Family Tree Part IV

[cerisereve]

-oOo-

They stop for the night an hour before sunset. In unspoken agreement Arthur and Merlin unsaddle their horses and remove their packs and bedrolls in silence. Arthur does not fail to notice how Merlin's eyes track his every movement when he places Gwen's wrapped up broom on the ground next to his pack.

Merlin wanders away while Arthur feeds the horses and checks eight hooves for small stones and wear. Once the horses finish the oats, they whicker and stomp. He soothes them with a rub on the forehead.

Then Arthur leads the horses down to a small stream to drink their fill. The horses lap at the water and Arthur kneels to replenish his water skin with fresh, cool water.

As Arthur waits for the horses to finish, he picks up a smooth river rock. It is nice and flat. He skips the stone across the slow moving river.

Arthur watches the flux and flow of the water as it twists and winds downstream and around the bend. The water is never static, always changing course and rippling currents. Could he ever predict the exact path the water would take? Instinctively he knew the water would pour out into the sea, so perhaps the journey does not matter. Could he know his destiny?

By the time he returns, Merlin has scrounged together a ring of rock for a fire.

"Are you going to try 'n hunt?" Merlin asks stifling yet another yawn. Did the man get any sleep last night at all? Trust Merlin to break their uneasy truce with talk of food.

"Yeah."

Arthur puts the water skin aside as he rummages though the packs and finds the coin, clothes, his crown, two bedrolls, and some hard cheese and bread, but not what he truly seeks.

"Where's my crossbow?"

"It should be there."

"It's not."

"Did you not get it from the armory last night?"

Merlin winces. "I meant to-"

"You meant to?"

"I got sidetracked."

"After your trip to the royal blacksmith?" Arthur enquires, suspecting that Merlin made no such visit.

"Yeah." When Merlin scuffs the dirt with the toe of his boot, Arthur takes it for a tell.

"Just what exactly did you do last night?" Arthur asks. However, before Merlin can respond, Arthur decides he does not want to hear the excuse, for that is all Merlin has given him lately. "You know, you can think of the explanation while I hunt." At least Arthur has his hunting knife. "Gather more firewood while I'm gone," he orders Merlin as he pulls the knife from his boot.

"Of course, sire."

"Sort out your priorities too." Arthur storms through the forest for several minutes following deer tracks, birdsong, and game trails. Eventually he finds a natural clearing chock full of wild grass and clover. Rabbit would probably be the best catch.

Then again, he could always try for chipmunks.

Off to one side there is a thick, nasty bramble patch, which will be the perfect hideout for cottontail.

This late in the day, there should be plenty awake and feeding. He undoubtedly sent any that were out nibbling on clover scurrying for cover. Sure enough there are blackberry bramble branches moving, and there is no way it is due to the wind alone. When the branches settle, his observation is confirmed.

Arthur grins.

Lacking his crossbow, he is going to have to do this the old fashioned way-with his bare hands.

Arthur sheathes his hunting knife and heads to the brambles. The sound of his approach is not enough to flush the cottontail out into the clearing, so he walks very, very slowly and counts off ten paces along the edge of the bramble. When he reaches ten, he stops and stands stock still. He holds the position for a long minute, not making sound, not moving a muscle, just patiently waiting.

He walks ten more paces and freezes again. He hears no movement from inside the blackberry mass. With any luck, the nervous rabbit is on the verge of panicking.

Arthur enjoys hunting animals: dinner, dragons, enemies. He is good at it too. There is a thrill in the hunt, the chase, the capture, and the win. Breaking his reverie, he turns and just as slowly walks back the way he came.

After another ten paces he holds perfectly still once more.

He is not blood thirsty. He was taught this was the way of things, and that this is the way they have always been. It does not do to question the law of history. When Arthur is hunting there are no fathers to please, castles to protect, or rivals to impress. Best of all there is no room for worry. He is free to be completely in the moment.

There is still no rabbit emerging, so he repeats the process and stalks forward.

One, two, three. Hunting is simple. Four, five, and six. Kill or be killed. Seven, eight, nine, and that is ten.

In his experience, cottontail never handle suspense well. The long lulls in between rounds of pacing usually make them nervous enough for them to believe they have been spotted. They cannot help but flee.

And sure enough forty seconds into this silent phase, a rabbit bolts out from under the brush.

The bunny puts on a burst of speed as Arthur takes chase. They zigzag to and fro across the clearing. At the turn of one zag, Arthur gets close enough to grab it, but the cottontail squirts right out of his hands and zigs left.

The chase continues and eventually the rabbit tires out, not able to maintain his speed or hop quite as far.

Arms outstretched, Arthur dives.

Got it!

He also gets a mouthful of loamy dirt and grass for his troubles. While the cottontail squirms in his grip and bites at his gloves, he sits up and spits the dirt away.

Arthur whacks the rabbit with a sharp blow to the base of the neck. It goes limp, dead.

Arthur chuckles to himself. It was not from a hundred paces like shooting chicken, but he flushed the rabbit successfully in less than a hundred paces. There is no need to mention the chase that took many, many hundred more.

Satisfied, he dangles the rabbit from the neck between his thumb and forefinger and returns to the bramble. He lays the rabbit on the ground and uses his teeth to strip off his right glove.

With his still gloved left hand, he lifts the nearest thorny branch up and away to reveal a bounty of raspberries.

Most of the easy berries have already been taken by bird or beast, but Arthur is free to have those on the underside that have ripened ruby red. He pops them in his mouth as soon as they are picked.

They taste of summer and of Gwen's kisses.

Arthur crushes the last berry from that particular branch against the roof of his mouth and licks his lips. When he moves over to lift the next branch for a second helping, the spidery sense that someone is watching his every move kicks up.

