Chapter 12: For Britain
Dawn was breaking over the hills. As the light filtered down through the mist it revealed two shadowy shapes in its wake. A tall, brown-haired young man, barely more than a boy, stood holding the reins to stallion; his companion, a slim, dark-haired young lady stood beside him silently as they watched the sun rise together.
"It's nearly dawn, Arthur," she said softly.
The young man showed no indication that he had even heard her. Then, suddenly, "Come away with me." She looked up at him, startled, her eyes a marvelous blue-green. He repeated his offer to her, intent on her face. "Come away with me, Morgan."
"What?" she whispered.
"Come away with me."
"But the Isle—I am promised—Viviane will never allow me to leave."
His face changed at the sound of the High Priestess's name. "Damn Viviane, and damn Merlin too! They've been playing us from the beginning. We're nothing more to them than pawns in their damned game!" He took a deep breath, reining in his rage. When he spoke, his voice was lower, though still caustic. "If it wasn't for them and their bloody machinations, we wouldn't even be here."
"And you would never have met me," she pointed out.
The comment had its desired effect; his eyes softened, and his body relaxed as he looked down at her again. "I would have found you. Sooner or later, I would have found you. We were meant to be together, Morgan." Her breath caught at the look in his eyes. "If they won't accept us here, then let us leave this place. We can go to…to Armorica." He grasped at her hands desperately. "I could earn a living for us—by the sword, if I had to. We could be happy there." His dark eyes bored intensely into hers. "Come away with me, Morgan."
He could feel the shudder that wracked her whole frame. "No priest will ever marry us without your father's permission," she said at last, her voice weak.
He stepped closer. "Do you need a priest to feel married to me?"
"No." Her lips formed the word, but no sound emerged. Still, his face relaxed very slightly.
"It doesn't matter what anyone says. They don't understandYou and I, we don't need them. We don't need much to make us happy. Come away with me, Morgan," he insisted, the urgency in his voice undeniable.
There was a long moment of silence as she stared up into his face. Almost absently, she reached up and brushed back the lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead. Tears began to slip down her cheeks unnoticed. She shook her head. "No, Arthur," she said in a constricted voice he barely recognized. "I cannot let you do it."
"Listen to me, my love. I don't care about the kingship! I need you, Morgan." His grip on her tightened painfully. He had to make he understand. "None of this matters to me if I cannot have you. I would rather be a nameless mercenary with you at my side, than High King of Britain without you. You know that!"
"Yes, I know." Her voice was the faintest breath of wind. She was quite pale; her hands clenched into small fists. The tears had ceased to fall but her face was still streaked with wet. "And if we two do as you say, Arthur, what become of Britain?"
His face darkened and he turned away, his back suddenly rigid. "Britain will be as she always was."
She took a moment to gather herself together. "And what if she is not? No, Arthur," she said tightly. "If you leave, Britain will tear herself apart. Lot will try to take the throne after Uther dies and there will be civil war. You know this. And then the Sea Wolves will come pouring in." Every word was a knife in two hearts. "Tell me, how would you feel, safely away in Armorica, when the news arrived?"
He turned back around to face her, the conflicting emotions tearing at his soul displayed clearly on his face. "I—I would be happy there, because I had you," he said stubbornly.
She smiled sadly and reached up to trace his jaw line slowly. "I know you too well," she said, the lightness of her tone contrasting with the darkness in her eyes. "You would not be able to bear it. It would drive you mad, knowing that we had left Britain to her fate."
"No."
"Yes."
"No, Morgan. Don't you understand? You are my sanity, my happiness…you are everything to me," he told her. "I cannot do it without you. I simply…cannot."
"You can," she said simply. "You must."
He took a step closer, and then another. "No! No, Morgan! You must listen to me."
From somewhere deep within, she found the courage to say what must be said, to do what must be done. She raised her head and straightened her back—every inch the queen she would never be—and then said, "And how do you think I will feel? Britain is my country, too."
He did not answer. He felt suddenly numb, as if a great blast of icy wind had frozen him to his very marrow. This could not be happening…
Her eyes were darker than he had ever seen them. "You are far too precious a commodity for me, Arthur," she said quietly. "You were meant for greater things." She closed her eyes to blot out the look on his face. "It's…it's for the best."
