Gwen,

I need to speak with you, away from the shadow of Uther’s walls, about matters too secret for written words. Meet me in the western forest at dusk, Follow the sun’s path for half a mile, and the blooming kingsblood will lead you to a Druid cairn. Wait for me there. The days are darkening and I would have my dearest ones close to me. Grant me this, I beg you.

Morgana

Guinevere read and re-read the note, which Bernadette had found slipped under her door.  A conflict of feelings knotted itself in her stomach: the simple appeal in the note softened her heart, yet its unbidden nature gave her pause. Why the sudden desire to speak with her? What could she possibly mean by having her “dearest ones close”? Surely she wasn’t expecting Gwen to ally herself with Morgause and the Triple Morrigan?

I should speak with Merlin and Gaius.

She looked up at the knocking on her chamber doors.

“Mithian?” her surprise was evident when she opened the door to find the princess of Nemeth holding a small tray of scones.

“May I come in?”

“Of course,” Gwen stood aside as she entered, “What can I do for you?”

Mithian set the tray down and turned, “I was hoping we might chat. You are quite elusive, Guinevere.”

Gwen had in fact avoided Mithian since the feast a few nights ago, out of guilt and inner turmoil. She donned a neutral expression, “I’m afraid I’m far too enamoured of solitude these days. The…unrest in Eirinn gives me much to think about.” She poured herself a glass of water from the carafe.

The princess appeared to be weighing her words, “Well, I hope my intrusion on your solitude won’t be too heinous. I was hoping to discuss something rather frivolous actually. Dresses.”

“Dresses?” Guinevere was genuinely confused.

“Yes, the few times I’ve seen you it’s been in the loveliest dresses. Might I see some of them?”

Somehing’s strange. She’s not telling me something.

Gwen surveyed Mithian’s tea-coloured gown with its cream-gold trim, the neckline sewn with a discreet ribbon of jewels. What could she possibly want to see my clothes for? Oh well, maybe if I show her a few and make polite chitchat she’ll leave and I can find Merlin.

With a smile of acquiescence Guinevere walked over to the wardrobe where Bernadette had stored her more intricate dresses, rifling through the soft fragrant fabrics, “Was there one in particular you wished to see?”

There was a pause, and Mithian’s words when they came were low but clear, “What about that charming blue one you wore the other night? I swear Arthur could hardly keep his eyes off you.”

Gwen froze, “I’m not sure what -,”

“Guinevere please,” the other woman faced her squarely, her delicate jaw set,” I would ask that you do me the courtesy of candour.”

“Mithian whatever it is you think -,”

“How long has he been in love with you?”

Guinevere opened her mouth to speak, only to fumble her words, “I don’t presume to imagine…that is to say, prince Arthur’s personal feelings are of no concern to me-,”

“How long, Guinevere?” There was no unkindness in Mithian’s tone, only a steely focus on learning the truth. Suddenly Gwen knew how she must have survived her youth as a woman and sole heir to her kingdom’s throne in a world where a woman’s life was no more than a piece of land or cold jewels: something with which to bargain.

"I've been a fool, haven't I?" she said softly,  "All this time, I was flattered by his attention, imagining he wanted this marriage as much as I do. But that night at the feast, when I saw the way he looked at you, the way he held you..." she smiled without humour, "Even a fool's eyes couldn't help but see the truth."

Guinevere said nothing, unwilling to lie outright and equally reluctant to divulge her heart.

 "That's why you've avoided my company. That's why Arthur couldn't stop talking about Eirinn and his time there, isn't it? Isn't it?"  Guinevere flinched at the barely-concealed hurt and anger straining at the usually smooth voice.
The princess took a deep breath, as though remembering herself.

"What happened between you in Eirinn? Were you betrothed? Did he…did he lie with you?"

Guinevere looked her in the eyes, "We were never betrothed, and contrary to what you may believe about women of the Old Religion, we aren't panting animals eager to rut at every chance."

Mithian averted her eyes, "That was a dishonourable question, I apologize."

Gwen sighed, heavy-hearted, "He saved my life, and we yes harboured feelings for each other. Whether we still do or not doesn't matter, Arthur is an honourable man and will make you a good husband. He's devoted to his kingdom, and as his wife you will have that same devotion."

