A/N: For this November, while I'm doing an original story for NaNoWriMo, I'm going to be adding to this collection of short/unrelated stories…
My muse seems to take anything I've never done before, as a personal challenge. And short stories seem perfect for taking chances on premises we'd never write into a full-length work. Like, Merlin as druid royalty/nobility. And second person pov – something I've never done. Hope I pulled it off…
And now for something completely different!
The Druids' Prince (which can also be known as, The Druid's Prince. Because the placement of the apostrophe is significant…)
You should have known better. You tell yourself as you stumble through the trackless forest, disarmed and bound with your hands behind your back, so that the cords cut into your wrists at every misstep, and your feet ache and ache.
Really ought to have known better, than to be ambushed so easily and thoroughly.
Then again, Sir Hecter, who's in charge of your training and education, never once mentioned ambush by magic. You'd remember if he did. But Father would probably have him burned alive, if he did.
You wonder dully, stumbling again, what they're going to do to you when you get wherever they're taking you. They don't talk, none of them, and they don't maintain formation, drifting about the flanks and coming up on you suddenly if you try to slow or stop, or standing and waiting and watching you from shadowy hoods as you limp and struggle up to them, prodded by someone's hand. None of them are cruel, though. Not to jeer or knock you down because your balance is off for being tied.
Maybe this should be part of the training, when you get back to Camelot, how to fight one-handed or bound or blindfolded.
If you get back to Camelot.
You're glad you're not blindfolded, though, when you reach the clearing, and the tents come into view a moment later, a couple dozen of them.
They don't stop you looking, so you study the place with a scout's eye as more than one hand pushes you to the center of the clearing. So many points of vulnerability. Lines of drying laundry, kettles over small dry fires that show little smoke. Furs stretched to dry – women working with various materials – barrels of flour or salt-pork or fish or dried fruit. Children running – hastily corralled when the rest of the community catches sight of their returning fellows, and you.
You lift your chin, like Father tells you to. It gives you confidence as the people gather – men first, women filling in, a few children sneaking between their elders. But it gets harder to show confidence you don't feel when you start catching some of the whispers.
"Is that him?"
"… Pendragon…"
"…Murderer…"
There's one man standing out from the crowd, and you focus on him, partly because he isn't glaring daggers. The druid has fine, light hair that seems to float about his lined face. Firm jaw, sad eyes. Hands tucked into his sleeves.
Your mouth is dry and you're panting – from the forced march, arms bound.
You deserve this-
No. It's their fault, they know the law and yet continue to break it, what do they expect but the consequences.
You're jerked to a stop and the whispers die down.
The druid glances at the others behind you, who've brought you here. "No one was hurt?" the druid says.
"They weren't expecting us," one replies from behind your left shoulder. You cover your startled jump and shift your gaze away from faces like you're bored.
"Did you kill them?" a woman asks suddenly from the crowd. "The knights? His guard? Did you kill them?"
You try not to betray your interest in the answer. All you know is that your men suddenly started dropping from their saddles around you, and two druids were catching you down from your horse before you could boot it into escape. And yanked you from the saddle before you could draw your sword.
"No," a different man says. "Sleeping, only. They'll awaken to find their prince gone and no tracks to follow."
Your heart sinks a little, at that. If he's right, then you can't expect a rescue-attack anytime soon.
"They'll know it was us," someone else from the crowd says suddenly, the fear obvious in his voice. "If we thought things were bad before, now Uther will-"
The fair-haired druid clears his throat, and silence falls again. His eyes are on you as he says conversationally, "Where's Emrys?"
For a disconcerted moment, you think the question is for you. And you have no idea how to answer such a strange query. Then people begin to shuffle aside, making way for a couple of newcomers, and you look away from the druid elder.
A boy and an older woman. Her face is lined also, strength and sadness, and she has a green scarf tied around her hair. She stops as part of the crowd, while the boy steps to the fair-haired druid's side.
He's thin and tall, like he's just come through a growth spurt. Maybe fourteen, a couple of years younger than you, wearing plain peasant clothing like all the rest – a rope for a belt around his white tunic, and a druid cloak fastened at his throat, but pushed behind his shoulders. His hands are empty, his boots clumsy. His hair dark, his eyes light and as for his expression… you find it hard to meet his eyes, for some reason.
That bothers you – in the middle of this whole unnerving ordeal – so you look at the older man, instead, who is still watching you.
"Who are you?" he says. "Tell us your name."
You lift your chin again, because it isn't in you to beg or pretend ignorance or deny. "I am Arthur Pendragon, Prince of Camelot." You're relieved to the point of breaking out in a mild sweat, that your voice doesn't waver on the pronouncement.
Murmurs ran through the crowd. Of course they hate you; the feeling is mutual, but you're fighting hard not to fear them, now that the tables are turned.
