AN: I despise authors who fluff their wordcount with huge author's notes, so I'll keep this short. Thanks muchly to those who review and offer useful criticism and corrections; I'm trying to improve and I appreciate it. I tend to use storywriting as a vehicle for some interest, and in this case it's history, so I love corrections when I get things wrong. I should have known something was off with the tomatoes, so I've corrected that to cabbage (mmm, cabbage). As for the tea, I *did* think that out beforehand, and Jasmine simply makes her own (herbal teas, or more properly called tisanes), but there wasn't a place to describe that without being an obvious paste-in.

As for Merlin being a student of Salazar... Merlin came centuries before the Founding Four, so I consider that ridiculous. I don't think "Merlin was a Slytherin" carries much weight. But... "Merlin would have been a Slytherin"... I could see ol' Sal spreading that far and wide.

With respect to the story "The Wizard From Earth" by Morta's Priest... I have read it, and I like it a lot, and did get some inspiration from it. But this isn't meant to be a takeoff of it. I've actually drawn a lot of my inspiration from Highlander (specifically Methos). Egypt - as the cradle of civilization - is just the natural place to start. On that note, if you ever get the chance to read any fanfic by Snow Leopard... do so. She's amazing.

If Myrddin bores or annoys you, you can skip this chapter... I split them to make that possible. This chapter is mostly Myrddin; the next is a mix, and the one after that is nearly all Muirgen/Jasmine.


Life at the Hovel changed after that duel (which Muirgen insisted on calling his "graduation exam"). She offered no more lessons, but neither did she cast him out, as many a Master might have. Instead, they seemed to settle into a kind of partnership. They alternated cooking meals, cleaning, and general chores. He was no longer her apprentice, so there was no need for him to perform menial tasks be done as payment… but he did them anyway. It was never stated outright, but the Hovel had become their home rather than simply hers.

On the birthday following what she called his "graduation", she helped him through the ritual to bond both his staff and wand to him, directly to his soul… the foci would then forever be his, indestructible, always responding to his Call. It was one of the few pieces of magic that Muirgen claimed fully as her own, developed thousands of years before in response to the problem of keeping hold of her wand over the millennia. The ritual was borderline dark magic featuring runes inscribed with his own blood, and having the foci "inserted" into his soul was a pain worse than anything he'd ever endured. He didn't regain consciousness until the next morning, his head cradled on Muirgen's lap… she'd never left his side, and her eyes when he finally woke were filled with pride and relief.

Days became months, which became years, and their relationship relaxed from the careful formality of master and apprentice to a warm friendship. They were equals now, and he loved it. They worked on magic together: he had skill and insights she lacked, and she had experience nothing and no-one could match. She was wise because of it… for all her self-imposed isolation over the centuries, she knew how the world worked, how to read the hearts and minds of people, and she didn't need Legilimency to do so. She knew what to say to encourage him if he became frustrated, and she helped ground him on the occasions he became manic.

He wondered what she saw inside him.

They continued to sleep in the same bed as they always had, in the same positions: back-to-back, her to the windows, he to the fireplace. He'd grown quite tall, and she'd had to modify her expansion charm to extend the length as well as the width of the bed. She barely topped his chin, though she wasn't short for a woman, and he would often think about how easy it would be to simply roll over, to wrap an arm around her waist and breathe the scent of her hair.

Instead he spent more time in Londinium, among the wizarding folk there. Quite to his own surprise, he was very popular with the witches of the small city and surrounding countryside, and even many of the muggles. He'd always thought his chin was a bit too big, as was his nose and lips. He supposed his eyes were fair enough, an icy blue, and more than one young woman commented on his cheekbones.

The one feature he was quite proud of was his voice… deep and silky, women seemed to love to listen to him talk. Muirgen would tease him, saying nobody liked to listen to Myrddin talk as much as Myrddin, but he noticed that when he waxed on about a topic - be it about magic or simply events in the increasingly-desolate Londinium - she would stop what she was doing and listen with the same soft smile that graced the faces of witches immeasurably younger than herself.

He experimented with relationships with some of those witches. Aspasia was pretty and friendly, but timid, and he was unable to imagine a happy future with a woman who simply agreed with everything he said. Bronwen (quite befitting her name) had rather impressive… assets, but Myrddin preferred a more slender figure; also, she spoke of children almost before the second time they kissed, and that was just too much. Claudia, who had grown up in Rome and relocated along with her parents, despised Britannia, and her complaints drove him mad. Taliesin liked to talk as much as he did, but wasn't as inclined to listen.

Each relationship, while having pleasurable moments, was fleeting, and he was glad that magical folk were more forgiving than muggles when it came to dalliances. He simply couldn't imagine being trapped in a promised marriage so early when he was so particular. Mindful of his own vow to never emulate his father, he ended each relationship kindly and respectfully.

Over time, he began to put together the traits he found attractive: dark-haired and slender; the poise of royalty, but the work ethic of a farmer; and power of her own, so she needn't covet his.

He was doomed.

But hadn't his life been one disaster after another, each working out surprisingly well? If there was nothing for it, he might as well meet his fate with his chin up. He loved puzzles, and trying to figure out how to woo the affections of a woman thousands of years his senior was quite the challenge. He didn't know where to start… Muirgen wasn't the type to blush and flutter at a slow, roguish smile. She didn't have parents for him to meet to seek permission to come courting, and the closest thing she had to a friend was Myrddin himself.

He was definitely in unexplored lands.

He decided to start with the traditional… he helped her with her chores, tried to do little extra things she would appreciate. But he'd been doing that already for over a dozen years, and she seemed to make little note of it.

Thinking to capitalize on their mutual love of magic, he secretly took her notes, some of which were so old they were written on papyrus. With three months of hard work he managed to fix the flaw in her Fidelius charm, letting it work the way her faded memories said it should. That... backfired. As it turned out, solving a problem she'd struggled with for thousands of years in the space of a few months - thoroughly showing her up in an area of magic for which she had a well-deserved legend - was not the best way to win her favour. She was in a snit for days, rewarding him with clipped utterances of "Thank you" and "That's fine", which for her was the equivalent of hurling objects at his head.

Thankfully, she calmed down after he spent a day helping enchant and place anchor stones around Avalon, and helping cast the spell - a massive effort, considering the size of the island they were hiding. She wasn't petty enough to leave him to flounder after the location of the island was stolen from his mind by the charm. The number of people stumbling onto the magical island had been increasing… typically muggle fishermen, but sometimes it was a wizard who had deliberately sought out the legendary land, and those always had to be dueled and memory-charmed. She was glad to have it hidden under a proper Fidelius, even if he'd accidentally stepped on her pride while making it possible.

He resolved to be more careful in the future, and congratulated himself for a decent recovery.

Fine, he thought... back to tradition. It was still the summer, so he apparated all over Britannia carefully picking flowers, and had a fine bouquet waiting on the table when she returned home from the forest. His heart rose when she smiled at the sight… and plummeted when she asked how he'd known she needed some willowherb for her potions.

Did she really not know what he was trying to do? She was the most perceptive person he'd ever met, were his intentions not obvious? He wondered if she was trying to ward him off without being cruel… or had she been living away from the world for so long, holding herself aloof from mortals and their concerns, that she'd forgotten that another could and would see her in such a way?

Away from the world. A new idea took root in Myrddin's mind.

He visited some of the wizard scholars in the city, and purchased maps. Thereafter, he scrimped and saved every coin he had. If Muirgen noticed his new frugality, she didn't comment on it. He spent the entire winter working the plan through in his mind and on the maps whenever she wasn't around.

It wasn't until early spring that he finally managed to work up the courage to lay out his idea. They were sitting at her table, enjoying a soup made with some of the first herbs and vegetables of the season. Muirgen cast him sidelong glances occasionally as they ate, perhaps noticing his tension, but she left him to think.

