A/N: Hello ARWEN fans! Finally, Arthur and Gwen come together after months of separation. I hope you find their reunion satisfactory.

Many thanks to KIMMIKY and tubahaze for their excellent beta. The chapters wouldn't be the same without their input! I couldn't do this without them!

Finally, IDO Merlin.

….…

The Sorrows of Pendragons

Chapter 11 Nowhere To Be Found

As he'd expected, their tracks led north, circumventing the Citadel and autumn's harvest now flaming fields of fire from the west. The orchards had not been spared either, fresh and life sustaining food now crackling to a burnt ruin. Percival covered his nose and mouth with a torn piece of cloth, his eyes burning with tears and his nostrils stinging from the bite of smoke and ash. Into the Darkling Woods, he continued north, as he had also expected the tracks to go.

The hidden cache in the wood had barely escaped Morgana's vengeful crop burning by a hand's breadth, sparks of cinder and ash licking at the tree line but dying at the edges. After gathering as many supplies and weapons that he could carry, Percival pondered why there showed no sign of the king and Merlin having used the emergency surplus since their path brought them close enough to it. They rarely had to use these treasure troves this close to Camelot, but they were still valuable when the occasional need arose. He counted them essential for him right now. In so much, Arthur had behaved strangely and quite possibly concussed, but Merlin should have remembered, being present at the meetings when they were approved. He figured they must have been chased relentlessly and hadn't had the chance to stop.

Southron patrols remained in the woods surrounding the countryside, hindering his progress to less than a league and having to hide several times to avoid them on his first day. The patrols all but disappeared the deeper he went into the forest, distance from the city and Southron complacency both playing their part, he guessed.

He'd lost Arthur and Merlin's northerly trail on his second day, still west of the city and a lot of ground yet to cover. To his dismay, he'd chosen the wrong set of tracks at a split that led him further north to an encampment of travelers who'd apparently used the same rutted tracks that Morgana and Agravaine had made in their chase after the king. That fork was about two leagues back, its other more likely trail branching east though there had been little sign of usage. Cursing to himself, he retraced his steps about half way before deciding to make camp for the night. He needed a horse, and the farm he spotted off the trail a few hours ago might provide it, though with his luck at the moment there was no guarantee.

At daybreak next morning, Percival approached the obviously wary farmer and his family. He couldn't keep his gaze from occasionally slipping to their beautiful daughter in the telling of the invasion and of his need, and she returning his obvious attentions with a coy smile and lowered eyes. But as the crow flies, they had heard rumors of it already and were horrified with the truth, vowing to keep their ears to the ground and their noses as far out of it as humanly possible.

It was, therefore, understandable that the farmer was reluctant to give up his horse even with Percival's assurance on his honor that he would return it when his duty to the king was fulfilled. The farmer's wife though agreed without hesitation, giving her husband a gimlet eye that promised retribution later if he was unforthcoming.

With one last look at the browbeaten farmer, his upstanding wife, and a lingering one for the prettily smiling daughter, he nodded his thanks, mounted the saddleless mare with an effortless jump, then spurred the horse back into the woods down the off-beaten path toward the fork.

He could make good time now and be in Ealdor in three days.

….

Leon was thankful for the distraction of becoming the group's de-facto leader, for it kept his thoughts from wandering to Mylla and the girls too much, their fates still an unknown quantity and tearing at his heart. He could only pray that they had found safety during and after the occupation and not brought too much attention to themselves. Morgana knew his wife in passing, though she had never seen his girls, would she single them out if she recognized them? Perform some dastardly acts of retribution as an example simply because of their association with him? He would not put it past her, but he did not know, and it did no one any good for him to dwell on it now, the matter at hand more real than his fears of assumptions and the people here needed him to be strong.

Three hundred and eleven people escaped the city in this group, and there was a good chance there was more gathered at other points scattered outside the city limits. At first, he thought there was an excellent chance she would be amongst these people, most having come from the area their shared rooms were in. But as the weary day wore on and the names collected, the little hope he'd held slipped away. Thirty-four knights and fifty-five soldiers helped to maintain order and provide protection for the two hundred and twenty-two other survivors now living hand to mouth. They also provided hope.

