Uther could feel himself wearing a track in the corridor, but he couldn't stop the pacing. The physician had been in with Lord Inthorn for well over an hour, and Zosia hadn't moved from her perch on the window ledge at the end of the corridor since they were told to give the physician some privacy to work. Uther had tried to stand near her, to comfort her, but she didn't seem to hear him, and he found the whole thing unspeakably agitating.

Inthorn had seemed well enough yesterday, if a bit tired, but he expressed exhaustion over breakfast and had collapsed before they sat for the midday meal.

"A troubling sign," the physician had said.

Uther had been willfully ignoring Inthorn's advancing age and its infirmities, but he knew that Zosia had been unable to ignore it. She'd becoming increasingly pensive and occasionally distressed by her father's health. Uther's solution thus far had been to distract her, and sometimes this worked well. It had led to long hours in the forest kissing, and one time they got so carried away, if a servant hadn't passed the library with audible footsteps, they might have made love on the recamier.

But sometimes his attempts at distraction just frustrated her, and she wouldn't speak to him for a day or two. Once she even slapped him for trying to kiss her hand while she was upset with him.

The door to Inthorn's chambers opened, and the physician came out of the room, looked at both of them, and walked calmly up the corridor to Zosia.

"My lady," the physician said. "I am afraid it is a matter of days. I can make him comfortable, but you should begin preparations. Let me know if I can be of assistance."

Uther froze, watching carefully in case Zosia began to weep. Instead, she stared past the physician at a spot on the wall, utterly expressionless, still and without a sign of tears.

"Thank you," she whispered. "Keep me informed of his condition. Can he take visitors, or is he resting?"

"I advise you to allow him to rest until morning," the physician said. "I am certain he would be pleased to see you then."

She hummed, stood, and swept down the stairwell. The physician watched her go, and Uther wasn't sure whether he ought to follow or stay behind. But what was there to stay behind for?

The physician turned to him and said, "Lord Inthorn wishes to see you tomorrow, Prince Uther, whenever is agreeable to you."

"Me?" Uther said, surprised. "He asked for me?"

"Yes, my lord, by name." He hesitated, then said, "Watch over her, sire. Lady Zosia was always a serious child, cried seldom, but she grieves the same as any woman. She may not feel capable of asking for help, even when she requires it."

Uther nodded, but he struggled to believe that there was anything under the sun that Zosia was incapable of. Still, watch her he would. If he was honest, he often felt there was little else worth doing in life.

/-/

Marcial did not have to dress finely often at Tintagel. With his father still at Camelot, attempting to maintain the years-long siege, Gorlois rarely held court. But when Lord Godwyn came north unannounced, Gorlois had ordered the kitchens to make a feast for their friend.

Godwyn was the ruler of Gawant, a little bit older than them, and wiser than anyone near their age that Marcial had ever met. He had been a close friend to Prince Ambrose and visited Camelot for every tourney, but they hadn't seen him much since Hengists's attack. He was a symbol of what had been lost for Marcial, but also a reminder that there could still be a return to what was, eventually.

The three men sat at Gorlois's head table for the feast, and Godwyn leaned over to speak to Gorlois with a very serious expression that didn't suit his usual softness.

"We'll need to have words about what's to be done when Lady Zosia inherits her lands," he said. "From what my informants tell me, Lord Inthorn's days may be numbered."

The candid statement startled Marcial, and he wondered what the urgency was. Gorlois seemed to understand, his expression darkening. He hid his immediate reaction behind taking a drink of wine, and then Marcial heard his friend say, "I had wondered why you came. As soon as we can get away, join us in the solar."

Marcial could scarcely appreciate the feast, delicious and joyous as it was. He followed Gorlois to the solar, assuming that he was the other part of us, and confirmed when he was not told to leave. They sat for a long time, almost too long.

"Perhaps he's not coming," Marcial whispered.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," Godwyn said, sweeping into the room. He closed the door. "Ah, Marcial, excellent."

"Your sources," Gorlois said.

"Lord Inthorn's health has been slowly fading the better part of the year," Godwyn said, standing rather than sitting across from them. "Recently, he's taken so ill that he is confined to his bed."

Marcial recalled Constantine's decline, not having left his bed for some time before he finally could not continue. Perhaps Lord Inthorn had weeks left, perhaps longer.

"The prognosis?" Gorlois said.

"Imminent," Godwyn said. "The whispers are numerous and varied. It is no secret that the prince has been fostered there since the attack. Lady Zosia has every confidence of her father's men, but she is in that space between a child and a woman."

"Mercia is at their back," Marcial said softly. "I don't believe Prince Bayard would allow Hengist to attack without supporting her."

The three of them sat in silence for a long moment before Godwyn said, "If the rumors are true, then Lady Zosia has refused Bayard's proposals again, and whatever his fondness for her, if his father sees Uther's existence as a threat, she may be seen as an acceptable loss."

