0x09 - The Choices We All Make

After several years of audiences with no more weight behind their grievances than annual floods or bandits, Gaius felt he should have known the fragile peace was too good to be true. The Purge had merely been moved to the slow burner after the Isle of the Blessed was overthrown and all practitioners of the Old Religion died, fled, or – in the extremely exceptional cases like Gaius and the late Lady Vivienne – swore an oath to renounce all such practices. But there was no definitive end, and there never would be because the king had declared war on nature itself.

Most of the time the madness lurked hidden away, but that day it was brought to the forefront of all the minds of those gathering in the court audience chamber to hear the one-eyed witness.

Uther motioned the shady looking man with the eye patch to be taken to away for his reward, and then ordered Sir Cleges to have his men ready to depart to the outlying village of Ealdor within the hour. With that, the court was adjourned and the room was emptied of all except Gaius and the king.

Gaius was reminded of another time this had happened, and of the courageous nobleman who challenged the king's decision. He was not here now; the last the court had seen of him had been at his wife's funeral, almost four years before. Remembering the deep black smudges under her lifeless eyes and the drawn face of an insomniac finding no rest even in death, Gaius could not blame him for avoiding the city where she had breathed her last.

These days, the only man who rode between Tintagel and Camelot was a messenger, sent to collect draughts for the young Lady Morgana, who was beginning to suffer nightmares eerily similar to the ones that hastened her mother's tragic death from illness.

Gaius thought of Gorlois and Vivienne, of their courage in the face of great adversity, and then of Hunith and Balinor and theirs.

He took a step towards the king's throne, knowing he was on thin ice but praying the fates would grant him some courage of his own.

"Sire," Gaius began, gathering his thoughts, "Forgive me, but this man has no proof behind his claims. The dragonlord is already dead; his head lies buried outside these walls. Why are you willing to risk war now, at such a critical time in your peace talks with Cenred, when there is so little reason to think the man you're hunting for lives at all?"

"Gaius," Uther sighed like he had had a long day and wasn't in the mood to argue his decision, "All leads to sorcerers must be properly investigated. Whether this is some imposter or lookalike, I must send men to confirm or else I risk far more than war. And -" he said as though he knew what Gaius' next argument was "- even if you were right and the dragon was the source of this sorcerer's power, if it's true he was able to fake his death then he is not as helpless as you made him out to be. There's no denying that if the man lives he's found a way to still practice magic."

"But surely sire," Gaius entreated, remembering what had changed Uther's mind four years ago, "If war was too great a price the last time this man was reported to be within Cenred's borders…"

Uther held up his hand, cutting Gaius off. "The last time, we had little information to work with; it would have taken search parties weeks of scouring the countryside to locate him. This time, the witness has given us a name and directions to the man's very house. My men can slip over the border and back in a matter of days, perhaps even hours. With luck, Cenred will be none the wiser any knight of Camelot stepped foot within his lands in the first place."

"But the border patrols, sire, will see evidence of the crossing."

"We'll deny any knowledge of it," Uther insisted stubbornly. "The tracks of a company of horsemen are not enough allegation of trespassing for Cenred to declare war over."

"What if," Gaius tried again, "your knights and Cenred's patrols should happen across one another?"

"No wars are won without taking risks," Rather pointedly, Uther cut off Gaius' next protests with, "You're dismissed, physician."

Gaius bowed and walked out the great stone room, making his way to the lower levels of the citadel with his mind turning over things he could do. The problem was, these turned out to be few.

Even if he could find a trustworthy messenger to deliver a warning, it would reach Balinor too late. Likewise, an old man like himself was not up to racing a company of elite fighters over lands he barely knew anymore on the old horse he'd bought years ago to lug supplies. Gorlois - the one man Gaius knew the whereabouts of who might be sympathetic to the plight of an innocent family threatened by the laws against magic - was leagues away in Tintagel, where no messenger would reach him in time for him to provide any useful aid.

Gaius' attempts to convince Uther had failed, and a mere physician could not override the king's orders. Briefly, Gaius considered declaring a quarantine of the city, but he abandoned the idea as folly. At the moment there wasn't so much as a couple families with the sweating sickness, he wouldn't be able to maintain the fictitious plague for long and he had no way of explaining why a group of knights couldn't depart but a messenger could. Even if he could smooth away those wrinkles, with Uther's irrationality in regards to magic there was every chance he'd ignore his physician's advice and send out the knights anyways, plague or no.

