Chapter 4 — The Holy Grail Begets a Second Chance

Ten years later…

Guinevere squinted as the harsh wind blew past, forcing her a few feet backwards. She winced as she stumbled onto her bad foot, the pain shooting up her spine. Gasping and fighting to stay upright, Guinevere took another step forward. She was trudged slowly through the snow and up a hill. This nameless hill was where she would die.

It had been ten years since she escaped from King Uther’s clutches and she had spent all those years hiding. The wound in her leg never really healed, getting worse with every passing winter. This was the last winter she would see. This was the last day she would live.

It was a feeling that settled like a rock at the bottom of her stomach. Her time was up. The disease she had contracted was incurable and it ate through her lungs, robbing her of breath. It would take her life today but before she joined Lancelot and the men who died due to her stupidity all those years back, she wanted to see the castle once more.

The castle where Uther Pendragon lived. Where he drank and ate and laughed. Where he stood proud on the corpses of her friends.

She’d heard some rumours circulating in the back of bars and taverns that he had fallen sick and was slowly wasting away in the castle. The rumours set the entire kingdom on edge as Uther had not named a successor yet. The battle for the right to ascend the throne could rip the kingdom apart, burning the shreds with the fire of civil war.

Guinevere was not worried about that. She was not even worried about the possibility that somehow Uther could die a painless death. Her biggest concern was that at the moment of death she would let her hatred for Uther go. She wanted to hate him for eternity.

And so she climbed.

Reaching a spot where she could see the grand castle, reduced to a hazy silhouette due to the snow and the grey sky, Guinevere slumped on a large rock, her legs folding under her. She remained that way, feeling the cold seep into her bones. With every second she spent still, the snow fell softly on her, steadily piling until she could feel its weight on her shoulders and back.

Even then, she did not move. She welcomed death like a long-lost lover.

Please, come take me. I’m tired of living.

Guinevere had no idea how she survived for this long but it mattered not. Death was coming now.

“My, my, you picked a tough place to climb.”

Guinevere turned slowly to see a figure trudging in the snow towards her. She had been on the edge of life several times in her life but this was the first time that death had come in a physical form.

At a point in her life, she would have been cautious, body tense and ready to fight. Now, she was just fatigued, waiting for the peaceful arms of death to embrace her.

She watched disinterestedly as the figure approached her. He—she assumed it was a man—was draped in a traveller’s cloak, black with matching gloves. The hood hung over long silvery hair, shielding the man from the snow that blew past.

He took a few more steps and she could see more clearly despite the weather. It was an old man. He had the kind of face that told you that he had seen a lot in his life. Despite his apparent age, his face looked full of vitality.

“Death,” she whispered, completely drained of will. “Have you come to take me?”

A tender smile curved the elderly man’s lips and he answered in a tone matching her. “I am not Death. I have not come to take you. At least, in that sense.”

Disappointed, Guinevere refocused on her task of dying, ignoring the sounds of him settling at her side.

“The kingdom is replete with news of the king’s imminent death. It seems like we have a cold and long winter ahead of us,” the man’s warm and clear voice rang out behind her.

Guinevere did not reply and he continued, unfazed. “Tell me, who do you think the next king will be? His Majesty has five sons and three daughters. We can safely disregard two of his sons and one daughter. I presume you know which I am talking about,” the old man said with a low laugh. He gazed at the majestic castle. “That will leave us with five contenders to the throne. Almost everyone in the kingdom seems to be pulling their weight behind Her Highness the first princess, Morgause.”

Guinevere was perfectly content to continue ignoring the babbles of the old man but her mind could not help becoming alert once she heard the first princess’s name leave his mouth. There was no citizen of the kingdom, noble or not, that would use the personal names of the royal family.

The names might linger in their minds but they were not said out loud.

Guinevere glanced briefly at the man. He looked like an ordinary man, that is, one with a few grandchildren somewhere. The man noticed her gaze and met her eyes. He smiled kindly.

“What do you think?”

Guinevere returned her gaze to the snow in front of her. It mattered not what she thought. She would be dead soon. As if on cue, her lungs squeezed and her entire body rattled with the force of the whooping coughs. She clasped her hand to her mouth to stop the burst but blood spilt out and stained the white snow.