"You led a raid, a fortnight ago," the leader goes on. "Against one of our camps, not far from Camelot."
It occurs to you suddenly, this might not be about ransom, at all. And in that case…
If you swallow, your throat might stick closed. Your heart is thundering in a chest that feels empty, and your stomach twists with an emotion you can't name, if you're to be a true Pendragon and a pride to your king and father.
"I did," you manage.
The boy's eyes are steady on you, but you ignore him, focusing on the elder, who looks even sadder.
A woman shoulders out from the crowd. "You bastard!" she spits. "My son was there. You murderers drowned him in the well. His spirit will never rest, thanks to you – he was only seven years old!"
The ground disappears from beneath your feet, and the edges of the world go fuzzy. You're afraid – you want to live, but you're helpless to affect your will among people who only fear you with an army at your back. And evidently the army won't be coming.
And you refuse to think about the children, and the well. It's a horror you've been steadfastly blocking off with mental refusals, with determination never to be unable to act or speak, again. Never lose control.
So you raise your voice. "This is my father's land, and you trespass here with your foul magic. You break the law, and then blame us for the consequences you've chosen."
"My boy never chose-" the woman begins to shriek, lifting her fists to strike you – but one of the other men shoves her back gently.
The boy says, in a quiet voice that still somehow carries, "Magic isn't foul."
You snort.
He looks puzzled – he looks disappointed as if, in spite of everything, he expected more from you. Your breath catches at that; you've seen it so often on Father's face when he looks at you, and it hurts more than anything.
But you cannot show them that. Not anyone.
"That is your only defense?" the fair-haired druid says. "You were merely following orders? Are you not aware that many of us do not or cannot perform magic? Yet your raids kill everyone indiscriminately, even children too young for instruction."
It feels like your stomach is twisting your lungs. You never thought – you never considered-
No. It doesn't matter. There were orders – they were in the wrong and you blameless. They're just trying to corrupt you like they do with everyone they come into contact with.
"Magic is evil. It needs to be stamped out of Camelot completely," you say.
"He's condemned himself out of his own mouth," someone behind you says. The black-haired boy shifts his attention suddenly to that person.
"What is the will of the community?" the fair-haired elder asks, looking around the circle of people.
There is a stir, but you cannot make out any verbal answers – and you're too proud to look around like he's doing, searching. You know there's no sympathy for you, here – and you wouldn't want it anyway.
"You have no right to put me on trial," you say aloud. "This is not a legal proceeding – you cannot carry out a sentence against me, I am the prince!"
Someone behind you growls. "Not our prince."
"If we are all in accord…" the elder says, with a last glance around – and you're suddenly desperate to know what the unspoken decision was. Suddenly terrified to know.
"Wait – no, you can't!" the boy says, startled out of staring at you.
"Emrys," the elder begins.
Oh – a name. The name of the boy – who is he? They paused your trial for him – but voted on the outcome without his input.
"Don't you know who he is," Emrys says, flinging out a hand at you. Almost you flinch, expecting magic – but it's just a gesture. "This is the once and future king of prophecy."
What, now? That's a title you haven't heard before, how can it be you?
"You're wrong," someone tells the boy immediately.
And this time, you look around the crowd when it begins to murmur and whisper. Some faces look shocked, some furious, some uneasy.
The fair-haired elder is shaking his head gently. "It can't be, you must be mistaken."
"Look again," the boy insists. "Don't you recognize him?"
"It won't be a Pendragon," someone else says, stating a certainty. It is a certainty, it seems, that everyone else can agree on but the boy.
He looks from person to person, around the circle – and again you feel reverberations of shock, recognizing his emotion. You've felt the same way, speaking out at a council meeting, offering a contrary opinion or an angle that hadn't been mentioned – and everyone looks at you like the druids are looking at this Emrys boy. With condescending tolerance for his name or position or rank, but not reconsidering the merit of his argument.
Is one of these men Emrys' father, wearing the same expression that yours does, when something like this happens. Embarrassed disgust and impatience.
"But –" the boy protests.
"Emrys, you are very young – and far more likely to be wrong than the convocation of elders, and the whole community," the fair-haired man says kindly. "The judgment is irrevocable."
The boy draws in breath like he's going to argue, but looks around at the faces again – looks at you – and doesn't. He takes half a step back toward the woman with the green scarf, and drops his eyes.
And it seems that his attitude of deference relieves the rest of the people gathered. Are they all so sure the boy is wrong as the handful of men who act like the leaders seem to think?
But you're distracted when one of them grabs your arm, down from the chainmail specially made for your size because you don't fill a man's armor yet. You're yanked through the clearing toward one of the tents, and forced through. You discover it's high enough to stand up in, with a single central support-post. There's a lantern on the ground, which appears swept clean of bracken, and in two moments your captor has untied your hands and rebound them in front of you, around the supporting pole.
