Chapter Text
To say that things had not been the same since Lancelot’s death would be nothing but a fanciful lie. The truth was they had been. Suffocatingly and oppressively stagnant, the same motions and same hollow words, the only difference now being the added weight of the knowledge of what this dreary present had cost them.
They were, currently, on a hunt; which was certainly not helping things from where Merlin was standing. But despite Merlin’s personal hatred of the things, he was a good friend, and as such he had all but dragged Arthur kicking and screaming on this expedition so as to work through some of his uglier emotions via his preferred method of such things; excessive violence.
Even after all these years, Merlin could not at all say he understood the man’s point of view; and all the walking and riding, bleeding of flesh and skinning of hide, and staring into the unseeing eyes of rabbits and pheasants was building up to be something only more suffocating still. Arthur was in no mood to talk, and the more jovial members of their usual party (Gwaine) were not here to do so either. Merlin found himself somewhat distanced from their others, settling into his silent and subservient role without the energy to actively resist it.
He found himself left wanting for something else to drown out the thoughts, the voices. They changed often, fickle though they were, but they were always shameful. Sometimes all he could muster up was relief; relief that it had been Lancelot that died rather than Arthur, rather than himself, so that he may still be able to complete his destiny. Ofttimes, paradoxically, it was bitterness; that Lancelot had taken what Merlin himself had very nearly had, a chance to rest at last, and know that he had served as he was meant to.
“Ah, Merlin, you’re getting started already,” Arthur called as he broke into the campsite, gesturing to where Merlin was reflexively peeling carrots at the edge of the camp. There was, in fact, far too many now - and Merlin forced the blade down. “We’ll be eating well tonight indeed!”
Arthur was looking more cheerful than Merlin had seen him in weeks, and the source was quite depressingly evident. For some godforsaken reason, Arthur had an entire stag slung over his shoulder, albeit a relatively small one. Blood was slowly trickling down from its wounds to soak into Arthur’s clothes as he paraded it around the camp like a dog with a stick, the scent of it already turning Merlin’s stomach.
“You’re not going to… just bring that back to Camelot?” Merlin asked, wearily. “You’re not satisfied yet?”
“I was this close to getting the doe too!” Arthur proclaimed, holding out his hand to emphasise said closeness. “Could have had the pair; we’ll keep going and get her tomorrow.”
Merlin winced a little at the callousness of the statement, trying to bring his mind to lighter things; difficult, as Arthur expectantly laid the stag out in front of him. One could practically see his tail wagging as he expectantly waited for praise.
Merlin glanced down to the creature’s slack face, then away again.
“Hey, does someone else want to make a start on preparing the game?” He called to the knights, standing and dusting himself off. “It seems His Highness has soiled himself - I must attend to him.”
“Oh, very funny, Merlin.”
“I’m serious. The blood’s going to stain if I don’t clean it now— let’s get your clothes off.”
Arthur huffed, standing and unbuckling his sword belt. “I may as well take the opportunity to wash myself too, my manservant having such womanly sensibilities about such things. Let’s go, then.”
The air was immediately fresher by the river, the water cleansing the smell of blood and smoke and quieting the chatter of the knights.
“You should end the hunt now,” Merlin murmured, kneeling at Arthur’s feet as he sat himself down heavily on a rock.
“This whole bloody thing was your idea.”
“It was, and it was a good idea, you needed a break. But you had your break, and now…” Merlin took a deep breath. “I get it. You don’t want to go back, right? You don’t want to go back and see your father still like—“
“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur snapped, harshly pulling his foot free from Merlin’s hand and tossing the freed shoe into a nearby bush.
Merlin shut up, simply reaching for the other shoe. He stopped, suddenly, hand still outstretched - frozen stiff and heart racing.
“What?” Arthur said, obviously aiming for irritable, but the tremble of his voice betrayed his own unease.
The soft trickle of the river water had not quieted or loudened, the birds had not suddenly stopped chirping, nor had they suddenly shrieked. The background sounds around them had simply… changed from one moment to the next, in some undefinable way. It was as though Merlin had fallen asleep a moment without quite realising it, tuning back in to some droning speech on the council and realising he had lost his place in the conversation.
