Arthur can feel the thrum of tense anticipation among the gathered troops as they march to confront the Saxon army head-on. Enough time should have passed since Morgana lured part of the army away to prevent them from being able to come back in time, even in the unthinkable circumstance that the bait is given up. He refuses to think of the possibility that Morgana's troops are wiped out before they reach the ambush point.
He can barely pick out Annis and Godwyn in the left and right wings of the formation. Arthur had not expected Annis to join in this battle, even considering her part in the first Battle of Peredor. Both she and her husband are well past their prime now, yet the queen looks as at home astride an armored charger as she did in the cushioned seat in the Council of Kings. He is shaken out of his reverie by the crackle of the ring connection coming to life.
"High King Arthur," the businesslike abruptness of the voice, so similar to Morgana and not yet the same, can only be Queen Morgause. "We're all waiting for your mark. Cantia and Meredor are both in position."
"Give me two minutes." Arthur terminates the contact and breathes Godwyn's name into the ring instead. One limitation that they'd been unable to eliminate in the brief testing period they'd had for the rings was that the connection was only two-way—they could not be merged to allow Arthur to talk to multiple people at once. Something to improve after the battle. If they survived the battle.
"We're adjacent to Clarence and ready for battle," Godwyn reports, and a quick question confirms the same for Caerleon. Arthur takes a deep breath before calling for Morgause.
"Now. We attack now."
Lancelot and Gwaine, flanking him on their horses, relay the order to Logres and Nemeth with their own rings at his words. Arthur inwardly counts the seconds it would take for the generals to spread the order before unsheathing his sword and raising it aloft.
"For Albion!"
He digs his heels into the sides of his steed, spurring it into a canter. The wordless cries of ten thousand charging bodies pour out onto the mercilessly clear air, surrounding the Saxon camps. And at his side, as he always would be, rides Merlin grumbling constantly under his breath. The inexorable wave of soldiers converges as a mass upon the surrounded Saxon camp, engulfing the charging Saxon regiments from all sides.
For better or worse, this would be the last battle to sully the plains of Peredor. As Arthur raises his sword to deal the first killing blow, he can only wish that it will be Albion left to bury the aftermath.
The spurt of blood splatters crimson against the steep rise of the cliffs as a lucky javelin sprouts out of the chest of one of the stragglers. The soldier falls to his knees with a gurgle, only to be trampled over by the Saxon vanguard hot in pursuit.
First blood, Morgana thinks as she hurries the procession on at the head of the rear guard. We haven't reached the halfway point yet.
She glances up at the boulders fencing them in the crevice, searching for the jutting rock that marked the first trap that would indicate that they had come deep enough to trap the Saxons. She could not turn and fight until the Saxons were well and truly trapped. The procession continues its desperate march through the treacherous crevices even as the very back of the rearguard starts being picked off one by one.
Mithian must be watching them, high above. How she must be feeling, knowing Keredic is among the bait as they slowly become overtaken by the Saxons, Morgana can only imagine. The scatter of javelins fall at the heels of the rear guard, too close to do nothing.
"Shields," she pants heavily. "Magicians, shields!"
The two or three magicians of the Cornwall troops in the rear guard must thankfully have been in earshot, for the next volley of javelins bounce off an invisible wall and clatter harmlessly to the dusty path. This would hold for another two or three minutes, but once the Saxons closed the distance enough for melee fighting, there is nothing she can do except keep going as her troops die.
"Princess, the rock!"
The cry comes from Endise, the sergeant at her side. The woman's dark plait whips around as she looks from the trap to Morgana's face. Morgana meets her eyes, then projects her voice for the rear guard to hear.
"We're near the traps. Past the mark, then prepare to fight!"
Right at her words, the Saxons surge forward to close the gap. The unfortunate soldiers at the very end of the rear guard are slain before they can turn to defend. Morgana shouts to keep retreating as they fight, even as the Saxons press forward to strike down their ranks from the back. She can only be grateful that the Saxons at least will not be able to understand her orders—this would be so much harder if she were attempting to trap an enemy who spoke her language. One of the benefits of fighting a foreign army rather than Camelot.
Slowly, excruciatingly, the line of battle tramples over the bodies of the fallen, pushing past the mark for the first trap, then the second. Morgana glances up again to where Mithian must be waiting, then makes her choice.
"Hold your ground," Morgana shouts, "Do not retreat!"
The rear guard strikes out with renewed vigor, no longer divided in their purpose. The Saxons can only face her troops four at a time at most, hemmed in as they both are within the crevice. That at least should hold them for a while, despite the inexorable push of the Saxon's outrageous numerical disadvantage. The Saxon's battle front looks impenetrable, with soldiers immediately replacing each fallen comrade, while her rear guard is already considerably diminished.
Morgana lets out a harsh breath, then reaches out with her left arm toward the magic brightly burning within the split jag of rock.
"Stanas ahreosaþ!" she cries, eyes flashing golden. The magic stored in the rock bursts out, shattering the pin holding the trap in place. Sizeable rocks and sharp metal cascade down to the Saxons supporting the front line, felling a number of soldiers. The slight disorientation that the first trap provides allows Morgana to urge the rear guard to retreat further down the crevice, triggering the second and third traps as she passed the fifth trap. There are only two more traps to pass after that. And the last trap would be the turning point of her battle.
"The crevice is far too long for us to cover, even if we only attacked at the two entrances," Mithian had argued when the four of them had sat down to discuss the traps. "We need to make an artificial bottleneck in the middle of the crevice instead. It would not be possible in any other circumstance, but with the magical power that Albion has united…"
The eventual solution had been to make the scale of the final trap large enough to make the crevice extremely difficult to go through. Morgana had accompanied Merlin when he secured the seventh trap—designed to block, not just to hinder. The magic required to set the huge boulders in place had been too much for anyone but Merlin to wield.
