The Queen of Mists and Memory ::: Chapter Fourteen
      This chapter contains violence and character death. 
      Reader discretion is advised.



      Chapter Fourteen
      As a maiden being courted by a young king, the first thing Guinevere had 
      noticed about Arthur was his eyes.

      The poets and the minstrels crafted pretty words, calling the eyes the 
      windows to the soul. She had not heard that expression until many years 
      after she wed her husband, but she had felt its truth deep in her being. 
      She had met many men in her life, as a princess in her father's kingdom of 
      Cameliard, and later as she fulfilled her royal obligations at her 
      husband's side. In all of these transactions, she had found that she could 
      tell a man's intent and his honesty by looking into his eyes. What she 
      observed there never misled her, and she trusted those instincts with her 
      life. 

      But Arthur's eyes, and Arthur's soul in turn, had been deeper and more 
      telling than any she had ever seen. Even Lancelot, whose gaze so enchanted 
      her, whose loving looks seduced her and struck her dumb with their 
      profundity, could hide his feelings by tempering the emotions in his eyes. 
      But Arthur...Arthur never could. From the moment they first met, Arthur 
      could keep nothing from Guinevere, and she loved him all the more for 
      this. And more than anything else, she loved the way that her husband 
      looked at her: always, beneath the pride and the hope that he sent in his 
      gaze, there was a complete acceptance, an acknowledgement of who she was, 
      faults and all, and the assurance that he loved her in spite of everything 
      else. It uplifted and humbled her.

      Now, though, Arthur's eyes were blank and empty...and this frightened 
      Guinevere to the very depths of her soul.

      They sat side by side in their usual places in the Great Hall, in the 
      thrones raised on the dais at the end of the huge room. Guinevere's 
      wrists, however, had been bound with thick rope to the armrests, as had 
      Arthur's. She could see that Mordred's lackeys had tied her husband's too 
      tightly, and Arthur's limp hands were stained blue.

      The woman called Scully hummed in her mind. The restraints are cutting off 
      his circulation. Tell them to loosen those ropes.

      Guinevere turned her head to her right. At the foot of the platform there, 
      Mordred and Nimue stood arguing, and she closed her mouth, the plea dying 
      on her lips as she strained to hear what they were saying.

      "—nothing more I can do, my lord. It is the strongest magick I know." 
      Nimue was speaking, and she wore an expression of obvious contempt. 
      "Perhaps if you hadn't allowed your traitorous brother to murder your 
      mother, we would have been able to fully awaken Arthur. This—" She 
      gestured toward the throne. "This is the extent of my powers."

      "It is not acceptable, I tell you!" Mordred's face, flushed scarlet from 
      his fury, shone with sweat. "I want him fully awake when the Round Table 
      Knights advance. I want him to witness the final destruction of Camelot, 
      when I take Excalibur from his precious Lancelot and use it to run him 
      through!"

      Guinevere winced at the words. She, too, had heard the cheer of the 
      knights from the kitchens below the Hall. Mordred had smiled then, 
      proclaiming to his followers that the final battle was about to begin. But 
      the knights had yet to arrive, and Guinevere found herself praying that 
      they had devised some elaborate strategy to get them all out of this. 

      She could no longer think straight herself. She understood that Lancelot 
      must have returned to the castle; she knew no one could rally the knights 
      as he did. Hopefully, he carried Excalibur with him, an encouraging idea. 
      On the other hand, she could not see what good the sword would do at this 
      point. Mordred's men stood shoulder to shoulder in the Great Hall, and 
      they would overrun Lancelot as soon as he tried to reach Arthur on the 
      dais across the wide floor. Lancelot was the best fighter Arthur had, but 
      even he was no match for so many at once. The thought of her lover falling 
      was almost more than she could bear. 

