A/N: Ever seen the 2004 movie King Arthur? If no, watch it or you might struggle with things, because it's not traditional King Arthur lore. It's based off this guy who was actually doing stuff with Rome...and it's supposed to be more accurate and all that good stuff...REALLY good movie...and this story is the result of me with my traditional King Arthur knowledge going, "HUH?" at the end of the movie...when certain characters that are supposed to play a huge part in the rest of the Arthur tale, um, kind of die...so I'm twisting the movie, legend of the Dark Ages King Arthur, and some of my own inventions all together.
Chapter One: Old Magic
Mist wound through the leaves of the dark forest, rising and swaying without aid from the wind. It moved, alive, reveling in the stories of the trees. This was Merlin's mist, hissing and churning into thick fog in the fast fading light. Smoke from the still-smoldering grave trembled as the fog approached; a low moan escaped it, as it knew death had drawn very near. The last flames died and embers turned grey and blew along the grass; fog overtook fire, suffocating it. The long, twisting fingers of the old wizard groped the site in search of a soul. The soul Merlin knew still had to play its last great purpose. At last, he grasped it, and the fog retreated.
Merlin opened his eyes; the forest around him now plunged into darkness. At the old man's feet, specks of shining dust gathered. A few moments later there could be no mistake in the dense shape the dust was forming, swirling and tossing inches above the bed of leaves on the forest floor.
The old wizard lifted his arms, his wrinkled palms facing the ground, level with his waist. In a voice that was mingled with the sounds of the forest; trees, logs, ponds, and birds; and also with the whistle of an arrow and chime of the sword; in a voice laden with all of these things and the very breath of magic, Merlin the great sorcerer began to speak. No words left his mouth, but what he spoke was carried into the wind, and pushed deep under the earth. The dust glowed with the intensity of a flame, throwing unearthly light through the trees. Those in the village nearby who lifted their heads from the plow for only a moment to see could only stare in wonder and utter bemusement.
The light grew brighter and the wizard closed his eyes, his spell reaching the close. Taking a shuddering breath he whispered the last call.
"Lancelot…Lancelot…Come back to this earth…Lancelot!"
Instantly, after the light's final and most brilliant flash, it diminished to nothing, disappearing too fast to even leave a shadow lingering behind. Where once the shimmering dust had gathered now lay a man, appearing as one in a deep sleep, naked and unmarked except for a single, dark scar on the center of his chest.
Merlin, on protesting knees, dropped onto the leaves beside the man, gently raising a hand to push the dark locks of hair away from the man's brow. At the wizard's touch, Lancelot's eyes fluttered open. His gaze was peaceful, as if he had just floated away from some restful oblivion, lured into consciousness by the warm light of summer's morning sun. Merlin held his gaze with sadness in his old eyes. Only a few heartbeats passed before Lancelot's placid expression transformed into that of agony, pain beyond anything he could have imagined.
Tears came to Lancelot's eyes. He raised his shaking hands and found the dark scar on his chest. A scream rose from his lungs and escaped him, startling sleeping birds from their nests all around them. Merlin reached out and held down the knight's shoulders, trying to subdue his thrashing.
The worst of the pain swelled in Lancelot's chest, and then his body felt as though it were burning, and he could no longer breathe, choked on smoke and the acrid smell of his own flesh. His scream caught in his throat, his eyes grew dim and unfocused. Merlin, his eyes moist but determined, drew up the knight and held him until the uncontrollable convulsions of his body grew less frequent and violent.
"Breathe, my son," Merlin whispered.
Lancelot felt his throat open. Cold, sooth air carrying pine and life from the trees spilled down into his lungs. He sighed, and the pain dissipated by a degree, so that his eyes could open and he could see.
"There, there," said the sorcerer gently.
"What is this place?" Lancelot asked hoarsely, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. Merlin laughed, looking about. It was nearly dawn. Pale grey light had just begun to seek out the shadows.
"Do you not remember?" he asked kindly.
"It is vague…" Lancelot's eyes closed for a moment.
"You will remember soon enough, I'm afraid." Merlin extended his painted arms, lying the knight back down onto the leaves. Lancelot shook and his hands went again to the mark on his chest. He gasped, his face contorting in pain.
With a small wave of his thin fingers, Merlin produced a thick cloak. First shaking it to free some forest leaves, the old wizard then laid it upon Lancelot, who after a few more moments of agony, lost consciousness upon his bed of dry leaves.
