The first thing Merlin remembers is fire. There is always fire. The burning ashes float in the air of the falling afternoon as some deadly mocking version of the snow he used to love.
He is standing in front of the hut. The fire consumes it all; the gray sky is unmoving to his plea to make it all stop, the rain will not come, and he is alone, while the fire rages. It is his life what is being burned, he thinks later, many years later, when he looks back on that fateful day. His father, Balinor, his mother, Hunith, their lives, their smiles, their hopes, their love for their son. Burned.
He doesn't understand why this is happening; why the evil men did what they did. Somewhere deep inside his heart, the little child knows that it has to do whith his father's magic, but he knows no more.
What he does know is that they knocked the door. His mother begged Balinor not to open, but there was no other option. There was a flush of red, many men's faces that demanded Balinor to give himself up in the name of the king. What he does know is that his mother has just enough time to get Merlin out the back door, and shush him, and he knows what she is trying to tell him with her huge, scared and lovely eyes. To run. To run as fast as he can. But he doesn't want to run. He wants to stay and fight. His magic, though, will not hear him; his magic is like a living being within him that wants to protect him, and so he runs. This is something he knows. And what he knows best, is that he will never forget that face. The face of their lider. The King Uther himslef, who has come to betray in person the one man who used to be his most trusted advisor and friend. An instant hatred is born towards the man.
His house is on fire, and his mum and dad are dead. This, Merlin feels in his heart, but still, he stands watching the pyre that was the place where he used to be happy, unable to move. The men are long gone, and Merlin doesn't know what to do now, where to go. He has no one else. He is a strong little child, but he feels the world falling on his shoulders. He prays for a miracle that will not come, and his pale face, blackened by the ashes, is the image of sorrow.
He sees her then; a white angel of golden curls, her white dress untouched by the ashes and the mud. Her name is Morgause, the angel says, and she comes to save Merlin. He barely understands; there is a painful ringing in his ears, and he is choking with his sadness, but when she extends her hand to him, he takes it.
