Immortal Knight
By: Sheiado
Disclaimer: I do not own any characters. The only ones I do own are the ones that I make up as I go along. "Morgaine" (also known in Arthurian legend as Morgana) has a history and family line made up by myself in this story. This fic is, of course, based on the movie "King Arthur" and has a "Highlander" mythology twist.
Author's Note: Thank yous all around to Meg, Nora, Commodores, Camryen, Devil's Juliet, MaLoola, Detonate-Saint, EvilAvatar, Blue Eyes At Night, Lykairo, Juno, Billieliv, chiefhow, ChildLikeEmpress, Liv, Aurien, Ephona, Miranda, Wintersong, and Marisa-Drake!!! I appreciated all the feedback given. Keep it up!
Story Note: I got so excited to post this that I'm doing it early. So, keep in mind that all mistakes are my fault and this is the draft (parts, likely small ones, will be changed when my beta looks over it). So, read, enjoy, and press that button that says "submit review"! LoL.
Chapter Three: Suspicions
Night had fallen and the camp was grounded by the choosing of Artorius, a place set in a small clearing of Britanna's heavily canopied forest. The camp was divided into various sanctions, more by group choice rather than by leadership decision; the knights, sitting merrily beside a roaring fire, were on one side, the Romans on another, and then, on a more secluded part, was a wagon set out for the women's bathing and sleeping quarters.
All four women were left alone and in peace. Despite it, however, Morgaine still couldn't shake off the guard of vigilant behavior that had set itself upon her. She trusted no one. The distraught feeling of uneasiness swelled within her at an accelerating rate and it absolutely refused to be squashed. The guards of Marius, men of vicious cruelty, were far from harmless and she wouldn't delude herself into thinking any differently; they had something up their sleeve and Morgaine felt it.
In their own sick way, Romans were a predictable breed; they schemed, they manipulated, they fought and then they conquered. After having fought them century after century, Morgaine knew that there was no end to their schemes and acts of greediness. Rome and their people, even after centuries of expansion, still had yet to change.
Morgaine had been the first to bathe, having been insistant on doing it herself, in her own silent way. Her body, as an Immortal, had rapid healing abilities and now with the nourishment of fresh air, food, and water, Morgaine was back to looking and feeling more like herself again. The rate that her wounds had begun healing in had astonished even the silent Dagonet, though he said nothing about it. The startled look in his eyes, however, made a confirmation of reaction.
As she had finished her bath, she had been dried and dressed in a gown, one of dark orange material and made distinctly of Roman design. Her ebony curls, now no longer limp and dirty, tumbled in smooth waves down the slope of her waist, stopping just below her hips. Her pale skin glowed, having lost its cluster of dirt smudges and parched cracks. She felt like Morgaine again, not the animal that had lived beneath.
Walking out of the quarters and into the direction of where Lancelot and Dagonet resided, had gained Morgaine alot of unwanted attention, both from Arthur and from the two silly, squabbling knights she realized to be "Gawain" and "Galahad". Tristian, the apparent scout of the group and the knight that peaked Morgaine's curiousity the most, had been nowhere to be seen.
She knew she fascinated them, as most of Arthur's men all but gaped upon setting their eyes on her newly restored image. Her language was spoken neither by knight nor serf and so, some words of her being had been spoken about by Guinevere to Arthur. He knew her name and that was all. The other knights, unsure of how to communicate with her, stayed out of her way.
Fulicinia was the nicest Roman that Morgaine had ever met, for she placed herself behind others and helped the less fortunate. She had kept them all alive or, in Morgaine's case, more nourished throughout the harsh period of her husband's reign of terror. Guinevere, Lucan, and Claire would all likely be dead had it not been for her and her kindness.
And for reasons of her own, Morgaine was often found accompanying the woman, helping her out when she can and offering a sort of silent, comforting protection. Her husband and his guards were constantly eyeing them and Morgaine didn't like it one bit.
Her skirts rustled in cadence with the fluid movements of her limbs, tumbling gracefully toward the chilly powder that glistened and settled itself along the Earth. The various campfires created flickering shadows along her plight form, almost making her seem as if she were a spirit floating through the trees. Ignoring the open stares of the other knights, Morgaine sauntered into the opposite caravan, seeking the one whom Fulicinia and Guinevere wished to bring.