"The worst is over," said Merlin to himself, gazing down upon Lancelot, sleeping once again, his chest rising and falling rhythmically, the heart beating anew, with new blood, never forgetting how. It celebrated in its new beginning, but it would soon ache, as Merlin knew, as the awakened mind learned of all it had lost, and all it had missed. He could not foresee all, but he could see now the misery, despair, and anger ahead; he had seen it all along.
Now, however, the rising sun fell gently through the leaves. The last hold his mist had on the land, Merlin lifted. The earth stirred with the flight of all night shadows, aware, as earth is, of the magic that still lingered as dust in the air, magic pulled from its deepest roots.
Merlin stooped down to pull an object out of his robes. He brought forth a large purse with a golden clasp. Whispering to it in a voice of metal, Merlin bade the clasp to open. He then placed the purse on the ground and moved back. The time had come to put a roof over the sleeping knight's head.
He directed the construction of a high dome, the frame of which came from the purse, and covered it with living moss, trees, and fungus of all kinds. All of his other belongings flew out of the bag and through the living doorway of tree roots and vines, starting off as small as a beetle, and then expanding to their real size once inside the dome. A table and chairs was the last to form, after a bed and heavy earthen cookware.
The purse now empty, Merlin clapped his hands and the lock clasped once again. He examined the dome, truly part of the forest, with a moss-covered chimney emitting a thin trail of silver smoke. Merlin looked down at Lancelot, his cheeks flushed in the chill of the morning, the frost still clinging to the air. Bending down, Merlin lifted Lancelot into his arms and carried him into the dome, brushing aside quivering white flowers that grew and bloomed even as he stepped across the threshold. Inside he set Lancelot into bed, his head resting so that his dark curls fanned across his eyes, the light of the crackling fire playing merrily with the shadows on his face.
Lancelot drifted somewhere distant and familiar, a small village he knew and even loved. It was the place he had through of last when he had been blinded by darkness, and he had ventured there easily, walking upon the grass toward the waiting arms of his father. Now he struggled on the path, the vision of his home was not so clear, and no one was waiting for him at the end of the journey.
Suddenly he opened his eyes. A soft mattress stuffed with grasses and hay lay beneath him, and many blankets were tucked around him. The room around him proved to be the most curious, as it seemed to be alive, tree roots interwoven with moss and mushrooms, vines of ivy, and tiny blooming flowers. It smelled of deep earth, of rich soil and rain.
Intrigued, Lancelot sat up, realizing he was naked underneath the blankets. His eyes fell upon a table set in the middle of the dome hut, where, folded neatly, were several articles of clothing. He gazed at them flatly, and then stood to dress. The clothes fit him as though they had been tailored, and as he pulled them over his head he noticed that they too smelled of earth and pine.
No boots waited for him, and so, barefoot, he faced the doorway—a mass of hanging roots as thick as an arm, and leafy vines sprouting more of the pale white flowers—where the shadow of a man played across the sunlight. He knew who the bent little figure was, moving busily around the doorway, and he also knew what he intended to say to him.
Merlin, for Lancelot knew his name, was singing as he raked the fallen leaves away from the dome, but his voice was not that of a normal man's. Accompanying his low, humming were many other sounds, some deep and echoing like caves, and others high as the whistling wind. Lancelot paused just outside, his toes touching the cold ground, and found himself, to his dissatisfaction, listening as Merlin sang.
O green land of Erie
Green island, O
Where magic began
Where land is old
Grey wings of the sea
Take me back to see thee
O green land of Erie
Green island, O
Where magic began
Where land is old
Merlin ended his song and stood in silence, gazing for a long while into the northwest, swaying slightly on his feet. Lancelot stared at him, and even as he opened his mouth to begin, the old wizard turned to him, leaning against his rake.
"It has been four days since you were last out in the forest," he said. "You remember now."
Lancelot felt his face grow hot. "I remember," he said, biting his words. "I remember it; a nightmare of agony that I thought would never end. That I would die, surely I would have to die." Lancelot ran his fingers gingerly over where he knew the dark scar tainted his chest. "And afterward I remember your face looking down on me through many dark memories." Lancelot spoke sharply, his words loud and unchecked, and also tainted with great fear. Fear of the pain, but most of all, fear of the man standing in front of him; a fear he hoped the wizard would not be able to sense.
"What else do you remember, Lancelot?" Merlin asked, his voice infuriatingly soft and calm. Lancelot tried to restrain, but suddenly he could not restrain himself.
