The boy was young, probably no more than sixteen.

Guinevere maintained a steady countenance as she peeled the soiled bandage from his ribs. The stench of the wound assaulted her, making her bite down her lip to keep from gasping. She hastily dropped the bandage in an empty bucket and proceeded to clean the hideous gash. Thick blood soaked the fresh cloth, mingled with greenish pus stinking, already, of carrion.

Gwen glanced up at his face and her throat constricted with pity; his eyes were clenched in agony, tears oozing from the corners in his attempt to bear up manfully.

“It’s alright,” she said soothingly, “I’m nearly finished.”

But even as she wrapped the fresh bandage, she wondered if he would live out the night. All around her, laid head to foot on increasingly fewer beds, were men with similar wounds. Gashes and twisted limbs and burns and wounds that refused to heal. The result of poisoned blades and corrupt magic.

For two years the uprisings had spread through Eirinn, villagers lead by masked men of evil will whose intent was unknown. The years Peadar spent in condemning the Old Religion now sowed the seeds of violence, and each day freshly wounded soldiers poured into the castle. Overwhelmed, Filib had entreated any woman with a strong stomach to help attend the mass wounded. Many of the younger soldiers were village lads themselves, eager youths forced to choose between bloody alliances.

There was no more dancing and music on the shores of Eirinn, and the sea flung itself against the cliffs in lonely entreaty.

Gwen waited to ensure the sleeping draft had taken effect, and then replaced the covers over his thin body. Her back and neck ached, and it seemed the sick-sweet odour of blood was woven into her hair.

She pushed open a window and leaned on the edge, sighing with weariness. Instinctively her fingers sought Arthur’s ring, which hung round her neck from a chain of bare silver; she had chosen a chain long enough to disappear into her bodice, keeping the ring hidden from prying eyes, closer to her heart. The round smooth shape was a familiar kiss to her fingertips, and she closed the warmth of her palm over the cool metal. It was all that remained of those few months, all that assured her he was real and not a dream.

She remembered the days when she would eagerly await Morgana’s letters, but even in the depths of her wistful recollections Gwen knew those days would never come again.

Morgana was lost, her and Arthur were sundered by the seas, and Merlin…what of Merlin? Dear, loyal, humorous Merlin, bound to a secret greater than himself.

“Milady?” the voice startled her, and she hastily tucked the ring back.

It was Belinda, one of the kitchen maids who regularly helped with the soldiers.

“You may rest awhile, milady. I plan on being here for some time.”

Suddenly aware of her exhaustion, Gwen nodded quiet thanks and walked slowly back to her chambers. Every inch of her cried out for sleep, but she knew she would get little. Each time she closed her eyes, the faces of the dead and dying flooded her, worsened by the knowledge of more to come. She would clutch Arthur’s ring tight to her palm, willing herself to remember his eyes, his voice, the feel of his kiss, brief sunbeams across two years of darkness.

Guinevere trudged into her chambers, contemplating a hot bath to sponge away the blood and grime, and was surprised to find the King seated there.

“Milord?”

He gestured for her to sit, and Gwen felt her shoulders stiffen. She knew what this was about.

“How is the infirmary today?”

“Full,” she stated flatly, “I don’t know how much longer this can go on, sire.”

Peadar avoided her eyes, “You know there is a solution to…to these troubles.”

“Lord Melwas has already explained this ‘solution’ to me,” she said quietly.

Gwen was taken aback when Peadar grasped her hand, his lofty manner vanished, “Guinevere, this is no longer about your personal…feelings about Lord Melwas. The future of Eirinn hangs in the balance. If we do not offer him incentive to stay - ,”

“Then he will take his men and money and leave,” she finished bitterly, “You would really entrust the future of Eirinn to such a man?”

Peadar rubbed his temples, looking suddenly aged and dispirited. Gwen almost pitied him, this weak-willed man outdone by tyrants and mercenaries.

“I know I haven’t cared for you in quite the manner your father wished, Guinevere. And for that I am deeply sorry. I appeal not to any love for me, but to your love for Eirinn.  Please, consider his offer.”

With a light touch on her shoulder, Peadar left. Gwen sat still as the minutes crawled by, and dusk-shadows settled around her.  Peadar and Melwas had agreed: she, Guinevere, would be made heir to the throne, and as her husband and king, Melwas’ treasure and militia would be bound to the service of Eirinn. The uprisings would be subdued in time, and Guinevere’s ties to the people would assure a peaceful ascension to the throne for her and Melwas.

Such a simple and effective solution, and all she had to concede was her heart and her body.  Was that not her responsibility to her people? She thought of the last solider she had tended, his young, frightened face. Somewhere in a torn village, a mother held him in her prayers. Perhaps a lover dreamed his return. All across Eirinn, people watched their loved ones ride off into an increasingly darkened world.

What was one heart, her heart, compared to that?

When I saw you dancing…I thought I could watch you forever.

Gwen buried her face in her hands, and the inside of her closed eyelids swam with splotches of blue and violet, like flowers brought by a prince on a summer’s day now lost in time.

****

The morning air dripped reluctant light around her as she dressed, her spirit heavy. Guinevere walked dry-eyed to the breakfast room where Peadar and Melwas sat. Whatever happens, they won’t see me cry. I won’t let them.

She hadn’t had the heart to take off Arthur’s ring, and now it nestled warm and secret and bittersweet between her breasts.  She knew she would have to remove it before her wedding, but she intended to wear it as long as possible.  Her one reminder of the promise of a better world.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the hall, prepared with her answer.

But instantly she discerned that something had happened. Both men were hunched over a letter, while the servants stood by exchanging uncertain looks, and the messenger boy appeared positively terrified.

Peadar looked up slowly.

 “The lady Morgana’s been found.”

It was ten years ago that Guinevere first travelled across the seas to Camelot. She’d been as young and wide-eyed as any child, happily ignoring her parents’ admonishments to run up and down across the deck. Only Andromdhe’s strong but gentle arms had prevented young Gwen from clambering up the masts behind the first mate. They had sailed in the midsummer gold of July, and the vibrant sea air had filled her with what she now realized was the hopeful bliss of childhood.

Now she stood on deck, a woman in the blossom of her beauty, shawl-wrapped against the reluctant spring air of waning April as they neared the harbour.

Melwas had convinced Peadar that Eirinn should send a delegation to Camelot, to seize upon Uther’s undoubted joy at Morgana’s return and cement a military alliance between the two kingdoms. With the alliance of mighty Camelot behind them, he’d argued, and the undisputable power of his own militias and fortune, the throne of Eirinn would stand without bloodshed, and peace would eventually be restored to the land. That is, if Guinevere agreed to be his bride.

Amid the rush of preparing for the journey, Gwen had asked that the marriage be postponed until their return from Camelot. It would allow time for subduing the uprisings, and the people would be ready to celebrate the wedding and ascension. Inwardly, though she had steeled her resolve to marry Melwas and ensure Eirinn’s stability, every ounce of her flesh recoiled from the thought of becoming his wife.

After her parents’ death and her adoption as royal ward, Gwen had put away the sunlit dreams of the young girl she had once been. Like other women of the court, she had resigned herself to one day marrying a man she did not love. She had expected, as they did, to endure the conjugal motions for the sake of childbearing.

But then, Arthur Pendragon has swept into her life like the cresting tide, and the dreams she’d thought dead rose from their shackles at his touch.  From the moment of their first meeting, his eyes had awakened desires that no woman in her position should allow herself to feel. If it hadn’t been for those stolen, feverish kisses, she might have sacrificed her heart for Eirinn with far less anguish.

She had always hoped to revisit Camelot someday, and imagined doing so with joy. Yet all she felt was trepidation. What had become of Morgana’s child? Would she be the same person she was before?

How would she face Arthur, knowing she wore his mother’s ring close to her heart, and tell him she was betrothed to another man?

Questions with answers barbed as thorns pricked her skin, nettling her thoughts as the ship prepared to weigh anchor.

***

“Would you like to bathe before the feast tonight, milady?”  Bernadette, the young girl who would serve as her lady’ maid in Camelot, flitted about like a neat bird.

Guinevere eased out of her shoes, grateful to be off the ship and with everyday comforts within easy reach. “Yes please, Bernandette. And if you would, lay out the purple dress. I think that’s what I’ll wear.”

Bernadette handled the garment reverently, “ ‘tis a beautiful dress, milady. You will look lovely, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

 Gwen smiled at the diminutive girl and was instantly reminded of Aili. The night of Morgana’s abduction by Morgause was clear as cut glass in her mind.

Upon their arrival, an escort of knights had welcomed them and led them to the castle. Uther and Arthur were out hunting, and Morgana was resting in her chambers until the feast. The only familiar face Gwen had seen was Merlin, and despite Melwas’ disdain she’d clasped his hand and greeted him like the friend he was. It was all she could do to hold back the questions that had teetered on her lips.

It was clear though that Morgana was brought back to Camelot alone. What then of her child? Had the babe died in birth, beyond even the witch’s power to salvage?

Bernadette was quick and efficient, and soon had a tub of steaming water ready. Guinevere immersed herself in the hot soapy depths gratefully, combing out her long curly tresses.

When at last the warmth began to ebb from the water, she stood and robed herself. A knock sounded at the door, and Melwas walked in just as she rounded the screen. His eyes travelled the length of her body with indolent appreciation, and she drew herself up stiffly, “Can I help you, milord?”

He strolled casually over, followed by a page carrying a large box. “I thought it fitting to present you with our betrothal gift.” He gestured for the page who set the box down on her dresser. It was customary in noble families to present the woman with such a gift, as a token of intent and a symbol of the groom’s wealth.

“I would like you to wear it at the feast tonight,” he drawled, as she opened the lid. Sharp light danced before her, and she heard Bernadette gasp. It was a necklace, if indeed such a numerous and sprawling assemblage of jewels, strung together with filigreed silver, a veritable fountain of radiance, could be described by so simple a word. Rubies bright as pigeon-blood gleamed among a starry web of diamonds: it would sheathe her throat and spill across her bosom like a constellation.

“Thank you, milord,” she said quietly, “But I fear I’ve already prepared my garments for tonight and they are far too plain for such jewels.”

“I’m sure you can find something suitable. I insist, Guinevere.” He turned to Bernadette, “You, girl, don’t stand there gawking. Make yourself useful and lay out your lady’s dresses.”

Furious but unable to protest without giving the servants fodder for gossip, Gwen offered Bernadette a small smile as the girl scurried to the wardrobe.

Melwas stepped closer to her, leaning down to whisper icily in her ear, “Do not take me for a fool Guinevere. I will not share my future bride with a Pendragon. You will wear the necklace, and they shall know to whom you belong.”

She stood stoically until he left, only giving in to trembling after the door closed behind him. Anger and helplessness burned her eyes, and she wiped hastily at her cheek before Bernadette could notice.

****

Remember sister you must keep up appearances.

But Guinevere has always been a friend

She is destined for allegiance with your enemies.

Choice can alter destiny, can’t it?

Some fates are beyond our power to change. Guinevere is lost to you now. But your son is not.

****

Guinevere walked into the Hall on Melwas’ arm, her calm countenance betraying none of her inner turmoil. As they passed the mulling courtiers, she could discern their whispers and sideways glances, the mingled hum of surprise, admiration and envy.

The gown she had chosen was ruby-dark, a rich shadow of the scarlet banners unfurled all around the Hall. The bodice fit snug over her shapely curves, and the billowing skirts accented her slender, laced-in waist.  She had never worn it before, preferring rather the soft flowing lines and simple femininity of more old-fashioned gowns that women had worn in her mother’s time. In this garment, with its sleeves that left her shoulders bare, and its wide neckline skimming over the lush swell of her breasts, combined with Melwas’ ostentatious token glittering across her bosom, Guinevere felt almost naked, a polished trophy on display.

She kept her eyes straight ahead, on the head table where Uther stood with his son and ward, waiting to greet them. She noticed Morgana beside him, marble-still, a pale and glittering column of light, like a jewel that reflects radiance but keeps its own depths a secret.

She beamed at her as they approached the table, “Gwen, how wonderful to see you!”

Guinevere made to approach her, not daring to look at Arthur for fear her face might betray her, but Melwas held her back.

“My lords, lady Morgana,” he bowed, “I’m happy to announce that Lady Guinevere and I are betrothed, and we shall take our place on Eirinn’s throne as soon as we return.”

“Excuse me?” Arthur’s expression, and the confusion in his voice, cut her like a blade. Tucked in her bodice, the ring burned against her pounding heart.

He recovered quickly, straightening under Uther’s glare, and nodded his head in a stiff welcome.

****

“You’re being rather obvious,” Merlin muttered as he refilled Arthur’s goblet, causing the prince to snap his eyes away from the crimson-clad Guinevere.

“No one likes a clever-clogs, Merlin,” he rumbled. It was bad enough having to endure his father’s I-told-you-so smirks all evening, the last thing he needed was Merlin            weighing in.

He risked another glance at her. She was speaking with Morgana, her food untouched. Her loveliness was a wild rose his eyes kept reaching for, mindless of the cutting thorns: the dark-blood gown she wore glowed against her rich cocoa and cinnamon colouring, as the firelight caressed her honeyed shoulders enticingly. Arthur noticed several of the knights and lords stealing looks at her as well, this jewelled, dark-eyed beauty from a land as mysterious as her almond eyes.

Ah, but they had not seen her barefoot on a summer’s night, her hair flowing loose like dancing shadows. Possessively, he reminded himself that he alone of the men ogling her tonight, had seen her such.

Look at me, Guinevere.

****

She sensed rather than saw Arthur’s stolen glances. Gwen longed to return them but forced herself to resist, wary of Melwas’ presence and Uther’s speculative gaze. Morgana said little, and Guinevere dared not ask questions when surrounded by so many waiting ears. Already exhausted by the journey, now the muscles in her neck and along her shoulders were stiff with effort. She felt as though her every move, blink, smile, were scrutinized.

If she met Arthur’s eyes now, their crystalline smoulder that haunted her dreams, then the quaking deep within her would shudder outward and she would surely fall away into a million aching fragments.

To her relief, Morgana announced that she would retire, and asked Guinevere to walk with her to her chambers. The men rose as they left the hall.

A safe distance away, Gwen grasped her friend’s arm, “Morgana, I can’t believe you’re standing here, in front of me. What happened? How did you escape?”

For a moment something flashed in Morgana’s eyes, a sudden uncertainty, but she only said, smoothly, “The witch only wanted my child. When he…when the child died in birth she had no more use for me. She abandoned me in the wilderness, and I lived among various villagers for two years, unsure whether I wanted to return,” she smiled, though her eyes remained impassive, ‘Of course, in the end I couldn’t bear to remain apart from those I care about.”

Guinevere scanned her face, remembering against her will the malevolence that had shadowed her during those last days in Eirinn, and the unearthly voice of the unborn child speaking through Morgana’s lips. Could all of that really be behind them, like the shadow of a rain-cloud vanished by sunlight?

“Well, I can’t tell you how relieved I am to know you’re safe,” she said quietly, “I am sorry, about the…the child. Did Morgause - ,”

“I don’t wish to talk about it Gwen,” she snapped, then looked immediately contrite and rubbed her temples, “I’m sorry, I’m tired…it’s been a long day. We can talk tomorrow.”

“Of course. Goodnight, Morgana.”

I was warned too

Guinevere remembered the Dragon’s warning to Merlin, and Angelica’s words to her.  She prayed desperately they were both wrong, that they had somehow misread the portents of the future.  Divining was the subtlest of all magical arts, and even the most skilled warlock could be deceived by the shadows of yet-to-come. Lost in her thoughts, she rounded the hallway to her chambers, and found herself face to face with Arthur.

Away from the watching crowd, her eyes could drink him in at last. His hair was a bit shorter, and the sharp edges of his jaw and cheekbone were more pronounced: youth hardening into necessary steel. But he was every bit as vividly handsome as she remembered, and the new solemnity of his features only added to his beauty.

“Hello Arthur,” she whispered.

He approached her slowly, as though unsure if she were real. He paused barely inches from her, and Guinevere felt her breath quicken, struggling behind her racing heart.

“Tell me that I misheard Melwas. Tell me you aren’t going to marry him,” he tried to keep his voice low, calm, reasonable as befits a prince. But all he could think about was how sensuously beautiful she was, how it maddened him to imagine another man touching her, how she unarmed him so easily, and it angered him that she could stand there in calm and bejewelled loveliness when she was affecting him so.

Her tip-tilted dark eyes looked up at him, “You heard right, milord,” she said quietly.

The formality undid him. Arthur grasped her small waist and closed the distance between them, until he could feel her sweet, quickened breath.

“All those times we…the words you spoke, the touches we shared. Were you betrothed to him through it all?”

“No I -,” she felt weak with the nearness of him, wanting him to kiss her and knowing she shouldn’t.

He was hypnotized by the liquid softness of her eyes, the single birthmark on her right cheek, the rose-perfection of her lips, ““Were you in love with him the entire time?”

At that her eyes glowed angrily, and she put her small hands on his chest to widen the distance between them. She looked as she had that night in Eirinn when she defied kings to offer him a token of Avalon, when she had challenged him to question his father’s authority. Arthur felt lust and tenderness warring within him, fuelling his anger at his inability to mask himself around her.

“How could you think such a thing?”

He captured her hands in his, “Then tell me why, Guinevere.”

Only Arthur could speak her name like an erotic caress, only his voice could turn her insides molten liquid. “You shouldn’t be here, touching me, talking-,” she managed.

“You weren’t so eager to send me away the night of that storm. As I remember, you were wearing far less than you are now,” his sapphire eyes darkened, and Guinevere felt the last of her resistance shrivel when his lips brushed hers in a feather-touch, his entire body quivering with leashed desire.  She could taste the spiced wine on his breath, and when his lips parted hers she grew dizzy, clinging to his broad shoulders as he deepened the kiss.  What a fool she’d been to think she could bury her feelings so easily! Arthur coaxed them out of her heart as easily as his mouth coaxed desire from her yielding flesh.  She was flush against his powerful chest and thighs, the tips of her breasts almost spilling over the low neckline as her breath heaved. His thumb brushed the satin-covered mounds as he tightened his grip on her, and Guinevere moaned softly.

Arthur broke the kiss, “You do remember,” his breath as ragged as hers.

Gwen felt angry again, at herself for coming undone so easily, at him for knowingly exercising his power over her.  What did he know of those long months tending dying soldiers, helpless as they succumbed to unholy wounds, clutching their feverish hands and wiping their eyes as death came for them?

She stepped away from him, firmly, “I must retire, milord. The hour’s late.”

He blinked, surprised, and she hated herself for pushing him away.

“Well, I apologize that I bear no magnificent jewels to warrant your attention,” he bit out, glancing scornfully at the glittering assemblage she wore.  Even as hurt pride and helpless longing wrung the words from him, Arthur felt sick at the hurt in her eyes.

He started to speak but she drew herself up and swept into her chambers, closing the doors swiftly.

Guinevere struggled with the necklace clasps, tearing it from her as she would the poisonous coils of a serpent before flinging it away.

 Relieved of its cold weight, her tears loosened at last.

The dream woke Igraine gasping, her skin ice-cold and her lips salty with tears. Uther stirred beside her, sitting up in concern and putting an arm around her shaking shoulders.

“What is it my dear? Shall I call the midwife –“

“No, no,” she wrapped her arms around the swollen mound of her belly, “It was just a dream. Just a dream.”

She wanted to un-dream it, forget the images that moved vivid like looking into a holy crystal of the Druids. There were ashes, ashes everywhere, blocking out the sun. The air was stagnant with weeping and wailing. The ashes kept falling. They fell upon the rose garden like cold kisses. She watched the roses die.

***

Spring was finally awakening and the travelling merchants were once more parading their wares in Camelot’s marketplace. Gwen walked beside Morgana, admiring the multi-coloured displays. Morgana’s mood seemed different, more cheerful, and despite the sleepless circles under her eyes that only Gwen knew well enough to discern, she appeared determined to enjoy the bright day and idle gaiety of admiring jewels and trinkets.