You circle around to watch him duck out the door-flap – and lean over to see that there doesn't appear to be anyone in the immediate vicinity. The crowd is breaking up, people walking away to tend to chores and duties.
Deep breath. All right, you're not completely helpless, and now that you're alone-
You yank on the tent post experimentally – just a little, enough to test the give, not enough to bring anyone running at the shaking of the tent-canvas. But there's no sway whatsoever – you yank harder to make sure, but it's like a full-grown oak and doesn't move even a fraction of an inch.
Damn magic. You gulp a little and give up that idea.
Your wrists are tied with ordinary twine, and you see at once that the man tying it knew what he was doing. You don't think about that, instead you pick and pick at the knots and ends til your fingertips are as raw as your wrists, and nothing loosens. You bend and break and separate your nails on both hands trying to weaken the strands of the rope – but it's all like the slender tent post.
"That rope is enchanted," someone says mildly, from the direction of the tent-flap.
You jump like a startled hare because you didn't hear anyone enter, and usually you're better aware of your surroundings than that. A prince and a warrior has to be.
Here, you're allowed to be neither, so maybe that's it.
Your visitor is the boy Emrys. How long has he been standing there, watching you try to free yourself? And if their magic has made it impossible; you shudder to think of the foul force touching your skin, entering your skin through the breaks you've made in it – has he been laughing at you?
But he doesn't look like he was laughing. He's solemn, and maybe sad. You remember how the adults of the camp treated him – he was the only one to object to the sentence. Maybe you can use that – a prince has to be tactically clever, too.
"You're Arthur," he says, venturing closer. "My name is-"
"Emrys, I know," you say.
Then he smiles, and the light in his eyes shifts somehow to make it easy to keep looking at him. "My name is Merlin," he said. "Emrys is more like a title."
A title, hm?
You say slowly, "So you're like… a lord? or a prince?"
He shrugs, starting to wander around you and the tent support pole, out of reach though maybe you could kick him down. Though why would you – he probably has magic, if he's a prince, and wouldn't just remain your cooperative hostage.
"They have these prophecies," he says. "Great things I'm supposed to do. And they want them done yesterday, but they won't actually let me do anything, or listen to me because I'm too young."
He looks at you suddenly, up and down, like he's just remembering that you're a prince, too. And you don't want him to realize the similarities you already noticed, you don't want there to be any similarities, you want all magic-users to be alien and evil, you want them to look and act and sound alien and evil because that's what they are, they're not scared little children crying for their mothers or women trying to run away or empty-handed men trying to shield their families with their bodies. Father says so, and Father ought to know.
So you lift your chin, and focus on using him like a tool, or a weapon, since it seems the pole and the cord won't give you what you want.
"What are they going to do to me?" you demand. Because that's what he objected to – that's where he's already on your side.
He grimaces, beginning to circle you slowly again. "You've been found guilty of murder, and unrepentant. That means you pay for your crime with your life."
A shudder ripples through you. Those words aren't unfamiliar – you've heard Father say them before public executions. The shudder doesn't pass, however, but curls back the other direction, and you find yourself leaning against the pole, squeezing it in your hands and screwing your eyes shut tight, trying to keep breathing. Your extremities are going cold and numb.
You don't want to die. But no one will save you. No one can.
There's a warm hand on yours, and you blink stupid unmanly tears to look right into the boy's eyes – blue like the sky at twilight, the best part of the day. He's only a couple inches shorter than you are.
You blurt, "You have to get me out of here."
He nods almost absently, like that's a given, and withdraws to begin his slow pacing circle around you again. "I have an idea," he says, his eyes on the ground, "but I hope you won't like it."
But you have an ally, and hope is beginning to bring back warmth and strength. "I honestly don't care if I'm going to like it or not, if it works, I'm sure I'll like it better than…"
Execution. And maybe it'll be drowning, or stabbing – because that would be fair, if you're being punished for the deaths in the raid. And arguing perspective on right and wrong is pointless because you're in their power – right or wrong, they can kill you.
But maybe it would be burning at the stake. Which would be vindictive, but entirely possible.
He walks all the way around you once more, like his choice to help you is bothering him, and you keep your mouth shut so he won't change his mind. Then he brings his hand from his pocket.
Delicate golden chains spill from his fingers, and he opens them to show you two chunks of crystal attached to them. He looks at you expectantly, like he thinks you're going to guess his plan from that, and you roll your eyes before you can help it.
"Sorry, I don't know anything about magic," you say. And suddenly, something you'd be proud to boast in Camelot's citadel sounds ignorant and childish, here.
He reaches into his pocket again and pulls out a small knife. You can't help pulling back from him, uncertain – he's a stranger and a magic-user and what if he's using you like you're trying to use him? – but he doesn't seem to notice.
