Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mordred and his soldiers returned to the main Anglo-Saxon fort from their reconnaissance to the western border of the Saxon Shore. Morgana’s army had been greatly reduced after their defeat in the White Mountains, but the alliance with the Anglo-Saxon forces on the east coast remained strong. Since Morgana had not returned to her stronghold, Mordred had garrisoned the soldiers with their allies in the string of Anglo-Saxon forts.

From what Mordred had seen of Lot’s defences along the border between Essetir and the Anglo-Saxon lands, the Saxons would not be eager to attack again without superior numbers or the presence of Morgana herself. But once she returned there was no doubt of another assault on Camelot. Mordred needed only to wait until either the Saxons decided their appetite for more land justified an incursion against Camelot and her allies, or Morgana found yet another ally to support her next assault against her brother. In either case Arthur’s arrogance ensured that he would be the one to lead his troops into battle and Mordred would have the opportunity to face his sworn enemy in battle. Then the prophecy he had seen would come true and Arthur would die for taking Kara’s life. Mordred fought the familiar wave of guilt at how he had put such trust in Camelot’s king when he should have known the man was nothing but a brute.

Mordred gave the soldiers under his command their orders and handed his mount to a stable boy. Although he found the guttural Saxon language grating compared to the fluid sound of the Druid tongue, he had mastered enough phrases to communicate easily with the soldiers.

He reported as ordered to the Anglo-Saxon “king”. An emblem of two horse heads conspicuously marked the entrance to what was now referred to as Osla’s throne room. Mordred thought derisively that it was pure pretension for a Saxon to claim the title of a king on these shores where they were unwelcome intruders.

“Mordred!” Osla boomed. “Come forward, boy, and give me your report.”

Mordred gave a perfunctory bow to the burly, blonde-haired man on his throne. “We have tested Lot’s defenses all along the border of his lands and his forces are strong enough to hold his own territory, but there is no indication he intends to expand his boundaries at your expense.”

Osla nodded to indicate he had expected such information, and to continue.

“Now that Lot has allied Essetir and Lothian with Camelot he will also be able to defend against any incursion you might make,” Mordred continued. “Camelot’s knights are the finest in this or any land.” He could not prevent a trace of pride from colouring his tone when speaking of his former comrades.

A fleeting grin crossed the Anglo-Saxon commander’s face at hearing the note of pride. “Well, boy, if you are an example of their fighting men than I do not doubt they have earned their reputation. However, you have seen my soldiers in battle and know their skill.”

“Yes, my lord,” Mordred acknowledged.

Osla regarded the young man in front of him in silent contemplation. He appeared to be barely into his manhood yet Morgana had seen fit to put him in command of her army. “What has happened to that black-haired witch you pledged your allegiance to?” Osla questioned.

Mordred answered honestly, “I do not know what has become of Morgana.”

“Shame to lose such a powerful ally,” Osla mused. “Then I will lay out my offer to you. There is a place here for you and those who are loyal to you. I will furnish you with your own rooms here in the main fort as one of my commanders.”

Mordred was surprised at the generosity of the offer.

“You and your warriors need only swear fealty to me as king.”

A sliver of reaction to that flashed across Mordred’s face before he could school his features once more.

Osla appeared to have been waiting for such a reaction. “You question my right to the title of king,” the Saxon challenged him. “Let me remind you, boy, that in my father’s father’s father’s time we were invited here to defend these shores and we were given this land to do so.”

“How much of this land?” Mordred dared to say.

The flicker of offence at that was followed by a slight smile. “As much as my people need to settle and grow their crops.”

Mordred contemplated yet another change of allegiance in a life during which he had never found a permanent home. But with the treaty alliances Arthur had forged, the Saxons were his only hope of ever facing his sworn enemy in battle, at least until he could find Morgana. Mordred focused on the vision he had seen at the shrine; a pitched battle, Arthur falling to his blade. With a grim smile touching just the corner of his mouth he gratefully accepted Osla’s offer.

Her first sight of the new lord was a pleasant surprise. Gerta had been expecting a battle-scarred veteran with the blonde hair common among her people. Instead, she laid eyes on a good-looking young man with dark curly hair and the most beautiful blue eyes she could ever remember seeing. “Welcome, my lord,” she greeted him with a respectful bow.

Her eyes remained on Mordred’s face as his gaze wandered around the quarters he had been given and came to rest on the young woman wearing the rough wool clothing common to the Anglo-Saxon working class. Her plain features were set off by lovely blonde curls which framed her face.

“I am sorry, my lord, but your supper is not yet prepared.”

“No matter,” he answered her solemnly. “I am a patient man.”

***

Mordred was not happy with the news. As he had passed the weeks in the Saxon fort waiting for word from Morgana, his patience had begun to erode and now this. Despite an urge to pace, he sat still in the chair next to his hearth. “How many of them?” he asked darkly.

“Most,” the older man sitting with him admitted. “There are a few that remain committed to Morgana’s cause but the others have either already departed or will leave shortly.”

“After decades of persecution and murder, of a sudden the laws banning magic are lifted and now they are willing to simply go home and live with the continuing fear and hate just because soldiers are not hunting them anymore?” Mordred growled.

The older man met the coldly banked fury openly displayed in eyes of the youth sitting with him. Dressed somberly and plainly, his greying hair cropped close, the man had known his share of fear and abuse solely for having the power he wielded. He had been dedicated to Morgana’s cause because of the many years he had been forced to move from town to town without anywhere to call home. But all he wanted now was the chance to find such a place and end his fight. “Yes,” he answered simply.

“Merely ceasing unjustified persecution does not wipe out years of pain and loss.”

“No,” the other man responded calmly. “But amassing an army to wipe out another army in revenge only causes more pain and loss.”

“And holds the guilty to account,” Mordred observed coldly.

The aging sorcerer had known when he came here that Morgana’s hot-headed young commander would not be willing to give up his personal fight against Camelot’s king. Yet he had wanted to tell the young man in person and try to explain. He liked and respected Mordred. Now he sighed deeply and determined he had said all he could. “I wanted to tell you myself before I depart in the morning to find somewhere to call my home.”

“I never had a home,” Mordred said in a low voice. “At least, I was never allowed to have a home for long.”

“You should find a place and make one.” The older man regarded his companion for the span of a minute. “Frankly without Morgana to take the throne, Arthur’s death will leave only anarchy. Do you know where she is or what has become of her?”

Mordred finally dropped his accusatory gaze at that question. “No,” he confessed.

“After all these months there is only one explanation for her continued absence,” the older man continued gently, knowing Mordred’s attachment to Morgana. “She is dead.”

“I will find her,” the younger man stated coldly. “I may not know what happened but I suspect I know who is responsible.”

At that moment Gerta entered the chamber to inquire whether they wanted anything.

Mordred’s guest took the opportunity to stand and announce his departure. “Godspeed,” he said in a kindly tone to his brooding host.

“Please see my guest out and then bring my supper,” Mordred instructed the girl without responding to his companion’s farewell.

“Yes, my lord.” She gave a slight curtsy. “I’ll just light the fire now.”

“Allow me.” The visitor gestured at the fireplace and the carefully laid logs sprang into flame.

Gerta let out a screech of shock and jumped backward. Both men looked at her. Seeing that the act of sorcery had not bothered either of them Gerta composed herself as quickly as she could. “I’m sorry, my lords.”

“No harm done, my dear, I can show myself out if you have other duties to attend to.” With a slight bow to his host and a final sympathetic glance he left.

Gerta looked from the visitor’s departing back to Mordred’s grim countenance as he stared intently at the burning fire. She opened her mouth as though to say a comforting word, not certain why she felt so strongly that something deeply sad lingered behind those beautiful blue eyes, then she turned and left without speaking.

