Camelot Enterprise: A Contemporary Arthurian Epic

by GR Griffin

His eyes don’t leave the horizon until he sees Gwaine and Lance pass beyond it. He feels somewhere inside the delusional, mechanical model of himself something. He’s too weak, too delirious to diagnose the feeling. Instead, he laughs gruffly, throwing his head back viciously; it slams against the tree trunk. Not that he cares. Physical pain, emotional pain – there’s not much difference. He’s endured so much of it that he’s pretty sure he can’t feel anything anymore. The numbness itself hurts the most, beneath it a layer of memories he’s swept into the corner of his mind.

  It is in times of exile and condemnation, where man is full of greed and bitterness, that one heart reveals itself to be a dragon. And another, a dark daemon. Naturally, Arthur assumes he’s the dark daemon, because well…his actions definitely were not the actions of a great man, not even a good man. They were the actions of a man swathed in said greed and bitterness, too consumed in his own problems and folly to look beyond himself and put the people first. In the days that pass, he foolishly stumbles towards the corner, forgetting that in this time of exile and condemnation that the daemon heart mercilessly slits Hope’s throat, tramples Faith and breaks Peace into a thousand shards. It is in this time of exile and condemnation that on the first day, when the sun is blaring down on him, he doesn’t make it to the corner. All because Hope is dead. Faith is dead too, and Peace is slowly cutting up the soles of his bare feet. He laughs sadistically as night washes over him. Of course he doesn’t make it to the corner. Just by saying he was going to the fricking corner was a promise he’d go back on his words and destroy everything beautiful in his life.

  Not that there was anything beautiful left, mind you.

  All the beautiful, precious things he’d squandered were also far over the horizon. He tried to imagine their faces, paint the expression in their eyes. He realises that most of them look much like himself. Only, he can’t focus on the features of their faces; it’s hazy and hollow. He can only feel the expression, vast expanses stretched across his empty, deteriorating mind.

  The second day ends with him allowing the tears to fall down his face, because all this time he’s forgotten the name. The name Gwaine had spoken, the name that meant everything, the name that was everything. The name dances around him deceptively, never close enough for Arthur to break each individual letter from its motion and piece them together. For now, the name is a blur. There is no name. And Arthur laughs before sleep overcomes him because it’s fucking hilarious.

  It is in these times of exile and condemnation that the name is forgotten, a mirage in the distance.

  It is in these times of exile and condemnation that he dreams of the towering flames, the raging destruction.

  It is in times of exile and condemnation, where man is full of infinite greed and bitterness that this daemon heart decays all around it. It corrodes the earth, plagues the day and brings darker shadows than ever before into the night. It mercilessly slits Hope’s throat, tramples Faith and breaks Peace into a thousand shards. Hope is dead. Faith is dead too. Peace is shattered. And it’s the black heart that did this, the heart that was never pure, never true. It’s his heart. It’s his heart.

  The third day, his stomach growls. His throat is dry. So he eats whatever he can find close to the tree. He searches for water in the right places, like the name taught him to. When his thirst is quenched, and he sits back down by the tree, an emotion begins to stir inside. He’s unsure what it is, or how to identify it. Thus, he internally describes it to himself, unaware parts of it are streaming from his mouth in a form of inane mumbling. He feels…he feels like he doesn’t deserve to eat, to drink, to breathe. He’s pretty sure thousands of Druids also think the same, maybe even the name does. He feels like he’s destroyed a sacred bond between himself and the earth he’s sitting on.

  He half-expects it to swallow him whole.

  Suddenly, he finds that it has. The earth has opened up beneath him, revealing an endless pit of darkness. The lower he falls, he sees an orange glow. Then he feels the searing heat against his skin as he’s thrown into the towering flames. Hope is a mirage above him, Faith is dangling beside him, and Peace has disintegrated in the flames.

  If an onlooker were watching, if there was anyone stupid enough to still be here, they’d see a man writhing and yelling out for help in blind panic, eyes misted over.

  It takes an hour for Arthur to realise that his skin is not burning. And therefore, the earth has not swallowed him whole.

