Dammit, it's been too long since the last update... sorry for the wait everyone. Here's hoping the length of the chapter makes up for the wait we put you through...

As always, Batomys2731 and I do not own TYPE-MOON or any Fate or any related materials thereof. If we did, Arturia would be less mean to Mordred in the FGO events.

...

Guinevere's eyes stung as the sun began to rise above the horizon. It was slow, seeming to drag itself up and over the edge of the world with a herculean effort; however, the vibrant pink shine it should have cast across the sky was cut short by the dreary grey cloak of clouds above, seeming to completely blot out all the world's colour, the once vibrant leaves of the trees and fields that she could see from her window reduced to dull greys, browns and straw yellows. A faint, but chill breeze blew in through the window, the drapes fluttering gently in its wake and making her shudder with the sudden flash of cold, but she couldn't bring herself to close the shutters.

She felt too vulnerable to sleep now. In the two days since the attack, she hadn't gotten so much as an hour's worth of rest; when she came to bed, it was all Guinevere could do to keep herself from pacing. She could force herself to sit or even lay down beneath the covers, but no matter how heavy her eyelids grew or how exhausted she felt, sleep seemed to be far beyond her reach.

There was a gentle stirring at her lap; she glanced down at the little girl curled up beneath the covers, her mop of blonde hair only held by the red tie pulling it back into a tail. Mordred lay silent, her breaths long and slow in her slumber, too afraid to sleep in her own room after her near kidnapping. She had all but begged to sleep with her parents for the past two days – a request Guinevere couldn't even consider refusing.

Scarcely five minutes after Mordred had fallen asleep, however, Arturia crept out of the room, still far too uncomfortable to allow herself to sleep in the same room as the homunculus.

Guinevere hadn't tried to stop her; the days and nights had been trying enough without adding arguments to them.

Besides, she didn't want to wake Mordred.

A moment passed, and Guinevere reached forwards to stroke the girl's head, only for a lance of pain to arc through her hand. She pulled back on reflex, a hiss escaping her lips as she turned her hand over, dreading she'd find blood red seeping through her bandages once again.

She did not; only white linen bandages wrapping around her hands, from her very fingertips to her wrists.

Her wounds hadn't opened.

Relief washed over her in a cascade, a cold shudder running down her spine. She forced herself to breathe deep, closing her eyes and focusing on her racing heartbeat, curling in on herself and wrapping her arms around her sides.

"There's nothing wrong… there's nothing here… you are okay…"

Guinevere wasn't sure how much of the mantra she actually believed, but at the very least, her heartbeat seemed to be slowing. The pain in her palms was fading if only slightly, a pulse of pain piercing through them with each beat.

A slight grunt pulled the Queen from her thoughts; Mordred stirred in her lap again, her serene expression twisting into a grimace. Slowly, the toddler pushed herself up, rubbing at her eyes as she blinked away the bleariness of sleep. She glanced about, confusion, then fear visible in her expression as it registered that she wasn't in her room…

Then she saw Guinevere, sitting with her back against the headboard.

"… Mother?" she asked, hesitant.

"… good morning, Mordred," Guinevere smiled, fighting to keep her exhaustion out of her expression.

It clearly wasn't enough. Whatever relief Mordred felt was quickly drowned by an obvious concern. The Princess crawled forwards, closing the distance between her and her mother, stopping only when she was firmly seated in Guinevere's lap, "… are you okay?"

"Yes," Guinevere said, a little too quickly. She paused briefly, swallowing before speaking again, "… I'm okay, Mordred. Just a little tired."

"… can't sleep?"

"Just…" she paused, unsure of what to say next. After a moment, she finally settled on the truth, "Thinking."

And it really was the truth. She couldn't stop thinking, no matter how hard she tried – about that night, about what would have happened if that monster had successfully taken Mordred. It didn't take much for Guinevere to get caught up in the whirlwind of nightmares, one leading directly into the other. It felt like she was drowning, sucked beneath the black surface of her own dread and terror. What would have happened to Mordred? What would be done to get her back? What would Arturia be willing to do? Would she even care? What if she didn't? And even if she did, what would become of Mordred as they decided what to do? What if she were dead? What if she were twisted? What if she were hurt what if she were what if she what if whatifwhatifWHATIF-

"Mother!?"

Mordred's yell snapped Guinevere out of her thoughts. She hadn't even realized that the world had become a mere blur to her eyes. Slowly, everything came back into focus, her heart once again pounding in her ears as colour and solidarity returned to her sight. Mordred was practically right in her face now, having climbed as high up Guinevere's chest as she could manage, the girl's eyes wide with equal parts sadness and fear.

"… I'm sorry, Mordred," Guinevere forced another deep breath into her lungs, slowly letting out once more, "I just…"

She trailed off, unsure of what to say. What reassurance could she offer that wouldn't sound like a lie?

Finally, Guinevere reached forwards, gently wrapping her arms around Mordred's shoulders and pulling her daughter into an embrace. Mordred's arms in turn clamped around Guinevere's chest like a vice, and it was all the Queen could do to hope that the girl didn't hear her still racing heartbeat.

"… I'll be okay, Mordred," Guinevere finally managed, "It's all going to be okay. I promise."

She felt the small shift of Mordred's head – what she could only assume was a stiff nod as the girl hugged her even tighter.

Mother and daughter would stay locked in that embrace even as the unseen sun rose beyond the clouds.

Guinevere had to reluctantly pry herself away from Mordred when it was time for their embrace to end. As much as they wished to remain in the comfort of their mutual presence, the day had already begun.

She had postponed Mordred's lessons for the day, hoping to give her some form of respite. The Queen had watched as Mordred walked down the halls, devoid of her usual joy and enthusiasm, before making her way to her first destination for the morning.

It wasn't long before she found herself before the door that led to the quarters of the Court Mage.

At Arturia's insistence, Merlin had taken the task of Guinevere's treatment from Camelot's maesters and physicians. Rather than the usual methods of treatment of herbal remedies or, more likely, being sent to a monastery, the Queen had experienced a number of strange treatments under the Court Mage's care. He'd given her a concoction that tasted foul, but was evidently far, far stronger than any drink she'd had before, making her head swim and reducing the stabbing agony in her then bleeding hands to a dull ache.

Beyond that, she remembered he way he took each of her hands, examining the wounds closely as she lay on the cot, whispering words that weren't any language she'd heard before. Within seconds, the bleeding had stopped; she remembered his cleaning of her wounds with a liquid clear like water, but it smelled strongly of alcohol and stung whenever it touched her palms. After that, her memories became a swirl of nonsensical sensations that felt more akin to a dream amidst a fever than anything one could feel during their waking hours.

When Guinevere finally regained her lucidity, she found her hands bound in white bandages, the Mage asleep in his chair off to the side.

She hadn't returned to see him again since. Despite Merlin's antics, despite his attempts to play himself off as friendly and nonchalant, there was always something that felt distinctly… off. Something just wasn't right about the Court Mage, and between his "hobby" of wreaking minor havoc throughout Camelot, his habit of sleeping with every beautiful woman who was willing to share a bed with him, and that sense of wrongness, Guinevere could certainly say she did not enjoy the Mage of Flowers' company.

She was grateful to him for his part in healing her hands. That did not mean she trusted him.

She stood in silence for a moment, biting at her lip. Before she could raise a hand to the heavy rung, however, the door opened. A sweet fragrance wafted into her nose from the spiraling stairwell beyond, like a gentle wind carrying the smell of a field of flowers in full bloom. After a moment, the mildly amused voice of the Mage of Flowers echoed from above.

"Come in, Guinevere."

She only hesitated a second longer before complying, starting up the steps that led up into the tower. Each arrow slit she passed showed her the castle below in her ascent, the stairs taking her higher and higher with each pass; she could have sworn there were no towers this tall in the castle when she looked upon it from elsewhere…

"Magic," she muttered, huffing and redoubling her pace.

When she entered the room, the scent of flowers grew even stronger. It was a large room, easily thirty feet across, and shaped roughly into a hexagon. The room didn't so much have walls and windows as it did have a pillar at each corner of the room supporting the ceiling, light streaming into the chamber from the outside with next to no restriction.

And yet, despite the lack of any real walls, the room was comfortably warm. No wind blew through the gaps, despite the tower's dizzying height (Guinevere made certain to stay well and away from the edges), and there was no sign that the room was even touched by the weather. Bookshelves lined in a somewhat haphazard manner stood immaculate, save for a slight layer of dust on some of the shelves, along with the books themselves, though the Queen couldn't even begin to guess what logic they had been arranged by. A small dip in the floor on the room's west side led to a pit in which a small fire had been constructed, lightly crackling away despite having no immediately apparent source of fuel – no coal or even logs.

Pillows and throw cushions with designs Guinevere had never seen before were scattered throughout the room, along with whatever books were missing from their shelves. A fairly large desk stood at the north side of the room, tools, books, and ingredients of all sorts scattered across its surface. The center of the room, however, was what caught Guinevere's attention; hundreds of pink flowers bloomed in the very center of the room, casting their sweet scent throughout the room.

"… if I was half as good as a gardener as him…" she murmured.

"You probably are a better gardener than me, Guinevere."

The Queen looked up; a series of stones gently drifted down from a small gap in the ceiling, floating down through the air, the first coming to a stop near the floor. Each one was easily two feet long and a foot across, forming yet another staircase to the room above.

Merlin descended across the floating stones as easily as any other stair; he had the same easygoing smile that he always did, his white hooded cloak and hair trailing gently behind him, "Despite the fact that flowers tend to grow around me wherever I go, I'm actually quite terrible at looking after plants."

Guinevere kept her eyes on him as he reached the bottom step, "Merlin."

He gestured towards the many cushions surrounding the fire pit, some of them larger than Guinevere herself, "Please, take a seat."

She would have preferred a chair to a cushion, but Guinevere did not raise the issue, instead sitting down atop one of the larger pillows without comment, sinking into the velveteen surface. Even now, she kept her hands in her lap, not wanting to undo the Mage's work.

Merlin in turn pulled up a pillow of his own, seating himself across Guinevere with his legs crossed. He held out a hand, smiling, "May I?"

The Queen hesitated for a moment, swallowing.

"… I don't have any pranks planned, if that's what's got you worried."

"… No," she said, "It's… it's nothing."

Merlin raised an eyebrow, but made no further comment as Guinevere reached out and gingerly placed her wrists in his palm. He set to work, gently unwrapping the bandages layer by layer.

"How is your side?" he asked.

"… somewhat sore. But it's fine."

"Two of your ribs had been snapped when you were first put in my care," he spoke casually, as though they were discussing the weather rather than the nature of her wounds – she hated how flippant he was about all of this, "Another rib, along with your sternum, had been severely bruised, as well as the muscle around your midsection. That was a pretty nasty kick you took."

She grimaced, "I said it's fine. Whatever you did to heal my side, it worked."

A slight smile this time, "Well, your spirit remains undamaged. That's good."

With that, the last of the bandages came away. Her hands were pale, now – Guinevere had always been fair skinned, but now her hands were a stark white that didn't seem to belong to her, everything from her nails to her wrists like unpainted marble.

She almost didn't want to turn her hands over. She was afraid of the damage she would find – and how could she not be afraid? She had never seen such wounds before herself, but she had heard stories of what could happen. Some knights could never fight again, no longer able to hold their weapons after a cut too deep across the palms or even the backs of their hands. And they had been the lucky ones; more often than not, anything too beaten and battered would need to be removed entirely, lest the wounds fester.

But she couldn't just let this best her.

She let out a breath, trembling slightly as she slowly turned her hands over. Even against the white of her palms, they were as plain as day. The dagger had not just bitten once into her palms; it had been tugged back and forth in her grasp, each push and pull creating new, deeper cuts, back and forth across her palms and fingers in a harsh scribble, like the crests of over a dozen breaking waves. Her former handprint was almost entirely hidden beneath the pattern of the wounds, her once smooth skin now rough with the callouses of ugly scars.

Guinevere stared, the fear condensing into a heavy pit in her stomach. She curled her fingers one by one, pain still lancing its way through the scars as she did so, then let them loosen. Anxiety, fear, relief, it all churned in her stomach in a way that threatened to make her physically ill, but above it all was the uncertainty.

"It seems you've healed, for the most part," Merlin started, gently taking one of the Queen's hands once more, "I take it you're still feeling pain?"

She gave a silent nod, swallowing hard.

"That's good. If you can still move your fingers and you're still feeling pain, it means your nerves have successfully recovered," he glanced up, and gave a faint smile.

Guinevere tried to keep the puzzled look off her face as she looked at him, as this was the first time she'd ever heard of 'nerves' in a context that would relate to one's fingers, but it was obvious she hadn't succeeded; the Mage's smile widened a fraction, and he quickly amended, "Your hands are going to remain sore for several days yet, perhaps even a couple of weeks, but you should have full strength and range of motion in your palms and fingers again. You won't be losing your hands or your ability to use them, Guinevere."

She paused, a newfound sense of relief washing over her, but not completely overcoming the swirl of emotions within. After a long moment, she nodded, "… Thank you, Merlin."

His expression grew a tad serious, "You should still refrain from doing anything too physically strenuous until further notice. I know you don't have many activities that qualify as physically strenuous, but at this stage I would rather not risk it."

She didn't answer this time. She just looked back down at her hands, curling and uncurling her fingers as she tried to process the maelstrom within her. She paid the Mage little heed as he stood.

"That was pretty reckless of you, I have to say," he said, striding over to his desk, "You didn't strike me as the type who would willingly play tug of war with a dagger."

Guinevere raised her head, shooting him a glare, "I couldn't just let that… that thing take Mordred, Merlin."

He didn't turn to face her, but she did catch the cheerful note in his voice, "I wasn't insinuating you would have, Guinevere. I'm just saying that it surprises me, is all; you've always been a rather quiet woman, content to watch from a distance rather than get your hands dirty."

The Queen felt her jaw set at that. She looked away, folding her arms and furrowing her brow, something new once again joining the mix of emotions within; a faintly smoldering frustration.

"Tea?" he asked.

"… no, thank you."

"Suit yourself."

After a moment, he returned to his cushion, steam rising from a cup in his hands. He took a sip of his tea, still smiling, and then met Guinevere's eyes again, "Well, now that your hands have been dealt with, we can move on to the other aspects of your health. How long has it been since you last slept, Guinevere?"

The Queen sighed; she should have figured that this would come up eventually. She bit at her lip, trying to think about how long she had been awake.

"… two days, maybe longer?" she guessed, uncertain.

The Mage took a closer look at her, "Hmm… going from the bags under your eyes, as well as your unsteady gait when you entered, I would say you've been awake for roughly fifty seven hours."

"… that long?" she asked. It felt like she had been awake for far, far longer.

Merlin nodded, "Granted, that's a rough estimate, but I wouldn't go any lower than fifty four. Right now, what you need more than anything else is rest."

Guinevere snorted, "Rest… and how am I supposed to rest knowing that monster is still out there?"

"Afraid that she's going to attack again?"

"How can I not be?"

Merlin smiled, "Well, considering how closely her fight with the King and his Knights came to being her last, I doubt she's going to be taking on Camelot Castle directly again anytime soon. She doesn't strike me as so brazen or foolhardy that she wouldn't learn from her mistakes."

"That doesn't reassure me."

"Hm…"

The Mage took another sip of his tea, his expression scrutinizing. After a moment, he set down his cup, and stood, disappearing into the rows of shelves. After a moment, Merlin returned, struggling not to drop the several bundles that were now in his arms.

He returned to his cushion across from Guinevere, setting down several cloth and parchment wrapped items down before her. He smiled, unwrapping the first bundle, "With any luck, some of these should be enough to help you sleep."

The Queen raised an eyebrow at the sight of a familiar, and very, very common flower – though it had been dried, the arrangement of the petals and the gentle purple hue made it unmistakable, "Lavender?"

"Specifically its aroma," Merlin stated, "Lavender is rather effective at alleviating minor forms of insomnia – keeping fresh lavender in your room should help you once you've recovered a bit more and your sleep problems begin to lessen.

"In the meantime," he unwrapped the second package, exposing a small glass bottle, "This should help you with actually getting to sleep."

Guinevere paused, then reached out, taking the bottle; a thick, opaque, colourless liquid shifted and churned within, moving so slowly that it almost seemed more like tree sap than anything else.

"A sleeping agent concocted from a variety of ingredients – including an opium extract," Merlin spoke, his tone once again taking on a more serious inflection that forced Guinevere to look him in the eyes, "It should be enough to put you to sleep within a few minutes of taking it, and suppress any nightmares you might have – but if you're going to take it, you will need to follow my instructions on how to use it to the letter."

"I don't need…" she trailed off; something in Merlin's gaze sharpened, and Guinevere found that she couldn't finish her protest. After a moment, she swallowed, trying and failing to remove the lump from her throat before speaking once more, "… alright. I'm listening."

"First, absolutely no alcohol past sunset while you are using this concoction," Merlin intoned, "No mead, no beer, no ale, no wine. Mixing alcohol with this sleeping agent could potentially turn it into a poison – worst case scenario, you stop breathing entirely."

The Queen nodded in silent acknowledgement; taking this as permission to continue, the Mage quickly moved on, "Second, no more than a single spoonful of the concoction per night. If you still have nightmares or difficulty getting to sleep, do not take a second dose; come to see me, and we will either adjust your dose or find something else."

Guinevere nodded again, silently allowing the Mage of Flowers to finish.

