Title: Forever More

Author: Red Pollard

Author's Note: Wow. Chapter 19. I've been trying to use my dictionary more, but I really haven't felt like using the words in the story. I'll try harder.

Disclaimer: I don't own King Arthur but I do own all those people that aren't from King Arthur save for Michael Phelps. He's just a treat. J

Chapter 19:†Preparations for Battle†

Andrew paced around the camp, his fractious temper getting harder to control. He had sent out a scout to see how Hadrian's Wall was faring hours ago. Grumbling, he kicked his foot in the dirt and watched longingly as Cynric ripped into a steak nearby.

"Andrew!" Cerdic roared out from his warm spot near the bonfire.

Andrew whirled out from his daydream and crossed over to the large Saxon. Cerdic stood near the fire, his arms crossed with his dirty yellow beard cascading over his chest. His eyes were mere black marbles and reflected in their depths was cruelty.

"Yes?"

"Where is that stupid messenger of yours? Wilhelm has been gone for hours. Does it take forever to walk a mile?"

Andrew nodded furiously then began shaking hi head. He always lost his cool whenever he was around Cerdic. With Cynric it could matter less.

"Milord—I don't know. Maybe something has delayed him…"

Suddenly, a man burst from the trees, his eyes wide with fright as he tried to run towards them while dressed in complete Saxon armor.

"Cerdic!" he called out. "Wilhelm has been found!"

Andrew and Cerdic followed the Saxon, pushing past the bountiful shrubbery which blocked their path. Roughly thirty feet away from where their camp had been was a small patch of densely packed trees. The largest one of the trees grew from the center of the space, its thick roots bulging upwards from the ground. On the tree's trunk, was a man. Several arrows had skewered right through him at his chest, nailing him to the dark bark. A small slip of paper had been shoved into the man's mouth. Andrew timidly stepped forward and pulled the parchment from the dead body's mouth. Written in Wilhelm's own blood read 'We are ready.'

That night, Guinevere had slipped into Arthur's bedchamber, unseen to all except the shadows which guarded the halls. The silence which crept in and out of the fort blanketed the two of them with its heavy ominous threat. An hour later, Guinevere left the room, her hair tousled and the sleeve of her dress slipped entirely from her shoulder to reveal milky white skin. She was quieter now, her lips red from kisses.

Arthur sat along in his room once more, sweat perspiring down his forehead in a river. He remembered that night when he had followed Guinevere out into the forest, where he saw Merlin. His first reaction was to draw Excalibur. She had betrayed him. He had been set up the entire time, from the moment he carried her out from the building up until now. But that was never really the plan. Merlin was her father and she was very much a Woad. The great chief already knew everything, and all he wanted was for peace to come between the longtime enemies. In return, the Picts would stand side by side with his knights and protect the land as fiercely as if it were theirs from the Saxons.

Uneasiness cart wheeled around in his stomach as he stared out his window. Over Hadrian's wall and past the cemetery and the hills, she spotted the small flickers of camp fires of where the Saxon's were staying. They were close and battle was inevitable.

The night past quickly for everybody, and in the morning, nobody wanted to wake up. No one wanted to fight anymore. All they wanted was to return home and spend time with their families. But after fifteen long hard years, it was uncertain whether their families would still be there to spend time with even if they did make it through the war. Arthur had been the first up and ready. Sleep had not come easy for him, and he entered the armory/stable long before the sun had risen. He had demanded that this battle was for him alone. Refusing to let his men help, he saddled up his gray steed and rode out to the top of the hill, his dragon banner snapping in the wind. Dagonet's close encounter with death had been a lucky one. But Kera was not here to predict anything else, and he had denied her wish of fighting.

His battle gear was much heavier now. His helmet was thicker and so was his breastplate. Gold adornment had been painted and stitched into the thick leather. Arthur's face was vacant of any emotion as he spun his horse around in its spot, his eyes searching the horizon for some sign of life. The fort at Badon Hill had been commanded to be evacuated immediately. From the corner of his eye, he spotted the long procession line of the fort occupants, making their way away from their home. Six horsemen were riding alongside the people, their heads down as he tried to understand why they were leaving.

Bors wheeled away from the line and pumped his fist into the air towards Arthur. Then slapping it back across his chest he released a long roar, his deep voice resounding across the quiet countryside. A few moments later, tears sprung to Arthur's eyes as he raised his fist in salute and cried out that battle roar back. Lancelot gritted his teeth as he willed himself not to ride off and join Arthur. For the first time in a long time, he was not fighting beside his friend.

As the wagon which held the sick clattered by, Lancelot peered inside to see if he could catch a glimpse of Kera. That morning, he had carried her sleeping form to the wagon itself, careful not to wake her. The wagon was empty. Panic began to take over as he veered his stallion around. Cantering up and down the line, he kept a sharp eye out for her but after several desperate minutes, he came up empty handed.

