a/n: Sorry this took so long. I've had other things come up, but I want to continue this. Bear with me, and send me feedback. Thanks!

0-0-0-0

The smoke burned his lungs, but it felt cleansing. Death was in the air.

Good.

He surveyed his work. There was a radius of bodies and body parts around him. He didn't see any who were moving. The Saxons were defeated—again.

"How many?"

Tristan turned. Galahad stood overlooking the bits and pieces of Saxons on the battlefield.

"I didn't count." Tristan frowned. "Gawain?"

"He got a nice arrow in his butt," he said, snickering. "The healer's yanking it out. How's your shoulder?"

Tristan turned to face the Wall. He started towards it, a limp slowing him down just a bit.

"Gawain's with a healer. You're here," he pointed out obviously. "Who's with the Queen, Galahad?"

Galahad stammered something about the battle needing all hands, and that's when Tristan took off running. He ignored the pain in his thigh, the ache in his shoulder and generally the tiredness of not sleeping this week. He just ran hard towards Guinevere's quarters, leaving Galahad to try and catch up.

The villagers and warriors he passed were cleaning up. They seemed happy, but this was no time for victory in Tristan's mind.

He darted through the hallways, zigzagging around Valden and chambermaids and others. There was no guard posted at the queen's door. Without thought, Tristan went inside, fearing the worst.

A lone figure holding a sword instantly went on alert at his entrance. Tristan reacted, grabbing a knife hidden under his tunic. As the figure wielded the sword in a defensive stance, Tristan took notice of the willowy dress.

"Guinevere," he said in a gasp. Relieved—and embarrassed—he tucked the knife away. The queen let out a breath.

"You startled me," she said. She lowered the sword, but her hand still gripped the hilt.

"Sorry." He allowed himself to lean against the wall, a quick moment to catch his breath. "None of us were here to protect you."

Guinevere raised an eyebrow at him. "You think I cannot protect myself?"

He shot her a look not entirely respectful of her title. She smiled.

"Rest, Tristan. You look pale," she said. A frown appeared. "And gaunt."

He snorted but stood up straight, ready to take his leave. That's when he recognized the sword in Guinevere's hand. It was Arthur's. The queen's eyes followed his to the sword. She smiled sadly and held it up to inspect. Tristan looked past the blade to Guinevere's face; her eyes were puffy. They seemed to glow, as he'd seen them before after tears fell.

"It was his father's sword," she said. "He took it from his father's grave to defend his mother." She glanced his way. "He told you this, I'm sure."

Tristan gave one nod.

"I had hoped this sword would continue to Arthur's son, and his son, and so on," she said. "But it wasn't to be."

Tristan felt his chest constrict. No, it wasn't to be. Even though he'd just slaughtered the Saxon leader and many of his men, the pain hadn't gone away. He felt worn down, tired, but the ache and guilt were still there.

"I have something to ask of you," the queen said. Tristan stood at attention.

"Anything."

Guinevere dropped the tip of the sword so she held it with two hands, tip to hilt. She held it out towards Tristan.

"Will you bear Arthur's sword to his grave?"

0-0-0-0

It was an honor, what the queen asked Tristan to do. But somehow it felt wrong. He had gotten Arthur to the Wall, only to fail at the last moment to truly protect him. And Guinevere's request, to bear the sword to the king's grave, felt like a haunting command to drive home his guilt.

The sun was out, shining brightly. No rain today, although the clouds of smoke did their best to create gloom. Villagers lined either side of the path to the cemetery. Gawain, Galahad, Jols, Valden, and a couple of others carried the box holding Arthur's body. Guinevere walked ahead of it, leading the way to the prepared grave.

Tristan watched from the head of the path. He was to stay here until the body was lowered into the grave. He hated ceremony, but this was how it was done today.

Guinevere looked his way. The box lay in the grave now, and Tristan drew a deep breath. He walked towards the grave. Each step made his heart twist more. His steps faltered as a realization came to him, one he had thought before but which had not sunk in.

Arthur was really gone. The man he had followed faithfully for close to 20 years was dead.

He blinked, and focused on the grave. The heaps of dirt around it were being pushed onto the box. He came to the graveside, and waited until the dirt covered the box completely.

The sword felt heavier than he remembered. In battle, it couldn't have seemed this heavy. It had to just be in his mind. Tristan's eyes wandered over the ornate hilt. Even before Arthur was king, the blade seemed majestic.

He took two steps to the head of the grave, vaguely aware of the presence of so many watching him. But in his mind's eye, he saw his commander, lying as if sleeping. He took the sword by the hilt in both hands, and gently pressed the tip into the ground until it stuck deep enough to stay standing. And then he could only step back and stare at the mound.

