A/N: I really liked this movie and hence, this is somewhat based on the
movie...I'm kinda just going with the flow, so let me know how you like it!
Or if you do at all!
Merlin stood, half covered in the night's darkness and half flickering with the light of the fire. With a simple glance, he beckoned Guinevere over to him, having words only for her ears. Arthur watched interestedly, though saying nothing, as she silently left his side, walking slowly to Merlin.
The night was ripe with laughter and smiles. Arthur's knights and the Woads had won an undeniably overwhelming victory against the Saxons near the snowy mountains. It was neither in the imagination of Arthur and his distinguished knights, nor in that of Guinevere, Merlin, and the Woads that the two battling sides would ever come together spectacularly to conquer a common foe. After ages of fighting one another, it was realized by both Merlin and Arthur, the great leaders of each faction respectively, that the Saxons were bloodily vicious and would stop at nothing to end all life on the Isle. So they had joined together in a union that would come to be much glorified by time and circumstance.
It was murmured amongst the new alliance that Arthur would be declared King once the Saxons were pushed far enough away and peace seemed imminent. Guinevere would be forever grateful to Arthur for uniting the people of the Isle and she felt content in his appointment to the Kingship, for she had seen that he had the will of a warrior but the heart of humble man. Equality and freedom would be Arthur's foundation for a stable Britain. At the forefront of Arthur's wishes and kingdom would be his respected, though feared, Knights of the Round Table.
Guinevere slowed her pace even further, taking a fleeting moment to gaze at Arthur's knights, who had so valiantly saved her from certain death, even when she had still been at the time, a timeless enemy. Tristan rested nowhere but could be seen as a ghost throughout the camp, neither here nor there. There was Bors lounging comfortably on a blanketed rock, an obviously lusty and brutish man, though unequivocally handy with an axe. Gawain sat sharpening his sword, his person completely on guard to the sounds of nature and human alike. Dagonet was watching over the small child he'd borne responsibility since he'd been rescued, along with Guinevere. Near him, Galahad tended to the fire, his youthfulness passing across his face whenever his face blossomed into a smile. It was his young age that had as of yet spared him the intoxicating bitterness felt by the others. Bitterness was epitomized in Lancelot, the most-skilled fighter of Arthur's knights, though he lacked a benevolent spirit. Guinevere could sense a sadness that encircled his handsomely chisled face as he looked unto the victory celebrations of her people.
She reluctantly tore her gaze from her saviours, though she would not dare call them as such in spoken words, and bowed her head to her leader Merlin.
He did not offer greetings nor explanations. "Guinevere, much has yet to come to pass, occurrences that will be both unexpected yet fulfilling and I speak of this for not only you. I have already told Arthur what has been revealed to me by the gray mists and the trees of Avalon," Merlin said throatily, holding his hand up to stop her from speaking. "But it is not all welcome happenings. I will tell you now of an event that will alter your course and the courses of the people with whom you surround yourself. My Lady, if you should choose to stay with Arthur and revel in his raise to glory, there will be naught but suffering for you. You will have a love that shall endure yet may never be entirely realized. This love, this man shrouded in shadows, can bring only pain to the hearts of those in your life." Merlin ended his prophecy, rising from the darkened tree stump as he brushed stray snowflakes from his white-gray beard.
Guinevere was silent, allowing the words to soak into her being before she found the strength to speak. "Merlin, wait. Who is this man you speak of? And how can I escape this fate?" She reached her hands out to clasp his strongly, her eyes intensely asking questions only he could answer. "I know you have the Sight. I believe in your powers and that is why I beg of you now to give me a name. A name I shall avoid all my days, in fear of your words and the suffering you have described. Please," Guinevere implored.
Merlin's tired face grimaced, his forehead creasing into soft wrinkles, as he was clearly deeply troubled. "A name has not been revealed, nor would I bestow upon you if I knew. One cannot attempt to change what is written in the stars. One may only dampen the effects of this prophecy with foresight. I warn you now, dear girl. To stay with Arthur is to risk your own happiness and endurance. But perhaps, to leave him will also bring your ruin. 'Tis a choice only you may make." He left her then to ponder her racing thoughts, returning to the veil of trees that was home to him.
Guinevere put her hand to her temple, uncertain of her path. She was sure of one thing; Arthur would be a celebrated leader who had the ability to unite her homeland against ruthless invaders that sought only the blood of her people. If she was to leave him, she would be deserting her friends, her family to certain and unmemorable death.
Her heart spoke to her then, as she watched her fellow Woads dance entrancingly around the fire and sing lyrics of courage and triumph in battle. She then looked upon Arthur, enjoying the festivities, so becoming in his magnificence, his rugged looks calling her name. Guinevere would not run from her fate. She was no princess of love, but a warrior of freedom; if this was to be her destiny, so be it. Guinevere would fight until her blood was inexhaustibly drawn and her soul dampened to ruin.
