When Verown and his convoy of archers forced their pair of captives into the Druid encampment at arrow point, Merlin was astonished at how normal it looked. At first glance it appeared to be no more than a simple village, similar to the hundreds that dotted Albion's countryside. Rough wooden huts spackled together with mud ran in rows alongside the trees that encircled the camp.
This arrangement made the entire settlement into a large box, squared away from the wilderness that surrounded it. Night had fallen, though the entirety of the square was clearly visible due to the dozen or so cook fires in the middle space of the square, their flames licking beating away the darkness as it came
Women moved about in a flurry preparing supper. They chopped freshly gathered herbs and vegetables, rotated the spitted boar and deer suspended over the fire, and scrubbed away at mountains of clay bowls still dirty from the midday meal. Children scurried at their heels, chasing one another in play, giggling with mad glee.
Every few moments one of them would cry out and their eyes lit up. Twigs were whisked from the ground telekinetically and flung at the other children's heels. However this was quite ineffectual and the young ones continued their game. This was one the few magical feats Merlin could see being performed. On occasion a woman would mutter an incantation to rekindle a fire or lift a heavy pot of stew.
A group of men were massed around a crudely drawn circle in the dirt. Within, a pair of young men, no more than halfway through their teens and stripped to their breeches, danced wildly with quarterstaffs twice the length of their bodies. The watching crowd cheered and howled, yelling both jeers and encouragement. Whether this bout was part of some wager or of combat training, neither Merlin nor Lancelot knew.
Whatever it was, it was brutal. Trails of maroon streaked down the combatants backs. Scars and bruises were evident on their pale bodies, and with each blow their grip on their weapons loosened just a tad.
"An initiation of a sort," Verown explained from Merlin's side. Still wearied from his nearly uncontrollable spell Merlin could barely stand and nearly toppled over every other step he took. Verown and his wolf companion had travelled shoulder to shoulder with him, supporting him along the way. The Druid warrior seemed to be undeterred by supporting the younger warlock's weight.
Despite having attacked him and nearly killing him, the older man positively glowed in the boy's presence. A new hopeful happiness filled his features. For the most part the trip from the clearing had been more like a leisurely walk with friends rather than a forced abduction. The wolf's luminescent yellow eyes darted constantly between Lancelot and the precious bundle he carried.
"In order for a boy to become a man, he must be strong with body as well as with the magical arts. For this reason they are trained since birth to fight without the use of their powers, so that if the need arises they will not require them to vanquish our enemies."
"Why are they fighting each other?" Lancelot asked. "Must they bludgeon their peers to death to prove their worth with a weapon?"
"Not necessarily," Verown said tugging absently at the single braid of his beard. "But when there are no enemies, they must prove themselves against their brothers."
"Ask him again where he's taking us," the dragoness egg spoke into her carriers mind. As a Dragonlord Merlin heard it as well, though he was hardly listening. After that spell, the gargantuan orb of light, every fiber of his being was fatigued to the point of near unconsciousness. His muscles were reduced to goop in his limbs and his eyes pulsed in their sockets and strained his retinas, shooting pain across his temples and brow. As the dragoness spoke however a strange sight befell his distorted vision.
A thread of golden light was wrapped around the egg, just inches from its shell. From there it shot upward and disappeared into the chest of Lancelot. He didn't appear to notice. I'm…I'm hallucinating Merlin thought to himself. He wasn't though and he knew it. It was some form of magic. One he'd never seen before. Simply looking at it made his skin tingle and his mind pulse warmth. Letting those thoughts fade he slumped back against Verown's shoulder.
"To the Weaver," Verown replied. It was the same answer he'd given numerous times on their journey there. It made no more sense the sixth time he'd said it than it had the first.
"Elaborate," Lancelot seethed, gritting his teeth together.
"All in good time." Verown whistled and the convoy came to a halt. With a wave of his hand the archers returned their weapons to their places on their backs and dispersed in all directions, some towards huts, others towards the increasingly mouthwatering aroma of roasting meat. "Come," Verown said. He pointed a thick bony finger towards the camp at a large tent pitched between two of the larger huts. Nearly every eye turned to them as they passed by. More specifically, the eyes turned to Merlin.
Children ceased their games and turned to stare. Awe glazed their tiny eyes. Men abandoned watching the dueling boys and women dropped pans and let the spits slow to a stop. None spoke. "They know who you are supposed to be Emrys," Verown whispered. "Only the Weaver can say if you'll disappoint them or not."
"Who is the 'Weaver'?" Merlin hissed. Although still unable to stand on his own his energy was beginning to return, at least enough to form a coherent sentence. "You keep saying that. Who is he? Give some answers or the moment I get my strength back I'll burn this place to the ground."
Verown chortled exasperatedly. It was an obvious bluff. No part of the warlock's appearance or his demeanor implied any sort of violent tendencies. He could never torch a village. Not even in retaliation.
"She will tell you herself who she is Emrys. She sees what other cannot. Be patient." He turned to Lancelot. "You may no longer be under guard, but that changes nothing. Do not attempt to put that ridiculous plan of burning into action. The Weaver will decide what to do with you."
The tent was unlike any either of the camps guests had ever seen before. Unlike other tents it was supported by no stakes. Instead it levitated in midair with its edges several inches of the ground. Its top was a dome, perfectly round and unwrinkled by the elements. Elegant patterns were stitched across the dark green fabric, of leaves and vines and trees, of the forest, the home of the Druid people for centuries.
