Emrys and The Druids
The druids' safe-haven was a cavern hidden against a part of the mountain that had suffered a landslide in the past year. The raw earth was clumped with tangles of roots exposed to the sky, broken trees and shrubs half buried in the rich mountain dirt. The entrance was a cleverly hidden crevice carved between two angled boulders and veiled with a stray leafy branch. It was just wide enough for a fully-grown man to step through broadside and led through a dark narrow channel before opening into a long, high cavern perhaps a league long and half a league wide. The only light was provided by a handful of torches slotted into brackets, far enough apart that shadows flickered between them and multifaceted shadows of those moving within were cast upon the red stone. A cooking pit sat in the middle of the space, covered by a large pot that was tended by an adolescent boy.
Despite the lack of obvious chimney or openings in the walls, the smoke seemed to rise to the ceiling and dissipate, leaving the living area below clear of haze, smelling richly of stew instead of smoke. Various figures were scattered between the firepit in the middle of the cavern and an assortment of blankets spread alongside the left wall – a sleeping area, she assumed – and the murmuring conversations of waking people quieted at their appearance.
"Come," said Iseldir, walking along the right side to where part of the wall at hip height jutted out in a natural shelf, wide enough and long enough for an adult to recline upon. A second, smaller sill protruded beside it, laden with assorted medical paraphernalia, and readying the supplies were two women, apparently having expected their arrival.
"Sit. Sit," said the elder in a heavily accented voice and dragged Gwaine towards the stone shelf bed. "I treat." Her skin was a wrinkled tawny brown and she had a red spot between her black brows, just above the bridge of her nose. Her head was shawled but Merlyn could see long black strands falling freely over her shoulders and chest; she had never seen a woman like her before.
"She comes from the south-eastern lands across the water," said the other woman, a mid-twenties blonde with a motherly smile. Iseldir seemed to melt away as the blonde led her toward the nearby torchlight. "She is called Chandra and she is very far from home. My name is Vera."
"Merlyn," she replied automatically. "How did she end up here?"
Vera turned her so the back of her head was towards the torch and began prodding at the bumps, causing Merlyn to wince every few seconds.
"No one truly knows," she answered. "She speaks very little of our language, but she is highly skilled in healing and a kind woman besides. Looks like you've been knocked a few times," she added in a change of subject, poking a particularly sensitive knot.
"Ow," Merlyn yelped, and Vera apologised. "Kendrick disagreed with my escape attempt. I was ill when I awoke but I tended to it later. I think it's all superficial now."
"A healer's apprentice?" asked Vera as she reached for a prepared bowl of water with a rag already soaking.
Merlyn laughed softly. "Of sorts – when I have the time."
"Yes," the blonde agreed, dabbing at the matted hair to unstick the clotted blood. "Sowing the seed for Albion would take up much of your time."
Merlyn blinked, unsure how to reply, but was distracted by the approach of a young boy, perhaps eight, who stared at her expectantly. He had large brown eyes and dark blonde hair curling towards his cheeks. His face was grubby, but his weathered, dark brown cloak was well-tended.
"Hello," he said, stopping when he was right in front of her, staring up with doe eyes.
"Hello," she replied, smiling in greeting. "What's your name?"
"Cadfael, My Lady" he replied politely only to ruin it when he added bluntly, "You're Emrys."
"Cadfael," Vera scolded, and Merlyn shot her a glance to see her frowning at the boy. "Behave."
"Yes, mama," he sighed, and Merlyn blinked in surprise, not having expected the relation. She glanced at Vera with new eyes and she smiled accommodatingly while the boy trudged away with heavy feet.
"Yes, he's mine," she confirmed. "I married young."
"Is his father…"
"He passed several years ago; our camp was attacked, and he created a distraction so we might escape." Her smile was sad, and Merlyn felt heartsore for her loss.
"I'm sorry," she said softly, and Vera shored up her composure with a brighter smile.
"It was some time ago now," she said. "My son knows his father was a hero and I can live knowing Cadfael will grow into a time when such heartbreak will be no more."
