A Wifeless Husband.
A Friendless Man.
A Kingdomless King.
An Inevitable Fate...
Summery: They speak of Merlin and his eternal waiting, but none of Arthur and his own. After his demise, Arthur Pendragon is caught somewhere between life and death. He is utterly alone and a mere wisp of what he once was as he watches the world evolve around him; all the while reflecting upon his old life as he waits to rise once more as the famous King of Camelot.
Spoilers: the entire show
Warning: The main theme for this story is death (or what comes after Arthur dies).
Drinking will be humorously written into a scene.
The talk of scars (mentally and physically received) and adultery (briefly without much detail) will also be included.
Rating: T simply for the reasons stated above, but there will be nothing inappropriate or intentionally triggering and this story is meant to be fun and light-hearted.
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to BBC's Merlin. I am in no way being paid to endorse or sell anything. I am writing this story for my own pleasure.
I have also researched all the information about forgein countries, their languages, religions and beliefs. I tried my best to write everything that I didn't know in the correct terminology, but if I've used a word or phrase incorrectly than please feel free to let me know!
TIMELINE
I have loosely pared some of my scenes in the story to historical events in history. The past is always in Camelot which takes place in a fictional Britain around the 5th – 6th century, while the present always changes.
—Preface: unknown
—Scene 1 THEN; Camelot 5th century AD (the missing events of E1; S1 when Merlin first arrives in Camelot).
—Scene 2 NOW; China 7th century 692 AD (Buddhism was just made the state religion).
—Scene 3 THEN; Camelot (the completely and utterly possible, unrecorded events between E1 and E4; S1)
—Scene 4 NOW; Wessex, England 8th Century 710 AD (Picts unsuccessfully invade Northumbria).
Scene 5 THEN; Camelot (the missing scene from E4; S1 when Merlin drinks the poison for Arthur)
—Scene 6 NOW; Scandinavia 10th Century 980 AD (Vikings unsuccessfully raid England).
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Greetings! I'm so happy you chose my story to read. Recently I have been obsessed with Merlin after finding it on Netflix. Yes, I know I'm about a decade late to the Merlin-wagon, but it shall continue to roll on! (I honestly have no idea how I could have missed it when it was so popular, but that's beyond me. At least I'm here now!) I really hope you enjoy my story. I developed the idea when I finally finished Merlin *insert hysterical sobbing*. I thought "hey, we all talk about how awful it is that Merlin must wait for Arthur's return, but never of all the "what if's". What if Arthur had to wait too? What if Arthur hadn't truly... died?" and thus "We Could Be Legends" was born.
So without further ado, let the story commence!
WE • COULD • BE • LEGENDS
Part One
"With you... I fall
It's like I'm leaving all my past and silhouettes up on the wall
With you... I'm a beautiful mess
It's like we're standing hand and hand with all our fears up on the edge.
So stop time right here in the moonlight
'Cause I don't ever wanna close my eyes..."
~ Sad Song by ''We The Kings"
PREFACE
I once thought almost every great thing came with a price.
This was, after all, was what my father had drilled into my mind and my heart since I was a little boy.
"Nothing is free. No good deed ever goes unpunished. Great things almost always come with a price... a price so terrible that the receiver wishes he never asked for the gift in the first place."
It was rather foolish, I believe, to have raised me that way and with that mind set. Why, might you ask? Because my future was written and set in stone before I could even begin to crawl or speak. I was to be King of Camelot and I was to resume my father's throne after his death. While other children played, I trained with every weapon. While other children slept, I studied every subject. I was never allowed to have a typical childhood.
Growing up I was arrogant and petty and spoiled. As the Crowned Prince of Camelot, I was allowed to behave this way, and my father even encouraged my behavior. He encouraged my beliefs (his beliefs that he installed in me) that supported the idea of the Pendragon family being of higher power and worth than any other noble, royal or peasant in the land. We were of higher power, yes, because my father had claimed the throne at a tender age of adulthood through malice, bloodshed and gore. But in worth we were equal to any other person of Camelot, perhaps even less, due to his sins.
But a king cannot rule well if he is close-minded, opposed and oblivious. My father seemed unable to understand this, as this was his greatest weakness, and it would've been mine, had he continued to raise me his way entirely.
Uther was the one who told me the subjects adored us; their cries and shouts were that of praise and love and admiration for their King. He told me the servants were merely around to do our bidding; they were loyal to us out of their own free will. Uther was the one who told me that magic was of pure evil; that it was a sinful choice to commit such a crime and was used by only the filthy scum of the earth. He told me that my mother was killed, but withheld any further details (I would later learn it was the cause of dark magic, but that was all).
How wrong was my father about everything.
The people did not love us; they hated my father and resented him for murders in the name of magic and unjust laws and taxes. The servants were not loyal out of the goodness of their hearts; but rather the emptiness of their pockets and the cold words marking them as indentured servants. Magic was not — is not— purely evil. Magic is not good nor bad; it simply is. It exists only to be wielded and it is the caster's intentions and decisions that determine whether magic is used for right or wrong.
