A long silence followed Morgana's departure, broken only by the crackling of the house fires and the low hum of the force fields immobilizing Cenred's soldiers and Arthur's knights. The villagers' screams had died down to quiet whimpers, and those bold enough had broken away from the shelter of the group huddled in the town square to assess the damage done to their home.
Gwen darted across the grassy knoll and slid on her knees to Arthur's side. A trembling hand was clasped tightly over his neck, smothering the wound. Blood seeped between his fingers and pale white plastered his once colored cheeks. Morgana's sword had sliced through the layers of his skin and pierced the vital artery that lay there.
"Arthur!" she screamed.
"Please, allow me." She looked up to see the Pilgrim standing beside her, glancing down at the injured prince. Joints popping with the effort he knelt down and pried Arthur's weakening hands away from the wound. His leathery hands clamped down on the fountain-spurts of blood, and his eyes glowed gold with magic.
"Sanitas." At once color began to flow back to the prince's face. The finely cut flesh began to knit itself back together as a brief shower of multicolored sparks shot from the Pilgrim's fingers.
These lingered about Arthur's face, dancing like fireflies before flickering out of existence. Satisfied with his work, the Pilgrim removed his hands. With a start, Arthur sat up. Dried blood stained his throat, but the wound was now completely healed, leaving only a long white scar behind.
"Morgana-"
"Is a sorceress," the Pilgrim finished his sentence. "I am sorry that the two of you had to discover the truth in such a way." He glanced at Gwen, scanning her features for any sign of outward emotion. "Now if you'll pardon me a moment we can get back to the business at hand."
"No, wait," Arthur said leaping to stand, his voice trembling as he spoke. "Answer my question. What in God's name is going on?" Nonetheless the Pilgrim got to his feet and dusted off the hem of his robes.
"Please," Gwen pleaded, rising to Arthur's side. She too was trembling. "Just explain. Why would Morgana do this?" Hot tears began to pour from her eyes, trailing down her cheeks and staining the fabric of her collar.
"Coming from my mouth it will little make sense, and even less will be properly heeded. No, you're second lesson will not come from me. I know from experience how such a betrayal feels, so believe me when I tell you that I understand your pain. No magic can truly heal such pain, but momentarily answers will be given. Excuse me a moment."
Eyes turning skyward the Pilgrim lifted his staff and gave it an elegant wave.
"Starthony."
Thunder boomed, lightning clapped, and from the swirling black clouds raindrops began to fall. Though slow at first, soon the speed picked up, and the afternoon drizzle became a tumultuous downpour.
Village men had begun hauling buckets to a nearby well to extinguish the fires. Sighing with relief they dropped their load, spread their arms wide and let the cool water wash away the summer heat.
"Go ahead and tie them up, will you?" the Pilgrim called to them. He pointed with his staff to the trapped soldiers. "You'll find they're very easy to move in their current state. The shields only prevent movement from within. Leave the knights, I'll release them in a moment." Shooting the old man suspicious looks the men complied. Using coils of high quality rope they restrained and gagged Cenred's men like captured hogs.
With that done the Pilgrim tapped his staff. The shield disappeared. Ignoring the resulting curses from the newly Sir Leon and the muffled screams of soldiers he turned back to Arthur and Gwen. A tiny smile cleaved the sadness from his face.
"Clotho," he waved a hand before them. Sleep overtook them, and like a pair of ragdolls they collapsed forward in a tangled heap of limbs. "Hunnith," he called over his shoulder. "Would you be a dear and help me move them out of the rain. It seems they've fainted."
LINEBREAK
Dreams had never meant much to Arthur. To him they'd always simply been vague series of images buried deep in his subconscious that ultimately meant very little. He hardly ever dreamt, and when he did all details of the dream were usually lost by morning. This however, was different.
Strange sensations tickled his skin. Dead silence rang in his ears and serene scents filled his nostrils, spreading sweet tastes across his tongue. His eyes opened and immediately they closed. No, he decided. That can't be. This isn't real. None of that is possible, I'm just dreaming.
But the image he'd seen had been so vivid, so detailed…was it real?
Cautiously, Arthur eased his eyes open.
He lay sprawled on his back in a meadow of many colors. Wildflowers bloomed in great bunches. Birds sang a soothing melody amongst the trees. Scents of honeysuckle, of baking bread, of sweet smelling herbs and spices hang heavy in the air.
