Author's Note: Hey guys. Thanks for all the attention this story has been getting lately. And I apologize for not updating sooner. College has been hectic. But I figured since now it's the break, and it is Christmas… so I have a little something for y'all. A somewhat lengthy update; if I might say so. Hopefully, y'all will enjoy this. And of course, as always, please do let me know what you think. Good flow. Am I losing the flow? Wrong turns—right turns… etc.
Bless Loki and his sheer-black coat. Sure, at any time of the day he stuck out like a sore thumb- granted, his height of 18 hands didn't do much for discretion. But Night had always been his ally. Which during the darkest of, he'd weave amidst the shadows—the only proof of his presence but his running hoofbeats.
But for now he was still. Melding into the thick of the wood.
Resting a flat palm on his nose to encourage the beast to keep calm, Raivierra slipped out halfway from behind a sturdy tree trunk. Downwind of them (and down a fairly shallow incline) a lively campfire lashed and lapped out in every which direction. Striking at the pairs of boots that lingered at its edge. The flames tentatively licked at the waterfall of red fabric that hung just out of reach. Just beyond the ring of rocks that kept the crackling tinder prisoner.
"Sir." The echo of the man's voice cut through the tranquility of the night. It belonged to one of the duo by the fire. "He was here just a short while ago. He must've taken off right before we arrived."
His partner—or rather, his commander, was motionless and unresponsive. He was staring at something… and whatever it was, it was down low. He turned towards what it was he was looking at, walked a few paces, and stooped. Momentarily disappearing from Raivierra's view behind an old log. When he came back up, it was with something draped over his hand.
The object caught the fire's light for just a moment.
A handful of crimson cloth.
Merlin's scarf.
"He left this in his haste." The man's voice was authoritative—however miniscule his observation was. Sir Leon's always was, when he addressed his fellow knights. "He must know that we're right on his trail." He strode over to where he had left his horse, easing the reins out from under the boulder he had used to stake the gelding to the ground. "Mount up. It's only a matter of time before he's ours." He ordered as he swung himself up into the saddle.
"Sir…" the younger knight started nervously. "It's been this way for days." The man seemed to be gaining confidence with each word; and with each knight that gathered around him. "And for all we know, he's already crossed the border into…"
Raivierra had stopped listening by that point. She couldn't let that whiner damage the men's morale. Low morale meant they'd lose interest. Loss of interest meant they'd give up chase.
And that was exactly what Merlin told her to not let happen.
What he was up to would take time and effort—and ever since that troll hag accused Merlin of theft, it was Raivierra's time and quadruple her effort that he needed.
And Gaius had been so kind as to propose the idea that Raivierra be a decoy. Keep Uther's dogs busy. Well, not-so-much those exact words, but close enough. The point being that she was supposed to waste their time while Merlin was safe in Camelot, trying to expose 'Katrina' for the dung-munching wreaking lump of warts she was.
Well, that explained why Raivierra was donned in Merlin's spare clothing. Why the top—what with Merlin being a charmingly lanky fellow, compressed her upper back and stretched tight across her chest. And why she moved stiffly in trousers that pinched her hips while their rough hems lined the soles of her feet—their excess length crammed into the bulky boots Merlin had given her.
But none of that spoke to why she had agreed to any of this. Especially when she was clueless about Merlin's specific antics that warranted her assistance in this way. That damned boy and his endearing conviction. It seemed this was only the umpteenth time he'd managed to sucker her into doing something outrageous for him.
And the worst of it?
She was naked.
Even in all that clothing. Not to mention the cloak draped over her back and its hood that hid her face in obscurity.
But her back was bare of her regular armaments. Merlin seen brandishing blades? Never. And so to keep up the charade, Raivierra had been forced to leave hers in Gaius' clinic.
Not that she was entirely defenseless. The daggers at her belt had been deemed appropriate—hidden in the folds of her heavy wrap. And of course the tiny knife always on her forearm. Three in total. A few short. Yes, more would definitely be better. Safety in numbers, right?
She warily scanned her immediate surroundings; the way a wildcat does to ensure safe storage of a food cache. A twig snapped and she was instantly on high alert, fingering the hilt of one dagger. Leaves rustled and she drew the blade from its sheath, taking on a defensive stance. The night critter chirped in fear and scurried off along with her long, calming exhalation. She replaced the blade and turned to Loki, quietly lifting herself into his saddle. The worn leather creaked under her and groaned softly as she shifted her weight.
