Still he was touched, pushed.Screams in his ears, unseen fingers pulled at his hair, his clothes.Sending him to the ground over and over, until he was so battered and bruised that it hurt to walk, sweat and blood dripping in his eyes from a particularly nasty tumble.Turning him around, confusing him, so that it became harder and harder to find the water, leaving him lost in the maze for—
He tripped again, this time over something that felt very real, landing awkwardly in a heap on…
On stone.Carved stone, meticulously laid to form a durable road.Breath hitching, he climbed slowly to his feet, wiping his eyes to see clearly.Well, see the fog clearly at any rate.But the ground had changed, and everything had grown slightly less intense.Had he pushed through it?
Taking several deep breaths to try and steady himself, he pressed on.There was nothing else to do.
The images faded off completely after a couple of minutes, and the voices turned to whispers turned to nothing as a familiar gatehouse appeared from the mist.The first portcullis lifted all on its own as he reached it, but Lancelot wasn'tstupid.
Arthur and his frankly evil architects had designed the gatehouse and its double portcullis to be a deathtrap when needed.The second did not raise automatically with the first.One portcullis had to close before the other could be opened, and to override that option required a key that only Guinevere and Lancelot had copies of.
So no, he would not be entering via the gatehouse.
Instead, keeping his left hand firmly planted on the curtain, he walked east until he came to the grating where sewage and other refuse was carried away to further down river and eventually swept out to sea.
Thankfully, there was no sewage to wade through at the moment, not even old, forgotten sewage as some sort of weird anti-ambiance.
Inside the castle grounds, there was no fog, only darkness, with distant moonlight his only guide, revealing the barest hints of a place both familiar and dreamlike.The sewage had been built close to the butchers and tanners to try and keep all the foul smells in one place, though of course mages had mitigated the problem for the castle as best they could, especially for the poor people who had to work amongst the foulness every single day.
Camelot had always been a place of noise and bustle, as ceaselessly busy as a beehive in summer.Sometimes it had gotten to be too much for him, and he'd retreat to the deepest parts of the river to find a quiet that only deep water could offer.
He pushed onward, wending through the rough dirt paths that people and time had shaped, the emptiness and quiet making him ache.No women talking and shouting as they worked and traded goods, no blacksmith hammers ringing out as they made nails and horseshoes and swords.No bakers bellowing for people to get their goods in because the ovens would be lit soon.No children chasing chickens all about, forgetting that they were supposed to be collecting eggs.
No life at all, only a memory of it, a tombstone where the letters had nearly worn away.
There was music now.A harp.Chills ran down his spine, because that harp shouldn't be here.Not like this.
Iseult.Who had played for them so many nights at Camelot, while a soft breeze carried the scent of flowers and fresh water, warm candlelight all they'd needed, sitting there together away from their troubles for a couple of hours.
Iseult, one of the most beautiful women in the kingdom, whose mother had the sense to know and accept her daughter, when everyone else had reviled a 'boy who wanted to act like a girl'.She had found acceptance at Camelot and kinship in Percival and Dred.She'd also found love in Tristan, whom she'd first met when he came to travel home with Lancelot after his night with Galehaut.
She should not be here, in this mausoleum version of Camelot, playing for the phantoms hiding in the fog beyond the castle walls.
Body aching, dread resting heavy in his heart, Lancelot hastened his pace as he made his way through the expansive, winding grounds to the keep itself.Up the stairs and through the great doors laboriously carved with Arthur's rowan tree and dragon crest, through a smaller set of doors into the great hall that should be full of talk and laughter and song, a banquet in full sway, with jesters and bards, Arthur and Guinevere sitting at the high table surrounded by friends.
Instead it was empty and gray, with only a few braziers to break up the absolute dark.On the dais, flanked by braziers, Iseult sat wearing her favorite robin egg blue gown and green kirtle, hair spilling loose around her in a way that never would have been permitted back then, head bowed and eyes closed as she played and played, blood dripping from her fingers and splashing across the strings and her gown.
"Iseult!"
She looked up sharply, the music stopping with a jarring twang—and then everything went dark.
"Well, fuck me."
"Fish boy?"
Relief rushed through him like hot tea on a cold day."Dred?"
A hand landed heavy on his shoulder, warm and reassuring.Then every brazier in the hall burst to life, along with all four of the fireplaces that kept the hall warm in the coldest months."So how was the depression-anxiety fog for you?"
"Absolutely awful, especially when it turned into a straight up bullying fog.Did you see the dais before everything went dark?"
"No, I literally just entered the main doors.I heard the playing, though.I'd know that harp anywhere."
"Agreed," said a voice from behind them.
"Fuck me!"Lancelot snarled, whipping around, sword raised before he caught himself and lowered it again."Arthur, you are such abitch."
Arthur laughed, though it was tired and slightly forced."Sorry, wanted some levity after that fog from hell.Is everyone else's self-confidence heavily bruised and in need of cuddling?"
