Chapter Twenty Six
At last. In all their searching, in all their chases, Guy had begun to think that this "camp" where Hood and his band hid was nothing more than a myth. They were nomads in his mind – always moving – they couldn't possibly have a base camp. A permanent residence where they could plot against him. He would have found it. And yet...
Here they are. This patch of wood where the trees are thick and shrubbery thicker, coating the flank of this hillside, which sits nestled between two larger hillsides. Its landscape is distinct, memorable, but not one he remembers ever stumbling upon, as though cloaked by magic, though he knows there is none here. The only phenomenon here is how such a group of idiots could come together to conjure enough wit to outsmart him – alarms, traps, camouflage. It worked.
Until now.
Dismounting his horse, Guy steps into the small clearing of the outlaw's camp, where the tree trunks around them become walls and the boughs of leaves the roof over their heads. Remnants of food sit abandoned around the campfire, and discarded clothes and pieces of armor accompany them by the log where their owners must have once lounged. But the camp is unoccupied.
He can just imagine them though; swapping tales of their antics and laughing boisterously at each others' expense. Or perhaps they were not always so carefree; tending to each other's wounds and mourning their losses. A team. Guy's lip snarls at the thought.
"So this is home, sweet home." Guy uses the toe of his boot to nudge a wooden bowl with leftover stew crusted to its edges. He throws a haphazard glance Allan's way. "It's not much, is it?"
"It was enough." Allan slips from his own saddle, steadying himself against the horse's side.
"Apparently not. You do remember you're a traitor of these people. Do you also recall why?"
"I wanted more money in my pockets, not more cushions under my head." Allan thinks on that another second. "I mean, I wouldn't have protested it neither, of course..."
Sir Guy stoops down to hover a hand over the still warm embers of the fire pit. "Recently evacuated." He stands, turning towards Allan. "Had you been more forthright with the directions, we might have caught them."
"Yeah, it's a real shame." But there is no remorse in Allan's concession, only a wariness that can also be seen in the dark circles under his eyes, the peaked color of his skin, and the sheen of sweat that has begun to dampen the hair along his brow.
At every notch in the journey, from the castle to the forest, Allan resisted the curse's hold over him, bringing upon himself the same agony from the throne room. It weakened his resolve. No matter how much he tried to keep the camp's location quiet, he'd always break, offering Guy the next set of instructions that would spur them closer to the hideout. Then he'd resist again. And it was futile. Again.
"It would have spared you some pain at the very least."
Allan shifts his gaze, glowering at the man in black. "Luckily for you, I'm resilient. If I hadn't stalled, you'd have no excuse for letting them slip through your fingers."
Lashing out, Sir Guy snatches the front of the thief's tunic, yanking him forward, but before he says anything, he becomes acutely aware of the soldiers around them. They throw the two of them uncertain glances as they wait for further orders.
"What are you waiting for?" he snaps. "Check for tracks! Find which way they've gone!"
Allan lowers his voice. "We're cut from the same cloth, you and I."
"Don't flatter yourself." Guy turns his attention back to Allan once the Nottingham soldiers have busied themselves.
"We both want to save our skins and move up in the world," says Allan. "For me, that means money. For you...you have money, so you must be in want of power because you sure as hell don't believe in love." Guy snarls, his grasp on Allan tightening, but the outlaw quickly continues. "We don't bet on one horse. It raises the odds against us. That one horse loses and we're done for. But betting on two horses is just as risky if only in a different way...sure, it might give us a better chance at winning, but it divides our loyalties, doesn't it? From that bruise on your face, I'd say the steward is starting to see the crack in yours. Like I am."
The man in black says nothing as he shoves Allan down onto the vacant log, where his body seems to find some relief in the rest. The boy can't possibly know, Guy thinks, he's done nothing to give himself away. He's been cautious, discreet in all his dealings. Vaisey is not just a steward now, he's a sorcerer, and Guy has seen what he's capable of. If this plan with Morgana fails, if they are unable to restore her powers, then he cannot risk sacrificing his place at Vaisey's side.
"We have a chance to give ourselves the advantage here," Allan says, breaking Guy away from his thoughts. He lowers his voice even more. "I told you Robin and the others intend to kill the steward, and if that's true – as the spell damn well proved it to be – then you know they're heading for the castle as we speak." He jerks a chin towards the soldiers scouring the camp's edges. "Yet you ordered your men to search for a trail. Why? To stall. So why not give them some real orders – send them off towards the border, and give Robin the chance to take Vaisey down?"
The outlaw's words are earnest, and his eyes full of ignorant expectation as they search for any sign on Sir Guy's face that he's convinced him. It's a tempting proposition, Guy has to give him that, but he overlooked one small detail – the person whom Guy's future hinges on: Morgana. If he gives Hood and Pendragon too much of an advantage, then he endangers all that he and Morgana have spoken of. They'll turn on her, and without the bite of death nipping at their heels to distract them, they'll do so quickly. No, there is still a line to be walked, of that much Guy is certain. He can't afford to thrust himself onto either side just yet.