An hour later he watched the horse riders in shining armour receded into the distance, away from Gaius and Camelot. Whatever way of stopping or delaying them he might have been able to devise given more time to think was useless now. With the knights gone, Gaius was helpless.

Perhaps it would not end in tragedy, Gaius tried to think optimistically. Balinor had evaded Uther twice, perhaps fortune would smile on him one more time.

He stood by the ramparts, watching the empty sweep of green land away from the city for a long while though, unable to convince the foreboding in his heart.

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A child's short, skinny finger pointed upwards an indeterminable white puff of cloud against an ocean of light blue, "That one lookth like a cow."

Merlin had to walk fast to keep up with his father's longer steps, talking excitedly the whole way. Though it was nearing harvest time, Balinor was not working in the fields. The two of them were heading into the forest for a game of hide-and-seek.

It had all started the day before when Hunith came down with a fever and headache. After coming home to his wife cradling her head in her arms leaning against the table with supper only half cooked, Balinor promised her he'd stay home and take care of her the next day. However, it quickly became apparent that what Hunith needed was not chores done or cooling cloths on her forehead, but a bit of peace and quiet – a rare commodity with a chatty four-year-old constantly underfoot. So Balinor and Merlin were going to go play in the woods, while Hunith a slept away her summer flu.

It had been weeks since Merlin's birthday party and – though Balinor had been keeping a watchful eye open in case of Borden's return – all seemed well. The only difference was Merlin's newfound friendship with the boy Will, and their many happy hours running around their houses and exasperating their mothers.

The first time of waiting for him to come back, whittling without any idea of what he was making, had been nearly unbearable. Hunith too had seemed distracted at the various tasks she was occupying herself with, and when the door opened both of them had silently risen as one, like the accused who just heard their sentence. When Herleva smiled as she dropped Merlin off and said how well-behaved he'd been, it felt like a dam of ice had melted all at once.

After Hunith and Balinor had finally asked too many questions about his day, exasperating even such a talkative easygoing child as Merlin, he'd thrown his hands up in the air like he was making a grand pronouncement and declared,

"I'm not a baby!"

Now, beside him Merlin chattered on about the various things he and young Will had done the day before, and what their plans were for the next day. It was still strange to think of Merlin leaving the house without him or Hunith to keep an eye on him, but every day that passed only proved it more: Merlin was no longer a baby, nor even truly a toddler. He was just a little boy, but little boys could at least be trusted to understand the concept of secrets, even if they weren't as careful with them as their anxious parents may like.

Merlin was tugging on his arm, trying to get his attention so Balinor could see the wide hand gestures he was accentuating his story with, when Balinor suddenly threw an arm out in front of him and hushed him. Merlin looked rather put out by this, but mercifully fell silent. They stood still for a moment in the quiet while Balinor confirmed with a sinking heart what had stopped him in the first place: the sound of many hooves approaching.

Balinor quickly drew Merlin off the dirt path, hiding them both in nearby lush bushes. Aside from a whispered question over whether they had started playing already, Merlin made no protest. Balinor was unable to answer verbally with the thundering hooves drawing nearer and nearer, so he settled for a curt nod of the head, and drew Merlin closer to him.

It was not, as he feared, brigands or Cenred's men come to terrorize the people into paying taxes. For through the gaps between the branches, he could see red and silver riding past, heading the way he and Merlin had just come from, towards the village. As always, when something came to shatter Balinor's world it came with no warning just when he thought that the fates had finally decided to leave him be in peace.

Hunith, he thought sickeningly, her waxy fevered face hovering in his mind. Was she asleep already? She was in no state to handle Uther's dogs.

Perhaps they had not come for him?

Why else would they be here, proudly bearing their blood-coloured uniforms in hostile territory? He did not want to know what ran through that double-crossing honourless snake Uther's mind, but even he in all his arrogance could surely see the folly of sending a party of men across a border boldly wearing his colours. It was like asking for a war.

But as far as Uther was concerned, he was already at war: with magic, and all those who possessed it, down to the least child. And in times of war, it was only honourable to give your enemies the courtesy of knowing who their killers were.

After the horsemen passed by, he picked Merlin up and glanced around wildly, eyes settling on a hollow tree that Merlin had hidden in the last time they'd played before planting season. Glancing down at where Uther's men had vanished, he crossed over to the tree in a few long strides.