"… and last, but certainly not least," Merlin sighed, a cheerful note entering his tone once more, "Keep it out of reach of children. I don't think Mordred would be silly enough to drink it – it looks, smells, and tastes absolutely awful – but, well, you never know with toddlers, do you?"

At this, the Queen's expression soured, "Do you honestly think I would keep this where Mordred could find it, Merlin?"

"Not intentionally. But Mordred is a very clever girl, Guinevere – at times, I think she knows more about this castle than most of its soldiers and servants. And I'm sure you know better than anyone else how good she is at defying expectations."

"… I will not argue with that," Guinevere sighed, "Then, to recap – no alcohol after sunset, and no more than a single spoonful regardless of how well it works."

"And make sure that Mordred will not be able to find it," Merlin repeated, "But yes, that is the long and short of it."

Guinevere looked down at the bottle, slowly turning it over; it was just large enough to fill the entirety off her hand, the surface uncannily smooth. Round, with a gently tapered neck plugged with a cork, it was certainly no glasswork that was made in Britain. Nothing she owned, even as a child, had glasswork of this quality; if such existed in Britain, her father would have given it to her.

Just like everything else.

The thought left a bitter echo in her mind, but she paid it no heed. Instead, she sighed, "Alright. I understand. Thank you, Merlin."

"This is the least I could do, My Lady," he said, grabbing his staff and pushing himself to his feet, "Now, I would recommend that the next thing you do is go straight to bed. What you need more than anything else at the moment is rest."

"… I'm afraid I can't do that."

"Hm?" Merlin paused, glancing down at the Queen with an eyebrow cocked, "And why not?"

"Because," the Queen pocketed the lavender and medicine before struggling to her feet, wincing as she pushed off her hands, "There is a Round Table meeting today. And I am not going to miss it."

A heavy pause fell between them as the Mage of Flowers regarded the Queen, his smile falling from his face. Merlin studied her, his amethyst eyes scrutinizing Guinevere's expression; there was resolution in her eyes now, a determination that had not been there in the many years she had been married to Arturia – determination paired with a desire for action.

"… with all due respect, Your Majesty," he started, speaking slowly, "I don't believe that is a very wise decision."

"… and why not?"

"Because you are in no condition to be walking around the castle unattended, much less attend a meeting."

At this, the Queen's eyes narrowed, "Merlin, ever since I married Arturia I have stood by and watched as she shouldered the weight of Britain entirely on her own. And yes," she snapped suddenly, cutting the Mage off as he opened his mouth to interject, "I'm aware she does so of her own volition. Painfully aware, in fact – I know the role I'm intended to fill. The Perfect King's Perfect Queen."

Guinevere all but spat the words out, a sudden anger at the very idea flaring within; her hands clenched into fists, but for the moment, her anger was great enough for her to simply ignore the sharp pain of her aching fingers, of her too-long nails digging into her already pained palms. Still, she kept her gaze even with Merlin's, as though hoping to catch some hint of humanity or remorse in his expression or deep within his purple eyes, "I was brought here for two reasons. The first is to act as Arturia's spouse – to be a figurehead to assuage the doubts of the people and nobility. The other is to bear Arturia's heir. I was never intended to actually act as a ruler – and if Arturia had her way, I never would. Her intentions aside, I'm less than a puppet. I may as well be a doll on display."

The vehemence in her tone was growing, building with the anger; her uncertainty and doubt, her frustration and resentment were kindling to the raging fire as it spread. For a moment, Guinevere forgot all about the pain in her hands, carried by the rising tide of flame, passionate, but focused, "Well… no more. I'm not just going to stand by and pretend nothing is wrong anymore. I am not going to let Arturia shoulder Britain by herself – I don't give a damn what she has to say on the matter. If she honestly wants to continue carrying the burden of this Kingdom all by herself, and keep me out of the decisions, she will need to exile me."

"She will do just that if you force her hand," Merlin mused, "You know as well as I do where Mordred inherited that stubbornness of hers from. Arturia is not going to just let you start acting as a ruler because you've had an epiphany – as you yourself just said, she's bound and determined that Britain is her burden to bear. Besides that, do you honestly believe that you're in any condition to be making decisions as an authority figure?"

"Then what should I do, Merlin!?" Guinevere's tone was rising once more – she was shouting now, leaning forwards with her hands splayed to the sides, "I can't just stand by and watch Arturia break under Britain's weight when there's something I can do! I can't sit in my ivory tower and pretend that there's nothing wrong with that anymore! I need to begin taking steps as Queen of Britain! If not today, if not this bloody instant, then when!?"

Again, Merlin remained quiet, watching Guinevere with his lips drawn in a thin line and his hand on his chin. She gasped for breath, her vehemence still present, but it was no longer acting as fuel; her exhaustion was once again beginning to get to her, her posture growing more unsteady by the second. After a full ten had passed, she stumbled, and then collapsed back onto the cushion.

Nonetheless, she continued to glare up at the Mage, the fire in her eyes refusing to die down despite the clear protests of her rest-starved body. She struggled to push herself back up, but it was more than clear that between the pain and her fatigue, there was no way she would be able to succeed on her own. But still, she tried.

Merlin let out a sigh, closing his violet eyes as he pinched the bridge of his nose, pondering what exactly he should do next. When he opened them again, his hand falling away, his expression was something of a grimace, lips twisting in a way that was neither a smile nor a droop – he almost seemed to be bracing himself.

"I was going to say tomorrow," he began, "After you had finally gotten a good night's sleep and a decent breakfast in your stomach…"

The fire in Guinevere's eyes flared again, and she redoubled her efforts to push herself back up…

"… but, you've made it perfectly clear that you're not going to hear anything I have to say on this matter – at least, nothing of that particular regard."

He sat back down, and took the third and final bundle out from his sleeve, and unwrapped it; for a moment, the Queen mistook it for a small block of solid gold. However, closer inspection revealed it to be more akin to honey, thick and viscous, flowing slowly from one end of the tiny glass vial to the other as Merlin shifted it back and forth between his fingers.

"This," he started, "almost never sees any use. It's a very powerful stimulant of my own design – it's intended to force the user into a state of wakefulness, restoring physical energy and full cognitive function for a brief period of time.

"However, it is not a replacement for rest. This dose will be enough to keep you going for the next four hours – after that, your exhaustion will hit you again like a battering ram."

He pulled the cork free, and turned the bottle over; slowly, the golden liquid flowed out of its container and into a second cup of tea, a cup Guinevere hadn't even realized was there. Once the bottle was completely empty, he set it aside, and gave the cup several short stirs, raising it to his face and giving it a brief sniff.

Hesitantly, the Queen reached out to take it with her shaking hands – only for Merlin to shake his head.

"First, I need you to understand – this will only let you attend the meeting. After that, you will need to return to your room as quickly as you can – I don't think it would be befitting of you to fall asleep in the hallways."

Again, he smiled at her, amusement dancing in his eyes, and if Guinevere had the strength, she would have slapped him.

Instead, she swallowed her frustrations, merely nodding in acceptance of his condition.

With that, Merlin handed her the tea, watching as the Queen emptied the cup with a few quick gulps, and then as a disgusted grimace crossed her face, baring her teeth and screwing her eyes shut at the obviously foul taste.

"… you could have warned me that it was going to taste like rancid honey and spoiled milk," she hissed, setting the cup aside.

"That was what the tea was to mitigate," Merlin's smile only seemed to grow, "You know what they say – the best medicines are the most bitter ones."

Guinevere glared at him, snorting, "You're a mage. Can't you find a way to make good medicine not taste so awful?"

"I could," he said, pausing for a moment, letting Guinevere hang on his word. When she finally motioned for Merlin to continue, he closed his eyes, shrugging, "But that would take extra effort that I usually don't want to put into my work."

He was immediately knocked backwards by the impact of the pillow smacking into his face; when he pushed himself back up, pulling the pillow away from his head, Guinevere had already struggled back to her feet, patting her hands on her dress.

"Alright," she said, scooping up the lavender and the glass bottle of narcotics as best as she could with her aching hands, "To the Round Table, then, Merlin?"

The Mage of Flowers' smile remained in place as he rose to his feet once more, gesturing towards the stairs with his staff, "After you, Your Majesty."

With that, the two began the long descent down the spiraling staircase, descending from the tower that floats unseen in the sky high above Camelot Castle.

The halls were eerily silent on the way to the Round Table meeting. Despite having not slept for two days, Guinevere felt as though she had just fully awoken from a deep, refreshing slumber, her mind clear from the haze of exhaustion. However, on the downside, the lack of haze meant she now had to confront the pain in her hands more directly, and she endeavoured to keep them in fists, though there was no one to hide her scars from – at least, for the moment.

Even Merlin was oddly quiet, though she suspected that was in part because he knew better than to flirt with the Queen of Camelot even on her best days. Gone was his idle chatter and ramblings about things Guinevere either didn't understand or didn't care for. It wasn't that he was in some distant realm of thought so much as he was merely quiet, oddly focused on the events at hand.

Guinevere was content to share the silence.

However, it did not last long.

A furious shout – the words muffled by the ornate doors that led to the Round Table – echoed down the hall, loud enough to cause the guards posted on either side of the door, normally impassive to anything and everything that was not a Round Table Knight or someone of even greater station, to flinch as though physically struck. Normally the Round Table's chamber was enough to muffle all noise within and shrouded from scrying by Merlin himself, ensuring that none could eavesdrop without entering the chamber proper. That someone was shouting loudly enough that they could be heard through the doors, even if the words were unintelligible, meant that they were very cross indeed.

"Gawain, I would say," Merlin muttered, "Even in his best mood, he's a loud man… the events of these past days have riled him up."

Guinevere narrowed her eyes, "Have they already begun?"

"I would assume so. Arthur requested that I give my input in today's meeting, but as I so rarely attend, I believe they saw fit to start without me, knowing I would come when I pleased and no sooner," he smiled, "Not that I blame them. There is much to discuss."

She swallowed, returning her attention to the doors; now that Merlin had identified the voice, she could easily tell that it was Gawain. He fell silent for a moment, as though someone else were speaking, only to resume his tirade seconds later.

"… are you sure you want to do this?"

The Queen sighed, exasperation and frustration in her tone, "How many times must I reaffirm my conviction to you, Merlin?"

"To me?" he shook his head, "None. To them?... this is where you will have to prove your resolve to the Round Table, Guinevere. And, more importantly, to the King; Arthur is not going to be easy for you to sway. If you want to rest and do this another time-"

"No," she cut him off, "No. I must do this today. If I don't, I will never start."

"… very well," the Mage's smile returned, "But a word of advice. Don't accept any help that you are offered today. Not even from Lancelot. You need to stand your ground if you are going to make this work, and put your foot down when necessary – you can't let them override you, no matter how good their intentions are. Even if it hurts, you need to power through your injuries and do things for yourself."

"… today is a day for stoicism in the face of pain and fear…" Guinevere murmured, "… I think I'm starting to understand why Arthur does everything he can to keep his emotions in check. I can't imagine what must be going through his head right now."

"Well, you're going to find out, if you keep to the path you've chosen," Merlin said, crossing his arms, "Do you think you can stand your ground?"

"I did it with you," Guinevere managed a smile of her own, "You're one of the most frustrating people to argue with. I don't think standing my ground against the Knights of the Round Table will be of any true concern."

"You soundly trampled me with your argument in the tower. You barely gave me a chance to argue back, and it quickly became clear you wouldn't listen to anything I had to say. I doubt the Knights will be so wise; but I digress," he stepped up to the doors, his purple eyes meeting the Queen's, "Shall we?"

Guinevere breathed in, then stepped forwards; the guards moved to pull the doors open, but she waved them off, the gesture more than enough to demonstrate that she wished to do this herself.

The Queen gripped each heavy, engraved metal rung, and slowly pulled the doors back. She was surprised by how easily they moved, swinging effortlessly on their hinges despite their sheer size, seeming to have been made with giants in mind rather than humans. Pain still ached in her hands, but she bit down on the whine building in her throat before it could begin.

"-that monster needs to be hunted down now!"

Gawain's voice was deafening without the doors to act as a bulwark; he was standing with his back to Guinevere, but even with his armour and cloak she could see the tension in his stance. There was a foreboding that hung over the conglomeration of Knights, a sense of frustration and dread that intermingled when one was faced with uncertainty; when being proactive could be just as dangerous as doing nothing at all. From the faces that the Queen could see, each Knight was plagued by their own thoughts; the only ones that seemed tranquil by any means were Agravain and, as serene as ever, Arturia.

"Gawain, please," Gareth began, lowering her hand from her temple in a placating gesture, "We don't have enough information-"

"We have all the information we need!" the Knight of the Sun barked, "We know it was sent by Morgana. We know where Morgana is. We need to strike hard, and we need to strike now – before the Witch or her new creations can regroup. It would not surprise me if she is already making her next move!"

"And if she is," Merlin interrupted, strolling casually into the room with his usual smooth gait, "who's to say that attacking her immediately isn't playing directly into her hands, Gawain?"

The entire Round Table snapped to attention at the Mage's voice. His relative calm and ease clashed with the tension in the room, causing it to spike; as always, his nonchalance was not welcome amidst the frustrations of the Round Table meetings. Gawain himself was rounding on Merlin, opening his mouth as though to roar-

-only to stop dead in his tracks as he took in who was accompanying him. He stood, dumbfounded, the anger falling from his expression as he looked upon Guinevere, who met his gaze without so much as a single trace of fear.

"… Your Majesty?" he asked, quiet.

As soon as the words left the Knight of the Sun's mouth, the Knights turned to face her, Merlin all but abandoned by the limelight. What animosity and anger remained among them was quickly wiped away by their shock at the Queen's presence.

"The Queen? Was she sent for?"

"No. From what I hear she hasn't been sleeping well."

"I heard the same. In addition, with her awful wounds…"

Guinevere paid them no heed, resisting the urge to shake her head as though to clear it. Instead, she shut out the rest of the brewing murmurs and started after Merlin, making her way towards the other end of the table.

"Guinevere."

One word was all it took to stop the Queen dead in her tracks. How could she not, with the cold, commanding tone of that voice?

Slowly, she turned to meet Arturia's gaze; the King's teal eyes seemed to peer right into her soul, and for the first time in years, Guinevere had to resist the urge to squirm under that scrutinizing stare.

"… you should be resting," the King stated, as though it were a fact Guinevere had somehow missed.

The Queen took a breath, trying to suppress the shudder that ran down her spine; she refused to let herself tremble. Not here. Not now.

"… I'm here for the meeting."

More ripples of shock amidst the Knights; however, even now, Guinevere could see no tells from her husband. No surprise from the Queen standing her ground, no frustration at being disobeyed – nothing, not even a faint furrow of the brow or twitch of her lips to hint at the thoughts and emotions within. Instead, the King only continued to regard her, "You are in no condition to be here. Your hands aside-"

"My hands are fine," she interrupted, raising them to eye level and opening her fists to show her palms; the King aside, not a single Knight was able to fully contain their reaction to the scars. Lancelot's face went pale at the sight of the jagged scars, his eyes widening and mouth opening in horror at what had been done to the Queen. Gawain gave a visible flinch, looking away before he could stop himself, and Tristan's golden were visible if only for a matter of seconds, his expression of shock and anguish shared by nearly everyone present. Even Agravain couldn't stop his eyes from narrowing at the sight, a small hint of pity breaking through his otherwise impenetrable shell at the sight of the damage.

"… do they not hurt, Your Majesty?" Gareth ventured.

"No," Guinevere said – too quickly, the word coming out clipped. She tried to curl her fingers back into fists, only to wince, cursing herself for making such simple mistakes. Even if the Knights themselves somehow didn't notice the discomfort the Queen was in - and she had no doubt that they did – there was no way Arturia wouldn't.

"Are you certain?" Gareth pressed, "If they are causing you any discomfort-"

"I said they are fine, Ser Gareth. I may have been harmed in the attack three days ago, but I have not been rendered an invalid."

"Be that as it may," Arturia interjected, once again commanding Guinevere's attention, "the fact remains that you have gotten precious little rest these past two nights. You are in no condition to be participating in this meeting."

"Arthur, I-"

"You are neglecting your health. The fact that you are here rather than in bed tells me you are not currently capable-"

"I am not leaving, Arthur."

Silence fell between them and settled over the room. The Knights looked back and forth between the King and Queen of Britain, and it seemed more like a pair of lions were staring each other down than anything else. They weren't accustomed to anyone challenging Arthur, much less his Queen, who always seemed so meek when she made her appearances, as few and far between as they were; this was alien to them, even to Lancelot.

Though her turmoil remained unseen by her Knights, Arturia herself was not accustomed to it either. She continued to regard the Queen, scarcely even seeming to blink as she debated what to do next; just this morning, there had been bags under the Queen's eyes, and she constantly seemed lost on the border of sleep, but unable to actually cross it. And yet, all signs of her former exhaustion seemed to have disappeared entirely, Guinevere's eyes clear and focused, her voice strong and steady, and her posture only barely shifting with her faint winces of pain.

It was obviously the work of Merlin, but even aside from that, this was not the behaviour Arturia had come to expect from Guinevere. With very few exceptions, Guinevere was not someone who sought or reveled in conflict with others. In fact, she was one to avoid conflict in nearly every possible situation, content to remain quiet and unnoticed. She never attended Round Table meetings of her own volition and only appeared at the King's side when summoned. She was the very definition of the term docile.

Though Arturia took no pleasure in the fact, Guinevere's docility was one of the main reasons she had chosen her to be Queen; it was a position that, were it unnecessary, Arturia would never have had filled.