Guinevere stared at the red splotched on the white and her stained lips pulled up in a grim smile. It is time. Lancelot, I am on my way.

“Who do you think the next king will be?” the voice she had begun to think of as annoying rang out again.

“T-that is not my concern. It should be obvious to you that I will soon leave this world,” Guinevere gasped painfully.

A deep chuckle followed her words. The old man was laughing. "You are right. Your death seems very close by. Truly, it is a miracle that you held on this long. I, for one, thought I was too late." His voice trailed off like he was immersed in his thoughts.

“But it matters not. What matters is that I am here now and so are you. Back to the issue at hand. Who do you think the next king will be?”

The man was insane. That was the conclusion Guinevere finally arrived at. The person next to her was insane. After all, who would keep attempting to make conversation with a dying person? Add that to the fact that he seemed to have no qualms calling the first princess by her name, and Guinevere was certain that the old man was insane.

“Arthur Pendragon, the fifth prince, that is who will be the next king of Camelot.”

Guinevere shivered but she had no idea what made her tremble. Was it the harsh wind that froze her breath or was it the moist snow that clung to her exposed flesh? Or was it the sudden power and majesty she heard in the man’s voice?

She did not know and she did not want to find out. It seemed that she needed to pick a new place to die. Rising gingerly from the snow, Guinevere placed one foot in front of the other but the pain from her bad foot overwhelmed her and she fell face forward onto the floor.

It had been snowing throughout the previous day and for most of this one. The snow was packed and frozen, making the impact shockingly painful. Her strength left her with a gasp and all she could do was to remain lying on the snow, feeling a tear make its way slowly down her face.

A hand reached for her and Guinevere felt the old man pull her up with a strength his slim figure did not belie. She watched helplessly as he arranged her numb body to rest against the stone once more. After he had placed her in a position he seemed satisfied with, he hovered his hands over her and Guinevere watched in awe as the snow around them melted, steam rising from the stone surface.

She gasped as the warmth invaded her, allowing her to breathe once more.

“Wh-what are you?” she choked out.

“I am Merlin,” the man answered simply. “And you are Guinevere.”

“How did you do this? And how do you know my name?”

There was once a time that all in the kingdom knew her name, of course. But that was a long time ago. Before she had been branded a traitor to the kingdom. Weighed down by her pain, bitterness and sickness, Guinevere looked nothing like the dashing knight she once used to.

“I wish I could answer all your questions but there is no time for lengthy explanations.” Merlin gestured to the snow-turned-water around them. “As you can see, I am a magician and I came to save you from your fate.” He briefly pondered his words before shaking his head slightly. “No, I came to give you another chance at life.”

Guinevere glanced at the man. She had heard of magicians and had even met one in her life. It was said that once the Kingdom of Camelot was replete with magic and the people that could use this magic. But now, magicians were few and far between. The little that remained today were only useful at performing menial tasks. She had certainly not heard of any that could use the gift of fire. He was powerful.

He said that he came to give me another chance at life. I do not want another chance at this life.

Smiling as if he could tell her thoughts, Merlin said, “Will you allow me to tell you a story?”

“What story?” she croaked.

“The story of Arthur Pendragon.”

Guinevere did not blink at his use of the prince’s name, somewhat used to his discourtesy, instead, saying, "I know the story." Everyone did. The tale of how his mother, the now fourth concubine, caught the eye of Uther on a hunt organized by the king was very popular. The lowly noblewoman became a member of the royal family. It was a fantasy held by many people in the kingdom and so, the fourth concubine was often embroiled in scandals and rumours.

Merlin shook his head slowly. “This story is different. It is the story of who Arthur Pendragon is. Or at least, who he will become.” He glanced at the castle wistfully. “He will become a king that unifies the entirety of the continent under a rule of prosperity and peace. The kingdom of Camelot will know only abundant joy and happiness under his rule. He will become the High King of Britain, a legend.”

