Summary

Arthur faces a nightmarish fate as his captors unveil a curse of unimaginable cruelty.

Chapter 53 A King's Penance

Voices whispered at the edges. Surface – frigid, chill permeating. Acrid incense – greasy tallow, foul assault.

"Gwen…." Arthur heard the distant croak, and then a cough. He groaned, his chest feeling as if gripped by an iron fist.

His eyelids fluttered open, his mind a whirlwind of confusion. As his vision adjusted to the flickering candlelight, a low rock ceiling swam into focus – strange. Instinctively, he tried to sit up, only to find himself bound by rigid restraints at wrists and ankles. A searing pain then blazed across his back, igniting every nerve. A groan slipped from his lips – reality set – he was shackled to a stone slab, helpless as a butterfly pinned to a board, his body full of aches.

Eerie shadows danced across cavern walls, their movements almost lifelike in their fluidity. Arthur squinted, noting what appeared to be sconces carved directly from the rock face. Ignoring the protests of his twinging muscles, he strained to examine his surroundings. An oppressive darkness yielded few clues, but the telltale signs were unmistakable: the rhythmic drip of unseen water, the distant echoes of falling stones, and the damp cold seeping into his very core. These sensations, coupled with the earthy scent of wet stone, confirmed his grim suspicion – he was entombed somewhere deep within the earth.

Nearby, a table stood sentinel, its surface adorned with burning incense and candles. In their glow, unidentifiable objects glinted with ominous promise. As Arthur's gaze swept the alcove, it snagged on a disturbing sight – two cages loomed against the far wall, their presence a silent threat. Each contained only the barest essentials: a few blankets and a bucket, as if awaiting unwilling occupants.

Alarm flared, galvanizing Arthur into action. He tugged frantically at his bonds, wincing, but they proved as unyielding as the stone from which they seemed to sprout. His efforts left him with nothing but raw, stinging wrists and a growing sense of desperation. Even his feet, stripped of their boots, could find no purchase as he strained against his bonds.

Forced to abandon his fruitless struggle, Arthur focused on steadying his ragged breathing and thundering heart. Slowly, like shards of a shattered mirror reassembling, fragments of memory began to coalesce.

A picnic... Gwen's radiant smile... chaos erupting. Flames raging… the glint of a dagger – and Gwen...

Arthur's chest heaved, each exhale forming a spectral mist in the frigid air. A maelstrom of emotions overwhelmed him, tearing him apart from within.

"Guinevere!" The name ripped from his throat, reverberating off the unforgiving stone before fading into a silence that seemed to mock his grief. He fought against the burning in his eyes, but tears spilled forth despite his efforts, trickling down his temples like liquid sorrow.

Was it possible Gwen could truly be... gone? The very thought was a dagger twisting in his gut. Their shared dreams of a golden future – her wisdom guiding Camelot to greatness, the music of her laughter filling the halls – all of it snuffed out in an instant by the exacting hand of fate?

"Gwen..." he whispered, her name a prayer and a lament echoing through the chambers of his shattered heart.

"The dragon wakes," a voice as cold as the grave hissed from the shadows. Footsteps approached, revealing one of the men from the ambush – the one who'd struck him several times. He loomed over Arthur, malevolent eyes gleaming beneath close-cropped hair, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Grief crystallized into white-hot fury, momentarily eclipsing the icy truths that gripped Arthur's heart. He glared at his captor, refusing to be cowed by the man's menacing presence.

"What have you done?" Arthur snarled, his voice rough with emotion. "Where is Guinevere?"

"Your queen is dead," the man scoffed, his grin widening into a grotesque parody of joy, igniting a fierce storm within Arthur. "You can thank our friend for that."

He gestured towards the shadows, and Mordred materialized, his approach as silent as falling snow. The boy's face was a mask of indifference, unreadable to Arthur. As their eyes met, Arthur's stare seared into his once-ally, the fragile bond between them now irrevocably broken.

The man's voice droned on, but Arthur remained transfixed by Mordred's impassive regard of him. "His mercy spared her the torment awaiting you, though I'd have preferred her alive to face her judgment. You see, she was to witness your agonizing torment, and then to watch you die, Arthur. But her suffering was to linger on in prolonged captivity – to be our gift to our queen upon her return."

Arthur's attention snapped back to his captor, the words piercing his heart like an iron spike. His mind reeled, desperately clinging to denial even as his heart screamed the truth. He flinched, the phantom pain of Gwen's mortal wound biting into his own flesh.