      And then there was Arthur. Several of Mordred's men had carried the King 
      in after Mordred had bound her to her chair, and they had set him up on 
      his own throne next to her. At first, the sight of Arthur had excited her; 
      they had dressed him in a splendid white tunic and cloak trimmed with red 
      fox fur, and he looked as healthy as he had in his younger days. But when 
      the men positioned him in his chair and she tried to get his attention, 
      she realized they had not succeeded in healing him at all. His eyes were 
      open, yes...but she knew with certainty that Arthur had no awareness of 
      her, or of anything else that was happening around him.

      Scully seeped into her mind once more. He is clinically unresponsive, 
      Guinevere. But there is a chance that he can hear you. Talk to him. Maybe 
      hearing your voice will be enough to save him.

      Guinevere glanced back at Mordred and Nimue. The two continued to argue at 
      the far end of the platform. The soldiers that stood in stiff ranks across 
      the floor of the Great Hall murmured amongst themselves, paying no 
      attention to their leader or his prisoners. If she spoke softly, it was 
      unlikely that anyone would overhear her. She twisted her left wrist 
      against her restraints, straining to move her hand closer to Arthur's, 
      which rested just inches away. She splayed her fingers and brushed the 
      smallest one over the back of her husband's hand. His skin was cool, but 
      touching him renewed her hope. She curled her finger through his and, 
      despite the cutting sensation of the rope, she held on. She shifted as far 
      to the left in her chair as she could, getting as close to him as 
      possible. She pitched her voice low and spoke.

      "Arthur. Please hear me, Arthur. I need you to hear me. I need you to keep 
      fighting." 

      She had dared to hope for a movement from him, some kind of sign that he 
      could indeed hear her, but nothing came. He continued to stare straight 
      ahead, the movement of his chest barely perceptible beneath his garments. 
      She scraped the pad of her finger along his and squeezed as tightly as she 
      could.

      "Arthur, Lancelot is coming. He is bringing Excalibur back to you. You 
      must hold on a little longer. He is coming, and when he brings the sword, 
      you will be renewed."

      "So you do believe that magic nonsense, Guinevere? You are more gullible 
      than I thought."

      Caught. She shivered and raised her chin, shooting Mordred a defiant 
      glare. "I know that Arthur is still alive, and that he will fight for 
      Camelot with his last breath. There is no magic in that."

      Mordred cocked his head as he approached her, like a vulture eyeing a 
      corpse in the desert. He had donned his armor, which was darker than most, 
      a dull gray color that seemed to suck in light rather than reflect it. To 
      Guinevere, he looked like the angel of death, and she trembled again as he 
      laid his gloved hand on her knee.

      "How I hate to see you upset, my sweet." Mordred smiled at her, but there 
      was no mirth in his eyes. She could read them as easily as she could any 
      man's, and what she perceived there sent bitter bile straight to her 
      throat. His were as empty as Arthur's...but the void in Mordred's alerted 
      her to what she had feared all along: Arthur's son had finally fallen over 
      the edge of sanity. He had always been ambitious, fueled by a hate that, 
      although she couldn't understand it, Guinevere recognized. But now, his 
      high and unstable emotions had tipped over into something wholly 
      different. She could see all this in his eyes...and she realized that they 
      were all going to die this night if he had his way.

      He leaned forward, and his smile grew wider. "Never fear, my love," he 
      whispered. "It will all be over soon."



      The minutes dragged by, and her inaction frustrated her more and more, 
      preying on Guinevere's anxiety and whipping it higher. She watched as 
      Mordred weaved among the ranks of his men, talking and laughing as if at a 
      festival rather than a battle. Nimue had gone briefly through the back 
      entrance and returned with a massive tome, which she now had cracked 
      across her knees where she sat at the end of the dais. She was obviously 
      searching her books for some sort of cure for Arthur's state, but 
      Guinevere prayed instead for Lancelot's arrival. She had to trust that he 
      would save Arthur...that he would somehow save them all.

      "And so he shall, Queen Guinevere. You are right to think so." 

      Her head jerked up in surprise, and she wondered for a moment if she had 
      nodded off. It was stifling hot in the Great Hall, and she was exhausted. 
      And that voice...it had sounded so much like an aged one that she 
      remembered from her youth, and from the man's many days at her husband's 
      side. But that old friend was gone now, probably dead, and her mind was 
      playing tricks on her again...

