Among Albion's legends very few had endured longer than that of the Isle of the Blessed. Myth told it to be an isle of glass shrouded in mists, where no mortal man may set foot. Here it was that a hidden gate to Avalon, the heavenly realm of glorified kings, lay hidden. Only with the aid of magic and a special canoe could one reach it. But once there, only God knew what you would find…Ghastly creatures from beyond the veil of the world, demons lurking in the shadows…
Well, this was only a legend after all and legends have the nasty habit of getting a few of the facts mixed up. The Isle of the Blessed did indeed exist, shrouded in mist, and could only be reached by way of magical canoe, but what lay hidden there were not beasts or monsters, but a temple. The island was the center of the old religion, and beneath it ran the labyrinthine corridors of the most sacred place in the Old religion.
It was in these ancient halls that the high priestess Nimueh had made her home, as well as where she had raised and reared her ward, Morgause.
At the temples dead center, just beneath the stone altar that marked the isles evergreen lawn, was a large circular chamber with a high domed ceiling and a long gilded table. Whispers no matter how discreet could be heard echoing off the aged stone walls, cracked by time, interwoven with cobwebs.
Morgause, the current keeper of the temple, sat in this chamber conversing tensely with a guest. Cenred, the fierce king of the south
"Let me get this straight, my dear witch," Cenred drawled calmly, rapping his fingers lightly upon the table's surface. "Not only did the one man who you say poses any threat to us escaped his own execution, but your agents allowed for a single unarmed man to escape with the most necessary component for this ritual you're proposing, and your witch sister, along with an entire contingent of my finest horsemen were defeated effortlessly by an old man brandishing a stick. Did I hear you correctly?"
Morgause's mouth tightened, becoming a thin line across her face. Her guests temper was growing. Cenred was known for his uncontrollable rage, which, combined with his swift blade, made him a more than formidable foe on the battlefield. Of course, the kings rage would do little against her. With a wave of her hand she could reduce him to ashes and cast those ashes to the wind. But for her plans to succeed she need him, needed his armies, needed his resources.
"Indeed, Cenred. Of course the details of the situation are rather hazy. My sister and I can only exchange so much information telepathically." This was genuinely true. Telepathy was a common gift among sorcerers, but to mentally transmit a message longer than a short sentence over a great distance was an exhausting feat, even for those as gifted as the sisters. They could contact one another, but could not engage in an in depth conversation.
"Of course!" Cenred barked a laugh. "Why have you summoned me here, witch? To suggest another of your ever so brilliant plans to conquer Camelot? I'm not interested. At this rate, it would be far simpler to just invade the city myself. You're free to watch of course, once I killed Uther you're free to mangle his corpse. I'm told your kind like to play with their food before eating. Is this true?" A vein twitched bulbously in Morgause's forehead.
"My plans will continue, Highness. I assure you this is only a minor setback." Cenred snorted derisively. He moved to stand, but with a quick flick of her wrist Morgause magically returned him to his chair.
"You need me, Cenred," she seethed darkly. "Trust me when I say that any attack you make on Camelot will be fruitless. Emrys still lives, and before his might, your armies would tremble where they stood. And besides, I've already thought of a more than suitable alternative to dragons blood. We've simply to await my sister's arrival and we will have it."
"Will you now?" Cenred sneered. "At our last meeting you told me Camelot was to have fallen by now. What make you so sure your 'alternative' isn't just as flawed as your original plan? And what of the old man? Surely someone capable of besting your sister can be considered a threat."
"Emrys has no knowledge of my alternative, and even if he did, he cannot stop it. As for the Old man, he can be dealt with later, whoever he is. Now if you'll excuse me I have a few preparations to make." Her eyes glowed gold and she snapped her fingers sharply. The slatted double doors on the rooms opposite side swung open.
"Enter," she called. Into the walked a young boy followed closely by a tall, shaggy haired man. The boy was cloaked in dark green; the man's face was the perfectly chiseled epitome of charisma. A sword hung loosely from his hip. In each of their arms was a strange assortment of components. A mortar and pestle. A glass calcinatory and a wooden retort. Jars of various herbs and liquids, bubbling strange colors.