When Gerta returned with his supper Mordred gave her a fleeting smile. His carefully composed features were once again the calm mask she was used to seeing.

Impulsively, Gerta said, “I’m sorry about my reaction earlier.”

He looked at her quizzically.

“Magic isn’t common among my people, I was just startled,” she explained.

Mordred nodded in understanding, then hesitated when he was about to dismiss her and eat his meal. Inexplicably when she spoke, the guttural Anglo-Saxon tongue sounded more pleasant and he found that he wanted to keep her talking. “Would it bother you to know that I have magic?”

In amazement she asked, “Could you have lit a fire without flint?”

A glimmer of a smile twitched the corner of his mouth. “My power is not great but yes, I could light a fire.”

“Is it something you can teach me, because that would save me a lot of time when the wood is damp,” she responded practically.

This time the smile settled fully on his face. “No, either you have the power or you don’t and you would know by now if you had magic.”

“Oh, well.” Gerta was not sure if she should leave or if the way he was smiling at her meant he wanted to continue talking. Their conversation so far was more words than she had heard out of him at a stretch in all these weeks.

Seeing her awkward uncertainty Mordred tried to think of something he could ask her about herself. “Why are you here in a foreign land?”

“Foreign?!” Incensed, she almost shouted the word. “My parents were born in this land and my mother’s mother and her mother’s mother! This is my homeland.” The taken aback expression on his face caused her to flush slightly as she realized her outburst was not an appropriate tone to take with her lord. His strange-sounding accent and odd dress had made her forget for a moment his position.

He interrupted her stammered apology. “I never thought of it that way,” he conceded. “Please sit with me while I eat,” he invited. When she wavered between doing as he instructed and disrespectfully sitting in his presence he gestured again for her to have a seat.

In obvious discomfort she sat bolt upright on the edge of her chair and waited for him to speak.

“Have you and your family lived here all your life, then?”

She nodded.

“I’ve never spent more than a few years in any one place,” he admitted musingly, waiting for her reaction.

“But, not even when you were a child?” she asked in surprise.

“No, not even,” he answered honestly. “When I was just a little boy and it became apparent that I had power, my father took me to the Druids. I spent many years with them but I was still young when I made some bad choices about companions.” He could only blame youth and inexperience for having fallen under Alvarr’s influence, although in truth the man had successfully manipulated older and more worldly people than Mordred himself had been. “Finally I ended up falling in with the nomadic slave traders in the north.”

Gerta looked puzzled. “But how could a noble’s son have ended up there?”

Mordred raised his eyebrows in surprise. “My birth was anything but noble.”

“But,” Gerta’s face crumpled in consternation, “how can you be a knight if you weren’t born to a noble family?”

“I saved a king’s life,” Mordred said wryly. If only he had that to do over, he thought to himself.

“Even so,” Gerta was baffled. “How can you deny your birth?”

Mordred regarded her confused look. “Among your people isn’t it possible for a working man to become a fighting man?”

“No,” she said simply.

“Well it’s rare enough among my people but it can happen.”

Gerta stared at him for a long moment. “Your people have strange ways.”

A bark of laughter escaped him at the Anglo-Saxon woman calling his people strange. “You will have to teach me the correct ways to act then,” he said.

She nodded in agreement. “I can start by sewing you some proper clothes,” she offered. “And you should always wear your seax so everyone knows you are one of the fighting men.”

He thought about all the costumes he had worn in his lifetime – the coarse Druid robes, the furs and skins of the north, the chain mail of a knight – and now it would be a woolen tunic and trousers. “I would appreciate that, Gerta.”

***

The eagerness with which Mordred received the letter she brought to him in his chamber made Gerta wonder if this was what he had been expecting these past months. Although in many ways it seemed he was perfectly content to settle in and bide his time as one of Osla’s commanders, she thought he was only passing the weeks patiently waiting for something. She stood quietly, watching the play of emotions on his face as he read whatever had been written.

To Mordred, receiving word from Morgana herself after all his inquiries had turned up not a scrap of information about her was initially a relief. Only with her claim to Camelot’s throne could Mordred hope to lead an army against Arthur. The Anglo-Saxon king was content to collect his tributes and maintain his borders without need to push further west, at least not yet. But the words he read drained his last hopes for any immediate assault against his sworn enemy.

Know that I am writing this to you with Arthur’s full knowledge and permission. I understand now why you struck me down at Ismere – you were right to do so and I thank you for stopping me from committing murder. I forgive you and hold no blame against you for standing up for what you believed to be just. Please know that I was not in my right mind at the time. I regret that later you came to me and felt you had to take up arms against Arthur when you and I both know the good man that he is. Know that I am safe and content, as I hope you are. I also pray that your memories of Kara have become a source of comfort instead of loss, and can only hope that time will heal that wound for you as eventually time heals all.

Mordred allowed the scroll of paper to fall to his lap as he stared sightlessly at the wall, shocked and confused by Morgana’s complete change of heart. He had been so certain that events would unfold the way he had seen in the prophecy – a battle, Arthur falling to his sword. Now it seemed none of that would come to pass. Without a leader strong enough to amass a force that would dare attack Camelot and her combined allies his opportunity for revenge would slip away.

When Gerta could no longer tolerate watching the disconsolate expression on his face as he sat in silence, she approached slowly and wrapped her arms around him. He leaned his head against her and put one arm around her waist.

“Is it her?” Gerta asked.

Wondering how Gerta would know anything about Morgana, Mordred looked up. “Who?”

“The woman who makes your eyes sad,” Gerta answered.

Mordred had always prided himself that none of his thoughts or emotions showed on his face unless he wanted them to. What had Gerta seen that she could ask that question? “No, Kara is dead.”

“Oh.” Gerta berated herself that she would be happy to hear such a thing but she could not stop herself from feeling relief that her rival, if there had been one, was gone. “What happened to her?”

“She was murdered,” Mordred said simply.

Gerta hugged him closer at that. No wonder he was so sad, she thought.

“I could not save her. I tried.” He regarded the scroll in his lap. “And now it seems my chance to avenge her is gone.”

Gerta kept to herself her doubts that vengeance ever led to peace. She squeezed him tighter and stroked the familiar dark curls.

***

Gathered in the council chamber of the main Anglo-Saxon fort, the group of military commanders pondered the message they had just received.

Finally the youngest of them spoke. “Can we be certain that this means Lot will invade so soon?” Mordred questioned the group. The passing years had made little impression on his features though he was nearing thirty years of age.

“Certain enough,” answered one of the other Saxon leaders. “This confirms our information that he intends to push us back to the sea and claim all this land for himself.”

The others gathered around the table indicated agreement. “Lot believes we have grown weak during these years of peace and his aggression will go unanswered.”

“We’ll need to summon the army,” Osla concluded. “Each of you begin amassing your men.”

Mordred pondered the maps in front of him as the other commanders began their exodus. When Osla indicated he should speak, Mordred outlined his suggestions for their defense. The Anglo-Saxon king nodded in approval.

“You have a good mind for strategy, boy.” The size of the blonde man standing next to him made Mordred appear fragile in comparison despite his thick woolen tunic over a shirt and the ever-present seax that gave them all a slightly menacing appearance. “Regardless of some of your strange ideas, like marrying a working man’s daughter when you could have had your choice of any of the young women of my fighting men’s families.”

Mordred chose not to respond to the familiar complaint about Gerta.

“But anything that keeps you here must be to our benefit,” Osla mused. “Are you certain I can’t arrange …”

“I have everything I want,” Mordred interrupted.

