Chapter 12: Crossing Borders
"Don't unpack yet."
Merlin looked up from crouching over a new circle of stones, building the firepit that would be the center of yet another new and temporary home for them. Gwaine grinned as he jogged toward Merlin through the trees, a scrap of parchment held aloft in his fingers.
"A message from Gaius?" Merlin guessed, straightening.
"He says Arthur's got permission to leave Camelot for several days of hunting," Gwaine said, reaching Merlin's side and passing him the message. "But he thinks, Arthur might be heading for Ealdor."
"Oh." Merlin took the parchment, but didn't look at it.
The news wasn't entirely unexpected; he'd wondered if Arthur might make the trip, or send a message, or just make sure Gaius had communicated with his mother. He was glad to know his prince would go – a bit sorry-guilty at the thought of Arthur's state of mind at facing this particular responsibility – wondered a moment, whether he'd ever gone personally to the family of a knight killed in Camelot's service –
"No – Ealdor – no," he repeated. "That's Cenred's land." One of the reasons he'd been pretty sure Uther wouldn't try sending anyone after his mother, after his arrest – if it even had occurred to him. Not after the hostilities earlier this year.
"Yep," Gwaine agreed easily.
"What if he told Morgana he was going to go? He won't take a dozen knights for a guard – Uther would never allow – one or two, maybe…"
"This time, we're really going to earn our – oh, wait, they don't pay us for this." The other outlaw grinned, unconcerned at the prospect of risk and danger.
Merlin sighed in frustration. This secret was turning out to be exactly like his magic. Protect Arthur, but don't let him realize. Weigh his safety against the consequences of discovery, and often come out dissatisfied with the results.
"Can you go to Ealdor right away, kind of scout it out?" he said. "Maybe give my mother a bit of warning? I'll wait and follow, Arthur and whoever he brings along."
Gwaine nodded, checking the strap of his bag over his shoulder before swinging his hair out of his way. "You're going to be able to keep up with them? Riders on horseback for what, a day and a half?"
"If I can't, I'll find a way to slow them down." Merlin grinned back. On second thought, he'd be happy to see his mother again, himself.
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"The border, sire," Leon tossed over his shoulder, with a glance. "Just over that ridge."
Arthur made a noise of noncommittal acknowledgement, his eyes on the carcass of a small doe slung over the back of Leon's saddle. Couldn't very well arrive at Hunith's door empty-handed, after all. And this way, they'd fulfilled the stated purpose of their trip, also.
His ears were alert, however, to the noise of the forest around them, not made by their own horses. So far, only made by innocent wildlife, but they were near Cenred's border.
Arthur could not get over the irony. He and Leon were both dressed plainly to conceal their identity, to enter a kingdom where discovery would forfeit both of their lives, and merely stepping over the border constituted an act of war. Even though they meant no harm and intended no wrong; they were merely looking for answers to better understand the truth about magic.
Had Merlin felt the same, three years ago as he traveled toward Camelot and Gaius?
He couldn't imagine intentionally entering Cenred's castle, far less spending three years there alone. Hoping no one would recognize him or give him away – he honestly wasn't sure he'd consider any information or enlightenment or training worth it. And yet… if Cenred had a son, who Arthur thought might, just might one day make a better ruler, more open-minded toward the Pendragons and Camelot – his family and his people – would he stay, and serve, and wait, and try to influence? Or would he step back at the first threat and let the son of his enemy die, in the hope that an entirely new line of rulers would prove more peaceful?
For a shamefully long time, he'd given Merlin no encouragement, no reason to put his faith in Arthur. Quite the opposite, he'd goaded the younger man deliberately, sure that Merlin would eventually give up and quit his job and that would make Arthur the winner of their contest of wills. Except…
I trust in your destiny. To be the greatest king Camelot has ever known. Trust in yourself.
Gaius had said, He believed he found his true purpose, in serving you. His destiny.
"Never gave him much credit for patience, as a virtue," Arthur said aloud. Never gave Merlin credit for any virtue at all, really. Optimism, maybe, but he'd laid that more to Merlin's naiveté… have to rethink that, too. It was entirely possible that he'd been the more naïve of the two.
"How's that, sire?" Leon reined in briefly to allow Arthur's chestnut gelding alongside.
Remembering Merlin's words, handing him his sword there in Arthur's room, before the battle. And earlier, tentative encouragement, Look what we've got – you and me. I'm going to be at your side, like I always am. Protecting you.
You tried to tell me, didn't you. But how the hell do you think your death protects or serves me?
