Chapter Text
PROLOGUE
The autumn night is fading to black and speckled with stars, not a cloud in sight. The full moon hangs low and fat in the eastern sky. An auspicious omen for a wedding, Gerun thinks.
He turns back to Yaissa. She nods at him and glances back to the moon. "The date was chosen well. The Triple Goddess has her finger on this bride. Lucky girl."
Gerun resists the urge to raise a skeptical brow. Omens are well and good, but sometimes he finds it difficult to see the signs and portents that the healer claims are abundant in the sky and the forest. After all, the girl had only thrown some bones in the stone circle. Yaissa had taken one look and proclaimed the wedding would be held in two weeks' time. She'd known the moon would be full this night.
He opens his mouth to speak, but shakes his head and shuts it again. There is a reason Gerun is a chieftain, and not a sage.
Yaissa seems to know his thoughts. As usual. She tuts at him. "How many winters have I been a healer in your clan, Gerun? I pulled you into this world, boy. On a night as dark as this is bright." She rests her wrinkled, knobbly hand against his cheek. "I told your mother to birth a boy on a new moon meant he had a long path ahead of him, fighting through the darkness."
Darkness. If only Mother had known how true the healer's words would prove to be.
"Now I know more. Boys born to the new moon are stubborn as mules."
Gerun can’t help himself. A gruff laugh escapes. But he still feels the heavy shadow of Yaissa's predictions. The whole damn realm is in darkness. His people are hunted, his gift is punishable by death, and Uther still keeps his iron grip on his forefather's land.
"Despite what you think, Yaissa, I am a druid. I do trust in our people's traditions. In you. I just… struggle to see beyond the mire we find ourselves in now." The chieftain turns to the healer suddenly, struck by a passing thought.
"When I was a boy, after Mother… you would tell me stories before I slept to help me pass the night. I don't remember all of them, but there was one…"
Gerun doesn’t quite know what he is asking. For hope, perhaps? A flame against the endless dark?
Yaissa's grey eyes are lit with an ethereal glow in the moonlight. She studies him intently and Gerun tries not to squirm.
Get a hold of yourself. You're a man now, wedded and chief of your tribe. For spirit's sake, you have children of your own that you turn this look upon!
Gerun shifts on his feet and Yaissa smiles. "Even after all these years, you surprise me," she whispers. When she continues, her tone is clearer and stronger, with all the cadence of a story well told.
"You speak of Emrys."
The name echoes in his head and through the years. He'd heard the name as a babe in his mother's lap, and as an orphan at Yaissa's knee. He'd heard it cursed by bitter old women and praised by prideful young men.
"In ages past, the High Priestesses looked to the sky and saw the web of fate laid out in the stars. The constellations cycled above, predicting the turn of the seasons, and the wanderers drifted between, shaping events in their path. And the greatest seer of that ancient time felt a shift in the magic and secluded herself deep in the wild woods, atop a lone hill from which she studied the sky every night for a year. And when she returned to her tribe, she told them what was to come."
With a bony finger, Yaissa traces the outline of the great white orb, suspended over the horizon. Her voice drops a notch, lower and somehow more hypnotic. "When darkness floods the land, when tyranny rules its people, when the old magic gasps its dying breaths, he will come. Emrys - the greatest sorcerer who has ever lived and will ever live. He will bring magic back to the land with the Once and Future King, Gerun, and sweep our enemies away."
Gerun shivers and tries to rub the inexplicable gooseprickles on his arms away. "Do you - do you really believe he will come in our lifetime? The prophecy seems to recall our history, our present… but every fool believes a prophecy will happen for him to see."
The healer's smile is mischievous. "I do indeed, my boy. There are not many seers left to our people. But I have heard whispers from the Goddess. He lives, Gerun. Now."
"Wh - you mean he's already here? Then where the bloody hell is he? Uther's going to hunt us to extinction at this rate unless he steps in!"
"I am not omniscient, Gerun. And there is more to the prophecy than you know." The smile drops to be replaced by annoyance. "You are practical to a fault sometimes. I have just told you that the most powerful sorcerer in existence lives and all you can utter is foul language?"
Rubbing a hand down his face, Gerun sighs. "No, no. You're right. He must have his reasons. I guess. Not my place and all."
"Perhaps he was born on a new moon as well. Too stubborn to see what's right in front of him." Yaissa's voice is teasing.
