Chapter XXI: The Acorn and the Oak

The druids were singing. Loud and strong their voices were, with the women singing high and clear and the men rumbling beneath them. The children sang as well, their passion making up for their lack of skill. Together, the druids wove a lovely tapestry of song.

But it was a sad song as well, a lament for a life cut too short. They could not bury Cerdan with an acorn, as their funerary traditions dictated, but the druids knew how to mourn even without a body. They'd had lots of practice since the Purge—or the Slaughter, as they called it—began. Iseldir had explained that while the traditional, official funeral rites required a body, they all knew the modified version which could be conducted without a corpse.

So they sang to the setting sun, tears streaming from their eyes and watering the soft ground where Mordred, Cerdan's foster son and heir, had planted an acorn. The boy was one of the few druids who remained silent, though his tears flowed just as quickly as theirs. He had tried to join in a couple of times, but his voice broke and he soon returned to his silent grief.

Merlin kept a hand on the boy's shoulder, squeezing gently, doing his best to be a strong pillar of support. He didn't know the songs, but he hummed along whenever the refrain cropped up. Lancelot, standing beside him, did the same. The former guard looked just as uncomfortable as Merlin felt.

When the last slivers of sunlight sank beneath the horizon, the druids fell silent, their heads bowed. Finally Iseldir spoke.

"The sun sets, the acorn is buried in the soft earth. Our brother is dead, his thread cut short, and we shall grieve him now and forevermore."

"Now and forevermore," his people echoed.

"Let us weep for Cerdan. Let us remember his life, his deeds, his soul… but let us not despair, for on the other side of the Veil, he feasts with the Caillyx and his forebears, now and forevermore."

"Now and forevermore," the druids repeated. This time Merlin and Lancelot spoke with them.

"The sun sets, but the moon rises and the stars shine. The acorn is buried, but soon it will grow into an oak. Life from death and death from life, now and forever more."

"Now and forevermore."

They remained there in silent vigil for a long time. Finally the druids at the edge of the ceremony began to walk away. At first it was just a few, but others followed until only Mordred, his two supporters, and Iseldir remained.

The druid chieftain made his way to them. "Come, Mordred," he said softly, wrapping an arm around the boy's shoulder. "You need to sleep."

Mordred and his leader walked away. Merlin and Lancelot exchanged glances, silently asking if they should follow or remain. They eventually decided to trail along behind the two druids, far enough away that they wouldn't intrude but close enough for Mordred to call them, if he so chose.

Iseldir brought the boy to an old woman's tent. She welcomed the boy inside without a word. The chieftain remained at the tent's door for another minute, then sighed heavily. His shoulders slumped as he walked to Merlin and Lancelot.

"I thought it would be best if he didn't sleep in Cerdan's tent," Iseldir explained. "At least not yet. Perhaps later, when the pain has dulled."

"That was probably a good idea," Lancelot said.

"Would you two like to use it for the duration of your stay? It is less than a Knight of the Round Table and Emrys deserve, but it will serve its purpose well enough."

"Knight?" Lancelot repeated, torn between hope and confusion.

"Emrys," Merlin murmured. The word had a strange, exotic taste on his tongue. "That's what Mordred called me."

Iseldir was plainly shocked. "Do you truly not know?" he asked.

"Not really," Merlin had to confess.

The druid was frowning. "Perhaps I could explain. Would you like to hear my words now, or in the morning?"

"Now, please."

Iseldir nodded, unfazed. Perhaps he'd expected that answer. "Very well. Follow me."

They obediently followed him into a simple homespun tent. It looked no different than any of the other domiciles, with nothing to indicate that it was the dwelling of a chief and not just another druid. The inside was almost empty of possessions, save for a few necessities—tableware, blankets and clothing, a half-dozen books—stored neatly in baskets. Druids were nomadic, so they couldn't keep ahold of many possessions. They carried their true wealth inside their minds: the knowledge of magic, the ability to survive anywhere in Britain.

Merlin settled himself on the rug/mat that he thought might double (triple?) as a bedroll, folding his long legs beneath him. Iseldir and Lancelot followed suit.

"Before I say anything," the druid began, "could you tell me what you already know about the prophecies?"

