"Milady, you will be seen!" Aili hissed, her eyes wide and nervous in the pre-dawn dark. She watched anxiously as her mistress, lady Guinevere of Eirinn, hastily pulled on her heavy dressing gown."And what if I am?" Guinevere whispered fiercely, fastening the raw silk ties around her shapely waist, "The last I looked it was no crime to breathe fresh air."Aili bit her lip, but said nothing. As the King's ward, Guinevere's person was zealously guarded by the Crown, even more so since she reached marriageable age. Wandering by the seashore at dawn was certain to incur the King's wrath, and as her handmaiden Aili knew she would not escape chastisement.As though reading her mind, Guinevere placed a reassuring hand on the girl's arm "Don't worry, Aili," she smiled, "I promise to return before anyone notices," she paused, and her voice lowered "You will be held blameless if the King finds out, I will make sure of it," and the earnest light in her eyes quelled some of Aili's nervousness. Her mistress maybe prone to more acts of rebellion than Aili was comfortable with, but her kindness and compassion more than compensated.

Still, as she watched her lady's form slip quietly out the doors, her fears returned in full force, and she found herself cursing the hooded messenger who had awoken them just before dawn, bearing a letter from the distant kingdom of Camelot.

Getting past the early guard was not a struggle; where quick feet and stealth failed, Guinevere had found that a strategically deployed gold coin procured her passage. Finally beyond the castle walls, she hurried down the pebbled pathway leading to the shore, the scent of sea-air quickening her heartbeat like wings. The breath of the ocean caught in her dark hair, streaming the heavy loose curls off her shoulders, and Guinevere felt the tense knot of nervousness dissolve in her stomach. The ocean always pulled her out of herself, her spirit porous with joy at the sound and crash and swell of foamy turquoise under the glimmering sunrise. Her mother, Andromede, had grown up in a coastal kingdom as well, and had imparted her love for the sea to her daughter. In water we all began, daughter. In the waters of our mother's wombs we are first cradled. And to the waters of the next world we commit our beloved dead.
On the rare occasions when she could steal time by herself, Guinevere relished her solitude by the sea, where she could indulge in memories of her mother. In those days, she and her mother could wander by the seashore whenever they wished, picking up shells, bathing their feet in foam. Guinevere felt a pang, stronger than nostalgia, deeper than sorrow, for the tremulous innocence of stories traced in the sand, and the arms of a mother who was no more. She sighed and cast her eyes on the horizon, waiting for the sun to raise her golden hands more fully. Sometimes if she stared hard enough, before the sun was fully risen, Guinevere imagined she could see in the misted horizon the faint turrets of Camelot, with their streaming banners she remembered from a childhood visit, or the moored boats by the royal harbor in Ethiopia, her mother's kingdom. Would she ever cross these waters, set foot on new soil? Or would she only do so in death, when her body would be placed in a flower-strewn casket and set adrift on the tides? Guinevere loved Eirinn with all her heart, but the stifling castle walls that determined the terms of her existence darkened her spirits daily.
But not today. Today, she had been given a glimmer of hope, a whisper of possible change. She slipped out the carefully folded piece of parchment from where it had lain warmed by her breast, unfolding it carefully as golden bars of light filled the sky. A letter. At last. After two years of lingering silence, at last she held a letter in her hands. This was why she had risked discovery to be by the sea: there seemed no better place than the dawning shore to unfold the missive she had waited so eagerly for.

My dearest Gwen,
I cannot apologize enough for not writing to you. These past two years have been hard on our Kingdom, as Uther's hatred of the Old Religion continues to burn as strong as ever. Daily I sicken at the stench of innocent flesh burning on our pyres, and my dreams are haunted by the moaning of those who languish in our dungeons. How I have wished you were here, my dear friend! Your counsel and calm words would have been much comfort to me. I know you understand the hopelessness of feigned loyalty to a sovereign you despise. But at long last, dear Gwen, my prayers are answered: we are to visit Erin before the new moon wanes, to negotiate an alliance between our two kingdoms. While I must suffer Uther's company on this voyage, nothing can dim my joy at the thought of seeing you again. Arthur, and his manservant Merlin, are to accompany us as well. You may think this strange Gwen but I've found quite the friend and confidant in Merlin; I feel so alone at times and he is always there, present with kind words. Arthur, I think you will find, remains headstrong and arrogant as always; is there any wonder, with such a father as he has? I pity the woman who must marry him someday. Merlin and I have had many laughs at Arthur's expense. Oh Guinevere, sister of my heart, how eager I am to see you again! I shall not sleep for anticipation these coming days. Be well, be happy Gwen. I feel a change in the air for both of us, like the wind turning. Perhaps the darkness of these times will lighten at last. Perhaps.
Morgana.

Guinevere Leogrance, daughter of Thomas and Andromedhe, ward to King Peadar, looked out across the sunlit sea, her beautiful face bathed in dawn-light. Against the uncertainty of her future and the tedium of her present, she willed her eyes to see,  as Morgana's did, a glimmer of the distant wings of change.

Arthur Pendragon, son of Uther, crown prince of Camelot, stood on deck as the faint coasts of Eirinn came into view. Merlin, by his side as always, felt relieved at the thought of being on land at last. While the ship had been fitted with enough comforts to transport the King, the prince, the King's ward, their guard and servants, Merlin missed being able to evade Arthur (and his chores) in the roomy pathways of the castle.

"Have you been to Eirinn before?" Merlin asked.

Arthur kept his eyes on the distant shoreline, almost as though attempting to gauge an approaching army. When he spoke his voice was low, "No, although I've heard many tales about it.  As a kingdom they have always been....," he frowned, trying to find the word, "...more ambivalent towards magic than Camelot. My father has long been suspicious of their true loyalty. I suspect he hopes this trip will prove informative." 
"And if he finds the information....displeasing?" Merlin knew, though he preferred not to consider, the answer. He could only hope that they would not be privy, yet again, to more senseless death in the name of wiping out magic. 
"Then we'll throw them a party and conduct some friendly pillow-fights. What do you think will happen Merlin?" as always, Arthur hid his own concerns behind biting humor directed at his manservant. In many ways, although he would rather lose a jousting tournament than admit to it, Arthur found his conversations with Merlin far more helpful and strangely comforting than any discourse with other courtiers. 
"The usual then." Merlin said quietly, turning his eyes to the shore. 
Arthur said nothing, but he felt a cloud creeping across his mind, darkening the glint of sunlit waves. For as long as he could recall, allegiance to Camelot, to his father, had forged the purpose of his life, his ambition, his will in a blaze of fierce love and unquestioned loyalty. Upholding the Kinght's Code and protecting his people were not choices, but a solemn responsibility, and one he assumed without question. That is, until recently. Arthur wasn't sure when things started to feel different, or when he began to question the meaning of honor and loyalty that his father insisted on upholding. Maybe it was the endless executions he had had to preside over. Maybe it was his friendship (something his father would find contemptible) with Merlin. Maybe it was how pale and silent Morgana had become. Now as they watched the cliffs and coasts of Eirinn dawn into view, Arthur found himself hoping that for once, Camelot could extend the hand of peace, and friendship.
"How much longer before we reach land?" it was Morgana, wrapped in crimson-dyed wool, her midnight hair loose about her shoulders, her eyes feverish. 
She had not slept for most of the voyage, or eaten, and seasickness had hollowed her skin so that she appeared gaunt and brittle, like glass.
"Not much longer now," Arthur spoke kindly to his adopted sister. Once, he would have retorted with a playful, flippant comment, teasing her about her seasickness. Once, she would have responded with equanimity.
Seemingly out of nowhere, Merlin had fetched a goblet of wine and was offering it to Morgana. Arthur blinked, nonplussed, at this sudden efficiency by the servant who frequently had trouble keeping his foot out of chamber pots. "Drink this milady. We are almost there. I'm sure lady Guinevere is anxious to see you" and he offered a reassuring smile. Morgana accepted the goblet with quiet thankfulness.
"Lady Guinevere?" 
Morgana spoke, a glint of cheer in her voice, "She is ward to King Peadar. We met as children once, a long time ago...While my father was alive. I have not seen her since, but we...we have corresponded with each other over the years."
Arthur raised his eyebrows, "Does the King know that you have been communicating with someone in the royal court of Eirinn?"
Morgana's eyes flashed and for a moment she looked like her old self again, "No he does not, and if you so much as breathe a word Arthur Pendragon I'm sure the King would be delighted to know about the crown prince consorting with commoners at weekly tavern visits."
Arthur directed a furious gaze at a now sheepish Merlin, "What else have you told her, hmm? Does the entirety of Camelot know about the temperature of my bath water now?"
Before Merlin could respond, the ship hands were suddenly running about, preparing to weigh anchor. All three of them turned towards the approaching coast, the stern cliffs with their emerald wreaths of grass, the stone outline of King Peadhar's palace jutting out against a blue sky. They had arrived.
***

"You wished to see me Sire?" Guinevere curtsied briefly before raising her eyes to the King. She couldn't hide the distaste that filled her at the sight of Peadar's companion: Lord Melwas.

"Ah yes, Guinevere. Lord Melwas wishes to discuss a matter of...great delicacy with you, " Peadar's smile did not reach his eyes. They stood in the council room, the air full of the scent of dusty parchment and new ink. "I shall leave you two alone then," and before Gwen could protest, Peadar had swept out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

Gwen took a deep breath and faced Melwas, "Milord?"

Melwas' eyes slid down her body, lazily, before returning to her face. Guinevere felt her skin recoil, and she willed herself to remain composed.

"What a ripe flower you have blossomed into," Melwas whispered, sidling closer to her, "So very ripe, and ready for the picking..." he reached out to finger a loose curl of her hair, but she jerked away instinctively.

His eyes narrowed, and a tinge of colour livened his high, sallow cheeks, " You recoil from my touch as if I were a serpent. Have I done something to offend you?", his hand drifted to her shoulder, resting uncomfortably close to her breast.

Gwen swallowed the urge to fling out the words burning in her throat, "What is it you wished to discuss with me, milord?"

"Oh, I think you know already," his hand moved her dark tresses off her shoulders, his eyes resting on the swell of her breasts, "A marriage between our houses has long been in the making..." his wandering hand floated close to her mouth and Gwen could stand it no more. She pushed his hand away and took an authoritative step back.
"You may imagine so, milord, but I can assure you such a notion has not been conveyed to me," she was aware that her shoulders were set back in steely pride, even as her voice struggled to hide its quaver. Mother, help me.

Melwas closed the distance between them, and his voice was now dangerously low, "You cannot fool me, Guinevere. I've seen you wandering about; I know you grow restless with this castle and its confines. As my wife you could travel with me, see the world outside Eirinn. I know of what you dream," and his voice now grew sly and suggestive, "You are your mother's daughter after all... "

Guinevere was trembling now, but she fought to keep her voice steady, "You will not speak of my mother again."

Suddenly he seized her by the waist and ground himself into her, rage and lust warring in his grey eyes, " I will have you Guinevere, make no mistake," his breath was wet against her cheek, "Your false airs do not sway me. You are but a pretty bird in a gilt cage, thinking her wings can ride the sky...."

"Let me go!" she struggled against him, pushing, half-blinded by her tears.

"The world is a dangerous place for pretty little birds. Very dangerous indeed..."
With a last monumental effort she slid away from his grip, casting off his arms. She felt soiled and unclean, and her hands absently touched the neckline of her gown, wanting to wrap the cloth around herself like a shield.

"You sicken me," it took everything in her to bite out those words. Without waiting for a reaction she flung herself at the door, pulled it open and fled. Her tears flowed freely now, her hair coming undone from its ties with the speed of her gait. She needed air. Heedless of the curious eyes of idling courtiers, Gwen picked up her skirts and hurried towards the eastern doors, the ones that opened unto a parapet and overlooked the sea. She strode outside, the air dry and sharp on her warm tears. Oh, mother, father, I wish you were here!
Grief and despair threatened to overwhelm her, and she would have sunk to her knees had her eyes not spotted, unmistakeably, the ship that had pulled into harbour, its red and gold standard flame-bright by the light of day. She would know that standard anywhere. A dragon of sharp gold, poised expectantly on a field of blood-bright red; the bane of sorcery across the lands, the unwavering symbol of the might of Camelot.  The crest of the house of Pendragon.

***

Unloading the ship would take quite a while, but everyone on board was eager to set foot on land first. Arthur watched as Morgana hurried down the gangway, her cloak streaming behind her. He was about to follow her when his eyes caught sight of a lone figure, high upon the eastern parapets of Peadar's castle: a woman, a blur of pale violet with a wind-tossed cascade of dark hair about her shoulders. She stood still as though transfixed, but the angled light hid her face, and before he could lift his hand to block out the sun, she was gone.

"So umm...I was wondering if I might have the night off...," Merlin avoided Arthur's eyes as he cleared away the dinner plate.

Arthur looked up from his desk, "What for?"

"I thought you said what a man does in his spare time is entirely up to him?"

Arthur eyes widened, his voice amused, "Merlin, are you telling me that we've been in Eirinn less than two nights and that you already have an...assignation?"

Merlin grinned, "I'm not telling you anything, sire. Now may I have the night off?"

"Very well. But don't expect leniency from me tomorrow if you spend the night swimming in a tankard of ale."
 "I think I'll leave the swimming in tankards to you," Merlin shot back, ducking out as Arthur glared.

