I wasn't a big fan of this vision.

I'm not unfamiliar with the concept of imbibing an unknown substance and then being taken somewhat out of myself. However, this would be the first time I'd partaken and then been transported to the aftermath of a massive battle.

Given a choice, it goes without saying a beach in Bali with Jared Leto fulfilling my every need would have been much preferable.

However, we are where we are.

And where we are is obviously Camlann.

The sun was dipping below the horizon, casting long shadows across the battlefield. This vision had clearly decided to go all out on the pathetic fallacy. So much so, I feel confident to make an early call that someone will drop to their knees, shouting 'noooo!' in the near future, at which stage there will be a massive crash of thunder.

There's bodies everywhere.

I see people I recognise from in and around Tintagel to my left - in keeping with the primary school level of visual metaphor in this vision, they all seem to be in white armour. I'm sure some of them are still alive, but the vibe is very much 'last moments of The Cabin in the Woods'. To my right are a bunch of guys and dolls I've never come across before, but they're wearing black armour and have made huge investments in goth eyeliner. Might just be me, but I don't think they're on the side of the angels.

Standing opposite me is Arthur - and he's seen better days. And I say this as the woman who oversaw him being deep-fried. His armour has been completely battered out of shape and he looks like Carrie seconds after her closest friends had performed a jolly jape. He's carrying a glowing sword that isn't Drynwyn, so I'm going to take a punt it's Excalibur. It hangs limply in his grasp, its blade dulled and chipped.

Then It starts to rain.

Because, of course it does.

Under the sudden deluge, blood starts to run in rivers through the trampled grasses, and the field turns into mud. And in about one hundred and fifty years, I can hear John Bunyan going, "ah, that's exactly what I'm going for in my Slough of Despond."

Arthur's gaze finds its way to me, and it occurs to me that, in this vision, I seem to play the role of Mordred. Well . . . that's unsettling. Is the suggestion that I'm actually going to be the one here fighting him at the end - I look down, and it's definitely Drynwyn I have in my hand - or is this more of a subconscious final battle?

We engage in a few moments of tense eye-fucking and then I hear a voice intone, "In that moment, the world narrowed to the expanse of ground that separated Lord and Mage, king and usurper, the end and the beginning."

Unless I was mistaken, our friendly narrator was the voice of the Enchanted Forests.

With a speed that defied the number of mortal wounds I could see he had received, Arthur advanced towards me, Excalibur raised. Mordred - no, it's me - ran to meet him in the middle, their clash of swords echoing like a thunderclap of fate.

I'm not saying I've watched Kylo versus Luke too many times, but if you're not quite feeling this fight, maybe flick the movie on in the background.

The only key difference is that rather than it turning out that Luke isn't really there, Arthur makes the point he is entirely present rather forcefully. He bats a slash from Drynwyn away with his hand, runs Mordred (me?) through and then decapitates us on the return swing.

Disconcertingly, my p.o.v remains from the eyes of the now unattached head as it sails through the air to land in the mud.

From this stage, my perspective on things becomes somewhat unclear as the rainwater, blood, and general shite slowly rise to cover my eyes.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

I can just about make out that Arthur falls to his knees, and Excalibur slips from his fingers. He looks up into the twilight sky, where the first stars begin to twinkle, like silent witnesses to the end of an era.

With his last breath, Arthur cries out in frustration, and lightning crashes around him.

So. Fucking. Predicatable.

As the final light of day gave way to night's embrace, King Arthur Pendragon, the Once and Future King, breathes his last.

*

"Well, that was cheery."

Indeed. I am unclear, though, as to the point of it. To my understanding, this was supposed to be a vision of a sacrifice you needed to commit to make in the future. I do not see any such honourable choice here."

"Maybe I'm supposed to let Arthur slay me? Feels all a bit Obi-Wan, though. It looks like he dies straight afterwards, so it's not like there's a huge win there. But, for me, surely the bigger question is, why am I standing in for Mordred?"

Merlin began to answer me, but then my head swam and I was back in the vision, but this time from a different perspective.

*

I was rowing a boat towards the shore of Camlann.

In the distance, I could see two warriors kicking ten bells out of each other. The one was in battered white armour, and the other - the smaller of the two - had gone all in on a nifty black number.

As I drew closer, the guy in white pivoted and swept his opponent's head off its shoulders with all the badassery of Samuel L Jackson with a glowing purple stick. However, rather than celebrating, he fell to his knees and gave it the full 'Platoon' scream to the heavens.

I knew that was my cue to swoop in, collect him up before he died and head for Avalon.

However, just as my oars dipped into the sea, a different destination opened up for me. It seemed that rather than pulling onto the beach, gathering up the dying body of King Arthur and then transporting him to a mystical resting place where he would heal, I could instead choose to go home.

Home.

But not to my fucking awful bedsit. Not to a life where my only consistent relationship was with a bottle. And not to a world where I'd burnt every possible bridge with everyone I cared about.

No, the 'me' I could see in this world was . . . happy. In the eons that stretched between a sweep of the oars, I saw a woman with secure roots. With a job she enjoyed - working in a gallery that, on occasion, allowed her to display her own art. With a small group of friends that had more in common than who could reach oblivion first. With a . . . yes, there was a family there. And a radiant, much loved Aunt Zizzie sweeping up laughing children in an embrace.

"Fuck me, Merlin. Is this an option?"

He didn't answer me straight away. In a way, I found myself respecting him a little more for that. Because - obviously - what I was being shown here was that the only way I could achieve this version of my life was to royally screw over his plan. The Enchanted Forest offered me a life I could have if I didn't care too much about anything else.

In all honesty, my dear, I do not know. That Arthur will fall at Camlann is no surprise to either of us. Indeed, in a strange way it is pretty much what we are working so hard to achieve. On the positive side, that would suggest that despite everything, we may have an excellent chance to keep the settled timeline intact.

"But then I will get a choice? To take him to Avalon or . . . what? Pick the life I always wanted?"

Again, the Big M was silent for a few moments. When he spoke, it was with careful precision. It would appear, at some point in the future, there will come a moment when you will need to make a significant decision. I doubt it will come to pass as demonstrated in this vision, but I am sure the sentiment will be the same. You will have to choose whether to do the right thing or have your dreams fulfilled."

"Dude, I'm not being funny, but you have to believe I'm picking Option B."

And I doubt there would be many that would blame you. You have suffered considerable trauma throughout your life. Should, when the moment comes, you choose to reset your existence along the lines shown today, I would wish you well.

"But?"

But in stepping into that version of reality, you will doom this realm. Whilst I object to the melodrama in this vision, it is clear on one thing. If you are not present at Camlann to transport Arthur to Avalon, he will die. And with his death, Britain will be transformed. These will be small, minor changes to begin with, but as centuries roll by, without the legend of the promise of the return of the Once and Future King, the resilience, exceptionalism and . . . basic pluck of the people of these islands will be much reduced.

"You're saying that unless I row Arthur to Avalon, Churchill wouldn't have the oomph to want to fight them on the beaches?"

"No, my dear. I'm saying without the prospect of Arthur's return as a foundational myth for your culture, it would never occur to the British to fight the Nazis at all."

And then I was back in the forest, standing in the Trial circle.