~Author's Note~

Sorry for dying on you guys... I hope you enjoy and please forgive me!

Sincerely,

~Ms. AtomicBomb

Arturia was smiling, watching as the dinner table was alive with music and conversations. Her favourite part of the day had to be dinner, who would ever dislike eating and preparing for bedtime. At the given time, Tristan was promptly sitting next to her, a respective smile on his lips—he too was enjoying the lovely dinner.

She watched the redhead from the corner of her eye, guilt building up from deep within her chest. She had to constantly remind herself that political marriages were not always laced with love; or loyalty—not that she would not be loyal, but that fact that her heart was racing for someone other than the one she was subject to marry made her feel heavy with culpability.

The candle lights lit up the dinner hall quite nicely, giving it a warm glow and just the deep crevices of the room were shrouded in the shadows of the early evening. Arturia sat in peace, the chatter of the dining room not fazing Arturia the slightest… that was until Merlin tapped her shoulder rather hurriedly.

She lifted her gaze up to meet him, blinking up at him in question, she managed a small smile, "Yes, Merlin?"

He had a frown on his lips, worry weaving his brows and shaping his body, "There are some news."

"News?" She raised a brow in inquiry, "Are they important and deserve my attention immediately?"

He gave her a steady nod, "In fact, you have an audience, my king."

Arturia stood making the men at the table rise to their feet hurriedly. She frowned at the people seated as she spoke, "Forgive me, but I must retire for the evening." She announced before she steeped away from the table.

"Would you like for me to accompany you, my King?" She heard the redhead call from behind her.

Arturia turned her head towards the man, delight on her features for a fraction of a second, "It would be ever so kind of you."

After having settled down on the throne, arms on either side of her and Tristan to her left, she called for the visitor to enter the audience room. Her eyes were on the door, indifference on her lips and no emotion in her eyes once again. She was great at this, keeping her emotions locked up—far from anyone's reach or even sight.

The doors opened with few long groans, gasping as they screeched to a stop. From the corner of one of them, a young man emerged; tall with a black cloak clinging to him, a hood over his head which happened to cloud his features with thick shadows. He pulled off his hood, kneeling before her; cloak expanding like a raven's wings. He knelt on one knee, arm draped over it while he bowed his head down.

She had only caught a glimpse of him and it dawned upon her who he was; his physique and hair had made her gasp—not loudly, albeit, not even audibly.

"My king," he breathed, lifting his head so that his honey eyes would meet hers, "I bring you news of your port city."

"My port city?" She furrowed her brows, standing from her seat in a swift and quick motion, her dress being pulled towards her, "What sort of news?"

His eyes were kept on hers, letting his gaze follow her every move; taking in her features, those green worried eyes of her, the folds of her dress, her weaved brows. He was afraid of how she was going to act when she heard the news. He looked down at the stone floor, gathering his courage.

"It has been attacked." He kept his voice steady, flickering his gaze back up to her.

She stopped her pacing, turned to him properly—earrings swinging in the erratic movement—her eyes wild with anger, "Pardon me?" She stepped towards him, "Whatever do you mean by that?"

He gulped, opening his mouth to answer.

Worry splashed her face, "Where is Ko-Giru? Did you get attacked as well?" she urged, walking to him and taking his arm, pulling him up from his kneel.

"He is completely fine; we did not even reach the city. We witnessed a growing fire and a heavy cloud of black smoke climbing into the sky as something circled the town…" He trailed off, uncertain of his very own words. Surely, he had gone insane.

"Something?"

"There was screeching, and flapping wings…" He paused, "The Saxons have something—something big. Something I would have never thought existed… or rather, I never believed it were real."

Arturia raised an eyebrow quizzically, her eyes narrowing and head slightly tilting, "What do you mean by that?" She inched closer towards him, so much so that they were only inches apart. She needed to see the truth in his eyes; what he was thinking.

He looked away from her, his eyes having locked with the red-head's hazel eyes. He felt a flash of jealousy wash over him but he supressed it quickly; shutting it away in the deepest corner of his mind, "A creature," he breathed, his eyes flickering back down to hers—fear filling his gut all over again—he licked his lips, "You will not believe me if I tell you, but it is the truth."

She blinked, "A creature?" Her eyes had dropped to his peach lips, gaze locked on them.

"A dragon."

Silence surfaced from the deep ocean in the room; the way a whale would to take in a breath of air. Diarmuid watched the woman blink a couple of times as she seemed to be digesting the information. Her head dropped while she thought deeply of it and then it shot up, she believed him—he could see the freight in her eyes, but her shoulders shook with a nervous laugh while she was in denial, "You must be jesting with me."

"With all due respect, my liege, would I have returned to court after an attempt on my Prince's life if it were not so?" He drew his hand to his chest, "I am a man with honour. What I speak is the truth." His honey eyes narrowed, flickering to the red-head once more who wore an expression of fear.