He stands, thinking that it must be Merlin who has wandered far afield while gathering wood. He should have ordered the nit-wit to stay with the horses-not that it would have made a difference.

He spins around in a circle checking the clearing, but there is no sign of Merlin. Arthur is alone here, and yet he cannot shake the feeling that prying eyes are still on him.

Not wishing to linger, Arthur retrieves his glove as well as his rabbit dinner and heads back to camp. By the time he returns, Merlin has a fire smoking inside a ring of stone. There is also an ample supply of firewood to last throughout the night piled next to the blaze.

"I have returned victorious," Arthur says holding up the rabbit for Merlin.

"Rabbit?" Merlin asks looking up from stripping the leaves off a Y-shaped branch. There is another bare one already at his feet.

"Tell me you know how to cook it."

"I do."

"Good." Arthur hands the rabbit over to Merlin, happy to be relieved from any and all other activities having to do with it other than eating.

Merlin sets about skinning the rabbit, removing fur and the topmost layer of skin. There is a funny twist to Merlin's lips as he removes the head, tail and feet.

"What are you grinning about?" Arthur could not help but ask.

"Gaius once gave me a rabbit foot."

"Whatever for?"

"For luck and to protect against evil spirits."

It was amazing the rubbish the commoners would believe. He would not have pegged Gaius as the superstitious type. "We need all the luck we can get."

"We do."

Once Merlin has skinned the animal, he takes the rabbit to the river to wash it. While he is gone Arthur tosses the pelt and entrails into the fire. It all sizzles and splutters in the flames; the smell is not pleasant.

Arthur strips off his gloves and twists the two Y-notched branches deep into the earth on either side of the fire pit. Once when he was a boy, he used to imagine that he could take tree branches, stick them in the ground, and watch them grow over the long, hot summer. To his dismay, they never did.

Nature very rarely follows the commands of men.

The itching between his shoulder blades is mellow now, but it is still there. Has the lurking shadow presence follow him back to camp?

Arthur pulls on the sticks gently to make sure they are stable when Merlin returns. Merlin sorts through the rest of the wood piled next to the fire and pulls out a straight long branch. Merlin produces his own knife from his pack and uses it to whittle one end down to a spear.

Merlin sticks the spit through the rear end of the rabbit to emerge from the neck. He places the rabbit just above the fire so it will roast. To test the heat of the flames, Merlin lowers a hand next to the skewered rabbit.

Then Merlin drags his pack next to one of the sticks ground into the dirt and sits on it so he has easy access to turn the spit from time to time.

"Where did you tell me you were the day you disappeared and shirked all your duties?" Arthur asks settling on the opposite side of the fire.

"I didn't."

"Were you with Morgana?" he asks lightly.

"No."

It is a lie. Now that he is watching for it, he can see it plainly. What else has Merlin been lying to him about? "When you love someone-"

Merlin interrupts him. "You think I'm in love with Morgana?"

"Aren't you?"

"No!"

Merlin reveals a bitter, jaded side in the resulting laugh that Arthur has never seen before, but Merlin sobers right up after Arthur says, "Morgana says that you are."

"When did she say that?"

"Last night."

"She's mistaken."

"Have you been in love to know for sure?"

"You want to talk about women?" Merlin is aghast. "With me?"

"Why not?"

"Because… because… because…." Merlin is clearly unable to come up with a suitable reason.

Excellent. That means he has won the argument. "If you're that inexperienced, I'm sure I could teach you how to treat a woman properly."

"You could not."

"Could too."

"I'm sorry, but you have a history of kissing women once and then never kissing them again. I'd hardly call that love."

Arthur snorts and crosses his arms across his chest. "I most certainly do not have that reputation."

Merlin gives him a knowing look. "Do you know what your nickname is among the other servants?"

He would rather not, thanks. Suddenly thirsty, he gets up and gets the freshly filled water skin. "Fine. Name three woman who I've lead on."

"Sophia of Tiamor."

"I was ensorcelled!"

"Lady Vivian."

"It was a spell! I was enchanted."

"Sorcerers seem to like catching you in spells. You'd think by know you'd know the signs and recognize when it's happening."

He ignores the taunt and returns to the fireside. "That was only two."

Merlin smiles like a cat with clotted cream and waits until Arthur takes a deep drink from his water skin.

"Gwen."

Arthur splutters, unable to breathe. When he collects himself he growls out, "How could you possibly know I've kissed Guinevere? She's not one to kiss and tell."

"So you have kissed her?"

"That is none of your business."

"Was it as good as you were imagining?"

"I'm not telling you if they were or weren't," Arthur could not help his voice raising an octave higher in indignation.

"You've kissed her more than once?"

"Merlin!"

"How many times?"

"I've lost count," he finally admits.

"You told me that nothing could ever happen between you two, and yet you've kissed her. Sure doesn't sound like nothing."

How did this conversation get so off track? He is supposed to be finding out Merlin's intentions on Morgana, not defending himself. Arthur buries his head in his hands. "It's not nothing. She's not nothing."

"Have you told her that?"

He stopped short from admitting it outright last night, but Guinevere knew anyway. She read between his lines. "I wouldn't expect you to understand."

"I do," Merlin says quietly.

"How can you possibly know?" Arthur scoffs. "Do you know what it's like to have a secret you can't tell? Not even to the person who most deserves to know. No. No one can possibly know. You can't possibly know."

Merlin turns the rabbit spear. "Maybe. Maybe not."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Fear makes people keep secrets."

"Fear? Fear of what?"

"Getting hurt. Hurting the ones you love. Being rejected and pushed aside when the other person finds out. You see, I do know what it's like to be in love."

"When was this? The only woman I've seen you mooning over is Morgana."