Spotted white rabbits bobbed through the flowers, nibbling idly on tufts of healthy green grasses. Thickets of birch and oak formed a tight border around the meadows edge. Off to one side the border broke, trees mysteriously absent, creating an arched entryway into a dark corridor through the forest.
None of these things Arthur found unbelievable. In fact he hardly noticed them with his eyes torn between the marvel in the sky, and the terror just five paces away.
Lying not far from the prince was a bear, deep brown in color and gargantuan in size. From the end of its blackberry nose to the tip of its tail it was easily twelve feet in length. Even on all fours it would have stood to Arthur's shoulder, and matched any warrior's ferocity. Its gaze of amber was fixed on him. Neutral and unfeeling, as if pondering how it should rip apart its next meal.
Slowly Arthur looked away, petrified, and gazed straight upward. Masses of ribbon, or at least looked like ribbons twirled and spun through the air, filling the sky with otherworldly lights as they danced like serpents across a royal blue background.
Each individual ribbon gave off it's own unique glow, separate and yet one with the others. Together they swam towards a magnificent orb hanging bright as the sun on the horizon. An end of each of them dispersed in all directions, into the forest and well beyond, while the other ends spun towards and gathered at the orb, drawn to it like bees to honey.
Suddenly Arthur realized that one such end seemed to sprout from his chest. It shone with color of purest gold, swaying lazily in the breeze, leaving glittery trails in its wake. Carefully controlling his moments as not to agitate the watching bear, the prince pulled the ribbon between his fingers. It emanated warmth. Some part of him, in the farthest pretenses of his mind, thought it felt familiar, like it was part of his very being. All fear faded away. A low growl escaped from the bears clenched jaws. Instinctively Arthur's hand flew to the hilt of his sword.
"Don't worry darling he won't hurt you. He just gets like that when anyone approaches. It's overcautious but that's just his way." The voice sounded cheerful and songlike. Out of the forest corridor stepped a woman with golden blonde hair that cascaded down her body in a mass of perfect ringlets. A fine blue dress fell past her knees, and a smile of purest joy pulled at her lips.
Violet light outlined her form, and a ribbon of the same color drifted from her bosom. One of her pale hands passed over the bear's fur in a friendly caress. Arthur recognized her. His heart jumped and strangled feelings clawed their way to the surface.
"M-mother?" Ygraine nodded, beaming with blue eyes that matched his own.
"It's so wonderful to see you Arthur. My, what the man you've grown into. And my, what the man you're going to be." She stepped towards him, her hand leaving the bear's muzzle. A finger wrapped around her purple ribbon. "And it's called a thread darling. The thread of your life, of your purpose, woven into the weave of fate." Ygraine offered her his hand.
Arthur hesitated. Was this a trick, an illusion crafted by magic? Morgause had done the same in the past. It could be done again. Ygraine laughed. A young, joyous laugh.
"Don't worry darling. I'm not here to trick you. The Pilgrim sent you here. I am ever so grateful to have this chance to talk to you. Never can I truly repay that man what he's done for me this day."
Roughly she pulled him up by the forearm and enveloped him in a backbreaking embrace. This is what a mother's touch feels like, Arthur thought numbly. Warmth washed over him. The weight in his heart subsided and his arms wrapped around the woman, returning the hug.
"Mother," he breathed. "Is it truly you?" The question sounded higher than usual, childish almost, tinted with insecurity and desperation. The late queen smiled into his chest and nuzzled closer, unbothered by the feel of chain mail against her pale skin.
"Yes my son it is I. Oh how I've longed to hold you like this. Whether you be a man or a boy, to me you shall always be my precious babe." Heat flushed to Arthur's cheeks. Truly this was his mother. What she was, a ghost, a spirit, or simply a convincing hallucination he wasn't certain.
But she was who she appeared to be, and, to the prince, for the time being, that was more than enough. For the longest time they stood in this way, holding each other in the way that her death had not allowed them to before.
"Where are we, mother?" he asked finally.
"The isle of glass in the sky," she whispered wistfully. "This is the place where great kings are carried at the end of their time on earth. My son, this is Avalon, the golden kingdom beyond the horizon." She pulled away, took his hand in hers, and led him towards the forest path. "Come, you must see the blade and the river. The wicked day approaches, and you must be ready my son."
