[FIC] Shadows of Ealdor - Part I (Merlin/Will; NC-17)

[merlinmusesmod]

Author: fitz_y
Title: Shadows of Ealdor
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Merlin/Will
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Fear of the villagers discovering his magic was not what drove Merlin from Ealdor.
Warnings: references to the church’s condemnation of sodomy, homophobic behaviour, mild violence and domestic abuse, angst, minor character death (follows canon)
Total word count: ca. 20,000
Original prompt number: 250 - Submitted by accioscar
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by the BBC and Shine TV. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Beta(s): I am endlessly grateful to my thoughtful, careful betas who not only worked with my ridiculously short time frame, but were able to give me excellent feedback. Thanks to: notfairytales who didn’t even know me and still said yes to my frantic beta request, and who also turned out to be not only a great beta, but also a wonderful cheerleader and awesome person; yllenk who helped me think through the prompt before I started writing, who was able to beta this after all despite intercontinental travel and being laid low by a horrible cold she picked up in Paris, and without whom I wonder if I’d really ever get any writing finished; la_rrrubio, my super-duper porn beta, who is always available for late-night skype discussions of anatomy and emotions; skellywag, a kick-ass spelling and grammar queen, who graciously said yes to my last-minute SPAG request, and who turned this fic around quickly while still managing to give it a ton of time and thought. All remaining mistakes are my own.

///

Age Six

In the year of the ruined harvest Blayne left Ealdor for good.

Bolting through the pelting rain one morning to the house next door, Merlin found his uncle’s one-room cottage empty, his hearth cold, his easy smile suddenly gone from his life.

He plopped down, resting his back on the damp wall, watching the drops from his curly hair making dark marks on the dirt floor, and cried.

///

Age Seven

The first time he saw Will, Merlin was hovering behind his mother, closely assessing their new neighbours-the towering red-faced man and his son. The man, Peter, thanked Hunith curtly for the basket of garden vegetables and rye rolls. Without pausing for breath, he launched into bemoaning the repairs needed in Blayne’s old cottage, the fire that had driven his son and him from their former village, and the difficulties of raising a son without a mother. When he said the last bit, he eyed Hunith in a speculative way. Merlin glared at him and shifted from one foot to the other.

Hunith responded politely and quietly while Merlin watched the boy in the corner who looked to be about his age; he was unloading baskets of crockery, banging their sparse kitchenware onto the shelf as though it had personally offended him. Hunith nudged him and he interpreted her look to mean stop standing around, and go introduce yourself.

He walked up to the boy, who ignored his approach, and remained facing away.

“I’m Merlin.” Young Merlin stuck his hand out petulantly toward the shorter boy’s back. The boy spun around, his shaggy brown hair falling in his eyes and his blue gaze startlingly clear. He assessed Merlin quickly.

“Yeah, hi.” He shrugged and lifted the heavy soup pot, carrying it over to the hearth. Annoyed, Merlin dogged his heels.

“Are you always this rude?” he asked.

The boy flashed him a ruddy-cheeked smile. “Yeah,” he admitted without feeling.

Merlin paused a beat, staring intently at the new boy who had no time for niceties. He thought he might rather like him.

“Hey, do you want to come see a three-legged dog? Samuel Willcox’ Smit only has three legs.”

“That’s not possible,” the boy scoffed, brows furrowing. “A dog can’t move around with only three legs.”

“Sure it can,” Merlin answered easily. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

The boy shrugged again and glanced over to where their parents were talking, his dad gesturing grandly and Hunith smiling civilly. “Yeah, okay.”

In Merlin’s opinion, the boy was not properly impressed with Smit. They watched the dog hobble along, alternately barking at the chickens and chasing her tail, blissfully ignorant of what she was missing in life. “So what?” the boy asked.

“So what? She has only got three legs! It’s amazing.”

“It’s kinda stupid, actually,” the boy drawled.

“You’re stupid,” Merlin spat back.

The boy responded by trying to punch Merlin hard in the face, but Merlin was too quick for him. He dodged and then used his wavy dark-haired mop as a battering ram aimed straight for the boy’s stomach. With a yelp, the boy fell to the ground, yanking Merlin down with him by the tunic. The boys tussled, tumbling through the dirt, scratching at each other’s faces, fisting each other’s hair, smacking palms against each other’s jaws.

Merlin may have used just a touch of unnoticeable magic to pin the other boy down, enhancing the strength of his own grip. “Say Smit is the best dog ever.”

The boy struggled under him, face red from exertion. “Why do you care?”

“Say it,” Merlin demanded intensely.

“Fine. Smit’s the best dog ever,” the boy laughed.

“And tell me your name.”

“Will.” Merlin shoved off and offered him a hand up, but the other boy just pouted. Then he sprang up, tackling Merlin where he stood.

By the time the boys raced each other home with dirty cheeks, bruised knuckles, and wide grins splitting their faces, Merlin had decided that Will was alright.

Alone in his small cot that night, Merlin woke up with a pained yelp. The darkness closed around him, angry echoes rang in his ears-God’s punishment, trial by water-and he knew that someone was standing in the shadowy corner with a pitchfork, waiting to skewer him.

“Merlin, come here,” Hunith called in a low and familiar voice from the other side of the cottage.

“There’s no one else in the cottage, Merlin, you’re safe, come over here.”

He saw her sitting up in her bed, reaching out to him. There was only a few feet of space between them. He could cross it, he knew he could.

Taking a deep breath, Merlin threw off his blanket, and then quickly, so nothing could attack him from the corners, he darted into his mother’s bed, scurrying under the covers and landing in her warm embrace. She kissed the top of his head.

“Was it a bad dream like you used to get when Blayne would tell ghost stories?”

“No,” Merlin said in a small voice as he burrowed against her warm side, hiding his head under her arm. “It was the other kind . . . the kind with pitchforks and Old Man Simmons.”

She stroked his hair. “He can’t hurt you, Merlin. Sleep now, my love.”

“Okay.” The calmness in her voice snuck into his scattered mind, and he hugged her closer, pillowing his face against her breast, listening to the steady beating of her heart.

“And please, put out your nightlight, sweetie,” she sighed.

“Sorry, Mummy.” Merlin waved at the floating blue sphere above their heads, letting the light know it was safe to leave. And then he dropped down into a restful slumber.

///

Warm September days slipped by. A brownish gold crept over the fields; in the early mornings the villagers bundled themselves into warm fleece jackets, only to strip them off as they sweated over the threshing and winnowing under the noontime sun.

