Disclaimer: I do not own any of the character names, save my own original creations. I do not wish to be compensated for this work, nor do I wish to infringe on any copyrights held by any stakeholders of the movie King Arthur. This work is an original creation, based on the legend of King Arthur and his knights.


Scribe Notes:

Ailis-70: I am glad that you feel the emotion through this pair! Success!I am hoping that I can set it to the back for a bit to allow both Cerys and Lancelot to focus on work and the trials therein.

ElvenStar5: Your continued enthusiasm keeps my pen moving! Here are your updates, three chapters in a row (starting here).

Bloodredcherry: Yes it is centered around Lancelot and my Cerys. I am a fan of Ioan Gruffudd, and it was too tempting to not try and give his character in King Arthur a whirl. I do hope that I have given him both characteristics of Lancelot, and that of Ioan's portrayal. Such a depth of emotion can he give with the shrug of his shoulders or a look. I am glad you are enjoying!

History2: Ahh yes, the confusion of wanting to see someone but dreading the meeting at the same time. How many times I remembered watching a young crush from afar, only to dart into a washroom or aisle at school as he walked by, too nervous to say anything. Love gives us desire, but only when we swallow our fear of rejection can we be brave! Lancelot truly fears rejection, because he does not like who he is. Thank you for your continued reviews!

Babaksmiles: I am so glad that everyone is enjoying my writing, and I was pleased and suprised that it had been recommended elsewhere! I am heartened that you are enjoying the piece. Thank you for your kind words, I try to keep a cadence that is akin some sort of rhythmn, sometimes it is successful, sometimes not so. Experimenting with writing syles and ideas is key to rounding out the writer.


Chapter 13: A Pace Ahead

The rain pounded down on the roof, and Cerys paced around the hall. This was going to flatten the millet crop, and they would have to get it up and in before it mouldered in the field, and dry it in bundles from the roof of every available building. If only this infernal rain would stop!

She glared up at the roof, and a drop of water fell through from a gap and hit her square in the eye.

She blinked, swore and pounded her hands against the edge of the table in frustration, then let out a bleat of pain. Blisters on her hands opened, and oozed thick fluid down her palm. She was so tired, so frustrated, so worried... When would it end? She stubbornly refused to cry, and steeled herself, hissing at the pain of her blisters, now bleeding dark red. She squeezed her palms shut to stop the bleeding and held them up to her chest.

Guinevere watched her from the other side of the hall, one of Lorina's children in her lap, rock­ing softly. She stood and padded to Cerys quietly, trying not to wake the now sleeping child.

"Cerys... You need to sleep. This pacing won't help."

Cerys turned her eyes to Guinevere. Dark circles shone out from pale skin, cheeks hollow, lips chapped. She looked to the table where her tallies and maps were scattered and sighed.

"I can't. If the rain stops tonight we have to get out to the millet. I have to figure out how many buildings we are going to need to dry it."

Guinevere shook her head and shifted the sleeping child to her hip. She grabbed Cerys' arm with her now free hand and shook it hard.

"I will drag you to your rooms if you do not go and at least lie down! You look... sick." She finished her sentence haltingly, her eyes growing concerned.

Cerys tried very hard to be mad at her friend's insistence, but in truth she was too tired and too busy to be mad.

It had been a very hard harvest, the rain halting them each time they wanted to make progress. They were able to get the flax in, and the hay was good. Straw might be a problem, as well as the grains. Her mind had been constantly on the work to be done, and in the past week she had been forced to put all men and able-bodied women on shifts to keep their health up. She had been supervising both, with the result of little sleep. She sacrificed her rations of water for the most senior of the men, and allowed the younger boys to take her portion of bread and cheese.

They needed it to grow, not her. She had to stay on top of all the hands she had working; she needed to make sure they rested and ate.

She had not touched wine since the start of the harvest, nor had she taken any fruit or cheese with her when she worked. Truthfully, she forgot to eat most days, working alongside the crews, pulling and scything until her shoulders ached, riding between fields to check on progress, driv­ing wagons into the fort herself when others were busy. She had walked in the winrows with torches at night so that her people could work by moonlight, and she had spent countless hours in the gardens pulling in cabbage, carrots and herbs with the kitchen staff.

Thank the Gods that the people around her were as wonderful to work with as they were, or she would be lost. To a person, they had worked so hard, knowing full well that they needed to, or risk starving this winter. Countless times they had told her to sit and they would take care of something, foisting food or water on her, giving her a smile, a nod to say all was well.

Guinevere glanced down to Cerys' hands and gasped. They looked terrible, blisters criss-cross­ing palms, rough, raw, fingernails broken and ragged, blood and pus oozing and drying in a cracked and ugly mess.

Guinevere picked up Cerys' hand by the wrist and turned it over to face the palm to her tired friend.

"Cerys! What in the name of all the Gods have you done to your hands?"

Cerys blinked out of her thoughts once more, uncomprehending, then shrugged. "They are just blistered. I wrap them in cloth when I work. We are all blistered from working."

Guinevere grabbed Cerys' arm once more and pulled her away from the hall table towards the door. They dodged out into the rain, the child waking in Guinevere's arms and complaining loudly. Guinevere continued dragging until they were underneath the portico by Dafydd's of­fices. Guinevere kicked Dafydd's door with her foot.