LINEBREAK
Familiar, rhythmic clangs woke Gwen from a deep slumber. She sat up, flustered. Light pains etched her back and pierced her limbs with a dozen pinpricks. The straw of the mattress she lay on stuck through the hand sewn sheets like the spears of tiny warriors charging across her bed
Wait, she thought. Bed? Spinning her neck round she took in her surroundings. It was her home, just as she'd left it. Clothes hung to dry over a robe bolted between two adjacent walls. Various bits of sewing lay strewn over the table and chairs waiting to be finished. Nothing was out of the ordinary. The clanging continued followed by a loud hissing noise.
This was a familiar sound, one around which she'd grown, that had always echoed in the background of her memories. It was the sound of a hammer on steel. The sound of smiting. Gwen swung her legs off the bed and darted across the one room house in a single mad leap. Her heart beat like a war drum in her chest. Hundreds of butterflies fluttered in her stomach.
Crossing the narrow yard behind the house in three quick steps she nearly flattened herself against the heavy wooden doors of the forge. So long had it been since she'd opened them. Straining with the handle the brown haired maid wrenched them open.
Gwen's mouth fell open and her heart slowed to a thud. Surely she was dreaming. The twisted emotions that sloshed in her gut were a mixture of sadness, of happiness, of grief, and above all, hope. Similar dreams had haunted her before. Dreams of the man now working at the anvil, standing alive, smiling and whole.
He was dressed simply in a pair of torn green breeches and the heavy apron that declared his profession. A slender yet muscled arm lifted the hammer once again and brought it down on a hunk of metal glowing red with heat. Blow by blow the man shaped the minerals into something grand. Something more than what it was now.
"D-daddy?" Gwen squeaked. The blacksmith set aside the hammer and turned. Tom grinned at his daughter.
"Sorry if I woke you sweetheart. I have a lot of work to do. I'm putting the finishing touches on the second of my greatest works." Oxygen was expelled from his lungs as the girl dove at him and wrapped her arms around his broad frame in a desperate hug. Tom steadied their footing, narrowly preventing both of them from toppling into the forge.
Gwen buried her face into his shoulder and let out a sob. Her father was dead. Two years ago she had watched as his mutilated corpse was carted through the city streets. And yet here he was.
"There, there," he said running a calloused hand through hair comfortingly. "It's alright Gwen. It's alright."
"This is a dream," she mumbled. "You're dead."
"Yes dear, I am. But this is real Gwen. The Pilgrim brought you here to me. Quite a day you've been having isn't it?"
"Morgana is a sorceress," said Gwen. The momentary happiness she left. She looked up.
"You know the Pilgrim. How?"
"He called my soul from beyond and brought me to talk to you. He is a very powerful man; with a sound mind and a heart as good as they come. But that's irrelevant to why we're here. I'm to give you answers and guidance. Dear, I'm so sorry about Morgana. A friends betrayal is a wound that never truly heals." The reminder of her mistress' deception felt like the thrust of a dagger. Denial still sought to fall from her tongue. Morgana was a sorceress,
She had nearly killed Arthur and had somehow summoned a bloodthirsty legion of cavalry.
"Why did she do it?" she asked. How her father could know the answer she did not know. But he had offered answers. "Why didn't she tell me? Has she always felt this way? " Tom shook his head.
"Not always. Her magic first manifested in her dreams as visions of the future. She thought them nightmares at first. Gaius' potions never did help with them. Later her powers furthered to conventional spells and enchantments. She feared Uther, and for a time tried in her own way to work towards legalizing magic. Eventually Morgana came to hate and vilify Uther more and more, and her plans grew in their venom. After my death she even attempted to kill him directly."
"Your death?"
"Indeed. Morgana believed my innocence and knew that I would be burned without being given a trial. In the dead of night she slipped me the key to my cell. I was cut down trying to escape." Gwen sobbed. "Overcome with rage and guilt she consorted with assassins to kill the king. In the end she relented. Uther showed her that despite his ruthlessness he does possess something of a heart. She would come to regret this decision. Persecution of magic continued and her powers began to spiral beyond her control. Then she met a woman named Morgause, her half-sister" Gwen gaped.
Sister?
"Lord Gorlois was unfaithful to lady Vivienne?"
