#pedredan

[write-out-of-time]

This is the story of a little boy who fell in love with a king.

He was eight, or nine, or ten, his scalp bloody where the townspeople had hacked away his hair, the bite of silver cold between his ribs. His skin pulsed, clammy, his tunic hot and sticky against his skin. His vision slid out of focus. Hooves sparked on stone, the townspeople scattered, the butcher and the baker and the fishermen melting away down alleyways that stunk of piss and vomit. They left the little boy alone in the town square. He opened his eyes and thought that the boy in front of him was the sun. The king was fourteen, at least - chasms older, eons older - his hair shining gold and his skin burnt brown from a summer spent hunting in the woods of Albion.

The little boy raised his head as the king approached. Shining spurs and spears, tunics in red and gold, a parade of knights behind him. It hurt to breathe. 

He tipped his face to the sky. Bared his throat.

Submission.

This is the story of that little boy and the man he grew into. It is the story of the king he fell in love with on that bright solstice morning, and of all the hundreds of times he would wish that Arthur Pendragon had ridden into another village instead.

This is the story of a dragon so old it remembered a time before men had discovered the fertile shores of Albion. It remembered the aching freedom of a land that had belonged to no one. It remembered the brief period of harmony between man and beast, and it remembered the wars, and it remembered the signing of the treaty that finally brought peace between Albion’s fractured kingdoms and the dragons who had lived there since time began.

This is the story of four brothers. Sons of a sorceress. Sons of a king. Four brothers with identical long faces who swore a blood oath never to find themselves on opposite sides of a battlefield.

It is the story of a princess in a nunnery, and a nun who became a priestess, and of a man who started and ended a rebellion for the woman he loved. It is the story of a hundred stories, a hundred kisses, a hundred lives, close but not touching, never overlapping.

Or it would be. If Morgaine had played fair.

And this is why you must listen. Because the stories they tell, in taverns on Yuletide eve, or sung by troubadours to far-flung courts, are not the truth. Arthur Pendragon, and Guinevere, and Lancelot, were not the people you believe them to be.

And Morgaine. Bold, powerful, furious Morgaine, who raised a son and tore down a kingdom in the same breath. The legends have done a great disservice to her.

I should know.

I helped write them.

[write-out-of-time]

In a world without Morgaine, Gorlois may have held on to Cornwall. Without the fear for his daughter, he would have been Uther’s enemy from afar, invading Camelot every spring but without the dreadful need to protect his child from the King’s attentions.

Without Morgaine, Bedivere’s horse would never have thrown a shoe. Arthur would never have ended up at that nunnery on the border of Cameliard. It would have been another knight, educated and gentle and kind, who arrived one day to fall in love with the soft smile of King Leodegrance’s daughter. Lancelot and Guinevere would have lived forever, perhaps, in contented bliss. She would have given him the children they both so desperately wanted, and he would have fallen in love every time he returned home.

Without Morgaine, Emrys would still have pined for Perceval. Some things are beyond even the blood magic of Avalon, and the small boy who set fire to a barn rather than talk to the baker’s son would never have done well with the best knight in Avalon. In every version of this tale, Emrys fell in love with Perceval and Arthur the day they rode into his village, and in every version, he loves Perceval from afar until Galahad comes to court. Without Morgaine, though, Emrys would have been a Merlin without a tragic backstory. No blacksmith’s wife to help him control his magic - and then to corrupt it. He would have had years at court, learning to understand the power at his fingertips and in the earth around him. Without Morgaine, Emrys would still have fallen in love with Arthur, but the difference is that Arthur might have loved him back. Not as a brother, not when they were old enough to know the distance, but as someone that he would spend days and nights and lifetimes with.

