Chapter Text
This is what I know:
My son made me roses in the middle of winter and kept our hearth burning on nothing but air. He made the single small egg we managed to get from the chicken into one as large as his head, and the yolk was none the worse and lasted far longer for it. He made the sparks dance for me just as his father had whenever my eyes grew sad.
How can Uther say this is evil?
He heard the others speaking of it, calling it evil, and saying anyone caught harboring magic would be burnt, and he nearly killed himself trying to stop to keep me safe. He feared he was a monster.
I kissed his head and promised him he was precious and loved and told him not to fear for me.
This is what I know:
Even with his help, the years were hard. I had no husband to help in the fields, so our portion was small. I cut my own dinner in half to keep him fed, and still I feared his small frame would give up his beautiful spirit some cold winter.
I woke from nightmares that Cenred had taken him and twisted him into a weapon or that Uther had dragged him from my arms and had him drowned. I had never seen Uther before, so he remained a vague monster with flames for eyes.
When slavers came, I saw him bent under the weight of cursed shackles. When bounty hunters did, I drew him close and tried not to look at those filthy cages. I raised him to fear every stranger, to value his secret above all else.
I feared for him, but I never feared him. Not when he blew down a grove of trees in the forest in fit of childish temper. Not when he lit our hut on fire in the throes of a nightmare. Not when raiders came and he threw one into a tree.
I just held him close and kissed his tears away.
This is what I know:
My son learned his letters quickly. He gobbled them up as if they were the candy we could never afford.
He did not fight half so well as he read, but this didn't worry me. What did I care if my son couldn't wrestle as well as Frederic or swim as fast as Thomas? He was mine, and he was far more special than all of the others combined.
But when Will teased my Merlin about being the worst hide and seek player he'd ever met, my heart seized with fear.
After all, my son would be playing that game his whole life long.
I dragged him to the woods and taught him to run. Every evening we would race through the trees, dodging under branches and jumping over roots. I told him to run faster. Always, always, I heard horses crashing behind us, their riders greedy for my son.
I taught him to hide, showing him every nook in the village I knew of and helping him to create more. I taught him where he could safely jump from the ridge to the river and where it would be a death sentence to do so.
Will did not understand why, but when he saw what I was doing, he helped to do the same.
This is what I know:
Will was the only friend my Merlin really had. I was grateful to him for that and gave him the love and the care his own mother never seemed to.
That did not change my terror and my fury when I discovered he knew our secret.
Merlin soothed me. Will would never betray us. Who would he even betray us to?
I was soothed. But it did not change the fact that my Merlin's power was growing ever greater. It responded to his wants and needs, not to his conscious will, and it was only a matter of time until the whole village knew.
Stories trickled in with merchants. King Uther's son, Arthur, had taken charge of his father's patrols. It was his sword that slew magic now.
He joined my nightmares quickly. I saw him chasing my son through the woods with a lit torch. It always ended with my son standing on the ridge just over the stream at its most treacherous with rocks jutting up. My son would look between rocks and and flame, and then he would jump, falling, falling . . .
My son's magic grew, and with it, so did my fear. I wished more than ever for Balinor. He could have taught my son to control it. We could have been safe. We could have been happy.
Instead, weeping, I sent my son away with a letter to an old friend.
My nightmares got worse.
This is what I know:
My son sent money with every letter. He kept them light, with reassurances for me and jokes for Will. I sent anxious questions back with Will's retorts and prayed my son would be safe. The money saved Will and I that winter, but I would sooner starve than receive word my son had been caught and burned.
He wrote that he worked for Prince Arthur who he claimed was a prat. Strangely, that reassured me. The word didn't fit the monster I'd constructed in my head.
When Kanen came and our plea to Cenred went unheard, I resisted the plan to go to Uther. I wanted nothing to do with the man.
But I had no better ideas, and eventually my neighbors' pleas convinced me. They thought I would have the best chance.
It lifted my heart to see my son again. It was worth far more than any wage to wrap my arms around him.
Gaius said that he had learned control. I dared to hope he might come home to stay.
My pride was not hurt by kneeling to Uther. I would have done it without hesitating if it would have saved Balinor; I would do it now to save my village, and if ever my son was caught I would beg until my voice gave out if it would only save him.
His madness was not apparent, but he was hard and cruelly practical. There were no flames in his eyes, but now I had a face for my nightmares, and I had seen the courtyard where so much magical blood had been spilled. My son had met me in it, and he had unknowingly showed me the dining hall where his people had been slaughtered with smiling pride.
