A/N: Here is part two of Hunter's Heart (retitled to reflect the accurate chapter continuation). Many thanks to larasmith for the prompt to delve a little more into Guinevere's captivity which left me filling in several gaps in the episode. Please let me know how you like this version and be honest guys and gals.
Thanks so much to my smart and wonderful and brilliant beta, KIMMIKY, and to tubahayes, for without I'd still be working on this one. It's been a long road completing these chapters. I hope you enjoy.
I don't own Merlin. The new characters are mine, though.
The Sorrows of Pendragons
Chapter 7 Nemo Animatis Divellunt, Pars Duo
Gwen heard the din of the march, felt the cadence and clamor of troop movement before she actually saw it. She was moving, but not of her own volition. She thought she was back in the prison cart, the vibrations she felt through her back seemed to also support this theory. A moan in her throat, a hand went to her jaw, caressed her cheeks, and her eyes opened slowly, then immediately squeezed shut, shards of daylight painfully shocking them, sending stabbing waves through her already throbbing head. That brief moment was enough to see flashes of bright colors. She wasn't in the prison cart. She blocked her eyes with the back of her hand, then cautiously opened them, gradually adjusting to the light.
Washed and in a clean dress that she didn't recognize, she tried to rise, but her head protested once again, pain radiating so intensely she saw white. She eased back onto the cushioned bench and exhaled a cleansing breath, trying to let the pain go with the outward puff of air. And it felt so good to be clean. It was a silly, fleeting thought, but even as they traveled along the river they had not been allowed to bathe all but once. And she had not been given enough time or sundries to adequately clean herself the way she was accustomed. She realized she'd become rather pampered living in Camelot and courted by royalty.
"What happened? Why am I here?"
An elderly woman known throughout the camp as Adelaide sat on the floor beside the bench she was laid upon, maternal yet cynical green eyes scrutinized her intently. Even with gray hair and fine lines in her face, she was beautiful. The hardship of life in a military host had not been unfavorable to her. "The Warlord brought you."
Gwen cleared her throat, the memories unraveling in the fog of her mind. "That woman who'd fallen, did anyone bury her?" Her throat suddenly seized, so dry it hurt. She licked her lips. It could so easily have been her.
Adelaide handed her a goblet of water. "I don't know. You're lucky to be alive." Her voice held a slight note of censure threaded through the kindness.
Guinevere squeezed her eyes shut. It was getting harder not to cry. Why had she tried to overtake Tebbe and run? She knew the consequences, yet she was not mentally or physically fit to carry out so daring an action. "I'm not alive. I can hardly think straight. I almost got myself killed," she admitted. "I don't know what to do." She searched Adelaide's eyes, looking so deeply she wanted to make sure she didn't miss anything. "How can you live like this? How can you stand it?" Adelaide took her time looking her up and down, the perusal slow and measured. Whatever she saw seemed to be acceptable enough since she gave the slightest of nods.
"You have spirit, child. Perhaps that is something else Helios sees in you. You are very pretty, you know." Adelaide touched Gwen's cheek tenderly and when her smile reached her eyes, Guinevere relaxed. "Have you learned nothing since you've been here? Your concern for others will get you killed. Slaves die every day and are replaced just as quickly. Such is the life of Southrons. It is something we all must learn to live with now. Some learn quicker than others. They are the ones that usually survive the longest. But you are lucky. Having sorcerers these last few months have been a blessing and a curse for us. The apothecary healed your wounds."
"What?" She touched her lips and her jaw. Though minor, her injuries paled in comparison to most of the punishments dealt to slaves, but that didn't mean they didn't hurt. She was sure Tebbe had struck her hard enough to leave scars, but there was no evidence of a physical assault now. "I don't understand. Why did they do this? Why help some and not others?"
Adelaide shrugged. "Why not? It's just another level of control. You never know if you're going to live or die when the punishment starts."