"Cenred's army," Arthur said obliquely. "It was how many days after we rescued Morgana, that he attacked?"
"Within the week, I believe," Leon said. And, bless his taciturnity, didn't say, Why?
Morgana had gone missing a full year. Then, days after her return, Merlin had gone missing, and not even Gaius was able to say where. Arthur had never heard a decent excuse for it.
"How many years has it been since someone attacked the citadel?" Arthur said. "It's never been taken, yet Cenred tried. Why?"
"Because he had that sorcerer on the inside, among the refugees," Leon answered, though he knew Arthur already knew this, too.
The question had been answered months ago, when their investigation into the magic surrounding the deaths of Sir Oswald and Sir Ethan before the melee, had ended with finding the disreputable peddler-sorcerer who'd sold the blood-crystals to the would-be assassins dead in his own tent. One of the knights had recognized the man as having sought refuge in the citadel during Cenred's siege – and the blame for the treacherous skeletal army had been laid to the dead man's account as intuitive.
Since Morgana had seen no one when she destroyed the focus of power in the vaults. The same week she returned – and she and Merlin had quarreled, apparently.
If he was his father, he'd probably be more suspicious of Merlin's disappearance, because of his newly-discovered ties to magic. But he'd seen the look on Merlin's face as the servant pointed out the first skeletal attacker, over Arthur's shoulder as he tried to order the younger man out of the thick of the fight – numbing horror. As good as Merlin had evidently gotten at hiding his magic, he could not hide reactions or emotions; he'd known nothing of that part of Cenred's plot.
Arthur was pleased his father hadn't thought of it at the time of Merlin's trial, the fact that the servant had come from a village within Cenred's land. Once the peddler had been declared the obvious traitor, the matter had been closed and forgotten, as far as Uther was concerned.
But what reason would Merlin have had to quarrel with Morgana over that battle? Something offensive enough to last months; Morgana still would not speak of it, and neither of them discussed it with anyone else? Well, maybe Arthur needed to speak to Gaius again about that.
"He hasn't the men, surely, to mount a full-scale attack like that again," Leon said, referring to the ruler of the territory they now rode through.
"But he might have sent that band last week," Arthur said. "The patrol I was supposed to have accompanied?" Moments passed in contemplative silence, broken by the sound of their mounts' hooves over the bracken of the forest floor.
"But his spy, his sorcerer," Leon said, "was killed dealing with those two who were themselves killed in the melee."
Arthur growled in dissatisfaction. "So quickly he can get another spy into my father's court?" he said.
Leon gave him a troubled glance. And then, another. "Sire, if you expect… trouble, on this trip, I must insist we turn back to Camelot's territory. I can't protect you alone, and I believe –"
"It's all right, Leon," Arthur assured him, pressing his mount into a faster walk to take the lead from his knight. "Only Morgana and Guinevere know where we're really going."
"To – Merlin's village. And his mother," Leon said, leaning forward to avoid a low-hanging tree-limb.
Arthur didn't tell him, I saw Merlin the other night. Wide awake, not drunk… He didn't say, I thought I saw Merlin. He wasn't sure if he hoped he'd see Merlin again, if he'd even begin talking to him as Gaius did. If he should even mention the sighting to the old physician. If it might be a sign of illness or instability – too reminiscent of his father's malady just prior to Cenred's invasion - or if somehow… He knew so little of magic; even without crystals and incantations, if it was possible... that what he'd seen was real.
"Something I have to do, I'm afraid," Arthur sighed. If he was going to be able to accept Merlin's execution as fact in his heart as well as in his head, and move on with the rest of his life.
Leon had lost comrades, too; he understood the need to do sometimes irrational things, to come to terms with the loss. He gave Arthur a sympathetic nod, and both of them returned their attention to the enemy territory all around them.
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Ealdor was quaint and picturesque.
At least, Gwaine amended as he adjusted the pull of his pack over his shoulder muscle and quickened his stride, the countryside around the village was picturesque. And quaint disappeared almost entirely, up close, blended into industrious and frugal, and then finally into the peasant stubbornness of making something out of nothing, everything lacking at some point and to some extent, except perhaps contentment.
Something his mother and sister never really learned, he mused, the satisfaction of surviving on wits and skill rather than position and influence, after his father's death and King Caerleon's cold shoulder. Something Gwaine respected – though his tool for carving something from nothing was intended for fighting, not farming – this life could be as much of a gamble as his was.
