Chapter XXII: Reunions and Goodbyes
Merlin's new face was shaped like a heart, framed by wavy hair that was pale brown or deep gold depending on how the light hit it. His features were slight and delicate, his ears much smaller and less stuck-out than normal. His eyes were surrounded by lashes long and dark enough to make any woman jealous.
The eyes themselves were a bright and brilliant gold. Wolf eyes, falcon eyes, dragon eyes. A warlock's eyes.
The spellbinder stared at his reflection, bemused. It was strange, he reflected, to look into a stream and see someone else's face staring back. Even though the eyes were technically real, they'd been glamored blue his entire life, and his unwavering golden gaze was rather unsettling. Perhaps, he reflected, that was why so many predators had eyes the color of the sun.
So did that mean he was a predator? He didn't really think so. Maybe yellow eyes were a marker of something that could be very, very dangerous when provoked. A warning, though in Merlin's case, they'd had to conceal that warning.
It had been Gaius who had put the first glamor on his great-nephew's eyes. The old physician had journeyed to Ealdor when Hunith was eight months pregnant, for Hunith was the best midwife in the village and he wasn't going to entrust anyone else with her safety. Besides, it had been a while since their last visit, and he'd wanted to get away from court, from Uther's madness and rage.
Hunith had gone into labor when the sun set. She'd struggled all through the night, but when the east turned pink and orange and gold, she'd finally managed to deliver her child. Gaius had caught the boy, cut the cord, and nearly dropped him when he opened his brilliant golden eyes.
The infant Merlin hadn't done any magic then, just stared silently at his mother and their physician with his eerie sorcerous eyes, eyes that would get him and probably his mother killed if anybody saw them, eyes that showed no sign of changing to a more normal color. So Gaius had cast a spell for the first time in years, covering the infant's yellow orbs with irises of baby blue. That illusion had lasted for years, only faltering when Merlin actively used his magic, and it felt very strange to have taken it off. Strange, but right too, somehow.
"You'll need a name," Lancelot said, interrupting the warlock's wandering thoughts.
"Right," Merlin agreed. He straightened, looked away from the reflection. "Um… Dragoon?"
Lancelot gave him a look. "Perhaps you ought to just stick with Emrys."
"Yes, you're probably right." He glanced down at the water again, smiled ruefully. "I don't think I've ever looked this warlocky."
It wasn't just the eyes, though of course those had a great deal to do with it. It certainly wasn't his face, which was pleasant but unremarkable. The druids had given him new clothing: dark gray trousers, high-necked forest green tunic, and a long, soft navy cloak clasped by an iron triskel. All he was missing was the staff he'd taken from Aulfric and he'd be the very picture of a wandering spellbinder.
"I don't think that warlocky is a word, Merlin."
"It should be," he muttered.
Lancelot's lips twitched. "If you say so."
They had spent six wonderful days with the druids, learning more about the prophecies (which seemed to consist mostly of ominous gibberish that scholars had been arguing about for centuries, but there were a few things that seemed clear enough), meeting the people, practicing magic out in the open (Lancelot, of course, just watched), and making plans.
Merlin's arrival—or, to be more precise, the arrival of Emrys—had lit a fire in the druids. They grieved for Cerdan, yes, and Mordred especially spent a great deal of time by the tiny plot of ground where they'd planted his acorn, but their focus was on the future, not the past. Hope, not despair.
The first thing to do, Iseldir had said, was to get the word out. Tell the other druid clans that the prophecies were on the verge of fulfillment, that Emrys had found the Once and Future King and was turning his heart to magic. Druids first, then other magical factions like the Catha and the Vates and the Disir, if anybody could find them.
Merlin had interrupted him then, asking if he was really going to tell the entire island that Prince Arthur Pendragon's manservant Merlin was secretly a warlock. That, he'd pointed out, would rather defeat the purpose of his disguise. Iseldir had replied that not, of course they wouldn't tell his birth name… but they had to tell the world that Emrys was here.
