Guardian of Avalon and the Sovereign of Camelot
Title: Guardian of Avalon and the Sovereign of Camelot
Rating: PG-13 (may change, if it does, I will warn. The story will sometimes include character deaths, mostly minor characters.
Characters/Pairings (some major/some minor): Gwen, Arthur, Freya, Morgana, Elena, Gwaine, Emrys, Vivian, Mordred, William (Sir William in the OAFQ ep.), Elyan, Percival, Leon (and made up ones) Pairings will be shown later, but for now, just to let you know that Arthur/Gwen are endgame.
Spoilers: None, Note: AU Medieval so some familiar characters will be a bit different from the show
Disclaimer: I write this for fun. Merlin is the property of the BBC/Shine.
Summary: By day she is a simple servant, a once fond friend of past; by night she is a guardian of courage, daring to keep it all secret in a medieval world where warlocks and witches battle each other for Albion, one wanting to dispose of King Arthur, the other ready to protect him at great cost. But within, it is much more complicated as revelations will show.
Author’s Note: This fic was spurred on from this amazing banner by felix_aeternus.
Her gorgeous art always inspires me and looking at this one closely I kept thinking, wow, how mysteriously fierce Gwen looks. Must have a story. Well here’s my imagination going wild I guess.
Prologue
*~
“You say you’re not going to fight
Because no one will fight for you
And you think there’s not enough love
And no one to give it to…
And you think compassion’s a flaw
And you’ll never let it show…
Hold on, the weight of the world
Will give you the strength to go…”
*~
With the task done, three lay upon the ground, mortal wounds staining the earth. The rest had just fled, but a weighty gain was achieved after their departure. The witch gazed down upon the dead with grim satisfaction. Then turning away she kneeled down to a fallen figure behind where they lay, grunting with discomfort as she did so. Bringing out a hand past a scarlet cloak’s long pointed sleeve, she felt it, beat of life. As against her fingers, it pulsed, she smiled tightly. All was well. She did her duty with well performed result. Her fingers slid away from the neck.
Pushing against the ground’s hard surface, she stood up, giving a slight stumble. A chill curiously blew at her clothing, making her tighten her cloak around herself. Lifting her head, stray dark curls escaping her red hood, the witch sung a song of ancient time. Her voice a perfect melody of highs and lows, she serenaded the celestial heavens. The song was not meant though just for charming astral bodies; it purposefully weaved through the tall trees, ascended the grasses of hillside, and made the long climb to the distant rigid mountain peaks, some so high to the sky that they still had sprinkles of leftover winter snow. From there it found shadowed caves, one particular, prodding at the sleeping until it woke with understanding. It lured it out into the spring evening air.
As nothing noticeable happened right away, the witch lowered her head with quiet calm, showing no sense of tension except for those moments of faltering her body would sometimes suddenly give. Time passing, nothing in the ancient wood moved. Then lifting her eyes a fraction, she spotted it, like a floating star in the sky.
Her stance temporarily faltered once again, but there was no clear indication of fright, her expression mostly impassive. She watched its descent quietly, didn’t blink as it grew bigger, broader, eclipsing the starkly white moon. It glided high overhead, born to flight, meant to command the sky with its thundering wings, beating the wind. Out of its mouth, as it neared more, she caught the flashes of flame, tiny little sparks lighting up the sky with fiery orange hue. Oddly enough, the action made the witch shake her head with wryly felt amusement.
Such a show-off always.
Flapping more heavily as the ground was so near now, the beast rounded the forest of trees without any contact made, until it found the clearing where she stood, and brought its heavy form down with surprising grace.
It stood waiting, its head reaching the peak of many of the forest woodland. Perhaps she should be scared now, but the witch continued to show no nervousness. She had known the beast now for many years, and she was used to fighting fiery beings. Within her cloak was an armory of arsenal. This night she used her crossbow, scorpion, and a simple dagger, along with her spells of incantation. The flying beast did not frighten her. Other things did, but soon they would be long past.
The beast, of golden blood red scales and eyes bright yellow jewels, looked to the woman with inquiry, cocking its head. The witch whispered words in a language the beast, actually the dragon, and she, both understood well, while many others would not. The dragon had no ability to speak in the dialogue of humans, but it could comprehend their speech when translated into this ancient dialect.
Stepping back, the witch watched with little reaction as the dragon opened its mouth wide, setting the bodies on the ground into flame with one roaring breath. Each already dead, they quickly started to form to ash before wild combustions disturbed the evening’s quiet, and not a trace of them was left. The witch watched passively, flinching once only when a spark of fire touched her hand. She batted it away quickly and then turned back to the dragon. The bodies were disposed of. That was all and good, but its help was still needed.
Whispering the ancient language again, the witch waited. The dragon did not take long, now lowering itself obediently to the grassy valley, presenting its long scaled back for whatever use needed. The witch lifted her hand, on the arm of her cloak, an emblem of a fiery gold dragon. It matched perfectly the one on the unconscious man’s black coat. The witch’s hand hovered, palm down, over the man’s unconscious figure. Lifting her head, closing her eyes, she whispered. Her midnight curls blew out from the hood as a whirling of wind wrapped around both her and the dragon.
The man rose from the ground, actually levitated toward the dragon’s back, without the witch physically touching him at all. There was one more thing to do, before she could send them both on their way. The witch let out a heavy breath, feeling more discomfort, but saying nothing about it. With whatever force she possessed, the witch bound the man safely to the dragon’s back, with inexplicably formed ropes. Then in the ancient language, she spoke these words to the dragon,
“Return him. Once again his enemies fail. The order has kept its word to Camelot and the blessed ladies of Avalon. Go Dragon.”
