Prince Arthur & the Quest for the Holy Grail
by Soledad
Author's notes: Yes, in the early legends Lancelot was actually called Galahad. Only later went the name to his son. As for the twist in Gwen's ancestry in the previous part, I'd like to point at the very visible AU-label, just in case.
Chapter 11 – Entanglements
In the Castle of Fyrien, the small army of Prince Meleagant was also preparing to leave. Messengers had been sent to King Cenred's supporters with sealed letters, to inform them that the rightful heir of their late King was about to stake claim on the throne. Supplies had been repacked, the pack horses reloaded; everything was in readiness for departure. There was only one thing left to be done.
Morgana joined Meleagant and the little sorceress in the deepest vaults of the castle. Morgause's unconscious body had been taken down there by Meleagant's men and laid onto a slab of roughly-hewn stone. She was clad in black by the serving women of the Castle, who had followed her and Morgana, her hair combed out and arranged around her shoulders.
She seemed to sleep.
Morgana had conflicted feelings as she was looking down at her sister's unresponsive body. On the one hand, she still loved Morgause, the only person of her family that had accepted her for what she was, fiercely. On the other hand, all that Meleagant had revealed her about Morgause had awakened nagging doubts in her heart. She just was not ready to give in to those doubts yet.
She was not ready to give up on her sister yet. For almost two years, Morgause had been her strength, her support. She had given her purpose.
But the truth was, she did not need Morgause any longer. Not the way she had needed her before. The sacrificing of her maidenhood in Meleagant's bed had been as if a lid had been removed from a pot of boiling water. She could almost physically feel her powers grow and expand – just like the long-captured damp would, after the removal of the lid. She was stronger than ever before – but she also knew that her new powers could easily overwhelm her without proper training.
Thus she chose to arrange herself with Meleagant and his ugly little witch – for the time being. Until she had come into her full powers, learned to use them as she pleased and had become the Queen of Camelot on her own right. Then she would return here, free her sister again and heal her; and then, Morgause's powers and knowledge would serve her purpose, just like she had served Morgause's till now.
First, though, she had to watch and learn. Which was why she now stood there, in the vaults of the ruined castle, watching the little sorceress cast her spell.
This was the first time that she saw Cundrie unveiled; and it was a loathsome sight indeed. Wrapped in the fine, expensive clothes was the ugliest creature she had ever seen, and counting in the Troll that Uther had unwittingly married, that was saying a lot. Cundrie's head seemed way too large, compared with her stunted body; her black braid, so long that it touched the stone floor, was liberally streaked with grey and hard like the bristles of a pig. She had a nose like a dog, and two boar's teeth stuck out of her wide mouth, yellow and ragged. With her yellow, slanted eyes and the curved, yellow nails on her claw-like hands, she looked more like a demon than a human being.
Meleagant clearly wasn't disturbed by her frightening appearance; he'd had years to get used to it.
"Let us begin, Dame Cundrie," he said, with just a hint of impatience in his rough voice. "Time is an issue here; the men are waiting for us, ready to leave this bleak place."
The little sorceress nodded abruptly. Then she spread her claws over Morgause's body and began to whisper in the harsh, ancient tongue of magic. What she was saying was a bit scrambled because of her bizarre teeth, but Morgana thought she recognized most of the words. In fact, it seemed to her that she had already heard this particular spell; she just could not remember where and when.
"Dæg cyme be com us, dæg cyme, liðe ond deorc, dæg cyme se endaþ langne ond angsumne, hrawerigne dæg; swa gestillan... alæteaþ bodig ure, forgiefeaþ lif ure. Spiðran neaht cumaþ, spinnaþ seolcen webb ure. Spiðran neaht cumaþ, bindaþ hie in hira swefn. Spiðran nu neaht, spinnaþ! Bewunden in deadhrægl ure, gastlas worulde."
As Cundrie was repeating the spell, over and over, gossamer-fine layers of what looked like crystal seemed to grow around Morgause's body, wrapping themselves around her like transparent cobwebs, layer upon layer, until she was completely encased in what appeared to be a slab of crystal. It was smooth and clear, one could see her through it in minute detail, like some fairy-tale princess in a glass coffin.
She seemed to be sleeping peacefully. But Morgana knew that she would stay like this for eternity: unharmed, unchanged, yet separated from all living things, forever. Unless someone broke the spell, which seemed rather unlikely. She could not think of anyone powerful enough to do that – save perhaps from Mordred, once he had grown in strength and maturity.