Merlyn smiled in return, though her happiness was hollow. "The future is not set in stone," she murmured, thinking on Arthur's utter aversion to accepting magic. "Destiny is not always what we think it is."
"The future is wrought in mist and maze," Vera said, a whisper of knowing in her tone. "Sometimes one must go back to find the way ahead."
Merlyn glanced back and meet the woman's doe eyes, so like her son's. "You trust that Albion will be born?" she asked, finding that she needed the reassurance. "That magic will be free once more?"
"Albion is forming this very minute," she said kindly. "Treaties are being formed, wars brought to an end; Albion's fate is inevitable. Magic, however… magic's fate is not sealed. There has always been the possibility of Albion being born a land Without."
"So I may still fail." She swallowed hard at that realisation, turning back around so the woman could continue working on her head. Any decision she might make – any decisions she may have already made – could spoil the prophecy. Albion would be, but it may not be a land for all.
"Do not fret, Emrys," Vera soothed. "You bear a heavy burden, but you are not alone. You have many friends, many allies, who understand the weight of secrecy and the loneliness of being different, and we are always welcome to ease your worries. We will stand by your side when you need us."
"Alwyn wrote thus," Merlyn said, glancing to the brown-haired man across the cavern and feeling a little better despite herself. Seeing it in a note was one thing, but hearing it from the mouth was universally more reassuring. She was but a girl after all, just past her seventeenth summer. In the world of Kings and Empires and Destinies, she was but one small spark within a sun. "It is a relief to be reminded that sorcery is not evil. Living in Camelot has made it harder to see."
"The perspective of one is never the perspective of another," the woman said, her words holding the essence of a quote. "Which lends strength to the power of numbers."
"Friendship," Merlyn summarised, mind on Morgana and her recent revelation about herself and the black-haired girl.
"Yes," she agreed. "Friendship gives us someone to understand us, to lean on, and to give strength when we feel weak. It is invaluable to a happy life."
She said no more and Merlyn let her work in silence, mind still absorbing Vera's convictions. Merlyn hadn't known that Albion's future was not one guaranteed for magic. Despite refusing to believe in the inevitability of destiny, the reassurance that her efforts would be rewarded was one that had kept her going these past few months. To know that Albion would form with or without her was both a relief and disillusioning – perhaps she wasn't as important as everyone seemed to think.
"The worst of the blood and dirt has been cleaned away and it appears you were right on the wounds being superficial. I am going to put on some ointment then bandage your head, and I don't want you to remove it until you are being treated by your physician."
Vera did so and Iseldir approached as the blonde tied off the bandage. Vera dipped her head respectfully then moved off to help Chandra tend to Gwaine, who was grumbling upon his back while his ribs were prodded.
"Are you hungry?" the Elder asked softly, holding out a wooden bowl with a delicious-smelling stew. "Osian has prepared breakfast."
Her mouth watered at the scent and she took the proffered item gratefully, inhaling the steam with anticipation. "Thank you," she said, taking a sip and closing her eyes at the explosion of flavour. It might be her hunger talking but, right now, this was the best stew she'd ever eaten.
"The Prince of Camelot has recently arrived in the Vale of Denaria to trade for you," Iseldir said, drawing her back to the present. "If it is your wish, you can be guided to him immediately so you may be in the hands of those better fit to secure your safety."
"Arthur's here?" Merlyn asked, a mixture of emotions warring in her chest, though the most potent was relief. He did care…
"He has begun to grow suspect since Hengist has yet to arrive."
"You don't believe he will storm the stronghold, do you?" she asked with alarm and Iseldir cast her a glance without expression, somehow conveying his opinion.
"You know the Prince better than I," he said neutrally.
"Damn," she cursed, already knowing he would try some sort of action if no one showed soon. Arthur was not one to sit idly; nor did he have the patience to try. "How far away are we?"
"Perhaps two leagues."
Despite the situation and her desire to be near Arthur and show him she was fine, she was extremely disappointed that she wouldn't be with the druids for longer. She had so many questions – things she needed to know. For Morgana and Gwen. For herself…
She glanced at Gwaine behind her, dazedly staring at the uneven roof above them while Chandra stitched up his side. He had clearly been dosed with something; he had stopped grumbling at least.
