Loyalty
As Agravaine entered Lady Morganna's hut, he prepared himself for the unexpected, as he did every visit. The wild witch danced on the cliff's edge of insanity, yet it made her all the more powerful for it. Occasionally he would find her, body crumpled on the floor of her shack, the air thick with the smell of poppy and the heat of her cauldron. Other times, glass and wood shavings alike peppered the floor, flecked with blood, casting a small circle of calm around where the woman lay. Many candle-marks he spent tending to her feverish brow, keenly aware of the energy crackling around him, defending her even as she slept.
Yet this morning as he let himself in with a gentle knock, even he could barely stifle the shock that coursed through him, paralyzing him in the doorway as it closed on his back.
The Lady Morgana was leaned comfortably on the hearth, hand gently curled around a steaming wooden cup, her lips pulling at the edges. A fur lay across her lap, the light of the fire dancing gently on her pallid skin as she relaxed, completely at ease. Her green eyes glimmered in bemusement as she watched the servant- Merlin – as he gingerly lifted a glass vial, still corked and brimming with liquid even as a smoldering pool of its brethren lay broken by the mans boots.
"And that one?" Her voice flickered in gentle glee as she looked down at the manservant through thick eyelashes – not even sparing a glance to Agravaine's presence in the entry.
"I recognize it, my lady. Tincture of Belladonna and Willow-bark, taken at night to soothe the sleep"
Merlin paused, as if weighing carefully his next words. "It is best if made daily, prepared under moonlight." He admitted, pursing his lips in slight worry. "Storing them together like this will slowly dull their medicinal properties."
"I trust you remember how to make it." There was no question there, just the demanding demeanor of status.
The young man nodded eagerly, a toothy grin flashing across his face. "I'll gather what I need to prepare some tonight. But first…" He waved to the small disaster he was currently crouched over, rubbing his neck sheepishly.
The lounging witch gave him a small, pleased nod. She swirled the liquid in her cup slowly, eyeing the soft tendrils of heat dissipating from its surface. A moment later, her eyes glimmered and her lips twisted again in ravenous glee. "Using magic would be faster."
Agravaine's stomach dropped, cold settling into his feet. He was grateful for even the unstable presence of the door behind him, fearing Morganna's lack of control, or perhaps his growing anxiety twitched over what she had implied.
Merlin. King Arthur's personal manservant-
"Trust me, you don't want a repeat of what happened last time I tried cleaning up potions with magic." Merlin chuckled as he plucked a rag from a nearby shelf and began separating several more vials from the pool of viscous tincture beneath, softly clinking as they began to form a line away from the glistening graveyard.
Completely unbothered.
Speaking of Sorcery, as casually as one would dinner. Catering to the Wild Witch -
Morganna's eyes flickered towards Agravaine dangerously, and a sudden rush of blood compelled him to move. He stepped into the light before kneeling at her feet, lips open in a small gasp as his head nearly swam from the movement. How long had he forgotten to breath?
He was aware of Merlin shuffling, quietly and nondescript in the shadows, as he tidied up the room.
"My Lady?" A hundred questions dripped heavily from his two words. He slowly raised his head to meet her sharp eyes, but his unspoken curiosity was rebuffed by her own.
"The plans."
He could not restrain the flicker of his eyes towards the silhouette in the corner of his vision.
"I have been working my connections for a season. It takes time. The Mapmaker's boy is fiercely loyal-."
Morganna hissed, barely concealed outrage sparking gold embers in her eyes. "How long must I suffer your ineptitude!?"
"My lady, I fear pushing the boy will only cause -"
"Then break him."
A cold shiver went up his spine, yet he refused to let it show on his face. Her tactics may be harsh, yet war left none unscathed. Still, he had thought they had more time… but whatever had compelled her to move up her timetable was of no concern to him. His fingers clenched tightly, a plan already forming in his mind. If the boy forces his hand, so be it. A well placed letter on a corpse was all it would take. He bowed his head in quiet agreement.
Morganna sighed, the soft clatter of her wooden mug finding purchase on the stone beside her.
"And Agravaine, about your investigation into our friend Emrys-"
A small thud and several clinks echoed from the corner, the silhouette of a servant shrinking in on itself with a flinch.
