Omen

         There was a man hunched beside the fire, hair so dark it was almost black, cloak a dirty, well-worn green. He was young, little more than twenty, but his eyes were rimmed red with sleeplessness. The fire before him flickered sporadically, spitting flashes of bright, poisonous green into the dark air.
         "Another restless night, Enchanter?" The voice came from somewhere in the darkness.
         The young man at the fire did not move. "The visions continue." He moved his hand gently and the fire flared green. "I see the sword," he murmured. "The sword of my stepfather, driven into the stone. Ever it haunts my dreams. It is an omen." He paused and the fire glowed emerald again. He laughed, an unnerving mix of bitterness and mockery. "Wretched Uther. He always knew Excalibur possessed more power than he could ever understand. He dreaded what would happen should it fall into the hands of one who could truly wield it. And rightly so...And thus it was that even as I, Morgan, High Enchanter and son of his wife, struck him down atop Camelot's highest tower, he kept the blade from me. None can remove it now."
         "And the omen?" said the other voice from the shadows.
         "I see Excalibur," the enchanter whispered, "enshrined atop the tower in its stone. Not even I could draw it forth then, and neither can I now. But there is one who can."
         "Who?"
         "I see him in my dreams along with the sword, the one who will seek to destroy me. The one who will wield Excalibur in Uther Pendragon's place, in my place, who will challenge me. And yet his face eludes me. Nightly I search these visions for him, but still he evades. Soon, though, very soon, I shall find him. But I shall not destroy him. I shall use him."
         "Use him, my lord?"
         The enchanter leaned in towards the fire, watching it hiss and spit green tongues of flame. "If he truly is, as Uther intended, the only one who can pull forth the sword, then I must use him. I will aid him in every way, pushing him towards his destiny. And when Excalibur leaves its tomb, I shall take it from him. And the world will know what the holiest of blades can do in the hands of someone truly strong enough to wield it. And then," he whispered, and his voice had gone deathly quiet, "then my master shall be free."
         The fire erupted. Green and red flame roared - no, it wasn't a fire anymore, it was the maw of an immense dragon, roaring-
         Artura awoke with a scream. She jerked upright in the dark, feeling sweat like ice water running down her forehead, and could hear her heart pounding in her ears.
         But she was alone. As she stared down the night-dark alley of Camelot's sprawling city, she swore at herself. It was only a dream. And of course it was only a dream. It was the same one she'd had repeatedly for months. There were always little differences - the conversation changed nightly and sometimes there were no words at all - but the man's face, the dragon, all of that was there. She swore again under her breath and crawled back into the roadside shadows where she slept.
         Morgan.
         Excalibur.
         Artura shook her head in contempt at herself. You were supposed to have nightmares about things that truly frightened you, not about Enchanters who had lain dead for as long as you'd been alive. And Excalibur should hardly have been on anyone's mind, let alone a seventeen-year-old street thief like her. No one cared about it anymore. It had been sitting atop Camelot for just as long as Morgan had been dead. She swore angrily again at herself for screaming. While this might have been a place in Camelot's city where you could sleep in the street without been driven off by guards, it was also a place where screaming attracted a lot of attention.
         And not a helpful kind.
         Something prompted her to glance down the alley again and felt her breath hiss in involuntarily. Two burly men had rounded the corner and were moving warily down the roadway. "Now, now," one of them called softly, "we know you're here, girl. Why don't you come on out?"
         Artura knew the alley wasn't wide enough for them to miss her in the dark. She sprang out of the shadows. The two men jeered with laughter. "Good girl," one of them said.
         Artura fled. She sprinted away from them-
         She slammed hard against a third man. He seized her by the shoulders and leered at her with a smile of broken teeth. "It'd be a shame to mess up that pretty face of yours," he purred. "So why don't you just do as your told?"
         Artura bit his hand. Hard. He yelled and tried to shake her off and she drove her foot up between his legs. He fell and she leaped over him, racing away down the alley. The man snarled after her, "You'll pay for that!" and gave chase. Artura ducked into another alley, praying she could outrun them just long enough to hide.
         A door opened at the side of the street and a voice whispered, "Here, girl! Quickly!" She wasted no time and ran into the house. The door slammed shut behind her. She collapsed onto her knees, fighting for breath.
