by Tim O'Dell

Created on: June 11, 2009

Excerpt from: Legend's Turn

Hecate waits. She feels him coming; that wizard, that meddler, that dolt. For this moment she has waited a lifetime. Ever since he had taken the lad under his wing; he had spoiled her plans, kept her from achieving her dream. Merlin; she would have her revenge.

The time approaches. From the mist come echoes of conversation; conversation past, future conversation, conversations that could never be. For Hecate lives without time. Her dwelling is in-between worlds. In the spaces between one existence and another, she lurks. In the non-light of a world without sun, moon, or stars she plots and plans.

The steam from her pot brings the scent of roots and things long dead. The stew she brews is not for eating. It is a potion of drawing. It calls across time and space to the one she must meet. Merlin feels only the tingling of its steam, a hint of mystery, a touch of some urgent clamour.

Merlin knows he may be going to his doom, yet go he must. Arthur is now king. He rules the Isle of Avalon with fairness, gentility, wisdom. Merlin is aging; his work here is almost complete. For a while now he has had brief visions of the future. Though it is unclear, he feels he is at a hub; a hub with many branches, each one a different destiny.

Merlin feels the conjunction of existences. He knows now is a time of fate, of history, of fortune. He sits in his study for a final time and ponders his belongings. Reclining in his chair of velvet cloth, he slowly picks up Morgan le Fay's parchment; the scroll that Arthur gave him once his half-sister had been banished from the land. Once more Merlin reads the dire prediction, "Once Arthur rules over all the land; Merlin shall die by witches hand."

Merlin looks up at his window. Through the rippled planes of glass he can see the sullen, cold, brooding glow of a new moon. The clear night sky allows its light to bathe the room in a ghostly pall. Merlin breaths deeply, taking in the pine-sharp scent of his surroundings. The many herbs, potions, adornments he surrounds himself with remind him of his beloved forests of Caledonia. He knows this may be his last sight of them.

Merlin glides silently through the castle. Down from his lofty tower. Down past his King's chambers. Down to the stables he walks. In the dead of night Merlin greets Fairwind, his black stallion, his companion, his friend. He strokes the horse's muzzle, gently. He passes his arm around the noble steed's neck and whispers in its ear. "Farewell, faithful friend. Our paths may never cross again. But know this. You served me well, and I love you greatly." The horse looks with saddened eye; it knows it may never have a better master.

Merlin departs from the castle, walking into the shadows, the darkness, the night. His step is mournful for his fate approaches. Entering the ancient trees that border the castle, he walks towards the dense mist that clings to the deepest copse. Halting briefly, he gathers his powers. For he knows he will need them now more than ever. Then, purposefully, he strides into the convergence. The place where time, space, history is suspended. The place where Hecate waits.

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