Chapter 19 Tormented #2
"I can't be with someone who embodies my greatest weakness. What if you get angry with me one day and flood my chambers? Or throw me into the moat? How can I trust you?"
"Stop!" Lancelot screamed, attempting to cover his ears but failing because of his sword and buckler, which he was too well-trained to forsake lightly.
The whispers, predictably, didn't stop, only turned to full on speaking.
Magic. It was only magic. Merlin had warned this was one of the ways the fog could behave.
He knew it was magic. The words were false.
Designed to hurt. They hurt all the same, digging into long-buried fears and throwing them on the ground for all to see.
That he was a monster. A philanderer. Dishonorable.
Seeking to steal Arthur's place. Saw himself as better than all of them because he wasn't human.
Tears streaming down his face, he kept his head down and pushed onward, continuing to focus as best he could on the water.
The lake that awaited him, cold and dark and deep, a soothing respite from all the careless noise of land.
All he had to do was reach water. One foot in front of the other, until he reached the lake.
Unfortunately, the mist wasn't finished.
Now the voices came with figures, appearing in the fog like slices of malice given form.
His friends sitting around the table talking about how much better everything was without him.
Merlin calling someone he couldn't see a better friend, his true best friend, and he'd been a fool to ever call Lancelot such.
His mother wishing she had just let him drown. Galehaut wishing he could have his family and land back, acknowledging he'd been a fool to throw away everything that really mattered for a pretty face.
Happy without him. Everyone was so happy without him. Why had he ever thought—
He tripped, catching himself poorly on his left hand, sending searing pain up his arm as it torqued his elbow and wrist.
Something touched him, an arm across his shoulder, and he jerked upright with a cry, rolling away from it and pushing to his feet, sword ready.
Nothing.
Something touched him from behind, and he snapped around to face it.
Nothing again.
The touches came and came and came, always coming to nothing, as more whispers and words and images appeared, reminding him that no matter how hard he tried, he was never really wanted.
Biting back a sob, he resumed his hopeless journey for the only thing that could bring him solace now: the water.
Still he was touched, pushed. Screams in his ears, unseen fingers pulled at his hair, his clothes.
Sending him to the ground over and over, until he was so battered and bruised that it hurt to walk, sweat and blood dripping in his eyes from a particularly nasty tumble.
Turning him around, confusing him, so that it became harder and harder to find the water, leaving him lost in the maze for—
He tripped again, this time over something that felt very real, landing awkwardly in a heap on…
On stone. Carved stone, meticulously laid to form a durable road. Breath hitching, he climbed slowly to his feet, wiping his eyes to see clearly. Well, see the fog clearly at any rate. But the ground had changed, and everything had grown slightly less intense. Had he pushed through it?
Taking several deep breaths to try and steady himself, he pressed on. There was nothing else to do.
The images faded off completely after a couple of minutes, and the voices turned to whispers turned to nothing as a familiar gatehouse appeared from the mist. The first portcullis lifted all on its own as he reached it, but Lancelot wasn't stupid.
Arthur and his frankly evil architects had designed the gatehouse and its double portcullis to be a deathtrap when needed.
The second did not raise automatically with the first. One portcullis had to close before the other could be opened, and to override that option required a key that only Guinevere and Lancelot had copies of.
So no, he would not be entering via the gatehouse.
Instead, keeping his left hand firmly planted on the curtain, he walked east until he came to the grating where sewage and other refuse was carried away to further down river and eventually swept out to sea.
Thankfully, there was no sewage to wade through at the moment, not even old, forgotten sewage as some sort of weird anti-ambiance.
Inside the castle grounds, there was no fog, only darkness, with distant moonlight his only guide, revealing the barest hints of a place both familiar and dreamlike.
The sewage had been built close to the butchers and tanners to try and keep all the foul smells in one place, though of course mages had mitigated the problem for the castle as best they could, especially for the poor people who had to work amongst the foulness every single day.
Camelot had always been a place of noise and bustle, as ceaselessly busy as a beehive in summer. Sometimes it had gotten to be too much for him, and he'd retreat to the deepest parts of the river to find a quiet that only deep water could offer.
He pushed onward, wending through the rough dirt paths that people and time had shaped, the emptiness and quiet making him ache.
No women talking and shouting as they worked and traded goods, no blacksmith hammers ringing out as they made nails and horseshoes and swords.
No bakers bellowing for people to get their goods in because the ovens would be lit soon.
No children chasing chickens all about, forgetting that they were supposed to be collecting eggs.
No life at all, only a memory of it, a tombstone where the letters had nearly worn away.
There was music now. A harp. Chills ran down his spine, because that harp shouldn't be here. Not like this.
Iseult. Who had played for them so many nights at Camelot, while a soft breeze carried the scent of flowers and fresh water, warm candlelight all they'd needed, sitting there together away from their troubles for a couple of hours.
Iseult, one of the most beautiful women in the kingdom, whose mother had the sense to know and accept her daughter, when everyone else had reviled a 'boy who wanted to act like a girl'.
She had found acceptance at Camelot and kinship in Percival and Dred.
She'd also found love in Tristan, whom she'd first met when he came to travel home with Lancelot after his night with Galehaut.
She should not be here, in this mausoleum version of Camelot, playing for the phantoms hiding in the fog beyond the castle walls.
Body aching, dread resting heavy in his heart, Lancelot hastened his pace as he made his way through the expansive, winding grounds to the keep itself.
Up the stairs and through the great doors laboriously carved with Arthur's rowan tree and dragon crest, through a smaller set of doors into the great hall that should be full of talk and laughter and song, a banquet in full sway, with jesters and bards, Arthur and Guinevere sitting at the high table surrounded by friends.
Instead it was empty and gray, with only a few braziers to break up the absolute dark.