"No, Morgause was Gorlois' legitimate daughter by his wife, born only a few years before you. At an early age she showed powerful signs of magic. Not knowing what to do her parents sent her to Nimueh, the high priestess of the Old religion and at the time a member of Uther's court, to raise the girl as her own. Lady Vivienne was unfaithful spouse Gwen. Uther is Morgana's father, and Arthur is her half-brother." Tom paused for his daughters dumbfounded stare.
"Uther is not my father!"
"While Gorlois was at war Uther did lay with her, and from that union she bore a child. Furious at this discovery Morgana now seeks to kill her father, as well as Arthur, and take the throne for herself. Power has corrupted her mind and painted her once good soul a shade of deepest black.
Through magic she took your appearance last night, and lay with her brother. His memory has been wiped in precaution, but her plans succeeded. Prophecy speaks of the one who will be Arthur's end. His own son, bore across the chains of time by his own sister. But the wicked day when father and son must do battle is far in the future, and now Morgause seeks to unleash hell upon Camelot, demons from beyond the abyss. Come, I will show you."
He took her by the hand and led her out of the forge. Only now the narrow yard was gone and was replaced by a long hall made of stones. Gwen jumped. This could still be a dream. Her father was alive and reality warped on a whim. Yet now, for some reason, she was almost certain it was real. There was no hazy veil hanging clogging her perception. Everything was clear.
A featureless gray carpet ran along the floor. The walls were lined with ornate brass picture frames. They were empty of paintings, and in each was only a square of white. Cobwebs dusted the high ceilings. Glooming shadows cast by flickering torches cloaked the hall in mystery.
"The Pilgrim has chosen you," Tom told her as they walked. "Eons of memory fill his mind. He knows what is, what was, and most importantly what will be. In order for destiny to be fulfilled these memories must be passed to another. The river of time will pass before your eyes my daughter. For someone must come to bear the knowledge of the future in order for that future to come to be. Here, in the realm of the Pilgrim's mind, they can be passed to you."
They approached the end of the hall, where there hung an empty painting smaller than the others, but with a much finer frame. Tom lifted their hands as one and pressed them to the blank canvas.
LINEBREAK
The forest path was long, dark and narrow. Arthur's grip on his mother's hand tightened with each step they took. All daylight was eclipsed by the canopy of the trees, and the way forward was illuminated only by the shimmering life thread that spun from the prince's chest like a ghostly length of rope. It cast eerie shadows before them, like the silhouettes of raised blades waiting in ambush. He peered nervously over his shoulder.
Behind them lumbered the great brown bear. Amber eyes fixed on him; it licked its black furry lips. Arthur shifted uncomfortably. Was it common for hungry animals to follow you in Avalon, or even a dream of Avalon? For hours it seemed they had walked, and he was growing less and less certain of where he was. Avalon, the golden city of legend….could it really be?
Myths and songs told of an island of glass that floated amongst the clouds. A golden dwelling, where great kings went to spend eternity.
"Why is it following us, mother?" he asked, shooting the beast another precautionary glance. "I find it rather unnerving." Ygraine chuckled lightly.
"Don't mind Ursoh darling. He's just here to watch us safely to our destination." Her voice was like a song. Pangs of euphoric joy shot through Arthur like the crack of a whip.
"Why?" The queen smiled at her son. Moving a strand of blonde hair from her face she replied.
"He is your Oderan, your spirit animal. There are those whose Oderan take physical form as familiar companions and guide them through the course of life. Most remain here, bound to the threads of their masters. Ursoh will not hurt you dear. After all you are Arthur the Bear." Arthur nodded numbly. That did make some semblance of sense. In certain dialects of Breton and Welsh his name did mean 'bear'.
"What is our destination?"
"The lady's lake," said Ygraine. "But before we have much to speak about. The Pilgrim wishes me to impart to you the information you will need for the coming days. Let me begin by saying how sorry I am about Morgana. Your sister is so much like her father in that way. When she has become convinced of a cause or idea her beliefs cannot be swayed. "
"Her father?" said Arthur confusedly. "Gorlois was a rather mild mannered man if I remember correctly. She couldn't possibly have gotten that from him or her magic…" Ygraine shook her head sadly.
