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Tristan ground his teeth together when he landed on the hard floor. His arm exploded with new pain.

Guinevere was at his side instantly. The door to wherever they were now shut heavily. Tristan noted they were being held somewhere different this time.

"Was this part of your plan?" Guinevere said, half teasing but he could hear the worry in her voice.

"Not my arm being broken," Tristan admitted. His mind was rushing with what to do next, how to adapt. He was tempted to analyze how things went so wrong, but it was pointless. He knew the risks.

Her fingers gently lifted his sleeve up over his right arm. He saw her eyes widen, probably able to see the effects of the break.

"There is nothing here to use to help it," she said. She was not a healer, neither was he, but they both knew the arm would have to wait. There was a sliver of fear within him about the arm healing completely. It was his sword arm.

He pulled the sleeve down.

Guinevere sat back.

She would not look him in the eye. Nor did she broach a new topic. What did they really have to speak of, now that their hopes were so destroyed? She would not voice it, but Tristan could not let it go.

"You didn't have to give into his demands," he said, his voice as quiet and calm as he could muster with the throbbing arm.

"It's done."

Tristan made himself sit up and shifted back until he leaned against a wall.

Guinevere circled the small chamber. A barred window drew her attention, and she peered out it.

"You know what he will do," he said, not giving up the subject.

"There is still hope. Gawain will come with an army," she said.

"Yes, but Falerin is ready. And he'll use you to keep Gawain from attacking." He remembered his words to Gawain, the promise he made Gawain make to rescue Guinevere if he failed.

"Gawain will do what is best for the kingdom," she said.

Tristan gritted his teeth. "You are best for the kingdom."

The sounds from the town below filled the space between them. He locked eyes with her, hoping his intensity would get her to see reason.

"Falerin will keep using me against you," he said. "And you cannot let him. You are the queen, and—"

"I cannot let him hurt you either," she said.

"That doesn't matter—"

"Really? Do you actually believe it doesn't matter to me?"

"You have to look past that."

Guinevere glared at him.

"Would you ask me to do this if Arthur were in your place?"

Tristan felt his breath hitch.

"That is different. He is the king—"

"No." Her voice broke, but she hastily cleared her throat. "It's not different, Tristan."

"I'm not the king," he said.

Guinevere shook her head. "But I love you. And I cannot lose you."

Tristan wanted to break the gaze she had on him, wanted to look away. Cut off the emotion, and perhaps she could do what she had to. But he couldn't deny he felt that love from her, and for her.

She started to pace at his silence.

"If only you hadn't come on your own," she said. "Or at all."

"I would always come."

She scoffed. "I don't doubt it. Your duty is unfailing." He picked up on the resentment in her tone immediately.

"It was not duty that made me follow."

Guinevere stopped pacing. Her eyes searched for his meaning. He thought it was clear, but perhaps she doubted him. Words like this were not his strong suit.

He leaned forward to his knees and stood steadily. With one step he neared Guinevere, and with his good arm, he took her hand in his. Her hands were scraped and rougher than they should have been. He pulled her closer and moved his hand to her face. Her eyes shut briefly at his touch.

He kissed her, gently, softly. She kissed him back, and all arguments fell away. He felt warmth spread through him, though the cold despair still surrounded. He felt her fingertips graze his neck till her hand rested on his chest.

He pulled back, searching her eyes, and making sure she knew: He loved her too.

She smiled, just a slight expression, but he knew she understood.

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Gawain pulled sharply up on the reins of his horse, coming to a skidding stop next to the scout.

"Report," he ordered, and he knew he sounded cross. Each hour that passed had only made him more anxious, and therefore less agreeable. Normally, Galahad would counterbalance his ill humor, but the younger knight was just as cross as he was.

He cursed Tristan's decision to leave alone as his scout reported obvious guards and soldiers within the town.

As his scout continued on about weapons and an obvious defensive front ahead, Gawain cursed the Saxons—no, Falerin—for taking Arthur's life in the first place, putting them all in this situation now.

He turned and rode back to the main body of the forces he led. The soldiers stilled and quieted as he spoke.

"Falerin means to take away the freedom we waited for from the Romans. The freedom we fought and died for with the Saxons. And the freedom King Arthur stood for, even when the Saxons tried to take the kingdom. That freedom lies with Guinevere, our queen. We will get her back."

The soldiers cheered. He drew his sword and nodded to two leaders.

"Take the right flank," he said to one, and pointing to the other, "and you the left. Wait for my charge."

He pulled Galahad aside. "You and I will find Guinevere."

Galahad nodded.

"At all costs, rescue the Queen," Gawain said.

He did not mention Tristan. He didn't have to. They knew what Tristan meant, the brother that he was. He hoped they would find him alive. But he knew his orders—orders from Tristan even.

Rescue the Queen.

