#i will die on this (camlann) hill

[taliesin-the-bored]

Being overly invested in the lives of mildly obscure Arthurian characters is like “If you ship Caradoc with anyone other than Guinier or Dinadan with anyone at all then so help me I will go rampaging through the countryside like Lancelot, Tristan, Merlin, Roland (no, not Roland, Roland is a Paladin, to heck with Roland), Dagonet, Yvain…”

[cestacruz]

Mmmm i need to see lb6 animated

[fishoutofcamelot]

Yves Montand's les feuilles mortes is Merwen as Gwen ages and becomes old, memories flitting in and out of her consciousness as Merlin tends to her last moments on her death bed, her hand caressing his cheek as she says the final goodbye. Merlin clutches into her hand tight, his shoulders tremored as he sobs, losing his last friend and lover.

Dude it’s MY job to make people sad about Merwen! If you keep this up, I’ll be out of a job!!! And I can’t afford that in this tragic fandom economy.

Ngl tho, you’re absolutely right about the vibes. Although if I might add, I also kinda get a reincarnation vibe from it too.

The scene: France, 1947. WWII is finally over. Merlin, or Michon Epinette as he goes by now, is walking down a wet cobblestone street. His face is sullen. As he walks, hands stuffed into his pockets and head bowed, flashbacks are interjected into his mind. Brief snippets of his time in Camelot - meeting Arthur, hanging out with the knights, saving the kingdom. But above all, his time with Gwen. All the memories and laughs and tears they shared together. 

The flashbacks increase in frequency the further along he comes, only now they’re all focusing on Arthur’s death, Leon and Gaius and Percival’s deaths, until only Merlin and Gwen remain. Until Gwen ages and dies too, until Merlin is left weeping over her dead body. But in none of the memories do any of their faces appear. The faces and appearances of his loved ones are just some of the many things he’s forgotten after all these years, much to his distress.

Merlin shakes his head to force the memories away, and enters a bar. It’s pretty empty. Everyone is fairly quiet aside from the clanking of glasses and occasional murmurs here and there - and on the stage, a slow, morose jazz performance.

He sits down at the bar and gets a drink, watching the performance and trying not to cry over how deeply the mournful lyrics speak to him. It’s the 1400-year anniversary of Gwen’s death, and it stings just as intensely now as it did back then.

The woman singing wears a yellow dress that is elegant yet simple, back exposed and black gloves deftly holding the microphone. Her own eyes are tearful, she herself affected by her own lyrics - Les Feuilles Mortes, now that he thinks about it - and if not for some impressive self-control then her elaborate makeup might have been running.

But looking at her face, her dark, gentle face and deep brown eyes, a most profound sense of deja vu settles into his gut. As if he should know her somehow. 

But Merlin has lived for many, many years, and has met many, many people. If he’s met her before, he doesn’t remember, and likely never will. And besides, it was probably nothing important.

Still, the clenching of his heart pulls him to her. As if something terrible will happen, as if he’ll suffer a loss worse than he can ever imagine, if he doesn’t hold her in his arms this very moment.

Instead of sweeping her up and never letting go, Merlin waits for the song to end, politely applauds, and then greets her as she sits down at the bar stool next to him. Another performer walks onto the stage in her place.

They speak in French as she asks if she’s seen him before, a puzzled look creasing her features. He says that he’s just got one of those faces, and reaches out his hand to shake hers. He introduces himself using his current alias, Michon Epinette, but his ribcage screams at him to tell the truth. To tell her that his name is Merlin. He ignores the impulse.

She calls herself Guinevere Laurent, and oh how his heart aches at the familiarity of it. Another Guinevere, just as kind and soft as his own had once been. He commends her performance, admits that it had made him cry, and she tells him it has that effect on people - especially those who have recently suffered a loss. 

Ms. Laurent asks him who he’s lost, then gets flustered as she apologizes for being so forward. He instead tells her that he lost a great deal of friends. Everyone he’s ever known and loved is dead now.

“The war?” she surmises.

“Yes,” he says, because while they’re not thinking about the same war it’s still true.

