Madeline wouldn't say that she was the most faithful of septa, nor that she knew the scripture better than most, but she did do the best that she could. Treating common injuries, helping women give birth, educating those who sought to learn the written word, and administering to the spiritual needs of the faithful.

She and her missionary group travelled from village to village, to every inn, every hamlet, and farm in between that they could find offering aid to all those that they encountered. Madeline felt comfort in the labour, helping those who needed the aid of the Seven, but it wasn't fulfilling. Not truly, for in her heart of hearts she wanted more.

She felt a longing in her that had been there since she had been a child taken in by the sept. She knew how lucky she was to have been given the chance to become a septa rather than fend for herself as many orphans were forced to do. How she had been given opportunities that many could only dream of, and spared the hardships of this world. She knew all of this, but the longing remained.

Madeline didn't know it was that she wanted, just that she wanted more. It could be motherhood, as she had often thought of having children of her own, yet as dear as the dream was, she knew that it was not it. As a girl she had dreamed of being a noble lady, living in a large castle with loyal servants and retainers, but the thoughts of riches and power did not set her heart aflutter. It wasn't faith that she longed for either.

Madeline went through the motions of being a septa in her daily life. She said the words, performed the rites, and did as the sept bid her to do, but it was all a front. Or at least it felt like one. Like she was an actor on a stage, saying her lines and wearing the mask of a stranger as she went through the motions of the life of another.

In her most private thoughts, always waiting just below the surface of her conscientiousness was a deep realization about herself. That the longing within her belied a greater revelation as to her true thoughts. That she didn't truly believe in the Seven. Not even a little. How it always felt like she was telling a terrible lie whenever she instructed villagers how to pray. Like she was making them look like quite the fools saying words aloud to the heaven. That she should flush with embarrassment and hang her head in shame for even suggesting that they pray to the empty sky. That was not to say that she did not have faith whatsoever.

Ever since she was a child she had been enamoured with tales of knights and chivalry. Of true knights whose virtue was an example to all that they met. Helping those in need and walking the thorny path that was only a sliver between being a martyr and knighthood.

She had believed in that more than she believed in the Seven, as many a lashings with a wicker branch could attest, but the lashes had not extinguished the belief within her, rather driven it out of sight. She acted the part, said the words, did everything that was proper of a septa, yet her faith laid not with the Seven, but with a true knight.

As a little girl she had stayed up late reading tales of the Targaryens and their long lineage. Of dragons and things of magic and myth. Of the first men and the Children of the Forest who had the White Walkers. Of the tales of heroic knights who had risen in times of greatest need to vanquish the evil from the world. Her 'gift' if you could call it that aiding in her reading. A cause that had been of much greater concern for her growing up that her adoration of tales of chivalry.

She didn't know why she had such faith, for no knight had ever come close to the idol she held so dear, and most made a mockery of it, yet it was a feeling that she could not shake. That somewhere, somehow, there was a knight that was more saint than man. A knight who would shine with godly radiance and be of pure heart. It was a belief that had stayed with her all her life. One that no contradiction, no evil could shake from her.

Madeline had long been told that she spent too much time in her own head. Exploring realms of heroes and fantasy rather than tending to the needs of those around her, both physical and spiritual. Perhaps they were right, because there was scarce a free moment where she didn't find herself gazing off at something that only she could see. Imagining the figure of her fantasy that she could never put a face to. She often found her dreams were pleasant to inhabit than the dull monotony of real life. Perhaps it was this absent mindedness that she had reacted so slowly when Father Mathew was killed.

The priest fell backwards, his face a bloody ruin from the axe that ripped free with a meaty sucking sound as he fell to the ground with a thump. Madeline had been helping the women of the village harvest cabbages and only noticed what was happening when those around her began screaming.

She looked up like a startled rabbit, shock making her unable to comprehend what she was seeing at first as she saw Father Mathew's own blood staining his dour robes dark red. A large bearded man dressed in crude hide armour and carrying a stone axe standing over top of him, letting out a bellowing laugh as he did so.

Dozens more dressed like him quickly rushing past and into the village from out of the forest. Yelling and baying like crazed animals. Dirty, dishevelled, they brandished their weapons and their crude armour was adorned with bones and other 'trophies' from past exploits. bronze torques wrapped around their necks like coiled snakes and iron rings decorated their fingers carved with bestial designs and fearsome points.

