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Rowan shivered as the door to the tavern opened, letting a couple of soldiers out, and tucked her knees up to her chest. Although the tavern was more than half full, there was little noise; conversations skittered between tables with the brittle stillness of dried leaves, and although armed guards stood by the doorway, there was none of the usual banter they exchanged when people came and went. In the far corner sat Vanora, her eyes dry, her face white and set. Eleven sat upon her lap, pudgy fingers tangled in her bodice, his siblings tucked around them like wary fox cubs. Their grief was an almost solid thing, and like the soldiers that surrounded them, Rowan turned her head away from it. She had no words of comfort, no way to heal the hurt
Bors had gone with Lancelot, Gawain and Tristan to retrieve the body of his son. Rowan had seen the knight briefly before, and mentally noted his size and obvious strength, but nothing could have prepared her for the wild savagery of his grief. It had taken four men to hold him down when Three had stammered out what had happened, his roars of rage subsiding into sobs when Vanora abruptly walked over to him and slapped his face. His fury melted in the face of hers, and they had held each other for long moments without speaking. After that all became chaos: Arthur doubled the guards, mothers ran to haul their children back home, the knights left with set expressions and few words, and Rowan watched it all quietly. Uncharacteristically silent Lucy and Llynya sat together; their faces pale, their eyes reddened from tears. Taran, Llynya's son sat upon her lap watching the people around him with a happy fascination that was wholly at odds to the mood, and Lucy touched her belly every couple of minutes as though to reassure herself that the life that grew within her had not been stolen away. Neither of them had had much time to farewell their beloveds, Rowan had noted. A brief touch upon their shoulders from their men and they were gone. No time for goodbyes, she thought sadly, and no way to be sure that they would return.
Would Lancelot return? The question had been gnawing at her ever since he had left, and Rowan wriggled, as though moving might dislodge the thought from her mind. He'd helped to hold down Bors when it seemed the older man might throw himself blindly into the woods that had claimed his son, he had accepted Arthur's orders when given them and he had left without a word to her. Gawain had been visibly distressed at their mission; his face anguished and eyes bright with tears, Tristan seemingly impassive were it not for the whiteness of his knuckles upon his bow. But Lancelot… Although he had re-sheathed his swords a little violently after checking them, he seemed emotionless - his dark eyes cold and clear. Of them all he had been the one to take the lead and ask questions of Lucan that seemed almost cruel in their request for detail. He had let the boy go to the arms of his adopted parents with a pat on the shoulder, but it was clear that the boy was already forgotten once he had gleaned whatever information he needed. Distant, Rowan decided, dropping her eyes so as not to be observed watching him, but not unmoved. Not when he muttered something to Three who nodded with weary gratitude, not when he met her eyes briefly before turning away.
Sliding off the bench which she had been sat upon, Rowan started collecting the dirty plates from the tables. The job needed doing and the activity was a welcome distraction from the misery around her and her own disturbing thoughts. Kyrie gave an attempt at a smile when she passed her, before resting her head back against Galahads shoulder, but for the most part no one paid any attention to her. Stacking the dishes into the bowl carefully, Rowan looked at the grease that stained her hands dark as blood, before moving swiftly to the back door and locking it tightly.
Branda stretched voluptuously against the damp grass upon which she lay and held her hand up to the sky. In the moonlight the blood on her fingers gleamed almost black, and she admired the way her skin shone alabaster in contrast.
"D'you think we should have turned him?" She asked idly, moving her head to look at the man reclining next to her.
"Why?" Cynwulf quirked an eyebrow at his mate before reaching for her hand and licking the blood from it. "Looking for a replacement for me already? I thought that I alone held your heart."
"You do." Rolling over and straddling him, she placed her hands upon his bare chest and gave him a wicked grin. "I held his heart too though." Kissing him swiftly, she drew back before he could deepen it. "Tasted sweet. Sweet little boy." She turned her attention back to the sky. "Would have been fun though. Send him back, let him return to us all pretty and bloody and tasting of his family."
"That's my girl." Cynwulf smiled lazily at the woman atop him and pulled her down for a kiss by her bloodied dark hair. "Always finding cruelty in the kill, but you know we couldn't. Wulfstan gave us orders and…"
"Wulfstan is leader only by default," Branda spat irritably, rolling off him. "If Fridolf hadn't been stupid enough to get himself killed then half the fort would be running with us now. Wulfstan hasn't got the sword, it's only because he's the eldest anyone listens to him anyway. If I…"
"If you what, Branda?" a cold voice enquired from behind her. Startled, the young woman crouched defensively, eyes searching the dark. Slowly a huge man walked from the trees. His hair shone silver in the moonlight, as did the wolf pelts that formed a rough tunic over his chest and hips. His eyes however were gold, and he regarded the two younger werewolves with undisguised disdain. "If it were up to you then the whole pack would be cavorting merrily to their deaths. Fridolf underestimated his quarry, I don't. These aren't villagers we are hunting: if we want the king and his Samartians to join us we must be prudent. That means understanding them, using what we know to our advantage. If you two hadn't been so eager then they would still have been hunting rogue Saxons. Had you been anyone else you would have suffered badly for your lack of judgement. Syna's recovering, but she's not happy at the way that you took over her kill. She requested a fight when her leg is healed but I dissuaded her. I will not be so merciful the next time." Wulfstan ran a disapproving eye over Cynwulf and Branda. "Keep a tighter hold on your bitch, brother," he said, turning away. "The pair of you look positively feral."