"You think...I want to see the throne rid of Lord Vaisey?"
"I think it's one of your options. I think he holds you back more than he damn well helps you. And I'm not being funny here, but I think you know it too."
"You are a fool if you think he will easily be overthrown." Guy says. "Or have you already forgotten the body sprawled at his feet, vanquished by magic? He grows more powerful every second."
"He's an infant when it comes to sorcery. Lady Marian has years on him."
"Marian?" Guy furrows his brow at the name. "Marian is no sorceress."
"I don't know how one goes about getting the official title or anything, but she has magic."
"You're perpetuating rumors that have long since been discounted," he says. "Marian is not a sorceress, nor does she possess such abilities. I would know."
"No offense, but...would you? Honestly, Guy, you two aren't exactly the best of chums. I mean I know you had feelings for her, but she never actually returned-"
Stomping his foot down on the log next to Allan, Guy leans down and reclaims the front of Allan's tunic, sneering in his face. "She is not a sorceress!"
"Say it as much as you want. Don't make it the truth."
Guy searches Allan's face for signs of deceit; a twitch of his eye, a spasm in his neck. If he's lying, the spell will out him. All it takes is one question. "You know as an absolute fact that Marian possesses magic?"
Allan answers quickly in hopes of avoiding the spell's inevitable pain. "Yes."
Impossible. How could he not have known? How could Marian have kept it from him? More than that – if the rumors are true, if the rumblings of what happened between Marian and Camelot all those years ago are valid, then why would Morgana not have spoken of it? Surely she would have been privy to the truth behind the tales. But Lord Vaisey's spell does not allow for dishonesty. The thief in front of him would be writhing as though he were being drawn and quartered if he had spoken a lie.
Guy releases Allan, unable to fully wrap his mind around it, and turns away. He drives a restless hand through his hair, and thinks back to that day in Leofrick's bedroom. The steward was so adamant that Marian could save her father, that she had magic running through her veins. Could it be that she had been Vaisey's original target? That if he had seen what she could do that she would be the one wearing the cuff instead of Morgana?
"Guy," Allan tries to snap him out of his thoughts. "You're missing the point. This is a good thing. Just think, if Marian can help us stand against the steward-"
"Us?" Guy is indignant. "There is no 'us.'"
"There should be. That's what I'm trying to tell you." Allan, weakened by the spell, continues to wilt with fatigue. "If she were to take up the throne after Vaisey, become regent for King Leofrick-"
A deep knit forms in Guy's brow as he slowly turns to face the outlaw. First Marian is a sorceress, now..."Regent?"
"Yeah. It makes sense that she'd be the one to keep the throne warm, doesn't it? Seemed plain to me, anyhow."
"Regent..." Guy says again, the word more distasteful this time. It does seem likely that she would be the successor if Vaisey falls. She is close to King Leofrick, liked by the people. If it weren't for the steward's quick tongue and persuasive words, she might have even been previously chosen.
He would have welcomed it then, but now? Now he can't afford it. If by some miracle they are able to strip Vaisey of his power – of his life – her friendship with Camelot would endanger the plan he and Morgana set for themselves. They would have not one kingdom after their demise, but two.
It's an obstacle he would rather not face.
He can't let it get that far. He can't let Marian reach that throne.
"Guy..." The little color that is left in the former outlaw's face begins to drain. "I know that look, and it's never good-"
"We need to find Marian."
"Here!" One of the soldiers calls out. "They're heading east, my lord!"
"Guy," Allan says, desperation in his voice. "Please...just listen to me. Her rule could be a benefit to you!"
Looking back at his men, Guy considers his options before looking to the fragile thief in front of him once more. He lowers his brow to shadow his eyes as he reaches down and hauls Allan back up to his feet. "I was afraid I'd have no more use for you."
Allan grapples against him, but his strength is too depleted to compete.
"But you, Allan A. Dale, just spared yourself. Tell me what you know of her powers." Guy looks to his men. "We head east!"
They say when a storm draws near the wildlife are the first to know. They withdraw as their chatter and songs cease, taking shelter in their dens or gathering in their nests to wait out the worst of it. Darkness swirls to the east. Its billowing clouds sweep out from the core of the building storm to gently brush against the village of Clun, threatening rain. But that is not why the people of Clun have retreated into their homes.
The raid is still fresh in the air. The dust has not yet settled from when the Nottingham guards flooded the small town and ransacked it for people of magic to assist in Vaisey's education. Doors are locked, shutters closed; if they didn't know any better they'd think the place was deserted. But stirring the silence is the faint sound of a baby's cry coming from within one of the homes. A horse huffs from inside a barn. There is still life here.
On the fringes, hidden in the woods, the knights and thieves skirt the village. Despite the heat, they don cloaks and covers to conceal the shine of their armor, and fool any drifting eyes into thinking they are nothing more than a passing band of peasants. It's a worthy effort. Though Arthur can't help but think that the size of Percival and Little John would not fool anyone who bothered to give them a second look.