"It also helps if the Warlord favors you," another woman said. Gwen's eyes shot to the source, a dark haired beauty a few years younger in bright and colorful satins and sheers. There were two more women seated on cushioned benches that she hadn't noticed before in the lavish and well-provisioned wagon. She didn't like that she hadn't noticed them, that her senses were dulled. With controlled effort, she swung her legs over the side of the bench and sat up.
"How long have I been here?"
"You were injured over a day ago. You slept through the night."
"What?" Being already small in stature, and since leaving Camelot, she had lost weight, living off of meager rations, few hours of sleep, and almost a week of hard labor. She was exhausted. Gwen had to admit that she was lucky to some extent to be alive, though how much of a life this would prove to be she was not certain. She was under no illusions as to why she had been spared.
She covered Gwen's hands now limp in her lap. "Once we make camp tomorrow, Helios will come for you." Gwen stiffened under her touch, her eyes shooting up to meet Adelaide's. "You mustn't be frightened, child. He's very gentle with those who don't resist him."
A stuttering gasp escaped, and the tears finally fell. Was this her fate? Her virtue taken by force or accorded under duress? To be part of a brute's harem until she was as old as Adelaide? If there was ever a time she needed Arthur, it was now. Or her brother. A knight. Someone to give her the strength she no longer held.
Arthur. "This is not how it's supposed to be," she cried.
Adelaide took both her hands now. "It never is. But it's up to you whether or not you survive this. Whatever life you had before is no more. This is it, so you must get used to it." She turned her head to speak to one of the other women when Gwen saw a small three-spiraled tattoo on her neck peeking from under her shawl. Adelaide was a Druid. If she had magic, why did she not use it to save herself? Was the camp so well guarded that not even her magic could help? Was there surely no escape? What color was left in Gwen's cheeks suddenly drained away.
"I think the purple salwar will be perfect for her." The Druid looked back at Gwen and smiled warmly again as if the young woman had nothing to worry about. "Now tell me what you are called, child."
…..
Arthur saw the look of utter disbelief on Merlin's face when he announced the marriage proposal with Princess Mithian in court, but he ignored it. He also ignored the fake smile Merlin reluctantly painted on his face seconds later. He knew his manservant would take this hard and would challenge his decisions, so he should not have been surprised later when Merlin accused him of still being in love with Gwen, believing it too soon for the man to enter into another relationship, let alone a marriage. It cut the King deeply, though, and in retaliation, Arthur heatedly threatened him with exile, so presumptuous of Merlin to supposing his heart and his needs.
The discipline of her entourage and display of their horsemanship kept his attention only until the princess lifted her veil. She was fair and beautiful and mesmerized Arthur with her porcelain white skin, large brown eyes that sparkled with mischief, and full pink lips that tried to restrain a small smile. She was as beautiful as the reports had claimed, and he couldn't keep his jaw from dropping from such a pleasant surprise.
Mithian again stunned him with her candid introduction, wasting no time letting him know how handsome he was to her. He was sure he blushed and was sure she saw it. She read his awkwardness and asked if they were to remain outside, her deflection spurring him to grasp her hand to present her to the crowd gathered on the steps, and to formally announce the feast in her honor tomorrow. Just from his few moments of interaction with the Nemeth princess, he was ready to believe this political union might work after all even as he tried so very hard to ignore the ache left behind by Guinevere.
By default of his own natural charisma and regal countenance, Arthur became the perfect charming host his father would have been proud of. Mithian was as lovely and gracious as the reports he received, noble-born, and from what he could see, noble-spirited. He didn't want to admit his attraction to her even though she was very opposite from the grace and beauty of Guinevere.
It was distasteful, he knew, but hard not to compare the differences between the two women. Mithian loved to hunt while Gwen would rather read a book or study the grain yields; Mithian openly displayed affection, so unabashed of human faults, where Gwen usually showed grace and humility for propriety's sake.
Mithian was fair and soft in appearance, from floating around the castle, no doubt, remembering this thought he'd shared with Agravaine a few months ago. Guinevere's body was firm from years of hard work, a body constantly in motion that built up muscle. He found himself missing the security of her strong embraces, and then immediately shuttered the thought away.