"Father?" Merlin said, muffled from where Balinor had pressed him against his chest. "What'th going on?"

"A new game," Balinor said, not wanting to cause the four-year-old to panic. He needed to get to Hunith, but he couldn't risk taking Merlin with him in case he failed and was caught. That way even if he was caught, he wouldn't let them catch his son. "You're going to be hiding from those men who just went by."

"But I went out with you!" Merlin protested, beginning childish hysterics in spite of Balinor's efforts. "The bad men in wed can only get me if I go out alone!"

Casting about desperately for the explanation that would calm Merlin down the quickest, Balinor settled on, "And they won't get you, as long as you stay hidden."

He tried to lower Merlin through the hole in the tree trunk, but Merlin kicked out violently, wriggling with all his might as he screamed. "No! No! I don't wanna hide! They'll find me, they'll find me! They'll find me and give me to the flameth!"

Balinor looked anxiously down the path. There wasn't any sound of Uther's men turning around as far as he could determine, but Merlin's panicking cries were hard to hear over. "They'll definitely find you if you're this loud!" Balinor hissed, shaking the child in frustration.

Merlin immediately stopped yelling, though his loud sniffles weren't much quieter. Balinor thought quickly, and then yanked the pouch hidden under his tunic out. Holding it up to Merlin's face, he asked quickly, "Do you see this Merlin? Do you know what it is?"

Merlin sniffed loudly, shaking his head. "It's a protection charm," Balinor made up, not sure what to think of how easily the lie came to him. "Father has to go find Mother, but as long as you hold this and stay hidden, the bad men in red won't find you. And if they don't find you, neither will the flames."

Merlin took the pouch with shaky fingers, looking brokenheartedly with his teary eyes into Balinor's, imploring him. "I don't want you to go."

But he didn't resist when Balinor lowered him into the tree trunk, still looking up through the hole only a child could fit through, the whites of his eyes gleaming in the dark of the hollowed wood. "I have to go get Mother," Balinor insisted, praying Merlin would obey. Hunith, his heart churned, as though calling her name with each beat. Hunith, Hunith, Hunith. "Then I'll be back, with Mother. I'll bring Mother here, and we'll all go together. Just stay here, and stay hidden. I'll be right back."

Merlin nodded, not saying another word as the lessons his games of hiding taught him took effect. Balinor turned away, but he could feel the two gleaming light eyes following him even after he was sure Merlin could no longer see him from where he lay crouched in the tree. The gaze burned against the back of his neck, and he tried not to think about how terrified Merlin must be now that all his parents' warnings were coming true.

He had to focus on getting to Hunith. Merlin was fine, for now. It was Hunith who was in danger.

Uther's men's trail was easy to follow, the only horse prints for miles. How on earth did Uther expect this to go unnoticed? What ever happened to employing bounty hunters to do his work for him? Was he really going to start a war over Balinor?

He truly was insane. The mad tyrant, what a fitting moniker.

The horses could not go very fast on the untended path. After sprinting for perhaps ten minutes, Balinor caught sight of them, and quickly took cover behind thick foliage. The head of the company pulled to a stop, throwing up a hand to signal the other men. He dismounted, leveling his sword at what to Balinor looked like a plain giant oak. "Show yourselves!"

Two boys of about ten and seven tumbled from behind the tree, their glowing red hair a stark contrast against the green forest floor. Catrin's children, he realized with a foreboding feeling. He never had seen Catrin again, and even though Balinor was hardly the most social man in the village there was no way that could happen unless she went out of her way to avoid him. He looked at the two little boys and wondered what their mother had told them about the family with the child whose eyes she had once seen glow.

The boys' eyes were wide, but Balinor was too far away to tell if it was with awe or fear. "You're knights!" the elder boy exclaimed, rather evidently given their gleaming silver armour and warhorses.

"We're knights of Camelot, looking for a man calling himself Keith," the dismounted knight announced, not lowering his sword but making no move to further threaten the boys. He seemed entirely unphased that he was demanding information out of two children who were not even subjects of his land, but Balinor spared scarcely more than a passing thought on the unbelievable arrogance of Uther's dogs. "Where is he?"

The elder boy pointed down the path they'd just come down. "He went that way."

The knight glanced over his shoulder at the forest behind them. His face was only visible to Balinor for a moment, but he thought the man looked puzzled. "Why?"

