"Poisoned?" Oriana echoed.

Her mind was all jumbled still, and there was a dull ache making itself known at the back of her head, so she had to be sure she had heard him correctly.

"Yes. With you accepting both food and drink from two separate sources in such a small time frame though, it's hard to know which was the cause."

Mordred sighed.

The sound drew Oriana's attention to him, where he still sat in the chair by the hearth. He had yet to change from his knightly regalia, and his fingers were laced where they rested on his stomach, whereas his legs were stretched out in front of him, and crossed at the ankles in his creased black boots. What stood out to her though, were the dark circles under his eyes, which had purpled, most likely from lack of sleep. Oriana could only guess how long she had been sick and in his care.

Suddenly, a few thoughts occurred to her - both of which she did not hesitate to voice aloud, in the hope that she might receive favorable responses.

"Have I missed my first match? How long have I been here?"

There was an elongated silence, so she said, "Well?"

Mordred raised an eyebrow, then said, "I brought you here only last night. However, we are approaching midday, so if your match was an early one, then you've missed it."

Oriana let out a shaky breath.

"Thankfully," she started, and began to push herself up further, "it is set to be one of the last today."

Mordred glanced back at her, his face bordering on incredulous from what she could glean. However, it quickly morphed into an easily discernible, but resigned sort of look.

"You truly are your father's daughter."

He sighed, again, but more heavily than the previous time.

Oriana wasn't sure whether what he said was a compliment or not. She had little time to consider that though, because he spoke again.

"You do realize the gravity of what has happened?"

Rather than respond immediately, Oriana took great lengths to stand, which required more time than it would have any other day. She had managed to do it alone though, which she was grateful for. Mordred had done more than enough for her, in her opinion. The state of his facial features said as much.

Once on her feet, she carefully moved, assessing the strength of her body, whilst taking stock of her weaknesses. Her energy was depleted, that much was certain. Her hands were slightly clammy, but not as much as they had been hours before. Her legs did not feel completely sturdy, but unlike her fingers, they were not as unreliable. Her stomach felt empty, but the thought of eating was not on her priority list at that moment, whatsoever. Her mind, well, it was her biggest worry, given how she and Mordred had met to begin with.

With that thought at the forefront, she looked back to the man in question, and asked, "While I was sick, could you hear my thoughts?"

Mordred nodded, his face drawn back into his customary solemn features. Then he covered his face with both hands, and yawned, before he looked back at her with tired eyes.

"Was anything said that I should be worried about?"

"There was next to nothing I heard that has not been said before."

That statement did not give any sort of solace to Oriana, of course.

"What about now?"

She knew then that the wilds of her mind had been released while her body had struggled, but since she had woken up again, Oriana had done her best to tame them, she thought. However, a good portion of her facilities had also been used to help her do that which otherwise should have been as effortless as breathing. Right then, though, she focused and began to overlay her thoughts further, as she had managed to passably do the previous few days, since she had learned how.

"I can hear your attempts to disguise what you're thinking, as well as what is behind that."

It was Oriana's turn to sigh, which she did, in a long and dramatic fashion.

As she did, Mordred rose to his feet, then walked to where he was standing in front of her. He left an arms length between them, though, which she was silently thankful for. Unlike the arse from the library, he at least respected boundaries.

"I understand this tournament is important to you, but given what's happened, do you think it wise to put yourself into a more vulnerable position?"

She grimaced, then said in a biting tone, "You might have heard my thoughts and know my parentage, but you don't know me. I have to do this."

He was silent as he looked down at her, but a grimace of his own did appear a bit after her assertion.

Meanwhile, she was silently fuming. How dare he presume to know what she was capable of? Briefly, she wished she had drawn her sword on him that night, so perhaps he might know her mettle.

In the wake of an indiscernible amount of time passing, Mordred held up his hands, and said, "Okay, but should you die, I better have it in writing before you leave my quarters that this was your choice, so Merlin at least does not wish to murder me one day."

Oriana took one peek at Mordred's serious face and for no single reason at all, she began to laugh in a sort of way that shook her whole body, to the point she was holding her sides a little while after she had begun. Once she had gone on for some time, she hazarded another glance up to find that Mordred did not share in her good humor. His face looked as ice might; chilled throughout. That sobered her up rather quickly.

