Lancelot nodded encouragingly at Arthur, noticing the boy wasn't looking keen to listen to some little girl's story. The knight figured that Arthur, being a prince, was supposedly too good to listen to what the druid girl had to say. "Freya has a knack for telling stories, your highness. The oral tradition is very important to our people, so storytellers are very highly regarded. Freya has no small experience and greatly enjoys sharing tales of our history with new listeners. You really should indulge yourself and listen to one," the dark-haired knight told the blonde haired prince.
Your highness. It really was going to take a while for Arthur to get used to being treated so formally by someone who was—could be—one of his best knights; one of Essetir's knights, now. Lancelot smiled at the young druidess as her eyes widened and excitement blossomed in her posture as she watched Arthur's face with hope clearly etched on her features.
"Your highness?" the druid girl, Freya, repeated the proper title Lancelot had used to address Arthur. She looked towards Arthur with eager eyes, questioning, "Are you a prince?" Arthur nodded slowly. "Oh! You must be the Prince of Camelot! Iseldir told us you were going to make an appearance soon," Freya finished with a happy smile, proud that she had remembered such an important detail.
Arthur let his head fall slightly to one side in question, though he said nothing. Did Iseldir foresee this with magic, or did he simply receive word from the castle that I was to be visiting?
Freya furrowed her brow thoughtfully, murmuring to herself, "Though he did tell us a couple of months ahead of time." Arthur almost didn't catch the words that she uttered.
Seer. He is definitely a seer.
"Shall we hear a few stories before we rest for the night, eh, Percival?" Lancelot nudged the bulky knight, who enjoyed the stories about Emrys and druidic prophecies. Percival nodded firmly in agreement, shooting Arthur an encouraging smile. The muscular man tilted his head towards Freya, indicating Arthur should pay attention to the very enthusiastic druid girl, who was bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet with anticipation.
Lancelot turned his attention back to Arthur with a welcoming smile. "We've heard these stories multiple times. I'm sure Freya would love to tell them to a fresh audience."
Freya's sweet, childlike smile was very hard to deny. Arthur sighed and inevitably gave in. "Go on, then," he mumbled almost sulkily.
Freya's smile split her face before she burst out excitedly, "Percival, which story should I tell? A prince, Percy, I'm telling one of my stories to a prince!" The girl giggled, sending a smile to Arthur.
"You've told stories to Emrys before, and he enjoyed them," Lancelot pointed out.
Freya blushed slightly, and sputtered out, "Well, that's different! I know him, and the stories are about him! He's like a brother to me; a big brother, like Percival!" Freya said, skipping over to the muscle man, and clung to his arm.
"So! What story should I tell the prince of Camelot?" she asked again as she tugged the large knight towards the enormous central bonfire. She situated them upon one of the many logs that surrounded the roaring flames.
Lancelot laughed and winked at Arthur. "I think she fancies her so called 'brother,'" Lancelot teased Freya whilst walking towards the girl.
Freya huffed indignantly. "I do not! And besides, he's a prince," she trailed off, face flushed.
Arthur mumbled under his breath, "What's wrong with being a prince, then?'
"Maybe I should tell the one where Emrys meets the second of the three high priestesses and learns he needs to go on a quest to the White Mountains get a pure white dragon egg so it can be hatched on time or—or where he defended Camelot by defeating the all powerful dark mage Cornelius Sigan—"
"Where was I during that?" Arthur interrupted Freya's waterfall of ideas, confused.
"I believe Ser Leon said you were on a hunting trip when milord and I visited Camelot for that meeting, we were rather disappointed we didn't get to meet you in person," Lancelot explained with a smile. He and Arthur took their seats on the same long log.
Freya's verbal deluge continued as though it had never ceased, "—oh, Percival, do you remember the one where Emrys had pretended to be a peasant with his manservant and got caught in a bar fight? One of our newest knights got his knighthood because of that, didn't he?" Freya smiled, knowing the answer to that question was positive.
Arthur's eyebrows raised to his hairline, he was sure that one sounded familiar—he, himself, had pretended to be a peasant with Merlin and had gotten into a bar fight, but that was with Gwaine, the roguish traveller whose company he had enjoyed.