"Because he's weird," the younger boy said confidently, as though it was a forgone conclusion. Balinor felt cold and the memory Catrin backing away from a newborn in terror replayed across his eyes. Of all the children the knights could have chosen to waylay, it would have to be Catrin's. "Mother says we're not allowed to go near that man or his changeling."

Balinor thought his heart might stop. Changeling. He tried to dislodge the word from where it was stuck between his ears, looping over and over inside his head, as if if he stopped thinking it it could make the word be unsaid.

The elder boy indiscreetly kicked the younger in the leg, hissing loud enough for even Balinor to hear, "Or talk about them, you little sodden-skulled marl-head!"

The younger gasped loudly, and the two looked moments away from degenerating into a childish exchange of various synonyms for 'stupid' until the knight interrupted their budding quarrel with an impatient, "Why not?"

The younger bounced on the balls of his feet, quailing only under the elder's stern gaze. Suddenly, a short leg shot out and tripped the taller boy, and the younger said rather self-importantly bouncing on his heels while his brother lay groaning on the ground, "Because they might curse us to death like Old Ann for saying mean things."

The older boy hefted himself up and slugged the younger across the back of the head. "So stopping talking already!"

The younger threw himself to the ground on top of the older, and the boys broke out into a fight as if there was not still a company of knights halted in right in front of them.

The leader of the company looked away from the brawling boys, perhaps thinking he'd gotten all answers that could be gotten out of them. He made a sweeping motion with his hands towards his men, who checked their horses and disappeared into the trees in the direction the older boy had pointed. The leader remounted, and nudged his horse into a run after them.

Balinor crept low to the ground. They weren't going into the village, where Hunith was. That was good. If he could draw them away, they need never know of Hunith or Merlin. He'd make up something to tell them about his "changeling". If only he could think of what to say.

Blood pounded through his body at a dizzying pace, making it difficult to breath, let alone think.

A dirty blond knight was nearest to him, glancing above where Balinor lay crouched. Within minutes he would draw up alongside him, and the foliage would not hide Balinor's exposed back. Forced into making a decision with too little time to think, with a whispered spell a snake spooked that knight's horse, sending him flying off his mount.

Balinor broke cover and ran. He could hear shouting behind him through the pounding pulse in his ears, and looking over his shoulders he could see the horsemen converge into a line coming after him. With a flash of his eyes, a tree branch fell to block their path, making them check their mounts to avoid being crushed.

He'd head for the River of Essetir, he thought quickly as he ran, needing to give himself a destination. He'd jump in the water, and their chainmail would weigh them down if they tried to follow him. The current would carry him to Camelot, but he'd escaped once from there, he could do it again. He had to.

And if they followed him back to Camelot, then they wouldn't find Merlin or Hunith.

Should he come back for them? He wanted to, he needed them like he needed air to live… but this was all because of him. Wouldn't he just be putting them back in danger? What if Uther posted men to watch for his return?

He promised Merlin he'd be back, though. He'd told Hunith he would trust her when the bounty hunter almost drove them apart, and he had no intention of taking back those words.

But were promises truly more important than their safety?

A crossbow whizzing past his ear, narrowing missing his ducked head, made Balinor take his focus off what he would do if he got away and on what he needed to do now.

On horseback the knights would have overtaken him had the terrain been less advantageous. However, the dense wood was easier to navigate for Balinor who did not have to be constantly tugging on reins to swerve around trees. That the forest came alive with Balinor's panted utterances and became hell-bent on denying his pursuers passage was another point in his favour. Arrows whizzed in his after-shadow, missing only because he kept moving, and Balinor blessed Uther's code for training his men more on honourable weapons like swords. He glanced back every few moments, trying to work out which one of them had the crossbow. If he could just get it away from him…

Pain, unexpectedly from the front, sent him reeling forwards to the ground. Disorientated, he could hear the sounds of yelling from in front of him, unable to make out what was happening. He had been so sure that Uther's men were behind him. Had there been another company lying in ambush?

The ring of metal upon metal sounded all around him, men yelling incoherently in a great circle from every direction. Pushing himself up to his knees, he snapped out the shaft of the arrow, leaving the head embedded in his side as a cork against the blood flow. Looking around in befuddlement, he saw a blur of colour: silver everywhere, clashing crimson and mauve; the garish red of Camelot against the better camouflaging darker colour of Cenred's men. A border patrol, Balinor thought foggily, lurching to his feet unsteadily.