A horrifying thought wormed its way into Arthur's mind. If what this man said was true, had Mordred's act been one of twisted mercy? The image of Gwen enduring their captor's promised torments made Arthur's stomach churn. For a sickening moment, he found himself grateful she'd been spared such an ordeal. Immediately, he recoiled from the thought, disgust at his own weakness wrestling with his grief.

"Why?" The word burst from him, guttural and fragmented. "She was innocent."

The man's chuckle, devoid of mirth, unsettled Arthur. "Don't be naïve, Arthur. She captured Morgana – hardly the act of an innocent."

Arthur's lips twitched with a ghost of defiance. Gwen had indeed fought valiantly during the Southron War, subduing Morgana with Merlin's aid. It had been a day of triumph, Morgana's magic bound, her threat neutralized.

The man leaned in, his breath hot against Arthur's ear. "Your sorcerer has paid the price for his treachery. He betrayed our kind, aligning himself with you, dread king."

The words struck Arthur hard, draining the last vestiges of color from his face. The memory of Merlin engulfed in flames, reduced to nothing but ash etched itself indelibly into his mind.

"Merlin... my friend… My Guinevere."

The loss of these twin anchors, these beacons that had guided him through so many storms, plunged Arthur into an abyss darker than he'd ever imagined. His arrogance, his belief in the sanctity of his and Gwen's private moments over adequate security, had led them to their gruesome end.

Arthur's stomach churned. This was his fault.

Tears flowed freely. In the depths of his despair, his thoughts cried out a bitter lament. Forgive me, my love. Forgive my foolish belief that our happiness was impenetrable. Forgive my blindness. I have failed you utterly.

His captor's harsh laughter cut a cruel counterpoint to Arthur's silent grief. Rage and heartache warred within him, his impotence to act only fueling the inferno of his emotions. His gaze, red-rimmed and haunted, found Mordred once more.

"Mordred," Arthur choked out, a defiant appeal of command and desperate hope, "release me."

The backhand landed swiftly, snapping Arthur's head to the side. He grunted, more from surprise than pain.

"You have no allies here, dread king," his assailant snarled, looming over him.

"What do you want from me?!" Arthur spat, his cheek stinging, fury finally boiling over. "Who are you?!"

The man drew himself up, his posture rigid with purpose. "I am Killian, servant of the Triple Goddess and the High Priestess, Morgana. I stand before you as judge, Arthur Pendragon."

Arthur's eyes narrowed, defiance flaring in his voice. "Who are you to pass judgment on me?"

Another blow landed, sending a burst of crimson across Arthur's vision. "One who has endured countless injustices at the hands of you and your father!"

Arthur grunted, absorbed the sting, choked down the taste of iron from a newly split lip. Killian's voice rose, his eyes ablaze with what seemed to be long-nursed grievances.

"Your crown has shielded you from consequence," the sorcerer continued. "You've hounded my people without mercy, razed our sacred places, and mocked our traditions. You're a poison in this land, King Arthur – one that must be purged."

Arthur's lips thinned to a grim line. "Some sorcerers who wield magic are indeed a threat, deserving of justice. Your actions only reinforce that truth."

The next strike was savage, unleashing a blinding explosion of pain behind Arthur's eyes and intensifying the tempest already raging in his skull. Fresh blood oozed from his split lip, steadily seeping like the fleeting moments of his once-charmed existence.

Still, Arthur met Killian's gaze with unwavering defiance. "I've erred, yes – out of ignorance. But never have I struck from a place of vengeance."

"Even if that were true, some transgressions are beyond forgiveness."

Their eyes locked, a clash of wills – the steadfast bear facing the slavering wolf. Yet Arthur remained bound, victory impossible.

"This is unnecessary," he said, wincing as the stone chafed his wrists. "You've taken my beloved and my dearest friend. Surely that satisfies your thirst for retribution?"

"No," came the reply of surety, full of malice. "Your penance has scarcely begun."

Unease crept along Arthur's spine as Killian turned to the table, his hands moving among the glinting instruments with ominous purpose.

Mordred remained motionless, his gaze fixed on Arthur. The years had stretched him tall, though his frame remained slight. His crystal blues – fathomless and barren as a winter's night – were unchanged, concealing untold depths. Had Arthur's act of mercy, saving the boy from his father's wrath, led inexorably to this moment of betrayal? Had no spark of gratitude remained to kindle even a flicker of compassion?

But his own voice echoed in the void of his grief-stricken heart, He killed Guinevere.

