by Amy Cross
"Get on with it!" Arthur shouts.
"You will die," the prisoner says. "You will sustain a mortal wound today, and you will die tomorrow after you have been taken to Avalon."
"And the kingdom?" Arthur asks.
"It'll be fine," says the prisoner. "Those nasty Saxons'll be kept out for a bit longer. But not forever."
"Then the battle is without any purpose," Arthur says.
"A noble death is a worthy purpose," the prisoner says, "or would you prefer to die alone and forgotten on your bed? Of course, perhaps there's a third way." He steps forward, putting his hands on the bars of the cage. "Let me go free, and perhaps I can help you achieve a much greater glory."
"I will never set you free," Arthur says. "Not until you give me what I want, anyway."
"That again," says the prisoner, smiling. "Can't you just let it go?"
"It's a simple request," Arthur says, leaning closer. "Gave me your name, and I'll let you go."
"My name is my greatest weapon," the prisoner says. "I'll be hanging onto it, thank you."
"I know it anyway," Arthur says. "I've been told by certain... mutual friends. All you have to do is confirm it when I whisper it to you. I know who you are." He leans even closer. "Merlin."
"Wrong," says the prisoner. "Wrong wrong wrong."
"Then you'll rot here," says Arthur.
"And you'll die on the battlefield," the prisoner says, grinning. "You'll sustain a mortal wound, and you'll die at Avalon. It'll be a noble death. Your name will be remembered by generations to come. But you will die, and death is never painless."
Arthur stares into the prisoner's eyes. For more than five years, he has kept this miserable wretch down here, and he has always been certain that one day he'll break him and discover his name. Now, though, it seems that time is running out. "I won't release you," he says, "and if I die today, you will rot here forever because I will leave word that you are never, ever to be released."
"Nice sentiment," the prisoner says, "but we both know that your successors will be weaker men. They'll fall for my tricks, the way you haven't. I'll be free within a year, and I'll come to your grave. I'll dance above your body."
Arthur turns and walks away. He feels like a fool: long ago, he decided never again to come down and speak to the prisoner, yet he couldn't help but feel that one day he might get what he wanted. Just a name. Is a name really so important? Especially when many lives depend upon the truth.
He pauses at the door.
He knows he'll be dead within a day. A sword will pierce him, and he will be taken to Avalon. It's inevitable, and he has neither the ability nor the will to stop it. The prisoner was right: it will be a noble death, one that commands the respect of the kingdom, and there will be no doubt about his status as king of the Britons. And the sword... He pulls the sword from its sheath and admires its blade. The sword will live on after him, and will fight many more battles. Perhaps that's the most important thing. Arthur knows he has always been the sword's servant, the sword's tool. Tonight, today, he will give his life so that the sword can continue its journey. One day the sword too will die, and they will finally be reunited. But for now, Arthur knows that the battle will be won even if he himself shall fall. There is no time to waste.
Death is coming.
Jess
Today.
That night, we make a small camp under the stars and we sit in the forest. Duncan manages to catch a wild rabbit, so we eat well, and we've brought enough water for the trip. I find myself constantly watching Darla, looking out for some kind of sign that all isn't well. I keep expecting to see that she doesn't drink, or she doesn't eat, but the truth is: she does everything she's supposed to do. She even manages to transform into a wolf when we go hunting. In short, there's nothing about her appearance or her manner that suggests she's not the real Darla. If I hadn't seen her die back in Scotland, I wouldn't doubt for a moment that it's her. Part of me wishes I could be fooled like that, because having Darla around again would really help. But I know it's not really her. I don't know what it is, but I know it's not really her.
"You missed me?" she asks later as we sit by the fire. Duncan has gone to find another rabbit, claiming that he's far too hungry to sleep, so Darla and I are left alone.
"Yeah," I say. I'm finding it hard to speak to her, because I know she's going to somehow vanish eventually and I don't want to invest any thought or feeling in our interaction. It's as if I'm intentionally keeping a barrier between us, so that when she's gone again it won't hurt so much.
