Arthur, King of the Britons

A/N: THANK YOU REVIEWERS! Throws candy for reviewers

Chapter II: Broken reflections of a distant memory...

Arthur half dozed, his eyes were open however, they watched the sky, focusing n the bright stars. Soft steps nearby caused him to drip his sword and sit upright. He watched as, ghostlike, a slender figure in blue passed by the place where he slept. Silently he slipped after her, his footsteps silent, senses alert.

Lancelot stirred, his slumber had been interrupted. He found himself facing the last embers of his cook fire. He frowned, something was different from when he had fallen asleep. He sat up and noted that snow once more fell, absently he noticed that there was no snow beside where he had been sleeping.

"Igraine." He murmured. He stood quickly. He cast his eyes around, searching for some sign. He smiled slightly in triumph. Small footsteps made their way from the clearing. Quickly he followed after them. The path they took skirted through the forest. Ahead he seemed to hear words, filtered through the trees. Arthur was ahead! He moved closer, the voice raised.

"-killed me mother!" Arthur said, his voice angry and harsh. Lancelot hurried ahead.

"And my family too Arthur." He recognised the lilting tones. Igraine was ahead, with Arthur and others were obviously present.

"What do you mean?" asked Arthur, his words now suspicious and confused.

"You used to play with a little boy when you were a child. Mordred, he used to tease you. He was my half-brother. I was then known as Morgana. I was only a babe. We were the only other children who survived that night. Mordred took me north of the wall Arthur. To our Mother's people." Silence came from ahead. Lancelot stepped from the trees into what appeared a frozen tableau. Arthur's sword hung from his hand, an ancient Woad man watched with keen interest and Guinevere watched Arthur.

Igraine stood in front of him, her back turned to him, but he knew from the way she stood that she was watching Arthur.

"It was mistake, a terrible mistake Arthur." Her voice was sweet and soft. "But you have a chance to save others from our fate, you can save so many… Will you turn your back on them?" Her voice was filled with reason and caring. Arthur stepped closer to her, his eyes narrowed in thought and perhaps recognition.

"Hey! Arthur Castas!" eleven-year-old Arthur turned at the taunting voice. The by who spoke was several years older than Arthur. Taller and stronger he had taken a dislike to Arthur early on. The boy brushed fair hair out of an astonishingly good-looking face. Arthur felt his cheeks flush. He had recently begun to notice girls, yet all the yung girls in the area found him both odd and un-attractive, especially when compared Mordred. The good looking boy smiled, it was a truly unpleasant expression, yet took nothing away from his handsome looks. "What do you want Mordred?" He asked, suppressing his fear, if today was the day Mordred was too finally make good on his promises of retribution then today it would be. The taller boy was advancing when a rich voice called out.

"Mordred!" A figure stepped over the hill behind Arthur, he turned and found a smile upon his face.

"Arthur!" Her face turned delighted, Mabelle was Mordred's beautiful step mother, her skin was like snow and her eyes were a rare shade f blue like some of the wildflowers that grew in the hills nearby. She paused in the grasses, she tilted her exquisite face and smiled at them. "I hope you boys weren't fighting?" she questioned sternly. Both had shaken their heads. She smiled, and Arthur had thought his heart might burst with joy. If Mordred was the most handsome man or by for miles than his father's pregnant second wife was the most beautiful woman, as she approached her thick coppery curls caught the suns light and reflected it like her hair was made of gold. She brushed a hand across Arthur's head. He smiled up at her; her stomach he noted was pushing through her dress' folds. He grinned like a fool as he noted the happiness radiating from her face.

Arthur felt tears spring to his eyes, that was the second time painful memories had risen tonight. He looked at the contours of the girl's face. Her large eyes to were that odd shade f blue, her mouth was the same bow-shape. Her hair curled softly around her face, it's copper tinted blonde even shone in the moonlight.

A gasp left his mouth. "Mabelle?" his voice was choked now with a different emotion, he felt amazement flow through him, as Igraine smiled he noted the way her eyes lit up like her mothers.

"She was my mother." The whisper seemed to cost Igraine. Behind her in the dark another figure had appeared, Arthur looked upwards, Lancelot was watching, his face revealed his shock.

"And Mordred?" he forced the words out. Igraine turned away her face pained.

"He died, one of your knights killed him… Years ago." Igraine looked up; her eyes met Lancelot's, he saw pain reflected in there depths. She paused. "That was yesterday," she twisted to look at Arthur one last time. "On the morrow the Saxons may find us, and I may be fighting alongside your knights, for my life." She walked up to Lancelot, her eyes met his for a moment before she passed him by, walking away into the forest. Lancelot looked back down into the clearing. A tear was tracing it's path down Arthur's cheek.

"Follow her Lancelot." He said before turning back towards the old woad man. Lancelot paused, then turned away and began after Igraine. He found her seated by the ash that had been his fire, he could hear her teeth chattering as he approached. He brushed a hand over her shoulder. Starting she turned to look up at him.

"Are you alright?" he asked, kneeling beside her. She nodded.

"It's cold." She whispered. He put an arm around her and drew her close. She shivered still as he held her, his cloak around both of them. "What was that song you sang about?" she asked as her shivering died down.

"It was about a great warrior, all his great deeds, and how he died…" He trailed off. Her blue eyes were looking up at him. Again he could not shake the feeling she gave him, she was s small, yet seemed strong, her eyes held a spark that told him she was courageous and clever.

"My brother used to sing very different songs to me at night." She whispered.

"Oh?" he encouraged her.