The question was, though: would she, Morgana, ever be able to persuade Mordred to help her freeing his mother? Or would he take the side of his father, once he got the chance to meet Meleagant? Being the son of a king did have its advantages, while being a sorcerer had only brought him great danger, so far.
"Let's leave this place," the voice of Meleagant interrupted her thoughts; he sounded irritatingly satisfied with the outcome of things. "We have a kingdom to claim, o Queen of mine."
He took hold of Morgana's arms, but she shook off his hand with an icy glare.
"I agreed to become your Queen as it seemed to be advantageous for both of us," she said coldly, "but that does not make me your property. Do not make the same mistake Cenred made when dealing wit my sister: we are not equals. Just because you were born in the right bed and I was not, you are in no way above me; if I were you, I would be careful not to end up beneath the heel of my boots."
Meleagant, though, seemed unimpressed by her speech.
"That is why I like her," he said, addressing the little sorceress. "She has such fire in her; even if it is a cold fire. Cold enough to burn one."
"She is young and foolish, but in one thing, she is right," said Cundrie. "Unlike Morgause, she is of royal blood. She is entitled to the respect one ought to toll her origins. Blood is blood, and so are rank and inheritance that come with it. You knew that, my Prince, or you would never have proposed to her."
"Nonetheless, I shall not tolerate any threats from her," replied Meleagant grimly. "She is nothing: a fugitive, cast out by her own family and her people. I am a Crown Prince of the House Llyr and shall soon be the King of my late brother's realm. She will show me the respect I am owed, due to my birth and my position."
"You both will have to make compromises," warned the little sorceress. "You are strong and wilful people, with powers to your own, each of you. You shall have to arrange yourselves and present a united front – or your case will quickly become a lost one. Do you understand me, my Prince?"
"Yes," answered Meleagant reluctantly. "But can you make her understand, too?"
"Worry not, young hawk of the seas," replied Cundrie with a ghostly smile that would have made wizened sorcerers shiver with fear. "I have my methods."
When Princess Elena and her party reached the Castle of Gawant some two hours after nightfall, they found it in a great uproar. The messenger they had sent before them had already told Lord Godwyn everything: the ambush by Sir Bromel's men in the woods and the rescuing of the Princess by Sir Lancelot. Only the involvement of Gwilim's magic did he not mention, like he had been instructed by Elena. She did not want her father to come in conflict with Uther Pendragon.
The old lord was understandably upset and greatly worried by the news.
"The proper order of thing comes to shambles," he complained. "Where are we coming to, without a High King to keep up the law? Lo, sir Bromel's forefathers have been loyal vassals of my House since the time of the Fallen Kings, and now he tries to take my daughter from me by force? How am I to reign in my realm like this? If only I had a son to take the sword from my weakened hand! Or Elena a husband, valiant enough to protect her and her property!"
He went on like this for a while, despairing about the future of his lands and his daughter, Elena listening to him with fond exasperation. Until he finally realized that he had an honoured guest at his hands – and a wounded one at that.
"Forgive the ramblings of a feeble old man, Sir Knight," he said apologetically. "In my excitement, I'm forgetting all about the sacred duty of hospitality. My house is your house, as long as you choose to dwell under my roof. My chatelaine, the fair Dame Brisen," he gestured at a tall, dark-eyed woman, clad in heavy, midnight blue brocade, with the veil of a seeress covering her head, "will show you to your chambers, and Mistress Alys will see to your wound. She is the best healer who ever served in my court; she will heal you in no time."
Lancelot thanked him and followed the two elderly women – one tall, imperious and forbidding, the other one small rotund and smiling, yet in some unfathomable way no less powerful – who led him to the guest wing of the castle, dew him a bath laced with healing oils and dressed him in a long robe of the finest wool, the likes of which knights of noble birth usually wore at home. It was trimmed with squirrel fur and lined with soft, thick cotton, and had a wide hood, under which, if he wished, he could have concealed his face like behind the visor of a helmet. He saw no reason to do so at the moment, though. Besides, Mistress Alys wanted to redress his wound, should it be necessary. Or, at the very least, take a look at it.
"He will be all right," she explained to Lord Godwyn later, when Lancelot had been taken care of and was safely tucked away in one of the guest bedchambers. "All he needs is some rest and good care – and that we can provide. Young Gwilim has done good work."
"It must lie in the family," said Lord Godwyn benevolently. "You have taught your grandson well, Mistress Alys."