      "I am not a trick of the mind, Guinevere. I am very much alive. Turn and 
      see for yourself."

      Her head followed the words, and she drew a sharp breath when she saw the 
      figure standing just to her right. Only moments before, there had been 
      nothing there. Now, here was Merlin, Arthur's most trusted advisor, 
      looking healthy and resplendent in his cascading robes, staring at her 
      with benevolent eyes. 

      The surprised whisper escaped from her before she could stop it. "Merlin! 
      Is it really you? I must be dreaming."

      The old wizard stepped closer, laying his hand on her wrist. His skin was 
      warm, and it made Guinevere's tingle where he touched her. "You see?" he 
      asked with a gentle smile. "I am real. And I have come to help my former 
      pupil one last time."

      "But how—how can this be? Nimue...she captured you, and we thought—"

      Merlin snorted. "Nimue's magick is not as strong as she would like to 
      think. Lancelot saved me. I believe he will save us all."

      Guinevere started to speak again, but the loosening she suddenly felt 
      around her wrists drew her attention instead. Beneath Merlin's hand, the 
      ropes of her restraints were unwinding until they lay like lifeless snakes 
      against her skin. She blinked at the old wizard, who waved his other hand 
      in Arthur's direction. She saw the ropes binding him uncoil as well, and 
      the bluish pallor in his fingers began to recede. "Arthur needs his hands 
      free when Lancelot brings the sword," Merlin explained. "You may have to 
      help him at first, Guinevere. His strength will return, but it will do so 
      gradually. Do not yet reveal to Mordred that you are unbound. Wait for the 
      melee to start. Lancelot will be swift, I'm sure."

      Guinevere licked her lips and glanced around. The soldiers remained a 
      great, mumbling mass, and Mordred stood no more than twenty feet away, yet 
      no one but she had noticed Merlin's presence. She looked at him with the 
      question evident on her face, and Merlin chuckled.

      "I am invisible to all but you, Guinevere. I do not wish to attract any 
      unnecessary attention."

      "If you did not wish that, Merlin, you should not have come here at all." 

      Nimue strode toward them, the cumbersome book abandoned at the edge of the 
      platform. Her curls had been pulled back in a hasty knot behind her head, 
      making her appear older and more severe. It didn't help that she scowled 
      deeply as she walked, and Guinevere could recognize the look in the other 
      woman's eyes as well as she could any man's.

      Hate. Pure and simple. Nimue's eyes betrayed her true feelings for Merlin. 
      But behind the loathing, Guinevere could see the smallest trace of 
      something else, something that gave her hope.

      She saw fear.

      Merlin pivoted on his heel, apparently unruffled by Nimue's approach. He 
      smiled at her, but her countenance darkened even more. She stopped a few 
      feet from them, and her voice was thick with venom when she spoke.

      "Did you think I could not see through your weak glamour, Merlin? Surely 
      you no longer doubt my powers, after what I did to you."

      Merlin regarded her calmly. "And what powers are those, my child? Were you 
      half the enchantress you think yourself, I would have never escaped your 
      spell."

      Nimue raised her hands before her. "Is this what you wish, Merlin? To see 
      who is the most powerful?"

      His face wrinkled in amusement. "I wish only to give you the opportunity, 
      my pet, to finish what you started. Now. Come and find me." His words had 
      barely been uttered when he was gone, and nothing remained where he stood 
      but an elongated wisp of lavender smoke.

      Guinevere swallowed her surprise as Nimue roared her frustration. Her 
      outburst was enough to draw Mordred's attention, and he pushed a few 
      soldiers out of the way as he started toward them.

      "Nimue! What is it?"

      "Merlin is here!" she screamed at him. "Damn you! Lancelot should have 
      never been sent into the faerie realms! He has obviously succeeded in 
      retrieving the sword, for Merlin was always intended to be the watcher of 
      it."