The witch waved her hand dismissively, a wicked glint in emeralds as she made purposeful eye contact with Agravaine. The servants movements began, and again Agravaine could not contain the quick shudders of his eyes, darting between the two sorcerers before him.
"Consider loose ends tied." Her delicate lips pulled into a sneer.
He sputtered, thoughts clamoring wildly against his skull. Each one trampling over the next as his eyebrows tangled. His lips parted in a desperate attempt to form a sentence, yet the pitiful sounds were quickly cut short.
"Three days, My Lord." Her lips drawled the last two words, smiling wickedly.
Her sweet voice sang like a harp, yet simultaneously threatened to hang him on its taught strings.
Agravaine's throat tightened, closing off whatever arguments he could summon. Her earlier warnings still ringing in his head. "...Then I really don't know what use I'll have for you."
He lowered his head deeply once again, gathering the fabric of his outer cloak and lifting himself off the ground. He swept his way out the entrance, peripherals of his eyes tracking the servant in the corner until he was out of sight. In a brief swell of care, he worried if she should be left alone with him-
The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and even if he wanted to, he could not will his feet to turn back towards the shack. He fought against the tingling in his limbs, urging him to fly as fast as he could. As the warmth of the hut faded behind him, several large trees blocking him from view, Lord Agravaine could feel the courses of adrenaline begin to calm in their swells. The tips of his fingers numbly adjusted his collar.
The Lady Morganna was already a volatile and dangerous ally, and he had to admit his care for her sometimes blinded him. Yet…If what she said was true.
With the last High Priestess and Him working towards the same goal-
Not only Camelot will crumble in their wake.
All of Albion will.
Loyalty
The market was as lively as ever.
The scent was the thing she had missed the most, she decided. The sweet smell of fresh apples, clean laundry drying above their heads in the sun, even the softly stinging familiarity of horse dung that packed between the cracks of the stone.
The merchant stalls had been up for many candle-marks already, the sun high in the sky. Children hooped and hollered as the smallest of them escaped with fistfuls of pilfered goods. A basket of laundry careened into her path as she twisted out of the way, nearly dropping her own.
With a nimble grace she collected her flailing skirt and stepped down the cobblestone path with confidence.
A short man was getting red-faced while yelling at a seemingly bewildered shepherd, his dozen goats loudly complaining behind him. A scullery maid with an empty flagon hovered, apparently torn. With a grimace, she recognized farmer Wilfred, apparently still on his tirade of harassing the migrant herders. As if their animals had anything to do with his lack of crops. She felt a pang of sympathy even as the cornered man sputtered, the sight pulling the edges of her lips into a sad smile. Poor fool. Shaking her head, the woman turned to continue on her way.
Before abruptly colliding with a young man.
Guinevere let out a sharp exhale as she stumbled, desperately clutching at the fast falling cloth before it could permanently absorb the smells underfoot. Hands reached out to help as they both gripped a tattered yellow linen.
She paused, a flush approaching her dark cheeks. Ringlets had loosened and fallen into her eyes as she blinked at the owlish face only inches away. Two wide, innocent orbs flickered back at her with uncertainty.
"My apologies! Here." The boy – barely a man now that she saw him clearly- clumsily pushed the remaining bundle through her arms towards the basket. His long fingers stumbled as he briefly grasped the edge of the wicker.
She gave him a soft smile, bringing a deep flush to the boys pale face.
"Thank you."
A simple nod, a simple smile, and they parted ways in the middle of a simple life.
Sometimes, she missed that, too.
Gwen's smile faded as she turned the corner into an alleyway, eyes narrowing on each open window and flutter of curtains. Her skirt whipped against her form as she moved, dodging into another small gap before appearing on the other side, the basket pressed closely against her chest.
A flutter of fingers followed the ridge of a seam, until brushing against the frayed edges of woven parchment. As her knuckles tightened around it, she battled against the hope that pounded against her chest. It bubbled against the surface of her calm demeanor as she kept her face smooth, her heels swift, but not hurried.
Hope alone would not bring her closest friend back.
But she had faith that King Arthur would.
Loyalty
His throat ached as bile clawed its way up his esophagus. The pounding in his skull echoed every laden footfall, stumbling and catching on gnarled roots as his numb fingers pulled himself further.
