Il était une fois, dans une terre lointaine, loin d'une obscurité de plus en plus forte chaque jour, une fissure apparut. On entendit un bruit à travers les grandes étendues du royaume, celui de la terre déchirée et déchirée par des doigts monstrueux et ombreux. Ils n'avaient pas le droit d'exister et encore moins de transgresser sur ce domaine, le royaume des hommes. Le ciel gronde de peur, le sol tremble de douleur. Partout dans le pays, les paysans criaient pour la miséricorde des dieux, et en réponse –



7 novembre 2016
5 h 00 -> 6 h 30

À cinq heures du matin, avant que le soleil de novembre n'ait élevé sa tête au-dessus de l'horizon, le courant s'éteint. Dans la plupart des cas, Lucy considérerait qu'il s'agit d'une facture d'électricité non payée. Elle était souvent assez éparpillée pour oublier d'organiser ses services publics, mais pour sa propre défense, elle se rappelait souvent qu'ils n'avaient jamais eu une telle chose à la maison. À Londres, il y a longtemps, c'était le travail de sa mère (et son travail était plutôt d'organiser les préparatifs pour le blackout); et à Narnia, il n'y avait pas d'électricité – pas comme on l'appelait à Seattle.
Comme c'était, un coup d'oeil à l'extérieur lui a dit, des visages curieux de ses voisins pressés contre la fenêtre, nez entre les rideaux, ce n'était pas seulement son appartement. Tout 'Mystvale' semblait être affecté, et elle n'aurait pas été surprise si les effets s'étaient étendus à la ville proprement dite. Peut-être même l'ensemble du Pacifique Nord-Ouest.
La brosse à dents entre ses dents, elle s'est mise à vérifier la boîte à fusibles. Et s'il y avait un feu? C'est ce que les fusibles ont fait, n'est-ce pas? Exploser? Elle a failli trébucher sur son premier chat, Aslan, en chemin, poussant un museau fort et irrité à la réveiller de son état à moitié endormi. Se réveiller à 3h du matin à un tremblement de terre de Magnitude 6.0 n'a pas du tout conduit à un régime de sommeil sain.
Ils se produisaient plus fréquemment. Sur sa table basse encombrée, Lucy avait des transcriptions de reportages et imprimé des articles qui disaient qu'il fallait s'attendre à cela; que Seattle a été construit au sommet de la roche plus vulnérable aux tremblements de terre et qu'ils étaient en retard depuis longtemps quelque chose de plus sinistre, plus destructeur, plus ébranlant. Maps a dit que l'épicentre était leur propre petite tranche de maison, et Lucy n'était ni géologue, ni géographe, ni climatographe, ni théoricien de conspiration, mais elle savait quelle en était la cause.
Seul un idiot n'aurait pas peur de l'implication.
Il était et heure avant que le courant retourne à son immeuble, et elle s'est faite une tasse de thé (comment très anglais, dit-elle, se moquer parce qu'Edmund n'était pas là pour le faire) avant de partir pour déranger les voisins. Les choses n'avaient pas vraiment changé entre les deux versions de la Terre qu'elle connaissait – Londres et Mystvale – parce qu'il y avait tout aussi solide qu'une communauté. Les gens se parlaient les uns avec les autres, les réfugiés de l'autre monde, parce qu'ils étaient tellement hors de gamme pour faire autrement.
Dorothy d'Oz vivait à côté d'elle, Alice Little au bout de la rue (ou bloc, si elle parlait le lingo comme une native) et de la fenêtre au bout du couloir à l'extérieur de son appartement, elle pouvait voir le dîner de Madame Oakwing. Lucy n'avait jamais été à Oz bien qu'il savait qu'il se rapprochait de The Never après le Cataclysme. Il était étrange de penser que les gens qui n'habitaient maintenant qu'à cinq minutes de marche dans n'importe quelle direction loin d'elle étaient autrefois des continents séparés les uns des autres, sinon des mondes entièrement.
Toujours dans sa robe de chambre de couleur moutarde, Lucy est sortie dans le couloir froid, laissant les clés dans sa porte. Le tremblement de terre précédent n'a causé aucun dommage réel à l'immeuble, bien qu'elle était sûre qu'elle pouvait voir le plâtre craquer sur l'un des murs extérieurs, et...
Est-ce que la porte de Dorothy pendait de ses charnières?
