A/N: Here we go, guys! Part four! This title is definitely subject to change, as I'm not really set on it... but we'll see. I'm not going to promise that this is the last part for the main body of fics (as I do have an ending fic planned), because I said that with Many Returns and it clearly ended up not being true. This fic will, naturally, center on Gawain and Cymbeline, but I'm planning to bring out several other characters, new and old, as well. I'm trying to do some different things here, and I hope you guys like them!

Also, the verse at the beginning of this chapter is from J.R.R. Tolkien's The Lay of Aotrou and Itroun, which is an incredibly beautiful poem that was recently put back into print, along with some of his other works. I definitely recommend checking it out! The poem actually inspired quite a bit of this fic (as did some of Tolkien's other works, not gonna lie)! You'll probably see several other verses of the poem sprinkled throughout the fic, as well as some verses from a few songs and other poems, so keep your eyes peeled!

Disclaimer: I'm only going to say this part once: I do not own King Arthur, or the characters of Gawain, Galahad, Arthur, Guinevere, Ganis, Bors, Vanora, Gilly, or I guess technically Ban, Helaine, and their children, or Bors and Vanora's other children, but I do own the other characters, this story itself, and the ideas and writing expressed herein, unless otherwise stated. I am not making money off of this story. The Lay of Aotrou and Itroun belongs to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien.

.*.*.*.*.*.

In Britain's land beyond the seas

the wind blows ever through the trees;

in Britain's land beyond the waves

are stony shores and stony caves.

(J.R.R. Tolkein, The Lay of Aotrou and Itroun, lines 1-4)

Bright sunshine streamed through the green leaves, casting green shadows on the bare skin of the riders. There were three of them: a tall, brawny man with shoulder-length bronze curls twisted into a stubby braid, riding a big black warhorse; a shorter, stocky man with short-cropped dark hair, missing his right hand and steering his dappled grey gelding effortlessly with his knees; and a slender, athletic-looking woman with a chestnut braid hanging to her waist, riding a bay mare whose color almost matched the hue of her hair. The bigger man wore a short-sleeved scale-mail jerkin and soft leather trousers, while the other two were dressed in boiled leather chest-pieces over sleeveless linen tunics and light cotton leggings. The woman led the trio, her brown eyes constantly watching the trees around them, while the other two hung back slightly, equally vigilant.

As they looped around along a series of earthen trails and side roads, heading back to the fort they had originated from, they saw another horse, trudging slowly along the road, its rider wearing a heavy dark cloak despite the summer heat. The woman at the head of the trio lifted her hand, waving the others off, and the men slowed their mounts, hanging back as she spurred the bay mare on to catch up to the lone rider. Closer inspection revealed that he was riding a mule, not a horse, as she slowed her horse down to match the man's pace.

"Hello, friend," the stranger smiled up at her. He was younger than she'd expected, based on his stooped posture, and had a thin, long face—the woman thought that it matched the mule's rather oddly—with shaggy orangey-red hair and a well-trimmed beard that narrowed to a point on his chin.

"Hello," the woman smiled back, the epitome of friendliness. "What brings you to this part of Albion, stranger?"

"I'm looking for King Arthur," the man replied. As he spoke more, the faint Welsh accent in his voice became more prominent. "I must meet with him."

"King Arthur?" the woman cocked her head, her heavy braid slipping over her shoulder. "Why're you looking for him?"

"I had a vision," the man replied. "It told me to seek him out and tell him what I know."

"And what is it that you know?" the woman asked.

"I know the location of the one he's hunting," the man grinned, his eyes sparkling.

.*.*.*.*.*.

The remainder of the knights were seated around the round table when Cymbeline, Aggravaine, and Dagonet returned. In regards to population, the table was full again, as it hadn't been for nearly thirty years—longer, really; when Arthur's knights had first come to Britain, there had been twenty-seven of them, in addition to Arthur and the commander of the Roman legion, leaving one empty seat. At the moment, all but three seats were filled, and the young knights-in-training stood against the walls of the chamber, dutifully still and quiet—well, as still as it was possible for them to be, considering how many of them were teenaged boys.