"I could tell about how he first met the Lady Morgana when she had first discovered her magical talents? I've heard that was very interesting, since she didn't know how to control herself. Didn't she sneeze and accidently create strong winds that whisked Emrys out of a castle window?" Freya giggled. "Or—or—!" She trailed off for a moment in thought. "Percival, do you have an idea?" she asked Percival once more, chin in hand as she waited.
Arthur and Lancelot both looked expectantly at Percival, but only one of the two wondered if the well-built knight was going to answer Freya's question. Percival looked deep in thought and torn between a few choices. During this brief lull, Arthur happened to look back over his shoulder to see Iseldir darting back into his tent, dismissing himself from this conversation. Potions to finish, no doubt.
"Maybe you could tell the story of Nimueh's recent defeat?" Lancelot asked. Percival's eyes brightened at the question and he nodded quickly in agreement. Arthur didn't know if he should be disappointed that the quiet knight hadn't spoken... or if he should have known he wouldn't have uttered a single word at all.
"Oh, yes!" Freya clapped her hands together and stood from the log in one fluid motion. She looked around at the small group she had gathered, focusing especially on the two Essetirian knights and the prince of Camelot. Arthur blinked in surprise as he watched her prepare herself. The girl seemed to... shift, an accomplished and polished storyteller appeared where once a little girl had stood. Her demeanour changed, she held herself differently, and her voice, when she spoke, held weight.
"Now, everyone knows that Emrys was long foretold to be the most powerful warlock who walks the earth, greater than those who once walked the earth and greater still than any who ever will walk the earth," Freya began, eyes twinkling.
Arthur looked taken aback. Someone that powerful? Did this person exist before I made that wish? No, he couldn't have... I've not even heard mention of him before, he mused, then blinked and listened again as the girl continued.
"But! There was once a high priestess... named Nimueh," Freya regaled her audience. Arthur didn't bother to hide his scowl at the name of the witch who had tried to kill him and destroy his kingdom on multiple occasions. He lost himself again in the cadence of Freya's voice, as her storytelling was remarkable. She didn't recite the story so much as perform it with gestures, movement, changing volume, pace, fluid facial expressions and dramatic pauses.
"She was nice, and fair, but the power of being a high priestess consumed her. She became empty inside, nothing but a void which only more power could fill: she wanted the throne of Essetir for herself. To this end, the witch sent out... a questing beast. One bite from such a beast would surely seal a man's fate, as it was a creature conjured from the worst nightmares of a long dead king. Not only is its bite fatal, but it is feared as an omen of impending doom..." Freya trailed off ominously, before continuing with a proud smile.
"Our king rode to fight it. He wanted to attack it straightaway, for he would not let the creature threaten his kingdom."
Freya paused and looked around at her audience, her face set in a grave expression before she spoke three words: "He was bitten."
Arthur noticed Lancelot smiling softly at Freya's performance; Percival appeared hypnotized, sitting as far forward on the log as he could as he hung on the girl's every word. He smiled to himself at the gentle giant's rapt enjoyment of the story he had obviously heard many times before. He scanned the audience as well: young, old, male, female; the mix of listeners was varied and grew slowly as other villagers were drawn to the performance. He quickly turned his own attention back to the story in progress, hoping he hadn't missed much.
"To aid the king, Emrys made the long trek to The Isle of the Blessed, where Nimueh resided: beyond the White Mountains, through the Valley of The Fallen Kings, and to the north of the Great Seas of Meredor.
"He made a deal with the witch: his life for his father's. Nimueh reluctantly agreed to the deal and gave Emrys a cup of enchanted water, which, when his father drank it, would initiate the trade of life forces. In a short time, Emrys was on his way back to his kingdom.
"As promised, the king was back in good health after imbibing the enchanted water, but Emrys did not feel the ill effects of dying... no, it was our lady queen whose life force began to slowly dwindle. Enraged, Emrys stormed to the Isle of the Blessed once more. He would remind the priestess of their deal, demand that it was his life to be taken, not anyone else's!
"When the warlock arrived at the Isle, he found to his great dismay that his good friend and manservant, William, had already confronted the sorceress for him... and taken his place by offering his own life in trade for the queen's. His lifeless form lay sprawled next to the altar in the middle of the island, an empty cup near his outstretched hand. Emrys angrily confronted the duplicitous dark-haired damsel and demanded that she bring his manservant back."