I could not wait to drag him from that place.
The prince was kind. I had nothing against him, but I did not trust him with my son. I wanted him home, and home I would have him.
It was hard to trust any who were of Camelot, but I could not help but love Guinevere and the lady Morgana, and fancied he was fond of the latter in a far different way than I. I might have imagined it. Every mother wants her son to be happy, and none more so than I. None deserved it more than Merlin, after all. Some would say she was above him, of course, but I knew far better than that. Titles counted for nothing, and even if they did, my son was a lord, even if he himself did not know it.
Perhaps that was why I disliked the prince. I saw him well fed and warm and saw everything my son should have had. Seeing the one in all his finery and the other in a jacket so thin and threadbare the prince would no doubt use it for rags tugged at my heart.
The prince came to aid us though. That counted for something, even if it did bring back every last one of my nightmares to have him here in Ealdor itself. I had to stop myself from crying out when and Merlin went to the forest to gather wood. I settled for quietly asking Merlin to stay away from the ridge.
I didn't have to explain. He understood.
Arthur was arrogant, but he had a good heart. So did Will, for all his complaining. He and Merlin greeted each other like brothers and then . . . Then Will was gone.
I didn't blame the prince. The raiders always killed when they came, except when Balinor had been here. I didn't blame him, but my heart still hurt when I realized Merlin could never stay home with me now. He was needed in Camelot.
My heart quaked a bit as I did it, but I pulled the prince aside before he left. I offered him the best bread I could bake, coated with the last of the honey Will had gotten from the woods. I coddled him like a mother. I could tell he needed it, Pendragon or no. There wasn't a mother in the world that could have turned him away.
And in true motherly fashion, I pulled out an iron poker and told him to take care of my Merlin if he valued his life. I think I startled him a little.
Then I pulled him into a hug. He might be a prince, but I could tell he needed one.
In his next letter, Merlin told me the prince liked me. The poor lad had never known a mother, and I suspected Uther was not the kind to give his son many hugs.
Will's loss hurt me deeply. It hurt Merlin too. He hid his pain well, he always had, but I could read between the lines of his letters. He was hurting badly.
It was him I feared for when I thought myself dying and him I scolded within an inch of his life when I learned what he'd tried to do. Didn't he know I would die a thousand times over for him?
Then I broke down and cried, clinging to him. No mother wants to think about burying her son. (And I would have buried him, Uther, and given him the biggest marker I knew how to make, no matter what you had to say about it.)
This is what I know:
It wasn't until the second time my son met Lancelot that he wrote to me of him. When I learned Merlin had been careless enough to show him the truth, I couldn't decide if I wanted to smack him or hug him. It didn't matter as I couldn't do either. My son wasn't here.
I was glad he had a friend who knew, though. It would be good for him.
A dark haired man who carried a sword came to Ealdor a few months later. He said he was a wanderer and offered to do chores in exchange for a place to sleep that night. The others thought I was mad when I gave him one.
They didn't understood why it mattered that his name was Lancelot.
He froze when he saw Merlin's letters to me on the table. He must not have known of the connection.
"You're his mother?"
"You're his friend. He speaks very highly of you. He says you saved his life."
"And he mine, many times over. I've never met a more selfless man."
Man. When had my boy become a man?
"He says you . . . know?"
"He's a brave man to practice magic in Camelot."
"Brave like his father."
Bandits attacked while he was there. He helped to fight them off. So did I, of course. We all remembered the training we'd gotten when Kanen had come. It seemed to impress him for some reason.
Before he left, he said something about how Merlin's father wasn't the only one Merlin had gotten it from.
I asked him to look after Merlin for me, if he ever came across him again. He swore he would.
This is what I know:
My son did not tell me of the dragon until a month after it had broken loose. Why would he have spoken of it sooner? He had no way of knowing it would have meant anything more to me than yet another risk my boy was taking.
He did not write to me sooner because the hurt was still too great.
He told me about his father. He wasn't angry, not anymore, just drowning in guilt and begging for absolution, even if he didn't realize it.
My poor, poor boy. He had so many burdens to bear. He feared I would hate him for setting the dragon loose. How could I? How could I hate him for anything, much less something so necessary, so natural?
I loved him, and I told him so.
He told me what happened to Balinor. I wept for my boy's pain and for my own. I wept for my husband's lonely life.
