Chapter Text
“Bedivere!”
A loud, clear voice echoed over the battlefield of Camlann. One of the few remaining soldiers that yet lived on the slaughter strewn plain, his colors indicating he was still loyal to the crown. Mud and viscera caked nearly every inch of the man as he bellowed out the name of a knight once more.
“Bedivere! The King calls you to his side!” Cynwyl Sant screamed out to the surrounding hills before turning and kneeling next to his liege lord, “Sire, I think I spotted him approaching. Morfran’s leading him here.”
The King struggled to breathe with a broken spear pierced through him, “Is he dead, Sant?”
Cynwyl knew that the King was not referring to Bedivere, but to the black armored knight fallen not a half dozen paces away. Steel still pierced completely through the rebellious blackguard that had brought so much ruin to the kingdom. Dark brown eyes glanced away and to the fallen hulk, before looking back at his liege, “Aye, sire, your steel still rests through his heart. It’s over.”
“Bedivere will deal with the blade, Sant, I have something for you. You must take it to the abbey in Glastonbury. It is in the saddlebags of my destrier.”
“Sire, your horse perished in the opening charge…”
A cough racked the King’s body, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth as it did. Cynwyl wiped it away with one of the few bits of clean tabard remained before his liege continued, “I know. It’s a tough thing, should still be in there, wrapped in purple silk that the Roman emperor of the east gifted me. Take it to her. Tell her I asked her to guard it.”
“Sire, she’s not even your wife anymore…”
“Do as I say, Cynwyl Sant! I do not have enough life left in me to argue with you over my final orders!” Majesty and force dominated every syllable of the King’s command, staggering the man-at-arms with surprise at the power that could still be conjured.
Sant knelt one final time for his king, “These hands and this body are yours to command. I shall see it done, even should my own death be needed to see it safely there.”
The King reached up with a trembling hand, patting Sant’s cheek fondly, “Thank you, old friend. You’ve served me well. God be with you. Now, make haste and do not look back.”
“Stop fidgeting. Proper young ladies do not fidget like this.”
The young lady in question fidgeted again next to her mother in the back of the car. Leather seats creaked and squeaked as she adjusted her positioning yet again and did everything she could not to meet the gaze of her mother sitting next to her in the back of the Mercedes being driven by their family’s driver.
“Yes, Mother,” murmured the young lady, the fingernail of one thumb digging into the space between flesh and nail on the opposite thumb.
Cold, cruel blue eyes stared down a slender, perfectly shaped nose to regard the meekly cowering daughter next to her. Honey blonde hair that had retained its color into middle age was neatly sculpted into an intricate hair style that cascaded from multiple arrangements down a back with rigid and perfect posture. Designer silk draped her attractive figure and expensive jewelry glittered all over her.
Her offspring was the opposite in every way. Small, with a posture curled inwards, the young woman had mousey brown hair and a face that could be mistaken for pretty in a good light behind its coke bottle thick glasses and dull brown eyes. An oversized school uniform, the crest on the blazer from a girl’s only boarding school, engulfed her with its skirt that had been let down nearly to the ankles. Only the battered sneakers on her feet showed any type of informality.
One perfectly manicured hand slapped down hard on the young woman’s with their oft-bitten nails that were mostly down to the quick on her various fingers. The impact was hard enough to echo in the car with the sound of it.
“I told you to stop.”
“Sorry, mother,” mumbled the young woman after shoving her hands under her thighs, already knowing what was next.
“Don’t sorry mother me, you insolent little bitch. When I tell you to stop something, you do so immediately.” Mother pulled one of the young woman’s hands back out from under her thigh and pushed the sleeve of her blazer and the blouse beneath it up, exposing pale white flesh marred by numerous circular bruises. Mother then pinched hard on an unbruised spot and twisted, illustrating how the bruises had been created. “How am I supposed to do anything with a sulking little brat like you? Do you think you can honestly make it through college like this, Gwyneth?”
Gwyneth squealed softly at the pain, but knew better than to pull away, as that would only make it worse. Instead, she stuffed the foreknuckle of her free hand into her mouth and bit down on it as her Mother twisted her skin. One tooth sliced through the skin and produced a trickle of blood she could taste in the back of her throat. She did not bother to look towards the driver, as the man had long since learned to ignore the violence being inflicted in favor of his paycheck.
Bored with injuring her daughter further, Mother let go and withdrew her hand, sleeves falling back into place. She practically spit out the next word, “Pathetic. Well, at least I don’t have to see that face your father blessed you with for a while. You can sit in your college dorm until you flunk out after a pair of semesters. Don’t think I’ll be paying them to pass you like your high school.”
