PART II: "Cut You to the Middle"

Somewhere hidden in the wild Welsh countryside sat a rather old-fashioned home. Well, one might liken it more to a hut than a home. A hut much like from many a century ago. To the untrained eye, no one had dwelt in the decrepit building for quite some time. However, if one waited long enough, you might see through the shimmer of a glamour cast by a certain destiny-bound warlock to keep the humble hut away from any prying eyes that happened to wander in the forest.

If someone had been able to breach the glamour for more than a feeble moment, they might be able to speak of how well kept the house was. The exterior was covered in well-trimmed vines that had begun to bloom in the fresh spring air. Within the home was a large, open room that was neat, though certainly not kept up to date with the times. Herbs and flowers hung to dry on the walls, and books and glass jars covered every inch of the bookshelf in the dwelling. Ancient scrolls and inkwells with feathers adorned a dark, wooden desk in a far corner.

Particularly prying eyes may have been able to note the singular resident of the aforementioned hut.

The old hut served as the home to a man untouched, in only the physical sense, by time. His short, black hair, even after nearly fifteen centuries, had yet to sprout grey. No worry lines marred his face despite several lifetimes of worry witnessed by two blue eyes.

The ageless wanderer had only recently reclaimed this worn building as his dwelling; he's been earthbound far too long to remain in one place for so long. Nonetheless, when he'd felt the Old Religion that prescribed him so, he wandered back home.

He walked in forests all too familiar until he had come across stony rubble. He'd smiled faintly at his oldest memories that'd been recalled by this place. The Old Religion had and would always be strongest in the place he'd called home. Nowhere on Earth would the warlock feel so comforted. Except maybe in his lover's arms, but he'd sworn off having hope of his return many centuries ago.

He'd felt relieved almost when Kilgharrah had told him of Arthur's destined return… at first. But after so long, Merlin began to give up hope. He refused to let himself count on the return of his king. He'd never been able to bring magic back to the land with Arthur, so what guarantee was there in the Great Dragon's words? Why should Merlin hold out hope for a fallible prophecy?

Cynicism got the best of the warlock after several ages.

But he came back to his home and tidied up the hut he'd once used long ago. All because the Old Religion called him. It was rare now that he'd ever be called upon by magic, but he found he couldn't - or wouldn't rather - blindly trust it like in the days of Camelot.

But he figures a trip home couldn't hurt him anyway. He may have given up on Arthur's return, but that didn't mean he wasn't a nostalgic old fool. Besides, he couldn't ignore the Goddess just as Kilgharrah couldn't ignore him.

It happened when he'd been on his way back to the hut from gathering herbs for an experimental potion that he'd felt it. It came first as an uncomfortably tight feeling in his chest, then graduated to a stabbing pain in his abdomen. He dropped his bag of herbs and fell to his knees clutching his middle. After a moment, the pain faded and his mind unclouded. He only grew more confused as suddenly a woman - translucent and ethereal - materialised before him. A wood nymph, he'd guessed. They were most common in such heavily wooded areas like the forest surrounding his hut.

The nymph approached him slowly, seeming to contemplate his identity before raising a dainty finger to her right - westward.

She stared into the old eyes of the tired man in front of her. He stared back.

There was only one thing he knew of west from his position that still stood. An isle and a lake.

He considered it for a moment. Was he called home for a reason? Was the prophecy not just some big, heart-wrenching tease? Was there some truth in what the cryptic dragon had said so long ago?

Merlin, still sat on the ground, clutched the grass, and decided. Damn it all to hell. He knew the likelihood that he was going to be toyed with was high, but at least he'd have something to do. Damn sound reasoning. Damn the emotional consequences. Damn it all to hell.

When the nymph offered her other hand to help him to his feet, he accepted it. He grabbed the see-through, yet strong hand as he heaved himself upright. He flashed a short smile at the admittedly beautiful nymph and thanked her before making his way westward.