’t go into shock with the lingering bite of winter that this spring cannot seem to shed yet. Perched beside the fire, Goosefat feeds pieces of wood to the flames, and waits for the water in the bucket to steam. His own thoughts gathering, gaining heat with how often they burn through his mind. 

The fresh air and menial nature of his new chores allowed him time to think without interruption. In the evenings, he returns to the forest for a brief moment to replace the cloth over the plants.

While he could have easily delegated such visits to a page boy, Goosefat hadn’t even considered the possibility, knowing how close Arthur had been keeping the herbalist woman to his chest. Perhaps too closely, if the younger man’s fond looks were any indication- akin to how Uther had beheld Arthur’s mother- and perhaps this was why Goosefat felt hostage to this task. 

Arthur wore his affection as plainly as his father. Amidst all the chaos of trying to wrangle the Pendragon kingdom back to rights, Goosefat had a fierce pang of nostalgia for a Pendragon king in love. And not the twisted, controlling kind that was Vortigern’s. No, the sort of love that warmed Goosefat’s heart, and made him miss his old friend with his whole being.

It translated to protectiveness of the only thing he had left of Uther and Ygraine and their love - Arthur. And so Goosefat would care for these little seedlings, and thus guard one of Arhur’s newfound interests. 

Returning to the castle, the second night of Arthur’s absence, Goosefat lets his thoughts wander to their usual posts. 

Where is the King now?

How does he fare?

And what of the page- Blue? 

Goosefat could rely on his knowledge of Arthur to comfort his absence. Arthur was clever, strong and an adult. Goosefat could lean on his measure of Arthur to shore up some of his worries over his unexpected travel. 

But Blue was a bit of a mystery, aside from sharing some of Arthur’s past- a slain father by Vortigern’s hand- except Blue’s loss was fresher. What little Goosefat knew of Blue was split- between a rebellious, brave child to one scraped raw with grief.

Goosefat frowns, trying to recall any details of the boy which may lead to his discovery. The sword had fascinated Blue to a considerable degree- but what child wouldn’t appreciate a magical weapon belonging to the King? Then, there’d been his thieving. Food, supplies- anything he might have thought useful in his previous life still finding their ways into his vest. His hands and face were sticky with the remnants of pastries, polished silverware clanging softly in his pockets as he darted about the castle grounds and the scent of spices following.

Goosefat’s been loath to order the surrounding rivers be dredged. Yet too hopeful the boy is merely hiding amongst the shadows of the castle, dodging trouble and responsibility alike. Still, he’s prepared a boat and a group of men to take up the dreary task, should his faith in the boy’s return or detection waver.

The second morning comes with heavy rain. Goosefat treads the muddy road along the road leading to the castle, choosing the shorter path to reach the clearing instead of the one through the forest. The elvium is well protected under the cloth covering, the stakes holding up the fabric driven into the ground at a good depth so that there’s nothing for Goosefat to do except return. 

Still, he lingers. The rain pelts at his cloak. Soaks through the cloth and falls with fat drops onto the small, tender leaves of the elvium. They shiver in the wind, but their stalks are thickening. Growing stronger. It should please him. How its roots will thrive and never thirst under his care. He should be comforted. Between mother nature- steadily heading into the warm bosom of spring- and his own competence, nothing will die.

It can’t.

He won’t let it.

Just as he keeps his eye on his target, Goosefat will keep his gaze on everything yet within his control. And when things stray beyond his sight, he will focus his efforts on whatever he can. Sharpen the arrows, reshape the fletching, seal the wood with sap. Don’t allow too little moisture, lest they snap, and don’t allow too much, or else they’ll become weighted and warped. The perfect balance was needed. The utmost care to ensure your aim is true. That you could strike your target when the moment counted. 

And so he’d bundle up his arsenal. Every choice would protect and support the rest. The rain was a blessing- it allows him a reason to leave the elvium early.

Taking the forest path, just to ensure his route is unpredictable to any spying gaze, it’s only once he’s reached the stables that Goosefat realizes his hands yet itch to be useful. The air is chilly, and with the dampness from the rain, his fingers ache. Usually, he’d take up his bow and loose a few arrows into a tree to stave off this gathering nervous energy, but this downpour has foiled that plan.

Rain sloughs off the roof of the stables to splash at the gate. Thoroughly drenched, Goosefat steps inside the stables with a brusk sigh. The barn smells of wet hay, horses sweat and is full of the sound of the large creatures so that Goosefat calls out a greeting in hopes to not startle the lot. 

Rubio is mixing gruel in one of the far stables as lightning flashes. Of course Goosefat’s attempt at an unsurprising salute is useless as thunder cracks overhead so loudly it shakes the air. One of the horses neighs, and Rubio jolts so violently his head smacks the shelf he’s hunched beneath.

“Christ,” Rubio curses, rounding on Goosefat with a stern look until he realizes who he’s addressing, his words dribbling into nothing, and a watery smile is given in their stead. 

“Sir Rubio,” Goosefat says, offering a deep nod as he yanks his soaked hood from his head. 

“Sir William,” Rubio says, concern lances his features as he straightens and attempts to peer past Goosefat into the curtain of rain. Shaking hands grip the bucket of gruel, Rubio’s pale knuckles blanching further as he stiffens by forced habit, searching for threat in Goosefat’s wake.

“Nothing’s amiss,” Goosefat reassures, and Rubio swallows hard, before he nods and returns to his task, tighter movements than before as he shovels oats and water into more buckets. A considerable amount meets the floor with how severely Rubio’s hands tremble, but a few chickens peck about his boots, happily clucking their approval of his mash making. The fine, constant tremor in his fingers never ceases, but Rubio methodically completes his chores, and never fails.

“What begs your focus this morn?” Rubio asks Goosefat, curiosity giving rise to his usually quiet front. Rubio meets Goosefat’s gaze as he mounts buckets to each gate of the stables. A gray horse, the one Arthur’s herbalist was meant to ride with him, nuzzles Rubio’s arm with his lips until the younger man produces an apple. Rubio lifts one shaking hand, and strokes the blaze over the horse’s nose. Gentle as are the words he joins with the action. Low and kind. The horse doesn’t flinch as it eats. Rubio is careful as he steps around the chickens that swarm in his wake, hopeful to peck at any remnants.

“I desired a walk around the grounds,” Goosefat answers, an easy lie given his proximity to the castle, and any curious ears that might be interested in his whereabouts. If Rubio notices the farce, or where Goosefat had walked up the path from the woods, he gives away nothing.

“Hoping to find Blue darting between the rain drops?” Rubio asks, his voice stammering over the boy's name, and despite the jest he attempts to throw into the question, his face is speared with worry. The next bucket mounted onto the last horse’s gate clanks more than the rest. Rubio’s rattled face dares one hopeful look at Goosefat, who shakes his head with a frown.

With a tight nod, Rubio sighs.

“Aye, didn’t think so,” he says, shoulders folding in as he clasps his hands together, wringing them. 

“Blue kept to Arthur. And the girl. I wish I had more to offer,” Rubio says and Goosefat nods solemnly.

For one moment, they stare at each other in companionable silence. Rain pats against the thatch roof. Goosefat inhales sharply before the next question is loosed from his lips with less tact than if he’d been sleeping better than he was- but as it stood, with the King, the sword and the boy missing- he barely closed his eyes before he’d find himself staring at the ceiling.

“I know this may be difficult for you to remember. I only ask if there’s something useful to us finding Blue. When Mischief John took him and the Mage, did they place him with you–”

“No.” Rubio’s answer is quick and severe. A furious shake of his head shivers down his entire body as though he’s caught between trying to answer and needing to be rid of his thoughts.

“They kept me in the dungeons. I never saw them. Not until we were released,” Rubio says, his answer clipped through clenched teeth. His whole body wracks through a violent shake.

“Aye,” Goosefat says, softly, apologetically, “It’s alright, lad.” 

“I don’t spend much time in the castle,” Rubio continues, sounding dismayed for one heartbeat, as though shame has coiled around his tongue. Like some venom has pierced it, and it's grown thick in his mouth. Rubio swallows. Hauls in air like he’s about to plunge himself under water.

“I wish I could help,” Rubio says, head falling between his shaking shoulders as one trembling hand pinches the bridge of his nose like the thunder cracking above has split his skull with pain.

The horse behind him shifts, knocking its long face into his spine as though to nudge him free of his guilt. Rubio shifts his weight and lifts an arm to scratch its cheek out of habit. The tremor in his fingers lessens. The stress carving into his face smooths. 

“Well, should anything cross your mind-” Goosefat lets the rest dissolve into the sound of the rain drizzling outside. 

Rubio nods heavily, his body stiff in the way it becomes when the dungeons are brought up.

“I’ll find you. I promise.” 

“Good lad.” Goosefat says before he takes his leave, wondering how much more this castle would claim- would make missing- before it had its fill. 

|||||||||||

By the fourth morning, the sun shining through the tops of the trees lining the clearing, Goosefat worries. More than before.

Blue was still missing. Not one blonde hair on his head glimpsed by anyone. Not one peal of laughter was heard. Not one hastily scrawled offensive symbol on the stone walls to be seen. Even Jenny, still lingering in her malaise, looked forlorn and miserable. She was too young and too sick to be able to pretend he was missing if he was secretly visiting her. The poor girl missed the page with all her weak heart could muster.

The sword was yet nowhere. At least, the Haworthia spies hadn’t picked up on its absence. Perhaps the ones that undoubtedly shadowed Arthur had yet to confer with the ones stationed in the castle- and they still both believed the sword’s presence with the other’s mark.

It stalled at least one crisis. But Goosefat knew its presence and lack thereof would be noticed eventually. 

And then there were the things that were being noted.

The researchers he’d sent to the archives had returned with fractured information. Scrolls missing, books blank. And not just ripped pages or blotted with ink- bare. As though nothing had been ever transcribed, despite the shelves and chapters surrounding being full of information. Wealthy with details. Names, dates. Births, deaths, battles and lovers. 

But Uther’s reign- and that of his father’s- was decidedly- purposefully- and indescribably so- ruptured.

And perhaps, Goosefat reasoned, it could be explained. When Excalibre had been tied to the Pendragon bloodline there had been no fanfare. Merlin’s plight to retrieve and forge Mordred’s staff in the sword had been a highly secretive venture, known only to those closest to the bloodshed that would have followed had the mage been unsuccessful. And then, of course, the binding of the weapon to the Pendragon’s by the Lady of the Lake had been such a taciturn and self-contained event that it had become a near legend. A myth. A plausible fairy tale. One that even Goosefat had a difficult time to wrangle his belief to, if it were not for his friend’s hollow eyed look whenever the subject was brought up. Uther was not one for stories, nor lies.

When the eldest archivist had opened a ledger for Goosefat, the pages were clean.

Not rotten.

Not burned.

Not stolen.

Just not there.

“It’s like they were never written,” the archivist says, confusion and disbelief threaded in his voice, “But the indexes- they all indicate that they were.”

“Show me another,” Goosefat orders. 

And they do.

Ledger after ledger.

Births.

Deaths.

Coronations.

Treaties.

Names and dates.

All threaded with inconsistencies and pages leading to nowhere. Entire sections missing. 

Names that vanish when referenced to their source.

Meetings that Goosefat himself attended, and yet, when he searches for them, are gone.

“It’s as though something has reached into our records and erased them,” the archivist says, voice trembling, “Even the ones kept under seal”. 

The man’s ink stained hands collect a scroll, still rolled with King Uther’s crest shining on the wax seal, unbroken. 

“Look,” the archivist says, handing Goosefat the scroll and pointing one shaking finger as he steps back, as though to put space between him and whatever insidiousness it contains.

Goosefat presses his thumb into the wax. A soft snap echoes in the record chamber, insulated from the rest of the castle by stacks and stacks of ledgers and scrolls. Carefully, Goosefat unrolls the parchment. It’s as fresh as the day it was inked- a commendment to the archivists and how well they care for the records. 

Uther’s coronation date reveals itself. A list of all attendants in his royal court.

Goosefat scours the list of councilmen and clergymen including himself before he reaches the royal family.

m

Uther Pendragon

Ygraine Pendragon 

Arthur Pendragon

Vortigern Pendragon

Elsa Pendragon

Catia Pendragon

There’s a deliberate gap at the beginning which slides under Goosefat’s skin like a thorn. 

Like there’s a placeholder for absence and it all reeks of malevolence. 

“It’s as the rest,” the archivist says, reading Goosefat’s expression as well as he’s read every scroll he could dig from the record chambers across Londinium.

“What of it?” Goosefat asks, another seal cracking under his thumb. He’s skimming the writing as the archivist gestures at the racks. 

“Everything spanning Uther’s reign- and just before it- consistently displays these gaps.”

Goosefat pauses, another scroll about to be unwound, fingers twitching over the parchment.

“And before? Their father’s reign?”

The archivist smiles but it's a grimace.

“There’s a reference to a woman.”

“Where?”

The archivist hesitates.

“It’s notes scrawled in the margins of the family records. As well as some folk records we don’t keep for accuracy or truth but for completeness.”

“Who? Show me.” Goosefat says and the archivist hauls out a family bible almost as tall and wide as his torso. Recognizing the worn binding, the gold inscribed spine, it’s the Pendragon’s. 

With effort, the archivist heaves open the book, to a marked page. 

There, in a strange ink that is not as dark as the rest, in a hurriedly scribbled note along one margin is a barely legible cursive. Upon the page that records Uther’s family tree from his father to Arthur’s birth, all written in elaborate, elegant font and illustrations, is this confusing mark.

“What does it say? Is there a name?”

The archivist stares at the ink, a frown etching his wrinkled face further.

“We think it’s Serainian. I have someone attempting a translation as we speak,” the archivist says, “So far, there is no name to give, if there even was one to begin with.”

“Serainian?” Goosefat says, sounding out the word, stammering on its foreign nature.

The archivist nods, one finger tracing the edge of the page like it's injured. The scribbled words are a wound upon the once unblemished face of the page. 

“Sirene. Sirena. It’s an ancient tongue. One that belongs to beasts. We think it’s a warning. It is written in blood,” the archivist offers, absently, as though preoccupied with his thoughts, which have grown considerably dark, “Perhaps with the only kind that cannot be erased. Not when it’s tied to a legacy.”

Goosefat struggles to make sense of it all. 

A beastly language that he cannot place?

A woman that doesn’t exist except in her absence?

A warning written in blood?

“What else? You said there were folk records,” Goosefat asks, begging the archivist with sharpened eyes as he draws a few envelopes from his robes that carry the smell of dust and parchment.

“Letters,” the archivist says, handing a bundle to Goosefat, “Sent by Uther’s mother, Elsa, to her sister.”

Goosefat unties the rope that binds the handful of envelopes. He reads them with haste, eyes skittering across the writing with hope initially, until he reaches the final signature on the last letter and his expression shutters. Cold disappointment shades his face into an icy look.

Goosefat lets out an irritated sound which the archivist joins with a sigh of his own.

“She speaks of three births,” Goosefat says, his hand gesturing to the family bible.

“This only records two. Uther and Vortigern,” Goosefat says, the latter’s name spitting over his lips with disdain to ever have to place it beside the first.

The archivist nods.

“Aye, the first is unaccounted for,” the archivist says.

“A girl,” Goosefat says, “Not born still by her word to her sister- so pray tell me why isn’t she listed here?” 

The archivist looks as lost as the other man.

“Perhaps she did not live long enough to be named,” the archivist offers, but his voice titters off towards the end.

Goosefat inhales sharply.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Goosefat grits out. Elsa had not described a challenging labor, despite it being her first. The babe was described to be in good health. Of course, Goosefat knew anything could have happened– but her following letters describing Uther’s and Vortigern’s births were not laden with fear, doubt or grief that he would have expected from a mother having lost her firstborn.

“Perhaps, she was not born by the King–” 

“No,” Goosefat’s interjection is swift and edged. He’s unwilling to entertain such thoughts. That Uther’s mother had been unfaithful to the crown, or that his father may have been so upset at their first born not being a boy–. No, he wouldn’t allow himself to believe it. “They wouldn’t go this far to erase a child.”

The archivist nods. 

“Many a child has been left outside of the records,” the archivist says, “But never like this. It has always been a discreet matter.”

Goosefat frowns. He knows what the man says is the truth. But it irks him. The difference. That whatever stares back at them from these pages is yet so mysterious and obvious at once. 

It’s as though a child had taken a quill and scored the passages they didn’t like- a messy attempt at erasing the past except it’s been executed so neatly– so absolutely cleanly that it’s like nothing had happened at all. Whoever did this– this burying of history with what could only be some sort of old magic– they possessed a level of power that belongs to myth and legend. The kind that costs blood to secure its thoroughness.

“Seal this room. Once you have the translation, seal it as well, and bring it to me. Speak not a word of what you’ve found to anyone else.” Goosefat looses the orders like he lets his arrows find their mark. Feeling as tightly drawn as his bow string, Goosefat stands rigidly beside the old tome as the archivist bows, before his aging hands shut the family bible and he takes his leave in a swish of long, ink stained robes.

Goosefat remains as the fabric whispers over the stone floors. When the doors to the record chambers close, he reaches for the book, fingers brushing the inscribed cover, as though he could coax the truth from it. The letters lay beside, their creased pages like wings of a wounded butterfly pinned beneath his gaze. 

He yearns for clarity.

For a companion amidst all this uncertainty.

If Uther were here–

Goosefat’s fingers curl into a fist, which he slams into the ancient cover.

“Gods damn you,” Goosefat growls as pain shoots up his fingers into his arm. He’s alone and so incredibly angry about it. He was never meant to strategize by himself. He was meant to aid the Pendragon Kings, and be their unwavering right hand. 

Some evil thing has fed upon his friend's legacy. Had gorged itself on it until nothing remained. Nearly nothing. Little- so very little is left and it is so incredibly strange that Goosefat doesn’t know what to do with it.

Goosefat rises, tucking the letters into his vest. He’ll gather the knights of the round table. It’s risky- given the Haworthia spies. But perhaps with their focus drawn between their Princess and Arthur’s absences, it might just be the most opportune moment to convene and discuss all that’s amiss.

Striding out of the record chambers, Goosefat searches the castle halls to find someone to hail. Instead, at the far end towards the courtyard, he finds a shock of blonde hair.

Too pale to be Arthur’s and the man it belongs to is far too tall to be Blue.

Footsteps thud across the stone floors at a rapid pace as Rubio runs towards him. Relief colliding with fear in the younger man’s face as he finds Goosefat.

Intent to discover what draws the young man inside the castle walls with such haste, Goosefat gestures to a small alcove in the hallway. A carved arch of stone, with enough shadow and space that despite Rubio’s breath being wild, no one would overhear them.

“What is it lad?”

Rubio’s hands shake worse than usual as he comes up to Goosefat’s shoulder- and after taking a cautious look about, steps even closer. Shoulders drenched with rain that he’s run through rather than waiting out the downpour. Stiff like he’s bracing for a strike. 

Goosefat lifts a hand, placing it gently on Rubio’s back, ignoring the flinch that Rubio adopts. 

“I’ve heard something,” Rubio says, the words stammering out of him with such a fierceness that Goosefat struggles to understand.

“Breathe, lad,” Goosefat orders, softly, pulling Rubio closer so that when a servant passes by, they look like they share a comforting conversation.

“You’re safe with me. Tell me, what have you heard?” 

Rubio hauls in a shaking breath, and lets it out on words he sinks his teeth into so that they might tremor less on his lips.

“The guards. The ones just returned from their ride. They were talking. I was minding the horses,” Rubio says and Goosefat nods, hand clenching at Rubio’s back as he tries to temper his compassion for the wounded man and his urgency for information.

“What did they speak of?” Goosefat asks, jaw tightening even as he tries to secure Rubio with a soft, imploring look.

“People are disappearing,” Rubio says, “Along the north road, past the cemetery.”

Goosefat pauses. Arthur would be on the north road.

“First it was a family from the low farms. No bodies. Hearth still warm. Gruel in their bowls. Perhaps up and left but then there was a trader. Left his wares by the side of a bridge,” Rubio says.

Goosefat mulls.

“Perhaps he was distraught. Coin is light for many. The times are difficult,” Goosefat offers but Rubio shakes his head furiously.

“Nay, the guards knew him. His wife birthed their third son a fortnight ago,” Rubio says, “He was on his way home.”

