Chapter 3

Days became weeks and weeks became months. Time ticked like the conflict between the two brothers had never happened until, all of a sudden, time seemed to slow down. It was May, the fifth month of 1890. And there was a particular moment on this day, where a young newborn suck air in his longs for the very first time. When the baby breathed this air out, he poisoned every sorcerer who was just living her or his innocent life in peace. The name of the creature who caused this trouble: Arthur William Russell Pendragon.

Later on, Balinor told Emrys Arthur wasn't the one to blame: it was his uncle, King Uther, who'd made the decision to drag a sorceress into his obsession about a male heir. But then Balinor would think further back, and how he'd whispered 'magic' that one afternoon and thus planted this idea into Uther's mind, which would lead one to think it was all Balinor's fault. It made Balinor cry sometimes, and Emrys could do nothing but wrap his small fingers around his dad's waist and hug him tight. Once you'd come up with the thought Balinor was to blame, it was easy to get to the next step: blaming magic itself altogether. Uther's mind had come this far, and for him, there was no turning back. He'd seen his beautiful healthy son being born, and the smile on Ygraine's face. But he had also been the one who'd seen Arthur taking the breath that was fatal to his wife. The smile on Ygraine's face had flickered the moment her heart started to fail. He'd thought his heart had started to fail at the same time, that was how helpless he'd felt. He couldn't imagine life without her by his side. But all he could do was stand and watch how she was rolled away on the hospital bed to another room. The child was put into his arms, and suddenly a lot less beautiful. Its blue eyes stared into his, and he felt another pair of eyes that stared at him: the doctor's eyes. There were no words needed to tell him Ygraine hadn't survived. He felt like his head was going to explode if he had to hear one more cry of the child that had just come into his world and ruined it the second he did. It made him want to pick up a pillow and press it onto those trembling lips, but he didn't. Be sensible, a voice commanded him, this is and will be your only heir. He is your own flesh and blood. So he decided not to harm the child. He did decide to harm the person who did this, and punish her entire species. That afternoon, he paid Nimueh a little visit when she was sleeping. He thought: 'maybe if I kill her, Ygraine can come back'. That way the balance of nature would be restored as well, and he'd still have his wife. But soon he realised how stupid he was, thinking it was possible to bring a person back to life. Revenge was revenge, though, and he let his guards end Nimueh's life while he waited in his car, that was parked near the cottage. He wasn't a coward. He just didn't want any blood on his new clothes. When he got home that night, he walked straight to the room he and Ygraine had made for their baby and he sang Arthur a little lullaby.

''Tick tock, her clock was ticking

Her time was running out

Did you cover your ears my dear?

Her cries were incredibly loud

Blood is lying on her floor

Close your eyes, be content

That witch doesn't breath anymore

I hope you can sleep now, sweet boy''

The next day Balinor found Hunith crying at the breakfast table. Her shaking hands could barely hold the newspaper of that day. He rushed towards her and put his hands on her shoulders and his head next to hers. ''What is wrong, sweetheart?'' were the words that laid on the tip of his tongue, but were then swallowed when he started to read the paper. There were two small articles, who congratulated the King with his baby, and one condolence message on the death of Ygraine Pendragon. But they didn't matter, because there was the big, undeniable headline on the front page that captured his attention: ''KING UTHER BANISHES MAGIC''.And below that: ''MAGICIANS WHO PREFORMED SPELLS AFTER THIS DECISION WAS MADE (00:00 AFTER MIDNIGHT) BRUTALLY MURDERED.''It contained a photograph of a sorcerer who made a flying fire bird, as a symbol of freedom. The sorcerer was Balinor's old school friend Willy Williams. The caption said: ''Williams, before he was shot, exclaimed sorcery would always continue to exist, banished or not. 'You can't kill nature!' were his last words.''

Balinor started to have trouble breathing. He'd gotten very hot: his forehead was burning. Sweat dripped down from his head, armpits, shoulders, hands... he felt dizzy in the head.

''Please don't read any more of it,'' Hunith cried. ''Just – don't.'' But it was too late. Hunith got up just in time to catch her husband, before his unconscious body hit the ground.

The article laid on the table, and told every household the same story, whether they liked it or not:

''Magic is evil, it corrupts the soul.'' King Uther Pendragon looks up from his desk. His eyes are swollen, his mouth is dry, and nevertheless, he is determined to tell his story. ''Myself, I know how magic works. People use it to show off. They want us, normal persons, to feel like we stand beneath them. But why would someone like me stand beneath them? I am the King. I am the King, and even so, I've been harmed. Last night, my wife gave birth to a son. He's a healthy boy. She had him in her arms for a split second, before one of the doctors killed her with one of his instruments. He didn't do it himself – why would he? He used his eyes, made them flash golden. My wife had no chance of escaping: the nurses held her down so she couldn't move, and another man made sure I couldn't get to her. Why did this injustice happen to me? I wish I knew. This terrible misuse of magic made me think, and I came to the conclusion that people who practise these powers that make their minds go dark and their actions evil, don't deserve to live. It pains me, even though they collaborated together to kill my wife, that there was only one choice, which was to kill them as well. They can't harm anyone else now and that is what counts. I hope you all understand now, that my job is to protect the people in this country, and that's why I've chosen to banish magic altogether. This is the only way I can protect you, your friends, your lovers and your children. I'm still a fortunate man, given the fact I was able to save my son.'' Uther pauses for a second, a heavy silence hangs in the air. A single tear streams down his cheek. He excuses himself, and looks in the direction of the baby carriage where his son Arthur lays in. He tells us he keeps Arthur close to him at all times, afraid of what might happen if he leaves him. ''I enjoy every second I get to spend with him,'' he says, ''he's the wonder in my world, and my light – our light – in these dark times. And when I'm too old to go on, he will make a fantastic King. He'll protect you even after I'm long gone. If you wish to help me and my son protect the kingdom, I can give you some advice, the first one being: do not employ any magic users. If you have a colleague or neighbour who practises magic, use your own or someone else's telephone and call to the telephone exchange. They'll connect you with a special line where we notate names of magic users. Every week you'll receive a list with all the names we've collected thus far. It will be easier then to help each other. Together, we can make sure these people will be excluded from our society so they can't hurt us anymore. I hope that soon, we'll all be able to see the light again. May God help us.'' Uther stands up from behind his desk, thanks us for our attention, even though we need to thank him for explaining the one and only truth. The special helpline has been opened since midnight.