"Oh, I never truly wanted to make a healer of him," replied the old woman, looking uncomfortable for some reason. "He learned while watching me, I suppose; and it seems he paid close attention."
"Fortunately for Sir Lancelot, I say," said Lord Godwyn. "Who is watching over him right now?"
"Dame Brisen has taken first watch," answered Mistress Alys. "Gwilim will take over from her shortly, as she has other duties. We are hopeful, though. Sir Lancelot shall be on his feet in a day or two again. Riding and fighting… that will take a little longer."
"That matters not," said the old lord. "He has saved my daughter from the clutches of an unwanted suitor, and thus we are in his debt. Do you know aught about his origins? His family?"
"He calls himself Sir Lancelot of the Lake," explained his daughter, "and is apparently the lost son of Lord Ban of Benwick."
"What?" cried Lord Godwyn in surprise. "That young man is actually Galahad? Is there any proof for that?"
Elena nodded. "Sir Ector of the Marshes was the one who found out who Sir Lancelot truly is. In any case, he is now a knight of Camelot, recently knighted, and as we have seen rightly so. Never have I seen a knight as skilled with the blade as him – save for Arthur himself."
"He used to have quite the reputation, back then when he was nothing but a hired sword," said Lord Godwyn thoughtfully; then he looked at his daughter with a forgiving smile. "You like him, my little Princess, don't you?"
"There is more than that," answered Elena. "The high priestess of the Holy Well foretold that I would be attacked in the woods; and that the knight that rescued me was destined to get a child upon me. A son by whom all the kingdoms of Albion should be brought out of danger."
"You mean that Galahad – or rather Lancelot, as he is known in these days – is destined to become your husband and the father of your child?" clarified Lord Godwyn; Elena nodded. "Well, if he truly is whom he claims to be, I shall have no objections. The family of Lord Ban is from the House Don; thus, by wedding him, you would fulfil the prophecy spoken upon your birth and unite the two warring Houses. It would be a good match."
"That might not be as easy as you believe, sire," said Dame Brisen, entering the lord's hall again. "You must understand that Sir Lancelot loves no lady in the world but a certain Dame Guinevere, whom he calls Gwen; even now, he is calling for her in his sleep."
Lord Godwyn sighed in clear disappointment. "I see. That is unfortunate. A noble knight with skills like his would be more than capable of protecting my daughter and my castle… all my lands."
"This is not about my safety, Father; or the safety of your lands," said Elena gently. "There is more at stake than just our lives, you see. The future of Albion depends on the son I am destined to conceive from him, whether he is willing to wed me or not."
"You would sacrifice everything for a prophecy?" asked the old lord crestfallen. "Your maidenhood, your good name, your future? That is madness, my child! You have your whole life before you – do not waste it!"
"Father, when did my life ever truly belong to me?" returned Elena with a sad little smile. "From my birth on, I was the pawn of the Sidhe; and while I am finally free of them, I'm still the last Princess of Llyr. A symbol that does not belong to herself and never will."
"So you would lie with him, even if he refused to wed you?" demanded her father. He respected the prophecies and did his best to fulfil them, but he preferred to do so within the boundaries of custom and etiquette.
Elena shrugged. "If that is what I have to do to bring forth the child of the prophecy, then yea, I am willing to do so," she said steadily; then she added in sorrow. "It shan't be such a great hardship, you know. I would choose him for himself alone if I could, for he is noble and valiant and pleasing to the eye."
"Yet even because he is a knight of noble heart, he would not agree to besmirch your honour like that," pointed out Lord Godwyn. "For which I am grateful. I would not have you bear a shame like that."
"He would not lie with me," agreed Elena. "Not unless he believed me to be someone else."
"The Dame Guinevere?" Lord Godwyn shook his head dejectedly. "You would truly try deceiving him? How can you stoop so low?"
"She does not; I do," said the Dame Brisen calmly. "I shall make him to like with your daughter, sire; and he shall not know but tat he lies with his future Queen."
"How do you hope to bring this about?" asked Lord Godwyn doubtfully.
"'Tis better if you know no details, sire," the chatelaine answered. "Let me deal with this; and upon the pain of my life, I promise you that the Princess shall have the child of the prophecy under her heart, ere Sir Lancelot leaves for home."
"I do not like this," declared Lord Godwyn. "Lies and deceit towards an honourable guest, whom we owe nought but gratitude; this is not the right thing to do."
