A/N: Many Returns... well, returns! After a long and I swear unintentional hiatus, I bring you chapter 8 of the story. So sorry for the wait; my summer was way busier than expected. I worked full-time (and then some) at a warehouse near my home, and then spent two weeks in the UK for a class-which is pretty cool and actually relevant because now I've actually been to the general area where this story is taking place! Yay! Now I'm back at college (have been for three weeks, actually) and finally settling into being a senior, which is kind of terrifying... How were all ya'll's summers?
Anyways, as usual, if you liked (or even didn't like, have ideas or suggestions, want to chat, etc.) please leave a review and let me know! I love hearing from ya'll!
Disclaimer: See chapter 1.
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In the morning, the rising sun lit the dead bodies that littered the clearing and the blood that stained the ground. Bedivere had gotten out his first-aid kit and was stitching up an ugly gash on Branwyr's upper arm. Across the clearing, Tristan sat with his knees drawn up to his chest and his forehead resting against them.
"Tristan?" Cymbeline asked gently, kneeling in front of the boy. "Are you alright?"
Tristan grunted an affirmative, keeping his head down.
"Were you injured?" Cymbeline prodded. Another grunt, this one negative, came in response to her question. She sighed and rested a hand on his head, stroking his hair gently. "It's okay to be sick."
Tristan finally raised his head; dried tears had streaked through the dirt and blood spatters on his face. He sniffled pathetically. "I didn't throw up this time."
"That's okay," Cymbeline smiled reassuringly. "And it would be okay if you had."
"Does it ever get any easier?" Tristan sniffled.
"What? Battle?" Cymbeline asked. "Or killing?"
"Both."
"Well…" Cymbeline thought for a moment. "You will get used to battle. You will get better at fighting and be able to act and react better. It will become more natural. In the same way, you will become more accustomed to killing, but that is not something that should ever be natural or easy for you. Ending someone's life is a big deal, and very permanent. While you have to be able to come to terms with this, it should never be easy." She sighed deeply. "However, it will inevitably become easy. That is the nature of fighting and killing." There was another pause. "Let me put it this way: killing should never be thoughtless or pointless. If it becomes either of these things, it becomes wrong."
Tristan nodded slowly. "That helps, I think."
Cymbeline nodded and pulled the boy into a hug.
"Ready?" Bedivere materialized behind Cymbeline, Branwyr at his side, sporting a clean bandage peeping through her torn sleeve. "Are either of you hurt?"
"No," Cymbeline stood up, then offered a hand to Tristan. "Let's get going."
.*.*.*.*.*.
As they moved deeper into Ysbadaddon's territory, they met more and more Woads, but fewer and fewer of them were openly hostile towards the knights. There were three more attacks on the travelers, but none as violent or bloody as the first two. By the time they reached Camellaird, they were all exhausted.
"We should split up here," Cymbeline sighed as the small, bedraggled group paused atop the last hill before the city. Camellaird was built in a shallow valley, surrounded by several low hills. The city was surrounded by a thick stone wall, clearly influenced by Roman architecture.
"How exciting," Branwyr grumbled, eyeing the heavy clouds overhead and the mist shrouding the surrounding forest.
"I wish you could come into the city with us, but it's better we stay separate," Cymbeline replied. "If anyone saw us together but only Bedivere and I show up to greet Ysbadaddon and the two of you have to break out Leodegrance, none of us will make it out of the city."
"I know," Branwyr sighed. "But you're not the ones who have to spend another night in the forest."
Cymbeline and Bedivere traded a grin and spurred their horses towards the city; behind them, Branwyr turned her horse into the woods, bearing her and Tristan out of sight.
