A/N – Thank you to everyone who reviewed this. If you're reading this then please, please press that little button to submit a review at the end – I do accept anonymous reviews, and they make me a very happy little person. Anyway, enjoy the chapter, and my thanks, as ever, go to homeric for checking this for me!

'Forgiveness does not change the past, but it does enlarge the future.'

Paul Boese

Chapter Two: Rebel

Lucan came down to the stables at dawn the next day. He checked on Finn, patting the big grey's nose in a fond, if patronising, kind of way. Finn bared his teeth at Lucan, who just laughed and went on with his stable chores: filling up the water buckets and checking the stallion's hooves and legs.

None of the other squires had yet risen, but Lucan was used to being up at dawn or before, to start the fires in the forge for the blacksmith to begin his work when he came down.

He had been up until the early hours of the morning with the other squires the night before in the inner courtyard. Lucan had sat in a corner, nursing a cup of wine, as he watched his companions drink themselves into a stupor, or spend the evening trying to entice the bar maids onto their laps. From what he had seen of the state of the other squires this morning, Lucan was not regretting having drunk so little, and this feeling was only increased when Drystan stumbled down the ladder from the hayloft just after dawn, scowling at Lucan.

"What are you doing up so early?" he asked grumpily.

Lucan grinned: an action not often practised in the last fifteen years of his life. "Isn't it a lovely day?" he asked in an overly cheerful voice, and was quickly rewarded with a moan from Drystan.

"Don't talk so loudly," he complained, holding his head in his hands with a look of pain from Drystan.

"Go and stick your head in the water trough," Lucan said unsympathetically, before leaving the stables and heading for the tack room so that he could get Finn's saddle and bridle to have him tacked up for when Arthur arrived.

He entered the small room, and stopped dead in his tracks. Finn's saddle and bridle, which he had left beautifully cleaned the night before, were filthy. Someone had thrown dust and dirt all over the once-shining tack and rubbed it into the leatherwork, ruining the tack, and Lucan shook with a silent rage. He knew who had done this.

Twenty minutes late found Lucan tacking up Finn with a freshly cleaned saddle and bridle. His eyebrows were lowered in a heavy scowl, and Drystan, who did not know what had caused the transformation from the cheerful mood he had been in only a few minutes earlier, kept well away from him, as did all the other squires.

Inside, Lucan was fuming. He knew who had done this, and by the Gods they would pay. He had just one real enemy in the fort: a boy of his own age, by the name of Albion. He and Lucan were rivals, but more than that. Albion had a group of cronies who followed him around, picking on anyone they could. Lucan was a lone wolf in the fort: he had no real friends, and so was a perfect target for Albion.

From their first encounter, when Lucan had flattened him, they were sworn enemies. Both evenly matched when it came to fighting, neither hesitated to do anything that would spark another brawl off. It was a constant source of shame to Lucan that Albion had beaten him to a pulp on their second encounter, and although no match since then had ever been fully decided (the boys being dragged apart before any serious damage was caused), both were waiting for the opportunity to get their revenge.

Lucan would get his revenge. Arthur's words of warning only the day before were gone from his mind: all that he could think of was a burning hatred towards Albion, which only grew when Arthur commented, kindly, but commented nonetheless, that the tack was not as clean as he was used to.

Once the King and the knights had left the squires to their jobs at the fort while they went out to scout the area, Lucan set himself up to wait for Albion. He took Arthur's helmet, and sat in a dark corner of the yard as he cleaned it.

The other squires, sensing his black mood, although unaware of the cause of it, were wise enough to keep away from him, for which Lucan was glad. He was angry, not only at Albion, but at himself for behaving with such amiability towards Drystan. He did not need friends. He never had and never would. Friends were a weakness. All that Lucan needed were his fists.

His chance came at mid-morning. Lucan, who had been watching the courtyard out of the corner of his eye all morning, suddenly saw Albion walk past him, surrounded by a pack of his friends, unaware of the hate-filled form of Lucan lurking in the shadows.

Albion was flat on his back, the wind knocked from him, before he had even realised what had happened. As soon as Lucan had seen him he had shot forwards, bowling into Albion, and knocking them both to the ground.

Lucan sat on Albion's chest and tightened his hands around his enemy's throat. Albion promptly sunk his teeth into Lucan's hand, who let out a yell, and a second later they were rolling over, pummelling each other, scarcely conscious of their own wounds.

One of Albion's friends found the courage to help, and hurled himself at Lucan, who turned and knocked him to the floor with a single punch. Albion, however, had taken the chance to get to his feet, and the two boys circled each other warily, oblivious to the shouts of the grooms and spectators around them who were unwilling to get involved in the fight.

Suddenly Albion launched himself at Lucan, who grabbed him by the collar, and, sticking his hip out, used Albion's own forward motion to throw him onto his back. Lucan heard Albion groan, and threw himself onto him, to the satisfying noise of breaking ribs.