Each word she spoke was a subtle knife in her heart. Unbidden images choked her: Mithian radiant in wedding jewels, Arthur undressing her in the bridal chamber, sharing the joy of their firstborn. Tears stood in her eyes, but she willed them away, "It is I who should envy you, Mithian."

She gave a soft, bitter laugh, "And when I taste the memory of you on his lips? When I give him my body knowing he dreams of yours? When I know, his eyes will never shine for me the way I saw them do for you? Who should envy whom?"

They stood facing each other, Mithian, Princess of Nemeth, and Guinevere, heir to the throne of Eirinn, tasting iron duty like blood in their throats.

Mithian sighed and turned away. "A princess is worth nothing if she cannot procure a strong ally for the kingdom," she murmured almost to herself, turning to the door.

Maybe it was the sorrowful dignity in her features, maybe it was because Guinevere knew the helplessness of bargaining with your heart for the safety of your people, but suddenly she called out, "Nemeth will be proud, to boast such a queen as you."

Mithian inclined her head, and surprise touched her face. Then she drew herself up with a slight nod, and the door closed behind her.

***

Guinevere knocked on Gaius door a second time, glancing anxiously at the lengthening shadows. Dusk was fast approaching. If she wanted to meet Morgana she would have to start for the forest now.

A third unanswered knock finally convinced her the physician was away. She knew he frequently cared for the residents of the lower town, often staying abroad well into the night. Merlin was nowhere to be found either.

She had to think quickly. The sun was fast westering, and she had hoped to coax Morgana back to the city with her before nightfall.

Guinevere reasoned with herself. She wouldn’t be too far from the city. She could always call for help or hurry back in case…in case of what? She pushed away the cold unease that crept over her at the thought.

I’ll be fine, she assured herself as she hurried out of the courtyard, pulling up the hood of her blue-grey cloak. The sun was almost sinking when she reached the western eaves of the forest, its fading light hanging dispirited from the trees.

Guinevere kept west as Morgana's note instructed. It seemed the forest canopy hastened dusk, until only a few slivers of lingering light slipped between the leaves. She kept her eyes on the ground for the kingsblood flowers: bright red blooms whose vivid color was unmistakeable.

This is farther than I thought. She stopped to survey the sky and noted the gathering clouds with dismay. Rain.

She drew her cloak closer against the chill of evening dew. If I don't see the kingsblood trail soon I'm turning around.

The forest was silent, brooding the onset of dusk. The noblemen of Camelot eschewed hunting the western eaves of the forest, and Gwen could understand why. The trees grew too thick and close for easy riding, furnishing plentiful cover for fox and deer. Ancient roots mighty enough to unhorse even the surest rider towered out of the earth, draped with funereal moss.

Twilight was falling deep and blue when at last she saw the streaks of red flowers, fresh as blood, spattered among roots and rocks. They were all around her, glowing dark crimson in the fading light as Gwen picked her way through. The cairn was barely visible, covered in forest debris and scarred from sun and rain and wind. She approached it cautiously, glancing about,

Where is she?

The clouds were scudding overhead, enveloping the last of the sunlight. Guinevere shivered, suddenly attuned to every sound, the whisper of leaves, the distant babble of a stream. She jumped, startled, when a shadowy blur of feathers brushed past her.
A single raven alighted on the cairn, staring at her silently through unblinking eyes red as the kingsblood blooms.

Cold fear slithered down her spine. This was a mistake.

She heard the snapping twigs and turned around as the bird took flight swift as a shadow.

“Morgana I-,”

Her words died on her lips.

It was not Morgana who stood there, but Melwas.

***

Morgana watched the clouds encroaching on the sun from her casement, dusk shadows gathering at her feet. 

You are only protecting yourself, sister. 

She could help me, if I asked her. She won't - 

She must die, Morgana. Think of your son.