A couple of men in red looked over furiously to where he was staggering, but couldn't get away from their purple clad opponents to stop him. Like a drunk, Balinor tried to evade over swung blows from both sides, reacting too slow each time to fully escape. Something thin and long bit into his leg, and he collapsed, aggravating the pain in his side.

Closing his eyes, he tried to think of spells of healing, but they fell away like water cupped in palms, seeping slowly away with no way of retaining them. Magic requires focus, he recalled in his mother's voice, a lesson often given to him in days that were long past, and the more powerful the spell, the more focus is required.

That was why self-healing was said to be the hardest branch of magic; even the greatest of sorcerers cannot heal if they cannot think. Healing magic was difficult and finicky at the best of times, trying to do it while injured yourself was nigh impossible.

The Old Tongue rolled out of his mouth regardless, using words that were not the correct words to say to do what he wanted them to, but he used them anyways because he had no others. The echoing of fighting echoed all around him, and he neither knew nor cared who was winning.

Hunith, he thought.

She wasn't here. She was at home, sick. Resting. They didn't know about her. They hadn't gone to the village. She would be fine.

Merlin, he thought, recalling two light eyes looking out from a dark hollow tree.

Hunith would go looking for him when he failed to come home. Merlin knew not to hide from his parents once the game was over. These men hadn't found him.

But the red-haired child had told them. Changeling, he said, that man and his changeling. Them. It wouldn't take much looking for Uther's men to work out who the other one of his them was.

He couldn't let them.

He didn't know how to stop them.

But he couldn't let them.

He crumpled to the ground, unable to maintain the effort of kneeling when it was so hard just to think.

He needed a changeling, one that wasn't Merlin. Just for a moment was alright. Just as long as Uther's men could see something they could accredit as being the other part of his them, capable of cursing an old woman to her death.

When he opened his eyes his vision swam in spots of black, and his tongue felt heavy as he brought down a great branch off a tree, falling with a loud thud beside him. Men yelled as they were knocked out of the way, but he couldn't make out whether they wore red or purple. Colour was being washed from the world like dye draining away in a flood.

It took more effort than he thought to raise his hand over the log, and his tongue tripped over the spell he needed. He licked his lips and tried again, feeling that he was forgetting a large part of the incantation and jumbling what he could remember. That was okay. Unlike healing magic, precision wasn't necessary here. Even if the results were off, as long as it moved he didn't care.

The wood burned and twisted beneath his hand, turning into something that was not wood at all. It twisted and lunged, away from him. Lifting his head, he saw the log leap at a silver covered man, swinging its newfound limbs in reckless abandon. There was more shouting, just as indistinctive, and other men rushed forward to attack the strange misshapen thing he'd created.

Balinor's head fell back.

The men battled with his changeling.

All he could think was, it worked, then.

And then he closed his eyes, too exhausted for further thought.

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When Hunith woke, the first thing she noticed was that it was dark. The second was that she was alone.

She fumbled to light the candle, and looked all around her house in bewilderment. The lunch dishes were still on the table, and there was no sign of supper. Surely Balinor and Merlin should be back by now? They would have come home for supper at least.

Balinor should have woken her hours ago.

This wasn't right.

She didn't waste time finding a shawl, just opened her door and looked out at the starry sky. It felt like a clawed fist was clenching around her chest, refusing to let her lungs expand or heart beat in the rhythm they should. It was far too late for playing in the woods.

Without stopping and with only her candle as her guide, Hunith ghosted over the darkened street of Ealdor to the woods, where strange sounds echoed unseen in the still night air. She remembered coming to these woods before at dark, with Balinor on their second Samhain. She had been frightened then too, but he had given her a light and then she wasn't anymore.

Hunith thrust the candle out in front of her, the meager protection doing little to calm her, and stepped into the woods.

She couldn't say how long she wandered before she heard little whines different in pitch from the other noises of the night. But when she did, she knew them for what they were, and her feet were fleet as she wove around the dark outlines of trees towards the source of the noise. The sight of the great tree only threw her for a minute, an old memory of daylight fun had her remember what was special about this particular tree.

She shone the candle in the hole, and two tear-streaked cheeks shone back at her, "Mother!" Merlin sobbed, frantically throwing out his hands to be picked up.