"I believe you've met Alvarr. He's one of my more fervent supporters." Morgause gestured to the shaggy haired man, who gave a curt nod. "And this is my nephew Mordred. Alvarr looks after him." The boy stared. A strange shiver shot down the king's spine. It felt as if he were being pierced, scanned by the youths gaze. The pair deposited their load on the table, where Morgause set to work. She square the equipment neatly to one side and began mincing herbs with a small hand knife she kept in her boot.
"Nephew?" Cenred questioned, regaining his composure at once. "Isn't your sister rather young to have a child his age? Or do you have another sibling I've not heard of poking around somewhere?"
"I am Morgana's son. Her brother, Prince Arthur, is my father." said Mordred before his aunt could speak. Tinged with anger his voice wavered slightly, almost faltering, like it pained him to say the words. "Though she did not give birth to me, and he did not take part in my conception of his own will." Cenred stared.
"Magic is a complex and mysterious force, your highness," Morgause explained in a half singsong voice, barely looking up from her work. "Time can be bent, and the will of Gods can be altered for the right price. For you see my friend prophecy has much to say about my young nephews fate. One day, it will be he who brings about the end of Arthur Pendragon." Thick eyebrows shot up Cenred's forehead.
"Is he now? Well, admittedly I know nothing of prophecy. Is he your alternative?"
"No," Mordred answered for her. His voice was much deeper than one would have thought of a boy his age. "My mother brings the alternative with her. Patience, king. Fate cannot be achieved without careful planning first. " He looked to Morgause. "She is close at hand, aunt. The sentries spotted her horse a mile off to the south. She's approaching the boat as we speak." Morgause nodded.
"Very good." By now her strange mixture of herbs and liquids had been collected together in a thin glass beaker. From beneath the table she brought a large square of parchment which she unfolded on the table. It was a map of Albion.
The five kingdoms, along with significant landmarks such as rivers, mountains and lakes were labeled with black miniscule script, penned by a steady hand. Atop the map she placed a heavy leather bound book. Intricate Greek covered it's surface. It was a very, very old tome. Morgause turned back to Cenred, grinning.
"Allow me to explain. Before Emrys' execution, my sister tore at his face with her nails. Beneath the nail of her index finger remains the smallest amount of his dried blood. While the egg necessary to acquire dragons blood has alluded us, we do have just a pinch of dragonlords blood. The souls of dragons and dragonlords are tied together; they rub off on one another. With dragonlords blood, I will be able to summon not the hoards I sought, but a single demon, Agmaris with which we may draw out the eggs keeper into the open. Be patient Cenred. We're almost ready, and when we are, all of the five kingdoms will fall before us."
Cenred remained silent for a long moment. He asked.
"So now politics come into play?" he poked the map. "Very devious witch. You intend to turn the other three kings against Uther. To enthrall him in war, and take all of Albion by storm in the aftermath. Well done. Where do we start?"
LINEBREAK
Arthur sat slumped against the wall of Hunnith's cottage. Gwen, still deep within whatever visions she'd been set with, lay beside him; her head lay delicately in his lap. Absently he stroked her hair. After waking from his own vision, he'd found that he and Gwen had been moved inside out of the rain, for which he was grateful.
Night had fallen outside. Serene silver light fell in through the cracks in the wooden walls and the single narrow window. The moon must have been rather bright that evening. Hunnith slept peacefully in the homes single cot, wrapped in hand sewn linens.
The Pilgrim sat against the opposite wall, snoring faintly. Heavy white bandages were wound around the elderly gentleman hands. His skin sagged more than usual. He looked older. A small scroll of parchment was held unfurled in Arthur's hands, but he paid its looped words little mind, they meant little until Gwen was awake.. His thoughts were in other places.
'My father is nothing by a lying, hypocritical, psychopathic murder.' The thought rang through the prince's mind again and again. A great many revelations, infused with wonder and magic had been revealed to him over the last twenty four hours. But of all of them, the sins of his father were what gnawed and tore at his soul.
Rage boiled beneath his skin. Pure unfiltered anger threatened to burst from his every pore. Raw emotions flowed through him like never before. His hands trembled. Hopeless tears tumbled down his cheeks.
His conception by magic.
His mother's death in exchange for his birth.
Morgana's illegitimate conception by the wife of Gorlois', Uther's closest friend.
The great purge, and the death of thousands of men, women, and children.
All these things had one thing in common. They were all brought about by his father's sins, his father's terrible misdeeds.
Part of him had hoped against hope that Uther was simply misled in his persecution of magic, that he was simply wrong, and could be persuaded of his faults.
