Episode 5: The Druid Pendragon
"What is real and what is true are not necessarily the same thing." -Salman Rushdie
Chapter 1: What the fires hold at bay...
Bright sunlight shone down on the frosty town square of Camelot where two sturdy, strongly built guards hauled their disconcertingly cooperative burden up the steps to the gallows. Walker even smiled condescendingly at the executioner as he placed the noose around the assassin's neck and adjusted it. The older man tried to avoid his glittering gaze. As his charges were read out and the King said his piece, Walker somehow managed to give off an unmistakable impression of smug superiority. He behaved as if he were watching over the proceedings from a great height, barely restraining himself from sharing the punchline to some great cosmic joke that only he could see playing out.
In a poorer, altogether shoddier-looking town not far at all from the Northern border, on a moonlit night not aligned in time - but still inexorably bound to that sunlit morning and the creature smiling smugly in Camelot's courtyard - Mordred sat and waited. There was a dark blue scarf shrouding his head and a sword strapped to his back. He perched in a ready crouch on the spine of a roof two stories up, watching the tree line on the other side of the border wall. Bran had bolted into the forest just a couple of minutes ago with a clear target in mind. Mordred didn't know who, but he had picked up the impression of a large, human silhouette from his familiar just before the wolf ran off. Mordred doubted that it was a coincidence. He almost hoped that it would turn out to be one of Arthur's men, or someone else the King had paid to track his wayward heir. Then Mordred forcefully stifled the thought. He was better off alone. Company meant trouble, no matter how he felt about it.
Then Mordred saw his wolf trotting back towards the wall, licking his chops. Someone had just fed him a piece of venison. It was charmed meat, first to tempt the beast, then to calm him. Mordred narrowed his eyes at the man following his familiar back to town, and ran on silent feet to the large, smoking chimney on the other end of the roof to hide in its shadow. He closed his eyes to focus and his jaw clenched in resentment as he recognized the familiar mind of his stalker. Mordred didn't move another muscle until he felt his prey trundle into just the right position outside the old Inn. Then, with a lightning fast precision and grace earned through years of practice, Mordred slid diagonally down towards his target and pounced off the edge of the roof. He drew his sword mid-drop and had his former master pinned to the ground with the blade to his throat before the larger man could react.
"Ragnor," Mordred accused fiercely.
"Now, now. Don't do anything you're going to regret!" Ragnor advised with an awkward chuckle.
"I won't."
"I can see that you're a little cross, Boy," Ragnor paused for a fleeting moment to admire the teen's stoic expression. "But you never wanted me dead."
"You hired the mercenary whom I caught going through my things," Mordred recalled, sounding as if he were considering a mildly entertaining anecdote. The predatory glint in his pale blue eyes betrayed his true feelings.
"I was just checking on your state of mind! Word is you've been through quite an ordeal recently." The show of concern prompted Mordred to narrow his eyes, as the slaver continued. "Stress can make people like you a lot less stable," Ragnor explained seriously, "It makes you vulnerable."
Mordred let out a heartfelt scoff, but withdrew his sword a few centimeters from its ominous press against his captive's throat nonetheless.
"Where is Ol' Jim by the way?" Ragnor inquired conversationally.
"You won't be seeing him again," Mordred replied. "I am not nearly so 'vulnerable' as you had hoped." He got up, sheathing his sword as he turned and walked away toward the entrance to the Inn.
"That was not my hope at all," Ragnor denied, getting up off the ground to follow him.
Mordred kept walking. "I have suffered your presence long enough not to trust any concern you would show toward me."
"What about your Mother?" Ragnor called after him.
Mordred stopped walking and slowly turned back to eye the slaver inquisitively.
"She'd kill me slowly if you were slain on my watch, and we both know that's no bluff."
"You're here on Morgana's behalf," Mordred observed, "An interesting choice..."
"I won't waste time lying about it; that Witch is the maddest creature this side of the Veil, and nearly as deadly," Ragnor admitted, striding closer, his usual overblown bravado returning. "But she's your Mum and she wants you home safe, so you'd better come with me."
