"How long do you think it'll take us to find the druids?" Merlin asks, sticking his bare feet in the small brook, letting the cool water run through his toes.
"I don't know. They've stopped keeping their camps in one place for too long," Arthur answers. He cuts a piece off an apple and feeds it to Llamrei, patting his mare's neck.
The idea had come to him over the winter, to go and try to make peace with the druids. It's a dangerous thing to do right under Uther's nose, but Arthur knows that if they're going to bring magic back to the kingdom, then they'll have to make a start now. He just hopes that the damage that's already been wrought isn't permanent, that it might still be repaired. The druids are a peaceful people, yes, but Arthur knows, even if his father's forgotten it, that if someone's neck is stepped on long enough and hard enough, eventually, they will fight back.
Now, with the first flush of spring, he's asked leave to go on a small hunting trip. It gives him a few days' leave to try and find the druids without suspicion, as it's well known he always goes out once the seasons turn again, that he can't stand the forced inertia of winter. They're deeper in the darkling woods than he usually ever goes, at least not on his own. He's in his chainmail and had his sword and crossbow with him, but an ambush could still make mincemeat of him. He knows that Merlin wouldn't allow it to happen, though, and that the long bundle lashed onto Llamrei's saddle isn't a spear but a Sidhe staff.
"Why didn't you let Morgana and Gwen come with?" Merlin pulls his feet out of the stream.
"Because when's the last time you ever heard of Morgana going hunting?" Arthur snorts through his nose. "She hates the very idea of it. This cover story works for the two of us out here, but not them as well. If it goes well, I'm certain she'll be able to visit another time."
The young man puts his socks and boots back on, then freezes in the middle of lacing them back up, his gaze snapping upwards. He looks like nothing so much as a startled deer.
"What's wrong? Merlin?"
"I think we've found the druids, Arthur," he says quietly.
Confused, he follows Merlin's fixed gaze, turning around, and goes similarly still when he sees three people standing less than ten paces away from them. Two men and a woman. The shorter of the two men holds a bow in his hands, an arrow nocked but not drawn. "What do you want?" he asks in a thick, heavy accent.
Arthur takes a half-step forward, then freezes when the man draws the bow, the sharp arrowhead coming up to level at his throat. Merlin scrambles to his side, and the air around him almost buzzes with gathering magic; the woman hisses through her teeth and tugs at the armed man's shirt angrily.
"Peace, good-brother," says the second man, gesturing for the first to lower his bow. He has curling dark hair, his face tattooed with blue markings, but unlike the other two, his eyes are pale, the colour of moonlight. There's something uncanny about him, as if he isn't quite there, and Arthur knows that if nothing else, he is definitely gifted with magic. "I told you we would have visitors, didn't I?" His words are similarly accented, but his Alban is much clearer.
The man lowers the bow slightly, but he doesn't unstring the arrow, a wariness in his gaze. "I've heard of the Bloody Tyrant of Camelot. And his golden son," he says, deeply suspicious. "He comes to us armed, and I should believe he is here in kindness?"
It takes Arthur a moment to parse through his barbarous accent. When he understands though, he feels a surge of shame, wishing that he hadn't worn his chainmail. So he does the only thing that comes to mind. He draws his sword. The man hisses through his teeth, arms tensing to draw the bow once more, but Arthur holds out his sword hilt-first, resting the blade against his gloved hands. "I'm here in peace, nothing else. I know I have wronged your people, and I know I cannot undo what's been done. I seek to learn from the mistakes of the past, and I would ask your company so I might begin," he says, as formal as if he's addressing another king on foreign soil, keeping his head bowed.
The man stares at him for a long moment, but finally, the tiny woman steps forward. She admonishes him in another language, the words coming thick and fast; when she turns to Arthur, though, she has only a smile for him, stepping forward fearlessly and patting his arm. "Keep your sword," she says in Alban, her words careful and measured. "Come sit at our hearth, little one, and be welcome."
She's probably not even ten years his elder, head and shoulders shorter than him, yet her voice holds all the warmth and steady assurance of a mother. Arthur smiles back and sheathes the blade; beside him, Merlin almost visibly relaxes, letting out a deep sigh. "Thank you, my lady."
At that, she scoffs and tweaks his ear. "I'm no lady. Come, now. Dinner is almost ready, and I don't trust Firdha not to burn it again," she adds with a pointed glance at the first man, who gives a chagrined smile, unstringing his bow and returning the arrow to its quiver.