The camp at the tributary served them well enough, though he had considered taking over a nearby town and enforcing marshal law, but with the addition of over three hundred displaced people, he surmised there would be more chaos than order. Here, he could control the environment making sure they all chipped in to making the experience more comfortable from lowest peasant to highest lord. At least if they all survived this, the nobility might be a little less haughty and respect their fellow men a little more no matter their start in life. The more experienced were sent out hunting, those with medical knowledge were set to mend the injured and the rest foraged for anything even remotely useful, though the large cache of weapons and supplies would help. At least for a time.

Basic tools, a few tents, a fair assortment of weapons, it was enough to get started. The two largest tents were erected for the sick and injured, and for food preparation by a few of the escaped kitchen staff. There weren't enough shelter and cots for everyone, and blankets were sorely lacking too, yet no one complained overmuch. Like Leon, they were all glad just to have their lives.

Opting to use a small tent for his headquarters instead of the one larger council-size tents more needed for the healers and cooks, he set up a wood stump for a desk and log for a chair. Quill and ink were available, but some of the parchment had been damaged and rendered useless. He would have to choose the recipients of the missives he intended to write very carefully with this limited supply of parchment. Not only would he have vassals to call forth, but to elicit the aid of allied kingdoms was exceedingly important but not something he was comfortable doing; a king should handle those. Messengers would need to be taken from those able to handle a sword and fleet of foot. He would not send out inexperienced boys into the hellhole Camelot's surrounding lands had now become.

He ticked off the list of allies: Olaf, Rodor, Godwyn, Bayard, Annis. Along with as many lords and knights he would consign from across the kingdom, it was indeed a promising start.

….

The spell wore off with time, longer than Merlin had thought, it having lasted nearly two days, and Arthur not happy at the state of things when he finally came to be himself again. He was in the woods, in the company of smugglers, dressed in peasant rags three sizes too small looking like an idiot and apparently considered as one as well.

On top of that, he was fleeing his kingdom and Merlin had bought them passage to Ealdor with the smuggling criminals using nearly half his gold! The only thing that saved his servant was a plain white handkerchief crumpled in his pocket. He'd started carrying Guinevere's favor again a few days after he'd angrily consigned it to one of his drawers. It was such a little thing, a reminder of pleasant times and it was precious to him, easy to keep close to his heart. It was comforting to know he had the presence of mind to realize its tender value and to bring it with him even though he couldn't remember anything he had done over the last few days. Just how had he gotten into such a state?

Merlin's explanations were most unsatisfactory, what little he'd managed to gain from him, that is, between waking in such confusion and their sudden frantic flight with Tristan and Isolde. Arthur's traitorous uncle had tracked them down and wreaked havoc upon the smuggling ringleaders' camp, destroying it, confiscating their valuable cargo, and killing their friends in brutal fashion merely for harboring them.

Once Arthur's true identity was made known, Tristan's contempt for everything the king represented was immediate and aggressive and could practically be tasted. Not one to hold back punches, he held fast to a justified grudge against royalty. And nobles were not much better in his eyes, living in comfort and diffidence at the expense of the poor and downtrodden. He'd lost what little he had to taxes, and had no trust in those in authority, gave respect to none, and wary of their intentions.

Now once again, a king was responsible for the loss of friends and property; and even as the four of them hunkered down away from the ravaged camp now crawling with Southrons, Arthur and Tristan managed to argue with one another, the smuggler's eyes holding years' worth of accusation while the indignant king defended his sovereign decisions.

Arthur and Tristan only halted their hostile exchange with the interruption of Southrons attacking from the rear. Setting aside their personal grievances, they easily stepped into an adept display of swordsmanship and prowess, fighting side by side almost as if they had practiced the maneuvers together for ages. The three of them moved in a comfortable rhythm of easy defense, almost seeming a dance to Merlin had it not been so deadly and Arthur's life hadn't been endangered once again.