She sips from her cocktail glass. “I lost a great deal of friends to the war as well. My brother Elouan, my best friend Lazare, and my father Thomas. Normandy, all of them.”

He shrugs. “If they had to die at war, at least it was Normandy.” Then, flustering - “Oh no, I’m so sorry! That was so insensitive of me. I didn’t mean -”

Ms. Laurent - Guinevere - shakes her head. “It’s fine. You’re right, though. Normandy is...heroic. As good a place to die as any. I just...I just wish they hadn’t had to die in the first place.”

Merlin has nothing to say to that, so he doesn’t. And the two of them sit there at the bar counter, nursing their cocktails - which are, coincidentally, the exact same - and ruminate over their respective losses. Guinevere Laurent is likely thinking about the second world war, and Merlin is thinking about Camlann. And both of them are thinking about after. What happens next. Where they go from here, when everyone they care about is six feet under.

While the similarity in names is likely a coincidence, Merlin can’t help but feel drawn to this Guinevere too. She speaks and acts and feels so much like the one he lost that his chest burns with sorrow. But also, perhaps, with something else too. Something he hasn’t felt in a long time.

Hope.

Merlin ventures out his broken heart and cracks a joke, trying to lighten her spirits. For the life of him, he will never be able to remember what the joke is, but it does its job in making a tentative smile splash onto her face. 

Warily, with an uneven and rough voice, she murmurs out a joke of her own. He won’t ever be able to remember that one, either, but he laughs just as quietly and genuinely as she did.

After an hour their laughter has transformed into something loud and unending, and it fills up the entire bar with an orange, jovial mood. Other people are talking amongst themselves with more liveliness than they had before, and now Merlin and Guinevere are not the only people smiling in here. Even the scrunched-faced bartender is cracking a grin.

It feels familiar. It feels like he’s been in this situation before - laughing with someone as loudly as possible to chase away their mutual pains, until their desperation turns into sincerity and sincerity into passion. 

For one glorious evening, Merlin allows himself to exist in a fantasy world where Gwen isn’t dead, but sitting right next to him. It’s weird and wrong, for sure, but he can’t help pretending that Guinevere Laurent and Guinevere Pendragon are the same person.

The crowd raucously, drunkenly cries out to Guinevere for an encore, begging her to give them another song. She shakes her head and says she’s done for the night, and all her songs are too sad anyway, but the crowd remains insistent. 

Merlin nudges her shoulder with his own. “You can do this, Gwen.”

And for some reason, just locking eyes with him is enough for her to acquiesce.

She dusts off her dress and reluctantly shuffles onto the stage once more, and the current performer steps aside to let her have the microphone.

Guinevere discusses something with the people manning the instruments, and after a moment they appear to reach an agreement of some kind. 

As the music swells to life, she casts one final glance at Merlin. He nods encouragingly, and she nods back, then closes her eyes and begins.

“Je suis seul ce soir,” she sings in a soulful cadence.

He loses himself in the music, lets the medieval nostalgia consume him like a snake devouring a field mouse - and just as the snake’s venom strikes the mouse, so too does a heartbreaking realization strike Merlin.

He called her Gwen. He referred to Guinevere Laurent as Gwen, his Gwen.

But she’s not. She’s not his Gwen.

His Gwen is dead, and she’s not coming back.

Suddenly, the whole world flares harshly at him. The lights are too modern and bright, the music is too loud and lively, the crowd is too busy and young. And Guinevere Laurent stands on the stage, eyes closed as she sings from the heart. 

And it’s not Gwen. It’s not Gwen, it’s not Gwen, it’s not Gwen, and the reminder of this truth is a slap to the face. Gwen didn’t dress like that, didn’t speak that language, didn’t sing in French bars or drink cheap cocktails. 

Gwen died. She died in pain, and she died gasping for air, and she died pushing him away in fear because her senile mind could not recall who he was. She died afraid, surrounded by faces and places she didn’t recognize, tearfully asking for a brother who had been dead for decades.

But even despite with all the differences, Guinevere Laurent looks so horribly similar to Gwen, back when she was young and innocent. The similarities, the memories, are enough to shatter whatever shaky pieces of his heart he had managed to cobble together.

