A Good Man is Hard to Find
(8)
Gwen shivered as she walked through the woods. As the shadows lengthened, the natural sounds of birds and wind rustling the branches became muted. Even her own footsteps seemed to retreat from her, and she growled to herself, not for the first time, about getting involved with men who caused her life to be terrifying and dangerous so much of the time.
She was really starting to frighten herself by the time the lake glinted ahead of her. Before she could get any closer, a sudden noise heralded the arrival of a knight, leaping into her path. She shrieked in alarm, and he, in turn, yelped at the loud noise. They stared at each other for a few seconds, waiting for their heart rates to steady.
"Lady Guinevere!" he gasped, with a clumsy bow.
"Sir Percival," she responded, "and don't call me lady."
He ignored the reprimand, as all the knights always did. She suspected Arthur of putting them up to it.
"We were expecting Merlin," he said, by way of apology.
"Merlin is at the castle. He's... got a plan, I hope. So I'm here."
"You are most welcome." If he felt any doubt about Guinevere's usefulness as a substitute, he was good at hiding it. He offered his arm as though they were at a feast-day dance, and led her into the undergrowth. After a short walk a hoarse voice halted them.
"Who goes there?"
"Percival," called Percival, "and the lady Guinevere."
"My lady!" cried the other knight gallantly. Gwen scowled. The camp materialised around them, cleverly hidden among the rocks and trees. There were familiar faces everywhere, more than she had dared to hope for, and finally, beside a central fire already glowing brightly in the dying light, Sir Leon, looking weary and haggard, and with him, Tristan and Isolde. They greeted her warmly, and she apologised again for Merlin's absence. The two mercenaries looked better rested than when she had last seen them, but perhaps somewhat ill-at-ease surrounded by knights and fervent, idealistic loyalty.
Sir Leon took Gwen's hand between both of his.
"Tell us what has happened in Camelot. Some more joined us today, with disturbing tales," Leon said darkly.
She nodded, and haltingly repeated the events of that morning. Arthur's words at the trumped-up trial, the horrible torture that followed, the chaos of the riot and the formidable magic that had finally silenced it. Her voice strengthened and she looked Leon dead in the eye when she spoke of the key, and the instructions she had given Gwaine and Elyan. Just like Merlin, his face took on a gormless male expression of stupefied amazement.
"Well," she said defensively, for the second time that evening, "did you have a plan?"
"Well, yes," said Leon. "We weren't going to let Merlin plan storming the castle. He's a good lad, but, you know..."
Gwen felt a little disappointed.
~/~/~/~/~
After the riot, Morgana had retreated to her rooms and barred the doors. Agravaine had nagged her for hours through the heavy wood, until she conjured two tiny serpents to slither underneath and snap at his heels, and he stalked away.
As the afternoon wore into evening, she stood brooding at the window, glowering out at the roofs of the city. Her shoulder was bruised where a stone had struck it, and her hands shook treacherously whenever she tried to do anything.
Knowing that Uther and Arthur hated her for her magic had made it easy to hate them, but the city's wrath that morning had made her whole crusade feel black and hollow. What relief could she have from the grief of a lifetime through ruling a city that hated her, that simpered over Arthur like a child over a wounded puppy. What joy could she ever have from ruling these people? It would be better to raze everything – the castle, the town, everyone in it – to burn it all and put it behind her.
But Emrys would never let her escape. She would never be able to run far enough, or fast enough. Every time she blinked, he would be there on the backs of her eyelids, every day until she beheld his corpse.
And how could she ensnare him – if he would not be tempted out of hiding by torturing Arthur, she had no leverage on him. Unless, of course, he had somehow caused that morning's riot, some sort of chaos-stirring spell. The thought made her head spin.
Suddenly overwhelmed with nausea, she sat heavily on a carved wooden chair and closed her eyes, breathing carefully to quell her panic. She opened her eyes and shrieked – Emrys stood against the opposite wall. She shook her head to dispel the vision and glared into the half-light. He was still there.
"Hello Morgana," he said.
She shot to her feet and threw a ball of yellow fire at him, but it winked out against the shield he cast between them.
"How did you get in here?" she spat.
He ignored her. She stared at him until she started to feel light-headed, then sat down again. A wave of defeat crashed through her.
"Have you come here to kill me?" she whispered.