"There," says Marian, nodding to a small chapel sitting on the outskirts of the town square. It's set apart from the rest of the buildings, a lawn where ceremonies surely used to take place acting as its buffer. A lone shutter claps against the window frame with no one inside to latch it into place.
"The friar was taken," says Djaq as if answering the unspoken question. "Rounded up as a part of the steward's search for people of magic."
"He was a sorcerer?" Much peers over her shoulder at the aging structure.
"Maybe, maybe not," she says. "He's been known to perform miracles. But whether they're of his hand or God's, I can't say."
"And what're we doing here, exactly?" Gwaine asks, shoving the woolen hood off his head that had been assisting in his disguise. "Getting Morgana that exorcism? Seems like it'll be a challenge without the friar around." He wipes a few beads of sweat from his brow.
The former sorceress shoots a scowl his way. She stands beside Arthur, her hands bound in front of her and her arm firmly in his possession, but her bonds do nothing to dilute her withering stare.
"We need to hide Morgana until this is all over," says Arthur, turning to her. "It's still too dangerous. We can't risk Vaisey getting his hands on you now."
"I know how to fight."
"I think the concern is who you'll end up fighting, sweetheart." Gwaine's lips twist into a joyless grin, his contempt for her clear in the dark eyes that scrutinize her every motive.
"Gwaine, I want you to stay with her and stand guard."
"What?"
"What?" Morgana echoes Gwaine's dismay. "You must be joking. He'll kill me within the first minute you're gone."
The knight's brow rises at that. "You think I can hold off that long?"
"He won't kill you." Arthur's reassurance turns to orders as he looks from Morgana to Gwaine.
"My service would be of better use at your side," he says. "In battle."
"It would, that's true-"
"Alright then."
"-but I need you here." Arthur claps his friend's shoulder. "Can you do this? For me?"
"What happens if I say 'no'?"
"Gwaine."
The knight lets out a breath. "Is it too late to withdraw from the round table?"
"Afraid so."
Sidling slowly over to Morgana, Gwaine takes her arm in his gloved hand, which she promptly jerks away from.
"Don't touch me."
"Believe me, I wish I didn't have to." He takes a hold of her again, starting to guide her along the treeline to get closer to the parish door. He stops, turning back to his friends. "Just...be quick about it, would you?" His regard is playful, but there is something more in Gwaine's eyes as he scans the faces of Arthur and the other knights – it's the same something that appears in the eyes of every soldier that looks upon their comrades before parting for battle.
Arthur watches as Gwaine and Morgana make their way along the forest's edge to the closest point before darting out from beneath the leaves and into the refuge of the church. He continues to watch the building a few more minutes for reasons he can't quite explain. Perhaps it's to make sure no Nottingham guards were hiding out and are about to ambush them, or that the building doesn't spontaneously collapse. Even still, maybe it's because with each member Arthur must separate from he hopes he will one day get to see them again.
Gwaine's gloved hand reaches out from the window, grabbing the wayward shutter and pulling it closed. The rusted hinge squeaks as it swings and the window clatters shut. It stays firm.
There's another squeak. Not from the church, but from somewhere within the village.
Holding up a steadying hand to the others, Arthur scans the various hovels and barns in view. All is still and quiet until he spots a man standing at a window, spying out at them. For a moment, even at such a length, Arthur swears their eyes meet.
Thunder rumbles in the distance.
Then the window closes.
He's been here before – on this cold stone floor, coated in a mysterious dampness that can only be found underground. Merlin presses his palms against the rock beneath him, but he doesn't lift himself up more than a breath before the pain in his side surges up his body and escapes out his mouth in an involuntary cry. It echoes against the stone and iron surrounding him, filling the chamber. He grips his wound, forehead pressed against the floor, writhing as if to lull the agony to sleep. The chill that has seeped into Merlin's hand is relieved by the heat of fresh blood oozing between his fingers. He starts to tremble, shiver. Everything is starting to feel cold except for that sticky, vital fluid eager to leave his body.
"He's awake." Someone whispers.
"Emrys..."
Emrys...Emrys...
"Emrys..."
His true name, both spoken aloud and through thought spreads across the dungeon. It ripples out from different corners of the darkness, from different voices masked by shadow, coalescing around him in a pulsating haze – as though the very air which carries their voices is alive and curious.
Feet shuffle. More murmur.
The young warlock lifts his head, and though his vision swims, he can see them in the flickering torchlight. Dozens of worn and weathered faces look at him from their cells, carrying with their gazes silent sentiments of concern, hope, reverence. Some have greyed with age, while others are so young that not a single wrinkle has yet to mar their faces. There are men, women, all bunched together at the irons bars as they try to get a better view of him. They bear cuts and bruises, and Merlin knows it is by the hand – or at the very least the order – of Lord Vaisey.
These are his tutors.
