The Queen of Mists and Memory ::: Chapter Twelve This chapter contains violence and character death. Reader discretion is advised. Chapter Twelve She was a scientist, born with a logical, rational mind, drawn to chemistry sets and puzzles since her toddling years. Throughout her school days, she had been the child the teachers pegged as pragmatic and sensible, sending her report cards home with A's in science and math and gushing comments about her practical nature. She had grown into a competent, objective woman, one with a discerning eye toward the business of picking apart a problem and discovering a solution. Working for the F.B.I. with the title of "Doctor" just as prominent as that of "Special Agent," she earned her paycheck, and her partner's respect, by dissecting every case with her razor-sharp mind, just as she slit open the corpses sent her way with an expertly honed scalpel. It was the idea that her sanity had completely shattered into a thousand pieces and rendered her mind a complex and irreparable mosaic of brain matter that scared her the most. Dana Scully couldn't find a way out. She was somewhere dark, somewhere threaded with a cobwebby substance that reminded her of her grandmother's attic. It was a place where the slightest misstep left her tumbling further down a dark hole. She'd tried to move, to claw her way out, but there was nothing left to hang onto but the thin rope she currently held in her sweaty hands. She didn't dare to move or breathe for fear that she would fall again…and she had no idea if she could possibly survive if she let that happen. She knew she was battling for her consciousness. She realized that every moment, the woman called Guinevere grew stronger in the body they both occupied, and that her tenuous hold grew weaker. Her memories had been the first thing to go; she could recall very little about her life now, and she found that thought gnawing a huge, raw wound in her soul. What little she could remember, she clung to with all her strength, and it was that one precious memory that compelled her to keep trying. Mulder. His face was still burned in her mind, an image of him in what she understood to be their office. In this vision, he leaned back in his desk chair, his hazel eyes bright with mischief, his lips crooked into a devious smile as he regarded her, tossing sunflower seeds into his mouth. She could hear the fine crack of the shell as he dislodged it with his teeth, and she smelled the mustiness of the basement around them combined with the light scent of his aftershave. She could feel the give of the leather chair beneath her as she sat there, watching his dancing eyes and laughing with him. With every replay of this scene, her heart swelled with thankfulness and love for this man, her partner, the one who had rescued her from her pain countless times, who gave her trust and devotion, the two things he gave to no one else in his world… Mulder. She clutched that image to her desperately, and she refused to let it go. It was the one thing that kept her sane in this place of utter darkness. His name in her head spurred her on, keeping her awake and alert to all the circumstances unfolding around Guinevere. She knew Mulder was alive in the Queen's world somewhere, and that she needed to get Guinevere to him so that he could take her home… And maybe, just maybe…maybe if they went home, Scully would be reborn. It was the only hope she had. She prayed ardently that this thought wasn't as absurd as it seemed. Her scientific mind told her that it was the worst kind of fantasy…but Mulder… Mulder told her it was true. And she trusted him, more than anything. And so Scully held on, whispering to Guinevere, hoping and praying and swinging from the thread of her sanity. She knew Mulder would come. She could only hope that he would save her in time. Guinevere shook her head, trying to clear away the image of the strange man that kept resurfacing in her mind. Lancelot's twin, with his short brown hair and moss-colored eyes, refused to leave her alone. She kept seeing him, reclining in a strange chair behind a large wooden box, smiling at her as he ate striped seeds and bounced in his seat. The grin was Lancelot's at his most playful, like the times he had chased her through the fields behind Joyous Gard, or the occasions when he had hidden presents for her around her chambers and then dared her to find them. That smile endeared him so to her…and yet she knew the man in her mind wasn't Lancelot. He belonged with the woman who resided in her subconscious as well, the lady called Scully who struggled against Guinevere's own strong mind with equal fortitude. Mulder. His name is Mulder. She nodded to herself, acknowledging Scully's voice in her head. Mulder. Scully and Mulder. She understood. But apart from their names and