Your Future Hasn't Been Written Yet
by K. Stonham
released 24th November, 2023

Waltolomew Stricklander could accurately be called many things, but "coward" was not among them.

He had to remind himself of that fact as the curious wave of magic rippled through him, past him, and crumbled Angor Rot's chains to dust.

The famed assassin opened his eyes. Their golden glow fastened on Waltolomew's face, seeming to see right though him. Every weakness. Every fearful moment. Every time he'd had to harden his own soul and refute the fact that he was expendable.

Angor rolled his wrists once. Twice. Testing.

He then stood, impossibly tall in the moonlight, and grinned.

You are not a child, Waltolomew told himself sternly. You will not be afraid!

The remonstration only half worked as the assassin took one step toward him, then another.

The thought For Barbara, ghosted through Walt's mind. It loaned him the wisp of internal fortitude he lacked.

"This is yours, I believe," he commented, pulling the Inferna Copula off his finger and tossing it to Angor Rot.

The ring sailed through the air between them, and the part of Waltolomew that would always be a scared runt running feral and savage in the Darklands shrieked that no, he'd thrown away his safety-

He ignored that voice, quashed it down.

Angor caught the ring mid-arc, his arm like a viper striking.

He stared at it, resting in his palm, for a long moment.

Then he chuckled, sliding it onto his own finger. Soul reunited with body. But no less dangerous for that mended separation. "Are you a fool, or just mad?"

Waltolomew angled his head, acknowledging the accuracy of the comment. "Perhaps both," he admitted. "But a man should not be divided from what makes him one." There was an entire speech forming in his head, about the duality of nature, the animal instinct that drove one to acts of desperation-

It was cut off by a lightning-swift move and a knife at his throat.

He froze.

"You're one of hers," Angor growled, uncomfortably close. His breath smelled of old, dead things.

Walt suddenly wondered if Jim had been right. If he should have left the Inferna Copula and Angor Rot entirely alone.

He didn't dare swallow, though a bead of sweat rolled down his temple. "I do not claim otherwise. The Pale Lady's creation of my people is well known."

"And you come here and free me." Black eyes bored holes into his soul. Or at least tried to.

"Being fair," Waltolomew said, raising a hand and a point, "something else did that. My timing was merely fortuitous."

Angor studied him closely. "Hers, and yet you give me back my soul." He eased back, the blade falling away from Walt's throat. But still ready in his hand. It gleamed, sharp and dangerous. Undulled by time. Much like its wielder. "Explain."

Waltolomew's hand went to his neck, rubbing. He could feel a sting; his hand, when he pulled it away, was bloody, gray in the moonlight. "The Pale Lady is not the only power in the world. Another has defeated Bular, slain Gunmar. It is that power that I serve."

Serve?! he thought, eyes flying wide.

The words were out there, spoken carelessly.

But... true nonetheless.

Jim Lake had well and truly caught Waltolomew Stricklander in his web of fealty.

He swallowed, and waited for bitter resentment to surface, that he had only traded one master for another.

To his surprise, it didn't come.

Angor's eyes were upon him, golden moons reflected in the black water of a bottomless well.

"I have been given the chance to be a better man," Waltolomew said, picking his words carefully this time. "To be one who defends, rather than destroys. I would offer you the same. Whether or not you take that chance... is up to you," he admitted, gaze flicking briefly to the ring that had for so long been in his custody. And that was now back where, he admitted, it had always truly belonged.

What safety, he wondered, what power, was worth the price of enslaving a soul?

Walt's mouth set into a line.

"Your freedom is yours, Angor Rot," he said. "What you choose to do with it... is likewise your own choice."


"I thought that all went well," Archie said, walking by the side of his familiar-from-the-future.

Douxie merely sighed. "I did get the Time Map," he said, raising it in his hands. Then he tucked the device away into his pouch. "For all the good it does me right now."

"Oh?" Archie raised his eyebrows.

A sharp laugh. "Well, I've still got to milk that bloody slorr, don't I?"

"Language," Archie felt the need to remonstrate.

"Sorry." Douxie sighed again. "No, it's... I've been through this before, Arch."

Archie stopped short. "Explain."

Douxie looked around, then gestured for him to follow. His boy ducked into the little archway where he'd stashed his current-time self in a spare wardrobe, and sank cross-legged to the ground. Archie seated himself before him.

"Right," said Douxie. "First thing is, I'm not telling this to Merlin."

Which was, to put it mildly, a concerning phrase.

