A/N: I totally wrote this in "Kingdom Games" so I did my best not to sound redundant… These 'rewrites' are going to be more a collection of obviously-changed scenes, rather than any attempt at a coherent internal story-line. Hopefully no one is too lost…
Kirsten: Thanks for your reviews on previous chapters! I'm glad you liked the 'ending' – the homecoming as well as Arthur&Merlin after Uther's death.
Episode 3.8 "The Eye of the Phoenix"
Dawn was past but it was hard to know it, under an overcast sky and the thick leaf canopy of midsummer.
Yesterday had been the sort of rain-and-sunshine mix that brought all the birds out to flit and splash and flutter – quite like the sidhe, but with innocent beauty and fun – and promised more rain today. Merlin had walked out of sight of the castle he and Gwaine had tentatively claimed; he'd woken early and restless, in spite of the weather. Gwaine had grumbled and rolled, muttering something about, "Wait f'r me," that Merlin had disregarded.
A twig-crack and leaf-rustle caught his attention – there'd been no indication that the site was frequented by people for a couple of leagues in any direction, but if Arthur knew about it then it was always a possibility that –
Merlin relaxed, watching the prince ride into view on the gelding he favored for trips expected to be long and dangerous. He wore chainmail and a half-grin; he'd probably seen Merlin first.
"What brings you out this direction?" Merlin called. Yesterday's rain dripped and trickled all around, and Arthur waited to respond until he was closer.
"A quest," he said. "And a question."
"Where to?" Merlin said immediately, already plotting in his mind – wake Gwaine, pack their things, enough for a week probably, he can saddle the horses he won last week at that - "Oh. Oh. It's your quest, quest."
Normally done to coincide with a knight's first-oath ceremony, Arthur's had been delayed by royal appointment. Why now, of all times, Merlin wondered, but it wasn't really something he could ask.
"When was your vigil?" He felt a pang of regret that he hadn't been the one to help his prince prepare, for that night of nights, to wait with him and for him.
"Two nights ago," Arthur answered, as the gelding picked a lazy walking way between the trees to approach Merlin obliquely. "It was – not what I expected."
"No?"
"It was like… magic." Arthur gave him a swift but sharp glance, and he cringed.
Nearly three weeks it had been, since they'd parted after the rescue of Gwen's brother. He felt that there was still quite a bit of awkwardness for the two of them to work through, regarding the magic – Arthur's perception, and familiarity, and comfort level with it, when not fighting or running for his life.
"Nothing to do with me," he said.
Arthur made a noncommittal noise. "It was very clear, almost like a message. I'm going to the Perilous Lands, where ruled the Fisher King. I'm to bring back his trident."
"It sounds… perilous," Merlin offered, frowning. He hated not being in Camelot, and wondered, if magic had played a part in Arthur's decision, whether it was of the benign or malevolent sort.
"It's wretched," a new voice offered, and neither of them was too startled when Gwaine stepped forward, stretching and ruffling his fingers through his hair. "I've heard of it; there's supposed to be a curse on it. A wounded king, forever dying but never dead, and his land so linked to him that it's the same."
Merlin grimaced – forever dying and never dead sounded sheer hell. Or maybe, worse than hell.
"It's north of Camelot, I thought?" Gwaine concluded, and Merlin looked back up at Arthur as the gelding drew close enough for him to reach out and touch the glossy brown flank. "What brings you… here… first…"
Time seemed to slow, the words to fade as though water filled Merlin's ears – and he found himself staring inexplicably at the brown leather of Arthur's saddle-pack, just behind his left thigh.
"What's in there?" he interrupted Arthur, pointing like a child.
"As I was already saying," the prince said, pretending to be offended at the rudeness, "I was stopped in the lower town this morning as I was riding out. An old woman – a widow, I think, she was in mourning-black – gave me this piece for luck on my quest." He untied the mouth of the bag and reached in.
"Thought your quest was supposed to stay secret," Gwaine said, coming closer to the gelding's head. "Your safety, and accomplishing it alone, sort of thing –"
It was a silver cuff, an inch and a half wide, but not a full circle, engraved and set with a curiously luminous amber half-sphere that radiated–
"Magic, I think," Arthur said. "That was my question. I don't think she was a druid, but I thought… well, I shouldn't assume all magic-users are evil sorceresses hell-bent on taking my life."