Merlin presses a trembling fist to his mouth as tears pierce their way through his eyes, clouding his vision and sapping his body of any resolve it might have had. 

He fumbles out of the bar to get away from it all, lest the agony bubble out of him like blood. The cold air stings his cheeks, but the bitterness of it provides a momentary distraction from the memories left behind in the bar.

Determined to find some other hole-in-the-wall at which to drink and forget forget forget, Merlin stumbles away, not even bothering to wipe away the curtain of tears shuttering his face.

But back in the bar, Guinevere Laurent begins to remember things. As the melody holds up her heart, as the fondness that ‘Michon’ had born within her chest lifts her ever higher, flashes of a distant life spark in her mind. 

A boy with an impish grin, stuck in the stocks but still shaking her hand. A young man with a colourful scarf, sitting on a hill and braiding flowers into her hair. A friend, back pressed to hers as they both hold swords and fight to defend their kingdom. A companion, holding her wrinkled hands and helping her get up the stairs.

The name whispers into her mind. Merlin.

But as the final notes of Seule Ce Soir  rumble to an end, as Guinevere opens her eyes in the hopes of soaking in the rays of her old friend’s presence, she finds no sign of Michon - Merlin - and instead a vacancy in his place. 

Thanks for the ask! <3

[feygana2]

done with permission from @tharanduil​ / inspired by them, i decided to make a post about fanon tropes present on this site vs my own original portrayal.   /  TRIGGER WARNING:  topics include historic xenophobia, intolerance and brief mentions of sexual assault.   

DO NOT REBLOG. DO NOT !!!   THIS IS A ROLEPLAY BLOG AND MY HEADCANONS ARE NOT UP FOR DEBATE.

popular fanon concept:    morg.ana is evil, and only wants to kill arthur pendragon for the throne. 

okay, so i cannot even begin to dissect why this is wrong without first pointing out that the bbc version of events can walk off a cliff.   you have to understand that in my portrayal,  i pay very close attention to the fact that pagans in briton at the time were being driven out by the new christian doctrine, and morgana herself (in original written canon) actually grew up in a convent after the deaths of her parents, one of whom was literally raped by the christian king uther pendragon in order to conceive her half-brother, and the other who was killed by the same king so that he could assume his form to sleep with his wife.   morgana has harbored a blistering hatred for uther ever since she finds out what truly happened; which is done through sleep-induced visions once she comes into contact with the lady of the lake and awakens into her true abilities as the future priestess of avalon.   it is her spite that drives her forward, and yes she does let herself become consumed by this hatred.   especially after this same prince, her half-brother, becomes the center of a plot (where she is partially at fault) that finds not only most of her extended family, but also her lover, accolon, dead.   she is the first born to to gorlois and viviane, and with uther’s crimes having left her bereft of any family, she stakes her claim to the throne of camelot through her sister’s sons,  gwaine, mordred, agravaine and others, who are heirs to the throne of loth in modern-day scotland.    if you decide to ignore the fact that non-christians and non-britons were being slaughtered during this time and to therefore whitewash the history of where this story came from and its main protagonist, it’s safe to say you should not be following me.  

popular fanon concept:   mor.dred is morg.ana’s son through an incestual relationship with her brother. 

sorry, i don’t subscribe to the weird la morte de arthur obsession with creepy incest. mordred, like the rest of his brothers, was a son of morgawse and the king of loth. arthur did not conceive a son, & while gwaine and mordred were the last of his nephews left alive, morgana did align herself with mordred as he was a powerful druid that she assisted in teaching and training.  after the death of her sister and brother-in-law, morgana did take on a matronly figure (especially with her namesake coming from the goddess, matrona) to both Agravaine and Mordred, though she was only ten to twelve years their senior.   Both of them became part of her own immediate family, and she plotted with them thoroughly to see the youngest on the throne, and therefore forestalling the coming genocide to the northern tribes of what is now great britain and keep free the old religions.  morgan.a loved mordred like her son, and when finally all brothers but gwaine had fallen, and mord.red was killed at camlann, she gave up the fight for the throne all together and withdrew into votadini lands to hide in the hills and wallow in her grief. she buried mordred alone. 