Without Morgaine, High Priestess Eibhlinn would never have been ‘Evie’. Perhaps she would never have become High Priestess at all. Perhaps she would have left Avalon and gone back to Camelot. Without Morgaine to love her and then break her heart, she would not have acquired either the inner strength or the motivation she needed to become High Priestess. Without Morgaine, after all, there would have been no small children on Avalon to keep an eye on and to protect. Urien, too, the husband she abandoned, would have lived a happier life - and certainly a longer one - without Morgaine and her obsession. He was no revolutionary without her whispering in his ear.

Without Morgaine, fewer people would have died.

[write-out-of-time]

There’s a duality to the world.

Not good and evil, necessarily. Good is out of reach for most of us, while Evil, ironically, often sets itself up as Good. They are closer than we like to imagine.

Duality is more like what the wise men of the Indian subcontinent used to call karma. Karma of intention. Balance.

Lancelot fell in love with Guinevere. Her soft grey eyes and her hair like spun flax and the way her dress strained over her growing belly. He told her stories of the Thulians - the northerners, with their blackened eyes and pointed teeth, who were feared throughout the land for their shallow-bottomed boats that could bring them deep into Camelot. He told her of daring deeds and fearsome quests, and she told him tales she had learnt in the nunnery: a black-haired girl with an apple, and how to spin thread finer than silk. Lancelot stayed with Guinevere whenever Arthur went away. He was away a lot that winter, trying to talk the dragons down from their demands of more sheep, and more land, and more protection for their hoards. If the dragons had not risen, perhaps they would not have fallen in love. But they did rise, because the fates told them to. And Arthur went away, because his fate compelled him to. And Lancelot stayed at Guinevere’s side and watched how she smiled and his heart swelled with it.

Falling in love is neither Good, nor Evil. So far, Lancelot had done nothing wrong.

Then Guinevere began to bleed. And Lancelot forced his way into the tent where her ladies tried to stop the bleeding and failed, because the only one powerful enough to do so had left court on learning of Arthur’s misdeeds. So Lancelot held Guinevere’s hand while she wept for her child. The second child who did not survive. 

Nobody blamed him for that.

But falling in love with Guinevere, and loving Guinevere, and staying with Guinevere, was a debt that had to be paid. The price was the Grail, and he paid it gladly for love of the Queen. 

He should, perhaps, have left Camelot then. But he stayed, and he saved Guinevere from Meleagant, the jealous knight in black armour who wanted Arthur’s bride for himself. Meleagant died for love with bad intentions. Lancelot, who loved her for herself, saved her from fire and fear and loneliness and was rewarded, at last, with a place at Arthur’s side. Good karma for good intentions. Duality.

Galahad and Perceval loved each other. Wholly, and without malice, and with no intention other than joy. And they left Camelot in search of the Grail and they were among the few who succeeded in their quest.

The Merlin, who loved Perceval for almost all his life, said nothing. And Perceval, brave and kind-hearted and completely oblivious, smiled at the Merlin for no reason other than that he was Arthur’s friend, and no friend of the King’s deserved to be feared. Perceval, pure of heart and intention, was rewarded. Duality.

The Merlin, too, who loved without hope and watched the object of his love ride away with another man, was rewarded. Because he was kind, despite being a wizard. He took the youngest lady-in-waiting under his wing, and he told Arthur to stop being a pillock, and was the sole voice of reason in the most unreasonable court ever to govern Avalon’s shores. He, like Lancelot, came back to Arthur in the end.

Arthur and Morgan were a duality in themselves. Siblings who met just once, in the worst of circumstances. Both had good intentions, and both were corrupted, and only one managed to come out of it alive.

Morgan concentrated all her anger, and all her hate, and all her pain, into her unborn child. She formed a weapon to take down the son of Uther Pendragon, and she twisted her own morality inside-out to achieve it. Her intentions were good, to begin with. Anger. Righteous indignation. She didn’t want another woman to suffer what she had suffered. But she abandoned her husband (strike one) and she neglected her child (strike two) and she turned to the darkest, most twisted forms of magic to bend and bind the kingdom to her will (strike three, four and five).