Someone once told me that "there is no evil in sorcery, only in the hearts of men."
My mother was a perfect example. She died because of the use of magic, but it was my father who was the caster, who beheld the evil intentions — not the sorceress who he condemned to a lifetime of misery and pain because of his guilty actions.
It took me many years to come to terms with all this, to finally begin deciphering, separating and dividing the truths and lies of my father's words. And it would take me many years more to finally comprehend and understand the lie I was living; the lies that were fabricated within truth and the truth weaved into lies; and the greatest thing of them all that my father would not — could not — even begin to hope to fathom.
He was wrong, you see. He was wrong about many things, many times, but the one thing he was severely incorrect about was this: it wasn't many great things came with a price... but all great things. And the greatest thing of all insured the greatest price of all —
Love
w e • c o u l d • b e • l e g e n d s
THEN
scene 1: Camelot 5th Century AD (the missing events of E1; S1 when Merlin first arrives in Camelot)
I had just completed training with the newest batch of knights for the day. The so-called "knights" were fitting their title as well I would when called the cook, but I believed in my men and I hoped that in a few months Camelot would have the finest patrol in the land. The sun was high and hot in the bright blue sky; the clouds a perfect puffy shape; the trees and grass were as green as emerald thread; and the city was a drowsy current of people as they halfheartedly carried out their chores, sleepily from heat. The pleasant, quiet scene of a simple kingdom living out another summer day, however, failed to conceal the dried blood in the cracks of the cobblestoned square, the phantom sobs of a grieving mother, the emptiness of a home, and a bed that would never be filled again.
But if a spectator peered a little closer, a little harder, he might find worry in the crease of a brow, or tears hidden upon sweaty cheeks. The subjects dared not speak a single word, but it was clear enough that the people were on edge.
Even I; egoistical, haughty, and heavily influenced by my father, was still queasy from witnessing the execution.
The execution of the sorcerer.
"It has to be done," my father had said earlier that morn.
"He isn't hurting anyone!" I tried to reason. Even then, I did attempt to defy my father when I thought his views were not just, although my heart and mind were at war. My mind followed the Law which outlawed any and all kinds of magic, while my heart went out for the man I knew wasn't evil.
"You are killing an innocent man, Father — the people agree with me. You will frighten them... isn't the people's trust everything when it comes to a strong kingdom? We cannot rule a subjectless land. Please, for the sake of us all, reconsider the punishment to banishment at the very least."
"He is not innocent!" Uther seethed, the scar above his eye gleaming madly in the candle light. "He is a sorcerer! I am doing this for of the sake of the people. He was caught practicing magic and would soon have it used against us all!"
"Healing magic!" I protested feebly. "There's no harm to helping others, serving his kingdom..."
"As he will have you think, have us all think! He has already poisoned your thoughts! He hasn't served this kingdom the minute he allowed himself to be infiltrated by magic. As soon as you have let down your guard, that is when he would had struck us all — at the very heart of Camelot."
I shook my head defiantly. "I know him, Father. We played in the halls of this very castle when we were just boys. He wouldn't harm a fly. Yes, he lied about possessing magic, but can you not see that he had good reasons? The little girl was trapped beneath a cart of heavy wares; she would have surly died had he not helped her."
Uther put a heavy hand upon my shoulder, the leather of his glove dug into my skin. In all my life, I didn't believe he had ever touched me flesh to flesh; there was always a barrier of clothing or armor or tension between us.
"You will be King one day, my son, and I have no doubt you will rule well. But that day is not yet upon us, and so I expect respect and compliance from you as your King and your Father. Do you understand?"
"Of course," I mumbled. I absolutely loathed whenever he brought my future into a discussion. Why need to remind me of a fate so grand, so sure, that I was reminded of every single day by every single person? I saw the hope in my subject's eyes: they looked to me to bring a brighter future, a brilliant dawn, to rise a spectacular kingdom from the ashes my father was burning us to.
"One day... one day you will understand the sacrifices and the decisions I must make to insure the safety of our people. They are not easy, the decisions, but they are a necessity of ruling a kingdom. I have told you this a score of times as a young boy and throughout your life, and I will say it again; a King cannot rule with his heart. He must have an iron first, he cannot wield to any but his own.
"Some day's I fear you are too soft; constantly acting on decisions based on your feelings," he sneered. "I can only hope you will not yet have to carry the burden of ruling Camelot; I can only hope you will grow into the grand ruler I know you will be... one day."
"Of course," I said stiffly, unable to respond to his insults with nothing more than a tight lipped smile. I might've been his son but above all he was my King. "Father, whatever you think is... best." Thankfully, he did not catch my slight hesitation.
He nodded curtly. "This is for the good of Camelot, Arthur. You will see one day."
