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Chapter Text

FREYA WAS RUNNING, barefooted, through the muddy banks around the lake of Avalon, surrounded by the trees, the mountains in the distance on the opposite side reflected in the water to her left. Brambles and hidden pebbles not yet smoothed out from the incoming tide had scratched up her ankles, and her hair hung loose in a knotted series of messy elf locks, but she couldn't stop.

She couldn't stop because someone was chasing her.

A man, it appeared to be, tall, dark, and lecherous. Not particularly attractive, or even all that clever-looking, but definitely he was powerful; you could tell that much from even a blurred glimpse. He had power, and abused it.

Freya looked back over her shoulder at him and seemed to whimper. Her eyes flashed fearfully, looking not unlike the scared eyes of a wounded Bastet she had once been. Then she suddenly grew calm. She looked out at the lake and swallowed, as if knowing she was safe, that she was in her own territory now.

The man lunged, reaching out to grab onto her, but before he could fully lock his grip, she'd transformed into an oak tree.

Somewhere in the deepest recesses of that tree, it remembered it wasn't always a tree, that it was once only a girl. A girl called Freya. But what mattered was that, as a tree, she was safe; the man had gone. And, for better or for worse, she had her lake. So close to it were her roots, and her longer branches, her leaves reflected in the crystal clear water below.

All was peaceful. It was nearly twilight; the sky a brilliant purple-pink up above the untouched, wholly protected, oak tree and its glittering lake. The wind scarcely moved; somewhere in the bushes crickets (or possibly the Sidhe) hummed and chirruped. A low-flying white swan dipped its wing into the water as it swooped.

That was when it happened. All hell appeared to break loose. The sky flashed blood red; the singing in the bushes stopped mid-note; the white swan's feathers turned black and it honked as hostile and mean-spirited as a goose when someone who is not its regular keeper has come to feed it.

Lightning came out of the sky and struck the oak tree that had been Freya.

Merlin woke, his eyes shooting open.

The warlock panted as he looked around his room and took everything in again, reality coming back to him all at once. He was in his bed, safe and sound, lying on his back. There was no lake, no lightning, no tree...no Freya...

"Nightmares again?" Gaius was standing in the doorway.

Merlin sat up, and blinked at the old physician blearily, still in the process of awakening more fully.

"It's the open eye effects," Gaius informed him, explaining how he knew.

"Mmm," he managed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"Arthur and Gwen have returned from their visit to Nemeth. And Arthur's requested your presence," he stated next.

I'll bet my life Arthur didn't word it as a request, Merlin thought, climbing out of bed.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Gaius asked.

"There's nothing really to talk about," said Merlin, standing now, looking up at the morning light streaming in from the window.

"Same as before? A girl, running through the forest and turns into a tree?"

Merlin nodded and swallowed hard. He had told Gaius that part of the dream the second time he'd had it, but he couldn't bring himself to mention that it was Freya, the Druid girl, the Bastet... The unexpected face in the puddle of spilled water from the lake of Avalon, the beautiful white arm that had given him the only weapon that could kill something already dead, nearly five years ago, when Morgause and Morgana had taken over Camelot with their immortal army...

Gaius wouldn't have understood that bit, notwithstanding that he had been Merlin's sole comforter when Freya died, the only one who knew he'd been hiding her in the catacombs under the castle.

Merlin himself could barely understand why he was having those dreams, and now.

Always, for as long as he could imagine being alive, he was sure a part of him would continue to love Freya. It was only to be expected; never had he felt, after all, for anyone, what he'd felt for her, so very long ago. The pain had sat with him endlessly, but time had turned that unbearable hurting into a mere ache. It was an ache he carried around proudly, wore it like a secret bruise on his heart. He would have never wanted it go away entirely, for it reminded him, when the time was not completely inopportune, that there had been a girl named Freya, that he had loved her, and that part of her was still alive somewhere in the lake of Avalon even though he hadn't seen her in ages. If ever the day had come when he couldn't see her face behind closed eyelids, it would have been a cause for deeper mourning, not relief; it would have meant he had lost all he had left of her: the memory of their short time together. But, all the same, that such dreams should suddenly strike him, repeatedly, and with such intensity, was unnerving to say the least.