Merlin spins the rabbit on the spike again and is quiet for a long, long while, gazing into the flames lost in thought. "Her name was Freya," he volunteers, voice hushed.

"Where did you meet?"

"The Rising Sun."

Arthur's eyebrows rise. This is a new side to Merlin he has never seen before. "You fell in love with a tavern wench?"

"She didn't work there. I was passing by and… saw her being mistreated by the man she was travelling with. Later that night I came back and rescued her."

"You were her knight in shining armor?"

"The armor's all yours. I don't need any. I would have done anyth-I did do everything for her. Strawberries, roses, a dress." Merlin chuckles ruefully. "And food fit for royalty. She had dark eyes, dark hair, and when she smiled for me there was no one else in the world but us. She was beautiful, but that is not what drew me in the most. She was the first person who accepted me for me. No questions. No judgment. No subterfuge. I didn't lock my true self away when I was with her. I'd found another person who liked me for me. We kissed and the kissing led to…."

"More?" Arthur supplies.

"Oh," Merlin sighs, lost in memory. "Much, much more."

A surge of jealousy seizes Arthur and in that moment he envies Merlin more than he ever has anyone in his life. While he had kissed Gwen many times over and held her in his arms while they slept, anything more would be a risk they could not ever take.

"Being in love," Merlin tells him, "is like having a song humming and buzzing under your skin. You're drunk, but thinking more clearly than you ever have in your life. You'd…." Merlin pauses to look directly up at Arthur. "Do magic, just to bring out her fleeting smile. Keeping your love secret kills you when you want to shout it from atop the castle spires. So, yes, I know exactly what loving a woman entails."

Abashed, Arthur hangs his head. "That's how I feel about Guinevere," he admits.

"Mh hum," Merlin agrees, but then continues sadly, "Freya and I never spent an entire night together. I always had to leave. I never got to lay her out on a bed other than sand. I never got to sleep sated by her side. I never got to watch her sleep. I never got to watch her wake when the sun hit her face. I never got to…." Merlin trails off and rotates the rabbit another few inches. Its skin is roasting brown and crispy and its juices are dripping and snapping in the flames below. "True love is too good to last," Merlin finally declares.

"She didn't return your feelings?"

"She did. More than I ever thought possible."

Arthur is stunned. "Then what happened?"

"The man I rescued her from kept searching for her. She was hunted down because of something she couldn't run from. She couldn't run from herself." Merlin turns the rabbit over unnecessarily to break his melancholy mood. "She died before we could leave Camelot."

Hang on! "You were going to leave Camelot? When was this?"

"Why does it matter?"

"Did I do something to drive you away?"

"When do you not?" The jape would normally be funny, but not this time.

"I could have helped, offered her protection within the castle walls." He would have too. For Merlin, he would have.

"It would have been impossible for you to help."

"Where were you going to go?" Arthur asks as a few chipmunks chatter in the woods nearby.

Merlin stares off into the middle distance with small smile. "Somewhere with wild flowers, fields, and a mountain fed lake. It's a nice dream, but that's all it is-a fantasy."

The mood breaks when the winds shift and smoke blows in Arthur's direction. It carries the scent of the roasting food towards him and it smells wonderful. Sometimes roasting meat catches the wind just right and he is torn between salivating hunger and a terrifying half-forgotten memory. It is an uneasy feeling.

"Is it done yet?" Arthur asks, pointing to the rabbit.

Merlin shakes his head. "Probably, but I want to give it a little more time. I'd rather have it overcooked than undercooked."

Arthur rolls his eyes. "You really are quite the girl, Merlin."

"Would you like to bet?"

"Merlin, I will not purchase you a dress."

Merlin cracks a smile and it is the first real one he has seen since he found Merlin wandering in the opposite direction. Arthur thinks things might be okay again. This is his Merlin.

Arthur pokes the fire with his stick, disturbing the embers. "So why is Morgana upset with you?"

The damn chipmunks chitter and chatter again in the background and Arthur is sure they are yelling at him to mind his own business. He does not care.

"Arthur, I really don't want to discuss why Morgana is upset with me. It's…." Merlin fumbles for the correct word.

"Personal?" Arthur supplies.

"Complicated," Merlin corrects. "It is also something we need to settle on our own."

At least Merlin is answering his questions now. He is not avoiding them or making a joke. "So, she is upset with you?"

"She has every right to be."

"What did you do?"

"What I had to." Merlin twists the spit to rotate the rabbit a quarter turn. Just when Arthur gives up on expecting a reply, Merlin says. "If it came down to my word versus Morgana's, whose would you choose?"

"Am I going to need to?"

"Someday you might," Merlin says with a certainty. "And since I'm in her way, I can only protect you for so long."

That was almost laughable. It was Merlin's job to serve and Arthur's to protect. "How are you going to do that?"

"There are many different ways."

"Name three," Arthur taunts, wanting specifics.

But Merlin does not play. "When are you going to figure out, that I do many things to protect you that you never see? It adds up to far more than three."

Merlin stands. "The rabbit is done cooking," he announces, removing it from the spit and sliding the cooked meat off the branch.

In addition to the roasted rabbit they sup on simple fare: hard bread and soft cheese. They also drink water from their skins.

"What does 'clack-dish' mean?" Arthur asks around a hot mouthful of food.

Merlin's answer isn't an answer. "What were you doing when someone called you that?"

"It wasn't about me." Arthur.

"Sure it wasn't," Merlin scoffs.

"It's just something I overheard and couldn't stop to ask for details."

Merlin shakes his head.

"Oh, come on," Arthur cajoles. "You told me I should learn to speak the language of the people. Get more in touch with the 'idiototic'."

"Idiomatic."

"Yes, that. Think of it as me trying to better myself."