Their attention caught by a particularly impressive display of colours, they paused to admire the wares. Bolts of exquisite fabric cascaded in waterfalls of colour all around them. Morgana immediately reached for the jewel-tone velvets and silks - emerald green and stark violet -, while Gwen gravitated to the soft silks and moth-wing linen. She ran her hand admiringly over a cloth of loveliest peach embroidered with delicate gold roses.

“That colour seems made for you, milady, if you don’t mind me saying so,” the young woman behind the stall gushed.

Gwen held up the fabric to the sun, admiring its summery translucence. Impulsively, she swept it around her shoulders, turning from side to side in front of the small mirror.  Out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of silver and turned; Arthur and two of his knights were riding on patrol, and the busy marketplace crowd moved humbly aside before the mounted glory of their red-caped forms. Gwen had barely seen him since the night of the feast: a murdered palace guard and some mysterious disturbances in the lower towns had kept the Knights thoroughly busy. She stole a glance as their horses neared: sunlight kindled the bright gold of his hair, and the drape of his scarlet cloak only emphasized the magnificent armoured shoulders.

Gwen looked away when his eyes sought hers, feeling suddenly warm along her neck and ears. The memory of their last interaction flashed through her mind, and almost unconsciously her hand went to her throat, fingering the chain from which his ring hung secreted in her bodice. How could he think she favoured Melwas’ wealth and power? Did he not know, she would gladly trade every jewel she owned than part with the ring he had pressed into her hand that night in Eirinn?

She kept her eyes lowered until the patrol passed.

“It must be hard,” Morgana mused, holding up a small jewelled comb to her ebony hair.

“What is?”

“Hiding your feelings for each other.”

Gwen tried to keep her voice light, “What do you mean?”

Morgana rolled her eyes, “Oh give it up Gwen! You think I was blind to what was happening with the two of you in Eirinn? You think I didn’t notice how Arthur looked at Melwas at the feast like he wanted to run him through with his sword right there? You don’t really expect me to believe you rushed to Camelot as soon as you got the chance just to see me, did you?”

Though her words were careless, they were tinged with an infinitesimal bitterness.

“Morgana I -,”

“How much for these?” Morgana turned abruptly to the girl, bargaining a generous purchase of embroidered satin. Gwen realized sadly that she no longer felt eager to confide in her friend as she’d once done. All those years when the oceans lay between them, they had flung their deepest thoughts at each other in preciously hidden letters. Now they stood shoulder to shoulder, and yet it seemed a dark chasm yawned between them.

****

Lately, Guinevere found her dreams turbulent as the ocean, tossing her helpless upon the shores of desire. Despite her anger at his words, Arthur was a flickering ache of longing always burning at the edge of her consciousness. She dreamed of his embrace, of their limbs entwining, of his mouth sliding hot over her sweat-slicked skin. Their bodies would transcend flesh and the boundaries of the elements: one moment she was molten fire beneath his hands, and the next she was cresting in pleasure like a sunlit wave. She would awake breathless, moaning softly at the tight knot of heat between her thighs.

After one such night, sitting in the warm bath, Guinevere allowed her hands to wander over her body, caressing her own breasts, wantonly imagining Arthur’s large, sword-callused hands in place of her own. The image drew a needlepointed thread of sensation through her, and the now-familiar moisture warmed her inner thighs. Weary with resisting, she touched a finger to the moist folds at the juncture of her thighs, biting her lip at the raw current of feeling. Suddenly hot all over with the memory of her dreams, her fingers played urgently over the sweetly throbbing mound, desire guiding her touch as she closed her eyes and pictured Arthur above her, his shoulders and powerful chest dripping with water, his eyes dark with lust, his hands stroking her wet, wet secret.

It felt like plunging into and caressing the velvet depths of a rose. One arm swung overhead to grip the tub as she gave in to the urging waves of sensation, touching and rubbing, remembering not her dreams then but that stormy night when Arthur’s hand brushed her breast through the soft chemise, when his hard length swelled against her thigh.

An ‘oh!’ escaped her lips as the pleasure tightened and suddenly burst into completion, rolling velvet waves through her shuddering legs.

After the brief flash of ecstasy slowly faded, the ashes of reality floated down on her skin.

 Guinevere drew her knees up to her chest, and let the water grow cold.

***

What will he see?                

Roses. The roses of Igraine, red as the blood he’s spilled.

I thought the mandrake conjured visions of horror.

Horror takes shape according to the heart perceiving it.

***

Arthur couldn’t recall the feeling of good, sound sleep. Their hasty departure from Eirinn, the two-year search for Morgana that stretched the Kingdom thin, and seeing Guinevere again, were an exhausting web of desire and doubt that his consciousness struggled helplessly against. He threw himself into training the Knights, pushing them and himself harder than ever before, until even humble Leon was compelled to inquire quietly if all was well.

The taste of her mouth, the autumnal pools of her eyes, her quiet, graceful presence was a constant torture he’d almost grown to enjoy. It took all his will to maintain a calm countenance when he’d glimpsed her in the market place. Arthur hated the rift between them; the memory of her hurt eyes, the knowledge that his words angered and wounded her, needled him even more than the reality of her betrothal to another man. For days he had tried working up the courage to ask her forgiveness, but the words he’d assemble would turn to ashes in his mouth by the light of day: they felt paltry and inadequate. He had even sunk to asking Merlin, Merlin of all people, for advice, and all he’d got in return was a shrug and a “Make a gesture you think is appropriate.”

Fine bloody help that was.

Dusk was settling her wings over the city when Arthur found himself in the palace gardens, an area he rarely had cause to be in, since he preferred the open lawns where he could joust or fence. The gardens were well tended, with enough shady fruit trees and petunia hedges to furnish attractive picnic spots for the noblewomen. Soon the full blossom of spring would witness many a leisurely lunch under soft green branches.

He found his footsteps drawn to the area cordoned off by iron fencing covered in years of thick vine growth: his mother’s rose garden. It’d been a long while since he had looked on the bare bushes and twisted stems all desolate and broken like bones abandoned on an ancient battlefield. Like almost everything else concerning his mother, the empty garden brought only the sadness of unanswered questions.

Arthur recalled an old tale told by his nurse.

The minstrels sang they were the most beautiful roses in the five kingdoms. Tended by the Queen herself, they blossomed in every shade of red imaginable, from the scarlet fire of the Pendragon banners, to the crimson of blood. To look on them in the full splendour of their blossoming, went the songs, was like holding up rubies to the sunlight.

He wandered what his mother’s counsel might have been. A small glimpse of colour caught his eye, almost hidden beneath a fallen branch. Could it be? But the roses had been dead for years, a lingering affect of the magic that killed Igraine, Uther said.

He squinted, certain now that he could see a small speck of red, before climbing easily over the fence.

***

Guinevere returned to her chambers after supper, relieved that Melwas did not insist on accompanying her. Arthur was absent at the meal, and she hated her weak and foolish heart for its pangs of disappointment. She forced herself to remember his careless words to her, to conjure up anger as a defence against helpless longing.

She saw it as soon as she entered, the flower and the carefully folded note beside it. Gwen looked at the rose in wonderment: its vermilion colour was poised poignantly between heartache and lush desire, sweetness and velvety promise, the pleasure of beauty and the pain of its memory.

I was a cur, and my words unworthy. Forgive me, Guinevere.

                        Arthur.

***                   

The two guards who found the king, John and Colum, were thankfully discreet. They alerted the prince and helped carry their stricken sovereign to his chambers.

 Only to Arthur and Gaius did they confide the condition they found Uther in: shuddering, weeping, and terrified, clutching at rose-stems dead for years, hands bloodied by thorns, saying over and over

 Igraine Igraine Igraine.

The King’s mysterious condition continued. Writhing and tossing in the grip of waking nightmares, his attempts to walk down to the gardens were thwarted multiple times by Arthur, Gaius and Merlin physically hauling him back to bed. At last Gaius had been forced to administer a sleeping draught, which had the effect of drugging Uther’s body, although his eyes remained sleeplessly open, oozing tears as his mouth formed fragments of words.

Gwen listened gravely as Merlin recounted Uther’s state. They were seated in Gaius’ quarters, awaiting the physician’s return. Guinevere had taken an instant liking to the stately old man whose words implied a hidden respect for the Old Ways, even as he pretended otherwise to the court. Unlike many of the newer physicians who were eager to denounce the ancient healing arts - arts that Gwen had witnessed being handed down among women in her mother’s circle - Gaius appeared to harbour deep respect for them.

Gwen had an inkling about Merlin asking her opinion: not only was she one of the few who knew his secret, but she herself had knowledge of the manifestations of sorcery and enchantment.

“It has to be magic,” Merlin insisted, “Why else would Gaius’ tonics have no effect? The question is how…and who?”

Gaius walked in with concern heavy on his face. Guinevere poured him a cup of tea which he accepted gratefully.

“Is the King any better?” she asked as he sat down. She had little love for Uther, but she understood the consequences for Camelot if its enemies should learn of his deteriorating condition. Political insatiability amid already turbulent times was a sure recipe for war. Had she not witnessed that in Eirinn? Her heart clenched at the thought of Arthur riding off to battle, of the same endless rows of dying bodies laid out in Camelot as they were in Eirinn.

“No, and I fear we can’t hide this from the people any longer. We need to find out what’s causing this. At first I thought it was poison, but he has no physical indications of having ingested a toxic substance. The only other cause would be -,” he paused, brow furrowed.

“What is it Gaius?” Merlin pressed.

“Well, I thought it might be someone using mandrake root.”

Merlin looked puzzled, and Gwen quickly explained, “The mandrake plant has powerful properties, the High Priestesses used extracts for potions that would allow them to traverse the dream worlds and converse with the spirits. The harvesting of mandrake root was only allowed to a few select apprentices.”

Gaius looked impressed with her knowledge, “But like with all magic, the mandrake plant has the propensity for both light and dark. That is why the High Priestesses guarded its secrets so closely. In the wrong hands, the root could induce endless tormenting visions, trapping the soul between the past and the present, between nightmare and waking, driving it to madness…and death.”

He shook his head, “But the root must be kept close to the afflicted body, and I could find no such evidence in the King’s chambers. I even glanced under the bed. Whatever is causing Uther’s state, it’s powerful magic. And it comes from someone close to him.”

Gwen and Merlin caught each other’s eyes at the same moment, and she hated herself for thinking it.

Morgana

Of those closest to Uther, she had long since made her dislike known. Even before the mysterious events of her pregnancy, Guinevere remembered letter after letter seething with rage at Uther’s tyrannical rule.

But could she really have progressed from open dislike to active enmity? Enough to dabble in dark sorcery?

All three looked up, startled, as Sir Leon burst into the room,

“Gaius, Merlin” he acknowledged Guinevere with a quick bow and ‘milady’, before turning back to Gaius, “Prince Arthur requests your presence in the council room, immediately.”

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Merlin muttered as they hurried behind Leon.

***

“Milord if the rumours reach our enemies, Camelot is doomed!”

“Cendred has spies everywhere…”

“We cannot afford to appear weak…”

“Enough,” the contentious councilmen grew silent at the prince’s tone, and Arthur continued, “Let us hear from Gaius first.”

The old physician walked in, followed by Merlin and, to Arthur’s surprise, Gwen. She gave him the briefest of smiles, evanescent as sunlight in a dewdrop, before standing aside with downcast eyes when Melwas approached her.

“Milord,” Gaius addressed Arthur “May I ask why I was summoned?”

“Gaius, rumours are circulating about the court regarding the…the nature of my father’s condition. Naturally there is concern about these rumours travelling beyond Camelot, to our enemies. Tell me, do you have any idea yet what’s causing his illness?”

While Gaius discussed Uther’s state, Guinevere watched Arthur from under her lashes. He was every inch the prince, regal and forthright, commanding the room despite his youth. She knew his prowess on the battlefield, and his renowned courage, prevented the autocratic councilmen from disrespecting him openly. But she also knew that the complexities of court life bred treachery like a cesspool bred flies; it would take only the slightest show of uncertainty or weakness from Arthur for selfish alliances to shift and amass against him.

When Gaius concluded regretfully that he was nowhere near to curing Uther, she saw a flash of naked worry in Arthur’s eyes, and her heart ached, knowing what it took out of him to stand there, seemingly unmoved, faced with the prospect of losing his father amid the turmoil of a threatened kingdom. Gwen longed to speak with him alone, comfort his worries.

“Tell us Gaius,” Melwas drawled, “Do you think the King’s regretful condition caused by sorcery?”

At that the room erupted into furious buzzing, and Arthur had to call for silence twice, loudly, before Gaius could speak.

“I’m afraid it’s possible, sire,” Gaius looked regretfully at Arthur.

Arthur digested this information in silence, but Melwas spoke again, his voice dripping with careful obsequiousness “We cannot afford to let this cow us, milords.  His majesty the King has spent his life fighting the dark forces of the old religion, such that his name is known across the seas. We mustn’t let this impudent act against him go unpunished.”

“What would you suggest?” Gaius asked sombrely, clearly distrustful.

Melwas strode to the centre of the room, “Search the villages for anyone who might be harbouring sorcerers. Arrest the suspects, publicly execute the guilty. Show them that we who oppose the evils of magic can fight fire with fire. Our enemies will thus be warned.”

The councilmen murmured and nodded in agreement, and Arthur watched as they immediately began discussing which villages to search, which lists to consult. Something tugged at his memory, an image of a young boy with a sword-marred face, and a mother who tended him hopelessly, whose eyes grew blank with fear at the word Camelot.

Instinctively his gaze sought Guinevere’s, and before he could address the room she stepped forward, “Milords, please. If you would spare me a moment,” she was a breath of fresh air to Arthur in that cloistered room, soft and elegant in a lilac gown, her hair pulled back from the bare loveliness of her face, dark eyes glowing determined.

She rushed on before the council could silence her, “Searching the villages, arrests, executions, they would only incite fear in those whose loyalty you depend on: the people of Camelot.  Search for an answer if you must, but surely you can do so without needless persecution?”

“My dear,” Melwas intoned patronizingly, “You have the soft heart of a woman, ill-suited for matters of state.” He turned back to the councilmen, “Pay her no mind, milords. She is easily unsettled by such things.”

Maybe it was her mother’s blood in her veins, but Guinevere felt fury bubbling in her chest, and her own words surprised her, “I know that a kingdom is only as great as the love and loyalty of its subjects. Any state that squanders the goodwill of its citizens cannot exist for long.”

Silence pervaded the room, and Guinevere struggled to hold herself poised and upright against the glares cutting into her. Her eyes found Arthur’s, and for a moment it seemed they were the only ones in that room, that two years and too many crossed obligations did not lay between them.

“She is right.”

All heads turned to the prince, and Arthur continued, “There’s no need to alarm the people without sufficient evidence. Gaius, see to it that my father is not left alone. Only you, myself and select members of the council shall attend him. Exhaust every possible resource in finding what caused this.”

Gaius bowed.

The other councilmen swarmed Arthur, questioning, demanding, only to hear, “That is my decision. The council is dismissed.”

Guinevere couldn’t quite hold back the secret smile that blossomed on her face, but before she could meet Arthur’s eyes again amid the crowd Melwas grabbed her arm and pulled her out into the hallway.

“I would like a word, dear betrothed,” he snapped icily, propelling her away from the council chambers with a vice-like grip on her wrist.

“Let go of me!”

They rounded a corner and he shoved her against the wall, grasping both of her wrists so she was pinioned helplessly in his grip, “You will never defy me in public again, is that understood?” his breath drafted sourly on her face.

“You are neither King nor husband, yet, milord. I will speak my mind, while I still can,” she spat with bitter quietness.

Melwas’ grasp tightened on her wrists until she winced and feared he would snap them backwards, and he pushed his body against hers, “ I always did enjoy your spirit, Guinevere” he released one wrist to run his hand down the side of her body, “And I will enjoy breaking it. How painful or pleasurable the breaking remains for you to decide.”

“The only reason I am betrothed to you is to spare the people of Eirinn more bloodshed. Do not deceive yourself in thinking otherwise.”

His fingers grabbed her chin, forcing her gaze still, and a thumb ran over her lower lip, “And if you wish me to honour that part of our bargain, your pretty little mouth would do well to stay silent on matters beyond your understanding. Defy me again, and the peasants you so self-righteously love will die cursing the very air they breathe. Is that understood?”

Melwas released her abruptly, and she rubbed her sore wrists, fighting the angry tears in her throat, determined not to humble herself before him.

“If you would excuse me, milord,” she bit out flatly before sweeping past him.

***

Guinevere drew her shawl close to her, the night air having cooled off more than she anticipated.  Feeling cloistered and restless in her chambers, she had decided a walk in the gardens might help clear her head. The moon was full, its silver light dripping between the branches of trees like incandescent tears from quiet eyelids. She thought of how this same light would dance like silver flames on the seas of Eirinn, how the celestial orbs remained ever true to their ancient paths, and how they would remain so long after the wars and trials of humankind were ashes and dust.

She slipped off her light shoes to feel the dewy grass beneath her feet, cool and soft and tender. Her steps led her deeper into the gardens, until she came upon a fenced enclosure. Guinevere felt slow fear coil in her veins at the sight of a silhouette amid the dead leaves and broken branches, but before she could think again the figure turned and stepped forward, clearly outlined in the moonlight.

Arthur.

She sighed with relief, “You startled me.”

 A slight smile flickered in his eyes, “Guinevere. What are you doing here this time of night?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” she replied with a smile as he pushed the small gate open for her to step inside. 

“How is your father?”

Arthur frowned, “No change. He doesn’t even know his surroundings. I’m worried, Gwen.”

“I have faith in Gaius that he will find a solution. He is an excellent physician, and he has a fine apprentice in Merlin.”

At that Arthur gave a short laugh, “Ah yes, an apprentice that can’t even find his own feet half the time. Camelot is surely doomed.”

She laughed too, admitting Merlin’s clumsiness. Arthur’s face grew serious then, “Thank you for speaking up at the council today. It was brave of you.”

Guinevere beamed, and Arthur felt his heart flip oddly like a fish out of water, “I didn’t mean any disrespect to your council. I hope my words weren’t too impudent.”

“Not at all. Half my Knights are afraid to so much as squeak out of turn before the council. Someone else needed to speak up, and I’m glad you did.”

She looked around at the strangely haunting nook, it’s broken stems and desolate leaves like moon-silvered relics. But no, not completely desolate after all, because right by Arthur’s foot she could discern two blossomed roses and three buds, ruby-dark and perfect.

“What is this place?”

“It used to be my mother’s.  She grew roses here, hundreds of them apparently. They…died shortly after she did.”

Gwen thought of the rose he’d sent her, now tucked preciously in her tapestry box.

“Your token was much appreciated. And now that I know its origin, I am honoured.”

He shuffled his feet and looked up at her, “I wasn’t sure if -,” he cleared his throat, “I’m glad you liked it. You said nothing so I wandered if I caused further offence.”

This was a side of him she hadn’t seen, the vulnerability beneath the confident warrior who strode as though the world were his to command. The night air was forgotten on her newly warm skin.

“I wanted to, but the situation is delicate and…,” she bit her lip, drawing Arthur’s gaze to her the perfect outline of her mouth, then rushed ahead “It’s not always easy to reveal what’s in one’s heart.”

He stepped closer to her almost involuntarily, staggered as always by her loveliness. Arthur had thought she couldn’t look more painfully beautiful than she had the night of the feast, decked in jewels and a gown red as desire. But here in the soft shadowy moonlight, her hair come loose from its knot and a shawl carelessly draped over her nearly bare shoulders, she made his gut tighten with longing.

“Your heart has been closed to me since you arrived here,” he murmured, those star-sapphire eyes going through her like an arrow, “Why, Guinevere? I thought I had your trust.”

