Advent prompt: Day 14 - Remembrance
Warning: mention of character death
Disclaimer: I do not own the BBC version of Merlin; BBC and Shine do. I am very respectfully borrowing them with no intent to profit. No money has changed hands. No copyright infringement is intended.
"Tell us a story, old Tom. Tell us, tell us."
A chorus of eager voices, village children clustered around. So ignorant of the past, so blind to what surrounded them even now.
He settled in, watching the boys impatient for adventure, the girls keen to hear stories of grandeur and a shining peace they could only dream of.
"Once, upon a golden hill, Camelot rose up, beautiful and bright, ruled by a wise king."
One of the little girls giggled, "King Arthur was his name." The other children took up the chorus, chattering wildly as they clapped and laughed and pulled each other's hair. They'd heard the tale many times before, but he just smiled.
"And who is telling this story, my young friends?"
"You are, you are," they cried and tried to settle down as children might, with whispers and grubby fingers playing in the dirt.
"He was a great king and loved his people more than himself, loved Camelot and Albion more than his friends, more than his knights. More than his wise advisor, the sorcerer who stood by his side."
Young eyes grew wide at the mention of a warlock and some of them squirmed under his knowing gaze.
Magic still existed. But there had been too many tales of sorcerers burning whole cities or bending others to their will, too many times the land had risen up and been shattered under spells of great strength for the children not to be wary of warlocks and wizards. Even hedge witches were suspect in this new age.
But he knew better. Magic was now a pale thing, bubbling unnoticed in the backwashes of villages like this one, waiting for the return of the once and future king. A pathetic remnant of a once-glorious time.
"Arthur tried his very best to make sure that his people were safe. He rode out into battle, time and again. A brave warrior, always fighting against those who would hurt his people. Saving villagers and Druids and farmers and smiths, people like you and I."
The children were quiet, watching him, for once listening. The pain of old memories shivered up his back, roughening his voice. It was harder than he thought it would be, telling the children the truth of that time.
"But King Arthur would try too hard and get hurt sometimes. His body was scarred with old wounds but it never stopped him. Always out in front battling evil-doers instead of behind the lines where he would be safe, where he belonged. Always going out again and again to fight bandits and armies that would destroy the peace he'd brought, with his strong arm and his faith in goodness and right. Using his sword to protect all of Albion and his beloved Camelot."
There were so many tales of Arthur and his knights, so many lies. He stopped for a moment, gathering up the pain and pushing it aside.
"Everyone thought that it would last forever, that golden hill. But as Arthur became greater and greater, there were those who would hurt him. Oh, not his enemies, mighty and many as they were."
One of the boys, Alfred, was already reaching toward little Bronwin's dark curls and he sent the youngster a sharp look, eyes boring into the child. Alfred pulled his hand back as if he'd been stung and his eyes narrowed and then turned guilty. Shrugging, the boy began to dig his heel into the dirt.
Little ones with no agenda but listening to an old man spinning tales. He shook his head. "No, his downfall would not be his enemies but his friends and the ones he loved. There are many ways to kill a heart and love is the easiest path. But Arthur didn't know that. He loved so much that he could be blind at times…."
Bronwin spoke up, "But shouldn't Merlin have told him? He was supposed to be so wise."
"Ah, young one but even Merlin was blind to love." He smiled sadly, shaking his head.
What he did not say was just how willfully blind that foolish, idiotic boy had been. So young, so damnably naïve. To think that sacrificing his own heart so that Arthur could be happy with Gwen, ignoring the signs of Lancelot and Guinevere's growing passion in the hope that they'd see reason, that they'd love Arthur as much as he had, had brought them all to ruin.
"And so Arthur's spirit was broken because the hearts of his queen and the first knight of the Round Table could not be ignored. Treachery, betrayal. The king was required to kill his lovely queen for she of all women was not allowed to marry one man and lay with another. It was the law of the land and even the king could not stand against it."
The little girls whispered among themselves but Alfred, bold and foolish boy, said, "King Arthur should have killed her. Then he would have lived and we would still have peace."
"Perhaps, young one, but hearts rarely listen to sense. Arthur loved her more than himself and in the end, he let Lancelot rescue the queen and take her away. And he was alone but for the sorcerer at his side."
"Stupid sorcerer. Merlin should have done something." Bronwin stamped her foot into the dust, pouting.
"He tried, young one, he tried to fix it but it was already too late. When the faithless queen ran away with Lancelot, Arthur's heart closed up and he would not trust again, not even to trust the man who loved the king more than his own life. The man, Merlin, known as the greatest sorcerer of all time, was as helpless as Arthur in the end."
"This story is stupid," said Alfred, rising up, his narrow chest puffed out in pique. "I like the ones where the King fights dragons and giants and boars and evil witches. Not this stupid romantic stuff."
The other boys clambered up, shouting that they wanted a better story with knights and killing and went off in search of sticks for swords and hanging in trees to look out for dragons and wyverns and mystical beasts of all kinds. And the girls shrugged and pulled up their skirts and drifted off, thanking him in soft voices as they headed back to their huts and the waiting chores.
As quiet settled in, he leaned forward, huddled, mourning what he'd lost.
It had been so long ago and yet it seemed like only yesterday, the pain still as fresh as that day when Arthur had fallen. His friend, his king, the man he'd never told of how he felt, the man he'd loved beyond all measure, the once and future king had gone into the mists of Avalon.
Sitting there, he did not look up toward the distant hill where ghosts still roamed among the ruins, did not gather the evening clouds into turrets and battlements and a shining castle rising sharp.
It would do no good. It was illusion. The halls of Camelot were no more. There was only the dust of memories.
And old Tom, once known as the greatest sorcerer of all time, was alone.