"I missed you too," she replies. "I mean, not when I was in little pieces. But after I pulled myself together, so to speak, I realized that I'd got used to hanging out with you and Duncan." She pauses. "I guess what I mean is, I'd like to stick around for a while, if that's okay? Unless you and him want some quality time alone."
"Hell no," I say. "We're..." I take a deep breath. Why am I even having this conversation with a fake Darla? "Duncan and I aren't an item," I continue. "We've had sex a few times, but he..." I pause again. "The funny thing is, I'm actually married!"
"Seriously?" Darla asks, her eyes wide with shock.
"Yeah," I say, smiling. "I met this guy, Thomas, in the library, and somehow I ended up marrying him. He's still alive, back there somewhere."
"I never took you for the marrying kind," Darla says.
"Me neither," I say. "I mean, it wasn't a big white wedding or anything. His tribe believes that marriage can take place when two people agree on it between them, so it was kind of like a fancy handshake. But still, he's my husband and I'm his wife."
"And you and Duncan?" Darla asks.
"There's nothing there," I reply. "He's got... issues that prevent him from really feeling anything for anyone. I've started to learn more about Duncan, and I can see that he holds everything, and everyone, at a distance. He'll sleep with me, but he won't really let me get close, under his skin."
"Because he doesn't want to get hurt?"
"I guess so." I look over at her. It's so strange, seeing her face in the flickering light of the fire. I guess I understand Duncan's feelings a little better: maybe his reason for not letting me get too close is similar to my reason for not letting this fake Darla get too close. Maybe Duncan sees me as a kind of fake Anna. I don't know who Anna is, not properly, but I know she's this girl Duncan used to hang out with, and I know she's dead, and I know she and I look a little similar, and I know he won't talk about her. Maybe, to him, I'm like a ghost.
"What are you going to do after you've finished with this Excalibur business?" Darla asks. Maybe I'm being hyper-sensitive, but I feel like she's drilling me for information, as if she's been sent to find out as much as possible about me.
"I'm going to go back to the wilderness," I say, figuring it can't hurt to tell her the truth. "I'm going to switch into my wolf form, and I'm going to stay like that for as long as possible. Maybe forever."
"To get away from human memories?" she asks.
"Exactly," I say, smiling. "I mean, it's fun being human, but I've done it for more than twenty years now. I figure I've got this opportunity to get all wolfy, so why not take it?"
"You want some company?" she asks.
"Sure," I say, forgetting for a moment that there's no way Darla could ever come with me. I mean, she's so obviously fake. Also, there's a part of me that wants to be a lone wolf. Maybe there was a time when I wanted Duncan to be with me, and I liked the idea of us exploring the wilderness together in our wolf forms. But lately, I've started to realize that being alone is kind of fun too. At least no-one can hurt you, and you can just wander the wild landscape, not even having to think about the past. That's what I want: I want my wolf side to take over so completely, so comprehensively, that I never think about Duncan or Darla or my family again.
"Relax," Darla says after a moment. "I might come and visit sometimes, but I won't crowd you full-time. I couldn't live like that. I need the city. I need excitement."
I l
augh. "Says the girl who was living in a cage at a carnival when I met her."
She stares blankly at me.
"Vigrous Grinde?" I say, to remind her.
Still, she stares blankly. "Oh," she says eventually. "Yeah."
I pause. If this is such a perfect recreation of Darla, how come she doesn't seem to remember the time I met her at the carnival? "It's okay if you don't remember," I say.
"It's not that," she replies, "it's just that... Some things are a bit hazy. I guess the vaporizer messed with my memories."
I stare at her for a moment. "Do you remember when you went nuts in Edinburgh and kidnapped a baby?"
"Of course!" she replies. "Hell, how could I forget that?"
"What about Franklin Blaum?"
She stares again, clearly not able to remember anything about the Blaum Building in London.
"Do you remember the Underworld?" I ask.