He'd spent the better part of an hour circling the land surrounding Ealdor, but found no evidence of soldiers or fighters or the passage of more than one or two people further out from the village, since the last rain. Which was comfort of a sort; if any of Cenred's men tipped to the prince of Camelot in this little border village, it would not be by accident. His arrival in the village itself had not gone unnoticed by others, but he sensed mostly curiosity instead of wariness, which told him that it was a peaceful village, and not accustomed to visitors of the violent sort – which also reassured him that Cenred's men did not make a habit of frequenting the place.
The house that's furthest to the southeast, Merlin had said. House being a generous term, but there was a woman sweeping the dooryard with a twig broom as he approached – her hair folded into a faded green scarf and an apron keeping her drab brown dress clean – he expected the inside would be at least as well-cared-for as the outside.
Gwaine was twenty paces away, when the broom halted and she looked up, shading her eyes to watch him saunter toward her. He stopped at the corner of the fence – needed mending in two, make that three, places – and thought, of course this is Merlin's mother. She fairly exuded calm comfort; the worry lines he could guess were for someone else.
But he asked anyway, that was polite. "Are you Hunith?"
She nodded, coming to meet him with a tired smile, and her hand outstretched. "You have a message for me?"
"In a way." He gave her a winning smile. "I'm Gwaine." Anything further he might have said was forgotten in her quiet gasp, and sharpened, hopeful gaze.
"Is he with you?" she said, giving him a quick once-over as if looking for signs of violence, and searching the open ground and edge of the forest behind him. "Is he all right?"
"He's fine – he's probably not long behind me." Gwaine explained, "Prince Arthur is on his way here to see you, we think, so Merlin is traveling near him to make sure he gets here safely."
"Oh." The word was a sigh, understanding and relief, and the smile was more genuine, a soft feminine version of Merlin's wide friendliness. And though her eyes were dark in color, she looked at him with the same keen perception her son always did, as if he saw right through Gwaine - and still found him worthwhile, accepting him as he was unconditionally. "So you're Gwaine."
"Yes, I –" Words stuck in his throat as she propped her broom on the fence and reached her arms around his shoulders in a gentle and unselfconsciously heartfelt embrace.
"You took care of him, then."
"Best I could." Gwaine cleared an inexplicable hoarseness from his throat and winked furiously a few times, to be able to meet her eyes with a grin that was more characteristic of him when she released him. "He doesn't always make it easy."
She smiled. "I know it well," she said. "Thank you."
"It's all right." He adjusted his pack. "I don't always make it easy on my friends, either." All one of him.
"How is he?" she asked. "How is he really?"
He wondered how much Gaius might have told her in his letters about Merlin's injuries, how close he'd come to the fire. "He has his days," he answered vaguely; she could see for herself when he came.
She caught something of his disinclination to discuss her son, and wasn't offended. "Why don't you put your things inside?" she said, motioning to the gate and retrieving her broom in the same motion. "You're hungry?"
"I could eat," Gwaine admitted. He'd swallowed a quick mouthful or three for the noon meal while he marched; that was a couple of hours ago, but it wasn't near sundown and dinnertime yet. "But save it for Arthur. I don't know how long we have before he arrives."
She made a noise of comprehension and agreement, as he came inside the fence. "He doesn't know, does he," she said, "that Merlin is alive?"
"No. And," Gwaine hesitated momentarily, "Merlin prefers to keep it that way?" At least for now…
Hunith made a tsk-ing noise, but didn't object as she welcomed him into her home.
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When he and Leon reached Hunith's home, Arthur thought for a disorienting moment that they'd made a mistake. There was a man inside her dooryard, sleeves rolled past his elbows, pounding one of the stakes that formed the fence into the ground with a heavy-headed mallet.
Arthur halted, right there in the street, and his gelding nudged at his elbow. Leon, also dismounted at his side to walk through the village in a less conspicuous way, paused to glance at him for guidance. No, definitely Ealdor – he looked around – and definitely Hunith's house.
The man straightened from his work, letting the hammer rest on its head on the ground, the handle leaning against his thigh as he pushed dark hair out of his face. And grinned at them; Arthur was surprised to recognize him.
"Gwaine," he said, taking the last few steps almost involuntarily.
"Arthur," the other returned insouciantly. "I would say prince, but your title isn't worth anything this side of the border – except maybe a bounty."
Leon's hand was instantly on the swordhilt at his hip – and Arthur's was on his wrist, stopping his draw. "It's just Gwaine," he told Leon, who eased reluctantly, still suspicious, as he turned back to the outlaw. "This is Sir Leon."
