It was midday when Arthur and company arrived in Ealdor.
The sun was a blazing high in the sky and the air was thick and hot in ones throat. The villagers were already set about their day of work, chopping wood, gathering the crops, hunting, and sewing. But visitors were a rare thing in such a remote place, and so even the most dedicated laborer glanced up from their business as the party of horses trotted onto a blank, cracked square of land they laughably called the town square.
Several of them abandoned their tools and walked to them, interested to see what had brought the Crown Prince of Camelot back to their dismal little abode. Snapping his reins Arthur called them to a halt. He dismounted and the knights as well as Morgana and Gwen followed suit. With a single turn of his head he took in the majority of the settlement.
For the most part it was the same as it was during his last visit. Dark mud colored shacks of wood so old and damaged by the rain and termites that it looked ready to fall at the slightest breeze. Uneven rows of various crops intermingled with tall grasses the length of swords. Piles of freshly split wood lay in intervals around a stand of oak of trees, axes leaned beside them. All the signs of poverty and depravity were evident, and it made Arthur sick to his stomach with nauseating guilt. This was where his servant had grown up in squalor and scarcity while he, royalty, had been presented with ever superfluous luxury imaginable. It was such a humble place to be born for one spoken of in prophecy, one so powerful even the likes of Morgause feared him.
"My lord!" From the approaching crowd came an aging woman in a colorless dress. Flower streaked her worn apron. She bobbed a curtsy and looked up timidly. This was Hunnith, Merlin's mother and the person who they'd come to see. Lines marred her soft kindly face, evidence of a life of tireless stress and hard work. Her eyes darted between the knights and their horses. "Where is Merlin, did he not come with you?"
"He isn't here then?" Morgana said stepping to her foster brother's side. "Hardly unexpected, only a fool would flee to his own home and bring pursuers with them."
"Has something happened?" Hunnith asked, face paling milky white.
"He was discovered," said Arthur. "Camelot was besieged by a dark witch. Merlin stepped in, he used his magic to save us all….and yet my father still condemned him."
"Don't worry, he's still alive," Gwen said seeing the look of horror struck panic that flashed across the elder woman's features. "He escaped the execution."
"On the back of a dragon no less," said Morgana. Recognition was clear in Hunnith's eyes at once.
"What's this lot want then?" barked a gravelly voice. The crowd had reached them by now, and from amongst them hobbled a graying old man stooped over with age. Dirt caked his knobby knees and in his spindly fingers he held a short hoe covered in bits of displaced earth. "Harvest's hard enough to bring in without the youngin's following the first outsider to waltz into town this mornin', and now this. What do you want? Come on out with it!" Arthur was taken aback. Only Merlin had ever spoken so boldly with him, and that was his playful taunting and banter. Murmurs of irritated agreement spread through the crowd. Agitated looking men and woman wielding various farming armaments seemed entirely unperturbed at the idea of assaulting royalty and trained warriors.
"Let them be Griot," Hunnith growled. She turned and gestured for the three of them to follow. "Please, come with me." Morgana and Gwen at once trailed after her towards the flimsy structure that was her home. Arthur looked to Sir Leon, almost desperately.
"Help them with their harvest, Leon. I have questions, and I'd rather not be interrupted by a mob of angry peasants." Sir Leon nodded grimly and called to the rest of the knights to pick up a tool and get to work.
Inside Hunnith's rickety home the Prince found the three women gathered in the far corner filled with various pieces of half-finished knitting.
"You know about Merlin's magic?" said Hunnith the moment the slatted door swung shut behind him. "You are not angry with him?"
"We're plenty angry with him," said Morgana. "But we don't hold it against him for hiding it from us. We'll just have to give him a good beating later."
"He's a Dragonlord as well. Balinor was his father, wasn't he?" asked Arthur, pushing the conversation towards what he'd been waiting the entirety of the journey there for, answers. Hunnith hesitated for a moment before replying.
"So Merlin's inherited his powers…..he's dead then?" Arthur nodded grimly.
"I was there when it happened, Cenred's men. I believe he and Merlin had discovered who each other were though, he was beside himself, though I didn't understand why. The same day Merlin stopped a dragon from destroying the kingdom, and made me think that I did it…I'm sorry for your loss…" Sad tears formed and trickled down the elder woman's face, though her expression didn't change.