"No, darling, that is the point. Gorlois was not Morgana's father." Blue eyes widened. "Morgana is your half-sister." She paused for a moment. Arthur was grateful. He took a sharp breath. "Nearly a year after my death Uther laid with the lady Vivienne, the duchess of Cornwall while her husband was away at war. Both of them were lonely, and they found solace in one another." Bitter regret and a hint of anger sounded in her voice.
"When Morgana discovered this it enraged her and added only more fuel to her hatred of the king. Morgause is her half-sister, and the legitimate child of Gorlois and Vivienne. At an early age her magic began to show. Out of fear she was sent to Niumeh, the high priestess of the old religion, to be reared by one her own kind. When the sisters met their plans came together. Now the two of them wage war on Camelot and will do whatever it takes to bring an end to your father's reign." Her eyes moved to the ground.
"Even conceive a child born of incest, bound by the chains of time, fated to kill his own father." She looked up. "I am sorry my son. Though your memories of last evening have been distorted the repercussions will follow you for the rest of your days."
"I know that you are with child," The Pilgrim had said. Vague, passionate memories filled his mind. Gwen sauntering seductively out of the tent in only a silken shift. Her eyes filled with lust and desire. The throbbing of the heart in his chest as she kissed him. Feelings of a summer breeze against his skin as she relieved him of clothing. Gold in Guinevere's irises, foreign and out of place. Magic.
"No-" he stammered as the realization washed over him. He spun round to face his mother. "No," he repeated feebly, pleadingly. Ygraine slowed their pace to a stop and pulled him into an embrace full of futile but well intended comfort.
"Morgana lay with you last night Arthur," she whispered.
"The prophecies speak of this union. 'Sister boar's lies lead amiss from true. Bloodied womb stained a scarlet hue,'" she quoted. "She is pregnant with your child. During the weeks that followed the siege on Camelot Morgause poured over tome after tome of magical lore, searching desperately for a way to bring about the end of Merlin, and of you. Merlin is Emrys, and no magic she knew was capable of defeating greatest warlock who has ever lived or will live. She found more than she could have hoped for in the shortest of prophecies. 'From Pendragon witch and Pendragon heir, the darkest of powers shall flare. From witch's womb and heir's seed, the heir's demise will come indeed.'" Her eyes had become glassy with tears. She pulled away and looked him in the eye.
"Together you and she have sired a bastard son, who is foretold to be your ultimate undoing. You have met him already. Though I doubt your previous meetings have brought about any warm emotions between the two of you." A full minute passed in silence before Arthur could properly process her words. Their meaning pulled at his brain like a pair of smiths' tongs. White hot they tugged at his waning sanity and perception of reality. Branding his psyche with confusion.
"I've already met him?"
"Indeed," Ygraine agreed. Taking his hand she set them once again walking down the path. "He was chained down the stream of time before his conception. Morgana is his mother, though she will not give birth to him. Guinevere will explain," she said at his bewildered expression. "Her father is with her now, telling her of such things. However for us there are far more pressing matters. The day will come when Mordred shall face you in battle, but for now do not dwell on him. We have arrived."
"Mordred!" Arthur exploded. "How is that possib-" a soft skinned hand covered his mouth.
"Not now dear, we have arrived." The forest had thinned to only a few sparse stand of oak and birch. Still no sunlight showed. The path opened up to the muddy shore of a lake dotted with water lilies. High above stars glittered like diamonds in the sky and a half moon cast a curtain of yellowish light over the water's black surface.
Ygraine lifted a hand to point. At the lake's bottom a great light burst into life. Shining white it began to take the shape of a sword. Something about it looked familiar to the prince. As a warrior he'd wielded a large number of weapons', but he felt like he'd known it his whole life. His free hand twitched with the wish to take it up, and wield it the way it was meant to be wielded.
"It is with that sword that your destiny will be achieved, and the Knights of the Round Table will be founded. The guardian spirit of this lake is waiting for you Arthur. Now go to her." Before Arthur could say anything his mother rose to the tips of her toes, kissed him on the forehead, and gave him a little shove. Despite his usually strong stance Arthur found himself stumbling backward into the lake's shallow depths.
Beneath the water his eyes opened. Suddenly he was no longer in the shallows. Slowly he floated downward. Trails of bubbles and schools of murky colored fish wisped by his field of vision. The sword shaped beacon of light shone only brighter. A hand emerged from the tangle of reeds that covered the bottom, and reached forth to grasp the glowing hilt.