***

"Morgana, are you sure you feel up to this? You're still tired..."

"Nonsense dear Gwen!" Morgana whispered, fastening her cloak at her neck with a plain gold clasp, "I haven't felt this alive in years. I'm so glad you told me about this."

Gwen smiled. It was good to see some colour in her friend's cheeks; when she had first arrived, almost two days ago, Guinevere had been struck by her paleness and sickly eyes, so very different from the brilliant young girl who had run with her through the meadows of Camelot. Her friend had grown into a beautiful woman, with a face as clear and luminous as painted glass; but the candleflame of her beauty flickered in a chill of despair that Gwen could neither pinpoint nor fully understand.

They both turned as Merlin slipped in, cloak-less but with a leather jerkin over his plain tunic. His grin was infectious, "Ready?"

Gwen glanced in the mirror one last time: she wore a light summer gown in soft green, plain except for the girdle sitting above her hips, the cloth light enough that she could dance without restraint. Her only adornment was a silver half-moon clasp holding her long hair in place. 
As the three of them scurried down the hallway, turning left and right at her lead to avoid the guards, she felt a sudden pang for the loss of her mother. If Andromedhe had been alive, Guinevere would not have to slip about like a thief just to attend the Summer Solstice celebrations. Her mother's people had celebrated the cycles of the moon and sun for thousands of years, giving thanks to the Earth and Sky through music, dance and laughter. In those days, people bowed before the coming storm-clouds, before the ocean waves, by the side of fields ripe for harvest. Now they prostrated themselves before the swollen pride of Kings glutted on war; the Elder Ones, the dragons were hunted and destroyed; and Uther's war on magic crept across the land and over the seas. 

"Are you sure they won't mind if we join them?" Merlin whispered as they crouched by the outer wall, waiting for the night patrol to pass.

Gwen smiled, "Not if you're with me. My family and I used to attend these celebrations all the time." She glanced about, "Quick! Let's go."

***

Unable to study maps for any longer, but too restless to sleep, Arthur had finally decided that he needed some fresh air. From the moment they had arrived in Eirinn, he had been cloistered with kings and councilmen over affairs of state, as territorial disputes and old allegiances were stirred anew by the arrival of Camelot. Arthur couldn't stand the pissing contests that such meetings quickly devolved into, and as Crown prince of Camelot he was subject to open enmity, sullen dislike or insincere sycophancy. What was perhaps most disgusting was how the various lords dangled their daughters and wards before Camelot like so much bait, fishing for an alliance that would buy them Camelot's substantial military protection. Worse, his father seemed to be seriously considering some of their propositions.
Finally having put enough distance between himself and the palace, Arthur looked out over the quiet sea lit by the round, opalescent moon. He remembered old folk tales about the light of the full-moon, how it could drive the spirits of men to passion, or madness. So at first when he caught the faint strains of music in the air, he thought it was his mind playing tricks on him. Curious and a little wary, Arthur followed the sounds until they were loud enough and unmistakeably real, consistent in the night air. They led him to the stone ruins of what looked like a manor, its fallen pillars already covered with moss. In the ruined courtyard a celebration seemed to be underway, men and women beat out a steady rhythm on drums, blended with the plaintive notes of flutes and the crisp pattern of tambourine bells. In the centre of the courtyard, people were dancing, some in pairs and some alone, their feet matching the drum-rhythm.
He had heard of such celebrations, even in Camelot. Uther turned a blind eye so long as they were small in scale and incorporated no actual magic. As the pounding, earthy beat vibrated in the air, a single laugh caught his ear, the pure aching joyfulness of it. In the centre of the crowd a woman was dancing, laughing as she danced.

And so upon the shores of Eirinn, by the light of the Midsummer Moon, Arthur Pendragon looked upon Guinevere for the first time.

Gwen had forgotten how much she loved to dance. Since her mother's death she had stayed away from the solstice celebrations, partly from grief but also because of the precariousness of her status as royal ward; since the rise of Camelot, enemies of the Old Religion had become bolder than ever in their hatred of anyone different, and she knew there were many courtly eyes watching her for the slightest transgression, poised to use her mother's heritage to defame her.

But this night, with the Midsummer air full of the heartbeat of joy, she didn't care who saw her. Her happiness at being reunited at last with her childhood friend had filled her with reckless hope for the future, and she let the drumbeat carry her spirit high above the clouds of despair, imagining herself a sea-bird with moonlit wings who could leave behind the troubles of the earth whenever she saw fit. All around her swirled the torch-lit faces of people bringing forth music with their hands and feet, and she laughed for pure joy, spinning, poised perfectly on the drum-beat.

Many years after, she would look back and remember that night, how her destiny was poised as a spinning coin.

***

Arthur couldn't tear his eyes from her. The streaming dark curls of her hair wrapped around her sinuous waist and shoulders as she danced, and her bare feet kept time effortlessly with the earthy drums. Her gown had slipped over a bare shoulder, her deep-honey skin glowing golden in the torchlight, and he couldn't stop his eyes from drinking the lithe, shapely lines of her hips and legs as she twisted and spun, lifting her skirts and tossing back her heavy tresses. The flames cast enticing shadows along her throat and the swell of her breasts, an effortless image of desire.
He had never seen a woman so beautiful, so sensual, and he wondered once again if the moon was playing tricks on his brain.
Who was she?

***

The pulse of the drums, the warm torch-lit air and the laughter of friends wrapped around Guinevere in a delicious haze, and her world for the moment was miraculously contained within the rhythm of her dancing and the smiling faces of people she loved, people she had forgotten how much she missed. She felt reverently grateful for the night, the music, the beauty of the full moon.
But now as she spun her eyes fell on a stranger, standing at the edge of the crowd, watching her. His gaze bore into her, dark as sapphires, and the flames caught the easily beautiful angles of his face in careless light. She had never seen him before, yet she found herself drawn to his gaze, and each time she turned his eyes remained on her, intense and unwavering. Why is he staring at me?

But suddenly the drums floundered and the music grew discordant. Guinevere barely had time to gather herself before screams filled the air, and firelight blazed on the swords of the soldiers as they fell upon the startled crowd. Chaos erupted as the soldiers hacked mercilessly with their swords, unmindful whether it was women or children they struck.  The drums were overturned and trampled underfoot, and Guinevere watched in horror as a soldier brandished his torch at two women, setting their hair and clothes on fire as they ran, screaming. Something slammed against her knees, throwing her off balance: a child, a young boy, groping and lost in the madness. Her mind snapped to the present as she caught sight of a soldier charge at her, sword raised, the gold dragon on his chest flashing. She grasped the little boy by the arms and thrust him behind her.

Then the world faded dark.

**

Arthur was as caught off guard as the villagers when the soldiers descended. He had been too enraptured in watching the dark-haired dancer, and now the courtyard, which only moments before had pulsed with joy and laughter, overran with screams and dying as people frantically tried to gather themselves and their families. He recognized the Pendragon crest on some of the soldiers, but the others were unfamiliar.
He caught sight of the woman as she crumpled to the ground, and it seemed his limbs sprang into action of their volition because the next thing he knew he was between her and the soldier, and his sword clanged against the blade that would have dealt her a deathblow.
Before the startled man could make sense of who he was, Arthur's fist smashed into his stomach, and then the back of his head as he doubled over.  He glanced around: most of the crowd was fleeing, pursued by soldiers. All around him were the injured and dying. Who had ordered this attack? The woman at his feet stirred, half-conscious, and he knelt to ease an arm under her back and raise her from the ground. She was still dazed, struggling to remain conscious, and he lifted her up, her head falling helplessly against his shoulder. He carried her away from the courtyard, his mind still reeling from having defended a complete stranger, a potential witch, against one of his own men.

Idiot! The King will be furious. What were you thinking?

When he was sure they were a safe distance away, he set her down gently, keeping an arm beneath her head as she slowly came to. He couldn't stop himself from brushing away a stray curl of hair from her face.

Her eyes were black pearl in the light of the moon as they stared at him, confused.

"Are you alright?" he asked gently.

Suddenly her filled with worry, "Oh gods, the soldiers..." and she struggled to stand, pushing his arm away.

"You should-"

"My friends are back there! I have to go."

"Please. Let me escort you to your-"

"No!" the fierceness of her response startled them both.  "I...I'm sorry, but I have to go. Please don't follow me."

Before Arthur could respond she had brushed past him. "Wait! I can help you-"

But she was running now, and she turned one more time, "I thank you. But please...for both our sakes, forget this. Leave."

"But- "

"Please!" Her eyes implored him and Arthur could find no words.  He could only watch as her fleeing figure melted into the shadows, and the distant sounds of weeping and keening rose in the air.

“How could they do this! We were doing nothing wrong. It was an innocent celebration. A celebration!” Morgana paced up and down as she spoke, her skin glowing with white heat.

Guinevere said nothing, her eyes and ears barely discerning as her mind replayed, over and over, the screams and cries that had overtaken drums and music.

“I thought I had seen the depth of Uther’s depraved hatred, but I never thought he would send soldiers of Camelot to slaughter unarmed villagers. And the childr-“ Morgana’s voice choked on a sob and their eyes met, “Oh gods…Gwen, the children…” and suddenly it seemed the light of her anger was extinguished, leaving her ashen.

Gwen felt her own tears loosen at last, and with a low cry she flung herself into Morgana’s arms, their hair and tears mingling, locked within inescapable images of horror, and Morgana’s voice whispering over and over the children the children the children.

They both jumped as the door to Morgana’s chamber opened, but it was only Merlin, looking as distraught as they felt.

“Are you alright?” he strode up to them and seemed about to touch Morgana’s arm, then drew back as though remembering himself, “Lady Morgana, Lady Guinevere,”

But Guinevere was so relieved to see his slender, youthful face unharmed that she impulsively threw her arms about him. “My friends call me Gwen, Merlin. And after all we’ve seen together this night I hardly think titles are necessary.”

He smiled, “Thank you…. ” then turned to Morgana, “I’ve just come from Arthur. He knew nothing of tonight’s ambush. The order must have come from the King.”

“Uther wanting to make his presence known, no doubt,” Morgana spat out his name like a poison.

“Did anyone see you return?” Merlin asked urgently. They both shook their heads, and then Gwen proceeded to tell them about her mysterious rescuer.  As she spoke she recalled the dark cerulean gaze fixed on her dancing, and the strong circle of his arms that laid her with care and gentleness upon the sand.

Merlin waited for her to finish, then added, “Milday…Gwen…it was Prince Arthur who rescued you.”

“What? No. No! Then he knows who I am, where we were-“

Merlin interjected, “He won’t tell Uther, or King Peadar. He’s true to his word, I assure you.”

She remembered again the sapphire gaze of his eyes, how his fingers, belying their strength, softly brushed a wisp of hair from her face. It had seemed almost natural to rest her head on his broad shoulder and let his arms encircle her…

Pull yourself together Gwen! This is no time for foolish fancies.

She looked out the window, expecting to see blood smearing the moon’s face. But it shone like a lidless eye, cold and unblinking, and she shivered, suddenly wishing for the dawn, to awake and find all this a terrible nightmare.

As from a distance she heard Morgana and Merlin talking,

“What I don’t understand is who those other soldiers were.”

 “They weren’t all from Camelot, and they didn’t bear the crest of Peadar’s house. Who were they?”

Guinevere wondered too, and she remembered Morgana’s last letter she had unfolded with such trembling hope by the sea-dawn. A change in the air for both of us.

Hadn’t Eirinn changed already? She had seen its citizens cut down on the shores of their homeland, and she had been spared the same fate by the inexplicable actions of a man whose political allegiance she had every reason to fear.

Whatever illusions were hers before this night, they were no more.

****

The Midsummer Feast at King Peadar’s court was always a sight to behold, but with the added presence of Camelot’s royal party as well as various dignitaries and lords from Eirinn the feast that year promised to outdo all others. Servants had toiled for weeks to prepare the food and bedeck the Great Hall, and on the eve of the feast the pillars and tables were covered with twined fresh blossoms, and the air swam with the fragrance of violet, hawthorn, honeysuckle and lavender.

Gwen reflected bitterly that the court could rejoice in Midsummer when, only days ago, villagers enjoying the same revels were mercilessly attacked.  The castle guard had doubled, and she and Morgana had been forced to spend hours in their chambers weaving or embroidering like the other noblewomen, until Morgana swore she would personally seize every loom in Eirinn and set them ablaze in a bonfire that would be seen across the seas.

While Gwen longed to visit the villagers and aid them if she could in tending their dead and wounded, and longed still to breathe the sea air freely, there was at least a miniscule benefit to their cloistering: she had yet to see Prince Arthur. While she had caught fleeting glimpses of his tall, broad-shouldered frame at the ends of quickly avoided hallways, or his mail-clad figure riding out with a hunting party at dawn, she had deliberately avoided interacting with him.

She had always imagined Arthur as an extension of Uther, embodying the same hatred, and lusting for power. Certainly Morgana often referred to his arrogance and high-handedness, and Merlin had once used the amusing term ‘prat’ to describe the Prince. What would she say to him?  She owed him her life, and his discretion thus far had protected her from Peadar’s anger, and yet she could not stifle her own anger that his presence, and his father’s presence, was the reason for bloodshed in her homeland.

