Chapter 4: Echoes of my Future Self

Morgana paced back and forth in her empty throne room. Nemain had yet to return for her answer to the impossible choice that Morgana had been left with upon their parting. The Fae were untrustworthy even to those who worshipped them. Morgana knew that she was not one of their people, even if her son Mordred was-case in point. No matter how powerful she was in human terms, the High Priestess was naught but an ant under Nemain's hovering boot, and the Fae would barely notice crushing her. The hairs rose on the back off Morgana's neck; she was abruptly, acutely aware that she was no longer alone in the room. She rotated on the ball of her foot to face that guise of a stolen wretch who'd once tried to poison her only child.

"You have made a decision," Nemain prompted, straight to business this time.

"My most trusted follower should be passing through Camelot's gates as we speak," Morgana somberly responded before her exterior toughened again like a well-formed shell. "It took a great deal of magic-"

Before Morgana could finish her objection, Nemain had vanished in a rush of dark, murky water that splashed all over the stone floor. Morgana retreated a startled step, pulling the ends of her long, blue-black gown up from the floor, but it still became sodden with the seaweed-smelling water. Morgana grimaced down at the puddle and shouted for Kara. This was becoming ridiculous.

Arthur hurled another lethal strike at his victim, lashing out with all his pent-up frustration and rage. The crude, straw-and-wooden dummy creaked, shaking from the force of the blow, but otherwise abstained from retribution. The King slashed across its front with his sword nonetheless, and again, and again, each movement becoming more violent as his mind fixated on Nemain's dark ultimatum. Her accusations lingered in his ears. Her judgment stuck to his skin like tar. He could not risk the security of the people within his kingdom for the sake of his nephew, except that losing Mordred as heir apparent was its own vital blow to the city's stability. Magic was a threat. Arthur had watched King Uther and his knights war against it for his entire life. He had seen the damage that it could do, and knew the horrors that would come trickling in if he left the city gates open to those wielding magic. If Arthur faltered in his already tenuous hold on Camelot's throne due to the slaying of his heir apparent within the heart of his own kingdom, war would be inevitable. Many lives were about to be put in jeopardy; there was no right answer. The King of Camelot had grown to love his nephew as his own...

"You hunted down your nephew's people, and turned against all those who could do what you could not," Walker's stolen voice accused within the echoes of Arthur's memory. His mind had run through similar self-flagellating echoes of late. Memories of a camp full of screaming Druids, scattering into the trees as they fled the Prince of Camelot and his attacking knights, haunted the new King's mind. He'd tried to think back. His psyche snagged on the idea that he might have glimpsed little Mordred somewhere in the fleeing masses, or on the shameful fear that his nephew might have seen him. Arthur had trusted his father's most vehement lesson: magic cannot be tolerated- until his nephew followed him home. The memories that Mordred's return had resurrected shook Arthur's certainty enough to risk shattering.

"Your dear nephew, Mordred is different." Nemain's challenge mixed with Merlin's words to Gaius.

"So what? You could give him a stronger sleeping draft?" Isn't that exactly what they had done to Morgana, ignoring her nightmares until she became one herself?

"Mordred is different."

"He needed someone to listen to him, not to be made to feel insane."

Arthur's strikes became more frenzied and wild until he was more-or-less, simply thrashing the thing to pieces in a fit of rage. He had felt a similar defensive urge for Mordred's sake, too, berating his own father for his callous betrayal, lying to his own children, leaving his newborn grandson to suffer and die alone in a cold, uncompromising world. Arthur thought that, perhaps, his rebellion was already too late by then.

"Whatever you might think of me, Arthur, everything that I have done, I have done for the good of Camelot." The words of his father's ghost sapped the strength right out of Arthur. He let his sword arm fall limply to his side, and he slumped forward against the training dummy. A loud, tormented shout tore out of him and he hung in place, defeated. There was no right choice. The King trudged over and slapped his back to the stone wall, sliding down to sit beside his manservant, and stared off into the middle distance.

