Chapter Text
“How are you feeling?”
Arthur opened her eyes. Merlin was standing over her, practically nose-to-nose. She groaned, closed her eyes again. “Whatever happened to ‘good morning’?”
“Arthur.” She sounded serious.
Arthur sighed, opened her eyes. “I’m fine. Of course I’m fine, Merlin.”
“Fine isn’t quite what I was hoping to hear,” Merlin said, as she turned to pull the curtains open. “Maybe…’ecstatic’ or ‘hopeful’ or, really, ideally, ‘confident.’ I’m not picky.”
Arthur swung her legs over the side of the bed, braced her hands against her knees. “It isn’t the sort of thing where confidence makes much of a difference. It’s…”
“You’re worried about the quest? You shouldn’t be.”
“Not the quest, it’s –” Arthur sighed. “It’s the ritual of it all. It’s out of my control. Either the gods grant me a vision, or they don’t. It’s as simple as that.”
Merlin stopped messing around with the breakfast tray, shot Arthur a confused look. “I thought it wasn’t religious anymore.”
“It isn’t,” Arthur said, on instinct. “Or, well. This will be the first, I suppose. All the others…even my father, when he sought his quest while still in the court of Gawant, had a priestess to bathe and bless him. And I…” she trailed off.
There was silence for a moment, then Merlin rapped her knuckles against the table. “Well, you can eat well, at least. Come on, I’ve brought all your favorites.”
“Thank you.” Arthur could barely be grateful; even her favorite smoked sausage tasted like ash in her mouth.
Merlin dragged a chair over, sat down across from her. “So what was Uther’s?”
“Hmm?” Arthur looked up at her, blinking. “Uther’s what?”
“His quest, obviously.”
Arthur looked back at her plate, spun the wine in her goblet. “Oh. He reclaimed the seal of Brutus from its cursed vault. That was his quest, and only a year later he was riding in to reconquer Camelot herself.”
“High expectations to live up to,” Merlin muttered.
Arthur shot her a look. “It isn’t about living up to anything. It isn’t a competition, I’m not weighed against all those who have come before me.” It wouldn’t do to acknowledge it aloud, but she would be weighed against them, actually. It wasn’t a competition, but it was a test. A test of fitness to rule, in many ways. “Even if it were, I’d at least be better off than Madog.”
“What did he do?”
“He saw a vision of a land rising out of the sea,” Arthur explained. “So he set off to search for it. He was gone for so long that they presumed him dead, but in the seventh moon of the seventh year, he returned. He’d found a great island, a paradise he said. And he’d come back just in time to tell everyone about it, before illness struck him down. The gods had wanted him to take the journey, but he hadn’t learned in all his years at sea; he did not have the wisdom of a king, so he could not survive his quest.”
Merlin looked doubtful. “Or he’d contracted fever from being on a ship for so long. How could anyone survive years on a boat, anyhow? He didn’t think to chart a map while he was out?”
“I don’t know, Merlin,” Arthur said, exasperated. “This was centuries ago. It’s all just legend now.”
She didn’t seem convinced. “Right. Well, no going off to sea for you. I’ll jot that down.”
Arthur just hummed. “Do as you like. I’ve got reading to do. Preparation for tonight.”
Merlin studied her a moment, chewing her lip. Then she stood, walked around the table, and brought her hand to Arthur’s face, tilting it up. “Everything will be fine. Have faith in yourself.”
Easier said than done. “Thank you.”
Another long look, Merlin’s thumb gently stroking her cheek. Then she bent down, kissed her gently. “Just call if you need me. If you need anything.”
“Doing your job for once?” Arthur joked, but it fell flat. She couldn’t quite make herself smile.
Merlin patted her cheek, then straightened. “I have faith in you,” she said. “Enough for the both of us.”
Arthur’s throat felt a little tight. She just nodded.
She sat with Uther for the evening meal, though she didn’t eat anything. Fasting wasn’t technically required of her, but the ancient kings had fasted for hours before seeking their visions, to distance themselves from the mortal world of bread and meat, and it had become something of a tradition since. Arthur didn’t want to take any chances, not with how unorthodox this had already become.
She was wary of giving life to her fears, but it was difficult not to dwell on them. She couldn’t help but fear that she wouldn’t have any visions at all, that the world beyond would be closed to her, the old gods displeased with Uther and with her. Punished for her father’s sins, perhaps, or shunned for her own audacity. Who was she to stand as heir to the great kingdom of Camelot, to step out of her body and demand a quest? She feared that Uther’s experiment in raising her as he had, the game of pretend that everyone around her had always played, would be abruptly ended, the veil cast aside to reveal nothing but a foolish little girl.
“Arthur.”
She startled a little, looked up to meet Uther’s eyes. They were clear, and he looked thoughtful. He was recovering, somewhat; his moments of clarity were longer and surer, and his bouts of confusion fewer, farther between. But not gone.
“This is a very important night,” Uther said, in a very grave tone. “Perhaps the most important in your life. This night decides your fate, and the fate of Camelot rests upon you.”