Finally he could stand it no longer, and his mouth was moving before he realized it. "I think I'd like to go visit Rome," he said, with nervous bravado. She looked up from her bowl, blinking. He kept talking, gaining speed and excitement. "And not just Rome. Maybe down to Memphis. Or Abydos! That's where you were before, wasn't it? And then up through Ctesiphon… the wizards in the city are always waxing on about the Persian Empire, I'd like to see what that's about. From there we can head east, to the Far East, and-"

"Myrddin! Wait, wait! What… what is this about?" Muirgen was looking at him with an expression like he'd decided to empty the cooking pot down his pants. He'd have laughed at it, if he wasn't running on adrenalin.

He realized he'd been rambling. He shrugged, blushing. "I'd like to travel."

"I gathered that! But what do you mean by 'we'?"

He found himself flummoxed. "Well… you should come with me! You've been so many places, and I'm sure your knowledge isn't that out of date…" Despite the soup, his mouth had gone dry. "Come with me, Muirgen." There. He'd asked.

She looked down at her bowl. She seemed to be honestly thinking about it, and hope flared. But then she looked up, and from her expression he knew what her answer would be. "No, Myrddin, I can't. I'm sorry."

"Why? Why can't you come along?" He was embarrassed by how childish he sounded. "Muirgen, it'd be so much better with you. There's so much you could show me."

She'd stood, walking over to stir the remaining soup in the large pot hanging in the fireplace. "I belong here," she said, not turning around.

"But for how long?"

"I don't know. Whatever I'm supposed to do here, it isn't finished. I'm not sure when it will be." She didn't turn, continuing to stir. Her voice was even, but her shoulders were tense, and her knuckles were white where she gripped the ladle.

He glanced down at his own hands gripping his bowl tightly. It was one she'd made, exquisitely crafted using techniques learned in the Far East… ceramic that wouldn't have been out of place on a table in a palace, instead kept hidden in a tiny home in a forest. A more obvious metaphor Myrddin had never seen. It deserved better… she deserved better.

"Muirgen, please come with me," he said. "Everything else… we can sort out."

"No, Myrddin."

"But-"

"No! Stop asking!" He reeled a little, and guilt flashed across her face. "Please, Myrddin." He nodded, hiding his sinking heart behind his occlumency.

The rest of the night was stilted and awkward, and they both begged off to bed early. Myrddin lay in his usual position, more aware than usual of the warm form behind him, disappointed in his failure. It was well into the night before he managed to force himself to sleep.

The next morning he rose with the dawn, though he wasn't rested at all. He quietly moved around the Hovel, gathering his things and placing them in a satchel spelled with an expansion charm. He took one of the round loaves of bread from beside the fireplace, baked in the same oven outside that Muirgen used for her pottery.

"You're leaving already?" He turned to see her sitting upright in the bed. The morning sun turned her lightly tanned skin golden, and her eyes were dark, glittering jewels. Normally the ridiculous mess of her hair in the morning was a source of teasing and comedy, but at the moment it hurt to look at her.

"I have to," he said. "There's a merchant making the voyage across the channel, and he wants to leave early. If we… if I miss this trip, there isn't another that anyone knows of for another three weeks."

She watched him carefully. "Were you going to say goodbye?"

Was he? He'd thought about leaving quietly, not wanting to deal with another round of disappointment. But that would be petty and childish. No matter what else, she deserved better. He moved over to the bed, hesitating. "Not goodbye." To hell with it. He leaned down, and gave her a quick kiss - a peck only - on the lips. Her eyes went wide. His hand touched her cheek briefly. "I'll see you later. I promise."

He moved to the door, pausing as she called his name. "Myrddin?" He turned to look at her, his hand on the latch. She seemed to grope for words. Ask me to stay, Muirgen. Just ask. "Travel safely," she said instead.

He forced a smile. "I will." And then he left.


One of the limitations of Apparition was that he could only apparate to places he could visualize - which for the most part meant only those places he'd been to before. Getting to Londinium was trivial, but from there he had to charter a spot on a merchant boat making its way to the continent… he didn't trust any of the wizards in the city except for Ollivander, and the wandmaker had no skill with portkeys.

Crossing the channel was an unfortunate lesson in seasickness. The captain had said the journey would take anywhere from half a day to a day and a half… some carefully applied magic when the man wasn't looking - sailors were a superstitious lot, and Myrddin wasn't taking chances - made sure it was closer to the former. He staggered onto the shore of the Frankish lands, swearing he'd never set foot on a boat of any sort ever again.

Having emptied his stomach over the side somewhere in the middle of the voyage, he was miserable as begged a ride from a passing cart-driver, a kind man who took sympathy on the wretched adventurer and allowed him to sleep on the floor in the kitchen of his small house.

Myrddin lay on his blanket, his stomach still queazing, feeling more lonely than he'd ever felt since the day his mother cast him out. The urge to return home seemed towering… a single apparition, and he'd be back in the warmth of the Hovel and with Muirgen. Thinking about her made his stomach hurt in a different way: a strange mix of guilt and longing and disappointment. He wondered if this was how the women he'd been involved with felt when he broke off their relationships.

He was sure he wouldn't be able to sleep, so he was surprised when his eyes closed and then re-opened to find the man who'd offered him shelter puttering around in what passed for a kitchen in the tiny house, preparing breakfast. The farmer offered him a small meal and Myrddin was glad to find he could keep it down. He gathered up his things, and after nearly forcing a couple of coins into the man's hands, he took to the road.

He travelled, slowly but surely. He'd never walked so much in his life, and he gained an understanding for how much he'd relied upon being able to apparate everywhere. He set a path as straight to Rome as he could, occasionally able to obtain a roof over his head at a farmhouse or village in exchange for a coin or some simple labour. Conscious of the limited contents of his purse, he opted for the latter when he could. He was incredibly thankful that Muirgen had never let him become indolent and weak like so many other wizards; while he was nowhere near as strong as a muggle, he didn't shy away from hauling hay or mucking a stall, and he liked the respect he received for doing so.

The journey took months, but became easier the further southeast he travelled. Though the Roman Empire might be failing, it had left its mark on the roads and the people. He was glad they'd spread Latin so far, as his Frankish was poor, and he spoke no Gothic or any of the other Germanic languages. His British accent invited commentary - not threatening, merely annoying - and more than once he wished he had Muirgen's ability to sound like a native no matter what language she spoke. It wasn't hard to distract people, though… everyone loved helping the foreigner learn their language.

In Geneva, he was fortunate enough to meet with a small caravan of merchants making the trip to Rome. It saved him some walking merely in exchange for his cooking skills, which had proven oddly popular during his trip. He won the favour of the hired guards when he used his herblore to help treat a small wound gained during sword practice, which had become infected and was veering dangerously close to gangrene.

Though he hadn't needed to employ any magic, his knowledge alone was apparently enough to arouse the suspicions of one of the merchants, a white-bearded Roman named Albanus. Myrddin feared being driven away, but the elderly businessman simply smiled and admitted that his own brother was a wizard, though he himself hadn't been blessed with the ability. The old man, a squib, simply cautioned him that some of the towns in northern Italia might be less understanding, and provided him with the location of the wizarding district in Rome and the name of his brother. The two chatted often as the caravan clattered toward the former capital of the Empire.

His travels had taken him through Paris, and the country wizard had been shocked by the size of that city compared to Londinium, though admittedly his original home had been declining since before he was born. Geneva had likewise given a shock. But that was nothing compared to the walls and towers of the city that slowly crept into view before him. Rome, even after the capital had been transferred to Ravenna, was like a world unto itself, and Myrddin had never been more aware of his provincial origins. His neck hurt as his head twisted to and fro, trying to take it all in. He bid a pleasant farewell to Albanus and the others and headed into the city.

And promptly got lost.

The sun was starting to set by the time he'd managed to stumble his way into the magical district, entirely by accident. He found an inn, and received the latest of surprises: namely, the immense cost for everything, even in a relatively low-end inn. His small purse wouldn't last long.

