by GR Griffin
“Do you think they’ll bring Gaius with them?” Merlin’s words gushed from his mouth suddenly without warning, the swell in his throat causing him great discomfort.
There was not a day that went by Merlin didn’t think about the old wise man, about what he had seen in laboratory. Every night before bed, he fell to his knees dejectedly and said a prayer to Gods he had never had a reason to believe in. Some nights, when he was fatigued and drowsy, he felt the wind caress his hair, a soothing voice of assurance carrying through it. He didn’t think much of it. If the supposed Gods wanted to give him a message, he would have hoped they’d have the decency to do it themselves.
“Gaius is strong.” His father replied, steering the conversation away from the proposed topic subtly. “He will not break under the tyranny of Uther-”
The swell in Merlin’s throat burst, bringing with it a wave of overwhelming nausea.
“-We have to do something Father.”
“The labs are dangerous son. Right now, the best we can do is pray for Gaius. We have bigger problems at hand here.”
Balinor bowed his head for moment, clearly attempting to conceal his own upset at the grave situation. That was the burden of being a leader; there were times when you were faced with decisions where you had to clear out bias, no matter who it was. Merlin, shaking his head in despair, still failed to understand the weight of his decisions. He knew his son sometimes believed his calm persona indicated a lack of sympathy or care. In reality, it was quite the opposite.
“But-”
“-Merlin, the Naiimen barrier has just been broken. Camelot Enterprise is rapidly approaching our land. This concerns the whole of Albion, everything we’ve ever known is at stake.”
The severity of his father’s words stunned Merlin into silence. They remained in the eerie silence for the next hour, watching the base with interested eyes. Neither of them spoke. But when Merlin glanced over at his father, he spotted the apprehensive glint in those eyes before he had the chance to disguise it. The raw emotion was enough to send a nervous flutter through his own body. Sighing, he adjusted his position on the branch.
“So what happens now?” he asked in a whisper, almost too quiet for his father to hear.
At first he thought his father hadn’t heard him, and was about repeat his words. However his father turned to him slowly, an unreadable expression plastered over his face.
“This is out of our hands. All we can do now is wait for the Pendragon’s.”
Funny- Merlin had never liked waiting, especially for impending trouble and dollopheads.
Chapter 7
The orange sun was still rising over the horizon, casting elaborate shadows over Camelot Airport. It was 4.30am. The cloudless sky had not yet shaken its honeyed, golden crescent, creating a hue of colours merging into the bright azure midway. Already, the air was pocketed with heat, predicting the beautiful, hot day that was about to unfold. Along the runways of Camelot airport, planes and aircraft were stationed, people flocking towards them to stock up supplies, luggage, and to load on people for the most historic flight ever. It was a very important day after all. It had taken Morgause and her team three intensive weeks to build a base suitable for dwelling in the realm of Albion relatively safely. Now the temporary base was completed, members of the Albion Project could finally get to see Albion with their own eyes. Uther had been rather adamant that his principal team would be the first to fly out, and land in the new world to meet him at the base.
Excitement, anxiety and curiosity were the key emotions spreading contagiously through the air, the mixture resulting in some feeling dizzy; Leon – complexion a little pale - had been the first to excuse himself and get some water from the reception. Gwaine had laughed at this demonstration of candid enthusiasm but wasn’t able to retain his own giddy gait for long, striding clumsily into a rather passive Morgana at the door to the runway. It appeared even she had cast aside her concerns on the ethical issues with the project, allowing curiosity to overcome her.
The aircraft that was to take the main staff over resembled more of a military machine than a vessel built for the purpose of comfort and luxury, Arthur observed silently to himself. The black leather seats imitated the look of a dangerous roller coaster ride with a safety mechanism that was pulled down over the shoulders and head. The aircraft was low-lying, that appeared apparent by its size, only carrying about twenty people maximum with a murky green paint covering the inside and out; camouflage. His father was never one to spend too much on these kinds of things when it came to a bigger business picture. Hauling his suitcase into the luggage compartment, Arthur placed his sunglasses on his head, spending a moment revelling in the glorious sunshine. Surely the weather had to by synonymous to the outcome of the day. They were going to Albion! Arthur had to hide his grin when Leon returned beaming radiantly; because honestly, his father would probably not be happy with the thought of his son associating magic with positivity and wonder.