Merlin had done the heavy lifting, arranging the boulders on ledges at the two chosen choke points to fall and block the path, while Morgana rigged the pins to trigger simultaneously. By the time they finished, even Merlin had been slightly exhausted.
The activation of the seventh trap would be the signal for Mithian to begin her deadly rain of arrows. Morgana's contribution to the placing of the traps had been to weave a link between this final trap and a magical pin strategically placed at the far entrance of the crevice. When the trap activated, it would carry over to the magical pin at the entrance, making it explode and let loose a similar avalanche of boulders that would also block the entrance.
There was no doubt that the traps would effectively block the Saxons in the crevice. The problem then was triggering it at the right time to ensure maximum damage. As Morgana couldn't see the position of the entire Saxon army in the crevice, she had to rely on Mithian's sight.
"Morgana, the procession is halfway past the seventh trap. We need to trigger it before too many Saxons pass."
Keredic's disembodied voice whispers urgently from the ring, and Morgana frowns as her eyes flick to the rapidly advancing Saxons, seemingly untouched by the five cascades of rock and nets from the traps already triggered.
"We're still in the blast zone. I'm thinking we're going to have to let some of the Saxons through before—"
Her words are cut off by the clash of steel against steel as the Saxons reengage with the faltering rear guard. Morgana grits her teeth as her ranks grow thinner and thinner. Wish as she might, she cannot afford to join the battle right now. The trap has to be triggered at the right time, even at the expense of her essentially watching her troops slaughtered. Playing such a key strategic role in this battle meant stepping back to let others die for her to allow her to fulfill her role.
"Morgana? Morgana!"
"I'm fine," Morgana yells above the din of battle. "We'll trigger the troops once we're safely past. Keep going forward, and don't—"
She clenches her jaw in exasperation as the connection to Keredic is cut off by a new connection rising from the ring. Mithian's voice is calm even in waiting for the battle.
"There are more of them than we expected, Princess Morgana. Not all of them have passed the entrance yet. You'll need to lead them further into the path than originally planned."
Morgana pales at her words.
"How much further in?"
"At least half a furlong. Hopefully the boulders will take out enough of them to be a favorable battle."
The sergeant, Endise, is barking orders at the remainder of the rear guard to retreat already. Morgana looks behind her and estimates the distance they would need to go.
"To that stunted tree," she orders. "Troops, give way!"
Mithian affirms that would be adequate before cutting the connection. Morgana huffs a little before continuing their seemingly unwilling retreat. She glances behind her again at the advancing enemy, then bumps into someone who, for some unknowable reason, is going towards the battle line behind them. Morgana takes a breath to yell at the soldier for insubordination, but promptly loses her words as she realizes who it is.
"Keredic?" she cries, incredulous. "Why on earth are you not in the middle of the procession?"
"The, oh dear, the connection suddenly cut off," Keredic pants, gasping for breath. "I heard the sounds of battle in the background, and I was worried something had happened to you."
No. No, no, no. Keredic should not have been this chivalrous, this dumb. Morgana can barely take care of herself in the rear guard, let alone Keredic. There are not even enough left in the rear guard to fully fend off the Saxons who would be on their side of the crevice after the trap—they can't do that and protect Keredic as well. And Keredic could not help in battle.
Morgana shivers, a chill suddenly seeping into her bones as if a bucket of ice water has been upended over her head. Keredic is still speaking, but Morgana can barely understand his words.
Keredic will not survive this battle. The fact emerges crystalline in her mind. They were already past the stunted tree. The main battle is underway. And Keredic will die.
"You should not have come."
Morgana's words cut coldly through the air. Keredic's face looks dismayed, but Morgana is too caught up by the sudden conviction to assuage his feelings. Could she send him back fast enough, or was it too late?
"Morgana, now!" Mithian's voice cries from the ring, urgent enough to drop her title. Morgana shakes free of her daze, and raises an arm toward the magical pin.
"Stanas…Stanas ahreosaþ."
The sudden terrible sound of giant boulders plummeting down the cliffs swallows the screams of combat.
Some of the Saxons drop their weapons and openly gape at the rubble tumbling upon them. For many, it is the last thing they see. Keredic turns several shades paler as a limb flies at them, severed from its owner by the rock that pulverized him. The awful crunch of bodies crushed underneath seems to echo through the air.
Morgana pushes Keredic out of the way as a boulder shatters against the cliff, sending small jagged fragments flying at them. One slices past her arm, and Morgana winces at the sting.
"Go back," she pleads with the prince. "Go back, Keredic. This is not safe for you."
"Mithian's already begun her assault, and this battle is nearly over," he argues, then dodges back as Morgana suddenly stabs past him with her sword. Morgana follows through and slices up, gutting the Saxon warrior who had been about to decapitate Keredic. She curses at the fact that the battle line had already advanced further to where they are.
There are still more than a half hundred Saxons stuck on the other side of the trap. Morgana rallies the rear guard to attack, though both can only fight four at a time. She nudges Keredic back toward the relative safety of the procession as she shouts a spell to hurl the Saxon charging at them back into the ranks. This would have been the perfect place for a whirlwind spell, she thinks wryly as the Saxon bowls over the entire front line, allowing two of her own troops to slice through them easily. If only she had the capacity for such large magic. Morgana slits one of the fallen Saxon soldier's throat and opens her mouth to toss out another spell, but is thrown back against her own troops by a powerful push of magic.
The push was stronger than the spell she had used—the magician, if as strong as she guessed they were, is the greatest threat at this point. Morgana's eyes flick around to assess each of the Saxons still fighting, trying to find the magician.
"That one," Keredic whispers. "Red tunic, blond ponytail. The necklace stores more power for her to use."
Morgana doesn't question him. She surveys the Saxon magician warily, waiting for the battle line to struggle through to her. She doesn't look like a swordswoman. Morgana decides to wager on the assumption that the Saxon mage would be specialized in magical combat support—she knows she cannt handle a magician's duel at this point.
"Stay back," she whispers to Keredic when the battle reaches close enough to the mage to let her reach the woman with a single charge.