"For whom?" he asked bitterly.
Their eyes met. "For Britain."
He realized, suddenly, that she was serious. She was going to sacrifice them both for the sake of Britain.
Pain stabbed through him like a knife to the gut. He was having difficulty breathing; no matter how hard he tried, his lungs could not seem to get enough air.
When he spoke, his voice carried a harshness that she had never heard from him before. "If you send me away now, I will not come back."
There was a long moment of silence as the words hung in the air between them.
She could not move. She could not speak. She could not breathe.
She felt the painful thudding of her heart against her ribs and had to clench her hands to keep from reaching for him. What could she say? He already knew that she would always love him. "Be the king that you were born to be," she said finally. She closed her eyes then, and only after she heard the sound of the horse's hooves beating against the road off in the distance did she allow herself to fall to her knees and cry.
He rode fast, furiously, dangerously. For how long, he did not know. When he dismounted, the dawn had streaked the sky an angry red.
He tethered his horse loosely to a nearby tree and walked down to the water. This can't be happening, he thought. She cannot mean it.
Instead of the water, he saw her face, saw it as it had looked when she said, "You're far too precious a commodity for me." She meant it. She was going to sacrifice them both for the good of Britain.
She was wrong. He had meant it when he said he could not do it without her. She was the very heart of him. Without her…without her…
He shut his eyes, and the desolation was so great that he was dizzy with it. He felt as if he were falling, falling down a dark, endless well of despair, with no help, no hope, and no escape.
He opened his eyes and saw the river.
Escape.
The Camm was deep here, deep enough for him to do it.
Escape.
He stepped into the river; the water came up to his ankles. Warmed by the summer sun it was almost pleasant. He would simply wade out into the water, and let the river take him away.
Escape.
Escape from this pain that froze his skin to his bones and turned his very marrow to ice. Escape from this terrible pain of aloneness. He walked a little further. The river splashed about his legs, and he watched it darken the cloth of his breeches.
Escape.
He took one step, and then another. Another five steps and he would have it. An end to this unspeakable pain that the wrenching loss of Morgan—
Morgan. If he did this now, Morgan would know it was because of her.
He paused. She had sent him away to save him for Britain. It was the greatest act of unselfishness he had ever seen from her. Even now, the dreadful irony was not lost on him, and another agonizing stab of pain shot thorough his being even as a bitter, wry smile made its way across his face.
Yes, if he walked into this river, Morgan would know that it was because of her. He would throw her gift back in her face. He would condemn her to live with his death on her conscience…and in doing so, he would damn her.
He could not do that to her.
He staggered back out to the bank and looked out at the deeper water longingly. Not today, he thought. Not today. Maybe later, in battle perhaps, when she would never know the cause…
He raised his hands to his face to stifle the sound of his own crying.
There was something cool and hard beneath him. Roxton opened his eyes slowly, letting them adjust to the blinding light. He was lying on a white marble floor.
With great effort, he pushed himself up to his elbows. He had just begun to assess his surroundings when memory struck him like a blow, leaving him breathless. "Marguerite!" he shouted, suddenly panicked, jerking his head about wildly as he searched for her. "MARGUERITE!"
"John!" He did not know how they had gotten here, or how he managed to find the strength to pull himself over to her, but suddenly she was in his arms, and the world was right again. "John!" They clung to each other desperately, the dampness on their cheeks a testimony to their tears. Whispered words and frantic touches passed between them until they were totally assured they were truly there, together. A collective sigh rose from them, and the light of humor in their eyes returned.
Someone cleared her throat, and they turned in unison to face her. Golden-blonde hair framed a face so like Veronica's that they started. The woman's dark blue eyes shone with kindness, affection, and warmth. She smiled at them, a sparkle lighting her eyes at their shock. "Welcome to Avalon, my children."
A/N: I have taken the Arthurian myths to suit my purposes, and many of the lines in this chapter are stolen directly from Joan Wolf's The Road to Avalon.
Review! Let me know what you think, and ifit would be worth itto finish this story.
