A/N—I don't own The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel; it belongs, in its entirety, to Mr. Michael Scott.
Alright, I have several notes for this chapter:
1. Sorry about the frantic updating, but I start work in a week and I'd like to get everything rewritten and up before my schedule gets filled up.
2. Many thanks to Trans-Siberian fan, who gave me the idea for this chapter over three years ago-I'm still loving your awesome idea, and your support as I was first writing this fic has never gone unappreciated. (:
3. Major story changes: a) once again, time management has had to be dealt with; I spotted several glaring mistakes that have been fixed. b) Hercules' character-he was originally meant to be the Gandalf/Dumbledore/Professor X/Yoda of this story, and as his character developed that just didn't happen. I've attempted to change his dialogue a bit in order to reflect his true character in later chapters.
Palamedes' heart beat to Will's fading pulse long after it had faded from against his finger. Every beat that thumped against his chest marked time lost, sand trickling into the bottom of Will's draining hourglass.
The reddish, early morning light shining through the back windshield into the rearview man revealed a man insane. Palamedes could see himself falling apart—shaking; his skin ashen; his eyes pooling over with fear, pain, confusion, and anger.
A dungeon.
That was all he had; all she had given him to go on.
A dungeon.
He cursed loudly. There were dungeons everywhere; it could be a Shadowrealm, or some old, abandoned ruin in rural England, Scotland, Wales, France, Germany, or any other place. It could be—
Pain seared in his hand, cutting his thoughts off and causing him to remove his hands from the wheel. The car he had snatched from the mall parking lot swerved dangerously and careened off the road, landing with a crash in the ditch, unnoticed in the early hours of the morning in the uninhabited French countryside. The air bag in the steering wheel activated, inflating in his face and making him see stars.
Palamedes cursed again as he shoved the now deflating bag aside. His face and chest were stinging from the force of the air bag and his tightened seat belt, but the pain in his hand was stronger; he focused on his palm, peering at it closely in the half-light of the car.
His dark green aura was blossoming from his hand of its own accord, the warm green color tinged with a hot red about the edges. Seconds later the spicy scents of cloves and cinnamon filled the air.
"Annette," he murmured, staring in confusion at his hand.
The feel of cold metal was burning against his fingers, and a blade formed in his hand as he stared, shimmering against his dark skin—an illusion, not real, spicy cinnamon red rippling along the edges: he recognized it instantly as the sword which had, according to the Archon Cernunnos, ruled Arthur's life; the one that Palamedes himself had foolishly mistaken Clarent for, that he had longed to see again—and had, clutched in Dee's gloved hand.
Excalibur. A perfect replica.
The blade glowed brighter as it finished forming, and a shaky image began to connect itself in the shining metal.
A large round table, dusty, unused, covered in scratches left by goblets and cutlery long absent; tall chairs, with old and faded cushions slowly disintegrating with every passing second.
A long narrow hallway, hung with tapestries long made indiscernible by decay; torch brackets, still adorned with musty torches long untouched by human hands and falling apart with age.
Wet stairs, mildewed by sullied water that seeped from cracks in the dilapidated stone wall; rusted bars, red and flaking, leaving a deposit on the wet ground that, made liquid by the damp, could pass as blood.
A small dungeon, with dark stains on the uneven floors; dirty stones, unwashed, uncared for.
A note clutched in long, slim fingers; a swift glimpse of firm handwriting, and a few lines of Shakespeare.
Will.
Palamedes sat in shock, not even feeling the sword fade from his hand, as the dots connected.
Camelot—Will was in Camelot, and she was leading him there. He knew it was Camelot; he had spent too much time gathered around the table with his companions to not know it, and even the dank, dirty dungeon was familiar.
Camelot—Will was in Camelot, and she was leading him on. It would have been a welcome thought if not for the fact that he knew her well enough to know that her only purpose was to let him see Will suffer at her hands.
Camelot—Will was in Camelot, and she had given him—
His heart stopped, and he fumbled for the watch she had left. The timer was on its last few seconds, and Palamedes watched in horror as it counted down: 3, 2, 1, 0. It beeped, and reset to 16:16, where it began counting down again.
Why? Why had she given him a countdown if she wasn't going to use it? Why had it simply restarted? What was she doing?
"Just because she told you where he is doesn't mean she's going to make it easy." Whatever remnants of cloves and cinnamon had been left in the car by the now vanished illusion were eclipsed by the heady scent of incense, and Palamedes looked up.
Standing on the battered hood of the car was a man, as tall as Palamedes, though he wore less clothing—tattered jeans and an equally tattered shirt that, in the watery glow of his aura, seemed to fluctuate between cloth and a lion's skin. A dirty brown beard hugged the man's chin, and dirt covered his bare feet, completing his ragged, unkempt appearance.
"I know," he said, relief flooding him; he knew the man, and he knew that he was immortal.
"I heard about it—your friend…what's his face?" the man said in ancient Greek, stepping off the car and splashing through the muddy ditch with something like childish pleasure. As Palamedes got out of the car he continued his story. "Francis dropped me a call after his house blew: it's a mess (better get that 'gas line' fixed before the government gets on him), but he and Joan are both alright. They pointed me in the general direction, and once I got to the mall—place still reeks of cinnamon, by the way, and the police are crawling all over the building—I guessed that she had to have given you a direction, or you would've come back to check up the Saint-Germains. Beats me where she might have—"
"Camelot," Palamedes said, his voice hoarse. "Hercules, she's taken him to Camelot."