“You do, Arthur. But things are not as simple as you or I would like.” She told him of the carnage in Eirinn, of what Melwas’ militias meant to Eirinn’s survival as a kingdom intact.

He ran a frustrated hand through his blond-silk hair, making Gwen’s fingers long to do the same, “So it’s a political alliance. You’re a pawn to broker the safety of your kingdom.”

“Surely you know what such responsibility entails,” she reminded him quietly, ‘Do you not do the same every time you ride out to battle the foes of Camelot? Will you not -,” her voice softened with sorrow, “Will you not do the same someday when the time comes for you marry?”

His eyes flashed up at her, blue fire like lightning, “Do you think such things are simple? Do you think I can just snuff out my feelings for you like an inconvenient candle?” he was even closer to her now, and she felt her heart thudding a steady drumbeat against her ribs, “I’ve thought of you every day since I left Eirinn, wondering if you thought of me, hoping you were safe. Each time I faced death on the battlefield, your face was the one that flashed before my eyes. The memory of you dancing is branded in my mind like fire, you enchant me without any magic,” his voice grew low and deep, rich as dark velvet “Tell me, Guinevere, how do I forget I am utterly in love with you?”

Her lips parted at his admission. She was light-headed with his words, her skin humming like the face of a drum grown warm and taut with pounding as they faced each other, both already short of breath as though they’d been making love instead of talking. She remembered some of her dreams, and heat flushed her head to toe, and she saw Arthur’s eyes darken, and knew his thoughts ran down similar roads.

His hand came up to where her shawl had slipped off one shoulder, and he replaced the cloth slowly, his fingers lingering on her skin, “Arthur I-,” but her words faded when his eyes fell to her wrists, the faint circled bruising visible in the clear moonlight. He took her hands in his, “Who did this to you?” and she could see the anger flare in his eyes, “Was it Melwas?”

She said nothing, but her silence was answer enough.

 “That cowardly son of a bitch,” Arthur swore softly,  “If I could get my hands on him -,”

“Arthur please,” she protested, “Promise me you won’t seek him out. He maybe a coward but he’s dangerous. If anything happened to you I-,” she whispered, “I couldn’t bear it.”

Cobalt eyes searched her face, “Do you expect me to stand by while he-,” his words were cut off and they both looked up startled at the sudden clamour of movement in the courtyard. The night guards leaving their posts could only mean one thing. An intruder had been spotted in the castle.

Arthur turned back to Gwen urgently, “I must go. Return to your chambers and stay there. Don’t step outside until we’ve finished searching the castle.”

She nodded, and he pressed a brief kiss to her knuckles, the tender gesture spiralling through her. “Be careful, Arthur. For me.”

Before she could think he kissed her, and she could taste the urgency on his mouth, a sweet and stolen rush.  Then they were both hurrying back through the gardens, and he held her hand in his until they had to part ways at the courtyard. With one last worried glance in his direction Guinevere hurried back into the castle, struggling to find her way in the winding torch-lit hallways.  She retraced her steps twice, anxious now and remembering suddenly the golden witch whose face had slipped mysteriously through the shadows in Eirinn.

Finally she found herself in a familiar corridor, and was about to stride forward when she saw two hunched figures half-hidden by the pillars. Ducking behind a large statue, she squinted and recognized Morgana’s bright-red cloak. She was talking to someone. But who? Her voice was hushed and urgent. The other figure stepped away from Morgana and Gwen stifled a gasp.

A child, about ten years old, with wide and strangely knowing eyes in a pale countenance. Could it be..?

As she watched the child handed Morgana a small bundle, and even before she unwrapped it Gwen guessed its contents: a mandrake root, dripping black. Morgana raised the root to her mouth and devoured it, quickly and with practice, and Gwen pressed a fist to her lips against a wave of nausea. Then she and the child both hurried away into the darkness, and Gwen stood there frozen with the weight of new knowledge.

Someone close to the King.

There was another way to work the mandrake magic, she remembered. Those who shared half your blood could consume the deadly root, and affect you through the shared blood for as long as they could endure. It was subtle and powerful sorcery, such as only the High Priestesses could practice.

Gaius and Merlin knew Morgana was close to Uther. Little had they guessed how close she truly was.

Breathless from running, Guinevere rapped urgently on Gaius' door.  A few guards ran across the courtyard in a flash of silver mail, and she prayed the shadows would not reveal her. She knocked again, and Gaius opened the door, his face creased with worry.
"Guinevere?' he ushered her inside and closed the door, "You shouldn't be out of your chambers, milady. There is an intruder in-," he trailed off when he noted her fearful expression, the way her fingers trembled as they clasped her shawl.
"What is it, Gwen? Did you see something?"
She jumped at the sound of footsteps behind her, only to find a dishevelled Merlin holding a candle, face as concerned as Gaius'.
Words seemed to choke in her throat and she shook her head, trying to make sense of what she'd seen, even as her mind recoiled from the hideous image.

Gaius put a comforting hand on her shoulder, "What is it, child?"

Gwen glanced at Merlin, and it was clear he suspected the truth, "Was it Morgana?"

She nodded slowly, "She's different, I sensed it when I arrived here, and I know it now."

Gaius took a deep breath, "Merlin, start the fire. Sit down, Gwen. Tell us everything."

****

***

Heavy and contemplative silence lay between them while the candle burned low. Gaius and Merlin exchanged a glance.
"We've...suspected that Morgana might have a secret connection to Uther for some time now," he sighed heavily, "And now this confirms it."
"The throne of Camelot," Merlin said tonelessly, "It's what Morgause wants, and she's using Morgana to get Uther and Arthur out of the way."

Gaius frowned, "I don't think we can absolve Morgana of responsibility, Merlin. She has obviously agreed to perform the blood magic, just as she agreed to bear and birth that child."

Guinevere could swear she caught a flash of anger in Merlin's eyes, "She was frightened and alone, all those years living under Uther's thumb while her magic awakened. And now she's learned that he lied about her parentage."

Gwen mused on this sorrowfully, recalling the increasingly anguished tone of Morgana's last letters to her. "I wish she had trusted us more," she said sadly.

Merlin stood up abruptly, running a hand through his short hair, "Who knows what lies Morgause has filled her with these last two years, and even before that, in dreams and visions? From Morgana's perspective, the Pendragon bloodline has betrayed her, while her sister from Gorlois offers a chance for vengeance," he smiled without humor, "Morgana never took an insult lying down."

Gaius turned to Merlin, "Whatever her motives are," he said gently, "her actions are threatening the stability of this kingdom. It's our duty to protect Camelot, Melrin. You know this."

Merlin gave a short, bitter laugh, "Of course. I know it well."

Gwen stood and put a comforting hand on his shoulder, "I care for her too, Merlin. She is like a sister to me. I want to believe that we can help her."

"As do I, believe it or not," Gaius enjoined, "I've cared for Morgana since she was a child. But I'm afraid she's entangled in affairs far greater and darker than she realizes. And if we do not prevent her from becoming a tool for Camelot's destruction, I fear there can be no salvaging the Morgana we once knew." He paused, "There are some things that can't be undone, blood that never washes out. I would spare her that, if I could."
He seemed suddenly tired, an old man bearing the yoke of the past, and Gwen remembered her mother's whispered stories of the Great Purge, the fire and the blood and the children drowned and the spirits grown malevolent among hastily dug graves and piled carcases. Gaius would have been much younger then, in the prime of his life really. What memories  lay down with him at night? 

"I don't understand something," Merlin began slowly, "If Morgana is affecting Uther through their shared blood, then why isn't Arthur affected too?"

The physician looked thoughtful and alert again, "I think I know, but I can't be certain. Merlin, do you still have that token Arthur gave you before you battled the Questing beast? The one with his mother's sigil?"

"Of course, I'll fetch it."

The token was an old medallion, round as the disc of the full moon, smooth and bright as metal, heavy and cool as stone lain deep in the earth. Gwen touched the sigil with wonder, a rose with wing-like petals, curiously intricate.

"I believe this sigil would confirm my theory about why Arthur remains immune to the blood magic, " Gaius stood, "and offer us a cure for Uther."

Merlin glanced at Gwen, then back at the sigil, "What should I do?"

***

The castle guard had doubled since the mysterious intruder. Gwen followed Merlin as he slipped skillfully between pillars and nooks, quiet as shadows in the light of day. He's done this before. Plenty of times.
 She thought of the many times she had evaded Peadar's guards to steal moments by the seashore, and the fateful Midsummer night they had slipped out to celebrate with the villagers. So much fear, so many secrets. Would it ever end?

They finally reached the library and Merlin turned to face her, "I have to warn you, Geoffrey is about as interesting as a wet dish rag."

Gwen bit back a giggle, "Merlin, I grew up in royal courts, remember? Conversing with dish rags while making them feel important is practically a trade."

He grinned, "Good. Just keep him engaged for half an hour. That should give me enough time to break into the vault."

She nodded, "Good luck."

The library was in desperate need of dusting, and if the smell of musty parchment was anything to go by, a thorough rearranging as well. Gwen affixed a suitably humble smile on her face and approached Geoffrey's desk. He looked up from his writing, "Is there anything I can assist you with... milady?"

The tone of his voice suggested carefully veiled impatience, catching her off-guard, "Good day sir. I..umm, I was hoping you could help me locate a manuscript - ,"

He interrupted, "The library of Camelot houses no artifacts of the Old Religion. I'm afraid you won't find anything of use here, lady Guinevere." 
He doesn't like me. He seemed to almost resent giving her the title. No. Not me. What I represent. My people.

Gwen forced another smile, "Actually I was looking to learn more about the history of tapestry making in Camelot. The skill of your weavers is without parallel. Do all the ladies of the court learn?"

Geoffrey narrowed his eyes, "Some. Others inherit the craft from their mothers," he paused and surveyed her, as though ascertaining her truthfulness, then with a heavy breath he shuffled to his feet, "Very well. I'll show you where you might find a book or two. But I warn you there's little information here," he added pompously, "Libraries such as this one have far more important matters to chronicle, milady."

"I'm sure," she chimed in with false cheer as he lead her into the dusty shelves. She glanced back just in time to see Merlin ducking in through the door.

Perfect.

***

Half an hour and one tortuously condescending account of library history later, Guinevere took leave of Geoffrey with A History of Spindlecraft and The Weavers of Shallot tucked under her arm. She was glad to be away from his cold presence. Wary of being followed, she glanced about discreetly before hurrying across the courtyard to Gaius' quarters. 
Merlin was there already, pouring over the volume he had secreted. It was an old, dusty tome, but the leather covering was unspoiled and richly textured, and small green jewels glittered along the edge.

"What are we looking for?" she moved her skirts aside to sit down beside him.

"The meaning of Queen Igraine's sigil. Gaius says it's important we know for sure."

They turned the heavy pages in silence for a few moments, until they found it. The sigil was indeed a full-blown rose, yet the petals were drawn with such craft they appeared light and poised like wings. At first glance it was an intricate blossom, but at closer scrutiny the shape appeared to shift slightly, like bird-wings unfolding in flight. It's history and lineage ran six pages long, reaching back to the times when even the High Priestesses were but girl-children amid the first dawn of the Holy Isle. Gwen drew a breath as they read on.

Whosoever is born upon the breath of the Rose, the power and protection of the Blessed Isle shall flow in their veins also. Blood magic may not corrupt them, and their blood shall be as the Light of Avalon to the Dark Fire.

She reached into her bodice and drew forth Arthur's ring, looking closely at the markings. Sure enough, she could discern the faint outlines of a rose with wing-tip edges. Merlin glanced over at it and she blushed suddenly.
"Arthur gave it to me before...in Eirinn, when we said goodbye. He said it belonged to his mother."
They met each others eyes slowly as Gaius walked in, sombre-faced from attending Uther, and Gwen hastily tucked the ring away. He glanced at them before turning his eyes to the page.
"Ah," he said softly, "It is as I suspected."
"Gaius...," Merlin pressed him as he sat down, "Does this mean what I think it means? Queen Igraine...was she a sorceress?"

Gaius shook his head, "No, Merlin. The Queen wielded no magic, but the blood of the First Priestesses flowed in her veins. Now it flows in Arthur's."

"That's why the mandrake magic hasn't affected him," Gwen spoke in slow realization, "And he has no idea. All his life his father has taught him to despise the teachings of Avalon, yet the very blood in his veins is blessed by the Holy Isle."

The physician nodded, "Blessed, and protected. And if I'm correct, a small infusion of his blood will suffice to drive the enchantment from Uther's veins, and give him the same protection."

"But is it a protection he deserves?' Merlin whispered, "All those years...the lives lost, the people torn apart. Why should Uther receive the protection of Avalon?" Angry tears glittered in his years, "This is what Kilgarrah meant: Arthur and I are two sides of the same coin, we both have Avalon in our veins. But I must hide from him, lie to him, keep silent about our shared destiny all because of Uther, because of the hatred he has sown."

Gwen felt a surge of empathy for her friend, dear bumbling fiercely loyal Merlin, forced to bow his head under the scorn of those whom he could destroy with a mere blink of his eyes.
And Arthur...lied to about his mother's lineage, taught to hate the ways of her people, prevented from acknowledging his only sibling in the world. Sudden anger flared in her heart too. What right did Uther have to receive the protection of Avalon? 

As if in a dream she remembered those fearful days in Eirinn, Morgana's ghostly eyes, Angelica's warning, the sense of being enmeshed in a web of fate too intricate for mortal eyes to fathom. She remembered too her own words to Angelica. The Heart of Avalon does not withhold compassion, even from those who seek its destruction. I will not abandon my friend.

Gaius was looking at Merlin, understanding yet solemn, "I believe it is Arthur's decision to make. We must tell him the truth...or at least the part he needs to know to heal Uther," he amended.

Merlin nodded, "What should we tell him about Morgana?"

"Nothing. Until we have proof and clear knowledge of what she intends to do and how she plans on doing it, it's our word against hers. And the last thing we need is to lose Arthur's trust when he's clearly in danger."

"My dear," he turned to Gwen, "You were once her trusted friend. She may yet regard you as such, and if so you might learn from her what Morgause intends. She must not know we suspect her true allegiance."

Guinevere nodded, but there was a faint bitter taste in her throat, the metallic tang of loss. Oh Morgana...what happened to us?

Gaius stood, "I must find Arthur. The procedure should happen soon, Uther is already greatly weakened."

***

Mother, you must be strong. The King will die soon.

How much longer Mordred?

Soon. Soon everything we dreamed shall be ours.

I do not know my dreams anymore.

You dreamed me, remember? And I came alive inside of you.

I  dreamed fire. Dark fire.

We are destined to restore the Dark Flame. You, me and her.

What of Emrys?

His identity is yet hidden from me. But I grow stronger each day. I shall See him soon.

And Guinevere? And Arthur?

Dust and ashes, Mother. Dust and ashes beneath our feet.

***

Guinevere paced the hallway leading to Uther’s chambers once, then twice, then a third time. Almost two days since she had helped Merlin sneak into the library, Gaius was about to transfuse some of Arthur’s blood into Uther. She had asked Merlin how Arthur fared, but it seemed the prince had taken the information about his mother’s lineage taciturnly. And now, he was poised to save the life of a father who had lied so much, harmed so many.

Part of her felt foolish and presumptuous for wanting to speak with Arthur, to offer him comfort. The other half remembered their exchanged words in the moonlit garden, beside the withered roses of Igraine Pendragon. Each time I faced death on the battlefield, your face was the one that flashed before my eyes. The memory of you dancing is branded in my mind like fire, you enchant me without any magic.

Gathering her courage, she strode down the hallway. Leon and Gwaine were the knights posted at the door, and they greeted her courteously. Gwaine managed to flash her a roguish grin, and she found herself smiling back. His infectious charm was a welcome relief from the likes of Geoffrey.

“I would inquire after the King, sirs.”

At that moment the door opened quietly and Arthur stepped out. He looked a touch paler, and there were sleepless circles under his eyes.

“Guinevere,” he sounded surprised, then turned to the Knights, “You may go. Thank you.”

“How is he?” she asked urgently, formality forgotten when they were alone.

Arthur led her to a corner against the pillars, glancing about to ensure no eavesdroppers, “Gaius is hopeful. The transfusion went well, I think.”

“Good,” she noticed the haunted look in his eyes, “What is it Arthur?”

“Perhaps Gaius has told you already. My mother’s blood…”

“’It’s an honour to boast such lineage,” she said gently, “ And now it will save your father.”

“At what cost? How do I trust a father that would keep such secrets from me?”

Gwen struggled with her own dislike of Uther, “I’m sure he had his reasons for keeping you in the dark. Perhaps after his recovery you can ask him, he might be more willing to share the truth now.”

Arthur ran frustrated fingers through his bright hair, drawing her eyes there longingly.

He really should stop doing that in my presence.

“And how do I trust myself, when the blood of sorcery runs in my veins?”

Her face changed, and he knew he had said the wrong thing.

“I know what you would say: that people wield magic, and that the wielder decides its use. But all my life I’ve been told otherwise, I’ve seen otherwise.”

“And what about now?” she asked softly, “When the blood of those who once practiced magic could save your father’s life?”

Arthur was silent, and looked troubled.

Guinevere pressed on, disappointed and almost angry, “ The night we met, those innocent people killed…could I not say that all swords are evil, that they should not exist? Yet your sword came between death and me. Why then can’t you afford the Old Religion the same consideration?”

“How do I know what is truth, and what is illusion intended for deceit?” he asked quietly, just as he had two years ago on a stormy night in a small cottage. Gwen swallowed, momentarily lost in the memory of that night, his lips crushing hers as though he could never have enough, and her body singing to his tough through the sheer chemise.

“Trust your heart,” she whispered, “Trust what you know is good, and true.”

He looked almost lost for a moment, the light shining translucent through those blue eyes, and Guinevere longed with all her heart to him in her arms.

“How do I tell them? The people? The court? My Knights? How can Camelot endure, if hypocrisy is attributed to its throne?”

She stepped closer to him, her anger vanished at the sight of his conflict. “It will endure as it has always done, with the love and faith of its people. The courtiers may say what they wish, the people will know and love their king. You will unite them.”

Gwen suddenly realized her words, “I mean, when you’re king. And I’m sure they respect your father too. I didn’t mean to imply…I mean, the people seem to love you already and - ,”

She’s so lovely when she’s nervous.

“Guinevere,” she stopped speaking at the sound of her name, and looked up to find Arthur smiling faintly. His hand came up to cup her face, running his thumb over the soft curve of her cheek.

“Thank you,” his fingers dropped lightly to her chin, and she could feel her pulse flutter wildly.

They jumped apart as the door opened behind them. Gaius stepped out.

“The King is awake, sire.”

***

News of the King’s recovery spread through the court, and no sooner was he was able to sit up in bed, than a celebratory feast was prepared.

The Great Hall swarmed with ambitious courtiers come to wish the King well, mead flowed freely and the warm flowery air of ripening spring drafted over the room.

“What do you say, Arthur? The Rising Sun, tonight?” Gwaine took a long drink of mead.

Leon chimed in, “I hear they have a new brew, something from the South I think.”

Gwaine grinned “I hear they have two new maids serving the drinks.  Pretty girls, Southern ale…come Arthur we’ve been training our arses off for months now.”

The prince shrugged, nursing a barely-touched glass of mead, “ You may go if you wish. I have council matters that need attending. The king is not yet fully recovered.”

Leon nodded understandingly, but Gwaine persisted, “Even you need a night off, Arthur. Some strong mead and a kiss or more from a sweet wench should cheer you right up. Honestly old friend, if I were you and every woman in the kingdom was panting to lie with me…well, let’s just say council matters won’t be what I take to my bed every night,” he added archly.

Arthur rolled his eyes, “Thank you Gwaine for the horrific image of you running the Kingdom. The royal coffers would be emptied of gold within a fortnight, and filled with pickled eggs instead.”