Druids. Sorcerers. Sorceresses. Every single person here is one of magic. He can feel it. Every single one was brought to teach Vaisey all they know. A living library. The realization creates heat despite his weakness. Magic burns of its own accord deep within his chest.
Thunder claps outside.
But with all the power they possess, why not leave? Why not save themselves?
"If we had gone," a small voice says from across the room, "who would be left to help you?"
Startled, Merlin searches for the one who answered his unspoken question, but as his vision continues to wane, they remain lost in a sea of faces.
"Emrys." An elderly woman in the cell adjacent to his stoops down. "We have been waiting for you." She reaches her arm through the bars, stretching a hand out to him. The glove on her hand frays where the fingers have been cut away, exposing the callouses she's accumulated through years of hard work. They look much like Merlin's. Even though they both could likely do their chores with a snap of their fingers, both have clearly hidden their true potential.
"You are close to death," she says. "I feel you fading. But your destiny is not to die here, my boy. You have much still to do. Let us help you."
Merlin does his best to listen to her, to register her words despite his body's growing desire to give in to the slumber he knows he won't wake from again. Healing is no easy feat. He and Marian were barely able to save Arthur, and he is a mortal man. But a warlock? Their constitution is different, complicated. How can this one druid expect to heal him?
"Emrys." The old woman waits until he meets her eyes. "We all have been waiting for you."
Before Merlin has a chance to try and make sense of her meaning, the room shifts. The druids shuffle again, their shoes scraping on the floor and cloaks rustling against each other – hands take hold of hands, palms rest on their neighbors' shoulders, elbows link, arms reach through to adjacent cells until every person is knit together like fabric. No, stronger than that. A chain.
A man grips the elderly woman's shoulder, but there is one final link they need.
Merlin.
He is just out of reach.
His body shutters, threatening to give way. He can't move. Or speak. Darkness crowds his view as the pain that once stung fiercely turns to an icy numbness that consumes him. It's almost soothing, coaxing him deeper in, and further from consciousness.
But even towards death, he cannot travel without burden. Yes, in life he must carry his secret, constantly haul his humility as any chance at recognition is trampled beneath his feet. But this weight, the one he shoulders on the precipice of his grave, is far more cumbersome. If he goes through the veil now, he'll forever carry the harrowing skeleton of a purpose left unfulfilled. Albion will never be reunited. The Old Religion will fade away until it is utterly forgotten. And Arthur will die. Perhaps not here and now, perhaps not tomorrow or the day after that. But one day before his time. And in the end, he too will be condemned to an afterlife of shouldering a broken destiny.
"Spare him." The old woman's voice is gentler now. "Emrys...spare us all."
Merlin opens his eyes, unaware they had closed, and holds onto the woman's gaze. He grits his teeth, and though the fire returns and the agony flares across his body, Merlin lurches forward, grabbing the woman's hand.
He will not fail Arthur now.
As soon as they touch, a bright light explodes from behind Merlin's eyes. His head whips back, and his body goes rigid. Magic surges. It rushes in through his palm, coursing through his veins, muscles, bones, where it awakens his own. It fills him until he's sure his mortal vessel will be unable to contain anymore without breaking.
Then it stops. All at once, the blaze that blinded him vanishes, leaving him back in the darkness of the torchlight, and the heat extinguishes.
Merlin gasps.
The storm outside roars.
A new fire has risen within Sir Guy's chest.
"Surround the perimeter!" He calls over the rain. "I don't want anyone entering or leaving this village until it has been fully searched!"
He stays atop his horse as he surveys his men filtering into the small town of Clun where the trail of footprints has led them. Some stay along the outskirts, obscuring themselves in the shadow of the forest to create an impenetrable barrier, while others begin hastily looking into crates, behind fences and in barns. They pound on doors, and push their way into homes, withdrawing startled cries from their inhabitants.
No doubt similar scenes are unfolding across the land. Nettleston, Barnesdale, Locksley. He divided his men, sending them out in droves to scour each one for good measure. With just the right approach, the knights and thieves will be flushed out, pushed toward Nottingham, where they will have to hasten their plans against Lord Vaisey.
Guy has walked the line long enough. It is time to crown a victor.
"They won't be here. At least not anymore. They would have heard us coming." Allan mutters from where he sits slumped on the horse beside him, their two steads bound together by a leather tether. The spell has taken its toll on him. From the forest to Clun, Guy never ran out of questions, and while Allan didn't have answers for all of them, he knew enough.
Without a glance his way, Guy watches his men carry out his orders. "They would never take a child into battle. Even if they have moved on, they'll have left the boy somewhere. We have him, we have control over Marian. And since you don't know where he is..."
"Thank the high heavens for that." Allan sighs; tired, defeated. "Look, maybe he's here, maybe he's not, but the bigger question is why am I here? I've told you what I know about Marian. That's all I can do. I can't help you find them or King Leofrick – whatever he did to me makes me tell the bloody truth, not know everything."
"That much is clear. If you don't want to be here, perhaps you'd rather be dead?" The man in black says, turning his attention to survey those in the town square.