Mithian was desirable, and her differences disarmed him in ways he had not expected. Was it so wrong a reaction of a healthy male to physically need a woman? Was it not a perfectly normal response for someone in as lonely a position as he? Who, in their right mind, could resist the love apparent of a beautiful and perfect princess?
While Arthur did what was expected, his heart reeled against the forces of his human frailties. With all Mithian's differences, a spark of want had lit for her.
…..
In their first dusk-to-dawn mission in the Southron camp, Fredrick and Kolby did not come across the captives. Between the four of them, they were able to locate an armory, the number of battalion banners, most of the guard posts, and heavily guarded tents that beckoned a closer look at some point, if that was at all possible. More than likely, these were the Warlord's tents.
Over the course of their next two missions, they noticed routines, patterns, weak points, and strongholds. They found more armories and the number of guards protecting them, where the food sources and supplies were kept, that there were eight prison carts, not six. Ector and Maxwell found more guard posts, horse pens, and a few more heavily guarded tents. Most importantly, he detected four sorcerers, one of them very, very strong. Though there were murmurs of Morgana, she had not been seen by them.
Until the separation of the War Party into tunnels deep below the Trenton Mountain Range, they took no action to liberate the captives or anyone else left behind. At one-quarter the size, the squadron left to protect the nonessentials was still a formidable fighting force, and until the dual camps were combat ready and settled, Fredrick and Kolby took time to sort out the information they gathered. Kolby would be sending much of it to the King and Lord Gregory this very eve.
Each battalion left a small contingent of troops behind to protect their interests. A few of the heavily guarded tents belonging to the Scorpion battalion also remained behind, and it was there that Fredrick discovered what was left of the Longsteaders: only four women, and no Guinevere. For the first time since vowing to protect her, Fredrick was wholly discouraged, and solemnly realized he would not be able to keep the promise he'd made to John either. He did not look forward to writing to Sir Leon and Longstead tonight.
…..
Helios was a predator, a ferocious killer, designed by Fate to lead by brute force, threat and fear shadowing his every movement. Whatever rewards Morgana had promised were worth the arduous trek north, her sorcery and his knowledge of warcraft guaranteeing their success. The size of his army didn't matter. He'd made a study of the weaknesses of men in order to utilize them for his own gain. He and Morgana were much alike in that regard.
Beneath the Trenton Mountain Range, the war camp was functional in only a matter of hours, the network of tunnels quickly transformed into an advantageous and comfortable base of operations. It was a testament to the leadership, strategy, and control the warlord held. He was one day from the front gates of Camelot, and with no one in that supposed great city the wiser. He didn't pause a moment as he entered Guinevere's new chamber of rock.
"I was not mistaken." The Warlord stopped a respectful distance from her, seated in the candlelit cave, a servant adjusting a veil pulled back to reveal her face. Guinevere stood and turned to Helios, the maid attending her stepping into the shadows behind her. His hard armor now replaced with a colorful silk robe exposing his bare, muscular chest, he placed his hands on his hips and drank of her loveliness. "The filth of a pig sty cannot disguise true beauty." With an introduction, Helios bowed as gracefully as a Warlord could, stiffly and awkwardly. It would eternally lack the courtly grace of those she had known in Camelot.
She replied with a deep unwanted curtsey and her name, the rich purple silks and delicate sheers of the foreign clothes she wore divulging too much of her own body. She forced herself to smile, her tears long spent in the long wait for his summons. Lack of court manners or not, she was entirely at this man's mercy.
The warlord closed the distance between them with a confident saunter, his gaze roaming over her every surface voraciously before landing on her eyes. "I'm only sorry we had to meet under such circumstances. I had not intended to leave you so long in the labor force, the business of war can be…distracting. I thought I made it clear to my men that you were to be brought to me after a week. I'm sorry for all that you suffered."
Guinevere had never felt so exposed under the hungry scrutiny of the Southron Commander. It left her skin crawling and a shudder escaped her. She only hoped she could pass it off as the cold and not expose the depths of her revulsion. "My lord owes me no apology. I am accustomed to hard work. I suppose I must thank you for my life. The villagers were not so lucky."