At that moment, Lady Guinevere walked past them, her hand barely resting on Lord Melwas’ arm. She seemed like a vision of spring in seafoam green, a red rose in her dark hair and an elegant neckline skimming the honey-coloured throat and elegant shoulders. She glanced in their direction with a brief smile, then drew her eyes away suddenly, like a deer startled by the threat of an arrow.

If Leon and Gwaine had kept their eyes on her a few seconds longer, they would have missed the sudden change in Arthur’s face, his sombre gaze following her graceful form. And in that instant they began to understand why Arthur no longer jested with them about courtly love, why he barely noticed the pretty women at his beck and call.

They finished their drinks in silence.

Across the room, Geoffery of Monmouth was deep in conversation with the convalescent King.

“What are you saying Geoffery?”

“I’m merely suggesting, sire, that in the light of recent events, it might be prudent to ensure Camelot’s future through allying with another kingdom.”

Uther nodded slowly, his fingers trembling slightly as he grasped his goblet, “What would you suggest?”

“Milord, you might remember our long dispute with Nemeth over the lands of Gedreth. I hear the Princess Mithian is quite beautiful, and charming besides…”

The young Eirish squire seemed poised to leap off the galley and swim to shore. The sea-wind tousled his dark hair and touched his pale cheeks with colour. Stiofan's blue eyes were troubled, determined, searching the horizon for a glimpse of the bay.

"How much longer?" he turned urgently to the Captain, a weathered seaman who had assured Stiofan of a swift and discreet crossing to Bretagne. Only the squire knew that his destination was Camelot.

The older man chuckled, "Patience, lad. My crew will deliver you in the promised time." His eyes narrowed shrewdly, "All that coin for a simple crossing. Are all the Eirish so careless with their money?"

Stiofan's eyes snapped, "I'm paying you for speed. And privacy," his voice left no room for argument. The captain shrugged and moved away.

Stiofan felt for the medallion secreted in his doublet, an almost involuntary gesture he had developed since Sir Tristan and his majesty King Peadar had entrusted the message to him.
 
Remember, Stiofan.  Do not entrust our words to paper.

The squire had been chosen for his loyalty and determination, and the importance of this task weighed heavily on him.  If all went well, he might achieve his Knighthood sooner than expected. The mysterious uprisings that had consumed parts of Eirinn needed every able man, and Sir Tristan himself had said Stiofan would make a fine warrior.

You and you alone must deliver this message to Lady Guinevere.

He would fulfill his task. Or die trying.


***

Guinevere didn't quite remember how they ended up tucked behind three massive pillars, stealing kisses before supper. Ah yes.

She had been walking to the Hall for supper when a strong hand shot out and pulled her swiftly behind the comfortingly large columns.
Her gasp of shock had melted into a smile when she looked up at Arthur, his sky-coloured eyes all gleaming, holding another exquisite red rose from his mother's garden.

"Something for your hair, milady," he had whispered gallantly before tucking the flower carefully into the thick twist of curls at her nape.

Gwen had recalled that long-ago day in Eirinn when he had tried and failed amusingly at affixing bluebells in her hair.
"Your skills have improved, milord," she'd laughed. For a moment it had seemed so natural, that they should laugh together over such courtly gestures as though kingdoms did not stand between them. Then Arthur's face had grown serious, his eyes dark as twilight-blue as they lowered to her lips. Her breath had quickened.

What are we doing? Her thoughts were scattered like feathers as his large, strong hands travelled over the tight-laced bodice while his mouth claimed hers. She felt reckless and light-headed, the fear of being discovered adding a feverish edge to the arousal that now steamed in their breath. Guinevere gave into her long urge and ran her fingers through his bright hair, eliciting a soft moan from his lips. Arthur's tongue slipped into her mouth, caressing hers in a delicious duel that slowly turned her insides molten. His hands came to her petite hips, and it took every ounce of his restraint not to grasp her delectable rump.

Remember yourself Arthur.
 
His lips trailed urgent kisses into the honey-satin curve of her throat, and she shivered as his hot breath danced across her skin. Arthur watched her beautiful breasts rise and fall over the bodice and groaned. He wanted nothing more than to lay her down, unlace her bodice with his teeth and lavish those breasts with his tongue and mouth. He vaguely noted a thin silver chain that lay part-hidden between her bosom, a rivulet of light against her lovely warm skin.
"You're so beautiful, Guinevere," he murmured against her throat. She arched into him in response to her name.
Say my name again.

The sound of approaching footsteps grew unmistakeable, and Arthur reluctantly drew back from her. Gwen smoothed down her bodice, her own heart pounding, wandering distractedly if she looked as askew as she felt, noting helplessly how attractive Arthur's lips were, all swollen from their kisses. She closed her eyes and took a breath, gathering her thoughts. Arthur lifted her hands, pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles. He frowned slightly to note that Melwas' bruising grip was visible, though faded.

"We'll be missed at supper if we don't make an appearance soon," she spoke with quiet reluctance.

He nodded, exhaling slowly, "You go ahead. No one will be suspicious that way. Also I uhh--," he glanced down and back up quickly, flushing, "I need a moment."

Gwen followed his look, blushing too as the meaning behind his words became clear. That she could affect him so sent pleasure spiralling giddily through her veins.
"Oh," she bit back a smile, and then leaned up on her tiptoes, "See you at supper," she whispered in his ear, deliberately and recklessly seductive, brushing her lips there.

Playing with fire, that's what I'm doing.

She was rewarded by a sharp breath from Arthur, but before they could both collapse beneath temptation again she slipped away, stepping discreetly back into the hallway. Feeling his eyes on her, Guinevere turned back one last time. 

And smiled the smile that was for him and him only.

***
 
One day ago

Stiofan was tired. Four days since his ship had weighed anchor, he was at last within a day's ride from the walls of Camelot.  Girded with the secrecy of his mission, he had eschewed inns and taverns, keeping to the forest trails and making such camp as he could.
He rubbed his hands for warmth over a small fire, wandering if he dared to build a bigger flame. But these woods were famed for bandits, and Stiofan would risk discovery neither by lawless brigands nor the patrols of Camelot. His stomach growled, reminding him that he'd eaten little but squirrel meat and berries for well nigh four days. He was still young, and not quite so battle-hardened as the older Knights.

The squire reached instinctively into his clothes and drew out the medallion, the key to his message. In the flickering light he ran his thumb over the obsidian design. It gleamed with slippery light, like beady eyes watching. Stiofan hastily returned it to the secret pocket in his doublet. He would be glad to be done with the mission. He longed for the rewards of a clean bed and good fire, the taste of a hearty broth.

Sleep came slowly.

It was many hours later, dreams flickering uneasily behind his eyes and the fire long dead, that the sound of voices awoke him. Disoriented, Stiofan slowly drew out his sword, surveying the woods. Nothing.
He listened. There it was. The unmistakeable sound of whispering voices.
Sword in hand, he crept along the trees, stealthy and swift the way Sir Tristan had trained them. The voices grew closer. They were feminine in timbre, whispering urgently.

Stiofan crouched behind a tree, risking a glance through the undergrowth. He could discern two figures in the waning moonlight. One was enamel-pale and dark haired, shrouded in a cloak of rich purple shadows. She appeared to be listening to the other woman, slender with fire-bright gold hair. As snatches of their words reached his ears, Stiofan grew cold with fear.

"You must intercept this messenger, sister. At all costs, Guinevere cannot learn of our alliance with Melwas until the time is right."

"But how do I intercept him if I don't know who he is?"

Stiofan craned his neck, but he had grown careless. A twig snapped under his foot, the sharp sound unmistakeable in the night forest. The gold-haired woman turned, startled, and Stiofan looked into eyes bright as fire, deadly as steel, venomous as a coiled serpent.

He ran.

***

To Guinevere's relief, supper progressed smoothly. Though she tried valiantly to avoid Arthur's eyes, every so often she would meet his glance, and the memory of their stolen encounter would wash over her in a warm, delicious wave. 
Wary of Melwas' watchful eyes, she kept her smiles hidden, but couldn't refrain from lightly touching the rose in her hair at intervals. It was their secret, hers and Arthur's. 

She realized Morgana was absent, and sighed inwardly. They had barely spoken since Uther's recovery. While she had agreed to stay close to Morgana and learn her secrets, she was relieved not to be in her presence. This woman who performed blood magic without hesitation, who would ally herself with dark sorcery in secrecy from her closest friends, was not the friend she knew and loved.

Meanwhile, Geoffery was regaling the King with some monotonous account of the lineage of royal houses, to which Arthur was compelled to listen. Or at least, pretend to listen. He would much rather pay attention to Guinevere, and he imagined they were dining alone, so that these trained pretences could fall away, and he could savour openly the candlelit shadows at her throat, between her breasts, in her liquid eyes...

"Arthur are you listening?"

Guinevere took a discreet sip of her wine as Arthur's eyes snapped to the King. Uther was still frail from his illness, but his voice rung with enough authority to startle his son.

Across from her, Melwas watched her closely, "You're not eating, my dear," he remarked, cutting lazily into his meat so that the juices pooled on his plate. He always ate his meat slowly, deliberately, as though enjoying the slow slicing of flesh. It made Guinevere ill.

She schooled her face for a suitably polite answer when the doors opened and one of Melwas' pages rushed to his side.

"Apologies milord, but I have an urgent message for you," he thrust a note into Melwas' hand. He read it swiftly, and Gwen could swear his sallow face grew paler.

"If you'll forgive me, milords. I have some urgent business to attend," he stood briskly, then turned to Merlin where he stood with the other servants, "You, boy. See that the rest of my supper is sent up to my chambers."

The doors closed behind him.

"As I was saying," Uther continued, bending a meaningful glance at Arthur, "The princess Mithian arrives tomorrow. We're all hoping for an alliance with Nemeth, Arthur.  Rumors of her beauty...,"

The rest of his words grew hushed and blurred for Guinevere, as though she had pressed a large conch shell to each ear.

An alliance with Nemeth.

A potential bride.

Did he know all along? Did he know when he was whispering soft words against my skin?

The food on her plate suddenly looked as appetizing as the slime of troll caves. Guinevere forced herself to push the vegetables around until a decent amount of time elapsed, before wiping her lips discreetly and excusing herself.

Yes, she had played with fire. And now her heart was helpless to withstand the inevitable flame.

***

It was deep night when a slow shaking on her arm awakened her.

“Guinevere. Gwen! Wake up.”

She blinked once, then twice, pushing tendrils of hair off her face, “Merlin? What is it?” she sat up suddenly, “What’s wrong?”

“Come quick, get your cloak. We don’t have much time.”

Gwen threw on her dressing gown and cloak, and then followed Merlin out.  He was leading her to Gaius’ chambers.

“A man was found near-dead by the western parapets,” he whispered urgently as they sped across the courtyard like shadows.

“Who is it? What’s that got to do with me, Merlin?”

“Gaius will explain. Come on.”

The physician was bending over the prostrate form of a man, his face grave. 

“Ah Guinevere,” he gestured for her, “Quickly child, we must make haste. Leon has gone to fetch Arthur and the King.”

She hurried forward, bracing herself. On the table was a young man, recently dead, the colour still fading from his young cheeks.  His tunic was stained with new blood.

“Do you know this man, Guinevere?” Gaius asked quietly.

She stared, and then stared again. Vague snatches of memory came back, elusive as dandelion dust. A tourney maybe…several years ago…but there were so many squires, so many young, hopeful men hovering around the Knights like moths about a flame.

“I…can’t be sure, Gaius. Why…what’s going on?”

Gaius’s face grew graver still. He covered up the man’s face with a blanket.

“When they brought me to him it was already too late, the wound was too deep. But before he passed he was muttering…I couldn’t make out much, it was barely whispers. But I caught your name, Guinevere. Twice he said it. Then he tried to reach into his pocket, but he couldn’t raise his hand.”

Icy fear crawled down her spine.

Merlin put a hand on her shoulder, “ We found this on his body,” he unfolded his palm, and the medallion gleamed at her knowing as a raven’s eye.

“What is the meaning of this?” she asked slowly, “Who-,”

“- we can discuss this later Guinevere,” Gaius broke in, “You must return to your chambers before anyone sees you here. Whoever killed this man was determined to stop him from reaching you,” he bent a sombre glance on them both, “ Until we know who did this, no one must know you’ve seen the body, do you understand child?”

Gwen nodded, her eyes fixed on the outline of the corpse, “I…understand.”

She returned to her chambers with no event, but sleep evaded her. Her mind swam with waking dreams, a young squire gasping her name, and the shadowy wings of raven folding over his screams.

Guinevere took a long drink of tea, turning over another voluminous page.

“Are you having any luck my dear?” Gaius inquired from across the room. He was fortressed behind his desk by mountains of books, perusing volume after volume for the same reason that she was: an explanation for the mysterious medallion discovered on the dead squire’s body a week ago.

“Not much yet I’m afraid.”

Wading through the numerous sigils, emblems, banners, and crests of the Seven Kingdoms and beyond were a strenuous task not lightly undertaken, but Guinevere was grateful for the work.  The image of the young man, who had presumably died to reach her, haunted her waking moments and whispered in her dreams.

Why had he wanted to see her? Was he a messenger from the King? But why did he carry no letter? What was so important that someone would take his life?

He had been buried hastily, with Arthur and Gaius agreeing that the still-frail Uther shouldn’t be bothered with the news.

Gaius had also kept from Arthur that the man died with Guinevere’s name on his lips.

Arthur has too much on his mind already, she reflected, not without a pang.

Princess Mithian had arrived in Camelot the day after their discovery of the body. Guinevere had stood on the palace steps with a smattering of other courtiers, trying to ignore their hushed whispers and excited speculations. The King had been abed that day, having caught a cold in the chest, so it was Arthur who stood before his stalwart Knights, the scarlet cape draped over his magnificent shoulders, its ends stirring with the unseasonably chilly breeze. Morgana had been present also, striking in an emerald green gown with a jewelled shawl around her slender frame.

Gwen had longed for the old days, before their friendship had grown clouded with secrets and shadows, when her friend would have put a comforting arm on her shoulders, made her laugh with a bitingly witty comment. Instead it was Melwas who had stood beside her, his arm wound possessively about her waist, clad in his grey regalia.

When the princess rode in the entire courtyard grew silent, and when she raised her misty veil of golden flowers to reveal a lovely, clear-eyed face, there were not a few gasps and hums of approval.

Guinevere couldn’t see Arthur’s face, but he strode forward to welcome her, extending a courteous hand and offering murmured words of greeting. From the smile on her face, it was clear his words were pleasing.

She had felt her limbs grow heavy with ice.

She had avoided the welcome feast with the excuse of a mild indisposition, though she shrank from the cowardice of it. But even her overawed heart conceded there could be no escape tonight. The rumours flitting up and down the castle halls like fledgling birds had it that the feast tonight was in truth a betrothal feast, complete with flowers and dancing and splendid celebration.

Loath though she was to admit her own weakness, Guinevere felt ill every time she thought of the approaching night. So instead she focused her attention on the pages in front of her, glancing occasionally at the strange medallion and reflecting on the usefulness of having helped Merlin steal the forbidden volume from under Geoffrey’s nose all those weeks ago.

“Aha.”

She looked up at Gaius’ exclamation, “You found something?’

He gestured for her to join him and pointed at the page, “I assume you are familiar with the Triple Morrigan?” There it was, the same symbol that gleamed knowingly on the medallion, three ravens with interweaving wings, their bodies forming a serpentine ring.

Gwen furrowed her brow. The Triple Morrigan was known to all those who followed the Old Ways, whether in darkness or light. A shadowy brotherhood sworn to serve and protect the Dark Fire, they were indispensable allies for the High Priestesses who rejected the legacy of Avalon and sought to replace its light with the Fire of Darkness. Though they used magic and the Old Ways, those who served the Shadow Flame sought only power, and dominion over all others.

She searched her memory for the old tales, “They are said to have pledged their lives to the service of Dark Magic, though I don’t remember what the principle of three signifies.”

Gaius looked at her gravely, “The Triple Morrigan was said to be awaiting the Three, an unholy alliance of powers that would threaten the power of Avalon with destruction. Can you think of such an alliance, Gwen?” the meaning of his words dawned slow and clear on her.

“Morgana, the witch Morgause…and the child.” She remembered Angelica’s words to her two years ago.  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.

The physician sighed heavily.

“I still don’t understand, Gaius. What did that poor man want with me?”

Gaius closed the book and leaned back in his chair, “I fear this is more serious than I first suspected. If the Triple Morrigan brotherhood is here in Camelot, we’re all in grave danger.”

Unwittingly, Guinevere glanced at the medallion again, its jet-set raven eyes, and an involuntary shiver passed over her.

Gaius observed the worry on her face, “Arthur must be told. Uther is still weak, I fear he shall never raise a sword again.”

Gwen whirled to face him, “Gaius, do not tell Arthur of my part in this.  He would…” her words stuck in her throat. What would he do? Worry? Or worse, maybe he’ll do nothing, now that the beautiful Mithian is to be his bride. “I would tell him myself,” she finished.

The old man’s eyes gleamed knowingly, but he only said, “As you wish, my dear. In the meantime, do not venture anywhere unaccompanied, especially after dark,” he wagged a protective finger at her, and Gwen was touched by his fatherly protectiveness.

“I sha’n’t,” she smiled, and impulsively kissed him on the forehead, “I must go prepare for the feast.”

***

The sunlight was softening with dusk when Gwen started making her way across the courtyard. Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t see the Princess Mithian, fresh from riding, stride up to her.

“Lady Guinevere, isn’t it?” said a smooth voice.

She looked up, startled. Mithian was flushed from the exercise, her chestnut hair escaping its tight coif to flutter around her rosy cheeks. She seemed fresh-faced and eager, not at all like the icy princess Gwen had secretly, to her own shame, imagined.

“Yes,” she smiled, “I’m glad to finally meet you, your highness.”

Mithian brushed away the title and fell in step beside her, “Please, call me Mithian. I can’t stand the stuffiness we nobles impose on ourselves.”

“I apologize for my absence at the welcome feast, Mithian,” Gwen added smoothly, “I was…somewhat unwell.”

“Ah yes, Arthur seemed disappointed that I couldn’t meet you,” she went on, not noticing how Gwen’s smile faltered slightly, “He’s told me all about his visit to Eirinn, and I must confess it’s made me most curious to know more about your homeland.”

He told her all? How much? Surely he hadn’t told her about…well, surely not all?

Mithian’s light touch on her arm surprised her, and Gwen looked up into her clear face, “I apologize if my words were careless. I understand there is presently some unrest in your kingdom. It must be difficult for you.”

Her words were unadorned, her smile genuinely kind, and Guinevere felt a strange sadness. In her youthful eagerness and fresh beauty, Mithian reminded her of how Morgana had been once.

“Not at all, Mithian,” she returned the smile, “Your candour is most welcome.”

Mithian beamed, “Then we shall be friends. Very few ladies and even fewer men appreciate my so-called ‘candour’. Although the latter is not so surprising,” she added dryly, making Gwen laugh despite herself.

We could be friends. Yes. If things were different, Guinevere mused sadly. She would make a fine queen, noble and beautiful and kind. The people would love her.  Her heart clenched. Arthur would love her.

“You will be at the feast tonight then?” Mithian looked at her hopefully, “I would love to learn more about Eirinn, if it would please you to tell me.”

“It would please me greatly.”

***

“Are you feeling well, milady?” Bernadette asked softly, fastening the laces of Guinevere’s dress.

Gwen blinked, recalling her wandering thoughts, “I am, Bernadette. Forgive me, my mind is adrift it seems.”

Bernadette finished fastening her dress and fetched the comb as Guinevere sat down before the vanity, “All the maids are talking about the feast tonight. Do you really think Prince Arthur will ask for her hand?”

Gwen kept her expression calm, “I’m sure he’ll do what he thinks best.”