Merlin cocked his head toward the clearing they had come from, to the soft voices of the knights. Or to where there should have been voices of knights.
Arthur stood before Merlin had a chance to point it out, stalking toward the clearing himself, then nearly stumbling from the unexpected uneven footing produced by only wearing one of his shoes. He cast his eyes over the bush he had thrown the other, rifling around in it for a moment before only clicking his tongue in frustration and returning to his mission.
Merlin followed a step behind him, glancing into the bush a moment. It had definitely been that bush, he was sure, and it was sparse enough to seem quite half dead - there was no place it could conceivably be concealing a shoe.
“What in the hells?”
Merlin glanced up, jogging to catch up with Arthur at the clearing, and paused. The clearing was empty.
Empty of people, certainly, but also totally bare of every other trace of human life; supplies, horses, remnants of campfire, the corpse of a certain stag. Not a lingering smell of ash or smoke, a drop of animal blood, or a disturbed patch of dirt could be seen. It was a picturesque forest clearing.
“Very funny!” Arthur declared, storming into the centre of the clearing. “Perhaps if you lot dedicated this much energy to hunting, you could bring back a stag yourselves once or twice! Are you in on this, Merlin? That’s a direct question from your king, mind!”
Merlin shook his head mutely, glancing around. This was not something a group of knights could do in folly - but he was well aware that Arthur knew that already.
They spent a fruitless hour attempting to ‘track’ the knights - and finding no sign of any human disturbance at all in their section of the forest. At some point, they caught sight of a stag, Arthur stopping dead in his tracks to stare at it.
“Seriously, Arthur?” Merlin grumbled. “Another one?” He may have been guilty of intentionally raising his voice at this last part and frightening the thing off, but Merlin really could not stomach the thought of another dead deer. Of course, Arthur had no bow, nor even sword - but one should never put it past Arthur to attempt something so entirely idiotic such as initiating hand to hand combat with a forest animal while suffering from emotional pressure.
“No…” Arthur muttered in reply, frowning deeply. “No, it wasn’t.”
They eventually went back to the clearing, and attempted for the fourth time to locate Arthur’s wayward shoe.
“Just… take off your shoes, Merlin,” Arthur snapped.
“You want my shoes?”
“Yes! You’re the one who took my shoe off, and you’re my servant, so I’m wearing your bloody shoes! We’re going back to Camelot.”
“You want me to walk back to Camelot without any shoes?”
“Well it’s a far sight better than me walking back to Camelot without any shoes! People will talk!”
Merlin relented, resolving himself to simply glare at Arthur as they walked and imagine all the things he would turn him into once his magic was revealed.
It was something between a fantasy and nightmare - or a strategic plan and unhealthy coping mechanism. In what time Merlin had before his execution, he realised he would be free to turn Arthur into as many things as he wanted. This, of course, would have the added benefit of easing Arthur’s and his other friends’ (hypothetical) guilt in killing him. Merlin had contemplated this issue at length, and he rather hoped he would have time for at least five of his big ideas on transmutation, because they were all honestly rather fantastic.
Arthur walked on, oblivious to the scheming sorcerer at his back and glaring down at his shoes, which were certainly too big for him.
Having no weapons nor supplies, their stop for the night was without bedrolls and with little in the way of food - only some foraged nuts and berries by a small campfire (which Arthur had been suitably impressed Merlin had managed to light with only rubbing sticks together - which indeed he should be, seeing as Merlin was quite sure it was a scientific impossibility to spark a fire in under five minutes using only two branches of oak.)
The night was cold, so they lay back to back, Merlin tossing through the night and finding rocks at his back whichever way he turned. Each time he moved, Arthur would let out a grunt, or an adorably sleepy whine depending on his state of unconsciousness, slapping him with a shockingly cold chainmail clad arm each time.
It could be said that they were both in less than fair moods when they finally arrived back at Camelot the next morning.
“Did my knights pass through?” Arthur snapped, as soon as they got within five feet of the guards stood at the gates. “Yesterday. Or today, I suppose.”
“Er…” Peter began, glancing to Menw beside him hesitantly. “I don’t believe so… my lord.”
Arthur visibly clenched his jaw, nostril flaring as he stared the guards down, who cringed back from him uncertainly.