His ancient eyes looked thoughtful. "I've thought about it," he admitted, cryptically.
She glowered at him, watching him minutely for any threatening movement. He stared back.
"I can still imagine a world in which we are not enemies, Morgana," he told her finally, with unfathomable weariness.
She rose, incensed. "It is you, not I, who has chosen to fight against your own people, sorcerer. I would have our kind restored to our proper place –"
"As equals?"
"As rulers!"
"We are not made to rule – you or I, or the druids, none of us. It would be too much power. Look at what you have become..."
She stepped forward, spitting with rage, sparks sputtering at her fingertips. "And yet you did not come to his rescue today, when I had my brother flogged before the eyes of all Camelot! For all your fine sentiments, you would see your king tortured and bleeding rather than come out of the shadows! Even now you cower behind your tricks while he bleeds all over his own dungeon floor!"
He flinched as though the words pained him.
She hurled sparks at his shield and watched it flicker, feeling her advantage like a sudden, unexpected warmth.
"You flatter yourself if you believe that my noble brother would have thanked you, if you had stepped up to defend him. You are content to aid him from the shadows, but you and I both know he would have you hanged if he knew of it. Why do you put your faith in a man so prejudiced, so stupid and cruel, so weak?"
Anger flared in his eyes and he shuddered. She lashed out again and the shield winked out; Emrys parried hastily and narrowly avoided being singed.
"You're wrong," he rasped.
"You know that I am not. It's not too late to switch sides."
He smiled sadly. "I came here to say those exact words to you. But I think we are both wrong. It's far too late to switch sides."
~/~/~/~/~
When the slice of sky visible through the narrow window began to turn pale, Elyan helped Gaius back to the cot in the larger cell, and Gwaine clasped Arthur's good hand briefly before leaving him alone, hunched awkwardly sideways to keep his back away from the wall.
The guards came punctually at their appointed hour, bringing no food this time, but to Arthur's relief providing him with a ragged shirt. The cloth was too heavy and coarse against his wounds, making him grit his teeth in pain, and did little to relieve the chill by now bone-deep in his shivering limbs, but at least allowed him to feel less vulnerable and exposed. They also carried a set of heavy handcuffs. Arthur submitted mildly to the manacles, waiting impatiently for the guards to leave.
As they turned their backs, Arthur saw Gwaine wink at him from the shadows. In a few seconds of chaos, Gwaine and Elyan were standing over two unconscious guards, frisking them for weapons and stripping them of breastplates, cloaks and helmets. Gwaine scowled in displeasure as he dressed himself in Helios' livery. He caught Arthur's eye once he was fully dressed.
"Don't tell me: I look ridiculous."
"No more than usual," Arthur told him wryly.
"That's your own colours you're criticising now, princess, so the joke's on you really," Gwaine argued, still plucking distractedly at the ill-fitting armour.
"Are you ready?" Elyan demanded, exasperated. Gwaine grinned and drew himself up to his full height.
"Wish us luck?"
Arthur smiled crookedy. "Have fun," he said.
~/~/~/~/~
Gwaine and Elyan ghosted through the familiar corridors, clutching their stolen swords. The castle was just beginning to stir, and the servants scuttling up and down seemed too preoccupied to notice the gaunt, grubby faces peering out from their visors.
Their feet carried them automatically toward the gates, remembering patrols they had been on legitimately before Camelot's most recent regime change.
When the heavy, studded doors loomed ahead, they kept their heads lowered and turned swiftly to the narrow door to one side, leading to the dingy staircase and the guardroom at the top, with its view of the drawbridge and the winch for raising the portcullis. Two soldiers sat inside, bleary-eyed and startled.
"Morning, boys!" Gwaine greeted them noisily. "We're here to relieve you. You can go and get some breakfast."
They shifted uncertainly. "We only came on an hour ago..." mumbled the younger of the two, looking hopeful. The other growled and stood up. "Wait, I know you..."
Gwaine shrugged at Elyan. "It was worth a try, eh?"
In the confined space, the fight was short and brutal. The older guard opened his mouth to raise an alarm and quickly found Elyan's fist in it. Gwaine wrapped an arm around the younger one's neck almost companionably and slammed him viciously against the wall. They scrambled to bind and gag the men once they stopped moving and shoved them into a dingy corner.
Outside the window, a voice imitated a bird call.