The beast didn’t depart right away though. Instead it let out a short fiery breath with a dim roar, its way of communicating.
She spoke to it once again in the mutually understood language,
“To the forests that surrounds the palace. Take him there. He will remember nothing. They will think it’s only been another unfortunate incident.”
The witch muttered under her breath with a wry grimace in human language, “He has too many of those lately. Someone will need to set him straight. Hopefully…”
The dragon questioned with another short roar, not understanding anything she just muttered in human dialect. The witch dismissed it. That part he didn’t need to know. “Just go. Take him now. And thank you. The Witches of Avalon are always grateful for your service, mighty Dragon.” She said a little more than she really felt, but the dragon was a bit egotistical, often needing to have its endeavors praised highly. Plus, at the moment she was experiencing a rush of sentimentality.
“Fly.” She ordered with a slight quake in her voice.
The dragon turned to her with curious expression. The woman smiled as fully as possible. It shrugged then and squared itself on the grasses, beginning a flapping motion to get the momentum flowing before it lifted up into the sky with the fallen man bound to its back. The dragon soared upward, past the starkly quaking moon, high into the nebulous heavens, before it turned coarsely, lowering its position in the sky, on its descent to Camelot.
The woman smiled, quiet victory flashing upon her face. As the dragon became nothing more though than a speck in the darkness, her bravado faltered. There was a reason she felt so chilled, that her stance was not so straight, and that her voice had shook with that final word to the dragon.
She swayed now heavily on her feet, grasping the trunk of a tree for needed equilibrium. “Oh…” She let out weakly, little gasps escaping her mouth. Her body was aching, chilled, and the pain…
So heavy. So burning.
She saved him this night, but with a price, a weighty one.
Her eyesight dimming, her head throbbing, and her middle burning, she clung to the tree’s trunk, gripping it so hard that her fingers began to bleed. She couldn’t pretend any longer, and besides, there was no one to play the game with. The dragon had some force of course, but this, it could not prevent.
It could not rejuvenate the dying.
If it could have so many others would not have fallen.
Her skin being scraped raw from the tree’s unyielding bark, the witch slipped down to the ground, rolling onto her back. It brought her cloak to open at the front, its sides blanketing the grassy ground. It revealed the patches of red, so much darker than the material.
Onto the grass it trickled, a stream of warm blood. It flowed out of the witch’s side with no mercy.
It hurt so much now.
It was unfortunate. It happened just moments before she beckoned the dragon to take him back to Camelot. She had it all taken care of, had two down on the ground. Most retreated quickly then, including one with pale plaster skin, oddly large ears, and a dark smattering of hair. There was something peculiar about him, his aura so charged, even though he looked entirely insignificant. That was when it occurred, her stupid moment of weakened distraction, and the perfect setup for the enemy. One of those, who had not retreated, drove a pole axe into her flesh. She managed to have the last word, squaring him with her dagger and a thorough incantation, but now maybe this was his final revenge.
The Society of Warlocks would laugh heartedly at her demise.
Her panting sounded like wheels of a wagon grinding against unforgiving earth, before they started to slow, quiet some. The pain started to dissipate, her body numbing, feeling almost weightless. She lifted her eyes to the midnight sky, unable to move, no longer caring to. It was beautiful, all the bright stars of silvery white shining against the midnight black. So beautiful. She smiled with wonder, the pain drifting, and acceptance washing in.
“Avalon, Heaven…
I come.”
It was so peaceful now, the calm forest and the magnificent sky. Behind partially closed lids danced memories of childhood: splashing in the lake with friends, the rigorous order’s training, and much later, learning of her new duty with honorable mourning, but also a hint of pride. Within that were memories of a man of courage, honor, loving kisses, and passionate climaxes of lovemaking. Within that, were the screams of life taken, of life anew, of her beautiful wee one being born.
The witch opened her eyes with suddenly abounding strength. All the cold was vacating. She was entirely healed. Her breath was slow, but even.
And yet she would never be so easily fooled.
This was the bridge to death.
She whispered with her temporary burst of strength,
“I have done my duty of the order.
I have defended our sovereign.
Now …”
Her breath hitched, blood pooled from her lips, but still she smiled, feeling Avalon’s bliss, and Heaven’s warmth, as they wrapped around her,
As her final link to life and mortality came ever so quietly,
No more cold. No more pain.
No more.
A final whisper crept past the witch’s blood stained lips, before she succumbed to the eternal light.
“I pass this duty
Of protecting our king
To you
My daughter.
My beautiful brave
Guinevere.”
To be continued…
*~
To come, in Chapter 1:
“If I weren’t a man of honor I might think to have a person flogged for speaking to me such. Seeing though as you are simply a woman who in the past, and sometimes now, speaks out of turn-
That did it. She had been picking up the mess he made, which now she lifted into violently shaking hands, yearning to throw it all over his pretentious head. How much she hated his haughty belligerence of late. Grief and surprise of duty was no excuse for being a selfish pig and treating those who you used to befriend as nothing more than the dirt upon the soles of your shoes. “I am not simply some woman as you state Sire. I am of the-
She stopped short. She made a pact. One her mother never broke so now neither would she, even if sometimes she questioned its purpose.
“You are of the WHAT?”
*~
The lyrics at the top are from Robot Boy by Linkin Park.
Comments are appreciated. Thank you for reading. Chapters for this will be short so I will do my best to update regularly. This story could be a short one or a bit longer, yet to be seen, but it’s all mapped in my head and more than what I posted is written.