But it was necessary. The role needed to be filled. The King needed a Queen.

And thus, Arturia required someone who would support her – someone who could either cast aside their humanity for the sake of Britain just as she had, or someone who would not interfere, and appear as needed.

So to see Guinevere appear when she had not been sent for was concerning; to have Guinevere outright challenge and disobey her was outright abnormal, completely against the role she was intended to play. What had gotten into her? Just what was she trying to do?...

Finally, Arturia closed her eyes, letting out a long, slow breath.

"… Guinevere," she said, slowly, opening her eyes once more, "If you will not return to your room of your own accord, I will have you escorted out."

The threat was clear and cold – and in fact, was not a threat at all. The authority and willingness to follow through on the declaration was palpable in the King's voice. Queen of Britain or not, Guinevere bore no immunity to the commands of the King.

Guinevere, however, did not show any intention of simply obeying; she did not shrink, she neither hunched her shoulders nor lowered her head in submission. She stood strong, her twinges of pain keeping her from maintaining her normal royal grace, but her head remained raised and her shoulders stayed straight nonetheless, her expression almost seeming to dare her husband to have her removed from the room. It was more than evident she had made her decision.

"Don't you think that's a tad extreme, Arthur?"

The almost musical voice of the Mage of Flowers once again cut through the tension, almost as though he had physically stepped between the King and Queen. He had not yet sat down, and was now making his way back over to Guinevere, standing beside her with his lazy smile directed towards Arturia, "I think I can speak for everyone when I say that no one enjoys watching a lover's quarrel, but are you really going to throw her out to avoid an argument?"

"… what is the meaning of this, Merlin?"

"I am vouching for Guinevere's strength of mind," he raised a hand to Guinevere's shoulder, only for the Queen to smack it away, not desiring Merlin's comfort; to his credit, the Mage did not break his stride, "I evaluated her this morning during my examination of her hands; she is as close to sound in mind and body as she can be, given the circumstances at hand."

"Three days without sleep, Merlin."

"Two and a half, give or take."

"It makes no difference. The fact of the matter remains that Guinevere is physically and mentally exhausted, no matter her claims to the contrary," Arturia folded her hands on the table, "Her presence at the Round Table is not required – and even if it was, she is not in any condition to participate in this meeting."

Merlin sighed, his smile actually fading somewhat, "Arthur. You left Guinevere in my care. You all but ordered me to act as her personal physician as she recovered from her injuries; I am many things, but I am neither careless, nor stupid. Do you really think I would have allowed Guinevere to accompany me here if I didn't believe she was capable of operating during a Round Table meeting?"

Silence fell over the Round Table at this. For a long moment, all Arturia could do was let her gaze flicker back and forth between Guinevere and Merlin, trying to keep her jaw from setting as she tried to decide what to do next. After a moment, she stood, fixing her eyes on the Mage, "Regardless of what you think, you should not have allowed her to come. You cannot honestly expect me to believe that Guinevere has made a full recovery in body and mind in less than three days, especially when I know for a fact that she has seen no sleep – a fact that evidently requires repeating, given the importance of rest and your insistence on ignoring it. Guinevere's presence is not required, and she needs to rest and recover."

Her gaze shifted between them, "I do not know what either of you are trying to do, but I will not have it. Guinevere needs to rest and recover. And you will-"

"Arthur," the Queen interrupted, "I do not need to be lectured on the importance of rest; I'm well aware of how critical it is. But my health is not the point of discussion for this meeting," she took in a breath, trying to square her shoulders, "If you wish to discuss my health and recovery with me, we can do so when we are in private."

The Knights looked to one another as the silent stare-down between the King and Queen resumed; they were stunned by the spectacle before them, by the very prospect of Guinevere openly and actively defying Arthur – and moreover, by Merlin's defence of her. However valiantly Guinevere might argue against the will of her King, it was the Mage that kept the more loyal Knights from reproaching her.

There was a reason the King kept the Mage of Flowers in his service; he offered sound advice and counsel, and his magic was one of the main reasons Camelot castle was considered to be as secure as it was, even with the likes of Morgana lurking in the shadows of the Kingdom. Put simply, however infuriating his presence and demeanor were during his rare appearances at the Round Table, Merlin was not to be dismissed or ignored.

Lancelot was perhaps the only person in the room who had his full attention on Guinevere, his expression pensive. Five years ago, the beautiful, isolated woman that he had fallen in love with, who had hidden her tears of loneliness and neglect behind closed doors had disappeared; her endeavours to raise Mordred as her own daughter had given the Queen new life and joy. She had become someone completely new, still calm and serene, but a new spark had been lit within. Gone were the hollow smiles of a woman who struggled to get through each day as Arthur's bride. In their place were smiles that were full and vibrant and real, and Lancelot had found himself falling in love with her all over again when he realized how much more beautiful she was for it.

But now, there seemed to be another change in Guinevere. During the past two days, during the brief moments Lancelot had been able to spare to see her, she seemed to have regressed, exhausted and terrified out of her mind of the monsters beyond her window shutters – not that he could blame her. She had been wounded worse than most nobles ever were in their entire lives, and had nearly lost her adopted daughter as well; the Knight of the Lake could only imagine how deeply that must have frightened her, how shaken Guinevere must have been – it must have rocked her to her core.

But that was gone, now.

Now, the spark that had disappeared after the homunculus' invasion had returned – and in this moment, it seemed to be growing into a brilliant flame. A flame Arthur could not hope to smother, though he could not help but wonder if that would do more harm to her chances of swaying Arthur than good.

Agravain, however, did not share Lancelot's fascination; when he looked upon Guinevere in this moment, he saw only a delusional, insolent woman making preposterous demands of her King. Arthur's wife or not, Guinevere was still subject to the Kingdom's laws, and by extension, the King's will. Even if the Queen truly knew the first steps of ruling – which he sincerely doubted – the King was correct; she was in no state to rule.

He stood, opening his mouth to add his voice to Arthur's-

"If I may be so bold as to speak on this matter, Your Majesty?"

The voice was not Agravain's.

The Hard Hand drew in a harsh, sharp breath, letting his gaze stray to source; Ser Kay had lifted his gaze to Arthur's, his expression as stern as ever.

For a long moment, Arturia regarded her adopted brother, forcing herself to look into his grey-blue left eye instead of the milky blindness of his right, a jagged scar running down from his forehead down his cheek and almost to his lip. Though it was Merlin who had acted as her initial caretaker and visited her frequently throughout her youth, he had at some point handed her off to be raised by Kay's father, Ser Ector; thus, Arturia and Kay shared their childhood, and for a long time Arturia had believed they were siblings by blood.

Kay was not present the day she drew Caliburn from its stone resting place, but he did accompany Arturia when Merlin returned for her in her teenage years, joining her and the Mage in their forays across Britain. They fought each other perhaps more often than they fought together, and though Arturia knew she was the better swordsman, Kay's arguments always succeeded in making her feel as though she had somehow lost. And yet, through those days at least, their bond never wavered; though Bedivere in many ways was considered her first Knight of the Round Table, it was Kay who was her first and single most constant companion throughout her years.

Despite all this, however, Arturia knew Kay never approved of her view of what a King was. He didn't understand why she needed to turn her heart to steel. Time and time again he had argued with her on the matter, but the days when he could get a rise out of the Pendragon with mere words were long since gone.

As much as it pained her, Arturia closed her heart to his attempts to bring back his adopted sister. The King is what Britain needs, not the girl.

Eventually, his attempts had ceased; Kay had not tried to argue the matter with her for almost ten years. They could hardly call themselves siblings anymore. When Kay offered her counsel, it was frank and strict; he never lost a battle of wits and words against anyone, and his management of Camelot's finances were so masterful that not so much as a single coin went to waste. Regardless of what remained of their friendship and rivalry, Kay was a clever and highly valued Knight of the Round Table.

"… very well. Speak your mind, Ser Kay," Arturia granted.

He stood, looking down at her with narrowed eyes, "I find myself in agreement with the Queen."

Were Arturia less practiced in keeping her mask in place, her eyes would have widened with shock. As it was, she could feel her heart grow heavy with dread; she took only a second to recompose herself before responding, "… elaborate."

"I see no reason for her to be removed from the meeting," he replied, "Given how well she has argued against you, I don't believe there is any sign that her fatigue is affecting her mental capabilities. In addition, Merlin is willing to vouch for her, and I would not dismiss his counsel lightly."

"… the Queen was not sent for, Ser Kay," Agravain stated, eyes narrowed, "I do not believe she has anything of value to contribute to the discussions at hand."

"She has as much right to be here as the rest of us, Ser Agravain," Kay shot back, but not so much as sparing a glance for the Hard Hand. He kept his eyes on the King, "She is, after all, one of Britain's two rulers. I see no reason for her to be treated as a mere figurehead. The Queen wishes to participate, and I see no logic in having her removed. In addition, we need to brief the Court Mage on what has been discussed thus far regardless; it is not as though she will be without context. Thus, I would allow her to stay for the remainder of this meeting – with your permission, of course, Your Majesty."

Arturia's armoured hands slowly clenched into fists at her sides, and she had to make a conscious effort to keep them from clenching too tight, lest the sound of the metal creaking in her grasp give away her spiking turmoil. Dread had turned to a bitter concoction of fear and anger as she stared at Kay, then at Guinevere and Merlin. In all her years as King, none but her enemies had so brazenly defied her – those who challenged her right to rule Britain, as was her right as Uther's son. But now, here she was, facing active defiance from not only the man she once thought of as her brother, but also her Queen and Merlin himself.

They were breaking from their roles.

Briefly, she wondered if they had somehow been conspiring, but she quickly pushed the thought out of her mind; neither Kay nor Guinevere had ever enjoyed Merlin's company, and even if they had, Guinevere had been in no condition to be making plans with anyone. And yet, her initiative was aided by both Ser Kay and the Mage of Flowers, aided in such a way that Arturia could not refuse without appearing unreasonable to her own Knights – not without arguing further. And there was precious little time to argue. Time was of the essence, and every passing second was a second that should have been used to help the Kingdom.

Arturia looked into Guinevere's eyes, and saw once more that she had no intention of backing down. She looked to Merlin, whose gaze was inscrutable as ever, thoughts unknowable. She looked to Kay, whose stern and strict demeanour stood just as strong as her own. And with an effort that was nothing short of herculean, Arturia forced herself to relent.

"… very well," she kept her tone even, refusing to show even a hint of anger or weakness, "If you are truly sound of mind, then I will allow it.

"But I want your word, Guinevere. When the meeting is concluded, you will rest."

The Queen's expression did not change; all she gave was a resolute nod, "I give you my word, Arthur. I will rest as soon as the meeting is finished."

"… do not make me regret this," Arturia stated, and she finally sat back down, prompting Merlin and Guinevere to quickly take to their own positions at the Round Table.

Merlin stood in his usual spot, leaning against the wall between Arturia and Bedivere, while Guinevere, refusing even Lancelot's assistance, dragged the chair reserved for guests or Round Table prospects to Arturia's left side, biting down on every wince and whimper and pointedly ignoring the concerned looks from the gathered Knights. When she finally sat down, it was as though nothing were amiss, hands folded in her lap.

Holding back a sigh of frustration at the display, the King turned her attention to Bedivere, "Ser Bedivere. If you would review the meeting thus far?"

"Gladly, Your Majesty," Bedivere stood, his silver hair falling from his shoulder in its braid. He cleared his throat, raising the record of the meeting thus far for everyone to see.

"We began this meeting with a discussion of the damages and casualties from the attack three nights ago. There were a total of four confirmed casualties, along with one soldier so severely injured it's unlikely he will ever walk again; two additional soldiers have been noted to be missing since the attack, though blood spatters, left-behind equipment, and the overall state of their post suggest that they were killed in action.

"The damage to the wall from the wyvern's arrival was surprisingly minimal. Masons brought in to inspect the stone report that the damage is entirely aesthetic and that replacements are unnecessary for the wall's function; however, discussion as to whether or not we will actually have the stones replaced is yet to be resolved. We need to weigh the importance of the castle's appearance in the eyes of the people against the cost of having new stones brought in from a quarry and properly hewn into shape, as well as the cost of the actual renovations.

"The damage done to the stables, however, was far more severe. The entire structure was set ablaze from within, allowing the flames to spread out of control before anyone noticed; as such, the stables themselves were impossible to save. The remains of the structure will need to be torn down and entirely replaced, which will entail importing wood into the city and having carpenters come in to work on the construction, which Ser Kay again reminded us will be a costly endeavour.

"Thankfully, due to the emergency procedures set in place, Ser Gaheris and Ser Palamedes were able to ensure no further human casualties resulted from the flames, but they were unable to rescue all of the horses. No less than eleven succumbed to the flames, and of those that were rescued, seventeen were so severely burned that it is highly unlikely they will ever ride or work again. As such, most of them were put down."

"Were any of the Knights of the Round's horses affected?" Guinevere asked, and the collective flinch that ran across the Round Table immediately made her regret asking.

Gawain's teeth were bared and slated as he visibly struggled to keep his rising temper under control. He met Guinevere's gaze with a trembling breath of fury, "Gringolet… my horse, Gringolet, was caught in the flames. His hindquarters were burned… currently he can barely limp, much less actually run…!"

"Gawain," Percival said, tone sympathetic, "Do not act as though we do not understand. We know how much you care for Gringolet, and how angry you must be that he has been wounded; were any of our horses harmed in such a manner, we would feel the same. But anger does not excuse recklessness."

"Then what would you have me do, Percival!?" the Knight of the Sun was shouting again, standing up and glaring at the son of Pellinore, "Just stand idly by and let Morgana and her creations do as they please!?"

"No," Percival kept his voice even as his eyes narrowed, "I would have you not respond by riling an army into burning the forests to the ground. Even if you did somehow catch Morgana in the flames, you know it would only cause more harm than good. Do you really think that Morgana hasn't prepared for the eventuality that we would raise an army against her?"

"It's better than sitting here doing nothing!" Gawain snapped, "Look at us! Every bloody time that bitch gets the better of us, we fail to take the initiative! We're all so afraid of falling into another damn trap that we do not even consider attacking Morgana directly!"

"And why do you think that is, Gawain?" Gareth interrupted, "Do you honestly think we would not deal with the root of the problem if it were so easy to deal with Morgana? The Witch is not a fool. Though she has largely retreated from the affairs of the Kingdom, she is still nobility and she still has influence throughout the Kingdom; very few outside of this room are aware of the shadow war she wages against us and even fewer are aware that she is even capable of magic. Much less that she was the student of Merlin himself."

Gareth gestured towards the Mage of Flowers, who smiled, giving Gawain a slight wave; Gawain resisted the urge to pick up his chair and throw it at Merlin, instead focusing his attention on his younger sibling, "Your point, Gareth?"

"That even with Morgana's magic and cunning aside, raising an army to hunt for her would cause an uproar amongst the nobility. As far as they are aware she is merely an eccentric, and revealing the truth of the matter would cause a schism that Morgana would not hesitate to exploit and use to divide Britain against itself. And that's not taking into account the implications of gathering an army in the first place; do you really want to frighten the Kingdom and possibly trigger another nation-wide war?"

Gawain grit his teeth, redoubling his determination, "Even so, it's better than just allowing her to run free! You can't honestly believe that doing nothing is the best option!"

"No, Gawain, we don't," Guinevere spoke, her tone steel, "But neither is acting out in blind anger. You may believe that you are seeing things clearly, but once the fury fades you will realize that what you are spouting is folly."

"Folly!?"

"Yes, folly," Guinevere forced herself to remain calm – on any other day, Gawain's fury might have been enough to have her shrink away and go silent, but now she refused to let that happen. Instead, she kept her eyes forwards and shoulders squared, "Raising an army is a long and taxing affair in and of itself. Do you really believe Morgana would not notice or take action? That she would not attack or flee while we waste time gathering forces for a fruitless endeavour? And I don't need to remind you how difficult it was for you to find Morgana's castle five years ago when you had Merlin's assistance – even if you were to systematically set fire to the entire forest, it would take your army weeks to reach the castle, and by then her cursed forest and her golems will have wiped out almost your entire force. Morgana will either be long gone, or she will slaughter whoever is left. You will have thrown away hundreds, possibly thousands of lives and burned down an entire forest for nothing."

Gawain choked, sputtering as his expression warped; it was obvious he was raking his mind for some sort of counter, but finding none… and it was only frustrating him further. He cursed, slamming his hand into the table, "Fine, then! A smaller group, like the one five years ago! This time, equipped to finish the job rather than simply investigate!"

"That is completely out of the question."

Everyone turned, caught off guard by the voice; Agravain's cold eyes had fixed upon his furious elder sibling, his tone as cold as the King's as he spoke, "Aside from a matter that is yet to be discussed in this meeting – which I believe will require the vigilance of the entire Round Table to address – do you really believe that Morgana will repeat the mistakes she made that allowed your previous excursion to succeed? She will be expecting us to retaliate in some manner, and using the exact same strategy that got the better of her last time is inviting disaster."

"Then what do you suggest-!?"

"Enough," the King's voice silenced the Knight of the Sun; Arthur glanced about the room to ensure he had everyone's attention before continuing, "Now is not the time to discuss our next steps regarding Morgana. There are more immediately pressing matters that require our attention."

"… Your Majesty, with all due respect," Gawain started, struggling to force a level of calm back into his tone.