"You are right, sire, it is not," admitted the Dame Brisen. "In ye olde days, you would offer Sir Lancelot the hand of your daughter, and her inheritance, in marriage. And were he not enchanted by another, he would accept, and Corbenic would have a new lord who could take over from you when you grew tired of ruling. But he is enchanted; and we have no means to break the spell. Thus, if we want to fulfil the prophecy, we must cheat."
"I still do not like it," said Lord Godwyn grimly.
"Neither do I," confessed Elena, willing back her tears. "It breaks my heart that he would think of that wench while I give him the greatest gift I have to give. But the prophecy must be fulfilled. My son must be born, and Lancelot is destined to be his father. I shall be the one to pay the price for this deceit; yet for the good of Albion, I am willing to pay it."
"I could bring this scheme of yours to fall," said Lord Godwyn slowly. "I could tell Sir Lancelot everything in advance; warn him about your plans."
"You could," Elena agreed, "But you won't, will you? Because that would mean to rob me of my destiny; to make my entire life meaningless. This is my only chance to help prevent the fall of Albion into darkness… if you would only let me, Father."
For a very long time, Lord Godwyn remained silent, his old heart breaking. He understood the importance of the child whose birth had been foretold before Elena would have been born. But he also knew what a high price his beloved daughter would pay to fulfil tat prophecy, and as a father, he wanted to prevent it. Yet he knew that he could not. Elena was the last Princess of Llyr; she was born to fulfil the prophecy. That was the very purpose of her life. No matter the price, he could not take that from her.
"Do what you must, best beloved," he finally said. "I only wish there were another way."
"So do I," answered Elena, and her tears began to fall now. "But we both know there is none. Thank you, Father, for allowing me to go my way."
Sir Kay de Blois found life in Camelot surprisingly agreeable; more so than he would have expected, truth be told. Even with half the town still more or less in ruins and famine still hanging above their heads like a sword on a frayed cord, Camelot was an amazing place to live. Particularly compared with his uncle's rough fortress in the Marshes and with the much more rustic life he used to lead there.
As vassals of Camelot, the Lords of the Marshes were stout defenders of the eastern borders of the realm, and led the life of soldiers. Sure, they were landed lords of noble origins, but first and foremost they were warriors, concerned with war and the defence of the land. They had little time for pleasantries and limited means to entertain themselves or to follow personal interests. And while the heirs of the lords were carefully educated to stand for themselves in the royal court, they had rarely the chance to put that education to good use. The most they could hope for was hunting and the one or other wandering minstrel that found his way to their distant lands by accident.
Even in its current state, Camelot offered a lot more delight for a young nobleman, after his duty for the day was done.
Sir Kay found his duties as Prince Arthur's seneschal fulfilling and exciting. He secretly enjoyed the respect and attention given him due to the mere fact that he was the cousin of the Crown Prince. But he also had earned people's respect, especially that of the knights of Camelot, whom he had repeatedly proven his skills with sword and lance. Sir Bedivere, the newly established constable of Camelot and his brother, Lucan, the wine-steward, turned out to be good-natured, easy-going men with whom he could work well. And some of the girls serving in the Citadel hade a habitual weakness for sweet words and small gifts in exchange for sharing their favours with young knights.
In that matter Sir Kay found a kindred spirit in the notorious Sir Gwaine, who had the reputation of chasing after every barmaid's apron; more so when he was drunk. It was a reputation well-earned; and despite his natural shyness, Sir Kay realized that he needed not to worry about the lack of female company, as long as he kept company with Gwaine.
Of course, he had to do this very discretely. His uncle, currently acting as the Vice-Regent of the realm, was an old-fashioned man, with a clear vision about how a young knight and nobleman ought to behave. Sir Kay loved and respected his uncle – his father in all but blood – greatly, yet he was young still. And now, living in a large, lively town, he wanted to… well, to live a little, to be honest. To have a little fun, beyond duty and service.
Those were things he had always envied Arthur for. Uther Pendragon might have been a stern and heavy-handed father – Sir Kay knew for the fact that he was – but if Arthur arranged himself sneakily enough, he could always find things in which to delight; in the Citadel itself, or if not, then in the lower town.
There were no such things in Sir Ector's northern fortress to begin with.
Therefore, while he acted carefully enough not to catch the watchful eye of his uncle, Sir Kay saw no reason why he should deny himself the pleasures he could find in the dalliance with a more than willing chambermaid. More so if said chambermaid was as lovely as the delicate, dark-haired and dark-eyed Beatrice, with a sweet, heart-shaped face and skin softer than velvet.