Arthur's jaw tightened; Mordred blinked with eerie slowness – a ghostly reminder of the child Arthur had once delivered into Master Iseldir's care. The boy then glided to Killian's side, murmuring something in low tones.

Arthur exhaled softly, a shudder wracking his body as he marshaled his waning reserves to still the tremors. Reason held no sway over men trapped in the quagmire of the past, consumed by the inferno of vengeance – a ruthless blaze now focused squarely on him. If they could cut down an innocent, defenseless woman, what hope of survival remained for him – the primary target of their hatred?

He called upon his unwavering courage, faced his captors. "If death is my sentence," he said, his voice steady despite the turmoil within, "grant me a swift end — that I might join my Guinevere. For life holds no meaning in her absence."

But what of Camelot, his first love? Who would guide his people in his stead? Could Albion rise without him and Merlin to shepherd its birth, and Gwen to help nurture it? What became of the prophesied future? Hard-bound duty collided with the abyss of his grief – never had he felt so torn, the crushing loss threatening to eclipse all other concerns.

Killian's laugh was frigid, eliciting an involuntary shudder from Arthur. "A coward's death?" he said, both he and Mordred turning back to face him. "You disappoint me, Arthur. But I won't grant you such an easy escape. Listen well, oh mighty king:

"You and your kin have butchered my people in countless brutal ways. For that, you'll endure every blade's kiss, every rope's embrace, every pyre's caress that claimed the innocent. And should those prove insufficient, you'll sample torments more ancient and barbaric than your darkest imaginings. Death will become your constant companion, Arthur – your screams for mercy will echo the anguish of your victims. Their faces will haunt you as you suffer beyond measure. You and Death – locked in an endless dance until the bitter end."

Alarm prickled across his skin, bewilderment clouding Arthur's features. "I... I don't understand."

"We call it the curse of a thousand deaths," Mordred intoned, his voice devoid of emotion.

"A fitting sentence for your crimes," added Killian.

Comprehension settled upon Arthur's face, the weight of their words sinking into him like a creeping poison. A thousand deaths. The terrifying concept alone was enough to make his mind recoil, teeter at the edges of rational thought. He had faced death before, had even made peace with its inevitability, but this... this had the air of something far more insidious.

Arthur's throat constricted, his next breath coming in a ragged gasp. He saw himself dying, over and over, in ways that defied the natural order. With trembling hands clenched into fists at his sides, Arthur fought to maintain his composure. He lifted his chin, forcing defiance into his voice even as dread gripped every fiber of his being.

"I'll face your worst, butchers," he declared, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.

Killian's sardonic laughter sliced the air. "Brave words, king. We shall see." He glided back to the table, his fingers dancing over objects shrouded in shadow, murmuring arcane phrases. Mordred turned his inscrutable gaze back to Killian and the items on the table.

The coppery tang of blood coated Arthur's tongue, a grim harbinger of his mortality. Pain radiated from his back where it pressed against the stark, rock slab, each breath a struggle. His muscles, still taut from the earlier magical assault, protested angrily against his every move, every twitch. The tempest in his skull intensified, thoughts crashing against one another like waves in a storm-tossed sea.

Yet even as a creeping numbness claimed his extremities, Arthur remained acutely aware. Death's approach was palpable, its icy fingers already caressing his soul. He saw it reflected in Mordred's pitiless gaze, an inevitability as certain as the setting sun.

And beneath his forced show of defiance, a single, terrifying thought echoed in the recesses of his mind: What if death itself was no longer an escape?

The unmistakable clink of steel brought Arthur from his reflections as Killian pivoted. Arthur's breath caught, words failing him as he found himself staring at his own visage, adorned in glistening chainmail, Excalibur's magnificent blade resting flat across "his" palms.

Mesmerized by the apparition, Arthur beheld his own face, proud and unbowed, smiling back at him. It was as though he gazed upon a ghost of his former greatness, a merciless reminder of all that was slipping through his fingers, of all he had lost.

The imposter's laughter – Arthur's own voice, yet twisted and hollow – grated nerve as it resounded across the cavern. "I hadn't anticipated such a fine weapon at my disposal," Arthur said. "Truly worthy of kings." Arthur tsked, his stare provocative, hungry. "A pity about Guinevere – we could have made quite the pair. A magnificent sword and a radiant queen."

Fury and disgust reignited, and Arthur struggled against the bonds. His double's laughter – his own, yet not – mocked everything he held dear.