"Will Gwaine be able to travel?" she asked sadly, already suspecting the answer.
"He will be weak for some time," Vera explained as she returned to their side, apparently satisfied the eastern woman could finish up. "And his wound will take weeks to heal, even with help – the internal damage is not to be taken lightly – but he will regain the entirety of his health and vitality. He is remarkably resilient."
Merlyn stared back at the roguish man's pale face affectionately. "He seems to be a person who commonly gets into scrapes, yet always manages to get himself out. It is good to know he will be well."
The other woman tilted her head in curiosity. "You do not know him?" she asked.
Merlyn shook her head. "I met him in Hengist's stronghold only yesterday. He was as much a prisoner as I, and for less of a reason. I refused to leave him to die and, in return, he defended me at the peril of himself."
"Then he is a man worthy of care," Vera said, and Merlyn couldn't agree more.
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Before she prepared to depart, Iseldir offered her a chance to wash and change, and Vera led her to a pair of wooden chests. "There are clothes in there that should fit you, and here is a bowl and clean rag to wash when you are ready. There is a small pot of heated water at the back of the cave." She pointed to the far-left corner, where the wall of the cave sunk back into a hidden alcove, offering privacy to those behind it. "Use as much as you wish."
"Thank you," Merlyn said, feeling the words inadequate and overused.
"I am honoured," Vera bowed and left with a smile.
Hesitantly, Merlyn opened the first chest and found it piled high with a tangle of clothes. The items were not folded, obviously stuffed in during the clan's relocation and left to crinkle, but she supposed people living on the run had bigger things to worry about than creases in a shirt.
She shuffled a handful to one side in search of one her size and accidentally scraped her hand against an odd, wooden container, wincing at unexpectedly stubbing her fingers. She peered into the chest's depths and stared at the dark, wooden cube residing innocuously amongst the clothes. It was odd; symmetrically cube-shaped but with peculiar metal designs built into each side, as if it was an intricate puzzle to be solved. Curious, she picked it up and examined it closely, finding no rhyme or reason for the delicate design. She pushed her fingers into one side and grabbed, what appeared to be, a small lever, pushing it into the small arc of its metal run, and then jumped when the top popped open and the guts of the cube arose. The roof of the box was balanced on four stilts and within its centre upon a plain base, was a golden metal ornament.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" said Iseldir and Merlyn jumped, disturbing the gold figure so it fell from its resting place and clattered onto the stone floor. Merlyn winced and hastily scooped it back up, fingers running over the tiny Runes etched onto one side of the spirals in hopes she hadn't caused damage.
"Sorry," she said, putting it back where it belonged and trying to figure out how to close it. "I didn't mean to pry."
"Curiosity is healthy and nothing of which to be ashamed," he replied and leaned down to press a cleverly hidden button on the top, causing the lid to lower and hide the golden spiral once more.
"What is it?" she asked, holding it up for him to take, unsure if he would want to move it now she had seen.
"It is a sacred item," He explained, taking the cube with a thankful nod only to place it back into the chest whence it came. Merlyn tried not to show her reaction at his silent show of trust, but the warmth in her belly was nice. "One of three, which come together to lead the curious to a quest of discovery. But it is not for the faint or greedy, and thus, must be protected until the time is right."
She tilted her head; he was talking without really explaining anything. "It looks similar to…"
"The druidic symbol we bear, yes," finished Iseldir. "It is called a Triskele and can be interpreted many ways, depending on the study and beliefs of the marked."
"Do you ever meet up with other clans?" she asked, intrigued by the societal structure of the druidic lifestyle.
"When we can. If it's safe, we try to unite during the four hallowed celebrations."
"Yule, Ostara, Beltane and Samhain," she recited.
"Yes," he agreed with a single nod, his voice taking on that of a teacher to student. "Those four are the quarters of our year; the time when knowledge is richest and magic is more active. There are also the festivities of Imbolc, Litha, Lughnasadh and Mabon, times to celebrate life and the turn of the earth. However, with the laws as they are, it can be dangerous for us all to travel so often."
