Arthurian Cultivation

Percy was tired. The last few days since they'd woken the bear had been rough. First, the accursed thing hadn't been a peak Iron beast as they'd assumed but some Steel-ranked monstrosity. The only reason they were alive was that it had been forced to dash from the realm or face it collapsing on all of them. At least Gawain had gotten out in the confusion.

She'd survived the bear by a combination of pure luck and the Divine Cultivators' choice to immediately begin to attack it, like the idiots they were. The bear had decimated their camp on the way out. That should have been the end of it.

Then she'd found Arthur had been wounded by some River Serpent during his escape. His skill was compromised; he'd been unlucky enough to encounter a few Divine Cultivators scattered by the destruction, who’d chanced upon him. Enemies he’d normally have swept through left him wheezing as he was slowed by a lingering poison. She’d slaughtered the rest, but having to focus on protecting him, at least a couple had slipped away. Allowing them to live had been a grave mistake.

Of all the bastards to survive the rampage, why did it have to be Astor Harkley? The feckless blood-cultivating scoundrel had managed to get some of Arthur’s blood from the survivors. He'd tracked them, destroyed their hidden base, and pursued them for the last couple of days. He took advantage of Arthur's wound to harry them across the forest. After two sleepless days of fighting, running, and desperate work, she'd finally got a reprieve by creating a barrier that would temporarily disrupt the blood tracking.

Tomorrow her barrier would fall, and the fight would start once again. Percy thought she had a special loathing for the Harkleys before. Now, it was on a new level.

At first, she had hated them for their avarice and slimy advances. They coveted her power and sent all manner of suitors to ‘secure’ her, as if she was some common horse to be tamed. That hate increased tenfold when she met Regus, a talent they tortured, ignored, and only saw as coin minted in the currency of matrimony. If she was the horse, they saw him as nothing more than a bag of oats.

When he'd started to sneak her their secrets, she began to loathe them. She’d learnt from those notes that there was a vile pit to which only humans could sink. The worst of beasts could only aspire to reach such nuanced evil. The Harkleys had made this pit their home.

It was so repulsive she'd had to take up arms against it. Armed with the secret knowledge, she'd seen the tendrils of the enemy sneaking towards Arthur. Their goal? To make him a puppet of their schemes. She'd sworn she'd return to retrieve Regus and find a way to repay him for everything, to give him the space to be the person he was meant to be.

Then she'd found out about the Chox and the bloody chapel. It was a blow she still had not recovered from. Percy had a rule, 'don't get upset, get even'. Despite that, when she heard the news, she shed tears for the wasted potential, for the future she'd dared to want, where they could stand together. She had thought her loathing had reached its peak.

Astor Harkley had then distilled that storm of emotions into a pinpoint target. Not only did he hunt them, but he also goaded her into fights by insulting Regus, her family, and her honour. She was going to kill him. It was a matter of principle at this point. Still, she couldn’t abandon the still-wounded Arthur, even if the prize idiot kept telling her to do just that, always insisting on being the hero.

She had no time for it. Instead, she focused on her limited knowledge of herbology to try and find some manner of cure to hasten his recovery. She’d prepared a dubious poultice for Arthur and slapped it on his wound. He was just about well enough to be on watch, and she’d needed rest. She slid out of her armour and dug out a bedroll from her storage ring.

It was late when she slipped into blessed sleep. Hoping for some slumber at last, she found even here she had no escape. Her dreams brushed up against something, a dreamweave. She'd had the training; she knew enough to recognise it was weak. Likely the few remaining Divine Cultivators trying to find each other.

A reasonable assumption, until it brushed against her senses, and a scent wafted from it. It was a perfume made for her, the only one of its kind. It smelt like a thunderstorm over a field of wildflowers. In her ring were a couple more bottles of it. She rationed them, as she’d never resupply again.

Foolish as it was, she'd poked her head into the dream, finding it did not resist her. The dream was weak, she could easily escape it. Arriving, she was baffled. She found an image that could have been pulled straight out of her memory. The Harvest Ball at the Greywalls. At the centre of hazy dancing figures was a copy of her, and a strange man speaking Regus's words.

Her temper flared. Whatever this was meant for her. Was it a taunt? A trap of some kind? Perhaps some fae nonsense? Percy would normally have left—this was too risky. Yet she felt insulted that they’d stolen her face. Worse, they’d erased him.

Time to make an entrance. She jumped down from the balcony, bringing her sword down on the imitation of her. The man broke into a smile and stepped towards her, and she brought the blade up, levelling it at the strange man with black hair and grey eyes, in the outfit of a bard, standing where Regus should be.

“Now, who are you supposed to be?” She hid her anger behind playful words.

“Ah, yes, fuck.” He looked down, almost embarrassed.

“Go on, I’m listening. What lies are you going to weave, bard?”