Unlike Gwen, Beatrice came from the highest ranks of servants and was therefore not forced to do rough work. Not any rougher than making the beds and serving food to the guests. She was also lettered and liked to sing – not surprising from the sister of a minstrel. And while she was a hopeless romantic (again, the influence of her brother's ridiculous lays), coming from a family that had served in the Citadel for generations, she also knew her place in the court… and the difference between romantic ballads and the reality of life.
She would never make unreasonable demands, like expecting from Sir Kay to wed her. Or to create for her a higher position in the royal household. Such things were the privilege of Prince Arthur, as the servants liked to say while gathered in the warming room for a little gossip. As much as they loved their valiant Prince Regent, the rising of Gwen into a position normally reserved fro nobly born women had created a minor unrest among the lower ranks.
"They have no reason to grumble," said Arthur with a shrug when Sir Kay carefully pointed out the problem to him. "It turns out, Guinevere is actually the daughter of a landed lord from Mercia, who was even a distant cousin of King Bayard; she was just born out of wedlock. She had not known it herself; not 'til two years ago, when she met her true father for the first time."
"Why did you not go to your father, then, and told him the truth?" asked Sir Kay in surprise. "You could have prevented this whole talk and outrage easily… and you could have protected her from Morgana's actions better. Sir Leon told me what happened – she nearly got your girl burned at the stake! Why did you not act in time?"
They were having a late breakfast in Arthur's private chambers, served by Merlin, Arthur's oddly charming manservant. By Merlin, who behaved as if he were Arthur's equal, and – rather untypical for the Arthur Sir Kay used to know – did not get whipped for his insolence. By Merlin, who was listening to their conservation with intense focus… and Arthur, strangely enough, didn't seem to mind.
"It would have done me no good," answered the Prince Regent to his cousin's question. "Because, unfortunately, Guinevere's father was no lesser person than Tauren."
The name said nothing to Sir Kay. But it was apparently a known one for Merlin, because he nearly poured the wine all over Arthur in his surprise.
"Tauren?" he repeated, chalk white with shock. "The black sorcerer that made Gwen's father, I mean Gwen's foster father, help him turn lead into gold, and Tom got killed for it? The same Tauren who tried to make Morgana kill Uther at the grave of Lord Gorlois? That Tauren?"
Arthur waited with practiced patience for Merlin's rant to run its cycle.
"Yes, Merlin, that Tauren, or have we met another one? Now, put that jug down before all the wine lands on me instead of inside me. We do have a serious shortage of food and beverage, in case you hadn't realized yet. Why my father chose to punish me with such a hare-brained, completely useless manservant is still beyond me."
"Perhaps he, too, realized that you've become an insufferable prat and needed someone who wouldn't go in awe of you," returned Merlin, without missing a beat.
"If that was his intention, then he certainly succeeded," said Arthur dryly. "Sit down, you idiot, and ate something. You're but skin and bones; in fact, you're getting thinner by the day, although how that is possible I will never understand."
"I'm not the only one, you know," Merlin, suddenly very serious, sat down obediently and accepted the leftovers from Arthur's stew and bread. "You cannot delay the quest for the Grail much longer. The land needs to be healed."
"Well, it would have been helpful if you had come back from your journey with actual directions," pointed out Arthur, but there was no real heat in his voice, as if he had known that it was not Merlin's fault.
"I've tried my best," replied Merlin simply, "yet for no avail. I have thought about it; and I think the very nature of the quest is that we search for the Grail. If we knew in advance where it is, it wouldn't be a quest, right?
He seemed immensely proud of his conclusions. Arthur rolled his eyes in exasperation.
"Merlin, I have the feeling that thinking is something you should leave fort he people who actually have the brains for it, Like Gaius or Master Geoffrey. We need to have at least one place to start the search from, don't you suppose? Or have you thought about that, too?"
"Yes," answered Merlin without hesitation. "I think we should begin or search in the Perilous Lands."
Arthur gave him a look full of stunned disbelief. "Merlin, are you insane? We nearly died in the Fisher King's castle the last time we set foot in the Perilous Lands! They are infested with monsters of all sorts and full of foul magic!"
"So?" asked Merlin with admirable calmness. With his ridiculous ears, frail stature and twinkling eyes he looked rather like a fairy himself.