Gwaine hefted the hammer over his shoulder and came to the fence, his free right hand held out. "I didn't meet half you boys properly, the few days I was in Camelot," he said.
Leon, for his part, only hesitated a moment before accepting the salutation in kind. "My pleasure."
"Oh, mine as well," Gwaine said easily. "I'm guessing since you crossed the border in disguise with his highness to come here, you must have been favorably disposed toward Merlin."
"You heard about –" Leon began.
"I heard." Gwaine's smile lost its luster; his dark eyes were still sharp – on Arthur, mostly. "You didn't stop it."
Arthur didn't bother with excuses. "No."
Gwaine's gaze darted between the two of them – intuitive, for the drunk Arthur had taken him for. But for a fighter of his level of skill – and still alive – yes, Arthur supposed the man had to be clever.
"Not for lack of trying, though," Gwaine said, not quite a question.
Arthur didn't care to discuss his faults and his failures. "What are you doing here?"
"Because Ealdor doesn't have a tavern, right?" Gwaine quirked a roguish eyebrow, then made a rather vague gesture around the dooryard. "Helping out. Someone should, don't you think?"
"Have you been here long?" Leon asked. More than casual conversation, it was beginning to take stock of their surroundings, so they wouldn't be taken by surprise by enemy fighters.
"Not very," Gwaine answered.
And Arthur, without moving a step, withdrew from their conversation, as Merlin's mother stepped out the open front door, to lean against the jamb with her arms crossed over her apron. He heard Leon ask a question about signs of Cenred's men anywhere in the area, recently.
"Hide nor hair," Gwaine answered. "For the last season at least, I've heard. The rumor is, he's keeping pretty close to his castle since he failed to take Camelot."
Arthur looped his reins over one of the fence-stakes and stepped toward the break that would let him into her dooryard. Each beat of his heart was exquisitely painful as he neared – fearing her. Not her exactly, but this.
There was sorrow on her face, but peace and acceptance, too. Sympathy, rather than the blame he feared. He felt guilty for the relief that cooled his spirit in an instant; he'd guessed Gaius would be the one to tell her, but he was glad he didn't have to bear the first news. Just the blame. He said, "You know."
She nodded. "Gaius wrote me."
His hands felt large, clumsy and heavy at his sides. He burst out, "I'm so sorry." Horribly inadequate, but he had to say it. "For your loss."
Hunith stepped down from her threshold and came right up to him, unfolding her arms to wrap them around his shoulders. It took him a minute to realize she was embracing him – and another yet to recover from the instantaneous thought, this is where he gets it from, the affection and compassion…
She said, in his ear, "And I for yours, sire." He drew back, surprised to see a smile on her face, though it was melancholy and her dark eyes were shining full. "It has been three years since I had to let him go, let him leave my life and a daily companionship," she said. "I have had longer – and longer than that – to adjust to the idea of losing him. Your pain –" She moved one hand to the front of his shirt. "Your pain is still fresh, and I am sorry for it."
"I –" He had a strong, unreasonable urge to tell her, I saw Merlin. "I wonder, if you mind, talking to me about him? I have some questions…"
"Not at all. It's cooler out here, but more private inside?"
He glanced back to see Leon and Gwaine still in conversation – by the look of their gestures, Leon was getting another fighter's opinion of the safety of their position, temporarily in enemy territory. The knight caught Arthur's glance and nodded – he'd keep watch for trouble.
Inside, Hunith crossed to the fireplace, lifting the lid of a large cookpot to stir and check the contents, and Arthur's mouth watered at the aroma. Rabbit stew, maybe with new carrots and cabbage. She turned, wiping her hands on her apron, and gestured him to the small table, flanked by two short benches. He moved slowly, absorbing the interior of Merlin's home for most of his life, not unfamiliar to Arthur, as he'd been here before, but unappreciated until now.
He sat, leaning over his hands on the rough tabletop; she poured both of them a horn cup of water before joining him on the opposite bench.
"Gaius told you how it happened?" he said, slow and careful to cause neither of them extra pain. "The arrest, and trial, and – everything?"
She held his gaze. "Merlin knew the risks of his life. He knew you needed him, though it was his own choice to stay."
"Gaius told me, a little about what he's done," Arthur said haltingly. "With his magic. For Camelot." For me, how that hurt. "He told me how, twenty-three years ago, my father concluded and declared – magic was evil, and anyone who used or supported the use of it, irreversibly and dangerously corrupted –" knowing this must sound like an insult to her, he hurried on – "and how he thinks my father was wrong."