"My husband had a dream once," Guinevere said, quietly at first, but her voice gained more confidence as she went on. "A dream that he thought lay in a land far from here. But he came to realize that dream could best come about in Britain. He came to love this land as I do, and as you do. He came to love the people here—to the point he would die for you. And he did. For me. For you."

Tristan started to feel numb as the queen's words washed over him.

"To protect us, and preserve his dream for us—freedom."

0-0-0-0

Tristan leaned against the door of his room, shutting it with his weight. The numbness hadn't subsided; in fact, he wasn't sure he'd make it back from the burial.

He stumbled forward towards his bed, but fell to his knees instead. His head touched to the ground, Tristan didn't bother trying to get up. He let himself bow to the bare floor.

His thoughts were jumbled, and none of them made any sense, even the guilty and mournful ones.

He let go, and succumb to a dark, deep sleep.

0-0-0-0

Guinevere groaned. Tristan glanced over his shoulder at her, but said nothing as they kept walking to the Round table. He looked better now—rested. That paleness was gone, and it looked like he'd had one decent meal recently.

She watched him walk. He hid a limp well enough, but Guinevere knew pride was making him override any pain. Stubborn knights. She had asked Gawain if all three knights were well enough, and of course, he'd said they were fine. Their constant protection over her had to wear down on them, but no one admitted it.

Having them around was a comfort though; but she knew it would only make tongues wag. She sighed again.

Tristan's step faltered just outside the council room.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

His eyes met hers from behind his fringe-like bangs. It caught her attention—Tristan did not often make small talk. But then again, he wasn't asking idly.

"The people are done honoring Arthur," she said. "Now comes the pressure to remarry."

Tristan tilted his head curiously. "The people don't expect that."

She smiled. "They will be led to expect that." And she went into the council room, where Valden and several other advisors waited.

Sure enough, Guinevere was right.

"There are several men who would be prudent matches," Valden said a short while into their meeting. "Of course, we must weigh the advantages and disadvantages of each."

Galahad coughed. "You disgrace Arthur's memory with this talk so soon?" Valden glared at him.

"I don't expect a soldier to understand," he sneered, "but the kingdom must be stable."

"The kingdom is stable," Gawain piped up. "The Saxons are gone, and the people support Guinevere."

"And after the queen?" Valden countered. "Who will they support then? Will they be divided? Will Arthur's dream die because we did not plan now?"

Though Gawain and Galahad fumed at Valden, Guinevere did not. She glanced at Tristan and smiled briefly just at him. And then she looked to Valden directly.

"Tell me about the best candidates."

0-0-0-0

Galahad slammed his tankard on the wooden tavern table.

"That was ridiculous," he said with a slur. "Insinuating the queen had to go run off and get married."

He snorted. Gawain grabbed the tankard and slid it out of Galahad's reach.

"Keep your voice down," Gawain mumbled. "You're talking about the queen." The tavern did have ears. Galahad had enough sense left to listen.

"Well," he said, whispering so he might be more discreet, "what do you think about it all?"

Gawain rubbed his head. His hair was tickling his skin. "Our loyalty now lies with the queen."

Galahad squinted at him. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

"Arthur is gone," he said. "He loved Guinevere. Rightly so. She's a good woman. A great queen. Arthur would want us to serve her as we served him."

"Oh really?" Galahad leaned closer to Gawain, keeping his voice quiet. "Fine. But what of Guinevere's new husband, whoever he may be? Are we to risk our necks for him too, even if he's a fool?"

Gawain chewed on his lip. He swiped at his hair again.

"We'll have to see. But until then, we'll continue to protect her."

"Including this constant guard around her?" Galahad asked. It came out almost as a nasal whine, probably from the drink's effects.

Gawain shook his head. "I've talked to Tristan, and agree—until we know how Arthur was betrayed, and who it was, we can't risk Guinevere being alone." Galahad mumbled something. He really could be quite lazy when he was in a bad mood. Gawain rolled his eyes and grasped Galahad by the ear.

"Ow!"

A few tavern patrons looked their way, more amused than any concern.

"Stop complaining," he hissed. "Tristan's the one who sacrifices the most time as it is." He released Galahad's ear, and the younger knight rubbed it. "Don't forget to do your part to find the traitor."

With that, Gawain left.

Galahad downed his ale before going back to work.

