Hi everyone! This idea blindsided me a bit, and I found I just couldn't bear to leave it be.
I hope you'll enjoy this fic, because I'm having a ball with this concept and it's an absolute blast writing it. And as always, please comment, I would love to hear any comments or questions about the story or my writing style!
This story is inspired in part by small elements of several other stories, including Twin Tales: Taking Root by the wonderful Linorien, Marred but Remade by SpaceWall, and Under Strange Stars by Idrils_Scribe. I highly recommend these stories, they are quite the read!
Update 6/20/21: Minor edits made.
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The funny little thing about legends is they tend to assert themselves as a wicked sort of fact over the ages. Truth turns to fact, fact into rumor, rumor into story, and so a legend is born. If it survives long enough, is diluted enough, perhaps it can be proud enough to call itself a myth. In the curious case of the ever famous Legend of King Arthur, this is true on many counts. Don't get me wrong, there is always a grain of truth to things, buried underneath all the gossip and the misspoken words, warped like a bad game of telephone. Some even get fairly close to the original version of events. Now, it is true that some succeed in unearthing what is nearly the original story of events, but none would be able to even scratch the surface of the truth.
For you see, it is quite difficult to find a story of the truth when not a word of it has ever been spoken.
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Imladris was, as always, a paradise. In the age of peace blooming from the sorrow that arose from the War of the Last Alliance, tensions grew, souring the soil by imperceptible measures. Even if the race of Men were still unaware of their ascendency, the Elves felt their waning in Middle-Earth all too strongly, even if it was only the beginning. And they also knew, through countless failures and lessons, that the war against Sauron was not over. Not yet. Not while the Ring still remained whole.
Which brought Erestor to his present situation. In the process of making sure the new Lord of Imladris could perform all his duties correctly (he needn't have worried, Elrond was incredibly competent), and could conduct everything smoothly in the absence of Gil-Galad (this was more of a problem, as Erestor had needed to help with much of the repairs and governance while Elrond, who had been closer to Gil-Galad, mourned), Erestor had wound up the advisor of yet another Noldorin ruler. And Elrond, ever pragmatic, was not ignorant of all Erestor's years of service as the chief Spymaster in Gil-Galad's court.
Erestor sat down across from Elrond at a modest table, on one of the many balconies in Imladris.
"You sent for me?" He asked.
Elrond looked up from his book, snapping it shut as he focused on Erestor. His hair was braided simply, most of it left unbound as was customary in times of peace, with none of the fastenings of a king. It was strange to behold, after a time of war, upon the head of the last living elf with a claim to the position of High King of the Noldor.
"Yes," Elrond began. "I have heard tell of unrest in the east, many warring Mannish kingdoms."
"And?" Erestor prompted. The nice thing about the absence of a king was being able to drop certain formalities. Not that Erestor generally conformed to them, but the sentiment was the same.
"And I have also heard tell of a prophecy of Men." Elrond stood, his dark blue robes rustling. "Walk with me."
Erestor stood, walking in step with Elrond through the pathways and gardens of Imladris.
"As you know, some of our previous spy network still remained in the kingdoms to the Far East," Elrond said.
Erestor nodded. "But you also know that we received almost no word from them since the most of them were ordered to travel back for the war?"
"Yes," Elrond admitted. "That is what this is about, really. Our first correspondence from them since the war has been received. You were not notified," Elrond cut Erestor off, seeing him ready to protest that as the Spymaster he should have gotten the correspondence first, and why hadn't he heard of this? "Because the messenger came directly to me, only today." He withdrew a scroll from a pocket and handed it to Erestor. "This is the intelligence they saw fit to send us, from all they had gathered."
Erestor took a moment to read from the scroll.
"A purge on all magics and magical creatures?" Erestor asked indignantly. "What kind of madness is this? So this is why we received no word, not even after wartime…"
"Yes," Elrond nodded gravely. "But that is not all. There is more information there which you can examine later, and I am sure you will soon be receiving many letters after this one, but there was also a message which prompted our spies to risk themselves in investigating, from what the messenger told me. An opportunity."
"I'm listening." Erestor's curiosity was piqued.
"There are rumors of a prophecy, in which a young prince of Camelot, one of the more prominent kingdoms, will unite the many different states under one banner. The prophecy we received goes into no cryptic details, but there is tell of a… helper, to the prince, in this endeavor. A guardian." Elrond stopped, turning to face Erestor. They had walked unconsciously near the library, where Erestor was most comfortable. Or, knowing Elrond, maybe not so unknowingly.
"So you wish to send someone to, what? Help the kingdom unite?" Erestor of course knew that their spies had been sent to ensure that those men of the far kingdoms did not fall prey to the Enemy, and become yet another nation of thralls turned against the Free Peoples of Arda, but although they had seen no evidence of the influence of either Dark Lord, the strife among Men there was an unsolvable issue. Not even a few choice assassinations had fixed the problem. "That is madness," he snorted. "The Men of the Eastern shores fight each other like starved wargs. They would never unite as one nation."