"The good of Camelot," I echoed.
w e • c o u l d • b e • l e g e n d s
NOW
China 7th century 692 AD (Buddhism was just made the state religion).
I shudder as the familiar sensation of air and breeze and floating fills my head. I still do not know where I dwell; only that it is dark, so dark, that it is suffocating and blinding and I am eager to be rid of the darkness for even a mere second.
There is fire. I do not see it at first, but oh! How I can feel the warmth of the heat and smell the smoke. It brings back old memories of a time long ago, so long ago that it is all but forgotten with the ocean tides and season changes. Men setting up camp 'round a glade... laughter mingling with the crackling of burning wood... stew cooking upon the flames... scraping of spoons hitting the bottom of empty bowls... rushing water as it is boiled and poured...
I do not know how many decades it has been since I have seen my friends. They have all died and I watched each of their deaths with a deep, unimaginable sadness. The Knights of the Round Table were great men. They were loyal, kind, fair and just... I am still, and shall forever, be proud to be associated with each and every one of them.
I can only pray that they have found peace in death... tranquility... and happiness... I had never given much thought to an afterlife while I was King — while I was alive — but now it is the only thing I can think about. Everyone I knew in my old life has surely died. Have they traveled on to a kingdom of light, a realm of evil, or simply remained in an in-between (as I have)? Will I ever move on from this impenetrable darkness I have known for a millennia. I fear I will never have the answers to my questions, and I am uncertain if I truly wish to know.
My attention is caught when I hear my name whispered... as always. It is a man. His head is bowed and his frame is hunched; his features are hidden in shadows and he sits around a village bonfire with several children.
"Are you telling me you never heard of the legend of King Arthur and the Knights of Camelot?" He exclaims, appalled and excited.
The group appears to hail from China, judging by their dark hair and distinct features. Their frocks and tunics are faded with dirt and their tents are fraying and tattered, yet their faces glow with something a man can never dream of pricing.
The children shake their heads. I am too weary to be insulted; I have changed so much from the boy who would've leapt to defend his name with a sword.
I am, after all, of no more worth than a mere name itself.
"I have!" a high voice calls out. A girl, fifteen perhaps, with eyes and hair the color of a starless night steps into the light.
"Then you must tell us at once, Lillie!" The man pats a spot on the ground and the girl gracefully takes a seat.
"Arthur Pendragon was a famous British King. Guinevere was his Queen —" My heart gives a sad ping at the name of my beautiful Gwen. "— and together they ruled Camelot and King Arthur had mighty, glorious battles against his foes. With the help of the *Yinglong and the wizard Merlin, peace harbored the land for some time before King Arthur's fall."
"How did he perish?" The man questions. He wears robes the color of clay — robes that do not look to be in any better shape than the rest of the children's clothes.
"Arthur's son, Mordred, betrayed him," continued Lillie, eyes bright with zeal. I ground my teeth together. That little traitor was never my son.
"Although, in other versions Mordred is one of his knights, or a *Xiāo, or his nephew..."
It might have been odd to hear my death being spoken so casually and meaningless, as if it was just another mythical story... but I have already heard these words and this tone a multitude of times before, and I will hear them again and again until the end of time.
The man smiles roguishly, face concealed by shadows, his lips the only feature visible to me. "That is the beauty... the mystery... the magic of our ancestors. You can never take them word for word; there is always another version of their stories."
"We can't take their stories seriously at all," a little boy points out, swinging a wooden katana wildly.
By his age I had already three years of sparring lessons under my belt and I wielded a sword. I snort. Children these days. Far too coddled and cooed over in my opinion.
"No, we cannot," the man admits. "But there has to be some reason as to why the legends today have continued to live on... even if mortals claim the stories to be silly or false. Why do we hold onto such childish myths if there is not a single truth, lesson or reality that can be learned, or interpreted, from the tales of our ancestors?"
The children are silent... and yet, the vastness of their silence is the most deafening sound I have ever heard.
"Are you saying King Arthur was real?" Lillie says, breaking the silence. Nimbly swiping the katana from the boy's hands, she ignores his protests with a practiced hair flip.
"I am saying that the truth may not always be as far away — or as hidden — as you think. Magic is all around us; it is fabricated in the very seams of this world and it might take more than the naked eye to simply gaze upon it."
How odd... similar words were once spoken to me by an old friend — NO. I push these thoughts away, the memories are far too painful to call upon. I have not seen my old friend in centuries; he has died with all the rest and there is no point of thinking about the past. My time in the mortal world is brief tonight and I do not wish to dwell on unpleasant thoughts.
"He's crazy," someone mumbles.
A weak titter of laughter passes around the circle.
"I can hear you Li Tao," the man says good naturally. "And I am not crazy no matter what your grandfather thinks!"
The laughter this time is real and the and warm. It reminds me of crisp summer nights and murky, bitter ale.