She wondered if Arthur was the man to whom she would be bound, as he approached her stealthily with Lancelot. Arthur bowed his head in greeting, stating simply, "We leave tomorrow. You will accompany us?"
"Yes," she answered without fail to the two men before her, smiling beautifully. She knew Arthur was in some way of the utmost importance to the future of her land. The blood rushing through her veins whispered that she could not leave his side; something drew her forcefully towards his imposing figure.
"We must battle what is left of the Saxons quickly, while they are weak still," Arthur said discreetly to his two trustworthy companions, wiping his brow.
"Perhaps we shall just lure them here, what with this noise of song and dance!" Lancelot replied sarcastically, his face grim. He looked haughtily only from Arthur to the happy crowd, taking little notice of Guinevere.
Guinevere's eyes flashed. "What of it? My people have a right to celebration—if it were not for us, you may not have been blessed with fortune this day!"
Lancelot's beautiful chocolate eyes finally met hers, though his were unreadable, relaying warmth and coldness in the same instant. Arthur instinctively laid a hand on his oft-fiery friend's arm, forestalling further disagreements.
"Lady, I offer my sincerest of apologies," Lancelot said softly, bowing his head nobly, though a small smile played on his sensuous lips. He turned brusquely to Arthur, who had kept close to Guinevere. "I'll check the lines and speak to Tristan of his scouts."
"Yes, we'll confer later, once the festivities have run their course," Arthur replied, eager for a moment of peace with Guinevere. "You showed no fear this afternoon, Guinevere."
Guinever looked after Lancelot's solemnly retreating figure, captivated by the confidence in his stride, his tall form looking broad and strong, yet ringed with a grey shadow. "There was no fear to show," she replied distractedly, her voice crawling in a near-whisper. In contrast to her words, she felt a shudder crawl down her spine, and it was not a reaction to Arthur's hand at her cheek, touching with the lightest of touchs. She suddenly felt fear, an emotion relatively unknown to her. Lancelot had turned once he reached the top of the grassy hill to glance down upon those he had just left. But he his eyes did not rest on Arthur, rather they searched fiercely for something within Guinevere. The moonlight glossed his short, curly hair and enlivened his fine, manly features.
She convinced herself it was nothing but a chill from the coolness of the dark as she and Arthur returned to the warmth of the fire. Alas, no amount of persuasion could trick the stirring in her chest when Lancelot's eyes had graced hers.
Fear.
Merlin stood, half covered in the night's darkness and half flickering with the light of the fire. With a simple glance, he beckoned Guinevere over to him, having words only for her ears. Arthur watched interestedly, though saying nothing, as she silently left his side, walking slowly to Merlin.
The night was ripe with laughter and smiles. Arthur's knights and the Woads had won an undeniably overwhelming victory against the Saxons near the snowy mountains. It was neither in the imagination of Arthur and his distinguished knights, nor in that of Guinevere, Merlin, and the Woads that the two battling sides would ever come together spectacularly to conquer a common foe. After ages of fighting one another, it was realized by both Merlin and Arthur, the great leaders of each faction respectively, that the Saxons were bloodily vicious and would stop at nothing to end all life on the Isle. So they had joined together in a union that would come to be much glorified by time and circumstance.
It was murmured amongst the new alliance that Arthur would be declared King once the Saxons were pushed far enough away and peace seemed imminent. Guinevere would be forever grateful to Arthur for uniting the people of the Isle and she felt content in his appointment to the Kingship, for she had seen that he had the will of a warrior but the heart of humble man. Equality and freedom would be Arthur's foundation for a stable Britain. At the forefront of Arthur's wishes and kingdom would be his respected, though feared, Knights of the Round Table.
Guinevere slowed her pace even further, taking a fleeting moment to gaze at Arthur's knights, who had so valiantly saved her from certain death, even when she had still been at the time, a timeless enemy. Tristan rested nowhere but could be seen as a ghost throughout the camp, neither here nor there. There was Bors lounging comfortably on a blanketed rock, an obviously lusty and brutish man, though unequivocally handy with an axe. Gawain sat sharpening his sword, his person completely on guard to the sounds of nature and human alike. Dagonet was watching over the small child he'd borne responsibility since he'd been rescued, along with Guinevere. Near him, Galahad tended to the fire, his youthfulness passing across his face whenever his face blossomed into a smile. It was his young age that had as of yet spared him the intoxicating bitterness felt by the others. Bitterness was epitomized in Lancelot, the most-skilled fighter of Arthur's knights, though he lacked a benevolent spirit. Guinevere could sense a sadness that encircled his handsomely chisled face as he looked unto the victory celebrations of her people.
She reluctantly tore her gaze from her saviours, though she would not dare call them as such in spoken words, and bowed her head to her leader Merlin.
