Thank you so much for the nice reviews. Another 'thanks' goes out to the silent readers I know: Turicum, Marchesa and the nameless ones. Tell me: Aren't you bored by now? Doesn't it all seem way too predictable?

Anyway. I had huge trouble entering this chapter. Well, no. Entering the chapter was fine. But finding a seamless continuation was the difficult one. The battle scene left me just as empty as Arthur I guess. So I tried to steady the pace a bit. I think it's terrible. Please tell me what you think. (A little soundtrack hint: I've you have the Celtic Heartland CD by Ron Korb, choose the 'Tribal Lament" for reading this... Love. Y.-)

Ivory: ME? Evil? HA! Nice one… Do I look as if I could kill my Gorgeous? Unlike you ;-)) … you killed LEGOLAS for pete's sake… not to speak of burning Lance alive… No. For now he lives. He will not ask you for a dance right away, but he lives.

HGandRHrforever: Thank you so much for your reviews. I am glad you like the story so far. Ah, Dearest… what can I say. I really tried to kill Galahad. And someone is going to into a laughter fit right now, if I say this, but: I REALLY TRIED! My original plot had Galahad dead. Broken neck. End of scene. Well, he resisted all attempts at his dear life so chivalrously, and now… he's still alive… I so dearly love him, but he screwed up my whole plotting… grrr… :-D

Ash, Ruin and Demise (cont.)

With a long stretched jump Gareth set over a dead Saxon blocking his way, as Galahad spurred him on. He was taking up his bow that was dangling from the saddle and although his hot and searing arm advised him strongly against it, placed a white tipped arrow from a still filled quiver on the string. Galahad hadn't seen Lancelot fall, but he knew exactly where to look for him, as the hawk had given him a precise direction. And soon enough he came in sight of Aelric standing over Lancelot.

Aelric had stepped at the knight's side and turned him on his back with a well-placed kick.He looked at the ashen, bloodless face under the full brown curls.

Ah… this one's gone already, hesighed, considering his options of leaving the battlefield alive. Just as he turned around to Guinevere, his eyes suddenly went wide with shock. He glanced at his shoulder only to see the angry tip of an arrow protruding from it.

Galahad knew he had only one shot left in his arm and he had intended to use it well, aiming for the head. He had enough practise in shooting a bow from a moving horse to dare such a shot. Unfortunately, Gareth, noblest of all horses to ever serve a knight, tripped over a rabbit hole, causing Galahad to lose balance only for a split second. It was enough for the shot to go wide, missing the intended target, hitting only Aelric's shoulder.

Gareth was desperately trying to regain his step, but the pace had been too high and he landed on his knees. Galahad tried to cling to the saddle, leaning backwards to take his weight off the front legs of his horse. To no avail. As Gareth hit the ground, he was thrown off over the horses head, landing on his already badly mangled arm. He let out a yelp of surprise mixed with pain. Then the lights went out on him and he came to a halt in front of Aelric's feet.

By Thor's hammer! Aelric thought. And he knew that his gods still deemed him worthy, for they had just delivered him a possibility to escape unscathed. He mustered the knight that had just so ungracefully landed before him. An angry gash decorated his forehead where he had obviously hit a stone, knocking him unconscious. He thanked the valour of his forefathers that had clearly graced the Gods to save his life and send him a horse, no less.

An embarrassed Gareth was slowly trotting to his master, head bowed down, snuffling. Aelric gingerly approached him with an outstretched hand. Gareth shook his head, softly nudging Galahad and not paying any attention to the man standing before him. Galahad did not wake. Quickly Aelric had taken the reins, shortened the strap that tied the halter to the harness and thus pulling Gareth's head down. He didn't want any trouble with the unfamiliar horse that was quite openly displaying his dismay at the fact that he had thrown off his rightful rider. He went back to Galahad, grabbed an arm and pulling him on his shoulders, heaved him in front of the saddle before swinging onto the horse himself, grunting but from the pain in his arm. He pulled out a blanked from the rolled pack behind him and draped it over the limp body, covering it.