"She said... that Emrys was not destined to die at her hands," Freya took this moment to take in a deep breath.
Arthur blinked and thought, I've heard that line before. Not destined to die at her hands... The prince sighed quietly as he recalled when the very same enchantress had manipulated him into thinking she was a victim of her made-up master's attacks and that she had been lost in the forest that, come to think of it, she must have known very well. Out of supposed gratitude for saving her from a cockatrice she claimed she would show him the morteaus flower in a secluded cave... which was, of course, a trap. "You are not destined to die at my hands," she had said, before leaving him to a horde of spiders. The memory came and went in an instant, leaving him to the story in progress.
"Nimueh then offered Emrys a deal: they could join forces and take over the seven kingdoms together, as they each held considerable power. Unfortunately for the priestess, she made a fatal error: she underestimated our prince's loyalty and devotion to his kingdom."
Freya smiled and scanned the audience, making eye contact with various members of her small crowd. Fully immersed in her storytelling, she continued speaking.
"Emrys vehemently rejected her invitation to the dark side, so to speak: he threw a spell at her, but Nimueh easily dodged. Emrys, for his part, had underestimated the witch's prowess in magical duels.
"The scorned high priestess threw a forceful fireball at Emrys which hit him right in the chest, burning him painfully," she pounded her fists against her youthful, flat chest and staggered back a couple paces, indicating where and how badly Emrys had been hit. "Our prince is no slouch in a magical duel; fuelled by his anger and despair, he had already struck back with a vengeance.
"At the precise moment the fireball left Nimueh's fingertips, Emrys called upon the elemental power of lightening. An enormous deluge of crackling energy pulsed into existence, a writhing, rope-like formation appearing to be woven from hundreds of normal lightning bolts!" Freya stood dramatically, stance wide and arms reaching toward the clouds, which were tinted with the colours of the approaching sunset.
"The sizzling bolt of dazzling death surged from sky to skin, striking Nimueh as dead as, well, a door nail." Freya giggled at the simile she had used and Lancelot chuckled under his breath.
"William began to stir from his position collapsed by the altar where the short yet fierce battle had taken place, completing the circle of sacrifices to save lives. Emrys had gained the power over Life and Death," Freya wistfully smiled. "A life for a life, as they say," She murmured quietly and seemed to loose herself in thought in that moment.
Percival smiled at the story, and looked to his companions, eager to hear their opinions of the story. It was one of his favourites, after all!
Arthur winced slightly at Freya's last choice of words, a life for a life; it seemed to be a popular theme with magic.
"How did you like that one?" Freya addressed Arthur, her face flushed and eyes sparkling with excitement. "Shall I tell another story?"
Before Arthur replied, Lancelot cleared his throat and quietly spoke to Freya, "Your mum is probably looking for you by your tent, Freya, and she may be worried." The dark-haired man looked towards the sky, now painted with dusk, and gave her a friendly wink. "It's rather late; you should be asleep by now, anyway."
Freya quickly nodded. "Of course!" She stood up and bowed towards her audience, chirping, "Thank you for listening today!" With an adorable smile adorning her lips she skipped away from the bonfire and toward her waiting mother.
"She... wow. She's a sweet girl," Arthur said, more than a bit awed by the story that had been told. Lancelot nodded in agreement and opened his mouth to speak, but the soft, deep voice which met Arthur's ears did not match with the dark-haired knight at all.
"I love listening to her tell stories. Her eyes get this focused look to them, and I can almost see the world around her get so small while the story in her head grows."
Arthur realised it was Percival who had spoken. Startled, he really couldn't form a coherent response to the sleeveless knight's surprisingly insightful statement.
Lancelot only nodded with a smile to his fellow comrade in arms. "We should get some rest for the night ourselves. Please allow me to show you to your tent," Lancelot directed his final statement towards Arthur as he got to his feet, ready to escort the blonde prince to his sleeping quarters.
-x-
Arthur's tent was a soft blue colour, located near the large chieftain's tent in a position of honour. Supposing he should prepare to rest for the night, Arthur removed his boots and stockings and his bare feet were gratefully met with a soft, woven rug. Its worn state spoke of its age, but it was obviously very clean. He set his boots under a table—adorned with the ubiquitous triskelion symbol—then pulled his leather hunting gloves out of his pocket and tossed them atop the same table.