popular fanon concept:    morgana worships the old celtic deities in the ulster cycle

morgana was actually born at a time when the ‘’old’’ deities of the britons and saxons were still at large despite the onset of catholicism. she worshipped deities like wodan, thunor, tiw, freyja, lopt and others, this was after she threw away her education in a convent.  the ulster cycle wasn’t introduced to arthurian legend until almost 800 AD, which is 400 or so years after morgana’s conception as a character.

popular fanon concept:   morg.ana helped to kill arthur and left him to die with no remorse.  

nope. in fact, in most instances in the actual legend, morgana finds herself feeling pity for him;  she has stolen excalibur’s sheath from him, and in doing so he cannot use its magic to heal himself back to full health.   mordred was also given a sword just as powerful as excalibur to slay a king, made by the fused hatred and magic of morgana herself.   however, once mor.dred is dead and buried, she cannot bring herself to let her only remaining family member die sorry gwaine.    she puts his body atop a boat of reeds and brings him to the isle of avalon, which is a portal between the physical and metaphysical world.  while it is known he left the world of the living, it is under speculation in several versions of the story if he truly ‘’died’, or if he was put into a cycle of reincarnation.

popular fanon concept:    morg.ana just used accolon. she never loved him.

get the fuck out of here with this.  she loved accolon.  and she used him. she was angry that she could not seduce lancelot to bend him to her will so easily, and she did use accolon as her first champion. she stole the excalibur and replaced it with a simple blade, and so during the duel between king and knight, when accolon came at him with a magic sword his own combat skills were not up to par.   it was only after the sword was returned to arthur mid-battle that he stabbed through accolon’s silver armor with a fatal blow.  his body was actually brought to morgana, and she mourned over him for several years. this was, in la morte d’arthur,  the beginning of her plot to ruin arthur’s relationship with Guinevere, and when she really started to plot revenge with loth’s sons.  (another small point is that while morgana did use her sexuality and femininity to manipulate others, it was never done through ‘sex magic’ or as a means to her own enjoyment, and was instead used as a means to get cis men to listen to her in 400 AD. something that is still impossible to do in 2020.)

[writer-and-artist27]

No Longer the End

Notes: Inspired by AmaLee’s cover of Brave Shine, specifically this AMV, and written in honor of Healing over Time’s first anniversary and the first Saber I ever got to know in Fate. 

@withanina. No, Aqui. You gave me the last bit of inspiration needed to write this. Thank you for everything. :) 

I’d like to think this takes place in-between Chapter 5 and the WIP Chapter 6, where Arturia dreams again in the middle of the night.

-----------------------------

Sometimes, when Arturia closed her eyes, she found herself back on that last battlefield. Knights collapsed on the soil, bleeding out with no hope of getting up. The number of spears and swords left scattered amongst the bodies creating an insurmountable pile of death. 

“Camlann…” 

She knew it was a dream, but it did not stop Arturia’s desire to scream in anguish. As much as she wished to improve Britain’s aspects in the world by becoming King Arthur, she never truly wanted so many to die that day for the sake of change. 

The Holy Grail Wars were originally supposed to be a way to fix all this. To fight for a chalice that could change Britain’s tragic fate. But the Holy Grail was gone now, far too corrupted to do anything. Arturia knew she did what she could, for everyone sitting on this hill, but it did not stop her from feeling hopelessly empty when looking on from the top of the same hill.

Mordred’s blank green eyes staring off into the sky was hard enough to acknowledge as is. Even if he had rebelled, he was still a Knight of the Round Table. To see him like this— 

Arturia looked away, tightly clutching the handle of Excalibur. Rhongomyniad had disappeared somewhere after it had pierced Mordred’s armor and now, in this flashback, Arturia was not intending to look for it. 

This was the time where King Arthur had met his end.

So then, why? Why was Arturia back here again?

Her armor felt heavy as she clutched the handle of her Holy Sword. It felt like Excalibur was her only lifeline. Somewhere, somehow. “Everyone…”

No one answered.