Merlyn looked down, saddened by the knowledge that the traditions of a peaceful people were being stifled by the unjust laws of oppressors. People like Mordred and Morgana were forced to live in fear and isolation, which would do nothing to help their state of mind. But that reminded her.
"Have you met Mordred?" she asked, wanting to know how the boy was faring. By fate's design, he was doomed to be Arthur's downfall but his uncle, Cerdan, had shared his determination to change his destiny. His very name meant uncertainty, Cerdan had said, and that gave Mordred power over his choices.
But what a tragic thing for a boy to be forced to battle. Merlyn's own destiny was 'written' but she was lucky to be granted the right to create and nurture and protect. Mordred had a good heart, and she hated that the Fates had designed it to be corrupted. If she could help in any way, let him know darkness was not all there was; that change was coming – for the better – and it was coming from love, not hate.
Just like with Morgana, she wanted to save them the cruelty of a destiny they did not ask for.
"He and his uncle live in the Forest of Ascetir, under the guidance of the wise leader, Aglain," Iseldir said. "The protection of the Serkets allows them to live permanently within the trees, in a stable environment for those who need it. I have been told that the boy is happy and learning to master his gifts in leaps and bounds. I have also heard that he has become quite the mischief maker."
"That is good," she said with a smile. "It gladdens me that his time at Camelot did not stunt his ability to play."
"I believe meeting you, The Lady Morgana and Prince Arthur helped him see that those outside druid structure are not all to be feared, and it has given him faith in the future of Albion."
"Then something good came out of that terrible time, after all," she said.
"Indeed," he agreed. "Rarely do things happen without a cause, even if they are not divined until much later."
"I hope that holds true," she said, thinking on Arthur's orders to create the Magical Cuff. Perhaps this was all a part of Arthur's progression. When the time came and the Cuff was created, he might realise just what kind of horror he was trying to force upon her and recognise, at last, that she was not demon spawn. As Vera said earlier: The future is wrought in mist and maze. Sometimes one must go back to find the way ahead.
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Merlyn hovered over Gwaine as he slowly stirred, groaning as he felt the toll their escape sapped from his body. Merlyn's mind was still reeling over the talk she'd had with Iseldir while waiting for the rogue to wake; of the things he had revealed regarding her own path and the power she possessed.
"Every one of my people know healing," Iseldir explained. "It is the calling of our clan."
"What of other clans?" Merlyn asked. "Do they all specialise?"
"No," he admitted. "But we have been tasked with guardianship of the Cup of Life, and such a duty requires particular education."
Merlyn breathed in sharply, recognising the name. "You have the Cup of Life?" she asked, apprehension crawling up her spine. That relic contained a power beyond Merlyn's understanding, beyond what she believed one single person should control. It might be an artefact of the Old Religion, but the Old Religion was merciless, and the people who followed it tended to be the same.
He watched her with knowing eyes, saying gently, "It was granted into our care after you defeated Nimueh. Such an item cannot be left to the whims of the ignorant, and I agreed to bear the responsibility until the time it was ready for its true owner."
"And who is that?" she asked.
He stared at her pointedly and she laughed incredulously. "No," she refused. "I am not a High Priestess or-or a follower of the Old Religion at all. Not me."
"A new age is coming. The Old Ways are not the only way any longer. Nor is the Cup of Life purposed with a single task. Its abilities are as endless as the imagination, and glorious if used correctly."
"I don't want that power," she said, shaking her head. "I'm not strong enough to have dominion over life and death."
"Emrys," he said. "You are more than you can ever comprehend. You are a creature of magic, born of the earth and sea and sky. You are magic."
Merlyn laughed, unable to help herself. "Me?" she asked disbelievingly. "No." She shook her head, chuffing. "Don't be silly."
Iseldir didn't laugh along, watching her with wise eyes. "Your powers are not yet revealed. You have still to delve into the heart of magic and, until then, you will doubt. But after… after, you will be Emrys."
"What does that mean?" she asked. "What does Emrys mean?"
Iseldir looked away solemnly, tired gaze moving over his people. "The time has not yet come for you to learn. You are young yet, with a young king to guide and protect. Focus on that, and everything else will fall into place."
