His grandfather had been behind it all along.
Of course he had.
It would have been nice to know, many, many months ago: many months of treading not-so-lightly across the murderous terrain of The Search, executing, sometimes literally, his King’s assignment, this Quest.
One had to laugh. And as he did, it echoed throughout the cave, even as he stood awash in the blue-white glow that poured around and over him. Eventually the echoes subsided and he was left, overwhelmed by it all; transfixed by the enormity of what he, and he alone, had been chosen to behold.
But you had to laugh, then. Really, you did.
Or you’d go mad.
The beauty, and majesty, was unrelenting. He hadn’t prepared for that part. He’d known about, was ready for, all of the obstacles that he had had encountered throughout the search: dating back even to the controversy surrounding his conception and, related, the conscious, deliberate awareness of his Atlantean lineage, resulting in the mindful way he had been reared within those arcane traditions. When he was deemed capable, he was presented for inclusion with the rest of that romantic, chivalrous order.
As such, he was there when the King had his vision of the Grail, and dispatched his charges on The Quest. He was ready when called upon: vanquishing his enemies, freeing his fellow knights, rescuing distressed damsels. Indeed, he had been trained to dismiss the infernal fiends and cure the afflicted, and when he finally happened upon it, he recognized Solomon’s mystic ship. He piloted it across mystic seas, eventually navigating it to the island of Sarras, where the Castle of Corbenic stood.
And there he was reunited with his grandfather, Pelles.
It really shouldn’t have been much of a surprise: his grandfather had long been scrutinized for his manipulations behind the scenes, all in such a way as to render even imperial Merlin resentful with envy. It had been Pelles who had manipulated circumstances such that his conception had taken place. It was Pelles who had seen to it he was raised with the highest standards of learning, both of this world, and that of his ancestors in fabled Atlantis. It was Pelles who had arranged for his introduction to the court of the King, and it was Pelles who had ensured that if anyone were to sail that fateful voyage on Solomon’s ship, it would be the knight who stood before him there and then.
Pelles had anticipated all of this. Finally satisfied his grandson was everything he had hoped he would be, Pelles gave him the final steps, literally: gesturing to his left, he drew back a curtain that until that moment had concealed another door within the chamber. Pelles then handed his grandson its key that, in the correct hands, would also unlock the secret of the Grail’s location.
Taking it from Pelles, he stepped to the door, inserted the key, and turned it. The mechanism’s click was nearly imperceptible as the gateway opened, and he stepped through the threshold. As he did, he had a look, inspecting his surroundings, and recognized that The Quest had brought him to the fabled cave of Ephesus.
He was now in France?
What the hell?
He’d prepared for all of the obstacles throughout this search, but now that he’d actually found The Holy Grail, what next?
He had another look, this time behind him. The doorway, having closed, was now nowhere to be found, disappeared. Another moment. He stood there, tall: steel-silver locks flowed from atop his head, framing a brow, nose and jaw all seemingly cut by the same mould. His body language was that of an overwrought coil; all this “forged metal” assemblage would have usually suggested coldness or distance, but here exactly the opposite was true: inside, the hottest fire burned icy-blue.
As he continued his examinations of the vessel, the chalice continued to glow blue-white, its luminance pulsing, as if breathing.
As if alive.
He had found the Cup, he alone amongst the knights had discovered where the Grail was hidden.
He alone was worthy.
As if sensing this, the Vessel began to stir, and then rise, hovering above a stand on the far end of the cave, in front of him. When it did, he was appropriately reverential, lowering to a knee and bowing his head. The Chalice continued to float, and moved through the air towards him, more fully illuminating his surroundings: the cavern’s walls and ceilings were rounded unnaturally, as if one continuous arc; but the floors were polished to a sheen, like marble. The corridor beyond the Cup’s pedestal appeared to extend further yet, into an undetermined depth.
The Chalice was now upon him, beckoning. Accepting the bid, he reached his hands outward, waiting. The Cup lowered into his fingers and rested; he raised them to his lips and drank. Euphoric, everlasting warmth enveloped him.