"Four months he stayed with me, I never saw him again after that….He was trying to protect me….Uther's men were after him, his powers were seen as being too close to magic to let him live…." She trailed off lost for words and instead let out of a sob of long suppressed grief. At once Gwen's comforting arms wrapped around her, offering shelter from pain and a shoulder on which to weep. Arthur and Morgana share a glance. So many questions he wanted to ask. When did Merlin's magic first appear?
Was there anywhere he might have gone? Something, anything that might help him to understand the situation that befuddled him, he would ask about. But he remained silent. Questions could wait for a time. She had the right to mourn the man she loved, whom she had not seen in more than twenty years, and would now never see again. When he stopped to consider it Arthur realized something. All that he wanted to know about destinies, prophecies, the things Morgause seemed to know and fear, Merlin had only learned of himself after coming to Camelot and speaking with the dragon. Memories of their conversation in the dungeon bubbled into conscious thought. His mother wouldn't know anything. The journey had been wasted after all. They wouldn't find him, and they wouldn't learn anything.
"If he was anything like his son, than he was a better man than most," Gwen soothed. Hunnith nodded blearily through her tears.
"And now he's really gone, and now our son is being hunted like a beast for powers he never asked for."
"My father's men will never find him," Arthur assured. "That dragon could have carried him to Greece by now. Merlin has gotten himself somewhere safe, of that I'm certain. I only wish I'd known sooner and tried to put a stop to all this anti-magic nonsense."
"We will put a stop to it," Morgana said with such firmness that for a moment she appeared not as a beautiful young woman, but a wisely sage, tempered with the knowledge of time and experience. "And we'll bring Merlin home one day. I promise you that." Several minutes passed in silence. No one knew what to say. Questions were pointless, and further discussion of Balinor would only bring more unneeded sadness.
"Did that man out there, Griot, say there was another visitor here?" Gwen asked, helpfully changing the subject.
"Oh, yes, I think he's an old bard. He has a lovely singing voice. The children are quite taken with him." Hunnith pulled free from her comforter and gave her a thankful pat. She wiped stray tears from her cheeks and strode across the room to the huge brick oven that served the entire villages baking needs, and pulled from its edge a large loaf of barley bread wrapped in a heavily stitched cloth. "I did offer him something to eat, and the children will be getting fussy by now. Why don't you join me? You may as well here a song or two before you return to Camelot."
They agreed, and helped her in carrying a several more loaves of bread and a jug of fresh spring water out the door. Arthur thought Hunnith's mood had improved remarkably fast, though he supposed she was simply trying to force her thoughts to more pleasant things. Across the village square she led them towards edge of town to an open grassy area set at the entrance the forest that served as Ealdors border. On an old hickory stump sat the old bard. A saddlebag laid on the ground beside him along with a wooden staff the length of his body. In his withered old hands he held a cracked, splintery lyre, and his fingers danced across the strings. Giggling children sprawled in the flowered grass before him and danced joyously to the music.
Personally, Arthur had never cared much for bards, minstrels, or jester. Though occasionally their trickery was amusing, he'd never thought the combination of story and song entertaining. But this was different. Just hearing his songs caused strange yet pleasant sensations to twinge in his stomach. For a man who appeared to be at very least a hundred years old his voice was strong and young and filled with energy equal to if not greater than that of the youths surrounding him.
"O Emyrs in your crystal cave
Deep in the diamond of the day.
Will there ever be a singer
Whose music will smooth away
The furrow drawn by Adam's finger
Across the meadow and the wave?
Or a runner who'll outrun
Man's long shadow driving on,
Burst through the gates of history,
And hang the apple on the tree?
Will your sorcery ever show
The sleeping bride shut in the bower,
The day wreathed in its mound of snow,
And Time locked in his tower?"
With a final plucking of the strings he concluded the song. The children chorused with glee. Arthur stopped dead in his tracks. Emyrs. The song had mentioned Emyrs, the name that had struck terror into Morgause' heart, the name the Druid called Merlin, the name from prophecy. Until then he hadn't even thought of it. If the name Emyrs was part of legends and prophecy, a bard may have some of the answers he sought.