"As you've rightly pointed out last time, the Perilous Lands are… well, perilous," explained Arthur with forced patience.
"They are also vast, and no-one knows what they might hide," reminded him Merlin. "Where else could the Grail Castle be hidden?"
"We would need an army to search the Perilous Lands thoroughly, even if we are looking for something as big as a castle," said Arthur. "In case you've forgotten, we don't have an army. Not any longer, thank Morgana and her allies."
"Even if you had an army, it would be needed here, to protect the realm in your absence," replied Merlin. "Prince Meleagant is on the march, remember? You shall not need an army in the Perilous Lands, though. Only a couple of knights who choose to join the quest freely. And me, of course," he added with that adorable grin of his that could have melted ice.
Arthur valiantly pretended to be immune against it; not that he could have fooled anyone.
"Why would I need you, of all people, on a quest like this?" he inquired, arching his best sarcastic eyebrow.
"Why, to protect you, of course," answered Merlin promptly. "You know how you get in trouble the moment you leave Camelot without me."
"Yea, because I never get in trouble with you," countered Arthur. "Let's be honest, Merlin: you draw trouble like the fire draws moths. You are trouble, walking on two legs."
"Perhaps," Merlin allowed with a nonchalant shrug. "You shall still need me, though."
"And why, pray you, would he need you?" asked Sir Kay. "No offence, Merlin, but you can barely handle an eating knife, let alone a sword."
"That is because I don't need a sword," said Merlin simply. "I've got other means to protect myself – and the royal prat here," he glanced at Arthur, who seemed to be a little uncomfortable. "You can tell him if you want. You may be a prat, but I trust your judgement."
Which, considering the currently troubled nature of their relationship, was the greatest compliment he could have made. Arthur appreciated it and considered the offer for quite some time; then he nodded, having reached a decision.
"He doesn't need a sword," he told Sir Kay with a wry grin. "He has a dragon."
"One about the size of a house cat, I presume?" Sir Kay could not decide whether his royal cousin had suddenly lost his mind or he was making a really stupid joke.
"No," said Arthur seriously. "One about the size of a merchant ship, more or less. Merlin is a Dragonlord."
Sir Kay snorted. "Don't be ridiculous, Arthur! Dragonlords do not exist. They are a myth, nought else."
"They are a myth now; since Uther Pendragon slaughtered them, together with the dragons, twenty-some years ago," corrected Merlin quietly. "I am the last one; and Kilgharrah, the Great Dragon, is the last of his kind, too."
"By my name, you must be kidding!" Sir Kay shook his head in disbelief.
"I am not," Merlin seemed utterly serious, but the seneschal still could not believe it.
"Prove it!" he demanded. "Call that dragon of yours!"
"One does not summon a dragon, unless in dire need; and Kilgharrah does not belong to me," said Merlin calmly. "He only belongs to himself. But if you want proof, my lord, I shall give you proof."
He stretched out one of his hands before him, with his palm turned upwards, as if offering something on a try.
"Bryne!" he whispered, his eyes turning into liquid gold, and a small golden flame appeared in his outstretched hand, floating about an inch above his palm. He could hear Arthur's sharp intake of breath but ignored it, focusing on the next spell. It was not a difficult one, but he wanted to do it properly, as it was one of his favourites. "Hoppaþ nu swicae swá lig flíehen," he whispered with a ghost of a smile on his gaunt face.
The flame swell on and then fell apart, into about a dozen tiny flames, that began to dance before him in a wide, vertical circle, like a swarm of fiery butterflies. Both Arthur and Sir Kay watched the spectacle in open-mouthed awe, as if under a spell themselves, for it was truly beautiful. After a while Merlin simply closed his fist and the flames vanished without a trace, leaving the two cousins stare at the place where they had been for some time yet.
Arthur was the first to recover and looked at his manservant with something akin to respect. "I did not know you could do that."
Merlin shrugged. "Now you know. It is harmless, really. Just for fun."
Sir Kay, understandably, needed a little longer to reclaim the ability of speech.
"You are a sorcerer," he stated the obvious tonelessly.
"No," Arthur corrected. "He is a Dragonlord. He was born this way, apparently."
Merlin nodded. "My mother says I could move things with my mind before I would learn to speak… or to walk. I am a warlock, if you want to use a more familiar term."