"Tófléon," Morgana breathes. Fragments of rock scatter and fly at the woman, and the woman instinctively raises her arms to shield her face from the flying rubble. Morgana takes the opening to jump towards her. Her sword slides between the mage's ribcage, smooth as butter, as the blond woman shrieks out a spell.
"Atæse!"
Morgana cannot put up a shield quickly enough; she braces herself for the impact of the stabbing spell. But it doesn't touch her, and she tugs her weapon out of the woman's fatal wound, confused.
"Ah…"
The soft exhale, clearly audible behind her despite the clang of steel, makes Morgana turn. Her eyes widen.
"Keredic!"
Her troops close the battle line as she rushes towards the prince. There is a dark, wet patch growing from his chest, where a shard of jagged rock has embedded itself. Keredic rapidly grows pale as he crumples to his knees, and Morgana tries to force him up. He breathes heavily.
"Sorry," he pants at Morgana's open-mouthed horror, then loses consciousness entirely.
As expected, the Saxon army cannot react effectively against the attack on all fronts, especially when it is short a quarter of its main force. Arthur leads his troops in another advancing charge, making ample use of the Saxon's current disorder. The surrounding armies attack in tandem, further closing the circle surrounding the Saxon main camp.
"King Rodor!" Arthur calls through the ring as he gallops down what looks to be a Saxon commander on foot, half dressed and brandishing a dagger. "Now!"
A hearty laugh comes through the connection. "Glory for Nemeth!"
The Clarence and Logres troops hurry to make way for the Nemeth party as they blaze toward the Saxon camp on horseback. Rodor had been more than willing to take the role of torching the camp. "Returning what we've got," Rodor had approved—Nemeth had been hit by a particularly vicious regiment of Saxons while they were facing the first battle of Peredor. It was little wonder he desired revenge.
Arthur swings his sword in a half-circle, blocking a jabbing strike from a Saxon on horseback and twisting the sword out of his grasp. The opponent is swiftly disposed of with another swipe, the steel cutting through his neck cleanly. Another Saxon runs at him with a javelin, but is knocked into the air with a little spell from Merlin.
"This isn't so bad," Merlin quips as his eyes fade back to its usual blue. "Maybe we'll be back before dinner."
And with that, everything changes. Sometimes Arthur wonders if Merlin says things like that on purpose to make him suffer. A sizeable Saxon legion appears from the woods that Mercian and Escetian troops themselves had snuck through to attack them from the rear. Bayard and Morgause's troops lose their ordered formation in the resulting confusion, divided as to which front they should face. The main Saxon army takes advantage of that confusion to focus its onslaught on the Mercian and Escetian troops. Arthur urges his troops to attack more viciously at their backs, but cannot divert the renewed organization of the Saxon army.
"Know that I blame you," Arthur grits out tersely to Merlin before addressing Odin with the ring. At this point, the most important thing was to take care of this situation.
"King Odin, Mercia and Escetia are under attack. A region has returned unexpectedly, and they are being attacked on two fronts. We need you to attack that region from the back to have them fighting on two fronts."
A grunt. Arthur hopes that it is of assent, because he can't afford any more time persuading Odin. He redirects the connection to the Camelot troops, organizing the redirection of most of the troops to the aid of the beleaguered section.
"The rest of us will continue restraining the main Saxon army. They must not be allowed to escape the kill-box," he calls to his knights afterwards.
"They're thinking straight now," Gwaine calls back. "It's going to be mighty hard to keep them in with our troops thinned out!"
"Do your best," is all Arthur can offer before he plunges headlong into combat. Merlin follows suit, eyes glowing golden.
There is no more time for hesitation, for musings on the lives that would have been of each fallen soldier. Arthur sinks into that cruelly familiar focus of honorable murder. His sword becomes a natural extension of his arm, drawing blood and flesh with each stroke. And yet the Saxons keep coming, and yet he continues the slaughter.
Arthur grunts, mid-swing, as a burning cold sensation suddenly blooms from his stomach. The Saxon on foot pulls out the dagger from his stomach and aims for his leg, braids swinging, while the knight he had been facing parries his blow. Arthur kicks the warrior woman in the chest before she can lay another wound on him, then twists to stab the knight in the gap between his helmet and chain mail.
"Are you alright?" Merlin calls worriedly. Arthur grits his teeth and presses at the stab. It's not hit any major organs, and he isn't losing too much blood. Merlin frets for a little before handing his kerchief over to staunch the thankfully thin flow.
Arthur looks out at the continuing battle, now looking to be evenly matched. He grits his teeth.
"I will not let this end in a stalemate again. There has to be something we can do to break their ranks again."
Merlin hesitates, then grits his teeth as if he had made a choice.
"There is something I could do…"
Morgana takes several deep breaths as she holds Keredic's unconscious form up. There are still more than thirty Saxons remaining. Keredic is gravely wounded. And the supplies need to reach camp—they would be deadweight in the battle.
"Endise!" she calls. The sergeant comes quickly, one leg bleeding but otherwise fine.
"My lady?"
"You are to lead the supplies out of this crevice and back to camp. Take as little vanguard as possible. You have your ring—report back to me once you arrive. Can you do this for me?"
Endise salutes sharply, head held tall.
"Of course. The supplies will be delivered safely."
Morgana nods in dismissal. "Direct the rest of the vanguard to aid the rear as you go."
The sergeant turns and strides deeper into the crevice. Soon, the supply wagons begin moving again.
Morgana is reassured by the vanguard charging into the fray, bolstering the almost decimated rear guard. Any other time, she would be leading them into the battle, doing her part. But right now, she needed to take care of Keredic.
The wound is deep—too deep. She mutters the spell to weave the fibers of his shirt into something resembling a bandage to apply pressure to the wound, but dares not do anything else. Getting him out of the line of fire, with someone to watch over him, was of paramount importance. Morgana whispers Mithian's name into the ring.
"Princess Mithian, how goes it?"