The next day he sought out Albanus' brother, Caius, who ended up being a slightly taller, sterner version of his brother. Myrddin suspected he wouldn't have even made it in the door if not for the good fortune of Albanus happening to be visiting his family at that very moment. Even with the merchant there, inquiring about the possibility of employment was a nervous, stilted process. When Myrddin mentioned he was reasonably skilled at warding, Caius finally showed some interest... and when he showed his actual skills, that interest turned to excitement.

What Myrddin considered a "barely adequate" ward was considered state of the art in the city. There was an enormous demand for decent warders. He could see why; the Empire was beset on all sides: Vandals to the south, Gauls to the north, and the Huns to the east. The sacking of Rome not even two score years before was still quite fresh in the memories of the wizards of the city.

There was coins dancing in Caius' eyes as he thought about marketing the young wizard's skills to the paranoid magicals and rich muggles of Rome. He promised Myrddin employment, for the nominal fee of forty percent of his earnings. To the Roman wizard's chagrin (and his brother's intense amusement) Myrddin demonstrated that while he might be a country bumpkin, he wasn't a stupid country bumpkin. That percentage was lowered to fifteen before he left, and he negotiated a room in the servant's quarters for a reasonable boarding fee.

Thus Myrddin settled into Rome. Caius was right… his skills were intensely popular, and the money rolled in at an ever-increasing rate. The fact that he preferred his staff over his wand made him easily identifiable, his reputation spreading quickly. Eventually someone realized that warding was merely a sub-discipline of enchantment, and Myrddin lacked no ability there, either. Requests for his services nearly buried him, and he didn't think he'd have to worry about being poor ever again.

To the young wizard it was ideal: enchanting and warding took him to all corners of the city, and let him make contact with many high-powered citizens, magical and muggle. Even the servant's quarters in Caius' home were far more lavish than he was used to, so much so that he had difficulty sleeping for the first couple of weeks. He didn't need or want anything grander, so he was able to hoard even more of his coins. Each night he went to bed exhausted, physically and mentally, but with a sense of accomplishment and pride in his work.

Before sleep claimed him his mind would often turn to Muirgen, alone in her Hovel, and he'd feel lonely. Had she forgotten him? No, of course not… she wouldn't. But did she miss him? More specifically, did she miss him as much as he missed her? The thought of her lying in bed, pining for him, brought him a kind of pleasure; but he couldn't help but think that perhaps she didn't think of him at all.

Shortly into his second year in the city, he felt his restlessness flare again. He took his gathered fortune and bid Caius farewell, much to the magical businessman's disappointment. Purchasing a horse, he left Rome and headed northeast.

He'd decided to set his sights on Egypt. His vow to never set foot on a boat again was as strong as ever… although the larger Roman galleys looked much more stable than the meagre craft he'd crossed the channel in, the memories alone made him queasy! So he travelled by horse along the well-established roads between Rome and Constantinople, then beyond to Antioch, turning south through Syria. He passed through Jerusalem without lingering; the city was ancient and rich with history, but it was also the focus of muggle religious fervour, something which made any magical nervous. Instead he pushed on to the land of some of Muirgen's earliest memories.

Nearly a year after leaving Rome, he entered the ancient country and made a beeline for Alexandria. The city was a center of theological contemplation… at least, the royal and magical quarters were. The lower city was still fantastically violent. It also still contained the famous library for which the city was famous. Myrddin spent half a year in the city, and when he wasn't earning the odd coin - again, warding and enchanting - he spent nearly every waking moment there. The Library itself was kept in the magical quarter, its muggle counterpart - barring a few relatively tiny daughter libraries - having long since been destroyed in the wars and riots that ravaged the city.

He met a group of wizards who considered themselves the guardians of the Library; they had hidden, warded, and defended it over the course of generations. He didn't like their contempt for non-magicals, and considered it unfair for them to blame muggles for the damages the library had suffered over the centuries… nearly all the battles to speak of had included magical combatants, after all. But he couldn't fault the results of their vigilance. Enormous amounts of knowledge thought lost was preserved in warded, magically-expanded vaults beneath the city.

Myrddin gladly volunteered his skills to improving those protections in simple trade for unfettered access. He ignored offhand comments made by the older wizards, seeing little point in trying to dissuade their bigotry with facts. He neither agreed nor disagreed when they tried to draw out his opinion, though he did make a comment that perhaps they spent too much time protecting the library, and not enough time learning from it. In the end they were much sadder to see him go than he was to leave them behind.

Memphis was his next stop. The city was quieter, overshadowed by the rise of Alexandria, and the scholarly wizard felt more at ease there than he had at any other stop in his travels. The city truly felt old, and it had a wizarding community to match… tired old Egyptian wizards who had pride in their past, but not vanity. He felt kinship with them, and they were amused by the northern adventurer who had entered their midst, gladly pointing him to landmarks around the country they considered essential to visit, both magical and muggle.

It was during one of these explorations that he stumbled across a 'true' tomb of a pharaoh, hidden cunningly in plain sight in one of the necropolei around the city. The wards were a delicious challenge, and when he entered the tomb he found himself fascinated by the hieroglyphics inside. There, carved into the polished and painted stone, was the symbol of Wadjet's Eye… the same symbol that graced a golden necklace Muirgen kept hidden in a tiny box in the chest at the foot of her bed.

He stared at it for long minutes, dumbfounded. He'd known intellectually that Muirgen was old, but never really processed the knowledge. Standing there, in a tomb that radiated countless centuries, he stared at a symbol carved by the hand of his Mistress and unrequited love, and the truth of it nearly overwhelmed him. He could imagine it easily: in a time before his home had been named - before Rome had been named! - she'd stood exactly where he was standing, her wand or staff held high, shaping the room, carving these symbols... working the magic she would later gift so unreservedly to him.

He left the tomb, replacing the wards exactly as he'd found them. He apparated back to his room in Memphis, and went directly to bed. Homesickness had gripped him, a crushing embrace, stronger than any he'd felt since he'd first left Britannia.

He felt no better the next morning, perhaps even worse. So he gathered his things, left the innkeeper enough money to hold the room for another month, and then apparated away.

He made stops through the landmarks he'd memorized during his journey - destination, deliberation, and determination - and took small breaks between each, just as Muirgen had taught him was important for long-distance apparitions. He made a mental note to visit Athens on the way back - he was confident he could bridge the distance to Memphis from there, and doing so would cut two or three apparitions out of the journey.

Soon he was back in Paris, and from there he landed in the familiar muddy streets of Londinium. He barely restrained himself from apparating the rest of the distance right away; only the idea of arriving splinched held him back. But as soon as the minimum "rest" time had finished, he was gone.

He knew better than to apparate directly into the Hovel; the wards would react violently, to speak nothing of its occupant. He arrived outside the door, and his heart clenched in his chest... nothing looked different, like he'd simply ventured into the forest and returned.

It was around the time Muirgen would be taking her midday meal. Was she home, or had he passed her without realizing in Londinium? He pondered striding right in, but something held him back. He raised a hand, quelled its shaking, and knocked.

After a moment he heard the latch, and the door opened… and there she stood. She wore her familiar frock, but her hair was loose, laying across her shoulders in untamed waves. He didn't imagine her eyes widening, although she tamed the reaction quickly.

"Hello," he greeted, once his throat relaxed.

"Hello," she replied softly. She hesitated. "You came back." Was there a tremble in her voice?

"I said I would."

She smiled at that, and despite his nervousness, seeing it made him feel lighter. After a moment, she lifted her chin. "I was just setting out lunch. Would you like some?"

He realized he hadn't had a breakfast that morning, and his stomach answered loudly for him. Her eyes twinkled with amusement. "I'd love some, thank you," he said unnecessarily. "Hey!" he protested as she stepped back, opening the door for him. She paused and raised an eyebrow, and he held his arms wide, feeling an irrational burst of boldness. "No kiss?"

