Fic bit
This was written for Patty on my King Arthur Fan Fiction yahoo group. She wanted to know what I thought about the scene the night before the ice battle, and why Arthur picked a place to sleep so far away from the others.
~
The men huddled together, presumably to share proximity and body heat.
Arthur stood and watched until they were settled, and when Bors lifted his bulk and flopped onto the rough bark of a fallen tree, the Roman turned and made his way to check on the others.
He could feel a set of dark eyes on his back, but he ignored the stare - it was not a new thing - and continued on the few feet to where Fulcinia, ever the quiet, proper wife, was preparing the cart for bed. He smiled at her; she seemed kind and astute (unlike her husband, but Arthur would not waste a second thinking about that ridiculous excuse for a countryman) and he thanked her softly for her help. She nodded her head as she bundled a few things together and stepped up through the opening in the curtain that hung over the wooden conveyance.
Arthur waited for a moment, unsure of his position or what was appropriate, but the young Woad girl came out to him before he could worry about propriety.
"Arthur," she greeted him, with an even tone and no sense of his title or rank. He licked his dry lips; she was oddly refreshing, and he tilted his head at her. She wore his red cloak wrapped about her small frame like a crimson wall, and Arthur noted it even covered her toes. He wondered if she'd found some better clothing, but she stepped down off the cart and into his personal space.
"Guinevere," he answered. "Have you what you need for the night?"
She smiled, and he wasn't sure if it was pretty or frightening. "I want for nothing now. The only desire I have is to see my people avenged and Rome gone...but you know that. And we cannot accomplish that tonight," she laughed, a tinkling sound that had Arthur slowly reaching for the butt of Excalibur. Her absolute conviction was scarier than any enemy Arthur had ever faced on the field; he had a feeling she knew it very well.
He could still smell the dungeons on her, and when he reached out an unconscious hand and fingered at her dirty hair, it was lank and greasy. She did not pull away, but her eyes drifted from his gaze, and watched something a few points behind his shoulder. He could hear his men laughing and talking, and without turning he knew whom Guinevere was watching.
"You will find him less than welcoming," he said and dropped the piece of hair. She blinked and raised her face to Arthur, her eyes large and liquid and so like the innocent cunning Lancelot had mastered years ago. Arthur took a step back and swallowed, but hid the nervous movement with a gesture of farewell to his chest.
"I bid you goodnight, then, lady. The trip back to Badon should be made in relative peace tomorrow...I pray," he added sincerely. "Rest assured your friends will be taken care of."
A cock of her head, and Arthur found himself staring into the Woad's shadowed face, the flickering of the campfires masking her expression and intentions. He narrowed his eyes and searched as best he could -
but she was blank and calm, despite the chill of the words that issued forth.
"They will serve a purpose, Arthur, as will we all."
And then she bent over and picked up the edge of the long cloak that was tangled around one of her calves, the slight curving of her lips transforming her into the child of 18 she had to be.
"Goodnight, Guinevere," Arthur said again, and turned back to the woods and the lake that burbled nearby; the sound soft and non-threatening and something Arthur recognized and understood.
He sat at the base of an old, large tree, and folding the grey cloak he'd donned after giving Guinevere the red one, lay his head against the bark and shut his eyes determinedly. The ice that hung from the bare branches and the chill wind that whipped at his armor clad body made him ache and shiver as he tried to rest - but he was thankful for the silence and the normalacy of a night camping in winter.
Opening his eyes after he realized he wouldn't sleep, he watched the water move slowly in the moonlight, and gripped more tightly at Excalibur. He was a soldier, a warrior, a God fearing and loyal man. He was Rome. He was not a politician nor a man who wanted to do things that were unusual or might mean the cessation of what he was used to and did rather well. He wanted to sleep, and get up in the morning, take these people to the safety of Badon, and see his men freed. He had fought for that goal for too long and was absolutely bound and determined that something, for the love of God, would work out for him and his knights. The only thing that mattered.
He did not want to worry about what this slip of a Woad girl whom he'd rescued might convince - or try to convice - his knights, or perhaps himself - to do. He did not want to examine her words, or to think on the possible truth of what she'd said. He did not want to believe he was a son of Britain as well as of Rome.
And Rome was rapidly dying.
He heard boots crunching in the snow, and when Lancelot's slight shadow loomed over him, Arthur turned on his side, closed his eyes, and pretended to sleep. He could hear the other man breathing, could feel his mouth burning to spew anger and confusion at Arthur, could sense the idea Lancelot had - albeit a tiny idea - to sit down next to Arthur and share his body heat.
Arthur knew his lieutenant very well. So well he knew Lancelot would not wait much longer for Arthur to react to his presence.
A moment later and Lancelot turned about and left Arthur to his false rest and his troubled thoughts. He lay his father's sword on the ground in front of him, and crossing his arms, watched the lake until the second set of footfalls and the sight of Guinevere lightly walking deeper into the woods forced his hand and his tortured mind to act.