And yet.

And yet.

He had saved her life. And now he kept her secret. She was too embarrassed to even confide in Morgana, that these past few nights when she lay sleepless, trying to drown out the images of death, it was his face that rose to mind. Her body would shiver with the memory of that dark sapphire gaze, like a feather brushed from her mouth to the tips of her breasts and toes.

Almost, almost she wished for the simple tedium of her life only a few weeks ago, before she had seen people cut down in front of her, before Uther Pendragon’s war on the old ways became terrifyingly real. Before his son’s eyes were a ghost touch upon her dreams.

Torn, confused and newly uncertain of what her future held, Guinevere felt as though she would rather face the mighty dragon Kilgarrah, than meet Arthur Pendragon’s eyes before the courts of Eirinn and Camelot.

Merlin watched, amused, as Arthur readjusted the brooch holding his cape for the eighth time.

"At this rate the feast will be over before you get there."

"Shut up and help me adjust this thing."

"I've already helped you," Merlin watched him fiddling with the clasp, "You keep un-helping yourself."

Unfazed by the Prince's muttered curses, Merlin added, teasingly "I'm sure the Lady Guinevere will collapse with awe at the sight of you. Poor girl, she won't know what hit her."

"Merlin?"

"Yes?"

"Fetch me my sword."

"Why? You said you weren't wearing it for the feast."

"I'm not." Arthur stood up straight, seemingly satisfied at last with his cape, "I need it to kill you."

"Now that is just rude."

***

Guinevere felt trapped. Not only was she required to spend an entire feast in the company of the Pendragons, but the King had insisted on beginning the feast with the ancient welcome rituals of Eirinn. Since the widowed Peadar had no children, as royal ward the dubious honor of proffering the cup of welcome fell to her. While Gwen acquiesced with a calm she had perfected out of necessity, internally she was an exhausting mixture of emotions. The welcome rituals had descended from countless generations, harkening back to a time when druids, warlocks and witches sat at feasting tables beside kings and queens, when those who practiced the Old Religion were not looked upon with suspicion, but held in esteem. As a child she had watched her mother Offer Welcome to guests, awed by the simple stateliness of the ritual and hoping, one day, to handle the Tokens herself. She was surprised that Peadar wished to indulge a gesture so steeped in the Old Ways, until he told her there should be no Tokens, nor blessings.  The welcome, she realized grimly, was intended by Peadar as a gesture of friendly supplication to Camelot, a pledge to align them with Uther's power by relinquishing all hints of sympathy for the Old Religion. 
A cowardly act, she thought angrily, and traitorous too, gilded with the blood of innocents. How could she partake in such dishonesty? Especially when one of the guests, Arthur Pendragon, knew, had seen in fact, that she partook in the old rituals? Her face grew hot at the thought of standing before him, offering calm welcome, when he had seen her with undone hair and bare feet. Would his eyes scorch her the same way, unmasking her?

Now she stood beside the King in the Great Hall, waiting for the doors to open for the royalty of Camelot. In the generous candlelight her skin glowed with a simmer of unspoken words, warmth of cinnamon against her blue gown. She felt the eyes of the court on her, curious and sceptical. Never far away from the King, Melwas watched her also. I wish Morgana were going to be here.  Her sardonic presence would have been much comfort. But her friend had taken to bed earlier in the day, citing a digestive indisposition. Gwen forced herself to think of her mother, who had left her homelands and followed love across the seas to a strange land, never prostrating herself before the courtiers' scorn. She straightened her shoulders as the trumpets sounded.

***

"Eirinn has changed a great deal," Uther noted approvingly to Arthur, as they prepared to enter the Great Hall, "I'm beginning to think this will prove a powerful alliance for us."
Arthur nodded but said nothing. He was still ignorant about the circumstances prompting the attack on the villagers, his father having divulged nothing but that his men had successfully routed a known group of magic sympathizers, and expressed disapproval that Arthur could not be found that night to lead the charge. Arthur had apologized, contriving a clumsy excuse about a horseback ride and clearing his head after council meetings. Merlin was the only person who knew his true whereabouts, who knew also about his rescue of Guinevere.

Soaring trumpets greeted their arrival in the Great Hall, and lords and ladies bowed their heads scrupulously as they passed, like reeds in a long breeze. The air was golden with a rich perfume of candles and honeysuckle, warm with the breath of a gathered crowd. The standards of Camelot and Eirinn were unfurled above the King's table, red-gold beside silver-green, solemn and glittering. 

How very different this was from their first meeting, when he had watched her swirling in naked torchlight, her hair a dark and sensual caress. Here she stood statuesque beside the King, her rich hair half-gathered with soft flowers, all poise and coolness in her gown the colour of blended blue and seafoam. 

She unarmed him completely. He felt again as he had that night, unable to wrench his eyes from her, disconcertingly prepared to risk things he had never before considered worth risking.

“My lords,” she said softly, bowing her head, “We bid you welcome.”

Gwen hoped against hope they could not hear the tremor in her voice.  The whispered imaginings of him that had haunted her dreams paled, shrivelled and fell away before the bright, aching realness of his presence: all broad shoulders and wheaten hair and deepest blue eyes in a face whose perfect angles her treacherous fingertips demanded to trace.

Quickly remembering herself, Guinevere smiled and took from Peadar the one permissible token, a goblet of mead, and offered it in greeting, “May your cups never run empty, beneath our roof and beneath yours.”

Uther, whose blue eyes unlike Arthur’s were cold and speculative as they appraised her, took the goblet carefully, sniffing its contents before deigning to take a sip. He then passed the cup to Arthur,

Peadar grasped Uther’s arm in a hearty exchange, “May this herald the beginning of a new age, an age of Camelot and Eirinn united under the same banner.” There was a hum of approval about the room, and even a smattering of applause.

Thus the Welcome would have concluded, if Peadar had his way, the Rituals swept aside and forgotten.

“Milords! If you would,” and before they had time to ask any questions she gestured to Aili, who stood waiting in the corner with the Token Gwen had prepared earlier.

The court fell silent as she took the Token in her hands, holding it out to King Uther and his son.  It was a bowl of plain clay marked with runes of peace, half filled with water and wrapped around with laurel, a small candle floating. Earth, water and leaf: the symbols of life, of bodies that are sustained before the long rest of death. And the fourth, the island-light, Avalon: light of faith and love, fire of the heart without which life cannot exist.

Vaguely she was aware of the menacing silence all about her, the shock and anger in Peadar’s face. She could not hear, but she could imagine, the courtiers’ whispers What is she doing A disgrace to us all I’m sure her mother was an Afric witch.

 “May the waters of your homeland run clear, its crops spring eternal. May the Ancient Light never fail within your hearts,” Guinevere held her hands steady and met Uther’s cold gaze without flinching. Take it, tyrant and murderer of children. Take it though your bloodstained hands are unworthy.

Arthur could sense his father bristle at the offering. Her lovely uplifted face was numinous with determination, the elegant column of her throat unyielding. 

Seemingly unflustered by Uther’s cold silence, she turned to him, and Arthur felt the unwavering challenge in her pure-dark eyes go through him like a lance.

He reached out and took the token from her hands, feeling her tremble slightly as their fingers brushed. Her lips parted in surprise, and she hoped he could not hear the thunderous pounding of her heart as her breath heaved against the blue-white bodice.

As their hands held the Token between them, Guinevere felt the world around her hush into insignificance.  For an infinitesimal moment, nothing existed but the endless blue of his eyes.  He smiled slightly, almost knowingly at her, and she felt her skin grow warm.

Then Arthur drew back and held the Token for the court to see, “To peace, and friendship!”

Relieved applause and cheering broke out, as the court seemed to release a collectively held breath.  Even Uther was forced to nod tensely, and the royal assembly repaired to the King’s table. Guinevere was light-headed with exhilaration, and she turned a dazzling smile on Arthur, who was contemplating her features with a slightly dazed expression.

Suddenly, inexplicably, Guinevere felt hopeful for the future.

The mead was flowing as the night wore on, and the musicians turned out jig after jig until many of them were compelled to throw off their hats, roll up their sleeves and loosen their collars. Even Uther Pendragon was laughing uproariously, gesturing for his goblet to be filled over and over.

Guinevere caught Arthur’s eyes across the table, and his slow smile made her blush. ‘Twas a good thing Morgana was absent after all, she mused. Her friend would have taken fiendish delight in teasing her.

Lord Melwas, not blind to the exchange between Arthur and Guinevere, now stood up and clapped his hands to gain the musicians’ attentions.

“Let us have a summer waltz!” he demanded, and a hum of approval went about the room. He walked up to Guinevere,  “Milady, would you join me in leading?”

Arthur could see her tense slightly, a faint stiffness in her shoulders as she declined quietly but graciously.

“Oh but I insist, milady,” Melwas lowered his voice, “You do poorly at concealing your love of dance.” Gwen’s eyes shot up to his face, shock and realization dawning in them.

“Go on, Guinevere,” Peadar urged loudly, face mead-flushed, “Let’s show our guests how we Eirish celebrate.”  All eyes were on her once again, and she could not refuse without breaking courtly politeness.

“Very well,” and she reluctantly put her hand in Melwas and let him lead her to the floor, trying to maintain a calm countenance as his other arm circled her waist and pulled her hip against his.

“You look enchanting tonight, my dear,” he whispered wetly as they awaited the music, “Is it all for him then?”

“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” she kept her gaze straight ahead as the music began and the dance moved forward.

Though nothing could compare to the pure bliss of spinning barefoot to drumbeats, summer waltzes were actually Guinevere’s favourite courtly dances; usually a multi-partner dance that began with slow stateliness and progressed into a series of lifts and turns, it came closest to the dancing she truly enjoyed.

But Melwas’ words rang in her mind, over and over until she felt sick, and her body stiffened each time his groping hands lifted and turned her. It was his men that had joined Camelot’s soldiers. Of course. He must have had me followed. It’s all my fault…if I had not joined them those people would still be safe.

“Come, Guinevere,” Melwas turned her again, holding her body flush against the length of his, far closer than the dance required, “You are far too sombre tonight. Smile for me.”

“I cannot command my smiles, anymore than you can milord.”

He pulled her to him again, and this time his voice was low and deadly, “Smile for me, or I’ll have the rest of your peasant rabble burned alive.”

She gasped, and he slowly released her into the continuing motions of the dance. Guinevere took two turns, then another, bracing herself for Melwas’ iron grip on her wrists and waist. Instead the hand that grasped her wrist was gentle, and the arm around her waist strong yet familiar. She looked up into Arthur’s eyes. When had he joined in? He lifted her easily, setting her down without missing a single beat.
”Sire,” was all she could manage, suddenly breathless.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Melwas, but now Arthur was turning her, and the leashed strength she could sense in his arm led her with ease around the floor. He lifted her again, the solid heat of his body seeming to burn through her clothes.

“I owe you my life,” she blurted when he set her down to join their palms and continue into the seamless motions of the dance.

“Was Lord Melwas’ dancing that odious then?”

The teasing glint in his eyes made him seem even more handsome, and as he lifted her one last time she marvelled at the ease with which his arms held her, the way her own body seemed to mould effortlessly to the strong lines of his. Suddenly the room swam with images of their first meeting, vivid and dream-like, beautiful and violent, until she could smell the blood and see the torchlight and feel the way his eyes had pierced her in all the secret places of her body.  Gwen felt light-headed. She wanted to flee the room before she shattered into a million fragments.

She wanted Arthur Pendragon’s hands on her bare skin.

Arthur released her small frame, his eyes scanning her beautiful face, searching for something he could not name. He placed a soft kiss upon her hand, feeling a shiver go through her, and his body tightened with a sudden longing to pull her against him.

Gwen managed a small bow, “Thank you, milord. If…you would excuse me,” and without waiting for a response she hurried out, head spinning, the skin of her hand aflame where his lips had been.

She needed air.

Arthur would have followed her, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him. Melwas.

”She is spoken for, Pendragon.”
Arthur cocked an eyebrow, “I beg your pardon?”

Melwas’ cold slow smile did not reach his eyes, “And I grant it.  But if you continue to pursue her I shall not do so a second time.”

Arthur ‘s eyes were suddenly glitter-bright as ice, “Are you threatening me?”

Melwas retreated, “Not at all, milord. I am merely protective of what’s mine, as any man would be. Surely you understand”

“Quite.  And if I’m ever found ransacking your house or running off with your livestock, I assume you’ll be prepared to put your sword where your mouth is,” Arthur stepped close as he spoke, meeting the other’s man’s eyes squarely, “Until then, Melwas, I am not inclined to abide idle threats. Do I make myself clear?”

There was a long pause, until Melwas finally affected a stiff bow, “Indeed milord. Very clear.”

Guinevere savoured the cool night air on her heated skin, dragging in the ocean-scent to her lungs.  Her pounding heart slowed at last.

 A cloud covered the waning moon in sudden darkness, and her head jerked at the sounds of footsteps.  She edged cautiously down the hallway, thinking perhaps to find one of Melwas’ spies.

”Who is it?”

She caught vague sight of a cloaked outline, slipping between the shadows. The moon unveiled itself, and in the pale beams she glimpsed a woman’s face, hard and beautiful as a new-forged blade, framed in bright hair. Her eyes flashed gold.  A cold wave of fear washed over her, but before Guinevere could speak, darkness overtook the moon again, and she cried aloud at the sound of a voice behind her.

