"A chaos of mind and body - a time for weeping at sunsets and at the glamour of moonlight - a confusion and profusion of beliefs and hopes, in God, in Truth, in Love, and in Eternity - an ability to be transported by the beauty of physical objects - a heart to ache or swell- a joy so joyful and a sorrow so sorrowful that oceans could lie between them..."
― T.H. White

May 29, 1916

France. A great and ancient European state. Site of a thousand wars over a thousand lifetimes, each one more destructive and horrific than the last.

But nothing before could quite compare to the horrors of the Western Front.

The stretch of land in the immediate area had once belonged to a dairy farmer; one could even make out the foundations of a barn not too far away from where the Welsh troops were stationed. But the war had perverted the land and made it a revolting sight. The fences used for keeping cattle in were converted into barbed-wire fortifications for the German forces. The green pastures for grazing were no more, instead covered in a thick layer of sticky, wet mud that clung to everything that touched it. Boots, helmets, shovels, shell casings and more were littered across the once peaceful farmland and embedded into the mushy surface, "keepsakes" of the carnage that transpired. And that is without mentioning the vast amount of human carnage strewn across a mere fifty meters.

Some were lucky enough to be cut down by artillery and machine gun fire; their deaths were swift and hopefully painless - provided the hits were direct. Others were not so lucky and were merely wounded, crawling into a foxhole and waiting for death to come long before a medic could ever reach them. Worse still were the flamethrowers that incinerated everything the gasoline stuck to or the toxic gas that melted the lungs of those unfortunate enough to be caught within the clouds of death. What remained of the soldiers, both British and German, could scarcely be identified if not for the tags they wore, provided they were not destroyed in an artillery barrage first.

But the real Hell did not lie in dying in battle, in fact one could interpret death as a mercy. No, Hell was lying awake at night, listening to the screams of dying men, being powerless to help, and wondering just which day will be your last ever on Earth. Sooner or later, you had to go back over the top and confront the enemy. Whether you did it for God, glory or country made no difference since your chances of survival grew slimmer with each passing day.

This war had been raging for near two years now. Absolutely no headway had been made apart from senseless slaughter. They called it "the war to end all wars," but would that really come to pass?

This was a question Arthur Pendragon solemnly pondered as he scribbled in his journal. Even though he'd only been in France for a few months, he'd had his courage and morals tested time and time again. He had watched friends die in battle saw all manner of things horrific in this world. But he wasn't the only one who felt this way; not even the experienced veterans who had been stationed in France for the last three years could fully comprehend it. Every day it was some new offensive, some new weapon, some new atrocity.

God had truly forsaken this world, and Man only had himself to blame.

There were only two things that were able to distract Arthur from the horrors around him - and in doing so preserving his sanity. The first was the crucifix he wore around his neck; Arthur knew that if he were to be fighting in a godless land then he needed to keep God with him at all times. His faith not only brought him guidance but also comfort. He refused to let the cynicism that plagued other soldiers get to him, and he felt only with a clear mind and a pure faith in the Almighty that he would be able to make it back home.

The second thing that brought him comfort was his journal. Oftentimes he'd keep a record of his thoughts and the events around him, but more and more he found himself taking to sketching on the book's pages. His drawing skills were nothing to marvel at, but they helped to make him feel at ease as he was able to recall the beauty of home through the pencil-marks.

Wide-open green landscapes with hills that seemed to stretch on forever and ever. The cool waters of the River Usk that he used to swim in as a lad. The magnificent oak trees tall as buildings of the Coed Wern-ddu Forest. The rocks and sand along the shorelines of Cardiff and Newport. All visions of beauty of his youth that he did not want to forget, not even amidst the rain and mud and dark skies and chaos he'd endured.

Not that France did not have its own natural beauty untouched by the war, but Arthur longed very much for his return to Caerleon and the visions of beauty he coveted. For himself, Kay, and Ector to all return safe and sound. For the boys in the trenches with him to see their own homes in Cardiff, Swansea, Bangor or Aberystwyth.

For the chance to see her again.

