Merlin 1. Alea Iacta Est

**To Sunshine Spray, AryaTindomiel, Christina-Potter-09, archangelo137, Talulah Carmichel, red-v0dka, Shellmar, claire3loves3music, StoryGamblette, Kreuse, Kreuz106- everyone who asked for a sequel. Hope you enjoy the story!**

* * *

The front of war is never as clean as the bards tell it. All meaning and ideals and hopes are crushed underfoot with each clash of the sword, with each dying breath.

Arthur Pendragon has been in too many battles to ever expect anything else.

The tarnished glory of men felled and loot seized dazzle in the glow of peace, but they become a constant in war. The High King of Albion knows this, just as he knows that this war has already been stripped of its moral trappings to leave only a harsh struggle for survival.

Arthur urges his horse onwards, past the charred remains of the last skirmish. The strange fire called upon by Saxon magicians had devastated the first regiment during the battle, burning bodies past recognition, until Merlin had destroyed them and the fuel they used in turn. There seems to be little movement in the Saxon camps; another detachment has been sighted leaving for other targets, but the majority of the invasion force remains facing the Albion army entrenched in the ancient fortress of Glauchedon. And it is there that Arthur heads to now, returning from his daily reconnaissance of the front lines.

"G'damn weather," Gwaine mutters from behind as they gallop on, "the stench is stinking high."

Arthur doesn't take his eyes off the beaten road. "It's better than if it rains. Our water supplies could be tainted."

"It's sweltering," Leon replies, "Hard to believe it's already July."

The half-hearted talk about the weather continues as the small band of knights continues to Glauchedon. The fortress's beaten walls come into view soon enough, and before long they are all dismounted in the courtyard.

Arthur dismisses the knights to allow them some rest. Even if there is no hint of battle for tomorrow, he wants to make sure tiredness is not an issue on top of everything else. Merlin nods and scurries off to somewhere.

He himself goes to the battlements rising high above the walls. All Albion is a battlefield now, with separate legions of Saxon troops besieging citadels. Most of Cornwall's border fiefs dotted along the coast has already fallen, as have the Cantian citadels. The main force may be pinned down by the full force of the united army, but the Saxons have men enough to slowly conquer more and more territory. As High King, Arthur has been ordering troops of various nations to attend to the defense of separate citadels, an effort that has yielded mixed results.

He leans on the stone walls, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands to take the tension from them. The roads leading to Glauchedon are dusty- he can see them from here, outlined by the cluster of tents of camp followers. The citadel has been built to overlook a key junction of the ancient Roman roads; nobody can approach without being spotted.

A lone rider appears, galloping at full speed along the path. The figure is distant at first, but grows closer and closer until the flowing dark hair and green cloak is visible. Arthur would recognize that hair anywhere. _Morgana_.

Arthur turns from the battlements and strides down the admittedly numerous stairs. He is _not_ rushing down; he's just a little eager to see her is all. But he is _not_ taking the stairs three at a time just because he wants to be the first one to greet her. No, of course not. Even if it has been three months since he last saw her, deployed to Cornwall, and even if he'd looked forward to the weekly reports just to see her handwriting.

And that's why he's _not_ disappointed, not even a _tiny little bit_- shut up, little Merlin voice inside his head- when he bursts down the final steps, winded, only to see Morgana already talking to Morgause. Because of course why on earth would he have been looking forward to talking to her alone?

He's always been excellent at being in denial.

Unseen, Arthur stops and leans against a wall to wait for his breath to return. He watches the sisters talking as Morgana's horse is led away by one of the stable boys. Morgana looks tired and grubby, dust lining her armor and green cloak and a smear of what seems to be soot on one pale cheek. Only her hair seems clean, a mass of sleek raven tousled by the wind. Her golden-haired sister clasps her on the arm, saying something that Arthur can't hear. Morgana shakes her head, and Morgause nods firmly, then walks off.

Morgana hangs her head a little, then begins walking towards the gates. Arthur steps out into view. To his surprise, she doesn't notice, only brushing past him. He puts a hand on her shoulder, and she flinches and crouches into a battle-ready position, drawing a dagger.

Arthur frowns, putting two hands up in the universal "I don't have anything threatening in my hands, please don't hurt me " gesture. "What happened to your sword?" Admittedly it's not what he was planning to say, but it's enough to make her lower her defenses.

"Your majesty," she nods. "It broke."

Arthur glowers a little at her use of his title, but is distracted by what comes after.

"Your sword broke?"

She smiles tiredly. "Into two pieces." She makes no attempt to explain.

"Morgana," he asks, "what happened?"

The smile drops off. "Tintagel is taken. Cornwall has fallen." The words are clipped, devoid of inflection. But her lips tighten a little as she says it.

Arthur stiffens. "Your father?"

"Sent me here to report to you. He has evacuated all those surviving and set up camp at Fort Trelawne, northernmost of Cornwall. He wished to inform you that he awaits your command. Most of our people are headed towards Escetia and Camelot, for sanctuary."

"And you?"

"I am at your command. You may send me back to my father, if you wish."

He shakes his head. "Stay."

Morgana's eyes flick up to his face. "I am not needed here."

Hesitantly, he takes her hand. "_I_ need...I need somebody to make sure Morgause doesn't kill Alined, and Annis, Bayard."

She nods, her eyes weary. "If you wish it."

He swallows. "Morgana." She looks up. "I swear to you, we will retrieve Cornwall. It will rise again."

She stares at him, and her lips slowly quirk up in a tiny smile. Suddenly, she's in his arms, her cheek pressed against his chest. Arthur tries to keep his face from burning up as he holds her.

She's so small. So much power, so much beauty in such a little woman. Morgana seems to have shrunk during the course of this war. She's fragile, he thinks, fragile and lonely and too precious to lose to the battlefield.

She'd throttle him if she ever heard that thought.

An indeterminate pause, and Morgana makes as to move away. He considers tightening his grip, but sighs and lets her go. There are pink marks on her cheek, weak imprints of his chain mail.

He brushes the marks gently. "Are you tired?"

She shakes her head wordlessly, but he can see the lie in her posture.

"You can rest in my chambers while we assign you some decent quarters."

Morgana raises an eyebrow, tilting her head slightly. "I'm sure some people find that to be indecent. I am, after all, a defenseless young unmarried woman."

He coughs. "I'll just pretend I didn't hear that." He leads the way; it's the first time she's been in Glauchedon, after all, and there's no way she knows where his chambers are.

"I need a bath," Morgana mutters disgustedly behind him. "A bath and some actual clothes."

He smirks. "Is there anything my lady needs?"

She glowers at him. "Apart from the fact that I spent four days in the saddle I am perfectly fine, my lord king. I am sure Cornwall is appreciating my indulgence right now."

She's short-tempered today; her worry and frustration over her nation is masked with annoyance. Arthur rolls his eyes.

"And I'm sure working yourself to death will help Cornwall immensely."

Morgana deflates. "You've been working yourself to death. Have you even slept in the last two days?"

"I'm touched by your concern, Morgana, but I assure you that I do take care of myself. Unlike some people I could mention. This way."

He opens the door to the master chambers, where he is residing at the moment. With so many monarchs assembled in this fort, it had been difficult to figure out a rooming arrangement that would not end in violence or a break to the treaty. Arthur was naturally given the master chambers, and the other royals the household rooms. Adjacent to his rooms were Cenred and Morgause's chambers. Annis and Caerleon were on the other side. He seemed to be surrounded by jointly ruling spouses, and it was more than a little awkward. Cenred and Morgause were _loud_.

Morgana steps in, not batting an eye at the mess on the table. "Don't have Merlin cleaning for you here?"

A voice pipes up before Arthur can retort. "I gave up on that hopeless venture a long time ago. Morgana, it's good to see you."

Morgana smiles as Merlin looks up from the writing desk. "You're Arthur's secretary now, are you?"

The dark-haired sorcerer grins. "He can't spare me from the magic."

Arthur clears his throat. "Anyway, you may rest here. Do try not to blow anything up."

"I'll do my very best," Morgana drawls. Merlin sniggers.

"I mean it, you know."

Morgana nods, and then bites her lip. "Is there…a stream or anything nearby where I can wash? I do need a bath…"

Arthur blanches. "Bathe outside? You do realize this is a military camp, Morgana? With armies of men around? Deprived of any feminine contact?"

"I'm aware of that, Arthur!" she shouts, flushing. "That's why I'm _asking_ you!"

Merlin cuts in. "As amusing as this argument is, I think it's counterproductive. Morgana, you can bathe here."

Morgana stares at him. He stammers, "...W-without Arthur in here, I mean. Or me. Of-of course not. We'll just be- you know, out there. After I make the bath."

Morgana's either too tired or too desperate for a bath to argue. "Thank you, Merlin."

Arthur scowls. "You can't kick me out of my own chambers!"

Merlin smirks. "Unless you want to stay here..."

Arthur sighs. "Council meeting in two hours," he tosses over his shoulder while he walks out.

"Find Morgana some clothes, would you?" Merlin calls as he prepares to do magic.

Arthur walks out without replying.

* * *

Morgana sinks into the steaming tub with an audible sigh. Bathing is a luxury in war, but she can't stand the thought of having to face the monarchs of Albion when she's sooty and dusty.

No need to give them more reasons to look down on Cornwall.

Cornwall. In truth, there is nothing _to_ look down on anymore. She can still hear the clashing of swords behind her as she rode away; her father had ordered her to leave the battle to ensure there was somebody to speak for Cornwall.

It's so stupid. Her father could have come to Glauchedon himself; she could have stayed behind and presided over Fort Trelawne. It's not like she couldn't do it. Since the Blessed Isles quest, Morgana feels as if her father is babying her more and more; keeping her from battles and delegating more and more non-combatant roles.

Morgana's come to acknowledge that she'll never again be an exceptional swordswoman. She'll always be above average, but the shock of the wound ensured that her movements aren't as limber as they used to be. It feels like her father's thinking that she's no longer good enough to keep with him in combat.

She's failed him again. Just like she did with the Dorocha, just like she did with the High Priestess.

Morgana dunks her head into the water. Everything's muted underwater, and she doesn't have to think about problems when her brain's being deprived of oxygen. She rubs at her hair and skin to get the travel-dust out, pulling through the tangles with her fingers. It takes a while until she feels clean and human again. Merlin had thoughtfully left a pat of soap for her, as well as a towel and what looked like a shirt to wear until, as he had put it, "Arthur finally managed to find some decent clothes" for her.

"It'll give him something else to do than fret over everything," Merlin had muttered. Morgana thinks that's ridiculous; how would sending the High King on a quest for clothes make him feel better?

Men and their one-track minds. Morgana smiles a little to herself as she scrubs one last time and steps out of the tub. It's strange, but even just being in Arthur's presence has lifted her spirits. She hums while drying herself. The towel's pink with pompoms, and Morgana grins at that. There's something endearing about even his prattishness. She prays to all the gods that there is enough in him to fulfill his role as High King, because she doesn't know what would be more devastating: seeing Albion fall or seeing him fail. If he fails, it's going to destroy him utterly. She knows she won't be able to bear that-though why it would affect her so, she has no idea.

She shouldn't care. He's not family, not her responsibility, but she'd give her life for him and she doesn't know why. Shaking her head at the strangeness of that thought, she slips on the thick white shirt. It looks to be a man's shirt, the sleeves falling past her hands and the hem to below her knees, but it covers up enough to be relatively decent until she can find better clothes.

Her hair is still dripping, and she picks up the pink towel to dry her hair. Sitting on one of Arthur's chairs, she looks around his room while rubbing at her hair.

It's different from his chambers at Camelot. The messiness aside, it's comfortable enough even if it isn't luxurious as is befitting the High King. It was obviously meant for a married couple; the bed is a behemoth which looks as if it would comfortably fit three people.

Morgana bets Arthur hogs will hog all the blankets when he's married someday.

Arthur married. That's a thought she's not going to ponder right now. Thinking of it as the High King's marriage makes it easier to handle. The High King must marry well; his nuptials are as powerful a negotiating tool as any threat of war. He needs his throne stable, and a marriage could win him lifelong allies. He needs to marry a woman who will solidify his position.

Father probably has set up plans for the High King's marriage already.

The thought leaves a sour taste in her mind. Her hair now only damp, she drops the towel and stands up. She doesn't know how much time has passed, but she wonders when Arthur is going to come back.

Maybe he's been kidnapped by rampaging bears. She' s_ not_ going to rescue him.

* * *

Arthur curses to himself as he strides down the corridors.

Stupid Merlin. How on earth is he supposed to find _women's clothes_ of all things in this god-forsaken castle? He imagines knocking on Guinevere's door and saying, "Hello, Guinevere, if it isn't too much trouble, can I borrow one of your dresses?".

Not. Going. To. Happen.

Maybe Morgause can lend her sister some dresses. He should probably go to her room and ask _her_ to procure some clothing for Morgana. In fact, he can just get a servant to do it. After all, he is the High King. He has no reason to be rushing about on chores like this for random nobility.

But it's _Morgana._

And he still doesn't need to do it personally. And she'd probably laugh at him. And he'd never hear the end of this.

But none of the servants know Morgana's size. It's not like they see her regularly. There's no guarantee that they'll do the job right.

He's already arrived at Cenred and Morgause's chambers.

The servant in the antechamber stammer that Morgause is in the inner chamber, so Arthur waits for her to appear. She sweeps into the room with her usual stately presence.

"My lord. What brings you here?"

"Your sister has arrived in Glauchedon," Arthur begins, hands behind his back. Morgause nods.

"I am aware of that."

"She is currently lacking adequate clothes-would you be able to lend her some?"

Morgause raises an eyebrow. "My lord does realize that it could easily be done by servants?"

He flushes slightly. "I thought you would be best able to provide fitting clothes."

Morgause looks at him appraisingly. Suddenly, she smiles.

"I'm sure I can spare a few dresses. If my lord can wait a little." She goes into her inner chambers and reappears after a little while, holding a cloth bag.

"I must warn you, my lord, that if you hurt my sister in any way, I will find a way to ensure you pay painfully," she comments as she hands it to him.

Arthur blinks. "I'm...sorry?"

"As Morgana's sister, I will tolerate your relationship with her. But I will not tolerate you hurting her in any way," she enunciates.

Arthur feels a little indignant- who said anything about a relationship? And he's legally her liege- she shouldn't be able to talk to him like this. But he's strangely grateful, in some way. Not that he wants to tell Morgause, because it'll just feed the misguided misconceptions she's harboring.

Morgause nods, effectively dismissing him. Arthur blinks again before automatically leaving. It's only after he's walked halfway back to his chambers that he realizes that she's practically commanded him out of her chambers. Morgause's sheer presence is very imperious.

He shakes his head as he walks the remaining way. Well, at least he knows now that Morgause isn't averse to his courting Morgana. Except he wasn't. Courting Morgana, that is. Because that would be...that would be…

Okay, he's going to think about other things now. Like- like the war. There's a war going on. Morgana's here to report on the state of things in Cornwall. If Tintagel has fallen, that can only mean that the Saxons have established their own territory from the coast. With such a stronghold, it will be difficult to drive them out.

He lingers for a bit near the training grounds, watching the knights drill themselves. Men from the Ten Kingdom are training together, and his heart warms a little at the sight. But after around fifteen minutes, he remembers why he was walking around in the first place.

He doesn't quite rush back, but he reaches his chambers faster than he usually would have with that distance. He pushes open the doors to his chambers and enters.

Morgana looks up from one of his books. She raises an eyebrow and he's about to say something when he notices what she's wearing.

More specifically, what she's _not_ wearing. He gapes- because she's in only a man's shirt, and even if it does reach past her thighs it's considered scandalous for women to show their legs, period. And then he flushes, because he realizes it's actually _his_ shirt she's wearing and she looks _good_ in it, and there's something sensual about the way it drapes her form.

Morgana sees the way he's staring and clears her throat.

"Arthur."

He snaps out of it. "Your sister was willing to lend you some decent clothes."

She nods, and takes the bag. He's trying so hard not to look at her, it's rather endearing.

"If you'd leave for one minute?" She requests.

"Huh?" He shakes his head. "Of course, Morgana."

He slips back out and shuts the door behind him, earnestly _not _imagining her changing inside. He's so earnestly _not_ contemplating that thought that he's startled when she calls out, "You can come back in now, Arthur."

He enters hesitantly. When he sees her, he stares again. It's one of Morgause's red affairs, serviceable and very...impressionable.

"Getting a little flamboyant, are we?" He comments.

Morgana shrugs. "I can't exactly be choosy now, can I?"

Merlin chooses that moment to come in. "Morgana, they've finished clearing out one of the few remaining guest chambers-" he stops short when he sees her. "Wow. You look- wow."

Morgana smiles. "Thank you, Merlin." She turns to Arthur. "At least some people appreciate the dress."

Arthur scowls. "It's _Merlin._ Since when does he have a sense of style? Show him a woman in skirts and he'll gape."

Morgana rolls her eyes. "Merlin, if you could be so kind as to show me to my chambers?" She curtseys to Arthur. "If you'll excuse me."

Merlin opens the door and leaves first. Before slipping out, Morgana looks back at Arthur. "Thank you for finding me the dresses." She smiles at him before closing the door behind her.

Arthur smiles after her, but wipes it off when he realizes he's doing it.

* * *

"The Saxons have overtaken Tintagel; our scouts have confirmed they have established it as their primary base. Tintagel is ideally situated to intercept any movement to the southern coast, as well as between the forts of Cornwall. In essence, Cornwall has fallen completely under their control."

The Council of Kings- called as such though there are two queens involved- have gathered promptly to discuss the new development. Morgana stands proud, defiant, even as she impassively reports on the fall of her nation.

"The remaining forces have retreated to Fort Trelawne, our northernmost citadel. They have begun marching onwards, and there has recently been sighted movement of the majority of the invasion force apparently heading to the Plains of Peredor. A regiment of Cornwall, marching to join forces at Glauchedon, picked the forerunners and camp-setters off, but it is expected that they will attempt to set up camp nearby. It seems they wish to confront our alliance there."

"The Plains of Peredor are less than five leagues from Glauchedon," Arthur notes.

Morgana nods. "They seem to be planning to capture our primary base, then expand outwards. They will keep the Cornwall area as a base for their movement, but they seem to be underestimating our capacity to meet them in battle."

Bayard sets down his goblet. "We shall meet them head-on, show them that we are no mean foe. The blood of the Saxons will water the plains, give sustenance to the trees. We are Albion, and no barbarian invaders shall find us a wanting adversary."

He takes a breath, and Annis cuts in before he can turn his monologue into a full-blown speech. Arthur gives her a grateful look.

"There is no reason to meet them on their own terms. We can lead them to battlegrounds where we are greatly advantaged. Charging headlong into an evenly matched battle is foolish, especially with many of our forces spread out fighting to reclaim different citadels," she says.

Alined of Clarence nods, his fingers forming a tent. "Indeed, there's no need to pursue such a...profitless venture. It'd only deplete our treasuries while giving no clear outcome."

Rodor's son, Keredic of Nemeth, shakes his head. "But we need to show them our mettle. They'll be more brazen, more openly aggressive, if we don't teach them a lesson."

"It could be a chance to test the waters," Godwyn offers. "We have at least even odds."

"I'm not risking the lives of my men on a hopeless cause," Cenred states. "Show me we have winning odds, and I'll follow."

Olaf grunts. "I don't see any other choice. They're already marching here, aren't they? I say the only thing to do is meeting them in a frontal battle."

"Hear, hear!" Bayard shouts.

Morgause tosses her golden hair over her shoulder. "There's no need for reckless enthusiasm. Is there no other way to meet them? I dislike the odds of this."

"Peredor is the only place where both armies will meet on equal terms," Odin rumbles. "They won't attack Glauchedon, just as we won't attack Tintagel at full force."

"It's a clear move on the Saxons' part to show that they are determined to conquer the entirety of Albion," Morgana comments. "If they wished, they could have simply bypassed us to loot the villages and left. Instead, they challenge us directly. They want to be the rulers of Albion, and they're starting by challenging the sovereigns of the land."

Annis's son Bedwyr pipes up. "And we'll show them just how bad an idea that is. We have just as great a chance to triumph as them, and we know the lay of the land."

Morgana shakes her head exasperatedly. "The lay of the land will make no difference when it's a flat _plain _for leagues, and both armies are heading for frontal battles. We have no great advantage."

"But our men have fought in these conditions," Bedwyr argues. "who knows what it's like in wherever they came from?"

Arthur holds up a hand before the discussion can degenerate into an argument about whether the Saxon armies were disadvantaged or not. "The Saxons mean for us to meet them in a full frontal battle. Rodor, Godwyn, recall your forces attacking the captured citadels. We will meet their attack as a unified force, on the Plains of Peredor. In the meantime, Escetian forces and the Cornwall regiment will weaken them with raids on the camp-setters, sabotaging their attempts."

"Why Escetian?" Cenred questions. "Seems like a risky venture, to me."

Arthur acknowledges him, his displeasure at the open disrespect for his authority shown only through a tightening of his lips. "Escetian troops are renowned to be the swiftest in both attack and retreat, especially since the beginning of your reign. Their mobility suits them best to this task."

Cenred shrugs, apparently mollified by the compliment. No further objections are made.

"We march for Peredor tomorrow. Prepare your troops accordingly," Arthur commands. The monarchs bow, and one by one excuse themselves to do what is needed.

Morgana stays behind, walking over to where Arthur is leaning his head on the back of his chair.

"Do you believe we'll win?"

Arthur sweeps a hand across his hair. "We'll see soon enough."

She tilts her head. "Then you're not certain."

He glares at her. "When can you ever be?" he asks.

She lowers her eyes. "As you say, my lord." She looks at him. "My father awaits your orders."

"I will notify him soon," he replies. She nods, then sweeps out.

He doesn't know how this will end. But this path to war will be bloody, no matter the outcome.

* * *

"Troops, move out!" Arthur orders, his voice pitched to be heard by all the men. Columns of dust rise as the soldiers march out of Glauchedon to the skeleton camp already set up. It is midmorning, and the full force of United Albion leaves for Peredor.

The die has been cast. There's no turning back now.


	2. Fidelis et Moralis

"I can see them now."

Cenred of Escetia grunts at Morgana's words, kneeling on the ground with a tight grip on the reins.

"You're too loud."

The first of the Saxon camp-makers appear over the horizon, raising columns of dust. Crouched in the tall grass of the plain, Morgana holds her breath as she watches the procession and inwardly prays that the rest of the Saxon forces aren't directly behind the trailblazers.

They're in luck; the motley line of supply wagons and workers enter the Plains of Peredor unescorted. There seems to be only a small number of combatants in the group. Morgana makes as if to get up, but Cenred jerks his head sharply.

"We wait until we're sure there's no troops behind."

Morgana acquiesces, shifting to her haunches. "Better to catch them unawares, after they start working."

"Clever girl, aren't you?"

Their own raid party shifts restlessly - Cenred makes a swift gesture for them to settle down. Morgana raises an eyebrow.

"Very professional."

Cenred glares, then returns to surveillance. "The boy-king was right, this once. There's no risk to us; I doubt they're even armed. 'Ts going to be as easy as taking sweetmeats from a child."

"I'm touched to see you have so much faith in the High King you pledged yourself to," Morgana drawls.

"You'd know a lot about that, wouldn't you?"

"Shh," Morgana snaps, "I think that's all of them."

They lie in wait for a minute longer before Cenred finally nods.

"Let's get to it, then," he mutters. Morgana holds up a fist, then moves it in a circle twice before swinging it down-the order and the signal.

Cenred digs his heels into his horse, urging it to charge through the grass. His cavalry surprises the Saxon camp makers, bearing down on them as they rake through the motley group. The soldiers in Morgana's command gallop out of the foliage, circling them and lashing out at any who try to escape.

The Escetian horsemen regroup and charge back into the surrounded group. As the unarmed camp makers are slaughtered like cattle led to slaughter, Morgana orders her own men to close the circle, trampling the would-be escapees underfoot. She plunges her sword into a scout trembling as he waves around a small dirk, more boy than man, pulling it out and neatly cutting into a woman trying to run away before he even falls to his knees.

"Surrender now before you're all wiped out!" she bellows, "Surrender, or none will be spared!"

"They don't speak English! Saxons speak Saxon! There's no point!" Cenred shouts back.

Morgana growls, viciously stabbing another man making a run for it. She continues circling as she looks around for the only man among their number who speaks even a little Saxon.

"Alden!" she snaps, "Tell them to surrender or be killed. Now!"

The swordsman stands up in his stirrups. He yells something guttural to the Saxons- to Morgana it sounds like gibberish. Morgana holds up a hand, and Cenred reluctantly ceases his charge. Her men keeps them confined, but refrain from attacking. The Saxons mutter amongst themselves, a rumble rising above the clattering of hooves. A tense din. The horsemen circle in silence.

A man in a thick fur cloak who seems to be the leader of this settling group draws himself to his full height. He gesticulates imperiously, spitting words with obvious contempt. Though Morgana does not know the language he speaks, she understands the message clearly.

Over their bodies it was.

Cenred doesn't hesitate. He charges at them, leading his cavalry as they slice through the Saxons. Fresh corpses litter the ground as warm blood spurts into the air, freed from the constraints of arteries. Morgana isn't far behind.

"Spare no one!" she barks, "Man or woman, spare no one!"

She leads her men in closing the circle tighter, using the mounted advantage to cut down those attempting to fight back. One brawny woman swings a makeshift club at her head, and Morgana ducks before she slices her open from shoulder to navel.

Lost in the heat of battle, it is a while before she remembers that she has to seize the Saxon supplies as well. It seems as if some of the Saxons have just realized the same thing, because a number of them suddenly rush towards the abandoned supply wagons, some managing to slip through the horsemen. One wagon abruptly bursts into flame. Magic.

Morgana curses at herself for not thinking of magicians before galloping out to the wagons herself. Six of her men follow her, and they beat a deadly path brutally stabbing at the ones that have reached the wagons.

She notices five men and women placing their hands on another supply wagon. As Morgana thunders towards them, sword aloft, one of them turns and holds out her hands in a pleading gesture.

She runs the woman through without slowing the gallop.

It is impossible for her to tell which Saxon is the magician, or if all of them are mages. They huddle together, pressing their backs to the wagon and screaming those guttural gibberish words. She cannot determine whether it is their own brand of magic spells, or pleas for mercy.

Morgana cannot afford to take chances, not in war.

When she rides back to the circle of horsemen, she leaves behind four freshly slain corpses. The majority of the fighting- the slaughter- has already ended, and the raid party has surrounded the survivors. Under the orders relayed by Alden, they kneel and submit to being trussed up for transport.

One soldier pushing a woman roughly to the ground to be tied up is suddenly thrown to the ground forcefully. Morgana's eyes harden; it is definitely magic, and there is a magician among the survivors. The magician could potentially free every one of the survivors and escape to report to the Saxon warlords. And if the magician was strong enough, he or she could wreak massive damage to their relatively small raid party. Whoever it was, she had to seal the magic before transport. And she had to take him or her alive; the magician would be a valuable source of information.

She drags up a still struggling man on the ground. "Alden, you will tell them that either they identify the magician for us, or I start executions until they do."

Alden blanches, and stutters something to them. Fearful murmurs break out, but no one comes forward. Morgana's face turns blank. "Very well."

She swings her sword down on the man she has grabbed by the collars of his shirt. It is a clean kill, the sword biting into the throat for a quick death. She rides out a little more, and grabs another Saxon, injured this time. "You have one minute."

Her words are dutifully translated, though the man turns a little whiter. His tone becomes more insistent. 60 grave seconds, and her lips curl in disgust at the silence. The man is felled with another stroke, although with his stomach already pierced, it is more of a mercy killing than anything.

She looks around coldly, then snatches up a woman. "Do you need further proof of my words? Speak now, and you will be spared."

The woman spits in her face, snarling wordlessly. Morgana wordlessly wipes the spit from her face with a sleeve. This time, she doesn't wait a second longer than a minute before disposing of her.

"This is my final warning. Tell us who the magician is and you will be spared. Keep your silence and I will personally oversee executions for each and every one of you, down to the last boy." Her eyes flash, and as Alden translates, she drags by the shirt a boy, no older than sixteen, from her seat on the horse. "My final warning."

The boy whimpers, then whispers something. Morgana loosens her grip on his collar, but doesn't release him. His voice grows louder, and he stretches out his arm. Morgana raises her sword, and he quakes, shouting something to Alden.

"The boy says the woman in the blue dress, milady. The brown-haired one. She's a witch, he says," Alden translates. Morgana nods, and releases the boy. He drops to the ground.

The woman who has been identified as the magician hisses in anger. Her eyes glow gold as she starts chanting a spell. She points a spindly finger at Morgana directly, chanting faster and faster.

Morgana drops to the ground as a burst of fire flies to where her head had been less than a minute ago. Cenred gets two of his men to restrain the woman, but the woman struggles against them and continues her chanting, eyes flashing yellow again.

This time, Morgana is prepared. She throws up her own shield as kinetic magic pushes at her. Reaching the now restrained woman, she takes out the enchanted chains from her saddlebag and shackles the woman.

The Saxon magician's face goes slack and then fearful. She starts keening in horror, but Cenred loses patience and slaps her before gagging her as well.

The possessing of the remaining supplies and securing the captives goes smoothly after the magician has been neutralized. Morgana stands next to King Cenred, overseeing the men's work. They stand in silence for a little.

One of their men salute them. "My lord, my lady, the total number of camp followers has been counted at a little over three hundred. The number of captives is one hundred fourty four."

"And our men?" Morgana questions.

"Sixty of our regiment possess injuries ranging from near-fatal to bruises. Thirty of the total two hundred has died in action, with magic being the most common cause."

She nods curtly, effectively dismissing the officer. Another short pause, and Cenred looks at her appraisingly.

"There were women."

Morgana grimaces, but doesn't look at him. "It was a necessary sacrifice. Camp followers and setters are an essential part of the army. They had to be eliminated."

"I'm not questioning you, sister-in-law," he shrugs.

"Don't call me that."

"Well, Princess Morgana, you're as dark as they say. Even Morgause isn't so bloodthirsty."

She tosses down the rag she's been using to wipe her sword and turns to face him fully.

"Say that again and I'll ensure your painful death, sister's husband or no."

Cenred only smirks. "Ruthless little tyrant, aren't you? 'For the good of the people', you say. But tell me, is that really the reason? 'Good' is something that doesn't exist in your heart, I wager."

"And what use is 'good' when my people starve and the Saxons attack? Efficiency is a far greater virtue," Morgana retorts. "What use is highbrow morality when I can't help my people?"

"You _enjoy _the killing, little sister-in-law. You're as twisted as they come."

Morgana presses her lips into a tight line and turns away. "You've no right to lecture me; you're just as twisted as me. Your only redeeming grace is having married my sister."

"Morgause loves me the way I am," Cenred smirks.

"I don't need details on your marital life."

"And shouldn't the little princess have been married off by now? Don't worry, we'll find someone who'll take you."

"I'm sure," Morgana simpers sarcastically, then glares. "Why my sister chose you I'll never understand. Brute."

"Wench."

"Bastard."

"Jade."

As Morgana opens her mouth to fire another insult, the sound of clapping hooves becomes audible from a distance. Cenred turns, argument forgotten.

"If that's the Saxons…"

She squints in the direction of the sound. "Can't be. I doubt they could have passed the patrols and went around all this way simply to ambush us."

"Troops, at the ready," Cenred calls, pulling out both swords and kicking aside the corpse of a woman. Morgana continues staring in the direction, trying to identify the newcomers.

It doesn't take long before the distant shapes turn into knights on horseback. Her eyes widen as she catches sight of the standard.

"The High King," Morgana says. She abruptly looks back at the carnage. The brutally massacred camp followers are strewn about, freshly spilled blood pooling in the dirt. She turns to Cenred.

"He won't be happy about this."

* * *

The legions have already begun fortifying the camp; Arthur has made sure that there would be no international bickers so far. The Nemeth troops under Rodor's command have been received into the forces, and Godwyn had sent word that he would arrive the next morning. Everything finally having been sorted and no longer requiring his presence for every little detail, Arthur had decided to join Morgana and Cenred to scout the Saxon's intended camps.

It is a little while before he reaches the part of the plains targeted by the Saxons as their camp. The air is devoid of the sound of clashing swords and struggling men, and he realizes that the battle must already have been over.

Morgana and Cenred are chilliingly competent. He doesn't like sending her out with other men, but Cenred is her brother-in-law and the best candidate. He has no doubt that they have succeeded in disrupting the camp-building of the Saxons.

Morgana can't be injured. That's the thought that dominates his mind as he urges his horse towards the now visible troops. There's no way she'd let herself be harmed. He thinks he can see her now among the forest of soldiers, hair whipping about her shoulders in the wind.

And then he really can, because she and Cenred come forward to meet him. He pulls at the reins and halts his horse, the knights of Camelot falling into formation behind him.

"King Cenred, Morgana. You're unharmed?" The question is ostensibly aimed at both of them, but he has eyes only for Morgana.

Cenred grunts, and Morgana nods.

"How goes the preparations?" she queries.

"Rodor's come in, and Godwyn…" his voice trickles off in horror as he catches sight of the carnage spread behind them. His eyes widen and words are lost to him.

Morgana follows his gaze and stiffens.

"Arthur, you have to understand-"

Arthur ignores her, glaring at Cenred. Rage brings his voice back.

"What have you done, King Cenred?" He pushes past them to fully see the aftermath of the battle. Bile stings at the back of his throat.

It's a massacre. That's the only name for it. He nearly trips over the sprawled corpse of a woman, a jagged gash on her torso and face eternally frozen in terror. There's a boy with the stubble of manhood barely starting to show, slumped over in a grotesque parody of sleep. He looks down to see yet another girl stiff in the last clutches of her death throes. He's horrified to find that the only weapons littering the ground are rudimentary; these are civilians, not a savage army. Caught in the crossfire- they didn't deserve this.

He takes a breath to calm himself. Morgana couldn't have done this. Not her. Not her. It had to be Cenred; the man was pitiless. The camp-makers could easily have been taken captive; they were defenseless, Saxon or not. Only someone heartless would have ordered them killed.

"King Cenred. I ordered you to disrupt the establishment of the Saxon camps, nothing more."

"They wouldn't surrender. We had no choice," Morgana states. She turns to her men, awkwardly milling around in the presence of the High King. "Secure the parameters and keep the captives in line." No need for them to witness their commanders being scolded. Trust is essential for a successful campaign, and this wouldn't help any. She wordlessly wishes that Arthur could have had the patience to have this in private.

The soldiers salute her and leave, relieved to be away before the argument breaks on them. Cenred's men follow them, though she technically has no control over them.

"There are captives?" Arthur looks at her directly. "They weren't all killed?"

"There were too many of them. They could have mobbed us otherwise. Too many captives to keep, almost. They meant to settle here, no doubt about that," Cenred replies in her stead.

"They were unarmed!" Arthur explodes. "You ordered them killed anyways!"

Cenred shook his head in a curt motion. "Not me."

Arthur stares incredulously. "Of course it was you! Who else would…" his gaze finds its way to Morgana.

"Morgana?"

Morgana raises her chin. She meets his eyes unapologetically. "What else would you have had me done?"

He stutters. "Morgana, you can't-" he turns to look at the carnage. "there were _children_, Morgana."

"Children who wouldn't hesitate to gut you," she retorts, "children who'd grow up to wage war against Albion."

"Children who are not to blame for the sins of their fathers," Arthur speaks quietly, "or have you forgotten?"

He turns away and watches as the last of the captives are led away. Neither Cenred nor Morgana speak; the frosty silence only grows as the soldiers slowly filter from the plains back to camp.

* * *

Morgana follows Arthur at a distance as he rides around the Saxon camp site, escorting him even as she seethes quietly.