Staring down at his shining armour, he gave a scowl and decided to unhook the clasp to his cape before even starting to pull off the bulky armour. With the crimson cloak folded neatly and placed on top of the same small table, covering the gloves, Arthur began to ponder different strategies to escape from his armour.
Well, the belt was always next. After much more trouble than he really felt it should take, he managed to figure out that his belt had slid down and become wedged below the tassets at the bottom of his breastplate instead of staying at his midsection where it was supposed to be centred. Arthur scowled and realised it was because that idiot Merlin had put too many holes in the belt and fastened the thing so it would be just loose enough to slip below his armour. He reached to unbuckle the belt and discovered that the buckle itself was located in a most inconvenient position nearly in the middle of his backside. Arthur raised an incredulous eyebrow. Really?
"Oi, you can't even dress yourself without me!" Merlin's cheeky voice sounded in his head, a memory of their banter earlier that day—was that really only this morning?—before they had gone on their fateful hunting trip. The boy had been unusually early, but it was probably due to the fact his manservant hadn't gotten any sleep after he returned so late from gathering herbs.
Arthur sighed, but valiantly continued the effort to undress himself. Since the belt was always next when he had Merlin's assistance, he was determined to stick as close to familiar patterns as possible. Thus, he grunted as he attempted to quickly reach his still-plate-covered arms behind himself and under the metal tassets to reach the belt buckle, instead of going over like a sensible person would have. Naturally this caused him to overbalance and fall backwards, accompanied by a cacophony of crashing metal armour.
Lancelot chose this moment to burst through the tent flaps with folded cloth material in his hands and concern on his face. "Your Highness, I heard a ruckus! Is there something the matter, are you—" the dark haired knight halted mid-sentence, his eyes widening as they discovered the heap of prince on the ground. Lancelot felt a laugh bubble in his throat and he struggled to control himself. Arthur could feel his face heat up in embarrassment from his place on the floor. Lancelot murmured a quick apology and took a deep breath to calm his laughter.
The dark-haired man then laughed quietly once more, before saying kindly, "Here, please allow me to help you with that." He set the blankets down on Arthur's sleeping mat and moved to the blonde prince, helping him to his feet. Arthur gave a rather embarrassed chuckle and gladly let Lancelot assist with removing his pauldrons, vambraces and plackerts. The large pieces of armour were set on the floor next to his boots and Arthur victoriously spun his belt around so that the buckle was in front and undid it with a flourish. He stacked his belt, scabbard and sword on top of his folded red raiment. After Lancelot helped Arthur remove the heavy chainmail shirt he gave a satisfied sigh whilst removing the scratchy gambeson underneath from his torso. He mumbled a soft 'thanks' that Lancelot probably didn't hear.
"I will be in the tent next to yours, if you need me," Lancelot said with a polite smile. "I have to take care of something first—here are some extra blankets from Iseldir, should you need them," the dark-haired Essetirian knight gestured to the neat squares of folded blankets that the knight had tossed onto his makeshift bed, which Arthur gladly accepted. Lancelot gave a nod as he bade Arthur good night and disappeared through the tent flap.
The prince quite easily took off his tunic and trousers and tossed them atop the wooden chest in the far corner of the tent. The blonde nodded to himself, proud of his accomplishment. Since he had gotten comfortable, he made his way to the simple mat in the middle of the tent, mussing up the blankets around him. Arthur yawned widely, he hadn't realised how tired he was until Lancelot departed. I wonder… if I am to sleep… will I wake up back in Camelot with all of this having only been one strange dream? He pondered this thought before he slipped off into a refreshing, easy sleep.
-x-
Arthur woke early, his internal clock accustomed to Merlin waking him at daybreak. He sat up and pushed the blankets off of his bare chest. Sleepily rubbing calloused hands over his face, he tentatively cracked an eyelid and took in his surroundings. ...I am still here. Am I not living a dream, then? Standing, clad in only his pants, he stooped and grabbed his trousers and jumped into them. He picked up his tunic and put that on easily enough, then looked to his armour with a sinking feeling. He was not going to ask someone else for help with this—especially with Merlin's teasing voice saying things like, 'You're going to be a king, and you can't even put on your clothes by yourself?'