Most mornings, Will appeared at Merlin’s elbow as he was unlatching the chicken coop and clucking his good morning chatter to the animals. Will scoffed and called Merlin a big girl for cooing over the birds. Merlin simply shook his head at Will. “They’re a lot smarter than you are.” At that point, Will either smacked him upside the head or tackled him outright, depending on how much of the sleep he had already rubbed out of his eyes. Together they moved through the rest of the day either arm in arm or wrestling in the dirt.

Will showed Merlin his father’s sword collection and taught him how to improve his right hook. Merlin showed Will where the river’s swimming hole was, the best places to pick mushrooms in the woods, and how to climb the tallest tree that looked over the whole village-a stout oak with a fat, gnarled trunk and thick branches that reached long and wide over the footpath below.

One day, hiding from their task of collecting acorns for pig feed, they sat for hours on the highest branch, bare feet dangling in the cool air. Behind them, the woods stretched out endlessly, the greens of the treetops peppered with rich golds and reds. In front of them lay the village, nothing more than a cluster of houses, patches of gardens, barns, the small chapel, the grain mill and the river it was perched on, and the village’s two fields and small orchard. A stone wall edged the fields, and was swallowed up by the forest and the distant hills.

“Will, what’s it like outside of Ealdor?” Merlin asked after a long comfortable silence.

Will looked up from where he was peeling away a large piece of bark from the tree trunk. “I dunno. About the same as here, I guess.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah my old village was no different. Until the fire. Then it was just . . . gone. Everything burnt up.” Will turned back to the tree trunk. “Hey, look, I’ve almost got it! A piece of bark as big as my hand. I know, we’ll take your scarf, cut it into a sail, and turn this here into a tiny sailboat.”

“Not my scarf, Will, Mum will be mad.”

“Whatever, your scarf looks stupid anyway.” Will scowled and continued fiddling with the bark.

Merlin gazed out to the distant mountains and wondered how far the path through the forest could take him. Could he follow it over the hills? He bit his lip, remembering a faraway moment, a conversation that often hovered just under his thoughts.

He had stood next to Uncle Blayne in his doorway, rain falling in sheets around them. Uncle Blayne’s long brown hair hung wet around his shoulders, his patient blue eyes watching Merlin’s reaction.

“Leave Ealdor? What does that mean?” Merlin had asked.

“It means I’ll be moving out of my cottage, travelling elsewhere. It’s like going on a hunting trip . . . but not coming back.”

“No, no.” Merlin had shaken his head, the words coming out of Blayne’s mouth too big to follow. “No, Uncle Blayne, no one leaves Ealdor; you can’t just go hunting and not come back! A bear might eat you, and what will you do for food?”

“A bear won’t eat me. I’ll be alright.” Blayne had knelt down so his face was on level with Merlin’s. “I don’t want to,” he had said emphatically. “I want nothing more than to stay here with you and your mother.”

“Then why are you going?” Merlin had asked as his chin had begun to bob and tears had prickled behind his eyes.

“Because people don’t want me here anymore.”

“Why wouldn’t they want you here?”

“It’s hard to explain, Merlin.”

“I want you here. And Mum wants you here. And Matthew wants you here. And your dog Rufus wants you here. And all the chickens want you here!” Merlin had protested.

But Blayne had just shaken his head. Seeing the earnestness in his face, Merlin had begun to cry, his body quivering with deep wrenching sobs. So Blayne had gathered him into a hug that felt safe and good and right.

“C’mon, Merlin, let’s use your scarf for the sail. Your mum doesn’t have to know if we cut a tiny piece out of it.” Will’s voice brought Merlin back to the tree trunk, to the village sprawled underneath them, to the home that somehow was not quite home anymore.

“Yeah, okay,” he said dully as he unwound his scarf from around his neck.

///

Winter washed over Ealdor, blanketing the hills in snow, trapping the villagers inside by the hearth, stretching out the darkness as the night chased away the day.

Most evenings, Will and his father joined Hunith and Merlin by the hearth. Peter’s booming voice felt a little too loud for their one-room cottage, and the tense look around Hunith’s eyes worried Merlin, but he and Will spent the evenings ignoring their parents, poking each other in the ribs, and battling with dried corncobs.

Merlin tried not to think about how different things were now from those hushed, content evenings by the hearth with Uncle Blayne, from those nights when, belly full of Hunith’s almond cakes, Merlin would lie sprawled with Rufus, Blayne’s black shaggy dog, in a furry mass by the fire. Occasionally, Matthew Simmons would join them, not saying much in the quiet evening, sitting close to Blayne, their fingers tangling in the shadows. Sometimes as the wind raced around the outside walls of the cottage, and the snow piled in drifts against the shuttered windows, Merlin would beg Blayne for a ghost story. Hunith would always scowl and admonish Blayne that he wasn’t the one forced to stay up comforting a crying child, but Merlin would put on his best pout and tug on Blayne’s sleeve until he relented and told shivering, delightful stories. Merlin would squirm and snuggle into Rufus’ warm flank.

Now most evenings ended with Peter grinning widely at Hunith, cuffing Will on the shoulder, and pushing him out into the night, and Hunith patting her hair and hugging her arms tightly around her chest after they left.

///

Age Nine

Merlin and Will were covered in mud. It squished in their boots, stained their breeches, glued their hair messily to their brows. But they barely noticed it. Lying belly down on the riverbank, they were staging an epic battle between the pinecones and the twigs. Merlin’s twigs were fairly successful at poking Will in the face, but failed tremendously at taking down the pinecones. The pinecones, however, aided by Will’s clenched fists slamming them into the fragile sticks, excelled at splitting the twigs into pieces.

“Argh!” Merlin hollered after Will felled another one of his carefully lined-up twig soldiers. “You’re cheating!” And he sprang up from where he was lying and tackled Will, landing with his chest draped over Will’s back, his arm loose around Will’s neck, leaving slippery brown marks on his skin.

Will just chuckled and rolled over, sending them tumbling towards the river.

“Boys!” a high-pitched voice behind them screeched. “Merlin and Will! Stop that this instant!” Reluctantly, the boys pulled off each other and squinted up to see Anna Simmons standing on the edge of the woods, frowning with her hands on her hips. Her long dark hair was pulled into a braid behind her back, and her loose green dress accentuated her heavily pregnant belly.

Merlin glared at her, shoving himself into a standing position, wiping his muddy hands on his already muddy tunic. “Just because you’re about to become a mother, Anna, doesn’t mean you can tell us what to do, you meddling . . .”

“. . . old bag!” Will finished for him loudly.

