Okay, so this is supposed to be extra creepy. I listened to very spooky music while writing this chapter, which helped me set the scene in my head. In fact, that is what inspired this story in the first place.
Oh, and you can thank LunaShadowWolf13 for the creation of the story. This section was written first and I had asked her whether she thought it was any good. She said yes and so I elaborated.
Another thank you to Guest! No, I'm just kidding, Blase ;D Thank you for your fan-tastical reviews ~ I couldn't reply to them because, well, you know.
Right, let's follow Arthur deeper into the marshes...
~12~ The Wanderer
"MERLIN!"
Arthur fought to free himself from the mud trap submerged in the swamp water, only to long-coming avail. The fog was too thick to penetrate more than a few paces, and it seemed to throw the splashing sounds caused by his furious thrashing back at him as though it were solid rock.
Far, far to his left, he heard the bugling cry of a wyrm, and he hastily changed direction to follow it. His chest heaved for air but he did not yield, not until he stumbled again, landing on his hands and knees in the swamp.
Exhaustion had taxed him. He calmed and forced himself to breathe evenly, deeply, cursing the hindering chain mail beneath his cloak. He strained his ears to catch anything, a distant call, a splash, a gargling wyrm, but there was nothing. He was alone.
Arthur swore. "Gwaine!" he called. "Elyan? Anyone?" No reply. He swore again and slowly tugged himself from the treacherous mud trap. He wandered several paces one way, found he didn't recognize the jagged stump he came across, and turned to another.
I should go back the way I came, he thought, and snorted. Yeah, and which way was that?
The eternal twilight sky betrayed no secrets. There was no sun to track, so either this was the land of no time, or it was dusk. It must be dusk, for it seemed darker than usual. Either way, he was lost, with nothing to guide him.
He actually had to force his annoyance to overwhelm his fear as he trudged in a random direction, hoping it to be the right one. Keeping one hand on the pommel of Excalibur, he called out for his companions, only for his words to bounce back at him, the congealing mists an impenetrable barrier.
"Blast you, Merlin!" he snapped, even as he tripped again. Crashing face-first into the bog, he spat out the foul water and forced himself upright. "You and your stupidity! Your heart's too big for your brain." Then he tilted his head back, bellowing to the twilight sky. "You hear me? Your heart's too big for your brain!"
Shouting at a missing friend was all well and good for venting frustration; it did nothing for his isolation problem, though, and he stomped on, moving until the mists finally thinned and he could see further and further away. It still coiled loosely about his knees, but at least he could see his outstretched arm.
He scanned the marsh. The pools of dark water visible from the low fog were placid. Low, green-tinged islands speckled the land randomly. There was no sign to indicate where his oldest friend had disappeared to.
Then the cynical Voices of the bog rose once more, like a dark choir of lost souls. After several minutes, they faded into the thick air. The king shuddered.
As he paused to rest, he heard movement nearby, a small disturbance in the water. He faced to his left.
"Merlin, is that you?"
Arthur's sweaty palm tightened around the sword hilt at his side. Water sloshed thickly about his shins, invisible in the low mists. Reeds hissed and chuckled in a nonexistent breeze, as though coaxing him into deeper water. Something splashed behind him. He whirled around, Excalibur drawn and knees bent in preparation, but there was nothing.
He nearly turned away, but his boots were swallowed by muck and he lost his balance. He fell, one arm flying out to catch himself, and in the process, his sword was thrown into the swamp.
"No no no!"
Arthur scrambled clumsily for the blade, choking as water leaped eagerly down his throat. Before he drowned, his hand clasped onto the hilt, and he used Excalibur to help him stand. Slime slithered down his back, making him squirm.
A figure moved through the fog.
The mists parted and swirled in eddies and whorls as the form stalked past on silent feet, not even disturbing the water. In its hand was a glowing lantern, its cold yellow glow blurred.
The light faded. The figure was there, and then it wasn't. Arthur thought he'd imagined it, but it still sent his heart aflutter. There was another splash, lighter this time, like a dropped pebble nearby.
"...Merlin?"
Damp, dreaded silence.
The moon rose over the marshes, climbing out from behind distant black, disapproving mountains. The bog started to whisper to him again, seductive, lulling, but he knew not where the voices came from. With a glance over his shoulder, Arthur waded after the figure, sinister as it was. Perhaps it was a dweller of the marsh, someone who could help him?
No matter how quickly he moved towards where the shape had vanished, he couldn't find it. He was about to return back when he finally saw the form again – a hooded figure in grey with the soulless light held at its side. It was almost invisible, its cloak blending with the fog as though it was the fog.
The humanoid shape was acknowledging him, the dark void of the cowl glowering at him with an eyeless gaze. Then it turned away and stepped into the reeds without so much as a rustle.
"Hey, wait!" Arthur ploughed through the viscous water, stifling queasy instincts and ignoring the hairs perking on the back of his neck. Even the marsh seemed to be warning him: slimy debris clutched his ankles, mud devoured his toes, ancient roots from long gone trees entangled his legs, clinging like beggars. They all tried to hold him back, but he persevered, following the light as blindly as a moth.
He was taken by surprise when water became soggy earth, and he stumbled, landing on his hands and knees. When he glanced up, the hooded figure was not but five paces away, pointing at him with a pale, spidery hand.