0-0-0-0

Tristan thought about the council meeting. He'd gritted his teeth at what was discussed; Guinevere had been right, and he didn't like the so-called advisors trying to marry her off against her will. Well, almost—the queen would sacrifice her heart for the kingdom. He hoped also that she would choose wisely. The wrong king could bring a quicker demise than no king at all.

Clearing his head, he thought about each person around the table. He knew most, but not well enough to know if they would betray Arthur. Valden was his favorite—but unlikely—suspect. For all his faults, Valden did not want Saxons running over the kingdom. Going around the table, each person was ambitious or trying to curry favor with the queen, but not a person who would purposely let Saxons come and destroy all they hold dear.

The queen sat by the fire. She stared into the flames.

"What did you think of the names Valden presented?" She meant the potential matches for her. Her voice was a bit flat. Tristan understood this wasn't pleasant for her either.

Tristan thought about it a minute.

"Don't like any of them."

Guinevere smiled. "Well, thank you. That helps immensely."

Tristan shrugged.

Just then, Clara came in, one of Guinevere's attendants. Tristan nodded to her, generally to set her at ease with his presence. Guinevere had another attendant—two others, actually—but since Arthur's death, the others were afraid to be around the royal chambers, and realistically, the knights guarding her.

Clara bustled about, making swift movements and picking up the queen's things. She curtsied to the queen.

"May I get anything for you, your highness?" she asked.

"Will you make sure Tristan has enough blankets for the night?"

Tristan perked up. It was a small thing, but unexpectedly thoughtful of the queen, given that she had more important matters on her mind. Clara set the blankets by the fire. The queen's bed was in an adjoining room, but whichever knight was on duty sat by the fire, awake and alert.

In theory. Tristan knew Galahad had fallen asleep a few times. Guinevere had commented lightly on his snoring.

Once Clara left, Guinevere motioned to another chair by the fire.

"Relax, Tristan," she said. "If anyone barges into the room, I'm sure you can still draw your sword in time from here."

Tristan sat.

"I don't want to marry again," she said. "I loved Arthur. And now, as queen, I have to question if any other man has the best interests of the kingdom at heart, or something sinister."

He understood perfectly; he had the same reservations.

"What do you think Arthur would say?" She said it almost as if she were thinking aloud. But she looked to him when he didn't answer.

Tristan shifted in the chair.

"I only know what he said." Guinevere looked confused. "Near the end."

"What was that?"

"It was before he was wounded," he said. "But he asked me to promise, should anything happen to him, that you be kept safe."

Guinevere stared at him, until tears started to water her eyes. She shifted her gaze to the fire.

"That sounds like Arthur."

Tristan nearly smiled. Yes, it was typical Arthur. The smile vanished. He had been so close. So close to safety. Of course, there was no way to know what harm might have befallen the king later, even if Tristan brought him home without incident. But somehow . . .

"He wanted to see you, at the Wall." He couldn't meet the queen's gaze, which had shifted back to him. "He was comforted that at least he would see you one last time. Only he . . ."

"He passed before I could come." Her words were a haunted whisper.

Tristan shook his head. "I'm sorry." The apology was long overdue. He was not a man of many words, and what few he had came difficultly. "I – I failed—"

Guinevere rose so quickly to her feet that Tristan stood as well. But she put a hand to his mouth, silencing him.

"Don't," she commanded. Tristan stilled. "You owe no apology. Don't ever think that you do."

She was nearly glaring at him, so adamant in her words to him. Tristan nodded once, and she dropped her hand.

Neither spoke for several moments. They stood close, facing each other. Tristan could hear their breathing against the cackle of the fire. The queen seemed to be trying to slow hers down. A pain tugged at his chest, sorrow that Tristan couldn't help feel. Despite her words meant to alleviate his guilt, here stood Guinevere, mourning her husband and the bleak future ahead.

Guinevere swayed, leaning closer to him. Tristan tensed but did not move. She looked up at him.

And then took a step back.

"I should rest," she said, her voice weak. Tristan nodded, and she left the sitting area and the fire to him alone, retreating to her bedroom.

0-0-0-0

Guinevere muffled her sobs. She did not want Tristan to hear, and knowing him, he had ears like a hawk. She used the blanket to wipe her tears away.

She had almost asked Tristan something, but her pride prevented her. She wanted to hold him. For him to hold her. And the reason why made her feel so pathetic.

She wanted to be held so she could remember Arthur—to remember what his embrace felt like.

She wanted comfort.

A cold realization came to her, almost freezing her tears on her face. She was the queen. A widowed queen. She was alone.

Isolated by her title and station. Isolated by the possible motives of others. Isolated, because she had no one she could turn to now without complication.

She shut her eyes. Arthur, what should I do?