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AUTHOR'S FOREWORD:
This is a pet project of mine that I wanted to do ever since I read the Fate series ( which wasn't really that long ago, actually ).
I've always liked the legend of King Arthur in its numerous different incarnations and retellings, and Nasu's version is probably my favourite. What can I say, I like strong female characters and I found the spin that Nasu put on the legend and the character of Arthur by changing the king's gender to be very intriguing. "The King's Memories" chapters were some of my favourite parts of F/SN, and I thought it'd be neat to tell the whole story of Arturia's childhood and kingship.
Yes, the idea is far from original, to say the least. Yes, we already know the most important bits and how it ends. I am fully aware of all that.
But my intention with this project was not to create something completely new and original - this is my first major and serious attempt at writing fiction ( there were others but those will never leave my hard disk ). My intent with this story is to hone my writing skills while further exploring the Nasuverse version of the legend. Since the basic plot is already set, I will focus on further developing characters - while the story will naturally be centred around Saber, the majority of development will actually go to the "supporting characters", primarily Merlin, Lancelot, Guinevere, Bedivere, Gawain, Morgan and Mordred.
While I intend to keep it as close to the established canon as possible, there will be some minor tweaks and changes, but nothing that would retcon or otherwise mess up canon. I think.
So I present to you the prologue of this story.
Hope you enjoy it!
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Type-Moon characters or properties expressed in the work of fiction below. They belong to Type-Moon and their creator, Kinko Nasu.
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Prologue
Chapter 1: Dreams and Prophecies
Chapter 2: Sorcerer's Apprentice
Chapter 3: Many Farewells
Chapter 4: Two Princesses
Chapter 5: Apprentice
Chapter 6: Utopia
Chapter 7: Knights ( I )
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Prologue
The noise on the streets of Londinium was louder than ever on that particular day of March. The year was 407 CE and the Roman military in the province of Britannia was on the move. Only a few months ago, on the last day of the previous year, the barbarian hordes from Germania had crossed the frozen river Rhine, taking the outnumbered defenders of the Roman Limes completely by surprise. After they overwhelmed the border defences, the barbarian tribes proceeded to devastate and pillage across the length and breadth of Gaul; the weakened Roman Empire was powerless to stop them, as most of its remaining forces were tied up elsewhere, defending the long and vulnerable borders from numerous other incursions by the attacking barbarians.
Emperor Stilicho had stripped Britannia of much of its military forces back in 402 in order to bolster his own army in his wars against the Visigoths and Ostrogoths. Because of this, the fortifications along the Hadrian’s Wall had to be abandoned, and the barbarian raids and incursions against the civilian property had become commonplace in the north of the province.
All of this contributed to the chaos and uncertainty amongst the people of Britannia, and once the contact with Rome was severed by the barbarians from Germania, the army decided that they’d had enough and they took the matters into their own hands. Finding themselves cut off from the rest of the Empire and with an attack by the Germanic tribes across the sea being very likely, the Roman military in Britannia revolted and dispensed with the imperial authority. The troops had been waging endless bloody campaigns against the Picts and the Scots in the north for many years, and hadn't received their pay for almost five years.
The army was practically a band of mercenaries, loyal not to a military code of honour, or some distant emperor in Rome, nor to the country they were ordered to protect - they wanted to be payed for their services as warriors and thus sought a commander who would secure their future by leading them to victory and rewarding them with plentiful spoils of war.
The first two aspiring candidates for the position of a leader of this new independent army did not meet the criteria of the soldiers, and were promptly disposed of. The third and final choice of the troops was one of their own, a common soldier by the name of Constantine, who was recognised by his fellow men for his considerable abilities as a fighter and a leader and thus became a newly-appointed general of all the Roman military forces in Britannia. An ambitious and greedy man, Constantine decided not to bother with the defence of the island country that he and his troops had guarded for so many years, and instead sought to pursue glory on the battlefields of Gaul, in the hopes of uniting the scattered remains of the Empire in the West.
And this is why the streets of Londinium were noisier than usual.
The air was filled with the rattling, metallic sound of thousands of horseshoes, laced boots, and caligae treading the gravel-covered city streets and shields and spears chafing against the armour, and all the other noises that usually permeated the streets were now suppressed by the hurried march of the legionnaires.