"We each put a little of our blood on a crystal," he says. "Then we wear the one with the other's blood on it, and it'll look to everyone else like we are each other."
"You'll look like me, and I'll look like you?" you say, to make sure.
He nods.
You add, "But I'm taller than you."
"It doesn't matter. Neither do our clothes. People will see me when they look at you. Even if anyone touches us, the deception will hold – only until the crystal's chain comes off."
You're not quite sure what's not to like. "And I just… walk out of your camp, and take the crystal off once I'm away? And you'll pretend to be me in the meanwhile." He doesn't really answer, only studies you, and you pull up your chin, resisting his evaluation. "That sounds like it'll work. Do you want to do this immediately, or wait for dark, or what?"
"Right now," he says. "They'll miss me before too long, and once I'm found here talking to you they won't let me come back. But you'll have to act like me, and say what you think I'd say."
"Yeah," you say, and bite your tongue on a sharper, I'm not stupid comment.
"And…" He hesitates, then lifts his head to look you right in the eye – and now you can't look away. "You have to promise something else."
His eyes remain blue. No sign of magic performed, but it feels involuntary when you say, "What?"
Because, that's not commitment. Just a request for more information.
"You have to promise me, that you won't forget today. And tomorrow. What happens here, I mean."
He watches you realize what he means. Maybe he doesn't want you to die, but he doesn't want to free someone who might come after his friends another time.
You make your face go blank. Because really – attacking an official patrol on Camelot's lands and abducting the crown prince, and threatening and planning your execution? There's no chance Father won't level this place, once you're safely home. You feel a surprising pang of sympathy, like you want to warn this boy to flee the camp after you're gone, but… He's magic, too. Their prince. Guilty already of the worst crime in the kingdom, deserving only death.
But he won't help you if you tell him any of that, so you don't. The earnest expression in his eyes chafes your spirit, but you can stand it for a chance at freedom.
"Don't forget me," the boy continues, with an intensity you can't quite deny. "And don't just… believe everything you're told, or just follow your orders. Listen to your heart, and your conscience, and never be afraid to change. Keep your mind open, and learn about magic if you can – even if it's only to learn how to defend yourself against it."
"Is that all," you say, trying not to be sarcastic, in case that offends him.
"Not by a long shot," he says, but shrugs again, turning the knife and pushing up his sleeve. "Mercy isn't weakness. A man's class shouldn't define him. Might doesn't make right, it makes responsibility."
Maybe he's repeating the bits of wisdom his teachers have drilled into him as the prince. But there again, it's almost exactly the opposite to what you've been taught – which isn't really surprising, coming from an enemy. Except… is he still an enemy? Just because he has magic? When he's using it to help you and save your life?
He makes a very small cut on his forearm, which shows only a single welling droplet of blood, and when he rubs one of the crystals into it, it flares oddly and seems to absorb the smear of red liquid.
"There," he says, lifting and opening the chain to slip around your neck. He tucks the crystal down the laces of your shirt, hiding the chain with your collar. It feels warm against your skin. The touch of his fingers is uncomfortably intimate.
You look down at yourself, and can't see anything different. He pushes your sleeve up and touches your arm with the knife, and hesitates again.
"Go on," you say, suddenly impatient to leave this place.
He presses, and gives the knife a little yank, and the cut stings, but there's no more blood than his. He rolls the second crystal in your blood, then pulls your sleeve back down before dropping his crystal on its chain around his neck. The gold and stone disappear under the cloak material fastened around his neck.
Then he positions his hands around yours. You brace yourself for the shock and evil of a spell, but he doesn't say anything. His eyes glow gold, and the twine at your wrists warms – before beginning to untie itself slowly, though you can't help wincing when it peels away from the raw patches you've made on your wrists, pulling uselessly for your own freedom.
In a moment it's done and you're free, and then he shoves his own arms past the tent pole on either side of it, the twine dangling over his wrists.
This time, he does use a spell, but it doesn't sound scary, or even wrong. A bit like a line of a ballad in a different language. And the twine crawls and knots itself around his wrists – and it's so odd to see someone doing this to themselves.
Wouldn't it make more sense if his magic wouldn't work that way, to harm himself? Maybe it's kind of like, a sword or a knife, rather than a living force with a mind and purposes of its own, carrying the user inevitably toward complete corruption. Maybe it answers to the user's will, and because this boy wants to help…
The thoughts are disconcerting. You want to dismiss them all – but you can't.
"Get ready," he says, as the twine completes the last knot and he tests it, twisting his hands. "I'm sure someone will have sensed what I just did. We'll have to hope no one notices the crystals missing, either…"
You feel a surge of irritation for his lack of thinking through preparations. But you step hurriedly back at the rustle of frantic movement at the door-flap of the tent.
"Emrys! What are you doing in here with the prisoner? You were told – step back from him!"