      Mordred shrugged. "It matters not if he has the sword. My men will make 
      short work of him once he finally attacks. We shall take Excalibur, and I 
      shall carry it as the rightful High King of Britain."

      Nimue spat out a laugh. "Have you no concept of Merlin's powers? He can 
      easily turn this battle to Lancelot's side. Have you not thought of that?"

      Mordred hopped up onto the dais and startled Nimue and Guinevere both by 
      grabbing the small sorceress by the hair. She cried out and raised a hand, 
      but Mordred pulled her in tight against his body, holding her in a fierce 
      embrace with his maimed arm. He leaned his head forward and huffed his 
      words into her ear.

      "Then you must keep him occupied, dear Nimue. Find him, and do not allow 
      him back near this room until the battle is over. Then kill him, so we may 
      be rid of him once and for all."

      She twisted against him, but to no avail. "Kill Merlin?" she sputtered. "I 
      cannot kill him. He is too powerful. No one has that kind of—"

      "You had better find a way, Nimue. And if you cannot, you would be wise to 
      keep away from Camelot. Do not forget: I will have Excalibur. And I cannot 
      stomach the sight of someone who is useless to me."

      He pushed her away and she stumbled, her hip bumping against Guinevere's 
      chair. The Queen could see tears in the other woman's eyes as she rubbed 
      the back of her head. Mordred leapt quickly back down from the dais and 
      turned to face the huge doors of the Great Hall, and Guinevere could hear 
      him muttering under his breath. She let out a sigh of relief as he 
      immersed himself again in the sea of warriors.

      Nimue stood there for a moment, taking shuddering breaths and tightening 
      the knot in her hair with shaking hands. Her gaze was hard and spiteful 
      when she looked at Guinevere. "You should pray, Lady, that Lancelot dies 
      quickly. I know you do not want him to suffer in the tortuous hands of 
      that madman." She turned away and hurried to the end of the platform. 
      Picking up her book, she disappeared once more out the back entrance. 
      Guinevere prayed that Merlin would keep his eye on her. She seemed just as 
      dangerous as Mordred.



      She noticed the mist right away. 

      She'd been sitting for several excruciating minutes since Nimue made her 
      exit, rubbing Arthur's hand with her finger and mumbling reassurances to 
      him. She told herself she was only attempting to encourage Arthur, but she 
      knew deep down the uplifting words were for her own sinking heart as well. 
      Her eyes shifted restlessly between Mordred, still circulating among the 
      ranks, and the enormous doors to the Great Hall. She knew that sooner or 
      later, those doors would open, and the battle would begin.

      Her gaze had just darted back to the doors when she spotted the mist. It 
      tucked long fingers of elegant smoke beneath the oak frame, looking like 
      the talons of some ethereal bird. Once inside, it swirled about in 
      dazzling displays, moving swiftly and silently as it began to engulf the 
      room. It encroached with dizzying speed, yet the soldiers before Guinevere 
      had grown bored with waiting and were too busy talking and joking to 
      notice it right away. It had already swallowed most of the front lines 
      when the room finally started to quiet.

      Guinevere thought immediately of Merlin. He had appeared and disappeared 
      right before her in puffs of lilac smoke. Something told her, however, 
      that this fog had not been conjured by Merlin. It was thick and dense, and 
      it shimmered like water, throwing off colors like sapphire, cobalt, and 
      aquamarine. The entire room appeared to have been plunged into the sea. 
      Guinevere heard the surprised gasps of Arthur's enemies as they stared, 
      hypnotized, as the mist enveloped them all.

      The awed hush didn't last very long. With a thunderous pounding, the wave 
      of Round Table Knights burst through the doors to the Great Hall and broke 
      over Mordred's men. Though the mystical fog was thick, Guinevere could see 
      the flash of silver armor as the knights advanced, cutting down every man 
      in their path. The chamber filled with the sounds of battle: the screams 
      and shouts of the men, the ring of metal on metal as swords and daggers 
      met, the liquid swoosh of weapons thrusting through bodies. Guinevere 
      closed her eyes as the dark smell of blood crept into her nostrils. She 
      had never been witness to a battle before, and she fought to keep her 
      stomach settled. She had to help Arthur.