He sheathed Excalibur and followed her.
~
~
The men huddled together, presumably to share proximity and body heat.
Arthur stood and watched until they were settled, and when Bors lifted his bulk and flopped onto the rough bark of a fallen tree, the Roman turned and made his way to check on the others.
He could feel a set of dark eyes on his back, but he ignored the stare - it was not a new thing - and continued on the few feet to where Fulcinia, ever the quiet, proper wife, was preparing the cart for bed. He smiled at her; she seemed kind and astute (unlike her husband, but Arthur would not waste a second thinking about that ridiculous excuse for a countryman) and he thanked her softly for her help. She nodded her head as she bundled a few things together and stepped up through the opening in the curtain that hung over the wooden conveyance.
Arthur waited for a moment, unsure of his position or what was appropriate, but the young Woad girl came out to him before he could worry about propriety.
"Arthur," she greeted him, with an even tone and no sense of his title or rank. He licked his dry lips; she was oddly refreshing, and he tilted his head at her. She wore his red cloak wrapped about her small frame like a crimson wall, and Arthur noted it even covered her toes. He wondered if she'd found some better clothing, but she stepped down off the cart and into his personal space.
"Guinevere," he answered. "Have you what you need for the night?"
She smiled, and he wasn't sure if it was pretty or frightening. "I want for nothing now. The only desire I have is to see my people avenged and Rome gone...but you know that. And we cannot accomplish that tonight," she laughed, a tinkling sound that had Arthur slowly reaching for the butt of Excalibur. Her absolute conviction was scarier than any enemy Arthur had ever faced on the field; he had a feeling she knew it very well.
He could still smell the dungeons on her, and when he reached out an unconscious hand and fingered at her dirty hair, it was lank and greasy. She did not pull away, but her eyes drifted from his gaze, and watched something a few points behind his shoulder. He could hear his men laughing and talking, and without turning he knew whom Guinevere was watching.
"You will find him less than welcoming," he said and dropped the piece of hair. She blinked and raised her face to Arthur, her eyes large and liquid and so like the innocent cunning Lancelot had mastered years ago. Arthur took a step back and swallowed, but hid the nervous movement with a gesture of farewell to his chest.
"I bid you goodnight, then, lady. The trip back to Badon should be made in relative peace tomorrow...I pray," he added sincerely. "Rest assured your friends will be taken care of."
A cock of her head, and Arthur found himself staring into the Woad's shadowed face, the flickering of the campfires masking her expression and intentions. He narrowed his eyes and searched as best he could -
but she was blank and calm, despite the chill of the words that issued forth.
"They will serve a purpose, Arthur, as will we all."
And then she bent over and picked up the edge of the long cloak that was tangled around one of her calves, the slight curving of her lips transforming her into the child of 18 she had to be.
"Goodnight, Guinevere," Arthur said again, and turned back to the woods and the lake that burbled nearby; the sound soft and non-threatening and something Arthur recognized and understood.
He sat at the base of an old, large tree, and folding the grey cloak he'd donned after giving Guinevere the red one, lay his head against the bark and shut his eyes determinedly. The ice that hung from the bare branches and the chill wind that whipped at his armor clad body made him ache and shiver as he tried to rest - but he was thankful for the silence and the normalacy of a night camping in winter.
Opening his eyes after he realized he wouldn't sleep, he watched the water move slowly in the moonlight, and gripped more tightly at Excalibur. He was a soldier, a warrior, a God fearing and loyal man. He was Rome. He was not a politician nor a man who wanted to do things that were unusual or might mean the cessation of what he was used to and did rather well. He wanted to sleep, and get up in the morning, take these people to the safety of Badon, and see his men freed. He had fought for that goal for too long and was absolutely bound and determined that something, for the love of God, would work out for him and his knights. The only thing that mattered.
He did not want to worry about what this slip of a Woad girl whom he'd rescued might convince - or try to convice - his knights, or perhaps himself - to do. He did not want to examine her words, or to think on the possible truth of what she'd said. He did not want to believe he was a son of Britain as well as of Rome.
And Rome was rapidly dying.
He heard boots crunching in the snow, and when Lancelot's slight shadow loomed over him, Arthur turned on his side, closed his eyes, and pretended to sleep. He could hear the other man breathing, could feel his mouth burning to spew anger and confusion at Arthur, could sense the idea Lancelot had - albeit a tiny idea - to sit down next to Arthur and share his body heat.
Arthur knew his lieutenant very well. So well he knew Lancelot would not wait much longer for Arthur to react to his presence.
A moment later and Lancelot turned about and left Arthur to his false rest and his troubled thoughts. He lay his father's sword on the ground in front of him, and crossing his arms, watched the lake until the second set of footfalls and the sight of Guinevere lightly walking deeper into the woods forced his hand and his tortured mind to act.
He sheathed Excalibur and followed her.
~