their mirror likenesses to herself and her lover, she could comprehend little else about them. Guinevere glanced into the looking glass before her, pretending to primp, but instead watching the knight who stood inside the closed door of her chamber through lowered lashes. She had found him stationed there when she'd returned from the Queen's Hall, and when she ordered him out, he held her gaze defiantly and informed her that he had been sent by Mordred and would not be moving from that spot. She recognized him as Sir Chretien, the French knight who had stood sentinel outside Arthur's door the day before. She'd drawn Leigh further into the room, pulling her close to the wardrobe on the pretense of going through her gowns. She whispered to her cousin as they rifled through the garments. "Go out into the square and wait for Richard to arrive. When he is here, take him to your quarters and tell him our plan. The Round Table Knights must be released tonight. Stay with him and help him as he sees fit." Leigh had balked immediately. "I shall not leave you alone here, Guinevere! Richard will not need me as you do!" "I will not be alone. Lionors will return after she speaks to Agravaine, and after she has her audience with Mordred and Morgan le Fae. She and I will manage the King somehow. Once Arthur's men are released, Gareth and the others will come to our aid." "But what will you do until then?" "I…I shall bide my time here, in my chambers. I fear raising Mordred's suspicions further." She had grasped Leigh's tiny trembling hand and squeezed. "Rest assured, Leigh, that all will turn out right. You need concern yourself only with Richard and releasing the knights. Leave all else to me." Guinevere must have worn her most determined look, because Leigh took her leave then without another word. Guinevere had pulled her sewing basket from the floor of her wardrobe and settled into a chair by the window to work, hoping to keep herself distracted while she waited for Lionors. The afternoon hour had grown late, but Gareth's wife did not come. Guinevere had given up on her embroidery, her fingers twitching too much from anxiety to ply the thread correctly, and she had sat instead at her dressing table. She released her hair from its elaborate moorings and began to comb it out. The steady motion of the teeth through the thick waves settled her nerves a bit. With each stroke, the copper fire of her hair flared even brighter, and by the time the knock came at the chamber door, it gleamed like the setting sun outside her window. She jumped at the rapping, looking at Chretien. His hand dropped to the sword at his hip, and he turned slowly toward the sound. He pressed his ear to the wood of the door and pitched his voice louder. "Who knocks?" The answer, although muffled, was easy to understand. "Sir Agravaine. I bring a message to the Queen from the new High King." Chretien slid the bolt on the door aside and allowed it to swing open. Beyond the French knight's shoulder, Guinevere could see Agravaine. He was dressed as if for dinner, in a royal blue tunic and matching cloak, and his beard and hair were clean and trimmed. His eyes flickered to her momentarily, but she saw nothing in them that indicated any friendliness at all. The French knight stepped aside to let him pass, and Agravaine strode into the room toward Guinevere. He stopped, though, when he realized Chretien had not shut the door. He looked back at the other knight over his shoulder. "Sir Chretien, this is a private message from the King to the Queen. Leave us." The man's voice was thick with his native accent when he responded. "My orders are not to leave the Queen unattended." "I will attend her for the next few moments. Go and get yourself a cup of mead from the kitchens. You have had a long day, have you not?" Guinevere frowned at Agravaine's inviting words. He was not the sort of man to be soft with those beneath his rank. The deference in his manner made her suspicious. Chretien stood there blinking, obviously unsure what to do. "I am rather thirsty, sir." He teetered back and forth on the balls of his feet, his armor moaning softly from the rocking. "Shall I bring you anything, my lady Queen?" he asked finally. "Nay, but I thank you." She glanced again at Agravaine, but his face was impassive. She could read nothing there. "Very well," the French knight said. "I will return momentarily." He bustled through the door and closed it behind him. As soon as he was gone, Agravaine turned to Guinevere, fury blooming in his eyes. "Why did you send my sister-in-law to me today?" "I had hoped that she could help you to see reason, to see the folly of imprisoning your own brother and supporting the madness of the other." He leaned toward her, his hands splayed on the edge of her dressing table like starfish washed up