The warlock couldn't even begin to fathom what it all meant. Somehow, even though he'd never met him, he knew that the person chasing her was the man she had killed, whose mother cursed her to be a blood-thirsty Bastet each midnight. The rest, though, was unclear. And it didn't make sense, his dreaming about her in danger, all these years later, when she had so long been, as far as he knew, in her peaceful lake-set rest.

The tree was jarring; especially how it was always hit by lightning at the end of the dream...

Despite his keeping Freya's appearance a secret from Gaius, Merlin had asked him if it was possible that the dream meant something; that, in a symbolic way, maybe he was like Morgana, having dreams that were actually premonitions. Not directly, of course, as Morgana's had evidently been, many of the things she'd dreamed having come to pass more or less as she saw them, but as a code he was supposed to decipher. Except the thought of having another charge with nightmares seemed to make Gaius uncomfortable, and the thought of them being tied to the future even more so. So much so that he wouldn't properly speak of it, not changing the subject, but definitely turning it on its head so it didn't go too far in the direction that was most painful. He did offer, though, to give Merlin a sleeping draught. Merlin (secretly) considered it, but ultimately decided to refuse the treatment. He didn't want to hurt his friend's feelings, but the draughts hadn't helped Morgana all that much in the long run; Gaius shouldn't expect a better effect where Merlin was concerned, but alas it was all he knew, all he had to offer and fall back on.

"Well, if you're sure you're all right..." Gaius grimaced. "You know, my offer still stands."

"I'm fine, Gaius." He forced a smile and turned his neck to look back at him briefly. "Really." No, no draughts... He wasn't so desperate as that...as of yet...

"In that case, perhaps you had better not keep the king waiting." Gaius raised an eyebrow. "You know how impatient Arthur can be after a long journey."

"And that would be because I'm usually with him for the whole trip." Merlin yawned and turned away from the window.

Gaius left him to get dressed.

About two minutes later, Merlin walked down the steps outside of his room, throwing on his short brown overcoat as he made his way to the door and down the corridor, headed, outside, for the main square.

Arthur had dismounted from his horse and was thrusting the reins into the (of course) automatically ready and unflappable hands of George, Merlin's short-term replacement as the king's manservant during the trek to and from Nemeth.

Although he'd spent a fair amount of time grounding his teeth together and trying to hide it, unwilling to admit even to his wife (who, doubtless, knew anyway) that he missed Merlin, ineptness and all, Arthur couldn't stand George, however wonderfully efficient the man was. If he had to hear that stupid joke about bloody brass just one more time, he was going to scream long and loud.

Preferably at Merlin. Who, as fate would have it, was coming towards him right then, looking not so good around the eyes, dark circles indicating he hadn't been sleeping all that well, but other than that, for someone who Gaius had assured him was practically at death's door and highly contagious, much too sick to accompany his master all the way to Nemeth...

"Merlin!" barked Arthur. "What the hell took you so long?"

Gwen, also having dismounted, went over to him and asked if he was recovered.

"I'm fine, Gwen." Merlin smiled at her. "Much improved, as you can see." He stood up a little straighter and held out his arms.

She gave him a quick hug. Perhaps it was a tad unseemly for the queen of Camelot to embrace a servant, but they were old friends. Even Arthur, a short eye-roll aside, didn't grudge them the familiar greeting. He, after all, had been worrying about Merlin's health and hoping for his speedy recovery, too; he was just the last person to admit it, was all.

"Yes, we're all glad that Merlin is over his little chest cold," Arthur said, his tone laced with sarcasm. "So relieved."

"It was walking pneumonia, Sire," Merlin reminded him, through his teeth.

Arthur waved it off. Tomato, To-mah-toe.

In actuality, however, the king of Camelot was much relieved. First there had been that unfortunate incident with a magically aged Morgana injuring him in such a way that he was out cold with hardly any breath left in his body so that he couldn't warn them that Princess Mithian was being forced to lead them into a trap, and then, shortly thereafter, when all the mess of that misadventure was sorted, when things had been going rather smoothly, no more attacks on the kingdom, Mithian and her father safely and comfortably home for some time, Merlin had gone and fallen ill. Arthur would have claimed, till he was blue in the face, that his annoyance was purely over the timing, that they -himself and Queen Guinevere- were meant to be making their first royal visit to Nemeth, not only since their marriage, but also since the whole Morgana/Hilda hubbub had been sorted out; but, really, it was the illness itself, and how suddenly it had seemed to come upon his manservant...upon his friend...

