The captives had been gathered from their cells; bound, blindfolded, and bundled into carts as unceremoniously as sacks of turnips. Restraints anchored to the side of the cart held their wrists behind their backs. Heavy, stinking, burlap canvases had then been draped over them for extra measure. As was undoubtedly the intention, the combined effect was unpleasant and disorienting.
Arthur wasn't certain how much time passed as they were tossed around with each bump and pothole. After what had to have been several days, bruised and sore, they came to a final stop and were unloaded like a line of livestock. The distinctive sounds and scents of a bustling camp assaulted Arthur's senses, a sour scent of sweat and campfire smoke enveloping him. Unseen hands shoved him along. Scuffing and grunts of a tussle broke out nearby, Elyan's distinctive shout ringing above the clatter of soldiers. Throwing his own weight around Arthur tried unsuccessfully to shift his blindfold enough to see what was going on, calling out to Elyan, unable to discern anything of use.
I'm useless, I can't help! Gods, please, I can't bear to lose anyone else.
Strong arms nearly lifted him off his feet, leaving him with little choice but to go along as he snarled in frustration. With his hands still bound behind him, he resorted to trying to kick his captors until they slammed him back against something tall and narrow. In the instant he lolled forward, reboundingfrom the impact, they released him from his bindings. It was easy enough to guess they were trying to take advantage of his surprise—but Arthur had been gathering himself for just such an occurrence.
Without pausing to remove his blindfold he rushed forward, shoulder lowered, hoping to hit something. There was a satisfying contact with what he guessed to be a ribcage and he was rewarded with a grunt of surprise. They grappled, Arthur wrestling blindly to gain the upper hand on his opponent.
A fist sank into his lower side, staggering him. His body had grown weak from days suffering fitful bouts of nightmare that stalked his sleep and insufficient nutrition; the blow he once would have shrugged off easily enough now left him nearly in a heap. The shock of it echoed through his bones as he was dragged backwards. Someone jerked his hands up behind his back, nearly dislocating his shoulder as they bound his arms around what seemed to be some kind of post in the ground. Kicking out blindly at his captors, at least one solid strike connected, eliciting a thump and accompanying shout of pain and rage.
A gruff voice cursed him, but he ignored the harsh words. Scraping the back of his head repeatedly against the post he'd been tied to he managed to dislodge his blindfold, screwing his eyes shut against the sudden light, "Elyan!"
"Here, I'm fine!" The knight called back, and Arthur's heart unclenched.
After so long in darkness even the sunlight filtered by clouds pained him. He kept his eyes narrowed into slits as he gradually adjusted enough to see. They'd been corralled into separate, crudely crafted cages, their positions to each other forming a circle. A tall pole was buried securely in the ground at the center of each, to which they were bound with their hands behind their backs.
Counting, Arthur's muscles only relaxed once he'd laid eyes on each of his remaining knights. Elyan sported a freshly bleeding split in his lip, his clothes smeared with dirt. Otherwise- they looked relatively untouched.
It was a different setting, but Arthur couldn't help but notice the same tactics which had been applied in the dungeon cells here. They'd been split up once more, far enough away from each other that a private conversation was near impossible. Queen Morcant seemed to understand—to separate them was to greatly weaken them.
And there they were left, provided only with water periodically offered from a ladle. Initially, attempts were made to bombard the guards with questions, all of which were staunchly ignored. Eventually, Arthur gave up. His reserves of energy were low enough as it was.
That night was brutally cold and he slept very little, drifting in and out of consciousness. Entire body aching, he thought he might shake apart from the strength of his shivering. The breath puffed out before his face in little clouds. When the first light of dawn touched the mountaintops, promising a reprieve from the cold, Arthur's relief was palpable.
That next day, Berwyn had come for him.
"You will not be gagged, but you will not speak unless you are given permission. You will not make a sound. If you do, things will abruptly become far less… dignified. Do you understand?"
Arthur nodded, lips tight with suppressed anger. Despite the desire to attack Berwyn with tooth and nail, he kept both his silence, and his peace. If he were too difficult, they may leave him behind.
