Merlin 1. Mortuos Plango

**VERUS AD FINEM**

**True To The End**

* * *

**PART ONE: MORTUOS PLANGO**

_**(I Mourn The Dead)**_

Mortuos Plango was the most remote town in the whole of Albion, the last frontier before the great sea. Surrounded by vast, derelict fields upon which dead weeds had spread their limbs far and wide, nobody except the very desperate and depressed dared to traverse this figurative graveyard. The town itself, despite its ominous name and woeful reputation, was not completely uninhabitable, but the sea-front would only have been considered mildly pleasant to those with a morbidly abstract idea of beauty. Even overlooking the grey wooden planks, the equally grey clouds, heavily hooded houses, constant deluges of rain and the insidious odour of fish, apples and moss, Mortuos Plango was still a foreboding place. Even just an eyeful of the ancient cogs that were either slumped or half-submerged in the grey water, blocking meagre, forgotten strains of sunlight, did much to reinforce the despondent air about the town.

Arthur Pendragon was having second, third and fourth thoughts about this journey, even as Merlin kept up a lively stream of shrill and sycophantic babble whilst their horses picked through rocks with edges like daggers and crunchy weeds. In fact, he had doubted the wisdom of this excursion since the very beginning even if his will of steel had wilted under the effects of a persuasive screed from Merlin accompanied by an excessive dose of honey. Arthur knew Merlin's argument was all codswallop, but in amongst the twittering, there were strains of sense:

* * *

_"Are you really going to spend the rest of your life, you know... pining for her?"_

_"Merlin, how many times do I have to tell you-"_

_"What I am trying to say is-"_

_"-She made her choice-"_

_"-And you made yours! It has been two years; no one has seen nor heard from her. Accept that you probably won't see her again."_

* * *

Arthur bit his lip hard as he recalled the fact that had been looming over his entire existence ever since that fateful night. A blanket of darkness had enveloped him, obscuring him from sight. Every day, he woke with an overwhelming sense of emptiness, though he carried on, ostensibly unaffected. Her loss had removed the meaning from all life- even small pleasures he had enjoyed became worthless, chaff in the wind. Food turned to black ash in his mouth, his daily training had become scientific rather than heartfelt, sleep was the enemy rather than an old friend. Even the kingdom's citizens with their smiles that spoke of love for their King could not produce the same stirring of warmth in his chest as it had when she lived amongst them. The prospect of a fresh engagement to the Princess of Nemeth had been fruitless; Mithian had been beautiful, but she just wasn't... her. He couldn't force himself to love another. It was completely bizarre and frightening that he could not reshape his life after one who had shattered his heart. It was precisely as Ovid had prophesied; _credula res amor est_- Arthur was living its meaning.

Paradoxically, the sun continued to burn but its life-giving rays brought no solace to Arthur Pendragon. Any successful ruling or peace treaty produced a resoundingly hollow victory. He brooded when he was not expected to wear his mask, his temper was agonizingly short and his eyes had lost their fire, replaced instead with a glassy sheen of ice, a brittle yet stubborn layer of resistance to the ravages of emotion he had once fallen prey to.

Perhaps the only constant presence that had not lost its worth was Merlin. Optimistic and always understanding, his manservant had done his level best to keep Arthur's head above water- often with little to no reward or a sharp reprimand in return. Still, Merlin had never given up on him, which the King found astonishing; he knew that he treated his manservant appallingly. Indeed, he was often awake at night, plagued with overwhelming guilt at his churlish, standoffish attitude, berating himself for trying to ostracize the only friend he had. One day, he had reminded himself after a particularly lively argument, Merlin would grow fed up of him- and then he would truly be alone. He couldn't bear that to happen, however irrational and unapproachable he became. It was a selfish friendship that he entertained, where he was the one to give and to take- he knew as much. He desperately wished that he could change just to remove that hauntingly sad expression from Merlin's eyes. Alas, the loss of his raison d'être had diminished his famous yet bashful magnanimity.

Nevertheless, when Merlin rushed into his chambers in excitement one morning, hideously late and clutching a dusty tome from the Castle Records Chambers, Arthur's interest had perked up a bit. The idea, of course, was extremely convoluted, but Arthur did eventually manage to catch the general gist of it, once he had ordered Merlin to stop flicking through the pages, jabbing his finger in excitement and rambling on about unconnected matters.

Apparently Merlin had gotten it into his head that since he was the Once and Future King, he should be spending his time completing as many daring and noble quests as possible to embellish his biography in the history books. Peace treaties were not enough, the effusive man had argued; when was the last time he had retrieved a golden dagger from the teeth of a dragon or seamlessly scaled a ten-foot wall to rescue a weeping damsel?

* * *

_"I haven't ever done either of those things."_

Merlin waved his hands dismissively; he had spent all night preparing this argument, and he wasn't going to allow the small matter of facts to devalue it. _"Irrelevant! You NEED a quest! And I have been doing some reading; it transpires that NO other King before you has ever travelled to the southernmost tip of Albion. No other King,"_ he repeated, emphasizing each syllable.

_"Maybe because it is too bloody far away?"_

Merlin had chuckled at that, another light-hearted occurrence that had been in danger of extinction since her departure. Arthur savoured the sight for as long as he could, though he strived not to show it.

_"Don't be such a girl, Arthur; come on; you can make it there, I know you can!"_

He always said that, and the King hated it for there was such strong and genuine conviction in his voice. A load of expectation was dropped onto his shoulders without asking his feelings first; he suddenly had to visit this place or die trying, if only to prove Merlin right.

_"What is this place, then?"_

_"Mortuos Plango,"_ Merlin chirped immediately- evidently, he had been planning this for some time. _"I don't really know much Latin-"_

_"I mourn the dead,"_ Arthur chimed in tonelessly. _"Couldn't you have chosen a more uplifting destination?"_

_"Like "Vivos Voco?"_

Arthur had stared at him then, as though he was seeing his longtime friend for the first time. _"I thought you said you didn't know any Latin?"_

At least his manservant had enough decency to look both modest and sheepish, shuffling on one foot as he mumbled a myriad of excuses. He wasn't very good at acting the idiot, and both of them were slowly starting to appreciate that- Arthur more than he.

* * *

Arthur dumped the task of arranging a place to stay on Merlin. He felt he was justified in this, seeing as the idea was his manservant's brainchild and said man had not yet specified what it was exactly that he expected him to do whilst here. Usually, there was some noble objective to be achieved by going on a long and impossibly dangerous quest, which apparently compensated for the long hours of riding, unpredictable terrain and getting on his companion's nerves. Here, in this lonely outcast of Albion, there was nothing for him to do, nothing to search for, and nothing to attain. Perhaps it was a metaphor for his life, and the hollow shell it had become. Maybe that was it, Arthur decided as he sat down on a part of the pier that wasn't riddled with weevils and mould; he had become one of the dead the town's name described. It was a wretchedly depressing thought, but he did not try to argue, only choosing to watch the restless sea rattle the pier, sending alarming shudders through the faulty woodwork. He should have been afraid that the angry tides would hurl him into the mouth of the sea, but his mind was wandering far and wide, beyond the miserable trap he had found himself inside.