Though outnumbered, it was over in a matter of seconds, with them defeating their enemies with flair and force and unmatched skills. Isolde went down in the fray, however, saved by Arthur in a nick of time and now laid prone on the ground, deep gashes on her forehead and upper arm. From the way she cradled her abdomen, Arthur thought she may have had a bruised rib or two.

Utter distress gripped Tristan upon seeing her hurt and fallen, and dropping his weapon, he hurried to her and cradled her in his arms. Arthur was moved like nothing else in a long while as he watched them, the usually hardened smuggler altering before his very eyes into a caring, stricken lover, his only concern for the woman he adored. Arthur understood. Honestly, he felt the same as with Guinevere, and imagined her lying there, or somewhere else, injured or dying. She may be dead already for all he knew, and that thought made his chest constrict in protest while his aching side screamed foul. He could not allow his inner hurts to show any more than he could his physical pain.

He had heard from Fredrick and she was safe in Longstead, wasn't she? His heart shriveled in his chest and suddenly he felt lost.

Losing Guinevere dawned very real now, and Arthur knew he'd had let her down. Had he been right turning on her for the first transgression she'd ever made against him? His mind had been clouded with anger, and jealousy, and pain; she had hurt his pride, had made him feel less of a man, so he'd discarded her as if she were a broken toy no longer cherished, breaking his promise that her home was hers for life after she'd shattered his world. He had thought only of himself and his burdened feelings, never considering what she might be going through. He hadn't been man enough to face this problem with her, instead relying on law or tradition to decide it for him. He'd made a rash decision. He'd been a coward, something that Tristan would never be to his beloved if he measured this man correctly. Of this, he was confident.

Isolde's pained, but amiable eyes pleaded with Tristan to consent to travel to Ealdor with Arthur and Merlin, and though he reluctantly agreed for her sake, they were now on foot and on the run. But Isolde could be better cared for there in the modest comfort of Merlin's home village.

It would take a day and a half longer before they reached Ealdor, nearly due east of the Citadel and just across the border. But they had fled north to avoid the Southrons encroaching from the opposite direction, which made for a longer trip. Most of that time was spent in uncomfortable platitudes and barely concealed contempt on Tristan's part, poor Isolde and Merlin caught in the middle of their battle for Alpha male.

As hard and rancorous as the jabs he threw, Tristan went out of his way to row with Arthur, ridiculing the king's every action, turning the simplest deed into a slur, a contemptuous thing; and in earnest Arthur tried to keep his annoyance tied down, but failed miserably a few times returning his own fiery retorts. It rankled that the man didn't even know him and still accorded him the same disdain as if he were solely responsible for all his misfortunes and that of every common person.

But as time crept by, the tone never changed and Arthur began to question his worth and judgments more and more. Maybe some of the things Tristan had said were true.

….

It had taken three days to get through the Ridge of Ascetir, but he was certain Agravaine and his troops would not dare follow them to Ealdor. It would be foolish to cross the border and incur mayhem on a neighboring rival kingdom that definitely would lead to a war. It would be costly for Camelot and her citizens to engage in another battle so soon, even with Morgana's power and forces. It was bad enough just having one Pendragon in Escetir, even if only seeking temporary shelter and medical aid incognito.

Ealdor was only a small farming village and Arthur well knew how poor it was, with only a few fields and fewer livestock, yet proud and hardy folk. It was Merlin's home, and he knew his manservant missed it, his duties in Camelot providing him no time to visit his mother. Barely in the village, had Hunith now greeting her son with a warm hug and a bright smile, and a welcome to them all.

….

Gwen looked up from the repair work just as new arrivals emerged from the tree line, too far away for her to make out their features, though they looked slightly desperate just by the way they moved. It elicited a modicum of interest whilst she repaired the links of metal in her hands.