“I know, Sire. I understand.”
He studied her, then nodded. “I would not allow you to undertake this if I had any doubts. You bear the kingdom on your shoulders, and you bear it well.”
She didn’t know what to say. She blinked a little, clearing the heat that had begun to well behind her eyes. “Thank you, father.”
Though no priestess was present, Arthur knew that the water had been taken from the old wells, blessed many years ago to aid those who sought to walk beyond. Carefully, she bent over the basin, cupped her hands in the water. There were words, she knew, important words and prayers to beg a blessing. But she did not know them. She only closed her eyes, thought of her requests. That the gods may grant her a vision. That the quest may be within her abilities. That she may be a fit leader for Camelot.
When she straightened, she felt calmer, more grounded. She nodded, and Merlin stepped forward to take the basin away. She returned with a cloak, frail with age but heavy in significance, and carefully draped it over Arthur’s shoulders.
She stood a moment, preparing herself. Then, clad in only a linen shift and the cloak centuries old, she opened the doors and walked into the great hall, lit by moonlight. It was strange, her bare feet on the floor. Perhaps that was the reason for the state of undress; Arthur knelt before the throne and presented herself to the gods not as a prince or a knight or a noble, but as nothing more or less than human. Perhaps in order to transcend the body, layers had to be stripped away. Perhaps the soul could only leave the body in the same state it had entered it; bare, humble, and wrapped in the same simple linen that swaddled babes still damp from birth.
The air felt heavy, like each breath was a labor. She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply. She didn’t know the gods she presented herself to, but she knew that they hadn’t been driven out with Uther’s command. Even a king could not control the world beyond.
As she sank into the strange heaviness in the air, felt it buoy her bones and fog her mind, she thought – I know this. This is familiar to me, this feeling.
The magic that wavered at the border of the mortal and immortal worlds was strange to her, but not foreign. It was the same magic that she’d felt before; in strange and terrible dreams, pulled from death by Merlin’s own hand; in the air that rose around her, wading into the waters of Avalon; in the sight of Ygraine, like her perfected mirror image, on a strange shore; in the smile on Morgana’s face, illuminated by the flame in the palm of her hand; in the forest, shoulder to shoulder on the grass, Merlin’s dragons of golden smoke dancing above their heads; in the rumble when the dragon Kilgharrah spoke riddles and words of warning; in a circle of Druid children, dutifully repeating the lessons of their teacher; in the very streets of Camelot, in the taverns and shops, in little sparks of light and whispered words and children playing with ribbons that shimmered too brightly in the sun.
Oh, she thought. I think I understand, now.
She rose, then, stood tall, taller than she’d ever been. Light, unencumbered by the heavy weight of mortal flesh. She felt pulled, followed the guidance. The world seemed to blur around her as she moved, and yet she knew she hadn’t moved at all. But she was no longer in the great hall. Instead, a blinding light overtook her. She closed her eyes against it, even as she knew it wouldn’t harm her. When she looked again, the light had dimmed to a warm sunlight. The air was thin, dry and dusty in a way she’d never known in the lands of Albion. All around her, sand. Or – no, buildings, unlike any she’d ever seen, the color so perfectly matched that they seemed to rise out of the ground itself.
Someone walked before her, and she moved back out of instinct, but the vision passed right through her. “Take it,” said the man, in a hushed voice. The words were strange to her ears, familiar like something she’d heard before, but not any language she knew. And yet, she understood.
Another man, clad in heavy robes, a hood obscuring his face, reaching out a hand. He seemed to reach through Arthur, and drew back with a pike in his hand. A staff? A lance? A weapon, the tip dark with dried and flaking blood. And yet, as Arthur watched, a crimson-fresh drop welled at the tip, then ran down the length of the handle. Then the lance was gone, tucked away into the long robes of the hooded man, who fled and seemed to disappear into the sand.
Arthur blinked, and the vision had changed. She was in a forest, damp and earthy, a more familiar landscape. She could hear a band of soldiers closing in, but they marched straight through her before she could move away. She watched, mesmerized, as they continued on, plowing through the underbrush and breaking their formation only for the trees. They wore strange clothing, like nothing she’d seen before. Ancient, it seemed, but stranger still.
A noise, and she looked down. She was above a hill, a mound of earth built over a rocky ledge. And beneath the ledge, a woman. She watched the soldiers long after they’d gone from sight, until their chants and footsteps could no longer be heard, and then she stood tall. She was strong, her arms bared, and marked with the kind of needle-pressed symbols that the Druids favored. In her hand she held a lance – in fact, the very same lance, welling blood from no plausible source. When she walked into the trees, not the path that the soldiers had taken, Arthur followed her.
It seemed they walked for days and nights, though no time passed at all. But the Druid woman made camp and ate and slept several times before she reached her destination. Arthur experienced it like a memory, somehow both sequential and in the blink of an eye. And then – capture, the Druid woman overtaken and the lance seized. The woman was forced to her knees, the bloody tip of the lance pressed against her neck. Only the smallest cut, yet she shrieked and writhed as if in torture.