"But I have so many questions," she argued. "About the prophecy, about magic, about our kind…"
"Then ask," he prompted, folding his hands together serenely. "And I will answer if I am able."
"Ow," Gwaine grumbled as his awareness settled into place. He blinked heavily for several incomprehensive seconds before his soft brown eyes focused on her visage hovering above him. A frown overtook his well-bred features and she gave him a wide, welcoming grin.
"Usually," he said in a sleep-roughened tone. "When I wake with a woman above me, I'm feeling much better than I do right now."
She blushed scarlet at his insinuation and jumped back as if he was diseased. Her heel caught on a small basket and she overbalanced, letting out a shriek as she toppled onto her behind. She winced as the jolt of colliding with the stone floor travelled up her spine but was distracted by Gwaine's snort of amusement, and subsequent groan as he worked his abused torso.
"Serves you right," she retorted, embarrassed at her clumsiness and still red from his comment, though she climbed to her feet quickly and moved back to his side, slapping away his hand as it searched for his wound. "Don't touch," she scolded, looking over the bandage. "The area will be tender for a while yet; you were stabbed."
"I remember," he mumbled, closing his eyes with a sigh before opening them again to frown up at her. "You have magic."
"I do," she said, wary. Now their lives were not in peril, would his opinion change?
"Huh," he said simply then turned his head and squinted at his surroundings. "Where are we? I remember druids finding us, leading us back… urgh," he grumbled, lifting a hand to rub at his temples. "What did they dose me with? Everything is fuzzy. And not in the good way."
"There's a good way?" she asked, tilting her head in curiosity. He looked back at her with a perplexed frown pinching his brows – as if she was the crazy one.
"You ever been to a tavern?" he asked then shook his head in exaggerated disgust. "I can't believe I'm needing to ask that of someone. What has the world come to?"
Merlyn laughed at his dramatics and assured him; "I haven't but I have imbibed during celebrations. And I've awoken with a terrible hangover too. I try not to indulge too much because of that."
"The best way to cure a hangover is to keep drinking," he advised, and she shook her head with a snort.
"I highly doubt your theory," she said. "And I do not plan to test it when I return home."
He sobered at the mention of home and she bit her lip at the reminder of why she needed to speak with him. "I'm leaving," she said. "My, er, the prince is at the Vale of Denaria nearby. I'm heading to meet with him before Hengist decides to take the ransom money by force. Or Arthur tries to infiltrate the stronghold."
"A bit impatient, is he?" Gwaine asked, not understanding the relevance of her statement.
She shuffled from foot to foot. "You are injured," she explained. "Vera, one of your carers, said that you should not travel for another week at least."
He blinked with realisation and let his head slump back on his temporary pillow. "Ah," he said neutrally. "So this is where we part ways."
She took his hand, glad he felt the same reluctance she did. They had not known each other long but there was something there – not attraction, though the man was, admittedly, attractive. No, it was something… deeper.
"Come to Camelot when you are well," she implored. "I know of many people you would befriend." Gwaine was a good man, and she believed he would flourish in her home city. He had the sort of humour that Arthur would appreciate – once the prince moved beyond the irreverence and insults, that was.
"Eh," said Gwaine, masking his emotions with a nonchalant grin. "People don't tend to like my company for too long. And besides," he added with a shrug. "I do better on my own. There must be a tavern nearby with my name on it."
"I would venture a little farther than this region before giving in to drink," she cautioned, saddened by his reticence. Gwaine might say he preferred to be alone, but his chatter and easy humour suggested otherwise. "Hengist is still looking for us."
"Looking for you, lass," he corrected with a grin. "I'm just the cherry on top."
"Well, you don't need to bait him any longer," she replied. "Go find a tavern in Denaria or Gedref. They're southwest of Camelot and are prosperous trading districts, full of bars and women for your choosing. And write to me every once in a while. I would like to know of your adventures."
"You could come with me," he suggested, his sincerity purer than it had been the first time he'd offered. "We could explore all the taverns in Cenred's kingdom, and you could make adventures of your own. Forget about that bratty prince you serve."
She smiled sadly, and his lips quirked similarly. He already knew her answer.
