Hello! Sorry about the long hiatus, but it's been quite a term. Enjoy!
Camelot was surrounded by forest. The citadel itself stood on a great hill, proud and regal as it looked down on the earth below it. But not five leagues east, deep in to the Welsh marshes lay Camlann. It was found amongst the rugged mountains, and the trees that grew there were forever green, even underneath the heavy snow. Yet few birds made their homes there. The wolves and deers did not stalk amongst the towering pine trees. It was almost as if nature was holding her breath: Waiting for the tragedy to unfold. Nature feared this place as much as any prophet. Yet at the moment described, one could hear the whimpers of the ill and dying; the soft soothing words coming from inside some hastily constructed tents. And one could, if one was particularly apt at seeing through the mist of the Welsh twilight and the fury of the blizzard, pick out the figure of Arthur Pendragon. He was slumped against a rock, sword clutched in his hands. His head lolled back and he snored gently, his face and hands white from the cold and a lump the size of an under-ripe apple on his head. Suddenly he started awake, his aqua blue eyes clouded with exhaustion and frustration.
Stupid, stupid! He thought, Bone-brain – clotpole – dollop head! Could he not even stay awake and keep watch for five minutes? He felt like such an idiot. Guinevere had been so wonderful – preparing sleeping solutions, holding children's hair back as they vomited; making up beds. Arthur for his part kept watch and escorted refugees in to Nemeth, where a remarkable woman going by the name of Mithian – whom Arthur had met with at jousts and the like – was organising housing and foster families for the children. Camelot had closed its borders, and it had taken all of Arthur's stealth to smuggle them across. Many were hidden in crates of cabbages, other times he would swiftly knock the guards out – from behind, of course. If he was seen, well, that would put an end to his cover story of 'Fighting a Chimera in the Angle-Lands." It saddened his heart to betray his father in such a way, but every time he had his doubts, he remembered Morgana's words.
"Sometimes you have to do what's right – and damn the consequences." Four years since she had said those words. So much had changed; it seemed almost a different world. She had since gone missing and nearly died, Gwen had become so much more than Morgana's servant – it seemed hard to believe that he was once that naïve boy who had gone riding in to the caves with a sorceress to save his best friend. But the words still stood. And – he supposed that his father had been ill for a long time now. Perhaps it had swum to the surface with Morgana's disappearance, but it had been going on for longer than that. Something had snapped when his mother had died, something that left him cold and empty, devoid of love. The hate that filled him was ugly and feral, like a savage dog that could not recognise his master's hand from a killer's. And it was tearing Camelot apart in its wake.
"Arthur?" Guinevere whispered, stepping out in to the cold mountain air with a shawl around her shoulders. "You must rest. Let someone else take the watch." Arthur shook his head.
"You do so much, and receive so little. And here I am, dozing at my post whilst you go rushing around saving the world. What did I do to deserve you?" Guinevere laughed quietly, wrapping her arms around Arthur and seeking his lips in her own, their foreheads pressed against each other.
"Come to bed," she murmured, "It's too cold to be apart tonight." It was Arthur's turn to chuckle.
"Why do I get the feeling that it hasn't got much to do with the cold?" Guinevere gave him a gentle shove.
"Because you're an arrogant sod, that's why. Now come on. Don't think you can make me swoon by playing the hero and valiantly battling the mountain elk all night long, because it won't work and I'll be cross." Arthur raised his hands in surrender, allowing her to lead him back to their tent, when he caught something in the corner of his eye.
A figure: Steadily walking up the mountain path. Slowly but surely coming towards where they had made their camp. Motioning for Guinevere to be quiet, Arthur drew his sword.
"Who goes there?" He called. "Friend or foe?"
"Friend, my Lord." A woman's voice echoed through the rushing waterfalls. As she emerged from the darkness, Guinevere rushed to her side, helping her with her pack.
"Hunith? God, it is good to see you again," Gwen cried, hugging the older woman. Hunith returned the hug affectionately, and bowed before Arthur.
"Sire, it is good to see you once more. I had hoped to see how my son was faring. There is talk of an illness sweeping the land, and you know how a mother worries." Arthur shook his head, unable to make head or tail of the sentence she had put before him.
"What do you mean – we thought Merlin was with you? I thought that you were ill, and that Merlin was caring for you?" Hunith frowned.
"I have not seen Merlin for a long time now, not since last Samhain." Her voice rose in panic. "Where is he? Is he sick – can we reach him?"