"But in this case…" Merlin was glad the prince was wearing gloves; he wasn't, or he'd have snatched it away already. "For luck, is that what she said?" Beyond the amber glow – that reminded him of the ring Morgause had given Morgana at the entrance to the labyrinth at Fyrien, which in turn reminded him of the cuff the blonde witch had given her sister to aid with her nightmares - the impression of Arthur nodding. "Bad luck." Arthur sighed and his shoulders slumped a little. "What are you going to do with it?" Merlin added. "You can't take it with you."
"I can't return to Camelot to put it in the vaults," Arthur said. "There will be questions, and if my father accepts it as a genuine threat –" Merlin heard, and not just cowardice, leaving off the quest early – "there'll be a witch-hunt until that old woman is found."
"If she ever is," Merlin said. Knowing the dangers to innocent people during such a procedure, and the scant likelihood of its success.
"We could keep it here," Gwaine suggested. "At the castle, I mean, there must be hundreds of places to hide it." He reached, flicking his fingers in an imperative sort of request gesture, and Arthur leaned forward in the saddle to hand it to him.
Merlin very nearly used his magic to snatch it from either – but that would have been worse than his bare skin, he thought. "Don't touch it!" he cried. Both of the other two paused, looking at him. He shook his head, repeating, "Don't touch it."
He took hold of Arthur's wrist, where glove met sleeve, and pulled it down for a closer look; Arthur didn't resist. Gwaine drifted to lean over Merlin's shoulder. "What is it?"
"It's not a jewel, it's brighter," Arthur said.
Merlin found it hard to look away from the gold-amber glow to focus on any clue hidden among the engravings on the silver setting. He cocked his head, trying to see past the hungry evil to an impression of –
"Is it a stone at all?" Gwaine said curiously.
Flight and fire and immortality bought at a price.
"A phoenix," he said aloud.
"A what?" Arthur said.
"A firebird," Merlin said, wishing he had access to the library in Camelot, or Gaius' books, or a few of his own. "I think that's its eye, it… burns, and the fire… consumes the m-" almost he said magic, but that wasn't quite right, Arthur didn't have that – "the … life force, of anybody it comes in contact with."
"Bad luck," Gwaine said laconically. "So shall we bury it, or what?"
Merlin didn't like the idea of leaving it at the castle, even hidden; they still weren't sure that no one else came around the ruins. And burying it, he felt, would be even worse. The land forever dying and yet never dead.
"No, I – I'll take charge of it," he said, trying to conceal both dread and nausea at the thought.
Gwaine reached into his shirt and pulled out the soft leather pouch he normally carried their few coins in, and dropped three silver pieces into his palm before passing him the pouch. "We can keep it in this."
"Thanks," Merlin said, but it was Arthur who stuffed the piece into the pouch… and Gwaine who tied the drawstring to his belt with a cheerful grimace at Merlin. Who found himself disinclined to argue.
"How much of a head start do you want?" Gwaine said, squinting up at the prince.
"What do you mean," Arthur drawled. "I'm meant to complete the quest alone and unaided."
"We have horses now," Merlin volunteered. "So you can travel as quick as you like." And return safely to Camelot the sooner, he added silently.
"You have horses now?" Arthur repeated, sternly, and to Gwaine.
The outlaw grinned, and protested, "They were won, not stolen. I swear."
"Mm hm." Arthur gathered his reins, and turned the gelding's head. "I won't be seeing you," he added in warning.
"Not unless you need us." Merlin lifted his hand in farewell.
Gwaine bumped his shoulder. "No time to waste, us. Let's get going." He sounded almost as excited as Arthur; Merlin grumbled internally until he remembered why Gwaine, a knight's son, might be eager for a knight's quest.
He sighed. "Oh, for the love of… Camelot. Yeah, let's go."
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
By the time Arthur reached the bridge and hobbled his gelding to await his return, he was half-convinced his self-appointed guardians hadn't come – or just hadn't caught up – with him, after all.
That, or Gwaine had finally managed to teach his perpetually clumsy former manservant how to move undetected through the woods.
The bridge was not nearly the surprise that its keeper was. At first nowhere to be seen – though the tiny hut was clearly currently inhabited, as shown by skins drying on fencing in good repair, one-person cookpot steaming over low-flickering fire – Arthur's hand stilled at his hidden belt-purse when the strange little man materialized at the corner of fence and bridge-railing.
