A former necromancer misreads a prophecy, leading him to believe that Emrys is destined to destroy Camelot. His mission; to hunt down the sorcerer with help from none other than the banished Gwen.
This is not a Gwen/OC story.
A single icy blue eye roved the ancient page, narrowing slightly to make out the scrawled handwriting. The yellowed parchment crackled despite cautious effort, spidery lines threatening to split the precious document. Sighing softly, the raven haired man flipped a worn patch from his left eye to his right, smirking at his own deceptive ploy. No one could tell that the scar across his face was only a disguise to hide his most treasured secret.
Obsidian flashed to gold, emblazoning the letters as tendrils of magic surrounding the parchment. The smudged writing leapt into focus, and he smiled in satisfaction. The interpretation was slow, to be sure, but he had time. For fifty years he had hidden away, even before Uther had risen to power. Time was all he had now. Ever since the tragedy that had torn apart his life, killed his love, and nearly destroyed an entire kingdom, he had little purpose beside studying the shelves of scrolls and manuscripts.
Sometimes he wondered why he bothered. It was hardly as though the ancient magic had anything left to offer him. Everything he had once loved had been shorn away due to magic, yet here he remained, pouring over prophecies and old wives tales, searching for the key to amend the damage he had caused so long before. It tormented him to no end, as though the ghosts of the murdered innocents had risen up to condemn him for his crimes. He ran a hand through his hair, assessing the parchment with renewed vigor. As always, his efforts were futile. Many of the words were too blurred to make out. Only one name was faintly legible, the only one he had seen time and time again in prophecies, fables, and legends.
"Emrys."
A crash outside his hovel alerted him to an intruder, and with a start he leapt to his feet and shoved the parchments under a pile of jousting historials. Smoothly he transferred the patch to his left eye before picking up a torch and lighting it with a whisper. In the darkness a moan of despair sounded, ending on the verge of a sob. A woman, then, and apparently in some difficulty. As much as he hated to be bothered from his work, she would likely come to him for assistance before long. It would be better to get it over with now before she had any reason to suspect a cavern filled to the brim with magical artifacts.
Stepping outside and lifting one long leg over a tree root, he searched the grounds before catching sight of an old cart stranded by the road, one wheel splintered. As he had suspected, a young woman stood close by. She kicked the toppled cart in frustration before sinking down next to it with a choked cry. She shouldn't even have been traveling alone in the first place. The woods were far too dangerous for a pretty young lady to be caught unawares. Shaking his head ruefully, he extricated himself from his hideout. Botheration or no, it was against his honor to leave the poor girl stranded in the middle of nowhere.
Caught unawares, the young lady scrambled to her feet with a gasp as he approached. She grappled at the cart, producing a stout wooden cudgel that she waved threateningly towards him.
"Who are you? I don't know what you want, but you can be sure I don't have anything of value."
So she was a snappy little youngster, was she? Brave for a lass, though the stick in her hand would stand little chance against a determined bandit. Hoisting the torch higher, he held up his other hand to show he meant no harm. The woman's eyes shone with distrust, though she lowered her weapon a fraction. Idiot of a girl. If he really meant her ill, he could have swept in right now when her guard was down. Women were far too trusting for their own good.
"My name is Mor-" He halted instinctively, then continued as he remembered that no on who might concern themselves with his name would still be alive. "Moran." It was still a lie, but there was little worry. He would only assist the girl on her way, then be done with it.
"Guinevere," the girl replied softly, the cudgel now at her side. Her fingers still clenched it in a firm grip, prepared to react in a moment's notice. Good. She wasn't entirely naive.
"You appear to be in some trouble," he nodded towards the fallen cart. "Might I be of assistance?"
Guinevere nodded, sniffling slightly as she stepped away. The torchlight shimmered across her face, illuminating the stains of tears. So, she was in a lady wandering by herself, in a spot of trouble, and she was distressed. Considering her calm facade, her tears had not been spilled for the sake of the broken wagon alone. His curiosity was piqued at the idea.
Having lived long enough to bore himself with the tales of every tragic romance within five kingdoms, he was clearly in the middle of another case of upheavel. It was against his being to trifle himself with petty matters such as a woman's broken heart, but he was tired of concerning himself with illegible writing that no sorcerer in their decent mind should attempt to understand. A "heartwrenching" tale of a lover's woe would be a nice change, so long as the lady was prepared to leave upon the morning. He didn't need an insecure maid clinging to him in a delusion of spontaneous romance. Heavens, as if that hadn't happened more than once! A nightmare from the start, such women were impossible to be rid of, and the woods were running out of single young knights that he could pass them off to. If he weren't so desperate for any kind of news from the outside walls, he wouldn't have given this woman a second look.
Liar. He smirked. Perhaps he was too honorable for his own self preservation. He would likely regret this before long. Inspecting the cart, he noted with satisfaction that the axle and lynch pins were still in well enough shape. The wheel itself had splintered into three pieces. It was an easy enough fix with magic, but far be it from him to reveal himself within such close boundaries of Uther's kingdom. Gathering the broken parts, he placed them in the cart and with one hand lifted the handle with ease.