"Would you like me to put that away for you?"

"Hmmm?" Arthur glanced down at the training sword laid across his lap. "No. I'd like to know what you think I should do. You heard Nemain's ultimatum."

"I'm just a servant; it's not my place to make those kinds of decisions." Merlin shifted uncomfortably, his shoulder brushing against his King's armor.

"If it was... If you found yourself faced with such a choice, what would you do? I don't know, maybe my father could have been wrong about these things. He wanted to kill Mordred on the spot for being a Druid. He was certain that allowing them passage through our kingdom would irreparably undermine our safety. Now, one of my most trusted knights- my heir apparent is a Druid. His people are free to come and go as they please and our kingdom is far better for it."

"That's true," Merlin supported, watching his friend's face carefully. He didn't want to make this decision for Arthur, let alone the whole of Camelot, but as dangerous as it was, he wanted to see how far they'd come. Arthur needed to understand the truth for himself, and truly, honestly to accept that magic was not the enemy he thought it was before peace could begin. The change could not come by force nor by fear, no matter whose life was at stake.

"I have seen magic used for good, as well as for terrible evil," Arthur ventured, his eyes still cast inward, fretting over his impossible situation. "My father always taught me that it was good for nothing. To accept magic was to poison your own mind with its corruption. Should I seriously consider the possibility that it could ever be a force for good?" Arthur looked at Merlin and the Guardian could see the deep conflict going on behind the Once and Future King's eyes.

"It sounds like you already are," Merlin pointed out.

"I can't leave Mordred in the Fae's clutches, but I cannot cripple the security of this entire kingdom for the sake of one life." Arthur leaned his head back against the stone wall and frowned up at the cold sky. "What if I'm wrong? I can hardly think of it. I cannot rule this Kingdom justly if I can't tell the difference between what is right and what is wrong."

"You can only rule based on what you know to be true. No one would ever have the chance to learn if they did not allow themselves to doubt," Merlin advised, choosing his words carefully. "You're a good man, Arthur. I know that whatever you decide, you will do what you believe is right for all of us."

"You still haven't shared your thoughts on the matter," Arthur noted. "Do you think that magic could be more than a threat to Camelot's people?"

Merlin smirked ironically, looking away. "I have seen magic used in just as many ways as you have. I'm sure that your nephew has seen even more, considering the Druid Peoples' acceptance and respect for magic."

"That's not the same as respecting or accepting the ways of the Old Religion back into my Kingdom, let alone magic..."

"You can only form an opinion about something based on your experience," Merlin thought aloud.

"Your point, Merlin?" Arthur challenged. His frown deepened when he saw the intensely thoughtful expression on his servant's face. Merlin looked him directly in the eye, determined.

"My father was a Dragonlord," he stated evenly.

"What?!"

"My father-"

"No. I heard you! I just-" Arthur shook his head clear of the many warring questions within. "How could- You never told me that."

"That was why I never knew him. King Uther wanted every dragon and every one of their kin dead. If he had been caught in our home..."

"You would both have been beheaded," Arthur slumped again, kneading his forehead and dragging the hand down to cover his own mouth. He hesitated to voice his next thought. "That edict was never rescinded."

"You aren't going to behead me, are you?" Merlin almost managed to keep the fear out of his voice. Arthur let out a huff and failed to manage his usual haughty scowl.

"Don't be ridiculous, Merlin. Everyone knows that you're no sorcerer," he replied, then turned pensive. "Oh. I see your point." Arthur's expression of solemnity deepened. "Thank you, Merlin, for trusting me with this." He drifted off into his own thoughts and Merlin picked up his forgotten sword, returning it to the armory while he left his King to his contemplation.