But I was also glad. Glad to finally know. Glad that he had gotten to meet his son, however briefly. Glad he had died fighting for him honorably instead of in a painful execution. Glad he had died knowing he was loved and not alone.
Oh, Balinor, my love.
This is what I know:
My son's letters grew sadder, warier, more cautious.
He told me the lady Morgana could no longer be trusted and begged me to be careful. He sent me a pendant he said he'd enchanted to protect me. I wore it every day.
He told me of his Freya's death a year after her passing. I ached for him and worried more than ever.
I knew now that my son did not always tell me things.
This is what I know:
Lancelot died. I cried for him.
Uther died. I cried for the poor boy who had now lost both mother and father, and I cried for my Merlin who feared he had ruined everything. I did not cry for the mad king. I confess my heart was lighter to know he was gone. One nightmare was vanquished, and my son was safer for it.
Merlin started sending more money home. He was the king's manservant now. He sent so much I sent a tart letter back asking if he was keeping any for himself and what he expected me to do with it all; he responded by sending me a necklace with a rose pendant hanging off it and suggested I start saving up for another village cow.
I was glad when Guinevere came. I was happy to help her for her own sake as well as for Merlin's. She's a sweet girl, and I was as glad for her company as I was for a second set of hands.
She awaited Merlin's letters as anxiously as I did, and worried nearly as much when she saw how tense their contents were. I could not let her read them, of course, but I told her the important parts. I think she assumed I was trying to spare her pain regarding Arthur.
I did that too. I knew well the pain of a broken heart.
Merlin came. I helped Isolde as best I could and only wished I could have done more, especially when I saw how worried Tristan was for her. Arthur and Guinevere were together again at least, and that was something.
Then everything went wrong. They ran for the woods as did most of the village. I followed, hoping to get one last glimpse of my son.
I did. I also saw the dragon. It - no, he - killed the men who would have followed my son before making as if to fly away.
I couldn't help myself. I ran forward.
"Dragon! Kilgharrah!"
He hesitated when he heard his name and landed again.
"How do you know my name?"
"How could I not? Did you honestly think neither of them ever mentioned it? Merlin doesn't just call you "the dragon" in his letters you know."
"The young warlock?" Who I was finally seemed to hit him. "You are his mother."
"Yes. Next time you try to kill me, I would appreciate if you thought through how Merlin might react first. If he gets himself killed trying to save me, I'd never forgive myself - or you, if it were your fault." I looked at him critically. "I'd have thought you'd be wise enough to know that."
I was afraid, for a moment, that I had offended him. When he finally got over his shock, however, he made a sound that I assumed was a laugh.
This is what I know:
My son was brave. He always is. They retook the kingdom. He came to see me and to take care of the mess his dragon had left.
I still treasure the look on his face when I told him I'd had a nice talk with Kilgharrah. More than one, actually. Even dragons get lonely once in a while, and I was always eager for more tales of my son.
I came with him back to Camelot for a week. Arthur and Guinevere were married. She looked radiant. I came home, although it seemed lonely now, with no Balinor, no Will, no Gwen, and no Merlin.
Kilgharrah came every few months. I eventually figured out that he was elderly, even in dragon terms, and that the years weighed heavily on him. He had stories he wanted to tell. Why he didn't tell Merlin, I don't know; perhaps he thought my poor boy had enough burdens.
My beautiful, suffering boy. His letters tried so hard to be cheerful. Emphasis on tried. I know my boy, and I'm no fool. I could read between the lines. I started sending letters to Gaius in the hopes he would have some tidbit Merlin was trying to spare me from; ironically, Gaius had done the same. We exchanged what we knew and filled in the gaps as best we could. I pried as much as I could from the dragon and fretted. Merlin, my Merlin, be strong. I love you, my brave, beautiful boy.
Elyan died. I hadn't known him, but my son grieved, so I grieved with him.
Things got bad, I knew that much.
Instead of a letter, Merlin showed up himself.
This is what I know:
Arthur had died. Kilgharrah was dying. Morgana was dead. Merlin was . . .
I was very glad Merlin had come home.
He poured the whole story out to me between sobs. He blamed himself. I blamed everyone but him. What had they all been thinking, handing him riddles and expecting him to come up with miracles and then telling him it was his responsibility to fix it?
If I ever saw Kilgharrah again, I was going to give him a piece of my mind.
He was nearly broken. They had nearly broken my beautiful boy.