on the beach. "Will you not stop this, Guinevere?" he asked, and she could hear the frustration in his rising pitch. "There is nothing you can do to deter Mordred. He will ascend. Arthur's reign is over. You must resign yourself and cease your defiance. On the morrow, you will be married to the new High King. It will all happen, whether you will it or not!" Guinevere stood so fast it made her dizzy, but she didn't sway on her feet. "It will happen, not as long as I carry within my body the true heir to the throne! Mordred will never usurp Arthur's true son!" Sudden silence dropped between them. Guinevere caught her breath, realizing what she had just said. She hadn't meant to tell Agravaine about the baby…she didn't truly know what he would do. But she realized she needed his allegiance once and for all, and she had to get it now, while they were alone. There would not be another time to ask for his help. Everything rode on what he now decided. Agravaine stared at her, his dark eyes wide as he processed her declaration. "This…this cannot be," he breathed. "You are barren." "My barrenness is indeed what your mother desired, coupled with the death of my first son." Guinevere grabbed one of Agravaine's hands, pressing it between her own. "But you must believe me. It is true. I sent for Lionors to confirm my suspicions. I am with child. And surely, Agravaine, you cannot want your brother and your mother to kill the true heir to Camelot." He wrenched his hand from hers. "My mother…my mother has nothing to do with this. Your first son was stillborn. My mother was not even here at the time." "But it was your mother who engineered the plan. To kill the King's heir to clear her bastard son's way to the throne. And to render the Queen barren at the same time." Guinevere touched her abdomen, her eyes welling up with tears. "She failed at that, at least, although I, too, feared she had succeeded." Agravaine's voice rose again. "It was Nimue who gave you that draught! Arthur banished her from court for it! Nimue is to blame, not my mother!" "Who taught Nimue the arts, Agravaine? It was not Merlin, as many people think. It is true that he loved her, and she used that love against him, to trap him God knows where. But Nimue gleaned her knowledge of herbs and medicines from Morgan. They have been plotting together for a long time. We just never knew it until now." Agravaine stumbled back and dropped heavily into Guinevere's sewing chair by the window. He bent his head into his hands, running his fingers roughly through his wavy hair. "No, no, no," he mumbled. "I…I refuse to believe this. My mother…my mother loves children. She could never…she would never murder…" His voice trailed off. Guinevere stepped closer to him, crouching at his feet. Her skirts rustled around his ankles, and he closed his eyes, but not before Guinevere saw the wetness on his lashes. She laid a gentle hand on his knee. "I am not sure, Agravaine, that your mother loves anything. I know that she does not treat you with the kindness that a mother should show her son." "She…she is not sentimental. She…she…" "You do not have to keep defending her, Agravaine," Guinevere continued, using her softest voice. "It is not right, the way she treats you. Why do you continue to support her, when you know you will never win her love?" Agravaine kept his head down, and he did not answer, but Guinevere felt the tiny splash of a tear on the skin of her hand. Her heart swelled in sympathy for him, this man who had spent his life trying to earn the affections of a woman who selfishly refused her own flesh and blood. "Arthur has always loved you, Agravaine. He is your uncle. Has he not always treated you fairly and with grace? Has he not shown you the kindness that a decent man would show any of his kin?" Agravaine swiped at his cheeks. His voice was husky when he spoke. "Aye, he has. He has always been good to me. To all of us." "Then I beg you, Agravaine." She implored him with her eyes when his met hers. The hardness in his gaze was melting away, leaving only the naked, vulnerable look of a lost child. "Please help me. I must get away from Camelot tonight, and I must take Arthur with me." He stared at her a moment longer and then opened his mouth to speak. He never did because another knock shook the door to the chamber. Guinevere knit her brows together and called loudly, "Who is there?" "Sir Chretien, my lady Queen. The lady Queen Morgan le Fae wishes to speak with you." Agravaine started in his seat. "My mother!" he hissed as he tried to stand. He bumped into Guinevere, causing her to fall backwards into the foot of the bed. He pulled her to her feet. "I should have been gone from here by now. She cannot find me!" "Do you wish to know the truth about your mother, Agravaine?" Guinevere whispered urgently. "Do you