"Children who are not to blame for the sins of their fathers," he had said. Of course Arthur would see it that way- Arthur, still fighting against the shadows of his own father's reign. Arthur, always the light to her own darkness. He doesn't see it's not a matter of right and wrong, but cold survival.

That's the difference between him and her, she thinks. She does what is necessary; she will be heartless so he does not need to be. Sometimes you have to do what's right, and damn the consequences. If she has to get her hands dirty and her soul sullied to keep Arthur and that strange brand of _innocence _safe, then she'll dye them dripping red with blood without even hesitating.

He'd understand someday. Albion and Arthur need morality on their side; Morgana knows that sacrificing her own conscience for them is the 'right' thing to do, if there ever was one. She'd be ruthless so Arthur doesn't have to be.

She swallows before riding over to block his path and forcing herself to meet Arthur's eyes, brilliant cobalt in the morning sun.

"Your objective was for us to prevent the establishment of Saxon camps. We did so, using our discretion. What do you find objectionable, my liege?" Her voice doesn't tremble as she forces the callous words out. It's so, so hard to look at Arthur, his eyes mired with horror and disappointment and that unbearable revulsion, as if he's suddenly realized she's a monster.

Well, she's been a monster for far longer than this. It was time he learned that, anyways.

Arthur blinks once. He clenches his chin and urges his horse past her, his eyes cold.

"We fight to ensure our people is free, to defend the innocents under our protection. What gives us the right to attack unarmed people like common bandits?" He tosses over his shoulder.

Morgana refuses to let him have the high ground. Let him be spared from heartlessness, but he can _not_ be complacent in that. Not with the flickering shadows of ghostly remnants threatening to crowd her.

"What makes this battle right?" she shouts after him. "What is it that makes us entitled to slaughter the Saxons for our people?" She's upset now, and she doesn't know why. Her voice rises. "Tell me how the Saxons are wrong to want a fertile home. Tell me how they're barbarians who can't be allowed to settle in Albion." Her hands tremble as she all but screams to him. "_Tell _me, Arthur. What makes this right?"

Arthur doesn't turn back. "You seem to know the answer, Morgana," he says coldly. "Why ask me?" He rides on.

Morgana breathes heavily from her outburst. A flicker wisps at the edges of her peripheral vision. She slowly runs a hand through her hair, gulping shuddering breaths of air.

She will _not_ cry. Not for something as trivial as this.

She's been doing this for more than half her life. It shouldn't bother her that Arthur sees differently; how ironic that the son of Pendragon is the moral one. The funny thing is- oh, how she fools herself- the funny thing is that she thought he'd _accept _her_. _Thought he knew what it was like to be in war, thought he'd _appreciate _the choice she's made, even. They are the same, she'd thought. Foolish child. Foolish, foolish child.

Because the thing about _magic_, _her_ magic, is that it doesn't like the life she's chosen. Morgause wields destruction and power with ease, her magic grand and majestic- just another tool for the golden sister. Morgana's magic wants to lead her life for her. It's as unpredictable as the tides and twice as unruly. It keeps shifting like something alive within her, flowing and coiling and submitting to her will only with greatest force. The basic wards and scrying and telekinesis she can do. But she can't do magic like Merlin, much as she tries. Her magic pulses, feeds into the life around her, wanting to create, to heal, to harmonize- in short, to be absolutely useless. She can't harness the awe-inspiring forces of nature. She can't summon whirlwinds, nor can she weave complex spells.

What she can do is see the ghosts of _her_ dead crowding her soul.

The ones dead by her hand, that is. Her magic gathers them, forces her to see them in their bloody glory, eating away at her sanity. She'd told Arthur that, once. He hadn't understood. "Why do you laugh?" he had asked her.

_I laugh because there's nothing else to do. I laugh because I'll keep doing it even if it smothers my soul. _She could have told him.

I laugh because it's for you. You think I enjoy the killing? I _see_ them haunting me. It's for you, for our people.

Always for you.

Never again, she promises herself. Arthur is her liege. Never again will she delude herself into thinking he could accept her.

She squeezes her eyes shut against the approaching specters with their gaping mouths and their grasping hands. When she dares open them again, she's alone in the field.

Alone but for the spirits held back for a little while to torment her all the more.


	3. Tempestas Conveniens

**Thank you so much to all the reviewers! You really make my day, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!**

* * *

"We're nearly there."

That's a false statement if ever there was one, but Morgana is too tired to do anything but nod at Merlin's words. The number of captives that are suspected of having magic is quite large, and all of them have to be screened for magic before they too are put into the makeshift dungeons in the camp. The limited space means the prisoners are stuffed in like livestock; sending the majority off to Glauchedon has been discussed as a necessary course of action. Morgana wryly thinks that Arthur had obviously never taken care of logistics; already the Albion camp's resources were strained, and if they had spared more of the camp-makers, they would simply have had no place to put the captives.

A small group of magic-users from all of Albion are going through the rows and rows of bound captives, eyes glinting gold as they use the same spell over and over. There are quite a lot of them in the legion from which this group was made; magic users are afforded better work regimes and more protection. Magicians are simply more valuable. Even those with only hints of magic had joined the magician legion instead of staying at the regular infantry or cavalry.

It should have been a good thing, this swelling of their ranks, if only there was not such a wide range of ability. There were those who could barely light a flame, elementalists who only worked with certain mediums, seers like herself whose powers were frankly useless in battle, and then there were people like Merlin, whose magic simply played to a different tune. This is no magician troop.

Morgause seems to be thinking the same thing as she watches the magicians work. She meets Morgana's eyes and gives a curt shake, her lips pressed into a thin line.

Morgause tolerates fools and incompetence badly; it's a family trait, it seems. And this is excruciating to both of them. Over there Morgana can see a woman stuttering the words of the spell they've taught, barely forming the tell-tale glimmer. But it's better than the boy right in front of her, who seems to be deluded in his capability for magic. Her sister gets there before she can reprimand him.

"You are clearly unfit for this legion," Morgause hisses, her eyes narrowed. "What is your name?"

"O...Orend, my lady," he stutters. "Orend from L...Logres." Poor boy. He's probably fresh from a farm somewhere on the edges of Godwyn's territory, conscripted for the war. If only he'd stayed there.

"Orend," Morgause spits out disdainfully. "It seems you do not understand simple instructions. What is the spell for the detection of magic?"

"Ae...aetee mei Drycraft in onnuap," the boy whispers, trembling.

"I have no need for idiot deceivers who lie about their power," Morgause snaps. She slowly raises a hand. "Ætíe mé Drycræftinne onwunaþ!"

There is a blinding flash of light, a powerful manifestation of the usual indicator. Unlike the weak glows that most of the magicians produce, it is constant and bright, swirling around the cowering boy. It stays indisputably yellow, the color of non-magicians. Morgause's voice drops ominously.

"So," she says, "we are right, it seems. You are no magician." She starts circling him, looming over the boy though she is far shorter. "You have lied to us."

Suddenly she shouts, "Your falsehood is a betrayal of Albion! Your life is forfeit. Wretched fool!" Her hand traces a circle in the air, and Morgana winces as she recognizes the beginnings of the spell that will condemn the boy to a fiery death. She has to stop this, but she has to do it in a way that will not make her sister lose face or plant impressions of discord in the leadership.

But as Morgause begins chanting the words, Morgana realizes there's no way she can just pull her aside now. She has to confront her head-on, and that means stopping her spell first-

As she steps forward and raises a hand, Merlin simply cuts Morgause off.

"You can't do that."

Morgause's eyes flicker from feral yellow back to brown. "You." She's imposing in her fury. Merlin doesn't back down.

"The boy did nothing wrong," he says, "you can't punish him."

"You cannot order me, glorified peasant boy, in disciplining my own troops. Go and report back to the High King, if you wish." Morgause's voice is contemptuous.

Merlin takes a step forward. "I can, because I am a magician in my own right and a commander of this legion." His eyes flicker gold. "You don't want to challenge me."

"You would try me, Emrys?" Morgause is impassive, but Morgana can see the seething anger inside her. Merlin looks at Morgause.

"If I have to."

Morgana clenches her teeth. This is Arthur all over again. She can't risk the troops' already disintegrating respect for command from this argument.

She raises her voice imperiously. "You, Orend, will return to your previous legion. But for your lies, simply to get a superior position, you will be punished under martial law for deception and attempted insubordination."

People blanch; insubordination is a serious offense in and of itself, of which the punishment can range from ten strokes of the whip all the way to hanging. Added with willful deception, which is another dozen stripes, it is by no means a light punishment. Neither Morgause nor Merlin look happy, but she really doesn't care much about that right now. All she wants is to finish this as quickly as possible so she can go to her chambers and try to ignore the ghosts swimming in her vision.

Morgause is quick to regain composure.

"If there is any more scum who have lied, they will be hanged," she proclaims. "I will grant a five-minute grace for such imposters to take their leave." She turns away. Morgana and Merlin follow suit, and when they turn back around a tenth of the legion has made themselves scarce. Morgana tightens her mouth, but does not speak. The flickers of the already dead reach a little closer.

"We should finish the screenings," Merlin comments, making his way to the remaining captives. "You may be dismissed as soon as we are done."

The remaining magicians thankfully possess enough magic to pull off the spell to a satisfactory degree. With another handful of Saxon magic-users winnowed out, they are finally finished with the task. The magicians file back to their private quarters, leaving Morgana, Merlin, and Morgause on the grounds.

Morgause raises her chin at the Saxon magicians being dragged away. "You've been lax, sister."

Morgana gives a curt nod, ignoring the faces of the dead Saxon magicians at the edges of her vision. She had known that the brown-haired magician that she identified through on-the-spot executions couldn't have been the only magic-user left in the camp-makers; she had gambled on the rest of the magicians biding their time to attack. They had been waiting for the perfect opportunity to wreak havoc, only to be foiled when they were all shut in makeshift prisons enchanted to reflect magic. But it had been a risky choice.

"You should have screened them before you brought them to camp," Morgause continues. "You yourself of all people should have known, considering what happened during the First Ca-"

Morgana cuts her off. "I know what happened. And it did not happen this time." She looks at them both. "How goes the magician legion?"

Morgause's lips curl in disdain. "It is hardly a legion. They do not know how to fight together. Our troubles have just begun."

"You know magic," Merlin says, ignoring Morgause, "It's so varied we can't find a way to use battle orders. Queen Morgause is annoyed by that."

"In Cornwall we curbed its power to our will," Morgause retorts, "and we used them to turn the tides. Here, over a quarter are incompetent, barely hedgewitches, and the others all divide on their customs and spells."

"We need them," Morgana says to her. "You know our Cornish magicians had to be distributed amongst the troops."

Merlin sighs. "It's...just not going too well."

"You can train them, can't you?" Morgana asks her sister. "You always took care of that in Cornwall."

"In Cornwall, we had competent magicians, not this hodgepodge of idiots," Morgause says bitterly.

As Merlin opens his mouth to say something, a page brandishing a scroll presents himself to them.

"Queen Morgause, your majesty, the High King requires your presence in the Council of Kings immediately."

Morgause nods. "Come, Morgana."

The page shakes his head. "My lady, the High King specifically asked for only your presence."

Morgana and Morgause exchanges looks. Merlin quirks his head.

"Is that so?"

The page nods vigorously. "There is a message for the Princess Morgana. And The High King expects your presence afterwards, Master Merlin."

Morgana grimaces as she takes the little note the boy extracts from the scroll. Arthur's not _too_ petty, not in matters like this, but had the morning's events broken all of his trust in her? She looks down to read the note.

_Heirs and Princes to meet each other in separate council. Lesser Council Tent. _

There is no signature, no warmth in the writing. Only the impersonal orders of the High King. She looks up at both Morgause and Merlin looking at her with what seems to be concern.

"I'm to meet the princes while the Council of Kings meet."

"Bedwyr, Cador, and Keredic?" Morgause questions. She shrugs.

"Princess Elena has elected to stay home and take care of affairs there. And Vivian-" she frowns a little. "I don't know whether the High King would invite her in the council."

"Vivian," Morgause spits out, 'has little in her head other than thoughts of her grand love for Arthur. You'd think someone would have figured out what's wrong by now."

Merlin wilts a little. "You heard?"

"You are unobservant, Emrys. That is obvious."

Morgana changes the topic before the antagonism can rise. "Galahad is to stay in Escetia?"

Morgause nods, her face softening at the thought of her son. "I doubt Arthur even knows that Escetia has a prince, let alone invited him to confer with the other princes. You both were….preoccupied at the time of his birth."

"Nimue's quest was inconveniently timed, certainly. And you did come to see me when we returned and I was...indisposed. Though you had to leave soon after for Galahad. In any case, I don't think the High King would summon a two-year-old infant to the battleground, as precocious as Galahad is."

Merlin, who seems rather confounded, breaks into the conversation. "Who's this Galahad?"

Both sisters turn to face him. Morgana looks at her sister. "That answers your question. Camelot doesn't know."

"My son, Emrys," Morgause drawls. "Prince Galahad of Escetia."

Morgana grins as Merlin's face goes from surprised to absolutely horrified as realization sinks in. He's slack-jawed as he stutters.

"You mean...you and- and - Cenred- son?"

Morgause's lips stretch into a predatory smile. "Yes, Emrys. Our son."

Merlin flinches and blurts some excuse about having to wait for Arthur before rushing off, his face turning tomato red.

Morgause raises an eyebrow at his rapidly retreating back.

"He is hopelessly naïve."

"But he wields more power than any of us," Morgana reminds. Morgause shrugs.

"I must follow Arthur's summons, sister."

Morgana nods. "And I should meet the princes."

They part ways at the first wall erected as defense for the camp. Morgana sighs before turning out the flap of the tent allocated as the meeting place.

Bedwyr, son of Annis. Cador, brother of Vivian and son of Olaf. Keredic, Rodor's eldest son.

This will be painful.

* * *

Arthur nods at Morgause as she makes her way into the tent, head held high. Cenred receives his wife with a knowing grin as she sits besides him. The tent provides just enough shade to make the July sun bearable. The charmed breeze keeps their tempers sufficiently low.

"The Saxons are determined to set up camp at Peredor," Arthur begins without preamble. "They still wish to engage us in full battle."

Cenred shrugs. "Today's raid was a success. We can simply undermine their camps until they run out of support civilians."

"No." Arthur's voice is cold. "We will not attack non-combatants."

Many of the kings mutter amongst themselves. Odin speaks up.

"This is war, boy. We do whatever we can to win."

"We are Albion, and we do not murder innocents," Arthur declares coldly.

Godwyn nibbles his lower lip. "As you say, your majesty, but it gives them an advantage."

"If we allow the Saxons to continue making camps, they will pin us down here. We will not be able to move from Peredor," Morgause claims. "This is unwise, High King Arthur."

Annis shakes her head once. "We can win this war without resorting to underhanded tricks." She looks at Arthur. "You have heart."

"I will not let the Saxons destroy the principles we strive for," Arthur states. Rodor nods gravely.

"We are not savages, to murder their women and children in cold blood."

"It would be against our honor," Olaf grunts.

Alined fiddles with his rings. "It would be a costly sacrifice. We can't afford a drawn-out campaign."

"We can't become the enemy we fight," Arthur replies. "That is worth more than coins and jewels."

"What's this about coins and jewels?" Bayard comes booming into the tent. "I received your summons, High King Arthur."

Arthur nods in acknowledgement. Bayard takes a seat and looks around. "There's not been an argument?"

Odin grumbles, "The High King will not allow us to attack the camp-followers."

"Interesting," Bayard says, "And the Saxons?"

"Have no such qualms," Morgause replies. "They wish to confront us at Peredor and entrench themselves there."

"And are we going to meet their challenge?" Bayard asks.

Arthur frowns. "We have to decide."

"But of course we must," Bayard booms out. "We must prove our mettle! These puny Saxons shall cower when they see the strength of our forces! And the day…"

"Enough, Bayard," Annis cuts in as massages her temples. "We have sufficient forces to form detachments, attack from different fronts."

Odin looks at her. "Many fronts, we'll be worse off."

"I do believe a frontal battle with all our combined forces will be least risky," Alined voices.

"Witless thing to do," Cenred mutters, "charging off in a line screaming bloody murder."

Arthur raises a hand to silence them. "A compromise, then." He moves two of the Saxon markers to Peredor on the map. "When we receive them in battle, we divide into two and press them in a pincer formation. We maintain one front throughout the army, but the Saxons will be besieged on all sides."

Morgause nods acknowledgement. "Acceptable."

Olaf grunts acquiescence, and Alined shrugs. Annis has a faint smile on her face as she voices her approval.

"More than acceptable, Pendragon. Gorlois may have been right," she says. He doesn't quite know how to respond to that, but the surge of gratitude warms him.

The rest of the Council of Kings show varying levels of support, but there is no dissention. They work out their positions and allot roles for hours before finally breaking council.

By the end, Arthur is more than ready to collapse on his cot. But he still has to confer with Merlin, and there's an endless array of tasks to complete. He sighs.

At least the hardest part was done.

* * *

Morgana smiles sweetly as she sits down to the table where a midday repast has been set up for the four heirs.

"My lords," she nods as the rest make themselves comfortable, "it is an honor to meet you all in person."

Bedwyr bows slightly. "Princess Morgana." He's the most familiar to Morgana out of the three princes- Annis is an old friend of her father, and Bedwyr had sometimes accompanied his mother in her visits to Cornwall. The longest time they'd interacted was back when she was seven and he was ten, when she had a broken leg from a fall and had been stuck indoors for the three weeks of his visit. They'd only met briefly after that.

Keredic and Cador acknowledge her with bows and sit. She knows little about either prince, only that Cador is five years younger than her, and Keredic is older than her by four years.

They start eating in silence. It is awkward, with the clattering of eating utensils being the loudest noise in the room. Morgana decides conversation isn't happening unless she starts it.

"How do you find-"

"I hear that the camps-" Keredic begins at the same time. Even more awkward. If only she'd waited a few seconds.

"Please go on-"

"No, it's quite alright-"

She smiles warmly . "I insist."

Keredic nods. "I hear that our camps have been completed. Are they to your liking?"

"They'd be better without the heat," Bedwyr answers, "but they're set up well."

"I hear even High King Arthur sleeps in a tent," Cador pipes up, his voice just barely turned to manhood. "The soldiers found that encouraging."

Morgana smiles and nods, picking up the conversation. "Our High King is admirable, to be sure. His men would follow him anywhere."

"He used to win all the tournaments back when he was a prince," Keredic remarks. "Finest swordsmanship I ever saw." She looks at him gratefully for picking up the ball.

"I went to the Five Kingdoms Tourney, the last one he competed in," Cador adds eagerly, "He beat that Moor with the whirling swords in four minutes flat!"

"Four years ago, in Escetia?" Morgana asks, "I recall you acquitted yourself well in the jousting, Prince Bedwyr."

Bedwyr smiles a little smugly. "You remember it?"

"Your unhorsing of Lord Elyan was impressive," Morgana nods, then looks at Keredic. "I'm afraid I don't remember your presence at the Tourney, Prince Keredic."

"Matters of state," Keredic shrugs. "I was never good at such displays, in any case."

The talk of tournaments makes for easier conversation as they drink the light ale and consume the stew and bread set out, but Morgana can't help feeling a little frustrated. What did Arthur want her to do, talking to these princes? Better cooperation, perhaps. Maybe even comradeship, or even an acquaintance so they'd all work better together. For the time being, it is better to continue in this direction. Cador's exclamation brings her back into the conversation.

"And the trick you did, with the mace!" He's waving his spoon animatedly as he talks to Bedwyr about a recent tourney. The older prince doesn't seem to be unhappy with the attention, either.

"It wasn't too hard," Bedwyr says, "the man was sloppy and his grip kept sliding everywhere. You didn't do bad either, Cador."

Keredic seems rather uncomfortable with the conversation, taking part in it as little as possible. "Your first tourney, was it, Prince Cador?"

"The very one," Cador nods, "It was amazing!." He turns back to Bedwyr- the two seem to be building up quite a rapport.

"You won the joust in that one too, didn't you?"

"Aye. But the lady was lackluster," Bedwyr shrugs, mouth grimacing. "Not a beauty by any means, and her hair was stringy."

He's referring to the customary 'lady of the tourney' custom in which one lady is the "prize" for the winner, presenting the prizes and accompanying him to the feast. Morgana's the uncomfortable one now.

Cador snorts. "Lady Elaine, you mean? Of Angcaster? The mousy one with the _nose?_"

"The one with the nose," Bedwyr affirms, "And practically throwing herself at me."

"Lanie wouldn't…" Keredic fidgets, but is ignored.

"Really, they should have chosen a decent woman. I nearly threw the match when I saw her. The lady shouldn't be embarrassing to be with," Bedwyr continues. He gives Morgana a smile. "Anyone would consider escorting one such as you an honor, Princess Morgana."

Morgana nods at the compliment, but it's a lot of effort to keep a smile on her face. They need to be friendly with each other, they're allies, they're allies. Even if this exchange is...degrading, she needs to keep on good terms with them.

"I'm flattered you think so well of me," she says. "But I'm sure Lady Elaine was excellent company. She's an accomplished woman, and intelligent too."

"What's the use of that?" Cador blithely asks. "All that's required of her is to sit still and look pretty. She's not even properly landed- her father is some baron?"

Keredic clears his throat. "She's my cousin, actually. On my mother's side. Lanie and I spent our summers together."

"And I pity you," Cador laughs, "to have to have been in the company of such a nose!" Bedwyr glances at Keredic, but doesn't rebuke Cador. Keredic's face hardens.

Morgana looks between him and Bedwyr, mortified. "I...I know Lady Elaine to be a great horsewoman," she offers lamely, "you must have ridden with her often."

"She always beats me, Elaine," Keredic replies, relaxing a fraction. "She loves her horses."

"Are there good…." Morgana tries to continue, but winces inwardly as she is cut off by Cador's guffaw.

"Better and better!" he calls, "so she's an unruly wildereen as well."

Morgana almost bangs her head on the table in exasperation as Keredic clenches his fist around the fork and knife.

"I consider Lady Elaine to be a fine companion," he bites out icily, "and I regret you don't think the same. But I would rather she not be a subject of our conversation. We are men, not hens clucking gossip over their knitting."

An awkward silence sweeps through the tent. Morgana bites her lips and desperately wishes Arthur or Morgause were here.

"The Saxons have been confirmed to be nearing Glauchedon now," she offers tentatively , hoping to break the tension in the room. "There are disagreements over whether we should march to confront them head-on, or use a more complex strategy."

Bedwyr is the first to loosen. "There's no need for subterfuge here. We can crush the Saxons any day in a straight battle, as men."

"That's true," Cador agrees, "but these barbarians are so dim, they'd never know what hit them if we chose a different strategy."

"All the more reason to confront them head-on," Bedwyr says. "Why wait when we have the advantage?"

Keredic finally lets go of the tension balled up in him. "Less loss of life, I suppose," he remarks offhand.

"Bah," Bedwyr waves his hand around, "it's too complicated to bother with."

"We've scouted the region," Morgana comments, "they were using a different layout of camp from the ones they used before. They seem to know the lay of the land; it looks like they're adapting."

Cador snorts. "Of course not! They couldn't possibly. You're reading too much into it, Princess Morgana."

"It's common for an inexperienced general to overestimate an enemy," Bedwyr adds condescendingly. "You needn't worry."

Morgana gives a bright, fake smile. "I'll be careful to not make that mistake," she says. "I do believe they do know something, though. They've not made any missteps so far."

"The Continent people have such delicate constitutions, they won't survive winter," Bedwyr states smugly. "It'll wipe them out."

"If only it wasn't the middle of July," Morgana remarks.

"We'll triumph long before then," Cador snaps, "so you need not worry your pretty little head."

Morgana bristles. "I'm afraid it's my concern," she says. "The Cornwall regiment is usually placed at the vanguard."

"Are you questioning our competence?" Bedwyr questions, leaning forward. Morgana grits her teeth.

"Of course not," she forces out in an imitation of a placating tone. "We are to work together, after all."

"Truth be told, I don't know why you're here," Cador remarks artlessly, "a woman's place is not on the battlefield, but at home. Some women just don't understand that. A military camp is no place for you."

"She's representing her father of course," Bedwyr remarks, " in the absence of a son. I won't question your presence here."

"How...thoughtful," Morgana replies.

"But really, you should be at Camelot at least," Cador shakes his head. "We managed to get my _sister_ to see reason at least. You seem to be a decent sort of lady, Princess Morgana, you should know better."

"Princess Morgana is entitled to her own decisions," Keredic speaks. His tone is casual, but he's looking sharply at the younger prince.

"I have been given command over the Cornwall forces here," Morgana says. "I will be fighting alongside you all."

"I suppose _you're _against the frontal charge," Bedwyr says contemptuously.

"I am ambivalent, my lord," Morgana answers. "We have not yet seen how the Saxons are planning their strike."

"It shouldn't be much difference whatever happens," he retorts.

"It reassures me, in any case."

"Are you questioning our capabilities as military commanders?" Bedwyr barks, "I've noticed that you have far too many doubts regarding our decisions." He glares at Morgana. "You would do well to remember your place, my lady. I understand this may not be your area of expertise, but it does not behoove you to question everything."

"What do you even know about warfare? You with your head full of embroidery and flower arranging," Cador adds, glaring. "You have no right to doubt our capacity and knowledge- what do you even know about us?"

Morgana stares at him, eyes cold. She will not- cannot- tolerate this any longer. Forget Arthur and what he expects her to do. She's not going to allow these misogynic blusterers to continue any longer.

"What do I know about you?" Morgana asks. "Cador of Cantia. Proficient in swordsmanship; unused to ranged weapons. Right-handed, but favors left side. Leaves gaps on the right when lunging. Aggressive style of fencing, but weak in defense." She rounds on him fully. "Footwork slow; reasonable stamina to account for low agility. Has a habit of making rash decisions. Heir to the throne; takes care of affairs when King Olaf goes on diplomatic trips with Princess Vivian. Relationship with sister, estranged." Morgana pauses. "Need I go on?"

Cador glares at her. The silent confrontation lies heavy between them. She doesn't care anymore. If she's going to work with these princes as peers and equals, they need to respect her as such. She is a veteran of two major wars and countless skirmishes, and she refuses to allow them to forget that.

"I hear the only reason you've been given command is because you've got the other men at your beck and call," Cador whispers menacingly. "Don't expect us to do the same."

Keredic speaks up after having watched the exchange in silence. "That's enough, Prince Cador."

"There are rumors about you and the High King," Cador continues, ignoring him. "You've bewitched him, made him fall in love with you so you could grasp more power."

Morgana's trembling with rage. "How dare you."

"Perhaps we should finish the meal now," Keredic tries again. She can see he's worried about the way this conversation is going. But Bedwyr ruins his efforts.

"You were part of his entourage when the Ten Kingdoms swore fealty to him," he says thoughtfully. "I thought nothing of it at the time. But it is strange- your father became a duke under High King Arthur, but you were the one at Arthur's side. The High King still speaks to you far too often. Perhaps..."

Morgana slams a hand down to the table. "Enough." She stares him down. "I refuse to listen to this _speculation_. I am a general of the High King, and I have earned my place. You have no right to question my presence here, nor my relationship with the High King."

There is a brief pause in conversation. Cador is still red-faced and seething antagonism, while Bedwyr meets her gaze coldly.

"I think we have all had enough," Keredic says quietly. "Perhaps we may convene at a later time."

The room is still for a little while. Bedwyr rises and nods to Keredic before walking out of the tent. Cador gets up and lopes away after him.

Morgana stays seated, and Keredic too makes no move to leave. He pours another goblet of ale for her.

"I have a sister," Keredic remarks after a little while. "Around your age. You remind me of her."

She accepts the goblet, staring down at the liquid. "And is she as hot-tempered as me?" She's starting to regret her outburst; Cador at the very least will be an enemy among allies. Bedwyr as well will not look kindly upon her. Cornwall needs them to be on friendly terms- _Arthur_ needs their cooperation. And now she's ruined chances of a smooth working relationship. Burned bridges are so much harder to rebuild.

Keredic surprisingly smiles. "I wouldn't say you're hot-tempered, Princess Morgana. At all. Your fire is icy cold. I have to say, I admire your self-restraint."

Her eyes flicker up to meet his. "Self restraint?" she smiles humorlessly. "You had enough of it not to lash out at them. Me, I'm just idiotic." Keredic raises and lowers a shoulder.

"I wouldn't know about that."

"I am grateful, you know," Morgana says, "if you hadn't stopped us, we might have come to blows."

He smiles again. "You give yourself too little credit. You'd have won, anyways. I've seen you fight."

"You have?" Morgana raises an eyebrow. "When would that be, my lord?"

"When the Ten Kingdoms swore fealty," Keredic replies, "you were training at dawn with the knights."

She blushes a little. "I wasn't aware anyone was watching."

"It's commendable," he says, "and I could see you were dedicated. Martial arts are not easy to master-I'm afraid I'm woefully inadequate. Even my little sister surpasses me."

"Your little sister?" Morgana asks. Keredic is the eldest child of Rodor, she knows, but she can't remember the name of the younger child.

"Mithian," he answers, "She's unsurpassed with the crossbow. Fine rider, too. She used to romp in the woods for days, hunting, and drag me with her. I'm afraid I was dead weight though." His voice is affectionate, and Morgana can't help but smile at the image of the two siblings wandering the woods. He notices.

"So the princess can smile genuinely," he teases, "I hope to see a lot more of that, after the war."

Morgana's brows crease. "After the war?" Truth be told, she's never even thought beyond the war. Just the day-to-day trials have been enough to occupy her mind.

"Imagine what it'll be like, life after the war," Keredic says, eyes shining. "There'll be no more wars, not with the Treaty of Albion. Our people will be safe. It'll be a golden age."

"Lots of rebuilding," Morgana replies, mind already growing heavy with the thought, "funerals for the dead, commemorations, the workings of bringing back a nation-"

"Don't be like that," he says, "it'll be better than this war, at any rate. I can't believe Father's making me command troops."  
"Are you worried by that?"

Keredic shakes his head, his curly brown hair growing even more tousled. "Oh, I've been trained for it," he says, "as much as you can be. The men trust me enough to follow my orders most of the time. It just doesn't come to me."

"Now you are the one giving yourself too little credit," Morgana teases. She's still smiling as he denies it.

"It's truly painful to do it. Father demands it of me, as he says I'll have to when I am king. I do it because I must, but I know my heart-and my talents- lie elsewhere."

"And where would that be?"

Keredic flicks two fingers out, producing a little fireball hovering near the tips. The light warms his sharp features.

"This flame was calibrated to cauterize wounds," he explains, "it took me weeks to determine the proper temperature."

Morgana abruptly stops smiling. "You want to be a healer." Her hands start trembling slightly.

"I want to heal," Keredic nods, oblivious, "not inflict wounds. There's so much more worth in fighting _for_ life. My magic's not too grand-it's not very strong in my family, Mithian doesn't have _any_- but it's well-adapted to the kind of things I need."

"I...see," Morgana whispers, lowering her eyes back to the goblet of ale. She takes a sip.

"Of course, I can only use my magic as a supplement," Keredic continues, "and I try to develop ways to incorporate it into traditional medicine."

"Magic can't truly heal, though," Morgana musters, before taking another sip of the ale. Keredic shrugs.

"Most magic can't actually heal wounds back together," he acknowledges, "not mine, not even Master Merlin's. But what I wouldn't have given for the magic of High Priestesses, to infuse vitality and to be able to truly heal!"

Morgana stiffens and drops her goblet, the little ale left dripping out as it clatters and rolls off the table. "I'm sorry," she apologizes, getting out of her seat to pick it up. But Keredic stoops to pick it up at the same moment she does, and they end up with their faces very close to each other. Morgana unconsciously licks her lips.

They straighten together slowly, Keredic placing the goblet back on the table without looking away. His eyes are stormy gray, Morgana notices. Gray like the rainy sea visible from Tintagel. They're still very close to each other, and she's a little bewildered by the intensity of his gaze.

"What do you think you're doing?" A dry male voice snaps from the tent opening, startling Morgana and sending the two jumping apart to a suitable distance.

Arthur's there, his blue eyes icy, standing near the tent flaps with his arms folded and face hard. Morgana's heart sinks a little and she doesn't know why.

Keredic blinks before bowing. "My lord," he says, smiling. Arthur looks at him stonily.

"Prince Keredic." He turns to Morgana. She bites her lips and curtseys.

"Your majesty."

Morgana doesn't know if she's imagined the anger flickering on his face for an instant. "Morgana," he says, deliberately dropping the title. Morgana remembers when they started off on the quest together, when he'd told her to drop the courtesies. Arthur had been doing that a long while before that, she realizes.

Keredic blinks again as he registers both the informal greeting and the new tension almost tangible in the tent. He glances between them before breaking the silence, much to Morgana's gratitude.

"Prince Cador and Prince Bedwyr left a little before now," he says, "we were just about to follow them, my lord."

Arthur transfers his intense gaze to Keredic. "It didn't look like it."

Morgana can finally breathe again with Arthur's heavy gaze off her. The tension in the room is stifling her, and she feels a strong urge to run away like a coward. She opens her mouth to speak, but her words dry up at the back of her throat. She shouldn't be feeling this- this _guilt_ right now; she's done nothing wrong. But Arthur's looking at her again, his eyes accusing.

"Is...is there something you require, my lord?" she manages to say. That flicker of anger returns, and Morgana knows she's not imagined it this time.

"We expect all the heirs to join us for drills now," Arthur clips out. "It has been decided that a pincer strategy would be most effective to meet the first charge."

Morgana's mind is instantly occupied; the pincer would assault the main force of the Saxons on two fronts, clumping them together and making it more difficult for them to charge. Mobility would be key…

"The cavalry-" Morgana starts, but Arthur abruptly turns face and stalks out, ignoring her words. Morgana's hand comes up to reach for him, then drops ineffectually. Keredic takes the hand, squeezing it a little.

"Shall we go, my lady?"

Morgana nods, and allows him to escort her to the parade area of the military camp, numb with confusion.

Some dead wildflowers litter the ground outside as they exit.


	4. Insidiae Principum

Arthur nods rigidly to Merlin as he mounts his horse. His friend looks distinctly uncomfortable on the horse as he always is. The drill is just beginning, with the Five Kingdoms taking the left position of the pincer.

"Don't fall off your horse," he deadpans. The sorcerer groans.

"Don't _you _start on that time again."

"If I don't, who will? They're all too scared of you to do it."

"Morgana," Merlin retorts. "And it's all your fault."  
Arthur stiffens at the mention of her name. He turns to the troops, raising his hand to give the signal for the first wave to charge.

The war bugles blast out three notes in quick succession, echoed as the signal spreads to the legions on the far side as well. A wordless roar rises from the men as they fill the empty plains. Cenred has taken the front flank with Morgause, while Alined has taken the left, furthest away from the enemies. Bayard has taken the right flank with Olaf, and Camelot connects the two prongs of the pincer by taking the pivot point. Arthur sees the flood of men slowly merging into a distinct pincer formation on both ends, threatening the invisible enemies on its front. It would be a successful maneuver- if it hadn't been formed too small to properly surround what the Saxon army is expected to number. As the sweat rolls down his forehead, he allows them to follow through the customary drill for the first stage. He picks out Cador nearby mounted on a horse. Alined remains to the back of his legion, where he will be most protected. Morgause and Cenred are gleefully going through their troops.

The men strike out in unison with their wooden swords at imaginary enemies, their ranks organized. The commanders shout orders to direct movement at perceived points of weakness, and everything is done with a military precision. _One, _a march forward. _Two_. A sequence of blows. _Three. _Adjusting to fill the gaps again. One. A march forward.