Time to go… And with a heavy clap on his flank spurred on a quite reluctant, but powerless Gareth.

---

Arthur turned as a hurried Tristan passed him in full gallop, only managing a quick "Follow me…!" as he rode in direction of the lonely ash tree. He whistled for Utr to join him and set after Tristan as fast as he could and suddenly he feared he knew the cause of his dread of the passed days. Please, don't let anymore die for me. Please, Dear father.

He didn't realise that he was praying, maybe it had become his second nature in battle. A small part of his mind was always preoccupied to call a blessing on his loyal companions.

But when he saw his brother… lying in a wide green sea of grass, the prayer was suddenly sounding loud in his mind, blocking out effectively the moans and cries of the dying he passed by.

He slowly joined Tristan at Lancelot's side, so slowly… as if he didn't dare to approach him. Tristan, with his gentle touch, placed a hand on Lancelot's brow feeling cold sweat. It felt like ice. And just as Arthur hadn't dared to approach, he didn't dare to touch the body before him. As if any of those actions would acknowledge the unthinkable… the unbearable. There was nothing but silence in him and around him. There was no prayer in his mind anymore. No words, not even emotion. Only emptiness.

Blood. There was blood everywhere. In the mud around them, on armour, breeches, limbs, hands and weapons. The chest wound was marked by a steady trickle of the precious liquid. Blood, mud and death. Everywhere.

Tristan stood up unhurriedly, looking out for his other companions. He felt that Arthur was steadily slipping away from him, escaping what he could not accept, what would eventually break his heart with a loud shatter. He could do nothing as he was at a loss of words himself.

And then it hit him like someone had just pulled a blindfold from his eyes. The chest wound was still bleeding with a clear rhythm. His heart was still beating.

"Arthur…" He placed his hand lightly on his commander's shoulder, still not getting a reaction.
"Arthur." Almost imploring now. "We need to tend to his wounds…"
Without a word or even a nod, Arthur started to open the laces that kept Lancelot's armour in place.

"Don't touch the armour." A stern and grave voice beside them spoke.
Merlin knelt down beside Arthur and stated: "It will keep some pressure on the wound."
He looked down at the leg and took in the damage. He started to get up again, turning to Tristan asked for something strong enough to stop the bleeding. As Tristan offered him a blinding white bandage, he simply said: "We'll need more than that…" and pulled some strands of his breaded leather belt. They wanted to turn Lancelot to his side, but as Merlin stretched out his hand to touch the shoulder, it was intercepted by a firm grip. He looked up to face a pair of green eyes. And just as he was about to say something, Arthur tenderly took his friend up by both shoulders, pulling him into a tight, one-sided embrace.

"NO!!"
A piercing cry rung out over the desolate land, but no one turned to see Gawain riding up at full speed, Bors and Dagonet right behind him. "How…? What…? Tristan…?" Gawain only managed to stutter as he looked down at Lancelot in Arthur's arms, dead it seemed.

Bors swallowed heavily as he saw the stillness in Arthur's eyes. It reminded him of an early morning chill on a snowy hill.

"Quit standing around. He's still alive, but he won't be for long if I can't stop the bleeding. So make yourselves useful and hold him down." He stood up and said in a low voice: "Dagonet. Can I ask you to look to Guinevere?" The knight only nodded and turned away.
Bending down again, Merlin placed the bandage over the deep circular wound in Lancelot's thigh and strapped the strands of leather around it. Without any warning, he pulled.
An almost eternally long moan came from Lancelot, cradled at Arthur's neck. The green eyes started to glitter.