Arthur had to look away, couldn’t bear the sight. When she turned back, the woman was gone. In her place lay a pile of bones, sticky with blood and meat. The soldier nudged the pile with the lance, and the skull rolled onto the earth, where the jaw broke away from the cranium. The soldiers walked on, and Arthur was pulled from the vision before she could think on it.
She was thrust into a bloody battle, immediately whirled around as if to catch her bearings. But the fighting passed through her; she wasn’t there at all. The lance caught her eye, there in the hand of a different soldier, older and more decorated. He wore another strange uniform, different than before, but foreign. Against him, a bearded old man, strong despite his age, and wearing the skin of a great beast, something like a small dragon, with its head and fanged snout over his head like a horrific crown. He, too, was decorated to show his status. Not just two soldiers in a battle, but two leaders, kings or generals.
The foreign soldier got past the old man’s defenses, plunged the lance into the soft joint where his leg met his groin. The old man roared in fury, and reared back so quickly that the lance was torn from the soldier’s hands, staying lodged in the old man’s leg. The man raised his hands, shouted words that even Arthur could feel the power of, and she had to close her eyes against a blinding flash of light.
When her vision cleared, she was in a room, richly decorated with furs and carved furniture. The old man lay on the bed, writhing and moaning in pain. He looked weak, not strong and powerful like he had on the battlefield. Someone stood over him, applying a poultice around the base of the lance, still lodged in the man’s leg.
From another room, Arthur could hear voices. She blinked, and she was there, in the corridor just outside of the king’s chambers, where his advisors spoke in hushed words.
“He will die if the lance is removed, I do not doubt it,” said the one.
The other shook his head. “It prolongs his life, but what life is this? I see only torment. He is no king at all in such a state.”
The first looked unsure. “But perhaps…with all his gifts, something can be done?”
The air seemed to chill. The second advisor looked very grave as he replied, “Only the gods may save your soul, should you put the idea into his head. Only the gods.”
Arthur turned to look back through the door onto the king, but the vision shifted. They were at the shore of a great lake, shadowed with ominous clouds. Arthur knew it to be the lake of Avalon, but it looked strange somehow, different. Older.
The advisors were there, carrying the wounded king on a litter between them. They waded into the lake to their knees, then set the litter down in the water. The king pushed aside the curtains that had hidden him from view, revealing that he held a very young child, scarcely older than an infant, in the crook of his arm. With the other arm, he dragged himself into the water, the wide-eyed child with him. He shook with pain as the movements jarred the lance in his leg, and cried out as the waters touched the wound. The position he assumed was awkward, with his good leg bent beneath him and his injured leg out at an angle, the lance straight up in the air. He cried out with every movement, clutched the child tighter against him. The child reached for his face, patting it as if to comfort him. The man’s cries only grew more agonized, and he turned his face away from the child.
One of the advisors stepped forward, his face ashen and his arms shaking as he knelt in the water before the king, held out a heavy-bladed sword. The king took it with one arm, strong once more, not looking up to meet the advisor’s eyes. With the other arm, he lowered the child into the water. The babe shrieked with laughter as the water touched his toes, then his ankles. When the king pushed gently against his chest, the child sat in the shallow water, then laid back into it, laughing as it splashed against his cheeks.
The king lifted the sword, and Arthur realized what he meant to do only as he swung the heavy blade down, the weight of it doing half the work.
“No!” She lunged forward, arms outstretched, but her hands, insubstantial as the wind, found no purchase. The child could not be saved. She stumbled back in shock, a hand clapped over her mouth to stifle the horror welling up.
The king made a terrible noise, keened with a grief that Arthur felt in her chest, but was repulsed by. He took the head of the child in his hands, separated from the body as it was, and sobbed out words in a language that Arthur knew to be magic. But this magic felt strange, unnatural. It made her skin crawl, the hair on the back of her neck stand up. It made her want to run away, to flee and never return.
The king held up the head with one hand and, with the other, took hold of the lance in his leg. With a great cry of pain, he removed the lance, and held it aloft. The bleeding lance and the head dripping with water or blood or both, Arthur couldn’t bear to look at it. Then it began to crumble, turn to dust in his hand, the body in the water with it. Then it was all gone, turned to ash in the wind, only the heavy sword and the king’s grief proof that it had happened at all.
The advisor stepped forward again, knelt to fill a vial with the water, then hung it on a cord around the king’s neck. He made as if to speak, but the king shook his head, held up his hand, and stared up at the brewing storm.
Arthur had to look away. When the vision shifted again, she didn’t want to look. But she knew there was a reason for everything she was seeing. The king was on a throne, sitting in a powerful stance, holding the lance like a staff. Its inexplicable blood dripped down onto his hand, only intensifying his strange aura. When she looked closer, she saw that his formerly-wounded leg was at a strange angle, and his mouth thinned as if in pain with every movement. Not healed, then, or not entirely.
