Author's Note:I already wrote a story called "Tristan and Isolde"—and I felt that it was not as good as it could be. Thus I revised it. However, I renovated so much that it's basically a new story. This story. I'm keeping both versions up because I want to have the comparison available. Furthermore, since I wrote the first story after second series ended but before third series began, this is definitely an alternate universe (branching off from the end of second series—any subsequent consistency with canon is purely coincidental).
XIXIXIXIX
Tristan & Isolde
In the dungeon, the man with the scar on his hand tried in vain to open the door with his mind. Standing in the back of his dark cell, he reached out his right hand—a small x of discolored skin on the webbing between his thumb and forefinger—and recited a spell under his breath. He squinted as his eyes flashed and a tiny bead of sweat formed on his forehead.
The door remained locked and intact. But the torches went out.
He thrust his hand forward again, but pronounced no spell, only a loud, unintelligible and disconsolate grunt. The torches flared alight.
"Stop that, Malduc," the King said, rounding the corner. He was not a young king, nor an old king—and he wore all the purple, gilded trappings of kingship. He was a dark man, with bags under his brown eyes and a tattered book in his arms. He stood before the young man in the cell and stroked the book.
"Magic is a dying art, isn't it?" the King said, as if to himself. "So few practice anymore."
Malduc tucked his arms casually through the bars, pressing his forehead against them. "Many kings outlaw it," he said.
This King said nothing, but continued to contemplate the book in his hands.
"Or turn a blind eye," Malduc added sharply.
"Kings must turn the way the world turns."
"Really—kings are passive?"
The King's gaze snapped up to Malduc. "You do not lament the downfall of magic?"
"You imprison me for using magic—for defending myself—and then expect me to 'lament' with you the downfall of magic?"
"'Defending' yourself. Yes. We all defend ourselves, don't we?" The King stared at Malduc, both their eyes glistening in the torchlight. The King stepped forward. "How would you like to earn not only your freedom, but a king's favor as well?"
King Uther was on the edge of his seat. In the arena before him, two knights squared off, fighting as if to the death, though it was merely a tournament. Uther leaned back, smiling as the knights circled each other, faceless behind their helmets. One lunged, the other dodged, Uther shifted forward—he was on the edge of his seat.
"You miss fighting," said King Mark beside him.
"Not a bit of it—oohh," Uther's eyes were bright.
One knight hit the ground. The other removed his helmet and looked around at the crowd, sweat running into his brown eyes and down his cheeks. His brown hair was plastered to his head and he panted for breath. The knight bowed to Uther, bowed to Mark and bowed to the lady beside him—Mark's brand-new bride, Isolde, beautiful and vibrant in a soft green gown.
Isolde bowed her head politely to the knight and the woman in white next to her whispered in her ear. Isolde chuckled softly.
"I do believe you're beginning to enjoy yourself, my love." King Mark studied her face.
"Maybe I am. My love." Isolde gave Mark a fleeting smile and glanced at the back of the winning knight walking away. "But even he looked bored—and he was fighting," she said, her accent thickening momentarily.
"Sir Tristan, son of Talloch" Mark nodded. "He's rumored in Cornwall to be undefeatable—your son may lose his title this year, Uther."
"You just wait," Uther smiled, his attention pinned to the arena where Arthur and his opponent—a Sir Dafydd— had entered to resounding applause.
Lancelot paused at the gates of Camelot, gazing up at the grand archway and taking a deep breath. He stepped across the threshold into the city. As he meandered through the streets of the lower town, he caught snatches of tournament news—such as Arthur winning his first round—in less than a minute—a fact that overshadowed the actual victory, which as far as the people of Camelot were concerned was already old news.
Lancelot made his way up the steps into the stands of the arena where he found a seat. All eyes were peeled on the fighters, and Lancelot, too, admired the skill on display. He knew he could defeat them both, but entry into the competition was reserved for those of noble blood, a fact of life he had come to accept. He cast his eyes over the crowd, settling on the king's pavilion where King Uther sat with King Mark. Uther bounced around in his chair like a giddy child, enthralled by the fight. Mark, on the other hand, observed with detachment—Lancelot watched him, trying to gauge the criteria by which Mark was clearly assessing the fighters. Mark leaned back in his seat, a hand to his chin. He was several years younger than Uther, and his black hair was streaked with silver. His dark blue eyes matched his attire. He scrutinized each knight. Lancelot looked again to the fighters, one victorious, one unconscious, and concluded that Mark was waiting.
Beside Mark sat a woman dressed in soft green, her hair intricately bound atop her head, a few wisps dangling in front of sculpted cheekbones and lips. Lancelot knew she was Isolde, and had heard rumors of her beauty. Next to Isolde sat a woman wearing white, whose braided hair circled her head. Lancelot paused on each woman, but his eyes moved over the crowd surrounding Uther, seeking
Guinevere.