You look at Merlin, with his hands tied around the tent pole. He doesn't exactly meet your eyes, but he doesn't cringe at the scolding, either. He raises his chin in rather an imperious manner and affects to ignore everyone – you and the fair-haired leader and a brown-haired soldier with a big dented nose and angry eyes.
Experimentally, you take a step away from Merlin, and then another, and the fair-haired leader goes to check the cords on Merlin's hands.
The anger softens from the other's eyes as he wraps a meaty hand around your upper arm. "Come, boy," he says gently. "You don't belong in here."
What should you say? What would Merlin say? Your safest bet is probably to say as little as possible.
Ducking to be pulled out the tent flap, you look back to try to catch Merlin's eye – to say thank you with a look, since you can't say it aloud. But as the fair-haired leader turns away from him in a huff, Merlin leans forward against the tent pole, bending his knees and beginning to slide toward sitting on the ground.
He hasn't changed his mind, you tell yourself, stumbling a bit because you're watching behind you, instead of where your feet are going. As long as you remain free, you know he hasn't changed his mind.
"Emrys!" the light-haired leader says, catching up with you – he seems more exasperated than angry, though. "You were told to keep your distance from him. I know it may be hard to accept, at your age, but when you get a little older, maybe you'll learn to interpret what your magic is telling you with more clarity and truth."
You frown without thinking about it, because – magic speaks to them? Then it is a form of sentience in itself, with goals and designs, to use people and discard them!
The elder misinterprets your frown; he sighs again. "A Pendragon will not be the prophesied king. You are young and it may be decades before the true king of Albion is even born. Uther will be gone by then – and Arthur of course."
You shiver, remembering that they think you're still captive in that tent, awaiting execution.
The brown-haired man adds confidently, "It can't be a Pendragon. They're bloodthirsty butchers, the lot of them. Ignorant, beastly-"
"Hey!" you blurt, before you can think better of it.
The fair-haired man quirks an eyebrow at you – but doesn't correct his fellow. And you wish to defend yourself and Father, even though it shouldn't matter what a camp full of treacherous magic-users thinks.
"I mean," you add lamely. "They think that… all magic-users are evil and… corrupted. When you say… they're all… you sound like… Uther."
They look at you, and you can see they don't like the comparison. They look at each other – and you can see that they're considering it. Because they do that, or because they think you're their prince… but not very many of Father's men consider your words just because it's you.
"There are some of us who are shunned for our choices," the fair-haired leader says softly – to the other man, not you. "For violence, and attack, and dark magic. Conversely, I suppose it is logical that some of them might be… more tolerant of magic, and our ways. Perhaps there's just too much ignorance, since we don't mix freely anymore."
"Anymore?" you say, curious in spite of the fact that you've decided to say as little as possible.
"Some years before you were born," he says, with a sort of melancholy remembrance. "Before the prince was born. Magic was freely practiced in Camelot. One of Uther's closest friends and advisers was a priestess of the Isle."
You don't know what that means, but magic, clearly enough.
And – what? If that's true – why would he lie, he thinks you're Emrys – that means Father changed his mind. The Ban, the Purge, wasn't just an answer to a sudden or growing threat. It was a change.
Why? What happened?
"But that's a story for another day," the fair-haired leader says, with a meaningful look at the other, brown-haired and flat-nosed. "Tonight, you're restricted to the camp. Don't try to get close to the prisoner again – it's for your own good, lad."
"No doubt he'd lie and try to twist your sympathies," the brown-haired man adds. "And stab you in the back the moment you turned it, if it was to his advantage."
You burn with the need to declare them wrong, but they're bringing you to one little tent in particular, with a cookfire and tripod with steaming pot over it. And the woman with the green scarf.
And anyway, they're not wrong. It's what Father would have you do – it's what you prepared yourself to do when Merlin stepped into the tent alone. Negotiate, manipulate, anything to win freedom. If the two druid men had entered the tent a minute earlier, the crystals unworn and neither of you bound, would you have snatched Merlin's knife and threatened him to get them to let you escape? Would you have leaped into action, killing all three before they could react?
But when you're captured by enemies and slated for execution, you argue with yourself. That's war, isn't it?
Isn't it? Because capturing you, in their eyes, isn't an act of war – they're not going to negotiate with Father at all, they're not keeping you hostage. For them, this is a question of justice, important enough to risk Father's retaliation.
"Hunith," the fair-haired man says.
The woman straightens, wiping her brow with the sleeve over her forearm. She looks at you and sighs. "Oh, Merlin. What did you do?"
"We caught him in the tent with the prisoner," the brown-haired man says, and she grimaces like she's not really surprised. "You'll have to keep him with you til tomorrow, you know. Just to make sure."
She nods, waving you closer. You obey reluctantly, not sure what with you means.