He did not offer greetings nor explanations. "Guinevere, much has yet to come to pass, occurrences that will be both unexpected yet fulfilling and I speak of this for not only you. I have already told Arthur what has been revealed to me by the gray mists and the trees of Avalon," Merlin said throatily, holding his hand up to stop her from speaking. "But it is not all welcome happenings. I will tell you now of an event that will alter your course and the courses of the people with whom you surround yourself. My Lady, if you should choose to stay with Arthur and revel in his raise to glory, there will be naught but suffering for you. You will have a love that shall endure yet may never be entirely realized. This love, this man shrouded in shadows, can bring only pain to the hearts of those in your life." Merlin ended his prophecy, rising from the darkened tree stump as he brushed stray snowflakes from his white-gray beard.
Guinevere was silent, allowing the words to soak into her being before she found the strength to speak. "Merlin, wait. Who is this man you speak of? And how can I escape this fate?" She reached her hands out to clasp his strongly, her eyes intensely asking questions only he could answer. "I know you have the Sight. I believe in your powers and that is why I beg of you now to give me a name. A name I shall avoid all my days, in fear of your words and the suffering you have described. Please," Guinevere implored.
Merlin's tired face grimaced, his forehead creasing into soft wrinkles, as he was clearly deeply troubled. "A name has not been revealed, nor would I bestow upon you if I knew. One cannot attempt to change what is written in the stars. One may only dampen the effects of this prophecy with foresight. I warn you now, dear girl. To stay with Arthur is to risk your own happiness and endurance. But perhaps, to leave him will also bring your ruin. 'Tis a choice only you may make." He left her then to ponder her racing thoughts, returning to the veil of trees that was home to him.
Guinevere put her hand to her temple, uncertain of her path. She was sure of one thing; Arthur would be a celebrated leader who had the ability to unite her homeland against ruthless invaders that sought only the blood of her people. If she was to leave him, she would be deserting her friends, her family to certain and unmemorable death.
Her heart spoke to her then, as she watched her fellow Woads dance entrancingly around the fire and sing lyrics of courage and triumph in battle. She then looked upon Arthur, enjoying the festivities, so becoming in his magnificence, his rugged looks calling her name. Guinevere would not run from her fate. She was no princess of love, but a warrior of freedom; if this was to be her destiny, so be it. Guinevere would fight until her blood was inexhaustibly drawn and her soul dampened to ruin.
She wondered if Arthur was the man to whom she would be bound, as he approached her stealthily with Lancelot. Arthur bowed his head in greeting, stating simply, "We leave tomorrow. You will accompany us?"
"Yes," she answered without fail to the two men before her, smiling beautifully. She knew Arthur was in some way of the utmost importance to the future of her land. The blood rushing through her veins whispered that she could not leave his side; something drew her forcefully towards his imposing figure.
"We must battle what is left of the Saxons quickly, while they are weak still," Arthur said discreetly to his two trustworthy companions, wiping his brow.
"Perhaps we shall just lure them here, what with this noise of song and dance!" Lancelot replied sarcastically, his face grim. He looked haughtily only from Arthur to the happy crowd, taking little notice of Guinevere.
Guinevere's eyes flashed. "What of it? My people have a right to celebration—if it were not for us, you may not have been blessed with fortune this day!"
Lancelot's beautiful chocolate eyes finally met hers, though his were unreadable, relaying warmth and coldness in the same instant. Arthur instinctively laid a hand on his oft-fiery friend's arm, forestalling further disagreements.
"Lady, I offer my sincerest of apologies," Lancelot said softly, bowing his head nobly, though a small smile played on his sensuous lips. He turned brusquely to Arthur, who had kept close to Guinevere. "I'll check the lines and speak to Tristan of his scouts."
"Yes, we'll confer later, once the festivities have run their course," Arthur replied, eager for a moment of peace with Guinevere. "You showed no fear this afternoon, Guinevere."
Guinever looked after Lancelot's solemnly retreating figure, captivated by the confidence in his stride, his tall form looking broad and strong, yet ringed with a grey shadow. "There was no fear to show," she replied distractedly, her voice crawling in a near-whisper. In contrast to her words, she felt a shudder crawl down her spine, and it was not a reaction to Arthur's hand at her cheek, touching with the lightest of touchs. She suddenly felt fear, an emotion relatively unknown to her. Lancelot had turned once he reached the top of the grassy hill to glance down upon those he had just left. But he his eyes did not rest on Arthur, rather they searched fiercely for something within Guinevere. The moonlight glossed his short, curly hair and enlivened his fine, manly features.
She convinced herself it was nothing but a chill from the coolness of the dark as she and Arthur returned to the warmth of the fire. Alas, no amount of persuasion could trick the stirring in her chest when Lancelot's eyes had graced hers.
Fear.