  He kind of wishes it would though.

  This kind of terrifies him.

  It is in this time of exile and condemnation that a new force is born. It sits there silently, stirring over inside the blank, defeated minds. It doesn’t heal the wounded, the injured, or the traumatised- even though it could. At first it does nothing, absolutely nothing. It allows them to dwell in their suffering, their despair. At first its presence is neglected. It has no purpose other than to amplify what has already been and gone.

  At first, Arthur doesn’t hear the gentle fluttering around him. He doesn’t register the small beating wings. He sits, face buried in his knees, no longer able to think or feel. The only thing he’s able to do is sit, and breathe. The force – it magnifies the wounds, the injuries, the trauma. Sit and breathe, sit and breathe. Gasping a lungful of air, he clasps his throbbing eyes shut tighter. Sit and breathe, sit and breathe, sit and breathe. Breathe goddammit. But it hurts so much, it’s all too much. Life is too much. The force increases the turmoil and calamity, unleashing a whole new realm of evil upon an already broken man. It grates down upon his bones, beats the bruises, weakens the strength. It kills his soul. He’s barely living anyway it’s not like it matters. It infects the wounds, it deepens the injuries; it worsens the trauma. Sit and breathe, sit and breathe.

  Panting, Arthur opens his eyes abruptly. He feels the soft caress against his forearm. He hears the smooth tone of its voice. He gazes down, and studies the creature silently. It looks up at him with its large, concerned lilac eyes. Reaching out with shaking hands, Arthur tries to make contact. He wants to feel the soft crimson feathers against his skin. It leaps backwards in alarm. This makes Arthur’s heart ache, his eyes water. He feels, and he can identify the emotion. It’s remorse. The force does this not out of spite or malice; it does this out of sincerity.

  The creature looks at him, like he’s a stranger. It’s as if he’s someone else, something else. Hell, Arthur isn’t himself. He hasn’t been a human being for days. He desperately reaches out for the creature once more. When it reluctantly meets his hand, he feels – he feels another emotion. Elation. And now, Arthur is beginning to understand why. He understands the force, the importance of feeling such a thing, such an enormity of emotions.

  He gets to his feet slowly, legs aching. He uses the tree for support, a shaky smile dusting his face as the creature perches itself upon his shoulder, just like old times. Just like when everything was perfect, and the name….and the name was still here. He slings the bag over his shoulder, pulls the blade out from the sand.

  He understands now. Finally, its hit him all at once. Because to feel such pain, such agony, such a cataclysmic level of loss and complete obliteration once – it forges an unspoken vow, a promise that this will never be felt again, at any cost. For the suffering of the innocent, the deaths of the righteous should not and will not be in vain. As it is in exile and condemnation, where Hope is dead, Faith is dead too, and Peace is slowly cutting up the soles of his bare feet, that this new force is formed. It is in exile and condemnation, where the light shines the brightest – invisible to the naked eye, but ablaze within the hearts of the wounded, the injured and the traumatised. It is in exile and condemnation where turmoil and destructions escalates, only to be met by fortitude.

  As he walks, certain of his destination, his destiny, Arthur goes deep into the corner. He makes it to the corner. He digs out the memories, allowing them to replay painfully through his tormented mind. It doesn’t hurt too much. In fact, it feels more like a stran
ge, foreign release. The name slips in and out of his mind a whisper, a mere echo. Then it’s a mutter, a hiss, a shout, a cry, a scream, a-

  “-Merlin!” the name fires off his tongue, unleashing a dangerous amount of energy.

  Merlin, Merlin, Merlin.

  In the time of exile and condemnation,

  The name, it’s Merlin.

  Where man is full of greed and bitterness,

  The name needs him. He needs the name. He and Merlin are the once and future, the sun and moon, two sides of the same coin. They’re connected. Forever. He turns to the bird on his shoulder, his eyes revivify. His soul returns from purgatory. It is in darkness, where Hope is found – dehydrated and drained – but nonetheless found. It is fed, nurtured and rebuilt calculatedly, stronger than ever before, laced in the protection of an unbroken vow. A promise that this pain, this agony, this loss and complete obliteration will never, ever be felt again- at any cost. It is in darkness where Hope is resurrected, and taught to wield its own weapon.