Camellaird was entirely different from the Roman fort Cymbeline and Bedivere were accustomed to. It was a Breton settlement, just as the fort had once been, but had little to none of the Roman influence that had shaped the development of Arthur's capital. The clay bricks of Roman architecture were completely absent; mortared stones formed the walls of the buildings that the knights passed. The streets were dirtier and more cramped, and clearly unplanned. Unlike the fort, which had been forced into an organized system of roadways over the many years of Roman occupation, Camellaird was a jumbled mess of narrow, unpaved paths whose layout reminded Cymbeline more of a basket of tangled knitting than a city. Having spent so much of her life among Romans, Cymbeline found the city entirely alien. Bedivere, who had only moved to the fort a few years earlier, found it home-like and comfortable. The pedestrians around them spoke Pictish, Gaelic, and Breton—no Latin. Cymbeline could pick out a few words here and there, but the speech was too quick for her to follow after so long speaking and hearing only Latin. Even Bedivere had some trouble following the quick pace of the conversations around them.
"How's your Gaelic?" Bedivere asked Cymbeline in a low voice; for now, they looked the part of Woad warriors, but being overheard speaking Latin would immediately blow their cover.
"Poor," Cymbeline replied. "I haven't spoken it since I was a child."
"Let me do all the talking, then," Bedivere grinned.
They encountered no opposition on their way to the meeting hall where the ruling family lived. In fact, the doors of the hall were wide open, and a steady stream of people passed in and out. Cymbeline and Bedivere dismounted and joined the flow of people entering the hall. Inside, the walls were hung with woven tapestries, dirtied by smoke from the huge fire burning in the center of the hall, smoke winding up through a hole in the roof. The hall was packed, and the knights soon found out why.
Most of the people passing in and out, as well as making up the crowd, were swearing their fealty to Ysbadaddon and his wife Nimue. Some of them were bringing grievances before the Woad leaders, but many had come to swear allegiance and offer their swords to the army. There were also a large number of spies reporting on the results of their information-gathering; the knights were unnerved by the frequency of these reports, although many of them overlapped and few had very important information on the holdouts against Ysbadaddon.
"Arthur is even less popular than we realized," Bedivere murmured in Welsh. Cymbeline grunted her agreement as they moved forward with the crowd.
Finally, Cymbeline and Bedivere stood before the thrones of Ysbadaddon and Nimue. Cymbeline eyed the couple warily; she and Bedivere were the first knights of Arthur's court to actually lay eyes on the Woad rebels. Ysbadaddon was a huge hulk of a man, easily bigger than Bors and his brawny sons. His muscles bulged under his heavy winter clothes, and even slouched down in his seat he was clearly well over six feet tall. His face bore a bored expression, as though the goings-on in the hall were beneath him, but there was a cunning gleam in his eyes that set Cymbeline on edge. Nimue was dainty by comparison, similar in height and build to Guinevere, but her posture showed a coiled strength. Cymbeline reminded herself that Nimue was a Woad, just like she and Guinevere were, and had likely been trained as a warrior along the boys of her village since childhood. Beyond that, there were whispers that Nimue was a sorceress, a practitioner of dark magic; looking at the woman, Cymbeline had no doubt that the rumors were true. The most surprising thing about the couple was their youth. Ysbadaddon hardly looked older than his mid-thirties, if he was even that old, and Nimue was clearly younger than him. However, the cold, calculating, and easily wicked air and bearing of the couple set the knights on edge.
When Cymbeline and Bedivere stepped forward, a man, clearly Ysbadaddon's general or seneschal, strode to meet them, stretching out his palm towards the two. "Kneel and declare your allegiance to Ysbaddadon and Nimue!" he crowed in Pictish.
"No," Bedivere said simply.
In an instant, every weapon in the hall was drawn and aimed at the knights.
"We are here to speak for King Arthur and Queen Guinevere of Britain," Bedivere's voice rang out in the suddenly silent hall, followed by a rippling murmur of admiration for the audacity of the duo for coming into the capital of Ysbadaddon alone. "We have come to negotiate for the freedom of Leodegrance, father of the queen."
"There will be no negotiating," Ysbadaddon scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Leodegrance and Camellaird fell to me and my warriors. By all terms, he is now my prisoner of war, and I may do whatever I want with him."
"Yes, well, as I'm sure you were aware, attacking the family of the queen will have to have consequences," Bedivere shrugged. "It can be looked at as nothing but a declaration of war on King Arthur and Queen Guinevere's realm, and will be treated as such. However, if you will negotiate the release of Leodegrance to us, the response from Arthur will be less harsh."
