Chivalry ♛ King Arthur

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"BLUE!" The boy stopped in his tracks before leaving the kitchens. He was reaching his fifteenth nameday but was still training under Arthur and Caradoc with sword and shield. She tossed a warm roll to him, smiling. No one ever became a sword-master on an empty stomach. He grinned, took a large bite from the roll and waved to Frida as he went on. Blunted training sword resting on his shoulder.

Leif and Katla took new names upon being inducted into King Arthur's court. Lionel and Kay. Trade and peace with the Northmen had never come into question since they had been knighted. Now only one seat at the Round Table remained.

Frida and Arthur had discussed who should take the final seat often. Pellinor of Listenoise or Cynric of Wessex both were allies and friends of Camelot and had sons that could be knighted. But choosing the son of one king over another would be walking a thin line between war and peace.

Recently they both came to agree that Blue should take it when he came of age. Art had taken him as a ward -and in truth, as a son. The twelfth and final seat of the Round Table would go to Hector on his eighteenth nameday.

"Never thought I'd see a queen working in the kitchens," Isolde observed. Her own lady mother would have never stepped foot in the kitchens of the keep, let own stoop to such a level to cook or clean. There were chores that Isolde's mother felt were beneath her position and her daughter's. She wondered if her mother would have to gall to speak out against the Queen of England.

Frida glanced up and dipped her hands into a basket of flour, beginning to knead a crust for a pie. Fresh apples had come from the orchard and there was no better way to celebrate than with hand pies and dumplings.

Isolde was betrothed to Tristan. A fair maiden from Cornwall who had arrived less than a fortnight ago. She was kind and meek and had spent most of the days keeping to herself. "I was raised by a baker in Londinium," Ida explained. The wound left by Edwyn's passing had healed, but there came moments where she missed him terribly and it felt as though the wound would reopen. This was one of those moments.

"The stories are true then," Isolde smiled. She'd heard tales that Arthur had been raised in a brothel and on the streets and his arcanist queen was but a humble baker. She hadn't quite believed them until now –Ida appeared far more comfortable in the kitchens than sitting on a throne.

"How has your time been in Camelot thus far?" Frida asked, wiping her hands on a stained apron before reaching for a rolling dowel.

"Oh-" the question had caught her off guard "-the people are very kind." Camelot was different from Cornwall, but the smallfolk were almost the same. They could always spare a smile when she passed through the streets. Isolde enjoyed the castle grounds and countryside too, especially given the freedom to roam at her leisure. Given time, Camlet could become her home.

"And Tristan?" Ida asked. Wet Stick had been hesitant at first. He was a street rat -just like Arthur- and his upbringing was still reflected in his actions. Something he worried would offend a proper lady, even if he was a knight now.

Isolde flushed, gaze flicking to the stone floor. "He's been very good to me."

Ida smiled. "I'm glad to hear it."

♛ ♛ ♛ 

Children trailed behind Frida wherever she went outside of the castle walls. They all wanted to see magic. After tending to several errands and meeting with Gwaine and Galahad, she went down to the lower city.

Boys and girls surrounded her in the street. Ida raised her hand, let a buzzing purple light dance on her fingertips before it disappeared –transforming into a bouquet of flowers. Then she tossed the flowers high into the air, turning them to snow as they rained from the sky. It was a trivial way to use her abilities, but she loved seeing the smiles and looks of awe.

Arthur emerged from one of the taverns and paused when he saw the main square filled with children, Ida standing the center. He crossed his arms and leaned against a crumbling stone column from a bygone time.

Seeing her with children always made his heart swell with warmth –and a certain degree of sorrow. There had been once where they both thought it was possible. Something had changed, and the physician confirmed their suspicions though advised concern for the queen. The dream faded quickly in blood. Bedivere and Goosefat expressed condolences and then unease in regards to the line of succession. Frida and Arthur, with the support of the Round Table, appointed Blue as heir to the Throne of England.

Frida spun, lifting her arms to the sky and pulled butterflies of all sizes and colors from the air. Arthur bit down on his lip –trying to hide his wide smile. They locked onto one another in the crowd. Ida pushed a lock of dark hair behind her ear and offered a diffident smile before returning her attention to the excited boys and girls.

♛ ♛ ♛ 

Arthur rolled onto his side, gaze locked onto Frida as she read over a letter to the lords of Wessex. The winter festival was fast approaching and this time, she wished to invite more than just the nobles and knights of Camelot. Wisps of dark hair escaped from her braid and the warmth of the room made her cheeks flush a soft shade of pink. "Ida," Art called, drawing her attention away from the drafted invitation.

"What is it?" Ida asked in return.

"You're perfect," he answered, rising to his feet. Arthur kissed the top of her head, then the patch of skin exposed on her shoulder. Frida rolled her eyes. "Just speakin' the truth," he remarked, shrugging. Ida tugged on one of his belt loops and tilted her chin up. He accepted her cheeky invitation and leaned down –her lips soft as rose petals with the faintest hint of lingering honey.

Art rummaged in one of the wardrobes, finding a wooden chessboard and a box of pieces. He returned to the table and pushed the papers and books to the side, setting up the game. It had been a while since they'd last played. 

"You enjoy losing, don't you?" Ida asked. He'd never beaten her, not even when he tried to distract her, swapping pieces or moving a pawn one space too far. Art had even tried distracting her by more perverse means once or twice –those times his defeat had been even more embarrassing.

He pushed forward a black pawn, letting the match begin. "Only to you, love," he mused with a lopsided, boyish smile.

Just as the times before, she took his pawns, knights, rooks, and bishops. One by one his pieces fell until the only four pieces on the board were Frida's king and queen and Arthur's king and rook. He moved his rook into position and then Frida pushed her queen forward to prevent his check, smiling. "Queen saves the King," she remarked. Art leaned back and smiled –she had, more times than she would ever know.