While Hunith was kept busy with placing Balinor on the sofa, Emrys had gotten out of his bed, and now the toddler was walking – a bit unsteady, but he managed not to fall – towards the living room. He saw his mother changing the wet blanket that laid on his father's head. His dad had his eyes closed and looked pale. Emrys put his thumb in his mouth and asked quietly: ''Montee?''

Hunith winced unintentionally at the sound of her child, then turned so Balinor was out of Emrys' sight. ''Yes, it's Monday, honey. What's wrong?''

''Daddy work?''

''No, Daddy isn't going to work, Em. Not today.'' As she answered, she realised Balinor wasn't going to work anymore, ever. Days passed. Balinor was quiet, silent and didn't mutter a word. After a week he opened his mouth. ''What I don't understand,'' he whispered suddenly, ''why I'm not on this list?'' He held a piece of paper in the air. Hunith hadn't seen it yet, so she dried her hands, removed her apron and walked away from the kitchen. ''Let me see that,'' she said, even though she knew exactly what her husband was talking about. The title of the list was 'those who are dangerous' – there were about 120 names written on it, but not Balinor's.

''Why is he doing this?'' Balinor muttered. ''My colleagues, for sure, all know I have magic. They must've called. Is he deliberately leaving me out of this?''

Hunith stood next to him and stroked his black hair. ''I think he is. You are the only one who truly knows what has happened. Once you attract the attention of the newspaper journalists, and something gets published, people might doubt Uther's story.''

Balinor rubbed his temples. ''Why don't I tell the story, actually?'' he asked himself after a while. But then there was Hunith, and he saw the instant panic in her eyes as she replied: ''Because you'll die. And I can't afford to lose you.''

And that was why Hunith went out, looking for a job. It wasn't hard to find a decent one, after so many people got dismissed. Even if they were very hard workers, their bosses were afraid something would happen to them if they kept magicians as their employees. The newspapers were so full with condolence messages, the editors needed to print an extra page for that section. Every day Hunith would come home and find Balinor drinking vodka, mourning over a friend, an old school teacher, a favourite writer. She knew she had to do something, but she felt hopeless. She couldn't crawl into Balinor's mind and know what was going on there. She had no idea. Sometimes she would suggest he'd go for a walk with Emrys, whom they now called Merlin, a name that sounded less royal, so he wouldn't stand out. More people were called Merlin than they were called Emrys.

The little family of three didn't have any contact with Uther, Arthur or Morgan anymore. Merlin often asked his mother if Morgan had time to play with him or if he could send Morgan his dragon sketches, and she would shake her head and say Morgan had found other friends now. Merlin got a bit sad because of that, but kept on sketching. When Merlin went to primary school, Hunith prayed he wouldn't accidentally set a bench on fire in Professor Gaius' class, or let pencils float through the air. It never happened, luckily. Merlin found a friend, Will, and Hunith was glad. The atmosphere at home was less sad when Will came around. Jokes were made – and it had been a while ago since they had all sat together and laughed.

Eventually, Will found out Merlin's secret, but he promised he wouldn't tell anyone and Hunith believed him. Years passed – but they'd learnt to adjust. It even seemed Balinor forgot about everything for a while – Hunith would wake up early on Monday mornings and burn the list of names before Balinor could lay an eye on it – but one morning, Balinor couldn't keep everything to himself anymore.

Merlin, as a fourteen years old kid in his second year of high school, got up early for a new school week. He was looking forward to his chemistry lessons with his favourite teacher, and ran down the stairs because he was starving and wanted to bake himself an egg instead of eating the normal bread with butter and marmalade. When he walked into the kitchen, he forgot about his plan. Because there his father laid on the floor, in his hand a jar that once was filled with pills and an empty vodka bottle next to him. That told Merlin enough. It wasn't like he hadn't noticed his father lived in another world than he and his mother did. His mother denied it – but that was because she didn't want to face reality. Now, now she had to. He didn't want to wake her up right away. He wanted to say a few words to his father. Before he could, his eye fell on a piece of paper nearby his father's motionless body. It was the list with names of that week – even 13 years after the opening of the special telephone line, people were still calling. Merlin cursed: he knew of his mother's habit to burn the lists before his father saw them. She'd probably forgotten about it this morning – and his father, who thought these lists had slowly died and that there was no active search for sorcerers anymore, was proven wrong now. He must have taken the bottle in an impulse, and the pills to calm himself down, and then, he surely must've thought: ''What's the fucking point of it all anyway?''

Merlin couldn't blame him. As he'd said before, he understood why his father had done what he'd done. And tears hadn't streamed over his face, because - let's be honest - he'd lost his father a long time ago.