Morgause had told her once that a seer's mind was unfading as mirror-glass, deep enough to contain the past, the present and the future in each clear, crystalline facet. Seers who suppressed or abused their potent gift were often driven to witless despair, maddened by the endless stream of histories and futures they were powerless to avert. Morgana could recall each nightmare, each vision, each sorcerer's scream as the pyre flames consumed their flesh. It was only Morgause's healing bracelet t that helped keep the vivid images at bay, granted her some small semblance of control over when they flashed through her mind.

But some memories, like some nightmares, slipped through the enchanted links around her wrist. Some memories existed in a nameless space within her heart that she was determined to ignore, a space haunted by the seer's eternal, hopeless question What if?

The sky was achingly perfect, streaked with wistful clouds, endlessly blue. Two girls lay on a field of wildflowers, youth fresh on their faces.  One of them was milky-skinned, with hair blue-black as a raven's wing and eyes that saw too much, knew too much. The other was warm and aglow with hope, dark curls and warm brown skin.

"Why must you leave?"

The girl with curly hair frowned, "Mother won't tell me. I asked her."

"I'm sure it's the King," green eyes flashed, "He hates anyone different," the bravado in her voice broke over a sob, "I hate him! I hate this place. I want to go with you to Eirinn."

The brown-eyed girl looked troubled, and threw her arms around her friend, “Don’t cry! I’m not really leaving you know.”

Tear-wet green eyes looked suspicious, “Yes you are, you just said so.”

Dark curls shook full of sunbeams, “No silly, I’m your sister. I don’t really leave you, ever.”

“You’re not my sister,” the tears had stopped, replaced by curiosity, “We don’t have the same mother and father.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she pointed at her chest, pronouncing with great importance “You’re my sister in here. My mother says that’s where it matters the most.”

She was running before she even realized where she was going, her green skirts a storm of colour as she rushed past guards and courtiers, turning corners in a whirl of silk and hair, out to the training field where Arthur and the Knights were putting away the last of the weapons.

“You’re my sister? You promise?”

“I promise. Sister of my heart.”

***

Guinevere stepped backward slowly, trying to keep from choking on her own fear.  Flashes of realization darted at her like birds: the solstice attack on the villagers, Uther discovering Morgana’s pregnancy, the mysterious sorcery behind the uprisings in Eirinn.

Melwas had never meant well, but she looked at him now in the darkling woods, the grey of his eyes glittering with cold delight, and knew he had no intention of letting her leave unscathed.

“Why so alarmed Guinevere? Aren’t you glad for the company of your betrothed?” he drawled, approaching her.

 “Stay away from me,” she glanced around wildly, looking for an escape, but the trees hemmed them in too thickly for her to evade him at such close quarters.

“Or what?” he stepped closer as a flash of lightning bathed the twilight shadows in ghostly brilliance, “You’ll run to dear Arthur? Your prince can’t interrupt us, my sweet,” his voice slithered reptilian, “No one will. The lady assured me this would be a secret meeting.”

I trusted you Morgana.

“What do you want with me?” she retorted fiercely.  Maybe if I keep him talking I can distract him enough to run. If I can put enough distance between us…

He laughed without humour, “ So impatient,” his dagger flashed in the gloaming, and the skies opened with rain, “I would much rather take my time.”

A tremendous clap of thunder followed another flash of lightning and caused him to look up briefly.

Guinevere seized a desperate chance and turned on her heels, plunging heedlessly into the forest, her heartbeat pounding like horse-hoofs in her throat. She ran desperately, realizing too late that her gown and cloak put her at a distinct disadvantage. Brambles and thorny branches snagged on her clothes, and the ground was fast turning to treacherous mud.

She cried out when she felt an arm seize her, swift as a snake coil, but her scream was muffled when the back of her head slammed against a tree. Her vision tilted, blurry with rain. Melwas’ face was mere inches from her, and his voice was low yet deadly.

“You’ve run from me for too long, Guinevere,” he had her pinioned to a tree with one arm, while the other held a dagger to her throat, “Not this time, my lovely spitfire. Not this time.” He traced the point of his dagger across her cheek, then down the column of her neck to where her breasts swelled. His breathing shifted, eyes flickering down her rain-damp bodice.