His admission finally gets Merlin to give in. "It means beggar."

Arthur pauses, another bite of rabbit halfway to his mouth, as he absorbs that. "Really?" As he chews, it is like he is eating a mouthful of sour lemons and spicy peppers instead of tender rabbit.

-oOo-

The waxing gibbous moon, only missing a sliver slice, breaks the horizon as they eat. Firelight begins to overpower the dwindling twilight.

It is too early to settle into their blankets and rolls, so Arthur rummages through his pack and retrieves a bottle of oil and a small whetstone with the intent to get the newest dinks out of his sword.

Merlin sorts through the pile of wood at his feet for a smallish stick. In the last year, Merlin has taken up whittling at night around the campfire during their excursions from Camelot. He, in Arthur's illustrious opinion, is not very good at it, for the figures more regularly resemble misshapen lumps rather than animals.

Yet Merlin stubbornly keeps trying and tonight is no exception. Merlin gradually starts to shave the bark away. It comes off in small clumps.

Shaking his head in bewilderment, Arthur starts to work directly on the delicate work of honing a sharp point. The job takes his full concentration. Not more than ten minutes in, one of the obnoxious chipmunks is brave enough to dart across their makeshift camp. Skittish, it scampers about, changing tack when it is about to bump into their horse gear, the fire pit, a tree root, and Arthur's water skin.

Eventually it skids to a stop next to Merlin's knee and hovers on its hind legs, begging.

"Tell me you won't be feeding it."

"I won't," Merlin replies, setting the mystery carving aside-horse? goat? cow? Are those udders? "I won't."

"She certainly likes you."

"How do you know it's a she?"

"Because all the girls like you."

The chipmunk chitters wildly, defending Merlin. Merlin decides to chitter right back at it as if he is carrying on a conversation.

"Do you know how stupid you sound?"

"No more than usual," Merlin says.

"Which is entirely true."

"Eeee. Ee. Ee. Eeeeee."

As the human and chipmunk squeaks continue, Arthur loses his concentration and his blade slices into his thumb.

There is a moment of unreality where there is just a clean slice and no blood. The pain zing starts once the blood wells to the surface. Arthur draws in a sharp breath and sucks his thumb into his mouth to staunch the bleeding.

"You all right?" asks Merlin.

"Yeah."

Merlin shoos the chipmunk towards the trees and it flees back into the forest. Arthur gives a half hearted laugh and decides his concentration is completely shot. The edge is sharp enough.

"What are you making?" Arthur asks when Merlin picks up his knife again.

"A dragon."

"It's not a very good dragon."

"No, it's not." Merlin sighs and he tosses the wood in the fire to burn. "Will you take first watch?"

"I was hoping you would take it."

"Let's flip a coin to decide," Merlin suggests with a toothy grin.

Arthur fishes the druid's woodchip coin out of his pocket. He really needs to get rid of the stupid thing. While he is doing so, the fire-smoke shifts unexpectedly and catches him unawares. Arthur can feel his nose twitch. He fights the watering of his eyes.

Right as Arthur is forced to close his eyes and sneeze, Merlin says something.

"What was that?" Arthur asks.

"Nothing," Merlin says with an overdone smile.

"Alright, heads or tree, I win; tails or dragon you lose."

"What if I wanted heads?" Merlin whines.

"Fine. Heads you win."

Arthur flips the coin high and catches it easily. When he flips it onto the back of his hand it shows heads up.

"Best three out of five?"

"It won't make a difference."

"Mer-lin."

"Toss it."

It lands on heads for second time. And for a third! Disgusted, Arthur throws the coin to the ground. He scuffs some dirt over it for good measure.

Victorious, Merlin stretches, yawns, and curls up under his wool blanket.

"You cheated!"

"How?" Merlin asks yanking off his boots.

"Leave them," Arthur insists, remembering the spidery eyes back in the clearing.

"But."

"Leave them on."

Merlin frumps, but obeys. After all, he gets second watch.

"I don't know how you did it, but you did."

"When you figure it out, don't wake me up to tell me."

"So you admit you fixed it?"

"I did no such thing."

"But-"

"Goodnight, my lord."

He much prefers Gwen wishing him goodnight. "Goodnight, Merlin."

Arthur stands, stokes the fire-he takes great pleasure at pushing the dragon remains further into the heart of the fire-and then, piles on three more pieces of wood. Arthur gets another lung full of smoke and soot for his troubles when the fickle late summer winds shift.

Uncomfortable, he coughs.

These are the winds of change, he thinks.

The wind, an ill one blowing no good, kicks up once more and ripples through the leaves above Arthur's head. As quickly as it sweeps through the trees, it quiets.

It scratches at his very soul.

The dark silhouettes of the tree-tops surrender to the night's starry sky. The moon has fully risen and it is a stunning sight with nary a cloud in the sky. However, now that the wind has picked up, the weather is changing, and the first autumn storm will not be far behind.

As Merlin closes his eyes and falls asleep, Arthur takes some of the smaller twigs and twists them in his hands. He breaks them snap by snap by snap and feeds the brittle, little bits one by one into the fire. They pop and smack in the blaze.

If he were to pick between all of the possible ways to die, he would not choose fire. It lingers too long, he thinks as the last twig blackens and curls. Fire spreads without mercy, without regard for life or love; magic is the same. Life and death eternally entwined. Fire strives to grow, but it is careless of the fact that it destroys all it touches. Fire leaves the ashes of dreams in its charred wake.

No amount of wealth-silver, or gold-can stop it. Even the sharpest of steel is worthless.

Arthur wipes the dirt off the druid's coin and flips it once more.

Heads.

Frowning he does it over and over again.

Heads, heads, heads, heads, and heads. It is undoubtedly weighted; it might as well be a coin with the same two sides.

