Below the Darksome Yew: Epilogue
EPILOGUE
There’s a story passed around Camelot. Well, of course, there are many stories passed around - and slips of gossip and strands of rumour and folk tales grown to fantastical proportions - but only a few truly matter. The story - the true story, and that’s important - of the Witch of Camelot and her sorcerer is one such tale.
The story passes along quietly, too soft to disturb the ghosts that still drift along Camelot’s burnt halls.
“She walked these halls once, you know,” a seamstress, fingers calloused and gnarled with premature age, tells a girl newly arrived. “You were yet too young to bleed like a proper woman, weren’t you? But I bet you heard tell of her - the Witch of Camelot.”
The girl nods and cautiously looks around before leaning in to hear more. There is always more, listening to Mary.
“No, no, look to your stitching, girl!” Mary leans over and slaps at the girl’s hands where they hold sloppy needlework. “That whole row’s gotta come out.”
Chastened, the girl bends her neck and starts pulling out the stitches where they sprawl large and messy. These are a knight’s hunting trousers, and everyone knows how brave and strong the knights of Camelot are. They deserve strong patches and clean lines in their clothing, at the very least.
“Now - what was I saying?”
“The Witch!” the girl prompts.
“Right. Well, time was, she walked these halls like a ghost. Magic, she was, and magic bent around her in a way the world’s never seen, before nor since.”
“But Merlin - “
“Not even for him. The Witch could walk in every world that ever could be, in the past and present and even through the future. The Tyrant King kept her close, trained her up from a girl, but he hadn’t got his hands on her till she was fixed as good right down to her bones. He never did own her, not like he did his sorcerer.”
“You mean Merlin?”
“A’course, girl, who do you think burned the Great Hall so black? Why do you think that happened? The Tyrant hurt our Merlin, and he hurt him deep.”
The girl shook her head and twisted her mouth down into a frown, born half of sympathy and half of frustration - needlework never had come easy to her, to her mother’s despair, gods rest her soul.
“The Tyrant Uther Pendragon stole Merlin from his cradle and raised him to fear and love his king’s hand. He were alone, child, and best you remember afore you see fit to judge him, for loving the only thing to show him mercy for all the years of his childhood, even though it were the king who hurt him so bad in turn.”
“I would never,” the girl cries, face scared and fiercely earnest.
“Best see that you don’t.”
“But if...” The girl trails off at the hard look the seamstress shoots her, spends a few moments in silence and stitching, then tries again. “If he hated it here so much, why did Merlin ever come back?”
“Because - and here’s what you should remember, girl - the heart will do what it must to heal. Not too long, you’ll find the same, or perhaps make some boy find that out instead.” (The girl blushes.) “Merlin wandered alone for a while, after he sent the dragon away, but there’s something stronger than history tying him to King Arthur and the First Knight Gwaine. And on the year he came back, well. You were there for the celebrations, weren’t you? When Merlin walked through the Great Hall and Sir Gwaine shook his head and ruffled Merlin’s hair, and when King Arthur smiled so wide and looked so golden as he stepped down the dais and hugged Merlin tight.”
“Way I saw it, was a bit more than a brotherly hug he gave him.”
The seamstress stops her stitching, mouth wide in shock, before letting out a great, “Ella!” and laughing deep and long.
The girl, named Ella after her father’s long-dead sister, smiles and tries to keep her eyes demurely cast down to her needlework.
“My father catches me ‘hugging’ a boy like that and there’s no way I last a week before I’m married off quick-like,” Ella says.
It’s nice, she thinks, as she giggles with Mary about the King and his Warlock. Ella doesn’t know what Camelot was really like, before, but she’s heard stories. Even with them, it’s hard to imagine the kingdom so raw and angry and vicious as she’s told it once was. Easier to imagine, she thinks as she gathers the knight’s stitched clothing close and scurries off to set the bundle in his rooms, when she really looks around, though. The halls seem to close in about her as she follows the path to the Great Hall, where every wall remains scorched, though the years have likened the burn to the shine of rare obsidian stone.
Ella had heard of the way it used to be just a few years past - smelling of stale fire and dead bones. Mary says that she likes to think that maybe it was love that brought Camelot’s brightness back, though in a ways different than it used to be. Strong and dark and wild, rather than the naive pale Camelot once had been.
Mary says a lot of things like that. About how different Camelot is now than it once was. All Ella really cares about, though, is that her Threefold Kingdom - she heard a man in the courtyard call Camelot that, reverent as he spoke with the King, though his own clothes were at least as fine and his crown even a bit shinier - doesn’t look like crumbling anytime soon.
Though - well, Sarah told her just the other day that all the fancy new lords rattling around Camelot these days were talking about armies and invasions and a Druid boy gone half insane while she was cleaning out the dishes from their opulent luncheon. Way Sarah tells it, King Arthur was calm when he stood up, Merlin steady and Sir Gwaine strong at his back, and told all those assembled that Albion united would outlast any army set against her.
So maybe, Ella thinks with a grin, Camelot won’t shrink but instead grow a little larger. And that won’t be so bad. Not bad at all.