Arthur flinched and grasped his fallen sword, but when he looked up again, the cynical form was gone. He frowned, confused. I could have sworn it was there! Right there, holding its dead light... Standing, he stepped cautiously towards the place where it had been. See? There should be footprints right...
Nothing. The ground was undisturbed by weight, unbroken by boot.
Had I imagined it? Arthur rubbed his eyes, remembering too late that his hands were drenched in bog slime. His imagination had gone turncoat and convinced his memory to flash the figure for a heartbeat's rest of time, that's all. Then he lowered his hands from his face and saw the lantern once more, now a fuzzy smudge no larger than a mouse's toenail.
The chorus of enigmatic Voices rose, whispering in their alien tongue, cool and soothing as the words of a lover. Arthur ignored them, or tried to, and contemplated following the light again. It was mysterious, yes, but its bearer hasn't harmed him so far. It could have before, if it intended to. Scanning the fog around him, he tailed the lantern once more.
What must have been near a mile passed before a dark, ominous shape loomed before him. The guiding light vanished at its base as Arthur tilted his head back to see the shape's peak. He stepped closer and realized that it was some sort of chapel. The fog parted just enough for him to see the rundown structure more completely. One side of the roof had a gaping maw in the rotted wood, as though a boulder had been dropped through it. The slated outer walls were black with time and neglect. A rusted weather vane creaked as it slowly pivoted on a passing breeze. The crooked steeple had no bell.
The imposing sense of abandonment shrouding the place sent a light tremble down Arthur's spine, and he wiped his moist palm before grasping Excalibur with a twinge of foreboding in his chest. The familiar texture of the hilt in his fingers reassured his clenching stomach and twittering heart. The figure in there can be harmed by a sword, else it wouldn't exist, and therefore he would have nothing to worry about. As for the building, it was just that: a building. Whatever it housed can be fought off.
Arthur shivered, but not from fear. His impermeable clothes kept him dry, but he was chilled to the bone. Inside, his guide may be stoking a fire right now, waiting for him to approach and share a meal. The king saw no smoke, but this figure with the lantern clearly knows the land and how to survive it; as humans need fire to thrive, there should be a fire soon enough.
Unless the figure wasn't human.
Literally shaking away the thought, Arthur padded softly up to the chapel's lopsided door, his boots squelching over the moist soil. He tentatively reached out to push open the entrance, eyes roaming around, and was mildly surprised when the door opened on silent hinges. A rotten, damp stench bombarded his nostrils, the breath of ancient decay. Warily, he stepped inside, noting the planked floor as it bowed and creaked beneath his weight. The chapel was empty of life, and he scanned its forgotten innards curiously.
The hole in the roof let in a dash of dead moonlight, creating an irregular silver star on the moist floor. There were fourteen rows of ancient pews, seven on either side of an aisle that ran down the middle. The aisle led from the door to the altar at the far end, which was flanked by two man-height candelabras, absent of candles. The altar was barren, and a wooden statue dominated the far wall. It was too dark to see it clearly. The modest windows on either side of the chapel were all broken, save one, but it was too grimy to see through.
The whole chapel had an air of gloomy disregard, like a lost memoir of a past life, an idyllic life filled with joy and bliss. But then something happened, something grim and terrible, and the place was abandoned.
A sudden weight of sorrow befell Arthur, and for a moment, he was not afraid, only sad. Then he saw the grey, hooded figure sitting in the second row of pews, right of the aisle. He blinked. The chapel was empty a moment ago, he was sure of it! He must have missed seeing the figure...but it was sitting at the edge of the moonlight's rays, casting a shadow upon the floor. It would have been impossible to overlook...
He...she...whoever that is must be paying respects, he said inwardly, ensuring silence as he took another step into the chapel, glancing behind the door out of precaution. When he faced the alter again, the figure had moved. It was now on the left side of the aisle, sitting in the fifth row of pews.
A sensible man would have left right then and there. No one moves that fast, at least, no mortal – not that fast, not that silent, not that eerily. But Arthur held his ground, soft as it was, and just stared at the back of the figure's grey hood, as though trying to see through it to the being within. He nearly cleared his throat as a minute slunk by and there was no movement from either body. Instead of clearing, his throat swallowed as the figure finally stood up, its lantern gone. Its ashen cloak wavered smoothly as the shape glided from between the pews, slowly, graceful in its solemnity. It swept into the aisle and turned towards the king. No face was visible in the void that stretched from the hood and fell down past its chest, created by the ghostly moonlight above.
Arthur's mouth was like sandpaper. He blinked, just to see if the figure would vanish again. It didn't.
He wished it did.
"E-excuse me. Can you help me?"
Nothing.
"Can you help me?" said Arthur, more strongly, and less like a question.
The spectre just stood there, mute as a corpse, seven paces down. It made as though to take a step, and then in a flicker of reality, it was only two feet away from the king.
Arthur jumped a league and stumbled backwards, crashing into the open door, which crumbled, the wood too rotten to withstand the impact. Then he was on his feet and out into the dark, jumping into the bog without a second thought. Nothing ran through his mind but the knowledge that he had to get away, had to flee from the fathomless grey hooded figure.
The swamp continued to sing to him, inscrutable, inexplicable, inescapable.
...