Memories bubbled in his thoughts, some large, some small. As he glanced around the sodden docks, small mementos sparked something inside his mind relating to her, and he would be lost in aching solace as the happier times were replayed for him to savour and crave. At first, he tried to sort through which events he wanted to remember and which were best buried under the deep passages of time, but they flooded into his conscious faster and faster. Nothing was omitted; the juicy softness of the lips she loved to bite when she knew she was rambling, her vivacious eyes with their subtle edge of steel, that enchanting figure that was really surprisingly strong, that voice with its endless wisdom, that girlish laugh with its perpetual musicality... Even now, he still treasured them like gold- no one could take those souvenirs away from him, though the price of acquisition had been shockingly high.

Each retrospective thought weakened him to the very point where resistance crumbles into submission and he simply allowed himself to be tormented with those poignant, vivid images again and again until something wet was dripping continuously onto his intertwined fingers and he belatedly realized, when he could no longer see ahead clearly, that these were his agonized tears. As if the sky felt his mood, the belly of the clouds opened up and poured itself onto Arthur Pendragon, lone visitor to Mortuos Plango. It was a horrible welcome, and worse was to come when the sky spoke in rolling growls of thunder and the sky rent itself apart with blinding flashes of lightening.

Arthur almost did not notice for the visions in his mind had grown dark, grey closing in on blue until that memory appeared, the one that had been seared into his thoughts with a red-hot iron. He felt that familiar gut-wrenching pain in his lower abdomen as he pictured himself walking down that icy corridor in the dead of night with his Uncle and seeing...

"Arthur! Arthur!"

The King glanced around casually. Of course- but Merlin would always look for him. Wiping his eyes so as to hide his pain with the rain, he stood up and crossed inland to rejoin his friend.

"Arthur, what on earth are you doing, I was so worried, I thought-"

Something in the King's expression must have been easy to interpret because Merlin trailed off with a knowing, sympathetic look. Damn it, he knew. He always knew. Surely there must be nothing that was inexplicable to this man. Arthur shrugged past him and Merlin rushed to keep up, talking in an emotionless voice about the rooms in the heart of the town. Apparently, they were quite picturesque. Arthur didn't care; all that had been beautiful to behold was now lost to him forever. Nothing in his life could turn his eye again; pleasure was a distant thing of the past. He gradually tuned out of Merlin's prattle, seeking solace in the resounding silence in the empty chamber that had once been the bleeding heart of a man in love. Maybe some time along the way as they walked, and the blanket of night crept stealthily over the stricken sky, he was vaguely aware of his surroundings, of cobbled streets, and dark houses, of torches being lit, of lone wanderers making their way home. In the sparse melée of commonplace action, perhaps he picked out a young woman with flowing curly locks hurrying down another street with a basket of linens. One brief glimpse was all that he was afforded, but it had been enough, even in the dark.

Because he had stared down the street long after the woman had gone.

_She had been so lovely..._

* * *

**NEXT TIME:** Part Two: Actum Est De Me! (All Is Lost)

* * *

This was going to be a one-shot, but turned into a three-parter. Stay tuned for depressing imagery and Arwen romance. Alternately, wisely choose to go and read something funny.


	2. Actum Est De Me!

**Part Two: Actum Est De Me!**

**All Is Lost**

* * *

The woman was soaked to the bone; she trembled and shuddered as she threw cracked twigs in the general direction of the fireplace and half-heartedly scraped two icy flints together to light a flame. She heaved a sigh of relief when this was done and wrestled with the drenched ties of her gown, fighting to yank the heavy material off her body so that she could get to bed. Her linens were also saturated, but when she dug around further inside her basket, she found a shift that had suffered a lot less than its companions, and lost no time in pulling it on. Her stomach growled in protest when she made a tentative beeline for her bed, but preparing proper food required concentration; she was too delirious; it would have to wait. On another day, she found that food was a relaxing alternative before the nightmares, a sedative to be taken prior to losing herself in the painful oblivion of those tragic memories that flashed before her mind night after night for the past two years. Having candles near her bed helped too. Today, the woman was too fatigued and sore, crumpling onto the mattress like a stack of bricks. Her eyes fluttered closed as soon as her weary head came home to the seductive embrace of a fluffy pillow...

Of course, the images began once more, this time introduced by a curtain of the torrential rain she had ploughed through that evening. First there were the eyes, large, adoring and coloured in the most exquisite shade of cerulean blue that she had ever seen... And they stared into her very soul, treasuring it with gazes that were composite to loving caresses all over her heated skin. The woman frowned in her sleep and shifted position; this triggered the change in those eyes. The glowing radiant love melded into the icy fury of betrayal and somewhere in the black background she could hear a woman weeping loudly, her anguished cries echoing off the stone façade of a giant room. These were her tears, she knew; and now the murky background was obscuring those lovely eyes to her forever. She saw an arm flung out into mid-air, fingers straining to reach an indefinite point- but touching nothing but thin air. She was lost and alone and unloved. A vague thud sounded behind her; her body had struck something hard; rock bottom. How ironic. Strange eyes- her own eyes closed in the dream, never to open again...

Back in the real world, the woman awoke abruptly, weeping convulsively into her trembling hands. Always the same dream, always the same pain, always the floods of tears that accompanied it with no one to witness, no one who could sympathize with her pain. Her mewls of grief were lost inside the howling winds that battered at her small Roman tenement and hot deluges of tears trickled through her fingers and disappeared into the fabric of her shift and quilt. When they had subsided, she heard a cock crow three times outside her door; it must be dawn- yet it felt as though she had only just returned home an hour ago! Had she really lost all those hours to her nightmares and hysterical crying? Two years, it had been, and there was still no measure of peace for her; she was as haunted and isolated as the day she had arrived, under-weight, half-starved and irreparably shattered at the land's last bastion against the sea. Maybe it was understandable; her misery had driven her to follow the route of desolation. She had come here to die. Somehow she lived yet, thanks to the help of two smugglers. Selfish as it might sound, the woman wondered whether her continued existence was either for better or for worse...

After a while, the woman rose unsteadily to prepare for the day. She was not idle. Finding work and a livelihood was a skill that had come naturally to her. Even in Mortuos Plango there was some manner of employment to be found; she divided her time between working at the docks and taking care of the Mayor's armour. These were not womanly tasks, and it was only be pure coincidence that she came by them one day when the Mayor (known only by that obscure title) saw her fend off a would be assailant with the kind of skill that he declared to be uncommon even for a man of satisfactory skill.

That was the same day she struck up a highly unusual friendship with Tristan and Isolde, who were using the ghost town as a hideout from the many authorities they had crossed at the height of their nefarious operations around the kingdoms of Albion. Despite her current situation, the woman felt herself smile a little at the thought of the dynamic duo. They would probably be awake by now, and she could go over and see them. Yes, that was what she would do- anything to escape the gloom of this house, comfortable as it was. Filled with happier thoughts, she rose and dressed, grabbed a piece of bread and cheese and pulled on her cloak.

Just before she went outside, she paused to stroke the ring that nestled against her chest, hung on a black cord.