"Gawain," Guinevere began, her tone softening for the first time since she entered the room. Only when the Knight finally met her gaze did she continue, "I understand why you want to go after Morgana. I don't think there is a single person in this room who doesn't. But you know as anyone else how dangerous she is; manipulation is one of her most beloved tools, and there are few emotions more easily manipulated than rage. The best weapons we have at the moment are unity, calm, and vigilance.

"We do not want to keep you from seeing justice done. We simply do not want to give her more opportunities to inflict more harm than she already has. Please, do not let her get the better of you."

A pause. Gawain stood silent, staring across the table at the Queen as reason warred with fury in the depths of his eyes; slowly, however, reason seemed to be winning. He lowered his head, eyes closing as he let out a deep breath, his shoulders falling beneath his armour and cloak. When he looked at Guinevere once more, his eyes were clear – his fury was by no means abated, but at the very least, it seemed to be under control.

"… Very well. I shall leave the matter be, for now," he lowered himself back into his seat, leaning forwards into the table, "But what of the homunculus? I believe we should at least address the threat that it represents, given the damage it has done."

"That was actually next on the list for today's meeting," Bedivere stated, seeming pleased to have a convenient excuse to move the meeting along. He twisted in his chair, turning to face Merlin, "Have you ascertained how much of a threat Morgana's new operative seems to be, Ser Merlin?"

"Hmmm…" Merlin stroked his chin in faux thought, "Ser Merlin… I'm not often called that… I think I honestly prefer just 'Merlin' though…"

"Merlin," Arturia did not even turn to face him, "Please remain on task. This meeting is of critical importance."

A chuckle, followed by an amused sigh, "In all seriousness, most of what I'm about to say is speculation. But let's start with what we know for sure; the homunculus' capabilities are quite supernatural. She entered the castle through a parapet on the outer wall facing the ocean – and given the fact that there were no wyvern sightings earlier in the day, we can assume she did not fly in. The only assumption I can make is that she climbed the parapet."

There was not a lie to be found in his statement; though Merlin had left out how he'd known about the homunculus from the moment she began climbing the parapet, it was not hard the draw the conclusion of how she had entered.

"Climbed. The wall," Percival asked, eyes narrowed and moustaches twitching with deadpan disbelief, "In full armour. With no climbing gear or apparatus. On a wall facing naught but open ocean."

The Mage smiled, "Whether you believe it or not, Percival, the fact remains that it happened."

"You expect me to believe that this homunculus swam up to the wall in full plate armour, and then scaled the wall – which stands hundreds of feet tall, I will remind you – without any sort of climbing equipment."

"Yes. Though I don't know why you're so doubtful, Percival," Merlin kept his lazy gaze leveled at the son of Pellinore, "Do you honestly believe that Morgana is not capable of creating such a powerful magical soldier? After she created the Green Knight and Mor…" he trailed off, catching the glare that Guinevere was leveling at him, "… more creatures of a similarly despicable nature?"

Percival opened his mouth to retort, then shut it just as quickly; he cursed as quietly as he could manage, knowing that the Mage had a point. After a moment, he sighed, "Very well. Continue."

"Thank you," Merlin nodded, "Now, beyond her incredible strength and seemingly limitless stamina, the homunculus displayed the ability to use something I will refer to as 'Prana Burst' – a technique that involves flaring one's inner magical energy in order to greatly enhance one's physical capabilities far beyond their normal limits. A technique that the King himself is quite familiar with, considering how often he uses it."

Arturia gave no response, merely waiting for Merlin to continue. He gave a slightly disappointed pout at the lack of reaction, but quickly regained his stride, "Prana Burst, in total honesty, is a very simple technique – in fact, it's one of the most basic uses of magical power that there is, if not the most basic. Some might even go so far as to call it primitive. However, its effectiveness both as a tool and as a weapon is marred by one particular flaw; it is a very inefficient use of the internal magical energy known as prana. Most beings capable of magecraft would only be able to use it one time before running out of steam entirely, which makes the technique, simplistic as it is, largely ineffective and by extension very rare. One would need truly incredible amounts of energy in order to use it as an effective battle tactic, such as the heart of a Dragon."

"So you believe our new monster to be part Dragon now?" Kay scoffed.

"No. I don't think she's nearly that powerful, for all her other demonstrations of power and skill," Merlin shook his head, "From what I observed from the homunculus' behaviour, she's still young. She's looking to show off her strength and power, at least in part; she had defined goals and something of a plan, but on the whole she actually seems rather reckless. She was actively seeking out challenges even when she was clearly outmatched – that in mind, she was oddly sparing of her use of Prana Burst, keeping it in reserve as a trump card. I think that if she were truly part Dragon, she would not have been nearly as sparing with it."

"Then what do you believe?" Tristan asked.

Merlin shrugged, "If I honestly had to guess? I would say she's inherited some of Morgana's Fae blood – thus leading to an extremely powerful magical heritage with magic circuits that can produce plenty of prana, combined with the manufactured raw magical capabilities of a homunculus. Not as potent as Morgana's magnum opus, not by a long shot, but not something to be taken lightly either.

"That said, she did not display any knowledge of magecraft beyond a basic understanding of the spell I cast on her – meaning Morgana is either yet to teach her magecraft, or does not intend to do so at all. She was relying entirely on physical prowess and, in the case of her Prana Burst, raw power to win when she fought Arthur, Lancelot and Gawain."

"And a highly unorthodox fighting style," Lancelot added, "I've not seen anyone wield two blades like that. Usually, when one uses a second blade rather than a shield, it's either a shorter sword or a dagger, used to assist in parries and to support the larger sword. That way the blades do not interfere with each other. I've never seen anyone dual wield full size arming swords, much less longswords."

"Furthermore, her mount somehow escaped the snare I constructed with Failnaught," Tristan noted, "I don't know how it did so, but somehow it managed to disperse my arrows and destroy my snare before I could land a killing blow, and then quickly fled beyond the reach of my bow. Is it possible that it has anti-magical properties?"

"It's possible, though I would say it's more likely that its saddle came with some sort of defence mechanism," Merlin shrugged again, "Unfortunately I don't have nearly as much speculation in mind about the wyvern as I do the homunculus. We simply haven't seen enough of what it can do to really draw any conclusions – but I've not heard of a tame wyvern before. It seems Morgana is coming up with more new tricks all the time."

"Which is exactly why I believe being proactive is the better solution – even if we cannot attack Morgana directly, surely something can be done about the homunculus and her pet," Gawain stated, "They will not simply withdraw for more years of preparation – if they do make a move, surely the tracking spell Merlin cast upon the homunculus will allow us to follow it and strike it down before it can wreak any more havoc. Isn't that right?"

A brief silence fell over the Round Table as every pair of eyes turned to Merlin. His previously lazy posture was now somewhat rigid, his smile fading into a thin line and his eyes wide, making it more than clear this was not a question he had been anticipating.

"… isn't that right, Merlin?" Gawain repeated, tone cautious.

"… er… well, no," the Mage finally admitted, bringing his free hand up to the back of his head, expression sheepish, "You see, the spell was not intended to work over a long distance, and even if it was I did not apply any sort of curse to make it self sustaining. It has long since dissipated. I have no idea where the homunculus is at this moment in time."

More silence as an air of general exasperation fell over the Round Table, the expressions of the Knights ranging from annoyance to outright disgust. Gawain in particular had his eyes narrowed, nose wrinkled and mouth open in incredulous disappointment, then slowly lowered his forehead into his palm.

"You are completely useless."

Merlin didn't even try to defend himself this time; he clicked his tongue, then settled back against the wall, "At any rate, there doesn't appear to be anything we can really do about Morgana or her homunculus at this stage. My advice is that the best move going forwards is merely to remain vigilant, and to perform damage control."

Arturia paused for a moment, then gave Merlin a curt nod. Satisfied, the Mage fully relaxed, his small smirk once again playing at his lips.

"Then it's decided," Arturia stated, "For now, we shall focus on containing the fallout of the attack. If knowledge of the attack spreads too far, it will affect Camelot's reputation throughout Britain; the last thing we need is to be seen as weak.

"Ser Bedivere," she inclined her head towards the First Knight, "Have efforts to suppress rumours of the other night been successful?"

"… unfortunately, we have not been able to stop them from spreading, Your Majesty," Bedivere shook his head ruefully, "The rumours seem to follow what we had predicted, both in their nature and in their scope; most of them, initially, seemed to have been spread amidst our military rather than the citizenry, though this has changed over the past few days. Because the attack was confined to the castle and that it took place under the cover of night, the people were unaware that anything had occurred until the following morning. The wyvern's dark colouration and small size compared to, say, an actual Dragon, ensured that it would be very difficult to spot against the night sky, especially at such a high elevation.

"However, that does not mean that the soldiers that witnessed the attack firsthand have not told others what they saw, albeit with varying levels of detail and accuracy – by the time your orders to forbid them from speaking of the matter reached them, it was too late."

If the King was disappointed or displeased with the news, he did not show it. He merely nodded, "I suspected as much. Continue."

"Some of these rumours are wildly inaccurate – some say the castle was attacked by a truly massive Dragon, others describe the invader as larger than even Ser Galehaut," Bedivere stated.

A snort of laughter interrupted him as he opened his mouth to continue, and the entire room turned to stare at Gaheris. When he realized he had become the center of attention, he flushed, struggling to compose himself, clearing his throat as his expression became suitably sheepish, "My apologies… it's just… well, difficult to imagine anyone being taller than Ser Galehaut. The woman is practically a giant."

Lancelot's eyes narrowed, "If that was a jab at Galehaut's parentage, Gaheris…"

"N-Not at all!" Gaheris raised his hands defensively, clearly terrified at causing the Knight of the Lake offense, "I just… Ser Galehaut is easily over twelve feet tall."

"… Very well. But please keep yourself under tighter control," Lancelot relented, his clenched fists relaxing under the table. There were not many things that could so quickly rile the Knight of the Lake, but among those things were insults towards one of his greatest and most trusted friends – the woman formerly known as the Uncrowned King.

Bedivere cleared his throat, exaggerating the sound to regain the Round Table's attention; once he was sure everyone's full focus, he continued as though he had never been interrupted, "The more accurate rumours are ones pertaining to an attack made on the Queen, the attempted kidnapping of Princess Mordred, and that the assassin was capable of facing off with multiple Round Table Knights at the same time. Thankfully, the details of these rumours vary wildly due to the many tellings and retellings, meaning their actual credibility is likely to be considered dubious, but that does not change that there is undeniable proof that something happened at the Castle. The noticeable damage to sections of the inner wall, as well as the plumes of smoke from the stables that lasted well into the following afternoon, have confirmed this, and unfortunately I do not think there is any way we can brush such things off as mere accident or happenstance.

"Worse, given that the rumours have spread from the guard to the people, and the fact that several merchants, craftsmen and travellers of all sorts have come and gone since then, it's very likely that rumours of the attack have already spread to other cities and settlements across Britain," Bedivere looked up from his report, expression grave, "There is a chance we will have to address this directly."

"Indeed," Arturia nodded, "From what you've told me, that is inevitable."

"Will you tell the people the whole truth, Your Majesty?" Gawain asked.

"Perhaps simply coming clean about this affair is the best option," Guinevere added, brightening, "Transparency may be the ideal option in this scenario – perhaps admitting to what truly happened would earn the sympathy of the people, rather than putting on a front of strength for the sake of appearances and reputation."

A ripple of movement and sound shot across the Round Table as the Knights looked to one another; though strength and self reliance were important to the warriors of Britain, so too was honesty and integrity. Lying and misdirection did not come to them easily, even for the sake of the Kingdom.

Agravain promptly got to his feet, speaking loudly, clearly, and coldly, "That is not an option."

The Round Table fell silent. One by one, they turned to face him, Guinevere in particular seeming dejected, frustrated by his denial of her words. Agravain paid her no heed, merely continuing to speak, his tone bordering on condescending, as though the facts of the matter were obvious.

"There are some things that we cannot afford to tell the citizenry," he stated, "Outside of this room, only a select few know of Morgana's true nature, and as Gareth stated earlier, if anyone beyond them were to learn of it, it would cause an uproar amidst the people and the nobility alike. As ideal as full transparency would be, it is a luxury we cannot currently afford."

"Ser Agravain is right," Arturia agreed, and Guinevere had to bite down on a curse, "Unfortunate as it may be, there are some secrets we cannot afford to make common knowledge. As enticing as gaining the empathy of the citizens through the truth of the matter is, the fact remains that the kings and nobility of Britain only respect and respond to one thing – strength.

"Any show of any form of weakness," the King continued, and though she did not turn to face Guinevere, the Queen could feel the words were directed towards her, "will only invite open rebellion. That is not a possibility I am willing to entertain."

There was a pause, the King surveying the Knights one by one. They seemed to have responded to her words – though Agravain's advice was sound, the other Knights rarely responded to it even when they acknowledged its merits, the majority of them joined in their dislike for the Hard Hand of the Round Table. When Arturia took it to heart, though, they quickly fell into line, acknowledging the wisdom however begrudgingly.

But it was not as though Arturia did not understand their misgivings; she despised underhanded tactics and methods every bit as much as they did, be it on the battlefield or at the negotiating table. For better or for worse, she was as much a Knight as she was a King, and though being King required compromising one's moral code for the greater good, being a Knight meant adhering to one's moral code whenever it was possible, even when the easier decision was also the darker one.

She took a breath, and continued, "However, that does not mean we can simply fabricate a story. It does not befit our stations, and we would be defying the very codes we uphold as the Knights of the Round Table, the greatest warriors and lords Britain has to offer. Therefore, as much as possible, we shall stick to the truth – we shall omit crucial details such as Morgana's involvement in this debacle, but we shall not make excuses or beg for assistance or forgiveness. We shall tell the people and the nobility the truth – nothing more, and nothing less. If anyone has any objections, voice them now."

No one spoke; the silence stood as a unanimous agreement.

"Very well. Then we shall prepare to address the rumours within the next fortnight," Arturia sat back down, "Ser Bedivere, was there anything left to discuss?"

"No, Your Majesty," Bedivere smiled, clearly relieved to have the major points of the meeting resolved. He gathered the parchments in his hand and straightened them out, "That was everything."

"No. It was not everything."

Agravain's voice cut through the air like a knife, a harsh contradiction to Bedivere's own words and tone. The Hard Hand had once again stood, looking to Kind Arthur, "Your Majesty. If I may?"

A moment of silence passed before Arthur gave his answer in the form of a curt nod, "Speak, Ser Agravain."

Agravain's gaze swept about the room, briefly hovering over Guinevere as though to question the necessity of her presence before breaking away from her, eyes cold and black as iron, "You are all aware of my recent return from Kent. I have reason to believe that the King of Kent, King Hengest, is guilty of high treason."

Shock exploded across the Round Table like sparks to oil; even Guinevere herself felt her eyes shoot to Arturia, bolt upright and eyes wide with her sudden distress. Was this what Mordred had heard Arturia speaking about with Agravain?

"High treason?" Percival asked, appalled, "Ser Agravain, we are all more than aware that there is no love lost between Hengest and King Arthur, but this is a very serious accusation. This could potentially lead to war!"

"Ser Percival is right, Agravain," Tristan added, "Surely you are not spreading baseless slander?"

At this, Agravain outright sneered, the anger and disgust more than evident in his tone, "What exactly do you take me for? Some gossiping hen at a ball, spreading meaningless hearsay for the entertainment of coddled princelings and ignorant broodmares?"

It was the uncharacteristic viciousness in Agravain's tone that caused Percival and Lancelot to fall silent. Agravain was known among the Round Table for the iron grip he kept on his emotions; almost never were the inner workings of his mind on display for his peers to see, his mannerisms and behaviour chillingly modeled after the King's.

"Perhaps it would do you good to wait until after I am finished speaking to call my claims into question," Agravain spoke, forcing the cold control back over his tone, posture and expression as he readdressed the Round Table.

"Kent is not a land that is suited to agriculture; it is almost entirely reliant on maintaining lucrative trade in order to keep its coffers filled. Being on the southern coast, it is only natural that this would extend to trade with the mainland, as Britain's small size and harsh climate does not lend itself well to the cultivation of exotics. As such, Kent is something of a gate-keeper for the majority of Britain's imports due to its location, which has allowed the Kingdom to prosper since they essentially decide the price of imported goods, which includes everything from exotic spices and silks to arms, armour and slaves – say what you will about Hengest and his history as one of Vortigern's mercenaries, he is a shrewd man who knows to take advantage of his environs and situation.

"However, during my recent appraisal of Kent's affairs, I found evidence to suggest that Kent has been making a series of large and sudden exports to the mainland. According to the merchants that regularly cross the channel, they were recently sworn to secrecy concerning this series of exports by their employers – they were told to take the delivery to the mainland and ask no questions."

"And?" Gawain asked, impatiently glowering at his younger brother, "Where Kent sends its goods is no business of ours, Agravain."

"It is when those goods are comprised largely of arms and armour, Gawain."

That got the Knight of the Sun's attention. His posture straightened as he looked the Hard Hand in the eye, brow furrowed, "… you believe Kent is supporting a foreign campaign?"

"It is the most logical conclusion I can draw," Agravain stated, "Unfortunately, when I approached King Hengest on the matter, he reacted less than amicably. He declared that there were no such exports made, and refused to show me any recent record of their exports or imports. I suspect that were I not a Knight of the Round Table he'd have thrown me out of Kent entirely, or worse."

"It is possible Hengest is merely unaware of these exports," Percival speculated, "From what I remember, he has never taken well to insults. He may have merely perceived your actions as a slight."