He turns to watch the second prong on the right. March, strike, adjust. Comprised of Caerleon, Cornwall, Meredor, Logres, and Nemeth, they move through their drills laboriously under the midday sun. He catches glimpses of the mounted commanders there too; there, Annis with her son Bedwyr at her side, here, Godwyn and Odin. And to the side, he sees Keredic, looking distinctively uncomfortable as he regulates the drills and_- why is Morgana so near the prince right now?_ He quickly thinks back to the positioning decided on in the council meetings; Nemeth covered the left with...with Cornwall. Except he'd only been thinking of Rodor, gods damn it. His son, he hadn't even been thinking of.

He shouldn't be feeling jealous. This is what he'd wanted, isn't it? He sent Morgana to meet the princes so that she'd be able to achieve some sort of bond with them, so they didn't feel as if they were sub-commanders dependent on their parents. Granted, it was a last-minute decision to send Morgana to the princes' already planned luncheon instead of keeping her with him. He still hasn't reconciled himself with Morgana's actions in today's raid- still can't think about how she ordered a hundred support non-combatants slain. His Morgana couldn't be that heartless.

Except he's seen her in war before.

He needed to be away from her intoxicating presence. He can't deny that it did played a role in her sudden 'demotion' of sorts- she is entitled to a seat in the Council of Kings as a representative of Cornwall, and is therefore ranked higher than the princes accompanying their parents. But he _had _wanted her to become friendly with the princes. She seems to have succeeded with Keredic, although Cador and Bedwyr are noticeably colder to her. And he shouldn't be feeling relieved that the remaining princes aren't chummy with her either.

He's angry at her and confused and feeling as if she's turned into someone else, but he still feels jealous about other men approaching her. It shouldn't be happening. The words she'd thrown at his back still ring in his ears.

"What makes this battle right?" she'd cried, "What is it that makes us entitled to slaughter the Saxons for our people?"

He was harsh to her. She'd been shaken, but he had been overwhelmed with the monstrosity of the deed. Still is. But Morgana is one of his closest allies, the one who'd brought him the High Kingship, and he cannot toss her away easily.

"_Tell _me, Arthur. What makes this right?"

Her voice wanders through his mind. He'd wanted to apologize, after the luncheon. He'd wanted to tell her he didn't mean to be so abrasive, that he was lost and needed to know _why _she'd done it. And he would have, armed with the wildflowers Merlin had thrust at him when he'd found out what he wanted to do.

He would have done it, if Keredic hadn't been _three inches from kissing her. _

He shakes himself out of the reverie and watches the rest of the troops complete the drills given. One, two, three. March, strike, adjust. March, strike, adjust. When they start moving into the second phase, Arthur brings down his hand swiftly in the "stand down" signal. The bugles sound once more, and the men march back to their previous area. The message to widen the range of the prongs is relayed to all of the commanders, and after the messengers all return, he gives the signal once more.

The men charge, tireless in the entirety of their namelessness. In their full chain mail, it cannot be easy for them to run for so long. But they form the double-pronged attack formation well. They run through the cycle of the first drills again, the movements carefully rehearsed. After they have all completed the first phase, Arthur gives the second signal- the signal for the ranks behind to spread to form a semi-circle to bolster the forces.

At first it seems like they are all following orders. March, strike, adjust. March, march, march. But then a detachment seems to become confused; the group of men mill around the middle, disrupting formation. Another group notices, then stops the drill to look confusedly at the meandering group. They soon mingle, heedless of the drill sergeants' bellows. The legions nearby are forced to stop lest they strike someone, then begin breaking formation as well to try to adapt to whatever they are attempting to do. Soon, the entire formation has dissolved into a mob. The commanders bellow ineffectually- the men try to right their mistakes and backtrack, confusing the legions even more.

Men mill around on the wide plain, and the operation disintegrates to complete chaos. Some trip in the mess that results. This is not good. With the entire force gathered here, this could be disastrous.

Arthur orders the Camelot knights to lead their legions out and to wait. He delves deeper into the throng, riding past the confused soldiers to try to reach any of the commanders. But the only one nearby is Morgana.

He groans inwardly- he really doesn't want to see her right now. But he has to start somewhere.

Arthur slowly tries to make his way to her. Morgana turns, notices him, and frowns a little. She quirks her head, shouting something to him that is lost to the noise of the soldiers. He shakes his head, giving the signal for standing down.

Morgana nods. But instead of ordering her soldiers out of the mess as well, she whispers something to Keredic and stands up in her saddle. Arthur watches, mystified, as she points to the sky.

A deafening roar suddenly slices through the din, followed by another. The thunderous sound rings through the flat plain. The soldiers fall silent, and it takes a minute before Arthur realizes what they are staring at.

The image of a red dragon unfurling its wings and raging at the world has appeared directly over his own head in the sky. It flickers in and out, smoky and ethereal, but it is very much visible. It's a mirage, he knows, but it's bold and immediately attention-grabbing. He can see the symbolism; the red Albion dragon for Arthur Pendragon. Everyone's gazes are now on him. Morgana sits back down in the saddle, watching him. He takes advantage of the silence created by the dragon.

"Return to your marching positions in legions," Arthur orders, pitching his voice to reach everyone. "We will begin this drill again."

He nods, and Morgana lowers her arm. The red dragon dissipates.

She shakes her head a little as if tired, and leads her men back to the starting positions. Keredic rides over and touches her on the shoulder, twisting a lock of her hair. They have a brief conversation that he can't hear.

He turns away. The men await the drills.

Arthur is numb to the passing of the next two hours. It takes two more tries before the second phase of the pincer attack is coordinated to satisfaction, and by then, the troops are exhausted. It is a good thing that the scouts have confirmed all of the Saxons to be ranging from a week to three weeks out, because if there is a surprise attack now, they would be woefully inadequate. Merlin grimaces at his side.

"I can't feel my bottom anymore," he complains.

"You're not the only one," Arthur tosses back, "but I don't hear anybody else complaining."

Merlin gives a dramatic groan and flops onto the neck of his horse. "Tell me this is going to be over soon."

He has a point. They should rest now, lest they be too tired to continue. It's the hottest part of day, in any case, and it would be good for everyone to have a rest. A gentle wind starts blowing from the northeast, and he relishes in the cool it brings before finally nodding.

"Might as well. We don't want to run them into the ground."

"Finally," Merlin cries, throwing up his hands. Arthur gives the signal for break to the war horns, and they blow out the trio of notes that spread the message. Relieved sounds are released throughout the troops as each commander gives the order.

"One hour," Arthur calls. "And then we continue on."

The orderly lines of warriors disperse. Some return to their tents to grab some rest, while others throng around each other, talking as they swig from leather water skins. Arthur joins his knights briefly.

Lancelot, who's been in charge of dawn training since before the war, wipes the sweat off his forehead. "If I didn't know how much more miserable I'd be if it was cold, I'd wish it was winter."

"At least it's not raining," Gwaine points out while taking off his helmet. "Your precious armor would be rusted."

Leon fiddles with his chainmail hood. "Sire, if it's alright to say…"

Arthur nods at him to go on. "What is it?"

"I'm not too keen on trusting all the troops," he mutters ashamedly. "Just five years ago, we were quarrelling with Cenred. And Camelot has never been friendly with Meredor. And now we're expected to be comrades in arms?"

"It's difficult," Lord Elyan adds, "you can see where we're divided along our nations."

The problem. He knew it would have surfaced eventually- the antagonism of a hundred years must linger a little even in the face of a common enemy. It is a relief that the first to come to him were his trusted Camelot knights.

"It is necessary," Arthur says slowly, "because it is painfully clear that if we are divided amongst ourselves, we will all fall." He looks around. "Thank you for your honesty. Is it the thought of being on the same side that bothers you, or are there specific things that make you uncomfortable?"

Gwaine shrugs. "I'd be fine with working with ev'rybody to beat those Saxons, as long as I didn't have to fight side by side with them. Backstabbing's painful."

"It's not that we're allied, it's that we have to fight together as one unit," Leon offers. "We were fine with it when we were all besieging different citadels."

Arthur nods. "This first confrontation is inevitable, but we'll be sure to form future strategies with that in mind."

The knights all look relieved, turning to lighter topics. Gwaine grins at Merlin, who's wandered closer.

"Fall off your horse any?" he asks. Merlin gives another groan.

"Not you too. Between you, Arthur here, and Morgana-" he cuts himself off. Arthur barely notices, because his attention is already caught by Morgana, sitting a little further out.

Keredic's with her.

They've known each other for all of _one _afternoon, and they're already buddies. It took more than three years before Morgana let down her walls around him, and they were even imprisoned in the same dungeon the second time they met. That should have been a bonding experience, shouldn't it? Granted, they were on opposing sides of warring nations for quite a large percentage of their lives, but that doesn't mean she can just open up to whatever prince that comes along as long as it's not _him._ _He _was brought up to hate magic and Cornwall, but he didn't keep her at arm's length. He nods absently to whatever Merlin says- it's snarky and probably insulting as well, but he really doesn't care- and excuses himself to walk over to Morgana. He swears he can hear some of the knights sniggering behind him.

He doesn't know why he's going to her right now. Her cold-blooded massacre chills him to the bone, and he can't help but question everything he knows about her. There's morality and darkness and the never-quite-carefree girl underneath that, and he needs her to make him understand.

_Why, Morgana? Why would you do such a thing? _

He's never known her to be unnecessarily cruel. She fights with grim efficiency, dealing out clean death where she can help it. Her mirthless laughter in battle has always bothered him, but that can be set aside, explained off as the bloodlust that takes many warriors simply so they can go on fighting.

That she would order innocents slaughtered is incomprehensible.

He's arrived in front of her before he has a chance to gather his thoughts or even figure out _why_ he's gone to her. But then he sees Keredic's hand lazily playing with a strand of Morgana's hair, and all thoughts go out the window.

"Princess Morgana," he bites out sharply. Morgana's gaze snaps up to meet his. She rises from the ground, face apprehensive.

"My lord," she ventures. Keredic gets up, still grinning. Arthur glowers at him, too. The prince doesn't seem to notice.

"High King Arthur."

He can see Morgana look between them, a crease appearing between her brows.

"My lord, I don't believe you've been personally introduced to Prince Keredic-"

"We've met," Arthur interrupts abruptly. "I was engaged to his sister."

Morgana's face turns blank immediately. He feels a small vicious satisfaction. Keredic nods obliviously.

"Mithian and High King Arthur were betrothed for a little while," he explains. "My father thought it'd be a good way to cement an alliance and finally get that horrible mess over Gedref sorted out for good." He nods to Arthur. "You were a prince, then."

"What happened to the engagement?" Morgana asks. Arthur can tell she's making her voice deliberately light. He shrugs.

"We both decided it wasn't the best idea. I liked her- she's a good person- but there was Guinevere and my duties." She flinches visibly at the mention of his ex-almost-betrothed. Before he can comment, Keredic speaks.

"Not to mention there was that little issue of me having magic. The late king of Camelot wasn't too keen on having me as an in-law." It's Arthur's turn to flinch at the mention of his father.

"Don't get me wrong, Sire," the prince continues, "but you and I both knew the real reason your father wasn't upset about the broken betrothal was because of my dirty little secret. Everyone kept sweeping it under the rug the whole time I was there." He tugs a strand of Morgana's hair again. "_You_ never had to visit during those dark, dark days," he tells her. Morgana's face is clouded- with what, Arthur can't tell. During those dark, dark days, Morgana was fighting a war against Camelot. Right now, he wants to punch Keredic both for bringing up his father and for playing with Morgana's hair. He shouldn't be allowed to touch her so casually. He turns to Morgana.

"Tie up your hair already," he snaps. Morgana's eyes go wide.

"_Excuse _me?" she demands. "I don't understand what my hair has to do with anything, _my lord._"

"It's distracting and impractical in battle," he retorts. "I'm surprised no one's ever tried using it against you."

"That's because they _can't_," Morgana grits out. "I ward it against that, or don't you remember?"

"Tie up your hair," he repeats. Morgana's about to lash out, but Keredic distracts her by pulling out his handkerchief. "Here, now I get to show you the scalpel spell I was talking about," he says, laying the square of fabric flat on the ground. He extends one finger and gives a decisive stroke down. The fabric is sliced neatly, yielding two rectangle of cloth. Keredic presents the thinner one to Morgana.

"A ribbon for milady," the prince says. Morgana still looks as if she wants to strangle something, but accepts it graciously and puts her hair in a quick ponytail, securing it with the ribbon.

"Happy?" she asks Arthur.

"Perfectly." He _knows _he's being petty, and he also knows it's an ugly look on him. But it's been _one day _and Morgana's letting Keredic close enough to play with her _hair_. He needs to get away from her now before he makes an even bigger fool of himself.

He nods curtly to the both of them and stalks away. There's a little voice that keeps calling him fifty different kinds of idiot, but he ignores it as he concentrates on walking away from the both of them.

* * *

Morgana toys with the ribbon holding the ponytail as he watches Arthur stomp away. White spots blur the edges of her vision- whether it's because of the anger rising in her or the tiredness that's been dragging her down, she doesn't know. She takes a breath to calm herself.

"I could have sworn he was a decent fellow," Keredic remarks off-hand. He looks sidelong at her. "He's not in love with you, is he?"

Exhaustion, from the way Arthur's been acting, the magic of the mirage, the raid, the confrontation, and all the worries of war crashes down on her like a wave breaking. Keredic suddenly sounds very far away.

She doesn't understand. If Arthur no longer cared for her because of what he's seen of her today, he wouldn't have bothered coming to her and bickering about her hair, of all things. But his eyes aren't warm anymore when he looks at her, and it feels like the distance between them has suddenly increased tenfold. It's cold without him.

She wishes he'd make up his mind faster. If he doesn't want her near him anymore, she'd rather he tell her faster. This half-hearted state of things stretches her to the limit, making her worry about everything she does, what Arthur would think.

Morgana doesn't regret today, just like she doesn't regret the lives she takes for her people. She figures she serves penance by the way of the tormenting specters. And it was necessary- never let it be said that Morgana of Cornwall shirks her duty. Arthur is her cause, and she will do whatever is required of her.

Arthur hasn't faced the Saxons before, not like she has. Camelot only has a small strip of coastline after all, while Cornwall is a seaside nation. This isn't the first time the Saxons have attacked.

But it _hurts_, having Arthur angry at her. She wants his acceptance, for him to show that he still cares.

Her eyelids droop, and she curses and shakes her head to clear it. Keredic raises an eyebrow. "You don't have to be so emphatic in your answer, Princess Morgana."

What was he saying? A beat, and she realizes that he'd asked her a question. An awkward question, at that. Her brain feels fuzzy, but she rolls her eyes in a half-hearted attempt at wit.

"Arthur is a decent fellow on only specific dates, my lord. You just have to catch him at the right times."

Keredic snorts, and she gives him a forced smile before flopping down in the grass.

_They _come before long in the brief silence. The boy with the dirk comes first, his eyes glassy and dead. He doesn't talk, simply walks closer and closer and closer with his arms reaching out for her throat. She hears them mutter, the ones that aren't visible yet, keening and cursing her and pleading for life in their own foreign language.

This is an improvement. At least she doesn't understand what they're saying.

Morgana shuts her eyes before the ghostly mirage can touch her. The darkness before her eyes is even worse though, because they peel themselves from the dark and march inexorably towards her. The five magicians, pleading for mercy or chanting spells. The muscular woman with the club, her innards spilling out from where Morgana's cut her open. The man who was going to die anyway from the stomach wound even before she slit his throat.

She knows every one of them are daughters and sons, breadwinners, fathers, sisters, a favorite of a doting grandmother even. She knows the lives she takes has more meaning than a simple death, of the love and heartsore that each leaves behind. They chant their life stories to her, always chanting and pleading and asking her why she's torn them away from their world- only this time, it's in a foreign language. It goes on for days and days, until their spirits fade away from her mind.

It's her magic. The magic traps the souls and keeps them to torment her before releasing them. She can't explain it any other way.

She opens her eyes, and all her victims are there, talking over themselves and crowding her until she can hardly breathe. In truth, this isn't so bad. She can almost pretend it's a natural part of the world because there are so many of them.

The past week has been torturous. She'd been sent on reconnaissance where they'd inevitably run into small lagging bands, skirmishes where only a handful were killed. When the last mission's specters faded, she'd have another scouting mission to go on, more hauntings to earn.

They're the worst in her sleep. There, they aren't restricted by the realm of the living. She's in the same shadowy world they exist in before they fade. And in her dreams-really, the simplest, healthiest thing for her to do is stay awake.

She gets more work done that way, too. It's better for everyone involved.

Her vision blurs, and she's in the haze of half-asleep, half-awake state again. It's come too fast today- usually she can make it past sundown before this happens. She huffs.

It's Arthur's fault. If he wasn't so aggravating and confusing, she wouldn't be concentrating so much on him. And she wouldn't be feeling this tired right now.

A hand gently shakes her from her stupor. She blinks a few times before sitting up.

"What is it?"

"We should mount now," Keredic tells her. "It's not yet time, but we should be ready sooner."

She nods, and calls for the horses. The page who's been keeping her mount comes to her, shaking.

"Nervous about the drills?" she asks as she takes the reins. He gulps and stammers a reply. She nods to dismiss him.

Keredic groans a little. "Wish me luck."

As Morgana raises an eyebrow, Keredic takes a little hop skip run and launches himself at his horse. The heavy armor weighs him down a little, and he slides down from the saddle. Morgana hides a smile.

It takes Keredic two more tries to get a decent seat on his horse. When he's finally up there, he looks at Morgana. "Well, milady?"

Morgana smirks as she strokes the neck of her horse. It' s her regular warhorse, but he's a little skittish today- she briefly thinks that it's the presence of so many people and sounds. A pat, and she smoothly jumps to the seat on the saddle.

As soon as she alights on the charger's back, it gives a frantic neigh and bucks violently. As she tries to grab the pommel, he kicks his hind legs. The force of the kick throws her before she can find her seat. She's dislodged from her seat. The ground comes to her in a blink of an eye.

It's a gentle fall, as falls go, but she's shaken by the fact that she's been thrown. It's the first time in seven years that something like this has happened.

Keredic jumps off his horse. "Are you alright?"

"I'm-I'm fine," Morgana answers, catching her breath. Her head is a little dizzy, but it's not much worse than from before. In the corners of her vision she can see Arthur walking towards her from the far side of the field.

The horse neighs again and prances around with nervous energy. Morgana slowly raises herself from the ground, dusting herself off.

"Something's wrong," she says to herself. The horse has never been panicky, even in full-scale battles. As it raises itself on its hind legs, she grabs the reins and tries to bring it back down, soothing it with nonsense words.

"You'll have to get on that horse again," she tells Keredic as she calms the horse, "you should have stayed on."

He shrugs, and she jumps on again, settling herself down swiftly.

The horse whinnies painfully. It bucks desperately, trying to dislodge her. It stomps, shaking its head and blowing steam from its nostrils. There's something seriously wrong with her horse. She doesn't understand- it rears, front legs flailing, and all of a sudden her seat's shifting.

Somebody's loosened the saddle. Blood drains from Morgana's cheeks.

This is a dangerous situation she's in right now. She can't do anything, but an aggravated horse with a loose saddle spells out disaster. The horse gallops in circles, trying to shake her off. The saddle shifts again.

Before she can roll safely off, it slips entirely. With another kick of the horse, the saddle slides to the side, hurling Morgana bodily from the seat. She flies off, her light frame of no use in staying on.

Morgana herself can hear the sickening crunch as her body collides with the hard, grassy ground. It's the last thing she hears before everything goes dark.

* * *

Arthur is running to her side before her body even hits the ground. He pales at the sound of her body slamming into the ground, pushing people away in his haste to get to her.

"Morgana!" he shouts, trying to get to her.

She's not moving. Morgana's limp on the ground, and he can't even tell if she's breathing. His heart freezes in terror.

He finally gets to her, kneeling beside her and cradling her in his arms. She's unconscious, but he can feel her shallow breaths on his cheek and his heart starts beating again.

He moves a stray strand of hair from her face, examining her for any sign of injury. She's light in his arms. He's scared that she's not going to wake up, because the last time he spoke with her was a petty argument about tying her hair, and he hasn't apologized or reconciled with her yet. She means too much for him to lose her like that.

Morgana stirs a little, and Arthur clutches her tighter. Prince Keredic kneels beside him, and Arthur bites back an order to stay back.

"I don't know what happened," Keredic says. "The horse was finicky today, but I swear I saw the saddle moving."

Arthur stiffens at his words. Laying her gently on the ground, he walks over to the prancing horse. Its eyes are wild, and Arthur has to take a step back to avoid its hooves as it rears. He grabs the reins and forces it down to heel.

The saddle is hanging sideways, loose and barely hanging on to the horse's back. His chest fills with ice-cold anger.

This is sabotage. Someone loosened her saddle so she'd be hurt. Morgana is an expert horsewoman; in all his years of knowing her, he's never seen her unhorsed. He unbuckles the saddle and moves a hand down the horse's form, trying to soothe it.

There are several deep lacerations on the charger's back. When Arthur passes a hand over the wounds, the horse jumps and kicks again. Merlin comes to his side.

"What's going -" the sorcerer stops. "Is that-?"

Arthur wordlessly turns over the saddle. There are several large burs stuck on the bottom of the saddle, where it would have been in contact with the horse's back. They're sharp, and they match the bloody scratches. His anger flares, turning bright-hot.

"There is no way that they got there on their own," Merlin breathes. Arthur grits his teeth.

"Somebody did this to hurt her." He hands the horse to another page, tossing down the saddle. "I'll kill them."

He walks back to Morgana's prone form, his hands shaking with barely controlled rage. Keredic looks up, brows furrowed.

"She's stirring," the prince says, "but I don't know if she's been hurt-" the words trail off as Morgana lets out a barely audible moan. Arthur immediately kneels by her side.

"Morgana?" he calls. Morgana grimaces, and her eyes open slowly.

"What's going on?" she rasps, trying to raise herself to a sitting position. Arthur immediately supports her back.

"Somebody meddled with your horse," Arthur grits, temper barely restrained, "and they're going to pay in blood."

"There were burs under your saddle," Keredic explains quietly, "and they dug into your horse."

Morgana takes a breath. Keredic and Arthur both protest as she stumbles to her feet.

"Have the drills resumed yet?" she asks. "How long was I out?"

"Less than 10 minutes," Keredic replies before he can. Morgana gives an involuntary whimper as her legs give out from under her. She stays down. Her hand unconsciously drifts to her left leg to brace it as Arthur watches.

"You need to start the drills," she tells him. He grits his teeth and nods. It's painful, but he walks away from her to order everyone to get in formation again. The orders are relayed, the bugles trumpeting the three notes over and over again.

He mounts his horse swiftly, riding to each of the commanders to give them more detailed orders. As he's talking to Olaf, Prince Cador rides up to him.

"My king, it's an honor to see you up close," the prince says, his face open with boyish enthusiasm. Arthur nods and clasps arms with him, but he's too preoccupied by thoughts of Morgana to pay much attention to the flood of admiration. He snaps to attention when Morgana's name is mentioned.

"I heard Princess Morgana took a fall," Cador says, a strange expression on his face. "Perhaps she is unfit for duty, my king?"

Arthur curbs his temper before he lashes out. "Princess Morgana is the most capable general I know. Whoever sabotaged her saddle will be made an example of martial law."

Cador's face is darker. "Yes, my lord."

He finishes talking to Cenred and Morgause, only briefly answering Morgause's questions, and rides back to where Morgana is.

She's not faring much better. Her face is paler than her usual cream and she hasn't been able to get to her feet.

Arthur takes a breath. He wants desperately to order her back to her tent. Driving down that protectiveness, he speaks.

"The men are in formation, Princess Morgana, Prince Keredic. It's time to begin."

Morgana nods, but Prince Keredic looks at him incredulously.

"Are you joking?" he asks. "You have to excuse Princess Morgana."

He shakes his head, biting back the temptation to agree and force her to rest. Morgana raises a hand to silence both of them. Her hair damp from sweat, she tries to raise herself up to no avail. The sight pains him, but he makes no sound. Morgana exhales sharply in frustration.

"She's_ tired_," Keredic bursts out, "she's in no state to take part. You can't make her."

Arthur_ knows_ that, thank you very much. He knows how she looks when she can't go on any more. And he saw her fall, how it aggravated her old wound- the one he knows because _he _gave it to her. She's in pain and tired, and he knows that she hasn't rested yet after the raid.

But he also knows she'd never forgive him if he ordered her off the parade grounds right now.

She'd think it as destroying the troops' respect for her; Morgana works twice as hard as any man to show that she too is a general in her own right, worthy of being followed. There are always mutterings against women in the battlefield, and if he takes her out now, she'd lose face she can't afford to lose.

"Princess Morgana," he tells her, hating himself for it, "You are required in the drills."

Keredic makes as if to protest again, his brows knit together. But Morgana grabs the prince's forearm, still breathing heavily from shock. She shakes her head.

"I...I understand, my lord", she says to Arthur. Her voice is trembling. She looks at Keredic imploringly. "Could you...?"

There's a sudden stab of white-hot anger in his mind as he watches Keredic gently support her up. She looks small and vulnerable, a side she never shows to him if she can help it. _He _should be the one helping her, giving her strength. She's known Keredic for all of one day, and he's the one who went on a _quest _with her. His gloved hands tighten on the reins as he watches her lean her head on Keredic's shoulder.

"Princess Morgana," he warns. The men are starting to look their way. She wouldn't want to be seen like that.

Morgana gives a shaky nod and walks- almost stumbles- to her new mount. Shaking a head at Keredic's offered arm, she swings herself up, finding her seat and looking relieved when this horse doesn't try to throw her. Keredic mounts his own horse, riding closer to Morgana and putting a hand on her waist.

Arthur can see her wince when the prince touches her old wound.

The two turn and ride to Arthur. Keredic looks angry, clamping his mouth against words he wants to say to him, while Morgana's pale and a little disoriented. She inclines her head.

"I apologize for holding up the drill," she breathes, "It won't happen again."

Arthur raises a hand to her cheek, but she flinches away and he drops it. He turns, riding back to where everyone else has congregated.

They go through the rest of the drills grimly. Arthur won't let his mind wander to Morgana and Keredic. He pretends he doesn't see the prince watching her with something more than concern, and her going through the drills with silent desperation.

When he finally calls a stop more than three hours after, the sun is setting over the horizon. The men disperse quickly to dinner, the legions mingling. The generals remain for a little longer, awaiting further orders from the High King.

"The Escetian legions are always ahead by a little," he comments, "We need to move as one to ensure there are no gaps for them to exploit."

Cenred smirks. "We'll be sure to slow down for the rest of you." Arthur nods.

"Well done, everybody. We will continue tomorrow."

Bedwyr and Cador leave first, the latter with a strangely smug expression on his face. Arthur has a feeling it has something to do with Morgana, but watches them leave without saying anything. Annis and Caerleon ride off together, as do Cenred and Morgause. The rest of the kings wander off in groups.

Soon the parade grounds are deserted. Arthur immediately turns to where he knows Morgana is- she's been in a corner of his mind the whole time, and he's subconsciously been watching her. He rides over.

Morgana still hasn't dismounted; she's' swaying gently, eyes unfocused. The reins drop from her nerveless fingers, and she looks up confusedly. When he's closer to her, he sees her eyes widen and her face turn even paler- it looks like she's seeing things that aren't there and being frightened by them. A gasp, almost a sob, escapes from her lips.

Keredic, who's been right next to her all this time, touches her arm gently and whispers something in her ear. Morgana shivers a little, but she seems to have woken up from her trance. Arthur dismounts.

"Morgana," he says, "it's over." He gives Keredic a tight nod, although the prince is glowering at him.

Morgana exhales a quick burst of air, swinging her leg over the saddle slowly. Keredic jumps down from his horse and steadies her before Arthur can do anything. Morgana drops into his arms. She gives a tired, dazed smile.

"Thank you, Keredic," she whispers, so quietly Arthur can barely hear it. Keredic looks down at her in concern.

"You should have been excused," he says a little angrily, glancing at Arthur. "They shouldn't have made you do it."

She leans her head on his shoulder again, seemingly unaware of where she is and who she's being held by. "I had to."

Arthur comes closer, and Keredic glares a little more. Morgana glances at Arthur's face and turns to Keredic.

"It's alright." He slowly lowers his arms until she is standing unsupported. Morgana tries for a smile.

"I'm just a little tired-"

Her knees buckle under her and she sinks to the ground. She's trembling harder now, and her breaths come in short gasps. Arthur rushes to catch her as she falls. Morgana's kneeling, her eyes haunted and her limbs tightly curled. Her hair falls over her shoulder, still bound in the ribbon Keredic's made.

Arthur kneels in front her and cups her face with his hands. "Morgana," he whispers, "look at me."

"I...I'm looking," she shudders, "I don't...I'm not…"

Morgana's eyes flutter shut, and Arthur shakes her in a fruitless attempt to wake her. Keredic stops him.

"You're only making it worse, _your majesty,_" he says coldly. "Haven't you done enough?"

Arthur glares back at him. He can't explain to Keredic, and the prince wouldn't understand. What did he know of Morgana, past her pretty face and charm? He doesn't know the warrior who orders armies slaughtered for the greater good, he doesn't know the princess who'd sacrifice herself in desperate times. He doesn't know the lady whose prowess in battle translates to utter clumsiness in the ballroom, the girl whose vanity leads her to spell her hair for battle.

He doesn't know the woman who'd go for days without sleep for her cause.  
She hasn't been sleeping, Arthur realizes. It's not just the fatigue of the day's raid or the shock of the double fall. She hasn't been taking care of herself, and no one has bothered to check.

"Her body's shut down," Keredic bites out, "from sheer exhaustion." He sweeps a stray strand of hair from Morgana's face. Arthur has propped her up against his shoulder, trying to get her in a more comfortable position.

"She needed to be here," he says quietly, "she wouldn't leave."

"She was in no shape!" the prince explodes, "you're the high king, you should take care of your generals."

"I am telling you," Arthur grinds out, "she wouldn't have left if I ordered her. I know her."

Keredic clenches his teeth. "I don't know the history between you and Princess Morgana, High King Arthur," he says, "but I know that she isn't being taken care of."

"You've known her for one day," Arthur retorts, "and you have no claim on her."

"Neither do you," Keredic whispers, "and one day is enough to fall in love."

Arthur freezes, his arm slowly falling to rest at his sides. Morgana stirs a little, and they both look down at her. She's muttering unintelligible words, and Keredic's face softens.

"I'm taking her to her tent," the prince states, scooping her up from the ground "I can at least help her recover."

Arthur's jaw stiffens. "I can't have you compromising her virtue."

Keredic turns, Morgana in his arms. "You're welcome to chaperone."

"I know the way to her tent," Arthur says bitterly, stalking ahead, "follow me."

Keredic's red with exhaustion by the time they reach her tent. Arthur notes that he's by no means a competent knight- his arms are far too spindly and the calluses on the prince's hands are in the wrong places. It's painful to see her carried by another.

_One day is enough to fall in love_, Keredic had said. Did that mean Morgana also…?

Now is not the time to think about such things, he chides himself. Morgana is ill, and there is time for speculation later. Arthur watches, face hardened, as Keredic gently lays her out on her cot. A pull undoes the ribbon securing her ponytail, and her hair comes down to frame her face. Arthur swallows a little.

His heart nearly jumps up his throat when Keredic starts unclasping her gauntlets.

"What do you think you're doing?" he growls.

"Getting her out of her armor," Keredic replies without even looking. "She can't sleep in it."

Arthur kneels by the cot and watches as the breastplate and chain mail is unlaced. The metal protection is all removed and laid out on the floor, until she is lying in her breeches and tunic. She looks so much smaller, devoid of the armor hiding her true figure. Keredic hesitates, his fingers gently passing through her unbound hair.

"She shouldn't sleep in those breeches," he mutters, "but we can't wake her up."

It's true- the breeches are made of leather for protection, and they are distinctly uncomfortable for sleeping in.

"She didn't bring her maid," Arthur sighs. "And her sister is...occupied." With her husband, he thinks bitterly. Morgause hadn't even glanced at Morgana before riding off.

"We'll wake her up then," Keredic says unwillingly, "We need to make sure she doesn't have a concussion, anyways. It'll be better for her."

Arthur taps Morgana on the cheek. "Morgana," he calls softly, "wake up."

"Not going to work," Keredic shakes his head, "her body's basically shut down. We need something stronger." He frowns at the dark circles prominent under her eyes. "Does she have a condition, where she can't sleep or something?"

Arthur grimaces. "She has bad dreams, sometimes," he says, "I've been told she has the Sight."

Keredic slumps a little. "That's even worse," he grumbles, "I can't tap her mind when she's already fragile."

"You have magic," Arthur states. It's not a question. Keredic shrugs.

"Honed to healing, mostly," he explains. He touches Morgana's wrist at a pressure point. A crease appears between her brows, but she doesn't stir. He looks at Arthur.

"We'll have to use physical force- either you slap her or I shock her."

"Shock her," Arthur orders immediately. He refuses to exert force upon her again, especially not now. Keredic swallows.

"Don't say anything."

He mutters something, tapping her wrist rhythmically. A dim burst of light, and thin strands of weak lightning flies from his fingertips to her skin. Stray hairs stand up on end.

She whimpers, immediately curling up into herself. Arthur balls his hands into fists, but keeps silent. Keredic looks pained, but continues with the lightning.

Morgana's eyes fly open, and she bursts up, one hand pulling a dagger from under the pillow and the other hovering protectively over her chest as she takes great swallows of air. Her hair flies wildly as she looks around in a panic.

"Get back," she warns, her eyes unseeing.

Arthur is first to respond. "Morgana, it's me. We're in your tent."

Her mouth twists up. "You're lying. You can't be him. He's not dead- he can't be dead." She points the dagger at him. "You can't have Arthur. I killed you. Return to the underworld, where you belong."

"Princess Morgana," Keredic cautiously calls. "We're real. It's me, Keredic."

She turns to him. "Prince...Keredic?" She blinks. "Not a ghost?"

Arthur glances at her in worry. A small part of him is jealous that she comes back when_ Keredic _speaks to her. "Morgana-" he starts. Keredic holds up a hand.

"Princess Morgana," he says gently. "You collapsed at the parade grounds. You needed to rest, so we brought you to your tent."

Morgana frowns. "...parade grounds?" she murmurs. Suddenly, she snaps awake.

"Arthur," she shudders, "Arthur is alive?"

Keredic freezes. Arthur slowly comes closer. "I'm here," he says.

She looks at him blankly for a few excruciating seconds. Slowly, recognition appears in her wide eyes. The dagger clatters to the ground.

"I...I apologize, my lord," she stammers. "I was…"

"Morgana," he says softly, "are you alright?"

He threads his fingers through hers, bringing her closer to him. Keredic's teeth grit audibly, but he says nothing.

She slowly lets go of him, one hand coming up to her forehead. "I'm sorry," she repeats.

Keredic kneels by her side. "Princess Morgana," he tells her, "You need to rest. We had to wake you so you could get out of your training clothes."

"Thank you, Prince Keredic." She looks at them. "You brought me here?"

They both nod. "We'll be outside while you change," Keredic says. "But I'd like to check you for any injuries afterwards. The fall you took-" he shakes his head. "Call us when you're ready.

They walk out of the tent together, standing outside of the flap. Keredic raises an eyebrow.

"She cares about you," he comments, a hint of jealousy in his tone. Arthur smiles wryly.

"Not as much as I do her," he says. Keredic looks at him sharply, as if he's sizing up an opponent.

"You've been through a lot with her," he guesses. He looks a little wistful. "You call her Morgana."

"She calls me Arthur," he replies. "She used to, at least."

