The Pillars of Avalon

Chapter Two

Arthur took a long pull of his spiced mead, hoping the alcohol would burn away the seething mess in his stomach. 

In the wake of Septima's little revelation, the three other immortals had taken turns opening their mouths, and then closed them again as they tried and failed to process what this meant. 

Three millennia ago, freshly dethroned and still beginning to wrap his mind around the loss of Avalon and three quarters of the magic that had bound their very worlds, Arthur would have had a better grasp on the situation, but to have this happen now? It made no sense. 

Three millennia (or more) had passed since the Dissolution of Avalon, Arthur couldn't begin to comprehend how or why the little remaining natural magic was leeching out of their world. 

A part of Arthur was tempted to pull out his sword (challenging since the blasted thing had vanished at some point after swords had gone out of fashion) and demand that the dragoness give him some clarification, for Avalon's sake. But diplomacy, and the many years of experience, taught him that he probably shouldn't attempt it. 

Fire tended to happen when Septima was challenged. Arthur happened to like this jacket, he'd rather it didn't get singed.

Morgana downed the thick red wine she preferred, slamming the goblet down on the dented oaken table. "It's the Prophecy," she announced, her lilting tone laced with all the gravity such a pronouncement ought to have.

Merlin leaned forward, swaying slightly in his chair. "Which prophecy, exactly?" he wondered, frowning at the resident witch. "There are at least a thousand, by my recollection." 

Given that Merlin's recollection of such things went back further than anyone's, Arthur wasn't inclined to quibble with his numbers.

Morgana waved a long nailed hand. "I don't know which Prophecy," she replied, as if such a thing ought to be obvious.

Arthur honestly wished it were so. When it came to magic, spells and prophesies, Arthur was not at his best. Give him a sword, a monster, and a trial to be overcome and he was your man. Anything else, that was why he had Merlin. 

Annoying as the wizard often could be, when it came to this area, there was no one Arthur would rather have at his side than Merlin. Morgana was the strongest witch he had ever met, but he and Merlin shared a bond more profound than the one he shared with his sister.

"Doubt me, Utherson?" Septima's lips curled in a sharp toothed grin. Even now she was as infuriating as the day she had appointed herself his bodyguard.

Arthur rolled his shoulders in a shrug. "I almost wish I could, Sept. But I just don't understand it."

"Magic never was your forte," Merlin teased, bumping his shoulder companionably against Arthur's. "If I'm honest, I don't quite understand either." Green eyes turned sharply towards Septima, the dragoness now enclosed in a thick haze of sage smoke. "If magic was leaving this world, I would have imagined that Morgana and I would have felt it first." Morgana inclined her ebony head in a show of silent agreement. "How did you find out?"

Septima blew out another lungful of the smoke, nails all but gouging another set of lines in the table. If Arthur didn't know better, he would say that she was embarrassed.

Morgana dared to place her hand atop Septima's. "Venilia?"

"I cannot change," Septima hissed, the pub patrons shifting away instinctively at the undercurrent of draconic fury.

Arthur blinked, mind going blank. "Pardon?"

Septima favoured him with a glare that said he was as much of a buffoon as ever. Strange as it might seem, it was a comfort. "Their magic is inherent," she stated, gesturing vaguely towards Merlin and Morgana. "My ability to shift between forms is and always has been conditional upon the existing magic within the world." Arthur nodded slowly, starting to understand. "Until this morning, I have been able to change as I wanted. It is not so now."