Her smile was faintly proud. "What do you believe, then, Arthur?"
"I think it – can be dangerous," he said. "But it's –" he glanced around, trying to put his thoughts into words, to explain, and his eyes fell upon one of Hunith's kitchen utensils lying on a side cupboard. "I feel a bit like a child with a knife," he said. "Scared of it. Being told its dangerous and can hurt people and I ought to let well enough alone. Let those who understand the thing make decisions on its use – or its prohibition." Only, because he was the king's son and heir, the next ruler of the kingdom, he couldn't simply stand there holding the question of magic, doing nothing with it.
"But you're not a child any longer," she said softly. "To believe everything you're told simply because you love and trust the person telling. None of us are infallible, sire… not mothers or fathers… not even kings."
"I know," he said, and let the tears come to his eyes.
It hurt unbearably, to think that perhaps Merlin had been killed for a mistake, even if kings had a legal right to lethal caprice, and Merlin had known the risks beforehand. But it hurt more to think his servant had been merely the last in a long line of magic-users – some maybe guilty of other capital crimes, but others just as surely innocent of any other wrongdoing. And it had taken his sacrifice to open Arthur's eyes to ask, had those innocents lived, could they have spent long lives remaining innocent.
"I wanted to ask you about – some things he said, at his trial," Arthur went on, rubbing the heel of his hand into the corner of either eye. He wanted to make this decision with all facts at his disposal, and there was so much he didn't know, or didn't know rightly. "Questions he couldn't give an answer to, that I thought, you must know."
"Of course, sire."
"About – how long he's used magic? When he started?"
It was an argument he'd had with himself more than once – and the latest time, when Morgana had been caught trying to smuggle the young druid boy out of Camelot. How do you condemn a child for absorbing his parents' teaching? Copying what he saw them do? As every child did, from the farmer's son to the king's.
Counterargument. The parents knew the risk of exposing their child to such corruption.
Granted, but the younger the child, the less able they are to distinguish right and wrong for themselves. Do you punish the child of a thief for stealing as harshly as you punish the criminal parent who taught and encouraged them to break the law? Do you pardon based on youth and release the child with strict warning how infraction of the law will be punished in future?
Except, magic was different. Like murder unforgivable, a character flaw or stain that was irreversible, and more – every instance made it more likely to reoccur until one day there was nothing but evil left in the soul, and all words and action toxic.
Only, with reverse reasoning, if the last premise was false… And Merlin had said, he never knew his father.
"He was not a year old," Hunith said, her eyes vague and humid with fond memory. "When I was working out-of-doors, I discovered that he always managed to get his hands on some plaything – a pine cone, a shiny rock, the blossom of a nearby plant. I was sure he'd choke or poison himself, sooner or later, but… no matter what precautions I took, he always had something to amuse himself in hand when I turned around again."
She could smile about it now, but Arthur glimpsed how harried young Hunith must have been at times, alone and with a precocious baby like Merlin. He couldn't stop a smile himself, to match her whimsical expression.
"But indoors." She leaned her elbows on the table, looking at Arthur again. "Anything that wasn't tied down or put away, out of sight, ended up in his cradle." She sighed again. "When I saw it, the first time, my wooden stir-spoon floating through the air to his little baby fist – and you've heard a baby gurgle when he's pleased with himself, haven't you? – I was a bit relieved, honestly, to finally figure out how he was doing it."
Arthur thought he might sympathize with that complicated emotion, the more he thought about the incidents that highlighted his time with her son.
"As he grew up and learned to do things by himself, fetch and carry and climb and reach, it was easier to teach him to hide it," she said. "He didn't need it, you see. But he was so helpful, always, and so thoughtless at the same time… and when he was – nearly twelve, I guess, we started having trouble with the fire. Or rather, I suppose, we never had trouble with the fire."
He found himself remembering more mundane situations, from his bedchamber hearth to a rainy campfire, as she continued.
"Wet firewood lit in an instant for him, every time. And more than once a larger fire – the tool-shed, and the grain-field, lightning-struck or a dropped lantern – just, whoosh." She gestured, and he interpreted. Not a sudden raging inferno, but the opposite.
So why, a little voice asked, cool and clear in the back of his mind, if he can extinguish a fire, why didn't he – oh, that's right. The magic-block.
Which might have failed once, at his release from the questioner's chair.