Dagonet couldn't tell what shocked him more: Arthur's silence, Lancelot's state or Guinevere as he reached her. "How are you feeling, my lady?" He said in a soothing tone as he knelt beside her. She turned her eyes on him, her breathing flat, but steady in her chest.
"Like a horse had run me over…?" She whispered. Dagonet smiled against himself. Good Gods.
"You're hurting. Can I do something for you?" He started to take off his coat and placed it over the small body. He looked down and Guinevere didn't miss his increasing frown.
"Please… tell me."
"Your leg is broken, Dear. It looks bad." He knew she would see through every lie he would be telling her.
She closed her eyes and asked him for some water. He took her up as gentle as he could, but the pain in her chest left her panting heavily and she pressed her head to his broad shoulder.
"I am sorry to cause you even more pain, my lady." He apologised.
She only shook her head not able to speak. Then he saw why. She lifted a hand and pointed at the group standing only yards from them. "Lancelot…!" she barely managed to speak the name and Dagonet without noticing started to cradle her trying to offer them both some comfort.

While Merlin was organising the care of the wounded and dead and sent for several healers of his clan to come to the wall, Gawain started to pace around as if he was looking for something. He was mumbling a constant no, no, no, I won't... and Bors stepped up to him, asking "What is it?" Bors frowned at the tears in Gawain's eyes and then it dawned on him.
"I … I… can't find him." Was all Gawain managed to say. Bors on the other hand started one of his renowned tirades of native curses that prompted Dagonet.
"Did you see the damned Saxon ride off on Gareth earlier?" Bors asked him, anger red on his face.
"Yes… I thought I knew that horse… but… where is…" A strong glare cut off his sentence. Galahad was gone. He was nowhere on the field around them and the enemy leader had just taken off on his horse. Gawain, although in a similar dream state as Arthur before, must have come to the same conclusions, because he turned abruptly and started to mount his horse.
"I'll go with him." Bors said turning to Dagonet and then looking back at Gawain, fearing that little glint in his eyes for it did not announce a good turn of things.

---

Arthur had ridden like never before in his life. As if the devil himself was behind him. He somehow imagined that if he reached the garrison fast enough, all would be fine. Lancelot would live. He only needed to reach the wall. It was the only thought on his mind.
Merlin, who had ridden after him without being asked, thought about the wounds and contemplated the options.
Lancelot had lost a lot of blood indeed. It was the main threat, for the blade had not managed to break any ribs or hurt any of the organs. Well, as far as you could see. He thought grimly.
Arthur on the other hand was a different matter. The commander was in a fragile state. Merlin could see it in his bearings. He was dangerously close of letting go of the world he was rooted in.
He hadn't spoken a word while he had tended to Lancelot's wounds, his eyes had done all the talking.

He had seen it happen a lot with people losing what they cherish most. When a wave of white fever had hit several villages of his clan some years before, his healing skills had been heavily tested. A lot of people had died, many of them children. One mother wouldn't let anyone approach to take her dead child from her for days. She hadn't spoken either, only sitting in her empty house, holding her child. No crying or wailing.

One morning she got up and walking from the village, the child still in her arms. She had walked towards the high cliffs of the sea and Merlin had followed her. Not because he intended to stop what was about to happen. He didn't think it in his power to stop it. But he had followed her nevertheless, for he couldn't leave her alone. She had stepped up to the rim of the cliff, the sea roaring below her, never taking her eyes off the horizon. She turned around one last time, looking at him with an empty stare. Then, she closed her eyes and made one small step into the void, taking her dead child with her.

The soul is a marvel. He thought. It can take so many blows, deceptions, terror and endure so many trials bestowed on its owner. But it will not accept what it cannot bear. And that's where people came so close to ending it all. Not because they could not face a life after, but because it made no sense to them. And even though as a druid he had enough possibilities to even save such deeply hurt souls, he knew that the 'could' didn't mean it would be the right thing to do. It was a fragile balance. And he had no right to come between a person and their choice.

But, looking back at Arthur, he thought for the first about a transgression of that eternal law.