"She's...something different," Keredic mutters, "She's like a fey come to visit."

Arthur snorts. "See if you can say that after she trips you up for the fifth time in a row while you're dancing with her."

"I heard that, you know," the lady in question calls out from within, "and it was only four times."

They both cough at that to disguise their snorts.

"You're not bad," Keredic admits grudgingly. "I was all prepared to hate you, seeing you today during the drills, but you're not bad."

Arthur blinks. "We got along well enough when you and Mithian visited; that's what you told me then, too, except it was about my betrothal to your sister." He smirks a little. "And you're forgetting I am your high king. Your father swore fealty to me."

"I'm older than you," Keredic retorts. "By a year and a half."

"You stink at swordsmanship, and you're lazy about it," Arthur replies.

"It's not my calling," Keredic defends, "I like healing."

"Doesn't mean you're not neglecting your duty."

"What can I say? Life's too short to fritter away on duties."

"Morgana would disagree," Arthur remarks.

"I admire her dedication, but I won't be emulating it anytime soon."

"You're just excusing yourself."

"There's no need to justify myself," Keredic grins. Before they can argue some more, Morgana calls to them.

"My lords?"

The two look at each other. Keredic waves a hand in a careless "after you" gesture. Arthur lifts the tent flap and enters first, Keredic directly behind. Arthur has a sudden vision of Morgana in only his shirt again, and clamps down on the desire to block Keredic from entering. Morgana's sitting on her cot, legs folded demurely to the side. It's her regular nightgown, thankfully, and she's wrapped a shawl around her to preserve her modesty. Her hair is still disheveled, but she looks almost innocent in the witch-light.

She looks up at them. "Thank you for taking care of me," she says, giving her most charming smile, "but I think I'm well now. I was just surprised by the horses."

Arthur raises an eyebrow. "I don't think so." He glances at Keredic. "You mentioned something about a concussion?"

Morgana's eyes flick to the prince, but she doesn't say anything. Keredic kneels, facing her.

"I would like to try some tests to make sure you aren't injured," he says to her. "If I may, Princess Morgana?"

Morgana nods reluctantly, flashing Arthur a glare. He shrugs at her from behind Keredic.

The prince comes a little closer to her, and gently threads his fingers in her hair. Morgana's eyes widen, and Arthur feels that stab of hot anger again. Keredic keeps his face smooth as he methodically searches for any raised bumps or dried blood. It looks like a lover's caress and Arthur suddenly wants to punch something. After an eternity, Keredic lowers his hands and he can breathe again.

Arthur continues watching sharply as Keredic tests whether her pupils dilate properly with summoned light, checks her breathing, and asks her simple questions. He wishes _he_ could have been the one helping her, but he knows he'd have made a terrible mess of it.

Finally, the prince gently takes Morgana's wrist and feels the pulse, her thin wrists dwarfed by his larger fingers. A minute, and he smiles and tells her there's been no serious injury. His hand slides to take her own, and he brings it to his lips in a courtly kiss.

Morgana's blushing in earnest now. Arthur clears his throat rather loudly.

"She's alright?" he inquires. Keredic releases her hand. "Yes, sire."

Arthur looks at Morgana, drinking her in and checking her for any signs of injury. She shivers a little as she meets his eyes, her green eyes uncertain. He frowns a little at that; Morgana has been acting wary of him all day.

He doesn't like it. Morgana shouldn't ever have to be careful around him- she should have been able to trust him. He has to mean something to her.

Then he remembers the massacre, just this morning. That was her, too. He doesn't know what more he doesn't know about her; seeing her today, he's not sure he really wants to find out.

"Take care of yourself", he tells her gruffly, before gesturing to Keredic. They leave together, Keredic telling her to get some sleep before ducking out of the tent.

When he looks back as the flap swings shut, the last thing he sees is the crestfallen look on her face.

* * *

**A/N: Thank you again for all the reviews! It's your encouragement that helps me go on with the story- I really appreciate any and all feedback!**

**Please feed this hungry author!**


	5. Bellum Incipiens

"The Saxons have completed entrenching themselves near the Plains of Peredor."

At the scout's report, mutters and hushed discussions immediately break out over the Council of Kings. Morgana, sitting to the foot of the table as according her lower rank as princess, brings her hand to her temples; she swears she can feel the beginnings of a headache.

"Report on the details of their camp," Arthur orders, sitting far away from her at the head of the table. Morgana bites her lips as she listens to the scouts rattle off a list of figures and descriptions.

The Saxons' camps are made to last. That meant they intended to keep the united forces here- they would not budge from this spot until either they were decimated or Albion was conquered. Morgana sighs inwardly.

If only Arthur had allowed the second wave of camp-makers, escorted this time by more troops than the last, to be ambushed and eliminated, this would not been happening. Morgana cannot help but resent Arthur's adamant command that no such action would be condoned by him.

His honor is commendable, but he should not have interfered from letting others do the unsavory deeds in his place. His censure could very well be the catalyst to their defeat. If the armies are not allowed to be mobile, Albion loses the only real advantage they had: being able to choose the terrain of battle.

As the scout finishes his recitation, Queen Morgause leans forward.

"Has there been any suspicious movements sighted?"

Morgana understands- her sister wants to know exactly when the battle is expected to commence. But the scout seems thrown by the question, stammering little tidbits about scavenging habits and raid patterns. Morgause cuts him off.

"Have they shown any sign of aggression?" she asks again.

The scout swallows. "My lady, the main bulk of the army is marching to meet us."

Instant pandemonium. Morgana goes numb as the entire Council lurches to their feet, shouting.

They're coming. There are a thousand and one things to prepare before they commence, but it's begun. How could the scouts have not noticed the Saxons preparing to attack?

She looks to Arthur. He's a little paler, but he looks calm. Morgana listens as Arthur raises his voice over the din.

"We attack as planned. We have had a weeks' grace to prepare; our men are ready. Tend to your troops- we will march to meet them at my signal."

Morgana lets out a breath of relief as the Council of Kings all hasten to obey. Arthur gives another series of orders as they file out. Morgana waits for the higher ranking kings and queens to make their way out before walking to the exit herself.

Just as she's about to lift the tent flap, a hand on her shoulder stops her. Morgana flinches before she can stop herself, then turns around as the hand is lifted as if she's scalded it.

There's a strange expression on Arthur's face- it isn't anger, but it's not quite brooding either. The tent is alone but for the two. Morgana nervously wets her lips.

Arthur has been more distant from her since her little accident. She's fine now, of course- it has been a week, and the bruises are starting to fade away- but what hurts her is that he is slipping away from her.

"You're alright?" Arthur asks with mendacious casualness. Morgana looks at him, trying to determine whether it is a brief comradely inquiry or actual concern. "What does it matter to you?" she wants to snap at him.

If it was Arthur, her ally and King of Camelot, she would have. He cares for her, after all, and they are comfortable enough to bicker regularly. But this is Arthur, High King of Albion. Morgana cannot tell if even the concern he had shown by visiting her tent after her fall from the horse had been on account of actually caring whether she was alright, or simply the duty of a king to ensure the well-being of his generals. Especially after the raid of that morning- she can't even be certain that he wants her to remain with him.

In the end, she settles for giving him a short nod. "As well as can be, my lord."

Arthur's face shutters, and Morgana tries to figure out if that was the wrong thing to say. He's been so distant, it doesn't feel right to call him by only his name anymore- and she doesn't want to risk the rebuke he might give if she oversteps the new boundaries that have sprung up since the incident. She doesn't want to risk losing him entirely.

Lost in thought, she nearly doesn't catch the next thing he says to her.

"And you're sleeping enough?"

Morgana nods again. "Of course. Thank you for your concern."

It's not a lie- she has been sleeping better. Arthur had pulled her from missions and active scouting- whether that had been to let her recover or because he doesn't trust her anymore, she doesn't want to know- and the phantoms from the massacre of the camp-followers had long faded away. She'd slept better in the past week than the last two months of campaigning. But Arthur's piercing eyes examine her as if he doesn't believe her words.

He suddenly takes her left arm and pulls the sleeve up to reveal the fading bruises of the fall. Morgana snatches her hand away, startled. Arthur's lips twist. Neither speak for a long moment.

"Be safe," he finally says. He turns to leave.

Morgana clenches her hands into fists before she can reach for him. She wants to hold him, to reassure him that he could do this. If only she could be sure that was what he wanted.

She watches Arthur walk out of the tent. The canvas dwelling is empty but for her, and Morgana relaxes her hands before striding out to make her own preparations.

* * *

"Charge!"

The thunderous sound of Albion's cavalry charging ahead merges with the shouts of men attacking from both sides.

Arthur can see his troops spread to form the pincer as they have been trained to; he's dismayed to note that it's not as coordinated as in the drills. But it serves its purpose well enough. They meet the Saxons head-on, the clashing of swords filling the air as the battle begins.

Arthur nods to Merlin, who rides beside him.

"This'll work," he says, more to reassure himself than Merlin.

The sorcerer grunts as he starts picking off magicians. Arthur is a conspicuous target, and he can weed out the magic-users just by following the offensive magic surging against him to the source.

Arthur himself hacks at the oncoming foot soldiers from his horse. The Saxons that have managed to pass the polearms of the front line are swarming in, trying to break the formation from within. Arthur uses his mounted advantage to the fullest, leaving men dead behind him like leaves in autumn.

Lives must have meant something, once upon a time. They must still, in some remote village. But this is not the time to contemplate the enormity of murder. Survival first, then winning the battle. Reflection can come afterwards.

Arthur looks around, checking to see that the formation is holding. Camelot still holds the pivotal point, but all of Albion is steadily advancing. There's Morgause with a feral grin on her lips as she butchers the oncoming troops from her horse, Cenred efficiently doing the same besides her. Bedwyr is acquitting himself well, commanding the troops of Caerleon in his mother's place. Alined stays to the rear of the troops as usual, but he cannot help that now.

And Morgana- she's not as deftly fatal as he remembers her. Another sign that she's not back to her full strength yet- she's slower, less fluid. She's still a far sight better than any of the men near her though; certainly better than Keredic, who looks like he's playing make-believe compared to Morgana's cold competence.

Keredic is an idiot when it comes to martial arts. Arthur has known that since the prince visited during the brief engagement to Mithian. But it's one thing to know it, and another thing to witness the sheer incompetence firsthand. It's a wonder that the man hasn't gotten himself killed yet; probably it's his proximity to Morgana and the relative safety of his mount that's saved him. If things go wrong, Keredic would get Morgana killed along with him.

Arthur looks away, clamping down the worry that rises at the thought. Morgana will be alright- he has to believe that. There is a battle in progress and Arthur cannot afford distractions. He turns his mind back to the battlefield in front of him.

He begins the slaughter again.

* * *

Morgana squints up at the midafternoon sun for a brief instant before returning her attention to the battle raging on around her. She doesn't know how long she's been slashing and hacking at the never-ending onslaught of Saxons. The Cornwall-Nemeth forces have kept up their front well; though soldiers from both have mingled, there is still a clear division. It would be catastrophic should the Saxons manage to punch through them and attack from the rear as well.

"Don't think it'll stop anytime soon," Keredic pants from beside her, maintaining an awkward seat on his horse. The prince is red with exertion, seemingly swinging his sword any which way in the blind hope that it'll hit someone. Morgana can hardly believe that Rodor's even let his son enter the battlefield, stunningly incompetent as Keredic is. It's not a matter of contempt, though she's grown up in a nation always ready for war. Keredic is a good man. But he will die here more likely than not if he's allowed to stay. He should be with the auxiliary forces, in the healer's tent or doing the logistics. Morgana makes up her mind.

"It's an even battle," she tells him, "the tides could turn any minute now." She takes a pause to stab a charging Saxon knight as he rides past her, ducking to avoid the man's own countering strike. She moves onto the foot soldier to the left before the knight topples to the ground. Without looking back at Keredic, who undoubtedly is looking squeamish, she continues.

"Go to the rear of our troops. We need someone there to command if the enemy gets past us."

It's a complete lie, of course. But the fighting is concentrated where the two forces meet, and Keredic will be protected and away from the fighting. Sweet as he is, the prince is nothing but extra baggage right now.

"And leave you here?" Keredic splutters. He glances at his father, who is roaring savagely as he charges past to engage two foot soldiers at once, with a hint of apprehension. "My father would never forgive me if I left the forefront."

Morgana tones down the snap of annoyance that comes to her voice at having to take care of the prince. "Your father would never forgive you if you got yourself killed now. We need a command center at the rear."

Keredic looks past to his father again. "My father…"

This time, Morgana does not bother to curb her harshness.

"Go. If your father says anything, I pulled rank on you as proxy of the King of Cornwall. Now go!"

The prince does not bother to hide his relief as he nods gratefully and rides to the back. Morgana lets out a breath, leaning to the side to cut the throat of a man with a mace. She curses as someone else's sword finds its mark in her left leg.

Wincing, she swings herself back to strike back at her attacker. The man is a skilled fighter, and he ducks under her blow, getting past her guard. She blocks the man's lunge with a flick of her sword, then draws her dirk from its place on her saddle and plunges it into his ribcage. The shorter sword comes out with a sickening sucking sound as she pulls it out of the dying body.

Morgana takes a cursory glance at her bleeding calf. It's not so deep that it's going to be life-threatening, but it burns. She should consider herself lucky that it's only the muscle that's been sliced, and not a nerve or a major blood vessel. Whispering a few words, Morgana gets the fabric of her trousers to bunch around the wound, effectively staunching the flow of blood and acting like a bandage. The steady pressure makes the leg at least usable despite the throbbing pain. She continues fighting.

The Saxons keep coming, and Morgana loses track of how many she's killed and how many of her own men has fallen. It's an indeterminable strike-parry-kill that she can lose herself into. By the time Morgana snaps out of the near-trance of bloodwrath, she can see the Camelot banners near her.

Morgana frowns- this is not good. Has the pincer formation gotten closer to one another? She looks around.

The men are stepping over the corpses of their comrades to fight. The battleground is crowded with death and the dying; the ground is wetted dark with blood. Looking up at the sun again, she guesses that more than two hours have passed.

She glimpses red at the edges of her vision. Lancelot nods rigidly to her as he rides past, leaving men dead in his wake. There is a slice on his cheek- she distantly notes that Guinevere isn't going to be happy that her husband's pretty face is going to be marred. Gwaine is visible, a little ahead- this must be the pivot of the pincer, held by Camelot's forces. The knight acknowledges her with a rakish grin.

"Missed me, my lady?" he purrs, even as he kicks his adversary in the face from his mount and finishes it with a killing blow. Morgana rolls her eyes.

"How could I not?" she shouts back, "Not when you have such perfect hair."

Gwaine's grin gets even wider. He slices his way to her. "No one compliments me like you do."

Morgana's sword bites into human flesh, and Gwaine turns to engage another foe. Morgana can't help giggling at the absurdity, even as she cuts a man's thigh to the bone.

"Perhaps you should start showering _me_ in compliments," she laughs mirthlessly. Gwaine's smile fades just a little.

"My lady, you do realize how unnerving you are when you do that," he tells her.

Morgana laughs again, with even less humor than before.

"I'm always unnerving. That's not a good compliment, Sir Gwaine."

Gwaine shrugs, then curses as a sword slices his horse's flank and it rears. Morgana runs the Saxon through as he takes aim at Gwaine.

"Much obliged," the knight says. He glances at her. "I suppose we'll be seeing each other around, Princess Morgana."

Morgana turns her horse to meet an oncoming Saxon knight. "I suppose we will. Any chance the High King will begin the second phase soon?" Gwaine shrugs.

"About Arthur-" he grunts as he blocks an axe swung at his head, "You shouldn't push him away, milady." The axe-wielder is neatly dispatched as Morgana splutters.

"I- you're giving me relationship advice? Now?" She's astonished at the gall of this knight. Unbelievable. She's pushing him away? She's so distracted by the sudden words that she temporarily forgets she's in the middle of a battle.

"Watch it!" the knight with bared arms- Pellinore? Percival? That's probably it, Percival. And _really_, short sleeves in battle?- barks as he swipes at a Saxon who had been charging at her back. Morgana whirls, giving the knight a grateful nod.

"Thank you, Sir Percival," she says as she swings her sword to strike another Saxon. The knight gives a grunt, so she supposes his name _is _Percival. Gwaine gives her a mocking salute and rides into the thick of battle again. She's at the edge of the Camelot and Cornwall-Nemeth troops, so she can still keep an eye on her troops.

Morgana looks around, assessing the progress of the battle. There's no clear advantage on either side yet, and they haven't started the second offensive, after all. Her gaze snaps to a conspicuous figure astride a charger, red cape swirling around him. Arthur. She also sees the two Saxon knights who are charging at him from the side as he fights a third. Merlin is nowhere to be seen, and that's puzzling. Morgana urges her horse towards him.

Arthur notices her and quickly slits the Saxon knight's throat.

"Morgana?"

She ignores it, riding past him to intercept the Saxon's sword before it is driven into Arthur's back. The two Saxon knights retreat a little, surprised by her sudden appearance. As the first Saxon charges at her, she ducks the blade and plunges her sword into the horse's neck. The Saxon falls, clearly not having expected her to go for his mount. Morgana's sword bites into his chest as he goes down. She looks up to find the second knight already attacking her. With her left arm, she brings up the dirk to intercept the blow while she aims her sword at his heart. The knight's too fast, though, and immediately parries her sword. Morgana brings it around again to aim for the neck this time, but realizes he's anticipated it when he knocks her hand out of balance, striking out with his own sword. Morgana brings up her dirk.

Crimson blooms on the man's throat as a dirk sprouts from it. Morgana looks to Arthur, nodding as she plucks his dirk out of the corpse.

"You should keep an eye on your back," she calls as she hands the dirk back to him.

He nods, eyes on her face. Morgana sighs in aggravation.

"Like now," she says. She pushes him aside as the next Saxon tries a surprise attack from the back. A quick stab stops the man in his tracks.

"Brings back memories of when I used to beat you?" she smirks.

Arthur squints. "That never happened," he protests, his eyes mirthful.

Morgana smiles, a little hope rising in her chest. A little hope that soon deflates as she realizes he's probably not focusing on her right now, and this could be an unwanted lapse into old habits. She hesitates as Arthur surveys the battlefield.

"We await your signal, my lord," she tells him carefully. The mirth disappears, and Arthur nods stiffly.

"Merlin is preparing to alert the commanders. We will begin soon."

Morgana turns to meet another Saxon. Cutting him down, she wipes the droplets of blood off her face. Does this remind him of that day in the field? She can't think of that right now. There is a battle to fight.

Merlin's signal comes sooner than later, a magical blare of war-trumpets audible to all of Albion's forces. She nods to Arthur and heads back to the middle of her own troops, barking orders and preparing for the second surge.

There is nothing for it, Morgana thinks as she marshals her men, but seeing her way through this battle.

There is a war going on, after all.

* * *

Arthur unconsciously frowns at the mirage Merlin shows him depicting their troops as they move into position. Escetia is swift as usual, but Clarence and Mercia is keeping up to leave a smooth front. Camelot is holding steady, with the left flank shaking a little. The transitioning of the troops to support the front for the secondary charge has left some parts of the pincer dangerously thin, but that cannot be helped. Arthur takes a deep breath.

"This is it."

Merlin nods, and mutters the spells for the second signal. The syncopated beat of the war drums fill the air. Arthur raises his sword aloft.

"For Albion!"

At his cry, the legions of the united forces let out a wordless roar, charging forward as one. The Saxons falter, and Arthur butchers them to lead his men on. Slowly, the Albion forces gain ground.

The aggressive move means that there are more enemies to face, always moving forward. Merlin's eyes flash continuously as he summons more and more forces of nature. The signature whirlwind rises from the grass to fling the Saxons away.

Arthur glances at the mirage again. They have definitely pushed the Saxons back; at this rate, this could be the decisive pull for victory. He looks at the diagram again, and his heart drops.

Olaf's men simply haven't kept up. There's a gap between Cantia and Mercia that the Saxons could exploit at any time. Already, he can see some of the enemy taking the weak spot to punch through their front.

"Merlin," he hisses, "send word to Alined that they are to support the gap between Cantia and Mercia. Now!"

Merlin breaks off the whirlwind spell. "One minute, Arthur."

As the warlock chants the spell, Arthur glances at the positions with apprehension. The Saxons were gathering to make full use of the gap now, and if they didn't intervene soon, the tables would turn.

Arthur tears his eyes away to focus on the battle at hand. A Saxon general charges at him, and he locks swords, using his other hand to throw his dirk again at the man's throat. The man dies with a gurgle. He drives his sword left and down, catching another Saxon on the skull. The man drops like a stone as he turns his attention back to the diagram. He grits his teeth as he realizes his mistake. By moving Clarence to bolster the troops, he's made the semi-circle front smaller. The Saxons flood through, and now he can see that both their formations are shaken.

Arthur curses, blocking yet another sword that comes his way. He lashes out, fully beheading the attacker. It's gruesome, but effective. He takes another look at the state of things.

There is nothing he can do. The troops are confused; he can see the legions starting to break formation and mingle. Cenred and Morgause's troops have cut through the Saxon's lines contrary to orders, while Logres has spread too thinly. Odin and the Meredor army has brutalized the left flank, which is good, but he moves independently of the main army.

"Merlin!" he shouts, "Can you talk to all of the commanders at once?"

The sorcerer swears. "It'd take too long!" he hollers over the noise of the battle around them. "It took me long enough to locate _one_- I can't do them all within the _hour_, let alone at once!"

Arthur curses at that. Beyond the general signals, they had not bothered to settle on more complex communications.

The battle plan, their drills and planning- it was for naught. Arthur feels sharply the extent of his control over his so-called subjects. The kings may listen to him in the council, but in the battlefield he may as well not be commanding.

As he watches, Nemeth breaks away from Cornwall to drive into the Saxon lines. He can practically see Morgana trying to cover them by spreading her troops out, thinning the front in the process. Caerleon comes to bolster them, but is waylaid by a sudden surge of Saxons. All of the Albion forces are scattered. It's turned out into an outright melee, and now everything is up to chance. There can be no winner from this.

Arthur thinks it out while his body mechanically fells men. Each men can kill only so many before they too fall. If they have even numbers, it's going to be a bloody stalemate. But the Albion soldiers are already disoriented from the break in formation…

He grimly shakes off his thoughts and turns his mind to the butchering of men. If this is doomed to failure, he will do his part to decimate their armies.

The fighting soon settles into a rhythm of attack and defend, picking off soldiers from his horse. Merlin continues the whirlwind spell until he is too drained to do so. Arthur orders him off the field to recover, and the warlock gratefully and discreetly rides out of the battle. And then the world melds into the monotony of blood and violence again.

In the end, neither calls the retreat first. The fighting winds down as the sun sets over the piles of dead soldiers and the bloodied plain. In the cover of darkness, both armies drift apart and trudge back to their separate camps.

As Arthur becomes aware of the world again, the crushing bitterness rises in his throat.

It may be a stalemate, but this is failure, straight and simple. He has failed Albion as High King. The total lack of control he has shown today may be a bigger blow to the united forces than even a loss.

He passes a hand over his blood-splattered face, nudging his horse to make the weary journey back to camp.

The nightfall is heavy.

* * *

The camp is depressingly still. Morgana can feel the dampened spirits dragging the men down; even the usual noises filling the air seem halfhearted. Alone in her tent, she leans her head against the central wooden pole holding the structure up.

This battle should have been a triumph. Arthur needed it to be a victory, to stop the burgeoning fears and doubts of the kings from affecting his leadership. He needed it to prove to himself that he was worthy of being High King, to be the man that would drive the Saxons out and save Albion.

Silly Arthur. Beyond victories and defeats, beyond the insecurity and self-doubt, he is a king born. She'd poured herself into raising him high, and she wouldn't see him brought down. Sighing, she tosses aside the initial reports given to her.

There are an estimated twenty-thousand men in the Saxon invading force, of which three quarters are opposing them now. They had left the remaining troops occupying Cornwall and besieging other citadels; Fort Serin, a pivotal point between Cornwall and Escetia, has recently fallen. The Albion forces number at least twenty-five thousand and could enlist more; but the majority is spread out defending the different nations. In this battle, they had matched the Saxons man for man.

And in estimated casualties and deaths, as well. There is no outcome to this first real battle. No defeat or win- not even a patch of dirt retaken. Just men and women slaughtered in a test of strength. And that is as crushing as a loss.

Morgana had killed, again and again. There is more proof to it than the blood dripping from her hands, long washed away. She clenches her eyes shut against the advancing specters.

Stupid magic. Stupid Sight. It rarely shows her anything useful; the future is too vague to make much of, and unless she undergoes extensive training in the discipline it would stay that way. It would take time and resources she can't afford.

And there's no guarantee that it will stop the ghosts of her victims from appearing to her. She opens her eyes again, gasping, before the spirits of the dark emerge to haunt her mind. There are those murmurs, always those cursed murmurs, rising in a crescendo as soon as her mind becomes lax. She's gotten used to blocking them out; she barely notices their presence when she's busy. And they don't show themselves too boldly when there is someone with her.

She shivers; right now, she wishes someone, anyone, was in the room with her. This melancholy would go away as soon as she was distracted. Perhaps she should read over the casualty reports again.

As soon as she raises herself to fetch the parchment she's tossed aside, she hears footsteps growing more and more audible, heading to her tent. She tenses, hand straying to the dagger strapped at her hips.

The footsteps stop outside the flap. She relaxes. If it was an intruder, he or she would have burst in by now, weapons aloft.

"Morgana?"

She bites her lips as her heart beats a little faster. It's Arthur. His voice is huskier than usual, but she'd recognize it anywhere. The specters crowding her draw back, past the edges of her vision. She hurriedly adjusts the tunic and man's breeches she's wearing, smoothing the wrinkles as best she can.

"May I come in?" Arthur's voice is quieter, devoid of his usual confidence. Morgana fiddles with her hair nervously.

"Come in," she calls. She hates the way her voice shakes as she speaks. She gets up as the flap lifts and Arthur walks in.

It's not just his voice that's been stripped of his usual spirit. Arthur looks tired, spent from the battle. Morgana resists the urge to curtsey, to address him by his formal title and to once again put up the walls that have risen between them.

This isn't the High King come to speak to her. It's Arthur, the all too fallible man. It's not the time to retreat to the safety of empty courtesies. Morgana grips the fabric of her breeches nervously.

"Arthur," she greets. He looks at her, eyes gaunt and hollow. It frightens her- there's none of the fire she's so used to seeing from him. Instinctively, she walks closer.

He doesn't respond as she hesitantly places a hand on his arm. Tugging gently, she leads him to the only chair. He sinks down, and she seats herself on the cot.

He doesn't speak. Morgana sits in silence as he broods. She wants to reach out to him, to pull him out of this mood he's in just like he's keeping away the ghosts with his mere presence, but she doesn't know how. Just when she is about to beg him to talk, he opens his mouth to speak.

"You've been looking at the casualty reports," he says tonelessly. Morgana glances at the roll of parchment on the ground, then moves to pick it up. She sets it down on the rough stand by the cot. Arthur looks at her.

"We might as well have lost the battle," he mutters. "The soldiers and commanders both-it's disheartened them."

"Arthur-" she begins, but is cut off.

"We've lost as many men as they have. There was no strategic benefit won from this battle, and even now they're resting in their camps. We're pinned here as much as they are, until there's a decisive battle." His hands curl into fists as Morgana watches. "I've failed them all," he whispers, "They trusted me to win the battle for Albion."

Morgana can't bear this. This self-doubt is painful to watch.

"They still do," she snaps. Arthur looks at her stonily, and Morgana is suddenly angry.

"And what does this moping and self-flagellation do for Albion?" She demands. "Albion needs its High King, Arthur. We can't hope to win without you."

Arthur stands up, looming over her. "Five thousand men dead, Morgana. Five thousand in one fell swoop. What sort of High King allows that to happen?"

"A human one." Morgana lifts her chin. "If you think you can prevent deaths in war, Arthur Pendragon, you've got another thought coming. The High King's duty is to ensure that we fight together. To win this war. This battle is only the beginning."

"Don't you hear the kings already starting to mutter?" Arthur asks bitterly. "I can barely keep them together long enough to have a cohesive strategy. I can't guarantee the next battle won't turn out like this."

Morgana has had enough. She bursts up from her seat, taking a step towards him. The height difference between them is large, but she faces him squarely.

"_You _are our High King," she says, jabbing a finger into his chest to emphasize her words. "_You _are the one we have chosen to lead us. Nothing will change that. You're a better man than this, Arthur."

"I don't know what to do!" He suddenly shouts. His voice cracks. "They look to me for guidance, Morgana, reassurance I can't give. I can't see a way for us to win this war swiftly."

The anger drains from Morgana, and her hands drop to her sides.

"Nobody asks that of you, Arthur," she says quietly. "All that we ask is that you keep faith alive for us."

Arthur closes his eyes and slumps back down on the chair. Morgana lowers herself on the cot again. Neither move for a while.

Arthur breaks the silence first. "You were right," he admits quietly. "We wouldn't be pinned defending this camp if the support for the Saxons had been eliminated when we had the chance."

Morgana looks at him in surprise. She bites her lips before answering.

"It was necessary," she says, "but you are a far better person than I. You would not sacrifice your honor to gain that advantage."

"There is no honor in war." Arthur laughs bitterly. "I should have remembered that."

"No." The strength of her voice surprises both of them. "It is the difference between a knight and a common fighter, a High King and a commander. You can't lead without honor, Arthur. It's your principles that made you the only High King we could have raised." She meets him in the eye. " You are a king to your bones. It's who you are."

"Morgana-" Arthur starts. She shakes her head, smiling bitterly.

"You can't be tainted by the use of dishonorable tactics, Arthur. Let others take that fall." She spreads her once bloodstained hands almost reflexively. "We're willing to do it."

Arthur looks at her with an unreadable expression on his face. The tent is silent but for their breaths.

"You'd sacrifice your own morals," he says in a strange voice, "to protect mine. You don't enjoy the killing." His tone rises at the end of a sentence, almost like a question.

"I find no pleasure in taking lives," Morgana whispers. She can't believe- Arthur believed that she _enjoyed _killing? That- that she was some vicious mercenary thirsting for blood? The ghosts, the feel of her sword as it cuts through human flesh, the voices that won't leave her alone, flit through her mind. "I- Arthur, you can't think that I- I _like_ the brutality...I-" her throat seizes up, and she bites back a choked sound. Arthur's still watching her, but she can't control the wave of nausea that comes at the thought.

"It is a means to an end," she chokes out. "If it means that you unite Albion in driving back the Saxons, that this war ends in our victory, so be it. I will do what is necessary. I-I don't..." the words die out, and Morgana shakes her head slowly. She doesn't let the tears pool. "My hands are already tainted," she finally says, "let mine be dyed red in your stead."

Morgana is suddenly surrounded by strong arms. She can't stop a gasp from escaping her lips as she realizes she's being embraced by Arthur. Her fingers unconsciously curl into his shirt.

It's nice, being pressed against Arthur's broad chest, nice and warm and safe. He's clutching her tight, holding her like she's something precious he doesn't want to lose, and she wouldn't have been able to break the embrace even if she wanted to. She lays her cheek against his clavicle. She thinks he might be whispering something into her hair, but she can't hear- and anyways, just the sensation of this embrace is overwhelming for her. In this moment, there are no ghosts haunting her- nothing exists but him and her, bound in the embrace.

Oh, Arthur. How could you not have known? We fight for _you_, as much as for Albion and for our homes. You inspire that faith. It's all for you. And I will be loyal to the end.

An all too short eternity, and he finally loosens his arms around her. She clings to him anyways, but he slowly pulls back, taking her face in his hands.

"I'm sorry," he rasps. "I'm sorry, Morgana."

She stays perfectly still, and Arthur's hands fall to her waist. It stays there, warm and steady.

Morgana looks up at him, biting her lips in uncertainty. She hesitantly raises a hand to his cheek.

He places a hand over hers, leaning into her touch. Her heart beats a little faster, and she doesn't know why. She lets go of him.

"Am I...forgiven?" She knows Arthur has continued blaming her for the massacre of the camp followers; she had expected it. But she can't find any other word than 'forgiven' to express what she really wants to ask.

_Do you still want me by your side? Have I regained your trust? Would you care, if I fall?_

She hopes he'll understand- hopes that this is him accepting her and not him simply seeking comfort. It's difficult to ask even that simple question.

Words are so hard around him.

His eyes flash- the bright blue irises flicker in the candlelight. But the intense expression on his face soon gives way to a smirk.

"You wouldn't care either way, Morgana," he says lightly. He looks at her. "I don't see there's anything to forgive."

Morgana blinks. An answering smile threatens to break out, but she holds it back.

"You're insufferable, Arthur."

"No more 'milord High King', is it?" Arthur teases. He sighs in what she knows is mock annoyance. "There goes all the respect you had for me." His dancing eyes give away how pleased he really is that she's gone back to their old familiarity. She grins- she's missed this as well.

"You assume I had respect for you in the first place."

He groans. "I should have gotten Merlin to record what you said before."

"Not a chance," she says, smirking. "I'd never have said it if there was any possibility you could do something like that. After all, I do think of everything."

He rolls his eyes and starts to retort, but then stops halfway. Morgana can see his mind changing thoughts halfway.

Arthur's eyes are suddenly serious.

"You did think of everything, regarding the Saxon camps," he says slowly. "You knew we'd be stuck here if we gave them the chance to build camps."

Morgana lowers her eyes. "They are predictable."

"Predictable?"

"Saxons share the same battle tactics," Morgana says, fiddling with her sleeves. "Smaller bands have attempted to take Cornwall before."

"The camp-followers," Arthur prompts.

"They always try to build a camp, so that they'd keep the main army in one place. If they succeed, they start expanding," she replies. She looks up. "Before the...war between Cornwall and Camelot, I was deployed on my first mission as a general. Saxons had landed on the eastern shore of Cornwall. A preliminary invasion force, of sorts. They'd brought camp followers."

Arthur looks like he knows where this is going. "What happened?"

"I couldn't order them killed. They built their camp, and the Saxons kept my legion keeping them in check while they looted the nearby villages." She shakes her head. "I couldn't do anything. But I learn from my mistakes."

Arthur is silent for a long while. "You knew it'd happen again," he finally says. She raises a shoulder, then lowers it.

"Sometimes, you have to let things happen."

"Sometimes, I should just let you do what you think is right," Arthur says ruefully. Morgana raises an eyebrow.

"Did Arthur Pendragon just admit I was right? The world must be ending."

Arthur shakes his head vehemently. "I never said that. I said what you _think _is right."

"Arthur, you prat, you meant it."

"Uh-uh," he counters. "You can't prove it."

Morgana gets up to punch him, but he easily dodges her blow and slips behind her. Before she can protest, she's enveloped in his arms again. She can't really find words to complain after that.

Arthur leans his head on the exposed skin between her neck and shoulders, his arms encircling her waist from the back. Morgana shivers, but Arthur shows no notice.

"Next time, just explain to me what you're doing," he tells her. "Save both of us a lot of headaches."

"I wasn't aware I was so important to you," she coos mockingly. His arms tighten around her.

"I'd miss your empty-headedness," he says, voice deliberately light. But she can feel the rare warmth emanating from it.

"Arthur," she says, trying to pull away. "Let go."

He doesn't budge. "I like it like this."

"Did you drink something again?" she says, sighing. She can feel a blush starting on her cheeks. "Please let go."

Reluctantly, he lowers his arms. She walks away, turning to look at him.

"Are you going to stay all night?" she asks.

"Are you going to let me?" Morgana swears she can hear a note of hope in the teasing voice.

"You have things to attend to," she reminds. He sighs, but turns to go.