“No lies, it just seems I forgot I had a new face.” She quirked an eyebrow. Of the possible lies to tell, it was a bizarre choice.

“So you’re a creature who changes faces often enough to forget?”

“No, just the once. I’ve just not been around mirrors much since then.” The man quipped back.

“Awfully well-kept for a man who doesn’t have a mirror.” That got a grin out of him.

“I do not deserve such a compliment from someone who embodies a warrior queen.” Despite her simmering anger, Percy preened at the compliment. If the strange being was willing to talk, she’d try and squeeze more information from it.

“What is a man of such refined taste doing here?”

“I travel with Bors, Gawain, and others. We seek to get you and—Arty, out of the realm. It closes in ten days. Or nine days now, I suppose.”

“You expect me to believe that?” She scoffed at the blatant lie. It was too soon for Gawain to have returned, though she didn’t like the alternative—this implied he’d been captured.

“Sephy, it might—” His words died as her blade pressed against his throat. They could not harm each other here, but she could end this charade.

“Don’t you dare use that name! I may not be able to kill you here, but I will banish you. I know who you seek to emulate, do not flatter yourself into thinking you have a chance of fooling me.” The blade at his neck only seemed to make him smile more. “You might not be Fae, not unless things have really gone off track and they've somehow both had their names taken. But you aren’t him. I feel another presence here. Show yourself.”

At first, she thought that the Dreamweaver was trying to insult her, as a copy of Arthur appeared walking down the steps. But as the details settled in, she saw a more feminine curve to the face, and a slightly more slender frame. They were different, but they could have been cousins or siblings at first glance. “Who are you supposed to be? Some kind of Arthur with more curves?”

“We cannot look that alike. I’ve nothing to do with their family,” the woman groaned, an odd reaction.

“Se—Percy,” he corrected himself at the last moment, even if the act seemed to physically wound him. “This is Lancelot. She's Ban Fos’s daughter.”

“I go by Lance, a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard quite a bit about you from Taliesin.” The woman only added to Percy's confusion. An odd claim. She knew of Lance. Her research on the area had been quite thorough, but her presence, fake or otherwise, added to the queerness of the whole dream.

“So you have a name, mystery man, and I can’t help but notice it’s not Regus.” Her eyes flashed, but Taliesin didn’t recoil. Instead, his eyes met hers.

“Would the Regus Harkley you knew ever want to be called that name if he had a choice?” Her grip on her sword shifted. He was right, and that only fuelled the storm of emotions within. She wanted to believe there was a chance, even as her rational mind reminded her there wasn’t one. It hurt to be taunted with the possibility. She bit back her retort and focused on the pair of them.

Percy would not give in to this provocation. She'd learn what she could and make them rue the day they concocted this vile scheme. Centering herself, she regained her balance and reengaged her witty banter.

"So what is this? Some kind of absurdist attempt to interrogate me? Or do you just spout insanity at me while name-dropping my comrades for your amusement?"

"What's she going on about?" the fem-Arthur asked the bard.

"She, very rightly, is treating this like a trap," he muttered.

"But your memories?"

"Yes, and even if Regus wasn’t 'dead', the idea of him being in this fae realm, with her comrades and the daughter of the local nobility in perfect position to assist her, is frankly insane. That's without the whole Taliesin face thing." His words were acidic with self-loathing.

"Oh, and don’t forget that you’re two Bronzes," she glared at the fake as she spoke. He had the decency to look even more aggrieved at failing to imitate even the most basic details of his claimed alter ego. "Two Bronzes who somehow slipped past the giant Steel-ranked bear and whatever Divine Cultivators were left outside."

"Right, now I'm starting to get it. This is exactly what Gaz was talking about yesterday. Our group makes no sense on paper." The woman sighed.

"Well, at least you're aware of the idiocy of this setup. Then what was the actual plan here?" Percy asked, trying to reignite the lively banter to keep them talking, to learn more about their plot. It had nothing to do with wanting to find even a glimmer of truth.

"Give me a moment." The bard paused and tried to marshal his thoughts.

"Can't you just tell her details from your memories? Oh, I have codes from Gawain."

"That won’t work," Percy and the bard spoke at once. That little smile returned, and despite herself, she felt a twitch on her lips. A competent adversary was fun to sharpen her blade on.

"Why not?" The woman didn’t seem to care that she kept interrupting his thoughts. She certainly was in keeping with the few things Percy knew about Lancelot. A dream-gifted fighter known for her bluntness of character. Percy gestured for him to explain.

"Well, she’s working under the assumption that I’m something that can steal memories or have been granted his memories somehow. That’s the most logical explanation for what's going on here. Approaching us with that in mind is also safest for her, as it minimises the risk that this is some trap," the bard explained casually. She appreciated that he wasn’t insulting her intelligence, even as he stomped over important memories.

