Before we get started I want to ask you readers a question. Has this story gotten boring? I feel like not enough has happened yet, and that I'm losing peoples interest. Both my hits and reviews have been steadily decreasing, and it's starting to depress me. Please answer honestly, if you want, and above all enjoy.
Merlin and the Weaver reentered the druid camp to find it fully alive with the energy of the morning. Smells of breakfast cooking, seared with the sounds of children's perennial laughter, gave the encampment a sense of familial warmth, which Merlin found rather pleasing. The newly awakened prophet carried himself with a new sense of purpose.
Since exiting the crystal cave, the sensation of knowing, of intuitively knowing beyond all doubt what was true, what needed to be done, had lingered on in his mind. There, yet not fully there. Simple facts, simple tidbits of information now peppered his mind.
The prophecies, all of them, along with their most basic of meanings, echoed like fading music in his head.
From the crystal cave, the crystal of Neatid had been mined, and it was from the cave that it drew its powers of foresight.
Morgause and Morgana had changed their plans, altered them to adapt to the newly formed situation. What they had changed precisely, he did not know.
Arthur was on his way to find him, with the fated blade in his possession, and once they were together the two of them would have to plan for the greatest battle Albion had ever seen. This realization both relieved and terrified him.
The Pilgrim, the mysterious old man who'd apparently been pulling the strings of both the young warlocks and Arthur's destinies from behind the scenes, was far more than he seemed. He was Merlin's predecessor, he had been Emrys the prophet, and now had passed the mantle onto him at the cost of his power, and as a result, he now lay dying in a state of half consciousness. Yet, he was more than just a predecessor, but what more he was, Merlin could not say. Their life threads, one silver, the other colorless gray, had flashed before his eyes, and were bound up together, twisted round one another from the distant past to the far future. And, in the end, the Pilgrim would step back into the picture to aid them one final time.
Morgana's heart had been stained a sickly black, her once loving soul poisoned by the unimaginable, yet mostly justified hatred of her father. Her sister had taken her into her fortress, to corrupt and sway her to her cause, yet Morgana's hands were still stained with blood, her fingers equally tangled in the incestuous liaison of murderous vengeance. Pain struck at Merlin's heart, memories of an infatuation long forgotten resurfaced, as he processed this once fact, this one undeniable truth. When the day of battle came, it would come down to the two of them. They would face one another in battle and one of them, maybe both, would die at the others hands.
It was almost overwhelming, the knowledge, the potential for knowledge. But he knew that it was the knowing that made him the prophet, and was why the Druids would follow him. And they would have to follow him, for without the druids on his side he knew the coming conflict to be doomed to fail before it began.
As Merlin walked his gaze fell upon one of the campfires. Its light flickered dimly, reflecting off the surface of a brass pot full of freshly drawn spring water. In that moment he saw a glimmer of power in that reflection. The glimmering of a potential vision in the pots surface. He would be able to see in that way, to glimpse the future in the flickering of the flames. But no visions found him then, for the visions would only came when God willed it.
"Be wary, Emrys," the Weaver whispered, breaking him from his daze. "Not everyone in this camp will see reason. The people are divided. Many are conflicted as of what to do. Some doubt who you are, while others seek to follow Morgause's plans. Look around at them, and be ready to face them." He obeyed and peered observantly round the camp.
Indeed, the people were divided. Around the camp the men clustered together in groups, whispering to one another. Beside the large fire pits gaggles of women gossiped as they cooked.
And as he walked further into the camp, all eyes turned to face him. The whispered continued, sprinkled in with the summer morning breeze.
Merlin gulped.
Although the knowing still buzzed within him, anxiety bubbled and seeped through the cracks of his confidence. He was not a leader. Though he had a sly tongue and a jibing sense of humor that drove his employer mad, speaking before and swaying large crowds was one of his strengths.
