"Are you sure?"

Eiluned posed the question the following morning, as she and Nimue prepared to journey back to Avalon, Branwen bidding them farewell in the square. They had spoken of it in their room the night before as Nimue slept, and then Eiluned had been saddened, yet glad that her friend had found joy again. Still, it was hard to take in that she would no longer see her fellow priestess each day, as they greeted the dawn. Branwen reached out and hugged her tightly.

"Yes Eiluned, I am sure," She replied, "And I will still serve the mother faithfully, but I am no longer called as you are."

"I know," Eiluned nodded as she pulled away, smiling though she had to dry her eyes of tears, "But I will miss you." She looked down at Nimue then, "Bid Branwen farewell, Nimue. We will not see her again until Beltane, after the winter."

Branwen knelt to hug the little girl, and then hugged her friend again, before mother and daughter slipped into the cart. She turned then, to see Arthur and Guenevere saying their goodbyes. It was a long time before Guenevere reluctantly disentangled herself from her husbands' arms, unable to help kissing him one last time, lingering and tender. She'd not been very happy at all to leave the fort, though she took Branwen's sight very seriously. Guenevere had been brought up believing in Avalon's magic, in priestesses and druids who could look into the future. As much as she wished she did not have to part with Arthur, or miss a good fight at his side for that matter, she knew better then to resist...much.

"Farewell Branwen," The Queen murmured, drawing her red cloak around her, managing a smile though she was still very pale, "I expect I will see much of you once this business is over and done with."

"You will indeed," Branwen grinned, hugging her farewell. And then Guenevere was helped into the cart, and the doors were shut, the wheels slowly rolling it away. Branwen looked on, a sigh escaping her lips. She felt a nudge beside her, and turned to see Vanora, smiling at her softly.

"When do you expect she'll come back?" The older woman asked.

"Morgaine will know," Branwen replied, as behind her, Arthur sighed, and walked away, returning to his many duties, "Or perhaps, I will. Chances are, Arthur will face whatever force it was that has it's malice fixed on her."

"Well she's safe now," Vanora nodded, "Nothing can touch her in Avalon."

"No...." Branwen said wistfully, her mind suddenly filled with images of the island...of her home. It's wild forest; it's sacred orchards, the swans swimming through the reeds. Vanora slipped an arm around her shoulders.

"That was a very rash thing you did, some might say," She pointed out, grinning, and Branwen blushed a bit, "But very brave. What of your belongings? Your family?"

"I have no family," The girl replied, "And very few belongings. Most I take with me when I travel. Blankets...my other dress. A priestess doesn't have much need for many earthly possessions."

"Will you miss Avalon?" Vanora asked, seriously "It's more beautiful then anything in the world, I'm told."

"I'll miss it," Branwen nodded, and then looked above, to where Gawain stood on the walls, watching until the cart had left the fort safely. He turned, and smiled down at her, and Branwen grinned back. "But the goddess has given us some things that are more beautiful then Avalon."

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The evening was deepening, Pryce noted with despair, urging his horse onward. His twin sister Rhian would already be wed by now, the binding over and the wedding feast begun. She would never let him live this down, he thought ruefully, even as the fires of her home village came into view. Rhian loved him, that was certain, but she'd also never forgiven him for leaving her when they were nine, going off to live with the druids. Not that Pryce had been given much choice, their great-grandfather Merlin coming and carrying him off one day. But even now, eight years later, it was a sore subject with Rhian. He'd hoped to make it up to her as time went by, starting by making it to her harvest-time wedding. Unfortunately, it seemed he'd broken that promise.

Heaving a sigh of relief, the young man reined his horse just outside of the village, thanking the heavens that he'd at least made it before full nightfall. But as Pryce dismounted, a very strange feeling washed over his being, and he frowned. Something wasn't right in the village; it was all too deadly silent for a wedding feast. A knot of fear formed in his stomach, and he hurried through the rows of thatched roofs and stables, to the tables and fires, and stopped short in horror.

The banners were flying idly on a soft evening breeze, and somewhere a hunting dog was whining. At the two large tables, no one stirred; all had fallen over at their seats, men, women and children, young and old alike. Pryce felt his heart cry out to the mother, and he called out desperately for anyone who might be alive nearby. No one answered.

Numbly, he made his way to the center table, seeing a familiar figure slumped forward, white flowers and ribbons all in her flax-colored hair, a spilt wine goblet just beyond the reach of her pale hand. Pryce recognized the goblet, absently, he remembered it as their mother's most prized earthly treasure, saved for her daughter's wedding feast. Tears stung in his eyes as he gently lifted Rhian from the table, cradling her on his arm. A bit of blood was by her lips, and her blue eyes were wide open in shook, gazing sightlessly up at the stars...

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"This I'll never get used to, if I have a thousand children." Vanora breathed, sitting and resting inside the tavern. Branwen grinned, filling another mug of ale.