Goosefat closes his eyes.

“They said it was like this the last turn of the moon,” Rubio continues, “A bunch of folks going missing, and then the roads are quiet.”

“The family,” Goosefat asks, voice braced against the answers he doesn’t desire to gain, “How long ago?”

Rubio hesitates.

“Four? Five days ago?”

Arthur’s been away for four. Perhaps whatever fate had befallen these unlucky lot was in front of him, unaware of the king treading in its wake. Perhaps, it was completely unrelated to the timing of the Princess’s arrival and departure and to anything regarding Arthur at all. Still, Goosefat frowns, he didn’t like Arthur chasing trouble as much as he liked him taunting it. And he wasn’t one for coincidences.

“And the guards?” 

“Proper spooked,” Rubio says, “Rode the whole stretch without stopping. Every water crossing there were new rumors of more missing folk.”

Goosefat exhales slowly. The way he does when he’s ready to loose an arrow. Steady. Controlled. 

“You’re a good lad,” Goosefat says, patting Rubio’s back, “You did right to come to me. I know it is not easy–” Goosefat gestures at their general castle surroundings.

Rubio shakes his head.

“I don’t care– what of the King?” Rubio says, “Have you had word from him?”

Goosefat shakes his head.

“That is by design,” Goosefat grumbles, because his not knowing of Arthur’s whereabouts was meant to ensure his safety- but how can he get word about this danger to a shadow? Without risking Arthur’s identity?

Rubio frowns, nodding gravely as though he understands.

“What do we do?” Rubio asks, shivering beneath Goosefat’s grasp, and Goosefat gives one more solid embrace before he releases the younger man.

“Leave,” Goosefat says, “You’ve done enough.” 

Rubio looks like he wants to argue but then a door opens somewhere down the hall and he flinches. Some remembered terror taking residence on his young face so that he looks aged beyond his years.

“Go back to the stables,” Goosefat orders, gently, because Rubio’s boots are slowly scraping away from him. 

“I’ll send word should I have need for you,” Goosefat promises.

Rubio nods then turns to depart, pausing before he gets too far.

He keeps his voice low, but Goosefat doesn’t miss the grim tone that draws his own lips into a thin line.

“I hope Blue’s clever enough.”

Goosefat hums in acknowledgement, but it's somber.

“As do I.”

Rubio leaves with haste, like someone being chased. 

Goosefat stands alone, until someone crosses his path, and he orders the knights to be gathered for the round table, save for Sir Rubio.

And then, by the time his next breath is drawn, Goosefat knows what must be done.

Tonight, the roads leading to the castle would have a watch set up.

Tomorrow morning, the riders would be sent to search for Arthur.

By night fall the next evening, if the King had not returned–

“Prepare a search party,” he orders the guard, “One that will ride the road north. Have them ready before dawn. Do it quietly.”

The guard nods but before he can leave, Goosefat lifts his voice again. Stern and grave. 

“And another. To dredge the rivers that surround the castle.”

|||

Thank you for reading!! Please engage if you enjoyed- likes, comments and reblogs mean ✨ e v e r y t h i n g ! ✨Thank you dear reader! ^_^ 💖💖💖 I write for me, I share because I'm a goblin and respond well to praise!! >:3 (your comments comfort & inspire me<3)

Climbing the creaking stairwell of the inn, you’re all too aware of Arthur’s presence in your wake. The sore ankle slows your ascent. Pain hinging every other step so that the innkeeper is forced to wait by the door to your room. Arthur treads carefully behind, adjusting his pace to accommodate yours, one hand lifting to your elbow when you sway off balance once you reach the landing.

“Careful, love,” Arthur says softly, his hand coming to rest on your lower back as you approach the innkeeper. The old man worries a thumb at the brim of his felt cap, standing idly until you arrive and he unlocks the door.

Warm, humid air meets you like an invitation into the little room- only large enough for a bed barely bigger than your own, and a narrow tub. A healthy amount of steam filters up from its surface, and one of the innkeep’s sons empties the last bucket of hot water into it before they take their leave as you and Arthur get settled.

Arthur places your bags at the end of the bed before his attention is drawn to the window. The night beyond is dark, but quiet.The garrison has not yet arrived.

The room is lit with a few candles on the side tables and a little stool beside the tub. Their flames flicker, seeming to grow brighter whenever Arthur nears. The shadows deepen where the light cannot strike, making the room feel even smaller.

It’s warm and insulated, like the pockets of lichen coated embers you extract from your vest, and place carefully on a night stand.

Arthur draws the curtains before he drops his weight onto the bed. The worn frame creaks under his weight, and he lifts the cover to cringe at the straw poking through the cushion. Stuffed with old hay, he adjusts the bedding with a brusk sigh. Apparently he’s used to better accommodations. Nevertheless his back meets the threadworn blanket with a weary exhale.

His legs remain in their boots, cast out over the edge of the bed, long enough his feet still meet the worn floorboards. Arthur makes no move to strip, his arms coming up to cross over his wide chest. Blue eyes shuttering closed while you maneuver around him. Stepping between his splayed legs which he adjusts to give you more space to pass. Diligently, you ignore the way his leathers splay over the width of his thighs, trying to ignore the lack of privacy screen between the bed and tub.

Digging through your pack, you extract a wrapped bundle of herbs and a small glass tincture bottle. They weren’t on Arthur’s list, but they’re herbs you want to use to see if they’ll calm his magically complicated aura.

Rising, you grab a few clean cloths left by the innkeeper. Arthur cracks one eye at your movement, tracking your hand that lifts the care bundle out to him.

Arthur lifts a brow.

Heat entirely separate from the steaming bath floods through you.

“I prepared these,” you offer, staring at the curled leaves of the sage and mugwort because Arthur makes no move to collect them. Hurrying to explain, lest he be distrusting, despite giving no indication presently or prior, your words loose from your mouth like a habit.

“It’s sage. To reverse spells, if that’s what’s causing your ailment. And mugwort. It aids in transitions. If your magic is tethered, it may give you a clear dream to reveal the true nature of what it’s tied to,” you say, holding out each bundle of dried plant matter for Arthur’s consideration.

Both of his eyes are open now, and he listens aptly, tired gaze flitting between the objects you hold out to him and your face.

“This,” you say, lifting the amber bottle, uncorking it and allowing its floral scent to fill the space where the steam hasn’t crowded in, “Is feverfew and honey, with crushed sage and mugwort, for you to take by mouth in order to get the full effects.”

Arthur remains still, although his head has lifted slightly from where it had fallen in his lounging state. Still, he makes no movement, and you’re caught, frozen- unsure of what to make of his expression. Weariness claws at his features, eyes half lidded like he’s on the cusp of sleep, but his gaze remains sharp. It cuts from you to the tub for one long moment before his shoulders lift slightly. Only as much as it takes to readjust his crossed arms and his blonde crown flops back to the cushion.

Arthur shimmies his frame further into the mattress, like a cat getting comfortable in a pool of sunlight.

“Ladies first,” Arthur says, eyes snapping shut like it’s an order, one that he expects no protest to, as though this is the way of things.

The only betrayal of his collected front is the quirk of lips at your small squawk, remembering your bath from this morning. You were trying to be polite. The herbs would be more effective with the hottest water available and that would require him to bathe first.

You manage a half explanation of this before Arthur adamantly shakes his head, chin tucking to his chest, brow furrowing and jaw set, although an amused smile flits over his face despite his stern words.

“You’ll have to drag me in, if you wish to have your turn after mine,” Arthur says, arms held tightly on a laugh he attempts to contain behind a mirthful grin. Despite his closed eyes, his expression still achieves its intended effect.

Perhaps, you’re grateful for it, because heat burns through your being at the vision he’s created, and you stare at him a moment longer before you relinquish your noble offer that he’s made decidedly less so.

“Right,” you say, somewhat tersely, placing the herbal bundle on the stool but the cloths are tossed at Arthur. Just hard enough for them to strike his side but they mostly land on the bed. It’s playful, but gets your point across that Arthur’s refused your hospitality. The one thing he could have had all to his own by your invitation- paid for by his own coin- and he wouldn’t even allow you this.

Arthur laughs, bright and full despite his exhaustion, but his eyes remain closed as he gathers the towels to him. Ever the chivalrous gentlemen, stubbornness aside.

“Don’t fall asleep while you wait,” you say, and Arthur hums thoughtfully but it wavers just on the edge of awareness so that when you strip, you think he’s already fallen into unconsciousness before you’re done.

The heat of the water feels like it reaches your bones. Any aches from travel are worn into nothing. The injuries at your ankle, wrist and throat are dulled to a corner in your mind, instead of hogging the forefront of your awareness that erodes your thoughts.

Once you’ve scrubbed the sweat from your skin, you lean against the back of the basin, settling until the water laps at your shoulders. You should step out and allow Arthur his turn. Propriety attempts to take root, but then you glance at Arthur, and any sense is ripped away.

Arthur’s still lying on the bed, arms crossed over his chest but looser now. His sleeves are drawn up to his elbows with the heat of the humid room. The bend of his arms collapsed to his sides with his exhaustion.

His breaths are drawn out and even, filling the space.

Long exhales, deep, grounded. Not tight and short like a man at the ready, but heavier and lasting.

For a moment you close your eyes, and listen.

It had been many years since you’d heard a man breathe like this.

Since before the war.

Since Silas.

The memory catches in your chest- like a thorn. Silas had once breathed like this in your home. This same slow and unguarded way.

You hadn’t realized how much you missed this sound.

Of rest. Of trust. Of comfort.

Your throat ached- and not just from your injuries. Swallowing your grief, you let yourself bathe in the moment for a few more breaths. Your own hitching in your chest, the surface of the bath rippling as you try to contain the wave of emotions as they hit. Like waves against shore, guided by the moon in an endless onslaught. A tide of grief in your being that sometimes floods you unexpectedly.

You let it wash over you until the largest of the waves passes. Until you settle. You linger in the shallows for a little bit more.

Just long enough to imagine there’d never been any years between you and this sound. That Silas had stayed. That you hadn’t found silence as your companion for so long.

The words drift out of you. Quiet. Quieter still with your injured voice. Quiet enough that your breath barely moves the bath water.

“Do you think it’s better to have someone- someone kind, who cared even if they’re gone, or to have never known them at all?”

The room is silent in the wake of your grieved murmur. You let the words out like steam, only expecting them to hit the rafters, not Arthur’s ears.

You dare a glance at your sleeping companion. Arthur’s eyes are still shut, his body betraying no awareness beyond his slumber.

There’s no answer. You shut your eyes again, wondering what use your musings would have even if they’d been heard. Would they only serve to speak to your loneliness, the ache that sits like a wound inside of you? And what expectations would you have of Arthur- to know what to do with that, if you hadn’t the slightest idea at all. There weren’t salve or tinctures to be made. There wasn’t any herb or flower you could grow to ease this pain.

The steam barely curls from the bath’s surface, and still you sit in your quiet anguish.

Until Arthur shifts and his voice cuts through, low and rough.

“Would it be better?”

Arthur hasn’t moved much, but his head is turned to you now, blue eyes on you like he’s trying to find you in a storm. Like your edges are blurred. Like he’s plucking his answer from the rain drops.

His gaze drifts from you as he throws his head back, like he hadn’t meant to look upon you in such a vulnerable moment. Like gazing upon your truth made him shy, and not your nakedness.

His eyes meet the peeling plaster of the ceiling like he’s tracing a map. His jaw works, like he chews on stones before he speaks.

“I don’t know. I only know the ache.”

His voice is coarse. Raw and low like he’s confessing. His hands clench into fists over his heart, like he steels himself against an enemy. Like there were some sort of weapon to be grasped against the foe that is love.

As though he never meant to fight it at all, his hands fall loose to his tunic.

The silence grows, until he speaks again, almost more to himself.

“I know better now,” Arthur says, his tone bitter over the word, like time has betrayed him, “That even if I was waiting for someone that couldn’t be taken from me- it wouldn’t matter. My life was never mine to keep like that.”

You still. The bath water laps at the edges of the tub as you rearrange yourself inside it. Within Arthur’s confession.

You knew all too well how loved ones could be taken away. Some remnant of your past must inhabit your features, something unguarded and awful, so that Arthur winces when he spots it blooming in your being. Like an invasive vine, wrapping around your strong foundation until it blots out the light, draws the moisture and chokes the nutrients from the soil, so that you’re forced to bend. To rot under it.

Arthur’s jaw flexes. So hard it must hurt, his voice tightening around his words, but he doesn’t stop.

“Even if I wanted y– someone- to stay by my side- it wouldn’t be allowed. Not with what waits ahead. I have to stop believing those kinds of stories are meant for me. I won’t have the choice to keep y– her.”

Arthur corrects his words, but not his gaze where it lances to you from the ceiling. Arthur stares like you’re the story he isn’t supposed to believe in. Every line of his face etched with the unfairness of longing for you at all.

You’re lost to that place you went during the meal downstairs. The one that carves your face with longing and hurt. That draws you from the present with Arthur so that you don’t notice his transgressions within it. In his words, his expression.

The herbalist swallows. It feels like nettles in your throat. Tearing through the words you draw up from where they’re buried in what feels like the center of you.

You should say something. Tell him what he says isn’t true. That fate always leaves room for love. And that it was worth it to keep- even if only fleetingly.

“Perhaps it isn’t about being allowed, but that she chooses to stay anyway,” you say, because what else is there? You’d stayed when Silas left to fight to close the gate opened to the Darklands. When animals the size of mountains were hauling themselves out of the sea to render destruction upon Camelot and surrounding lands.

You’d waited for his return. You’d waited and waited and waited. All your hope in this task. All your love. And the answer arrived in a cloth wrapped piece of him. A severed ear, inscribed with a rune by your own hand so that you’d never be able to mistake it for another’s. It was morbid. It was a strange relief. A closing of a chapter that had been inscribed with blood.

You weren’t supposed to love a Mage. That’s what had been decreed under Vortigern’s reign. Like it was a choice. Like even if it had been- like you’d have decided otherwise. Like it was obvious. Like your husband was a monster, and you caught within his spell.

You’d stayed. Despite the outcome. Despite it all- it still mattered. The love you’d shared. That you’d lost. You’d held on. With a fierce grip. A conviction.

This is mine. You can’t take it away from us. Not truly.

Arthur huffs out the barest of sounds. Not quite a laugh, not when you look so shattered. His gaze rips from you- aching, longing. Tortured.

He knows his place in the pain that strikes through you. The agonizing position he has in your grief that you’re not even aware of.

Arthur wishes he could gather it up, take it all from you and slaughter it as he had Vortigern with Excalibre. But even that was not enough.

Too late.

The Dark Lands. The mage’s tower. The weight of hundreds of Mage’s bracelets up his arms.

The Mage’s appreciation. Her grief. Yours.

The Mage’s vow.

She’d told him his wounds would never fester for what he’d done for her friends. That venom would never slice through his veins. Cause anything more than visions. Shite as they were, she was right. The black pools of her eyes swirled with conviction when she swore to him that poison would never reach his heart before it neutralized.

Arthur swallows, his throat tight. Your words have cut closer to the truth than he wants to admit.

It’s an echo of the Mage’s solemn advice.

A shade of what he’s learned in this new life.

We all look away. That’s the difference between a man and a King.

Still, there are things he doesn’t want to admit.

Arthur stirs from where he lays at last as you take your leave of the bath. He pivots away from you, to offer some semblance of privacy as you rise from the cooling water.

Tugging at his shirt to free it from his trousers while you towel dry and dress before you pluck the herbal pouch from the stool. Arthur’s most of the way through getting undressed when you start dropping herbs into the bath. Fabric shedding from him like the steam coaxed him into dropping his defenses.

You don’t mean to look- but Arthur catches your wayward glance in the reflection of the water.

You avert your gaze so sharply he almost smiles. Arthur had grown up where modesty was a veil lifted with enough coin. Nudity never shocked him but your refusal to look was amusing. The restraint is almost more intimate than if you had.

You busied yourself with your herbs. They crush easily in your fist. Scattering pieces across the water’s surface, hoping its heat was still enough to draw out all their healing properties. Their scent rises immediately- bright, sharp and familiar.

For a breath, you’re transported to your garden last summer. When you’d plucked these leaves from the crown of your most impressive sage, before stringing them up to dry. You let the familiar memories occupy your mind, hoping the mundane aspect would quell your interest in your companion who was steadily approaching nudity. It’s not like you’ve never seen a naked man before- you inwardly chide yourself, feeling like when you were newly wedded to Silas. When he’d felt like a strange, alluring creature.

Aiming to achieve neutrality in your expression, you finish dropping the herbs with a focused nod like you’re studying your garden for pests, when Arthur appears.

There’s a flash of pale thigh, with a heavy dusting of coarse blonde hair covering it, along with a towel held strategically for your sake while you whirl on your heel towards the bed before he steps in and lowers himself into the tub.

Climbing into the bedding, you fuss over your positioning while water sloshes as it shifts around Arthur’s frame. The tub creaks as he wrestles his broad self into the narrow basin, before his voice joins it. Arthur adds his own protest.

“You didn’t use these for your turn,” Arthur says, plainly, fingers twirling a stem of mugwort across the bath’s surface, his gaze pinning you as you shove the empty herbal bag into your pack. Perhaps, you use a little too much force, keenly aware of Arthur’s noticing of your habits, and your noticing of him.

“They’re for you,” you offer, carefully avoiding his unvoiced question and his uncovered body when you meet his gaze with your own. It’s an enormous chore, with how his broad chest rises above the surface of the water, his long legs affording little space for the rest of him.

Distracted by the way his arms hang over the edge of the tub, like he reclines on a dais, and not within a waterlogged cask, your words are stuttered, “They’ll alleviate the pull of your magic.”

“They would aid your injuries too,” Arthur says, eyes flicking to the bruises across your throat, pinning you with unflinching steadiness.

“Why not then?” Arthur asks, his tone doesn’t sharpen, but it strikes precisely.

“My thoughts strayed,” you say, with a decidedly casual shrug that becomes discordant when Arthur takes up the soap and drags it across his chest. The suds fall down the rises and dips where the plane of muscle meets the strong curve of his shoulder, along with rivets of water. You attempt to adjust your stare, to admire the doorframe beyond him. It doesn’t help that the candles seem to have grown brighter, making Arthur easier to regard.

He’s all strong lines in the soft light. Tight, efficient movements as he washes, the soap bubbles and coiling vapor rising from the bath blurring his edges only a little.

Arthur makes a thoughtful hum that seems to shake the air of the room, gone thick with steam once more, his gaze lingering on you. It’s strange how the stream rises around him, when the water had been lukewarm when you left it.

Truly, it was too hot in this room. The herbal laced vapor was rolling off the surface of the bath- not that you were looking there in particular- no, certainly not at where the water met Arthur’s torso. The rippling rises and dips of muscle and solid flesh. The soap lather and water dripping from his form as he methodically cleans his upper body.

You unfold and fold the remaining towels, preoccupied with them while Arthur washes himself before his voice comes again. Forced into a level of quiet you can pretend you don’t hear as he splashes water over himself to rinse off.

“You deserve care too.”

The basin creaks again, as Arthur settles further into the water, his head dropping back to rest on the edge of the basin.

Once again, the sound of his deep breathing fills the room.

Steady. Drawn. Alive.

Closing your eyes against the ache forming in your heart- the one that yet craves this sound the way you do food or air. Another slosh of water drives your vision to him once more, curious when he’ll take up the tincture.

Arthur settles further into the water, the cords of muscle in his thick neck jump through a pleased sigh that you try to scrape from your memory before it has a chance to take root. It’s like trying to clear ivy. Whatever you try to remove, climbs back and threatens to choke you of breath. Truly, it wasn’t possible to be this attractive? And yet Arthur was.

His gaze is heavy within eyes half closed as the heat and herbs soak their way into his body. Exhaustion clings to his features, and yet, he’s still handsome within it.

You’re perched on the end of the narrow bed, but you haven't moved towards the pillow. You haven’t turned away from him either. Your eyes flicked across him, small glances, never lingering but always finding their way back. It carried more weight than a stare.

Arthur’s lips quirk.

“I’m not going to drown.”

You stiffen, caught. To Arthur’s amusement, you recover quickly.

“What if you fall asleep? You’ll waste my herbs,” you say, bristling slightly, like this is your first and only concern.