Duality.

Her child was born as twisted as she was, in his way. But his twin, dark and sturdy and pliable as wet clay, turned out to have a core of steel. 

Morgan had good intentions. Like Lancelot. Like Arthur. Like the Merlin, and a hundred other men who were led astray.

But they fought back. Lancelot remained loyal until the end of his days. Arthur outgrew his wild teenage years and became a steady, capable statesman. The Merlin loved anyone who treated him without fear, and would have given them the moon in return.

Morgan cut her own pathway into hell. 

The mother and son were defeated together. And the father and daughter became the Good they had never set out to be. 

[write-out-of-time]

It was a joke the first time.

We were defending our treehouse from Erec and his big sister. They had the bow and arrow their father had made them; my brother and I had our wooden swords and all the pebbles we could fit in our pockets. Our treehouse was our pride and joy, high up in the tallest oak tree on my father’s land, and we guarded it jealously.

By the time the sun began to dip behind the clouds we were all grubby, thirsty, and nowhere near ready to give in. Erec launched another assault. He climbed the first few branches easily; the oak was old, with spreading branches wide enough to sleep on. My brother and I peered through the leaves, clutching our weapons tight as Erec drew closer. We had the advantage of high ground, but Erec had a powerful swing even at that age and could easily have beaten us in a fair fight. His sister had disappeared.

He found a sturdy position, took aim, and released his first arrow.

It flew wide, outside the bounds of the tree, and disappeared. I lay on my stomach, dangling out of the door to the treehouse, ready to swing as soon as Erec came into reach. But he was wary, climbing a few feet and then releasing another arrow, always advancing, always just out of arm’s length.

He had only one arrow left.

He sat down, legs dangling either side of the branch. It swayed under his weight, but neither of us looked down. He fumbled in his quiver. If he was going to defeat us, it would be now.

He produced an apple.

He pointed behind me and took a bite, swinging his legs nonchalantly.

I almost didn’t turn. It would be just like Erec to trick me and then release his arrow. But he was flushed with success, almost laughing, and I twisted to see what was so funny.

His sister crouched on the roof of the treehouse.

I lurched to my feet, but my brother popped up next to her, a crown of daisies in his hair.

Traitor.

I scowled at him. “What are you doing sitting there, looking like a king?”

“I am the King,” he said.

  I don’t think I forgave him for years. We certainly didn’t use the treehouse again. I concentrated on my studies, learning to use real weapons, real swords. I became a squire, then a knight, riding across the realm in search of creatures to fight and quests to complete. My brother laughed at me, on the rare occasions I was home. He said we should have badges.

He became a squire too, of course. But the King had died by then, and in all the trouble around the succession my father kept him close to home. He served my father’s household, becoming as good with a sword as I was, or better. He begged to come with us, as a squire if nothing else. Erec needed someone to keep his bow oiled and his arrows sharp. My father forbade it, and then I rode north to fight the Thulians and heard no news from home for a good long time.

I admit, when a messenger rode hard to tell us that the new King had appeared, my first thought was not relief. We were hard on the heels of Pellinore’s Questing Beast, and nothing less than the King’s coronation could have persuaded us to give up the hunt. At least, I thought, my brother will now become a knight like me.

We rode through the city walls the evening before the coronation. It had been a long ride. My horse was lame, my sword was dull, and I still had not seen the king to whom I would have to swear allegiance on the morrow.

I overslept. My jerkin stank of marsh water. The steward stuck me in the back corner of the cathedral, where I could neither see nor be seen. I dozed through the coronation, then stumbled down the nave to make my bow and present my sword, head bowed. It wasn’t until a hand touched my shoulder that I looked up and realised who I was swearing fealty to.

“What are you doing sitting there, looking like a king?”

“I am the King,” my little brother said.