Aelric had finally reached his destination. The old farmhouse he had captured with his men some days before lay just before him, up on the cliff, right above the sea. He nodded to a scouting guard that had just stepped from the trees to his left and spurred on his horse once more.

He was greeted by his cousin Horsa with a questioning look. "The men?" he simply asked.

"Unworthy." Came the reply just as simple.
Giving a still unconscious Galahad a hefty shove, Aelric dropped his prisoner right in front of a laughing Horsa. The courtyard was suddenly buzzing with gaping Saxons.

"Very good, cousin. Very good indeed."
"How many have come so far, Horsa?" Aelric asked and lowered himself, flinching at the pain from the arrow that still stuck in his shoulder.
"3 ships since this morning. Wuffa has arrived and he says that another 5 will be here in the next days."
"Good. Now get that prisoner sorted and send me the girl. And ale. A lot of ale." Aelric gnarled striding off towards the farmhouse to get his wound looked at.
Both men were oblivious of the two pair of eyes watching them from the small group of trees Aelric had just passed or of their scout that was lying dead in the copse beside them.

"I knew it." Bors growled. "That's why I haven't seen anybody from Padarn's family at the Wall lately. His daughter is a friend of Venora."

Gawain looming lividly beside him. "We need to do something. Now." He managed to say.

"We can't do anything, Gawain. Please, be reasonable. Have you seen how many Saxons are swarming around that guy? We need to inform Arthur and form a plan. Rushing in will only result in getting us killed as well and…" Bors said, not noticing his error.
"Arthur??? IF he's still with us. Have you even seen the state he was in?" Gawain cut him off turning his seething look on Bors.

Of course Bors had seen Arthur and his demeanour had shocked him more than any outburst of anger or rage could have. He took Gawain at both shoulders.
"Listen to me. We will get Galahad back. I promise. And if it's the last thing I'll be doing."

Gawain and Bors had ridden in silence up north for some time now. Their minds were charged with the images of a dying Lancelot and a captured Galahad, both lying in the mud, both delivered to hours of pain and suffering that lay ahead of them.
"Do you think he'll…" Gawain started to ask the dreaded question.
"I don't know." Bors cut him off harsher than he had intended. "And I don't want to think about it, but see for myself."
Gawain only nodded. He shivered as light slowly faded and the rain started again.

The door slammed shut behind Arthur. Jols, on the other side of the door that had only just missed his face, was dumbfounded. He had rarely seen Arthur this way. He hadn't spoken a word upon their arrival. Only Merlin had offered a quick explanation and asked him to prepare the stables for the many wounded that would soon arrive under Dagonet and Tristan's guard. Jols wondered how many there were, and what had happened to the others for Arthur to come home alone, in such bad shape.

Arthur threw his armour on the floor, touching his hot chest. He could still feel the pressure of Lancelot's body against his, the cold that had emanated from him. So cold. He closed his eyes and sighed heavily as he stepped to his water bowl to wash away the sweat and the blood that covered him from head to toe. He needed a moment alone. In darkness, to match his inner state. But suddenly he felt something move in the corner of his eye and as he turned he saw the man that had been waiting for him.

"Arthur."

"So… that's what Jols tried to tell me." He said in a hoarse voice. It was the first thing he had said since midday.
"You have chosen a very bad day for your visit, My Lord."

"All days are bad if the unexpected creeps up on us." The man stated.

Arthur continued to rub away of the signs of the battle that weighed so heavy on his heart, silent again. He was in a hurry. And if he couldn't get any peace to think, he preferred to hasten back to his friend's side.

"What happened?" The voice in the darkness asked.

"Don't ask… I am in no state to tell you. Nor do I have the time to." He grabbed a fresh shirt of plain black wool and added: "My room is at your disposal, as always. We will speak later." Not looking back he turned, leaving the door wide open.