Bernadette gently brushed the luxuriant curls, “ I would love a Royal Wedding,” she sighed longingly, “The head cook was telling us about when his majesty wed Queen Igraine. They said it was a sight to behold.”

Gwen glanced at the single rose kept fresh on her vanity, another token from the Queen’s garden that she had plucked earlier in the day, intending to wear at the feast. 
Soon the garden would be Mithian’s prerogative, and the words Arthur had spoken there, the kisses they had stolen, would vanish like moonbeams in the quenching light of day.

Each time I faced death on the battlefield, your face was the one that flashed before my eyes. The memory of you dancing is branded in my mind like fire, you enchant me without any magic.

“Are you excited for your wedding, milady?” Bernadette put the finishing touches in her hair, “You’ll make the loveliest bride, if I may say so.”

Gwen smiled lightly, “You’re sweet, Bernadette. Thank you.”

You are so beautiful Guinevere. His words were like silk on her skin.

She stood and took a final glance in the mirror. The cornflower-blue gown was one of her favourites, with gracefully flared sleeves and a whisper of silver-white lace at the elegant neckline. She touched her fingertips to the thin chain where it disappeared into her bodice, and the ring nestled warm between her breasts was familiar enough to break her heart.

***

Arthur had never particularly cared for feasts since he became Crowned Prince. When he was younger and still a fledgling knight, feasts were merry affairs where he could drink mead with his friends and admire the pretty women. But now there were too many eyes on him, too many voices vying for his ear, too many venomous tongues poised to note his every indiscretion.

He tried to focus his attention on what Mithian was saying beside him, something about the hunting traditions of Nemeth.  He knew that the entire court expected a betrothal announcement, could sense the subtle and not so subtle glances in their direction.

It would be so easy, he mused, contemplating the lovely princess before him. She was definitely not what he had expected. Unlike most noblewomen pampered since birth, Mithian was neither vain nor simpering, but held herself with easy charm and friendliness. She was witty too, and interested in furthering her political knowledge. His father would be overjoyed. Arthur tried not to think about Uther’s lingering frailness and waning strength, realities that bore down heavily on his shoulders.

If he had met Mithian a few years ago, Arthur reflected, he would have raised no objection to the match.  If he had never set foot in Eirinn, never watched a beautiful woman’s dark hair swirling in torchlight, he would have relinquished his heart at the altar of duty without question.

He managed to nod and respond politely as Merlin served them the soup, a rich broth made from the gathered juices of roasted pig.  His manservant seemed to sense his inner turmoil and clapped a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“This looks delicious, thank you Merlin,” Mithian inclined her head graciously.

Arthur glanced over at Guinevere, her lovely throat exposed gracefully by the elegant twist of her hair. He remembered what it was like to kiss that neck, the honey-softness of her skin, the way he could feel her pulse flutter beneath his lips like bird-wings, the way her breasts rose and fell with quickened breath.

As though sensing his gaze, Guinevere caught his eyes, and suddenly the great room seemed too close, the air too warm. But she quickly schooled her features and looked away, just as Merlin tapped him on the shoulder.

“What is it, Merlin?” but the slight irritation in his voice gave way when he realized that his spoon had been dribbling soup onto his tunic. “Ah.”

“Here, let me,” Mithian dabbed at his tunic with a napkin.

Guinevere regretted her decision to steal a glance at Arthur when she saw Mithian’s disturbingly domestic ministrations. Tears threatened to prick her eyes, causing her to direct undivided attention to her soup.

The doors opened and Morgana strode in. If she was aware of her tardiness she gave no indication, beautiful and impassive as cut glass in a gown that glittered gold-white like the new moon. She nodded briefly at Gwen before taking her place beside Uther, and Merlin stepped up dutifully with the soup.

Why was she late? Gwen remembered the strange knowing child handing her the mandrake, the way she devoured the pulsing black root without hesitation, and shivered.

What was she hiding? Was she at this very moment conspiring with the Triple Morrigan to ruin Camelot?

A small and unyielding part of her refused to fully concede Morgana’s allegiance with Dark Magic, insisted on hoping for her, for the earnest and loving girl who had once been her closest confidant even though oceans rolled between them.

Even now, she hoped Angelica's words would prove unfounded.

***

After the feasting, the tables were cleared for dancing as the minstrels struck up an infectious tune. Sweet harp notes trembled in the air as Guinevere watched Arthur dance again and again with Mithian.  She had been obliged to dance with Melwas twice, but now she stood by a pillar while he conversed with Uther.

Her wish that the night would end soon was shattered when she saw Mithian heading towards her holding a somewhat hesitant Arthur by the arm.

“I’m exhausted from dancing and I noticed you’ve been quite the wallflower,” she intoned lightly, “Arthur, let me rest my feet while you take a turn with Guinevere.”

“Oh I-“ she began to protest but Mithian cut her off.

“I insist. It’s most unfair for me to keep the prince to myself all night, especially when his old friends would like a dance too.” Though her voice was light, there was something different in her tone. Before Guinevere could protest again she had walked away, gesturing for a serving girl with a tray full of glasses.

She looked up to find Arthur watching her, “If you would, lady Guinevere.”

The moment his large hand with its sword-tapered fingers enveloped hers, the room around them melted in a wash of colour.  They fit together easily, finding the rhythm without effort as she allowed herself to unwind in his arms. His hand at her waist drew her close, bare inches short of indiscreet, and his eyes pinioned her with sapphire flame.

“Arthur…what are we doing?” she whispered as they moved around the floor.

“Just dance with me, Guinevere,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving her face, “For this moment, forget everything else. Forget everything except that I’m holding you in my arms.”

She swallowed, her gaze falling unwittingly to his full lips.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he remarked, leading her easily with the swirls of music.

“Not at all.  I’ve been unwell, and I borrowed some books from Geoffery and-,”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“I don’t remember being under any obligation to see you,” she pointed out, wanting and yet dreading the end of the song.

Arthur’s lips quirked slightly as a knowing gleam lit his eyes, “You’re jealous.”

“I’m no such thing,” she retorted, and Arthur watched longingly the faint tinge of colour along her cheek and throat.

The song was reaching its end, and they took one last turn about the room.

“You should only be jealous of what you cannot have, Guinevere,” he bent to murmur in her ear, his breath teasing the wispy curls of her hair, raising gooseflesh along her neck, “And you’ve had me since the first night I saw you.”

He released her then, dropping a light kiss on her hand. They both looked around at the same time to notice that Mithian was gone. Melwas however was still very much present, and strode up to demand a dance in no uncertain terms.

Guinevere acquiesced silently, gritting her teeth at his iron grasp and oppressive closeness. How utterly different from being in Arthur’s arms, where she felt enclosed and free and desired all at once.

When at last her feet began to throb and her arms ache, she begged leave to retire, only to note that Arthur had vanished too.

Probably seeking Mithian, she msued as she made her way to her chambers. Many of the other courtiers were retiring as well, inebriated lords clinging to the arms of disgruntled ladies in their satins and silks.

She turned the corner to her chambers when a familiar hand pulled her into the moonlit shadows.

“Arthur -,”

He stopped her words with a kiss, and she resisted only a second before giving in a with a soft whimper when his arms closed around her, pulling her against him the way he had longed to when they danced.

Arthur’s mouth caressed hers hungrily, quickly deepening the kiss with his tongue while his hands travelled over her back. When at last he pulled away Guinevere was dizzy.

“I can’t do it, Guinevere,” he whispered hoarsely against her mouth, “When I think of him touching you I -,” he bit off an oath.

“But I must bear the sight of you with Mithian?’ she responded, breathless, her lips moving to his almost of their own volition.

“Damn it, Guinevere,” he growled, kissing her fiercely. She was pressed up against the wall now, arching into him helplessly as his sensuous tongue and skilful lips ravished her mouth until she could only moan softly, as though determined to express with his kiss what he couldn’t in words.

His taste was a drug, spinning through her veins, recklessly sweet.

“We shouldn’t…” she whispered, shivering when his mouth travelled over jaw, dropping butterfly kisses on her cheekbone before descending into the curve of her neck.

Arthur struggled against the arousal clouding his brain, dragging his lips away from her delicious skin to rest their foreheads together.

“I’m so tired of fighting this Guinevere,” he sighed, running a hand through her hair, “Tell me you aren’t.”

“What I am is of no consequence, Arthur. We both know that,” she untangled herself reluctantly, stepping away from him even as every ounce of her flesh cried out in protest, “Don’t make this any harder than it already is,” her voice broke softly.

Arthur looked at her then with so much naked longing that it was almost her undoing, and his thumb brushed her chin one last time, “ It’s far too late for that Guinevere. We both know that.”

“I should go. If someone finds us…”

No.

I don’t mean this.

Argue with me. 

Kiss me.

Guinevere dared not linger close to him for long.

“Goodnight Arthur.”

So what if a few tears dampened her pillow tonight? Her body and life maybe promised to another, her heart chained to duty.

But her tears, at least, would be her own.

***

She knows far too much, sister.

We can’t know for sure…

She is dangerous. We cannot afford such a risk.

What would you have me do?

What you should have done long ago.

I cannot-

Then ask him to do it. By your hand or his, Guinevere must die.

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.

Guinevere dreamt of the sea. The deep hum and crash of waves echoed all about her, but she could neither see nor smell their green glimmering bellies and flying foam hair. Through the shadow of dreaming her body ached for the sea, for the taste of salt air and smell of wild foam, to sink her feet into the cold kiss of sand and feel the west wind stream through her hair. Amid the timeless rushing of waves she heard her mother’s voice. Her face was hidden, but she could smell the cinnamon musk of her, the scent of childhood, as familiar as her own breath, surrounding her in warmth that knew only one word Home.

The sea whispered all around her as she strained to catch her Andromedhe’s words. 

My beautiful daughter, star of my sky.

Mama I need you where are you?

The waves roared, bursting into foam, and the sky darkened with the shadow wings of a great bird. Guinevere ran, faster and faster, and the sand of Eirinn's shore turned thorny with leaves like a forest floor, but the waves still surged in sonorous might. Andromedhe's voice faded behind her, the sweet low syllables of she longed to hear again, but she must keep running. Faster, faster. Her breath hitched sharp as a dagger-point, and when she grasped her side the fingers came away sticky with blood. Mud sucked at her ankles and branches thickened all around her like grasping hands. 
She was running towards something, a safe place, a seashore by moonlight, but where? The raven wings of the sky glowered and tore with lightning, a terrible flash of violet fire, and she was running hard enough to flay her feet, running as the last glimmer of light flickered in the gathering dark like a firefly.
The sea roared and sang and wept and keened and burst into despair. But she could not see.

Guinevere felt a cool cloth dab her temple as she swam drowsily up from sleep. 

Gaius?

Vague images of the physician's face came and went while she slept, tending her fever and lifting honeyed milk to her lips. The milk was surely laced with a sleeping draught. 

But this touch was different, tentative and unsure. She opened her eyes and blinked as a moon-white face came slowly to focus. Guinevere blinked again, just to make sure.

"Morgana?" she barely mouthed the words, but the other woman drew back instantly, averting her eyes.

"Do you want me to leave?"

Gwen struggled to sit up, the receding fever having left her body hollowed with hunger, "Why are you here? To finish what Melwas could not?"

"I never wanted to harm you, Gwen. Please believe me."

"Sending me to the woods so that Melwas could...could violate me and kill me, how is that not harm?" she demanded, her head beginning to throb as tears pricked her eyes.

Morgana tried to touch her hands but Gwen drew away, "It was never my intention that you should be caught in any of this. I told her I didn't want to harm you, that you were my....my friend, " Morgana's voice quavered ever so slightly, and it seemed to Gwen her mask slipped for a moment. She kept her own face impassive.

"Why does she have this hold on you, Morgana?" she leaned forward; lowering her voice "Is it because of your son?"

Green eyes flashed, “Don’t speak of him. You don’t know what-,”

“I’m trying to know, Morgana!,” Guinevere’s anger flared, “I’ve tried, time and again and yet you’ve shunned my counsel. Have you forgotten how much we risked, Merlin and Arthur and I, to aid you when you bore him? How much we risked to protect you from Uther’s wrath? Is all that worth nothing against the lies that Morgause has poisoned you with?”

Morgana stood abruptly, dropping the rag she’d been using. She touched the silver ornament at her wrist, “She is my sister, Gwen,” she said softly, “Stolen from me by Uther’s war on my people. She taught me how to allay my nightmares, how to use, not fear, my true abilities.”

“And yet this loving sister thought nothing of using your body for dark magic, of causing you untold fear and pain so she might achieve her own ends?”

“It’s not that simple. I have a destiny, Gwen. A purpose to fulfil, a reason for my powers.”

“And I stand in the way of that?” she asked quietly.

For a moment Gwen though the ensuing silence would bear fruit, that her friend would resurface.

Morgana swept to the door, purple skirts swishing, “I’ve disturbed your rest, and Gaius says you need it. I’ll trouble you no more.”

“I know you are Uther’s daughter. I know why your ‘sister’ wanted me dead.”

Morgana’s white hand paused at the door handle, and she turned slightly so Gwen could barely see her enamel profile against the twilight shadows of her hair. 

“You must not air this knowledge carelessly, Gwen,” she turned the door handle, “The next time, I might not be able to save you.”

And she slipped out quiet as shadow.

Gwen recalled a moment two years ago, when Morgana had woken her distraught by the unnatural speed of her pregnancy, a young woman by a moonlit window, afraid and vulnerable and resolute, the great web of their enmeshed destinies poised in anticipation.

Where did choice end and fate begin? Or were they but threads of one rope, spanning not a web but an intractable net?

***

I am ready Mother.

How can you be sure?

The moon, the water, the leaves.

What if you’re wrong?

The ancient signs do not lie.

It’s too soon. We need more time.

My time is now.

***

Guinevere glanced in the mirror. Two days after Morgana had visited her, she was fully recovered, if somewhat restless. Her cheek was no longer swollen, and the sleepless lines beneath her eyes were fading, but her hair was grass-dry and tangled, and her skin itched. The woman in the glass looked small and fragile, a shell washed ashore. She felt as though a lifetime had rushed through her in the last few weeks. 

When Bernadette brought in her supper of fresh bread with some sugared fruit and meat,  she fell upon the fare ravenously. The last effects of the sleeping draught had faded, leaving her hungry and light-headed.

Bernadette made up the bed as she ate, “ It was sad to see her leave.”

“Who?” Guinevere spoke through a mouthful of bread and blueberries, cutting into her meat.

“Princess Mithian, milady. She left Camelot the morning after Prince Arthur found you in the forest.”

Gwen caught herself quickly and effected nonchalance, even as her heart did a little bird-skip, “Really?”

“I was watching from the east windows, milady, before Old Celie whacked me on the ear for neglecting my chores,” she chuckled, “She didn’t whack me too hard, not old Celie. She was curious too, if you ask me. Oh she scolds us younger girls like an old hen, but she means no harm.”

”Did Prince Arthur see her off?” Gwen asked casually, trying to redirect Bernadette’s attention.

“Yes milady, but I heard from Violet the scullery maid whose sister is married to Sir Leon’s squire that there’s been no betrothal.”

“No betrothal?” her heart leaped.

“No m’lady. There’s to be peace with Nemeth, but no wedding,” she lamented, “Pity, I’d have so loved to see a Royal wedding -,” she paused abruptly, causing Gwen to turn.

“What is it, Bernadette?”

The maid worried her lower lip, “Apologies milady. I shouldn’t speak of…that is to say, with Lord Melwas in the dungeons and all…”

Gwen felt some of the elation ebb away, and thoughts swept down on her like the shadow wings of her dream. Gaius had dispatched a message to King Peadar on her behalf, informing him of Melwas’ betrayal. Were the hills of Eirinn torn with war, its people fled and murdered? What would become of the Kingship, now that she could no longer wed Melwas? What would become of her?

The day Prince Arthur found you in the forest.

Arthur had not visited during her recovery, but the roses at her table attested to his concern. She remembered running through the rain swept forest in her dream. If safety and comfort eluded her in sleep, she would grasp it with open arms when awake.

 A soft mantle of certainty settled on her.

She wiped her hands and spoke kindly to the flustered Bernadette, asking her to draw a bath. 
When the steaming water lapped her shoulders Guinevere groaned, sinking into the tub. She let her head fall back, sinking deep, watching the light blur and melt. Her hair floated like dark seaweed as the deep hush of water filled her ears. She closed her eyes and conjured the taste of salt, the taste of the sea.
Among her mother's people it was common to bathe in the sea during times of tribulation as well as celebration: the Great Water could anoint and comfort, soothe and strengthen in equal measure.

Bernadette brought her a smooth river-stone and Gwen scrubbed vigorously until her skin sang fresh and taut, then lay back while the young maid tended her hair. Bernadette softly dried the damp curls and massaged them with lavender oil before braiding the way Gwen had shown her. The braided hair would drink the fragrant oil so when loosened its hyacinth curls would spring lush and fresh.
While she braided, Guinevere crushed the roses between her palms, watching the petals flutter to the water like delicate tears of blood, and their waxy perfume mingled with the scented oil and steaming water. She wanted to forget the metallic taste of fear, the shadowy leaf odor of pursuit and violence. 

She dressed slowly while the dusk light sunk into deep twilight blue, rubbing more lavender oil into her skin, savouring the warm slick fragrance. Her long braid brushed the curve above her buttocks soft as a kiss when she walked to her mirror. For the first time in a long while Guinevere surveyed her naked body, the slope of breast and stomach, the round curve of hip and the dark curls over her sex, her skin smooth and placid with coppery shadows. The bodies of men often wore their stories boldly, in knotted scars over ruined flesh; they were marks of honor, battle-wounds of which the minstrels would sing. 
The scars of women are hidden from the world's eyes, she mused, thinking of her mother's secrets, and Morgana's fire dreams, Yet they run deep and dark as ravines.

Guinevere imagined Arthur's sword-roughened hands on her flesh, dwarfing her curves with their touch, and a slow moist pang shivered low in her belly.

"Milady?" Bernadette interjected meekly, "Would you like to dress?"

The chemise fell like mist over her warm flesh, then her favorite corset with the embroidered forget-me-nots. Her dress was warm purple silk, soft and deep as the evening sky. Gwen touched the ring at her breast with a smile, slipping it into her bodice.

***

Arthur's neck ached from craning over scout reports during supper, and now Sir Leon was informing him that Cendred's men were spotted raiding some of the northeastern villages. The prince scowled; Cendred was a heartless tyrant, but he had long since realized the unprofitability of raiding Camelot's territories. Perhaps word had reached him of Uther's frail health.
It seemed he would have no choice but to ride out with his Knights and secure those borders. He rubbed his tired eyes while issuing instructions to Leon. They would leave at first light, marshall the northern garrisons by the Valley of Nyerne and oust the raiders. 

He sensed her presence even before the soft footfall reached his ears. She stepped out of the shadows, dusky and warm as a summer evening. The glow of her almond eyes brought a soft smile to his face, almost unwittingly, and his earlier listlessness fled before a newer, sweeter energy.

Sir Leon, discreet as always, masked his grin, "Will that be all, sire?"

"Hmm?" Arthur gathered himself, "Yes. Ensure the men are prepared for a long day's riding. We'll need extra mounts too. Merlin?"

"Yes?" the slender young man piped, somewhat peevishly. It had been a long day for everyone.

"Inform the stable-master of our plans. And Merlin? Do endeavor not to spend the entire night at the tavern. I won't have you falling off your horse before we leave the courtyard."

"I have never fallen off my horse!"

"Well don't start now then."

Merlin grinned at Gwen on his way out, leaning down to whisper, "It's a wonder he doesn't fall off his horse more. Can't decide what's fatter, his bottom or his head."

She bit back a giggle, nodding respectfully at Sir Leon as he, too left to carry out the Prince's orders.

