Chivalry ♛ King Arthur

twєntч-thrєє

ARTHUR rose from his seat at the head of the table and leaned forward toward the Viking envoys. Katla met the King's harsh gaze and felt the colors of ignominy and dishonor rise to her cheeks. "You assaulted my queen. You should count yourself lucky to still be breathing."

Their guests adverted their gaze to Ida. She sat upon the throne, overseeing the meeting with a diadem resting on her brow. Art glanced over his shoulder to Frida. She met his gaze and offered a subtle nod. "But the Queen is a gracious and forgiving woman and despite the prior transgression she has agreed to offer you a seat at the Table." The relief of the Viking envoys was tangible upon those words.

Bedivere rose from his seat and came to stand at Arthur's side, unrolling a piece of parchment. "Now that has been resolved we may begin the next order of business," the old knight said, smiling.

♛ ♛ ♛

Frida propped her chin up on Art's shoulder. It was the end of another peaceful day. Soon though, the spring festival would be upon them and the summer trading season after. They would long for these slow days when councils and meetings lasted for hours at a time. He rubbed her back and turned his head to breathe in the soft floral scent of her hair, mixed with cinnamon and thyme. She'd been in the kitchens.

Tristan pushed open their chamber doors, not bothering to knock. He glanced between both of them but settled his gaze on Frida. "You better come quick." She was out the door running before Art could even pull a shirt on again.

He'd told her Laudine didn't think Edwyn would last through the night. Each time a sickness plagued him, it grew more severe. The winter fever that had taken hold of him almost had not let him from its grasp. Wet Stick pushed open the doors of Edwyn's chambers.

The old baker was nestled in layers of fur, despite the large fire roaring in the hearth. Frida sat at his bedside, taking his withered, cold hand. She knew this day had long been coming, but it felt too soon. It would always be too soon.

"Edwyn?" She managed his name in a hoarse whisper, heart beating in her throat. Not even two days ago he had been in the kitchens with her, dipping sweet rolls and sprinkling salt on pretzels. Their roles had switched since she had first begun helping in the bakery.

"My dearest," he breathed, voice airy and soft. Tears gathered in her eyes. It took much of his strength to lift his hand to brush away the dampness from her dark eyes. "No tears, Ida-" Edwyn forced a smile "-no tears for a dying old man." Even he knew this time was different.

She just shook her head, unable to stop the tears. "You were my joy," Edwyn told her. He always thought it was fate that led a small girl with bloody feet into his life -less than a month after his wife and unborn son died of fever. He never had the chance to raise his own child, but Frida gave him that opportunity and he loved her for it.

"It's okay-" Edwyn reached for her other hand "-you can let me go." It didn't seem fair that he was the one offering consolation whilst drawing his final breaths. She wanted to be strong for him, but strength slipped through her fingers like water and silk.

"But I don't want to," Frida cried, feeling more like the young homeless girl walking aimlessly through the streets of Londinium than a woman.

Edwyn squeezed her hands, but then he grew still and silent. Laudine came from the shadows and pressed her fingers against his neck. She waited but soon looked at Frida and shook her head. The old baker was already gone.

"No!" She seized a fistful of fur and buried her face into the bed. The room exploded with small bursts of light and shocks of energy with her cry. Laudine cowered back, afraid of what the queen was capable of in her grief and agony. She could destroy the castle without meaning to.

Arthur laid his hand on Ida's shoulder, undeterred by the power seeping from her being. At his touch everything stilled. She turned and pressed her face into his abdomen, weeping for the loss of her true father. He held her tight.

♛ ♛ ♛

The Vikings buried their warriors and honorable dead in pyre ships. Though not a warrior, Frida decided the old baker deserved such a spectacle. Leif had offered the smallest of their ship to serve for the purpose, but the queen politely declined. She would craft her own ship for Edwyn.

Beside the river was a young elm sapling, too twisted to grow. It wouldn't last another winter. Ida laid her hands upon the bark and began to sing, willing the tree to do her bidding. The elm answered her by growing taller and wider, though its trunk and branches remained twisted and uneven.

Art watched from afar, still bewildered by the power Frida possessed. She could speak softly to a mountain, and it would fall at her feet. He had witnessed her turning stone to water and the air into tiny gems. Tristan and Blue joined him on a hill and observed an Arcanist at work.

All it took was a smooth wave of her arm, and the tree was felled. Upturned by the roots. Now large enough to be cut for wood, yet this endeavor was still incomplete. No ax nor saw need touch the tree to make a ship. The elm bent to her will like parchment. The scraggy roots became an ornamented bow, the branches curved backward at the stern and within the wide trunk was a depression large enough for a body and trinkets.

Now finished, Frida stepped back and sank to her knees. Exhausted and crying once more. The heavens opened up and down fell a cold rain, echoing her pain.

By the time Ida returned to the castle, she was shivering and covered in mud. Arthur quickly called for a warm bath to be drawn and swathed her in a woolen blanket after riding her of the soaked dress and slippers.

One of the orphaned girls nearing womanhood had asked to be Frida's lady-in-waiting. At first, she was hesitant about appointing Helga or any of the children to positions akin to thralldom, but she had accepted the girl's request. Helga worked a pearl and shell comb through the knots created by two days of neglect before smoothing rose oil over Ida's dark hair.

For the first time in her life, Frida wore a black dress. It had a high neck and long sleeves. Her hair -a dark, damp veil- fell to her waist. She wore no jewels, no crown, only her grief. Arthur believed there was something haunting about how beautiful she looked. He took her to the docks -where Edwyn's corpse had been laid in the elm ship. 

She stepped into the dying light of the day and stopped. Hundreds were present. All of Camelot must have gathered at the docks to pay homage, to offer condolences and support to the queen in this time of hardship.

They parted, creating a path leading to the dock. Bedivere, William, and Percival stood on the right edge of the dock, each holding a torch aloft. On the left stood Caradoc, Gwaine, and Galahad. Tristan stood in the center and passed his torch to Arthur. Ida passed by them all in silence. 

The old baker was dressed in his finest robes, at rest in the small ship she had crafted. Frida kissed Edwyn's brow for a final time before laying her hands upon the rough ship and igniting it. Before the flames dwindled, many had gone. Arthur held her close as the flames reached up into the night.