Arthur was the leader. Arthur had been trained from birth the lead in preparation for his birthright. Arthur was born to be king, while Merlin was just a big- eared peasant with a divine fate. Merlin knew he would have to lead them, but how he would do so, he knew not
"Be not afraid, Emrys," said a voice much deeper than the Weavers.
He turned to see Verown and Lancelot enter the camp from a rough forest track that ran deep into woods heart, away from the roads. In his cloth sling Lancelot held the dragoness' egg. A jagged crack ran thinly across the glossy shell. When they reached his side, Verown looked him dead in the face, looking almost childlike with his sureness, and said again.
"Be not afraid, Emrys. You will not fail. I know it. Those who will not follow you are fools, and those who do not believe you are who you are, are mad. Remember Emrys, no matter the cost, I will fight by your side." Merlin stared back at him, flattered, but unsure what to say. Truthfully he knew little about the claymore wielding sorcerer. Having only met him mere days ago, and having spent most of that time both sleeping or receiving visions, he hadn't learned much about him beyond his almost obsessive belief in the prophecies, and in who they spoke of.
This was a man of undying faith, and, Merlin would not belittle him for it. Faith made men stronger, and gave them a sense of greater meaning.
"Thank you, Verown," he said honestly. He turned to Lancelot, who seemed not to of what Verown spoke. Of course, he had not yet heard of the crystal cave, or what his friend had received within.
"It's hatching, isn't it?" he asked, indicating the egg. Lancelot nodded excitedly.
"Starting to, yes! Verown said it'll take a day or two for her to come out fully. I can't believe this…"
He sounded very little like his usually collected self, but his excitement was to be expected. How often did one get to hatch a dragon, let alone one that was bonded to him on the spiritual level. The Weaver smiled demurely.
"Believe it, Lancelot. The two of you will be ruling the battlefield in no time at all. Hopefully sooner, rather than later." She turned Verown. "The time for Emrys to address the people is nearly upon us. Go and speak to your men, rally for his support amongst the hunters. If he is to succeed in the coming war against Morgause, he must win their loyalty." Verown nodded. Slowly, his eyes narrowed. A hand went to hilt of his claymore, the other tugged at his long brown braid.
"My brother is going to speak, isn't he Mother Weaver? He's going to speak as Morgause representative."
"It's likely," the Weaver conceeded. "Calm your temper, Verown. There is no time now for the two of you to quarrel like boys." His hand left the claymore's hilt, but the braid tugging continued.
"I am sorry mother Weaver. He just makes me so angry. How can he not believe the prophecies, now that Emrys has entered the cave and returned? Surely he must have seen the star in last night's sky."
"Perhaps he will believe," suggested the Weaver, but Verown dismissed it with a curt wave of his hand.
"He will not."
"You have a brother?" Merlin asked after a moment of heavy silence. "And what star?"
"A star shot across the sky last night, while you were off at the cave," said Lancelot. "Bright and silver, it lit up the night like day. It was so beautiful, I've never seen anything like it before."
"And I don't expect you will again," said the Weaver. "That star was a sign; marking Merlin's awakening as the prophet, Emrys, the child of the light. It was his star, and it shone with his power and glory." Lancelot blinked, only partially understanding. He'd heard Merlin referred to as Emrys, and as the prophet, but did not know for the life of him what exactly that meant. Would Merlin part the sea with the strike of a staff like Moses? Ride a chariot of fire to the heavens as did Elijah?
"Yes," said Verown, cutting bluntly back into the conversation. "I have a brother. Derin."
He pointed across the camp to a cluster of robed men huddled together at the mouth of a large tent, whose flaps were opened wide, revealing its contents of more than half a dozen bookshelves full to bursting with heavy tomes, and trunk after trunk of worn scrolls of parchment. At the center of the cluster sat a spindly looking man with narrows eyes like those of a rat. His shabby gray robes were pulled tight around his frame, and his mousy colored hair hung over his eyes like curtains. His lips barely moved as he spoke, one sliding smoothly against the other like a serpent's maw.
