Fic: The Wandering Years (Merlin)
Summary: Names are both given and earned.
The Wandering Years
0.
From the lowest dungeon Merlin imagines he can hear them building the platform, driving iron nails. The ring of the axe being sharpened haunts him like a faint echo, like keen-edged memories. The day rushes past with a sickening lurch.
The dark lonely hours before dawn have closed in when he hears the sound of hurrying footsteps.
Arthur's hands are slippery with blood, the key stained red. He tosses a small pouch, heavy with coins, that Merlin almost doesn't catch.
"There's a horse waiting." When he doesn't move, Arthur shakes him, hard enough to leave rows of fingerprint-shaped bruises. "Go."
1.
The forest is pathless, silent. Not even the slightest breeze moves the leaves. He feels something watching him from the shadows and hears faint malicious laughter.
The villagers say this wood is full of magic and they curse its name in fearful whispers, recounting tales of stolen children who come back only as strange white ghosts.
It is a village that has burned old women.
Merlin feels of a rush of anger expanding inside him like rings spreading on a deep dark pool, and wonders--is this magic hated because it's evil?
Or is it evil because it is hated?
2.
He dreams of things that will never happen. Days riding out on hunts, the forest aflame with color, Arthur cuffing and shushing and sending long strings of his incomprehensible hand-signals, but always reaching out. A masked feast where Arthur kisses the back of Morgana's hand and means thank you before they drift back to bickering like lodestones finding their natural alignment.
A night--the anniversary of a sad and pointless death--when he finds Gwen on the servants' stair and puts an awkward arm around her as she cries against his shoulder.
All the things that were taken from him.
3.
The sun hangs heavy and golden during the long hot days, light pouring through high branches in shifting columns. Small creatures with brilliantly colored wings swirl through the hanging trails of moss. In the distance is the sweet laughing murmur of running water.
Where the two arms of the river meet--one clear blue and the other dark--a beautiful white doe is waiting, her long neck bent to the green lawn.
She looks up at him with almost human eyes before turning back toward the dark tangled heart of the forest. But Merlin has learned enough not to follow.
4.
The sky is gray, the world without color. In this small dirty village he is known as a healer. He gives them bags of herbs mixed with subtle magic, to ease pain, to clear infections, to stop the blood-flow after childbirth.
He makes up tales of distant lands he's wandered, a story for every herb to explain their wondrous powers. Sometimes, in the stories, he travels with a brave (but easily irritated) prince.
All he asks for in return is a roof and food for the night and a few hours surrounded by the rise and fall of human voices.
5.
Low wide plains the color of amber sweep up to blue peaks covered in snow. Horses run wild, huge herds that no man can tame.
Streams, clear and icy cold, run down deep under the mountains through caves worn by the wind into strange fantastical shapes. As he passes, the riches of the earth reveal themselves, veins of gold rising through the sleeping rock, hard bright gems flickering beneath their deceptive surfaces.
Near the mountain's slowly beating heart are said to lie two fountains. One makes the drinker remember. The other makes him forget.
Merlin wonders which he will choose.
6.
The kingdom is a sliver lodged between vast warring realms, worn away like a rock eaten by restless seas.
The city is small, full of cramped knotted streets that wander up the hill to a castle faced with dark stone, intricate layers of defense rising to slender finials. The king is bent, old and silent. All his sons are dead. The court magician stands behind the throne.
The king stirs, asks what the heart of a young warlock yearns for.
Merlin bows, dissembles--lets himself be persuaded to take up a fight not his own.
He's seen the villages burning.
7.
The earth closes around him like a fist. The first desperate week he learns how to live without air, the next how not to die of maddening thirst.
After that the days blur in a measureless span as he intuits the spell for sight in this unnatural darkness, memories gathered around him like phantoms, familiar voices whispering to him deep in the earth.
The stone above his head is smooth and cold and will not be moved. He waits until the darkness becomes like a mirror and the roots of mighty trees twine around his feet.
But no one comes.
8.
They call him Myrddin Wyllt in this land, where he wanders weeping, lost in dreams, over wild country, hills rolling up like waves in an angry sea. At night he hears the lonely songs of shepherds, the faint sounds of bells. He learns the language of birds, of snakes, of the great white wolves who welcome him to their caves with sharp knowing grins.
Great battles take hold of his mind, blood staining the earth. The dead sleep in bonfires, in boats that slip along still dark waters covered with mist.
He sees his own death and is not afraid.
9.
It's a long passage over mad, storm churned waters to reach this place. The sky is an endless blue. Grapes wind willingly along the trellis. The fields offer up golden grain without the touch of the plow. Apples--green and yellow and bright red--hang rich and full on the trees, and when he reaches up the branches bend down. The honey bee moves aside for his hand.
The sea unrolls onto smooth white beaches. The stars break brilliantly across the night sky.
Merlin sits by small warm fires, drawing the sparks into simple transitory shapes, and remembers old friends.
10.
He wakes one morning with the knowledge ringing inside him like the slow toll of bells. He's high in the mountains where it's always winter. Moving down through the pass is like the year speeding forward, spring in the delicate flowers growing out of the stone, summer in the deep green of the valley.
He's learned how to slip like a wind across the land, but after ten years he's also learned patience. It's a long road, but he walks every step.