Three more of the village men were dead before Madeline had the presence of mind to draw breath to scream, yet no sound emerged. Her hand came to cover her mouth as if to both keep her rebellious stomach at bay and for the touch to confirm to her that what was happening was real. That these hill men were actually attacking WillowBirch and that men were dying. Their bright blood seeping into the ground, clotting the earth instead of the wound from which it had flowed.

Madeline watched them grab one of her fellow septas from her missionary group, her robes unsuited for running yet they did not kill her. Strong hands dragged Danae down, screaming and pleading as they ripped the clothes from her body and began to violate her. Laughing at her cries.

Horror engulfed Madeline, shaking with fear, her eyes wide and mouth agape she stayed there kneeling in the dirt, unsure of whether to scream or run, yet she couldn't even find the courage to breathe.

Strong calloused hands grabbed her arms and she let out a yelp of terror, only to find it was one of the elderly village woman who was pulling Madeline to her feet.

"Run girl! To the sept with you, now go!"

Madeline must have stayed still a moment too long, because the matron actually started dragging Madeline along with her until Madeline began her own stumbling run, hampered as she was with her long robes.

Some of the men from the village ran past them, carrying scythes, or wood axes, or even fishing harpoons since WillowBirch overlooked the sea, but they were not warriors. They were fishermen and farmers fighting in a haphazard fashion against men, and even a woman or two who made their lives about killing and plundering.

Screams and the sound of battle engulfed Madeline, making her heart beat like that of a small and frightened bird. She caught a whiff of smoke and turned to see the hill men tossing lit torches onto the thatched roofs of the huts which took to flame greedily.

She stumbled, but the strong hands of the matronly woman pulling her along kept her moving towards the village sept. With stone walls and thick wooden doors it would be the safest place in the village. Ironic that even now the faith that she didn't believe would keep her safe.

As they reached the doors of the sept, others were rushing inside. The old, the young, the women, and the lame were all being ushered inside. Amidst the desperation and confusion, a smell came to Madeline. One that she had come to know quite well with her work in the healing halls of the sept. It had a metallic iron smell that permeated her nose and stuck to her tongue like a thick miasma. It was the smell of blood. There was a whistling sound and something rushed by Madeline's face, ending in a meaty thunk.

She turned slowly in horror to see the matronly woman who had ushered her to safety dead with an arrow fitted with black raven feathers sticking from her back. Madeline stood dumbstruck at the sight, at how easily life could be snuffed out, before another pair of strong hands pulled her further inside and the thick wooden doors to the sept were closed and barred.

Light filtered into the sept from the windows where the stone walls met the wood ceiling and it revealed the weeping, fearful faces of those within. Some had their faces twisted in the agony of fear and grief, while others sat stone faced, unable to process what was happening.

A chorus of panicked cries rose as an axe thudded into the thick wooden doors of the sept, followed by a torrent of prayers to each aspect of the Seven. Madeline knew that she should pray, that it was expected of her, but what god would listen to a woman who didn't truly believe.

Madeline sank to her knees in front of the carving of the Warrior, finding emotions welling up inside of her that she could not control and tears began to fall from her eyes. Perversely, her fear for herself increased as her 'gift' began to make itself known as it often did when she was greatly distressed. Blue lines of light tracing their way across her body began to extend and grow in both length and complexity. Extending to the tips of her fingers and disappearing up the sleeves of her robes, before snaking their way up past the coverings of her collar, tracing their way across her face.

"Please..." began Madeline, not speaking any prayer that she had ever been taught, but rather speaking from the heart.

"I have always believed, truly believed in you," Continued Madeline looking at the sculpture of the warrior, but not praying to the aspect. No, she was praying to something else. Someone else.

"Ever since I was a little girl I've heard the stories, the legends of a hero arising when the need is greatest. I've never believed in any other god or deity, or any other empty promises. I've always put my faith in chivalry. Please...I've always believed...believed in a true knight. If any gods are listening, if you are listening...please...I need your help."

Tears fell from Madeline's face and to the stone below as the lines of blue light that wove their way across her body pulsated with power into the stone below, forming a circle like it was burning it out of the stone itself. Lines crisscrossing within and odd runes appearing within, yet Madeline noticed none of this.

