i. White-hot feel of heated iron, pressing into her back, and she's screaming, screaming, great keening cries that leave her throat raw and her body shaking.
"Confess yet, sinner?" The monk asks, breath hot against her face, and Guinevere can barely left her chin to reply.
"I don't know anything, I swear, let me go, lemegoletmego, I want to go home, please…" She whispers frantically, words tumbling out of her mouth involuntarily. The monk clicks his tongue in mock sympathy, and Guinevere barely notices when the iron is applied again to her ruined back.
Her mind is slowly going fuzzy, arms twitching as her shoulder blades are slowly pulled from their sockets from the strain of holding her body in place. The monk continues speaking softly, words of hate and confusion and lies, and she almost tilts her head to the side to hear him better. Instead she closes her eyes to shut out the damp and dank of her prison, sliding inwards as the pain engulfs her body slowly, remembering when she was young and free hunting in the forests she grew up in.
In her mind she can see Merlin and two men cloaked in shadow, eyes cold and staring through her. Why will you not help me? she screams silently, and they are the last thing she sees as she slides into nothingness.
ii. It is one on the hill the next morning; Arthur dressed in Roman armor, the banner of his Sarmatian ancestors whipping in the wind beside his horse. Behind him the Saxons scream their war chants; before him all he has ever known slowly disappears over the horizon. His knights ride with the encampment, and Arthur watches them go with dry eyes.
They will return. He knows this; they and he and (Guinevere and her people) will fight together and in the end overcome, for this is their God-given destiny. They will come back; he is their leader, their brother, their friend.
"RUSS!" Bors yells to him, the old battle cry echoing in Arthur's ears. He acknowledges the cry with a wave of his banner, and watches as Bors turns back to the trail of people streaming southwards. Lancelot looks back briefly to Arthur, too far away for Arthur to see clearly-- in his mind's eye Arthur substitutes the reality for the memory, mentally catalogues the features, markings, scars of his best friend-- and waits for him to return to his side.
He waits, and none of his men turn back; they are free men, and in the end freedom beckons to them with a siren song. Arthur turns away, finally, and leaves the banner of his father's people flapping in the breeze on the hilltop.
You, you who knew me best, he thinks to himself, and feels only loss.
iii. On the battlefield, everything comes down to you and not you. Arthur knows this; the scars across his body scream this to him every time he enters battle, Excalibur held high. That is what keeps you alive, in the end, knowing that fact and never forgetting it.
Arthur knows this, and yet he stumbles as a bulky Saxon heads toward Guinevere, sword drawn. He slices down with his sword, easily slicing his opponent's chest open, and turns toward the other side of the battlefield, without thought, without caution, armor clanking as he runs for Guinevere. Everything blurs for an instant, leaving only Guinevere screaming in fury and pain as the Saxon bull slices her side open.
It'll not end this way, he thinks, and plunges onward, never noticing the man come up behind him. The ring of a sword being swung through the air is what brings him back to reality, and he ducks automatically, Cerdic's sword biting through his shoulder rather than his neck. His fingers go limp instantly, slack and unfeeling as he slowly turns to face his enemy, Excalibur dull in the mud beside him.
Cerdic smiles something that is not a smile, but the grin of death come for Arthur, and Arthur can do nothing but watch as Cerdic plunges his sword into his side.
For this my men will go victorious, Arthur thinks and slumps forward, cradling his wounded side. He looks across the battlefield, eyesight slowly fading, to see Lancelot and Guinevere back to back, fighting for the future of their country.
vi. The first thing Lancelot recalls upon waking is the feel of the arrow piercing his skin, dropping him to his knees in agony. He blinks and looks around, eyes unseeing in the dark.
"Am I dead?" He asks, voice cracking with thirst, and hears an answering rustle in the dark.
"No." Guinevere says easily, lighting a rushlight to illuminate the tent. Her eyes glitter in the sudden light and she gives him a lightning-quick smile. "Though for a while we thought you would soon be."
He smiles at that, the thought of Guinevere pale with worry amusing him. He moves uneasily and hisses at the bolt of pain that shoots through his chest. "Shouldn't move, then." He whispers, and Guinevere laughs at that.
"Arthur will return soon." She says suddenly, mirth gone from her face. Lancelot studies her critically, wondering why she suddenly looks so beyond her years.
"What happened?" He asks, quietly, careful not to move and cause himself more pain.
Guinevere looks away, hiding her face in the curtain of her hair. "Badon Hill-- It did not end well for us." Her voice trails off into sorrow and she ducks her head.
"What happened?" Lancelot asks quickly.
"Dead." She says suddenly, looking up with a look of fury on her face. "Bors, Galahad, Tristan-- they died in battle; Gawain followed a few days later from fever. Arthur blames himself and refuses to accept that it was beyond his control…"
Lancelot moans, wanting not to believe her words-- all his friends, his brothers, his fellow knights gone-- and hates himself for surviving when they did not.
"And I think-- Arthur-- he has gone mad with grief." Guinevere continues, voice lowering at each word. "He does not eat, he does not drink, only says it was him to be sacrificed, not them, and I fear he will die from it."
Lancelot turns away from her words, seeking the oblivion of sleep and darkness. "So it has come down to you and I." He says finally.
"You and I." Guinevere repeats, and the words bring no comfort to either of them.
v. Mordred is born on the first night of the dark moon. The augurs speak of destiny, and tell Guinevere and Arthur the child will be destined for greatness. And Arthur smiles at his son in his wife's arms, and speaks of the beauty of it while Guinevere yawns into her bedclothes.
Lancelot visits a few days later, usual grin gone from his face. Guinevere hands him Mordred and moves backwards, woad tattoos flashing serpentine as she folds herself onto her bed. "He has blue eyes." Lancelot says quietly, tracing a callused finger across the child's cheek.
"All babies do." Guinevere says in reply, and looks him straight in the eye. "They'll change in a few weeks to their true color."
Lancelot slowly walks over to her bed and sits down next to her, handing Mordred back with unease. "And what if his eyes are dark?" he asks, quietly, the words we have betrayed Arthur hanging thick in the air between them.
Guinevere smiles down at her child and does not look up as she replies. "It was done for the good of the country. We needed an heir, and Arthur couldn't give us one. He'll understand."
Mordred grows up into a cunning child, all pale skin and dark eyes, and Arthur notices but says nothing. It was done for the good of the country, and he pretends not to care when Lancelot and Guinevere both disappear some nights. There are all kinds of betrayal besides adultery, and Arthur knows what it is to have betrayed and been betrayed.
And, in the end, it will be Mordred who betrays all of them.