by GR Griffin
“Ensure that his wounds are fully healed.” Gwenevere bowed her head in return. She gazed over to Merlin nervously; he offered her a comforting smile, relieving her of most of her anxiety. Then Gwenevere averted her attention to Arthur Pendragon, and beckoned him to follow her through the crowd of displeased druids. If somebody had told you Arthur was practically running after her – definitely not because he was a bit frightened of the menacing druids staring him down – well, that was a complete an utter lie.
♦☼♦
One thing Arthur had observed during his short time in Ealdor, was that there were barely any man-made structures here. The People were content living amongst the grand clearing, surrounded by strident trees, and the large majestic Crystal Cave. There appeared to be only a handful of small homes, all built from natural materials, small and sparse in nature. They were kept clear from the main settlement, in the corners of to the edges of important places. He was sat in one of them now, on an extremely uncomfortable mattress, barely high enough for Gwenevere to tend to his wounds properly. The woman was sat on the floor beside the mattress, an array of herbs and jars scattered around her presence.
This had surprised him greatly. Ten minutes later, he was even more baffled by the fact the calm and compassionate woman had not used any form of magic to aid her healing procedures. She was now carefully examining the open gash on his arm.
“Well,” she said gently, scrutinising the wound. “You’re very lucky, Merlin’s magic has kept the wound relatively clean, prevented any risk of infection.”
He winced a little as she leant towards his, prodding it with a mixture of herbs. Merlin. So he had once again done something for him, even if it was indiscreet. The word magic kindled the questions in his mind. Merlin had used magic on his wounds, Gwenevere hadn’t. Arthur gazed down at her curiously.
“You’re not using magic to check over my wounds.” He stated bluntly, a little breathless and dizzy from the impact of his injuries. Arthur was never one to complain, especially about his own pain. The full extent of his physical pain dawned upon him now, sending an unpleasant wave of nausea up his spine.
Gwenevere smiled weakly, but her eyes did not meet his. She kept her eyes low, feigning normalcy to his words. Narrowing his eyes, Arthur studied her persona carefully. His words seemed to have had some effect on her, whether she’d admit it aloud or not. Then it hit him.
“You’re like me.”
Gwenevere lifted her head, meeting his eyes slowly. Her deep brown eyes glimmered against the dim candlelight, sunlight trickling through the small window adding an enchanting glow to her dark skin. She studied his face inquisitively, putting the cloth down for a moment.
“Magic alone does not heal wounds,” she replied. “Yes, I am like you. I was not born a druid.”
Confusion spread across Arthur’s face, and he stumbled to sit up. Questions raced through his mind. How was she even here if she was not born a druid? Albion had been hidden from their kind with ancient magic. He discovered a moment too late that sitting up was a terrible idea. Hissing at the sting, he grimaced. Gwenevere leant forwards and gently helped him back down to his former position. Regaining the ability to speak, Arthur drew his eyebrows together.
“You’re a Druidian. Yet,” sparing an unimpressed glance to the room around he raised his eyebrows. “This is your home?”
He watched a newfound, surprising resilience flare through her eyes, alongside a slight twinge of irritation at his insulting words. Reaching for the cloth, she dabbed it back against his open wound before dipping it into the wooden bowl by her feet. For a moment she said nothing, clearly unsure whether to answer his question truthfully. But honesty was one of Gwen’s most valuable, admirable traits, and she wasn’t going to jepordise her usual character for the sake of one man, especially this one.
“Many years ago, I rescued Will from your company’s special forces,” Arthur briefly recalled the aggressive druid who had wanted to kill him when he and Merlin arrived earlier. Then he took in the full sentence and became suddenly very interested in all of this. Gwenevere hardly looked like a warrior. He had heard about the vicious nature of the special forces, it would take a lot to rescue someone from them.
