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heart set in stone series | chapter 12 | pence | King Arthur fanfic

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Pairing: King Arthur X F!Reader Summary: Arthur travels with the herbalist back to her hometown. The road they journey to her former home and into her past is dangerous. Rating: M. All my blogs and works are 18+ regardless of rating. Minors please do not interact. Ageless and blank blogs will be blocked. Series Warnings: please see this link of the updated series masterlist before proceeding to read. In general a “Author Chooses not to use warnings” stands. I chose to warn for chapter but not all warnings may be included. Please take care of yourself and your reading experience. Chapter Warnings: Swearing, Angst, Horses, Food, Cemetery, Canon compliant, Canon era, canon compliant discussion of sex work in the medieval times including crude language and mild mentions of necrophilia (the research I did on this was interesting, I wanted to include a character that is adjacent but slightly removed compared to Arthur’s experiences of working in a brothel), canon compliant sexual situations, allusions to sex work, Brothels, Travelling, whilst sleep deprived, on horseback, don't steer a horse while sleep deprived, some identity reveal!, canon compliant violence and descriptions of war and its impact, mixed POV, Princess POV (sort of)- so villain shit is happening including Murder, Child Murder (not explicit however it's the moments directly leading up to it which is a sacrificial drowning), Despair, Grief, Fear, Threat, Fake Married, Protective!Arthur, ehhehehe, canon compliant danger on the road, which is a guard's garrison, Kissing !!!!!! Words: 15k A/N: I’m sorry this has taken me so long to update ;__; in the last year I’ve had some serious health issues, and I could barely do my house chores, let alone use my brain for creative pursuits. This story still sits solidly in my heart. And I’m excited for what’s to come. There will be only one bed trope, only one bed roll trope, ONLY ONE BATH TUB. Because we deserve that *huffs* This chapter starts dark. I wanted to give us all a really good reason to hate and fear the Princess, aside from the previous chapters and how she treated Arthur. I want to show her powers, her callousness, and the real threat she presents, despite her current distance from Arthur. I hope it's not too dark, or at least that the remaining of the chapter makes up for it. If you'd wish to avoid the Princess's dark doings- skip to this: "********" symbol and know that she's ordered the sacrifice of a child traveler as she returns to her kingdom, and that it has to do with water crossings and bridges, and that she's able to weave magic into her orders so that all must follow her words... almost like a siren song....

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The point of my sword drags through the sludgy dirt as I veer toward the edge of the road. The tip of the weapon jumps over thick clumps of bright clover and wildflowers. Despite the sun now warming my shoulders, both the leafy sedge that borders the road and my tunic are still damp from the rain we woke up to this morning. My worn boots are stained with mud. The guard that follows behind me grumbles when my sword kicks up clag onto his shiny greaves.

The uncomfortable dampness clings to my skin. It looks shinier and more bearable on the clover’s small leaves. I pretend I’m a knight who has just waded through a river, my valiant horse in tow. I imagine it’s the black steed, the horse whose harried huffs and whinnies carry back from where it draws the carriage ahead of me. The sound of the animal reaches to where I take up my post at the rear of the caravan. My irritated companion follows me as I carve ambling lines into the squelching earth.

Up ahead where the budding trees span over the rain-sodden path we journey, a fancy carriage rolls along. But that’s not what catches my attention. I can see Mama is treading in its opulent wake. In her faded aprons, the hem of her skirt is caked with mud where it’s not shredded. Her form curls around herself, as though she wishes to fade into the shadow of the fancy stagecoach. It’s as if she awaits my protection.

A heavier, wider sword appears amongst the clovers as I skip. I bend to collect it.

The heavy footsteps of the guard behind me stutter. Rocks kick up around my boots.

“Make haste, boy,” the guard growls.

Mama’s head snaps to me. She watches as I lift my newly acquired sword to the grumpy goose behind me.

Later, when we stop to rest, I will make sure to beg him for his smallest knife so that I may carve symbols into the blade.

The guard frowns deeply as the tip of my weapon centers on his nose.

A shiny metal fist curls around my sword, and steadies it in warning.

I tug at the pommel of my weapon. Bark scrapes against my palm.

Within his fist, my blade bends.

The twig snaps.

My deepening glare is reflected within the impatient mountain of armor that towers over me.

Mama calls my name. She beckons me to her. I turn and dart in Mama’s direction.

She collects me to her side, her fingers gathering in my worn shirt, and her voice falls out of her lips. I hate when Mama speaks to me like this. A shiver works its way up my spine like a serpent through the grass as I stare at the carriage wheel as it totters over stones and ruts because when Mama speaks like this it unsettles me. I shudder like my skin will shed. She’s like one of Ol’ Petyr’s puppets except she’s Ol’ Petyr. Thin, wrinkled mouth unmoving and slightly open while his little people speak and screech and sing. My friends used to be scared of his stories- but Ol’ Petyr and his strange non voice was scarier.

“Do not upset them,” Mama says without saying. A whisper of her usual voice. An edge to it that makes my gut twist and sour.

My fist tightens around my remaining sword.

When we first joined this band, Mama had been giddy with relief- her voice a song of appreciation that we’d found safe passage to the next city. But in a span of suns, Mama has been parsing her feelings. Whittling them down to wan smiles that don’t meet her sharp eyes. And then she began portioning our rations.

Whenever the guard hands her a chunk of bread, she breaks off a few pieces for me to eat, then shoves the rest into her pack. Despite the hunger clawing in my belly, I know better than to ask for more.

Mama’s behaved like this before. When we left my father during the war.

Mama is scared.

Soon, we will take our leave, and so I make a plan of my own.

The guard in our wake sighs tightly, his brows forever furrowed beneath his helmet. That frown etched into his features so he’s carved of an eternal anguish. I’m not sure why he and the other guards carry such heaviness when their position is one of honor and esteem.

They protect a princess! A real princess! Although I’ve never seen her- she never leaves the confines of the carriage except for one blackened hand that passes parchment to the guards- she has extended her escort to us. Including two handfuls of guards- dark armor glinting beneath the sun and outfitted with a staggering amount of weapons.

I stare at the sword that swings at the grumpy guard’s hip. Tonight, when everyone is asleep- I will steal it. Along with a water skin, and the coin pouch from the guard that reeks of fermented wine every time he returns from the woods to piss. That one always dozes through his watch.

Then, I will wake Mama and we will disappear into the forest.

Mama will know which way to go.

I tilt my head- and find Mama’s gaze scouring the road like she’s searching for a route of escape out of habit.

Shoving my sword into the knotted rope of my belt- I twine my fingers into my mother’s trembling ones and offer her a small smile when her face bends to mine.

“It will be alright, Mama,” I tell her, and her lips twitch. The lines of her eyes- widened as though it’s her natural state despite the way I know they crinkle when she laughs, and softens when she sleeps- become watery.

Her hand tightens around mine as we approach a bridge.

The water roars beneath it and my boots come to a halt before the carriage even slows.

It’s only been a few spans since we’ve joined this party, but Mama and I know the pattern this group follows.

Every passage over water- we must halt.

We must wait while the lead guard- a flame bearded mountain of a man- approaches the carriage door and confers quietly with the princess.

Sometimes it takes hours. We rest in the shade- or out of the rain- and sometimes the princess’s voice lifts more than a whisper. A song of fury and irritation bleeding into the patter of the rain that always seems to start whenever we come to these watery crossroads.

The lead guard will stiffen where he stands- and he’ll cast a worried glance at his men- before it darts to Mama and I and then it’s hastily cast to the dirt where it remains for a long, heavy moment. At first, Mama tried to converse with the guards to pass the time. But they didn’t share in our tales of travel or hopes of what life we would find in the new city- their faces set in grim or harried expressions as they waited upon their leader’s word. As though they hoped for it and loathed it all the same.

“Onwards,” he’d order after an eternity. The word husking out of his frame with some measure of relief rattling through it. The order dissipating through the ranks like smoke. Harsh at first, like they all expect otherwise, before the carriage totters forward and they all release the breath they'd been holding. Despite the warm spring air, the lead guard shakes under the weight of whatever silent burden he bears, like the next gust of wind might reduce him to dust. Like he aches for that fate instead of the one he meets when he turns, stiffly, and takes up his post at the side of the carriage. Like there's a chain around his boot, as though he cannot stray a step further from the distance that the Princess's voice may reach him.

Once, Mama had tried to cross before his permission.

The other guards had blocked her path with their spears and fierce expressions staying her steps.

Despite the lack of shackles and chains, I got the impression that we might be prisoners.

They’d invited us to their party. Promising Mama food and safe travel when they’d come across us upon the road.

So we couldn’t be- even though Mama’s posture had shifted from that moment forward.

Her steps stiff, her eyes wary. Her smile offered tightly, her voice falling to meet my ears with a fearful quality she attempted to mask behind soothing pets of my crown.

Maybe we were like Ol’ Petyr’s puppets. Invisible strings around our wrists and ankles. Our necks. I shivered. Mama clasped me to her tighter. Her movements are stilted with her fear. It's like when Ol' Petyr's characters embrace- awkward and separated by the strings that hold them up. Despite his skill, sometimes they get tangled. I imagine Mama collapsing like dead weight and a shiver worms up my spine, and I stand more rigid to meet it.