She didn't know why she was mending the chainmail, it was just something to do, and the cleanup after Beltane was finished three days ago. She could not remain idle, yet Hunith would not have her working in the fields, so the only thing left to do was mending. There was very little of that to do, as well, so after stumbling on their surplus hut, she took it upon herself to inventory and organize its contents. The chainmail and a few other knightly articles were surprisingly among the excess.

It had been a sad but necessary affair for Hunith and the other survivors, going door to door after the Dorocha attack, searching for the dead, giving them a decent burial and then salvaging their belongings to be used for the surviving relatives or in the case of those who had no family left, for the good of the village. What they hadn't need right away was piled in a dark and musky hut, forgotten until, or if, there was a use for it.

It was bittersweet, some of it: a woman's tarnished brooch perhaps given by a sweetheart; a dagger with a jeweled hilt though the gem had long been lost, sold, or stolen; the slightly rusted chainmail of a broken soldier retired to an isolated village. These items held imprints of lives, memories of meaning, once treasures kept endearingly by their closest neighbor, family, or friend, their stories and secrets now unimportant and lost forever with the dead they'd once belonged.

Gwen squinted her eyes as the strangers came closer to the village. It wasn't unheard of for travelers to stop here on the way over the border, especially this close to evening and in such troubled times. They may stop for supplies and carry on or stop for the entire night, yet another of the empty houses converted and ready for use by such people. The coin they collected, what little it brought, was still a much-needed blessing.

It was near sundown, the last rays of sunlight still very bright, but she could make out the four figures a little better now. Three men and a woman, and that first man wore a jacket similar to Merlin's, while another man in a longcoat very much like one Arthur wore sometimes was supporting a woman who appeared to be injured. But that third man could almost pass for— Gwen's eyes bulged and her jaw dropped. The chainmail slipped from her grasp, the clink of liquid metal dropping unceremoniously to the hard floor barely registering in her subconscious.

It was Arthur and he'd looked her way when they passed the road of the house she was in. Her hand shot to her mouth as she took in his entire appearance. He was dressed like a peasant of the worst order, ragged shirt and vest too small to cover his stomach, and breeches torn below the knees far too humbling for the man she once knew. And…sandals? She was aghast at his state. What would possess Arthur to bring himself to dress as such in public? She found herself suddenly giddy, giggling almost uncontrollably. He looked ridiculous. Gwen covered her mouth to stifle her growing laughter, but it came nonetheless.

It took only a moment for her to sober when she realized there must be good reason for them being there. No horses or knights. No banners or provisions. Arthur dressed as a peasant. One of them injured. "What has happened in Camelot?" she asked herself. "Morgana and Helios must have won and they had been forced to flee. Where's Elyan? Oh, dear God. Elyan!" Gwen talked herself into frantic worry, her hand going to her mouth, prowling the hard-packed dirt floor like a caged animal. They were in trouble. There must be something she could do.

Gwen forgot all else and ran for the door, throwing it open and rushing through it before she realized that no matter how concerned she may be about her former homeland, Arthur probably would not be pleased to see her. She skidded to a halt, suddenly feeling less confident and then ducked back inside, slamming the door shut behind her. Leaning against it, she put her face in her palm and waited for her nerves to calm.

After a moment, her eyes wandered to the chainmail, crumpled in a mass of metal on the floor. She worked her lower lip, then grunted. Now she knew why she'd felt compelled to mend it. Fate was still playing with her.

….

There were many empty houses after the Dorocha left its deadly stain on the land, and finding a place to rest for the ousted king and his friends was no problem for Hunith. Arthur, after seeing to Isolde's care and comfort in one abandoned and converted home, fell into a restless sleep on a cot in another. He'd eaten the meal provided without so much as a complaint to its blandness, though it was still hearty and eased his hunger. He lay stretched and covered with a blanket from the waist down, his peasant shirt removed and revealing the angry purple bruising from broken ribs, worsened from the exertion of the last few days.

