Glory Flower

Chapter one

Emma

Once upon a time…Stop. That is not how this story should start. It ought to begin more like…life sucked... still; things could have been a whole lot worse …

Little is identifiable in this world. I do not really know what date it is, and I cannot tell you the exact year, because ever since the old King died, no one here has really known. That is what happens when time shifts and evil thrives, where hate throws everything into chaos and the world spins out of control; but I do believe that today is Tuesday.

It surprises me sometimes, waking up in this room, in a place that is not my real home, yet, it is where I have lived for the last few months. Still, the bed is warm, so I loll in it a little longer than I should. I watch the sun’s rays peek through the tiny open spaces, piercing the cracks and crevasses in the wooden shutters that produce a hue that washes over the room in a soft honeycomb of color.

Lingering under the blanket, wrapped in its warmness, I yawn and stretch out my limbs before I curl up and give way to contentment. I drop off to sleep, where my dreams are of him. He excites me in a way no other has, in the way he calls out my name, touches my hair or my face, but just then, the light steals into the room and wakes me.

Slowly, I drag myself off the slightly lumpy bed and cross the room. I open the window to let the morning rush in, wrapping everything in intense yellow light. My eyes blink repeatedly before they close completely, keeping the extremely bright light from blinding me. I turn away and look to the shadows, just long enough to give my eyes the time they need to adjust.

The air is clean, crisp and refreshes me until it comes in icy gusts. It sends a shiver through me, so I close the opening and watch the room return to its soft honey colored hue. Meanwhile, in the fireplace, the hot coals again heat the room.

I pull my hair back into a ponytail and walk to the simple pine chest of drawers that holds the washbasin and pitcher. I pour some water and splash it onto my face. I hate the cold water, but it is all I have. A small towel rests near the pitcher and I dry off with the crude piece of handmade fabric. The lack of bathing and indoor plumbing makes for a distasteful air. Most people think I am crazy, washing up all the time. Thomas does not, but then, he is not from this place either. It is difficult defending my washing habits, and I do not bath as often as I would like, which triggers bouts of germaphobia. There are things here that I will not touch, at all, ever.

Simple, small and sad, that is how I would describe my current fashion world. Nothing pretty or edgy exists here, and with all my options gone, it does not really help to think of such things. So I dress in what I have, an ordinary fawn colored dress made from homespun wool that makes me look like I am wearing a sack.

It is the same thing that I wore yesterday, the same thing that I will most likely wear again tomorrow, and the day after that. My wardrobe consists of only a few items now, with all of my contemporary clothes hidden away. This scant wardrobe is just one of the things that I am learning to deal with, out of the many things that I cannot change here in this ancient time and place.

Merlin says the rich wear bright colored fabrics made from cotton or silk, and though available in this period, only the very wealthy can afford such things. Deemed extravagant, cotton and silk do not allow for my blending in, so I stay in the wool or linen garments worn by the masses.

Kept hidden inside the dresser drawer is my e-reader, my link to the past, which ironically is actually a link to the future. I hesitate for a moment and then take it out. Gently my hand glides over its leather cover in a near caress. I envision it turned on, with all its many books available to me, all the music files that it holds. I think about the songs I have not listened to for months and most of all, I picture the images of my family and friends, all of which stay locked away inside its memory. The dumb thing does not work anymore because there is no way to charge it, and I do not know how to generate electricity. Why couldn’t it have been solar powered?

I recall the book titles locked inside and tell myself that one day I should write down what I remember of each one. I mouth the words of the last songs played, but the music does not come as easily as it once did. Nonetheless, I keep the thing as evidence of where I come from, and as a reminder that I am not entirely crazy. I hold it a moment longer before slipping it back into the drawer for safekeeping.

I tie the last lace that keeps my dress on tight as my stomach grumbles and I long for all the foods that are not available to me here. Sometimes at night, I let my mind wander through the restaurants I remember, and dream of the food that I used to order.

This is a place without modern conveniences, so there is no refrigeration, no indoor plumbing, no electricity, or fast food. I cannot run to the grocery if we are out of something, which means most everything has to be home made. I live in a kind of nightmare, where all the things we do not have haunt me, and in the meantime, I learn to do without. What choice is there?

I tie on the reddish-brown linen apron that hangs on a wall hook.

My sparsely furnished room serves in a basic way, with a bed to sleep on, a fire to keep me warm and a place to put my things; but nothing in this room is about me. I say my goal is to return home and that none of this really matters, but then I think of Thomas. I am haunted, believing that I might wake up to find out that none of this is real, and he is gone. It confuses my loyalties, between home and here.