The hall fell silent for a moment after Bedivere's declaration. The silence was broken by the sound of laughter. It came first from Ysbadaddon, deep, reverberating chuckles that deepened into full, roaring belly laughs. Nimue soon chimed in with her own pealing giggle. An uncertain murmur ran through the crowd, who had begun to sheathe their weapons.
"Out!" Ysbadaddon roared suddenly. His bellow filled the hall and almost seemed to have a physical force as the occupants turned and stampeded for the door. Moments later, only Ysbadaddon, Nimue, Cymbeline, and Bedivere stood in the center of the chamber, with a few of Ysbadaddon's guards and his seneschal against the walls of the chamber.
"What could you possibly have to offer me that is greater than the power I wield while I have the queen's own father in my prison?" Ysbaddadon sat up and leaned forwards, elbows on his knees and hands folded under his chin. Nimue, in contrast, leaned back, draping herself languidly over her chair and resting a hand against Ysbadaddon's side. "In fact, what could you have to offer me at all?"
"That is what we are here to discuss," Bedivere replied smoothly.
"You haven't introduced yourselves," Nimue piped up. Her voice was soft and musical, lower than the knights had expected. It was purely seductive, and Bedivere suddenly found his mouth very dry.
"I don't suppose you speak Welsh by any chance?" Cymbeline grumbled in her broken Pictish. "Or Breton? Certainly not Latin?"
"Breton will do," Nimue replied, switching languages effortlessly. "Now, what are your names?"
"I am Cymbeline, daughter of Rhience and wife of Gawain, knight of King Arthur," Cymbeline squared her shoulders, more comfortable and self-assured now that she could understand everything that was being said.
"Ah, and this is your husband?" Nimue turned her gleaming green eyes to Bedivere, examining him carefully.
"This is my cousin Bedivere, son of Fionnlagh, and another knight of Arthur's court."
"Good to know," Nimue smiled.
"What is?" Cymbeline asked.
"That Guinevere's forces are so thinly stretched that she can only spare a sapling knight and the wife of another warrior to come and negotiate for the release of her own father," Nimue shrugged. "That, or she doesn't really care about him as much as she wants us to think she does."
"I think you've misunderstood," there was a chill tone to Cymbeline's voice as she spoke. "I am not merely the wife of a knight. I am a knight in my own right, and have been seated at Arthur's round table for longer than most of his knights, except for those few surviving from Sarmatia. Additionally, I oversee the training of new warriors, those who wish to be knights particularly, as there are few even around the table who Arthur both trusts and deems skilled enough to train his future champions." She shook back her long hair and took a step forward. "Therefore, I offer a piece of advice to you: you would do well not to underestimate me, or any other warrior of Arthur's court. We have wicked teeth." She grinned, baring her teeth and fingering the hilts of the knives strapped to her thighs.
Nimue arched her eyebrows but remained silent, sizing up the two knights with a new appreciation.
"I see that we have taken your appearance too lightly," Ysbadaddon spoke. "You must be tired; it is a long journey to Camellaird from the great wall. We will provide you with food and beds for the night at least, and tomorrow we will talk—although I warn you, I have no intention of releasing Leodegrance for anything less than Arthur abdicating his throne."
"We will talk in the morning," Cymbeline replied coldly.
"Bruin!" Ysbadaddon gestured for his seneschal, who hurried forward. "See our guests—Cymbeline and Bedivere, was it—to rooms in the house. Make sure they are fed and otherwise provided for."
The seneschal bowed slightly, then turned, clearly expecting Cymbeline and Bedivere to follow. He led them through a doorway in the back of the hall that led into a dark, low corridor. Many doors and small hallways branched off from the main corridor, which wound far from the main hall. Finally, Bruin led the knights into a small hallway to the left of the corridor with several doors spaced along the length of it. He opened a door, gesturing the knights in. There was a low bed against one wall, with a trunk at its foot, a stand with a bowl for washing in, a chamber pot, and a window, covered with heavy cloth for the winter. A torch burned in a sconce by the door, and an unlit candle was set next to the bed.