Arthur shook his head. "So that's true, then. He didn't know how long he'd done it, or when he started. No one taught him, and he never exactly learned it." He shoved himself back from the table, bracing his palms on its rough surface as he tried to absorb what he hadn't quite believed from Gaius. Twenty years, then, of magic in Merlin's past. Magic without spells. Magic that was innocent and helpful.
Even if his father was right and Merlin was simply an aberration of natural law, an exception to the rule that magic corrupted the goodness in a person's heart, twisting them slowly or quickly into something capable of only evil – who was to say he was the only exception? His father's law didn't allow for exceptions, mercy or pardon granted on a sorcerer's good reputation or character. And it should, shouldn't it? If the death of someone like Merlin was just, then there was something wrong with the definition of justice. When the law would require someone with the ability to help or save lives – Arthur thought suddenly of Gaius and his foresworn magic – to instead stand by and do nothing… he shook his head again.
"Why Camelot," he said. "Gaius told me, Merlin came to learn to control his – his magic." Almost he'd said gift, what an odd slip of the tongue that would have been. "To hide it. But why send him at all, and why to Camelot?"
She didn't answer for a moment, and he suddenly remembered who he was, to her. It was a bit like asking Gaius to tell the truth about his circumvention of Arthur's father's law. They were over the border, here, but not that far over the border.
"A moment ago, I told you that I accepted his departure from my daily life three years ago. That I had adjusted to the idea of that necessity longer ago than that. Sire, my little boy was special. The things he could do – that he was happy to do, whatever I asked, and only for a smile of appreciation and being told good job, well done." She hugged herself, leaning forward on the table. "It frightened me, at times, so badly."
"What do you mean?" Arthur said. Merlin's power had scared his mother?
"If anyone had found out. The knights of Camelot had been here, before Merlin was born, seeking those with magic. In Camelot he would have been killed, my boy…"
In Camelot he had been killed, Arthur thought bleakly.
"But what if someone else had found out? What if someone else was telling him, do this with your magic, and my boy so young and eager to please? Another king, like Cenred, with ambition and without scruples? A bandit chief like Kanen? Even the druids aren't free of fear and resentment and the desire for revenge. I was afraid of having him torn from my arms to be killed, but I was terrified of him being lured, and then to use his magic for terrible things, before he realized, before he learned right and wrong and how to choose the right thing to do, even if it's harder. I was afraid of him being forced.
"I knew Gaius. I knew he'd renounced magic in order to serve his king, the better to serve the people of Camelot as well, as a physician. I knew he'd protect Merlin, not only from the danger of discovery, but from himself. There is only so much instruction a young man will take from his mother, after all, before he goes looking to prove his ideas and beliefs and questions practically."
Arthur tapped his fingers, not meeting her eyes. Wondering if his next question might be crossing the line. But she'd been remarkably open with this discussion, as Gaius had been – they wanted him to know the truth, he felt instinctively. "Would you tell me – about Merlin's father?" he asked hesitantly. "Why did Merlin not go to him, when he left here? Gaius said, he knew him."
"Yes," she said softly. "He did. Gaius sent him here, when he had to flee Camelot for his life. For his… abilities."
"His magic," Arthur said. So his father had hunted Merlin's father, specifically. That made him feel sick and lost – had Merlin known that?. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be – you were a very small child, then. And if he hadn't left Camelot… he might never have come here. And we might never have had Merlin."
We might never have had Merlin; Arthur included himself.
"When he left Ealdor, he didn't know about Merlin. And he didn't tell me where he was going, it was safer for me that way. And he never came back."
"Oh." Arthur's face felt warm; he wanted to apologize again. Feeling responsible, now, for being the reason Merlin had never met his father.
"Gaius knew where he was, though," Hunith continued. "Merlin did meet his father, finally." At his surprised look, she explained, "It was almost a year and a half ago. Very close to the time your Lady Morgana went missing."
Well, no wonder Merlin hadn't said anything. Arthur tried to remember his servant asking for the time off to take a trip, to visit even a secret, magic-possessing relative, and couldn't. They had all been busy, then – driven, even.
"I gather he'd been living off the land, quite rough, only the basics," she said, faint regret in her voice but no recrimination. "Alone, and very bitter… no, I don't regret sending Merlin to Camelot, after all."
"He said he came looking for a job," Arthur said, with chagrined amusement.
Hunith's smile was gentle and clear. "It is how most of us make a living," she reminded him. "Even young men with strong magic. I was glad he found you."
Arthur felt his eyebrows shoot up his forehead. "What?" he said stupidly. She'd been glad her secret-sorcerer son was in daily contact with the Pendragon prince?