Instantly the form of a man, crowned with stars stood with the weapon raised high. A dozen figures appeared around him, sending ripples across the image. Standing shoulder to shoulder the warriors stood in a circle, around a golden coin. A table. The crowned figure cried to the heavens and with a flurry of hands and the hiss of steel his companions drew their weapons.
"For Camelot!" Arthur heard his own voice roar. The words echoed in his ears as the image faded, and he plummeted into nothingness.
LINEBREAK
Gwen's breath caught in her throat as the hall of empty painting vanished. Like the flame of a spluttering candle, one moment it was there, the next it was gone. In the same instant the hall was replaced. Blinding light stung at her eyes. At once they were slammed shut.
Harsh smells of smoke and sulfur filled her nostrils. Impulsively she coughed, trying to force the tainted air from her lungs. Hunching forward, hands on her knees Gwen spat and spluttered. Even so, the black tastes were still thick in her mouth.
Unfamiliar noises rang and honked in all directions
Tom gave her hand a light squeeze.
"Look up Gwen. Your senses we'll readjust quickly enough. Look where we are."
Obeying Gwen tilted her neck upward. Beneath their lids her eyes had begun to adjust to the light. Slowly she opened them, raising a hand protectively above her eyes. She and her father stood beside a busy road full to bursting with people. To a citizen of Camelot's capital this wouldn't seem strange. Normally. However this particular road was unlike anything either of them had ever seen before.
Horseless wagons made of steel hurtled by at impossible speeds. Black fog snorted out of small metallic tubes built into the back of the wagons. How anyone could possibly breathe that in Gwen couldn't decide.
People dressed in strange garments walked by on platforms of stone, raised inches above the ground, at the roads sides. The clothes themselves were composed of alien materials of colors more varied and vivid that not even the wealthiest noblewoman could afford the dyes necessary to produce them.
Women were dressed in breeches dyed sky blue that conformed tightly to their bodies. Other girls wore skirts so short that they only reached the mid-thigh region of the leg. It was down right scandalous.
Towers of glass shot out of the ground at intervals. Beams of sunlight bounced of their surfaces like colossal mirrors, creating a wall of reflected light bearing down on the horizon. Gwen's mouth dropped.
"W-where are we, Daddy?" she whispered. Tom grinned, and spread his arms wide.
"The Pilgrim's memory of course. Welcome to Camelot's capital more than a thousand years from now. The year is nineteen hundred ninety seven, the day May third, a single day after the fall of one of the most dangerous dark warlocks of all time. The Pilgrim's work in this era is done, and now he will return to the time of his birth." The future? Gwen thought. No, that was impossible. No magic could bend time. Could it?
"How is that possible?"
"The Pilgrim was born in our era of time, Gwen. In fact the date of his birth falls nearly three months after your own. For a thousand years he lived through the ages. And now he is returning, by using the chains that transcend time. These are mystical chains, forged of a metal that no amount of hear can melt. Across Albion and time they are scattered, hidden in the oldest and most sacred of places. They bind moments in history together, and when the sand that fills them runs out, they tug on one another, taking with them the creature of magic nearest it. It is in this way that the Pilgrim travels through time, and it is the way that the bastard will be born before his time to reap vengeance on his father."
"Ah," said Tom, pointing, "There he is now."
Pulling her eyes away from the wonders of the future Gwen turned to peer across the busy street. Indeed, there he was.
Dressed as he was, in the strangest mixture of clothing from both the past and future, the Pilgrim stood out like a sore thumb. He wore his floppy pointed hat and the outermost layer of his gray robes.
Beneath that however he wore a socking pink button up shirt with half the buttons mismatched, a pair of baggy yellow breeches secured with a black leather cord, and bright red shoes laced with white strings in the front.
His beard was tied in a single long braid that fell down his front and a tanned leather bag hung loosely around his shoulders. As he walked the old man whistled a jovial tune, tapping his staff with the rhythm. Eyes turned curiously as he passed. Some people pointed. Others laughed. Apparently, thought Gwen, such eccentric dress was thought amusing in this time period.
"Blimey, what are you wearing mate!" yelled a scantily clad girl.
The Pilgrim seemed to take no notice of this however and there was a spring in his step as he rounded the corner out of sight.
"Let's go," said Tom. Taking his daughter by the wrist the dead blacksmith led the two of them directly into the road. Gwen screamed and tried to lunge out of the way of the herd of oncoming wagons of steel. But the metal vehicles passed right through them.