After donning his armour with much difficulty, Arthur walked out of his tent. He was met with the sight of Percival and Lancelot talking quietly as Percival tended food on a spit and a frying pan in the bonfire. Percival was first to notice Arthur and threw an apple to the blonde prince, who caught it nonchalantly.
Lancelot noticed Arthur's quiet entrance after Percival had greeted the prince, glanced towards him, "Good morning, your highness! We should be able to depart soon, ser; I sent out a messenger bird last night to the capital for horses. One of your knights should be by to escort us."
Arthur gave a polite nod of acknowledgement as he stared into the bonfire. He blinked a few times and rubbed his eyes, sure he was seeing things. He looked again, but it was the same: the wood wasn't burning. Granted, it was most definitely on fire, but it wasn't being consumed—the logs weren't even blackened. No wood ever need be added to this bonfire! That's pretty convenient, I suppose—for magic. He yawned, biting into his apple hungrily.
"Did you sleep well, ser?" Lancelot's voice rang out.
Arthur nodded absent-mindedly. And you can't convince me I've awakened from this dream.
Percival continued to quietly and efficiently prepare different foodstuffs and pack them in a leather bag that Lancelot was holding, for rations when they would travel to the capital of Essetir.
"We should be able to reach the city by dusk if we depart soon. Should we not make it then we shall stay the night in the lower town and set out to the castle the next morning," Lancelot said, as he reached into a small pouch depending from the belt on his hip and pulled out a small scroll. "Along with our king's official reply, it seems that the Lady Morgana has snuck you a letter as well," the dark-haired knight smiled, handing the scroll to Arthur, who took the proffered paper almost cautiously.
Unfurling the scroll, he read, in Morgana's neat cursive script,
Within the great Essetirian castle walls we are waiting on a feast. Why? Simply because my idiot of a brother decided to get off track because he was sick of being watched by daddy's dogs. How child-like, Arthur. You'll be pleased to know that I sent a 'competent' knight to your rescue. Although I hear you're being tended by Lancelot; very competent, in Guinevere's—my maidservant, since you never bother to remember names—eyes. Aw, you should see her now: she's blushing like a maiden; how adorable!
Arthur could almost hear her teasing laughter to her friend, a sound Arthur had missed hearing.
Now, I've insisted that they send you Leon and George—such a perfect servant, don't you think? I know you never get enough of his brass jokes.
Arthur scowled, knowing full well that Morgana had sent the perfect yet utterly boring servant on purpose, most likely to irritate him. He then couldn't help cracking a smile followed by a light-hearted laugh, his eyes full of mirth. She would do something like that just to annoy me, wouldn't she?
Enough of that, I am eagerly awaiting your arrival. You may not know; but their kingdom has great feasts as well as beautiful magic displays. I do hope you hurry your arrogant ego and make to the castle—though with how big it is, you might have some trouble lugging it along with you. Scratch that: you've had it with you your whole life; I'm sure it's just the usual exercise to you by now.
The king is very eager to meet the egotistical son of his best friend; the queen wishes a nice noble friend for her son. I've already told them not to expect much, don't worry—you won't have to please them at all. The prince is sweet, yet other nobles his around his age tend to be a bit intimidated. You better not be a twat to him like you are other nobles, Arthur! He might actually tolerate you. See you soon, I hope, and try not to get yourself killed, you idiot.
With much love and something akin to tolerance, Morgana
Arthur shook his head, and smiled at her sassy writing. This was the Morgana he knew and loved; there was no doubt about that. The blonde prince rolled the scroll up tightly and slid it into his pocket in thought about this prince—Emrys, they called him.
'Yet, other nobles tend to be a bit intimidated,' Arthur reread. He supposed it was because of his magic—he had heard the story of Emrys being able to call the very lightningfrom the sky and strike a high priestess 'dead as a door nail'—Freya's phrasing very cleverly made light of that, Arthur realised. Not to mention that the Essetirian prince had gained power over life and death… though since Arthur didn't really understand what that entailed, he was more impressed by the lightning-on-demand.
