The mistakes we make

Part 6

There is a small mound near a shaded forest path, away from the prying eyes of regular travellers. In the dappled, filtered twilight of a summer's day when the cicadas of the New Forest buzzed and clicked in the heavy hair, a young man with dark, almost black, hair, a tall, angular body and grieving blue eyes, placed three carved figures on the fresh soil and then turned his gaze toward the winding forest path.

He closed his eyes and drew upon his gift. It was stronger now; the pumping flow of magic through his veins deeper and faster than before. The Dragonlord felt his mind expand and connect with the magic all around him; the life in the ground beneath his feet, the scents and texture of the air on the face, the strange sensitive touches of other magical beings on his mind.

He'd been aware of all of this before, of course, but vaguely aware as one strains to hear a whisper in a crowded room or the faint hum of distant music on the night air and then dismisses the sounds as unimportant or a figment of their imagination.

The world sang and laughed and whispered with magic and now he could hear it, feel it, taste it, almost see it as Jacquelyn could see it as a haze of light around a magical being. He felt Kilgharrah as the last dragon finally dwindled to a spot in his mind and then blinked out. Too far away.

And he could feel Morgana, as Kilgharrah must have been able to feel her, hiding somewhere in the forest nearby. He let a tear fall onto his father's grave and then he head off down the path.

There was a cabin here, he remembered, a place he and Morgana went once. They'd had some grand plan of a place to hide to be alone but quick acceptance of their relationship had put paid to the need.

He stopped in view of the small house and let his thoughts spiral out towards it to warn her he was there. Then he drew breath for courage and walked forward.

"Morgana," he said softly as he opened the door and walked across the threshold. The room was dim; so much so that the afternoon light blazing through the door temporarily blinded him and he saw only bright striations of dust floating in the air.

"Morgana?" he queried again. His eyes adjusted to the dim interior and he saw her finally sitting on the edge of an old bed, her eyes staring resolutely through the dirt-caked window and away from him.

He looked at her stiff back and the long, unkempt ebony hair that flowed down all the way to the mattress beneath her. She was wearing nothing but her white shift and his heart twisted at her beauty even as he remembered why he was there.

"Morgana," he whispered and he took a few tentative steps toward her before finding the determination to stride across the room. He wondered if her silent pretence that he wasn't there was guilt or bravado. She was very capable of both.

Or maybe her anger and hatred had finally consumed her as Balinor had warned it could.

He sat down behind her and put his hands on her shoulders then began gathering the hair from her back, braiding it and curling it atop her head. She was always so proud of her hair and it seemed... wrong... to have it so neglected.

His hands drifted back to her shoulders and hovered there for a minute; habit warring with their new situation.

"Morgana, I...," he began and then stopped in shock as he saw what she had been hiding from him.

"Gods, Morgana, you're... what did that dragon do to you?"

She cocked her head then, enough to give him one resolute white-faced look, before turning all the way around so he could see her properly.

"Gods," he breathed as his palm lightly caressed her. She was burnt all down her right side from her forehead to her useless writing hand, the pure white skin mottled black and red as though her skin had melted and puddled.

"I tried to stop him," she said, finally, heartbreakingly, "when I saw... the people dying, their crops burning. I tried to stop him but my magic did no good. This," she gestured to her ruined face, "was... my punishment for... everything."

"I don't understand," Merlin admitted, "you tried to stop him...?"

She shook off his touch and turned back to the window.

"Morgana..." he tried again and he reached out to touch her burns and heal them with the same spell that had failed his father.

"Just stop it, Merlin," she burst out and she stood and paced across the dusty wooden floor of the small room. He was stunned to see how upset she was; did not think he had seen her this emotional or this close to tears since his own death so many years before.

"They're dead, Merlin. They're dead because of me. He injured Uther but he didn't kill him. And he did it deliberately just to torture him, to torture me."

"You released him because you thought it was the only way to free Camelot from his rule," Merlin argued, "he manipulated you for years to get you to do this and what he did afterwards is not your fault. You didn't kill farmers and common townsfolk and our friends. Morgana, I never blamed you."

"Don't," she sobbed and now the tears did well up into her eyes, "I knew you'd do this. I just knew and I can't... just don't."