Avec le même sentiment d'effroi qui a envahi le quartier, Lucy s'est approchée. Oui, il y avait de grandes marques sombres où la porte aurait dû rencontrer le mur, des gouges profondes et des égratignures sur le cadre qui ont laissé des attelles déchiquetées traîner dehors. Quand elle les touchait, elle noircissait les doigts non pas avec de la suie, mais avec autre chose – quelque chose de différent, avec la consistance de la peinture et le froid de la mort.
Lucy n'avait pas besoin d'aller plus loin, mais elle l'a fait, juste pour confirmer que c'était la même chose que les autres.
Des empreintes dans le tapis gris de quelqu'un qui a été traîné dessus, traîné dans le coin de la pièce qui était aussi noir de pitch que le Void. Les taches sur le mur étaient les mêmes que celles sur la porte, comme si un feu avait brûlé à cet endroit en particulier. "Dorothy?" Elle a demandé à haute voix dans la futilité. "Etes-vous ici?" Il n'y avait que les plus faibles encres de choc –– Lucy avait vu les choses bien pire, mais c'était encore terrible quand son propre ami avait été pris.
Une des nombreuses disparitions. Le nombre de survivants de son monde s'est encore amenuisé.
Elle a serré la main sur sa bouche et convaincu qu'elle n'avait rien manqué d'importance, est revenue à son appartement. Lucy était au téléphone dans cinq minutes. « Lancelot, je suis tellement désolé de savoir à quel point c'est tôt », a-t-elle dit aussi vite qu'elle le pouvait une fois que la légende était à l'autre bout de la ligne. « Mais monsieur, vous êtes le seul à savoir quoi faire! Dorothy a disparu, comme les autres! Ça fait trois maintenant." Tous ont été documentés dans son journal. Elle a à peine laissé la femme chevalier avoir un mot dans le sens des bords, parce qu'elle n'avait pas encore fini. "Trois! On ne peut pas continuer à l'ignorer. La réunion mensuelle approche la semaine prochaine, mais, eh bien, personne n'y arrive et...»
Elle a grimpé, légèrement, jusqu'à poser la question: "Est-ce que vous pensez que nous pourrions le faire jusqu'à aujourd'hui? Dites à tout le monde que c'est une urgence. Nous devons parler de ces tremblements de terre et de ces disparitions – c'est comme... Le cataclysme." Il a été dit avec le même ton révérenciel que les personnages dans les livres des enfants peuvent chuchoter le nom du plus meurtrier des méchants, telle était la peur de l'événement se reproduisant juste en le mentionnant. "On pourrait le faire dans la maison de Merlin! Non, c'est pas vrai. Je n'ai pas ses clés. Le parc serait sympa, mais... N'importe où. La bibliothèque? C'est juste qu'il faut le faire."
Lucy visita souvent la bibliothèque, et y travailla à temps partiel en remuant les livres là où ils devaient être. Elle était sûre que Scheherazade ne s'en soucierait pas. Espérons. « Si vous commencez à dire à tout le monde de vous y rencontrer plus tard aujourd'hui, disons à quatre heures du soir, nous pouvons trouver ce que nous devrions faire. »
Elle-même avait quelques contacts sur son téléphone de ceux avec lesquels elle s'était enfuie de son monde, et dès que les arrangements ont été pris avec Lancelot du Lac pour qu'elle fasse son travail des jambes, ceux-ci ont été convenablement avertis... à moins que le téléphone sonne –– il était plutôt tôt le matin. Dans ce cas, Lucy a laissé des messages vocaux plutôt paniqués disant urgent et se réunir à quatre heures à la bibliothèque – doit venir.
Ce n'est qu'après ça qu'elle a téléphoné à la police humaine.
Et c'est après ça qu'elle a réalisé qu'elle ne se considérait plus tout à fait humaine.
– – ceux qui ont été les mieux à même de faire face à la menace familière rassemblée pour défendre leur maison commune, du plus grand des reines au plus bestial des méchants.
"Promise me that after my death they won't declare me the greatest king that ever was and will ever be. That sort of talk starts riots."


 •  N A M E 
Arthur Pendragon
 •  S T O R Y 
King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table; Arthurian Legend
 •  B I R T H P L A C E 
Albion
 •  M A G I C 
No – however, due to the circumstances of Arthur's birth (in that he was conceived and brought into this world with the magic of the Old Religion) he had an innate resistance to magic. That is not to say that magic would never be able to harm him, as it had in the past, but he could shrug off the smaller things and had some amount of fortitude when it came to magics that alter the mind: incorruptibility.