"Sir," cried George, chiming in, looking over his shoulder as he led Arthur's horse away, "shall I see to it that the grooms prepare the hot mash properly this time?"

I don't care, you're driving me mad, stop offering to do things for me and just get out of my sight already! A vein in the side of Arthur's forehead head was beginning to throb. He had spent the last few days cooped up in a tent with this bizarre little man whose favorite object in the whole of the known world was apparently a jar of polish!

Gwen noticed, and hastily took charge of the matter at hand. "Yes, George," she said shortly, signaling for him to leave them. "Yes. Thank you. That would be lovely."

"I suppose," snapped Arthur, glaring accusingly at Merlin, "it was just too much to expect that my staff be here to greet me upon my return. Naturally my manservant had to sleep in after, I'm sure, cavorting with his friends from the tavern all night."

"Arthur," chided Gwen, "he's been ill."

"He was ill when we left," Arthur pointed out. "He's clearly long since recovered. So what's his excuse this time?"

Merlin did his best to refrain from rolling his eyes or huffing in annoyance. "Sorry, Sire."

"You will not," Arthur warned him, holding up his index finger for emphasis, "leave me alone with George for any considerable duration of time, ever again." He raised his eyebrows. "Are we clear?"

"Honestly, Arthur, I thought you'd get on with George." Merlin smirked, suggesting he had not actually thought that at all. "Brass jokes aside, you're always telling me how much better at attending to you he is than me."

"You have many frustrating habits, Merlin, which collectively make you the worst manservant I've ever had," he retorted. "Thankfully, however, singing an endless, repetitive working song in your sleep about cleaning the leather on saddles is not among your faults."

"Arthur," called a voice belonging to someone seated on a horse surrounded by a number of guards Merlin did not recognize as Camelot-stock noblemen (this was because they weren't). "Are we to wait in this chill all day while you scold your manservant?"

It took a moment, but Merlin recognized the voice, his guess proving correct as the guards parted, making room for the speaker to dismount with the help of one of her servants. "You've brought the Princess Mithian back with you." He had not been expecting that.

"Yes," said Arthur, "King Rodor wished her to return to Camelot and visit with us for a time."

In a low voice, leaning close to Merlin's ear, Gwen added, "Rumour is that he hopes she will choose a politically strong husband from this kingdom. Likely one of the knights of Camelot."

"Hello, Merlin," Mithian greeted him kindly. "I was sorry to hear you had taken ill. It's good to see you again. And in good health."

"It's good to see you, too, Your Highness." He gave her a good-natured smile.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Merlin grumbled lightly to himself while packing his satchel. Arthur had just gotten back yesterday morning and he was already forcing his manservant to come with him on a hunting expedition. For someone who continually claimed that Merlin was a clumsy idiot who scared off all the animals, the king sure had a habit of always bringing him along on these things anyway. By this point, after all these years, in spite of all his grumbling (which he found too cathartic to do without), Merlin took it almost as more of a compliment than an insult. And Gaius had of course deemed him physically well enough to go; he had gotten all the rest he was going to get while Arthur was away in Nemeth, time to get back into the swing of his old routine and duties again.

On the bright side, this hunting expedition might be a little bit more interesting than average, since Mithian, who still loved hunting, was coming along. (Gwen, who had had more than enough of the hunting experience to last her a lifetime when Morgana turned her into a deer, during Mithian's first visit to Camelot, back when the princess was more or less officially betrothed to Arthur, declined to join them.) Gwaine and Percival would probably be coming, too.

"I've wrapped up a little something for you," Gaius said, coming up behind him and reaching around his arm to place a covered cloth packet with the small items Merlin was putting in his satchel. "In case you get hungry."

"Thank you, Gaius." Merlin nodded appreciatively.

"I only hope Arthur won't give you too much of a hard time."