Anna’s lip trembled and she squinted her deep brown eyes. “You boys can’t speak to me that way. I’ll tell your mother. I was just trying to help you. It’s really not safe for you to be rolling around so close to the water. You could fall in and drown.”

“Oh sod off!” Will called enthusiastically. “Why don’t you run back and cry to Matthew! See if we care! We can do what we want, we can!”

Anna rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, and turned to stalk off, her dark braid swinging behind her.

“That was good fun!” Will said cheerfully.

Merlin stood stock still, unresponsive, his hands fisted at his sides. “Yeah, good fun,” he mumbled.

“I don’t know what she’s on about, anyway. Now that she’s a married woman and pregnant to boot, she suddenly thinks she can tell all the kids what to do.”

Merlin bit his lip, glancing down at the mud smeared into their clothing. “Hey, Will, I have an idea,” he said, his voice eager with mischief.

“What?”

“Let’s sneak into the chapel with our muddy clothing and walk on all the pews.”

Will slapped him on the back. “Sometimes you’re downright brilliant. Let’s go. I can’t wait to see the priest’s face tomorrow at service.”

Merlin had to go home eventually.

He and Will perched high in their oak, mud caked in their clothing and hair. In front of them the sun was sinking into the backdrop of hills.

Will chortled next to him, rambling. “And those mud prints you left on the pulpit! Oh Merlin, I can’t wait ‘til everyone sees that tomorrow morning.” Will kicked out his feet under him.

Beneath them in the darkening spring evening, hearth fires shone brightly through cottage windows, farm workers trudged home, splashing the mud off their boots in buckets of water.

Merlin remembered Anna’s smug reprimand and scowled. He thought of how her long brown hair wasn’t nearly as pretty as Uncle Blayne’s had been.

He looked out below him and wondered what it would feel like to fly. He thought about how Uncle Blayne used to toss him high into the air as he joked, “Fly, little Merlin, fly!!!” The world would tilt as he twirled through it, trees leaning dangerously, white clouds zooming closer. And then it was over and he would be secure once again in his uncle’s arms, his face nestled in Blayne’s shoulder. He would rest his head there for a moment, eyes squeezed closed inhaling the familiar scent of woodchips and lye soap as he breathed.

Once the darkness had grown complete and the first stars glittered in the sky, Merlin and Will sighed and scooted down the tree, heads hanging on their way home.

“Where have you been, Merlin?” Hunith’s voice, hard in a way that Merlin had never heard before, called to him as he opened the door.

He recoiled when he saw Old Man Simmons sitting at their kitchen bench. If Will hadn’t been directly behind him, he would have backed up, closed the door, run through the darkness back to the shelter of their tree. But Will bumped into him, pushing him into the cottage; a surge of panic flooded through Merlin. He blinked and struggled to keep the magic itching under his skin from lashing out at the man in front of him.

Simmons looked down his hawk-like nose and glowered at Merlin. His sparse greying hair lay flat against his skull, making the bones in his head stand out prominently in the firelight. Anna sat on the bench next to him, her face pale, her hands crossed over her swollen belly. Behind them with his hand resting on his wife’s shoulder, stood Matthew Simmons, his bearded face still, his chin ducking down almost to his chest, his shaggy hair hiding his brow and eyes.

From underneath his fringe, Matthew’s gaze met Merlin’s eyes and skittered away. Merlin flinched, trying not to think of think of those evenings over three years ago that Matthew had spent in their cottage, trying not to think of how Matthew used to always have a kind smile and an almond cake for Merlin, trying not to think of how Old Man Simmons would appear with the same scowl on his face that he was wearing now, and drag Matthew home with a few choice swear words.

Will’s father, Peter, towered silently in the far end of the room, his bulky arms crossed over his chest.

Hunith’s mouth was pressed together so tightly that the skin around her lips was pale. “Merlin and Will! You certainly took your sweet time coming home.”

Will flushed red and glanced at Merlin, then took a step back towards the door behind him. Clearly the traitor was wondering how quickly he could make his escape.

Old Man Simmons rose up and lurched toward Merlin. Hunith glanced between him and Merlin, and then held her hand out quickly towards the visitor. “Now, Horst, let me deal with my son.”

“He insulted my daughter-in-law!” Old Man Simmons retorted, his frail chest heaving, his watery eyes scowling at Merlin.

Merlin’s breath caught in his throat as nervous terror coursed through his veins. He wished he was yelling at the man right now instead of cowering against the wall.

“I know. And he will be punished for that. But let me handle my son.” Hunith said in a voice sharp enough to cut glass.

“Merlin and Will. Apologize to Anna at once.”

“I’m . . . I’m sorry,” Merlin stammered, edging his back against the wall so he put space between Old Man Simmons and himself. Anna sniffed and held her head up high.

“Well I’m not,” Will protested with bluff. He raised his eyebrows and crossed his arms in front of his chest, rocking back on his heels.

“William,” Peter’s resonant voice rang out in the small chamber. He strode over to Will in a few quick steps and smacked his closed fist hard against Will’s ear. Will yelped, bucking over. He stumbled a few steps, clutching at his ear.

“Apologize to the lady now,” Peter ordered.

Will glanced up, glaring. “I’m sorry, Anna,” he ground out. He pulled his hand away from his ear and Merlin saw the blood trickling down to his chin.

Anna’s face turned even paler as her eyes darted from Peter to Will. “No, it’s alright.” She turned an imploring gaze to Matthew. “I think we’d best go now.” She stood up slowly, supporting her back with her hands.

Matthew swallowed and nodded, unspeaking, wrapping an arm around her waist.

Peter snapped his hand around Will’s arm and hauled the boy towards the door. “We’re leaving now, too.”

Hunith nodded and watched them storm out.

“You two boys are the most ill-bred, vile little creatures in this village!” Old Man Simmons spat from where he stood rooted by the bench.

“C’mon father,” Matthew intoned gently as he tugged at the man’s fisted hand.

Merlin dug his fingers into the stones behind him.

The man stomped out at Matthew’s side, casting heated glances at Merlin.

When the door closed behind the last of their guests, Hunith whirled on Merlin, pointing her finger at his chest. “Don’t you ever get in trouble with Old Man Simmons again! I don’t ever want to see him in this house again, you hear?” she yelled.

“Now give me those horrendously muddy clothes,” she said, her voice gentling, “wash up with what water’s left in the bucket, and go to bed. You’ve caused so much trouble that you don’t deserve any supper.”