"That went better than I thought it would," Arthur murmurs under his breath as the trio leads them through the thick trees, slipping easily through the tangled undergrowth; Merlin gives him a smug smile, though he refrains from saying 'I told you so,' at least for the moment, leading Llamrei by the reins.
Suddenly, they come out into a small clearing right up against a small, sharp cliff. There's a wide-mouthed cavern in the side of the cliff, and there's a host of voices coming from within, most of them sounding very young. There's a fire going at the mouth of the cave, near enough for the smoke to be let out whilst still being sheltered. There are two more women and seven children, all of whom go silent when they see Arthur and Merlin accompanying the others.
There's a short, quiet-yet-heated discussion between the adults, the red-haired women throwing distrustful glares at Arthur and Merlin alike, and the taller of the two lays into the tattooed man with ire. The miniscule woman, however, wins out yet again, her tone leaving no room for discussion.
Arthur's introduced to the rest of the druid family as they settle around the fire and a deep pot of rabbit stew. They're from Éire, which explains the accents, and they have come to Camelot for a dream, on their way to find others of their kind. The three who had greeted them are the patriarch Cailan, his diminutive wife Sibeal, and Sibeal's brother Brennan, who bears the curious blue markings tattooed upon his face; the two red-haired women are Cailan's sisters, Firdha and Nonna. Five of the children are Sibeal and Cailan's—Eamonn, eldest at five-and-ten, Kerys, Moiread, Dorelei, and Conor, barely off his mother's breast—the other two are Brennan's daughters, Grainne and Breidaia.
Firdha is deeply suspicious of Arthur and Merlin both, clearly doubting his offering of peace, saying little and simply glaring over the fire at them. Nonna seems to take after her sister's opinion, but a faint, hesitant spark of hope moves behind her eyes. Cailan still is reluctant as well, but Arthur can see it stems from a concern for his family more than any true disbelief of their claims. Brennan and Sibeal both seem entirely at home with their being there, offering them the same hospitality they would a distant family member. Young Eamonn and Kerys try to emulate their father by remaining aloof, but the other children have no such cares, assuaged by their parents' welcome.
Once they've finished eating, the girl Moiread wanders around the hearth, pokes Arthur's arm, and chatters off a long stream of inquisitives in another language. Arthur knows some Éiran, but her words make scarce any sense to him, jumbled in with some other tongue. Cailan snorts into his tea, however, and Brennan and Sibeal both chuckle. "What'd she say?"
"She says that she's never seen anyone with metal scales before, and wants to know if this is your true form or if you are a dragon in a man's skin," Brennan supplies, sounding deeply amused.
Arthur looks back at Moiread, now running curious fingers over the rings of his chainmail. Smiling, he takes off his gloves and unfastens his braces, holding out his bare, human hands. "I'm a man," he replies.
Appeased, Moiread climbs into his lap and nestles against his chest, nudging her curly head beneath his chin like a kitten looking for pets. With Sibeal's encouraging nod, he runs a hand over her fine black hair. Tiny Dorelei, apparently jealous of the attention, toddles over and pulls at his other arm until he shifts to make room for her as well. He glances over at Merlin and sees him similarly pinned by Grainne and Breidaia, sitting on either side of him.
"You said you came to Camelot for a dream," Merlin queries, apparently unbothered by his new small companions. "What dream is that?"
"Mine," Brennan says; he has a kind of vague, thoughtful air about him, as if he isn't entirely there with them and yet simultaneously is grounded more securely than any deep-rooted tree. "I dreamt of a dawn unlike any other. I saw dragons in the sky once more and our people living without fear in a shining white city. I dreamt of the return of magic."
Arthur raises his eyebrows. "You're a seer?" Moiread plucks at the cord around his neck.
"I am not a priest of the Old Religion," Brennan answers with a shake of the head. "But those of our mother's line are sometimes blessed with dreams of truth. I carry this gift, as do my daughters. Sibeal, too, though she's chosen not to pursue hers."
"Is that what those mean?" Arthur touches fingertips to his cheeks, indicating the blue dots that are tattooed on Brennan's face, and the man nods. Dorelei puts his necklace—the polished tip of a boar's tusk from his first hunt—in her mouth.