Albion let out a yell, and then rolled, with a greater speed than Lucan would have credited him with, and suddenly Lucan was underneath him, his arms pinned under the other's legs, and his face unprotected from the blows that rained down on him.

With a snarl Lucan jerked his body up, head-butting Albion in the face, and the latter reeled backwards, spitting blood and swearing.

Which was exactly when Arthur returned from his scouting party. With a few short orders barked at his knights, Lucan found his arms pinned behind his back, Albion facing the same treatment.

Lucan growled angrily, and launched himself forwards, desperate to punch Albion's lights out, knights or no, but the grip on his arms tightened as they were pulled upwards until Lucan yelped out and stopped struggling.

"I wouldn't try that again," a deep voice said, which Lucan identified as Bors, one of Arthur's knights. Lucan could just make out that it was Sir Galahad holding Albion, and subjecting him to much the same treatment as Bors, but then the blood from a cut above his eye blurred his vision, and Lucan could only swear helplessly.

Bors laughed at this, a deep rumble of a laugh, which only made Lucan all the angrier, and he squirmed in Bors' strong grasp, unwilling to admit defeat. He was suddenly aware, through the blood that blurred his vision, that someone was standing in front of him, and he stopped his escape attempts and fell still, squinting to make out who it was.

Arthur stood, surveying his new squire. Only the day before he had told the boy that he was forbidden to fight, and less than twenty-four hours later he had blood running down his face, a broken nose and Arthur dared not guess how many bruises and broken ribs. The blood from the cut on his brow had run down into his eyes, and though Arthur saw that he was trying to work out who stood before him, the rebellious look in his eyes persisted.

"Take him inside," Arthur told Bors with a sigh, not looking forwards to dealing with him. He turned, as Lucan was led away, to the boy that Lucan had been hell-bent on killing. "What's your name?" he asked in a steely voice.

"Albion," he muttered sullenly, and Arthur was impressed to see how much more damage Lucan had done to Albion, than had been done to himself.

"Off you go," he said in a suffering voice. Galahad promptly released Albion, who ran off quickly, afraid of the King and his knights.

The squires, who had run out to take the knights' horses, stood in an uncertain silence as they watched Lucan get hauled off. They had lived with the knights long enough that Arthur rarely lost his temper, but when he did, he was terrifying. Drystan could see a vein pulsing in the King's jaw – the first sign that Arthur was loosing his composure.

The squires scurried forwards to take the horses and lead them away, so as to absent themselves as quickly as possible, and it was only Drystan who spared to send a sympathetic glance Lucan's way.

Lucan explored his face with his fingers, tracing them over the drying blood and slow forming bruises as he tried to work out how much damage had been done. He was slowly beginning to feel the pain that he had not heeded in the heat of the battle, and now, almost two hours later, the tenderness was setting in.

He shifted on his feet uncomfortably. Bors had taken him up to the room the knights used for their meetings, and left him there. No one had come anywhere near Lucan since then, and so he dwelt on his throbbing cuts and wondered what Arthur was going to do with him.

Waiting for punishment was a new concept to Lucan. Before he had always been hauled straight out of a fight and into a caning, which he had rarely felt as he was still on a battle-high. Lucan scowled and kicked the wall irritably. Why wouldn't he come up and get it over with? Then he could dismiss Lucan from his service, and go and find himself a proper squire, not some lowly gutter-rat.

There was a slight creak as the door swung open, and Lucan turned, straightening slightly, a wary expression in his eyes as Arthur entered, closing the door carefully behind him.

They stood for a moment, studying each other, as they had the day before on the wall, when they had first met. Arthur's face was as emotionless as usual, and Lucan was uneasy that he couldn't read anything in his King's expression.

"I'm disappointed," Arthur finally said.

Lucan looked at him uneasily. For some strange reason that he did not begin to comprehend, Arthur's disappointment was far worse than any amount of anger would have been.

"I actually dared to believe that I could make something of you," Arthur was continuing, his tone relentless. "Maybe I was wrong."

Lucan was filled with an urge to say that he was not wrong, that he could make something of himself if he tried, but he was silenced by the expression in Arthur's eyes.

"Prove that I was not wrong," Arthur said, and Lucan, who had dropped his head in shame, looked up quickly.

"You'll let me stay as your squire, my Lord?" he asked, and it was not only amazement that Arthur read in his face. There was also gratitude: an alien emotion to Lucan, but it was gratitude all the same.

Arthur sighed, "Yes, fool that I am."

"But…why?" Lucan asked, honestly confused. "My Lord," he added quickly, remembering his manners.

Arthur, amused by Lucan's sudden submissiveness though he did not let it show, simply said, "I need you. I've never before met anyone who could handle Finn, and I know that if I let you go, I'll come to regret it when I cannot find another squire. Don't make me regret keeping you."