"But they could," Elrond countered. "And if they did, they could turn the tide against Sauron, when the final reckoning comes."
Flower petals blew from a nearby fruit tree, white like snow. The sweetness of spring pervaded the air, but Erestor never had been able to get the taste of blood and ash off of his tongue.
"They could," Erestor admitted, with more finality than he felt. "What is to be done, then?" Plans of regicide and infiltration flitted through his mind, who would be best suited to nation toppling and the pulling of strings. Perhaps his lieutenant and a few experienced assassins could get the job done…
"I would like to send someone to watch over this new prince in secrecy, to guide him and mold him into someone who would fight alongside the Elves when the time comes, who would create a nation of Man that would treat us as they do their fellows, not as angels or monsters."
Erestor had not been thinking anything of the sort. It must have shown on his face, because Elrond's eyes skated across his face, younger than Erestor but somehow still with knowledge as vast as the stars they reflected, and he sighed.
"I know you have seen it too, Erestor. You are much more cynical than I, and it serves you well in your work. Men, those who once fought alongside us, even those of my brother's kindred, they grow in fear and ignorance. Even now they speak of Galadriel as a dangerous enchantress. I do not condone too much maneuvering in the affairs of the Dúnedain, but a kingdom in the warring states of the Far East probably needs all the help it can get." Elrond pushed open the door to the Library, motioning for Erestor to follow.
"Who do you plan to send?" Erestor asked. "I know a few who may be good for the job."
Elrond looked back at him, a mysterious smile gracing his lips. "As do I."
Erestor waited a moment for Elrond to tell him who he had in mind. "Well?" He prompted.
Elrond held his silence. There was a gleam in his eye that was suspiciously similar to the one he had worn when he first arrived at Gil-Galad's court with his brother. A gleam that had caused many, many gold coins' worth of damage.
"Oh, oh no," He warned. "No. Don't you even dare."
"You're my most trusted advisor, Erestor," Elrond placated. "And the most talented spy here."
"I'm not going to babysit—"
"You love children."
"From a certain distance and elven. And this won't be a literal child— it'll be a chore."
"Nonsense, and you've always said you wanted to explore the Eastern shore."
"Not with a Mannish princeling in tow!"
Elrond was the elf to be feared at Imladris. Sure, Glorfindel was a legendary warrior, and they had a great many talented sages, but Elrond somehow managed to be both wise and ruthless, all the while smiling kindly and making the poor sap at the other end of his gaze feel guilty somehow.
Erestor was leaving for the kingdom of Camelot in three days time.
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Erestor had seen many a village like this one.
The streets were nothing but dirt, trodden to mud by hoof and heel. Small houses lined the road, a cluster of buildings, farms and stables that attempted to pass itself off as an individual town. People worked in the fields, in the houses, every hand put to work with nothing to spare. Those same people turned to watch as Erestor rode down the street, taking him in with wary eyes.
This was the first sign of any civilization more permanent than the odd stamped-out campfire that Erestor had come across for days. Which meant that he had finally crossed from the wilds of the Mid-East and the warring clans of Easterlings and Variags and into the land of the Far East. Though entering warring kingdoms was little better than warring clans, at least they were less inclined to shoot strangers on sight. There had been more close calls than Erestor would like to admit. He could only hope that this was truly the village he had set out for. If it were not, he had several more days of travel ahead of him.
A woman in a threadbare brown dress, with hair the same color held back by a grey cloth, emerged from one of the nearest houses and walked towards Erestor. Her eyes crinkled as she smiled, revealing gentle crow's feet that gave her a motherly quality. She looked about average for a peasant woman, except for the braided cord she pulled up from underneath her collar upon catching sight of Erestor. On the cord, made of simple twine, was a ring. It most closely resembled a signet ring, depicting a crow mid-flight, clutching a lily in its beak. However, the ring depicted no noble house, and certainly not one among Men.
"The crow follows?" He said in Quenya, dismounting.
"So the swallow may fly," the woman completed the phrase, smiling. "Welcome, my friend." She hugged him, switching to Westron. He did his best not to tense up. "They sent me word that you would be traveling here." She took him by the arm and led him into the house she had come from, motioning to one of the village boys to take the horse. "How was the road?"
"Road?" Erestor snorted. "If there were a road to this place, I would have arrived a month sooner." She simply shook her head, smiling good-naturedly. "The journey went well enough," he conceded. "No orc ambushes or near-death experiences."
"Please, sit." She motioned at a set of rickety wooden chairs set with a small table. "I'm sure you're hungry from the road. And!" She cut him off even with her back turned. "Don't try to tell me you still have waybread. I do not care, and you are having a hot meal."
Erestor raised an eyebrow. "So what warning did you have of my arrival?" He wondered if she even knew who was sent, as both their disguises prevented any identification. The magic of a glamour was potent, but their quality and scope was completely dependent on the skill of the master. The elves under Erestor's "house" always channeled their glamours through a more permanent conduit than the body, such as the identifying rings they all carried with them. That being said, the effectiveness meant that it was terribly difficult to recast the glamour, so spies did not get in the habit of dropping them once in the presence of their fellows. And it was sloppy, besides. So it was that Erestor had been in many an awkward situation such as this before, where he could be speaking to a close friend or a total stranger and would be none the wiser.