The blonde ran his fingers through his hair—a nervous habit, not that he would ever admit it—while he thought. The stories have to be fabricated, even if just a little. No one could be that powerful, even if they did have magic. No magical threat to Camelot was ever hard to overcome. They were more like… a pesky infestation more than an actual threat. He wondered if Emrys was as arrogant as he had first imagined—Morgana seemed to like him just fine. However, since she had seemed a bit taken by Valiant, who was a complete arse, it wasn't saying that much.
At the thought of the knight Valiant—who didn't deserve the title 'knight,' Arthur thought bitterly—Arthur thought of a weak magic attempt at his life. The man had an enchanted shield, which was easy to see through as the snakes came out of the shield of their own accord. Out of the shield, they were just snakes, no different from those which Arthur would simply crush under a boot whilst he was hunting.
Pensively, Arthur then pondered what he had heard of the Questing Beast and its supposedly fatal bite. Arthur, himself, didn't die. If he believed the tale Freya related, someone would have had to make a deal with Nimueh: their life to save his. But who would have done such a thing? Arthur sighed, rubbing his temples until a memory of a quite… odd conversation came to the forefront of his mind.
"I need to talk to you." Merlin had rushed into his room, confronting Arthur.
"You still haven't got it yet, have you? I decide when we need to talk." Arthur had replied, lazily twirling his goblet of wine in his hand.
"Not today," Merlin stated defiantly, almost daring Arthur to argue with him.
"I sometimes wonder if you know who I am," the blonde uttered, voice filled with disbelief and a hint of wonder.
"Oh, I know who you are," Merlin declared, a smirk forming on his face.
"Good," the blonde began, haughtily.
Merlin cut his words short with, "You're a prat, and a royal one at that."
Arthur really should have expected that one. He remembered chuckling before asking, "Are you ever going to change, Merlin?"
Merlin gave a melancholy smile before saying softly, "No, you'd get bored." In a stronger voice, now that his resolve for what he had wanted to say no longer threatened to leave him, he continued, "But promise me this: if you get another servant, don't get a bootlicker."
"If this is you trying to leave your job..." Arthur warned voice low.
"No," Merlin had quickly answered, "I'm happy to be your servant. Till the day I die."
They stared at each other a while, pale blue eyes locked with determined dark blue ones before Arthur admitted, "Sometimes I think I know you, Merlin. Other times," Arthur had shaken his head in disbelief here, choosing not to continue what he would have said.
"Well, I know you," Merlin had given a soft smile, "and you're a great warrior. One day, you'll be a great king."
"That's very kind of you," Arthur had said slowly, having fully expected Merlin to make a jab at him.
"But you must learn to listen as well as you fight," Merlin had chided.
"Any other pointers?" Arthur had sarcastically asked.
"No, that's it. Just… don't be a prat." Merlin had quickly left the room after that.
Until the day I die… Merlin, of course. That was right after Arthur had miraculously healed from the so-called fatal bite. Merlin would have been the only one reckless and thoughtless enough to sacrifice his life for the prince's—and Arthur wouldn't have even known. That odd conversation that stuck in his mind—it had been his farewell.
When Morgana had told him the next morning that Gaius had neglected to bring the lady her sleeping draught for the night, he had thought nothing of it; he figured that Gaius had forgotten in his strife to retrieve Merlin from the local tavern as his manservant loved to spend his time there—didn't he? The two of them were both gone that night, after Merlin talked to me, Arthur realised, as Merlin hadn't attended him that evening. Arthur considered, suddenly remembering the night with such clarity. He thought back to the story, how Nimueh didn't take Emrys' life, but a loved one's instead. Maybe Merlin had given his life for mine, but the witch took Gaius' life instead...? No, Gaius would have been the person to go to the isle himself so Merlin wouldn't have to make the second trip to give his life once more.
Gaius was alive the next morning, and so was Merlin—late to wake him up, but alive. Arthur scowled, and rubbed his temples with more pressure, feeling a headache forming. This… this magic thing was too complicated, and he wasn't completely sure that Merlin would have done something like that, no matter how likely it may be. Consorting with sorcerers was against the law, saving the prince's life or not. Connecting these kinds of things was stressing him out more than it was worth.
"Arthur." Arthur was startled out of his thoughts, and gave Lancelot an odd look, being addressed by his given name from the now-older knight for the first time since he had arrived in Essetir.