“Eh?” 

All of a sudden, there was another presence. With a solemn “Oh,” cutting through the deafening silence, Arturia was now aware that she wasn’t the only one alive now. A shudder reverberated through her figure as soon as her eyes caught sight of bare feet slowly tiptoeing past all the bodies, past all the bloodied swords to reach the top of the Hill of Camlann. 

Arturia didn’t raise her head simply from the sheer disbelief. 

How— What? She shouldn’t be here— 

The figure kneeled, revealing the hem of a white dress as an unscarred hand reached over to gently close Mordred’s unseeing eyes. “I see,” she said, sympathy clear in her voice. “This is where…” 

Long black hair brushed the girl’s shoulders as she shifted on her feet, exposing two blue hair ribbons as she turned to meet Arturia’s eyes.

Arturia flinched. “Tomoko…”

Tomoko smiled sadly, her blue eyes shining with unshed tears. “I’m sorry,” she said in the same quiet voice. “I didn’t mean to come here and see something this personal to you.” She still inclined her head, looking over Arturia once or twice before standing up again. A few careful steps were all it took for Tomoko to reach Arturia’s side and Arturia lowered her head. 

“Milady, I…” Nothing left her lips.

How shameful. Even if this was a memory, a dream, for a Knight to let her Lady see this—

There was no warning preceding the arms suddenly throwing themselves around Arturia’s neck. Arturia gasped wordlessly, barely letting go of her Holy Sword in time for Tomoko to nestle herself against Arturia’s front, hugging tightly. Tomoko’s white dress was starting to get stained with flecks of blood that surely must have come from the battles before, but Tomoko was not moving. Rather, it was as if Tomoko could see no one but Arturia.

“You’re not alone, Saber,” was the whisper into Arturia’s ear. “You’ll never be alone. I promise.”

Arturia slowly raised one gauntlet-covered hand. It would have been easy to return the hug. To place her hand on her Lady’s hair, to return the gesture, but— 

“Milady, I—” 

I have no right to touch you. Even if I did all I could, even if I should not regret my time as King, I still could hurt— 

Tomoko shook her head, tightening the hug enough for Arturia to feel something in her dulled nerves. “I don’t know how you got here. I don’t know what happened that led you here, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be here for you. And I’ll do whatever I can to be here. To stay with you.” There was a shuddering breath against Arturia’s neck, enough to tickle. “I won’t leave.” 

Arturia shuddered. “Tomoko.” 

Tomoko slowly pulled away from the hug, a lone tear close to falling if not for a quick hand to catch it, wiping away before Arturia could move. “It’s not because I see you as King Arthur. It’s not because you’re my Servant.” A small smile dawned on Tomoko’s lips. “It’s because you’re Art-san. My silent, loyal, and loving friend, Art-san.”

I’ll do anything for you, was clear in Tomoko’s gaze.

Arturia opened her mouth. Nothing left her lips, replies cut off entirely from shock, so all she could do was close them. It left her barely flinching as soon as Tomoko reached over to press a small kiss to Arturia’s forehead. “It’ll be okay. You’re not alone anymore.” An unscarred hand was slowly taking one of her gauntleted ones, gripping the metal tight enough to make Arturia’s fingers twitch. “Let’s go home now, Art-san.”

Arturia blinked a tear of her own away. “…As you wish, Milady.”

-----------------------------

The next time Arturia opened her eyes, she could see a familiar beige ceiling. The sunlight was starting to shine in, illuminating the room with its pale beams, and she put a hand to her eyes. 

Morning. When had it become morning?

“…Mugahhh…”  

Arturia blinked, swiveling her head to her right side. The scent of rosemary filled her nose and without thinking, Arturia smiled. Of course. “Good morning, Milady,” she whispered.

Tomoko barely stirred, simply making another sleepy noise before moving her arm to hug Arturia tighter. The stuffed black cat that was Blake was thrown haphazardly elsewhere. In fact, when Arturia looked to the other side, it became painfully obvious the plush had taken up a position sitting rather awkwardly a meter away from the futon. 