Sitting near Uther's pavilion. She wore a yellow bodice with quilted flowers, thin laces tied into a bow upon her breast, the violet fabric of her sleeves waving as she clapped her hands. Her face was radiant, and her dark hair fell in tight circlets about her shoulders. Lancelot stared at her. She smiled at a successful dodge and winced at a particularly hard hit, as if taken aback by the force that could be involved in a tournament. Between the matches, she glanced at the empty seat next to Uther, and for a brief instant it occurred to Lancelot that he had not seen the Lady Morgana.
The day's matches ended before the sun had set low enough to assault Uther's eyes, though it had set enough to cast long shadows throughout the stadium. Exhausted, excited, diligent, the people rose to return to their duties. Lancelot stayed seated as the crowd flowed around him, watching the deserted arena and the seats abandoned by the royal party.
He sat there until the evening star pierced the sky. As he stood, he realized that he was not alone. Another man, young from what Lancelot could see, sat near the fighter's entrance, ruminating. He wore clothes of both a peasant farmer and a lesser noble. He did not notice Lancelot. He contemplated the arena with the same expression as King Mark—that of a sportsman selecting prize hunting dogs.
As Lancelot left, the stranger remained, watching the dirt and rubbing the webbing of his right hand.
Merlin's face was buried behind a pile of armor as he kicked the door closed behind him. He heard the slam echo through the chambers he and Gaius shared. He stepped forward and smacked into someone. Arthur's armor clattered to the floor.
"Lancelot! What are you doing here?"
"I came to see the tournament." Lancelot bent down to help Merlin pick up the armor.
"Really?" Merlin dumped the armor on the table. "Just to see a tournament?"
Lancelot looked around. "No," he finally said. "I, um . . . was also hoping . . . to offer my services to King Mark. Where's Gaius?"
"At the feast. Have you eaten—I could get you in."
"I'd be out of place." Lancelot poked a bottle on the shelf.
"I thought you wanted to speak to Mark. Why would he need your services?"
"I heard that he was looking for a bodyguard for Queen Isolde."
"Really? I hadn't heard anything." Merlin looked sideways at Lancelot. "Why?"
"It seems there have been threats on her life—or his—or he just wants to have one around—I'm not sure on the details." Lancelot sat down, sighing heavily. "I shouldn't be here."
"Lancelot, you're the best fighter I've ever seen. Mark would be an idiot not to hire you." Merlin sat down across from Lancelot. "Or is there another reason you think you shouldn't be here?"
Lancelot didn't respond for several moments, until finally: "how's Arthur?"
"He's Arthur."
"Won't he wonder where you are?"
"No. No, I'm supposed to be polishing his armor and sharpening his sword and shining his boots."
Lancelot bobbed his head. "I shouldn't keep you," he stood.
"You don't want anyone to know you're here, do you?" Merlin looked up from his seat.
"There's no point—I won't be here long."
"Just long enough to see if Mark really is looking for a bodyguard?"
Lancelot nodded and stared at the door.
"Then stay here—I'll get us something to eat."
It was the second day of the tournament and Morgana observed Camelot from her window. She often stared at the city—once she'd even loved it—but now she watched with buried desperation, hoping—daring something magical to happen. But it never did. Not the way she wanted. She turned around, searching her chambers. Her bed was unmade and her breakfast uneaten. Her wardrobe was opened, with dresses strewn about. Books were scattered. She leaned against the wall and turned her head back toward the window to gaze outside again. She knew the scene was different—that different people were passing by, that there were two dogs that hadn't been there before, that various children were running around. And yet—it was the same view she'd watched all her life.
Her fist clenched tighter, her grip crunching the small strip of parchment in her hand even more. She opened it up again: I'm sorry, scrawled in Morgause's careful calligraphy.
Someone knocked on Morgana's door—she tucked the note into her dress.
"I'm bored." Isolde stood with her hands clasped in front of her, long pink sleeves draping down.
"Where's Mark?" Morgana looked at Isolde's immaculate hair and felt her own hair falling in disarray over half her face and down her shoulders as she leaned against the door.
"That's not what I mean. Everyone's caught up in this tournament, and whenever the conversation turns to something else, it's old glories and days gone by. I haven't even been given a proper tour of Camelot."
"I'm sure something can be arranged."
"Are you busy?" Isolde peered around Morgana into her chambers.
"No. But you shouldn't miss the tournament."
"I sat there all morning—Brangene's there now in case something spectacular happens. I could really use a . . . lady's perspective?" Isolde shifted on her feet.
