Part 2: The King
Prologue:
She hit. She hit hard. And crumpled to the ground. It was really hard to actually feel anything; as if her mind was lagging like a glitching computer. But she definitely heard a long string of a sort-of familiar language. She understood that it was probably a long string of curses—somehow, she knew that much. But it was a language she only vaguely recognized, but from where? When?
And more importantly, she realized, she couldn't really move. Her body was so tired and tender from pain. Her eyes were blurred and dimmed, sound crackled and static, and the air was bitterly cold and damp. She'd been turned over to her back with hands prodding her face. She couldn't respond. Couldn't react. She thought she heard herself whimper when she was finally, harshly, tugged upward and slung over a hard, but blissfully warm surface. But before she blanked out, she sensed she was being carried by something and that 'something' moved. Slowly. Steadily in rhythms with a thump-thump-thump in blunted noise.
Poor, poor Alistair. Why was it always him that took the worst hits, eh? Eire would argue that it was because heaven was punishing him for being a Scot; really, he was just asking for it, being built like an ox. Stupid little troll! But despite being trampled by livestock, by hordes of enemies trying to break his and his men's ranks in battle, by falling rocks—well, Alistair had to admit having a person thrown at him was a first. Maybe the cosmos did have it out for him. He'd have to think on that...or have Rhys think on it—he was the philosophizing wizard-man now. Alistair almost snorted. Myrddin, indeed. Their eldest must feel so clever now. Hmph!
Even so, when he was sent to investigate a spike in magic, he wasn't expecting a girl to come flying out of a portal—and certainly not at him. That had fucking hurt. Again, why was it always him? He grunted as he adjusted his hold. Thinking on it, he supposed he should've investigated longer; see if the girl was some manner of dark fae or whatnot, but damn it all, he wasn't about to cast alone. Not in these times when the potential for dark casters still in her service could surface. Nah, better to bring her about to be confined and then all the brothers could decide what to do with her encroaching in the new kingdom. Besides, they'd weeded out most already and things were going to start get boring what with their youngest taking the royal duties, thinking he can just order them about (the little brat), and just...it was boring.
After so many years, decades, centuries of battle...sitting about deciding laws and ugh—taxes would just make him want to fling himself from the keep. Alba was meant for, was made for, battling. He thrived on it. He wondered if he'd always be that way, even as he slowly but inevitably aged, or if he'd finally settle. If he even lived long enough to be considered elder. His mother, before she passed after they'd finally pushed that damned Rome out, always referred to the brothers as "boys", her boys, and indeed, they were all rather young when compared to some other immortals. But. But after so much time had passed without her...they'd become men. Grown. Hardy. And hardened. Their own respective kingdoms and peoples.
Point is, he couldn't stand being bored and bringing something dangerous about could make things interesting. This creature couldn't be all terrible, after all, she'd been thrashed travelling a portal. Only novice casters had that trouble.
He'd finally made it to his horse, unsteadily placing the creature he'd ...found...upon it to ease his burden and walk back to the castle. And prayed that this wasn't more trouble than it was worth. The whole of it. Building a kingdom, letting their magic out into the open, and letting their kind be known to mortals...it was dangerous, he thought. Mortals weren't supposed to know of their kind. They weren't supposed to ken the personifications of a kingdom—the people's literal interpretation in a human-like form. Being seen as some manner of Witch was one thing, this—this was different.
Alistair sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair, and patting his horse who snuffled contentedly. He'd treat the steady beast with a nice, extra serving of oats. It had served him very well for some time now. He sighed again upon the clearing, for the castle was in sight.
"Well then, away we go, eh boy?" The horse snorted at him, "Back to Camelot, then."