"No..." Merlin shook his head and waved it off dismissively. "Honestly, I think Arthur's a lot happier to be back home in Camelot than he lets on."

"And happier to see you," Gaius added.

"Well you certainly wouldn't know it from the boot he threw at me when I pulled back the curtains in his chambers to wake him and Gwen this morning," Merlin chuckled.

"Have you got everything you need, then?" the old physician double-checked.

Merlin buckled the satchel closed and tossed it over his shoulder. "Yes." He paused, thinking. "Well, nearly. I'm supposed to fetch Arthur's crossbow, and a lighter one, for Mithian."

"Mithian appears in high spirits."

"Why wouldn't she be?" Merlin asked. "Her father is safe; Nemeth is prospering; Camelot is doing well for once, more allies than enemies; we've all managed to recover from what Morgana tried to do; Arthur's safe and well... And it seems her father is largely leaving the choice of who she marries up to her."

"Mithian is getting married?" His eyebrows went up. "This is the first I've heard of it."

"Gwen," Merlin explained, leaning in. "She told me that Mithian's officially here for an ordinary visit, but that her father hopes she'll take a liking to one of the knights of Camelot."

"Ah." Gaius understood. "It makes sense. The lands they hoped to settle the dispute over through her marriage to Arthur were simply given to her to avoid war, so I wouldn't suppose there's much need for her to marry a nobleman to expand their kingdom. King Rodor is a wise man. A marriage to one of the knights, who would doubtless travel back and forth between his wife and family in Nemeth and his duty here in Camelot, would only cement the already strong alliance his court has with ours."

"Mur-lynn!" shouted Arthur's voice from someplace in the next corridor over to where Gaius and Merlin's quarters were located.

"And that would be my signal to hurry up and get those crossbows ready," Merlin said flatly.

IT WASN'T SO bad in the forest that day. Or, at least, for Merlin it wasn't. For Arthur, since they walked for hours without seeing any animals to shoot, it wasn't exactly coming up roses.

Mithian, however, though moderately disappointed, was enjoying herself as well. Merlin, when Arthur wasn't telling him to shut up and blaming him for the lack of visible animals in the forest that day, was pleasant company for her and she liked talking to him. Gwaine and Percival, when they weren't teasing each other, were friendly with her, too. Especially Gwaine, whose attention and easy charm bordered on flirting (he couldn't help it). Arthur could grumble all he liked that they weren't out there to take in the scenery and have a picnic, it didn't dampen her enjoyment of the beauty of the day.

Still, Mithian couldn't deny her excitement when a red fox finally did show face, popping out of its den and rushing right past them, headed in the general direction of the lake of Avalon.

"It's after the water," Arthur decided, taking off at full speed. "Come on."

Gwaine and Percival's horses sped up; Mithian gave hers a light kick, signaling for it to go faster, in pursuit of the fox, too.

Merlin did his best to keep up, but still fell somewhat behind in spite of that.

They came to a two-way path; one way would take them straight to the lake, the other would take them to the lake as well, except in a more round-about manner, not to mention through a number of thickets too dense to take their horses into. Naturally, the fox, being a relatively small creature and feeling safer enclosed than it did out in wide open spaces, took the route through the thickets. Arthur and Mithian dismounted, Percival helping Mithian down. Gwaine, at first, intended to stay with the horses, but changed his mind and also dismounted. Merlin, having no choice, it being his job to follow Arthur into the thickets after the fox, was already on foot, leading his horse and taking the reins of Arthur's, which the king had thrust into his hand the second he was caught up near enough to reach.

After quickly tying the horses' reins to a tree branch as best he could with fumbling, partially numb from the cool forest air, fingers, Merlin rushed for the thicket.

Somehow or other, he got himself lost. The brambles he pushed aside were thick, and though he kept thinking he saw or heard movement just a little ways ahead of him, one time even Gwaine's voice, he never came upon any of the hunting party or the fox. If Arthur was shouting for him, he couldn't hear even the faintest hint of his call.

When at last he found his way out of the enclosure, Merlin had come to a small side-gorge on the borders of the lake of Avalon. From where he stood, he could see the lower muddier land where he had once spied on the Sidhe elders and a plot to kill Arthur, and where he had held Freya in his arms for the last time before she died.