* * *

Arthur was still thinking about that elusive woman as he wandered about Mortuos Plango the next morning. He had decided after half an hour of walking around wrack and ruin, that the town still clung desperately to the glory of the Roman age, as evidenced by the faded ornate decorations, the intact tenements and the broken pieces of mosaics on the ground he walked on. As he reached the town centre, he found himself standing in what must have once been an impressive forum, and despite the crumbling walls, half-hearted attempts at reconstruction and the grey sky stretching overhead, the place was still rather impressive. As he goggled at the faint indicators of Roman architectural design, his mind drifted back to that dark-haired beauty he had caught rushing away last night. Had she been going home? Probably- what else would she need to do at this time? She had been soaked; she must have been freezing. How he had longed to run to her shivering frame and cradle her in his arms. He hoped that she had been safe at home, wherever she lived. Maybe he should go and visit-

The King of Camelot blinked; here he was speculating about a random woman he had caught a glimpse of yesterday. Was this the life of a bachelor? How depressing! Sighing, he turned to his left, searching for Merlin whom he found tracing an inscription set in the gargantuan wall behind him. He strode over to his friend nonchalantly, forcibly restraining any longing thoughts about this elusive woman. In fact, his fantasies were temporarily overshadowed by more guilt as he recalled how badly he had been treating Merlin lately- well, for quite a few years now. Now was the time for some penitential action- what better way than to show an interest in what he was up to? Surely he must have a life outside duties- perhaps he also entertained an interest in Albion's Roman ancestors...

"What are you looking at there?"

Merlin quickly drew his finger away. Sticky, ashen cobwebs trailed off the tip and Arthur found quiet amusement in watching his friend flinch as a large spider scuttled off into a distant crack in the wall.

"Um- nothing, just an inscription," the former stuttered. The King noticed that Merlin's skin seemed even paler when brought into stark contrast with the grimy interface looming above them. He wouldn't have paid attention to such an observation had it been any other man, but he knew better; there was a taut edge to his friend's face that told him something was wrong. He glanced over to the inscription; one large word etched in crooked letters that left a mark so clean that it must have been added recently: "Cave!" (pronounced "cav-ay")

"Beware," he muttered under his breath. Arthur pulled gently on Merlin's arm, leading him away. His manservant became very jittery whenever he saw signs like that. His constitution was equally easily rattled by shrines and graveyards, especially those created by Druids. The King did not think that there was anything in a little Latin graffiti, but he said nothing out of deference to Merlin's anxiety. "Well," he continued in a calmer tone as they walked underneath an crumbling arch, "Perhaps you were sort of right."

A slight smile coasted across Merlin's face, as the King had foretold. "About what?"

"This town is rather miserable, but it isn't all that bad."

"Hmm." Merlin was staring at the cobweb trail that now lay in the palm of his hand- meaning he wasn't smiling at the supremely rare gift of a compliment from Arthur. Again, unusual behaviour. Just what was going on?

"Merlin, is there something you are not telling me?" he demanded eyeing the dark-haired man suspiciously. "Something important relating to that inscription?"

"Its- I... This is going to sound stupid-"

"Don't worry; I probably won't notice the difference!"

"You never miss a trick, do you?"

"Stop trying to change the sub-"

Arthur trailed off, staring at something in the distance with his mouth parted in disbelief. The woman again- he had just seen her walking behind a well-attired tall character who beat the ground with a gnarled cane after every step that he took. Incredible. If only he could have seen her face more clearly... But how spectacular...ravishing she had looked from the view that he got; she had been walking with her face to the ground, strands of curls hanging over her forehead like a curtain. She was wearing a white gown overlaid with a black sleeveless dress that accentuated her figure, pleasant hips and full breasts...

"Arthur? Arthur!"

The King started and attempted to arrange his thoughts. What was wrong with him? Surely this was getting a little out of hand? He didn't know this woman at all, he was sure. Perhaps it was natural for men to notice beautiful damsels; he could remember that once upon a time before he noticed the one who had set his heart aflame, he had goggled at all the women in Court. But that had been years ago, when he was a Young Prince. Those days preceded Merlin, for crying out loud. Since then, no one had ever turned his eye except... Her. He sighed quietly and purposefully avoided the myriad of curious questions that he knew Merlin was itching to ask. He couldn't divulge how unstable his emotions had been since last night- he couldn't trust himself to make sense or to stay composed. This mystery was better kept to himself.

So Arthur cleared his throat and spent the next hour completely silent, just walking about town with Merlin in tow.

* * *

Isolde laughed.

When she did, the expression of the hard-faced man next to her transformed from intimidating to adoring. Her laughter seemed to roll off her mouth in waves and make the air sweeter, the gray sky a bright shade of blue. The ruins of the town became whole and the half-sunken cogs stood tall. And he would smile indulgently into her vivacious eyes, sharing the joke, because he never missed a word she said; every single syllable that passed her ruby lips was like gold to him. He nurtured and treasured the moments when she would turn her head to his and speak to him. He felt unbelievably fortunate that she should pay attention to him and wish to be close to him. And so when he did something that pleased her- like making her laugh, he was glad to share the moment.

The dark-haired girl sitting on the edge of the docks to Isolde's right had understood the joke; her mirth was simply more conservative. It hadn't always been this way; there had been days in the all-too distant past when she would burst out into peals of laughter upon seeing or hearing something so ridiculous or witty. She couldn't dwell on those times now, not when life had taken a gray turning and there was nothing that could brighten her eyes any more. So she simply smiled- it was a genuine one, but lacked Isolde's enthusiasm. When all humour had subsided, she tuned back into the conversation from time to time, answering briefly where appropriate. Her silence was not unusual to the two smuggler's; from the start they had understood that this particular girl was sombre and stingy with words. In their line of business that was a brilliant attribute to have, but they soon learnt that their new friend did not approve of trafficking contraband, but instead of being annoyed, they were indifferent, and slightly amused. Isolde took a specific liking to her, sensing a stronger woman beneath the guise of decency and propriety that she displayed. She never talked about her past, but both could tell that she must have had some connection to a Court for her manners, behaviour and dress were impeccable. She was a neat, efficient worker and never had a surly word to say about anybody- yet she was very reserved. What she gave in politeness and cultured words was mostly superficial, though she grew to like both Tristan and Isolde very much. It was then that both smugglers discovered that far from being taciturn, the woman was simply sad.

She didn't always show it- she was good at playing her part when duty called. Then again, she wasn't that skilled at hiding it, either. There would be times when even Tristan, tough as he was, would become involuntarily curious about the wistful gazes that flitted across her face, when Isolde would catch her crying when she thought no one could see. She would say nothing when probed, but it was evident that some kind of misfortune had fallen upon her- they just couldn't tell what had happened.

"The Mayor often tells Tristan how pleased he is with your work," Isolde commented lightly, smiling at the other woman. "And his son Nero is very taken with you."

"I am happy to work for the Mayor," came the careful answer; "he treats me well."

A pointed silence followed the statement, signifying that she had nothing to say in the smitten Nero's regard. And it was true; she was repelled by him. The lean, hawkish man would often come down to the docks ostensibly to oversee the work being done, but could never explain how he always wound up trying to engage her in conversation, watching her with a predatory expression as she cut ropes, set sails and measured fishing nets. Worse, there were rumours that Nero was looking for a wife, which would be seen by the townsfolk as the most appropriate step. She had avoided any mention of that dreaded word, for it provoked a sharp pain in her gut and brought a flood of tears to her eyes. There could be no hope of any other liaison whilst she lived, not when... The woman bit her lip and turned her head away from Isolde, fighting to keep her composure. With a deep breath, she turned her head back to sea watching the lively crests of waves dance about before her, clashing and sparring with one another, rising and falling as though they were playing out the great drama of life and death.