"If you can hear me, I summon you, King of Knights! Please!" Madeline was weeping now, but the tears slowed as light penetrated her shut lids and the frantic prayers of those around her ceased. Bleary tear-soaked eyes opened to see swirling particles of glowing blue light in front of her. She watched them swirl and marvelled at their beauty, before they began to come together, starting at the ground and rising upwards.

As she watched the thing in front of her take shape, she realized that it was a man taking form. Madeline pinched herself to see if she was dreaming, and the sharp pain replied that she was not.

The blue glow disappeared as the particles formed the head of the figure, revealing silvery steel and a blue tunic. A knight, and as his face was revealed an exquisitely handsome one. Like he was chiselled from stone, made in perfection, his hair was a like gold dust immediately bringing to mind thoughts of Lannisters, further reinforced as he opened his eyes which were a pure and clear vibrant green.

He looked at her, and Madeline felt fear blossom in her breast at the stern expression this man wore. Then the fear turned to butterflies as he smiled down at her, serene and welcoming. He extended his hand down to her and Madeline took it, responding to the gentle pressure as he brought her to her feet.

"Are you my Master?"

xxx

Pain. He was in pain wasn't he? He was sure that he was, could feel the gaping wound in his chest fluttering open with every breath. He could feel his life ebbing out from the open injury with every passing moment, yet it did not hurt. Nor could he recall how long he had been here. Kneeling on a hill atop a mountain of bodies, overlooking knights and peasants alike who had looked up to him. Now doomed to do so forever more. Grasping onto the hilt of Excalibur, the last vestige of his kingdom propping him up and helping him cling to life it was all Arthur could see. In the golden light of the setting sun, it seemed that the bodies were ablaze in the fires of the hell that Arthur now found himself in. That he had led them to.

They had called him king, looked to him for guidance, and now they were strewn around him as food for carrion. Still warm corpses of what a short time ago had been the very people that he had sworn to protect. He had failed them, of that there was no doubt, because they had turned on him. Those who had still believed in him had rushed to his aid, flying his banner proudly, proclaiming him the once and future king of Albion, but what was a king without his people? In the end, those who had turned on him and those who had stayed loyal had met the same fate. Killed each other and torn the land apart. His beautiful England.

Their eyes were glazed over, empty, but accusing even though they were now sightless. An army of silent judgment who now all found their king unworthy and Arthur couldn't agree more.

When he had been alive he had discarded all of his own desires, all of his own wants. To be selfless and serve his people he had taken on the title of king and the mantle of martyr. He had taken his ideals and shaped them to be his true self and living only for his people. To be unwavering in his knightly vows, Unfaltering in his courage, and unyielding in his beliefs. He had lived the life of a martyr for the good of his people and be a paragon of knightly virtue, but it hadn't been enough. He hadn't been enough.

When he had been alive. Why had he said that? He was still alive now surely. Wasn't he? Thoughts began to coalesce, thoughts after the battle when Mordred had mortally wounded him. Images flashed through his mind and he gazed at them as if through a fog. Slowly a realization came to him. He was dead. Or at least close enough to it to blur the lines. He hadn't crossed over, perhaps wasn't even entirely dead, but he was no longer among the living either. He was trapped here.

Maybe it was a type of penance that he had to pay. Live and relive the lowest point of his life over and over again until he realized his mistakes and how to fix them, but how could he change was was already done? The past had already been written, the ink dry and the words set.

He would give anything to go back to this day. Before the battle took place and fall to his knees before Mordred. Throw his crown to the ground and tell him that if he wanted it so badly to just take it. That it wasn't worth this. Beg for him to end the madness. Brother against brother, son against father, Beautiful England engulfed in war. Just take the crown and his head if it was what he wanted, but let it end there. Let the killing stop there. What he would give for another chance. A chance to make things right for his people. Even a chance to save another kingdom from the fate that had befallen his, he would give anything.

Arthur closed his eyes and grasped the hilt of Excalibur, his failures following and taunting him as he chased eternal slumber, or even a brief respite. Blurring the lines between consciousness and dreaming, if that was what he was doing now it was as if was a silent witness to his own life. Watching as he made the same decisions over and over again that led to the same outcome again and again. Every time it was the same, and when it ended, Arthur would open his eyes and find himself still atop the hill and looking upon everyone that he had failed.