Once she had recovered enough to speak, she said, "You're actually serious, aren't you?"

Mordred nodded, but did not speak out loud.

She drew herself up to her full height, which was only a few hairs shorter than Mordred, and fixed him with a piercing gaze. Gone was her anger, though.

"Look, Mordred, I know nothing of your history with my father, but he should not blame you for a choice I made, whether I've stated that on parchment or not."

She paused, seeking to further catch her breath, then looked back up at him. He did not seem to be moved by that statement, either.

So, she sought to make him understand another way.

"You spent all night keeping me well so I could what after?"

"Survive," he said.

She lapsed into silence once more, then reached out tentatively, and placed her right hand on his left upper forearm.

"Life is not simply about surviving, but taking chances. I came here to do just that, for better or worse."

Mordred closed his eyes for a moment.

In the silence, Oriana thought that regardless of what he said, she would still go. She did not need his approval to do so, nor was she seeking it. However, she hoped that somehow she would be able to make him understand why she sought to do this, even when logic said she should not.

Though she may have come to see Arthur, the tournament was a way for her to prove herself, outside of the bounds of who she shared a familial connection with. She may have been taught and raised by Merlin and Lancelot, but it was up to her to show others that their tutelage had not been all for naught. Regardless of what a person had learnt, it was how they applied it that mattered. If she were to give up before she even started, then what did that say about her?

When his blue irises were visible to Oriana again, he replied with a soft, "Okay."

She allowed her hand to fall away from him, then turned around, and set her eyes on her sword.

"Now, I have a match to get ready for."

Given her slowed movements, it took her a bit more time to strap on her sword belt, but she did, still.

Before she could think to do anything else though, she heard Mordred ask, "Should you wear what you did yesterday?"

Oriana glanced up to see that Mordred was across the room to her left, and turned away from her, as he looked into his own wardrobe.

Regardless, he was correct.

Her clothes were sweat stained, and smelled of odors she did not wish to carry down with her to the pitch. Walking to her chamber though would be strenuous, given that she could feel how limited her energy was, even if she had managed to remain on her feet for so long, thus far.

Mordred turned to her after a few moments, holding a white tunic up in his hands.

"I couldn't possibly-"

Mordred cut her off, and said, "It is this, or I go rifle through your wardrobe for you, because you are not fit to leave here until your match, as you are."

Loathe as Oriana was to admit it, he was right, yet again. She had acknowledged as much moments before. Whether he had heard her, or that was his own assessment though, she could not be for sure without asking.

She sighed, then walked forward and carefully took the proffered garment from him.

Directly after, she said in an earnest manner, "Thank you for this, and everything you've done."

Mordred waved a hand at her dismissively as he turned away again, clearly searching for something else in the contents of the wardrobe before him. Not long after, he turned and held out a pair of brown breeches which were no doubt much too large for her, but she took them gratefully still.

"I meant it, Mordred. Were it not for you, I might not have lived to see today."

He looked past her as he said, "I did what any decent person should have, and nothing more. Now, I'll go stand outside so you can change. Let me know when you've finished."

He left the chamber swiftly, shutting the door behind him right after.

Oriana sat the breeches on the bed, then began to remove her lilac tunic with unsteady motions. It took her some time, but eventually she was in the fresh white tunic Mordred had given her. It was large in comparison to what she might normally wear, but it was not overwhelming, either. Both she and Mordred were tall individuals, so it worked for her, at least. After, she sat down and divested herself of her previous trousers, and then pulled on the new pair, which were again larger, but not to the point she worried that they might fall down as she walked. With a bit of magic even, she could make them fit better.

After she had balled up her previous outfit and placed the bundle on the bed, she exhaled shakily, and sat down beside her clothes for a moment. She knew he was standing outside of the door, but she needed a second alone, before he entered again. The two hardly knew each other, but due to the circumstance, had been near one another for more time than she had been around anyone in the past few days since she had arrived in Camelot.

Seated there in the calm, she took stock of how she felt, again.

Standing and walking around had given Oriana more confidence, as she at least knew how her body moved in the aftermath of what had occurred. She was far from completely healed, though. That much was evident to her, given her slowed motions, and her shaky limbs. She was determined to fight through it all though, at least until she had won her first match. The time after that impending event seemed far away, though she knew it was much closer to her than the previous night was.