It is cursed with magic he decides, chucking it into the fire. It is for the best they are not going west. He fans the flames and there is a second between when the flame flickers low and when the fire kicks up higher and hotter than before.

Arthur uproots one of the branches he twisted into the ground for the spit and sticks the forked end into the fire. He makes sure to poke the branch deep into the coals of the fire.

Merlin starts to snore as the fire eats away at the prongs.

When Arthur pulls the stick out after a minute it is hot and flaming. He lifts the stick near his mouth and snuffs out the flame with a sharp huff. The ends are charred and black.

He sticks it back into the fire to let it burn into a single point. Flames keep licking at it. As the stick shrinks he leans in so close that the heat is overpowering.

Arthur stares at the flickering fire and spaces out.

When he takes the stick out again, there is a small flame flickering at the top. He traces circles of fire in the darkness. When that does not burn out the spark, he traces her name in large fire-bright letters.

G-W-E-N.

The letters blur together-the afterimage visible for the blink of an eye before the light fades and he traces the next letter.

Then he does it again with her full name: Guinevere. She is the light in his life. Okay, that is overly sappy, especially for him. He traces her name again faster and the script blurs together.

Midway through her name the third time, the flame fades out. Arthur closes his eyes and tips his head back remembering the feel of her hair, her skin, her breasts, her-

Arthur hears the pop of a stick snapping in two.

It is not from the fire.

It could have been Merlin's chipmunk girlfriend, but Arthur does not think so. One of the horses-Merlin's mare-whinnies, but settles down by the time another breeze rustles the leaves. The horse's lack of concern tells Arthur that it is a person, not a predator.

Well, well, well.

Their shadow is very bold; his audacity is also quite high.

Arthur loops his shoulders back and down, that shifts the tension from his neck, but not the unease that hidden eyes are watching his every move. It is well past time to flush this tracker out into the open. Whoever he is, he is good, but Arthur knows he is better. That is not conceit, it is fact.

The hunter has become the hunted.

Should he make his stand here, or lure the tracker elsewhere?

Arthur takes a swig of water from his water skin and debates. Rousing Merlin would alert the tracker that Arthur is aware of his presence. Plus, a sleep-mussed Merlin in a fight would be laughable, not to mention make him more of a liability than usual. In other words: worthless.

Arthur is convinced their tracker is a single man. So if Merlin remains in dreamland and Arthur draws the tracker away, Arthur can be assured of his manservant's safety.

Lure away it is.

But how? Arthur wipes a dribble of the water off his chin and recaps the water skin. When he does and the water sloshes inside, he gets an idea.

He shakes the water skin to judge how full it is. The liquid splash tells him there is more than half remaining, which should be more than plenty.

Brilliant!

Decision made, Arthur stands, stretches, and circles the camp taking stock. The horses are dozing, unafraid and unconcerned. The wrapped up broom is still secured to his horse's saddle. Merlin continues to snore. The fire crackles on.

Arthur closes his eyes, blocking out the light of the fire for a moment. Then without an apparent care in the world, he slowly wanders into the forest. He does not want the tracker's sound masked by running water, so Arthur heads away from the stream and its trickling babble.

He makes it a point to be noisy-steps on twigs causing them to snap, scuffs his feet, purposefully trips, and then swears twice for good measure. He nearly whistles, but figures that would be too obvious.

Through it all, his tail follows.

Arthur ambles for several minutes with no set destination in mind, letting his eyes adjust to the low light of the moon. Away from the light of the fire, the forest is leached of all color. At first all the trees are painted in blocks of black and white, but the further he goes, the more shades of grey seep in.

About the time his eyes completely adapt to the moonlight he arrives at the small clearing where he caught the rabbit. The ground, illuminated by weak shafts of moonlight peaking through pine and alder, is dappled with gnarly roots and noticeably slopes. It will make for treacherous footing.

It is a deadly fighting ground only the stupid (or the skilled) would claim.

The next order of business is to draw his prey in.

To that end, he seeks out a large alder at the bottom of a small gully. As he descends, he maps out the easiest route for his return up the gentle slope.

Once he reaches the base of the tree, he puts the moon to his back so he casts a shadow on the tree trunk directly in front of his face. While holding his head perfectly still he moves his eyes left and then right. Nothing stirs in the periphery of his vision.

He makes a mock show of unbuckling his belt, but instead of undoing it, he uncaps his water skin, pockets its lid, and lowers the skin to groin level. He tips it over and lets the water leak out in a small stream. It waters the base of the tree like piss.

Arthur keeps his ears sharp and watches for the lazy movement of shadows.

He groans as if he is relieving himself, even goes as far as to tip his head back and sigh over-dramatically.

The stars twinkle merrily above him and he grins up at them, not the least bit sleepy since blood sings through his veins in anticipation. He has been spoiling for a real fight for two days and now he is finally going to get it. With his free hand he tightens his grip on the hilt of his sword, preparing to pull it.

When he straightens and looks at the alder's bark again, he spots a shadow.

The blob-another head-starts large and faint covering the whole trunk and encompassing his own body's shadow, but it steadily shirks and darkens with each silent step of his prey.

Come closer, he wills the shadow.

There is no sound, but his fake pee. Waiting, he forces himself to take several deep breaths to calm his excitement.

Just another step….

The liquid slows to drips and dribbles and he bounces on the balls of his feet. For a whole heartbeat the entire forest waits, watches, and holds its breath. He is power leashed, coiled like a spring. When the water skin is drained completely, he drops it and wheels about drawing his sword in a smooth, practiced motion and charges up the small ridge.

His opponent yanks his own sword out and the man parries Arthur's first strike as if it is water off a duck's feathers.