But it was not so.
He had turned to magic to conceive an heir, inadvertently signing the death sentence of his beloved Ygraine. And rather than taking responsibility for his own actions, rather than blaming himself for what he did, he blamed magic itself. The Rebel sorcerers who had threatened the kingdom so many times had been right all along.
Nothing could justify what he had done. Nothing could excuse it. How many had he condemned to die to ease his guilt? Did Uther truly believe the death of his wife, one woman merited genocide, that the supposed actions of one proved the entire group evil?
No king should ever think in such a fashion. Not ever.
As these thoughts ran rampant in his head, Arthur felt his last of his respect for the man who had raised him fade from his heart. In its place remained only the tiniest fragment of unconditional love. The feelings a son has for his father are hard to destroy entirely, and even with the proof right before him, Arthur wished none of it were true.
He loved and reviled his father in the same instant. Above all he wished none of it were true. But it was. Then and there he decided. Whenever it was when he would return to Camelot, whether he would be returning to seek the refuge of home or to rally the kingdom against his sisters onslaught, he was going to confront his father.
"He has to be stopped," he muttered aloud.
Arthur shook his head jerkily. He looked down at the scroll in his hands. It was a short letter, written relatively neatly but the penmanship clearly showed that the writer had been in quite a hurry.
The words were clear and concise. No hidden riddles or metaphors cluttered the page. Simply a set of direction and a quick farewell. That was it. Just then Gwen stirred. She yawned and her eyes flickered open.
"Guienevere," Arthur said, smiling down at her. Pink blush filled both their faces. Very rarely were they allowed moments to be tender such as this, or to express their feelings openly. Before she could reply he'd placed the scroll in her hands. "Read this." Slightly flustered, she sat up, and read.
Dearest Arthur and Guinevere
If you are reading this letter it means several things. Firstly, that you've woken up from your visions. I hope you enjoyed the time you had with your parents. Know that though parting with them has brought you great sadness, you will be with them again one day. Secondly, it means that I am asleep. I've been wondering, do I snore? I'd thought I'd cured that, no matter. Thirdly, and most importantly it means that an event of great significance has taken place.
Merlin has taken his place in the crystal cave. He has embraced Emrys, the child of light, the prophet he is meant to be. As to why I am sleeping, my power has all but left me. Age and time have caught up with me at last, and my death fast approaches. Do not fret over my health; I have always know this day was coming. Merlin is the prophet of his people, and as such the mantle must pass from me to him.
The time of destiny is upon us my young friends. Your visions will show you the way. Arthur, the lady awaits you with the sword, and Guienvere, you will find the crown buried just behind your home. We all have our parts to play in history, and now the two of you must play your parts. You'll find good horses tethered just outside Hunnith's cottage. Before my power faded, I was able to provide a little boost to their hooves. Off with you then, good luck.
All my love
The Pilgrim
PS: You may want to look up in the sky. Merlin has taken on the knowing that comes with his role, and as such, his star shines bright.
"I missed the post script before," said Arthur. Exchanging a look, the two of them rose from the floor. Gwen creaked the door open. The apir gasped. Shining in the night sky was star, shining bright as the sun. Translucent ribbons light trailed around it, making it not into a simple star, but a symbol. The Prophet had awakened, and now the king would seek his weapon.
LINEBREAK
"So," Arthur began, swaying awkwardly in place beside one of the two dapple gray horses the Pilgrim had left them. We're separating then, aren't we?" The light of rising sun shone dimly on the horizon. Cool morning air mixed and mingled with the damp dew that soaked the thick grasses. Morning had not fully broken, and the residents of Ealdor had not yet risen for the day, but the Prince and the handmaiden were wide eyed and ready. The snores of men could be heard through the flimsy walls of the houses.
Worn leather bags filled with the essentials were clipped to the animal's saddles. Atop Arthur's was clipped his sword, sheathed and freshly polished.
Gwen nodded halfheartedly.
"Yes. At least I think so." She whispered. Hunnith's patched travelling cloak hung about her shoulders. Dawn had come quickly after their waking during the twilight hour between night and day. For what seemed like endless hours they'd sat together, watching in awe as the great silvery star passed across the sky.