"Forgive me for being so informal, sire, but you weren't responding. You seem to be more thoughtful than the Lady Morgana gave you credit for," Lancelot smiled, and elbowed Arthur almost playfully, but caught himself afterwards, and mumbled an awkward, "Sorry, sire."
Arthur smiled reassuringly at the knight, pleased by Lancelot's sudden comfort around him. "It's no problem at all; but, did you need to tell me something?"
Lancelot nodded, and looked up to the watch towers near the main drawbridge to the encampment. "Percival says the druids have spotted three horses coming from the direction of the castle; one of the riders is clad in red. It's very likely they're your escorts," the dark-haired knight told Arthur.
Arthur frowned, "I didn't hear the druids say a thing," he said, looking at Percival, who gave a sly smile, and tapped his cranium.
Lancelot shrugged, "The druids have a form of communication that non-magical people, like us, don't have," Lancelot explained. Arthur nodded slowly, though he wasn't sure if he actually understood what the other man was explaining to him.
「Like this, Young Pendragon, 」Arthur jumped when he heard Iseldir's rustic voice inside of his head. He tried to turn towards where he heard the man speak, but he realised the man didn't speak, but had in fact spoken to him… in his own thoughts.
"You are to depart soon, Ser Lancelot," Arthur jumped once again as Iseldir's voice sounded beside him once more, but not in his head. Arthur looked to Iseldir, who gave him a quick quirk of the lips—was that a smirk?!—that Arthur didn't know the seemly stoic man was capable of producing. Arthur noticed Percival was laughing rather loudly near the bonfire, and he wondered if the almost-giant knight had seen and heard the exchange. Scratch that, the bulky knight had obviously held witness to the exchange—he was now producing snorting sounds.
Feeling heat rush to his cheeks in embarrassment, he looked around the camp once more. He noticed a multitude of druids slipping out of their tents and taking their places from the opening of the encampment to the bonfire in the middle of the camp with an isle the width of the encampment gates. Studying the cloaks of different colours, Arthur asked, "Are they doing a ritual of sorts?"
"We are simply going to see you off to the castle, young Pendragon," Iseldir informed him. "Your entourage arrives." As he said this, the drawbridge was raised, revealing Ser Leon mounted on a horse along with George who was holding the reins of three other horses.
Lancelot raised his hand in a salute-style greeting towards Ser Leon who easily returned his salute with a smile. Before Arthur could ask about the extra horse, as two of them were most obviously for himself and Lancelot, said knight looked towards Iseldir and inquired, "You said you had a young druid man who was to leave with us to receive tutoring from our prince?" Iseldir nodded and directed Lancelot to glance behind himself, where two figures were approaching. Arthur recognized them from the previous day when he first arrived at the encampment; he had seen them gathering water from the well.
"Captain," The blonde woman greeted respectfully as they came to a stop in front of Lancelot. The young woman walked beside the young man, once again clad in a teal cloak, her hand resting gently on the druid's lower back. The man's face indicated he was slightly exasperated at his mother's clingy behaviour, but there was an obvious affectionate glint in his eyes.
Lancelot turned, regarding the woman with a serene smile, "Yes, sera?"
Captain—as in captain of the guard? Lancelot was? Arthur looked pensively to Lancelot, wondering if he was really that capable of a knight. He knew the man had potential—and a lot of it—but to be the captainof the guard? What else had traditional rules about 'only noble blood' had made his kingdom miss out on potentially wonderful people that could just as easily serve?
"Please, do remind my Mordred to be careful! He gets in trouble more oft than not..." The woman trailed off, nervously tucking strands of long blonde hair behind her ears as she spoke softly. "He hasn't been to the castle yet, he's only seventeen," the young mother said, worrying her lip. The young man flushed slightly at the last sentence while Lancelot shot him an apologetic and understanding smile.
Mordred… now why did that sound familiar?
Memories began to rush through his head. He was running through underground tunnels that led away from the dungeons—so conveniently; they must have been made in secret during the Purge by people who held sympathy for those with magic who had also smuggled magic users out of the city—and to the outskirts of Camelot.
