I was born the fourth son, and that was ever my salvation.

Had I been firstborn, like my brother Gawain, I would have had the weight of responsibility incessantly bear down on my shoulders. I saw that burden daily, in the creases of his face even as he sparred and brawled. His mind was always on his inheritance - on keeping it. Had I been second, like my brother Agravaine, I would have been unfortunate enough to always taste power, tantalizingly sweet, on the tip of my tongue and never have the chance to swallow properly. I would always be the lesser brother. And had I been third like Gaheris, I would have been most luckless of all, removed just far enough from power to always hunger for it but never receive so much as a fleeting taste. It must have been doubly difficult for Gaheris, being but two minutes younger than his twin. Two minutes, and he had been denied a world.

But because I was fourth born, I was so sufficiently removed from any prospect of power that I did not care for it. It had never even crossed my mind that I would one day wear any crown. I was Prince Gareth of Orkney, fourth son of King Lot of Lothian and his queen, Morgause, and from childhood I had known that I could one day be a knight, a hero even, but never a king. It was simply inconceivable that all three of my elder brothers should fall before me. In truth, I did not desire to be a king. Being a king would mean all the rest of my family must be dead. It was a high price that I was unwilling to pay.

I wish now that I had asked that question of my brothers.

***

Lancelot once told me that the best place to begin is at the beginning. I had laughed then, too young to recognize the wisdom of his words.

He was right, as he always was.

I wish I could tell this tale - this great, glorious tale on how Arthur of Britain united a nation - from the beginning. I wish I could relegate every detail of his rise to power, weaving all the elements of exposition together to do honor to his deeds.

But I cannot, for I begin this tale with the end.

***

I feel moisture on my lips. Blood, mine. A warmer, gentler moisture on my cheek. Tears. Dear Linette has found me. She has heard the shrieks from the queen's bedroom. I want to tell her to run, to hide, anything to avoid the clash of swords.

Her lips are moving, but I do not hear anything. I want so badly to, more than I have ever wanted anything else in my life.

I am frightened.

The last time I felt like this was the day I met Lancelot. How fitting, I realize as the world cants dangerously around me, that it should all begin and end with Lancelot.

My eyelids feel heavy. Light slips in and out of my vision. I see Lancelot, in warrior form, his bloody sword still singing among his adversaries. This night was an ambush. I see Gaheris leap at Lancelot from behind, and I cannot yell a warning. But Lancelot moves faster than any other man, and suddenly Gaheris is dead at his feet.

Gentle Linette is sobbing against my chest now, her hands pressed against the wound at my side. How close we were to marriage, I think dumbly even as my eyes remain fixed on the horror unfolding in the queen's bedchamber.

Lancelot whirls and runs his sword through another man's abdomen. The man falls, and it is not until his face is inches from my own that I recognize those features.

The untamed brown hair, thick eyebrows, and accusing pitch-black eyes - Agravaine! My heart lurched.

I gasped for air and found none.

All I could do was give thanks to God that Gawain had not been in the room.

I had been fourth born, but at least - at least? The irony stings. - I will not be fourth to die.