It was then that they told each other of what they'd seen in their dreams. Their visions. Quickly they'd decided that the Pilgrim had plans for both of them, and those plans required that they go in opposite directions. Arthur needed to find a lake with a sword at the bottom, protected by a mystical woman. Gwen needed to find a crown made by her father, requisitioned by a time travelling warlock. With these objects, Arthur would be king, crowned in stars, armed with the power to rule all of Albion.
Enclosed in the Pilgrim's letter had been a hastily drawn map. Though it included no intricate destinations, it told Arthur that his destination lay to the north, far past the ocean of trees that covered the landscape.
Despite all that had happened to them in the last several days, or perhaps because of it, neither of them found the recent revelations about their elderly friend to be unbelievable. In fact, they believed them all, with all their hearts. The Pilgrim was a time traveller. He knew things beyond the knowledge of mortal men. And above all, his goals were those of a higher power. Some greater being, perhaps even God himself, had set him with the task of making sure that they succeeded. That the prophecies he sang of were fulfilled.
"We could just wait, and go together," Arthur suggested. Gwen shook her head.
"I want to but…this I think we have to get this done as quickly as possible. It feels…urgent, that we go now." Arthur nodded. He had the same feeling. A knot of deeply rooted anxiety churned in his stomach. They needed to get this done. Questions and detailed explanations, which seemed now to be never coming, would have to wait.
"You're right, of course. I've left a note for Leon and the others with Hunnith, it will explain almost everything, and it tells them to wait here for our return. We'll meet back here, alright?" She nodded her agreement. There was no time for real plans to be made, only time for haste. They let their horses bridles fall slack, and they came together for a departing kiss. Fleeting happiness flooded through the princes body. The feel of her lips on his, the warmth of her embrace, were almost enough to drive away the sad anger that stained his soul. Once he had the sword what would he do?
The Pilgrim could offer him no more guidance now that he lay apparently on his deathbed. Was he to find Merlin? And if so, where? A whole minute later they parted, foreheads touching, blissful smiles pulling at their mouths.
"I love you, Guienvere," he said quietly.
"And I you," she breathed back.
"Be safe," he told her. "It would probably be best if you kept your hood up in the city. No doubt my father is wondering about Morgana's disappearance. He'll have you brought in for questioning if you're seen."
"Shouldn't he…be told, about Morgana I mean?" She knew how he'd answer before she'd even asked. Yet she still asked it. She had to know, for deep inside she still cared for her mistress, still saw her as a friend despite her betrayal.
"No," Arthur half snapped back. Bitterness was clear in his tone. "At least not yet. I'll have to tell him myself, but even then it's doubtful he'll believe me." He barked a harsh laugh. "He'll probably think me enchanted. Perhaps he'll hang me just for insinuating my half-sister is a sorceress.." he trailed off miserably. Gwen remained silent. Nothing she could say could alleviate the clash of feelings Arthur felt. Nor could it truly soothe her own.
"Take care, Arthur. Be careful." He nodded, his face softening a single degree.
"You be careful too. We'll meet back here in three days, alright? That should give us more than enough time." She nodded one last time. They pulled broke away fully and mounted their horses. The leather of the stirrups creaked with their added weight. The animals shifted a few steps, eager to set off.
Together Arthur and Gwen walked their horses to the center of the village. Here they exchanged one last parting look of longing, before cantering away in opposite directions.
Arthur leaned low against the saddle. Familiar smells of horses and leather filled his nostrils. As the mount piucked up speed the wind whipped through his blonde mane, stripping any lingering tiredness from his face. Flicking the reins he steered towards the forest path at Ealdors northern most edge.
'This horse is rather fast,' he thought idly. 'Did the Pilgrim do that, is this what he meant in his letter?' The thought drifted away almost instantly, for at the same moment the horse leapt over a small mound of compost left over from the previous days farm work. Grunting Arthur dug his heels into the dapples sides.
The horse gave a loud whiney. A glittering aura of color, greens and reds and gold, sparked into life. Arthurs eyes slammed shut as the aura surrounded the horse. Popping noises bubbled in the prince's ears, and a great rush of wind roared past him.
Slowly, tentatively, Arthur allowed his eyes to open. He gasped. An awestruck expression, intermingled with fear, spread across his face. The horse had sprouted a pair of huge feathery wings. A Pegasus. The Pilgrim had transformed two regular horses into creatures right out of Greek legend, the mounts of demi-god heroes that were flown to the summit of Mount Olympus. Wait, two horses.