The rumours that had been going around for the last few weeks were now confirmed to be true – the troops were leaving Britain, and Londinium was to be their last stop before they boarded the ships and sailed down the river and towards Gaul. The privileged soldiers and officers were to take quarters in the city’s numerous inns and public houses, while the rest of the army set camp outside the city. Many people gathered in the streets and squares to watch this majestic, yet depressing, procession – almost four hundred years ago the Romans invaded this island with a huge force, and native Celtic tribes yielded to the overwhelming might of the unstoppable Roman war machine. The city of Londinium was founded in the same year the invasion took place, and its wide streets and majestic public buildings were a testament to the glory and wealth of the Empire.
But now, the situation was reverse – the temples and palaces of Londinium were in a decrepit state due to decades of economic downturn and neglect on the side of the authorities; a sad symbol of the collapse of the Roman Empire as a whole. The exhausted remains of the Roman army, many of them barbarian or native auxiliaries rather than actual Romans, were retreating from this furthest province of the Empire, leaving the defenceless Britons to their fate at the hands of the invading barbarians. Unlike the children, who were thrilled at the sight of infantrymen clad in silver armour and cavalry officers with their crimson capes and golden helmets, the older citizens of this proud city shuddered at the thought of being left without any military protection.
The departure of troops also meant the complete collapse of Roman civilisation and civic way of life, for the resources needed to maintain the civil services and public buildings will have to be redirected towards defence against the invaders, who were sure to flock in even greater numbers once they learn of the army’s departure. And that was still no guarantee that the defence would be successful. So it was no wonder that the troops were greeted by the cold stares of contempt, fear, and anger – the stares of the people who knew that they were being left to their doom, were unable to do anything about it, and yet had to provide lodgings and supplies for this selfish army. Indeed, the silence of the citizens of Londinium was more deafening than the sounds of the soldiers marching down the streets.
(...)
The morning after the first troops arrived to Londinium, a second detachment of the Roman forces approached the city. As it could provide no more lodgings for the soldiers, the new troops had to set camp outside the city walls alongside those from the previous group, and the fields to the west of the city were dotted by thousands of tents, shacks, and makeshift stables – a whole new town in its own right.
The morning was cold and the soldiers lit countless fires to both warm themselves and cook some food to recuperate from a three-day long forced march from the north, shrouding the entire camp in smoke. Coupled with the coldness of the air, a thin layer of unexpected frost that had covered the ground over the course of the previous night, and the unusual eerie silence amongst the soldiers ( caused in equal measure by the weariness after the march and the uncertainty of the upcoming campaign in Gaul ), the entire scene was quite surreal and all the more stranger to behold for the citizens of Londinium who had gathered on the city walls to gaze at this rare and unexpected sight.
Through this maze of improvised quarters, stashes of spears and shields, stacks of hay for the livestock, and scattered groups of tired and ragged men gathered around small heaps of charcoal, three cloaked riders were slowly making their way towards the city gates. One of them was small, hunched, and the clothes he wore underneath his black cloak were only a step above the rags of the homeless beggars that roamed the streets of Londinium. His horse wasn’t in a much better condition than its rider.
The other two men were a stark contrast to the first– not only were their horses strong, trimmed and obviously well-fed, but they wore armour and insignia of the Roman army. Richly decorated breastplates and belts, comfortable and well-stuffed boots that were hard to find in the army these days, and ornamented sheaths for their swords rather than simple leather ones for the common soldiers – all these things indicated that the two men were not just regular cavalrymen, but rather some very highly ranked army officers.
The two men did put some effort into concealing their attire by wearing long and thick hooded cloaks, but they still attracted some attention from the few people that were on the streets at this early hour.
The two officers were following the third man’s lead as he was navigating his way down the streets and alleyways of Londinium. Thankfully, the grid layout of the Roman city was easy to navigate and they reached their destination within minutes. The building in front of which they stopped was not much of a sight to behold – a regular two-story tavern, with drinking and eating space on the ground level and sleeping quarters on the first floor. Just one out of dozens of similar establishments in the city. But the three men didn’t come here in search for lodgings or food.
“He’s here?” one of the officers asked their guide.
“Yes. I sent him a message two weeks ago and told him to meet me here.”
“Did he reply to confirm?”
