THAT'S HOW THE STORY ENDS
- "Idiot, idiot, idiot", are chanting children in the muddy street.
Arthur stops, a bit dazzled. He brings a hand to his forehead to shield his eyes and his heart aches watching their dancing figures in the steaming light. They hop in circles around a tall, skinny boy with large ears, who spins on himself to smile at them...
- "Sire?"
Arthur flinches and comes back to the present time. He nods at Sir Leon who observes him with a slightly worried look and strides on.
The melody fades away. The children have disappeared, evaporated amid the market stalls.
The king goes down the main street of Camelot, his long red coat billowing behind him, the sun playing in his blond hair, and he feels more alone than ever.
It was so many years ago.
Garlands of flowers, ribbons and brightly colored flags are hanging on strings tautened between the whitewashed houses.
A baker puts out on his stall honey and ginger pancakes with tempting thick crusts. A bit further, a woman wearing an orange turban sets wheels of cheese on wooden lattices. Her neighbor deploys rich fabrics of bright hues, hailing customers with a strong and cheerful voice. A cooper with bushy gray whiskers pours a cup of golden cider for the Rising Sun innkeeper. Two peasant women with plump hips are arguing over their lettuce baskets. An old scribe dozes on the back of a placid donkey pulled by the bridle by a lad who is chewing on a wheat stem.
A sunny breeze tinkles in the glass phials hung under the eaves of the apothecary shop. While sewing, a lass sings at the corner of a balcony laced with hollyhocks, to the tune of a viola that a minstrel sitting on the well strums with melancholy. The blacksmith, his bare torso drenched in sweat, a leather apron tied over his breeches, hits his hammer at great regular blows to shoe the dappled horse of a knight who whistles idly. Some court ladies are simpering as they admire pearls and silver chains presented on red velvet cushions. A spaniel with long fluffy ears stretches, yawning, on a stone threshold.
The warm smell of saffron blends with thyme bouquets and bunches of onions, basking in the aroma of chicken cooking on a spit. At the gates, the portly cook monitors the unloading of bags of flour in a sparkling white haze. Some guards are guffawing together, heavy keys rattling at their belts. A man with a weathered face protected by a worn-out felt hat carries on his shoulder a basket filled to the brim with juicy and sweet black grapes. Three washerwomen make their way through the crowd, chattering, arms loaded with crispy clean laundry smelling of soap.
There is always a lot going on in the lower town. It reigns there the buzzing of a simple life, with its joys and sorrows, in a peaceful country.
It's been seven years since the siege of Camelot. There are scars from the ordeal on the landscape: forever barren patches in the plain, scaffoldings and ladders still girdling the towers that have been the most bombed, indelible dark smirches on the walls above the moat.
Troubadours found plenty of inspiration for songs in the memories of one another: Sir Gwaine's heroic ride, Excalibur found and wielded by the king, the commoners fighting alongside the knights until the last morning, the glorious coming of the allied armies on the hills.
Merlin's name is not forgotten in the epic poems. But legends are so made that they turn truth into tales. Some believe he was an angel who took the shape of a young boy, some say he was an old sorcerer with a long white beard, others that he was a slumbering dragon chained under the castle, who whispered words of advice to the ruler of Albion.
Only Arthur and a few people remember the bumbling idiot who loved a prince so much it changed the world.
After the siege, Number Four moved to the court physician's chambers. He watched over him like a son, until the last day of Merlin's grandfather, arranging the blankets around the old man crooked by age and grief, restocking the firewood supplies, cooking his favorite mushrooms gruel, tidying and sweeping in the room filled with books, flasks and medicinal herbs. When Gaius died on a cold evening of the following spring, the silent warrior closed his eyes and kissed his wizened forehead. Then he packed his things and left with the king's permission. He died a few years later, after obtaining the submission of the northern territories, completing with this treaty the unification of Albion. He rests under a cairn at the top of a mountain covered with snow, just like Gwaine.
Percival never remarried.
Geoffrey of Monmouth is still working on his chronic but more often dozes on his vellums than fills parchments with his ornamental penmanship. The son of Sir Elyan grinds his inks.
Georges seconds the steward of the castle and might very well succeed to him someday. Meanwhile, his jokes on brass keep driving nuts the other servants.
The queen's reputation spreads, her wisdom and benevolence are praised beyond the borders. Guinevere does not draw pride in it, but rather endeavors even more. She has locked up in her heart the words of a very old woman, and dreads the day when the other predictions of the druid will become true.
