Wishes are words of power.
A Dying man's wish cannot be ignored even by the Goddess of the old Religion.
When Arthur Pendragon let out his last breath on the way to the Lake of Avalon, all he wished was to be for his best friend, his brother, so he...
He watched, as a golden haired boy grow up under a firm tutelage of his father, as years of propriety got drilled into his mind, letting him believe that no peasant was better than him. He watched, as the young man's father, his tutors, warp his mind on his thoughts of magic, teaching him to hate it, to fear it. He watched as the young prince grew up, acting on his father's behest, the sole purpose of his life being a son his father was proud of. He watched as the young prince led raids against innocent men, women and children. He watched as the boy became a man, as he found friends within commoners and peasants, fell in love, and got betrayed. He watched as the young prince became a King, -a King who was loved by his people- with his friends by his side, his heart extending to those that are very dear to him. He watched as the young King's heart prioritised his brothers in arms, he watched as the golden haired King claimed his best friend- a peasant- as the brother he never had. He watched as the prince won tournaments, as the King won battles and wars. He watched as the King gave away his trust, and most of the time ended up being betrayed. He watched as the King finally fell from the sharp end of a sword by one of his former trusted knights. He watched as he realised that his brother had been lying to him, but all the while as his heart ached that the King was not trusted enough by his brother to be enclosed in the secret. He watched as the King closed his eyes, his last breath leaving his lips, making one last wish to the Goddess for his friend.
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Blue eyes flew open to catch a glimpse of sunlight filtering down to the ground from the canopy of trees above him. Arthur groaned as he stirred from his slumber, trying to grasp the feeling of not having a crippling agony from the wound at his side. A moment passed as he stayed still to gather his bearings. There was no pain at his side. Come to think of it, Arthur felt perfectly fine given the fact that he had just died. Blue eyes trailed around the place that he rested, but the golden haired King still had no idea where he was.
He had died, Arthur was sure of it. He remembered Merlin's boney arms holding him, he remembered the agonising pain, He watched as his life flashed before him. Now, he has ended up here. Where was here anyway? Why was he alone? Shouldn't there be someone to greet from the Otherside when one crossed over? Some sort of a Guide? Or should he find his way to whatever the place he was needed? If Merlin was here Arthur would receive a cheeky smile and a 'No special treats in the afterlife you prat!'
Thinking about Merlin brought the young king to move himself up from his place on the ground and sit up, and groaned again when he felt a familiar pain of a bruise on his back. Huh, that was something. Instead of the pain at his side, why does he have a back pain instead? What was happening?
He glanced at himself, the familiar weight of his armour comforting him for a moment. Except, this was not the armour that he wore to his last battle. Arthur was sure of it. His eyes travelled to his surroundings, drinking in the calmness, his skin pickling as a feeling of liveliness etched into his skin. He was sitting in a narrow valley between the roots of trees, dimmed sunlight dripping through the leaves of the trees. As he looked around, his vision settled on a small dying fire to his right, still cracking and popping and smoke emitting from the burning kindling.