The fair-haired druid turns to leave, but the younger druid man retreats only just beyond this little campsite, and seats himself on a stump, keeping you rather obviously in the corner of his eye. You're under guard, then. How are you supposed to-
The woman touches your shoulder, gathering you in. She's soft and warm and smells like the herbs used for cooking, and her arms are around you and your chin is over her shoulder.
She's hugging you, and you can't help stiffening uncertainly.
"Oh, Merlin," she says again, in your ear, smoothing your hair down the back of your neck in a way that makes you want to relax. "Don't be angry with me. This is the way things are, you know that. Until you're a man by their standards, they'll overrule you when they think it's best."
You manage, "I understand."
Because you do – it's exactly the way you're treated in Camelot. Until you come of age, until you prove yourself in the tournaments, until Father gives you the official crown as heir… you can't make them listen to you.
"You understand, but you're not happy," she says sympathetically, releasing you enough to cup your face and kiss your forehead. And it's almost more shocking than the pronouncement of guilty of murder, and the death sentence.
She's his mother, and she's treating you like her son.
No woman has ever treated you like her son, and it's strange and warm and comforting, and you feel tears start to clog up your throat.
She smiles into your face. "I'm sure it'll all work out," she says. You can see she believes it – and it makes you start to believe it, too. It makes you want to believe it. "Why don't you sit down for a while. Tell me why you think it's him."
There are no seats, but you slide down the trunk of a tree that's only two paces away – the brown-haired, flat-nosed guard gives you a sharp, attentive glance.
"I don't… really want to talk about it," you say. Because you can't, not without making her suspicious, you're not her son.
She seems to accept this calmly, and continues with her work over the cookpot, casually speaking to you about this person and that – you don't know who they are, but some of the stories make you smile before you know you're going to. She's easy to listen to, not tongue-tied or self-conscious or giggly like the servants, not dismissive or condescending like the ladies or knights' wives. She doesn't seem to mind your lack of response.
Children running past call greetings. Women give you smiles when they catch your eyes, and men nod in greetings that carry meaningful respect.
It occurs to you, once you've escaped, that you'll be interrogated on every little detail about the camp. You probably should be watching for weakness… but it makes you uncomfortable to think of these women and children – placid and peaceful and friendly, you can't see their evil at all – suddenly terrified. Running and screaming, trying to hide, trying to protect – and dying.
You viciously shove memories of that other raid back into the darkness deep inside. It was your responsibility to control the men – to issue the order that would take prisoners rather than executing them immediately with whatever means were at hand. Cookfires and well-water… No.
Daylight is dimming, and you realize you've been listening to her about an hour. You note that the brown-haired druid is still watching you, so you decide it doesn't matter, it's not time lost that you should have spent escaping.
You like it when she smiles at you. You feel loved, like you belong, like you don't have to try to be better, faster stronger smarter, you only have to be you, and that's good enough. You wish so much for your own mother that tears threaten your eyes with their embarrassment again. Would she have been like Hunith? You want to store as much of this feeling and interaction as you can, to fuel your imagination of your own mother, against the time when you return to the reality of the citadel. Even if it's all stolen from the boy it belongs to.
And then everyone, it seems, decides that it's time for dinner at once, and you realize dusk has fallen.
"This is almost ready," Hunith says, glancing at you – then the brown-haired druid, who is close enough to overhear.
If you wait too much longer, it'll be too dark to see much of anything, or get very far – new moon tonight, you remember. You hadn't thought about Emrys being watched, and wonder how long you might have if they discover you're missing as him.
You push yourself up from your crouch at the bottom of the tree, and stretch your legs a little. You can sprint, if no one is watching to wonder why Emrys is sprinting away from the camp.
One woman pauses in passing – and you recognize her as the one who lost her little boy in your raid.
That damn raid. If you hadn't frozen in horror at what Father's knights started to do so carelessly… But no. It wasn't really their fault, was it? Just following orders. Like you were. But they can't disobey orders and get away with it like you can. They can't issue new orders, like you're supposed to be able to do, when you're the senior authority.
"They let me see him," she says to Hunith, who looks up from gathering her serving dishes. "He said… he was sorry for my loss."
Hunith makes a sympathetic noise, but the brown-haired man grunts, and they both turn to him.
"Probably saying whatever he thinks might get him out of trouble."
You realize the woman has visited Merlin, bound in the tent, to hurl accusations or demand explanation. And his response was apology and compassion, in your place – and he can't think that would actually be a response you would make. Crown Prince Arthur Pendragon of Camelot.
Are they going to feed him tonight? You refuse to think about it. Once you're gone he can drop the enchantment.
"Maybe," the woman says, frowning and turning back to Hunith.
Hunith says gently, "He's just a boy. He had no mother, and Uther Pendragon for a father."
