till our souls catch us up

by EachPeachPearPlum, griffonskies

Summary:

"Everyone but Uther Pendragon will be allowed to live," the voice says, echoing through Arthur's bones, the raw power of it terrifying beyond anything he’s ever felt, and he knows that even if the owner of the voice can be trusted to spare his citizens, the offer of sanctuary does not extend to him.

Or: When Camelot falls to an army of sorcerers, Arthur expects to follow his father to the pyre. Instead, he’s surprised when the new king spares his life, although he’s not entirely sure death wouldn’t have been better than spending the rest of his days locked in his room, waiting for Emrys to get bored of having him around.

What follows is a tale of murder attempts, evil schemes, and a mysterious prophecy.

And destiny, of course.

Notes:

• Inspired by The Spoils of War by Clea2011

A few words from peach: A long time ago (2016) in a galaxy far, far away (well, 50 miles, I've moved house since then), I was assigned to create a remix for Clea2011. I set off writing a remix for The Spoils of War, only to realise two things: 1) It was straying too far from the original to really count as a remix, and 2) even if I could rein it in enough for it to count as a remix, there was no way I was going to get it finished in time. Instead, I picked a different fic for remix, and put this to one side. I've come back to it in fits and starts since then, but it's only this year I've really got anywhere with it. If you've read Clea's fic, think of this one as its overweight, fluffier cousin.

I owe a debt of gratitude to the following people: J, Laev, and Stelle, for encouraging me to keep going with this beast, even when I wanted to quit; the fabulous ACBB mods, both for the massive undertaking that is running an event like this, and for being so understanding to people like me who cannot deadline; Raven, for providing me with an utterly stellar last minute beta; and, last but very definitely not least, Griffon. You were patient with me when I was being ridiculous, kind to me when I was being grumpy, and you've created so many beautiful artworks, far more than I ever anticipated. Thank you, from the deepest depths of my heart.

 

Content warnings can be found in the end notes.

 

Artist notes:
Hello, hello! I won't keep you long, since there's a splendid story for you to read just up ahead. I hope you will enjoy it as much as I was looking forward to every new chapter peach shared with me. It was inspiring and that might show that I have many artworks to share here for it. I had ideas for more, but as they say I too still find the day too short for all I wish to achieve. But peach was patient and kind and supportive the whole way, for which thank you 💜

The art is strewn about in the fic but you can also find the master post on my tumblr

Chapter 1: Prologue

Arthur is woken by the warning bells, though by then it's already too late.

He doesn't realise it now, of course, rolling out of his bed and dragging armour over his nightclothes, cursing the idiot boy who is supposed to be there to help him and isn't, the boy who was dead before the bells ever began to sound.

It was a massacre, he learns later, the sorcerers storming through the city and obliterating everyone who raised a hand to defend themselves. At the time, all he knows is the chaos of the moment, the clash of steel against steel, the desperate, rattling breaths of dying men. The fight through the castle towards his father’s room, wiping sweat and blood from his eyes as he sees men and women slaughtered, barely able to tell the difference between friend and enemy, between the blade that threatens his people and the one that tries to defend them.

And then there’s the voice, louder than the cries of pain and the curses of sorcerers, booming throughout the city and promising to spare anyone who lays down arms and surrenders to their new rulers.

"Everyone but Uther Pendragon will be allowed to live," the voice says, echoing through Arthur's bones, the raw power of it terrifying beyond anything Arthur has ever felt, and he knows that even if the voice can be trusted, the offer of sanctuary does not extend to him.

The sorcerers win, but then they were always going to.