“Forgive me. I didn’t mean to startle you,” it was Arthur.

She blinked, scanning the hallway for the woman, but there was only the misty darkness.

“Are you alight?” he placed a hand on her arm, marvelling at how easily his fingers could encircle the slender limb.

“Did you see her?  There was a woman.  I thought...” Gwen shook her head, trying to clear her mind. She could have sworn the woman’s eyes shone gold with magic.

“I could ask the patrol to scan the courtyard…”

“No. No it’s nothing….I must have imagined it,” she realised Arthur held her arm, that he stood close enough for her to count the shades of blue in his eyes. Then his words registered, and a plan formed in her mind.

“I know I owe you much already, milord...would you think me remiss if I ask another favour?”

“Another horrible dance partner you wish to avoid?” he teased.

She smiled and Arthur wondered if it was the mead buzzed in his head, making it difficult to think, “I was hoping milord….I was hoping you would help me deliver some aid to the villagers that were attacked. Some supplies for tending their wounded…they have nowhere to turn to. Peadar has forbidden the court physician from attending them.”

She pressed on, “The guards will not stop you from leaving. If you…”

“I fear that would be too great a risk, for you and me both. It’s better if…,” she drew back, her face shadowed, and Arthur instantly regretted his words.

“It would be better if we have the servants deliver them. Perhaps Merlin…,”

“You would allow your servants to risk what you would not?” she asked quietly.

“I--,”

But Gwen felt suddenly foolish and vulnerable, ashamed of the way she had let him affect her. She should have known better.

“I see you are indeed the son of Uther Pendragon,” she said softly, then swept past him.

Arthur remained in the dark, staring after her retreating figure. The moon blinked away the eyelids of cloud once, twice, three times. And still her words remained.

The son of Uther Pendragon.

“Apologies, milady. But I cannot let you pass.”

Gwen looked up at the guards, one of Camelot and the other of Eirinn, their crossed lances and unreadable faces, “Surely you can make an exception?” she softened her voice to a feminine plea, “The Lady Morgana is unwell, and the physician has recommended fresh air.”

He glanced at Morgana, whose pallor was only highlighted by the shadows under her eyes. The men exchanged looks, then the taller one gestured at the basket Gwen held, “Could I see what you carry, milady?”

Her hands tightened involuntarily around the handle; she had secreted an assemblage of medicinal supplies beneath the bread and cheese.

“This is ridiculous!” Morgana interjected, “We are royal wards, not prisoners.”

The guard bowed but did not retract, “I am sorry, milady Morgana. But our orders come from their royal Highnesses King Uther and King Peadar. No one is to pass without an escort until we can determine the lower towns are free of…undesirables.”

“Those ‘undesirables’ are citizens of Eirinn,” Guinevere looked them in the eyes, her petite stature unbowed, “As am I.”

They shuffled their feet, discomfited.

“What is the meaning of this?” Arthur’s voice sounded behind them.

“Sire!” their demeanour humbled instantly. “We were merely letting Lady Guinevere know that - ,”

Arthur dismounted his horse, “Whatever knowledge you’re presuming to share, it can wait. I am escorting Lady Guinevere and Lady Morgana for the afternoon.”

Gwen and Morgana both gaped, then quickly schooled their features as the newly chastened guards now rushed to humble themselves, “Forgive us, milord. We did not know -, “

“I’m quite sure the things you don’t know would fill up the entire afternoon,” Arthur snapped, every inch the prince.   “Make yourself useful and go fetch my servant. Tell him he should bring the horses out here in five minutes if he values his job.”

“Right away, milord,” and the Camelotian soldier hurried off.

Gwen kept a steady gaze on her feet, feeling her face and ears burn.  If Arthur noticed her discomfort he said nothing, making easy small talk with Morgana as they waited.

Gwen stole a glance at him: in the early afternoon sunlight he was brilliantly handsome, a brown coat offsetting his broad shoulders, a contrast to the white shirt that, though loosely held in place with his sword-belt, nevertheless whispered the muscular lines of his torso. Her cheeks burned hotter, and she quickly averted her gaze before he noticed.

Finally Merlin was seen hurrying up with the horses in tow, but Guinevere noticed with dismay that only one of the horses was equipped with a sidesaddle. She had worn a simple linen gown with no stockings, due to the warm summer air; practical for walking, but highly inappropriate for riding astride.

“Where have you been Merlin? Scouring the plains for wild horses to tame?” Merlin rolled his eyes at Arthur, and Gwen could discern mutterings about prattish princes. He looked over at her apologetically, “The side-saddles are being mended, and the stable-master only had one to spare for the day. He hadn’t expected any ladies of the court to request them.”

Gwen was about to suggest that perhaps they could all walk, as she and Morgana originally intended, when Arthur announced that she could ride with him. “That is, if she would deign to share saddle space with me,” he turned to her, a challenge in his blue eyes. Of course. He had been aware of her embarrassment the whole time, and now he was taking full advantage of it. Suddenly she was infuriated. Infuriated that he could see through her so easily. Infuriated that despite everything her heart fluttered like a canary whenever he was near.

She merely nodded, not trusting herself to speak as he helped her mount. Arthur tried not to ogle the sight of her shapely calf as she hoisted herself up; the feel of her waist beneath the thin gown was distracting enough.

The sunlight was softly clear, and the sea-air refreshing, as they set off away from the shadow of the castle. Even Morgana seemed momentarily cheered as the fresh breeze stirred her hair. Balancing the basket on her lap while perched sideways was awkward at best, and Gwen had no choice but to lean into Arthur’s shoulder for steadiness. The warm, masculine scent of him was strangely comforting, like fresh soap and leather and grass.  She was mortified to find herself wondering what soap he used.  By all the spirits of Avalon, this was becoming impossible!

“Are you comfortable, Guinevere?” it was the first time he had used her name. Gwen had always liked her name, but on Arthur’s lips it became a shivery sensual caress.

“Yes, thank you.”  Why did she sound like a breathless novice?

Enough. She needed to clear the air between them. But just as she was poised to speak they slowed to a stop, and she realized that something was wrong. Morgana was leaned over the side of her horse, retching miserably as Merlin held the reins, his face naked with concern.

Gwen winced at the heaving, agonized sounds coming from her friend. She straightened slowly, pale skin glistening with a sheen of sweat, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

"I'm...I'm sorry," she whispered, "I was feeling better this morning....Must have been that meat I had last week."

"I'll ride back with you," Merlin offered, "You two go ahead."

"Thank you, Merlin" Arthur nodded, "See that the physician is called."

Gwen could have sworn she caught a shadow of fear across Morgana's face, but her eyes were veiled. She tried to smile comfortingly at her as she rode off with Merlin, but couldn't stifle her concern. Her thoughts brooded on Morgana as they rode on. There was something gnawing at her friend, something secret and dark she disclosed to no one.

As though reading her thoughts, Arthur spoke "She'll be alright. Although I do wish Gaius were here. His tonics always set me right."

"Gaius?"

"Our court physician. Yours is commendable, of course. But Gaius has treated us since we were children, he knows exactly what makes us ill or well," Arthur paused, "In some ways, many ways, he has been almost a father to us."

Gwen pondered this for a while, thinking of her own father, struck down by plague when she was twelve. Her memories of him were like a precious manuscript on the shelves of her heart, worn with regular thumbing. She couldn't imagine having no recollection of her parents, and her heart constricted with pity for Morgana. They rode on the rest of the way in silence.

The village were quiet: hardly any children ran up and down the streets, and there was no sing-song of merchants calling out their wares. The mood was unusual for summer, Gwen noted sadly. They stopped by the edge of an abandoned shack, and Gwen scanned the street for familiar faces.  She was surprised to find Arthur tethering the horse. "You...you need not come with me. That is...if you'd rather not, I understand."
He looked in her eyes, "I would like to."

****

Fear was rank in the air. Many people hesitated to open their doors, and Gwen had to assure them she came with help, not harm, in tow. Arthur could tell she was troubled; obviously that night had forever changed her easy friendship with these people. For the first time he realized how by rescuing her, ensuring she was unscathed, a wedge now lay between her and the people whose children and families received no mercy. He couldn't help admire the quiet and humble dignity with which she attended to them. Her gentle voice and soothing manner fell like rare sunbeams on their shadowed and grieving faces.  A few times she held a bereaved mother in her arms as she wept, whispering words of comfort.

The last house they visited was a bare-bones cottage, scrupulously clean, with a few sprigs of fresh lavender at the window. Frann, a widow, welcomed them in, offering them cups of simple stew as they sat down. Her son Colum lay in bed, half his face wrapped in stained cloth. His cheek was slit from ear to mouth, Fran explained, and his jaw broken. She managed to feed him small amounts of soup everyday, but he needed a surgeon's hand, and she had nothing to treat possible infection or fever.
As Gwen began unpacking the last of the medicine, Frann glanced quietly at Arthur before asking, "Who's your companion, Gwen?"
Gwen paused for a moment, her eyes catching his, "Arthur. Arthur of Camelot"
"Camelot...?" Frann grew paler.
"It's alright, Frann," Gwen touched her shoulder reassuringly, "He's a friend."
"I promise you, I mean no harm to you, or your son," Arthur said gently.
Frann nodded slowly, still pale. They stayed a while longer, waiting until Colum woke up to help change his bandages. Arthur watched Gwen rinse out the soiled, bloody cloths without flinching, her touch gentle as she sopped the oozing blood from his hideous wound. He felt hulking and useless in that simple kitchen, humbled by the sight of her tender ministrations. He wondered how many households in Camelot had watched loved ones die, unable to ask for help, the shadow of the stake leaching hope and joy from their lives.

But most of all, he thought of Frann's stricken eyes at the mention of Camelot, and wondered when his beloved home became a name of fear, and dread.

***

Their ride back was pensive, summer rainclouds creeping soft across the sky as they neared the castle, mellowing the sunlight to palest silver. Arthur thought how natural her head felt against his shoulder, how sweet the faint wildflower scent of her hair.  He couldn’t deny the desire she aroused, even as she challenged his pride.

The rainshower came and went before they reached the castle courtyard. He helped her dismount, and she murmured thanks with downcast eyes. He recalled again the night they met, the beautiful and sensuous freedom of her laughter, her dancing, and wondered if he would ever see her so uninhibited again, freed of the courtly customs they were both restrained by. The thought clouded his imagination with desire and despair.

Gwen lingered by his horse, "I...I owe you an apology," she began haltingly then rushed on, "The other night, what I said to you. I had no right -, "

"It's-,"

"It was wrong of me to insult your father. I shouldn't have -,"

“I really-“

“I know that you are honourable, and your father-,”

"Guinevere." There it was again, her name drawn out languorous on his tongue. It stopped her breath, made her skin hum with wordless longing.

“Yes...?” by all the gods, she was beautiful. The rainy light soft on her face, her dark hair diamonded with traces of moisture. Did she know how she affected him?

“If I’m to be king one day, I must decide for myself how to rule. I respect the traditions of my father, but I..,” he paused, thoughtful, “I think there’s more to kingship than blindly following the past.”

A slow smile dawned on her face, and Arthur noted it was a sight he would like to feel responsible for more often.  “Thank you, truly. For your help today…. It means more to me than I can say,” her voice was soft as the rain. Arthur lightly touched a long curl that had loosened itself from her simple chignon, tucking it behind her ear. His fingers lingered on her cheek, tracing its line with a feather touch, and Gwen forgot to breathe. His fingertips stopped tantalizingly close to her mouth, and his blue eyes were dark with desires she shivered to imagine.

 “My father thinks you’re a witch…,” he said softly, eyes on her mouth.

Her pounding heart stole the breath from her voice, “And you…what do you think I am?”

He smiled slightly, his thumb resting on her chin, and his beauty struck Gwen once more.

“Arthur! Gwen!”

They jumped apart at the sound of Merlin’s voice. Arthur looked ready to strangle his manservant, but his expression quickly changed to concern.

“It’s Morgana.”

Gwen sensed the tension in Uther as they stood outside Morgana’s chamber, waiting for the physician to emerge. Morgana had fainted walking up the stairs to the castle, Merlin said. She had revived almost immediately after, but the physician had been summoned nonetheless.

Finally the door opened and Filib stepped out. A man about Uther’s age, with a ginger-coloured beard and a clear, honest face, he seemed relieved.

“What is it?” Uther asks, “Is it poison?”

“Hardly, milord,” Filib says, self-satisfied, “Merely the moon’s ailment,”

”The what?”

Filib clears his throat, then glances at Guinevere as though embarrassed, “The female ailment, milord. It’s merely the listlessness brought on by the monthly courses. All she needs is rest.”

“Ah,” Uther averts his eyes, “May I see her?”

Filib paused, “She requested only the lady Guinevere’s company….I think it’s best to leave her with female companionship for the evening milord. I’m sure she’ll be right as rain tomorrow.”

Uther’s eyes skim her with that same cold suspicion, and Gwen recalls Arthur’s words. My father thinks you’re a witch.

She bows slightly in a show of deference, then slips into Morgana’s room, not daring to glance at Arthur.

Morgana is lying back against her pillows, midnight hair streaming about her, eyes fixed on the bed-canopy.