Arthur’s smile deepens.

“Is that what you care for?” His tone dips with his exhaustion, but carries a spark beneath. He’s the match, and you’re the fuel. It’s in the way your fingers fuss over the bedding, like you search for something to do with the restless energy gathering inside you.

Arthur spots the fluster within you with experienced ease. The blazing quiet you’ve adopted, yet busy focus. Your attention flitting over him like a moth dancing around a flame. The familiar trance of arousal seeping into your expressions, as bright and clear to him as his next breath. Familiar only because of his past, and not for the way he yearns to hoard it upon you now- his first glimpse of it on you, and what he hopes to all the gods won’t be the last.

Arthur can’t help it. He drops his voice low. Allows a bit of grit to enter it so the rough quality makes your breath hitch.

“The herbs?” Arthur asks, a smirk playing over his handsome face as you collect yourself at an impressive speed. Still, he sees the ways your thighs clench beneath the pillow you grasp like a shield.

Your chin lifts, brow following, your eyes carefully pinning his like nothing exists below them. Not the water clinging to the wide expanse of his chest. Not the way it laps at his ribs. Definitely paying no mind to how his fingers trace absently across the surface of the water, chasing a clump of floating mugwort. The flexing of his arms, his skin a map of veins and sheening dampness over valleys of firm muscles.

“Do you believe they are easy to come by?” you ask, securing him with a challenging look as you gesture at the space, “Whilst we venture for days to retrieve some?”

Arthur allows himself a low chuckle, broad shoulders twisting in the narrow basin, arms sloughing in and out of the water to rest on the edges of the tub. The position is careless, a stretching sprawl, but his gaze isn’t. Your own falters at his new position. Something he takes as a victory, if the slight curve of his lip is indication.

Reaching, Arthur’s fingers dance over the small bottle of tincture. Tearing your gaze from him, you follow the movement, thankful for the distraction.

“The mother of herbs,” Arthur muses, before he lifts the glass for his regard. In the dark amber, he sees the shape of the brothel he grew up in. The women brewing mugwort in their ale to regulate their courses. He’d become too accustomed to the bitter flavor, so much so that when he’d attended taverns that brewed without it, he’d thought their ale too sweet and bland.

“Aye,” you hum in agreement, “It will make your dreams clear.”

Perhaps this is why he’d been inflicted with an abundance of nightmares throughout his life, Arthur ponders. It’d only been since he’d lived in the castle, that his dreams had eased. But then again, the last time he slept he’d been plagued once more with wicked visions. The last time- Arthur can’t truly recall when he’d slept properly.

Arthur’s gaze slides from the tincture to you, thoughtfully. Like he’s at odds whether he should take it or not. There’s something like suspicion in his eyes for a blink, but it’s like he’s gazing at someone else in your place. You shuffle under his regard, suddenly serious compared to the moments that led you here, before his expression shifts and settles on his decision.

Arthur twists the lid, the wax seal cracking beneath his fist before he tips the vial to his lips. His head tipped back, you’re allotted the thick expanse of his throat, moisture and a light sheen of sweat clinging to his skin as he drinks. Truly, the bath is too hot.

With a cringe, Arthur swallows. You’d mix more honey into it next time, you think as Arthur places the empty vial down and settles into the water once more.

Steam rolls off the bath’s surface in thick pillars. If you weren’t so preoccupied with the man within it, you’d have thought it unnatural. How the water had gained heat again.

But, distracted as you were, the thought only arrives when the center of Arthur’s broad chest begins to glow.

Arthur’s attention snaps to the orb of blue light in an instant. It grows steadily, like the heart of a candle. Burning hottest, growing taller, it rises and spreads from him like a rose blooming. The brightness illuminates his deep frown, like he’s just set eyes on an old rival. One hand reflexively raises to swat at the burst of magic, like he’s extinguishing a flame.

For a breath, it disappears. Flitting into nothing like it was never there, and Arthur seems unhurt by the contact. Still, your interest is immediate and you sit straighter upon the bed.

Arthur rearranges himself within the tub, suddenly restless, one hand rubbing at where the magic had appeared. His knees drawn up as he pitches forward, shoulders curling inwards and breaths heavier than before. Closer together, like they are trying to meet each other before the first has even left his mouth.

“Does it pain you?” you ask, and Arthur’s focus where it was pinned to the water that’s begun to churn around him, cuts to you with a tight shake of his head.

Arthur’s voice is ragged when he speaks, as though he’s run the entire way to arrive here. There’s sweat beading on his brow. His cheeks and tips of his ears flush a deep red. The blush runs furiously down his throat to where his chest meets his hand- pressing into where his ribs meet at the center.

The magic spurts from behind his fist. Bright bursts of blue light like sparks from a fire spray from around and within his fist like he’s trying to hold onto water that is both wave and flame.

“It feels strange,” Arthur admits and you can’t help how your hands twitch. Your herbalist mind is storming to the forefront of your thoughts.

An unnatural plume of steam bursts from the water, now shivering with heat as though on the cusp of boiling.

When the next flare of his magic comes, it glows like a branding iron. Red hot and angry. Different from before. It spears out in jagged lashes of raging flame.

The crimson light cuts up his throat and across his ribs, as though it were flames straight from hell. Arthur startles, like his heart was its fuel.

Arthur’s hand slams into his chest, like he can smother it. The water hisses as it bubbles over the edges of the tub and sloughs onto the floor.

“Arthur!” you cry, jolting upright and forwards.

“Stay back!” Arthur shouts, his voice harsher than he likes, but it serves its purpose with how you still. A few yards from him, your shock and concern rampant in your features as Arthur presses one hand to the blaze at his chest, the other like a vice around the rim of the tub, like he’s trying to anchor himself.

“Doesn’t it burn you?” you ask, voice pitched somewhere near enough to panic that Arthur unlocks his jaw if only to assuage your fear. His entire body fights the onslaught of chaotic magic. Every muscle tense. Every breath looks like he rips it from the thick, humid air around you.

“No,” Arthur says with a tight shake of his head to accompany his answer, his gaze flicking to yours, and for the first time since you met, you see something like fear in his storming eyes, “But perhaps it will burn you.”

Despite the warning laid before you, the healer instinct that feels as though it’s carved in your bones, flares. Especially when it appears as though this magical flourish does hurt him.

“What do you feel?” you ask, voice only slightly calmer than before as you try to contain your composure.

Arthur grinds out a curse as his chest bows upwards, pulling him further upright as the red light flares from his skin. His shoulders are pulled back and Arthur winces from the strain. It’s as though the blood hued flame is attempting to burst from his heart and into the room around you.

You need to help.

Provide aid.

Anything.

If you cannot approach, you will use your vision. You latch onto this thought like it's a climbing pole, and you the stringy bean seedling shivering in a storm. Grasping for steadiness so you don’t snap and collapse.

Within the swirl of bright red magic you focus your attention. Beneath it lies the blue flame magic that you believe belongs to Arthur. It’s dim and struggling against the burning fury of the magic that invades.

And beneath that, his skin. Smooth, unblemished flesh. No gaping hole where his heart should be. There’s no blisters. No scorch marks.

Small relief shores itself up against your anxiety as Arthur growls out something between a curse and a hollow laugh. There’s no humor in it, not when his teeth clench with every slam of his fist into his chest.

“Like war,” Arthur says, air drawn sharp across his teeth as he hisses. The red magic rages against his touch. The water froths and surges like he sits in a river made of rapids. Some droplets spray out at you, and your answering hiss as the water sears your skin makes the next meeting of Arthur’s fist to his chest harder. Like he puts all the force he can muster into the action.

“It’s not mine, this,” Arthur says, gesturing at the tantruming crimson flare. His determined eyes meet yours like he needs you to believe this, and you dare a step forward. Arthur tracks the movement, that same fear clashing in his expression at your renewed approach.

You edge closer despite the plea he puts into the look thrown at you before he’s thumping his chest again. Like he’s wrestling smoke. Like he’s grasping at the threads of his own magic with his contorted fist.

Like he might be losing by the sharp inhale he draws as he tries to cage the power surging in his chest.

He’s flushed a deep red everywhere the magic touches, flame like bloody tendrils licking up his skin before they’re forced away beneath his hand.

“Let me help,” you say, coming to the side of the tub, your boots held carefully out of reach of the splashing water that pours over the floor.

“No,” Arthur snaps, hard and immediate, like a blade shoved into stone. His fever bright eyes meet yours with surprising clarity. This close, you can see the pulse at his throat. It slams beneath his jaw, strong and quick. “We don’t know what it is. I won’t let it hurt you too.”

“And what if you pass out?” you counter, suddenly all too aware of how your own sweat has soaked through your garments. The room is choked with hot steam. If it won’t burn him, the possibility of him going unconscious with the temperature makes your heart race. How would you collect him from the boiling water before he drowned?

Arthur falters, body trembling with effort to reign in the magic that rages beneath his fist.

Eyes squeezed shut, Arthur’s breath meets the rippling water with a ragged sound. It’s pained- not with uncertainty- but of what he knows. And what you do not.

Still, he wages against the magic, willing it to settle. For his own to take ground. Your nearness throws his fear to a dark place, one that not even the fierce bright light of this invading magic can reach.

Somehow, it grounds him. The water bubbles less. The steam thins. The red light fades. A blue one joins it, and they curl around Arthur’s fist like flame around fuel. Eventually, they settle into the likes of flame on an ember. Crawling along the seams of his fingers, glowing only every so often. Seemingly with the same rhythm as Arthur’s breaths- now drawn out and calm.

When Arthur opens his eyes, he finds your searching gaze, your hands fisted in your dress. Aching to do something. Anything. Your gaze scouring him like you’re trying to diagnose, but coming up vacant of knowledge beyond what you can see.

He decides something then, his free hand releasing the bath, now dented with the imprint of his grip. He straightens, still trembling with effort, as his fingers graze yours.

“Hold my hand.”

Your shock grows when his touch thrums with power. What’s his and not his. His touch is rough and hot. Impossibly so. When you don’t recoil, his grip tightens. Firm around yours, like he’s anchoring himself to your simple touch.

“I will pull yours away,” Arthur explains as your hand folds into his, “If her- if it’s power turns against you.”

Arthur brings your hand to him, your knees meeting the ground as you kneel beside the tub.

Carefully, he lays your fingers on the side of his chest, as though he’s assessing the contact, before he gently pulls your hand to center.

His chest is hot like his hand. Hotter than any fever you’ve felt before. Concern pulls your mouth into a grim line.

Arthur takes a steadying breath. It gathers beneath your fingertips, vibrations shivering up your arm. The air stutters over your skin as Arthur braces for the next moment. He keeps his hand held carefully over yours, grip firm like he’s giving you room to flinch or afraid you’ll slip away, but he lets you guide the movement.

With care, you trace the place at his sternum, where the magic rests. Faint blue glows at your touch, as though to meet it. The blue flame encircles your searching fingers, as though it senses you. As though it lives and breathes. There’s no pain or discomfort that you feel, only a soothing chill that counteracts the fiery warmth of the rest of Arthur.

“That feels good,” Arthur says, voice wavering like he’s unsure if he should admit it, but there’s slack in his shoulders now. His body is less tense, and he allows himself to sag into the tub wall, but his gaze remains vigilant on where your hand meets his skin. Like he can threaten the surging magic into submission if he keeps glaring. His hand twitches upon yours, as though he’s prepared to snatch your fingers away in a blink.

“Describe it,” you say, pressing slightly harder, until the planes of muscles beneath your fingers reply. Arthur’s chest is firm. He doesn’t wince or inhale sharply. Despite the heat that coursed through here, his nerves are responsive.

Arthur swallows as you lay your hand flat. The solid thrum of his heart meets your palm. It’s strong and stable. Not too fast, too weak or too slow.

“I haven’t felt a woman’s touch in ages,” Arthur says, earnest and raw. You still at his admittance, a smile twitching over your lips despite the circumstances.

Arthur’s heart pulses quicker beneath your hand, and his fingers tighten over yours as he lets out a shaky laugh.

“Ah, you meant the magic,” Arthur says, flushing red for entirely different reasons than the power you’re trying to sense.

You’re close now. All your focus upon him as his hand envelops yours. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, an endearing caress of habit although you’re unsure if he intends to soothe you or himself.

The blue light ebbs and flows around your hand and wrist, matching the thrum of Arthur’s heartbeat. It laps at your touch, coiling around you as though trying to claim you within it. The touch is soft and fluid, like water between your fingers.

Arthur’s voice comes, rough and caught on his exhaustion- undoubtedly heavier now with all the efforts to contain the red invading magic that still glows deep within his chest. Like a festering wound. It sits too near his heart.

“It feels like a tide of fire,” Arthur says, “When it’s mine, it feels like cold waves, washing out the flames before they can burn.”

“But when it’s… hers,” you query, gently, remembering Arthur’s words from before and using them in this moment. Pressing both with your fingers, and your curiosity.

Arthur hedges. Stiffening, like he’s spoken too much, but yet he inhales, and begins to put his breath into more words.

“When it’s, hers,” Arthur grinds out the word like a curse, but before he can continue, the red magic that had been dormant begins to spike like thorns beneath your fingers. The blue light fractures as the opposing blaze grows. The water in the tub surges as though it was caught in a storm.

Arthur’s grip tightens on yours instantly, but when he moves to pull your hand away, the blue light rushes forwards. Coiling around your hand, easing the prickling heat of the red flame like a barrier. Shielding you from its harm and Arthur stills alongside you. Both of you are captivated by the war that is a clash of lights within his chest, like water smothering flame.

Your eyes flash to Arthur’s. A little shocked, a little wild. He’s yet looking at you through the rising steam that’s heavy with the scent of sage and feverfew. The red magic recedes, the blue taking its place once more. It all glows off the solid edges of him, despite his trembling.

You realize you’re leaning closer than before. Your hand held beneath his, still pressed firmly to his chest. Your own heart beats as wildly as his, but you’re the only one partial to this knowledge.

Still, his thumb brushes your hand once more, something unspoken shared between you. Like he knows you’re as affected as him. His touch is slower this time. Unhurried. Deliberate.

It makes your breath hitch and the pulse in your wrist jumps beneath his touch.

The lights have grown dim, within his chest, and from the candles. It makes his blue eyes look shadowed. Dark and full of something you haven’t seen directed at you this wholly since Silas.

His eyes flick down to your lips, his own opening as though he’s about to speak, before he tears his gaze away with a small shake of his head. A smile pulls at his mouth as he allows a soft laugh, not for you, but at himself.

You should remove your hand. Truly, there wasn’t much else you could do now except mull over what you’ve witnessed and hope that something Silas taught you could help guide your treatment of this complicated magical problem. But yet, your hand remains pressed to Arthur’s chest, and something warm and dangerous burns within you. Entirely separate from what burns in his heart, but nonetheless, you shove it down deep where you can pretend not to notice it or your noticing of Arthur’s noticing.

Arthur seems to do the same, looking away from you like it takes effort to do so. His voice is low when he speaks.

“Earlier,” Arthur says and your fingers twitch in his hand when he swallows, your gaze following the way his throat works before he continues, “The kiss.”

You still, not because you’re surprised at the change in subject, but because you don’t want Arthur to perceive any movement of yours as retreat. If anything, your hand presses further into his chest, as though prompting him to keep speaking.

Arthur does. His gaze cutting from where it landed on his sword, propped beside the tub at a safe distance should he have needed it, to find yours.

He stares at you with meaning- like he needs you to know this next part like he needs that sword to be Excalibre. Like he needs to find Blue. Like he needs to know what’s happening to his magic.

Like it matters.

“I know what I took,” Arthur says, and your mind traces the press of his lips to yours as easily as your next breath- which is scraped from the air that's gone thick between you. The memory is clarified with its nearness, with his nearness now. The shock of it. The heat. That he’s brought it up once more.

Arthur watches your mouth open- the way your breath stutters over your tongue, unable to form thought beyond the distance between your face and his and the very full lips that you can’t stop staring at all of a sudden.

They’re pink with blood, and the warmth of the steam and heat of the water. Healthy. Alive. Your healer mind is catapulted to usefulness as you try to wrangle some vestige of sense back into your thoughts.

He isn’t apologizing. It’s a confession of sorts. Of regret. Of an ache you spot in his look as he regards you. Of one that’s reflected in you.

Want.

Pure, undistilled desire.

Your breath stirs between you, shallow and uneven, like you’ve taken too many cups of Sigrid’s tea. But you’re not tired- you're wild with energy. With need.

“Arthur,” his name tumbles out of your lips on a whisper, just loud enough for Arthur to register the wrecked quality of it.

It seems to undo him, with how his grip tightens on your hand, and for one dizzying breath, he leans into you. The water sloshes in the tub as his other hand lifts, thumb brushing your chin. Careful to avoid the bruises. The heat of him presses around you.

Your eyes close, enjoying the feel of his attention just as his breath feathers across your cheek. Warm. Shaking with his restraint.

He draws back sharply. Releasing your hand back to you, Arthur splashes water on his face as though it will put sense back into him. It feels like he’s plunged both of you into an ice cold river.

The set of his jaw is tight. Ticking through something he won’t share. His gaze shuttered behind something distant. Removed.

There’s a lash of red flame at his chest as he lets out a sigh heavy with frustration and slams his fist to meet it. The set of his shoulders is tight as he throws himself into the back of the tub. Intent to place distance between you and him, although he convinces himself it’s meant to be for you from his rogue magic.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says, hoarse and regretful, “You should rest.”

You want to protest. To go back to the moments before. To tell him that whatever ails him, he does not need to face it by himself. But there’s something desperate in how he refuses to look at you now. Like it pains him.

And you cannot offer cure to wounds you do not know- and so you rise, knees aching from kneeling, dress slightly soaked. You press a towel into the hand that hangs off the edge of the tub- the other rubbing idly at his chest and the light that is steadily fading within.

“I’ll be near if you need me,” you say, before you take your leave and settle in the bed.

“Sleep,” Arthur says, his voice gentler than before, “Please. You should try to rest before the garrison arrives,” he says, just on the edge of an order- as accustomed and not as he was to doing so in the castle.

It takes awhile for sleep to claim you. Arthur pretends not to notice the way you squirm on the bed with that restless energy of a woman trying to hide the denial of pleasure.

And gods did he want to provide it.

Arthur waits until your breathing evens out before he leaves the bath. Careful to be silent as he dries and dresses, lest he wake you.

Slowly, he seats himself at the foot of the bed, mindful to not place himself in your orbit lest you wake and he’ll lose himself in your attention again.

After a time of listening to your soft breathing, Arthur finds his hand that had held yours pressed to the same spot on his chest. The magic is quiet now. Soothed by your touch despite the loss of it.

He should feel relief. Instead shame shores itself up inside him, like sand takes shape beneath the waves. It finds all the empty parts of him, the places he ignores, the ones he never looks at for longer than a glance- and fills it all.

And with it- tangled up like it's caught in spider silk, is desire.

Arthur tries to stare out the window, but only finds your shape in the reflection.

Would you still sleep peacefully if you knew who he truly was?

Here, afforded a room and his protection on the road, you sleep undisturbed. Yet, for how many years before had you slept unsafe? Unguarded on the King’s land. For a few heartbeats, his magic flares a vivid blue beneath his tunic. As though it felt his dismay.

His land.

Because he was the born king.

A lost Pendragon returned to take up the crown.

And you, much like his longing, would be caught up in the web of castle politics and potential tragedy if he were to reveal anything of his true identity.

Arthur sighs. His magic stutters with it. In between its absences, the opposing magic thrums. A counter heartbeat to his own. Tugging at his awareness constantly. Like a blade in his heart. Reminding him of its presence. Sharp and possessive.

Eventually, Arthur’s eyes drift shut. Lulled by your breathing into a doze that courts sleep with ease if it weren’t for the approach of light footsteps.

Arthur’s hand tightens around his sword just as the knock comes. Quietly at first, like whoever owns the fist is loath to disturb.

Arthur shifts, about to rise, when the knock against the wood sharpens.

Rap rap rap

Beside him, you startle. Arthur only manages to barely avoid the swift kick you aim at his ribs as you bolt upright. Gaze scouring your surroundings with unguarded terror as you scramble for a makeshift weapon. Hands darting to the candle as you blow it out before you lift it by the heavy base. Its clever, if not necessary as Arthur steps between you and the door, waiting at a healthy distance for you to realize him as friendly and not your enemy.