* * *

The later hours of the day found her sitting alone cutting ropes with a dagger as the sun died a slow, brilliant death in the West. Overhead, the sky was streaked with a dull gold embellished with peach and violet. The tumultuous sea had even calmed itself a little, slowing the dramatic dance of before into a more settled sway from side to side. She was entirely focused on her task to the point that she was repeating the routine in her head like a mantra, blocking out any other kind of thought. On and on she went, searing through reams of thick coils, setting them aside neatly. At one point, the Mayor had watched her in awed amazement. He had been planning to tell her that she could go home for the day, but something in her intense, concentrated expression prevented him from even coming near; he had stalked off, leaving her to her own devices. The woman didn't notice; only her strict regimental ritual was of any importance to her.

Some minutes later, she felt something soft against her thigh, and ignored it. She felt it again, more insistently this time, and with a sigh of annoyance, glanced over to her right. A tiny kitten gawped at her with wide, piteous eyes that clawed at her heart. she briefly contemplated continuing with her work, but a whimper put threw that idea away. As she reached out a tentative hand to stroke the sleek black kitten, she felt the iron chains wrapped about her body begin to fall away. A satisfied purr brought a wave of pleasure that she had not felt in ages. A tiny smile flitted across her face as she pulled out one of her ropes and hung it above the tiny creature, watching it jump in frustration every time that she pulled it out of reach. She suddenly realized that she was smiling for real at this miniature thing, and she didn't know why. She was petting it, cooing over it and cradling it in her arms... and she didn't know why. Maybe it was the chance to show the love that had been bottled deep in her heart, or that she had spent so long without company that she jumped at the chance, but the kitten was close and warm and friendly. Her work lay forgotten until she happened to glance up and see a man staring at her in open admiration.

Startled, she dropped the kitten and scrambled to her feet, wishing she did not look so flustered. This was Augustus, the Mayor's older and married son. Why then, were his eyes fixed on her as though... as though she was... beautiful? It was confusing and mortifying.

"Augustus!"

"I'm afraid I do not know your name," he replied in a pleasant, deep tone. The woman felt herself relax a little; something in his cultured bass made her relax her defences. He wouldn't hurt her, she decided after a moment.

"Guinevere- but you... you can call me Gwen," she added in a bashful tone. How many times had she told people that now? She had lost count.

"Guinevere... that is a beautiful name. But then you are a beautiful woman."

"I..." she stuttered helplessly, fiddling with the fabric on her dress for moral comfort. This wasn't right; he shouldn't be telling her such things, not when she knew he was married... wasn't he? "I... thank you, sir."

"No need to thank me for what the Gods have bestowed upon you. But tell me; how is it that you come to be doing hard labour?"

"All work is good enough for me," she replied tightly. "I am not ashamed of that."

The defiant tilt of her chin caught the visitor off guard and he smoothed over the negative connotations of his words with another charming apology that even produced a tiny smile from the woman in question.

"You look like a Princess or even a Queen."

She swallowed hard and cast her eyes to the ground. Her previously bewildered expression was now pained, but fighting not to show it. Breaths came in harsh gasps and no words passed her lips in response. Augustus noted all of this with a puzzled frown.

"Did I say something to offend you?"

"What?! ... No, no," she assured him with her classic false smile. "Nothing is the matter."

"Good. Because I meant it, you know."

* * *

She was racked with guilt after allowing him to kiss her hand. She had even cried a little, leaning against a stack of sandbags, fingers caressing her ring lovingly all the while. This was the only way she could stay calm, allowing her fingers to roam over the gold. Her eyes felt heavy and she might have slept had she not remembered that it was the evening, and she was alone by the sea. Yet she had no wish to return home just yet; standing up, she took a different path to the East, jumping down from the raised wooden planks onto silky sand and flattened grass. Here the sea scooted in and out as the tides dictated, even wriggling under her boots. On and on she walked until she found that large rock with its vicious spike and headed towards it purposefully. The old tales claimed that the Romans had placed this memento to mark the very tip of Anglia and to bar the sea from swamping their new-found conquest. With something akin to reverence, she stepped onto it, and stared out to sea, her previous tears and emotional turmoil temporarily forgotten. What lay beyond the horizon, she wondered, playing with her ring. Another land like Albion- with Kings, Queens, sparring kingdoms and multitudes of citizens? Or was there uncharted territory ahead of her, waiting for the kiss of civilisation? She gazed into the temperamental face of the white-tipped sea, but no answers came, except for the faint outline of what could only be land in the hazy distance. Or so she thought, anyway. She had never known much about other kingdoms, only one whose name she dared not speak.

* * *

"Looking at Gallia?"

She turned; Tristan was standing behind her, playing with a small scroll.

"What is Gallia?"

"The next land." Silence followed that statement; Tristan was a man who preferred the brevity of mono-syllables to eloquent, flowing sentences.

"And what do they do there?"

"Much the same. Eat, sleep, work, live."

"You have been there, then? On a cog?"

"Nothing special."

"But you must have been excited at first?"

"Maybe."

"I would be so nervous to make such a dangerous journey- but I would love to all the same."

"You'd get used to it"

"But it would be fascinating to see how the people of Gallia live, no?"

" is what has given us kingdoms and wars- can't say much for it myself." he ignored her inquisitive stare, knowing that he wasn't often forward in his own opinions.

"But... being a smuggler, surely..."

"Mortuos Plango is just the place- to settle down."

"Perhaps."

No one spoke for a while.

"I cannot settle down here," she sighed softly, pressing the ring to her lips. With one last glance at the restless sea, she turned and walked back inland.

* * *

Arthur and Merlin had found the sign "Cave" written no less than seven times all around the town, and it was making them rather nervous, although there was an undercurrent of anticipation behind the uneasy glances they shot at each other. Clearly, adventure was afoot, but they had no ideas or clues to go on. Furthermore, Merlin got the distinct impression that Arthur was not really paying much attention to everything his companion was saying. He kept staring off into the distance, or playing with his fingers obsessively. Questions had yielded no answers, speculation had been met with silence. After a while, Merlin dropped the subject all together and continued to walk, shooting worried glances at the trail of cobweb that was still stuck to his hand all this time. Neither one of them had spoken much until another man appeared.

"Arthur? Arthur... Pendragon?"

The King glanced up to see the man he recognized faintly as being one of the Mayor's sons. (Another fact Merlin had discovered during his reading). He briefly confirmed the fact adding that he did not wish it to be known, and in due course, a polite round of discourse began. Augustus was more enthusiastic about speaking and often went off on a tangent at great length, something which the other two were happy to allow, seeing as it allowed them to remain embroiled in their own thoughts. Finally, Arthur felt he had to comment on the man's exuberance.

"What has produced such a lively stream of chatter?"

"A woman, Your Highness. A woman of such candid beauty that I am sure she cannot be real."

A memory flashed behind Arthur's eyes; he had once known a woman of that complexion.

"She has skin like honey," Augustus continued, oblivious to Arthur's discomfort, "and eyes of the most heart-warming shade of brown I have ever seen. Her curly locks cascade around her beautiful figure and when those perfectly formed lips curve up into a shy smile, it is a sight to behold."

So familiar, Arthur whispered quietly, pressing his lips together in an attempt to remain nonchalant. So, so familiar... But he could never have that woman again; he had lost her forever. She could not be found. He had let her walk away... all that was left were small indicators that she had once been at his side from dawn to dusk, but as time flew by during his reign, those would fade and crumble into dust until she was but a distant ghost lingering at the back of his mind. Arthur swallowed and tried to tune out of August' odes to this mysterious damsel. He didn't care- he didn't want to know that this man was free to consider a woman to be so delightful when he had thrown away his own, but happy words flowed into his ears taunting him repeatedly. He wanted to cry out for him to stop, but could do nothing but stare at the ground and recoil into himself.

