The rain lashed Guinevere who clung to her black mare, the water had begun to drool down the back of her neck like a slobbering hound. The tracks to the town of Daventry had become sticky and clung to the hooves of the horse which her grandmother had bought for her through some dubious means.

The outline of the town was barely visible but she rode on. Over the vast lakes of mud and water with sunken clumps of trees in little huddles at the side of the road. The weather fought Guinevere all the way to the gates of the town as the gale howled and screamed in her ear.

Finally, she entered the gates of the town, the overhanging cobble archway sheltered Guinevere who gently rubbed her horse's neck and dismounted. The horse who she had affectionally named Nia, shook her sodden mane and stomped in annoyance at the long ride.

Guinevere snorted at her companion, she leaned against her horse's front and rested her head against the mare's neck and gently closed her eyes. Her body felt like lead and had been brutalised by the bitter cold. Her blue smock and cloak were caked in mud and she dragged herself to an inn, which stood low and rickety near the entrance of the town.

The sign swung violently due to the raging winds and had the barely visible depiction of a badly painted white stag. The words 'The White Hart' was written in calligraphy which would have looked quaint if not for the arrow piercing the limping creature's flank. Guinevere grimmest at the cruel sight and poor taste but ducked into the warm stables at the side of the inn to avoid the storm. She waded through the warm dry hay which clung to her wet clothes. Nia huffed as she was gently tied to the side of the empty stable and softly nuzzled into Guinevere's open palm, accepting some bran and hay as payment for the journey.

"Get some rest, Nia, we have a long ride tomorrow to Tamworth" Nia snorted at Guinevere's warm tone and playfully nicked her rider's hand. Guinevere smiled softly and dragged her aching body around the side of the inn and through the low-hanging doorway which connected the stables and inn.

The Inn, unlike the rain which sloshed against the windows like that of a ship's hull in a storm, was surprisingly quiet. Guinevere stepped lightly across the well-polished floors and padded towards the large oak bar at the opposite end of the room. The low room smelt of old candle wax and home-brewed beer, no wonder her Grandmother told her to come here, it seemed perfectly decent. The water on the back of her neck ran down her back and froze her flesh. She looked cautiously around the room before allowing her blood to warm itself, causing her fingers to give off a warm golden glow. She allowed herself two full breaths of air before shutting off the welcomed sensations of warmth.

"Can I help you, Miss?"

Guinevere started, her eyes wide and swung to face the voice. The loud rounded voice came from a tall man standing just behind the corner, behind the counter. He wore a cotton shirt, open a little and a leather apron. A large scar dug down the side of his face and his sharp brown eyes locked onto Guinevere's shivering frame.

"Yes, you may. Please may I have a room for the night?" she cleared her throat and placed her hands gently in front of her and miserably failed to stop herself from shivering.

"You look small and shattered," said the barkeep, placing his toned muscled arms on the bar and looking at Guinevere sternly, the crows' feet around his eyes crinkled Guinevere took a measured step back away from the man. Seeing her discomfort the man raised an eyebrow curiously and handed her a heavy iron key from his pocket.

Guinevere hesitantly took the key from his outreached palm and he gripped her for arm and pulled her close to him over the counter. Guinevere tried to lunge at him at him but he swiftly steadied her and gently whispered. "Born in the Dawn"

Guinevere breath slowed and she stared at the man who apologised frankly for his harshness and she smiled at him. "To pass in the twilight" she responded gratefully and nodded to her to signal his understanding.

Guinevere turned the heavy key in the lock and walked into the small room after dragging her leather boots up the wooden steps. She quickly removed her wet clothes and put on a white smock and promptly collapsed onto the small bed in the corner of the room. The soft down of the handsewn duvet was warm and comforting and she drifted off to sleep.

Warm light drifted over her face and Guinevere sat up slowly. Her thighs shook with tension and weariness and she trudged to the basin next to the small window opposite her bed. The basin was washed white, decorated with delicate lilies and roses that curled around the edges of the bowl. Guinevere breathed a lungful of air and leaned over the bowl, putting most of her weight onto the wooden table on which the bowl rested.

She tried to look through the grim-covered glass but the world outside looked muddy and dank. Guinevere roughly opened the window which opened with a creak. The soft smell of rain and wet mud penetrated her nose and she began dressing and packing. The street outside the White Hart was desolate as the sun had barely peeked over the large grassy hills in the distance. Guinevere hoped she could have some breakfast and slip out before anyone apart from the barkeep noticed she was gone. Had not she known he was also a Fae, persecuted and forced to hide in plain sight, she would not have slept.