“Of course he did. He said he’ll come. Or do you think I’d bring you here if I wasn’t sure he’ll be here too?” the little man retorted, somewhat irritated.
“Hmm...”
The officer didn’t really trust this little freak of a man, but he decided not to argue any further, as it would be fruitless. The man didn’t have anything to gain by tricking them, so he decided to suppress his usual distrust and skepticism towards strangers for the time being. The ones selling miracles were on the lowest possible level in his eyes, but if his commander decided to trust him, then he would obey.
“Shall we, Sire?” he asked his companion.
“Yes. Let’s go” the man replied.
The three dismounted, tied their horses by the roadside and entered the tavern. The sight wasn’t very welcoming. The ceiling was low, and a particularly tall man would have to hunch in order to move around. Three small windows and two equally small oil-lamps were the only sources of light in the room, so the place was in a sort of half-light that made it seem as if every time of the day was dusk. The originally white walls were gray from the accumulated smoke and soot coming from a small hearth in the corner of the room.
The officer, named Marcus, also noticed traces of moisture at the corners and near the ceiling. And yet, despite being such a shabby and unwelcoming place, the tavern was noisy, full of people and activity. There were about a dozen tables in total plus a pair of large benches, most of them already taken. The customers were diverse; half of them were legionnaires that took lodgings here, the other half a mixture of merchants, clerks and various craftsmen. They were served by two young women, presumably the daughters of the innkeeper; he himself was nowhere to be seen.
“Over there” the midget guide said to his two companions, pointing at the table in the far corner of the inn. “In that corner”.
The three men removed the hoods of their cloaks and made their way across the room and towards the table situated by one of the small windows. It was occupied by a single customer who, having finished his meal, was leaning on the table with his left hand pressed against his chin and gazed absentmindedly through the window.
The few faint rays of sunlight that managed to make their way through the dim and dirty glass were illuminating the man’s face. He appeared to be middle-aged, probably in his early thirties, but whose face was a testament to a harsh life he must have led. He was bald and clean-shaven, the skin on his cheeks was rough from the cold winds and winters of Britain, and there was a long and deep horizontal scar on his left cheek, one that only a knife or a sword would leave. His cold gray eyes seemed empty at first glance, but were capable of piercing anyone who looked into them with a stare that made one feel uncomfortable; as if the man was able to read your every thought and feeling just by locking his gaze with yours. All in all, a bit intimidating face.
As the three companions approached the table, the man snapped out of his pondering and turned his gaze towards these newcomers. He immediately recognised the small one that had led the two officers.
“Long time, no see, old boy“, the man said with a weak smile.
“Long time indeed, my friend. Hope you're doing well.“
“No worse than usual. But I hope your visit might improve my fortunes.“ The man produced a small piece of parchment from his coat and put in on the table as the midget seated himself at the table opposite him. The two Roman officers were still standing.
“Haven’t heard from you for months, and then you suddenly write to me, talking of a job.”
“Does that mean you’re accepting it?”
“Well, a man can’t live from air alone, but before I say yes...” said the man, turning his eyes to the two officers, ”I’d like to know what is it that I’m getting involved in.”
The officers exchanged a look, nodded and finally seated themselves at the table. The one to speak first was the officer Marcus:
“My name is Marcus Cantius, a tribunus of the Roman Army. My companion is General Constantine III, the supreme commander of all the Roman military forces in Britannia.”
The man, Constantine, nodded in confirmation and placed his left hand on the table. It was adorned by a single large golden ring bearing the mark of the legions – a Roman eagle – that was only carried by the military commanders of the highest rank.
The fourth man narrowed his eyes and stared at the Roman general in distrust. After a few long moments of silence, he finally moved and spoke to Constantine in a sleek and ironic tone, not bothering to hide his sneer while talking to the man.
“So, what can a humble commoner do for such a noble gentleman, General?”
Marcus didn’t miss the mocking way he pronounced the last word, and wanted to repay the man for his insolence, but Constantine didn’t seem to notice or mind the man’s tone.
“Well, I hope that calling yourself ‘humble commoner’ is nothing more than false modesty, for I am in a need for a man of special skills.” the general retorted.
“Special skills?”
“Yes. I need someone skilled in the ways of magic. I need... a wizard.”
After another short period of silence, Constantine continued.