I won't let Mama fall.

“Onwards,” the lead guard growls from between his clenched teeth.

Over and over.

At a roaring river with the largest bridge I’d ever laid eyes upon spanned wide across its steep banks. A cargo ship rolled beneath our boots. It took ten breaths for it to appear on the other side.

Next, at a trickling stream that only seemed to have appeared after this morning’s rain. It was scarcely a foot bridge- and there’d been debate of whether we’d need to find a different path forwards for the carriage. To our fortune, the bridge had held its weight although it was a worrisome crossing. Even the lead guard held his breath as the wheels wriggled to the edge of the planks.

Then, at a gurgling canal that trickled alongside fields of freshly harvested winter wheat for acres and acres before it meandered beneath the old stone bridge. Only just wide enough for the wagon to pass with a few grunted shoves of the guards when one of the wheels wedged against the stone wall.

It’s late in the day. My feet are sore and Mama limps as though a fever spot has developed on her ever swollen foot. Usually we’d have made camp by now, but there’s a haste in the guard’s steps. An urgency as though we are approaching something important. Like the end of our journey is in sight. Despite this, the guards do not look on in relieved anticipation. Instead, the crease between their brows has been carved deeper.

Their shiny crowned heads cast to where they trudge over the road- as though they damn every foot fall. At the crest of the next hill, I think I spy trails of smoke in the distance. We approach a city, despite the lack of hovels in its surroundings. Only the odd farm. A few spare travelers. Of the few that dare to lift their heads, they cast us fearful looks when they pass. The whites of the eyes like silent warnings. Like they know something we should too.

Mama’s head swivels more and more. Every slight parting in the thick tree line draws her focus- as though she wishes to flee into the dense forest.

A building overhangs the road way in the distance. Like a beacon. A lantern in the dark. Bobbing through the dark forest, beckoning safety. Somewhere solid to take a rest and recover.

I point at it with my sword.

“Mama! A tavern!” I remark brightly, hoping to improve her fearful mood- but Mama bites her chapped lip. Her trembling hands petting over my crown like a habit and I think it’s meant to soothe her more than I.

“Will we rest here for the night?” Mama asks the rear guard but he doesn’t reply. Silence expands between us like a threat. Mama’s eyes flick between the guard, the caravan and the remaining escort as though she’s tallying up our odds of escape. The distance between us and the rest and the safety of the tavern or the forest beyond it. There’s a wildness in her eyes, that solidifies when it lands on me, and makes me wish that I’d formed my plan sooner than this afternoon. Yesternoon would have been ideal, if only to spare the frightened look of Mama now. In the deep of the woods, we’d be alone and afraid as well- but something in her fear tells me we’d be better off against wolves than whatever would prey upon us further up the road.

Plodding past us, the rear guard barely lifts his head at the crowd of tavern goers that hang beneath the second level of the inn. The stone faced outcropping is aburst with noise and scents. Slurred speech and too loud laughter that teeters into heavy, muttered silence as the carriage rolls past. The thick scent of oily stew and the sour smell of bubbling ale on the night air fills me with distraction and longing. A fuzzy sort of hope rising in my chest and bursting as soon as it arrives. The barkeep regards us with wide, fearful eyes when we pause. Her maternal gaze locks with Mama’s for a blink before the mug she sets down clatters onto the table and the patron grumbles at the spilled ale.

Mama’s footsteps falter. A heavy hand clamps onto my shoulder as the guard shoves me forwards without a word.

He stares resolutely ahead- metal squeaking when I attempt to jerk away from his hold.

“Onwards,” he says but it’s hollow. Like there's a void inside of him, and it will swallow all in its path. The eyes beneath the shadow of his helm are empty. My sword clatters against his chest plate and my mother’s quiet weeping echoes in our wake.

“Please-,” she begs, her voice thin, “Let him go,” her boots scraping across the ground to follow us as though she struggles to maintain upright. Her pleas smack off the armor and steel of the guard’s set jaw. He ignores her. Pushing me forwards as the carriage continues on past the potential safe haven of the tavern.

“You have no coin,” the guard says, blunt like a strike from the flat side of his sword and Mama makes a pained noise.

We might have nothing to barter with.

But we have honor. Unlike him.

“And you have no honor,” I shriek, despite the fear toppling through my mind at the fierce grip he maintains on me. He merely shoves me forward, uncaring of my protest. Mama follows, helplessly. Like she's one of Ol' Petyr's puppets, and I'm the cross that connects to her strings.

Some of my words or the accusing quality of them seems to shear something in him. For one moment, his face falls- and the stoic seriousness is lost to an agony so horrifying that even my blood recoils inside me- my gut dropping to my boots.

Fear like a knife in my thoughts, cleaving through whatever imaginary glory I’d bestowed upon this guard and his companions when we’d first met.

They weren’t protecting us or the Princess from outside threats.

They were the threat.

I’m herded closer to the carriage as it approaches another bridge. A grim frown within the lead guard’s flame beard greets me as the wheels stutter to a halt over the stones as my heart slams against my ribs.

Mama’s hands seek for me past the armored guard’s reach but he shoves her away with ease. A shattered sob rips through the air and my own rises to meet it. It's like ice shearing at the edge of a pond to meet the cracks webbing beneath my boot when I place my weight against the next steps that I'm forced to make.

Mama begs for them to release me- her voice verging on a wail while the lead guard’s attention is drawn into the depths of the caravan like a spell lies within. Glazed eyes track sideways from where they’d landed heavily upon me, another shiver shaking through my form at the unnatural way his gaze is pulled from me.

I’m within hearing distance of this conversation for the first time- so is the guard that wrangles me in his painful grip but the way he refuses to look at me speaks to his prior knowing of what will be discussed. Bastard. He’s tricked us into trusting them.

The thick branch in my hand thwacks against his helm for one satisfying thrum of the metal before he wrenches it out of my grip. I screech in dismay before I begin searching for its true, metallic twin at his belt. Before me fingers can secure a knife, they’re snatched into his iron hold.

Over the sound of my desperate scrambling, a feminine voice lifts above the chaos.

The flame bearded guard nods once into the wagon depths before he turns to Mama.

“Come,” a voice like a song beckons from within the carriage. My own fight falters when Mama obeys. Tears stream from her eyes- her chin trembling as she closes the distance with stiff steps as though she does not wish to approach. Her upper body hangs heavily over her legs as she stumbles forward, like when Ol' Petyr forgets to orchestrate the whole of his puppets.

“Please let us go-,” Mama begs- her voice tight in her throat when an ink stained hand appears from the window. Blackened fingers reach to push a sweaty lock of hair from Mama’s face in what would be a tender gesture if the words that accompanied it didn’t strike fear through me like a lance. They leave a stain of shadow on Mama's sweaty skin, the ink woven through Mama’s hair.

“Leave us,” the feminine voice orders and Mama’s mouth snaps shut. As though Ol’ Petyr were coordinating her movements.

Mama turns.

Silent. Horrifyingly still everywhere except her legs as they lift and drop awkwardly. Plodding away from me without even glance back.

I stare- gawking as she strides in the direction we’d only just come. The fall of her boots is forced.

A sharp wail comes from her- a sound like when my younger sister passed last winter- and then another bursts-- louder as the distance between us grows.

“Mama!” I call out, my struggles renewed in my attempts to follow her but the rear guard’s grip only tightens and I cry out as my bones feel crushed in his cruel grip.

Mama does not turn to me.

Mama keeps walking.

“Mama!” I wail, barely louder than the ones that she makes. It isn’t words, the sound she makes. Nonsensical cries, like a wounded animal caught in the jaws of a predator.

The lead guard throws me an agonized look- as though he shares in my distress. But it’s tamped down into a determined, grim expression when the voice titters out from the darkness of the carriage.

There's no Princess in there. I know it now. Like when Ol' Petyr puts a monster in the cave. The shadows shivering with unseen evil disguised as promised treasure.

“We must make haste,” the princess says, and I expect the lead guard to give his usual order.

Onwards.

Instead, the blackened hand makes a dismissive gesture before it retreats back inside.

“You know what must be done,” the princess says and the lead guard nods once but it’s odd. Like he tucks his chin without his own knowing. But there’s pain in his eyes that betrays the awkward gesture.

The rear guard behind me swallows hard. Metal squeaks and shifts as he thrusts me towards the lead guard’s waiting hands. I’m passed over like one of the letters the Princess hands to the messengers. Letter after letter, one for every hour the sun shines, until her fingers are stained with ink.

In the process, I snatch a knife from the flame bearded guard’s belt- his shock rippling over his stony features for a blink as I shove the blade towards the break in his thigh plate and his greave.

Before I can sink it into the flesh that lies between- the voice sings from the carriage. There’s a spell in the sound of it. Woven into her words. They wrap around my thoughts. Like when Ol' Petyr stings up a new puppet, his worn fingers working over the wood and hemp with tight movements as he pulls and tightens the bonds.