Mordred gazed fondly at his family gathered around their hearth on the evening prior to the army’s departure. The children loved to listen to their father’s stories of adventures but his tales of the Druids and the Camelot knights were their favourites. The names and places and costumes sounded exotic and none of their friends shared these special stories.

“Can I be a knight of Camelot?” the littlest boy asked at the end of the story.

Mordred looked at his son. “Aren’t you happy being a Saxon boy?”

“Can’t I be both?” Egbert asked reasonably.

His older brother snickered but Mordred chose not to debate the unlikeliness of that ambition against 3-year-old logic.

“I would rather be a Druid,” the older girl quietly observed.

Mordred regarded his eldest child. Although she looked much like her mother he wondered if Anne would show signs of the power he had shared with his own father. He had felt compelled to begin teaching her the Druid tongue and she had shown his aptitude for languages. “If you ever have need, you must feel that you can go to them for help,” he told her.

“Won’t you be there to take me to them?” his daughter asked innocently.

For a moment a sense of inescapable foreboding suffocated any answer he could make, then he shook off the premonition and replied with a reassuring smile, “Of course I will.”

“And now is time for you all to retire and let your father prepare for his march tomorrow.” Gerta rounded up the protesting children, lifting the littlest girl into her arms.

Mordred gave her a quick kiss as she herded the young ones from the room.

The expression on Gerta’s face when she returned a short time later made him leave off his preparations long enough to embrace her. “It is hardly the first time you have sent me off to battle,” Mordred pointed out reasonably.

“And every time I have to wonder when that wicked day will come,” Gerta sighed in response, hugging him tighter.

“What wicked day?” Mordred looked down questioningly at the top of her blonde head.

“The day a messenger arrives to tell a woman that her husband is not coming back from the last fight.”

A flash of the image he had seen so long ago at the shrine seared briefly through Mordred’s mind. He dismissed it and kissed Gerta’s hair. “I promise I will do nothing that might prevent me from coming back to you.”

The victory of the defending Anglo-Saxons over Lot’s invading army was decisive. Throwing taunts and threats at the retreating forces, the Saxons chose not to pursue Prince Gareth and his soldiers beyond the border. The camp that evening was full of Osla’s commanders celebrating their victory with the usual bragging and exaggerations of military might. Pleased with their success the Anglo-Saxon king noted an incongruously somber expression on Mordred’s countenance.

“We have won the day,” the blond king boomed. “You should be celebrating!”

“I do not believe Lot will abandon his dreams of conquest so easily and I fear the repercussions,” Mordred replied seriously.

An Anglo-Saxon commander with a swarthy complexion and a full black beard overheard. “Then we will rout them again!”

“We will indeed,” Osla confirmed. “If Lot dares to think his army will take this land from us.”

“Maybe he is confident in Camelot’s support,” Mordred warned.

“They would be wise not to challenge us,” the black-bearded commander boasted.

“Camelot’s knights are the finest warriors in all the kingdoms,” Mordred said gravely. “We cannot take the threat of their involvement lightly.”

Over the loud guffaws of his other commanders, Osla pondered Mordred’s words thoughtfully. He decided it would do no harm to keep the soldiers massed for at least a short time should they be needed to defend against another invasion.

***

Gareth and his attendants had ridden hard to reach Camelot. The prince himself had spent only one night at his father’s palace after their return from the Saxon defeat before leaving again to come directly to Arthur’s court. The unannounced arrival of royalty caused a great stir in Camelot’s citadel; hurried preparations were made for Gareth’s reception and accommodation.

“Please forgive the lack of ceremony,” King Arthur was saying to his guest.

“We were not expecting your visit,” Queen Guinevere added.

“Quite all right,” Gareth assured them with his customary good-natured smile. He gazed appreciatively at the queen and tossed his long, dark hair back with a flick of his head. “I apologize for the suddenness of my appearance but my father, King Lot, has sent me here regarding an urgent matter.”   Given the request he was here to make Gareth was satisfied to see that King Arthur at two score years still looked strong and capable of leading his famous knights to victory again.

Arthur had already deduced that whatever brought Gareth here must be of vital importance to Lot that he would send his son and heir to them at such a pace. He indicated that Gareth should continue.

The Prince decided the best approach in this case was to be direct and to the point, or at least as direct as King Lot would want him to be. “After years of peace the Saxons have invaded Essetir. We successfully repelled their attack but I expect that it will be only a short time before they march against us again.”

Arthur was surprised at Gareth’s words. No information had yet reached him of any fighting along the Saxon Shore.

“King Lot has sent me to remind you of the terms of our alliance and to request that your troops accompany me to defend Essetir.” Having proposed their request for military aid in the best light possible, Gareth waited for the expected response from Camelot’s king.

It had been many years since Camelot had been called to arm itself. With the end of battles between rival kingdoms, and between defenders and invaders, finally there had been a time of peace and commerce and art had flourished in Camelot. The other kings who had sworn allegiance to Arthur as High King could be trusted to keep to their own borders, as well as defend their common shores. Even the Saxons had drawn back to the line of forts they had settled along the southern and eastern coasts with no hint of hostility for many years. Yet there was no question that Arthur would refuse a request from his ally to defend their borders. “Why after all this time have they chosen to strike now?”

“Who can say?” Gareth replied. “I can only assume their numbers continue to grow with their appetite for land.”

“We’ll begin the preparations without delay,” Arthur advised Gareth, comfortingly squeezing the hand Gwen reached out to him and meeting the worry in her eyes with a confident look of reassurance.

Gareth thought his father would be proud of how cleverly his son had framed their desire to conquer the Saxon lands. Satisfied that Lothian and Essetir now had the military strength to drive the Saxons out and annex the land along Essetir’s eastern border, Gareth conveyed his gratitude for Camelot’s support.

***

“Don’t you ever knock?” Arthur remarked as Merlin entered the royal chamber. Although his friend was only slightly younger the king could not help but feel that Merlin seemed hardly to age at all while he himself felt every one of his two score years.

“Sorry, Sire,” Merlin responded unapologetically as he sat himself comfortably in a chair near the king.

“You were unnaturally silent at the Council meeting today,” Arthur observed, wondering what might be on Merlin’s mind that he would act so uncharacteristically. Usually it was all he could do to shut the man up.

Merlin did not question that the otherwise insensitive Arthur had noticed there was something on his mind. “I guess I’m just not as excited by the thought of a battle as you warriors,” Merlin evaded, not certain himself what was bothering him.

Arthur settled back in his chair and regarded his friend closely. “Seriously, what is on your mind?”

“I’m planning a trip,” Merlin said, surprising himself.

“Oh.” Arthur thought that sounded unexpected. “Where?”

“To the Valley of the Fallen Kings.” Now where had that come from? Merlin asked himself.

Arthur looked at him askance. “That place is crawling with bandits. It is not safe to travel through.” He stopped and reminded himself who he was talking to. “But that isn’t a problem for you is it?”

“Not really,” Merlin admitted.

“Do they just turn and run at the sight of you?” Arthur joked.

Merlin stared at the floor. “Sometimes.”

Arthur sobered at the lonely expression on his friend’s face. “Why are you going there?” he asked curiously.

“I intend to visit the Crystal Cave.”

Arthur was puzzled. “The what?”

Merlin shook his head. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Why do you always assume I won’t understand these things?” Arthur challenged.

The dark-haired warlock regarded his friend for a few moments. “It is the place where magic was born, where past and present and future meet.”

The king rolled his eyes at such gibberish. “I don’t understand.” He looked at the smug expression on Merlin’s face with annoyance. “You still think I’m an idiot, don’t you?”