Sir Kay looked from Merlin to Arthur and then back to Merlin, still trying to digest what he had just been told. "Since when…"
"Since when has he been a Dragonlord or since when have I known?" Arthur clarified. "I've already told you that he was born this way. As fort he second question, he only told me the truth – and I'm sure it is not the whole truth – upon his return."
"No, it is not," admitted Merlin freely. Arthur nodded.
"You have already said that, and for the moment I'm honestly not interested in knowing more. Strictly seen, I'm committing treason by not throwing you into the dungeon to be burned at the stake later."
"I appreciate the gesture," said Merlin mildly.
"That is what your father would do, though," commented Sir Kay. Arthur sighed.
"I know; but while I respect him and love him as a son ought to live his father and as a Prince ought to respect his King, I do not agree with him in many things. Magic being one of those things. I have seen what it can do in the wrong hands, yes, but I no longer believe that it would be inherently evil."
"It is not," said Merlin simply. "It is just a tool. It depends on the one wielding it what it is used for."
"More importantly, the prohibition of magic puts us at a serious disadvantage," Arthur continued. "Think about it, Kay: all other kingdoms use magic: for protection, or as a weapon. We are the only realm where it is forbidden; and that makes us vulnerable."
"The recent events certainly have proved that," allowed Sir Kay. "I very much doubt that you would be able to persuade your father to change his attitude, though."
"I know I cannot," replied Arthur with a weary sigh. "And I hate going behind his back and lying to him, but I have come to understand that his way is wrong, at least in this one thing. That does not make him a lesser King or a lesser man; but I do not intend to repeat the mistakes he had made."
"And rightly so; we are all entitled to our own mistakes," said Sir Kay with a flash of grin; then he turned back to Merlin with honest curiosity. "What else can you do?"
"Many things; none as pleasant as making flames dance," answered Merlin seriously.
"Like making horse shapes out of smoke and letting them race the skies?" asked Arthur, fragmented memories clicking into place suddenly.
Merlin nodded. "Like that, yes. Or making the Witchfinder burp up toads. That was particularly satisfying."
"Not to mentioning hilarious," Arthur laughed quietly. Then he became serious again. "He nearly got you at that time, didn't he? Despite Gaius' willingness to sacrifice himself."
Merlin nodded, becoming deathly pale by the memory.
"And Morgana," he added. "He knew what we were; I have no idea how. I suppose he was really good at sniffling out magic, wherever he went. Had he not been so over-eager to see us burn, had he not created false evidence, he might even have succeeded. Fortunately for us, he got greedy and impatient. Otherwise…" he trailed off, not willing to pursue that line of thought.
"But couldn't you have freed yourselves, with the help of your powers?" asked Sir Kay. He knew the question was a bit naïve, but what did he really know about magic?
"I could probably have saved myself, yes," replied Merlin. "But that would have meant to leave Gaius behind to bun in my stead, and I would never have done that. Or Morgana; she had not turned to the dark art yet back then, she did not even understand what was happening to her… the dreams, the visions… I would never have left her behind in the Witchfinder's clutches."
"Do you think my father would have sent her to the stake?" Arthur wondered. "We did not know she was his daughter, but he did. And he loved her beyond reason. Would he have sent her to her death?"
"Perhaps not," allowed Merlin. "Perhaps he would have found a way to save her; to steal her away from Camelot and into safety. I cannot tell. Your father has always been most unreasonable when it came to magic; and he tended to be harsh on his children, most of the time. You are the living proof for that."
"He is still my father and my King, though," said Arthur. "And his harsh methods have made me to the man I am today. I have no reasons to complain."
"Not about that anyway," Merlin clarified. "You shall be a great king one day, and that is why you must give the quest for the Grail some serious thought."
Arthur gave him a long-suffering glare. "You are never going to leave me alone about that, are you?"
Merlin shook his head, almost happily. "No," he declared, clearly satisfied with himself.
Arthur made an exaggerated sigh. "You are truly a pest, Merlin. I don't know why am I still keeping you around. As Prince Regent, I could have got a new manservant long ago. One that is familiar with the concept of respect he owes his master."
"And you are a royal clotpole, with a head so swollen it's no wonder your crown keeps giving you headaches," retorted Merlin, "but you need me, and we both know that."
"Perhaps," admitted Arthur reluctantly. Then he glanced at Sir Kay. "Cousin, you do understand that Sir Ector must not learn about this, don't you? Not yet. As long as my father is King, Merlin's life is in danger."
Sir Kay shrugged. "It is your decision, cousin; and your responsibility."
