> Are you, are you comin' to the tree

>

> Where necklace of hope, side by side with me?

>

> Strange things did happen here, no stranger would it be

>

> If we met at midnight in the hanging tree

>

> Song by James Newton Howard

"I..." Baal hesitated, a knot tightening in his throat, "I shouldn't..."

"Do you want to go to Ravendrift?" The old man's voice softened, losing its teasing edge.

"More than anything," Baal admitted, the words laced with a yearning he couldn't suppress.

"What's stopping you? Are you hiding from someone?" The old man tilted his head, curiosity glinting in his eyes.

"From myself, I guess."

The old man chuckled, "Ah, ourselves—a foe even kings are wary of confronting. But you, Baal, are no king. Rumour has it you're not even a duke!"

Baal couldn't help but smile at the old man's jest, but the tension remained, knotted up with his unspoken fears and past mistakes.

Baal pivoted toward the man, his voice tinged with irony. "What do you mean by such generous assessments of my character?"

"What I mean, young demon lord is the only thing holding you back is yourself. Quite a pitiful reason to lose a fight, don't you think?" The old man shot back.

"You're pushing quite hard for me to cross into forbidden territory," Baal observed, a note of suspicion creeping into his voice.

"Forbidden only by your own heart," the old man said, flashing a knowing smile. "Come on, you need some warm food, clean clothes, and a soft bed. If you still feel like a coward tomorrow, you can come right back here. No one will stop you, you know."

Baal sniffed at his own attire, realizing it had been days since he'd seen warm water, let alone soap.

He sighed, deciding to use the offer of comfort as an excuse to step into the cart. "You're no ordinary old man, are you?"

"Me?" The old man laughed heartily as he slapped the reins, urging the ancient mule forward. "I'm as ordinary as they come!"

As the cart ambled along, Baal had to admit that the old man had a point. Whether it was a path toward redemption or damnation, Ravendrift seemed to be where all roads led him, willingly or not.

Baal gazed upward, realizing that while travelling on foot might be faster, he wouldn't have the luxury of soaking in the night sky. "Who are you?"

"I'm just me," the old man replied, nonchalant.

"Don't you have a name?"

"I have many names."

"Which one do you prefer?"

"Myrddin," the old man repeated, emphasizing the syllables as if savouring a long-lost tune. "But folks usually mangle it, so Merlin it is."

Baal's eyes widened slightly, a spark of recognition flashing in his demonic gaze. The name Merlin was woven into myths and legends, a narrative tapestry that felt worlds apart from the hellish matters Baal usually concerned himself with.

As the cart's wheels squeaked and groaned, turning in a slow rhythm, the atmosphere intensified. With each rotation, Baal felt as if he were sinking deeper into an enigma, navigating a road paved with uncertainties and mysteries.

Unperturbed, Merlin sat beside him, exuding an air of calm wisdom. He seemed to exist in a temporal bubble, undisturbed by the pressing concerns that gnawed at Baal. Then, as if reading his mind, Merlin turned his gaze toward him.

"The Merlin?" Baal finally asked, unable to contain his curiosity any longer.

Merlin chuckled softly, his eyes twinkling like stars. "Perhaps."

"Perhaps?" Baal echoed, arching an eyebrow.

"There are many stories about me—some grounded in truth, some mere products of imaginative storytelling. The real question isn't 'Who am I?' but rather 'Who cares?'"

Baal's gaze shifted away for a moment as if catching a wisp of a long-forgotten memory. "She was... I mean, I knew someone who was really fascinated by the tales of Avalon."

"Did she now?"

"Yeah, she was Team Morgaine," Baal added, a chuckle escaping his lips.

Merlin laughed in return, his aged features momentarily invigorated. "Ah, the charm of folklore. You know, people have a way of romanticizing things. Quite frankly, some of the stories penned about us are more captivating than the real events they're based on."

After a stretch of silence, Merlin spoke again. "And the tongue. The tongue is a fulcral element. A good story with a sour taste won't be everyone's cup of tea, and the same if too sweet."

Baal looked ahead, the gates of Ravendrift finally coming into view. He was here, at last. "Truth," he finally muttered.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

"But let's clarify something, young demon," Merlin interjected, his voice taking on a more serious tone. "I'm not the Merlin of legend, just as you aren't the Grand Duke Baal of ancient texts."

Baal turned to Merlin, a hint of disappointment clouding his eyes. "For a moment, I actually thought I was conversing with the legendary wizard."

"That," said the old man, bursting into hearty laughter, "was the fun of it!"

Stopping the cart in front of a dilapidated brick-and-wood house that looked like it was moments away from collapsing, Merlin beamed. "Ah, home sweet home! Don't let the exterior fool you. Inside, it's fit for a duke!"

Stepping into the house, Baal quickly found that Merlin's claim was, at best, an exaggeration. Peeling wallpaper adorned the walls, and the air was thick with dust. The furniture was an assemblage of scratched, wobbly pieces, some of which were missing legs. Cobwebs hung from the corners of the ceiling like forgotten decorations, and Baal could have sworn he heard the scurrying of a mouse somewhere in the shadows.

Despite the less-than-regal surroundings, Merlin looked completely at ease, as if the shabby interior were the grand palace he'd claimed it to be.

Baal hesitated, searching for a word that would kindly sum up the dilapidated state of Merlin's home. But before he could find the correct phrase, Merlin chimed in, brimming with enthusiasm, "One man's trash is another's treasure!"

"I didn't mean—" Baal began, realizing he'd been caught in his unspoken judgment. But Merlin appeared unbothered, already darting into the kitchen.

"Soup will be ready in no time! Make yourself comfortable," Merlin hollered over the clatter of pots and pans.