That was nothing compared to the emotional and devastating strain of losing Camelot again to his half-sister. It agonized his very soul. He'd trusted the wrong people, led astray once again. So much had gone wrong in the last few months, and Tristan's unforgiving rancor rang all too true. He'd lost everything, and because he could not hold on to his kingdom, maybe he did not deserve it.

Arthur stirred from the shadows of slumber when he felt the feather light touch of gentle hands adjusting the bandage at his waist and opened his eyes, expecting to find Hunith. Surprise clearly on his face, he raised his head when he saw, not Merlin's mother, but another very familiar face sitting next to him.

"Guinevere," he whispered with disbelief. How could she be here? Truly, he must be in a dream.

"Hello, Arthur," she said softly, her posture demure, her eyes unsure. It had taken Gwen a few hours to summon her courage to face him, staying confined to her hut and finishing the chainmail with a fine polish. She used that excuse for her delay, and of course, checking in on the injured woman consumed some of her time, too.

Arthur blinked the last traces of sleep away. It was not a dream. Gwen was really there. Acutely aware of the throbbing ache in his side, he propped himself gingerly on his elbows. "What are you doing here?" he asked softly.

"It's as good a place as any," she said, her voice resigned. They stared at each other a moment, shadows of their loneliness plain on their faces until she lost the battle and lowered her eyes. It seemed a lifetime since she had last seen him, even longer being this close to him. "I've missed you."

"And I you," he confessed, truly pleased in the knowledge that she was indeed safe. Slowly, he eased himself up on one elbow and embraced her tenderly with his other arm, burying his face in her shoulder, and in her hair the way he used to love doing. He felt whole again, breathing in rhythm with her, infusing with her very essence through the warmth of her body. The beat of his own heart was loud in his ears, and he was sure she could hear it.

Gwen soaked in his purely masculine scent, felt the beat of his heart upon her breast. The heat that always radiated from him wrapped around her and absorbed into her very being. She sighed with contentment. She thought she'd never feel the security of his arms around her again, and for the first time in many months, she allowed herself to relax in the warmth of his embrace.

Plagued by her ever-present conscience, she suddenly believed he would push her away as the moments passed, coming to his senses and throwing daggers at her again for what she'd done. She started to tremble, and stood abruptly, breaking their embrace in one smooth motion instead of waiting for him to do it. She moved to the foot of his cot, straightening the front of her tunic and valiantly struggling to regain her composure.

It was as if life itself sucked out of him when Gwen departed so precipitately, his heart sinking the moment her warmth withdrew and pulled further away. Desperation flashed on his face, his mouth dropped watching her go. Like a humble servant waiting for the master to rise, she stood at the foot of his bed. A relieved, yet displeased expression crossed Arthur's face, but at least she wasn't leaving.

"I found some things more suitable for you." She pointed to a sack in the corner, now covered with a fine set of chainmail, a belt, gambeson, and dark brown breeches. A pair of worn, but well-polished boots stood at attention next to them.

How on earth had she found all that in such a small village? he mused, a satisfied grin on his face. He let it pass. He knew she was a resourceful woman, and he really needed to change most desperately. He dipped his chin when he looked back at her, his grin now an embarrassed smirk. "I take it you saw my wardrobe then?" Gwen's lips pressed together in a genuine smile at the memory, her eyes filling with mirth and she nodded.

Arthur couldn't help but return her smile even in the face of his knocked down pride. He had to admit that he looked ridiculous in his choice of peasant attire, and was much pleased that he would not have to continue wearing them. "Thank you," he wryly replied.

Wrapped in a calm silence, Arthur and Guinevere forgot their heartache for the moment. Theirs had been a tumultuous affair of nearly five summers, those early years when both thought the other as untouchable, forbidden fruit hanging temptingly out of reach. After that first surprising kiss which sealed their fate. They would orbit each other, keeping their distance, only to collide in brief moments of happiness that would ultimately end with one of them or someone else sabotaging their chances of being together.

