Chapter XX: Mordred's Escape

Truth be told, Arthur was relieved that his men hadn't found any sign of the druid boy. He still remembered that day years ago—had it truly been so long?—when his first raid had turned into a massacre. He had nightmares about it sometimes, though they weren't anywhere near as bad as they had been. No doubt capturing this druid boy would have given him some nasty dreams.

But that wasn't the only or even the main reason he was so relieved. Druids were peaceful folk, everybody knew that. If the boy had been training with the Catha, then yes, Uther's… extreme… reaction would have been more justified. But this was a druid, and a child druid at that, and he didn't deserve to die.

He knew quite well that they weren't going to find the child. The boy had disappeared in front of dozens of witnesses. Whether he had teleported away or simply turned himself invisible, no one knew, and Arthur really didn't care. If the child had any brains at all, he was miles away from Camelot.

Still, his father was rather… put out… by the boy's escape, so Arthur organized a search. He had the gates shut, their guard doubled. He sent men to look in peoples' homes and shops. He chastised the guards who had let the boy escape (though not very passionately. While it was somewhat embarrassing that his guardsmen had been outfoxed by a child, at least this way the boy survived).

So when it was time for bed, he flopped onto his mattress with a soft groan, worn out from a hunt that he knew was pointless. Honestly, the boy could teleport. There was no bloody way he was still in Camelot.

"Tired?" Merlin asked.

"A bit," Arthur grumbled.

"Any sign of the druid boy?"

"None whatsoever."

"Good."

Arthur looked up, frowned. He felt the same way, but he wasn't fool enough to say it out loud. "You realize that that's treason?"

"He was just a boy, Arthur, and a druid too. Everyone knows that druids are peaceful. And what did he do, anyway, to get the guards running after him?"

"We caught a sympathizer who was planning to sell winter supplies to the druids. Sullivan arranged a sort of sting operation to catch the druid as well. We only expected the one, you see, the adult." Arthur sighed. "I don't think anyone anticipated a child's presence."

"So he was basically in the wrong place at the wrong time," Merlin concluded.

"Basically," Arthur confirmed.

"I wonder if he was born a druid," Merlin went on. "If his mother and father were druids. Then he'd have been born into it."

Arthur had wondered the same thing. "Shut up, Merlin," he growled. "I'm tired of listening to you."

"Then you'll be pleased to hear that I'm taking a week off, starting tomorrow."

The prince jerked up. "What?"

"Mordred showed up last night," Merlin explained. "He came to visit me, it seems, except he left without telling Mother, so he has to go back as soon as possible, and I can hardly let him walk all the way back to Ealdor by himself, now, could I?"

"Who's Mordred?"

Merlin looked at Arthur in a way that clearly questioned the older youth's intelligence. "Mordred. You know, my little brother?"

"You have a brother?"

"Um, yeah. Did you really not know that?"

He hadn't. "You prattle so much that I just let it in one ear and out the other."

Merlin appeared to be very offended. "Well, like I was saying, I have to take the week off to bring Mordred back to Ealdor."

"Can't your mother or father do that?"

"They're not here," Merlin replied. "Mordred missed me and I think he had a fight with them, but he's not saying, so he came here alone. He walked almost three days alone, a small child going through the bandit-infested forest. You really need to do something about all those bandits, you know. But my point is, Mordred got lucky on his way here. I have to go back with him to keep him safe."

Arthur arched a brow.

"What?"

"You are going to keep him safe?"

"Well, yes."

"You. You are going to keep him safe."

"I find this very insulting."

"You should send a knight or a soldier to bring him back."

"Hey, I got from Ealdor to Camelot just fine."

"Take a guardsman at the very least. That's an order, Merlin."

Merlin glared, huffed. "Lancelot's coming too," he finally admitted.

"I'm surprised Sullivan gave him permission."

"He didn't," Merlin said softly. "Lancelot quit the guard."

"What?" Arthur's head snapped around. "But he's the only competent guardsman in the kingdom!"

"I know," Merlin agreed. His shoulders slumped. "I think that's part of why he's leaving. He's the only one who cares about his job, even if he has this stupid idea that he failed you with Sophia and Aulfric. He's told me time and time again that he's so sick and tired of carrying not only his own weight, but everyone else's as well. And you know what, Arthur? I think he would have kept on carrying all that weight for the rest of his life if it hadn't been for the druids."