"That magic," she told him. "I knew he couldn't stay here, and not only for fear of being killed or used. That sort of power was never meant for a village farmer. Often I prayed to heaven, why me. Why him. Maybe he did at times, too. But when he saved your life and entered your service, he found purpose – and you cannot underestimate the value of that in a young man's life."
Arthur had never thought about that. He'd known since the earliest age what his purpose was, even if he resented it sometimes. The boys around him, from squires and lords' sons to the servants' children, likewise. "When he said, he was happy to be my servant," Arthur said softly, "he wasn't talking about chores. He was talking about his magic."
"Merlin… never was interested in using his magic for himself. I taught him, maybe too well, to dislike drawing attention." She reached across the table , to cover his hand with hers. Arthur was reminded of Guinevere's hands, small and gentle but rough and strong and used to hard work. He was reminded of Merlin's hands… "He needed you, sire. He needed a goodhearted prince to serve with all his heart, and he needed a friend who wasn't overawed by his abilities, who wouldn't encourage him to use them carelessly, either."
A goodhearted prince. Was that what he was? Make him proud, Guinevere had said, because he was, quite proud of you. Arthur had gone, evidently, from how long have you been training to be an ass, my lord? to destined to be the greatest king Camelot has ever known.
"And, from all I've heard, you needed him as well," she added.
All the magical threats he'd faced. Would he have come out victorious – or even alive – if he hadn't had a… what, a guardian angel? It was just his luck, he'd get one like Merlin, every time he turned around provoking him out of arrogant complacency. And, exactly what he needed.
But – now what? Now that Merlin was gone?
He wasn't aware that he'd spoken aloud until Merlin's mother answered. "That is for you to decide, sire. Good or bad or neither, magic is."
And sometimes, evidently, those who had magic hadn't chosen or pursued it. Maybe that was what it came to – choice. The thought of adjusting the law made him nervous for a number of reasons; the idea of allowing even the most closely-supervised magic was even worse. Like passing out knives to all the village children and encouraging them to run. It would never be a simple consideration, he was sure of that. He would make mistakes too, he was sure of that. And if – or when, maybe, there was a thought guaranteed for sleepless nights – his mistakes led to someone's death?
But, did he want to rule over people or slaves? Did he want to earn his subjects' obedience through love and respect and trust – or did he want to demand it by threat of force? Strength of violence, or belief?
He wondered, briefly, how often this happened. Someone who wasn't looking for magic, found they had it all the same. Perhaps had to leave home and family behind, leave Camelot for a place far distant where they might live without fear. Or stayed to try to hide in plain sight, terrified daily that they or another would give away their secret.
"All else aside, Prince Arthur, I would be pleased for you and your companion to stay to dinner, and sleep here the night?"
He focused on her face, honest and open and generous, when she had so little, so like her son – a man Arthur knew, though not fully til too late – his breath caught in his chest, even as he nodded agreement and gratitude.
"If you're sure you have enough?" he said. "We brought you venison on the hoof, but the preparation –"
"I appreciate that very much," she told him. Her smile widened as she turned to her hearth to lift the lid of the stewpot and stir it again. "For tonight, though, I don't believe even Gwaine can eat this much."
"He'll try, though," Arthur assured her, and was surprised and pleased to hear Hunith's light laugh in response.
Even after the death of her only son, he thought. Even with the son of the man responsible sitting at her table. Such forgiveness. He was aware that he'd experienced that from Merlin, also, more than once. For deliberate insults – and for unintentional ones.
He glanced around the interior of the hut – earth and dust and thatch, crude furniture and minimal implements, small comfort and yet so rich in love and wisdom.
And maybe that was part of this process, too. Forgiving himself.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Only the moon saw Merlin creep to the door of his mother's house, thief-like, with a stealth that would have astonished Arthur. Only, Arthur was the reason for his secrecy. Again. Or, still.
He knew from watching all day under cover of the forest that Leon was keeping guard around the back where the horses were tethered – sitting and dozing, but alert enough to hear approaching horsemen, or any other unusual disturbance. Gwaine had taken a bedroll a hundred paces into the forest in the direction of Cenred's castle. Just in case.
Merlin put his hand on the latch of the door and paused to let his magic seep out, dampening any sound, and opened it. Slipped inside, and pulled it shut behind him.
Deep orange glow from the coals on the hearth. Long low shadow on the ground – light glinted from the sword next to him, golden head pillowed on his arms. Merlin couldn't help smiling as he breathed a spell – not hard and fast and absolute, as he'd done with the guard on watch when he and Gwaine had entered the citadel a few days ago, but the lightest brush against Arthur's consciousness, deepening and assuring his slumber.
