Alis was sitting on her father's hay cart that morning, when the new family came to her village. She was humming quietly to herself, braiding a crown out of autumn flowers, when the new father introduced himself to her da. Alis didn't pay much attention, being five years old and preoccupied with her own very important little girl business. The grownups were talking about boring grownup things, like the new king and how the new family had moved down from the hills because of the Saxons. It was all very uninteresting to Alis, though; the new man's wife was very pretty. She had such bright blonde hair, and the little boy in her arms had the same bright curls. Alis wished her hair were that color, instead of plain and brown.
That evening, the grownups were having a big harvest celebration, and Alis begged her mother to let her go. But her mother told her no, that little girls needed their rest. Alis went to sleep that night very mad at her mother; after all, many of the littlest children in the village were going; yet she was not allowed.
The next morning, things were very strange. Alis' mother and father were not up with the sun; she awoke to a silent house and a cold hearth. Her little feet trod over the packed earth of the small home to the door, rubbing her eyes, and called out sleepily, "Mama?"
It looked like they were all sleeping, everyone in the village, right at the tables where they'd eaten the night before, save the new family, Alis didn't see them anywhere. She did see her parents though... The frost clung to their faces, to the lashes of their wide-open eyes. Little children looked to have fallen onto the grass mid-dance, under long cold torches and abandoned spits, where the coals gave off little smoke. Alis' scream was a chilling sound echoing over the hills and harvested fields, but there was no one to hear her.
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It had seemed like weeks that they'd been in the tight little cart, though it had really only been a few days. Branwen idly looked out at the hills and moors as they rolled by the small window, sometimes willing the long, jolting miles to pass, sometimes wishing they could turn around and go back.
Across from her, Eiluned sat with Nimue curled up beside her, sleeping through most of the trip, her mother running her hand through her daughter's long black curls, that were so much like her own. "She'll be so much more beautiful then I, Branwen." Eiluned noted at one point, startling the younger woman out of her silent contemplation, "Even her soul, I can sense it."
"We do think those things, don't we?" Branwen murmured, thoughtfully, then shook her head, turning back to look at her friend, "She is destined for great things, I agree. But your soul is beautiful as well." Eiluned smiled back, softly, and Branwen sighed, "Eiluned...do you miss your sons?"
"I do, sometimes," The elder woman nodded, "And Nimue, bless her, she remembers her youngest brother, even though she was three when he was born. But in my explaining to her why they live elsewhere, I have come to peace with it myself." She smiled again, "Do you know, Morgaine has had eight sons?" Branwen's eyes widened.
"I knew she'd had many, but..."
"Most were born while you were a novice, or before you'd come to us at all." Eiluned nodded, "She's passed her prime child-bearing years now. Yet still, it is a comfort to talk to her on the subject." The priestess smiled, tightening her arm around her daughter, "I look forward to the day, when mine are all grown and might seek me out as they wish."
Branwen nodded slowly, instinctively slipping a hand down to the very slight swell of her waist, under her robes. Both women gave a jump then, when one of the Woad guards announced that they were in view of the walls, and Branwen felt her throat go dry. She could feel his spirit near her...
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Viroconium was buzzing with activity, when word reached Arthur that an escort from Avalon had passed the wall. He and Gawain had been watching Bors as he instructed a large group of young men in one of the fort's courtyards, on the proper use of a sword, and they were doing quite well. It would be surprising if they weren't, however, what with having Bors drilling and shouting at them for the past five weeks.
The king hastily called the rest of the day off, and both novices and knights breathed a thankful prayer. There had been many young men who'd joined Arthur's cause, and few knights to train them, so work seemed constant, but all was done in more or less good spirits. For though they were making haste, life was good enough, so they thought. The Saxons were driven off, their land had it's own king, and he was a good, just king at that. All wanted to be on his side, in all things.
