Arthur, King of the Britons
Chapter V: In Darkness I am, from Darkness I have come...(Part II)
Arthur whispered warnings for none to enter the wagon where Igraine lay and Lancelot tended her. He had heard Lancelot's whispers and sobs as he passed the wagon and his heart went out to his friend, though at times Lancelot seemed shallow and indeed many women who should not have had in fact graced hi bed. But several he had fought for, his feelings for them eradicating his usual charm and self-assurance, his feelings for them filled with love and the knowledge that they were special, as they inevitably were.
Arthur sighed as he ran a hand over his face, his fingers touching the slight stubble he had allowed to grow. They were still over two days away from the wall. He sent a prayer to heaven that they would reach the wall with all haste, for all of their sake's, but especially Morgana's.
Guinevere waited for hours, her feet treading a weary path beside the wagon where Igraine was with Lancelot. She feared what might happen if Morgana died, she had effectively reached out to the knights in a way Guinevere envied. And all around her people seemed to turn to her for advice, comfort and leadership. They were qualities even Merlin acknowledged were valuable. Guinevere considered the only other two she knew who had that effect of trust and leadership as Igraine. Merlin and Arthur brought out the best in those around them, they were natural leaders, and Guinevere knew from rumor and now experience that Igraine was another such as they.
People wished to be near them. To bask in the reflection of what they thought was a great person with few worries. Guinevere knew better. She saw the worry's and fears hidden in Arthur and Igraine's eyes. And particularly in Arthur's worried gaze. His fears and dreams were caught up in a tangled web inside him.
Igraine too seemed stooped under burdens beyond her young years, she was three years younger than Guinevere, yet had all the maturity and surety of being of someone twice her age. Her decisions were decisive and firm. Her belief in right and wrong unshakable, her longing for a better world for those she had ruled and those she cared for as great as Arthur's belief in his God and as firm as Merlin's belief in his people's right to freedom. She was startled out of her reverie by a voice rough with emotion.
"Guinevere," she gasped and looked up into Lancelot's dark eyes. "She will need you... I must talk to Tristan." He said as he leapt lightly from the wagon, his armor buckled around him slightly crooked.
Guinevere nodded silently as he jogged away, Swiftly she climbed into the wagon, ignoring the throbbing in her left hand as she used it to pull her self upwards. She ducked inside the gloomy wagon. It took her a moment to adjust from the snow glare outside. With a glance she noted the remains of Igraine's dress lying in rags on the right side of the wagon. She then turned her eyes to the pale figure lying in the mussed blankets on the other side of the wagon.
She knelt beside her and brushed a hand across the pale temples. Her fingers confirmed the swat that beaded her face was from a fever, and that her temperature was running high. Guinevere then pulled back the blankets. She checked the cuts she had heleped bind two days before. They had not re-opened badly though one was weeping onto her hip. She reached for the bandages Dagonet had stored in the wagon. She with difficulty wrapped a clumsy bandage around the Igraine's slender hips.
Then she lifted Igraine's left hand, the one that had been trapped in the ice. It was covered in dark blood and traces of bruising were in evidence between the dried scabs. Guinevere ducked outside and scooped some fresh snow from the front of the wagon. Carefully she carried it inside she used a bandage to wrap the snow around the bruised hand and then returned with another handful to pack around that she had already used, she the wrapped the hand in a piece of the ruined dress.
She brushed her fingers over Igraine's forehead again, it was feverish. Guinevere rocked back n her heels; Igraine probably still had some water in her lungs and would likely be very weak if she came through the next few hours. Guinevere wished for her mother with her knowledge of herbs t bring down the fever and wake the tiny woman who would without a doubt lead when Merlin died. Carefully Guinevere lay all the blankets on top of Igraine and sat in silent vigil, watching the labored rise and fall of the younger woman's chest.
Igraine became aware of sounds around her, someone was humming a tune, a horse snorted nearby, wheels crunched snow as they rolled. The next thing she noticed was the bump and sway, which resettled her in the tight warmth that enveloped her from chin to feet, then the scent of crushed herbs came to her nose. Suddenly pain came from a dull ache to a startling clarity all in a moment, a gasp escaped her lips as her lungs seemed to catch n fire, her left hand seemed mangled and she felt that if she opened her eyes it would be broken and twisted. Yet open her eyes she did, to a blurry darkness mre terrifying then the darkness of the oblivion. She blinked desperate for smtinh to focus on. Something moved into few. A haze of dark curls and skin came in front of her.
"Igraine!" the mouth moved in accompaniment to the word that reached her ears yet in the distance a roaring could be heard and everything was fading away once more. This time not to the depths of oblivion, but to the darkness of memories and dreams.
Lancelot moved back again as she slipped away into sleep. Her chest seemed to his eyes to be rising and falling stronger now. He added the last of the herbs Tristan had gathered and found in his pouches to the clay mug. Careful so as not to tip the hot mixture onto her flesh he lifted her head, sitting himself beneath her head he opened her mouth and with a deft pinch of her nose poured some of the potion inside her mouth, after a moment she sputtered and then swallowed. He allowed her a breath of air before making her swallow again. This he did until the mug stood empty. Then he laid her upon his lap and with his fingers curling through her rich hair, waited for her to wake.
He waited several hours; darkness had long ago settled outside the wagon when she finally stirred again. His fingers were brushing over her soft skin. Her eyes blinked and she focused on his features, she swallowed and opened her mouth.