The woman set down a steaming bowl in front of him, sitting down across from him with one of her own.
"Nothing but the assignment," she answered, shrugging a bit. "I am to be your contact, both to connect you to the royal household and to deliver correspondence from Imladris."
"Ah, so what is your name, if we are to be working together for so long a time?" Erestor kept the amusement out of his voice. He played this game on every new assignment, and it never got old. If it was one of his closer colleagues or apprentices, they could talk themselves into labyrinths before actually spitting out their real names, even if by that point they almost certainly knew the identity of the other.
"Húnith," she answered simply.
"Ah, but what of your other name?" He said.
"If it is a surname you seek, I have none." She leaned forward, a glint in her eye. "And what of your name?"
"I am called Merlin," he replied.
"No surname?" She inquired innocently.
"None, for I am a peasant as well."
"No father to name?" She asked.
"Is there?" He returned.
This introduction, the game, was a sort of dance. To the inexperienced eye it was only senseless banter, but to the House of the Crow it was a briefing. Like all things, totally dependent on the skill and wit of the participants, the coded instructions could continue for hours or minutes. It was the most frequent way they were able to test their skills in subterfuge amongst their fellows, with no threat of death or failure above their heads. What Erestor gathered from the ensuing conversation was this:
He was to pose as the son of Húnith, traveling to the city to become the apprentice of the Court Physician, Gaius, who was a close friend of Húnith's. And to answer his worries about being ratted out by the village folk, he needn't worry— Húnith was the sole reason they survived some winters, and she was beloved enough that they would spin any lie and carry out any deception in her name. He couldn't help but feel that in the course of her care for them she had gained some motherly habits of her own, as Húnith paused mid-briefing to refill his bowl.
Other than that, there was not much to tell. Maneuver himself to a position of influence or counsel, guide the prince to unite the warring states under one banner, and ensure that they stand against the Enemy when the time comes. And stop the whole Purge business, as well. That would be nice.
"I must say," Húnith regarded him carefully. "For the master of Imladris to send one here alone with so little guidance either speaks of skill on your part or incompetency on his."
Erestor hummed. "Yes, that would seem to be the case." The conversation was drawing to a close, it would seem, after only fifteen minutes or so. And at the end came the informal practice that had somehow become the formal greeting, of stating the true name of each. Established agent first, then newcomer.
"If it is so, then perhaps you could speak your name, and so show me which is true?" Húnith asked.
"Truth is nothing," Erestor countered. "Tell me yours, and you might find mine."
"I am Belwen," she finally conceded.
"Glídan's apprentice?" Glídan was a good friend of Erestor's, who had spoken many times of her kind-hearted student.
"The same," Belwen said. "And you?"
"I am Erestor," he watched Belwen closely for signs of a reaction— nothing more than a slight widening of the eyes, a startled exhalation. Good, but not quiet good enough. Then her eyes seemed to shutter for a moment, and Erestor could only imagine what was going through her mind. Perhaps it was the disguise? It would be a rubbish disguise if he stood out at all, betrayed his real nature in any way, so he was flattered. Tall, gangly, pale and slightly "goofy-looking" as Glorfindel had so eloquently put it when Erestor had left, no one could ever link Merlin to the elf underneath. Even with ages of practice and experience, plans still went wrong, but Erestor was confident this one would be a success.
"I see… my Lord," a faint blush of embarrassment reddened her cheeks.
"I am no Lord, my friend. Actually, as of now I'm your son." He winked at her, and she looked at him in surprise.
"So," he settled back into the conversation. He expected this part to take a bit longer. "Why did you name me Merlin, dear mother?"
Belwen smiled slightly and visibly relaxed. "All planning and details, I see. Your reputation precedes you… dear son of mine."
And so began the infiltration of Camelot by Erestor, Head of the House of the Crow, Spymaster of Imladris, and Merlin of Ealdor.
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The road to Camelot had been long, and it had provided Erestor ample time to perfect and slip into his new role of Merlin the peasant boy. A little cocky, as all young men were, and a bit of a wise-ass, but nice nonetheless. People trusted a kind person, if honesty and sincerity went along with it, and Erestor— No, Merlin— could easily check off two of the three. People also tended to let slip many secrets around ears they doubted to be capable of understanding them, so Merlin would come off as a bit cotton-headed, just obtuse and goofy enough to escape someone's notice. No, an idiot like that couldn't possibly stab me in the back with a stiletto dagger half the width of my pinkie! No, what sort of idiot could possibly know the proper dosage of hemlock to kill a king without being detected! And he was young, so there was the maneuverability to "mature" and grow to a respectable position over the years, to lose the fool's guise.
So as he entered the gates of Camelot, Merlin was grinning ear to oversized ear at the wonderful sight of a bustling city and a splendorous castle, seeing the magnificence of the city for the first time.
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