Gorlois crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair, thinking. Marcial didn't believe that Mercia would get in bed with Hengist, even to see the Pendragon line end. They had always had good relations with Andor, even with Lady Zosia's infamous obstinance. But what were they supposed to do from the other side of Camelot?

"Uther is still young," Gorlois whispered. "If the whispers you're suggesting are true, what makes you think he'd leave the opportunity to pass his days quietly and happily defending Andor, marrying Lady Zosia, letting Hengist have his throne?"

Godwyn smiled sadly, and Marcial knew without anyone speaking precisely why that was impossible. No child of King Constantine would rest easy letting anyone but a Pendragon sit on the throne of Camelot, no matter how comfortable life was in Andor, no matter how enticing the woman, no matter how vicious the foe.

"What are we meant to do?" Marcial said.

"We present Uther with options," Godwyn said, "and we ready our support to make that presentation the moment it becomes necessary."

/-/

He saw her in the courtyard, Zosia standing with her head back, staring up at the sunrise. She looked beautiful, her hair cascading over her pale blue gown. Uther was tempted to go down to join her, to kiss the spots where sunlight dimpled the skin of her face and neck, but he had promised to speak with Inthorn, and he did not know how long the man had left. He drank in the image of her as long as he could justify, and he continued on to Inthorn's chambers.

How small this man looked now, Uther thought, pulling back the curtains to see Inthorn's face. He was reminded of the last time he saw his own father, and the similarity was disconcerting.

"How is she?" Inthorn whispered without opening his eyes.

Uther ignored the goosepimples that raised on his arms at this uncanny ability Inthorn had to know all things.

"She has occupied herself with running Carneath," Uther said. He took Inthorn's lifeless hand between both of his. "She is aware of your condition."

"She has not cried."

"No, my lord."

Inthorn opened his eyes, and this caused the contrast of his dark smudges under them to stand out all the more. He said, "Uther, she is a remarkable woman, but I need you to promise me something."

"Of course."

"Take care of my daughter," Inthorn said, lifting his head off the pillow slightly. "Build a future for her, a good one. She's a stubborn woman, but never forget the value of hearing what you need to hear from someone who loves you."

Uther realized that this was a blessing and a goodbye in one, and he quietly swore he would take care of Zosia, as though he needed to make such a promise. Inthorn nodded, laid back, and rested his head on the pillow again, closing his eyes.

"Shall I call her?" Uther said.

He waited for a long time for Inthorn to answer, and he leaned in, trying to see if the man was breathing. It wasn't until he realized he couldn't feel Inthorn's pulse that Uther stood, dropping the hand, and hurried to find someone to call the physician.

/-/

Zosia sat in her father's chambers in silence, staring at the bed that had just been cleared of his body. He had been taken to the crypt, his tomb already carved and waiting for him, as they had planned since her mother passed. The room felt empty without him in it, and shockingly cold.

She didn't hear Uther knock, but the gentle way he said her name suggested he had knocked and waited to be admitted before opening the door anyway. He had been speaking softly to her since the physician's pronouncement, like she was delicate and incapable of handling the realities of the world. She wished he'd stop.

"How are you?" he said.

He sat beside her at the table, reaching for her hand, but she didn't take his hand, staring at the pillow.

"I'm fine," she said.

"Zo."

Yes, very cold.

"What is it about men," she whispered, "that makes them think they know how you feel better than you do?"

Uther said nothing, sitting still beside her, retracting his hand slightly. She turned to see his concern in his eyes, and she wanted to spit, she was so frustrated with him.

"You've darkened since the news—"

"Uther," she said calmly, "I have always known that this would be my fate. This is not like your father. I knew that one day, my father would die, my sister would be gone, and I would be left here to run Carneath and Andor on my own. This is not a surprise to me; it is the way of life. I have prepared for this since my mother died. I know how to run this household, I know how to protect my people, and I am not afraid. Do I wish I'd been holding his hand when he went? Of course. But my father made it clear every day of my life that he loved me, that he trusted me, and I am as prepared for this role as ever anyone could be. I do not need or want to be coddled. Are we quite clear?"

Uther hesitated, and she wished she knew what was in his hesitation when he whispered, "Perfectly."

/-/

The body was placed in the musty crypt, and Uther was torn between the pain of the loss of his mentor and the small thrill he felt at Inthorn's final approval of him to court Zosia. She should be given a suitable morning period, but as soon as that was done, he had every intention to formalize their courtship, and to marry her. The sooner he married her the better, he mused as they ascended from the crypt. She was certain to have other offers again, now that she was the head of House Adaire. And he could not deny that part of him was very intrigued to be man and wife, to share a bed with her, to feel the warmth of her skin against his.

