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There were sounds, human noises that Balinor had almost forgotten, hidden away. Leaves crinkled by the mouth of his cave; footsteps, splashing their way across the shallow streams, loud and erratic. A girl’s shouts echoed in his lair.
“Hello?” She weaved her way in over the rocks, panting. “I need help!” She is moving closer to his living area, and he molded himself to the contours of the cave, cloistered in shadows. “Please!” There was an edge of desperation to her voice.
Still, one can never be too careful; Cendred had never shown any interest in him, but perhaps the king’s disinterest is no longer the case. This girl could be bait. He crept closer to the girl as she took in the sight of his bedroll before her, eyes wide; pounced and pressed his hand against her pale neck before she could yelp. “What do you want,” He growled, feeling her whole frame still under his hands, with only tremors to betray her unease.
“My friend is sick,” She gasped out in a rush. The cadence of her words was rough, and her accent was not quite the northern lilt of dreaded Camelot; she could be speaking the truth. “He needs help!” She breathed, waiting for his reaction. He let go of her, a little roughly, and she spun around to peer at the shadows covering him, hesitant and slightly apprehensive, along with a glimmer of curiosity. Balinor tensed at the sight of her features illuminated by what little light managed to filter into the cave.
Her face was angular, thin with high cheekbones. Dark, messy hair tucked under a faded red headscarf behind large ears, with startling blue eyes. Like the skies of Ealdor, the eyes of a beautiful woman living there, so many years ago.
He dispelled the memories and stepped out of the shadows. There was no use in regret, wishing for things that cannot be changed. “Show me.” He managed hoarsely, a fraction louder than a whisper. He told himself the roughness of his voice was due to disuse. The girl’s gaze shifted into wistful wonder, and Hunith’s eyes traced the line of his brows, and shape of his nose, the curves of his lips. She seemed captivated, committed to burning his features into her mind. Balinor couldn’t stand it. “What are you waiting for, little girl, fetch him!”
The trance broken, she nodded quickly and ducked past him to guide the horses bearing her unconscious friend in. The young man is regal even in his condition, a pale ghost of his normal self; broad hands, strong jaw, a head of fine gold. His tunic was of good quality, dyed a vivid shade of blue and stitched with care on fine mornings, with a hint of sea breeze. The crown prince of Camelot. So different from the girl before him, with a pair of borrowed breeches and an ill-fitting tunic, color faded in the sun. Balinor regarded the pair with suspicious eyes. He should cast them both out this instant, the son of a faithless tyrant and a servant girl with eyes too close to his heart, but he didn’t. Instead, he hauled Arthur Pendragon off his horse, laying him down on the floor. The girl reaches over to strip him of his fine tunic, unwinding the blood-spotted bandages with efficient hands as if she has done this many times before while Balinor prepared his tonics and salves.
The wound itself was not severe, but possessed the power to kill if the raised and fevered flesh was left untended. Glancing at her out of the corner of his eyes, Balinor uttered a prayer to the Old Religion to enhance the potency of the salve. She looked away with a touch of guilt, pretending that she hadn’t heard him, and moved closer to the fallen prince’s bedside. “Needs rest.” He offered roughly, and the girl jerked her gaze back towards him.
She licked her lips. “Will he be alright?” She asked, the set of her shoulders tense and concerned tone tinged with a hint of protectiveness. It reminds him of dragons of the past, protecting their land and children. He grieved, and then anger flared anew when he recalled Uther’s betrayal – and loathing his own, for he had aided Uther Dragon-slayer’s line in this dark cave.
But she was still staring at him, and he could not refuse her, all because of the coincidental familiarity of her eyes and his foolish longing for something that could have been. “By morning,” he offered, and she darted a quick glance at her companion’s form before turning back to Balinor, a sincere but slightly hesitant smile spread across her face.
“Thank you.” She said. No sooner than she did, a small groan of protest from their stomachs alerted them to the dark sky; how quickly the day passed. She ducked her head in a sheepish gesture with an embarrassed smile, and he stalked off to hunt for firewood, leaving her behind with the unconscious form of his enemy’s son.
He prepared the meal in silence, with his memories for company.
_-_-_
“So,” she said between bites in a manner unbefitting of a lady traveling with the heir of Camelot – but she is no lady, Balinor knew, and wondered at the relationship between his two visitors. It wasn’t unheard of for royalty to toy with their servants, and so like a Pendragon to abuse trust. “How long have you lived here?”
Caught off guard, he quickly muttered a simple answer designed to stem the flow of questions. He may pity the girl, but that doesn’t mean he wanted to bond with her. “Winters.”
She looked intrigued and impatient, brows furrowed and eyes intent. Her eyes are making him on edge; more so after he discovered her ‘friend’ is from the House of Pendragon. “Must be hard.” She commented, curiosity seeping through the forced lightness of her tone. He felt his temper snap.
“Why’re you here?” He demanded.
The girl looked startled for half a moment before regaining her composure. “Just traveling.” Her lips quirked and she turned her attention back to her meal, with Balinor following suit. Her posture was agitated, and he felt he would be given answers soon.
