The One With Camelot (Sort of)
Prologue
000
"Whoso pulleth out this sword of this stone and anvil is rightwise king born of England."
–Disney's The Sword in the Stone
The message arrived at midnight, carried by an exhausted man on a just as exhausted horse. The man refused any and all luxury offered to him, insisting that his message was of utmost importance.
Baffled by the man's strange behavior, a servant lead the tired and weary man to his Lordship's study, where currently the Lord and Lady of the castle were entertaining her Ladyship's only brother, visiting from the same land as the messenger.
It had come as if overnight, the messenger had told the two men and woman, gratefully accepting but not drinking from the offered mug of hot lemon water. It had not been considered dangerous, which was why word had not come sooner, but over a matter of a few days, the illness had spread and completely taken over. Four words summed up his urgency in great detail.
"The King is dying."
At these words, both men and woman rose in alarm, all wearing similar looks of astonishment and horror.
The visiting brother, considered the greatest healer in the land, was needed at once or else the King would surely die. Without wasting a single moment, the healer grabbed a coat and his bag, mounted his unprepared horse, and rode off at once. Given a fresh mount and a satchel of food, the messenger was sent after him.
In less than half the time it normally took, healer and messenger arrived at the majestic castle. The healer nearly flew off of his tired horse in his haste to get to the King's chambers, his abrupt arrival startling the young nursemaid and bringing a look of relief to the face of a wizened man in long, bright blue robes. The healer descended on the sickly king in an instant, one hand latching onto a clammy wrist to check the King's pulse, the other to the King's forehead to check for his temperature.
The king opened weary hazel eyes, normally bright and dancing but now glassy and dull, captured fingers moving to intertwine with the healer's. His normally messy, wind-swept, rat's nest of hair was limp and damp; once tanned, bronze skin now an unhealthy grey pallor. In only a few days time, the one who was considered the bravest, noblest man in all the land was reduced to a weak, bedridden mess of sickness.
"Salazar," the King said in a weak, husky whisper, "my old friend. What joy it brings me to see your face before I die. It is the only thing I want to see."
"Hush, Godric," the healer admonished gently, panic flaring in his deep emerald eyes. Neither noticed the only other two occupants of the room leave quietly, the wizened old man ushering the young girl out. "You aren't dying." Godric's fingers tightened around Salazar's.
"It is too late for your healing powers, Salazar," the ailing king said gently. "I am dying. We both know it is the truth."
Breathing in shakily, Salazar cupped the hand he had trapped to his face, knowing the truth but unwilling to accept it, and closed his eyes in anguish. "How can you have no hope?" he demanded roughly from the sick man.
"Because I have seen my death," Godric replied, still as gentle. "And my time grows ever shorter." Hazel eyes caught green with sudden vibrant seriousness. "In seventeen years time, on a Christmas morn, seek out the young man with eyes of precious jewels and hair as black as a raven's wing, whose power lies in healing hands and the wondrous animals he can charm with a touch. In his face see me, but in his eyes see yourself. He is destined for great things, this young man. Great things."
A hacking cough ended his speech, and the grip on his hand tightened with a soundless cry.
"Love made him, Salazar," Godric spoke, voice fading like the wind.
And with a final look upon the face of a childhood friend who became a lifetime love, hazel eyes closed and a clutched hand grew limp.
Salazar gave in and wept for his loss.
000
An ebony casket was lowered slowly into the freshly dug earth under the eyes of a city of mourners, the words of the priest buzzing tunelessly in the cold, frostbit air. The monotonous voice gave way to the presentation of arms, a bugle sounding a last farewell, knights and the other denizens of the castle paying last respects.
Even as he watched the ceremony, Salazar couldn't help but remember the blissful look on his love's face after what would be their last lovemaking, the night before Salazar would leave to visit his youngest of three sisters and her new husband. It was scarcely a week ago, and yet it felt like ages.
He absently rubbed his still taut belly, wherein rested his growing, unborn son, scarcely a week conceived. He turned away as the casket rested with a soft sound of finality, unwilling to watch as moist earth covered his first and only love.
"Come, my little one," he whispered to the unaware being underneath his fingers. "We have work to do."
000
Part One
000
In the hearts of those who hope is sung a legend, of a time when men were noble and valiant, and knights strong and bold. Of a time before the dark ages fell upon the land of magic and wonder, and the people were left fearful and despairing.
King Godric Gryffindor the Noble had died swiftly in a matter of days from an illness that took him, and the land, by surprise. Leaving no Heir Apparent behind, the land was torn by petty squabbling between the lords and noblemen, causing strife among the commonfolk. The land turned barren and dull, where no law was kept and pure magic was all but gone, existing in very few and used by less, made dormant by the greed in the hearts of man.
It seemed war would be all that would exist in the land until the late king's Court Mage and Personal Adviser ensorcelled the ancestral sword, Legacy, to remain embedded in a large stone in the middle of a town square until the rightful heir to the throne pulled it out.
However, although many tried, none succeeded and hope was all but lost. In time, the sword was forgotten and only war remained. Dark times fell upon the land, where men feared one another and the strong preyed upon the weak.
For seventeen years these dark times raged...
000
Bell-like laughter sung through the air. A boy, small for his age, gaily ran across the hilly, grassy weald, a bay mare playfully chasing after him along with three bloodhounds, one grey, one black, and one brown. The lead dog tackled him, sending him to the ground and submitting him to its tongue's mercy. The other two pounced and attempted to lick the skin off of his face as well.
Snorting, the mare slowed and stopped a few feet away from the pile, one black-socked hoof pawing the ground.