Merlin's tone changed, becoming one of angst. "This time of prosperity, no matter how much we wish it, will not last forever. There will rise a man in opposition to King Arthur. He will undo all the good Arthur has done and do much worse. He is an enemy of Arthur's own making. He is a powerful magician. The likes of whom have never been seen and will never be seen again."

“I fought him and I lost,” Merlin said, after a pause.

Guinevere gazed at him sideways. His shoulders sagged and his face was weary. He seemed bereft, burdened with bitterness and anguish. It was a feeling she knew all too well. But…

"Do not get me wrong, Elder. I am glad to hear that Camelot will have a worthy ruler after the stain that is the current king, but I do not know what this story has to do with me."

Some life returned to the old man’s face as he laughed lowly, shaking his head like she had just made a witty remark.

"My dear Guinevere, you have everything to do with this story. It is the story of Arthur Pendragon but it is also the story of your life. I have spent days gazing deep within the crystals. I searched all the possibilities and the futures and this one is the only one where we win."

It was Guinevere’s turn to be amused. She laughed with her ribs rattling like empty cans in the wind.

“Future? Life? You may be a magician but I doubt you can cure me of this disease that is eating my lungs. You met me dying. Leave me be so I can die.”

The words fell from her mouth and once again, Guinevere's gaze returned to the castle. In the time they had spoken, although the magician kept the area around them toasty warm, the snow had built up. It was getting harder to see the majestic castle of Camelot.

Merlin followed her gaze. “Do you no longer want revenge against Uther Pendragon?”

Guinevere’s head snapped towards the magician, her gaze vicious. “With every drop of blood in my body, I want him to pay. I want him to die.”

“Do you want a chance at your revenge?”

The words were whispered but each one fell with an earthshattering roar.

Guinevere grabbed onto Merlin’s cloak with all the strength in her frail body. “Please, Elder. I will do anything. Please. Give me this chance. Please.” She shook him, her eyes burning with tears. “Please, Merlin. Please.”

Merlin placed his hands over hers softly. “Uther has done a great many evils to a great many people. He deserves to pay and he will. With this.” He removed his hands from hers and clasped them together. A bright light escaped from the gaps of his fingers and Guinevere shielded her eyes.

In time, the light subsided and she slowly dropped her hand. In the magician’s hands was a silver goblet. It was plain with no markings or etchings but Guinevere felt all the hairs on her skin rise.

“What is that?” she said, instinctively shifting backwards.

“The Holy Grail.”

Guinevere’s lips parted in shock. She stared at the goblet in Merlin’s slim hands. The Holy Grail. A relic from the Last Supper. Merlin pushed the Grail towards her and she could see a liquid slosh within. Fear washed over her, making her shiver despite the heat the old man had invoked.

“Drink,” he urged her.

“I cannot possibly…” she whispered. “This is the Grail. I cannot… I cannot.”

“And yet, you came here to gaze upon Uther’s castle as you die. This is the only chance you have to avenge the men who rode into battle with you, trusting you with their lives.” He pushed the Grail towards her once more. “Drink.”

Shaking, Guinevere reached out to grasp the stem of the goblet. As her fingers grazed the cool metal, she felt a hum of energy pulsing through her veins. The power of the Grail.

She brought the rim closer to her lips but faltered and shook her head. She made to return the blessed vessel to Merlin but the liquid sloshing caught her attention.

Guinevere had no idea what it was but it was not water, neither was it blood. As she stared deeper into the liquid, seeing her brown eyes reflected therein, images began to form on the surface of the fluid.

A flash of moonlight revealing the crest of the interior palace guards, her men being picked off and Lancelot falling limp to the ground. A blade flashed and was sunk into his chest. Uther seated on his throne and laughing. An arrow flying and striking her in the heel. Expectorated blood on her pillow and the front of her gown.

Uther laughing. Uther laughing. Uther laughing.

“Drink,” a voice came from what seemed far away.

Yes, she would drink. She would kill Uther Pendragon.

Guinevere wrapped her hands tighter around the stem of the Grail and raised it to her lips. The liquid poured into her and she welcomed the power that came with it.

“Drink and take your fate into your hands,” was the last thing she heard as she fell into a deep slumber.