“Your friend” he said, pointing at the midget, “told me that he knows one such person. A great sorcerer, he said, who could easily solve my problem. I trusted him, and he brought us to you. Are you really a wizard, mister...?”
The man sneered at Constantine again, but this time it was a little less malicious. At least the conversation seemed to intrigue him. After all, it’s not everyday that a general comes to ask for a special service.
“Merlin”, he replied. “Call me Merlin.”
“Well then, Merlin, are you interested in the job I have for you?”
“I’d lie if I were to say that I’m not, having a customer of such calibre, but are you willing to pay the price for my services?”
“The price shouldn’t be a problem. I can give you all the money you want.”
“I didn’t say that the price will be in gold and silver. Only after I’ve heard your request can I determine the appropriate compensation for my efforts. It all depends on you and your request.”
It was Constantine’s turn to be suspicious now. The man in front of him wasn’t just after the money, and it made him feel uneasy. He wasn’t thrilled about dealing with Merlin first and knowing what the price would be afterwards. But he didn’t have much choice.
“Very well. I give you my word that you will be compensated in any way you wish, as long as it is within my power to do so.”
“Alright, then, let’s hear your request.”
(...)
Later that day, Merlin was walking slowly along the muddy and marshy banks of the river Thames to the west of the city, lost in his thoughts. The meeting he had this morning with the Roman general Constantine had entertained him greatly; he found out for sure, and much to his amusement, that human arrogance really knew no bounds.
The ambitious general wanted to make his name in Gaul and eventually maybe even rise to the position of an Emperor, but he wasn’t willing to completely give up on Britain just yet. Confident that he would emerge victorious from his campaign on the Continent, he intended to return to this island and claim it back once his quest for power had been completed. Not out of goodness of his heart or the concern for the population that was being left to their doom, of course. Constantine felt no emotional attachment to Britain, but he still wished to possess and rule it – after all, if one’s ultimate goal is power and wealth, then it’s only natural to wish to extend one’s domain as much as possible.
But as arrogant as he might have been, Constantine wasn’t completely stupid. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to hold on to Britain once he has departed for Gaul along with all the troops stationed on the island, and he knew that as soon as they were gone, the country will fracture into a thousand little fiefdoms, and the barbarians from the north and from Germania would only make the situation more chaotic. Internal struggles between warring states and clans would tear the country apart and a prolonged and bloody warfare would be the only means of uniting the former province into a single country again, and Constantine wanted to avoid that. That’s why he needed a miracle.
He found out that there was a powerful and skilled sorcerer in Britain, and the rumour was that he could perform any kind of witchcraft and make miracles come true. Although he was very skeptical of such rumours at first, after he came across someone who claimed to know the wizard personally, he decided to give it a try. As he couldn’t see any other way to solve his problem, he rested his hopes on a miracle. At least there wasn’t anything for him to lose. So he devised a plan.
“He is quite an imaginative man”, Merlin had to admit as he watched the ships moored in the port of Londinium being loaded with supplies for the upcoming voyage, “even if he is a complete fool.”
The plan that Constantine came up with was this: if he were to one day return to Britain, he needed the people to embrace and acknowledge him as the rightful ruler of the country, for without the support of the people he couldn’t hope to gain the upper hand against the warlords and dukes he would challenge for supremacy. A miraculous symbol of his right to rule over the country was needed for him to have legitimacy in the eyes of the people, and the weaker lords would probably ally with someone wielding such authority rather than opposing him. So even if his military forces weren’t enough to retake the country all by themselves, a miracle would make it possible.
The miracle itself was simple – drawing a sword from the stone.
When he was but a common soldier, Constantine met, talked to, and befriended many Germanic people who served in the army as auxiliary troops and mercenaries. Just as the legionnaires introduced these barbarians to the Roman customs and ways of life, the barbarians from Germania shared their own native culture and traditions with the Roman troops. This way the soldier Constantine learned bits of their legends and folklore, among other things.
The legend he liked the most was that of the warrior who drew the sword of the Gods from a tree. No other man but that warrior could draw the sword, and upon pulling it out, the sword was given to the man as a gift, and he went on to accomplish many great deeds with it. The legend originated in the far northern parts of Germania, and was passed down for many generations before the migrating Germanic tribes brought it to the Roman Empire along with them.