I wrapped him up in blankets like I used to do when he small and sick. I bought a wagon and an old horse and loaded them both up with everything I had left that I cared about. Ealdor had nothing for me now.
I got us both back to Camelot. Gaius was frantic. They all were. They thought they'd lost him too.
Gwaine was dead. I knew him only through letters, but I still wanted to scream. I had had more than enough of death.
Guinevere was struggling. She knew the truth now, and it was hard to handle on top of everything else. She was glad to see Merlin, glad to see me, but I knew that look in her eyes. She blamed magic.
So I sat her down and told her the whole story. By the end of it, she was crying - poor dear certainly had plenty to cry about - and badly in need of a mother. Her's wasn't there, so I did what I could.
Most of them seemed to be motherless, actually. Gwen, Percival, Leon . . . They gravitated towards me, seeking comfort they had long lost.
Our talk did Gwen - the queen, now, it was hard to remember that - a lot of good. She lost that look in her eyes. She and Merlin helped each other.
He crept out of his shell bit by bit. Gwen repealed the ban on magic on the sole condition he would take the position of Court Sorcerer so that no one could take unfair advantage of it. He accepted, somewhat reluctantly at first, but he grew to find happiness in it. How could he not, with friends who slowly grew to realize the myriad pranking possibilities inherent in it?
An old friend of his, Gilli, came to Camelot. I was glad to meet him. He and Merlin got on well. Neither would stand for bullies.
My husband's house was reinducted into the nobility. My son swore his loyalty to the crown in the ceremony in a voice that trembled with thick emotion. In a voice meant only for his queen, he swore he would not fail her as he had failed Arthur.
Her eyes were over bright when she assured him he hadn't failed Arthur at all.
I wish one of us had managed to make him believe it.
The lords eventually brought up the issue of an heir, some more politely than others. They suggested Guinevere remarry. It made sound political sense, I suppose, but she couldn't bear to do it. The lords suggested she was unfit to rule.
MY son suggested they rethink that statement. Some listened to him. Others took to swords.
Sir Leon offered to prepare the knights. Merlin told him not to bother. He left that night.
He came back a week later and informed Guinevere calmly that the lands of three former lords needed new men to oversee them. He also informed her that maps of the kingdom might need to be altered to account for a few changes in the topography.
I could see the darkness in his eyes trying to devour him. Whenever it reared its ugly head, I would hold him tight and rip him from it, snarling at it that he was mine.
He healed Aithusa, slowly but surely. We grew to like each other.
Kilgharrah died. Merlin was with him when he did. He spent a week in the library after that, burying his grief in research. He was trying to find the meaning of a word in the dragon tongue that had apparently been the dragon's last.
He needed the distraction, or I would have saved him the trouble. It wasn't a word, it was a name.
There's only one name any son says when he lies dying.
We were a strange bunch. I devoted myself to coaxing those rare smiles out of Merlin. He devoted himself to making me happy and protecting the lot of us with a fierceness that became known throughout the five kingdoms - five that became one, slowly but surely, all under Gwen, all thanks to Arthur. Assassins quickly learned their lesson, but Saxons didn't, and his rage when one of us was harmed made Aithusa look tame. Percival protected what was left of the Round Table, with the new addition of myself, with similar fierceness. Everyone was respectful to my son to his face, but behind, not all were. Percival had a way of convincing others that this was unacceptable. He viewed my son a little brother - one who had created a mountain range, but a little brother, nonetheless. Leon protected the queen with a devotion that spawned rumors that the rest of us put out just as quick. The queen just tried to keep us all afloat.
Gaius died. We pulled Merlin through. Somehow.
This is what I know:
The Druids say my son is immortal.
He does not want to be.
I am dying. He is trying to save me, and he might, this time. He might next time. Eventually, there will come a time when he will fail.
This is what I hope:
I hope he will be happy. I hope he will find comfort and love in the long years that await him. I hope he will overcome this grief.
I hope.
This is what I know:
I know this as surely as if I had seen it, although I have not, will not, at least not alive.
I will die. Merlin will lay me to rest at the Lake of Avalon.
He will extend the lives of his friends far beyond what should be possible until even they are raising their eyebrows as Gaius once did.
His friends will die.
When Gwen dies, he will retreat from the world for a while, and Albion will fall.
He will overcome his grief and help the next hero and the next. He will be strong and brave and loyal because he will not know how to be anything else. He will save the land, time and time again.
And he will grieve. He will never forget us.
We will watch him, and we will ache at his pain.
And we will be given another chance.