She sat there for a moment. Eyes closed. Steadying herself. Readying herself. Measured breaths attempted to coax away her fearof vulnerability. The one thing that kept her perpetually on edge. The knights not a half-mile from them gave her no worry. And bandits certainly weren't a threat. But…she could smell some rank breath. Steaming and wet. After her. Lassoing her. Reeling her in…
Her eyes shot open. Her heels attacked Loki's flanks. Commanding him to do what both rider and horse did best.
Run.
Loki tore out from the brush like a rabid beast unharnessed. Raivierra ducked against his taut neck to avoid being knocked from her place by a low-hanging branch. He stumbled out into the grassland; his feet desperately trying to keep up as his ardor surged furlongs ahead.
"Sir!" several knights exclaimed in surprise as the duo thundered through the patrol. Scattering them.
"After him!" Sir Leon called out orders as he struggled to regain control of his frightened gelding. "Prince Arthur wants him brought back unharmed!"
With his proper pace and footing came Loki's staggering finesse. He no longer stampeded about, terrorizing the other chargers… but rather, he glided between and around them in awesome displays of agility.
Guiding him with both hands on the reins, Raivierra sent him between two cavaliers. Barely just passing through as his broad body brushed against the other horses on either side. Both knights promptly gave chase. Cursing and shouting all the while.
Raivierra leisurely lifted her left hand to the rim of her hood, pulling it down further over her laughing eyes. Hiding her feminine features from the bright torches they wielded. When her pursuers neared, a flick from her right wrist spun Loki about in a full three-sixty as he ran. Lashing the geldings across their faces with his lavish tail. Discouraging their gaits.
Another knight came at them from the side as three others barred their forward exit. Just as they avoided those that tailed them. Raivierra saw the prideful smirk on the man's face as he closed on them. He thought he had them. Cute.
Raivierra leaned to the right while keeping the reins snug about Loki's neck. A cue understood only by horse and rider. Loki promptly responded by flawlessly changing the direction of his path. His remained facing frontwards, yet he dashed sideways to the right. Curling around her left leg. Keeping a safe five-foot gap away from the courser of the-now-terribly-confused knight. Which grew with Loki's furious peddling that even outpaced the other horse.
They sure as hell hadn't seen that one coming.
Raivierra leaned to the left to counterbalance the beast's influence and slackened her grip on the reins, bringing him back to a steady forwards motion. Straightening his spine. Guiding him with one hand now, they circled around to find only one man and partner still intent on them.
Sir Leon charged the pair full-on. His face hard-set with determination. Loki's sturdy legs danced beneath her in anticipation as the man's bay Andalusian stallion closed the distance between them. The moment just before they collided, Raivierra jerked the reins to the left then righted them while gently turning her left knee into Loki's side. Loki answered her by briefly coasting to the left as if to evade that way—a move which Sir Leon followed. Once again, Loki's Lusitano-mutt blood kicked in. He abruptly planted his front hooves together to the right, then the left, and the right again—kicking up his hindquarters with that last one. All in just over a second heartbeat. And before Leon had even taken another breath.
Having successfully faked their would-be-captor out, Loki fled the scene by the right exit in a mad gallop. Regaining his raw composure and synchronized breathing as he left the knights behind. Disappearing back over the slope from whence he had erupted.
Raivierra slowed the stallion and glanced over her shoulder as she absently stroked her panting companion's neck. They were clear.
But they had left their mark. And it warranted Leon's pursuit. At least for a while longer.
A good hour later found the duo skirting the edges of what looked to be a sad excuse for a camp. Something Raivierra had had her eye on for quite some time now.
A lone horse was tethered to a weathered log. The fire burned low—a generous stack of tinder just beyond the reach of its heat. And above it, some sort of small game roasted on a make-shift spit.
She inhaled. Fowl… though if she had to put a name to it, she'd rather it be 'dinner'.
Loki trotted towards the camp with a gentle squeeze of her thighs. Drawing back on the reins, she dismounted and flipped the leather over his head; leading him towards the fire. She released her grip, leaving him free to move around as he pleased.
The other stallion was almost as dark as her own. He lifted his head to look at her for a brief moment, then went back to his grazing. Not nearly as handsome. Or tall, for that matter. And fortunately, he seemed not to care about their presence.
Tossing a few more logs on the fire, she rubbed her sore hands over its heat—taking the time to rotate the spit so the bird would cook evenly. Actually, so it wouldn't be burned even more so.
A flash of hot leapt up at her foot. Then again. Higher. At her ankles. Again at her calves.