“Drop it, boy,” she orders and my fingers twitch unnaturally at her words. Strung together like a lyric of a bard or chord from a lute.

A sickening wave crests through my body as the knife clatters against the stones in the ground. Everything in me had grasped onto the blade with force, with the last fight of desperate hope. But the Princess's words had rendered them useless. Like shears cutting a cord. My intention and my actions severed for her command instead.

I bend to collect the blade, but the guard is quicker. Snatching it from me and I’m hoisted into his arms before I can pivot to flee.

Thrashing, I scream- searching for my mother from this new height as the guard stalks towards the bridge.

Mama is almost out of sight.

Nearly at the bend in the road.

I shriek and shriek as she rigidly strides out of view.

By the time we reach the riverbank, my shouts are crashing into one another as I struggle to breathe past my panic.

The water is silent save for how it laps against the banks.

It’s dark even in the evening light. It's surface unyielding to my quick fearful glances.

Swift and fast and deep.

It splashes as the lead guard takes the first step into its shallows.

“I cannae swim,” I shout, clutching to the guard as he descends into the dark waves- afraid to be rid of him now. The switch from wishing to flee- to latching to him making me hiccup in fear.

The water fills my boots. Soaks up my trousers. It’s cold- near freezing with us being a bare stones throw from winter- and the guard continues to plunge us both into its depths.

“Why?” I scream and it's shrill, like a rabbit caught in a snare. My voice almost unrecognizable to myself, yet terrifyingly and recently familiar, reflected in my mother's sobs as she left me. I shriek the question on repeat, louder and louder, until I'm sure it rattles the guard's armor with the force of it, I can only hope this is to bathe and not some mage ritual that Ol’ Petyr used to puppet.

Of babes and children sacrificed for dark magic.

The guard wrenches my trembling hands from where they clutch at his chest plate- his cold fingers and their cruel grip slipping from the water as he tries to wrangle me from his frame.

Searching for an answer, I find only his empty gaze. A hollowness echoing out of his dark eyes as he gathers my wrists in his hand while the other lifts to my face before he shoves me beneath the surface.

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You never thought anyone else would see where you resided in the King’s forest. Well, at least you never hoped. The terrifying prospect of unwanted attention had hung over your head for years ever since you’d established this little sector of woods as your own. A thick rope dangling ominously in your mind. Afraid the weight of your body would one day pull the slack taught alongside the sickening crack of your breaking neck because a guard patrol would discover your illegal inhabitance.

There would be no trial. You wouldn’t even have a chance to defend yourself before the King. Not that Vortigern would have even listened- and the new King was a mystery better left alone, you surmised despite the rumors that trickled into your ear whenever you visited the city. The townsfolk say the new crowned King was once one of them. That he’d tread in their midst and perhaps, some query, he will be a kinder King because of it. But you weren’t the sort to lay your life into the hands of another and hope for mercy. Not when the option to hide or flee remains instead.

And so even when Vortigern's cruel reign had ended- still you’d been careful. Covering your tracks, not allowing any visitors, minding your steps to ensure you wouldn’t be followed from the city. Even the trees around your home were left purposefully neglected. The brush wasn’t cleared. The paths you chose to and from the city or the plot of elvium were always varied so that you wouldn’t tread upon one solely lest it betray your presence.

The squat hobble of your stone cottage is tucked amidst the foliage- nearly swallowed up by leaves and shrubbery in the summer. In the colder months- the density of the fir canopy above makes it so that hardly any sun shines upon the slightly collapsed roof. Deep in the shadows of the woods, you’ve lived your secret life by your lonesome to your great relief.

It’s odd to bring Arthur here. To have another set of eyes witness the life you’ve dug out for yourself.

Somehow, Arthur’s presence alters your perspective of your familiarity from where you rest at his back. The turn of his head- his voice- all his consideration upon you and your surroundings as you offer directions. Voice strained to be heard above the horse’s breathing as Critter carries you. He’s a good horse. Well behaved and trusting. You’re thankful for your past efforts in keeping the path maintained so that his hoof falls remain sure and safe.

This bit of forest is transformed from the rest. Whatever you could do to help it also helped you in turn. The tree branches above you glitter in the breeze with new leaves. Before their canopies were choked with thick vines. Their bases had been buried beneath rot and their dead fallen siblings. But you’d wrangled this sliver of forest into something healthier.

Cleared out the old, useless or parasitic plants to give the rest room to breathe. It had been hard work. And you had to be careful- not wanting to alert the King’s guards to your presence. Eventually the swath of trees between your cottage and the elvium plot became less wild. Navigation was easier with the small paths you created. Escape would be too if the need ever arose.

The forest provided the bulk of what you needed- gathering wild mushrooms and herbs to supplement what you couldn’t grow easily on your own. Between supporting yourself and your small salves business- you had plenty. Everything within a stone’s throw- or an afternoon stroll. Only ever needing to venture further for the company or patronage of other people- of which you kept your visits brief or professional.

It had been easy to retreat into King Vortigern’s neglected woods like a secret but you never truly felt settled. Everything of immediate need could be gathered up in your arms in a heartbeat and you could flee. The only indication of your presence would overgrow and disappear back into the wild within a few seasons.

Arthur heeds your directions towards your cottage, clicking his tongue for Critter to adopt a trot. The horse follows the command without complaint- and you grasp onto Arthur’s waist a little tighter when the speed picks up. Arthur’s riding style isn’t as fluid as you remember Silas’s being- but Silas had grown up with the animals. Some shade of guilt threatens to darken your thoughts for comparing the two men but then Arthur’s hand envelops over your own for a moment- his arm holding yours to him more securely as though he fears you may fall.

“I’m alright,” you say, sore voice barely heard above Critter’s exertions. It’d been many years since you’d ridden on horseback- many more since you’d ridden double like this- but you’d been around horses for enough years to adopt a riding style that could compliment Arthur’s easily. As novice as he was- apparent in the stiff stuttering of his hips like he nearly resisted the beast he perched upon- you could compensate well enough especially given Critter’s easy disposition.

It takes a surprisingly small amount of time to reach your cottage compared to when you travel by foot. It nearly makes you wish you didn’t have to sell Silas’s horse when you arrived here. But keeping a horse in the King’s forest and trying to remain unnoticed would have likely meant you’d hang and Merlin would have ended up on King Vortigern’s feasting table. So by your lonesome it was. Merlin had gone to a caring new owner, and that’s all you could have hoped for to honor Silas’s legacy and life’s work.

Your late husband had cared for the lord of your village’s horses. A nobleman by birth- Silas was never ingrained to Lord Henry De Vere of Lerbford’s employment. A large stable was maintained on your husband’s land- enough to sell and become a lord of his own if he’d so wanted- but Silas never desired power and coin. A simple man- although also a mage which complicated much under Vortigern’s reign especially towards the end of his young life- Silas only desired his loved ones be well cared for and that included you and the animals in your stable.

Once the slight thatch cottage is before you- Arthur helps you down once more. The strength within him where he holds you causes a swarm of warmth in your gut- and you realize with some giddy sense storming through your thoughts that this was something to look forward to in the coming days. Arthur’s reassuring touch and presence upon you. It feels like a gift and a curse- Silas’s touch a ghost in your memory. Arthur’s real gaze centering you within his charming focus.

Distracting yourself- you pet Critter’s side absently while Arthur quietly admires your home. A worn down cottage sits buried in a large garden. While it’s still soil and only a smattering of newly grown greenery in the barely warm spring air- the trellis’s and willow arches you’ve built speak plainly to the dedication to your craft. You like to believe that once your garden has fully grown into itself in a few months that it covers the blemish that is the weathered cottage well. However, it’s likely that your attention is mostly for flowers and plants and not run down buildings.

Now, with Arthur’s visit- the only other person that had ever been here in all this time- you can’t help but cringe at the condition of your home especially looking upon its spareness in this Spring time. Perhaps you should have spent more time on upkeep the thatching- or repairing the chips in the clay with ashes from your woodstove. But it made such wonderful fertilizer. How could you waste it on something so silly as the walls of the cottage? Drafts be damned.

“Would you like to come inside?” you ask, tethering Critter’s reins to a fencepost that still wiggled slightly ever since you erected it. Hoping that Arthur will agree if only for the sake of removing his attention from the damage outside of your house. Not that he’d said a word- in fact he seemed more engrossed with your garden than anything else.

“Why don’t you grow the elvium here?” Arthur asks, crouched beside a bed of what would soon sprout and become your summer squash. For all appearances it was an empty plot.

“Not enough sun,” you reply and Arthur nods with consideration. The trees overhead kept you well insulated. Cool in the summer, less frozen in the snow come winter time.

When you press upon the door of the little hut- its wood slanted in its unleveled frame so that the top hinge no longer holds its anchoring- the intense scent of herbs greets you. With effort, you lift the door onto a stone that you’ve wedged against the wall so that it remains in place once Arthur follows you inside.

Ducking his head beneath the low ceiling- made further lower with the meadows of herbs in various states of drying that you’ve strung across it- Arthur allows himself a moment to adjust to the dim light while you carefully maneuver through the small space.