The beginning of this project may well be exhilarating and adventurous. However, Arthur found it increasingly difficult to set aside his father’s secret agenda, the burden placed upon his own shoulders. In reality, the end was going to be bleak and dark, leaving a scar on humanity, and a psychological trauma that would no doubt haunt the druids – and himself - for all eternity. He had spent the whole of last night awake, breath rapid and heart thumping against his chest desperately trying to thrum away the words of his father.
What kind of person was Arthur Pendragon if he allowed any of this to actually unfold? What kind of person was he to keep such things to himself…to allow others to walk into this dangerous business seaming with desire for imperialism and a constant quest for power that was embedded beneath everything Camelot did? Once these thoughts had surrounded his mind, there was no escape. Arthur had dwelled in silence over these questions for a total of two hours, forty-five minutes. On the forty-sixth minute of 2am – two hours before he had to be at the ruddy airport – he brutally raged a battalion against this barricade of negativity around him.
He should feel honoured – he would be one of a select few to see Albion, for the first time in history! For some reason, this prevailing honour shrivelled up emphatically. It was then Arthur resolved to the next phase of defence: distraction. This had taken up the vast majority of his night, in fear that succumbing to sleep would give the questions an unfair advantaged. He had spent this ‘distraction’ time strangely fascinated with something he should not have found fascinating at all: The Emrys. Borrowing Leon’s copy of the Emrys Scriptures for a few days to ‘gain some knowledge on what challenges the company may face’ – definitely not intrigue – had filled Arthur with unexpected pleasure.
It was one of the best things he’d ever read.
Part of him was naïve enough to assume some prophetic druid had foretold the event of Camelot going to Albion; the collision of races and beliefs; the imminent pain and suffering. There was no trace of such a conflict, though many peculiar verses made reference to the ‘Lion with a Dragon’s heart’. What exactly that meant he did not know. He knew one thing: The Emrys was a much longer compilation of texts than Arthur Pendragon had ever anticipated. He had gotten five pages in and almost fallen asleep at the sheer intensity and cryptic messages of the words. Although, there were a few things that had intrigued Arthur, instigated his imagination: the White Dragon of Albion, the Naiimen and of course Emrys, the most enigmatic and powerful figure in all of these depictions.
The fact that Emrys had a whole sacred druid book equal of stature and significance to the Christian bible indicated the warlock’s power alone. Warlock – Arthur had recently learnt the difference between a druid and a warlock. According to the scriptures, Emrys was not born with magic inside like the rest of the druids, he was – is magic. Arthur wondered why Morgause – or his father - had made no effort to capture this ‘Emrys’ and try to extract his power – surely all of his magic would supply the world with energy and sustainable life for
centuries-
“-Have you listened to a single word I’ve said, dollophead?”
With a dazed expression framing his face, finally evading his mind’s labyrinth of thought, Arthur lifted his sunglasses from his eyes before wiping them with his shirt. Squinting, his eyes distinguished a rugged man in a simple white shirt and faded jeans, eyebrows raised. Before putting the sunglasses back on, Arthur rolled his eyes dramatically at his companion.
“I thought you would have been mature enough to let that slip now Gwaine, but clearly you must have grown into your shoe size.” In reality, Arthur knew Gwaine of all people would never let John Smith’s brave verbal assault be forgotten.
Laughing good-heartedly, Gwaine patted the blonde man on the shoulder.
“Oh Arthur,” he grinned as the pair began to walk up the gentle slant to the aircraft seats. “I miss your sense of humour, where’s it gone?”
A hollow chuckled escaped Arthur’s lips, dense enough to be perceived as a gesture of genuine amusement; though that was far from the truth. Sometimes, Arthur wondered this too. The days before Camelot had been so easy; his smiles were carefree, his eyes were brighter. Gwaine and Morgana were the only two people who had known him long enough to recognise that his office jokes and laughs were forced ninety-six percent of the time. Morgana had made it her mission to come up with exact statistics in order to prove something to Arthur. Apparently, he smiled eighty-two percent less than he had five years ago.