Another day. Arturia held back a resigned sigh before returning the embrace, pressing her nose into her Lady’s hair. “Five more minutes?”

“Muuuu…” 

“Five it is.” This Servant occupation was certainly changing throughout the years, but at this point, with peace, Arturia barely found herself caring. Guarding someone who could easily be called family was worthwhile enough. “I will make sure to rouse you, Milady.”

“Mugu…” was the complaint.

“Heh.”

For once, after seeing that hill, Arturia knew she was home.

[sunlightswallowed]

“This is the Lake of the Fairy Palace,” said Merlin, “and beyond the lake, over the brow of the hill yonder, lies the plain of Camlann, where the last battle shall be fought, and you shall fall beneath the sword of the Wicked Knight. And beyond that plain lies Avalon, hidden in mists and mysterious waters. Go down now and speak with the Lady of the Lake, while I wait for you here.”

THIS SIXTEEN YEAR OLD BECAME KING LIKE TWO DAYS AGO AND NOW YOU’RE ALL LIKE OH YEAH THERE’S THE SPOT YOU’RE GONNA DIE LOL

[andoryuanzuru]

A What if servent~  What if Mordred didn't die at the Battle of Camlann Hill, where Mordred took Rhongomyniad and give the final blow! Becoming the king he believe he can be.

This took a lot of work!!! a week's worth to give Mordred the crown he deserve!!!! but story writing wise, he can never be a kind kind. Under evil influence of morgan le fay and Rhongomyniad, He can only become a warlord, fighting all of Europe with a dragon theme design. I still hope for a new Mordred alt....one day....

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[shprka]

“Of Lions, foxes and bears” and me – my literary journey with Part 1 of Merlin and Arthur's story

YOU CAN READ PART 1 OF THE STORY ON AO3

Hi, I'm Szpurka!

INTRODUCTION

(if you just don't wanna read this big ass wall of text and you came just for the fic, scroll to title SO, THE FIC)

Some of you might know I write and I love to write, anything and everything – short stories, longer stories, fanfiction, screenplays. As of yet most of them haven't seen the light of day and to be honest, some of them never will. You can say I am both self-conscious and confident in my writing. If I wasn't at least somewhat proud of what I write, I would just sit day-dreaming about the ideas I have and I would be miserable and too afraid to show it to anyone. And I was that for a long time, until I decided this year that no, I don't have to keep what I write a secret (even if it's a self-indulgent fanfic). I started to believe in myself more and am still trying to write and read and find like-minded people, who can relate and maybe have a good word or two to give.

But you're most likely here not to listen to me ramble about myself! You want to know how “Of Lions...” came to life. I don't want it to be a long post, so we'll just go over some technical stuff.

Fantasy is a genre that I loved since I was little, later on in my teens I became interested in different cultures and their mythologies. This is why I started watching Merlin in the first place, as probably many of you. Knights, sorcerers, magic, evil kings and witches? Sign me the fuck up!

Don't kill me, but I started my journey with Merlin pretty late (January 2019, the beginning of this year). I watched a few episodes on the telly, and never gave it much thought. Until a friend of mine mentioned it a few times and it was on Netflix, so yep, that's how it all started.

I was in a few fandoms before, have written a few fanfics for them (that are lost forever because I don't remember where I saved them, and then I changed laptops like three times, so... rest in peace, forgotten words of a teen me). I was honestly surprised Merlin fandom is so active and, you know, even alive after all this years. The show ended in 2012, wow.

I've written a few pieces, especially encouraged by the Merlin Memory Month May 2019 prompts, which got me really excited and thinking of all the possibilities. I've read a lot of Merthur fanfics by then and seen all the variations of the characters and the story, and honestly with every knew author I fall in love with writing and the particular movie or show even more. That's when I heard the words After Camlann Big Bang 2019 been uttered somewhere on this corner of the internet and I was like, yep, I'm in, I have to write a story now.

SO, THE FIC

(interesting stuff, finally!)