She walked at a faster pace when they reached the corridor, and she passed him with a sweet scent that turned his head, and as he often did around her, he felt the squeezing sensation about his throat, like a string tying him to her, leading him to follow her wherever she might lead.

Zosia went to her chambers, and Uther followed her in, feeling the longing to touch her and the admiration for her strength in equal measure. She removed the crown from her head and tossed it onto the bed, rubbing at where it had rested on her temples.

"Here," he whispered.

She stood still and let him come and undo the plait in her hair, letting her wear it down as she preferred it. He traced his fingers through the strands before he gently massaged her temples and scalp. She sighed, leaning back against him.

"I'm sorry I was so harsh with you before," she whispered.

"It is your right," he whispered back, kissing the back of her hair. Gods, she smelled so sweet.

"Perhaps," she said, turning and taking his hands, "but just because something is my right doesn't mean it's what should be done. I don't want you to feel like I don't appreciate how kind and supportive you've been. I just don't want you to think that I can't—"

"I know," he whispered. He took their hands and held them up so that he could kiss her fingers. "I know, Zo."

"I'm glad you're here," she said.

That small opening of vulnerability was precisely what he'd hoped to see. He didn't need more from her to know that she truly did appreciate the few things she'd let him take on his shoulders to prepare her father's burial. It wasn't a large concession, but he would take every little bit she deigned to give him.

She leaned in to kiss him, and he eagerly returned the kiss, sighing into her mouth. He would formalize the courtship tonight. Perhaps in the morning? They could court for a fortnight, and then he could suggest a long proposal, marry her the day of her eighteenth birthday. He'd have waited longer, but he wasn't sure he could stand to wait any more.

Uther was confused when she took a few steps back from kissing him, but he stared, stunned as she undid a clasp on the back of her dress and carefully unpeeled the silken fabric, letting it pool on the floor. Uther was struck by the beauty of her skin, her curves, her everything, and also by how this wasn't the order this was supposed to go in.

"What's the point in waiting?" she said.

What was the point? Propriety. Stability. There was perhaps something else, but she was taking a few steps toward him in nothing but her slippers, and he inhaled as she traced a cool hand under his tunic. He should say something, anything, but instead he accepted her kiss with bemused humility. Was he supposed to touch her? Was he allowed?

Her hands slid away from him and he groaned in disappointment as she took a few steps back, sitting on the edge of her bed.

"Undress," she said sternly. "And quickly. I'm cold."

Uther had never undressed so quickly in his life.

/-/

Godwyn, Gorlois, and Marcial sat up having a private dinner of game and wine and very warm bread. Marcial was breaking a roll in two when a servant hurried into the room, holding out a letter, not to Gorlois but to Marcial.

"What's this?" Gorlois said.

Marcial's hands shook as he took the letter. It was heavy, and the writing in it was poor, but the meaning was immediately plain. He dropped the letter, stood, and was halfway to the door before Gorlois asked him what was going on.

"I have to ride for Malgrave immediately," Marcial said.

"But why?" Gorlois said.

The two boys, constant companions since the siege began, Marcial thought he saw a bit of fear, a bit of the boy in his friend's faced with these two words. Another reminder, Marcial thought, that none of them were ready for Uther to launch this assault Godwyn had suggested. They were all still children, all playing at being adults due to circumstance.

"I'm so sorry," Godwyn whispered.

Marcial nodded, feeling the tears stinging at the corner of his eyes. He would send word when he knew the lay of the land, but the urgency to leave could not be overstated, not with Hengist's men looking to gather more and more territory every day.

Marcial's father had passed, and his mother was left holding Malgrave alone. He was no knight, not yet, but he would not allow his mother to stand alone, and he would rather die than allow Malgrave and Powys fall to the invaders. It would be a long ride, but he would not stop unless the horse required it.

He gathered his things as quickly as he could and hurried to the stables. He was surprised to see Gorlois there, still looking smaller than Marcial could recall for sometime.

"She's been saddled for you," Gorlois said.

"I can't—"

"She's our fastest horse," Gorlois whispered. "You're the fastest rider in the five kingdoms. You'll…you'll call me if you need aid?"

"You need to help Prince Uther," Marcial said, taking the reigns of the horse reluctantly.

"And I need you to help me help him," Gorlois said holding out his arm. "You'll call me, and when the time is right…"

Marcial smiled a little, took his friend's arm and gripped it, feeling the strength of Gorlois's hand gripping back even harder. Scared children, every one of them.

"You'll call me," Marcial whispered. "Thank you for your hospitality—"

"Nonsense," Gorlois said with a snort. "You're a brother to me, Marcial. You are always welcome at Tintagel."

Marcial pulled Gorlois into a quick embrace, then mounted the horse and prayed nothing worse than this nightmare could come before he made it home.