He remembered Freya's arm, reaching out and giving him the magic sword forged in the dragon's breath, the only weapon that could have killed the living dead, and wondered if she was somewhere under there now; if she knew he was close. He wondered if she even remembered him after all this time, or if, in the wonders of the otherworld she now evidently inhabited in her new life as the guardian of the lake, she had found so many interesting and important things to worry about that she never thought anymore of the warlock who'd loved her. Well, he still thought of her. All the more so since his nightmares had begun.

Merlin meant to turn back around and head through the thicket again, resuming his search for the hunting party, but unforeseen tragedy struck. Part of the, not entirely solid, rock surface he stood on the edge of, looking out at the lake, crumbled under his feet. He reached for the remainder of the ledge, but his fingers didn't context with it in time. It all happened so quickly he hadn't a chance even to try and use magic to save himself.

Into the edge of the water he fell. If he had fallen into the deep water, whatever perils would have befallen him, Merlin probably wouldn't have hit his head. Unfortunately, the shallow end, where he landed, was full of rocks and pebbles and he did hit the side of his head, bruising one of his temples. Having broken the skin, dark red blood seeped from his head and into the flowing underwater current of the lake.

Unconscious and half-buried the waves, unable to pull himself up for air, Merlin would most likely have died, if it hadn't been for a pair of white arms that wrapped themselves around his body and pulled him onto the shore.

It was Freya herself, having sensed blood flowing into her lake, feeling as much pain as if it were her own blood and, materializing at the source, came upon the injured Merlin.

His legs still dangled into the water, but from his torso up the warlock was safely lying on land.

Freya, sprawled out beside him, gently moved aside a lock of his wet hair and fingered his wound, willing the blood to clot. She placed her head down on his chest and listened for his heartbeat; it was there, but very far away.

"Merlin," she whisper-breathed, lifting her head from his chest and leaning her face so close to his that her hair tickled his cheeks and their foreheads were nearly touching. "Merlin, come back."

His breath faltered.

Freya pressed her open lips against his and breathed into his mouth, calling on every bit of magic she might have in her being, healing him.

As soon as she pulled away from him, her eyes glowing gold, Merlin coughed up a mouthful of water and began to breathe normally again. His eyes moved back and forth behind his closed lids, which were slowly beginning to open.

But before he could see Freya, bending over him, Mithian came out from a lower, more sturdy, spot below the brambles in the thicket Merlin had emerged from before he fell into the lake.

Freya saw her standing there, looking around. Giving Merlin one last sad look, not wanting to leave him like this, but not certain she wanted this strange princess to see her there after using magic, she disappeared back into her lake.

Mithian then saw Merlin lying there and made her way down a narrow path along her spot on the gorge. "Merlin?" Over her shoulder, she called, "Arthur! I've found him! Come quickly!" But Arthur must have been a ways behind her, for he didn't show up immediately.

She reached his side and was lightly gripping his arm just as his eyes had managed to open all the way and cleared (for at first all he saw was a lake-coloured blur).

"Mithian," murmured Merlin, recognizing her. "You... You saved me?"

"Yes," she said, not quite understanding, trying to help him back up onto his feet. "Yes, I'm going to save you. You're all right now. Everything's going to be fine."

Chapter Text

THE LAST THING Merlin wanted to do was spend more time 'healing' and 'recovering'. First the injury Morgana had given him, then walking pneumonia, and now this. Freya had, of course, healed the worst of it (though he himself had no idea, little real memory of the event, because of the blow to the head the fall had given him), but there was still enough harm done to put him off his usual tasks for nearly a week's time.

More bruises than breaks, luckily, but bad enough that Gaius deemed running about after Arthur's orders temporarily medically inadvisable.

This should have pleased Merlin, to get an extended rest, but overall it just made him a touch cranky, knowing Arthur was not going to be in the best of moods after spending a week being looked after mainly by George. Thankfully, Gwen had, in her subtle way, taken over some of the duties George might have otherwise have had to stand in for (lighting the fire, opening the curtains, and helping Arthur dress in the morning -little things like that) making it all seem like an idle choice rather than even the slightest affront to her position as Queen of Camelot, like she wasn't really doing any work at all, to lighten the load a bit, so that helped.