Learning the ins and outs of early medieval life is not easy, and honestly, I cannot remember signing up for this. Living in an ancient time is one thing, but this is a completely altered world, where truth is a mystery and we strive to keep our secrets.

This adventure we call life, has become full of twists and turns and I try to make the best of it. One thought that rings true; existence here is more than different, it is damaged. I have found that we do not always get what we want, but there has to be a reason behind the things that we get.

Chapter two

Camelot

The lands of these isles are dotted with many small kingdoms. Each kingdom’s landholding centers on a castle that is built to protect its sovereignty. Camelot, being the oldest and largest of these kingdoms, was once the wealthiest and most beautiful, but that quickly changed when King Uther died. The road that once led into Camelot no longer ends in a peaceful or welcoming place; instead, it ends in a dark one.

The gates leading into Camelot are thick and gray. Large timber poles lashed together make up the entryway, and like the opening, the bulk of the bastion’s perimeter looks essentially the same, worn and discolored, somehow withstanding long onslaughts of weather over its lifetime.

Like most of the city, this fortification of stone and wood resembles the gloominess of the sky just before a storm. Nothing green survives in this town governed by evil. Nothing even looks alive.

Once inside the walled city, one can veer left then turn south of the castles opening just past the sentries’ barracks, just beyond a few run-down buildings and there you can see the stairs leading upward to the breach. It seems like such an odd place to start the long march to the core of a prison.

The stairs of the oubliette are elevated above the ground, only to turn downward, going deep beneath the floors of the castle into a dark and dank interior. Most men can barely stand straight up in the deep; hunched over is how most traverse the interior workings of the celled dungeon. The steward’s area is one of the few places where a man can fully stand.

The opening to the dungeon is similar in color with the rest of Camelot, grey and cold looking. The access point is not large, yet it has an ominous feel. Inhabitants of the walled city walk by cautiously, praying silently, beleaguered by the evil that can reach out and grab hold of them. There is a strained stillness felt as people move nervously past the area. Imprisonment is a subject no one ever speaks of, for fear of reprisal, for fear of being the next victim thrown into the depths of a place where no one returns and where prisoners commonly die.

Screams and cries are heard when the opening is unbolted which makes those within range cringe. Voices echo pleas and others beg for scraps alongside whispered appeals to guards as they make their rounds. When a cell becomes too quiet, the guards call for the gravedigger, who removes the body and takes the corpse to an area located behind the castle’s back wall and there he deposits it in the trenches, alongside other dead decaying things. The grave keeper sets the pit afire every few days to keep the smell and rot down.

Word regarding the fate of those sentenced is never given. Most succumb in the depths of the deep, occasionally some hang on, but most waste away. Notice to the family of one’s arrest or judgment is suppressed by a closed court and the keepers of the dungeon send no word of imprisonment, nor do they make it known when those same loved ones die. They are just gone. It is a bleak time behind the walls of Camelot.

The man storming the open area of the oubliette entrance is also the one seated on Camelot’s throne. He has personally come to see this new prisoner, a teenage boy of no rank, but one who has possible information about the whereabouts of another.

The usurper moves briskly toward the holding cell. He cannot wait any longer. He wants answers. He needs answers. Fear governs his actions. His only fear is of prophesy, one, which speaks of conquest by a missing wizard. The unfulfilled prophesy holds that this wizard is the key to triumph, and to his very own demise.

Prophesy also speaks of a boy sold to an outsider, and though he does not believe all of the stories he hears, Mandrake feels this one has merit. He seems certain that the old wizard he seeks is still alive. He is sure of it. He can feel it, deep within his core. Stirring within his dark soul, he believes the right answers will reveal those that plot against him. He will not hear words against these feelings. He will not allow anyone to counter his belief.

Mandrake rushes to see if this youth can aid in the discovery of the lost mystic of Camelot, the wizard some describe as feeble, white of beard and hair. They insist there is no need for alarm, labeling the magician as too old, while others swear the sorcerer is long dead. Mandrake knows that he wants information from this boy, and he must hear the boy’s words for himself.

The young man in Camelot’s dungeon is visibly shaking. Towering over him are four soldiers and two guards, all listening to the ranting of one man. The boy crouches far back into the corner, pushing against the stone. His back feels the icy cold of the rock upon which he presses. The threadbare shirt he wears offers little protection, much less warmth. He smells the foulness in the air, but oddly it is the only thing that has any warmth and it strangely reminds him of the stables where he has lived and worked these last few years. The smell is almost comforting, but only for a moment, then silently he focuses on the sounds the others make.

