The knights preparations are shameful, haphazard, and hardly able to stand against a weak breeze, let alone a full invasion. Gwaine is fairly certain that they are going to die as he races through the castle corridors, searching for the queen. There is only four days at best available for preparations, and that's a stretch.

He finally finds the queen wandering aimlessly about Arthur's chambers, which have already begun to gather dust, as if the room has decided that no one lives there, and sees no sense in procrastinating about becoming abandoned. Gwaine pushes down his uneasiness about this and addresses the queen.

"My lady," he breathes earnestly, " I'm sorry to have to bring this news to you, but I'm afraid it can't wait. We're being invaded from the south by Cenred's men and expecting another attack from the North or East. I've come to request permission to lead a battalion, if you'll allow it if course."

Guinevere stays silent for a moment, absorbing his words. She takes a glance around the darkened room and inhales deeply before responding in a hoarse, but strong voice.

"On one condition." her voice grows stronger as Gwaine's interest is piqued, "you must lead them to the south. Save as many of our people and their lands as you can-"

"But they are only farmers, what about the citadel?" Gwaine interrupts, thinking about the sparse troops and resources available to him. If they want to make an impactful move, they only have one chance to do it.

"And we are nothing without them!" the queen states, head held high and an old fire burning faintly behind her eyes.

Gwaine recognizes that this is not a fight he can win. He sighs and decided to put his trust in the wisdom of the queen. Guinevere has never led them astray, and Gwaine doubts that she will now.

"As you wish, your highness." he bows as he begins to leave the room, already running through a mental checklist of what he must prepare for the long march ahead.

"Gwaine!" Guinevere calls out, causing the knight to swing back in through the doorway.

She walks up to him and wraps her arm around him in a quick embrace.

"Merlin would be so proud." she says looking into his eyes as she pulls back, "you know he would, let that be a strength to you."

Gwaine meets her eyes,"I will." he says reverently, matching her gaze.

Guinevere nods with a smile as Gwaine turns once more to make his leave. As the door swing shut behind him Guinevere sighs. She gazes around the desolate room, thinking of how the candlesticks and furniture used to shine, but now stand dull and lifeless. She decides that she can no longer wallow in her sorrow while her kingdom and people stand defenseless. With a final glance back, she leaves the room, head held high, shoulders squared, promising to herself only to return when her work is done.

-------------

Gwaine has begun to believe that stupidity is a disease, and that Camelot is in the midst of an epidemic.

"No!" he shouts at a particularly stupid knight, "You cannot just stack swords without their scabbords in a cart without even a ccovering! They'll be so rusted by the time we arrive that we would be better off fighting the enemy with chicken bones. Now get it right!"

He fights the urge to kick the cart and stomps off to see what other shenanigans are afoot. So far he's managed to get nearly 200 knights and an uncountable group of men from the neighboring villages and refugees. All completely untrained, but wielding crossbows, swords, and an assortment of makeshift tools, nonetheless.

Gwaine pinches the base of his nose and sighs as he walks up to the next cart, which has somehow ended up yolked to a pony and a horse. The yolk is at such an obsurd angle, that, had he not been so irritated already, he would have found comical.

"What is this?" He demands, rounding on a peasant boy who take a a quick step backwards.

Gwaine pauses, the boy couldn't have been more than eighteen. He has the same dark mop of hair and lanky build as Merlin. The resemblance shocks Gwaine for a moment, until he remembers that Merlin isn't here. And he won't be.

"I'm, uh." the boy looks about, a bit dazed, "I'm not sure?"

"The horse," Gwaine sighs, "Can go to the back with the marching battalion. The pony can handle this alone. I don't want that uneven yoke causing any trouble."

The boy nods and quickly begins to undo all the straps and buckles. Gwaine tries to turn away, but something draws him back.

"How old are you?" He asks the boy.

"I'll be eighteen this spring." the boy answers with a sheepish smile while he struggles with one of the straps.

"Oh, I um." Gwaine stalls, not sure what to say. The boy is so young, he shouldn't have to die in an old man's war, "You look like someone I used to know is all. Carry on."

As much as Gwaine loathes himself for it, there's nothing he can do. He needs men, of any age.

He finally reaches the last cart, sighing with relief when he finds it exactly as it should be. He glances back at the line, all waiting to get their piece of glory or die trying. He sighs and sends up a small prayer to whoever is listening, and he gives the call.

"March!"