"You should rest, or you'll drop that child on the floor." She said primly, carrying the drink off to a young man who was sitting, deeply engrossed in a game of dice. It had been a week since Branwen had come to stay at the fortress, and it had been an easier adjustment then she'd anticipated. Her days were spent spinning and weaving the year's wool with the other women of the area, helping Vanora care for her children, or talking with the various locals who would often approach her throughout the day. It didn't matter that she no longer wore the robes of a priestess, the crescent tattooed between her brows would remain, fading only a little with time, marking her forever as a daughter of the goddess. The people asked her advice on everything, from growing crops to tending illness, and they always asked her to remember them in her prayers to the mother.

Evenings she took to taking Vanora's place at the tavern, scolding the woman for trying to stay on her feet so long in her condition. As much as Vanora protested, she was secretly very thankful. She may have still been young and she may have borne a dozen children already without a problem, but she was especially tired it seemed this time around. Young she was, but not as young as when she'd had her first. Vanora spent her newfound free time by Bors' side; beaming as he boasted over what a fine woman he had bearing his children, even as she tried her best to deflate his ego at every given opportunity. The men would laugh as she dealt a good verbal jab, Bors would try his best to stay angry with her, and it was an old game but always entertaining. Branwen caught sight of Gawain grinning at her across the room as the laughter faded, and she let her eyes shine back at him, her face flushed with merriment and the warmth of the room. When the night crept on Gawain would walk back to the fort with her, as they shared his room, but for now the evening was young, and there was plenty of time left to spend all together, as the following day would bring more work and more training.

Branwen moved to take a rest after a while, leaning against the wall by Gawain's side. She looked around, seeing the usual crowd of young local men, women, a few idling children, and the knights. She didn't see Galahad, but perhaps he would be along later. The youngest knight had probably found some girl to spend his time with. "Does Arthur ever spend his evenings here?" She found herself asking, idly.

"Occasionally, but usually no," Gawain replied languidly, reaching for the hand she'd rested over his shoulder, kissing the inside of her wrist, "He likes his solitude in the evenings, we've gotten used to that. And he's not taking being parted from his lady so well."

"Hasn't exactly been the jolly sort, to put it lightly," Bors added with a smirk. "Gloomy, restless, too serious...the sooner that baby's born, the sooner he'll be fit to be around." The majority was under the impression that Guenevere had gone to Avalon to ensure the safe delivery of Arthur's heir. Bors knew the truth, as Vanora had told him, but he also knew most of the people around them didn't. Plus he still wasn't quite sure what he thought of the whole business with Avalon, but he accepted the true explanation without much question.

"And the sooner we march, the sooner he'll be able to put his mind on other things," Gawain nodded, "At least, for a while anyway." His eyes rested on Branwen for a moment, and on her other hand that rested absently by her waistline, and she smirked a bit. Though they hadn't spoken of it, they both knew another parting was on the way, one that could last for a long time...

"Seems I can remember someone being just as moody, leaving a woman behind carrying his first child." Vanora remarked, looking at Bors with a grin. He coughed.

"Now what makes you think you carried my first?" He retorted, and the woman gave him a playful smack upside the head.

"Come 'on then, you were nothing more then a skittish oaf of a boy," She grinned, "There's no way I'd believe any girl'd had pity on you before me."

"Big words from a skinny little girl who'd hardly left her mama's side." Bors mumbled, though he knew she'd already won, as anyone within earshot laughed. He gave her a rare, tender smile, squeezing her for a moment, and Vanora slipped an arm around his shoulders. An odd relationship, but a loving one, no one could doubt. With a soft smile, Branwen idly wondered if they'd even said that they loved each other...they probably had but if so, not within the hearing of anyone else.

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They had sat thus for a few moments more, talking and laughing, when just as Branwen made to go back to serving drinks, Galahad hurried into their midst, a bit breathless and alarmed. "We've got Saxon trouble again," He breathed, leaning on the table Bors, Vanora and Gawain were seated at, speaking in a low tone so as not to alarm anyone near, "Up north."

"You can't tell me there are still enough of them left to be attacking..." Bors said slowly, warily, and Galahad shook his head quickly.

"I don't know...there can't be, but what's left of them are killing off entire villages in the north." He went on, in an urgent whisper, "Three men rode into the fort not ten minutes ago, one of them a druid the other two farmers, all three lost relatives in a large village up north, at a wedding ceremony. The druid says the casks of ale and wine were all poisoned. Men, women, even the little children..."

"What purpose could that possibly serve...?" Gawain breathed.

"They caught a Saxon man outside of the village, dressed as a Brit but under his clothes he had the battle tattoos" Galahad went on, "They got a little out of him. The Saxons know Arthur's marching to build an army, and they're doing their best to deny him of as many men as they can."

"By killing them all off." Bors grunted, "But Saxons aren't that smart, they've always depended on battle, violence..."

"Apparently, they've got themselves a new chieftain..."

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Author's Notes: bumbumBUUUM!

ahem yes, hello =)

Things are starting to happen, yes indeed, my evil plan is unfolding bwaahaahaaa

Not much to say...OOOH!

I stumbled upon this gorgeous painting by an artist I find myself very much admiring, and hmm, what DOES it remind me of? I shall try to put the link in my author bio, but in case that doesn't work, open up google, click on image search, and type in 'Mudracard' ;-)

Thank you thank you thank you for all of the reviews, you're wonderful, more to come, so never fear!