“They were just about to put the magical chains on him. I was never an active Druidian, I just believed that what Camelot was doing was wrong. I’d never met a druid before. But when saw him,” She sighed,
“Well he looked just like me, only he could do things I couldn’t. That made no difference to me. So,” pressing the cloth against his arm, she met his eyes cautiously, as if she expected Arthur to personally punish her for disobeying the law. Arthur beckoned her to continue with his attentive gaze, anxious to hear the rest of the story, aware that she was probably missing out many details because he was a Pendragon.
“I saved him. We escaped. I harboured him in my home secretly, nursing him back to full health. After a week or so, the neighbours began to notice, and they called the special forces themselves. William was on the brink of recovery. He had just enough magic to get himself back to Albion.”
Arthur picked up on the subtle message in her words, himself. No. Surely no-one could be this selfless? Giving up their life for a druid they had just met? Unaware he was gaping, Arthur waited for her to continue.
“I told him he had to go. They would take him to the lab, kill him eventually.” Holding the cloth over his arm, she laughed at the old memories. “Will promised he’d come back for me. But for the meantime I had to hide somewhere. I found shelter in the old underground tunnels with other Druidians. I…” a sigh escaped her lips, as if she was beginning to find it difficult retelling her story.
“I changed my name to Gwenevere. I had to slip off the radar.”
So not only had she given up a normal life for a druid, she had changed her identity for one also? This was one of the highest forms of Druidian treason. And yet all Arthur Pendragon felt at this moment was unwavering respect for her and her evident bravery.
“Will came back for me as soon as he could. It took a while for him to find me, but he did. Then I came to Ealdor, met Merlin.” A fond smile lit up her face, her eyes spewing irrepressible affection.
“Hunith and Balinor accepted me into the clan, and Gwenevere just…” reaching for the bandages, woven out of natural materials, she lowered her gaze.
“Gwen was the woman I was destined to become.”
She tightened the bandage around his around, fastening the fabric together with expert precision and skill.
“You don’t regret your decision?” Arthur asked, in awe and yet overwhelmed with bewilderment at her amazing story.
“I regret that I didn’t do the right thing sooner.” She said gently, once again hesitant to meet his eyes in fear she had overstepped a boundary. The right thing, Arthur pondered on her words silently.
“Have you ever thought about leaving?” he asked pryingly, watching her put the herbs back onto the wooden shelves.
Turning to him rapidly, she seemed shocked by his words.
“No never. This is my home, my life. I love Ealdor, the druids. They are kind, thoughtful and peaceful. I have never felt more at one with myself, or with others…” flapping her hand across the air she ducked her head down in embarrassment, realising she may have replied a bit too passionately for a Pendragon’s liking.
“…You have to be here, live with the druidsto understand how it feels.” Then her eyes widened and she comically held her hands up in front of her. Part of her had forgotten that it was this very matter Merlin and Balinor were discussing now for Arthur. The young Pendragon felt a swell of amusement burst in his throat.
“Sorry.” She stammered, fiddling with her hands once more. Arthur suddenly found it incredibly endearing, a crooked smile sweeping over his face.
Making her way to the door, she picked up the bottom of her sapphire gown.
“Gwenevere,” Arthur called out, freezing her in her tracks. “Thank you.”
She
shot him one of those cautious smiles, and leant on the doorway for a moment. It seemed she was about to say something, but thought better of it. Instead she offered him a small tilt of her head, and shut the door behind her softly. Gazing around the empty, small room – damp and dull – Arthur exhaled. What on earth was he going to do for the rest of the day? He couldn’t exactly move or go anywhere. Part of him thought about calling Merlin, but he was sure the druid was very busy discussing his fate with his father. Studying the ceiling, he counted the cracks with his eyes, tracing over the features. Within two minutes, he had fallen into a peaceful dream world encompassing the two things his father had always prohibited: imagination and magic.
♦☼♦
Merlin sat down beside his father amongst the safety of the tree’s arms. The sun was high in the sky, radiating down upon their skin. It created hypnotic shadows in the forest, beautifully intricate and complex patterns painted across the ground below their dangling feet. Neither of them had spoken on their way to the trees. Part of Merlin sensed that his father was angry about all of this. Sighing, he raked a hand through his hair.