"And neither are you," continued Douxie. Even more concerning. "Because... this isn't the first time I've come back to here, Arch."

Archie blinked. "What...?"

Douxie dropped his head into his hand. "Time travel's confusing," he mumbled. "But... we went through this time travel trip before, four of us, and we got through it okay, without messing up the timeline too much. But then after that, there was this huge cock-up of a disaster, which I am not telling you about because you really shouldn't know too much, trust me-"

"Douxie," Archie said, cutting off his ramble.

Douxie slumped. "Jim had to reset time. And somehow or other this trip to Camelot must be a fixed nexus because here we are, going through it again."

Archie had so many questions. Such as, who was Jim? How did he reset time? What, precisely, was this disaster that warranted a time reset? But he bit his tongue on all of those inquiries, because knowing about them would not be helpful. Douxie was absolutely right about that. "I would think this being the second time through would make it easier," he commented instead.

A huge sigh, the back of Douxie's hand rubbing against his forehead. He was clearly stressed. "You'd think so, wouldn't you? But no." Douxie's eyes met Archie's. "I wasn't fibbing to Merlin. When the shard hit the Time Stone, it grabbed everyone within range and dragged them back here. There's a full dozen of us here this time."

Archie's eyes widened. The thought of riding herd on a dozen people all plunked down into the wrong point in time was... daunting, to say the least. "My word."

"And, only three of us remember how it went last time." Douxie gave a gusty sigh and dropped his head back into his waiting palm. "This is going to be a fuzzing disaster."

Clearly, Archie thought, somewhere between now and whenever this future Douxie had come from, something had very much changed his boy. Not so much in appearance - the Douxie of now had already hit the delicate magical tipping point of immortality - but in nature.

Archie loved his familiar dearly, but he could not gainsay a single one of Merlin's imprecations which had hinged on Douxie's careless nature. Until now.

This Douxie before him clearly cared about everything very much.

Perhaps too much.

Archie swallowed. "You've achieved mastery, haven't you?" he asked softly. It was, after all, the crux of Merlin's frustrations with his apprentice. That Douxie didn't care enough to apply himself, to focus. To feel how important a wizard's art was.

"I have," Douxie of the future admitted. "Merlin gave me my staff the first time we went through this time trip. Though," and his smile was sardonic rather than bitter, "that got wiped away in the time reset. So I am in the unique position of being both a master... and not." His hands spread wide, theatrical.

"We'll need to work on getting Merlin to remaster you," Archie concluded.

"Remaster. Heh."

Archie raised an eyebrow.

"Never mind." Douxie gestured it away. "Musical pun that won't make sense for rather a lot of years." He clambered to his feet again, stretching. He gestured at the wardrobe. "For right now, what I've got to do is get that moppet woken up and sent back to Merlin, while I go milk the slorr. I'll worry about the rest sometime after that."


For all that he had left the ruling of Akiridion-5 to his sister, Krel had spent his life at his parents' side, apprentice to a job that was his by birthright. Politics were second nature to him.

And King Arthur, he realized rapidly, was engaging in politics right now. "If two groups have a common goal," he answered Arthur's question, "then obviously an alliance is desirable."

"And what are your goals, Prince Krel?" Arthur asked.

It was, of course, a verbal trap. Varvatos tensed. But Krel easily sidestepped and eluded the trap. "The defeat of Gunmar," he answered truthfully. Though that could not happen in this time, only in the far distant future. But trapping the troll warlord in the Darklands... that was defeat of a kind. And the fewer lies you told, the less you could get caught in them.

Arthur's eyes narrowed. "Gunmar is a thorn in my side," he admitted, his hand curling into a fist. "Though I am surprised that you have heard of him, as far away as your kingdom must be." His way of saying he had never heard of Akiridion-5. Which was entirely fair; few humans had, and few of them outside of Arcadia Oaks, nine hundred years in the future.

Krel allowed himself a pleasant smile. "You do not expect us to have survived to this day by being obvious, do you?" he asked. "I would be very surprised if you had."

Arthur's mouth tightened. Krel mentally drew a tick mark for a points tally: Krel one, Arthur zero.

Arthur looked away again, past the white stone and over the forests and fields which comprised his kingdom. "An alliance can take many forms," he observed after a moment. "Generally they are sealed with something solemn. Something... sacred." There was a heaviness in his words, a twist of his mouth as though the last word in particular was distasteful. "Are you invested to negotiate on your parents' behalf?"

Given his parents were in regeneration chambers, Krel rather thought he was. "I am." He nodded.