Holding in a shriek of surprise, she furiously stomped out the rogue blaze. Her feet ground into something soft. Smoke rose from a singed cloth underfoot. Some sort of bedroll? Looked more like a glorified (though not by much) rag than anything else. She sneered and kicked it aside. Whatever it was, whoever it belonged to had to be an absolute idiot to leave it so close to the fire.
She warily glanced around as she lowered herself onto the damp log. No doubt that little incident could have drawn unwanted attention. The quiet grinding of the horses' teeth and the steady trickle of a nearby stream served to reassure her that she was alone.
And sitting on something.
Reaching under to retrieve whatever it was, she found herself with a worn leather rucksack in hand. A rather familiar looking item. She shook her head and sighed, letting the furrow drop from her brows. This was perhaps the most common sort of bag in all of Albion.
But what it contained might not be.
Her eyes darted about once more, checking her surroundings before brushing away the top flap and rummaging through the sack. She scoffed and tossed a humble change of men's clothing aside. An empty water skin. Useless. Gloves… that wouldn't fit her. Her hand fell on a rough leather sheath—hiding a knife. She tucked it in her belt. That was worth keeping. A meager sack of coins… well a little extra money certainly couldn't hurt. She'd take that too. And that was it. All he had. She almost felt bad from taking from this man. Almost.
Tossing the bag aside like common garbage, she reached for the roasting fowl. Wait. That was just unsanitary. She hastily wiped her hands on her crude pants. Leaving traces of sweat, mud and… was that…? Yes it was—a little blood. Though where exactly it came from was a mystery. Her own? Maybe, maybe not.
Shrugging, she reached for it again. And recoiled with a hiss. She brought her still filthy hand to her mouth. Sucking at her singed flesh in an attempt to soothe it. How that smoking wooden spit hadn't collapsed was truly wondrous.
Stubborn and starving as she was, she went for it again. Though this time, simply pinched off some of the bird's breast meat. Bringing it to her lips, she blew on it tentatively. Then dropped it aboard her waiting tongue.
It wasn't anything special. Dry. And it tasted suspiciously like charred wood. But to her… heavenly. She dove in for a second taste, cramming a handful in her mouth. Her jaw moved furiously— still habitually accustomed to consuming as quickly as possible before her sustenance was stolen away.
She'd made her way through about a fourth of the bird when it caught up to her. Her mouth and throat were achingly dry. She heard Loki snort. Whinny. Stomp a few times. Damn beast. She reached for the flimsy waterskin. The few drops left in it did little to supplement the overwhelmingly mild flavor and texture of the poultry. Her chewing slowed. Then abruptly stopped. Arms frozen in place. Bright eyes wide. Every muscle in her body tensed. Like a ballista being primed to fire.
A perfectly natural reaction to having the point of a blade pressed against the back of her neck.
"Well well well. What's this?" A man's voice sounded just behind her. Restrained. Uncertain. But threatening nonetheless. "Get up." Came the sharp order.
She flinched when the steel blade prodded her. Insistently jabbing through the cloak's delicate protection. She slowly raised her hands to show she didn't want trouble. An honorable man wouldn't kill an innocent in cold blood.
...And he might not kill someone like her either.
She painstakingly rose to her feet, making no move to look at the man behind her. No reason for caring what he looked like. The fact of the matter was he had her point-blank. She had to get rid of him.
"Turn around. Slowly." the man commanded. Something in his voice… had she heard it before? No. Not a chance.
She shook her head ever slightly. Tranquilizing her curiosity for the moment. Focus. She torpidly moved to face him. About halfway through her turn, she saw it. He relaxed his grip on his weapon.
Perfect.
She flicked her right leg up at the knee, heel first. Stealing a crackling slat from the fire behind her and tossing it into the air. Before the man could react, it was in her hand. And coming at him. With a cry, and using the torque in her position to fully rotate her torso, she extended her arm and swung like a madwoman.
Embers flew. The blow connected. He staggered back, holding the side of his bludgeoned head. She flew at him. Away from the fire. Into her element. Closing in for the kill. She wound up for another brutal swing.
He blocked. He had managed to match her stroke with his sword. Faster reflexes than she had expected. Faster recovery. But now the edge of his blade was stuck mid-way in her armament. Using his leverage, he pulled her towards him. When she drew near, she released her weapon and instead took hold of the back of his neck. Driving a savage knee into his gut. Twice. A third time. His sword fell. He curled about the waist in an effort to defend against her assault.