It takes too long.

Too many agonizing breaths as your mind catches up to your position.

Arthur gives his voice then.

“Easy there, love.”

The smoking candle lowers by a measure. Enough that Arthur’s confident it won’t meet his head if you swing.

“It’s all right, you’re safe. I’ll get the door.”

You nod, but Arthur doesn’t miss the fierce shake of your hands and the small apology floating out to him as you place the candle back down.

Anger alights in Arthur the likes he’s known only a scant handful of times in his life. Stalking the short distance to the offending door, Arthur yanks it open, a glare already prepared for whoever waits behind it.

The wax scraping son of the inn keeper stares up at Arthur, an apology streaming from his mouth before the door is even cracked open properly.

Arthur softens, allowing the child to stutter through his spiel with only a slight frown.

“M’apologies sir. The garrison has returned and requisitioned the entire inn. You and your wife can camp in the yard. Supplies will be provided,” the boy says, tacking on a few more apologies when Arthur releases a brusk sigh.

“S’alright lad. S’not your fault,” Arthur says, aiming for a reassuring tone but his anger for your sake makes it land somewhere too harsh still. The boy scurries down the stairwell as soon as Arthur dismisses him.

Arthur can’t help but think of Blue. A wave of worry crashing through him to meet the surging rage that presses against him. Had Blue come up against the likes of Vortigern’s ranks- who’d collected and nearly shipped off ten thousand boys to fight wars in strange lands under his orders? Their kingdom’s future was sold to the Vikings in Arthur’s absence. He’d only just found his reign in time.

But shadows remained. Scars. Footholds for the nefarious. Like this garrison. Within his own guard.

Arthur can’t help but imagine how many bloody times you’d woken in such a state. Alone and vulnerable and scared out of your mind. Whilst on his land. And Arthur couldn’t change any of it.

For one long moment, Arthur debates descending into the inn and throwing his weight around. If he didn’t give the King’s title to the garrison, then he’d give his fists and perhaps his blade. It wasn’t Excalibre but it wasn’t nothing, especially if he let his magic accompany it. Which by all recent accounts, he expects it would unleash even without the conduit of Merlin’s forged sword in his grip.

He was that out of his mind. With exhaustion. With fury. With frustration.

But then, at his back, your voice lifts, and it feels like a balm over him. Like he’s one raw wound, and your presence is the cure.

“Arthur? Do we need to take our leave?”

We.

Our.

Your wife.

Arthur takes your words and shoves them into the void in his chest. The place where his magic has come loose. Threatens to rip from him. Tethered only by what feels like sheer will.

Somehow, he’s steadier when he turns to you. Less wild edges. More gathered and calm. And you look at him as though he always has been. It soothes the searing ache. If only a little.

“Aye,” Arthur says, quietly, burying the answer in his hand as it drags down his face like he doesn’t wish to speak it. For one breath his gaze lands on the bed, and you spot the weary hesitancy as his eyes track to the window and the cold night beyond.

“We’ll stay warm,” you say, your voice brighter than Arthur expects, and vastly more certain than he feels, never having camped aside from when his father’s loyalists and the Mage had rescued him away from his uncle. Confusion leeching into his features at your surety.

“You run hotter than a fever,” you offer, with the same removed tone as Dr.Enthiel sometimes adopts when he’s diagnosing, “And it will be safer to bed together.”

Arthur digests your statement as you gather your things. Efficiently acquiring your bag and the supply packs with a casual air like you hadn’t just easily agreed to this arrangement.

Brushing past him, your voice is a mixture of playful scold and spark and just low enough for only Arthur to catch.

“You don’t need to grin that wide for them to believe our farce.”

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Thank you for reading!! Please engage if you enjoyed- likes, comments and reblogs mean ✨ e v e r y t h i n g ! ✨Thank you dear reader! ^_^ 💖💖💖

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Passage - the act or process of moving through, under, over or past something on the way from one place to another. The act or process of moving forward.

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Arthur felt his magic pressing against his skin, like a blade on an infected wound. It shored up underneath the surface of him, spreading through his being like a lowgrade fever. 

Gathering. Pressing. Worse when he was stressed and tired.

He was beyond that now. With Blue missing, along with Excalibur, and with no way to send or receive word from the castle whilst on this secret venture, Arthur’s nerves were nearly run through without the dredged up magic twining around them. 

Then, the road. An unusual spot for him, who was still used to his territory within Londinium like tracing a worn map at the back of his mind- etched and carved there so he’d never be rid of it, even with all the novelty in his newfound life. 

And then, more recently, the growing familiarity of the castle and its grounds. Arthur tread those halls and gardens with growing knowledge, and nearly, when he let his mind drift, with wisdom. Like some part of him was remembering his steps. But that was likely born of his lack of sleep. Aside from the memory of Excalibur slicing his palms, his childhood before the brothel was a shadow. But still, he found himself drifting through the castle like he was floating through a dream. Wading through layers of memory and awareness, unsure if his steps were too small or too large for his body.

Well aware he was veering into burnout and exhaustion, Arthur accepts the innkeeper’s warning without protest. Only one room is available. One bed within it and absolutely no promise that they’d sleep scarce a few hours before the garrison they passed earlier would return to requisition the entire inn for their own purposes. Which, by the appearance of the gaunt inn keep, was plundering their pantry and wine cellar without care if the staff even saw a crumb or drop of sustenance. The inn keeper accepts Arthur’s coin with a resigned sort of sigh- like he doesn’t expect the weight of the farthing to even settle in his palm before it will be ‘requisitioned’. 

For ‘the cause’ as the innkeeper had told Arthur. 

For the King.

Which one, Arthur could risk a healthy guess- Vortigern’s banners and selfish imposition reflected garishly in the garrison’s repeated visits to this tavern. Always conveniently on the other side of a supply shipment that dwindled with each entitled visit by the former King’s guards.

Arthur’s distaste doesn’t have nearly anywhere to settle inside of him, especially with the garrison out of sight. It’s like the magic has taken root anywhere there’s room available in him, leaving little room for anything else unless it’s urgent. 

It makes Arthur hedge. 

He’s used to looking to the future, planning, scheming. And he’s used to doing it with others at his side. To both watch his back and examine all the possible outcomes in case he’s missed something before he decides the path forwards. 

He can’t help but feel at a loss. Out of his element, pretending to be something he isn’t around everyone he knows and those he doesn’t. Nearly alone- Arthur pauses,  aside from you, for which he feels responsible and things he cannot name when the magic threatens to stretch into his mind. 

Reaching. Searching. There’s things even Arthur doesn’t wish to find. Arthur has the sense that there’s something- someone- not his own within him. 

Intertwined.

Hadn’t you said the same?

“It is yours too. But there’s more. Someone else’s. It’s become attached to your magic- they’re amplifying each other-”

He should ask you more about it. But exhaustion tugs at his awareness so hard that Arthur fears he might collapse where he stands. Words fall off his lips, slurred, when he places the order for your meal and bath. Swallowing guilt when the innkeeper looks like he needs both just as much as him. 

When the man takes his leave to speak with the cook, disappearing into the kitchens, Arthur slides a few farthings into the man’s felt cap that he’s left behind on the counter. Concealing the coins where the stiff brim meets the sides and any clever person would leave a pocket available to hide what meager funds they could from thieving hands. It’s what he’d done as a boy.

Arthur almost smiles when his fingers trace the split stitching and stuff the coins into place. Only one each side lest they make sound or add too much weight to be unnoticeable. It won’t make a difference in the long term, Arthur thinks, but it might trim some troubles from the inn keeper’s life for a moment once he discovers them. 

And didn’t that matter? 

To live simply, within a complicated world? Arthur felt like it mattered; it’s all he’d ever tried to do. Working hard, to attain a level of comfort and safety for himself- and more than that- his loved ones.

In the dungeons of his castle, all those months ago, when he’d told Vortigern that he had no coffers- Arthur hadn’t been lying. Of course, they’d been discovered, but in Arthur’s mind they never belonged to him. All the coin he’d collected, all the tricks and trades, any wealth he’d scrounged and scraped from the bowels of Londinium- belonged to his girls. He’d been close. Nearly enough to hand them each a coffer to do with whatever they desired. A new life for each of them and enough coin to carry them through it.

“I've never had any power, or any desire to achieve it.” That wasn’t a lie either. Arthur only desired enough coin to give his girls their own power. Of choice. Of achieving their own desires.

The magic in him responds like a reward to his nostalgic musings. A cold, calm wave crests in his mind. A rising weight in his chest that settles comfortably like a tide against shore. Like old friends meeting after a long time apart. Just knowing that they’d see each other again, enough to hold them through the storms between. A small burst of energy sets his spine more solid when he straightens from his task and turns to find you.

You’ve remained with Critter outside. The idea of the garrison returning places an urgency in Arthur’s step. Despite his fatigue, he moves with purpose- abandoning the inn to locate you.

He must cross a few crucial items from his list if he’s to weather the storm of his magic, of travelling- of bearing the sight of you and the moment’s you’d share along this journey- with any hope of containing his affection for you into something he can bear quietly. Despite his secret identity, Arthur’s fondness for you was incredibly real. 

But it felt unfair, to feel so fiercely for you- when you’d been nothing but honest with him and your intentions. While he’d been purposefully obscure.

“Where did you live before you joined the King’s guard?” Your question echoes in Arthur’s mind since you’d asked him this morning. Wraps itself around every word he says to you so that every breath feels like a lie.

Eat.

Bathe.

Rest.

He will meet whatever comes after, hopefully renewed, if not well rested. And by your side.

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There’s something more than tiredness gripping Arthur’s handsome features when he leaves the inn. Striding out of it with intent in his step. Like the paces he takes to find himself back within your orbit are an annoyance to him. 

The inn itself looks different than you recall. Worn, and wearing different banners than before. The blue and gold of the new King, and yet like the bony ribs of a corpse sticking out of a rotten battlefield, Vortigern’s black banner still flies on skewered poles around the perimeter of the grounds. The owners of the tavern must be at odds with the garrison that clearly bullies a stake into their business. Likely offering ‘protection’, the kind that arrives from the same fists that snatch coins out of the poor innkeep’s hands.

The evening wind brings a chill as the sun disappears, rattling the lopsided shutters. The smell threatens a squall, and for one moment you fear for the elvium- but the next gust brings the scent of soil. It’s a comfort to your anxiety without even trying. You cling to your hope for the elvium’s plight like you’re shoving your hand into the dirt. When you claw out space for your seedlings under the light of the full moon, whispering growth into their exposed roots. Urging them towards abundance with the small spells Silas had taught you.

The windows of the inn glow wanly, promising warmth. The thatched roof above bangs softly where sections have lifted. The new King’s banners uncurl from where the peeling plastered wall meets the shoddy thatching and are the most novel appearing of the whole sight. But they do little to cover the lasting neglect of Vortigern’s reign. 

The scent of bread and ever broiling stew follows in Arthur’s wake, warm and welcoming despite the rough exterior. Like an apology. Like a reward for whoever dares brave the warnings, and crosses the threshold for comfort. 

Hesitancy claws at Arthur’s face. He’s as torn as the tavern behind him- like he’s trying to decide between which of his persona’s to don- the charming flirt, or his serious and protective side. His lips twitching between a frown and a tight, grim line. The torch lights dance across his features, kissing the tension of his jaw and faint shadows beneath his eyes- from the long hours on the road, and whatever kept him captive from sleep in his life within the castle.

You wait at the stables, supply bags at your feet, and Critter is being brushed down by a young stable boy in one of the stalls. The rest remain empty, a promising or foreboding sight while on the road. The scent of leather and horses alongside the faint tang of manure is like a tap root, grounding you. It makes the stresses of earlier feel distant. 

Something in Arthur’s face makes you unsure though.

Striding up to you, Arthur pauses, allowing himself a tight sigh before he speaks. His broad shoulders ticking down, a bit defeated before he’s even started.

“They’ve only one room,” Arthur informs you, searching gaze meeting your surprised one as you cast a look back at the empty stable. For one long moment, Arthur appraises the stable boy and your choice of payment- a pile of food from his supplies- because your heart couldn’t stand the child’s gaunt appearance. If Arthur cares for your generous hand plundering the supply bags, he doesn’t say anything.

“The garrison,” Arthur answers your silent query, “They requisition the entire inn whenever they please. We’ll be lucky to manage a meal and a bath before they return.” This explains the child’s nervous eyes darting to the road every few moments.

It also explains the way Arthur has casually threaded his fingers through yours as he bends to shoulder the supply bags.

He’s keeping up the farce of your false nuptials. 

“We shouldn’t tarry,” Arthur says, gently tugging you in his wake as he leads the way towards the inn.You cross the yard, trampled to dirt beneath the garrison’s repeated visits. Following in Arthur’s wake- one broad shoulder leaning into the heavy wood door. 

It opens to a large room. Bathed in warm candlelight and thick with smoke from the hearth and the sweet smell of fresh baked bread from the kitchens. The innkeeper’s desk is tall, and behind it, the slight man tips his head at Arthur, one thumb worrying the brim of his felt cap. The inn keep's expression is a mix of confusion, surprise and gratitude. Had it been so long since this inn had seen a true guest and not the ones that bullied their way in?

Arthur turns to the main part of the room, crowded with empty tables and chairs. Candles burned low, their wax pouring over onto the scoured wood surfaces. Another child, as thin as the stable boy, scrapes at the pools of wax at a windowsill in the corner- his nervous eyes meeting yours with relief. Like he expected soldiers instead of you and Arthur. 

“We could camp,” you offer quickly as Arthur selects a table. You’re suddenly anxious if Arthur has paid for a room that you might not even manage the full night within. Not wanting him to waste his coin. Although a part of you ignites at his words, his assured way of fitting himself at your side like he belongs there- the kiss from not shy an hour before- your mind tracing a path of a shared meal and bed. How well would Arthur fit himself to you….

But it’s silly, to entertain such notions, when Arthur had only ever been noble about you, even when you’re alone. That time in the forest, when he’d given you his thick wool cloak. At your squat cottage early this morning. 

Your mind is still occupied with thoughts of Arthur’s husband's charade when he drops into the seat opposite you. Despite exhaustion tugging at his frame, Arthur’s ever graceful. Not collapsing into his rest- but lounging in it. Like a king on his throne. The way he takes up space even whilst seated. One arm cast out onto the back of the chair beside his- long legs splayed beneath the round wooden table, knees bent and feet flat- his weary eyes scouring the room and towards the entry like a habit. His other hand resting on his thigh- near the hilt of his sword, like he’s ready to spring into action despite his fatigue. 

It’s unfair- that a person could still look devastatingly handsome even whilst weary.

Your admiration is disturbed by a pair of bowls and a loaf of bread in a cloth dropped at your table. Steam curls from the brothy depths, disappearing in the dim candlelight. 

“Lamb,” the innkeeper offers simply before taking his leave, allowing the scent of oily broth to occupy the space instead.

Arthur tears off a chunk of bread, passing it to you before he even takes up his spoon.

You collect it from him, fingers brushing his. He’s impossibly hot. Like a fever strikes through his frame, however there’s no sweat sheening his face as it should- only a slight dewiness from the travel of the day. The warmth of him lingers with you, even when he withdraws. A quiet comfort that wars against the cold night that creeps in from the walls.

“Do you feel well?” you ask, if not dumbly, given his obvious fatigue, but Arthur’s gaze finds yours above his bowl as he chews thoughtfully for a moment before he nods.

It’s a short dip of his chin, and he swallows. You expect him to elaborate, but Arthur doesn’t seem to feel the need, ripping off more chunks of bread, placing a few on the cloth and sliding it towards you before he continues eating.

There’s a crease in his brow before he asks.

“And you?” 

It’s a usual enough query. But it’s so painfully familiar, that for one breath, you ache.

The door of your home sways open allowing the fresh air from the field to drift in. The faint cloying scent of manure and hay sifting in with it. 

Boots scrape across the hearth before soft footsteps tread up behind you. An arm wraps around your shoulders, the warmth and weight of it draped across your form with care as your hands work over a bundle of herbs. Their bright smell interrupted by Silas’s- leather, sweat, dust, sweet hay and wood shavings. 

“How do you fare my sweet wife?” is mumbled fondly into your crown before an affectionate kiss as Silas admires your progress of removing leaves and sorting stems of your garden’s latest harvest.

Arthur’s creased brow deepens when you come back from where you’ve drifted. Like you went far away, and forgot to tell him let alone take him with you. Like he belongs wherever you are.

Like it wounds him to be left out even if wherever you tread might wound him more.

The world comes back into your awareness. 

A horse whinnies in the stable. 

The innkeeper pokes at the fire within the hearth.

 The flames flicker over Arthur’s features, shifting them so that they rearrange into his own face- and not the one you were once wedded to. 

“M’apologies,” you offer quickly, “I’m well,” you say but the word echoes from the past- losing strength as it rattles over your tongue. Feeling hollow and full all at once. It works its way over a stone in your throat that lays over the back of your tongue- adding weight to the word before you can prevent its presence from being known.

Arthur’s bowl drops, like he’s heard it too. Settles over the worn wood of the table with a soft thud. His lips pull tight into a grim line, like he doesn’t believe you. His mouth opens like he’s about to challenge you but you take up the moment quicker than he- changing the subject but only slightly.

“You make quite the charming, rich husband,” you say, gesturing to your accommodations, “I fear even I’m beginning to believe our ruse,” you say, “That garrison hadn’t a hope, and all you used was words.” 

Arthur’s gaze is searching upon you like he’s wondering if you’ve forgotten something before his eyes drop to his bowl. The spoon in his grip scrapes like a habit, like he worries at a snagged thread in his jacket.

His sudden drop into seriousness betrays his exhaustion. You’d expected a tease back, a clever retort, but Arthur’s mind traces to the past much as yours had. A seriousness clipping his voice like he needs you to know it’s there.

“And a kiss.” 

Arthur throws it out between you like it needs saying. Like you haven’t been revisiting the memory nearly every moment since it happened.

You nearly choke on your next bite. Arthur passes you the cup of ale as you try to quietly sputter through your next breath of air. You expect to find him smug, like a cat rolling in a patch of catmint- but Arthur’s expression remains serious. 

Reflective. Gazing out the window into the falling night, the shadows hug his face like he lives in them. You wonder what places of his past he peered upon. 

“It’s not the first time I’ve had to convince someone I’m harmless,” Arthur says, unsmiling, knowing the exact opposite was true as well. Arthur says it with restraint, his words held within a sigh he tightens to his frame, shoulders pulling back like he’s bracing against his memories.

Even sitting here, sharing a meal with you, was placing you in unimaginable danger if anyone were to realize he was the born King, and you, his companion. By mere association, he was placing you in fate’s jaws. It was only a matter of time before she’d sink her teeth in. 

Arthur’s mouth goes dry, he pushes his bowl away and sighs heavily.

“Sometimes, it’s safer to be seen as soft,” he continues, quieter, “Sometimes people don’t survive being seen as a threat.” It’s not a confession, Arthur knows this. But he needs you to know he’s seen both sides. How violence, even in self defense- even with the intention to protect- could ultimately destroy. 

“There was a man once, he thought he could break anyone,” Arthur said quietly, eyes darkening over the memory, “Including a boy like me.” 

Arthur pauses, the flames flickering in his dark eyes. For one heartbeat- quick enough that if you’d had blinked you would have missed it entirely, and just on the edge of being long enough that you couldn’t say you imagined it- all the flame sources in the inn glow brighter. The fire within the hearth, the torches lining the walls, the candles perched upon the tables. They all grew brighter. Like when a flame is being blown out. That half beat of time where it glows brightest with the added fuel of breath before it vanishes into darkness. 

Arthur pauses, something like disgust ensnares his expression when he continues. The entire room dims. Like light doesn’t even want to touch the sound of his words. Like the world holds its breath and starves the light. Whatever remains flicks over the hollow tracks beneath his eyes, cast down with unspoken history. The scent of smoke and stew thickens, pressing into you so hard it feels like you’re choking.

“I fought back once. The final time. But sometimes I wonder if the damage I dealt was any less to myself than the damage he caused.” 

Arthur glances at the herbalist. It’s cagey, like he’s afraid of what he’ll find in your expression. Like he hadn’t meant to look- but he couldn’t not look at you. Something in him softens at your torn expression, his voice softening from the edge it lay upon just a moment ago. 

