“Britain is... wounded.” How dare you say those words? You should snap like a branch in a storm and fall insensate at the enormity of that truth. To say it, to mean it, yet to know that you have barely explained to Robena what it means.

But, then again, she’s been on the battlefield, hasn’t she? She’s seen sucking, festering wounds. Wounds that will last for the rest of a man’s life, one way or another. Maybe she understands. Britain is [i]wounded.[/i]

“The people like the farmer with the donkey... they’re fighting a blight on the corn. It’s worse near Camelot. I’d almost convinced myself that if we kept our heads down and did what we could, it would be better soon. But then this...”

You gesture hopelessly at the graves. More of Uther’s subjects failed by their king. More of Britain groaning under his rule. And what can you do against him?

“Merlin has not been seen for... three years, now. There’s a price for him. If he was here, maybe he could keep us from the worst of it, but he’s a traitor to the throne. Or so it’s said. And I wonder if he saw what I did. The fire and the blood and the dark rolling over us, blind and thoughtless.”

You hit yourself, fist clenched, against your hip. From a deep well the bile comes bubbling up. “And I thought I could hide by my lake and stop nightfall with candles and seeds?”