She stumbled backwards. Holding her jaw. That fist had come out of nowhere. Not a bad shot for someone weakened and caught off-guard. She pulled one of the knives from her belt. Just as he barreled into her with an enraged yell. Clothes-lining her and taking her to the ground. Her hood fell back. Stones and brambles prodded and scraped her back while the man above her scrambled for control. Warmth. The fire hissed a few feet from her left ear. A strong hand gripped her armed wrist. Pounding that hand against a rock until she dropped the knife. A fist flew at her face. She winced. Then…
Nothing.
Everything stopped. It was a pulled punch. He must've noticed. She wasn't quite sure what it was he noticed… but it gave her an opening.
She threw her legs up and hooked his neck with crossed ankles, casting him backwards with a forceful kick from her hips.
Leaping to her feet, she pulled a second knife from her belt and pounced on him—leaning the bulk of her weight on her forearm against his neck.
"W-wait!" A strangled protest escaped his gaping lips.
She listened. Oddly enough. Why?...
She did know him after all. Well… well enough. The light of the fire had caught them, showing her who she tussled with. That endearingly scruffy stubble coating his jaw, chin, and upper lip. Those enticing dark eyes—wide at the moment. Those surprisingly kempt, long brown locks that were splayed out about his face.
Yes, it was enough. She sat up, letting him gasp for breath. His muscled chest and abdomen heaved beneath her as he regained his composure.
"You." was all he breathed out; a look of utter bewilderment openly displayed across his features.
She swung her left leg over to join her right and rose to her feet, leisurely walking back to the log seat. Leaving him to help himself.
A sharp exhale of breath came from his direction. Relief? Disbelief? A little of both. He climbed to his feet and casually dusted himself off. Keeping his eyes on her all the while. She could feel it—a predatory gaze. He strode towards her. Nope. Circled around to retrieve his sword.
A rush of air and he was beside her. Crouching on the log rather than sitting on it. They watched each other for a while before he broke out a smile. "Well, who would've guessed."
Raivierra raised a brow. "Scummy. From the stockades… thanks for that." She feigned collectedness as she caught her breath.
"Yeah, anytime." He nodded between breaths. Sounding as though he had just swam for a lifetime. "I guess this makes us even now."
"I suppose it does." Raivierra agreed with a knowing smile. She wouldn't mention that she'd taken more from him than he knew about.
Something glinted in his hand. He reached towards her. She recoiled. Her knife.
"Keep it." She waved it off. Fair trade. After all, his sat right on her hip.
He tilted his head and slid the knife into his own belt. "You. You're something else." He shook his head as he said so—jaw hanging slack. Looking back to her he grinned, "I mean, You've got a really nice arm." He laughed good-naturedly, referring to the damage she did to him. He gave her the once-over… more like a six-over. "I take that back… you've got yourself a nice everything." He cleared his throat when he was met with a blank stare. "I uh… that is, if I might say so, m'lady."
Really? Raivierra scoffed. They'd just been at each other's throats. And already he was…
"Oh, so it's men's attire that does it for you—is that it?" She shot back smartly.
"For a woman like you? I don't see why not. I think you pull it off quite well." The goofy grin was plastered on his face.
She shifted her gaze from the fire once again. Matching his steady gaze. "Oh really? And what—might I ask, kind of woman am I?" she smirked and quirked a brow. Oh, this should be good.
"Well, clearly…" His confident expression faded. Replaced by a thoughtful look. "I honestly can't say."
A curt laugh escaped her lips. "No? I thought you've known women like me. What happened to that?" She turned away slightly to hide her growing grin.
He peered around at her when she looked away. Staying in her line of sight. "I think we both know I couldn't have been more wrong." His expression softened a bit at the sight of her toothy smile. "You tell me, princess." That got her attention. Well, earned him a glare anyway. "What kind of woman is locked in the stocks one morning, and traipsing about the 'badlands' by night?"
"The kind that toggles levers and bends a few rules to help out a friend." Raivierra replied flatly, reaching for the now-charred-to-hell fowl. She offered him a handful of the scalded meat. "I assure you. It's quite fun."
He accepted the offer. Gripping her hand lightly before taking the food. Pulling gently to make her look at him. "Really? Helping out a friend warrants… what was it— 'insulting the king and his son', as I recall?" He picked at the morsels in his hand, trying to suppress his smile.
"Apparently." Raivierra busied herself with her own helping—avoiding looking him in the eye. Something about him just… it made it tough to swallow. "Clearly, it also warrants dressing like a man and running from the authorities for days without a decent night's rest."
"That was you I saw just down the rise?" His forehead wrinkled with shock. "That was quite a show." He turned about in his squatting position. Looking for something. He found Loki. Well, the stallion's faint silhouette. Not a hundred paces from where they sat. He let out a low whistle. "And that is quite a fine specimen you've got there." He turned back to her with an appraising look. Then nearly fell off the leg when the realization hit him. "The Knights of Camelot? That's who you're running from?"