Mordred was dreaming. He figured -deep within himself, where such doubts could still linger- that he must be dreaming, because this place he was living in was impossible. It was real to him, as many vivid dreams are. Consciously, he felt that this was his life. It was all familiar. He was the same eighteen-year-old technical prodigy, living in the same reasonably-sized flat in the city that he had rented for the past two years. None of this world - not its unnatural lights outside his thin glass windows at night, nor its cold metal forms that moved over the smooth, black roads, carting the abundant populous around at all hours in the absence of horses - seemed fanciful to him. That deeply hidden part of himself which still could doubt whispered that they should be unfamiliar. The world was alien or perhaps, more aptly put: Mordred was the alien. A knock cut through the silence of his shadowy living-space.

"I don't belong here… Do I?" Mordred furrows his brow in question. "Who am I talking to?"

Mordred got up from the latest overtly-intricate project that he'd been piecing together at his desk and wandered toward the door. The knock came again and he listened to the pattern. Mordred wandered into the kitchen on his left instead as if that had always been his intended destination.

"I know you're in there," an old man's voice remarked gruffly through the inconvenient barrier. "Open the bloody door, Young Man. I've been waiting for you long enough!"

Mordred grabbed one of the perfectly identical, neatly lined bottles of his preferred fruity-tasting, bubbly drink and stuck a straw in it. He drifted silently back towards the door and sipped the sweet ambrosia through the extended pause.

"I think that you can wait a little longer," Mordred responded, took another sip of delicious liquid, then amended. "Or more than a little. It's up to you, really."

"Listen Mor-"

Mordred turned to arch an eyebrow at the locked door, as if the strange man could see it through the wooden barrier.

"Mr. Grey," the vagrant amended as though he had. "This isn't simply going to go away once you ignore it long enough. It is a matter of destiny!" He scolded. "Now let me in so that we can get this identity crisis nonsense out of the way and get down to business!"

Mordred loudly sucked up the last of his drink through his straw and went to dispose of the container properly, ignoring the indignant huffing and puffing of the living relic on the other side of the portal. The figures in the small, asymmetrically-shaped mirror on the wall moved closer to each other as he passed by, approaching down the aisle of wooden cabinets to speak to each other in hushed voices. They were as oblivious to Mordred as he was to them in that transient moment. Mordred went back to his desk and idly tinkered with the framework of his latest project, deciding to wait the old man out. It wasn't as if there was anywhere that he needed to be...

"Merlin, I..." Percival looked back towards the outer door to the training ground, then down at the bench where he was seated. "I shouldn't even speak of it. It's better to forget that I said anything."

"No. You've been keeping quiet about something ever since we brought Mordred back. If you know something about what's happened to him," Merlin urged carefully, stepping closer. "If there is anything about Mordred's situation that you're afraid to mention, you should know that you can tell me. If not as a friend, then at least as a physician charged with treating him."

"It's nothing like that. It's daft."

"Tell me anyway."

Percy's expression was torn. There was a tempest of utter conflict raging behind his kind blue eyes. "Mordred's only been Prince for... well…. Most of the people of Camelot still don't know who he really is. Arthur never formally announced him, and he's a Druid. Even those who've heard of his birthright figure that it must be a rumor."

"They probably would think that," Merlin accepted, coming to sit next to him on the bench.

"And then there's Mordred's origin. He's an orphaned Druid who's been taken from us by one of the Druid's old Gods." Percival's eyes wandered back down to his hands, clasped tightly in his lap.

"Nemain, but I guess he told you..." Merlin inferred. Percival nodded distractedly.

"He doesn't have a lot of people that he can talk to about his culture, or his past. It's hard to find people that he can trust, considering..." A self-effacing smile twitched his lips for a fleeting moment. "He didn't really trust me at first either. I came across him in here while his mark was uncovered. I guess, after that he figured his choice was made for him."

"What does this have to do with his condition?"

"I just can't help thinking... He's the Druid son of a High Priestess: the Witch of the North, herself. They say that his mother started out seeming just as normal as you or I. You were worried that he might've inherited her night terrors. That's why you didn't speak of it, and honestly that's why I think I can even talk to you about this," Percy confided cautiously, keeping on high alert for the first sign of anyone who might venture close enough to overhear. "I can't help thinking, maybe Mordred's being heir to the throne might have nothing to do with the Fae taking him."