"You just said there's magic," Tao stresses, a small thing with stringy hair and brown eyes. "Here. That's ridiculous."
The man cocks his head. I wish I could see his face. "Have you ever seen a firefly illuminate itself? Have you ever watched a caterpillar morph into a butterfly? Or plucked a precious jewel from the earth that was simply a piece of coal a few years prior?
"Nature's creations are only but miracles themselves, and we are fortunate to witness them daily. You all will do well to remember this. Take heed; some will call it all science — I call it magic."
As he speaks he takes a ball of pig fat and tosses it into the flames, causing them to leap and jump wildly before their delighted audience.
"Again! Again!" The children shout.
"Is it true then, what some say about King Arthur?" Lillie asks over the roar of voices. Her tone demands silence and the children obey.
"Depends. What do they say?"
The girl licks her lips, shifting her eyes. "They say... they say that while the King of Camelot is destined to rise again, he is trapped between life and death, waiting for that time to come. He does not belong to the living nor dead, he just... is... He can be summoned in this half state by only speaking his name."
The group shares a nervous glance, staring into the surrounding woods as if expecting me to pop out and shout 'BOO!'
"Perhaps," the man says, making me all the more curious about his identity.
But my time in the mortal world is once again at an end, and I must return to the darkness until my name leaves another's lips. Who knows when the next moment will be. Days... weeks... years... maybe even centuries later. It has been two decades since I have last visited the mortal world, and I wish to see it again — and sooner than before.
"*Zàijiàn," the children murmur as the fire grows hotter and the smoke becomes thicker.
They do not know that I am here; they do not know I can hear them; they do not know that my existence is very much present and real; and they do not know they are not just bidding another ghost story farewell. But I allow myself to think, for the short moment I have, that someone shall miss me... that I shall be missed for the first time in eons.
w e • c o u l d • b e • l e g e n d s
THEN
scene 3: Camelot (the completely and utterly possible, unrecorded events between E1 and E4; S1)
This is certainly not for the good of Camelot, I had thought when Merlin was appointed as my personal manservant. My gods, he was a disaster! He fell twice the amount of steps he took, he was always late and forgetful, hadn't the faintest clue how to do anything of service — and above all that, I couldn't get him to shut up for the world.
How could my father do this to me?! Did he truly hate me so much to torture me with a forgetful, babbling idiot?
It was difficult to believe that this... utter buffoon... had saved my life. It must have been for God's personal laughs to intertwine our destines in such a cruel manner... But apparently it wasn't funny enough for Him, for He continued to thrust Merlin and I together.
Granted, over time the boy's presence became a tad bit more bearable, but it was still aggravating and annoying and irritating as ever.
"Are you quite ready?" I had demanded. My tone did not match the lovely spring morning, but I had hardly cared. Patience did not suit me well (if at all); for as a prince, I expected the absolute best from every one and everything had to be done in a fast, efficient paste. Merlin was not fast nor efficient.
"Coming!" came Merlin's muffled reply. He stumbled toward my horse with several bags slung upon his shoulders, hunting gear around his neck, armor in his hands and a sword hanging from his belt. The metal clanged harshly upon the courtyard as a shield slipped from his grasp.
"MERLIN!"
"Sorry! Sorry!"
I rolled my eyes as he scrambled to pick up the shield, effectively dropping everything else in his arms. Out of all the people in Camelot, my eyes alone were in the best of shape from all the eye rolls Merlin was prone to.
"Hurry up," I groaned. My horse and my men were getting restless. By the time the idiot finished gathering everything and situated himself on a horse, all the game in the forest would be long gone.
I watched as my servant hurried to pick up all his belongings. A few of the knights concealed snickers into their fists as Merlin nearly lost an eye when tripping over thin air, almost impaling himself on my sword. I had to hide a grin myself as he sent a heated glare at the cobblestones. Only Merlin could fall over quite literally nothing.
My mind made up (I did really want to go hunting, and being a good prince meant you were supposed to be a positive example) I slipped off my horse, plucking my helmet and sleeping roll from the ground. Brushing invisible dirt from the sleeping roll, I glared at a few servants that were staring from the well in the courtyard. I felt a slight twinge of guilt when one of them burst into tears, but it was quickly forgotten when a voice called behind me.
"Sire, you shouldn't be doing that!"
I waved off whoever it was with a brush of my hand, fuming silently. I was royalty not incompetent for goodness sakes!
I purposely dropped the heavy metal in Merlin's arms as I brushed past him. He wore a funny little grin on his face that I resisted the urge to punch off.
"What is it?" I snapped, pausing in front of him.
Any other servant would've bowed out of respect, but oh no, not Merlin. He simply continued to grin that irritating, trouble maker grin, his blue eyes sparkling with something I couldn't quite place.
"S'nothing," Merlin said, looking innocent. I snorted through my nose. Merlin was anything butinnocent.