"Mother Weaver, I have returned. I have found him." Merlin heard Verown's psychic proclamation, though Lancelot heard nothing. Merlin supposed either Verown had seen need for Lancelot to hear it, or Lancelot was simply incapable.
"Are we going in, or are we to stand around out here all evening?" he asked after a few moments.
"We are waiting for permission," said Verown. As if on cue a light cheery voice rang in their heads.
"Enter, Verown, Emrys, and Lancelot." The non magic using of the three of them nearly jumped out of his skin. He was only used to having one voice in his head, and that alone unnerved him enough by itself. Stepping forward Verown lifted the hovering flaps of the tent and motioned them inside.
Against the back lay a pile of fur cushions fashioned from the pelts of deer, bears, and other various beasts, some of which Merlin could not even name. Amongst them sat a small girl no older than six years old with a bright smile and eyes green like the sea. A yellow robe adorned her tiny frame. An owl with gleaming silver plumage sat perched on her shoulder.
"Welcome! I am the Weaver! Come, sit!" she exclaimed in delight. She waved her hand stacks of scrolls moved aside and were replaced by three plush cushions conjured out of thin air. Verown sat at once, his wolf friend padded to the weaver and plopped his shaggy head in her lap. But his human companions simply gaped wide eyed at the child.
"Y-you're a-" Merlin stammered, now fully alert, blinking wildly.
"A child?" the girl perked. "Oh I get that all the time. I'm actually well over a hundred years old." They continued to stare. This was the Weaver? The one who Verown had spoken almost worshipfully of, with such reverence? This little child?
"Please, sit," she insisted. Her smile did not falter. Slow, albeit reluctantly, the two of them sank onto the cushions. "I apologize if my appearance unnerved you," said the Weaver. "I'm actually well over a hundred years old, but eternal youth comes with the job. At times it gets rather bothersome. You'd be amazed how many people refuse to take me seriously." She turned to Verown. "They were where I said they would be? And it went alright?"
"Indeed Mother Weaver," Verown replied. As he spoke he bowed his head forward slightly in reverence.
"Alright?" said Lancelot. "You nearly killed us!" For the first time the Weavers innocent smile wavered.
"You attacked them? Did you truly see the need to force him to prove himself to you? I told you he was untrained." Her tone was steady and neutral and showed no signs of anger or negativity. The man's eyes went immediately to the ground, like a young boy being scolded by his parent. "I apologize on Verown's behalf Emrys. Since he was a boy he's dreamed of finding you. And ever since I told him his thread was tied to yours, he's been searching nonstop. "
"My thread?" Merlin asked. These Druids all seemed to know him, prophecies about him, and half worship him, and yet nothing had been explained to him. How was this little girl over a hundred years old? Why had they been brought here? What was going on? The Weaver read his mind. She giggled.
"Everything will make sense eventually Emrys. Not completely though, that will come much later. Yes, your thread. I am the Weaver. Threads are my work, these threads. life, destinies, and souls." She opened her petite pixy like hands with her palms facing upward. Her eyes became gold, and they remained a solid gold, glowing dimly. Unlike with other feats of magic the gold did not fade.
Between her fingers appeared several translucent cords of many colors. One of each of their ends trailed up towards the ceiling and disappeared.
The other ends however were attached to a person in the room, just above their hearts. To Verowns chest was attached a thread of burgundy. It splintered halfway to the ceiling, forming a third end that lead directly to the massive wolf. From Lancelot came a thread of deepest blue. Like Verown's it splintered halfway, branching off into a yellow one that encircled the egg like wisps of sun colored smoke.
The Weavers was a spring time green, with a gray sub thread attached to the owl still perched on her shoulder. All three of them swayed lazily in the air, swirling around the brightest of most distinct thread of all. Merlin's. Silvery white in color it gave off a mystical light unlike any other. Around it flew what appeared to be blood red scales. Dragon scales.
"You are both a Dragonlord and a focal point in destiny," the Weaver whispered. "Those tied to your fate are bound for glory and greatness." She guessed his next question. "Why do our threads tie us to animals and an egg? They are our Oberon, familiars. Their spirits are tied to our own. Separate flesh, connected souls. You have quite a nice caretaker, unborn one. Very few dragons have been bonded to men, apart from the Dragonlords."
"Thank you…" said the dragoness sheepishly.
"Though unlike the Dragonlords your bond is much more personal, between only the two of you, as supposed to the entire draconic race," she trailed off. "We have much to speak of Emrys. Morgause and her sister Morgana have people out searching for you. For you and this egg that is. Despite my best efforts to keep the issue quiet there are those in this camp that would join them in their plans to lay waste to Camelot. Know that you have me as an ally until the end of my days. Which is rather soon I think. Do not argue, Verown," she said to the now stricken looking Druid. "I will answer your questions, tomorrow Emyrs, and yours as well Lancelot. Now off to sleep with you. Plans cannot be made while half asleep. Until tomorrow my friends."
I know not a lot happened, but I have next chapter planned out. The dreams of Arthur and Guinevere. And don't worry, who exactly the Weaver is and how she's lived so long will be explained. AI think Merlin and Lancelot didn't talk enough here. Tell me what you think. Thanks!