She sighed, rolling her eyes, but grinned. And then - very much to his surprise - she stood on her toes and pecked him on the lips. He blinked, but before he could come up with something to say, she'd retreated into the Hovel, leaving the door open for him.


Lunch was simple but delicious; after years of traveling, Myrddin could understand why she put so much effort into making sure her meals did more than just fill a hole.

As they ate he described his adventures to her. He'd missed the slightly dreamy look she'd get when he spoke, and now he had far more interesting things to say. His seasickness still embarrassed him, but it was worth it to see her subtly hiding a smile as he described the awful trip across the channel. He told of the trip down to Rome, and the nervous air of the people there, and he saw her pride as he described becoming well-known for the power and skill of his warding.

Midday became afternoon became evening as he talked. Soon both of their stomachs began grumbling again, and he gladly helped her prepare the evening meal. That lead to describing the exotic spices he'd encountered in Mesopotamia, and he regretted not bringing some back to her; he promised that he'd do so next time.

That brought her up short, and she seemed to shrink a little. "How long will you be staying?"

The jovial atmosphere disappeared like smoke. "Only a few days," he replied.

"Oh," was all she said, and then she turned back to stirring the stew.

The delight in their reunion was gone. He couldn't do this; he couldn't come back if each time he did it was just another drawn-out goodbye. "You could come with me-" he watched her clench her hand around the ladle, drawing a breath, "but you won't. I know." She relaxed again, though not completely.

"Muirgen, what am I to you?" he asked, his frustration boiling over.

The question surprised her; she turned to blink at him, and at any other time, he would have been congratulating himself. "What?"

"What am I to you? Do you still think of me as a student? Or as a son?"

She folded her arms. "Your command of magic is better than mine, Myrddin. And you made it very clear that you're not my son, and didn't want me thinking of you that way."

"Then what am I to you?" He stood.

"What do you want me to say? You're my friend, Myrddin."

A single step took him beside her, just to her side so she wouldn't feel pinned between him and the fireplace. She didn't react well to feeling trapped, which made it all the more odd that she did it to herself constantly. "Is that all? Is that all I am to you, all I can be?"

Her face twisted with frustation. "You're fishing for something, Myrddin, but I don't know what it is! What are you asking me?"

He growled. "Fine, you silly woman, I'll ask more plainly." And he did, by leaning down and capturing her lips with his own.

No matter the outcome, he decided he would always treasure that moment of hearing her squeak. Squeak! Her! He would have never thought it possible. Her hands flapped in the air, but she didn't push him away; he caught her hand and held it against his cheek. She could break the kiss if she wanted, and he wanted her to have the choice.

For a long moment she was so tense it was like kissing a statue, and he prepared himself for the rejection that would come. Instead she relaxed, and her hand slid back along his jaw to tangle into his hair. His own found her hip, while the other settled on the small of her back.

Eventually they had to come up for air, and as she pulled away he saw her eyes had become black pools, sparkling as they reflected the fire. Surprise, worry, panic, but most of all desire played across her face, and the small fire he'd been nursing for years inside him, never daring to stoke it but always resisting the urge to smother it out, flared at the sight.

"Myrddin-"

"Do you want this?" he interrupted. "Forget the future. Forget your duty. Right here, right now… do you want this?"

Her mouth worked for a moment silently. Finally she found her voice, although it was barely a whisper. "Yes." He grinned, perhaps stupidly. She spoke again, her breath tickling his jaw. "But if you ever call me a 'silly woman' again, I will transfigure you into a new door for the privy."

"Yes, Mistress," he rumbled. She growled, which became a purr as he leaned down again.

What followed was the culmination of fifteen years of desire, and he thanked his occlumency for allowing him to remember every moment. Still, he wasn't sure which one of them lead the way to the bed, and their meal was utterly forgotten, drying to a crusty lump inside the cooking pot. He needed all his discipline and willpower to avoid embarrassing himself like a teenager groping his first crush behind a shed.

They moved slowly, lingering over ties and clasps. He'd seen her nude before, of course, but had never touched her while they were both so exposed. A round scar, larger than his thumb, puckered the skin just above her elbow, and he enjoyed her soft sighs as he kissed it. The faded scar on her forehead, a barely visible lightning bolt, was even more sensitive. Then he was distracted by other parts of her body, as was she. When they were done they fell into blissful slumber, facing each other in the bed, his arms around her as she curled against him.

It was deep in the night when he woke to find her head on his chest. The soft, silken locks of her hair spread like a dark blanket across him, tickling his face and neck. He couldn't see her face, but above his heart he felt wetness.

"Are you crying?" he asked softly.

"No, of course not," she replied, but the wretchedness of her voice gave lie to the words. She did not look at him.

A chill hand gripped his heart, and for a brief panicked moment he wondered what he'd done to hurt her. His mind raced; she'd enjoyed their lovemaking, he was certain of that, and it wasn't just egotism that made him think so. He'd known she'd been lonely for an unfathomably long time, and she'd wrapped herself around him with desperation, encouraging - nay, demanding - his every movement, clutching him as if he might slip away…

Ah. And with that thought, it all made sense.

Her reaction when he told her his name. The pride she had in him that was always underlaid with a bit of sadness. The rare, unguarded moments when she didn't know he could see her, in the reflection on the kettle or in the glass of the windows… looking at him as if he was an illusion, and the next Finite would cause him to disappear. Myrddin wasn't entirely naive… he knew names that rang through the ages rarely belonged to old men who died quietly in their beds.

"I'm going to die, aren't I?"

She twitched as her breath caught in her chest. "Everyone dies," she whispered.

An answer that answered nothing… she was good at that. But it was enough of an answer for him. He ran his fingers gently through her hair. "Everyone except you."

She trembled, though the Hovel was warm. "Yes, everyone except me." She pressed her face against his shoulder. He placed a kiss on the top of her head and held her tightly as she wept, ignoring the tears that dripped down his ribs.


They didn't speak of it the next morning; it was easy enough to do, as they both woke up absolutely famished, and predictions of his demise took second to their empty bellies. Muirgen sighed at the solidified mess in the cooking pot, and brought out bread and cheese along with apples from Avalon.

Myrddin refused to dwell on anything negative. Instead, as soon as they'd satisfied one appetite, he took her hand and lead her right back to bed to satisfy another. His good mood eventually wore away her moroseness, and they stayed there until noon; sometimes dozing, sometimes not. Finally Muirgen commanded him - with a laugh - to release her so she could clean up the previous night's dinner before it began to stink.

"I'll take care of that," he said sheepishly. "It's my fault, anyway."

"Fine," she said. "Can you get a fire going in the oven? Not too hot, I'll roast some meat. I'm going to make a quick trip to the city."

They dressed, and Myrddin took care of the cooking pot while Muirgen stepped outside and apparated away. Her soft pop was barely audible even with the front door open, and reminded him how much practice he needed until he could approach her level of skill. He took the pot outside and scoured it clean with several Scourgify incantations, the burnt stew welded on rather solidly; he probably could have overpowered the charm, but the one time he'd done that (back when first learning, both magic and cooking) he'd cracked the pot and it'd had to be replaced.

When Muirgen returned it was with a hapless chicken she'd purchased, which was quickly slaughtered, plucked, seasoned, and stuffed into the outdoors oven normally used to fire her pots. He smiled; roasted chicken was her favourite food, and he was glad to see her treating herself.

The chicken was delicious, accompanied with some summer vegetables she harvested from her gardens, and he also enjoyed the first cup of tea he'd had since his departure. He hadn't known it was something Europe had yet to discover, and Muirgen only made herself; he'd nearly forgotten how pleasant he felt after a cup of tea made from apple bark from Avalon. When they were done and cleaned up, they lay in the bed, and he told her more of his travels.