"Take care of yourself," she said, leaning over and drawing him into a hug. He reciprocated unreservedly, arms wrapping tight around her torso and face buried in her dirty, tangled hair despite the awkward angle and pain it had to be drawing from his side. "Know you are welcome in Camelot's taverns any time you want."
He laughed as they broke apart and he smiled at her with more genuineness than she'd seen previously on his face. "If you ever have need of my aid, do not hesitate to find me. I'll stand by your side whatever the means."
That was a dangerous promise to make and Merlyn was humbled that he would grant her such power. He did not seem a man to go back on his word.
She stared at him for a long moment, feeling that more should be said but unable to fathom what. Eventually, she stepped back and turned away. "Take care of yourself," she farewelled.
He responded, "Take care of that princess of yours."
She paused and looked back over her shoulder in confusion, "I serve the prince," she said.
He grinned roguishly and replied, "I know."
She threw her head back and laughed.
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"Why have they not appeared?" demanded Arthur, storming around their temporary camp with his sword gripped tightly in a fist. The scouts had reported nothing, no signs of an approaching group, or even a message left for them to follow. Reputation suggested that Hengist should have already been waiting, ready to take their gold the minute they arrived; that he wasn't had worry growing in Arthur's gut like a tumour. Something must have gone wrong. Hengist was renowned for his short temper and Merlyn notorious for her impertinence; it was a volatile mix at the best of times.
"She'll be alright, sire," said Lancelot, stepping up to his side. "She is more than a match for the likes of Hengist."
Arthur would like to believe so, but the delay in getting her back was grating on his composure. "Anyone can be caught unawares," he said instead, eyes tracking any movement in the trees for men, though the scouts would send out an alert long before they reached the camp.
"I trust in Miss Merlyn's skills," added Sir Pellinore of Listenoise as he stepped up to Lancelot's other side. The older knight had been a surprise addition to the guard, volunteering to join when Arthur and his men were mounting up in the courtyard. Arthur had been confused since, apart from the incident with the Questing Beast, the aging warrior had not been active for many years. But he had said when faced with the prince's questions, "I do not know Merlyn personally, My Lord, but what little I saw of her when you were injured revealed that her compassion and loyalty knew no bounds. I would not leave a woman with such integrity to be dishonoured by the brigands who have stolen her."
That had only increased Arthur's interest, not having realised his maid had left such an impression on the knight. But in later introspection, he decided he shouldn't be surprised. Merlyn had the uncanny ability to affect everyone she met, and almost always in a positive light. It was something of which he was both envious and proud.
Suddenly there was a birdlike trill, recognisable as one of the scout's sounding calls. Someone was approaching.
He waved at several of the guards near the mounts and they readied their weapons to guard the ransom gold, locked tight in a metal coffer strapped to a hobbled mule. Arthur, Pellinore and Lancelot drew their swords quietly and stepped towards the north-east tree-line where the whistle had sounded, prepared to meet Hengist's men with truce or steel.
There was a rustle of disturbed shrubbery and Arthur took a moment to be annoyed at the dense undergrowth of the forest. It was impossible to see deeper into the woods and left those on the above the Vale quite vulnerable to ambush. But he had to trust his scout; the alert hadn't been a call of alarm – it had been a notification of approaching company.
Arthur adjusted his grip on the handle just as the most unexpected person fell through a tangle of brambles and rolled down the slope to the prince's feet.
"Merlyn!" he exclaimed as she stopped face up before his boots, dirty leaves in her hair and small cuts littering her face, fresh from the thorny bush she'd tumbled through. There was a bandage wrapped around her head in a sick imitation of a crown, but her eyes were clear of confusion as they lit upon him.
"Arthur!" she cried happily, scrambling awkwardly to her feet before he could think to help. "I'm so happy you're here!"
And then she engulfed him in a big hug, forcing him to swiftly twist his blade so she didn't impale herself upon it. He shot a perplexed glance at the other knights over her head, but they did nothing but shrug, Lancelot sheathing his sword with a smile.