"Good. We'd rather avoid such a tasteless display."
Berwyn had changed, donning much finer attire than when they'd first met. Beard trimmed, hair oiled back, and every trace of blood had been scrubbed from under his neatly manicured nails. The hateful man wore a practical outfit made from fine leather and cotton, dyed to fit the bronze and green colors of house Morcant.
As he'd been given ample time to reflect, Arthur had realized he knew of Berwyn. From his earliest lectures, he'd been taught the names of each member of the various royal and noble families in not just Camelot, but the surrounding kingdoms. He'd had little talent for the task. Berwyn Morcant; Camelot's spies whispered he'd been sired by one of the queen's advisors, when the late King had discovered he was unable to bear heirs of his own. Regardless of the truth of these claims– the bastard-born child had been declared a legitimate son by the Queen, and had been recognized by her court.
A new voice interrupted his thoughts, "Do you think they've chosen a champion? Or, will sweet Gwen try to worm her way out of the agreement."
Morgana slid into Arthur's line of sight from behind Dyfed's prince, a wicked grin twisting her mouth.
"Personally I hope it's Gwaine," she teased, "I've always loved to watch him dance. I wonder what his scream sounds like."
Arthur gazed at her from under half closed lids, searching for the willful, wild child, who'd chased him barefoot through the halls of Camelot. Their shrieks of laughter rang off those towering arched ceilings of memory. He didn't remember ever laughing before Morgana had arrived at the castle.
When did that laughter stop? Try as he might, he couldn't pin the exact moment, hidden somewhere between pillars of escalating anger and resentment. Or was it fear and loneliness?
Perhaps, when the laughter left, it had taken the person he once cared so much for along with it. There was no hint of her now. The fissure in his chest which had opened the day he'd learned of Morgana's betrayal ached anew.
As he chewed on his melancholy thoughts, Berwyn tethered him to her horse. He was forced to march behind Morgana as she, Berwyn, Queen Líadan, and nine of Dyfed's knights ventured out into the fields between the camps. Arthur craned to see his own army, stretching out before them. It was considerably smaller than the Dyfed encampment.
At several points Arthur's legs cramped and he fell, getting dragged across the ground. Each time, they paused, a guard dismounting and pulling him back up. Once the man even put a water skin to his lips, allowing him a drink, though Morgana openly sneered. If she had it her way he doubted they'd stop at all- she'd simply drag him across the several miles of dirt and grass and brush.
Eventually, Camelot's entourage came into sight, journeying from the opposite side of the field. Craning in an effort to catch sight of his wife, his nerves stilled once his eyes finally found her. The sight of her, even here, was a balm to his heart.
Next, Arthur recognized Gaius, riding on the far left side of Camelot's line. On instinct he looked for a black haired youth at the physician's side—stomach cramping viciously as he remembered.
Crushed under a pile of men—struggling to draw air into his lungs even as he saw Merlin's own last breath escape, blood bubbling at his open throat.
The visions were so strong that for a moment they threatened to drown him. Breath coming in short spurts, nostrils flaring, he fought to stay calm. Did Gaius know? Or had he spent all this time believing Merlin to be captured, as Gwaine and Percival had no doubt reported.
Did he know yet—that Arthur had failed to save Merlin?
If the king had previously harbored burgeoning doubts about the validity of Merlin's apparent death, they were settled by the lack of his presence at Gaius's side. Merlin never would have allowed himself to be left behind.
Desperately, he tore his eyes from the physician and looked back to Gwen. Hungrily drinking in the sight of her, his soul clamored for the calm and reassurance he so often found in her presence, the comfort of her settling over him like the brush of a silk cloak. But with that sense of comfort came a surge of emotion, and he felt dangerously close to tears.
My only real friend in the world is dead,he wanted to wail to her.
The two parties converged and dismounted, stepping forward and spreading out to face each other.