"You said you wish to begin at a peace with us," Cailan says in his careful Alban, leaning back and surveying them with dark, thoughtful eyes. "I am no waking dreamer like my good-brother, but I have seen enough of his gift to have faith in what he dreams of. I believe in it enough to leave our old home and come to this land. I wondered if I was mad for doing such a thing. Many certainly said I was. But now I wonder if perhaps it had a purpose after all, if we were put in your path for a reason. I don't know if it was the will of the gods or perhaps just some fallout of chance. However." His mouth curves in a small smile, looking between Merlin and Arthur, nodding. "I believe in peace. Stay with us as long as you wish. You'll be welcome with us."
"Thank you," Arthur murmurs. "I will do my best to honour your hospitality."
A ringing of steel breaks the peaceful quiet, and Moiread chortles gleefully, holding up the dagger that she's hoisted from Arthur's belt. Merlin laughs at the embarrassed flush Arthur sports as he pries the girl's small fingers from the hilt.
They stay five days with Cailan's family. Arthur finds their simple, elemental lifestyle both refreshing and comforting in a strange way, reminding him of the short time spent in Ealdor; he resolves to visit Hunith again soon, perhaps on a trip around the borders.
Both Sibeal and Cailan refuse their offers of assistance, insisting that they are guests and to be looked after. Still, Merlin tells Sibeal some measure of herb-lore, and Grainne, too, as the girl seems avidly interested in the healing arts when she isn't with her father, pursuing their gift. Arthur sketches up a rough map of Camelot for Cailan, warning him of what areas to avoid, the trails the knights often used on their patrols, and points him in the direction where he knows that druids live undisturbed.
Cailan teaches Eamonn and Kerys to track and hunt; he has his bow, but the children are given slings, long bands of leather and smooth, round rocks they can hurl with deadly force. Firdha gathers edible shoots, mushrooms, and tubers to supplement their meals, usually taking Moiread and Grainne with her. Merlin offers to accompany as well, but she gives him such a baleful glare that he doesn't dare ask again, though he does collect a basket full of herbs for Sibeal, who spends her days in the cavern camp, mending clothes and sewing new ones, preserving food for travel. Nonna helps Sibeal with the domestic tasks, but mostly she minds the younger children.
That, at least, they can help with. Dorelei follows Arthur like a second shadow, and he finds the chance to brush up on his admittedly rusty Éiran with her, familiarizing himself with the language by learning the nursery songs she sings, simple rhymes that list colours and counting numbers. Unlike his former tutors, who would rap him across the knuckles when he blundered, the girl only shakes her head in mock disappointment and pats his head like a contrite pet. She's endlessly fond of his hair; Cailan and his sisters are all three redheads, and Sibeal and Brennan are both dark-haired. Tiny Breidaia likewise attaches herself to Merlin, and though Arthur never hears the girl speak a word aloud, Merlin often nods and speaks back to her as if she has, reminding him of the rumour that druids could communicate with their thoughts if they chose.
And Arthur sees how they use their magic.
It comes to them so easily, so naturally. The thread snaps when Sibeal is sewing a pair of leggings; she holds the ends together, says a word, and the frayed ends weave themselves back together. Nonna runs a finger along her small knife, murmuring under her breath, and the edge gleams newly sharp. Cailan speaks a phrase over the buckets of water he carries from the brook, and the slightly cloudy water clears. Firdha starts the fire with a word rather than a flint. Brennan traces shapes in the air with his fingers, and the fire-sparks dance through the air to the delight of the younger children. Arthur marvels at how his father could ever have called this evil and resolves to repeal the ban on magic, no matter what resistance he might meet.
"Were you ever like this?" he asks Merlin in an undertone on the eve of the fifth day, as they sit plucking feathers from the pheasants Eamonn had brought down with his sling, much to his sister's envy and his father's delight.
Merlin glances over at the family, lips curving up in a tiny, wistful smile; Arthur wonders if he's thinking of his mother, too. "Yeah. I made things move around before I could even roll over, but I think the first real spell I did on purpose was one to scour our cook pot. It was the one good one we had, so Mum always tried to keep it clean. And then I did ones to keep the knife and her sewing needle sharp and to purify the water we got from the stream since it wasn't always clean, especially if it rained a lot and churned up the water. Oh, and I'd do ones to melt snow and heat up water so we could bathe when it was too cold to go in the stream." His mouth quirks as Sibeal hands Grainne the finished rabbitskin leggings, the girl delighting at the softness of the hides. "Never did get the habit of doing the mending, though."
Arthur throws him a sidelong glance. "What about my mending?"