The false Arthur unsheathed Excalibur with practiced grace, demonstrating flawless swordsmanship as he carved intricate patterns through the air – maneuvers not unlike Arthur's own. Yet the blade's familiar hum now carried an unnatural resonance, echoing off the cavern walls. Arthur flinched as each otherworldly note seemed to slash his flesh, intensifying the throbbing in his skull. His cherished weapon, now cradled in diabolical hands – the steel once bound to him by fate now serving his twisted reflection.

"You see," Killian drawled with Arthur's voice as charming as ever, "when I'm finished with you here, 'Arthur' will mysteriously return to the castle – beaten, broken, claiming to have fought his way to freedom. I'll mourn for My Guinevere and my dear friend Merlin for a time, but then I'll rise from the ashes of tragedy, stronger and more determined. The people will rally behind their resilient king, never suspecting the wolf that now wears the crown."

"No," Arthur rasped, catching Mordred's sidelong glance at Killian in his peripheral vision.

"With this blade," Arthur continued, Excalibur held close to his breast, "dark magic will flourish in your kingdom – dissenters will taste steel, just as we once did. Your realm will be reborn in the image of sorcery. And when Morgana is found, 'Arthur' will graciously step aside, abdicating the crown to her – with his heartfelt blessing, naturally."

Despair engulfed Arthur as the nightmarish vision of Camelot's future unfolded before him. Killian, wearing his face, dispensing harsh judgments while unsuspecting citizens cheered. Dark magic running rampant – cloaked in false promises and iron-fisted rule. And Morgana, restored to unleash her unchecked vengeance... his legacy of justice and mercy twisted beyond recognition. A visceral revulsion gripped him, setting his trembling anew.

Unshed tears burned behind Arthur's eyes. To suffer was now his lot, the price he'd pay for the kingdom he loved but could not protect. He steadied his voice with effort. "Your cursed reign is doomed to fail," he said, voice taut with restrained fury, wondering how long Killian's masquerade could truly endure. "You will not succeed."

"Again, we shall see." The imposter's piercing blue gaze – Arthur's own eyes, yet not – held him transfixed. "You'll vanish without a trace, Arthur; no one will ever suspect the truth. Our path is clear. Yours is short."

"I'll kill you, Killian!" Arthur's threat erupted in a primal roar, his throat raw and parched. He thrashed violently against his bonds, oblivious to the blood now slicking his wrists. Numbness had already claimed him – body, soul, and heart.

Guinevere. Their shared life, barely begun, now snuffed out like a candle in a storm. The visions of their radiant future, once glimpsed in Excalibur's gleam, now lay in ashes. Were the prophecies mere falsehoods, Albion doomed to fade into obscurity with their deaths? Should he cling to the faint hope of rescue by his knights? Or hold fast to the belief that, no matter how dark and treacherous the path ahead, he would endure?

"I'll kill you," Arthur snarled, his glare burning with murderous intent, his entire body shaking with rage and impotent fury. Even as the words left his lips, he knew how hollow they must sound.

The fake Arthur only laughed at his empty threats, sheathing Excalibur with a flourish. Setting it into the shadows beside the table, he shifted back into Killian's form as easily as water flowing into a new vessel, again startling Arthur.

As his anger subsided into a smoldering despair, Arthur's attention was drawn to Killian's movements around the table. He knew the sorcerer's casual demeanor belied the gravity of whatever horror was about to unfold. He also knew there was nothing he could do to stop him.

"You know," Killian taunted, his fingers dancing over the objects on the table, "it wasn't too difficult to disarm your guards to liberate these items. Any sorcerer worth his salt could subdue your men with magic same as I did. Pity it took so long to find these. I would have liberated other items had I the time." He retrieved a headpiece – a circlet of intertwined gold and copper, adorned with a central tourmaline flanked by opal and jet.

Arthur's eyes widened in recognition. The stolen artifacts from his vaults – objects that Merlin and Galahad had failed to uncover any significance about. Not matching Geoffrey's drawings exactly, this now singular object instilled a visceral dread within Arthur. What had seemed like harmless trinkets individually now appeared ominous in their new, combined form. The unknown potential of this creation filled him with a deep foreboding.

"Besides, none of those items belongs to you, thief," Killian sneered. "You and Uther stole them from my people." Returning to the stone slab, Killian positioned the gleaming band above Arthur's brow.

"What are you—?" Arthur began, his voice catching in his throat as the delicate metal touched his skin, its unfamiliar and unsettling circlet sending a shiver down his spine.