“Menw! How have the kids been? Everyone alright after Samhain?” Merlin asked, inserting himself a little awkwardly - much to Arthur’s ire. Menw frowned momentarily, a little glassy eyed as he regarded Merlin, then simply nodded.
“Greetings. Yes, they are well. I’m… sorry, I’ve forgotten your name, it seems,” he admitted.
“Oh,” said Merlin, honestly somewhat hurt. “It’s… Merlin.”
Menw nodded to him, then turned to Arthur. “Erm, and greetings… my lord.” In return, Arthur only frowned in a vague puzzlement.
“Um… any news in Camelot, lately?” Merlin continued, rapidly becoming more disconcerted.
“Not much to say, no… Peter?” Menw said, glancing to Peter beside him, who nodded. “Samhain was quite a to-do this year, I suppose we’ve all been taking it a little easy since then.”
That Samhain was quite a to-do this year was a statement so absurd as to be bordering on frankly insulting to the literal hundreds who had died - it was a not uncommonly held point of view that the Dorocha attack was the worst tragedy to befall Camelot since the dragon attack. The dragon attack was, admittedly, only three years ago; but it had been a rather rough time for Camelot altogether these past decades.
“Well, we should be going,” Arthur said pointedly to Merlin; who scowled at him in return. They had a short, silent conversation with their eyes, consisting mainly of Merlin wisely wishing to exercise some amount of caution and gather more information while something clearly strange and most probably magical was afoot, and Arthur wishing to go on ahead to find something to stab with a stick in order to solve all his problems.
Arthur won out, as he quite aggravatingly tended to in life.
Only one of the doors were open, and it was being half blocked by the two guards, somewhat strangely forcing the two of them to go in one at a time. Arthur stormed through first, shooting a vaguely irritated glare at the two guards, and Merlin slipped through behind him.
“Oh— just a moment,” Menw said, calling them back. He was not looking at them; for some reason looking only at some point on the wall. Merlin peered at it himself, some shape painted yellow on the wall - no, a symbol carved into the stone wall, which was rapidly dimming from glowing bright gold in an entirely supernatural way.
Merlin stiffened like a board, drawing his hand up to - well, he wasn’t quite sure. Kill Menw, if need be. Beside him, he saw Arthur turn as well, too late to see the symbol’s glow and only muttering something about vandals under his breath as he stared at what was clearly a sorcerer’s magic circle.
“Sorry— Merlin, it was?” Menw said, smiling at him. “I’ll just have to ask you to wait here.”
“I’m sorry?” Arthur and Merlin both said; Arthur scandalised, and Merlin reasonably suspicious.
“Oh, we don’t discriminate here, you’ll be let in of course,” Menw assured Merlin. “But you’ve got enough magic to raise a potential security concern; Mordred’ll just want to meet with you.”
Merlin gaped at the man.
“I… I don’t— I don’t know what you mean—“ he stuttered, helplessly.
The were so many thoughts brought to the forefront of his mind at that statement - though most were, admittedly, simply along the lines of ‘AAH!!’ - that he seemed to have entered a state of mind most comparable with having to thoughts at all. The most logical conclusion he could come to about the current situation was that the guard was attempting to blackmail him, and somewhat unconventionally doing so quite casually in the presence of the one person that he should not. Though as an intimidation technique, it did prove quite effective.
Though, not at all to Arthur’s credit, Arthur did not seem phased; only frowning faintly before continuing to glare in an identical expression as before, as though registering the man’s words but choosing to discard any parts of it that did not quite fit within his worldview.
Merlin pondered Menw’s words once more. Mordred… Mordred wanted to meet with him. Of course; he was one of the few people left alive who knew Merlin’s secret, and also just happened to have sworn revenge against him. He would be… sixteen summers or so, now, plenty old enough to have come for his blood owed. It was just another villain, just another sorcerer Melin need protect Arthur from - he could handle this.
“Look, he’s my manservant!” Arthur snapped. “I understand he appears a little suspicious at times, but it’s only his guilty conscience for being so exceptionally bad at his job. Please feel free to take my word as assurance that the most danger he poses at any given time is to his own bloody self.”
“This guy is your manservant?” Peter said, gaping a little, just as Menw elbowed him and turned to Arthur with a smile.