“Violence is a tool. Sometimes there’s no choice but to use it. But I’ve learned its fear is wielded and felt in the same swing on whoever uses it.” Arthur says, his voice nearly cold, like he distances himself from what he speaks of- like he has to. 

You don’t say anything. Not yet. 

Not when the room has filled with the quiet snow of your combined pasts. 

The weight of it- on your shoulders- on Arthur’s, rests heavy. A coat of chill you can’t shake off, no matter how fiercely you shiver beneath it. The air is still beyond it. Like it’s holding your breaths in place, thick and frigid with hidden pain.

You can see it now. 

What Arthur carries.

Despite the very grown man sitting before you- he’s still a boy within. One who's been hurt, who hurt back in turn and he’s never stopped grieving either act.

Arthur’s fingers twitch around his mug of ale, his gaze pinning the amber liquid alongside them, like he wishes to draw warmth from it. To your surprise, it begins to steam as though it had been a cup of tea all along. Fragile tendrils swirl into the air, as delicate as the tension that tugs between you. Reaching out, you lay your hand atop his, squeezing gently, until his eyes lift to yours. The heat from his hand is like touching a nearly too hot pan on the hearth, but you don’t retreat.

You offer a small smile, the smallest comfort against the storm of his mind.

His gaze flickers, his lips lifting in the barest reflection of a smile- but not quite. Like he can’t let it. Like it has to be gentler. He seems almost startled by your touch, but it’s tamped by his exhaustion. 

“I think there’s strength in showing your vulnerabilities,” you say softly, a thread of gratitude twining through your words so that Arthur might take it up- instead of the one he worries in his mind. If he has to pull at something, then let it be you. God knows, you were already unravelling for him anyways.

“Even if you have to weaponize it?” Arthur asks. A shattered man sits before you, like your answer is the blade he’d fall upon in every lifetime.

“Perhaps,” you offer quietly, “Sometimes that’s the only shield we have left.” Your fingers tighten on his, gentle but steady.

“Sometimes the only weapon remaining is our truth. And that can heal- if we let it. Otherwise, it’s like a wound festering. Some things we don’t tend to- and then they hurt us. But the truth is a lance. It lets it all free. It lets us be seen.” 

Arthur pauses, something like pain flickers over his features. It’s nearly a flinch. Like your words tug at the threaded scars of old wounds, and yet prods at the angry flesh of fresh ones as well.

Your words wrap around him. Dig beneath his admittedly lowered defenses around you. 

Truth.

It coils under his ribs. Reaching. Tightens around his heart. Until there’s no space in his chest for his next breath- for the truth he holds there. Locked inside. It presses the air from the lungs, the weight of it dragging at what feels like the center of him. You have no idea who he is yet here you are. Looking at him like he’s someone worth seeing. It tears at something raw within him. Something fragile and human. Not the part of him that’s a King. Or the legend. It rakes at the man within. 

God help him, he wants you to see all of it. The whole of who he is. He wants to believe you could understand. The boy who flinched in the alleys of Londinium. The born king that drew a sword from stone. The man who cast the same sword into the sea. 

He wants you to know the whole of him.

Some part of him dares to believe you’d forgive him. He dares further to imagine acceptance. That the way you gaze at him now wouldn’t change- not even the slightest. That you’d hold him within your view with steadiness. 

That you wouldn’t look away.

The truth trembles on his lips- at the tip of his tongue. Like a blade in his palm, that he’d rather turn on himself than allow you to feel the sting.

He swallows. It’s bitter. Dry as ash.

Arthur had outgrown fairytales a long time ago.

Yet, this ache remains. This fleeting comfort with you is a lie. A shadow of something real. A burning indulgence of selfish desire. 

The truth of his identity would only serve to harm you. The reality of his impending marriage would only cause hurt. The knowledge of the threat to his kingdom would only place you in the crossfire of another war that you have no place within and that he would keep you as far away from as he could possibly enforce.

He was a danger you didn’t deserve. Not in this lifetime. Not in the next. Not ever.

He could allow himself these small moments with you. The fleeting illusion that he could ever be more to you- someone deserving of your fondness- was only a temporary indulgence of his own selfishness. It provided you no comfort aside from the bowl in front of you and the protection of a man on the road- a man you didn’t even know the whole of- and that if anyone else were to learn- would place you in unimaginable danger.

The flicker of whatever he leaves unnamed is shuttered into his heart. Stone forms around it so that every heartbeat aches against the walls he’s erected. 

His jaw tightens. He stares into the depths of his mug like he might hide from his emotions there. His words come, quieter, like a near confession.

“And what if I’ve yet destroyed more than I’ll ever heal?”

It slips out of him. Raw. Unfiltered ache and pain given voice before he shoves it into the abyss that sits in his chest. The one where his inner most desires are kept- unknown to anyone- and in moments like this- even himself.

He doesn’t look at you- because he’s sure he’ll collapse if he does. Exhaustion aside, it’s like he knows it in his bones even more- the weight of what he cannot say. An approaching break. A cleaving of something he knows he’ll never be able to contain let alone repair.

The floorboards creak beneath the steps of the innkeeper.

“Bath’s prepared, sir.”

Arthur pulls his hand from yours like it hurts him to relinquish your touch. The quiet comfort you offer him when he dares a glance. Some fragile understanding gathered between you when you offer a warm smile. One that Arthur braves the smallest of returns with a ghost of his own. When he rises, the weariness pulls at him, but more than that is the secret that weighs him down despite how he moves to leave. 

Arthur hates the way he needs you. Wants you. That if he allowed himself fully, he'd risk everything.  You follow him. Like he’d only ever lead you into rooms of comfort and quiet ease. He hates even more the answering knowing that lies hidden within him- that he’d burn it all down if it meant he could. 

Arthur steps forward, every movement tangled with restraint and longing. A man divided. Walking a thin line between duty and desire, and knowing that if he fell either side- it’d fracture him all the same.

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Thank you for reading!! Please engage if you enjoyed- likes, comments and reblogs mean ✨ e v e r y t h i n g ! ✨Thank you dear reader! ^_^ 💖💖💖

A/N pt 2: ARE YOU READY FOR ONLY ONE BATH TUB?!?! A teaser for the next chapter:

You’re perched on the end of the narrow bed, but you haven't moved towards the pillow. You haven’t turned away from him either. Your eyes flicked across him, small glances, never lingering but always finding their way back. It carried more weight than a stare.

Arthur’s lips quirk. 

“I’m not going to drown.” heheheehhee >:))

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Thank you for reading!! Please engage if you enjoyed- likes, comments and reblogs mean ✨ e v e r y t h i n g ! ✨Thank you dear reader! ^_^ 💖💖💖

Bedivere treads the cold stone floors of his usual pass through the castle during his nightly watch. Moonlight filters through the high arched windows to lay its pale veil upon the intricately woven carpets of a long hallway that borders the King's chambers. A furious battle threaded into the rug's design has its vibrant colors muted in these darkest hours. Soldiers of ages past clamor for victory beneath his boots, and Bedivere blinks away his sleepiness before he rounds the next corner.

He must remain vigilant. Haworthian spies lurk in their midst and his presence needs to serve as a reminder of the King's strength. Especially in Arthur's wavering presence as of late. The young King was akin to a ghost. Appearing and disappearing in near equal measure.

In the distance, Arthur stands as though conjured out of Bedivere's mind. Even from afar, the deep shadows beneath his eyes is evident. Bedivere recalls the weary tone of Arthur's voice when he spoke at the Round table regarding the enduring searches for Blue and Excalibur. All harrowing signs indicated the King's lack of sleep and marked stress. As Bedivere traverses the hallway of portraits, a servant strides forth during his nightly duties and Bedivere pauses in his path.

"How long has he been there?" Bedivere inquires and the servant casts a look back to the King.

"Couple hours, I suppose," the servant replies and Bedivere nods before they part ways. From the Round table to now had only been a handful of hours. The rest of the knights were preparing for Arthur's journey and Bedivere had hoped Arthur had spent that time resting.

Apparently Arthur had taken his leave and then his post here. Bedivere sighs heavily at Arthur's worn form. Strong chin tipped up, tired gaze with it to regard a painting of his father. Bedivere knows without needing to lay his eyes upon it. It's the first portrait hung before one enters the great hall. Set higher than all the rest. Uther stares down upon his court and now Arthur from his painted canvas window.

Arthur's blue eyes flicker with the torches that line the walls, casting shadows that dance over the castle banners and stone. Arthur's gaze remains steadfast upon the painting even at Bedivere's approach.

"You should be more wary of who lurks in the shadows," Bedivere comments as he aligns himself to Arthur's shoulder, centering Arthur in his sights and not yet what he regards with a fierce intensity despite the way he sways with fatigue. Arthur's lips twitch but there's no humor in his expression. Bedivere sighs at Arthur before following Arthur's troubled gaze.

Uther stares back at them. Bedivere sighs again- this time it's sadder. Arthur meets it with one of his own.

"I'm aware this isn't a mirror," Arthur says with a hint of jest directed towards the knight, as though he'd expected Bedivere to query this of him. Bedivere huffs a small chuckle.

"And yet you stare upon it as though it is," Bedivere retorts, burying the truth behind another sigh as Uther's blue eyes reflect in Arthur's. The men stand in silence a moment before Arthur's chin tips to his chest and he shakes his head as though released from a spell.

Bedivere's answering laugh is one of surprise- the action of the younger man causing a bittersweet memory to stain his laughter. Uther used to do the same when he was at a loss. Of words. Strategy. Patience. His head bowing beneath the weight of the crown.

Hold it steady.

Uther's words echo in Bedivere's thoughts.

"Chin up, Arthur," Bedivere implores and Arthur lifts his head if only to toss him an annoyed glare like he was a child yet tired of the incoming lecture but Bedivere only smiles when Arthur does.

"You remind me of him," Bedivere admits, and Arthur's brows lift for a moment before falling in disbelief.

"Do not be so hasty as to hold fast the belief that your initial standing in life could separate you from your blood so easily, Pendragon," Bedivere tuts before he smiles fondly at Uther's portrait.

"What was he like?" Arthur eventually asks, quietly and earnest all at once.

Bedivere hums through a laugh as though he and Uther share a personal jest through the paint. It's warming and painful to remember, like lancing a wound yet Bedivere does.

"Once, when Uther was only beginning his reign as the new King, he was faced with a dilemma. There had been an ongoing dispute over taxes with a stubborn lord and the previous King, your grandfather, and Uther was tasked with resolving it. Uther was torn, unsure how to proceed," Bedivere explains, "Should he tread in his father's footsteps- or mark his own path?"

Arthur listens with unwavering focus, eyes intent upon Bedivere like a child in a story's grasp and Bedivere had just reached the point where the hero faces the villain for the final battle.

"It won't be difficult given your recent coronation, but imagine you're in Uther's place. You've a lord whose sworn to serve the realm but he's skirting his duties. You've got an entire court judging your every word. Every action. Comparing you to your predecessor. Enormous boots to fill," Bedivere remarks with a fond smile.

"What did he do?" Arthur asks, and Bedivere chuckles.

"He asked him for it," Bedivere says, "He reminded the bloke of his oath. 'You've made a promise to the crown, and it's time to honor it'. Straight as an arrow, he struck true and nobly," Bedivere explains.

"That can't be all. It's too simple" Arthur says, keen to dismiss the possibility it could have been resolved without some measure of violence or threat.

Bedivere shakes his head.

"It helped Uther attended the issue in the flesh," Bedivere says, "The lord had only ever dealt with messengers of the King. Never the court. Certainly not the King himself," Bedivere adds with a deep laugh.

Arthur chuckles softly beside him.

"All of this to say, Arthur," Bedivere continues, a seriousness overcoming him, "Some matters will require a personal touch, and I trust you'll use your discretion. I do not doubt the importance of your quest. But I do need to ask-- What of Blue? Excalibur? Without the sword, I fear our enemies may see us as vulnerable. And without Blue-" Bedivere doesn't need to finish the sentence as Arthur deflates beneath the weight it carries.

"I understand your concern, however this journey cannot be delayed," Arthur says with a heavy sigh, "I must retrieve these medicinal plants and potions before the Princess returns. They could spell the future of our kingdom. I trust you will charge the search for Blue and the sword in my stead," Arthur says, a determined look upon his face.

"Then let our enemies underestimate us," Bedivere says with resolve. Arthur lifts a brow.

"If the sword answers only to you- perhaps it's in our favor that it is lost… for now," Bedivere says.

"That's quite the statement, Sir Bedivere," Arthur supplies, "A less trusting man might believe you've some machinations in its disappearance," Arthur adds, crossing his arms and hiding a grin behind his hand as he measures Bedivere's response.

A mix of shock and annoyance swarms Bedivere's face.

"You jest like Uther," Bedivere retorts, a deep scowl pulling upon his features.

"How can you say it's lost, if you did not have certainty?" Arthur asks, leaning forwards, voice lowered against the shadows.

"If our enemies possessed it, or even believed we had lost it and they a chance to obtain it-- the Princess would have never left this castle. Or at the very least she would have returned by now," Bedivere replies, voice dropping to conspirational, gaze tracing the shadows as he speaks.

"You think them unaware?" Arthur asks, the question nearly buried in his hand as another servant approaches from the mouth of the hallway.

Bedivere hesitates before answering.

"To our great fortune and… not-- they believe we search only for Blue. We've disguised the sword's absence as a purposeful precaution of their presence. They believe we've hidden it. I don't think they've caught on to the true nature of it's disappearance," Bedivere answers before the servant can reach earshot and Arthur nods.

"So if it wasn't them-" Arthur's face becomes pensive. Brows knitting together like when Uther was problem solving.

"We can't be sure-" Bedivere admits, "But it's unlikely by all appearances."

The servant crosses them with a quick curtsey to Arthur, their conversation put down only for Arthur to pick it up on a different topic.

"Is there a reason you've taken to carrying two swords as of late?" Arthur says, regarding the unfamiliar added weapon at Bedivere's hip.

Bedivere grumbles as he unsheathes the weapon and hands it to Arthur. It's not Excalibur, but it's sharp and well made. Bedivere had crafted it himself. Pride written across the blade. It's striking attention to detail from hilt to tip.

"You've taken to carrying none," Bedivere almost growls the last word as Arthur admires the weight in his hand before he sheathes it at his own side.

"Can't get enough of them, can you?" Arthur replies cheekily and Bedivere resists swatting his golden head. Arthur laughs before the seriousness of their prior discussion leaks back into their expressions. A shared frown upon them.

"She could wield Excalibur," Arthur recalls with a shiver, "It answers to her too. How can it be?"

"She bears Pendragon blood," Bedivere says with a sigh, "Straight and simple," he remarks as he turns to meet Uther's painted gaze, wishing he could ask his old friend the same question as Arthur.

|||

It's not that Arthur dislikes horses- he's ridden them before- however he's uneasy as he waits for Rubio to finish preparing the two mounts he'd requested for the journey ahead. The time with the Mage springs to mind. Fresh from his execution to an ice cold river plunge followed by a long journey on horseback.

Gods, he was able to spin around on that horse after he'd gotten familiar with its stride. However, in all his time at the castle since he'd been crowned- his time spent in the stables or upon a mount was none. Rubio senses his unease as he finishes strapping the pack of supplies Arthur had shouldered into the stables after first light crested over the tree line beyond the castle gates.

Rubio's prepared the horses for riding at Arthur's request- and although he bites back the question as to Arthur's riding partner- he doesn't hold his tongue over inquiring on Arthur's unease. Not when the horse beneath his hand shuffles away at Arthur's nervous approach.

"When was the last time you rode?" Rubio asks, voice canted to soothe the creature within his grasp- one scarred hand petting down the steed's shoulder- a few hands higher than Arthur's.

"I don't suppose it can be consider riding- given you had hold of the reigns and I had a sack over my head," Arthur retorts with a quirk of his lips at the younger man's delayed remembering.

Rubio chuckles softly at the memory Arthur's smirk provokes. He could see the King's smile even through the burlap then.

Trees, everywhere.

"You managed well given the terrain and lack of sight," Rubio returns, stroking the animal that settles at the men's quiet exchange. Arthur's apprehension still underlies his weary sigh. Sleep had escaped him once again. The constant heartbreaking awareness of Blue's absence- of the harm that had come to the herbalist at his expense in the market. At Theo's gaunt face amidst the grime and shadows of Londinium.

The lightness at his hip- a new sword to replace Excalibur- not nearly as heavy or anywhere as powerful. Although it bore Bedivere's skilled craft it was ultimately a poor replacement compared to the legendary sword. At the least it suits its new owner-- Arthur had spent his dreamless hours staring upon the painted visage of his father. Wondering how he'd ever fit himself into footsteps that he'd never had time to learn how to follow properly.

Only running. Running until he'd had no choice. Until Vortigern had upheaved his entire life. Shuffled the board and knocked over every person perceived as pawn in Arthur's fledgling existence until Arthur was forced to defend those remaining. Would have died for them if not for Bedivere, the Mage, Rubio and all the rest.

And now all the power he's gained- every piece of strength he's managed to salvage from the ruins- the carcass of the life he'd been born into and thrust from- had been ripped from him.

Loss.

Loss shreds through Arthur's veins like thorns violently growing upon a branch. Everywhere he turns to offer his aid and attention- something rears from behind his spine and snaps its teeth with malice.

Rubio hands Arthur the reigns but not before his thumb worries over the leather. A constant tremble in his youthful frame since his time in Vortigern's dungeon. Arthur allows his fingers to grasp Rubio's for a moment during the exchange. A whisper of breath disappears into the chilly air before his thanks follow and the younger man smiles. His gaze shutters to the floor upon Arthur's graceful, "Sir Rubio".

Another man that doesn't believe he begets his status. That the sacrifices he fell in dark crimson drops upon the stone deep beneath their boots wasn't more than some would give for their King in an entire lifetime. And yet Rubio had. And though he never ventured beneath the ground floor in the castle-a fear carved into his bones about the ghost of darkness lurking below-and while he kept to himself within the stables as far as Arthur knew- his studies paused for the gentle company of the horses- he stayed.

Loyal as ever. Scarred as it had made Rubio and scared yet-still he served. Perhaps he stays nearer the horses in case he feels the urge to escape- Arthur wonders for the first time. The saddles hung across the walls in perfect order. Maintained with care to be ready at a moment's notice. Perhaps he's neglected to remind Rubio he needn't remain if it wasn't desired--

"You could leave-" Arthur begins and Rubio's gaze snaps to his in confusion before he begins gathering his brushes and leather oil.

"Of course," Rubio says, making haste to retreat to the stablemaster's quarters but Arthur lifts his voice.

"No, I meant if it would help-" Arthur pauses over his next words as Rubio clutches the bottle of oil so hard that it looks painful in his shaky grip. The scars that thread over over his hands from beneath his sleeves- drawn so far down his wrists that its barely visible if not for Arthur's knowing their existence- are still dark, angry threads over his pale skin. Not time enough to silver. Perhaps in a less stressful environment- with enough time away from the place they'd been inflicted--

"Forgive me, Arthur," Rubio interrupts, "Despite your esteemed status, I fear you may be wading into territory that you will regret," Rubio says- words trembling not for the fierce shake his body contains and can never unleash in its entirety- but for the emotion he buries in the sentiment.

Arthur's regret rears despite his words being lost to the sudden tension between them.

"The tapestry of my life contains threads that I wish it wouldn't," Rubio says, gaze considering his scars for a long moment before he continues, "However to cut those would be to sever my purpose from yours and I would see that painful mending remain until the last strand is woven by my Fates," Rubio says, eyes flickering with resolve.

"My apologies," Arthur says with a solemn nod, "You know some tapestries can only be fully appreciated from a distance and if you'd desired some from this place- I only meant I'd understand," Arthur says and Rubio's jaw ticks over his consideration.

"Thank you," Rubio says quietly before the stable door slams open- startling the younger man so that he drops the brush and oil. Arthur's hand reaches to his sword by habit- but Goosefat strides into view a moment before it'd be considered dangerously delayed.

The silver haired man regards the younger ones in the stall with a less than amused expression. Gray eyes flickering towards the prepared horses before they land on Arthur with a nearly paternal disregard.