Arthur just finished his sketching of her hair and looked on the whole of his work. It was a remarkable likeness, but in his heart Arthur knew nothing could quite compare to the purity of beauty and spirit that was Guinevere.

His best friend since childhood, the one woman who held his heart, the person who understood him better than anyone else in this world, and he her. Of course, young and naive as they both were, they never had the opportunity to make their feelings for one another known, always believing that the whole world lay just before them. And then the war came.

He remembers the day he left her, on a cold November day in Southampton. His division was making ready to depart for France. He had made two promises to Gwen: one being that he would return home safe, and the second being that when he did, neither of them would waste any more time. He still remembers the beauty of her smile at his words, even as she struggled to remain composed at his departure. Gwen was a strong woman, the strongest Arthur had ever known, but this war was something that neither of them had fully prepared for. Nevertheless, she had faith that the Lord would watch over him while in the trenches; the crucifix Arthur wore had been a gift from Gwen that very day. It had not left his neck for the past six months to the day.

Arthur clutched the crucifix gently but firm, as his thoughts turned to prayer and of the woman he loved.

He closed the book he had clutched in his other hand before putting it in his pack, not wanting to expose it to his comrades who had not laid eyes on a woman in many a month. Some fellows in his unit had shipped out with him last fall, but there were others who had been stationed in France ever since the German advance was halted at the Marne two years before.

Bors was one such veteran. A rough Englishman from Wigan, he usually kept silent about his past experiences, but he was friendly enough to barter with for cigarettes and coffee. When not fighting, most days he could be seen meticulously cleaning his Hotchkiss machine gun to the point it was spotless. Even a drop of mud on the surface would compel him to clean it as if it had already rusted up. Now, Bors was not one to talk about his past experiences before his transfer to the 38th, but Arthur had learned from another veteran that his old platoon was to advance across No Man's Land and he was in charge of providing cover fire with his machine gun. Evidently the weapon had not been cleaned properly and jammed up. Bors would never make the same mistake again.

Not all experienced soldiers were as jaded as Bors. There was Galahad, a young priest from Swansea about a year older than Arthur, who volunteered to take up arms all the way back in August of 1914. He was initially assigned as being a chaplain but insisted that he serve directly alongside the troops as a rifleman. Much more pious than Arthur could ever hope to be, Arthur struggled to understand the contradictory actions of Galahad being an ordained priest and yet choosing to kill. Galahad saw it as his calling from God to shoulder the burden and help to achieve peace through victory. He held no contempt for the Germans whatsoever, but viewed them as unfortunate victims of fate and circumstance. Though not officially acting as a military chaplain, he still blessed the unit every time they went over the top to confront the enemy.

Bedivere and Lucan were brothers Arthur knew from his youth in nearby Newport. Bedivere, the older of the two, was very much interested in his books and in learning. Lucan, the younger, was always more hot-tempered and quick to action. Both, however, were loyal to each other and would do anything for the other. When the war came and Bedivere was drafted into service, Lucan volunteered - even lying about his age - so that he and Bedivere could serve together. The justification Lucan used that if one of them were to die, then the other would be the one to deliver the news to their father, the doctor Bedrydant who was a surgeon not far behind the lines.

Gawain was probably Arthur's closest friend that he had among the sector his unit occupied. They'd both grown up in Caerleon, getting into all sorts of mischief with their little gang, which consisted of the both of them and their friends Tristan, Dagonet, Percival, and Arthur's foster brother Kay. When the time came and they were all called to service, they considered themselves fortunate that they'd all be serving together within the same platoon rather than stretched out across the 38th Division - all except for Kay, who was a commissioned officer serving as the aide-de-camp to his father and Arthur's foster father, Ector, a Colonel who commanded the 16th Welsh Battalion, the very battalion Arthur was serving in.

Though joining the Army was not Arthur's choice to make, he still felt it his duty to serve despite what Ector and Kay had to say about the matter. As officers, it was a matter of honor for them to serve, but they saw no need for Arthur himself to potentially lose his life so needlessly as a mere Lance Corporal in the trenches. Ector was a man of influence within the military due to his prior service and tried to have Arthur sent home, but Arthur refused special treatment. Every home across Britain had sent a son off to war, so what gave him any more right to stay at home while others were fighting and dying for their country? Eventually, Ector conceded and allowed Arthur to continue serving as he had been, but still had Kay check in on him from time to time to make sure he was safe. After all, it was Arthur's father that had entrusted the boy to his care prior to his death.