A moment more, Merlin watched him. Hoping Arthur wasn't taking this too hard. That he wouldn't be too angry, when he found out.
Proud of him, though. He'd never really envisioned sitting down to a conversation about magic with his prince, telling his stories and offering his explanations. Even if now, perversely, he wished it could be him, talking openly to Arthur.
He took a long step over Arthur's legs, around the half-curtain that hid the bed from the rest of the room, where his mother slept. Carefully he seated himself on the edge of the bed, gently put his hand on her arm outside the thin coverlet. She startled up with a quiet gasp, but she must have been expecting him, for she sat and pulled him into an embrace with a single swift motion, whispering his name beside his ear.
"Mother," he chuckled softly. Around the lump in his throat, that formed at her familiar and comforting scent. For a distraction from emotion, he glanced at the bedside candle and a flicker of magic resulted in a flicker of flame.
She moved back to take his face in her hands, and study him by the dim light. "You need a haircut," she admonished him, smiling through a pair of tears.
"Gwaine is worse," he argued softly, mindful of Leon behind the house. Raised voices might rouse the knight to investigate if something was wrong with Arthur, even if the prince never woke. "He'd never let you close with a pair of shears, though."
Her attention turned – fairly predictably – to his hands. Gentler than Gaius, she inspected his left, with the small finger shortened by a joint, and padded yet with a bandage. Then the right, middle fingers strapped to the bark-splint a couple more weeks. And the fingernails that were still growing back.
"They're healing fine," he whispered to reassure her. "Hardly ever hurt anymore, unless I'm clumsy." He'd meant it as a lighthearted joke, but the way she held his hands in hers made him think, for a moment, that she'd kiss them, as she'd done with his hurts when he was small.
Then she sighed and released him, to touch his face once again and turn him toward the light. "The body can heal. Far more, I always feared to look in your eyes and see you'd lost a piece of yourself inside." She dropped her hand to his chest. "But you're all right."
"Yes, Mother," he whispered. She nodded, and more tears spilled, and he hugged her again, letting her rock him a little though he was taller than her, sitting next each other on the bed. "I'm sorry," he said.
"Don't be," she said. "Don't be. I'm proud of you – I'd keep all harm from you if I could, all your life – mothers are like that – but I know it isn't possible. But you're here now, and that's enough."
"I can't stay," he said.
She nodded, remembering as he did, maybe, that she'd been the one to say it, before. "Arthur needs you."
"Yeah."
"I'm glad you have Gwaine," she told him. "I like him."
Merlin found he wasn't surprised. "Gwaine's good for a laugh. And a lot more – I saw he fixed the fence."
"You should tell him." She met his puzzled look with fond reproach. "Arthur, I mean. You would be proud of him, he's really taking the question of magic seriously. I think he misses you."
"I can't, yet." Even if heart and soul ached for it, to come clean on his last and worst lie, to his master, his prince, his friend. "I know he wouldn't say anything to Uther, but he wouldn't be happy about me staying in Camelot. He wouldn't believe it was necessary, he'd be afraid I would be caught again – he might even try to force me to leave, like he did when he first found out. And there's Morgana."
"Lady Morgana," she said, and there was sadness there; she remembered also, no doubt, the beautiful and spirited young woman who'd come to fight bandits at Arthur's side and Merlin's. "Yes, Gwaine told me, she is not a friend anymore."
"Until Arthur can understand why she can't know I'm alive," Merlin said, "he can't know. If Morgana knew, then her sister would know – and probably she'd find a way to make Uther suspicious too – and it would be a hundred times harder, keeping Arthur safe the way we're doing, with those two and anyone they can hire and all the knights of Camelot maybe, looking for us. It's safer for me, it's safer for him. He can't know. Yet."
She offered a tired, patient smile. "I am proud of you as well, Merlin. The man you've become. Though sometimes I still see my little boy when I look at you."
He didn't mind that, as much as he might've when he'd been younger. He grinned and said hopefully, to make her smile widen. "Is there any dinner left?"
It worked.
A/N: A bit longer, this, but no one complains about longer chapters, do they? I didn't want to end, Arthur still doesn't know, without a reminder why this is still important, at this point in the story. I think, though, that next chapter will have Arthur starting to suspect/hope… enough clues coming together, maybe.
And, thank you so much to reviewers that I haven't answered in a PM – I appreciate you all!