"Exactly. If you're some manner of thing that can strip memories from Regus, Bors and Gawain could also be compromised. The only reason I remain is to try and learn more about my opponent," Percy continued, trying to hide her other reason. The hope she was proven wrong. It was a pathetic, weak thought, grounded in selfish hope. "Even if this was the real world, you couldn’t have expected me to believe you."

"I would’ve been insulted if you did. I mean, even with Bors' lie-detecting skills vouching for me, I still would expect you to strip me down and look for a rune band or hidden memory gem. Probably a long interrogation on every detail." The bard tapped the side of his chin in frustration. It was a habit Reggie—Regus had.

"Are you forgetting I'd have tasted your blood as well?" she growled. His performance was grating on her. It was good. She wanted to poke holes in it, to tear it apart, but the bard at least knew Regus well enough to imitate him.

"I thought that was obvious," he smiled back. The smiles weren’t right. They were like Regus's, but there were too many of them.

"Now I see what Bors meant about you being alike. Also, you need to hurry up. This dream is already fading," Lance grumbled. Looking around, Percy could see the edges of the ballroom were fading into mist. Rough shapes of columns and drapes remained, but the tapestry became blurred.

"Dammit, how long?" the bard asked, yet again ripped from his musings.

"Minutes. Look, is there no evidence I can provide?" Lance asked. She was irritated by the woman's presence. Even if this Taliesin was but a twisted memory, he at least was fun to spar against.

"Can you offer any evidence that makes this more plausible, yet can't be explained by stolen memories? Even if I ignore your baffling similarity to Arthur, you haven’t explained why you’re here," Percy responded.

"You know you sent Gawain to speak to my father! It’s obviously related to that. We could explain— no, that actually wouldn't help." The woman rested her head in her palm. Beside her, the bard grunted in agreement.

"If that's the lie your going with why is he not here then? You are, if anything more than added trickery, evidence that things are not what they seem." She smiled, but then the bard snapped his fingers and pointed at her.

"What if she’s not? Percy, describe the ears on the bear you awoke from its slumber." She cocked an eyebrow at him, "Please, indulge this insanity for a moment."

"Alright, well, apart from being massive, one was white. That did stick out." She remembered it well. The sight of that massive head chasing her. If that beast hadn’t still been half asleep, she’d be very dead.

"Now, what is the heraldry of House Fos?" he asked, that all-too-familiar smile playing across unfamiliar lips. She paused. She always researched the local powers in any region, an image appeared in her mind. She frowned, House Fos's heraldry did feature a bear with a distinctly white ear. Her face must've betrayed her, as the strange fem-Arthur crowed in triumph. Percy swore. She was slipping. It meant nothing.

"That's evidence, right? That was Ursul, the long-lost soul-bound bear of our patriarch."

"Odd. And while I hate to lend any support to this madness, it does actually make sense." She examined the evidence. She was familiar with the missing bear of their house. It was something with distinct evidence that existed beyond stolen memories. While there could be another spirit bear with odd ears, that would actually make less sense. The world wasn't drowning in giant spirit bears. "It is an interesting point, but I’m not sure what that proves."

"Percy, think about it. This place is limited to Iron rank, but Ursul of House Fos is outside. What manner of Iron-ranked foe could slip past that protector with all these memories? It doesn’t make sense."

"That is far from conclusive proof." It was something though, a crack through which she felt hope beginning to pour. She tried to plug it. "You could always be Fae. They can manipulate the gates between realms to drag you here. No dammit, you have their names, wait—."

"Persephone," Taliesin replied, anticipating her argument. If he’d been Fae, he couldn’t have said it, or she would’ve already been lost.

"So not Fae then." She felt a lump in her throat. The way he said it was hauntingly familiar. She was rapidly being compromised by her desire to believe that this was all true.

"Alright, we’re getting somewhere. Look, it’s hard to maintain this space, can we hurry this along?" The mist was growing. The balcony and ceiling were no more, the mist absorbing them into a formless fog.

"I’m far from convinced, and now you place a time limit. Basic trick of the confidence trickster," she replied, even if her heart wasn’t in the denial. She looked at this bard named Taliesin. His outfit was a mix of reds, greys, and blacks. A lute sat on his back, and the spiritual sense she got from him was clear and healthy. He was the opposite of the discrete and sickly Regus. It didn’t fit.

"You know what, I'm just going to get the most important stuff done, then leave you two to it. Gawain has a message for you: 'The Kestrel flies at midnight.' Said I should tell you that. We hope to meet you at Ursul’s rest. Also, I think Gawain’s going to wander off into the forest on his own if you don't confirm that Arthur's alive and not in immediate danger," Lance said, looking expectantly at her.

