GALAHAD Chapter 1/Prologue: Enter Albion
Shadows drew close as the shuttered wagons rumbled down the banked track, shrouded bracken nearly covering the dry-stone walls to either side. It was almost noon, but it didn't feel it. The rain made sure of that.
The men's grumbling voices were but mere muffed whispers to the boy's ears, hollow noises in the air only serving to remind him how foreign he was here. Being thought a mute had its upsides; he could eat and sleep and travel without much attention, nor… persecution, as was so common with people of his kind in these parts. His voice, if revealed, would have given him away a long time ago.
Scotti. He could still hear the foul knight's voice squawk in his ear even now, rough hands fisting at his breeches. Scotti scum.
Of course, if revealed he could never get any word in edgewise that his accent was in no part indicative of his race, for the people of Albion were at war, and with any such war often fled a home for reason. An immigrant of a country ought to pick up the accent to fit in, he'd always try to say, only to be cut off before he could go any further by frantic repulsion or slick knives leaving their hiding-holes.
A war often prevented such cordial discussion, anyway.
Thus, here he was, a half-Angle boy with a Scotti accent near seventeen in a cart on his way to the very capital of the enemy, sneaking into a hostile land in the middle of Albion's second war since it had been united four generations prior, with little to call his own but a sheepskin vest, shoddy wooden shoes, and an iron necklace from his mother that was quite rusted over at that.
If Galahad hadn't been so wrapped up in maintaining his mute persona, he'd have called himself a very, very stupid boy. His dead brother had thought as much when he was alive, anyway.
Ever since childhood he had heard stories of the land of magic, the place in which glory reigned forever, since the spiteful conqueror Arthur and the other lords of Camelot had united the land and pushed back the Saxons and their foul witch, only to betray the country they helped to build. Ever since childhood, he had oft cradled the metal of his long-dead mother, his only family memento to speak of, with so much care; a triskellion it was, the symbol of the druids of Albion.
Perhaps I'll find the Druids. Maybe they'll help me. It was a foolish thought.
"We'll stop here. Get out, boy."
He landed in the mud with a squelch. When he looked up, he saw the merchants leading their mules and sheep up off the roadside to a low, empty shelter. Such sheep-crofts were not uncommon in the north, and it was almost comforting to see one even here, so close to the capital. It was still far different to the heaths of the south or the highlands he called home, but it was enough. Perhaps he could be normal here, too.
That too, was a lie.
The rain was fading, wisps of cloud rising to reveal a wide plain to the south, dark with shadow. One of the men, (Alan, Alain? He couldn't care to remember) was trying with middling success to start a fire as the wet ground proved his efforts rather futile.
Perhaps…. as long as they don't notice, and he wouldn't be branded a spy or some enemy witch…
The familiar rush of magic tugged in him, and the fire burst to life. Alan seemed rather pleased with himself, to Galahad's hidden amusement. He stood up and walked to the door-frame, looking out over the dark plain, farmland shadowed by the rolling clouds.
A black fortress stood on a hill impregnable at the foot of the tumbled lands before them, shadowed mountains and peaks half-streaked with the last light of day only a faint smudge in the distance, ever building behind. Dinas Emrys: Capital of Albion.
The future. He took in a sharp breath.
It was the nexus of the war, the seat carved out and wrestled from two dragons for nearly half a generation by the holiest of lords, the Once and Future King himself; it stood black and strong from the fog of the vale. There, magic reigned over the land with the Old Religion stronger than it had ever been. The king had claimed no enemy would ever break it or the kingdom he had united, and so it would seem had the Scotti decided to bow. Instead, they took what sorcerors they had and holed up in their hillforts and towns of the north, defending their lands and pushing against the expansionist efforts of the southern kings. No one was supposed to go against him anymore, not since the war had begun, and whispers started weaving through the land of dark knights in black hollows, night-calls in the dark should a bad thing be said of the king.
He knew better than anyone what the black knights would do should they come.
One could not go against prophecy, after all. The Scots in his village hadn't joked when they said that more men died within Albion in the name of their King than warriors on the borderlands themselves.
It was very much a dangerous place indeed for anyone, no less someone with the accent of a Scot. Galahad didn't care, though. His fingernails dug into the meat of his hand. He wouldn't let the King's presence cow him from this opportunity.
It was the only chance he had left to find what he sought, the only place he could get answers.
The Holy Grail. The immortal, the instrument of the protection the king so promised, and the very answer to his family's suffering all these years, lay within those walls. The very spearhead of the terror the King had cast upon the land.
His current path was something he had decided long ago, and something he would never back out of, not now.
He would take any chance he could to find the answer to his family's death. He would find the blasted cup the King so professed to master, and he would take it for his mother; his father; his sister. He would take it for every person forced out and killed with the advent of the Once and Future King, every child left parentless in the name of perverted prophecy.
The triskellion on the family's necklace burned cold in his fingers, nurturing his quiet rage.
He coughed loudly, crawling closer to the fire of the other men in the croft, them barely paying him any heed. He didn't care though; it wasn't as if anyone had cared for him for two years now anyway. Even the warmth of the dancing flames couldn't melt the burning ice in his heart, the slow murmurs of grizzled men softly melding with the crackling around him.
A smile graced Galahad's chapped lips for the first time in many years, his eyes flashing with the faintest memory of golden ecstasy. He could almost feel his mother's arms wrap around him, warmth incarnate spreading through his core.
It was gone almost as soon as it began, the display of emotion dying abruptly as grey light faded to black, night taking all but the fire away.
Tomorrow would be the beginning of everything.
Everything that mattered, anyhow.
AN: Not a fan of Author's notes but I feel like one is necessary more for me to remember than anyone else haha.
This is something I just came up with on the spur of the moment the other day, and thought it might be interesting to post here. I have not watched Merlin in a while, so forgive me if details are wrong further in the story (or feel free to leave a review with constructive feedback along with that!). All the events of the show (including Arthur's death) happened aside from the last scene with Merlin in present day; hopefully the time period is self-explanatory in relation to the show. Have no idea if I will continue. Don't expect any of the Camelot characters to show up aside from Merlin (who will have a big role later), but for now, we'll stick with some of the OCs (I will have multiple POV's, but Galahad's story will be the main one here I think, at least for now).
I am also not going to be basing this much off of IRL geography or Britain from the time period (as you can see by Vortigern's story taking place after Arthur's time), mainly because the show took so many liberties with geography and timeline (and even flora and fauna!) that there's no point (I will have homages like Snowden, the war with the Scots, etc. every once in a while though).
EDIT: Edited chapter to account for changes in outline.
EDIT 2: Additional edits for grammar and logistics, I've revisited this and actually have an idea for where the story ought to go.