A man was brought before him, thrown to his knees by the soldiers who had dragged him in. Treason. He begged and pleaded, but the king barely seemed to hear it. He pronounced the punishment execution, and the accused had only a moment to feel terror before the tip of the lance touched him, and he was reduced to a pile of wet bones on the floor. His screams echoed around the hall longer than seemed natural. The king waved his hand, and a servant knelt to collect the bones into a bag, then hurried away.
The vision melted away. In its place, a camp on a hill, overlooking a battle. The king carried on a litter, looking no better and no worse. He’d lost the use of the leg entirely, it seemed; a big servant stood behind his chair, ready to step around and carry him from the litter. An advisor stepped forward, and Arthur was startled to see that it was the one she’d seen before, the young one. But he wasn’t young any longer – he looked older than Gaius, at least. And yet, the king had not aged a day.
Again, the king on his throne. New advisors at his shoulders, new tapestries on the walls. How long had it been? Ten years? Twenty? How old was the king now? Old enough to outlive his young advisors, at least. Old enough for the tapestries to rot and be replaced? Perhaps they’d only been updated in a display of wealth. Perhaps, perhaps. He sat on the throne as powerful as ever, though his legs had shrunken beneath his robes, his knees sharp through the heavy fabric. The lance had been decorated, built up to make a trident gilt in gold, though the central point retained its original bleeding tip.
Even as supplicants knelt before him, asking assistance or mercy, the king’s eyes seemed to glaze over. He looked over their heads out the open window across from the throne, where the sea was calm and sparkling like crystal.
An advisor coughed, drawing the king’s attention back to the supplicants. “Yes,” he said, waving his hand, absently. “Anything. Of course.”
“Sire,” said the advisor, hushed words only for the king’s ear. “The treasury –”
“Bah,” he scowled. His gaze turned, again, to the sea. “Gold. What use have I for gold. Give it all away. Give it to the children. I have no use for gold.”
The advisor’s pleas to think of the kingdom fell on deaf ears, the king lost once more in thought.
The kingdom changed as Arthur watched. The clothes became more familiar, the language more similar to its contemporary version. And yet the king never aged. Nor did he heal; beneath his robes lay an ever-festering wound. The vial at his neck kept the infection from spreading, but nothing could heal the wound, nothing could overcome the power of the trident.
The kingdom began to fade, people leaving in trickles, then in droves. When even the advisors had left, the king bade the servants to leave. He gave them the last of the treasury’s riches, to divide amongst themselves, and had them settle him into his throne one last time, facing the sea. The castle turned to ruins around him. But still the king sat, alive yet not alive, bearing the weight of age, his own people long returned to the soil, his kingdom become a wasteland. Rumors, whispers of a curse on the land reached his ears through the wind, and his heart ached for the damage he had done. He sank into himself until he seemed nothing more than a shell, so pale that his skin became translucent and his bones more pronounced, like he was falling victim to the lance’s destructive power at a glacial pace.
A ghostly hand reached out, from somewhere behind Arthur. She knew it as Merlin’s, she didn’t need to look. But Merlin’s arm stretched forward, reached into the chest, the very heart of the Fisher King. The king closed his eyes, tipped his head back, then his skin seemed to dissolve into his bones, then the bones into dust, golden dust that caught the wind and blew away, out into the sea that had long since dried to nothing but cracked earth.
The trident clattered to the floor, dripping its strange blood onto the rotted floor, as if weeping for all the harm it had done.
Arthur knelt to pick it up, but when her knees touched the floor, she was abruptly pulled back into her body. She took a sharp inhale, brought a hand to her chest. Her heart was racing, and she was sweating. She felt as if she’d just come from a battle. A very strange battle. And yet, perhaps a success. She had her quest.
When her heart slowed, she dropped her hand. She bowed her head, tried to offer silent thanks to the gods for her vision and her quest.
Footsteps, somewhere in the distance, then a hand on her shoulder. The king.
“It is time.”
She straightened, took a deep breath.
Uther stepped back as she rose on unsteady legs, turned to face the court. “What is the quest you have chosen?”
There was no uncertainty in her voice as she said, “I can see but one path, sire. I am to enter the realm of the Fisher King and find the golden trident spoken of in the legends of The Fallen Kings.”
Uther’s face fell, almost imperceptibly. When he spoke, his voice was quieter, perhaps meant only for her. “You do understand that if you are to prove yourself worthy of the throne, you must complete this task alone and unaided?”
Arthur met his eyes, knowing the full weight of what she had claimed, and understanding the consequences if she were to fail. “I do.”
Uther was frightened, as much as he tried to hide it. Arthur couldn’t let herself feel it. She was determined not only to succeed, but to succeed well. For the gods that had granted her the quest, and for herself, for Camelot. She would not be one of the foolish princes who met their ends in quests, who proved themselves unworthy for the throne.
She went to the archives first, to gather as much information as she could on the Fisher King. She’d learned of him as a child with all the other legends of the Fallen Kings, but she couldn’t trust the fate of her quest on half-remembered childhood lessons.