         Fists began pounding on the door. "Open up! You've got a thief hiding in there! She's got something of ours and we want it back!"
         Artura glanced up at the figure who had let her inside. He was an ancient man, stooped over a cane, with a long beard that flowed to his waist. He pointed her to the only other room of the small house. She scrambled through the doorway and found herself in a small bedroom. She dove under the bed and tried to quiet her breathing.
         She heard the old man's voice. "A thief? In my home?"
         "Snatched some money off us in the street," replied one of the men outside. His voice was muffled through the door. "Let us take her and we'll leave you be."
         There was silence for a moment, until Artura heard the old man say, "Very well."
         She swore in shock and fury and rolled from the bed even as she heard the front door opening. She looked wildly about for a window, for any means of escape; the door closed again-
         A thud sounded from the other room, followed by two shouts of outrage and surprise. A groan, a thud, and then a whooshing noise of some sort and an agonized shriek that was silenced almost immediately. Artura froze.
         The old man hobbled around the corner. "It's alright," he said kindly. "You're safe now."
         Artura eyed him warily. He limped towards her but she skirted around him into the main room. She glanced quickly around and took in the scene.
         The three men lay dead on the floor. One had a knife in his chest, the other looked like he'd been strangled and had had his neck broken by the discarded rope at his feet, and the third had charred clothes and terrible burns across half his face. Artura whirled on the old man. "What did you do?"
         The man looked over at the bodies and shrugged. "Fights are not a matter of strength, speed, or-" he added with a faint smile, "-age. I merely put them in the way of each other."
         Artura stared at him, not believing a word of it. "And him?" She pointed at the burned corpse.
         "Picked up one of my candles. Troublesome thing, fire, if you hold it too close to your face. I’m glad it didn’t spread. Now," he said, "if you'd be so kind as to help me toss these bodies into the street. The city dogs will take care of the rest."
         Artura shook her head in disbelief but did as he asked. The three bodies hit the road outside with heavy thuds. When she closed the door again, she found the old man glancing down at the wooden floor by the doorway. "Good. No blood on the floor."
         "Why did you do that?"
         The old man looked up. "What?"
         "I thought you were going to hand me over to them."
         The man smiled. "I knew their voices. I've met them a few times over past weeks. I decided the city would be better off without them."
         Artura swallowed hard. "Thanks."
         The man made his way to the fireplace on the far wall, where a kettle hung. "Tea?"
         Artura shook her head. "I should go."
         "Nonsense!" said the man. "I insist."
         Artura laid a hand on the door but the old man interrupted her. "Humour an old man, would you? I helped you. Perhaps the least you can do is stay and talk for a moment."
         "Talk about what?"
         The man put his cane down to lift the tea from the fire. He poured it into two cups on a little wooden table before returning the kettle to the flames. "What's your name?"
         "Artura."
         "Well, Artura, won't you sit with me awhile?" He beckoned to her and sat creakily down at the table.
         Artura shrugged. "Alright." She sat down across from him.
         "I'm Arlen." He pushed the tea towards her. She sniffed it out of habit, but paused. It smelled...incredible. She hadn't smelled anything like it since...well, ever. She hastily put it back down on the table. "Why are you doing this?"
         "Why?" Arlen echoed. "Tea is hardly out of the ordinary when sitting at night, holding a conversation." He sipped from his own cup.
         "No," said Artura firmly. "Any of this. You protect me from those men, offer me tea, and want to sit and talk?" She shook her head. "No. What do you want?"
         Arlen frowned. "A little company is not too much to ask, is it?"
         "No, but you want something else." She fixed him with a penetrating stare. His ancient, wrinkly face was unreadable. Even if you won't tell me, I'll find out soon enough. She picked up the tea and took a sip.
         It tasted even better than it smelled. Even the fresh bread she'd stolen out of bakeries didn't compare. She eyed him suspiciously. And you're just giving it to me...
         "I imagine your suspicious nature is what has allowed you to survive out there?" said Arlen.
         Artura nodded.
         "You don't need to keep it with you here."
         "Keep it?" Artura repeated. "It's who I am."
         Arlen smiled gently. "You'll forgive me if I don't believe that. It's a shield. A wall you put up to protect yourself. Not who you are underneath."