Mordred watched the Priestess' messenger for a silent moment, then shook his head. "No. You really aren't well suited for emotional appeals, not that threats will do you any better." He whistled once. "Bran, we're going inside."
"We're not done here!" Ragnor dissented in a tone that used to command his most obedient Druid toy.
"We are," Mordred corrected as he reached the door. "Go back to your camp." He stepped into the warm firelight trickling out of the entryway and headed up to the room he had rented for the night, without sparing another thought to the troublesome wretch outside. "People like me..." he considered aloud. "Morgana, what are you up to?"
Mordred opened his eyes the next morning to stare up at the ceiling at the exact same time, in the exact same rudderless mood as he'd awoken in every morning since he'd been revealed to be Prince. Sometimes, it wasn't a ceiling that he found himself staring at. Sometimes it was a ghostly, dawn-lit sky, or the dark, slick, dripping branches of rain-soaked trees. One especially memorable time, it had been Bran's mismatched eyes unreasonably close to his own. That-unlike every other morning-had somewhat disrupted this listless feeling, however briefly.
The culprit himself was currently sprawled out over Mordred's legs with his paws and nose twitching, caught up in a lupine dream. Mordred could never remember what woke him, but he supposed he must've been dreaming too, even if he couldn't remember. Downstairs, the Innkeeper was running through his usual morning routine of wandering about the place grumpily, making a nuisance of himself by rearranging random items wrongly due to lack of wakefulness, and harassing his wife -the cook-about the readiness of breakfast. Mordred tracked the proceedings for a moment with his magic when the sleepy Innkeeper let the cat in without registering the living and apparently wholly-uninjured raven in her clutches. The bird -roughly three quarters the size of its feline courier- broke free and flew about the enclosed space of the front room like a feathered tempest, making its irritation regarding the situation known. The flustered innkeeper chased haplessly after the raven, catching several breakable objects it knocked down as it went; the cook chased after him waving and abusing him with her ladle, and the cat sat by the fire and cleaned herself in preparation for breakfast. This seems like it will take some time... Mordred observed, deciding to wait it out in the warmth of his bed. He already had his bag all packed and ready for a swift departure, because that's how he'd learned to keep it. Ragnor would be waiting for him, but the man was a late sleeper, and not especially difficult to evade. It was likely that no one else at the Inn would be awake for several hours to come.
At the edge of the village, a cloaked figure rode in on a dark, half-mad steed. The markings on the saddle indicated that the animal was of the finest stock, property of Camelot's royal stable, but it snorted and tossed its head wildly as it was reined to a stop. The spindly hands of the pale, scrawny rider caused twitches and nervous spasms in the horse's muscles just at the suggestion of a touch. His very presence in the world exuded a subliminal sense of wrongness. A dissonance between the man that was clearly there, and the truth belying that clarity. No normal human would know more of it than the mere feeling: a subtle yet persistent instinct that caused an itch at the back of one's mind, a nagging sense of something important... vital even, just out of reach of one's thoughts.
Luckily for the average, everyday humans of this particular village he- if 'he' was the right thing to call him anymore- was not there for an average, everyday human. Unfortunately for Mordred, none of the villagers around him had the ability of perception that might allow him a warning. Even the markings on the horse that might normally alert him to a traveler from his uncle's land coming his way were overlooked and instantly forgotten due to that horrible dissonance. No one wanted to see the troublesome stranger or the fearful beast on which he rode, so they didn't. Therefore, the monster within the dissonant man was carried treacherously closer towards unprepared clairvoyant prey. The Prince, for all his magic, destiny and potential for power, was still a boy alone. Without Emrys' blanketing presence, it would only be a matter of time before the charade was finally ended and the creature inside could come out to play.
The cloaked rider made his way to the old inn and slipped off the horse allowing it to bolt away, careless. His feral smirk brightened to show a flash of teeth as he knocked crisply on the door; the racket inside turned to utter silence.