"Water." He nodded and reached for the skin, carefully he let her drink a little then took it away. He brushed at a small trickle which escaped the corner of her mouth.
"Hush now." He said when she tried to speak. "It's alright now" he said as his hands traced the contour of her jaw. She blinked and then slowly settled her eyes upon the roof past his head, he brushed his fingers over her bare shoulders. She looked up again as a shiver ran through her.
"Why are you here?" she croaked.
"To care for you..." he replied as his thumbs traced circles n her shoulders. She seemed to want more s he elaborated. "Because I care for you." The soft words admited the deepest truth in his heart at that mment. She closed her eyes.
"You.." He leaned over at her soft whisper. "You don't know who I am..." He frowned at her words.
"My love," she flinched at the endearment which in turn caused his heart to beat more rapidly. "Igraine you speak in riddles." He told her gently. She shook her head, saying that she did not. "I-" he began. "I know all I need to know." She closed her eyes a moment.
Her blue eyes opened wide, pain shwing in their depths. "no you don't." She licked her dry lips. "You don't know abut me, what I've... The things I have done." He sighed.
"Igraine, I have done things that would make you weep to know. Hundreds of your countrymen's blood is on my hands." He paused as a fear he had never expressed surfaced. "Your brothers blood might even be on them." He said softly. She sighed.
"But everyone you have killed would have killed you had you not killed them." She looked earnestly at him with those haunted eyes. "Not all those I have killed would have killed me." He frowned. "As.. as dispenser of Justice in my village I was the... I was the judge and executioner of those who... those who transgressed our laws." She looked away her eyes staring at the wooden side of the wagon. Silently he looked down at her waiting for her to continue.
The leather clothes were for battle, the metal necklace and wristbands denoted her status. The sword on her lap was heavy as she repressed tears from her eyes, forcing herself to stay as calm and still as ice. The dais she was seated on was under a thundering sky, and her woad paint seemed to mark her as an evil spirit. Those around her were still and silent, many wore expressions that showed their pain and pity as a tall blonde warrior was brought in front of the teenage girl. She lifted her chin a little more as the tall man bowed slightly to her.
She stood slowly, the weight f the swrd in her hand grew by the moment.
"Drusais. You were brought before me three days ago covered in the blood," she paused as an invisible hand seemed to choke her. "Covered in the blood of your wife, Elai, your infant child, Drulain and the blood of Castor, a man of this village." She said the words with an icy tone, shoving away the tide of her emotions. The huge hands of the man were clasped before him, hands that just a few years ago had held her, had taught her the sword and bow. Hands she knew had brushed with affection through his wife's pale braids and had held his infant son with loving care.
"In your own defense you claimed that your wife had betrayed you with Castas and that Drulain was not of your blood." She paused. "That is irrelevant!" the shut caused a few to jump at the vehemance of her words. "Many have begged compassion for you because you were moved by jealousy, that your wife had in the past been unfaithful." She looked out ver those she now ruled. "There can be no excuse for murder." She went back to the chair and sat. An inaudible sigh escaped her lips.
"I now bring the full weight f our customs and law down upon you Drusais: have you anything to say?" the last was softly spoken. The huge man shook his head, his blue eyes clear and no sign of guilt was in the air.
"Then make your peace with the world and say your good-byes." His ancient mother was weeping nearby, her soft sobs a counterpoint to the mutterings of others as they discussed her strict decision.
"I am ready." His words held no hint of fear as they boomed in his deep bass voice. Igraine nodded.
"Take the children away!" she ordered as she started down the steps. Mothers rushed children away from the village square. The men formed a circle, closing the horse shoe shape they had been in. She held the sword in her hands as a strange rush ran through her. She lifted it as two men forced Drusais to his knees.
"May whatever gods you believe in have mercy on you." She whispered as she drew back the sword. It flashed in the air as it slit his throat. Blood gushed like a fountain from the arteries in his neck. Their red contents spraying on her body and face. Slowly Drusais toppled to his side, his mouth still moving but no sound issued.
His mothers broken sobs issued from nearby as she fell to her knees in grief.
His thumbs resumed their brushings of circles on her skin as she croaked to a halt in her tale. He looked down.
"I still know nothing more than I knew before Igraine." He told her with compassion. "You are strong and compassionate. He was the murderer, not you." The words fell on deaf ears he knew.
"I hope everytime that I kill it will be the last time, Lancelot. I long for a world where violence is no longer a necessity." She shook her head. "But I know that each time I sheath my sword I will use it again, and it haunts me that each one I kill has a mother, a father, brothers and sisters, perhaps even wives and children." She sighed. "it is for them I grieve..." she opened her eyes. "And I fear," she whispered "my ability to take life, I fear the way I can do it and that one day I may come to enjoy it." His fingers paused and he lifted them, she shivered as he lifted her upwards, until she sat in his lap. "I fear the darkness in my soul, Lancelot."
"Igraine...I have known men who love to kill, it does not make them a lesser person. And your abhorrence of violence I do not fully understand... Arthur would understand it better than I..." He brushed his lips over hers. "But you I care for, and it hurts me when you are hurt, your tears are mine my love." He brushed his lips across her feverish forehead. "And that you abhor murder does not diminish you in my eyes." He brushed his lips over hers again, he felt hers tremble beneath his own, tears stood bright in her eyes.
"Please, rest Igraine, you will need your strength." She nodded slightly, her head lying upon his chest. "And believe me when I say there are far darker souls than yours." He added in a gentle whisper as she slipped into sleep.