The boy ran.

Beneath him the mud and slush of London's streets sucked at his boots. They were a bit too big, stolen from the feet of a dead man just a month before as he outgrew the ragged ones he'd been wearing. Now he wished he'd found a corpse a bit more his size as the leather footwear flopped around his feet, nearly tripping him and slowing him down. Having room to grow into them seemed like a silly and distant concern at the moment.

It was an unseasonably warm winter's day, the sun high in the sky, and the streets teemed with people. He narrowly dodged an old man pulling a cart laden with straw, and drew curses from a pair of women as he accidentally splashed them with frigid, muddy water. The curses rose in volume moments later as the three men chasing him plowed their way through the crowds with much less consideration. The people knew not to press the issue too far, though… the men chasing him were wizards.

The boy's inner sense tingled at the same time as he heard one of the wizards shout something. He ducked instinctively, and a white bolt of light passed over his head and splashed harmlessly against the wood of a nearby shack. Panic lent energy to his legs, and he ran harder. The gates to the city were just a hundred paces to the north. There were never any gate guards anymore, not since the Romans abandoned Britannia and Londinium to their own devices in a desperate attempt to concentrate on the rampaging barbarian hordes assaulting from Gaul and the northeast. But that exit was too obvious, and once he was through the gates there'd be no buildings to shield him from spellfire.

He ducked suddenly to the right into an alley the ran along the inside of the city wall. He was behind most of the buildings here, and he dodged refuse - mouldering stacks of straw, a broken chicken coop, and a shattered cart - as he ran. He could circle around, maybe throw them off the chase, and make it to the northeast corner of the city-

Mistake! One of the wizards had anticipated his ploy and entered the alley from the other end. He tried to duck past the man as the thin wizard lifted his wand, but an invisible force lifted him and cast him against the stone wall that surrounded Londinium. His head struck the blocks and he saw stars as he fell to the muddy ground. Cold wetness crawled up his side as he lay stunned on the frozen muddy ground. He cried out as a spell struck his thigh, a sensation like he'd been struck with a switch. Another hit his shoulder, and he curled up instinctively, as though it afforded any protection from magic.

"Well, that was a merry chase, boy," came an accented voice speaking Latin. He glanced up past the protection of his arm and saw the apparent leader of the trio glaring down at him with malicious glee. He was breathing hard, and the boy tried to take what little satisfaction he could for making him work for his prize.

The man was obviously a Saxon - many could be found in Britannia, either trying to escape the chaos of the continent or looking for easy pickings themselves. He was finely dressed in a thick woolen cloak over a quality linen tunic… typical for continental wizards, who held themselves apart from the violence and privation of the non-magical folk around them. But obviously the Saxon had encountered some violence in the past, as his nose had been broken and healed inexpertly; it bent slightly to the right.

The boy wished he could meet the man who had done it.

The Saxon's accomplices - the boy named them Reedy and Big-arms in his mind - came to stand behind their leader as he stood over the fallen teenager. Big-arms looked particularly winded, leaning down as he panted, but Reedy looked like he could run across the entire city all over again.

"So, boy… you seemed so eager to listen to us talk before," Bent-nose said, his wand tapping against his open palm as he stared down at him. "Why the sudden shyness now, eh? Have we suddenly ceased to be interesting? Is there no more reason to spy?"

"I wasn't spying!" the boy objected. He'd been accused of worse - he'd done worse - but for some reason the charge angered him. "I was just trying to learn!"

This actually seemed to baffle the Saxons. "Learn? Learn what?"

"Magic! You were cleaning your clothes with a spell, I just wanted to learn the spell!"

"You wanted to learn magic?" The Saxons looked among each other, and exploded into uproarious laughter. The boy turned scarlet at their mockery.

The thin wizard, Reedy, tried to speak through the hilarity. "I suppose animals can learn all sorts of tricks these days, even the muggle ones."

"I'm no muggle!" shouted the boy. He'd learned that that was the odd word the wizards used for non-magical folk… and often doubled as an insult. "I'm a wizard, too!"

Bent-nose raised his eyebrows. "Oh, you are, eh? Then I guess we can be your teachers!"

"I can teach you a spell! Here, boy, pay attention: Laedo!" A light red spark shot from Reedy's wand and struck the boy on the inner thigh, and again he felt as if he'd been stung by the biggest, nastiest wasp in the forest. He gasped, and the thin Saxon laughed. "Did you get that? Laedo!" Again he was struck.

He glared at Reedy. Something inside him surged, riding his desperation, and the man suddenly squawked as his feet were ripped out from under him. He hung in the air a moment before the invisible force released him to land face-first into the muck.

Wands raised to point at the boy again, while the thin wizard climbed to his feet, his face brown with cold mud and red with anger. "Worthless brat!" Magic lashed out and hit the boy in the stomach like a fist, knocking him back against the city wall and leaving him breathless on the ground. "Search him, he has a wand."

"Don't be stupid," said Bent-nose. "That wasn't him, that was accidental magic. Guess the boy's got at least one worthwhile parent, eh? Some fool rutting with the beasts." The man saw the boy's face contort in anger. "Oho, offended you, have I? Well then, we'd best resolve this with a proper wizard's duel, eh?" He laughed again, and Big-arms joined him, though Reedy continued to wipe angrily at the mud on his face. "Come, lad. I'll even let you cast first."

The boy laboured to his feet, wheezing. "I don't have a wand."

"What was that?"

"I don't have a wand!" Oh, he'd tried to get one, risking his life on more than one occasion to filch a passing wizard's pocket or snatch one left unattended. But wizards cared for their wands more than their gold, and he'd never been successful.

"Then that's your failing, not mine. Though with such talent at wandless magic, perhaps I should be thankful?" Bent-nose commented snidely. He cast another one of the stinging hexes, catching the boy in the ankle, and laughed again. "Show me your powers, boy!"

All three laughed as Bent-nose peppered him with the painful spells, and he tried to think through the hurt. As soon as they got bored with tormenting him they'd finish him for good.

Salvation came in the form of a glowing blue shield that appeared around him, reflecting the latest spell back at the Saxons. It caught Big-arms in the upper chest, and the man grunted with pain. The eyes of the other two wizards widened with surprise, along with those of the boy.

He blinked. Had he done that?

"Leave him alone."

They all looked up at the female voice. Standing just beside a shed toward the entrance to the alley was a young woman, no more than twenty summers old. She was clad in a grey woolen lacerna, the hood back in deference to the relatively warm day, and plain wool skirts dyed a dull green could be seen underneath. A walking stick - useful in the muddy and slippery streets of Londinium - was held in her right hand, while a basket had been set upon a log to her left. Her stick was sanded and smooth, the wood pale and clean despite the muddy day. The top of the stick was carved into the shape of a snake, its head wide like a cobra, reared back as if coiling to strike.

She was fair to look upon, and the boy was momentarily distracted... fortunately, so were the Saxons. Black hair lent to wildness was restrained in a thick braid that hung down across her bosom, and green eyes the colour of spring grass observed the tableau with a regard that was much colder than the winter day. Her skin was porcelain, obviously never having fallen victim to the slights and poxes that damaged the complexions of other women.

The boy saw this, and saw the lack of fear in her eyes, and saw the way her hand clenched her staff through her fingerless wool gloves. His mind leapt to the obvious conclusion: she was magical. Excitement rose within him despite his predicament. The Saxons, however, saw her clothing and obvious low breeding, and no matter how attractive she might be their lips curled in contempt.

"Begone, wench," said Bent-nose. "This matter is between us and the boy."

"Three of you to express your displeasure with one child? It must be quite the matter. Did he steal from you?"

The men exchanged looks. "No."

"Assaulted you, then? Cursed you? Threw snowballs?" Her face frowned in mock pity. "Oh… you've been made the cuckold." The boy didn't much care for being referred to as a child - he'd lived on his own for near three winters now - but her last comment almost made him laugh out loud despite the bruising of his gut.

Bent-nose's face twisted. "I'll ignore your insolence, stupid woman, if you turn around and leave. But if you insist on sticking your pretty little nose into the affairs of those above you, just as he did, we'll make sure you share his punishment."

The witch only smiled, and the boy decided that was a frightening look on her. "I see you are ambitious men. Show me."

Reedy didn't think much of her confidence. "If you insist…" He flicked his wand, and whatever spell he cast was invisible, but the witch thrust out a palm, her feet gouging ruts in the mud as she was thrust backwards nearly a yard. She kept her feet with effortless grace, and her face showed only scorn.

"Was that supposed to be a Banishing charm? Pathetic. Let me show you how it's done." And she did, but her spell was a faint blue bolt that hammered the ruddy-haired man like a charging bull. The unfortunate wizard was blown clear through the rear wall of the building behind him… there was a crash and the frightened cry of a horse, then silence.

The remaining two immediately brought their wands to bear, the original subject of their anger forgotten. Big-arms hurled a white beam at the witch; she tossed her staff into the air and simply let it hit her, the spell having no effect the boy could see. She caught her weapon and stepped to the side, dodging the red spell Bent-nose had cast, her feet sure even on the slippery ground.

She struck the ground twice with the butt of her staff, and the mud and snow around Big-arm's feet spewed upward, wrapping around him and freezing, his arm caught in mid-incantation. He gasped in surprise and struggled, trying to crack the frozen cage.

"Bombarda!" cried Bent-nose, a lavender ray streaking from his wand. It was intercepted by a transparent blue shield thrown up by the witch. The ray reflected off and struck the city wall, causing the stone to explode outward and collapsing a section two yards wide.

The head of the staff twitched in a circle, and Bent-nose was suddenly hanging in the air as if suspended from his ankles. His wand went flying, his cloak and tunic falling down around his face. The boy grimaced, seeing rather more than he desired as a result.

"Ugh," the witch agreed. She traced a line with her hand, and the Saxon fell back down face-first onto the ground. He scrambled to his feet, tugging down his tunic, much to their relief... although the thick, frozen mud and prickly snow coating his privates couldn't have been comfortable. Behind him, Big-arms had managed to loosen his wand-arm enough to dispel the icy trap he was caught in.

"Leave," she ordered, staff at the ready.

Bent-nose was eyeing the wand on the mud near a broken cart, and the boy could see the man considering diving for it. The grey witch could see it, too… her eyes narrowed, and she held her staff more tightly. "Don't be a fool." But the boy was certain the Saxon was a fool, and the man proved it a moment later. A flash of green light met him halfway. What arrived at the wand was a lifeless lump of flesh, blank eyes staring at the sky.