 •  A G E 
Thirty-Six at Time of Disappearance
 •  R O M A N T I C I N T E R E S T S 
Historically, Arthur was only vaguely interested in the concept of romance. He was no stranger to trysts – the defiler of royalty from foreign lands; two princesses and one prince respectively – but when it came to something concrete, something special, there did not seem to be room in his heart. He remained unwed, heirless, and seemed content to spend time usually reserved for lovers with the people of Camelot and his own Knights of the Round Table.
As for his preferences, he had always been tight-lipped about it. When prodded too far, he snapped, "It won't ever come of anything." A commoner, then, his knights assumed. Something taboo.
 •  A T T I R E 
Arthur was a handsome king––golden hair, brown eyes and boyish good looks––and one who looked as if he could be a knight himself from the amount of time he spent working on his skill with the sword. He would don his dragon-engraved armor in battle and trips outside the boundaries of Camelot, of which he took rather often, but when attending to the duties of the king he would be wearing rich velvets and silks on his tunics: red and gold.
Excalibur was his only accessory. Many fakes were made in its likeness, the ancient futhorc runes in the correct order and all, but only the real deal managed to produce the faint sheen of dragon's fire in the reflection of the enchanted blade.



 •  H E R O ' S N A T U R E 
Be just, Uther had said. Be wise. Be strong. That is what makes a good king.
Arthur was all of these – lawful, expecting nothing of the people he did not expect from himself; wise with sense beyond his years and the know-how to tap into the sheer knowledge his advisors possessed; and strong, with a vision for the future of Camelot that he struck towards with every treaty, every piece of new legislation, and every action. His people near-deified the young king, though that was not surprising after Uther's reign when the new king sought peace and prosperity in place of punishment and retribution. Arthur was, perhaps, somewhat headstrong and stubborn when it came to his goals for his kingdom, a 'he knew best' situation, but nobody else stepped forward to make the decisions for him.
But, he was also a kind king, and that is something Uther did not think was necessary. Arthur was the type to feed stray kittens with milk from the kitchens, or sneak out of the castle to play with the peasant children, or forge his father's signature (in later years) to stop the hunts for magic in the outlying villages when it was only the innocent being brought in. It was something Uther thought was weak, in fact, when as a child Arthur used to turn his head away from the executions of magic users. Death was the ultimate cruelty in Arthur's mind, more so than enslavement or torture which had a chance of uprising or escape. He formed these ideas independently, and while he agreed in his heart that magic was dangerous, wild, and unpredictable – perhaps even that it was an abomination as his father dictated – he knew that his first act in power was going to be to fix that.
Ambition runs like a lion rampant in the Pendragon blood. Arthur had no small ideas. Similarly, he pursued them doggedly until they were achieved, which is what happened in the end. Magic brought under the law – fair laws this time, unbiased by his own negative perceptions of magic, which was something Uther could never do.
Training with the knights skewed his personality somewhat. He believed in clichéd ideals of chivalry and duty––especially duty. A somewhat morbid idea inherited from one of his tutors was the suggestion that the greatest honor would be dying for a cause one believes in, whether it be a kingdom, a king or a true love. A younger, more melancholy Arthur was undeniably obsessed with the idea of a self-sacrifice that would have songs written about him, especially because he wasn't enamored with the idea of living at the time thanks to his father. Even when he became slightly less melodramatic, he gave more than he accepted in return – to his people, to the Knights of the Round Table, and to his friends.
He also spoke of his future death rather often.
Arthur was not all fairy-tale princes. He was, as mentioned previously, as stubborn as an ox. He would play devil's advocate just to ensure that someone he was arguing with believed wholeheartedly in what they were presenting before accepting defeat. He could be a right git sometimes – moody, a temper that is easily stoked even if he apologized for outbursts afterwards. He was a total womanizer, though refused to find a queen to secure the Pendragon lineage. He was not celibate, so the people could not ponder that option, but they assumed some tale of star-crossed lovers while the truth is all the more tragic.
But, as with all long-lost and legendary kings, the negative traits are glossed over.
 •  R E N O W N E D S K I L L S 
Does kingship count as a skill? Kingliness? Ruling, perhaps––that's something that Arthur is renowned for all over: the art of diplomacy, of connecting with the commoners and noblemen alike, of judging situations fairly. He was well-liked, enough so that people miss him even ten years after he was presumed dead––enough so that the rare few still seek out answers to where he disappeared to. His swordsmanship was above-average but what made him so fearsome in battle was his leadership, his command.