"Unlikely," This time it was King Arthur himself who spoke, fingers once again steepled with his elbows on the table, "I will remind you that Hengest and his brother Horsa came to this country to help Vortigern keep the crown. When his brother was killed and it became clear that Vortigern was going mad, Hengest approached me and offered his services as a general and warrior in exchange for a small Kingdom of his own, albeit under my rule. He spent the rest of the war working to prove his merit and his word – a man like that knows better than to just let his temper run wild."

"All that being said, we cannot simply begin an investigation based on Hengest's behaviour alone, especially not in the light of recent events," Bedivere turned to Agravain, "Ser Agravain, do you have any substantial proof of Hengest committing treason?"

The Hard Hand let out a harsh breath, reaching into his cloak and pulling forth the ledger he had shown to the King, tossing it to Bedivere, "This is a record I put together of everything the merchants mentioned during questioning, though I doubt it is complete."

Bedivere shook his head as he took the parchment, adding it to the stack of papers he had already prepared, "It's not enough. The words of mere merchants, regardless of their involvement with this, will never be able to overturn the words of a King, much less if this ledger is incomplete – even beyond that, the fact of the matter is that Hengest can claim you merely drew this up on the spot if we tried to use it against him since it isn't an official record. We will need something more concrete if we wish to pursue an investigation."

"Perhaps we could make an official request to see the records?" Guinevere asked, tone tentative, "Surely Hengest can't refuse an order from the Round Table itself, or even King Arthur."

"On what grounds?" Agravain shot, "Hengest already refused me and disregarded my authority on the grounds of his status as a ruler. If we merely return with the same request from a higher authority he will take the opportunity to paint us as paranoid, taking the claims of common merchants over the words of a King and general who has served loyally since the Twelve Wars."

"W-Well…" Guinevere stammered, then breathed, recomposing herself, "Perhaps we could turn the game against him, in a way. You said yourself, Agravain, that Kent is one of the most prosperous holds in Britain due its position and its role in fair trade with the mainland. Surely, the records should be available for inspection by the Round Table at any time? Why would Hengest try to hide something that plays such a large role in the prosperity of Britain as a whole?"

"… that is actually a viable excuse to perform an inspection," Lancelot stated, smiling at the Queen with no small amount of pride; even the Hard Hand himself seemed to have gone quiet at the proposal, "Of course, we would likely need to wait for a more opportune moment, make it seem more a matter of routine than something that was prompted by suspicion-"

"Which is something we do not have time for," Agravain snapped, cutting off the Knight of the Lake, "The longer we wait, the greater the chances are that Hengest will have tampered with his records to ensure there is no evidence of his exports, if he has not done so already. Beyond that, an official request will allow him time to prepare a sufficiently altered manifest of all the imports and exports as to not arouse suspicion."

"So we either push forwards and risk our reputation further, or we allow Hengest to do as he wishes with no consequences," Kay sighed, rubbing at his brow, "… these are the days when I miss merely travelling Britain, as opposed to ruling it as a Lord."

"… perhaps," Bedivere began, "This is a matter best left for another meeting. As it is, we have already discussed several topics that will all require special attention over the next few meetings before we begin taking action – ideally, a meeting for each individual issue. It may be best for us to simply adjourn this meeting here, rest on what we have learned and discussed, and make our decisions with a fresh mind over the next few days."

"… very well. It seems that we have at least partially covered everything I wanted to discuss at this meeting," Arthur nodded.

"Wait," Guinevere interjected, standing up abruptly, "Wait. There's one more thing I want to talk about before we disperse."

"… and that is, Guinevere?" Arturia asked.

"… what about Mordred?" the Queen inquired, "What are we going to do about her?"

"The Queen raises a fair point," Lancelot noted, "Whatever the purpose of the attack was, it's evident that the Princess is indeed a target – we can't very well just rely on normal guards to protect her anymore."

"Then what would you suggest?" Gawain had a sardonic smile on his face, tone exasperated, "Have a Knight of the Round Table guarding her at all times?"

There was a moment of quiet as the suggestion hung in the air.

"… it does seem like a reasonable solution," Tristan rubbed his chin, expression thoughtful, "After all, there are always at least four or five Round Table Knights present at Camelot, if not more. Surely it wouldn't be too much trouble to spare one of those number to guard the Princess?

Gawain had turned almost white with shock, staring at Tristan incredulously, "… I was joking…"

"Well, evidently it wasn't a very good joke, Gawain," Merlin piped up smugly, speaking for the first time in quite a while, "Sorry to shoot down your aspirations to be a jester, but you'd be better off remaining a Knight."

"Y-You can't seriously be considering this," Gawain stood, eyes shooting wildly across the table to the other Knights, most of whom were obviously pondering the benefits to such a solution, "The Knights of the Round Table have more important things to do than babysit children! We have our own holds and lands to attend to and all manner of deadly beasts to slay, not to mention the affairs of Camelot Castle itself-!"

"Gawain," Percival interrupted, "I fail to see how you consider protecting Mordred to be a low priority task in comparison to defending a hold or slaying a Dragon."

"The Princess," Gawain hissed the words, "is in one of the most heavily defended fortresses in the known world! There is no reason that she should need a personal bodyguard-!"

"And you just said it yourself," Percival cut Gawain off again, his stare harsh, "Mordred is the Princess of Britannia. Regardless of the opinions of some of us who sit at this table that believe otherwise, Mordred is the future of Britain itself."

His words seemed to echo throughout the chamber as his eyes swept about the Knights present. Gawain grit his teeth, his face flushing red with anger; Agravain's brow creased, eyes narrowing at the son of Pellinore.

Even Arturia had to keep her posture rigid to hide the tensing of her shoulders and the sudden tremble in her hands as she stared at Percival. Mordred?... the homunculus, made to slay the King, to slay her, was to be Britain's future?...

"… I personally can see no greater duty – or honour – than safeguarding the future of our nation," Percival declared, "Camelot almost failed in protecting that future once. If assigning a Round Table Knight to her defense at all times will ensure the Princess' safety, I see no reason to not take that precaution. And if no one else will do so, then I will volunteer to do it myself."

Guinevere was smiling, hands clasped together in a way that suggested that she would have applauded if she could. The remaining Knights were all beginning to show their own signs of approval and agreement, offering smiles and nods of their own.

"… you cannot look after the Princess by yourself, Percival," Agravain countered coldly, "You have other duties to attend to – Gawain is correct in that regard."

"Then we shall rotate," Gareth offered, "Not including the King, there are eleven of us in total – four or five of us present at Camelot, again, at the minimum. It would not be difficult to have us trade the position on a daily basis – designated days based on whom is present."

"Then I suppose the only things left to settle are whom begins, and how exactly we shall rotate," Lancelot said.

"And exactly how we shall do it," Palamedes reminded the Knight of the Lake, "As much import as her defense may have, it would do no good to smother the girl. She needs to live her life, and beyond that, I do not believe it would do us any good to simply follow her idly."

"… Your Majesty?" Bedivere asked, tone uncertain, "What do you think?"

There was a pause, and then the slow release of a breath, "So long as you all accomplish your tasks regardless. I will not have my Kingdom grind to a halt out of concern for… it."

"… it shall be done, Your Majesty," Lancelot decreed, his fellow Knights quickly offering quiet sounds of affirmative, "We shall not fall behind in our tasks. We only ask that this matter be discussed in further detail along with the others."

A curt nod, "Very well. Then this meeting is adjourned. We shall discuss the details of our next steps over the next few days."

The Knights filed out of the room slowly, each going their separate ways throughout the castle to resume their duties; beyond the few and far between windows and the endless curtain of grey, the sun was drifting down towards the edge of the endless western seas, the sky already taking on hues of deep orange.

This was obscured from the lingering Lancelot, however, who only bore witness to the darkening clouds. Despite the early hour, the grey was already giving way to a mottled purple akin to a bruise; the nights were coming earlier and earlier once more, a fact that always put the Knight of the Lake on edge.

Now, however, it haunted him. Despite the foolishness of such thoughts, he could not help but equate the darkening days of the coming winter, a mere fact of nature and the world, with the dark times that he feared were coming. Even though the first snows were yet to fall and that the harvests were yet to truly begin, Lancelot already found himself wishing for the winter to end.

"Dark times ahead," he whispered, bringing a hand to his face and rubbing his eyes, "To think I once thought times would be simpler when the Wars ended... if anything, trying to avoid bloodshed has made things more complicated..."

"Well… good day and good tidings to you as well, Ser Lancelot."

Jolted from his musings, Lancelot broke away from the window to look to the familiar voice. Guinevere stood before him, a tired smile on her face with her hands hidden behind her back.

"… Your Majesty," his sigh was one of relief, "Forgive me. I was lost in thought."

"… understandably so, given what awaits us," she murmured, smile fading for a brief moment before she forced it back across her face, "… walk with me?"

"Gladly," Lancelot met the Queen's smile with one of his own, offering her his arm.

To his surprise, however, Guinevere shook her head, "With all due respect, I would prefer to use my own strength while I can."

Lancelot frowned as they started down the corridor, confused, "While you can?"

"Merlin," Guinevere said, raising a closed, pale hand to rub at her eye, "He… gave me a concoction to help me stay awake… I don't know how much longer it will last."

"Ah. I see. You were unusually lively for someone who has gone days without sleep, Your Majesty."

"I admit, part of that was the anger talking."

"Anger at the King?"

"In part. Mostly, though, I suppose I was angry at myself."

"Yourself?" Lancelot almost sputtered, turning to look down at Guinevere in his shock, "Whatever for, My La-… Your Majesty? You performed admirably during the meeting!"

"Yes… but…" she glanced up at him, her smile slipping from her lips entirely, "… don't you think I should have started doing this earlier?..."

"'This' being…?" he trailed off, waiting for her elaboration.

"… acting like a Queen, instead of just… living like one," Guinevere looked down at the cold golden band around her finger – one of the only gifts Arturia had ever given her, and even then only for the sake of their marriage, "Acting like a proper ruler. Taking some of the weight off of Arthur's shoulders. Taking responsibility instead of… wasting away in an ivory tower."

"… I admit, I am not sure how to answer that question, My Lady," Lancelot admitted, running a hand through his indigo locks. His tone had grown more somber, purple eyes downcast, "You may believe that things would be better if you had… but I am not convinced that would be so. Especially considering Arthur's general temperament. He may not have allowed you to do so, and may yet attempt to prevent you from going further."

"… I know," she sighed, crossing her arms, wincing at the small stabs of pain through her hands – pain Lancelot hated himself for being unable to prevent or take away, "I just… I feel like I haven't been doing enough. Like I've played the figurehead for too long. I don't… I don't want to be that anymore."

"You wish to be more than a symbol."

"… yes."

"… I understand," after looking briefly over his shoulder, Lancelot reached out and wrapped a comforting arm around Guinevere's shoulder, "It's difficult enough for me, knowing that I am the standard every Knight holds themselves to throughout the Kingdom. A different context, but it is an important role, one I am unsure at times as to whether or not I deserve – and yours is more important still."

"The Perfect Queen for the Perfect King," she spat the words out with a tired venom, "All I have to do is smile and look the part when Arthur needs me for it…"

It was a grievance Lancelot had heard many times over the years since he had met Guinevere – and yet, he had never heard her speak of it with the utter contempt that she did now. Grief, tears, even impotent anger at times – but never this sort of bitterness and utter loathing.

She took in a shaky breath, and slowly exhaled, "… I want to change that, Lancelot. I know it's not what Arthur married me for – but even beyond my conscience, even beyond watching him break himself trying to care for this Kingdom… I don't think I can handle the misery anymore. I have to do something, even if that means going against his ideals."

Lancelot came to a halt, his eyes soft and warm and solemn with understanding. When Guinevere turned to face him, he slowly drew her into a gentle embrace, his cloak wrapping around her shoulders, "Whatever your decision is, My Lady, I will stand by it. You have my sword."

The rest went unsaid; it couldn't be said, and even this gesture of care and support, if seen by anyone, had the potential to cause a scandal that would go down throughout history.

But thankfully, it didn't need to be said.

Nonetheless, Guinevere gave a rueful smile, "Even if that means going against the King?"

Lancelot drew away, almost wincing at the question – it was obvious he had no desire to choose between his King and his Queen. After a moment, he sighed, "… all I can do is pray it does not come to that."

Her smile did not fade, but neither did its subtle sorrow. The two simply stood in silence for a long moment, the Lady and her Knight.

"… and what of you, Ser Lancelot?" Guinevere asked, "Is it too much to hope your tidings have been better than mine?"

At this, his expression fell, far, far more than it already had. His eyes fell shut, and the breath he let out couldn't even be called a sigh; it was much too heavy, plagued by guilt and indecision.

"… I've been receiving letters from my son as of late."

"Your son?" Guinevere asked, her concern rising; it had taken Lancelot months for him to finally tell her about his bastard child, in large part because of the circumstances under which the child had been conceived. The Queen reached up to cup his cheek, tone soft with worry, "Has something happened?"

"… no. He simply… he wants to see his father. He's already six years old and I have not seen him in over five years," his hand covered hers, grateful for her comfort, "I grew up without a father, Guinevere. The Lady of the Lake raised me – I know what it's like wondering who one's father is, and what they were like, but never so much as seeing them as the years go by. I know now that my father was killed when I was but an infant, but that doesn't make what I did not know as a boy weigh any less. I don't want my son to grow up without a father."

"… perhaps I could convince Arthur to-"

"Guinevere."

The Knight and his Queen came to a sudden halt at the cold voice; they turned, and there stood the King, expression impassive as ever.

Arturia studied her Queen, her eyes tracing every line and contour of Guinevere's face. The vulnerability Guinevere had been showing to Lancelot was quickly cloaked by the same fire and resolve that had taken her in the meeting, bracing herself for the inevitable confrontation with the King – but rather than preparing to be lectured, Arturia could tell from her expression and her very posture that Guinevere was preparing to argue.

'Breaking from her role…' the King of Knights thought once more, though she pushed it aside. She wasn't sure what was causing this sudden shift in behaviour in Guinevere, but it was obvious that it would not be stamped out; moreover, as things stood Arturia had neither the time or the patience to deal with, from what she could tell, what amounted to a mere temper tantrum.

Their conversation would have to wait. For now, Arturia simply needed Guinevere to keep her word.

"… you promised me that after the meeting, you would go and rest," she stated.

"… I did," Guinevere acknowledged, nodding.

"Then go. As you yourself just said, there's no telling when Merlin's concoction will wear off. It would not do for someone to find you unconscious in the halls."

Guinevere stiffened, then looked away, cursing faintly under her breath as Lancelot's face paled, the both of them realizing they had been overheard. Rather than pressing the matter, however, she simply bowed, knowing no good would come of fighting the King further at this moment, "Very well. I take my leave."

Before the Queen could turn around to leave, Arturia spoke again, "Guinevere."

"Yes?" she raised her head, looking the King in the eye, unaware of how much such a simple action troubled her husband.

"We will speak later."

It was not a request.

The Queen did not dignify Arturia's order with a response. She merely turned around and walked away, shoulders tense, her usual graceful, gliding gait marred by her frustration.

Only when Guinevere rounded the corner and fell out of sight did Lancelot dare speak, "I take it you don't approve of her actions today, Your Majesty?"

"… no. I don't," despite the impassive tone, the words alone seemed to imply the King's frustrated turmoil, "Nor do I approve of the support she received in her outburst – both open and subtle."

The Knight of the Lake flinched at the borderline accusatory declaration, his former melancholy slowly being replaced with dread. Quickly, he bowed, a hand over his chest, "Forgive me, Your Majesty. I did not mean you any offence."

"You're hardly the one who caused me the most offence, Ser Lancelot," Arturia said, turning to the hallway, "Walk with me."

He did as she bid him, walking several paces behind her as she made her way through the castle. He bit at his lip, then finally dared to ask, "… exactly how much of that conversation did you hear, Your Majesty?"

"Enough."

Lancelot did not inquire further, the dread in his heart so great he wondered if the King were merely leading him somewhere secluded so she might turn her sword on him. He quickly banished the thought from his mind, but the emotion would not go away; he found his hand drifting uncomfortably close to his sword… was he truly so frightened?...

"… I would advise you to keep such conversations with Guinevere to the privacy of secluded rooms," Arturia did not stop, maintaining her pace even as Lancelot staggered with shock, "Some might mistake your declarations for treason. You're fortunate it was only I who overheard you."

It took a moment for the dull roar of his heartbeat to withdraw from Lancelot's ears; relief washed over him as his heart slowed, and after a long few moments he let out a shuddering breath, and redoubled his pace to catch up with the King, "… thank you, Your Majesty."

"It is trivial. There are far more important matters at hand, for all of us."

"But we should have a handle on the situation sooner rather than later – as you decreed, we shall be discussing each matter individually over the course of the next week and making our moves from there."

"And yet, Ser Gawain has a point – as things stand, we are being forced to remain passive against the forces that pose the greatest threats to the Kingdom. Sacred swords are of little use in duels of politics."

"Indeed they are," Lancelot let his hand brush against the guard of his sword, "I know the Knights of the Round are often sent forth to put down beasts and threats of all sorts, but at times I cannot help but feel that Arondight is little more than a badge of office, despite its power and significance."

"The primary differing factor from before, Ser Lancelot, is that we are no longer using violence as a first resort to enforce our rule and laws. The days of war are long gone, but the politics were always there."

"… indeed."