Big-arms had jerked forward as his companion acted, but skidded to a halt as the staff which had so easily ended his comrade pointed in his direction.

"Leave him… or join him," the witch growled.

For all that he seemed to be the big, dumb muscle of the group, the Saxon actually proved to be the smartest. He carefully slid his wand away, and walked past both her and his dead friend, keeping his hands in the surrender position. The witch stepped aside to let him past, keeping out of grabbing range, but he simply kept walking, nervous but not panicked. Despite himself, the boy felt a bit of grudging respect for the man.

When the Saxon was out of sight, she lowered her staff. Her eyes flicked to the side at the boy as he leaned against the wall. "Are you all right?"

He stared at her, amazed. "You're a witch!"

She turned to look at him fully. "Figured that out on your own, did you?" She shook her head. "If they only hit with you with Stinging hexes, you'll be swollen and sore for a while, but that'll be gone in a few hours. The bludgeoning hex to the belly will hurt for a while but you'll be okay. I'd suggest getting out of here in case that other fellow decides to come back." She turned away and picked up her basket.

The boy pushed away from the wall and followed her. She was walking deeper into the alley, not out of it. His stomach hurt, but it was really no worse than the one time he'd been caught stealing bread and the merchant had knocked him down and kicked him. "No, no, I mean… you're a witch! You know magic!"

She paused to fix him with a look that said volumes about her perception of his intelligence. "One leads to the other, yes."

"Can you teach me?"

That question brought her up short yet again, looking at him incredulously. "I don't teach." Considering that answer enough, she moved forward again, to a spot deep in the alley. There was nothing else to see there, with the back of a shop on one side, the city wall to the other, and a wooden fence in front of them. The only exit was through a hole in the fence, but he didn't think she was planning to crawl on her hands and knees to pass through it.

"But I haven't found anyone else willing to teach me!" He didn't know why he was so desperate to convince her. Perhaps it was because unlike so many other wizards, she had a measure of kindness along with her power.

"Your streak continues unbroken. Now… good day." She turned, ignoring the fence behind her.

"Please, Lady-" he begged as he grabbed her arm. And just as he did, the world seemed to implode. He felt warped and squeezed, like meat in a sausage casing. And when it was done everything popped, and he fell to the ground with a surprised cry.

They weren't outdoors anymore. He didn't think they were in Londinium anymore.

They were in some kind of house, though no kind he could recognize. It was a single large room, irregularly-shaped, and the walls were hewn out of rock, though they showed no chips from a mason's tools. A fireplace had been carved into the wall, still burning, casting heat and light into the area while a single cookpot sat on the hearth beside it. The floor he lay upon was layered in hides, soft under his backside even as it kept the heat from leeching into the stone he could feel beneath. Grey light streamed in from windows that were too large and clear to have been crafted by mundane hand, and above them the roof was hardened clay. He realized they were underground, in a house set into a hillside.

He was elsewhere, whisked away by her magic. Excitement washed through him, overriding his fear and confusion. It was perhaps more… humble, than he'd hoped for, but the magic used in its construction was obvious, and he didn't care if the witch had taken a vow of poverty, so long as she taught him.

Which was looking less likely, the way her face twisted from surprise to anger as she looked down at him.

"Stupid boy!" she cried. Abandoning her basket and staff on the floor, she reached down and seized him by the arm. "Stand up!" He was dragged to his feet, and the next thing he knew he was being spun about - which did nothing for his queasy stomach - and her hands were roaming over his body. She seemed to be checking his fingers, nose, and even his ears. "Are you hurt? Are you bleeding? Answer me!"

"We're not in Londinium anymore…" he said, amazed.

She fisted her hands on her hips and glared at him. "I'm not, but pieces of you might still be! Are you hurt?" He shook his head, and she clout him sharply above the ear. "Of all the stupid… never grab me when I'm apparating!"

The pain from the slap disappeared instantly as he eagerly grabbed onto that word. "Apparating? Is that what that is? We were in Londinium, and now we're here! That's apparating? I've never seen the other wizards do that!"

"That's because they can't," she answered snidely. "And I'm not particularly interested in teaching them how."

"Teach me!"

"Enough of that!" She made to grab him, but he danced out of her reach, dodging behind a wooden table that held a clay bowl and bronze cup. Her expression darkened. "You were lucky enough to survive the first trip, but if you make me force you I can guarantee you'll end up splinched. Stand still!"

"Where are we?" he asked, as much to distract her as to know.

She paused from where she looked like she'd been about to leap the table to get at him. "Fidach. In Pictland."

His eyes bugged out of his head. "Pictland?" That was nearly to the other end of Britannia, in the blink of an eye!

"That's what I said. Now come, take my hand, and I'll bring you back to Londinium-"

He was distracted for a moment, as her staff was disappearing, dissolving into golden sparkles as it lay on the floor. She could have easily snatched him then, but she seemed concerned that he be willing to come along. Her words struck him a moment later and he exploded with frustration. "To what? Why is Londinium better than here?"

She stared at him incredulously. "Surely you have a family…"

"My mother cast me out because I have magic. The Saxons hunt me for sport because I have magic and I don't know how to use it! Where am I supposed to go?"

He saw her hesitate at that. She wasn't heartless, he knew that already, and hope flared. "There are other masters. Londinium has a strong community-"

"A strong isolated community," he interrupted. "And most are Saxons or Franks themselves! They have no time or interest in a Welsh street rat of unknown 'pedigree'! None of them would have helped me as you did. Please, Mistress!"

"Don't call me that!"

"Then what should I call you?"

She sighed. "My name, if you must know, is Muirgen."

He stood straight and then bowed as he'd seen some of the Saxons do. He'd only seen fourteen winters but he was already becoming tall, and he was pleased with it, though it meant he was hungry more often than he'd like. Dark brown hair hung around his face as he nodded. "Pleased to meet you, Mistress Muirgen. Please teach me."

She glared at him, her eyes a vibrant green even in the grey light of the winter's day. She cupped her face in her hands, sliding them up to pull on her hair. "You are such a pain in the ass!"

The comment, so baldly put, made him burst into laughter. He snorted and giggled, and she rolled her eyes at him, but he could see her fighting not to smile. "You're not the first to say so," he was finally able to say.

"And I'm sure I won't be the last!" she snapped, but there was the barest hint of mirth in her words. She rested her hands on her hips and stared him down. "You really wish to be my apprentice? You have no idea what you're asking for, I really mean that."

"I'm not scared of work-"

"Oh, you should be so lucky if I were to only challenge your body! Magic is about mind and spirit, boy, and I'll put both to the wheel, I promise you that."

"Good," he said, and he meant it. He squared his shoulders and stared at her resolutely. "I work hard. I learn fast. And I want this, Mistress. I promise you that."

"Don't call me Mistress." She sighed and sat on the bench beside her small table. She rested her cheek on her hand and stared at him, and he was glad to see it was a resigned look rather than a glare. Any moment now… "Fine," she said. "I'm going to regret this, I know it. But I'll make sure you regret it first."

He grinned at the implied threat. He was going to learn magic… let her do her worst!

She glared again at his grin, but he was so ridiculously happy even she couldn't help but smile. It transformed her face, changing her from pretty to beautiful. "First thing, boy-" She hesitated, then shook her head. "I can't keep calling you 'Boy'. What is your name?"

He drew himself up. "Myrddin, Mistress. Myrddin Emrys."

Muirgen froze suddenly, and her eyes went wide. She stared at him until he began fidgeting under her gaze, which caused her to blink and shake herself.

She smirked at him, though there was a rueful look to it. "Very well, Myrddin. Prove yourself useful. Go outside and fetch me some wood. You'll find the pile to your right."

And so Myrddin settled into her home, and found himself put immediately to work. He had been proven right about her hovel, as even she referred to it; it was burrowed into a small hillside, magic carving earth and rock and hardening the clay above until it had the strength of brick. A small clearing lay in front, with a rough wooden privy constructed off to one side and the woodpile on the other. Small fences showed where gardens would lay in the spring, and the home was surrounded on all sides by trees, mostly pines, heavy with their blankets of snow.

Despite his initial reaction he had to admit the place was homely, warm and welcoming. Far, far, better than the streets of Londinium by any measure. Small knickknacks decorated the shelves placed here and there upon the walls, such as a tiny wooden carving of a strange lion-man, or a statue of a dragon that may have been made of real gold; others were so alien he couldn't identify them at all. A wooden chest bound with iron at the foot of her bed held her clothing, and it looked antique and well cared-for.

Still, he wondered why she lived in such relative poverty, so far from the magicals of the city. The wizards he'd seen in Londinium dressed and walked like nobles, draped in finery. She had no such pretension, and in the privacy of his mind he had wondered if perhaps she was a weak witch, one that couldn't simply conjure the riches that other wizards would. But that made little sense, considering how easily she had thrashed the three Saxons. Maybe British wizards were simply more powerful than their continental counterparts? He liked that idea, though there was no evidence for it.

His first task - after fetching the wood, of course - was to cook dinner. The order took him a bit off guard… especially when it became obvious that he was to do it by hand, since she offered no "cook dinner" spells for him to try. So he muddled through the process, making a stew from some dried venison and vegetables - where did she get fresh cabbage in February? - that she had near the fireplace.

The outcome was disastrous… it hardly qualified as a stew, it was so watery and bland. The cabbage was reduced to pulp, and the meat needed endless chewing before they could think of swallowing. They suffered the meal because food was not to be wasted, but Muirgen grimaced with every bite, and Myrddin slumped at the table, certain she would throw him out on his ear.

When she finished choking down the meal, she leaned back and folded her hands on her knee. "That was… interesting. Do you know what you did wrong?" It was on the tip of his tongue to say cooking the meal in the first place, but he restrained himself. Instead he merely shook his head. "What does that mean? You don't know, or you didn't do anything wrong?"

"Umm… the cabbage?"

"That's certainly part of it, but there's something more fundamentally wrong. Think."

He struggled for long moments, but couldn't imagine what answer she could possibly be fishing for. "I don't know," he admitted reluctantly.