Surveying his options, Baal gingerly placed his backpack on a threadbare couch that had seen better days. "Do you need help with anything?" he called out, trying to make himself heard over the noise from the kitchen.

"Just take off your shoes!" Merlin shouted back. His voice tinged with glee as if the very act of removing footwear would make Baal an official guest in his humble abode.

Baal looked down at his boots and then at the floor, which was littered with miscellaneous debris. "You've got to be kidding me," he muttered under his breath. However, he had to admit that even a dirty, rundown house was better than the alternatives he'd been facing lately. With a resigned sigh, he unbuckled his boots and stepped out of them.

The moment his feet made contact with the floor, a sudden transformation swept through the house. It was as if someone had solved a Rubik's Cube of interior design. The dingy wallpaper vanished, replaced by richly coloured tapestries and intricate murals. Dust and debris gave way to sumptuous rugs. What had once looked like a shabby old house now seemed a palatial dwelling, filled with an array of rooms that showcased a life well-lived.

For a moment, Baal stood there, stunned. It was like witnessing a flower blooming in fast-forward, as if the house itself had waited for the perfect moment to reveal its true self in the right light and at the right time.

"Wow," Baal exclaimed, his eyes scanning every intricate detail of the transformed space. The ornate drawings on the wallpaper, the flawless flames flickering in the fireplace and the candles—all were crafted with a level of skill that suggested a master of transformative magic had been at work. Even Baal himself wasn't sure he could have done better.

"The soup is ready!" Merlin called from the kitchen, his voice breaking Baal's reverie. Baal was slightly disappointed to see that Merlin himself remained unchanged, still appearing as a very wrinkled old man.

"It's a..." Baal started, wanting to offer a compliment, but Merlin cut him off with a knowing smirk.

"As I said, one man's trash is another's treasure," Merlin quipped, gesturing for Baal to join him at the table for their humble meal. "But I must admit, I'm surprised a simple illusion could so bewilder you. How old are you, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Twenty-six," Baal replied, sipping cautiously from the hot spoon.

"Oh my, oh my, twenty-six? I've never met a demon that young! You're quite far from the Nethersphere, aren't you? And so young, yet with such fine talent. You must have trained relentlessly, day and night!"

"Something like that, yes," Baal answered vaguely, not particularly keen on delving into his own past.

"A demon on a mission..." Merlin mused, an impish grin spreading across his face.

"Not anymore. My contract was fulfilled. Now, I'm just a wandering demon," Baal admitted, letting his eyes drift towards the steaming bowl of soup before him.

"Wandering? You look bored!"

Baal looked at Merlin, feeling as though the old man had an uncanny ability to read him like an open book. It was disconcerting. "Well, it's hard to find things interesting after—"

Merlin leaned in, placing his slender, wrinkled index finger over Baal's lips. "Shush, pain is a very intimate experience. It's a feeling so personal that it should only be shared with those who truly deserve a piece of your heart. Don't give it away like a cheap deal!"

The rest of the dinner unfolded in a thoughtful silence. Baal watched, captivated, as dishes and pots cleaned themselves, hovering in the air and scrubbing off any leftover food. The magic in Merlin's humble abode flowed like a well-conducted symphony—each movement perfectly timed, every note pitch-perfect. It was a display of magical finesse that Baal realized few mages could genuinely claim.

After a quiet dinner, Merlin pointed Baal toward a room, mentioning that he could wear anything he found in the closet after a well-deserved bath. Freshly showered, Baal rummaged through the wardrobe. The selection was limited—mainly comfortable pyjamas that he now wore. Yet, one item caught his attention: a crisp white tuxedo. It seemed an odd inclusion, but then again, everything about this night had been odd.

Satisfied with his pyjamas but still wondering about the tuxedo, Baal decided to explore the house. Though it appeared splendid, it was still a small dwelling. Upon reaching Merlin's door, which stood invitingly ajar, he saw the old man engrossed in a book. Sensing Baal's approach, Merlin looked up and beckoned him inside.

"Come in; the room won't bite... I think," Merlin said, adding yet another layer to the evening's enigmatic atmosphere.

Baal chuckled as he stepped into the room, only to find himself puzzled again. The room was lined with rows upon rows of empty shelves as if in anticipation of something yet to come.

"Will these be enough?" Merlin asked, gesturing to the barren wooden structures.

"I suppose so, but once again, I don't have enough jars to fill them."

"I'll purchase some tomorrow after the funeral," Merlin remarked, absentmindedly flipping a page in his book.

"A funeral? You're going to die tomorrow?" Baal questioned, his eyes widening in genuine concern.

Merlin burst into a deep, hearty laugh. It resonated throughout the house, filling every corner with its infectious warmth to the point where tears formed at the corners of his eyes. "No, no, it's not my funeral. It's the funeral of a friend of mine. You might have heard of her."

"I have?" Baal asked, curiosity knitting his brows.

"Rosemary Elisabete Mere Morningstar, or Rosie to her friends," Merlin revealed, putting a sentimental emphasis on the name.

"I never met her," confirmed Baal.

"Very kind soul, but the Hallow got the best of her in her last years. I suspect sadness stores the barrier between it and the host. She was miserable and chased everyone away. A really sad story." Merlin babbled with his mind lost in past years.

"I thought it feeds only in magic," asked Baal.

"True, it feeds in magic. It keeps it quiet. But it isn't the first Morningstar that is ravaged by the Hallow, but it is just a suspicion. Old man thinking."

"What do you mean exactly?"

"As I said, is just..."

"I need to know!" pressed on Baal.

"And I will tell you, be patient, young demon. I'm not going to die tomorrow. We have plans, as I said."

"I can't go with you," Baal said.

"You can't, or you won't?"

Baal didn't say a word because Baal didn't know how to lie.

"Well, it is settled. Tomorrow, you and I have plans. Now go rest!"