Mordred is growing up, but he does not find peace. Over the years, the desires tossing restlessly in him, desperate to escape like rats in a cage, constantly gnaw at his mind.
He misses Gwaine who is not there to help him get rid of his anger with an affectionate jest: the former drunk understood more than anyone the inner torment of the child, his thirst to prove he has the right to exist here and now.
He lost Will, he only goes along politely with Leon and Percival, and nothing has changed in his relationship with the other squires. He is still "the bastard", the parasite, the one that should not be here, should not be invited to have supper with the royal family, should not raise his eyes.
Arthur is good to him - perhaps too indulgent, as if he could not bring himself to confront Mordred about the consequences of the choices one makes - but he never sat again with the boy like he had done in the caves, he never touched him again, as if he could not erase from his memory what Mordred did - or perhaps what he is.
When the little prince is born, three years after the siege, Mordred's pain explodes to the point he disappears and only comes back several days later, muddy as if he had wandered about the whole country. Arthur says nothing, and neither does Leon. Percival followed him and told them the teenager had spent the three days at his mother's grave, prostrated at the foot of the hill covered with a thick emerald carpet speckled by tiny white flowers.
Mordred knows he will never be as cherished, loved, welcomed and desired as the newborn prince. He wants to hate the infant who gets Arthur's smiles, whom Guinevere cradles in her arms, whom Albion kisses and fusses over, of whom the people cheered and celebrated the birth for more than a week - but he cannot. Instead, an overwhelming need to protect the child rises in him like a whirlwind. He prowls around the nursery and the Dolma shoos him off like a cur hovering near a basket of kittens.
Finally, it is Arthur who brings him his cousin on a summer night. Crickets are frizzling in the garden of roses, up on the terrace. The night breeze swishes softly in the shrubs under the dark vault twinkling with thousands of stars.
The king was not expecting to find his nephew on the bench, but he stops him when the teenager stands to leave, hanging his head low.
- "Do you want to take him in your arms?" he asks with a chin gesture towards the baby.
There is a distant pain lining the kindness in his words, so Mordred nods.
For several minutes he stares at the sleeping child he is holding, who is so unaware of the world around him and of the future that awaits him, of the issues and decisions that lie upon him. Then he lifts his head and meets Arthur's glance.
- "You too are part of the family", murmurs the blond man in the hushed night. "You do know that, don't you, Mordred?"
A lump swells in the teenager's throat.
Oh, if only that were true.
He is about to burst into tears, to give up anger and bitterness, to forget everything.
If only Arthur could just reach out and ruffle his hair, as he did before...
But the king takes back the prince and nestles him against his shoulder. The tenderness obvious in his every move rips apart Mordred's heart.
He killed his own father because he hated him.
Isn't it just right that he never gets the love of the father he wants to have?
So he seeks elsewhere what Camelot cannot give him, avoids the dinners with the royal family, tells them he prefers his freedom – and, with a concerned frown, Arthur allows him to have it.
He is alone. So alone.
Nobody visits Morgana's grave, except for Guinevere and Albion - and for that Mordred is grateful, even if he would never show it.
People spit on the ground, they say the way to the hill under which the princess remains is cursed. Rumors are rife in the tavern, stories enrich with new details every year, becoming more and more absurd, more and more cruel. They call the mad woman "the witch", they say that when she fought at the top of the bell tower, it was not her raven hair floating around her, but the wings of a crow, unfurling as she tore bloody strips of flesh from the enemy.
Mordred gets drunk and finds himself in brawls, wakes up with excruciating migraines but never cries.
Every morning at training he spars without holding, finding a fleeting relief in exhaustion, in the adrenaline throbbing in his temples.
He nourishes his bitter thoughts, sinking more and more in darkness, and Guinevere cannot go get through the impenetrable glass wall in his eerie blue eyes. Albion is also trying, but she feels that her affection hurts her cousin, so she steers clear of him.
One night, as he is mulling in front of his tankard of mead, a group of young people sits at his table: they have come a long way, their cloaks are dusty and their accents roll under their tongues, like old magic words. Among them, there is a girl – almost a woman – named Kara, and Mordred is fascinated by her insolent beauty. He is sixteen and dying to be loved. In the satin cuddle of the girl, covered in sweat, drained but satiated, he finally feels a sense of belonging. His cheek resting on her soft breasts, he plays with Kara's voluptuous hair, absently listening to her words, not realizing that she is poisoning him with her ideas, slowly, surely.
Camelot is a rich country where every man is accepted, but the power still belongs to the nobility...
If the people were to govern over themselves...
If there was no king ...
A jolt stops Mordred on the slippery slope on which the anarchists were dragging him.