Gwen takes a seat beside her and grasps her friend’s pale hand, “Shall I get you something to eat? Some bread and fruit perh-,”

Suddenly Morgana is upright, clutching Gwen’s arms with desperate shaking fingers, her eyes wide like a trapped animal. “Gwen…I lied. I lied to him.”

“What? Lied to who?”

“I lied to the physician!”

“I don’t understand..,” Gwen couldn’t remember seeing anyone so afraid.

“Gwen…I lied. I lied about my…courses.”

Slow realization creeps across Gwen’s mind, even before Morgana’s next words:

“I haven’t bled in nearly three months Gwen. I thought it was just my imagination at first. And then with our voyage here I thought…I thought I was simply seasick. But now…,” her voice broke, tears staining her cheeks, “I can no longer deny it. Gwen…I’m with child.”

A thousand questions flash through Guinevere’s mind, her consciousness struggling to absorb the words she had just heard. With child. She had heard stories of unwed noble--women who bore their lovers’ children, only to be cast out from their families. Some were even imprisoned, or exiled so that men of their households might keep their pride intact. One could only imagine with Uther…

“Gwen…please say something.” At the sight of Morgana’s stricken, tear-moist face Guinevere felt suddenly ashamed of her silence. She embraced her friend, pulling her shuddering face against her shoulder.

“I’m sorry. It will be alight, Morgana. I will help you…somehow. We’ll find a way,” she tried to keep her voice steady, reassuring, the way she imagined her mother’s would be.

But Andromedhe had lived in a different time, a different world it seemed.  A world where women, and men, were beholden to powers more ancient and sacred than the pride of kings. 

That world was gone now, burned and trampled under the feet of Uther’s soldiers, and they were but two women, afraid in their own way of the men who would puppeteer their lives for the gains of power.

“What shall I do?” Morgana whispered.

And Guinevere wished she knew.

****

Dusk had long since melted into night when Morgana, exhausted at last, fell asleep in Gwen’s arms. Tired herself, and famished besides, Gwen crept out of the chamber, wondering if the cook had saved any leftovers from supper.

To her surprise, Merlin was outside the doors, knees drawn up to his chest in a posture indicating he’d been there for some time. He stood up at the sight of her.

“How is she?” Gwen noticed he held a small bowl of fresh-cut strawberries. Her stomach rumbled at the luscious scent and sight of the fruit.

“They’re Morgana’s favourite,” Merlin explained, “ I thought they might make her feel better.”

“Merlin…” Gwen is surprised, anew, by the simple thoughtfulness of his nature. She reaches out to take the bowl when his words stop her:

“Gwen…I know.” And the look in his grey-blue eyes left no room for doubt.

***

Morgana took to the strawberries with relish, their tart redness livening her ghost-pale lips. Merlin sat on the floor beside them.

“How long have you known?” Morgana asked quietly.

“Since we left Camelot, mostly on the voyage,” he tries to smile his youthful smile, “I live with a physician, remember?” Then his face sobers, “What are we going to do?”

“We?” she looked surprised.

”Of course,” Gwen tried to smile too, pushing Morgana’s blue-black tresses away from her face, “We are your friends Morgana. Whatever happens, we will not leave you alone to face this.”

The question was on the tip of her tongue. Who is he? For a moment she couldn’t fathom what manner of man had swayed Morgana to risk so much. Then she remembered the way Arthur looked at her, the way his tongue laved her name Guinevere. The helpless runaway beat of her heart in his presence. From the moment they met, his eyes were a risk her body longed to take

Merlin breaks the silence between them, “We have to tell Arthur.”

"Gwen. Gwen! Wake up!" The insistent shaking on her arm shattered the sleep-veil, and Guinevere blinked, trying to focus her eyes. Morgana's face loomed above her, pale-bright as moonstone.

"What is it?" she sat up, alarmed, as Morgana sank to her knees by the bed, mouth quavering with spilling words, "Oh Gwen, I'm lost I'm lost! There's no hope for me."
 
Guinevere raised her up to sit on the bed, her own fears awakened anew. Had Uther found out? Or....horrible thought.... Had Arthur told him? 
Last week, Merlin had fulfilled the unenviable task of informing Arthur of Morgana's pregnancy. He had returned from that conversation hours later, saying only, "Give him time."  
Gwen remembered his words about tradition and kingship, how they warmed her heart that soft summer afternoon. His willingness to help Frann and her people. Surely he wouldn't turn his back on Morgana.

Her friend was shaking, rocking back and forth, her white arms wrapped tight around herself. Gwen fumbled in the dark until at last she succeeded in lighting a candle.
"What is it?" she asked softly, "I won't abandon you, Morgana. We will get through this."

She stood up abruptly, her heavy dressing gown dragging on the floor, and stood by the window. Her profile was veiled in a curtain of raven silk, save for her pale lips and the alabaster slope of her forehead. 

"She told me this would happen," Morgana whispered, and her voice seemed to come from far away, as though the spirit had left her statue-still frame.

"Who told you....?"

"She did. The one with the golden hair."

Guinevere's blood grew cold, remembering the mysterious woman she had glimpsed the night of the feast.  Morgana's stillness frightened her, and she wondered again at her silence around the source of her pregnancy. What was she not telling her?

Suddenly Morgana turned to face her, eyes fierce and glistening with tears, and undid the ties of her gown. She was naked underneath, and even the dim light could not lie: her belly, that even yesterday had shown no change, was now round and swollen, ripened at an unnatural speed.

Whatever the nature of her child, it would not wait nine months to enter the world.

***

"Alright. Out with it Morgana, who was he?" were Arthur's first words as he strode in.

"That's none of your business," Morgana retorted.

Merlin and Gwen exchanged glances.

"Oh don't worry. I won't kill him. Unless running him through with my lance while my horse crushes his head is called 'killing' these days," suddenly his eyes widen with horror, "Oh hell, it wasn't that bastard Valiant was it? I noticed him creeping around you."

Morgana's face could not have reflected more disgust if Arthur had suggested she eat dung, "No! How could you even think that, Arthur Pendragon?"

"Well then...," his words trailed off abruptly as he noticed Morgana's hands, clasped protectively over her very round, very protuberant belly.

Morgana stiffened and Guinevere put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"What...How..I.." he gestured, before Merlin added, quietly, "It's magic, Arthur."

Arthur throws up his hands, at which Merlin suggested he sit down, at which he promptly responded that Merlin should get eaten by a dragon.

"This isn't helping," Gwen interjected calmly.

"I need to walk," Arthur made for the door, but Morgana's voice stopped him.

"Arthur?....Please, don't tell him. Please. I beg you."
He couldn't remember when Morgana had ever begged for anything, or looked so utterly, desperately afraid. He thought of Frann and her son Colum, the fear in their eyes. Was this what kingship meant then?  

He merely nodded stiffly before leaving.

 “I was wrong,” Merlin sighed, “He needs a lot more time.”

“I don’t have time Merlin!” Morgana implored, “I cannot hide this for long. I can barely hide it now.”

Merlin glanced at Gwen, “Will you talk to Arthur?”

“What? Why me?”

Merlin rolled his eyes, “Because Arthur hasn’t been able to take his dollop-head eyes off you since we arrived in Eirinn. If anyone can bring him around, it’s you Gwen.”

Gwen felt her face heat up, even while a butterfly-tingle brushed her at the thought of Arthur’s eyes.

She sighed, “I will try,” then turned to Morgana, “My handmaiden, Aili, can be trusted. I’ll ask her to help you pack. Whatever happens,” she looked at Merlin for confirmation, “we leave in the morning.”

****

Guinevere found Arthur on the eastern ramparts, staring out to sea. He was statuesquely outlined in the moonlight, his loose white shirt barely disguising the taut, muscular angles of his back and shoulders. Guinevere remembered rushing out to these very same ramparts herself, when she had cast desperate eyes at the horizon and seen the Pendragon crest unfurled by the shore. How long ago that seemed!

“Guinevere,” he said softly, though he had yet to turn around.

“I’m sorry. I did not mean to intrude.”

She hesitated, but when he said nothing she walked tentatively to stand beside him. The night air was cool on her cheek, sweet with the scent of distant waves, and she was suddenly tired, and longed to lay her head on his shoulder.

Arthur glanced down at her, his eyes drawn moth-like to the quiet flame of her face. How could she be so still, so serenely beautiful, with the world around them tumbling into chaos? He wanted to pull her into his arms, crush his lips against her lovely mouth, drink her tranquil courage so that his world would stop its mad spinning, could balance on the cinnamon darkness of her eyes.

Now she lifted those eyes to his, and it felt almost natural for him to ask: “What should I do?”

Guinevere sighed, almost smiling, “I have been asked that question a lot these past days.”

“And what have you answered?”

As always his gaze went straight through her, and something hot and nameless pooled in her lower belly. “Only that our actions should follow what we believe is right.”

He stepped close to her, as though his eyes would devour the answer he sought from her very skin, “What if I said I didn’t know what to believe anymore? That I haven’t known since the first night I saw you, when I found myself risking all for a woman I had never met?”

“This is not about me,” she whispered, overcome with his closeness and trembling with the effort to not melt against him, “This is about Morgana. She is afraid and alone, unsure what’s happening to her. The nature of her condition puts her life in danger. You and I both know that.”

Arthur turns his eyes to the sky, “I wish I could assure her that my father would not…,” he swore in frustration, running a hand through his bright blond hair, “My loyalty is to my king and father, but…she’s the closest I have to a sister.”

“And I too.”

He nodded slowly, looking in her eyes once more, and Guinevere knew in that moment his decision was made. He listened while she outlined the plan Merlin had helped her concoct: they would leave under the pretence of spending some weeks in the lake country, as noblewomen were wont to do in the summer months. Uther would be busy with negotiations for at least another fortnight, that was guaranteed. It would give them enough time to plan their next course of action.

“Where will you stay?”
“My family owned a small cottage, by the White Cliffs in the east. It’s small, hidden from view. About half a day’s ride from here.”

He nodded, “I will meet you by the eastern gates with horses tomorrow, before dawn. Leave the guards to me.”

It wasn’t until she felt the hard swell of muscle beneath her palm that Gwen realised she was touching his arm. Her words sprang from a nameless source, yet she felt the truth of them in her bones, “You will be a great king, Arthur,” she said softly. “For above all you are a good man.”

His hand covered hers, and her lips parted when he drew her closer. She could almost taste his breath, wine and cloves and intoxicating warmth.

Gwen could not look away from the dark-blue fire of his eyes as his other hand drifted almost idly to her waist, the fingertips grazing her side along the way. She felt her nipples tighten with painful longing, and she almost moaned, almost begged for him to kiss her.

Walk away, her mind urged. Walk away now, before it’s too late.

Arthur felt his restraint shaking, worn thin by her nearness. He had never desired a woman so much, so desperately. His eyes travelled down her neck to where her breasts heaved with quick breath over the neckline of her dress, and he had to restrain himself from drawing her thighs against his growing hardness. Ye gods he had not even kissed her yet.

“Arthur -,” but her voice faded in her throat as his mouth brushed hers, the softest of touches, almost cruel in its teasing softness. Guinevere felt her eyes drift shut, and with a sigh she leaned into his kiss, her head swimming with his scent and warmth. She gasped when he slanted his mouth over hers, running his tongue along her lower lip, and the heat between her thighs was suddenly moist.

Panic overtook her at the realization that she could so easily be swept away in his arms. She drew back, breathless, scrambling for words “I should go, Arthur…”

Arthur stepped away with a quick nod, his head still clouded with the softness of her mouth.

Slowly the world realigned itself, and they were no longer flesh swimming free in a river of desire, but bodies moulded into the hard shapes of duty, of uncertainty.

Guinevere took her leave, not trusting her voice, not trusting herself to linger near him without melting into his arms once more.

Arthur watched her go; almost wishing he had not tasted that which was ensured, from now on, to taunt his desire the more.

***

The fire-eyed woman whispered many things in Morgana’s dreams. Some, like the ones about her growing womb, were easily discerned. Others, she could only hope to understand in the fruit of their fulfilment.

Beware. She is a thief. 

I do not understand…Please. You frighten me.

It is not I you should fear, sister. Beware the one who would steal from you. Steal from your son.

What is it that can be stolen from me?

In time you will learn, sister. Heed my words.

Beware the May Queen.

Years later, Guinevere would continue to walk through the memory of those days, searching, hunting, trying to dissemble where fate overcame choice, and choice grew shadowed with fear. She would try to rearrange events and people in her mind, like pieces of a chessboard, and hope to understand how why what for. But such conclusions were but ghosts in a whispered dream. Even without the wisdom of hindsight, Guinevere knew that they were enmeshed beyond reprieve in a web of events whose reach only the eyes of Avalon could fathom.

They had spent barely a week in the cottage, when it became obvious that Morgana could not travel until after the baby was born. Each day her belly grew, like the life of a shadow-languished sapling suddenly opened to sunlight. They had let the stitches out of Morgana’s dresses to accommodate the incipient life, but Gwen knew she would need bigger clothes soon.  Merlin also brought troubling news from the royal councils: there were rumours of uprisings in the north-west territories, and Peadar had ordered all the roads and harbours patrolled until the revolts were subdued. Even if Morgana had been able to travel, there were no roads that could lead them safely away.

