AFTERWARDS, AS I LAY DROWSING with my head on his shoulder and the warmth of his breath a soft tickle against my hair, he stirred all at once and said, “Merlin.”
“Merlin?” I raised myself on one elbow and looked down at him. “A hawk?”
His fair hair was rumpled, and he must have been asleep, as well, because he squinted a little at the shafts of sunlight that filtered through the branches at the tunnel’s entrance. He shook his head, one hand rubbing the space between his eyes. “No … my name.”
I must have given a start of surprise, because his hand came up to brush my hair, just lightly, even as his gaze clouded and his brow furrowed in an effort of remembrance. “I was lying here, listening to the birds outside, and I heard one—a merlin, I thought. And then it seemed as though . . as though I’d heard the word before. As though it belonged to me. Or perhaps not ‘merlin’ quite, but something like it. It felt right, just for a moment, as though I could remember being called that, sometime before now. But—” He stopped and let out a breath of frustration, shaking his head again. “But it’s gone now. Now I’m just … remembering that I remembered it. It’s not a real memory any more.”
I could hear the bird calls from the forest outside, soft chirps and twitters and the high, wild cry of the hawk he must have heard.
“I’m sorry.” I could see the lost, shadowed look had crept back into his eyes, and I touched his cheek. “I wish I could give you back your true name, whoever you were before.”
He drew his knees up, resting his chin on his crossed hands and staring at the opposite wall. The Sight-blinded look was gone from his eyes, but his look was distant, all the same, as though he listened to a voice from far off.
“I was a warrior.” His fingers clenched and unclenched themselves. “I must have been, my body remembers it, even if it’s wiped clean from my mind. But I—when I fought with Bron, I knew what to do even without thinking. I wished for a knife. And I knew already how it would feel in my hand, what it would be like to slide the blade between his ribs. As though I’d done it a hundred times before. I could almost feel the blood, hear the little grunt of pain he’d give when the knife found his heart.”
I must have made some movement, some small sound because he turned and looked at me, eyes stricken. He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t know whose warrior I was, or for whose cause I fought, who I supported in what you tell me of the war for Britain’s throne.” A brief, wry smile pulled at the edges of his mouth. “Save that it was not Vortigern. But I don’t—”
And then he stopped, frowning as though searching for the right words. “I don’t know what I was before I woke in Vortigern’s prison cell. I don’t know what these hands of mine may have done. I think in truth”—the shadow crossed his face again—“that I would rather not know, though that may be the coward’s choice.”
He held out his hands, the pale golden sunlight dappling his skin. “But since my past is gone, I have nothing else to give but this body, these hands. You saved my life this day and gave me … gave me far more than I deserve. Just in seeing myself reflected in your eyes. A man I might not be ashamed to be. Merlin—”
He stopped, and then he smiled just a little as he spoke the word. “Merlin, whoever he may prove to be, is yours, then. And besides—” he drew my mouth back to his and kissed me with the same earnest, heart-stopping wonder of before. I felt him smile against my lips. A truer smile, this time. “I think you’d always have had the power to make me forget my own name.”