He walked, a long time. There were moments where his mind returned to the bloody battle field, his most gruesome piece of work. There were moments where he sighed to himself. There were moments where his lips murmured words in languages unknown to men.
She sat by him, quietly, on a misty morning. Her hair was flying galore in the wind. Her hands were small, white, precious. She smelled of wild flowers, milk and honey.
"You are ever quiet," she murmured to this man she did not know.
"That is because I speak ill," he whispered in response.
"I would show you the contrary," she said again, quietly.
"I know," he said, softly. "Gwendolyn."
She gasped. Her name, she had not told him – yet he knew, as he knew then that his wife, she would be, that he would betray her and break her heart for an enchantress.
"Who are you, to know my name?" She whispered it softly, her voice filled with awe.
"I am the Merlin," he said, to her, to the landscape, to the four winds which mischievously mixed his hair with hers. "Born of the demons, saved by God, cursed a thousand times over."
She bit her lip, examined his face, ravined already though he was not even past his thirties yet. It was handsome, in a forlorn, worried way.
"And what should I call you, then, My Lord?" Her question was soft, barely a whisper.
"Anything you wish," he said, turning to look at her for the first time. "I will never fault you for it."
She bit her lip, and nodded. "Good bye, then, Merlin. Try to smile."
He nodded, and continued to look over the landscape. In the distance, over the horizon, visions were playing – dragons and chimeras, birds and lions, fighting. Carwonnak, all over again, and him, in the midst of it all, unable to stop the slaughter.
"Foolish woman," he murmured, softly. "Could you not wait, just a moment?"
He stood, and started to walk back to the place he was inhabiting, close to the observatory he was building. Perhaps tomorrow, his sister would come. Unplanned, unexpected Ganieda. She would ever soothe his tortured mind, that, he knew.
He entered the humble place, lay by the hearth, and prayed that the dreams would not come this day.
They did, as they did every time he slept. He cried in his sleep, but part of him knew – she would come, perhaps. She would soothe him.
A gentle hand touched his forehead, calling him back to the wakefulness of the mid-morning. He caught it. "You always do that, don't yo---" his eyes snapped open. Sweet, honey scented flours. Gwendolyn. "My Lady." He dropped her hand, faster than a burning brand. "Forgive me."
She looked pained, and stood abruptly. "No, forgive me, sir." Without more words, she turned, and strode out of the hut. Behind Merlin, a soft, motherly voice resounded.
"Ever the charmer, my little brother," she murmured. He froze. "Ganieda. I thought you were here."
"Poor soul, of course I am," she replied with mild amusement. "And now, aren't going after your bride?"
"She will return," he murmured softly. "It is in the stars."