Merlin didn’t quite understand the weight of it all – how could she? Arthur tried not to grow annoyed with her. After all, wasn’t it her hand that had brought her, in the end, to the quest? She wasn’t sure what it meant that Merlin had appeared in her vision, but tried not to let it worry her.
The hiccoughs, though, were driving her mad. Irritated, she set down the map she’d been poring over. “Merlin,” she said, through gritted teeth. “Do you need to leave? Perhaps some water?”
Merlin smiled, a little sheepishly. “Sorry. I can’t help it.”
Arthur took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, turned back to the map.
Merlin hiccoughed again.
She clapped her hands together, pressed them against her chin. “I am trying to prepare for one of the most important moments in my life.”
Merlin walked over, bending to look across the table. “All these maps –” hiccough “—none of them are the same.”
“Oh, well done,” Arthur said, rudely. “Do you know why?”
“No,” she said, with a little shrug.
“Because hardly anyone’s ever been there.”
Merlin shot her a look, more than a little amused. “Couldn't you have chosen something a bit easier?”
Arthur didn’t find it funny. “That’s not how it works, Merlin. I'm meant to be proving my worth to the people. A quick trip to the lower town to collect a bundle of herbs probably won't cut it.”
Merlin pursed her lips. “Perilous Lands, huh? What makes them so perilous?”
“Don’t you know?” Arthur asked, surprised.
She shrugged. “Only what I heard growing up. Children’s stories about giants and dragons made of smoke. They say it’s all cursed, that if you die there, your body gets absorbed into the earth and traps your spirit forever.”
“Giants,” Arthur scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just a wasteland, perfectly natural.” She didn’t want to spend too much time thinking about the curse the Fisher King seemed to believe in her visions. Visions probably weren’t real, anyhow. Just…symbolic, that sort of thing.
Merlin just offered a little grunt, looking over the map. “So this trident, why is it so important? Is it magic? I’ve heard the Fisher King was a sorcerer.”
Arthur made a face. “Sort of. It’s…well, I don’t know how much of it is true. But the legend goes that it has an incredible power in battle, destroying anything it touches. It came from the Latins, supposedly. It’s some sort of sacred relic of theirs, which is why the Fisher King kept it so well hidden for so long. He didn’t want to power their armies. He was the last soldier struck down by the trident, then forever claimed its power. Or that’s how the songs go, at least.”
“Sounds perilous,” Merlin chirped. “Maybe I should come with you.”
Arthur just blinked at her. She imagined Merlin trailing along, a chatterbox in her ear but unable to help with anything at all. Even her presence would probably endanger the integrity of the quest. Perhaps Arthur’s endurance was meant to be tested, her ability to walk alone when the need arose. Or something. “No.”
“Why not?” she asked, scowling.
Arthur sighed. “You really don't get it, do you? The task must be completed alone and unaided. That's the way it's been for hundreds of years. It's not about to change for you. Now, if you don't mind, I have some important preparation to do.”
“Arthur…”
“This isn’t up for debate,” she snapped. “You have to understand. I must do this correctly. I cannot do a single thing wrong, I cannot deviate from tradition. I have to do at least what those who came before me were capable of, I cannot be weak enough to need help. I have to be fit for the kingdom, despite everything that will make my rule different from all others that have come before me. Do you understand, Merlin?” she sounded a bit desperate in the end, like she was pleading for Merlin to understand, for anyone to understand.
Merlin walked around the table, put her hands on Arthur’s shoulders. “Yes,” she said, firmly. “I understand. You don’t need to prove yourself, you know. The people already trust you. But I understand.”
Arthur relaxed, some of the tension melting out of her. She brought her hands to rest on Merlin’s, holding them there for a moment. “Thank you.”
Arthur was awake long past sunset, until she’d burned through nearly every candle in her chambers and Merlin had long since fallen asleep in a heap at the foot of the bed. Arthur stood, stretched her back, and walked over to shake her awake.
“It’s late,” Merlin mumbled, sleepily.
Arthur began undressing herself, letting her clothes lay where they fell on the floor. “I know. You shouldn’t have stayed.”
Merlin shook her head. “Didn’t want you to be alone.”
“I was only looking at maps, Merlin,” she muttered, but felt the warmth of it in her chest.
Merlin curled an arm under her head like a pillow, yawned. “You’re sleeping now?”
“Yes.”
“Can I stay?”
No was on the tip of her tongue, but Arthur couldn’t bring herself to say it. It was foolish, and yet… she walked around to the head of the bed, tossed the decorative pillows onto the floor and pulled the covers down in a heap.
“Sure, just throw them onto the floor,” Merlin mumbled, scowling. “Not like anyone has to clean them, or anything.”
Arthur bit back a grin, then reached out to grab Merlin around the waist, drag her up the bed. She squeaked a little in surprise, then used her feet to help scoot herself back. They fell against the pillows in a tangle of limbs, but Merlin just melted against Arthur’s chest, making no move to get untangled. Arthur didn’t hide her smile in the dark, just held Merlin a little tighter.