I had idea for Ranger!Arthur for a while and I wanted to try and write high fantasy on my own, kind of like in the show but more mythology and Celts and druids, and magic. I turned out in Part 1 of this you can read like 1/3 of it, though, and there's not a lot of magic, sorry! I will write the rest and I promise it will be much more magic-y.

What I also wanted was for BBC's Merlin to give me at least a few more episodes where Arthur knows about Merlin's magic and they work together to bring magic back and kick ass together. Basically, an fantasy adventure. And I settled on that.

You can see I took some liberties with the world-building. Arthur's characterization is what I had a problem with because he was a spoiled prince we all know, on the other – I had to describe how being in the Otherworld changed him.

Otherworld – it's underworld/hell/heaven, where souls go after people die. It's most of often than not depicted as a land of everlasting youth and joy and a paradise, basically. You can now it as Avalon, a magical island where King Arthur (from the legends) was taken after the Battle of Camlann. Avalaon became associated with heaven/paradise. That's where magic lives, fairies, spirits and such.

You can remember from BBC's Merlin how the Sidhe tried to drag Arthur with them to their own world by an open portal in the river. This is because Celts believed gates to other worlds (and in this case just one, Otherworld) were in lakes, rivers, in fires, on the top of mountains or hills – places where two elements collide.

So why depict Otherworld as a wasteland with gray ugly sky, and the only life there are beasts that want to eat each other alive and this is a place where only the strongest survive? Don't want to spoil anything, but there is a big reason that Arthur ended up in this kind of place, and not some kind of heaven.

Wyverns – if you look up a definition, they are smaller dragons with only two legs, that's why mine don't have four like in BBC's Merlin. They don't breathe fire, but mine spit fire just a little bit, because that's cool.

Midsummer – which is one of the most important traditions Celtic year. It takes place between June 19 and June 25. And because I am lazy and just came up to write this and have to go to bed because of an early morning, I added my notes (I hope you can understand my awful chicken scratch) + photos from the book that I came across called “Midsummer: Magical Celebrations of the Summer Solstice” by Anna Franklin.

MY SITE, MY BOOK AND MY PLANS FOR THE FUTURE

As I mentioned on ao3, yes, I have a site in the making! I hoped to have it set up before posting this fic, and this post would be one of the first, but you just can't rush some things. While it's slowly coming along and will be a place where I share some of my personal view on writing and filmmaking (because I am a film student, hoping to be a director, if you didn't know :)) and maybe it would a platform to share my stories, both fanfiction and future novels, scripts (hopefully) and my progress of taking my life by the horns (is that the saying? Probably not) and becoming who I want to be, instead waiting for a publisher to call and say, “I don't know who you are, what you do or what you've done ever in your life, but I want your story that no one knows about to be published!!!”.

This isn't the post to be really talking about it (haha, exploiting your merthur love to read this, I am awful, I know), but I have a finished novel of over 100k words sitting in my drawer (in a folder on my laptop) and I have to focus on it finally, not get distracted and translate it all from Polish (my mother language) to English by myself. Then I'll have to find an editor to check it all for me and some beta readers, because no one but me even touched the finished story and we'll see from there. By talking about it to more people I hope to actually get it done and find my enthusiasm again.

The story is an urban fantasy happening in our times in New York. The fates of two completely different people are more intertwined than they think. The first one is a fantasy writer from London and the other is a broker's bodyguard, a woman who is a splitting image of Death from the writer's short story, exactly how he imagined her when he'd written it as a kid. They meet as adults and try to discover how's that possible that she's Death.

If you were interested, intrigued maybe check for the updates, I'll definitely talk about it in detail within the next few weeks, maybe even share some spoilers ;) on my site. Was thinking of posting a first chapter/prologue some day to get you into the feel of the story and maybe support the creative process.

IF YOU HAVE ANY QUESTIONS, DON'T BE AFRAID TO ASK!

CLICK BELOW FOR MY NOTES :)

[vortigcrn-blog]

Let’s go into more detail than her about as to how Salter’s rule and inevitable death was.

Once Salter finally did take the throne, things in Britain were more dreary than they were in normal History. You see, this Artoria took an extra eight years to continue training making her 23 when she took the throne and dealt with her uncle instead of 15 like in the normal history.

