AN: I hope you enjoy this. I can't seem to get the idea out of my head so hopefully I'll be updating regularly.
I disclaim everything except the few characters I invent.
Prologue
The twisting corridors of Camelot's citadel were confusing to visitors and residents alike, but the figure that paced the halls was well versed in their mazes. Arthur had been sure to walk at every hallway at least once, checking exits and entrances into various halls and rooms. It was important for a knight to be aware of his surroundings. The prince sighed as he thought of Leon's voice, drilling awareness into him, a lazy, selfish child.
As he walked silently along the passageway he wondered how far he had really come since that day. How different was he from that sullen thirteen year old, too proud and ignorant to consider the words of those below his own status? Rubbing his face he turned, finally ready to go to sleep. Merlin had blown out his candles hours ago, but he had been restless and decided a walk might do him good. He was tired and sore from a long training session and his father's recent battle with madness hadn't helped his mood or weight of responsibility. Morgana's return had been the only spot of luck the whole year, hopefully the fall winds would blow in better fortune.
He was passing Morgana's chamber as if by coincidence and he dragged his fingers across wood of the door, as if to reassure himself it was there. The warmth under his fingertips was heartening. Morgana had Guinevere light a fire—she was there, sleeping. Safe.
"Well what did you expect to happen? That I'd come running into your arms?" An argument, a loud argument, reached his ears. Morgana had this area to herself, so he could only imagine some servants had tried to find a secluded spot to yell. He frowned. This area may have been deserted this summer, but he wouldn't have his, for all intents and purposes, sister, disturbed by a lover's quarrel. He rounded the corner silently, ready to give the unsuspecting help a good fright and tongue lashing for their actions, and then pulled up short. It was no serving boy who was being berated but a knight. He didn't recognize the figure from the back, seeing only light brown hair and broad shoulders, but the sword at his side, well made clothes, and ready stance were tells for an experienced courtier and fighter like the prince.
"Iana," The man started, reaching out an arm to the girl, who batted it away. Arthur frowned, hoping the knight wouldn't press the issue causing him to intercede. It was one thing for a nobleman to have a tryst with a serving girl, another for the crown prince to catch them in the act. And the girl had to be a servant, right? They had no visiting nobles in residence, not so soon after his father's…illness. But the girl was dressed elegantly, in a dark blue frock, a lace triangle at her bust and hem. Her hair was twisted up about her head, in some silly and complicated fashion that he'd seen Morgana sporting. She always fished for compliments when she did so because it took longer to arrange than a more simple style.
To Arthur's further confusion the man made no rough advances, simply grabbing for a hand again, but this time he was granted permission. He brought the hand to his lips, an unusually tender move for a soldier looking for a quick romance in the dark. The prince had some of those himself and knew that you didn't treat a passing serving girl like you treated a lady—they didn't expect it and it wasn't worth the time.
The girls face snapped up, her eyes meeting his gaze in surprise. He gasped in horror, stumbling back, feet catching on each other, causing the usually coordinated man to fall on his rump. Her eyes had been burning with golden fire. Golden fire of magic. The whole time he kept his eyes on her, sure that at any moment she would curse him or the man she had apparently enthralled. She never moved but suddenly she was in front of him, eyes no longer gold but bright blue, irises large in her heart-shaped pale face. She didn't speak but just stared at him, sadness and pain in her gaze. A voice sounded in Arthur's head. 'Help me'. A dark light seemed to flash out of the girl and in the blink of an eye she was no longer pristine and calm, but tormented, face twisting with terror and agony. "Help me," she said quietly. Her dress was torn and dark, white lace the muddy brick color of dried blood. One sleeve was missing and the absent material revealed a druid symbol painted on her broken shoulder, the ink smeared by fingers and soot and blood. Her whole body seemed mangled and crushed. But most terrifying was her face. One whole side seemed to have been dragged across something, leaving three deep gashes along the left side, while her hair, now tangled around her face, was matted with blood and small pieces of stone. Her mouth opened and she yelled as if he was miles away instead of feet. "Help me!"
In his bed, Arthur Pendragon shot up, shaking and sweaty from his nightmare. "Help me." The whisper startled him and he jumped out of bed, whirling for an intruder before he realized it was just the remnants of the dream echoing in his mind. He slumped down onto the bed, exhausted. It had felt so real—her face, her scream. He lay back down, trying to force the image from his brain. Help me.