Now, Arthur hurried to the square, Gawain and Bors close behind him, Galahad joining them from his spot on the walls, where he'd been instructing some of the local women (who'd shown an interest in being able to defend the home fires skillfully should the need ever arise) in archery. Under Roman rule, this would have never been an option, but after seeing the Woad women fighting alongside their men, not to mention their Queen, a few bold female inhabitants of the fort had made the request. Usually, it was Guenevere who taught them, but due to a , she'd asked Galahad to take her place, and he'd done so with a bit too much enthusiasm.
Gawain could not calm his nerves, though he tried to hide that fact, standing behind Arthur and doing his best to look stoic. His best wasn't enough, however, Galahad giving him a supportive slap on the shoulder. "Relax friend," He said quietly, then smirked, "My god, I know it's a tense day when I'm the one reassuring you."
"You'd think we were reliving his first day going out to battle the Woads," Arthur surprised them a bit by saying, turning with a smirk, "You remember that day, don't you Gawain?"
"I do," Bors chimed in, "Boy bloody pissed all over his saddle."
"Alright, alright, thank you very much, I'm fine now." Gawain sighed deeply, and there were chuckles all around. And then the cart was passing though the fort gates, and the knights stood straight; the people milling about suddenly gathering to look on in awe, knowing the marks of The Holy Isle.
The cart rolled to a stop, much as it had those months before, the Woad escorts hurrying to open the door, Eiluned descending first, followed by a very small little girl. A cloaked figure exited then, leaning a bit heavily on her escort's hand, Gawain noted with a touch of worry. Branwen straightened slowly, drawing back her hood, her face very changed from when Gawain last saw her, though no less beautiful. She seemed more pale, her eyes seemed older. She looked at him very briefly, with a slight shiver, before settling her gaze on Arthur.
"Arthur, King." She bowed briefly, yet not very deeply, wincing a bit and trying to hide it, "Your sister regrets that she could not come in person, pressing responsibility keeps her in Avalon." She seemed out of breath, but went on, putting on a smile, "Morgaine sends her love to you though, and a small, yet mighty gift, to be given in ceremony."
"Branwen, welcome." Arthur replied, warmly, "I had hoped to speak with my sister, but I am honored to have you here. Tonight we will dine, and speak of these things." He reached out and touched her arm breifly, and she nodded, her smile falling.
"There is another urgent matter, that must be spoken of in private." She murmured, "The people would be alarmed to hear of, as it involves the more...frightening powers of Avalon."
Arthur nodded, slowly. Merlin had slowly been opening his heart to the thought that power dwelt in Avalon, power that could not be ignored. His own feelings on the subject were conflicting, but he did know that the very mention of the Sacred Isle commanded respect. The king looked about quickly, and then motioned for Branwen to follow him inside...
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Arthur sat, in his private chambers, processing what he'd just been told, while the priestess of Avalon stood before him, hands folded under her robe. "You had a vision?"
"At the bidding of Morgaine, yes." Branwen nodded.
"And you do not know who was putting her in peril?"
"No." She shook her head, and Arthur sighed, leaning forward and rubbing his temples.
"I am not going to lie, I have my doubts," He replied at last, "Yet...I would be a fool not to try and keep my Guenevere from harm." He shook his head, with a wry smirk, "She won't like this, though. She's already put up enough of a fight, when I told her she could not march with us in her condition."
"Condition?" Branwen tilted her head, and then Arthur could not contain the grin that spread across his face, setting his eyes alight...
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Author's Notes: Wheeeee suddenly have millions of things to write, yepyep...this was actually a much bigger chapter that I had to cut down...didn't seem like it flowed very well, so now it's two chapters. Either have the next one up late tonight or tomorrow, forgive any spelling mistakes, my spellcheck went crazy this afternoon, am fixing...
Wanna know how I'm mannaging this? Heh, flu from the tenth level of hell =P There's really not much I can do at this point, other then sit around writing and watching every movie in my DVD collection.
Which reminds me, Leon: The Professional is an awesome movie. Everyone go watch it. It's violent, funny, sweet, and surreal. In that respect, it's much like King Arthur nods
I like being able to rant like this. Buy my new cd! Out in stores someday! Buy Gatorade! Fill yourself with chemicals! Wooo!
Okay Amy, too many meds...