Cymbeline entered first and went straight to Arthur, offering only a brief nod to Ban, who was speaking. She bent down to whisper in the king's ear so as not to interrupt the old knight's speech, but many of the eyes in the room were on her. Arthur nodded when she finished speaking, and she stepped back respectfully to wait out Ban's speech.

"Oh, enough girl," Ban interrupted himself, glaring at the Woad knight, who blushed red. "Everyone is certainly more interesting in what you have to say than in the result of the most recent foray into the North in search of Morgana."

"Actually, that's what I've got," Cymbeline said. "Well, not your results, but information on Morgana."

Immediately, everyone around the table perked up. Over the past two years and some months, Arthur and his knights had been attempting to track down the Woad sorceress Morgana after she and her allies had attacked Camelot, demanding Arthur's abdication. Nimue, Morgana's partner, had died in the attack, but Morgana herself had escaped, and the knights' search for her had been tireless—at least for the first few months, while she had still occasionally been seen at times in the north. But, over a year previous, the sightings had stopped, and Morgana had disappeared.

"What information?" Bors demanded, leaning forward in his seat. "Who brought it?"

"A Welshman," Cymbeline replied. "He won't tell anyone but Arthur"—

"Because that's not suspicious at all," Galahad rolled his eyes. "It doesn't lend much faith to this Welshman's claims."

"There's something about him, though," Cymbeline said. "He seems trustworthy. Admittedly, I have no cause to think him so, but…"

"It's the first lead we've had in over a year," Bedivere spoke up. After the death of his younger brother at the hands of Nimue's followers, the healer had been quiet and almost timid, rarely speaking up during table meetings.

"We can at least hear him out," Elyan, one of the newest knights at the table, spoke up. "There's no harm in that."

"Elyan is right," Arthur nodded. "We shall hear what this Welshman has to say, and then decide if we will act on it. Bring him in."

Cymbeline crossed back to the heavy doors of the table room and swung them open with a heave. They drifted to a stop over a foot away from the stone walls, and three men entered. In the center was a red-haired, red-bearded man, slight of form and wiry under his heavy cloak. To the left stood Dagonet, Bors's eldest British son—Elyan being his oldest son, but from his first marriage, in Sarmatia—while Aggravaine, Cymbeline's oldest brother-in-law, stood to the right. They followed the cloaked man into the chamber, then headed for their seats at the table, as Cymbeline had done.

"My lord," the stranger offered Arthur a deep, sweeping bow. "My name is Menw. I am a seer from Wales."

"A seer?" Bors the Elder, the oldest occupant of the table at seventy-five, scoffed. "A fraud, more like. And you thought to give his claims credulity?" the last was directed in the vague direction of Cymbeline; the old man had lost his sight rapidly over the past few years, and his eyes were clouded with cataracts.

"Just because you can't see, old man, doesn't mean others can't either," Cymbeline retorted, although she seemed perturbed by the stranger's claim.

"He didn't mention that he was a seer earlier," Dagonet said in his mentor's defense.

"If I had, would you have brought me?" Menw cocked an eyebrow. "I said what I knew would pique your curiosity enough to bring me to Arthur, but not so much that you would deem me mad or a fool and leave me on the road."

"Enough," Arthur sighed. "What is the information that you say you have for us, seer?"

"I have had a vision of Morgana," Menw turned his attention back to Arthur. "I believe that it was sent to me for a purpose, although I'm not sure what that purpose is, or who it was that sent me the vision." He paused and looked around the table, then at the young knights-in-training against the wall. "In my vision, I saw Morgana, sitting on a silver chair in a chamber made from the boughs and trunks of living trees. At her feet was a pool of clear crystal, flowing with bubbling water. As I watched, her form turned to that of a withered old hag, her silver throne turned to one of stone, the pool dried to dust, and the living trees turned to dead husks. In the blink of an eye, I looked down, as if from a great height, on a massive forest, shrouded in mist. The height grew even greater, and I saw that the forest was in the center of a small island, covered by clouds."