"Are we quite finished yet?" I huffed. Not waiting for a response, I turned on my heel and marched back to my horse.
"Annoying prat," I heard him mutter.
I stopped dead in my tracks, my back turned to him. "What?"
"I said 'I think I saw a bat', Sire..."
"In the middle of the morning?"
"A... a magical bat? S-Should we inform the King?"
I rolled my eyes (eye roll number thirty eight as of today ((yes, I kept count)) and swung a leg over my saddle. "We haven't time to bother my father with the mere tricks of your simple eyes."
Merlin scrambled to mount his horse, huffing indignantly.
"The Hunt commences now!"
Had I known how the events of the Hunt would play out after the lovely morning incident, I would've canceled the plans before we'd even begun. Alas, I was not a seer — and even with Merlin by my side I didn't think things could get any worse.
How wrong I was.
"Will you stop shouting?!" I shouted after two hours later of shouting.
"You killed it, Arthur! You killed it! You murdered a little innocent bunny that was probably on its way to feed its family that'll starve, now, thanks to you, and you didn't even bat an eyelash!" He screeched — definitely scaring off all the game within ten miles of the hunting group.
But the knights had long given up hunting; they absentmindedly say among the ferns, shrubbery and root that littered the forest floor, idly tossing rocks in the air, sharping their daggers; watching us argue with glazed eyes.
"What did it ever do to you? Nothing! That's what! It didn't deserve to die! You probably just orphaned several baby bunnies that can't fend for themselves and they'll be eaten by a fox or some other bigger animal and it's all because of you! Or they'll have to wait for their mother to come home with food and then they'll starve to death because you killed her!"
"What did you expect me to do?" I cried, hardly believing I was having this conversation in the first place (although I really couldn't call it a conversation when it consisted of an exasperated prince and a hysterical servant).
"We are hunting, as in killing. Game," I told him like he was slow. For all I knew he probably was (actually, Merlin was very bright — as if I would ever admit that). "Game so happens to be animals, such as rabbits. It doesn't matter if it deserved to die or not because it already did, and it's an animal. For goodness sakes it wasn't a person!"
"Babies, Arthur! Babies! You're a baby bunny murder!"
Deep breathes, I told myself. In and out. In and out. In and out. Everything was going to be alright. Right? It always ended fine... oh, to the saints and lords above, what I would've given for just one of Gaius's calming remedies. Just breathe! In and out. In and out. In and—
"S-Sire?"
"What?" I snarled, whirling around to face a frighten Sir Leon.
"F-Forgive me," he stuttered, his chin quivering in the most unattractive way.
"What is it?" I sighed, rubbing my head where a painful throb was beginning. A warm bath and a heavy supper sounded delightful. I would've done anything to be anywhere else than with a sobbing manservant and a group of useless knights.
"May I suggest..."
"Yes? Please, speak freely for everyone else seems to feel that they can," I said sarcastically, shooting Merlin a glare that he gladly returned.
"We... we could have a burial for the creature. Let Merlin say his, erm... farewells, and such... It might calm him —" Sir Leo glanced at me quickly "— everyone, down. Sire, it's worth a try."
"Very well." I gritted my teeth. As long as it got Merlin off my back and ceased his hysterics. I was beginning to develop a terrible headache from all his shouting. I rolled my eyes again (eye roll thirty nine). I mean, honestly. Who cried over a rabbit?
Merlin. That's who.
"We stand here today to, erm, fondly remember and recall our furry friend—"
"Wait!" Merlin cried. I wanted to kill him. "We need to give him a name."
"What? Why?" I said bewilderedly. "It's already dead."
"You wouldn't appreciate someone saying that about youif you were murdered without a name!"
"IT'S AN ANIMAL."
"THAT DOESN'T MEAN IT DOESN'T DESERVE A NAME ARTHUR!"
"I AM THE CROWN PRINCE OF CAMELOT! YOU CANNOT ADDRESS YOUR PRINCE IN SUCH A MANNER!"
"WELL ACCORDING TO YOU NAMES AND TITLES DON'T MATTER!"
"WELL IF YOU HADN'T—"
"BENTLEY!" Sir Leon yelled bravely, momentarily pausing our shouting match. He cleared his throat as an awkward silence fell around us. "Bentley the... Bunny."
The knights nodded vigorously. They were as eager as I to leave, but I swear I had caught one or two of them placing bets on who would win the verbal fight.
"There! You hear?" I cried, turning to Merlin, chest heaving. "It has a name; are you satisfied now?"
"But," he protested, "is it with a y or an ie?"
I threw my hands in the air. "FOR THE LOVE OF—"
"IT HAS TO BE SPELLED CORRECTLY FOR THE HEADSTONE!"
I stomped off. I ended up watching the burial for Bentley the Bunny from my horse, and I received a partially warm bath and a handful of glares as punishment that night. I sneered as I slipped into bed. I was the Crowned Prince of Camelot — who cared if Merlin's feelings were hurt over some stupid animal.