"Prince Arthur, wonderful to meet ya lad!" said the man in a strange accent, his cyan blue eyes shining with life. A wrinkled hand went to his throat and massaged the aged folds of skin. "Ah the bread. Thank you good lady. Come along children, have a snack before the next song." This he spoke in a regular Albion accent, completely different from his previous voice. "I insist on paying good lady. No, no, I won't take no for an answer."
From his robes he pulled a thick leather coin purse and poured five heavy golden coins into his palm. He placed them in Hunniths trembling hands. That was more money than likely existed in the entire town together.
Of course it wouldn't be very useful in Ealdor, though it would be godsend when she made the trek two villages over to the market.
"Please join me your majesty, dear ladies!" They sat in a circle around him and watched as he tore himself a large chunk of bread and ate to his hearts content.
"Artorius," he said. "I've been waiting for you. Questions? Go ahead and ask. You are the student and I the teacher. We have much to learn from each other, you and I."
Arthur blinked. Hunnith, Gwen and Morgana looked just as confused by the old bard's words. Student and Teacher? Artorius? Artorius was of course the Latin form of his name; that much he knew from what little he remembered of his language tutors had tried and failed to teach him as a child. But why on earth would this old man address him like that?
"Confused?" said the man kindly. "Understandable. It isn't every day you come across a senile old fool like me is it? Although I suppose not many senile fools can speak Latin, eh? Well none of the others can answer your questions about destiny and such. So go ahead, ask me…one moment." A wrinkled hand went to his mostly bald head. He turned his head away from them and called to the gaggle of running children. "Children, does one of you perhaps have my hat? I feel just naked without it."
A giggling girl broke away from the group and jogged over to their sitting circle. Covering her tawny colored hair was the oddest hat any of them had ever seen before. Heavily stitched blue fabric formed a pointed cone for the top that hung placidly over a circle piece that encircled the wearer's cranium. The girl whipped it off her head and placed it in the bards waiting hands before scampering off to rejoin her playmates.
He put it on at once. Its oddity seemed to suit him perfectly. That was made abundantly clear once he started bouncing the pointed tip from cheek to cheek with a few quick puffs of breath. Morgana asked the question everyone was thinking
"Who are you?" The hat stopped bouncing.
"Who am I? Well that's a rather imprecise question my dear. One could spend years and years searching for who they were without ever finding the true answer. Though I suppose you simply wanted my name? You may call me the Pilgrim." A brief silence followed.
"That can't be your real name," said Gwen incredulously.
"Real name?" he barked a laugh. "My dear, I've so many names I can hardly count them all. How am I to tell which is real and which is not? No, no, Pilgrim will do." He turned to look up at Arthur, who alone among them was still on his feet, eyes fixed on the Pilgrim, unsure of what to say and of what to ask. "Arthur here is a fine example. You are called Arthur by your friends, Sire by your subjects, and Artorius by the prophecies." The Prince's eyes widened. The old man nodded.
"Yes, you are part of the prophecies as well. Emrys, or Merlin as you know him, told you it was his fate to protect you on your path to becoming Camelot's king. This is true. But what of your destiny? You are to be king, of course, a great king, king for once and always. Oh yes, your destiny is great indeed, beyond great. And each of us sitting her has a part in your destinies, yours and Merlin's alike." He paused. "Come sit, you've far too many questions to ask on your feet."
Arthur glanced from Gwen to Morgana. Neither offered any advice, and looked equally dumfounded as he thought he must look. Then he looked to Hunnith. Her gaze had not left the Pilgrim, and her eyes were glazed with a strange expression of nostalgia, of familiarity. After a long moment she turned to the Prince.
"Please, sit down Sire. He knows what you seek. How he knows anything about Merlin or about your questions I do not know, but I believe that you can trust him. Merlin never told me any of this. He never said anything about destiny or prophecies, or about what happened during his time in Camelot. I suppose he had his reasons though, he didn't want me to worry." She turned back to the old man, who was smiling from ear to withered ear. "I'm sorry…Pilgrim, but have we bet before today? Something seems awfully familiar about you, but I can't place it." The Pilgrim chucked.