Merlin was quick to deny that. “I do not. I think you are a wise ruler.”

Arthur had not been expecting such a reply. “Really?”

“Don’t be an idiot.”

The king drummed his fingers on the table top a moment. “You know I am the High King, ruler of all of Albion?”

“You’re welcome,” Merlin replied blithely.

“Are you ever going to show me some respect?” Arthur complained even though he already knew the answer and would not have it any other way.

“No, that’s why you keep me around,” Merlin grinned. “You got tired of the bowing and scraping before you were out of your teens. That’s also why you married Gwen.”

“I can give you numerous reasons why I married Guinevere, and none of them are because she is as irritating as you are,” Arthur retorted.

Merlin smiled. “She never let you get away with any of that supercilious behaviour.”

“You think you know everything, don’t you?” Arthur accused even though he half believed it was true.

A sober expression crossed Merlin’s face. “No,” he answered honestly. “I hope I will learn more in the Crystal Cave.”

“Are you planning to be back in time to march with us to meet the Saxons?” Arthur questioned, realizing he had just assumed that Merlin would be with them.

“Of course,” Merlin pledged. “I’ll be by your side like I always am, protecting you.”

Although the king would have disputed that he needed any protection, he felt a sense of relief at those words. “Do you think Mordred is still with the Saxons?” Arthur asked slowly.

Merlin looked sharply at him. “It’s more likely he returned to the Druids, but it is possible. Why would you ask such a thing?”

“Nothing more than that silly vision at the shrine,” Arthur said dismissively.

Merlin watched him intently. “I didn’t think you even remembered that. You never spoke of it again.”

Arthur shrugged. “It wasn’t important enough to talk about.”

“Why bring it up now?”

“I don’t know, just like I don’t know why I waste any of my time talking to you at all.” Arthur answered glibly. “If I’m going to be gone for the next few weeks I should be spending every moment I can with the beautiful woman I was smart enough to marry who is infinitely better company than you are.”

***

Merlin was grateful that Alice had accompanied him as far as Gaius’ gravesite. Despite the time that had passed he had never fully believed the old man was gone. Often Merlin found himself talking to his mentor as if he were still in the room; sometimes he even thought that Gaius answered.

Without a word Alice laid her hand on his arm as they sat side by side, her grey hair plaited into its habitual braid and hanging over her shoulder.

He looked at her, thankful for the comfort. “I know you miss him, too.”

“Of course I do,” Alice stated matter-of-factly. “But there is no call to be sad for him, he had a long life and you gave him a purpose for it. The only ones to be sad for are those of us who have to continue living without him.”

“I am sorry you had such a short time together,” Merlin offered.

“We had a few years, and frankly such a blessing was more than I thought we would ever have.” Alice patted his arm. “And that gift is thanks in no small part to you.”

Merlin dropped his gaze to the ground in embarrassment.

“And to Arthur, of course,” Alice added with a final pat.

“But that’s just it,” Merlin said slowly. “Arthur is king, and he is a good king and the land of Albion is united and a safe place for those with magic.” Merlin looked at Alice although he was not certain if he was asking her or himself. “If that was my destiny, then am I done? Is there anything more that is expected of me?”

When it seemed as if he was waiting for an answer, Alice leaned closer. “I know a little of the choices you have had to make and the sacrifices. And I understand why you may wish to finally lay this burden aside.”

Merlin was glad for Alice’s understanding. “I wouldn’t trade a minute of my life since I first set foot in Camelot,” he hastened to add. “I never found any other place that I belonged. But I didn’t ask for these gifts, I didn’t ask to bear this destiny.”

“Maybe you’re the only one who could,” Alice replied quietly. “Where is it you are going to find the answers you seek?”

“The Crystal Cave.”

Alice sat back and regarded the dark-haired young man narrowly.

Merlin recognized the slightly awed look. “You have heard of it?”

“I have,” Alice said slowly. “But I did not believe it was a real place. I always thought it was some kind of legend.” She watched him carefully. “You have been there.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes, more than once.”

“And why are you going there now?”

Merlin looked troubled. “I don’t know. I just feel like I must go.”

“Then that is exactly what you should do.” Alice waited until he looked at her and then held his gaze. “There is always a reason for these feelings.”

***

As Merlin approached the entrance to the cave alone and on foot he saw an old man with close-cropped white hair and beard standing near the opening. “It’s you,” he observed, coming closer.

The old man looked at him blankly. “Have we met?”

“You showed me the Crystal Cave the first time,” Merlin said by way of explanation.

“Did I?” replied Taliesin. “Well, maybe in good time I will but I haven’t yet.”

Merlin regarded him uncertainly. “A long time ago you healed Arthur’s arrow wound so that he fully recovered in just a few hours, and you said you had something you must show me and took me into the Crystal Cave.”

“I will remember to do that, boy. I look forward to meeting you.”

With those words the old man disappeared as if he had never been there. Merlin looked around but he could not see where Taliesin had gone. Shaking his head in confusion he continued on into the cave until the glow of the crystals could be seen shining on the dank rock outside the chamber. He approached reverently, always in awe of both the beauty and the power of the crystals. When he saw the ghostly vision of his father standing there among them, Merlin wondered if this was what he had come to find.

“Hello, son,” Balinor greeted him.

“Hello, father.” Merlin recalled the odd conversation he had had with Taliesin and wondered if his father remembered the last time they had spoken. “You came to me when I was here before, you helped me recover my magic, right?”

“Of course,” his father responded. “That was just a moment ago.”

Merlin looked at him strangely. “That was years ago.”

“It is of no consequence,” Balinor replied matter-of-factly.

Merlin let the cryptic comment go hoping he would understand in time. “I had a feeling I needed to come here now,” Merlin stated questioningly.

“Perhaps it is merely that you remember coming here at this moment in time,” his father suggested.

“How could I remember something that hasn’t happened yet?”

Balinor smiled slightly. “What is, what always has been, what is to come – they all converge in the Crystal Cave. It holds the secret of time itself.”

“Does that mean the future is set, that it has already happened and cannot be changed?”

“Is there something you are supposed to change?” Balinor asked in return.

Merlin’s troubled look betrayed his confusion. “I don’t know any more if I can or if I’m supposed to.” Finally he asked the question he most needed an answer for. “Will Arthur die?”

“Of course,” his father answered. “All lives end.”

“But will he die by Mordred’s hand in this battle? Is this the time?”

Balinor regarded him sympathetically. “Some lives have been foretold. Some points in time have always happened, and will always happen in the never ending circle of fate.”

“Then I will fail, Arthur will die, Albion will crumble, and the Saxons will conquer this land?” Merlin protested.

His father shook his head. “You have already succeeded. Take heart, for all you have dreamt of building has come to pass. And the time will come when Anglo-Saxons and Britons call themselves one people and defend their common shores from the next invaders until they, too, have been absorbed by the land.” Balinor smiled kindly. “I told you once that only in the heart of the Crystal Cave would your true self be revealed. Stay here with us now, make this your home.”

The longing to remain in this peaceful place tugged at Merlin from deep inside. Or maybe it was a memory after all. But there were people waiting for him, events were continuing to unfold. “I have to return to Camelot, I have to accompany Arthur to this battle. If there is any chance to save him I will.”

“Maybe you already have, Emrys,” Balinor responded. “But there is something you must take with you. At your feet is a fragment of crystal which has been washed in the Lake of Avalon. You will need it.”

Merlin looked down. A small crystal glittered back at him. He bent down to pick it up, slowly turning it in his hand, feeling the difference between this shard and the large crystals which surrounded him. It did not feel like it had the same power, yet if his father wanted him to take it there must surely be a reason.