She was disappointed to hear that the contents of the Great Library had been robbed from the muggles, though she grudgingly allowed that the knowledge was safer. He opted not to tell her about the tomb he'd broken into… he didn't want her thinking about time past and friends lost. Instead he nibbled on her shoulder until she produced another very un-Muirgen sound, a giggle. They made love again, and he held her close as they slept.

He stayed at the Hovel for the better part of a week, enjoying the return to the old and familiar, if however brief. Muirgen insisted it wasn't necessary for him to help with her chores, and he insisted just as strongly that he wanted to do so. A large storm had recently blown over Britannia, so they made a visit to Avalon to check for damage, and Muirgen appreciated his visiting the phoenixes so she didn't have to. The magical birds seemed happy to see him, trilling encouragingly as he told them of his travels.

That he would eventually leave hung over them, but Muirgen was determined to make the best of their limited time. She forewent her monthly trip to Londinium, insisting the few extra days delay wouldn't ruin her potions. They took walks through the forest, and thankfully had no tense encounters with the centaurs. She encouraged him to talk about his travels, even when it seemed like he was repeating himself. They both remembered their painful and disappointing parting of ways before, although neither of them mentioned it; now that they'd hurdled that obstacle, they worked to make sure it wouldn't happen twice.

The days always ended with a delicious meal, and then they would make love until they fell asleep in each other's arms. Myrddin learned that - for all that she was older than their civilization - Muirgen possessed the body of a woman in the prime of her fertility… and had desires to match. It made her centuries of celibacy and restraint all the more impressive.

"Have you had lovers before?" he asked quietly one night. A dangerous avenue of inquiry, but he was intensely curious. He matched her suspicious gaze with an open look, making sure she knew it wasn't a loaded question.

"A few. Okay, a lot, considering the timespan," she admitted. Her eyes were unfocused, as she drifted back through time and memory. "Some I was fond of. Some I simply… used. Men and women who were attracted to my power and status… or afraid of refusing me, for the same reason. All of them… gone."

He knew she had darkness in her past, and was ashamed of it. He regretted setting her to think about it, or his eventual mortality. Thankfully, she'd given him a tidy distraction. "Really? Women?" He didn't have to fake a lecherous expression.

"Oh, shush!"

The night before he was due to leave, they lay in her bed, still a bit breathless from their latest exertions. She'd been particularly vigorous, as if trying to convince him to stay through passion alone. They spooned together, his arm around her waist as her hand gently tickled his forearm. He breathed through the dark locks of her hair, inhaling the scent that was uniquely Muirgen… herbs, rose from her scented oils, and cinnamon… a scent he wouldn't have recognized before his visit to Egypt. Her homeland, still embedded in her skin, even thousands of years later.

"I wish you would come with me," he rumbled.

"Myrddin-"

"I know you wouldn't," he interrupted. He didn't say can't. "I'm just… expressing a preference."

She hugged the arm that held her. "I wish I could come with you, too." And that was their disagreement: couldn't, wouldn't. He knew better than to argue… she would outlast him, like she outlasted everything.

"I worry about you," he said instead.

She cast an incredulous look at him over her shoulder. "I think that's supposed to be my line. You're the one who's been telling me about rampaging barbarians and muggle wars the past few days."

"Still…"

"Still," she echoed. She settled back against her pillow. "Don't worry about me, Myrddin. I'm where I'm supposed to be."


He didn't rush out the door the next morning. Instead he shared a pleasant breakfast with his lover, lingering until she was properly dressed. He let her show him to the doorstep, where he made sure to kiss her until she was wide-eyed and a little bit dizzy.

He stepped back. "I'll see you soon," he promised. Then with a twist he was gone.

He travelled by apparition as he had before until Heraclea, where he diverted south towards Athens via horseback. The roads were well-travelled between the two cities, and the diversion added little more than a ten-day to his trip. It was well worth the time, because he found he was strong enough to apparate directly to Memphis from there. Athens itself was beautiful, and he resolved to return to explore it further in the future.

He wasn't just casting himself out into the world this time, no. This time he had a mission, one decided upon inside his own mind during that last night in the Hovel.

Myrddin was always well aware of his own limited lifespan. How could he not be, when he lived with a woman who was ancient before the Republic was born? But now… he could almost feel the water in the clepsydra, drops of time running out to be lost forever. Every moment wasted was foolish. But he needed a purpose, and he'd decided on this: if he couldn't bring Muirgen out into the world, he'd bring the world to her.

He stayed in Memphis for a mere two more months, exploring surrounding Egypt. Then he moved on, back to Athens. He explored there as well, not just the landmarks but the people, learning histories and culture and news. And again he moved on. A vigor had filled him, and it wasn't merely wanderlust. He was certain Muirgen had visited all these places long ago, under different names, before the weight of duty and fate had tied her down in the forests of Britannia. The world had moved on without her, and she'd been left behind. So Myrddin would be her eyes and ears in the new world.

Onward he travelled, sometimes northward, sometimes southward, almost always eastward. He stopped in Ctesiphon as he'd vowed years before. The magical community was rich, and he managed to entice some of the wizards into teaching him new magics. There was greater respect between the muggle wise-men and the wizards there, and the region thrived as a result. He dawdled there for over a year but, inevitably, it was time to seek someplace new.

He visited the Hovel as often as he was able, though sometimes it could be years in between. When he arrived Muirgen would act as if he'd never left... asking if he had a preference for dinner, and would he mind fetching some wood from the pile? They would eat and he would talk. Then they'd fall into bed together and make love, and afterward he'd talk some more.

He liked talking. He loved sharing his stories with her, bringing her news from the world she'd retreated from, but he also liked the way she would watch him as he spoke. He would pace, hands weaving patterns in the air that had nothing to do with spells. Her eyes would follow him as she lay on the bed, often in the nude, bare feet lightly kicking in the air. He thought of it as another of her tests: if his words excited him enough that he could ignore the display of firm, ever-youthful flesh, then she was eager to listen. If he became distracted…

Well. There were no losers.

He spoke of his travels, from Memphis all the way eastward to the Far East, a distance so vast that to the average person in Britannia he might as well have fallen off the world. He mentioned his visits to the true tombs of the pharaohs, and laughed at her outrage as he described bypassing her wards and traps (though he assured her he left everything as it was). He told her of the wise men of the Gupta Empire, the isolated wizarding monasteries hidden in the vast mountains, and the chaos in Northern Wei.

When he had learned new magic, he would stay a while and teach it to her, and when it was possible he would speak the languages he learned as well; it was always amusing when she knew a language, but her grammar and pronunciation was so archaic she was near unintelligible. He occasionally brought her gifts… magical trinkets, jewelry, or pottery. She would make a token grumble about his cluttering the Hovel, but she would smile as she said it, never treating his offerings as anything less than precious. Once in a market in the Far East, he found a man selling tea leaves… something he'd never seen in the west except for the herbal teas Muirgen made herself. He emptied his coinpurse buying it all, bringing it to her that very evening to her surprise and delight.

For nearly twenty years Myrddin explored, chasing any point of the compass that caught his eye. He met the Veela of the Frankish lands (and was never so glad for his Occlumency). He met forest brownies and hid from the dragons of the northeast, and met wizards and witches of every colour and creed. He studied with wise-men, many of whom were muggles, and took wine with kings and sultans who had heard of the travelling wizard of the far west.

He taught occasionally, even sharing the secrets of Apparition. Muirgen had told him quite bluntly that all the knowledge she'd given him was his to do with as he saw fit, whether to share or to hoard. The only two magics she asked him to keep to himself were the time-portkeys (he hardly needed to be told that, there were enough potential paradoxes just around her as it was) and the secret of soul-bonding to wands.

When he asked about the latter she simply asked him to picture a world where a duel didn't end when a wizard was disarmed. He understood completely.