Later, when most of the mud had been cleaned out of his hair, Merlin lay in bed, thinking of the mud stains painting the pews for everyone to see when they filed into church tomorrow morning. He winced. Closing his eyes, he reached out with his mind and his magic, floating his awareness toward the chapel. He felt the velvety darkness of the night outside of the cottage, the soft dampness of rain in the air, the rustling of the sheep penned in behind Peter’s cottage for the night.

Behind the solid wooden door, the church was dark, but Merlin could feel the traces of where he and Will had capered through the aisles, over the pews, and on the pulpit. Pushing hard with his magic, he stretched out, plucking up the dried mud in the air and hurling it into the corners, so that it became nothing more than a pile of dust on the flagstone floor.

He came back to himself and fell asleep.

When he started awake a few hours later, clutching at his thin blanket, shivering in the cold sweat that ran in rivulets down his body, he noticed his old nightlight floating above him. He smiled at it, despite the frenzied beating of his heart. It had been awhile since he had needed it. Hunith breathed evenly across the room, apparently undisturbed by the blue shining globe of light. Merlin took several deep breaths and watched the spinning glowing light until he could fall asleep again.

///

Age Ten

Arms stretched carelessly wide in the sunny summer air, Merlin turned in jerky circles, spinning around and around, as if attacking the soft ground under his feet, trampling it viciously.

“Oi! Brat, what are you doing?” Will’s strident voice broke Merlin’s battle with gravity.

His legs wobbled to a standstill and he peered at Will. “I’m seeing how many times I can turn in circles before I fall down. I just hit fifty-one!” Merlin called back in challenge.

Will frowned, a determined look settling above his eyebrows. “I can beat that! I can beat you at anything.” He fisted his hands at his hips and began stomping in circles.

Watching Will stumble in circles, Merlin crossed his arms in front of his chest with a huff. He didn’t trust Will not to cheat, so he counted aloud every time Will completed a round.

Will’s dizzying spins stopped right after Merlin called out fifty-three. He crashed sideways into the ground and Merlin leapt on top of him, laughing and grinding him down harder into the dirt. Will retaliated with a smarting fist to Merlin’s jaw.

“Hey, what was that for?” Merlin glowered and rubbed his jaw. “No reason to hit me so hard, you bully. What is wrong with you?”

Will pushed him off, jumped up, brushed the dirt from his tunic, and stalked away.

“Will!” Merlin yelled after him. His heels scuffed through the dirt as he scampered after his friend.

Merlin tugged his shoulder and Will spun around, planting his feet wide, blue eyes flashing.

“Will?” Merlin asked softly.

Will took a heaving breath and met his gaze. “Your mum’s a stupid bitch.”

Merlin’s jaw dropped and he reached out to shove Will away with his magic, but in the last second, he stopped himself from throwing his magic at him and opted for a smart right hook instead. The boys scuffled, elbows and fists ramming into stomachs and ribs in earnest. Unlike their usual tussling that was accompanied by light-hearted insults and laughter, an eerie silence beat between them.

Merlin stomped loudly into the cottage, ribs aching and eyes watering. Primed to launch into a loud complaint about Will, he opened his mouth but shut it promptly when he saw his mother sitting at the table, eyes focused expressionlessly in front of her.

“Mum?” Merlin halted in his tracks.

Something unreadable flashed across her face and Merlin thought that she looked tired. “Oh, Merlin I didn’t hear you come in. . . . how are things out in the western field? How’s the rye harvest?”

“It’s okay. Matthew told me they didn’t need my help anymore.”

“Oh.”

He threw his mother a questioning glance and moved to sit beside her. He’d never seen her so still before; usually she bustled around the cottage and the garden with a vibrant efficiency.

He slid next to her on the bench. “Are you alright?”

She patted her kerchief and pressed her lips together.

“What happened, mum?”

“Well I suppose you’ll have to know sooner or later. Peter asked me to marry him and I said no.”

Merlin thought of Peter’s piercing voice, his litany of complaints, his collection of swords. He thought of Peter’s strident reprimand last week when Will had not picked enough peas from the kitchen garden. He thought of the resounding slaps on the head Peter dealt to Will every week and the occasional bruise that bloomed around Will’s eye or jaw. He thought of how Will always grinned when Hunith invited him for supper, how Will raced from his house first thing in the morning when he saw Merlin unlatching the chicken coop. He rubbed his jaw.

“Why’d you say no?” She met his eyes and placed her hand over his; he noticed that her hand barely covered his anymore.

“He’s not such a nice man.”

“No, I suppose he’s not. But Will’s alright.”

“Yes, well. . . . I know it’s hard for you, Merlin, without a . . . man around.” Merlin did not need any old stupid man, he just needed Uncle Blayne back.

“But, Merlin, I can’t expect you to understand this, but I think that Peter would make neither a good father nor a good husband.”

Merlin frowned. “Will’s right mad about it.”

“Oh, well. I’m sorry, Merlin.”

///

For half a week the boys diligently avoided each other and Merlin’s days had never been so empty. Finally, early one evening, Merlin climbed their tree, sweating so hard in the humidity that the thin fabric of his tunic and trousers brushed damp against his skin. His bare feet scraped against the rough bark as he moved ever skyward. When he paused to peer up through the thick leafy branches, something small and green hit him squarely between the eyes. Merlin recognized the tightly wound wad of leaf that Will would spin between his fingernails as they sat in the tree. Two more bounced off his head. He continued climbing. When he was only a few branches below the thick one where Will perched, Will began pelting him in earnest.

“Stop being a prat, you pissant,” Merlin called out.

Will scowled at him and gazed out at the thick summer air hanging over the village and the setting sun. When Merlin swung up beside him, neither spoke. Finally Merlin reached into his large pocket and pulled out a skin of weak cider. “Here, I snagged this from the cellar.”

His jaw set firmly, his thick bottom lip pursed in a pout, Will grabbed the drink from Merlin and drank deeply, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Look, take back what you said about my mum and we’re even.”

Will scoffed and kept his gaze trained on the leafy expanse of the other trees far below them.

Merlin plucked the skin from Will’s fingers and took a long swig, enjoying how the dry sweetness coated his throat.

“You know what I want, Will?” Will shrugged his shoulders. “I want you and me to live in our own cottage. We could press cider and keep bees for mead, and go bear hunting in the forest when autumn comes.”

“And wake up as late as we wanted,” Will said, his voice a low rumble.

“And not go to church on Sundays.”

“And not have to listen to Old Man Simmons ordering us about come harvest time.”

“And eat meat every day of the week.”

A companionable silence settled over the boys, as thick as the humidity in the air.

“You want to go to the swimming hole?” Will asked after a beat.