He was not disappointed.
After a few mouthfuls, the girl raised her head and spoke. “We’re looking for someone,” she said hurriedly. “I was told – well they said –” she tossed her head back and her gaze slid off him of a second, “– he’s around hereabouts.” She took a deep breath as if debating whether to tell him the next piece of information. “A-a man named Balinor.” She returned to her stew, peeking up through her bangs periodically, and this time it was Balinor who feigned indifference. She swallowed. “Ever heard of him? He’s a dragonlord.”
“He passed on.” He snapped and concentrated on his bowl. First light and they’re out, this chatty girl and the heir of Uther the Betrayer.
The girl breathed out, realization coloring her countenance and awe in her voice. Still, she continued the charade. “You knew him?”
Very well, two can play at that game. “Who’re you?” he bared his teeth; no foolish soul brother of dragons was he, to squander information when he could hoard it. The girl might know who he is, but in return he knew who the unconscious man really is, and now, perhaps her identity as well.
The girl swallowed; once, twice, looked at him stubbornly. Her voice was sincere and solemn. “Merlin.”
“Him?” Balinor swept a hand in Pendragon’s direction, judging her reaction. Her change in demeanor is apparent, as she glanced along sideways to avoid eye contact with him. “He’s, um, my lord.” She offered and winced when the words left her mouth. “That is, I work for his household – I mean – ”
“His name!”
“His name is…” She floundered for a moment. “Lancelot.” She supplied with a cheery smile so fake it takes all of Balinor’s control to keep himself in check. Who does she think she is, this little girl with the name of a bird, thinking she could outwit a desperate warlock on the run for almost two decades? “He’s a knight, y’know, a pretty good one.” She smiled ruefully, as if to share some great secret with him. “Between you and me, he can be quite an arse at times – but boys will be boys, eh?”
“His name,” he leveled his gaze with hers even though it twists something tender inside him, “is Arthur Pendragon.” Her smile froze on her face, but her eyes are bold. “Son of Uther Pendragon.”
“Yes.” She admitted, soft but not without steel and entirely too much like Hunith.
Balinor continued as if there were no interruptions. “This is Cendred’s kingdom, he’s asking for trouble.” He gritted his teeth. “What do you want from me?”
“Are you Balinor?” She asked, and he does not reply, for there was no need to confirm what she already knew. She sighed as it became apparent that he would not confirm his identity outright. “The Great Dragon,” she confided after the silence stretched for a few moments too long. Balinor tensed at the name Uther and his cohorts had for Kilgharrah. The last dragon in Albion, reduced to an epithet to emphasize Uther’s power – for if the Great Dragon is Uther Pendragon’s prisoner, is Uther Pendragon not greater than the dragon? “It’s attacking Camelot.”
Balinor opened his mouth, tone grave. “His name is Kilgharrah.”
She plunged on, heedless to the warning in his tone. “Well, we can’t stop him,” she said as though he does not know this, with hope and desperation lacing her voice, “only you, a dragonlord, can!”
“He does not fight blindly,” Balinor countered in level tones. “He attacks for vengeance.” He sneered. The day has finally come, and who was he to stop a soul brother? “It is of Uther’s making.”
“He’s killing innocent people, women and children – ”
Balinor cut the tirade off in a rush of anger, along with a flash of bitter triumph. “That is no more than what Uther had done,” he hissed. “He hunted us like animals!”
“I know.” She whispered, voice hoarse.
“What do you know about anybody’s life, little girl?!” Balinor snarled. He paced across the small clearing, across the girl’s wide, disappointed eyes. “Uther wanted me to bring the last dragon to Camelot. He said he wanted to make peace with it, but he did not.” He spat, words shaped by fury. “Uther tricked me. He betrayed me! And now you want me to save this man?!”
The girl shook her head, frustration evident in the press of her lips. “No, I want you to save Camelot!”
“Camelot stood by as its king slaughtered the rest my kin,” Balinor growled. “I alone escaped!”
“Where did you go?” She changed tracks suddenly without warning, insistent. Balinor looked away for a moment when righteous anger gave way to softer memories, and told the girl about the good woman in Ealdor. She seemed entranced by his tale, and fury pounded in his ears as Balinor recounted how Uther hunted him across Cendred’s realm, how he had to leave the woman he loved behind.
“I understand how Kilgharrah feels,” he concluded with suppressed rage. “Let Uther die, and Camelot fall.”
“But everyone in Camelot will die!” She burst out, defiance painted across her features. “Is that what you want?”
“I care not!” Balinor bit out.
“Not even if your child is there?” She asked bluntly. Balinor gave a bark of laughter in cold fury.
“I don’t have one, little girl.” He stormed back to his seat with clenched fists. “Uther made sure of that.”
“How can you be so sure?” Her voice was thick with hope and unshed tears. “What if –”
“Merlin.” A groan from the unconscious prince of Camelot, broken by coughs. The girl whipped her head in his direction, scrambling to his side and fussing over the thin blankets rumpled by his feverish turns. “Merlin.” He murmured as she swept back the sweat-stiff hair stuck to his forehead in precise movements.