"Good night," Morgana calls after him. He stops, then walks back to her. She raises an eyebrow.

Without looking away from her, he takes her hand and gently kisses it, lips brushing her knuckles. Morgana licks her lips unconsciously.

"Good night," he says, voice suddenly deeper. Before Morgana can reply, he flips open the tent flap and walks out.

It's a good thing, because there's no way she could have explained away the blush that comes in full force soon after.

* * *

**A/N: ****Thank you for reading! **I hope you liked this chapter- please tell me if the battle scenes or anything is tedious. Any feedback is welcome!

**Honestly. Reviews make this writer work faster! **


	6. Lux Nova

"Your majesty! High King Arthur, sire, Master Merlin needs you urgently."

Arthur rises from where he'd been kneeling, helping one of the wounded rebind his bandages. He frowns at the messenger.

"Has something happened to him? What's happened?"

The boy bows. "Begging your parden, my lord, but Master Merlin told me to find you fast as I could."

He wipes his hands on his trousers. "Where is he?"

"'E's waiting for you, he is, in the council tent." He waves in its general direction. "He didn't look too good."

Arthur nods again and walks towards it. It must be serious; Merlin would come personally if there wasn't something stopping him, and the sorcerer wasn't one to disturb him while he was with his men. That Merlin has summoned him is even more troubling. If it wasn't his friend of many years, Arthur would refuse to come. At the very least, it directly contradicted court etiquette.

He strides into the tent without bothering to announce his presence. The inside is dim, the thick fabric preventing the light from entering. Merlin is sitting hunched over the table, cradling his head in his hands.

"What's wrong?" Arthur says, inwardly concerned. The sorcerer looks up, face gaunt.

"Arthur," he croaks. "It's- it's Morgana."

Icy fear runs down his back. He rushes closer. "What do you mean? Is she hurt? Has something happened?"

Merlin shakes his head slowly. "She's fine. It's- she's-"

Arthur resists the urge to shake the sorcerer by the collar; though he isn't speaking fast enough, Merlin looks far too sick. He clenches his teeth as the other man finds the words.

Finally, Merlin speaks again. "She's- she's pulling memories from the captive generals. With magic, and it's-" he breaks off, clutching his temples again. "the dark magic is interfering with mine."

Arthur freezes. "She's pulling memories."

Merlin looks up. "Arthur, you have to make her stop. She can't do this."

Arthur nods slowly, as if in a trance. Without saying anything, he turns and slowly makes his way out of the tent.

* * *

Three down, one to go. That's the only thought keeping Morgana upright as she stumbles away from the captive general. She's tried to go gentle on these prisoners; they might be used for parleying, so she doesn't want to damage their brains permanently. Never mind that it's harder to break into their minds when they've stronger wills than most.

The memories are overwhelming. Keeping track of her own perceptions and sensations is difficult- having access to these foreign thoughts is even worse.

Even with all the thoughts in a different language, the information to be gained by picking the brains of these captured generals is enormous. She turns over the siphoned memories, skimming over the personal ones, trying to focus on their battle formation, council meetings, and drills. There is much to learn, and she cannot dally.

Morgana grabs the parchment and writes down all relevant details and observations, wiping away the perspiration that gathers on her brows. Her hair is damp, and she curses as a vein in her nose finally breaks. The blood trickles down her upper lip, and she staunches the thin stream with her sleeve while she writes. The waves of nausea ebb away soon enough. Tearing thoughts out of others' minds may be the only truly useful skill her Sight-muddled magic gives her- though it leaves her helpless and weak, it allows her to extract valuable information.

She's panting a little when she finally drops the quill and stumbles up. The final general is shouting what is undoubtedly obscenities at her; the other three are slumped over, their stares vacant. Hopefully they aren't permanently damaged- she's taken many pains for them to stay sane.

Kneeling to the general's level, Morgana grabs him by the jaw and forces him to face her. As he glares at her defiantly, she places two fingers on his temple and wills herself to probe into his mind.

The colors come first, as they always do. The dots of light meld into a view, starting to move into the battlefield. There is the gore, the violence of the battle, but she's not interested in that right now. She has to go further in. The view skips to a picture of a darkened tent. The general snarls as she witnesses a woman slip into the tent- and this is neither of interest nor her business, so she hurriedly pushes the memory back and plunges her magic deeper. And she's making progress here, because she's in a tent with the other generals, arguing over what seems to be battle plans- the size of the army is clearly marked out, as is their positions. This is important, so she counts the number of flags and scrutinizes the formation and tries to identify each of the commanders-

Morgana gasps as she's suddenly jerked out of the trance by a hand roughly shaking her shoulder. She turns, momentarily disoriented by the realness of the world as the magic breaks. Her vision focuses on the person in front of her.

What is Arthur doing here? She had given strict orders not to be disturbed. How had he even found her?

Her hands are trembling from the aftereffects, and she hurriedly clasps them behind her back in a semblance of a military stance as she gets up.

"Arthur, did no one ever teach you not to barge into rooms?"

Arthur's face is grim, and she wonders if something's happened, if there's been an attack. She's dizzy enough as is, and the recently stopped nosebleed threatens to start again. She wants Arthur to get out so she can finish this distasteful job quickly and rest.

"Merlin told me you were invading the minds of these generals," he says. That explains how he knew- there was no way that a magician as powerful as Merlin could not have sensed what she was doing. It is terribly dark magic, after all. Terribly dark, and terribly useful. Morgana wipes the sweat from her forehead.

"We need the information."

"You're defiling their humanity."

This is why Arthur wasn't supposed to know. All she wants right now is to stop this argument from happening.

"Arthur," she says, reaching out to tug at his shirt sleeve, "these generals know things that could hand us the victory. Now is not the time."

Arthur doesn't budge. "That doesn't excuse this travesty."

Morgana's knees threaten to buckle, but she keeps herself upright. Stupid magical backlash. "We've talked about this before, Arthur. I am doing what I must. Go back."

Arthur opens his mouth to argue again, but she suddenly starts coughing right as he begins. Instinctively, she covers her mouth with a hand. It's painful, and there seems to be something mixed in with the coughs. Arthur is hovering closer to her, looking unsure as to what to do.

The coughing abates, and Morgana slowly lowers her hand. Before she can wipe it on her shirttails, Arthur snatches her hand towards him. Crimson red dyes her palms. Blood.

Arthur looks horrified. Morgana takes her hand back and deliberately wipes it. This is a new side-effect, but it's not as painful as some she's seen.

"Go back," she repeats. "I'm nearly done, Arthur, and I'd appreciate being allowed to finish."

The blood seems to have silenced Arthur. He nods mutely.

Morgana turns back to the barely conscious general, not even bothering to check that Arthur has left.

There is work to do.

* * *

Arthur stumbles out of the tent, shaken. Merlin meets him as he staggers towards his own tent.

"What happened?" the warlock asks hurriedly. "I can still feel it…"

Arthur shakes his head wordlessly. Merlin half-drags him to sit down at the cot. He puts his head in his hands, trying to shake himself out of the numbness that's overtaken him.

"She won't stop," he whispers finally. "Morgana wouldn't stop."

Merlin frowns. "She has to," he says. "It's- it's _wrong_, Arthur. It's bad magic and no one should have the power to invade minds."

"Is it?" Arthur chuckles humorlessly. "Is there ever any magic that isn't bad?"

He can never say it, but some days he wonders if Uther was right in his single-minded conviction to ban magic. It complicates things, magic, going against the forces of nature and giving far too much power to one person. How can the rights of each person be protected when any moment some invisible force could destroy their homes, cause plagues, and even look into their minds?

Even the most well-intentioned magic has the potential to wreak havoc. He needs a way to control it.

"You know magic is just another force, Arthur."

He raises his head to look at the warlock. Merlin's looking at him in consternation.

"It's the people who use it that determine whether it's good or bad."

"You said yourself that what Morgana's doing is bad magic," Arthur retorts. Merlin swallows.

"Some magics can be twisted past its original intent," he says after a pause. "the spell she's using- did you know it was originally developed by a High Priestess to heal memory loss? Most sorcerers' magic, like mine- we can't use that. It's- it's _spiritual_, not just our regular manipulation of force."

Arthur frowns. "There are different types of magical power?"

"'Course there are," Merlin says, a little apprehensive. "Most magic is just force. I can create wind or move things by manipulating force, or create fire by controlling energy. Some elemental magic, too. Then sometimes you can find more complex spells like curses or wards- you weave the effects together to make other effects."

"It's just another type of force, then?" Arthur asks, still skeptical. Merlin nods enthusiastically.

"That's it," he says, "it's like you being able to punch, except we do it with our minds. You can punch someone in self-defense, or because you're bullying that person. The wielder determines whether the power is good or bad."

Arthur looks down at the ground.

"And Morgana?"

Merlin deflates. "Some magics deal with the arcane. The High Priestesses for one always have some power over life and death that's impossible to explain. Seers can see the future, which is traditionally of the fey. Dragonlords, like me…well, we're different too. Some magicians also have control over other beings, though that power belongs to the Sidhe more than us."

"So those are bad magic." Arthur's face is inscrutable.

"No! Sire, you know it's not like that." Merlin puts his face in his hands. "This is so hard to explain."

"What am I supposed to think, then?"

"Some magic we can't…we can't understand. I've heard that we all have auras, existing in overlapping dimensions, and some soothsayers look past to that to see our futures. They just exist. Like they fey are beyond our morality."

Arthur rubs his face wearily with a hand. "Then I should leave her be?"

Merlin opens his mouth to reply, and then closes it. Arthur watches as conflicting emotions pass through the warlock's face.

Merlin finally speaks. "I think…what Morgana's doing is wrong."

"But the magic isn't?"

"This isn't a question of the magic. Regardless of whether the spell is inherently good or bad, Morgana chose to use that power, Arthur."

He tenses. "You're saying it's Morgana who's..." Merlin shrugs.

"She never claimed to be any sort of good." The warlock visibly hesitates before speaking. "Arthur, you're letting your emotions get in the way of your thinking. Morgana-"

"I don't want to hear it." The words are clipped and terse. He has argued this point with Morgana before. Arthur knows now that Morgana bears all the dirty work so that he can remain untainted. She continues, broken as she is, with the same devotion to her kingdom and Albion that drives him. Dark magic or no, she has sacrificed far too much for him to allow himself to doubt her like this. Arthur can see Merlin bite back a retort.

"Yes, Sire."

There is a stilted silence. Arthur thinks back on Merlin's explanations. He has issues he needs to work out with magic, after all.

"In the battle," Arthur begins, "you said it'd take too much time to reach all the commanders with magic. How did that work?"

A little crease appears on Merlin's brow. "Magic doesn't make things happen with a wave of the hand," he says. "It's…it works like most things in life. I need to know exactly where the target of my spell is to make it happen. Either I see the target, or I can visualize the exact position."

Arthur's face must have shown his confusion, because Merlin hastens to add, "When you punch, you have to know where the person you're going to punch _is_ if you want to get a hit. If I want to form a communications spell, I need to know where the person is."

"So when I tell you to reach a commander…"

"I have to cast a sweeping spell first to find the location, unless I know exactly where he- or she, actually- is. It's a little easier if you want me to talk to a magician; I can usually feel their magic signatures- don't ask, Arthur, you don't want to know- although it takes a little time to identify them."

Arthur's trying to digest this new information. Uther had never actually taught him about how magic _worked_; his father had been more concerned with what it looked like and how to catch the users. He himself had always assumed things just…happened when a magic user muttered specific words. He turns his attention back to Merlin, who seems eager to explain the mysteries of magic to him.

"People like Morgana, it's even easier for me to find and cast the spell with. I could probably do it within seconds. She's got a strong, unusual magic signature, I've worked with her enough times to know her presence, and she always carries around a token that I've put a spell on previously. Anybody who has any of those conditions, it'd be easy for me to find."

Arthur frowns. "She…carries around a token? When did you give her a token?"

Merlin immediately raises his hands in a placating gesture, which Arthur thinks is ridiculous and completely unnecessary. "I never gave her a token."

"Then what are you talking about?"

"The necklace you gave her- for her birthday, was it? The one I put the transporting spell on along with the ring she gave you. Speaking of which, you lost the ring. Did you ever tell her that? I'm not sure she'd be very pleased that you've lost her present…"

Arthur remembers all too well how he lost his ring in the Maze of Endwyn. He cuts Merlin's blabbering short.

"So…the necklace."

"She never takes it off. The courier spell is still in place, although it doesn't work now that you don't have the ring, and it has my magic in it. So I can find her fast."

Arthur ponders this. Putting aside the pleased feeling that sweeps through him at hearing that Morgana still wears the necklace, he tries to find the reason this rings a bell.

"I can't talk to the commanders from a distance because I don't have magic. You can't talk to them fast enough because you don't know the location. But any token with your magic would make it easier to find them. Why didn't you just distribute a charmed token to the commanders before the battle?"

Merlin gapes, and then grins sheepishly. "Because, well, we didn't think about it. I didn't know it was important for you to be able to talk to the commanders."

Arthur feels like putting his face in his hands. "And were you not listening the half-dozen times I stressed the importance of communication, _Mer_lin?"

"Probably not." Merlin grins. "But now I can figure out a spell to make you be able to talk to them whenever you want. Would rings do? I can get the magicians to spell one for each person you need to talk to."

"That will work." A small smile spreads across his face. "We might have a chance after all.

* * *

Princess Mithian arrives with surprisingly little fanfare a week later, her standard unembellished with only the emblem of Nemeth visible on it. Morgana has met her but once before, during the forging of the Albion Alliance, but it was deemed fitting that she receive the other princess into camp rather than another general. In truth, Morgana is not too eager to meet her; though she has heard nothing but good things about her from Keredic and Arthur, the fact that the princess was once betrothed to Arthur somehow makes her reluctant.

So she stands against the welcome August wind, Sir Gwaine besides her; Sir Blythe and Sir Goron, both knights of her homeland, accompany them as well. It is a small reception, hardly befitting Princess Mithian's rank, but this is war and there are far too many monarchs here for a princess to be taken much note of. The gods know she herself isn't respected as anything more than a general.

"So, Princess Morgana, why are you stuck out here instead of that brother of hers?"

Gwaine asks, watching the procession of Mithian and her troops to camp. Morgana shrugs.

"King Rodor took Prince Keredic with him on a scouting trip early yesterday. We weren't expecting Mithian so early."

The knight looks at her, grinning impishly. "Why so terse, my lady? Is it the new competition for Arthur's heart that's gotten you worried?" The Cornish knights shift uneasily behind Morgana.

She barely spares him a glance, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on the approaching soldiers. "Hardly. I wasn't aware I was competing for Arthur in the first place."

He snorts. "Of course you weren't. Just like Arthur isn't pining for you every second he can spare from the war."

Morgana flashes him a brilliant smile. "Well, he must not be pining for me very much if he's doing that in his spare time."

"You'd be surprised, my lady."

Morgana makes a disbelieving noise, but does not bother to retort. Sir Gwaine already seems to have an unhealthy interest in her relationship with Arthur, or lack thereof. She isn't going to fan the flames. In any case, Arthur hasn't even talked to her in the last week, since he found her using magic on the generals. He is not overly cool with her, nor does he go out of his way to avoid her. Still, she can't help feeling worried that they may have regressed to their previous conflict. She suspects Merlin could have something to do with her not seeing Arthur; Arthur has been working on something with the sorcerer that's taken up all his time. She's reported her findings to the Council of Kings of course, and the past week had been spent wholly on devising a new strategy. The Saxons had seemed content to lick their own wounds in a temporary truce.

Mithian arrives at the gates before Gwaine finds something else to tease her about. Morgana bows stiffly, and the knights follow suit. Truth be told, she should be curtseying, but it looks rather ridiculous without an accompanying skirt and Morgana doesn't want to rub it into the soldiers' faces that she's a woman any more than she already is. Mithian dismounts.

The princess is admittedly lovely. Delicate features, flawless wintry skin, and a comfortable poise Morgana wishes she possessed. Mithian is a princess straight out of fairy tales, complete with the kind, loving heart and charm. The kind of princess that would love Arthur unconditionally, the kind of princess that would be the perfect High Queen.

Morgana hesitates before offering her greetings. Mithian looks more sallow than she remembers, but that could be because her face is devoid of the usual make-up rather than ill health. "We are honored to have you here, Princess Mithian. I hope your journey has not been difficult."

Mithian looks at the four, a pleasant smile on her lips. Her hair- darker than Morgana remembers it, but not yet her own midnight black-is pinned to the sides of her head and let down around her shoulders, and she tucks a strand back.

"I am grateful for your kindness in receiving me in person, Princess Morgana," she says softly. Morgana pulls her lips into a hopefully friendly smile.

"I apologize that we are so few in greeting you. An urgent issue has had the Council of Kings suddenly in conference-"

Mithian shakes her head, cutting short Morgana's rather awkward explanations gently. "I am honored by your receiving me. I wouldn't presume to burden myself further."

Morgana loosens a fraction, unwillingly put at ease by Mithian's words. Before she can lay on more courtesies, Mithian speaks.

"These men are Nemeth's covert archery legion, the pride of our military. They have been instrumental in many strategic maneuvers, and I hope they will be of service."

Morgana notices the well-worn crossbow visible on Mithian's horse.

"Will you be leading them, my lady?"

"Yes," the other princess nods, "In times like these, even a princess should do her part."

Doing her part indeed, Morgana thinks acidly. It must be nice to have a choice. But she nods and smiles.

"You must be tired, Princess Mithian. I will show you to your lodgings. This is Sir Gwaine of Camelot, Sir Blythe, and Sir Goron, both of Cornwall. They will introduce your men to the camp."

The men bow, and Gwaine steps up.

"They'll be in safe hands."

Mithian nods, and Gwaine grins. Throwing the two women a salute, he starts leading Mithians' bowmen to the barracks. Morgana glimpses a few women among them. Gwaine would take them to the women's lodgings. And probably flirt with them on the way. She turns her attention back to Mithian.

"I'm afraid the accommodations are quite bare," she tells her, "This camp was set up to be temporary, so we all sleep in military tents."

Mithian smiles. "That won't be a problem. We did camp on our way here."

Morgana smiles back. "I'm glad. Thank you for your understanding."

It's all very artificial, she thinks as she smoothly leads them both past the rows and rows of barracks and generals' tents. Sincerity has never been a trait of hers, and she isn't faring too well with this perfectly _good_ princess. Mithian has an innocence, a glow like Arthur's- a heart that loves easily and is loved in return.

"This is the main council tent," Morgana points out as they pass. "Most of the kings are in council now with High King Arthur. Your father and brother are away on reconnaissance- they would have greeted you if they had not expected you to arrive later."

"Of course," Mithian agrees, "I was eager to join the main force, and I'm afraid I may have driven my men a little hard."

"We are very glad for your assistance," Morgana says. "The first frontal battle has ended in a stalemate, and with the Saxon camps established it seems we will fight it out here." She fiddles with her sword. "The months of fighting Saxon raids on various citadels have not helped. The war has been brutal, Princess Mithian."

Mithian carries the conversation effortlessly as they walk past other nobles' tents. It's pleasant in a way not being the one to force out conversation, but Morgana is envious of how easy and unaffected the other princess does so.

They arrive at Mithian's tent, and Morgana waves a hand at her tent standing a little ways away.

"If you need anything, please tell me. My tent is right beside yours, and I don't have any company."

Merlin chooses that moment to pop out of her tent. Morgana bites her lips as Mithian stifles her giggles.

"At least, most nights I don't. Merlin? What are you doing here?"

Merlin blinks owlishly at the sight of the two of them.

"Princess Mithian? You're here?" he blurts. When Morgana looks at him disapprovingly, he wilts a little.

"Arthur wants you in the Council of Kings now," the sorcerer tells her.

"Both of us?" she asks, wondering if Rodor and Keredic has returned. "Is it important? Princess Mithian has just arrived, and she should have time to prepare."

Merlin shakes his head. "I've been told to get everybody not already in the council tent. It's not going too well." He nods at Mithian. "I'm sure he'd want you there too.

"I'd be happy to," the princess says. "You need not worry, Princess Morgana."

Morgana nods. "Then we should be off."

Merlin shoos them to the direction of the tent and rushes off to find other truant council members.

* * *

"And it worked so well the first time, didn't it, Bayard?"

Morgause's voice is cuttingly sarcastic even heard through the gap in the opening of the tent. Standing outside with Mithian, Morgana wonders what has her sister in such a mood.

"A frontal assault is the only honorable way to fight, especially since we have both established camps," Bayard blusters. Morgana can almost see Morgause's lips curl in disdain.

"We've clearly seen that our troops are incapable of working together in such a way. The mark of an idiot is attempting the same failing method over and over again expecting different results."

"It isn't as if _you_ weren't the reason the whole formation broke down, you yellow-haired wench-"

"That's my wife you're talking about, Bayard," Cenred's voice growls, cutting him off. "Get it into your thick skull that Morgause is right; we need a different plan."

"Enough," Arthur's voice commands, "We are allies here." A silence follows.

Now that the shouting has subsided, Morgana nods to Mithian and pushes the tent flap open, striding in.

The various monarchs are sitting around a square table, Arthur at the head. Bayard is already red with anger, while Cenred is bristling and Morgause seething. She sees Keredic sitting with his father looking distinctly uncomfortable; they must have returned, after all.

She looks back to Arthur, her head raised high. He meets her eyes almost wearily, giving her an almost imperceivable nod.

"High King Arthur," she begins, "your majesties, may I introduce Princess Mithian, who has brought specialized reinforcements from Nemeth." She turns to Mithian, and the princess steps forward.

"Your majesties." She bows gracefully. "I and the legion of master bowsmen of Nemeth hope we will be of service to you and Albion."

"Welcome, Princess Mithian. We are grateful for your presence," Arthur says. He smiles, and Morgana can't help but feel a stab of jealousy at the way it is aimed solely at the other princess. The thought jumps unbidden into her mind: the two had been _engaged._ What if Arthur still harbored feelings for Mithian? The princess is beautiful with her pleasantly curving lips and her dark waterfall of hair, and Keredic had hinted that the betrothal had broken because of the hint of magic in their family rather than a mutual agreement. She shakes away the thought- and the accompanying dismay- as Arthur bids them sit.

She leads Mithian near the foot of the long table. They both sit down, Morgana flinching a little as a sharp pain runs up her thigh at the movement, and the conversation resumes.

Arthur asks, "How many men do you possess in your legion, Princess Mithian?"

"All told, around two hundred, my lord." Mithian tactfully pretends not to notice the faces falling at that. "The archers under my command are highly skilled marksmen, renowned for not only their aim but their resilliance and maneuverability. They are adept at camoflauge and support work." She glances around. "They have been instrumental to many battles, as some nations have seen firsthand."

Odin grunts, and Morgana recalls the brief war Nemeth had had with Meredor. The final skirmish had been unusual in that a division of archers had effectively won the battle for the army by luring the left flank into a trap and decimating the victims. Morgana's gaze flicks to Mithian as she realizes that the princess may have been the commander in charge of the archers in that battle.

Not a conventional lady then, as Morgana had guessed earlier. A veteran in war, perhaps.

Even more fitting for Arthur's bride.

Her thoughts are cut short by Bedwyr speaking.

"What good are a couple hundred bowmen? Led by a woman, as well.

Mithian bristles, and Morgana touches her arm to warn her against lashing out. Not that the princess looks like she has enough spite to do that. But Arthur looks so weary today; he looks brittle, like he will not be able to bear one more burden. No need to give him further cause to worry with a feud between Mithian and Bedwyr. Not when Morgana already has one ongoing.

"I'm sure that in these times, any aid is grateful," Morgana comments in the tension, smiling too sweetly at the prince. "Especially when they are such highly skilled forces led by a capable, _experienced_ commander."

Bedwyr grunts, but Morgana can see Queen Annis shoot him a warning look to keep him from arguing further. Arthur relaxes a fraction.

Keredic's smiling enthusiastically in her general direction. If she is truthful with herself, it's aimed mostly at his sister. But it's nice to have someone who's fully glad to see her. Tentatively, she smiles back.

The prince positively lights up at that, so much that she can practically feel the welcome radiating off him. Morgana blushes a little, but she can't deny feeling a little…pleased.

It'd be so easy to be loved by Keredic. He'd love her no matter what she did, understand why she'd force herself to do repulsive things. It'd be simple, loving him, devoid of tangles and problems.

Morgana snaps out of the reverie. None of that. She feels ashamed of herself, allowing her mind to wander in such an important meeting in such an important war.

Nothing much has been discussed though. More bickering, if anything. Her sister seems to be on edge, as does Cenred. Perhaps there has been unfavorable news from Escetia. Caerleon has been arguing with Alined and Godwyn over the advantages of cutting off supply routes. Morgana grimaces, but remains silent; it is best not to take part when the men are so intent on squabbling. Truth be told, she doesn't see a point in whether or not taking that particular action will yield benefits; not only is it possible but difficult to _find_ the routes, shielded as they'd be by magic, it'd require coordination they weren't capable of at the moment. There was no use in arguing whether they should do it if they couldn't do it anyways.

She glances sidelong at Mithian. The princess seems to be listening intently to the debate, brown eyes thoughtful. Morgana is wondering what she is thinking when suddenly the princess speaks out.

"I believe that our archers' legion is capable of taking the supplies without fear of retaliation."

All eyes turn to Mithian as she continues. "They have been trained specifically for such purposes. If the route is identified, we can set a deadly ambush easily."

Morgana's eyes immediately flick to Bedwyr, Odin, and Bayard, who are most likely to object to this. She knows this is a course of action that will please Cenred and Morgause, Alined, and Godwyn; it is a prudent strategic move that would win Albion a real advantage in this deadlock. Bedwyr has a faintly contemptuous expression on his face, while Odin seems diffident enough. Bayard is unsurprisingly the first to speak out.

"It would not be honorable, Princess Mithian," he booms. "After all, we are fighting a war; we are not mercenaries."

Queen Annis immediately snaps back, "This is war, Bayard. A war we need to win at any costs."

"_Mother,_" Bedwyr hisses. He raises his voice. "Not only is it a bad idea by principle, what good would it do us? We're facing them in full frontal battles. There's no point to diversionary tactics. We have to fight it out- the battlefield is here."

_The battlefield is here. _Morgana's eyes meet her sister's. Inspiration.

Morgause speaks first. "It doesn't have to be."

"What?"Bedwyr is caught off guard.

"The battlefield doesn't have to be here. We lead them out to terrain where we are favorable, and have the battle on our terms."

Godwyn tilts his head. "And how would we lure them out without tipping them off?"

Morgana's lips slowly curve up as she nods to Mithian. "We take out the supply chain in full view of the army." She looks at Arthur directly. "If your majesty allows, Cornwall would be happy to act as bait."

"That's all very well and good," Cador says, frowning. "But where do we lead them to?"

Morgana hesitates. Truth be told, she knows little about the geography of the Plains of Peredor- it is after all part of Camelot, and she has not been able to travel much around even during her ambassador days. She looks at Morgause, who frowns a little. Of course Morgause would know even less about the real geography of Camelot lands than her. Morgana bites her lips, preparing to bluff her way out of the question. Before she can begin, Arthur speaks.

"The Plains of Peredor are surrounded by the Black Mountains, which border Camelot's south. Its rocky terrain possesses many crevaces and caves." He looks at Mithian. "What conditions do you require for an ambush?"

The princess looks thoughtful. "Higher ground, Sire. A narrow pass to bottleneck the troops is necessary. We would prefer a wooded area for more coverage. How big of a force are you planning to take down?"

Arthur speaks calmly, determinedly. "From a fifth to a third of the Saxons' forces."

Instant chaos. Morgana feels as if she's been punched, her head ringing.

There are fifteen thousand men in the Saxon Camp facing them. A fifth meant at least three thousand men- Arthur wants her to lure three to five _thousand _men into an ambush? Is he trying to get the Cornwall forces wiped out? And Mithian has two _hundred _archers. Skilled as they may be, there is no way they can wipe out five thousand men before the bait gets slaughtered.

"How in blazes are you even going to make sure that the whole force isn't going to chase after the bait?" Cenred shouts in the clamor. "What sort of daft idea is this?"

"High King Arthur, you can't possibly thinking to go ahead with this-"

"And the Saxons are going to take this lying down, are they?"

"They'd all get slaughtered when the entire Saxon Camp chases after them-"

"They won't." Arthur's voice cuts through the shouting. Everyone falls silent. He looks around the quietened council, eyes fierce sapphires in the dim light. There's suddenly something in his countenance that commands respect, obedience- somethingthat draws all of them to him. Arthur speaks again to absolute attention.

"They won't, because we'll be attacking the Saxon Camp at the same time."

This time, the council reacts with shocked silence. Morgana looks at the others; Morgause looks reluctantly impressed, Odin radiating grudging consideration, Rodor approving. Most are gaping at the new idea. Arthur seems to take no notice, completely focused as he outlines his plan. He calls for a map of the Black Mountains.

"When the supply chain is taken as they approach camp, our troops will take the loot as we retreat. The Saxons will have no choice but to send a sizeable force after us to retrieve them." Arthur nods as a page brings in a leather map. He spreads it out on the map already on the table where the Black Mountains are marked. "Our raiding party will take the loot into the Black Mountains, to a strait that runs through around here." He points to the map where a deep crevice has been drawn, tracing the path. "There is a narrow pass here that loops back to the Plains. In the middle, there is a region so narrow only four men or one wagon can pass through at a time. It was a good spot for traps when hunting." He looks at Princess Mithian again. "There are many ledges on either side of the pass on the stone faces. The cliffs rise to more than fifty meters in all. There is some shrubbery on the ledges to provide minimal cover, but you should be undetected if they don't look too closely up."  
Mithian nods. "That should be sufficient. How long does the narrow turn go for?"

"It would take more than two and a half hours for an army of four thousand to pass through. As soon as enough of the Saxon forces have left the camp to pursue the raiders, we will attack the main camp. It should be thrown into disarray as the soldiers are caught by surprise while beginning to move out. We surround the camp and fight our way in."

Arthur's gaze sweeps through the assembled monarchs. Not one dares make a sound. "This is the battle that will determine whether we win the war. We have let the Saxons drag the war on long enough. We cannot afford more deadlocks like our first battle; this will be a decisive triumph or our last stand. Do you understand?"

The gravity holds. It is as if all the monarchs are mesmerized by his words. And then:

"Yes, Sire. We will fight to the last man."

Rodor breaks the silence first. Morgana realizes with a jolt that it's the first time a king has directly addressed Arthur according to his elevated rank.

"My liege, we will do our part in this battle," Bayard intones. Morgana can feel the smallest of smiles growing on her face- this is a public acknowledgement of Arthur's right to be High King. And it pleases her, more than it should.

The rest of the council pledge their support once more to Arthur. He is majestic, Morgana thinks. This is his moment just as when he leads his troops in the battlefield. She can't help feeling pround for his sake.

When Arthur speaks again, everyone falls into respectful silence.

"We have seen firsthand that we cannot win without communication. Much like our previous strategy, this battle will require unified coordination and delicate timing." The council fidgets a little in shame; they have not forgotten what had become of that strategy.

"It also requires adapting to changing situations that signals cannot easily convey."

Arthur pauses, then speaks louder. "Merlin!"

The sorcerer swings the tent flap open and comes in holding a large leather pouch. He stops at Arthur's side. "You called, Sire?"

"The rings," Arthur says. Merlin opens the pouch and upturns it, letting a stream of shining golden rings clattering onto the wooden table. The rings are magic, Morgana observes as Alined leans closer interestedly. So this is what they've been working on all week.

Arthur picks one of the rings up. "These rings will provide our communication," he says. "The magic on them allows each commander to speak to commanders both as a whole and individually." He nods to Merlin. The sorcerer speaks eagerly.

"They've been enchanted with two-way communication spells that connect all of these rings together. We have enough for the Council of Kings and the generals directly under them. You turn the ring to the left like this when it's on your finger-" he places his thumb and forefinger on two grooves set in the top and the bottom of the ring-"to have it reach everybody. And if you want to talk to someone in particular, you just tap the ring with your forefinger once and breathe the person's name into it. You have to be clear about it, though." He smiles sheepishly. "We wouldn have given them to you sooner, but it took a while to find a good enough spell. And it took a while to gather enough rings in the first place."

"Each one has a name engraved in it, to identify the owner," Merlin explains. "Bebiede Geðo hit his agendum handum!" Small piles of rings separate and slide to each monarch.

Morgana examines the rings in front of her. Her name glints out at her from the uppermost ring, so she picks it up and slips it on. It fits like it was made for her hand. Morgana suddenly looks up at Arthur.

At first, the only expression on his face is the regal, thoughtful one he so often bears during these council meetings. But when he realizes she's looking at him, it suddenly cracks- and there's that obnoxious cocky grin slowly breaking through. It's aimed at her only, she is certain of this. He'd never break from his persona of High King like this to anyone else. _I one-upped you this time_, it seems to say.

Morgana raises an eyebrow and holds her hand up to deliberately examine it in the light. Not bad. She meets his eyes again, lifts her hand up to display the ring, and flexes her fingers playfully. He snorts, and she can't stifle the real grin that spreads across her face this time.

Morgana pockets the small handful of rings made for Cornwall's other high-ranking generals. It is a useful invention, this work of Merlin's, and she is in no way ignorant of how much this could improve their coordination and power. Arthur's idea has impressed her, though she'd never admit it.

There's a small amount of talk as the other rulers examine their own rings. Morgause seems rather pleased, while Odin squints at the shining pile like it's a trap that will snap at him. But the general mood is one of approval.

Merlin bows and leaves the tent as the rest of the council settle down. Arthur's face settles back into seriousness.

"Using the rings, we will coordinate our attack so that we strike the moment enough of the Saxon army has left for the camp to be vunerable. The confusion should allow us to easily overtake them. A deployment blocks off the mountain pass so that no more of the Saxons can pursue, while half of our forces attack from the rear. The rest of our forces attack as if in a frontal battle, spreading to surround them once the main areas have been torched."

"You're going to wipe them out completely," Cador breathes in awe. "It's brilliant."

Arthur nods at the young prince. "We cannot afford to be pinned down in this plain any longer. They are expanding far too fast for us to tarry." He turns to Cenred and Morgause. "The force that attacks from the rear has to do so in complete stealth; if they are found out in transit they will be massacred. The Escetian army is known for their speed and stealth. Escetia will lead the forces that strike from the other side of camp. Upon my signal, and only upon my signal, you will begin the assault. Form a kill-box; surround them as you move inwards." Arthur is not asking, Morgana notes. He is ordering, and Morgause and Cenred are acceptingit. Her proud sister and her husband, acquiescing to Arthur's commands.

"Once the Escetian army attacks, it will need a fierce, heavily armed back-up. King Bayard, your forces are as solid as the best of the Romans. You will move your armies into camp as soon as the Escetian army makes their surprise attack, providing the bulk of the force."

Bayard nods. "You won't find a better force for it anywhere."

Arthur turns to Olaf and Alined. "I believe that for this battle Clarence and Cantia is needed to ensure that our position is fully surrounding the Saxon Camps. We cannot afford any breaks in our formation. King Alined, I would like for Clarence to cover the right wing of Bayard's army, moving out to complete the circle at my signal. The Cantian troops would likewise move out the left wing. Your role is crucial in the second stage of battle, maintaining the formation."

Morgana can imagine Arthur's thoughts behind the orders. Bayard wishes for glory, and would take pride in being chosen as the main force for the attack from the rear. Olaf and Alined are far more cautious; they would appreciate their armies being given the less risky positions. At the same time, Arthur speaks truth: to prevent the same outcome of the last battle, Albion needs the formation to be supported fully. Havin two troops dedicated to doing so would further that end greatly.