Mordred paused in the middle of pulling his coat on, jerking as if struck. He felt the jarring force of potent wild magic surging through him, not allowing him even the time to panic before he blinked once heavily and slumped onto the edge of his bed. He was barely even still upright enough to be described as sitting. His thoughts were moving slowly as if they were caught in a vat of sticky molasses. He watched, helpless, as Bran growled and scratched at the edge of the door, only to abandon the effort and turn growling and snapping at his master.
"I can't..." Mordred mumbled, sounding half-asleep. It was coming closer.
Bran lunged threateningly toward him. Mordred tried and failed to shake himself awake. Bran bit him.
"Ah! F- Thank you?" Mordred stumbled upright and dove for the window, feeling only intoxicated rather than incapacitated. The wooden shutters to the windows, although unlatched, were somehow sealed shut from the outside. "Oh, youmustbebloodyjoking!" Mordred punched his uncooperative escape route and glanced down at Bran.
The wolf pointedly nipped at his leg and bared his teeth.
"Ow! Fuck it!" Mordred started throwing his upper body against the wooden shutters, praying to nobody in particular that the old things were as ill-kept as they looked.
By the time the rider strode into the room Bran was crouched well out of sight, and the smashed open window was the only indication of where exactly his Druid quarry might be.
"Hmmm," he bent down and peeked tauntingly under the bed at the snarling beast huddled below. "I knew this would be a fun one."
That evening, two more travelers from Camelot made their way into the eerily quiet inn. The first to enter, froze in his tracks, holding out his arm to halt his friend's approach. As usual, that wasn't enough actually to affect his idiot servant's behavior.
"Merlin..."
"I'm not saying that we should give up, Arthur, but this is getting pretty far from Camelot!" Merlin prattled on, oblivious.
"Merlin." The King shot his best friend a warning look, which was also completely lost on him. They'd been riding a bit too long for that kind of alertness to subtlety.
"We're practically on the border and the last sign of- Oh." Merlin noticed the disturbing tableau they'd wandered into just as the King grabbed him roughly by the arm. The Innkeeper and his wife were standing behind the reception desk, and staring into space, vacant smiles plastered over their faces. A dead bird sat on the desk before them and they were coated in a layer of dew. The fire in the hearth had obviously burned out a long time ago and there was a charred pot still hanging over the remains. Apparently, someone had started cooking and then just left it there to burn away, along with the untended fire.
Arthur's hand moved to the hilt of his sword. Merlin pushed past and crossed the room to check on the motionless pair.
"What do you think you're doing?" Arthur scolded his servant.
"Don't you want to know what happened?" Merlin responded, feeling the innkeeper's neck for a pulse before beginning to inspect the dead raven. "Hmm, looks like something clawed it..." His shoulders relaxed somewhat in relief. "There's probably a cat around here somewhere."
"There is obviously dark magic at work here, Merlin. We need to keep our guard up," Arthur admonished, making his way towards the staircase at Merlin's back.
"I see, and what are you going to do if it threatens us, stab it with your sword?"
"Sorcerers can still die from a wound, just like everyone else," Arthur pointed out. "You, however, are completely useless as you're unarmed, so stop mucking about and get behind me."
Merlin rolled his eyes but acquiesced, following just a couple of steps behind Arthur while he unobtrusively cast out his magic in search of more clues about what had happened here. Merlin had recognized the charge in the air left behind by fae magic and he figured that, considering what they were up against, he should take the chance to use his magic to search the area while Arthur couldn't see his eyes glowing. "Why start with the upstairs? The spell seems to have been cast right from the entrance."
"There's a key missing from the board, it should match a room up... here," Arthur stopped at the only door in the hall left open a crack. He pushed it open and carefully checked the room for threats before making his way inside. "The window looks like it's been rammed open from the inside." Arthur appraised, walking over to inspect the battered remains of shutters. "Someone was trapped in here, but there's no indication of how these could have been physically sealed..."