"No, not Arthur."
Kara is irate, threatens to cut ties with him, calls him a traitor and a coward, and in her rage yells: "royal bastard, that's all you are!"
Mordred blanches, livid, and storms out, slamming the door behind him.
A few days later, Kara and her friends try to murder Arthur - to rid the country of the oppressor, as they say.
They are all captured, sentenced to be hanged, and Mordred cannot help but bite his lips until they bled when the rope brutally strangles the delicate gorge he used to drizzle with kisses. He leaves the courtyard as soon as he can and takes refuge in the guards' latrines where he retches until his throat burns with bile.
Arthur finds him in the bell tower, that night. The King noticed his nephew's fretful state during the execution - Guinevere too, it was her who urged her husband not to wait before confronting the young man.
Arthur does not know where to start, so he looks in his memories for what he felt when he himself was sixteen. He dives into the story of his first crush and that leads him into talking about his arranged marriage with Lady Elena, and about the lies of his father, the doubts born from knowing the truth about his mother's death, his disappointment and the sense of betrayal he felt at the time.
Mordred is listening to him passionately.
In the dark tower, sitting against the cold wall in the moonlight blue glow, the boy finally decides to speak, in a choking voice. He vents his spleen, empties his heart – lets go of all of it, bluntly, like a child waking up from of a nightmare or a man sitting by the fire with another warrior.
He kept it all inside for so long.
The king listens in silence, without a shadow of judgment in his attentive sapphire irises.
As Mordred bares his anguish and mistakes, Arthur ceases to see the milky skin of his sister and her raven curls, he forgets the shape of the nose and the facial contours that remind him of Lord Agravaine. Only remains a pair of distraught blue eyes, so lonely and so eager to prove themselves, to hear a word of love and pride.
Eyes that are exactly like his were, years ago, when they met Merlin's cobalt orbs for the first time.
So he remembers the grace that was given to him.
When dawn creeps into the bell tower and the boy finally grows quiet, exhausted, Arthur reaches out to his nephew to help him up.
- "The stars are fading. It's time to take some rest", he says. "Let's go back, son."
And before he leaves the room, he tousles the young man's hair affectionately.
Mordred shivers, then looks up.
- "I will be expecting you at training, though", Arthur says gruffly. "You'll spar with me."
- "Yes, sire!" the boy promptly replies, straightening.
Then he hesitates, smiles.
- "Thank you", he whispers.
- "Um", just mutters the king, already going down the stairs.
From across time, he hears another thank you he did not deserve and that thought strangely warms his heart, even if it also twinges.
If Merlin was here, he would be proud of him.
oOoOoOo
Horses' hoofs clatter on the cobblestones and the king greets the knights coming back from patrol. He stops at the gates to exchange a few words with the two guards playing dice on a barrel in the cool shadow of the white arch.
Sir Leon asks one of them about a relative who wants to join the army and, during that time, Arthur closes his eyes to breathe in the familiar smell of the old stones.
He is back seven years before and all is fine.
The strange sensation, like a forgotten pin in the crease of a luxury garment or lumps in a tasty soup, has disappeared.
Under the stars, a gold coin with two perfectly chiseled faces flips gracefully.
Camelot has changed and Arthur is no longer able to feel the perfect peace and security that provides a home.
It is not only because the tapestries have been changed, the furniture is new or the stables had to be completely rebuilt and some floors refurbished otherwise, or because many of his advisors are no longer those who accompanied him at the beginning of his reign.
Even when he is sparring with his knights, his brothers in arms, and getting up covered with sand, stiff and sore in this good way that sends you to sleep without dreams…
Even when he is strolling in the castle hallways with Guinevere, holding her hand, and they are talking about when they will be old, with white hair and creaking joints, and will sail to the end of the world in a boat with a dragon-shaped bow…
Even when he is wrestling for fun with his giggling son on the fur rug in front of the fireplace or when he is listening, amused though vaguely worried, to Albion declaiming verses with a very Dolma-tic pose…
Even when he is gazing at his kingdom bathed in light, standing alone on the city walls in the chill of early morning…
He never feels quite at home.
There is always something missing.
Someone touches his sleeve and he comes back to the present.
- "Sire?"
That's twice now that Sir Leon had to snap his liege out of a daydream and the knight frowns. The horrible scar across his face is pink and swollen because of the heat, but despite the scary look it gives him, Arthur reads his friend's concern.
- "I'm fine, Leon", he smiles.
He walks away, absently rubbing the silky blond beard that softens his strong jawline.