It’s one squat room- filled with your life to nearly bursting. It could well be a herbalist’s shop with all the plants and the tools of your trade that you can fit. Every surface available is covered with your work. The scent of drying herbs is intense- nearly reminding Arthur of Doctor Enthiel’s tower and its spilled potions- but somehow your home is far more inviting despite its messy nature.

The sharp cry of metal comes before you stab at the dozing coals in your wood stove. Rousing them back to life with a few spears of your poker until you find the one that glows the strongest. From a tiny shelf above the still warm stove, you grab a pouch of lichen and sap. Depositing the ember gem in its new cozy bed. Before it has a chance to smoke and catch flame, you smother it in the pocket of slightly damp moss. This will become a warm fire with a few targeted long breaths upon a bed of kindling. It would be foolish to travel without given all the rain as of late.

From the corner of your vision as you pack your travel bag with items you’ll need- a travel cloak, a spare apron you use for gardening, a few spools of thread and handful of sealing candles- Arthur remains at the door.

Lifting a hand to stroke the leaves of a bundle of lavender that hangs beside his face- before he brings them to his nose and inhales deeply. That crisp bundle of flowers was hung the summer of your first year here- positioned near the doorway for luck.

Something stirs in your chest to think that Arthur is the first one to admire it besides yourself. His long fingers tracing over the rope and stems where you’d secured it to the wall with a rusty nail you’d found somewhere near the road. For a moment, you're jealous of his height- how easily he wraps the rope around the metal to secure it better when it's taken you an embarrassing amount of time to install.

The gentle King’s guard hasn’t moved from the door. As though he’s hesitant to invade your space more than he feels he has with the plot of elvium. You’d just come from the clearing- after he’d assured you he’d secured care for them in your absence. His friend, Bill Turner, who Arthur had informed you he trusted the man with his life- would mind the elvium after Arthur’s careful instruction. It had shocked you- that Arthur had already determined a solution to the problem you’d been wracking your mind to solve all morning. Who could you trust on such short notice to care for the seedlings in your sudden absence?

Arthur’s enduring thoughtfulness strikes you in the chest even still. Your sore foot now nestled in a new boot- warm and dry and smelling of freshly tanned leather. While shoving your last blanket into your pack, Arthur regards your space.

Serious blue eyes find the bed first- and you’re not sure how to interpret the action. If it were any other man- let alone a King’s guard- it would have made you want to crawl out of your skin. But there’s a familiarity in Arthur’s gaze.

The way his gaze sweeps the room and finds your bed seems like a force of habit. As though he expects to find someone within it. You flounder to think of a reason as to why. Perhaps his housing is communal. Perhaps he must choose a new place to lie every night in the guard’s barracks and he’s hasty to find an empty bed. Perhaps he’s used to sharing his bed- your mind wanders to this point as easily as a leaf floating upon a stream. As quickly as it arrives, you sink into a flood of thoughts to push the ones of Arthur and another away- your own bed and all the ways you’ve imagined him with you staring at you as though a bed could glare.

The threadbare blanket in your hands is thrust into your bag. It’s been cold the last few weeks- all your spare covers have been given to the elvium plot to keep them alive. Shivering in your bed, thoughts of Arthur and his blazing smile in your mind- your hand between your thighs as heat spreads through your body before the cold will shove its way in once more to share your bed as you fall asleep.

Last night at Sigrid’s was the warmest sleep you’ve had in many months. The safest too.

The spare fire poker you keep by your bed is where Arthur’s eyes trail next. Searching for weapons. It’s perhaps another instinctive appraisal for him. Where Arthur’s expression had been unreadable upon your bed- shoved into the corner of the clustered room- furthest from the wood stove for all the plants you’ve crowded around it in order for them to dry faster- Arthur’s mouth draws into a deep frown as he regards your improvised defense tool.

The irony of a King’s guard stood in your doorway- all your nightmares come to life- and yet you feel a surge of protection in the way he regards you next.

“Where did you learn to do this?” Arthur asks, bringing his fingers to the curling leaves of a robust bundle of sage you’ve hung opposite the lavender.

Hammering nails into a wall haphazardly? That- you liked to believe- was your natural gift. Empowered with ancestral rage and with the throb of determination in your thumbs- all you needed was a large stick and to imagine King Vortigern’s face instead of the nail head. You muse for a moment, mind caught upon Arthur’s handsome features before you finally catch up to his meaning.

“My husband taught me,” you say and even behind his large hand where he’s drawn it to him to inhale deeply once more, Arthur’s face blanches- gaze scouring to the door as though to make a hasty retreat.

“He’s passed,” you hurry to tack on before you wrench open the stubborn door of your wood stove with a huff once more. A tightness to your action that makes Arthur believe he’s overstepped his inquisitiveness.

When you reach inside the ashes- carefully plucking out another glowing ember and placing it inside a new pocket of lichen and bark- you only realize Arthur’s silence once the shifting golden light is concealed. Silas has taught you to always bring a spare source of flame. Arthur’s distracting presence had almost made you forget. Tucking the precious satchel into your shirt alongside the first one where it won’t be crushed during travel, you startle at Arthur’s speech.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says, voice tinged with something you can’t place in the dark surroundings.

When Sigrid mentioned you’d lost your family- Arthur didn’t think as far as to marriage. Not that he didn’t consider you of the marriageable sort- and not that he did in any sense.

Arthur internally slaps himself. The Princess and her selfish escapades had marriage on his mind more than it ever had been. If he was quite honest- he’d never even considered it for himself until recently. When it’d been thrust upon him without his any say in the matter. And even if the Princess and him had never crossed paths- he’s only now realizing that being wedded would have become inevitable with his new role. A talk of an heir would undoubtedly cross Goosefat’s lips at some point if not already his mind before Arthur had even been crowned.

Arthur drags a hand down his face. Gods, he was making a mess of everything. Whether he intended to or not it felt as though simply his presence alone contaminated everything near to him.

A memory of their conversation drifts back into his awareness. You’d shared that you had befriended a few mages- that they’d taught you magic so you could help others.

“Your husband-,” Arthur starts, biting back his words until your face- so open and sweet where you crouch at the wood stove- makes them fall out anyways, “He was a Mage?”

You nod. It’s only the slightest tip of your chin. It reminds Arthur of your first meeting. When he found your illustrious little plot in his forest alongside the rabbit snares and your guilt was written upon your features without even a word.

It’s dangerous to admit such things. Even still. King Vortigern’s cruelty is a twisted weed around you and he can tell it has thorns without needing to see them. It’s in the way you deflate. Arthur wishes he could tug the reign of Vortigern from you. Rip it away even if it turned him to shreds. He’d undo the past- all of it- even if it meant he never knew you. If only to spare the heartache that sits plain upon your face so that Arthur can’t help the way his own rises to meet it.

“When our marriage was arranged- I was scared,” you admit, with a smile that wavers alongside your gaze- your mind traveling backwards.

“Of course I knew of him in passing,” you say, sweeping the ashes by the stove out of habit and the stir into the air like your memories, “But my family lived on the edges of our village, and he lived in the stable master’s house,” you continue, “I didn’t even know what he looked like. We’d never met before our wedding day.”

“He was handsome,” you say with a small chuckle and Arthur notes the way you fluster through the next words, “Of course, that’s not the most important thing. He was kind,” you continue with an affectionate smile.

“I had on my best dress. A worn thing that looked like rags compared to what he wore-,” you say with a small laugh, “But the way he looked at me-,” you recall, a soft sigh tittering against your words.

“Like I was prettier than a sunset. I felt like the luckiest woman in our village after that,” you say, smiling softly like the light of yours and Silas’s love still shines upon you and Arthur shares in your smile.

“He was a fortunate man,” Arthur replies, something serious in his look that makes you realize yourself and how you’d become lost in both the memory of Silas and the way Arthur’s looking at you now. It’s nearly the same as standing at the altar within Silas’s warm gaze.

“We better get on with it,” you say, hurrying to collect your things.

Arthur helps you mount Critter once more- the accompanying strength in him that you were looking forward to during the days to come is like a stone thrown into a still pool. It shakes something up in you. There’s a thick layer of grief over the surface of you that Arthur’s kind presence has sent a ripple through. The weight of your feelings that grow for him sinks into what feels like the center of you. An echo of loneliness- an emptiness that hollows out of you and fades whenever he’s close. Whenever the creases of his cheeks deepen as he smiles upon you in that soft, gentle way.

The fact you’ll return to the village where you met your first love- to a life you left behind- for Arthur to witness yet another home where you once lived and yet you know little about his own drives the conversation as you follow the road towards the cemetery.

“We must stop here for a moment,” you say as you tether Critter to the iron gate at the entrance to the little copse of markers by the church. A small crowd gathers at the front of the looming building. Whispered prayers are offered to a row of coffins that are being loaded onto a cart. It’s the one marked for Potter’s hill- where the dead that society deems unworthy are buried in unmarked graves. The tearful crowd betrays the idea that these souls aren’t worth more than the coins they lacked in their pockets when they met their ends. A cry lifts from them- a woman collapses in another’s arms when the coachman tuts and the cart jolts forward.