Gwyneth said nothing, staring down at her lap and not daring to contradict her mother. Both hands were stuck firmly under her thighs as the car pulled up into the parking lot of the girl’s dorms to the private university that the young woman had been admitted to. It was bustling with young women just arriving for the first day of move-ins that had been allowed.
What stood out was a pair of massive plumbing vans and numerous drainage lines being run into the building straight through the first door past a harried pair of RAs and their clipboards hurriedly trying to corral women, luggage, and multiple male, middle-aged plumbers who were more than happy to stop and stare. It added an extra dose of chaos to the events.
“Get the fuck out of my car,” Mother snarled and Gwyneth did everything she could to make that happen immediately, scrambling out and shutting the door behind her. Davis, the chauffeur, exited long enough to get the pair of suitcases she had been allowed out of the trunk and deposit them on the ground next to the girl. He gave a shrug and a vaguely sympathetic expression before the thick shouldered former cop vanished back within the black Mercedes. It rolled away without another word being said.
Gwyneth sighed and hefted both suitcases, nearly topping over from the weight, before correcting herself and walking slowly up to one of the RAs directing traffic at the plate glass front doors of the dormitory building.
“Hey, name?” the frazzled RA held up her clipboard as she was approached.
“Fier,” muttered the mousy young woman, dropping a suitcase to adjust where her glasses rested on her nose.
“Fear, Feer, Fehr… how do you spell that?”
“F. I. E. R. It’s French,” announced the young woman just as a man in a plumbing jumpsuit bumped into her and sent her toppling into the RA. Both women ended up splayed out on the ground in a tangle of limbs with Gwyneth’s glasses skittering away into the grass.
A grunt came from the plumber and something that sounded vaguely like an apology before he continued making his way inside. Meanwhile, Gwyneth began to crawl in search of her missing eyewear, patting along the ground looking for them and praying not to hear a crunching sound.
The RA righted herself and patted away clumps of damp ground that had clung to her jeans. It only took a few moments of watching the younger of the pair looking like Velma from Scooby Doo before she reached down, collected the glasses and placed the damp, grass infested spectacles on the other’s face. “God, you’re a trainwreck, Fier.”
“Sorry,” muttered the younger woman as she stood in her grass-stained private school uniform.
“You can wear casual clothes in the dorms. Jeans, t-shirts, etcetera. Nothing slutty, but definitely something less stuffy than that old prep school crap,” the RA offered, trying to sound consoling.
“I, um, Mother didn’t buy me anything new. I just have the uniforms, pajamas, and a track suit,” Gwyneth responded as she cleaned her glasses with her blazer.
“Arright, I guess you could wear the track suit.” The RA flipped back and forth through her clipboard, “Here you are. Gwyneth? Yeah, says you have one of the single rooms from the corner. Shit, sucks to be you.”
“What? Why?” Gwyneth blinked owlishly of the blurry image of the RA in her vision, glasses still in the process of being cleaned.
“Well, if you can’t tell from this fucking disaster zone, one of the pipes on the top floor in the corner units burst. Every unit directly below got flooded, including yours. Everything’s being double booked, so you’re being moved to 3G to share with another until the plumbing is fixed the units are repaired.” The RA gave an air of someone who had given the same explanation multiple times already through the night.
“B-b-b-but, I need a single occupant dorm room! M-m-mother paid extra for it!” stammered Gwyneth, on the verge of a mixture of tears and panic.
“Well, you’re welcome to call your mom to come pick you back up, if you want.”
Gwyneth went completely still and quiet as she stared up at the taller woman, all color draining from her features at the thought of having to contact her mother.
“Hello? Earth to Fier?” A hand was waved in front of the young woman’s face.
Stammering were the first sounds that came out, followed by a heavy swallow and Gwyneth finally saying, “N-no, that’ll be fine. I’ll just go to my new room.”
“3G. Second on the right after you come outta the stairs.” A pen was used to give a vaguely pointed direction.
Gwyneth put her glasses back on, hefted her suitcases, and headed towards her new home.
“Spend all day getting moved in to have to divide this tiny ass dorm in two,” groused Tori as she finished shoving the bed that had been carted into her room flush against the corner.
“Place is a god damn broom closet, yet I’m supposed to share it with some fucking stranger?” growled the tall blonde.
Soft knocks sounded on the door to the dorm room and Tori sighed, “Guess that’s the roomie. Better not be an axe murderer.” She sauntered over and opened the door.
A nerdy looking mouse of a girl stared up at Tori through coke bottle thick glasses. Her frumpy prep academy uniform was stained with grass and damp spots and her lank brown hair was a disaster, tangles hanging loose down to her shoulders. The short girl looked up at Tori, blinked several times through her glasses, then went beet red, “I-I-I-I-I r-r-r-r-roommate s-s-s-s—“Everything else turned into a wordless stammer.