         Artura laughed. "No, who I am underneath is a thief. The suspicion kind of comes with that."
         "Or perhaps the thief is just another layer you need to survive?" Arlen sipped his tea again.
         "It's a nice thought," said Artura with a faint smile. "But not true."
         Arlen rose slowly. "I have some bread too, if you like."
         Artura's stomach rumbled. She hadn't eaten since the morning, but she'd gotten used to hungry nights. She hardly thought about it most of the time, but the offer of bread reminded her of it a little too powerfully.
         Why are you doing this, old man? Instinct born of years on Camelot's distrustful and violent streets screamed at her to refuse.
         "Thank you," she said, and nodded. Arlen hobbled from the room.
         The second he was gone, Artura sprang to her feet. She knew Arlen wouldn't hear her; she could move like a cat when she needed to. She began examining every corner of the room. This doesn't make sense. There's something about him that doesn't fit. She looked under chairs, on shelves, not sure what she was looking for, but something told her she'd know when she found it. The shelves above her head were filled with books, though she couldn't read the titles, and under the chairs she found nothing but dust. She did find a long, gnarled walking staff in one corner, though by the dust on the floor it looked like it hadn't been moved for years.
         The floor.
         Artura dropped to a crouch and examined it. One floorboard didn't match. It wasn't the colour that was out of place, or even the shape, just something that her instincts told her was wrong. She ran her fingers along it and found a small gap on one side. With a single, deft finger, she reached into the crack and pressed.
         The floorboard clicked like a lock and shifted upwards. Artura's hands were nearly shaking with anticipation. She lifted the wood aside and peered into the darkened space.
         She was disappointed. All there was was an ancient, dusty book. It might have been decorated with fancy silver writing, but it was still just a book. She sighed.
         Then her eyes fell on the title. She couldn't read the whole thing, but she recognized one of the words.
         Everyone recognized that word, just as they recognized the words Excalibur, Uther, and Morgan.
         Merlin.
         Her eyes widened. She cast a shocked look over her shoulder towards the room Arlen had gone into. Everything fell into place. That he'd survived the fight. The rope that had mysteriously choked one of the men. The burns on the other man's face, burns from a candle that she realized she had no memory of seeing. She stared back at the book.
         "Couldn't keep your curiosity contained, I see?" came Arlen's voice from behind her.
         Artura leaped upright. "I-" Words failed her.
         Arlen said nothing.
         "But you-" Artura spluttered "-Merlin disappeared! When Morgan and Uther killed each other! Merlin vanished!"
         "He hid," Arlen said calmly. "He feared that even with the Enchanter and King Uther gone, Uther's enemies might pursue him next." He held out half a loaf of bread. "Hungry?"
         Artura backed away. Merlin. Excalibur. Morgan. Uther. All things that should have been forgotten seventeen years ago when their stories had ended, but had now begun to haunt her. "I should leave.”
         Arlen - Merlin - whoever he was - nodded. "I protected you tonight, Artura. I would appreciate you returning the favour and not...mentioning this."
         Artura agreed dumbly with a nod of her head. Her hand blindly found the door behind her and she lifted the latch, about to leave, when the entire world vanished.
         It was as vivid as her dreams.
         Only she knew she was still awake.
         She saw the cloaked man leaning towards the fire, sleepless eyes now glowing with triumph. He was laughing, a cruel, murderous cackle that cut through the darkness. The fire was leaping and dancing with green light as he laughed in victory. A voice from the shadows exclaimed, "What is it, Lord Enchanter?"
         The enchanter turned, triumphant grin spreading across his face. "The visions," he replied. "No longer does any shadow shroud that which I have sought. The omens have become clear. I see now the face of the one who is destined to draw forth Excalibur. And of course I could not see before! I sought a man in my visions, a man brave and strong enough to face me, but I was wrong to do so."
         "A boy?" said the other voice.
         "No," said the enchanter. "A girl. She shall be the one to take Excalibur from its resting place, the one who people will flock to when I return. She is the one I must find, must use." He returned his gaze to the fire and green tongues of flame flared so high that he seemed to shrink beneath them. Then, with a flick of a finger, the fire vanished. There was total darkness.
         And Morgan whispered one word. "Artura."







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