///

Age Twelve

The warmth from the open fire slowly soaked into Merlin’s skin and he smiled, his whole body content and lazy. He and Will sat by a lone campfire, three fresh braces of hares by their side, bellies full from the bread, cheese, and apples that Hunith had packed for their first hunting trip together.

Merlin poked at the fire with a long stick and thought about his many trips with Uncle Blayne. Mum would bundle him up in his warmest fleece coat, and he’d skip through the woods, collecting fallen acorns in his satchel for pig feed. The woods would be bathed in auburn gold, the faraway blue sky criss-crossed with thick dark branches glimmering with the last of their leaves.

Blayne would walk beside Merlin in long strides, his crossbow ever ready on his shoulder, his tall form blotting the sun out when Merlin squinted up at him. Blayne would stop to crouch down and point out edible plants and mushrooms to Merlin. They’d pick what they could eat, dry, or pickle, being sure to leave the roots and stems so the vegetation could grow back. He taught Merlin how to spot brown bear tracks and foxes’ dens. Blayne would never hunt bigger game, though, when Merlin was with him. Whenever Merlin would beg, breathlessly wanting to take down a bear, Blayne would promise Merlin that when he was older they could hunt big game together. With Blayne, the woods that surrounded their village would be transformed from the dark unknown on the edge of Merlin’s life into something inviting that was as readable as a map.

When Blayne had left, the forest had grown dark again.

Tonight, though, with Will, the fire and the stars were enough to chase away the blackness encroaching on them.

“Merlin?” Will asked quietly, breaking Merlin’s reverie. “Why do your eyes turn gold sometimes?”

Something tight seized up inside Merlin and he heard Hunith’s voice echoing in his head: It’s best to keep these things to ourselves, Merlin, and What people don’t understand scares them, and NOT IN PUBLIC, MERLIN! He bit his lip and turned to look at Will, afraid of what he would see there.

Will sat next to him on the log, back slightly hunched, legs splayed out in front of him. Blue eyes almost black in the darkness, Will’s face was open and curious.

For long minutes, Merlin stabbed at the fire, searching for words to express the rush of power that flowed inside him, for the instinctive way he had reached out and steered Will’s arrows straight today when he aimed for a scampering hare, for the feeling that whenever he wanted the impossible to happen-time to stop, his meat not to be burnt, people’s voices to echo more loudly, the sun-heated water in the swimming hole to be colder, cucumbers to grow bigger-he simply had to want it hard enough to make it happen.

“My mum says I’m different than most people.”

“Yeah?”

“I . . . when I want things to happen, I can change them. But . . . not always . . . not people, just things.”

“Show me.” Will’s request was soft and thrilled.

Merlin lifted the stick in his hand, bright with embers from the fire. Quieting his mind, he ordered the sparks to trace out a picture of their oak tree, stout and sturdy with its branches reaching far into the night. Deep orange glints danced in the frosty night air, aligning themselves into an image.

Will cocked his head, eyebrows furrowing in concentration. “What’s that then, a fat man with a huge head of hair?”

“It’s our tree, you dolt,” Merlin chuckled as he screwed up his face to stare at the glowing orange.

Merlin frowned, stretching out his hand to smooth the leaves, but they resisted, instead curling more stubbornly in the resemblance of hair, and what should have been a branch turned up into a smiley face.

Will laughed and bumped against his shoulder.

“A fat man with a lot of hair. Yeah that’s really special, Merlin. You’re quite the artist,” Will snickered, but his laughter was light and catching and Merlin gave up his struggle with the image and returned the shoulder bump. When he turned to look at Will, he exhaled a long breath of relief that he did not even realize he had been holding. The hard stone of fear that was perpetually stationed just underneath his skin fractured slightly.

Will grinned and slung his arm over Merlin’s shoulder, pulling him in tightly. “No, really, Merlin,” he said earnestly, “that’s really cool.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You won’t tell anyone?”

“Nah. Why would I?”

Merlin shrugged.

“Everyone else can fuck off for all I care, Merlin.”

Merlin thought about how close Will’s face was to his, how right his arm felt over Merlin’s shoulder. He wondered what it would feel like behind Will’s lips, what he would taste like if Merlin were to lean in and press their mouths together, if he would taste like the night air.

But then a memory woke up in Merlin’s mind-he pictured Uncle Blayne standing in the morning rain, framed by his doorway, watching Matthew scurry home without looking back. He remembered the way Blayne sat up straight, shoulders taut, in church. He recalled the stares. He thought of Blayne’s words that had been so simple and yet so confusing to him: “Merlin, I may have to leave Ealdor.”

And Merlin scooted back on the log, creating a breath of space between Will and him.

///

Age Fourteen

Merlin flopped dramatically onto the grass, arms and legs splayed wide. His muscles throbbed from the endless lifting required of hay harvesting. Stalks of wiry grass tickled his neck, and crickets droned close by; the insistent wet heat of late summer swarmed around him, plastering his hair to the back of his neck and forehead.

Will sauntered over. When his shadow fell on Merlin, blocking the hot sun from his face, Merlin glanced up smiling.

“You lazy git, are you going to come swimming with me? Or are you just going to lie there?”

Merlin closed his eyes, watching the red play of sunlight against his eyelids. “’S too hot to move,” he protested.

“Lazy, lazy git,” Will chanted as he dropped down next to Merlin, his arm smacking his friend hard on the shoulder. He was so close that Merlin could smell the scent of fresh-cut hay mixed with the spicy muskiness of Will’s sweat. He inhaled deeply, trying to catch and catalogue the way Will smelled, trying to come up with words to describe it so he could call it back to mind on a cold winter night when he lay alone in his bed.

Merlin opened his eyes and turned his head to look at Will; his breath caught when he realized how close their bodies lay. Merlin mapped the contours of Will’s face, his wispy brown hair, the sheen of summer sweat on his temple, the bristle of beard on his angry jaw. There was something dark and desperate under Will’s skin, something that Merlin longed to know, to hold a piece of in his hands.

When he glanced up to Will’s clear eyes, he found him staring back with an indecipherable look.

“What, do I have hay in my hair?” he asked belligerently.

“No, I . . .” Merlin frowned.

“But you do, you big slob,” Will cackled as he smacked Merlin on the side of the head, then ruffled his hair.

“Hey, bugger off!” Merlin yelled, rolling away from Will’s hand, suddenly made uncertain by the warmth tingling through him at the touch of Will’s palm. Will turned with him, pinning him with both palms planted on Merlin’s shoulders. His hips hovered above Merlin’s, knees knocking against his, ankles tangled.