She clutched him against her chest, rubbing soothing circles into his back as she tried not to panic. "What happened? Where's Father, Merlin?"

"I don't know," Merlin sobbed against her. "I'm hiding from the bad men in wed. Father'th coming back for me. He pwomithed."

The bad men in red.

"Oh God," Hunith breathed into Merlin's hair, clutching him closer to her. She looked around frantically, even though if Uther's knights were nearby they would have been drawn to the sound Merlin's crying as she had been.

Her feet were moving before she had any destination in mind, her wrist flicking back and forth to try and illuminate the woods with her meager candle. Merlin clung around her neck as she walked, still crying. Only the dark sounds of the night met them, and little branches and bushes were all her candlelight revealed.

What was she doing? It was madness to search the woods when it was this dark already; she'd never find anything. But it would be madness to go back home, to sit in the cottage with Merlin against her and wait for the door to fly open at any moment, when it could be Balinor or Uther's men on the other side.

She needed to know, and that was all she allowed herself to think as she stumbled about in the dark. She had no idea where she was anymore. The sky lightened to a navy blue with a purple glow on the horizon, and still she wandered. The woods still looked familiar even though she'd been walking for hours; she must have been wandering in circles all night. Walking and walking and going nowhere.

Her candle had long since burnt out, but the glow on the horizon illuminated more than the tiny flickering flame had anyways. The sun was peaking its golden-orange head over the horizon through the gaps in the trees when Hunith tripped.

She had just enough time to aim herself so that she hit the ground on the side where she didn't have a child clutched. Merlin flopped against her; he'd long since fallen prey to exhaustion, and it appeared not even the unavoidable jolt of their tumble was enough to rouse him now. Hunith carefully switched arms, as she had many times before during the night. At four, Merlin was no longer an unnoticeable weight to carry.

She rubbed her ankle, frowning at the log that had tripped her. It didn't look like an old branch fallen off a tree, more like someone had hewn off a great healthy limb and left it lying in the middle of the forest. Beside it, now that she was nearer the ground she could see, was the unmistakeable shape of a hoof print.

Cold and numb from her long trudging night, she fingered the physical proof of Merlin's words being more than childish terror for a moment before looking around for the trail.

She didn't have to follow it far before it brought her to a trampled section of the forest, where a few horses lay unmoving on their sides and men in both purple and red were fallen all around. The scene was completely senseless; bodies and weapons fallen indiscriminately, so she couldn't tell which weapons came from which felled men. She was glad Merlin was asleep. She didn't want him to see this.

In the centre of the chaos, a colour caught her eye that was neither red nor purple nor silver, but a home-dyed plain brown that she would recognize anywhere. It was as motionless as the rest of the bodies. She approached tentatively, praying she was wrong. But when she drew back the familiar shoulders to see the familiar face of her husband, she couldn't deny it to herself.

"Balinor?"

Her eyes were blurring from lack of sleep and the remnants of her fever, so it took her a minute to determine why he was so still. A single shaft of wood protruded from his chest, the feathering of the arrow snapped off but the head remaining. She tried not to think about what it had punctured in such a vital area, instead placing her hands on Balinor's chest desperately. It was still.

She sank to her knees, unable to stand any longer.

It couldn't be still.

He had just taken Merlin out to play, as a favour for her. They'd been together for five years now, and Uther had been a threat looming in the distance the whole time. He couldn't take Balinor away from her now, he just couldn't.

The stillness of Balinor's chest disagreed with her.

She must have done something, moved in some way, because Merlin stirred against her sleepily. Immediately she stilled, breathing only shallowly until he settled again. She couldn't let him see this. This could not be the last he ever saw of his father.

How was she going to tell him?

Slowly, desperately, she placed her shaking fingers over Balinor's jugular vein, praying for a miracle. Her prayers went unanswered; there was no pulse. Her hand slipped away, the straining muscles in her torso held back from coming undone only by the knowledge that if she broke down then she'd wake up her son, and that he could not be allowed to see this.

What am I going to do? she asked Balinor's still form. She waited, but there was no answer. No miraculous last words saved on a dying breath just for her. She had found him far too late to hope even for that.

She repeated the words aloud, and there was still nothing but the sound of her own voice, alone. She hadn't been alone in years, not since Balinor had first unexpectedly come into her life. How had she ever lived without him? She could not now remember her life from those days clearly.