"Nothing to fear here Gwen," Tom told her, pulling them the rest of the way across the street. "We're in the Pilgrim's memories. Nothing here is real, but simply the shadows of what was, and I suppose in this case will be. Now we've got to follow him right quick if we're to see what we're meant to. A chain is about ready to pull."
Heart pumping madly in her chest Gwen fought to gulp down a breath. Nervous sweat coated her brow. Her fingers trembled nervously. What kind of future was this, where one could be killed simply walking into the road?
They rounded the hard paved corner and found themselves at the entrance to a huge grassy pavilion enclosed by a wrought iron fence with a heavy looking gate. The doors were swung wide open, and people trickled in steadily. Staked into the soft earth beside the gate was a whitewash sign with big red letters.
'NEWBERRY PARK': GATES OPEN DAWN TO DUSK'
At first glance the words looked English, and some of them were. But when Gwen examined it more closely she saw that it more closely resembled a jumbled mix old Breton and Latin than English. She would have stayed longer to ponder this, but her father's tugging at her arm continued, and she was dragged through the gates.
"I'm sorry Gwen, but we haven't much time." Gwen frowned internally. As wonderful as it was to see her father again the lack of answers was becoming rather irritating. If she was here to learn about the Pilgrim, to learn information that would help protect Camelot from whatever danger it was that threatened it, then why wasn't she being told anything?
The pavilion itself was rather beautiful, a large block of land several miles in perimeter with a sweeping field of grass to the north and a thin patch of forest to the south.
Children, both boys and girls frolicked in a rectangle of grass sectioned away by painted white lines, dewy, kicking a black and white checkered ball between them. At either end of the rectangle stood large nets supported by steel frames.
A cobblestoned path ran from east to west alongside a placid little stream that tumbled its way over the low hilly terrain. The Pilgrim took this path into the shade of the trees. He passed among the trees and rapped his knuckles against a trunk. For a moment he waited, listening. The dull thud vibrations left by his knuckle faded quickly. When no other sound was heard, he moved onto the next tree.
For several minutes this continued, until the he came to a rather dead looking oak tree. It's branches scratched upward at the sky like talons and it's bark had decayed from a hearty brown to a sickly black. A knuckle tapped at it, but instead of a dull thud came a chime. Gwen jumped. A shiver crept down her spine. High and melodically, the noise was unlike anything she'd ever heard.
Like a hundred musical notes sung all at once and in perfect harmony.
The Pilgrim laughed. Practically jumping for joy he tossed his bag aside and bopped himself over the head with his staff. Rainbows of color exploded around his body and in an instant he stood proudly in a full set of gray robes.
Kneeling down he pried at the tree's bark. Gingerly he peeled it back, licking his lips in concentration. Gwen stepped forward for a closer look. Just beneath the outermost layer of bark a two interwoven characters were etched into the wood.
A capital letter A with what appeared to be a horseshoe wound through its central cavity. Though she'd received no formal education during childhood Gwen recognized them immediately to be Greek.
"Alpha and Omega," the Pilgrim whispered to himself. "The beginning and the end. I'm on my way home Emrys, Artorius. It's been far too long." He tugged sharply on the bark.
SNAP!
Webbed cracks sprung across the bark, weaving and spinning their way around the trunk.
SNAP!
The cracks twisted back together in an elaborate pattern, in their wake carving series of lines. More snapping sounded as the bark crumbled and fell into a cluttered pile on the ground. Sawdust and bits of wood flew as the lines were carved. And when they cleared the image of a ghostly hourglass shone on the trees naked surface. Gwen's jaw fell open. Gaping.
It was beautiful.
Though they'd found their place the cracks still seemed to be moving. The image of a serpentine chain dances over the hourglass, as if it were holding it there. Bound. The Pilgrim raised his staff. He considered the spectacle before him, watching it swirl and simmer. Then, taking a breath, he pressed the tip of his staff to tree.
"Chronis,"
Suddenly the twisting chains burst from within the wood, turning from hazy moving lines to silver coils that writhed in the air before ensnaring the old man in their tight embrace. The Pilgrim didn't blink. Nor did he flinch. He knew how the chains worked and what to expect from them. He smiled, and the chains pulled him into the stream that transcended the ages.