"Camelot will be part of the frontal charge," Arthur continues. "I would like Logres and Caerleon to join me in doing so. King Godwyn, your forces will take left flank. You must make sure that your troops fully meet King Alined's forces in building the formation. King Caerleon, Queen Annis, Prince Bedwyr, you will spread the right wing after the initial assault. Your forces will be essential both in the frontal charge and in the formation afterwards." He pauses. "We cannot afford any gaps. You must ensure your forces are directly adjacent to King Olaf's."

The monarchs nod. Bedwyr looks determined; no doubt he is pleased he at least gets to take part in a frontal battle. Morgana thinks Arthur has grown more political in the space of a week: he has placed Caerleon and Godwyn, older allies of Camelot, to fight with him in front, while at the same time ensuring that the troops of those will fight side by side are friendly with each other. He put Godwyn next to Alined rather than Annis, prudent considering the mutual animosity between the king and the queen. Morgana sometimes wonders if Annis and Alined has some history with each other- perhaps a broken betrothal or a grudge? It could also be Annis couldn't stand Alined's two-faced lies.

In any case, this method of giving each nation's troops their own tasks seem to be much more efficient than the previous method of lumping them into larger forces. Morgana is frankly impressed at how much thought Arthur has given to this seemingly improvised plan.

Arthur orders Rodor and the Nemeth troops not under Mithian to strike deep into the Saxon Camp once the melee starts in order to torch the main buildings. Rodor acquises enthusiastically. How Keredic turned out to be such a gentle, non-militant man under Rodor, Morgana will never understand.

Arthur seems to hesitate for the first time as he calls Odin. Morgana bites her lips, praying that the king will not be too recalcitrant.

"King Odin," Arthur begins, "It is imperative that no more than one third of the Saxon forces leave in pursuit of the bait. I would like Meredor to lay in ambush at the base of the mountain pass, and attack at my signal to eliminate those that exceed that number. Without you, the ambush in the mountain pass could well be overwhelmed."

Odin grunts, muttering something like 'arrogant pup', but he seems to be accepting the order. Morgana can see the tension leaving Arthur's hands as he turns to Mithian.

"You are the crux of this battle," Arthur tells the princess. "Will the conditions allow for you to handle up to five thousand men? None of them must be allowed to reach the end of the mountain pass."

Princess Mithian raises her chin. "We will prove our worth, High King Arthur. Not one of the five thousand men will leave the valley alive."

Arthur smiles, but it soon gives way to concern. "The Saxon forces may have caught up to the bait force as they enter the pass."

Mithian's answering smile is steely. "We are expert marksmen, my lord. And if the mountain pass is as you say, it should leave some space between our forces and theirs."

Arthur nods. "We are truly grateful for your timely arrival." He sighs imperceptively.

"The raiding party- the bait- requires perfect timing in execution. Its attack must be convincing enough to throw the Saxon camp into confusion and elicit a response. It must purposefully lag behind until over one-fifth the force has left the camp in pursuit, while maintaining enough distance to get through the pass safely. It must bear the attack until my express orders. One hasty move, and the entire strategy will fall apart." Morgana is startled when Arthur suddenly looks directly at her. "You will have to seize the supplies and keep them with you as you move through the Black Mountains, to ensure the Saxons pursue. You must keep them from discovering the ambushes in the rear of the camp, the base of the mountain, and in the pass until they have passed through." She swallows.

"Morgana." The deliberate dropping of her title is not lost on her- and, seemingly, neither is it lost on the rest of the council. "I know of no one better for the role."

"I…my lord-"

That look again. Morgana's heart skips a beat, but she cannot help staring back. Before she can say anything, though, a voice cuts in.

"I would like to assist in the raiding party with some of my men."

Morgana's gaze snaps to Keredic, who looks pale yet determined. Her mouth opens in disbelief.

Keredic? Why would Keredic wish to be bait? He is most comfortable behind the lines; he takes no pleasure in battle. Why would he volunteer to the arguably most dangerous position in this strategy?

Keredic forges on. "I would like to aid Princess Morgana in the role. I would like to join her in the pivotal position."

Anger rushes through her veins in waves. How dare he? How dare Keredic question her competence? That is all Keredic's request amounts to, in the end. He thinks her unfit for the role and that he as the big strong knight has to protect her. As if she needed the protection.

Morgana takes a deep breath to calm herself. That's not what Keredic's intending, she tells herself. He only wants to accompany her so she wouldn't be alone. The role is intimidating, even to her. Keredic has realized that, and he's braving his own fears so he can be with her.

It's almost sweet, in a way. It would be, if it wasn't so condescending.

She looks at Arthur pleadingly. He seems frozen, jaw clenched. Morgana cannot tell what he is thinking. She's about to speak out against Keredic's request and hang the consequences when Rodor suddenly laughs.

"A fine idea," he booms. "My boy's turned into a man. See a real glimpse of the kraken, eh?" The king slaps Keredic on the back. "I'm proud of you, son."

The prince smiles at his father shakily, then turns expectantly to Arthur. Morgana watches in consternation as Arthur considers how to respond. She wants to put her face into her hands.

Rodor's just made it nigh on impossible for Arthur to refuse Keredic without it being seen as a rebuff. But Keredic's not meant for the battlefield, let alone delicate military operations like this. Sometimes she wonders if Rodor even _sees _his son properly. She resists the impulse to shake some sense into Keredic. He's risking his life- and for what? This misguided sense of chivalry.

Slowly, Arthur nods. "If you wish, Prince Keredic, so you may."

Keredic's eyes flick to Morgana, as if looking for her approval next. She forces up a half-smile, and he grins back. At the same time, she can feel Arthur's gaze on her as well. Ignoring it, she nods to Keredic as if she is grateful for his initiative.

Arthur clears his throat, and everyone's attention shifts back to him.

"Master Merlin and the sorcerer troops will attempt to locate the route of the supply chain. The attack will begin at my order. Until then, you are to train your troops in their duties, and inform your generals of their roles. Show them how to use their rings. I advise you to keep yours on at all times, as well." He holds up his own hand, showing the ring, then hesitates. Morgana sees his eyes flicking in her direction again. "It is imperative for Princess Mithian, Princess Morgana, and…Prince Keredic to be familiar with the terrain of the Black Mountains and the mountain pass in particular. I would like to introduce them to the area today. If they could meet in the training foregrounds."

Morgana nods, as does Mithian at her side. Arthur's mouth twitches up.

"Thank you for your attention."

It is a dismissal. The rulers stand up one by one and leave the tent, still caught up in the gravitas. As Morgana leans over to tell Mithian that she will show where they are to wait, she glances at Arthur.

More specifically, Arthur's seat. The High King has already left the tent.

* * *

"So it's you, me, my sister, and the High King off to check the trails. Isn't that a bit risky?"

Morgana and Keredic are walking out into the fields. Mithian has excused herself to change into more serviceable clothes after seeing the training grounds, and Arthur is off somewhere. Arthur was the one who has decided that the four scout out the trails in the first place, as their armies will fight their battles there, so they wait.

"You're forgetting Merlin. If there's any danger, he and I should have enough power to get us away." It is half-true; though teleportation requires too much energy to be practical, they would be able to move a short distance away from danger, enough to be safe.

"Hmm." Keredic seems unconvinced. Morgana looks at him.

"It's extremely unlikely that we will meet Saxon forces in the woods we'll be at. And even if we run into scouting groups, we should be more than a match for them." She pauses. "We have a little time while your sister prepares. If it's alright with you, I'd like to help with your swordsmanship. You will be accompanying me in the raiding party, after all."

Keredic's face falls almost comically. "Oh no. You're just like my father. Would it stop you if I said it's a terribly bad idea?"

Her mouth twitches up into an unwilling smile at his genuine dismay.

"You _will _have to hold your own in the battle, Keredic," Morgana teases, then turns serious. "What on earth possessed you to volunteer for the raiding party?"

Keredic is intelligent enough to know what a dangerous position the bait is. How could he even think of getting himself involved? With him having so publicly asked to be added to the role, there is no way Morgana can sneak him back to safety now.

Keredic fidgets, looking away from her to the distant mountains. He swallows, looking as if he is trying to decide whether or not to speak.

"You're…you're something else, you know that?" Keredic blurts out. "It's like…I've never known someone quite like you. I couldn't stand it, the thought of the High King sending you off on the most dangerous part alone. I know I won't be much of a help, but I wanted to- to make sure I was there for you. And-and I've never felt like this before. But I can't help thinking that- I want to be with you. I keep imagining what it'd be like to be with you after the war."

Morgana suddenly wishes she was anywhere but here. If she could turn back time and the conversation back to a safe topic, she'd do it in an instant. He's- he's just proposed marriage to her implicitly, hasn't he?

What is she supposed to say? Keredic has been a welcome friend, but only that-a friend. He is honorable, sweet, supportive. She could love him if she had to, with time.

But she doesn't have to.

She shouldn't give a direct answer. Not when they are days away from the most important battle of the war. Morgana cannot afford to alienate Keredic right now, no matter how gently she rejects him.

"That's after the war," Morgana eventually says. "I should think you'd want to take steps to survive, before you start thinking about it. Which leads us to fencing." She tilts her lips up in a cheeky smile, praying that Keredic will carry on with the lighter tone of conversation.

"Not this again," Keredic groans. He looks sidelong at her. "Well, I can't refuse an opportunity to be taught by such a lovely princess."

She raises an eyebrow, but accepts the compliment. Before she can decide how to start on the lessons, a voice whispers to her.

"He hasn't bothered you, has he?"

Morgana whirls. Arthur's suddenly there behind her, and there's a strange expression on his face, a mix of disapproval, uncertainty, and worry. He glares at Keredic as he speaks, loud enough for both of them to hear this time.

"I think it'd be better if I taught him, Princess Morgana." He smirks at her. "After all, he might be too distracted by your beauty to pay much attention."

It hits her then that he's _heard everything Keredic said to her just now. _Morgana flushes. Stupid, stupid Keredic. And Arthur, the prat. If only she had enough energy for teleportation right now. Arthur's looking at her now, scrutinizing her carefully guarded expression as he asks again.

"Well?"

Morgana begins to protest, but Keredic seems willing enough. The two men take their places facing each other as Morgana unwillingly stands aside.

Arthur grimaces a little at Keredic's stance. "We're going to try sparring," he says.

Keredic nods, and raising his sword, he strikes on the offensive first. Arthur dodges without even making an effort. As Keredic turns back to face him again, Arthur gets going on 'teaching' him.

"You've got gaps here-" a whack too fast for Keredic to block, "and here-" another blow to the back," and now you're leaving your left open-" a jab to the chest, "and you're going to get killed if you ever get into combat." Arthur raps him directly in the solar plexus, and Keredic lets out an 'oof!' as he tumbles to the ground.

Morgana opens her mouth in incredulity, but it takes a while for her to even find the words to say something.

"What do you think you are _doing_, Arthur?"

He doesn't even glance at her. "I'm trying to make sure he survives this war."

"You're _mauling _him is what you're doing. If you're going to teach him, don't bully him."

"It's better I do this than some Saxon who actually wants to kill him."

"_Arthur!_"

"If he's not up to training with me, he shouldn't be on the battlefield."

Morgana shakes her head in anger. "You prat." She pulls out her sword. "Why don't you demonstrate how good you are by facing up against a real opponent?"

It's the wrong thing to say. She knows she's most likely going to lose; she has been diminished by the quest at the Isle of the Blessed, after all. But she's so angry right now. And if she can find some way to distract him, she might have a chance. For the first time, Arthur looks hesitant.

"Your leg, Morgana. I'm not going to fight an invalid woman."

Anger flares up. "Is it the fact that I'm a woman, or that I have an injury? We're expected to fight past our wounds," she says mockingly. It seems to rile Arthur up. Good.

"Prince Keredic won't learn much from seeing me beat you up," he snaps. "So why not save ourselves the bother?"

"It's really- Morgana, I'll be alright," Keredic calls, standing back up. He's winded, and his voice is a little funny. They both ignore him.

Morgana doesn't bother retorting. She only swings her sword once before striking out in a wide swipe. Arthur jumps back, not having expected such an aggressive move. She follows through, being careful to shift her weight on the good leg. Her strategy of using agility to overcome strength has become less effective since she was wounded in the quest, and with her leg as it is right now, her speed is laughable. Her stamina is lowered, as well, and even when she was at full strength she could never contend with Arthur in that.

Not agility, then. Not strength. How can she do this?

They circle warily, but Arthur doesn't attack. It's strange, because she's been lost in thought all this time and he should have _noticed. _Should have taken advantage. And it's then she realizes that Arthur won't be on the offensive unless he has to, because he _doesn't want to hurt her._ And that just makes her angrier.

She lets out a breath, focusing on Arthur. That he would curb his blows to stop himself from hurting her is sweet in a way, but more importantly it gives her something to exploit.

Morgana lunges towards Arthur at the exact moment that he is facing the sun directly as he circles. He should be a little blinded by the sudden light; Morgana uses the gap to slip behind him and let loose a flurry of blows. A knock at his shoulder with the hilt of her sword to off his balance, followed by a vicious jab with her elbow to help him fall, and then an extension of her sword to lay it at his neck. It works out as she hopes, mostly because Arthur is taking pains to prevent himself from hurting her and it's interfering with his movement, but a sudden wave of pain runs up her leg.

She falters, but doesn't let go of the sword. Arthur, kneeling and about to yield, seems to notice; before she can do anything he whirls and knocks her hand away from him. Morgana retaliates by turning to locking her sword with his, twisting deftly to let it fly out of his hand. Arthur kicks at the back of her knees, making her hiss in pain; As she falls, she trips him down with her.

By the time she gets to her feet, he's regained his sword. He straightens up, the height difference all too clear between them.

"Give up now, Morgana," he tells her a little wearily.

"I'm not the one who was about to yield," she retorts, swinging her sword again. She doesn't hesitate before beginning the bout again.

They cross swords once, twice, three times. Try as she might, Morgana can't find a gap in Arthur's defenses. From Arthur's frustrated look, it seems he can't find any in hers he'll risk exploiting, either. The blows grow in ferocity as they grapple for the upper hand.

Morgana lets out a breath as she parries a particularly swift overhead strike; if there aren't any gaps, she'll just have to make one. Gritting her teeth, she puts weight on her bad leg and ducks his attack; he's within range now, and she strikes at his torso. He's put off-balance as he whirls to block her sword, and she slips her sword away to fully take advantage. She swings at his neck, then raps his hand with the pommel of her sword as he tries to block again. He drops his sword, but before Morgana can point her own sword at him, he falls back and picks it up, swinging it up to her neck at the same instant that she places it at his jugular. They stare at each other, panting.

She knows she's a sweaty mess right now, with hair falling out of her braid. But Arthur's eyes are dark as he looks at her, and suddenly she can't meet his gaze anymore. In unarranged unison, they slowly lower their blades. A silence fills the air.

Arthur takes two steps towards her, and Morgana instinctively takes a step away from him. Her eyes are downcast, trying to avoid his heated gaze. The air is charged, and Morgana takes another step back as he walks towards her. He's far too close already, and she's just so _tempted_. This is what's missing between her and Keredic, Morgana distantly realizes. This is the reason she will only ever think of the prince as a friend, sweet as he is.

"Look up," Arthur whispers in her ear. Morgana glances up, swallowing as he slowly backs her up against a pole. Her arms are slack, her sword hanging loosely in one hand.

"Arthur…" she warns, stumbling back. She makes a little sound as her back meets the wood. Arthur's looming over her, and her heart beats just a little faster as she meets his eyes. They smolder, and she thinks maybe he can see right into her soul. She wets her lips, and she can _feel _his gaze intensifying. Before she can slip away, his hands rest on either side of her on the pole, effectively pinning her to her spot without even touching her. And right now, there's no Keredic or anyone watching; there's just him and her and the barely ten inches of air between them.

She gives in to the temptation- goes on her tiptoes and closes the distance between them. She can't help herself. Arthur's eyes widen as she presses her lips to his. His are wind-chapped, but there's a cool sweetness to them anyways; she gives an involuntary shiver as he replies enthusiastically. Her thoughts are swirling and she really shouldn't be doing this out here because Father is going to _kill _her or at least throw her in the dungeons if they weren't in a war and oh god we're in a war what am I _doing _this is the High King we're _outside _and then thoughts pretty much go out the window as she gasps a little and his lips press harder against hers.

His hands reach up to cradle her jaw- she leans into his touch instinctively and covers his hand with her own. Her other hand finds itself fisting in his hair as he pulls her flush against him. The kiss is hungry, and the warm insistent pressure only increases as they deepen it.

When they finally break apart, they breathe in gulps of air, staring at each other. Morgana takes a tiny step back until she's blocked by the pole, and her eyes slide shut as Arthur bends down to press his lips against hers again, the aching want palpable.

Someone clears his throat from a little ways off. Arthur doesn't give any sign of having heard, but as the coughs get more attention-seeking, Morgana opens her eyes and casts her gaze around.

Keredic looks half-horrified, half-angry as he catches her eye. How long has he been standing there?

Oh. Fencing lessons. That was why they were here in the first place.

Sensing her distraction, Arthur frowns a little and breaks away. He turns to see what she is looking at.

The prince opens and closes his mouth a few times, seemingly at a loss for words to say. Morgana blushes as she straightens her clothes; this is shameful behavior for a princess. If rumors came out, she wouldn't be able to hold her head up in public.

"Keredic, I… you have to understand..." If there was a diplomatic way to beg him not to tell anybody, she'd say it in an instant. He may be well-disposed towards her, but this?

"I don't see what the problem is," Arthur says. "Is there something you disapprove of, Prince Keredic?"

He glowers. "What am I supposed to take this as?"

Arthur, the fool, seems even a little smug. "As none of your business."

"Keredic, it's not-" She's ignored by both men.

"And do you usually take advantage of princesses like this?" Keredic bites out. Arthur's jaw clenches.

"Morgana doesn't let anyone take advantage of her," he retorts. "Do not insult her ability."

"It certainly didn't seem like it."

Morgana turns pink with embarrassment. Arthur's still a half-step from her, and she lays a hand on his chest.

"Stop. Arthur, there is no point to this."

Arthur smirks, taking her other hand. Morgana can't find the words to protest.

"Well, I certainly see a point," he says.

"See a point to what?"

Mithian appears, dressed in breeches and tunic. Morgana quickly steps away from Arthur as Keredic loosens a fraction.

"Nothing," he half-grits to his sister. "Princess Morgana and High King Arthur were trying to teach me swordsmanship."

"Heavens help them," Mithian grins. "It's a hopeless cause. You might as well not bother," she says to them.

Arthur's stiffened a little. "Princess Mithian," he greets. Morgana glances between them.

"It seems we're all gathered," she says, "maybe we should head off now?"

The rest of the party nod, and Arthur leads them to the stables, where Merlin has been currying horses.

Morgana can't meet Keredic's eyes, but she can't look at Arthur without blushing either. She settles for riding by Mithian, and they converse in pretty nothings as they begin the trip.

Her lips still tingle from the kiss.

* * *

**A/N: I'm so sorry about the late update! Rest assured, I haven't abandoned the story. I just ran into writer's block, and when I got past it the chapter just. wouldn't. work. I must have rewritten this at least three times. It's not completely satisfactory, but I hope you enjoy it. **

**And thank you so much to all the reviewers, favorites, readers. Your support keeps me coming back to the story.**


	7. Societas Subita

"Soooo…what do you think of the cheese in camp?"

Morgana is just about to answer Merlin's awkward attempt at breaking the silence when Arthur rolls his eyes.

"If that's the best you can think up, _Mer_lin, you really are as stupid as you look."

Morgana only half-listens to the snarky exchange that follows as she scans the woods the five are riding through. Mithian shifts in her saddle.

"How much longer does it take to get to the pass?" the princess cuts in. "It isn't that I mind the ride, but if the distance from the expected point of attack is much longer, I don't know how the bait will survive."

Morgana swallows. That's her role Mithian is talking about. They've ridden for around twenty minutes already, the five of them, and though they haven't hurried it's clear that the speed will be significantly lower when the majority of their troops will be on foot.

Arthur seems to be thinking along the same lines, because he glances at her before turning to Mithian to reply.

"It should take no longer than five more minutes, my lady."

Mithian purses her lips and nods, looking at her brother with a hint of worry. The princess hesitates before she speaks.

"I can't help thinking that the bait would have swifter movement if it were made up of only Cornwall troops. They've trained together long enough to be unified, and I can't see how having an extra commander and troops from another country will help it in its mission."

Mithian wants her brother out of this, Morgana thinks. She knows it's too dangerous for Keredic, and she wants to protect her older brother any way she can.

Morgana agrees wholeheartedly. And, apparently, so does Arthur. He looks very much like he wants to tell Keredic to leave. But what he does say in reply is surprising.

"Prince Keredic volunteered in front of the Council of Kings. It is impossible for me to release him from his duty now."

Morgana looks at him sharply. "But-"

"The code of honor forbids it. Keredic volunteered himself, and Keredic must carry the task to its end." Arthur's frustration at the situation is clear as he speaks.

"Arthur-"

"And I intend to do so."

Keredic glares at Arthur as he speaks those words. Arthur glowers back, but does not say anything in reply.

Morgana looks between the two men, and sighs. She looks at Merlin in resignation.

"So…about that cheese?"

* * *

The five minutes it takes them to reach the mountain pass feels like an eternity to Morgana. The conversation is stilted, with Arthur brooding, Mithian worried, and Keredic a little resentful. Morgana herself is distracted, not only from trying to memorize the terrain and the way but also from trying to repress the memories of the kiss – _her _kiss – so she doesn't blush. This really isn't a good time for that, she knows. And the path is getting narrower and less woody, so she really should pay more attention now.

They ride for a little more before Arthur brings his horse to a halt.

"We're here."

They all dismount. Morgana looks up at the twin cliffs between the narrow path.

"Lovely. Will you be able to position your troops here, Princess Mithian?"

Arthur raises his arm to point out the various ledges which could be used by the bowmen.

"There. The ledges extend the length of this pass, so there shouldn't be any problems."

Mithian squints up, and Morgana follows suit. The shrubbery is stunted from the high winds expected of the altitude, and it obscures the ledges satisfactorily. As Arthur has said, this is as good a place for ambushes as any.

"We'll have to climb down to the ledges beforehand," Mithian says with a moue. "I'm assuming the back way is less…dramatic?"

Arthur chuckles a little. "The other sides of the cliffs are gentler inclines. You need not worry." He smiles at her. "As my lady says, once the troops reach the top, they will need to climb down or be lowered onto the middle ledges."

"They won't be able to escape if they're attacked from above," Morgana tells him. "What are you planning to do about that?"

Merlin coughs. "Actually, I don't think the Saxons know much about the geography here. I doubt they'd find a way to lie in wait after the bowmen are in their place and before the bait comes through. And by then, they won't have any interest in anything but the bait."

"Hmm." Morgana looks at the winding path. It is two meters wide at the start, varying as it progresses. She cannot see the end. "How long did you say it goes for, Arthur?"

"Six leagues*." Arthur chuckles a little at her surprised expression. "I did say it was quite long."

"If it's two meters wide on average, four men can pass at a time," Mithian remarks. "You wanted four thousand men caught in the ambush. Approaching at the regular marching pace, it would take two hours for the entire army to be inside the ambush zone. The ambush can't start until the last of them have entered the kill box."

Keredic looks a little pale. "Two hours?"

"We'll have to march double time for two and a half hours without being wiped out for the ambush to be successful." Morgana affirms. "It's not going to be pretty."

"The archers can't begin the attack until then, so it's up to you to stay alive. Once they're in, of course, we'll only need you to bottleneck the exit." Mithian's looking at her brother with a little worry as she speaks.

Arthur nods. "It would take four hours for an army of that size to reach the other exit. So even if they pass the kill box, it would take a while for them to escape. That's why we'll need you to seal the other opening."

"You'll be wanting us to bring the goods back after the battle," Morgana notes. "We'll have to push through the pass another hour to keep the supplies away from the ambush and prepare to deal with the few escaped ones."

Merlin, who has been listening to this tactical exchange silently, suddenly asks a question.

"Doesn't Mithian only have two hundred archers? How are you going to cover _six leagues _with those numbers?"

Keredic tilts his head. "The other nations will add their archers to the ranks as well, I'd think."

Arthur shakes his head. "Even with the ranks bolstered, we have less than seven hundred archers all told that are good enough to be allowed in the ambush."

"You can't even cover a league with that," Merlin protests. "How are you going to pull it off?"

Mithian looks up at the cliffs. "I have been told we have no shortage of arrows," she comments. It is a half-question, and Arthur nods to confirm the statement. She smiles.

"We won't have the ambush line the whole pass. We'll simply have our bowmen lie in wait at the two ends of the procession. The middle will have nowhere to go."

Morgana is impressed, though she tries to keep her face blank. It is a very good strategy, what Mithian has suggested. After all, the bowmen only need to bottleneck the two exits. The army will all pass through the two zones in their rush to escape, and as disorganized as they would be after two and a half hours of chasing the supply chain, the rush would add to the effectiveness of the strategy.

"If we're going to attack from both ends, we'll need to create distance between the bait and the front of the Saxon army at the very last minute," Morgana remarks. "We need something to slow them down."

"Maybe nets, or booby traps?" Keredic suggests. Mithan quirks her head.

"Those would work, if we could use magic to have a quick release. They'd have to be set up in the place the Saxon vanguard will reach when we start the ambush.

Arthur nods approval, and Morgana pouts just a little.

"Let's go through the pass once, so we know the  
terrain," she sighs. "I'd like to know exactly where we'll be wandering around so I know what I'm talking about when we bring the generals here. "

Keredic peers at the path. "And we're sure this place is safe?"

Arthur shoots him a look. "Nothing's safe," he grunts as he walks to the front. "Come on."

The four follow him in. Mithian keeps looking up to note the positions of likely ledges for ambush. She cranes her neck again.

"Ah!"

Arthur catches Mithian as she falls bumping into Merlin. "Careful."

Morgana's mouth twitches. "It wouldn't do for you to be injured before the battle, Princess Mithian. Rest assured we will examine the ledges from above. I'd prefer if you focused on the ground for the moment."

Merlin discreetly raises an eyebrow at her as Mithian smiles. She hasn't noticed the snap in her voice, or has elected to ignore it. "I'll look where I'm going from now on," she says.

Morgana nods back as cordial as she can.

"Let's go a little faster," Arthur says, impatience clear in his voice. "I'd like to get through here before midafternoon."

Morgana glances around the narrow path and internally agrees. She quickens her step to match his, and soon the whole group is moving at a brisk pace through the cliffs.

It takes two hours for them to go past the narrow cliff-lined pass. When they finally come out into wider terrain again, Morgana sighs.

"It _is _a good place for an ambush," she says. "But it's going to be as difficult for us as it is for them to move, especially when we're carrying the supplies."

Keredic looks nervous. "Can't we just transport them straight to our own camp with magic in the beginning? I think we're cutting it too close."

"We can't," Morgana replies. "The reason the whole army's going to be chasing us all this way is because we're dangling the supplies in front of their eyes. If we don't have it, only a few will come after us."

Keredic's face seems to say he doen't think it's a bad thing for less of the enemy to be pursuing them. Merlin looks at him.

"In any case, transport with magic would take too much energy. Can you imagine how much supplies you're going to have? Even if you set up a two-way spell, it would spend too much magic."

Arthur frowns. "When you made the courier spell for me and Morgana, there was no limit to the size of the package, was there?"

Hearing him, Keredic looks as if he wants to say something. Morgana speaks before he can.

"Technically, it did. The cat was the biggest that could be sent, and it wasn't exactly safe for it either. The spell is- how should I explain this- it made a….a wormhole, of sorts. A tunnel that led directly from the ring to the necklace. Everytime you used it, it spent a bit of the magic we imbued in the trinkets. And it really isn't safe for any live creatures."

Arthur blinks. "Words came out of your mouth," he said, "but they didn't make sense."

As Morgana takes a deep breath to stop herself from hitting him, Merlin explains.

He spreads his arms. "Ring," he says, flipping his left hand palm up. "And necklace." He flips the other hand's palm up. "Connection," he says very slowly as he brings the two hands together. "Things go through." He twiddles his fingers. "Magic."

Morgana chokes back laughter as he continues to speak very slowly. Arthur looks at him with a look of absolute disbelief.

"Big package." He forms a circle with two hands, and then shakes his head. "Magic can't move."

"Alright, that's enough," Arthur snaps.

Mithian coughs a little. "Thank you for that informative lecture, Merlin," she says. "Your majesty, if we could go to the top of the cliffs now?"

Morgana turns around, but then freezes as she sees past the trees.

"Arthur. Is that our _camp_ I'm seeing there?" Her voice comes out more abrupt than she would like.

Keredic looks at where she points. "I think you're right, Morgana. That's definitely the Plains of Peredor."

"It's…it's _this close _to the rear of our camp? But it goes through the mountains!"

Arthur looks at Morgana. "I did tell you the pass goes around the Black Mountains and comes back to Peredor."

"But the exit to the pass leads directly to the battlefield! If we somehow let a few Saxons get past the kill box, they'll go straight for our camp." Morgana bites her lip in worry.

"So we'll make sure none of them get through," Mithian replies in a determined voice.

Arthur looks at the scene of the camp below. "Of course, my lady. But Morgana has a point. The bait is to carry the supplies back to camp, and it will be dangerous through this pass. But more importantly, the Saxons can go from this end of the pass during the battle. And the cliffs can be accessed from this end."

Keredic pales a little. "Mithian, you could be attacked if they get here from that end."

The princess looks at her brother. "It won't be a problem. We'll pick them off as well."

"The majority of your bowmen will be on the ledges," he argues. "If they get to the cliffs, you're going to be attacked from above. You'll be slaughtered."

Morgana looks at the siblings, then at the pass again.

"We'll cover your retreat."

They both turn to look at her. "Pardon?"

"The bait. Once the ambush is over, we'll block the junction of the pass that leads to the cliffs. Take the time to move out of the ledges into a less dangerous position. Maybe provide backup to Odin's forces. We'll join the battle from this end."

Merlin raises an eyebrow. "So basically you're going to have the bait be a part of the main forces surrounding the Saxon army after the ambush?"

"It won't come to that," Morgana shrugs. "We'll be behind the formation. Hopefully, we won't see any action. But we can't spare any forces, you know that."

"Fine," Arthur says. "But call for backup the minute things get bad."

"Of course," Morgana answers, her smile saccharine sweet. "I'll play nice and let you in on the fun."

"Be sure you do," Arthur grins. "I wouldn't want to miss a chance to save such a lovely princess."

Merlin rolls his eyes before Morgana can reply. "Would you two please cut it out already? We have guests here. One of which is a princess, Arthur. Be more specific if you're going to say stuff like that."

Morgana glances at the two siblings, startled. Keredic has the half-mortified, half- angry face again while Mithian looks- thoughtful. Thoughtful and a little 'don't mind me, I don't want to get involved'.

Damn it. She shouldn't be like this in front of other people. In private, she could be a little lax. But she shouldn't go around teasing and arguing and- and _kissing _Arthur in public. Oh god, she did kiss him though. In front of Keredic. And now she's blushing just thinking about it- today's been absolutely _wonderful_ hasn't it?

Arthur turns back in the awkward silence.

"We should go around to the cliffs now," he comments to nobody in particular. "We should hurry, or we'll return late and it'll get dark."

Morgana nods quickly. "Let's get going."

Mithian suddenly quirks her head. "We left our horses at the other opening, didn't we?"

Arthur nods. "You saw how the terrain was. Horses would be cumbersome."

"Then how are we going to move the supply wagons through for the ambush?" Keredic asks, frowning.

"Those are dragged by donkeys," Morgana tells him without meeting his eyes. "They'll be able to handle the bumps."

"Then we're not going back for the horses?" Mithian questions again.

Merlin smiles. "I can summon them later. Magic, remember?"

Arthur sighs. "Can we go already? The sun's already hanging low. And it's a long walk."

"As my lord wishes," Morgana says demurely. "Shall we?"

Merlin groans again, but starts off. The rest follow, with Arthur taking the lead. They wind through the trees, and it is a while before they can feel the incline. It steadily becomes steeper as they walk on.

"How much further?" Keredic huffs as he wipes sweat from his brows.

Arthur raises an eyebrow. "We've not even gone halfway," he says in a voice that is clearly Judging Him. Merlin pants as he walks.

"Maybe for you buff military types it's easy," he groans to Arthur, Morgana, and Mithian, all of who seem relatively unfazed. "But for us civillans, it's no joke."

"Come now," Morgana smiles, "even the girls are doing better than you lot." She pauses. "You are very accustomed to this, Princess Mithian," she says thoughtfully.

"Too many ambushes," Mithian shakes her head. "We always climb. _Always."_

Keredic makes a face. "Serves you right for choosing to form your archery group."

"I'm not the one who's nearly dying from a light hike," Mithian retorts.

"This…This isn't so bad," he puffs. "Remember how Father made me run up and down that hill twenty times each morning?"

"Well, Father made me make the new mantelpiece with embroidery. That was worse."

"Father made _me_ survive in the woods for a _week_. Alone."

"My father would have me duel every knight each day before he would let my lessons end," Arthur breaks in tonelessly. "I was five."

Merlin sighs. "Now you're joining in as well? Is this some sort of 'my father was worse' competition?" He is summarily ignored by all four royals.

"My father had me practice _not sleeping _for dayswhen I was five," Morgana retorts.

Arthur growls. "Oh, you think that's bad? I had to start leading troops into battle when I was fifteen."

"I was participating in battles when I was _eight_."

"You were only scouting!"

"Still beat you by seven years."

"It's not like I wasn't _in _battles until I was fifteen!"

"Defensive now, are we?"

"Well, my father had me chasing down criminals from when I was seven."

"Accompanied by all your knights, of course. And I learned how to kill before I was seven."

"Well, my father had me attend executions from when I was six."

"My father made me practice interrogating criminals when I was that age."

Mithian clears her throat to get their attention. "May I just say that you both had the most twisted parents in all of Albion?"

"Yeah," Keredic agrees. "What sort of parent does that to their children?"

Morgana and Arthur glance at each other. "It's…complicated," Morgana says. "And I apologize. It wasn't something to boast about."

"Well if you hadn't _started _it…" Arthur grimaces.

Merlin snorts. "What they're not saying is that their utterly deprived childhoods were indirectly because of each other."

"What?" Arthur chokes. Morgana frowns at the sorcerer.

"The reason your parents had you both grow up so fast was because your nations were at war so much, wasn't it? With each other. Camelot and Cornwall were always fighting. So it's technically both your faults."

Morgana opens her mouth, then closes it.

"That…actually makes sense, Merlin."

"So all my misery was _your _fault?" Arthur asks, outraged.

"I'm sorry," Morgana snaps. "I wasn't the one who started the wars."

Arthur shuts up. Morgana bites her lips as she realizes she's gone too far- Arthur still has problems with daddy issues. She shouldn't have said that.

Even after knowing Arthur for years, there are still times she can't grasp him. Usually being with him is easy- too easy, almost second nature. She can banter with him as she can with no one else, and he can keep up with her insults. His are blunter, but that's acceptable as well. But sometimes, she crosses him the wrong way. They're still learning about each other, after all. His daddy issues are the least of it.

Mithian raises an eyebrow in the sudden silence. "So, when did you meet Princess Morgana for the first time? I don't think you mentioned her when we first visited."

Arthur pauses. "I didn't know her when you visited for our engagement. I was nineteen then and you were seventeen, I think."

She nods. "And we both realized what a terrible idea it would be to marry each other."

"Yes," he chuckles. "We agreed on that. I met this terror," he raises his chin in Morgana's direction, who glowers, "in the Camelot-Cornwall war that happened around a year after that. We nearly killed each other."