"And your sister's hand?"

Aja's hand? Other than the fact that it frequently had a weapon in it, Krel did not see the relevance to their current conversation.

"My sister's hands are her own," Krel said. "But I am sure she will be glad to fight by your side."

Arthur's hand clenched. He turned to look at Krel again. His expression seemed startled. "You would allow a queen to fight in war? When it is her utmost duty to bear and raise an heir to the throne?"

Krel shrugged. "My mother did both." Then dots connected and his own eyes widened. "Wait. You want to marry my sister?!"

His revulsion must have shown on his face, because Arthur now looked taken aback at his reaction. "We were discussing sealing an alliance...?"

"Is that how you people do it here? Ugh." Krel's hands found his face. Why were these humans so primitive?

"So you will not grant me her hand."

Was that what that business about Aja's hand had meant? Clearly Krel needed to study up on the local vernacular. "Aja's hand is her own to grant," he told the king, unburying his face. "If you want to court her, go right ahead." And the best of luck to the man; Aja had already made her choice, and he somehow doubted Arthur would be as happy about bearing his sister's babies as Steve had eventually ended up. "She likes weapons and fighting."

A contemplative, calculating expression crossed Arthur's face. "I see." He nodded. "If you will excuse me, Prince Krel."

"Of course." Krel nodded, and watched as the Earth king turned on his heel and strode back down the stairs to ground level.

"Well handled," Varvatos complimented him, finally speaking.

"Yes, well. This is what Mama and Papa trained me for." A thought occurred to Krel. "I should probably teach Jim diplomacy, shouldn't I?"

"A most wise thought." Varvatos' gaze followed the retreating king. "So the Arthur king wishes to court Princess Aja."

Krel shrugged. "If he can pry her away from the Oaf, then best of luck to him."


The future! The thought alone astounded Morgana. And yet little Douxie - and her two new handmaidens - had clearly stated the impossible. They were from the future.

Or a future, at least. Merlin was quite right that they were imperiling their own existence merely by being here. Time travel was, after all, throwing rocks into a pond or stream, causing ripples to alter the shoreline, not to mention changing the shape of the bed, altering, however subtly, everything that happened downriver.

One couldn't stay longer than a day in Merlin's presence, let alone spend years under his tutelage, without being subjected to chronomatic theory.

Still. She wondered how far in the future they were from. And if it would even be wise of her to ask. Too much knowledge of the future, Merlin had frequently reminded her, was dangerous. It caused you to get stuck in ruts, treading on toward some hoped-for event, and miss a significant turn - one you ought to have taken - off the path.

No. She wouldn't ask.

Though what a future it must be, Morgana thought, bending her head again over Merlin's pet project, if it had finally torn the stars and rainbows from Douxie's vision and let him see that his master was a man. A knowledgeable man, yes, none could gainsay that, but nonetheless merely a man.

She had never had any problems standing up for herself in the face of Merlin, arguing with him even while she was still a small child.

Hisirdoux, in contrast, had always had a spine of gelatin when it came to the man.

As if summoned by her thoughts, the door to Merlin's workshop opened and the boy himself entered. She could tell at once it was him and not his older self by his subservient demeanor. "Sorry I'm late, Master-"

Merlin never looked up from his work, merely waving a dismissive hand at his apprentice. "Clean up, Hisirdoux."

The boy's shoulders slumped. "Yes, master," he said, and reached for the broom. He paused, though, and looked at the two girls. "Wait. Who are you?"

Mary, who had been seated leaning against the wall emanating boredom as strongly as anyone Morgana had ever met, straightened, her eyes locking onto a new target. "Douxie, you know who I am."

"I... really don't?" the boy asked rhetorically, his hand on the back of his head, fingers knotting in his bun.

Claire looked up from the book she'd been reading quietly aloud to her companion, marking her place with her finger. "Mare, he's the Douxie of now, not the Douxie of our time." She gave Hisirdoux a smile. "Hi. We're Morgana's new handmaidens. I'm Claire; she's Mary." She gave a little wave.

"Uh, hi?" Hisirdoux asked uncertainly, giving a little wave back. "Oh!" His eyes widened. "You're from the future!" Then he froze, his eyes widening even further as he twisted to stare at his master and Morgana. "Or, that is, uhh..."

"It's all right, little Douxie," Morgana assured him. "There are no secrets between mages."

Merlin snorted.

"Fewer secrets between mages," she amended.

"I do not hear the sound of cleaning," Merlin pointedly groused, never looking up.

