The parchments rustled together ominously, weighing down my skirt. Something moved in the shadows behind me. I moved down the hallway, quietly stepping so I wouldn’t be heard against the granite flagstones. God, I hated that skirt. It constricted my movement like a snake, pulls too, too tight around one’s waist, and was purple. Normally I would have loved this (the colour I mean), but it was light purple. Like a pretty pansy. Erruggh.
I didn’t want to be here. I wanted to be in the fields, riding Arbinor all day, then practising with my quarter staff until the dead of night in Tvis. But, because of my parents, and my target, I was being sent on a ‘diplomatic’ mission to Camelot, of all places. Camelot- place of the free, home to the Knights of the Round Table, and their awe-inspiring leader King Arthur. Ugh. The stories Mabel told at home. Disgusting. Saving damsels in distress, killing monstrous beasts, murdering innocent children. Do they not know what he did to the Druids? To the sorcerers? To the land?
My mind had wondered. I focused myself on finding my way around the castle. Seriously, I thought, they should provide a bloody map. Here, you are an uninvited and probably hostile mysterious young lady. Let us give you a map, with directions to one of our best Knight’s quarters. Have a good night! I laughed quietly to myself.
“Who goes there?” Damm it. “Turn around, now.” I ran, drawing my dagger out of my pocket. The one good thing about skirts, I thought, is that they have such deep pockets. My feet slammed against the floor, but someone caught my wrist and held it above my head.
“What is happening here, Gwaine?” said another voice. Oh, bloodyhellcrap. “Who is that?”
“I don’t know who this is, but I have a feeling she isn’t a serving girl.” Gwaine replied, grabbing my dagger and throwing it to the second knight. Doublebloodyhellcrap.
“Aahh. Do you think she is part of Morgana’s army?”
“Possibly.” I spat on the guard’s shoes. “Why else should be- hey!”
“You deserve it.” I whispered to him. Reflecting on that, it probably was a bad move. I tried to run, honestly, but seriously? Me, running in a skirt, that I almost never wore, while trying to free my wrist from a soldier, also suffering for sleep deprivation? It was guaranteed to be a failure.
“Send her to the dungeons. We’ll ask the King to question her in the morning.”
“I am not one of them.” I hissed, furiously.
“We shall see,” answered the second person. “Gwaine, you know what to do.”
“See ya’ soon, Leon.” Gwaine replied with a smile, before pulling me, by the wrist, down staircases, along corridors, until we arrived at the dungeons. Oh, great.
He pushed me into a cell, then locked it. “Someone’ll come in the morning with some food, and will take you to the King.” Gwaine left, after locking the cell door.
Dammit. I slumped down against a wall, letting my hands flop to my sides. I knew Galahad should have undertaken this journey, I reflected, he would have tried to reason with those people instead of spitting on them. Or Isabell. She would have gone to the court during the day with the message, instead of sneaking around in the dead of night. Good job, Tvis, good job.
I busied myself with inspecting my cell. It was quite small, with uneven walls made of stone, and a straw floor. There was a iron ring driven into the wall, and a chain attached to that. Presumably it was for the prisoners, so they would not try and escape. Though, if they were magic, they would not have any trouble. Unless…..no. He told me that only the druids know that.
Him. Otherwise known as Magic Boy in my mind. Otherwise known as the unwilling accomplice. Otherwise known as-. Nah, I won’t tell you that yet.