He remembered his worry that Merlin wouldn't arrive on time—that stupid idiot! Always late with everything, yet couldn't he, just this once, be early and save him from a heart attack? If father asks, tell him I went on a hunting trip, Arthur had said to Merlin who had helped the druid boy onto the horse. He had always done what his father had asked, but so recently he had started doubting his father's opinion on magic...
"Wait, I don't even know your name! At least tell me your name," he had called to Mordred's and Iseldir's retreating forms after he had smuggled Mordred out of the castle.
"My name is Mordred," the boy finally spoke, voice young and sure.
"Yeah? Then, good luck, Mordred," Arthur smiled, feeling like he had done something right regarding magic.
Ah! The young druid boy I helped out of the castle, that's why he looked so familiar before, because Morgana and Merlin had roped me into helping them smuggle the boy out of the castle... his thought trailed off. Merlin; again he wondered why he had yet to run into Merlin, but he hadn't run into any other knight or peasant he knew from within the walls of Camelot besides Lancelot. He wasn't so sure the brief meeting of Percival really counted as him knowing the potential knight of Camelot—though here in this dream state where he found himself the built man was a knight, of Essetir, but a knight nonetheless. And soon he would meet Leon and his temporary servant, George. He suddenly felt sure that he would meet everyone else as soon as he arrived at the castle of the kingdom of Essetir. Looking back at Mordred once more, it was a wonder Arthur had recognised him at all. The once young boy had turned into a fine young man—a thought that puzzled Arthur further.
"I'm sure he will have no quarrel at all with mentoring your boy's magic. Do not worry, sera, as Emrys' kindness is as memorable, if not more so, than his wrath." The term, Arthur had learned, was the people's way of warning. 'You shouldn't do that; else Emrys will uncoil his wrath upon you.' Arthur scowled; he couldn't see how one man could be as revered and feared as a god, yet still be seen as the people's future king.
His own father had a lot going for him, as well: he was feared and out of that fear was borne respect. The people listened to him, but those people would just as well mean to stab him in the back, if given the chance to. Uther was not a kind and compassionate leader as he might have been before Ygraine had met her untimely death. The blonde prince shuddered to think of what kind of king he would be, given his father's example. Kill all with magic—that seemed to be the only consistent thing in Uther's life. Yet some of the magic users Arthur himself had seen and… exterminated had not looked evil, only frightened. It was no wonder magical people hated Uther. And what of the young Mordred he had to smuggle out of the kingdom himself? The little boy hadn't a single evil bone in his body let alone be an all-powerful evil ruler. 'Tis the way with druids: a peaceful folk.
Emrys was treated as a king by these people, but he was no more than a prince. No more than he, even if the other did have supposedly 'powerful' magic. This Emrys must have a dreadful ego to rival the one Arthur was accused of having, being made out to be some Druidic God by the druid clans around him. A pompous attitude, like all well-talked-about noblemen seemed to have, including Arthur, at one point. Had he not been taught humility by Merlin he still might be that way now. He supposed he was still arrogant; Merlin probably wouldn't be able to banter that trait out of him.
Now meaning before I made the wish and was Crown Prince? He scratched his head, deep in thought. In this 'now' I am not Crown Prince, nor am I even of age to be considered such. In this 'now' I am still considered nothing more than a royal prat, if what Morgana told Lancelot is any indication.
His lips split into a smile. The insult that he so loathed had turned into a—dare he say it?—friendly nickname that he had come to enjoy hearing from his manservant's ever-chatty lips. Looking upon the blonde woman who was speaking with Lancelot once more, he recognised her features as someone he had also met before, Morgause. She seems less forbidding than when she had challenged me and sent me on that odd quest. She seems… at peace, almost.
Morgause smiled a sweet smile at Mordred, her expression showing none of the hatred she had borne for the Pendragons' during her life before he had made the wish to bring his mother back.
Arthur wondered if that was what the oppression of magic did. Turn people bitter. Was it the oppression of magic, or magic itself?
-x-
All the names I used for the armour pieces I have looked up and done research on. If anyone knows something different about the placement and what not, please feel free to correct me! (:
Ohh, Darkspiral1! Right on the dot with that guess, but there was magic involved. ;D You're a smart cookie! Or I'm just predicable, I'm hoping it's more of the former than the latter! Hahahh.
As always, thank you so much for reviewing and following, you all are super awesome! Cheers! :D