Finally, the World Moves Again
“If Comes Uterius has given his permission, and if Domina Guinevere is agreeable, would you court me for the next year? And if after that you still—”
“Yes.”
At last, the stalled world would begin to turn again. These were the words she had longed for, prayed for endlessly. She had spent countless sleepless nights dreaming of hearing them.
Her father, Uterius, was an extraordinary man. In this crumbling empire, outstanding ability meant constant demands from every corner. Perhaps that was why the young Guinevere's ideal man had always been someone steadfast, someone who could stand in stark contrast to her anxious mother—unlike her father, always trembling at his side. A man who could guard a fragile woman and her daughter forever.
How childish that had been... Looking back, it was foolish. Even after her father returned from grueling campaigns, scrubbing away the blood and sweat as best he could, she hated the faint traces that lingered on his brow. She would burrow deeper into her mother's embrace. What must it have felt like for a man who had to leave home time and again to save the land and its people?
And so, when her frail mother finally departed from her father and Guinevere's side, Guinevere had waited in a cold corner of the church, preparing a torrent of cruel words to hurl at him when he appeared. Lord, forgive me. How vicious they had been...
But when she saw her father's face—always weary yet smiling—crumble for the first time, twist in anguish and despair, Guinevere realized her mistake in an instant. Her father wasn't the villain. The world was.
What a childish, simplistic, yet piercing insight it had been—profound in its naivety. The rest of Guinevere's life might have been an extension of studying and dissecting that impulsive conclusion.
If the world was rotten, why had it decayed this way? As the old priest from the mainland had said before departing, wasn't this world a sacred space created by our Lord? Hadn't the Lord blessed this Roman Empire? Why, then, had it fallen so low?
Thus, the girl lost her mother too soon, embraced her father's pain alongside him, and pondered the world until her pure faith gradually faded. For this world was anything but innocent.
Why else had her father, the commander of the Saxon Shore defenses, ventured out even on one of this land's rare festivals—while others celebrated with fanfare? Divine plan or no, if the Comes litoris Saxonici did not move, the fertile folk tilling Britannia's southeast would die or be wounded.
The Roman legions, meant to uphold that sacred duty, had all vanished somewhere. Why? Once more, because the world was not innocent.
And so the girl of Camulodunum had perhaps shed her innocence too early. Her father, who had sworn to protect her happiness above all and granted her freedoms excessive for a noblewoman of this age, could not shield her from that.
Yet because he was such a father, Guinevere had plunged into the social whirl of women, divining eligible suitors from afar, weighing their houses, agonizing over the fate of this Romano-Britannia, desperate to make the best choice for her father and the people of Camulodunum.
Should she approach Vortigern? The Comes of Isca was said to fight well—perhaps forge ties with York? If not, convince her father to flee to the mainland themselves. But he would refuse, sending her alone. Then Guinevere could not abandon him and would stay, returning to square one.
She might have watched the plundered lands and suffering people in pained silence, holding her breath in dread, whispering of the end times drawing near—accepting it quietly, fatalistically, as God's plan, together with her father. Any nightmare to come, side by side. For that was the fate most unlucky souls here had met: dishonored, enslaved, slain. Or all three.
Those were the days she secretly watched the wrinkles deepen on her father's face, mirroring his mounting worries.
Like all rumors, one name born from who-knows-where swept across Camulodunum's fields, city, rivers, and hills—to Londinium and beyond, racing along the Roman roads that still pulsed like veins through the land. Like a fierce blaze rising from the plains. Like a spring swarm devouring every anxious whisper that had gnawed at the earth.
It was an unbelievable sight. The gloom that had hung over Britannia like storm clouds vanished without a trace, all because of one man's name. A miracle by another name, perhaps. The impact was that profound.
The arrival of Artorius.
[That man is supposed to be that impressive?] At first, mere doubt. The jealousy of a daughter with a great father, perhaps. How dare this nobody compare to mine? How could people so callously, cruelly dismiss the man who had given everything for this land in an instant?}
Anger, envy. From such base curiosity, her interest soon turned to undeniable fascination after their first meeting.
[That's... a person? Not a bear?]
[Gwen, mind your words. Calling a man a bear...]
[But Father, that man...]
