AN: I'm actually rather fond of this chapter. Not sure why, but I enjoy it.

Changes: Just editing.

Seek

In Which Merlin Actually Enjoys Hunting

1840

It was summer, and blazing hot, a heat that stole the breath from the lungs and the water from a sweat-slicked back. Julio, a farmer who had lived on the southern banks of the Rio Bravo for almost thirty years, was weeding his carefully tended vegetable patch when the figure came into view.

In Julio's defense, he had every right and reason to react as he did; there was a war going on, ever since his home state of Nuevo Leon had declared itself independent of its native Mexico. While he tried to stay out of politics, he had two daughters and a home to protect, all three of which were beautiful and well-favored, and he had no wish to lose them. Anyone who came towards Julio's home in the middle of nowhere was a potential enemy.

"Drina! Matilde!" he called to his daughters. "Stay in the house now!"

He stood there, still clutching the spade in his hands. The unfeeling sun beat down on his head, making it ache and swim, but he never removed his eyes from the approaching person. He was used to this feeling anyway: It's what he felt every time he thought of his dead wife.

It wasn't until the man had gotten about twenty feet away that Julio was able to see him clearly, heat waves rippled and distorted him so badly. His visitor was terribly sunburned and dark-haired, a European if Julio ever saw one. He was dressed in a plain white shirt and brown breeches, and a pair of boots that looked like they had seen a better part of the Middle Ages. His head hung low, and Julio knew he was thirsty by the short gasping breaths he took, and the absolute dryness of his clothes. The man also limped terribly, almost dragging his left leg behind him.

The man came within only a few feet of Julio, staggering slightly, but he now stood straight, even in his desperate state. Julio felt a surge of pity: the man couldn't have been older than twenty-five.

"Please, Señor," the man managed to rasp out in perfect Spanish. "May I have some water?"

The door behind Julio opened, and his eighteen-year-old Mathilde came out, followed closely by her cautious older sister, Drina. They both watched what their father would do, wide-eyed and silent.

Julio looked back at the visitor, taking in the forced posture and the drooping eyelids. His head was whispering doubts and nos, but his intuition seemed to nod its head.

His intuition had never failed him.

"Si," Julio said, not smiling, but willing. "Come in."

He shouldn't have been surprised when the man fainted before they reached the door, but he was, a little. Because the man was so light, it was relatively easy to get him into the house and onto Julio's bed, a small mercy, and he regained consciousness just long enough to sip a little water and tell them his name: "Marcelo."

Marcelo never really told them why he had been wandering around in the middle of the desert, and they never pressed him. He was the kind of person who no one felt awkward around, but that forbid questioning in every form.

Then Marcelo, after regaining his strength for a week, went out and asked if he could help with anything.

Julio said yes.

No one questioned why Marcelo didn't leave. He showed signs to trying to, simply because he didn't want to be a burden, but was always silently forbidden by the girls, with their pleading looks and adeptness at hiding important things, and even, on one memorable occasion, Julio himself. Julio found he didn't want the younger man gone under any circumstance. He was a great help with everything, be it 'man's' work or 'woman's' work, Marcelo saw no distinction.

And for some strange reason, it simply felt safer when Marcelo was around, like the time several months later, when Michelmas had just gone, when a platoon of rowdy Americanos came and bothered Drina and Mathilde as they were gathering water from the well. Marcelo had seen them (somehow), and went out. The other three never knew what the man said to the horsemen, but they left posthaste, even though he was skinny as a corn stalk and seemed no stronger than a beanpole.

Despite this, it wasn't until Nuevo Leon and its neighboring states had been brought back into the union (which Julio, as a true Mexican, liked very much) that Julio and his family fully appreciated the usefulness of Marcelo.

Julio lived in a part of Nuevo Leon that was rather uninhabited. The farm was directly on the border with the Mexican territory of Texas, against the river (which was known as the Rio Grande in the States), and he had been largely left alone by both the separatists and the American invaders from the north. He and his family hadn't had to deal with much of the turmoil that was currently rocking his part of the world.

But all that was about to change. It didn't take much for Julio to realize he could not take the middle ground on this; he had to choose a side.

It started one day near the end of the year. Though snow never fell where they lived, Julio always felt the need to make a special trip to Nuevo Laredo in the winter, a trip of almost forty kilometers. Julio usually made the trip in a little less than a week, two days there, one, maybe two days buying and loading the supplies, and two days back. When the children were younger, he would go alone, but when his wife died he was forced to drag his children all the way there and back, which was not enjoyable for anyone. But now that Marcelo was here, maybe he could start going alone again, and leave the younger man to watch everything.

The three 'youngsters' didn't like the idea of Julio going into the wilderness alone. "Papa, you are not as young as you once were," Drina argued. "You could be injured, and then what would become of us?" They wanted Marcelo to go and get the supplies.

