Chapter Text
The council chamber of the Aerie was sealed for the duration of this discussion. A long, crescent table of dark-polished wood dominated the chamber. It was a new feature that had been added per Merlin’s recommendation. After all, paperwork was often required for council sessions to be conducted accurately and completely.
The normal twelve councilors sat along its curve. At the head stood Balinor, ready to let the others discuss their options before making the final decision. To his right sat Merlin, a newer presence that brought with him intimate knowledge of the magic of the land and how the royal inner councils functioned.
The anticipation was palpable as the councilors waiting for Balinor to begin. Balinor did not waste time.
“The Mournwood cannot be approached as a battlefield,” he began, his voice steady and firm. “Nor as a simple diplomatic envoy. You all understand what it is.”
A murmur of assent filled the chamber.
It was Lord Eadric Thorne, a broad-shouldered man with iron-grey hair, who spoke first. “We understand the danger. What we do not yet agree on is who we send into it.”
“That is precisely why we are here,” Balinor replied.
He gestured slightly to Merlin, who picked up the explanation.
“You don’t navigate the Mournwood the way you would any other terrain. You can enter it with no issues, but once inside, direction stops making sense. You can walk straight and return to where you began without knowing how. The grief there…” Merlin continued, slower now. “It is not ambient. It is invasive. It presses and searches as it attempts to take hold of whatever weakness it finds.”
A few of the councilors shifted uncomfortably at the description.
“Those with strong mental discipline can weather it,” he added. “Charms that calm intense emotion will help. But even then—” He paused. “—it is not a matter of resisting once. It is a test of mental endurance.”
“And the reason we’re considering this expedition?” asked Lady Aelfgifu Wren.
Merlin’s gaze lowered, just slightly.
“The last of my children, Myrrdin. Though they may not know his true identity yet, Mordred and Morgana send small teams to search for him in the Mournwood. From Elric’s report, Myrrdin is able to rebuff them despite whatever has happened to his memory. And that mental injury is likely why he has lasted so long in the Mournwood.”
That final statement settled heavily over the chamber. Though it wasn’t long before the debate began in earnest.
“We send soldiers,” Lord Eadric insisted. “Disciplined men. Veterans. Those who have faced fear and loss before.”
“And watched them break under something they cannot strike?” countered Sir Oswin, a lean man with a strategist’s mind. “Steel is useless against grief.”
“We cannot send children either,” Eadric snapped.
“No one is suggesting we do.”
“They must be more than strong,” said Lady Mildthryth, hands folded calmly before her. “They must be centered and resolved. The Mournwood will exploit anything unresolved within them.”
“Then we send no one,” muttered Godric, one of the original members of the Order. “Because who among us is untouched?”
That question seemed to linger, no one willing to speak up after that.
Balinor let the silence linger longer than usual. He needed his council to truly think about this, not just spout out their favorites or only those they are close with. After close to 30 minutes, he spoke up.
“We are not choosing the strongest,” he said. “We are choosing the most stable under pressure we do not fully understand.”
His gaze shifted across the table.
“And we are choosing those who can reach him.”
That last point brought clarity to one.
“The twin,” said Lady Aelfgifu immediately. “If anyone can draw Myrrdin out, it would be his brother.”
A ripple of agreement spread, though it was not unanimous.
“He is also the most vulnerable,” Lady Mildthryth countered. “Shared history cuts both ways.”
“It also creates a connection few others have,” Merlin said quietly.
All eyes turned to him. Merlin did not elaborate further, but he didn’t need to. Balinor nodded once.
“Iseldir is under consideration.”
“Then he should not go alone.”
The voice came from Lord Blythe, who had thus far remained silent and watchful during the meeting. Now, however, there was a quiet insistence behind his words.
“If we are relying on a familial bond to reach Myrrdin,” Blythe continued, “then we should not rely on only one.”
A few heads turned. Others narrowed their eyes, already anticipating where this was going.
“The Emrys line carries… weight,” he said carefully. “Influence. If one voice fails to reach him, another may succeed where it cannot.”
“And who would you suggest?” asked Sir Oswin, though his tone suggested he already knew.
Blythe did not hesitate.
“Balinor.”
A low murmur of agreement followed almost immediately.
“He is the elder brother,” said Lord Wren, leaning forward slightly. “If anyone holds authority in Myrrdin’s eyes—”
“And presence,” added Lord Eadric. “If the Mournwood presses the mind, we send the one most capable of standing firm against it.”
“His will alone—” began Godric, shaking his head in something close to reluctant admiration.
Even Lady Mildthryth did not immediately object. The momentum built quickly. It was the first suggestion of the night that seemed to unify rather than divide. All eyes turned to Balinor.
For a moment, he said nothing.
“…No.”
The word was not raised, but it was firm.
The room stilled.
Blythe frowned. “You would refuse this?”
“I would,” Balinor replied, just as steady. “And not lightly.”
“With respect,” Eadric pressed, “you are the strongest candidate we have for this. If this mission hinges on reaching Myrrdin—”
“It does,” Balinor said, cutting in. “Which is precisely why I will not jeopardize it.”