"You may use this room and the one to the left," Bruin informed them in clipped tones. "Food will be brought to you, and anything else you need. If you are found wandering the halls or speaking to anyone, you will be killed. I assume you rode horses here?"
"Yes, they are in the courtyard," Cymbeline replied.
"They will be stabled and your things brought to you," Bruin replied. His nose wrinkled slightly. "I hope you have a change of clothes." With that, he turned and left, shutting the door behind him.
"What do you want to bet we're being watched and guarded?" Bedivere sighed, sitting down on the bed.
Cymbeline snorted. "They probably have people who speak Latin listening to our every word."
"Most likely," Bedivere agreed.
"What did you think?" Cymbeline asked.
"Of the Woads' hero?" Bedivere shrugged. "About what I was expecting. His wife was more surprising to me. She seems like she belongs in a Roman household, not a Breton court."
"There is something wicked to her," Cymbeline rolled her shoulders, pulling the cloth over the window back to peer out. "She sent chills down my spine." The girl grinned and looked over her shoulder at Bedivere. "I think she sent something else through parts of you."
Bedivere flushed bright red and worked his jaw, searching for a response.
"Don't worry," Cymbeline teased, "I won't tell Bran." She patted him on the shoulder as she left the room, heading for her own. Sure enough, she caught a glance of well-armed guards at the mouth of the hallway, although there were none closer to their rooms. Her room was set up the same as Bedivere's had been. She sank down onto the bed, suddenly exhausted and scared. Biting her lip, she let herself fall onto her side, her hair splaying around her as she trembled with suppressed sobs. She lay like that until a knock sounded on her door. Cymbeline sat up and rubbed away her tears, although there was no hiding the puffy redness around her eyes. "Come in!" she called.
"Your things, Milady," a young servant girl bowed deeply as she stepped in; Cymbeline's saddle bags were slung over her shoulders and she set them on the floor near the door. "Someone will bring you food shortly."
"Thank you," Cymbeline smiled and nodded. As soon as the door was shut, she stood and hurried to her bags. To her surprise, she found them just as she had left them; Ysbadaddon's men hadn't searched them, then. Her weapons were sheathed and as sharp as ever—Cymbeline was surprised they had even been brought to her.
The door opened slightly and Bedivere poked his head in. "So they brought you your weapons as well."
"Yes; I was surprised to see them," she replied, gathering her things and turning towards the bed, hiding her tear-streaked face.
"So was I," Bedivere stepped into the room, closing the door behind him and leaning against the wall beside it.
Cymbeline busied herself with sorting through her things. She did have a change of clothes, fortunately, as the seneschal wasn't the only one who had noticed how bad she smelled, as well as what was left of her provisions for the journey home and a few other miscellaneous items. At the bottom of her last bag, she found something that made her gasp and tear up again. Bedivere, hearing the choked sound, jumped forward.
"What's wrong?"
Cymbeline turned towards him, tears flowing fresh, and simply held out her hand. In it was a small, chewed-up wooden carving of a seal. "It's Lot's favorite," she said simply. "I don't know how it got in my bag. He must be so upset without it."
Bedivere strode forward and wrapped her in a giant hug. "I'm sure he's fine," he soothed. "He's got his brother and sister with him."
"But this is his selkie," Cymbeline blubbered into his shoulder. "He must miss it so much."
"Well, it'll make him all the happier to see you again when you bring it back to him," Bedivere stroked her hair.
"What if I don't make it back?" Cymbeline broke away and sat down heavily on the bed.
"You will," Bedivere replied simply.
"I might not," Cymbeline said stubbornly.
"Of course you will," Bedivere knelt in front of her and took her hands in his. "You said it yourself when you were talking to Nimue; you're one of the most skilled knights at the table. You're a force to be reckoned with, and anyone who underestimates you won't live to make another mistake like that."
"One should never put too much stock in oneself," Cymbeline mumbled.