"Don't worry, ma'am," Arthur said in a voice that sounded like he was doing quite the opposite. "The illness only affects those with magic. Which is actually quite a lot of people – more than I had thought…"
"How does it work?" Hunith whispered. "How does the illness work?" Arthur glanced at Gwen, who spoke gently,
"We don't know, but it seems to be that the stronger your magic is, the more the illness affects you – Hunith?" The older woman had gone quite pale, her blue eyes dark against her skin.
"My boy." She whispered. "Merlin." She turned to Gwen. "Is he alone? Is he – please, if you know something you must tell me. You must, Guinevere. I know you know something." Gwen looked nervously at Arthur before bending her head towards Hunith.
"He went with Morgana. They were trying to leave Camelot, I'm not sure where they are, but they got a good head start. That's all I know, I promise."
"Will someone please tell me what's going on?" Arthur exploded. "Where is he, what on earth does he have to do with this disease – why is everyone talking about something that I don't understand."
"Merlin had a friend." Gwen said quickly. "One with strong magic. Merlin went to warn her, but didn't want you to know. He left Camelot with her."
"Why wouldn't Merlin tell me?" Arthur asked, a 'My-father-killed-my-puppy' look on his face. "Why wouldn't he trust me?" Gwen and Hunith exchanged glances.
"My lord, with all due respect, you have hardly shown a tolerant face to magic in the past. I never expected this of you – never expected you would be able to shake off your father's prejudice." Hunith said.
"And you." Arthur turned to Gwen, his voice bitter. "You didn't trust me either."
"Arthur…" Gwen pleaded.
"I don't want to hear it. After all we've done - it's bad enough my father thinking I'm going to trot along in his footsteps but you -" overcome with emotion, Arthur turned his back and strode in to the tent, drawing the tent flaps around him as aggressively as he could.
"Arthur wait; please…" Gwen tried to run after him, but Hunith stopped her with a hand.
"I'd leave him. He looks the silent brooding type, and from what I can tell this is far more to do with his father than it is with you."
"But…"
"Trust me on this one." Gwen met her eyes – the same violet shade as Merlin's – and nodded. "But he was so upset at the idea of me and Merlin keeping secrets from him. What's he going to do when he actually finds out…?"
"He's not going to find it out from anyone but Merlin." Hunith said firmly. "Not if I can help it. That's how we have to deal with this." She stopped, brushing away her tears. "I just get so worried, you know? I never see him any more, he's so wrapped up in his destiny it's like he's an entirely different person."
"Morgana will bring him back." Gwen assured her. "She's the most stubborn person I know, she'll bring him back safe." Hunith frowned. She had heard much about Morgana that she didn't like, and had her doubts about how concerned this woman would be about her son's safety.
"Explain." Morgana demanded. "What is happening? What is wrong with the earth and for the sake of the Goddess why did you call it the end of days?" Morgause didn't speak. Her brown eyes filled with tears, and she wrapped her arms around Morgana and held her close, the snow in her blonde curls thawing on Morgana's face. "Morgause stop it. You're scaring me. Please, just tell me what you meant. I survived this. I was dying, and I was scared but I made it through. We can make it through this, us three. Please just tell me what to do."
"There's nothing. There's nothing we can do. The time of magic will end, and the time of iron will be born. Numbers, so many numbers, they will take control, and words will have no power over this new world." Morgana reeled in shock, falling back on to the snow.
"No. No it cannot be." She gasped. "How – how can you know?"
"Because the mad king used the poisoned water to nourish the earth. And now magic itself under attack. There are prophecies hidden away in the darkest crevices of the Isle of the Blessed that are said to prophesy this time. It was never meant to be – it was a legend, a story." She turned to Morgana. "There is a man. Well, he was once a man. Some call him a God, some the most powerful sorcerer that ever lived. There are those who might call him the Aiden, but his true name is buried somewhere deep in the fires of the earth. And it is written that as the Mad King wages the final battle against magic, the Aiden will rise from the flames and bring the age of iron and the men of steel.
"But we can stop him." Morgana half pleaded with her sister. "He doesn't have to win – you're so strong Morgause, you could stop him." Morgana looked at her sister, such a look that Morgana fell silent, her body shaking with silent despair.