Oriana shuddered involuntarily seconds later, remembering bits and pieces of what she had endured hours before. That Brenna might have been the cause hurt more than she felt it was appropriate, given they had only met days before. Still, she had thought that perhaps they might have been moving towards a solid friendship, if given the time. Ryia, however, was equally likely to have done it, and that thought hurt Oriana least, given that she knew very little of the woman. Still, it was nothing short of folly to place blame on either without proper evidence. However, whether she could obtain any, given how long it was since it had taken place, was suspect, at best.

How was she to proceed around Brenna though? Oriana had managed to deceive Merlin back in Ealdor, but she knew she was not very subtle, otherwise. What if she walked right into a trap whilst trying to discern who had caused it? Likewise, she was aware that it was unwise to think about it all before she tread out to the stadium, but the barrage of questions were bothering her incessantly, even as she tried not to give them much attention.

Mordred's voice broke through the web she had been attempting to untangle in her mind, before she could think on it all further.

"Oriana?"

"Yes?"

"Given how I left last night, I'll need to report to Sir Leon soon. If you wish to have more time to yourself, I can go to him now, then return after."

"Okay."

Oriana heard boot steps as she laid back and groaned. So, her protections weren't strong enough just yet. In the silence, she worked to reinforce them, as she would need to if she meant to compete. Likewise, he could only assume that it was what Mordred had meant to point out in speaking to her that way, rather than knocking then opening the door to relay his message, instead.

Though she had done little more than a few basic tasks, her body seemed to exhale, the longer she laid there. Soon, her eyes were droopy, so she closed them to rest for a moment. The next thing she knew, Mordred's voice was calling her name.

"Oriana!"

For a moment, she thought the voice was part of a dream. Then, he said her name out loud, and she bolted up. The motion hurt, given the pain still in every fiber of her being. Still, she forced her eyes open to see Mordred standing there, looking more worried.

"What is it?"

"Your match!"

"Shit!" she managed, then grabbed her boots, and shoved them on.

Mordred helped her to stand by offering her a hand that she readily took, as she surmised he had most likely done it to help her save strength for what she was about to do. As Brenna had said, after all, the fights were not for the faint of heart. It was but a small thing that in the grand scheme of it all Oriana appreciated.

Much later, she would need to figure out how to thank him, but for right then, she needed to hone in on what fortitude she did have, and hope that it would see her through.

With that thought tucked back for later, Oriana inhaled and exhaled a few times, then tied her hair back into a bun with a stray purple ribbon and some magic.

After a brief, "Wish me luck," was hurled out, Oriana ran out the door as quickly as her body would allow.

Every muscle, joint, synapse, and every other part of her, screamed in protest as she flew down the corridors around other unsuspecting individuals, and out the door of the castle. They continued to make their displeasure known, and it took all of the gumption in her not to double over and cry out from the pain, but she forced herself not to.

When she reached the stadium, she could hear her name being called.

Quickly, she rushed into the arena, and found herself staring down her first opponent. She found a short, ruddy faced man with a dagger in his left hand, and his right hand free. She was easily taller than him by a whole sword's length, but Oriana was aware she could not underestimate him by size alone. Given that he had a small weapon, she felt he would lean heavily on magic. Bringing a knife to a contest where all sorts of weapons were allowed would be inadvisable if he did not have another means to fight back.

Her lungs were sharp as she respired, but she tried not to pay that any mind. Though she was in a great deal of pain, she had made it after all, which was nothing short of a miracle in and of itself. The task at hand then was to prove that she belonged there, despite what others, or even a small part of herself, might have thought.

"You may begin," the announcer stated, about a minute later.

The man before her gave a strange look, then disappeared right before her very eyes.

Shocked, she stood there for a moment, before she felt the right side of her torso be stabbed.

Oriana bent over, then reached for the knowledge she needed to wield her magic.

Seconds later, she whispered a disillusionment spell that appeared a moment the last syllable of the incantation left her lips, in the form of thick, white fog. She hoped to cloak herself from his field of vision, long enough to regain her composure.

After, she ran in any direction, hoping to distance herself from her opponent. The ring they were in was large, but given that she had arrived with hindrances, there was only so far she could physically move, without impeding herself further. The run to the stadium had already sapped some of her strength, and she could feel her body's every ache and pain as she stopped further from where she had been before.

