Well this took longer than expected... been trying this new thing called "University"
Please R&R!
It took him a week to find his way to her.
He stumbled into her arms, exhausted and dirty, face salted with tears that wouldn't dry. His lungs retched with renewed grief as she clasped his head to her shoulder, stroking his back and softly hushing in his ear. Her love was soothing, but it only served to remind Merlin of the last person he had held in his arms. Fatigue and grief claimed him and a primal howl of pain whined past his lips. He collapsed into the dirt, dragging his mother with him to her knees.
Gathering her son to her chest, Hunith rocked him gently in the dirt, worry and sadness flowing over her like a flood and soaking through every line on her face. She ignored the passers-by who were beginning to gather curiously in the street, or maybe she simply did not notice them. Her rough woollen skirts quickly became covered in dust and his tears were beginning to drench her plain pink blouse, but she paid them no mind. What is vanity to a mother when her child is in pain? Swallowing her own despair, she kissed the top of Merlin's head and combed her fingers slowly through his hair, just like she used to when he was a boy. Yet still his tears flowed like blood from an open wound. There was a crowd now, or as much a crowd as sleepy little Ealdor could muster. They muttered and murmured like an uneasy wind, radiating concern and interest but reluctant to intrude. So they simply watched while a grown man crumbled, desperately grasping for a childhood comfort, only to find that that his mother's embrace that could no longer make everything alright. No-one moved until a wagon, laden with hay trundled towards the frozen scene.
"'Scuse me missus," he called down tentatively, resting his whip over the sturdy rumps of the oxen, "D'you mind shifting? I've to get this load to Feorman by sundown."
Hunith looked up at him blankly, and then back down at the top of Merlin's dark hair, his face still curled into her chest and his heavy body draped around her in a tangled mess. Not a word was said, but the message was plain. And as if her plea was a catalyst, Big Ron the blacksmith roused himself from the collective stillness of the villagers and squeezed his way out of the throng. Striding briskly towards them, he only paused to scowl up at the wagon-driver and mutter "Just a minute".
As he approached, it seemed to Hunith that he blotted out the sun, black shadows concealing his face and rendering him an anonymous silhouette. She strained her eyes to look at him, a silent wish skimming across her features as she gazed up at the glittering halo that surrounded him. He squatted down beside her and it was gone. With a gentleness that belied his strength, he laid a hand as big as a dinner plate on her shoulder and looked into her eyes. Slowly, reluctantly, Hunith released her son into his arms. Without a backward glance, he rose and paced off towards Hunith's cottage. Momentarily stunned, her eyes followed the smith's retreating back, before she snapped to her senses and went scrambling after him.
They reached the rough-hewn door together, Hunith swinging it back on creaking hinges, mumbling anxiously. "Where can I put 'im, Hunith?"asked Ron, his brown eyes softening to radiate warmth like a lit oven. He seemed to tower over the entire room; even when he stooped to avoid the ceiling he dwarfed the tiny living area and everything in it. Looking up at him, Hunith felt like a child.
"Here, in the cot by the fire," she beckoned agitatedly, fumbling to draw back the rough-spun sheets, anxiety spurring her haste. Big Ron deposited a quietly sobbing Merlin in the little bed as gently as if he was a baby. Wearily, she reached up to place a hand on his thick elbow, "thank you," she said. Her eyes captured his in a grateful glance, "I think I can manage now." They exchanged a small smile and Ron stooped out the door, leaving Hunith feeling strangely alone.
As the door shut with an earthy thud, she hurried to her son's side, tucking the covers over his heaving chest and taking one dirty hand in her own. "Merlin?" she whispered tentatively, suddenly unsure of how to comfort her own son.
She felt his fingers tighten around her own with a frightening intensity. When his eyes found hers they were clouded with a frantic anguish that chilled her heart. Unspeakable sorrow filled his gaze, and there was a darkness there that made Hunith's skin crawl.
"Arthur."
On the second night, he woke to find his mother darning a blanket in her rickety wooden rocking chair. Her greying hair tumbled over her shoulders in loose waves, reflecting the soft orange glow of the fire. Its soft, flickering light danced in her eyes and on the surface of the plain pewter goblet at her elbow. It was an image so characteristic of his warm, carefree childhood that he was almost able to surrender up reality to a nostalgic fantasy. But the vicious bite of his grief was not so easily stayed. Taking a deep breath of home, he sat up and stretched his sore muscles.
Noticing that he was awake, Hunith carefully put down her work and anxiously hurried over to him. She knelt down and, taking both of his hands in hers, looked up into sharp blue eyes that mirrored her own; eyes that had once blazed with love and laughter, now dull and extinguished as if smothered by the ash of loss. "He's dead?" she asked softly. Merlin nodded, swallowing hard. His mother looked down for a moment and stroked his fingers soothingly with her thumbs, calluses brushing gently over his knuckles.
"You will miss him," she said, looking back at him. It was no question. "But we all must learn to say goodbye to those we love, Merlin." Sadness and hint of denial crashed over his face, feelings as readable as ever. He turned away from her and stared over her shoulder into the fire, as if seeking some kind of solace in the flames. Hunith watched him for a moment more, before sitting up beside him and wrapping an arm around his thin waist.
"Come," she said, "You've been asleep for a day and a night, you must be hungry." Merlin shook his head, eyes still fixed intently on the fireplace. Sighing, she rose to bring a crusty round loaf and generous goblet of wine from the pantry. With food in front of him, Merlin's denial seemed to slowly dissipate and he bit eagerly into the soft bread with a mumbled thanks. A relieved smile touched her mouth as Hunith returned to her needlework, glancing watchfully back at him.