"We should be done within the hour," comes the reply, cool and composed despite the one-sided slaughter that must be occurring. "And you?"
Morgana exhales. "Your brother has been gravely wounded, and he needs to be moved to safety. Would you be willing to look over him?"
There is a sharp inhale from Mithian's end. "Is…is he alive?"
"Yes, but we are still in battle. I can transport him up to one of the ledges past the seventh trap. Would you send someone to collect him?"
A pause. "I can do it. At your signal." Mithian's voice is quiet.
Morgana grits her teeth. "Arisan," she whispers, and slowly raises one palm up. Keredic's prone body floats swiftly up as if on an invisible platform, then moves stiffly onto a ledge beyond Morgana's line of vision.
"I've got him," Mithian's voice calls from the ring. Morgana breathes out and slowly lowers her palm. One less thing to worry about. She unsheathes her sword and joins in the combat.
In the end, it is short work to eliminate the remaining Saxons. The vanguard's support had allowed her troops to overpower the last of the enemy by a comfortable margin. When the last Saxon warrior falls to the dusty path in unforgiving death, Morgana tilts her head up.
"Victory!" She proclaims. Tired, ragged cheering rises through the crevice. Morgana looks around.
Less than half of the original troops remain. Morgana prays that the fallen will be placated by their role in the main victory. She can only hope that there is a main victory.
When the cheering fades out, Morgana raises her voice again.
"Bind your wounds before we march to camp. We have time."
A collective sigh of relief. The survivors sink down onto the ground, disregarding the corpses as they tend to their injuries. Morgana waits for most of them to finish their rudimentary care before leading them down through the rest of the crevice.
When they finally reach the end of the gentle slopes leading down the Black Mountains to the mouth of the entrance to the Plains of Peredor, they are met by Mithian and her bowmen. Keredic lies on a makeshift stretcher, carried by four bowmen.
"I am glad to see you unharmed," Morgana offers to Mithian. She looks past the princess to the familiar faces behind her. "And you and Tristan as well," she says with a half-smile to Isolde, who looks pleased with herself as she holds an empty quiver and unstrung bow.
"Not a living soul left in that death trap," Isolde smiles widely back at her. "We've had our revenge."
"Shall we return to camp?" Morgana suggests to Mithian, who has been silent. The other princess looks up to meet her eyes, face serious.
"I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news," Mithian sighs, then relays the information given to her. "The Saxons have already gotten too close to the beginning of the mountain pass, according to the scouts. There is currently no way to return to camp without joining the main battle."
"Just great." Morgana mops her face with her hands. The bait will have to cover for the bowmen as they retreat, after all. She turns to Mithian.
"Turn back. Stay in the woods."
The princess opens her mouth as if to argue, and Morgana shakes her head.
"We can't risk losing you or any of our bowmen. Guard Keredic—cut them off if they get past us. Please."
Mithian pales at the thought of her gravely wounded brother, then hesitantly nods. Turning abruptly, she walks back into the forest cover, followed by the bowmen. Morgana's troops watch them go, faces determined. In a breath they are gone, hidden among the dense foliage of the Black Mountains. It is none too soon, for the sounds of battle spill forward, seemingly towards them. Morgana unsheathes her sword and squints at the approaching Saxons.
"Well, ladies and gentlemen, it's time."
They brace themselves as the two forces meet.
The strange thing about battles is that time warps to nothingness. The dizzy rush of adrenaline spurs Morgana on, and it's an endless routine of slash, hack, and parry. She's grateful for the thankfully even numbers; there is less chance of a stab to the back that way. By now, her troops are dispersed among the Albion troops—though they started out covering the entrance to the Black Mountains, the course of the battle has led to every Albion army merging into a collective whole. She distantly notes that Arthur has still succeeded in surrounding the Saxons, although for some curious reason the formation looks to be restraining two separate armies in a figure eight instead of a circle. Already the rough Saxon dwellings and supplies have been torched.
Fire spurts past her, narrowly missing her shoulder. Definitely magical. Morgana frowns as she slaughters another Saxon foot soldier—Saxon magic follows the same rules as anywhere else, and she's pretty sure nobody can throw fire and hope to keep it up for any length of time. It takes too much raw power to make pure energy when it's not anchored to something solid- not even Merlin can blast fire for longer than five minutes. Tugging her sword out of the new corpse, Morgana turns around. She curses as another fireball promptly comes her way.
Merlin's brought in his pet dragon. And a lot of other things that look like dragons. Morgana doesn't even—is that an actual hydra over there?
"Merlin! Could you maybe have them attack the Saxons instead?" she hollers above the clang of steel against steel. Merlin somehow hears and smirks with his eyes aglow. Except the smirk is aimed past her. She whirls around, berating herself for forgetting she's in a battle.
"Morgana?"
It's Arthur, his face and hair grimy and his blue eyes intense. He neatly dispatches the Saxon in front of him and makes his way to her.
"What are you doing here?"
"Didn't have anything else to do." Morgana kicks out at an approaching foe. "Not much I can do when the battle's already spread past our covering range."
Arthur grimaces. "And the rest of your troops?" His sword swings out in an arc, finding its mark in human flesh. Morgana wipes sweat out of her eyes.
"We were trying to cover the mountain pass entrance for Mithian's retreat. I told her to get off the ledges and stand by in the forest."
He glares at her. "Why didn't you follow her? This is no place for you."
"Don't go all chivalrous now," Morgana snorts, "not when we're both spattered in blood." She takes a closer look. "Were you stabbed?"
Arthur rolls his eyes. "Takes more than this to bring me down. Although I'm sure your delicate sensibilities will tell you otherwise." He glances at her, and his voice is tinged with worry even as he turns his attention back to the fight. "Your arm?"
"A minor-" She is cut off by the sound of the Saxons near them shouting something that sounds like "Arthur Pendragon". Morgana immediately moves back-to-back with Arthur, rolling her eyes. "Finally they figure out you're here."