"You've already searched the village!" A blonde young woman says, trying to force her way past a soldier as she lugs a bucket of water from the well. Wet strands of hair peak out from beneath her headscarf. "Pulled innocent men and women from their homes too, what more do you want?"
"We have reason to believe Camelot's king came through this way along with his men," the Nottingham guard says. "Have you-"
"I'd rather be free," says Allan, still invested in his conversation with Guy. "And rich."
"Neither of which are options," Guy says, switching his focus from the guard and the girl to another one of his soldiers in deep conversation with a greying farmer. "Unless you consider the afterlife freedom."
Allan scoffs. "Not where I'm going, I don't think."
The soldier across the square tries to push the farmer out of his personal space, but the man is persistent. He grapples with the soldier, trying to keep him out of his home where his family surely cowers, as he points over the Nottingham guard's shoulder and towards the chapel.
"-in there!" are the only words Sir Guy can make out from this distance. He saunters his horse closer to the conversation, tugging Allan's along with him. "They're in there!"
"They've gone!" The young woman intervenes, glaring at the farmer as if to correct his statement. "They were here, in the village, but they've gone." She points north down the road.
"You saw them go north?" The soldier asks.
She nods, shifting the bucket of water in her hand to the other.
"Is that right?" Guy studies her a moment before looking to the greying man, whose eyes are now lowered to the ground in what can only be shame. "Allan." He looks at the blonde again while he waits for the thief's horse to settle next to him. "What do you gather? Think she's lying?"
Allan's neck muscles twitch as he resists answering. The curse still has a hold on him.
"What was that? I didn't quite hear you..."
"Yes..." he says through gritted teeth, "I think she's lying."
Sir Guy hops off his horse, withdrawing a dagger as he approaches the young woman. "I'm sure you're aware of what we do to liars and conspirators..."
Though her breathing labors, she does not back down from him, even when he comes to tower over her, forcing her gaze upwards and into the pouring rain.
"Why would you cover for them? Have you no loyalty to King Leofrick?" Guy presses the tip of his blade beneath her chin. "Pendragon is a menace and a threat."
"That's not what Robin Hood said."
Guy furrows his brow. He remembers Hood's words from Arthur's failed execution, but he didn't expect anyone else to – not when the steward made such grand efforts to destroy his good name. But this girl now stands in defiance, risking her life, all because of a few sentences from an outlaw. His eyes drift over the other villagers now outside, wondering if they all have been so easily converted. They give no tell either way.
"Please..." The greying farmer says with a start, though a Nottingham soldier impedes his attempt to advance towards them. "Leave the girl be."
"I could if she were telling the truth." Sir Guy shifts his attention to him, pointing his dagger in the man's direction. "But then that would make you the liar, wouldn't it?"
"Truth...lies...it's all a bit subjective, innit?" A lazy drawl says from behind him.
He turns to find Sir Gwaine watching the scene unfold from where he leans casually beneath the straw awning of a nearby house. Arms folded across his chest, one hand cradles a tankard of mead.
"For instance," he continues, gesturing his drink towards the man in black. "You're probably about to tell me that you're going to kill me in the next few minutes. To which, I would say differently. So who's really telling the truth, eh?"
There is a silent beat as Sir Guy tries to determine what this knight could possibly be playing at, but the arrogant smirk that creeps onto his face is enough to thrust Guy into action.
"Don't just stand there!" Guy barks at his men. "After him! Find the others!"
Turning to the elderly woman of the house, Gwaine hands her his mug. "Hold this, would you, love?" He winks at her before sprinting off between the houses.
As soon as the Nottingham guards lunge into action, the village comes alive. The greying farmer rushes to barricade himself inside his home. The young woman swings her bucket high, knocking a passing soldier to the ground. As another soldier races to avenge his comrade, he's flung off his feet as a townsman rams him with his wheelbarrow. Shouts erupt. Guards draw their swords. But not to attack – to defend themselves against the wrath of the people of Clun. Villagers spring free from the shelter of their homes to join the fray.
Guy can barely comprehend it. He watches the madness unfurl around him until the whinny of a horse breaks him of his reverie. "Allan..." Whipping around, Sir Guy finds the thief galloping off, not with one horse, but both their horses, still tethered together from their journey. "Allan!" He roars.
Yanking his sword from its sheath, Guy mutters a curse, knowing there will be no catching him on foot. Instead, he turns his focus towards a larger prize. Since his men have been impeded by the sudden courage of the people, he shoves his way through to follow in the wake of Sir Gwaine. He rounds the back of several small hovels, eyes alert for any movement.
He passes from the backside of one house to another where he stops. Through the space in between the two homes, he has an unhindered view of the square. His men are good warriors; dutiful, and honorable. At least they were beneath Bayard's rule. Now they are being pushed to their limits, their loyalty is sworn to a throne now occupied by a man who shares none of their ideals, none of their merits, only holds unrivaled power, and a tongue so quick to deceive you'll never know you've been lashed by it. How much harder would they fight beneath the rule of their beloved Lady Marian?