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"Your leaderless army has come for you," Falerin said. The smug tone was palpable. "They are readying to attack."

"Did you expect the people to stand idly by while you try to steal their freedom?" Guinevere asked. She stood stalwart in front of Falerin, though she had to admit she was grateful for the door that kept him away for now.

She heard Tristan stand behind her.

"Let her go," Tristan tried to reason. "Do it now before there is no going back."

Falerin laughed. "There is no going back. Your queen promised to marry me, remember?" Guinevere felt a chill go through her. "All to save you."

He smirked.

"It's better this way, don't you agree? If I killed you, I would have no leverage over her. And she would do something foolish and eventually I would have to kill her." Guinevere glared at him. The casualness with which he spoke of killing her and Tristan, and of usurping the throne, made the anger within her rise.

"The people would rise up as soon as I drew my last breath," Guinevere said.

Falerin shook his head.

"No. Everyone's true character would show freely. Each man would scramble to put in power the leader they wanted. Think of your counselor, Valden. Wouldn't he quickly scheme to fill the throne?"

Guinevere couldn't refute that.

"And with all the people fighting over who they want on the throne, they will be easy to conquer," he said with a grin. "Of course, that's only what will happen if you die."

"The day is young," Guinevere said.

"Yes." Falerin signaled to a guard, who opened the cell. "And I intend to have a wedding by the end of it."

Guinevere's breath stuck in her chest.

"Today?"

Tristan bristled behind her, enough that the guard drew his sword.

Falerin grinned. He held his hand out to her.

"You'll marry me in front of your army. You'll denounce any attack as an attack on you."

Guinevere spoke without thought:

"Never."

Falerin nodded to the guard, who wasted no time in slicing the tip of his sword through Tristan's side.

Tristan twisted away and went down on one knee, but Guinevere saw the blood. She knew it was a minor wound—a warning—but that did not stop her from going to his side.

"Then Tristan's outlived his purpose," she heard Falerin say.

Tristan caught her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. He shook his head, as if to argue with her—

Guinevere stood up. "Where will we wed?"

-0-0-0-0-

Gawain halted the charge just as they were within reach of the town. He slid from his saddle. His horse was jittery, sensing the battle just moments from erupting. But Gawain had to be still to make sure he was seeing what he thought he saw.

High up on the balcony of Falerin's fortress stood Falerin himself. Beside him was Guinevere. And there was no mistaking Tristan, even from this distance.

The army around him looked to one another, and to Gawain, but he could not tear his eyes from the scene before him.

Falerin shouted down to them.

"Welcome! You've arrived just in time for the wedding!"

Gawain drew his sword, ready to charge through the walls before them.

"Guinevere, Queen of Britain, has agreed to make me her king," Falerin continued. "You will stand down, or be branded traitors."

Gawain huffed. Did the man really believe they did not see through the lie?

He focused on Tristan. He looked hurt, but still ready to tear Falerin's head from his body. Guinevere, on the other hand, looked lost.

He's using Tristan against her.

Gawain cleared his throat.

"We would be traitors if we allow the murderer of King Arthur to live another day!"

The army around him roared in agreement.

Falerin seemed unfazed.

"You will not obey me. Then obey your queen." He gestured to her.

Gawain's heart dropped as she stepped forward. Somehow, she seemed like she was looking for courage, and he could not help but think it was courage to bear bad news to him. His eyes went to Tristan again. Would his Sarmatian brother allow this to happen?

Guinevere began to speak.

"We have come so far to have our freedom. We have lost too many people to senseless bloodshed. The Romans, the Woads, the Sarmatians, the Saxons. Will we ever know peace, if we keep fighting?"

Gawain did not like where this was going.

"Lord Falerin has asked for my hand. And though he is responsible for the death of Arthur, I can see it will mean less bloodshed now, if you do not attack."

Gawain's gut clenched. He could see Tristan's head bow, whether in pain or defeat, he did not know which.

"As your queen, I command you now. Stand tall. This is not defeat. It is not defeat if a king dies. It is not defeat if a queen dies. It is only defeat if you do nothing to stop it."

Falerin's head snapped sharply in Guinevere's direction. He grabbed her by the arm sharply, and that's when Gawain saw Tristan attack the guard nearest him.

He lost not one moment before he yelled for the army to charge.

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With a swift kick, Tristan managed to send a guard over the balcony. He slammed the left side of his body into another guard and ducked as someone swung a blade at his neck. Someone hit him in the back, and he stumbled forward.

He saw Falerin grab and drag Guinevere away. He didn't know where he was trying to take her, but Guinevere was putting up quite a fight. He noted briefly that she got free of Falerin's grasp enough to reach for a knife on a guard's belt.

Good.

Someone seized him from behind. Tristan yelped at the arms crushing his broken one, but he fought back. He leaned all his weight backwards, throwing his captor off balance. He jabbed his good elbow into the man's stomach, and rolled away.

