The fields of Camlann were stained with the blood of her knights. So many deaths, all pointless.

Civil war! What a concept. Treachery, deceit, betrayal. So few had stayed loyal, the Round Table, the foundation of Camelot lay broken. And the damned Saxons had nothing to do with it! Her old foe, Vortigern, was surely laughing in his grave.

And now she was dying. Her misbegotten son had truly been her better. Not only in strength of arms, but in leadership. Maybe he was worthy of the throne, if he could call so many loyal knights to his cause. She couldn't blame that Witch's magic; it was all him. His strength, his charisma, his drive. Truly, he was her son. A strange flicker of pride burned in her breast, the pride a father has for a son that surpassed him. In another life, he would have made a fine heir, she thinks.

The flicker of pride soon burns out at the sight of her dead son impaled on her spear, Rhongomynyad. Even in death, he takes victory, his Clarent stuck deep in her own chest. And, without Avalon's healing light, she will surely die.

It's for the best, she thinks. No parent should have to outlive her child, especially those parents that spill their child's blood. Even unacknowledged, and unloved, Mordred wasn't a poor son. Surely better than she was for poor Sir Ector.

She thinks of her family, her family, not of blood, not the tyrant Uther. Her family, her father, Sir Ector, her brother, Kay, maybe even Guinevere, maybe Mordred. Her heart aches.

She remembers the small keep by a forest, running through fields of wheat, of scrubbing out Kay's inherited armor that was more rust than steel, of those early lessons with Merlin, when he was only her teacher and she was only a student.

Tears roll down her cheeks, Bedivere comes, she thinks, it's all so foggy now. She has him cast the sword out into the lake, she can't stand the sight if it anymore.

He tries to trick her, the stubborn cur. She laughs a little, remembering those early adventures, just her, Kay, and Bedivere. Before she wore a crown, before Kay became a glorified accountant, before Bedivere lost his hand. She laughs, and it hurts, but it's a good hurt.

It's not all bad, not all is lost. Her fool brother still lives, he'll become lord of the keep, he'll find himself a good wife and raise beautiful children. Bedivere will visit them, when he's not travelling or preaching, as he will surely do. He will tell the children stories of their adventures, of Arthur, Kay, and Bedivere, three great friends.

Not about knights and kings. Nothing of castles or glory. Simple stories of children's adventures.

Maybe that cur Merlin will join on occasion, he could turn the children into birds, or fish, or ants, and drag some lesson from it. A lesson he surely invented moments before! The wizard's terrible at sticking to a lesson plan, truly and honestly awful.

God above, she misses that. The simplicity, the honesty. She hates the crown and the kingdom and the knights, and in that moment, she could thank Mordred for flipping the damnable gameboard.

In a way, she's glad.

In death, there will be no more wars to fight, no more burning loyal villages so the damned Saxons can't pillage them, no killing prisoners in winter when there isn't enough food to feed her own army, much less someone else's, no more blood.

Bedivere returns, sword hidden. You fool, she thinks, it will do no one any good. She tells him to send it to the lake again. This time, she hears it sink. She feels its power break away, scattered in the lake. She feels the fae's outrage at having their masterwork cast away like a trinket. She smiles a little. She always hated the fae.

She's learned the truth of that sword, she thinks. There can be no promise of victory, the idea itself is a lie.

Victory must be earned and raised. Grown like wheat, not purchased like iron. Excalibur is a useless instrument, not fit to be turned into a plow.

By the time Bedivere returns, the King is dead.

In death, she dreams.

She dreams of strange things, of snowy castles and fair haired ladies, of faraway cities made of glass and steel, of cruel men and crueler heroes.

She dreams of fighting, of regret, and of agony.

She dreams of finding love, and knows it's impossible.

She dreams of victory, and knows it's a lie.

She dreams of all the evil in the world, and thinks, maybe this is the truth. But that too fades.

She dreams of strange and fleeting things.

And then she wakes.

A babe's cry is what draws her to wakefulness. It takes a moment to realize it is her own.

A tall blond man with a thick beard is holding her, she thinks. Her eyes aren't working properly. Everything's fuzzy, she can only see a few feet. Her thoughts flicker in and out of her head, a castle, a red-haired boy, a sword, the images flee. The man remains, wonder colors his face.

"Jaune," He breaths. Is that me, she wonders. Am I Jaune?

