Ayreon Fanfic--Song of the Seer

Ayreon Fanfic--Song of the Seer

Ayreon’s expression grew frantic, eyes widened as he started to sing his new series of songs--terrible songs they were, much like the ones I’d heard him rehearsing out in the garden, where I’d watched him mourn. Ayreon had been so absorbed in his work that he hadn’t heard my steps in the grass. There I had realized that the minstrel’s spirit had aged far beyond his years...and the visions, which he was learning to understand and describe, had given him much of terror and little of beauty. He’d reached out for a flower, delicately stroking the petal with one finger, and then, as his hand began to tremble, tears burst forth. Finally he had put his head between his hands and sobbed bitterly, sadness wracking his entire frame, which was suddenly so small and vulnerable even with his stature. What was I to do, I, the wife of the great King Arthur? I could not consort with one such as Ayreon, a blind warrior with no family name--yet I longed to ease his sadness. I had finally walked away from the weeping figure, shaking my head in frustration.

Now, as Ayreon sang these dark new songs of his, I could barely understand what he meant by them, but I had terrible imaginings of war machines made of metal that thought and acted for themselves, and struck out to enslave and destroy their creators. This was our future, he warned, if we did not master ourselves and consider our creations before taking to hammer and anvil. Never had he sung this insistently, this passionately--this much from his true soul. His smile as he had sung of Avalon the night of his arrival had been hollow, I realized as I thought back--it had never reached his eyes.

Then Ayreon began singing of the War...a War with weapons so terrible that mankind could be destroyed at the whim of a single mad warlord. His voice lowered to a whisper as he began, speaking of incomprehensible numbers of dead, of the disheartened survivors who mourned their dead friends and family. He spoke of the injustice of war--a direct challenge against the king and his crusades...did Arthur truly understand that Ayreon could be speaking right to him? Arthur showed no reaction--too dumb to understand, I suspected. I did not entirely disagree with Ayreon. But then Ayreon reached a point in his songs in which he came to tears, pleading not just to us, but to someone or something far beyond: “Would you set me free, oh Lord? I’m begging you, I’m begging you, just set me free!” I felt a tear running down my own cheek at his terrible, anguished pleas, which broke into a wordless song of agony. For just a moment, it seemed as if I could feel upon myself the burden Ayreon carried.

He’s going to die if he keeps this up, I realized. Ayreon leaned heavily upon his staff between songs--his strong frame was growing progressively more frail, his youthful features strangely drawn, his sightless eyes haunted and plaintive. His voice grew rough, yet he persisted beyond the point of exhaustion and perhaps even physical pain. I had no doubt of this: that he was telling the truth about one thing--whether they were accurate or not, he definitely had visions. No man could be that anguished without believing he spoke the truth. Men do not die for an ideal they do not wholeheartedly believe in--be it truth or delusion. Even if he is a lunatic, he’s a harmless one. For all of his warnings, there was one thing Ayreon never did, that I’d seen in so many madmen and false prophets—he never sought to control or to punish those with whom he disagreed.

That brought a sudden chill to my body as Ayreon’s music stopped. The image of Merlin floated into my mind. Something had never sat right with me about that man ever since Arthur had invited him to his court…but had Arthur consulted me? Of course not--when did he consult me out of bed? There was something so different in Merlin from young Ayreon--cruelty where in Ayreon there was kindness, arrogance where in Ayreon there was meekness...and always his words about the fate of Arthur’s house and the nation of England were so cloyingly sweet, his tales of a second Avalon so enticing--if Arthur would only do Merlin’s bidding...

Oh, God, no! I thought suddenly. The minstrel had begun singing again--a terrible grimace of pain crossed his face when his fingertips pressed down upon the strings of his lute, yet he continued undeterred. Merlin’s going to take him to the grave for this--before my husband figures out which one of them is the true seer. That was a strange thought indeed...to consider that the great wizard might be afraid of a shy, sweet young minstrel whom I had rarely heard to speak a word in anger.

But the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. In a fair fight, I realized, Ayreon would probably win, and Merlin had to be sharp enough to understand what so few in Camelot could have ever imagined. The minstrel must have had superhuman instincts and cunning, after all, to escape from whatever torment he had left behind in his home village, and to survive his flight through the woods...to keep himself nourished, protected against the elements, and to fend off wild animals. These were things I dared not contemplate for myself--yet this young man without his sight had accomplished it all. He was certainly no helpless “boy” as so many in the court sought to dismiss him, but rather an extremely capable, intelligent man in his prime. Ayreon’s youthful strength, directed into a swing from his heavy oaken staff, could almost certainly put a swift end to Merlin...and something told me that all Ayreon would have to do would be to keep the old wizard talking long enough for him to listen and measure the striking distance. Somehow the idea wasn’t all that disagreeable to me--to have Ayreon put into Merlin’s place as the court seer, to let his wise and truthful words, however frightening they might be at times, guide the kingdom to a brighter future. And perhaps Ayreon’s visions would become more peaceful, granting him the sight of future beauty we could never even begin to dream of.