wish to hear it with your own ears?" He regarded her for a long moment, and the furious debate raging in his mind was evident on his face. He finally nodded. "I do wish to hear of these plots you describe, so that I may know the truth." "Then come." She tugged him by the hand over to her wardrobe, quickly opening the large doors and nudging him inside. "In here, you will mark everything she has to say, and she will never know. Now be silent." She shut the wardrobe and sank down onto the bed before calling to Chretien to give Morgan le Fae entrance to her chamber. The dark woman swept in, the train of her burgundy gown trailing behind her. Jewels flashed at her ears and throat and sparkled in her long black hair, making her appear magical and mysterious. Guinevere folded her hands in her lap, setting her face to stone as she tilted her chin toward the sorceress she so despised. Morgan stopped at the foot of the bed, waving Chretien out the door. "Leave us, sir knight. The Queen and I have important matters to discuss. But be alert. The Bishop will be along at any moment to join us." "The Bishop?" Guinevere jerked at the mention of the highest official of the church. "The Bishop comes here, to my private rooms? Why on earth would I not receive him in my halls?" "He wishes us to speak in complete privacy," Morgan answered. She settled her glittering eyes back on the knight. "Now go, sirrah. I will not ask you again." Chretien began to repeat his speech about not leaving the Queen, but something in Morgan's glare obviously made him think better of it. He spun on his heel and stalked out through the door, closing it with an echoing, wooden boom. Morgan le Fae cocked her head to peer at Guinevere. "You do not look well, my lady Queen. My son spoke of you being ill. Too much to drink last night at supper?" Guinevere frowned at the other woman's amused expression. "No thanks to whatever you put in my cup, Morgan. Do not bother to deny it." "I?" Morgan touched her throat delicately. "Why should I want to impede my new daughter- in-law? I want us to be friends, Guinevere." Guinevere gave a short bark of laughter. "I can assure you, Morgan, that will never happen. I stopped trusting you when my son died." "And what have I to do with that, my lady Queen? Surely you do not believe me responsible for your son's death." "I do believe that, yes. I believe you will stop at nothing to bring Mordred to the throne, including sacrificing your other sons to make it happen." Morgan chortled, a low, mocking sound. "My other sons? My other sons are not half the men Mordred is. Gareth is too soft-hearted, and too enthralled by Lancelot and Arthur, to ever become anything other than a servant. And Agravaine…well, Agravaine will never amount to anything. He is a poor excuse for a knight. It is a wonder he has made it this far alive. He could never be King." Guinevere smiled inwardly, picturing Agravaine inside the wardrobe with his ear pressed up against the wooden door. Perhaps hearing his mother's total disregard for him would be the last straw, the one that broke his allegiance to Morgan and swung it instead to Arthur for good. But Morgan was still speaking, and Guinevere focused on her words. "No, it shall be Mordred who takes the throne, and there will be no stopping it now. The Bishop will be here momentarily to discuss with you the dissolution of your marriage to Arthur and the ceremony binding you to Mordred on the morrow." "Good," Guinevere said as she rose from the bed. "I welcome the chance to speak to the Bishop about this terrible injustice done to Arthur, and to all of Camelot. I have much to say on the subj-" The rest of her sentence was cut off by the sudden sharp cut of Morgan's fingernails through the sleeve of her gown. The dark woman grabbed her, digging into her bicep, and Guinevere gasped more in surprise than pain. She twisted in Morgan's grasp, but not before she noted the expression of total disbelief on the sorceress' face turn into black fury. "What have you done, Guinevere?" Morgan demanded. "Now I know why you are ill. It was nothing that anyone slipped into your wine, or the wine itself. You calculating whore, you'll pay for this-" "What are you talking about?" Guinevere grated through clenched teeth, still struggling to break free. "Unhand me at once!" "Nothing will stand in Mordred's way, I tell you!" Morgan was shouting now, her face so close to Guinevere's that she could smell the perfumed oils in the woman's cosmetics. "I will fix this just as I did before! You mark me, Guinevere, I will not stand by-" "My dear Queen Morgan le Fae. Perhaps you need to calm down a bit, sweet lady." The new voice came from the door to the bedchamber, and the two women both turned toward it immediately. The man who stood there was alone, resplendent from head to toe in