37 A Prince's choice
It was a whisper inside his head that woke Arthur from his stupor. "What a foolish thing to do, little dragon."
Instinctively coiling up in revulsion, Arthur tried to get away from that menacing voice.
"When will you ever learn that there is nowhere to run, little dragon? Not in your own soul. Not from me. You shouldn't have come."
Camelot's Crown Prince opened his eyes wide, hungry for light but all he found was darkness. Darkness in which something was stirring. Slowly at first, then faster and faster a glittering spiral of mist spread, circled him, danced up and down, up and down, as it spat out the hateful murmur.
"I was generous this time. All I took was a useless, squealing child. Such a little thing, and I could have walked the earth again, far away from you, from Camelot. But now you're here. Stupid, Arthur Pendragon, stupid."
"He's my son" Arthur screamed. "You had no right."
"Did I ever care? By the way, you took my son away from me. Antek left me to join you. It's enough to break a man's heart."
"You do not have a heart. That's why your own son loathed you long before you made me your prisoner in Blackrock Castle!"
"Still the Crown Prince. Still the future King. Arguing your case. Where do you think we are, hmh? At your father's court? Or on a jousting field?"
Arthur felt a something cold, soft and slimy touch his neck, like the move of a snail on his exposed skin. With a scream he jumped up, to his feet, and unsheathed the knife by his side. Awe and wonder wandered through his mind fleetingly, that it should all be so ... corporeal. Physical. As if his body really was here. As if this was a fight against an oponent like all the others his blade had sent to the next world.
But of course, that was an illusion.
His body wasn't here. It was nailed to the sacred stone of a Druid Sanctuary by a magic sword, together with the tiny body of his little Thomas.
"I know where we are" Arthur shouted, blindly thrusting the blade that wasn't really there into the unnatural haze of light and shadow all around him. "And you can rot inside the Rashnijaan to all eternity. It's no worse than you deserve!"
"But that's not what you came for, is it" Anwar's voice sniggered inside Arthur's mind.
"I came for my son" Arthur screamed, and again he fought violently against an enemy that wasn't there either. Except for the suffocating presence in his own mind.
"Put awy your knife, little dragon" Anwar said, bored and ever so slightly disgusted. "Khilgarrah lied to you. This is not what it takes to free your child!"
"The blade killed you before! And twice! It will do so again!"
"Pendragons!" the spectre inside Arthur chuckled. "Hare brained, the lot of you. Without your swords, what are you? Stupid, Arthur, stupid. The knife killed my body. I do no longer have a body of my own. What does that tell you, hmh?"
"In this world, it will, as long as Agneta's spell lasts. You cannot fool me, Anwar of Llanfair. Now show yourself. You cannot evade me forever."
"Poor, hapless little Prince, talking so lightly about forever and a day. All the time it is pit-pat, pit-pat on the Druid stone; your blood, Thomas' blood running away and with it the magic of the Druid bitch - what fragile creatures you are, fragile and pathetic."
"If I'm so pathetic, why not show yourself to me?" Arthur asked with all the acid sarcasm he could muster. "Great Master of the Dark Forces, why hide from a foolish human weakling?"
The fog around Arthur seemed alive, to move with a will of it's own. In front of teh Prince, a part of it took shape, hardened at the rims, looked almost human. "Can you see me, little dragon? Can you see where my heart is? Stab away my friend, stab me, at your heart's delight!" Anwar's whisper was a sing-sang, like that of a menacing child teasing another. "Come on, little dragon, come on! Let me see your skill, great warrior, let me have it all!"
With an inhuman yell, the scream of a trapped animal, Arthur lunged forward, his arm raised high, and with one precise, deadly strike, the knife came down on its mark.
The shadow in front of Pendragon twisted away, this way, that way, impossible to grab, too fast to see, to take an aim. "I'm here, little dragon, I'm here. Faster, faster. You may still be lucky. Pit-pat, pit-pat the blood drips on the stoooone."
Arthur was panting, his sight was blurred, his arms and legs were hurting. His strength seemed to abandon him by the second. Pit-pat, pit-pat in his ears, like thunder, and his force of will was drained away.
But finally, with his last breath, Arthur could see the shadow make the tiniest mistake. Tired of the game of flipping here and there, Anwar's form started a pirouette, long, graceful turns, out of reach just by a fracture of an inch.
Arthur pulled all his remaining strength together, and jumped.
The blade hit the creature's chest and cut through it like a ray of summer sun would melt the butter.
"Ow, ow" Anwar howled. "You cut me, you devil, you cut me. Ow, ow, oh such a nasty knife. You naughty, naughty boy."
The shadow came to a standstill. The creature shook itself, and suddenly, the shadow was gone. Where it had been, stood the full life, vigorous figure of the old Count of Llanfair. It was all there, just like Arthur saw it in his nightmares, the strong-boned face, the cold green eyes, the lavishly red, strangely voluptuous mouth with the glittering, pearl white teeth, caught halfway between an amused smile and a vicious sneer.