A woman laughs, exhausted.

She sleeps and dreams again.

The dreams are fleeting now, half remembered moments that fade like morning mists.

Months pass. She is no longer Arthuria, or Arthur, or King.

Now he is Jaune. He learns, he crawls, he walks. His eyes mature, and he sees clearly, he grows as a child grows.

He is Jaune Arc.

He has three elder sisters, Violet, Rose, and Verte.

They are very loud, and they argue about the silliest things, they hate sharing with each other, and they try to put him in dresses!

He realizes why his father was so glad to have a son.

They can be pleasant though. Some days, when father is out hunting, the three of them try and cheer up mother. Incessantly. They try to bake a cake, try to knit a scarf, try to sing a song. They always fail, and mother is so distracted cleaning up messes, that she has no time to be sad that father is gone.

Sometimes he thinks someone's missing. That there should be another here, a brother. Tall, with wide shoulders, and earthy brown hair. Always with a joke and a quip. He looks behind his right shoulder sometimes, expecting someone to say something that he can't. He never is. He tries to put it from his mind.

He grows taller, stronger, more steady on his feet. He has a birthday, and another, and another.

His mother is pregnant. Twins, both girls.

Jaune realizes he's never loved anyone like he loves his sisters, he thinks, holding Noir and Blanc for the first time. It's a fierce sort of love. Jaune dreams of lions, and about how they defend the pride before all else. There are no lions when he's awake, only the beasts of Grimm.

It's sad, Jaune knows. The world is so much smaller now. There are only four kingdoms, he learns. And not one of them is ruled by a king. Jaune asks what happened to the kings, and his father tells him that the kings grew to be tyrants. And tyrants must fall. Jaune doesn't know what to think about that.

His father tells him stories about family long dead, about the name they share, Arc. About fierce warriors, clever generals, and solemn hunters.

It's strange, Jaune thinks. To be proud of one's kin. In his dreams, ancestry is only a deep sort of shame, a feeling of 'I must redeem this name because there is no one else who can.'

Jaune thinks he much prefers being an Arc to a Pendragon.

An Arc doesn't need to worry about a burdensome legacy.

Jaune is seven years old when he first holds a sword outside of his dreams.

His father carved it from a branch one evening on the porch telling stories to him and his sisters.

It's short and splinted and crude and Jaune loves it. He takes to the sword quickly. Grasping guards and strikes lightning fast, his father tries to teach him the shield, but it only slows him down.

He is a quiet child, reserved where his sisters are outgoing, cautious where others jump, serious where there is levity. A strange child, the parents of other children say.

He is strange, Jaune knows. No matter what his parents and sisters say. He sees too much, thinks too fast. He learns much quicker than any of his sisters, his father looks sad at seeing him move so quickly.

He doesn't have friends. He trains with swords, he plays with his sisters, he listens to his father's stories.

School is hard for Jaune. He and his elder sisters take class at the schoolhouse next to the bakery. The village is small, so the walk from home is quick. His sisters rush off to talk with their friends, Jaune doesn't.

He tries to smile and laugh with the students, but it feels stiff and awkward on his face.

He does well in classes, but his attention wanders. He learns to read and write and do arithmetic, he loves history.

When he is twelve his mother grows pregnant again. Twins, again. Girls, again. Marron and Rogue, he holds them and feels love stirring.

Soon after his father takes him aside and asks what Jaune wants to do with his life.

Jaune says he wants to be a hunter. His father nods, sad, but accepting and beckons Jaune to follow him.

His father leads him outside the thick walls of the village into the forests beyond. Jaune steps a little closer to his father's side.

They come to a clearing with a single stone in the center, Jaune starts at the sight of it. Dreams long forgotten echo through him.

His father gestures for him to kneel by the stone.

Head bowed and knee bent, his father places a hand on his shoulder, and the rest of the world fall away.

He speaks, "Through transience, we are immortal. Through infinity, we are alone. Through fear, we stand above. Rise, my son."

Light spilled, and a dragon roared. Dreams and reality click together.

He is seventeen when he leaves for Vale. He carries a long sword on his back, and plate on his chest. His sisters cry, his mother smiles sadly, his father nods, knowing he grew too big for the small village.

He joins a caravan as a guard, and makes little pay. But it hardly matters, Beacon Academy awaits. First, he must gain admittance. For those without formal education, they must prove themselves greater.