"Cannot sleep, my liege?" Goosefat begins, sarcasm slipping past the grim line of his mouth so heavily that Rubio takes an extra moment at the deepest part of his bend to collect his dropped items just to allow his shoulders to jump in quiet laughter out of sight of his King. But Arthur catches the sound with a quirk of his own lips however he holds Goosefat's serious look with one of his own.

"Perhaps a ride at dawn will banish your restlessness?" Goosefat says with a calculated raise of his brow as he turns to regard the horses that stare back at him with mild interest at his obnoxious entrance. They're clearly used to Rubio's quiet, softer presence.

"Perhaps a picnic as well," Goosefat says upon noticing the supply pack attached to Arthur's horse.

"Perhaps," Arthur returns, crossing his arms, teeth glinting behind his lips.

Goosefat strides forth and strokes the second horse with poised regard.

"I assume this one is meant for myself," Goosefat remarks, tone allowing no space to interpret it as question.

"By all means, please make yourself party," Arthur says, gesturing widely at the beasts.

Goosefat gathers the reigns and mounts the gentle creature in a graceful action before Arthur is even finished replying so Arthur approaches his own without argument.

Arthur mounts the horse not without some difficulty. After a few moments of fearing he’s bitten off more than he could chew with his agreement to escort the herbalist to her hometown- Arthur manages to settle his weight comfortably in the saddle. Goosefat bites back his own grin before he tips his head and directs his horse to the gate with a click of his tongue. Arthur kicks his heels and the horse below him follows.

“Sit up straight,” Goosefat offers, brow pulled low over his gray eyes in judgement so Arthur does.

“Hug with your knees,” Goosefat adds and Arthur does.

“You’ll be riding in less time than it takes to become King,” Goosefat remarks, not allowing Arthur to catch the smile that plays over his lips because he tuts his horse into a canter.

Eventually, Goosefat slows the pace of his horse to allow Arthur’s to lead. They journey in silence only as long as it takes for Arthur to guide them past the castle walls. The lot of them had gotten used to discretion given the other kingdom's presence. Goosefat’s voice lifts above the chill in the air- the enforced secrecy- a warmth in his tone reflecting the hope he buries in the question.

“Are we going to collect Blue?” Goosefat asks and Arthur’s sigh is a burst of his breath that he tries to tamp into something small but it stutters out of him. White wisps of his disappointment curling around his solemn features is enough of an answer for the older man but he shares in Arthur’s heartbreak nonetheless.

Goosefat tips his chin in regret, deep as Arthur's own.

“He’ll come around yet, Arthur, I'm sure of this,” Goosefat says, nodding as though to reassure himself of the words.

Arthur focuses on the shift of his weight as the horse below him treads the mud stained road leading to Londinium. The morning light between the trees grows ever brighter as they travel but his heart feels held within darkness as he thinks of Blue. The days that will separate him from the word he hopes for and the one he fears. There isn’t any way for him to receive word of the castle and Blue’s status while he’ll be away. The name of the town he intends to reach is known only to the herbalist and Sigrid and perhaps it should remain a secret. What with the castle crawling with child poisoners and Princess’s mad with the promise of power.

The men ride in silence until Arthur strays from the road- directing his horse into the thick of the woods until they reach a clearing. Tying their horses to a massive fallen oak- Arthur leads them to the plot of elvium where he tends the seedlings with familiar care to his movements. Narrating the process to Goosefat, Arthur hides a silent request for Goosefat’s tending of the plants in his absence which the older man accepts with easy, wordless grace.

Goosefat observes as Arthur examines the green plants before he waters them. Pruning them with a careful snap between his finger and thumb. The nail stained dark by the time he’s finished. When the task is complete Arthur casts a sweeping arm at the little plot.

“It’s one of the plants on Doctor Enthiel’s list,” Arthur explains.

Goosefat chuckles softly while they mount their horses once again.

“I knew you were an industrious fellow, Arthur,” Goosefat says, “However I never expected you to harbor a fondness for gardening.”

Arthur smiles, a familiar mischief playing over his face- one that Goosefat had hardly seen- and especially not since Blue disappeared.

“A man must sow his seeds any way he can,” Arthur says with a cheeky laugh.

“And who am I to deny my King?” Goosefat retorts playfully, happy to indulge in a brief moment of light heartedness.

“Aye,” Arthur says and his eyes drift far away- crinkling with something Goosefat recognizes with both warmth and dread. The King was infatuated and it had nothing and everything to do with those seedlings.

When Arthur leads them back to the road, Goosefat isn’t surprised when he doesn’t turn back towards the castle. The kitchen had provided far too many provisions to Arthur’s pack for his venture upon the steed to be even a one day expedition. Adelyn had informed Goosefat of Arthur’s request almost immediately.

Why Arthur believed anything he did within the castle walls could be a secret from Goosefat equally astounded and impressed him. And also worried him for the Havenport spies that lurked within their midst may just have easily discovered Arthur’s intentions to journey. Without a guard’s escort even. Arthur’s every move was further thrusting himself into threat and shadow.

The same as those that had followed Arthur yesterday.

“You’re aware that you’re being followed, yes?” Goosefat queries and Arthur turns his head to regard the older man with mock disbelief.

“Please, Bill, tell me more,” Arthur says, glaring at Goosefat perched upon his horse.

“I meant more than by myself,” Goosefat retorts and Arthur draws a hand to his chest, splayed across his heart before he gasps dramatically.

“I? The King?” Arthur asks, “The very same set to be married to a Princess he’s barely laid eyes upon? That he can’t even recall proposing to?”

Goosefat sighs tightly while Arthur sours.

“Please stop taking the piss, Bill. I slipped those Havenport gits well before I reached the market,” Arthur says with heavy disregard, a shake of his golden crown.

“Yet I have little birds informing me of a great disturbance you caused by the pier,” Goosefat volleys back, “That involved a King’s guard and your magic.”

Arthur huffs, shoulders sagging before they roll backwards and he straightens his spine- securing Goosefat with a hard glare as his jaw ticks while he takes up space. Arthur wasn’t one to back down from confrontation.

“And I’d do it again,” Arthur supplies with a cold grit, “Regardless of your stupid birds and their incessant tweeting.”

Goosefat digests the answer with his own stern glare before he nods with a twitch of his lips. Arthur accepts it as an apology before he returns his focus to the road before them. The trees had begun to thin- allowing the light of the rising sun to warm them better.

“I hope your little birds might find that guard and relieve him of his service to my throne before our paths cross again,” Arthur says eventually- gaze finding Goosefat’s with meaning. Protectiveness rears behind Arthur’s ice cold eyes the likes that Goosefat had seen twice before- what felt like a lifetime ago now. When Vortigern had captured the women from Arthur’s brothel and when he'd seen the knife at the Mage's throat in George's training courtyard.

Goosefat nods firmly.

“Aye, they will,” Goosefat says.

“Thank you,” Arthur says, voice softer than before.

By the time they reach the city walls, the sun has risen above the roofs of the small huts that line the fields surrounding. The dirt is only beginning to reveal the shoots of grain. Some fields are speckled with budding greens but many lie vacant.

Dark swaths. Shriveled husks of plant stalks stick out from the coarse mud. Bleached out under the winter sun like skeletal remains. Reminders of the cruel times of the previous harvest. Vortigern’s rule hadn’t been kind to even the hardest working providers of the city- its farmers.

The memory of overflowing tables of the Princess’s feasts carve a deep frown into Arthur’s handsome face. So much was wasted. His own pack knocks heavily against his thigh. He’d brought enough for him and the herbalist to travel five days without relying on anyone else. How fortunate they’d be compared to so many of his people that scrounge for even one meal, Arthur feared.

“Do we have any seed stock to donate?” Arthur asks and Goosefat mulls the question.

“No,” Goosefat replies solemnly, “I fear Vortigern harvested little fondness for agriculture as you have grown,” Goosefat says with a hint of humor at Arthur’s newfound pastime although Goosefat could be certain Arthur’s interest likely lay more with the person that planted the seedlings than the soil he stained his hands with. Arthur affections could be seen plain as the sun that warmed his face.

“However, many of the churches in Londinium keep archives of seeds and could be implored to donate them by their King’s incentive,” Goosefat offers and Arthur nods his agreement.

“Give the order then,” Arthur says as they approach a gate.

A city guard swaggers forward to meet them. Black armor rattling across his upper body- looking two sizes too large for the man as he puffs his chest at them.

“And what is your business in the city?” The guard barks.

“None of your concern,” Goosefat replies plainly and the guard frowns, armor shuffling across his form as though he hadn’t expected outright refusal of his authority. In that time he absorbs the condition of the men before him- perched upon their horses- well fed if not a weary look about them both. A glint of metal upon the older man's chest displays a pin of the King's crest and the guard snaps to attention.

"Forgive me, my lord, I didn't see the mark of the King in the low light," the guard offers immediately- gaze fearfully cast between the two men as though he expects to be cut down for simply attempting to do his job.

"Worry not, soldier, carry on," Goosefat remarks before he clicks his tongue and they go forth into the city. Arthur throws a look of miffed confusion before Goosefat sighs heavily.

"By accounts I've overheard from the servants- Vortigern ruled with an unmerciful fist towards his guard. Transgressions as simply looking at him in an incorrect manner were punished with great cruelty," Goosefat explains and Arthur isn't surprised to know that his guard looks for employment elsewhere still- as unscrupulous and violent as racqueteering if the guard from the previous day was any example. It didn't justify anything- only Arthur's attempts to right the wrongs of the past- if it were even possible he didn't know. But he had to try.

"We need to develop our values amidst the King's guard," Arthur says as they continue through the city that has only begun to wake from its slumber.

"It's all well and good to speak of fairness and honor at the Round Table, however if its only ever words- if our symbols of justice are mere facades- we'll have only accomplished furthering Vortigern's plague of evil and shadow by doing nothing," Arthur continues solemnly and Goosefat hums in acknowledgement beside him. While Arthur had been absent from the Round table as of late, it appears his mind had not wandered far from it. A drop of relief falls in the sea of chaos and uncertainty that was Goosefat's own mind.

"And to think I'd slapped all sense out of you long ago," Goosefat returns with a fond smile and its meant to make Arthur laugh but the man only deflates. For all purposes, Arthur remains upright upon his mount however much he looks as though he'd wish he'd fall from it.

"What bothers you?" Goosefat asks gently.

Arthur shakes his head where it hangs from his shoulders as he stares at the reigns in his grasp- wishing that leading his kingdom could be as easy as taking up horseriding after years apart.

"How am I meant to do this?" Arthur asks, exasperated, the words stuttering out of him and piling up across his tongue with how fast they race through his head. He's not even sure what to put word to next.

Blue. The Princess. The disarray of his court let alone the state of agony his Kingdom remains in the wake of Vortigern's heartless rule.

Goosefat remains silent, allowing Arthur his thoughts that he wrangles into form. The words stutter past his teeth- Arthur's breath held against a sob that he tries to contain within the movement of riding.

"How am I meant to lead?" Arthur says after a shuddering sigh and the most distraught man peers back at Goosefat. Desperation and despair colliding in Arthur's features so hard that he may have cried if he wasn't atop a horse cantering through the city he was responsible for.

"How can I be good-" Arthur continues- words choked off before he swipes at his face with haste.

Goosefat reaches and gathers Arthur's reigns so he may ride astride Arthur's horse. One hand claps down upon Arthur's thigh with a fierce firmness, anchoring the sleep deprived, emotional young man. For he was that before he was ever King. And he was a good one. He'd only forgotten the fact amidst all the chaos and heart ache as of late.

"Many a great King has asked that very same question before you," Goosefat offers gently and Arthur breathes through a brokered sigh.

"But how-" Arthur begins and Goosefat squeezes his leg harder, so that Arthur sniffles harshly and meets his gaze. Ice blue eyes, glossy with tears and squinted with fatigue, stare into Goosefat's with a careful assessment. If anything Goosefat is to say next is to be taken to Arthur's heart- it must be the truth.

"By asking that question," Goosefat says and Arthur sighs with a shake of his head and clench of his teeth.

"Listen to me, Arthur," Goosefat implores, lowering his voice as the streets begin to fill with people going about their mornings, "Do you think Vortigern ever asked himself this? Because I can assure you on my life that it never crossed his mind let alone his lips."

Arthur shimmies in his saddle, trying to focus on riding but all his worn focus on Goosefat's words like they lay upon the edge of a blade. Whether they will slice and draw blood or slide off unscathed- he isn't sure yet.

"A great King concerns himself with your question for he's certain of one truth and only one-- the vastness of his ignorance," Goosefat continues, "And a clever King surrounds himself with those that can extend the limits of his understanding," Goosefat says with a playful puff of his chest before he anchors Arthur with a seriousness, "And you have what it takes to be great, you've already shown it-- let that knowledge hold fierce conviction in your heart, my dear Arthur."

Arthur releases a tight sigh, leaning into Goosefat's space as far as his saddle and balance allows. To remember how their beginnings started with blood and secrets.

Conflict. Arthur's weight pinning Goosefat's to the pillar in the den of the brothel. Arthur's elbow at Bill's throat. Arthur's thumb held against the wound of the arrow in calculated restraint- and now Goosefat's words pierce Arthur in his chest. All his doubts and fears on display like a target- yet Goosefat aims with kindness and care. Bursting Arthur's self doubt with an edge only honed from his wisdom. Lancing the festering fear and insecurity that surrounded the strained beating of his heart so he could barely taste their bitterness instead of drown in it. It barely hurts- because Arthur feels less alone and more rallied.

"Be at ease, my leige," Goosefat implores, his affection and sarcasm wrapped in his words to return Arthur's sniffles as Goosefat lifts a hand and grips Arthur's neck in a friendly claim by the mentor, "You may not possess all the answers," he says encouragingly, "I won't allow you," Goosefat continues with a jesting wink that brooks a small smile from Arthur.

"However, I don't know where the hells we're meant to be headed and I'd appreciate your knowledge in this matter," Goosefat says and Arthur laughs- a real burst of laughter from his gut and it shakes through his frame- relieving him of his heaviest feelings, until he can focus on the task with brighter eyes tinged with tears of a happier sort.

Arthur guides them towards the Wolf's Den with renewed energy so that by the time they arrive, his worries have lessened into a capable sort. With Bedivere, Goosefat, Rubio and his other knights and friends at his side- everything would be fine. He'd make it so. They would find Blue and Excalibur. They'd figure out the Princess's poisonous intentions and thwart her schemes. He'd continue to grow the elvium with the herbalist. Perhaps, he'd grow old and happy with those he loved.

As he told Jack's Eye before, "They all lived happily ever after".

But unknown to Arthur except in a nagging sense that he'd never let go of since Jack's Eye said the words and Vortigern had delivered on them- there was something Arthur didn't know- something that nobody told him.

|||

It’d been a long time since you’d woken up in any other bed than your own. Sigrid’s apartment is warm and the tea helps you sleep so soundly that by the time you awake, the older woman has already prepared breakfast. Usually your nights were spent shivering in your little hut, debating leaving the hard earned warmth beneath your threadbare blankets for adding another log to the woodstove. The winter had been long, dark and lonely. Waking up in The Wolf’s Den felt like a forbidden luxury yet you revel in Sigrid’s care.

Another cup of tea is pressed into your hands once you sit upright- joints protesting the abuse you faced yesterday while Sigrid’s fingers lift your chin so she can examine your throat. The woman’s eyebrows furrow before she retreats and begins buttering a piece of bread that she passes to you. With enough tea you swallow without too much soreness and then she hands you a bowl of soup. A large chunk of meat peeks out of the oily broth and you eat with tears burning behind your eyes for the way your cup is refilled by another’s hand. Sigrid doesn’t say anything, bless her.

By the time you both finish breakfast, she’s called one of the handmaids to draw you a bath. As you settle into the hot water, brimming with herbal salts and thick soap bubbles- Sigrid settles beside you on a stool and carefully washes your back as you allow the warm water to ease the pain and ache in what feels like your bones.

“The women swear by your salves,” Sigrid tells you with an amused chuckle.

“They always look forward to your visits,” she tells you, earning a smile from your weary features for as much as you’d slept well- the events of yesterday have taken a toll on your body and mind.

Sigrid hums a soft song as you bathe. Through the comforting notes and ease that the bath provides you think of other kind things. Like Arthur. The fact you’d missed his departure yesterday tugs in your chest but the reason for your presence here prompts you to ask Sigrid about his list of medicines and plants.

“My dear, you and I both know where you must venture to retrieve those items,” Sigrid says- a maternal lecture in her tone. Despite her good intentions and the warm water you feel a chill. Your hometown was a lifetime away in your mind. Kept carefully behind a tall, thick wall so that the memories you had there wouldn’t grow wild into this new life you’ve established in the dark shadow of the one you previously knew.

“I may have the eyes of a lamb but I’ve also the bite of a wolf,” Sigrid says with both a chuckle and a solemn sigh as her fingers strategically unthread a knot in your shoulder. The release of tension lets your arm slip further into the warm water.

“I suppose I’ve acquired what I came for,” you return with a sad smile. Sigrid always had answers. Even the ones you weren’t looking to receive. Sigrid begins massaging the back of your neck and the tension from yesterday melts away even more. You hadn't realized how much your body had held onto- even with her tea and care.

The handmaid reappears with an expectant look upon Sigrid when she enters.

“The man has returned,” she offers and that feeling of missing out from yesterday sparks into a pleasant surprise.

Sigrid hands you a fresh outfit while you dry yourself with careful haste- not too hastily so that Sigrid will think you’re tripping over yourself for the opportunity to see Arthur.

“He offered to escort you there,” Sigrid says and your surprise melds with shock.

“He’s a good man,” Sigrid says with a mischievous grin, like you’re her granddaughter and she’s attempting to set you up with the best available man in the village.

“I appreciate your help, Sigrid,” you retort, tugging the laces of the dress, appreciating the clean, new fabric against your skin; however Sigrid’s knowing gaze lands somewhere in your heart- the place that still mourns Silas. That makes the small glances you steal of Arthur feel like a sort of betrayal.

“But I believe he’s only being kind,” you say, guilt rampaging around your mind for your sharp tone and how it betrays your appreciation of Sigrid and all the ways she’d helped you up to now. When you’d first arrived in Londinium, The Wolf’s Den and its ladies had been one of your first consistent customers.

“What would he want with me anyways,” you mutter, more to yourself, tugging on your boots so swiftly that one of your toes bursts through the seam at the front and you huff in aggravation. The ankle you wrench your laces around still throbs.

“To judge a book by its cover isn't like you, my dear,” Sigrid lectures you softly as you make your way down to the main level of the brothel. The heat of the bath, of your simmering shame about your eagerness to see Arthur- your earnest to believe Sigrid and her wisdom could be in the least bit accurate about the two of you- the toll of yesterday all catches up as you reach the last few steps of the grand staircase.

At the bottom, the Madam is welcoming Arthur and another man into the lobby. A small group of women gather in an adjacent room- whispers and smiles hidden behind the sheer curtains as they observe the new guests. Arthur finds you immediately- a careful smile trained on your face before his blue eyes flicker to your throat for a brief moment. Something dark flits behind his composed features before he recovers his usual warmth.

You’re lost to his handsomeness. Sigrid’s words from a moment ago ring hollow because the book of Arthur would have a gorgeous cover. It would be soft, dark blue leather- smooth except for the gold inlay in fancy swirls and patterns over it's thick bound spine. You'd trace your fingers over the lifted edges- admiring the outer appearance before delving into the stories within its pages with equal interest if it weren't a mere fantasy. If only people were as easy to read as novels, you mused.

Lost to the way Arthur beholds you- unguarded pleasure in his regard for you like he’d been waiting to see you just as much as you him. The reason for his presence is forgotten when the last step doesn’t meet your boot when you expect it to- your heart dropping through your gut as you lurch but Arthur’s arm snaps out- steadying you before he steps closer until both of his hands are upon your arms and you find your footing.

Before you can say your apologies and thanks, the group of women flood out from their alcove and rush towards you with concern.

“Oh, are you alright?” they ask, fawning over you with care creasing their brows. A few of them you know from your most recent visit to bring them their balms. Eleanor, their unspoken leader, who likes her salve scented with styrax, fusses the most out of them all. She convinced the others to choose their own personal scents for their perfumed oils. Theirs and your business had increased substantially due to her charming influence.

