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Chapter Four: Introducing A Legacy

The hours of night passed on slowly, a relentless sequence of chilly winds, darkness, and dampness; a combination of nature’s torments that didn’t bode well with the weary travelers making camp in the thickness of Britain’s heavily canopied forest. Silence and utter stillness, except the brief gusts of wind and the low sizzling of dying fires, were the only few sounds heard in the bounds of their sleeping encampment.

Everything had calmed down a mere few hours ago, including the majority of comings and going-ins in the inside of the caravan.

Morgaine had watched in silence as the Woad, Guinevere, stood up, her posture rigid and purposeful, as she stealthily approached the wagon door. Through the moonlight her silhouette was thoroughly composed, emanating a strange aura of calmness and vacancy; one that immediately led Morgaine into suspicion. Guinevere was up to something.

Regardless if it was good or bad, Morgaine knew all too well the dangers that lay within the outskirts of their encampment. To leave in a forest heavily occupied by Saxons was dangerous, almost near suicidal. And so, the Immortal felt compelled to deter the youth from any stupidity that she might outwardly possess. “If you leave here, your livelihood cannot be assured protection. Don’t do anything stupid,” she uttered quietly, her lilt sharp through the darkness.

The young woman turned at the voice, her lips set into a thin line. “Yes, I know, but leaving is of utmost importance. It will determine the fate of this land.”

Sitting up stiffly, Morgaine cocked her head to the side, her raven curls spilling absently down the slopes of her shoulders, Her voice was calm and low, as not to wake the other occupant in the room. “You must be leavin’ to meet with yer leader,” she replied knowingly. A heavy silence met her statement. “If these knights come to face him, they will kill him on sight. You are still considered their enemy.”

“Perhaps,” Guinevere answered, “But he intends to come in peace. The Romans are withdrawling from this land. Merlin no longer considers Arthur his enemy… his men have nothing to fear from us.”

Morgaine nodded, her feet moving stealthily to stand. “That might be the view of yer leader, but not so, perhaps, for Artorius. Some grudges are hard to let go of and his men don’t seem to be too fond of your people.”

“Perhaps,” She agreed, “But peace is worth a try.”

“Aye. If that be the case then, I shall go with you… or would yer leader feel uneasy being in the presence of a Celt?”

Guinevere, silent and composed, mirrored the same bemused smirk spreading itself across the Irishwoman’s lips. “On the contrary, Morgaine, I think he would be honored.”

This answer, to the say the least, surprised Morgaine in a very unexpected and unforeseen way. Woad leaders often didn’t take too kindly to outsiders, neither did any other tribes… so why would one suddenly be honored to be in a Celt’s presence?

Interesting…

She stepped silently toward Guinevere, her movements graceful and lithe as a cat. It was blatantly obvious to the other woman, she knew, that her past injuries were no longer of consequence, for all had healed to its fullest.

There was no hesitation or painful retractions in movement. She was powerful, flexible, and free… something she had not been for quite awhile. Being outside of Marius’ prison gifted her not only with freedom, but a sense of self. She was no longer the helpless, but the warrior again.

Not breaking her stride, Morgaine unsheathed a sword lying at the base of the wagon. It was a Roman sword, one she loathed wielding, but it was needed nonetheless. As of this moment, it didn’t matter to her if the sword was Roman, Briton, or Pictish.

“You won’t be needing that when you meet him,” Guinevere warned, her eyebrows rising at the sight of the weapon, “we are coming in peace.”

Morgaine’s features remained stoic as always, but her posture was rigid and her voice frigid as ice as she replied coolly, “I wasn’t bringing it for yer leader. The only blood I intend to spill are those under Marius’ command and the Saxon army outside of this camp… I doubt your leader would have any objection for a just cause. If not, it is wise that I do not meet this man.”

Guinevere nodded her agreement. “True enough.”

“Lead the way then, My Lady…”

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They moved in silent vigilance through the dark woodlands, their feet crunching softly against the new fallen snow molded against the ground as a vast rippling blanket from the heavens. Morgaine walked at a comfortable distance behind the woad leading in front of her, her sharp eyes watching and carefully calculating through their path. It was invigorating holding a weapon in her hands again. It felt like a return to a long, lost friend of many ages, the warrior and the tracker of past spirit.

As their silent track through the campgrounds continued, a limp form caught Morgaine’s eye upon the ground. It was the hooded for of Artorius. His eyelids were closed peacefully; his prominent features soothed out in relaxation, in certain hopes no doubt of succumbing to inevitable sleep.

‘He won’t be peaceful after this intrusion,’ she mused.

His eyes opened, almost seemingly at the time of her thought, and met unflinchingly to the penetrating, yet alluring, gaze of Guinevere. Words did not pass between them but despite the silence, Arthur seemed to realize that she was asking him to follow her.

Morgaine sighed heavily, almost exasperatingly, just as Guinevere turned and walked off with a purposeful stride toward a small clearing of trees.

Unbelievable.

Her gaze found Arthur’s as she paused wearily at his feet. Her head cocked to the side tersely, as if to silently say, ‘get up’.

The Roman commander nodded in abrupt compliance and shifted his cloak to stand on his legs. The glimmer of metal behind her seemed to catch his attention and he motioned cautiously to the sword held tightly within her grasp.

Morgaine knew he was questioning her use of such a weapon and a reason for wielding it. A small smile then graced her lips and she gestured toward the woods beyond them.

Understanding lit up the man’s eyes and he silently nodded in agreement. “I see your point, My Lady,” Arthur remarked, his hand moving to grasp his own sword, “I suppose precaution never hurt anyone… shall we go?”

She didn’t respond, neither in voice nor gesture. Instead, she gracefully continued walking, not bothering to spare a glance at the man trailing behind her.

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The howling wind whistled hauntingly through the crevice of swaying trees, billowing through the clearing and smacking with gentle ease against the lone figure awaiting patiently in the darkness.

Blonde curls flapped teasingly through a hooded cloak, framing the heart shaped face and almond gray eyes watching purposefully through the occupied woodland.

Behind her, another figure emerged, his steps silent as he stood at her side.

“She is coming,” the woman spoke knowingly, her eyes roaming the land in a state of unhidden tranquility.

“Are you certain, Viviane, that approaching her at such an early time is wise?” Merlin asked.

The woman, young, but ancient, smiled. “It may not be so, my friend. But time is running out for me… there will be no other opportunities for such a calling. It is her time to know what shall become of her… and of me, I’m afraid.”

“And what of Arthur?”

“There is no time for either of us, I’m afraid, the Saxons have made certain of it. We have no choice but to confront them.” She sighed heavily in thought, adding almost wistfully, “… and have them try to understand.”

“And if not?” Merlin questioned, his eyes darkening.

Viviane paused in silence, her voice calm yet distant all at once… “Then all is lost and our legacy fades… our legacy and my Immortality.”