As the years passed, Myrddin was almost able to forget the axe hanging over his head… the not-a-prophecy (Muirgen hated Seers) of his doom. It was if he held his hand out over the world, and if he grabbed hold it would burn him. But as he learned more and more, saw and heard more and more, he realized he wouldn't be able to keep his hands to himself forever. He began to realize the world was too big… everyone was too spread out, and nobody talked!

Why were there British wizards, and Persian wizards, and Han wizards? Weren't they all just wizards? Magic flowed through the world and its children, caring nothing for divides that existed only on maps drawn by men. Why did magical men and women separate themselves into pointless enclaves? Why did some magical children, each one precious, never have the opportunity to realize their potential, simply because they were born in the wrong place… or had the "wrong" parentage?

Myrddin thought long and hard about the problem, and realized that there was no way for him to merely be an observer any longer. It was time to grab hold.

He traded the technique of Apparition with the Veela in return for the secret of how they bred and trained their marvellous, intelligent messenger-birds. He settled in Greece for nearly five years to breed and train owls… the birds were associated with Athena, and he liked the symbolism. The day when his youngest and most promising pet returned from a long journey to the land of the Picts, a reply tied to her leg, he had laughed out loud. The note itself was inconsequential… a somewhat incensed missive from Muirgen wondering what he was trying to imply by naming his pet owl 'Wadjet'.

Wadjet, and later her sons Remus and Romulus (Muirgen again demanded to know whether Myrddin was trying to be clever) proved their worth again and again to the skeptical Greek wizarding community. They were quite clearly an advance over mere messenger pigeons, and soon many were demanding owls of their own. Myrddin provided them, gladly, and at the same time taught those same wizards how to apparate. With any luck those wizards would travel more gladly… broadening their horizons, as Muirgen would say. Travel and talk, he hoped.

At Muirgen's recommendation he charged a sum for both the owls and his lessons. Others would grant value to what he taught if he gave it a value himself, she said. She was right… his students took his lessons seriously, and treated the birds well, if there were coins invested. Even though he didn't charge more than a pittance - tuned according to what he thought the person could afford - the money rolled in. Soon, like in Rome when he first set out, he had more wealth than he knew what to do with. Like decades before, he simply used it to fund his travels.

He wasn't the only wizard out seeing the world. The day went he encountered one of his own students, a thousand miles from where they first met was - to pardon the term - magical. Quite unexpectedly, the newly mobile wizards and witches brought along tales of the oddly powerful wizard who had taught them, and sometimes he entered a city to find his own name being bandied about.

It was exciting, though he felt that axe over his head coming a little closer each time.

There were advantages. He didn't need to establish himself in each city anymore. It wasn't a fight to be taken seriously. Wizards and witches gathered to him, to listen to him, and seeing magicals gathering together to talk was everything he'd been trying to accomplish.

He thought he was a jaded enough individual, but it was still a shock to learn that his words weren't always welcome. He spoke of working together with muggles… after all, why wouldn't you? The idea of excluding the muggleborn seemed so daft to him it didn't even bear mention. Unfortunately, some wizards - always men, he never figured out why - took exception to those concepts. Some tried to silence him. Some used spellfire to do so.

Myrddin was no stranger to duels… the world was a violent place. His first had been during his very first year in Rome, when a Roman citizen had thought to bully the wizard from the abandoned corner of the Empire. When the duel began Myrddin had been afraid… when it was over, he was appalled. The fight had ended so quickly it didn't even qualify as comedy, and he began to grasp the level of education Muirgen had given him in her efforts to prepare him for the world.

There were numerous more duels to follow over the decades… some were over politics, some fueled with wine. Some were simple attempted robbery, and others were nothing more than bullying. Myrddin stood against all of them, knowing that if he ran once he'd never stop. Even when his opponents grouped against him - an ironic thing, considering so many were reacting against his urging to work together! - he defeated them easily. Even a trio of angry wizards couldn't offer the challenge his Mistress had given him on her worst day.

He never had to resort to the dark magics she had taught him, though he had to fend off more than one dark spell. The battles were so lopsided that he could afford to be merciful… even the bandits were left battered and humiliated, but alive.

So, when a particularly vicious wizard in Pyu objected badly to a speech he'd given in a tavern in the magical quarter of Tagaung, he had no reason to think it would go any other way. It didn't; the man's shields shattered like cheap pottery under Myrddin's stunners, and a Disarming charm knocked the the brute into the wall and sent his wand flipping into the British wizard's hand. Myrddin had turned away, intending to hand the wand over to the innkeeper for safekeeping until he'd left.

He should have been more careful. He saw the elderly Asian man's eyes suddenly go wide, and spun to find that the other wizard had pulled a second, hidden, wand from his sleeve as he lay on the floor. Myrddin's staff was still in his hand, rising. and he realized that if he dodged, whatever spell the fallen wizard cast would hit the innocent innkeeper.

"Avada-"

Myrddin reacted on instinct. He didn't even need to incant. An arc of energy scythed out from his staff, carving through the wooden floor and the stone beneath with equal ease. The human neck in its path might as well have not even been there. Myrddin dropped his staff in shock as the man's head rolled free, a look of surprise briefly appearing on the face before going slack, the rest of the Killing Curse severed along with it.

Silence claimed the room. He looked at those who had gathered to witness the unexpected execution. At their expressions he felt sick; his staff disappeared as he Dismissed it, and then he turned and apparated away.

He didn't flee to his room. He kept apparating, one after another, until he was in serious danger of splinching himself. But he didn't stop, not until he'd covered half the world and found himself standing in front of the Hovel again.

He startled Muirgen as he appeared; it was a warm spring day, and she was making some of her pottery. He snapped into view, and in an eyeblink her staff was in her hand and pointed at him. But she didn't cast, her eyes going wide as she recognized him, taking in the agony on his face. The staff fell from her hand and disappeared.

"Myrddin! What-"

She was in her loincloth, her hair braided back, and her arms were coated with clay up to the elbows, with more spattered across her knees and breasts. The last of his self-control frayed at the sight, and he surged forward. His mouth was on hers, and he clutched her desperately, making her gasp with surprise.

She pushed him away briefly to look into his eyes, and whatever she saw there, she recognized.

A sweep of her hand sent her wheel and the half-finished pot onto the grass, and she pulled him toward her as she slid up onto the table. Her hands spread muddy prints on his robes, across his cheek and into his hair. He needed warmth and life and love, and she gave it gladly. When they were done she held him in the cage of her arms and legs with all the strength granted her by her country living, until his shivering stopped.

When he stepped away he was flushed with shame, but she just smiled kindly. She snapped her fingers and a cleaning charm swept over them, cleaning away the mud and sweat. Then she lead him indoors - abandoning their clothes on the ground - and to her bed. There she made love to him again, slowly and sweetly until he fell asleep, exhausted.

When he woke it was to find Muirgen propped up on one elbow beside him, running her fingers across his brow, brushing his hair away from the sweat there. Their gazes met, and she looked at him not with pity, but understanding.

"You killed someone," she stated softly.

He nodded. She continued to gently run her fingers over his face, over his cheeks and across the line of his jaw. He looked up at her. "You're not going to ask why?"

"I know why: because they forced your hand. You wouldn't have done it for any other reason. I know you know it as well. But there's something more."

The movements of her hands were soothing… enough that he couldn't think. He caught her hand and held it against his chest. "It's… not the man I killed. He made me do it. He was beaten, and I would have left it at that, but it wasn't enough for him. He made his choice, I don't feel pity for him for it."

"Then what is it?"

"It was… everyone else," he said, struggling for the right words. "After I killed that man, I saw them looking at me, and it wasn't horror or disgust in their faces… they admired me. I'm sure the fool was a lout, and I'm sure I'm not the first person he's tried to bully. But still… there's one less wizard in the world today… and for as stupid a reason as disagreeing over the muggleborn. There's nothing admirable about that."

He squeezed her hand. "Is this all that we are? We look down our noses at the muggles, and some call them little more than animals, and yet it's we who act like wolves… always watching for the bigger, stronger alpha."