The young woad woman was still shivering, unconsciously, within the circle of Lancelot's arms, her fever still present. A pile of cloaks and furs had been settled upon her small frame, and the knight's brow furrowed with frustration at her fading health. It surprised Morgaine to see the man, the one who seemed so resentful out of all, finding sympathy for a weakened woad. Her people killed their kind and yet, he set his indifference aside in the wake of his conscience and humanity.
It was astounding, to say the least.
The knight started upon her approach, still distrustful. Her appearance likely astonished him. But if it did, he revealed nothing.
Morgaine, utterly annoyed, all but ignored him and pursed her lips, undeterred by his indifferent behavior. She leveled her hazel eyes to his stubbornly and motioned her hand in the direction of the opposite settled wagon, the one where Fulicinia and Guinevere awaited in.
"They heated up water for a bath," Dagonet informed Lancelot, breaking the heavy silence, to speak on Morgaine's behalf. "They want you to bring the woman over to them."
Lancelot nodded, his eyes gazing compassionately at the woman huddled within his arms. He would never admit it, but the way Morgaine stared at him, wordless and vacant, unnerved him. Her eyes were indifferent, calculating but all-knowing, and he couldn't help shake off how much she reminded him of Tristian. She secluded herself and didn't find resentment in the open distrust and hatred that he and his comrades displayed. She let nothing get to her. And yet, she helped everyone in her unperturbed silence. Perhaps he should be more accommodating to her?
He stood up, lifting Claire wordlessly within his arms, and nodded at Morgaine to lead.
They helped Claire silently into the steaming tub, Morgaine and Guinevere setting themselves on both sides while Fulicinia worked at sluicing warm water down her back. Morgaine held Claire's arm steadily and took a damp rag in her free hand to scrub the grime and dirt splotches that stood out along her skin. Guinevere repeated the same.
"She's gaining more color in her skin," Fulicinia stated quietly, running her fingers lightly through the woman's damp curls.
"She's strong," Guinevere stated, her gaze convincing, "She'll pull through this state. I know she will."
She was close to this woman, Morgaine could tell. There was a sisterly bond present and mutually shared. It silently reminded her of her younger sister, Liath. She had been an eager fighter, a sufficient warrior, and student to their foster mother Bodhmall. The advent of Immortality had severed, ultimately separated her from the one she had come to love as family. Mortality was something she scarcely dealt with these days. Back in Ireland, it had been a completely different story.
A flicker of movement caught her eye as Guinevere and Fulicinia chatted away in Latin tongue. Morgaine's keen sight of vision saw the silent silhouette of Lancelot awaiting outside, his gaze set upon the barely coherent, and half naked, form of Claire. Claire's glazed eyes, wild yet serene, seemed to trail back toward his. She recognized his presence, even in her feverish state, just as she did theirs.
'Interesting...'
He began to walk away as soon as his gaze met hers and Morgaine smiled wistfully to herself, mildly amused, as her hands and attention moved back to the women at her side.
Guinevere appeared confused as she glanced in Morgaine's direction, but Morgaine shook her head and frowned, a somber expression on her face. The Woad's eyes met the eyes of the Celt's and they both shared a grim look.
"Be on your guard and be wary of Marius, he and his men are likely planning mutiny," Morgaine spoke softly, her gaze never wavering.
Guinevere sputtered for a moment, caught off guard. "You speak our tongue?"
"Of course," Morgaine answered, "Among strangers, sometimes it is wise to remain invisible and ignorant. They underestimate what you're capable of."
When the woad said nothing, she continued, "Remember my words and be careful."
"Why do you care at all? You're not Roman nor of this land?"
Morgaine shrugged, her hands continuing to work. "I was banished from my land of birth, from my family, because destiny fell onto my path. I fight against no one here except for those that had put injury upon me... You and everyone else can sleep better knowing that."
Guinevere nodded. "Then you are a friend and not a foe. It is an honor to meet a warrior of the Fianna."
Morgaine chuckled. "I see you recognize ancient celtic design and not only that, but the mark of my people."
Guinevere smirked. "Your kin and their accomplishments are told as fairytales, just like Arthur and his knights."
Morgaine smirked back at her, finding it an oddity in itself that she was befriending a Woad. "And how is it like to meet those of fairytales in the flesh? To see us as we truly are?"
"Just as wonderful as the stories, only far more so."
More to Come...! Please Read and Review....!
Story Note: I got alot more surprises coming along the way! The Immortal that Morgaine will meet, the prophecy revealed by Bodhmall, the heroic deed that will gain her more trust, her blossoming love for Tristian, the discovery of her identity, etc