A flicker of confusion moved through the chamber.
“You believe you would hinder it?” Oswin asked.
Balinor’s gaze shifted—not to Oswin, but briefly to Merlin. Then to Oswin. His next words were formed deliberately as they left his mouth.
“I am not as whole as I appear.”
That quiet admission carried more weight than any raised voice.
“You have recovered,” Blythe insisted. “It has been years.”
“Five,” Balinor said. “Five years since I was freed from Morgana’s prison. And I have done the work to mend what she broke.”
“But not all wounds remain closed.”
A faint tension crept into Merlin’s posture, though he said nothing.
Eadric exhaled sharply. “You are speaking of ghosts. Old damage. You have led, fought, commanded without hesitation—”
“And a few months ago,” Balinor said, more quietly now, “a mage-lord loyal to Morgana reached past our fortifications using dark magic for his own experimentation… and tore those ‘ghosts’ open again.”
That silenced the room. They all remembered that harrowing week, not knowing where the attack came from nor how to stop it before it seemed to stop all on its own.
“I held. I did not break. But the damage was done.”
He met Blythe’s gaze directly now.
“And I am still healing from it.”
The earlier momentum unraveled, replaced with uneasy understanding. Lady Mildthryth was the first to speak again, softer now.
“The Mournwood would not simply test that weakness,” she said. “It would find it… and tear it apart.”
Balinor inclined his head once. “Exactly.”
Eadric did not look convinced, but neither did he argue further.
After a moment, Blythe exhaled and leaned back.
“…Then we do not send you.”
“No,” Balinor said. “You do not.”
His gaze swept the table once more, reclaiming control of the room.
“You send those who can endure what is there without risking collapse from what is already within them.”
The direction of the discussion shifted again—this time more carefully.
“Sorelia,” came another voice—Lord Wulfric, who had remained silent during the more recent discussion.
Several heads turned.
“She has already proven she can withstand Morgana’s influence,” he continued. “She walked into catacombs and came back with Merlin himself.”
At that, even Eadric did not argue.
“She is strong,” Mildthryth agreed. “But strength alone—”
“She is more than that,” Merlin said, and this time there was iron beneath the quiet. “She endured harrowing events during and after the usurping, along with witnessing the loss of her mother just over a year ago, and did not fracture. That matters.”
Balinor inclined his head.
“Sorelia is under consideration.”
“We will need a guide,” Sir Oswin added. “Or the closest thing we can manage.”
“Not a guide,” corrected Cenric Holloway, a ranger by trade. “Someone who can identify and read patterns.”
He leaned forward slightly.
“You mentioned earlier that the Mournwood repeats itself. That trees bend the same way, fog cycles and sound travels along fixed lines if you listen long enough.”
A few brows furrowed.
“You’ve studied it,” Balinor noted.
“Only the written reports of your discussion with Elric and other reports from our other scouts,” Cenric replied. “I would not claim mastery, but I know what kind of mind notices those things.”
“And that is?” Eadric asked.
“A scout who watches before moving.”
“Elliot,” Oswin said.
Cenric nodded once. “Elliot.”
There was less resistance to that name than the others.
“Elliot is under consideration,” Balinor confirmed.
“That leaves one more,” said Lady Mildthryth.
“A healer,” she added before anyone else could speak.
“A liability,” Eadric countered immediately.
“A necessity,” she replied just as quickly. “The Mournwood does not only threaten the mind. Prolonged exposure will likely wear the body as well. And it’s possible another enemy team will also enter the Mournwood and encounter our own team.”
“Then send one of your senior healers,” Eadric pressed.
“They are not suited to this,” Mildthryth said. “Most rely on structure, rituals, and stability. The Mournwood offers none of those. We should send Maya.”
“The druid?” Oswin asked.
“She adapts,” Mildthryth said. “She listens to environments rather than imposing order upon them. If anyone can attune to the Mournwood without being consumed by it, it would be her.”
“And her mind?” Eadric pressed.
“Steadier than most you would consider ‘strong,’” Lady Mildthryth replied.
Balinor gave a small nod.
That seemed to settle it more than anything else.
Silence fell again.
All eyes returned to Balinor.
He did not rush the decision, but neither did he prolong it unnecessarily. He had heard enough.
When he spoke, it was final.
“Iseldir,” he said. “For the bond he shares with Myrrdin—and the risk that entails. Sorelia. For her familial bond and proven mental resilience despite her harrowing experiences. Elliot. For pattern recognition and navigation under uncertainty. And Maya. For adaptive healing and environmental attunement.”
He let the weight of those choices settle.
“This is not a mission of force. It is a mission of endurance… and of reaching someone who may not wish to be reached.”
His gaze hardened slightly.
“You are not choosing who is most capable of surviving the Mournwood. You are choosing who has the best chance of bringing Myrrdin back from it.”
No one spoke after that.
Not because there were no objections left, but because there were no others strong and capable enough to matter further discussion.