CHECKMATE [ARTHUR PENDRAGON]

Chapter 8: The Gates of Avalon II

Disclaimer: I do not own BBC's Merlin, their characters nor their plot. I do however own the Princess Arwyn and Sir Geralt. Their character and story arcs remain my intellectual property.

The sun shone through the gap in the wall, gently taking the sting out of the cold winter air. Snow painted the grounds beneath the tall castle, tinting the tops of the evergreen forests surrounding it. A warm wolf-skin cloak drowned her as it protected her from the harsh northern winter of her homeland. Her breath crystallized in front of her face with each breath. Tiny gloved hands were engulfed in larger ones as the fiery-haired woman knelt in front of her. Her vision was blurred until her memory filled the blanks.

"You have the power to do anything you set your mind to." The woman spoke, a golden crown woven into her hair as her eyes crinkled with kindness. "I have every faith that one day, you will unite people regardless of their differences and rule with compassion." The little princess considered her mother carefully, watching as she pulled her daughter's cloak closer around her. "You possess a beauty unknown to many in our position. A rare and pure beauty..." She continued, her words weighed heavily by a force unknown to the child afore her. Sea green eyes watched, widened, as a long but seemingly fragile forefinger pointed to her heart. "...in here. Never lose it." Her hands were cold as they reached to cradle her child's cheeks - pink as the frozen hands of winter winds caressed them. Upon contact, a gentle smile deepened the dimples on either side of her pale face. "No matter what happens, no matter the trials that will test your patience and everything you believe in, promise me that you will never lose your heart." With a slight frown at the solemn tone, she nodded as the queen offered a teary eyed smile.

"Why are you crying?" Her voice was high-pitched and full of the tender innocence of a soul not yet touched by the darkness of the world. A tiny hand coated in leather reached up, tentatively wiping a tear from her mother's freckled left cheek.

A frown of confusion only grew deeper as the red-head placed a wet and lingering kiss on her forehead, smoothing out her unruly auburn hair as she whispered: "I am so proud of you, my darling."

She recalled the dream as she travelled across the grounds to the stables. The tear-stained pillows and the way in which her hair clung to damp cheeks, just below her eyes. Though she would never admit it, Arwyn had been grateful that Arthur had decided to spend the morning with her. In truth, deep down (very deep down) he was the only person that she wanted to see - whether or not her stubborn heart would allow her to see it. She had been uncharacteristically quiet since sunrise but as always, Sir Geralt followed her two steps behind - his fist cradling the hilt of his sword with more fervent than before. As far as he could help it, he would allow nothing to so much as twist her brow. Not today. Many say that time heals and yet, even after fourteen years, the young princess was still ingested by a darkened abyss with the sole purpose of reminding her of the day that changed her life forever. The very day that sealed her fate as the female heir to the Distant Isles - the little lady who had to navigate her way in a world full of sharks with very little power and without a mother to guide her.

Watching her with earnest, the knight began to whistle an old sea shanty that he had picked up many years before the birth of the young royal placed under his protection. A song that reminded him of one of his favourite adventures; one of Arwyn's favourite stories. See, as a unruly child, the princess would often dismiss her maids and nurses as she crawled into her bed at night, and beckoned her guard; favouring the tales of the man that she had grown to idolise. The man that she had craved to grow into; much to the council's disdain as their political pawn had to be wrestled down from the castle walls, chased into formal meetings and thrown in a dress whilst picking grass from her tangled hair, and continually scolded for her use of a sword as she claimed to have been rescuing a village from a pack of hungry ghouls. However, despite her unladylike manner, Arwyn had always remained the apple of King Richard's eye and her kingdom's sweetheart. Sir Geralt fought against the happiness that burned in his chest as he witnessed the smallest of smiles sneak onto her face as his whistled tune reached her ears; it was a simple action and yet, despite his stoic exterior, it warmed his heart to know that he had caused just a speck of her pain to ebb - if only for a moment.