Morgana turned to glance around her chambers, which struck her as somehow vacant despite all the luxuries. She smiled and stepped into the hallway.
"Shall we start in the royal gardens?" she said.
They stayed there the rest of the day, wandering among the flowers. At twilight, they were espied by Uther from a high window in the castle. Morgana—her black hair tangled and windswept, her green dress mixing with the flora—was laughing.
"This is the first time I've seen Morgana smile in weeks," Uther said as Mark walked up behind him. "Your young bride is quite winning."
"Indeed she is," Mark smiled proudly. "I take it the Lady Morgana will be dining with us tonight, then?"
The feasts thrown by King Uther when he hosted tournaments were among the largest and most celebrated in the land. Every contestant was invited to the table, and people caroused long into the night—a fact cited by many a loser the following day. Upon the table were the choicest meats, fruits, breads and wines. At its head sat Uther, in his finest regalia. Mark and Isolde sat on one side of him, while Morgana took the place between Arthur and his father.
"Isolde tells me you're rebuilding Tintagel," Morgana said to Mark, interrupting talk of some glorious long-ago battle.
"As it stands now, it's nothing but ruins," Mark replied. "But it's a well fortified location—"
"On the sea," Isolde recited.
"Across the sea, my love," Mark laid his hand on Isolde's, "from your father's kingdom."
Isolde smiled weakly at Mark. "Didn't your family once live at Tintagel?" she asked Morgana.
"Morgana was born in Camelot," Uther said as Morgana looked at him, somewhat confused. "But yes, Tintagel and the surrounding lands once belonged to her father, Gorlois." He sipped his wine.
"What happened?" Morgana put down her fork.
"Sorcerers destroyed it."
"Magic?" Morgana's eyes narrowed.
"It was razed to the ground—how else can you explain it?" Uther met her gaze.
"Isn't it supposed to be cursed?" Isolde said.
"Simple people believe anything," Mark said as he chewed his meat.
Morgana looked to Isolde.
"Many people fled to our lands," Isolde explained. "I had stories when I was a babe of a terrible battle—"
"It was a massacre." Uther stole a subtle glance at Gaius listening in.
"—and of Cursed Tintagel Across the Sea. But those are probably just stories," Isolde said to her food.
"Just stories is exactly what they are, my love." Mark cupped Isolde's chin.
"So who destroyed it?" Morgana asked.
"I told you, sorcerers," Uther put his goblet down on the table, hard.
"What was the purpose behind the attack?" Arthur said, startling the kings—they'd thought him conversing with the knights beside him.
"We never found out," Gaius said.
"More than likely it was some rival lord," Mark waved his hand impatiently.
"If there's a rival for the land, then perhaps you should be careful, My Love." Isolde glanced at Morgana as she spoke, nearly winking through her demonstration of concern.
"Cador's certainly been complaining," Uther said into his goblet.
"So has Ricatus in Dumnonia," Mark said, exasperated and bored.
"Is that why you're looking for a bodyguard?" Arthur asked.
"What?" Isolde glanced from Arthur to Mark.
"I heard a rumor," Arthur said as Mark glared at him.
"It occurred to me, my love," Mark caressed Isolde's cheek with his finger, "that until our walls are well-fortified, it might be wise to have extra protection. If some knight happens to impress me."
By this time, the table had fallen silent, and every face gazed forward. Every eye sought King Mark, every ear clung to his words. A murmur started as the news began to spread that the prize for this particular tournament was not just a chest filled with gold, but a commission to guard the most beautiful woman in the land.
"Well, you're committed now," Uther said to Mark before taking another sip of wine.
Lancelot wandered through the tents where competing knights were preparing in the crisp morning air—stretching and practicing and hydrating—in various states of dress. One had a harp out and was singing to himself, his servant hovering impatiently with armor. Lancelot paused to listen. A few tents away, Arthur also watched Tristan as Merlin adjusted his armor. Lancelot stole away before Arthur spotted him.
"Watch it!"
"I'm sorry," Lancelot said to the fully-suited knight. As tall as Lancelot, the bulk of the knight's armor nonetheless made him seem towering. Lancelot, unarmed, wearing only his road-stained shirt and trousers, stepped back. The knight lifted his metal-gloved hand and tried to strike, but Lancelot caught his wrist.
"I apologized," Lancelot said, releasing Sir Tarquin's hand.
"If you knew how to watch where you were going, you wouldn't have bothered me in the first place." Tarquin took a step toward Lancelot, who glanced at a growing crowd of onlookers. "You need to learn your place," Tarquin continued.