You bite your tongue on a defensive retort, and it tastes sour in the back of your throat. Who needs a mother. He's the best father in the kingdom, the most powerful and important…
"You mean, then it isn't his fault?" the woman says tartly. The brown-haired druid snorts again.
"No, that's not what I meant," Hunith says. She circles the fire toward her friend – and as she passes you, she unexpectedly puts out her hand to smooth your hair down the side of your head, and cup your jaw for a moment, with a smile in her eyes that's sweet and deep and just for you.
Everyone needs a mother. Your heart breaks with longing and guilt, for pretending to be her son. For wanting to pretend to be the son of a druid woman, which is a betrayal of Father.
"I just mean," Hunith adds, wrapping an arm around the woman. "He's young. Young boys do what they're told, when maybe they shouldn't. And disobey when maybe they shouldn't. They make mistakes."
"The sentence won't be lifted," the brown-haired druid warns them.
The childless mother looks at him. And Hunith says, with a little squeeze of her shoulders, "But you can forgive."
The woman shakes her head slowly, for a moment. Then says softly, "Good night, Hunith," and slips out from under her arm.
"You can forgive," the man mimics, his voice sounding nasal because of his flattened nose. "And just let them keep on killing us?"
Hunith shakes her head at him. "If that's what you think, you don't understand forgiveness. Do you think she'll be any happier rejoicing in another boy's death? Holding on to her hate for his father, and the bitterness of loss?"
The brown-haired man humphs, and crosses his arms over his chest.
You want to run away, swiftly and immediately. Because you're in an enemy camp, but it doesn't feel like it, they're not treating you like an enemy but like a welcome member – and it's hard to remember why these people are your enemies. You've seen no open magic – maybe a suspicion out of the corner of your eye, easily explained away when you turn your head.
This is just a village. These are just people. You can't see any proof that magic corrupts them, save for the few who are angry or bitter. But loss does that to a person, you realize.
Thinking of Father.
Magic or no magic, loss and hate are what twist a person to unhappiness and bitterness, violence and vengeance. And Hunith at least seems to think it's a choice, to cling to unhappiness and bitterness, instead of letting it go…
"I hope you're hungry," she says to you, bending to bring ladle to bowl, and steam rises aromatic.
Your stomach turns unpleasantly.
"I need to take a minute," you tell her, and she gives you a fondly permissive smile.
You stumble over a root as you head hurriedly behind the tent, putting it between you and the brown-haired druid evidently assigned to watch you.
But he follows.
Past another scattering of tents and cookfires and families, past the fringes of the campsite, out toward undisturbed forest. He doesn't say anything, but he keeps up – and you can't exactly break into a run and lose him, even as Emrys.
You hadn't realized they wouldn't let him leave, either. Did Merlin think about that?
"Do you mind?" you say, gesturing like the man should have more manners. "A little privacy, here?" If you can creep away and hide, he might leave to find others to search for you, and then you can run.
"I'll turn my back," he says. But then he steps past you to do so, facing outward where you wanted to hide and run, so you're still trapped between him and the camp.
Impatiently you prepare to relieve yourself, looking about for some branch thick and sturdy enough to knock him out with. "Why are you following me, anyway?"
He huffs a sour chuckle. "You were told to stay away from the prisoner, and you didn't listen."
"The tent where you're holding him is in the opposite direction," you point out sarcastically.
He's been listening; as you readjust your clothing, he turns – no chance to grab a branch. "Why do you think he's worth saving?"
You stand there a moment, mouth gaping. You want to burst into a temper-fueled tirade – but you have to sound like Emrys. "You… you wouldn't understand," you mumble.
The man sighs, and a heavy hand descends on your shoulder, turning and forcing you in a gentle way back toward camp.
Maybe you can go in the night when most of the people are asleep. It'll be slow, in the dark, but maybe you'll have more time to get further away, before Emrys' absence is noticed.
Still, your feet return to the camp unwillingly. Your feelings – you can't help it – are confused. It's far easier to be the prince when people look at you, expecting princely behavior from you. But when no one knows it's you, you're tempted to relax and enjoy being with simple people showing simple kindness… though you're stealing that from Merlin, too. The smiles and greetings, even though he's not a prince like you're a prince, are spontaneous gift, not recollected due.
"You are too soft-hearted," the brown-haired druid says. "Perhaps that comes of being raised by your mother alone."
Where is Merlin's father? You can't think of a way to ask, if you're already supposed to know.
"As time and experience make you a man, you will learn that sometimes the hard choice is the right choice. And sometimes justice turns your stomach. But to beg mercy for an enemy that doesn't understand mercy…" The man met his eyes and shook his head, almost sadly.
Mercy is a… weakness. Magic is evil.
Father says so.