And this was as terrifying as it was exhilarating, because he knew what had to happen next: there were forces in this world beyond common awareness, forces that would seek to profane the majesty of this holiest of relics, to exploit its wonders for their own indulgences. In order to remove the temptation, and the threat, this vessel must be removed from this plane, and back to that of its rightful, original owner: Ascension.
Solemn, he drew his weapon, Balin’s Red Blade of the Strange Hangings, holding it hilt up. Still kneeling on a single knee, he saw the Chalice return to above his bowed head in front of him. He closed his eyes tightly, straining to remember the sequence, the rituals, taught to him by his father’s mother’s family. Had it really been so many years that he could not remember the ancient, Atlantean, rites?
No. They were there. He spoke the Old Words, and, as he did, the blue-white glow grew into a harsh, all-consuming glare. It was well that he had his eyes closed, as they would have otherwise been rendered blind. Slowly, a rift began to become visible in the air in front of him: a fissure, splintering and fracturing like ice on a frozen lake, jagged lines scattering in every direction. The lines widened, and the light evolved into bright orange.
He allowed himself a glance, and he saw the Chalice, floating in the air, presumably preparing to return home. He thought he saw, a presence of sorts, on the other side, beckoning. As he did, he was reminded of the warmth, the touch, he had done without for so long. An embrace, total compassion, enveloped him, completely and wholly.
And it was this distraction that provided the necessary for the entire thing to go to hell. Almost literally. In an instant it all went sideways, or at least as far as he was concerned it did: something like an arm swiped at him, wild. He saw it, late, out of the corner of his eye, and so was able to avoid the swing. But it had knocked him aside and, interrupted, his concentration had broken.
The Grail stopped abruptly, in mid-transition, and the beckoning presence began to fade from view. An enormous shadow, a bat-shaped wing, loomed up, and over. It seemed to initially offer as attempting to wrestle the Cup from the portal, and as it did the knight lunged between them, blade in forefront, absorbing whatever attack might follow.
No such attack was imminent. Instead, a number of circumstances conspired to obfuscate the proceedings, significantly. And, historically. In the assault’s absence, the shadow, unsuccessful in its improvised attempt to seize the Cup on its way out, continued along accordingly, and was quickly away and down, further into the cave, long into what appeared to be catacombs leading deep within the earth. Turning, the knight was struck with the realization that the play for the Chalice was something of a misdirect, and that escape had been the shady, winged presence’s intent all along. Immediately, he considered giving chase, but what of the ancient rites? What of their object?
What indeed? The Vessel, simultaneously, had begun to vibrate and shimmy, contra to the rhythms of the ceremony. Presently, the shaking ended, and all seemed calm, returned to as it had been moments earlier.
And it was then that the knight’s entire world exploded, and then collapsed around him.
When he awoke, all was dark around him. Grasping his sword and concentrating, this time the blade glowed red, illuminating the immediate environs.
It wasn’t good. He was surrounded on all sides by rock, and dirt, and dust, and rubble, and close in. The cave had apparently collapsed in around and on him, and the Grail was nowhere to be found: the glow that had served to guide and to light, figuratively and otherwise, was not anywhere to be seen, nor was there any evidence of it ever having been there, then. Nothing.
Nothing to do, except begin to dig.
Eventually, he lifted and pushed and dug himself out, rising up and out of the wreckage of where the cave of Ephesus once was. Looking about, he realized he was standing in the Sainte Baume Mountains. The doorway back to his grandfather’s castle was no longer there, nor any sign of any of the recent presences other than the surrounding ruin. He turned, resigned, and began to make his way back to Caerleon.
Eventually, cover stories would be distributed, stories specifying events as they should have happened: the Chalice, along with the King and his sword, his queen, and this knight, indeed did ascend; any further pursuit of any of them would prove fruitless.
Eventually, other subterfuge would follow. But there was no mistaking: this had all been his doing; his hubris had caused this, his momentary distraction had led to this outcome. And he would seek out those components, the segments that would combine to his retribution, and then his salvation.
“Bon chance, Galaad,” he thought he had heard a hiss, carried across the winds. It rumbled like far away thunder, but there was a high-pitched shriek underneath, as if distant screaming of multitudes suffering the torments of the damned.
A chill ran down his back as he continued his long march, towards a place that was now no longer truly home.