Even with the turmoil of their relationship, their longing was deep and the loneliness of being apart tortuous. There were times when they felt all hope was lost. For Gwen, no one else compared to him. He was everything she had ever dreamt. For Arthur, he desired love above all else, and no other had captured his heart the way she had. She dared to say what was on her mind when it came to her love for him, and he had no idea how to express his emotions, let alone his affections for her. It had taken a threat against Guinevere's life for them to drop the walls and the pretense, submit to love, and fight for the life they desired, the future that Fate had granted them.

So it had seemed. It didn't take long for the recent past to impose on Gwen's present and her eyes started to water, though the tears were denied release.

Arthur sobered too, biting back his own emotions, the joy of seeing her again and the pain of her betrayal mixing incongruently, intruding and snuffing out that same joy. He then noticed the dark shadows under eyes that once shone bright with such life and passion and with everything else that he loved about her. He thought she also appeared slightly thinner than when she had left Camelot, but he couldn't be entirely sure. His heart ached for her as he wondered what hardships she must have encountered. It did not escape him that whatever she went through it was because he had sent her straight to it.

"I'll leave you to rest," she said finally, averting her eyes and not looking at him at all now, totally subdued. And when he said nothing, she made to leave, spinning away from him so quickly that it made her dizzy, though she did not break her stride.

"You don't have to go," he said before she reached the door, though what he would do or say if she stayed was still a mystery. Perhaps he should ask how she had fared. Or he should tell her of Camelot, or about Tristan and Isolde. He did not think he had the strength or the nerve to bring up Lancelot.

Gwen stopped, but did not turn around, afraid to see his reaction when she said, "I thought I'd never see you again." It was whispered almost imperceptibly, and the tears began to fall in earnest.

Arthur dismissed his own discomfort and rose abruptly, the thin blanket slipping to the floor to reveal the too-small peasant breeches. He put his arms around her and his breath hitched unexpectedly, her breath on his chest, her vulnerability, the smell of her hair enveloping his senses and rousing the deep emotions that only she could invoke, feelings he thought he'd buried.

Gwen's arms wrapped around him too, her hands instinctively finding those familiar scars of battles both recent and long past and absently tracing them like she always had. It was so comforting. She nuzzled against the fine hairs on his chest and whimpered tearfully. The feel of his arms around her again made her weak in mind and body, and she leaned closer into him. This was where she belonged, and the harsh reality of their long plight crashed in on her in waves of shuttering agony.

"I'm here now, Guinevere. You needn't have to cry," he whispered, pulling her into a deeper embrace, pressing them harder together, his chest soaked with her tears. His own eyes began to sting, a recurring annoyance of late showing up when lest desired or expected. Deep down, he was delighted to see her and relieved beyond measure. She was once again in his arms, safe and alive, though he could now discern that she had indeed gotten a little thinner. A tear escaped his pent-up emotions, and he was glad that she did not see it, the water seeping slowly into her soft brown hair.

He lifted her face and stared into her eyes, losing himself in the light brown pools of so much sadness, then kissed her tenderly as he was often prone to do when he held her as such. It was the sweetest taste he'd ever had, even the choicest berries in the midst of summer could not compare, and his body quivered with sheer pleasure being this close and intimate with her once again.

They came up for breath for only a second, their kissing more vigorous now, the desperation of their desires at the long absence taking over and clouding their reason. The king broke the kiss and began a slow descent from her jawline, Gwen arching her neck to expose more flesh. Her breathing increased, her knees were weak. Hands roamed, bodies pressed hard together. The heat rose steadily, furnace-like in its intensity.

He felt her tremble even more just when the image of her and Lancelot together invaded his pleasure, though he could not force himself to stop tasting her. Through the kisses he placed on her neck, he could neither stop the question that escaped his lips. "Why did you kiss him?" Arthur could have shot himself with his own crossbow in that tactless moment, but she answered anyway.

"I don't know." She found his lips, wanting to stop any other words from further escaping his mouth.

He kissed her harder, her lips plump and soft. Yet, it was an unsatisfactory answer and he wondered at his pursuit of it when he insistently asked once more. "Why did you kiss him, Gwen?" He wanted to know why he was less desirable than Lancelot. He wanted to know why she'd chosen him. He wanted to hold her tighter and yet push her away.