He had a feeling, if there was a toll required to cross, it wouldn't be paid in coin.
"Who is it that wishes to cross my bridge?"
Arthur hesitated. Anonymity for the sake of safety… "A knight on a quest." And found himself adding, almost involuntarily, "To find the trident of the Fisher King."
The little man was not surprised in the least, which made Arthur uneasy. "Then you must be Courage."
That the word applied to him as a proper name was obvious in the little man's voice. He had not said, you must be courageous, like it was a piece of advice. Feeling that he wasn't as unknown as he thought, Arthur opted for blunter honestly – yes, actually, I am quite brave, if I do say so myself? "No. I'm Prince Arthur of Camelot."
The bridgekeeper's smile spread, dividing his face. And goodwill at least showed in his gray eyes, if not humor. "I'm Grettir." He took a bow-legged step forward and reached out a stumpy-fingered hand, which Arthur took reflexively to complete the greeting. "I have to say, you're not as short as I thought you'd be."
Arthur was nonplussed, and did not know quite what to say to that, but the short keeper didn't seem to notice, except to be amused.
"Before I let you pass," he added – and Arthur was oddly convinced that he could stop Arthur, if it occurred to him to do so – "I'll give you a little advice. As Courage, there are two more things you'll need to complete your quest: Strength and Magic."
Again, the personification of the qualities was implied. Well. It wasn't hard to guess what he meant by Magic, and if Grettir anticipated Merlin's arrival, it wasn't such a stretch to believe that he also knew about –
"Gwaine," he said, a bit incredulously. "Gwaine is Strength? You've got to be kidding me."
The over-large head at just above Arthur's knee-height cocked curiously. "You know of whom I speak, already," he said. "And you have accepted their assistance in the past."
"I am," Arthur said deliberately, "alone and unaided."
"Of course you are." Flat, enigmatic smile.
"And, they should be along shortly," Arthur added.
"Their presence is essential if you are to succeed on your quest," Grettir told him. "You would do well not to discount either of them – even now your knight Strength carries a burden in your place. And if you do, the Fisher King's lands may be restored and prosperity may reign again – that is what I wish to see."
Arthur sighed. Apart from his knowledge that those two would insist on coming, and how furious Merlin would be if he had tried to go alone, he supposed his pride could bend to the necessity of company for the sake of a quest that affected the wellbeing of an entire kingdom. He wondered then if his very-clear vision the night he'd spent in vigil had somehow come from this little man. "I will do my best."
"I know." Gray eyes scrutinized him, and the little bridgekeeper shifted aside.
"Thank you for your help," Arthur said politely, stepping onto the stick-and-twine bridge with more confidence than he felt, deliberately not looking over the side to whatever depths it might be spanning.
"One more thing. The Fisher King has waited many years for this day – do not deny him what he wishes."
Arthur turned swiftly enough to set the bridge swaying, but the keeper had vanished as abruptly as he'd appeared. And he hesitated, somehow, to demand answers from the smoky air and dangling bones of the clearing.
After a warily hesitant moment, Arthur continued over the bridge, hand tight on the hilt of the sword at his hip. How much truth was there in the legend? If he was going to find out, he might very well be glad of the company that followed.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Another ruined castle. And, Gwaine expected, if this one was inhabited, it was not by anything so innocent as an outlaw and an executed sorcerer.
"Up I think," Arthur said, leading the way. "The trident isn't going to be stuffed into a closet with the brooms. He'll have kept it close, and in a place where he could look out upon his kingdom."
"You sure?" Gwaine said, trying to breathe without panting; he was exhausted with this whole land and the quest. Once again, he blessed the destiny that had spared him this trial of knighthood – wait, though, he was still on a quest, just someone else's! All the work, and none of the glory – story of his life, right? "You've seen the state of his kingdom."
He followed Arthur anyway, not having any better suggestions. He felt Merlin's eyes on him, but appreciated that the sorcerer didn't ask after his wellbeing. Was his fatigue due to that damn bracelet? Maybe, but what was there to be done about it? Nothing. So, up. Wide arching stairways eventually narrowed to tight spirals as they climbed through the great tower.