"Exactly." He blinked at that response. "You don't know how to cook, and you didn't say so. You didn't even ask for guidance, even though I was right here. Lesson number one, Myrddin: ask. Tonight we had a meal that didn't taste very good… toying with an unknown spell or potion can get you killed, or someone around you. Do you understand?" Relieved, he nodded. "Good. Now, leave the dishes, I'll take care of those… I have another task for you. Fetch the large and small basins from outside, please."

The next 'task' was even more humiliating: a bath. He protested, but she plainly stated that he was dirty and smelly, and if he thought he was spending the night under her roof he was going to do something about it. He didn't even learn any magic as she set up the bath and the dishwater, as she simply snapped her fingers and warm water filled both basins. Regardless, he was impressed… only half the wizards he'd seen could cast wordlessly, and only a few who could cast wandlessly. Wordlessly and wandlessly was an entire level above that.

So he suffered the bath, scrubbing dutifully and intensely thankful that Muirgen kept her back to him while she washed the dishes and the cooking pot. They chatted while they both worked, a conversation that was primarily her asking questions about Myrddin, about his family. She was surprised to learn that his mother was without magic. But his father was a wizard, one who had seduced his mother with promises of riches and comfort and then promptly disappeared once he'd gotten what he'd wanted.

"And how do you feel about that?" she asked. She'd paused in her washing; there was tension in her shoulders.

Myrddin frowned; was this another test? He decided to treat it as if it was. "I'm angry at her for casting me out. It's not fair for her to blame me for his actions. I would have been a good son to her… given her what he didn't, if she'd let me be her son, let me be magical." He didn't tear up… he'd cried himself out over that years ago, when he was younger, before he'd made the promise to himself to worry about the future.

He shrugged, splashing the water slightly. Being made to bathe was embarrassing, but he had to admit the warm water was relaxing. "As for my father… what he did was unforgivable, and if I meet him I fully intend to thrash him on her behalf, or at least try. But I don't have any anger toward him for my part."

She listened carefully, only the side of her face visible to him. It was so strange, to have someone listen… maybe that was why he felt like he could speak. Whatever she was testing him for, he passed… he saw the tension leave her shoulders, and she turned back to her scrubbing. "That's a wise attitude to take, Myrddin. Well done."

He felt warm at the praise. "How about yourself? Do you have a family?" Though she was young, she was old enough to be married, and most women her age had at least one child, even among the wizards.

Muirgen hesitated. "Not yet," she replied. "Maybe someday." For Myrddin, who had long ago trained his ear to detect the mood of a stranger from their voice - it made the difference between begging for a bit of bread and being beaten for asking - her voice had a strange tone to it. But he dared not pry, not so soon. "Are you clean yet? I'd like to take a bath, too."

Myrddin settled into his new home, though he tried not to think of it as such. It was the home of his Mistress ("don't call me that!") and he was a guest. But it was a roof over his head and the guarantee of a meal, two things which were rare enough in his experience. Add in a warm bed - magically expanded, to his silent delight - and it was as close to paradise as he could imagine.

He was absolutely not going to foul this up, no matter what.

Which is why he said nothing when she taught him no spells the next day, or the day after, or the day after that. Instead he found himself simply being an extra pair of hands on her daily routine, be it cleaning, drying herbs, smoking meat, and so on. She would bring him into the surrounding forest as she searched for winter herbs. There was a large lake nearby, and many useful plants grew around it. Some of the plants could fend off disease, she explained, while others were simply tasty. Others, she didn't explain at all; but still they went into her basket, to be dried and stored. It wasn't magic, but it was useful herblore, so he paid attention.

He continued to cook dinner each night. He took her first lesson to heart and asked for her help with the task. She didn't do the work for him, but advised him at each step. She explained how to add the vegetables and the meat to produce the best flavour and tenderness, and later she described what herbs would improve the taste yet further. It was a strange process to the street urchin, who'd only ever worried about the presence or absence of food, never concerning himself much with the taste beyond making sure it wasn't rotten. As he'd promised, she never had to repeat herself, and that meal was far better than his first attempt. Each after that showed continued improvement.

But still, he learned no spells.

She used magic extensively in her daily life, and he watched her do it, but there was little to learn from snapping fingers or the tapping of a staff. Was she testing him again? Seeing how eager he was to grab at power? Or maybe the opposite… testing his commitment, seeing whether he was eager enough to learn to properly ask? It was impossible to tell. He counseled himself to patience. Still, it grew frustrating, to the point that after three weeks he was close to demanding a spell… anything, he didn't care how minor.

She'd apparated them both back down to Londinium, to sell her herbs and what appeared to be potions in a stall she would set up in the market square located near the southeastern corner of the city. That region of the city was still relatively wealthy, surviving well as the rest of Londinium fell apart after the departure of the Romans. The potions annoyed him… when had she made those? Why hadn't she gotten his help?

He still he held his tongue. Myrddin was all too aware of the looks he was receiving from passing wizards and witches who recognized his face despite the lack of dirt and with his hair properly tied back. Their scorn for him transferred to Muirgen by association, and he found himself suddenly less annoyed at her than he was angry for her, and he didn't want to make it worse by being impertinent to his Mistress in public. So he kept quiet… and by doing so he learned that she was a fearsome haggler. She was perfectly willing to use the imaginary superiority of her customers against them, letting them think they were doing her some act of charity by buying from her, and he crowed in his own mind at every coin she took from their pockets.

Later he felt shame... because, after she closed up her stall, she lead him around the market and spent every one of those new coins on him. The new pillow couldn't have been for her; the men's nightwear definitely wasn't. She had the tailor craft trousers, a few shifts, and a coat for him, while the cobbler worked on new, properly-fitting boots. Afterward they made a visit to the alley that held so many wizarding shops, visiting the apothecary and using the remainder of the coins to purchase a pewter cauldron.

The winter sun had already set by the time they'd arrived back at the Hovel - it had already become a proper noun in Myrddin's mind - and Muirgen immediately set about putting away their purchases. He'd been utterly shocked to learn that the chest at the foot of her bed was actually far larger on the inside than the outside, and her things had been neatly pushed to the side to make room for his.

All thoughts of challenging her instruction had been forgotten. Instead, something else bothered him. "Muirgen?"

"Hmm?" she acknowledged wordlessly. She was kneeling, arm buried up to the shoulder into the wooden chest.

"I want you pay you back for what you had to spend on me."

"What?" She blinked at him, and then returned to her task. "Don't be silly. You needed those things, and you didn't have the money yourself."

He blushed. "I know. But someday, I will have the money, and I'd like to pay you back then."

She abandoned her packing, looking at him directly from her spot on the fur-covered floor. "Myrddin, you're my ward-"

"I am not your ward," he said, more fiercely than he intended. She frowned, and he raised his palms in apology. "Sorry… but I'm not. You're my teacher, and my…" - he struggled for a moment, until the right word came to him, a word he hadn't had cause to use before - "... my friend. Please… I can't accept charity from a friend, not and still respect myself. Do you understand?"

Her face, which had hardened when she thought he was rejecting her kindness, eased and her gaze was gentle. "I understand. If it's that important to you, so be it."

"It is."

"Very well," she nodded. "I'm sad to see you claim adult responsibilities so young, Myrddin."

"I stopped being a child long before I met you. You had no hand in it."

"And thus can claim no credit. You're becoming a fine man, and at your own hand at that." Despite himself, he coloured at the praise. Muirgen sighed. "Will you at least let me count some of your services toward this so-called debt?"

That sounded ideal, particularly since it would hopefully include potion-making or something magical. "Of course."

"Good. Then go get some firewood."

Or not.

Thankfully the next day she did start him on something new - specifically, potion-making, using the new cauldron purchased the day before. It wasn't spellcasting, but it was something, and it was magical, so he was satisfied. She showed him the plants they'd gathered - the ones that had simply been stored - and explained what they were and how they could be used. She showed him small pots filled with other ingredients that he'd thought were too stereotypical to be real until he'd actually seen them, like newt's eyes and centipede legs. She touched on the magical properties of actions as simple as stirring in a certain direction a certain number of times… it remained a mystery to him, but she promised there was a logic behind it, one that would become obvious once he'd begun learning arithmancy. She wouldn't teach him that until he'd had some basis in mathematics, which she was teaching him alongside his letters.

He'd been embarrassed to admit that he was illiterate - oh, he'd puzzled out a lot of words and their meanings by himself, but he didn't call that being able to read - but it hadn't surprised her at all. Literacy was rare, even among wizards, so it was simply added to his lessons. They were both certain he'd learn it as quickly as he picked up everything else.

Brewing potions was hard work. Sometimes an ingredient had to be processed three or four ways before it was suitable for use, and then the task of actually making the potion could begin! Sometimes you wouldn't know you'd fouled up an earlier step until much later. Muirgen always did her potion-making outdoors to avoid stinking up the Hovel… which meant they were sometimes constrained by the weather, and even as winter began to turn to spring it was frigid work.

Nonetheless, when Myrddin bottled his first batch of Pepper-Up potion - so named because of its energy-boosting properties as well as the amounts of fermented peppermint that went into making it - he felt like he'd finally taken the first real step to becoming a wizard. It helped him avoid dwelling on the fact that Muirgen had yet to teach him a spell.

But Myrddin watched, and Myrddin listened. One morning Muirgen lit the fire using a spell… it was a cold morning, and she was still drowsy, and he heard her mutter Incendio under her breath as she did it. The next day they set up for an afternoon of potion brewing… she was going to teach him how to make a tooth-strengthening mouthwash, as apparently she was quite concerned about the state of his teeth.

Myrddin had stared at the outdoor fire-pit. It was already stocked with wood, and eagerness overcame him. He snapped his fingers as he'd seen Muirgen do. "Incendio!" The wood burst into flame. Not a strong flame, but one that caught well enough and eventually spread until the pit was burning nicely.

He turned and found Muirgen looking at him, her basket in her hands, slightly wide-eyed. He winced and braced himself for a scolding for having overreached himself.

Instead, she shook her head and sighed. She set the basket down on a nearby boulder that often doubled as a table, turning to look at him wryly, one fist on her hip. "Well, if you're going to jump ahead like that, we might as well get you a proper wand."

Myrddin grinned.

A new wand meant another trip to the city. After they'd finished their brewing and storing away the product - minus one vial which she insisted he use immediately - Muirgen put on her cloak and summoned her staff. Myrddin still didn't know where she kept it when she wasn't using it, he just knew it would appear in her hand in a soft golden glow when she did. He put on his new overcoat, never failing to marvel at having a warm coat that fit properly. Then he took her arm and with a soft pop they were in Londinium.