“How can I have a sense of humour when I’m surrounded by imbeciles such as yourself?” he replied lightly, a small smile dusting his face.
Gwaine shot the blonde man a smirk as he sat down in one of the black leather seats, conveniently with a huge glass window in front. There was no way they were going to miss out on the first look over Albion.
“That’s more like it.”
Sitting to the right of Gwaine, Arthur began to buckle himself in. An unpleasant shiver ran up his spine- god, he really had to get over this one day. Hands shaking a little, he managed to clip the elaborate seatbelt around his chest, pulling the harness down over his shoulders. The fact that he was secured merely agitated him further.
“Still scared of flying?” another voice chimed.
Pursing his lips together, Arthur turned his head to his right, meeting the raven-haired women’s mischievous eyes. He was unsure how she managed to look quite so radiant this early in the morning, but did not voice his complements. She perched herself in the seat next to him comfortably, tilting her head for good measure – or more for the case of immature teasing.
“Oh how you never fail to make me feel better in these situations Morgana.” Arthur groaned, letting his head fall back against the headrest with an audible sigh.
To say he was scared of flying was totally overdramatic and untrue. He dreaded the thought of Cedric or Valiant overhearing the demented woman. Besides – he wasn’t scared. It just made him feel really sick and his heart raced and all the blood in his body rushed to his head and all his thoughts became a mesh of panic and anxiety...which did not mean he got scared. A hand gently rested over his.
“Just relax,” she cooed rather soothingly. Narrowing his eyes, Arthur glanced at her sceptically. Then, abruptly came the predicted punch-line.
“But if you’re going to puke, just make sure you get out your seat and aim really hard for Valiant and Cedric. Preferably their faces.”
Leon in the row behind threw his head back with a laugh, Gwaine following. Arthur shot Morgana a deadpan look, and then his lips morphed into a blinding grin.
“Ha-ha! ...Funny.” he exclaimed sarcastically, tone gesturing the opposite of amusement, and thus earning a scowl from Morgana.
Glancing over her shoulder at the two men, Arthur noticed their glares appeared to be concentrated on himself and the women beside him. He leant gently towards Morgana.
“I think they might have heard you.” He whispered.
Scoffing, the woman smirked malevolently.
“I couldn’t care less dear Arthur.”
Closing his eyes, Arthur felt the exhaustion of getting no sleep wash over him. It was going to be a long couple of days. The flight alone was approximately eighteen hours in total, not including stop-off locations. The flight plan was Camelot to New York (six hours) and to spend the day resting in the enterprise’s hotel- Morgause had stressed that landing in Albion at night was not an option with passengers on board. Then it was another ridiculous departure – this time an agonising 1am – to leave at 2am. It would be 1.30pm Camelot-time by the time they got to Albion.
But then, that was just until they got to Albion- not Ealdor. The quickest way of getting to Albion was from the west; Ealdor and Serepolis were on the Eastern side of the huge continent (Arthur was still unsure what exactly Albion could be classified as. The satellite images revealed it was possibly twice the size of Australia). Though Arthur supposed he should be grateful they were on one of the most efficient aircraft.
Less than seventy years ago it would have taken around eight hours to cross over Albion, now it was just under five. Not to mention no-one had any idea what kind of time-zone Albion was running on- did the magic have any impact on the days? It was then he realised how little they all knew about Albion…they were flying into the mouth of a new world, where just about anything could be possible. He hoped Albion was worth it.
A small tingling sensation inside reassured him it was going to be even more staggering than the photographs revealed in the initial meeting three weeks ago, and incomparable in its beauty. Now, eye closed and body beginning to relax into a state of slumber, Arthur could almost picture the miraculous landscape…the endless expanse of forests, the mountains, the waterfalls, the desert plains, the-
“You’re not being boring and sleeping already are you?” Morgana whined rather childishly beside him, shaking the blonde man. All thoughts of Albion fizzled out of his usually sedentary imagination. Beside her, a tanned handsome male chuckled audibly, watching the scene progress.