The brief respite he'd felt ended abruptly on noticing the individual standing on Gwen's right hand. The ancient sorcerer, parading himself as Dragoon the Great, who had murdered Uther Pendragon. The burning sensation behind his eyes vanished. Anger, shame, and confusion wrestled together in Arthur's gut, at the sight of his father's killer beside his wife.
There was a sharp hiss of breath, and he jerked around his head to see Morgana had taken a step back. Emotion widened her coaled eyes in obvious surprise and… was it possible, fear?
"Emrys!" She gasped, calling the old man a name unfamiliar to Arthur. So, they also had history.
"Morgana. I wish I could say it's a pleasure to see you again. But frankly, it's not," replied Dragoon.
Gwen strode confidently forward, eyes shifting for only a brief moment to Arthur. "Queen Morcant, as requested, we have come to declare our champion."
Ice congealed in Arthur's stomach as the pieces fell together, his attention darting between Gwen and Dragoon. Fueled by the strength of the revulsion he felt, a single word broke from his lips before he could snatch it back, "No!"
Instantly, hands were on him, and a dirty knotted cloth was forced into his mouth. His gag reflex revoltedas it was shoved what felt like half way down his throat, but he didn't resist. Resisting would undoubtedly provoke a fight, shattering any chance of averting a massacre. But Gwen must be warned she couldn't trust this sorcerer! He kept his eyes locked on his wife, desperately trying to convey his meaning to her without words. If only she would look at him!
Catching her lip between her teeth for the briefest moment, Gwen finally directed her gaze at Arthur. He could see a tide of tightly controlled emotion welling there, but also a hardened resolve. "We will fight magic with magic." Turning to Queen Morcant she drew herself up tall, chin held high, "Camelot declares Emrys as our champion."
Arthur's gaze lashed back to Dragoon only to find the old sorcerer's feet had turned, the center of his gravity shifting forward. Arthur would have sworn the old man looked as though he were on the verge of rushing to Arthur's aid. The aged body thrummed with visible tension, bristling. His attention drifted down to Dragoon's hand; clutching his staff so tightly his gnarled knuckles had gone white. The longer he was around this old man the less he understood.
"You think Emrys will assure your victory?" hissed Morgana, bringing Arthur's focus back to the conversation.
The two powerful magic users regarded each other, crackling hostility palpably filling the air. It was apparent that no love was lost between them.
Morgana took a step forward. "There is no more hiding, no more tricks. You have stood in my way for far too long. Tomorrow, we will settle this, once and for all."
"You cannot win, Morgana."
"I wouldn't be so certain," she said.
Dragoon shook his head, once. "You are fueled by hatred and spite; I fight to defend what I believe in. What I love. You knew what that was like, once."
Arthur frowned as he listened, what was the old man playing at?
Taking deliberate steps until she was toe to toe with Dragoon, Morgana put one hand on the warlock's chest, leaning in. As her lips brushed his ear she murmured, barely loud enough for Arthur to hear, "You have no idea how much I am looking forward to seeing your broken corpse lying at my feet. My one regret will be that you cannot watch me kill Arthur, slowly and painfully, his greatest protector gone. I will cut out their hearts and let their blood water your grave."
Gwen's equanimity broke for a brief moment, one hand flying to cover her mouth, eyes tightly closed.
Arthur knew exactly how she felt; hearing those
words coming from Morgana's mouth, spoken with such sincerity, made him feel as though he wanted to be sick.
Oh, Morgana, where has all your love gone?
Dragoon, or, Arthur supposed, Emrys, remained unfazed in the face of the vicious promise. Rather than sounding angry, he sounded sad, and the contrast between her heat and his calm couldn't have been more stark.
"I'm sorry things have come to this. I blame myself for what you have become, but that does not mean I will hold back."
Although it wasn't a violent statement, Morgana jerked her head back sharply. A flash of the fear returned to her face, before vanishing again, whipped away by her now customary rage. She swept her hair back from her face, returning to her place at Líadon's side.
"Emrys, the defender of Camelot: a traitor to his own kind."
"The one who has betrayed our people is you, Morgana Pendragon. And if you insist on this path, then I will see Albion built atop your corpse."