It was early afternoon, and the streets were still busy as they walked through the magical district of the city. Men and women, finely attired, strode through the narrow streets, and Myrddin guessed that they were all wizards. Muggles generally avoided the area. Having been subject to the arrogance and capriciousness of wizards himself, he couldn't fault them for it.

"Ollivander is an odd man," Muirgen warned as she lead him, "but he's a master of wandcraft. It's an art as much as a science, and he's a master artisan."

"Just wands? Not staves?"

"Not many wizards use staves. I doubt he has the materials."

"Who made yours?"

"I did, a long time ago. And I can make one for you, too."

"Then why not just do that?"

"Because you're still learning, Myrddin. You don't wield a great-axe before you've even swung a wooden stick."

"A staff is a-"

"Don't you dare." He grinned unapologetically.

She lead him up the steps to one shop set between the apothecary and a magical menagerie. There was little to distinguish it other than a golden-painted wand hung above the entrance. A bell rang as they opened the door, but Myrddin saw no sign of one anywhere. The shop was small and cluttered, filled with shelves, some stacked high with small wooden boxes. Others held pieces of wood, whittled carefully into small cylindrical shapes, while still others held jars and pots, containing hairs and bits of flesh and even plant stalks.

A set of stairs was set to the side, and they creaked as the shopkeeper slowly descended them. He was an old man, even for a wizard, and his beard was silver and trimmed in a Roman fashion. Even the cut of his tunic marked him as a Roman, and Myrddin guessed he was a wizard from the continent, perhaps migrated to Britannia before the Empire tossed aside its neglected territory.

His theory was lent support a moment later as the man greeted them in fluid Latin. "Greetings, my Lady, may I help-" The old man - Ollivander, presumably- stopped near the bottom of the steps as he caught sight of Muirgen. Grey eyes, so light as to almost be silver, widened as he looked at her. "L-Lady Muirgen?"

If she noticed the shopkeeper's reaction she chose to ignore it. "Greetings, Master Ollivander. Is your shop open today?"

The man visibly shook himself. "O-of course, my Lady. Is it for the lad?"

"Yes, please."

Ollivander nodded. He took out a marked string and began measuring Myrddin… lengths which didn't surprise him, like the size of his hand or the length of his arm, but also things that made no sense at all… like the distance between his earlobes or from the point of his nose to the corner of his mouth. And the whole time, though the shopkeeper seemed to be concentrating on his task, Myrddin saw him peeking at Muirgen out of the corner of his eye. The witch herself leaned sedately against the wall.

"Let's give this a try for a start," Ollivander said. He handed Myrddin a wand. "Hawthorn and unicorn hair. Give it a wave." Myrddin did so, and nothing happened. "No? Very well, how about this?"

And so the afternoon went. One wand after another, each one declared unsuitable. Sometimes the results were spectacular - one wand, immediately upon touching his skin, shattered every shelf in the room ("Odd, usually veela hair wands like handsome young men", Ollivander had commented). But the majority gave no reaction at all, as if Myrddin was holding nothing more than a piece of kindling.

He grew worried as the day drew on and no wand seemed to "bond" to him as Ollivander said one should. His fears seemed justified as the shopkeeper ran out of wands for him to try. He turned to Muirgen with a flabberghasted look on his face. "I must apologize, my Lady, but it seems none of my stock is a match for the lad."

She raised an eyebrow. "None?"

"We've tried every wand I have. He could possibly make do, but the match will be inferior. The boy can channel a surprising amount of magic for one his age."

"So the problem is the core?"

Ollivander nodded. "The best match was the dragon heartstring, but even that couldn't keep up. An aspen and heartstring wand might do, but it will be frustrating for both him and the wand."

Muirgen looked down, pondering. Myrddin could barely still his tongue… he didn't want to consider the possibility that his education might end before it even began, just because a wand didn't find him worthy!

"There's one thing we might try," Muirgen said pensively. She held out her hand, and a wand appeared there in a shower of golden sparkles. Myrddin looked on admiringly, having seen her do the same trick with her staff several times, but that was nothing compared to Ollivander's reaction. Silver eyes widened in shock, and the old man actually took a step forward, hand reaching out, before he mastered himself.

Ignoring the shopkeeper, she held the wand out to Myrddin. "Try this one."

He took the wand from her hand gingerly, as if it was an illusion and his fingers might pass right through it. Warmth suffused his being as he wrapped his fingers about it, and though it didn't feel perfect, it felt more right than any of the other wands he'd tried. He blinked up at Muirgen.

She gestured. "Well? Give it a wave."

He did. Ollivander's front door exploded outward, showering passersby with chunks of wood. Indignant squawks and invective were thrown back.

Ollivander didn't seem to care. "Yes, yes! The wood is very badly matched, but the core is just right. Is… is this a conjured focus, my Lady?"

She glanced back at them from where she was repairing his door, pieces of wood drifting back in from the street and rejoining as if they'd never been separate. "Not exactly," she replied. Myrddin had noticed that was the way she answered questions she didn't want to answer… meaningless words that said nothing. "That one is holly and phoenix feather."

"Phoenix feather?" He looked down at the wand. "I have no phoenix feather wands, my Lady. The birds are stingy with their gifts…"

"I figured as much. If we obtain a feather, could you make an appropriate wand?"

Ollivander's reply was slow, as both man and boy stared at the holly wand, which was dissolving back into the golden sparkles from which it had appeared. "Ye- Yes, my Lady. Aspen and phoenix would be perfect for him."

"Very well. We'll be back before nightfall. Come, Myrddin."

The left via the newly-rebuilt door, the wide-eyed wandmaker behind them. Muirgen lead them down the street, back to the isolated corner where they'd arrived.

"Phoenix feather?" Myrddin asked, unable to stifle his curiosity.

"Magical birds," she explained. "Extremely good, and extremely powerful. Even their feathers are rife with magic, which makes them very good wand cores. I should have anticipated this."

"So how do we get a feather?"

"Simple: we ask for one." They'd arrived at the hidden corner. Muirgen held out her arm, and he took hold. There was a quiet whoosh of air, and they were gone.

The land they arrived in was... beautiful, even to Myrddin's jaded eye. Where Britannia was just entering spring, the air that greeted them felt far warmer, as if they'd arrived in late spring or early summer. The grasses were rich and tall, and the trees around them were thick with bright green leaves. The small field they had landed in was dotted with flowers, and Myrddin could even see plump red apples dotting some of the trees.

How far had they travelled? Muirgen had proven to be able to carry them both from one end of Britannia to the other without the least effort… had she whisked them further still, to far Greece or Rome, or maybe even to the mysterious Far East?

"Where are we?" he asked, remembering Muirgen's admonishment to do so when he didn't know something.

"Where? This is Avalon."

"Avalon?" Myrddin knew that name from his numerous attempts to eavesdrop on wizards. They spoke of it in reverent tones, but also warning. "But… isn't Avalon defended by some terrible witch-" He saw her lips twitch, and his eyes bulged. "You?"

"Yes, me," she leaned on her staff and looked at him. "So, do you think I'm the 'terrible witch', or that I couldn't possibly be? Think carefully, my friend."

Though he knew she was teasing, he backpedaled quickly. "Where is it? It's much warmer here than Londinium. Are we to the south?"

"That's a good guess," she said, "but no. We're actually southwest of Wales, about two day's travel by sea."

"But it's so warm!"

"Yes, isn't it? That's the nature of this island. It's always late spring here… the apple trees always bear fruit, the flowers are always in bloom. Magic suffuses this place, which is why the phoenixes nest here. I would call it their island before I'd call it mine."

Muirgen began walking, leading him in amongst the trees. He kept up, but he needed to be extra careful to avoid tripping on a root or stone as he gawked. "Why wouldn't you live here, instead of Pictland? It'd be much easier, wouldn't it?"

"I don't allow anyone to live here. In fact, you're the first human to step here other than myself in… well, quite a long time."

"But if it's your island-"

"No, it's not my island. I'm its caretaker, yes, but the island rightfully belongs to the phoenixes and the other gentle magical creatures they've brought here." She came to a stop next to a tall willow. "This place is as close to sacred as any I've ever been. I don't deserve to live here."

"But… you're a good person. You're kind, and humble..."

"Thank you for saying so. But you've seen me kill, Myrddin. Don't doubt that I have a dark side. Everyone does. I know mine intimately." She gave him a rueful smile. "I'm not the queen of the castle, I'm the dragon out front."

He had no response to that, so he said nothing. They began walking again, and she lead them across a wide field and to a tall hill. A cleft divided the hill in two, wide enough for two people to navigate side-by-side, grey stone stretching to the sky on either side. A few grasses tufted out of the slanted walls of the cleft, but for the most part the stone was bare.

Muirgen paused, looking at the path winding into the hill. She seemed oddly nervous, but she hid it as she turned to him. "This is where they nest."

"What must I do?"

"You must go up to them and ask them for a feather. Ask them, they'll understand you. And don't bother picking up one of the feathers that might lay near their nests. The feather must be given, freely, by the phoenix."

He looked at her worriedly. He'd viewed the trip as another adventure, but that was when he thought she'd be beside him the entire time. "And they'll be willing to give one to me? A lowly street rat?"

She looked at him sternly. "These are ancient and powerful creatures, Myrddin. They don't care about human notions of power and status… they can see into your heart. They're creatures of light, yes, but they're also creatures of rebirth. You're becoming something new… that interests them."

Myrddin nodded, and walked slowly toward the cleft. At the entrance he paused, but fought down the urge to look back at her… he didn't want to seem cowardly, especially in front of Muirgen. He reminded himself that she wouldn't have brought him here if there was any danger. Squaring his shoulders, he strode forward. The divide bent a dozen paces in as he followed the path. At one spot it narrowed, and he had to turn sideways to progress. But very quickly he heard sounds, and knew the phoenixes were nearby.

He'd never seen a phoenix before, but the birdsong he heard couldn't have come from any other creature. It seemed to fortify him and give him courage; he walked more quickly, and soon emerged into a hollow. The rock stretched upward in the bowl-shaped area, and dotting the walls were numerous nests made of straw and twigs. Oddly, the floor of the hollow was coated thickly with ashes… as if the area had been host to countless campfires.