“Well, I would love to simply take your word, my lord, but in that case… may I ask who you are, precisely?”
There was a very loud silence.
“Prince Arthur!” Arthur finally snapped, with no little force. These men had chosen the wrong day to forget the identity of their own Prince Regent.
“A prince?” Menw said, throughly reevaluating him. “Of what kingdom?”
Arthur’s hand twitched, as though to strangle the man perhaps. Merlin subtly stepped forward between the both of them, attempting to catch Arthur’s eye. He paused, glancing to Merlin for at least long enough that the moment passed and Menw continued speaking.
“Er… well, as I say my lord, he is not under any suspicion. It’s only a standard procedure we take here,” Menw continued, amiably. “Feel free to wait here with him, or go on ahead.”
These magical words seemed to sap Arthur of his remaining anger, and he sagged a little where he stood, the lines on his face lengthening as he ran a hand through dirty, stiff hair.
“Alright— alright,” he said, waving a hand. “You… do your standard procedures. Merlin, I’ll go on ahead and send someone reasonable down to knock some sense into these guards.”
“Arthur, I think the situation might be a little more complicated than— Arthur? Wait, don’t go in alone— sire! Sire!” Arthur did not turn at Merlin’s voice, walking at a rather frightening pace down the street and soon disappearing into a crowd of people.
Menw turned to look rather apologetically at Merlin.
“Is he going to be alright?”
“In the end; probably,” Merlin muttered, with no little bitterness; he would not turn down a golden opportunity to bemoan his lot in life, even with the enemy. “Though I’m sure I’ll be heavily involved in that process.”
Menw chuckled lightly. “Aye, that sounds about right. Say; you’re a bit of a memorable sort… to put it lightly if this is anything to go by.” He gestured vaguely to the symbol on the wall. “Where did we meet again?”
Merlin frowned at him. Wasn’t he going to get to the point already? Merlin hadn’t much in the way of literary interpretation as part of his education, more centring on the harvesting of radishes and such, and he was finding himself somewhat at a loss of what exactly Menw wanted from him.
“What does this do?” Merlin asked, at length, peering a little closer at the sigil on the wall. He shuffled backwards, out of the gate, and then ran forwards through the gate once more; as it had done before, it glowed bright yellow.
“Er, well first of all, you doing that is sending a signal back to the castle, so try to restrain yourself from frivolity,” Menw said, pulling Merlin aside and firmly through the gate. “It just measures magic. There’s a certain threshold set, and it’ll glow if anyone is above that; it’s set quite high, we don’t get many random passerby's that set it off. This was mainly for Sigan, you know - he can appear in disguise.”
“Sigan— Cornelius Sigan?” Merlin said. Perhaps things were a tad more complicated than just another sorcerer back for Arthur or his own life. “He’s… free?”
“Yeah,” Menw regarded him a moment, even more so than he had been consistently for the length of their entire conversation. “You know of him but don’t know that much? He was freed three years ago now. And you didn’t answer my question, lad.”
“Your— right, when did I meet you?” Merlin muttered, glancing up again. Well - Merlin met him bloody well here, at the gate, five years ago when he signed up with the guards. And— what? Sigan was freed three years ago? That didn’t sound right. “I’m not sure, now that you ask. Perhaps… a dream.” It was more of an absent minded jest, or a spiteful reticence than anything else, but Menw smiled.
“A dream, eh,” Menw said, nodding. “You get em? I was thinking you seemed familiar also - I get em too. Perhaps we really did meet there.” He laughed.
“What?”
“Dreams. Prophetic dreams. Well, mine aren’t quite like yours, I’m sure— that’s quite the party trick, you knowing everything right down to my name and all. But… scenes, faces, I see glimpses of em sometimes.”
Now that Merlin's heart rate was slowing at least somewhat, it made a bit of sense, thinking of Menw as a sorcerer. It was something Merlin generally kept an eye out for ever since he had arrived in Camelot; the people who just seemed that little bit more frightened, that little bit more guilty. Once he noticed them, he would find himself fantasising about confiding in them, about being confided in. That this time, it would work out, like it hadn’t in all those others.