"I haven't seen their leader in the battle yet," Arthur comments. He lashes out at a soldier that comes too near them, while Morgana stabs another on his left. Seeing the Saxons starting to surround them, Morgana amplifies her voice to shout, "To your High King!"
Leon and Gwaine immediately appear next to them, the latter even managing to make a gallant bow. More knights of Camelot join them, so that Arthur is no longer besieged on all sides.
Lancelot hacks his way to Arthur's side. "We're closing in the loops. I think everyone's realized that the day is already won."
"Is Godwyn still at the back flank?" Arthur asks, taking out Merlin's ring. Lancelot nods, and Arthur is about to activate the communications spell when it comes to life of its own accord. The ring flashes as Bedwyr's voice floats up. "High King Arthur, they've just breached our lines. We couldn't keep them—they're retreating out now."
"Keep the rest of your formation steady." Arthur orders. "We'll take care of the ones caught in the hold first."
The prince grunts acquiescence. Arthur turns the ring to reach every commander.
"The Saxons are in retreat. Keep your troops engaged, and start the pursuit when I give the order."
Lord Elyan skewers a man with a dagger coming at Arthur's back as he comes stumbling towards them. His face is ashen. "With Odin engaging the regiment, they could go into the mountains."
Morgana immediately turns to Arthur. "Mithian. Get her to turn them away; we can't handle them in the mountains."
Arthur nods grimly. Morgana knows that Arthur too is aware of the numerous dangers of allowing the Saxons to retreat into the Black Mountains, where they could hide or even return to the Plains of Peredor by a roundabout way for a surprise attack. He whispers 'Mithian' into the ring, and she answers after a little while.
"My lord?"
Arthur's sounds urgent. "Saxon troops are heading towards the mountain pass. You need to block them off. Do not engage in battle, but keep a heavy cover of arrows. They must be turned away. Do you understand?"
"Where are they now?" Mithian's voice is determined.
Elyan answers for Arthur. "Around a quarter of a league out, by last report."
Mithian cuts the connection, and Morgana frowns. "If she doen't manage to cut them off…"
Arthur shakes his head curtly. "Have a little faith. Mithian will succeed."
Morgana bites her lips, but drops the subject. She turns back to the bloodshed in front of them. It's another eternity of combat, and the soil is already saturated with blood. Morgana almost slips in a puddle of someone's lifeblood, but Arthur grabs her arm and steadies her just in time. Nodding thanks, she proceeds to gut yet another Saxon attacking Arthur. They don't fight in tandem, but the rough cooperation between them is enough. She lets out a bark of mirthless laughter as she continues the rough exchange of blows- there's always more coming, and she might as well enjoy it. The adrenalin makes it easier for her to make light of the butchery. She laughs again, disregarding the looks that some of the Camelot knights give her. This is the one thing she can do without second-guessing herself; there is an exhilarating rush of death and nothing else as she deals out blows and parries.
Among the flailing of weapons and the smoke rising from the burning Saxon camp, Morgana starts seeing Escetian and Mercian banners among the High King's standard where there had only been Saxon warriors. Camelot and the rest of the Five Kingdoms were separated by the whole of the Saxon army before. She turns back to Arthur, who has already ordered the pursuit to begin.
Her voice shakes. "We've wiped them out. It's a complete victory."
Arthur remains focused on the remaining battle. "Not yet, Morgana." As the battle slowly grinds to a stop, the remaining Camelot knights and soldiers fall into some semblance of order. Morgana's own regiment does the same behind her.
Arthur leads them in pursuit of the Saxons until dusk. They enter the foothills of the mountains, and Mithian emerges from overhead.
"My lord, the Saxons did not attempt to go through the pass. They seemed to have been marching straight back to Cornwall."
Arthur nods. "Thank you, Mithian." He turns to the combined troops. "The Saxons have fled. The battle is over. We are victorious."
Everyone—from the standard bearers to the Cantian warriors to the bowmen from Nemeth—starts cheering. Arthur lets them for a minute, then silences them with no more than a raised hand. "We will return to headquarters, to celebrate this victory and to mourn our dead. But know that Albion is still free because of you."
Slowly, the entire combined forces turn back and begin the slow march out of Peredor to Glauchedon. It seems that Arthur had already ordered the moving of their camps back to the fortress with the turn of the battle; the camp followers have made arrangements in the six hours the battle had been in full force. Morgana is grateful—Glauchedon allows for more comfort, and there is no point in remaining in Peredor to guard an empty plain when the enemy camp has been razed.
Morgause whispers something to Morgana, then disappears with her husband. Morgana stays with Arthur, almost too exhausted to talk. It's a long way to the headquarters, and she can't bother to make any effort at conversation.
Mithian walks with her, her face drawn. It's only when the princess asks to have her brother collected that Morgana remembers that Keredic is grievously wounded. Her mouth tightens, but she doesn't know how to comfort Mithian. She has the feeling that saying "Even if he doesn't survive, he died honorably in the line of duty" wouldn't go down too well with the princess. And as for herself, she is empty, empty, empty. She saw him be stabbed through, but she feels only hollowness.
Arthur, though—Arthur seems to know exactly what to do. He immediately orders four of Camelot's men to carry the unconscious prince on their shields, and arranges a guard of honor around them. He speaks quietly to Mithian, and the princess looks less lost. Morgana watches as Arthur takes Mithian's hand and wipes away her tears.
They look right together.
Swallowing, Morgana fumbles out a handkerchief and thrusts it at Arthur. Then she turns away and starts taking account of her own men. Arthur and Mithian are soon far ahead of her.
She feels small and useless, and she doesn't know why. She listens to her knights and generals report on the casualties, then thanks them before dismissing them to their own devices. The emptiness after battle drains her words. Up ahead, she can see the Camelot knights marching together, jesting amongst themselves. She can imagine Arthur with them, as at ease as he is everywhere else.
It must be nice being loved.