“In the crystals,” he began slowly. “I saw Arthur. He was one of us…I…” gazing over to his father’s vacant expression, he grimaced. “I think he’s here to learn our ways.”
Balinor shuffled on the tree, remaining silent for a moment whilst chewing over the words offered to him.
“I am not sure about this Merlin. Welcoming him of all people into our clan does not seem like a good idea.”
Hurt flashed across Merlin’s eyes, hurt from the fact his father didn’t trust his judgement. Had his father not heard him? This was not a matter of a stranger being able to stay, Arthur had been prominent in his vision, the Crystals had been littered with his handsome face. Clasping his hands together, Merlin bit his lip. He knew he could not overrule his father’s words, or his decision. But something in his gut, since Arthur had arrived here was throbbing. Something had changed in his magic too. He hadn’t told anyone. It almost felt completed, finally ready to progress to the optimum stage of power and focus. Arthur Pendragon was his destiny. Yet to admit that to anyone – even to himself – it sounded absurd. He was unsure his father would understand this foreign feeling burnishing inside him.
“You…you doubt the Crystals?” You doubt me was the whispered implication behind the forced words.
“No,” Balinor replied quickly, not idle to the silent message his son was conveying. “I doubt his kind.”
Silence. Merlin shrugged in agreement, in understanding. He had rapidly overlooked the crimes of their kind, for a supposed destiny with the biggest clotpole he’d ever met. And the truth was, his kind had tortured, murdered druids, they still were. His kind condemned druids. His father had sent Gaius to the laboratory. They destroyed any hope of a New Age, or a New Peace. Stroking his beard, a mix of jet-black and grey, Balinor stirred over the crimes of his kind silently also. His next words were unexpected.
“I will discuss this with the Elders tonight.” A ridiculous surge of something spread through Merlin’s chest at these words. “Perhaps while he’s here we can study him. We need to know all we can about Uther and his plans for Albion.”
“Arthur told me they only wish to mine in uninhabited areas and cause little disruption.” Merlin almost laughed at how make-belief and serene this sounded. “It seems at the moment they come in peace.”
Standing, Balinor dwelled in a pensive, uncertain state for a few moments, eyes frosted over with unreadable emotions. He was good at blockading his thoughts and emotions when appropriate. Merlin made note to ask his father to teach him how he did it one day. Smiling softly at his son, Balinor reached out for his shoulder. It was a common gesture, used so often by his father that Merlin rarely ever noticed it occurred anymore.
“We must prepare to deliver the news to the druids.”
♦☼♦
Having left the house after hours of resting, with handmade bandages wrapped around his arms and cuts cleansed with Gwenevere’s gentle compassion, Arthur quickly discovered that not everybody had the same level of tolerance for him. Part of him was expecting some kind of magical ambush, judging from the way a few of the loitering teenage druids were looking at him. Swallowing-hard, he strode through the clearing, eyes low to decrease chance of any conflict.
Sure, the druids were capable of magic. But he had observed that many of them were lanky and lacking in real muscle. A rare few, the supreme warriors, would be a physical match for him. The primal horn blared through the air, instigating rapid movement. Arthur followed the swarm of druids to the edge of the clearing, assuming this summoning had something to do with him. The crowd unwillingly parted for him. A few druids leant too close into his personal space, a few pushed him angrily. It took a lot of self-restraint to not lash out and retaliate to their taunts.
Standing beneath the low tree, its translucent turquoise leaves painting patterns on their skin, stood Hunith, Balinor and their son Merlin. Their change of clothing indicated the importance of this summoning, and their status in the clan. Hunith was dressed in a striking red gown, hair tied back in a complex system of weaving and beautiful plaits. Her husband was dressed in serious long blue robes, matted black hair falling evenly beside his ageing face. Arthur tried not to allow his mouth to hang open at the sight of Merlin. He looked inexplicably different to normal.