He took a swing at Lancelot, which Lancelot lithely dodged. Tarquin sneered and threw another punch at Lancelot, and again hit only air. Around the two gaped a bona fide audience of fellow knights, squires and servants. Even Tristan had abandoned his harp to watch Tarquin lunge at Lancelot, who expertly evaded and pushed Tarquin to the ground.
"What is going on here?" Arthur's voice rang out above the tents. Tarquin picked himself up off the ground, and the circle of watchers parted.
Arthur walked into the middle of the crowd. Merlin stood behind. Arthur's face was hard as he glared around at everyone present.
"Lancelot?" his features softened, surprised.
"This peasant is known to you?" Sir Tarquin said.
Arthur turned to him. "Is there a problem?"
"He insulted me, sire."
"And you think you're rectifying that?" Arthur said.
A chuckle rippled through the crowd, and Tarquin reddened.
"The tournament is over there," Arthur announced, pointing to the arena. He turned to Tarquin. "And you fight first today—why would you want to tire yourself out?"
"My opponent doesn't wish to grace me with his presence," Tarquin glared at Tristan. "Or is there another reason you haven't armed yourself yet?"
"It seems I don't need to," Tristan kept his gaze locked on Tarquin, who tensed, jaw tight.
"Enough! Go!" Arthur said, glaring the crowd into dispersal. Then he hooked his arm around Lancelot's neck and led him away.
"Well that was obscene," Malduc said, stepping around the corner of a tent and casually trailing after Sir Tarquin.
"Shut up, rodent," Tarquin snapped. "Don't you have a job to do?"
Malduc bowed—as unctuously as he could—and watched Tarquin storm off.
"I could talk to Mark for you." Arthur said to Lancelot. Merlin had run off to watch the match, so the two of them were alone in Arthur's tent.
"I doubt I'll get an audience with him otherwise." Lancelot sighed and leaned against a small table that held a ewer of water.
"I could also talk to my father," Arthur said tentatively.
"He didn't seem very receptive last time." Lancelot stared at the grass by his feet.
"You didn't even let me try last time."
"I told you, I need to—"
"Prove yourself? As a mercenary?"
Lancelot lifted his head, and Arthur sat down in a nearby chair.
"You should be out there," he said. "You're as good as—better than—any of them."
"The First Code of Camelot . . ." Lancelot quoted.
"Is stupid." Arthur leaned his elbows on his knees and stared at his hands. "You're the most honorable knight I've ever met, Lancelot."
"I'm not a knight, sire."
"You belong—"
"Arthur," Gwen called from outside the tent, interrupting him. Without waiting permission, she pulled back the tent flaps and stepped inside. "Merlin thought I should—"
Lancelot straightened up from the table—he and Gwen stared at each other.
"Um, Merlin thought I should tell you that it's almost time." She turned her shoulders toward Arthur, but her eyes remained on Lancelot.
"Tristan didn't take long," Arthur said.
"How do you know Sir Tristan won?" Lancelot said, finally breaking his gaze away from Gwen.
"Watch him fight."
"How long has Lancelot been in Camelot?" Gwen said to Arthur.
"Not long—I can't stay long either," Lancelot said.
"He's here to win Queen Isolde," Arthur said.
"Oh," Gwen said, turning to Lancelot. Lancelot shifted his weight from foot to foot, and Gwen gazed around the tent until her eyes rested again on Arthur. "Well—good luck," she said, turning and then turning back. "A-and also, you should know that Morgana's feeling better—she's—she'll be watching you." Gwen stiffly bowed her head—or curtsied, it was hard to tell.
"Arthur really will talk to Mark for you." Merlin stood beside Lancelot just inside the entrance to the arena as they watched Arthur in combat against a knight named Sir Robert.
"So I keep hearing." Lancelot's eyes were glued to Arthur.
"Lancelot, what's wrong?"
"What?" Lancelot cocked his ear to the side, his focus still on Arthur and the fight.
Merlin started to answer when a collective gasp forced his attention back to the arena. Arthur and Sir Robert had paused. A third sword—both Arthur and Robert still clutched theirs—protruded from the ground between them, plunged halfway to its hilt. A fourth sword flew from one of the guards by Uther, a fifth from a knight in the crowd, and then another from one of King Mark's men, and then another—dozens of swords started flying from all around the arena—and even from the tents outside, chased by the contestants trying to grab a hold of them. Knights flooded the entrances to watch their swords get planted in the dirt. Even Sir Robert's sword was finally commandeered, though he did not release it willingly and was dragged a few inches by whatever force was at work.
When the swords stopped flying, they spelled out a message in the dirt: "Death to Uther."
As punctuation, Arthur's sword flew out of his hand toward Mark's head. Mark ducked, the sword buried deep in the wood behind him.