Branda shook off Cynwulf's placating hand on her shoulder, her eyes blazing as she watched Wulfstan disappear into the shadows.
"Why do you let him speak to you like that? She demanded. "Why do you let him speak to me like that?"
"You know why." Cynwulf rubbed a brawny arm over his eyes and sighed. This was a conversation that they had had many times before, and he was growing weary of Branda's lust for power. "If you want to be Alpha then go and challenge him, but I wouldn't advise it - you saw what happened to Ailith."
She bit her lip in acknowledgement of his point, but the anger within her so recently sated by taking the village boy's life refused to die down. "He's not properly Alpha unless he has the sword. He's got to kill the bitch who killed Fridolf to get it - that's the law. The guard said that some girl called Rowan killed him. She must have it."
"The guard would have said anything by the time Wulfston had finished with him, " Cynwulf said tiredly. "What are you going to do? March in there and ask nicely for the sacred sword of our pack?"
Branda rolled her eyes in irritation, but before she had time to form a retort, an idea struck her. With a slow grin, she leant down and gave Cynwulf a lingering kiss.
"But love, I'm going to do exactly that." Taking a deep breath, she tucked her hair behind her ears and gave him a doe-eyed look. A pretty, innocent young girl were the onlooker to ignore the blood that matted her hair and streaked her skin. "If Arthur is so keen on taking in strays, then why shouldn't he take in a poor child whose family have been tragically slaughtered by wolves?"
Cynwulf shook his head. "Wulfston'll kill you first."
"Not if I give him to Arthur," Branda replied softly, kissing his chest. "Lead the one to the other and take the prize." Kissing down his chest, her hand found his manhood and she giggled when he groaned in frustration. "See now love, this plan's sweet as baby flesh. I will be queen and you will be king, and those pathetic Saxons that Wulfston keeps under his thrall will be the first meal we share with our new pack."
Gawain kept his eyes upon the forest as he urged his horse towards Hadrians Wall. He was aware of Lancelot and Bors riding beside him, Tristan behind; guarding their backs with keen eyes that missed nothing, and for the first time he did not envy his friend that gift.
What he had seen back in the glade that Guinevere and Three had directed them to was not much - not by the standards of battle. He had seen severed limbs, bodies hacked to pieces, and he had sometimes been the cause of such bloodshed. But that was battle. That was war. What was left of Two was unidentifiable save for the belt buckle lying amongst a pile of bones and torn flesh. What had been a noisy, annoying but loyal teenager a couple of hours ago was now not even recognisably human. Bors had dismounted, sat for a few moments beside his son's remains before pocketing the buckle and swinging back upon his horse. None of them had said anything - what was there to say?
Clattering back into the courtyard he watched as Bors swung off his horse and gave the buckle to Vanora who waited, her children a solemn rank of soldiers behind her. The big knight caught her when she wailed and fell to the floor, swinging her up into his arms and carrying her home, leaving his abandoned mount to be claimed by a tearful stable boy. Tristan spoke briefly to Arthur before grabbing Lucy, kissing her and pulling her away to their quarters.
And then there was Llynya. She too had watched the exchange between Bors and Vanora, and looked at him with an unspoken question in her dark eyes. Gawain nodded swiftly, flung his horse's reins to a waiting groom and took his son from Llynya's arms. The boy chuckled at the sight of his father's face, his hands grabbing for the long blond hair . Gawain kissed his forehead, breathed in the smell of him and did not protest when Llynya took his hand and led him to the little house that they shared. Together they laid Taran down in the slightly misshapen crib that Gawain had made when he had first learned of her pregnancy and watched as he fell asleep. Neither of them said anything when Llynya unbuckled his hauberk and freed him from his breeches, kissing his chest, his lips and pulling him down on top of her when he yanked her dress over her head with none of his usual gentleness. Their coupling was fierce and brutal, and when afterwards they collapsed exhausted, Llynya cried the tears her husband dare not shed upon his shoulder.
A/N: Thanks very much to my readers and reviewers (special hugs to Kate and Beth who haven't been having a great time of it lately. Sorry that this chapter was a bit depressing and twisted lol).