Uther looked strong, standing alone. Arthur hoped it was so. She inclined her head, a farewell as much as a sign of respect, then met his eyes as she stood tall. There seemed an empty space beside him, a shadow where Morgana had once stood.
A hand against hers, Merlin offering to help her onto her horse. Arthur brushed her aside as she mounted, wary of even that superficial help on her journey, but met Merlin’s eyes when she took the reins. Merlin smiled, gave an encouraging nod.
When Arthur led Hengroen away from the castle, she was alone. In the town, people waved to her, smiling and shaking ribbons and flowers at her. The prince’s quest was important to them, too, though they didn’t often know the details. She tried to look strong and regal as she smiled back at them.
Beyond the city gates, it was quiet. Arthur knew these woods as well as she knew the castle halls, but rarely had she traveled them entirely alone. Not since she was a child, fleeing in the face of the violence she’d done in Camelot’s name. From her responsibilities too, perhaps. From her destiny, or what she was told was her destiny. She hadn’t had much of a plan. She’d thought, in a brief moment of panic as the sun began to set and the woods began to darken around her, to go to one of the outlying villages, somewhere her father would never have thought to search, and become a farmer. Perhaps even further, the border towns of neighboring kingdoms. Perhaps in another life, she’d have ended up in Ealdor, met Merlin all the same. In this life, however, the band around her heart had brought her back to Camelot, as it always would. It wasn’t a destiny she’d wanted, but she hadn’t abandoned it yet, and she refused to let it slip through her fingers now.
The bandits weren’t a surprise, exactly. She’d expected challenges. And the outer forests, a day’s ride from the castle, were rife with traveling bands of criminals, despite Camelot’s best efforts. She leapt to her feet, any lingering drowsiness banished immediately.
They weren’t well trained in their weapons of choice; new to the profession of banditry, perhaps. They were young enough, certainly. Arthur disarmed them easily, then scoffed as she stood over them, her foot on the larger one’s chest keeping him down.
“Have you considered other lines of work?” she asked, dryly. “This one doesn’t seem to suit you.”
“You blathering fool,” the smaller one spat at the larger one, the words breathy as he was hunched over the gash on his abdomen. “A knight? You should be –”
“You should be grateful I’ve let you live,” Arthur interrupted, eyes narrowed.
“Why did you?” asked the larger one, cowering when Arthur turned her glare onto him.
She wasn’t feeling particularly gracious, but they’d done no real harm. “Because you’re too young to throw your lives away like that,” she said, harshly. “You only get the one.”
The smaller one scoffed and looked away, but his hands fisted in the fabric of his clothes.
She sighed, lifted her foot to free the other one, who scrambled back. “Do something else with your lives,” she said, flatly. “Bandits and thieves aren’t tolerated here. The next knight you come across in these woods won’t hesitate to kill you.”
They looked at each other, then at her, before slowly standing. There was a pause, as if they couldn’t decide to challenge her or thank her, before they turned and ran off after the horse that had long since fled.
Arthur sighed, ran a hand over her face. She was far too young to feel so old.
There was a soft whinny behind her, and she turned to see Hengroen standing there, chewing as if entirely unperturbed. “On we go,” she muttered, reaching up to smooth his forelock. “We’re just getting started.”
The Perilous Lands looked…well, perilous, even from afar. The valley below looked like nothing more than ravaged ashes. Not quite a desert, but certainly a wasteland. Arthur wondered, not for the first time, if there truly was a curse on the land.
The woods only became more treacherous the nearer she drew to the wasteland. The ground beneath became so rocky and uneven that Arthur dismounted Hengroen, fearing that one misstep would send them both tumbling down into the ravine. If it was only going to get worse, he’d become more hindrance than help. The air became thicker, too, like the mist settled heavier here. Arthur was drenched in sweat already, and the weight of her armor seemed more than before.
The bridge was a surprise, as was its guardian.
The man studied her as she approached. Hengroen was somewhere behind her, slower in the strange woods than she. Arthur sheathed the sword she’d instinctively drawn.
“Who is it that wishes to cross my bridge?”
“A knight,” she said, stopping a few feet before him. “On a quest to find the trident of the Fisher King.”
He raised a brow, but his smile told Arthur that the answer was what he’d expected. “Then you must be Courage.”
She blinked at him. Courage? “I’m Prince Arthur of Camelot,” she said, wondering if the man had expected someone else.
The man smiled again, a little amused, and walked over to her, extending a hand. “I’m Grettir.”
She shook it, offering a polite smile.
Grettir smirked. “I have to say, you're not as short as I thought you'd be.”
Arthur startled, glancing down at herself. She bit her tongue before offense got the best of her and said something like, I’m taller than you.
Grettir looked like he knew, and found her inner struggle very amusing. “Before I let you pass, I'll give you a little advice. As Courage, there are two more things you'll need to complete your quest: Strength and Magic.”
She frowned, her brow furrowing. “I don’t have any magic.”