Again on his feet, he looked for Guinevere. He saw Falerin rushing off, and Guinevere follow.

"Guinevere, wait!" he called out, but she did not stop.

Tristan dodged another attack easily and ran after the queen.

He kept catching glimpses of Guinevere as he followed, slowed down here and there by oncoming enemy soldiers. He started to recognize where he was when a soldier screamed and charged him.

Tristan had no choice but to fight him. He punched the man in the gut, a weak hit given it was his left arm. Even swinging that arm made his broken arm twinge in pain. The hit didn't even slow down the soldier. He drew a knife and sliced at Tristan. Tristan spun away. The man's eyes flickered to the broken arm, and he attacked that side.

Tristan leapt back. He hesitated; fighting with his arms wasn't working well. The soldier came at him again, and Tristan kicked at the man's hand. His boot connected with the knife too, and it went sliding away on the floor. Tristan spun around and planted his boot solidly into the man's chest. The soldier fell to the ground.

Before he could get back up, Tristan kicked the soldier again, this time in the head. Once, twice, and the third time rendered the man to a black abyss.

Tristan checked his surroundings. This was the same area he and Guinevere came to when they tried to escape. Thinking about where he'd last seen Guinevere go, he knew where she was now.

Falerin had tried to get to his chambers, probably to try to run. Tristan knew the fight within Guinevere would make her follow. She was capable in any fight; but he worried for her. The thirst for revenge—for Arthur, their kingdom, herself—could unbalance skill if not kept in check.

As he approached Falerin's chambers, he heard her cry out.

Tristan charged in. Falerin and Guinevere fought, the former with a sword, and the queen with whatever she could get her hands on. She held an iron fire poker and swatted away Falerin's attacks. She thrusted the iron forward and managed to stab Falerin in the thigh.

Tristan looked around for a weapon of chance. On the desk was a small ornamental knife on a stand, a heavy stone of sorts, a chair—

Guinevere grunted as she fell to the ground. The iron fire poker clattered across the floor. She scrambled after it, but Falerin drew back to stab her.

Tristan settled for the closest item to him: the chair.

He flung it at Falerin and the chair hit him squarely. Falerin fell. Tristan grabbed the small knife next and turned back.

"You're not much help injured," Falerin taunted. "Do you think you'll still be alive when I kill her?"

Guinevere gasped. Tristan glanced her way and saw blood.

"Let's see who kills who," Tristan said. He risked a glance to Guinevere again. She was at her weapon, but she had one hand pressed against her side. He did not like the looks of the blood staining her clothes.

Falerin lunged forward, and Tristan barely had enough room to miss being run through. Falerin was quick to attack again, and Tristan ducked under the swing. He popped up and slammed the ornamental knife into Falerin's arm. The blade wasn't longer than his middle finger, but apparently it hurt enough. Falerin yelped and shrank away.

Tristan grinned too soon. Falerin, though wounded, was still able enough to lash out with the sword. The tip grazed Tristan's face.

He felt blood spill from his cheek bone.

Falerin grinned. "That marking on your face will have a scar covering it. Let's see if I can give you a matching scar on the other cheek."

Falerin lunged again. Tristan kicked at the blade, driving it upwards even though Falerin continued forward. The man collided against Tristan, pushing Tristan into the hard edge of the desk. The sword was between them, but Tristan could barely focus on it when Falerin's weight was on his right arm. He clenched his teeth together through the pain. Using his left arm as much as he could, he pushed back. But his crippled force was not a match for Falerin's weight.

His eyes flickered to Guinevere. She was on her feet, shaky, but the fire poker in hand.

Tristan garnered all the strength he could and pressed his hand into Falerin's throat. He heard the man gag, and felt the struggle subside just enough that Tristan struck Falerin in the face.

Falerin stumbled back, and Tristan kicked the man away.

Behind Falerin stood Guinevere, the dull but deadly poker in hand still. Falerin never saw her. As he fell back, Guinevere had only to brace herself for his fall. The force of his weight impaled his body on the poker.

Falerin wheezed. His eyes were wide, staring at the ceiling as he tried in vain to reach for the poker sticking out of his back.

Tristan, cradling his arm, stood and circled the man.

Guinevere faced the enemy. Tristan thought she might finish the job with the sword, or rebuke him as he died. But she just stood there, watching. The fire in her eyes stayed strong though, until Falerin stilled.

She finally looked away and at Tristan.

"You look like you need a healer," she said. Tristan shot her a warning look. He grabbed a cloth lying on a trunk and went to her side.

"Let me see," he urged her. She lifted her hand from the wound. It was deeper than he liked. He pressed the cloth against her side.

She hissed.

"Sorry," he said. He moved her hand back to hold the cloth in place.