In most of the nests there were phoenixes, and Myrddin felt awe as he saw them for the first time. They varied in size, from no bigger than his fist to the size of a pheasant. Even the smallest had a long, beautiful tail, and every one of the birds was covered in red and yellow plumage, the colours of the feathers so bright that they seemed to glow even in the daylight. As he approached, dozens of golden eyes turned to regard him. The trilling chirps halted, and he felt oddly ashamed at being the cause.

"Um… hello?" A few turned their heads to regard him out of the opposite eye; others looked at each other, as if speculating among themselves about this strange human that had wandered into their midst. He had no idea what to say… "just ask" seemed to be too simple.

He didn't know if human politeness meant anything to them, but decided it couldn't hurt. He bowed. "My… my name is Myrddin Emrys. I-I'm a wizard… or trying to be, at any rate. My teacher, Mistress Muirgen-"

That brought a reaction. Half a dozen of the phoenixes leapt from the nests and swooped down on him. He flinched, and barely resisted running away, but it wasn't an attack. One landed gently on his shoulder, though the claws pinched slightly as it gripped him; a few others landed around his feet, looking up and him and examining his boots with curiosity. Perhaps the most disconcerting was the one that landed on top of his head. He blinked, nearly cross-eyed, as a feathered head curled down to stare at him upside-down.

"Uh? Hello?" The phoenixes ignored him, chirping among themselves. It really sounded like a conversation, and he was certain they were discussing him. It was a lovely sound, and he was loathe to interrupt, but what was he supposed to be doing here? "Muirgen thinks I need a phoenix feather wand. Ollivander doesn't have any, so we came here." The phoenixes had stopped chirping and were watching him carefully. "I really want to learn magic. Can you help me?"

The birds looked at him and each other. A few quiet chirps were exchanged. The discussion went on a while, during which Myrddin shifted nervously from foot to foot. The one on his head seemed to sense this, trilling something calming which interrupted the ones on the ground. Then one of the ones around his feet chirped something decisive; it lifted a wing and plucked a feather, which it laid at his feet.

"Is that for me?" The one on top of his head smacked him on the side of the head with a wing. "Ow. Okay, dumb question." He bent down - awkwardly, thanks to the birds balanced in his shoulder and head - and picked up the feather. Despite reminding himself to be cautious, elation grew in his heart. "Thank you, truly. Um… is there anything I can do for you in return?"

His answer was most of the phoenixes leaping into the air, fluttering back into their nests. He winced as the phoenix on his shoulder squeezed its claws just before taking off, probably leaving behind some tiny punctures… he'd have to check later.

The one on top of his head stayed… it looked at him, still upside-down, and chirped something at him that he couldn't understand. At his look of confusion, it seemed to roll its eyes - how did a bird roll its eyes? - and pressed one wing against his face, applying gentle pressure until he turned around. It smacked his shoulders with both wings, like a knight spurring a horse. Myrddin began walking. The phoenix trilled again, and it definitely sounded like laughter.

His neck was beginning to get sore when Muirgen finally came into sight. She was sitting on a large boulder patiently, her staff and cloak lying across her lap. Her eyebrows flew at the sight of the phoenix and its 'noble steed'. She sighed and pursed her lips with annoyance, though it wasn't aimed at Myrddin.

"Is that really necessary?" she demanded, and he realized he wasn't the one being spoken to. "If you want to talk to me, you know where I am." The phoenix chirped and trilled. Whatever was being said, Muirgen seemed to understand it, and it aggravated her further. "Of course I know! Why do you think I brought him here? And it's really rather rude to talk about him when he can only understand half the conversation."

"You're talking about me?" he asked. The whole situation was far too strange. He was ignored, the bird on his head chirping rapidly at Muirgen.

"Of course he will. They all do. Would you have me abandon him?" Oh, he didn't like the sound of that at all. More chirping. "I can take care of myself, thank you! Now, do you have something useful to add, or can we get back to Ollivander before he gets too old?"

Myrddin could swear he heard the phoenix sigh. It shifted on his head, which actually resulted in its talons digging painfully into his scalp, and he grit his teeth. The motion was brief, and then the phoenix dipped its face toward his again. It held another luminescent red and gold feather in its beak.

"Another one?" he asked with surprise, reaching up to take the feather.

"He hasn't even cast his first spell yet!" Muirgen snapped. "It's bad enough you meddle in my life, do you have to plot his course as well? Go! Go lay an egg!" She swatted at the phoenix, which leapt into the air, flapping around and squawking angrily. Muirgen responded with a gesture Myrddin was pretty sure a lady wasn't supposed to make. She seized his arm and lead him away down the path, making a point to walk under the trees. The phoenix called out one last aggravated chirp at their backs, and then it was flying back to the nesting area.

Muirgen was muttering under her breath; not in Welsh or Latin or any other language Myrddin recognized, but he could tell frustrated cursing when he heard it. He kept his mouth shut, not wanting to draw her ire onto himself. After a while, when they were halfway to their arrival point, she sighed and released his arm.

She glanced sideways at him, and seemed to realize he was nervous to speak, like a child caught between two warring parents. She sighed again. "Sorry about that. It had nothing to do with you, despite how it might have seemed. The phoenixes and I have our difficulties. But they like you, that much is obvious."

He curiosity couldn't be suppressed. "Why? Why don't you and the phoenixes get along?"

"Remember how you made it clear to me that you didn't want me thinking of you like a son?" He nodded. "Well, I've had less success getting them to stop thinking of me like a wayward chick."

He didn't react, but it certainly explained the tone of the phoenix's chirping, and why it sounded so familiar to him. It was the sound of a frustrated parent.

Another item on the growing list of mysteries about Muirgen.

They entered the clearing that had greeted them when they first stepped foot on Avalon, and Muirgen turned to him. "Give me one of those feathers." He reluctantly handed over one. "You keep the other. That one is for your wand. This one is for your staff, which I'll make for you later. Much later, so don't get excited. I'll keep it safe until then. Now, come, let's go have your wand made."

Fighting down a grin, he took hold of her offered arm. And then they were gone.

It was well into the evening before they apparated home. Too late to cook dinner, so they had to settle for a meal of bread and cheese, and an apple or two from Avalon that Muirgen had picked while Myrddin spoke to the phoenixes.

They went to bed early, exhausted by the events of the day; she refused to teach him even the tiniest spell until the next morning, so he amused himself by waving his new wand everyplace, showering the Hovel with golden sparkles. Muirgen had rolled her eyes and told him if he kept it up he was going to go blind… there was innuendo there he didn't understand, but he was sure he'd figure it out later.

Later that night they lay in bed, the dying fire casting dancing orange light around the room. For once Myrddin was distracted from the warmth of Muirgen's body beside him, laying on his side facing the fire, his wand in his hand.

His wand. He felt warm thinking about it; he felt warm just holding it. Tomorrow his education would begin for real, Muirgen had said. Not theory but practice… and with it the first steps to a new life.

His wand. Made for him by a master wand crafter, gladly taking a lump of gold Muirgen had offered in trade, not even negotiating a price. Myrddin had little grasp on what the worth of such things was, but he thought that any master craftsman who was known throughout all of Britannia as the sole source of wands could likely command any sum he desired. And yet he had leapt to Muirgen's need, as if she was the one doing him a favour.

Why would an older wizard - a transplanted Roman, no less - defer to a young witch who lived, literally, in a hole in the ground in the lands north of Antonine's Wall? And then there was Ollivander's reaction to her appearance; he had known her, but was surprised to see her. As if he knew who she was immediately, but doubted his own eyes.

And then there were the phoenixes.

Behind him under the covers she slept, in what had become their standard positions in the magically-enlarged bed: she facing the window, him with his back to her, facing the fireplace.

"Muirgen?" he called softly.

He felt her form shift behind him. "Mmm?" she answered, barely intelligible.

"How old are you?"

She was quiet for such a long time he thought she'd fallen back asleep. Finally she shifted a little. "Don't know. Why?"

He slipped the wand under his pillow, pulling the covers up. "Just wondering."

"Get some sleep," she mumbled. "Tomorrow will be busy."

"Yes, Mistress." He grinned at the growl that came from her side of the bed.

"Magic is the imposition of your will upon the world, just like a sculptor imposes his will upon clay or stone. Your wand is merely the tool with which you shape that will."

Myrddin sat at the main table in the Hovel. It was only slightly after lunch... after dealing with the normal chores in the morning, they'd had a small lunch of bread and cheese before Muirgen had instructed him to clear the table and fetch his wand; he'd done so with such alacrity that she had barely finished speaking before he was done. She'd sat him at the table and placed a single small stone in front of him, smooth and round, no larger than her palm. Now she was pacing around him slowly, holding her own wand, which she'd summoned from the aether just as she'd done in Ollivander's shop.

"Up until this point, you've been using only your will. To use the axe analogy again, it's like you haven't been using an axe at all… you've been beating your magic into shape with your fists. That's not particularly efficient, and against someone with an axe, it'll get you chopped to pieces."

Myrddin frowned. "I was able to throw that Saxon."

"Yes, you were. You wanted him to move, and your magic made it so. But your will was simple… 'Saxon, face in the mud, please'. Could you have pulled his wand from his hand? Or turned the mud around his boots to stone? Or overcome his own magic so that you could turn him to stone?"

He shook his head. "No, I couldn't."

"Well, let's do something about that. Observe: Wingardium Leviosa!" Her wand traced a simple pattern in the air, and the pebble rose to float just in front of Myrddin's nose. After a moment she let it settle back to the table. She traced the movements again. "Swish and flick, do you see? Now… you try."

He lifted his wand and frowned at the pebble. He'd already proven he could lift someone the size of a grown man without training… couldn't they start with something more… well, impressive?

His thoughts must have shown on his face, because Muirgen leaned down to look in his eyes. "Magic is will and skill, Myrddin. The opposite is uncertainty and doubt. As you succeed, your confidence will increase, and the power will come more easily to you because of it. There's a reason why most wizards are arrogant.

"As you refine your spellcasting, you will know how the magic is supposed to feel and flow, and that will make your technique actually matter less. But the opposite is true… if you mess up a spell, you'll doubt yourself, and that can interfere with your next spell, catching you in a terrible trap." She raised an eyebrow and poked him in the middle of the forehead with a slender finger. "So don't get fussy over a lesson that seems below you."