“We heard you stayed over last night,” she tells you as you pets at your arm like she can remove any shades of bad luck attached to you, “But Sigrid wouldn’t let us visit so we stayed up until you awoke. Why didn't you have supper with us?” she says with a sincere grin before her gaze falls upon your throat and her features remain carefully poised upon her last emotion- but her grip tightens on you. Fingers twitching before her eyes cut to Arthur who has strategically retreated to allow the women to fuss over you.

Eleanor leans imperceptibly closer to you, her voice falling out of her smiling lips without them moving. It'd be unsettling if her next words weren't filled with earnest care, like she were your older sister.

“If he’s hurting you, squeeze my hand three times,” she whispers and you shake your head, allowing your hand to remain in her grip like a limp fish. Eleanor examines you for sincerity before she finds it in your unguarded face- and her own smile becomes genuine.

“Tell us who then, and we’ll make sure he never sees the inside of this den for as long as he lives,” she says, “Which is not long, we can hope,” she says as she cringes upon the bruises across your neck.

“The giant, scarred King’s guard at the pier,” you say and she nods with a frown.

“Aye, he tried bringing a racquet here but Sigrid had him oot the duru on his tush in the mud in less time than you can say broga,” (door, danger), she says and you believe her. Sigrid was a force of nature despite her age, especially when it came to protecting her den. The subject is changed with such grace and ease that you barely notice when Eleanor does it. A learned skill that she’s perfected dealing with a variety of guests.

“There was a woman that came by last week,” she says with heavy disregard, “She tried to sell us peppermint slick!” she says and you both cringe with a coarse, nervous chuckles from your sore throat and a light, sharp one from hers.

“I swears she was from another brothel up the road,” she says with a fierce frown.

“Peppermint!” Eleanor says with a shake of her head, disbelief and amusement fighting for space upon her features.

“I don’t think anyones seen the duru as quick as that lass when we got a whiff of that slick,” Eleanor laughs. “The only person we trust to take care of our needs is you,” Eleanor says with a flirty wink that you can’t help but fluster at because although she means nothing but the business between you all, her charming personality holds you captive to her regard. A compliment from one of your customers meant a lot to you and the efforts you placed into your products.

“Now, you know I never kiss and tell but indulge me this,” Eleanor whispers, tugging you closer and pivoting the two of you to face Arthur where he converses with Sigrid, “Is he taking care of yours?” Eleanor asks while Sigrid passes Arthur a few satchels of tea and wrapped parcels.

You blame the swelling of your throat for your lack of words at her inquiry. Eleanor must feel the heat that builds in your frame at her insinuation because her lips twitch into a considerate smile before she gives you a small, gentle squeeze.

“You deserve nice things too,” Eleanor says, “And he’s as handsome looking as I’ve ever seen one,” she adds with another wink before she whisks herself away to where the other women gather around Arthur’s unfamiliar acquaintance.

Arthur’s attention shifts to you as soon as Eleanor departs- and he strides over with a small smile.

“How do you fare?” he asks, and you bring your most convincing smile forward.

“Well,” you croak and Arthur allows you the little lie if only to give you a moment less to dwell on the events of yesterday.

“Do you feel up to traveling?” Arthur asks and you sway in your boots- one socked toe curling inwards away from the hole that you punctured in the leather just moments ago. You suppose if you got your hands on some rope and rags you might be able to get a few more weeks wear out of this pair- but truth be told you hadn’t expected to add any more tread than your trips between your hut and the plot of elvium. The next visit to the market to pick up your order from Ginerva was when you planned to get a new pair of boots. But Arthur’s list demanded your attention so rags and rope and a prayer it would be.

Arthur seems to read your silence as hesitation.

“We have horses,” he offers and your surprise lasts only a moment as long as it takes to remember Arthur’s position as King guard and all the resources he has ready access to.

“Oh,” you remark, “Well, I suppose I can be convinced,” you say with a grin that Arthur returns.

“Sigrid has sweetened the deal with more of that tea from yesterday,” Arthur says, wiggling a packet and you groan, recalling how deeply you’d slumbered after drinking it. Worrying you may have drooled upon the man.

“A tad strong for your tastes?” Arthur chuckles.

“A touch,” you reply and turn your attention towards Arthur’s friend. The silver haired man politely rebuffs the focus of the women that crowd him. Eleanor and the lot of them are giddy with lack of sleep and their excitement at your visit. The attractive men are a pleasant addition before they take their leave to rest and sleep before their next shift.

“Is this who you were searching for yesterday?” you ask, suddenly wishing you’d stuffed the ragged soles of your boot into your mouth before inquiring when Arthur’s smile disappears. A forlorn look replaces it- something impossibly sad and racked with worry.

“M’ apologies, Arthur,” you say and he shakes his head.

“No, it’s alright,” he says with a strained smile before he strides forward and introduces you to the dark haired man.

“This is my good friend, Bill Turner,” Arthur says, introducing you by name in turn and you each provide a polite greeting.

“Will you be joining us for the journey?” you ask Bill, and Arthur lifts a brow and turns to the man- leaning into his line of vision with his broad frame.

“Will you?” Arthur parrots your inquiry, some meaningful look exchanged that you miss for admiring the back of Arthur’s golden head.

When Arthur retreats, Bill smiles and shakes his head.

“I regretfully have other matters to attend to,” Bill says and Arthur returns to a casual stance, chest lifting and dropping on an exaggerated sigh.

“Well, Bill,” he says, clapping the older man on the shoulder and gripping it with friendly combativeness, “We won’t take up a moment longer of your precious time,” to which Bill smiles wryly.

“My gratitude is eternally yours, my lieg-” Bill’s sarcastic reply is cut off by Arthur tugging him into a forceful hug.

“My leviable friend,” Bill grits out through Arthur’s tight embrace before they disengage with a shared stern look that breaks upon fond amused laughter.

“It was a pleasure making your acquaintance,” Bill says before he takes his leave.

Before you have a chance to follow- Eleanor peeks her head from behind a sheer curtain and beckons you. When you approach, she presses a small parcel into your palm and her eyes plead with you before she speaks.

“Please deliver this to my sister when you can spare a moment,” she asks and you nod. Helen would be on the way to your hut- you’d have to stop by there before traveling anywhere with Arthur. And you’d need to care for the elvium too.

“Of course,” you assure Eleanor, tucking the parcel into your pocket before Arthur leads you outside.

“It’s a short walk to the horses,” Arthur says.

“I need to go home,” you say and Arthur’s step falters.

“Of course,” he says, pausing and you stop too. The cold of the cobblestones leeches into your feet, a fierce shiver wracking your sore body. Arthur considers your trembling form for a blink before his shearling coat is wrapped around your shoulders.

“Arthur,” you scold, “Please, pray tell why you’re always trying to catch a chill around me?” you lecture and Arthur grins despite the way his breath puffs out from his nose in white plumes.

“I’ve another coat once we reach the horses,” he says before he gestures at your sorry excuse for boots.

“And a better pair of boots for you as well. As promised,” he says before he continues down the road, leaving you to stand alone- reeling in the wake of his warm assurance. The words he’d spoken offered to you with a weight in them the same as the heavy leather across your shoulders, as soft as the shearling wool against your fingers where you grasp his coat to you. The scent of Arthur surrounds you- his affection for you laid out clearly.

And the cheeky bastard has left you alone to drown in it.

Didn’t even wait for you to offer your thanks as though he never needed it in the first place. Like generosity was his first and only nature. Like the temporary offer of his coat and the permanent gifting of boots wasn’t entirely different acts of- of something you didn’t dare name as you hobble to catch up with his long legs. As you admire the width of his shoulders- the easy way he turns his head over one of them to regard you with a charming smirk.

“Arthur-” you start, words lost to the way your throat closes for entirely different reasons than the swelling. A rock has found its way free of the stone that encases your heart since Silas’s death- and lodges against your tongue. Gratitude and grief shred your words to nothing.

Arthur considers your rapidly blinking eyes with a furrow of his own before his lips twitch.

“For an outlaw, you protest too much against getting things for free,” he says, allowing the jest to shore itself up against your emotions so that your laughter can break through the lump in your throat.

You laugh the rest of the way to the horses. A belly deep- chest aching laugh that puts a small skip in Arthur’s step. You laugh even harder when you arrive to find there’s only one horse left in Bill’s wake while Arthur had been assuring you there'd be two the entire journey from the Wolf's Den.

Arthur’s frown does nothing to dissuade your amusement. Resolutely, Arthur procures the aforementioned boots from his pack and lets you steady yourself against him while you toe off your old pair.

Carefully, minding your still swollen foot, you put on the new boots while Arthur tosses the old pair over his shoulder- the one that isn’t your current handhold as you sway in the new leather footwear. They’re lined with warm shearling and you try to appreciate their snug fit but Arthur’s bunching muscle beneath your fingers is distracting.

Forced to stoop to your height- Arthur’s head floats close to your own and the scent of the paste he uses in his golden locks alongside his own scent surrounds you. Sipping the air and the momentary intimacy of his closeness- you don’t notice he’s asked you a question until his face turns to yours with an amused smile.

“Do you like them?,” he inquires with crinkling eyes that you want to stare into for as long as he’ll allow it but realizing you’ve forgotten your manners with his nearness- you duck your head and offer your appreciation.

“Yes,” you say, “Thank you, Arthur,” you say with a grateful smile that Arthur shakes his head at.

“This is my way of expressing my thanks,” Arthur says, “Without your help-” he says- words cutting off on a brusk sigh.

"I'd be lost," Arthur admits plainly, with a sentiment that treads the edge of your fledgling acquaintance.

Waving off his compliment, you busy yourself with the horse. Admiring his sturdy frame and beautifully crafted saddle and harness, you note the food pack with surprise especially as Arthur adds Sigrid's teas and parcels.

"Please don't think me ungrateful, Arthur," you begin, "You're incredibly generous," you say and Arthur's hands still over the rope closures he pulls taught.

"Sigrid told me the journey could be four days- perhaps more," Arthur explains.

"She hasn't left the Wolf's Den in decades," you reply with a shake of your head, "It can be done in two, even with only one horse, especially one has healthy as this."

Arthur considers your words with a mixture of confusion and relief. To his credit, he occludes the last emotion with his concern for the horses' plight so it only stings a little to realize you wished the journey could be longer- if only to spend more time with Arthur. Selfish as it was.

"Critter will be pleased," Arthur says, stroking the horses neck.

"Surely, that's not his name," you ask, amused and Arthur smiles.

"Why not?" Arthur asks.

"He is a proud creature. He belongs to the King," you remark, "He needs a meaningful name."

"Does a name truly carry that much weight?" Arthur asks, something serious in his expression.

"If it's the King's, I believe it does," you say and Arthur moves swiftly to mount the horse- something distant in his face before he turns back and offers a hand to you.

"Up you come," Arthur says, tugging you towards him until you're perched at his spine.

And so the journey begins.

|||

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Still, Goosefat’s gaze scanned the wreckage with haste. The only eyes he met were the portraits within the paintings- still hanging on the walls in perfect arrangement. Arthur’s family painted within the frames yet untouched by the magic that had caused such damage everywhere else around them. Their intricate, golden frames gleaming under the lamp light in Goosefat’s grasp. Not a speck of dust or the smallest of scrapes to scar their canvas homes.

Goosefat’s brow furrowed further than when he’d first arrived. The echo of the blast and then shock wave that followed yet thrumming through his blood. His heart slams against his ribs because he’d felt that power before. Knew of only one person capable of wielding it. Of creating such destruction. And yet even with such abilities- what that person cared most deeply about remained unblemished even as he drew the wrath of the heavens and Gods and all the worst storms within his frame and through his sword.

Arthur had done this.

Why was yet to be discerned and Goosefat knew it could be for nothing good.

A crowd gathers at the corner of the intersecting hallway behind him. Whispered murmurs of shock and awe as they survey the damage.

“Locate the King,” Goosefat orders and they burst away with urgency at his commanding tone.

Curiously, none of the Havenport guests had appeared. They’d all but poked their nose in every pie and plot as of yet since their arrival. Like rodents with stomachs five times their beings. There wasn’t any gossip or drama they could be dragged away from. Why they avoided this wing of the castle when it was well within the party’s radius given how loud and ground shaking the blast had been didn’t bode well in Goosefat’s mind. 

And where the hell was Arthur? Gossefat fretted, having lost the younger man earlier in the evening. 

It didn’t matter that Arthur had been absent as of late. Goosefat couldn’t blame the younger man for his avoidant tendencies. Having a legend draped over your shoulders and then a crown laid upon your head with a kingdom dropped in your lap could have that effect, he supposed. He felt it in his own newfound responsibilities.

One of them being minding Arthur and his whereabouts, Goosefat begrudged. At least he was comforted that there wasn’t a grisly trail of Pendragon blood to follow. Goosefat supposed it was reassuring. If only mildly.

Arthur had a lifetime of darting in and out of illustrious dealings under his belt. It’s why he’d plucked Goosefat’s form out of the shadows of the brothel when Jack’s Eye’s had chased him there. Arthur had done it with ease. Discerned who did not belong as quickly as he drew his next breath before he’d given Goosefat up to the Sergeant. Arthur was good at spotting trouble and addressing it because as comforting as it was to not see Arthur’s fallen form amidst the destruction- it was as disconcerting to not see that his enemy was left behind either.

Goosefat shivered at the thought of what sort of being could survive Arthur’s magic.

Standing in the center of the troublesome scene- Goosefat hoped Arthur was equally as good at running from trouble as he was at taking care of it.

|||

Present Day | Arthur

“If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you’ve taken leave of your senses,” Arthur says, reeling at Goosefat’s words. 

You’re engaged to be wed.

He wasn’t serious, Arthur reassures himself if only for a futile moment because Goosefat isn’t smiling. This isn’t him being an asshole making a joke in poor taste. 

No, Goosefat holds Arthur gaze with a seriousness as though he’s just ordered Arthur’s execution.

Arthur sways beside the round table, one hand reaching done to balance himself against the solid feel of the wood. Dizziness hits him like when he’d first grasped the sword. Arthur nearly wishes he’d faint and be rid of the nonsense being thrown at him. 

First, the fucking sword. Then Vortigern. Would he catch a break or was this the Fates disturbed version of it? Swinging at him so hard Arthur thinks he’s meant to shatter beneath it. 

“I’m afraid I’ve never been more convinced that I’m the only one that hasn’t,” Goosefat offers reluctantly, fingers fiddling with his rings for a few moments. Gaze far away from where they are now before it lands on the crescent scar that still hasn’t gone silver over Arthur’s cheek. Like he longs for that time when they’d first met- well, for Arthur anyways. 

Somehow it was simpler when their enemy was a clear cut as Vortigern. Severe and brutal as he was- at least his eyes blazed with flame and his form flickered with smoke and shadow even when he wasn’t in his demonic visage. If all the decency that could be commended of Vortigern was that he made a good enemy- one that made himself known from the beginning because he couldn’t help doing so- then so be it.

Because when Goosefat and Arthur lock eyes now- they’re both at a loss. A disadvantage of knowledge.

“For fuck’s sake, Goosefat, enlighten me,” Arthur says- not an order but a plea, desperation and confusion clouding his gaze.

“I was hoping you would cast light on the subject,” Goosefat sighs, “What do you remember of last evening?”

Arthur’s jaw ticks before he grabs a chair and throws himself into it with a great sigh. If he’s going to stress he may as well be seated. His hands card through his hair- still wet from the river, still smelling of starsium and soil when he pinches the bridge of his nose as he forces his mind to grate over the meager scraps of his recollection.

The dirt of the seedlings knocks against his memory like an arrow against his bow. Sliding into place so that he can feel his fingers wrap around the stalks. Arthur’s shoulder jump as he rips them from the plots in the castle gardens. Handfuls of them. There’s something soft in his grasp too. The blankets. 

An urgency in his actions as he collects the plants. Arthur’s breath billows out in front of his face. It’s cold. Near freezing. He’s trying to save the elvium. 

Snowflakes drift in front of his face.

A window. The moon.

Blue’s voice at his back.

“Where are you going? Can I come?” The boy had asked, the eagerness ringing in Arthur’s ears now. Blue always wanted to join Arthur in his adventures. Nevermind the loss of his father- of the boy nearly being killed by Mercia- if anything the threat and death he’d faced had forced him even closer to Arthur. Fueled his desire to be involved in the matters of King and castle like never before.

Stay, Blue,” Arthur says.

Goosefat pulls a seat beside him, his frame bent over itself, head poised near Arthur’s like he can lend some of his thoughts to aid his King’s. Goosefat wouldn’t be interested in his rogue gardening, Arthur ascertains. There’s no need to reveal the elvium or the herbalist. 

“Blue,” Arthur offers a safer subject instead.

Goosefat hums before he asks, “At the party, yes?” and Arthur lifts a brow. Blue was meant to be resting. He’d been flushed in the wine cellars from his outburst- or perhaps fever from Jennie’s illness.

“You pulled him from beneath one of the tables. A ripple in the cloth was all you glimpsed before you bent and pulled him out by his ankle,’ Goosefat recalls with a small smile, “The boy was dipped in honey glaze from the pastries in his grasp. Bathed like Achilles in your sternness when you sent him away.”

Arthur tries to remember this action but falls short- only managing to draw forth the feel of fabric over Blue’s leg, the bright sparkling mischief in his young eyes. Arthur smiles despite the concern of emptiness surrounding the interaction. Blue was so much like himself at that age. Always finding trouble and the consequences attached.

“I do not recall that,” Arthur admits and Goosefat’s smile falls with a shake of his head.

“Perhaps if we take a walk, your memory will follow,” Goosefat offers and rises- pausing when Arthur doesn’t move. If anything the man sinks further into his seat- like a stubborn child. His golden brows knitted in concern. Goosefat clasps the meat of Arthur’s shoulder. Offering what little strength and comfort he can to the younger man now afraid to traverse his own home for how it has betrayed him.

“You’ve gotten your wish, Arthur. In a way, at least. The Princess has taken her leave to announce the proposal to Havenport,” Goosefat says and Arthur allows a breath of relief to fill his lungs. While he remembers nothing of his interactions with the she-snake, he’s grateful he won’t run into the woman when he can’t recall her scheming ways for all the life left within him. Arthur breathes easier if only for Goosefat’s next words to punch the air out of him.

“The next time you’ll see her is the day you’re to be wed,” Goosefat says dryly. 

“I liked you more when you struck me with your hands,” Arthur mumbles, “Your words wound me,” Arthur continues, a hand to his heart as though a true pain aches in his chest before he stands and Goosefat allows a half hearted chuckle.

“Your humor won’t save you yet, my liege,” Goosefat says as they leave the round table room, “Now make haste, lest we be planning your funeral alongside your wedding.”

Arthur can’t help the laughter that booms from him, echoing off the walls in a burst of stress induced giddiness that doesn’t align with the sick feeling in his gut. For the tease is strong in Goosefat’s voice- and an awful truth rings clear in it as well. 

Clear as the surge of magic that rises in Arthur all of a sudden. Surges through his frame like a lightning strike. His bones shake, his skin crawls before his vision whites over and Goosefat’s voice sounds far away. 

“Arthur!” Goosefat calls, sharp with surprise when Arthur sinks to his knees. A blinding swirl of magic surrounds him before he slumps and it dissipates as quickly as it had come. The air that Arthur hauls into his lungs with force makes him look like a man drowning at sea and Goosefat gathers him up- prevents him from falling to the floor. 

“M’fine,” Arthur heaves out. Breathless as his eyes return to their striking blue from the magic induced starlight they’d been for those fear filled heart beats.

“Yes, and I’m the King of Londinium,” Goosefat jests, concern rife in his tone.

Arthur laughs less than before. Weakly. Reluctantly. Like he’s worried any more emotion will spring another bout of magical unwieldiness from his body. Goosefat allows him to catch his breath before the King lets his head fall back on his shoulders- clear eyes catching Goosefat’s for a moment.

“Would you trade places with me?” Arthur asks, all earnestness in the hard set of his jaw so that he looks like the reflection of his father and Goosefat thinks for one held breath that Yes,in a heartbeat, he would. For his old friends' sake. For the one he holds in his arms now. 

And then Arthur’s mouth lifts. One side of his lips quirk into that lazy grin of his before it splits his face wide.