"And the tone she speaks in-" the other man sang, "so divine. This woman- I cannot have met a more perfect being."

"That is... good," Arthur offered unsteadily.

"Good?! The Gods have favoured me above all men with this beautiful girl called Guinevere."

* * *

**NEXT TIME:** Hic Habitat Felicitas (Here Lies Happiness)

* * *

Sorry- should have gotten rid of those HTML tags beforehand, but kind of had to hurry and post.


	3. Hic Habitat Felicitas

**FINALE: HIC HABITAT FELICITAS**

**Here Dwells Happiness**

* * *

"The woman..." Arthur murmured, his mouth dropping open in rank disbelief. It really should have been clearer much before then- how had he not recognized that the overpowering waves of love and swirling desire could only have been elicited by her presence? She was that mysterious, shadowy Muse that he had been obsessing over since he first saw her! But it made sense- he had only ever fallen in love once. Hadn't he told her as much all those years ago?

Guinevere was... here? In Mortuos Plango? How had she ended up in some remote, destitute town, when... Of course, he had sent her away from her only home, mercilessly casting her out in the wild plains of Albion to fend for herself. Arthur swallowed as he drowned in remorse. He was the cause of this- the architect of her disappearance. Because of him, his stubbornness, his unwillingness to listen, he had truly believed that he would never see her again. Only by a pure and unexpected stroke of luck had he happened to run into her- or had it been entirely by chance? Now he remembered Merlin's words after he had sent Mithian back to Nemeth: _"You will find each other"_... Had those eerily prophetic words come true?

"Is anything the matter, my Lord? You look a little pale!"

The stunned King could hear time slow down past his ears, roaring inside them like the angry sea- or maybe it was his heart pounding- hammering inside his body at the mere mention of the most precious person in his life. Blood squirted everywhere around him, making him tremble slightly and his vision underwent an abrupt change- suddenly he was staring through a narrow, hollow tunnel... now he was stepping through it little by little until a shimmering image of her face materialised out of the gloom and then she was smiling, beckoning him closer... He didn't want to run into her arms, but somehow the smooth interface was zooming behind him faster and faster until a soft, gentle arms were locked around his neck and he could smell her hair, and run his hands down her back so gently as he used to do before...

"Arthur?"

The image dissipated in a flash, leaving sparks behind his eyes. Too late, the King remembered everything; it had just been a dream. Her likeness had been a figment of his imagination, floating and gliding in the caverns of his subconscious. Maybe she had always been there, behind everything that he did, even when he could no longer hold her tightly in his arms and call her his very own... Arthur swallowed as Augustus' words repeated themselves over and over in his head and winced at the stabs of pain inside his stomach. But... how could someone else speak about Guinevere in this way? She was his! She belonged to him... _had_ belonged to him... Now she was open and available to the next admirer. He simply couldn't bear it- for a while, he had plain out refused to believe it. He stared mindlessly at the ground below him as his body slowly contorted and constricted itself, forming some kind of defence against this horrible emotional assault. She must be lost to him now, believing that he wanted nothing to do with her anymore. Maybe... maybe she liked this man, Augustus. He was evidently enraptured by her. Why shouldn't he be? She was-

A nudge snapped the distraught King out of his traumatised reverie and he glanced up to see two slightly disembodied faces; one curious, one surprised.

"Are you alright, Arthur?" Merlin asked softly with a meaningful gaze.

"I... yes. Yes, everything is absolutely fine." He couldn't bring himself to look at Augustus anymore so he stared pointedly into the space just by the latter's head until all unspoken questions had been put to rest.

"Good," the effusive man continued, smiling. "Honestly, you should see this woman for yourself- but remember, she is _mine_-"

"I- I think we will be going now," Merlin advised carefully, alternating between shooting worried looks at Arthur and an apologetic smile at the Mayor's dazed son. "I-uh... good evening, sir."

"And a very good evening to you, young lad!" he replied generously, obviously not bothered by Merlin's rank. "And you too, King Arthur."

Said King could only nod twice before turning and walking away.

* * *

Two days later, Guinevere was peeling an apple on the pier with her dagger, leaning back idly against a stack of spices whilst Isolde sharpened her sword and Tristan regaled the trio with tales of his travels in Gallia. She was more contented and relaxed today; the sun had decided to spill its rays of sunshine weakly onto the sea, and though the air was too close and warm as though a storm was brewing, it was nice to see a little light during the daylight hours. That was not the only change; Augustus had been finding reasons to seek her out, using mundane excuses to win her to conversation as many times as he could. Strangely, this had not bothered her as much as she had previously anticipated- not at first. In a strange town with oddball inhabitants, she found herself admitting that the attention was flattering. That was until she got a quite moment alone and her fingers slipped under the lapel of her dress, seeking out that beloved ring- then tears of guilt and shame would stream down her face and she would sink to the ground in despair, telling him in her mind that she was sorry. It was all true, yet when she next saw the Augustus, she did not rebuff any of his compliments or admiring stares, and she couldn't understand how it was possible for her to switch between allowing herself to be wooed and instantly regretting it...

It must have been the length of time she had been separated from the real owner of her heart. Enough time to accept, and yet insufficient time to move on. Either way she could not deny that she had been starved of affection- she could feel it when she watched Tristan and Isolde gaze at each other or share a passionate kiss. She wanted someone to look at her like she had hung the stars in the sky, she wanted someone who made no secret of the deep love they held for her, she wanted someone who took open pleasure in her company... She had had such a man- and she had broken his heart. Nothing could stop her from feeling that she was being punished for her betrayal, that she was to spend the rest of her life alone. It was sometimes easy for her to see why she indulged Augustus' attention towards her, why she occasionally paid attention to Nero's advances, repulsive as she found him. Physical attraction was a tempting trap, but it could not hold her attention for long, and it definitely would never satisfy her. Hence the remorse. How tragic to drift between these two worlds and never find any peace whilst her friends spent every day blissful in each other's company...

"Gwen?" Isolde repeated a little louder, waving her hand in front of the other's face. "Gwen... why are you crying?"

"It... It's nothing," she whimpered wiping her eyes quickly. "Really."

* * *

Around mid-morning, Arthur had been persuaded to take a walk about town by the long-suffering Merlin. He didn't gaze around with the same interest as he had before now that his mind was preoccupied with Guinevere, but neither had he expressed an interest in seeking her out. In fact, when Merlin had suggested it, he had instantly recoiled at the idea, refuting it with a vigorous shake of his head. Knowing how temperamental the King had been these past two years, the warlock had not laboured the point. Having said that, he had not buried it either, instead announcing that Arthur needed some exercise. Secretly he hoped that his friend might run into Guinevere as she went about her day- he was practically dependent on the possibility, suddenly realizing how much he missed his other best friend. He hadn't said much at the time, though he had almost begged Arthur to let her stay, and since then he had only mentioned her name indirectly. Now he saw why; it had been too painful to remember watching her leave on that fateful day without getting to say goodbye.

Nobody spoke much, simply allowing their footsteps to lead wherever was necessary, wherever the Fates decided to direct them, By and by, they reached the docks where it seemed the whole population of the town had turned out. Even Arthur was a little interested, though not for very long. At Merlin's behest, they continued to walk along, brushing past life without so much as a second glance until a commotion ensued that grabbed their attention. A man, declaring himself to be messenger to the Mayor's sons was striding through the gathered throng with a excessive self-importance, barging past the commoners without any apologies.