"Guinevere," Arthur stood, the long riding coat sweeping dust at his boot-heels and making him appear even taller. 
For all her rush of certainty, Gwen felt suddenly flustered as his broad-shouldered form closed the distance between them. Strands of gold hair fell carelessly across his brow.

"I was hoping we might...talk. That is, if you aren't busy, and if you would like to...," she trailed off, glancing away from those full lips. Her hand itched to trace the strong line of his jaw. After her week of fevered sleep, Arthur seemed so golden with virile life it made her dizzy.

He smiled lightly and took her hand, tugging her outside the hall. Torches flared bright when they reached the exterior hallways opening to the courtyard. Arthur turned and captured her mouth in a deep and thirsty kiss, drawing her flush against his powerful legs. Guinevere responded in kind, clinging to his shoulders as the soft sleeves fell away from her bare arms. To be with him in this way, without fear or guilt, was potent as mulled wine. 

Arthur broke the kiss, running his lips along the throat within the rich and fragrant shadows of her hair. She was soft and lush as a garden, her full breasts crushed against his chest, driving him to distraction. He had no doubt she could sense his hardening desire through the soft whisper of her silk gown. 

"You're trembling, Guinevere," he murmured. 
He had felt her shaking in his arms once before, on a stormy night in Eirinn when shadows with golden eyes haunted the windows of a seaside cottage. But it wasn't fear that she trembled from now.

"Take me away from here, Arthur," she whispered, soft fingertips teasing his nape. An hour, a day, a lifetime. 

He drew back to look in her eyes, those glimmering depths drinking the light. Be alone with her after nightfall? Away from the prying eyes of the castle? Did he dare trust himself? Vague, disapproving voices rose to mind: his father, Gaius, Morgana. 
But Guinevere was staring up at him with such perfect trust, and two years of burgeoning desire, of curbing his willful heart, had frayed his resolve beyond recognition. Just a few hours, he reasoned with himself. I'm a Knight, damn it. What use is the Knight code if I can't restrain myself?

"There's a small meadow, beyond the lower town. I used to play there as a child."

She nodded and he led her to the stables. Gwen watched silently as he saddled his stallion Silver. The great animal gave an impatient shake of his head, its liquid eyes glowing. Arthur helped her mount, her feet dangling to one side, then hopped on nimbly behind her.  The stars were blinking awake when they rode off, the grass fresh with dew. Guinevere rested against Arthur's chest, the spicy masculine scent of him curling in her nostrils. She imagined hot bathwater trickling down the contours of muscle, slicking the ridged abdomen to drip lower, between his hips...Heat flooded her face, equal parts shyness and desire. She twisted her head to kiss above the loose ties of his tunic, opening her mouth to let a tentative yet hungry tongue taste his skin. Taking advantage of her position, Gwen wriggled herself closer, so the curve of her rump rested squarely between his thighs.
Her head swam with exhilaration.

Arthur groaned, "Are you trying to get us thrown from the horse?" What on earth...does she realize what she's doing to me?

Beyond the castle walls and past the lower town, he clicked his heels and Silver took off galloping. Guinevere clung to the pommel in delight as the horse's speed raced through her loose hair. She wanted to ride forever, beyond the starry mantle of the sky, on to the edge of the world.

"Whoa, Silver. Whoa…," the stallion slowed to a trot when gravely pathways gave way to a lush grassy riverbank, shadow-dappled with oak trees and starlight. She was still caught in the rush of the ride when Arthur leaped off and pulled her down into his arms, covering her mouth with his.

I'm going to pay for teasing him earlier, she thought wildly as he pushed her up against a tree, wanton excitement racing through her veins. The kiss was hot and sweet, his tongue and scent and taste all crushed between her lips and nose. His hands rested just beneath her breasts and Guinevere arched suggestively against him, unable to hide her gasp at the feel of his iron length. He groaned and dragged his lips away, and she brushed the falling hair off his temple. 

"Guinevere," he husked, "What are we-," her fingers stopped his words, lightly touching his lips.

"Arthur...,” her eyes rose to his, simmering with the pure determination he knew so well, “…make me forget, everything...who we are, the weight of our lives...please," she dropped feather light kisses at the top of his chest, fingertips skimming his chest. With a stifled oath he kissed her hungrily, her sweet wet tongue meeting his as he let his hands roam the curves of her breasts and hips, adoring the round swell of her bottom that had driven him to madness on the horse. Forget, yes, oh god, if remembering means not touching you Guinevere I would forget everything I am.

Guinevere let her head fall back, allowing him easier access to the sensitive skin of her throat. Surely he could hear the runaway flutter of her pulse. His mouth hovered over the swell of her breast, and he licked his lips, turning her insides molten. One hand played questioningly with the laces at her back, then tugged them loose at her whispered assent. Arthur, who was no stranger to undressing women, nevertheless felt himself grown clumsy with a haze of desire. When at last the bodice slipped off, the chemise gave way like petals, freeing her beautiful breasts to the night air.  
Gwen heard him suck a sharp breath through his teeth, but when his hands covered the soft mounds she moaned, her eyes fluttering shut as desire pooled liquid in her womb.

Arthur's mouth covered a dark nipple; the flesh already taut with anticipation, and Guinevere keened softly, hands fisted in his hair. He rolled the tight bud over his tongue, ghost touching with his teeth, then turned his attention to the other breast until her skin glowed damp with heat and she was panting. 

He was fast losing his grip on sanity, drunk on the honey warmth of her skin. Kissing between her breasts, he bent slightly and bunched up the soft skirts, sighing when his hands travelled the bare legs and smooth thighs. She shivered, but didn't push away his hands. Arthur ran a slow finger up her inner thigh, groaning at the slickness there. She was bare underneath her skirt and chemise, bare and silken-wet. His senses reeled.

"We should stop," he whispered against her mouth, but his hand kept stroking her sweet thigh, "It isn't proper that I should..." he cleared his throat, "I want you to be mine, Guinevere, before the eyes of gods and men, undisputed and unquestioned."

His eyes were dark as midnight skies. Guinevere twisted the slender chain around her neck for him to see. He recognized the ring instantly, as clear as the day he pressed it into her palm

"This has never left me, not since the moment you gave it to me," she said quietly, stroking his cheekbone with her thumb, "The gods know, and men can wait." She kissed him then, and he felt her mouth shape words against his, "I love you, Arthur Pendragon, and I have always been yours."

Like a key turning a lock, her words undid the last shreds of his resolve.

***

“Gaius, you’re talking in riddles,” Merlin complained, tugging off his dung-covered boots, “What does any of this have to do with Morgana and the Triple...the Triple thing.”

Gaius glanced sternly at the young warlock before pushing the book across the table, “The eclipse is coinciding with the seasonal change from spring to summer. This has not happened in a hundred years. The High Priestesses call it The Great Cusp.”

Merlin frowned, “You think Morgana is trying to do something? Kill Uther again or  - ,”

“I’m afraid it’s far more serious, Merlin. The Cusp is a powerful magick hour, you will feel it in your bones. The veils between worlds are thinner, easier for dark things to slip through. I have no doubt the Three have been planning this for some time.”

“How do we know for sure?”

“We have a brother of the Triple Morrigan right here in the dungeons. If anyone might know, it’s him.”

***

Guinevere drank in the sight of him, the sculpted muscle of chest and abdomen, powerful shoulders silhouetted in the secret moonlight. His tunic lay in a heap by her dress, and she lay on his riding coat as Arthur kneeled above her. Her eyes travelled lower, to the unmistakeable bulge straining against his breeches, and a small flicker of nervousness brushed her.

Arthur lowered himself, leaning one an arm while he traced his fingers up the smooth expanse of her belly. He dropped soft kisses on her lower belly, then brushed butterfly strokes with his tongue that made her gasp.

“Are you afraid, Guinevere?” he kissed the corner of her mouth, then her jaw, achingly tender. It took every ounce of his strength not to spread her silken thighs and bury himself in her there and then. The thought of her wet tightness sheathing his cock while his mouth lavished her breasts was unbearable. He hadn’t been with a woman for over two years, not, in fact, since before he left for Eirinn.  He had tried, once or twice. There were plenty of pretty young village maids willing to warm the Prince’s bed. But ever since that torchlit night when he’d first looked on Guinevere, her dark hair rippling like shadows in the music of her dance, she became the changeless shape of desire haunting his nights. Other women failed to rouse his passion, but alone in his chambers the thought of her flashing dark eyes and swelling breasts stoked his dreams as urgently as he stroked himself. He worried that his lust would culminate too soon, before she could feel pleasure too.

“No,” she said in a small voice, kissing his shoulder, “Just…un-taught,” she let her hand trace his abdomen, stroking lightly, grazing with her nails, learning the texture of his skin, lingering just above his breeches. Arthur watched the progress of her hand, his breathing laboured. She hesitated for a moment, then brushed the erect length of him through the soft deer-skin, before grasping him fully, feeling him hot and hard. His eyes half-closed, and his hips dipped towards her touch. Emboldened, she started to undo the lacings.

Arthur her palm, drawing it up with a kiss, “We shall go no further than you wish, my love.”

For a second she flashed back to that dark forest, and Melwas’ paws ripping at her bodice, her helpless choking fear.  Maybe it was how close she had come to death, or to the crude violation of her body, but she was weary of shadows and fear and shackled longing. Her flesh yearned to drink deep of desire, emptying the cup until her blood swam with it.

Arthur watched her, passion and tenderness warring in his eyes, and she drew his mouth down to hers, offering her tongue and lips hungrily while her fingers tugged at his fastenings. When she wrapped her hand around his length, feeling the hot firm girth of him, he moaned against her mouth. Following instinct she began to stroke him, softly at first then more vigorously, while his own hand wandered up her thigh, fingers brushing her damp curls and moistened folds.

“Oh…,” she gasped when his touch stroked her wetness, shooting bolts of sensation down her spine. All her fevered imaginings when she had rubbed herself to empty fulfilment were but ash and dust before the pure kindling fire of his touch against her sex.

“Shall I stop?” he husked in her ear, nibbling the earlobe

“No…no, please,” she begged, her soft whimpers deepening to a moan when he slid a slow finger inside her. Guinevere bucked against his hand, and his thumb found the soft pearl at the apex of her folds, rubbing lazy circles while his fingers slid slowly in and out.

Watching her pant and writhe with pleasure was pure sweet torture. He could sense her release close as new moisture trickled hot against his hand. Arthur increased his pace, adding another finger while his thumb rubbed feverishly at her tight nub.

Her grip on his arm tightened desperately as the sensation started unfurling at her core like a thousand fluttering petals, velvet and pure heat, and a soft cry burst from her lips as pleasure shuddered through her.

Arthur withdrew his hand as her trembling subsided and waited till her melted-almond eyes slowly opened.  Without gazing away, she slowly grasped his length and guided him between her legs. Arthur swore softly when the head of his member brushed her soaked sex, and he edged forward gently.

Guinevere let herself relax as his length nudged in, but when he pushed forward a few more inches her body drew itself up tensely.

Arthur felt her stiffen and bent to kiss her, using his tongue to explore and tease her mouth. “I won’t move until you tell me,” he murmured,

She nodded against his shoulder and lifted her hips cautiously to take more of him, gritting her teeth at the pain. He groaned as her silken heat sheathed him, his own desire stoked to a feverish height, “Guinevere…,” he groaned. Arthur slid a hand beneath her backside and lifted her gently, still holding back. Her warm eyes met his, and Arthur felt time expand and shrink like a web of spun-silk, moments weaving and twisting one into the other, from the drumbeat of a woman’s dancing feet, to the flash of swords to the surging of the sea and the blood-gleam of another man’s jewels around the throat of the woman he loved, and the jewel-red roses his mother had planted when he still dreamt in the womb.

Choice was an arrow shot through the crystal sky of destiny, he knew that now, and his entire body quivered poised as though his entire being would speed free across that sky.

Guinevere nodded slowly, and he lowered himself into her, sinking into a warm sucking sea. She gasped as he filled her, clenching her eyes against the pain. He started to move then, gently and caressingly, and slowly through the burning softened and melted into something decadently warm, laced with the sweetest sharp edge of pain.

Arthur buried his face in her neck, “Guinevere….oh,” his hips started to pump faster, fingers digging into her thighs. He filled her completely, and as he kept moving his length brushed an aching centre somewhere inside her she didn’t know she could feel, and the rippling tightening pleasure built again. Arthur lowered himself so he rubbed against her weak spot and Guinevere clenched her legs around his waist, wanting more, more.

“Arthur…,” she gasped, hips moving furiously as the sweet sensation took her again, deeper this time and moving through her in deep currents. Arthur could hold back no more, and his thrusts grew swifter, harder, deeper still, as though he could transcend the barriers of their flesh and fuse himself with her. He cried out her name in the moonlight, his body shaking with the violence of his release, and Guinevere felt the warmth of his seed fill her.

His head dropped against her shoulder, breathing wet and hard, and Guinevere stroked the damp hair at his nape, as the last waves of pleasure ebbed from her.

The scent of grass and wildflowers had never seemed so sweet, nor the stars so achingly beautiful.

***

“What do you want.” Melwas sulked in the corner of the dungeon, wary as cornered animal.

“The truth,” Merlin stated, “What are they planning, your Priestesses?”

A strange shaking took over the hunched form, and Merlin realized it was laughter.

“I warn you,” Merlin felt the magic surge in his eyes, but he blinked it away, “I have the ear of the prince, I can-,”

“You can what?” Melwas stood suddenly, like a serpent uncoiling himself. His pale face was splotched with bruises and grime, his brow purplish from where Arthur had slammed it against a tree, “Your prince does not frighten me, boy,” he spat.

Merlin cocked his head, “Who frightens you then?”

He staggered towards him, reeking of stale sweat and blood, “Its you who should be frightened, servant. You and every piteous soul who bends a knee to the Pendragon line.”

In the semi-darkness Merlin caught the gleam of his teeth in a humourless smile, “They are coming. They are coming to claim what’s theirs.””

***

Guinevere never quite remembered their ride back to the castle, enwrapped as she was in a daze of contented joy. Arthur stopped outside of her chambers, enfolding her in his arms again with a long, slow kiss.

“I’m so afraid,” she breathed when they parted, “ Afraid I will wake up to find I dreamed this night.”

Arthur kissed her temple softly, brushing away stray curls, “I will send a message to your King tomorrow, asking for your hand.”

Her eyes widened, not daring to believe in elusive hope, “What of your father…? And the courtiers - ,”

His mouth captures hers again, so sweetly the tears melted in her eyes, “ I allowed you to be torn away from me once, Guinevere.  By the blood in my veins I swear it shall not happen again.”

Lips crashed together once more, and he suckled her mouth with renewed hunger, feeling the familiar stir in his loins. Arthur wanted her again.

Soon, he told himself, soon we will share a bed, a home, a life.

He drew away reluctantly, pressing a gentle kiss to her palm, “Goodnight, Guinevere.”

***

Guinevere was unsurprised when the summons came. The guards wore dark grey like all the others, their faces smooth and pitiless as stone, their eyes full black and lidless.

She masked her fear and rose from her seat by the window.

“The lady Morgause wishes an audience with you,” the taller guard spoke, and his voice sent a shiver through her: it was deep and harsh and cold like nothing human.

“Very well. There shall be no need for violence, I come willingly,” she swept forward, head held high. You are a daughter of the sea, of those who live in Avalon’s light. You shall not be afraid.

One sentinel opened the door for her to pass, as graceful as any nobleman gesturing for his lady. Somehow it made him even more terrifying.

The hallways were silent, lined with more grey-clad watchers. Here and there she spotted a stain of blood, the shred of a crimson Knight’s cloak. But there were no bodies, no evidence of the massacre from two days ago.

They had come in the night, sweeping down upon the sleeping city. Some said they flew over the walls on raven wings, but touched earth as men. Others said their blood was black feathers, and that they felt no pain. They had cut and burned their way through the lower towns, slaughtering the startled garrisons, and finally storming the citadel with torches of unholy fire.

As she approached the Great Hall, Guinevere wandered if Arthur was safe, if he was alive. The thought of him lying dead was a slowly tightening noose about her heart, darkening her every breath with despair.

He can’t be dead! He’s alive, I know he is. If he is gone from the world, I would have felt it.

Now more than ever their stolen night in the meadow seemed a fading dream.

She recalled the morning he had left with his cadre of Knights, the morning after they made love for the first time.

She had arisen early, knowing they would leave at first light. Reluctant to wake Bernadette, she had hastily washed her face and pulled on her dress from the night before. The laces evaded her impatient fingers, and so instead she merely put on Arthur’s riding coat that he’d wrapped around her on the ride back. The sleeves hung well past her arms, but she had been too blissfully happy to care about such things.

The Knights were gathered in the courtyard when she edged cautiously out. Gwen spotted Arthur at once, moving lightly about the horses. She saw him clap Percival laughingly on the shoulder, before he caught sight of her and leapt lightly up the stairs.

“Nice coat,” he remarked casually, with a half-cocked smile, the early light glancing easily off his hair.

Suddenly she felt her face grow warm, remembering how she had bucked and writhed in his arms just a few hours ago, moaning his name beneath unblinking stars. Surely it was written all over her.

She lowered her eyes but Arthur tilted her chin gently, and she smiled up at him shyly, her prince, her lover, and the lines of his strong, handsome face that were stamped upon her heart.

“I’ll return before the new moon,” he said softly, “And we can announce our betrothal with a feast.”

Gwen had felt a joy so deep it trembled with something like fear. Could it really be? Would fate finally concede them this, after all the years and criss-crossed chances?

“Be careful, Arthur,” she put a hand on his arm, barely feeling the hard swell of muscle beneath jerkin and chainmail. She prayed to the gods that every link would hold firm in his protection.

He had kissed her then, full on the mouth, and she forgot they stood in view of the courtyard, dressed in his coat with her hair barely braided while the crown Prince of Camelot embraced her before his Knights. Arthur parted her lips and a longing sigh slipped from her unbidden.

When they parted she thought she heard someone mutter, “No wonder he’s been so cheerful all morning.” Probably Gwaine.

Arthur brushed a curl from her face, “Don’t let yourself be betrothed off while I’m gone,” he teased.

“Don’t be gone too long then, milord,” she returned, smiling too.

He had laughed and kissed her on the temple. A husbandly gesture.

And then he was off, riding into the dawn with the Knights streaming behind like wisps of crimson flame.

The hall was lined with torches, and their eerie red light bathed the room, turning every movement into a whisper of shadows. The unblinking sentries were everywhere, their unsheathed swords dancing with firelight.

Guinevere straightened her shoulders as she approached the throne. Two cold heavy hands pushed on her shoulders, forcing her to kneel.

“Rise.”

The golden witch stood on the dais, her red silk dress glimmering like blood, her face as cold and beautiful as new forged steel.

Morgana sat on the throne, clad in deep purple satin that pooled beside her feet, her ears and throat and wrists encrusted with emeralds green as her eyes. Beside her stood the child, except he was taller than Guinevere remembered, closer to twelve years old, and his wide grey eyes drank the red light, watching, waiting, never blinking.

The Three…an unholy alliance of powers that would threaten the power of Avalon with destruction. Gaius’ words came back faintly.

Morgause approached her slowly, “ So we finally meet, Guinevere of Eirinn. You should be dead, yet my sister has an unfortunate weakness for you. She imagines you a friend.”

“I am her friend,” she said quietly.

Morgause’s eyes flashed gold, “No slave of Avalon is a friend to us, especially those who align themselves with the Pendragons.”

“Do you deny your enmity to our cause?” she prodded when Gwen remained silent.

“I oppose any who seek to darken Avalon’s light.”

Morgause sighed, almost as though disappointed, “You might have been a Queen, a consort for our brother Melwas. The Shadow Flame would have burned from Camelot to the shores of Eirinn, and our power reigned across the seas. You could have sat at that table, Guinevere of Eirinn. You can sit there still.”

Guinevere forced her voice not to tremble, “You have no claim to Camelot until Arthur is dead.”