He could not outrun the darkness.
The forest seemed to laugh with wicked glee as it pulled at his cloak, catching threads to yank him ever backwards into its great maw. Sharp branches clawed, breaking his skin as he pushed them away, crying out with an empty voice. The shadows had swallowed that too, and now it was going to take him. There was nowhere to go.
A gleam danced against the trees, a small star of hope responding to his unheard cries.
The boy moaned in effort, sound finally passing his lips as he struggled against the vines. A gold glimmer in his eyes, flickering like a melting candle, pushed against the shadows encircling him, and he stumbled forward.
The trees came back into color as he moved closer. Glistening greens and friendly whispers of the wind coaxed dew drops down their leaves. The ground grew softer, a thick swell of moss welcoming his weary feet. A blue butterfly flickered across his vision, guiding his view to its perch, climbing steadily up the lichen rock-face.
The sunlight again danced across metal, gold and silver hews spilling onto the moss below, as if fae skittered across their surface. Even where the sharp edges met the earth, there was no sign of rust nor wear. The etches of runes swam in his vision, soft murmurs that fluttered across his consciousness.
His fingers longed to grip the leather wrap, but the whispers on the wind stayed him.
It was waiting for someone.
A gaunt face, raven black hair and dull blue eyes assaulted him. Fingers gripped his shoulder tightly, he could taste iron on his tongue, red dripping from the image in front of his, screams assaulting his senses.
Mordred awoke with a start, desperately gulping at the air, blanket thick with sweat as it twisted around his legs. His straight black hair clung to his forehead and neck, the boy swiping at his brow as he curled into himself, stifling a sob. He hadn't had prophetic nightmares for two winters now, and he was terrified of what it meant...
Terrified for the desperate, pleading eyes that he remembered being so warm and comforting when he was young.
Merlin?
Loyalty
Arthur.
A soft whisper steadied him.
The tender, familiar voice wrapped around his person, enfolding him in its reassuring embrace, rustling with confident, soft caresses as brilliant yellow sparks glittered from his skin.
The hard sheath below giving way like butter beneath his grasp.
The tired hide molding into his palm… As if it were made for him to hold.
A promise fulfilled.
A warm golden glow. An early sunrise against the frost. Beams of light scattering against the morning dew, path illuminating with glimmering light.
Darkness threatened behind him, black tendrils snapping at his heels, hissing angrily.
Yet he wasn't worried. He was protected.
He-
The abrupt opening of a window gave way to the terrible sounds of the outside crashing onto him.
The bell tower rang loudly, echoing against his ears as sharp light exploded onto his face- much less inviting than the warm embers of his dreams. Arthur groaned, flipping over in defiance, gripping a feather pillow to his face. He pushed the down into his eyes, trying to remember a gilded embrace pressed against him-
A rooster's harsh crow.
Blinking, he glared over the ridge of his feathery hold-fast, the world blurry as he attempted to send a 'look' at the movement stirring at the foot of his bed-frame. A pale man with dark hair wavered before his vision. Crimson clashed with blue, an outline of brown.
For a brief, blissful moment-
Then reality struck, sinking like a stone in Arthur's stomach.
An unfamiliar man swam into view. Precisely cut hair formed a line parallel to his eyebrows, his back painfully straight and arms neatly folded behind him. His chin was high, but not defiant, and his eyes focused gracefully a foot and to the left of his kings bare chest.
Much too proper for the first light of day.
"Who are you?" Arthur croaked, sleep still stinging his vocal chords.
"I am your new manservant, Sire."
Arthur stiffed the sound coming from his throat in protest. He leaned back into his soft pillows, wildly tossed behind him in his reckless sleep. He nudged at the sheets that wrapped itself around his left foot- eyelids pressed together desperately as he tried to take in the words being hurled at him so early in the morning.
"-your armor, sharpened your sword, selected your clothes. There is a slight chill in the air today, sir. And now, if you would allow me, I would like to serve you breakfast." A tight nod as he accentuated the last word with pride.