"I am sure we have good lady. I passed through Ealdor many, many years ago. Perhaps too long ago for you to remember, I am dreadfully old."
Slowly, albeit a little hesitantly, Arthur sank down onto the grass beside Gwen, his chainmail clinking with the motion.
"Please," Arthur uttered quietly, barely more than a whisper. "Tell me what it is you know about Merlin, about me, about these prophecies we keep hearing about, all of it….please." The Pilgrim's eyes twinkled in the midday sunlight. His smile grew.
"I was there more than a century ago when the prophecy was first spoken to your great-grandfather the High King Vortigern, by the Weaver, an old friend of mine. Before you ask, Merlin is with her now. She is preparing him for what's to come."
"A century?" Morgana repeated skeptically. "You can't possibly be that old, even with magic, which I assume you have considering you're even talking to us about all this. And 'The Weaver'? Do you and all your acquaintances use titles instead of actual names?" The borderline harshness of her words did not even begin to faze him, his smile remained firmly in place.
"I'm well over sixteen-hundred years old, whether you believe me or not. When one works with magic, and you're right in assuming that I do, in the ways that I do age becomes less and less relevant as time goes by. The same is true for the Weaver, although her end is fast approaching her, though she appears to be in her prime. And what's wrong with titles? Names are useless on their own unless they convey one's true nature. And does not your name bear a few titles of its own, Morgana Gorlois La Fey, Camelot's ward and Uther's pride?"
"It's not the same," Morgana seethed, fighting to suppress the flush of pink that crept across her cheeks.
"It is," the Pilgrim shot back. "As much as I'd love to argue philosophy with you my lady, we must see to other matters. Now where was I? Ah, the prophecy."
"Was it really made before my great-grandfather?" Arthur asked, his curiosity more than peaked by now. The Pilgrim nodded. "Then how is it I've never heard of it until now? I've poured through all the family histories, and none of the texts mention any prophecy." Both Gwen and Morgana threw him sideways looks that said they found it rather hard to believe he'd spent any of his spare time in the castle library instead of training out in the yard. He shrugged. "My father required me to learn the Pendragon family histories, whether I wanted to or not." Pilgrim clucked his tongue, and answered the question.
"Vortigern had rather disdainful views on the magical arts, much like your father Artorious." Morgana's eyes narrowed dangerously at mention of Uther. "Though he held such views out ofm a lack of belief in magic. When the first of the prophecies was spoken he dismissed it as the crazed ramblings of a deranged little girl. Let us see what you think of it then." He took up his harp, and readjusted himself on the stump. His spindly fingers flew across the copper strings. "The first part you heard in my song, now here is the first prophecy from beginning to end. There are many others of course, but there'll be time for that later, eh?"
The music began to glow. Serene notes soared through in the summer air, echoing through the village and the forest, calming all souls who heard. Light and dark, fire and ice, hatred and love, all of these were sewn into the melody.
"O Emrys in your crystal cave
Deep in the diamond of the day.
Will there ever be a singer
Whose music will smooth away
The furrow drawn by Adam's finger
Across the meadow and the wave?
Or a runner who'll outrun
Man's long shadow driving on,
Burst through the gates of history,
And hang the apple on the tree?
Will your sorcery ever show
The sleeping bride shut in the bower,
The day wreathed in its mound of snow,
And Time locked in his tower?
Artorius in your hallowed hall
Blade etched against the sky
Poised to fell the blow,
That seals the bastards fall.
Take me up
Cast me away,
Your weapon shall enshrine
And know a lady's kiss
Sweeter than the vine.
Guided and taught by the child of light
Warriors brave and stalwart
Beat away the souls fright.
Sister, boars lies lead amiss from true
Bloodied womb stained a scarlet hue.
Witches dark spin their spells
Foe of the round table
Lightning strikes and light confounds
Ending this fair fable."
With a final strum of the lyre, The Pilgrim brought the tune to an end. Children had ceased their play and stood silently in the aftermath. Those seated around the bard were chilled pale and ramrod stiff. Astonishment and fear forked across Morgana's beautiful irises. Who is this man? She thought, stricken. Where did he learn these prophecies, was he truly present at their speaking? How did he know all of our names and our titles without being told of them? He knows of my allegiance to Morgause, of my plot against Camelot, my ploy for the throne? It had to be true. The bastard, the sister, witches…. Why had he not struck her down then? What games was this old prophet playing? Did he intend to work against her? To align himself with her?