The prince frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You know Lancelot wanted to be a knight, right? Well, he wanted to be a knight so he could protect people. Chivalry, honor, keeping the innocent safe, that sort of stuff. But then he learned about this huge mission to capture a man who was just buying his winter supplies. He wasn't part of the mission because Sullivan is—was—still keeping him on the night shift, but he heard about how they went after the little boy. He wants to help little boys and girls, not chase them through the streets of Camelot."

"They were druids," Arthur mumbled. There was a strangely hollow feeling in his chest. He would miss Lancelot, he realized. They didn't spend much time together, but it had been comforting to know that one of Sullivan's men cared about guarding the castle, and he had a great deal of respect for the guard's honor and idealism.

"Druids need to eat too."

Arthur grimaced. Once again, Merlin was reflecting his own thoughts, the ones that haunted him as he tossed and turned at night. They were druids, pacifists; they weren't doing anything wrong, just getting their supplies; the younger one was just a child. He didn't like to think about that sort of thing, though he usually couldn't banish the thoughts when they reared their ugly heads.

Distraction worked sometimes. With that in mind, Arthur changed the subject. "So what's Lancelot going to do now?"

"I don't know," Merlin admitted, chewing his lip. "He doesn't know either."

"I could help him find work," Arthur said. "Father has some men searching for hidden caverns beneath the citadel. There's old legends about caches of hidden treasure."

"He's not staying in Camelot."

"What?" Arthur had been on his way out the door; he had time for an hour or so of training before he had to fulfill his other duties. When Merlin spoke, though, the prince paused in mid-step, his hand resting atop the doorknob.

"I said that he's not staying in Camelot," Merlin repeated.

"Yes, I heard you," Arthur growled. "But why?"

"Well," the manservant explained, "Lancelot made it pretty clear that he was resigning in protest of how guardsmen hunt little kids, even if those little kids are druids."

"So?" Arthur demanded.

Merlin's expression indicated that he thought his prince was an utter idiot. "He displayed sympathy for one of your father's enemies," the manservant explained, as slowly as he would to a child. "Do you really think that Camelot is safe for a man who spoke against the king?"

Arthur bristled. "My father isn't going to—"

"Isn't he?" Merlin sneered. "Can you promise that Lancelot won't be harmed next time Uther goes on one of his witch hunts?"

"My father is just trying to protect his people," Arthur growled. His stomach clenched.

"If you say so, sire," Merlin replied coolly.

His coolness remained in place for the rest of the day, which essentially meant that he acted like a proper servant. A few months ago, Arthur would have been relieved by Merlin's change in behavior. Now, though, he just thought it downright unnatural.

The chill only abated when Arthur walked with him to the physician's chambers, fully intent on meeting Mordred. Merlin smiled slightly when Arthur mentioned wanting to meet his little brother, and the prince knew that his servant would be back to normal by the morrow. Except, he reminded himself, that didn't really matter, because Merlin had to leave in the morning and wouldn't be back for a week.

Mordred wasn't the only person in Gaius's chambers. Though the physician was gone, Morgana and Guinevere were sitting at a table talking with Merlin's brother. Guinevere inclined her head when the prince entered, as did the dark-haired boy who must be Mordred, but Morgana's acknowledgement consisted of gesturing for them to sit.

"Mordred, this is the princely prat himself, Arthur Pendragon," Merlin announced, sliding into his chair. "Arthur, this is Mordred."

"A pleasure to meet you," Mordred mumbled. He seemed like a shy child, not at all like his brash brother.

"No, it isn't," Morgana informed him. Merlin laughed.

"You're going to need an extra horse, Merlin," Guinevere said.

"Why does he need an extra horse?" Arthur asked.

"Lady Morgana bought winter supplies for us," Mordred explained. "We need another horse to carry them."

Merlin's eyes went wide. "You didn't have to," he began.

Morgana waved a dismissive hand. "I wanted to," she declared.

"Thank you," Merlin said softly. "If there's anything I can do to repay you, just let me know."

"That's not necessary."

"Neither was buying Ealdor's winter supplies."

Morgana smiled. "It's a better use of Crown funds than hunting little kids." Her smile degenerated into a glare.

Arthur flung up his hands. "Do you think I want the druid boy to die?" he demanded.

"Do you?"

"Of course not!" the prince hissed. "But regardless of my feelings, Father is my king and I must obey him. Don't worry, though," he added. "The druid boy disappeared into thin air. He's probably halfway to Carmarthen by now."