"How are you here?" he asked as she pulled back and instinctively picked out some debris tangled in her knotted hair. She was a mess, appearance like a feral forest child. Her clothes were not what she'd worn when she'd left with Morgana; in fact, they appeared much like a traveller's outfit with a sturdy brown cloak clasped at her throat.
"I escaped," she said, as if it wasn't obvious. "Hengist's prisons really aren't that great. I heard that you had arrived to pay ransom and wanted to beat him here in case he tried to demand it anyway." She glanced over at the others and recognised her knight friend with a beaming smile. "Lancelot!"
She engulfed him in a similarly enthusiastic hug and the brown-haired knight patted her back fondly before she drew away and added to Arthur, "We should leave soon. Hengist had scouts watching the area so he probably already knows I'm here. He wasn't very happy I escaped."
"Did he do that to you?" Arthur asked, trying to contain his temper as he gestured to her bound head – bound to cover an injury.
She reached up and touched the bandage by her temple, as if remembering it was there. "No," she said dismissively. "I tried to escape on the way to the castle. Kendrick – one of Hengist's brutes – decided I was less of a hazard unconscious."
Arthur branded that name into his memory; if the opportunity for justice (revenge, his mind whispered) arose, he would be ready. He waved at his men to begin packing and they sprang into action swiftly, storing their brief lunch and strapping their gear onto the horses. Another moved to the edge of the forest and let loose a loud whistle, calling the scouts back to camp. They shouldn't be too far; Arthur had not planned to linger long.
"Did Morgana make it back alright?" Merlyn asked, glancing between the three knights. "Sunstrider was injured. He – I didn't know if he would make it." her voice shook the slightest bit and Arthur moved to assure her, only for Lancelot to beat him.
"They're both fine," the brown-haired man assured, resting a hand on her shoulder. "Sunstrider was weak but he is receiving the best care possible. The Lady Morgana is unharmed and only worried about rescuing you. She was ready to mount an assault on the stronghold herself."
"Well. I can only be glad she doesn't have to do that. The fortress is up the mountain," she jabbed a thumb towards the jagged peaks visible over the trees, though the castle wasn't in view. "The walk would be exhausting."
Arthur snorted and reached out a hand to give her a light punch to the arm. "It's good to have you back," he said then turned and walked away before he could get any sappier. Next thing, he'd be wrapping her in a hug and refusing to let go.
He scoffed at himself. What a ridiculous thought. If he wasn't careful, he'd be turning into more of a sook than Merlyn.
Instead, he could now turn his attention to more important matters. Namely: the magic-suppressing Cuff his servant would soon create – the new moon was tomorrow night.
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"The Lady Merlyn has been spotted among the knights of Camelot," reported Kendrick, shifting nervously. Hengist's fury was well known and he did not wish to suffer the consequences of being the messenger. "We know not how she evaded our patrols, but the prince is leaving with the gold."
He watched the warlord's face slowly turn ruby, the colour rising up his thick neck and round cheeks like a rash. With a roar, the broad warrior swept the goblets and plates off the long table, the clatter loud against the stone floor. He kicked the nearest cup in his temper and Kendrick winced, trying not to draw attention to himself; Hengist's hand was gripping the hilt of his sheathed sword tightly.
He puffed like an irate bull, pacing in his agitation, before he spun on Kendrick and snarled, "That wench insults me! I want a bounty on her head!" he stepped closer and Kendrick tried not to show his nerves, gaze twitching towards his blade. "Send the word out; one hundred gold pieces for the man who brings her to me alive – and unspoiled." He snatched up a strawberry that had rolled across the table and squished it in his hand. Red juice slid between his fingers, trailing long rivulets down his knuckles. "I want to show her what happens to people who dare humiliate me. This insult will not go unpunished!"
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I know you guys wanted Gwaine to stick around – and so did I – but this is necessary. I guess they'll just have to go on another epic adventure together in the future… ;)
I loved the love you guys poured on me about Gwaine. Some of your reviews made me laugh aloud, so thank you, wonderful people.
So many things in this chapter are important for later, just – you guys have no idea. And kudos to those who recognised the little teaser I put in for a future episode!
Hope you enjoyed – and sorry for the long wait.
TBC…