He pushes back his memories and focuses on the new threat to his kingdom: Saxons. They are wrecking their way to Camelot, according to reports, but this time Arthur is determined to not let them approach and go out to fight them.
Seven years of peace.
He will not allow it to stop here.
Never again will they have to go through a siege.
In the courtyard, they come across a swarm of tittering girls and hackneys with pleated manes and beautiful embroidered velvet harnesses. In the middle of the group, four of Sir Leon's five daughters are laughing in a haze of Venetian frizzes. The youngest one, who is just a toddler, is in the arms of their mother, next to the Dolma, who herself is cluttered with Sir Pellinore, the potbellied old white cat, purring royally. The nanny monitors this deployment of gaiety and insouciance with the eye of a duenna. The woman does not seem to have aged at all since the day she theatrically introduced herself in the throne room.
Albion hops on her saddle without help from the groom, lithe and gracious as a huntress amazon, and arranges her long peacock brocade dress, swiftly yet artistically. She is fourteen, with a svelte silhouette, feet too big to her liking that she hides in cavalier boots, an abundance of honeyed curls, her mother's smile and the endearingly pointy teeth of her father.
She waves happily to the king, hangs her crossbow down her back with a quick gesture full of grace and independence. There is a handful of darts in her high leather belt and she has donned her falconry glove. She clicks her tongue and urges forward her horse, not bothering to know if the rest of her court is following.
From the balcony, Guinevere, regal in her ruby velvet gown, watches the princess, shaking her head with amusement, then she goes back inside after blowing a kiss to the king who caught it with a grin, not caring about the gossiping girls or the sighs of the gallants forced to escort these damsels in the woods where their giggles will certainly alert to the last field mice.
- "Fathew!"
Arthur spins just in time to scoop up the toddler running to him.
His son has his blue eyes, Guinevere's dark curls and skin, Gwaine's cheekiness, Lancelot's brave heart and Merlin's kindness.
- "How was your day, Emrys ?" asks the king, whilst the four years old child makes the wooden dragon crawl on his father's head.
- "I fought wit Siw Pewcival and I won!" babbles the little boy. "My pony ate a cawwot. He twied ta munch my haiw but Mo scolded him."
The young man is jogging down the stairs, followed at a more serene pace by the tall burly knight smiling benevolently.
- "The prince ran away from the nursery – again", Mordred explains sheepishly. "We looked for him everywhere and then ... well ... it wasn't very difficult to carry out our tasks even if he was with us."
- "It's not a nanny he needs, but ten guards", Arthur sighs. "Gentlemen, my deepest apologies. I will give orders for him to be grounded tomorrow."
- "Oh no!" squeaks the child. "I don't want ta! I want ta see my pony and train wit me sord and eat gingewbwead!"
The king frowns, but Emrys does not look the slightest worried and his chubby fingers smooth the wrinkles at the corners of his father's eyes – that is how he knows the king is not really crossed.
- "Before you start giving orders, you must learn to obey", chides Arthur, sighing. "A prince sets an example."
- "Yes, Fathew", grumbles the little boy, looking down but peeking through his long dark eyelashes.
The blond man puts him down. The toddler bounces up to Mordred and jumps on his back.
- "Are the scouts back?"
Percival nods.
- "Then let's meet in the Round Table Hall", says Arthur, narrowing his eyes at his impish son hiding behind the neck of the young man who is the prince's best playmate and hero. "Emrys, you are to go back to the nursery before your mother asks for you. Mordred, you'll come to join us in an hour. I'll have instructions for the squires."
He ruffles his nephew's black hair, gives a tender flick to the toddler's cheek, then climbs the wide white stairs with the brawny knight.
- "Where's our enemy, Percival?"
- "At the pass of Camlann, Sire", reports his old friend.
- "To Camlann it will be, then."
The courtyard is flooded in sunlight and splashes of water glitter on the cobblestones. Mordred and Emrys are laughing and running in circles in a flurry of scintillating pearls.
That's how the story ends.
The story of a mighty king lead by the hand of a child.
The story of two men, two friends, two brothers.
The story of Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot, who is lying on the shores of a lake the morning after the battle at the pass of Camlann, his blond hair matted with blood and his chainmail coat weighting heavily on his weakening body.
He was mortally wounded throwing himself between the enemy and his nephew who was going to be killed by a Saxon. The boy slayed the soldier, then dragged Arthur to safety and knelt at his side. The king managed to smile despite the pain convulsing his features. He raised his arm in a last effort and, with his good old sword that Merlin loved to sharpen and that remained sheathed for seven years of peace, he made Mordred a Knight of Camelot.