The boy does not understand why anyone would bring him to the dungeon. He has done nothing wrong. At least he cannot remember doing anything wrong. Captured while exiting the city, Arthur remains motionless. Ordered to detain any suspicious teenage boys, the gate guards arrested him, partially due to over cautiousness. To Arthur it felt like hours passed, but in truth, it had only been mere minutes. The man, who had been doing all the talking, stares down at him. Attempting to look away, the boy is startled as a voice commands him otherwise.

Look at me, boy. The usurper demands. What a waste of flesh, this one. Mandrake says to the others. He cares not if his words sound harsh. There is no compassion, no comfort for this teenager.

Yes Sir, I fully agree. Comes the immediate remark from the jailer, he tries to be as accommodating as he can. He values his position and knows that if he wants to keep it, he cannot be difficult. Yes, yes, he continues, letting a nervous half smile form across his face.

Where did you find him? Mandrake interrupts the man’s feeble words as he questions the guard. Arthur feels some relief when the attention turns away from him. He lets out his breath in a long sustained exhale, and then just as slowly takes in another. He wants to bolt, but knows there is no escape.

We stopped him Sire, as he was trying to leave town. He claims to be the property of a carpenter, instructed to meet with his owner’s agent outside the city in another couple of days. We hoped you might find this information welcoming. He claims he can tell us nothing more.

What carpenter, boy. Speak up. The words boom at Arthur. He tries to shrink back even farther into the wall, curling into a ball of underfed flesh and bones. Everyone stares, as he remains silent. I am looking for a wizard. The boy just stares, holding tightly to his knees.

This is intolerable. The man bellows. I cannot stomach this smell any longer. Have him brought to my council chamber and clean him up first, I won’t have the likes of this in my hall. He demands, and then turns to walk away. His cloak flows full as he turns around; he stops, and looks back over his shoulder. And feed him, maybe that will help loosen his tongue, I need answers. With his orders given, he continues to storm up the stairs and finally vanishes out of sight. When they no longer hear the sound of Mandrake’s boots, they collectively calm.

The air is heavy in their shared exhale. The warden reaches down and grabs for the boy, pulling him to his feet from where he cowers. Mandrake voiced his suspicions, although no one here really cares with whom this boy allies. Given their orders, these men will not fail in their duty.

Take him. I do not need any more trouble. I do very well down here on my own, and Mandrake is out for blood. The jailer shoves the boy toward the others. Here, he is no longer my problem.

Fine. The General replies to the jailer, You two, he shouts at two of his men, then gestures at the boy, Take him topside. Clean him up before you take him to the barracks. Feed him and get him something decent to wear. He cannot be taken to Mandrake like this. They wait coolly until the General finishes all he has to say.

As Mandrake’s paranoia grows, so does General McTavish’s duties, and he finds that he has immediate command over more than a thousand men and beasts. McTavish, the commander of the home guard abhors Mandrake.

General Angus McTavish is not loyal out of duty, or honor, but because he is forced to be. His loyalties lie elsewhere, where his family hides. His service here is obligatory. No longer completely human, no longer just a man, he is now a bipedal winged creature; half-bird and half-hominid he is an ancient creature, a mutant and mockingly called Crowman by his liege lord.

His sleek, blue-black, raven like wings protrude from his shoulder blades and his wingspan is wider than he is tall; however, his arms, jointed at the elbow, are like a humans. Talon fingers produce a half-human, half-bird hand, which functions more like human fingers, but grips like a two hundred pound eagle. Feathers frame his face while hair still covers his head. He seems the worst mix of human and bird the boy can imagine.

Little does it matter now that McTavish did not begin life as this creature; he came from a good family, under a good banner and his name, a respected one. But, once Mandrake got hold of the man, he no longer resembled the aristocrat he once was. His family openly opposed Mandrake and his dark court, and in return, he cast his cruel magic on McTavish, and dozens of others like him, as an affront to their families. This display of power gave complete control to Mandrake, revealing to the whole of Camelot what would happen if they opposed his position and it brought the nobles of the kingdom immediately in line. Fear can be a powerful weapon.

He stinks as bad as this place does, the general complains. With his job done and his orders fulfilled, he readily departs. The Sergeant barks orders to a lower ranking man, to bind the boy’s hands to secure his move out of doors.