"What…what does that mean?" The Pilgrim set aside his instrument.
"Parts of it are rather cryptic. Others however are much easier to interpret, when looked at with the proper mindset. Can you not think of how the words apply to your life, my boy?" Arthur thought, wracking his brain, picking and dissecting specifics pieces of the song that actually made a tidbit of sense. There weren't very many.
"I'm Artorius, I suppose, though I've never actually been called that. Merlin is Emrys that's obvious. The witches….there's more than one then…one must be Morgause, but who are the others? Nimueh, perhaps? My father saw her as one of the greatest magical threats in existence, despite her apparent disappearance. She hasn't made trouble for years now. A lady's kiss…" the prince's usually pale skin suddenly burned bright burgundy. Eyes darting to Guinevere, he all but rounded on the elderly man. "The prophecy talks about my love life, really? Now why is that in there?" By now Gwen's complexion had changed to match her secret lover's, Morgana forced a mischievous smile. Hunnith held a hand over her mouth, suppressing a laugh.
"One can never know what a prophecy will say my boy. Some foretell battles waiting on the horizon, while others predict love between two people. The only advice I can give on that subject, is to say that I hope your love turns out better than mine. Keep digging, you've only scratched the surface of meaning."
"Well," Arthur began again, recovering from his embarrassment. "The bastard, I've no idea who that could be, I don't think I've ever actually met one. 'Blade etched against the sky, Poised to fell the blow,' does that mean a weapon? I need a new sword?"
"Perhaps. Go on. You're getting there."
"'Sister boars lies lead amiss from true, bloodied womb stained a scarlet hue'. Well that I can't make anything of, I haven't got a sister. Unless I count you Morgana, though you're only my foster sister."
"Yes," Morgana said through gritted teeth. Her pulse was beginning to rise. Sweat beaded on her brow. "Keep trying Arthur. I can't think of anything."
"'Witches dark spin their spells, foe of the round table.' I'm not sure what the 'round table means', but the first part sounds as if Morgause and her accomplices are going to attack Camelot. That's to be expected, of course. Who is the 'Child of Light'?" Any answer that Arthur's new teacher may have given was drowned out by a sudden blood curdling scream.
He spun around to see villagers flinging aside their tools and began to run as fiery projectiles rained from the sky. Arrows tips with flaming oiled rags peppered the thatched roves of Ealdor's cottages, wreathing them all in orange red flames that danced and swayed in the hot summer air. The knights had dropped their temporary farming armaments and drawn their swords and readied their shields, preparing for battle. The thundering of hooves sounded and clouds of ominous dust billowed forth from the dirt road that led into town. With a loud shink Arthur drew his own weapon. Then they appeared.
Riding twelve abreast, men armed to the teeth and encased in finely made black plate armor charged down the road, curved swords drawn and raised. At the back of the column rode the standard barer. Above him flapped a dark black banner, onto whose fabric was stitched a familiar crest. The crest of Cenred. Beside the crest was a different mark. It was not woven in, but rather crudely panted on with some unknown substance. A silvery 'M' shone along with Cenred's mark.
Without even thinking Arthur moved to charge forward. There was little to no possibility of him and his knights besting a battalion of cavalry on foot, but they had to try. There was no time to question the situation, all they could do was fight. Before he'd even taken a single step a cold sting poked at his throat. He peered down to see the shining blade of a short sword poised at his neck. With a slight turn of his head and a swiveling of his eyes he was able to see its wielder. Morgana smirked devilishly.
"I'm afraid things are going to change from this point forward, brother."
I was going to make this longer, but I really wanted to get it out. So instead I'm making it a two parter, second part comes out tomorrow or day after. Thanks for reading everyone. One last question though. I feel like my chapters aren't long enough, like not enough happens in them. Any thoughts? I also can't take credit for the poem, it's by Edwin Muir, and featured in the Arthurian novel, the Crystal Cave.