"Are you suggesting that he takes after Morgana? Because it almost sounds like you think he's a witch," Merlin tested, under the guise of humor, trying to give the gentle giant the benefit of the doubt. This man was his friend too, and he didn't like the idea of seeing him betray someone they both cared about because of magic.

"No. He'd never betray us, I feel that truth in my very bones. I'm saying what if... I don't know, maybe there's more to it than that. What if there's some knack? What if there is something he could've inherited from the Witch that lends itself to magic, or makes him more easily corrupted by it, or- What I'm thinking is, it would make more sense for a creature of magic to go after someone like that now, wouldn't it? A whole lot more sense than a godlike being coming after Mordred for the sake of his possible, unconfirmed, mostly unheard-of right to the throne."

"You may have a point, I suppose. Unfortunately, I don't see what we can do about it," Merlin replied, playing dumb. An unexpected hint of movement drew his gaze past Percival to a hanging axe. It was over-polished - probably George's doing- and was displaying a reflection that could rival a mirror. That was where he'd seen the movement, he realized; the reflection was wrong.

Mordred plopped down into his desk chair and looked at the intricate, finely faceted work of engineering genius that he was in the process of piecing together. Designs for the inexplicable invention papered the walls directly around his little corner desk. He'd drawn them himself by hand, taking great care to transcribe his brainchild onto the papers with perfect clarity. A beast of virtually uncountable tiny interacting parts. The old man was still occasionally talking to him, attempting to coax him into unlocking the door. There was something strangely familiar about him now, as his mind awoke more to the ridiculous fantasy that he found himself in.

Tap. Tap.

Mordred straightened in his desk chair and glanced towards the windows. It was raining out, but nothing other than the backlit, beading drops. He was too high up for there to be a visitor outside.

Tap!

Mordred jumped and turned to look at the mirror, only... it wasn't behaving like a mirror anymore.

"So this is where she put you."

"I know that voice..." Mordred stole a fleeting glance at the door before getting up and walking over to face the mirror. "Emrys!"

"Hello, Mordred," the guardian replied looking around the armory for any witnesses, or clues as to how he could fix this. "I don't suppose that this is any worse than hanging upside down from a treetop..."

"Am I?" Mordred verified, mildly intrigued.

Merlin looked quizzically at him.

"Well, this can't be real," Mordred explained. "You should see this place, it is so unrealistic-"

"I'm not entirely sure how to do this..." Merlin admitted, cutting Mordred's building monologue off at the source.

Mordred pressed a palm to the glass as if compelled. He frowned at the unilateral appendage.

"Er... That could work," Merlin pressed his hand over the mirror from his side, blocking out the dim light from behind him. Mordred heard his voice drop lower into an ancient, growling, hissing language that had clearly not originated from the world of men. The clairvoyant felt Emrys' hand close around his wrist, the golden scales felt smooth and metallic against his skin, warmed by an eternal fire hidden within. The Dragonlord guided the Prince out through the façade of the other life and into his own body for safe keeping. Back in the armory Emrys opened his eyes and they watched the false reflection dissolve leaving the fiery glow of the serpent's eyes in its wake. The golden embers receded, leaving more human azure in their place.

So... What have I missed? Mordred's voice resonated pleasantly through the warlock's mind.

Regardless of the exposure to which he'd just subjected himself, Merlin found himself smiling.

A/N: I know it's been a really long time guys. sorry, but I hope this chapter was worth the wait. This chapter ended up requiring a lot of patience to execute, considering the uniqe weirdness of Mordred's situation. The 'impossible world' he was waiting in, what did you think? Let me know? Anyway, thanks for readng my strangeness, and special thanks to my kind reviewers SisterOfAnElvenWannabe, Agana of the Night, Linorien, Isis Ma'at, NerdGirlAlert, and an unsigned Guest. Your feedback really helps me a lot.