"These are difficult times, Guinevere. I need new recruits, and the youth of today are not so enthusiastic. Who are you? What family do you come?"
He didn't believe her when she said she was no one of importance. She had to concede: that curtsey may have been a tad too refined for the pigsty he had plucked her from.
"No matter. I'm not concerned where a person comes from, only what they can become. Would you do me the honor of dining with me?"
Gwen was no fool, seeing through his flattery and show of tender mercy, knowing he was responsible for the brutal attack on Longstead and the death of her friend Erwan, and the sentiment may have sounded the same as Arthur's view of equality, but the motivation behind it was entirely different. "My lord, I am not worthy of such an honor." She did not want to be left alone with the man and was cautious for the sake of propriety. She wished she had the dagger Arthur had given her at what seemed so long ago.
"I insist. Now come." His final gesture before turning to leave was a quick bow of his head to her. She acknowledged with a tilt of her head and a smile thinly-veiled with apprehension and repulsion. Her curtsey was again forced.
…..
Guinevere dined with him in a cavern extravagantly filled with wax candles set on brass stands of various lengths. No mere tallow for this man it seemed. Many large pillows for seating surrounded a short table overflowing with meats, fruits, cheeses, and bread. A satin covered bed was tucked near the cavern edges. The candle-glow flickered an exotic dance in long strange shadows on dark walls that glistened in response. It was as uncomfortable as it could get, and would have been romantic to someone who cared. Not sure what she expected, she eased onto a pillow to sit opposite him.
She wove a life that did not exist, told him of a tale of flight after the brutal death of a family not her own. It had just come to her, flowed easily, and sounded so right for her circumstance. It appeared she had found her forte as a consummate liar since she had left Camelot. Each new background coming easier in the telling. She revealed nothing of her true identity save her name, which she supposed the warlord probably had known anyway. Her eyes casually flicked around the cave as she spoke, searching for a weapon, a tool, anything she could use to her advantage.
The guard who interrupted and announced that the Lady Morgana had arrived and waiting for an audience with the warlord did not distract the now-agitated Helios long enough for Guinevere to contain her shock. She was sure her former mistress and friend would be delighted to find her here, unarmed and helpless; and doubly sure she'd take pleasure using Gwen as a pawn to weaken Arthur further if she didn't kill her outright first.
Her eyes scanned the cave for anything that could be used as a weapon. Cutlery and candlesticks. Not much help there, though she insanely thought that maybe she could bludgeon Morgana with a candlestick before they overpowered her, or set fire to the silk cushions. They say burning wax is rather painful. The thoughts were tinged with hysteria and she forced herself to calm the panic that had triggered it, now not the time to fight. Guinevere needed to leave.
Feigning a sudden onset of fatigue, she used her recent injuries as an excuse and cited a sudden urgency for a need to rest. Helios spurred to protest, clearly not ready to end his time with her, but she pressed her need to save her life and assured him that the future would grant them time to be together. The sweetness of the tone that emerged from her throat sickened her. She sounded far too yielding and demure. Never in her life had she had to lie so much, but this was a matter of life or death.
The warlord held much power, but he submitted to her, having no reason not to believe her words to be true. Perhaps, there was something to what Fredrick had said about men acquiescing to her will after all. Escorted by a guard, she barely had time to veil her face, thanking the stars for the garment before Morgana rounded the passage and passed her without even a glance in her direction. Harlots, it seemed, were probably lower than servants to the High Priestess and not worthy of her gaze, she thought.
The escort being too far ahead of her was not prepared for the grapefruit-size rock that Gwen was able to pick up and smash into his head from behind, dropping him quickly. She dragged his body into the shadows, under the natural lip cut into the rock face not to be found for quite some time. She doubled back and perched upon a rock to adjust her line of sight on the warlord and the witch.
Morgana's noble breeding, her Old Religion training, and a touch of madness was a deadly mixture of poise, power, and unpredictability. One moment she embraced you as an old friend, the next she sucked the life out of you or struck you with an invisible fist before casting you away. She was a terrifying force, all she commanded feared her wrath and trembled in her presence. Gwen had known someone more gentle and forgiving in another life so long ago.