He wanted to yell, scream, shriek his anguish at the sky, but found that like always he didn't. Perhaps he couldn't now. Instead, he crushed it down and presented the stoic and unwavering image that had led to his people adoring him, and then dying for him.

It was then that he heard it. A voice, as if it was coming from the heavens. Warbling and distorted it was hard to understand, but the emotion behind it was all too familiar. It was grief, desperation, someone pleading for a hero that would never come. Arthur slowly rose his head towards the sky as if looking for the sound.

The more he focused on it, the clearer it became. It was a woman's voice, pleading for help. Pleading for a knight, a true knight to come to her aid.

Arthur felt a stirring in his breast that he hadn't felt in a long time. An urge he had thought long since extinguished, drowned under the waves of grief that had consoled him in his loneliness all this time. He felt the urge to wield Excalibur.

This could be a cruel trick, God playing an awful prank upon him, or perhaps the devil, but Arthur didn't care. He was still a knight, had sworn his immortal soul to his vows and death would not see an end to chivalry. His body may have been broken, his kingdom torn down, but so long as his will remained, so would he. So would the Knights of the Round Table.

He felt what had been oddly absent as he tried to rise. Pain. Lancing, stabbing, mind numbing, excruciating pain. Pain that nearly sent him crashing back to his knees, but Arthur refused. He refused to fail again. Refused to let the same wound make him fall twice. Muscles standing out like taught cables in his neck, face set in stony determination, the Once and Future King forced himself ever higher on shaking legs. Green eyes resolute as he finally rose fully to his feet, the voice clear now, as if the woman was standing right beside him, but the pain making him feel dizzy, like he would faint as the world around him lost colour and began to turn to grey.

The last ray of light shining down on him from above and Arthur took a hand from the hilt of Excalibur and reached out towards it. Feeling the warmth as if a ribbon of fire grazed his armoured fingers. It sent a jolt through Arthur, sending colour racing back into his vision and banishing the pain in his side.

Standing now without trouble, he saw a tether handing down from the heavens, golden and waving from an unseen wind. The voice resonating from it, and seeming to come from within his own head.

"Please...I've always believed...believed in a true knight. If any gods are listening, if you are listening...please...I need your help."

Arthur raised Excalibur from the dirt, the Sword of Promised Victory shining in golden radiance, pulsing with newfound purpose as Arthur found it coursing through himself as well. Arthur felt alive again. He grasped the ribbon, and the world was consumed with light, before fading to nothingness.

He felt cold for the briefest of moments, then felt a pressure in his chest. It rose to unbearable levels before Arthur realized what it was. He breathed.

Everything came at him in a wave of sensation. The smell of smoke, sweat, and blood. The cries of women, and the clash of steel and the pained howls of dying men. The feel of fine cotton against his skin and the weight of his armour on his body. The comforting hilt of Excalibur filling his hand and he flexed his fingers around the grip. He also saw a woman in front of him. The woman. A girl with dark red hair and freckled cheeks streaked with tears. Blue lines traced their way across her body in straight lines, turning sharply at points as if drawn by a ruler. Glowing with magical power. Her green eyes were reddened with grief, but gazing at him with a mixture of fear and hope. Arthur smiled at her and held his free hand out to her, knowledge flooding into his being, making him understand what he was doing and what kind of gift he had been given. But also what kind of contract he had unknowingly signed.

The girl had feared him at first sight, but he could see that fear fading away. Turning to something else as a light blush came upon her cheeks. Hesitantly she took his hand and Arthur helped her to her feet.

She was dressed much like a nun, in neutral grey clothing with something like a habit covering her head, but she had no crucifix around her neck to signify her devotion to Jesus Christ. Like a flash of light, the knowledge made itself known to Arthur. She was a septa, and she served the Seven. Seven incarnations of the same god, each serving a different function.

"Are you my Master?"

"I...I...yes," said the woman, joy overcoming her shock as she smiled widely, tears flowing freely down her face, but this time not out of grief or desperation.

"Then I hereby pledge myself to your service and will faithfully and dutifully carry out all orders you give me so long as they do not dishonour me or yourself Master," said Arthur, falling to bended knee and inclining his head.

"Master?" said the girl confused, realizing that he had called her this twice.

