Camelot: A Short Story

The warning bells of Camelot were clanging.

In the palace, there was panic, as armed men rushed down the halls.

"The prince! The prince is gone!" someone cried, and the words were echoed, the news spreading.

"The prince! We must find the prince!"

But it was too late. There was no trace of the little prince, or of those who had taken him.

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Celyn had been making his way back to his camp when he came upon the bandits. Seeing the light of their campfire, he stopped short, hidden in the trees.

He was just about to turn and make for the camp by another way – he had no interest in a confrontation with bandits – when he heard it: a small whimper.

"Shut that kid up, will you," One of the bandits snarled.

Celyn peered through the trees.

He could see the bandits sitting in a ring around a campfire, and next to one of them, a very small figure.

"Home!" the small voice piped up insistently.

The bandit next to him laughed roughly.

"Don't you fret, little one," he cooed in a mocking tone, "You'll go home. As soon as your father pays the ransom."

"Or not," one of the other men laughed, "Why risk bringing the boy back and walking straight into a trap? If we sell him we can add to the profits we get from his ransom."

Celyn hesitated just for a moment, but he knew he couldn't just walk away. So he took a deep breath and stepped out of the trees and into the clearing.

"Good evening, gentlemen," he smiled, "I hope you're all doing well.

In an instant, every man was on his feet and facing him, drawing weapons.

"What do you want?" growled one, who Celyn assumed was the leader.

"I couldn't help overhearing your conversation…" Celyn said, "It seems that child would rather not be with

you."

"I don't see how that's any of your business, Druid," the leader stepped forward, raising his sword meaningfully.

Celyn sighed, "I can see that you gentlemen are not going to be reasonable."

As the bandits advanced toward him, he raised his hand. His eyes flashed gold and the men were sent flying back.

He walked over to the little boy, who stared up at him with wide eyes.

He crouched down, examining the boy up close for the first time. He couldn't have been more than a year old. He had blonde hair and bright blue eyes, and was dressed in what looked as if they had once been fine clothes, though now they were torn and dirty.

"They won't stay asleep long, little one." Celyn said, "It's time for you and me to go."

The child didn't protest as Celyn picked him up.

"Home?" he asked quietly.

Celyn sighed, "I'm afraid I don't know where home is, little one, but I'm taking you somewhere safe."

He made his way back to his camp, carrying the little boy in his arms.

When he entered the camp people, looked up, calling out greetings, and then began to murmur in surprise when they saw what he was carrying.

He strode to the center of the camp and waited for the others to gather around him.

When everyone was gathered, Celyn related the story of what had happened in the woods.

The child in his arms was quiet now, surveying his surroundings with big blue eyes.

"If we knew where he came from, we could return him to his family," Celyn said, "But until we can obtain that knowledge we will care for the boy ourselves.

We will all care for him of course, as we do all our children, but he will need to stay with someone. Who would be willing to foster him?"

A woman stepped forward, "I will"

Celyn looked at her, "Are you sure you want this responsibility, Anwen?"

"I think I am meant to have it," Anwen said.

Celyn was puzzled, "What do you mean?"

"Years ago, when my husband was still alive, I spoke to a Seer," Anwen said, "She told me that I would be given a child in an unexpected way. And that I should call him Arthur."

The little boy suddenly turned his head and looked at Anwen. He held out his arms to her.

Celyn smiled, "I think he likes it," he carefully handed her the baby, "Well then, Arthur it is."

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King Uther sat on his throne. He was so silent and still he might have been made of stone himself.

A knight entered the throne room. He approached the throne and bowed.

Uther's gaze flickered to him, but any brief flare of hope he might have felt died when he saw the look on the man's face.

"I'm sorry, Sire," the man said, "There is still no sign of the

prince."

"Keep searching," the king ordered, "Send out more patrols. Whatever it takes. I want my son found."

"Yes Sire," the man bowed again and left the throne room.

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But no matter how many patrols were sent out, they turned up nothing. Days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months. Though no one dared voice the thought aloud, most believed that the little prince was surely dead by now.

Eventually the patrols ceased. Life went on. To all outward appearances, King Uther, too, had moved on, though inwardly he was never the same.

The months turned into years. And far away from Camelot and its castle, in a Druid camp hidden deep within a forest, a little boy named Arthur grew, happily unaware of who he truly was.