      She sprang to her feet, twisting her arms from the loosened ropes as she 
      did. They fell free, and she reached for Arthur's, ripping them away. She 
      couldn't resist cupping her husband's head tenderly, turning his face up 
      to look into his empty eyes. Her own filled with tears.

      "Arthur," she whispered, her throat tight with emotion. "I am so sorry for 
      any grief I have caused you. But you must fight—for Camelot, and for the 
      child that I now carry, who will wield Excalibur after you."

      Her breath caught momentarily as her fingertips trembled on his cheeks. 
      Was that a tremor beneath them, one that Arthur had caused himself? Or was 
      she simply shaking so badly from her own fatigue and terror that she 
      imagined it? Fiercely, she pulled Arthur to her, cradling him against her 
      chest. He would live, she swore to herself. She would do whatever she had 
      to keep him safe.

      Now, where was Lancelot?

      As if the simple thought summoned him, the mist thinned before the dais, 
      and she caught sight of a glimmer of silver in the center of the room. Her 
      eyes latched onto the figure and roamed hungrily up and down the man who 
      waded through Mordred's army, swinging his broadsword in a wide arc as he 
      went. She recognized the cut of the armor, the mail that hung like rows of 
      dragon's scales from the waist, the visor that hid the face, and the plume 
      of scarlet that adorned the helmet, identifying the warrior as Arthur's 
      ally. She felt a cheer rise within her, surging through her entire body, 
      as she watched him.

      It was Lancelot. He was alive, and he had come for them.

      But the victorious yell that swelled inside her died almost instantly on 
      her lips. Lancelot was surrounded, and it seemed that every man in the 
      room had their weapons trained on him. As he turned almost unceasingly in 
      a circle to defend himself, Guinevere noted the bright splashes of blood 
      that marred his armor, and she feared that a great deal of it had been 
      bled by Lancelot himself. Arthur's other knights fought around him, but 
      none could seem to stave the flow of Mordred's men toward Lancelot. She 
      felt desperate tears spring to her eyes as she realized that in moments, 
      he would be completely overrun.

      Unexpectedly, the circle of warriors thinned, and Lancelot turned toward 
      the platform. Guinevere raised a hand to encourage him, to make sure he 
      could see her there, but she realized that Lancelot's attention was still 
      on the fight. Directly in front of her lover, Mordred's men stepped back, 
      creating a slender path between their bodies...a trail that led directly 
      to their leader.

      Mordred stared down the tunnel of men, the smirk on his twisted face 
      unhidden by a helmet. "Sir Lancelot," he called, and Lancelot froze, his 
      sword raised behind him, the blade dulled by the blood that coated it. 

      Mordred took two steps forward, slowly creeping along the wall of warriors 
      toward the center of the room. "So, we meet again, Sir Lancelot. I see you 
      have brought me my sword."

      Lancelot's voice was muffled behind his visor, and Guinevere could hardly 
      hear him when he answered. "Excalibur belongs to Arthur, and none shall 
      have it but he."

      "You are mistaken," Mordred replied, inching closer, his weapon sliding 
      from its place on his hip. "It belongs to the High King of Britain, and 
      that throne is now mine."

      Lancelot brought the sword down in front of him, wrapping both of his 
      fists around the hilt. "Then come and claim it, Mordred. If you can."

      Even though she could barely hear him, the challenge in Lancelot's voice 
      was plain. Mordred's face slid into a mask of pure hate, and he rushed 
      toward Lancelot with an ear-splitting bellow. The rest of the room had 
      gone completely still; all attention was now focused on the two men who 
      crashed together in the center of the chamber.

      Guinevere gripped Arthur tighter and watched, horrified. It never crossed 
      her mind to flee; she never thought to skirt away from the platform, to 
      find another of the Round Table Knights to help her remove Arthur while 
      Lancelot kept Mordred and his men distracted. She was caught there, a 
      helpless and silent observer, her need and her desperate love for Lancelot 
      rooting her to the spot.