"Out of my way! I am the Mayor's man! Out of my way! Here- you sir, move! Move, madam! Move!"

Arthur was temporarily persuaded to follow the man as far as the edge of the pier before he sat down, swinging his boots over the water to watch the proceedings with interest. He could see that sodden wooden planks extended only a little further on until the very last part jutted out into the sea. He could see three people sitting on this part, leaning back against stacks of crates and out of the corner of his eye, the Mayor's messenger had stopped shouting and was shouting "Oi! You!" at one of them, though he was ignored each time. His eyes flickered back to a man throwing stones into the water with a blonde woman leaning on his shoulder, and a dark-haired young woman sharpening a dagger. She was dressed in a plain white dress embroidered with apple-green threads and overlaid with a navy blue tabard, bunched together at her waist with a belt that brought out her figure in-

"Guinevere..." he whispered brokenly, eyes widening to a comical size. His legs stopped swimming and maybe his heart stopped beating- he didn't know. Time seemed to freeze solid and edge everyone out of the lens until it was just him, sitting dumb-founded staring at her scraping a stone against her dagger with calculated strokes that he recognized... because he had taught her how to do that...

* * *

_"You are going to break your fingers if you sharpen that sword like that, Guinevere."_

_She dropped the whetstone and sword hastily, pushing back her curls absent-mindedly. "I... I, um..." How to tell him that she had been privately training with his weapons when she thought no one was around? He would laugh at her, she was sure. Tell her that women weren't meant to do such things..._

_He leaned against the doorway and smiled at her dreamily before stepping and sitting across from her at table. This she found very distracting; it was too easy to reach out and stroke back the hair falling over his eyes as he showed her the proper way to sharpen a sword- definitely too tempting to lean in and trace his mouth with her fingers..._

_"Guinevere?"_

_Her head snapped up. "Yes, sire?"_

_"Are you alright? You look distracted."_

_"I... you're very distracting," she blurted out unexpectedly and then flushed, bowing her head. "I mean... the way you sharpen that sword, is distracting, obviously. Not anything else... not saying that you aren't noteworthy, but-"_

_"Guinevere..."_

_"I clearly didn't mean it like that, anyway, I don't know if it came out sounding like-"_

_"Guine-vere"_

_She glanced up, biting her mouth. The way he said her name... it just sent sinful thrills all through her body. It seemed so natural that her name should just roll off his tongue with ease, like they were meant to be. "I'm talking too much, aren't I?"_

_He stared at her, then laughed a little, dropping the sword to take her hands gently. "I know what you meant."_

_"No-no you didn't!" she spluttered, growing more mortified by his knowing look._

_"You are so beautiful when you try to bluff your way out..."_

_"I... Oh, can't we just change the subject?" she wailed, withdrawing her hands from his abruptly._

_"Fine. How long have you been using my sword in secret?" he quizzed her slyly, delighting in another picturesque blush against her honey-toned skin._

_"Next question!"_

_He laughed again; it was so easy to do that with this girl. "You could just ask me, you know."_

_"Ask- ask you what, exactly?"_

_"Don't be coy, Guinevere; you know what I am talking about."_

_"I...see." She twisted her fingers around a curl that fell just above her breasts that strained against her bodice, and Arthur found he was fighting to concentrate, so he made sure he was staring at the table. "So... will you teach me?"_

_"So now you want to talk about it?" he teased her gently. "But yes, of course."_

_She smiled at him before casting her eyes at the window for a suitable diversion. Because he was staring at her again- he always was. At first, she had tried to remain modest about it, excusing the times when she would meet his eyes fixed on hers in admiration. She would cover this up by pointing out that she often found herself enraptured by him... but after a while she had to admit the truth; Arthur, the Prince, heir to the throne... loved her, a blacksmith's daughter. It was completely impossible and bizarre, but every time she thought of it, she felt warm and happy inside._

_"Arthur? You're staring... um, at me."_

_"Sorry," he murmured, reaching for her hands again. "You're just very distracting."_

* * *

"Oi! YOU! Listen up, Guinevere!"

The woman in question looked up, slightly annoyed by the manner in which she was being addressed. She didn't notice that just across the water on the other side of the pier, her heart's desire was goggling at her, totally lost for what to do. Instead, she stood a little unsteadily and pushed her hair back perfunctorily, trying to look presentable- which was a little difficult, seeing as she had been casually laid back moments before.

"Yes... sir?"

Arthur could hear her from the other side; he only had to turn again to his left to see the woman he had thrown away regarding the newcomer curiously. He felt his breath catch in his throat as the sight of her, felt his heart trip and stumble, felt his blood tingle in excitement all over again... Augustus' descriptions could never do her justice. No poet or bard or artist could ever hope to portray her as she was without missing too much tiny details about her beauty that only he knew and had saved for himself, whether it was her appealing wide-eyed gaze, the miniature curls that played around her ears, the red cuts on her lips from where she had bitten them in anxiety- these were almost inconsequential and yet so vital. In any case, the stupid Mayor's son had forgotten how silky her hair was, or how pleasant her voice was or how her gaze could penetrate your soul. He studied her some more, recalling all those unique idiosyncrasies about her that he had missed; he noticed that she was frowning- she cannot have smiled for some time. All his fault, he reminded himself- and that guarded, wary look in her eyes also hurt him; it meant that she was suffering... and he couldn't bear that...

"Is that-?"

He glanced up to his right, seeing Merlin standing above him staring in the same direction. Before he could respond, the Mayor's man continued to shout.

"Finally! Been standing here long enough! Nobody keeps the Mayor's man waiting for more than three seconds! Nobody!"

Arthur wanted to strangle the man, order him to show her some respect before that horrible image flashed back into his mind again, and he was transported back into reality. He gazed at her, and yet he remembered why she was sitting so far from him when she should have been nestled in his arms- her betrayal. And now, he had a nasty feeling that he knew why the Mayor's man wanted to see her... He almost didn't wish to see whether he was right.

"I am sorry."

"Huh! Anyway, I bring a message from Nero and Augustus. Which would you like to hear first?"

Her mouth dropped open into the "o" of realization. "I... what has Nero got to do with me?"

"So you prefer Augustus, then? Very well; I shall read it out: _"I very much hope that you would wear this gown-"_ he shoved some fabric in her general direction, _"to dinner with the Mayor tonight."_ The messenger glanced around, pleased that his loud voice was attracting a crowd. "And now from Nero: _Come to me at midnight and I will make such passionate love to you that you will remember me for weeks!"_ He cackled along with some passers-by. "Well, looks like you have a fine choice of activity here, is that not so?"

Guinevere was staring at the fabric clutched inside her hands, but her eyes were out of focus. The dress was lovely; black on black embroidery, a plunging neckline and a pinched waist. Fit for a Queen... If only...

"Hello? You are half-asleep today! What message shall I take back?"

Maddeningly, the woman still did not reply. A strange expression had crossed her face, a mixture of wistfulness and regret that could not be tamed in any way. Finally, she announced:

"T-Tell Augustus... that I accept his invitation..."

"And Nero?"

Guinevere just shook her head and walked off, still clutching the dress in her hands.

About the same time, Arthur felt his heart shatter, crystal pieces clattering into the sea one by one.

* * *

"Arthur, come on; answer the door!"