Hisirdoux deflated. "Yes, master," he said glumly, and began sweeping.

Mary sat back down next to her friend, who had returned to reading. "How can you tell the difference between them?" she whispered to Claire.

Claire held up a finger. "One: the difference in attitude, as expressed via body language." A second finger. "And, two, the color of their bangs."

"Ohh. Gotcha."


"This is lively," Aja said with glee. "So much better than the basketball game."

Zadra, standing beside her, did not evidence the same amount of enjoyment as Aja. In fact, the clash of weapons and shrieks and laughter of the battle simulation participants was failing to elicit any response from her erstwhile bodyguard. Which was very unlike Zadra.

Aja frowned.

"Perhaps we could participate," she suggested, touching Zadra's elbow.

Zadra jerked away from her.

"Oh-kay," Aja said slowly. She did not know what to do about Zadra. "Perhaps I shall participate, and you can stay here, and... bodyguard from afar."

Pressing her lips in a line, Aja pulled out her serrator and walked forward, activating the device into the form of a simple sword. She looked around for an open opponent to fight against. Almost immediately an armored woman signaled her openness for a match.

Aja grinned and bowed to her opponent before striking, hoping the flow of battle would shake something loose within her mind.

And that she would gain an idea of how to help Lieutenant Zadra.


Lancelot grinned, enjoying himself thoroughly. Young Steven was clearly not of noble birth, and to call his swordsmanship unpolished was at best a compliment. But the lad shone through with determination, bravado, and wit. And his footwork, surprisingly, was quite good, as was his balance.

With a little work, he would make a fine knight.

But the turning of the match brought Lancelot's eye to another needing assistance. The tall blonde woman who acted as bodyguard to Princess Aja stood there, watching the training session. Or rather, he thought, not watching it. The lady's gaze was a hundred miles away; her thoughts clearly a thousand more.

And she seemed sad.

So sad one might drown in it.

A knight is ever the soul of courtesy, Lancelot thought, and spun, dodging a clumsy overhead strike. "Ho, Gareth!" he called to his fellow knight, who stood beside Gawain, the both of them also just watching the training ground. Gareth straightened. "Come take over for me. Squire Steven here needs experience of more than just one opponent."

His tactics, he saw in the glance Gareth and Gawain exchanged, were completely obvious to his fellow knights. But Gareth shrugged nonetheless and hopped the low fence, coming over.

"Squire Steven, this is Sir Gareth, who will be taking over your training for now," Lancelot introduced. "Gareth," he said, clapping his man on the shoulder, "drill him on some swordsmanship, will you? He has potential."

Gareth nodded; Steven grinned, beaming under the praise.

And as they set to, Lancelot left the training ring, heading for the vision of strength that had seemingly had her inner light extinguished.


"My lady," a voice said.

Zadra looked up.

It was the blond knight, the one who looked somewhat like the Palchuk boy. "Might I sit beside you?" he asked, indicating the space next to her.

Wordlessly, Zadra shifted over. The knight sat with the faint creak of armor hinges. His left arm, she noted, was mechanical. He moved as though it was part of him. She wondered when the injury had occurred. Or if, perhaps, he had been born that way.

"I would know the name of so beauteous a lady," he said.

She glanced about for a second before realizing that he meant her.

"Zadra," she said shortly. It hadn't occurred to her to wonder whether her transduction was attractive by the measure of humans. Or perhaps he was merely one of those beings who flirted as easily as they spoke, rendering his compliment meaningless.

"And I am Sir Lancelot du Lac, knight of Camelot, at your service." He gave a half bow in his seat.

She hummed noncommittally and looked away. Back at the training ground. Where her princess was engaged in battle practice.

Lancelot persisted. "Lady Zadra, if I may... you seem so sad."

She looked back at him.

"I would know the cause of your sadness," he said, taking her hands in his own armored ones. "That I might vanquish its cause, if possible."

She glanced at his hands, and their flimsy armor, holding hers. Did he think he was offering comfort?

She met his eyes again. Brown, like the soil of this world. "My god," Zadra told him, intending to let him know there was no possible way he could be of comfort to her, "is dead."

His fingers tensed on hers. "So you, too," said Lancelot, "are one of those who feels His sacrifice most dearly?"

Zadra blinked. "What?"

"Our god," Lancelot said. "He, who died on the cross, redeeming our sins, to bring us closer to him?"

She stared at him, flabbergasted.

Humans knew what it was like to see your god die?