Gwen hugged the rock face tighter, clearly overhearing the words "Agravaine", "plans", "siege tunnels" and "Camelot" just before her perch crumbled under her shifting weight to betray her hiding spot. Alerting Morgana and Helios of her presence, she fled through the curiously deserted tunnels and back out into the moonlit woods. The few key words she heard was all she needed to know betrayal was once again pounding on the castle door. It took her less than a second to realize that threat of death for her betrayal, she would never leave them to suffer such a fate unprepared.
Using her knowledge of the forest and the lay of the land, Guinevere evaded the Southron search parties west of the mountain range throughout the night and came very near to the King's hunting grounds. Today was Ostara, and the forest would be bountiful with game to feed the hunter's heart of the King and his knights. She hoped the information she carried concerning the threat to the kingdom would jolt their adrenalin-spiked competition to a full stop and round them completely to prepare for an imminent attack from Morgana and the Southrons.
They were so close she could hear the horns and shouts of the beaters.
But Morgana, mounted on a brown warhorse, tracked her down, blocked her path, and dashed all her hopes with a blast so powerful it propelled Gwen against a tree and knocked her unconscious. The High Priestess dismounted, and knelt beside the maiden, a friend she had once treasured but had abandoned like the rest of them when it came clear whose side she favored.
The symbol of Arthur's love glinted between Gwen's breasts and a twinge of madness spiked in Morgana. She snatched the ring from around Gwen's neck, breaking the cord with an imperceptible flick of magic. The clamor of the hunting party drew closer and a sneer broke across Morgana's face. A fatal flaw for vengeance, she was unable to resist another enticing opportunity lapping at the edges of her sanity to wreck upon Arthur and Gwen. Her hatred of their bond blinded her from her mission in this moment. She dropped the ring where she stood and glared at Gwen.
"You want to see your precious Arthur, then so you shall." It amused her twisted sense of irony that Arthur, the great huntsman, would be the last thing Gwen may see, and as her killer no less.
The High Priestess spoke the transformation spell quickly, its magic covered Gwen in a soft golden glow, then absorbed into her body before disappearing altogether. Morgana made sure that if Gwen died she would turn back once more. It wouldn't do after all for Arthur not to know that he carried out his own decree. How far he would fall. It would break him to know he had killed his beloved.
…..
The spotted fallow doe was only one hundred paces from him, a shot so easy even Merlin would have no problems. So when he missed it, the confused, yet critical eye he gave the crossbow was laughable because it couldn't possibly have been his fault. He had perfect form, had it full in his sights, and he shouldn't have missed unless the crossbow was faulty. Had he damaged it in some way on this hunt? Arthur almost didn't hear Mithian's cheeky remark about his poor marksmanship when her aim was true and her bolt hit the doe in its hindquarter. Her shot didn't fell it, though, and there was very little blood to track. The king joined in the search, combing the forest floor for a trail of blood they knew would be close by.
A less perceptive hunter would have missed the glint that caught his attention. Arthur knelt in a comfortable squat and picked up a silver ring tied to a leather cord. When he recognized the object, Guinevere's matching wedding band, the world closed in around him, all the times he kissed her, held her, vexed her, laughed with her, and every other moment in between spontaneously flash within his mind. The trail lost all meaning.
What fickle chance had he of finding that ring, now discarded and forgotten on the forest floor in the middle of nowhere? What was Fate trying to tell him? Stricken, he looked to Merlin for answers he knew the servant wouldn't have.
Merlin kept the king's gaze only briefly, the guilt of constantly altering the destiny of nearly everyone within his sphere of influence one time or another made him jittery this time. His magic saw the doe for what it was and he used his magic to change the path of Arthur's crossbow bolt. That doe couldn't be killed, let alone be killed by Arthur. He did not react fast enough to save it from Mithian's quickness and sharp shooting, though. He hadn't known to be prepared for such marksmanship.