Next they circle each other as wolves, sizing each other up. He is a good three stone heavier than Arthur, older, wearing leather not mail, and he has a well made sword.

Steel meets steel briefly-a testing. They break apart.

Both life and death balance on the blade of his sword. Arthur bobs in, lands a blow, and bobs back out.

Parry. Upswing.

Side step. Deflect.

His opponent may be as old as his father, but his form is strong, sure, and wily-more than on par with Arthur's.

Backslash. Left. Right. Right.

The shadow is huffing hard, yet more than holding his own.

Left. Right. Left. Left. Right. Left.

The man's attacks are agile and accurate with not a single wasted movement. No mere mercenary would have this self-mastery and discipline. He is fighting another knight, but none of his knights have combat skills this honed.

Lunge. Charge forward.

Who is this knight?

Grunt and step. Step, step, side-swing, and dodge.

When the man glides away like silk, the atmosphere shifts away from a life and death contest to a training lesson. Dancing in the moonlight, Arthur realizes he has not had this much fun in ages.

Spin around.

Duck. Upswing.

Backslash. Weave.

His opponent whirls about and his jacket flares. In shock, Arthur realizes the leather jacket as the same one he had seen hanging on the back of Gaius's door. He pauses too long and has to duck and roll to avoid his opponent's next swing.

High cut. Low slash.

Loop round. Slash. Weave. Cut. The swords clank when they cross. Clank-clank-clank-clang. Clank-clang-clank-clank. The ring of the blades carries through the forest. It has been years since he has faced an opponent who toyed with him so.

"Yield."

"You don't know me," replies Arthur as he charges and swings once, twice, again, and again.

"But I do."

Land a blow. Deflect.

Attack. Rebuff.

Thrust. Side step.

Tired of being toyed with, Arthur takes charge and decides enough is enough. Neither of his next two blows land. Wily bastard! The third does, but it catches the weakened edge and his sword sheers in two.

The awkward cut makes Arthur lose his balance. He feels as if he is fourteen years old again.

Arthur hits the dirt.

He lands heavy, on his stomach and the impact punches the wind out of him. He is only stunned for a split second, but it is too long.

His attacker presses the advantage with a boot to his back.

Arthur spins and kicks, trying to land a futile kick in the hopes he can bring his opponent down with him.

Then the old man chuckles, not unkindly.

"You still have a penchant for attacking directly when you get frustrated, young Prince Arthur."

The pressure on his back disappears. And the man extends a hand to help him up. Arthur takes it.

"Who are you?" Arthur asks getting to his feet.

"Come now, Wart, don't tell me you've forgotten all your betters."

Now he is fourteen years old.

"Sir Ector?"

Bemused and bewildered, Arthur finds himself in a bear hug. Ector gives him two hearty thumps on his back before releasing him.

"It really is you."

"In the flesh."

Sure there are more lines and wrinkles on his face and silver now weaves though his once dark hair, but the years have been kind to his former instructor.

"You'll be needing a new sword," Sir Ector comments.

"I will."

"Here," Ector offers, "take mine."

"Thank you, but what're you doing here?" Arthur blurts out.

"Wondering much the same of you," Sir Ector says toeing the remains of Arthur's ruined sword.

"What do you mean?"

"You're marching in the wrong direction, son."

"I'm not lost."

"Oh, but you are. When a druid asks to speak with you, you swallow your pride, observe the courtesies, and go find out what he has to say."

"You couldn't possibly know about that."

"Is that so?"

"Don't you dare 'is that so' me."

"It's a fitting thing to ask when another insists on doing something stupid."

"I'm not stupid."

"Head like an ox, maybe. Block-headed, perhaps. Jolt-headed."

"A dollop-head?"

Ector snorts. "As good of a word as any. But we both know you're not. You weren't when you played with blunt training swords, and I figure you wouldn't be now. Which is why Elsa and I convinced Iseldir to contact you."

"You?"

"Good old me."

"Why?"

"To see if you'd come. Or run away. And boy-o, you're running so hard and so fast you don't know where to."

"Am not."

"Where are you going then?"

"To Caerleon."

"And what are you going to do once you're there?"

"We have a treaty," Arthur insists, but when the words leave his lips, it sounds so feeble. Was all his work to present at the council, and to convince his father for naught?

"You're going to plead? Grovel?"

"No."

"Beg?"

"No."

"Take the charity?"

"I have the gold to pay for it."

"Gold will buy you many things, but it won't buy you respect. Sure your people'll have food, and you'll get by this winter, but what about the next? And the next? And the one after that? You'll still have the same problem you had before you stepped one pretty little toe outside Camelot's walls."

"And what problem is that exactly?"

"Same problem your father has-sorcery."

"You're the one who ran away because Elsa was a witch."

"I made a choice, Arthur. I stood up to Uther and said he was wrong. I have lived with those consequences and would do it again a thousand times over. Sorcery isn't bad, or evil, and neither are all the people who use it. They want things, same as you. You fight with a sword, they fight with spells."

"That's not true, they kill for sport."

"They're killing to survive, which is no different than catching a rabbit for dinner."

"No, it not. It's…." Arthur fumbles in the dark for the right words. "It's-"

"It's no different. It is all hide 'n seek, or hunt 'n kill to Uther. The fight for magic boils down to three sides: those who wield it, those who are afraid of it, and those who will fight for it. Iseldir's prepared to offer you a way to feed your people and it won't cost you a single coin."

"What does he want in return?"

"Go," Ector leans in close, "and ask him."

With that Ector wraps his cloak tightly about himself and leaves the clearing as silently as he entered. Arthur has to admit that he has just been expertly flushed out by a master.

