Chapter Text
"We are all stories in the end. Just make it a good one.” - Dr. Who
Prolog
He tried to stand up. His creaking bones protested and threatened to betray him if he dared to move any faster. He had to shift his weight to his cane to prevent himself from falling. He sighed. It was one of those days. And he would have to endure this or worse for almost a millennium or maybe longer, if he wanted to see- to speak… No, stop!
He was standing there. Still. Thinking. For at least half a day. During that time a bird decided that his long, flea-white hair would make a good nesting place. Not that the warlock minded. He didn’t even seem to notice.
A spark appeared in the eyes of the old man. He had decided. It had to be done. What good would it do, if his dreams came true and he couldn’t partake in anything, because his body was betraying him and no remedy he knew of would be of any help. Except for the spell he was about to perform. It would take a while. Which was the understatement of the century. Then again… what did he have to lose?
The revival of his king wouldn't happen anytime soon and the last people who meant anything to him had died centuries ago. It was not like he would be missing out on stuff. And he already faked his own death long ago.
After finishing his preparations he only had to move a short distance from his shed. It's not like he never left the lake. Whenever there was a famine, a pest outbreak or a war in his vicinity, he would move out to heal who he could. That much was only natural. Other than that though he did not leave often.
He used his cane to write a combination of the runes ᛁ ( īsaz ), ᛚ ( laguz ) and ᛉ (elk or algiz) into the dirt, right where small waves of the lake of Avalon hit the land. His eyes flashed golden while magic poured out of him to do his bidding.
First a stone chair emerged from the water’s edge. The warlock sat down, accompanied by the cracking of his joints. He struck his cane into the ground and pulled a small knife out of his satchel. Without him needing to even touch the knife, it proceeded to carve the aforementioned runes into the back of his chair over and over again. Ice began to form and soon it grew around him. The warlock didn’t seem bothered by the fact that he was being encapsulated by the ice. Soon a cocoon of ice had formed around him. The knife had finished carving the chair and instead carved ᛉ into the cocoon from the inside.
Finally he let go of his control over magic and instead welcomed it as the old friend it was. The magic rushed inside him and left a warm and calming feeling. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He would not open them for a very long time.