Just a little practice drabble; Trying to work on Monologue-esk things...

Date Completed: June 1, 2013

In the dark of night, the blonde King of England stood before a basin of water, staring at her blood soaked reflection. The Moon beyond the window shone into the room, giving just enough light for the King's sharp eyesight to see into the shadowed corners.

"Arthur?" the door beside the basin opened and the King quickly turned away. A woman with long brown hair tied into a braid poked her head through the door.

"Guinevere," the feminine voice acknowledged softly. She didn't want her Queen to see her as covered in blood as she was. None of it was hers of course—Avalon protected her, but she still didn't want to worry the woman.

"I wanted to be certain you were not hurt... Do you need anything?"

"I am fine," she muttered, looking out the window to the court bellow where many of her soldiers were celebrating their latest victory over the barbarians.

"If you do not mind, Milord, I am going to check on Sir Lancelot..." Arthur didn't say anything. Guinevere lingered in the door for a minute before bowing her head and closing the door behind her. Arthur sighed and turned back to the wash basin, wetting a cloth and rubbing the blood off her face.

"King Arthur doesn't understand human emotions," she recalled Percival muttering one day. She was alright with them thinking that—A great King wouldn't have any; but Arthur was not a great King.

Things affected her far more than she let on. She had tried to let go of being human when she became King, but sometimes emotions leaked through anyway. Guilt and regret leaked often.

The guilt of stealing Guinevere from Lancelot reared it's ugly face whenever she saw them sneak loving glances at each other or when she would hear them together from Guinevere's attached room. Guinevere was with her strictly as a cover—The King would need a Queen. She didn't know that Lancelot had loved her until after the wedding—or perhaps their relationship had budded after their marriage. It didn't matter. She had ruined their relationship and she regretted it.

She could remember the face of every single warrior she had cut down during her last battle—every face that had ever met her Excalibur or Caliburn. Every one of those faces haunted her. She often had dreams of each man watching as she burned eternally on a stake for their murders. She tried to shake their faces out of her head and worked on washing the blood off her hands.

She scrubbed for couple minutes, before giving up and wiping the water off her hands. She could still see the red blood on her hands, although she knew it was washed off. Her hands were never clean.

She walked further into her room and sat on her bed, contemplating taking her armour off. Her Avalon allowed her to go days without sleep, even after a battle and she often took advantage of it. She would lay in her bed, in the dark, just staring at the rich cloth flowing from her ceiling around her bed, wishing she was in her childhood home with Sir Ector.

Looking back on it, it seemed like Merlin had tried to talk her out of becoming King—asking if she was really ready for the decisions they both knew she would have to make. She thought she had been.

"Are ye certain of your choice, young knight?" Merlin asked, appearing in an ethereal form beside her as she grasped her future sternly in her hand. "If ye pull this sword-"

"I am King." She didn't know if she had been finishing Merlin's sentence, or just reassuring herself that this was what she wanted, but she had stated it in such a decisive manner, that Merlin simply nodded under the hood and vanished, leaving Arthur to do what she was destined.

In reality, she had been terrified on that day—What if the sword wouldn't leave the stone, despite Merlin's prediction? What would happen if she did pull the sword? She wasn't sure that she was ready to lead an entire country of people during Englands' darkest time. She wasn't sure she would be a good King. She knew now.

She now knew that she wasn't ready for the decisions she had to make, although she kept a strong face through every one. She hated leading her soldiers into battle, when she was protected by the Fey and would often be the only one to return home unscathed. She hated the life or death decisions she had to make; surrender one to save one hundred. Regardless of whether it was right or wrong, it haunted her.

Having her loyal knights—including her brother—standing right beside her always comforted her during those difficult decisions. Sir Kay knew she was a woman, and followed her with as much passion as he would a true King and that assured her of her every choice. All of her knights had so much faith in her; she was simply stronger in their presence.

She shook her head once more and began taking her armour off. Whether it was the battle of her thoughts after it, she was tired. Fatigue was the enemy.

She slowly peeled her armour off and put on the linen shirt and pants she wore to bed. Most people slept naked, but she couldn't stand being that vulnerable. She ran her hands down her sides and across her chest before stretching a little, feeling her stiff joints crack and pop in protest. While her armour was more flexible than most, her body still hated being trapped in it for days on end.

She pulled her soft sheets over her body, and closed her eyes to sleep. Despite her racing mind, she fell asleep almost instantly.

She awoke to the sun rising the next morning. As she got ready for the day and thought about how disheartened she was the night before, it didn't surprise her that she dreamt of sitting peacefully on a hill littered with swords, staring at the sunset that seemed to never fade.

"Your Highness," she heard one of her knights' knock from the other side. Lancelot opened the door, enough to poke his purple haired-head in. "There are barbarians attacking northern villages, Milord."

"I'm coming."