Merlin had heard of this legend too, having traveled to Germania twice over the course of the last decade, but as far as he knew, that’s all it was – a legend. Not that it mattered to either him or Constantine whether the warrior and the sword in the tree were real or not; what mattered was their legend. With his magic, Merlin was to put a special spell upon a sword provided by Constantine, and would put the sword into a stone somewhere in or outside the city on the day of the departure. The spell would prevent anyone but Constantine to pull the sword out of the stone, and people had to be told of the sword’s magical properties. Upon his triumphal return, Constantine would draw the sword and claim his right as the supreme ruler of all Britain, and the people would bow before such a miracle.
“Honestly, what a fool!” Merlin chuckled.
When he first learned of his customer’s identity from the officer Marcus, he was furious at the man who was leaving Britain to ruin without batting an eye, but the more he learned of the general and his wish, the more he entertained and amused him.
Just how stupid did the general think these people were? Granted, they were largely ignorant and superstitious, but to expect them to forget that it was that same general who left their country to chaos and destruction, and to expect them to bow to him just because he drew a sword no one else could? The Roman general must have lost his touch with reality after he had risen to power overnight.
“A sword that only a worthy man can pull out, huh? A sword that would make him king.”
Oh, how he wanted to use his wish against him and blow the general’s endless arrogance and conceit back into his face. What a sight it would be to behold – no matter how many years he would have to wait for it, to see his bewildered and confused face once he tried to pull the sword out but failed... seeing that face would be the greatest reward.
One cannot rule over the hearts of the people with magic, and drawing a magical sword from the stone wouldn’t help a man like Constantine regain control over Britain.
“But in the hands of a righteous man...”
Merlin was surprised at himself; this same thought came to his mind back at the inn when the general made his request. The foolishness of the man’s wish was apparent to him at once, there was no need to ponder over it any further. But the idea itself had stuck in Merlin’s mind. “In the hands of a righteous man...” A righteous man.
Constantine wasn’t the right person to rule Britain, that was obvious to anyone. The miracle of a magical sword would be wasted on a man like him. But if there was someone truly worthy of ruling, then such a miracle would be very useful, and it would make it easier for the man to unite the country that was sure to fall apart as soon as the Roman ships crossed the Channel.
If there were such a worthy man somewhere, then the Roman general’s foolish wish might actually prove to be useful and serve a greater purpose than as a mere prank aimed at the conceited general.
Well, it wasn’t that Merlin didn’t love his country, and if there was a way to save it from the destruction it was heading to then he was willing to try - but he was not a naive dreamer either. Turning back towards the city, he was still contemplating what to do.
He ended up walking around the city for the rest of the day. With his hands behind his back, he wandered around the busy city streets aimlessly. One moment he would decide to “grant” the general’s wish and trick him, the other to use the opportunity and one day select a proper king with the sword, only to decide not to bother with any of it a few minutes later.
Constantly torn apart between the choices, he suddenly realised that the sun had already set and that it was getting really dark. He told the general that he’ll need a day to think about his request and determine an appropriate compensation. They were to meet at that inn again once the sun had set. But after an entire day of thinking, he still couldn’t decide.
“Well, I guess a little bit of waiting is a small price for a miracle” he told himself as he turned around and made his way towards the inn.
(...)
The inn was full and even livelier than it was in the morning. After a hard day’s work, many people decided to brighten up their lives in a tavern through the magic of food, ale and wine. Additional chairs were brought by the innkeeper to provide for all the extra customers; the lodgers were now only a small minority among the people gathered at the inn. The gloomy future didn’t seem to bother the blacksmiths and carpenters who were toasting to something as they started to drink their second round of ale.
It didn’t take long for Merlin to find his company – they were seated at the same table where they met him in the morning. Approaching the table, Merlin could tell that the officer Marcus was slightly agitated and it wasn’t difficult for him to guess why.
“Good evening, gentlemen.” he said to the three men who were sipping their wine in silence. He was almost an hour late.
“You’re late!” replied Marcus, unnerved by Merlin’s nonchalant greeting.
“Yes. Yes I am.”
Marcus was dumbstruck for a moment by such a straightforward answer, and Constantine took the opportunity to speak to Merlin. Unlike his companion, who got unnerved at the sight of the insolent latecomer, the general breathed a sigh of relief when Merlin finally showed up. For a while he was afraid that the wizard won’t even come, which could only be interpreted as refusing to grant his wish. This way, there was still hope.