He wants to continue, to demand everything Yaissa knows of Emrys, but she turns away as several of the women approach. He follows her aimlessly, over to the nervous groom, his mind still whirring over the possibilities. Is Emrys his real name? Or does he simply go by it, like an odd sobriquet of sorts? How on earth could a seer from a thousand years ago predict what some lass was going to name her child now?
Is Yaissa just pulling the wool over his eyes?
Stung at the thought, and shamed over even thinking it, Gerun pulls his attention back to the young man in front of him.
"Your bride awaits you beneath the rowan tree," Yaissa tells him.
The groom is a strapping young lad, with a crown of golden hair and broad shoulders. His arms are thicker and muscled, as if he had worked a field or a smithy for most of his life, but he lacks callouses in the proper places and his skin is smooth and unscarred. No burns from the forge. Uncommonly handsome and well-spoken for a peasant.
All of which had caused Gerun to conclude he was highborn. A third or fourth son, run off with a girl his father wouldn't approve of. Or some lord's by-blow, a bastard raised like a highborn but never having a place in the court or society.
He'd named himself as Arthur, but Gerun isn’t sure if it is the name his mother gave him. The lad might've borrowed it from the Prince, fancying himself of a physical likeness. The smallfolk talked, though, and Gerun knows the Prince is a sight bigger and taller than the average man, rugged and powerful. Or so Yaissa's mousy grandniece had said, as she swooned and dreamed of Camelot.
Gerun doesn’t much care where a man hails from. He puts more stock in how they treat others. The lad had been tender and charmingly bashful with his bride-to-be. But with the others in the camp, he had at first been wary, standoffish, and almost downright disapproving. Gerun had kept a close eye on him. Prejudice against magic has poisoned the heart of Camelot and much of its surrounding countryside, and the young man had made him nervous.
Nothing came to pass, and eventually his demeanor had mellowed. Especially towards Yaissa, which was no surprise, after she healed his betrothed.
He can’t quite read the young man's attitude toward their companion, the black-haired one. Marlin? No… Merlin.
They joked like friends, fought like brothers, and bickered like Yaissa and her husband. At first, Gerun had shrugged it off. But as the weeks passed, Gerun finally put his finger on what piqued his curiosity about the boys, and what convinced him beyond any doubt they were of differing status.
Gerun gets the impression Merlin lives to contradict - orders and expectations. The lad is slightly awkward, but likable, friendly and open. Spirits, the boy can talk. And complain. Arthur seems to put up with the chatter for the most part, with affected ill humor. But there always comes a point, underneath the contrary attitude, that Merlin cedes to Arthur's wishes. Like an apprentice. Or a servant.
And Arthur has the unique ability to make any statement sound like an order. Gerun would bet a month's supply of Yaissa's stash of sweetwine that he'd been giving them since birth.
With Yaissa's word of his bride, however, the lad looks less sure of himself then Gerun has ever seen. Gone is the easy grace and confidence. All that is left is a young man facing his imminent wedding. He chuckles to himself. Before he'd joined Serra at the foot of his own rowan tree, he'd nearly gotten sick all over his feet.
Arthur turns to his companion. "Merlin, I… maybe you should go talk to Guinevere. She might need more time. In fact, I'm sure of it. Go see if she needs help. She's not familiar with these traditions and she might not even want to—"
He cuts himself off and goes paler in the dim light. "Oh gods, Merlin, what if she doesn't want to get married like this? Her brother's not here, and Mor - ahem, my sister, and—"
Merlin claps both his hands on Arthur's shoulders. "Arthur." The boy's voice is steady and calm. He's clearly had practice talking his friend out of a few emotional quandaries.
"Guinevere loves you. She doesn't care where you're married, only that you are. You are blessed to have such a woman care for you." The cheeky boy lightly slaps the other's face. "So what in the five kingdoms are you waiting for, you big dollophead?"
Arthur knocks his arm away with a shaky laugh. "You'd better mark this moment down in Gaius's history books, Merlin. For once in your life, you're right."
The young men clasp forearms, like warriors on the cusp of battle, before heading off in the direction of the rowan tree. Yaissa and Gerun come after. The healer is the closest thing their camp has to a sage anymore to give the blessing. Gerun damns the king only once in his thoughts before focusing on the blessed event. A joining means there is still a future to hope for.