Arturia gulped, hands dropping to clutch the folds of her dress, grab at the fabric which offered some stability, "My only port city? What you mean to say is that my port city—Addany—has been occupied by Saxon thieves?" The anger returned, the rage in her eyes evident when she questioned him.

Diarmuid nodded, "I apologize for this news."

She covered her mouth, making her way towards the throne rather harshly; her grace wavering for a few seconds as she sat down.

Tristan and Diarmuid both stepped towards her to offer condolence, but Diarmuid stopped in his tracks when the Englishman glanced at him. He felt it there, the fact that he was no longer in Arturia's life, that he was no longer the one to hold her and comfort her in her anguish, the one to hold her tightly when she needed reassurance and the one to kiss her when she did something right. It was Tristan now.

Tristan moved again towards her, kneeling next to the throne and taking her hand in his, "Arturia, dear, the Saxons will not continue to move further into your lands. We will crush them at the marshes."

She took a shaky breath, green eyes lifting from her dress to the man, "Shall we gather the Table?" She asked, her voice filled with uncertainty.

Arturia had always been a strong woman, but insurance was something she lacked after her traumatic experience. She still had to learn to trust and have confidence. Diarmuid could see she needed that sometimes.

"We could ask Merlin to inform the dukes." Tristan soothed her, rubbing circles on the back on her hand with his thumb.

Diarmuid had to look away, the feeling of jealousy filling him again, "I…" he began, "Might I be excused to see to my master?"

"Wait," Arturia stood at the sound of his voice, "Before you leave…" her voice trailed as she stopped before him. "I have one last question."

He lifted a brow, "Anything for my, my king."

"Do you know Aithusa?" She asked, her brows knitting as she reached out towards him, stopping herself before she took a hold of his arm.

Diarmuid shook his head almost immediately, "I truly apologize but I fear I have never heard it before."

She nodded, slowly, "Thank you, Diarmuid. Thank you for returning. Thank you for thinking of me."

Her eyes fluttered open, the hard bed would barely allow her to sleep. The thin sheets would not be enough to cover her thin body anymore. She had been imprisoned in the tower for nearly a year now, her patience was slipping away along with her life. Every second of every day she would pray that she would exit.

Every night the fear crept upon her, demons calling her to give up, to deny the call of heaven. She would cry, holding her only possession; a ring her family had given her with the words 'Jesu-Maria' engraved in them.

The moonlight could make it through the thick bars in the window, but so was the cold breeze, chilling her to the bone. He skin was delicate, bruising at even the softest hit, her eyes had sunken in, her frame skinny so that her ribs would protrude. She was very weak, barely being able to stand in the mornings. The cold seeped into her veins, filling her and making her shiver.

She pulled the blanket over herself, it was not much but at least it was something. Her eyes were fixed on the rough stone ceiling, eyes heavy with sleep but body aching.

"Martyrdom," she prayed for it, inviting it in the darkness of the night; hissing at the temptations and opening her heart to God.

"Michael," she called for her dear friend, hoping to hear him as she had many times before, "Michael… I wait again to hear you. I will always listen, even unto death."

No voice returned to her but there was a tingling in her fingertips as warmth filled her. She curled up, listening to the lullaby God was playing just for her. Just for her ears. Her eyes fluttered closed, moonlight lighting part of the dark cell, crickets singing for her and a warm breeze kissing her face.

She slept.

Her eyes fluttered open again; this time it was morning. The birds chirped and flew past her window. The sun shone bright but did not enter her cold, dark cell. She hugged her legs as she tightly wrapped the blanket around herself.

The knock on the door distracted her.

"Yes?" She called out, her violet eyes glancing over, breath slow.

"I am here." She heard her priest call before he was allowed in, "How are you?" He gave her a warm smile, something she had welcomed. He stepped towards her, black shoes squeaking slightly.

"Better…" She hummed.

"I brought you something," he whispered, opening his satchel and pulling out some bread, "How did you sleep?"

Her eyes widened at the sight of the food, the smell of bread finally hitting her. She reached out for her gift, taking it into her hands, "I had a dream."

"Was it a good dream, Jeanne?" The sturdy nose of priest wrinkled in fear.

She nodded, "It was heavenly." Jeanne mumbled, "My father caressed my head as I slept soundly. The warmth of the sun warming my back, the smell of honey floating around us."

"Your father?" Jeanne's family was not in sight. Her father and mother knew not that she had been captured as no one had the heart to tell them. Her brothers were probably somewhere with the army, probably Paris.

"My heavenly father," a tear slipped from her eye, landing with a soft 'plop' on her hand, "I felt loved."

"You are loved, my dear." The priest encouraged, "There are many people in France that are begging the King to help you."

"I know. But there will be no love greater than what I felt in my dream, what I will achieve in heaven. I pray for that day."