He never did, of course. And Lancelot’s death had been the final nail in that coffin - if he was even a tad more melodramatic of a person, the conclusion would be obvious. God, or the Goddess, wanted him to be alone in his task.
“Greetings, visitor,” came a voice, and Merlin turned to come face to face with… one of the ones who had not worked out. He was older, changed, but still so young, and somehow giving even more a sense of youthful naiveté than he had the last time Merlin had seen him. But then again, the last he had seen of him; Merlin had been the one to shatter that naiveté with his very own hands.
“Mordred,” Merlin said. He tried not to allow his fear, his guilt, his rising urge to kill flash across his features; from Mordred’s faintly disconcerted expression, he was fairly sure he had not succeeded.
“‘E has dreams,” Menw murmured, knowingly, leaning closer to Mordred. Mordred cocked his head a little, and nodded.
“You don’t know me,” Merlin said, frowning. It was a statement. Mordred had hardly been an expressive boy, but Merlin had still always felt it - the fear, the anger, the horrifying reverence that he clung to even as Merlin betrayed him. Somehow, he was sure that Mordred could not mask such a thing from him even if he wanted to.
“…no, I don’t,” Mordred affirmed, eyebrows raised.
It didn’t make sense. Menw and Peter clearly didn’t remember him, and Merlin wasn’t Arthur, he could get a sense of an emerging pattern, but - no matter what magically induced amnesia or whatever affliction the people of Camelot had been cursed with - Mordred, of anyone, would know him; he had been the first to know him.
“Do you know Emrys?” Merlin asked, not able to help himself now.
“…no, I don’t,” Mordred said, again, though slightly more concernedly. “Well, he’s not Sigan,” he muttered, half to himself. “What is your name, friend?”
“…Merlin.”
“Merlin, I apologise for Camelot’s rudeness thus far in keeping you here. I would like very much to welcome you into the city - although it seems you already know me, I should like to introduce myself.” He smiled, kindly, without resentment and with an ease Merlin had perhaps never before seen upon a fellow magician in his life. “I am Mordred, apprentice Court Magician of Camelot. It would please me greatly if you would agree to join me for lunch - I am always keen to meet with a fellow magician from afar. I hope we will find something with which to enlighten one another.”
“‘E came here with a prince,” Peter said. He then lowered his voice, whispering vaguely toward Mordred’s ear, though his words were still perfectly audible. “Bit of a barmy fellow like this one though.”
Mordred smacked him soundly on the back of the head, blushing a little and avoiding Merlin’s eye.
“Well, I’m sure the city will be accomodating for him,” he announced, sending Merlin a half apologetic glance, if not an actual apology. “Does he wish to have an audience with the crown? I’m sure our queens will be pleased to share a meal with a foreign prince with a, uh, unique cultural perspective.”
“I imagine he just might,” Merlin said. He was rapidly approaching the point of the day in which he decided that this had all been a very strange and disturbing dream, probably communicating something quite poignant about all those emotions he generally didn’t allow to see the light of day.
Queens… now, who could that refer to?
“…be curious to know.”
“Huh?” Merlin said, realising his feet had helpfully been dragging him after Mordred, but that unfortunately his ears his not been showing any such similar initiative. Mordred nodded, patiently.
“Your accent sounds from close by, Essetir perhaps, but I’ve never heard tell of any prince Arthur who travels with a powerful magician in any of the immediate neighbouring lands - from where do you hail?” Mordred still smiled companionably, but there was an undeniable seriousness to his tone.
“Oh, uh… you’ve a good ear, I am from Essetir, originally,” Merlin said. “Ealdor! Perhaps you might know of it. But… yes, I travelled to… Prince Arthur’s kingdom, some years ago.”
“Which is?”
Merlin was not sure what the game was here, only felt that if this were, in fact, not a dream then he should probably not lose it. He opened his mouth, forcing the words out before Mordred could next look at him with that narrow eyed expression.
“It’s… South. A small kingdom to the South— on an island. A kingdom on an island to the South, I doubt you’ve heard of it.”
Mordred only looked positively pitying now. They say that practice makes perfect, but Merlin’s extensive practice in lying seemed to have only produced complacency and assurance in the incompetence and lack of critical thinking skill in those he wished to lie to.