Right?
So why did I feel so guilty?
w e • c o u l d • b e • l e g e n d s
NOW
scene 4: England (8th Century 710 AD)
I am summoned to a small cottage nestled deep in the woods. Birds call to one another as the sun slowly dies in the east, it's red rays bleeding and seeping into the once beautiful, blue sky, altering the image forever. Is this how I am remembered? Only a fictional character playing a fictional part in history? Do they only care for who I was, not for who I am? Am I like the sun — appreciated when gone, but quickly forgotten in the moon's presence?
A baby's laugh draws me from my revere. I move about the cottage, searching for the infant. I have not heard nor seen a baby in ages — which might be for the best, for I am painfully reminded of what I never got to have with Gwen.
She lies in a small cradle padded with pillows and blankets. Images of dancing maidens and sparring knights are roughly carved into the cradle's sides; wooden animals hanging from twine turn above her head and a warm fire gentle licks her face from the small fire place close by.
A young women bustles into the single room home. A small smile comes to her weary face as she takes in her babbling daughter.
"You are far too young to understand my words, dear child," she says, drawing up a rocking chair to gaze upon the baby. Her voice is similar to mine; we must be somewhere in England, maybe even near Camelot. My heart gives a little leap of hope but I immediately douse the flame with a cool wave of rationality. Everyone from my old life is dead and my kingdom has surly fallen, for Guinevere and I had no heir to take the throne and success us... and it all transpired centuries ago.
"But you must know that I love you so much... so very much my dear... both Papa and I love you with all our hearts, even if Papa cannot tell you that himself." She traces a frighteningly thin finger along the caving in the wood, a faraway look in her eyes. I wonder... should my mother had lived, would she had whispered stories into my ear by candle light too? Or would she had left me to maids and nurses, as my father had done, only visiting me once a week until I was old enough to sleep in my own room. Would my life be any different with a mother then without one?
"I shall like to tell you a story now. Can you be sweet, can you spare Mama just a few moments? This was your Papa's favorite tale and I hope to pass it on to you." The woman reaches up to toy with a brass ring dangling on her neck.
"There was once a boy named Arthur Pendragon. His father, Uther, was the King of Camelot. The King was terrible, ruling his land and his people with an iron first. Although his subjects feared and loathed him, they hoped Uther's son would bring justice come his time upon the throne. When seeing the goodness in Arthur's heart it brought hope to their own.
"When Uther passed away the boy was forced from his home. He grew up in back allies, forgetting his true identity, until he pulled Excalibur from the Stone. Retrieving the Sword from the Stone brought recognition to the people of Camelot, and they happily invited him home.
"As King of Camelot, Arthur chose Guinevere to be his wife. Together they ruled a peaceful and fair reign with the aid of Merlin, the Warlock. The great King Arthur did fall in the end as every great King must at one point or another, but he is destined to rise again as the Once and Future King.
"But, dear child," —the girl gurgles happily— "the story does not end here. Your father beloved that should you ever be scared or troubled or ill, you need only let the King's name escape your lips. He will come, he will protect you, and he will keep you safe."
How funny, I muse as the woman sings her baby to sleep. I was not aware that I am almost a... (religious? Spiritual?) figure now. If observing human kind for the past centuries have taught me nothing, the lesson would be that humans are odd creatures and very hypocritical. They desperately need to believe in someone or something in order to have hope and faith... it is the the heart of their very existence, the fuel for their spirits... and yet, if humans do not see something with their own eyes they immediately deem it impossible and untrue and call it blasphemy.
The woman stokes the fire. A constellation of tears illuminate her lashes. She pulls a small pot from the flames and withdraws an even smaller piece of bread. Her dinner. A pitiful, saddening sight, but I cannot help her in any way but watch as she eats. Chewing thoughtfully, her wet eyes stray to an object on the mantel.
"I did as you wished and I have honored my promise," she tells the mantel. "Yet... it never did you any good, did it, believing in those fairytales... Where did it get you? An unquenchable thirst for battle. An early grave. And an unspeakable amount of debt that I must pay..."
The woman clears her throat and dries her tears. "I held you to your word," she continues. "And even now I hold you accountable. Despite... despite everything, I know you will protect our daughter. Our Elizabeth. I named her after you, Eli. I fear she is all you have left."
As the cottage fades from my view, I catch a glimpse of what rests upon the mantel: a man's portrait.
w e • c o u l d • b e • l e g e n d s
THEN
scene 5: Camelot (the missing scene from E4, S1 after Merlin drinks the poison for Arthur)
"Sire!" Gaius had exclaimed as he burst into the cells. I grunted as I shuffled to the cell door. The physician eyed my disheveled appearance with a critical stare. I had not eaten or slept in three days and I was certain the effects had taken their toll. I could practically feel the dirt upon my face, in my hair and beneath my nails.