"Yes, his songs were about the path life could lead, about what love was like, even one about my mother, describing her beauty." She paused, "But he never sang about war, or fighting. I think he feared it." He words were barely audible even though her lips were scant inches from his ears. He remembered the first time he had ridden into battle. No bloodlust had come to him that day, and all he had felt afterwards was bitterness and disgust. He was god at it but he cared not for war. Those he killed were not his enemies, they were someone else's enemies. "Yet when the time came he went and he fought… and he died." Lancelot squeezed his arms tighter around her, an unconscious way of trying to take away her pain.

"He sang his favorite the night he left." she smiled slightly. He tucked her head underneath his chin as she began to sing.

"We dream in circles,

We follow the sunlit path into the night.

Our hearts call upon our memories to whisper to us.

We dream in the night.

We reach for hope from the darkness.

We are seeking the way to freedom from fear.

We are dreaming now."

They sat in silence for a time. Lancelot waited patiently for her to fall asleep once more. He finally knew that she was asleep at last. Her breathing was even and low. Carefully he stood, pulling her with him. Cradling her in his arms he began towards the wagons. Carefully he settled her sleeping form beneath one of the wagons. He placed his dark cloak over her and walked away into the night.

The early morning air was crisp and cool. Igraine opened her eyes and found herself looking at a pair of boots. She froze in the process of stretching. She saw other pairs of boots nearby. Carefully she rolled in the opposite direction. She saw no one on the other side of the wagon. Silently she rolled out from under the wagon. Carefullly she began to edge around the wagon, she took the cloak that had been wrapped around her and fastened it. Shouts and cries rent the morning air. She kept still as feet came running. As she stepped arund the wagon only one pair of eyes took note.

"I have the boy!" called Marcus, Igraine Looked quickly around. Guinevere, Lancelot and Arthur stood near, each bore weapons but the coward held Lucan close, a dagger held t the boy's throat. She noted a sword lay discarded near her right foot. She saw Dagonet watching, blind rage on his features. Making a swift decision she grabbed the sword and with a single thrust dispatched one of the roman guards. Pulling the sword out she whirled and thrust her sword into Marcus Honorius' un-armoured side. The sharp sword slid through his flesh under the armpit. In the same movement she kicked Lucan's legs out from underneath him, causing the boy to drop from the shaky grip of his captor.

She pulled her sword from the dying man's body and with another turn brought it ringing into contact with one of the other Romans swords as he leapt to defend his master. She felt the sword in her hand shivering as she tried to hold it firm against the superior strength of her opponent…

Lancelot watched the small woman wield the blade as though born with it in her hands. As the blades rang through the air and the two opponents struggled he moved swiftly forwards. The other Knights had now arrived, swiftly they covered each of the Roman guards. Lancelot Placed one of his blades against Igraine's opponent's neck.

"Back down!" he commanded. The man quickly took the hint and stepped back. The others complied with Arthur's order to lay down their weapons. He was speaking but Lancelot cared not, he was holding a pale Igraine upright. She was wan and shaking.

"I'm alright," she told him softly.

"No you're not." He told her, lifting her he took her back to her wagon. She was still holding the sword when he sat her on the front of the wagon.

She looked down at him with wide eyes. A fleck of blood sat on her cheek, like an unwholesome tear. Carefully he took the edge of his cloak that was still around her and used the corner to wipe away the blood. She blinked at the blood on the edge of his dark cloak.

"It could have been me." She whispered. He paused in his ministrations, his hands pausing as the brushed her hair away from her face.

"Who could have?" he asked gently, she seemed on the verge of crying, a weakness he doubted she wanted to reveal to him.

"Either of them. I-I could be dead, or I could be…" She took a steadying breath.

"But your not." He said softly. He found himself drowning in her blue eyes, he leaned closer, her shocked eyes widened further as he brushed his lips over hers.

"Get ready to ride!" he pulled back quickly. He cursed as his head smacked into the edge of the roof of the wagon. He stumbled away without looking back at Igraine. He cursed himself voraciously as he mounted his stallion. The feisty but well trained horse snorted and shook his head as Lancelot encouraged him into a trot.

Arthur glanced over at his friend as he drew alongside. Lancelot had a dark brooding expression on his face, his mouth was pursed in concentration.

"What troubles you my friend?" Arthur asked gently. Lancelot started and turned his head to look at Arthur. Arthur found himself troubled at the dark biting anger in his eyes. "What's happened?" he repeated. Lancelot shook his head.

"Nothing my friend." The words bespoke the lie that they said. Arthur took a deep breath. He weighed the options of what had caused this change from his mood only a few hours before.

"Is Igraine alright?" he asked. He watched his friend's reaction. The tightening in Lancelot's jaw told him he had the problem or at least part of the problem.

"Fine." The curt reply came. Arthur watched ahead of him fr a moment, the path twisted through the forest.

"I am amazed at her being here." Commented Arthur in an attempt to draw his friend out. Lancelot nodded. "She's as beautiful as her mother." He glanced at his friend. Lancelot still had that blank expression of anger. "She was a great beauty you know. Eyes the colour of those blue flowers that grow in the dales near where I grew up. And her hair, like spun gold in the sunlight…" Arthur's smile widened as he took in his friends grim aspect.

"Fine!" snapped Lancelot. "I care for her!" he growled. "Happy?" he added as he turned away and began back down the caravan. Arthur frowned. His friend was deeply affected by these feelings. He sighed. His thoughts turning to the plans he, Merlin and Guinevere had made the night before. He felt sadness greater then any he had ever known at the prospect of leaving his knights, his friends.

"No, Lancelot, my friend..."

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