Arthur was suddenly aware of the sickly sweet scent of cured meats. He followed the strangers eyes to his dining table, the wood almost bending under the weight of many colors. Sausage links careened over silver platters, their edges dripping in black pudding. Two bread rolls, three meat pies leaned against each other in a small tower, decorated with tomatoes on the vine and a sprinkle of blackberries. An entire bowl of fruit threatened to push a large carafe off the corner.
The decadent feast assaulted his eyes, making his stomach churn.
He struggled against his warm cocoon, shedding blankets as he fought to face the attacking daylight with a barely concealed scowl. A white, square cloth was being draped across his him-
"What's your name?" He threw the handkerchief somewhere lazily as he straightened to swing his legs off the side of the mattress, still fighting to unhook his left heel from the linen grasp.
"George, sire, at your service."
"George. Listen George. It's all very impressive but I already have a manservant-" Was that a spoon in his hand? His mind reeled to keep up with his lips as he resisted the urge to throw anything that fell between his fingers. "-Alright, hes shabby-looking, has appalling manners, He's extremely forgetful-" The silverware dropped, clanking against the cobblestone as he pushed himself upwards onto his bare feet, the world swaying before his eyes.
"Precisely sire. The Lady Guinevere insisted you not be without-" George was now brandishing a crimson robe, holding the shoulders out before him eagerly.
"Merlin is my manservant. And to be honest, I quite like it that way!" His words felt sharper than intended as they echoed deafeningly back at him against the walls.
George's gaze met his, servants arms stilled in their half-reach. Dark eyes, almost concealed under the scrunch of his brow and narrowed lids, seemed to search his own. The prying, almost pitying look directed towards him made Arthur seethe.
Heat, embarrassment, anger, grief, fucking everything rose to his cheeks.
Arthur made a tactical decision, or at least he convinced himself later that it was. He stormed out of his chambers in just his breeches, leaving the steward to his visible shock.
Later, he would skirt around to the armory and prepare himself as a common sentry, in an attempt to leave the castle unnoticed.
It did not go as planned.
Loyalty
Lancelot huffed as his chainmail clinked, jogging in his attempt to keep pace with the lightly armored figure in front of him. A chestnut destrier was already saddled in the courtyard, calmly observing the two men hurrying down the castle steps.
"We're as worried about Merlin as you are!"
"You're not going to change my mind." The king declared, quiet but firm, back stiff as he walked with clear purpose.
"Sire! We don't know if the mercenaries have even left the forest." The knight sounded exasperated as he quickly pleaded.
"I have to do this!" Arthur hissed through his teeth, stopping at the mounts side and swinging a small bag onto the saddle before him.
"The patrols already-"
"Do you really expect me to just sit here? While Merlin-" Arthur's voice twisted in his throat, the memory of a narrow chin that dripped with red haunting him. He fiddled with a belt buckle, checking the laden water-skin hanging from the saddles side. "I have to try."
The horse nickered restlessly, tail whipping. Lancelot moved a slight bit closer, hand rubbing against the dark mane in soft apologies. As the beast calmed under his touch, a barely vocal whisper fluttered from his throat.
"...I was thinking flowers."
Arthur's fingers paused in their efforts, halfway weaved into a silver buckle. A slight twitch of his jaw as the king's lips pushed together, head and heart doing fierce battle. His eyes narrowed as he looked to the knight beside him, meeting his gaze steadily.
"Trouble in paradise?" Arthur asked.
Lancelot nodded with only his eyes and a slight of his chin.
Arthur swallowed dryly, biting back the 'well why didn't you just say so' as his eyes scanned the courtyard. Two maids paused in the shadow of an eave, arms burdened with baskets, hurrying away from his sight. Many windows were open to the humidity of the day, tall stone walls bouncing sound and sun alike. With a sigh of defeat, he motioned to the stablehand hovering nearby, and the boy quickly scrambled to take the reigns of the large horse.
Lancelot clapped him on the shoulder with a small smile, gently guiding him back towards the stone steps, words of reassurance spilling out his mouth.
"Leon is handling the patrols, if there is any hint-" He briefly paused over his words before quickly continuing on. "We are all working day and night, doing everything we can. What you can do, sire, is relieve the councils concerns."
Arthur rolled his eyes, giving his friend a pointed look. Lance put his hand up as he shrugged.
"The Round Table will be ready for you afterwards."