Will laughed and held him in place. “You’ve got hay all over you, mate,” Will joked.

“Hey let me up,” Merlin strained against Will’s grip, as Will loomed above him, blocking the summer sunlight from Merlin’s squint. Merlin could taste Will’s nearness on his tongue and he longed to lurch forward and capture that smirking mouth with his own.

Staring at Will’s mouth and the dark bristle sprinkled over his jaw, Merlin gave up the struggle, relaxing in Will’s grip. Will lifted one hand and deftly flicked hay off Merlin’s shoulder, his fingers skimmed over his collarbone, and Merlin shuddered involuntarily. Confused, he felt a hot flush creeping up his neck as Will traced the pads of his fingertips over his sunburnt skin. The heat trickled down his body, pooling in his groin and suddenly he resumed his squirming, desperate to get away from Will, to avoid brushing against his too-close hips and muscled thigh. “Let me go, you brute!” he demanded insistently, thrashing back and forth.

“Fine, you big girl,” Will relented, pushing up and off Merlin. Merlin scrambled up, dusting himself off, frustrated by the lingering burning in his body. He huffed and turned away, hoping Will would not notice the fabric bunching below his waist. He struggled, desperately trying to think of anything else, like cleaning out the pigs’ slop bucket, anything to take his mind off the angle of Will’s jaw and his clear eyes.

Every day he and Will were together from morning ‘til evening when their parents called them in from the gloaming. And every nudge, every tackle, every smack upside the head and meaningless insult they hurled at each other felt like something was burning him up ever more from the inside.

In between the persistent but weightless spaces of insults, there were quiet moments, too. Subtle brushes of knuckles against skin, glances that lingered for a tick longer than necessary, slaps on the back that evolved into gentle caresses, bubbling laughs that were infectious.

But every time Merlin caught himself leaning forward into Will’s space, or stretching out his hand near the edge of Will’s tunic, he pulled back, remembering that rainy summer when Uncle Blayne had to leave, remembering shivering outside the barn in the mist, listening to the loud voices of the village meeting inside, remembering the way Matthew used to stand so close to Blayne, his hand always hovering at the small of Blayne’s back, or casually brushing his fingers through Blayne’s long hair when he spoke, or pressing his face close to Blayne’s when they thought no one was looking.

Will watched Merlin fidgeting with his frayed blue tunic, stretched out his hand as if to say something and then dropped it.

Suddenly at a loss for words, Merlin looked back towards the village, then squinted at the sun, judging the few hours before sunset. “C’mon,” he mumbled. “My mum will be angry with me if I don’t finish my chores before supper.”

“Always hiding behind your mother, you are,” Will taunted as he slapped Merlin on the shoulder, his knowing eyes seeing far too much.

“Race you home!” Merlin yelled before he took off.

///

Age Sixteen

With both hands against Merlin’s left shoulder, Will shoved Merlin farther into the shadows at the back of the grain mill. Eyes crinkling up at the corners, a barely contained laugh smothered behind pressed lips, Merlin glanced back at Will as he stumbled deeper into the recesses of the dark building, knocking his right side against the stone wall.

Over the rushing whoosh of water below them bitter voices moved closer; Will shouldered Merlin’s body hard against the cool wall. Merlin’s foot slipped on the wood floor dusted with bits of grain, and he risked tumbling down, giving away their location to the three approaching men. But Will caught Merlin, a muscled arm banding around his waist, pressing Merlin’s side against Will’s solid weight, his other hand coming up to muffle Merlin’s inarticulate cry. Shoved together in the dimness like this, Will’s closeness overwhelmed Merlin.

“Shh,” he teased as Merlin laughed. “Can’t have them catch us.”

Merlin smiled at all the points of contact between Will and him-the salty warmth of his palm against Merlin’s lips, the strength of his arm at Merlin’s waist, the solidness of his body leaning into Merlin’s shoulder.

The voices threaded nearer to the entrance mere feet away-three people, Merlin counted: Old Man Simmons, Walter the miller, and Samuel Willcox. He grinned at the thought of Old Man Simmons’s shock when he had seen the pink dye staining half his sheep in intricate stripes and swirls.

“Do something, Merlin,” Will whispered urgently. “C’mon, use your fancy tricks.”

Merlin bit gently at one of Will’s fingers, encouraging him to move so he could focus his magic. Straightening up, he pulled on his powers and thought dark. The shadows around them thickened and one of the men cursed as they burst through the mill’s second-story entrance mere feet away from the hiding boys. Merlin frowned; they were in for a thorough thrashing if the men caught them like this. His mind nudged the shadows around him, gathering them close as he thought invisible, fixating on the image of the three men staring at the blank wall behind his back, unable to see the boys. The men continued their advance, and Merlin had to suppress a laugh when Samuel stumbled into a short stack of grain sacks.

Will breathed hard next to Merlin, and he wrapped his arm over Will’s at his waist. Below them, the rushing water shoved the huge wheel around and around, causing the floorboards under their feet to tremble. Simmons kicked into a grain sack in his growing frustration and Walter snapped at him, ordering him to behave himself. They cursed the boys loudly, their stomping footfalls muffled by the rush of water underneath them.

“I swear they ran in here!”

“Perhaps your vision’s going, Simmons.”

“I know what I saw.”

Old Man Simmons stepped closer to where Will and Merlin stood, clutching at each other, grinning foolishly, trying not to breathe. When he peered directly at them and huffed, turning away with a scowl, Merlin almost ruined the whole thing by crowing triumphantly.

“C’mon then Simmons, let’s see to the sheep.” Walter said softly as he righted the sacks Simmons had knocked over.

Merlin cocked his head to meet Will’s wide grin. He inhaled his clean scent-a mixture of grass, warm sweat, and a slightly acrid smell from the dye they’d used earlier in the day. Despite their pursuers’ retreating footsteps, Will did not release his fast hold on Merlin. If anything, the powerful forearm banded around Merlin’s waist tightened significantly. The fingers of his other hand brushed lightly over the back of Merlin’s neck. Merlin glanced away, swallowing hard.

Nervous to fill the space, Merlin chattered. “Now what, Will? They’ll just go complain to my mum.”

Merlin felt Will shrug and perch his chin on Merlin’s shoulder, his face planted next to Merlin’s profile, his fingertips combing lightly through Merlin’s hair at the base of his scalp.

“Simmons will never let me live it down,” Merlin babbled.

“That old arse got what he deserved,” Will mumbled. “It was his own clumsy feet that knocked over those buckets of sheep’s milk. He had no right to yell at you like that. Maybe next time he’ll think twice before laying into you like you’re his own personal whipping boy. He’s always hated you, hasn’t he?”