"Yes," Merlin agreed. "Yes, I'm sure he is. Carmarthen or Londinium or maybe even Rome, but he's definitely not anywhere around here."

"Definitely," Mordred chimed in.

"That's the only reason I'm having the guards search so thoroughly," Arthur explained. "They have no chance of finding him, but the gods know they need as much practice as they can get, especially with Lancelot leaving."

Guinevere winced at that. Arthur grimaced. That's right, she and Lancelot were close. Perhaps, if the guard had chosen to stay, they would have married one day.

"I am sorry, Guinevere," he said awkwardly. Morgana laid a hand on her maid's shoulder. "I know you care for him."

Guinevere smiled sadly. "I understand why he's leaving, of course," she confessed. "If he remained part of a guard that hunts children, he wouldn't be Lancelot anymore. Perhaps he'll be back someday."

"Maybe Bayard or someone will knight him," Merlin suggested.

"Maybe," Arthur said, doubting it. "Where's he going, do you know? Merlin doesn't."

"I don't think Lancelot knows," Merlin reminded him. "First he's escorting Mordred and me to Ealdor, then…. I don't know. Hopefully someplace he can be happy." The manservant brightened. "Maybe he'll run into Elyan."

"Who?" Arthur asked.

"My brother," Guinevere explained. "He and Dad had a row a couple years ago, and Elyan left the next day."

"I'm sorry," Arthur said politely. "I hope he returns one day."

"We do too," Guinevere sighed. "But thank you."

With the pleasantries out of the way, they returned to the topic of Lancelot and Ealdor. "So no one knows where he's going?" Arthur repeated.

"No one knows," Merlin confirmed. "Perhaps he'll stay in Ealdor for a bit. Mother would like that, I think. I'm worried she's getting lonely without me."

"She isn't," Mordred said quickly. "Mother has me too, remember?"

"Right, right," Merlin agreed, speaking just as quickly. "And speaking of the journey, shouldn't we start getting ready? I mean, just us, of course. Lancelot has to pack on his own."

"Yes," Mordred declared. "We probably should."

"Bye, Arthur!" Merlin exclaimed, rising and pushing his master towards the door. "Bye, Morgana, Gwen. We'll see you tomorrow and say goodbye again." And he shut the door behind them.

Morgana, Gwen, and Arthur stared at each other. "He does realize he's not supposed to do that, right?" Morgana asked.

Arthur snorted. "Since when has Merlin ever cared about what he's supposed to do?"

"You're certain that they haven't moved on?" Lancelot asked.

Mordred nodded. He was so much more relaxed here in the woods, too far from Camelot to see its white walls. Merlin, contrarily, seemed tenser, more anxious. He'd told Lancelot that other than Mordred, he'd never really met a benign spellbinder. Well, a benign human spellbinder. Kilgharrah didn't count. Now he was walking to a camp full of druids, people who had grown up around magic and understood it far better than he did, and part of his excitement had turned to fear.

It was a lovely day, summer's bright sunshine mingling with a refreshing autumn wind. A few of the trees were just barely starting to turn, lending color to the endless tapestry of green and brown. Lancelot had always liked the woods. He suspected it had something to do with his home, a little village between the forest and the lake, and how that forest had hidden him when the bandits came.

"Our chief is a man named Iseldir," Mordred told his protectors. "I told him last night that I'd come back today, so he won't have moved the tribe."

Lancelot blinked at him. "Weren't you in Camelot then?" he asked.

"I was."

"I see." Lancelot waited. No response from Mordred. The would-be knight cleared his throat. Mordred ignored him, staring ahead, searching for any sign of his people.

It was Merlin who explained. "You remember what I told you about how Kilgharrah first called me, right?"

"The speaking without words?"

"Yeah. Druids can do that too."

"It's easier if you know the person well," Mordred explained. "I know Iseldir well enough that I can reach him even if he's relatively far away." His eyes clouded over. "Cerdan was even better at thought-speech."

"I'm sorry, Mordred," Lancelot said softly. He laid a hand on the boy's shoulder.

When Merlin had told him that he had the druid boy, that he'd gotten Arthur's permission to take the boy home (he'd actually said, "I have the druid boy and Arthur says I can take him out of the city," a statement that had required a great deal of explaining), Lancelot had tried to get ahold of Cerdan's bones. He didn't know a thing about druidic funerary rites, but he imagined that Cerdan' remains belonged with his people, to be reburied as they saw fit. But the druid was buried already, his corpse tossed into the unmarked pit reserved for sorcerers and criminals, and it would have been impossible to smuggle the cadaver out of the city anyways. Uther had opted for a speedy execution, so Cerdan had been beheaded instead of burned, much to Mordred and Merlin's relief.