“I don’t usually take kindly to those who show up so late, wizard. I am a man of the army after all. But I’ll make an exception for you this time.”
“Well, beggars can’t be choosers, general.”
“Indeed. So, what have you decided? Will you do as I ask?”
If he were to be honest, Merlin would have to answer “I don’t know”.
While he was walking back to the inn, he decided to clear his thoughts. The general’s request bugged him much more than he expected, and the idea that was formed in his head was something he never thought he’d even think of – indeed, he had a hard time admitting to himself that such a foolish thought would even cross his mind at this point in life.
He eventually got angry at himself for that, and decided to push all of his thoughts about the general’s request out of his head. He was able to relax for a short while, and by the time he had entered the inn he had forgotten all about it. As far as he was concerned, he came there to have a nice drink with an old friend and his two companions. General’s question suddenly brought him back to reality.
Having to think about it again agitated him greatly. He was tired and wanted to get done with it all as soon as possible and return to his normal life. ‘To hell with it!’ Merlin thought and decided not to bother about what will come later. ‘I might as well get a little fun out of this entire charade.’
“Yeah, I’ll do what you want.” he said with a faint smirk.
“Excellent!” Constantine exclaimed. He was visibly relieved and happy upon hearing Merlin’s words.
“I’m really glad you’ve agreed to take part in this.”
“Pleasure’s all mine, general.” Merlin replied, barely managing to hold back a chuckle.
Constantine’s boyish enthusiasm entertained him a lot. This man might be a capable warrior and a good tactician, but he was foolish and horrible at reading people. He would never make a good politician.
“We have to make a toast! You there, girl!” the general called for one of the girls who were serving customers at the table next to them.
“Yes, mister. How can I serve you?” the girl asked tenderly.
“Bring us more wine. The best you have, and an extra cup for this man!”
“Right away, mister!”
As the girl hurried to fetch the wine, Constantine turned to Merlin again.
”I am very thankful that you’re so willing and understanding. So, in what way shall I repay you, Merlin?”
Another thing he didn’t decide upon. Actually, he didn’t really think about it at all.
“I don’t know. I haven’t decided what I’d want.”
“Then I’ll reward you the best way I can. After this is done, you’ll probably be the richest man in all of Britain! How about it?”
“Hmm...” Gold and precious stones never interested Merlin a lot. He had his own ways to obtain money, and he didn’t really need much money anyway.
“Come on Merlin!” his midget friend urged him, “you can’t honestly tell me you’d refuse such an offer?!”
“I really can’t. Well, how about this general – I’ll think about it until the designated day, and if I can’t think of anything by then, then I’ll gladly take your gold.”
“Excellent. I am glad that we have reached an agreement. Three days from now, we shall be leaving Britain. I will keep in touch with you until then. After you’ve fulfilled your end of the bargain, I’ll give you your reward. I give you my word as a Roman general.”
Merlin grinned again, but the general didn’t notice.
“Now man, let us shake hands to seal our deal like gentlemen.” Constantine said, reaching out to Merlin.
“Gladly” he replied. This general kept amusing him.
As they grabbed each other’s hands, a cold shiver suddenly went down Merlin’s spine and he froze for a moment.
“Is something wrong?” Constantine asked. Merlin’s thoughts wandered off for a split second.
“No, no, everything’s fine” he replied as he came back to his senses.
Two of them exchanged a strong and hearty handshake, and just as they let go of each others’ hand the girl returned with their drinks. Constantine raised his cup of wine and proposed a toast:
“Gentlemen – for a bright future!”
Other three men raised their cups as well.
“For a bright future!” Marcus and the midget exclaimed, while Merlin just murmured the words in a quiet voice. But no one noticed.
They emptied their cups and ordered another round. The four spent the rest of the evening drinkin and chatting merrily and Constantine in particular was very talkative, speaking with enthusiasm about his future plans. Merlin, on the other hand, was mostly silent and seemed somewhat dispirited throughout the evening. Something bothered him again.
(...)
Two nights later, Merlin was lying fully awake in his bed, staring at the ceiling of a small room which he rented when he arrived in Londinium three days ago. No matter how much he wanted it, he could not fall asleep for even a minute. Magic was always an option, but he hated using it for such trifles, and besides, that would be a cheat in a battle against his own mind. A battle he had to win one way or the other.