Merlin nodded.

Will’s fingers continued to play at the nape of Merlin’s neck, tracing slow circles now that sent sparks of awareness down Merlin’s spine. His voice dropped a register; his lips were poised near Merlin’s ear. “We should stay in here until Simmons cools down.”

Merlin inhaled sharply. “Yeah.”

There was one very important reason why Merlin should not be standing in the shadows at the back of the mill with Will’s arm snug around him like a lifeline, with Will’s breath teasing against his ear-one reason that involved the frown creases around Hunith’s mouth, the villagers’ disembodied cries in the damp evening air, and Blayne’s poker straight back during Sunday sermons. Merlin grabbed at that reason, knew that in this one thing he should follow unspoken rules, if only to protect his mother, if only to fit the mould.

But Will’s mouth hovered just over Merlin’s ear. And then his voice washed over Merlin, causing goose bumps to break out over his scalp: “What are you afraid of Merlin?” he asked, his voice low and cocky. At the tone of challenge in Will’s voice, Merlin felt his last piece of resolve beginning to disintegrate.

Swaying into Will’s grasp, Merlin fluttered his eyes closed, blocking out everything except for Will’s body.

Will edged closer, nudging against Merlin’s neck, using his lips and teeth to scrape a line of biting kisses down Merlin’s throat. Merlin gasped at the sensation, because yes this was what he had been burning for, what he would burn for. Desire laced through his veins, pulsed deep in his groin, beat high in his throat.

And then something snapped inside Merlin.

The rules could fuck off; he knew what he wanted. He turned in Will’s arms, reaching out with both hands to heave him closer, to trace the corded strength under Will’s tunic, to dig into the flesh at Will’s buttocks. Merlin closed the last breadth of space between them, locking his mouth to Will’s. The kiss was clumsy but enthusiastic, their lips sliding over each other at an angle that wasn’t quite right, their tongues tangling hungrily. Determined not to think, Merlin dragged his nails over Will’s back, urging him even closer. With quick hands, Will was yanking at Merlin’s belt as he groaned into his mouth.

Without finesse, without warning, Will’s warm, callused palm darted under the waistline of Merlin’s breeches, wrapping possessively around Merlin’s rigid cock like he owned it. And it was too much, too tight, not at all like Merlin’s own hand, but somehow just right; Merlin’s breath caught at the base of his throat as his head jerked back against the smooth stone wall. Will pulled a few strong dry strokes until Merlin circled his fingers around his wrist, stilling him.

“Wait,” he panted a little desperately, plucking Will’s hand away.

“There’s no way in hell you could convince me now that you don’t want this,” Will said on an exasperated exhale.

Merlin laughed, his high voice skittering across the cooled air in the mill. “No . . . here,” he said as he raised Will’s hand close to his lips and sucked Will’s fingers into his mouth one by one, swirling his tongue around them, smothering them with wetness. Will’s deep blue eyes widened more each time Merlin’s lips closed around a new digit. When Merlin released Will’s pinkie, he leaned forward, licking sloppy patterns into Will’s palm. Only after Will’s hand was gleaming with Merlin’s spit did Merlin pull away, grinning. “There.”

Will needed no further invitation; he undid Merlin’s breeches so they pooled around his feet, running his hands over the fine points of Merlin’s hips, spreading his fingers wide over the pale skin of Merlin’s thighs. The damp cool air rushed over his skin, and Merlin shivered when Will toyed with the pre-come glistening at the slit of Merlin’s cock before gripping him and stroking him frantically. The rhythm Will set up was new, harsh, hurried, and better than the sum total of all Merlin’s desperate fantasies. Merlin clutched Will’s shoulders, hanging onto him so tightly he almost forgot to breathe.

Will’s clothed thigh pressed into Merlin’s bare one, his hard arousal trapped between their legs, warm and insistent through the fabric. Merlin itched to reach out and bring Will off as fiercely as Will was taking him apart. Will’s other arm was banded around Merlin’s lower back, shoving their bodies together as though he feared Merlin might try to escape.

Will’s determined motions shot the terse need spiralling through Merlin higher and higher, and he exhaled shakily, sagging forward, unable to bear his own weight. His forehead rested on Will’s shoulder, his free hand grabbing at Will’s side, digging into the hard muscles at his ribs. Neither spoke; their stumbling breathing, the slick dragging of wetness under Will’s hand, the rushing stream trapped below them and the repetitive slaps of the millwheel were the only sounds filling the cool building.

Will’s arm that was locked around Merlin’s waist shifted, his hand grasping fistfuls of Merlin’s buttocks, kneading, claiming. Then he snaked a long finger down the cleft of Merlin’s ass, nudging against Merlin’s puckered skin, and that was all it took. Merlin’s balls tightened impossibly and his release tore through him, exploding outwards, tingling into his limbs.

Dizzily, he closed his hand over his own cock where Will urged the last tremors out of him. As his breathing slowed, he tugged Will’s hand away gently, tangling their fingers together, dragging the pads of his fingers over the viscous fluid coating Will’s hand. With his own come now warm on his hand, he undid Will’s leather belt and traced patterns over his flushed cock before thumbing over the crown, closing around its silky strength, and stroking hard. Will screwed his eyes shut and bucked into Merlin’s hand, coming with a deep-throated moan moments later. Merlin grinned, ridiculously pleased that he was able to affect Will so thoroughly.

When Will stepped away and a brush of air whispered between their bodies, all Merlin’s thoughts came rushing back, his mind screaming with all the reasons this was horribly wrong. But his body ached so pleasantly.

Merlin bent to pull up his breeches hastily, suddenly wary of meeting Will’s eyes, and of all the things they might have to say to each other now. When he did look up from looping his belt, he found Will grinning at him with a satisfied smirk. Merlin rolled his eyes but returned the smile. Will punched him in the arm and he turned his back on him, striding to the door.

“C’mon.” Will peered through the mill’s entrance. “You’re a mess, let’s go for a swim. The sun should be hitting the swimming hole about now and Simmons and his crew are long gone.”

And then it was just like any other afternoon in June.

///

The hours together that floated between the boys were now edged with desperation, neediness. Privacy-once something quotidian-had become a valuable commodity. They took their moments wherever they could find them-in the shelter of moss-covered walls, by the bank of the swimming hole, in the grain mill and the barn, and even high in their tree, with Will’s hand working fast, his chest plastered against Merlin, whose back scratched against the bark tread behind him.