On the dais, flanked by braziers, Iseult sat wearing her favorite robin egg blue gown and green kirtle, hair spilling loose around her in a way that never would have been permitted back then, head bowed and eyes closed as she played and played, blood dripping from her fingers and splashing across the strings and her gown.
"Iseult!"
She looked up sharply, the music stopping with a jarring twang—and then everything went dark.
"Well, fuck me."
"Fish boy?"
Relief rushed through him like hot tea on a cold day. "Dred?"
A hand landed heavy on his shoulder, warm and reassuring. Then every brazier in the hall burst to life, along with all four of the fireplaces that kept the hall warm in the coldest months. "So how was the depression-anxiety fog for you?"
"Absolutely awful, especially when it turned into a straight up bullying fog. Did you see the dais before everything went dark?"
"No, I literally just entered the main doors. I heard the playing, though. I'd know that harp anywhere."
"Agreed," said a voice from behind them.
"Fuck me!" Lancelot snarled, whipping around, sword raised before he caught himself and lowered it again. "Arthur, you are such a bitch."
Arthur laughed, though it was tired and slightly forced. "Sorry, wanted some levity after that fog from hell. Is everyone else's self-confidence heavily bruised and in need of cuddling?"
"Yes," Morgan said as she and Galahad stepped through the doorway.
Morgan added, "Galahad helped me through the last of it, when he found me somehow.
I don't know how I would have fared without him, much as it pains me to admit that.
When I find the conniving little bitch I know is behind this, her head is mine once and for all. "
Lancelot sighed. "I was so caught up in just getting through the mess, I never thought about who was behind it.
" Of course Ethelfleda was responsible for this nightmare.
She'd had Morgan trapped in a graveyard, for the love of the deep.
Ethelfleda loved her dramatic, showy displays of wealth and power.
"She was probably hoping the fog would get a couple of us," Galahad said, "but jokes on her. I have depression and anxiety, so it was just like a really bad day for me. Being stuck in limbo was a million times worse." He shuddered. "Let's go help Morgan remove her head."
"Morgan can't even hold a sword correctly," Dred said.
Morgan rolled her eyes and shoved past them. "Less gossiping, more working, please."
"Yes, Your Majesty." Lancelot overtook the lead, the others falling into the same formation they'd used before entering the fog. "Iseult was here."
"We heard the music," Galahad said, "and followed it here, but then everything when completely dark as we reached the stairs, and it vanished."
"Same," Arthur said. "Why is Iseult here?"
Lancelot described what he'd seen and added, "I think she might have been taken like Galehaut."
"No doubt," Morgan said. "It would make sense he captured more than just one of us."
Arthur sighed. "Damn it. Here's hoping we can save them all."
"We will," Dred said, "or Maleagant will be given all new fears." Their eyes burned with inner fire, a simmering rage that would destroy all it touched once it was freed.
Galahad stepped out of formation to grab his wrist and squeeze. "Beloved, I'm fine."
"You nearly weren't," Dred hissed, "and that is not something I will be forgetting anytime soon."
Galahad rested a hand against his cheek. "I did not survive almost being ghosted only to find you and lose you in the same day. Have a care."
Dred turned his head to kiss his palm. "For you."
Smiling, Galahad dropped his hand, stepped back, and drew his sword again.
They moved onward, down the length of the hall. "So how did everyone get into the castle? I used the old sewer grate."
"Where goeth water, so goeth Lancelot," Dred said. "I burned through the nasty little trap in the gatehouse you probably chose to avoid."
Lancelot laughed.
"I climbed the wall," Galahad said.
Morgan scoffed at them all. "I used my shadows to slip past the wall."
Arthur finished cheerfully, "I followed Dred's path of destruction."
"Typical of Your Majesty to do the least amount of work possible," Dred retorted.
"That's what you're for, it's true," Arthur replied with the same cheer.
Beyond the great hall were various storerooms and working rooms. Wine and beer took up most of the space, and there had been even more in the cellar.
A lot of drying had been done here and in the cellar as well, meats, cheeses, and more.
The kitchens were their own separate building just behind the keep proper, to reduce any damage should a fire get out of control in the kitchens, which happened all too often when flame and fats and more were involved.
There were also rooms for the seamstresses, weavers, and such.
The bards and other performers had rooms here.
This was the working part of the castle, versus everything around and above the great hall, where the nobles and guests resided.
Servant quarters were in a dormitory also behind the castle, not because Arthur minded them being in the castle, but because it gave them a place to rest and relax where the nobles wouldn't harass them to death when they weren't working.
Through the doors at the rear was the secondary courtyard, surrounded on all sides by residential rooms on the second floor, and rooms for upper staff, like the seneschal, head cook, etc. on the first. Beyond that was all the outbuildings that served the castle.
They'd just reached the edge of the courtyard when everything went black again.
"Is it just me," Galahad said, "or does this feel like we're stuck in a fucking loading screen?"
"What in the hell is a loading screen?" Dred asked.
Lancelot laughed. "A problem suffered by old games, way before our time."
With a snarl, Dred summoned fire and cast it out, lighting every brazier in the place as he had before, at each column and along the balcony overlooking the courtyard from above.
In the middle stood five knights, each with a black collar around their throat. Galehaut stood in the middle, clearly the leader of this stolen band of knights. The others were arranged two on each side:
Percival, Bran, Tristan, and Bertilak.
"Galahad, get up high and summon the others," Arthur said. "Whatever it takes, get them here."
"Yes, Your Majesty," Galahad said. "Be careful, all of you." Then he was gone.
Morgan stepped back, the mage taking cover behind a wall of steel and might, and summoned her shadows. Lancelot, Arthur, and Dred stepped forward, a line of water, earth, and fire, and prepared to fight their friends.