There's movement. A shuffle behind him. Guy rounds, sword up, to clash his blade against the onslaught of Gwaine's. The knight smiles at him through their locked swords and his sopping wet curtain of hair, but there is a glimmer of malice in his eyes.
"What, no backup?" Guy asks, noticing the palpable absence of the others. "Too scared to come out and play?"
"Funny, I was about to ask you the same question." Gwaine glances over Guy's shoulder towards the fray. "Looking a bit sloppy, aren't we, my friend?"
Heat rises to Guy's face as he clenches his jaw. The knight sees it too; he sees the chink in Nottingham's armor – its humanity. With a thrust, he dislodges their blades, sending Gwaine stumbling backwards. He swings, but the knight ducks. Guy drives forward, and Gwaine retreats several steps, gathering his footing for a better advantage.
The knight flourishes his sword, whirling it through the air and gripping its hilt with both hands for an attack, when a large bang sounds from the church at his back. It gives them both pause, and although Gwaine doesn't directly acknowledge the interruption, a quick flick of his eyes is enough for Guy to know he's taken notice.
That was no thunder.
Sir Guy forfeits his active stance to relish the unease on Gwaine's face at his full height, looking down upon the knight. "A villager claims your men chose the church as their hideout."
"Ah, an honest mistake, I'm sure."
"Yet someone is in there," Guy studies the sacred building another moment before resting his stare on the Camelot soldier. "Aren't they?"
"Can't say I know what you're talking about."
"Can you ever?" Striding several paces closer, Sir Guy assesses the knight. "You certainly aren't the brains of Pendragon's pack, nor are you the strength–"
"Insults from a lapdog," Gwaine cracks a grin. "How ironic."
"You are the grunt," Guy continues, ignoring the interjection. "And do you know what kind of duties I've found are usually reserved for grunts, Sir Gwaine?"
"I'm sure you're prepared to tell me, my lord Gisbourne."
"Simple ones. Ones that can be conveyed in as few words as possible as to not risk any possible misunderstanding." He watches as the knight tenses with agitation. "Scout ahead. Guard the door. Ring the warning bell. I'm sure those all sound familiar to you..."
"Is there a point to your babble?"
"Too many words for you?" Sir Guy grins. His eyes snap to the church when there is another bang that echoes from within.
"Seems the church has a pest problem." Gwaine adjusts his grip on his sword. "Bats maybe?"
"Or your charge?"
"Why don't you go find out?" The knight taunts, his wide stance signaling to the man in black that to get to whoever is inside, he'd have to go through him first.
In that moment of silence, he hears it: a voice, a woman's voice to be precise – muffled from behind the brick and mortar and rain. It's quiet. Some would miss it. But for Sir Guy it cuts through even the ruckus of the village center.
Morgana.
Overcome by instinct, Guy lunges, and Gwaine – taken aback by the sudden attack – knocks his blade away with unceremonious form. Guy pushes on, swinging forward then back, driving down then surging up, never giving the knight a moment to collect himself and try to gain the upper hand over him. Gwaine ducks, dodges, and parries, but with every stroke he is being driven backwards onto the heels of his feet, his balance struggling to remain firm.
As soon as he gets a chance, the knight plants his foot, catching Sir Guy's blade with his own and twists the shafts around one another, stripping the hilt from his opponent's hand, disarming him, and crashes an elbow into his jaw. Guy grunts and sputters as he goes down to one knee.
The taste of warm iron infiltrates the man in black's mouth. He casts a glance towards his weapon, but it is out of reach. At least, that one is. He looks up at the knight, whose breathing is labored from the brawl and whose sword is pointed at his face.
"What do you intend to do now?" he says. "Morgana is in the church. By order of your king, it seems you're meant to watch her. Keep her safe from Lord Vaisey, isn't that right?"
Gwaine says nothing, only keeps his sword steadily at Guy's throat.
"But given the circumstances you certainly can't stay here, we'd have you surrounded in moments. Then again, you can't leave either. My men line the town border."
Casting a few sideways glances, Gwaine assesses his situation.
Sir Guy resists a grin, his hand discretely moving towards the dagger tucked in his boot. "I suppose you should have thought of this before you decided to play hero and rescue the farm girl."
"It is a pickle," Gwaine finally says with an air of casual conversation. "But as far as I can see...for the moment, it's just you and me." He presses the tip of his blade gently against the flesh of Guy's neck, the muscles twitching beneath it. "And I'm an in-the-moment kind of man."
Pitching backward, Guy knocks Gwaine's sword aside with his vambrace, and thrusts his dagger towards the unsuspecting knight. Gwaine tries to pivot clear of its path, but its edge slices along the side of his thigh where his chainmail leaves him vulnerable, withdrawing a pained shout.