      The fight dragged on, mimicking the duel that the two had undertaken just 
      days before on the jousting field outside of Camelot. Each landed several 
      stunning blows on the other, and Guinevere hissed as Lancelot stumbled 
      back from a thrust that brought a fresh, spurting cut to his left 
      shoulder. Mordred grinned again at his adversary, his countenance macabre 
      with streaks of blood from several slashes. He seemed to be gaining 
      strength with every hit he took, and Lancelot appeared to be losing 
      ground. Even wielding Excalibur in the fight didn't seem to be helping 
him.

      Guinevere couldn't mistake the heaving breath Lancelot took before he 
      roared a curse and launched himself at Mordred, the sword brandished above 
      him. At the last moment, Mordred dropped to his knee and brought his 
      weapon up over him, catching Lancelot's sword as he swung it down. The two 
      blades clanged together, and Mordred pushed, hurling Lancelot off his feet 
      and through the air over him. Guinevere gasped as Lancelot's armor met the 
      floor, ringing painfully in her ears. She could no longer see the two men 
      through the throng of soldiers around them; they were at ground level, and 
      she knew from the myriad jousts that she had witnessed that Mordred had 
      Lancelot pinned against the stones, his sword at his throat. 

      She closed her eyes, her body responding to the shock faster than her 
      mind. Her knees began to buckle, and she felt herself falling. Lancelot 
      fell...she would fall, too...there would be no reason to live if he were 
      gone...

      No, Guinevere! That voice in her head again, the foreign woman with the 
      strange name. The baby. You must think about the baby. Lancelot...he—he's 
      not...

      The throaty voice faltered. Scully realized it, too. Lancelot would be 
      dead in a matter of minutes, and then all of Camelot would be lost. There 
      would be no stopping Mordred...she might as well die, too...

      Mulder. No, not Mulder. Nonononononono...

      Something caught her just before she hit the floor. She recognized the 
      cool slide of metal beneath her gown as she was propped up, and insistent 
      fingers tapped against her cheeks. But it was the voice that brought her 
      back, the low rumble that had sounded in her ear so many times, the one 
      that vibrated through her very soul and shook her into reality again.

      "—come on, baby. Don't do this to me now. Wake up, I'm here."

      She opened her eyes. Lancelot hunched over her, his hair brushing against 
      her skin, his eyes, bluer than the cloudless spring sky, squinting with 
      concern over her...

      Lancelot. He wasn't dying at Mordred's hands. She swallowed the squeak of 
      fear that tried to escape from her and threw her arms around his neck.

      He hugged her tightly to him. "That's right, baby," he murmured, and the 
      stroke of his hand through her hair made her eyes fill with tears once 
      more. "I'm here. That's not me out there. Damn Gareth...he insisted, and 
      we couldn't think of another way to get Excalibur to Arthur. I'm sorry, 
      I'm so sorry to make you think..."

      She pulled back and smiled at him, laying her palms against the stubble on 
      his cheeks. "Sweet Lancelot," she whispered. "I feared the worst. I should 
      never have doubted you."

      His brow furrowed for a moment, and he searched her face as if suddenly 
      unsure of himself. He started to say something, but then he shook his 
      head. "We don't have time right now." He pushed himself up, pulling her to 
      her feet beside him. As he stood, she recognized the armor that he wore. 
      The simple, elegant lines and the shape of the breastplate told her it was 
      Sir Gareth's.

      She understood. They had switched armor so that Lancelot could slip by 
      Mordred unnoticed and bring Excalibur to the King. Her heart grew heavy 
      once again to realize it was sweet, gentle Gareth that Mordred now held 
      under his sword, anticipating the death blow he would deliver.

      Lancelot hesitated a moment, staring at her, and briefly touched her 
      cheek. "I know," he said quietly. "He sacrificed himself. But if we don't 
      revive Arthur now, it will all be in vain."