Their cottage seemed a small and desperate isle of safety amid turbulent seas, and Guinevere felt a weight of responsibility on her shoulders. Morgana slept excessively, as though the life inside her required every ounce of vitality to sustain its rapid growth. When she was awake, she said little, spending long hours gazing out the window at where the vast ocean heaved and flung itself against solemn cliffs, one hand always resting on the mound of her abdomen as though it alone anchored her to the world of flesh. On these occasions Gwen noticed such a faraway look in her eyes that it almost unnerved her, remembering Morgana’s words about the mysterious golden-haired woman.

Two weeks elapsed.

Guinevere watched the moon change and swallowed her growing uncertainty and fear.  She found herself longing for Arthur’s presence, his strong shoulders so comforting to rest her head on, the easy gallant strength of his arms, his lips which, even in memory, could evoke the tight-coiled desire deep in her womb, draw its delicious tendrils through her centre and the edges of her breasts and, gods, even her very fingertips. Try as she might, she couldn’t push thoughts of him away.

Merlin visited as often as he could, bringing them food from the palace kitchens and, perhaps even more importantly, news. The uprisings were still going strong: though at first they appeared scattered, the reports now indicated some strange coherence among them, though who or what unified the desperate rebellions was unknown. 

Travel was completely out of the question now. It was one afternoon when she spoke with Merlin over a quick-brewed tea that Morgana suddenly burst upon them and, grabbing Gwen’s hand, placed it on her belly so she could feel the unmistakeable movement within.  Morgana’s face glowed opalescent, “I can feel him, Gwen,” she whispered, almost reverently, “I can feel his heartbeat through my own, his breath in my veins.” Her eyes were cloudy again, looking deep within herself to a place no one could fathom.

Gwen met Merlin’s eyes across the table as it sank upon them both, the reality they had avoided confronting: the baby would be born at the cottage.

***

Her name was Angelica, and some called her a witch. Although, when Guinevere’s mother was alive, Andromedhe had told her she was a wise woman, a gatherer of herbs, a midwife, a moon-worshipper. That was when the names for those who practiced the Old Ways were many, and beautiful.

Faced with the imminent birth of Morgana’s child, Guinevere grew desperate. She had some basic knowledge of midwifery herself, having attended and assisted at few births as a young girl, but the speed of Morgana’s pregnancy, and its unknown source, frightened her. Each day her friend sank deeper into a state of dreamful waking, losing touch with the physical world of the cottage as her life-force pumped sustenance into the forming baby. What was happening to Morgana was beyond her skills and knowledge, and so one afternoon while Morgana slept Gwen slipped on her cloak and rode out to Frann’s house, hoping to gain information about Angelica’s whereabouts. Soldiers patrolled the streets, and she felt like a criminal as she ducked her hooded form into alleys and behind walls to avoid being seen.

What happened to the days when a child walked with her mother down these same streets, and laughed and wreathed flowers together with other laughing children?

But Frann was gone, her house abandoned, and no one would answer her about where she might find either Frann or Angelica. Frustrated, Gwen nevertheless saw plain the fear in their eyes, and ultimately she could not blame them.

She was about to return to her horse, dejected and weary, when a hand grabbed her shoulder and pulled her into a dark corner. Gwen opened her mouth to scream, but was silenced by a pair of lucent green eyes. 

Angelica.

“In here,” she hissed and shoved Gwen into a small, desolate hut, its windows smudgy and blind.

“You were looking for me, young Guinevere,” Angelica straightened, eyes scanning the filthy windows, “A dangerous thing to do in these times. And a foolish one.”

“How did you know?”

“I have my ways.”

 A magnificent woman with ebony hair, Gwen noticed that she was dressed for travel, and carried a large satchel.

“You’re leaving,” she noted sadly.

Angelica whipped her head around, “Of course I’m leaving!” she snapped, “When my friends are slaughtered for dancing the midsummer moon, as they have done for hundreds of years, and when they fear persecution so much they refuse my help, turning away the remedies of herb and leaf I learned from my mother, and from her mother before her,  when every day the cloud of Uther Pendragon creeps over the heart of Eirinn like a plague, tell me Guinevere, what should I stay for?”

She noticed Guinevere’s sorrowful face, and her voice softened, “I know what you seek, daughter of Andromedhe. And I cannot help you.”

“How can you - ,”

“I will not preside over the birth of this child.”

Gwen felt again that cold, gnawing fear, the sense of being enmeshed in a giant web, feeling its strands shiver ever so slightly with the approaching monster of fate.

“Why..?” she whispered.

Angelica pulled her away from the windows, motioning for silence, and Gwen heard the tramp of soldiers marching by.

Her tourmaline eyes fixed on Gwen once again, “Listen to me, Guinevere, and listen well.  This child Morgana carries, it is not a child. An evil and unholy magic caused her womb to bear this fruit. For your sake, and the sake of Avalon, it must be destroyed.”

Gwen recoiled in horror, “I will not abandon Morgana.”

“Child, there are forces at work here beyond my power to prevent, or foresee.  Those of us who serve the Heart of Avalon are afraid, and rightly so, of the destruction of our kind by Uther’s hate. But there are others who would use our fear, our uncertainty, to defile the Heart, who would see the Dark Fire worshipped.”

 Guinevere shook her head, “Whatever the nature of her child, whatever is destined to be, Morgana is my friend, my sister! Tell me how I can help her, I beg you.”

Angelica regarded her for a while, “I fear she is already beyond your help, Guinevere.”

Gwen shook off her arm, “Then we are both of us wasting the other’s time. The Heart of Avalon does not withhold compassion, even from those who seek its destruction. I will not abandon my friend,” she repeated.

Angelica half-smiled, though her eyes were dark with sorrow, “So much like your mother.”

Guinevere felt the tears stand in her own eyes, “Farewell, Angelica.”

But as she turned she felt the other woman press something into her palm: a small pouch such as apothecaries sold their remedies in.

“These herbs were gathered by me, and blessed by the sickle moonlight. They can ease the pangs of childbirth, and soothe the mind. Use them when the time comes.”

Gwen looked down at the small pouch, “Thank you.”

And as swiftly as she appeared, Angelica was gone.

***

She rode back to the cottage with a heavy-heart, dreading yet another night alone with her thoughts, alone with Morgana’s distant eyes. When she rounded the bend and saw Arthur standing there, his tall figure and beautiful masculine face, she felt almost weak with relief. Fighting the urge to rush into his arms, she dismounted and walked up slowly.

“I came to see how you were. I was worried when you were gone,” he smiled, and it was then she realized he held a small bunch of lilacs and blue-bells. They were somewhat crushed, and worse for the wear, but their sight and shape and colour, and the fact that Arthur held them, filled her with precious delight.

“I thought you might like these,” he seemed suddenly unsure of himself, “Merlin said I’m rotten at picking flowers.”

“They are beautiful, Arthur. Thank you,” she ran her fingertips lovingly over the blue-violet petals, thinking how in bygone days these blossoms would make a fine garland for Maying. Arthur watched the quiet smile across her lovely face and felt a tug on his heart, like a boat being loosened from its moorings. But then, she always made him feel as though he were suddenly adrift in new waters.

“I heard from Merlin you were looking for a midwife.”

Her smile slowly faded, “And I found none. I fear…I fear I must be the midwife to Morgana.”

“I suppose the Royal midwife can’t be trusted,” Arthur frowned, “What do you need? I’ll send Merlin over with some supplies.”

Gwen felt a stab of disappointment that he might not visit again. “What news from the councils?”

He looked troubled, “We’ve received word that the warlord Cendred has attacked one of our allies, Lord Godwin. My father wants to return so we can aid him, as soon as council matters are concluded,” he paused, “How much longer do you think before…?”

Gwen shook her head, “I can’t say for certain. At this rate, it could be early as next week….Arthur,  what are we going to do?” Even as the words fell from her lips she realized it wasn’t just about Morgana. Were they to say goodbye, unfinished and indefinitely, with only the memory of a kiss between them?

Arthur’s gloved hand cupped her cheek, his thumb tracing the soft skin, “We’ll think of something. Whatever happens, Morgana has us by her side.”

We. Us.  Did he not know that his words were delicious torture, a flickering hope that burnt the edges of her eyes with longing?

He plucked two flowers and tried to affix them in her hair, but his large gloved hands were ineffective at the delicate task, and within seconds he was staring at the crushed remnants of a flower, expression befuddled.

Guinevere couldn’t bite back her giggle, “Here, let me.”

Arthur watched as she carefully tucked a single bluebell into the thick twist of hair at her nape, its vivid violet colour the perfect contrast to her dark curls and honey skin. His eyes wandered to her lips, and desire to taste them again clenched his fists with the force of his restraint.

Gwen smiled up at him, thinking how his eyes were blue like the heart of violet, like the twilight sky, like a lake she could drown in. He took off a glove, touching his fingertips to her chin. Whatever came after, that moment, right then, was perfect enough to break her heart.

Arthur’s hand dropped from her face, and he looked over her shoulder, expression troubled.

Gwen turned around. Morgana stood by the cottage door, pale as a wisp of smoke, gazing only at Gwen, at the flowers she held, the flower in her hair.  For the briefest second, Gwen could swear Morgana’s eyes flashed green with a cold and terrifying malevolence. It was as if a stranger looked through her eyes, and Gwen remembered Angelica’s warning.

But Morgana blinked, her eyes cleared, and she smiled at them both, "Shall we have some tea?"

Guinevere almost thought she had imagined their earlier expression.

Almost.

The rain started just as they lay down to sleep. The day had been long and dreary, overshadowed by the promise of a summer storm, and Morgana’s mood was as listless as the slow-gathering clouds. Guinevere couldn’t shake the new feeling of unease that took hold of her around her friend, and she chided herself for paying too much mind to Angelica’s words. Yet, more and more it seemed Morgana was receding deep within herself, and sometimes there flashed in her eyes a strange, knowing look, as though someone else looked through them.

As Gwen tried to get comfortable on the small bed, she wandered how much longer it would be before the child was born. And what then? She recalled the eagerness with which she had anticipated Morgana’s visit, her breathless hope as she stood by the dawning sea. She had longed for change, but she could have never foreseen this, not this chaotic overturning, this up-ending of everything, not the casting of her own future deep into doubt.

Not the way Arthur Pendragon’s eyes unclothed her heart so it stood pounding and naked with yearning, nor the way his touch seared her dreams so that she awoke moist and burning between her thighs.

“Do you want to know how this happened?” Morgana says softly.

Gwen turned her head, “Only if you wish to tell me.”

Their beds were only a few feet apart, yet Morgana’s voice seemed to float from far away. “It was all a dream. And yet not a dream,” her words were trance-like, seemingly forgetful of Gwen’s presence, “I couldn’t see their faces, but they chanted, words in a language I understood but could not speak. She was there, watching. There was fire all around me, fire on the shores of Avalon. I wanted the fire, wanted it to eat my flesh so I could be free. I have never wanted anything so much. And then…then the fire was inside me, it was a faceless face, a mouthless tongue…”

There are those who would see the Dark Fire worshipped.

Gwen felt her mouth dry with fear. The first roar of thunder was followed by a quicksilver lightning, and she saw Morgana lying pale and still as though entombed, save for the disembodied words from her lips.

 “I embraced the fire, Gwen. I drew it deep inside me until its flames could lick the smallest edges of my smallest veins, and it spoke to me. Wordless words. Fingerless touch…I knew it and it knew me, and when at last I lay spent, laved and tossed with waves of flame, then I felt it take root in me. And I promised it my body’s protection..” her voice grew softer still, “a sleepless dream. It was Merlin who found me, though I had no memory of walking to the woods.  I burned all over with a kiss of fire. There was blood on my chemise, on my thighs…. and I knew. I knew it was no dream.”

A dark and unholy magic.

“Everyday he grows stronger, I can feel it.  The fire hungers in his heart. I was afraid at first, but now…now I understand.”

“Understand?”

“My time has finally come, Gwen, to step out of Uther’s shadow. My son will show me.”

Long after Morgana’s silence indicated sleep, Gwen laid wide-awake, stones of fear settled heavy in her gut and across her throat. The storm blew full force, crackles of lightning and roars of thunder interspersing the steady thick rainfall. Had Angelica been right after all? Was Morgana’s child nothing but an evil perversion of magic, destined to darken the eyes of Avalon? She had heard stories of changelings and spirit children, born of unions between magical beings who clothed themselves in flesh to visit and love women in their dreams.  What was the nature of Morgana’s eyeless, mouthless, flame-clad lover?

Guinevere shrank from answering her own question.

Another clap of thunder ripped the skies, and she gave up on sleep entirely. Throwing off the covers, she slipped out of the room, closing the door lightly behind her. The edges of her soft chemise whispered across the floor as she lit the candles one by one, until the small living room came alive with quivering light. She was raising a flame to the last candle, when the skin on her neck tingled coldly, as though unfriendly eyes touched her.

They were being watched. The shadowy fear that had brooded in her mind took various shapes, that of Melwas’ men, or Uther’s guards, or minions of a force she dared not think about.

A burst of thunder made her jump, and the candlesticks clattered to the ground. A loose-shuttered window burst open with the wind, streaming wild lashes of water, extinguishing the candles in a single cold breath.  Guinevere rushed forward against the wind, grasping at the shutters, but the rain blinded her and her foot slipped backwards on the wet floor. Groping for balance against the table, her eyes saw her, beyond the open window, lit unmistakeably in a lightning flash, eyes fire-gold as her hair, watching.