"Yeah," she says. "Kind of. I remember we found Duncan down there."
"Do you remember Matt DiMera?" I ask.
She shakes her head.
I sigh. It's pretty obvious what's happening here. This version of Darla remembers everything that happened when we were with Duncan, but nothing that happened when it was just me and her. All the stuff that happened at the carnival, and in the Blaum Building, and when we first went down to the Underworld, is completely missing from her memory. This can only mean one thing: this version of Darla is constructed from Duncan's mind, not mine. Whoever, or whatever, has created this fake Darla has reached into Duncan's mind to draw out the details. Duncan was right: there are some gaps in 'this' Darla, some obvious mistakes. Were we really supposed to be fooled?
Actually, I think one person has been fooled, and that's the fake Darla herself. She seems to be genuinely perplexed by these gaps in her memory. It must be pretty strange for her if she truly believes that she's Darla.
"Sometimes things don't make sense," she says slowly, staring into the fire. "Sometimes it's like..." She pauses. "I don't remember my childhood. I don't remember my parents. I don't remember growing up." She turns to me. "You want to know the truth? My first memory - my first ever memory - is of us standing in the Underworld, just after we rescued Duncan. Weird, huh? I guess my brain is still healing after everything that happened."
"Maybe," I mutter. For a moment, I started to feel I could talk to this fake Darla as if she was real. But we don't share the same memories, so how can we really be friends?
"I should go," she says, getting to her feet and starting to walk away.
"Wait!" I shout, running after her and grabbing her by the arm. "You can't leave!"
"I'm not really Darla, am I?" she says, turning to me with tears in her eyes. "I'm a fake. I'm a phony."
I smile. "That's exactly what the real Darla would say." I take a deep breath. "No, you're not really Darla. That's pretty clear. But whatever you are, you've got some of Darla's memories and emotions inside your mind, and that's good enough for me." I squeeze her arm. "And you're solid enough. Maybe..." I pause for a moment. "Maybe it would help if we didn't call you Darla."
"But that's my name," she says.
"No," I reply, "that's the name of the girl you're supposed to be a copy of. But maybe if we give you your own name, you can stop pretending to be Darla and you can start being your own person."
"Okay," she says, still not seeming entirely convinced. "What name do you think I should have?"
I take a step back, to get a good look at her. "Karla?" I ask.
She shakes her head. "Too similar to Darla," she says.
"Daria?" I say. "No, scratch that. Something totally new."
"Bob?" she suggests.
"No, maybe -" I suddenly pause, realizing that I've started making jokes with the fake Darla. I kind of feel like the real Darla would get a kick out of this kind of situation. "You should pick your own name," I say.
She looks up at the sky, perhaps hoping for a little inspiration. There's a pause as she seems to be thinking about what to call herself. I guess most people don't ever find themselves in a situation like this; most of us are just born with our names already in place. "I've got it!" she says, looking over at me. "Karla!"
"Karla?" I ask. "You want to call yourself Karla?"
"Yeah," she says. "I mean, it's a good name."
I shrug. "Okay." I turn to see Duncan coming back from the forest, and as he gets closer I see that there's a smear of blood on the side of his mouth. "You got a rabbit?" I ask.
"Yea -" he starts to say, but he's interrupted by his own loud burp. "Yes," he says finally. "What have you two been up to?"
"I've got a new name!" the fake Darla announces proudly. "I realized I'm not the real Darla, so I decided I should have my own name."
"Seriously?" Duncan asks, looking at me.
"She's self-aware," I explain. "Meet Karla."
Duncan turns to her. "This is new," he says. "I'm pretty sure that whoever created you, they didn't intend for you to develop your own personality."
"Too bad," she replies.
"Well..." Duncan pauses. "This is all getting very strange, but I'll do my best to call you Karla from now on."
"Me too," I say.
"And now we need to get moving," Duncan says. "We're close to the spot where we're going to hide Excalibur, and I want to be there by dawn. And Darla... I mean, Karla... I need to ask you something, and I need you to promise you won't be offended."