“My orders are clear,” he muttered in her ear, his breath wet, “But I see no reason I should deprive myself of a little pleasure first.” His dagger sliced easily down the bodice and the cloth fell apart. He slowly drew out the ring secreted on her chain, turning it over on his knife. “Another token from your prince?

“You are an animal,” she bit out.

The dagger point traced the chemise-lace peeking over her corset, “I could have taken you in my bed, as your husband, if it wasn’t for your damn meddling in affairs beyond your comprehension. You would have been a queen at my side.”

Suddenly he grabbed her by the chin, holding her in place while his mouth pressed on hers, forcing her lips apart and thrusting his tongue into her mouth. Guinevere writhed and gagged as the weight of his body pressed into hers, his hand fumbling at his breeches. She gathered herself and bit down as hard as she could on his tongue, and he drew away abruptly, cursing. She could taste his blood on her lips and clawed blindly at his face. Her fingers caught on his collar as he leaned sharply away from her hands, and a piece of his doublet came away in her fingers.

His hand caught her across the face with a stinging blow and she cried out again, tears stinging her eyes. Breathing hard, he shoved his frame against hers and she saw it, a dark unmistakeable outline below his shoulder: the sign of the Triple Morrigan. 

The rain was pouring harder, slanting sharply with the wind.

“Are you happy now, my saucy little bitch?” he sneered through bloodied lips, ripping away the rent bodice, pushing his face close to her, “Scream for me,” his mouth slithered along her neck, as a hand travelled over her corset,” I want to hear you-,”

What happened then was a blur. She collapsed to the ground as Melwas was yanked backward with a startled oath. Dizzy and shuddering she blinked away the rain and looked up just in time to see Arthur’s fist connect squarely with Melwas’ jaw. Melwas staggered backwards, then lunged forward, dagger slashing, enraged. Arthur ducked away just in time, the blade barely scraping his sleeve, then grabbed Melwas’ arm to twist behind his back. The dagger fell from his fingers as he thrashed and cursed, swinging his free arm blindly.

Arthur’s other arm backhanded Melwas and he kicked out in vicious desperation, and Arthur released him with a grunt. The two men circled each other, and Gwen noticed Arthur glance at her out of the corner of his eye. He was cloakless, as though he had rushed out, and his clothes were soaked already. But even in the dim rainy light she could make out his face white with anger.

“You have no business here, Pendragon” he spat, wiping blood off his mouth, “ Your little whore is only getting what she-,” Arthur lunged at him, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him headfirst against a tree.  Gwen heard the sickening crunch of bone as he slumped to the ground. Arthur stood over him for a few moments, breathing hard, fists still clenched.

Then suddenly he was by her side, “Guinevere…oh god, ” he pushed the damp hair off her face. He noticed her ruined bodice and swore sharply, averting his eyes from her nearly naked breasts “Did that bastard-“

“No, Arthur,” she managed against the encroaching dizziness, shivering, “How did you find me?” She noticed the cut on his arm from Melwas’ blade, the thin trickle of blood, “You’re hurt,” she whispered, “And it’s my fault -,”

“Shh…” his mouth pressed softly to her temple.

She heard more footsteps then, and voices calling.

“Over here!” Arthur called in response. He shrugged off his coat and placed it around her shoulders, drawing her close to his chest. The sight of her shaking and bruised enraged him, and he noticed the faint swelling on her cheek. By the gods I’m going to make sure I killed that son of a bitch.

Guinevere clung to him, her tears flooding, fighting drowsiness and reeling with shock. Two more figure burst into view. Sir Leon, his red cloak unmistakeable, chain mail gleaming. And behind him, another figure, small and slender in a purple cloak.

Morgana?

The world spun and she swayed against Arthur. He stood and gathered her easily into his arms, her loose dark hair streaming against his shoulder.

This is the second time he’s pulled me from death, she thought faintly as she surrendered to the easy strength of his arms. Vague thoughts struggled to form words, words she had spoken so long she knew them in her sleep. Duty and honour and sacrifice. But all she could feel was Arthur’s scent and warmth washing over her, all she could see were his storm-blue eyes as they searched her face, anxious and tender.

“You’re safe now, Guinevere,” his lips brushed the crown of her hair.

She let the sweet darkness veil her eyes.