"And that is why I need you all sound of mind and body for these coming days – if it is at all possible, we need to prevent another war from breaking loose. But if it is not possible, then I need you all ready and willing to fight – and your help in readying Britain for war," she stopped, turning to face Lancelot once more, "You understand?"

"I do, Your Majesty," Lancelot nodded, "This peace is one we have strived for a long time to attain – and though it is hardly perfect, it is better than the age of warring lords and kings that preceded it."

"Good."

She turned, and resumed her former pace – and Lancelot couldn't help but let his mind wander back to his son.

He felt his lips curl down into a grimace; should he truly take this step, here and now?...

"… if I may, Your Majesty," the Knight of the Lake began, stopping in his tracks, "I have a request to make."

Arturia stopped, turned back to the stalled Knight with a silent stare.

"… I would ask your permission to bring my son to Camelot."

The turmoil in Arturia's heart went unseen beneath her practiced mask. She could already guess why Lancelot was asking this of her, but she waited for him to finish.

"I… I do not want my son to grow up without a father," he explained, "I myself grew up never knowing who my real parents were or even what my name was until I claimed Joyous Guard – it haunted me for so long, and occasionally haunts me still. I do not wish the same for my son – and moreover, I do not feel any reassurance in leaving him in the care of his mother and grandfather."

His tone grew cold at their mention, though Arturia was hardly surprised – Lancelot held no love for the Fisher King, and only pity for the wounded man's daughter, Elaine, "I wish to remove him from their influence, and act as a proper father."

A wave of empathy nearly overwhelmed Arturia, forcing her to work to maintain her emotionless mask. She wanted nothing more in that moment than to grant Lancelot's request, the look on his face alone sending lances of guilt through her heart.

Instead, she faced him squarely, only pausing to compose herself before giving her response.

"No."

A single word of denial – and it was enough to cause more shock and pain to Lancelot than any physical wound. Shock shot through his body like a bolt of lightning as the colour drained from his face, his eyes widening and his posture going ramrod straight for but a moment before his body went slack. He stumbled, stepping forward, then back, struggling to keep his balance and not fall to his knees. Eventually, he settled for putting his weight against the wall, staring at the King with a crushing despair, "… w… why?..."

"… it is unfortunate, Ser Lancelot, but I must deny your request," Arturia kept her tone even, "As I have said, you are Britain's greatest Knight, the Knight all other knights measure themselves against in chivalry and skill. Outside of the Round Table, there are precious few who know of your son, and even fewer who know the exact circumstances behind his conception."

"… b-but… Your Majesty…"

"Lancelot. If your son were to come to Camelot to live in your care without any sort of cover story, it would arouse suspicion. If his heritage were to be revealed it would cause an uproar, and I do not find it likely that the truth of his conception would garner you much sympathy."

"… surely, there is something we can do," Lancelot was grasping at straws now, regaining some of his strength. He pushed away from the wall, "If I were to claim he was adopted-"

"And when do Round Table Knights just go out and adopt orphans, Ser Lancelot?"

The question shut Lancelot's mouth like a steel trap, the Knight of the Lake falling completely silent.

"The abruptness of such an act would be enough to arouse suspicion in and of itself; furthermore, I do not know if your son holds much resemblance to you, Ser Lancelot, but if there is any at all, you will be scrutinized for it," Arturia gestured towards him, "You must see the potential consequences that bringing your son here will have. Even if you were to find a way to bring him here and raise him without damaging your reputation and jeopardizing your role, you would never be able to officially acknowledge him as your child."

Arturia's words seemed to be sinking in; Lancelot had gone from despairing to enraged, but now, he simply looked crestfallen. Outrage was overcome by understanding, but that did not make the decision any easier for him to bear. He lowered his head, his voice small, quiet, "… I understand, Your Majesty."

"... I will take my leave," Arturia said, turning on her heel, "Return to your post."

"… if I cannot bring him here… might I at least have him sent to his Godmother?"

"… you mean Ser Galehaut?" Arturia asked.

"Yes."

"Might I ask why?"

"… if I cannot raise my son myself, Your Majesty," Lancelot's tone was grave, but determined, "then I would at least have him raised by my closest friend and confidante."

She paused, thinking; on the one hand, there was no reason to not have this request granted. Galehaut was beloved by her people, and eccentric enough that they would likely overlook the sudden adoption of a boy from a far off land. In addition, Galehaut was more than likely to offer her aid to Lancelot without question or even the thought of recompense, and such a mighty and honourable warrior was more than likely to raise the same.

Where Arturia found herself apprehensive of the idea, however, was in Galehaut's mindset; ambitious and powerful, the Lord of the Far Isles was a woman whom people flocked to like a beacon – not out of any true desire to serve and be protected by her, but in hopes of making their own ambitions come to fruition.

Galehaut had no respect for any noble or royal bloodline. The only reason she respected King Arthur was because of their strength; she cared not for the Pendragon name or its significance. Furthermore, she granted rewards and positions based entirely on merit; in her eyes, the son of a great noble house was the same as the daughter of a shepherd. She only respected those who reached out for ambitions greater than themselves, and the only reason she stopped her invasion of Britain itself was because of Lancelot. For one reason or another, the Half Giant found herself enamoured with the Knight of the Lake, and agreed to cease her invasion and withdraw her forces in exchange for Lancelot's friendship.

However, Galehaut never surrendered to Arturia, nor did she swear fealty to her; she merely relinquished her hold over Britain's conquered lands in exchange for lordship in a hold within Britain, remaining completely sovereign over her distant islands. Thus far, she had kept her word, but the fact remained that Galehaut was a powerful and dangerous figure who only respected ambition and prowess. Even her reasons for giving up her conquest were rooted in a selfish desire for the companionship of Lancelot.

In essence, Galehaut was the very embodiment of prowess, ambition and greed.

"… you're certain no ill will come of this?" Arturia asked.

"I trust Galehaut with my life, Your Majesty. I would trust her with my very Knighthood."

Arturia said nothing in response, evidently not convinced; Lancelot drew Arondight, and knelt, holding the sword by the blade with both hands and with the hilt extended towards the King, an offering of his sword and Knighthood.

"I swear to you that Galehaut will raise my son as though he were her own. The boy will become great and loyal under her tutelage."

"But loyal to whom?" the King's question was quiet, "To you? To Britain? To Galehaut? Or to himself?"

"… that will be a decision the boy must make for himself," Lancelot conceded, bowing his head even further, "But I swear all this upon my Knighthood – should this decision go awry in the days to come, I shall pay for it with my lands, my titles, my privileges, and my sword. I shall accept all the blame, and take the fall."

"… that is an unnecessary gesture, Ser Lancelot. Return your sword to its sheath," King Arthur said, finally. When Lancelot looked up with a confused expression, she continued, "I do not trust Galehaut. Ally or not, her philosophies and ideals are those of a conqueror's – had she succeeded in conquering Britain, she would not have stopped there. I do not think a day will come when I will not be wary of the Far Isles or their lord.

"But you have found a strong and loyal companion in her nonetheless. If you are truly confident in this course of action, I will allow it."

Lancelot stood, sheathing Arondight once more, "I named my son in honour of Ser Galehaut, Your Majesty – his name is Galahad. For all Galehaut's faults, which I will acknowledge, I would not entrust her with my son if I did not hold her in the utmost esteem and confidence."

Arturia almost smiled at that – almost. It was a struggle to keep her face impassive and tone cold, "That's the first time you've mentioned your son's name… your friendship with Galehaut is truly dear to you, isn't it?"

"It is. More than almost anything else."

"Very well then. I will leave the composition of the letters to you," Arturia turned, "Bring them to me when they are complete, and I will mark them with the royal seal – not even the Fisher King can refuse me without provoking Britain. You are dismissed."

"I shall take my leave, Your Majesty."

With that, the two parted ways, and beyond the walls, the starless night began for Camelot Castle.

Guinevere resisted the urge to break into a run as she stalked through the halls. She could feel the heat of anger in her stomach like the bloom of the red flower known as flame, winding her up like a spring – she could feel the tension in her shoulders, arms swinging mechanically at her sides and her mind clouded over with frustrated thoughts of the King.

Arturia was as obstinate as ever, and Guinevere wasn't sure why she was even surprised. The King of Knights would likely starve herself if she were somehow convinced it would ensure Britain's safety, and she would not be convinced otherwise no matter how much pain it put her in.

Well, if she was going to be stubborn, then so was Guinevere; when they talked, Arturia was going to find that the Queen had decided to dig in her heels.

Nonetheless, she couldn't very well have that argument if she was on the verge of collapsing from exhaustion. Arturia was right about one thing, at least. Guinevere needed rest, and soon. Already, she could feel the telltale signs that her stimulant was wearing off. Her limbs were growing heavy, and it felt like the entire front half of her head had been replaced with a leaden weight, making the very act of thinking an endeavour all its own.

But she wanted to see Mordred before giving in to her need for sleep.

She wound through the halls, and with some effort finally made it to Mordred's room. Taking a breath, she called out, "Mordred?"

No response. Guinevere waited a few seconds before reaching out and knocking once, wincing at the resulting pain, "Mordred, are you in there?"

Still, no answer. The door was yet to be replaced, the piercing gouge left by the homunculus' sword allowing cold grey light to spill through; there was no way Guinevere wouldn't have been heard.

She pushed the door open, slowly creeping in and sweeping the room with her eyes, "Mordred?"

There was no sign that the toddler had even been here; a slight layer of dust covered almost everything in the room, from the books to the bed sheets to the mirror. Mordred's favourite hairbrush was missing, Guinevere having taken it from the room since Mordred had begged to sleep with her mother and father. Though most of the room had been put back in its proper place and cleaned, there was still some evidence of the Queen's attempt to protect her daughter; cracked wood on the bed, some chips taken out of the stone walls. The fireplace was cold and empty, leaving the room with an unusual chill that was absent from nearly the rest of the castle.

Guinevere paused, then sighed.

"Of course she wouldn't be here…" she murmured, "She's too frightened to come back."

She swept back out and closed the door, beginning the search for her adopted daughter.

Mordred wasn't in any of her usual hiding spots; the telltale pitter-patter of her boots against the stone floor as she ran was tellingly absent from the halls, as was the clatter of her wooden sword as she dragged it along behind her, the squeals of joy and laughter replaced with a solemn silence. Wherever she was, Mordred had lost the uncontainable sparking joy she'd held just a few days ago.

Finally, Guinevere was forced to give up. She didn't have time to search every possible inch of the castle, and her efforts today would be ruined if she were caught asleep in the halls; undoubtedly, Arturia would use it as an excuse to write her off as incapable of caring for herself, much less Britain.

Returning to her quarters, she opened the door… only to find Mordred curled on the bed, her sniffling interrupted only by hiccupping sounds that took Guinevere a second too long to register as quiet sobs.

"… Mordred?"

She didn't turn over. If anything, she only drew herself in tighter into a ball, whimpering, almost mewling like a wounded cat. As Guinevere drew closer, she could see Mordred had wrapped herself around her wooden blade, clinging to it like a security blanket.

"Mordred… are you okay?"

Mordred jerked, as though only now registering her mother's presence; she uncurled and sat up, hastily wiping her face on her sleeve, though it did precious little to hide that she had been crying. Her cheeks were wet with tears, flecks of spittle and snot dotted her lips and chin, and her eyes… her eyes were still wet, having grown red and puffy from what was likely hours of crying. She clung to her sword with her free hand, the wood splintered and cracked where the homunculus had grabbed it, chips present where it had hit the wall when it was thrown aside – cracked and nearly outright broken, almost as though it were a reflection of Mordred's spirit.

Even so, the girl's jaw tightened and her whimpering ceased; she did not fall completely silent, but the Princess was obviously struggling to stop crying, though why, Guinevere could not be sure.

"… oh, Mordred…" Guinevere whispered, her own eyes welling up as her heart let loose an internal cry of sorrow. She moved to sit down beside the girl, gently pulling her into a hug.

Mordred simply sat, limp, neither pulling away, nor drawing further into the embrace. Even now, she struggled to silence what remained of her sobs and gasps for breath.

"Mordred… did something happen?"

There was an attempt at a response, but it was choked by her muffled cries; instead, the Princess simply shook her head, golden locks tangled and knotted in a haphazard mess from laying on the bed for so long.

It was becoming more and more obvious to Guinevere that whatever it was that upset Mordred, she wasn't ready to talk about it. Gently pulling away slightly, but keeping an arm wrapped around her daughter's shoulders, Guinevere spoke gently, warmly, "… I'm right here whenever you want to talk about it. It's okay… I'm right here."

It was now that Mordred finally reciprocated the hug, wrapping her arms around her mother and pressing herself into the folds of the Queen's dress. She trembled as her tiny fists clenched as hard as they could onto the red silk, as though Mordred were trying so hard to steady herself that the effort was instead making things worse.

"… you can let it out," Guinevere assured, "Let it all out… no good ever comes from locking your sadness away."

Mordred's only response was to tighten her hug around her mother's waist, her total silence continuing to reign for a long while as Guinevere continued to stroke her hair, whispering the same soft assurances. The sting of her hands was all but completely forgotten by the Queen – her priority was her daughter.

Even so, the thought of her creeping exhaustion would not leave her be. Guinevere didn't know how much longer she had left; she feared she might collapse before Mordred could work up the will to speak.

Nonetheless, she would not force the girl; Mordred needed to emerge from her shell on her own. Forcing the issue would only make things worse.

"… I…"

Guinevere went quiet as Mordred struggled to speak, her voice hoarse and as unsteady as the rest of her. The toddler pulled away slightly, rubbing her eyes to clear away the remaining tears before looking up at her mother, lip trembling and eyes still filled with unfathomable fear.

"… I was scared," she managed, "I… I'm scared, Mother… I'm scared…"

"… is it the attack?" Guinevere asked, already knowing the answer.

A nod, "It… it hurt you… the monster… I… I didn't know… I didn't know what to do…" her hands clenched again, "… I'm not strong … not strong… I couldn't protect you…"

"… you shouldn't have to protect me, Mordred," Guinevere brushed aside Mordred's bangs, "You shouldn't have to protect anyone. Not now. Camelot is the safest place for us in all of Britain."

"… is it?..." Mordred asked numbly, "… the monster still got in…"

"… we've gotten used to peace. We grew… complacent; we let our guard down because no one thought that anyone would actually attack Camelot. We know better now. There is no safer place in the world, Mordred – I promise."

"… I still couldn't protect you," Mordred's voice quivered as she lowered her head, her former steadiness falling away with every word as she fought to keep the tears back, the words less clear with each passing second, "It hurt you… I couldn't stop it… 'm sorry… 'm so sorry… please don'… please don' hate me…"

Shock ripped through Guinevere's heart as quickly and painfully as a sword – followed immediately by horror and greater sorrow. Before she could even think, she was pulling Mordred back into a full hug, her tone gentle, but stern, "Mordred… why would you think I hate you? I could never hate you. I love you so, so much…"

"It wan'ed me!" Mordred wailed, burying her face against her mother once again, "It wan'ed me and you were hur' pro'ec'ing me! I'… i's my faul'!"

'… "It's my fault,"' the Queen's blood ran cold as the realization settled in, Mordred now openly and uncontrollably sobbing. Any attempt to hold back had been swept away entirely by the emotions flooding forth from the proverbial broken dam, the toddler clinging to her mother with absolutely everything she had.

"… you've been blaming yourself," Guinevere managed, the conclusion nothing short of mortifying, "Oh, Mordred…"

She gently lifted her daughter off the bed and into her lap, running her hand through the tangled golden locks as she whispered into Mordred's ear, "Sshh… I'm here… it's okay, I'm right here…"

It was utter torment, listening to the wracking cries and sobs of the girl as they held each other in their embrace; Guinevere holding Mordred in a gentle hug, Mordred gripping her mother as though afraid she would disappear into thin air. All the Queen could do was continue to whisper comforts into the Princess' ear, uncertain if she was even heard amidst the wailing. Eventually, Mordred began to calm once more, no longer able to so much as try to reign herself in.

"… Mordred," Guinevere began once the cries had subsided to small burbles and hiccups for breath, "I need you to listen to me. Please?"

A pause, and then a nod.

"What happened was in no way your fault. You were targeted, yes, and people were hurt – but that is in absolutely no way your doing," Guinevere tightened her hug, her own voice beginning to tremble, "Please… don't blame yourself for what happened. You are as much a victim as I was… and I could never bring myself to hate you. Whatever I did to make you think that I could… I am so, so sorry."

Mordred sniffled, then pulled away to look her mother in the eye. Tears were now streaming down the woman's cheeks – a display of fear and sorrow to match the child's. Mother and daughter, both weeping, both afraid…

She lowered her head, "… some Knigh'…"

"Hm?"

"… how'm I going to be a Knight of the Roun', Mother?" her words coming out more clearly now that she was calming down again, Mordred looked forlornly at her wooden sword. She reached out, and grabbed its still too large hilt, pulling it over for her mother to see, "… Knights protec' people… they're never afraid… I can' be a Knight like Father if I can' protec' you…"

"… you're four years old, Mordred," Guinevere assured her, "You're much too young to be comparing yourself to any Knight – much less the Knights of the Round Table, especially your father."

"But… I…"

A pause; Mordred was clearly struggling to find the words she wanted, frowning slightly and biting her lip in concentration as she wracked her young brain for how to express herself in the limited ways that she could.

Guinevere took the opportunity to speak instead, tilting Mordred's head to look up at her, "And as for Knights never being afraid… I think you would be very surprised."