      He stepped past her and knelt beside Arthur's throne, his gaze sweeping 
      over the King. He grasped Arthur's large right hand and pulled the sword 
      from the scabbard on his belt. Guinevere recognized the familiar chime of 
      Excalibur, its sound so akin to music, as her lover placed the sword in 
      her husband's hand. Lancelot tightened his fist around Arthur's and 
waited.

      Nothing happened. 

      She glanced at Arthur, her heart swelling anxiously in her chest, 
      threatening to cut off her breathing. His eyes remained locked and glassy, 
      and she couldn't detect even the slightest tremor anywhere on his body.

      Lancelot brought Arthur's left hand across his lap and pressed it around 
      the right so that the King held Excalibur in a double-fisted grip. "Come 
      on, Arthur," he coaxed in an urgent whisper. "Get up and fight."

      "Merlin said it may take a while for his strength to return," Guinevere 
      offered, but Lancelot's answer was taut with anger. 

      "We don't have time for this!" he exclaimed, jumping to his feet. "We need 
      him now, goddamn it. And Merlin! What the hell good is Merlin when he 
      disappears just when we need him the most? If he'd stuck around, Gareth 
      wouldn't have had to play martyr." Lancelot leaned over the King, shaking 
      him by the shoulders, his desperation painted plainly across his features. 
      "God damn you, Arthur! Get up and fight for your kingdom!"

      Guinevere grabbed Lancelot from behind, astonished by his speech and 
      actions. "Lancelot, stop. It will do no good to jostle him so. We must 
      wait and—"

      He whirled in her arms and seized them, locking them at her sides in his 
      fierce grip. His eyes blazed across her face, and she half expected to 
      melt from the searing fury she saw there. 

      "Stop calling me that!" he shouted. "I'm Mulder, goddamn it! Don't you do 
      this to me, Scully. We have to get out of here. Don't you start buying 
      into all this medieval bullshit, because I have had enough!"

      Inside her head, somewhere deep in the darkest corner of her mind, a bolt 
      of pain flared. She could feel the other woman struggling there, clawing 
      against the walls that surrounded her, trying to escape, attempting to 
      gain control once again. But Guinevere couldn't let her...Guinevere had to 
      stay at the fore, because all of Camelot now rested on her shoulders and 
      called for her strength...

      This man was not Scully's Mulder. She wouldn't allow the thought to 
      resurface, shoving it back into the black depths to keep Scully company. 
      This was her Lancelot, and she had to get through to him.

      She shook her head slowly from side to side, her vision blurring from the 
      tears that spilled down her cheeks. "Lancelot," she whimpered. "You are 
      not yourself. Please, I beg of you, reign in your temper and help us. The 
      King needs you whole and well, if we are to survive this night."

      "It is too late for that, sweet Guinevere." Her eyes fluttered shut as she 
      recognized the voice that drifted from behind her lover's shoulder. Metal 
      moved the air before her, and when she looked again, Mordred's bloody 
      blade rested just below Lancelot's jaw. He stiffened against the weapon, 
      bringing his hands up in a gesture of supplication.

      Mordred stepped closer and grabbed a handful of Lancelot's dark hair, 
      jerking his head back farther and pressing the sword closer to his skin. 
      Guinevere could see the vein in Lancelot's neck that beat his heart's 
      rhythm beneath his skin. It pulsed wildly, and she knew Mordred had only 
      to make one quick slash to end Lancelot's life. She choked back a cry, but 
      Mordred didn't even look at her.

      "Do you see the blood on this blade?" he asked, bringing his mouth close 
      to speak in Lancelot's ear. "This is my brother's blood. I just killed 
      him, thinking he was you. For that deception, I will kill you slowly, 
      piece by piece. Right here, in front of your beloved Guinevere, and your 
      best friend."

      Guinevere was barely aware of hands pulling her wrists behind her back and 
      holding her still. All of her attention was focused on her lover as 
      Mordred forced him to his knees. Lancelot stared at her, and she could 
      read the message in his eyes, too, three words that made her tears run 
      even swifter down her face.

      I love you.