With a crash of splintering wood, their silent audience in the seven sided structure they were in cried out in fear and alarm. Cowering away from the figures who filled the door frame.

Men in thick furred armour barged in, carrying weapons made of stone, or else nearly worn out iron and steel. Arthur quickly rose to his feet and put the woman behind him, still holding Excalibur low, hidden even from sight cloaked as it was in its invisible air.

"I will warn you this one time. Leave this place now. Give back what you have stolen, make amends, and never return to harm these people and I will let you live."

Arthur did not yell or shout, but his voice carried the weight of authority and martial menace that years of being a warrior king had forced upon him. His voice alone, and the hardened look in his emerald eyes gave pause to the men, and even woman, if only for a moment.

"Ha! A brave Ser Knight with no blade hiding with the old and the women is giving us orders?"

"I do not hide, and it would be a grievous mistake to think me unarmed. Surrender now and live," demanded Arthur, adopting an Ox Guard with a sword still appearing invisible.

One of the men, the one at the front of the group gave a short laugh, bones rattling together revealing a cheap sort of chainmail armour, before with a cry he rushed towards Arthur, axe held high and intent on bringing it crashing down upon Pendragon's unarmoured head.

In a move that even those watching could not follow, Arthur was all at once behind the man, having made a motion like he had swung a sword, but the damage left behind would have had one believe a giant had cleaved the man in two with a battle axe.

The man's bone armour broke apart, sending bones flying to every corner of the seven sided sept, accompanied by pieces of his own torn free by Excalibur and a geyser of blood erupting from the wound. The two halves falling separately to the ground. Before the shock could register on the rest of the raiders, Arthur moved again, Excalibur singing as it was brought up in a slash ripping open another man from groin to shoulder. Arthur claimed the head of the third raider in a clean stroke, before running the woman raider through to the hilt with Excalibur. She stared at him in shock as the holy sword passed through her furred armour as easily as a knife through butter, before with a gurgling gasp she was gone and fell to the ground with the others. Four dead in but an instant, and not so much as a mark upon Arthur. A growing pool of blood surrounding the Knight dressed in silver and blue.

"Stay here, and barricade yourselves inside," said Arthur turning to the awe and fear struck villagers cowering in the seven sided building. "I will put at end to this."

Resolutely, Arthur left the Sept, falling upon a pair of raiders who had pulled one of the village women to the ground and were in the process of tearing her dress off. Their heads left trails of blood as they flew from their shoulders, Arthur's expression never changing as he set about the grisly deed.

A group of about a dozen came towards Arthur, but he moved so fast a crack of thunder seemed to follow him, hitting the raiders with the force of an avalanche, sending bodies careening out of his way. Then Excalibur began to sing.

They converged on Arthur from all sides, weapons of stone, iron, and steel intent on ending the life of the blonde knight, but none even came close to him. He weaved in between the blows, keen green eyes tracking every movement with cold calculation.

Arthur moved with inhuman speed and struck with inhuman strength, every one of his blows seeing to the death of another hill man. Blood flowing more freely than water, the downpour following close behind the sound of rending flesh that was Excalibur's battle cry.

Yet Arthur did not fight or yell like a berserker with wild, but powerful swings. Losing himself to the thrill of battle and cursing his foes. Instead he fought as a master duellist, finding openings in his opponents defence and exploiting them mercilessly with cold and detached precision. The most eery thing for his opponents was that he fought in complete silence. It wasn't long before he was standing among a small mountain of severed limbs and corpses. Those few who remained backing away fearfully from the knight clothed in silver and blue, who ripped men apart though he carried no weapon.

Arthur adopted a plow guard, holding Excalibur at a middle position, staring down the remaining raiders with green eyes as cold as the emeralds they emulated. A particularly large man in crude hide armour sporting a large beard, held a great stone axe like it was a ward to keep Arthur away, eyes wild with fear.

"Are you the leader of these raiders?" demanded Arthur.

"I...y-yes," stuttered the man taking a step back.

"Then you are my opponent," said Arthur calmly, the earth erupting from under his feet as he used mana to rush forwards at incredible speed, the sound of thunder once again chasing him. He cut the leader of the raiders in half from groin to scalp, the force of the blow knocking those around their leader to the ground and kicking up a storm of dust. The force of the stroke completely obliterating the remains of the leader. His tone axe shattering.