Lucan said nothing, suddenly filled with a million doubts. How was it that a few words from Arthur could make him feel so much worse than a thousand beatings for bad behaviour? He had never before been forgiven for anything, and so did not know how to react to it. Always before he had done wrong, and he had been punished: to Lucan, that was the way the world worked. He did not know of Arthur's Christian beliefs on forgiveness and love of enemies, and so he was wary of the new emotion that surged within him: the emotion that was gratitude.

"Go and get yourself cleared up," Arthur said in a weary tone. "And don't even think about getting into another fight."

Arthur sank wearily down onto a seat, resting his head in his hands. There had been few times in the last fifteen years, when he had regretted becoming King, but this was one of them. Britain was falling apart.

The Romans had abandoned the country, and the people, who for fifteen years had recognised Arthur as their King, were beginning to go back to their old ways. The Saxons were once more taking an interest in the northern border, so Arthur had been forced to move away from the centre of power at Camelot, to this Godforsaken fortress by the coast: the place he had lost Dagonet, Lancelot, Tristan and so many others.

He hated this Roman place: it held a thousand reminders of a life he wanted to forget. Memories of a life not his own: of a life before he had been granted his freedom, a life in which his greatest friend had died for him. Arthur had not even gone down to the graves yet: he did not know if he had the strength to bear to see such painful reminders of the men whom had fought and died beside him for fifteen years.

Arthur was no longer as young as he had once been, and he was feeling his age more than ever now. What would happen to Britain once he was gone? With no male child to succeed him the country would collapse into civil war, and the work of his life would be destroyed. His only hope would be to get Sienna married to someone that his people would respect, and accept as their King once he was gone.

"You need to get some sleep," a worried voice said from the door.

Arthur's head snapped up immediately, and for one short moment he remembered, with a pang, all the times that Dagonet had told him the same thing. But it was not the ghost of the long-dead Dagonet who stood there, but he flesh and blood of Guinevere, as beautiful and queenly as ever.

Arthur grimaced at her, and she entered the room, watching him with concern on her face. "What is it love?" she asked, her voice full of anxiety.

"Life, the world, and everything," Arthur said with a shrug. "For starters."

Guinevere smiled at this, though it was a sad smile, not like when they were younger and first married, when a smile from her would light up the room, and send armies to their knees. She, too, was feeling her age, and her love of her husband meant that any concern he had was felt by her.

Arthur reached out to her, stroking her cheek gently. Guinevere raised her head from where it had been lowered, and met his gaze with hers, not trying to hide the growing distress in her eyes. She blamed herself for not being able to provide him with a male heir, and though they both loved Sienna to the bottom of their hearts, both knew what the consequences would be for Britain if Arthur died with no one to succeed him.

Guinevere caught Arthur's large, rough hand to her cheek, and kissed it gently. "You need to rest more," she told him, looking at him critically.

"There's so much to do," he told her half-heartedly.

"There's always so much to do!" Guinevere replied, though there was no anger in her voice, only an aching sadness. She could feel herself loosing him, slowly, day-by-day, and it hurt her.

Arthur sighed and dropped his head slightly as he remembered something he needed to talk with his wife about. Arthur began warily, broaching a subject that he had been trying to avoid. "Sienna…" he began, "...she needs to marry soon," he said, his words careful, unsure of what his wife's reaction would be.

Guinevere nodded sadly. "I know," she said softly. "I just..." her voice choked up, and Arthur moved over to her, cradling her in his arms. "I don't want to loose my baby," Guinevere whispered, appalled at her own patheticness.

Arthur held her close to him, and suddenly a hundred memories flooded through him: lifting her frail body out of the dungeon when he had first met her, her dark eyes burning with life as she teased him on the carriage in the snow, fighting beside her, both on the ice and on Badon hill, the first time he realised her loved her. He sighed softly, realising how much he had lost in the last few years.

Guinevere pulled up, wiping her eyes fiercely. "I'm so silly," she said with a high-pitched giggle that was more like a sob.

Arthur smiled at her gently, and kissed her on the forehead. "You'll tell her?" he asked tentatively.

Guinevere nodded and stood up, no trace that she had been crying on her face. First and foremost, she was a queen, and people expected a queen to be strong and beautiful, so being a woman, with hopes and fears, came second to everything else. "I will tell her," she said.

"You don't have to tell her immediately," Arthur promised. "It will be a while before I can find someone worthy of her." He spoke the last few words to comfort his wife, and soften the blow for her. Guinevere smiled uncertainly at him, unfamiliar emotions rushing though her, as she realised how long it had been since he had held her in his arms.

Arthur paused, reluctant to end the moment that had been so precious to him, but knowing only too well how much work he had to do.

"Go," Guinevere said softly.

Arthur smiled that she understood him so well after all these years, and kissed her on the forehead again before rising to leave the room.

"I love you," she whispered softly to him as he left the room, but he did not respond, so she did not know if he had heard her. "So much."