The sun shimmered through the leaves overhead, dappling the packed earth in a mosaic of bright light and shadows, the image shivering as the wind blew through the trees. It was a welcome wind; not too heavy as to cause one to run for shelter, but enough to soothe the burn of the sun on bare skin. Arturia’s head was inclined skyward, eyes closed, as she soaked in the warmth, the air, the feeling of freedom. If anyone were to gaze her way, they would have noted she looked serene, content; neither an emotion that usual with the Princess. The rhythmic sway of her mount, coupled with the steady clack of hooves and the sounds of surrounding nature, had all helped to lull her into meditative like state.

Though Arturia loved her Kingdom, and would give her life for it, she savoured any opportunity presented to her in which she might be able to disregard her duties, even if only for a little while. She would never run from them, not truly, but the occasional escape was a welcome thing. Arturia knew she would have less chances to simply enjoy being alive when she became King.

Out in the woods like this, Arturia was dressed not far differently from her comrades. Her light weight armour, as was best suited for hunting, though wrought at a finer level than the others was uncomplicated in its design, unlike the ornate harness she wore for ceremony. Strikingly fiery hair was pulled back into a simple braid that fell over one shoulder, and Arturia was as hot and bothered and covered in the same layers of dirt and grime as the rest of the party. Truthfully, right now, if one did not know who she was by reputation alone, it would have been very easy to reject the notion that she was nobility. Arturia did not look in any way a ‘princess’; to say she took no care in her appearance would have been false, but there was veracity in the fact that she made no effort to enhance her femininity. Even her build spoke of someone who worked hard labour, with limbs showing defined, lithe muscle, than that of a delicate woman who wiled her days away with music and poetry.

It was not to say thay Arturia was not refined, not regal; after all, she was to be the future King of this land. She merely eschewed social conventions afforded to her gender, instead focusing on what she could do, seeking power and political support for more than what lay between her legs.

From her position at the head of the party, and so lost in her own world, Arturia was blissfully unaware of the teasing and bickering behind her. It was the sound of approaching hoofbeats that finally broke Arturia from her reverie, her hand instinctively going to the hilt of the sword at her waist.

“Gawain,” Arturia responded curtly, narrowing hazel eyes in annoyance. She dropped her hand from her sword; Gawain, for all his flaws, was not an enemy. “I’d take us faster, but I fear you might get left behind, and I don’t believe my father would take kindly to me losing a knight,” she added; while she was teasing back in kind, there was a certain bite to her words that had been missing from Gawain’s. “We’ll go back when we go back,” Arturia said, looking forward, avoiding Gawain’s gaze. Arturia knew she could trust every knight here with her life; and she did. She just didn’t trust them with the deeper aspects of herself. Arturia had always been guarded, right from childhood, but it was not necessarily a hindrance; though not in the Pendragon family, the Princess knew of nobles and aristocrats who had worn their hearts on their sleeves, and quickly found themselves taken advantage of by the schemingly perceptive.

Arturia could call all those present her friends, certainly, but only two did she consider that companionship close and familial over professional. Gwynfor, her betrothed, was like a brother to her, and Lancelotte, the one other woman in their group. There was a lot to be said for female solidarity, of having a friend who did not just know, but understood the hurdles that Arturia faced.

“Gawain, I think-“ the princess was cut off by the shrieking of an unknown beast in the underbrush. Her mount reared up in fear, but Arturia was, fortunately, an experienced enough equestrian to cling to the saddle to prevent herself being thrown. Pulling tightly on the reins, Arturia was able to regain control of her horse, though it trotted left and right, clearly anxious and wanting to run, whinnying irritably. Arturia looked up in time to see a wounded deer streak across the path in front of her, nearly colliding with her mount’s forelegs. There was shouting from the direction the deer had come from, and it sounded like a number of voices, angry at that.

Arturia’s hand dropped to her hilt once again; perhaps whoever they were, they would pass without confrontation, but she was not about to bet on it.