So they'd tell the druids and Catha and all the others, and come next Midsummer, their leaders and envoys would travel to the Isle of the Blessed to discuss a more thorough battle plan with Emrys.
That was when Lancelot had butted in. He said that this shouldn't be the limit of their message, that they should send out instructions with the news. If they had a good idea, something that didn't need much discussion, then why should they wait?
And Merlin hadn't even had to think. "Tell them to quit attacking and killing people," he ordered (though he didn't really see it as an order, because he hadn't quite comprehended that the druids would listen to his orders like the knights would listen to Leon or Arthur). "Tell them that Arthur's not the only person whose mind has to change. The smallfolk fear magic, they've seen it badly used too many times." Inspiration struck, an idea so blindingly obvious that of course no one had ever spotted it before. "And tell them that they're to use their magic publically, but for good."
That had resulted in naught but stares and silences. Merlin didn't blame the druids; he could hardly believe that he'd said that. In a smaller voice, he continued, "Not recklessly or anything, I meant that if people wearing glamors were to go out in groups and disappear as soon as the deed was done, that would help."
"Yes," Iseldir agreed, nodding slowly, "it would."
The envoys had left on Merlin and Lancelot's fifth day with the camp, bearing news that the prophecies were on the verge of fulfillment and a strategy from the mouth of Emrys himself. Be cautious, he told them, don't be stupid, but let people see, remind them that magic isn't just about afancs and curses. Fight cautiously, fight smart, but fight the prejudice, or it would never ever go away.
It was time for Merlin to leave now, for him and Lancelot to go their separate ways, but he didn't want to. He liked living with the druids, learning magic openly and having people respect him and planning to save magic and not having to hide. He would miss that most of all, he thought, not having to hide.
So he delayed, switching his glamor on and off, his eyes golden all the while.
Lancelot knew what he was doing, of course. The knight-to-be's smile was sad. "Merlin."
The warlock's shoulders slumped. "I know," he confessed in a tiny voice.
"It's not like I'm dying," his friend pointed out.
"I'll miss you all the same."
"And I you. Protect Guinevere for me, will you? Please."
Something seized Merlin's tongue then, something he hadn't experienced since the day a young boy stood before a king who meant to kill him, the day he'd seen two great wyverns fighting. Merlin heard himself speak, but not with his own voice or his own words. There was a deep booming echo in his tone, a formality and solemnity most uncharacteristic of the young man.
"Ere the gem shatters and the black eyes close, we will meet again, Knight of Joyous Garde. Til then, let the lily grow strong where the lavender now dwells. Seek the lily, seek the arcs, and return before the break of dawn."
There was a long silence.
"Um," Lancelot finally said, "what?"
"I have no idea whatsoever."
"…I thought that that might be the case."
There was another silence.
"I thought you couldn't do that anymore?" Lancelot asked. "Make prophecies, that is."
"So did I," Merlin confessed. He wondered if living with the druids had brought back his ability, if all it took for him to see the future was a few days of living without pretense. "But it was a prophecy." The warlock brightened. "And I called you a knight!"
Lancelot's eyes went wide with shock and something like hope. "You did," he said slowly. "'Knight of Joyous Garde.' Do you know what Joyous Garde is?"
"Probably a castle or something. Have you ever wanted a castle, Lancelot? Because I think you're getting one."
"You think I'm getting a castle?"
"Why not? Lots of knights have castles."
Lancelot had to sit down at that. "A knight with a castle," he repeated dazedly.
Mordred chose that moment to come over. "Farewell, Lancelot," he said softly.
Lancelot pushed himself to his feet, clasped Mordred's hand. "Farewell, Mordred. It was a pleasure to meet you, though I wish with all my heart we'd met in different circumstances." He sighed heavily. "I will miss you and your people."
"And we will miss you," Iseldir, who had followed his young charge, said. "You and Emrys both. But all men must part before they can meet again."
"And we will," Merlin reminded him, thinking of what he had just foretold.