“I’m here, you bloody prat.” She muttered archly, but the hand wiping his brows was tender, the worry in her eyes was real. Foolish girl, to say such things beyond her station as if she was not a mere servant, as if this intimacy was not only allowed at a whim. She would be discarded once the son of Uther grew tired of her.
Balinor wished to see no more of this folly, and took the opportunity to stalk away from the clearing, contemplating her ludicrous last words. Children of his own, ha! Yet another dream Uther Pendragon shattered. He smiled thinly, the press of his lips hardened by bitterness.
Pendragons are heartless creatures. One day this silly little girl with Hunith’s eyes will find out too.
_-_-_
Balinor rose to birdsong and a fine morning. En-route to the mouth of his cave, he came across the trespassers, and found the girl curled up by Pendragon’s foot with her back to the wall. Ah, the pet, Balinor thought, because embellishments to the truth infuriate him. Sleeping at her master’s feet.
He strode past them, and went down to the forest in order to replenish his herbs. By the time he arrived back at the stream, the girl had woken, perched on a large rock by the mouth of the cave.
She raised her voice when she saw him. “Is last night’s answer your final decision?”
“Yes.” He replied from where he stands. “You two will leave as soon as Pendragon wakes.”
“But – ”
“My answer is final.” He turned away from her, and she took to staring at him sullenly from her seat. He did not look back, because no matter how great her hatred for his refusal was, his own for Uther ran far deeper still. Uther brought about his downfall twenty-one years ago when he campaigned against magic, slaughtered whole races and forced the scant survivors into hiding without hope for any rest, plagued by Pendragon’s merciless rage far beyond his boarders – what is the weight of those lives in the rotten state of Camelot in the face of Uther Pendragon’s crimes? If Merlin of Camelot curses him for the inescapable death of all she loves, so be it, for Uther had done much worse to Balinor and his brethren. Vengeance for vengeance, blood for blood: the balance of the Old Religion must be kept.
The strange stalemate lasted for a long while, until Prince Arthur made his presence known with wild exclamations and an ignorant sense of entitlement. Balinor will teach this heir of a ruthless beast his place. “I will not help Uther – and if Camelot falls, so be it.”
“Have you no conscience?” The prince exclaimed, impassioned and affronted.
How dare he! How dare the murderer’s son say such a thing! The child of one whose hands are stained with blood, never to be washed away! “You should ask that question of your father.” Balinor hissed.
The girl whirled around to face him with molten anger in her eyes, lashing out on behalf of her princeling with teeth bared like a hunting hound. “You’re no better than him!” Despite Balinor turning his back on her and Uther’s blood storming away in the opposite direction, she continued. “Gaius spoke highly of the nobility of dragonlords.” She spat. “Clearly he was wrong.”
The mention of his old friend stopped Balinor in his tracks. How could this girl know of Gaius? This could only mean Gaius is still at the accursed place. Why hadn’t Gaius escaped when Kilghrrah had gotten free? Or when Uther’s frenzied war against magic swept through Camelot and the lands beyond? “Gaius? At Camelot?” He asked. For the first time he sounded unsure.
“Yes.” Her voice rang out in the clearing like the heavy beat of dragon wings, once upon a time.
His old friend stayed behind in the most dangerous place in Albion – Balinor had seen the handiwork of a dragon’s rage firsthand once before, and he did not wish that on his friend. But he cannot aid Uther. He cannot. Uther deserved vengeance.
But does Gaius? “A good man.” He offered as a consolation, both to himself and the girl. “A good man.” He doesn’t know if he could walk away when Gaius’ life is in danger, not when he helped Balinor escape in the dead of night when Balinor was about to be executed.
“Yeah.” She said in a choking whisper with a flickering smile, blinking away the tears threatening to well in her eyes. “I was hoping you’d be like him.”
It was like a blow to the gut.
“Merlin!” The Prince bellowed at the edge of the stream. “Don’t waste your breath on him! We must hurry back to Camelot!”
“I – ” She said desperately to Balinor, before Uther Dragon-slayer’s son cleaved her words in half.
“We must leave now!”
She turned to follow the heir of a doomed kingdom to their deaths, but she looked back at Balinor with hurt resignation. He wondered if her expression was at all similar to Hunith’s when she woke to his disappearance. “There’s no point, is there?” She shrugged helplessly when Arthur Pendragon called for her the third time, already mounted on his stallion.
Soon they disappeared into the forest in a clatter of hooves, leaving Balinor with the ashen taste of Gaius’ death on his tongue and Hunith’s eventual grief when she finds out his demise. Could he choose to stand by and do nothing while death comes for his dear friend?
There was no choice at all. Damn Uther Oath-breaker and his Camelot, but Balinor could not damn Gaius to a fate he did not deserve. His mind made up, Balinor dashed into his home for the past seventeen years, hunting for an old relic. He ripped through the contents of a chest hidden deep within the twisting paths of his cave, until he found his father’s mail -- shook it out -- wrapped its dull gleam about him -- and hurried after the strange girl and her prince.