Tori rolled her eyes as she rubbed at her face with both hands. She knew full well what she looked like, and the effect on people, but even this felt hopeless. Tall and athletic, the blonde had a magnificent mane of hair that tumbled down to her shoulder blades, full of vibrancy and volume. Beautiful features that left her the envy of high school marked her face, as did wide, blue eyes. Even her hands were firm and strong, not delicate, from all the time spent with boxing and aikido. A shelf on the far wall had been stuffed with her athletic awards, even a set of Silver Gloves from the national association from her freshman year in high school.
“Get in here, disaster piece,” grunted Tori as she yanked the little mouse into the dorm. As the smaller woman staggered towards her bed, Tori grabbed the two suitcases standing post next to the door and pulled them both in. Once the dorm’s door was shut, she turned to regard the mouse, “Name?”
“Gw-gw-gw-gwyneth.”
“Gwyn, got it. Okay, I’m Tori, the person you’ve been inflicted upon.” The blonde started ticking fingers off as she recited, “Some basic rules so we don’t kill each other to start. That temporary rolling bed is yours, I get the real one since this is my actual room. Bottom shelf on the minifridge is for you to use, don’t touch any of the food or energy drinks that aren’t on that shelf. Showers and bathroom are down the hall on the right, laundry’s across the hall from them.”
“I, uh, that’s okay, I, um,” stammered the thoroughly run over mouse.
“Yeah, yeah,“ Tori kept running over the smaller woman verbally, “Quiet by nine PM and I’m locking the door at ten. If you’re not in by then, I’m not opening it and I’m not giving you a key. Keep your area clean or I report you to the RAs. Outlet’s there if you wanna charge your phone and other stuff, WiFi password is the school mascot, plural, so ‘dragons’.” Tori stared silently at Gwyneth as the monologue came to an end.
Gwyneth stared back, trembling faintly as she stood rooted next to the rollaway bed that had been assigned to her.
“Well, any questions? Get ‘em out of the way now,” Tori crossed both arms over her chest and tapped a sneaker covered shoe on the ground.
A stammered attempt to say something came out of Gwyneth, but that failed to coalesce into anything approaching actual words. Fingers tugged and plucked at the hem of her dirty blazer until first one, then many tears began to pour down her cheeks, her chin quivering as the stress and heartache of the evening crashed over the dam of her emotional barriers.
“Hey, c’mon, none of that…” Tori rubbed at her forehead as the crying began in earnest.
Gwyneth bawled, tears flowing as she dropped onto the edge of her bed and sobbed her heart out. She buried her face into the sleeve of her blazer, but it did nothing to stem the tide of so many emotions racing through her. Her glasses were suddenly wet again and everything in the room turned into a blur.
“Gwyn, hey, I know it’s probably been a shitty day for you. Me, too, I…” All the hardass edge faded and Tori deflated, watching a little girl just vent her grief and pain into the room for only a moment longer before settling on the bed next to her, “Hey, it’ll be okay, I promise you’ll get through this.” Both arms wrapped around the slender shoulders of the brown-haired woman and she hugged her gently.
Gwyneth collapsed into Tori’s arms, not caring who provided her comfort, just that someone was. She found herself lying across the larger woman’s lap, sobbing uncontrollably for several long minutes. Tori kept patting her gently on the back, her other hand smoothing and stroking the brown strands of Gwyneth’s hair.
A tuneless melody came from Tori as she began to hum, trying to calm the young girl down. It floated and shaped itself until she began to murmur the words that went with it in a surprisingly smooth and pleasant alto voice, “Hush, child, the darkness will rise from the deep / And carry you down into sleep / Child, the darkness will rise from the deep / And carry you down into sleep…”
Glasses were pulled clear and Gwyneth wiped at her eyes before blinking up at Tori and asking softly, “What song is that?”
“Um. Mordred’s Lullaby. My mom used to play it on CD a lot. Before, well, a long time ago.” Tori shrugged and gave her own, small, sad smile.
“Before what?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“I’m sorry.” Gwyneth pushed up to sit, no longer laying across her roommate’s lap, “You don’t even know me and I’m just a mess.” Soft sniffles came from her and she rubbed at her nose.
“Hey, it’s okay, we all have shit we deal with,” Tori tried offering a small smile, “I know I come on strong sometimes, and I should’ve been more empathetic. Sorry ‘bout that.”
“Yeah, um, thanks. S’okay, you don’t need to apologize. I’ll keep out of your way.”
Tori looked the other woman up and down again, really noticing the wet spots and grass stuck all over her clothes. She stood, “Go ahead and change into clean clothes if you want. I can wait in the hall…”
“No, that’s fine. You’ll see eventually, I’m sure,” Gwyneth pulled up one of her suitcases onto the bed and rummaged in it until she produced a brown set of pajamas with a long-sleeved top.