"I don't know," she replied, her voice lazy, her thoughts lost in the fog of pleasure of the passion in his kiss. She felt his grip tighten on her arms as he pulled them apart, her glazed, hooded eyes finding his red-rimmed and intense, and desperately searching for answers. Gwen suddenly felt as if she were in the castle council chambers on that dreadful day all over again, the interrogation once more making itself known in her memory. Her face twisted in pain, losing the ecstatic glow of blissfulness.

"That is not good enough," he said tightly through dark pink lips as swollen as hers, his breath and chest heaving for air. Flashes of them in similar positions in the council chamber those months ago came to mind as fresh tears wasted no time plunging from her eyes.

Yes, it mattered for him to know why she did it, but now was not the time to throw her back into the fire. They had been apart for so long and causing her to weep hurt him now like never before. Arthur immediately gathered her into his arms this time as if he could hold their fragile relationship together by the force of his arms around her.

"Don't cry," he whispered. "I'm sorry for that." Arthur remembered the white favor and pulled it from his waistband, wiping her tear away with the soft linen and Gwen cried even harder when she recognized it. He adored her, needed her, the agony and hurt and anger she'd caused him melting away in the moment. He was not entirely innocent in this whole affair. He had been a coward, had not called upon true courage to talk to her about it then. Had broken a promise. "Look at me, Gwen. I'm sorry for hurting you." A tear escaped again, but Arthur didn't care. "I'm sorry I sent you away."

That was not forgiveness for her transgression, and guilt for the upheaval of their lives wrought by her foolish and inexplicable actions summoned more tears. "Arthur…" she choked through her sobs. "There are no words I can offer worthy of forgiveness, but I am so sorry for what I did."

"Just…" It felt so right with her here now. "Just let me hold you." It seemed so long ago, but he had never forgotten how she felt in his arms. He'd wanted this from nearly the day she had left, even with his heart in tatters. No one else had ever engendered this feeling of tender protectiveness within him. It was why it all hurt so much.

Gwen leaned into his touch, drawing comfort from it, and closed her eyes. It was not forgiveness, but it was a start. She fiercely held him, pressing against him with all her might, as if she could crawl under his skin with her proximity, crying and apologizing incoherently into his shoulder, her voice low and meek. It seemed she had already burrowed under his skin, and he'd found it impossible to dislodge her.

He closed his eyes, soothing her with quiet whispers of affection and regard, a calming hand rubbing her back. He was torn, could not focus, her being so near after being gone so long, her brokenness exposed and hurting him all the same. Had he forgiven her? Could he forgive her? Could she forgive him for sending her away and breaking his word?

Arthur was lost in those thoughts, in Guinevere's arms when someone screamed outside, shattering their bittersweet reunion like an arrow shot through a stained glass window and hurtling them back to the now. The moments passed as they gazed upon each other, each seeing the glaze of hope disappear from the other's eyes, both of them retreating behind their defensive walls, drawing upon their own realizations for rightfully being in the places they were set. Both of them afraid that this was indeed their last time together and yet nothing had been resolved. They allowed their doubts to grow and were as distant now as they had been all along.

"I'll see to the villagers' safety," Gwen said, slipping easily into her role as protector of the people, something so natural to her as breathing. It was a far easier thing to do than to stand in front of a man who rejected her.

Arthur nodded somberly, and when Gwen was gone, the light that was in his heart turning into a hard cold stone. He could forgive her in time, but he could not trust her. After all that just transpired, his pride would not let him do it.

….

The village was in chaos, so it had seemed to his uncle. A few brave souls scampered in the darkness like sacrificial distractions while the majority of them had already escaped to the Forest of Merendra to the east. Gaining a distraction for themselves, Arthur and his band of fugitives once again fled for their lives into nearby tunnels, hoping against hope for any sort of reprieve.

This time, Guinevere left with them.