The bride is resplendent in her maiden's cloak. Though the fabric is old and gently worn, the quality is incomparable. The pale blue garment had been sewn in a time when the druids did not hide in the forest but lived in it, and traded with the towns and cities within Camelot - before Uther's brutal unification. Woven with seed pearls in a delicate lattice, the hood of the cloak partially covers the bride's face, until her groom pulls it back and settles it on her shoulders.
Guinevere is smiling tremulously, her dark eyes shining as she looks up to her husband-to-be. The two do not turn their gazes from each other as Yaissa begins to intone the blessing. She threads a braided red cord around their shared grip, Arthur's strong, pale hand clasping Guinevere's smaller and darker one.
"May the sun shine on your dwelling, and the moon guide your passage through the forest. May your sons grow strong, and your daughters wise. May you travel the path together, and may your spirits meet again in the Land Beyond the Water."
Yaissa's voice rings through the clearing. Nearly the whole camp is assembled to witness the joining. Gerun watches several older women clutch at the crystals hanging from the ribbons round their necks, gifts from their husbands after years of faithful marriage. Moira, the elderly widow, breathes the last part of the blessing along with the healer.
A young apprentice hands Yaissa a bundle of herbs, smoking fitfully at one end. He can’t quite identify the odor, but it calls back memories of Yaissa's healing tent and the lost boy he had been.
The healer weaves the herbs and smoke through the air in an inscrutable pattern. Finally, she turns and bows to the rowan tree, and waves for the wedded pair to do the same.
"Let it be known that this man and woman, Arthur and Guinevere, have been joined before the Tree. Chief Gerun's clan and tribe bear witness, as does the Triple Goddess." A smile breaks forth from the healer's withered lips, crinkling her eyes and cheeks. "Go forth and celebrate this blessed union."
A rousing cheer goes up from the gathered tribe. Esun, Pimell, and the other young men are particularly rowdy with their calls and whistles, before carving a path through the crowd straight for the sweetwine Yaissa had provided and the queer clear liquor Bena had traded for with a band of smugglers.
The newly wedded couple trails after the revelers, laughing and grinning at each other. Yaissa watches them go with a fond half-smile and wistful eye.
"Will you be accompanying me to the celebration?" Gerun asks.
"For a short while. Until this knee of mine complains enough to send me to my tent." To Gerun's surprise, she catches Merlin by the shoulder before he can leave.
"Is there something you need my help with, Yaissa?" the boy says, his head tilted in question.
"No, you sweet boy. I simply would like to give you a piece of advice, if you would have it."
Gerun goes to step away for some semblance of privacy, but Yaissa holds him fast by the arm. He gives her a puzzled look, but she doesn’t release her grip.
"Of course." His blue eyes are earnest and curious.
"Since you arrived, I knew you would not remain with us for long. You will leave the camp soon." Yaissa steps closer, forcing the boy's much taller frame to crane his neck down.
"You and your companions are running. From the past and from duty and from pain. But know this, young sorcerer. For the sake of the future, you must return."
Wait… sorcerer? Gerun's mind is spinning. Merlin appears similarly shocked and bewildered, as if he's just been hit over the head with a particularly heavy tree branch. Then his blue eyes flash with some dark emotion.
"You don't understand. We can't go back! She'll kill us - well, he'll kill us… now that I think of it, too many people would like to kill us! I have to protect Arthur and Gwen." Merlin's voice is edged with desperation, and anger makes him perhaps a touch louder than he should be.
Yaissa waves off his excuses like so many buzzing flies. "Listen to me before you speak. Patience is a virtue you young people would do well to cultivate," she mutters before continuing. "I am not telling you to return tomorrow or even in a fortnight. But the day will dawn sooner than you expect. Events are in motion, even now. The joining of your companions is only the most recent in the cascade of fate. The future of these lands, and of magic itself, rests on their shoulders and on yours. Especially yours."
The significant glances exchanged between the two leave Gerun more confused than before, if that is possible. Merlin seems to know her intent. He nods at her, solemn and slow.
"Go now, and join your friends. And remember - you always have an ally in the druids. You would be welcome in this clan and any other. But first you must acknowledge who you are."
Yaissa allows the boy to leave. Gerun studies his retreating back for a long moment. Old words and old stories flit through his mind. He can smell the smoke of the healer's herbs, lingering in the air. "Magic itself, Yaissa?"
Yaissa nods at him. There is so much meaning in that single motion that Gerun fights to breathe. He's just a boy. The chieftain sighs. And of an age with you when you first claimed this tribe and these people as your own.
"Well. Perhaps a new age is dawning after all."