Following Prince Krel's knowledge of his sister, Arthur found the princess Aja in the training yard with her people and his knights.

Gwen, he thought, would have been found in her solar at this time of day, with her ladies. Most of whom had returned to their families following the queen's death. But had she still been alive, they would have been talking and singing, their hands busy at work with the royal household's mending, or stitching new garments, or embroidering them. Valuable work, to keep the court clothed and comfortable.

And together with that domestic stitchery, Guinevere would have been working a more subtle, political stitchery. Binding together his nobles with alliances of friendship and marriage. Uniting the kingdom in their shared goals.

Her absence was a great rent in the cloth of Camelot, the heart of the court torn out of their tapestry.

But those gentle household arts, Arthur saw, did not interest Princess Aja.

She whirled and parried and dodged and struck, her glowing blue blade a blur in her hand. Her face was alight with joy and interest. This, clearly, was a field that suited her.

She was as good as any of his knights.

Perhaps better.

"What think you, my lord?" asked Gawain quietly, leaning against one of the barrels that bordered the training field.

"I am put in mind," Arthur said, "of the ancient warrior queens."

Gawain made an inquiring sound.

"When I was a boy, and knew Merlin as nothing more than my tutor," Arthur said, "he told me tales of queens so fierce they ruled with sword in hand, as any man. I remember to this day the tale of Boudica, who rebelled against the Romans." A tale even older than Merlin himself, the man had said at the time. All of eight, Arthur had thought nothing of it. He hadn't known then just how ancient and powerful the wizard truly was.

"'Warrior queens'." Gawain rolled the term around in his mouth, as though feeling out the flavor of Galahad's newest brewing experiment. "Never heard of that before, sire."

The princess would indeed make a warrior queen, Arthur thought.

And that... was perhaps no bad thing.

There was no way he could ever mistake her for Gwen. The sword she wielded was nothing like Gwen's needle; her coloration nothing like the late queen's.

Perhaps Lancelot was correct, and Arthur should remarry. For the good of the realm. And an alliance with the descendants of Atlantis, another of Merlin's tales, was nothing to be sneezed at. The potential there dangled before him. The possibilities in trade, in magical weapons to defend his people, were dizzying.

But for the good of the realm, Arthur needed a queen whose priorities were aligned with the kingdom's. With his.

And Princess Aja had leveled her blade at him, in defense of a troll.

"Gawain," said Arthur abruptly. "Come with me."

The knight straightened, blinking. "Aye, sire," he said, falling in behind Arthur as he left the training ground.

They went inside the castle, between thick stone walls that were bitter in the winter but cool in the summer. Strength and safety, built by the artifice of man.

He led his unquestioning knight to the armory, and there, taking out a key of which there were only three copies - his, Merlin's, and Sir Kay's - Arthur unlocked the door that led to the magical armory.

Gawain whistled an impressed breath as he followed his king within, the magical torches lighting themselves to turn the room from a black pit into a glittering daylit trove. "Never been in here before," he commented.

"Nor, God willing, shall you be again." Arthur surveyed the shelves until he found what he was looking for. A plain clay pot, lidded. Sealed tightly against the corruption within. He took it off the shelf and broke the beeswax seal, checking the contents. They were as he had last seen them, many years before: a glittering purple and black dust.

He turned to his man. "I require service of you, Gawain."

Gawain fell to one knee. "Anything, my king."

Arthur held forth the pot. "Take this to the dungeon. Make sure none sees you. Feed it to that damned troll the princess brought with her."

Gawain's eyes narrowed. "I'll take Harris' turn delivering food to the prisoners," he said, accepting the container.

"Good," said Arthur. This would sever the troll from Princess Aja's party. Would show her just how dangerous magical creatures were.

Would make her a worthy queen of Camelot.


Author's Note: My apologies for missing a week of posting. I hit a bit of writer's block! The entire Wizards arc is apparently harder for me to rewrite than Trollhunters and Below! But I think I'm past that. Unfortunately, as we edge into December, I'm also in Christmas gift-making mode (and I get to host the family Christmas gathering this year!) so I can't really promise to be posting every Friday for the next five weeks. I'll try, but I can't guarantee it.

AND! I completely spaced and forgot to include this in the last chapter, but my friend Bluheaven-ADW made a FANTASTIC Your Future animatic and art for her last entry to the Jimtober art challenge! It can be found at tumblr dot com / bluheaven-adw/732379318176677888/your-future-hasnt-been-written-yet-chapter-1. I'm also going to put a link to it in chapter 136, which is the chapter it comes from.