Grettir cocked his head. “Interesting,” he said after a long moment.
“What?”
“Not often am I surprised, Pendragon.” A pause, then a smirk. “Not today, either. On with your quest, then,” he said, stepping aside.
“Thank you for your help,” Arthur said, though she didn’t quite understand it.
Hengroen had caught up to her by then, but balked at the sight of the bridge.
“The horse remains,” Grettir said, sharply.
Arthur didn’t disagree, just nodded her thanks. Then she set out towards the wasteland, truly alone now. When she glanced back, Grettir was gone, as if he had simply vanished into the mist.
Everything around her was dead. Shriveled husks of trees, withered grass, drying bones…cursed or not, this was not a place that supported life. Even the ground beneath her feet was strange, somehow both too dry and not entirely solid. Like the sand, dust, ash, it was all shifting with her every step.
The ground sunk beneath her, too deep to be merely shifting sand, and Arthur froze. When she tried to move forward, carefully, she found herself unable to raise her leg. Even that small movement had her other leg trapped, and suddenly she was up to her waist in sucking mud that pulled her deeper with every breath.
She exhaled slowly, trying to be rational, and reached for the nearest branch. Dry and brittle, it broke off in her hand, and the recoil of the break sent her falling back into the mud, flailing to keep her head free of it. She tried not to think of Merlin’s words from before, that some believe if you die in the Perilous Lands, your body gets absorbed into the earth and traps your spirit forever. She didn’t need to make that a very literal reality, so forced herself to remain calm.
There was a root, long and sturdy, overhanging the pit of mud. Slowly, trying not to make any sudden movements that might lodge her deeper, Arthur drew her sword. Using the tip like a hook, she was able to pull the root closer and haul herself out of the mud. She scrambled on hands and knees until the ground felt solid once more, then collapsed, breathing heavily.
She was no less exhausted when she finally rose. The sun beating down seemed unbearably hot, unheard of in Albion. Arthur was starting to believe that the land was, indeed, cursed, as the Fisher King had feared. The thriving kingdom she’d seen in her visions had been nothing like this. Nothing at all. It sent a chill down her spine, thinking of the consequences for magics that dealt in life and death. She tried not to think of Merlin; of waking from the dead to find Merlin at her bedside, teary-eyed and smelling of lightning.
Her first instinct, upon seeing the dragons in the sky above the Fisher King’s long-ruined castle, was to hold up both hands in greeting, thinking of Kilgarrah. It was an action she hoped no one from Camelot would ever know about, or the scramble to unsheathe and raise her sword when they swooped down on her, screeching like banshees.
As they drew closer, she could see that they weren’t dragons at all, or none like she’d ever seen. Wyverns, maybe, if the illustrations in old books were at all accurate. Smaller than Kilgarranh by far, but easily several times larger than any other animal she’d ever seen. She swore as they lunged for her, darting behind the nearest rock for shelter. She ducked, but not enough; one of the beast’s sharp claws tore a gash down her forearm, the bit of skin between her chainmail and gloves that was covered only by fabric. She hissed at the pain, but a glance told her it wasn’t as bad as it felt. She looked around, setting her sights on the ruins of the castle. The trident was there, surely, and the walls would offer some cover from the beasts.
The smaller size wasn’t to their detriment, as Arthur soon found out. Only the gate she’d just managed to bring down kept the wyvern from following her through the passage into what remained of the castle courtyard. She had to keep moving, find four walls and a roof to hold them off.
The tower, the Fisher King’s tower, was more or less intact, and Arthur made for the stairs, ducking into the first room she found with a door that she could bolt behind her. The wyvern soon followed, slamming its weight against the door and digging its claws into the old wood.
Arthur waited a moment, her sword extended, but the door seemed to hold alright. She let her sword arm drop, stumbled back against the wall. She blinked rapidly, trying to clear her head. The trident. She had to get the trident.
She started to stand, then fell back against the wall once more. Her left side was warm and wet, and she looked down in confusion. There was blood everywhere, but she didn’t remember being injured. Then – the gash in her arm, of course. She raised it above her head, trying to elevate the wound, and took a deep breath. She needed to wrap it, if she could just stop the bleeding –
A terrible crash. She opened her eyes, not even realizing they’d been closed. The wyverns, two of them now, had broken through the door. Arthur pushed herself to standing, not liking how unsteady her legs seemed, and raised her sword.
And then – what she was seeing didn’t make sense. Merlin was here, leaping between Arthur and the wyverns, her arms outstretched. She shouted at them, something guttural and strange, and the creatures actually retreated, their heads ducked in submission like dogs.
Merlin turned, her face crumpling when she saw Arthur. She rushed over, hands fluttering over Arthur as if checking her for injuries. “Your arm –”
“I didn’t know you could do that,” Arthur said, faintly.
“What?” Merlin asked, pushing Arthur’s sleeve up to examine the wound.