What his meant is that while she had more life experience, and while not exactly understanding the hearts of men...she didn’t want to either. Being just a normal knight and fighting to save people she also saw more of the...less pleasant side of people, and saw how some even she saved weren’t the best of sort...and this is what started to shape her view and her inevitable rule.

Once she slew her uncle-turned-dragon Vortigern and became the True king of Britain, she tried to rule like the Artoria of our history at first. She tried to be chaste, and true, and kind, and benevolent...but as I said, Britain was already in dire straights, and she had to deal with bandits stealing food, poor harvests, people being unruly with crime on the rise...she realized that to keep the people under control she needed to be merciless. She needed to be heartless. Before she could deal with foreign invaders she’d first have to deal with restless citizens...so she started rolling out the laws that would label her as a tyrant.

The first was bringing her Big Sister, Morgan le Fey, into her court to be her Adviser and Court Mage...with her council, and guidance Artoria awoken to many...less than chivalrous abilities, and with her new powers and views her holy sword was dyed black.

Then the laws came. 

Curfews, harsh taxes, food rationing for all, not just the peasants but nobles as well, forced conscription into the army for all who were able bodied. Crimes were met with swift and severe punishments, if you were caught hoarding more food than allowed your property would be stripped from you and you’d be imprisoned or worse, lock you in a pillory in the town square and let the rest of the people know you were hoarding food while they suffered equally.

The food and money taxes lessened as harvests got better, but the damage was done to her image...and it didn’t help that with her armies she allowed no retreat unless she specifically ordered it. If you tried to flee from battle or service you were immediately branded a traitor and would be hunted down and executed.

Rule like this went on for years, and with the whole situation with Guinevere and Lancelot and her having them both executed for high treason, this could only go so far. And though in her history Mordred stayed forever loyal to her king, there was still an uprising...though it came later than what Mordred would have caused.

Rallying the people, and the troops who weren’t loyal to her, Gawain formed an uprising and met Artoria for war when she returned from dealing with the Roman threat, and it all coming to a close at the Battle of Camlann Hill.

With many of the knights of the round on Gawain’s side, most sickened at the way Artoria chose to rule, she was forced to slay her most valued and trusted knights, but with her heart deadened to emotion and affection for her former comrades from the betrayal of Lancelot, she felt nothing when doing so. Gawain slew Mordred. Artoria slaughtered his troops...and when it was him and Artoria...as well with the remainder of her troops to face this one knight, he pleaded with her men. He was always too Charismatic for his own good, and he swayed quite a few to his cause...which lead to her slaying her remaining troops as well.

In the end, she killed Gawain, like one a dog...it wasn’t a knight’s death. It wasn’t an honorable death. No, she cleaved away chunks of him before finally laying a finishing blow.

Now you’re wondering “If she won, then how did she die? Who killed her?”

As she took a knee to catch her breath, looking across the hill of corpses and gore, a young farm hand had come onto the battlefield, hoping to help his father fight in this war. A nobody really. He wasn’t particularly handsome or athletic or strong, a face you wouldn’t be able to pick out of a crowd unless you knew him. He found the body of his father, and in anger, took up his father’s crossbow. A crossbow his father and shown him how to use since he was a boy. His father’s words echoed in the back of his mind. “Adjust your angle, son, your target is far. The bolt will drop...take account of the wind, boy...calm your breathing...” He leveled it at the Tyrant King “Keep your eyes focused...now take a deep breath...hold it...and--” He let loose the bolt his father had readied before death, watching it soar through the air at it’s target. 

One might call it karmic justice that a nameless nobody made such a precise shot to hit just between the eyeslot of her helmet, right into her eye, straight through the socket and into her brain. One might call it too kind that it was a death she didn’t even feel after all the suffering and sorrow she wrought. 

But that’s how her story ended. No glorious end in battle, not on a deathbed of old age surrounded by friends, that were now turned enemy and dead at her feet...no. She was killed by a nameless farmboy.

A fitting end to the Farce of a Life that belonged to Artoria Pendragon.