Percy wanted to scoff, but she paused. Biting the edge of her lip, she explored the possibility that this was at least in part true. If she ignored this, she was going to be lost and alone in the wilderness with a wounded prince, hunted by a lunatic. If this was all a trap? Well, they'd need more than a couple of codes from Gawain to spring it on her. Thinking carefully, she picked out her response.

"If it's really Gawain, then tell him... dammit, why do all his codes have to be so ridiculous? 'The gilded gryphon nests in the shadow but is soon to fly.' Then it’s 'The stiltweed pike follows its nose.' And finally, tell him 'The river dragon will rest on the sun-baked shore.'" Between those three codes, Gawain would know that Arthur was wounded but healing, that they were pursued by a lone enemy of significant strength, and that she'd aim to meet them at the rendezvous at noon. At least the proposed location was one she could easily flee from.

It was a gamble. She still didn’t believe half of it, but if they were telling the truth... Well, Lance wasn’t wrong. Gawain wouldn’t be able to rest. That pillock would get himself into trouble somehow. For a man who made lots of plans, he tended to forget them all when Arthur was in danger.

“Thanks. The dream is going to fall apart soon. If you want it to keep going, don't do anything stupid. Oh, and Sephy or Percy or whatever, he is telling the truth and is half the reason your friends are alive.” With that, the woman strode off into the steps. They turned into mist as she walked through them.

“So, what now? You're going to keep trying to convince me that you’re really Regus?” She turned to the bard.

“No, I was never Regus. Reggie, maybe. Honestly, I’d be disappointed in you if you believed me. Still, I’m just so happy you’re alive. When we found the nest, I thought—”

“Don’t say that! Don’t pretend to be him. He is dead. I mourn him! This is some trick, some evil concocted by the Harkleys. They’re the exact kind of monsters who’d eat the memories of their kin and spit them back out as a weapon.” Percy’s voice became hard and sharp. It lost every scrap of playful banter. Her chest felt like it was full of broken glass. “I could maybe believe that he’s alive somewhere. But not here, with his cultivation no longer crippled, and free of the blood curse? It is the stuff of fantasy! I’m not sure what is worse, the attempted manipulation of my grief or the insult to my intelligence. It makes no sense.”

“Trying to explain would only make you laugh more at me,” he said, looking away awkwardly.

“Then try. I’ve had Astor taunting me about your—his death for the last two days. I need a laugh,” she dared him, even as the slip of the tongue betrayed her hope.

“I’m going to kill that rotten bastard. Good to know they actually think I’m dead, though.” She raised her sword. She wanted this done, one way or another. “Look, I can’t explain. Not because I don’t want to, but because I’m pretty certain explaining parts of the story would require a particular name. In this kind of space, that would be one of the stupid things Lance warned against. She might start paying attention.”

“Are you enjoying being cryptic?” The blade rested against his neck. Percy had extended all the trust she was willing, but still, the strange bard was a wound she couldn’t stop picking at. The dream was rapidly unravelling, pulled apart as wild emotions tore at the threads of dream glamour.

“Not in the slightest. I enjoy being truthful these days, I really do. It’s nice to not hide everything behind a double meaning.” His face lost its look of impotent anger and smoothed out. “I have it, an explanation, the only one I can offer. Think of Gawain, the rule-following, stick-up-his-arse knight protector of Albion’s scions. That Gawain! What possible reason would he have for dragging me around? You saw Lance knew of my past. Why would he allow Regus Harkley within a league of Arthur?”

She swore to herself as the truth hit her. There was no reason. Gawain would never let a Harkley near her or Arthur. It factored into the few plans she’d entertained to go save him. The broken shards in her chest scraped against each other. “Why must you be so vexing! Are you having fun trying to convince me, then giving me more reasons to doubt you?”

The walls fell apart, the mist contracting, leaving just the twisting patterns of the floor in a rapidly shrinking bubble. Still, the bard remained. His voice had a desperate edge now. “There is an answer. Think! You are the smartest woman I know. There's an explanation for all of this. Who could convince him to trust me? Who could orchestrate all of this?”

“No one! Not even the King. This is beyond even Fae bullshit!” With that, it all clicked into place. There was only one being able to get Gawain to act against the core of his paranoid nature. One being with the power to direct such forces. One being who was rumoured to be able to even bring back the dead. To imagine she would be involved was the height of folly for anyone else. Yet Percy stood protecting a member of the family famed for holding the great fae's attention. There was a chance.

Her eyes rose to catch those of the ‘Bard Taliesin’. With his body now all but absorbed in the mist, the distraction of the outfit was gone. Confronted with his face alone, she could no longer deny the shadow of Reggie in his features, in the way his eyes moved and the brutal purpose they held. Her face went slack with disbelief.

He laughed. It was a warm and kind sound that had been burned into her memory, a vanishingly rare treasure she had thought was lost.

“It’s so good to see you, Sephy.” The soft words embraced her just before the mists of the collapsing dream closed around them.