Instead she saw herself and Balinor, constantly supporting one another as they thought late into the night, tossing around ideas for how they could make safeguarding Merlin seem to him a fun game. Even though the threat of the Purge had been there all along, she hadn't truly felt it because she wasn't facing it alone. Beside her every step of the way was her truest friend and love, just as committed to protecting their family as she. When there was a knock at the door she could count on him to grab the baby and whatever was floating at the time, and when her friends traded rumours behind her back she could count on him to hear and not just tell her, but act alongside her as they played the charade of a normal family to dispel the harmful whisperings.

He was her one ally in the fight for their happiness, the one person she knew who would shoulder the burdens and share the joys with her.

Her throat felt as if she had swallowed a ball of lead; she couldn't breathe.

She couldn't do this alone.

Merlin's arm tightened against her, a frown marring his sleeping face, and she knew she'd have to.

She stood slowly, trying to gather her thoughts. She had to bury Balinor, but she couldn't without waking Merlin. She had to put him down but to do so would leave him vulnerable; there could be more knights wandering the woods even as the thought occurred to her. She looked around her, but the empty forest that greeted her was not reassuring. The forest had surely looked just as empty and harmless yesterday, when she lay sleeping unaware at home.

She unwound her headscarf, tearing the fabric into little ribbons. She tied them onto tree branches as she walked back in the direction the rising sun told her Ealdor, so that a path of faded grey cloth was there to guide her back to the site of her worst nightmares. She thought as she walked back to the village, trying to imagine who she could leave Merlin with, for she dared not leave him at home alone.

Mercifully, Herleva was already dressed when she knocked on her door. She could see William the elder sitting at the breakfast table, listening to little Will talk in the background. Hunith could see words dying on Herleva's lips and knew that she must look as she felt.

She held Merlin out, and wordlessly Herleva took him, unasked questions clambering across her face. Hunith couldn't bring herself to answer properly, even though she knew that this must seem strange. She had no idea what she was going to tell the village.

For now, she just said, "I need you to watch him."

Once Herleva nodded her agreement in confused concern, Hunith turned and left. William and Herleva were level-headed, sensible people and they were fond of Merlin. If there was anyone left in Ealdor who could be trusted to watch him for the short period she couldn't, it was them. William was a big, strong man, more than a match for any knight foolish enough to think a man who wielded a plough didn't know how to defend himself. If there were still knights lurking, he would be of more use in defending Merlin than she.

Although she told herself this, Hunith followed the trail of cloth back as quickly as she could, stopping only on the way to grab a shovel. She didn't allow herself to think as she dug, beside the river rather than where Balinor had been killed. He'd once told her of a Lake of eternal beauty and magic, and how the river carried the candles he lit on Samhain as tokens to be seen by those on the other side of its watery veil. They'd sat on the shore together, finding peace in each other's company despite the pain of his past, believing they had all the time in the world to spend together.

Her hands shook on the handle of the shovel as she dug into the blurred ground she could hardly see through the moisture in her eyes. No sound escaped from her choked throat. The flowing of the river was just as noisy as it had been on that night, but this time the thudding her of shovel into the dirt punctuated the calm, defiling something that once she had found peaceful.

Once the hole was deep enough, she climbed out and returned to the aftermath of the battle between Cenred's and Uther's men, not even looking upon their bodies. Balinor was heavy, by the time she had dragged him to the river she was slick with sweat and panting. She lowered him into the grave as gently as she could.

Then it was just her, kneeling by a hole beside a river, looking down at the closed face of her husband.

There should be words that she should say, she thought, but she couldn't get them past her throat. How can you say a lifetime of words in one moment, just before you cover the unresponsive face of the one you wanted to say them to in dirt?

Finally, she said simply the only thing that there was to say, words she had told him over and over and thought she would be able to say to him again and again in the future. "I love you."

And then she collapsed, and when sobs tore helplessly through her the empty forest alone bore witness to her grief.

* ~ * . * ~ * . * ~ * . * ~ * . * ~ * . * ~ * . * ~ * . * ~ * . * ~ * . * ~ * . * ~ * . * ~ * . * ~ * . * ~ * . * ~ * . * ~ * . * ~ * . * ~ *

Cenred held out the glossy pieces of parchment, the ink shining with colourful seals and words of peace, examining them as though they were a strange curiosity. An amused smile flittered across his face as he ripped them into shreds, and then shuffled them into a stack. He held out the stack to the travel-stained knight kneeling before him in his report.