  He knows now, that it is only in exile and condemnation that Peace is questioned, interrogated. Peace has been too Peaceful about this massacre– it’s allowed itself to shatter. Hope was no better, it simply didn’t put up a fight and Faith. Arthur laughs. Faith killed itself. But this time it’s different to the psychotic laughing. It’s full of meaning, a promise. A promise that he will not turn back on. A promise that he has to fight for and damn all the consequences because nothing is bigger than this.

  Nothing is more important than this.

  One heart will reveal itself to be

  A dark daemon,

  It was on the fourth day, that Arthur Pendragon walked through the forests, and heard the trees whispering again. He felt the earth tremble beneath him powerfully. The sky was ablaze with the creatures and animals that were no longer afraid, because something had changed. The once and future was walking, the once and future was fighting for justice. And when man had revealed itself to be full of greed, and bitterness, the daemon heart had destroyed all.

  Blacker than night.

  It was on the fourth day that Ábilgest had found him and raised his broken soul from perdition, reminding him that it was not all lost at all. Because it is in these times of darkness, that you must never forget the name. You must embrace your suffering and accept your wrongdoings. But you must also understand that wallowing in self-pity and guilt will not make amends for your actions. You must look destiny straight in the eye, clutch Fate by its wrist and say ‘it is in times of exile and condemnation that I looked to you, and you weren’t there. I will not follow in your footsteps, I will make my own. I will light the beacon, I will start the fire.’

  And another will step forth

  It was on the fourth day that Arthur Pendragon turned his destiny around. In this time of exile and condemnation, when man is full of greed and bitterness, that his heart did not reveal itself to be dark daemon he thought it was. His heart was not the daemon heart at all. Oh no. His heart, his pure, broken heart was still beating. It hadn’t corroded the earth, plagued the day and thrown darker shadows than ever before into the night. That wasn’t his heart at all. It was never his heart. It was the heart he had been told to follow, the heart since birth he had obeyed and revered.

  Into the light

  And reveal that it is in fact

  Arthur Pendragon’s heart had revealed itself to be something far greater and more just.

  It had revealed itself to be a Dragon.

  A Dragon.

  Chapter 41

  Everything was hazy and somehow unimportant after the collapse of the Crystal Cave, everything hurt. People around were wearing expressions of shock, some of satisfaction. The shock didn’t break her, the satisfaction did. Because how the fuck anybody could be proud of this massacre, this complete annihilation of a beautiful culture, it disgusted her. How dare they see this as some kind of triumph; an achievement. The longer she stood there confined, watching them gloat and boast about the ‘victory’, the worse her condition became. All she remembered was tearing herself from the grip of the two guards sadistically, and lunging with hot tears streaming down her face towards Valiant. She was screaming, livid. She didn’t care how big and strong he was compared to her. She was going to claw his eyes out then slash that smirk off his face.Then there was lots of noise, and chaos broke lose. Others began to protest, screaming and cursing the ones who let this happen. Valiant and the others fought back, some threatening to open fire on the ‘traitors’. Some did open fire. Bullets showered the air; fellow friends fell to the ground in defeat. Leon followed blindly after her into the hectic storm. He called out to her but she couldn’t hear what he was saying.

  Then the corners of her vision became darker and darker, until it faded out to black.

  Now, she found herself in a dark, barricaded room. Light was scarce, as was hope. Leon was sitting in the corner silently, cupping his face with his hands. His appearance was troubled; weakened. Her mind drifted to Merlin, Arthur. They had been there whilst it all happened. Dread took hold, insatiable anxiety – were they even alive? If they were, she doubted they were okay. It was Merlin’s home after all.She tried to get to her feet, but like everything else- it hurt. Irritated, she gazed downwards and spotted her bandaged leg. She must have been injured. Resiliently, she pushed herself upwards, wincing at the pain. Damn pain, her leg was nothing compared to what the druids had lost. For a moment she remained upright; a moan of despair slipped past her lips. Abruptly, just when she believed she could withstand the agony, she fell against the metallic bars weakly. A little breathless, disorientated and angry, she turned to the man in the corner. He made no move to assist her. Leon gazed up slowly, face pallid and eyes vacant. They shared a look; a look that confirmed everything.