rich, shimmering red garments that Guinevere recognized as the robes of the advanced clergy. As he crossed the room, his eyes caught the light, reflecting a cold, hard look back at her. The skin of his face was sagging and yellowed, betraying his age, but he walked with an imposing presence. Guinevere had no doubt about this man's station or identity. And in the back of the Queen's mind, neither did Scully. Guinevere shuddered involuntarily as Scully's recognition raced through her. C.G.B. Spender. Dear God, the Smoking Man is here. The Bishop's presence in the room had quite an effect on Morgan. She released Guinevere's arm immediately and stepped back in obvious deferral to the man. Guinevere couldn't help but note how demurely Morgan dropped her eyes, behaving more as a wife or paramour than as a loyal subject of the church. The thought seared into Guinevere's brain, the mere shadow of the impact of such a thing making her sick to her stomach. She could be his mistress, Guinevere reasoned. It was not unheard of for a clergyman, even one of such a high rank, to take a lover, keeping it a secret from the other church officials and the commoners. She had never suspected Morgan le Fae, however, with all her knowledge of esoteric things, to be interested in a man of the cloth. She felt Scully's nudge in the back of her mind. It makes sense, Guinevere. Who has more power besides the King than the church? This way, Morgan le Fae can manipulate both…and use her charms to convince the Bishop to allow Mordred's ascension at any cost. Guinevere's eyes fluttered shut momentarily, her mind lost in the enormity of it all. She had no chance at all of swaying the Bishop and the Holy Church to her cause. Morgan le Fae had already taken care of that. The Bishop's voice floated into her consciousness. "Are you alright, my lady Queen Guinevere? You look ill, I think." Guinevere opened her eyes again in time to see the Bishop hovering over her, with Morgan le Fae peering around him like a taunting child. The dark woman's words were filled with venom when she spoke. "Aye, she is ill, my lord Bishop. It is an illness I am well familiar with, having been plagued with it myself several times." The Bishop scowled at her. "What say you, Lady Morgan? Be plain. You know I have no humor for riddles." "I say that the Queen is with child. Somehow, she has managed to get herself another chance at the throne." Guinevere cringed as silence filled up the room. Her secret was out. She had no idea how Morgan le Fae could divine that she carried another baby, but it was no use denying it. The Bishop would surely call for a midwife if he were even remotely suspicious, and she didn't wish to subject herself to another exam. Above all, she had to protect her child. And if she kept Morgan le Fae and the Bishop occupied, perhaps it would be enough time for Richard and Leigh to release the Round Table Knights from the dungeons. With them fighting for Camelot, there was a chance of defeating Mordred and his men and putting this nightmare to rest. The Bishop stared at Guinevere, his small, animal-like eyes widening. "But how can this be? I was told that you were barren." "I am sure that was Morgan's plan when she poisoned me in my childbed. I know she wished to murder my son that day, and to kill all chances for Arthur to have another one with me." Guinevere smiled triumphantly. "It is true. She did not succeed in that." "Well, well, well," the Bishop clucked, "this certainly changes our plans, does it not?" Morgan le Fae frowned. "How is that, then? How does this change things?" "The Queen carries the true heir of Camelot now," the Bishop said, walking over to the chair by the window and carefully lowering himself into it. "With the possibility of another son of Arthur's, a legitimate one, it renders Mordred's claim invalid. Even if Arthur cannot rule, the best we could do would be to appoint someone in his place until his new son is capable." Morgan hurried to the side of his chair and huddled by his knees. "Surely…surely there must be a way. My son has waited so long, and is so deserving. Please, my lord Bishop, you must see that Mordred is still the best choice for Camelot." The Bishop reached out a gnarled hand and ran it over Morgan's long tresses as if stroking a puppy's fur. "There, there, my sweet Morgan. You know I would never allow you to be disappointed." He cupped her chin in his hand, smiling a wretched grin down into her upturned face. "I know you have ways of taking care of this latest…impediment." Guinevere watched with dawning horror as Morgan's long face broke into a smile. The dark woman wrapped her own hand around the Bishop's, bringing his fingers up to her lips for a kiss. Guinevere felt her stomach turn over at the sight, and she closed her eyes. She was failing. She had trusted