"The muggles are hardly better, Myrddin. You can just look at the tribes here in Pictland to see that."

"I know, it's just…" He struggled for the right words. Muirgen, always patient, laced her hands on his chest and rested her chin on them, looking up at him. "It just… seems better when we work together rather than apart. Why doesn't anyone want more of that? Look at Egypt… that was you and your students working with the muggles. Or the Republic..."

"Romulus murdered Remus, remember," she pointed out dryly. "Maybe you should leave that particular example out."

"That was brother versus brother, not magical versus muggle."

"That makes it worse, not better… it makes wizards think they can't even trust their own muggle family."

He eyed her. "You sound as though you know from experience."

She winced. "Maybe. I remember… a woman. Tall and very thin. I don't remember her name, but I remember she was cruel to me, because of my magic."

"Your mother?" he asked.

"No," she replied. Her gaze was turned inward. Despite the seriousness in the air, whatever she remembered brought a fond smile to her lips; he saw it, and felt better. "I remember my mother. Not a lot, but… I remember she was beautiful. And I know she loved me… I'm certain of it."

She rarely spoke of her earliest memories… she'd lost so much to time, only the strongest memories remained, and those were often of inexplicable tragedy without context. That she remembered the face and kindness of her mother after uncounted years spoke of how strong their bond was. He also felt incredibly privileged, knowing she would never speak of it with anyone else.

He lifted a hand and brushed her hair back away from her face. "I think she would have looked like you."

"A little. But her hair was the colour of fire. I think I have my father to blame for this." She puffed, blowing away a lock of black hair. Even the strongest magics had problems taming her mane, but Myrddin liked the wildness of it… it contrasted so much from how controlled she was herself.

She focused back on him, leaving the memories behind. "There's always going to be jealousy, Myrddin, just like with Remus and his brother. Magicals… we look down on the muggles out of fear. Yes, we're more powerful individually, but the muggles organize and accomplish great feats together. The muggleborn… they're like muggles who have become wizards, and suddenly the one advantage they have is gone."

"But that's just it… they've become wizards. Isn't that what we want?"

"No," Muirgen replied bluntly. "We want to be special."

Myrddin sighed, unable to argue with her words. "I wanted people to talk. Apparition, the owls… I wanted people to talk and share. It wasn't about subsuming anyone. I wanted us to help each other."

"Did you really expect everyone's attitudes to change overnight? Take it from me… the names and banners change, but we're all still living in our little tribes, and slights that we ignore from our friends become unforgivable from a stranger."

He lay back, staring at the ceiling. Muirgen's vast experience could be aggravating sometimes, but for all her cynicism, she was usually right.

Except… when she wasn't.

"You've got that look," she said.

He blinked down at her. "Not all of the Republic's growth was through conquest, was it?"

Dark brows furrowed. "I didn't come back from the Far East until after Caesar." There was remembered anger in her voice… her first encounters with the wizards of the Roman military had not been positive.

"Well, if you believe what the Romans say, there were plenty of lands that joined the Republic because they wanted Roman rule." He slipped out from under her, swinging his legs out of the bed. "What if we did that? What if, instead of talking, I showed them?"

Excitement gripped him. He leaped out of the bed, pacing between the bed and the table like he had so many times before. "I don't need to just claim that muggles and wizards can work together, I can prove it! And why not here, in Britannia? The rest of the Empire thinks we're a backwater, but if we start working together-"

"Feeling patriotic, are we?" Muirgen commented from where she stretched on the bed, the minxish look on her face only making her look more feline.

"Just my tribalism making itself apparent," he replied with a smirk. "I may be trying to bring the world together, but I am a Briton." He blinked. "I should start in Glywyssiog or elsewhere on the west coast. I don't want Angle or Saxon influence this soon- Agh, I forgot my quill and parchments in Taguang!"

"Myrddin-"

"No, no, I need to go back anyway. I'm sorry to rush out, but-"

"Myrddin."

"What?"

"Your clothes, Myrddin." She leaned on one elbow, gesturing meaningfully with her eyes.

He looked down. "Oh." A gesture caused the door to open and their clothes to float in and a murmured Scourgify removed the caked mud. He plucked each item from the air and put it on, until he was left just holding Muirgen's loincloth. "Uh…"

"Just leave it on the chair." He obeyed.

He nearly rushed out the door, but hesitated with the door open. He'd been about to give her his normal farewell… "I'll see you soon"... but now that seemed so trite. Life was too short.

Striding over to the bed, he leaned down and kissed her… affection and gratitude and a promise together in the gesture. "I love you," he said.

Her eyes went wide. "Myrddin-" she said weakly.

He stepped away, smiling. "I'll see you soon!" he called as he went out the door.


He travelled back to Taguang at a calmer pace… he was certain if Muirgen knew how he'd exhausted himself on the trip out, she'd have knocked him unconscious and forced him to rest before letting him apparate anywhere. Not that he had a particular problem with her body-binding him, he just prefered to be awake to enjoy it.

It was a calmer wizard who arrived back at the inn, where the body had already been removed and the damage repaired. Myrddin avoided looking at the discoloured area on the floor, the wood planking that was conspicuously cleaner than the rest. He felt no pride at having killed, but he was able to acknowledge that it'd been a choice between himself and the other man, and he'd taken the only sensible option. Still, once he retrieved his things, he made a point of tracking down the dead wizard's family. He was disheartened to learn that the man had a wife and two daughters, and again when he discovered they didn't miss their father at all. As Myrddin had feared, the man had been a brute.

After a horribly unpleasant conversation where he was certain the newly-widowed woman was offering herself up to him as if she was something he'd won, Myrddin gifted them with the money he had and his personal owl, Augustus. He made them promise to seek a better life, and to send Augustus if they had difficulty doing so. After that, it was back to Britannia.

Muirgen acted oddly as he returned to the Hovel… not angry, but hesitant and standoffish. She made no attempt to seduce him, but as they slept she would hold his arm around her waist tightly. She despised talking about her feelings, so he left her to her thoughts, just trying to be a solid, reassuring presence to her as she'd always been to him. Instead, he asked her advice about his plan to offer his services to a British kingdom, in the hopes of creating a bond that would encourage other magicals.

She agreed with his notion that one of the western kingdoms would be a good choice. Her reasons were rather more pragmatic than his own… the western kingdoms had always been weak compared to Rome, and they'd recovered very little of their power as the Angles and Saxons flooded in to fill the vacuum left by the Empire. They'd leap at the chance to gain the wand of a powerful wizard.

Under his traditional guise of a travelling wizard, Myrddin met with many kings, would-be emperors, or simple chieftains as he roamed the lands of his birth. Most were little more than thugs. Some had the loyalty of their people, but Myrddin sought a leader with loyalty to his people. After nearly three years of searching, he settled upon offering his skills to a man named Uther. This particular king was building a strong realm, and seemed to genuinely care about his subjects.

He wasn't perfect, or even ideal. He was prideful to an extreme, and seemed determined to bed every woman in Britannia. But there was a firm base for Myrddin to work with, and Uther was smart enough to see that gaining the allegiance of a wizard of Myrddin's power and reputation was worth curbing some of his baser behaviours. He was also remarkable in that his first thoughts at gaining the aid of a powerful wizard was to protect what he had, not take from others. Or so Myrddin thought.

The war with Uther's own retainer, Gorlois, took the wizard off-guard. It sprang from Uther's own lust, directed toward Gorlois' wife. It began with a lewd comment more suited for a farmer than a king, which was followed with shouted words, and then drawn swords. Suddenly, to Myrddin's shock, the kingdom was at war with itself.

He would have abandoned the fool then and there, except the knights who followed him were good men, simply loyal to a fault. So he worked tirelessly, trying to negotiate a reasonable end, just so those same men wouldn't waste their blood on the ground outside Gorlois' keep. He managed to arrange a parley, right on the retainer's doorstep, under a peace that would be maintained by the wizard himself. Uther even promised that after the meeting was done, he would never give the Lady Igerna a wanton glance again.