No answer. Merlin sighed impatiently and barged his way inside the King's room, expecting to be chastised or have something thrown at him for his insolence- all he was met with was the sight of his King, fully dressed playing with his fingers with an expression of such raw, unrefined devastation that his manservant really could not bear to see. Even wearing the plain linen shirt of a commoner, Arthur could radiate power and authority, but that was not always the case, Merlin knew; the key was in the eyes. And today, those eyes were clogged with a heavy despondency, they were diminished and depressed and resigned. It was a heartbreaking sight, and Merlin could not bring himself to point out that the King had been the sole cause behind it; the despair he could see from his friend told him that the King had already suffered a thousand times for his decision, was had been entirely humbled by it. The only emotion Arthur had left to give was pure contrition...

Quietly, Merlin stepped inside, crossed over to the bed and sat down next to his friend, who didn't flinch. He wondered what he should do- somehow a hug or even a friendly arm about the shoulder seemed drastically out of place. So he just sat awkwardly, wishing he hadn't come over in the first place. Then Arthur spoke:

"Has the afternoon really gone?"

Hearing the hoarseness inside his friend's voice, the stilted phrasing, the real perturbed surprise in those words made Merlin retract his previous, selfish thoughts immediately. Seeing Arthur hurt like this... it hurt him as well. Somehow, the strange bond between them had attuned the warlock to every emotion his master felt.

"Yes," he affirmed placidly. "Time doesn't wait- not even for you." He chuckled nervously at his own joke, trailing off into silence when Arthur did not respond with the usual slight on his sense of humour.

"I can't go out, Merlin," Arthur whispered. "I just... I can't look on her ever again, knowing that..."

"Arthur, you can't just assume that-"

"-I can't live knowing that someone else can..." He did not have to finish his sentence; the meaning was clear. Nero evidently did not waste his time where women were concerned, and Augustus evidently had to be charming enough for Guinevere to accept his offer without a second thought, without making any demurral or excuses- except for that unnamed look she had worn on her face just beforehand...

"Look, I have an idea-"

Arthur shook his head instantly. "No, Merlin. I... I... If I saw them together, it would... Even if I banished her... If she wants to... be with this man, then..."

"You don't know that!" Merlin argued; "You should trust her!"

That was the wrong thing to say entirely- Merlin should have foreseen it from the flinch, the sharp intake of breath and those horrible images dancing about gleefully in his mind once more. Worst of all, was the look Arthur gave him, real hurt and disbelief emanating from tear-filled eyes... This was one of the few time the warlock felt he had said too much- hell, he had practically used a jack-knife to tear into a festering wound, producing perhaps more pain than before.

"Trust her?" Arthur repeated bitterly, turning back to stare at the wall in front of him. "Like last time she lied to me and humiliated me and destroyed everything that we ever-?"

"You don't understand- Gwen... she wasn't in her right mind when she... did that."

"Merlin, just be quiet!" Arthur snapped, standing up and heading for the door. "You think you know everything! Why can't you just leave me alone? Why do you always have to interfere? What do you know of these matters, anyway?"

Merlin winced at the hurt bubbling in his chest; it was a full minute before he replied in a small, taut voice: "More than you think, sire."

"I don't believe _that_ for a minute," the King retorted spitefully, distracting himself from how sad his friend looked with an invisible mark on his shirt.

"Actually," Merlin began in a wavering voice, "I _do_ know... You may not believe it... but I... there was someone who was to me what Gwen is to you..." He stopped himself just as the memories caught up with him- but he had to carry on, had to make Arthur understand what he was throwing away; "Just as I realized it... she- she died."

No, there was no way that he could prevent tears from leaking into his narrative; he could only turn back to that impassive wall as his tragic past came pouring out in words. "At least Gwen is alive and safe. You always knew she would survive... That she would be safe and look after herself... N-not having to hide her from a bounty hunter, and worrying that you would... f-fail. N-Not trying to save her t-to no avail... Y-you... you never have to wake up in the morning knowing that no matter what you do, she is never coming b-back..."

Arthur was stunned into shocked silence as his friend held his head in his hands, weeping quietly.

_Oh God... all this time I never knew..._

* * *

Somehow, Arthur found himself sitting at a huge dining table in the Mayor's house later that evening his eyes fixed longingly at the head of table where she was, picking at her food and avoiding conversation. Worst of all, she was sandwiched in between both Nero and Augustus who made no secret that their eyes wandered over her exquisite curves as though she was on the menu. He hated them for it- didn't they know how much more there was to her? Her wit, her wisdom, her intelligence, her loyalty, bravery and kindness? It was agony watching the sickeningly brief train of thoughts passing through the brother's minds and even more watching her ignore one whilst tolerate the other. He didn't want her to do that- he simply wanted... Well, what did he matter anymore? All of this was his fault in the first place, wasn't it? Who could be blamed but the man who had relinquished the very best thing ever to happen to him? Still, he sat and watched, completely oblivious to everyone else around him before the Mayor appeared and he thought it best to pretend to be enjoying the food.

When he glanced up at her again, she was staring at him in disbelief.

* * *

Once again, it seemed as though every single movement around them had stopped, as though both of them were trapped in a capsule whilst the hum of life was diminished into a faint murmur in the background. A faint clatter was audible- she didn't know that her fork had dropped to the table, or that she was being nudged back into consciousness without success. From a vague distance, she could hear her heartbeat accelerating. Her mouth twitched, presumably in preparation for some question that would never be heard above the noise the other guests were making... Most of all, visions exploded behind her eyes as though her whole life was being replayed before her as a reminder of who she was before this abrupt awakening. The rush of exhilaration was like being pulled out from a long slumber, a deep stupor- as though she had been unmasked, rejuvenated, resurrected, enlightened...

"Arthur," she breathed and he could see what she was saying, even over the roaring in his ears and the noise on both sides of him.

Moments later, the spell was broken; horrified regret filled her eyes just as she turned to her right and saw Nero brandishing a knife in front of her eyes.

"You look as though you have seen a ghost, my pretty!" he joked, winking repeatedly.

Guinevere picked up the fallen knife absent-mindedly, but merely studied it as though she was seeing something quite different from the wood and metal before her. Maybe she was, for she stood up abruptly and rushed out of the dining room in tears.

* * *

_"I've never loved another."_

Looking back now, the King realized what a short-sighted understatement that was. He wasn't just in love with the beautiful girl called Guinevere, he was so madly, hopelessly, deeply in love with her. He would forever be trapped under the weight of his endless devotion and adoration for a blacksmith's daughter. Nothing could compare, nothing could feel quite as intoxicating as the excited rush of blood pulsating inside his body when they had shared a glance. Belatedly, he remembered how unique she was, how no one had ever quite captivated him as she had, how he could never have imagined a world where he could not wake up to at least see something of her during the day...

But he had created that world.

He remembered Merlin's heartbreaking story of before; it had cut into him deeper than any knife ever could. Because to lose Guinevere would be to snuff out the light in his life, to devalue his existence. No matter what she had done, true love wasn't just something that could be gently turned away or even forcibly purged from the heart. It clung to him, refusing to let go... All that Arthur knew now- he had learnt that the hard way, watching Merlin cry earlier because he had never been able to wake up to someone like Guinevere. The thought that he might never have come to Mortuos Plango, might never have seen her again as he had feared made him stand up abruptly without apology and rush off after her. He couldn't let her go, not when he had travelled so far and wide in the first place. She couldn't go and find somewhere to punish herself for her betrayal without knowing that he had long ago forgiven her without every realizing it, that his love for her could never be overpowered by common human failings... that if she still wanted him, he would take her back to Camelot and he would never let her go... and she would be his Queen, just as they had always hoped and dreamed together.