But no matter how much he tried to push these unwanted thoughts out of his head, every time he got close to clearing his mind, the presence of a certain object in his room reminded him of the problem at hand, and he’d be thrust into a spiral of doubt and questioning once more.
The said object was a sword.
It wasn’t a normal, regular spatha which the legions used, nor a Celtic longsword that was widely used by the barbarian auxiliaries and even the native Britons. Its blade was roughly the same length as an average spatha, but the hilt was much longer, 8 inches in total and clearly tailored for two handed use. The elaborate and detailed decorations that adorned both the hilt and the blade would make it apparent to everyone who’d see the sword that was not a weapon to be used in combat – it was a ceremonial sword, an ornamental item that served as a proof of power and royalty.
The grip of the hilt was dyed blue and a small pearl was embedded in the pommel. While the normal spatha only had a minimal guard at the top of the hilt, this sword had a prominent and gilded cross-guard with further decorations.
The central ridge of the blade also seemed gilded, but the most striking and most richly ornamented part of the sword was the 6-inches long portion of the blade directly under the cross-guard, the part that was merely a naked blade on every other sword – but not on this one. On one side of the sword it was decorated with a beautiful pattern of blue and gold, and graced by yet another small precious stone. But the even more important and unusual was the same part of the blade on the opposite side of the sword. On this side it was a flat silver surface with a thin golden frame. A text was engraved on the blade in golden letters.
The text, written in the native language of the Britons, rather than Latin, was as follows:
“Whosoever pulleth out this sword of this stone shall be the rightwise king of all Britain”.
The wording was suggested by Merlin himself during his meeting with the general two days ago, when he agreed to take part in this little endeavour. Constantine liked it, and the finished sword was brought to him on the following day so that he could perform his magic. But that was not needed – he only needed a moment to cast his spell, and he would do it when he inserts the sword in the stone.
The troops were leaving the next day at noon and this was the night during which he had to take the sword to the designated place and put it in the stone that Constantine had arranged to be brought there. Since the storm of his conflicting thoughts promised him no rest, he suddenly sprang out of bed, grabbed the sword, wrapped it in some cloth that was lying by the bedside, and left his room and the inn.
Walking hurriedly down the mostly deserted city streets, he headed to where the stone was. It was near the edge of a large meadow to the north of the city, not far from the now abandoned and ruined amphitheatre and a stone’s throw away from the edge of the forest. The stone was a slab of sandstone, one foot high, three feet wide and two feet long.
No decorations, runes or reliefs adorned it, but one word was carved into the stone on the frontal side, facing westwards: “CALIBVRN”.
It was the name given to the sword by the Roman general.
Merlin approached the stone and unwrapped the sword. It was a truly beautiful piece of craftsmanship that could probably withstand blows from even the hardest and sturdiest blades, despite its ceremonial and ornamental nature. However, what occupied Merlin’s thoughts weren’t the rich decorations, but the words imprinted on the blade.
Whoever pulls this sword from the stone shall be the rightful king of all Britain.
Two days ago, as he was asked by Constantine what his answer was, Merlin quickly made up his mind and decided to pull a prank on him. The spell he’d put on the sword would not allow anyone to pull it out of the stone, including the arrogant general. Constantine’s face when he failed to accomplish the feat would be the pay he wished for.
However, he had to abandon that plan after he shook hands with the general.
For as long as he could remember, Merlin had the ability to see the future. Well, it wasn’t simply seeing the outcome or predicting the future as he pleases. It was far more useless than that. From time to time, under various circumstances, he saw visions of the future. They were mostly very short, merely brief flashes of things to come, and they rarely contained any specific details. As the years passed, he got better and better at interpreting these confusing visions, and accepted this ability that was both a gift and a curse.
As he grabbed the general’s hand, one such vision assaulted him, and it didn’t take him long to figure out its meaning – he was shaking hands with a dead man. Constantine would never return to this island from his campaign in Gaul. Instead, he would end up just the way Merlin himself predicted when he first met him and heard his wish – his ambitions would amount to nothing and he would die only a few years from now So his own wish to make a fool out of Constantine through his wish would not be granted either.