"How is he?" I asked, holding my breath as I anticipated the news with a heavy heart.
Gaius's face broke into a wide smile. "He lives, Sire! He lives, all is well!"
I couldn't prevent the grin that crept onto my face. "You are certain? The last I saw him he was choking and dying... I rode as fast as I could to the cave and you wouldn't believe what I went through to retrieve the flower — although I wasn't really positive if it was the right one at the moment but it wasn't like I had a wide variety to pick from — but then my father crumpled it and so I gave it to the girl to pass on to you and I didn't know if it would still work or not..."
I rambled on for another five minutes, yet I couldn't bring myself to care. I might've worn the mask of an impertinent, selfish boy, but underneath it all, I could not bring myself to bare the thought of another loosing their life for my sake. And as much as I hated to admit, I had grown fond of my manservant. It would be a difficulty to replace him.
"Arthur," Gaius said. He placed a hand on my shoulder through the iron bars. "Breathe."
I didn't realize I had been holding my breath. I inhaled deeply and silently counted to three in my head.
"Better?"
"Not much," I admitted. "But I'll be fine. Is Merlin truly well?"
"Truly and completely," he beamed. "I predict he shall make a full recovery by the next morn. At the moment he is sleeping soundly, his body exhausted from the trauma it suffered."
A twinge of guilt shadowed my thoughts. It was because of me he almost died.
"And as for you..." Gaius produced a ring of keys — my father's keys — and unlocked the cell door, all the while inconspicuously whistling a merry tune as he looked the other way. "You are a free man, Sire, although I think it's best for you to avoid Uthur for the time being... just for precautions. He has calmed down greatly but we needn't triggering anything that isn't avoidable."
I gave him a grateful smile as I slipped past him to exit the stuff cell. Freedom at last! I strewed my arms and cracked my neck as I savored my newly found liberty. Oh, how I couldn't wait to sleep in my bed again! Have a hot bath, eat warm food, change my clothes... I turned to see the keys being tucked away into Gaius's pocket.
I smiled slyly. "Why, Gaius, I never knew you to be so..."
"Daring? Reckless? Stupid?" Gaius gave me his famous Raised Eyebrow, and I had to admit that I froze for a second. Do not be fooled, the old man could be intimidating when he wanted to. "I was young once, Arthur, and I will have you know that I did have my fair share of fun... and mischief... why, I could even rival you and Merlin, I suspect."
"Of course," I said. I bowed my head in gratitude and made to exit the dungeon... only to be stopped a second later by Gaius's call.
I turned slightly, my heel on the first step. "Yes?"
"I thought you might like to see him, briefly, before continuing your day?"
I wanted to shout that I did not care about seeing Merlin — that it was unnecessary and, quite frankly, it seemed a little girlish to go weep at his bedside because the fool was alive — but under the pressure of Gaius's Eyebrow and my own nagging conscience, I broke and gave in.
"Briefly," I agreed.
We made record time from the dungeons to the physician's chambers, considering I constantly ducked out of sight from oncoming guards and nobles who would've recognized me. I practically flew up the small flight of stairs that led to Merlin's bedroom. It was good to see that he had moved back into his own room; before he was too sick to do anything besides lay in Gaius's bed.
I sat down on the edge of the small, thin mattress, subconsciously placing a hand on Merlin's forehead. I had never realized the drastic differences between my manservant's sleeping quarters and my own, until then. While I had two entire rooms to myself (one for a large canopy bed and the other for a living area) Merlin barely had enough space to fit his tiny bed, never mind anything else. No wonder his room was a mess — he hadn't anything to keep his possessions in.
Merlin's skin felt normally cool against my hand and his face wasn't as pale as it was when affected from the poison. The boy groaned softly as I brushed raven locks away from his face, dampened from sweat. He swallowed harshly in his sleep.
Thank you, I thought as I stared down at his still form. I never had a friend before; my father considered friendships uselessly and time wasting and raised me to seek — to need — only allies so that our kingdom could benefit from a strong alliance, but if I ever were to have a friend, I think Merlin would be the closest thing.
Not that I would ever tell anyone this, of course.
I snorted as I fought the urge to straighten the stupid handkerchief he always insisted on only wearing 'round his neck. It was utterly impractical and rather stupid looking, but he was pretty persistent on wearing the damn scarf.
I had never looked at Merlin before... I was always too busy barking orders or hurling objects or shouting to really notice him, but looking down at him in the bed so still and small, made me wonder his age. I had seen twenty summers and he couldn't have been any older than I, so I assumed him to be around sixteen or seventeen. It would explain his lovesickness to the maid, Gwendolyn (or was it Guinevere?) Poor lad, probably hadn't seen a girl in all his life besides his mother, coming from such a small village as Ealdor.