As Hunith presses you down to sitting, bowl in your hands, you curse them all for the way they've affected you in this short time. If it isn't bewitchment… Smoke stings your eyes, and you rub them roughly with your sleeve, drawing your knees up to your chest. Warmth seeps through the bowl into your fingers.
The earnest motherly voice soothes your ears and your heart with loving sympathy and understanding. "What bothers you, my son?"
You keep your eyes closed, and think of the portrait-painting you saw once when you were small, but you memorized. Those eyes – that smile. What you look for when you look in the mirror.
"I don't know what to think," you say. "I don't like to be told that I'm wrong, because – what if I am? I would have to change my thinking – but to what? Whose teaching do I follow when everyone says something different? And what if I was right in the beginning, but I'm influenced to change to something that is wrong?"
Somehow you feel, a mother will tell the truth. A father may try to teach and train – but a mother will answer. And that feels purer, in the moment.
Though maybe, you shouldn't be allowing the doubt at all.
"Children are meant to listen to their parents," she says, like she's listening and contemplating the same questions, and sharing her thoughts. "They're meant to follow, and obey. But you, my sweet son… unfortunately you aren't a child anymore, to accept what you're told without question. So I will tell you what I think, and you will have to weigh in your own mind, if what I tell you has value and truth."
That sounds honest and fair.
"When you listen to someone telling you, what is right and what is wrong, think of what you know of that man. Has he earned your respect of his character. Do others respect him – not for favors he might grant, or fear he inspires. How does he treat those around him – not only his equals, but those who are younger and weaker. With patience and kindness and protection? Have his words proven wise in the past, have they accomplished good for his fellows, or does he only seek to hurt or tear down?"
Suddenly it doesn't matter that a druid woman is speaking. Or that she thinks she's addressing a different boy. She counseled the other woman to forgive the loss of her son – for her own sake, not for those responsible.
Her son said the same thing. Listen to your heart, and don't be afraid to change. Learn about magic, if only to be able to defend against it.
Gaius says that too, sometimes, in a sideways manner. Educate yourself before you form an opinion. Test the opinion before you form the judgment.
The druid leader seems hard, but fair. The people smile at him as he passes. Contrasted to the other, who is vindictive and very sure of himself – and those around him don't seek to catch his eye for a greeting.
The woman whose son died seemed uncertain, after the apology from Merlin who looked like the Pendragon prince.
And what of Father?
You shy from the question. More and more you're sensitive to the fact that the servants avoid him, that the knights don't tease and joke with him the way the squires have done with you. That councilmen look at each other out of the corners of their eyes, speak when they're called upon, and never argue or initiate. Maybe that's why you do; it seems like someone needs to.
He's the best father in the kingdom, the most powerful and important…
Who are the men who are respected – but also kind and patient. Who have encouraged you, whose warnings have come true?
Gaius heads the list. Then Geoffrey, maybe. You're not sure you know very many others well enough to say – more that don't belong on the list. Lots, actually, and what does that say about Camelot?
"What about parents, or other blood relatives?" you say – and open your eyes to make sure she's still there, and hasn't gotten up to walk away.
It's surprisingly dark, already. Your bowl is cool in your hands, and the eyes of the druid with the flat nose glitter with the reflected firelight.
Hunith is right where you saw her last, her dish empty, keeping you company while you think. Ready to answer, but letting you struggle to conclusions on your own.
Not like your parent, who hands you the conclusion and disallows the question.
"That is where the difficulties lie," Hunith sighs. "Blood relations, or where your heart has bound itself. You very much want to respect that person, and please them with your agreement, follow their footsteps and join their path, so there may be no discord. But that, is when objectivity is the most important consideration. Right and wrong don't change with feelings of love or hate."
Or they shouldn't.
"Why don't you eat," she adds, smiling because it's a little amusing that you've forgotten, but it's a nice smile because she understands why, and approves of delaying dinner for an important conversation.
But you are hungry, having skipped the noon meal, because you were ambushed – and there's no telling when you'll eat tomorrow. You scarf down the cool bowl of watery stew – little chopped bits with a lot of broth between them; no wonder her son is skinny – using forest-patrol manners rather than dining-room manners.
Licking the last dribbles from the edge of the tilted bowl, you think to offer, "I'll wash up?"
Maybe you can find some way of slipping free of the chore and making good your escape, before full dark.
"I'll wash up," Hunith corrects, reaching to take your bowl. She glances up as the brown-haired druid – looking bigger and meaner in the waning twilight – looms over you.
He says to her apologetically, "Can't guard him all night. Orders are orders."
She begins to protest, "Oh, but-"
You begin to push yourself to your feet – but the druid shows you his open palm. Behind which his eyes flare with that eerie gold glow of magic.
The world dissolves around the edges of your vision, and your body goes both numb and heavy. For a moment you resist, terrified – and then it seems contentment is to be found in surrender, and you close your eyes.
Tbc…