Because no one would ever take her place.

* * *

He would have found her had not he seen a spectacle outside that had him rooted to the ground in disbelief: legions of Roman soldiers rising up out of the sea and marching inland, their ranks and files seamless, their shields forming an immaculate protective barrier against enemies that did not exist. His mouth dropped open as more and more of them materialised from the foaming sea and the thunderstorm began to brew as night closed in. One of the men had a torch and lit it quickly, marching off in a different direction. And when his ears gradually grew accustomed to the sight, it was to hear one word that he had dismissed just a day before:

"Cave! Cave! Cave! Cave!"

Arthur's blood chilled in his throat when saw one legion pull out their swords and yell suddenly, dashing into the town centre. At that very same moment, two more legions poured onto the docks, hacking at anything that got in their way, setting fire to crates and throwing lit arrows at the cogs in the bay. Only one thought crossed his mind as carnage, fire and noise erupted around him: Guinevere. Where was she? He had seen her rush outside, headed for the pier, which was why he had followed, but the distraction with the undead legions had obscured her from his view.

A resounding boom startled him and he watched in horror as what had once been a seaworthy vessel exploded into a ball of flame, and bits of mast, sails and poles came crashing to the ground. Then a deluge of water slammed into him and he saw that the sea waves were rising to unprecedented heights, hurling themselves at the docks and dismantling them. More and more wood was being cast into the sea, and still dozens of soldiers rose out of the livid water shouting "Cave! Cave! Cave!" and charging inland to obliterate the town.

By now, screams and wails filled Arthur's ears; the townspeople must have heard. Where was Guinevere? With rising panic, he cast his eyes from side to side before he had to steady himself suddenly. Curses, the water had claimed half the docks- if he didn't move, he could drown. And another problem- he didn't know how far the soldiers had reached inland; namely, whether Merlin was safe. He couldn't deal with two potential deaths on his hands, especially not when they were at the furthest point from the land, and help could not be found for miles around. Another wave smashed into his shirt, and the King struggled backwards, running back into the town just in time: a moment later, a gigantic wall of water crashed headfirst into the ground, dragging the entire infrastructure of the docks into its belly.

Houses were being set aflame. Casualties lay moaning inside the street. Overhead he could see an orange glow against the Mayor's house and more screams. Worse, it was beginning to rain once more- this would make anyone difficult to find. Arthur took a moment to lean against a doorway to catch his breath. If Guinevere was hurt or Merlin had not escaped... he didn't know what he would do. They had to have fled somewhere, surely? Or Merlin would be looking for him- as always. He made a mental note to ask for his friend's forgiveness if he ever saw him again, to become a better friend and give him the credit he deserved for all his loyalty...

A sickening crack sounded behind him and he sprang to the side just as the house he had been leaning against crumbled into dust. Now he was running full pelt back to the inn. He had to start from somewhere, and that would be finding out whether Merlin-

He reeled back in shock as he banged into someone. A flash of flame from the left illuminated the man in question- the only friend he had ever had, staring back at him in equal shock.

"Merlin!" he gasped, pulling his friend into his arms. "I thought I'd lost you."

* * *

"Where's Gwen?"

"I don't know; I can't find her anywhere..."

"Calm down, Arthur- think. The docks are completely flooded, and the whole of the West is on fire. She must be East somewhere..."

"Merlin, if she's-"

"Don't think about it, alright? Let's just find her."

* * *

Water swirled around at waist height, and it was rising with every step. It was horrifyingly evident that Mortuos Plango was headed straight for the bottom of the seething sea. There would be few, if any survivors- even the undead soldiers themselves were crying out as they were swamped by freak waves, or crushed by falling buildings. Arthur and Merlin didn't have much time, they knew. Guinevere must- if she had not already been killed- must be here, somewhere. She was a smart girl; she would have found somewhere to shelter. But for how long? It was growing colder, darker and the rain was pouring, pouring, pouring everywhere. Peering into flooding alleyways and burning homes was fruitless, and still the water level climbed higher and higher. Neither man could feel the ground beneath them any longer. Panic was bubbling through the treacherous frigid air and Arthur was finding it harder and harder to breathe.

They might not find her... They might not find his reason for living... They might not...

"SOMEBODY PLEASE HELP!"

The terrified cry snapped Arthur and Merlin into action. The call had come from the left. Now the water didn't matter, nor the crashing buildings, nor the horrible fires- they only had to reach that beautiful voice before it was too late.

"SOMEBODY- PLEASE! PLEASE HELP!"

Everything went black and water poured in everywhere until he could see her against a backdrop of ecstatic flames, backed up against the wall of the old forum, eyes wide with horror. Just then the wind blew in another layer of water over her head and she was lost inside an agonised scream.

Arthur gasped and pulled Merlin out of the way of cascading brickwork, shielding his manservant with his body. When he glanced up, he saw just the perfect escape route, if only he could get to Guinevere first...

"Go, Merlin- that way!" he ordered; "Out of that entrance and towards those hills. DO NOT wait."

"B-But-"

"NOW, Merlin!"

Arthur shoved him off and before another protest could form on his friend's mouth, more water was rushing in, splitting them apart. Arthur took a breath and ducked underwater. His eyes were assaulted by total darkness and debris rushed past his eyes. This was hopeless... he was going to drown... Guinevere had probably drowned...

There- a flash of dark fabric! It had to be her! He lunged forward and grabbed the flailing body, pressing it tight to his chest. When he broke for air, it was to see that they did not have much time; the escape route was filling up far too fast. He glanced at her and found her gazing back at him, shivering.

"Can you swim?"

She nodded dumbly and he let go of her- two bodies would only slow them down, and now more stone was toppling from the top of the old forum. She could feel him watching her, just as always and more tears filled her eyes; the town was sinking fast and the darkness was closing in. At any minute she might lose him to the sea, and she simply could not bear it. Without asking for his permission, she reached out for his arm again and pressed her lips to his, locking her arms around his neck. It was a stupid thing to do- a highly dangerous thing to do, for every moment lost was a chance at saving both their lives, but if he died without knowing that she had always loved him, and would never ever stop treasuring him in her heart, then there was no point living. He needed to know- he had to know. Her lips caressed his urgently and she opened her mouth over his to claim her desire, and she knew she was crying- she couldn't see clearly, but she just had to savour that lifeline once more, that contact that told him what she had never stopped believing.

All to soon, it had to end.

Even over the sound of rushing water, clatters and banging, her cries choking cries were audible, but he couldn't comfort her, much as he desperately wanted to.

"Guinevere... go."

"Arthur, you... you can't..."

"I love you."

"I-I love you too!"

He pushed her forward, glad to see that she was comfortable in the water and made sure she disappeared from sight before he followed her. A massive crash sounded behind him and his vision went black. Was he moving? Had he drowned? Was he dead? What had happened? Roars and popping sounds filled his ears. Heavy objects were slamming into him and dust was clogging the water. Surely he didn't have enough breath for this? Surely he must give up- surely... he would die, his bruised body lying at the bottom of the sea? Well... if he was to go this way, at least it was in the knowledge that Guinevere- his Guinevere loved him, and she would be safe...

That was all that mattered.

**~FINIS~**


End file.