I heard the stairs creak below as Gaius ascended. I quickly removed my hand from his forehead and placed it on my knee, just in time for Gaius to enter the tiny bedroom. I spent another moment watching Merlin's chest rise and fall — a comforting sight after spending two days uncertain if breath was still in him.
"Sire?" Gaius said quietly.
"Notify me at once when he wakes," I said, my voice sounding strange to my ears.
"You do not wish to rise him now?"
"No..." I stood from Merlin's bedside, the wooden floorboards creaking in protest as I made my way across the threshold. I glanced back, taking in his shallow breathing and ridiculously high cheek bones baring a faint flush. He was clearly exhausted and worn out from fighting off the poison... the poison meant for me.
"Let him rest."
w e • c o u l d • b e • l e g e n d s
NOW
scene 6: Scandinavia (10th Century 980 AD)
"Aye, lass! That's 'ow yer make a fine meal!"
"Is there anythin' else I can get yer?"
"Mama! Look, I caught it! All by myself!"
"Get yer filthy 'ands off of me, yer ogre!"
"It's all good fun 'elga! All good fun!"
My head spins as I try to pinpoint my summoner. I stand in a dimly lit feasting hall, the floor below my feet is dirt and animal furs; the roof above my head is thatched hay and wood.
A celebration of some sort is ongoing before my eyes and the number of participants is a massive count. Men and women, children and elders, girls and boys, all adorn animal furs, plaits and wickedly sharp weapons on their persons. The celebrators dance, sing and dine around a wooden table that snakes its way around the entire hall.
The charred fish, roasted lamb and heaps of ripe fruit resting on large food platters make my mouth water. I have not eaten in decades — ghosts, or whatever I am, do not need to eat — but I remember the unique tastes of food and beverages upon my tongue as if it were yesterday.
I am drawn to the side of the room where a small pocket of silence is found in the shadows.
"I will not have yer tellin' 'em tales!" a lady hisses, her voice thick with a Scandinavian accent. "Yer be fillin' their 'eads with utter nonsense and useless rubbish."
"Please, Mama," cries a little boy with long hair pulled tight in a braid. "I've done all my chores and ate all my food. Please?"
He pouts his lip and widens his eyes. No adult could resist him.
The woman sighs, exasperated, and shakes her head. "I give up! Don't come cryin' to me when yer can't sleep!"
A hand emerges from beneath the table. "Come Arvid, sit by me." The little boy kneels and crawls under the table. I have no choice but to follow.
A young girl with hair the color of corn crouches low among the feet of Vikings enjoying the feast. She smirks triumphantly as we watch the woman's skirts hustle away.
"Closer still, Arvid. Hurry!"
"Whatever for?" Arvid asks, eyes shinning with a childish delight. "Asta! Tell me!"
"Shhhh!" She holds up her hand, mouth forming an O. Her hair is braided into a crown, stray strands flutter in the drafty room. "Did yer 'ear that?"
"What?"
The two fall silent to the cacophony of feasting and laughter above.
"I don't 'ear anythin'," Arvid complains. "What are we listenin' for?"
"The *Völva! It is said she 'aunts every grand celebration in 'opes of diminishin' the people's joy; thee only way to know she is near is to listen for the clinkin' of glasses."
Arvid glances around the room. I want to laugh; their Völva is a mere folklore and child play — I remember creating mystical foes to slay myself when I was young — but then I sober. How am I any more real than her?
"There is only one way a mortal can kill 'er," Asta continues. Arvid inches closer, the two children huddle in the dark. "One must find King Arthur's sword, Excalibur, and strike 'er with a mighty blow."
"Then I shall find Excalibur and defeat the Völva!" Arvid cries. He produces a dagger (which is very much real) and brandishes it at phantom enemies. "Give me a fleet of ships and a fine sword and I will plunder every land till I 'ave slain the fearsome Völva!"
"Hark, then Sir Arvid, brave and fearless!" Asta plays along, producing her own dagger. "My good blessings go with yer for yer journey will be a trying one!"
The children meet playful thrusts beneath the feasting table. The smoke admitting form the large pit in the center of the room sings as I depart for the darkness once more.
GLOSSARY
*Yinglong
—Language's Origin: Chinese
—Meaning: "The Winged Dragon"
—Definition: There are "Nine Classical Types" of dragons depicted in Chinese art and literature. Yinglong is the only out of the Nine to have wings, it's name meaning "Winged Dragon".
*Xiāo
—Language's Origin: Chinese
—Definition: Xiāo are considered mischievous, one legged mountain spirits in Chinese Mythology, similar to western Nymphs and Druids.
*Zàijiàn
—Language's Origin: Chinese
—Meaning: "Goodbye" / "Farewell"
*Völva
—Meaning: "Carrier of the magic staff."
—Definition: A Völva is a female shaman, seer and sorceress in Norse religion and Norse Mythology.
A/N: Please review! Let me know your thoughts on the story, characters, Merlin, and feel free to give kudos or criticism! I promise the story will pick up as it goes on.