Myrddin should have been suspicious.

He had learned of a peculiar potion during his travels to the far east; a temple of monks had developed it, taking the philosophy of "seeing through another's eyes" to an extreme. It allowed one to shapeshift into another person in order to better understand them. It was an amazing feat of potion brewing, and he had managed to bargain for a sample to research its properties when he could.

The ingredients were ruinously expensive to obtain, so he didn't have much, but he spared a single vial to protect Uther in the event of an assault or assassination attempt. The king would transform into the image of one of his knights and escape. In hindsight, Myrddin should have used it to turn Uther into a particularly attractive woman - perhaps it would knock some sense into the fool to experience his behaviour from the other side.

Ultimately, Uther betrayed him again and for the last time. While Gorlois had come to the table in good faith, Uther managed to gain access to the keep with the assistance of a few of his soldiers who didn't ask questions. Finding a hair would have been trivial once inside Gorlois' bedchambers. And when it was all said and done, Igerna was deceived and used, Gorlois was enraged, and battle erupted. Poor Gorlois, who had only wished to protect his wife, was struck down. His knights went after the fleeing king with the fury of enraged wolves.

Myrddin did not save him. He'd reluctantly ignored Uther's lechery before, but to trick a loving wife with the face of her husband… that was a sin beyond the pale. He did not forgive men who abused women in that way. A flick of his fingers sent the king's sword flying into a nearby boulder, and he let the howling knights avenge their mistress.

He stepped in to make sure the bloodshed ended with the king, giving orders with authority he didn't deserve. The knights on both sides would eventually realize it, but he at least managed to send them home. Myrddin apparated away, needing Muirgen's wisdom and comfort.

He confessed the entire affair to her. The kettle he'd made for her so many years before sat between them, and he nursed a cup of her apple bark tea. "How could I have been so shortsighted? I thought he was the best of a bad lot… well, that didn't get me far, did it? And Lady Igerna… I have no idea how to repair what this has done to her."

Muirgen was curiously silent. He looked up, and saw she'd paled despite even her rigid control. "Muirgen?"

"Myrddin…" she began, her voice strangled, "did he get her pregnant?"

He was something he hadn't even thought of, and Muirgen spoke with the restrained terror she had whenever she thought she already knew the answer. Myrddin felt himself go white. His tea was forgotten.

He visited Igerna as soon as she was willing to meet him. Her eyes were red from weeping but her gaze was cold as he begged her forgiveness. He offered his help defending her lands from any others who thought to capitalize on the tragedy; she accepted, though summarily rejected his hints that he'd help her claim the kingdom itself if she chose. She wanted nothing to do with it; it'd cost her too much already.

That short meeting was enough time for him to quietly cast a wandless charm while her back was turned. It confirmed what Muirgen had feared. And Myrddin was afraid. For the first time, Muirgen's foreknowledge was not mere conjecture.

He was afraid for the child as well; how would Igerna react if she suspected her son - Myrddin had determined that as well - wasn't Gorlois'? Would the child be sentenced to a childhood like Myrddin's own?

And he was afraid because, already, his mind was thinking of ways to use the situation to his advantage. Afraid and ashamed.

He left Igerna, knowing his presence was useless and unwanted. He went to the spot where Uther fell, and to the sword which still jut from the stone where he'd cast it from the king's hand. His presence drew a crowd; all knew of Myrddin, the wizard who had served the king.

He stared at the sword in the stone for long moments. Then he Called his staff, drawing awed gasps from the surrounding muggles, and cast a series of charms and protections. Another wave of his staff and an english oak sprout from the ground, growing at a tremendous pace until it hung protectively over the stone and its burden.

Myrddin turned to the gathered crowd, meeting as many eyes as he could. "Let it be known: he who draws the sword from the stone, he shall be king!" And then he turned and disapparated.


Many, many muggles attempted to pull the sword from the stone. Myrddin regretted setting a notification charm… that probably should have waited.

Still, it was hilarious to watch under a disillusionment charm as huge farmers and mighty knights herniated themselves trying to wrench the sword free. One particular idiot refused to give up lest he face the teasing brought about by his own boasting… he kept at it until he threw out his back and couldn't stand up under the weight of his own armour! He had to be carried away, and Myrddin was thankful for the magic which hid him from sight… it wouldn't do for the 'mighty wizard' to be seen giggling like a little girl.

He needed the levity, because the next year was spent in a state of near-constant nausea until Igerna gave birth. To his profound relief, she seemed to adore her new son, christening him Arthur. If she knew he wasn't Gorlois', she didn't reveal it. Myrddin left some charms on the boy to monitor his health, and left it at that, trusting in Igerna's love.

He kept away for the years afterward, concerning himself with his project to build a form of wizarding government. Thankfully, there were no opportunistic land-grabs by the surrounding kingdoms… Myrddin's involvement seemed to be enough to stave them off. The realm itself was in a form of stasis for the same reason… a village grew around the stone, as men from across Britannia, and even many from the continent, tried to draw the sword and claim the prize of rulership. None succeeded… he made sure of that. A few wizards tried to dispel the charms, and learned why Myrddin's name was still spoken with awe among the warders of Rome.

He felt like he was juggling swords with all his projects. He had to make sure Arthur learned honour as he grew up, and he was finally starting to get some traction with the wizards of the Isles with regards to a government and system of laws. It was unfortunate that they were primarily drawn by his power rather than any wisdom, but it was a start. The only person who made no demands on his time was Muirgen.

She was always there, with her warm home, and open ear, and a warm heart she allowed no-one but himself to see. He grew older, though she did not… but if the physical aspects of their relationship faded slightly, she paid it no mind. She complimented him on how regal he seemed as his hair began to turn silver, though she complained good-naturedly about the pointed beard he grew (it was difficult to be taken seriously by other wizards without one). Though he claimed a house in Londinium - the city hardly qualified as such anymore, having been all but abandoned by the muggles - he spent barely any time there.

For all that she claimed to hate it, she was stroking his beard softly one night as they lay in bed together. He'd been telling her of Arthur… the boy had just recently been paged to Igerna's head knight. Arthur was strong for his age, but his knight was a beast of a man, and wasn't shy about using his strength during sword training. Myrddin considered that a good thing… the boy would learn to fight smart before he fought strong.

"Do you ever wish you had a son of your own?" Muirgen asked quietly.

"Sometimes," he admitted. He felt her shrink a little beside him, and squeezed her affectionately before she chased that thought too far. "But when I do, I think about it some more and realize I'd be a terrible father. I'm trying to do too much… I wouldn't be able to give him the attention a child deserves."

"I think you'd do fine."

"Maybe. But if I can make life a bit easier for other fathers and mothers, I'll be happy. If I can create something that you can look back on, and be proud that you knew me, I'll be happy."

She never liked it when he mentioned his own mortality, but he needed to say it. Muirgen watched him, her lips slightly parted, but no complaints came. Then she snuggled up to him and rest her head on his shoulder. "Then you should be happy," she told him.

One by one the years passed. Myrddin worked, and travelled, and talked. A building in the magical district of Londinium, built from stone during the height of Rome's presence, was taken over… and suddenly the magicals of Britannia, thanks to Apparition, had a place to come together. Many wanted to meet the oddly powerful wizard whose name was known across the world, and he put up with being the center of attention, the undeclared "leader". Whenever it was became too much, he simply apparated north… and helped his Mistress gather herbs.

It was as they sat down for a dinner at the Hovel that Myrddin felt it… the event for which he'd been waiting nearly eighteen years. He felt the tickle in his mind that was his own spells reaching out to alert him.

The sword had been pulled from the stone.

Muirgen saw the change in his expression, and watched him as he slowly stood. "What is it?"

He looked at her and smiled. "Fate," he said simply. "I have to go, love. I'll see you soon."