Guinevere tip-toed softly down the stairs, the hem of her new red smock kissing the scratched floor. She pulled her cloak to her skin, it had thankfully mostly dried overnight but still had a fleck of mud from the brisk ride the night before. Her cramped and she tried to ignore it as she walked up to the bar.

"One breakfast for you Miss?" said the Barkeep, Guinevere nodded quickly taking a seat on a high wooden stool. Guinevere shifted in her seat which dug into her thighs and the barkeep plopped a bowl of porridge in front of her. She quickly ate the breakfast and paid him even though it tasted like cold watered-down gruel.

The door to the Inn slammed open and Guinevere and the Barkeep jumped. Guinevere pressed herself into the wood of the bar and hid her hands between the folds of her cloak. A young boy was dragging a tall man in a grey cloak through the door. The boy was huffing and sweat was clear on his brow. The Barkeep rushed around the bar and lifted the weight from the boy's shoulders. The sticky residue of blood caked the boy's left side and the man under the grey cloak groaned in protest.

The warm morning air was pierced by the scent of iron and mud. Guinevere approached the man who the barkeep had laid on a table by a large window looking over the street. Guinevere gently pulled the hood from the man's face, supporting his head with both of her hands in the same way you would a baby.

The scars lining his under eyes were thick and black, trailing down his face like tear marks. Guinevere started back and grabbed her bag. Her chest heaved and her blood burned wanting to release the emotional pressure building up inside of her.

The boy, who had been gazing at her pale face reached out and grabbed her clothed arm.

"Born in the dawn" his small voice stammered.

"To pass in the Twilight" Guinevere replied, kneeling to the boy's height. "What are you doing with him?" she rushed in a hushed tone. Her blood was now roaring in her ears and her mind was spiralling as to why a small Fae boy would be with their Monster.

She hurriedly pulled the boy behind her as the man in the grey cloak began to sit him, growling under his breath and clutching his injured side. Guinevere reached out with her mind and could feel his wounds. She knew he would not be able to run let alone fight but the long broad sword at his side sent a bead of sweat down the back of her neck.

"It's okay Miss, he won't hurt us" the small boy spoke from behind her. He tried to pull her towards the bleeding soldier but she was frozen. She knew stories about this man, villages he had burned, the men and women he had slaughtered in Wessex. Terror permeated her body and she stared at the small fae boy who roughly tried to pull her towards the hooded man.

"I won't hurt you" the Monk stuttered out. His breath came in short bursts and he moaned as the rolled onto his side. Guinevere knew what his man had done and she was tempted to grab the child and run to the stables. However, as she had been abandoned by the barkeep, she very carefully approached the Weeping Monk.

"We were attacked Miss, he saved my life from the Trinity Guard and the Paladins. He is on our side now." the small boy said quickly. His high-pitched staccato voice echoed around the room and Guinevere was frozen in contemplative silence as she stared at the Paladin's greatest weapon, broken and bleeding.

Guinevere untucked one small bare hand from her cloak and touched the Weeping Monks' forehead. She pushed a feeling of bliss into his mind and his eyes rolled back in his head due to the pain relief. Guinevere hesitantly looked around the empty bar, the barkeep had fled the moment he had realised who the man was and it was still very early. However, Guinevere was paranoid that someone else would come down and sound the alarm but more importantly that this was some twisted set-up.

"Help me get him upstairs" she whispered to the boy who anxiously looked at his companion and he nodded obediently.

Guinevere and the boy dragged the Weeping Monk up the stairs and into her bedroom. The boy quickly closed the door and Guinevere gently rested him on the bed. His dark blood soaked the sheets and Guinevere began to gently examine him. Her hands skirted along his chest and found a gash from the top of his ribs to his naval.

She breathed hesitantly and she looked in silent fear into his deep blue eyes which were cold and closed off. She broke eye contact and purposely stared at the rickety wooden beams in the ceiling as she kneeled next to his broken body.

She breathed in a silent breath, her heart hammering in her chest as she allowed the golden tendrils to flow from her fingers. The golden light shimmered in the air and the boy's eyes widened in surprise. The spalls of light twirled around the Weeping Monk wound which quickly became red lines of closed tissue.

After his wounds had been healed, Guinevere sank to her knees and buried her head in her hands. Her hands were sticky with his once gushing blood and she felt a storm of water spill from her eyes. The stink of flesh and iron and the fear which hung in the air was too much and Guinevere crashed to the floor in a heap.