We can’t have you bolting on us, now can we? The man says as he binds the boy. The chain of command has finally reached its bottom rung, so the lowest ranking guardsmen carry out the task of taking him to the surface.

Outdoors, near the entrance of the barracks buildings, the soldier orders the teen to strip, but Arthur holds up his hands showing off the restraints. The man frowns and unties the boy.

With his hands freed of their bindings, he does as he is told, quickly undresses and puts his ragged clothes in a pile next to a trough of water.

The climate is more than chilly, but Arthur says nothing. He stands motionless, until summarily pushed into the watering trough, the kind used to water horses. Without warning, he feels a hand dunk him down under the cold water. He barely manages to hold his breath as his head goes under a second time. He squeezes his eyes shut, and fights the urge to thrash, yet he cannot help but twist about. It was impossible not to.

Then just as quickly, the guard pulls the boy back out of the water, and out of the trough, the water splashing onto the ground in puddles. The soldier pushes him up the steps of the building and into a doorway.

Shaking uncontrollably, he feels disoriented as he watches his old clothes being thrown into the fireplace, burning in a flash. Thrust closer to the blaze, he hears a voice tell him to finish drying off, as someone hands him a modest square of cloth, he quickly rubs the fabric over his skin.

Deliberately, he covers up his nakedness and stands still in front of the fire, warming himself, feeling the deep chill in his body start to subside. Another pair of hands appears, shoving clean new clothes at him, which he reluctantly takes. Confusion almost makes him dizzy. There is no reason for this day. He takes in a deep breath of warm air, a cleansing breath.

The boy nods his head in response, afraid to speak, forcing himself to put on the woolen trousers and shirt. He fears he might do the wrong thing. Near him on the floor, he also sees a pair of shoes and stockings. He mouths Thank you. to the man that brought the kit.

He has no idea why this is happening, or why these people want information about his new owner. The odd thing is he knows nothing of the man Merlin, so their questioning will reveal nothing. He keeps his thoughts private, taking note but not saying anything and looking for a moment in which he might flee, still knowing that fleeing is not an option.

Misery had been his companion. It had kept him from feeling completely alone, until a man came to pay the price asked by the orphanage. It was then that Arthur found reason to start keeping memories, even though the man treated him as little more than a slave, showing no true care or concern. Still, he had favored it over the orphanage. Now his freedom, newly purchased, in an offer for a fresh and different life, was what kept him going, and he longed to depart Camelot.

Looking about, he knows hopeless, negative thoughts will not change his circumstance, so he looks to the fire, savoring its warmth. So far, it has been the best part of his day.

Chapter three

Emma

The dance I do is difficult, trying to become a completely different person than who I am. Different from who I was at home. I must find a way to let go of my modern ways and become a young woman of this time. It will be safer for me to adapt to this place. Though it might sound easy enough to do, it is not at all.

The physical force that now pulls this world along has shifted. It is different from the time that was once ours. Our history is inconstant, the timeline’s fracture altered everything and now darkness covers this place. Most of those overseeing Camelot are monstrous. They serve a being that could have only begun life in the underworld.

Grabbing the iron poker by the fireplace, I stir the hot embers. I hear those in the other room, their voices muffled behind the thick hardwood door. I have little interest in what they say, at least for the moment, but I can stall no longer. I put the poker down and walk out of the bedroom, and instantly my housemates greet me.

Good morning Emma, Thomas says warmly, in his always cheerful nature.

Morning, I chime back, nodding my head, grinning casually at him. Merlin says his hellos then goes back to his conversation. I acknowledge him. No one stands on ceremony.

Did you sleep well? Thomas asks. I love hearing his voice and his question. I would love it more if the others were not here. If only we were alone, but that is not going to happen. We seize private moments where we can.

Yeah, I slept well, well enough, how about you? I follow his question with a question. Being civil first thing in the morning seems easier than being grumpy, even if it is not always easy to do. I smile again. Thomas and I try to keep our feelings to ourselves. Merlin is accepting of many things, and once we explained what our worlds were like, he was more tolerant of our behavior, although my brazen ways are still a little hard to embrace.

Mary, the housekeeper, says little, rushing me to the kitchen table. I am the last one to rise and the only one who has not eaten. She puts a bowl of thick gooey oatmeal in front of me, but before she turns away, I ask,

Can I have some honey or butter, maybe a little milk? Mary stares at me, Anything to help this go down easier, I say as she stands near the table, eyeing