Balinor spoke again. “When you have done what you are meant to do then return to us, we will be expecting you.”

Merlin was about to bid his father goodbye when he recalled his father’s words that there were no goodbyes. “I will be back soon,” he promised instead, knowing it was true, and lifted a hand in farewell.

***

When Gwen awoke in the morning Arthur was uncharacteristically out of bed and dressed. She looked at his back where he sat staring out the window of the royal chamber at the courtyard below.

At her approach he turned to put his arms around her.

“What is worrying you?” she asked, wondering if his contemplative mood was simply due to the number of years which has passed since his last march into battle.

“Nothing,” he assured her, squeezing her tighter and then loosening his embrace.

Not fooled by the blatant lie, Gwen persisted. “There is no reason to doubt that you and Gareth will be victorious. Your combined forces are more than capable of defeating the Saxons again.”

“Yes,” Arthur agreed wholeheartedly, giving her a bright smile and running a hand up her back.

Gwen did not allow him to distract her from her finding out what was troubling him. “You know Leon is perfectly able to lead the army. King Lot has sent his son rather than command his men himself. If you choose to remain in Camelot no one would question your ability or your courage.”

Arthur considered her words. There was no doubting the truth of what she said, but he could not imagine sending his knights into battle without leading them himself. If he had had a son of his own perhaps he would feel differently, but then again maybe not. He shook his head in answer. “I will command my men as I have always done.” He looked down at the object he had been rolling between his fingers. Taking Gwen’s hand he pressed the object into her hand and closed her fingers around it.

She looked at him in confusion and dread. “It is the royal seal.”

“If by some odd twist of fate I do not return, I can think of no one I would rather succeed me than you.”

“Arthur,” she began, but he pressed a kiss on her lips before she could say anything more.

In the courtyard in front of the citadel later that morning King Arthur gave his queen a kiss and held her hands tightly, staring intently at her face as if to memorize every feature.

“I have faith in you, Arthur,” she said sincerely. “I do not doubt that you will be successful and that you will return to me.”

“Thank you, Guinevere.” With a final squeeze of her hand, he left her on the palace steps and went to mount his horse. The troops were assembled and waiting to march, Prince Gareth and his attendants with them.

As the king mounted his horse Gwen motioned Merlin to approach her and waited until he wheeled his mount closer. “Watch over him,” she asked earnestly.

“I will take good care of Arthur,” he promised solemnly.

Gwen smiled. “Yes, I am sure you will.”

***

Gwaine rode up next to Merlin who was following the king at the head of the column of knights. “So, Merlin my friend, just like old times,” Gwaine said gruffly.

“Does that mean I’ll have to save your backsides again?” Merlin responded flippantly.

“As I recall you were hiding in a cave during the last battle,” Gwaine needled, tossing his long, dark hair with its touches of grey back over his shoulder.

“Until you needed help,” Merlin retorted.

Gwaine looked at him with a slight grin. “Maybe we should all stay home and let you handle the Saxons.”

“That is not what magic is for, it is not meant for fighting,” Merlin replied seriously. Then he added, “Besides, I wouldn’t want to take the glory from you warriors.”

“Live fast, fight hard, and die gloriously,” Gwaine intoned as though he meant it.

Merlin looked at him quizzically. “Glory in battle?”

The knight gave his friend a grin.

Merlin merely shook his head. “You should be married with children by now instead of single-handedly providing a living for the tavern keepers in Camelot.”

“I leave the family stuff to Percy and soldier-boy there.” He indicated Leon. “Between them they could populate another city.” Gwaine regarded his young friend. “Shouldn’t you be married and making little wizard-babies?”

Merlin shook his head again, staring ahead sightlessly. “I think this will be my last journey. When this is done, when my destiny – whatever that is – is finally fulfilled, I’m going to go live in a cave.”

The stunned look on Gwaine’s face was almost humorous. “Isn’t that a little strange, even for a sorcerer?”

Merlin smiled at his friend’s expression. “It is so beautiful in the Crystal Cave,” he tried to explain. “And you can feel the earth itself sending magic to every part of creation, every corner of time. It’s almost like the world is a wheel all around you and you are standing at the exact centre with spokes going out in every direction.” Merlin glanced over at Gwaine to see if any of this made sense.

“Not a word,” Gwaine answered the unspoken question. “Glory and death in battle?”

“Doesn’t make any sense at all,” Merlin responded.

They looked at each other and grinned.

***

When word reached the Anglo-Saxon court that a combined force of Lot’s and Arthur’s troops was marching toward the Saxon Shore, Osla looked gravely at Mordred. “You predicted such an outcome. Do you have any insight to offer regarding our response?”

Mordred glanced around the table at the other commanders, all of whom were older than he was and most of whom had more fighting experience. Yet he was most familiar with the enemy they would face now. “I think we should offer King Arthur our terms for peace.”

A ripple of surprise went around the room. Although the young commander had earned their respect on the battlefield there did not seem to be any reason to expect that such an offer would be received by the Britons’ High King, let alone on the Saxons’ terms.

Holding off any judgement for the moment, Osla narrowed his gaze on Mordred. “And why would Camelot treat with us?”

“Because Arthur is a wise and just king and he is well aware that peace is the best outcome for his people as well as ours,” Mordred stated honestly.

Despite his appearance as a burly fighting man, Osla was a shrewd ruler. Holding the gaze of the young dark-haired man Osla considered, then dismissed, any doubt of his loyalty or the truthfulness of his words. “I admit that you have personal knowledge of this man that I do not, but it has been many years since you saw him last and as I recall you did not part on good terms.”

Mordred acknowledged the truth of that statement but resolutely held the penetrating gaze of the hefty blonde king he had sworn fealty to.

“Are you certain that he would contemplate a truce?” Osla asked gravely.

Understanding the lives that were at stake Mordred considered what he was asking them to undertake on his word alone, based on his assessment of a man he had not seen in many years. “I am certain,” Mordred replied confidently after a moment. “If we offer a peace treaty Arthur will at least listen to us before he takes any action.”

Osla looked around the room at his assembled commanders.

“I say we fight and we take as much of this land as falls to us,” the black-bearded man demanded, slapping his fist on the table to emphasize his point.

The Anglo-Saxon king considered both points of view. “We go armed in force, but we will offer terms. If they agree to treat with us we can settle this peaceably, if they choose to fight we will be ready,” Osla decreed.

Gerta approached and wrapped her arms around her husband as he stared sightlessly out the window of their chamber where he had stood unmoving for many minutes. “It is not like you to be nervous before marching,” she gently pointed out. “Do you fear that Osla will not keep his word about offering a treaty?”

“No, I know he will.”

Gerta tipped her head back to look up into Mordred’s face. “Are you worried that you are wrong about this king of Camelot and that he will attack even when offered a truce?”

“No.” Mordred still believed his assessment of Arthur’s reaction was correct, yet he could not shake a terrible foreboding.

“Then what is bothering you?”

Mordred looked down into his wife’s earnest face. “There was a time when I eagerly anticipated the chance to lead an army against Arthur. Now that I know how pointless vengeance is and what it would cost me, I fear I am going to die and a good man with me.”

Gerta went still. “Then don’t go,” she said simply.

A grim smile touched her husband’s mouth. “I am a soldier of the king, if I do not ride at his command what am I?”

“My husband and the father of our children,” Gerta replied promptly.

Hugging her tightly Mordred relaxed. “I am only being foolish, acting like the future is pre-ordained when I am responsible for my own actions. If I choose not to join in a fight then it cannot happen.”