"Don't?"

"Don't forgive me. Not after what I've done." She gestured once again to the seared flesh. "Don't you see? I deserve this. Scores of people dead or dying because of me. When I came to my senses and realised what I'd done I tried to stop him but..."

"...I lost my temper, Merlin. There was nothing noble or altruistic about my intentions. I heard that you were going to let Uther marry me off to someone else and then that... blonde sorcerer... came and told me that you had deliberately sabotaged Mercia's attempts to give more freedom to sorcerers and I... I lost my temper. I didn't think of right or wrong or the consequences... I just wanted to hurt you."

"Well... you did," he admitted, thinking of Lancelot and of his father dead and buried in an anonymous grave off a seldom-trod path, "but only because you were pushed past the boundaries of endurance. I shouldn't have done that to you, Morgana. I took you for granted, I let the dragon whisper away to you for all these years and I put Arthur's needs before you and I... these were my mistakes, not yours."

"I told you not to do that!" she screamed at him and she stormed across the room and slapped him across the face. He jerked back slightly in astonishment and then slapped him again, crying and yelling.

"Don't you dare forgive me. This is my fault. The dragon was right. I'm evil. I don't deserve your forgiveness. I don't deserve you. You're supposed to hate me for this. Hate me, damn you! Hate me!"

She started kicking him as well as punching him then, the tears obscuring her vision and her nervous exhaustion causing the blows to fall ineffectually.

"Hate me," she sobbed, "hate me."

He grabbed her arms in his surprisingly-strong hands and then chanted, "Batian ágíemende háligan forbærnan," and watched as the burns on her face and arms slowly bled away leaving her perfect features behind.

Then they collapsed onto the bed, the strain of guilt and strong magic overcoming them. He wrapped his arms around her and placed her head on his chest so he could stroke her hair.

"If I can forgive him his atrocities, I can forgive you," he whispered, "as far as I'm concerned you're just another victim."

"It's not true," she argued tiredly, "it's just not. One day you'll see. He was right, we're the same. I knew he'd kill innocents in his quest for revenge. I was so angry that I simply... pretended not to see."

"Hatred blinds," said Merlin, "but so does hope. We both hope for a better future, my love. Please don't forget that."

"Don't let your hope blind you to what I am," she counselled.

"I love you, Morgana. That doesn't change because you made a mistake."

"How many times will people die for my mistakes before you stop giving me a second chance?"

"Until you pick up a weapon yourself and kill someone in anger, I will always give you a second chance. Because I know your heart. We will have a new world. It just won't be today."

They lay there for a while as the sun inched its way across the window and finally began to set.

"What will we tell people?" she whispered finally, "Amelia will know I left Ealdor suddenly, although I don't think she'll know how or why. The others must know too."

"You lost your temper and went looking for me. When Arthur and I went after the magical threat you found us. We defeated the beast and Arthur returned to Ealdor, giving you and I some time alone to talk things through. Then we went back to Ealdor and we all journeyed to Camelot together."

"Arthur will know that's a lie."

"Arthur and the Knights believe you lost your temper and went back to Camelot to find the castle already under seige. You then hid here until I found you. They'll back up the other story."

"You lied to Arthur?"

"As soon as I knew what you'd done. Yes."

"But won't he put it together? Our relationship with the dragon...?"

"He doesn't know about that. I told him Kilgharrah helped me defeat Sigan but that I had never spoken to him before or since. If he asks, I'll make sure he believes you were never aware of his existence at all."

"You would do that for me?"

He looked at her and used one finger to caress a line down her unscarred cheek.

"I already did, my love," he whispered, "and I always will."


Just to let my readers know also that following an extensive investigation and debate between myself and GuildedDragonfly we have agreed that:

if Camelot was not in Wales but actually around where modern London is today; andthis story was set closer to the 900AD mark than 600AD; and the mediaeval warming period began slightly earlier than originally suspected; andbecause of this warming, the New Forest in the south of England was far more extensive (about 100 miles more extensive)

then the New Forest cicada, currently the only species in England and nearly extinct, would be more widespread and thus... it is perfectly feasible for me to have used cicadas in my story. Hahaaha! So here they are again...