  Years past. Years of countless quests and nameless fears. He married the most beautiful woman any of us had ever known, with skin like milk and hair like spun gold. He sat at their wedding, chin propped up on one hand, in the haze between a good jug of wine and properly drunk, watching her fly as she danced with his knights. He had the stars in his eyes, and every star was her.

I took the chair beside him.

“What are you doing sitting there, looking like a king?”

“I am the King,” he said. “And she is my Queen.”

  A shadow rose. A knight in black armour, with a twisted scar on one shoulder. Some whispered that he was my brother’s son. He wove magic with his tongue, hissing in the ear of my brother’s best friend. Lancelot was entranced by her, by the moonlight in her hair, and the day they ran away together all the stars in my brother’s eyes went out.

He mounted quests and raids. Invaded Cornwall, summoned Orkney to his aid. He burned his wife and he cursed her name, and he raised all the gold in the kingdom to defeat the black knight with magic in his fingertips and lies on his tongue.

They met at Camlann. On the banks of the river, where the floodwaters rise. We fought for him, for the love of our king, and I saw them fall.

In the middle of the battlefield, my brother fell.

Locked in eternal embrace.

A dagger in his side.

And another through the black knight’s throat.

I saw him borne away to Avalon.

Saw his sword sink beneath the grey waters of the lake.

And I bowed my head and prayed.

  I came back, once.

An old man.

No longer able to grip a sword.

Or swing my grandchildren through the air.

They had put up a statue on the spot where my brother died.

He looked as he had done as a young man, sitting sideways on his throne. A sword in his belt, and stars in his eyes. One hand reached to touch his crown, as though he was about to take it off and offer it to me to try on, as he had done so many times. Laughing as I tried to balance it on my head. He never did make us badges for the quests we completed.

I bowed to him.

But did not kneel.

My knees too old, and my heart too full off pain.

My brother smiled at me with all the carelessness of a young man who knows he is loved.

“What are you doing sitting there, looking like a king?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

From this prompt by @the-story-shards-universe

[write-out-of-time]