***

The two armies had approached as close as was possible without engaging in battle. Osla surveyed the wooded terrain stretched between their forces, and noted with favour that for the time being the Saxons had the high ground. “The treed area is not good for manoeuvres, but their horses will not be an advantage in such terrain. They will be forced to meet us on foot, if it comes to battle.” Osla signalled the Anglo-Saxon delegation to advance carrying the treaty flag.

With his foot soldiers arrayed in front of Arthur’s knights, Gareth had the first view of the advancing Saxon delegation. Both surprised and dismayed to see the treaty flag, he acted quickly to ensure that Camelot’s knights would engage and defeat the enemy once and for all. The prince calmly gave the order to his archers. A hail of arrows fell on the Anglo-Saxons, the bodies burying the treaty flag beneath them.

Shocked, Mordred protested that King Arthur would never have ordered such a dishonourable act of aggression, but in fury Osla had already given the signal to strike back.

Watching their advance, Gareth sent word to Arthur’s waiting troops that the Saxons had attacked as he gave the order to his own soldiers to engage in combat.

Covered in the filth of battle but unwounded, Mordred found himself alone among the trees. The sounds of combat were lessening as dark began to descend, and the last isolated clashes indicated that the armies were withdrawing to their separate positions for the night. His long, curved sword with its notched blade at the ready, Mordred moved toward the sound of clashing weapons ahead.

When he arrived on the scene an Anglo-Saxon soldier was triumphantly withdrawing his knife from the body of a Camelot knight, only to have the knight rise to strike him back. As his fellow soldier dropped, lifeless, Mordred advanced toward the injured enemy. The ring of Saxon bodies around the lone knight indicated the fierceness of the battle that had waged there. When the knight turned to face him Mordred’s eyes fell on a familiar face. “Gwaine.”

The dark-haired knight forced himself to remain steady on his feet as he faced the new threat but froze at the sound of his name on the lips of a Saxon soldier. Gwaine stared at the Saxon who inexplicably tucked the long blade of his seax into his waistband before the knight recognized the face under the curly black hair. Despite his foreign garb Mordred was little changed. With a grim smile Gwaine raised his sword to kill the traitor.

At a word from Mordred the knight’s sword flew from his grasp to bury itself in the ground. “Why did you disregard the treaty flag?” Mordred accused grimly.

Gwaine wondered what trick this might be. “There was no flag,” he took the time to reply while waiting for a chance to surreptitiously grab his dagger.

Mordred realized his suspicions had been correct; only Gareth had been visible to him when the arrows struck down the delegation so only Gareth had seen the treaty flag. “Listen to me carefully,” Mordred demanded, not taking his eyes from Gwaine. “King Osla is willing to talk terms. He came here to offer a truce.”

The slight grin on Gwaine’s face told him the knight did not believe him so Mordred slowly reached into his tunic. In defence, Gwaine reached for his dagger but before he could attack it, too, flew out of his grasp. Mordred pulled a brooch from where it had been safely tucked inside his tunic and Gwaine’s eyes widened slightly at the dual horse-head engraved with emblematic sword.

“This is proof I speak for the Saxon king,” Mordred said steadily. “Tell Arthur he wants to negotiate a truce. And not to trust Lot or his son. If Arthur is willing to negotiate peace terms, tell him to send an emissary, not Gareth or any of his men.” Mordred held out the brooch. “Make certain this gets to Arthur with the message.”

Gwaine did not trust the traitor, even though Mordred had sheathed his weapon despite having effectively disarmed Gwaine, but for the moment he was unable to strike. Warily the knight reached for the brooch.

After he had handed over the token Mordred backed away slowly, not doubting that Gwaine would attack if he could. Before he turned to leave, he gave a final message. “Tell Arthur I have no wish to cross swords with him.” Mordred repeated his last words for emphasis. “Tell Arthur I do not wish to fight him.”

As Mordred left, Gwaine clenched his hand around the brooch and then doubled over from the pain of his wound. He was about to fall when Percival appeared at his side, grabbing him before he could collapse.

Weakly he gasped out, “I need to deliver a message to Arthur.”

Leon was about to number Percival and Gwaine among the missing when they arrived at the Camelot camp together, Percival half carrying his fellow knight. Leon’s first instinct was to send the dark-haired knight for medical treatment but Gwaine shook off the support to stand on his own and demanded to be taken to Arthur.

Puzzled at the urgency of the request, Leon looked to Percival who merely shook his head. Accepting Gwaine’s demand without further question, Leon led the way to Arthur’s tent.

The king was receiving reports of the dead and wounded and the current positions of the two armies. The paleness of Gwaine’s face under the black facial hair was enough that Arthur would have ordered him to get immediate treatment when Gwaine opened his clenched fist. The sight of the Saxon king’s token riveted Arthur’s attention.

“Mordred,” Gwaine said weakly in his gruff voice. “He says the Saxons want to talk peace terms.” He wavered slightly where he stood and stopped speaking for a moment to gather his strength. “He says if you want to treat to send an emissary, not Gareth or any of Lot’s men.”

Arthur glanced over at Leon to see his reaction to that warning, then took the brooch from Gwaine. There was no doubt of its authenticity.

At that moment Gwaine collapsed, fresh blood oozing from a wound in his stomach. Arthur dropped to one knee beside his knight, realizing that he was beyond medical help now.

Feebly, Gwaine gazed up. “Mordred said…” His speech was interrupted by a fit of coughing. When he spoke again the words were barely audible. With his last breath he delivered the final part of the message. “Mordred does not wish to fight you.”

Arthur watched grimly as Percival solemnly picked up the lifeless body of his friend and comrade to carry it from the tent.

Clenching the Saxon brooch, Arthur stood. “Where is Merlin?”

“Assisting in the treatment of the wounded,” Leon responded, no trace of grief allowed to taint his voice.

“I need to speak with him.”

Merlin’s red-rimmed eyes when he arrived at the royal tent told Arthur his friend had already been informed of Gwaine’s death. But the time for mourning fallen warriors was not on the battlefield.

“I received a message that could mean the peaceful end of this battle,” Arthur said gravely to ensure he had Merlin’s full attention.

Merlin met his eyes steadily, setting aside his grief to listen carefully.

“Gwaine said that Mordred passed him this token.” Arthur displayed the dual horse-head brooch with the emblematic Saxon sword. It was clear that Merlin knew immediately it was the token of the Saxon king. “He said that Osla wants to negotiate a truce.”

Merlin’s first instinct was to distrust Mordred’s word, but there was no reason to doubt his message when he obviously had the Saxons’ royal brooch.

“If we want to treat with them we are to send an emissary, and not to involve Lot’s son or any of his men,” Arthur finished, watching carefully for the expected reaction to that last piece of information.

“Not to trust Gareth?” Merlin repeated consideringly. Due to the speed of events all of their information on the Saxons’ actions had come through Gareth. If any part of it was untrue they would not yet know.

Arthur drummed his fingers on the table next to his chair as he weighed the options again in his thoughts. “If we can end this fight without further bloodshed then it would be worth listening to theSaxons’ terms.”

“Yes,” Merlin agreed quietly, watching the reflection on Arthur’s features of his internal debate.

“You think we should negotiate, then?”

All his intuition told Merlin that anything they could do to end this battle while Arthur was still alive was their only hope. “Yes.”

Deliberately Arthur challenged that argument. “Given the chance, the Saxon invaders would cut across this land from sea to sea, dividing the united kingdoms and conquering the peoples. This may be our chance to drive them from these shores back to their own land.”

“Those who are settled here have lived on this land for generations. This is their homeland and we can share it in peace,” Merlin observed.