"That seems… vague," Galahad said after a slight pause.

"That could be any number of islands," Pellinore, the last of the old knights, scoffed, throwing up his hands.

"It could be anywhere in the world," Gorlois, the brother-in-law of one of Ban's sons-in-law, agreed.

"Avalon," Dinadan, a British bard, was the first to speak the name.

"Avalon?" Kei, a Celtic warrior from Eire, scoffed. "You're joking."

"What is Avalon?" Gaheris, Aggravaine's younger brother, asked, his brow furrowed.

"Avalon," Bedivere explained, "is an island"—

"A mythical island," Kei interrupted.

"A potentially mythical island," Bedivere continued, "somewhere in the channel between Gaul and Britain. Most people seem to think it exists, but no-one can seem to agree where exactly it is…"

"According to the legends," Dinadan said, "Avalon is constantly shrouded in mist, which makes it difficult to find."

"The legends also say that the island moves," Kei scoffed. "You know, of course it would be the bard that thinks that Avalon—the mythical island—is a viable option for this."

"Wait, what do you mean 'the bard'?" Dinadan sat up, leaned forward, and glared at Kei across the table.

"Not to mention," Kei continued, "we're listening to an insane person tell us about some vision he claims to have had, and you want us to follow it? And expect to find Morgana at the end of it? Anyone who thinks that idea would pan out has got to be as this man clearly is!" He ended his speech with a wild gesture towards Menw.

"I'd just like to go back to Kei's insinuations about my sanity," Dinadan glared across the table.

Arthur leaned forward and pinched the bridge of his nose; beside him, Guinevere sank down in her seat and sighed deeply. Around the table, several of the other knights got involved in the argument as well. Voices began to rise as the argument escalated, and Arthur raised his head again to look around at his knights. Across the table, he made eye contact with Gawain, one of the few people at the table who had managed not to get involved in the conversation. Arthur held out his hand towards the knight—who had always been one of the most level-headed people at the table—and Gawain sighed. With a sigh and a screech of wood against stone, Gawain pushed his chair back and stood up.

"I think we should listen to Menw."

Silence immediately fell as all of the eyes in the room turned to Gawain. He sighed again and shifted his weight slightly. "We've been looking for Morgana for over two years. We've followed leads with just as little foundation as this during that time, and we've even led parties north without any leads, just to see if we could find any. Maybe this man"—he gestured vaguely at Menw—"is insane. Maybe he really did have a vision. Maybe he didn't. The only way to find out is to go to Avalon and find out for ourselves."

As Kei opened his mouth to retort, Cymbeline's smallest knife went flying across the room to bury itself in the table in front of him.

"Cymbeline, don't do that again," Arthur sighed, glaring at the Woad. "Kei, that's enough." He reflected for a moment on how much these table meetings tended to feel like dealing with children. "I agree with Gawain"—Cymbeline brandished another knife as Kei opened his mouth, but didn't throw it—"this is worth taking a look at."

"Why is it worth taking a look at!?" Kei exploded, leaping to his feet and sending his chair skittering backwards. "A madman is claiming that he saw a vision of where Morgana is—which is an island that may or may not even exist, depending on who you believe—and we're just going to try and find this island."

"Technically, we don't know that he's crazy," Cymbeline piped up.

"That's true," Menw interjected. "And I'd personally like to advocate for my own sanity."

"Lots of people have visions," Bedivere supplied. "And I can think of at least seven herbs that can cause them."

"That's…not particularly helpful," Menw frowned.

"I've met several Roman priests who at least claimed to have visions," Cymbeline said. "Although, they also claimed to be able to cure me of my muteness."

"You weren't actually mute," Galahad pointed out.

"Yeah, but shouldn't they have been able to tell that?" Cymbeline asked.