Myrddin blushed, embarrassed that he was read so easily, but nodded. "I understand."

"Good. So… give it a try. Remember: swish and flick."

Myrddin stared intently at the pebble. Then he raised his wand, swished and then flicked. "Wingardium Leviosa!" The small stone rocketed straight up, smashing into the roof of the Hovel. A rain of clay and stones fell onto the table with a clatter, some splashing into Muirgen's cup of tea.

He was caught between embarrassment and fright as he looked over at his Mistress, who was looking at the new hole in her roof, her face expressionless. He winced, bracing himself for her rebuke.

Instead, she reached over and picked up one of the larger stones, placing it in front of him. "Very well, a little less swish this time…"

Life settled into a routine, and the days passed. Each morning was spent dealing with the chores around the Hovel, be it preparing food, such as curing meats or making bread, or cleaning. Myrddin had learned that for all that she lived in a hole in the ground, the witch was obsessed with cleanliness.

Afternoons were spent learning magic, and Myrddin was in heaven. She introduced him to the categories of magic that she called Charms and Transfiguration. Transfiguration was his personal favourite, especially once she explained that conjuration was part of the discipline.

Every other day was still devoted to potions or ingredients-gathering, but Muirgen wound the lessons together. He learned the Severing charm to help harvest plants, and the Preservation charm to keep them fresh. He learned why he should never drink transfigured water, and how to Summon it instead… both extremely valuable lessons should he become lost in the forest. And when they were in the forest, Muirgen also took the time to teach him of the magical animals there, the ones that instinctively hid from muggles… or, just as instinctively, killed them on sight. He learned to recognize dragon spoor, and how to protect his belongings from theft by mischievous pixies. Though she didn't yet touch on battle magic, she taught him spells useful for dealing with specific creatures.

Late summer was upon them, and the two had gone deeper into the forest than was usual, seeking the herbs that were ready for picking that late in the season. Soon the air would start to cool and the leaves begin to turn, and they'd be after the potion ingredients that gained strength at the equinox. Potions made with such ingredients had strong restorative properties, and were popular items to sell in the fall when he and Muirgen made their monthly trip to the city.

Myrddin carefully picked his way among the trees. The sun was beginning to dip in the sky, and he was getting hungry… he'd turn back and find Muirgen soon. He'd found some edible mushrooms, and was thinking they'd go well with some fried venison strips… maybe with some carrots? His stomach rumbled in agreement.

So distracted was the young man by the prospect of the coming meal that he didn't realize he wasn't alone… until the others announced themselves by burying an arrow into the tree next to his head. He cried out with alarm and stumbled back, dropping his basket as he snatched his wand from the leather wrist holder Muirgen had provided him.

Around him the hooves thudded against the ground, kicking up moss and snapping twigs. Myrddin blinked as the caught first sight of the intruders. Each was not a mounted human like he thought, but some strange blend of man and horse, as if someone had removed the head of a horse and replaced it with the torso of a man. All three were armed with bows. Myrddin watched as one of the horse-men - obviously the one that had shot at him previously - notched another arrow and lifted the bow toward him. He pointed his wand at that horse-man, which made the other's face twist angrily.

He barely had a moment to twitch his wand before the arrow was loosed. The arrow was transfigured into a feather in mid-flight, and fluttered away. He ducked behind a tree, narrowly avoiding another.

He had no offensive spells! Realizing he couldn't do anything against the horse-men, Myrddin chose the only wise course of action left to him: he ran.

"Muirgeeeen!" Trees rushed past him as he weaved his way through them, trying to deny the horse-men an easy target. An arrow whistled past his ear and glanced off a pine. Behind him he could hear the clopping of hooves, sure and swift despite the roots and branches of the forest. Myrddin abruptly changed course, trying to throw them off, but even without turning his head he could tell they were still on his heels. For all that Myrddin was a swift runner, he couldn't possibly match a horse - or horse-man. They were simply faster.

And more sure-footed. A root caught Myrddin's toe and sent him tumbling, his wand flying out of his hand. He banged his nose and caught a mouthful of pine needles and dirt, his head spinning. The thumping of hooves surrounded him and when he rolled over, he found the horse-men standing over him. The one that had tried to shoot him twice before sneered down at him, and his bow creaked as the string pulled taut. Myrddin winced, but forced himself not to close his eyes.

A branch suddenly swung down as the horse-man loosed the arrow, knocking it away to thud into the soil next to Myrddin. The trees around them groaned, and Myrddin imagined he could hear anger in those sounds. So could the horse-men, as they looked around in sudden panic. The trees bent, and a thick branch reached down again to swat one of the horse-men, knocking him clean off his hooves. More wrapped around arms and legs, pinning the arms of the strange creatures and pulling them helplessly against the trunks of the trees. One of the horse-men found himself with a branch wrapped around his throat, pulling him upward until he was forced to balance precariously on his rear legs.

Myrddin scrambled to his feet. He spotted his wand, and held out a hand to it. "Accio wand!" His precious aspen and phoenix-feather wand leaped into his hand.

"Release us, wizard!" gasped the horse-man, the largest of the group, long-haired and bearded. He was also the one being choked by a large rowan.

Myrddin thought that releasing three almost-men who had seemed quite intent on murdering him moments before would be an intensely stupid thing to do. But he couldn't even if he wanted to, so he just replied, "I can't! I'm not doing this!"

"No, I am." Myrddin turned and watched Muirgen emerge from the trees, staff in hand and her face dangerously expressionless. He opened his mouth to speak, but she held up her hand to silence him, instead marching over to glare up at the big horse-man, who glared back even as his neck strained against the grip of the branch.

"You overreach yourself by far, centaur! Do you remember our bargain?" she demanded. "Do you remember the deal struck when I brought you here?"

The centaur spat down at her. "You dare claim to be the Deliverer-" His voice, a basso growl, cut off with a gurgle as the branch tightened.

"The bargain! You!" She pointed at the centaur who was pinned against the ground.

The younger centaur, bare-faced and blond both of hair and fur, struggled to draw breath as animated roots pressed down on his ribs. "P-protect the forest…"

"The rest!"

"Harm not… those who seek… only knowledge."

"Good. At least one of you remembers." She turned a hostile gaze back at the leader of the group. "I don't care who you think I am. But this is my student, and if you harm him and break the covenant doing so, you will have earned my wrath twice over!"

She gestured, and the roots and branches released the centaurs. The one leader, released from the choking grip, fell to his knees. Muirgen made a beckoning gesture with her staff, and he was dragged across the ground toward her. She lifted his chin with the snake-headed carving on her staff. "Go back to your village. Speak to Aeoros, if he lives still, and ask about She-Who-Waits, since you obviously need the reminder. Consult the stars, and learn how you nearly set yourself against them! Now, leave!"

She shoved him away ungently with her staff. He staggered to his feet, and stared at her angrily. He almost looked ready to draw the short sword that hung by a leather strap around his torso, but the third centaur took his arm and pulled him away. He continued to glare over his shoulder as they retreated back into the forest.

The blond centaur, apparently the youngest of the group, paused for a second after gathering up the dropped bows. Muirgen watched him carefully, but he only turned to her and bowed. She relaxed, and returned the gesture. Then he turned and galloped into the trees.

Muirgen released a tense breath, then looked back to Myrddin with worry. "Are you hurt? Did they hit you?"

"No," he replied, just now realizing how badly his arms and legs were shaking. He'd been chased many times in his life, but this was the first time with drawn bows. "Who were they?"

She frowned in the direction the creatures had left. "Centaurs. A more aggravating mix of wisdom and stupidity you will never meet. They're native to the lands around Greece, but they were being killed by the muggles, so they came here. They have a village deep in the forest. They're supposed to help defend the forest, not attack unprovoked. I may have to visit them and make sure their pride isn't causing them to creatively interpret the agreement."

"They called you 'the Deliverer'. What did that mean?"

"I helped them relocate here. I knew their tribe was in trouble back in Greece, and this forest was unoccupied, so I offered them a place."

Myrddin thought, another suspicion added to the pile. "What did you mean when you said 'She-Who-Waits'? And how would attacking me set them against the stars? I'm assuming that means the future… why would I matter? I'm nobody."

She turned to him, scowling. "There's enough people in the world who will try to bargain down your worth, Myrddin. Don't do their job for them. You matter, I'm certain of it."

He flushed with embarrassment and pleasure. "Thank you. But how do you know?" He looked at her intently. "You know things. A lot more than you let on. What is it about me that makes you so certain?"

Muirgen looked at him. After a moment, she sighed. "I think it's time we started you on Occlumency."

Occlumency, it turned out, was not a spellcasting discipline. Instead, it was a way of defending and organizing the mind. It kept one's thoughts and memories private, and that alarmed Myrddin… after all, the only reason to build a wall around something was because you were worried someone else could get in.

Muirgen admitted she possessed the ability, though she promised him she hadn't used it on him.

Myrddin had long wondered about the strange exercises Muirgen did each morning. After waking she would stand in the center of the room and stretch and flex, contorting herself into odd shapes or taking tricky stances which made him wonder how she didn't fall on her face. It was meditative, she explained, exercise for the mind as well as the body. After this she would kneel on the hide-covered floor and simply stay there, unmoving, for long minutes with her eyes closed. Occlumency required him to join her in these strange exercises. It was odd and embarrassing, because he was nowhere near as graceful as his Mistress… he tipped over so many times he lost count. The kneeling position hurt his knees despite the furs that carpeted the floor, and he was utterly incapable of 'stilling his mind', as she asked.

All his life his mind had raced, sometimes in a dozen directions at once… trying to make it stop was like trying to make an overexcited horse stand still. For the first time since she'd begun teaching him, Myrddin struggled. He was motivated… he wanted his thoughts private! But it was over six months, well into the winter, until he experienced a moment where everything seemed to stop… when their meditative time simply passed in the blink of an eye, and he felt oddly rested because of it.

After a few weeks, when he'd proven he could enter that state consistently, Muirgen took him to the next phase of his training… the summoning of memories on command and dismissing them. This, at least, Myrddin managed with his typical prodigal manner… his memory was excellent already, and he was well-versed in pushing away memories that upset him. Soon she declared he was ready to take the next step: detecting and rejecting intrusion.