--.
There’s a story passed around Camelot. Well, of course, there are many stories passed around - and slips of gossip and strands of rumour and folk tales grown to fantastical proportions - but only a few truly matter. The story - the true story, and that’s important - of the Witch of Camelot and her sorcerer is one such tale.
The story passes along quietly, too soft to disturb the ghosts that still drift along Camelot’s burnt halls.
“She walked these halls once, you know,” a seamstress, fingers calloused and gnarled with premature age, tells a girl newly arrived. “You were yet too young to bleed like a proper woman, weren’t you? But I bet you heard tell of her - the Witch of Camelot.”
The girl nods and cautiously looks around before leaning in to hear more. There is always more, listening to Mary.
“No, no, look to your stitching, girl!” Mary leans over and slaps at the girl’s hands where they hold sloppy needlework. “That whole row’s gotta come out.”
Chastened, the girl bends her neck and starts pulling out the stitches where they sprawl large and messy. These are a knight’s hunting trousers, and everyone knows how brave and strong the knights of Camelot are. They deserve strong patches and clean lines in their clothing, at the very least.
“Now - what was I saying?”
“The Witch!” the girl prompts.
“Right. Well, time was, she walked these halls like a ghost. Magic, she was, and magic bent around her in a way the world’s never seen, before nor since.”
“But Merlin - “
“Not even for him. The Witch could walk in every world that ever could be, in the past and present and even through the future. The Tyrant King kept her close, trained her up from a girl, but he hadn’t got his hands on her till she was fixed as good right down to her bones. He never did own her, not like he did his sorcerer.”
“You mean Merlin?”
“A’course, girl, who do you think burned the Great Hall so black? Why do you think that happened? The Tyrant hurt our Merlin, and he hurt him deep.”
The girl shook her head and twisted her mouth down into a frown, born half of sympathy and half of frustration - needlework never had come easy to her, to her mother’s despair, gods rest her soul.
“The Tyrant Uther Pendragon stole Merlin from his cradle and raised him to fear and love his king’s hand. He were alone, child, and best you remember afore you see fit to judge him, for loving the only thing to show him mercy for all the years of his childhood, even though it were the king who hurt him so bad in turn.”
“I would never,” the girl cries, face scared and fiercely earnest.
“Best see that you don’t.”
“But if...” The girl trails off at the hard look the seamstress shoots her, spends a few moments in silence and stitching, then tries again. “If he hated it here so much, why did Merlin ever come back?”
“Because - and here’s what you should remember, girl - the heart will do what it must to heal. Not too long, you’ll find the same, or perhaps make some boy find that out instead.” (The girl blushes.) “Merlin wandered alone for a while, after he sent the dragon away, but there’s something stronger than history tying him to King Arthur and the First Knight Gwaine. And on the year he came back, well. You were there for the celebrations, weren’t you? When Merlin walked through the Great Hall and Sir Gwaine shook his head and ruffled Merlin’s hair, and when King Arthur smiled so wide and looked so golden as he stepped down the dais and hugged Merlin tight.”
“Way I saw it, was a bit more than a brotherly hug he gave him.”
The seamstress stops her stitching, mouth wide in shock, before letting out a great, “Ella!” and laughing deep and long.
The girl, named Ella after her father’s long-dead sister, smiles and tries to keep her eyes demurely cast down to her needlework.
“My father catches me ‘hugging’ a boy like that and there’s no way I last a week before I’m married off quick-like,” Ella says.
It’s nice, she thinks, as she giggles with Mary about the King and his Warlock. Ella doesn’t know what Camelot was really like, before, but she’s heard stories. Even with them, it’s hard to imagine the kingdom so raw and angry and vicious as she’s told it once was. Easier to imagine, she thinks as she gathers the knight’s stitched clothing close and scurries off to set the bundle in his rooms, when she really looks around, though. The halls seem to close in about her as she follows the path to the Great Hall, where every wall remains scorched, though the years have likened the burn to the shine of rare obsidian stone.
Ella had heard of the way it used to be just a few years past - smelling of stale fire and dead bones. Mary says that she likes to think that maybe it was love that brought Camelot’s brightness back, though in a ways different than it used to be. Strong and dark and wild, rather than the naive pale Camelot once had been.
Mary says a lot of things like that. About how different Camelot is now than it once was. All Ella really cares about, though, is that her Threefold Kingdom - she heard a man in the courtyard call Camelot that, reverent as he spoke with the King, though his own clothes were at least as fine and his crown even a bit shinier - doesn’t look like crumbling anytime soon.
Though - well, Sarah told her just the other day that all the fancy new lords rattling around Camelot these days were talking about armies and invasions and a Druid boy gone half insane while she was cleaning out the dishes from their opulent luncheon. Way Sarah tells it, King Arthur was calm when he stood up, Merlin steady and Sir Gwaine strong at his back, and told all those assembled that Albion united would outlast any army set against her.
So maybe, Ella thinks with a grin, Camelot won’t shrink but instead grow a little larger. And that won’t be so bad. Not bad at all.
--.