Morgana feels a stab of guilt after the thought comes to her mind. Here she is, at the end of a battle where so many of her countrymen died, moping about how people didn't like her. How utterly pathetic. She straightens her back and marches down with the rest of them, face blank.
"Pendragon! Pendragon!"
The long march finally at an end, peasants and troops alike greet their High King with a thunderous roar of approval. Arthur is smiling, his eyes shining fiercely; anyone can see the raw joy in his every action. The kings and queens of the alliance, directly behind Arthur, are glowing as well. All of them are filthy with muck and blood, but right now, it doesn't seem to matter. Even without crowns and scepters and royal robes, they've never been as regal as they are in this moment of victory.
As princes and princesses, Morgana, Mithian, Bedwyr, and Cador have been delegated behind them. Morgana observes the others as she tightens the bandage on her upper arm. None of them are in good shape. Bedwyr's arm is up in a rough sling, and Cador has a visible limp to his right leg. The two princes seem to have struck up a friendship, however, nudging each other and muttering as they raise their hands to wave. They studiously ignore the princesses beside them, although in a normal procession they would have been paired up with each other for the sake of show. Morgana thinks it might have something to do with the fact that Bedwyr still hasn't apologized to Mithian for his slight against bowmen, and Cador doesn't know how to handle girls, period. Fair enough, considering his sister Vivian's temperament. But Morgana's also pretty sure Cador and Bedwyr both absolutely loathe her. Maybe she shouldn't have insulted them during the meeting set for their acquaintance. Although in her defense, she never enjoys talking when she doesn't have something to say, and what she does have to say is mostly insulting. It's easy enough to be charming when she's supposed to be flirting or the person's madly infatuated with her, but Morgana has no idea how to treat people she's supposed to work with in a serious capacity when they aren't working. Especially when they're her peers. She sighs, and turns her gaze to the princess beside her.
Mithian's eyes are swollen and red. She's still clutching the handkerchief Arthur has given her—the one Morgana passed to Arthur— and her grief is palpable. Morgana bites her lips to stop herself from lashing out and telling the other woman to get a grip on her emotions, that she is losing face in front of her troops. The potential loss of a brother is one Morgana has never had to face, and rebuking the princess when she is so clearly distraught would be even more of a disgrace. Instead, Morgana fiddles with her sword and looks away.
As they march through the road thronged with adoring crowds, the silence becomes nigh on unbearable. Morgana clears her throat.
"You are unhurt, Princess Mithian?"
The princess turns to her, startled. As Morgana looks at her, Mithian puts in a decent attempt at a smile. "I have not been injured, thank you."
She still looks abysmally unhappy. Morgana can't stop the next words from exiting her mouth. "Then perhaps you should at least pretend to be glad we've won." Her voice is harsher than she intends. "For the people, at least."
Mithian looks stunned, and Morgana backtracks hastily, berating herself. "I...that was out of line. I apologize."
A hard look comes over Mithian's face. "Oh no, Princess Morgana. That's the first sincere thing you've said to me since we began this war. There is no need to apologize."
Morgana is now mentally banging her head on an imaginary wall. "I am sorry. I should not have…"
Mithian is shaking. "On the contrary. I am glad to know what you really think." She opens her mouth, then closes it again. Suddenly self-conscious, Morgana raises a hand in greeting to the peasants cheering at them with her expression carefully schooled into the confident happiness befitting a victory procession. Mithian watches as Morgana accepts a posy from a little girl, smiling broadly. Morgana ignores the throbbing in her arms when she reaches out.
"You are good at this." Mithian's voice is almost sad. "But you can't keep it up for long, Princess Morgana. Isn't it exhausting to pretend?"
Morgana bristles, hands still clutching the flower, but keeps her voice even. "I do what is required of me, Princess Mithian. What I feel is irrelevant."
Mithian's lips twist up. "You're not such a big fan of me, are you?"
Morgana blinks in surprise— as much for the words as for the sudden inexplicable warmth in the princess's voice. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."
They've nearly reached their headquarters, a sprawling old stone fortress with military tents surrounding it. It's getting dark, and Morgana musters just enough energy to conjure a dim light to light their way. Mithian raises an eyebrow.
"I didn't take you for a dissembler. You are displeased at my company."
Morgana is genuinely lost now. No one has ever taught her how to act in these situations. She stays silent for a long while. When she does speak, her voice is quiet, uncertain.
"I...am sorry for what happened. We should have kept Keredic safe."
Mithian starts. Afraid that the princess is going to start crying again, Morgana pulls out an extra handkerchief and offers it to her. Mithian stares at it, then slowly takes it. She squints at it in the half-light.
"It was your handkerchief the High King gave me." It's a statement, not a question. In the cover of approaching darkness, Morgana shrinks back a little.
Mithian's face is inscrutable with shadows. They're at the headquarters now, and everyone is reclaiming their chambers or heading to their tents. Arthur turns to the retinue and starts coming by to thank each general and ruler. Morgana mutters, "I really am sorry," and slips away before Arthur sees her.
Arthur does not notice Morgana's absence until he sees Mithian standing alone behind the princes. After some good-natured ribbing and comparing wounds with each of them— Bedwyr is a year older than him, while Cador is five years younger— he sends them off to get their wounds treated properly. That leaves Mithian standing in the grand hall alone. Alone, and not accompanied by Morgana.
Though he has once been betrothed to Mithian, Arthur has not spent any sizeable amounts of time with Mithian before the unification of Albion. But he knows enough to realize that Keredic's critical condition is an especially harsh blow on her. He takes her hand, gently leading her from the drafty hall. Mithian places a delicate hand on the arm he offers as they walk silently down the stone corridors.
When they reach Mithian's chambers, Arthur breaks the quiet. "Keredic is a hero who fought to keep Albion free. You have my word that everything possible will be done for him."
Mithian smiles at him. "Thank you, my lord. You are very generous." Her face is less splotchy now, and she looks calm. Arthur asks, "Will you be able to attend the celebration? If it is unsettling for you…"
The princess shakes his head. "There is no need for that. I appreciate it nonetheless, my lord."
