I Am Arthur, King of Camelot

Chapter 1 - Where am I?

I feel warm sunlight on my eyes. Unfamiliar. And cold water around me.
Where am I? And who am I?
I sit up.
I'm in a lake. Or perhaps a loch.
That solves part of the where.
Why am I here?
Another question. Without an answer.
I was somewhere warm, before. Warm and dark and peaceful. Like a long, dreamless sleep. I liked it.
I stretch my legs, and my arms. They are stiff. Like they haven't been used in hundreds of years.
That can't be right. It was only a few minutes ago.
It was only a few minutes ago I was dying.
Memories start to come back. Faceless armies. A black haired woman. A man in chain mail.
His sword. My sword. A pained, almost relieved smile on his face.

A black haired man. In a blue shirt.
My heart breaks at the faceless, unrecognisable image of him in my head.
Why? Who was he?
The image of the black haired woman elicits a different response in my subconscious. Of fear, of anger, of disappointment, and shame. A little, broken love.

There was pain too, then, and now, but not in between. A shadow of pain in my abdomen. A terrible throbbing in my head. A tight burn in my limbs.

Arthur. That is my name.
Prince Arthur? No, that's not right.
King Arthur. Of Camelot. That's right, I think.

I stand up. I try to remember what happened then, before the in between.
I remember a war. I remember bravery, and fear, and anxiety, and pain, and finally acceptance and love. They were my last moments, I think. Before the in between, before this.

I leave the water, looking at my clothes. Chain mail armour. A red cape. Black boots. Soaked in water and in the cracks, for reasons not known to me, ashes.

The wind plays with my hair, as I step onto the bank, shaking some of the water off. The chill of the air sets in, but it's manageable. After the long period of warmth, a little chill is welcome.

So I was a King. Did I have a queen?
A figure appears in my mind. Rich, tanned skin, dark hair, brown eyes. Nothing more. No other features. Though feelings of love and happiness and pangs of sorrow.

And a name, too.
Gwen. Guinevere. My queen, my wife.

And she had a brother. He was a knight. My knight. A knight of Camelot, but of something else, too.
A table?

The round table. The knights of the round table.

His name was Elyan.

His face comes to me. And his death. I sit down.

There were three others. Or four?
Yes, four. I struggle to think of their names.
Gwaine. His face also comes to me. Shaggy hair, a mischievous smile. More than a knight, a friend. He is dead, too.
Percival? Yes, that was his name. 
Leon. And Lancelot. Their faces come to me. Their deaths too.

My knights. My friends.

But there was others too. An old man. Gaius. That was his name. A friend, too, and a healer.
A physician. The court physician.
And he worked for my father. Who must've been king, before me. Who must've died. But try as I might, he goes in the list of faceless, nameless memories.

And his, for all purposes, son. His ward, his worker. The black haired man, with the blue shirt.
He was there when I died. With me. Holding me. Crying over me.

My hand on his neck as he broke my heart.

A servant, maybe?

Yes. My servant. My manservant. My friend?

So why the strong emotions? Of love, of loyalty, of happiness. And of betrayal and heartbreak and pain.
His name began with an M. Morgana?

No. That was someone else. A woman. And that name makes me angry, and makes me sad. Perhaps Morgana is the black haired woman.

Morgause? No, not that either. Though that name elicits a similar response of anger and fear and resentment.

Mordred? All these names, and no one to connect them to. Though this name makes me even sadder, and gives me memories of a young boy, and betrayals, lots of them.
And his sword. And my sword. And a smile.
The man in chain mail.
He killed me. Mordred. And I killed him.

I saved him. As a child. From who? My father? That sounds right.

The name of the black haired, blue shirted man still evades my memory, however hard my memory grasps for it.

So. Morgana. My sister? No, my half sister.
An illegitimate child.
A sister who betrayed me. Who tried to kill me, I think, more than once. And who tried to kill lots of people.

And who did kill lots of people. Gwaine, Elyan, Gaius. I think. Maybe more.
And my father. He was her father, too.
And now a name comes.
Uther. Uther Pendragon. And with it, feelings of fatherly love, but also hate, and also respect. A mix.

And Mordred. A boy who I saved, along with Morgana, and Gwen, and the black haired man. So we were friends. All of us. For a time. Saved a boy who then betrayed me, more than once, and who killed me. A prophecy fulfilled.
He died with a smile on his face.

And the knights. And my father. All dead.

Except for me, and I think, Gwen. And the black haired man. And he killed Morgana. With my sword.

So, my first questions.
Where am I? I'm in Camelot, a kingdom, my kingdom, in Albion. And who I am is Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot.

Why I am here remains unanswered. I was dead. Of course I was. Mordred, he stabbed me. My fingers brush the tear in my armour. But I didn't die then. Not yet.

I was carried here. By who? By the man. What's his name?
What's his name?

Whatever his name, he took me away. And then he betrayed me?
Admitted something. He'd been lying to me.
About what? Something I had strong feelings about, obviously.

I watch the wind blow in the trees, causing the leaves to move like flames on a fire.
Sparks. Dragons.
It was magic. Magic, he hid it from me. He was magic. A sorcerer. He saved us. Won the war. Saved me more than once.

And I didn't like magic.
Morgana, she was magic. And so was Mordred. And Gaius, him too, I think.

Why was I surrounded by magic if I hated it?

I stand up again.
This forest is familiar. It's near Camelot. My kingdom, my castle.
The lake too, is familiar. Avalon. Avalon lake.

I start walking. I'm sure Camelot is this way. My home. My kingdom. My castle.

Perhaps I'll see my queen again, Gwen. Maybe the man too. They are still alive, I'm sure.

Perhaps I recovered. Yes, that seems reasonable. The man, he must've thought I was dead. And buried me, perhaps. And then I recovered.

I would've drowned though.

I shake my head. There is no point in speculating. I have to focus on what I know.

I am King Arthur, of Camelot.

And Camelot is this way.