"It is," Arthur agreed. "So, Merlin; do you have anything else on your heart?"
"Nothing else," replied Merlin with emphasis.
"I know, I know; the quest," said Arthur, a little impatiently. "We shall discuss it with the Brotherhood, I promise. You do realize, of course, that if we set off now, we would have to search the Perilous Land in winter, do you?"
"So?" Merlin raised an eyebrow.
"The Perilous Lands," repeated Arthur. "In winter, Merlin. As in snow, frost, ice and generally nasty cold, not to mention hungry monsters all around us."
"So what?" repeated Merlin. "You shall have me to protect you."
"Overconfidence cometh before the fall," announced Sir Kay solemnly, while Arthur was still gawking a little with disbelief.
"That might be so," replied Merlin airily, "but only if I cannot make good of my promise."
Arthur rolled his eyes. "I give up." At this moment the bell in the highest tower of the Citadel chimed, signalling the third hour of the day, and he rose. "Come with me, cousin. If I remember correctly, Sir Ector wanted to discuss the state of the granaries with us. That ought to be dull enough to allow me to regain my composure."
"Clotpole," commented Merlin fondly.
"Idiot," returned Arthur in kind and off he went, accompanied by a highly amused Sir Kay.
Riding among the knights of Prince Meleagant's entourage, Sir Gheriet was grimly satisfied. Now that Morgause had been safely sealed away and would have no chance to interfere for a very long time – hopefully never again! – things within the realm of the late King Cenred could finally return to the way they used to be.
To the way they were supposed to be.
Sadly, that would not make King Cenred alive again – a fact that Sir Gheriet, devoted to his late King, deeply mourned – but at least they had Prince Meleagant now, with a rightful claim upon the throne. Which meant the realm would not drown in chaos between the remaining barons aspiring for kingship and fighting each other to establish their power. Nor would the orphaned kingdom fall prey to any of their land-hungry and power-hungry neighbours. Unworthy rulers like King Alinoth or King Odin. Or that old fool, King Olaf.
Most importantly, Camelot, also greatly weakened by Morgause's private little war against Uther Pendragon, would not get the chance to make use of the realm's temporary weakness and conquer it. Although Sir Gheriet supposed that young Arthur Pendragon, struggling with the burden of ruling his kingdom, would have enough problems of his own without starting a conquest. With his father reportedly out of his mind and his land in shambles – not to mention on the verge of famine – the newly enthroned Prince Regent would have both hands full.
Of course, King Cenred's orphaned realm was not in any better shape. Morgause's foul magic had savaged it as well; deeper even than Camelot, as it had been there that the undead army had been created. It was a good thing that Prince Meleagant had brought generous supplies from Caerleon, so that at least the people living at the royal seat on the Isle of Gorre would not be threatened by starvation.
King Cenred's faithful barons had hopefully filled their granaries in time, too. And they would have men-at-arms to guard them. Not everyone had listened to Morgause's call to arms; the majority of the undead army consisted of mercenaries and other rabble. Sir Gheriet shed no tears for them.
Now, with a rightful King taking the throne again, healing could begin. For the land, for the people – and for him, personally. That loathsome little sorceress of Prince Meleagant had promised to break Morgause's spell – the one that still forced him to serve Morgana, whether he wanted or not – as soon as they got settled on the Isle of Gorre.
He would be his own man again, bound by nought else but his oath of fealty to his King. He would be able to see his beloved Sangive and their children again, and to take his rightful place in the new King's court.
And then the world would be in its right order again.
~TBC~
End notes:
Dæg cyme be com us, dæg cyme, liðe ond deorc, dæg cyme se endaþ langne ond angsumne, hrawerigne dæg; swa gestillan... alæteaþ bodig ure, forgiefeaþ lif ure. Spiðran neaht cumaþ, spinnaþ seolcen webb ure. Spiðran neaht cumaþ, bindaþ hie in hira swefn. Spiðran nu neaht, spinnaþ! Bewunden in deadhrægl ure, gastlas worulde. = Lovely night has come to us, lovely night, soft and dark; the lovely night that ends a long and hard, weary day; so rest... Lay your body down, forget your life. Spiders of the night come, spin your silky webs. Spiders of the night come, bind them in their sleep. Now, spiders of the night, spin! Wrapped in your shroud, dead to the world.
The spell is in Old English, quoted from the show (Mary Collins uses it when putting the whole court to sleep – I thought it would match the situation). The translation is from the Merlin wikia.