"_I _nearly killed _you_," Morgana mutters. "It was not reciprocal."

Arthur ignores her. "And we just kept running into each other ever since."

"It would have been easier on me if I'd just killed you then."

"But of course you couldn't. Not when you saw my good looks and charm-"

"Both of which are nonexistent-"

"You couldn't kill me, that's the point."

"I could have."

"You didn't."

"For gods' sakes, _stop bickering_." Merlin cuts in. "Seriously, it's like you guys came here on a date and we're chaperoning."

"We are _not _on a date!" Morgana strains out at the same moment Keredic shouts, "They are _not _on a date!"

Mithian blinks. "What's gotten you so invested, brother?" She smiles. "I think it's sweet."

Morgana opens her mouth to argue, but Arthur clears his throat to get their attention.

"We're near."

Morgana raises an eyebrow. "Where?"

Arthur grins. "We're high up right now. Look." He points up. "That path goes uphill, then plunges into a fifty-foot cliff."

Mithian's eyes gleam. "This is…"

Keredic peeks a look down. "Horribly terrifying? Yeah, me too."

"No," his sister says. "This is amazing. This is-"She grins widely. "This is going to work."

Morgana can't help smiling as the princess lights up, bright and burning and focused. Mithian paces around the edge with no fear of falling, muttering about sight lines and range and placement. The rest trail after her, taking note of the many ledges and the dizzying height. There are flowers in bloom, and the scent wafts through the air. The sun is falling lower and lower, yet it is hot enough that they are all sweating. Morgana begins to wonder if maybe Percival did have the right idea with no sleeves. There is no breeze, and Keredic and Merlin soon grow tired. They walk for another half-hour before the men both sit down and demand they rest. As they wait, Mithian climbs down onto one of the lower ledges and mimes shooting arrows. She smiles as she climbs back up.

"This is perfect."

They walk back the entire pass through the cliffs, until the cliffs give way to a rock pile. Arthur nods.

"This is it. We can't go down the cliffs from this end- we'll have to go around the long way."

They walk down carefully, trying not to trip as they maneuver through the rough terrain. They go far enough away that the cliff edge is no longer visible. Merlin sighs with relief as they enter the forest again.

"Finally, flat ground."

"Stop being dramatic," Arthur scolds.

"Camelot really is a beautiful place," Mithian says wonderingly. "I don't think I've had the pleasure of being here when I was last here."

"You had to stay inside the citadel most of the time," Merlin shrugs. "Camelot is quite large. It's no wonder."

"Even in the Festival of Istara I wasn't allowed to wander past the forest near the citadel of Camelot," Mithian says ruefully. "_Keredic _was allowed to go."

"If it makes you feel any better, sister," Keredic replies, "I enjoyed it about as much as I enjoy practicing how to beat up people. But the scenery really was beautiful." He looks a little regretful. "I'd have enjoyed it more if the point of the trip hadn't been killing random animals."

Morgana looks at them reminiscing so easily, and feels yet another stab of unseemly jealousy. She has known Arthur for almost six years now, but she still has yet to see much of his kingdom. It is not as if she hasn't spent a lot of time in Camelot, either. Morgana has resided here for a year and a half at least. When was the last time she had been able to sightsee the beauty of Camelot? Arthur had arranged for some basic tours the first time she had visited, in the months she had negotiated over the first peace treaty. But there had been magical threats all over the place, and being head of the diplomatic retinue was too large a role to allow much time for that. And when she had been invited to stay with him as a member of his council, after Cornwall had sworn fealty to the beginning of this war, she had been far too busy. First with the business of raising Arthur to the High Kingship, and then with the preparations for war. There had been no time for idle outings.

Come to think of it, had she ever spent time with Arthur in a way that did not relate to their duties? It had always been formal balls and reconnaissance and quests and councils and diplomacy. Never something done simply for fun.

Maybe Arthur thought of her as nothing more than a steady ally and a good friend, after all. And the kisses- well, he was a red-blooded male and she was an attractive woman. It could be nothing deeper than physical attraction.

She would like to do something with Arthur just for the pleasure of it, Morgana thinks wistfully. Something frivolous and absolutely useless, just to know he wants to spend time with her. And then she slaps herself mentally, because they're in a war and _gods_, she's really getting soft. Remember your duty.

But she's wrenched right back into those soft thoughts when Prince Keredic suddenly calls to her.

"You should visit Nemeth, my lady," he says a little shyly. "We could ride around the Gedref area. It really is a sight to be seen."

Morgana blushes a little. That- that would be nice. A trip without any strings attached. "I would enjoy that. If- if it wouldn't be too troublesome, of course," she adds hurriedly. "And after the war has been won."

He smiles happily. "It's decided then. As soon as the war is over, we'll prepare for your arrival." He looks at her. "See, isn't it nice to think about what happens after, as well?"

It's a throwback to one of their earlier conversations, when he had talked about what it would be like after the war, and she had replied with a depressing outlook. In truth, she would not have time to visit for a long long time, occupied as she would be with rebuilding Cornwall. It would have been overrun by the Saxons now.

But as she opens her mouth to reply, Arthur suddenly claps a hand over her mouth.

"Quiet," he hisses. "There's something here."

Morgana wrenches his hand off. "What do you mean, you-"

She stops mid-sentence as she sees movement. "Hide!"

They crouch behind trees and peer at the shadows. As they watch, men in coarse clothes and light armor move through the branches not ten steps from where they are.

"Saxons," Arthur breathes. "We can't afford to be seen here, or they'll be suspicious of this area."

Morgana counts. "At least fifty. It's a foraging party."

"We can't fight so many, and even if we did, we can't kill them all off. Some would escape," Merlin whispers back. "We have to leave now."

Morgana bites her lips. "We won't be able to do it the conventional way, will we?"

He shakes his head. "You take Princess Mithian. I'll take Arthur and Prince Keredic. We'll go to where we left the horses."

Teleportation. Morgana hesitates, trying to gauge how much energy she has left.

"Hurry," Merlin hisses. "Arthur, Prince Keredic, we need to hold hands." Gingerly, the two men each grab onto one of Merlin's hands. Merlin sighs in exasperation.

"You need to hold hands as well," he tells them. Arthur and Prince Keredic look at each other in horror.

"Do we have to?"

"It's either this, or you guys have a bear hug with me in between. I think this is better," Merlin says, impatience making his voice snappy. Morgana holds out both hands to Princess Mithian, and she takes them.

Morgana watches the men disappear without so much as a puff of smoke. Merlin's spell is neatly inconspicuous. Muttering a prayer under her breath for safe passage, Morgana visualizes the opening of the pass and chants the same spell.

Something jerks her forward strongly, and it feels like she's going through a giant wind tunnel with violent gusts at her back. Princess Mithian is holding on to her hands tightly, but she cannot see anything in the darkness.

There is another jerk, and she is spit out into the world again. Princess Mithian stumbles as she lands on the grass.

"That was…interesting," she says. Morgana barely hears her, a wave of nausea and pain rising up in her. She can distantly see the men have made it safely, and that's all she's able to think before her stomach heaves and she falls on her knees to vomit.

She heaves again, the sharp acidic taste burning her throat. Someone comes behind her and gently holds back her hair. She's sick two more times before the nausea subsides. A hand offers her the water skin, and she accepts gratefully. Once she has rinsed out her mouth and cleaned herself up, she looks up to see Princess Mithian giving her an understanding look.

"Motion sickness?" the woman asks kindly. "It _was _a rough trip."

Morgana gets up shakily, swallowing. "No."

Princess Mithian says nothing, only helping her walk away from the puddle of sick. Morgana's pride rankles at having the princess see her like this, but she needs her support to keep walking right now.

They reach where the men are standing around awkwardly. Arthur frowns, looking concerned.

"Are you alright, Morgana?"

She twitches her lips up half-heartedly. "I hate teleportation."

"I didn't know you'd react so violently with the spell," Merlin says. "Do you get seasick too?"

She glares at them both. "I do _not _have motion sickness."

Keredic speaks up. "Is it the magic, then?"

He's hit the nail on the head. Though Morgana is reluctant to admit it, she nods. "Teleportation uses up a lot of energy."

Merlin frowns. "It's not that bad," he says. He doesn't even seem winded, despite having moved the three of them over a sizeable distance. "I guess it takes up a lot of magic, but it's not so much that you'd get sick over it."

"Merlin," she sighs in exasperation. "Have you _ever _gotten sick over any type of spell?"

Merlin slowly shakes his head. Morgana glares. "Just because your magic is about as strong as the forces of nature doesn't mean everyone else has the same amount of energy," she says. "Carrying two people here…"

Keredic winces. "It's the backlash, isn't it?"

Morgana leans back against a tree. "I'll be fine in a little." Her head spins, and she really doesn't want to ride all the way back. There is a brief pause, then Arthur speaks reluctantly.

"We should return soon."

Morgana keeps her expression inscrutable. "If we must."

It's easier said than done, because the minute Morgana tries to walk to them, another wave of fatigue comes over her. It must have shown on her face despite her attempts, because Arthur looks at her before opening his mouth.

"You'll be riding with me."

"What?" Morgana lets herself lean weight on the tree again. "Why would we do that, Arthur? I have my own horse."

"You'll fall off the horse at that rate," Arthur retorts. "And Merlin can have your horse go back on its own." He takes his horse's reins, and walks over to her. "We don't have time to spare waiting for you."

Before Morgana can protest, Arthur lifts her up by her waist and places her on the saddle. He gives her a smirk before getting on the horse behind her. With his larger frame, she's almost cradled in his arms.

"Come on," he calls to the rest of the group, who are more or less staring at them now. "The sun has started setting."

"Arthur," Morgana hisses. "You're giving them the wrong idea about us."

Arthur doesn't budge as he gets the horse going. "That's unfortunate."

She gives up, leaning against him in resignation. With one hand on the reins, Arthur starts playing with her hair with the other. It is strangely comforting. They lead the others through the forest as the sky grows redder.

"Feel better?" he whispers after a while. Morgana smiles just a little bit, because she knows he can't see her face right now.

"I would feel better if you weren't babying me," she tells him.

"What a pity we sent your horse away already."

"And whose fault would that be, hmm?"

"Well, if somebody hadn't gotten sick, she could have ridden it."

She digs an elbow into his ribs. "That was none of your business."

He lets out a harsh exhale that tickles her neck. "Woman, your elbows are lethal," he winces, then urges the horse on a little farther. Morgana glances back at the distance created between them and the remaining group.

"Morgana, how powerful is your magic?"

The question is unexpected. Morgana opens her mouth, then frowns.

"What's gotten you so interested?"

Arthur takes one hand off the reins to run it through his hair absent-mindedly.

"It's just that…I've been thinking."

"Horrors upon horrors," Morgana can't help mocking. "Arthur Pendragon is thinking?"

"Do be quiet," he retorts good-naturedly, then turns serious. "I've been thinking that maybe I've been too ignorant of magic all this time."

Morgana is startled- and a little impressed. The Arthur she'd known in the beginning had flinched at any displays of magic. That he is now showing an interest….

Well, it seems he's growing into the High Kingship as much as he is making it grow.

"I was speaking to Merlin, a while back," Arthur continues. "He told me magic was just another force, and that it wasn't good or bad or anything like that." He leans forehead against her shoulder. "I never even knew that."

Morgana doesn't say anything. Arthur speaks again, almost as if he is talking to himself.

"If I'm to be High King, I'll need to rule over the magical community as well. And I don't even know how it works. Merlin helps, but sometimes I get the feeling like he's an anomaly even within the magic-users."

Anomaly. Right. More like the most powerful magician in living memory.

"So I guess you're the only one I can ask," he concludes. Morgana twists around to look at his face.

"…Who are you and what have you done with Arthur?"

Arthur sighs. "You _could _take me a little more seriously, you know."

"Wait, is this why you had me riding with you? And why we're separated from Merlin and the Nemeth siblings?"

He shrugs, but doesn't deny it. "I thought it was a touchy question, especially since you weren't faring too well after that spell…"

Morgana turns back to face the front and pouts. "I'll have you know I'm doing better than how most magicians would be if they had to transport two people."

"Is it really that difficult?"

"Arthur. Back when you were…" here she bites her lips a little, "chasing sorcerers, how many of them tried to escape using teleportation?"

"Uh…" There is a brief pause. "There was that one time with a witch who tried to kill me, with a great big whirlwind. Some bald wizard, although that turned out to be Merlin in the end. Not many."

"And you never wondered why all those magicians that died in the Great Purge never bothered to teleport away."

"I didn't know anything about magic," Arthur says defensively.

"And you also lack common sense," Morgana says, then sighs. "It's because the spell takes too much energy."

"Hmm?"

"Teleportation. Can you imagine how much energy it takes for someone to move from one place to another? Add it up and imagine having all that energy leave your body at once. Not only is the spell difficult in the first place, it takes a huge physical toll. Too much, for many people. More often than not, an inexperienced caster will simply…burn out. Or blow up."

"…That makes sense."

"I can tell by your voice that it didn't." Morgana replies dryly. "Which part?"

"By energy, do you mean your life force? Does that mean everyone can use magic if they wanted to?"

"Ah." Morgana tries to think of a good way to explain. "Magic-users are different from non-users in that they can change regular energy into magical energy. It's an inborn thing- it comes in your blood. Novices with only that talent will use little amounts of the energy from the body to perform spells. But others- either they've been born with it or they've trained- have magical energy they can call on to use for spells. It can be built up, or you can just naturally have a huge store of magical energy. That's what causes the disparity in magical power, from hedgewitches to, well, Merlin." Morgana suddenly smiles. "This is terribly boring, isn't it?"

"Hmm." Arthur shrugs, his upper arms brushing Morgana's shoulders with the movement. "So Merlin's terrifyingly powerful. And I've been having him wash my socks for years. That- actually makes me feel good about myself."

Morgana leans back against his chest. "Prat."

"Why didn't you have Merlin transport us all back, if you knew teleportation would be too much for you?"

"Number one, it was not too much for me. I'm not dead, am I?" Morgana retorts. "And number two, what Merlin has in power he lacks in finesse. Teleportation is a nasty spell, even for one person. If he was transporting all of us, or even the four of you, there was a greater probability that he would have left out or dropped at least one of you on the way. Or parts of you."

"…Parts of us."

"Things happen," Morgana says. "Sometimes a hand or a foot doesn't make it with the rest of you, nothing big."

"…Nothing big."

"Yes. In any case, it would have been too dangerous. Three was what we thought was the maximum safest number for Merlin."

"That's why you took Mithian." Arthur blinks. "And here I thought you just wanted to see me holding hands with both Keredic and Merlin."

"I assure you nothing of the sort ever crossed my mind," Morgana says primly. "I was busy throwing up."

"So you're not that powerful."

"What _is_ it with your wanting to know how powerful I am, Arthur?"

Arthur groans. "You really have no idea, do you?" One hand snakes around her waist and pulls her tighter to him. "You just mentioned people burning out over that spell, body parts being left behind, and other frankly terrifying possibilities that could happen to _you_. I'd appreciate knowing what you can and can't handle so I can stop you when you're being especially pigheaded."

Morgana opens her mouth, then closes it. "That…was actually sweet," she says.

"I don't _do_ sweet," Arthur protests half-heartedly, then pauses. She can almost feel his hesitation, the way he's trying to find the words to broach a delicate topic.

"What is it, Arthur," she half-sighs, already resigned to the fact that yes, it will be a touchy subject, and no, she's not going to be able to avoid the talk. Not when they're on a horse together.

He hesitates for another second, then speaks. "A week ago, you were…interrogating…the captured generals with magic."

Morgana's mouth tightens, but she does not speak. She had been surprised when he had not stopped her even after he had seen what she was doing; she should have known it would have come up eventually. Magic and morality cast too large a grey area for Arthur to be comfortable.

"Merlin was… very against it. We had a talk about different types of magic then, and I think I get how Merlin's magic works now. But yours, with your visions and psychopathic mind invasion- which I think is extremely creepy, by the way- well, I thought I should hear from you first."

"Oh." Morgana supposes she should be grateful that he is willing to give her a chance to explain _what_ she is before condemning her actions. This is at least better than his usual modus operendi of jumping to conclusions first. But she can't help being uncomfortable with explaining her magic. If only he could understand.

Well, he's giving her one chance to _make _him understand. She had better take advantage of it.

"I told you that all magic uses energy to do things with your mind. Well, there are two main branches of magic- spiritual and physical. Physical magic is the most common; it's everything from making things fly to blasting things apart. But some people are born with magic that's of a spiritual bent, things like the Sight and mental powers and healing. For example, the High Priestess's power is made of spiritual magic. And that's the kind of magic I was born with."

Arthur listens quietly, still against her back. Bitterness seeps into Morgana's voice though she tries to keep it even.

"Do you know how _useless _spiritual magic is? You can't do anything tangible with that kind of magic. My whole store of magical energy is suited for spiritual magic. I have to convert that energy every time I use physical magic, so my magic runs out more quickly." She smiles bitterly. "When I was young, they didn't even know I had magic because I couldn't show the usual signs like summoning light or telekinesis."

She's whining again, she knows. There are people who would be glad to have a fraction of the magic she's received. But she can't help being jealous of the easy power other magicians have. When you're surrounded by giants, it's difficult to be happy with the little you've been given in comparison.

"You've the Sight, though," Arthur offers slowly. "Not even Merlin can see the future."

Morgana snorts softly. "There are seers across the sea who can sweep through the thoughts of an army with a glance. People who can see the whole future. Mine-" She reigns in her resentment at having been dealt this hand by fate. _The people I've killed haunt me for days because of the Sight_, she wants to say._ I can't even sleep properly because the visions are always horrible, always unfathomable_.Instead, she stares at the scenery in front of her.

"You wanted to know how powerful my magic was. In terms of effectiveness in physical magic, I'm completely overshadowed by Merlin and my sister both. I would have perhaps one-third the firepower my sister wields if it came down to it." She shrugs. "So when it comes to things only I can do, like extracting information from minds, I do it."

Arthur is silent again for a long, long time. Then:

"Would you be able to read my mind?"

Surprised, Morgana twists around to look him in the eyes. He stares back, inscrutable and waiting for an answer.

"Arthur." She doesn't break her gaze away. "Arthur. This one thing I promise you on my life. I will _never _use my magic against you. Not to attack you, not to see your thoughts. I swore fealty to you that day in Camelot, and I will not break my oath."

His hand trails down her hair. "I never said you would."

"Then don't doubt me." _I have killed for you, and I will do so again. Do not doubt my loyalty._

Arthur pauses, then speaks quietly. "I won't."

She slowly turns back around to face the front, then lets herself lean against him.

"If it makes you feel any better, when I go into people's minds they can sense it. And the spell itself requires special arrangements like having the victim directly facing me. You need not worry."

Morgana can feel Arthur's chest fall as he lets out an exhale of breath. "To be frank, Morgana, that wasn't quite what worried me."

"Then what?"

Arthur grunts. "It's nothing."

"Hmm." They ride in silence for a little while. The thick forest has given way to a grassy field. The ground is starting to get muddy, and Morgana thinks she can hear the distant burbling of a brook. The noise of the summer insects fill the air.

"Are you really going to go visit Nemeth?" Arthur suddenly asks.

"Ah…" Morgana blinks. "Ye…why do you even want to know?"

"You'll be too busy after the war," Arthur states confidently. "There's no need to get Keredic's hopes up."

"And how is this any of your business?"

"I'm just worried that the poor boy's going to be disappointed when he finds out you won't be visiting after all."

Morgana turns back to look at him again. "You don't want me to go," she accuses.

"Well, imagine what he'll make the servants go through," Arthur blusters. "All for nothing."

"Maybe I _will _go, then." Morgana says defiantly. "It isn't like anyone else ever invites me to go sightseeing. Or have fun."

Arthur splutters. "_I _invited you to stay at Camelot."

Morgana turns to the front. "To sit in the Council of Lords. And then to act as your unofficial tournament organizer and foreign minister. And then to prepare for the Saxon War. And then…"

Arthur cuts her off. "Are you actually sore about that?" He must have seen her half-pout because he continues in an incredulous voice. "You _are_. You're sore because I never took you on outings."

Morgana's pout only grows more pronounced. "Of course not," she responds haughtily. "I'm just saying it was very nice of Keredic to invite me to his kingdom."

"You're impossible," Arthur says. "Utterly impossible."

"Well, aren't _you_ acting jealous," Morgana scoffs. "Just because Prince Keredic was being a perfect gentleman…"

"He's a pansy!" Arthur protests. "And he fails utterly as a knight. I don't see there's anything to be jealous _of_."

Morgana rolls her eyes and opens her mouth to retort when someone cuts in.

"Uh…Arthur? Not that I want to break into your fascinating conversation, but I don't think this is the right way." It's Merlin.

"Of course this is the right way," Arthur snaps back. "Do you think I'd lose my way in my own…" he looks around, then swears. "We're going the wrong way."

Merlin gives him a look that screams 'no kidding', and Morgana groans, leaning her head against the horse's neck.

"We're never going to be back by sunset," Merlin sighs. Arthur gives him a look.

"Where are we, exactly?" Morgana asks without expecting much.

Arthur's eyes sweep through the landscape again, and then falls upon some rolling hills to their right. "We're in the Forest of Essetir. We need to go east."

Morgana looks up to gauge the reddening sky. "We might as well take a break by the waterway here for dinner before heading off," she says. She glances at Merlin and smirks. "Some people might not be able to survive the ride back otherwise."

"Yeah, yeah," Merlin rolls his eyes. "Pick on the warlock."

Arthur nods as Mithian and Keredic stop at their side. "There's a river a little ways ahead. We'll have dinner there, and return to Camelot."

As expected, it is Keredic who groans with relief. "Finally," he grins. "I can't feel my behind anymore."

His sister nudges him. "And we did not need to hear that."

They make their way over to the bend in the river, where they dismount and let the horses drink. But it turns out they are not alone.

"Who are you and why are you here?" A foreign voice snaps at them from behind. Morgana whirls with the rest of them to see a blond couple walking towards them, the man scowling belligerently. They are both armed, and Morgana instinctively scans the woods behind them for more potential threats. Near the edge of the woods, where the couple seems to have come from, there is a wagon of what seems to be contraband items. A sudden breeze blows, and Morgana smells the distinct fragrance of frankincense. Arthur, who seems to have noticed the same thing, frowns.

"You're smugglers," he accuses. Oh, Arthur. Always so tactful. But neither stranger look to be offended, only glancing at each other.

"We prefer to think of it as free trade," the woman says. The man chuckles before adding, "And what if we are? We're only trying to make a living with what we can."

"It's forbidden," Merlin remarks. "By the edict of the king, if you're caught, you could be killed."

The man grins again. "Caught? I don't think so. We're too quick and too smart for the halfwit king in Camelot. If it weren't for the fool laying down taxes and making things harder, we wouldn't be in this business. Nobles, they're a plague on the land, all of them" He stops and peers at them. "What's it to you?"

Arthur bristles, and Morgana glaces over to see Merlin place a restraining hand on the king and hissing something at him. It seems to work, because Arthur doesn't say anything. Merlin steps forward after that.

"We're…travelling. Got lost on our way, actually. Some nasty Saxons came and chased us. Say, aren't the Saxons more troublesome for you than some king's taxes? I mean, the whole invaders-looting-the-countryside thing would make things hard for you."

The man relaxes a fraction, probably assuming that they are not highborn from Merlin's way of speaking. "If the nobles are a plague, those Saxons are a disaster. The one thing those high-and-mighty people in their castles are doing right is trying to fend them off. At least they're using the money they stole from the people to do something useful."

"They really are a pain," Merlin agrees. He glances at their wagon. "I'm Merlin, by the way. This is…Artie, and…Ana, and- uh- Keredoc and Mithia. Who are you?"

The man and woman exchange looks with each other, and the man shrugs. The woman steps forward. "I'm Isolde. This is my partner Tristan."

"Partner?"

Isolde nods. "For life."

Tristan puts a hand on her shoulder, then gives them a scrutinizing look. "You don't look like regular folk. Something about you…" He focuses his gaze on Keredic, who squirms. His glare intensifies. "You. You're all nobles, aren't you?"

Merlin puts up his hands. "Number one, no. We are not all nobles. Number two, why would you say that?"

Isolde speaks a little dryly. "We're not stupid. His belt buckle is decorated with some sort of crest, and it's embedded with jewels." They all glare at Keredic.

"Not just him," she adds. "Ana there. Impressive sword." Isolde holds out her hand. "May I?"

Morgana hesitates before handing it over. It seems they've caught on to their lie, but she can't risk looking even more suspicious and antagonizing them by refusing. Not to mention that Isolde and Tristan could be working together with others who could potentially cause more problems. It isn't even as if the sword is her regular one. It's just one she's borrowed from Camelot's armory as one of many back-ups when they rode out to Glauchedon and then Peredor. It shouldn't give them away, if Keredic hasn't done so already. Isolde scrutinizes it, then hands it to Tristian.

"Magnificent." His gaze sharpens, and he suddenly draws it and puts it against her throat. Damn it. She tenses. How much magic left in her reserves? Would she able to push him away without him reacting faster? "The only place you find workmanship of this quality is the royal forge of Camelot. Tell me, how did you come by it? I didn't know they'd started recruiting girls. A girl who wears a jeweled necklace at that."

Morgana starts, then slowly slips the ruby necklace, which has moved to show itself sometime during the ride, back under her shirt. The sword stays against her throat. She _knew _she should have taken the necklace off before scouting. That was the point of going incognito, so they wouldn't be recognized as more than peasants.

But it's the one Arthur gave to her.

And she still should have taken it off. Behind her, she can hear Arthur muttering something like "you all fail at being peasants" under his breath. He doesn't sound as annoyed as she'd expected him to, for some reason, though he sounds almost _afraid_.

"So…so what?" Merlin asks, eyeing the sword and Tristan, then sighs exaggeratedly. "You've got us," he says. "We're not actual travelers."

As they stare aghaust at him, and Tristan and Isolde look distinctly unimpressed, Merlin forges on.

"We're pirates," he says triumphantly. Morgana just drops all self-control and _stares_.

"We're…pirates," Arthur repeats slowly, as if he's only heard of it just now. Which he has. As has Morgana, and the rest of their group. _Where_ does Merlin get these ideas in his head? Morgana would bury her face in her hands if there wasn't a sword preventing any sudden movements.

"Pirates," Tristan says quizzically. It seems like they're going to be standing around repeating that for a while until it sinks in.

"Pirates!" Merlin says. "All those things you've just noticed, they're not actually ours. We just looted a trade vessel and thought we'd come inland for a little rest. This sorry excuse for a pirate," Merlin gestures at Arthur, "gets seasick. We met up with some knights on the way, so that's where M…Ana got her sword."

After a pause, Isolde shrugs. "Fair enough." She looks at her partner and shrugs. "Same line of work."  
Tristan sighs, but slowly lowers the blade. "Are you _sure_ you're pirates?"

"Pirates. Yes, of course," Merlin nods enthusiastically. "By all means. We're pirates."

Tristan squints. "I hope for your sakes that it's true." He sheathes the sword and tosses it back at Morgana. Isolde looks at Merlin strangely.

"You seem very happy about that fact."

Morgana steps forward. "He's usually like this. Merlin here is living a lifelong dream. The rest of us, we just got into this after the Saxons attacked our village. It's…surprisingly lucrative"

Merlin nods almost maniacally. "I should have become a pirate ages ago. We're all pirates now, so I guess it makes up for it."

Isolde giggles a little. "And here we were thinking you were knights of Camelot." She looks at Morgana and smiles. "Sorry about the misunderstanding."

"Yes, right, Merlin," Arthur says a trifle impatiently. He looks at the now relaxed couple. "Are you two the only ones smuggling here?"

Tristan shakes his head. "We've some help and…associates that we work together with. There's a lot of us. But Isolde and me, we had some scouting to do." He jerks his chin at the wagon of contraband. "The goods came early, so we had to pick it up ourselves."

"You say the Saxons attacked your village?" Isolde asks. She looks - heaven forbid - sympathetic at their fictional plight. Morgana can already feel a headache coming on. "It was brutal. None of us like to talk about it," she says in a clipped voice.

Isolde nods again. "Sore point. Got it." She smiles, and Morgana notes that the blond woman really is very pretty. "We have those too. For example, Tristan here will go on for ages about the King of Camelot- and all nobles, actually. Don't get him started."

Arthur looks like he is fuming, but again Merlin somehow manages to calm him down. Just in time, because more of the smugglers' associates pop up from the forest.

"Isolde, Tristan," a muscular man calls. "Got the shipment?"

Tristan gestures at the wagon. "Here. We met some folks on the way."

Merlin speaks up. "Er, you haven't seen any Saxons passing by around here, right?"

"Sometimes we do," Isolde shrugs. "We've sighted them once in a while; this could be some sort of trail they use."

Arthur is instantly alert. "A trail?" He looks at her. "Do you know for what?"

Tristan frowns. "I've only seen small groups around since the war began, but some of my men have seen wagons. Big ones." He raises an eyebrow. "What's it to you?"

"We're pirates," Merlin repeats for the umpteenth time. "We don't want to run into Saxons. Plus there's got to be a supply trail nearby here because of the Saxon camp."

Tristan thinks, then calls a man over. "Balt!"

The brunette man lumbers over to them. "You called?"

"Balt here was the one who saw the wagons nearby," Tristan says to Merlin. "He can tell you."

"Aye," Balt says. "Hundreds of wagons, filled to the brim with goods. They looked Saxon from their dress, marching all in line. A whole procession, actually."

"A procession," Merlin frowns. "What did the wagons have in them?"

"Couldn't see, but all sorts of things. Hay, probably for horses, and grain. Some game."

"Thank you, Balt. Where did you see them?"

"Ah," the man looks around. "Actually, it'd be around-"  
His sentence is cut short by an arrow suddenly sprouting out of his chest. As the corpse that used to be Balt slumps to the floor, everyone whirls. Morgana can see Arthur shoving Merlin down as he ducks, another arrow embedding itself in the tree behind him. Everyone takes whatever cover they can.

Arthur takes charge. "Head for those trees," he tells Tristan and Isolde. "We'll cover you. It's dangerous out in the open when they've got arrows."

Tristan and Isolde exchange a confused glance. The blond man steps forward. "Who do you think you-"

"Do you want to live or not?" Arthur asks impatiently. Isolde grabs his arm, and they retreat with their men to the cover of the woods. The sliding of weapons unsheathed fills the woods. Arthur turns to look at the four remaining.

"Merlin and Morgana, stop as many arrows as you can," he orders. "Mithian, you're with me."

Keredic lets Arthur borrow his own crossbow, then tries to remain as unobtrusive as possible. Arthur and Mithian fire at the Southrons as Morgana tries to shield them and Merlin drops or redirects as many arrows as they can. Morgana frowns as she pants, the magic taking an even greater toll on her after the transportation spell though she should have recovered.

"Why don't you just make a shield?" Morgana asks Merlin in between chanting the spell.

"Don't know how!" Merlin calls back, eyes flashing gold. "Never learned it!"

Arthur frowns. "They're not running out of arrows. It's our turn to retreat."

"Who's going to cover us?" Merlin says.

"Don't be a simpleton, Merlin," is the reply as more Saxons keep coming. The five grab their weapons and run into the woods. They take cover behind various trees, where Isolde and Tristan has been waiting.

"I apologize for ever thinking you were a knight of Camelot," Tristan tells Keredic. "They may be incompetent, but they're not _that_ incompetent."

"Thank you," Keredic replies. "…I think."

Isolde peers at the Saxons coming into view. "They haven't found the cargo."

"They will," Tristan growls. "Besides, they weren't after the cargo." The men in Tristan's band are luckily too far away to hear. They await their orders a little ways away, taking cover as well.

"But you four," Tristan's voice is accusing. "You knew they were coming. That was why you kept asking about the Saxons, isn't it? Who the hell are you?"

The four exchange looks. Merlin shrugs, and Arthur seems to have made a decision.

"My name is Arthur Pendragon."

Tristan recoils. "The king of Camelot! You're the reason the Saxons were here, isn't it? I've lost everything I've worked for for some good for nothing king! "

Arthur glares. "That's quite something coming from a smuggler."

"Well, I wouldn't have to be a smuggler if it wasn't for your damn taxes, would I?"

"Those taxes help protect the people of this land," Arthur retorts.

"My people are dead and the Saxons are taking over. You call that protection?"

Before Arthur can snap back a reply, Merlin clears his throat.

"Excuse me, sorry to interrupt, but…" The sorcerer gestures at the Saxons charging at them. Morgana internally debates on what she should do before she forgoes magic for unsheathing her sword. Arthur and Tristan charge out at the coming Saxons, neither ahead of the other. Merlin starts going through his arsenal of battle magic, starting with throwing people into trees. Mithian backs up before reloading her crossbow and shooting the Saxons at close range with impressive accuracy. Morgana nods at Isolde, and the two swordswomen rush out to attack the Saxons as well.

This band is smaller than the one they'd nearly run into at the mountain pass. Morgana estimates at around thirty Saxons as she slashes her sword down into a gut, then around to slice an arm. She ducks as Isolde swings her sword expertly in a killing move.

With the aid of Mithian and Merlin, the band is growing smaller in number. The handful of the smuggling band fight as well, nullifying the Saxon's advantage in number. Morgana is so caught up in bringing down the Saxons and covering Isolde's back that she almost doesn't see a burly man elbow Tristan in the head. As Tristan reels, the Saxon slashes the smuggler's sword arm, deals a light blow to his shoulder, then kicks him to the ground. Grinning, he raises his weapon to deal the final blow. Isolde cries out, but before Tristan is impaled a blade sprouts out of the Saxon's chest from the behind. The man crumples. Arthur pulls his sword out of the now dead man.

Isolde runs to Tristan and holds him, supporting him half-up. Morgana barely glances at her before she curses and whirls to deal with the Saxon coming at her now unprotected back. She dodges the axe he swings, then knocks him on the shoulder as his momentum carries him forward. Before he can raise up the sword again Morgana plunges her sword into his heart.

She looks around. "Is that the last of them?"

Arthur gives her a brief nod, then tilts his head at the blond couple on the ground. Mithian unloads her crossbow and comes closer.

Isolde is cradling Tristan's head.

"Tristan, we had a deal. Partners for life, remember?"

Tristan grins. "When…when have I not kept my promises?" He hisses in pain as he moves his shoulder. "Takes more than this to bring me down."

Isolde smiles back, her eyes still worried. Tristan tugs her down for a kiss.

Morgana and Arthur's eyes meet unconsciously. She blushes and looks away. They wait for the intimate moment to pass quickly. It's thankfully cut short by the sound Keredic makes as he walks closer.

Arthur coughs, and they break away to look at him.

"We need to keep moving," Arthur says. "If what Balt said was true, this is the trail for the supply chain. That could have been scouts or the vanguard. There'll be more coming soon."

Isolde bites her lips while Tristan glares, raising himself to a sitting position.

"Then go," the man says. "There's nothing stopping you."

Arthur rolls his eyes, then meets his glare. "You and your men won't be safe here."

"Come with us at least until we're out of range," Merlin urges. "We'll all be safer that way." Morgana first thinks that the two Camelot men are doing it out of the goodness of their hearts, that they are trying to keep Tristan and Isolde safe despite their being smugglers. But then she realizes what would happen if Tristan and Isolde's band left by themselves. Not only have the two seen the high king and his generals scouting this place, they knew too much about the region from their occupation. The two probably knew the geography of most of Albion like the back of their hand. And since they lived outside the law, there was a possibility that they could willingly join the Saxons and bolster their ranks. Some of the outlaw bandits had already done so, after all. And from what she had seen, Tristan and Isolde were a formidable force to reckon with in terms of swordsmanship.

"I'm choosy about the company I keep." Tristan's face had hardened.