In the long, slender and hatefully elegant hand of the monster the blade of Arthur's knife sparkled in the unearthly light.
And yet, there was nothing unearthly left, really. They both stood opposite each other, looking at each other, surrounded by a green meadow in the full splendour of a radiant summer day.
"I can keep this up as long as I wish" the Count said, no longer a whispering ghost but with the voice of a grown-up man, his own voice, the voice he had once been able to mould and shape to purpose, to dazzle, to scare or to betray. Now, he spoke almost mournfully. "You, Arthur, cannot. Look over there!"
The Prince's gaze followed the pointing finger and, unsurprisingly, the sight was that of little Thomas, kicking and gurgling on the grassy ground like the happy child he once had been.
"He's dying" Anwar said soberly. "Like his father. But you'll be glad to hear that your souls won't stay either. It was a Druid's sword that cut you both in two."
"I do not…." Arthur said, without knowing what he was saying, his eyes once more fixed on the shimmering blade in Anwar's hand.
"This knife…." Llanfair interrupted, opened his fingers and just let it drop to the ground, where it was swallowed up by the high, emerald grass that covered the ground like so much precious velvet. Out of sight. Out of the game. Out of Arthur Pendragon's pitiably misled equations. "This knife can no longer harm me. Not here. My world ….." Anwar shrugged with an apologizing grin "…. my rules."
He looked at Arthur's fallen face, and sighed like a frustrated teacher. "I know, little dragon, I know. Agneta said it would work, the Great Dragon said it would work, bla, bla, bla – but then, you see, you all were a trifle upset I shouldn't wonder? Fact is, my dear Highness, you should have brought your sorcerer. A knife is a knife is a knife; you can kill bodies with it; but young Merlin, the presumptuous pup, could do so much more with it…."
"Merlin is indisposed" Arthur retorted sarcastically. This mentioning of Merlin had somehow done it. Arthur felt his panic rush out of him together with his paralyzing fear and the futile rage. It was like being in the centre of a melee, the last man standing against overwhelming enemy numbers. Sword lost, armour lost – and an irresistible urge to laugh out loud for it was all so very, so ridiculously absurd and outright barmy. "In case you've forgotten, My Lord of Llanfair – it was you who disinclined Merlin from attending the party. Too bad, between washing my socks and ironing my shirts, he found always time to throw you on your back like a brainless turtle."
Anwar cocked a brow. "Well put, Your Highness. I had quite forgotten, you're not a bore all the time."
Arthur pulled himself upright, took a deep breath and looked at his nemesis. "What now, Your Grace? This is it? I'll die, my child dies and you are going to spend eternity in here. All hail for a game well played, the winner loses all."
"There is" Anwar said with another shrug "another possibility of course…"
"Oh, but of course, isn't there always."
"All I need for my escape from here is a human body."
"Naturally."
"I thought to use your little Thomas….."
"I think I might remember something like that."
"But I could easily use you."
"Why" Arthur asked drily "am I not surprised?"
"Think about it, Arthur" Anwar had begun circling him with soft, soundless steps. The hunter stalking his prey. "Nobody would know. And your child would be safe."
"Safe" Arthur guffawed "Thomas would be safe, with you, in my body, roaming Camelot?"
"Would I harm him? Would I harm anyone inside Camelot borders, even Uther the dumbass? Blow my cover? Arouse your precious manservant's suspicion? Once he knew that I'm not you, he'd hunt me down."
"Merlin would know anyway."
"Maybe your former manservant will find an untimely death."
"Is that meant to give me confidence?"
"It is meant to let you see I'm telling the truth. You're Arthur Pendragon, heir to the Crown, young, handsome, healthy and strong. And, once I'm outside Camelot, I could easily take another's body, leaving yours to rot in a place where even Merlin could not find it." Anwar's eyes shone. "Think of the possibilities. A High Priest one day. An emperor, the next. A rich merchant. A great general. Immortality in absolute freedom. Oh, believe me, nothing would keep me inside Albion. Or inside you, not a second longer than I have to."
Arthur smelled a rat, but he couldn't make it out. There had to be a catch in that, with Anwar of Llanfair, there always was. "Why not keep Thomas?"
"Because, dimwit, they'll search his soul for traces of me as soon as we re-emerge. But not you, his father and gallant saviour. Not if I play it right. And you must grant me that much – I'm a first class actor."
"Why not force me?"
"I would, if I could. It was always enjoyable, little dragon, to force you under my will. Don't you remember?" Arthur winced when the other's fingertips brushed over his neck, as they'd done so many times before. "Unfortunately" Anwar added "it doesn't work like that, now, that my own body is dead and you're under the enchantment of the Druid's sword. I need your cooperation. Too bad."
"What…" Arthur cleared his throat to keep his voice steady.