Gwen’s voice struggled in her throat, choked with terror. The front door burst open and a dark hooded figure rushed inside. She blindly grasped the nearest candlestick, determined to wield it though her arms shook and her heart raced on fearful feet. But the figure made straight for the window, shuttering it closed firmly. In the sudden silence Gwen felt herself poised to scream at last, but the stranger faced her, and pushed his hood off.

It was Arthur.

This time Gwen could not think, she merely flung herself into his arms, feeling tears of relief slip from her eyes.

“What is it? Are you hurt?” his strong arm tightened around her, and the rain-soaked, warm cloves scent of him was suddenly as necessary as air. She rested her head on his broad chest, feeling the steady rise of his breath, the solid muscled heat of him. Guinevere wished she could stay in his arms forever.

 “Guinevere… you’re trembling. Did I frighten you?” Arthur’s voice was low with concern.

His hand stroked her hair, rubbing gentle circles on her back, and she felt her rigid fear melting slowly. She didn’t even care that she was only clad in a damp chemise, pressed against the body of a man she had no business even thinking of. All that mattered was that he was here, that he had braved the storm to do so, and that he held her now as though he would never let her slip from his embrace.

Arthur brushed soft kisses on her rain-dusted curls, allowing instinct to guide him as he felt her body slowly cease its trembling. Her skin was warm through the light chemise, her curves moulded to his frame.  He had thus far been overawed by her effortless beauty, her quiet courage, but at that moment she seemed so fragile and shaken that he felt a fierce urge to keep her wrapped in his arms forever, protected from every harm.

“It’s alright,” his murmuring voice was softer even than the kisses on her hair, “You’re safe now.”

The rain lightened, but thunder and lightning still persisted intermittently, and an unseasonable chill crept under the door of the small cottage. Guinevere was glad of the small fire Arthur had started, and she huddled closer to the precious warmth while he relit a few candles and ensured the security of the remaining windows. She pulled her shawl close around her shoulders, mindful of her half-damp chemise. Arthur lay his cloak out by the fire and she glanced at his noticeably damp shirt.

“There are…umm…there are more blankets in that chest if you wish to dry out your shirt a while,” she blurted, and then felt flushed and foolish.

“Thank you….uhh, yes thank you,” for a moment he seemed as flustered as she felt, and she kept her eyes trained scrupulously on the fire as he opened the chest. She waited a few moments until she thought it safe, and glanced about just in time to see him drape a blanket over his torso. Face burning, she turned quickly away, her mind’s eye treacherously savouring the brief image of his splendid muscular back.

Arthur sat down beside her on the floor, leaning back against the table to stretch out his long legs. For a few moments they sat in companionable silence, watching the quiet crackle of flames.

His presence was more comforting than the fire, washing over her in warm waves, quietly dispelling her fears. Guinevere shivered slightly, remembering the flat-jewel eyes of the gold-hair woman, and a sudden last rumble of thunder made her jump.

Arthur’s hand covered hers, his large, sword-callused palm easily enclosing her slender fingers, “It’s just the thunder,” he smiled.

She curled her fingers under his, “It wasn’t just the thunder that frightened me.” Briefly she told him of the woman, of her own sense of being watched and followed. She even disclosed some of Angelica’s warning, although she said nothing of Morgana’s confession to her earlier.

Arthur frowned, “It isn’t safe here then, for either of you. Who was this woman who gave you the herbs, who warned you?’

She cast down her eyes, “I’m afraid I can’t say. It’s too dangerous for her.”

“I see,” and she hated the faint look of hurt in his eyes.

“Has Morgana said anything to you about…well, about what happened?”

Guinevere sighed and raised her eyes, and their syrup-dark depths were unwavering as the night of the feast, when she had defied kings to offer him the token of Avalon.

“That secret is not mine to disclose, though I might wish to.”

“So many secrets,” he gave a short, almost bitter laugh, “ I haven’t known truth from illusion since the moment I set foot in Eirinn.”

“Men of power define truth by the sword and the spear,” she retorted, her own temper rising, “Anything they cannot cut down, or subdue, they deem an illusion, a threat. And still you wonder why we must keep secrets?”       

His eyes met hers, and Gwen swallowed at their dark vivid blue gaze. When had he got so close ? She could practically smell the warm spicy musk of him.

“You’re right,” he said quietly, his eyes never leaving hers, “I know I have much to learn…. But I want, I hope, that I can learn how to gain your trust.”

Oh how his words tugged at her heart, unravelling the carefully gathered seams of her self-possession.

“I do trust you, Arthur,” her eyes and voice softly implored him, “More than…than I ever thought I could.”

His full lips curved in a half-smile, and his fingers brushed the damp tendrils of hair from her face, stroking down the curve of her throat. Gwen was sure he could feel her pulse beat wild as a captive bird.  Arthur held his blanket loosely in place with his other hand, and her cheeks grew hot at the sight of his exposed skin, the ridged muscles of his stomach and the hard lines of his chest.

“Tell me Guinevere,” her name fell slow like honey from his mouth, “Who keeps your secrets?”

“No one,” she whispered, caught hopelessly in his gaze.

Arthur’s thumb traced her lower lip, lightly, savouring, “The other night, what happened between us…did my actions insult you?

“The world is plagued with cruelty Arthur. There are far worse insults than a kiss given and received,” she replied quietly, shocked at her own boldness.

He tilted his head slightly, as though taking the measure of her words, and he was so golden and real and beautiful in the firelight that Gwen could hardly breathe. “And whose truth do you speak now? Yours, or the one which you think I should hear?”

Catching both of them guard, Guinevere kissed him, suddenly and passionately, choosing the simple truth of flesh over the labyrinth of words.  His surprise vanished quickly and his arms came around her, pulling her against him so her breasts crushed to his chest. Arthur ran one hand up her slender back, entangling his fingers in her streaming dark curls and holding her head in place as he deepened the kiss, running his tongue over her lips before parting them to taste her mouth hungrily. Gwen drew his tongue into her mouth, suddenly insatiable for the taste of him which alone could anchor her somewhere real and sweet, somewhere she longed to be.

Gwen ran her fingertips down his arms, savouring their muscled outline, feeling him shiver.  He eased her onto her back, breaking the kiss for a brief second only to devour her lips again, like a drowning man desperate for air.  She fisted her hands in his hair when his teeth caught her lower lip, suckling softly, making her whimper with shameless need.

“Arthur…,” his name fell helpless from her lips as he trailed hot kisses across her jaw and down her neck, nipping at the sensitive skin.  His hand ghosted over her breast, barely brushing the taut nipple before resting under the swell.

“Your heart is racing…” he murmured.

“No secret then,” she whispered, breathless, as his head dipped towards her again.

But he paused bare inches from her mouth, “Ah, so it races thus for anyone.” Though his voice was light, Gwen felt his grip tighten at her waist, his free hand gently pinning hers above her head.

“Now you veer closer to insult…,” she managed before his lips covered hers again, greedily as though he could never have enough. She was so tired of fear, of coiling loneliness, and she wanted to bathe in Arthur’s touch like in a warm river, letting the very pores of her skin drink him in.

She raised one leg slightly to drape over his, her chemise falling away to her thigh. When his hand finally cupped her breast, brushing the sweet-aching nipple, Gwen couldn’t bite back the moan from her lips, and when he briefly lowered his hips against hers she felt for the first time the hard length of him, and the blatant evidence of his arousal sent a violent shudder all through her. Her insides melted, and Gwen sensed instinctively she would soon be wet enough to be ready for him if they kept at this.

Arthur’s mouth trailed to her neck again, his tongue tracing wet fire from her collarbone all the way to her earlobe.

Oh gods, very soon. What am I doing?

He raised his head to gaze down at her; her dark hair rivulet-loose, desire pooled in her eyes, lips parted, toffee skin glowing, the outline of her breasts and hips maddening him with their soft swelling curves. Arthur wanted her so badly it hurt. He wanted to see her panting and unravelling beneath his touch, all her secrets spilled against him.  He wanted to drown in her and never resurface.

With a monumental effort he tore his mouth from her intoxicating skin, drawing himself up to support his weight.

“Forgive me,” he said shakily, catching his breath, “I have overstayed my welcome.”

Guinevere felt her senses reluctantly coalesce, “No, there is nothing to forgive,” she tried to smile as they sat up, drawing up the loose shoulder of her chemise “Given and received, remember?”

“I got carried away, my apologies.”  

“As did I,” she responded, suddenly cold without his arms around her.

How I wish you could keep carrying me away, Arthur. Beyond myself and us all that stands between us.

He stood up abruptly, gathering his shirt and cloak “I should go.”

The watchful unease gnawed at her again. What eyes were waiting, hidden in the storm?

“Arthur could you…,” she bit her lip, “Could you stay until…until the storm passes. Please?”

He stilled, his back to her, and Guinevere thought he was casting for an excuse. Perhaps he no longer wished to stay, since he couldn’t bed her. Shame threatened to well up in her eyes.

“Only if you promise to fling yourself at me every time there’s thunder,” and the playful teasing in his voice tugged at her heart all the more. How marvellously surprising he was! By turns courageous, arrogant, tender, and charming.

Gwen smiled, “I give you my solemn word.”

His grinned cockily, “For the sake of my sanity however, I would ask that you uhm…drape some cloth over that chemise.”

Her cheeks grew hot again, her body thrilling to the touch of his eyes. Letting him affect her this way was dangerous, she knew it.  And yet…did she have a choice?

They resumed their seats by the fire after Guinevere fetched her dressing gown. After a time she felt her eyelids grow heavy at last, and lying down on the soft rugs she closed her eyes, lulled by Arthur’s presence once more. Sleep came tentatively at first, and her eyes fluttered open several times, alerted by the slow-fading thunder.

But each time he was there, his princely profile outlined in the soft firelight, simply waiting, as she had asked. Guinevere couldn’t recall when she succumbed to sleep at last, but a deep and delicious slumber took her.

Arthur waited until her breathing grew soft and regular, her eyelids smoothed of worry.  Gently he lifted her, and her head fell against his shoulder even as it had the night he had pulled her from the rampaging soldiers.

She remembered being carried, the effortless strength of his arms as he laid her down on the bed, brushing hair from her face. She remembered a kiss by the pale violet of early dawnlight.

Then he was gone, melted into her dreams.

It happened suddenly, and with no portents. Though in hindsight, Gwen remembered the sudden surging tide, whipped into wrath by a relentless, rainless wind, and wondered if the elements had spoken after all.

The four of them were sharing a rare moment of ease. Arthur had hunted some fine game, and Merlin had secreted herbs from Peadar’s head cook, so that the small kitchen was fragrant with herb-dusted meat. Even Morgana seemed momentarily cheered, a hint of her old smile in her eyes as Merlin baldly claimed that Arthur would surely perish if ever left to his own devices in the woods, since his prepossessing hunting skills would avail him little when he barely knew how to boil his own water.

“It’s true,” Merlin insisted, as Gwen tried to stifle a laugh, “Remember that time you lost that wager against Leon and had to cook a chicken? I do believe you’re the first chicken midwife in Camelot.”

Gwen laughed out loud as Arthur directed an impressive collection of oaths at Merlin, vowing to keep him ear-deep in stable muck for the rest of his career as manservant.

A sudden gasp from Morgana made them stop. She struggled to her feet, one hand clutching the under-swell of her swollen belly, only to double over in pain once more.

Gwen made to steady her, and noted the unmistakable streak of reddish fluid pooling by Morgana’s feet.

Arthur stood up, looking between the women’s faces as Gwen helped Morgana to a chair.
”What is it? What’s happening?”

“What do you think is happening?” Merlin retorted, gathering empty water-buckets, “Don’t stand there like a clot that’s swallowed a pole, help me fetch water from the well.”

“Since when do you give me orders?”

“Oh, I don’t know, since someone is about to have a child and you’re being as much help as a sack of potatoes.”

“I am not - ,”

“Enough! Both of you,” they both jumped at Gwen’s clear directive, “Morgana needs our help. Merlin, fetch as much water as you can carry. Arthur, gather some firewood. We’ll need hot water, and lots of it.”

Morgana groaned, her body convulsing, and to Gwen’s horror another, thicker, bloodier gush of fluid pooled by her feet. She gathered Morgana’s hair off the clammy neck, holding her shoulders tight as the pain rode her, “It’s alright, breathe. Breathe.”

She looked up to find Arthur and Merlin staring, fearful and uncertain. “Go!,” she  ordered, and they jumped into action.

The night wore on.

 Gwen wiped the sweat from her brow as she braced Morgana’s shoulders for another pain. She tried to keep the fear and worry from creeping into her voice as she whispered encouraging words. 

Used rags stood soaking in a bucket by their feet, and Gwen felt cold with fear whenever she noticed the blood-crimsoned water. The labour was not progressing in concert with the violence of Morgana’s contractions, and each time a fresh gush of blood soaked the pale thighs, exhausting Gwen’s efforts at wiping them. Merlin had found a rickety old screen in one of the closets that they had erected around the women to protect Morgana’s modesty.