"It isn't your fault," the boy whispered. Unshed tears glinted in his eyes, and Lancelot couldn't blame him. The poor boy had just lost the father of his heart, if not of his blood. Not to mention he'd been chased through the streets of Camelot by almost two dozen armed guardsmen who'd been ordered to take him dead or alive. "At least you tried."

It seemed like Lancelot was always trying, never succeeding. He'd tried to become a knight, to improve the guard, to protect Arthur from Sophia, to return Cerdan to his people. All those attempts had ended in failure. That was one of the reasons he had decided to leave: perhaps, if he got more experience on the road, he would stop failing quite so much.

"Aye, I did," the would-be knight sighed.

Mordred wiped away his tears. Merlin and Lancelot pretended not to notice. "It shouldn't be far now," the boy declared, blatantly changing the subject. "We were just three hours of walking from the gates, and we have horses now. Iseldir says that they haven't moved."

"What's it like, living with the druids?" Merlin asked.

"It's wonderful, usually," Mordred replied. "You're safe there and you know it. There's always a bit of worry in the back of your mind because you know that the hunters could find you at any moment, but for the most part, you know you're safe. You can use magic openly, and we do. People talk out loud and in each other's minds, but come nightfall they all quiet down and you can hear the owls and the breeze and sometimes a wolf or two howling at the moon. You eat fish and berries and acorn bread, and every druid knows how to hunt and find edible plants and mushrooms growing wild. You go north during the summer, but when autumn comes you have to start moving south. Once we went so far north that I saw Hadrian's Wall."

"Is it really as big as they say?" Merlin queried.

Mordred nodded. "One day, I want to go back and climb to the top. Iseldir says that the view is amazing."

"I bet it is." Merlin sighed wistfully. "I had magic from my first breath. Mother tried to find the druids when I was a baby, but she couldn't. Your people are good at staying hidden."

"Perhaps she wasn't meant to find them," Mordred suggested.

The older warlock mulled that over. "Perhaps." He sighed. "Still, I can't help but wonder what my life would have been like if she had."

"But you have found us now."

The voice that spoke was male and unfamiliar. Lancelot and the others whirled around. The former guard's hand grasped at his sword-hilt, an automatic reflex. When its owner saw who had spoken, the hand relaxed its grip, slid back to its usual place at Lancelot's side.

The druid—for druid he must be—had thick curly hair faded to gray and white. His skin was tanned and wrinkled from years in the sun, his features strong and blunt, his nose a bit large, but his eyes were warm and kind. He wore a robe of rough homespun and carried a tall, twisted staff.

"Iseldir," Mordred laughed. He jumped forward, wrapping the older druid in a tight hug. Iseldir returned the embrace, murmuring soft condolences.

After a long moment, Mordred broke away. "This is Iseldir," he explained unnecessarily. "He's our clan chief, and he sits on the Council of Twelve that makes decisions for all druids. Iseldir, the man with the sword is Lancelot. The other one…." A peculiar expression crossed Mordred's face. It was part excitement, part awe, part childish mischief, sprinkled with fearful wonder and something Lancelot couldn't identify. "His name is Merlin Caledonensis, but the prophecies call him Emrys."

Prophecies? Lancelot thought, befuddled. A quick glance at Merlin revealed that the warlock was equally surprised.

Iseldir's eyes went wide. He turned that sharp, disbelieving gaze onto Merlin. The disbelief melted away, replaced by the same excited awe in Mordred's eyes. And then Chief Iseldir, who sat upon the Council of Twelve, knelt.

IMPORTANT AN: Since this is the last of the chapters I had pre-written, I am going to need more time between updates to finish my new material. From now on, updates will be every three weeks rather than every fortnight. So the next chapter will be up March 5, not February 27. Hopefully the quality won't suffer that way (haste makes waste, right?).

Hadrian's Wall is a real structure. It spans Britain, separating England from Scotland. The Romans built it to keep the Scottish tribes out.

Yes, Lancelot is leaving. Yes, I knew he would leave after the Mordred episode right from the beginning.

Next chapter: like I said, March 5. Merlin among the druids.

Alternate chapter title: "Wherein Merlin's Proper, Servant-like Behavior is Perceived as the Unnatural Horror that it is."

Antares