"Yeah. So I'd get lost if I were you. They're bound to find this sooner or later." Raivierra surveyed their surroundings as she spoke. As if half-expecting her pursuers to fall upon them at that moment. Maybe that would dispatch the annoyance this fellow was. She stole a glance at the man from the corner of her eye. Briefly flicking over his form. Not a bad-looking bloke, capable, a strong wit…and devoting his full attention to her. But no. She needed him gone. And it should make sense for her to want him gone, but…
He was quiet for a moment. Head cocked. Eyes down. As if weighing the decision in his head. She caught herself waiting on him. With baited breath, no less. "Nah. I'll risk it." A grin slowly reformed on his face when he caught sight of the subtle coloration in Raivierra's cheeks. Foregoing mention of it to spare her stubborn ego, he laughed good-naturedly. "Never a slow day for you, I take it? Then I guess this would be an appropriate way for us to cross paths again."
"Much more likely to happen than by me falling into bed with you." She quipped back. "Or… whatever this was." She leaned down and felt around for the shoddy bed… rag. She pinched a corner of it between two fingers and held it up. Still smoking.
"It's been worse." He flashed a roguish smile and snatched the cloth from her hand. "And that, dear lady, is just lewd." He mused at the way she calmly met his gaze. Adding impact to the bluntness of her claim. He drew a pouch from within the folds of his sleeveless jacket and raised it to his lips, took a long healthy swill, then yielded the wineskin to Raivierra
She grasped the neck of the sack. Again, his touch lingered before he actually passed the parcel. Stale mead greeted first her sense of smell, then her objecting tongue. The drink had been long ruined (not that it was of the best quality to start with). Whether by time or temperature, she didn't know… and didn't particularly care. The last drop still settled on her tongue. She tossed the empty pouch back to her fellow scoundrel.
He watched her for a while longer—blank expression and all. Clearly taken aback. He dismissively dropped the deflated sack and held his calloused hand out to her with that broad grin stretching his features. "Gwaine."
A startled, "Beg pardon?" was all he got back.
"My name." He explained, arm still outstretched. "I figured we might take this time for proper introductions… before we're robbed of the opportunity again." Well, he certainly seemed overeager.
She hesitated. Taking her sweet time. Watching him try to contain his sudden enthusiasm. Her eyes fluttered back and forth between his face and hand. Finally, she reached for the latter—warm with a strong grip. "Guinevere." The name rolled smoothly off her tongue. It's not that she didn't trust the man. It's just that—well, yes actually. She didn't trust him… or was it herself? Regardless, something about him just seemed… off. Downright unsettling.
"Guin…evere." He sounded out the name. As if measuring its palatability. "It's a name worthy of royalty."
He'd been so busy concocting his flattery, he was slow to let go—leaving Raivierra to briskly pluck her hand from Gwaine's grip. "Isn't it." She half-heartedly agreed. She'd have to let Gwen know… or not. She wasn't typically the bitter or jealous type of woman… just in this special instance, an ounce spiteful and a pinch covetous. Not that Gwen had anything she wanted. Not completely… not yet.
"Right." Gwaine leapt to his feet and clapped his hands together. "Well. Lady Guinevere… you've had a rough day."
Raivierra raised a brow and audibly scoffed out, "You don't say. Tell me more."
He squirmed a bit under her piercing, condescending gaze. "I was going to say that you're welcome to stay… but now I may have to reconsider."
"Really? Interesting you should say so. Because I wasn't planning on leaving—welcome or not." She narrowed her eyes at the sorry blanket he had thrown on the ground and was now working on straightening it out. "And staying along for safety does not mean laying with you."
Gwaine looked up from his attentions to the tattered cloth and feigned an offended guise. "I'd never suggest such a thing…" His face transformed into a pleased smirk. "Though that is twice you've mentioned it… and I might not protest so loudly."
Raivierra rolled her eyes and retched for show. "Don't flatter yourself." she shot back, easing herself onto the ground. Taking the privilege to use his rucksack as a substitute pillow.
"Though…staying closer couldn't hurt. For safety's sake."
Note: So, hopefully that wasn't too awful. And I'll try to update more throughout the break… maybe. I'm open to suggestions/critiques. I want them, actually. So please do keep those lovely comments and reviews coming. And chances are there are typos (I was jumping around) that I'm not seeing. So feel free to point them out. Merry Christmas/ Happy Holidays, y'all.