With her left hand, she reached over, and put pressure where she had been cut. The blood dripped through her fingers not long after, despite attempts to stop it. There was no time to heal it right then though, so she unsheathed her sword in an unsteady motion, and began to listen to the ground below her.

Though she might not have been able to see her opponent, she could still hear him.

His footsteps were heavy and slow, which helped her to get closer to locating him. She was thankful that those seated above had remained mostly silent, as their fight continued. Concentrating amidst the circumstances was difficult enough without their added sounds to distort her ability to hear, even further.

Given that her breathing was heavy though, she knew that for his part, he would find her again. It was only a matter of time, she felt. Though she had tried to curb the noises she made, it was difficult, when her body was straining in the ways that she had asked of it. Her slowed movements too, she was aware, were detrimental to her right then, as well.

There was near silence amidst the dense fog, as she walked in a way that would silence most of her movements; ball of the foot then outer edges went down first, before the inner portion did. She stepped that way, praying the dirt below her boots would not crunch too much, as she did.

Heavy bootsteps caught Oriana's attention, so she halted so as to hear the sounds better.

Soon, she overheard his breathing beside her.

Without bothering to hesitate a second longer, Oriana forced her sword toward the sound, and sliced in the general direction. A grunt sounded out from the contact she had made, then she swung around and sliced into some other portion of his body, again. The noise that escaped him the second time became pronounced, so she walked closer. The sooner she could find him and make him yield, the better. Adrenaline alone was pushing her through, at that point.

Luck was not on her side, however, because somehow he had managed to leave her vicinity completely, even with the wounds she had inflicted upon him. Soon, she heard footsteps close to her, again. Before she could discern which way to move, she felt the dagger cut into her left torso.

She cried out in response, in an anguished sort of way.

Pain wracked her body, and for a split second, she felt utter despair.

Then, she dug deeper, and grasped for all of her strength, ignoring the doubts in her mind.

When Oriana swung her sword, it was as quick as she could in the direction that she had felt the dagger come from. It was foolish to think that her opponent might still be there, but she had little left of herself to give.

It was only when she heard a definitive shout and felt the blade make an impact, that she knew she had hit her mark. The sound of the dagger clattering to the ground was followed by her removing her sword. She then reached for the last reserve of strength she had in her to whip the wind up into a frenzy in the vicinity of her opponent.

The gusts of wind must have caught him off guard, because she heard stumbling, and then felt as he fell to the earth beneath them. Seconds later, the fog around them cleared, and she saw her opponent on the ground, bleeding heavily from the deep gashes she had rendered into his skin. She was grateful, in that moment, that he had not seemed to have enough magic to maintain his subterfuge, and hurl any other sort of spells at her, or she would have easily lost.

Slowly, she walked forward, then held her sword above his throat.

"Do you yield?"

Between breaths, he managed, "Yes."

It was an ugly victory, but she would take it over losing in the first round.

Where the crowd had been murmuring before, they began to cheer in waves as they all became aware there was a clear winner. Her sides were still bleeding, but she held out a hand to the man, and helped him up. Others rushed over to him, most likely to help him leave the field, and clean up his wounds. Hers were not great, but he looked worse off.

As she sheathed her sword, Oriana found her gaze drawn to where King Arthur sat.

Sir Leon was standing there to the right of the King's chair. While both were clapping, not one of them sported a smile. She was close enough to see that, and part of her felt disheartened. She might have torn her gaze from them completely, but rather than glancing around the arena to soak in the sound of her victory before exiting the pitch, a figure creeping up on the King's left side gave her pause.

A man in a ratty worn cloak stepped up beside the King, and before either the King or Sir Leon reacted, he was thrusting a blade toward Arthur's heart.

Once realizing what the man meant to happen, Oriana shouted a spell, which brought the almost murder weapon clattering to the ground beside her feet.

The use of her magic was unfortunate though, because without realizing it, she had used more than she should have. That became apparent to Oriana as her eyes began to shut. Whilst they did though, she saw Sir Leon rush the would be assassin, and Arthur turning to the scuffle. By the time her body hit the ground, various people had begun screaming at the sight of her fainting before them.

