Chivalry ♛ King Arthur

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"C'MERE Blue," Frida murmured, opening her arms up. He'd refused to cry on the way back to the cave, but when he came to her the tears sprang up. Ida wrapped her arms around the boy, holding him close. No child should have to watch their parents be butchered.

Blue's shoulders shook and then the tears turned into dry heaves. Ida rubbed his back and stroked his hair. She couldn't calm him, not really, but she tried her best. Soon he grew quiet and his breathing evened out having gone to sleep. She laid him back on the poorly made bed and sat next to him.

Arthur was sitting on a stool across the room, silent and contemplative. Careful not to disturb Blue, Frida rose from the bed and moved to stand before him. "It's not your fault, Arthur," she breathed, fingers tracing along the raised scars on his temple and neck. There were more to match them, they were concealed by his shirt. She had treated most of them herself. He slumped forward, pressing his forehead against her stomach. Ida ran her fingers through his hair. The Born King of England loosely gripped onto her hips, reluctant to let her slip away.

She remembered a song that her mother used to sing, however, there was another voice that she could not place, deep and masculine. "The sky is dark and the hills are white as the storm-king speeds from the northern night..." but the rest of the lyrics had already been forgotten. Frida gave a small sigh and continued mussing his hair.

Ida stepped back and returned to the empty space next to Blue. He followed soon after. Art sat on the edge of the bed, not able to sleep. With an outstretched hand, she feebly grasped onto Arthur's fingers as he looked at the sword with deep anger, hatred, and grief.

Arthur looked between the sword and Frida with Blue lying next to her, both were now peacefully sleeping, but a storm was brewing inside him.

It was then he made his choice. Rising from the edge of the bed, Art slipped his hand free of hers and grabbed Excalibur. He paused, looking back over his shoulder and frowned. His feet carried him back toward the small bed, where he bent down and brushed the frayed hair from Ida's face before kissing her forehead. He knew what he had to do.

Too many people had been hurt because of the bloody sword he'd managed to pull from the stone. Arthur wouldn't let her become one of them.

♛ ♛ ♛

Mischief John waltzed into the encampment with a dozen soldiers behind him. More men than he would need considering that Arthur and most of the other men were nowhere to be seen. Frida rose, as did the others. "This is too easy," the blackleg commander sneered.

Blue raced toward a butchers knife, but Josselyn grabbed a hold of his shirt before he could reach it. But the two men who had stayed behind picked up their swords despite being grossly outnumbered.

John unsheathed his sword and raised it, pointing at Eydís and Frida. "The King wants them," he noted, turning to the girl that held Blue back, "the boy too." The soldiers advanced, drawing their swords and daggers. Already knowing their next command without it having to be spoken. "Kill the rest," the commander barked.

A familiar surge of panic raced through her veins. A light formed in Ida's hand, bright enough to blind, but it had no effect. Not when it faded instantly when something hard collided with her temple, sending her face first into the ground.

It was probably for the best that she couldn't hear their screams.

♛ ♛ ♛

"Arthur," Bedivere began, treading carefully knowing that he was addressing a very sensitive topic. "Think." He told him, but that didn't seem to get past his anger and into his thick head. Bedivere knew what had to be done, knew that deep down Arthur did too. "Frida cannot help you stop Vortigern, but the Mage can." If she had been a trained arcanist then that would change things, but she wasn't.

"So I'm supposed to leave Ida and Blue at his mercy?" He snapped in return. Hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

"For now-" Bedivere paused and found that Arthur looked more like a caged animal, dangerous and unpredictable "-yes." Art didn't much care for that response.

"It is the Mage who we need right now," Goosefat Bill reiterated. Arthur glared at the archer, silencing him before he could speak again.

"Barter for the Mage, kill the King, destroy the tower, and you're that much closer to freeing them both," Bedivere explained. He had known Vortigern while in Uther's court and knew that the King wouldn't harm either of them. Not when they were important pawns in his ploy to lure the Born King into his grasp.

"I made her a promise," Arthur told him, voice cracking. She'd been so scared as she told him the truth, even more so when Back Lack told her that the king's men were searching for her and now he'd broken his word. He hadn't been there to protect her.

"Promises are dangerous things," the old knight told him, "especially when you know they cannot be kept." Bedivere took Excalibur and pressed the flat of the sheathed sword into Arthur's chest. "But you still have time to keep your promise."

♛ ♛ ♛

Vortigern sat on a three-legged stool, twisting his crown around in his hands. The metal was tarnished. It had never shone as brightly for him as it had when Uther was king. He looked at the arcanist with contempt and disappointment. She looked nothing more than a frightened peasant. "So, you're the last one," he mused, looking back down at the gilded crown, "the last arcanist left in this world."

It was a shame, really. Arcanists could accomplish impressive feats and had proven to be tremendous assets in the past, but with his rise to power...well, sacrifices had to be made to ensure the survival of his reign.

He recalled the village. The forsaken patch of land where witches and wizards were bred like dogs. A potential threat to his rule. He remembered giving the command and watching as the bodies burned and hanged, swaying in the night wind. It was a glorious sight that cemented his place as the unchallenged King of England.

"I ordered my men to slaughter that forsaken village and yet a child survived," he chuckled, it was low and dark, a guttural sound that reminded her of stone grinding on stone. "How befitting is it that the two children that escaped my grasp managed to survive and have grown to be such thorns in my side?"

Frida cowered back into the corner of the cell. The King looked down at her in disdain. "What can you do?" He breathed in a slow breath as if to calm himself. "There's no point in lying, girl, I can tell if you do." She didn't respond. Vortigern seized her chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing her to look upon him. "To what extent does your power reach?!" He yelled, spittle landing on her cheek.

She lowered her head and squeezed her eyes shut, wanting to pretend it was all a bad dream. Wanting to be able to turn the air in the King's lungs to stone. Wanting to not be helpless. "I can only conjure the Light," Frida whispered, voice strained.

"Show me," he commanded, releasing her, and she did. Ida turned her palm upward and breathed slowly, steadily. Her eyes closed as she focused on pulling the energy from the air, the stone, and the metal that surrounded her. Vortigern looked on in awe when the light gathered, cradled in her hands like an embryonic bonfire.

It was a pure white light that could illuminate the darkest cell in a manner that would make it seem as if the sun were capable of shining through stone. It buzzed in her shackled hands filled with raw energy, raw power, ready to burn, ready to destroy.

Vortigern stood and looked down his nose at her, replacing the crown with faintest of smiles. "It seems you may yet be of use to me," he noted before shutting the solid wooden door behind him, plunging Frida into darkness once more.