She would test him by intruding upon his mind. He would detect her by noticing memories coming forward without prompting; he could eject her by pushing those memories back, and attaining the "blank" state they both sought during their meditations. The first test was a failure, and Muirgen found out that Myrddin had managed to see quite a bit more of her than he'd let on when she took her baths. He'd have quite happily stuck his head into the fire after that, but she'd simply waved a hand dismissively. "You're a teenager," she said, as if that explained it all.

He'd wanted to keep trying, but she refused. "Intrusion bruises the mind, Myrddin," she explained. "Just like with spells, failure feeds failure. Have patience, it'll come."

So each morning was meditation; each night she'd test his defences once before they went to bed. Then, one night, he felt her enter. He felt her reach for a memory, and instinctively denied her, shunting her instead to a memory of their meditations that very morning.

She looked at him, and her pride created a new happy memory for him. "Well done."

It was a few weeks later, as they sat around the table eating the latest meal Myrddin had cooked for them - he was rather proud of it, the thyme he'd added along with the rabbit meat really enhanced the flavour - that Muirgen had paused in her meal and looked at him, a serious expression on her face.

"Now that your mind is secure, I can finally tell you what I couldn't last year… how I came to know the phoenixes, and why the centaurs know me, and more beyond that. It may be a bit difficult to believe-"

"You're older than you look," Myrddin interrupted. "A lot older. Maybe immortal." Really… wasn't it obvious? She blinked at him, jaw loose. "Oops… sorry. Was there more?"

"Apparently not." She glared at her bowl and began stabbing at pieces of meat with perhaps more force than was necessary.

"I could pretend to be surprised…"

"It's fine. Eat your stupid stew."

There was more, and once she'd gotten over her annoyance at his theft of her dramatic moment, she explained it. He could understand why she'd doubted he'd believe her, and he admitted that if he hadn't made his own deductions, he probably wouldn't have. Time travel? Predestination? It was outlandish, and yet it explained a lot.

"Is that why you're here? There's something you… need to do?"

"I think so."

"But… you've been here nearly a hundred and fifty years. That's a long time to wait."

"I think you'll find the passage of time doesn't mean quite the same thing to me as it does to you."

Of all the things she said, Myrddin found that was the thing that struck him most. He knew wizards lived much longer than non-magical folk already, but to see empires rise and fall… She had all the knowledge of the past, and hints of the future. "You could be a queen… an empress…"

"No, Myrddin," she said, and there was regret in her voice that she did not explain. "That… that path, is not for me. On this, the phoenixes and I agree completely."

"Don't you ever feel… well, trapped?"

"Sometimes," she admitted. "But I do what needs to be done."

Myrddin had learned very quickly that duty was something Muirgen took seriously, more so than even the most devoted knight. She was also self-sacrificing, perhaps excessively so… he sometimes pondered if he would have the patience to live for hundreds of years alone in a small underground house in an isolated forest, waiting for something that might happen someday. He knew himself well enough to answer that.

He suspected the duty she sometimes referred to had something to do with him, though she was extremely careful - to the point of paranoia - to not refer to it in detail. He had been determined to learn before… but now, knowing the nature of his teacher, he threw himself into his studies with abandon. His Occlumency actually helped… whereas once his mind had raced at all distractions, now he could concentrate that speed in a single direction. He learned spells at a rate that astonished Muirgen; and once he'd become literate, he grasped the theory just as quickly.

Muirgen had once admitted that she suspected she was a midsummer baby, when Myrddin had told her that he was born on the summer solstice. He, at least, was certain of that… his mother made sure he knew the exact date when he'd ruined her life. Muirgen herself had vague memories of tragedy associated with her birth, though she couldn't recall the details after incalculable years. As a result, the solstice became a day that the two of them silently agreed to ignore with all the contempt they could muster.

But on the solstice after Muirgen revealed her secret, he decided to break the pattern.

She had chosen the day to make some of her pottery. Her ceramics were of exceptional quality, as popular with the muggles as her potions were with the wizards in the city. It made sense, considering she had thousands of years of practice (he also found it amusing, considering she'd shared with him her original name). But Myrddin preferred to be elsewhere when she was throwing new pots, because of a particular quirk of Muirgen's craft: she never wore more than a loincloth when she did.

"It's just the way I've always done it, in Egypt and onward," she explained with a shrug. "Besides, it's much easier to clean up afterwards." It was perhaps that, more than anything, that showed Myrddin that his teacher was a product of a very different time.

So Myrddin would typically explore the forest, or practice spellcasting, or visit the city while she worked… she had taught him to apparate not long after the encounter with the centaurs, and it was perhaps one of his favourite skills. She encouraged him to practice, since she didn't consider Apparition properly mastered until he could do so as she did, nearly silently. But on this day, as he escaped the muddied, enticing figure of his teacher as she worked, he instead travelled north, toward the mountains and their ore deposits.

When he returned back to the Hovel that night, he bore a gift.

"What's this?" Muirgen asked. Her new pots were drying outside, waiting to be properly fired. She'd bathed away the mud and was fully dressed again, both to Myrddin's relief and disappointment.

"It's a kettle," he replied. He held up the copper item, spelled from the raw ore he found in the mountains. "I made it for you."

In a blink, she Called her wand. "Finite." Nothing happened; the kettle remained in his hands, gleaming with polished smoothness. Muirgen blinked. "You actually forged it?"

"Hah! No!" It probably wasn't smart to gloat, but he was rather proud of himself… she could cast an extremely strong dispel. Muirgen was openly contemptuous of wizards who relied on conjury too much, and made sure Myrddin understood why when he showed preference for the discipline. The poor wizard she'd used as an example, his gold and finery reduced to bare linens in the middle of a Londinium street by a dispel cast by a 'mysterious' prankster, had been humiliated and enraged. All the witnesses, Myrddin included, had been tickled pink. He'd taken the lesson to heart, and understood why Muirgen worked for what she had.

So her reaction hadn't been unexpected. "I changed the incantation!" he stated proudly. "I swapped the gebo rune for othala and rebalanced the arithmancy." Though he didn't hold his wand, he demonstrated the movements.

"So you changed it from a conjuration for yourself to one for someone else." She was impressed, and he loved it when she looked that way.

"Yes. The transfiguration can still be broken, but it's much more resistant. It should hold for as long as I want you to have it." He offered the kettle to her.

She took it, smiling softly, and even blushed a little… it was the first time he'd ever seen her do so, and he decided he rather liked the look of it. "Thank you, Myrddin. Why a kettle?"

He shrugged. "It's better than using the cauldron, and I know you like your tea. It's not like you can summon boiling water." That had been an interesting lesson… she'd taken the large cauldron outside and filled it with summoned water, and heated it beyond boiling with more magic. Even superheated, the water hadn't reacted until she'd tossed a pebble in from a safe distance, whereupon it had nearly exploded in a geyser of scalding liquid and steam. It wasn't magic but simple physics, she'd explained… summoned water was simply too pure. Myrddin had been fascinated and resolved to learn more muggle sciences once he had the time.

"Thank you. I think I'll have some tea right now, actually." And she did… and that night, and the next morning. The kettle quickly became her favourite item in the Hovel, and Myrddin was cheered every time she used it.

Time went on, and so did they. Thanks to the improved nutrition, Myrddin's height shot up, until he was a few inches taller than Muirgen by his eighteenth summer. She'd insisted on splitting the profits from the potions they made together, and for the first time in his life he had money, which he gladly used to buy his own clothes and shoes. He didn't just learn magic from his teacher, and he always bargained a good price. Particularly from the seamstress who made his coats, who was an old widow who was scandalized and gladdened by his incorrigible flirting.

He'd told Muirgen he didn't mind if she kept all the profits… after all, she provided him shelter, and he knew that he practically ate her out of house and home. Didn't she need the money? She'd given him one of those looks, the expression that said he was being willfully stupid.

"I was advisor to generations of kings and pharaohs in Egypt, Myrddin," she reminded him. "I have caches as far east as Harappa, and any one of them is near a king's fortune. One thing I am not is beggared."

He let the matter drop, and kept the money.

Four years into his training, when he had shown exceptional grasp of all the disciplines she offered him, she added another: defence. Battle-magic. Far from simply being repurposed charms, these were explicit curses and hexes, using magic to prevent and to cause harm. She taught him spells to shield himself and showed him how to batter down the shields of another. He absorbed that knowledge as easily as he had all the rest, though he was still no match for her even in their mock duels. She simply outclassed him in experience; she could recognize a curse from the barest movement of a wand, and often had the counter-curse out before he'd finished the spell.

These were lessons he learned gratefully, as they allowed him to walk the wizarding section of Londinium alone with confidence. There'd only been one or two incidents where a drunk or obnoxious wizard thought he could bully the young apprentice, but each time he'd been forced to finesse his way out of the situation using cleverly-employed summoning or banishing charms or transfigurations. It was nice to be able to meet the thugs of the wizarding world on a more even basis.

He wondered if that was why Muirgen saved defence for last… making sure he knew how to fight smart before he relied too much on fighting strong. She was difficult to read at the best of times, and he'd noticed a tension in her over the past few months. He tried to coax her into sharing her cares with him, but he had to remind himself that he was her student, and didn't push too hard.

Soon her lessons took a disturbing turn. The spells she showed him weren't simply for defeating a foe, but for causing humiliation and pain while doing so. It confused him… what use was there in making an enemy vomit his own organs, when a simple cutting hex was just as effective, and faster? Why would someone use a Rotting curse, which did nothing to win the immediate duel at all? But she taught him the counter-curses at the same time, and he simply assumed the lessons were linked… learning the poison to better understand the cure.

But finally, on one summer's day, her lessons expanded to include the spells for which there was no counter-curse. Spells that, by her own words, were unforgivable.

Making the rabbit dance had been funny. He could understand the evil of robbing someone of their own will, but the consequences seemed remote at the time. But its screams under the Cruciatus had given him nightmares for days. And the Killing Curse… he hadn't even been able to do it at first, and couldn't understand why… he wanted the rabbit to be released from its suffering.

"And that's why," she said harshly. "The Killing Curse isn't about mercy. It's about hate. It's about hating so much it flows down your wand and knocks the life clear out of your target."

"But I don't hate the rabbit!"

"You don't need to hate the rabbit… you just need to hate! Hate is like fire… it'll burn anything in reach."

"But… I don't hate anyone!" And he didn't. Even his mother, who cast him out…. she was simply stupid and afraid. He father was likewise merely stupid and selfish. They'd both wronged their son, but not with evil intent. "I… I can't do this."