Despite all your current errands and delays- you wish to help- and to your surprise Arthur deviates from the main path and pushes through the crowd.

Pulling a water skin from his fur coat- Arthur extends it to the woman’s friend- who stares at him warily before her gaze lands on you. She’s covered in grime- her clothes ragged- and her distressed friend could be her twin sister with the same bedraggled appearance. The pinched concern on your face matches hers.

“It’s clear water,” Arthur insists and the woman finally accepts with a tentative nod before she uncorks the lid and trickles the water into the distraught woman’s mouth. Slowly, she drinks,as though she loathes to, her breath stuttered through her sobs.

“Thank ye,” the friend says, “Her husband,” the woman tips her chin to the cart that rolls away. Something in your chest thrums an answering song to the grieved woman’s onslaught cries of pain- a mournful tune to match the one that spills out in front of you.

“She works herself up like this- I keep picking her up,” the woman says with a pained sigh, her arms locking around her friends trembling shoulders as though she’s afraid if she releases her- her friend will fall apart. Dissolve into the dirt beneath them if only to share in the ground of her husband’s final resting place.

“I have smelling salts,” you say, procuring a package you keep on hand. Extending a tin towards the friend and she eyes it with a smidgen of distrust.

Crouching, you leave it upon the cobblestone before turning to Arthur- realizing there’s no more aid to offer. Arthur’s solemn gaze is soft on the scene in front him.

The bereaved woman snaps free of her friend's grasp. Snatches the tin before the lid is clawed open and her next inhale is drawn deeply from the contents as though she’s desperate for anything to soothe the ache in her soul.

“Cedar,” the woman sobs through the word so that it’s drawn out on a hiccuping exhale.

“I hope it brings you some ease,” you say with an understanding look, some part of you knowing that what wounds her will never lose its sting in its entirety.

“I hope-,” the woman stutters through her words- eyes fierce upon you and Arthur, “That you never lose h-him,” the woman says, her wet gaze fierce upon Arthur beside you as though she sees someone else in his stead.

Arthur shuffles underneath her statement but he tips his head in solemn acknowledgment as the woman’s cries rear up once more. He doesn’t reject her assessment of your coupling and neither do you. Allowing this grieved woman some belief in living pairings is the least you can offer in the wake of her loss.

The friend gathers her up once more- and they cling to each other as though the world collapses around them. The past is before you- the memories of Silas’s loss as fresh as when they first were felt. When you wished the world would end for all as it had for you.

Arthur’s hand on your arm brings the heart breaking scene back into focus, his gentle touch pushing you away and back towards the path. Quietly, you follow the ruts in the mud that the cart’s wheels have left in its wake. Avoiding puddles from the earlier rain with Arthur’s careful insistence. The gray and white tombstones float past you. Stories and stories for so many lives reduced to carved names and dates. What lay between them now a marker for so much loss. What tales could each stone hold?

Searching for distraction- for an anchor in the sea of your own grief comes back as a great flood in your thoughts- you turn to Arthur.

“Where did you live before you joined the King’s guard?”

Arthur seems to startle at your inquiry.

Wandering through the sprawl of tombstones and beneath tall, impressive oaks- you follow the main path towards the family tombs while Arthur chews your question.

A ripple of shock had tracked his features at your question- as though he’s surprised you care to know anything of him at all- and you fear with all the dramatic events as of late that you’ve failed to show your care for him as he has of you.

The length at which he takes to reply makes you fear that you’ve tread into dark territory. For anyone to become a King’s guard it is a trial- let alone under King Vortigern’s reign. And for Arthur- sweet as he is, perhaps his former living conditions were so deeply awful that he would choose to live and work beneath the wrath of the evil King in their stead.

“If you do not wish to share-,” you start to tread back upon your steps but Arthur shakes his head with a small chuckle.

Arthur sighs- deciding he will land somewhere on the truth if not the entirety of it.

“I grew up in Londinium. A street rat like Theo,” Arthur replies, something guarded in his eyes when he speaks, but his demeanor remains calm if not his spine rigid as he strolls beside you. The hand at your elbow- that’s navigated you away from soaked boots- twitches and his other hand unfurls from a fist he seems to find as soon as it's released. Over and over- a tension in his form that he holds like it anchors him to the present.

“You’ve come a far way,” you say, “From the streets to the King’s guard.”

Arthur nods, gaze reflective while he scans the surroundings. Like he’s looking for an escape route, you fear.

“It’s there-,” you point at a cluster of raised tombs beyond the next rise, where you intend to meet Eleanor’s sister, Helen, and Arthur sighs- his breath held for a pause before he continues.

“Aye,” Arthur says, his voice calm but an underlying emotion carries through it, “It was challenging, but I would not trade it for anything.” Arthur says with a fond smile.

“I do not pretend to understand,” you offer with a soft gaze, “It must have been difficult,” you add as you crest the hill and regard the ornate family tombs that are nested below.

“It taught me resilience. I learned how to survive in a world which is often unforgiving,” Arthur says with a shrug of one broad shoulder but the casual action is betrayed when his gaze travels somewhere far away- landing on a hard stare.

“Yet you speak with fondness,” you say, Arthur’s thumb rubbing at your arm in a soothing way- and you think it’s less for you than himself. Still, a flurry of motion in your gut rises to meet his touch.

“I had family,” Arthur says, and his voice carries pain that threads his speech to his throat and you cannot fail to notice his use of past tense.

Swallowing hard, Arthur continues, “Society may have shunned them but to me they were everything,” Arthur says on a heavy breath that rattles out of him. Like he’s releasing a burden. Rolling his shoulders, Arthur lets his head fall back and regards the gloomy sky for a long moment.

“They protected and cared for me. They were kind when they didn’t have to be,” Arthur says, “When the world gave them every reason not to be- they chose love,” Arthur says.

“It sounds like you were raised with a lot of that,” you say, and Arthur nods with eyes that blink rapidly. Arthur swipes at his face, his head thrust into his elbow- the one hand still gently grasping your arm as though he’s scared you’ll still wander off from him. But you’re no longer consumed with your own grief- but the one that envelops him so clearly. Whatever happened to Arthur’s family must have been horrible. And yet he still chose a profession to protect- to align himself with the values bestowed by the people that loved him so.

“Indeed, I was,” Arthur says with a smile that he directs to the heavens, “I owe them more than I could ever repay.”

“Thank you for sharing that with me,” you say, lifting your hand to grip Arthur’s- offering a squeeze that he returns with a warm smile.

In the reverent quiet of this end of the cemetery- where wealthy families lay their loved ones to rest in ornate opulence- a strange sound lifts above the marbled stone. Echoing off the tombs- it’s the sound of a man grunting in pleasure.

Arthur’s hand on yours tightens- his gaze ripping away from you to ascertain the sound. Heat flushes through you when you realize it’s the noise of love making- if not rather one sided. There’s no answering moan from his partner- no manly or womanly cries of returned pleasure.

Arthur strides down the hill- having released your hand- he moves with purpose. There’s something dark in his face- like he’s recalling a terrible experience.

“Arthur-,” you call, hurling after him because in all the chaos of this day you’d forgotten to inform him of Eleanor’s sister’s- Helen’s- profession. No one would assume these things happen in the resting places of their loved ones- not unless you went looking.

Which Arthur was doing with an intense focus- running to each tomb to thrust his ear upon the cold, smooth stone- ears straining to locate the source of the muffled groaning.

“Wait-,” you call but Arthur has found the tomb from which the sounds originate and he shoves at the stone door with little care for the inhabitants privacy before disappearing inside.

“Get off of her,” Arthur shouts as you hurl yourself in his wake- the infinitely dark tomb betraying little of the scene in front of you until a woman’s cursing bursts forth.

Her offended shriek ricochets off the stone walls with such force it might chip them. The man’s grunting halts- a surprised yelp in its place and a scraping sound of wood against stone to accompany it.

“What the fuck, mate?” The man spits- although it sounds like he’s being choked of breath.

Helen curses up a storm with the same thick accent as her sister. With enough air to her speech to fill the small tomb thrice over with her aggravated swears.

“Who the feck are ye? If ye want a turn you have to wait! If ye want to watch ye have to pay!” Helen screeches at Arthur who glares at the man in his grip.

“Arthur!” You exclaim and the sliver of sunlight he’s allowed in illuminates the silhouette in front of you. Arthur’s curled over the man- his elbow is shoved against the man’s throat as he scrabbles against a casket.

Helen is righting her dress with tight, efficient movements. The most pissed off woman in the world glares at the back of Arthur’s head.

“Let me go-“ the man pleads- eyes darting fearfully between you, Arthur and Helen.

A small fist from Helen’s direction collides with Arthur’s spine. Helen may well have stricken the wall for all it does to move Arthur who grunts but doesn’t release the man in his fierce hold. Blue eyes burn with anger- his entire frame focused on the stranger with an intensity that turns the air to paste.

“Ye heard him-,” Helen insists and Arthur shoves the man out of his grasp and into the wall with a snarl.