“Stop encouraging her Lance.” Arthur murmured lazily, resolute in keeping his eyes shut. If they were going to act like children, ignoring them was going to be the only way to actually get some damn sleep.
“How could you question my honour?” the alleged ‘Lance’ replied; Arthur’s lips upturned subconsciously. Du Lac could act as noble as he wanted, but Arthur could practically see the humour intertwined in that voice leaping around in his mind and taunting him.
“Arthur, don’t pretend that you don’t want to play I-spy.” Gwaine added with a grin, Leon giggled from behind them. Yes. Giggled.
Sighing, Arthur reluctantly opened his eyes, only to shut them again as the intense beams of light filtering over the horizon reflected against the airport reception. Groaning, Arthur twisted his lips in discontent.
“…You know I’m going to thrash you all at I-spy when we get to Albion.” Leon’s voice sounded through Arthur’s ears, almost boasting in tone. Of course he was, bloody scholarly geek.
A loud ping resonated through the small passenger area; the engines grew louder, suggesting take-off. A pre-recorded female voice sounded through the tannoy; nobody paid much attention to it. Though there was a resounding cheer from a few colleagues (notably Gwaine and Leon) when ‘destination: Albion’ echoed through the platform. Arthur made a vague noise in his throat when he felt Morgana nudge him for a response. A few moments later, when most of the people had settled down, the aircraft lifted off the ground, taking to the sky.
“If you’re so sure about thrashing us all, best start making my points up now,” a mischievous dark-haired male said over the gentle humming. “I spy, with my amazing eyes, something beginning with….C.”
Inhaling a large breath of air, Arthur attempted to succumb to the black abyss surrounding his eyes. He was unsure whether he would be able to take eighteen hours of this.
“Chairs?” the valiant Lancelot supplied the first answer.
Arthur wasn’t really sure whethe
r chairs was the correct word, but wasn’t going to make any verbal contributions towards any of this.
“…These are more like seats actually.” Leon spoke intelligently.
“Not really. Seats are comfy, chairs are more rigid.” Lancelot speculated, voice swathed in contemplation, no doubt trying to adjust himself into the chair, or seat- whatever. If Arthur had his opened his eyes, he would have rolled is eyes at this. Surely Uther should have known mixing logical and broadminded people together for eighteen hours was a mistake.
“A chair has four legs. These have no legs, hence this is a seat.“
Lancelot audibly sighed at this explanation.
“Not all chairs have legs, in fact some have nolegs so-”
“-But the human brain associates the word chair with four legs-“
“-Maybe yours does but-”
“-Why are you both so pedantic?” Gwaine sniggered, clearly not that bothered whether he was sitting in a chair or a seat.
“According to my phone,” Arthur heard the woman beside him laugh in amusement. “The definition for a chair is a seat.”
Arthur could feel himself smirking unwillingly at the ridiculous nature of this very conversation. His smirk faded when Morgana’s voice rang out.
“What do you think Arthur?”
He didn’t have to open his eyes to know that his companions were all looking at him, waiting for a response. Really, Arthur Pendragon should have known he wasn’t going to get any sleep sitting next to a harpy, a demon, a knight, and a secret druidian.
♦☼♦
Arthur had no sleep on the journey to New York.
But it seemed everybody else had gotten more than enough.
For some unknown reason, everyone had secretly designated him as the one person to keep the other people who were also awake occupied. His colleague’s – and friend’s- thought they were so funny. Six hours had been spent on pointless conversations he was simply too tired to remember, I-spy, angry birds on Morgana’s phone, and Gwaine’s immature attempts to aggravate Cedric and Valiant. As a result, Arthur was not surprised when stumbling towards the mirror in his private room to find his eyes were bloodshot, and he had some pretty impressive bags going on too. Rubbing a hand down his face, Arthur sighed. He pulled out Morgana’s copy of the Emrys, and fell onto the mattress with ease.
