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Thank you to the amazing mishapenmuse over at CamelotLove for the gorgeous poster!




Author's Chapter Notes:

I'm super excited to work on Book II. Thank you from the bottom of my heart to everyone who's left reviews and continued to support this story :) 




Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.


 

 

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.”

 

 












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Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.