Please gods don’t let him be dead. Please please please let him be alive…let me see him again…

Morgause’s smile was cold, “Oh he will be, foolish girl. When Mordred opens his heart on the Great Cusp, and the blood of Avalon washes the courtyard stones, yes he will die. And with his death, a new age will awaken, when we overthrow the tyranny of Uther and the feeble light of your dying Isle, and powers of Flame and Shadow shall walk the world in flesh once more.”

He’s alive! I knew it. Merlin will protect him. Merlin knows of the Three…

But could Merlin aid Arthur without revealing his own powers?

She affected a calm she did not feel, “If I am so useless to you, why am I still alive?”

In a rustle of skirts Morgana swept off the throne and stood beside her, “Gwen, this is your chance. Forget Arthur, forget Merlin, join us and we can be sisters united, as we always were.”

Gwen looked in the face of the woman she loved as a sister, and then at the unblinking boy with his red-grey eyes. Revulsion mixed with pity and anger coursed through her veins.

If I defy them now, they’ll kill me. To join them is unthinkable…but if I lived long enough for Arthur to save Camelot…there’s hope yet. Merlin’s magic is strong, Gaius said so himself.

She forced a smile, “ Sisters. I have always been loyal to you, Morgana, you know that.” There was a challenge in her voice, and uncertainty flickered for the briefest moment in Morgana’s eyes. Then it was gone, and she smiled brilliantly.

“Oh, this is wonderful Gwen” she embraced her,  “And on the eve of my coronation. Nothing could be more perfect.”

Coronation?

“Where is the King?”

Morgause gestured meaningfully towards the balcony, “Come with us, Guinevere. “

There were more guards by the railings, and a dark-haired warlord whom Gwen didn’t know. Morgause slid a knowing hand down his arm as the sentries moved aside, murmuring in his ear.

“Cendred, at your service,” he mock bowed to Guinevere. His voice was slick as honey. A dangerous man, she thought. Dangerous and deceptive.

“I’m afraid his men are what drew your prince away from the kingdom at such a vulnerable time,” Morgause informed her, indicating the unblinking sentries, “Aren’t they charming? Cendred has many uses, as did Melwas.”

Another brother of the Triple Morrigan then.

But there was something in the middle of the courtyard. Morgause urged her forward, and Guinevere gasped. A pyre had been built, higher than any she had seen, and tied to the centre, crownless, bare-headed in a stained nightshirt, was Uther Pendragon, Lord and Sovereign of Camelot.

And Guinevere understood what the nature of Morgana’s coronation would be. She looked on the King, his face oddly still; his eyes unseeing, and she tried to feel anger, to feel righteous rage. She thought of all the men and women and children he had put to the torch, the endless villages dispersed, families broken.

“Don’t you think it fitting?” Morgana leaned over, while two sentries led a pale Geoffrey of Monmouth forward with a crown of purple jewels, “Ever since I was a girl, he made me stand here and watch while innocent people died at his command. I still hear them screaming at night, their faces haunt my dreams.”

Guinevere tried to feel Morgana’s anger, the righteous rage so she could prepare herself for what was coming. But all she felt was pity, pity and a heart-sick sorrow.

“He is your father, Morgana,” she said simply, “ His face will haunt you too.”

Morgause glanced sharply at her, but Morgana only smiled, “And I shall sleep better than I have slept all those years under his roof.”

She turned to the courtyard and Mordred walked up beside her.

“Begin,” he called out. His voice was a whisper of ice, low and dark as a shadow.

More grey-clad guards approached the pyre with their red torches, and Geoffrey was bidden to raise the crown above Morgana’s head. At her nod the pyre was lit, a cry of despair went up among the captive Knights and guards herded into the courtyard.

Smoke rose from the wood, and the flames roared to life, until Uther was a small lonely speck among an island of fire. A terrible charred smell rose, wrapped in grey smoke.

He started screaming then, and Guinevere turned her head, “For god’s sake Morgana…”

But the face that stared down at the pyre was not the face Guinevere knew from her girlhood, the face of a young girl frightened but brave, the face of a young woman tender but stubborn. This was a Queen as still as marble, as pure as ice, as implacable as fire.

The screaming had become howls of animal pain, guttural and inhuman, and the fire roared mercilessly as the crown was set upon Morgana’s head.

Spirits of the Light, I beg you! Protect Arthur and guide Merlin.

Guinevere closed her eyes tight and stopped her ears, but those terrible sounds bled though.

The throne room was barely recognizable. Strange red torches burned ceaselessly at the windows, bloodying the thin moonlight and casting clawed shadows. The brilliant red-and-gold banners of House Pendragon were no more; Morgause had them piled high and burned in the courtyard by Uther's charred corpse, and the sullen smoke choked the sky for almost two days.

New banners bedecked the room now, black with a crimson tree whose branches and root-tips curled like flame. Guinevere approached the throne with a queasy nervousness in her throat. The new Queen was dressed in scarlet silk, rubies and garnets drinking blood-light at sleeves and bodice. Morgana was even paler than usual, pure icy enamel, save for the feverish green eyes and crimson lips. Glassy white hands curled over the throne arms. There was no flicker of humor or vulnerability in her countenance, only the cold pure gleam of steel.

"You summoned me, your majesty," Guinevere bowed.

When she looked up she saw that another man stood by Cendred at the dais, his face mottled with bruising and his hair straggled. But the serpentine gleam of his eyes was unmistakeable: Melwas. She could feel the anger simmering off him in waves.

"Bring out the prisoner," Morgause called, and Gwen turned, watching in horror as two guards half-dragged Gaius the length of the hall. His robes were tattered and blood-flecked, and blood dripped from above his eye. 

The guards flung him before the throne and he fell to his knees with a muffled grunt of pain.

"What is the meaning of this?" Gwen demanded, "What has he done?"

Morgause's eyes glittered, "You dare to question your Queen?"

Morgana rose from the throne, "This man has been found a traitor, and must suffer the consequences," she stood before the physician, "Do you deny the charge of treason?"

"It is-," Gaius' voice cracked hoarse with pain, "It is no treason, to serve Camelot."

Morgana's hand lashed his face swift as a scourge, her rings cutting the flesh,  “Foolish old man. I am Camelot. And you have never served me."

"I looked after you...since you were a child I've protected -," 

"Protected?" Morgana laughed high and cold, "You lied to me! Drugged me with sleeping droughts when I came to you alone and afraid. You tried to drown my magic in lies and potions, like a sickness."

"I was trying to protect you from those who would use you," he glanced briefly at Morgause, " And I failed. I failed utterly."

Morgana's lip twitched, "You did fail me. All of you. And now you conspire against me."

Morgause sidled over, "Do you deny helping the two Knights escape?"

"I don't deny serving Camelot."

"Do you deny conspiring with the sorcerer Emyrs?" Morgause's eyes flashed gold. Gwen kept her eyes down.

So the child doesn't remember Emrys. Merlin's secret is safe!...for now.

"I served Camelot," the physician reiterated. 

"Then he has confessed," Morgause concluded sharply, and turned to her sister.

Morgana gestured for Mordred, who had sat watching with his unblinking eyes. Guinevere felt a cold wash of fear when he approached and bade her take the dagger from his hands. She unsheathed it, a beautiful thing for a weapon, with a handle encrusted in pearl and moonstone.

His eyes watched her, so much like Morgana's, yet colder, deeper, inhuman.

"Slit his throat," Mordred whispered.

Guinevere blinked, thinking she had misheard, but when she raised her eyes Morgause and Morgana watched her expectantly.

The golden witch smiled, "The Queen asks for a display of loyalty. Kill the old man and we shall know you are indeed one of us."

"Morgana-,"

"You will address your Queen with respect!" Morgause snapped.

Melwas stepped forward, "She might display her loyalty by honoring her pledge to me, your majesty," he bowed, "I was robbed of my right to her by Arthur Pendragon."

Morgause laughed sharply and grabbed Guinevere's chin, forcing her to look up into her lance-sharp eyes. 
 "Really, Melwas, you're a bigger fool than I thought." Something like amusement tugged the hard beauty of her face, "This one's had her flower plucked already, and I can practically smell it on her. A Pendragon whore to the last, is what she is."

She caught the flicker of rage in Melwas' face before Morgana cut in.

"Enough." The Queen kept her eyes on Gaius, "Do it, Gwen. If you were ever my friend, do it." And two men twisted Gaius around so he faced her, pulling back his head so Gwen could see his exposed throat, the loose folds of skin and the apple bobbing with each swallow.

"If you were ever my friend you would not ask me for this," she pleaded, "Morga - your majesty, please. He's an old man, what harm can he do?"

Morgana was silent, and for a desperate moment Gwen dared to hope. Then those green eyes met hers, glass-bright.

"He's done harm enough already. Do it, or you'll both join my beloved father on the pyre."

Guinevere glanced about her, caught Cendred's cold leer and Melwas' glare, saw the light pouring blood-colored through the windows. The dagger was sharp, she could tell from the way it caught the light. But even if she managed to stab a guard, there were too many. They would overpower her easily, and she and Gaius would die anyway.

Think Guinevere, think! What would Arthur do?

"The Queen does not have all day," Morgause informed threateningly.

Suddenly a shadow darkened the room, sweeping across the windows. When it was gone a chorus of screams and screeches rose in the air, and bright fire flashed in the sky.

"Dragonfire!" she heard the witch gasp, and Gwen's heart leaped in her throat. Merlin! and maybe Arthur too...

Chaos erupted. Gwen and the physician were forgotten as Morgause snapped orders and the grey-clad sentinels hurried silently out. More screams reached them, and the fire flashed again. Morgana took her son in hand and hurried out, flanked by Cendred.

"Get the Queen to safety," she heard Morgause cry, " Leave the dragon to me."

The throne room emptied save for her and Gaius. She grasped his shoulders, "Gaius, Gaius! Can you walk? We have to-,"

A hand seized her shoulder and yanked her away, sending her sprawling. The dagger clattered across the floor.

"Did you think I had forgotten you, my sweet?" Melwas whispered.  Gwen writhed away but he grasped her ankle and pinned her elbow to the ground, "Crawling to your prince? I'm afraid he really won't disturb us this- - you little bitch!" he swore when she kicked with her other foot, catching his face on the half-healed bruise. His grip loosened on her elbow and she almost succeeded in dragging herself away, but he was on her like a snake, wrenching her around violently so his breath soured in her face.  Gwen struggled desperately, trying to claw at his face, but his body pinioned hers and he restrained her wrists easily with one hand. She felt his knee wedged between her skirts, forcing her thighs apart, and his free hand roamed her body greedily, squeezing at her breast and hip.

"Is this what you like, treacherous slut? Is this how your Prince touched you?" he snarled above her, "Not so eager now are you?"
 
Before she could think, two arms locked around Melwas' neck, and Gaius flung himself away, pulling Melwas off her in a last burst of strength. They tumbled to the floor, Melwas cursing.

Sobbing and reeling Guinevere groped blindly for the dagger. She had never used one, but she knew it was her only hope now. Behind her she heard Melwas throw off the old physician so he thudded to the floor, and she half crawled, half ran and stumbled towards the gleam of moonstones. Almost there.... her fingertips grasped the cold pearl hilt. She struggled to her feet just as Melwas reached her. Her heart pounded through her veins so hard the world simmered and tilted. 

"You might have been my Queen." he panted, and she concealed the dagger in her skirts as he yanked her viciously to face him,  "But you'd rather whore yourself to Arthur Pendragon. You'll be a dead whore soon-,"

The dagger slid into flesh easily. Like cake, she thought numbly. His eyes bulged and his mouth moved wordlessly, like a dying fish. 
"I'd rather spend a thousand lifetimes as his whore than a single hour as your wife."
Gwen pulled the dagger out and plunged again, and felt the warm thickness of his lifeblood gush over her hand. It was an odd sensation. This is what killing feels like.

Melwas slid to the floor, hands batting feebly at the dagger. But the blade was true and buried deep, and soon his blood pooled around him.

A wave of dizziness assailed her and she fought to stay upright as a sick-sweet smell overpowered her, and bile rose in her throat. Gwen stumbled away from the body just as the retching bent her double. When it was over she wiped her mouth and took a deep breath. Her head pounded but she felt marginally better.

She could hear screams and cries, and the smell of burning. She shook Gaius, "Gaius, wake up! We have to go..,"

He stirred with a low groan, "Guinevere...you must leave, find Arthur. Get to safety."

"No, I won't leave you. Put you arm around -,"

"No child," Gaius protested gently, "I'll only slow you down. I'll be fine here. Go, leave."

"But I -,"

"Go!"

Gwen wiped her tears, "I'll be back, I promise."  She looked around, and tore one of the black-crimson banners behind the throne to drape over Gaius. Then she kissed him briefly on the forehead and hurried out.

***

The hallways were abandoned. She picked up an abandoned sword, holding it out before her as she stepped cautiously down the stairs. 

Finally on the lower level she found two of Cendred's men, their garments still smoking. Dead.  She remembered Morgause's cry of Dragonfire! 
So the strange eyeless sentinels could be slain.

The closer she was to the main doors, the more bodies lay piled. Each time she caught a glimpse of crimson cloth among the corpses, her heart dropped, thinking it was Arthur.  But each time her fears proved unfounded. She could smell smoke strongly now, and hear the roar of flames.

Guinevere reached the courtyard, and froze in her steps. 

Fire was everywhere, consuming Morgana's banners, devouring wagons and barrels, streaming from the shrieking figures of Cendred's men and filling the night with red sunlight. Knights with torches of dragon-fire pursued them, pressing them back, storming victoriously up the citadel stairs. But where was Arthur?...and Merlin?

Gwen ducked instinctively as shadow-wings darkened the courtyardtu. Shielding her eyes, she looked up and saw the great dragon Kilgarrah, last of his kind, as he poured fire down on the fleeing sentinels.

A sudden flash of steel caught her eye amid the smoke and chaos, and she saw them: Arthur was engaged in a pitched battle with Morgause. Their swords glittered and sparked and swung in a deadly dance, both poised on skill so fierce that the slightest misstep would be death.  Morgause pressed fiercely forward, but Gwen could see Arthur’s blade gleaming with a strange radiance, as though light dwelled within the tempered steel.  No ordinary sword.

But now the sky was growing darker, not from a dragon-shadow but the sun drawing a veil of darkness across the moon’s face.

An eclipse. Some deep foreboding stirred in her as the moon faded black, and no sooner did she tear her eyes from the sky than Guinevere glimpsed Mordred walking towards Arthur, who was too engaged in battle with Morgause too see the child with brandished dagger approaching. The boy’s grey cloak brushed the ground as he approached with slow and steady footsteps.

Guinevere tried to cry out, but the roaring fiery chaos around them drowned her voice. She was running before she felt her feet move, running through smoke and flame and snowy ash. But Mordred was closer, approaching implacably, and still Arthur did not see…

Several things happened at once. The rush of dragon wings swept the air and Kilgarrah landed between them. Merlin was there too, and he shouted a command in a deep, throaty voice. Kilgarrah caught Mordred in his jaws. Morgana screamed and her eyes turned blank gold, and she threw herself against the dragon’s scaly form. But to no avail, for her magic sputtered before the dragon’s might, and Mordred slipped bloodied to the ground, half his face melting in fleshy chunks as Kilgarrah swept back to the sky.

Morgana screamed again, clutching Mordred to her, and the sound of her anguish rent the air, loosening the gravel beneath their feet. Morgause seized a chance and rushed forward, and Guinevere stumbled to her feet in time to see a stroke catch Arthur across the ribs, slicing through his chain mail. He swayed, clutching his side, while Morgause raised the deathblow.

“NO!” this time it was Merlin who screamed.

Guinevere rushed forward and slashed down with all her might, and the blade rang back from Morgause’s vambrace. But it was enough to hamper her. Guinevere had time to see the gold fill her eyes before Arthur’s sword took her between the ribs, and when he withdrew the blade in one swift stroke she collapsed almost gracefully.

She felt the sword drop from numb fingers before she rushed into Arthur’s arms, but he was falling too, jaw twitching with pain, and there was blood, so much blood, warm sticky against cold, ruined mail.

“Guinevere…,” he managed hoarsely as she sank with him, “ You’re alive…,” bloodstained fingers brushed her cheek weakly.

“You’ll be alight Arthur,” she cradled his golden head, “ You will,” it was a fierce whisper. “We’ll find Gaius and -,” but she remembered that Gaius lay bleeding in the throne-room, gravely hurt, perhaps dead.

Arthur smiled before a spasm of pain crossed his face, “I can….think of…worse ways…,” his teeth clenched in agony, “…to die, than in your arms.”

“No, no! You’re not going to die, Arthur…,” she looked around desperately. Morgana was hunched over her son’s body, and Merlin stood over them, his arm raised forward and magic flickering at his fingertips.

He could kill them both.

But he hesitated, and Gwen cried out to him, “Merlin! Merlin we have to help Arthur! Please Merlin…”

Her voice seemed to startle him, and when he whipped about his eyes were pure molten light, as though magic instead of blood was pulsing through his veins. Then they cleared and he was by their side, and he grimaced at Arthur’s wound.

The moon was no more, and the light was fading from Arthur’s eyes, but Merlin placed a hand over the wound and murmured soft clear words, and a silver-blue light glowed between his fingers, so bright that Gwen had to shield her eyes.

Vaguely she saw Arthur’s eyes round with shock, “Merlin…what the…,” but the light was too brilliant now, more lucent than the returning moonlight, and Gwen heard a vague silver music, like all the stars in all the realms aligned with every heartbeat. A single quivering note like the first peal of Avalon’s bells. Through the aching brilliance she reached for Arthur’s hand, and his fingers twined with hers, and she felt breath whistling through each of them, the same air, and only flesh between.

Eirinn

One year later

***

The letter came, as her letters always had, at the edge of dawn, in the hand of a nameless, wordless messenger.  Guinevere tucked it away in the rosewood box where she kept the rest. The bundle of carefully folded parchment was all that remained to her of Morgana, save memory.

“Milady?”

Bernadette had accompanied her back to Eirinn, citing a desire to see the world beyond Camelot. She gestured to the bridal garters on the dresser and Guinevere nodded.

Gwen herself had embroidered the raw-silk bands, and their fastenings were delicate ruby roses between small golden leaves. The jewel flowers winked against her warm-honey skin, a secret intimacy meant only for her future husband’s eyes.

Arthur

Pleasant warmth fluttered in her lower belly when she thought of his sword-roughened hands undoing the ruby clips.

The year apart had been difficult but necessary.  For all their mutual passion, courtly custom begged observation: the marriage contract drawn up, its terms agreed upon by both kingdoms, the betrothal announced to allied kingdoms, along with invitations. But most important, defeating Morgana and Morgause and the Brotherhood had cost both Eirinn and Camelot dearly, and much recovery work was needed before either one could host a Royal wedding.

Two other handmaids helped her into the wedding gown, and Guinevere remembered when the galleys from Camelot had arrived four days ago, their ruby-gold banners streaming in the sea-wind. Formal welcomes had been exchanged with both courts watching, but when Arthur’s lips brushed her hand while his eyes smiled knowingly at her, she was hard-pressed to refrain from a display of enthusiasm that would have surely shocked the gathered courtiers.

They had finally snatched a moment alone after the welcome feast that night.

“I missed you,” she breathed after a long, hungry kiss, wrapped in his arms and fingers playing with the hair at his nape.

His mouth captured hers again, ravishing the soft insides with his tongue, nibbling softly at her lower lip while his arms pulled her urgently against him. She ran her hands over the planes of his chest, bunching up his tunic, sucking in the delicious spicy musk of his scent.

“Guinevere,” he murmured against her neck “I want you,” his teeth nipped her earlobe, making her gasp.

She felt him stiff and urgent against her thigh, and her body surged to respond.

Arthur groaned , “This will be the longest four days in the history of the five kingdoms.”