"That spell you used on the wyvern," Arthur said without turning, past Gwaine to Merlin in the rear. "That was – unusual."
Merlin murmured something unintelligible and shy.
Gwaine smirked to himself – way too humble, in Gwaine's opinion, when his young friend should get a bit of glory with his hard work - and put in, "Yeah, mate, where'd you learn that one? Didn't sound like your usual magic."
After a moment he realized the sound of Merlin's boots no longer followed theirs; he stopped and then Arthur did, to look back down at their companion. Merlin rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. "Um. Remember the dragonlord?"
Gwaine glanced up to see that the prince did, and sighed. Yet another story to demand of his companion in exile one of these days; he'd thought those fellows all killed off, one by one, by dear old Uther. "Wyvern are distant cousins of dragons," he offered. "Your friend the dragonlord taught you some tricks of the trade?"
"You could say that." Merlin was almost smiling, but there was emotion that Gwaine couldn't place, brimming in his eyes.
"That night," Arthur said. "The great dragon." Gwaine had heard that one. "Balinor told you or taught you something to help?"
"I wanted to tell you."
The silence of ages and enchantments was thick around them. Gwaine began to feel out of place, standing between the two, friends before he'd met either, and wondered if he could be forgiven for sitting down, right on the stairs.
"I couldn't," Merlin added, a husky plea.
"I couldn't understand why you would insist on taking my second sword," Arthur said neutrally. "And going with us to fight the beast. I presume your prior acquaintance alone wasn't enough to persuade him to halt his attacks –"
Prior acquaintance. Gwaine really did need to sit down, now.
"I tried," Merlin said, the desperation sudden and unexpected, the sincerity on his face catching Gwaine's breath in his throat. "Believe me, I tried."
"At the time, I thought you incredibly brave, or entirely insane," Arthur added. A bit of both, Gwaine figured. "But you knew all along –"
"No," Merlin said swiftly. "I hoped, but I didn't know it would work – until it did."
Another moment passed, as the prince scrutinized his secret sorcerer. "There's more, isn't there?" he realized, a heartbeat after Gwaine had guessed the same thing. He opened his mouth, but Arthur beat him to the conclusion also – "Now's not the time."
The prince turned to continue on.
"Um," Merlin said again, still not following. He gestured to the side, off the stairway, as they turned again. "Have a look at this? It looks like a throne room."
Gwaine and then Arthur followed him to the landing they just passed, and the prince halted the sorcerer at the doorway with a hand on his shoulder. "Every man makes mistakes," he said. "We are no strangers to regret. But if you can forgive me, how can I do anything less for you?"
"Even things you don't know about?" Merlin said breathlessly.
"I don't have to know everything to know your loyalty," Arthur said. "Whatever it was, whether you ever tell me or not, I believe you did your best. You did what you could, and no man has a right to ask more than that."
Gwaine registered the small relieved smile on Merlin's face, but his attention was rather focused on the sorcerer's feet.
"Don't move," he cautioned the both of them, and pointed out for Arthur's benefit the subtle grooves in the archway, walls and overhang.
"Ah," the prince said. "Yes." Bracing himself carefully in the entrance of the room, he took a long step through it, then turned to watch Merlin and Gwaine do the same, bypassing whatever trap lay there to protect the room from unwanted invasion.
Inside the room the feeling of occupancy heightened sharply. The hair rose on the back of Gwaine's neck in an instant; no easy thing, as long and thick as it was. Everything was unnaturally still, as if the air itself had stopped moving. Light enough to see, but no direct sunbeams, and Gwaine could believe it hadn't been cleaned at least in three hundred years.
Then Merlin moved. With the sort of reckless totality of focus Gwaine had seen him display, sensing this damn bracelet in Arthur's bag. He stepped across the dusty warped planks of the floor toward the room's only piece of furniture, a great high-backed throne draped with cobwebs. Arthur was close behind, as if he believed he could keep Merlin from harm or trouble by proximity, but when the voice spoke, Gwaine hustled to join them.
"So, Emrys, you are here at last."
The occupant of the Fisher King's tower, Gwaine decided, was a ghost. His skin like parchment, tan and dusty and wrinkled, the webbing as thick over his body and throne as that which covered the skeletons in the labyrinth leading to Fyrien. But his eyes… his eyes were alive.