  Uther Pendragon had destroyed Ealdor, and the Crystal Cave.

  It was all gone.

  Clamping her eyes shut, Morgana slid down the metal bars dejectedly, ignoring the singe of pain against her back, too much pressure on her wretched leg. Leon crawled towards her, tentatively placing a hand on her knee. She shot him a miserable stare, eyes misty and confused. Everything was hazy, and unimportant- yet paradoxically vital and perfectly in focus.

  “What happened?” she said, voice frail.

  Leon averted his eyes, raking a hand through his curly hair. At first he was about to retell the dreadful tale, then obviously thought better of it. Twisting his lips, he remained quiet. Morgana didn’t want to be reminded of the cruelty of humanity- and neither did he. He patted her leg and apologetically removed his hand when she winced. He met her eyes cautiously; as if he had something he had to say but didn’t want to. Imploringly, she maintained their eye contact.

  “Uther has mislead us all,” he muttered bleakly. “This was never a peaceful mission, I was foolish to believe that…I…” sighing, he ploughed a hand through his hair in despondency once more. Morgana, too weary and broken to pry, simply dwelled in the haunting silence. Lifting his head, Leon swiftly changed the subject, not wanting to remember the dark past.

  “You,” he leant towards her, a frown on his face. “You dived straight for Valiant.” He shook his head, clearly unimpressed with her stunt – a trace of a smirk laced Morgana’s lips. Of course she did. “He knocked you over, you fell badly on your leg. So I…” pausing, Leon felt his cheeks redden a little. “I dived straight for Valiant too.”

  Morgana gently placed her hands over his, a flicker of affection in her eyes.

  “You tried to defend my honour?” she murmured in amusement, smiling weakly as Leon ducked his head in embarrassment. It wasn’t rocket science to figure out that he was no match for Valiant. The black eye and ugly bruises on his shoulder were clear indications of this.

  “We were still trying to fight them when Uther came back-”

  “-He’s here?” Morgana cried, eyes flashing with rage, with upset.

  “They sedated us both, so we couldn’t resist.” Flapping his arms about in a strange ges
ture, he looks around. “Now, here we are.”

  Dismally, Morgana studied the dark room the pair were sat in. It was dull; lifeless (although that description also applied to the whole building). There were no beds, just a silver tiled floor. She leant her head back against the metal bars, frowning. They were trapped down here, confined in cages, cages that clearly meant to house druids or prisoners. Given it was centuries past the time of such practices, Morgana established this discrimination and prejudice had to say about the ethics of Camelot Enterprise; if it even had ethics. Leon mimicked her actions dismally. It was no use trying to exert energy. They were definitely not getting out of this room anytime soon. For starters, there no way out; unless somebody tried to get in. Camelot had meticulously built these rooms to ensure that nobody would ever be able escape.

  If Morgana recalled correctly, the only way out was via a Camelot Base identity card. Foolishly, she searched her pockets. To her disappointment, Uther was actually smart enough to take away their access cards. Shutting her eyes, inhaling a large breath, she tried to calm her aching body. Yet she could not. Her mind was reeling – what would Uther’s next move be? It definitely wasn’t the end yet. This political statement was merely the first strike, the gash that opened the druid body and caused the first few droplets of blood. Uther was going to deepen that wound, she was certain of it. He was going to infect it with poison – but even that wouldn’t be enough. As the poison rotted the core, he would continue to mercilessly strike at the heart. And for once in her life, though she hated to admit it because that thought alone scared her: she was scared of him.

  “How…how long have we been here?” Morgana asked quickly, attempting to free herself from her solitude before it began to toy with her emotions and manipulate the small pockets of good thoughts left, churning them effortlessly into malevolent schemes that would rival Uther Pendragon. She was unsure she wanted to know the answer to her question.