"Guinevere, I don't need to see Dafydd, I am fine!" Cerys protested as she tried to twist out of her friends grasp. "Please! I need to get back to work!"

Her pleas bent on deaf ears. Guinevere shifted the child on her hip, a stern look on her face. She kicked the door again, just as Dafydd opened them.

"Child you should not be out in the..." Dafydd started, but then stopped as he saw what Guine­vere had grasped in her outstretched hand. Cerys sniffed, water dripping from her hair onto her face. Damn, this was all she needed, Dafydd preaching to her about her eating and sleeping hab­its. She had no time for this, she was needed elsewhere.

"Cerys," He admonished, grabbing hold of her arm above where Guinevere held it, pulling her towards him. "You are sick. Why did you not come to me?"

"I am not sick, I am tired. If you have not noticed Dafydd, we are harvesting, and it has not stopped raining for three days." She spat, wrenching her arm from his grasp.

Guinevere raised her eyebrows. She hefted the child in her grasp again, it's complaining­stopped, wide eyes focused on Cerys.

"I am going to find Lorina, please don't let her get away before I get back." She said to Dafydd and walked quickly down the portico to Lorina and Bors' apartments. As she turned the corner, Cerys sagged into the wall.

"Damn." She muttered.

Dafydd put his arm around her shoulders and shepherded her into his rooms. He pulled up a stool to his hearth and she sat. She sniffed again and wiped her nose with the back of her hand, winc­ing at the pain when she touched raw skin. Despite the fact that she was bullied into this, she was enjoying a chance to sit for a moment, her feet agreeing with silent painful screams.

"I'm sorry Dafydd. I shouldn't snap. Please forgive me."

Dafydd turned from the shelves he was pulling clay pots off of and smiled his toothy grin. Cerys thought that he was a handsome man in his day, his features giving such warmth even now that crags and wrinkles dominated it. She smiled back. He was a good man, she should be more un­derstanding.

"Never mind child. You have been working very hard. Hywel says you brought him a cartload of wood last night well past dinner hour, knocking on his door! Truly, you should rest some­times?" He jested to her, returning to a small table, his mortar and pestle working away in his bony, withered hands with the contents of the pots he had emptied into it.

Cerys watched his hands and looked down to her own. She truly was possessed. Her hands were a mess! When was the last time she had eaten? Her stomach growled, telling her that it had been far too long. She blinked slowly. She perhaps should get up and go check on the mows... Did Nimli need help preserving the beans? Her thoughts jumbled in her head, her thoughts darting here and there.

She felt muscles start to shake and she realized that she couldn't stop them. She pressed her lips together, held herself up rigid but she couldn't still. She concentrated back to Dafydd's hands, willing herself to control.

Thoughts jumbled in her head more. How many cows were in the byre... ten? Would that be enough... The rain might stop; the men might come home any moment... Men... her towels would need cleaning... her knights... Oh Gods... Where was Lancelot? She could hear roaring water in her ears... they weren't near a waterfall... Why did everything look so fuzzy?

She clasped her cracked and dried hands to her knees, now bouncing from the effort to stay still. Stop it! She thought... stop being so helpless!

"Dafydd?" She said faintly as she began to slide towards the ground. "Why is the room mov­ing?"

He turned and stepped to her as Guinevere came back through the doors, but not in time to catch her before she fell to the floor in a heap. Guinevere ran to her side and they hefted her up like a rag doll, carrying her to a bed in the corner of the room. Her eyes fluttered as they laid her on her back, but she stayed unconscious, falling into sleep that her body could not hold off any long­er.

"She hasn't been eating." Guinevere said quietly, smoothing out her hair. "Lorina told me she's been giving her bread and cheese ration to the children working the fields."

Dafydd nodded and returned to his table, to finish his task. The scrape of pestle echoed in the room for a few moments as Guinevere sat quietly with Cerys, smoothing her hair, loosening her skirt-belt.

"She hasn't been sleeping either." He added suddenly. Guinevere grimaced and turned to find Dafydd with a cold cloth and water basin ready for her in his outstretched arms. Guinevere sat and bathed her face and neck, cooling her skin which had now flushed and was hot, cleaning the pus and blood from her hands. Once clean, Giunevere held Cerys' hands up, and Dafydd began to plaster them with his herbal concoction. Blisters popped open as Dafydd gently spread the goo, leaking and oozing, some with deep fissures. There was not one spot on her left hand that was left untouched.

"Some of this damage is permanent; she may never be able to move some of these fingers again." Dafydd whispered, his voice thick, an obvious restraint of emotion showing on his face.

They glanced to each other with worried faces, and then bent over their friend to finish their task.


Dear Reader:

I had a friend who, upon losing his father to Cancer, threw himself to his job, forsakingthe rest of his life. I remembered feeling so helpless, watching him deal with his grief by hurting himself. This was my basis for this chapter.

I wanted to give Cerys a sense that if she works hard, (albeit needed with a horrible harvest season), she will not lose her thoughts to Lancelot, not be out of control, not be helpless. Her weakness is that she does not let herself go, does not let herself feel. Her work is her shield.

I carry my own shields from time to time, and after this chapter, I spent the day opening myself to my emotions, and resolved some of my own feelings of helplessness. It is good therapy to write, and my wish for you, reader, is that your own writing helps you to see yourself in a new way as well.

Cardeia