The nickname his inner circle had lovingly adopted echoed in his ears a promise. They had all made their stand, taking their places around the dusty ancient table of the old high kings.
None were alone, servant and highborn alike, and none would be left behind.
Loyalty
Arthur's eyes tore over the creased parchment in his hands.
"The same as usual then." A sigh escaped his lips and he drug one hand over his eyes, thumb slowly massaging the bridge of his nose.
The kingdom of Nemeth had been giving him headaches for two seasons now. Their negotiations long soured with the same stale words of refusal, neither side willing to yield theirs claims over Gedref. King Rodor was a stubborn man, and clever enough to secure whatever he wanted, given enough time. His many years of ruling a prosperous kingdom hinted at the long term forethought of a patient, secure man. And the Princess Mithian had grown into a fierce and fine woman, just as clever and willful as her father.
Arthur had to admit she would make for a fine queen. There could be worse matches made, and both their kingdoms would come away stronger for it.
He wondered what advice Merlin would give him-
His chest stabbed at the thought.
He tossed the flaxen letter, glaring as it gently settled with a soft breeze on the table. Not nearly as satisfying as he had hoped.
"I'm not penning a new response with the same old words." The king grumbled as his arms folded before him.
The council seemed to heave as they all deflated at once.
Lady Floris gave him a soft smile from her place next to the royal librarian, and Sir Ector only shook his head, hands crossed his chest as he reclined, faintly disinterested in the going-ons around him. Sir Gornemant de Gohort, a stern and weathered former knight, leaned onto his elbows, motioning towards his goblet. Breaking from his statue-like presence in the corner, George swept a bow over the Lord's shoulder, red liquid pouring from the pitcher in his elbow without spilling a drop.
The Lords and Lady around the table had almost all carried over from his father Uther's old reign, with the exception of the Knight-Commander Leon taking Arthur's old position. The only two notable absences from the sudden meeting were Gaius… and Agravaine.
Arthur briefly wondered what excuse he would invent this time.
"Sire, if I may." Geoffrey sat to his left, shifting uncomfortably in the hard wooden chair, old bones creaking. Arthur gave him a small nod to continue. "I have brought news of the settling tensions in the south." The heavy book before the librarian sputtered dust as its pages were flipped open. A curling note fell out of the seam, ink smudged across it, as if it was never left to dry before rolling into itself.
Geoffrey cleared his throat, pausing as he looked up from the woven material to meet the councils gaze.
"The Kingdom of Dumonia is no more."
The Lady Floris leaned over Geoffrey's arm, ignoring the slight blush on the old mans cheeks as her long silver braid fell over her shoulder. Her keen eyes scanned the pages in front of him, lips pursed.
"I thought perhaps you brought news of Tir Mor. To think Dumonia's border wars had reached…" Her usually boisterous voice spoke softly now, drifting off.
Geoffrey seemed to forget about the closeness as he continued, eyes occasionally dropping to review his notes between breaths.
"New border lines are being drawn across the battlefields. Two leading factions have formed-" Fingers fluttered against pages as he traced his thoughts. "One claiming the lands on the southwestern shore under the banner of a Lord Mark of Cornwall. The northernmost naming itself Devon, still wrestling against Wessex's forces, and only rumors of its king-"
"What do we know of this Mark of Cornwall?" Arthur's fingers tapped impatiently against the wood, having no interest in 'rumors'. Leave that to Guinevere.
"If there are records of his heraldry, they are not found here." The man shook his head, lips pursed. The librarian famously hated ignorance, particularly his own.
"Perhaps now would be an opportune time to show our support for their claims?" Sir Alymere, a snide smile on his thin lips, always thinking of the next political advantage. His thin form appeared as he leaned forward, barely protruding from behind the larger frame of Gohort.
Lady Floris scoffed as she leaned back in her chair, glaring at the Lord across from her. "And send troops south by- Wessex? Oh, I'm sure King Cedric and his Saxon friends would love the Knights of Camelot crawling up and down their lands."
"If we had seized control over Gedref-" Alymere's sharp retort was interrupted by Sir Gornemant de Gohort, the burly man's deep voice jumping to defend his sister.