Write a piece about a prince who’s father, a tyrant king, has just died. How will he proceed to run his kingdom? 

~~~

The Merlin led her through the stables. At the end, hidden behind dusty saddles and a pile of hay, a stiff wooden door led to a sloping corridor. It was so narrow in places that Izzy had to turn sideways, her hands braced against the walls to stop herself slipping. Her thumb squelched through something soft and she shuddered.

           The corridor led down for several minutes, before broadening out into an open space with another door set into the rock. The air was cold and stale. Izzy kept close to the Merlin, who took his time unlocking the other door and ushering her through. It opened on a large, round room, with a high table in one corner and several rickety chairs stacked against one wall. A fire blazed in the grate. Izzy went straight over to it to warm her hands, banishing the creeping tendrils of a cave-dwelling grootslang with the heat and light. She watched the Merlin out of the corner of her eye. He set out two chairs near the fire, dithering a bit, as though he wasn’t sure what to say. He indicated for her to sit but didn’t settle himself, striding around the room to gather a couple of mugs and a dusty bottle. He turned to look at her, seemed to come to a decision, and sat down abruptly.

           “When he was fourteen years old, Arthur watched his mother die.”

           Izzy tucked one leg underneath her skirt. “So? That’s the natural order of things. Parents die before their children.”

           There was a long pause. The Merlin ran his finger round and round the neck of the bottle.

           “This wasn’t natural,” he said at last, his voice very soft. “Uther had just died. Arthur was to be king. A mob gathered outside the castle walls in Monmouth, brandishing torches and pitchforks and anything else that they could get their hands on. They dragged Arthur’s mother out of the castle and burned her at the stake.” The hand on the bottle stilled. “He watched the whole thing. And then he ordered every member of that mob to be executed. He left behind his childhood when he left Monmouth, and with it everything that reminded him of his mother. It is even forbidden to speak her name.”

           The Merlin pulled the cork out of the bottle and poured it at a mug. Half the liquid slopped over the side.

Izzy stared at the floor. Nobody had ever told her about Arthur’s mother. The priestesses had ranted about Uther and railed against Arthur for years. They had made it clear that the son was as bad as the father had been. But they had never mentioned this.

           The Merlin passed her one of the mugs and she gulped a mouthful. It tasted of honey, but the first swallow made her eyesight blur in a way that mead never did and she set the mug carefully down on the floor.

           “How do you know what happened to his mother?” she asked. “If he never talks about it?”

           The Merlin drained his mug, grimaced, and refilled it. “Everyone knows what happened to Ygraine. The knights keep quiet in front of the King, but every tavern in the realm is filled with men and women who remember Uther’s reign, and every one of them will tell you where they were when they heard the news. All that changes is the villain of the story.” He took another gulp from his mug. “Ygraine was married to the Duke of Cornwall. Then Uther met her and the next thing anyone knew, the old Merlin was dead, Ygraine was pregnant, and Cornwall had become part of Camelot. Uther banished the Duke of Cornwall from his own kingdom, and Ygraine’s daughter disappeared. Seven years old. Nobody ever saw her again.”

           Izzy leaned forwards. “After just one meeting? What happened? Was Arthur’s mother a witch?”

           The Merlin shrugged. “Nobody knows. The farmers’ wives in Camelot will tell you that she killed the Merlin and cast a spell over Uther, then poisoned him when Arthur was old enough to take the throne. The fishwives in Cornwall believe that Uther tricked her into marrying him so that he could take over the duchy. There are separatists down on the moors who name their daughters after her.”

           “What do you think?”

           The wizard had dark rings under his eyes. He had spent sixteen years pandering to Arthur Pendragon’s mood swings, Izzy realised. Longer than she had been alive.

           “I don’t know what to believe. Perhaps Ygraine was a witch, and perhaps Uther did force her into abandoning her daughter and husband. Or perhaps Uther and Ygraine really did fall in love, and the old Merlin just picked a bad time to pop his clogs. I don’t think even Arthur knows for certain.”

           A bell tolled. They both jumped, but it was down in the town and after a moment they both relaxed and giggled, though nothing was funny.

           “So.” Izzy picked up her mug and took another cautious sip. It burned her throat. “The Cornish don’t like Arthur. But if Ygraine was Cornish then they should support him, shouldn’t they? He’s one of them.”

           The Merlin waved his hand dismissively. “Naming their children after Cornwall’s most notorious daughter is exactly the sort of perverse rebellion the Cornish find funny. Superstitious bunch, the lot of them. But whatever they think of Arthur as a man – and he’s never been to Cornwall, by the way, won’t go anywhere that has ties to Ygraine – they can’t forgive him for being a Pendragon. Uther took away their independence. Arthur isn’t as ruthless as his father, but he’s reckless and impulsive and he became king too young to understand how diplomacy works. He thinks you can ride up with an army and threaten your enemies into submission. He doesn’t know how to compromise, and he’ll never win the support of Cornwall until he learns.”  

           He drained his mug and filled it again, upending the bottle to shake the last drops out. He was swaying in his chair and Izzy risked pushing a little further.

           “Some people would call him a tyrant.”

           The Merlin snorted. It was unnaturally human for someone so dignified.

           “Anyone who calls him that doesn’t understand how modern kingship works. It’s all treaties and trade and ruling by example to keep the realm at peace.  Arthur Pendragon may be impetuous, but he is not a cruel man.”

Izzy stared at the chipped handle of her mug. She had known that Arthur and the Merlin were friends, but she couldn’t repress a pang of disappointment. If the most powerful wizard in the country had been brainwashed, her plan had no chance.

~~~~

I unashamedly twisted this prompt (thanks to @dropkickwritersblock )for my own use. This piece comes several years after Arthur Pendragon becomes king of Camelot.