Any argument on Julio's part was stopped short a few days before his planned departure. He was fixing a leak on the roof, fell, and sprained his ankle so badly he could not walk without help. The the matter was settled: Marcelo would go to Nuevo Laredo.

Now Julio found himself incredibly nervous about Marcelo's leaving. He had come to regard the young man as a close friend, and it was dangerous out there! What if Marcelo was hurt, or got lost? He made Marcelo repeat the directions ten times, which might have been ridiculous since all he had to do was follow the river, but still, Julio felt uncharacteristically uneasy. Something would go wrong here, he just knew it.

Marcelo left not long after the sun arose in late November. He hitched up the horse, loaded the wagon, hugged the girls, and shook hands with a crutches-bound Julio. And as he drove off . . . well, perhaps it had been Julio's imagination, but it seemed like Marcelo turned to look back one too many times, like he was also worried.

Drina, seeing her father's unease, took his arm and squeezed it. "Don't worry, Papa, Marcelo can take care of himself."

This did nothing to make Julio feel better; dreams of fire and pain still haunted him for the next two nights. The days were spent sitting outside, hating his helplessness, and watching his daughters do twice the work.

In the end, he realized that it was not Marcelo that needed taking care of.

The third day, men came to their house, about fifty. Soldiers. Wary and skittish, and led by a man named Gil Hieronimo. He practically forced his way into the house, yelling for Marcelo. Julio had never been so insulted in his life.

"What is it you want, Señor?" he demanded, limping towards them from the back room and scowling.

Hieronimo turned towards him. "Where's Marcelo? I know he's here, we've been following his tracks for almost a year. He's here, Mateo tells me so. Where is he?"

The girls had been weaving, and now appeared, frightened and confused. Julio, fearing they would actually say where Marcelo was to these strange men, spoke first, struggling to keep his voice calm. No need to antagonize anyone.

"Marcelo left," he replied. "He's gone. He isn't coming back. So you can leave my house and search for him elsewhere."

Hieronimo glanced out of the doorway; another man stood there, tired and beaten-looking, slouching. The man sighed and started to whisper under his breath, his eyes turning the color of the summer sun. Julio let out a soft gasp. Wasthatmagic? he wondered, and maybe the answer is obvious, he doesn't know.

The man, whose name later turned out to be Mateo, shakes his head.

"I can't be sure, Señor, this spell is made for finding sorcerers only, and if he hasn't been using magic-"

"Why wouldn't he be using magic?" Hieronimo snapped, losing his patience. "He's supposed to be a very powerful wizard, of course he's going to use magic!"

Mateo said nothing, but his eyes were doubtful.

Hieronimo turned to the confused family, furious. "Well, if we can't find him, let him find us. We'll take these three; everyone knows he has a weakness for people. If he doesn't want to join us, he can pay the price."

Mateo sighed, but some of the more crazed individuals in the party snickered. Julio was just realizing what was happening. This man was looking for Marcelo. He was now going to kidnap Julio and his two daughters in order to lure Marcelo into some sort of trap. Perhaps Julio should have been less worried for his friend and more worried about his family.

Being tied up is never comfortable. Julio had always suspected this, in the glancing moments he thought about it, but it was seeing his precious daughters bound as well that made him the most angry. He went so far as pleading for their leniency, begging like some sort of dog. Julio was not a proud man, but even this was blow. Still, no one listened.

It was a small mercy that they were given horses of their own, and didn't have to share with anyone else. This was a great relief for the poor farmer.

They went south, going downwards towards Monterrey, avoiding any large settlements. The sun, though less intense than it would be in the summer, was still hot and dry. Occasionally as rainstorm would sweep through, sometimes accompanied by lightning and thunder, playing a drum roll and puppet-show display on the tents. Even though it was mostly healed, Julio's ankle still protested at being walked on, and he limped almost as badly as Marcelo.

He and his daughters also tried to demand information from their captors, constantly questioning. Mostly they were ignored, but sometimes they would have a 'friendly' guard who spoke a little.

"I'm not exactly sure," said one on the fourth night from home, answering Mathilde's inquiry as to why they wanted to find Marcelo. He went on the explain that Hieronimo was trying to depose the Mexican President in order to become the next tyrant. "How this Marcelo in help with this is beyond me, I've never met the man, though."

Mathilde's next question was about Mateo, and the guard found him a fascinating, if scary, subject.

"Hieronimo should know magic is evil and wrong, he's Christian, and don't Christians burn witches?" the man said, then shuddered. "He's been using spells to try and track Marcelo, who's a sorcerer too, from what I gather. It's not going very well though. That's why we're taking you; to lure him in."