Lancelot inclined his head to Merlin. He knew that there were prophecies about Arthur uniting Albion with Merlin by his side, but he fully acknowledged that the warlock knew more than he did. To be perfectly honest, until today, Lancelot had half-suspected that the prophecies were really just products of Kilgharrah's mind, created in the twenty years of darkness and grief and loneliness he'd endured before Merlin set him free. Twenty years in a hole in the ground was enough to make anyone a bit crazy.

"When I met Kilgharrah, the dragon beneath the castle," Merlin began, "he told me that there were prophecies about how Arthur Pendragon was going to be… um… I think his exact words were 'the Once and Future King who would unite Albion,' but he might have phrased it a bit differently. The essence was the same, though. He said that Arthur would be a great king and that it was my destiny to stay by his side and protect him. Um, he also called me Ambrosius, which feels like Emrys."

Iseldir was surprised. "That is all you know?"

Merlin nodded, blushing slightly. "Kilgharrah likes to be cryptic, I think."

"I would not be surprised," Iseldir admitted. Then his eyes grew serious. "Kilgharrah was referring to a famous set of prophecies known as the Albion Cycle. These predictions come from many sources: the Vates, other Seers, the Sidhe, the dragons, even a Sybil or two. The gist of them is that there shall come a time of smoke and sorrow, when the gift of magic becomes a curse. But then Emrys would come, magic's champion, bringing the light of the sun. He would be the most powerful warlock of all time, guide and guardian to the Once and Future King who would unite Albion and dispel the smoke, end the sorrow."

The druid looked to Lancelot. "As for what I called you, the Round Table is a brotherhood of true knights sworn to uphold the ideals of Albion. They are mighty warriors all, but their true strength lies within their hearts. Resilience and Honor, Strength and Skill…. There are many, common-born and nobility, and some interpretations state that at least one will be a woman."

"I bet that's Morgana," Merlin chuckled.

Iseldir, smiling, turned back to him. "There is a great deal more to say, of course, original words and possible interpretations, the People's Queen and the Dragon Sword, but what I just told you is the meat of the cycle. My people have known these prophecies for generations, but we only really began to yearn for their fulfilment twenty years ago."

Merlin barely kept his jaw from going slack. So Kilgharrah wasn't crazy, there really were predictions that he and Arthur were supposed to save magic and create a place called Albion. And the druids had been yearning for that—probably praying for it, begging for it—for twenty years.

No pressure, then.

A sudden thought sparked hope. "Do the prophecies say how?" he demanded. "How I convince Arthur to bring back magic, that is."

"I'm afraid not."

Merlin groaned. Of course they didn't. "Then how am I supposed to make things change?"

Iseldir, frowning, tilted his head. He was quiet for a long time. Finally he asked, "What have you already done?"

So Merlin told him about questioning Uther's policies, about Edwin Muirden and two orbs of silver-blue light. Iseldir listened without comment, simply nodding at the appropriate times. It didn't take Merlin very long to finish his list of accomplishments, a fact that dismayed him.

"No, no," Iseldir said, correctly interpreting his guest's expression. "You have only known the prince for a few months. This sort of change takes time to ripen." He fell silent again, his eyes distant, his gaze deeply thoughtful. Finally, he slowly said, "You told me that the prince knows he has a sorcerous benefactor, but he does not know who this person may be."

"Yes." Merlin spread his hands helplessly. "And I can't exactly tell him it's me, because then he'll have to choose, and it's too early for me to know his choice. Why are you smiling? That's not a good thing!"

But Iseldir kept smiling. "Have you ever heard of glamors?"

Balinor had settled into a routine years ago: rise with the sun, check the spells of concealment at the mouth of his cave, break his fast on sheep's milk and cheese and fruit (berries in the spring and summer, apples for fall and winter). After breakfast, he had to milk his sheep and let them loose. They'd be back by the end of the day, even with his concealment spells at full strength. Then it was out into the forest to check his snares, when he'd set them, pick fruits, gather fresh water. Sometimes he'd wash his clothes or his body or both in the stream. Then he had to mend or carve the little pieces he'd sell at the market, where he went every fortnight or so. They were easy tasks, simple, but they kept him busy enough that he didn't have to think.

Didn't have to remember.