"Pin them to the bodies," he said once the knight took them, "then cart the bodies to the other side of the Forest of Ascetir so Uther has no excuse for further trespassing. Let's see what he does when he discovers what's become of his generous offerings of a peace accord."

The man bowed and left, and Cenred stood from his throne, idly pacing while he thought. The survivors of the border patrol reported Uther's knights had been chasing a sorcerer. That was of no concern to him; they had trespassed and therefore they would be punished accordingly. What Uther chose to do in his own kingdom was his business, but Cenred would not let him destroy perfectly good resources within his borders. He had made his position on the useful asset that was magic clear to Uther long before, but it would appear that another reminder was due.

It was too bad the sorcerer was dead now. Cenred had reaped some great profits from the foes Uther so carelessly made for himself.

Except Uther wasn't normally so careless as to endanger his own proposed treaty by violating the border, nor did he normally need reminders of Cenred's unchanging stance.

His spies in Camelot would know the reason behind this particular arrogance on Uther's part, and what made this sorcerer different from all the others who'd fled his way in recent years. Cenred was not a fool, he knew the pockets of bounty hunters dragging away his taxpayers were mostly lined with gold from Camelot, but that was the usual extent of Uther's domineering over the border. To send out knights into his land was akin to a declaration of full-out war. If Cenred chose to declare such, Uther would have no moral superiority to garner allies with.

Unfortunately the timing wasn't ideal. Cenred didn't have the military strength to prevail against Camelot at the moment. Still, he couldn't allow himself to be seen as weak by accepting a truce with a man who had no respect for a little something called a border.

"Ingild," he called, spinning on his feet to face a fat balding man standing to the side. The man startled at the sudden attention of his king.

He stepped forward, the chains binding a young malnourished girl to his side rattling as they forced her forward with him. Cenred didn't note much about her beyond that she was new, which wasn't uncommon. Ingild had never once had an "apprentice" who lasted until the end of the contract. Some unhappy fate always befell the youths before they were in a position to potentially replace him.

When Ingild knelt it forced the girl to the floor, and she threw out a manacled hand to steady herself, exposing a druid symbol tattooed across the back. "My lord," Ingild simpered, "How may I be of service to you?"

"Once my ears within Camelot have told me who it is that Uther wanted so desperately, you will investigate the matter yourself to see if there are any benefits left to be reaped."

"Of course, your majesty," Ingild bowed, causing the chained girl to bob down as well. "After all, who better to investigate a matter of magic than your Court Sorcerer?"

**/

* I. feel. terrible. Does it make it better or worse that I planned out Balinor's death from the earliest outline? If you're horrified and are about to type up angry comments demanding to know why I did this let me spare you the effort:

* Firstly, in the initial brainstorming process I did toy with the idea of keeping Balinor around and having him teach Merlin magic. Then I ran into the "why would Merlin go to Camelot if he didn't need Gaius to teach him?" and the "would Merlin really be the same person if he had his father around his whole life?" and the "why would Balinor ever agree to his son going to live under the nose of the man who slaughtered his entire family?" problems, to name a few. Every time I tried to write around these things, it just didn't feel right.

* Finally, I came to the conclusion that the real reason it didn't feel right was because I'd killed the scriptwriter's plot-device of magical knowledge (Kilgharrah) and then added my own (Balinor), and the plot was going outrageously AU like a rollercoaster that broke through the railings and was about to come smashing down in a huge wreck. How can I claim that the dragon wasn't that necessary then give Merlin all kinds of magical knowledge he didn't have in Season 1?! I'm not against other fics where Merlin is trained in magic from childhood (if they're well-written) but I don't think this can be one of them, because that would be really hypocritical of me. The entire basis of this fic is that the dragon's dead and Merlin needs to figure stuff out on his own, I can't just hand him years' worth of knowledge gift-wrapped on a silver platter before Season 1 even starts.

* But what cinched Balinor's death as opposed to exile or imprisonment or amnesia (several tentative solutions I came up with) is that for Merlin to inherit dragonlord powers, his father needed to be dead. So if you really want to blame anyone, blame whichever BBC writer thought that up. What kind of condition is it that?! Also, for those of you that know the legends, there's a certain childhood story I'm planning on including that will only work if Merlin fits the term "fatherless."

**/