He spun round in the saddle just as Gwen screamed. She was just a speck on the horizon, noticeable only by the dark mahogany of her hair and the beating of her mounts angelic wings. Arthur leaned forward down the back of the saddle, across the pegasi's rear, cupping his hands round his mouth.
"She won't hear you, young Pendragon. Not from this distance. Especially with the wind and the clouds." The prince gave a star. Catching himself on the tight leather straps he caught himself before he went plummeting downward into the sea of green trees below. Somehow, without being scene, the gargantuan Kilgaharrah had settled into flight beside the Pegasus. His leathery wings cleaved through the white wispy clouds. His amber eyes glittered like jewels in the pink-orange sunlight.
"You!" Arthur yelled, spinning back round to face frontward. "What do you want?"
Kilgharrah chuckled.
"We meet again young Pendragon. And thankfully, under slightly better circumstances than before."
"What do you want?" Arthur repeated icily. In a flurry of steel he drew his sword, raising it shakily before him at the ready. Again the dragon chuckled.
"Oh put it away boy. I'm not here to fight you, I have no wish to fight you, and even if I did, I have been forbidden from threatening you in any manner." Eyes narrowing, Arthur lowered his sword and returned it to its scabbard.
"Forbidden? By who?"
"By the Pilgrim of course. He is rather persuasive in his arguments. Though his powers may be fading, his previous works of magic linger on for now. He has also forbidden me from raining fire down on Camelot, assuming you wish to speak to your father before his inevitable demise." Indeed, part of him did wish to speak to his father. While other parts of him wanted nothing more than to run Uther through like the tyrant that he was.
"I'll ask you one last time dragon. What do you want?"
"To deliver a message from the Pilgrim. He simply wishes to tell you to follow what you see as right, to wield your blade steadily, and to never lose your sense of justice."
"He told you this?" Arthur said skeptically. "He's hardly in any condition to talk at the moment."
"Oh I know that young Pendragon. He spoke to me telepathically." Swiftly he lowered his altitude half a dozen feet, beginning his steady descent. "I am off to collect him now. Death is nearly upon him, just days away I believe, and I wish to show him Albion one last time before he must perform his last enchantment. He is a very old friend of mine, you know."
"'Last enchantment'? But I thought his magic was gone," Arthur questioned. The dragon sighed. Genuine sadness showed in his ancient features, and if dragons could cry, then he was surely on the brink of tears.
"It very nearly is. Merlin has taken his rightful place as the prophet, surely you saw the star in the sky. And thus the Pilgrims magic, the very force that has kept him living for millennia has begun to fade away. Only enough of his once great power remains for one last spell." Arthur's eyebrows had disappeared past his hairline. The Pilgrim would cast another spell before he died….
"One last spell, to do what?" Kilgharrah smiled heartily.
"That is another thing he's forbidden me to do. Telling you what he intends. He believes you'd wish to stop him. But, no ones ever been able to stop him once he's set his heart to something. Of all people, I should know that." Arthur started to ask perhaps his dozenth question, when the dragon swooped under the Pegasus, and dove in the opposite direction.
"You will see him one last time, Arthur Pendragon!" he called over his shoulder of armor like scales. "I will make sure of that. And do tell Lancelot to take care of that egg, I have great plans for that dragoness!"
"Wait!" Arthur bellowed. But his call was lost in the wind, and the dragon did not hear.
When the old beast faded out of sight, Arthur settled into his seat. Firmly he wrapped the reins around his forearms. He didn't want to be falling off any time soon. Hours passed, sleep found his eyes, and the sun rose to its full golden glory.
Suddenly his mount jerked beneath him. It's black man slapped across his cheek, breaking him from his semiconscious stupor. the pegasi gave a wild gesture towards the ground, kicking its forelegs and butting with its snout. Carefully Arthur repositioned himself so that he could peer around his mounts neck.
Shimmering amongst the trees like a misshaped silver coin was the lake.
Sorry that this chapter isn't quite as long as my chapters usually are, but I felt guilty about not getting this out like three days ago. Expect a chapter about once a day for the next five days, as I'm on spring break. I'm really going to try and make them at least 2000 words, hopefully I can make them longer to finbally get the plot actually going somewhere, but I'll do my best. Next chapter Arthur reaches the lake, Morgause performs some rituals, and we get a boatload of medieval politics. Oh joy.