“If by any chance this is a ruse, then we risk the lives of the emissaries,” Arthur voiced his thoughts aloud. “But if this offer is genuine then we can possibly save all the men who will otherwise die in tomorrow’s fighting.”

Inwardly Merlin sighed with relief, knowing what Arthur had decided. “Who will you send as emissary to Osla?”

Arthur looked at him sharply, then admitted to himself that he really was not surprised that Merlin knew exactly what he was thinking. “You and Leon. Mordred will know you speak for me.”

“What if Gareth demands that Camelot fight anyway?”

“Our treaty is for assistance to defend his borders, if we have accomplished that he has little reason to claim we are breaking our agreement without admitting he is in favour of war.” Arthur paused and looked Merlin directly in the eye. “So Mordred is here,” he said softly. “His message said he did not wish to fight me. Can we trust him?”

“I will know when I meet him and speak with this Saxon king,” Merlin answered grimly.

***

Leon was only mildly unsettled by some of Merlin’s actions in getting the two of them unnoticed through the lookouts defending the Anglo-Saxon camp. Leon kept his eyes fixed on Merlin and not the odd happenings which distracted the attention of various Saxon guards and soldiers.

When they presented themselves outside the large central tent the startled sentries snapped guiltily to attention, at a loss to explain how these intruders had penetrated so far into their ranks without raising an alarm. Weapons drawn and aimed at the unexpected visitors, they shouted a warning in the Saxon tongue. Immediately a commander looked out from the tent.

Leon’s eyes widened as they fell on the Saxon’s face. He was shocked to see, under the foreign dress and carrying the emblematic Saxon seax, the young man he had once trained.

A knowing look dawned in Mordred’s eyes as they fell on the visitors. He said a few words to the guards in a tongue unintelligible to either Merlin or Leon, then came fully out of the tent. Facing Merlin he switched from the Saxon language to speech the emissaries could understand. “Yes,” Mordred answered the unspoken question. “Osla came here to offer Arthur terms for peace. And yes,” the young man looked Merlin in the eye knowing how little trust the other man had in him. “He speaks Latin well enough to tell you that himself.”

“Then why did he attack today?” Leon demanded.

Mordred shifted his gaze to the tall knight. “We did not. Our delegation was carrying a flag of truce.” Mordred watched the exchange of looks between Leon and Merlin. “I reckoned that Lot’s prince acted on his own when he shot them down.”

Setting aside the accusation of treachery to be dealt with by Arthur later, Merlin spoke. “And Osla still wishes to talk terms?”

By way of answer Mordred motioned them to follow him into the tent.

Several pairs of eyes fell on them as they made their entrance. It was immediately apparent that the blonde man who was both larger and fairer even than Leon must be the one who called himself a Saxon king. Despite similarly menacing appearances, the other men showed him obvious deference. Mordred approached him with a slight bow and spoke rapidly in the foreign tongue, gesturing more than once at Merlin and Leon.

The two of them waited quietly to be addressed in a language they could comprehend.

At length Osla motioned them to approach him. “You are here because your king wishes to meet with us and discuss terms for peace?” he asked in heavily-accented but remarkably good Latin. “Mordred assures me that you speak with the king’s authority.”

“If you wish to negotiate a truce, bring with you fourteen knights and Arthur will do the same to meet you at a place between the two armies,” Merlin recited the plan they had discussed. “You will both lay your swords on the table. Should the talks fail the signal for attack will be the drawing of a sword.”

Osla nodded in agreement, having understood the terms of the planned meeting. “Then we will be waiting at first light.” The Saxon signalled his young commander. “Mordred will see you safely out of camp.”

“No need to trouble him further,” Merlin protested as respectfully as possible.

“Still don’t trust me, Emrys?” Mordred questioned silently in his mind.

“I do,” Merlin contradicted him using the same wordless communication. Holding Mordred’s eyes he added sincerely, “Thank you for making it possible to prevent this battle.”

“I have no wish to kill Arthur,” Mordred thought back.

Merlin acknowledged that statement with a nod of acceptance.

Osla took note of the slight smile of understanding on the face of his young commander as an indication that he had some idea how these delegates had found their way to the royal tent without any alarm being raised and why they felt no need of an escort in leaving. The burly Saxon looked closer at Merlin. “Perhaps I know you? Although the rumours I heard said you were an old man. We might do well to keep you from leaving after all,” he said thoughtfully.

Merlin held Osla’s gaze. “No,” he answered softly. “You do not want to attempt that.”

Leon waited tensely, and a ripple of unease went through the other Saxons gathered in the tent. Although they understood little of what had been said they sensed a sudden wariness in their king.

Osla broke the tension with a broad smile. “Of course we are happy to allow you to return to your king with our agreement to meet on the morrow.”

***

In the early hours of the morning Arthur heard his servant enter the royal tent to help the king dress and don his armour. He turned to give the boy instructions only to have the words die on his lips when he saw Merlin standing there.

“I told him I could assist you today,” Merlin announced.

“And I had become accustomed to having a servant who knew what he was doing,” Arthur replied.

A slight grin crossed Merlin’s face. “I’ll try to manage, Sire.”

“Why this morning?” Arthur asked as Merlin brought the overcoat and chain mail. The king looked directly at his friend so that the warlock would have to pause in his tasks to face him. “Do you think I’m not coming back? I thought you said you trusted Mordred.”

“I do,” Merlin stated frankly. “I believe the Saxons want to end this peaceably, and I believe Mordred does not wish to kill you. I’m the one who won’t be returning to Camelot.”

The expression on Arthur’s face reflected surprise, disappointment, and worry. “Why?”

“My destiny has always been to help you fulfill yours and that is done; you have united the land of Albion and brought peace to the kingdom, for everyone including those with magic. You are the greatest king Camelot has ever known and your name will live long in the minds of men.”

As always the words that gave Arthur strength also humbled him. Without replying he donned the overcoat and chain mail, then moved to pick up the first pieces of armour. Merlin helped him put on the heavy shoulder pieces and tighten the straps.

“If I have fulfilled what you call my destiny,” Arthur asked slowly, “Then do you think we are wrong and I am destined to die today at Mordred’s hand?”

“I told you there is a difference between fate and destiny,” Merlin answered firmly. “You will decide your fate when you meet with the Saxons. And I believe that you will successfully negotiate this peace like you have done so often in the past.”

“You could just use your magic to wipe out their army and there would be no need of fighting or talking.” After all this time Arthur was still in awe of what he had seen at that last battle in the White Mountains.

“I couldn’t let Morgana triumph then,” Merlin stated simply. “And I knew you had a kingdom yet to build, you still had to bring about a world that we dreamt of. But I don’t know where the path leads from here. I only know that I am proud to have served you and watched you become the king you are.” With the last piece of armour firmly in place Merlin held out his arm. “It has been an honour.”

Arthur gripped his friend’s forearm in the manner of comrades-at-arms. “Everything you’ve done for me, for Camelot, for the kingdom you helped me build, thank you, old friend,” he replied solemnly.

***

Arthur made certain that Gareth accompanied him to the peace talk but gave him little warning so he would have no chance to scupper the talks before they could begin. Seeing clearly which way the wind was blowing, Gareth took every opportunity to give the appearance that he himself had suggested the negotiation process.

In the middle of the open space between their two positions a table and two chairs had been set up for the kings. In addition to Gareth, standing behind Arthur were Merlin, Leon, Percival, Bedwyr, and nine more of his knights. With Osla were Mordred and thirteen of his commanders and highest-ranking soldiers. Both armies were ranged around the clearing where their leaders met, the soldiers waiting tensely for the signal that would tell them whether or not they would risk death today.