"We need to find Gawain," Guinevere said. "And that healer for—"

He raised his hand to her face. She quieted, and he saw her features soften. Gently, he cupped her face, and placed a kiss on her forehead. She sighed contently. He leaned forward and let his forehead rest against hers.

-0-0-0-0

The town Falerin ran was quick to come out and denounce any loyalty to him. The people claimed he was a harsh lord, who ruled with fear. It was not hard to believe. But Tristan was not satisfied with that. He pointed Gawain and Galahad to Falerin's chambers.

In searching through there himself, Gawain found correspondence with the Saxons. That was not a surprise. However, he did find letters to men within the kingdom. Thankfully, none were too close to the queen, but it was disheartening.

It did provide a quick target list for confrontation. Most traitors were repentant. Tristan, however, was not so forgiving. Of the traitors who were unveiled, Tristan urged that six be executed. Guinevere agreed and ordered so on four of them.

Gawain stood on Hadrian's Wall, overlooking his home.

The guards had been whipped into shape by Galahad. Gawain was surprised at how quickly that had happened, but it was complimentary of the younger knight's skills.

The sense of fear was gone now. The general mood of the people here was one of moving on. Yes, they had been attacked. Yes, Arthur was gone. But there was a future.

The wedding was due to happen tomorrow. Gawain and Galahad delighted in teasing Tristan, mainly to lighten their moods considering all they had been through in the last few months. But there was a certain joy to be found in getting Tristan annoyed.

Gawain suspected though that the annoyance was a show. Despite all their rubs at becoming the king, being fat and lazy, or whatever else they could think up, Gawain knew Tristan was very nearly happy. For all the trials behind them, they only served to strengthen the bond between Tristan and Guinevere.

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Tristan fumbled with his shirt. His right arm was not healed yet, and probably would not be for several weeks. He was ready to have two hands again. The simplest tasks were frustratingly elusive now.

"Let me help," Guinevere said, coming from behind him. She tied off part of the shirt and smoothed the cloth so it rested naturally over his shoulders. Tristan risked looking down at the shirt. The material was quite fine, part of several things made for him to be more suitable as a king.

He felt a bit foolish to have clothes so tailored, like he was a bride with a trousseau.

"I don't need the finery," he mumbled.

"It's just a shirt," she chided him. "And the last thing the kingdom wants is a king who is forgettable. Wear your usual shirts, and no one will remember you're king."

"There are better uses for people's time and money than this."

Guinevere smiled. "Spoken like a true man. You look handsome."

He considered that permission to change back to his familiar garb. She helped him pull the sleeve over his injured arm.

"Does it hurt much still?" she asked.

Tristan normally would have said nothing about any injury, but the quietness in Guinevere's tone made him reconsider. She was not a fellow soldier or knight to intimidate or impress with silence. Her concern meant something to him.

"Yes."

"The healer will want to know," she said.

"It will get better."

"Promise to go see him." Not even married yet, and she was already nagging him. Tristan nodded, and she let it drop.

He watched her move around the outer room of her chambers, straightening things and setting aside his newly tailored clothes. There were items of hers that she had moved, and the void left was obviously for him. It puzzled him at how things would change tomorrow. Somehow, the maids would unpack his one trunk of personal possessions and spread them about the room.

Tomorrow, this room would be his as well.

"I visited Arthur today," Guinevere said, breaking him of his thoughts. "I noticed you'd already been there."

He nodded.

"I figured I'd ask for his permission," he said. She smiled.

"He always approved of you."

"Not to replace him," Tristan said.

Guinevere shook her head. "No. But to succeed him."

Tristan looked at her curiously.

"His own mortality was something he left in God's hands," she said. "I thought that kept him from planning ahead. Except he did plan ahead. He asked you to take care of me."

Tristan knew he could dredge up doubts about Arthur approving of their coming marriage, and whether this was betrayal or not—they had debated it before, but for some time now, the issue did not bother him. Tristan, for once, was at peace.

She came up behind him again, and he turned just in time to take her hand in his.

"I always will take care of you."

She stopped, glancing at their joined hands. Tristan pulled her to him. The warmth of her against him was something he cherished already.

"Not because of duty or because it was what Arthur wanted," he added. "It's what I want."

Guinevere smiled. "And I."

She kissed him softly on the scar over his cheek, where he'd been cut. He closed his eyes at the feel of her lips. He felt her kiss him beneath that scar, and towards his mouth. He captured her mouth and kissed her fervently.

Tomorrow, they would marry each other. Tomorrow, they would continue their journey together. And while it had been a rocky one at first, Tristan couldn't shake the hope he felt for their future.

Together.

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a/n: thanks for the reviews, and for enduring these long delays. Most likely, this will be my last story for some time. I probably could have made this much better if I had more focus on it, but it wasn't to be this time around. Even so, I hope you enjoyed it!