“You don’t deserve that-,” Arthur says, his gaze alight with fury on the man, his voice cast back to Helen who reels- affronted.

A flurry of fists colliding with Arthur’s sides and spine once more but he ignores her. The impacts barely seem to register given her skeletal arms and slight hands. They’re curled into combat nonetheless- her anger matching Arthur’s. Ricocheting higher when he doesn’t respond except to glare darkly at the client that hurries to right his clothes and gather his things.

“And whose youse- who’s yous to say how I earn my coin-? Are you going to pay for that lay that ye ruined?” Helen screams at Arthur before her gaze lands on you as Arthur moves to stand between you and the man that takes his leave with haste.

Hurrying to scramble out of the tomb- the man leaves with an unhappy series of grumbles.

“I’m sorry,” you offer to Helen who softens at your appearance although she casts a deadly look at Arthur when he settles at your side- glaring past you to the exit with his arms crossed and his jaw ticking a silent anger.

“He didn’t know-,” you try to defend Arthur and Helen huffs- disheveled and indignant for her lost customer.

She’s a wisp of her sister. Hollow cheeked and messy haired. There’s none of Eleanor’s subtle elegance. The clothes Helen wears look like she’s robbed a grave and donned the occupant’s outfit. The smell is adjacent- even thicker in the stale room.

Quickly, you produce Eleanor’s gift for her frustrated regard. As though she’s a child, her eyes- so inset in her skull and dark beneath- brighten at the parcel in your palm.

“A present!” she exclaims, collecting the item with pale fingers with dirt beneath her nails. Unlike the Wolf’s Den, these tombs have no access to free water to bathe. Helen is alone- fucking on graves- and although her chosen profession must be lucrative for as long as her sister has worked the brothel, Helen has worked here- there’s none of Eleanor’s luxury despite this.

“From Eleanor,” you say with a bright smile that Arthur can’t seem to share.

Helen ignores your ruffled sentinel and instead rubs the salve on her grimy skin. A fresh citrus and floral scent fills the choked space that smells of rot and sex.

“My customers will hate this,” Helen says but she releases an indulgent sigh. Closing her pale, vein webbed eyelids as though she’s transported to a place far, far away from where she stands.

“They like to pretend I’m one of them. Stench and all,” Helen says, ticking her head back to the caskets behind her with a gleam in her eye when Arthur flinches.

“Ohhh,” Helen says with a playful grin to you, “He doesn’t know?” and you shake your head in affirmation.

Despite his usually calm demeanor, Arthur’s distress is clear. Although he tries to tamp down his reactions- it’s evident that he’s disturbed. You don’t blame him. When you first learned of Helen’s- acclivities- in this cemetery- you were alarmed.

The solitary location. The lack of access to water to clean or drink. The quality of clients that attend- it still makes you lose sleep at night. Helen catered to mourners- comforting the recently widowed with plenty of concealed locations within the cemetery. She also entertained clients with darker desires. Some men paid more if she pretended to be dead. This is what Arthur and you had intruded upon- and to Arthur’s credit by all appearances it didn’t appear consensual.

His reaction was formidable- and you wonder, now aware of his upbringing, how often he’d witnessed such brutality and violence that his own answered to meet it so immediately.

The way he’d swiftly descended into the dark tomb like there were worse fates than death. Like he was the grim reaper intent on delivering said agony- still made you shiver.

“I forgive him,” Helen says with another indulgent whiff of the salve Eleanor had gifted her. The nostalgic scent carries her to a place where her heart is more lenient. But still, her pockets are emptier than they would have been due to Arthur’s interference- and although you think Helen keeps her appearance so severe to appeal to her clients- you worry at her frail state nonetheless.

Reaching into your pouch- you produce a water skin and a parcel of food you’d brought from home. It’s not a lot- but it's more than nothing. Guilt lingers, and you offer a little more to ease her strife.

“Along the far end of the lot, near Potter’s Hill- there’s a plant about to bloom before the next full moon. Only for a day so move with haste when you see it. Wavy leaves, a dark purple flower that looks like a spade. It will attract flies and smell of rotting meat,” you inform Helen and she nods earnestly.

“Aye, it looks like a tongue. I thought they’d chucked someone in the swamp on the other side of the fence instead of burying them because of the hard ground,” she says, recalling that lonely spring morning, “I dinnae know it only stays for a day- I plucked one last year and went back the following week- but it was gone-,” she says with a sad smile, “How do I keep them?”

“Soak them in oil- the slick I gave you last- do you still have some?”

Helen nods.

“One or two blooms should give a potent smell that will last you the year.”

Helen barks a laugh.

“Ye dinnae know how foul my clients are- it’ll last me a month if I can gather the whole field,” Helen says and you try to smile but the thought of it all is staggering.

“Thank ye,” Helen says with a meaningful look.

Arthur shifts his weight and focus on your conversation breaks to a rustling sound outside before a different man’s face appears in the opening to the surface.

“Time to go,” Arthur says, something distant and business-like in his tone which Helen seems to appreciate, throwing you a suggestive raise of her brow.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says, a handful of coins slides onto a ledge by the exit before he disappears outside.

Helen casts her gaze to you with a happier smile.

“Take care,” you say and follow Arthur while Helen ushers the strange man inside.

Leaving the tombs behind, Arthur’s discomfort fades in the length of time it takes to reach Critter.

Pressed against his back once more, you hold onto Arthur’s waist while he directs Critter to the main road. Arthur’s stiffer than he was before— his solid frame held upright like a rod is attached to his spine. By the time Critter meets the fields on the edge of the city, Arthur relaxes in your embrace.

|||

The afternoon passes with your arms wrapped around Arthur. The sun hides behind gathering grey clouds and the canopy of a forest only just grown in with its leaves.

The gentle sway of the ride presses your face to the soft suede of Arthur’s jacket. His muscles bunching and rolling as he tugs the reins.

Eventually, he and Critter find an easy rhythm. Enough that Arthur’s arms list at his sides, against yours. Offering a comfortable warmth and weight that reminds you of when you rode astride Silas. Those long,endless evenings where the fields glowed with fire bugs and the long gaze of the summer sun. Where the village you rode towards now yawned and stretched in its sleepy way.

Before the war.

Before everything changed.

If Arthur notices the way your hands clench around him, like you’re trying to keep him at your side the way you’d clutched to Silas before he left to join the other Mage’s fight against Vortigern, he doesn’t say anything.

A cold drizzle makes you straighten. Draws you away from the past. The forest you pass through thins, the freshly budded leaves barely covering the road. A branch slides over your cowl, nearly tugging it from your crown. And then another grazes your face. A leaf smacks your hand as you shield yourself from the sudden onslaught of foliage.

“Arthur?” you ask, but his arms don’t correct Critter who has taken a sharp descent away from the road and into the ditch. Critter loyally steps amidst the trees while you struggle against their branches even with Arthur seated before you.

Leaning to the side, you try to look beyond the broad expanse of Arthur’s shoulders– perhaps another traveller intends to pass. Arthur slides the opposite way, and Critter obeys. More leaves and branches slide over Arthur’s form, and you duck to avoid them.

The road ahead is clear. Confusion slaps you as another branch whips past Arthur’s form and you curl into him, legs raising to balance against Arthur’s sudden turn.

Except Arthur’s weight bears into your leg further like he’s about to topple off Critter.

“Arthur!” your hands grasp at his sides, all your strength pushing forwards as you try to both anchor him to Critter and in search of his arms. They hang listless, and you grope along their firm length until you find his limp hands, tugging the reins to correct Critter’s path through the trees.

“Wake up, Arthur, please,” you beg and the man stirs in front of you.

Strong fingers clasp yours as he startles into consciousness. Arthur pulls at the leather in your grip, and Critter comes to a stop with a huff. A shake of his mane as though he doesn’t wish to accept Arthur’s apologies.

“M’sorry,” Arthur says, words slurred with sleep- exhaustion, before he releases your hands and with less grace than any of you can hope for, including the beast he dismounts, Arthur slides from the saddle, leaving you to take his place.

Arthur leaves one hand upon Critter like a quiet apology, steadying himself, the other dragging a path down his face as he tries to wipe the last remnants of his slumber from himself. It does little to remove the dark shadows beneath his eyes, or how they crease with tiredness.

“There’s an inn ahead,” you offer, and Arthur’s worn gaze lifts to yours, uncertainty and consideration mixing in his expression before he shakes his head. There’s still more hours of sun left to travel with.

“You need rest,” you implore and Arthur sighs tightly, your sore voice wearing him further.

You need rest too.

“We need our wits about us. The road is dangerous,” you say before casting a look about you, “The forest, as well. Will you accept a warm meal? Perhaps a bath?”

Arthur’s gaze falls to the pack of supplies he’s brought. He should refuse, however, he’s not one for wilderness, and the thought of attempting to light a fire when he’s used to matches, candles and torches makes him cringe.

“As you wish, but I’d prefer to walk for a while,” Arthur says before he grabs the lead and guides Critter back towards the road. The horses steps are more sure than Arthur’s.