It was a different time, a different war. Arthur had known the story well. His father, Uther, was stationed in South Africa during the Second Boer War. He and Leondegrance, Gwen's father, had been officers under the command of then-Captain Ector Sauvage. The bond between the three men was unshakeable. Uther had taken a Dutchman's bullet, saving Ector's life but ending up mortally wounded in the process. With his dying breath, he made Ector promise to care for his young son, a task he took immensely serious. Naturally he would have severe reservations about the son of the fallen soldier following in his footsteps.

He had no real memories of his father. He had flashes of what he looked like, but nothing of his personality or his care for him. His mother, Igraine, had died not too long after his birth. In all but name, Arthur had been an orphan for most of his life. Ector cared for him like a son, but Arthur always felt isolated to some degree owing to Ector's family's status compared to his own. Uther had been an officer, yes, but he and Ector could not come from more distinct backgrounds. Uther Pendragon had grown up poor, the bastard son of a coal miner's widow or the like. Ector Sauvage meanwhile came from a prestigious line of military tradition dating back to the English Civil War. Though not necessarily rich, Ector enjoyed the reputation of a minor Lord, and it was through this that he made sure that Arthur was well cared-for and educated just as his son Kay had been.

Gwen's father, Leondegrance Carmelide, was in a similar situation. Though not among the nobility, he too had built a career in the British Army in South Africa, India, and elsewhere. Leondegrance had perhaps been Uther's closest friend, and perhaps one with the greatest understanding of his situation having grown up poor himself in Newport. Nevertheless, he was successful in his career and through his friendship with Ector also made sure that Gwen wanted for nothing in spite of not having much to begin with.

Now, the two men found themselves as commanders of their own battalions. Ector was made the Colonel of the 16th Welsh Battalion formed in Cardiff, while Leondegrance was a Lieutenant Colonel in command of the 10th South Wales Borderers. Both battalions were attached to the 115th Brigade, 38th Welsh Division. The division itself was commanded by a rather arrogant and clumsy man (as Kay had put it) by the name of Ivor Philipps. It was the opinion of some that his appointment as division commander was political in nature rather than military, and some of the men found themselves weary serving under such a man who lacked sufficient experience or command structure. Newspapers back home slandered the 38th Division as being severely under-trained and underequipped to deal with the advancing German Army, which did nothing to lift the spirits of the men in the division.

Eventually, the time for skirmishing in No Man's Land and minor raiding parties would come to an end. The events unfolding in Verdun were proof of that. Something big was on its way, and soon.

"Pendragon! You're up on watch!" a Sergeant called out from down the trench-line.

Arthur released his grip on the crucifix and grabbed his Lee-Enfield rifle. Maybe something was coming, and very soon. With any luck, it might be the end of the war, but despite rejecting the cynicism that existed around him, he was not so naive to think that the war would just suddenly end, either in victory or defeat. It would definitely continue for a while longer still.

But there was this feeling that Arthur couldn't shake. It wasn't a new offensive that had him bothered, or the prospect of an early death. It was something... elusive. It was a feeling he couldn't describe. Like everything was about to change. But how?

The Sergeant handed him a pair of binoculars and he looked over the trench to see the German lines. No movement as far as he could tell.

"Should be alright, lad," the Sergeant commented, "this part of the Somme is usually supposed to be quiet."

May 31, 1916

It was just before dawn in Buckingham Palace. The empty halls echoed with the sound of screaming. A maid emerged from the bedchambers screaming in hysterics.

Less than an hour later, Lord Asquith had arrived from Westminster to assess the situation. He sees a number of courtiers standing outside of the palace walls, along with Mary, the Queen-Consort.

"So it's true, then," Asquith states. It is not a question.

Queen Mary holds firm in her response.

"The King is Dead. Long Live the King."