The sunlight flickers through the thick foliage of the trees, the air is crispy cold and has a tangy taste. The clear blue sky is high above him, pale pink clouds lined in champagne fraying like bits of cotton in the water. The meadow is beaded with shimmering dew.
Arthur's eyelids slowly close and the pain on his face fades away.
He does not hear the sobs of the young man at his side any more.
He fought well – until the end. Never gave up, always stood strong and brave. He's done well.
It's time to go, now.
The wind rustles quietly in the oaks canopy.
- "Arthur…"
He finds himself standing in a bright mist. He can feel a breeze carrying the fragrance of cherry blossom and fresh green grass.
He looks around – and there he is.
Tall lanky frame, mop of black hair, big blue eyes and a lopsided grin.
- "Merlin!"
- "I was waiting for you", says the manservant who is not limping anymore.
There are other figures behind him.
The cat-eyed girl who died in Merlin's arms many years ago greets Arthur shyly, her hands clasped quietly in front of her purple silk dress - a dress like those once worn by Morgana. Her name was... Freya, if he remembers well.
Balinor's bearded face has not changed since the days he was chatting with passion until late at night, opening the naive eyes of a prince who looked up to him as an older brother. Under his arm is nestled a small woman with her hair gathered under a scarf, with a soft and reserved look. She has periwinkle eyes and her smile full of love is that of the mother Arthur never had: she must be Hunith.
Uther steps forward and Arthur's throat tightens at seeing him. The man with short gray hair is the ruler he knew, respected, hated and mourned, but the eyes of his father are asking for forgiveness. Next to him is Morgana, long raven ringlets cascading over her gown, her bright eyes as innocent and happy as they were before their world shattered because of Morgause. She is hugging the manuscript and the tattered book they buried her with.
Gaius is there, too, and nods approvingly, his hands crossed on his belly. His signature eyebrow is not raised and his benevolent face welcomes Arthur like a son.
The king stifles a sob and smiles through his tears when they step aside and let him see Mithian, dressed in a swirl of cream silk. She lifts her laced veil and winks at him with blushing cheeks. "Thanks," she quietly articulates and he is overwhelmed by his desire to run to her and hug her strong, to tell her how much their daughter is wonderful and to catch up with all the time that was taken from them.
Then Gwaine appears with a daisy at the corner of his mouth, his roguish smile flashing in his brown beard, and throws back his wavy hair nonchalantly, leaning on the shoulder of Lancelot, clad in armor, who is watching his friend and king, looking incredibly proud.
Finally Number Four steps forward, puts a knee onto the ground and presents him Excalibur.
- "My liege", he says.
He has the gentle, deep voice of a man capable of great courage and of great kindness.
Arthur takes the sword. It is heavy and cold, so real.
His gaze goes from one to another then comes back to his servant.
- "Is this Avalon?" he wonders. "All these lakes look the same."
Merlin shrugs.
- "Does it matter?"
- "Will you ever answer when you're asked a question, Merlin? Now. Am I dead?"
The young man tilts his head.
- "Once and future king, they called you. You had to go at some point, if you were to return someday."
Arthur's feels his insides churning and his mind racing.
- "Camelot… Guinevere… Emrys and Albion…."
- "Will be safe with Percival and Sir Leon to keep watch over them", whispers Merlin, coming closer. "And the Dolma, and Morderd to whom you offered a blank page to write his life from now onwards."
His hand touches lightly the king's sleeve and Arthur shudders.
He stares at the callous fingers, then looks up and his sapphire eyes meet cobalt orbs shaded by dark eyelashes.
His heart clenches so suddenly he almost chokes.
- "I missed you", he rasps, grabbing the arm of his manservant, of his friend, of his brother.
- "I'm here, now", breathes Merlin.
His smile wraps the king in a warm embrace.
- I won't leave you ever again.
A drop of dew falls in the lake and ephemeral rings ripple ad infinitum on the glistening mirror in which reflect the snowy mountains.
Arthur knows, now, what that smile meant from the very beginning.
He's home.
-oOo-
It's over...
I must say I'm a little scared yet I can't wait for your thoughts about this last chapter...
THANK YOU for your incredible support throughout this whole story,
your wonderful reviews (over 200! I'd never dare to hope for that much even in my wildest dreams!),
your patience and your enthusiasm.
I'll post this fic's trailer on youtube soon and who knows ... maybe I'll write something else in this fandom, someday...
Until then... Farewell and Thank you again, a thousand times thank you ... I will miss you all terribly ...