"Gwen does it for me." Merlin grins at his frown. "Relax, I'm not foisting my chores off on her. We trade. She does the mending for me, and I clean the floors in Morgana's chambers for her."
"Good. I won't have you lazing about making her do your job," Arthur teases, nudging him with an elbow.
"I do not laze about," Merlin replies with utmost indignance. "I'm far too busy saving your royal arse from the constant trouble you like to land it in." Chin lifted pretentiously, he takes the plucked birds by their feet and carries them over to Sibeal. Breidaia and Grainne, who have attached themselves quite soundly to Merlin, both immediately shuffle over to sit with him as he helps their aunt spit the birds and set them turning over the fire.
He chatters on with them amicably as they sit together, foreign words tumbling over each other like water over smooth river-stones. Arthur's come to understand that they are speaking Éiran; it's just that their Éiran is mixed in with the Old Tongue. He knows that the ancient language is used for spells and magic, but he has never considered the thought that it is also just a language, one that had once been spoken as commonly as Alban. He wonders if Merlin will teach him, if he can learn it.
"Must you leave so soon?" Sibeal asks the next morning, watching Arthur saddle Llamrei; his faithful mare's been spoiled rotten the past five days, the children fawning over her whenever they could.
"I'm afraid so, my lady," he replies and ducks the swat she aims at him; she's probably told him a dozen times not to address her as such. "I want to thank you, however, for giving me the chance to learn more about your people."
"Healing must begin somewhere," she answers sagely. "I may not have my brother's gift, but I know in my heart you'll be a good ruler, even if my good-sisters hold their doubts. And when we leave here and go to find others of our kind, we will tell them, too." Sibeal stands on her toes to kiss his brow, though he has to bow his head a little for her to reach.
Moiread ducks around her mother and comes to cling to him unhappily, skinny arms wound around his thigh. Having quite irrefutably adopted him, she's easily the most upset with their departure, with the exception of perhaps Dorelei. He runs a hand over her fine black hair, surprised to find himself just as saddened to leave. He's had precious little contact with children before now; he likes it. He likes the simplicity and purity of it, filled with tender innocence. It soothes a part of him that'd ached for contact in a way he'd never known before, and it's a near-blessed relief to form a relationship in which carnal desire, intrigue, and politics play no part at all. He hasn't had anything like it since he was a child himself. Arthur recalls Merlin once labelling him a very lonely person; he hadn't believed it then, but he thinks he's beginning to understand it now.
He crouches down on his heels and puts an arm around her, and Moiread flings her arms around his neck in a near stranglehold, sniffling beside his ear. "We'll see each other again, my little friend," he murmurs in Éiran, and she nods a few times, her soft cheek pressed against his.
They make the rest of their goodbyes in short order. Firdha seems quietly glad to see them leaving, but she at least makes the attempt to be cordial. Nonna, having warmed to them at least somewhat, even offers Merlin a brief, hesitant embrace, though she's still skittish near Arthur. Dorelei flings herself at Arthur's knees and refuses to let go until Sibeal gently pries her away, holding the tearful girl in her arms.
"We will see each other again, dragon prince," Brennan says, taking a step forward and clasping Arthur's arm in his. His pale, pale eyes have that distant, faraway look to them he gets when having one of his waking dreams. "In the walls of the white city, we'll share your hearth for a change."
"I look forward to that," Arthur replies with a small smile.
As they ride back in the direction of Camelot, Arthur feels lighter than he has in months. Healing must begin somewhere, Sibeal had told him, and he recognises the change in himself and in Merlin. It's as if they've finally let go of a breath held for too long. The trees around them gradually grow thinner until they're at the edge of the wood. The towers of Camelot stand out against the blue skies, the citadel gleaming white in the sun, and though he already misses the simplicity of the camp, Arthur's heart leaps at the sight of it. Home.
"Arthur?" Merlin says in a gentle voice, and he turns slightly in the saddle to face his consort. "Thank you. For all of this."
"No thanks needed," he replies with a smile. "We have to make a start somewhere."
"I know, but you could've just made terms with them. You didn't have to stay like you did." Merlin guides his horse close enough that his leg brushes Arthur's. "I'm proud of you."
He'd sooner let Gaius test new mixtures on him than admit aloud how much that simple bit of praise means to him, how it loosens the knots of guilt and shame buried down deep in his heart. Instead, he uses the loose ends of the reins to swat at Merlin's arm. "You're such a girl's petticoat sometimes, Merlin. Come on, let's go home."