Belief
A/N This short story is dedicated to my friend, Ocean Mint Leaves, because her stories are unfailingly brilliant and her kind encouragement has given me the courage to share my stories with all of you. Your adventure awaits, my friend!
And to my daughter Elena, my beautiful ballerina, whose courage, daring and dedication to her art inspire me on a daily basis.
But most especially, this story is dedicated to all of those who stand at the beginning of their adventure, finding the courage to follow a dream that not everyone can understand. And to all those who stand ready to let them go. Be brave. Be bold. Be free.
Yeah, I'm cheesy.
The Naming of Merlin
Hunith looked down into the infant face of her sleeping child by the light of a fire in the midwife's hut. He was only two days old. She marveled at every detail of his being; his already familiar face with it's wry expression, the perfection of his pale skin, the tender fragile weight of him in her arms. His fingers were long and even now he was grasping at her, his tiny fist tangled in her unbound brown tresses. She marveled at the silky feel of his fuzz of midnight dark hair, so fine and soft, it brought her an impossible joy. Her heart filled with a love that bound her deep in her being, where mortality and time did not matter.
His mouth opened, perfect as a petal of springtime, and nuzzled at her breast. He was a strong boy, she thought to herself, as he suckled with enthusiasm. As her milk let down, the surging tingle brought a relief and pleasure that she had never guessed at, no matter how sore or tired she was from his birth and his first few awkward feedings. But he had learned quickly, and the midwife, Frannie, assured her, she had seldom seen a healthier babe.
But her heart inevitably filled with longing for something that could not be, and though she tried not to let them, the tears slid own her face slowly. If only Balinor could have been there. she murmured. It would not do to think of his father, she told herself. It would not do for her son to be nourished by milk that came down as her sorrow flooded her, she thought. Surely no good would come of it. She gave a silent sudden sob though she did not mean to, her heart tearing with the thought, just as she prayed it would not. Her convulsive movement, broke her baby's concentration, and he gave a frustrated whimper as he searched for her breast again.
"Oh my sweetheart", she whispered. She tickled the side of his mouth, smiling at the rooting motion of his lips and he found her breast again. He was suckling again, his little cheeks and lips working happily as she wiped her tears roughly with one hand. She closed her eyes, humming tunelessly, trying to not let her thoughts go to the edge of her pain, to the loneliness that filled her. She calmed as she nursed, feeling the baby start to fall asleep as he drank his fill. His lips still moved at her breast, but he was asleep now. The sight of him filled her with adoration. Nursing still brought a deep cramping ache in her womb, his birth was so recent; but it could not dim her physical delight in her child, her son. She held him softly, burying her face in his hair, his skin, treasuring his warmth, his vital being. The living innocence of his newness flooded her nose; his silken skin against her own, filled her with tenderness she could never explain.
She cupped her hand by the side of his face, amused by how even her small hands framed his tiny head perfectly. She brought him up to her shoulder, patting his back softly until she heard the impossibly hearty burp the tiny bundle made.
She placed her son back on the bed, next to her chair, bracing him with rolled up blankets that she had salvaged from friends and neighbors, on her journey to the Druid camp, where her baby had been born. She stole outside to the deep blue light of the coming dawn.
Taking a deep breath, she stretched a little, feeling the tiredness of the birth, still settled in her bones. She was recovering well, regaining her strength quickly. she knew she should leave soon. Perhaps she would return to Ealdor. For now, no decisions had been made. She found a seat on a log not far from where the babe was sleeping. The stars were fading, no longer the bright denizens of the dark, but like a sprinkling of faint light, barely visible in the brightening sky. But grey clouds sat heavily upon the horizon, and no clear morning light lifted her heart with echoes of pink and gold.
It had been an incredible journey that had brought her to this place, the Druid camp. She had just been beginning to piece the suspicions of her pregnancy together when the first Camelot guards came through on a patrol of Ealdor. Mercian knights followed. Wary as ever, Balinor had moved away into the woods, but she had seen him under cover of darkness. The weeks passed bringing only more danger. The hunted look in Balinor's eyes had grown day by day, until at last she saw that he could no longer remain. The danger was close and their luck would not hold. By the time, Hunith had grown sensitive to foods and smells, he had fled. In the days that followed, Hunith could no longer tell if it was the fatigue of the pregnancy that ground her into exhaustion or the weight of her grief and fear for the father of her child.
Hunith had tried not to cry. She did not want her tears to darken the babe that she carried for her fugitive lover. She knew in her heart that this child would be all of joy. When she did weep, on those dark nights, when her lonliness would flow over her like a tide of darkness, she would feel the babe move within her, so sweetly, so gently, as if his infant sprit sensed her distress. Balinor had brought her joy, a happiness she had not expected; his absence brought her pain, but it did not dim the memory of their contentment, however brief. And he had left her with this child, a final and most precious gift; Hunith had known the child was special in the very deepest of ways, but she was not prepared for what followed.