"Derin has been very vocal in his support of Morgause and her plans to unleash Oblivion upon Uther and those who follow him. She has convinced him of her philosophy, that those with magic have been given the divine right to rule over those without, that those who grasp at power, have a right to use that power as they will, whether it be to fill their lives with pleasantries or bring about retribution for the crimes of their enemies." He spat the words like poison, bitter on his tongue". Prophecy means little to nothing in his eyes; he views them skeptically as jumbled words spouting false wisdom, brought on by magic induced dementia. Even when the evidence is placed before him, he still denies the truth."
Trailing off, he moved to go. Shooting Merlin one last look, he said.
"Be careful of Derin, Emrys. He could potentially make things rather difficult for you. While he lacks my skill as a blade, he is a master of manipulation. His tongue is cunning, forked tween his teeth. Be careful, Emrys." With that he left.
Merlin watched him go, fingers trembling with nerves. The Weaver's hand found his shoulder, squeezing it softly.
"Come, the talks must begin soon."
LINEBREAK
An hour later Merlin stood at the mouth of the Weavers tent before the entirety of the Druid camp. Every tent had been emptied, every hunting party had returned, and every Druid eye watched as he stood ramrod stiff, his eyes shut, fingers drumming the sides of his legs. He hadn't expected to be so overcome such fright in the face of public speaking. In actuality, he was rather good with talking to people. But never before had the fate of the world depended on his words.
Behind him Lancelot sat cross-legged within the confines of the tent, occasionally peering out over the dragon egg in his lap. Verown knelt beside him, ready to step in if necessary.
The Weaver herself stood off to his right, arms folded over her petite body. She too seemed nervous. Her power as the Druids' leader could only go so far and it may not be enough in the long run. Sheening sweat formed on Merlin's brow. Dabbing at it with the sleeve of his robes, gulping for perhaps the hundredth time that day, he addressed the crowd.
"Uh, hello everyone. I'm Emrys, I suppose…" he said sheepishly. A few laughs speckled the crowd, though most remained silent, unfazed by his lack of speaking skills. For the moment at least.
"Though I prefer being called Merlin. It's the name I grew up with and I've always gone by it..." Again he trailed off. Someone in the crowd coughed. Taking a deep breath, Merlin clenched his fists tightly and gathered his courage.
"Okay, I know I'm not any good at talking like this, but I'll give it a go…I'm not really sure where to start. I suppose I'll just get to the point. I know each and every one of you begrudges Uther in your own way, and rightfully so. Over the last twenty years he's reaped unimaginable terror upon you, forced you from your homes, persecuted you for your beliefs, killed your wives, husbands and children. Morgause, the foster daughter of Nimueh the high priestess came to you offering vengeance and retribution.
But please believe me when I say that there's another way. What Uther did was wrong, unforgivable, but killing his people and threatening his kingdom won't free you from his tyranny! Arthur Pendragon, the king's son, is as good and noble a man as you'll ever meet. He will be king of all Albion one day, as prophecy foretells, and with his rule magic will return to these lands. So please, believe in him as I do, believe in the future he will bring about, serve his cause, and win your freedom once and for all!" his voice rang through the camp, loud and clear, filling every ear. The Druids said nothing, considering his words.
"So," sneered a voice, shattering the silence. "You truly are the prophet then, are you boy?"
Merlin turned to the voices source. As Verown had predicted, Derin was going to say his piece. Turning to face the crowd, Derin spread his arms wide.
"Do any of you truly believe this child from a no name village in Cenred's kingdom to be our prophet simply because he saw things in a cavern of shiny rocks? No doubt you have all heard whispers of his deeds, the slaying of Nimueh, the defeat of Singrid. For several years now his name has passed among our people, spreading false hope like wildfire through a patch of dry brush. Is the power he wields truly so great, or is he simply talented, gifted in the magical arts as any of us could be? Would our prophet, the one who will supposedly free us of from oppression, speak of offering mercy? Truly I tell you, Alvarr and Mordred were right in joining Morgause's cause. We have here with us the dragons egg she needs to accomplish her goals. I say we deliver it to her at once. As this supposed prophet said, Uther's crime is unforgivable." He turned to face Merlin directly. His face was a mask of hateful pride.