As if it were possible for her to be there, Arthur's eyes search the woods for Gwen expectant, the band's condition far too clean and polished to have been exposed to the elements all this time, so she must be nearby. He looked once again at the cord to see it torn just below the knot, and his fear deepened. He couldn't help think the worst. If it was ripped from her neck, was she injured? Or God forbid…dead? The thought crashed into him like the waves of a raging sea colliding violently against rock and he gulped for air that cinched his throat.
For one brief moment, his guard went down and he couldn't control the shaking of his hands, the jab in his gut, or the tightness in his chest. Who was he deceiving? Despite Mithian's very obvious and not so obvious charms, he knew that he would never give her more than the physical act of love; he would care for her and respect her, but he would never wholly love her as a husband should love his wife. He would rather not marry than to live like that. Guinevere had, like a thief in the night, stolen his heart and had yet to give it back. As soon as his mind caught up with his emotions, Arthur called an end to the sport.
The hunt was over, and Mithian was thoroughly confounded. Arthur carried something in his hand, but it was too small to see what it was. She looked to Merlin for an explanation of the king's erratic behavior, but from the sorrowful look on Merlin's face, she could tell he had no answers for her. It was too personal to be shared with a stranger, she knew, and intrigue was a game played in every court.
"Leon!" Arthur barked, approaching his riding horse. Merlin was right. He was almost always right, Arthur thought. He had been a fool to believe he could just move on as if she had never existed. He loved Guinevere despite what she did, and though he may not be ready to forgive her, he still needed to make sure she was safe. The first knight rushed to his king's side, Arthur's crossbow still in his hands. Arthur knew what Leon was doing. He was checking its calibration trying to figure out how the king could have missed hitting that doe. "What news from Fredrick?"
"Last report was that the Southrons were still across the bord—"
"I meant about Guinevere!" He growled through his teeth, his eyes dark and bearing into the knight, his lips thinned with undeserved derision. He remembered, remembered with harsh clarity that he'd told Leon not to mention where she was, not to ask, not to even say her name. From his periphery, he could see Mithian and Merlin approaching. With a cleansing intake of breath and a forceful mental shove to calm his fury, he asked, "Where is she?"
"In Longstead, Sire." In that moment, Arthur looked ferocious, but Leon was too accustomed to the unpredictable moods of kings, at how fast they changed, or how dangerous they turned to be shaken by them even if it was aimed at him. He'd had many years to toughen his hide and gird his nerves. "She's safe."
"I fear you're wrong." The king held up the wedding band, and Leon swayed, recognizing it, knowing instinctively what finding it without its owner meant. "Dispatch riders to Longstead immediately. I want a full account within three days, Leon. Use carrier pigeons at Chime if you must, but I need word of her safety now." No more words, just a nod, and he knew even as Leon turned away it would be done with the utmost urgency.
"Arthur," Mithian said, coming alongside the king and glancing between him and the retreating Leon. "What has happened?"
His features turned as cool as the blue of his eyes before facing the princess. "Mithian, I must apologize. Something grave has just come to my attention." He didn't mean to sound so diplomatic, they being so companionable lately, but it was too late. "If you please, we must return to the Citadel." He held out his hand, and when she placed hers into his, he escorted her to her horse.
"As you wish, my lord." The intrigue perplexed her, but good breeding had her holding her tongue and mounting her mare.
Arthur climbed his Chestnut and steered it toward his first knight. There was something prowling in the back of his mind and finally manifested to the forefront. "Find out why we've heard nothing from our scouts."
"Sire, they've reported nothing out of the ordinary." It wasn't so much that they hadn't heard anything from the scouts. It was because they hadn't heard anything noteworthy or dire from the scouts. They had received regular posts from carriers though fewer than expected for this time of year.
Arthur hummed, his lips pressed tightly, the gnawing not quite going away. His horse in the lead, they rode back toward the Citadel in silence, his thoughts on nothing but Guinevere.
…
A/N: Nemo Animatis Divellunt, Pars Duo, Latin, Let No Man Tear Asunder, Part 2