Everyone seemed to agree that Marcelo was a magic-user, everyone except the prisoners. Julio had never seen his helper perform any spell of any sort, but now doubts were circulating in his head. Maybe Marcelo had known they were coming, and had made Julio fall off the roof, so he could go to Nuevo Laredo and escape. Maybe he had been using them.

Yes, but why? From what Julio had been able to see of Mateo's spells, magic could do pretty much anything. Why would Marcelo need them to hide himself? If he did have magic he could use, why hadn't he used it? Why had he come to Julio's home and asked for water, and why stay? Julio couldn't figure it out, and from the contemplative and sometimes annoyed expressions that marred his daughters' pretty features, they couldn't either. It was possibly the more frustrating problem they had ever encountered - Marcelo, friend or foe? Saint or scoundrel? Devotee or demon?

They didn't know.

"Why are we going so slowly?" one of the men complained (quietly, of course) about a week later. "At this rate, it'll take us weeks to reach Monterrey alone!"

His companion shushed him, not knowing that Drina could still hear. "I don't know. You'd think Marcelo could find us wherever we were. Maybe Hieronimo just wants to get to the President as soon as possible."

They never made it to the President, or Monterrey. Any of them.

Julio had been feeling shifty all day, like he was riding the horse wrong. Something nagging, something not right, something coming, he simply knew it. His intuition had never failed him. So he hugged close to the girls and jumped at small noises.

But, of course, nothing happened that day, nor the next. They were drawing close to more rocky places, places where it was hard to see all around, and it made him nervous. His dream of fire did nothing to ease his jitters.

On the tenth day, just as Julio was slipping from an uncomfortable consciousness to an even more uncomfortable sleep, a sound jolted him from the flickering red tongues that drew nearer, namely, the sound of Marcelo's voice beckoning him to wakefulness.

Before Julio could speak, Marcelo had slipped a hand over his mouth and finger to his own lips, shaking his head. A knife slipped easily through the ropes, freeing his hands, and Marcelo looked over at two girls. Julio grabbed his arm.

"What are you doing?" he asked as quietly as he could, almost mouthing the words. "These men want you to help them take over Mexico-"

"I know-"

"They'll capture you!"

"Trust me, they won't. I've only abstained from using magic so they wouldn't find me. Now I won't hold back."

"What about the President? Heaven knows I don't agree with everything he does, but it'll throw the country into anarchy, those Americans will take any chance they can get-"

Again Marcelo interrupted him. "Don't worry so much, Julio, I have everything under control."

It was only after Marcelo had repeated his waking treatment on Drina that Julio realized how he had reacted to Marcelo's confirmation of his magic, it was almost like he hadn't said anything out of the ordinary.

It doesn't matter, he realized. I didn't really care ever that he was a sorcerer, or whatever they call them. He's Marcelo. He couldn't hurt a fly.

Marcelo had always seemed so clumsy before, but now he walked softer than any of them. His age-old boots padded soft as a cat's against the dry sand, and only when they had reached the relative safety of the tumbleweed did he stop.

"I have to go back and do something, you three stay here," he whispered, and immediately there were soft protests.

"Marcelo, you can't go back alone!" Mathilde gasped. "They have guns!"

"At least let us help," Drina said, and Julio seconded that motion.

Marcelo shook his head. "No, I'll be fine, I've got magic." The girls shot each other looks, but nothing was said. "Their guns won't stop me, and this is something only I can do. Please, stay here."

And he was gone, slinking towards the firelight again. The little family stared after him, unsure of what to do. "He's going to get hurt," Mathilde whimpered, her face as worried as anyone's could get.

Julio didn't know what to do. He had no doubt that Marcelo could take care of himself, but fire-oh fire, he was scared of . . . fire, why was he scared of fire, at a time like this? What did fire have to do with anything?

There was a cry, a shout, and a mushroom-shaped cloud of flames flared up above the camp, glowing like the sun, menacing, making the three fall backwards in alarm.

Fire.

Julio didn't think; he was up and running before the fallout came. Men ran and screamed, instinctively darting away from the inferno. Horses strained against leads, struggling, and tents burned with red and orange light.

Even in the confusion, it wasn't hard to find Marcelo. There they both were, the two sorcerers, locked in some sort of fearsome duel to the death, shields and green slime flying everywhere. Marcelo looked to be entirely on the defensive-the bored defensive. Mateo would flash out some spell, and Marcelo would block it with seeming ease.

He didn't look bored though. He looked sad, and angry, and intense, all at the same time. He was speaking too, in between each blow to his shield.

"So that's it, is it?" he yelled, and Julio added incredulous to the list of emotions. "That's your answer?"

Mateo didn't reply. His attacks were becoming more and more desperate, flying every which way and they were less controlled.