"I remember the battle," he said. "I remember my sword…and I remember…" He faltered, and Merlin looked at him intensely. The moment slipped past. "I remember the arrow, and their faces, and then nothing. Nothing but darkness but for a faint light growing ever larger in front of me. Then I thought to return…I thought of my freedom, and what Arthur…" Upon mentioning the great knight, Lancelot felt pride and love flood over him. His eyes glowed. "What our Arthur had said, and what I had been fighting my entire life for since they came and took me from my home…and what I was fighting for in that battle."
Lancelot fell silent, suddenly feeling weak. He closed his eyes. "And then," he said, "I went home. My father was there, calling for me, on a morning more beautiful than any I have ever seen…and he was just as I had left him…"
Lancelot opened his eyes, the weakness leaving him as anger replaced it, rushing in as though a dam somewhere had been broken.
"And then darkness. A voice calling me back…your voice."
Merlin nodded, still leaning against the rake. Lancelot went on, his eyes smoldering. "Back into the torment of my last moments, and through fire." Lancelot's hands rolled into fists. "I can no longer hear my father calling for me. My freedom is distant, and only a normal dream when once it was true!"
"So it will one day be true again. It was not your time."
"Who are you to decide?" Lancelot shouted. "Who are you to take me from my freedom? What army have you to force me? You are no one's God, and not mine! You, who looks at me now only with great despair and whispers about my fate…" Lancelot walked toward Merlin, driven nearly mad by the sadness in sorcerer's eyes. "What is it that you know?" he screamed, his nose only inches away from the old man's. "Can you not see my suffering? I did not ask to return here, and by what power…by what decree can you decide to bring me back?"
Lancelot, spent from his outburst of anger, stumbled back against the side of the dome. Merlin did not respond, and the knight sank to the ground, weeping in bitter anguish and despair, his head held in his hands. Merlin watched him, and then slowly approached.
"I cannot tell you all that I know, but know this:" said Merlin, speaking softly. "There is still a purpose for you, Knight Lancelot, but this is not the end of your despair."
Lancelot, his face streaked with tears, looked up. Merlin continued, "You are to find Arthur. Your place is there, in his kingdom, for now." The old wizard's eyes drifted over the years in remorse.
"Those are the eyes!" cried Lancelot. "You know my fate, and yet you will not tell me?"
A silence fell between them, the knight and the wizard, and both of them suddenly became aware of the forest around them, and everything that was listening. Lancelot's shouts dropped to a whisper. "I do not wish to remain here," he said, begging the wizard with his very soul to send him back.
"Find Arthur," Merlin replied. "There you will find a cause to this new life."
Lancelot lowered his head, broken.
"I must leave," said Merlin, "to be with my people. I believe just as you are strong enough now, as am I. Old magic require…much sacrifice, on both ends. A new battle approaches…
And finally, to perhaps ease your mind, the Battle of Badon Hill was won. Of Arthur's knights only you and Tristan fell. Arthur slew the Saxon Cerdic, and the son who took your life was killed as well. Lady Guinevere…"
Lancelot looked up suddenly, his heart beating wildly, but met only the same despair in the old wizard's eyes.
"Lady Guinevere, yes?" he asked eagerly.
"She survived. And then married Arthur, now King of the Woads."
Disbelief passed across Lancelot's face. At the same moment, his chest throbbed as though the Saxon's arrow still resided there, right through his heart. He stared at the ground, his eyes lost of focus. When he finally looked back to where Merlin had stood, there was not a trace of him. He had vanished, and through the silence came the sound of hooves.
Lancelot scrambled to his feet, recognizing the sound of the whinny, the timing of the run. Through the trees came his horse, a bridal on his snout and saddle on his back, along with a pain of boots strung into the left stirrup. The horse came to an abrupt halt beside the living dome, snorting and stamping happily upon recognizing his master.
Lancelot untied the boots and pulled them on. He threw himself into the saddle and took the reigns in his hands. His horse stamped eagerly, his breath crystallizing in front of his nose in the cold air. Lancelot looked back at the dome for a moment, and then flipped the reigns.
"Yah!" he whooped, and the horse bounded into the woods. Never before had horse and rider been so close to one, so nimble, and so fast. Lancelot rode as an arrow let loose from the bow, his heart pounding as he and his beat flew over the ground. Soon they burst free from the forest and entered an open field, at the end of which rose a grey village. Lancelot leaned down close the horse's neck, finally glad, finally with something to hope for. He laughed.
"Guinevere!" he shouted, and the horse, black as midnight, continued to fly, carrying him, as always, with fire, pain, and despair at their backs.
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