It was the nights that bothered him, the nights when the thoughts pushed and shoved and jostled each other just to be heard. Perhaps he could go see her. No, she'd gotten over him long ago, had married someone else and probably had five or six children by now. He was being entirely ridiculous, mooning over a woman he'd known for mere months, and that years and years ago.

He should leave Albion, go to Rome or Byzantium or legendary Cathay. No, he had to rescue Kilgharrah first, and they could travel the world together. Except the rumors about Kilgharrah being alive had to be fake, and Uther was waiting for him. But he was a dragonlord, his instincts said that the dragon still drew breath, and it had been twenty years since Kilgharrah was captured and what were the odds that Uther's guards were still looking for him? No, he had to go to Camelot and kill Uther and then rescue Kilgharrah, and the two of them would burn the entire accursed city to the ground. Find dragon eggs, if any still existed. Go to the druids. Go to the Catha. Go to the Vates and ask them what he was supposed to do now, because he sure as hell didn't know.

And then he would fall asleep, and awake the next morning, and repeat the cycle yet again.

Balinor knew that he was stuck in a rut. He knew that he should care about it more than he actually did. He knew that staying in the rut was bad for him, mind and body and soul.

What he didn't know was how to escape.

How pathetic, the last dragonlord reduced to this. Sometimes he wanted to throw it all away, go to Camelot and kill his way to Kilgharrah. It would probably kill him too, but that way, at least, his death would have meaning the way his life—if this dreary existence could be called that—did not.

But he stayed, and stayed, and stayed, until the day that Kilgharrah flew back into his life.

It was a day like any other, rise check eat milk don't think. Autumn was just beginning to paint the trees, and the forest around him was noisy with squirrels preparing their winter storage. He saw birds gorging themselves in preparation for their journey south, gilded birches, even a great ponderous bear fishing at the stream. He ignored them all, focusing on gathering food for his own winter.

He was picking apples when a familiar presence tickled at the back of his mind. The dragonlord slowed, stilled. He held his breath.

"Balinor."

The dragonlord shuddered. Had he finally gone mad? That wouldn't surprise him at all.

"Balinor."

He didn't feel mad, but how would he know what madness felt like? Did madmen recognize what they were?

"Balinor…."

Hope hurt, for he wanted it to be true, craved it in his heart of hearts, but cold reason asked how the dragon could have escaped, how he could have found him, even why he would want to find him.

"Balinor…."

The voice was growing fainter, fading with distance.

"KILGHARRAH!"

"Balinor?" his kin exclaimed.

"Yes, it's me, here by the apple grove. Gods, Kilgharrah, is it really you?"

"It is I, brother of my soul."

Balinor was smiling now, his mouth already sore from the unfamiliar position. He had a million things to say: How did you escape? Are you all right? I'm so sorry for not freeing you myself. I'd thought you dead, thought it in my head but not my heart and I couldn't choose. Are you real, really real, or have I fallen into fantasy? How did you find me? Why did you want to find me? I missed you. I thought of you every day, the last of my kin, my dear friend.

But he said none of them, merely waited, squinting at the sky.

There was a speck there, so high he could barely make it out. That high up, it was impossible to tell how big the speck actually was. But it was coming closer, flying more swiftly than a bird could manage, and every last half-forgotten instinct was telling him dragon dragon dragon.

The tiny high-up shape folded its wings and dove.

Balinor realized that his hands were shaking, that sweat beaded on his brow, that his heart thundered in his chest. He didn't care. All he cared about was the falling shape. He could make out more of its form, now, could see that it glittered gold and bronze and copper in the sunlight. Closer and closer it flew, until Balinor could make out the great crested head, the leathern wings, the long spiked tail.

He wasn't smiling now, he was beaming.

Kilgharrah's wings flared, blotting out the sky. Except for the web of bone, they were translucent in the noontide sunshine, turning the light which passed through them into streams of gold.

For such a big creature, Kilgharrah landed softly and almost delicately. He folded his wide wings and regarded Balinor with eyes the color of magic and fire.

"You are real," Balinor breathed. Shaking, he took an unsteady step forward, then another and another. He reached out a hand, pressed it against Kilgharrah's side. The scales were just as warm and smooth as he remembered, like pebbles in a stream. "I can't believe it, but you're here, you're real." He blinked moisture from his eyes.