 •  F A T A L F L A W 
Self-sacrificial: for all of his skill and worth as a human being – a king – Arthur never hesitated to put his life at risk, often when another could have put their own at risk instead. He was immovable when he insisted it should be him instead of one of the other knights, something that threw Camelot into chaos (such as when he was poisoned and his knights had to head out on a quest to save him) on several occasions.
 •  O N C E U P O N A T I M E 
Arthur Pendragon, the Crown Prince of Camelot and heir to the tyranny of his father, King Uther. Arthur was born in the before times; before the purge of all so-called heretical magic users. His mother, Queen Ygraine's death was the flip of the switch that set Uther to begin his crusade against all the witches and warlocks of Albion. By the time Arthur was two years old, the streets of Camelot had ran red with blood and magic moved from something practiced by someone in each and every hamlet to something dealt in shady dungeons and dark alleys.
The population of magic users in Camelot was decimated – worse than decimated. Many who could fled to other lands like Bellgarde rather than risk beheading for their birth-right or their lives' research. But time ticked on in the castle. Arthur grew up. He didn't know a childhood filled with magic that his father did, with a Court Wizard who performed small entertaining spells. They had an alchemist, but magic was strictly prohibited. The king passed on his will that even those of royal blood had to follow the same laws as those beneath them and that was the reporting of any neighbor casting spells and the alienation of those suspected of such treason.
When he was much younger, perhaps five or six, Arthur wondered what his father would do if his only son had magic. Perhaps he would reinstate it, make it legal. When the question was asked, he received a typical answer: "I'd behead you. Magic is an abomination." There it was again –– duty. Swiftly, Arthur learned his. He was to follow in Uther's footsteps in maintaining peace in Camelot by whatever means necessary.
So he learned to distrust magic users (which was made easier by the assassination attempts on his and his father's lives), to bad-mouth them. To stare stiffly on as they were burnt at the stake or executed by any other method. He stopped turning his head at the blood or the gore – it didn't please him, not by any means, but under the Pendragon name it was a show of solidarity he had to take part in. Arthur was ten. He had no confidants then, before he trained with the knights.
As a young teen he was trained by the knights. He would never become one, as much as he hoped, because he was the Crown Prince. Instead he was introduced as the one who would lead them in the future. As his bond with the knights of Camelot grew – through hazing and great personal struggle as the adult knights did not make it easy for him – he won their favour from the inside; their loyalty. He would be a good king, or so was the general consensus. He didn't have his father's temperament.
Somebody kills his father.
Somebody kills his father with magic.
Arthur mourns the loss of a father and despite seeing his enemies in every corner, and he picks up the crown. His seventeenth birthday came swiftly after. Thoughts of magical assassins haunted him. He sent knights out to hunt them down for regicide, but they found nothing, and after two years, he called off the search but chased down every rumor as soon as it arises.
Despite believing magic to be bad and corrupt, the root cause behind three of his assassination attempts as the Crown Prince and, of course, his father's death, Arthur took away the death penalty for it. It was one of his first acts as king. Only if someone was murdered by magic or harmed by it would it result in a hanging; simple practice resulted in fines and imprisonment, sometimes in the stocks and sometimes in the cells. It was better to pay up than to die, and the plots against Arthur's life near disappeared overnight. The law took over, and with the advice of Merlin, The Tower was set up within Camelot's walls so as to provide a legal means to teach and practice magic. Outwith this location, the punishments remained the same.
To maintain the peace and the pleasant state of his kingdom, Arthur set out what remained of his father's knights to guard the borders and watch for magic with ill-intent. Convincing himself not to become complacent even with The Tower serving as an academy for magic within Camelot, he set up an organisation of his most trusted friends and companions: the Knights of the Round Table. They were not just his own personal guard; they were warriors of his kingdom that he could entrust his life to who would set out on quests such as for the Holy Grail in the years to come.
Prosperity for over a decade with only a few hiccups, further attempts on his life for miscellaneous reasons and evil kings in Albion and old magic and the like – but what good tale wouldn't have those? Eleven years ago, before the Cataclysm had ever happened, small events happened in Albion: earthquakes, missing people, the like. Arthur sent the Knights of the Round Table and other key figures away, some on diplomatic missions, some on hunts for mythical beasts or relics of great power... Wild goose chases. They were out of Albion when it disappeared, and the void claimed everything therein.
Some suggest Arthur knew it was going to happen in advance.

 •  A N E W C H A P T E R 
Oft it occurs that great men do not get their "happy ending". Albion is gone. Camelot is gone. And with those, like a whisper on the wind, goes King Arthur.