"No, I'm sorry," Arthur spoke first – braving the ghost's attention, in Gwaine's opinion – but not breaking Merlin's fascination. "My name is Arthur, and this is –"
Merlin put his hand on Arthur's sleeve, exactly as if he was the prince and could command his companions by gesture – and to Gwaine's astonishment, Arthur closed his mouth. Maybe even unaware of it, himself.
"So you are still alive," Merlin said, and it seemed to Gwaine as if he'd responded to the unfamiliar name somehow.
The ghost of a smile on the ghost of a face. "For now." His eyes, golden-brown like the shade of sunlight on a long dusty road, shifted to take in Arthur, and then Gwaine. Who couldn't quite suppress a shudder, but squared his shoulders. And then realized, the old man had probably seen that. "And your friends, Courage and Strength. Without their help, you would not be here."
Arthur cleared his throat, but Merlin's hand was still on his sleeve; he didn't speak. "I know," Merlin said, with gentle humility. "What is it you want from us?"
"I want an end to my suffering."
Gwaine thought of his hasty and half-serious words summarizing the legend. Forever dying… Not a ghost, then. Not quite. In the silence he heard what neither of his companions said, You want to die.
The old king's eyes were on Arthur. "I have been waiting all these years for the arrival of a new time – the time of the Once and Future King." A shudder rippled subtly across Arthur's chainmail-clad shoulders, down his back.
Merlin – surprisingly, and yet not – said, "I have heard these words before."
"And you will hear them again." A dusty, wrinkled, whimsical smile, as the words encompassed the three of them.
Gwaine suddenly realized he was standing right in the middle of a legend. Destiny, and legend, and… hells, he could only think how tired he was.
"Your time is dawning," the Fisher King said to the prince. "And my time can finally come to an end. This is why you were brought here." Again, the you seemed to apply to all of them.
"It was you who spoke to me," Arthur said. "You called me here, knowing Merlin and Gwaine would follow…"
"The Fisher King's trident is a noble quest, is it not?" the old man returned, unperturbed. He glanced down to his side; Gwaine shifted to see the dulled gleam of a golden shaft in his dusty ghost fingers, at the side of the throne, just before the trident fell with a muffled clang, released. "You are welcome to it, and the glory it will bring you on your return."
Arthur made no move to claim it, and the old man smiled again, dust sifting down from his hair and crown, mud-colored rather than glowing gold and gem.
"But the real prize is something far greater."
Gwaine's eyes were drawn to the Fisher King's other hand. Perhaps he had overlooked it before, but… the old man held an odd little trinket. A glass vial held in a simple wooden frame – without a speck of dust on it.
"Water from the lake of Avalon," the old man said reverently, and Gwaine almost choked. The lake he'd teased Merlin about swimming or washing in; he felt his face heating, and the weight of the old man's gaze. Amused and tolerant, he hoped he wasn't imagining. "I've kept it safe these years, waiting for the right person to claim it. And that is you." Suddenly the plural became very definitely singular, and very definitely Merlin, who stepped forward, releasing Arthur's sleeve to stretch his hand to the old king. "You are the one chosen."
"What are you talking about?" Merlin said.
"Albion's time of need is near." Once again, the Fisher King's gaze pierced Arthur, then Gwaine. "And in that dark hour you must be strong, for you alone can save her. Your powers are great, but you will need help. And that is what I am giving you." He surrendered the vial with exquisite delicacy to Merlin's hand; Gwaine noticed it was the sorcerer's left hand. "When all seems lost, this will show you the way."
Gwaine wanted to say, How? but was apprehensive of drawing that gaze, that centuries-dying attention.
"Thank you," Merlin said only.
"I have given you a gift," the old man added, "now you must give me one in return."
Merlin glanced swiftly, uncertainly at Arthur. The prince didn't seem surprised, but said only, "But we have nothing to give."
Skeletal fingers gripped the throne's arm-rests, and the dusty bulk – too slow and heavy for a ghost – groaned to a hunched standing position. And now, Gwaine found he had drawn that gaze and attention, after all. "I think you do."
His flash of brilliance was somewhat diminished by the fact that both his companions turned to him with the same idea on their faces. The fire consumes the life-force… what shall we do with it? He wants to die…
Gwaine untied the little pouch from his belt, and as Arthur took it from his hand, protected from the magic by his gloves, he drew a deep clear breath and felt alive and awake, again. Arthur opened the pouch and removed the cuff – then hesitated.