Merlin looked grimly up at the King from the leather satchel he'd been poking through. "Mordred," he concluded, snapping Arthur's full attention to him. "These are his things. All of his things..." Merlin picked up the familiar, frayed black coat off the wooden floorboards. "Whoever did this, it looks as though they caught him completely off guard."
Arthur frowned, opening his mouth to speak but was stopped by the sound of a short, anxious growl. The men exchanged a glance and Merlin lifted up the edge of the blankets to peek under the bed.
"Bran?" Arthur questioned.
Merlin nodded, eying the cowering predator. "Well, that's disturbing."
The wolf sniffed at him cautiously.
Arthur sighed and whistled, "Come on you." He whistled again more forcefully after the wolf hesitated. "There you are," he greeted stroking Bran's fur in encouragement, then wondered.
"He only knows Druid, Arthur," Merlin said in the familiar's defense.
"He's an animal, Merlin." Arthur stood up and led said animal out into the hallway. "Bring that bag out with you. If I know my nephew, he'll have headed for the trees. We may still be able to pick up his trail before we lose the light."
Merlin paused on his way out to cast one more long, discerning glance over the bedroom. It was a fae that'd done this, although the reason why the fae would be so interested in Mordred rather than in the King still eluded him. "Who are you?"
Three weeks ago...
Rain trickled down over two dirty, tired looking workers as they cut Walker's body down and hauled him over to the cart.
"Bloody weather, innit," the younger of the two workers remarked to the man pushing the cart.
The man nodded politely, then reached up to catch the hood of his wet cloak as the wind blasted a spray of rain at his face.
"Edzacly!" the young worker said, pointing a finger as if the draft had somehow vindicated him.
"Quiet, you simpleton," the older worker rebuked, shoving his compatriot's shoulder. "We all got work to do." To the man at the cart he added a gruff, "Good luck, Mate."
The man nodded once more and spared the two a mildly dismissive wave as he moved on, transporting the body out of the town proper until he reached the edge of the forest. Another peasant, this time a woman, had just placed a plain, uncarved stone as a makeshift marker at the head of the open grave.
"There, even a twisted swoine like 'im might 'ave decent folk as wants to know his restin' place. ...They won't miss 'im," the woman muttered the last part mostly to herself, perhaps aware that she was contradicting her own words. She helped to turn the cart and turned away to grab the shovel while he hoisted the body out of the cart and carried it to the open grave. Then the hooded man simply tossed it into the grave like a bag of waste, causing the peasant to suck in a shocked gasp followed by a little nervous giggle at the gall of it.
"That's so disrespectful! That was a livin' thing not too long ago; we can't go around 'urling corpses!" She reproached. "It just ain't done! Even if he were a right spooky one. Mad as a bag o' shook snakes, actin' like he thought he were immortal- but we don't go 'round tossin' bodies 'cause we ain't, either!" She held out the heavy, metal tool toward him. "Your shovel. I thought I might 'elp you bury 'im, but I ain't spendin' time with no corpse-tosser, thank you." The man watched with silent amusement the peasant murmuring disgustedly to herself while she pushed the empty cart back toward town, and he began to chuckle quietly. The chuckle gradually grew louder, building more and more with each new shovel full of dirt dropped onto the disintegrating 'body' in the grave. The differently colored, dead and dried leaves blew apart in the wind, ruining the facade of flesh and cloth and hair, as the falsehood they enacted was buried in the mud. The rain settled to a stop and the Fae in Walker's body pulled back his hood, and her mischievous laughter rang musically through the windswept forest.
A/N: Sorry this took so long guys. I know this is also shorter than the usual chapters but hopefully the stress/block will shift off of me soon and I'll be back to my usual lengthier updates. Thank you guys so much for sticking with me, and special thanks to my lovely reviewers Linorien, Agana of the night, Isis Ma'at, NerdGirlAlert, Sword-Rain, SisterOfAnElvenWannabe, and booksareforescaping for helping to coax me back into the right headspce to keep this story flowing. I guess it proably goes without saying this time, but I'm still gonna say it: feedback is more than welcome, so feel free to review.