They learned each other’s bodies quickly, eager to grasp, cling, possess, and hold.

And late at night, when memories of Blayne drifted into his head, Merlin just squeezed his eyes shut, clutched the blanket more closely around him, and tried urgently to think of something else.

///

Age Eighteen

On a quiet day in early spring, just when the frozen ground was relaxing into mud and the villagers were beginning to break the newly thawed earth with ploughs, Will did not appear as usual at Merlin’s shoulder in the first light when he was feeding the chickens. He chewed his lip and went in to help his mum with breakfast. After Merlin had eaten and finished his morning chores, Will still had not shown up.

On his way to the field Merlin trotted over to his cottage, slowing down to a shuffle when he recognized Will’s shouting mingling with his father’s bellows. He paused for a minute, listening.

“You’re the one who chose Ealdor, who said we’d stay here.”

“Ten years is long enough, William. I’ve got no more reason to stay in this cold, grasping village filled with dour-faced women and old men. You can come with me, if you want. We’ll make a man out of you, yet. You’ll see-there’s nothing more exhilarating than the heat of battle.”

“I don’t want to go, Da.” Will’s voice was cracking like Merlin had never heard it. “Please, just stay here with me.”

“Come with me, boy. What has this miserable little town got for you other than your lily-livered friend?”

Merlin backed away. He had heard enough. And if he cursed as he set off at a dash, it was only because he knew he would be late joining the other farmers.

Hours later, Will sauntered over to the fields just as the workers finished gulping down their noontime meal of oatcakes and barley beer. Face flushed, he knocked against Merlin’s shoulder. “Alright, Merlin?” he asked as he passed by without looking at him, then offered to relieve Samuel from his stint behind the oxen. Merlin knew that voice-that I won’t talk about it ever tone. So he just returned Will’s nudge and focused on manoeuvring the oxen through the field.

Two days later, dusk was settling in around them as they leaned into each other behind the shadows of the village’s granary, panting hard, rushing each other to completion. Abruptly, Will dropped his hand as if something had suddenly occurred to him. Merlin practically squawked in protest. “Merlin, we can go to my house.”

Merlin’s brain took a few minutes to catch up. “How’s that?”

“My da’s gone for awhile.”

“Gone?”

Will shrugged. “He’s off on some fool’s mission to join Cendred’s army. Last week he talked to someone who’d heard that the new King Cendred II is gathering forces to wage war against the northern border with Circind,” he scowled. “He said he’ll be back before winter. I bet he’ll be back much sooner with his tail between his legs and some little scratch he’s calling a war wound. The glory of battle, my arse.”

“This means,” he whispered, his breath hot against Merlin’s ear, “that we can be alone whenever we want.”

///

The summer after Will’s father left stood out in Merlin’s memory as by far the busiest of his life.

Late July sported rainy skies, which kept the plants growing and the villagers soaking wet as they wrestled the sheep for shearing. August brought warm, dry afternoons for harvesting. The villagers sweated from sunrise to sunset in the fields. They barely had time to harvest the abundant wheat and rye, and tend to their own teeming kitchen gardens.

Few had time to worry about Will’s welfare except for Merlin. Will set his jaw and went about filling the space his father had left behind as best he could, struggling to keep up with his bountiful kitchen garden and his small flock of sheep. But when he caught beans rotting on the vine, hares burrowing through his thistle to feed on the turnips, or a sheep scratching itself bare with his horn due to an irritation, Will kicked out at the offence and stomped off.

So if Merlin spent fewer evenings with his mum, and more time with Will in his garden or among his sheep, then it was only natural, he tried to explain to his mum, because his friend needed his help. Merlin stopped coming home at night; it was all the boys could do to fall sprawled across each other into bed, weary from pushing their muscles and sinew to the physical limit. In affectionate, sweaty exhaustion, they would slowly jerk each other off, mouths shifting against throats, hips stuttering together. Then, too tired to clean up, they would doze into a hazy sleep, only to be woken mere hours later by the rooster crowing in the fading dark.

After washing himself with splashes of water and magic, jerking on his clothes, and skimming a quick kiss over Will’s sleepy lips, Merlin would stumble home. Hunith’s raised eyebrows and worry lines across her forehead were the only reprimand he received as he ducked his head and rushed to start his morning chores.

Occasionally she would invent some pretence for him to spend his late afternoons with her. “Let William fend for himself for a day, this cabinet door needs repairing,” she would admonish him.

Quietly darning by candlelight, she would ask after Will’s crops and his sheep, her voice blank and tired, as if there was something else she’d rather be asking Merlin.

“Really Merlin,” she said one night, “You’re wearing yourself much too thin just to help William.”

“Mum,” he protested, “Will would do the same for me if God forbid something happened to you. His dad deserted him on a whim. He needs all the help he can get, especially from his best friend.”

“What he needs, Merlin, is a wife,” she stated with conviction, raising her eyebrows to emphasize her point. “Young Margaret is very sweet on him. She’d accept an offer from him with very little courtship.”

Merlin blushed, worried that she guessed what passed between them. “You used to say the same thing to Uncle Blayne,” he snipped, but then he flushed when he realized the accuracy of the comparison.

Hunith slammed her palm hard against the armrest of her wooden rocker. “Merlin! Do not speak ill of your departed uncle.”

“But Mum, he’s not departed; he could be out there somewhere. . .”

“Merlin!” she said again, with a tremor in her voice. “It’s best if we don’t speak of Blayne. He chose his own life, and it didn’t involve Ealdor.”

“He didn’t choose his own life, Mum! He was forced to leave.”

She shook her head. “That’s immaterial. Besides, you have to watch yourself; you never know who may be listening.” She picked up her darning, refusing to meet his eyes.

“No, Mum, I know who’s listening. A big fat nobody!” he countered, stepping away from the cabinet, hands shaking, “Why can’t I talk about Uncle Blayne?”

“Because I told you not to. We have to be careful,” she whispered urgently, as if the shadows flickering in the candle flame were spies. Merlin saw the fear lining her face and hunching her shoulders and he stepped back, holding up his palms in a conciliatory gesture. He had to be the man of the house, Uncle Blayne had always said, and that meant it was his responsibility to make sure his mum was safe and happy. So if agreeing with her occasionally or not mentioning somebody who was long gone provided her a modicum of relief, then it was his duty as a man to do what she said.

He shrugged, backing down. “I’ll make sure and tell Will that Margaret is interested in a courtship.” He turned back to the fastening of the smooth wood and grimaced, smarting at the thought of Will’s hands on anyone’s hips but his.

Part II