"You are not of our people boy. Never did you have to watch as Uther's troops burned the ones you loved alive. Either for practicing traditions that go back to before the days of the Romans, or possessing a natural gift they could not relinquish if they tried. Tell me, prophet, why should we follow your guidance? Can your supposed visions bring back the thousands the king has killed? Can they satisfy our thirst to be repaid? Can they even make the Prince Arthur, the Artorious the prophecies so lovingly coddles anywhere near as benevolent and accepting as you make him out to be? Answer me, prophet!"
Derin's friends shouted their agreement. Soon a chatter rose through the crowd. People began to whisper, gossip amongst themselves.
"Derin, you fool!" Verown bellowed. "You doubt the words of the Weaver? The one who has guided our people for more than a century?"
"I do, brother," Derin seethed back. "Unlike you, I use my mind to formulate my opinions, rather than trust the word of a child who has lived far too long."
The crowd grew louder, their whispers becoming yells and jeers. Some shouted in Derin's direction along with Verown. Others voiced their agreement. Hundreds of voices blended together, becoming an incomprehensible wave of noise that wash through the camp, popping ears to near deafness.
For a moment Merlin stood silently before the crowd. And then, filled with confidence, he raised a hand, and the words of a prophet found his lips.
"SILENCE!" he boomed. His magically amplified voice swept over the crowd. The shouting died away to chirping whimpers, and all eyes returned to the Prophet. Pointedly, Merlin turned to Derin.
"You speak with a lot of confidence Derin. Tell me, does you confidence come from your personal trust in your intelligence and your abilities, or from the fact that you are Morgause's pawn? A willing spy on this congregation?" Accusations flew wildly between the druids like arrows. Derin's calm composure did not falter.
"Me, a spy? That's ridiculous. While I do in fact support the lady Morgause and her goals, I am a loyal member of this community. Never would I ally myself with any outside force without the approval of the group." The crowd was silent. No one was sure what to believe.
"You are a spy," Merlin said. "You believe yourself to be above all the others here. That your intelligence has elevated you above the rest. That they're nothing more than 'primitive fools with no ambition.' I know that is how you feel."
Derin blinked. That had gotten his attentions. He looked dumbfounded. The boy had quoted his own thoughts, pulled from his mind his most secret feelings for his kin. His mental barriers were up. No one, not even the most powerful of sorcerers, could have slipped into his mind without him knowing. Even if they had, he would have felt it. Quickly his arrogant returned, though it was a faux one.
"You can prove nothing. You are no prophet, just a puppet who that little girl slipped into ceremonial robes for her own devices."
Then Merlin did something not even he himself could fully explain. Reaching out with the power he could barely control, he did what he knew, somehow to do. Doing a prophets worked, he opened Derin's mind to the people.
"Deny it," Morgause's voice shot unknowingly across all their minds. "You're cleverer then all of them." The druids gasped. Not only was Derin a spy, but he was whispering telepathic fragments to Morgause herself, and she was sending them back. So the prophet had revealed. A group of men seized Derin by the arms, breaking through his tight circle of scholarly friends with the utmost ease. Tightly they held him in place. He would not get away.
"Please," Merlin said to the crowd again. " Darkness cannot drive away the darkness, only light can do that. Morgause seeks to unleash on these lands a force beyond comprehension that, once it has had its fill of Uther will turn to you. So please, will you help me hide the dragons egg from evil hands? Will you stand with me and fight for what is good? And above all, will you stand with your once and future king?" he pointed the camps exit. The sound of approaching hooves could be heard, and second alter, Arthur came galloping into the camp.