“The wyverns -”
“Oh,” Merlin said, pausing as she searched through the bag at her hip. Then she shrugged, resumed her search. When she’d found a roll of bandage and begun wrapping Arthur’s forearm, she spoke again. “I didn’t either. I just – I panicked. I don’t know how I knew what to do, I just –”
“Why are you here, Merlin?” Arthur asked, still bewildered. Had Merlin been following her the whole time? “What the hell are you doing here?”
The girl looked wretched. “Arthur, I –”
It started to sink in, then. “Get off,” Arthur said, growing angry. “Let go of me, stop helping!” She yanked her arm free, letting the rest of the bandage roll fall onto the floor between them. “This is supposed to be a solo quest, Merlin, I thought you understood that. I thought you respected me enough to know that I –”
“You almost died, Arthur!” Merlin shouted back, just as angry. “You cannot seriously ask me to –”
Arthur stumbled back, ran her hands through her hair. “You’ve completely ruined the quest! I am supposed to be doing this alone!”
Merlin rolled her eyes. “Well it’s a good job I was here, otherwise you’d be wyvern fodder by now,” she said, through gritted teeth.”
“How many times do I have to –”
A screech, another wyvern coming through the door.
“Merlin–!”
A sword through the creature’s chest. It fell aside to reveal none other than Gwaine, grinning triumphantly.
Arthur groaned, throwing a hand over her eyes. “Great. This just gets better and better. Are Gwen and Morgana here too? Are we going to have a surprise party?”
“There're more wyverns on their way,” Gwaine said, ignoring her. “We need to get out of here.”
“I’m not leaving the trident,” Arthur said, firmly. She stood taller, glaring at the two of them as she finished wrapping the bandage around her arm. “That was the whole point of this quest,” she shot the last words at Merlin, who just gave her a stubborn look.
“Do you want –”
Arthur held up a hand, narrowing her eyes. “Do not finish that question.”
Merlin’s mouth snapped shut, but she still looked entirely too amused for Arthur to tolerate. She brushed past them both, gritting her teeth.
“Look at this,” Merlin said, calling them back down the stairs. She was peering into an alcove, where Arthur could just barely see a room beyond. “Looks like a throne room.”
“If the trident’s going to be anywhere…” Gwaine trailed off.
Merlin nodded, stepped forward into the alcove. Of course, that’s when everything went wrong; the stones moved, as if Merlin’s step had set off a trap, and a heavy stone door swung into place behind her, effectively locking her inside the throne room, Gwaine and Arthur still on the other side.
“Shit,” Gwaine breathed, rushing in to pound on the door.
Arthur caught his hand, silencing him. She pressed her ear against the door, straining to listen. “Merlin! Merlin?”
Nothing. The stone was too thick to hear anything other than the rapid beating of her own heart. She looked at Gwaine, shaking her head slightly.
He cursed, banging his fist against the stone once more.
Arthur stepped back, looking over the doorway. “There has to be a mechanism. A way to open it. It doesn’t make sense, otherwise.”
There. A loose stone. She reached for it, began wiggling it free. “Now, I’m sure if we just reach in…here…” when the stone came loose, insects began pouring out of the opening it had left behind. Arthur stared in disbelief at the sheer amount of them. “…we’ll find something to release the door,” she finished, lamely.
They stared at it for a moment. The insects kept coming.
Gwaine stifled a laugh. “Go on then,” he said, clapping a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t be such a princess. It is your quest, after all.”
Arthur very nobly held back the words she’d have liked to swing back. Instead, she set her jaw, pulled her glove a bit tighter, and reached into the nest.
There was a lever inside, old and no doubt warped with age, but eventually Arthur managed to pull it enough that the stone door was raised, leaving a gap barely large enough for a person to fit through. She ducked under it, coming out into a room she knew to be the ancient great hall, the throne facing the wall that had once held a great window onto the sea. The wall was gone, and the window, and beyond it the sea had long since dried up. But the throne remained, crumbling and covered in dust. And Merlin stood before it, shoulders heaving in silent sobs.
“He asked me to kill him,” she said, barely a whisper. Her arms came up to wrap around herself, fingers twisting into the fabric of her sleeves. “Begged me. Bartered. I had to.”
There was no body to be found, but Arthur remembered her visions. Merlin’s hand outstretched, reaching into the chest of the Fisher King. A look of relief on his face, a slow dissolution, then – nothing. In the vision, the trident had clattered to the floor. Arthur felt a strange déjà-vu as she knelt to collect it now, staring at the small pool of blood it left on the ground. The central point continued to bleed as she stood, just like it had in her visions.
“It was meant to happen,” she said, quietly.
Merlin shook her head. “It was terrible.”
“He asked you to do it. It was a relief to him.”
“Not that,” she said, chewing her lip. “I can’t imagine such a long life, wanting it to end but unable to die. It’s terrible. Like living a nightmare. An endless nightmare.”
Something about her words seemed to echo in the still air of the throne room. Arthur cleared her throat. “Well, it’s over now. Let’s go.”
Even as Gwaine joined them and they turned to leave, Arthur caught Merlin glancing back at the empty throne, her face still pinched with something like pity.