Guy punches him in the face as he rises to his feet. He knocks the sword from his hand, and grabs a fistful of Gwaine's hair to throw him to the mud. Out of the corner of his eye, Sir Guy can see several of his men threading out from between the trees to check on him. This is his chance. For those wondering where to place their allegiance, he can show them exactly what the fate of someone who chooses not to side with him looks like.
He pulls back his boot, driving it hard into Gwaine's gut once, then twice. He flips the dagger in the air, adjusting his hold so that the blade juts down from his fist, pointing to its prey. His heart pounds. It's only as he plunges the dagger towards the writhing knight that he realizes the drumming he feels is not his heart at all, but the rumbling hooves heading their way.
An arrow lodges itself into Sir Guy's right shoulder. It halts his forward momentum and knocks him back off his feet. The impact is loud; a deep thud. And as the ground rushes to meet him, forcing the wind from his lungs, he is all too aware of Gwaine's rescuer.
"Oi!" Allan's familiar voice shouts. "Get on!"
The deep, pulsing beats of two horses approaching reverberates through Guy's body as he lies on the ground, struggling to regather his coherent senses. He can feel every step, hear every snort, and wonders briefly if he'll be trampled, certain the stamping hooves are mere breaths away from his head as they circle around them.
"Get on!" The traitor yells more ardently.
Gwaine's armor clanks.
"Stop them," Guy grunts, shifting in the mud as he tries to will air back into his chest and strength to his muscles. As soon as he gets that full breath, it sparks a shot of adrenaline through his veins, igniting his fervor and setting his temper on fire. "Stop them!" He snaps off the shaft of the arrow that protrudes out of his shoulder as he clambers to his feet.
Several of his men pursue the knight and thief on foot, while two others notch their bows. One misses the moving target. Then the other follows suit.
"Give me that!" Guy yanks the bow from his soldier's grasp, pulling an arrow out of his quiver. He takes three strong strides forward before setting his aim. He cocks back, ignoring the sharp pain that radiates up his arm and down his back at the move, and lets it fly just as they disappear into the trees. There is a soft thud and something clatters.
He's found his target.
"After them." Guy pivots, throwing the bow back at its owner, who barely catches it before it hits him in the face. "Wounded does not mean dead. I want them dead."
"But, my lord, you...you're wounded."
Guy snatches him by the leather strap of his gorget. "Did I ask for your concern?"
"No, my lord..."
"Then do as you're told!" He shoves the soldier in the direction Gwaine and Allan disappeared, watching him trip as he goes. All others followed suit, racing off into the woods, and leaving Guy to curse at the agony in his shoulder. He grips it, hoping to massage the pain away, but knows it's no use.
Making his way back to the spot where he first faced off against Sir Gwaine, Guy stoops down to retrieve his sword, wiping it clean as best he can before tucking it back against his hip as he turns his attention towards the abandoned church, and the woman who resides inside.
Admittedly, it would have been difficult to find a hiding place within the one-room parish had Sir Gwaine decided to stay in and simply hope that they not scour the village top to bottom. It would have been a fool's hope, to be sure, meaning distraction wasn't an altogether terrible idea, but the arrogant knight vastly overestimated his own wit. And prowess with a sword. The pride still swelled over that last victory, dulled only slightly by the pain still radiating from the arrow lodged in Guy's shoulder.
As soon as he pushes his way through the heavy wooden doors, it is clear what had caused the commotion: a bound Morgana stands tethered to one of the benches facing the alter. It has been pulled askew from the others still lined up in orderly rows, and another bench near it has been kicked over completely. She clearly wanted to be heard.
Guy quickly shuts the doors behind him to avoid being followed, and scans the sanctuary for any others. "Have you gone mad?" He says as he makes his way towards her.
"As a matter of fact I have." The witch's gaze tracks him as he approaches, her eyes boring into him. "A person can only tolerate being tied up like a mutt for so long."
"What if I hadn't been the one to hear you?" Guy takes her hands – gently despite his irritation – and begins to loosen the bonds that have been pulled tight during her antics. "If my men had caught you, they'd have taken you to Vaisey."
"No, they would have asked you for your orders."
"And what would you have had me tell them?" He looks at her with pointed intention, letting her bonds fall free from her wrists. "We are already in a delicate position, we don't need to complicate it further."
"I wasn't about to languish in here and miss our hour triumph." Flexing her wrists, Morgana savors the freedom. "You and I are in this together."
"Are we?"
She furrows her brow in offense. "Of course. Though I take it by your tone you're not as sure about that as I am."
Sir Guy searches her eyes, and though he knows he can't be guaranteed the truth like with Allan, he must ask the question. "You've known about Lady Marian all along, haven't you?"
"If you're going to accuse me, at least be specific about it."
"That night the three of us were in the hallway...you said she could have been useful." Guy involuntarily glances down at Morgana's silver cuff. "You were referring to her magic. You knew she was a sorceress."
Morgana shifts, taking a moment to reply, "Who told you?"
"Not you. Though it damn well should have been."
"It wasn't mine to tell."
"Rubbish." He brushes past her, needing some distance.