Isolde supports his back. "He saved your life, Tristan." She looks up. "Thank you."

"None of this would've happened if it wasn't for them. If the high and mighty rulers of the Ten Kingdoms hadn't decided to use here for the battlefield, we could've gone about our business without Saxons popping out everywhere."

Isolde sighs, a hand stroking his hair. She seems a little exasperated.

"You need to protect Isolde and your men," Arthur argues. "It's too dangerous here. They need shelter and rest."

"We can heal you," Keredic unexpectedly speaks up. "You need your sword arm to fight."

Isolde looks up in surprise. "Please," she says. "Tristan…"

His eyes then flick to Isolde, who looks at him pleadingly. "I cannot bear to see you injured like this," she whispers.

Tristan growls, looking at Arthur. A pause, and then he gives in.

"Very well. But know this, Arthur Pendragon, I would never do this but for Isolde's wishes. You and your kind bring nothing but misery to this land."

There is a rustle behind them, and all of them turn, on guard. Isolde and Tristan's band are checking their cargo, some of which has been burned and ruined. But the sound had come somewhere closer, on the ground. They look down.

One of the Saxons, with a huge slash in his chest, is struggling to rise. They draw their weapons, but it is clear that the man is in no condition to fight. Arthur frowns.

"Some of them are alive." Merlin looks a little sheepish.

"I think I knocked out the people I fought. I'll go gather them."

His eyes flash gold, and he looks at them. "There's around thirteen still alive, either wounded or just unconscious." While he uses magic to bind each survivor and line them up, Morgana closes her eyes to go through the possibilities of what would happen if they left the captives alive, if they dragged them back. Then something niggles at her mind, and she realizes it's magic, life-bond magic. She opens her eyes. "They can't be allowed to live."

"Huh?" Merlin freezes in the middle of his work. "But…but they're captives, Princess Morgana."

"Nonetheless, we can't risk them escaping and informing the Saxons of our movements. We just found the supply trail. We can't let them know that we have done so." She grits her teeth, hating what she will say. "Go. I'll take care of them and catch up."

"That is dishonorable," a new voice speaks. Morgana braces herself for another argument with Arthur. She turns to face the voice.

It's not Arthur. Arthur looks grim, but he looks like he knows that what she is saying is necessary. Instead, it is Mithian who has spoken up, her brows drawn together.

"It is dishonorable, and as the defenders of our people we cannot kill in cold blood. These are helpless prisoners," she says. "They were only doing what they were told. How can we be so cruel?"

Morgana takes a breath. Does Mithian actually think these are innocent people who were simply caught up and forced into service? This is _war_, and there are no innocents in war who pick up arms. And innocence meant nothing but death.

"When the Saxons took over Glaus-en-tours in Cornwall they beheaded all the inhabitants of the citadel and had their heads line the walls," Morgana says dispassionately. "After the first battle at Peredor they disposed of all their Albion prisoners by execution. This is not a war for dominance, Princess. It's a fight for survival on this land." Her eyes flick to glance at the princess's pale face. "Step aside. I won't patronize you by explaining the importance of eliminating all possible leaks when you already know."

"But that doesn't mean we have to lower ourselves to their level!" Princess Mithian cries, standing her ground. "These men are helpless. We need not murder them in cold blood. What makes us justified to fight for our people if we're just as bad as they are? "

Morgana grits her teeth. She yanks one of the captives up by the collar and scans him before ripping out a button. "You see this, my lady?" she asks. "It's a homing signal. I'm assuming it's bonded to the man's life force. As long as the man's still alive, the rest of their squad can find where he is." She just wants them to _go_ already, to let her do the sordid job and get it over with. Her mind is already despairing at the sleepless nights the deaths will bring.

Mithian turns to Keredic. He shakes his head. "It's magical, that's for certain, but I don't know if that's true."

"It's true." Merlin says grimly. "I hate to say it, but it's true."

"What do you think will happen to our ambush if we drag these captives back to our headquarters? And what will we do with them?" Morgana demands. "Princess Mithian, I do not wish to shed unnecessary blood. But if leaving these men alive means having our men lose their lives in an unequal battle once again, I will move you aside by force if I have to. Go. Let me take care of them."

"Merlin can have them die painlessly," Mithian retorts. She seems resigned, but there is resentment and disgust still simmering underneath. "They could be taken care of in any number of ways. Why are you so determined to be their executioner, if not to satisfy your own bloodlust?" The words sting.

"Princess Mithian, that's enough-" Arthur begins, face stormy. Morgana cuts him off.

"Do you think I wouldn't rather have Merlin do it?" she asks in a low voice. She looks at Mithian and suddenly smiles. She's weary and bitter and oh, she could have been like Mithian once upon a time, she could have lived like that if not for the tangled web already woven by their fathers, and she knows then she probably looks deranged right now.

"I would rather he do it than me," she says softly. "But I wouldn't wish it on him for the world."

Mithian frowns. She opens her mouth to say something, but Morgana cuts her off with a shake.

"I've already given a lecture on the consequences of magic to Arthur here, I won't give another." She looks at the other princess. "And would you really have Merlin, who already agonizes over every casualty and every choice he makes, shoulder that burden?"

There is nothing more to say. Arthur's face is dark as he nods to Tristan, who calls to his men before having them all walk away from the scene of battle. Mithian glares at her for one, two, three seconds before turning without another word and brushing coldly by her. The wagon, now carrying half its original cargo, is turned around and taken through the woods, as are their horses. Morgana stares at the sprawl of broken bodies and blood until she can no longer hear their movements.

The setting sun dyes the western sky a dark crimson red.

* * *

When Morgana catches up to the main party, they have already set up a place for camp. The people look up when they see her walking towards them but say nothing. They do not mention the blood that must surely be dripping down her hands even after washing it in the creek. Some of the smuggling band seem to be engrossed in a knife-throwing competition.

Mithian refuses to look at her, and Morgana feels a stab of what seems like sadness. She is mystified by it- they had never been close friends, her and Mithian, and she shouldn't feel anything about just another person disapproving of her methods.

Morgana looks at the princess for another minute before she realizes: she _is _feeling sad, and regret. Morgana _had _liked Mithian, respected her. Had been grateful, how Mithian seemed to understand, how she hadn't judged her like the men had, how she had been supportive even when they were barely acquaintances. How Mithian had shone bright, just like Arthur.

Merlin's just as disapproving as Mithian, but she's used to that now. She hardly feels anything, though she would like to think Merlin is her friend. Merlin would be able to move on and talk to her if she just gave him some time to process what had happened.

Arthur nods at her, neither disapproving nor approving. Morgana nods back; this at least is a relief. She is grateful for this small mercy.

But Keredic- Keredic is a surprise. When she sits by the fire, Keredic slowly takes her hand.

"You alright?" he asks. Morgana looks at him, startled.

"Of course," she manages to stutter. Keredic gives her a smile, sad and regretful and kind all at once. She doesn't know how to respond.

A beat, and he lets go of her hand and stretches.

"I was waiting for you so we could heal rest of them will prepare dinner while we do."

"What?" Morgana's eyes turn round with surprise. "Could you repeat the first part?"

"I was waiting for you so we could heal Tristan," Keredic says patiently. "You're going to help me."

"Oh," she says. "Of course. But wouldn't it be better to let Isolde, or your sister, or even Arthur do it? I'm clumsy with bandages."

Keredic shakes his head. "I'll be needing you to heal as well."

Morgana opens her mouth, then closes it. "Would now be a good time to mention I can't heal?"

"Don't give me that," Keredic says. "I felt it the minute I met you. You know it too, don't you?"

Oh no. No. No. No. Morgana doesn't - shouldn't - can't heal. Spiritual magic be damned, she was not going to do that. Not after Nimue and the choice she'd made.

"Get Merlin to do it," is the first thing that blurts out of her mouth. Keredic raises an eyebrow. Surprisingly enough, it's Arthur who replies. He looks at her and speaks for the first time since she arrived.

"You told me yourself this afternoon Merlin's magic wasn't compatible," he remarks. There is no blame in his tone. Morgana still glares.

"It's okay if you don't know how to do it," Keredic coaxes. "I'll teach you what to do. Your magic's right for it."

Morgana looks at him. "Something will go wrong. Wouldn't it be better for you to do it alone?"

Keredic lets out a small huff of breath. "Too little magic for that," he tells her apologetically. "Healing Tristan's shoulder will take up all my energy."

Damn Keredic and his nonexistent magic supply. Morgana hesitates.

It is Isolde who deals the final blow. "Please," she says quietly. Morgana stares for a little, wishing she was anywhere but here. She bites her lips.

"If he dies it is not my fault."

Tristan gives a half-growl, half-chuckle. "Such confidence, _Princess._" They must have revealed all of their identities while she had been…behind. Morgana glares at him for good measure, then jerks her chin and Keredic. The prince supports Tristan and leads her to the spot already prepared for them.

* * *

Isolde watches the three leave with a worried eye. Arthur glances at her, then at Morgana leaving. She looks pale. And she had behaved uncharacteristically just now. That she would so emphatically refuse to do something she could do is startling. Perhaps there was something there.

"They know what they're doing," Merlin reassures the smuggler. "Well, Keredic does."

"He's been learning about healing since he was a toddler," Mithian affirms. "In Nemeth, he's renowned as a healer."

Isolde nods. "Thank you."

Arthur is quiet as he contemplates the situation. Isolde and Tristan, as well as their band of smugglers, should be punished if he were to follow the laws of Camelot. With death, even. Yet he could not bring himself to think that they deserved it. Even if it was not necessary for him to have them with him, not only to keep an eye on them but to prevent them from going to the Saxons, he would have wanted to help them. This worries him, because in the end Tristan blames him for their circumstances. If he had done something, would they have lived as peaceful villagers, some other life?

Mithian glances at him.

"I would like to ask you something," she starts. Arthur nods for her to continue. "You let Princess Morgana…dispose of the captives without any protest. Yet I know you to be the most honorable king in the Ten Kingdoms. So why did you let her?"

Isolde looks interested, and Merlin's face is unreadable. Of course Mithian would ask. She would be as shocked as he had once been. Arthur stares into the flames before speaking.

"There was no victor in the first main battle at Peredor," he begins. "You were informed, Princess Mithian, were you not?" Mithian nods. "Part of the reason- the official reason- is that we could not communicate well enough to attack in tandem. That is true. But the battle itself could have been on more advantageous ground."

Mithian looks like she is confused by the random story. Arthur speaks again.

"And that was my fault. Two weeks before that battle, the Saxons had not established their camp in Peredor. Princess Morgana, along with King Cenred, were ordered to disrupt their campbuilding."

Isolde is listening intently, though Arthur cannot imagine why. Merlin already knows this story, but he too seems to be listening. He glances at the far-off figures of Morgana, Keredic, and Tristan before resuming.

"As you have seen, Morgana is…brutally competent. She and King Cenred wiped them out. When I arrived, even the unarmed camp followers had been killed. There were some prisoners, but many more of the defenseless were dead." He runs a hand through his hair. "You can imagine how I reacted. I essentially demoted her to prevent her from doing so again. Then I forbade any of the other generals from attacking the defenseless."

Isolde looks at him, surprised. "You forbade the killing of unarmed camp followers?"

"They were women and children," Arthur says quietly. "They were not to blame."

"You would not have them killed," Mithian nods. "It was the right thing to do."

"The Saxons made their camp at Peredor after that." Arthur's voice is toneless. "We were pinned down, and we could no longer send reinforcements to the other besieged regions. Meanwhile the Saxons pillaged the countryside, free to do as they wished. Then the battle happened." He looks down. "I realized then that I had sacrificed thousands of my men for that choice. Morgana had known that. And now-" he waves his hand. "Much as I wish we did not have to go against the codes of chivalry, I knew as she did that we could not let them live. It was just that she was more forthright in her knowledge. In a way, she took the burden from me."

Mithian opens her mouth, but does not speak. Arthur looks at Morgana's figure in the distance again.

"When I see Morgana, I don't see a beautiful princess or a skilled warrior. All I can see is the fierce loyalty that burns in her. She'll do anything to protect her people. Morgana…She can see clearly what is needed. And she will do it, no matter how distasteful it is, so others will not have to do it." He smiles absently at himself. "Sometimes I think she loves too hard."

There is silence. Arthur's brain finally catches up with what his mouth has been saying, and he flushes under his tan.

"You love her," Isolde says. It is strange, how she says the words with calm confidence, not sentimental but sure. "Have you told her?"

"What?" Arthur splutters, then struggles to maintain his dignity. "Of course I love her. As a friend. As a valued ally. Like a sister. I don't need to tell her that."

Except he'd kissed her very passionately just an afternoon ago. But they didn't need to know that. And she was too focused on the war for him to even bring up this topic.

"So do you often flirt with your sister like that?" Merlin snorts.

"Shut up, Merlin."

"I think it's true," Mithian offers. "Siblinglike love is what you see between Keredic and me. You and Princess Morgana…It's like a tragic love story begging to be written." Arthur barely manages to stop himself from snapping at her.

"I don't quite think that's true," he grits out. "And must it really be a _tragic _love story?" Honestly, he's had more than enough close calls with Morgana to not be apprehensive even _thinking _about Morgana being hurt. With her being poisoned, stabbed, having blood poisoning, and suffering some sort of insomnia, his worry for her is starting to take over his mind. And now he had to send her to be head of the most risky part of the battle. He would rather they not tempt fate.

Mithian smiles, but it is sad, sweet. "I wish you both would see what's right in front of you. It's not very common, you know."

"There will come a time when you'll need the strength," Isolde says, closing her eyes and raising her hands to the warmth against the coming barely-autumn chill. "And love is stronger than anything."

Arthur's lip twists up. "I'll keep that in mind. Now can we please talk about something other than my love life?"

"But it's so interesting," Merlin tells him. "There's practically a pool going on about it."

"What?" Arthur shouts. He starts arguing with Merlin as Mithian and Isolde look in amusement.

* * *

"Are you sure you're alright?" Keredic asks Morgana after the long lecture. Morgana nods a little dazedly.

"I think I understood around half of what you said."

"Good enough," Keredic shrugs. He looks at her. "Remember, you heal the bones first, then the nerves, then the blood vessels, then the muscles, then the skin. You know the words, right?"

Morgana nods again, a little pale. In truth, this isn't the kind of healing she'd been afraid he'd ask her to use. This is the ordinary speeding up of natural healing type magic. Nothing like what she was supposed to have learnt- but that was in the past now. Now if only she could gather the confidence to do this.

"I'll be taking care of the shoulder. You've got…quite a large supply of magic even after the teleportation. You should be fine with the arm wound." Keredic chants a little spell while placing his hand over Tristan's bandaged wound. "The bone only has a hairline fracture. So you don't need to worry about resetting it."

"A hairline fracture. Okay." She can do this. It's only a simple, simple growth spell. She can do this.

Keredic notices her nervousness. "You'll be fine, Morgana." He grins. "If you weren't already so capable and busy, I'd beg you to become a healer. You've the talent for it. It's much more suited for your magic than all this battle magic."

Morgana grimaces. "I'll pass, thank you."

"Could you get on with it?" Tristan calls from his seat. "I've been sitting here for half an hour."

Keredic gives her one last nod, and they head over to Tristan. Keredic puts his hand on Tristan's shoulder, and Morgana mimics the way he does it as she places her palm on his arm wound.

"We'll be starting now," Keredic warns Tristan before starting the steady flow of chanting. His eyes turn a very dim yellow. Morgana gulps and closes her eyes before starting her own spell.

As the unfamiliar words roll off her tongue she can _feel _the two sides of the paper-thin fracture inching together excruciatingly slowly. She keeps chanting the spell, wondering at how fracture starts melding together from the end, getting shorter and shorter as the bone is healed. When finally the smallest end merges and the bone is whole, Morgana opens her eyes.

"Good work," Keredic says, already in the second phase of healing the shoulder. He's stopped chanting, healing the tissues with his willpower. His eyes are still yellow.

"You…you checked up on how the armbone was healing while still continuing your own spell?" Morgana asked, frowning incredulously. "How are you doing that?"

Keredic shrugs. "Practice. You can feel what's happening to the whole body when you use magic if you do it often enough." He mutters something and frowns, his eyes flashing once. "Better." His eyes regain its grey hue, and Keredic smiles. "You alright?"

"Ah," Morgana is startled at how fast he can transition between healings. "Yes. I'll start work on the nerves now."

"You'll have to pulse your magic in for that," Keredic reminds. "You'll do fine."

"Could you…make sure I'm not doing something wrong, at least for the first part?" Morgana asks quietly. She's not used to asking for help, but she would rather drop her pride then have Isolde trying to kill her because she put Tristan's arm back the wrong way.

"As you wish," Keredic nods. Morgana takes another deep breath, eyes closed, before placing her hands on the now-flesh wound again. Her eyes snap open to reveal fierce gold as she begins pulsing magic. The nerves on the inside are the first to heal, and Keredic seems to be guiding her magic to make this easier for her. Morgana can even let her concentration falter for a little without any problems. Fortunate enough, because Tristan seems to want to ask her something.

"One thing I want to know," the man groans as Morgana pushes small pulses of magic into his wound, trying to knit the nerves together. "You don't look like the bloodthirsty type. In fact, you look…argh, you trying to kill me?...like you could fit in perfectly with all those useless ladies at court. So what's the thing making you throw yourself into war? Don't tell me you actually _care _about the peasants."

Morgana pulses a little more magic than necessary, making Tristan curse again. Keredic opens his mouth to say something, but shuts it when Morgana smiles sweetly at him and says, "The nerves are almost done now. I think I'm doing it right."

Keredic nods and goes back to treating the smaller graze on the man's shoulder. Tristan winces again. Keredic's left his magic safety wheels on the nerve system at least, so all she needs to do is supply the energy.

"Well?"

"Of course I care. We all care. That's why the whole of Albion united to drive the Saxons away, isn't it?" That's the last nerve done. Morgana takes her hand off and shakes it, trying to get the numbness out of her fingers.

"You aren't answering my question," Tristan grimaces, moving his arm, to which Morgana grabs it to stop him from aggravating the wound. "Why are _you _so keen on doing the dirty things like killing witnesses?"

"It's my duty," she tells him, then turns to Keredic. "So how do I go on with the blood vessels?"

Keredic demonstrates how to find the severed vessels by pressing down with magic, and then how to coax the ends together to heal. The severed vessels act like organisms in their own right, making this even more distinctly uncomfortable for Morgana. Broken promises and that ever-present disappointed expression on Nimue's face floats to the forefront of her thoughts, but she surpresses it.

"Do you think you get it now?" Keredic asks, sealing one more capillary. Morgana quirks her head.

"Is there a way to make the whole thing heal at once? All this finework is making my head hurt."

Keredic smiles. "If human bodies were so easy to fix, we wouldn't need healers. Unless you can somehow call on the life-force power of High Priestesses, at which point you could just snap your fingers and have it healed, we're stuck doing this piece by piece."

Morgana winces inwardly at the mention of High Priestesses once more, then pouts a little.

"It's…really tedious, isn't it?"

"Think of it like a really complex puzzle," Keredic grins. "It's a gift, you know, to be able to coax the cells together. Only certain people. Merlin there wouldn't be able to do it in a million years."

"And are you always in this good a mood when you're healing?" Morgana asks dryly, before turning her attention to doing what he's shown her. Tristan blinks at her.

"You finally remembered me."

"Yes." There is a brief silence as Morgana tries to get the hang of merging the severed ends of a small capillary together. She's sweating by the time it finally works, but she feels confident enough to try one of the bigger veins.

"You must be pretty dedicated if you're willing to kill just for 'duty'," Tristan comments after a while. Morgana frowns at him.

"Keep talking and I might stick the wrong blood vessels together."

She trickles a little more magic, just a bit more, and the cells finally merge to form a whole vein. Morgana sighs in relief, and Tristan gives her a look.

"It's more than duty, then," she tells him. "It's for Arthur. I fight for the people, but I kill for Arthur. He's more than just king by birth. Ask any of his men. They'd do anything for him."

Tristan looks askance to where Arthur is sitting by Merlin, Mithian, and Isolde. He seems to be shouting at Merlin. "Him?" Tristan smirks. "Doesn't look like much of a king."

Morgana's already started on the other big vein. "And yet the ones under his command would follow him to hell."

Tristan looks thoughtful. "So you can slaughter helpless captives for him. That's a frightening amount of loyalty."

"Arthur is…different," Morgana mutters as she focuses on his arm. "He's…he's good. Worthy."

"I don't see what you-" Tristan pales. "My arm feels strange."

"Oh no," Morgana says, eyes widening. "I did something." She panicks as the man's arm starts spasming. "I knew this would happen, I _told _you to stop talking. Prince Keredic! Keredic, I think I spliced the wrong veins together!"

Keredic stops his own magic and looks up before going over to her side. "It's alright, Morgana, just-"  
"What do you mean, it's alright? You messed up my arm!" Tristan snaps.

"Wait, one moment-"Keredic moves his finger down the wound, leaving a glowing trail. The arm stops spasming, and Tristan sighs in relief. Keredic looks at her. "There, I swapped it. No harm done, see?"

Morgana's breathing heavily. "I think maybe I shouldn't be doing this."

"You were doing fine," Keredic soothes. "It's only-"

"I think she shouldn't be doing this either," Tristan interrupts. Morgana glares, but nods. Keredic sighs.

"We can swap then," the prince suggests, with a wry look on his face. "But I'm not going to be fit for much if I take care of the whole arm. My magic's not that big."

Morgana waves her hands. "That's perfectly fine. I'll do your share of whatever work you're given, just don't make me do the arm. I could have made him explode."

Tristan pales again. "Woman, you only tell me that now?"

"It's _princess _to you," she snaps. "Don't call me 'woman'."

"Alright, alright," Keredic comes between the two. "Work on the shoulder, Morgana. Tristan, I do need silence to make sure it heals properly."

They both acquiesce, and the healing starts again without any further ado.

* * *

By the time they are through, Keredic is near dropping with exhaustion. Tristan's shoulder is fully healed, as his arm, and he tests the use of both as he stands up.

"Strange," he comments. "It's like I wasn't hurt in the first place. Bit sore, though."

Keredic wipes off his sweat. "The soreness will last for at least a week if you let it be, or I could make you a salve and have it gone in an hour. Depends whether you stay with us."

Tristan snorts. "Don't have much of a choice, do I?"

Morgana glances at Keredic. He had made her heal a part of the muscle work and the entire skin after he ran out of magic halfway.

"It's either this, or I really get useless," Keredic had explained. Then he'd told her that there were herbs that he'd need to make a salve afterwards, and if he used more magic now he wouldn't be able to move. She had had little choice then.

But it hadn't been that bad. Morgana turns her hands palm up, then looks down. It hadn't been earth-shattering.

Isolde comes to kiss Tristan. Keredic and Morgana both look away until they break apart. They whisper what must certainly be sweet nothings to each other; neither prince nor princess can stomach the sound. Especially since earlier that day Morgana had fully kissed Arthur within sight of Keredic. Morgana can only be grateful that Keredic is gentlemanly to the point that he hasn't brought it up once.

"Morgana." He gets her attention. "If I may ask…"

"Of course," she says, wondering what he wishes to know.

"About you and Arthur." She spoke too soon. She should have just said no or something. "Is the relationship between you and the High King…"

Either Isolde noticed her discomfort, or the heavens were smiling upon her that day, because that exact moment is when Isolde comes to them, supporting Tristan.

"Thank you both," she says. "For everything you've done for him."

Tristan grunts, but they can see the grateful look in his eyes. Morgana and Keredic both nod, then Morgana excuses herself and walks back to the fire as fast as she can. She still keeps an eye on them, though. Arthur soon walks towards them, nodding to Keredic, who reciprocates coldly.

"I'm sorry you were…caught up in this," he says to the smugglers.

Tristan looks at him intensely, then shrugs. "Well, I may have lost my cargo, but at least I have my beloved Isolde."

"And I you." Isolde leans against his good shoulder.

"Then you're both richer than you know," Arthur says. Keredic raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. Tristan considers him, then looks at Isolde before walking together back to the campfire.

"It's around time for dinner," Keredic says. "The sun's going to set soon."

"I'll go get us some game," Mithian volunteers quicky. Isolde stands up. "I'll go with you."

"You just don't want to cook," Keredic pouts. He sighs afterwards. "I'll do it."

His sister grimaces a little. "Is anyone here a competent cook?"

Arthur gestures at Merlin. "He's…decent."

"I promised Keredic I'd help him out. I'll be cooking as well," Morgana says, resigned. They wouldn't get food poisoning, but that is about all she can promise.

Arthur nods. "I'll gather firewood." He looks at Tristan. "You coming?"

Tristan glares, but nods. They walk off together.

Morgana watches the two walk off with worry in her eyes. "I'm a little concerned they might try to kill each other," she says, almost to herself. She is surprised when Mithian smiles at her.

"Arthur wouldn't let that happen."

Isolde grins as well. "Neither would my Tristan.

The two women get up and take out their weapons before walking off in the other direction.

Morgana is left with Keredic and Merlin. She looks at them both.

"So…are either of you good cooks?"

* * *

Arthur and Tristan walk a good distance in silence before finding an area with many fallen boughs. They start collecting without speaking to each other.

It is when Arthur has gathered an armful of dead wood when Tristan first speaks.

"Well, well. The High King getting his hands dirty picking up firewood. You're just like everyone else, aren't you? There's nothing special about you. All you're good for is swinging your sword and playing at being a knight."

Arthur looks at Tristan and finds that he's staring intensely at him again. It almost looks like Tristan's trying to convince himself rather than taunting Arthur.

"That may be right," Arthur concedes, not without effort. "But the Saxons are attacking my people, and I won't stand by and let it happen."

Tristan glares. "Well, your people have been suffering for ages before that."

Arthur picks up another piece of wood. "And I will do everything in my power to give them justice."

There is no more conversation after that, only a frigid silence. The only communication between the two is Arthur jerking his head in the direction they came as a question to whether they should head back, to which Tristan nods slightly.

They walk back, both lost in thought.

* * *

Arthur is amazed when Tristan pulls out a bouquet of flowers when they return. He hadn't even seen the smuggler stop to pick the flowers. But then, he had been preoccupied.

Isolde smiles widely as she accepts it. "What's this for?"

Tristan shrugs. "Just because."

Arthur watches them and wonders how they could be so happy.

* * *

The dinner is...edible. None of them comment on it more than that. Tristan and Isolde's men are eating and joking amongst themselves, while the seven share the meal in relative silence. Morgana nibbles at a piece of the hart that Mithian had shot. It's not an awkward meal, but everybody seems to be thinking about something.

After they have finished eating, Keredic stands up.

"I think I can function like a human being now," he says. "I'll go look for the herbs I need."

"You can't go alone," Mithian protests. "You can barely protect yourself."

"Thank you very much," Keredic says in a dry voice. "I do love it when you rub the fact that I'm not too good with martial arts in my face, sister."

"It's true, though."

Arthur suddenly speaks up. "I'll go with him."

Morgana raises an eyebrow. "You?"

"I feel like walking," Arthur shrugs. Keredic nods. "Thanks."

They disappear back into the woods.

August has reached its end, and the night chill creeps in. The remaining five gather around the fire.

Isolde sits side by side with Tristan, holding his hand. Merlin fiddles with his neckerchief. Morgana knows she should be putting up wards around just in case, but is too caught up in lethargy to do so. Mithian looks up.

"What are you planning to do now?" she asks Isolde and Tristan. "Now that you know the Saxons are regularly going through this area."

Isolde shares a long look with Tristan. "We'll just have to find another route."

"Smuggling _is_ illegal," Mithian reminds. Tristan scoffs.

"That's not going to stop us." But his voice sounds a little less sure than before.

Merlin stretches. "One thing I know is that Arthur's going to be looking into those taxes right after the war's over. More work for me."

Tristan glances at the sorcerer. "Do all of you have so much trust in Arthur?"

Merlin shrugs. "He's the best person I know, even if he's really pratty sometimes."

Morgana snorts at that, and Isolde smiles in amusement. Mithian looks thoughtful.

"I don't think anyone else could have led the Ten Kingdoms as well as he did," she says. "Even if Bayard and Odin thinks they could have done better."

"He's different," Isolde says quietly to her partner. "Tristan, I think he's different."

Tristan seems to be pondering something. He's about to speak, when Keredic suddenly rushes into camp, herbs spilling out of his arms.

"Saxons," he pants. "Arthur's holding them back, but they're coming this way. He sent me ahead to tell you."

As soon as they reach for their weapons and get to their feet, Arthur appears. His sword is bloody.

"Seems to be the rest of the scouting group," he says between breaths. "But they're not all Saxon."

"Not all Saxon?" Mithian questions.

"Some… some look like regular outlaws." Arthur looks back and swears. "They're here."

They all ready their weapons. Mithian begins to shoot at the first arrivals. A handful fall, but many more keep coming. Arthur seems to be right- some look to be Saxons, but many more are dressed in regular Albion garb. The leader seems to be a large, powerful Moorish man with a shaven head. Tristan looks closer, then growls.

"I know him. He's a warlord. Ravaged my village, and ran into him a few times. Got a score to settle."

"Anything to know about him?" Arthur asks.

"Helios is strong," the smuggler bites out. "Never seen him beaten."

And then there's no more time for words because they're in a full-out brawl. Mithian backs away, dragging her brother behind her, so she can keep shooting. Morgana glances at her and sees that she's taking greater care to aim, which is a relief because she could very well shoot one of their own. Some of the men from the smuggling band throw knives at the approaching Saxons before throwing themselves into the fray. Tristan roars as he slices through many of the outlaws, in tandem with Isolde. Morgana grins humorlessly before lunging at a warrior- Saxon by dress, a battle-hardened woman- and running her through.

Merlin seems to know instinctively that they are a dangerous foe, because he skips the stunning and goes straight to blasting lightning. Morgana notices that he's just waiting for the right time to call up a whirlwind, as soon as everyone on their side is relatively out of the way. She bites her lips before blasting a man with magic.

"Don't bother," she yells to Merlin. "You'll destroy the whole forest if you bring up the whirlwind."

Merlin gives her a curt nod before resorting to breaking necks. Morgana turns back to the fighting.

The leader- Helios, Tristan had called him- is formidable. He slaughters three of Isolde's band before Arthur gets to him. Morgana slices a throat neatly, then internally debates trying to blast Helios with lightning.

Merlin gets there first, sending a white-hot thread of crackling energy at Helios. But it there is no burnt smell. The lightning is simply disappeared.

Helios has wards against magical attack, Morgana realizes. They'll only be able to kill him with the sword. Arthur strikes at him first, a stab almost too fast for the eye to see. Helios parries, then the two exchange fierce blows one after the other. Morgana keeps one eye on them as she turns back to the melee.

When she looks again at the two locked in battle, she can see that they are evenly matched; that is a surprise in and of itself. To have someone matching in swordsmanship. And then as she looks, Arthur _trips_, falling to the floor. Helios raises his sword for the final blow.

Before Morgana can throw magic or do anything, a sword sprouts out of Helios's chest from behind. Morgana can see Arthur's eyes widen with surprise. Blood sprays as Isolde pulls out her blade. Helios seems to falter.

Isolde steps back with a look of relief on her face. Most of the Saxons and the outlaws are already dead, and Helios is grievously wounded. Helios slowly turns to face Isolde.

He looks defeated and near-dead, but Morgana suddenly notices the tensing of his arm, the savage look in his eyes. If he's going to die, he's going to take somebody with him. Isolde doesn't notice, turning away as if she thinks he is already dead.

Helios raises his blade, and as Morgana watches it seems like time has slowed down. She raises a hand and yells out a spell.

Helios is thrown high into a tree. Isolde whirls back, just in time to see the burly warlord fly away. She looks at Morgana.

"Thanks."

Morgana shakes her head. "You saved Arthur."

The woman looks at her for a long moment before smiling. "Even, then."

Arthur has gotten to his feet in that time. He walks to them and looks around.

"I think the battle's near over."

Merlin and Mithian efficiently dispose of the handful still alive. Morgana leans against a tree. "Three Saxon encounters in one day. We're doing something right."

Arthur grunts. "At least we know this is really the Saxon supply trail now. Merlin?"

The sorcerer nods. "The magicians will be able to find where the actual supply is and track them down. Just give us some time."

The sun has already set. Morgana glances up at the darkened sky.

"Should we wait until morning to return?"

Arthur shakes his head. "This isn't too far from the Plains of Peredor. We return now."

Mithian, Keredic, and Merlin go to the horses. Morgana watches as Arthur nods to Tristan and Isolde.

"This is where we say goodbye."

The two smugglers look to each other. It seems like they've made a decision. Tristan hesitates before speaking.

"Arthur, all my life I've shied away from other people's wars, and despised the power and wealth that kings buy with the lives of men, but you've shown yourself to be different."

"You've shown us that you fight for what is right and fair," Isolde says, slipping her hand in Tristan's. "We would like to fight at your side."

Morgana's eyes widen and flick to Arthur. He seems moved.

"We've also a score to settle," Tristan says with a grin. "Those outlaws have an entire band. If they've stuck to the Saxons…"

Isolde finishes the sentence. "We'll get our revenge."

A small smile grows on Arthur's face. "I'd be honored to have you at my side."

Tristan and Isolde nod. Morgana steps closer.

"We're sorely in need of marksmen," she tells them. "Any help would be appreciated, but I noticed that your men seemed to be adept at throwing knives."

Isolde nods. "The handful of men here are ours, but we can muster more."

"Marksmen?" Tristan asks, then thinks for a little. "Fifty men and women, experts at either archery or knife throwing. I can get them in five days."

"Fifty?" Morgana is surprised. That Tristan could gather so many skilled warriors in such little time is startling.

"You get connections in our line of work," Isolde shrugs. She suddenly looks shrewd. "We'll want amnesty, though."

Morgana looks at Arthur. He nods without hesitating.

"Done." He smiles. "We fight as equals."

"You done talking?" Merlin calls from where they've prepared the horses. "I'd like to get there before tomorrow, thank you."

Isolde and Tristan smile. "We will come to you in five days." They walk off to talk to their band of former smugglers.

Arthur grins, then offers his hand to Morgana. "Shall we?"

She places her hand gently on his offered palm. "Of course, my lord."

* * *

It is a se'enight later when they all receive the news.

"Master Merlin and the magicians have located the supply train on the trail, my lady!"

Morgana's hand tightens around the quill she's been holding. "It is to begin?"

"We leave at dawn."

* * *

***6 leagues is around 18 miles, or 30 kilometers.**

****I've used the word pirates 11 times in this part alone. Now there's something I never thought I'd do. Maybe I should just turn this story into one about the adventures of Pirate Merlin and his crew.**

**A/N: Aaaaand we still don't get the main battle. I'm so sorry about 1) dragging out writing this chapter, and 2) dragging out the chapter itself. Please tell me if you found any part boring, or if you noticed grammar mistakes or anything like that. **

**Thank you as always to all reviewers! You're the ones who keep me coming back to the story. I wanted to answer some queries, so here they are:**

**To Your Favorite Oxymoron: The Latin titles were a whim of mine. I'm glad you liked them. In order, they are The Dice Is Cast, Faithful and Moral, The Storm Gathers, The Treachery of Leaders, The War Begins, New Light, and Unexpected Company. Yes, they sound trite. I'm sorry :)**

**To Arya Tindomiel, whose reviews are AMAZING and make me squeal every time I see them and is just overall wonderful: Mithian is unfortunately out of the running for the love triangle. But trust me when I say, it's not going to stay a love triangle for long. **

**And to Kreuse, who reminded me that this story was waiting for me: It's here. :)**

**Thank you again to everyone else who reviewed, both anon and signed!**


End file.

Merlin, Adventure, Romance