"Seized? Now you speak of poisoning our relationships with the kingdom on our boarder! Are you mad?" His fist slammed into wood, the table clamoring beneath him.
"Quiet." Arthur placed his palm in the air, slowly stemming the clatter of nobility around him. He resisted the urge to push at his skull as the pounding momentarily receded. "Leave the people of Old Dumonia to decide their future. There has been no call for aid, so no action will be taken."
Geoffrey hummed happily, his dripping quill scratching a mark onto the parchment.
The burden of his crown- though physically sat in a velvet-lined box many doors away- weighed heavily on his shoulders. Arthur glanced around the table until he saw Sir Leon catch his eye. A small nod towards the knight bid him to speak.
Knight Commander Leon stood, a swift bow as the crimson mantle billowed behind him.
"Western patrols picked up a trail belonging to a large group. We believe it to be the mercenaries moving back from the Valley. By the time we had tracked them, they managed to cross the mountains, heading north towards Caerleon."
Arthur observed the man, noticing he said nothing of signs of hostages. His stomach plummeted as his mind briefly considered what that meant.
"Caerleon?" He asked, Leon's curls bounding as he gave a quick nod in response. "Curious. Alinor's holding lay on the inside boarder of Dyfed, do they not?" Eyes flickered to the maps before him, suspicions prickling at his forehead.
Dyfed was neither friend nor foe to Camelot, and their tentative peace only held as long as the boarders remained unmolested by the other.
Dyfed's northern neighbor, Caerleon, on the other hand-
Queen Annis was now friend to Camelot, trade routes blossoming in the first turn of the season after their truce began. Their two armies had been poised on the edge of a knife, only moments away from the clashing of swords that would tear their fragile peace to shreds. Paused only by a dramatic single-combat duel, in which his sword felt like it bore the weight of all the many lives depending on him.
Their armies long march home felt fleet as they celebrated each night.
Surely, not even Alinor had missed that.
And yet his mercenaries, with Camelot knights on their tail, fled in the only direction they could possibly follow…
"Reign in your search." He decided.
"Sire?" Leon's brows knit, and Arthur wished he could ignore the worry dripping from the knights tone.
"I want all forces within a days ride of the capital." He shook his head lightly while saying it, as if in disbelief.
"The battalion at Gedref, sire?"
He sighed, suspicions and anxiety twisting inside him. One wrong move, and they would be left vulnerable. Even as they looked to the north, pulling their forces from the southern causeway could prove fatal.
"They can stay. But I want regular reports-"
The notches in the wax seemed to taunt him, the next candle-mark slowly slipping by. His own voice began to grate at him as he squashed arguments between his advisors. The goblet in his hands drained twice, and he was increasingly grateful for the hovering, quiet presence of George behind him.
He winced as the thought had crossed his mind.
Eventually, every agenda had been spoken about, some issues coming back around to ignite bickering once more. The agitated voices of politics slowly being replaced by quiet chuckles and exhausted stretches of arms. Geoffrey had turned to Lady Floris, eagerly attempting to convince her to attend his weekly reading group, much to the senior Gohort's amusement.
At last, Arthur stood slowly to his feet, the sounds of chatter dying down as he bowed his head, thanking them all for their support. As he fell back into his chair, he drained the remains of his goblet, and as soon as he had the thought – sweet red wine was being delivered once again to his hand.
As George moved back from the table, Arthur noticed Guinevere's form step from the shadows and put a soft hand onto his shoulder. She whispered into his ear, and he nodded back in return, motioning for her to take the carafe from his hands, eyes flickering to the mess on the table as chairs began to rustle, the lords and lady slowly rising to their feet. Gwen took his previous position with ease as the steward moved to leave the room through the back.
Well practiced, he admired. He briefly wondered if he could learn to give orders while appearing to receive them. A useful skill, if ever it was needed.
He watched the guards pry the heavy oak doors apart, lowering their eyes respectfully as the council retreated to the hall. The Lady Floris flashed a withering smile to the elderly Geoffery as he gave a small bow, eagerly hobbling after her with his thick leather binding between his fingers.
The quiet Sir Ector trailed after Leon, likely planning to corner him in the hallway and demand a place on the patrols for his young son. As if the poor squire didn't have enough to deal with in his overbearing father.