"Enough!" Arthur ordered. "I think we should see if Menw's… vision… has any substance to it."

"You must be joking!" Kei was on his feet, his face red. "This is insane! It's completely unfounded to send a mission in response to the vision of a stranger! He could be working for Morgana—he could be leading us into a trap! We don't know anything about him."

"That's true," Arthur nodded. He glanced slowly around the table, at the faces of his knights; he saw expressions ranging from disbelief to thoughtfulness, polite disinterest to rage. "I would ask a small group of you to accompany Menw to Avalon, to ascertain the truth of his… visions. If you are able to find her, and it is reasonable to do so, you may attack her with the intent to either kill her or return her to Camelot to stand trial for her crimes."

"You want to put a Woad witch on trial?" Bedivere arched an eyebrow. "Good luck with that."

"Witches hold no power greater than God's," Arthur replied. "I do not fear her, and neither should any of you. It is most likely that she is simply a very clever woman who uses her intelligence to trick others into believing that she has magical abilities."

The Woads around the table traded slightly incredulous glances, but didn't contradict their king. They had learned long ago not to question Arthur's faith in his God.

"Who do you propose to send on this mission?" Bors was on his feet now, adjusting his belt.

"Not you," Arthur said. He looked carefully around the table, although he already had a solid idea of who he wanted to send. His gaze lingered first on Gawain, then on Cymbeline, whose eyes were already narrowed at him. "Gawain," he met eyes with the younger knight. "I would have you lead this mission."

Gawain nodded slowly, studiously avoiding the furious gaze of his wife next to him. "As you wish."

"Kei, Dinadan," Arthur glanced between the two. "Both of you are going as well." Ignoring the protests of the two knights, he continued to look around the table.

"I'll go," Bedivere said, standing. "A healer would be good to have along in a strange place."

"Me too," Galahad rose to his feet, clearly reluctant. "You could use someone with a bit of sense on this mission… quest… thing."

"And that would be you?" Gawain grinned.

"Shut up," Galahad grumbled, crossing his arms.

"Thank you, Galahad," Arthur smiled.

"I want to go too," Lancelot, Bors's third son, shot to his feet. Arthur heard Bors groan and caught a glimpse of the knight lowering his head into his hands as he considered Lancelot's eager offer. Lancelot was the youngest at the table, but not the newest to take a seat there. He had gone on short missions to the south before, but had never been long from home; however, he was already seventeen, and Arthur knew that many of the Sarmatian knights had been out on missions well before that age.

"Alright," Arthur agreed finally, ignoring another loud groan from Bors. "But you will do whatever Gawain tells you, without question."

Lancelot nodded eagerly, trying to hide the broad smile that threatened to split his face as he sat down.

"That's enough," Arthur held up his hand to prevent any more volunteers. "I think six knights and a Welsh… seer should be enough. We don't want Morgana to know that you're coming, after all; too many of you will give your presence away. Thank you, to all of you. You will leave in a week; some of us will ride with you as far as the coast, as well."

After ensuring that there was nothing more that warranted discussion at the moment, Arthur dismissed the knights, waiting with Guinevere until most of them had trickled out, then approached Menw, who still stood near the door, looking confused.

"I'm not really sure what just happened," Menw laughed awkwardly.

"I'm sure you won't mind accompanying the knights," Guinevere smiled as she looped her arm around his and turned him towards the door. "After all, you're the one who brought the information; it seems obvious that you would want to see the result of it."

"Oh, absolutely," Menw nodded. "I knew all along that I would be going along; I saw that in my vision."

"Oh?" Guinevere asked politely as she continued lead Menw through the villa.

Arthur followed along, paying little attention to the conversation taking place a few steps ahead of him. He hoped that he hadn't made a mistake in ordering this mission—for many reasons. If this was a mistake, he would lose two of his closest friends, along with four other good knights, as well as the trust of his other knights and even subjects. But if they were able to find Morgana, who had eluded them for so long and still seemed to plague them from afar… it just might be worth it.