"I understand this is quite out of propriety," he said with a lilt of sarcasm, "However I have no spare wheels on hand and I perceive that you took no thought to bring one yourself should such an accident occur. I can repair this one, but it will take several hours at best. If you should like to wait, my hovel can at least provide a dry shelter for you. It's not much, but it keeps the rain out." He glanced at the sky as he spoke, sensing the incoming storm.
Guinevere smiled affably, clearly nervous. No doubt she thought he would take advantage of her during the night. She should have thought of that before she began traversing the forest alone. No matter. He had no intentions towards her, despite where her thought track might lead. Even if he looked to be in his mid-thirties, he had seen more years than her grandfather could count. Pretty young waifs abandoned in the forest held no attraction for him any longer.
"Suit yourself," he shrugged, lowering the cart and striding towards his cave. "You might want to consider looking for your own shelter within the next half hour. The winds here can be vicious. Oh, and while you're at it, keep an eye out for wolves. They hunt in swarms in this particular area."
He saw her hesitate, and after a furtive glance she hitched up her skirts and followed after him. He shook his head with a grin. Women were so predictable.
Blowing out his torch with a quick puff, he tossed it into the corner before shoveling a few last papers out of sight. Guinevere was a country lass from her manner, though from her garments she must have been trained for the palace. A serving girl then, likely on the run from a royal affair or the like. The story was always the same. Blah, blah, blah, dashing young prince or knight (sometimes even the king for that matter), concealed romance, midnight excursions, banishment. Oh yes, and the lover had probably been beheaded for his tyrannical actions, or faced some other gory death. Typical. Sometimes a duel for the lady's heart was involved, which always made the tale more interesting. Considering that Guinivere was probably from Camelot or one of the surrounding villages, the chance was less likely. King Uther would never risk himself or his only son for a romantic affair.
Speaking of the prince, how close was he now to taking his father's throne? Moran couldn't recall the last time he had caught a snipet of news from Camelot. Perhaps six, seven years ago? He had been holed up for too long now. Once this pesky maiden was out of the way he'd make his way to some worn down shamble of a tavern and catch up on the latest town gossip. If the crowd was shabby enough there would be no concern over a one eyed man sulking in a shadowy corner.
Guinevere was looking about now, her hands folded respectfully behind her back as she gazed at the intriquite trinkets cluttering his lodge. She wasn't as pestering as he had expected for a city bred maid, though he should have expected it from the way she had stood up for herself outside. Clearly she had no concept of magic, given her innocent intrigue in the random artifacts scattered throughout the hovel. This worked in both their favor, as memory inhibiting spells were a tarnation and it was too easy to target the wrong periods of time. It would do little good to have a silly little girl wandering the woods without her memory, though Moran had heard of similar cases which had ended in the chance meeting of a dashing young prince seeking his bride. A fine dream for any young woman, but more often than not the stories ended in a tragic occurence within a wolf or bear den. The results were usually quite gruesome, and he tried to discourage hopeful waifs from the attempt as often as he could.
"I... I'm not familiar with any of these ... decorations," Guinevere groped for a better word. "Do they have magical properties?"
A large tear split the parchment within Moran's hands at the unexpected question. And he had so been hoping to avoid the memory impairment. "What gives you that idea?" he bluffed. "Magic is strictly forbidden, is it not?"
"Of course," Guinevere hastily conceded. "It's just, well, I've seen artifacts like these that were associated with magic before. There was someone in the court..." Her voice trailed off with a trace of contempt.
Moran's head swung up in intrigue. "A sorcerer?"
Guinevere's face darkened with hatred, though from what he had seen the emotion was difficult to associate with her personality.
"Morganna," Guinevere spat. "Her sister Morgause, too. They showed me enough of their cruelty to imprint the images on my mind forever." She twirled to face him, her eyes accusing. "I thank you for your hospitality, Sir, however I must know; are these objects used for sorcery?"
Smart girl. The last pest who had dropped by had assumed he was a sundial maker with a random and far fetched collection. Heavens, that girl had been daft.
He was tempted to deny Guinevere's statement, but her words about the two other sorceresses caused him to hold his tongue. If the dark magic had returned and taken Camelot be force, it was imperitive that he have full knowledge. He had no love for the kingdom, yet he had no intent to allow the tragedy which had befallen his homeland to destroy countless other innocent lives as well. Perhaps nothing could be done, but far be it from him to be helpless for lack of information. Playing along with the young maid might gain him the knowledge he needed.
On the other hand, it could pronounce his doom.
"I... am a necromancer," he admitted slowly.
As expected, Guinevere's eyes widened in horror and distrust. For Moran, however, relinquishing his most guarded secret had a double motive. Something deep inside, a gut instinct he had learned to trust over the decades, told him this woman could be trusted if manipulated the right way. She was frightened of magic, but not to the point of paranoia. It was without an inkling of a doubt that Moran concluded they were fighting on the same side. Whether by deduction or her instinctively friendly and open nature, she seemed like one who would know dark magic from good. And Moran would need such an ally if he were to prevent the impending devestation prophesied against Camelot. The destruction which he was positive could only be brought about by one man.
The elusive Emrys.
First Merlin fanfic, so reviews appreciated. Cowrite with A Tragic Galaxy.