A tug on her corset jerked Guinevere back to the present.

“Is that too tight, milady?”

 “Hmm? Oh, yes, I mean no. They’re perfect.”

The seamstress, a hearty old woman with a freckled face, nudged her, “Dreaming of your husband to be, milady?”

Gwen flushed, “Is it that obvious?”

She laughed, “ Half the maids in the kingdom are dreaming of the young King.”

“He is very handsome,” Gwen agreed.  He’s more than handsome. He’s beautiful enough to stop my breath. And when he touches me…She flushed again.

“There you are, milady,” she finished fastening up the bodice and Gwen surveyed herself for the first time.

Her gown was all seafoam green and gold, touched with dreamy lace at the bodice and sleeves, and dusted with seed pearls. More pearls glimmered in her hair; liquid rivulets twisted in the thick braid, and dotted her sea-gold train like drops of moonlight. Her skin glowed from a bath of fragrant herbs, her lips were touched with carmine, and a lush sheen enriched her curls.

She remembered a bedtime story her mother loved. And the god of the sea draped her in robes of ocean waves, with moonlight in her hair..

Arthur had accompanied her to her parents' cairn two nights ago, they had laid fresh flowers atop the stones and listened to the sea.

Gwen was slipping into her shoes when a knock sounded, and she looked up to see Merlin. He paused, long fingers resting on the frame, and a soft smile touched his face.

"You look lovely, Gwen."

She embraced him happily, "Thank you, for everything. Without you there wouldn't be a wedding."

The young man shrugged in his simple way, "I was only doing my duty to Arthur and to Camelot. Who knows? If it wasn't for the Cusp my powers wouldn't have been strong enough to save him."

"You did more than just your duty," she corrected, "You risked everything to protect Arthur. And he knows that." 

Merlin shuffled his feet; being appointed court sorcerer and royal advisor hadn’t diminished the deep humility cultivated over years of hiding his magic.

Her handmaids took their leave and Merlin glanced at her searchingly, “Are you sure this is a good idea? Do you trust her not to try anything?”

Gwen sighed, “Not entirely. That’s why I asked you to accompany me. But I must do this, for myself.”

Merlin nodded and gave her his arm. As they walked Gwen glanced up at her friend: he seemed happy, but Morgana’s betrayal had wounded them all, and perhaps Merlin in a different, deeper way than anyone. He never said much, but there was a new graveness in his features, although she suspected his new responsibilities were as much to blame too.

The climb up the tower stairs was longer than she remembered, and Merlin had to help gather her train so it wouldn’t drag on the stairs.  When they reached the door he touched her elbow, “Remember, I’ll be right here.  If anything happens-,”

She nodded, and then stepped through the door. Peadar’s guards had long since abandoned the tower, since the cliffs and savage tides beneath the eastern wing made the it inaccessible to intruders. Only nesting pigeons occupied the crumbling battlements, and the stone was scarred by wind and rain and open sky.

A hooded figure knelt by a crenellation, two plump pigeons pecking eagerly at the outstretched palm. At the sound of her footsteps the figure rose and cast back the hood.

Morgana’s face was bone-pale, and her eyes had a hungry, haunted look. The beautiful raven silk hair was long and wild and matted over her shoulders, and the woman who’d once arrayed herself in silks and velvets rich with jewel-light now wore dusty grey robes stained with travel and use. Wherever she and her son had fled to the night of the Cusp, among the smoke and whirlwind Mordred had summoned with fading breath, it had been a harsh refuge.

“I didn’t think you would come, Gwen.”

“Then why send a letter?”, she paused, “Why are you here, Morgana?”

“I wanted to wish you well on your wedding day, of course.”

“And how exactly do you plan to do that?” Gwen retorted, an anger she didn’t know she felt sharpened her words, “By murdering my betrothed perhaps?”

Morgana ignored that, “And I’ve come to say goodbye.”

“I thought you said goodbye when you joined with Morgause to hurt the people who loved you,” Gwen felt bitter tears in her throat. She hadn’t wanted to cry, or feel anger, not this day.

Morgana glanced at the sky, and a breeze whipped her hair like a tattered sail, “I’m going far away Gwen, beyond the Northern passes where the Shadow priestesses still dwell.  Somewhere where my son can heal, and I can grow strong again,” she turned to face her, “When I return I fear you won’t know me.”

“I cannot wish you a safe journey when I know you still mean to harm those I love,” Gwen said coldly.

The grey-clad woman nodded, “Nor would I expect you to. But I did wish…” she paused, “I did want to give you something, a wedding gift.”

She opened her palm and a crystal glittered there like ice, its facets reflecting the light in a pale blue glow. “It’s a Seeing crystal, from the ancient Druid order of Neahtid.  In the hands of a Seer it can show you anything you want, the past, the future, the next moment.”

Gwen looked up from the ice blue stone, “Anything?”

Morgana’s eyes glittered with crystal-light “I can show you your mother, and you can smell her warmth and feel her embrace the way mere memory won’t permit. Or you can look to the future, see who your firstborn will resemble.”

“Why would you give me such a gift?”

 “Because,” Morgana looked her full in the face, “it is all I have. It’s all I’ve ever had.”

Suddenly Gwen wasn’t angry, but a hollow sadness ached inside her. This then was Morgana’s life, the constant despairing knowledge of a Seer, wrapped in waking dreams, consumed with a desperate desire for what might have been, lost in the thousand facets of a crystal. 

She pitied her.

“No,” Gwen said softly, “I thank you, but I cannot accept, nor do I want, such a gift.”

For a moment Morgana looked young and hurt, the vulnerable headstrong woman Gwen had once loved. “The past is buried, never to return. And I have all I need for the future: hope, and love.”

The grey woman was pale and silent, and then she clasped the crystal and tucked it in her billowing sleeve. 

“ I will say my goodbye then.”

“I have something for you,” and Gwen handed her the box, carved and fragrant rosewood, with an amethyst clasp.

“You may discard or sell the box, as you wish. It’s the contents I gift you.”

Morgana took it with a puzzled look and lifted the lid. Her voice was so soft the sea-wind almost snatched it. “My letters.”

All save one.  “From the time we were twelve and first convinced our nursemaids to help us write the other. It’s no Seer’s gift. But some day when you’ve forgotten, I hope it reminds you of who you truly are.”

When she said nothing, Gwen picked up her skirts and turned to leave.

“Gwen, wait.”

She turned.

 “You look beautiful.”

Morgana lips twitched in something close to a smile. And then she was gone.

****

The great hall was a wash of glittering color. Lords and ladies, knights and wives, stood assembled in a splendid array of silk and velvets, jeweled doublets and satin mantles flashing the colors of spring. The knights of Camelot were gathered below the dais in a swathe of crimson, looking up to where the unfurled banners of Camelot and Eirinn hung solemnly before the sacred fire.

The warmth and rich colors dazzled Guinevere's senses so she felt as though she floated. Fresh lilac and honeysuckle was everywhere, filling the air with their waxy sweet perfume. Later, Guinevere could barely remember walking between the gathered courtiers.
 She saw Sir Tristan with his wife, the lady Isolde, standing by King Peadar. A lean blond man with kind eyes, he bowed graciously as she passed. The king had appointed Tristan as Regent in Guinevere's stead, a choice she approved of warmly. Tristan had displayed unstinting courage in fighting Melwas' troops, and his loyalty to Eirinn was unquestionable.

She saw Gaius, who'd braved the sea-voyage despite the lingering affects of his injuries. Hands folded before his blue-grey robes, the old physician smiled kindly. Merlin beamed beside him.

Lastly, she lifted her eyes to the dais. Arthur was decked in his ceremonial armour, and the breastplate blazed with light as he extended his hand. He seemed half a god, all brilliant metal and golden hair, and she remembered how she'd faced him in this very hall three years ago with a token of Avalon held defiantly before her. Now, as then, his storm-blue eyes went through her, and when his hand lingered on hers she almost swayed against him for a kiss. The look on his face made her heart ache with joy.

She would remember that look until she breathed her last.

***

The celebrations continued until the moon rose to resplendent view. Torches flared in the courtyard, bathing the revellers in warm light. Gwen danced until her feet screamed in protest, then she took off her shoes and danced some more, mindless of the new silk stockings.

She danced with Merlin and half the Knights, all of who clambered over displays of chivalry for their new Queen. She even managed a slow, stately waltz with Gaius.

Arthur had changed out of his armour into a dark coat over a blue tunic, and after the fifth dance he shed the coat while Gwen’s handmaidens divested her of the train. Bawdy jests followed, with cries of “Save some fun for us!” from the Knights and her ladies in waiting. It was customary for such companions to accompany the bride and groom respectively to the wedding chamber, stripping as much of their clothes as possible and making lusty japes.

“I intend for all the fun to be ours,” Arthur murmured in her hair, and she felt a slow fire spreading through her veins. She thought of all the women’s tales she’d had to sit through these past months, tales of terrified maids and overeager husbands on their wedding nights.  Gwen would smile to herself, imagining the ladies’ faces if she told them she’d made love to her future husband once already, under the stars with the grass on her back and his hands straining at her thighs.

“What are you smiling about?” Arthur sounded amused as they moved across the floor.

Her eyes danced, “You.”

And when he kissed her another loud cheer went up among the tables, punctuated by tankards banging on wood and lusty applause.

Finally it was time for the Maiden’s Waltz, danced only by the bride and other unmarried women in her retinue. It began fast and lively then ebbed into graceful, liquid motions as the maids moved among each other like slow gliding swans; the change in pace symbolized the gradual progression from sprightly youth to wisdom.

The lyre and drums thrummed with plaintive sweetness and Guinevere closed her eyes, following the turns and dips instinctively, sweeping her hands through the air like water. The waltz slowed to a graceful stop with the bride in the centre, and the women showered her with petals while the crowd cheered.

Gwen looked for Arthur, and found him watching her with parted lips, his eyes midnight-dark and glittering.

***

Arthur’s knights insisted on wrestling off his boots as they escorted him rowdily to the bedchamber. They spared him his tunic and breeches only under threat of immediate banishment from Camelot, and even then Merlin had the gall to magic, bloody magic, off his socks so he nearly tripped on his feet.

At the top of the stairs they retreated with more jests, largely due to an extremely embarrassed Leon who seemed appalled by the antics of Camelot’s finest. As they turned to go, Arthur stopped Merlin, and pulled him into a brief, impulsive hug.

“Thank you, Merlin,” he gruffed.

Merlin nodded, then punched him lightly on the shoulder, “Hugs are infinitely preferable to whacking me on the arm. I must say I like this new, softer side to you.”

“Merlin?”

 “Which is it, shut up or get out?”

“Seeing as how it’s my wedding night, preferably both.”

Alone at last, Arthur paused with his hand on the door, thinking of the woman who awaited him within.

The chambers were magnificent, nearly twice the size of his rooms in Camelot. Candles glowed in silver holders, and a healthy fire warmed the sweet air.  On the east end of the rooms, two doors opened unto a terrace facing the sea. Guinevere stood there, her head angled against the frame, in a cream chemise loosely girdled. The sea breeze made the soft cloth cling to her curves in a way that stole his breath, and her expression was contemplative yet serene.

She turned at the sound of his footsteps, and the pearls in her hair glimmered.

“Arthur…”

For a moment he was torn between swift desire and merely admiring her loveliness. The candle-flames flickered in her deep eyes, and Arthur barely remembered crossing the distance between them. Then she was in his arms and his mouth found hers with a low moan, and he was drowning yet wanted more, always more of her.

Suddenly he was desperate to feel her skin. Guinevere tugged his tunic over his head, and then ran heated fingernails over his torso, sighing in pleasure. Arthur grasped her slender waist and pushed her up against the wall.

She is so small. My hands could crush her like a flower.

Then her arms were looped around his neck with her breasts all flush against him and Arthur felt himself hard and ready. His mouth found hers again, drinking the taste of her soft wet tongue while her hands stroked him, teasing his pleasure before she undid the lacings to wrap her fingers around his shaft. He groaned softly against her neck, then slid his mouth down over her breast, sucking through the sheer cloth until her nipple poked through stiff while his fingers caressed between her nether lips to feel her wet and writhing against his hand.

“Guinevere,” he husked, and could swear she arched more urgently against him, “God you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“I’m yours, Arthur,” she whispered, “Take me.”

He skimmed his hands up her thighs to curve around the luscious rump. Hmm stockings. I’ll see to those later.

He lifted her in one swift motion so she was braced against the wall, and the head of his manhood half-buried in her sweet wet folds. For a moment her eyes widened as she realized what they were about to do, then her legs tightened around his waist and she wriggled to better position herself.

“Arthur…,” she urged throatily and then, “Ohhh…,” when he filled her in a single stroke.  He began to move, slowly at first, gauging their position and lifting her higher, then they found the rhythm together and sliding in and out of her moist heat felt as natural as breathing and just as essential. Perspiration slicked their skin and he tasted the salt when his mouth almost devoured hers in a searing kiss.

The sea, he thought dazedly, We ‘re the sea . Salt and wet and surging.

Arthur grunted and shifted their weight to his right arm, his sword arm, then used his free hand to reach between them and touch her where he knew she wanted. The soft nub was swollen with desire and Guinevere bucked against him, her fingernails digging desperately into his back, hard enough to make him clench his teeth. He could feel her release building and began to thrust faster, flicking with his thumb, drawing out moans and eventually low cries from that beautiful mouth. Guinevere’s head fell back against the wall, pearls scattering to the floor with each thrust while her hips writhed.

“Arthur! God…” her climax shuddered through her, inner walls tightening around his cock until his eyes swam with the ecstatic agony of his own delayed pleasure. He braced her hips with both hands, holding her firm while he moved savagely in and out, as though desire were a lash urging him on. He came with a harsh groan, pleading her name against the damp skin of her throat while wave after wave rushed through his body before eventually receding.

“I love you,” he breathed hoarsely, sliding her gently down. Her legs trembled when they landed and he held her close, dropping lazy kisses over her mouth, the single beauty mark on her cheek, her temples, brushing back the damp tendrils while the night air smelling of coral and foam wafted over their moist, heated skin.

***

It was much later when Guinevere awoke, and the candles sputtered in pools of wax. Her back was pressed snugly against Arthur’s chest, his arm engulfing her possessively even in sleep. She smiled, running her fingertips along his powerful forearm, tracing the veins in his heavy hand while his breath rumbled through her hair.

He snores. Quite loudly too.

She extricated herself carefully and padded to the washstand, naked but for her stockings. Stepping behind the screen, Gwen soaked a fresh rag and wiped her private parts carefully before wrapping herself in some furs. The fire was low and the room had grown noticeable colder.

She paused once again to observe Arthur. His golden hair rumpled over the smooth brow, the long muscular lines of him all relaxed and statuesque.

He’s so beautiful. My husband. My king.

Something too deep for joy and gratitude lodged in her throat.

I have all I need for the future. Hope, and love.

But something of the past remained with her. The letter she’d kept for herself, the letter Morgana had written three years ago, breathless with excitement about visiting Eirinn, the letter she’d unfolded by the dawning sea.

Holding her furs in place with one hand as she approached the terrace, Gwen read it once more.

Her eyes skimmed over Morgana’s extravagantly looping script to reach the end.

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.

Unbidden tears filled her eyes. She’d kept this missive as a keepsake, the last letter before the darkness fell upon their friendship. She’d wanted to hold on to something, even as she refused Morgana’s gift. But the paper was silent and the words flat, unreal somehow.

Their world had changed, through death and fire and hatred and war and fire again. The mornings of summer innocence when two girls pledged their sisterhood were swallowed beneath the waves of Time, and they would not return save in the depths of a Druid’s crystal.

Guinevere opened her palm, and the wind snatched the parchment. She saw its brief flash like a fallen bird before it disappeared, down where the sea’s embrace awaited.

All roads end in Avalon, as rivers in the Sea.

The prayer from her childhood came back unbidden, and she whispered the words again.

It’s quieter she mused, and realized Arthur was no longer snoring. He came up behind her and encircled her in his arms.

“You should come back to bed love,” he murmured.

He was warm skin and hard flesh and the scent of leather and cloves she loved. He nuzzled her hair, and dropped soft kisses where the fur had slipped off her shoulder.  It was then he noticed the dampness on her cheeks.

He said nothing, simply tightened his arms around her, resting his chin on the crook of her neck while she wept softly, and she knew he understood.

Gwen wiped her face and sniffed, “Arthur, I was wondering, may we…I know you want to return to Camelot soon, but I was wondering if we might stay for the solstice celebrations.”

A warm callused hand cupped her jaw, gently tilting her face towards him. The melted-sapphire eyes filled her world, tender and attentive.

“Is that what you would like?”

She nodded and he kissed her mouth, a sweet engulfing kiss that made her sigh contentedly, “Yes of course. I’ll send messengers to Camelot tomorrow.”

Arthur turned her in his arms, and she let the furs slip from her nakedness. He sucked in a sharp breath, eyes darkening. Then he swept her up easily and carried her back to the bed, and she could feel the head of his erection pressing her hips

To her surprise though he laid her down gently, then leaned back on his knees, hands cupping her breasts, then her waist and hips, flattening out over her soft skin, drinking her in with eyes and touch. Gwen felt herself grow moist with anticipation.

He nudged her thighs apart with a knee, then traced light fingers there, brushing her sex, before resting on her garters. Then his golden head bent to replace his fingers with his lips. Arthur kissed around the little ruby rose fastenings, drawing a soft “Ah…” from her when he snapped them easily open. Raising his passion-drugged eyes to her, he tossed the garters away and grasped the top of her stocking with his teeth, peeling it away from her skin as though she was a delectable fruit. He repeated the motion with her other leg, eyes lifting lazily as though to savour the sweet torment.

His lips travelled up her thighs again, this time seeking the hot wet heart of her and flicking with his tongue. Guinevere moaned and dug her fingernails into the bedclothes while his tongue and lips undid her slowly, layer by layer, second by second until she was slippery with desire and panting his name. Impatiently she grabbed a fistful of blond hair and urged him up. Arthur, needing no further encouragement, settled back on his hips and lifted her over his cock. She rubbed her soaked curls up the length of his shaft and his jaw clenched, then he positioned her thighs and buried himself inside her. Gwen wrapped her arms tight around his neck, rocking against him while he grasped her hip. Ripples of heated pleasure radiated from her core with each thrust, leaving her hungrier still and aching for more.

“Arthur…” she moaned, “Please...”

Without breaking contact, he leaned back, stretching out his legs slowly so he lay flat on his back. The change of angle sent her reeling, and she seized this new freedom enthusiastically, undulating her hips, dipping hard and deep then pulling up slowly, and it was Arthur’s turn to groan her name. He shifted a thumb between her legs, find her nub easily and rubbing back and forth. His hips pumped faster and Guinevere felt her senses tugged under a sucking tide of pleasure. Deeper and stronger it tugged until the unbearable knot of pleasure inside her loosed all at once, like a rushing and roaring sea, and she threw her head back and cried out her husband’s name.

Arthur growled low in his throat and tightened his grip on her thighs while he pumped his hips, hard and deep and searingly urgent.

“Come here,” he demanded hoarsely and Gwen bent over him. He tangled a firm hand in her hair and the other held her rump firmly in place while he moved. “Look at me, Guinevere,” his breath was ragged, chest glistening with sweat.

“I love you, Arthur,” she gasped and he came with a violent final thrust, hips pounding feverishly while his seed emptied inside her.

All roads end in Avalon

She collapsed on top of him like a spent wave, and there was nothing else save the salt and heat in the aftermath of their lovemaking, no other world but the one between their beating hearts.

As rivers in the Sea.

***

“I seem to have loved you in numberless forms, numberless times,

In life after life, in age after age forever.

My spellbound heart has made and remade the necklace of songs

That you take as a gift, wear around your neck in your many forms

In life after life, in age after age forever.”

                               Unending Love, by Rabindranath Tagore (translated from Bengali by William Radice)