“You’re a secretive fellow,” Mordred said, at length. “I can respect that, if you’re only looking to visit and be on your way. But our kingdom is currently anticipating attack; and we are currently combatting a flood of spies on behalf of Uther Pendragon.”
“Uther? What?”
“Unless this was some sort of incredible bluff, I suppose I can be fairly assured that I will know if you’re lying to me; so I’ll simply ask you. Merlin, were you sent to Camelot by the former king, Uther Pendragon, and his associates?”
“I…” Merlin gaped a little, letting his eyes flick nervously from side to side. Always a fantastic way to assure someone that you’re not about to lie to them. As his eyes wandered, for the first time he allowed his thoughts to calm from abject panic, and he actually began to take in his surrounds. There was magic, everywhere.
Protection sigils drawn on doors. Enchanted jewellery on necks and staffs in hands, a man, cleaning the roof of his house while still still stood firmly on the ground, the brush moving in time with his outstretched hand and glowing eyes.
“Mordred!” Someone yelled. It was a teen, a little younger than Mordred, standing blocking their path - before promptly splaying his hands in front of him and sending a— fuck, a great bloody fireball their way. Merlin flinched back, preparing to duck and roll, but Mordred seemed to have been anticipating the attack and easily dissipated it into the air.
“What the fuck are you doing, Daegal?! It’s the middle of the fucking road!”
“The title of apprentice court magician shall be mine!” The boy said, all but cackling. “Defend yourself, Mordred, or it’ll be the last thing you do! Not do? The last thing you don’t do?”
“We have a guest to the city today,” Mordred sighed. “You’re embarrassing Camelot.”
“This guy? A guest— he triggered the gate?” The boy wandered toward him, eyeing him up, and Merlin formed a vaguely defensive position. “He looks a little shifty. You sure this isn’t Sigan?”
“I’m not Sigan!” Merlin snapped, genuinely offended at the prospect. “…And I’m not shifty!”
“Mate, you’re not wearing any shoes!” Daegal retorted. Merlin glanced down - yes, he had somehow forgotten about that, despite all the pain and probable injury. He had wrapped them in torn cloth at some point, for all the good it had done.
Merlin, at first, didn’t see how being shoeless made him necessarily suspicious, just… well. Any passer-by should simply think him a terribly poor farm boy, but he was beginning to think he would need a fundamental reevaluation of his strategies of deceit, if it had suddenly become a known truth that he was a stupidly powerful sorcerer. Why would a great magician walk around without shoes? Did he think himself the Messiah?
“Merlin’s magic is… well, very distinct, that’s for sure,” Mordred said, slowly. “I can’t imagine what Sigan would have to do to change the nature of his magic so fundamentally, nor why he would intentionally make it something quite so… flashy as this. But yes, shifty.” He smiled at Merlin, almost playfully.
Daegal laughed, eyes flashing gold a moment as he knelt on the ground - soothing the petal of a wildflower grown in the cracks of the dry earth path that had been burned by a stray ember. He plucked it, then held it out to Merlin.
“Well met, Merlin.”
Merlin stared at the flower a moment, taking it and running his finger gently over the petal, almost feeling the scar tissue of the burn underneath. It was a weed, but the scent of magic hung about it, and there was something undeniably beautiful of its nature. He gently tucked the flower behind his ear for safekeeping, then looked up at Mordred.
“The truth, then. I do not serve Uther Pendragon.”
Mordred only smiled faintly. “Well then. Lunch is on me.”
“Alright— alright,” Arthur said, waving a hand. “You… do your standard procedures. Merlin, I’ll go on ahead and send someone reasonable down to knock some sense into these guards.”
Merlin made some sort of desperate objection, but was duly ignored - Arthur strode onwards, leaving them all in the dust, overwhelmed with a sudden and singleminded desperation to go home.
His feet hurt in these cheap, ill fitting shoes. His clothing was still stiff and stinking with the blood they had never quite gotten around to cleaning. The uncomfortable empty space at his side where his sword should rest was a grating reminder of the events of yesterday, when they had lost— no that made it sound like they were dead, and his knights were not dead. Percival, Elyan, Leon, Balin - they were here in Camelot, waiting for them, surely.