“I’m sure our loyal steed will appreciate the respite,” you say, dismounting even as Critter walks and falling into a gentle step behind Arthur. The landing wasn’t as elegant as you’d hoped, your new boots unusual to you, and you’re grateful to Arthur’s turned back. Still, he looks up to where you’ve just sat with a smirk as though expecting you there, before finding you at his spine with a small look of surprise.

“Where’d you learn how to do that?” Arthur says with a deepening crease of his cheek, like you’ve just told him a most amusing secret.

“Another life,” you say, with a small smile, but a lance of grief spears it to your face for a moment too long, and Arthur spots this. The remainder of the walk is spent in silence, until the back of your heel begins to feel warm. Pausing you settle on a rock, pulling off your boot and procuring your salves.

Arthur ties Critter to a branch, as you apply an ointment to the blister that has begun to form before carefully wrapping it with a piece of cloth. When you’re finished, you catch Arthur’s stare- a crease between his brow at the bruise across your ankle.

“You do not heal with haste,” Arthur says, blinking away his focus as though he’s intruding with it.

“Some of us do not live in courtly abundance,” you state, as Arthur procures a package from his supply bag. Unwrapping it carefully he offers you a slice of dried meat and a wedge of aged cheese.

“We’re nearly there,” you say, nodding towards the seam of smoke curling above the trees in the distance.The sun peers from behind a dark cloud and the jagged edge of the treeline. The air is growing colder.

“Eat,” Arthur says, but there’s no order in it, just gentle hope. Like he’s used to putting wordless pleas into his voice. Like he’s courted a woman towards appetite before.

“Join me,” you say, taking the offered food, your fingers brushing his, and that same sparking tug alights at the touch. The one that speaks to intertwined magic, and the longing that pulls in your gut. Somehow they feel both separate and the same.

Just like you suspected, Arthur acquiesces. The drizzling downpour has maintained, and you’re grateful for the warmth he provides when he settles beside you. There’s a mindful amount of space between you, but Arthur casts his elbows to his bent knees, heat pouring from his frame as he blocks the wind from your form.

Carefully, Arthur carves pieces of meat, cheese and a slightly bruised apple with a small blade. Passing them to you as he works thoughtfully. It stings your throat to chew and swallow, and despite this, there’s always another piece for you no matter how long it takes to finish the last. He must be eating the gristle or rinds to maintain the same pace as you. Not wanting to rush you until you’re full.

Perhaps it's your years spent isolated, but the words arrive into the air between you before you have a chance to lock them in your thoughts.

“You eat like a lady,” you say and to your surprise, which lessened the more time you spent with him, Arthur laughs softly.

“Aye, I’ve been told the same often,” Arthur admits with a smile that curves not only for you, but for the ones he’s amused before.

“I do not mean to insult-,” you say, and Arthur shakes his head.

“S’not,” Arthur says, a seriousness crossing his face like he wants you to know he means his words, “Least not where I’m from.”

“You said you had a family” you inquire gently.

Arthur’s blade pauses where it worries over the bruised apple, like he’s considering the edge of truth.

Of what harms and what heals.

“I was raised in a brothel.”

Arthur offers this directly, his voice bearing no hesitancy, as though he hedges himself in advance for your reaction. The silence shifts. Like you’re both considering the weight of his words.

Arthur turns to you stiffly, unsure where it will land. There’s something worried in him, like he’s unravelling a threaded tapestry with the smallest of tugs. Like he’s piled up stones that an entire kingdom is poised upon. Like he’s waiting for a landslide to erupt in the quiet between you.

“The women there worked harder than most Kings ever had,” Arthur continued while you chewed his words, “They taught me to notice things. Be polite. Wait your turn. How you take up space tells others what you think of them.”

Arthur passes you another slice of apple. It has pieces missing. The flesh of what he offers you is unblemished while he eats the bruised ones. Like he only wants the best for you. Like it doesn’t matter what it takes from him.

“You were loved,” you say and Arthur nods once, solemnly. A lifetime of grief flies across his face- like a sparrow crossing the sea, with nowhere to land but your words are like ships, offering safe harbor.

“Aye,” he says, “Even if no one else thought I was worth the trouble,” Arthur says, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“And raised quite well, if I may say,” you remarked, and Arthur nods deeper with a building laugh. It shakes a layer of grief from him, if only momentarily.

“Aye, you may. They would love to hear you say it,” Arthur says with a fond look. “Not many would believe it, but they taught me everything worth knowing.”

You believed it. Arthur was honest and kind when the world was not. When it rewarded the opposite.

Behind you, Critter lifts his head from where he’d been snuffling the grass to peer down the road. It narrows before rounding a curve by a stone ridge.

A small garrison patrols towards you, its banners sun faded and tattered but unmistakably in Vortigern’s colors.

Arthur tracks the horse’s focus before the fleet of men’s armor and drunken conversation can be heard. Arthur stands, quickly packing away your supplies before he offers his hand.

When you stand, you move to pull your hand away but Arthur tightens his grip, his other hand moves to your lower back, gently pushing you towards Critter.

“Up you get.” Arthur says, eyes still locked on the garrison while he grabs your waist.

You’re lifted up onto Critter, and Arthur only releases you to press a blade into your hand and then the reins.

“If they draw their swords, you ride,” Arthur says, looking imploringly upon you and the approaching garrison.

“Arthur-,” you start to protest- but his ice blue eyes cut to yours, as he draws Critter behind him, placing himself in the way of the potential threat.

Your hands tighten on the reins, your heart thrumming in your ears.

“Promise me that you will,” Arthur says, using the last few moments to wait for your reply while the garrison spreads wide across the road, blocking the way forward. Arthur's intense attention upon you like he waits to find your sincerity.

“I will,” you say, nodding tightly, although your breath is held in your chest so that it aches to think of leaving Arthur behind with this potentially fearsome lot.

“Good girl,” Arthur says, before his head swivels back to the road, and your breath is caught all over again as you draw your cowl upon your crown. Something unnamed burns within you, quiet embarrassment joining for being distracted at a time like this.

One of the guards strides forth. He bears King Vortigern’s old colors and banner. The rest of them stare through slatted helmets. Their black leathers and crested helmets remind you of a murder of crows. You could only hope you would fare on luck’s side.

“Good afternoon, lads,” Arthur calls out, offering a jovial wave that looks friendly aside from the tightness to his frame. Like he’s ready to snap into place- like a blade finding the space between armor and skin.

“Afternoon, to you,” the guard says gruffly. He’s older than Arthur. His black mask shoved upside his head to reveal his unimpressed face within his leather cowl. Unshaven, his mouth and leathers dripping with grease and reeking of ale. He’s plump like a fall pheasant, with all the peacocking as he surveys you and Arthur.

He eyes Arthur’s clean coat, the weight of the saddlebags with interest.

Arthur sees it but maintains a friendly smile.

Arthur’s hand tightens on the lead when the man’s gaze slides up your form. First, your boots, then a lazy path up the shape of your leg beneath your cloak which you pull firmly around yourself until finally he meets your gaze with a syrupy smile.

“Afternoon, miss” he says, slurring and sleazy and you nod once before you carefully turn your gaze to his men. They stand side by side, some with flag banners, others spears. None of them with horses, but a fierce front nonetheless. They've closed most of the distance between you and them. Your breaths meet each other quicker than before at the realization.

“What can we do for you?” Arthur asks, no longer smiling. There’s a pulse in his jaw as he glares at the guard, although he tempers it by stepping further to your side as the man stumbles with the effort of looking up at you, drunk as he is, and his slick gaze falls back to Arthur, slightly annoyed.

There’s disregard where he stares between Arthur’s face and his jacket- like he thinks both are too good for Arthur.

“What can you do for us?” The guard parrots and his men laugh, his accent more rural than Arthur’s so that it comes out more like “Wot carn yoo doo for oos?”, the last word drawn out until he laughs like he’s telling a joke.

“Aye,” Arthur says with a curt nod.

“Hmmph,” The guard says, a disgruntled hiccup of a sound.

“Where yous headed?” he asks, and Arthus nods towards the garrison and the road behind them.

“An inn, down aways,” Arthur offers, allowing some of his former friendliness to line his voice. You’re not sure if the weariness astride it is another farce, or a genuine reflection of Arthur’s worn state.

The guard nods, strolling towards Critters rear, although his eyes are trained on you.

Arthur lifts a hand to the back of the saddle, leaving it there, casually blocking the man’s intended target.

The garrison shuffles, a rippling squeak of leathers and weapons, and Arthur’s other hand comes up to rest on his belt buckle, clearly displeased at his attention being torn in both directions. His focus remains locked on the guard that’s closest to you.

You stare resolutely at the ground, tense. Fingers clasped tightly around the blade in your cloak, like it might steel your nerves. The guard’s armor clangs as he inspects the supply bags.

“You dinnae need supplies,” the guard remarks before he strolls back towards Arthur, securing him in his swimming sights.

Arthur shrugs, his hand that rested upon the saddle behind you now coming to your thigh. He pats it twice, before he grasps it firmly near your knee.

“Aye, we dinnae need supplies, but a warm hearth out of the rain to recover from our travels,” Arthur says before his hand slides higher.