"… well… maybe badder Knights, but… but not Knights of the Round Table…"

Guinevere couldn't help but smile, however faintly, "'Badder' is not a word, Mordred. But however much they might act like they aren't afraid, however much they would have people believe they do not fear anything… they are still human. They are all still afraid."

"… all of them?" Mordred's tone was one of quiet surprise.

"All of them. And that includes your father."

"… Father… was afraid?..." the mere idea contradicted the entire image of the King Mordred had in her head; ever stoic, always working to protect the Kingdom and make it a safer, kinder place to live in, her father seemed utterly fearless in her eyes. How could he have possibly been afraid that night? What was he afraid of?

"There are not many things that can scare him, Mordred. But there are some things – and few as they are, those things terrify him greatly."

"… the monster?" Mordred asked, tentative.

Guinevere shook her head, "No. I sincerely doubt your father was actually scared of that… thing, Mordred. But he was afraid that night, more afraid than I have seen him in a very long time."

"… but if not the monster, then… what?"

"... of losing you."

Mordred blinked, obviously confused. She tilted her head, "Losing… me?"

"No matter how cold he may seem, Mordred… your father does love you. I'm sure of it. When he learned that you were being taken away by that monster, he quickly and personally led a force to prevent it, even though he could have easily left the task in the hands of Lancelot or Gawain or Gareth or even Merlin," Guinevere forced a smile, though it felt empty – she knew Arturia simply didn't want Morgana to get Mordred back.

She wanted to believe what she was telling Mordred now; a small part of the Queen truly did… but the words still rang hollow in her heart of hearts.

Nonetheless, she kept going, "There are not many things the King attends to personally, Mordred. That he came to your rescue speaks wonders of how much he cares about you – of how much he doesn't want to lose you. The idea of you being kidnapped terrified him – so he fought to prevent that from happening."

Mordred sat, wide-eyed and stunned by what she was hearing. It was hard to envision her father being afraid of anything… but to think he was so frightened of losing her… that he had dropped everything and rallied his soldiers specifically to save her…

She couldn't stop the slight smile that curled upwards on her lips, a feeling akin to relief and subtle joy blooming in her stomach like a wildflower; she knew it was wrong to be pleased that father had been so frightened, but… it was reassuring to know how much he cared for her.

"I see much of the same in you, Mordred," Guinevere stated, "You have your father's compassion… and his incredible bravery."

"… but how can I be brave when I'm scared?" Mordred asked, "Isn't bravery not being afraid?"

"No," Guinevere corrected, "I'm not entirely sure where you got that idea, but one must be afraid in order to be brave. Being brave is being afraid, but doing the right thing anyways. Someone who isn't afraid is simply indifferent – or foolish."

Mordred blinked, "So… Gawain is a fool?"

The Queen didn't even try to stifle her chuckle, "I suppose you could say that, though there have been plenty of times when even that gorilla of a man was afraid."

"… so bravery is being scared, but doing it anyways?"

"That's it exactly, Mordred."

"Mmm…" Mordred paused, then nodded, at the very least thinking she understood what her mother was trying to tell her. She thought back to the night of the attack, however, and felt her fear and regret return, "… I still don't think I was very brave that night…"

"You were braver than most fully fledged Knights that night," Guinevere insisted, tone stern, but encouraging, pulling her daughter into a hug once more, "You saved my life, Mordred. You stood up to a warrior homunculus with nothing but a wooden sword. And you did it even though you were just a scared toddler – not out of a desire to prove yourself, but because you saw I was in danger and did everything you could to help. How could anyone consider that any thing less than true bravery?"

As the Queen held her daughter in an embrace once more, she silently begged any God, Christian, Celtic or otherwise that could hear her thoughts in this moment that Mordred would understand; she wanted more than anything in this moment for the girl to comprehend the lessons her mother was trying to teach her, and to take them to heart. Even if Mordred could not become the Knight she dreamed of being someday, the damnable laws set in stone as they were, Guinevere wanted her to recognize what courage she had mustered that night, and to carry it for the rest of her days. She was reassured by the feeling of Mordred's small arms returning the embrace, and there they sat, the silence no longer one of sorrow, but of mutual comfort.

Only after the moment passed did Guinevere pull away, gently laying a kiss on Mordred's forehead.

"… Mother?"

"Yes?"

"… do you…" Mordred looked up at her, eyes shining with a question that desperately required an answer. This was a moment of truth for the girl, one that Guinevere couldn't afford to take lightly.

"… I'm listening, Mordred," Guinevere assured, stroking the back of the Princess' head.

"… do you think… I could become a Knight?"

The Queen could not help but falter at the question, smile slipping slightly. As much as she wanted to encourage her daughter, Guinevere could not bring herself to lie; the law simply did not allow for women to become Knights. This was the reason Arturia had to hide her gender from the world – the Kingdom would not accept a woman as a Knight, much less a woman as their King.

But even beyond that, King Arthur's word was law – Arturia could potentially overturn the rule for a specific exception, but unless she somehow grew fond of the Princess, the dream may as well have been as far out of Mordred's reach as the stars.

'No' was the only true answer Guinevere could give.

And yet…

The look Mordred was giving her was one that bordered on desperation – the look of a child trying to keep the flames of her dreams burning, looking to her mother for the reassurance she needed to keep the fire from being snuffed out.

Guinevere gently ruffled Mordred's hair, forcing her smile back into place. She didn't truly believe that the girl would cling to her dreams of Knighthood forever – but the Queen couldn't bring herself to crush and scatter the embers. Not like Arturia undoubtedly would have, if Mordred had dared to ask her father.

"I think," she began, "That you will be able to do anything you set your mind to, Mordred. If this is what you can do now… I cannot wait to see what you will be able to do when you're a grownup."

Mordred's response came not in words, but in an embrace that was more like a tackle than anything else. The impact nearly knocked her mother flat on her back, and Mordred's sudden, relieved laughter was joined by Guinevere's surprised chuckles.

As the laughter calmed, however, Mordred's face once again became pensive as she looked down at her cracked wooden blade.

"Mordred?"

"… what about my sword?" she asked, reaching out to grab the hilt and haphazardly pull it over. She frowned as she looked it over, running both hands across its surface, "It got broken when the ho… homim… hominimim…"

"Homunculus," Guinevere corrected, gently taking the sword into her hands to inspect it herself.

Mordred nodded vigorously, her former energy returning, standing up to look her mother in the eye, bouncing in place, "Yeah! Big dumb meanie monster broke my sword!"

"Hmm… well, it isn't something I can fix. I'm more of a seamstress; I'm hopeless with working wood," Guinevere glanced at Mordred, placing a hand on the bouncing girl's shoulder to steady her, chiding, "No jumping on the bed, Mordred."

"… sorry…"

The Queen chuckled again, holding the sword up, "But just because I can't fix it doesn't mean I can't find someone who can. Tomorrow I'll take it to the best woodcarvers in Camelot to have it restored – and if they can't do it, I'll make Merlin himself fix it. Would you be okay with going without your sword for a day so it can be fixed?"

Mordred nodded, running a hand along the wooden face, "It needs to be fixed – I need to treat my blade with respect. If I treat my blade with respect, it'll never betray me."

"You still remember what the old man at the fair told you?" Guinevere asked, surprised.

"Mmhm!"

"Well then," Guinevere set the sword aside, "I'll take it to have it fixed as soon as I can-"

It was not an external force that cut Guinevere off; no, the force was very much an internal one. She swayed, her sense of balance suddenly completely gone as a fog flooded her head, so dense it was more akin to smog than anything else. Her vision went double as her eyes unfocused, the world going blurry, and she threw her hands out to steady herself… and her eyelids started growing heavy.

"Mother?" Mordred asked, tiny hands gripping her shoulder in an attempt to steady her, "What's wrong?"

"… like a… battering ram," Guinevere managed, bringing a hand to her temple and forcing her eyes back open, "… Merlin was… wasn't joking…"

"Mother?"

"'m fine, Mordred," she slurred, the exhaustion of a full three days catching up to her all at once, "I jus… jus' tired… way… way past my bedtime…"

She did her best to push herself into a more comfortable position, aligning herself with the bed. It becomes harder to move with every passing second, muscles heavy and only barely responsive; Mordred, bless her, saw what she was trying to do, and did her best to help, lifting each leg as best as she could and pulling them in line with the bed.

"… how do I tuck you in?" Mordred asked, "You're on top of the blanket."

"Leave it…" Guinevere managed, "I'll be… jus' fine… like this…"

She really should at least try to change into something better suited for sleep – a nightgown at least – but on the other hand, she's too tired to even bother. She'd likely fall asleep before she could start taking off her dress.

"Mother?"

"Mm?"

"… can I… stay with you tonight?... I wanna keep the bad dreams away."

"… 'd like that…" Guinevere smiled, blindly groping with her hands until she wrapped a hand around the Princess' shoulder; she pulled the girl close, "… keep th' dreams 'way… m' little Knight…"

"… I will," Mordred was quick to return the embrace, "I promise… I'll keep everything bad away from you."

"… g'd… love you… Mordred… love you so much…"

Those were the last words Guinevere managed before sleep took her.

"… I love you too, Mother."

Mordred only wriggled out of the embrace for a moment to reach for her wooden sword, before happily snuggling back into her mother's grasp. For that moment, at least, for the Queen and her Princess… all was right in the world.

Despite her best efforts to make herself otherwise, there were still some aspects of the flawed mortal coil Arturia could never hope to cast away. Among those aspects, and first and foremost among them at this particular moment, was exhaustion.

The day had been a trying one, to say the least. The general overview meeting had been concluded, breaking up the tasks ahead so she could decide how to handle each of them one at a time; but with so many things on the go on top of the already labour intensive task of deciding how much of each harvest was to be sent to the cities, the King was already dreading the days to come.

But first things first – she needed to check on Guinevere, and then rest herself.

Quietly as she could, she pushed the door open; the fireplace had burnt down to mere coals, evidently having been left untended for some time. Likewise, the candles had gone out, giving the room a faint chill to accompany the dwindling fire.

Sighing, Arturia set aside her cloak and removed her crown, kneeling to stoke the flames with a few more logs. Before long, the flames came back to life, reinvigorated by her efforts. Satisfied, she stood, and looked to the bed.

Her heart nearly skipped a beat when she saw the homunculus laying in her wife's arms.

"… still here, I see…"

Arturia wasn't sure why she was surprised – the homunculus had begged and pleaded with the Queen to let it sleep with them, and she hadn't been able to find an adequate reason to contradict Guinevere when she had accepted. For all the scolding the King had given the Queen earlier for her lack of rest, Arturia knew she was not one to talk; these past few nights, what precious sleep she'd gotten was in the chair of her office.

The fact that she was doing everything she could to avoid a toddler, even forgoing sleep, was not lost on her. She should only count herself grateful that Merlin was not teasing her for being frightened of a four year old.

But Arturia was not afraid of it – merely cautious. How could she not be, facing a weapon made to destroy her and everything she held dear, everything she worked and fought and killed to create?

Nonetheless, she approached, doing her best to keep herself silent as the grave. The dim orange glow illuminated the faces of both the bed's occupants, and thankfully, Guinevere seemed to be sleeping soundly. Her breaths were slow and even, rising and falling to the slow rhythm of her dreams – dreams that, if her smile was any indication, were far more pleasant than the nightmare she had suffered mere days ago.

The homunculus seemed just as calm – a far cry from the nights of constant whimpers and tearful slumber amidst nightmares. In fact, it seemed almost serene, a smile matching Guinevere's set in its expression.

They seemed almost truly like mother and child.

But it was something Guinevere could never truly have; she could play at being a mother all she wanted, but play was all it would ever be. She was not, and never would be this thing's mother.

If a weapon could even have a mother in the first place…

Arturia shook her head, letting out a slight sigh before catching a glimpse of the burnished wooden blade, still in the homunculus' tiny hands; word of its desire to become a Knight had indeed reached the King's ears, words that did nothing to set her at ease. Where the others saw a girl playing with impossible dreams, she saw the beginnings of a very real danger – if the homunculus ever learned how to properly fight, to channel the immense power and potential within…

... no. It would not happen. If it was truly merely a childish dream, then a dream it would remain. She would not take that chance, not with something this dangerous.

"… mmm…"

Arturia froze, eyes darting to the homunculus as it began to stir. It stretched, wriggled, then went still, contented smile still in place.

"… gonna…" it murmured, "… gonna… protect… everyone… gonna… be a… Knight…"

It tossed, turned as best it could, held still in Guinevere's arms, and then settled down once more, "… Knight… just like… Father…"

And with that, the homunculus went silent, quiet breaths resuming.

'Just like Father…'

"… just like me?..."

The thought that the homunculus truly idolized her in such a fervent, unyielding manner… it disturbed the King on a level she couldn't even hope to describe. How could a weapon idolize anything? How could the homunculus, made by such hateful hands through such despicable means, feel anything for her but utter enmity?... how could she react to all those moments of love, joy, and sadness if they were all real?...

She shook herself from the thought; it would do her no good to reconsider her thoughts for the homunculus now. Child or not, real or not, it was still a weapon, and there was no doubt in Arturia's mind that someday the thing would act on that. She had drawn her conclusions, and would maintain her distance as she always had.

She sighed again, then began working to get the covers out from underneath the pair.

"Really now," a voice rang out throughout the room with a bitter chuckle, "How do you expect to be just like me when you don't even tuck yourself in?"

Arturia went ramrod rigid, eyes wide and exhaustion forgotten.

She abandoned the bed, turning on her heel, eyes sweeping the room for the intruder.

"Who's there?" she demanded, tone ice as she gripped the hilt of her sword.

Silence.

"Who's there?" she demanded again, voice low and her grip on Excalibur tightening, "Show yourself!"

She received no response.

She breathed, steel ringing out as she slowly drew her sword. She thought back to the voice, back to where she'd heard it from, how it had sounded-

…

… no.

No, that couldn't be right…

… but it was.

That had been her voice.

Her own voice had said those words, so full of affection and warmth…

Arturia's mind ground to a halt, the realization so jarring that her fingers loosened and Excalibur nearly fell from her grasp. For an instant, however brief, she had lost the iron grip she kept on her heart and soul, and she wouldn't have even been aware of it had she not spoken.

And with her control gone, with the steel withdrawn from her heart, she had gone beyond dropping her guard around the slumbering homunculus.

She had outright shown it affection.

Her breaths became ragged with the sudden tide of roiling venom in her stomach, a toxic concoction of confusion and fear. How? How had this happened? She hadn't lost her control like this in four years, not even when she was alone - the Perfect King needed to be in control at all times, no matter what - and even on that fateful night the circumstances had been so extreme she doubted even a true machine could have maintained an even temper.

Her gaze once again swept the room, this time with far less control, more emotion – no one present, no one watching, the only other occupants of the room sound asleep.

Sound asleep.

Her eyes fixed on the homunculus once more, silent and unaware of the King's distress. Its lips were curled into a slight smile of genuine joy – almost as though in reaction to the warmth Arturia had shown it mere seconds prior.

The sight caused the pieces of the puzzle to click abruptly together for the King. The homunculus was the connection. This… thing was the link between this occasion and the last time she had lost control.

She took an unsteady step towards it. Then another, staring down at that face, at that near perfect reflection of her own youth, at that smile that she couldn't afford to believe was harmless no matter how much others or even brief bouts of emotion tried to persuade her that it was.

Her hands shaking, Arturia found herself at a complete loss as to what to do next. She could only continue to stare.

"… why?" she managed, her voice coming out as a hoarse croak, "Why?... why, of all things, is it you that makes me lose control?..."

She didn't receive an answer.

She didn't know why she had been expecting one.

It took her three tries to slide Excalibur back into its sheath, so bad was the trembling of her hands. She staggered back over to where she had set her crown, only to nearly knock it to the floor, catching it by the edge right before it could hit the stone.

As soon as it was firmly in her grasp, she fled from the room, not stopping for anything. The halls were empty of guards and maids; she made her way back to her study in the dark, completely by memory. She threw the door open, and slammed it shut, putting the crossbar in place and backing away from the door.

She stared at her reflection in the polished gold of the crown, heavy in her grasp, heavier even than her sword with the burdens and duties it represented. Her reflection stared back, impassive.

"… I know who I am," she spoke, struggling to get her voice and her breathing back under control, "I know what I am. I know what I have to be."

A final, shaky breath as she raised the crown to her brow… and all at once, the trembling stopped.

Little more than a façade, but for now, it would do.

She couldn't afford to lose control.

Arturia wouldn't allow this to happen again.

She would turn her heart to steel.

It wasn't a matter of whether she wanted to. She needed to do it.

All for the good of her nation.

All for the good of Britannia.

The stew was only just starting to simmer within the pot when the mighty bellow of the wyvern cut through the evening's silence. Looking up from her task, Morgana spotted Morrigan's pet just as the great winged form soared overhead, gliding through the air with a grace greatly at odds with its immense size. If there was any lingering pain from the damage either of them had received from their foray into Camelot, the Witch couldn't see it from here.

A few moments passed as the wyvern glided above the canopy, then with several beats of its wings, took to the sky at great speed in preparation for the next set of aerial maneuvers. Even from so far away, it was clear Morrigan was pushing her pet to its limits, not wasting a moment of their training session together. The wyvern plunged into a steep dive before banking hard to the right, executing a near flawless spin as if to avoid ballista fire, weaving in between the two towers. Before, such an attempt would have resulted in a crash landing and several days of recovery for both homunculus and beast. Now, the two had mastered the maneuver that they could pull it off in a heartbeat with fear of neither misstep nor mistake.