When Arthur wanders back into camp, the fire is nothing but low coals and embers. Merlin, blissfully asleep, lies on his back. Mouth half open, soft whistling sighs follow the rise and fall of his chest. Arthur crouches and rests his hand on Merlin's shoulder. This close he can see Merlin's eyes twitch and flicker rapidly behind closed lids.

He is dreaming.

He wonders what Merlin dreams of? Is the entirety of his manservant's hopes and dreams really to mend Arthur's socks?

Arthur snorts. If he woke him, Arthur supposes he could ask.

What does Arthur dream of?

Of late, he has not.

What kind of world does he want to live in? What does Camelot represent? And above all, what does he stand for?

It would be a hard day's ride to meet the druid before the allotted time is gone, but they are far enough to the north now that they could skirt Camelot entirely. That would make up some time. If he pushes the horses, they would probably make it.

Even though it is late enough now to rouse Merlin, he does not. He lets Merlin sleep the night away.

Arthur, wide awake, also lets himself dream.

-oOo- Morgause -oOo-

The first time I heard Arthur Pendragon's name, I was eleven.

It had been six years since my magic first manifested, five since the war against Camelot began and my mother arrived on the Isle of the Blessed, and two since I formally began my study of the Old Religion.

The True Religion.

Nimueh, the High Priestess, and most of the Bloodguard had left the Isle early that summer to solidify an alliance with Bayard of Mercia.

Late one hot summer night, an old man came to visit my mother. He snuck in and startled her. It was my mother's yelp which woke me, but it was the buzz of voices that prompted me to scramble out of bed.

Peeking around the corner, I could see that the man was old, even older (and more wrinkly) than some of the druids who came for feasts, rites, and ceremonies. His crinkly hair-nearly all white-brushed the shoulders of his russet robes.

"Dunne," I casted.

The spell pulled the shadows tightly about me to hide. I was secure enough in my burgeoning talents to know that I would be next to invisible as long as I stayed quiet as a mouse. I tip-toed slowly into the main room we used for dinner and study, keeping my back securely against the wall.

Once Mother's shock wore off, she asked, "The Isle's warded, how did you get in?"

"Even after all these years, I still have a trick or two up my sleeve, Vivienne." His sleeves were ratty tattered things. They were nothing in comparison to the majestic robes of the Isle's priests. "Are we alone?"

Mother's gaze briefly slid to where I was standing. "Do you see anyone but me here?"

"I do not," he replied.

"It's not safe for you to be here."

"It's not my safety that worries me. It's Morgana's."

That got my mother's attention and she ushered him closer-to the side of the room farthest from me.

"…. news do you have of m… …ughter?"

"I fear she's grow… into …er mag…"

Who were they talking about? I had to strain to hear what they were saying, but even then I only heard every other word.

"She's too young," Mother replied. "Surely y… m….taken."

To eavesdrop on their conversation better, I flicked my wrist and whispered, "Heorcne." The spell unfurled about me in a warm embrace.

"She's only six," my mother continued and I could hear her every word as if she were cradling me in her arms. "She shouldn't have any magic at all."

"I fear she does," the stranger said.

"How do you know?"

"She woke screaming of fire about a month and a half ago," the old man said. "Even Elsa couldn't calm her after the nightmare. It happened the next night and again the following. She refuses to sleep and Gorlois insisted I give her something to ease the anxiety."

"You suspect she is having visions?"

"I do," he confirmed.

"Why come all this way to tell me?"

"I am not certain I can keep the secret of her magic from Gorlois much longer."

"You mean Uther." When the man didn't object Mother laughed. It was hollow. "Everything turns on Uther's hatred of magic, doesn't it?"

"If you love your daughter, let me bring her to you."

I had a sister?

"No, I left her there for a reason. Morgana belongs with her father in Camelot."

"It won't help if-"

"Tell me," Mother interrupted the man. "What did she see in her vision?"

"She dreams of a pyre and a woman burning."

"Is it in the courtyard of Camelot just before a storm breaks?"

"How could you know that?"

"Ector will tie me to the pyre," she continued.

Gaius gasped. "It's you?"

Mother nodded. "I'll be dressed in rags. Gorlois and Uther as well as Morgana and Arthur will be on the balcony. Uther will command the blaze to be lit. My hair will fly madly about in the wind until it too catches fire. I've see it from every angle-scired it in crystals, gazed it in countless mirrors, watched it shimmer in the surface of water pools. I dream that future every night in my dreams."

"Your bracelet cannot mask it?"

"I'm glad it does not." Mother twisted the metal band about her wrist. "You said Morgana's nightmare started over a month ago?" Mother asked.

"They did."

"Was her first dream the night of Midsummer?"

"Indeed."

Mother seemed almost relieved. "That was the night we took a cutting from the Great Rowan at the center of the Isle to create the Tree of Life."

It had been a majestic ritual. And the first one I'd been old enough to attend. Nimueh and Iseldir, the druid the High Priestess brought to the island to help perform the ceremony, took the cutting with magic. As they did, every man, woman, and child on the Isle-hundreds and hundreds of us-bowed before them in submission mingling our power with theirs. It was incredible, the power overwhelming. The High Priestess then charged the Bloodguard with the task of protecting it day and night. No one was to touch it until it matured.

The man was aghast. "Who convinced the druids to aid in the ceremony?

"I did. Well, with Talieson's help."

"You found the Crystal Cave?"

"It was the first place I went when I fled Camelot after Arthur's birth."

"Vivienne, why?"

"To stop an even worse fate."

"What could possibly be worse?"

"Gaius, we upset the balance of life and magic more than we ever thought when we asked Nimueh to give Uther Pendragon a son."

"The debt was paid," the man insisted.

"How? When I gave my first born daughter to Nimueh to raise? We-all four of us, Nimueh, me, Alice, you-believed a child for a child would be sufficient payment."