Standing next to the stone, Merlin was at a loss about what to do. The idea that was conceived in his head two days ago would still not leave him. He could use this sword to select and empower a person who’s fit to rule Britain. But seeking such a person was a long and ardeous journey with no promise of results, a journey he wasn’t too eager to embark upon at this point in life and with his current mindset and experiences. Chasing such a dream would be foolish. It’d be much simpler to just put the sword in the stone and leave it there for all eternity.
Still unable to make up his mind, Merlin suddenly heard a faint noise and turned around. A few feet from him were two small children, a boy and a girl. Neither of them could have been more than 8 years old, and they were both dressed in dirty rags.
‘Orphans’ Merlin realised ‘Street urchins.’ They were quite pitiful to behold.
The children and the wizard kept staring at each other for a while, until Merlin finally broke the silence:
“What do you kids want? What are you waiting for?”
“I dunno.” The little boy replied, looking at the beautiful sword in Merlin’s hands. “Something miraculous I guess.”
“Will you make something amazing happen?” the girl asked.
“I...” the words stopped in Merlin’s throat.
What will he do? What does he want to do? There are two paths in front of him now, neither of them very appealing. But the two children who followed him all the way here keep staring at him with their large, dark eyes, demanding an answer.
“I...”
He has to make a choice now.
And he does. He finally makes a decision.
“I can’t make anything truly amazing happen. But someone else can.”
He says so to the two curious children and turns to the stone. He takes the sword Caliburn in his right hand and raises it over the stone.
No special incantation is needed for a magus as powerful as him.
He lowers his hand and puts the spell upon the sword.
‘Let no man pull this sword out of this stone unless it deems them worthy. Let them try and fail until I find a man deserving of this sword!’ He can feel his magic flowing through his Magic Circuits, down the hilt and the blade and into the stone. Once the first part of his magic is complete, he puts another spell upon the sword.
‘Let my impure blood give the one who pulls out this sword the part of my power. May they never age from the moment this sword is set free, so that they may rule over these lands for many years and bring this troubled land the prosperity and peace it craves!’
As the magic is cast and the sword lowered into the stone, a thunder suddenly pierces the dark skies and breaks the silence of the cold night.
It may not be anything particularly flashy and impressive, but as he turns around, Merlin sees that the two children were satisfied by his performance. Honest smiles of excitement and adoration brightened up their dirty faces at the sight of Merlin’s trick with the sword and the thunder.
“That was indeed miraculous, Mister!” the girl says earnestly.
“No.”, he says smiling and shaking his head. “A true miracle will be pulling that sword out.”
“Can you pull it back out?” the boy asks him.
Merlin smiles again. He hasn’t smiled this much for a long time.
“No, I’m not worthy. But I will find someone who is.”
He says so and heads back towards the city along with the two orphans.
(...)
The next day the Roman troops left Britain for good.
The magical sword that no one could pull out was found soon after, and the bishop of London interpreted it as a miracle from God. On Merlin’s instructions, of course.
General Constantine III enjoyed several early victories in his campaign in Gaul and was even recognised as a co-emperor by the Emperor Honorius in 409. However, his luck was not to last, and the tide of war turned against him soon enough. He was betrayed and forced to surrender to his opponents. Constantine III was executed in the year 411.
As expected, Britain was plunged into a long period of chaos once the Roman army left, and thus began the period that would latter be known as the “Dark Ages”.
The magical sword Caliburn remained fixed firmly in the stone outside Londinium.
Its miracle was not realised, and was thus relegated to the realm of legend.
__________________________________________________ __________________________________________________ ____
Author's notes ( explanations ):
- While my intention was to keep the setting as historically accurate as possible, there are things I had to sacrifice for the sake of the story.
At the time when these events ( Roman withdrawal from Britain ) took place, Londinium was already half-deserted and in a sorry state, far from being able to house half the Roman army. But I needed a proper setting for this whole chapter, and for the sword in the stone itself, and London was the most obvious choice.
- As you can probably tell already, my version of Merlin's character is somewhat different from his ( short ) depiction in F/SN. I'll keep his womanising skills and tendency to tease people, but I'll tone it down considerably. I can't squander such an important character and relegate him to a bungling buffoon for the sake of "canon".
Also, any suggestions and constructive criticisms are welcome.
You can read it on FFN here: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/9046563/...ries-of-a-king
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Originally Posted by RadiantBeam