It's nearly autumn when he crests the final hill again, beautiful white walls rising up like a song.
The Wandering Years
0.
From the lowest dungeon Merlin imagines he can hear them building the platform, driving iron nails. The ring of the axe being sharpened haunts him like a faint echo, like keen-edged memories. The day rushes past with a sickening lurch.
The dark lonely hours before dawn have closed in when he hears the sound of hurrying footsteps.
Arthur's hands are slippery with blood, the key stained red. He tosses a small pouch, heavy with coins, that Merlin almost doesn't catch.
"There's a horse waiting." When he doesn't move, Arthur shakes him, hard enough to leave rows of fingerprint-shaped bruises. "Go."
1.
The forest is pathless, silent. Not even the slightest breeze moves the leaves. He feels something watching him from the shadows and hears faint malicious laughter.
The villagers say this wood is full of magic and they curse its name in fearful whispers, recounting tales of stolen children who come back only as strange white ghosts.
It is a village that has burned old women.
Merlin feels of a rush of anger expanding inside him like rings spreading on a deep dark pool, and wonders--is this magic hated because it's evil?
Or is it evil because it is hated?
2.
He dreams of things that will never happen. Days riding out on hunts, the forest aflame with color, Arthur cuffing and shushing and sending long strings of his incomprehensible hand-signals, but always reaching out. A masked feast where Arthur kisses the back of Morgana's hand and means thank you before they drift back to bickering like lodestones finding their natural alignment.
A night--the anniversary of a sad and pointless death--when he finds Gwen on the servants' stair and puts an awkward arm around her as she cries against his shoulder.
All the things that were taken from him.
3.
The sun hangs heavy and golden during the long hot days, light pouring through high branches in shifting columns. Small creatures with brilliantly colored wings swirl through the hanging trails of moss. In the distance is the sweet laughing murmur of running water.
Where the two arms of the river meet--one clear blue and the other dark--a beautiful white doe is waiting, her long neck bent to the green lawn.
She looks up at him with almost human eyes before turning back toward the dark tangled heart of the forest. But Merlin has learned enough not to follow.
4.
The sky is gray, the world without color. In this small dirty village he is known as a healer. He gives them bags of herbs mixed with subtle magic, to ease pain, to clear infections, to stop the blood-flow after childbirth.
He makes up tales of distant lands he's wandered, a story for every herb to explain their wondrous powers. Sometimes, in the stories, he travels with a brave (but easily irritated) prince.
All he asks for in return is a roof and food for the night and a few hours surrounded by the rise and fall of human voices.
5.
Low wide plains the color of amber sweep up to blue peaks covered in snow. Horses run wild, huge herds that no man can tame.
Streams, clear and icy cold, run down deep under the mountains through caves worn by the wind into strange fantastical shapes. As he passes, the riches of the earth reveal themselves, veins of gold rising through the sleeping rock, hard bright gems flickering beneath their deceptive surfaces.
Near the mountain's slowly beating heart are said to lie two fountains. One makes the drinker remember. The other makes him forget.
Merlin wonders which he will choose.
6.
The kingdom is a sliver lodged between vast warring realms, worn away like a rock eaten by restless seas.
The city is small, full of cramped knotted streets that wander up the hill to a castle faced with dark stone, intricate layers of defense rising to slender finials. The king is bent, old and silent. All his sons are dead. The court magician stands behind the throne.
The king stirs, asks what the heart of a young warlock yearns for.
Merlin bows, dissembles--lets himself be persuaded to take up a fight not his own.
He's seen the villages burning.
7.
The earth closes around him like a fist. The first desperate week he learns how to live without air, the next how not to die of maddening thirst.
After that the days blur in a measureless span as he intuits the spell for sight in this unnatural darkness, memories gathered around him like phantoms, familiar voices whispering to him deep in the earth.
The stone above his head is smooth and cold and will not be moved. He waits until the darkness becomes like a mirror and the roots of mighty trees twine around his feet.
But no one comes.
8.
They call him Myrddin Wyllt in this land, where he wanders weeping, lost in dreams, over wild country, hills rolling up like waves in an angry sea. At night he hears the lonely songs of shepherds, the faint sounds of bells. He learns the language of birds, of snakes, of the great white wolves who welcome him to their caves with sharp knowing grins.
Great battles take hold of his mind, blood staining the earth. The dead sleep in bonfires, in boats that slip along still dark waters covered with mist.
He sees his own death and is not afraid.
9.
It's a long passage over mad, storm churned waters to reach this place. The sky is an endless blue. Grapes wind willingly along the trellis. The fields offer up golden grain without the touch of the plow. Apples--green and yellow and bright red--hang rich and full on the trees, and when he reaches up the branches bend down. The honey bee moves aside for his hand.
The sea unrolls onto smooth white beaches. The stars break brilliantly across the night sky.
Merlin sits by small warm fires, drawing the sparks into simple transitory shapes, and remembers old friends.
10.
He wakes one morning with the knowledge ringing inside him like the slow toll of bells. He's high in the mountains where it's always winter. Moving down through the pass is like the year speeding forward, spring in the delicate flowers growing out of the stone, summer in the deep green of the valley.
He's learned how to slip like a wind across the land, but after ten years he's also learned patience. It's a long road, but he walks every step.
It's nearly autumn when he crests the final hill again, beautiful white walls rising up like a song.