A fair bargain, I thought until I realized that child could only be one person.

Me!

Anger bloomed and clawed at my heart. In that moment, I hated my mother more than I had hated anything in my life. My mother sold me in order to give some arrogant king a squalling princeling. I had to bite my fist to keep from screaming.

"It was folly to try and determine the price," Gaius said.

"As we learned the hard way when Ygraine died in childbed," Mother agreed.

A life for a life. Fate always determines its own price, I thought and blinked away the tears that stung my eyes. My anger twisted into satisfaction that Mother's grand plan backfired. I removed my fist before I could draw blood.

"We thought we were so wise," Mother lamented. "We thought we understood all there was to understand about magic. We didn't."

"You believe Uther's war against magic wasn't punishment enough?"

"Not anywhere close. We meddled too much. It is a debt we handed down to our children. There must be balance, Gaius, and the balance of the world shifts like the seasons. You may choose to forget or deny the truth with your physicians work, but I know deep down you still believe."

Mother turned away, she sorted through a pile of books stacked on top of our rickety table that I had taken from the Isle's sacred library for study and came away with a leather bound volume titled Magic's Return.

"Here," Mother thrust the book at Gaius. "This will help explain."

She helped him leaf through the book. They stopped at a section somewhere in the middle of the book that I hadn't yet gotten to.

He read the passage she pointed to aloud: "Unlike the Cup of Life which bestows life on an individual, the Tree of Life holds the ultimate power over the life and death of an entire land. Only a scion of the royal house of Pendragon can root a seedling Tree of Life. The staff carries its own power and its planting will herald the coming of the golden age of Albion and magic will return to the land. First the scion will need to be blessed by the love found in the Ring of Life." He put the book down and asked. "What is the Ring of Life?"

"Who can say?" Mother shrugged. "A circle, a chain, a ring, or perhaps a bracelet."

"You don't know where it is?"

"I do not. Take the book with you when you go, Gaius. Study it and perhaps you will find the answer."

Gaius nodded and returned to scan the page. He read silently this time, but did move his lips like an unstudied child. "How is the vision of your execution tied to the Tree of Life?" he asked when he finished.

"At the end I swore to Ygraine that I would protect her son as if he were my own. And my death will ensure the ground beneath the pyre will be fertile."

The rage in my chest returned full force and then, curiously, numbed. Mother didn't return to the Isle for me as she told me. She returned to create and steal the Tree of Life. In that moment I knew she would always champion Arthur Pendragon over me.

"You believe this is what is meant to be."

"Until the day our children's great-grandchildren have passed from the earth and the pendulum swings the other way. Then magic will become no more than the myth of legends shrouded in the mist. Gaius, since we will not speak again, I would like to ask a favor." She took up both of his hands and gripped them tight. "When it happens-because it will and there is nothing you can do to stop it-make sure Morgana isn't there. Don't let her know it's me."

"Vivienne, I will do my best, but-"

"No daughter should have to watch their mother murdered. Promise me, Gaius. Promise."

"I promise," he replied and then kissed the back of her hand as if she were a real high-born lady, instead of a commoner.

"I am forever in your debt." In farewell, Mother kissed Gaius on both his sagging cheeks-ew! "Sweeten the taste of the valerian root with clover honey and occasionally add the tiniest drop of pennyroyal."

"The honey will sweeten the draft to make it more palatable, but what will the pennyroyal do apart from potentially poison her?"

"Suppress the visions and her magic."

"I couldn't."

My mother's voice was as cold as iron. "If you wish to protect her, you will do it."

"It would be…."

Treasonous. Nimueh had taught me that it was a sin to inhibit another's magical talent. My poor sister.

"Is the guilt from turning our kind over to Uther sneaking up on you, Gaius?"

That ruffled the old man's feathers so much he puffed up, affronted. "I did what I could."

"Which was just enough to ensure you stayed unnoticed."

"I protected Elsa," he growled, "I snuck Balinor away to Ealdor, and struck Alice's name off Uther's list."

"Yes, which is why you will also do this to help protect Morgana. I will bid you goodnight now and trust that you can find your way off the Isle. Unnoticed."

"I seem to have a talent for it," he agreed wryly. "Goodbye, my lady."

The doddering old man departed. He shouldn't be allowed to wander freely about the Isle, but who could I tell? No one would possibly believe me. The only thing I could do was hope he was captured, or drowned crossing the lake.

"Morgause."

I froze, not breathing, not moving, not thinking.

"Morgause, child, I know you are there." She gazed directly at me. "Your ward is well crafted, but I can see through it."

With the flick of a wrist I canceled the spell and stepped out of the false gloom. I made sure not to look at my feet, or show any sign of guilt. After all, Vivienne was the one plotting treason.

"Did you both know I was here?"

"Only I."

I am already far more powerful than my mother, but she has an adeptness of all things related to sight that I fear I may never master.

"You heard the whole conversation?" she asked.

I didn't bother to deny it. "Morgana is my sister?"

"Your half-sister," Vivienne informed me. "And she is the only other person besides Arthur Pendragon who can wield the Tree of Life."

"So she is the one who will save magic?"

She smiled softly. "Time will tell."

She took me by the hand-her bracelet banged on the bright red teeth marks still fresh on my hand-and tucked me into bed.

Perhaps Vivienne did know where the Ring of Life was. She was wearing it.

The next autumn, when she returned from Mercia, I went to Nimueh and begged to become her apprentice and acolyte. When I told her of Vivienne's plans for the Tree of Life, she said it was my destiny to become her heir, and so when the self-righteous knights of Camelot arrived to destroy the island, none of the true believers were caught.

After all, if my mother could trade a child for a child, then I could trade a mother for a mother.

Part V

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