"You idiot!" Marcelo shouted, literally shaking with anger. "Are you-you are-ugh!" He stamped his foot, and the earth trembled, as if it too was scared of Marcelo's rage.

Mateo stopped fighting, and instead glared, his chest heaving with exertion. "That's easy for you to say!" He said right back. "Señor 'Immortal' Marcelo. Don't see you having to fight for anything!"

Marcelo's eyes narrowed. "You make it sound like I asked for this."

"Well, didn't you?"

"No. Why would I? Why would I want this, this is . . . is . . ."

He obviously couldn't find an accurate description for what it was, and so stopped trying. "You think you want this, Mateo, but trust me, you don't. This is not anything anyone is their right mind would want."

"You only say that because you don't want it," Mateo retorted, snorting. "But I do. This things I could accomplish if I had all the time in the world-"

"Like what?" Marcelo flung at him, the anger returning. "Like conquering the world?" He was distressed by this, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, his hands gripping his hair. "For what? For power? You-there isn't a word for people like you! And all for power!"

Tears glittered in his eyes, his breath hitched, even from so far away Julio and his daughters could hear it, a kind of sound that made you feel like joining. Heart-wrenching and sickeningly real.

Marcelo was gasping for air now, trying to calm his raging emotions, composing himself. Mateo was staring at him; this was not something anyone saw everyday.

"The lust for power has taken everything away from me," Marcelo said as soon as he could speak without sobbing. "I'm not going to let you-or Hieronimo-do the same to anyone else."

He suddenly darted forward, lightening fast, and grabbed Mateo's arm. He spoke three words, three words only, and even a flame couldn't have made his eyes glitter like that. Mateo gasped and clutched his head, like he had a particularly bad migraine, but it was too late for him; It seemed like a ripple of color was traveling down Marcelo's arm to Mateo, like a moving wrinkle on his shirt. Marcelo's eyes were narrowed in concentration, his jaw clenched, but he never wavered.

Mateo collapsed on the ground, and Marcelo almost followed him, sagging with exhaustion. The sorcerer's head lowered for a moment, as if in prayer, then he staggered towards the family.

His family, thought Julio, and went out to assist him.

They took four of the horses and rode off; Marcelo assured them Mateo was alive and could take care of himself.

"I can't take his magic away, there wasn't enough time nor did I have the equipment to do that, but I blocked it. Hopefully it's permanent." He looked away, into the desert night. A coyote howled mournfully. "Without magic, Hieronimo has no hope of defeating the Mexican army, not with such a small force. They're finished."

His voice sounded forcefully cheerful. Julio wondered how the two magic-users had known each other, and Marcelo's despaired cry about power taking everything from him. Drina, at that moment, brought up what Hieronimo might do (like take revenge), and their thoughts turned elsewhere.

The next day, about an hour after they had started going again, Julio spoke up. "So what's this I hear about you and immortality?" he questioned. Marcelo grimaced.

"Right," he said. "That. I guess I'd better tell you." He cleared his throat, and began. "Well, to make a very, very long story short . . . -er . . ."

He then proceeded to answer their questions. Well, most of them. And what answers they were! Fantastic and strange, but it was impossible not to believe every word. They talked, argued, laughed, and listened long after they had camped for the night.

But it was not until the fourth night that he found the courage to ask the question he desperately craved the answer to. Julio was not normally one to beat around the bush, but this . . . . this was not anything he had encountered before.

The sun had only set about an hour before, and the sky was still tinged fainting blue and purple. An approaching storm was looming in the north, white clouds shifting closer. Marcelo was standing quite far from the camp, watching them approach, and Julio left his daughters to their girl things to join him.

"Very nice, isn't it?" Marcelo said conversationally, and suddenly Julio got the feeling the younger man knew why he was being approached. He coughed nervously.

"Si, hermosa," he agreed. They were standing shoulder to shoulder now, in awkward silence. Finally Julio broke it.

"You know what I'm going to say, don't you?"

"Yes. The dreams?"

"Yes."

"But more than that. Feelings? Like instinct, except almost worse?"

"Quite. Do you think . . . ?" He found it hard to say.

Marcelo turned and looked him in the eye, slightly amused. "That it's magic? That you're dreaming the future? Yes, I do."

For some reason, Julio found this exceedingly comforting. "Good, that's good. And what do I do about it?"

The sorcerer's dark eyebrows raised in surprise, and he almost laughed. "I suppose it depends. Can you bear learning the key to controlling it from a man that is . . . well, not half your age, but appears to be?"

Julio snorted. "Are you sure you can handle it?"

This time Marcelo did laugh, the laugh that had endeared him to who knows how many listeners. "Wait and see," he said. "You just wait and see.

"Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art . . . It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things which give value to survival."

— C.S. Lewis

I'd like to hear your thoughts on this . . .