The sound of hushed voices was the first thing Oriana heard when she opened her eyes again. Wherever she had been taken was unfamiliar to her, but it seemed as if it were made out of the same material that the rest of Camelot's castle had been, so that put her at ease a little.

Oriana heaved herself up to a seated position to discover that she was in fact surrounded by people; some she knew of, while others she did not.

Sir Gwaine and Sir Leon stood beside another man in knight's regalia, who was larger than she thought any one person had the right to be. His hair was short, and like Sir Leon's and Gwaine's was greying slightly throughout it. She vaguely wondered if that came with the territory of knighthood, or if it was owing to their close proximity to Arthur Pendragon that had done that to them.

A cough occurred out loud, and she found her eyes seeking the source.

Oriana discovered Mordred, whose features were drawn into a slight smile, directed at her.

She ignored the implication of that for the moment, given she felt like death warmed over. The former problem, she might have given more thought to, were she not curious as to who all had come to her bedside.

Mordred, she noted, was stood with the other tall knight, whom she did not know, on his right. Then, to Mordred's left there were two women who were murmuring very close. His body was angled slightly towards them, as if he had been in conversation with the pair, before Oriana had sat up.

One of the women had long brown curly hair and brown skin much lighter than Brenna's. The other woman beside her had hair not unlike a raven's, which matched the shade of Oriana's, as well as, pale skin. Something about that woman seemed familiar, but she had no time to dissect that further, as seconds later a voice brought her attention to a much older man on her right side, who said, "Oh, good, you're awake."

He hobbled forward from where he had stood up from what looked like a medicinal workbench, and she watched as he drew himself to the edge of her bedside closest to where he had been standing minutes before.

"May I check your wounds? You've been out for some time, young lady."

The man's mobility was sluggish and his hair was snow white. His pale skin sagged in more places than she cared to know about, she surmised.

"Are you Camelot's court physician?"

The elder man nodded, and said, "That would be me."

"Then yes, you may."

He reached forward with his gnarled hands that time had weathered. They were steady though aged. She watched as he carefully only lifted enough of her blood and dirt stained white tunic to make the wounds she had incurred visible to him. As he did so, she vaguely thought that some day, she owed Mordred a new white tunic and breeches.

What she saw once the court physician had revealed her sides shocked her; somehow he had managed to crudely patch them up in the time that she had been sleeping, with needle and thread, amongst what she assumed were other methods, too.

Oriana heard more bootsteps enter into the room, but she couldn't be bothered to care once she saw that, as she was not a heavy sleeper. For that to have happened, she must have been worse for the wear than she realized.

Then again, she had fainted, so she supposed that could have been part of the problem.

"How long have I been out?"

The physician glanced up at her after he seemed satisfied with what he had seen on each side, and said, "A few hours, nothing more."

Oriana exhaled heavily in relief.

"I've been told by Sir Mordred here though, that you are the one he and I were treating for poisoning last night?"

Oriana didn't bother to look at Mordred; she simply nodded in confirmation.

At this, the man's voice, which had been rather soft, amplified.

"My dear girl, what on earth were you thinking charging into a tournament directly after that? Do you have any idea what could have happened to you?"

Oriana stiffened.

While she could acknowledge it had been foolhardy, she was still alive, was she not?

"I didn't come to compete in a tournament, only to voluntarily remove myself from the first round."

The physician scoffed.

Before either of them could speak further, a stern voice spoke up from beside her.

"Everyone has limits, Oriana."

Heavy steps caught the attention of her ears, and then she was faced seconds later with none other than the King of Camelot.

Arthur glanced at her, then flicked his gaze to the Court Physician.

"However, Gaius, try not to be too hard on her, as this young woman is the reason I'm alive still."

The name caught Oriana's attention immediately. So, he was her grandmother's brother. Given how many years had passed, she was uncertain that Gaius would have still indeed been there. Judging by his age though, the fleeting thought that he was not long for the world passed through, before she focused again on Arthur.

Gaius made a comment, but it did not permeate Oriana's subconscious, as she stared at Arthur for the first time, truly.

The ghosts of laugh lines were etched into his face, which was the first thing she noticed. Next, were his bright blue eyes, which were shades lighter than Merlin's own. His face was drawn into what she imagined was a serious expression, as he regarded her. Up close, his beard obscured a bit though, and given the conversation, she could only assume.

"Thank you for saving my life."