You resist the urge to clench your thighs.

A small breath through your nose makes Arthur’s lips quirk.

Arthur hugs your leg into the crock of his arm. You manage to look shy beneath the guard’s leering stare. It’s less pretending to be reserved than the very real feeling of Arthur’s fingers digging into your upper thigh and his frame hanging off your form. Like he needs as much of himself to be pressed against you.

Possessive. Protective of the leg that the guard is transfixed with.

The guard’s captivated by Arthur’s brazen touch, licking his grease covered lips before smiling knowingly.

“I would not keep a man from the comfort of his wife,” the guard says with a suggestive laugh before he regards the direction you’ve come from and your overfilled saddlebags once more.His laughter cuts off on a derisive sound.

“We don’t get a lot of wealthy folk with days worth of camp supplies round here,” the guard says, pinning Arthur with a searching stare. Arthur pats your leg again, holding his smile.

“We enjoy the fresh air, and the lack of servants. My wife is shy, you see,” Arthur says and you avoid the guard’s gaze as a few men in the garrison remark lowly among themselves.

“So why are you going to an inn, with all tha’ food if yous don’t like having neighbors?” the guard implores, and Arthur’s smile thins.

“Ran into some bad luck last week. Another patrol turned us back from a dry tavern. I cannae let my bride go hungry. Thought it best to be prepared,” Arthur’s grip on your thigh softens.

Brushing your leg with his thumb, he casts one adoring look up at you, like you raise and set the sun and moon. It’s enough to convince the guard of his farce.

Wealthy man.

Charitable husband.

Just on the right side of soft to not be a threat.

“She’s quiet,” the guard says, like he’s throwing bait. Arthur doesn't flinch, like he's been expecting this, despite the way you twitch in his grasp.

Arthur’s eyes cut to his- bright, sharp, but his smile remains. It’s tighter across his face than when it was directed at you, like he’s baring his teeth at the guard.

“She’s had a long journey. And I’ve kept her busy,” A few of the garrison chuckle amongst themselves at Arthur’s words.

He lets them land where he’s intended before adding, ”My bride prefers the comforts of an inn and I’ve promised her a bath,” Arthur says, something folding into his smile when you shift slightly on the saddle.

Your eyes pinned to the ground just beyond your boot that Arthur now grasps and pushes gently. Unable to make eye contact with anyone at what Arthur has insinuated.

The first guard opens his mouth- but another, older guard barks from the line.

“Let them pass, Carrick. You were a young fool in love once.”

Carrick scowls, but throws up a hand at his men, who step aside.

Arthur gives a gracious nod, nearing a bow of his upper body, before he turns to you. Grip tightening on your boot, Arthur removes your foot from the stirrup to place his own, and you shift back to make room for him, expecting him to mount Critter as before but Arthur merely stands, pulling you towards him by your thighs.

Critter shifts, and Arthur overcorrects- at least you think so at first.

Blue eyes center you, as he leans into you.

And then further.

Your breath catches.

Arthur’s lips graze yours. Softly. Like an apology. Like he’s aware he’s not supposed to be here. His mouth finds the curve of yours with practiced ease. Like you’ve shared a lifetime of kisses before this moment.

Arthur takes up your surprise with his hand, lifting to your face, his thumb brushes your jaw. Fingers collecting your startled edges into something believable as he pulls away, lifting your chin so that your gaze meets his.

A few within the garrison holler lasciviously.

Arthur pulls away slightly- his gaze drops to your lips for a breath. Long enough you half think he might kiss you again before blue eyes cut to yours with a meaningful expression. Subtle enough some might mistake it for adoration.

“Let’s go, my love. My undivided attention awaits you,” Arthur says, head lowering closer to yours as he leans further into you once more. This time to whisper some loving words as a doting husband might, but instead he whispers guidance for your next moments. He must have felt you tremble amidst the kiss- and assumed it was fear of the garrison going back on their decision.

“Don’t look back once we pass,” Arthur whispers, his lips ghosting over the shell of your ear where it’s tucked into your cowl before he’s stepping back down and replacing your leg in the stirrup. The absence of him before you replaced with the leering eyes of the garrison, you grasp at your cowl, thrusting yourself further into it.

Playing along only as much as Arthur’s actions have caused a stirring within you, your hand reaching out to brush his fingers when you hand him the lead. Arthur takes it without a glance back at you. You suppose it’s for the best, flustered as you feel, your hands clenching around the reins for a different reason than when the guards had first approached.

Arthur guides Critter past the garrison at a slow trot. You stare at the back of his golden crown until you’re past the stone ridge. Until your breathing settles. Your heart is still thrumming in your chest like a bird in a cage. Arthur doesn’t turn around until you’ve met the next curve in the road, his shoulders dropping tension when he rounds on a long sigh.

“Are you alright?” Arthur asks after scouting the road behind, your own gaze snapping to the empty road as soon as he’d rounded himself.

You nod, lips still remembering the feel of his against them, your chin still warm with the coarse brush of his beard.

“You w-were convincing,” you offer, words stammering out but bright with the rush of what Arthur had just managed.You’re not sure if you mean Arthur’s kiss, or his ability to skirt the guard’s suspicions.

“I’ve had practice,” Arthur says with a shrug, wide shoulders and expression still tight with disregard for the previous interactions.

You lift an eyebrow, curious. Unsure of what Arthur has decided your meaning was.

Arthur meets it with another shrug.

“Some people fancy a bedding like that,” Arthur says, memories tracing back to his years at the brothel. You’re not sure if you want to clarify if he’s had firsthand experience or if it was something he learned from the women who raised him.

“How did you know- that we shouldn’t look back?” you ask instead, and Arthur’s face becomes serious.

“I didn’t,” Arthur says with a half shrug, “I knew what he expected of me. A man with money- power- he wouldn’t flinch. Wouldn’t look over his shoulder because he thinks nothing behind him could hurt him. The world falls in line for men like that. And that includes a patrol garrison and his woman. The world steps out of their way. There’s no need to fear when you believe everyone is meant to kneel for you.”

Arthur shakes his head, something like disgust flitting over his handsome features, but somehow it doesn’t look ugly on him, perhaps stern, but you decide it suits him, “I don’t think that way. But I’ll play the part if I have to.” Arthur says it resolutely, like he’d have met every blade between you and the garrison with all his strength if they’d seen through his act. Like he wouldn’t have thought twice about it.

The herbalist sat, captured in thought, her brow furrowing.

“Is that how I looked to you,” you ask, “Like a woman that will fall into line behind a man like that?” You mean the man Arthur acted as. The one that believes everyone is meant to kneel for him. Arthur’s stiff words repeating in your mind, His woman.

Arthur gapes- caught off guard- mouth moving around silent words he desperately tries to collect while his head shakes fiercely. Like he would banish the thought in your mind before it could have even arrived.

“No,” Arthur says, fists twitching over the lead before he thrusts it towards you. When you accept it, Arthur shuffles his weight over his feet, suddenly anxious that he’s offended you.

“Good,” you reply, “Because I didn’t see a man expecting me to follow. I saw you making room for me to go forward.”

Arthur’s gaze flicks to yours, suddenly hesitant yet his chin tucks to his chest, affording you the top of his golden crown, accepting your appraisal of him with a deep nod until he meets your look full force, lips curving as he smiles mischievously.

“However, I recall you nearly following me into a river,” Arthur says with a sideways glance.

It’s your turn to gape- scowling. Mock affront and a sliver of embarrassment vying for estate in your features and feelings.

“I should have let you drown,” you muse, playfully dark and Arthur laughs. Bright and indulgent like he can argue your statement by the sound alone. The stutter of your heart agrees.

“You wouldn’t,” he remarks confidently with a smug smile. The dimple in his cheek is folding like he has more to say. A tease of words he tucks into his smile. But he only chews on them thoughtfully as he stares up at you fondly.

Your eyes meet the road ahead, suddenly all too aware of Arthur’s attention. Your thoughts meet the task you’d signed up for and you shake your head softly.

“No, I wouldn’t,” you admit, quieter, almost like you hope he won’t hear you, but it’s unlikely, because Arthur’s awareness never leaves you, not completely, “You’re someone worth saving.”

Arthur’s smile shifts- breaking for a brief moment, before it returns, somehow brighter than before.

“That’s not how most people see me,” Arthur says, cocking one eyebrow in some measure of disbelief.

And yet, some had.

The women that raised him.

Goosefat. Bedivere. Rubio.

The Mage.

His father.

And now you.

“Well, then most are fools,” you remark with a too casual shrug, boot tucking into Critter’s sides so he trots forwards. Eager to place more space between you and the garrison, and the way your words speak to your feelings.

Arthur follows, his laugh reaching you before his words. The clouds above break, revealing the brightest stars of twilight. They blink like the spark in Arthur’s playful eyes.

“Still, you shouldn’t follow me into rivers.”

“Then follow me to the inn. I do desire that bath,” you call backwards, Arthur’s soft chuckle thrown into the approaching night before his boots meet the dirt at a quicker pace in your wake.

“As you wish.”

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