"If I give you this, you will die," the prince said to the old king. The ancient man smiled an ancient smile, and held out his arm in clear invitation.
Arthur met his eyes – Courage, yes definitely, in Gwaine's opinion – and then gave the Fisher King a solemnly royal salute, bowing his head as one king to another. The parched-earth smile turned almost bright, almost youthful; without raising his head, Arthur reached to place the cuff on the ghost's wrist with reverence.
The air stirred at last, whipping up the dust and cobwebs – momentarily dispersing them entirely to show the old man in velvet robes, gleaming coronet – and the image of the Fisher King fractured and dissipated. A whisper spun with the last of the wind – "Thank you."
Merlin sighed audibly, cradling the frame-protected vial of lakewater. Gwaine tried to think of a joke to break the silence and tension, and couldn't. Arthur watched Merlin a moment, then turned silently to lead them toward the arched doorway of the empty throne room.
"The trident," Gwaine said.
Arthur paused; Merlin bent to retrieve the old king's discarded weapon-symbol, and brought it to his prince, Gwaine following. Arthur delayed, still searching Merlin's face – for what, Gwaine didn't know and didn't dare try to figure out.
"It's what you came for," Merlin said. "Your father will expect –"
The prince's expression closed, just slightly, and he took the trident. Merlin met Gwaine's eyes – puzzled blue – as Arthur turned to stalk from the room, careful at the trip-doorway.
"It's a two-day journey back to Camelot," Gwaine said. "There's time for later."
Merlin nodded, understanding and accepting.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Arthur felt the surprise in every gaze that fell on him – servant, noble, knight, commoner – heard the question in every greeting. Brief, because everyone knew his destination, and could read, maybe, in his stride and bearing, that there would be no delay.
And, the sooner he'd passed by, the sooner they could begin to gossip about his singular burden. Perhaps, how swiftly he'd won it – not yet a week since he'd been gone.
He felt the surprise in his father's gaze when he reached the smaller receiving chamber. Relief warring with uncertainty – until the king saw the ancient, though almost unremarkable, weapon in Arthur's hand. Then, the exultation that took over his father's countenance – brushing aside the councilor who, facing away from the door, hadn't yet realized Arthur's arrival – made him feel, conversely, more exhausted.
"Arthur, I don't know what pleases me more… to be in possession of such an artifact… or to know that you have finally proved yourself to be the man I hoped you always would be."
Have I. Have I really. He said, "Thank you, Father."
"I have no doubt that you will one day make a fine king."
Arthur's snort was well-covered by the applause of the court, and he was glad his physical bearing and probably grim expression could be attributed to the rigors of the quest.
Emrys and Avalon had taken precedence in their conversation, over any lingering questions about the dragon. Merlin had been vague and shy and Gwaine impatient but restrained until Arthur was short-tempered and explosive and done with the whole damn occurrence.
Not because it turned out to be more Merlin's quest than his, or because the voice in his vigil had been less-than-completely-forthcoming, or because the rumor of his undertaking had brought out a sorceress to try to kill him with a unique and dangerous relic – somehow just exactly the object the old king needed to finally end his life so that his land could be reborn from its own ashes. Not because he had needed his two friends – Merlin's magic to clarify the danger of the 'lucky' gift, Gwaine's sword to dispatch the one disobedient wyvern – or because of the circumstances that forced them to leave him at the conclusion of the journey. Or because he would now be the recipient – once again – of glory and acclaim he didn't feel like he'd earned.
But because of the foreboding nature of the dying king's words. Time of need… dark hour… when all seems lost. Would there ever come a lasting victory? A sustained peace? Would he be fighting all his life for something never quite realized?
Then he turned slightly. Past the king and councilors admiring his fairly meaningless trophy, stood Gaius, clasped hands lost in the wide cuffs of his sleeves, benevolent and patient – and Gwen who looked like she'd just come rushing in. Color high, hand over her heart as she caught her breath, eyes sparkling with the joy of his safe return – and maybe the memory of their farewell kiss?
He smiled and felt his spirits lift.
This was why – the call and the quest and the gift and the sacrifice. The preparation for more danger and dark times. All for the people of Camelot, who after all made sacrifices of their own.
For the love of Camelot.