The earnestness in the King's tone and voice was expected, she supposed. He had lived when someone else had meant for him to die, after all. Still, it warmed her heart a little, if nothing else, because he was the one saying it.

"It was nothing," she said, then looked away from him.

It was all so much, the knowledge that he was there, right in front of her. She had imagined a moment like this, but now it was there, and not at all how she had planned for it to go. Life, she had begun to learn, was chock full of unplanned surprises, though.

"Nonsense. What you've done is nothing short of courageous at the very least, and now I am indebted to you. So, if there's anything I can do for you within reason, please do not hesitate to ask."

Oriana grew more uncomfortable with the sudden pointed interest in her right then. Given that she had been subtly listening to the rest of her surroundings as she and Arthur spoke, she knew that no one else had left just yet, which meant that the conversation was in full view of all who had been there when she had woken up. This was not how she imagined her first real conversation with the King, not at all.

While Sir Gwaine and Sir Mordred knew who she was, there were many beside them who did not. Was bringing that up now worth the risk? Would Arthur even care?

Though Oriana had entered the tournament for herself, she would be lying if she said that a miniscule part of her hadn't hoped to win so that speaking to Arthur might have been easier for her. As it was right then, she felt she had nothing to show for, save for the one match she had won. Was that enough for her to feel comfortable claiming to be his daughter? Part of her said yes, while another part of her was terrified of how he would react, regardless of those who swore him to be of a decent sort.

She forced herself to look up at him again, with all of that in mind, and then said, "While I appreciate the sentiment, I need nothing from you. That you are alive is more than enough for me."

Her words were stiff, and perhaps far too informal, but how else was she to respond? She'd hardly spoken to royalty at length outside of Mithian, who had been a young woman at the time, tasked with watching her, while their fathers spoke. Outside of that, the palaces she had visited did not include lessons on conversing with the reigning monarchs; only how not to offend anyone. Informality, Merlin had advised, was excusable, if she were kind with her words and deeds.

Oriana watched as Arthur's eyebrows knitted, and his forehead had crease lines that deepened as he stood there before her.

"You're certain?"

Oriana nodded.

Given the circumstance, the sooner Arthur left her side the better.

There was silence, then Arthur said, "Well, should you change your mind, the offer stands."

Arthur moved out of her line of sight after, and began to speak with the Knights behind her. As he did though, she couldn't hone in on what was being said, because her mind was racing.

She thought she had made the right choice, but her heart began to thump, and her thoughts were everywhere; they screamed at her to call out to him, to beckon him back, and tell him the truth, everyone else present be damned.

Oriana considered the idea; at least then, if Arthur reacted badly, there would be witnesses. Still, she hesitated to speak, for fear of ruining what little she had done for herself so far in Camelot. Were he to react badly enough, she might just leave the damn kingdom as her father had, once she finished the tournament.

For a moment, Oriana found her eyes flitting to Mordred who was looking towards the other two women. Before she could look away, his eyes found hers, and for a moment, she wondered what he would think of her plan.

"I've been able to hear you since you woke up, Oriana."

Oriana grimaced, but then turned away from him and the searching stares that the woman with the raven hair beside him was throwing her. Whoever she was, she was clearly close to Mordred. That, of course, mattered little to Oriana, as he was still yet a stranger; the observation was more of a fleeting observation, and the stares were unnerving, respectively.

With that thought in mind, she turned her back to everyone, to regain what little nerve she had in her. Swinging her legs over the edge of the cot had been awkward, but it felt necessary to her at that moment.

Then, she called out, "King Arthur?"

With her back faced away and her mind on fire so to speak, she was hardly sure if he was even there. She had rotated around before she could see whether he had still remained. Even so, she had said his name with the hope that he was.

A few moments later, she heard, "Yes?"

Oriana inhaled then exhaled slowly, before she replied, "While I seek nothing monetarily or otherwise, I do wish for one thing."

"What might that be?"

"For you to tell me what happened between yourself and my father."

There was an intake of breath from somewhere near her, but she didn't bother to turn to see who it might have been.

Oriana's eyes were boring into Gaius', who was looking at her intently from where he had gone to sit and work on what looked to be medicine.

"Alright, that's easy enough. Who is your father?"

Oriana inhaled and exhaled again, before she forced herself to say, "Merlin."