The thick, moist bread sang on Merlin's tongue as he devoured it, surprising himself with his newfound hunger. For one wayward and frantic week, the thought of eating had not even crossed his mind. Instead, despair had consumed him, absorbing every thought until nothing remained but a deadly hopelessness. Lost and alone, he had collapsed into a long-forgotten corner of his mind, feeling nothing but howling pain and a primal compulsion to walk, and keep walking until the end. Finally, he had stumbled upon the end of his road. He had found home.
Chewing almost regretfully on the last crusts, Merlin drained his cup of the velvety liquor and relaxed into the softness that was beginning to cloud his head. Suddenly, nothing really seemed to matter except the gentle buzzing of the wine and the crackling melody of the fire. It filled his mind with a comforting numbness that nearly masked the pain. Distracted, he could almost forget that he was so alone. Or maybe it wasn't forgetting, rather it was that he no longer needed to care. He only wished it could last.
Hunith looked up in surprise as Merlin roused himself from his cot and shuffled to the kitchen door. "Where are you going?"
"More wine," was the muffled reply.
He stayed a month, falling into a lethargic routine that circulated sluggishly between sleeping, eating and steadily draining the village cellars. Occasionally he would find himself wandering through the whispering forest, or sitting silently by Will's grave. Never before had he missed his oldest friend as much as he did in those lonely, befuddled weeks. Before Arthur, there had always been Will. Now, life in Ealdor was stricken with a sleepy desolation. Without him, Merlin had nobody to share his secrets with, nobody to dream up hare-brained schemes that would send them racing across the countryside. Nobody to make him feel alive.
Ultimately, it was the idleness that was killing him. His mother was right: death was not foreign to the living. But with Arthur dead, Merlin no longer had a future to serve. Without his king, there was no reason to do anything more than exist. Slowly, certainly, Merlin's spirit was stagnating in a torpid pool of helplessness. It sucked him in like quicksand; the longer he stayed, the less he was able to save himself.
Hunith watched her son fade away with a knotted stomach and a mother's quiet despair. Until one morning she could watch no longer.
"Merlin?" she whispered, shaking his shoulder. There was no response. "Merlin!" She tapped him brusquely on one grimy, unshaven cheek. He gave a quiet grunt but slept on. With a sigh, and only a moment's hesitation, she reached for the wash bucket at her feet and emptied it over the top of him.
Merlin thrashed and spluttered against a sleep befuddled stupor, trying to wake up, sit up and wipe his face on a dusty sleeve all at the same time. In a whirl of sweat, straw and stale wine, he landed on the floor, almost sending his mother flying (not that he noticed). Pulling his knees up to his chest and burying his head in his hands, Merlin waited for the familiar throbbing inside his skull to subside. By the time he came to his senses, Hunith was kneeling beside him with a towel and a change of clothes. Merlin stared wordlessly at his mother, pausing to let his indignation roll over her, before snatching the towel out of her hands and starting to dry himself.
Hunith stood and turned to the window so that he could dress himself. Staring out into the frosty street, she bit her lip and sighed. Not for the first time, she doubted whether what she was about to do was right. Months ago, she would have seen it as the height of neglect, but her son had fallen so far that she was hardly left with a choice. She would do what she had to, for his sake, even if it hurt them both in the meantime.
"Are you going to explain?" her son snapped from behind her. Merlin was sitting back on his soaking bed, ever-present goblet in hand, and looking as if he had every intention of staying there for the rest of the day. Hunith walked slowly to him, and put her hand on his shoulder. She could feel his cold, questioning stare, but her guilt-ridden heart wouldn't let her meet his eye. The words fought her, not wanting to pass her lips, but she forced herself to say them.
"Merlin, I've sent a message to Gaius."
Their only eyes met for a heartbeat before his eyebrows crumpled into a frown and he dropped his gaze, letting it fall on a neatly packed rucksack. It sat meekly by the doorframe next to his boots, shrouded in the misty morning light. His frown became a snarl as it dawned on him, and a thunderstorm crossed his face. Wine flew across the earthen floor like blood from a wound as Merlin dropped his goblet and shoved Hunith away. A caged animal, he strode across the room and back, filling it with his rage as he went. Returning, he stood over Hunith. "So this is how it's going to be? You're going to turn me out onto the street? My own mother?"
"Not the street, Merlin, never that!" Hunith pleaded, her eyes sparkling with desperate tears, "I just want you to go back to Camelot, you're wasting away here!"
"I'M FINE!" he roared. His mother took a step back, something like fear fluttering over her expression, just for a second. Merlin was almost taken aback by how small she seemed.
The tears were spilling over her eyelids now. "No," she whispered, "you're not."
The next thing she saw was his back, as he marched to the door. He only turned around long enough to sling the thin straps of the worn-out rucksack over his shoulder, and to fix his mother with a heartbroken glare that made her feel sick to the bone.
Then he was gone.
Even when she chased him down the street, calling his name in a tearstained sob, he did not turn back. Even when she almost caught him, and he felt her work-roughened fingers brush the shoulder of his jacket, he did not turn back. Not even when the dull crunch-crunch of her footsteps stopped, just beyond the boundary of the town did he turn and look upon her face. He might have, though, had he known that he would never get another chance.
A single salty tear fell into the dust of the Ealdor road. It was almost invisible, like the tears he would cry many years later that fell on a white silk bedsheet.