"Tristran!" he said to Tristran. "Kera's gone!"

Her father whom she so hard tried to impress told her when Kera was little that she had pretty hair. Those words filled her chest even at that age and ever since then, she had refused to let anyone touch her hair. Not even her mother who insisted on meticulously unraveling the knots with a brush. For years, her long black tresses had grown out until finally, they reached her waist in a smooth straight line.

And here she stood, before the mirror. She faintly remembered seeing this scene in the Disney movie Mulan, and she smiled at the thought. She had never held a dagger before, and grasping the bone handle tighter, she realized that it wasn't much different that holding a kitchen knife. Closing her eyes, she bit on her lip as she ripped the sharp blade through her hair.

Her right hand dropped the dagger as she stared sadly at the long locks of hair hanging limply in her left hand. Shaking her head, she wrapped them up in a thin piece of clothe and reminded herself to throw it away later. She looked very much like a boy now. Running a hand through her short messy hair, she found that even the closest of observers would be fooled. The only thing that gave her away was her trademark pale eyes and her long lashes. Though she was willing to do many things for the country she now loved, she wasn't crazy.

Nodding, she picked up the sword which Guinevere had stolen from the armory for her. Kera wasn't quite sure whose sword it was exactly, but at this point and moment, she really didn't give a damn. Tossing the sword skillfully from hand to hand, she was astonished at the way the dying candlelight reflected off the clean metal blade. Her hands knew exactly where to grasp the hilt as she swung the long sword in and arch over her wrist. Her father had been one that had been obsessed with medieval sword fighting so in his spare time he sparred with his few friends who had the same obsession. She had gone and sat in on each lesson that eventually, her father agreed in teaching her some things. Though medieval sword fighting tactics were different from the Dark Ages, it wouldn't be that crucial.

Flipping the sword into the air, she caught it expertly by its leather base and slid it into its sheath at her waist. Armor had been a bit more difficult to find seeing as the Woad's battle armor was little more than a loincloth while full Sarmatian regalia would have pulled her to the ground. Guinevere had finally and secretly helped her out. Slipping into rough leather trousers, Kera then slid into a smooth, sleeveless tunic which reached mid-thigh. Metal arm guards were a necessity yet a breastplate wouldn't fit. Around her waist was a thick belt. If she was to move around quickly and fight fast, she couldn't take a chance with heavy armor such as an over sized helmet and so on. Pulling on her boots, she nodded to herself in the mirror before rushing out to the forest.

From the fort, it was a bit of a distance to the forest, but Kera made it just in time. She had never stopped wondering where Nonpareil had gone and she missed that gallant red mare every second. Several Woad guards rushed towards her menacingly with their garrotes and daggers out but Guinevere had stopped them. Taking a breath, she took her spot at the edge of the woods. It was an incredible feeling for she could sense the entire Woad army behind her, even though they could not be seen. The sun was rising higher and higher but the minute, the sun rays growing shorter and hotter.

Merlin made his way around his Woad warriors and made his way to Guinevere and Kera's side. The air was unusually quiet, as they looked out at the vast plain. At the top was a small shadow of a person, sitting tall and confident on top of a fully armored horse.

Guinevere was probably several years older than Kera, maybe in her early twenties, even though Kera was taller than her. At this moment, Kera couldn't have thanked her enough. She had helped her and practically taken her under her wing. Guinevere smiled and ruffled Kera's short and choppy hair.

"Arthur and his knights will never recognize you," Guinevere said fondly. "Not even that Tristran."

She elbowed Kera jokingly. Kera bit her lip and smiled.

"Who is Michael?" Guinevere asked suddenly, in a very quiet voice.

Kera leaned back a bit, not prepared for the question. She didn't answer for a moment, drawing her sword from her belt and sliding her finger along the blade. When the metal cut her skin, red welled up in the opening, but she didn't say anything.

"Why do you ask?"

Guinevere settled back on her left leg, over her shoulder was slung a taught bow. Following Woad custom, her battle outfit was not much of any protection. Two wide bands of intricately woven leather bound down her chest and straps went over her shoulder to keep them in place. Her pants were loose and she wore boots as well. But even baring midriff, Guinevere was at ease, her hand resting lightly on the hilt of her sword.

"You were yelling out the name when I found you yesterday," Guinevere said.

Kera smeared her bleeding finger against her pants.

"A childhood idol," she said, feeling a pang of homesickness.

They were quiet now, waiting for any sign of life as the dragon banner howled in the wind, the long red sash flowing behind it like a burning tail.

Author's Note: I don't really like this chapter. I'm getting to this critical point but I really hate describing battle scenes since I just can't find a good enough description. Oh well.