"Shoot," Karla says.
"I need you to stay here," he tells her.
I can see that she's instantly annoyed by the idea that she can't come with us. "No way," she says. "I'm coming to help you!"
Duncan shakes his head. "I'm worried that whoever's after Excalibur is using you to keep an eye on us. It's too much of a risk to have you with us. We need to go on alone. Please try to understand."
She opens her mouth to argue, but then she sighs. "Fine," she says. "I do understand. I don't like it, but I understand."
"Thank you," Duncan says, before turning to me. "We need to get going," he says. "If we're lucky, we can have this whole thing sorted out by this time tomorrow."
"And if we're not lucky?" I ask.
He pauses. "I guess we'll be dead. Or worse. Something like that."
1,780 years ago
Together, the knights pull the boat to shore and reach out to take their king. His body wracked and ruined, Arthur is carefully passed off the boat and into the arms of the men who carry him to shore. With blood still running from the wound in his chest, Arthur is barely conscious and can do little more than occasionally open his eyes and look up at those who care for him. He always thought his death would be quick, yet it has been many years now since he was injured and he is in such agony, he doesn't know how he is able to remain awake.
"We're nearly there," says a nearby voice.
Arthur relaxes a little as he's carried along the shore. This must be Avalon. He has always known that he would die here, and that his body would be laid to rest deep in the island's rich soil. In many ways, this night is merely the result of destiny being fulfilled. Despite the agony that pulsates through his body, Arthur knows that this is how things are meant to be. This is how he was supposed to die.
Beside him is the sword.
All Arthur can think about is the sword. He knows the power of the blade, and he knows that with his death there will come an age of chaos. The sword will be sought be all the madmen of the land, and there will be struggles to control the union of the nation. Through all of this, the sword will be vital, because it is the sword that has power enough to tame the world. Already, there will be dark forces seeking the sword, asking about it, sending creatures to find it and doing everything they can to assume Arthur's power.
Finally, Arthur is placed on the ground near the edge of the water. His attendants stand back, and one man steps forward. This is the man who will take Arthur's place as king of the Britons.
"The pain will be gone soon," says Constantine, knee
ling to look at the king's wounds.
"So will I," Arthur replies. "When I die, you will take my place."
Constantine bows his head.
"Do you know why I have chosen you?" Arthur asks. "It's not because you are strong, or because you crave power. It's because you are a good man who will not be fooled into giving up the power of the sword." He reaches out and picks up Excalibur one last time, passing it to Constantine. "After I'm gone, you must return the sword to its home. Return it to the place where it was found, and allow it to rest. Its power must be placed out of reach of ordinary men."
Constantine takes the sword, feeling its weight in his hands. "I will do as you say," he replies quietly. A modest man, Constantine is determined to take the role of king and ensure that the country remains strong.
"There is one final thing," Arthur says. "The man in the cage must not be released, not until after the sword has left the realm of mortal men. Only then will it be safe for that man to be loose. And if he does not tell you his name, then you must punish him physically. Cut off his legs, or his arms, but do something to show that vengeance has been visited upon him."
"Something of the like will be arranged," Constantine says, "and I assure you that the union you worked so hard to create will not be wasted. The nation will stay strong, and we will resist the Saxons for as long as they remain committed to their foolish campaign." He pauses. "Men will never forget your name, Arthur."
Silence falls.
"The king is dead," Constantine says, getting to his feet. He turns to the men gathered around on the shore. "He will rest here, in the open. It is what he wanted. His journey is over, but ours is just beginning and we must travel with haste to secure the sword at Damnonia." He turns to look down at Arthur's body. "The king wanted the sword kept safe," he says, "but it would be better to do that at Damnonia rather than simply burying the sword where it was found. Rather than throw its power to the natural world and hope that it is not recovered by another, we would do better to retain control over the sword." He takes a deep breath. "Arthur was right about many things, but he was wrong about some."