The Saxon demands were simple: they wished to keep their settled lands as their own, as they would respect the settlements of all of the kingdoms united under Arthur. No borders would be challenged during their lifetimes. Arthur ensured that Gareth indicated his formal agreement to the Saxons’ terms before they turned to discussing exactly where those borders were, and which settlements were disputed.

Relief washed through Merlin at knowing they had headed off the final battle which he feared would surely have meant Arthur’s death. In its wake came a feeling he should return immediately to the Crystal Cave, a feeling so strong that he wavered slightly where he stood. Leon glanced at him with concern but Merlin merely shook his head and moved away from the group gathered around the negotiating table. Fingering the small lump of crystal tucked safely in his tunic he wondered at the strong pull to go back to where the vision of his father had said they were expecting him. For a moment, he was torn between returning to his post with the others waiting for the terms of truce to be established or instead rushing immediately back to the Cave. When he looked again at the negotiators he caught a glimpse of comradely smiles and a toast between Arthur and Osla. Mordred looked almost as relieved as Merlin himself felt. Convinced that all he was supposed to do was now accomplished, Merlin left them to their peace talks and went to locate his horse.

While each of the innumerable details were debated and agreed, they sent for more wine to ease dry throats parched from the scorching heat of the day. Finally, with the sun already past its zenith and the nerves of the waiting armies stretched almost to breaking, Arthur thought that they had concluded their truce. It seemed Osla was of the same mind because he stood and reached for his cup. His movement disturbed something that had been lying in the shade of the table, and an adder crept out of a little heath bush, startled by the sudden disturbance, to sting one of the knights on his ankle. With a yelp of pain the man drew his sword to slash at the snake.

For the soldiers who had been waiting tensely through the long, hot day the flash of a sword was almost a relief even if it meant that they might die in the coming battle. With loud war cries the opposing armies immediately raced toward one another, weapons drawn.

Realizing what had just occurred both groups at the table turned to face their own warriors, trying in vain to stop the battle that had commenced but their voices were drowned out by the shouts and clashing of weapons. With a last look at each other Arthur and Osla turned to lead their armies in the conflict they could no longer stop.

Gareth had little time to wonder at the fortunate turn of events. A battle cry to rally his troops was on his lips when an arrow pierced his armour and struck him through the heart.

In the thick of the fighting Mordred found himself facing Arthur. He hesitated for just a moment in mid-strike, only to feel Arthur’s blade slice into him. With his last breath he returned the thrust and fell dead at Arthur’s feet.

Merlin halted his horse at the distant roar. It sounded as though a battle was raging somewhere behind him. He stopped and listened, a feeling of horror slowly creeping over him as he recognized the familiar sounds of armies engaged in a pitched fight. Frantically he wheeled his horse around and sped back the way he had come.

The place that such a short time ago had been the scene of peaceful talks was now littered with the dead and dying. Pockets of fighting continued across the clearing and throughout the wooded areas around. Merlin leaped from the back of his horse and plunged across the battlefield, searching desperately. With a war cry a Saxon soldier attacked him but Merlin threw the man aside without breaking stride and continued his quest, his heart sinking.

The sight he had been dreading was more awful in reality than in any prophecy he had seen or heard. Mordred lay dead where he had fallen. Only steps away Arthur’s body slumped.

“No!” The cry of denial caused a tremor to shake the ground beneath them. Dropping to his knees Merlin carefully lifted the blonde head into his arms. “I’m not going to lose you!”

With what little strength remained Arthur lifted one arm to pat his friend’s shoulder. “It’s too late,” he gasped weakly. “You’re not going to save my life. Just,” the arm dropped limply, “just hold me.”

When he saw his friend’s eyes begin to close Merlin called him back with all the power he had. “Arthur!”

Arthur’s eyes flickered open and he smiled in farewell. Then they glazed over in death.

“Arthur!” Knowing it was over Merlin allowed his head to fall until his forehead touched Arthur’s. Tears pouring down his face, Merlin barely noticed as Leon laid a hand on his shoulder.

Leon bowed his head, waiting in silence.

Bedwyr approached him, somberly watching the scene of the king’s death. “Sir Leon, we have won. The Saxons have been routed and what remains of their army is in full retreat.”

The First Knight received the news mutely. Dutifully, Bedwyr stood quietly beside him.

So abruptly that Leon was startled, Merlin suddenly leapt to his feet and reached into his tunic to grasp the shard of crystal. He stared intently into its depths. Unbelievably it was Freya’s face that swam into his view. The familiar smile that he had not seen for so long touched his soul like a ray of sunlight in darkness. He breathed her name.

“They are waiting for you,” the vision in the crystal said in Freya’s voice.

Puzzled, and wanting even at this terrible moment to prolong the sight of her face, Merlin tried to form a question to ask what she meant.

“Bring him to me, they are waiting here,” Freya said again. She faded from his view.

“Freya,” he called, wishing she would come back. Then he recalled where he was. “Help me,” he demanded of Leon, bending down to try to lift Arthur’s body.

“Merlin,” Leon attempted to calm his friend. The knight had no idea why the warlock had been talking to a crystal but his sudden wild behaviour was somehow frightening.

“Help me,” Merlin said more forcefully, demanding that Leon assist him in lifting the king.

As Leon obediently bent to help hoist the limp form Percival appeared beside them, easily shouldering the king’s dead weight even in full armour. He looked to Merlin.

“We have to get him to the Lake of Avalon,” Merlin instructed urgently.

Leon wanted to object but Percival nodded and followed Merlin’s lead. Refraining from any further protest Leon retrieved the king’s sword and hurried to catch up, leaving Bedwyr to take charge of their remaining forces. With all possible haste the trio reclaimed their horses and set off for the lake.

When it came in sight they found a barge tied up at the shoreline with three women waiting for their arrival. One of the figures they easily recognized, her raven hair swept neatly back and her eyes fixed on her brother’s still form. The other woman Merlin knew was the Queen of Northgalis but the third figure was a strange-looking woman whose unnaturally red hair and sharply angled face were not quite human.

Quickly, the three dismounted and Percival carried Arthur’s body to the barge. As he laid the king on the boards Morgana approached Merlin where he stood uncertainly on the shore and put a hand on his arm. His eyes remained fixed on Arthur’s still form.

“We will do what we can,” she promised.

Merlin turned his tearful gaze from the barge to see the moisture in the blue-green eyes so close to his. “Will he live?”

“Arthur is not just a king, he is the Once and Future King,” Morgana replied. “When Albion’s need is greatest, Arthur will rise again.”

Merlin thought that was not really an answer but he did not say anything more. He glanced at the red-haired woman who waited with no expression he could discern on her alien features.

Morgana followed his look. “The Queen of the Waste Lands,” she supplied but did not give any further explanation. “There is nothing more you can do,” Morgana said gently.

“I can’t lose him – he’s my friend!” Merlin sobbed in anguish.

Morgana gave his arm a gentle squeeze and left Merlin standing on the grassy shore as she joined the others waiting in the barge. They cast off and floated out onto the lake.

Wracked with sobs watching them go, Merlin was barely conscious of Percival and Leon moving to stand on either side of him until he felt something metal being pressed into his hand. He looked down to see the royal sword which Leon had brought and handed to him. The sight of it reminded Merlin of all that it symbolized: Arthur’s ascension as High King of Albion. He rubbed the hilt with his thumb and then with all the strength he had he threw the sword into the Lake of Avalon where it would be hidden again until it was needed.

Before it could splash into the water, Freya’s hand reached up to catch the hilt and take it back down into the lake with her.

After the sword had disappeared beneath the water, Merlin turned to leave, to go back to the Crystal Cave where his father was waiting for him.