Arthur smiles. "I bid you goodnight."
Mithian curtseys before slipping into her chambers. Arthur ruffles his hair and sets out to look for Morgana.
She's easy enough to find. Arthur steps into her assigned quarters after knocking and sees her immediately. Morgana stands, dropping the bandage she was unrolling in the process.
"Your majesty," she curtseys. He barely acknowledges the gesture with a nod. She remains standing until he takes a seat.
"For gods' sakes," Arthur snaps, "Sit down already." Morgana slowly obeys. She is guarded—he can see it in her eyes.
It's always better to get straight to the point with Morgana. Arthur knows this—if he goes subtle, she'll turn it against him. She's always been good at that. He lets out a breath. "What is it this time, Morgana?"
Morgana is slow to respond. Her eyes flick up to meet his, but she does not speak. Arthur stares back at her.
"Is Princess Mithian alright, my lord?" she finally asks.
Arthur quirks his lips. "As well as can be expected. She is a strong woman."
Morgana nods her head, her unbound hair curtaining her face. Arthur represses the urge to shake her out of the mood she's in. He waits a minute more, and decides that enough is enough.
"Why are you—"
"Do you think—"
Morgana stops mid-sentence, and bites her lips. "I'm sorry. Go on?"
Arthur shakes his head. "What is it?"
Morgana hesitates a little more, then blurts out, "Do you think I'm lying to you?"
He's caught off guard. "What?"
She repeats her words, more quietly. Arthur suddenly wishes he was somewhere far away. "What makes you ask that?"
Morgana pauses, then suddenly turns her face away. "Never mind. Forget I asked."
Arthur's brows crease, but he doesn't press the issue. Instead, he slowly touches her cheek. It's an unexpectedly intimate gesture, and he's embarrassed. Still, he asks, "Is there something wrong, Morgana?"
She flinches a little, then shakes her head. "Nothing to worry about." Arthur raises an eyebrow, and she smiles. "I'm fine, Arthur."
The fact that she's dropped the formalities in favor of using his name reassures him. He lowers his hand and looks at her again. "You snuck away from the procession to change your clothes?"
Morgana smiles as she pats her green dress. "That and to wash up. I was tired."
"And so you decide to abandon us all."
"I snuck out at the end," she shrugs. She looks directly at him. "That was a monumental victory."
Arthur grins. "We'll know for sure tomorrow."
"I was right," Morgana remarks offhand, "we were right to choose you."
He freezes. Morgana doesn't know that his greatest fear is being found unworthy; that he is not fit to be High King after all. Her words are reassuring, although he'd never admit that.
Morgana is oblivious to Arthur's silence. She continues, "No one else could have led the Ten Kingdoms to victory." She looks at him. "Although," she says, "it's a good thing you listened to us. Imagine if you had insisted on staying with the full frontal battle."
Arthur shakes his head. "But I didn't. So there's no point in saying that."
Morgana smirks. "Can't have you taking all the credit though. If you—" There is a small plop, and her gaze is drawn to his stomach. She stares.
"Arthur," she strains out. "You are bleeding out on my floor."
Arthur raises an eyebrow. "And which part bothers you: that I'm bleeding out, or your floor's getting dirty?"
She rolls her eyes and gets him to sit on a long bench. She picks up the roll of bandages she had dropped, and sits next to him. Before she can press it to staunch the admittedly thin trickle of blood from his stomach, Arthur stops her.
"I refuse to get blood poisoning from a dirty bandage. That's just sad."
Morgana huffs at the reminder and picks up a fresh roll from a chest by her bed. Getting him to put one arm on her shoulder, she presses the new bandages to the open wound. Her other arm supports him. "Did you even stop to get this checked out yourself?"
Arthur lets out a breath. "I had to talk to every dignitary here, and then escort Mithian to her room. Didn't quite have the time."
She quirks his head. "You didn't even get this cleaned up?" She withdraws the hand from his back and whacks him on the head. "Idiot."
She puts the bandage in his hand, and tells him to keep it in place himself. Obeying, he watches as she walks around the room, bringing in a washbasin, a flagon of spirits, and- he's pretty sure that's a bathtub right there. Where does she even keep it?
"It's collapsible," Morgana answers, amused, and Arthur realizes he's said the last part out loud. He raises an eyebrow.
"I'm not bathing here for your viewing pleasure."
She doesn't bat an eyelash, retorting, "We've done the standard military first-aid. Clean the wound, ensure no infection sets in. And you really do need a bath—" The last part of his complaint sinks in, and she turns a bright pink. "I'm not— you think— I don't—"
Arthur raises an eyebrow. "I thought not."
Morgana flushes even redder as she stammers, "I'm...I don't…" she rakes a hand through her hair. "I usually only treat my sister's wounds—I've always done this for her, drawing a bath after battles and dressing wounds... I forgot you're not—"
"A girl? I figured," Arthur retorts drily. He's actually a little touched that she'd do the same for him as for her own sister. But he doesn't say that. It's actually fun, seeing Morgana so flustered. She's absolutely lost as to what she should be doing.
"You're intolerable, Arthur." She disappears from view. The door slams, and she's gone for a long while.
Just when Arthur's worried she's run away or done something stupid, she walks back in. "Unfortunately, Merlin's busy rallying the magicians. And the infirmary's already overflowing."
Arthur raises an eyebrow. "You went to the trouble of checking? I always knew you cared."
Morgana puts on a bright, fake smile. "And I always knew you were utterly obnoxious." She puts a hand on her hips. "Now take off your chainmail."
Arthur stares. "You can't order me around!"
She stares back challengingly. He deflates. "It feels like I'm being taken advantage of," he grumbles.
Morgana eases the plate armor from his shoulders and chest, and he bites back a sigh of relief. Arthur pulls off the red Pendragon tunic and the chainmail shirt with effort, until there's only his shirt and trousers left. Morgana places everything he's taken off on her table. She turns to Arthur.