Tori retreated to her own bed, pushing her AirPods into her ears and trying to keep her attention focused on her iPad. She navigated a fantasy game where she was dueling monsters as a knight and their retinue. Flashing lights and loud effects played out on the device as Gwyneth changed in the background. During one of the load screens the artwork had several nearly black areas, which turned the iPad’s screen into a mirror.
What she caught in the reflection worried the blonde woman. Scars and furrows decorated the smaller woman’s shoulders and back as she swapped out of her blouse for the pajama top. Both arms were covered in a series of bruises and welts. Everything about Gwyneth’s appearance screamed systemic abuse.
When Gwyneth turned, she found Tori staring at her, a scowl etched on her expression. Brown eyes blinked across the room, having thought Tori enraptured with her device, leaving Gwyneth to ask, “S-s-something wrong?”
“Is someone hurting you?”
“N-n-no! W-what would make you think that?” stammered the smaller woman.
“Scars and bruises everywhere, Gwyn. Are you okay? Can I help?” The tablet was discarded and forgotten, both AirPods out and set aside as well as Tori’s full attention was on her roommate.
“Y-you can’t help,” Gwyneth said before sitting on the edge of her bed once more, “Nothing’s happening, so there’s nothing to help with.” It was the first time since entering the room there had been any firmness to Gwyneth’s voice.
Tori’s eyes narrowed and she knew she was being lied to. Instead of confronting the other woman, she only offered, “Well, if you ever need my help, ask. I’m here and I won’t stand for people to be bullied or hurt.” A grin formed and she pointed up to the shelf stuffed with trophies over her bed, one hand curling into an impressive fist, “Silver Gloves winner in 2020, placed in state for Aikido. I made it here on a boxing scholarship, not like my uncle can afford this place, but I’m gonna win my Golden Glove and get into the UFC when college is done. No one messes with my friends and you are, officially, my friend.”
Wide brown eyes blinked repeatedly at Tori and a smile was allowed onto Gwyneth’s face, “My knight in shining armor, it sounds like.”
“Damn straight. Or my name’s not Artoria Pendraig.”
“Where THE FUCK is she?”
Blood spattered as coughing wracked the man tied to the chair. Crimson drenched the shirt he wore, torn and ripped from what had already happened to him. Another fist, one of many, smashed across the battered and bruised features.
“You run from me for years, Myrrdhin, only for me to catch you now. So young, so full of life, unlike my memories of you,” came the woman’s sibilant voice, low and menacing. A British accent marked it, straight from the poshest of London’s neighborhoods.
“Out of your grasp, Morgan,” grinned the battered man and his Northumbrian British accent, barely more than a teenager, from his position tied firmly to a chair far fancier than such violence would merit. He spit a gob of blood onto the hardwood floor beneath him, “You’ve grown cruder in old age.”
Another fist readied for a blow, attached to a hulk of a man, but was stopped as Morgan stepped forward and out of the shadows. Sultry and slinky in a blood red dress, the beautiful dark-haired woman towered over Myrrdhin in her stiletto heels. It was the expression on her face and the way it mirrored in her eyes that showed her true ugliness, the veneer on the outside a mask against the foulness within.
A slap was whipped across her prisoner’s features, “When I find her, she will have no guardian. You will be gone back to the crystal caves once I’m done with you.”
“You’re wrong, my old apprentice,” cackled Myrrdhin, ignoring the slap and the extra line of blood down his chin, “If you ever find them, they’ll be side by side. Nothing you do will work now they’ve been re-united.”
Rage flared in Morgan’s dark eyes, “I will find the Pendragon and I will find my bastard brother’s heir, you old fool. I will be there when Caliburn reveals itself once more.”
Myrddhin giggled, “But your son won’t be. Is there anything left of him after he rotted away on Camlann’s hills?” He broke into riotous laughter, kicking his legs against those of the chair imprisoning him.
“You forget, you old fool, that in this form your magics are nothing compared to what I can now do.” Morgan changed softly, fingers trailing through the air, drawing whisps of the arcane away from Myrrdhin’s form. “Anál nathrach, orth' bháis's bethad, do chél dénmha!”
Myrrdhin snarled, attempting to counter the chant with one of his own, only to have a thick hand from Morgan’s lackey cover his mouth and muffle him. He bit hard into the flesh of the hand, but even as it was pulled away from the pain, he knew he was too late. Morgan’s eyes were iridescent with the magic of the charm.
“You sent them to the New World, across the ocean vast. Hidden behind a wall of malice, to be tormented so that I could not find them. Clever, but not clever enough by half, as all I needed to find was you…” Morgan laughed, a cruel, spiteful sound.
“It’s already too late, Morgan! You’ve already failed!” spit out the old master in his youthful body.
“Gag him, time to send him back to his prison.”