As the dust cleared, Arthur's eyes fell on one of the half dozen or so remaining bandits, a woman with braided brown hair and terrified hazel eyes. Her expression of terror mirroring those of her fellows around her.

"M-mercy lord! Please, I yield I YIELD!"

"You are beaten," said Arthur calmly. "Leave, and never return or I will make sure to claim the lives I spared this day," commanded Arthur, voice radiating the power of a true king and holding the still invisible Excalibur mere inches from the face of the woman, who seemed to catch a glimpse of the blade and its shifting cover of air. "These people are under my protection. Make sure the rest of your kind know this well."

"Yes milord, of course milord," mewled one of the other raiders, crawling away from Arthur before taking to his feet and running away, the others following hot on his heels as they fled the village.

Arthur watched them go, but did not crow in victory, or let out a shout, instead he simply stood in silence. When they were gone he turned back towards the seven sided sept and started walking back to it, but stumbled clutching at his chest.

It was a pain, like ravenous hunger that threatened to steal the breath from his lungs with sharp lancing spikes of agony. With a start the realization came to him and he ran back to the sept, careful not to use any mana.

Entering, he saw the woman who had summoned him, collapsed on the floor and breathing shallowly with villagers crowded around her. He had used too much, taxed his Master too greatly after she had summoned her. She could die.

Xxx

"Arthur you can not do this, the nobles will not tolerate it."

"There can not be one law for one man and another for a different man. That is not justice, that is arbitrary tyranny lacking any honour."

"They will never forgive you for this Arthur, they will kill you if you do this. She was just a peasant, she was nobody, an afterthought. Somebody not worth the time or strife of the lords."

"A king lives to serve his people, all of his people. A king who cannot look out for his people, all of his people is no king at all."

Madeline awoke from the strange dream that had included the man from...the sept? Surely that too had been a dream. He had looked noble, regal and composed as he had talked to a man who was clearly a high lord. Yet the young man with the pure green eyes had been dressed as a king, but carried himself as a god.

Madeline tried to rise, but was wracked with ravenous hunger. Looking around quickly she saw bread to the table at her side and devoured it, even though it had been going stale with ferocity like that of a starving animal. Only after it was all gone did she discover that there was a mark on her hand, like a sword carved in red on the back of her right hand. She held it up and inspected it, nearly choking as a ripple of light seemed to flow across it.

Madeline quickly dressed herself and ventured outside, shocked to find over half of the village burned to the ground and many of the villagers wearing clothes of mourning. Fresh graves with newly turned earth lined the graveyard behind the sept. Yet despite the grief, the sun was still shining, the birds still singing, and the world carrying on like nothing had happened. If there were gods, they surely didn't care about the fates of man. But if the village had been attacked, then that meant, Madeline paused as the villagers stopped what they were doing to stare at her.

An oppressive silence fell over the village, weighing down on Madeline as heavy as any pack. Then, to her surprise they came to her asking for blessings. For her to touch them, give them good fortune, and even for a good crop.

"Oh Master, please, my child is sick."

"Master, can you heal the injured?"

"Master, what do we do now?"

"M-master?" asked Madeline blinking in confusion. "I-I'm not," started Madeline, falling silent as the blonde man from her dreams with the pure and true green eyes walked up from the rear of the crowd, wearing a blue tunic and pants with brown leather boots. His face was stern and stoic, but from endless discipline rather than grief or anger. The sea of villagers parting for him to pass.

"Master, you're awake. I have to apologize for overtaxing you during the battle. It was shameful on my part and I put you in great danger acting that way. Regrettably I could not take spirit form to speed in your recovery. Another fault of mine."

His voice was even and measured, authoritative, yet inviting and smooth even when tinged with regret and apology. Madeline decided that she could listen to him talk forever.

"Why...why are you calling me Master?" asked Madeline, still blushing at talking with the man.

"You have the command seals on your hand, binding me to you and tethering me to this world. I am your servant. My name is Saber, and we are in this together now Master."

"Together in what?" asked Madeline confused.

AN: Well this was just an idea kicking around in my head for awhile and I was curious to see what people would think of it. My laptop broke so I had to start again on a lot of stuff so I figured it'd be an ok time to put this out.