"Well?"
Arthur flushes a little, but takes his shirt off without a murmur. Morgana's staring, and he looks away.
"If you could get on with it before the next battle, Morgana, I'd appreciate it."
Morgana mumbles something most likely insulting before coming over with a washbasin. It's been filled with water, and Arthur is confused as to how that happened so quickly. Morgana notices him staring. "Magic," she says, as if that explains everything. "Merlin fixed it for me before."
She takes a washcloth and gently wipes at the stab wound. It looks worse than it is, mostly because the old bandage has been soaked through and he broke the blood clot on the march back. She dips the cloth in the water multiple times, washing it clean before continuing to clean the blood from his abdomen. Her hair falls across his lap as she bends to reach, and Arthur notes that it's absolutely clean of battle-grime. Probably that spell again— he hisses when Morgana presses a little too hard. "Try not to kill me, would you?"
Morgana is unrepentant. "It's done." She dries the washcloth with a muttered spell, then smiles that wide grin again. "Now comes the fun part."
She pours a liberal amount of spirit on the now dry washcloth, then looks at Arthur. "Don't scream now," she mocks.
Arthur can proudly say that he made no noise as she disinfected the wound with that awful burning alcohol. Even Morgana makes an impressed sound. She wraps the bandage around his torso, tying it with a not-so-tidy knot. It's wrapped too loose, and Morgana frowns before leaning back and muttering another spell.
"Is that your cure for everything, Morgana?" Arthur asks, testing out the now-perfectly fitting bandage.
She quirks her lips up. "Does it make a difference?" She taps the bandage, her eyes flashing again with the use of magic. It suddenly seals itself to his skin, and feels strangely smooth—waterproof. Morgana blinks rapidly, sinking down on the bench. Arthur looks at her with concern. "You're tired."
Morgana smirks. "Worried?" She shakes her head. "Magic's tiring to use when you're already exhausted."
Arthur makes a noise that he hopes sounds sympathetic. He honestly has no experience in that regard.
Morgana sweeps her hair back and waves at him. "The tub's ready in the antechamber. Do what you will, but you had better smell better than your boots by the time you get out."
Arthur grunts, and heads out. Morgana calls behind him, "Lock the doors, Arthur—and don't be too loud. I'm going to sleep."
Arthur's eyes widen. Is the woman crazy, to be willingly letting a man stay in her room while she's sleeping and defenseless? While he's bathing?
Banishing the worry for her sanity and safety that the thought brings to his mind, he strips and sinks into the decent-sized bath. He notices an annoying familiar fluffy pink towel as well as fresh clothes on a stool nearby; he wonders if she summoned them with magic or picked them up from his chambers. As he scrubs at his skin, he notes that the bandage is actually waterproof and keeping his wound dry. An unexpected sound comes from the inner chamber, and Arthur starts before turning around.
Morgana's snoring. The sound is really unladylike. He snorts, then dunks his head underwater. Grime is worked out of his hair, and with it the tension from the battle. The water is now absolutely filthy, but he feels like he could relax in the warm water for a little…
He shakes his head before he can fall asleep. This is Morgana's chambers, not his own, and he's clean enough now. He steps out, dripping puddles on the floor, and quickly dries off and puts his breeches on. He's just about to slip his shirt on when the doors crash open.
"Arthur! I was looking everywhere and you—" Merlin stops midsentence and blinks at the state Arthur's in. He opens his mouth, then closes it. Arthur feels that he has the right to be annoyed, even if Merlin was a key part of their victory and he did thank him just hours before.
"Merlin, explain to me why you blew Morgana's doors off their hinges?" he asks in as patient a tone as he can muster. It ends up sounding strangled. Merlin grins sheepishly, but is interrupted.
"Mm?"
Both men flinch and turn towards the inner chambers. Arthur hastily puts his shirt on. Merlin fixes the doors with magic before stepping past the antechamber. Morgana blinks at them sleepily. Her eyes suddenly come into focus as she realizes there's one more person than she expected in the room. She bolts up.
"Merlin! What are you doing here?"
Merlin's gaping, staring between Morgana and Arthur.
"You—and her— together— um...congratulations?"
Morgana blanches, pulling her blankets higher up. "Are you thinking that Arthur and I…?"
Merlin flushes. "Didn't you…?"
"Why would you….?"
"But you just…."
Arthur bellows, "Enough!" In the brief pause that follows, Morgana manages to force out, "It's really not what you think it is, Merlin."
Merlin regains his own cheekiness. "So...you actually have an explanation for why King Prathead— I'm sorry, High King Prathead— is in your room bathing while you sleep?"
In the end, it takes a full thirty minutes before Merlin accepts that no, there really wasn't anything going on, yes, she was just helping, and no, he is not allowed to talk about this on pain of death. Merlin seems disappointed.
"I thought you both finally came to your senses!"
Morgana flops back down on the bed and Arthur rubs his eyes, his hair still wet. He stands up, dragging Merlin up with him. "We are going to have a talk about blowing ladies' doors down," He grits. He looks at her. "Thanks for the help."
Morgana smiles sleepily. "It's alright, Morgause."
Arthur blinks, dumbfounded. Merlin snickers as Arthur plows out of her chambers in a rush.
But he still makes Merlin use magic to lock her doors for her.
A/N: If anyone is still following this story, thank you so, so, much. I'm sorry for the absurdly long hiatus—I have no excuse. Thank you to Kreuse, YourFavoriteOxymoron, Runnergirl24, AryaTindomiel, Morgan-Julianne, royuki, Best-of-Nerds-and-Spies, Christina-Potter-09, hillevi, Lydia Belle, StoryGamblette, LoVeOvergron, cjr911, JenniferBroflovski, and everyone else who reminded me that the story was still here for me, either via PM or reviews. It was your love for the story that brought me back :P
Thank you again,
Estele.