Artorius was immense. At first, she thought it mere physique. But operating near Camulodunum required her father's permission for anything, so she met him often. Through it all, Guinevere came to see: Artorius might be even greater than her father, for whom defending the Saxon Shore was burden enough.
Not just in size, but like a vessel containing the world itself.
“Dominus Artorius.”
“Domina Guinevere, what is it?”
“It's been five years already. That long since you began fighting.”
“Has it?”
“Yes. In all that time, you've neither amassed wealth nor gathered men, nor lingered in Camulodunum to build influence. Why—why have you done this?”
Everyone knew where the Roman legions and fleets had gone—the ones that had sealed the walls tight, patrolled to the northern edge, watching for barbarians. The fleets, long entangled in mainland strife. The remnants, led away by their self-crowned 'emperor' Constantinus.
Why abandon their duty to defend this land? For greater gains. No matter the suffering here—their ambitions mattered more. That was the essence of this un-innocent world: indifference to others' lives. Even the gods, perhaps...
So Guinevere watched Artorius closely. From his sudden arrival to tales of valor, similarities to the legions' disgrace under Constantinus drew her in further. Was he an opportunist too? Unlike Constantinus, more politician than soldier, Artorius had proven himself a warrior reborn from myth—Hector, Achilles, Heracles.
More dangerous for it? No. He truly dwelled in that humble lakeside shack, slaying barbarians, beasts, and brigands preying on the chaos—devoted solely to that.
And that impressed her more than her father, whose house's interests aligned with the city's safety. She had to admit it, unwittingly.
So she asked, and his answer lingered unforgettable.
“Why do you do it? What do you mean?”
“Are you a saint? I don't believe in acts without reward in this land. What do you want?”
“...Want?”
That gaze of his might have captured her heart then—shaking the resolve of a woman ready to sacrifice herself for father and house. His eyes looked to horizons far beyond.
“Domina. I know what you imply, but what I want... doesn't exist in this world.”
“...What do you mean?”
“Exactly that. What I desire isn't here yet. So I want for nothing. Ah, I help people because it's the right thing. And, well, fighting seems my talent. So I do what I can. If you fear betrayal, cast me out anytime. Though I have no home in Camulodunum to evict me from, so no worries. Once the barbarians quiet, I'll leave.”
His strength was unmatched. Among warriors she'd seen growing up in Britannia's premier command house, none compared—perhaps never had, never would.
Not foolish either. Conversations hinted at a unique worldview, laced with wisdom.
And beneath the bulk, handsome: thick brows like a painter's ideal, lynx-like eyes, a strong yet elegant nose reflecting resolve, lips blending stubbornness and softness, a firm jaw. Wait—these thoughts? Like some girl?
Guinevere was confused but wise enough—matured too soon—to analyze and accept this new feeling coldly. Acknowledging her fondness and interest, she calculated.
This man would soon dominate Britannia. Even with Constantinus and his ragtag legions, Artorius's rising influence would sweep them aside. Post-Magnus Maximus, these Britannian legions were...
Houses would target him. Londinium's sly foxes, ambitious Vortigern— he'd invent a daughter if needed.
What to do? Over the next five years, she approached cautiously. With wariness turned to love's fire, she dissected not just his mind but his soul.
One unforeseen side effect: the more she knew, the more she was ensnared by this outsider-like man. Thus, she lacked courage to see another woman at his side.
So she played mistress of burgeoning Avalonia openly to this oblivious giant. And now, it bloomed.
“A year's courtship...?”
She smiled faintly, gazing at Artorius and his legion marching proudly ahead. Perhaps from when you said what you want isn't in this world yet, and I pondered it—you were already mine. A year's grace?}
“So cute.”
She knew these traits—in inverse to his size—showed his own way of considering her. Even raised to Magister militum by this land's rebels, he still saw himself as rootless nobody.
Frustrating, yet utterly trustworthy.
“Magister militum...”
What is Rome made of? Legions, gold, emperors, senate, citizens, slaves, glory, cruelty, rise, fall— all true. But at root: man and woman.
What role for women in this empire?
“Vortigern. What a perfect pretext.”
The widower might not grasp it yet, but she'd make him feel women's true weight in Rome soon enough.
Behind Guinevere—practical lady of Camulodunum, Avalonia's mistress for years, perhaps soon Britannia's—stood the quietly gathered daughters of the land's notables.