the Bishop to put things right, and it was now painfully apparent that he was their most malevolent enemy. Guinevere fumbled clumsily to the bed and sank down onto the pillows there. "I shall not drink it," she told them defiantly, but she couldn't keep the tremor from shaking her voice. "I know you will try to poison me again, but I shall not take the brew. You will have to kill me outright." "What?" Morgan le Fae rose from her spot and glided toward the bed, her face a mask of beautiful malice. "We cannot kill you, Guinevere. Mordred has his heart set on you. I will not disappoint my son any more than the Bishop shall disappoint me." Morgan leaned over Guinevere as if sharing a wonderful secret. "There are other ways to take your baby. I have performed them myself on occasion. And you will be good as new tomorrow for your wedding." A faint chime of metal rang out, and the air stirred before Guinevere's face as the blade of a sword arced down over her. She pulled back, blinking up in disbelief at Agravaine, who now stood next to her, his weapon drawn and pointing at Morgan le Fae. "I have heard enough," he said through his teeth. His face flushed scarlet and sweat beaded his brow, and Guinevere wasn't sure if it was caused by the heat of hiding in the wardrobe or by the rage that seemed to be boiling out of him. Morgan le Fae straightened to her full height and stared at her son, doubt beginning to cloud her features. "What is the meaning of this, Agravaine?" she uttered, but he cut her off by jabbing the sword closer to her. She shrank back, astounded. "Stay back, Mother. Keep away from the Queen." He glanced at Guinevere, huddled on the bed. "Guinevere, go and lock the door. I do not fancy Chretien coming in here, meddling in something that does not concern him." Guinevere scrambled up and raced to the door, shooting the heavy bolt into locking position with one quick gesture. She turned around to face the other three, pressing her back up against the heavy oak behind her. The Bishop had risen to his feet. "I see your son is just as you described, Morgan," he commented, starting forward. "Easily softened when hard decisions have to be made." The Bishop froze as Agravaine's sword swept up next to Morgan's neck and hovered there. The woman sucked in her breath, and fear washed over her face for the first time Guinevere could ever remember. "Stay where you are, Bishop," Agravaine said. " I will not hesitate to kill you both. You certainly deserve to die." "Surely you could not think to commit such a grievous sin as matricide, Sir Agravaine," the Bishop intoned, letting an ominous quality creep into his voice. "Is it any worse than fratricide, my lord?" Agravaine sneered. "That is what I almost committed yesterday in the forest, when I was ordered to bring the Queen here. I nearly had to murder my own brother, just to satisfy this woman and her bastard son!" The sword whispered closer to Morgan's throat, and Guinevere gasped as the dark woman did the same. "I would be justified in killing her. In killing you both. Your plots against Arthur and his true heir would then die with you." "You can kill us, that is true," the Bishop said reasonably, as if he were discussing the weather. "But Mordred can still ascend. The only people who know about the Queen are in this chamber. Mordred's men will never let you escape from Camelot. You will die here this night as well, Sir Agravaine. You, and the Queen." Agravaine and the Bishop stared at each other, neither blinking from the hatred in the other's gaze. Finally, Agravaine spoke. "Guinevere, you must leave us." "What?" Guinevere pushed away from the door, confused. "Take the stairs on the other side of the wall, the entrance that the…the servants sometimes use." He looked meaningfully at her, and she realized he knew about the passage that Lancelot had traveled so many nights to sneak into her chamber. "Get out of Camelot. Go where they will not find you. Go now-" Agravaine was so intent on giving Guinevere instructions that he didn't notice the Bishop's sudden movement. Guinevere stepped back involuntarily as something shining silver flashed through the air, sailing toward Agravaine. He cried out as a dagger embedded itself in his chest, mere inches from his heart. He staggered back against the wardrobe, and Morgan scampered away from him, running toward the Bishop. With a mighty yell, Agravaine lunged forward, swinging his sword before him as he did. The blade caught Morgan le Fae at the waist, sinking deep into her, and she crumpled at the Bishop's feet without another sound. The Bishop stood statue-still, staring at the dead woman. Agravaine cursed and wrenched the knife from his chest. It clattered to the floor, spraying his blood across the Queen's ivory bedclothes. Guinevere's stomach heaved again at the