Her friend was growing weaker, Gwen noticed with alarm. Her skin was feverish wet, a horrifyingly stark contrast to the blood streaking her splayed thighs.  In between contractions she lay glassy-eyed, as though she could barely summon the energy to moisten her lips.

“I’ll get you something to drink,” she mopped the blood trickles on Morgana’s legs and tossed the rag in with the others.

Arthur and Merlin both started when she stepped out from behind the screen, their faces sobering at the sight of her blood-spattered gown and weary face.

“How…how much longer…?” Merlin’s eyes searched her face desperately.

Gwen pulled the two of them aside, ensuring Morgana could not hear, “I’m worried…the labour makes no progress, and she’s losing blood,” she swallowed, then looked in Arthur eyes, “ I fear this is moving beyond my skill…I’m not sure what else I can do to help her.”

Arthur thought for a moment, “I can ride for the castle, bring the royal midwife.”

“Arthur that’s too dangerous,” Merlin interjected, “ What if your father - ,”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t prefer to see her dead, Merlin.”

Merlin said nothing, though Gwen sensed his unease. He knew something. She realized then that perhaps Merlin’s secretive shyness concealed a larger truth.

Arthur gathered his cloak and she handed him his sword, “Be careful, Arthur.”

He touched her cheek briefly, caressingly, “I will.”

Then he was gone.

Gwen helped Merlin distil the herb concoction Angelica had given her, and poured the contents into a small cup.

“Drink this, dear,” she spoke soothingly, bringing the cup to Morgana’s lips, “It will help ease the pain.”

Morgana grasped the cup with trembling fingers and drank. For a moment she grew still, then the cup fell from her slackened hands as her head lolled backwards.  Gwen made to revive her when her eyes flew open, and their sudden green light cut like ice.  She growled, and hurled the liquid herbs out her lips in a stream of vomit.

“Get away from me!,” her voice was deep and unnatural, and Gwen gasped, stumbling backwards.

“Gwen?’ Merlin’s asked worriedly from the kitchen.

Morgana stood, seemingly unaware of her bulk and the newly streaming blood, “Treacherous whore! You will not put your filth in her again.”

And Gwen knew, that the child had long been self-aware, had long been looking through Morgana’s eyes. Angelica was right.

Morgana’s fierce cold gaze turned to Merlin, “And you,” her voice lowered to a soft menacing purr, “Emrys,”

“Morgana…,” Gwen tried to approach her, but Morgana’s arm flashed out, catching her across the face and throwing her against the crumpling screen.

She had a brief glimpse of Merlin’s shocked expression as he rushed to her side, then the cottage door slammed open, and she looked up, dazed, into the face of Uther Pendragon.

The next few moments were a blur. Merlin was hurled aside, and Uther yanked her roughly to her feet.
”What is the meaning of this?” he hissed.

“She knows nothing, milord. Merely an impetuous woman.”

Melwas.

He was flanked by two of his men, and one of them held a terrified Aili by a knife at her throat.

“I am trying to help her,” Gwen retorted. But Uther was looking away already, his face blanched as Morgana stepped out from behind the shattered remnants of the screen, face veiled, nightgown a wash with blood, lip curled in a snarl.

“By the gods…”

Suddenly the room plunged into darkness, and the windows gusted open with winds that Gwen knew, instinctively, were not natural. Aili’s scream gurgled into sudden silence, and the candles relit themselves.

She was there. Standing behind Morgana in whispery robes of grey-black, her hair a serpentine halo, eyes gold and centre-less.

“We meet again, Uther Pendragon.”

The stalwart King looked suddenly aged, “No…no it can’t be. Get away from her!”

He made to draw his sword, but the woman merely blinked and Uther was sunk to his knees, face clenched in agony.

Melwas cowered behind his men. Aili lay dead, her throat slit.

The woman advanced on Uther, “How dare you speak of my sister to me.”

Gwen saw a chance and rushed at Morgana, determined to pull her away, but the sorceress was too quick. She had Gwen by the throat, her grip cold as snake-coils.

“Ah, yes, Arthur’s little may queen. I should snap your neck now, presumptuous slut.”

But her grip loosened, and she lurched forward as if in pain. Gwen coughed, gasping for breath as the room swam.

“You will not harm my friends.”

Merlin’s voice. But…why had the sorceress released her?

Morgana cried out, falling to her knees, and the scream that escaped her throat was the product of no human agony.

Instantly the sorceress was beside her, robes wrapping around Morgana like bird wings. Wind howled around them once more, borne on a writhing darkness, blinding them.

Then just as abruptly, the room grew silent.

Even in the darkness Gwen could see: Morgana and the sorceress were gone.

“This is all my fault.”

Gwen wrung her hands, “How could I have been so stupid?”

Merlin shook his head “You can’t blame yourself Gwen. You couldn’t have known.”

She sighed, “Oh Merlin…I was warned. I was warned and I ignored the warning, and now Morgana …and Aili- ,” her voice cracked.

“Who warned you?”

Gwen told him of Angelica, how she had counselled against aiding Morgana’s pregnancy. “I should have heeded her words and asked someone for help, anyone.”

It was four days since Morgana’s disappearance, four days since Gwen was confined to her chambers and placed under guard. She knew the only reason she wasn’t in the dungeons was because Uther seemed more concerned with the golden sorceress who had snatched his ward from under his very nose.

“How is Arthur?”

Now it was Merlin’s turn to sigh, “I don’t know. I think he blames himself. He thinks if he’d stayed at the cottage he could have stopped this from happening.”

Gwen felt a pang of longing for his presence, to comfort and be comforted in his arms. But she was allowed no visitors, and Merlin had only succeeded by pretending to deliver her supper.

As she looked over him, the slump in his slender shoulders and the pain in his eyes, she was overcome with pity and affection. She realized she’d grown to care for him, his humour and loyalty that, she sensed, overlay a secret burden.

“Merlin…why did Morgana call you Emrys? That’s a name in the Druid tongue…”

He raised his eyes, sorrow-dark and almost bitterly proud. They seemed the eyes of some ancient soul, weary with the patient wisdom of pain.  She recalled then how the sorceress released her, suddenly, as though shocked by a blast of magic.

Gwen reached out to touch his shoulder, understanding flickering at the edges of her mind, causing her words to come slow “You were warned too, weren’t you?”

She felt again that sense of shadowy enmeshment, as though every thought, breath and action wove them tighter in a web wherein destiny and choice were inextricable.  Arthur’s eyes skimmed her body with cobalt flame. The torchlight wrapped her skin as her feet surrendered to drums. Morgana dreamed of fire that curled itself into a heart of flesh and blood. And Merlin, clumsy, unobtrusive Merlin, always present at the right time, the right place.

 “Gwen…can you keep a secret?”

****

“Father, this is madness.”

Arthur stood in Uther’s chambers. Guards and servants hurried around them, throwing items in to chests, carrying packed items down to the harbours. They were setting sail for Camelot as soon as the ship was loaded.

Uther strode up to him, a slight limp in his gait from the sorceress’s magic, “I am your King and you will not question me.  We sail tonight.“

Arthur pressed on, “But surely it makes more sense to search for her here. How can we be sure the witch is taking her across the sea?”

Something flashed in Uther’s eyes, but he glanced away quickly. Emboldened, Arthur lowered his voice, “What do you know about this sorceress? Father, I need to know the truth.”

There it was again, that word. Truth. His mind flashed to that night at the cottage, when he felt Guinevere tremble in his arms, barely a breath between their seeking mouths and hungry hearts, much less the divides of sea and kingdom.

When Uther spoke his voice sounded suddenly tired, “Her name is Morgause, a High Priestess of the Old Religion. She’s sworn vengeance on Camelot since the days of the Great Purge, when I vowed to rid the land of the evils of magic.”

Arthur digested this for a moment. His father’s War on Magic had earned him the enmity of many a powerful sorcerer, but this was different.

“But why…,”

Uther was angry and commanding again, “That is all you need to know. Prepare to leave, as soon as you’re ready.”

Arthur weighed his next words carefully. He had pondered them for days, unsure how to broach the subject, “About lady Guinevere…,” he rushed ahead, “I worry for her safety here. Perhaps she should accompany us to Camelot for a time, she might be of help.”

The King looked at him silently, blinking in disbelief, “Do you really think I would offer the protection of Camelot to that traitorous little witch?”

Arthur flinched, determined to keep his anger in check, “She’s not a witch. She tried to help Morgana, you know that.”

“All I know is, if it wasn’t for her ‘help’, Morgana might still be here, with us, safe.”

“You can’t blame her -, “

“Enough!” his voice dropped to ice, “You are blinded by your lust for her. Lust is something her kind trades in. You would do well to remember that.”

Blue fire flickered in Arthur’s eyes,  “I don’t believe Guinevere is like that.”

“I don’t care what you believe.  You should have bedded her and been done if it matters this much to you. I doubt you would have been the first. A virgin witch is like a dog who sings, extremely rare.”

As if from far away, Arthur heard his own voice. It sounded quiet and clear; full of a certainty he wished he felt, “Don’t speak about her that way.”

For a moment the King looked taken aback, as though for the first time taking measure of the man in front of him.  His eyes narrowed. “Choose your next words carefully Arthur. Remember who you are.”

A steely silence fell between them.

“Your majesty?”

It was Merlin.

“The ship is ready.”

****

Arthur waited until they were a safe distance from his father’s rooms. He grabbed Merlin’s arm,

“Go down to the harbour, make sure everything’s in order. Keep my father distracted as long as you can.”

Merlin nodded. He already knew what Arthur wanted, “It’s done. I gave the guards outside her chamber a sleeping draught in their water.

Arthur raised a surprised eyebrow.

“You should be able to say goodbye in peace.”

He clapped his manservant on the shoulder, ‘Thank you Merlin. You’re a good friend. And a true one.”

****

Sure enough, Arthur found the guards sprawled by her doors, snoring soundly. His lips quirked. As much as he riled Merlin for his inefficiency at the simplest tasks, and as much as he was a complete buffoon most of the time, he had a surprising knack for coming through at unexpected moments. Even if he overturned a chamber pot or two in the process.

She stood at the window, half shadowed by the candleflames. When she turned Arthur noticed her anxious grip on her shawl, and the faint glistening tinge around her eyes.  She’d been crying. Something tightened angrily in his gut at that thought.

He approached her slowly.

“You’re leaving,” she said softly.

“I have no choice. My father believes the witch…Morgause, has taken Morgana back to Bretagne.”

The air around them was taut with promise, with unspoken words and furled desire. Guinevere swallowed, willing her misted eyes to drink in every inch of him, his sunlit hair and cobalt eyes, the strong curve of his jaw and the broad set of his chest and shoulders she longed to throw herself against.

“Be careful, Arthur,” she managed, “ She’s dangerous.” Was she speaking of Morgana or Morgause? She no longer knew.

He nodded, his eyes full of a longing she dared not let herself acknowledge.

Gwen tried to smile, “I bid you farewell. And safe journey across - ,”

Arthur swore and covered the distance between them, silencing her with a kiss. His mouth parted hers, determined to absorb the taste of her as her trembling arms wrapped around his neck. It was a kiss of unapologetic hunger, edged with raw desperation. She was enveloped in the strong circle of his embrace, her senses swimming with the scent and taste and feel of him when his tongue plundered the soft insides of her mouth. When he broke the kiss she was shaking and breathless.

“Guinevere…,” Arthur’s voice was ragged, husky, “If I never see you again - ,”

This time it was she who stopped his words, pressing a slow sweet kiss to his lips that stole both their breath with tenderness.

Her fingers traced the sharp edge of his cheekbone, the line of his jaw, “You will. No matter what happens, you’ve given me hope, Arthur…hope for a just future, free of tyranny. Knowing what you’re destined for…it will sustain me.”

He looked down at, wonder and sadness in his eyes, “That first night, when I saw you dancing…I thought I could watch you forever. I had never seen anyone, or anything, so beautiful.”

Gwen could no longer hold back the tear that spilled out. Arthur’s lips brushed her cheek, the corner of her mouth, doing away the moisture there. She felt him press something cool into her palm: a silver ring, double-banded, faint markings on the inside.

“It was my mother’s. I want you to have it. As a token -,”

“Arthur I couldn’t - ” she protested.

His hand closed her fingers over it, “Keep it safe for me.”

Gwen nodded, before flinging her arms around him one last time, “I pray to the gods to watch over you.”

His hand hovered over the doorknob when she cried out, suddenly, “Arthur! Keep Merlin close to you. He’ll protect you, always.”

Confusion touched his face for a moment, then he smiled lightly and bowed his head, “Farewell, Guinevere.”

****

The guards were still fast asleep when Guinevere stepped past them an hour later. The hallways were emptied, all the courtiers gathered on the parapets to see off the royal party of Camelot. Instinctively she hurried her steps, breaking into a run.

She reached the eastern parapets just as the ship trailed slowly away from the harbour, the Pendragon banner shadowed ruby-dark in the torchlight. Her eyes sought Arthur desperately, but there were too many people moving around the decks. Here, on this very parapet, she had first rushed out and seen the ship unfurl its standard on the shores. Here too, she and Arthur swam in the moonlit intoxication of their first kiss.

Guinevere stood there, long after the others had drifted away, and the night-chill settled on her shoulders.

 She stood until the last visible speck of the ship was lost in the dark horizon, taking her heart with it.

*****

    End of Part I