It was not something he wanted to admit to himself, but it was all exceptionally eerie - and the return to Camelot had not helped to assuage his fears in the least. Certainly, Camelot was still standing without seeming to be any worse for wear - but it was not quite shaping up to be just as he remembered. Making his way through the lower town, he found himself trying his hardest not to notice just how true this was; a terrible and cowardly habit for a soldier.
The people were strange, that much was true - not one person bowed to him, called his name, offered him goods or even asked for money or favours. But more so than the people, the city itself was almost unfamiliar.
The bizarre truth of the matter was that the lower town seemed significantly more affluent than he had ever before seen it. The make of the houses was finer; still raw material, but crafted in ways that seemed to have been done by an artisan. Sharp lines, perfect corners, no cracks or signs of wear and a undeniable sturdiness to them. And there were stranger things too, less easy to dismiss as innocent.
Many of doors around the lower town were decorated strangely, and increasingly so as he continued to walk and move into the wealthier parts of town. Strange symbols and circles carved into the wood, some painted over in bright colours that seemed not altogether natural. The market was the worst; sheets of paper with symbols and marks, glowing bottled liquids, crystals and decorated staffs of wood. And books, books, so many books, and in Arthur’s panicked, overwhelmed mind, all he could think was that the books all were far too bloody cheap.
He bumped into someone, reeling backwards as he did so.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, my… my lord! Gosh, I wasn’t looking where I was going, are you quite—“
“Guinevere,” Arthur breathed, staring down at her. She was dressed finely today, with only a hint of makeup on - less than he usually saw her with, and with her hair done up quite prettily - frankly, more so than one should expect from a servant. “Guinevere… what, what is going on?”
“I—“ she frowned at him. “I’m afraid I don’t understand the question.”
“You shouldn’t be here,” he murmured, grabbing her by the shoulder. “It’s not safe.”
She slapped his hand away, anger flashing in her expression a moment. “Forgive me, my lord,” she said, stern though words still somehow polite. “I’m afraid I’m not interested.”
“Guinevere?” Arthur murmured, looking at her in confusion. “You don’t— you know who I am, don’t you? You haven’t… forgotten me, too?”
“I…” she regarded him a moment, something softening just slightly as she regarded his expression - panicked and, quite possibly, on the verge of letting loose a few stray tears. “Forgive me, my lord. As handmaiden to the queen, I see to many visitors - but I’m sure it would come to me. What was your name?”
“I—“ Arthur bit his tongue, already preparing himself to run off into the sunset and shed only a few manly tears in the process when he actually registered her words. “…Queen?”
“Yes…” Gwen said, still smiling that little awkward smile. Arthur cleared his throat.
“Sorry, I… I’m a little out of the loop, it seems. Who is the… who’s the queen?”
“Well… Morgana Pendragon is Camelot’s queen, and has been for three years now. From where do you hail? I’m surprised you’d not have heard.”
It was not a shock, now that the words had been spoken aloud. Of course - it all made sense now.
Arthur hurried ahead, filled with fear and horror and, admittedly, a sense of profound relief that he had finally found a simple enemy to confront to resolve the situation, to fix Camelot.
Golden eyes flashed at the corners of his vision, perhaps real or imagined, but he simply forged onwards - hand clutching at the empty space at his side where he wished a sword would be and breathing heavily through his nose. Finally, he broke into the courtyard, and was immediately greeted with a refreshingly familiar sight. An execution.
“For the crime of high treason; of aiding my husband in his bitter quest of revenge and seeking to rip Camelot from the period of peace and prosperity that it currently enjoys - I have sentenced this man, the former Sir Balin, to death by beheading. May God judge him of his sins.”
Arthur had no time to move before the crowd’s cheers erupted, the man’s head felled. Balin's eyes were squeezed shut and mouth too wide open in death, so different to his laughing face Arthur had seen only yesterday. But even in witnessing the killing of his knight, Arthur could not dredge up even a hint of vengeful fury.
He stared onwards, unmoving. The swing of the axe, the self righteous speech, all of it was familiar; but the actors so heartbreakingly strange. On the stage, gaze coldly upon the unseeing eyes of the head at her feet, appearance just it had been in that ghostly apparition Arthur had been shown all those years ago - was Arthur’s long dead mother.