"Then you'll stand here and cast and cast until you can!" Muirgen snapped.

"I won't!"

"Then you'll leave!" she snarled. In their years together, he'd never seen her truly angry. Even that first duel with the Saxons had been fought with only mild contempt, and perhaps she'd even pitied the men picking a fight they couldn't possibly win. But now her face was twisted, her eyes blazing, and her magic seemed to heat the air around her. "You came to me to learn. You don't get to pick what I teach you! When you decide you no longer want to learn, you no longer have a reason to be here!"

He'd reeled, his face ashen. Would she do it? Would he really be cast out, again, this time for not embracing magic he wanted nothing to do with? He saw her face, saw the determined set of her jaw, and realized she would.

And at that moment, he hated her. Hated that she was taking something he loved so much and perverting it. Making him choose between his soul and his dreams.

He turned and pointed his wand at the poor rabbit. It had been lying, twitching on the grass, waiting for the end; he was ashamed to admit that he could cast a very strong Cruciatus. "Avada Kedavra!" A green bolt licked out; the rabbit stopped moving.

He turned to face Muirgen, but his anger died as quickly as the rabbit when he saw her face. She was ashen; there was no pride to be seen for his obedience, no satisfaction at having shown him the dark path. Instead there was sadness and even shame, though he couldn't tell if it was for him or for herself.

She met his gaze. "Well done," she said with a shaking voice. And with that she turned, walking down to the path that lead around the lake and back to her hovel. Her staff seemed heavy in her hand, and her shoulders were slumped.

He watched her go, confused. Then his gorge rose, and he needed to dash over to a tree to vomit. As he wiped his mouth on his sleeve, he looked over to the corpse of the rabbit. He tried not to think too much, although it took all his Occlumency to prevent it; instead he took out his work-knife and dressed the carcass, as if he'd brought the creature down with a simple Cutter like any other hunting trip.

He took his time walking back, and it was early evening before he'd circled the lake and climbed the hill to the hovel. It was dark inside; only the waning rays of sunlight angled through the windows to make it possible to see. Muirgen sat at the small table, staring into a goblet of wine. She didn't acknowledge his entrance.

He carefully moved past her, carrying the rabbit over to the fireplace to hang it from a rack. He watched her carefully from the corner of his eye, using his remembered experience from his time with his mother to get a feel for her mood and how deep into her cups she might be. But it was too dark to see how red her eyes were, and she was as still as a statue. She did not react as he pulled out a stool and sat across from her. His mouth was dry, and he was tempted to steal a sip of her wine himself, but decided that would be pushing it too far.

Ask, Myrddin. "Why did you make me learn that magic, when you didn't want to?"

She startled, nearly knocking her goblet over. She steadied the cup, licking away the wine that had sloshed onto her hand. "Because you needed to know it," she rasped.

That didn't ease his confusion at all. "Why? Why would I need to know… that?"

"Because someday you're going to have to make a choice, Myrddin." He shook his head, not understanding; she closed her eyes and took a breath. "When you're done with me, when you go out into the world alone, you're going to be faced with choices. I'm not talking about choices like to flee or fight, to seek glory or humility. You're going to have to choose what kind of man you're going to be." Her eyes opened, and she watched him carefully. "I can't, and I won't, make those choices for you. All I will do is show you the paths, so you can look at them with clear eyes. Even the paths you don't like, so that you know that they're there."

"But, Muirgen… you're a great witch! Surely can guide me to the right-"

"No! No, Myrddin. Don't you dare put that on me." She lifted a halting finger, and her voice shook. For the first time that he'd known her, he saw that she was afraid. "I can't make choices like that. Not even through you! They're not my choices to make… I can't be trusted to do so."

"And you trust me more than yourself?"

"Yes," she declared with fervour. "I'm giving you everything I have. Even my… my darkness. Whatever you do with it… will be the right thing. I trust that."

"But what do I do in the future-"

She slapped her palm against the table, and this time her goblet tipped over completely. "Damn you, Myrddin, don't ask me that!"

He flinched backward, and he saw guilt flash across her eyes as he did. The puddle of wine spread across the table, dripping in between the planks. He was speechless for long moments, until finally a thought sparked in his mind.

"You're scared of influencing me in the wrong direction," he said softly. Muirgen said nothing, but she flinched almost imperceptibly. "You think you're already a product of my influence, but you don't remember what that influence was. You don't know what direction to send me in to produce… yourself. So you're… sending me in all directions. Even the directions you hate."

"Myrddin…"

He stood up. He moved over to the fireplace. "Incendio," he uttered, pointing a finger. He was adept at wandless magic, although combining it with wordless still eluded him for the moment. Fire lit, he set about preparing the rabbit to roast.

She watched him do so, blatantly disturbed. "You brought it here?"

"It suffered and died so I could learn. I wasn't going to leave it to rot on the ground." He glanced at her over his shoulder. "But you don't need to be on the spit with it."

Off the north shore of the land that would eventually be known as Scotland, there was an island. Not much of an island, mind you; it had no trees, and was dusted with only a few hardy grasses settled into splits in the stone. It was little more than a tor thrust out of the ocean, no more than a hundred yards long, and half as wide. During storms the waves would wash clear across the top, polishing the rock and making it slippery with slime.

A very different storm raged above it on this day. There was thunder, and the rush of wind. But the sky was clear, and little more than a chill spring breeze blew in from the Atlantic. The storm that tore at the island was that of a wizard and witch locked in a fierce duel. Few if any could match the power of this particular pair individually, and those magics were being hurled at each other; caught in between, even rock crumbled.

Myrddin apparated half a step to the side, allowing a particularly fearsome bolt to pass through the space he'd occupied a split-second before. Even with years of effort, he'd never been able to weaponize a Banishing charm like Muirgen had. Thousands of years of practice had turned one of the simplest of charms into a blue beam of force that could shatter a hillside, so strong it had a visible manifestation. Being in front of it was a very bad place to be.

But Myrddin had his own advantages, his own specialities. On his twentieth birthday Muirgen had gifted him with a staff, made from the feather given to him by the phoenixes so many years before. That staff waved and twirled, handled as adeptly as any other wizard could manage with a wand alone.

The ocean at the other end of the island surged like a tidal wave, bearing down on the feminine figure opposite him. She spun, staff high, her raven hair whipping around her in tendrils like Medusa's snakes. The huge wave froze solid. He was expecting that, and the wave shattered into a swarm of tiny ice daggers. But she, too, had been expecting his next move, and her end of the island exploded into flame. When she emerged from the fires she was soaking wet but unmarked, and fiendfyre was roaring toward him, eternally hungry. He summoned a gale, swatting the fires into the ocean where even the magical flames had nothing to subsist on.

He followed up with a Disarming charm, hideously overpowered, and she dodged away from it, right into the path of his Stunner. She threw up a shield; his spell crashed against it with a sound like a mace against a bell, and even her fortress-like shield shattered like glass. She was forced to apparate aside as two dozen stones the size of her head hit the ground like meteors where she had been a moment before.

A trio of bolts flew at Myrddin in response; he shielded, but none came near him. Instead they splashed against the stones around him, and moments later three golems dug themselves out of the ground, roaring. He ducked and rolled away from a rocky fist that swatted at him, coming up onto one knee to blast the golem in half and banishing the pieces into the ocean. But there were still two more; he threw up another shield in preparation for the attack he thought would come while he dealt with them.

It never arrived. Instead, the sky seemed to darken, and the breeze around him became a roar. He glanced up and saw a funnel of wind descending down toward him. Sea spray was pulled up and into it, colouring it white, until it seemed like a huge pale finger was reaching down from the heavens to squash him. It touched the island and he and the golems were surrounded by thrashing, deafening winds.

Huh. That was new.

His clothes snapped around him, and he was glad he hadn't worn a cloak. It was too loud to hear her incanting, but if he was Muirgen, he'd be casting right about now, and- He leapt to the side, almost into the arms of one of the golems. A sickly red bolt passed through where he'd just been, and he shivered. Even he couldn't stand through being hit with a Cruciatus, and Muirgen's were particularly potent. But she used them at his insistence… he needed no boons or handicaps that wouldn't be offered elsewhere in the world.

One of the advantages of a staff was being able to cast from either end of the stick. The truly talented could cast from both ends at the same time, and he was one of them. A pair of blasting curses snapped out in opposite directions, ending both golems at the same time, pebbles spraying against his back. He barely dodged another red bolt, a Stunner this time… she couldn't see him any more than he could see her, and she was casting blindly into the maelstrom.

He had to move quickly before she switched to area-effect spells or she dispelled her tornado and ruined his surprise. The head of his staff traced a series of invisible runes into the air, and he added a shouted incantation to the somatic component. Then he dropped to one knee as if in supplication, striking the butt of his staff against the ground. Rock surged. Like ripples from a stone cast into a pond, it rushed out around him in a wave.

Even over the din of the tornado, he could hear her screech.

He stood, staff at the ready, as the winds died out around him and he could see again. He was alone on the island, Muirgen nowhere in sight. She could be disillusioned; though he doubted it, she was nothing if not cunning. He kept his staff at the ready as he walked to the other end of the tor.

And there she was, in the sea, and Myrddin fought down a laugh at the sight. She coughed and sputtered while bobbing in the water, wet hair stuck to her face and neck. Her staff was gone, fallen into the aether, so she used both hands to try to push the dark stands out of her eyes.

She glared up at him, and he grinned unrepentantly. He waved his staff to push aside the wave that burst from the water to try to soak him, laughing at her pique.

"What was that?" she demanded. It was early spring, but the northern seas weren't warm, and her teeth chattered. "What was that rock… wave… thing?"

He laughed again at her eloquence, receiving another glare. "A variation on your Arena Animus spell," he said, crouching down, bracing his staff for balance.

"Yes, but through solid granite?"

"It can work, as you saw. Do you want me to show you the arithmancy?"

The cold sea air blew across them, chill despite the late April weather. Muirgen continued to bob and slosh in the sea, and her skin was starting to turn a bit blue. She had thousands of years of experience at hiding her emotions, but he'd been with her for over a decade, studying her every moment of every day… he watched as she cycled through humiliated anger, worry, pride, and even sadness. But finally she settled on simple joy, beaming up at him as she shivered, and he thought she'd never looked more beautiful. "Teach me."