The senior Gohort paused by the door, catching Sir Percival's eye and making a small movement with his hands. The knight responded with a grin, putting two fingers up in response. The burly man chortled as he stepped into the corridor.
As the council vanished from sight, the guards ducking their heads and retreating outside, Arthur could feel a heavy sigh escape his lips.
Gwen collapsed on a chair beside him, eyebrow raised. Arthur only grimaced back, causing her to giggle.
They both began to work, shifting the papers in the center of the table and stacking small platters dusted of crumbs in a corner.
For these peaceful moments, there were no titles. Only the names of friends.
Lancelot appeared, taking the plates from Gwen's gathering arms with a small smile, receiving a peck on the cheek in return as he flushed.
The back door opened, George bowing in the tight entrance to the knights that came careening in. Percival and Elyan shoved each other as they collided, barely avoiding clashing into the sharp back of a stray chair. Gwaine had caught them both, both arms swinging around their necks and pulling them back into a hug, the mens laughter choking in their throats.
The steward backed away as the door closed, leaving the members of the round table to their privacy.
All but the shining halo of Leon, likely still struggling against the aggravating Ector.
Sir Leon, and-
As they all slowly found their chairs, casual laughter faded. The heavy worry and grief they were all stifling came bubbling to the surface. The rustle of fabric stilled, smiles dimmed, until the only sound in the long hall was the ever-crackling fire in the corner.
The spymaster was the first to move again, her lithe fingers pushing a small folded cloth towards the king.
Arthur felt his nostrils flare, palms sweaty in their desperation as he met Guinevere's knowing eyes.
He gathered his remaining endurance, glaring spitefully to the candle notches against the slowly dimming light of day. He reached out to unfold the cloth, grateful for the presence of his friends surrounding him as the wine thickened in his throat. Eyes scanning hurriedly the ink scratches, than once more carefully.
They would tighten their net one, final time.
And he would force Agravaine to tell him where his manservant had gone.
Loyalty
It was cold outside.
Early spring days had given way to brisk night air. The chill had caused him to hover near the walls, collar upturned. Dancing on foot to foot as he breathed into his shaking numb fingers. Even the adrenaline could not keep him warm. His secret meetings with the council member had always betrayed risk, and he had known that this time was just, if not more so, dangerous. Even as the soft clink of coin exchanged between their cold hands, he dared not even breathe loudly.
But it was cold-
A sharp exhale escaped his lips as he felt pressure, heat pouring from his side. The taller man leaned over him, the scent of pine sap dripping in rising copper-
The smell of my own blood, he realized with cutting terror.
His hands shook as the pouch dropped, being replaced by a sticky hot liquid washing over his nails as he pressed his palms into his stomach.
Eoghan's wide eyes met with Lord Agravaine's, a small glimmer of pity as the older man smiled. He pulled swiftly, ripping the cold steel from the boys belly as the mapmakers apprentice fell to the ground. Slowly he toppled from his knees, gasping as the blood coated his teeth, curling in on himself desperately.
Reaching down, Agravaine plucked the leather pouch from the cobblestone, ignoring the few pieces of coin that had rolled and clattered beside the bleeding and sputtering boy. They would help set the scene, after all.
Kneading a worn key between his fingers, the man turned up his hood, eyes darting around the alleyway. After a moment of reflection, the sound of the boys gasps still tickling his ears, he moved into the shadows towards the eastern wall.
As the hooded man dissipated into the night, Eoghan struggled to listen to his footsteps fading over the sound of his own gurgles. They had warned him it would be painful, and he was suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude towards the thick leather vest one of the knights had insisted he wear under his tunic. He said his sister had helped make it, with a shining prideful smile that only beamed more loudly against his dark complexion…
The boy struggled to keep his senses. The world weaved in and out as a golden halo appeared, surrounding a worried but reassuring face. He felt himself being cradled and lifted, and his thoughts turned to his master's worn, kind smile.
He hoped he had made him proud, in the end.
Darkness pulled at him, the soft heaves of Leon's footfalls rocking him gently into oblivion.
He had remained loyal to Camelot, and with his help they would catch a traitor.
All they had to do now… was wait….
Loyalty, Loyalty, only to me..