True North (Stand Tall 3)

Part Four: Closer

"Eat your soup, Merlin," his uncle told him, as the young man shared his woes without words. "I'm sure tomorrow will bring answers."

"But it's been days, Gaius, and nothing is any clearer," he said, impatience boiling to the surface. It was a rare thing to see him this annoyed about the Dane, or anything she'd done. Or about any of her consorts. He shook his head, glowering down into his bowl. "I don't like any of these - these raiders. The eldest is as false as anything, and I don't trust Björn - who knows what they want with Braith. And oh, she's made herself so scarce at court, I barely see her save a few words in the hall and a... rushed kiss on the cheek." His words began in frustration and ended with a sad sigh.

"Well are you worried about the Northmen, or about Braith?"

"For the sake of Camelot and its king, I'm worried about what Halfdan might want with these lands. But for myself... I don't know," he shrugged and turned his eyes to the fire, before a sigh rattled through his teeth. The same few thoughts circled around in his mind. Who was Björn to Braith? Why was she so terrified of Halfdan? "She used to be so happy, Gaius," Merlin spoke, watching the flames flare and fade around each other like opponents in a castle courtyard. "These days she barely smiles for more than a moment... What did these people do to her?"

Silence was his only reply.

"I'm sorry, but I don't think I can eat any more. I'll try to get some sleep." He stood from the table, and bid his guardian a hasty goodnight.

"Merlin," the old man called out as his nephew was about to reach the door. The young man turned. "Whatever happens, you should know not to blame yourself."

The warlock gave a breathy laugh. "But I can always blame myself, can't I? Its all destiny's plan."

---

He had wet crow feathers for hair.

In the night, again, heavy sweat drenched and drowned him. His eyes, half-open, did not see as he writhed like some wounded, dying thing, gasping for breath as if he was being strangled by another ghost.

But he was not aware of his body, or his bedroom. He slid his fingertips across the rough rock beside him. Wet sand stuck to his bare feet, and his nightclothes were buffeted by the wind off the water as he made his way down to the shore. There was no cry of gulls, but instead the crow of ravens in a thick salty silence. There were people on the beach, but the warlock was a soul alone.

They were only bodies.

The tide was a red tongue, lapping at the sand.

Some of the fallen warriors wore a familiar crest upon the shoulder of their cape. Northumbria. Some wore only brown robes, and had a spot on their head shaved clean. Unarmed monks. Other bodies had collapsed beneath painted round shields that had come from across the sea. Swords and axes, blondes and brunettes, old and young, men and women, Northmen and Northumbrian. Hacks, stabs, bashes. Grisly wounds and grisly weapons.

Merlin felt sick.

He leant on the rocky crags for support, the opposite hand clapping over his mouth although he could already feel the bile in his throat. A silver cross glinted at him from the blood-spattered sand. His eyes could not leave the atrocity before him, and he wondered why he had come here. 

And then he saw.

On a hill at the far end of he beach, there was a fort on fire. Lindisfarne - he'd read about this. The Northmen's first raid on Albion.

His eyes roved over lifeless masses, trying to reconcile the feeling with the fact before they came to rest on a heart-stopping scene. Down the beach lie another warrior, face in the sand with long black hair twisting in the gusts, fallen atop her great shield.