He was dressed in a crimson jacket, delicately sewn, and a blue neckerchief was tucked into the front of it. Amidst his dark hair a subtle golden headdress, weaved eloquently with intricate patters, sparkled. In his right hand was a long wooden staff, its neck was coiled in a hypnotic fashion. An ochre sphere radiated from the top of the staff. Merlin looked dashing, magical, powerful. It was hard to believe that this was the same, bumbling buffoon he had the misfortunate of meeting yesterday. Despite his aura, there was an uncomfortable, fazed glint in the man’s eyes, gesturing he disliked this formal clothing and wanted nothing more but to huddle into that tattered brown jacket and stand amongst the crowd.
Arthur met Balinor’s stern gaze, awaiting his verdict. The druid’s had not attempted to conceal their displeasure towards the newcomer, or what they thought his fate should be. Whilst Gwenevere had healed him, he assumed Merlin and Balinor had been in deep discussion, pondering over what their next course of action should be.
“We have not yet come to a firm decision.” He said slowly, gesturing towards the front line of aged druids in the crowd. They narrowed their eyes sceptically towards Arthur. “The elders and I will need to discuss this further. By sunrise we will have made our choice.”
Frowning, Arthur shot a glance towards the seven grey-haired druids standing at the front of the crowd. Merlin had mentioned the Elders on the way here, and even he seemed a little wary of them. They were all dressed in similar murky brown and deep violent robes, holding a bland wooden staff in their hands. Their faces had withstood the test of time, some corroded more than others by life. Arthur observed that out of the seven Elders, four were male and three were female. Overall, they appeared hostile towards him, cold in nature. Part of him was expecting the Elders to at least introduce themselves to him. However, it seemed a Pendragon was not worthy of such a gesture. Arthur gazed over to Merlin cautiously, who raised his eyebrows at him, clearly a little amused by his pallid complexion. This expression faded once Balinor’s voice continued.
“Merlin will escort you back here tomorrow morning, where we will reveal our verdict-“
“-And if I’m not accepted?” a few druids gasped at Arthur’s audacity to interrupt Balinor. Arthur took a step forwards boldly. He was not going to be manipulated by these druids – he was a Pendragon, heart of a lion, blood of a dragon. “Then tell me what’s the point of bringing me back here?”
Rescuing Arthur from an evident scolding for lack of respect, Merlin raised his head and spoke quickly.
“Whatever the verdict is,” Prat was the unspoken insult radiating from his eyes. “We will ne
ed to ask you a series of questions.” His corporate tone sounded alien, and a little forced.
Begrudgingly, Arthur nodded in understanding. It seemed that anything he said in the presence of the Clan and the Elders was merely making his situation worse. Remaining silent was the best option. The crowd slowly began to disjoin, druids returned to their former business gesturing the summoning was officially over. Balinor turned to his son and then back to Arthur.
“Merlin will take you back home.”
Dramatically, Merlin rolled his eyes, unable to conceal his irritation at these words. In one swift action, he placed the formal staff on the ground without a word. Gruffly he strode down the cobbled steps towards Arthur. He didn’t stop when he got to Arthur; he merely continued walking. Arthur frowned, and followed the druid silently. They waked through the darkening forest in silence for a few more moments, until the subdued druid sighed. The delicate headdress on his head glinted enigmatically. It was apparent he had forgotten he was even still wearing it.
“I don’t know why I didn’t just take you back to where you belonged in the first place.” He whispered, mostly to himself than to Arthur. He had hardly expected it to cause all this trouble.
Pushing a branch from his face, Arthur grimaced. It wasn’t as if he was completely content with the situation either.
“Well, I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you Merlin.” No response. Raking a hand through his blonde hair, Arthur gritted his teeth. There was just no reasoning with Merlin. He seemed to be unfairly blaming him for all of his father’s wrongdoing. Granted Arthur had power to make change and hadn’t. But it was more complex than that. This was not a one-dimensional problem. It also was not only his problem, or his only problem. By the time he had formulated a strategic comeback to Merlin, he noticed the druid had stopped walking, muttering words in a foreign tongue to himself.