"If I thought it would make any difference I would have." She follows after him, tugging on his arm to turn him towards her. "But it's not of consequence."
"You decided that for us, did you?" Guys says a bit too sharply. "Perhaps I would have liked to have been involved in the judgment of that. If she becomes regent-"
"-she will sympathize with people of magic." Morgana words hold conviction even though her attention has been distracted by the multiple wounds Guy carries. "As regent, she will push for a higher level of tolerance in Mercia, ultimately aiding me in my efforts whether she realizes it or not."
"And her allegiance with Camelot?" Guy winces when she inspects his shoulder, grabbing her hand to keep her from prodding it further.
"She can't very well advocate magic in her own kingdom and then turn around and aid Camelot in their war against it. Her hands will be tied. Besides..." She looks up to meet his gaze. "Her allegiance will only last as long as Arthur is alive. And I don't intend for him to see out the day."
"It seems to me Marian may intend otherwise."
"She can't stop me." A shadow, cold as night, passes over Morgana's eyes. "The prophecy is already foretold. Lady Marian will not be my doom. If she tries, she will fail. There is only one we should be worried about, and I fear he still lurks in Arthur's shadow."
"You mean Emrys," says Guy. He hesitates a brief moment. "To keep in the theme of full disclosure, I suppose there is something you ought to know..."
"About...Emrys?"
"He was at the castle today."
"You..." The breath in Morgana's throat hitches as she struggles for air. "You saw him?"
"I took him before the steward." Guy folds his arms across his chest, trying to support the fraying muscles in his arm. "I figured he was either going to kill the steward, relinquishing your magic back to you in the process, or he was going to die at Vaisey's hand...sparing you from the words of the prophecy. We couldn't lose."
"And...?"
Shaking his head, Guy avoids her gaze. "I was given orders before the confrontation. That was hours ago. We would have heard word by now if the steward were dead. Meaning-"
"No," she cuts him off before he can even reach a conclusion. "If Emrys were dead, I would have felt it."
"Either way...if Emrys could not defeat Vaisey..." Guy finds himself unable to look at her as the suggestion dies on his tongue.
Morgana furrows her brow. "What?"
He casts her a sideways glance. "Then perhaps the steward has grown too strong. If he is utilizing Emrys as he has the others – expanding his scope of power...he may be beyond any of us now."
She takes a step back, a realization dawning on her. "You're giving up..."
"No-"
"You are." The former sorceress, with no less poise and confidence, strides away from him down the aisle towards the empty altar, now needing space of her own.
"Morgana," he says. But she doesn't stop.
"Would you prefer to turn me over and be done with it then?"
"I'm talking about a change in strategy, not surrender." He maintains his distance, refusing to placate her. "It won't be long before the steward kills Arthur – hours at most – we can keep our distance, return to Camelot and take up the throne as you've always wanted."
"Without my magic?"
"You don't need it."
Her face contorts with the same disgusted offense as before.
"You don't," he says. "It doesn't have to be forever. We can bide our time. Wait for an opening to steal the cuff from Vaisey, or be rid of him altogether."
She says nothing for a moment, turning and taking several steps up to the altar. "Perhaps that's true." Resting her hands on the edge of the wooden table, she grips it until the veins begin to protrude from beneath the skin of her hands. "And yet I'm tired of waiting."
His silence goads her to expound.
"At every turn I am made to wait. For my true father to reveal himself to me. For my rightful place on the throne. For magic to be accepted instead of condemned. For freedom. Love. Justice. I would sooner die fighting for what I want, than to be made to wait again."
"Morgana..."
"And you-" Morgana turns to him again, startling him into silence once more. "Guy of Gisbourne, it is clear to me that your potential is being wasted. You should not have to wait either. Not for recognition. Not for power or a title. Not for respect."
Guy takes a slow step down the aisle towards the impassioned witch as she lists out each of his deepest longings. How she knows them, there's no telling, but hearing them now as they slip from her lips stirs an intoxication within him, drawing him closer to her with every word.
"You think the two of us, alone, can claim all that?"
"I think a different kind of storm is brewing." She leans back against the altar, her stare piercing him from across the room. "Circling over Nottingham. And the thing is...people are often so concerned with the rain and thunder that they never anticipate the lightning strikes."
Mulling her analogy over, Guy continues to make his way down the aisle, stopping on the step just beneath her. He rests his hands on her waist. "We use the battle as cover."
"Vaisey will be far too focused on ending Arthur, he'll never see you coming." She runs her fingers down the side of Guy's face, along the bruise the steward gave him, studying his features as she pushes several locks of wet hair from his eyes. "You may not think you're capable of defeating a man even Emrys cannot touch...but I do. I have seen the control you keep, the strategies you exploit. I have no doubt in you, Sir Guy."
His fingers curl more tightly around her as he pulls her to him. "And Arthur?"
Morgana's eyes darken, flickering between the desire sparked by their close proximity and the hatred of her brother's name. "Leave him to me."