"What about you?" Anwar completed his question for him. "You were to stay in here, I'm afraid. But you're supposed to be a knight in shining armour, a paragon of all that's good and true, whatever that means. You could preach the gospel of the hundred towered Camelot to all the nice friendly demons. Or some other religion that takes your fancy. We've got priests and holy men from all stations; oh, but for the incorruptible corrupted – one look at the Rashnijaan's promises and pfffh – gone were their most sacred convictions. They sold their gods and goddesses for a piece of good cloth, a pretty bauble, a woman or a throne that did not belong to them. They would not hold it against you if you sold yourself for the life of your son." For the first time, Anwar laughed out freely, loud and heartily. "And there's still the Lord Druid's spectre. You could ask him what he did to save his people from your father's great purge. A story worth knowing, about friends betrayed and souls besmirched." Again, Llanfair chuckled to himself. "Oh, Arenboarth, Arenboarth. Poor old idiot."
"I had" Arthur replied hoarsely "quite forgotten how much you're in love with your own voice."
"One of my endearing little weaknesses" Llanfair said. "Don't let it keep you. Pit-pat, Arthur, my friend. Pit-pat."
Arthur lowered his head, not in fear, but to keep his feelings to himself.
"Idiot, little dragon, idiot. This isn't a meadow at all, I'm still inside your mind, you couldn't expel me, unless we left here, the two of us in one body. Which is not what I have in mind. By the way – pit-pat."
On the other side of the grassy spot, Thomas – or his image – grew visibly tired. His head fell to the side, lily-white under the colour his mother had given him, against the vividly coloured grass. His tiny arms relaxed, and his breathing was shallow, almost invisible. His dark lashes fell on his cheeks, and he slept.
He wouldn't even feel it. No pain, no fear, no sorrows. Who knew what future suffering dying today would spare him.
Come to think of it, what was it good for?
Arthur's own life – what good had it brought to anyone?
Some preciously stolen moments with Gwen. Thomas' first smile. Some friends. A handful of happy memories. An awful lot of exaggerated expectations. A bunch of empty promises and disappointed hopes. And what would the future bring to Arthur Pendragon - A father he could no longer stand, a wife that blamed him for all the bad things that had happened and a sorcerer-friend who might as well be dead and buried.
To sleepwalk to the other side now – to leave it all behind. Let Uther remarry, let Gwen remarry.
To walk out now, with his son's hand in his. Cool. Dark. And quiet.
In this moment, temptation was overwhelming. The call in Arthur's heart drowned out all other calls.
To hell with the world.
Imagine, winning a war by losing it. Where was that written in King Uther Pendragon's books of regal dignity and power? How's that for a novelty to you, my kingly father?
Arthur opened his mouth to tell the monster. To say that he wanted to go, that he was ready to go to a place where no one would find him and his child, where all nightmares would end, no pretence of strength and invincibility was needed, and all memories would cease, for him, and for little Thomas.
But there was no need. He read it in the monster's face that Anwar knew already. He was shaking, his fists cramped until the knuckles stood out white by his side.
"Pit-pat" Arthur thought. "Pit-pat. One second or a dozen. Strike now or don't. It makes no difference." His own knees were trembling, and felt like jelly. There was lightness in his head; and a fluttering, airy sensation in his stomach. He smiled. Not long now. Not long.
He thought he heard Agneta scream his name.
"Forgive me,my friends" Arthur thought. "I am so sorry." But he was not. If this was death, it was like a soft, comforting blanket. It felt even better, a hundred, a thousand times better. He had died more painfully, again and again, in the past. The months in Blackrock. The look in Uther's face, speculating, calculating, waiting – when his son had to face the men who'd seen him as Anwar's slave. Uther's indignantly patting hand when his son had woken screaming from another nightmare. "It can't be that bad, after all this time. Pull yourself together, son." The impatient pacing in front of his bedchambers, then the angry royal command: "Gaius, I told you to make him better. What for did I allow magic back into Camelot? The realm needs its Prince!" Antek's face when Camelot's Crown Prince told him about his last night in Anwar's chambers.
Arthur felt a bitter satisfaction when he read from Anwar's crestfallen features that by submitting to his fate he had dealt his archenemy the most mortal blow possible. If Arthur and Thomas were to die, Anwar wouldn't go anywhere. And he would loath being trapped here, to all eternity, the former master of Blackrock Castle, oh yes, he would feel all the torment of a Tantalus, with no hope of deliverance, ever.
The loser takes it all.
"You win" Arthur said calmly. "Kill me! Or wait – I'm dying already. How very convenient."
Livid with rage, Anwar roared "I can still take your son."
"Please do" replied Arthur. "Like you said – in my body you might fool the sword's magic, you might even fool Agneta – but not in my son's. You've lost, Anwar."
"Indeed" someone stated, as cool as you please. Both Arthur and Anwar were taken by complete surprise, they lost track of each other, darted round in search for the intruder.
In the shadow of a tree's canopy a lean, tall figure rested his back casually against the wood. "My Lord Llanfair" Merlin said derisively. "Accept my humble apologies for being late – but did you really think I wouldn't find you?"