But somehow the thought of Ayreon decked out in the trappings of Merlin’s office seemed tragic--like watching a caged bird sing his lifeless songs of despair. The man was meant to cheerfully entertain...he had spoken once of his life before the intrusive dreams with their bittersweet sensations, and how surprisingly happy that life had been! Ayreon had traveled in the company of his widowed sister (what had become of her?), and as a nomad who cared little for possessions he could not easily carry, he had often taken whatever earnings he did not need to feed and clothe himself and his sister to pay for a feast in the village in which he was staying. Whoever chanced to arrive first could eat their fill--and Ayreon tended to hold the banquets among the poorer commoners, obliging the well-to-do merchants and artisans to travel across town, where they often found that all the seats were already taken by what they called the “rabble”. Acutely aware of what could have happened to him had he lacked the musical gift, he was known to specially favor the blind wherever he traveled, offering whatever he could in both support and advice, and a chance to laugh together at the parts of their lives the sighted could never understand. It was very clear that Ayreon had counted himself fortunate in his life, and that he was a godly man.

Ayreon had never wanted the burden of his visions; that was obvious. But there was no doubt that something tormented him to the point of terrified self-destruction. Finally, the minstrel stopped his playing, exhausted as a knight returning from a fight for his life. No applause, no kind words came from the crowd. Even those who approved dared not show it for fear of execution right next to Ayreon should Merlin decide to put an end to all of this. Ayreon’s disappointment was plain for anyone to see--he knew not how to hide his emotions. I walked past him once more. Arthur had his back to me...I reached out towards the minstrel’s shoulder, then retracted my hand at the last instant when a distinct chill entered the air.

“What right hast thou, minstrel-boy, to speak such obscenities against thy master’s kingdom?” boomed Merlin’s voice. Ayreon spun around, a strange expression on his face...he had heard it all before, I suspected--he was beyond caring. “Dost thou even know who I am, boy?” Merlin snapped in the most contemptuous tone I had ever heard him address to any human being--more like the tone one addressed to a dog that misbehaved. “I am Merlin the Seer, and thou durst not defy my authority further! Renounce thy false visions or face thy death! Thou shalt learn the place in life to which thou hast been condemned from birth!”

I stood just out of Merlin’s sight, listening as the weary Ayreon replied in roughened tones, “I renounce nothing, sir...but do what you will with me. The Lords of Time don’t understand--they won’t stop this vision curse, no matter how hard I try.”

“Silence, little forest-pagan! Thy ‘Lords of Time’ are clearly servants of the devil, for Satan cares nothing for his servants!”

“Do what you will,” Ayreon again whispered. “I have nothing left in this world.” His voice trembled achingly, almost longingly. I left the room, feeling sick to my stomach.

I woke that morning to an uproar throughout the castle...Merlin had forced Ayreon to sleep in the freezing upper tower for the night and was preparing to put him to death. I ran towards Merlin’s chambers--I no longer cared for anything...not Arthur, not Merlin, not even my own life. But even before I reached his chambers, I heard the dreadful proclamation--“The spell is cast...thou wilt sleep away into peaceful dreams, as thou hast requested, for I am Merlin the Merciful...”

Ayreon replied, his voice faint as he struggled against the mage’s ‘charm’: “Merlin...please, you don’t understand...I’m so sorry--wake me, let me help you see it..I just...want...to help...” His last words were a voiceless whisper.

I heard a rustle of fabric, the clatter of the minstrel’s oaken staff upon the stone floor.

Then the breathing stopped.

Merlin strode out of the room, a smug, satisfied grin upon his face. I swore viciously at him in my mind, caring not if he could indeed hear my thoughts as he so often claimed.

With the room empty at last, I rushed forward and--there was Ayreon’s body crumpled upon the floor, eyes closed to visions of present or future...and the glimmer of a tear upon his long eyelashes that he hadn’t had the strength left to shed. I shrieked with madness at the senselessness--the absolute senselessness of it all...if his visions were true, then we deserved it all, every last bit of it, for out hands were all soaked in blood, whether we were murderers in the way of Merlin...or in my way. For I had ignored his distress...I had done nothing to ease his pain, to deflect Merlin’s wrath...I was just as guilty. I wept as I cradled the minstrel’s body...still warm, oh God, to imagine that he might wake from his sleep to realize that he was touched at last...Ayreon, did you realize that I smiled every time you passed me by?

Arthur’s voice boomed from behind me. “Get out of here, Gwynhyfar...let him go before Merlin finds you!”

I couldn’t find the words for Arthur. Men struggled to pry my arms open--I would not let go of Ayreon, and even when they broke our strange embrace I would not release his cloak. When the cloth was finally stripped from my hands, I cried out as if my flesh were being peeled away.

Merlin returned down the stairwell, walking in a strange daze back towards the chambers where he had thoughtlessly left Ayreon’s body to lie on the floor. “It was real,” he whispered. “What have I done...devil take me, this is the least of what I deserve...”

He walked past us as if blind, desperately gripping the minstrel’s oaken staff in his hand.

The spirit hovered not far from the ceiling of the room, smiling in its astral way. It felt no pain at the false Seer’s deeds that had done harm to its former shell, for they now lay safely in the past. Nor did it feel joy in the Seer’s punishment, which it had had no part in requesting. Don’t grieve, noble Lady, the spirit said by thoughts. I know the secret now, that you held dear. And I know your pain--you are without love as I once was. To you both, Lady and Seer...I wish I could comfort you in your fates. The Lady looked up suddenly towards the place where the spirit hovered, and squinted, seeing nothing. But at last she ceased to weep.