Killian regarded him with contempt and anticipation. "You have no idea what you hold in that vault, do you? Well, I'm going to reveal a small measure of the power you've so ignorantly kept locked away, dread king." His lips curled into a malevolent smile. "Mordred, remove his foot coverings," he commanded. "His extremities must be unencumbered for the curse's energy to flow."

A grim resolve settled over Arthur, his muscles coiling with tension as his gaze drifted to the cavern ceiling, steeling himself for the horrors sure to come. Show no weakness... show no...

With hardhearted efficiency, Mordred stripped away Arthur's thin footwear, discarding them carelessly in the shadows. Arthur winced as the stone leached the remaining warmth from his newly exposed feet, the cave's frigid air stinging his flesh. His fists clenched, knuckles whitening as he fought to suppress the shivers beginning to overtake him in this dank tomb.

Gritting his teeth, Arthur forced his breathing to steady. Show no weakness to these merciless foes! He would not give them the satisfaction of seeing him break.

Killian's eyes, now darker than the deepest void, locked onto Arthur's. "And so we begin," he intoned, his smile a spiteful promise. Stepping back, he began to chant in an arcane tongue, the guttural sounds unnatural in the cavern. The tourmaline above Arthur's brow flared to life, bathing the cavern in an eerie green glow.

A discordant vibration emanated from the jeweled circlet, its energy setting Arthur's teeth on edge as fell magic saturated the air, sinking into his very bones. His eyes rolled wildly, pulse quickening as the gem's touch upon his skin ensnared him in its dark sorcery.

"What- what's happening?" he mumbled. "What are you doing to me?"

"You're being drawn into the death of one of your victims, buried within the depths of your own mind."

His world spun, a maelstrom of fragmented images assaulting his senses. Reality shattered like glass, and Arthur found himself thrust into a nightmarish inferno. Flames erupted around him, voracious tongues of fire licking at his clothes. He gasped, choking on thick, acrid smoke that burned his lungs.

Panic gripped him as he realized he couldn't move. The heat was unbearable, all-consuming. This can't be real, he thought desperately. But the pain... the pain was undeniable.

Bound to a pyre by slow-burning leather, the smoke coalesced into shadows – shadows that became the twisted forms of men, women, and children scarred by fire's indifference. Tens, perhaps more, surrounded him. Their eyes pleaded for mercy, their charred flesh a patchwork of angry red and lifeless black, arms outstretched in a futile plea for salvation. They bore silent witness as the flames devoured his garments and began to feast upon his skin. He choked on smoke and tears, gasping as searing agony consumed him.

"Behold, Mordred," Killian's voice cut through the inferno. "He is not the paragon of virtue he pretends to be."

Arthur shook his head, desperately trying to convince himself it wasn't real – merely an illusion. "No," he growled, his jaw clenched tight, summoning every ounce of his legendary willpower. "This isn't real. I won't let you break me, Killian!"

For a fleeting moment, the flames seemed to flicker and recede. But then the illusion reasserted itself with brutal force. He shuddered as sweat poured from him, fire and flesh merging in a relentless conflagration. A scream caught in his throat, smoke filling his lungs. His hair withered away. His skin cracked, brilliant red fading to charred black.

Did he hear the echo of laughter? A voice urging the flames higher?

His screams finally broke free, a harrowing symphony of unbound agony. Faces and places flashed before him; his life condensed into fleeting moments. Father. Merlin. Excalibur. Camelot.

"Guinevere!" he cried, the single name encompassing his utterly bitter loss.

Then, a sudden stillness. The pain receded, replaced by an eerie calm. Arthur found himself drifting, weightless, in a vast emptiness. Was this death? The end he'd faced countless times on the battlefield, now finally claiming him?

A soft, pulsing light appeared before him, growing brighter, more insistent. As it approached, Arthur felt the last vestiges of pain melt away. The weight of his failures, the burden of his crown, all began to fade.

The light enveloped him, its touch unexpectedly gentle. Layer by layer, his earthly concerns peeled away. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Arthur felt a profound peace, a release from the burdens of destiny.

"Guinevere…." he whispered, his final word. Perhaps waiting… beyond the veil of light…. Merlin… Gwen….

Death.

Arthur's body slumped forward, lifeless, the once-great king now silent and still.

What he failed to perceive was Mordred's silent retreat into the shadows, abject horror etched upon his face, hands clamped tightly over his mouth to stifle his own cries.