"Would you break your fast with us before you leave?" Iseldir asked. "That will give you more opportunity to say goodbye."
So the two visitors followed their host to the morning meal, bread and apples and jams and a little bit of cheese. They kept conversation light and pleasant, only faltering when yet another person came to bid them farewell.
When Merlin came back from changing into his regular clothes (he was going to use his druidic clothing as part of the Emrys disguise, and anyways, he could hardly run around Camelot with that triskel on his cloak), Lancelot and the druids had finished eating. The warlock grabbed an apple for the road and said his final goodbyes to Lancelot, to Mordred, to Iseldir and all his kin except one man.
Blaise was old and wizened, with hair like frosted iron and a strong square chin. The man was not powerful, just barely a wizard, but he was knowledgeable and creative enough to make up for that. He had been training spellbinders for forty years, and now he would stay behind to teach Merlin everything he knew. And since their first lesson would be very soon, Merlin merely nodded at his new mentor. Blaise nodded back.
Finally, Merlin and Lancelot could delay no longer. They embraced each other one final time before going their separate ways.
The druid camp seemed to melt into the forest. After less than five minutes of walking, Merlin could hardly tell that there was a habitation behind him, nor could he catch any glimpse of Lancelot's gray cloak. Soon enough he was on the road, squinting for a sliver of white in the distance.
Camelot grew steadily larger on the horizon. First he could only see its walls, then the tallest buildings, then the general shape of the city. Soon he was there, going through the gates and up to the palace that was his… home?
He didn't know for sure, but perhaps it was.
Balinor was… nervous. All right, he was more than nervous. 'Terrified' would be a much better description. But he was excited too, and hopeful, and a million other things that were all jumbled together in a chaotic mess of emotion.
Tonight, he would finally meet Merlin. His son.
In a way, this was even more difficult than reuniting with Hunith. He'd gone to Ealdor after learning that Merlin was with the druids, had lingered in the woods by the well until she came for water. She was just as beautiful as he remembered, pale and dark and lithe, moving with the easy elegance of the lady she would have been, had he done the honorable thing and married her (except he wasn't quite certain that was the honorable thing, because then she would have been in even more danger, her and Merlin both). He had stood there in silence, drinking in the sight of his love, until she turned away. Then he'd called her name, softly, ever so softly, and she had turned.
They'd shed many tears that night, crying from joy and from happiness, and gotten not a wink of sleep. They'd talked for hours: Where have you been? What happened? By all the gods, I missed you. What should we do now? I'm so sorry, my love. Can I call you that still? Because even after all these years, I still love you.
They'd spoken of Merlin too, of course, though Hunith hadn't known how to bring him up. She stopped and started no fewer than four times before Balinor raised his left hand (for his right hand was holding hers, had held hers since they met by the well and would continue to hold hers until exhaustion caught up with them and they fell asleep) to her lips and told her that he knew about their son.
That, of course, had set off another bout of tears, another series of questions and answers and stories. They talked until the sun peeked over the eastern horizon, until the village around them began to stir.
Hunith had to leave then, for years of living with a powerful warlock for a son had made her very wary of raising suspicion, and she feared the neighbors might wonder if she didn't help with the harvest. She could, she admitted, probably get away with telling them that she was sick, but that might result in visitors entering the house and noticing Balinor. She had just reunited with him, and she had no desire to be separated again—if, of course, she hastened to add, Balinor felt the same way.
The dragonlord's only response to that had been a soft kiss on the lips.
Hunith managed to nap for roughly an hour before Balinor woke her with breakfast. His love smiled so sweetly when she saw him there, when she realized that it hadn't been a beautiful dream. Balinor smiled back.
He cleaned the house for her while she was gone, then collapsed into her cot for a few hours of sleep. When he woke, she was sitting nearby watching him.