Marzia, as Morrigan had christened her, was truly an impressive beast. There had been several risks taken in implementing her magic in order to prepare it for the battles ahead. Age acceleration to give the hatchling, a mere week younger than Morrigan herself, the full grown body of an adult; reinforcement spells to harden her scales further to protect against the sacred swords of the Knights of the Round Table; and some minor additions to sharpen the creature's already keen eyesight and sense of smell.

All of these spells ran the risk of crippling the wyvern, if not killing it outright. Even if they didn't, there were still the concerns of an infant wyvern quickly and painfully growing into the form of a fully-fledged adult, a form that would only continue to grow in size and strength. There had been a very real risk that her magic might drive the wyvern insane in the process, and force her to put it out of its misery lest its rampage destroy yet more of her already crumbling castle.

However, this concern quickly proved to be unfounded. From the moment it imprinted on Morrigan, Marzia performed far beyond the Witch's expectations. It adapted to its magic-induced transformations largely without issue, bonded with her homunculus as if truly seeing her as its mother, and mastered its ability to fly, hunt and fight both alone and in tandem with a rider in almost no time at all.

As far as Morgana was aware, there was no real way to train or practice riding atop a wyvern. Any records of anyone successfully taming one either hadn't survived or were too well hidden for even the Witch to find; the closest things she had managed to dig up were records of the harness Bellerophon used to ride the mighty winged horse Pegasus, and the chariot that had been pulled by Dragons, owned by the Witch of Colchis herself. Though not perfect, they had given her enough to build upon, and the final results seemed to be performing admirably, allowing Morrigan to ride without inhibiting the movement of the wyvern even in the slightest.

Of course, there was room for improvement – there is no such thing as something that is truly perfect – but rider and wyvern had attuned to each other in a manner that seemed to be beyond the limits of master and pet. Which brought Morgana back to their flight, Morrigan and Marzia working as one, growing every closer to a true mastery of the skies.

However, there was something different about this particular flight, on closer inspection; there was a rigidity to the maneuvers, a tension that was not there previously, visibly hampering the pair's shared aerial dexterity. Something was affecting Morrigan's focus, causing her to buckle down on the training in a manner that hindered more than it helped, which in turn was bleeding into Marzia's normally graceful flight.

There was no doubt in Morgana's mind what was causing it. If there was one thing Morrigan inherited from her, it was her borderline obsessive perfectionism – and by extension, her distinct distaste for the flavour of failure.

A shame. The Witch had hoped the homunculus had managed to puzzle out the true purpose of her invasion of Camelot, but it seemed she was too preoccupied with her inability to retrieve Mordred to consider any ulterior motive to the attack.

It seemed that a detailed explanation may be required after all.

It was nearly an hour later that Morrigan finally deemed their training for the day complete. Abruptly as a lightning strike in a cloudless sky, Marzia stopped, wings flaring out to halt its momentum on the spot. The wyvern was gasping for breath, tongue lolling out of the side of its mouth as it panted, likely to cool overtaxed lungs, but even so it kept its wing-beats strong and even to maintain its position high above the ground – proof of the beast's great stamina. Once it regained its bearings, the wyvern began its descent into the courtyard, each wing-beat sending down a gust of wind that kicked up plumes of dust and dead leaves that rose up into the sky above. Finally, Marzia touched down, heavily falling to all fours and then into a crouch, resting its chin on the ground as Morrigan undid the harness and pulled herself out of the saddle, sliding down the wyvern's flank. She paused to kneel beside Marzia, wrapping her arms around the crown of horns and whispering gently, gently enough that Morgana couldn't hear what she was saying – though it wasn't hard to guess.

Once Marzia had regained its breath and pulled itself to its feet again, Morrigan pulled away, silently stalking across the courtyard.

The Witch had only a few minutes of silence before the homunculus pulled open the kitchen door, motions tightly controlled as to not simply wrench the iron rung from the wood, or the door itself off its hinges. Morrigan's armour had been repaired since her last battle, a replacement mask of the same design and material mounted in place, concealing her eyes and most of her scowl.

But even if she was wearing a full helm, it could not hide her emotions from Morgana. The chaos of her turbulent, twisting, directionless fury was palpable even to the blind, the deaf, and the mentally incapacitated, even as Morrigan stood at attention, awaiting her judgment.

"Have you finally calmed down, Morrigan?"

The red visor of the mask seemed to flicker for a moment, wounded pride and anger burning, then cooled just as quickly, "Yes…"

"Then remove your mask. Dinner is almost ready."

The homunculus did not move; the clicks of metal that accompanied Morrigan's ever tightening fists were not lost on Morgana, nor was their tremble of tightly contained anger.

The Witch felt her own eyes narrow, her smile slipping slightly, "Morrigan. Did you not hear me the first time?"

"… the mask… helps me reign myself in."

"… why did I give the mask to you?" Morgana asked, tone cold, smile disappearing.

"It is a tool. To protect my eyes, to keep others from recognizing my true nature, and to enhance my vision."

"Exactly," the Witch's tone was one of scorn now, crossing her arms, "I gave you that mask for an express purpose – and it is not so that you could cling to it like a security blanket. If you honestly have so little self-discipline that you need it to keep yourself under control, then you do not deserve it."

Morrigan's jaw visibly tightened with every word of scolding, mouth pulling further and further back until she was practically bearing her teeth. She stood for a long moment, silent, entire body tense with emotion, and for a moment it seemed as though the homunculus might be foolish enough to disobey.

But finally, the fingers of her right fist uncurled; she reached up with her trembling hand, gripping the edge of the mask, and pulling it free as gently as she could manage. Her golden eyes had narrowed into a glare as she set the article on the countertop, the white pupils burning like a pair of raging stars.

Morgana felt her smile return, stepping forward and raising a hand to the homunculus' forehead, gently brushing aside her bangs. She saw Morrigan's clenched fists twitch, as though itching to strike the Witch's hand away, but they stayed fixed in place by the rider's sides.

This time, Morgana couldn't hold back her chuckle, "Good girl," she pulled her hand back, returning to the stove, "Now sit down; the stew is better while it's still hot."

The meal that followed was one eaten in silence. With winter approaching, Morgana was shifting her focus to meals that were easy to prepare even in the face of nigh empty larders, saving ingredients that had previously been used such as vegetables or even scraps of fat and bone to be used again – hence the stew. It certainly wasn't her best work, but then, winter meals were no one's best work; palatable was the best anyone could hope for when trying to outlast the long, brutal winters of Britain.

If Morrigan noted or even cared about the relative blandness of the meal, she did not show it. She ate as quickly as the manners Morgana had drilled into her would permit, and grew more and more rigid as time passed, arms digging into the table – no doubt they would leave behind marks. Even now she remained silent, not pressing for the answers she so desperately wanted.

Morgana set down her utensils, tenting her fingers over the now empty bowl and waiting for Morrigan to finish; once the homunculus emptied her bowl of the remaining broth, the Witch asked, "Would you like a second helping?"

"No. I've had enough."

"No…?"

"… no, thank you," Morrigan corrected through clenched teeth.

"Better," Morgana said lightly, tapping her index fingers. After a moment's pause, she changed her bearing, pushing her bowl off to the side and leaning forwards on the table, "Morrigan. Do you know why I sent you to Camelot?"

Morrigan's eyes closed as she bit her lip; she'd been expecting this, but clearly had not been looking forwards to it. Finally, she sighed, "To retrieve your first homunculus."

"Incorrect."

Her eyes snapped open, shock clear in her expression… then Morrigan bared her teeth, growling, "You gave me orders, mother. You ordered me to retrieve your homunculus."

"Yes," Morgana spoke, "That is the order I gave you. But that was not the ultimate goal of your invasion."

"What then?"

"You haven't been able to guess?"

"No. I have not."

"It was your first foray into the world beyond this castle. Do you truly have no inkling as to its true purposes?"

"I don't have the patience for these cryptic riddles, mother."

"Hm…" Morgana tilted her head, her smile slipping slightly with her disappointment, "I suppose not. I had hoped you would have had at least one idea as to why I had sent you out. It seems you've fixated so strongly on your inability to carry out your orders that it's blinded you to the bigger picture.

"No matter. We shall hone your critical thinking later – for now, I shall tell you the purpose of your excursion the other night."

Morgana stood, returning to the stove and stoking the small fire within. Once satisfied with its size and intensity, the Witch began to gather the herbs, "Tea, Morrigan?"

"… no, thank you. I dislike it."

"Very well," she poured the water into the kettle and hung it over the fire, returning to her herbs with a mortar and pestle, "The reason I sent you out that night was not to retrieve Mordred. It would have been exceptionally ideal if you had somehow managed to pull it off, but it was also a hugely unrealistic expectation for you to succeed. In fact, I'm impressed that you came as close to success as you did."

There was silence for a long few moments – silence long enough that Morgana looked up from her work to meet Morrigan's eyes. They were wide open, shifting from one corner of her eye to the next, mouth slightly open as the Homunculus processed the non-too-subtle implications of the Witch's words.

The chair crashed to the floor as Morrigan shot to her feet, hands slamming into the table and fingers digging into the wood as she finally slotted the most important piece of the puzzle into place.

"You expected me to fail!?"

To a lesser mage, the homunculus' outburst of fury and wounded pride would have been terrifying. Morgana knew more than a few stories where magi died at the hands of their own misused and mistreated creations, often begging for mercy, unable to control the beings they had brought life to.

But Morgana was no lesser mage. The Witch narrowed her eyes, smile fading almost in warning as she held Morrigan's gaze.

"Of course I expected you to fail," she said, returning her attention to the fine powder in the mortar, "Use your head, Morrigan. Had it been any lesser fortress, you would have painted its brickwork with the blood of its garrison. You've proven yourself a very capable warrior.

"But Camelot? Did you honestly expect to succeed on your first foray into the single largest and most well defended castle in all of Britain – a foray you made alone, I might add - with no less than seven members of the Round Table present at the time, including dear Arturia?"

Morrigan continued to glare at her, the fury in her posture so great that her armour was shaking with her trembling form. But after a moment, the trembling ceased; her expression softened, her vehemence died, and her expression shifted from anger to understanding.

"… Seven…" she whispered, as though only now did she comprehend how close she had come to death upon those ramparts.

"Seven," Morgana repeated, "Not including Merlin, who was the very root of your failure. With the Round Table Knights present, retrieving Mordred was a borderline impossible operation. With Merlin, it was a mission doomed to failure from the moment it began. That you returned alive is more than proof of your worth."

"… I still don't understand," the homunculus started, "If the intention of the mission was not to retrieve your homunculus, then… then why send me at all?"

"I had thought the first true objective was obvious," the Witch poured the powder into a pouch, and took the kettle away from the flames, pouring some of the water into a new cup, "This being your first excursion, I wanted to put your abilities to the test. Your skill as a fighter is undeniable, and your use of stealth and distraction demonstrates you are capable of forethought and strategy. Your snap decision making is also fairly impressive – all this in mind, you will serve excellently as my field operative."

"But my actions that night will have put Camelot – possibly on all of Britain – on edge," Morrigan pressed, "That wasn't a mere plot – that was an active invasion attempt that nearly resulted in the Princess' kidnapping. How are either of us supposed to operate when Camelot and its warriors are actively looking for enemies?"

Morgana couldn't suppress a smile at this, "Ah… now you've begun thinking in earnest. You're learning."

The Witch chuckled at the furrowing of the rider's brow, but made no comment on it. Instead, she set the pouch of herbs into the cup, "But perhaps you're looking at things from the wrong angles. Think about what you did that night. Consider how Britain's nobility and royalty will view your invasion as a lone operative, knowing nothing of what you are or what you can do. Consider why I would want Camelot looking for enemies."

Silence again. Morrigan's brow furrowed further. She brought a hand to her chin, eyes narrowing as she proceeded to play with these newly presented puzzle pieces, trying to put them together in a way that made sense and aligned with the Witch's ultimate goals.

"… the nobility… know nothing of what I am capable of. Yet I invaded Camelot, alone, with more than half of the Round Table present," she began, "… this… will either establish me as a dangerous, but unknown threat… or… it will indicate weakness within Camelot."

"Go on," Morgana encouraged, a pleased note in her voice.

"… you've told me about the tensions among the people. Not everyone is satisfied with the actions and behaviour of the current King," Morrigan continued, "In addition, you've successfully brought Agravain to heel, and between my invasion and news of King Hengest's possible betrayal, Camelot as a whole will be looking for enemies. If Camelot is fixated on enemies outside of its walls, it will not think to look among its own people for enemies, much less among the Round Table for them. Agravain is in a perfect position to begin undermining Arturia – and if Arturia is ever perceived as weak or unjust… as somehow fallible…"

The homunculus' eyes widened, and she fixed her gaze on the Witch once more.

"… you want to exacerbate tensions between Camelot and Britain's lesser Kings by painting Arturia and her regime as weak and mad. You want the lesser Kings to try and take their lands back from Arturia, and prove Camelot's suspicion of outer enemies to be true of their own volition… you want Britain to tear itself to pieces in civil war."

Morgana pulled the pouch from the tea… and gave her homunculus a small applause. It was neither condescending nor mocking – just a brief, few claps of the hands to voice the Witch's approval.

"Well done," Morgana's smile widened, "You've figured out the purpose of your first mission, Morrigan. It isn't the full extent of my plans by any means, and we have much work remaining – but you have begun laying the first layer of groundwork for the bloodiest war Britain will ever see."

Now, a smile had graced the homunculus' own features. She bowed, bringing a hand across her chest, "I apologize for taking such a furious tone with you, mother. I did not realize the full extent or impact of my mission that night, and I thank you for assisting me in understanding such."

"There is nothing to forgive," the Witch took a sip of her tea, "You were unaware and were yet to realize the importance of viewing the scenario in a more distant and calculating manner. Now, you have learned, and will be all the wiser for it."

Morrigan straightened, then frowned again, "… however, there is one more thing I am yet to understand. What role does your first homunculus have to play in this?"

At this, Morgana let out a sigh, taking another sip, "… Mordred was originally going to play a role in a very different set of plans. However, the night she was taken from me, I was forced to drastically alter them – as things are now, even if you had succeeded in retrieving her, I would not be able to resume my original course of action."

"So you were merely taking advantage of her current role as Princess to give Camelot an image of vulnerability through my kidnapping attempt?" Morrigan asked, "No ulterior motive beyond that?"

"Yes," the mage nodded, "For now, I have no use for her as she is. If you had retrieved her, I might have been able to alter her growth so that you might have had a partner in two or three years, a fellow agent and another piece on our side of the board, but that was not the ultimate purpose of your mission. I have not given up entirely on retrieving Mordred, but she is not our priority right now."

"I see."

Another long sip of tea, "Nevertheless, we still have much work to do. I have a new mission for you."

Morrigan's smile returned, this time as a confident smirk, "Where shall Marzia and I go this time, mother?"

"This will be a multi-stage journey that will take you across Europe. First, I need you to go to Lundenwic – or perhaps you might know it better as Londinium, given your fondness for the Roman texts."

"And what am I to do?"

"Procure yourself a more fitting blade – don't think I didn't notice you breaking every sword you got your hands on. I want you to go to Lundenwic's North Gate; a man by the name of Nennius was buried there. Dig up his grave, and take what you find there."

"Very well. And after that?"

Morgana smiled, "After that, you will be going to Rome. With the Empire in its current state, it isn't liable to last much longer; the western half of it is in chaos, desperately trying to maintain its holdings. Many of its treasures are being sent east, where things are calmer, for safekeeping."

"And you want me to take these treasures?"

"Only one is of any true interest to you. Given its significance to Rome, I don't think they will move it until it's absolutely clear to them that the western Empire isn't going to survive. Nothing else is of any interest to me; I took what I wanted from Rome long ago."

"Will that be the entire trip?"

"No. Once you are finished in Rome, I want you to go to the Kingdom of Soissons, in northern Gaul."

"My objective?"

"We will discuss that later. For now, I think it would be best for you to let tonight's conversations sink in – and to begin making preparations for this journey. Once you leave, you will not be returning to Britain for some time; the flight itself will take weeks, and it may be years before you see this land again."

Morrigan bowed, "Then I shall go and begin charting my course."

The homunculus turned, and started for the door, grabbing her mask as she passed the counter.

"Morrigan?"

She stopped, turning on her heel to face Morgana once more, "Yes, mother?"

Morgana smiled, then pointed at the seat that had been toppled to the floor, "Please pick up your chair before you go."

The wyvern rider followed Morgana's finger to the chair; her smile faded to a look that was contrite, almost sheepish, as she wordlessly returned, and set the chair back on its legs by the table.

After that, she swept from the room, leaving the Witch to her thoughts.

One year. One Month. Ten days.

30,100 words.

82 pages.

NEVER. AGAIN. From now on chapters are going to be shorter as to prevent this sort of delay.

Speaking of... sorry for the delay everyone. We truly did try to get this out as soon as we could, but the scenes we set out for this chapter were already long... and kept getting longer. And longer. And longer. And this 82 page long DELUGE of word vomit is the result.

We cannot express how sorry we are, and we promise to never let this happen again. If things go wrong and we are put in a position where we cannot continue this story, we WILL update you.

Thank you for your patience.

Jarl of the North and Batomys2731

As a side note; yes, we are changing Galehaut's gender from the legend. This is par for the course as per Fate, but trust us - this isn't just for the sake of fanservice. We promise.