He wasn't alone anymore.

"I am indeed," the dragon rumbled.

Balinor made a noise that was half-laugh, half-sob of joy. Tears blurred his vision, so he blinked them out as rapidly as they formed. He wanted to see his kin.

Kilgharrah waited for his human brother to calm himself. Finally, after several great gulping breaths, Balinor managed to ask, "How did you escape?"

The dragon's lips curled upwards, but his golden gaze sharpened. "Your son released me."

It was like being thrown into a snowdrift. Balinor's joy shattered, replaced by utter shock. "What?"

"I said," Kilgharrah repeated, "that your son released me."

Balinor sat down hard. I don't have a son, he wanted to say, but he could remember a peasant woman with dark hair and a sweet lovely smile. His mouth opened, but no words came out.

"His name is Merlin," the dragon continued. "He is eighteen years old and already a powerful young warlock, with a heart as strong as his magic. You should be proud of him, my kin."

Merlin. Merlin Caledonensis. And he was eighteen—probably almost nineteen by now, almost a man grown.

And he hadn't known.

"Tell me about him," Balinor begged.

So Kilgharrah did.

They talked until the sun dipped beneath the horizon and the stars blinked in. Merlin wasn't their only topic of discussion, though of course he featured prominently. They shared their own experiences, Balinor telling of his escape and Kilgharrah speaking briefly about the cave. The dragon told the dragonlord about just whom the prophecies spoke of, and though Balinor almost couldn't believe, he knew that his friend wouldn't lie to him, not about that. Finally, when the moon was high, Balinor led his friend to his cave. His sheep feared the dragon, of course, but they calmed down a bit after Kilgharrah (who had eaten mutton for the past twenty years and was heartily sick of it) made no attempt to eat them.

When dragon and dragonlord woke the next morning (though it was hardly morning anymore, almost noon), they spent a few minutes in companionable silence before Balinor spoke. "I don't know how to be a father."

Kilgharrah shrugged. "And Merlin does not know how to have a father."

"True," the dragonlord acquiesced, "but…."

"He wants to meet you."

Balinor nodded, but spoke no more.

They reminisced for the rest of the day, stopping only so Balinor could let his sheep in and out. The human had enough food stored that he didn't have to hunt and gather every day, especially now that he was beginning his preparations for the upcoming winter, and he was grateful for it. Talking with Kilgharrah, going over happier times when their kin had lived (and deliberately not mentioning how they had died), he found himself content for the first time in decades.

Somehow, though neither had mentioned Merlin and Camelot, they came to an agreement. When the last tint of sunset vanished from the sky, Balinor climbed atop Kilgharrah's back and rode to Camelot.

Dragons did not often take riders. They were dragons, not horses. Balinor thanked his friend profusely when they landed and spent the next hour or so pacing back and forth, back and forth.

Kilgharrah had told him all about Merlin's sheep smuggling, and it just so happened that today was a Wednesday. Merlin would come here tonight, and he would meet the son he'd never known he had.

Back and forth, back and forth….

There was a figure—no, two figures—going through the cave. Balinor stilled.

Then he frowned. This didn't seem quite right….

"Gaius?"

"Balinor?" The physician was even more surprised than the dragonlord. "I feared you were dead." He rushed over, laid his hands on Balinor's arms as though assuring himself that the apparition was real. "Dead, or out of the country, at least."

"I should be," Balinor admitted. Even now, he didn't know why he hadn't fled. "Gaius, where is…?"

The older man was confused only for a moment. Then his gaze softened. "There is a druid boy," he explained. "Merlin saved him from Uther's guards and is now returning him to his tribe. He's a fine young man, Balinor. You should be proud of him."

"Kilgharrah said the same thing." Which meant that two of the people who knew Merlin best had vouched for him. "Will you tell me about him, Gaius?"

"Of course," the physician replied, without hesitation. "What would you like to know?"

"Everything."

Yes, there was actual plot progression in this chapter. Huzzah!

Next chapter: March 26. More druids and Iseldir's idea bearing fruit.

Alternate chapter title: "Wherein Gaius and Balinor Join the Great Brotherhood of Sheep Smugglers"

-Antares