“You treasonist bastard,” Arthur offers upwards and Goosefat lets him go with the sharp kiss of his hand and a small curse laden with his love and loyalty for the Pendragon bloodline.

|||

Arthur and Goosefat reach the great hall where the party was held. Servants working yet still to unladen the overflowing tables of food and ale from the celebrating. Anger simmers inside Arthur at all the wasted resources.

“In the wake of the announcement, the pantries and cellars were all but raided,” Goosefat admits with a sigh of frustration.

“On whose orders?” Arthur asks, knowing and yet still thrown off by the reply.

“Your as yet to be Queen’s order,” Goosefat answers, knocking Arthur with his shoulder in a not so subtle attempt to break Arthur’s rage when they feel the floor shaking under their feet. The King’s eyes flickering between starlight and their typical blue color. 

Goosefat nods at the perimeter of the room and Arthur follows his gaze. Part of his wrath breaks for the shiver that replaces it when Arthur realizes his usual awareness has suffered for the onslaught of magic in his being. Typically, Arthur’s head was on swivel- constantly surveying his surroundings for threat. 

But as of late his focus was narrow eyed. All of it on the Princess and her unwanted company in his castle. Distracted by her and yet all he’d done up until yester-eve was avoid her. And now Arthur was paying his dues thrice over. His magic is a restless flame searching for any emotion to fuel it. Stealing his energy and attention like the Princess had and he hadn’t even laid his gaze upon her. Now his awareness has faltered further. Beyond the pillars now decorated with both Londinium’s and Havenport’s banners a Havenport man watches them. His curious gaze unguarded.

“As much as she has taken her leave, there are still others who make it their purpose to know more than they should,” Goosefat warns as Arthur tries to temper his fury into something he can control. A barely lit flame in the center of his chest. Something he can curl his fist around until it fades. A tendril of smoke that he chokes with his will until it’s nothing. Until he’s no longer a danger to everyone around him.

The Mage had warned Arthur of comparing his power to fire. 

“If you give it power to consume you then you become the fuel,” she’d said and it hadn’t made sense until Arthur had seen Vortigern’s final devil appearance. But the burning sensation inside him now- the one he’d woken up to- that feels like it eats him from the inside out- it’s too akin to flame for Arthur to call it anything else.

Goosefat’s voice cuts through his thoughts of ash and ruin.

“Does anything fascinate your memory?” 

Arthur scans the space. The ceilings are staggeringly high so that he’d crane his head all the way back to view their gilded surface. The grand arc windows allow the afternoon light to pour in. The shadows cast by the tables trigger a thread to unravel in the fabric of his memory so that some of its tattered holes are seamed back together. The sides of his silky thoughts- slippery as he grasps at the edges- finally meet so that Arthur knows the snow and “Stay,Blue” come after this next part.

|||

The previous night | Arthur

Arthur makes his way to the rear terrace at a slow pace. Traversing the halls, he sidesteps the servants that hurry back and forth. The trail of clipped, anxious My lord’s follows him through the halls before they’re lost to the sound of music and people conversing and laughing as he approaches the party.

Guests begin to run by- stumbling with excitement and whatever they’ve consumed. Their eyes sparkling, glazed at the edges. A few of them startle at his presence- hiding giggles and smiles behind their hands. He doesn’t recognize any of them aside from the Havenport style of dress and hair.

The terrace is a swarm with them. Food and drink is on a constant stream of platters in such excess that Arthur begins to truly understand why the castle culinary cost has gone up exponentially these last few weeks.It seems the Havenport princess has entertained herself in his absence- and at his expense.

Arthur adheres to the perimeter of the celebrations. Managing to find a relatively quiet corner behind a large planter full of lush flowers nearly as tall as he.

Taking a mug of ale from a servant’s platter with his thanks, Arthur drinks deeply from it twice before Goosefat’s voice lifts behind him. Sneaky bastard. Always hiding amongst the shadows.

“While I’m pleased you’ve made an appearance as promised- the Princess has requested in no unclear terms that she wishes to lay her naked eyes upon you,” Goosefat says, nudging Arthur forwards and if he didn’t know better he’d say Bill’s finger was a knife pressed to his spine as they navigate the party goers and tables laden with a feast fit for the gods.

“She wishes to clear my larders, and lay her hands within my coin vault before we’re even acquainted, it appears. Bit rude innit?” Arthur hisses backwards.

“It’s been a rough winter for us all Arthur, and she’s had no one of your royal caliber to warm her bed-” Goosefat says but pauses- Arthur catches his gaze and follows it- knows this must be the Princess before Goosefat needs to say it.

She’s pretty- from what Arthur can see- her face hidden in the shoulder of a man that she’s curled herself around. Coiling her body around his like a cobra about to strike. She’s younger than he’d anticipated. Adorned in fine fabric, her body glistening with gems from crown to toe tip- she glints in the torch lights as though she wears scales instead of silk. The man ensnared in her grip seems entrenched in her beauty. Drowned in the purposeful air that hangs about her. 

Relishing his attention, she commands the group that surrounds her as well. Every way her head turns theirs follow. Every lift and fall of her lips has their entire focus while she speaks and smiles and sneers through a tale that Arthur can’t pick out the words from the distance between them. The audience around her is a mixture of attention- some seem enchanted. Others hold an undercurrent of fear in their eyes whenever her gaze lingers on them. Possessing an acumen that belied her youthful appearance, she drew in courtiers and nobles alike. 

There was something calculating in her demeanor. Like every conversation was something to be won, not simply shared. Like the company one kept was meant to be hoarded not plainly held. 

Arthur knew of her before he wore the crown. Had heard tales of her rule while he was working in the brothel and cutting his youth on the streets of Londinium. This was the beloved Princess of Havenport- married to the late King. How the man died Arthur couldn’t recall. Hunting accident? Old age? Infection? In any case he’d carked it. Leaving behind this woman to lead his kingdom to glory. 

Arthur hadn’t time nor care to learn of royal families and kingly politics in his old life. With a sigh he realizes he should have devoted more time to the matter once he wore the crown. He’d have to suss her out the old fashioned way. Something he’d been putting off since her arrival in his castle when he’d learned from Cecil that she intended to assuage the fear of war between their kingdoms- by any means necessary.

Arthur knew what women were capable of. Growing up surrounded by them and raised in the brothel. He wouldn’t underestimate her, although he tried ignoring her initially.

“Can’t blame a girl for begging your attention in the only way she thinks you care,” Goosefat offers with a frown and Arthur sighs, unruffled by the display in front of him except a part of him does care. If what he’s seen tonight is any indication- then the food being provided to these parties over these last few weeks could have fed the entire east village for a month at least- maybe two.

Goosefat has positioned Arthur well and deep into the center of the festivities. Far enough that the Princess’s attention drifts to the fuss that Arthur’s presence has caused. Her gaze meets his with a flash of curiosity. She laughs then, perched upon the lap of the nobleman, her head thrown back, her teeth gleaming like the gems that adorn her. Her mouth held open wide so that Arthur likened her to a snake yawning before it devoured its prey whole. 

Arthur shivers. 

The nobleman’s joke couldn’t have been that amusing.

Her laugh reminds him of his life in the brothel. When the women would laugh a touch too loud, hoping to draw more affection from their marks. More coin from their purses.

The laughter in her died, as fast as her liking for the nobleman she now discarded in her wake as she approached Arthur. Her gaze set upon him like a predator stalking its victim. Grabbing a bundle of grapes from the table, she raises the fruit and presses it to her lips, all the while holding his gaze. 

Arthur’s jaw ticks. He huffs imperceptibly. Restrains the shake of his head.

She’s testing his boundaries. Probing for weakness. A challenge lay in her eyes plain as sunlight and yet Arthur couldn’t help but note the shrewdness of her approach. 

Arthur stalks away before Goosefat can get a breath to begin the introductions. 

Fuck this, Arthur thinks, refusing to play her games. She feasts not only on his provisions but the power to entertain such excess and extravaganza within his own castle walls.

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Present day | Arthur

“Christ, Goosefat- you were here- don’t you know what happened?” Arthur sighs, his memory blocked beyond the point his mind had reached.

Goosefat nods.

“You arrived, refused to greet her, had another drink and then dropped to one knee and proposed,” Goosefat informs him.

“Do not jest any further,” Arthur threatens on a groan, hands tugging at his golden hair.

“It would have been preferred,” Goosefat sighs, “At least we could have claimed you were off your head with drink. The truth of it is worse as no one knows except you and the Princess what transpired before the announcement.”

Arthur crosses his arms over his chest. Frustration emanating off his frame. The hair on the back of Goosefat’s nape stands on end. The start of Arthur’s magic attempting to make itself known once more. 

“There is one more place you should lay your gaze upon,” Goosefat says before he leads Arthur to the damaged hallway and away from prying eyes.

“Somewhere between you storming off and this hallway, I lost you,” Goosefat says as Arthur surveys the destruction in front of them and Arthur doesn’t fail to note the heavy regret in Goosefat’s voice. 

“I’m not a child for you to mind,” Arthur says, keen to assuage Goosefat’s need to place blame upon himself.

“Well, my liege, you certainly can act as one,” Goosefat says, but there’s no bitterness in the statement, only a weary sigh.

The hallway is destroyed. Unrecognizable from the ones they’d just traversed to reach it. Arthur doesn’t need to voice what he knows to be the source of this damage.It’s his doing. His magic. 

“Anything?” Goosefat asks, urgency sharp in his tone.

“Nothing,” Arthur returns after a long time of attempting to will the memories to reach his awareness. But they remain outside of it. Lost beneath the dark surface of the sea of his mind. Arthur wonders if there’s anything that could spurn them forth. Some concoction…

The list in his vest pocket.

While he couldn’t recall it- Arthur and Enthiel had spoken at some point last night if only to be handed the list of medicines and artifacts to collect. Perhaps Enthiel would have some insights.

“Let’s take a stroll to the Doctor’s tower” Arthur says before he begins crossing the destruction.

|||

It takes much longer for the stench to hit him as Arthur climbs the steps. After a few more, Goosefat groans behind him, his face buried behind his hand.

“Gods, what is that awful smell?” Goosefat asks before he heaves at the door.

“The pantries and wine cellars weren’t the only places raided yesterday,” Arthur responds as they enter the tower.

Goosefat looks up at Arthur in shock- green from the scent of all the smashed potions and fermenting, preserved oils and items. All of the mess of yesterday had been cleared as well as it could. The broken glass has disappeared, leaving only the stained floorboards and shelves. Some of the higher ones are still dripping with foul ooze and ointments.

“Why wasn’t I informed?” Goosefat inquires, a note of disregard in his tone.

Arthur sighs.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I’ve been- distracted,” he admits. 

Enthiel appears from the latrine room- startled at the arrival of not one but two visitors to his usually neglected corner of the castle. His surprise gives way to a smile when he realizes one is a repeat guest- Arthur.

“My Lord,” Enthiel begins before he corrects, “Arthur. How can I help you?” 

Arthur tugs the list out of his vest. Goosefat’s gaze narrows on it as he unfolds the parchment, keen to know what else Arthur has been hiding from him.

“Do you remember giving me this last night?” Arthur asks, handing the list to Enthiel but not before Goosefat snatches it. His gray gaze pouring over it like it holds all the kingdom’s secrets before he relinquished it to the young doctor with a somewhat embarrassed apology. Arthur’s comforted that he’s not the only one frustrated by being outside the loop.

Enthiel smiles awkwardly at the older man, before nodding at Arthur.

“Yes. In the recovery wing. We were with the children,” Enthiel supplies and Arthur lifts a brow at the plural. 

As far as he knew Jennie was the only child in the castle that had fallen ill.

“Jennie?” Arthur asks, an urgency in his tone that lands sharp over Enthiel’s nerves. He flinches before he frowns.

“And Blue,” Enthiel says, “He’d only just arrived before you did.” Enthiel says and Goosefat nods with his entire body.

“Yes!” Goosefat exclaims, lifting his hands into the air as though in celebration before he points at Arthur, “Before you stormed off! You’d dragged him out from beneath the dessert table.”

Arthur’s voice rings in his own ears. A scold strong in its echoes. The boy runs off with arms full of pastries before the memory collapses.

“The page is awfully attached to the lady’s maid,” Enthiel chuckles softly, amused by Blue’s fondness for his friend. If love could save the girl she’d be spared for eternity, Enthiel thinks, concern furrowing his brow when he remembers how ill the lady’s maid had become. The last few hours had worsened her condition. Enthiel feared she may not survive to see the next sunrise.

“Forgive me, Arthur-” Enthiel begins, eyes flitting to Goosefat as he knows he steps outside his formalities by addressing the King by his plain name- nevermind that Arthur had ordered it be so- but Enthiel intends to step even further outside his rank with his next inquiry. “I don’t mean to exceed my position but did you by any chance manage to collect any of those medicines?” Enthiel asks, earnesty written all over him. 

Arthur sighs with a heavy shake of his head.

“No,” Arthur admits and Enthiel bites his lip, attempts to disguise his disappointment by scrawling something over the top of the parchment list Arthur had given him.

“Speak what ails you, Doctor,” Goosefat orders as Enthiel’s script shakes with his hand.

Enthiel shakes where he stands as though he’s his own patient. But alas, it’s poor Jennie. Shivering with fever and chill and he’s not the potion nor oil nor aid aside bedside vigil to offer her.

“Jennie grows weaker by the breath,” Enthiel says, hanging his head and Arthur’s hands become fists. His heart feels caught within them. Aching for Adelyn’s sake, for Blue’s. For all the power of being a King when he has the likes of rats within the reaches of his walls. Thieving and thwarting and scheming.

“What illness has ensnared her?” Goosefat asks, while Arthur had inquired “Where is she?”

Enthiel addresses his King first.

“Her mother’s quarters,” Enthiel supplies with sorrow, “I’ve done all that I can with what I have left-” Enthiel sags against his desk. “Her mother’s comfort is the only thing remaining. The only hope we have as it stands.”

“Against what?” Goosefat inquires more forcibly, Arthur’s recent bout of temporary amnesia not a common occurrence in his experience of the younger man. It reeks of conspiracy. The worst sort of foulness. The kind that would have a child experimented upon to measure the dosage needed to poison a fully grown man. A King.

But they’d underestimated him. Perhaps, they didn’t know of Arthur’s magic. The power in his blood. How far it would go to protect him.

“What do you mean?” Enthiel asks, confusion swarming his features as Arthur stalks the stained floors. Mind spinning along the path that Goosefat has set forth in it.

“Is it an infection or an infliction of the illest designs?” Goosefat all but shouts and Enthiel grasps his meaning with a look of jaw slackened horror before he stands straight. Spine lengthened to the height he usually slouches beneath but now he rushes to the shelves beyond Arthur. Tremoring hands scrabbling over the small bottles and vials with fervor.

“The list! Did I record it yet?” Enthiel cries, turning on his heel only for Arthur to meet him- a wall of intent blocking his path before Arthur speaks.

“Keep searching the shelves,” Arthur commands with a small shove, enough to spin Enthiel back to the scrawled bottles. Arthur didn’t have a hope in hell of reading those labels- but the list he could manage well enough with how many times he and the herbalist had poured over it.

“What do you search for, doctor?: Goosefat says as he snatches the list and thrusts it into Arthur’s grip.

“Saltpetre!” Enthiel responds, voice louder than Arthur had ever heard it. The thud of bottles hitting wood accenting his urgency while Arthur and Goosefat butted heads to scan the list.

“It’s not written here!” Arthur shouts, allowing a small smile to grace his features while Goosefat spent a moment longer to check their efforts twice. Enthiel doesn’t reply save for increasing his speed of frantically reading labels. Arthur’s hope lasts the moment it takes to register that Enthiel has barely scoured a quarter of one shelf that spans the entire length of the wall- Gods, there were so many bottles left.How long could Jennie last?

Goosefat lifts his gaze, and surmises the same as Arthur with a curse.

“Saltpetre,” Goosefat says under his breath. Over and over like he’s trying to recall a dream.

“Saltpetre?” Goosefat’s tone shifts to something incredulous, peaking Arthur’s focus from the fistful of vials he was attempting to read.

“Like black powder?” Goosefat asks and Enthiel’s hands halt over the shelves. 

“Yes! Exactly, yes!” Enthiel says, and Goosefat shoots Arthur a wicked grin.

“Well, I know where we can find entire barrels worth of that!” Goosefat says, all but skipping to the tower exit.

A short visit to the castle armory and the three men arrive in the servant’s wing. Tucked behind the kitchens is Adelyn’s and Jennie’s room where they find the mother embracing her daughter in their lone bed. A solemn mood falls over the hopeful trio. As much as Enthiel had exclaimed the nature of the cure- he’d been cautious to restrain their expectations lest the medicine not be administered in time.

The child looks pale. A sheen of sweat over her face. In the dim candlelight, her chest barely lifts and falls with breath. Adelyn moves to stand and address the King and the doctor, but Arthur bends to meet her instead.

“My deepest apologies, Adelyn,,” Arthur offers, hand cradling the sweaty forehead of Jennie while his other hand grasps Adelyn’s. She holds onto him with a fierceness, as though to draw strength before she can speak. Somehow, she keeps her composure, Arthur remembers how Maggie used to do the same for him when he was ill.

“Thank you, my Lord,” Adelyn whispers, “Thank you! Doctor Enthiel’s care of my child has been appreciated.” she says, although her lip trembles when she continues, “She’s comfortable, is all a mother of my stature can ask.” 

Enthiel strides forward with the procured substance.

“It’s alright to ask for more, Adelyn,” Enthiel says, pouring a spoonful of salt beneath Jennie’s tongue. 

“But we must pray now.” Enthiel states, tucking Jennie’s mouth closed with gentle care.

In the cramped room they wait. For hours they take turns caring for and monitoring mother and child. Slowly, like the tide on a new moon- Jennie gains strength. Eventually, she thrashes- pulls air into her lungs to wail for her mother and they all release the breath they’d been holding.

Stepping out of earshot while Enthiel takes note of Jennie’s vitals- Goosefat and Arthur find refuge in the silent kitchen as sunrise greets them through the small windows. They share a tired sigh.

“What do you make of this?” Goosefat asks, his voice hoarse with exhaustion. He’d not slept the previous night either- had been busy searching for Arthur. 

Arthur swallows around the lump in his throat. Lodged there since Jennie’s drained form had reminded him of Ellie and all the other girls in the brothel to suffer from an infected, weak heart.

“Whoever poisoned her… whatever they used.. It went for her heart,” Arthur says.

Goosefat nods, staring at Arthur’s chest. The list tucked back in his vest. Goosefat reaches forth and plucks it from its pocket, unfolding the parchment to consider Enthiel’s addition along with the rest.

“I suppose somewhere here is the antidote,” he says, offering the page for Arthur’s consideration.

“Aye,” Arthur nods, “And we’d be best not to delay its procurement,” Arthur says before Goosefat plucks it from its grasp once more.

“There are duties you should delegate, my liege” Goosefat scolds but Arthur grabs the list back before shoving it into a deeper pocket of his vest.

“I already have,” Arthur says, a flush running through him when Goosefat regards him with renewed interest that not even his fatigue can disguise.

“Oh!” Goosefat says, sarcasm dripping from the exclamation, “Pray tell who you’ve kept company with when all you could recall of this day was tramping through the woods with but only the wind between your ears.”

Arthur averts his gaze from the older man. 

“She must be worth remembering,” Goosefat implores, leaning further into Arthur to catch his gaze but Jennie’s cries interrupts their conversation. Enthiel’s head appears at the doorway, brows furrowed.

“She calls for the page,” Enthiel says and Arthur lifts his brow.

“Where is that troublesome boy anyways?” Goosefat murmurs.

“He’ll turn up somewhere,” Arthur assures Enthiel even though worry strikes through him like a lance. Sometime soon, Arthur prayed. What with all the child poisoners about. Enthiel disappears just in time for a burst of magic to thrum at the center of Arthur’s chest- close enough that Goosefat slaps it out of surprise.

“Gods, you need to get a grasp on that, and quick,” Goosefat says.

“M’sorry,” Arthur says, a breathlessness to his voice like the stone in his throat had wedged its way back from earlier. The white of his magic shining on the waterline of his eyes as he blinks away tears of worry.

“He’s a clever lad, Arthur” Goosefat offers softly, and the magic that thrums alongside Arthur’s heart settles for a few beats. “He’s bright enough to stay clear of that sort of trouble.”

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