---

He felt like some rodent was gnawing at his chest. Biting off small bits of flesh to satisfy its hunger. He lifted a hand to swat the nasty offender away. Someone caught it in midway.

"Easy now. Easy." A hoarse whisper in his ear.
"Arthur…" he mumbled still only half awake. He drew a laboured breath and felt a fiery pain hitting his chest. He broke into a sweat.
"Yes. Now calm yourself…" Arthur's voice was drawing his mind from the heavy darkness that was filling him and he longed to open his eyes. But he feared what awaited him.
He remembered the fight quite clearly, his defeat was burnt into his memory with painful force.

"Lancelot…"

He slowly tried to open his eyes but found he couldn't. A low groan started building up in his throat as consciousness steadily started to gain on him. He was cold. So utterly cold. And still something was steadily ripping at his chest.
His eyes snapped open, tears immediately welling up in them as the light blinded him. He squinted, but refused to close his eyes again.
"Arthur…" he moaned again, a tired smile crossing his face as he saw him.
"I'm here. I won't leave you."
Arthur looked up into Merlin's grey eyes as he whispered: "The chain mail is free from the wound now. We need to pull the shoulder piece out."
Arthur nodded, turning his gaze back to the terrible wound. Merlin had finally removed the studding and it had revealed a lot of crushed chains deeply lodged in the cut. The shoulder plate on the other side of the gash was dented showing the force of the blow. The edge had cut through Lancelot's skin and embedded itself into the muscle.
Arthur sat down on the table where his friend was lying, still as ever, and tenderly lifted his head onto his shoulder, causing a painful groan that pierced him deep down in his already heavy heart.

"I'm here." He simply said, cupping Lancelot's cold cheek as he looked to Merlin, who without any warning pulled the metal out with one swift motion.

Arthur felt Lancelot tense in his arms, breathing heavily now as he threw his head back looking up at the ceiling once more. The breathing stopped and for a split second, Arthur feared for the worst. Then he felt the body go limp against his own chest followed by a shallow, wheezing breathing, as Lancelot was gained by unconsciousness again and he put him down as softly as he could.

"Will he live?" He asked Merlin while secretly gripping the edge of the table he was sitting on.

Merlin looked up into a stormy sea and said: "Frankly. We have no way of knowing. He has lost a lot of blood. I still need to clean the wound with aqua beata to bypass any infection. This will strain him again…" he left his voice trail off as he knew what would come.

"I'll do it." Arthur said and glanced back to contemplate the ashen face beside him. He's so pale. I've never seen anyone so pale before.

Merlin wrung out a piece of linen that was soaked with the stinging smell of brandy. Jols, in his ever watchful habit of anticipating what someone needed, had provided Merlin with everything he wished for, without him even asking. The steward certainly was used to a lot of blood, injury and battle souvenirs of sorts, and since he couldn't join the fight, he could what he did to ease the aftershocks of it. But even Jols – as used as he was to the sight of grim wounds – had flinched when he saw the state in which Arthur had brought Lancelot back to the garrison.

Arthur had taken the cloth from Merlin now, and started to clean the clotted blood and gore away from the torn muscles with loving hands. Lancelot cringed as he felt the stinging liquid touch him, but Arthur's warm caress on his brow eased him back to his sleep.

"Arthur. He has a strong heart. Strong enough for the fight that lies before him. There is no internal damage so far. You should take some rest now."

Arthur didn't answer him. He felt a distinctive warmth coming from the hand that the wise man had placed on his shoulder. Like a fire in plain winter, it slowly started to spread throughout his body, and he closed his eyes. He saw a wide blue sky drawn over a wide green land. The sun warm in his neck, the breeze sweet on his face.

When he opened his eyes again, he felt easier than he had before. Rested. And he turned with wonder in his eyes to Merlin who greeted him with a smile.

"Are you trying to cast a spell on me?" There was no reproach in his voice.

Merlin only continued to smile and turned to pull a blanket on their patient.