They still had a bit of time before the harvest, so Hunith told Ealdor that she'd decided to visit Merlin in Camelot and purchase a few winter supplies there. She knew better than to go into Camelot, of course—according to Gaius, her 'son' Mordred had already acquired supplies enough for the whole town, and Merlin and Mordred were supposedly already with her—but she was no stranger to camping out in the woods, and Balinor was more comfortable camping than sleeping in a village. They had arrived just yesterday, and had spent the past day and a half waiting for their son (their son, Balinor still had trouble believing it) to arrive.
Now night had fallen and the city had settled down to sleep, and any minute now, Merlin would come out of Kilgharrah's cave, and Balinor would meet his son for the first time.
He was a bit anxious about that, actually.
"You'll be fine," Hunith assured him. She wasn't nervous at all. Excited, yes, but not afraid. Balinor wished he could say the same. "You will love each other."
The dragonlord forced himself to smile. "Of course."
Hunith narrowed her eyes. "Balinor."
The dragonlord's forced smiled morphed into a sheepish grin. "I know. I'm sorry."
"Don't be," Hunith told him. "You have every right to be nervous, but no reason to be."
"You are the only person I know, besides Kilgharrah, who can make something like that make sense."
She laughed softly, then walked over and took his hand. "I mean it, though. One day, you'll look back on this and laugh."
"Perhaps," Balinor admitted, "but it will be a long time before then."
Hunith nodded. "True."
Kilgharrah, who had been watching in silence, lifted his great head. "You chose wisely, Balinor," he rumbled. A faint smile curved his mouth.
"Thank you," Hunith murmured. Her eyes glittered with mischief. "Though sometimes, I think it's more me choosing poorly."
That startled a laugh from her love, just as she had no doubt intended. Kilgharrah's smile widened.
Balinor opened his mouth, a smarmy retort on his lips, but a very unexpected sound cut him off before he could start. It was something he'd heard many times over the last few years, though usually the sound was provoked by shearing.
It was the sound of a sheep bleating in terror.
The dragonlord went rigid. He forgot what he would have said, forgot his few minutes of humor and all of Hunith's reassurances. He forgot everything except the meaning of that sound, for with the sheep came the shepherd, and the shepherd was his son.
Hunith was holding his hand and Kilgharrah's silent presence guarded his back, but Balinor scarcely noticed them. His gaze was fixed on the mouth of the cave. A faint light flickered along its walls, casting shadows.
"Shush," said an unfamiliar male voice. "Shush, that's a good sheep now. I'll protect you from the big scary dragon."
The sheep baaed again. It didn't sound convinced.
Balinor became aware that he was shaking, that sweat was trickling down his brow. Hunith squeezed his hand, and that helped a little. He managed to swallow hard.
The light, a floating orb of blue-white shot with gold, drifted around the corner. Two shapes followed, but Balinor only had eyes for one.
Merlin was tall for his age and slender, with pale skin and a head of night-black hair. His features were sharp and angular, and—much to Balinor's surprise—the boy had his grandfather's ears. Actually, he looked quite a bit like his grandfather, but Hunith's blood was plain too. He looked like both sides of his family, his mother and his father, and for some reason, the thought took Balinor's breath away.
The young warlock had been focused on dragging along his reluctant companion. "Hello, Kilgharrah," he said, not looking up. "Sorry I'm a bit late. Arthur's being a sulky little baby again, the…." But now he turned, took in the scene before him for the first time. Merlin paused, going almost completely still. Only his eyes moved, flitting from the dragon to his mother to the stranger by her side. The eyes went very, very wide.
"Mother?" Merlin choked. "Who… who is he?"
Hunith's answering smile lit up the night. "This is Balinor Caledonensis," she said, "your father."
Yays, they have met! Huzzah! (and tomorrow, he shall die in Merlin's arms after saving his life, because that's how-oh, wait, that only happens in the actual show)
Anyone have any guesses about Merlin's prophecy? Because Merlin certainly doesn't.
Alternate chapter title: "Wherein Merlin is More Warlocky Than Ever Before"
Next chapter: April 16. Balinor, Merlin, and Hunith. And possibly something else, but I won't know until I write it. See you then!
-Antares