      Mordred towered over Lancelot, his face alight with morbid glee. "Now, 
      where shall I begin, sir knight?" he asked, but he never moved the sword 
      from beneath Lancelot's chin. "Maybe with your face? Or a slow-bleeding 
      wound to your stomach? Wait. I know. What was it the Bishop always quoted 
      at Mass? 'An eye for an eye?' Why don't we start with the same hand you 
      took from me." 

      Mordred raised the sword to deliver the blow, his movement sudden and 
      fast. Just as quickly, a blur of silver sliced through the air next to 
      Lancelot, and the sound of clashing metal resounded through the hall. 
      Guinevere gasped as she realized what had happened.

      Mordred's sword had met another, one brought down over Lancelot's head in 
      his defense. Guinevere raised her eyes, astounded to see her husband 
      looming there, Excalibur thrust between his best friend and his son, 
      blocking Mordred's blade. 

      Arthur. Arthur was standing and fighting. He was defending his kingdom. 
      Arthur was restored.

      The three men seemed frozen there for a moment, all of them staring at 
      each other. But Mordred's expression of astonishment was quickly replaced 
      by a black scowl of hatred. He put his body weight behind the sword and 
      pushed, but Arthur held his ground.

      "Get out of the way, Lance!" Arthur spat through clenched teeth. To 
      Guinevere's ears, his voice sounded like the most beautiful, forgotten 
      music she could ever imagine. 

      Lancelot ducked and rolled away, and Mordred reared back, lunging for him. 
      He missed, but the move gave Arthur time to swing Excalibur again. This 
      time, the blade hit Mordred square in the back, knocking him to his knees. 
      He cursed and dropped all the way to the ground, flipping quickly onto his 
      back and springing once more to his feet behind Arthur. The King spun 
      around to face his son.

      Guinevere felt herself jerked backwards to the edge of the dais. She 
      glanced up at the soldier who held her, but she could not see his face 
      behind his visor. She struggled to wiggle her hands from his grasp, but he 
      held her firmly. She turned her head in time to see Lancelot leap down 
      from the platform, grab an abandoned sword from next to a prostrate body, 
      and spring back up to help Arthur.

      Arthur saw him, too. "Stay back, Lancelot," the King commanded. He and 
      Mordred were circling each other like dogs, their eyes brimming with 
      malice. "Look to the Queen."

      Lancelot stopped and changed his direction, advancing toward Guinevere. 
      The knight who held her suddenly picked her up and tossed her down behind 
      the dais. She hit the stone floor on her side, and her head snapped back, 
      her temple connecting with the corner of the platform. Pain exploded in 
      her head, sending a white-hot shot of agony into her stomach as well. She 
      groaned and pushed herself up, groping blindly for the edge of the 
      platform. Blood, thick and sticky, poured into her left eye, but she 
      managed to gain her feet again, leaning heavily against the dais for 
      support. 

      Her gaze fell on Arthur, only a few feet away. His pristine white robes 
      were now splattered crimson, and he held his left arm protectively over 
      his belly. Squinting, she could see that a deep gash nearly cut him in 
      half at his waist, and his trousers were soaking through as his blood ran 
      from the wound. He was panting heavily, and she knew that he was fighting 
      for his very life.

      The scene became hazy as she watched, her own breathing erratic and 
      shallow. Mordred stumbled back as his father drove another blow home, this 
      one piercing the thin covering of armor at his groin. He screamed with 
      pain and frustration and sliced Arthur across the chest, leaving his tunic 
      in one long, peeling ribbon and another fresh cut in his skin. But the 
      swing of the sword unbalanced Mordred, and he collapsed onto his side. 
      Arthur pounced on him immediately, kicking him onto his back and stepping 
      solidly onto his sword hand. Mordred cried out and released the sword, 
      staring up with dark fury at his father.

      Guinevere saw Arthur raise Excalibur one last time, poised to deliver the 
      one final stroke that would end his deceitful son's life. But she never 
      saw the sword fall. She saw nothing but darkness as she slipped into it, 
      and she didn't feel the impact of the floor when it met her body once 
more.
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