sight, but she forced the feeling away. She had to help Agravaine. She started toward him, but he held out his free hand to ward her off. It was spotted red, making her think wildly of a child's party dress. "Stay back, Guinevere. You must get out! Go, now!" She shook her head. "I shall not leave you. You must stave that wound, Agravaine. Put your hand over it and press. Do it, I say!" She realized suddenly that this was Scully talking through her, but she didn't contemplate it further. If the strange woman could help him, she had to let her speak. Agravaine pushed himself away from the wardrobe and shuffled toward the Bishop. Guinevere could see that he hadn't heard her words, and he had no intention of listening, anyway. His eyes were shiny with wetness as he stepped around his mother's still form. "This is your fault, you bastard," Agravaine murmured, drawing his sword up to face the Bishop. "I would not have killed her. I loved her. I loved her more than anyone in the whole world." The Bishop backed away, skirting past Guinevere and heading toward the wall on the other side of the room. Guinevere realized suddenly that he, too, knew about the secret entrance to the chamber…and she understood that this was where he intended to make his escape. "It is no use trying to get away from me," Agravaine told him conversationally. He continued to follow the Bishop as he inched along the wall, but Guinevere could tell that his strength was draining away, just like his blood. "I will kill you now, my lord Bishop. May God have mercy on your soul." Agravaine lurched forward then, but in his weakening state, he was unbalanced and awkward in his thrust. His sword missed its mark, and the Bishop scooted around the wall, disappearing from their sight. Agravaine swore again as he fell to the floor, his weapon bouncing on its pommel and coming to rest at Guinevere's feet. She rushed to him, dropping to her knees. His tunic was soaked through, and she pressed her open palm to the long slash where the dagger had entered his body. Agravaine winced and blew out a weak breath. He looked up at Guinevere, anguish and regret washing over his features. "Leave me, my lady," he mumbled through raspy breaths. "You must escape while you can." "I will not, Sir Agravaine," Guinevere answered, although there was no doubt in her mind that Agravaine would be the one departing soon. Her heart squeezed painfully at the thought. She had come to care for this man. She pushed harder on his wound, hoping somehow that the pressure would pump life back into him. He ground his teeth. "Stop. It is enough." He grabbed her wrist with his other hand. "I am sorry for my betrayal, my Queen. I wish I had protected you better. You, and the King." "You did protect me, Agravaine." Guinevere's eyes began to blur with tears. "If it was not for you, the Bishop would have surely killed my child, or killed me as well. You have saved the kingdom, as any loyal knight of the Round Table would have done." A small smile played on the knight's lips. "I…do not…deserve…" Guinevere gripped his hand with all her strength. "You are Arthur's loyal servant, Agravaine. You will go to your reward a true knight of the Round Table." His hand on her wrist slipped, and he closed his eyes. He did not speak again, but Guinevere sat with him as he took his last breath, and she held his hand long after he passed away, silent tears slipping down her cheeks. She did not know how much time had gone by, but the voice did not surprise her when it came. "Is he dead?" She dropped her head as Mordred's heavy boots circled her. She could not look at him, and she refused to answer. She simply laid Agravaine's hand on his breastbone and moved his sword closer to his side. "Well, it is good that he has died," Mordred continued. His voice sounded pinched and tired, and Guinevere finally looked up. The man was dressed in his old attire, his suit of black that so matched his dark and stormy countenance. "It is good that they are all dead." This comment brought concern to Guinevere, and she frowned. "All dead? Of whom do you speak?" Mordred waved his good hand around the room. "My brother. My mother. The Bishop." "The Bishop? I saw the Bishop only moments ago, and he was very much alive." "I saw him too," Mordred answered, drawing closer to her. His green eyes were bright with malice. "I met him coming down the back staircase to this room. He lies now at the bottom of it. I have no use for him any longer." "I-I do not understand," Guinevere whispered, suddenly very afraid. Mordred smiled. "I know you do not, my sweet Guinevere. But you will, very, very soon." He grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet. "Come. I will take you to my father. The two of you will be together again, before Camelot falls forever." previous ::: home ::: next