A Servant's Prince

Caution: Suicidal references, angst.

Prologue

The world had lost its entire colour, the whites blended into the greys which fell into the darkest black. Everything was shaded, everything was darker. The only brightness came from the island. The light would blind the warlock at times. He would glance at it occasionally, letting his eyes stray from the potential dangers and turning his longing gaze to the one place that he was barred from. The bars almost took on a physical presence; he hated the distance so much that he had to convince himself that they were truly there.

It taken a few hundred years before he had finally accepted his immortality, there had been a few rough periods where he had turned to less than healthy methods of getting through the days. There had also been some serious suicide attempts during the darkest times. When there was no one left. When he had heard of Gaius' death, Leon's death, Gwen's death. Hunith's death. The feelings that followed each of the announcements had shocked the warlock. It wasn't that he was thrust back into the depths of depression. It was the fact that they didn't seem to affect the man like they should have. Shouldn't he have grieved for his friends? Shouldn't he have shed a tear for the father figure he had found in Gaius? Shouldn't he have been devastated by his own mother's death? But the warlock hadn't felt any emotions further than acceptance. He had been resigned to the fact that he would spend his days alone. The magic that had bound him to Avalon had taken away the human side of the warlock, deeming it too much of a risk to leave the man with his emotions. The island himself had taken on the warlock's temperament. It rained when he should have cried, it rumbled with thunder and earthquakes when anger should have appeared, it shined with brilliant sunshine when a happy memory struck in the warlock's consciousness.

The warlock's appearance changed throughout the years depending on the island's whims. During the 1500's he was young and fresh-faced, during the 1800's he was middle aged complete with an itchy moustache. At the present time he was back to aged, with straggly white hair and beard. He had never returned to an age before the time when he met the Crown Prince of Camelot. It seemed as though Avalon didn't want him to return to a time before he had bent to the prophecies will.

His eyes were heavy, and if one of the locals happened to spot him strolling around the lake, they would say that it seemed the weight of the world was pressing on his shoulders and he seemed only inches from tears. His feet and legs would walk with the purpose of a young man, but there was one section of the lake that he would always trip on. He would stumble over the exact same section. He would clutch at his heart as though someone had plunged a dagger straight through it. The place obviously held terrible memories. Of loss, and love. It was as if murder had been committed there. The local's didn't know how close to the truth they were.

The local's called him Y Gard Y Llyn Gyfrinach. The Guard of the Secret Lake. He was legend itself. He lived in the hearts and minds of the people around him. He lived in their stories.

He lived for their stories.