"We must return to the isle, sister. If there is to be but a glimmer of hope, then we must not let the world fall prey to the darkness of midwinter day. Come with me." Morgana looked at her sister, and back to the dying man next to her.
"I can't." She whispered. "I can't leave him, sister. I have to bury him."
"I should have thought the snow would take care of that." Morgause said bluntly. Morgana shook her head.
"He is of the earth, and the earth will heal him." She whispered to herself. She raised her voice and addressed her sister. "I have to stay with him until it is time." Morgause's voice rose in anger.
"What good can it do now?" Morgana met Morgause's eyes.
"Have you never loved?" Morgause caught her wrist, forcing her to turn around.
"I love you, my sister."
"Never loved someone so much you know you would follow them to the ends of the earth if you had to?" She pressed. "Never loved someone so much that it hurts, that it feels like a punch to the stomach every time you look at them? Never, sister?" Something flickered briefly in the depth's of Morgause's amber eyes.
"Once." She said dully. "Once."
"And what happened?" Morgana asked, never compromising, her eyes never leaving her sister's.
"We have to go."
"What happened?"
"I won't…"
"Morgause. What happened?"
"He died Morgana!" Her voice was cold and clipped, ringing out in to the inky black of the winter night. It was only Morgana's closeness to her sister that enabled her to hear the tremor in her voice. "I knew him but a summer and he was taken from me, at the start of the great purge. I had to watch him die as he screamed for me to run. I – I couldn't even find his body afterwards, they set the entire camp alight."
"And it hurt, didn't it." Morgana stood, her knuckles whitening as she gripped Morgause's arms. "It hurt so much you thought you couldn't bear it, thought your heart might crack from the weight of your pain."
"Yes." Morgause's voice cracked, and she struggled against Morgana. "Stop it, please. It hurt, It hurt so much - watching them all burn. I never cried, but I couldn't – I couldn't breathe with it."
"But if you had never met him? If you had left him earlier, if someone had given you the opportunity so that your paths would never cross, would you take it and save yourself from the pain?"
"I – I don't know."
"Morgause, answer me truthfully."
"No, no." Morgause shouted, not caring any longer for holding back her tears. "I couldn't. Not him."
"There, you see." Morgana said, tears now falling and meeting her sister's. "I can't leave him. Not for anything." Morgause cupped her cheek in her hand, placing a shaky kiss on her sister's brow.
"You look after yourself." She said fiercely. "You keep fighting, and you stay alive Morgana. I'll find you, after the solstice. I promise. Don't you dare give up, once you've buried him, do you understand me?" Morgana nodded.
"I promise, sister." Morgause wrapped her arms around Morgana, and the two remained that way for a while, the two sisters unwilling to let go of the other as the snow fell around them. And yet all too soon, Morgause broke away, and with a soft incantation disappeared in to the woods.
As her sister left it seemed to Morgana that the storm worsened. The snow fell harder and faster, beating against her face and hands until she dragged Merlin's body inside the hollow oak, her hands white and shaking. And she began to cry. She cried for her sister, whose lover had died screaming. She cried for Merlin, who was quiet now. Oh, so quiet that you could barely hear his whispered mutterings of spells and lore and of secrets locked away in his mind. And she cried for herself. Because she had come so close to closing off her heart to everyone but Morgause, locking herself away in her tower of ice and loathing, consuming herself in hatred and bitterness. So close to not caring how others used her body, to seducing men for armies and fine warriors whilst slipping poison in their drink. She had been so close. And so, alone, afraid and in love, she cried herself to sleep, her face nestled in Merlin's side, shivering under the blankets.
And yet at the utmost end of Albion, far from Camelot, wheels were being set in motion. The fool, the madman, he sat on his throne of lies and smiled to himself as a messenger knelt at his feet.
"Your Majesty – it is exactly as you said. I have seen it for myself, Uther Pendragon has watered the earth with the Aether, and the lands of Camelot are bathed in blood." The madman smiled.
"Leave this place, I wish to be alone." The messenger bowed and left, and the Mad King arose, kneeling in front of his throne and lifting a vast iron grate, from which hot smoke arose. Beneath it was a molten lake of fire, bubbling and boiling and choking up ash.
"My Lord, I have done as you have asked; the King of Camelot has fallen in to the trap. And once Camelot has fallen, you shall rise, O King. You shall rise and there will be nothing anyone can do to stop you." The Sarrum chuckled, low and hoarse, his mouth unused to laughing. "And there will be blood."
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