As her belly grew, strange things began to torment Hunith. Vivid dreams of fire, images of destruction, dreams of soaring midnight flight beneath the moon, and always, always, the insidious coppery smell of blood, the scent of dragon. She did not need Balinor to tell her that her son's dragonlord heritage was making itself known, but if there was any potion that would help, any tincture or tisane, she did not know. She had tried to write to her dear friend, Gaius, the physician to the king, whom she had known back in her days in Camelot. But she had not been able to wait for a reply. She knew he would know what to do. Exhausted and unable to think clearly as she weakened, she had walked for a long, weary time, struggling to get to Camelot, collapsing in Gaius' chambers to her great embarrassment.
It was best for her not to be seen in Camelot. She had served the Queen Ygraine and Uther's temper was capricious and unpredictable, when it came to anything concerning his beloved late wife. She was too ill and Uther too unpredictable for her to remain safely in Camelot. Hidden in a small room in Gaius chamber, he had nursed her back to health. But the physician was clear. She needed even more special care than he could give. They decided to seek out a Druid healer, to attend the birth.
Gaius himself, had come with her to bring her to this group of Druids, well known for their healing skills. The midwife, a merry, bright eyed blond woman,by the name of Frannie, had taken Hunith in like a long lost sister. Comfortable at last and able to eat a little and sleep without terror, she had not truly noted how long Gaius had spent talking with the leaders of the group, speaking at last in private. She did not know what he had said. The physician was long overdue to attend the king in Camelot, so he had left shortly after, with only a brief goodbye. It was best for all. Hunith was in fear lest Gaius be found in the Druid camp. King Uther would not have forgiven him.
The birth had been relatively easy for a first child. At least that is what dear Frannie had told told her. It had seemed fairly painful and long to her. She had grown so tired in her labor that the storm that had blown up as she had suffered through the hours, had almost become a part of her surging labor pain. There had been fierce lightning the night her child was born, enormous winds, pouring rain. It propelled her forth into agony, pulling her open so the child could pass. The lightning had struck again and again, filling Frannie's hut with jagged brilliance, as the child crowned and Hunith struggled to bring her child into the light and finally was delivered. He had howled lustily at once. But the fearsome storm had softly turned to sweetly falling drizzle, and finally calmed, as her new born boy had been laid in her arms. When she kissed his forehead for the first time, his eyes had flashed gold.
Druid leaders had filed in gravely to gaze at her child. Some of them had wept. Frannie had said she had never seen a bonnier babe, and her joy in helping Hunith was genuine. But more than once she had seen the midwife cradle the baby, when she thought no one was looking, and Hunith could not reconcile the almost ecstatic, awed delight she read in the kind woman's face with her own precious child. These things puzzled Hunith, but she had many things to attend, so she buried these thoughts. There would be time later.
She still had not named the child. She could not name him something that would recall his father. But no name had seemed right.
Frannie had a son. A grave, friendly boy of twelve or thirteen summers, who was thoughtful and quick in all in he did. She liked his name. It had a certain poetry. Iseldir. But she knew it would not do for her babe. She sighed. The forest around the camp was waking up; the birds calling first, as the light came up into the sky. She heard the call of a hawk nearby.
She turned. It was only a few feet away, perched on a broken branch that stuck up awkwardly from the rest of the tree where he had landed. It was a small falcon, mostly gray, with some brown banding. She had seen them before, riding on the fist of the lady Ygraine herself, as she rode out to hunt with the king. Ygraine had called it a merlin. But as it turned to look at her, her breath caught. For it's eyes were the eyes of her lover, Balinor, and in her heart she heard the call of the wide skies and the clouds, the lift of the winds flooded her. She recalled the terrible dragon dreams of her pregnancy, but now they were transformed into flights of freedom. Freedom.
Hunith could not deny the forces of destiny that seemed to surround her child. Frannie had already hinted that the child already had another name. A name destined for him alone. That he was someone of enormous importance. She thought again of Frannie's rapturous expression as she gazed at her new born babe. The Druids that had come to look on her baby with ever increasing hope and it frightened her.
She could not bear to put the burden of something so mysterious on the her innocent child. If her son was to have magic, if he was to be a dragonlord someday, heir to a power that would be dangerous and arcane, she knew he would be forced to hide. He would be forced to run, like his father. Let him have name then that echoed with freedom. The freedom of the skies, of the lightning and the wind that had heralded his arrival.
Let him be free, she thought to herself. Let him value his freedom more than his destiny, she prayed. She hoped his father's heritage would find him when he was strong enough to bear the burden. The falcon took flight suddenly, into the morning light and her eyes followed it with a hunger that her heart could never truly understand. It disappeared into the leaden skies
Returning to the hut, she scooped her child into her arms and rocked him tenderly. Her heart was light with hope. He opened his sleepy eyes, his tiny nose wrinkling as he yawned. She filled with a love that shook her down to her most secret self. She had chosen his name rightly.
The baby's eyes flashed gold. She was only a little surprised, though she knew down deep that this portent would change everything. She swore to protect him as she could, and to let him be free of the expectations and perils of his magic, of his heritage. She could not know where this path would lead, only that she needed to raise him where he would not be used. Let destiny and prophecy trumpet their presence thought Hunith. They were nothing compared to the love that filled her. She whispered his name in his ear. Her son's eyes flashed again as he stretched and wiggled contentedly in his mother's arms. Hunith knew then, she had chosen rightly.
Merlin. Their son would be called Merlin.