All the same, Merlin knew perfectly well that, in spite of his relief that his friend was all right, Arthur was bound to make endless snide remarks about his clumsy oaf of a servant tripping over his own two feet then barreling over the side of a cliff (and it would be a ginormous, painfully obvious cliff, the way Arthur told the story, no doubt, which Merlin wouldn't have seen till the last second, as opposed to a gorge he'd simply stood on the wrong part of) and bloody nearly getting himself killed.

To Merlin's great surprise, his chief visitor and comforter during his latest recovery period turned out to be none other than Princess Mithian. She took it upon herself to make time each day to come to the physician's living quarters and sit with him for a bit.

She talked gaily, telling stories of Nemeth, and of whatever mischief Arthur and the knights were mixed up in during Merlin's brief absence; including one story in which Arthur more or less plotted to have George captured by 'rogue' guards and dropped off in the middle of the forest near the borders of Lot's kingdom, in hopes that he wouldn't be able to find his way back home to Camelot again, except Gwen found out and nipped the whole scheme in the bud, making the guards let a shockingly still completely calm and collected George go free long before they even made it out of the main square with him.

Merlin laughed so hard at Mithian's retelling of the event that Gaius thought he was going to break one of his already bruised-up ribs.

Yet, somehow, Mithian, in the way of a proper princess, never neglected any of the other duties a royal visitor in Camelot had in order to keep up going to see Merlin each day. No, she still found time to meet with Arthur's knights, converse politely with Gwen and other ladies of the court, go on another (albeit, much shorter) hunting trip, and even to attend a small but elegant banquet Gwen insisted on holding for their guest when she found out Arthur had planned nothing more special for the entire duration of the princess of Nemeth's stay with them than that extra hunting trip, shrugging and saying, "What? Mithian likes hunting," when she clucked her tongue at his cluelessness. And perhaps all that was part of the reason no one thought it improper for a princess to be so concerned over the well-being of a servant; her royal upbringing had made her so impeccable that those who bothered to care didn't see how she could be possibly doing anything wrong.

It was good, they probably thought, that the princess was so kind. Especially to a servant who King Arthur himself happened to be rather fond of, much as he picked on him.

Not having been expecting her on one day in particular when he was still resting and had heard -by way of Gaius, who heard it from Gwaine when he was binding up a deep bloody scrape on the knight's arm he'd acquired by accidentally getting grazed by Elyan's sword at practice that morning- that Mithian had a full schedule, Merlin looked about for a way to entertain himself.

He was well enough to sit up outside of his own room, even to wander the corridors a bit, but not well enough to do so for any extended amount of time, making him rather restless.

The fact that he'd had the nightmare, about Freya turning into a tree, yet again, the night before, definitely didn't help his feelings of being frustrated and trapped.

Perhaps still thinking of Freya, he decided to use magic to try and make a strawberry appear in his hands out of thin air. It wasn't as if he had anything better to do, and nobody was around. Gaius had gone out; Mithian, he believed, was not coming. So what of it?

Murmuring a spell under his breath, the warlock concentrated. His eyes glowed gold and he slowly opened his clenched hands. There it was, a strawberry. He'd actually succeeded this time.

Suddenly, Merlin heard light, one-person applauding at his back and, nearly jumping straight out of his skin, turned to see Mithian, ridding gloves in her clasped hands as if she'd just come in from the stables before deciding to visit him, standing there.

"You have magic," she said.

Merlin swallowed hard, unbelieving. Mithian knew his secret... What would happen? Would she tell Arthur? Or Gwen, maybe?

For some reason, the princess of Nemeth was smiling, her expression a great deal closer to amused and whimsical than it was stunned or frightened. Merlin hoped this was a good sign. "Your Highness, I-"

Mithian sat down on a stood beside him. "Don't worry," she said, her tone friendly, almost laughing. "Your secret's safe with me."

Merlin breathed a sigh of relief. "You don't..." Mind? Hate me? Want to tell anyone? Perhaps warn Arthur that he's got a sorcerer living at the heart of his kingdom?

"So," said Mithian, carrying on as if it were nothing, "how did you really do it?"

Merlin's forehead crinkled, his brow automatically lowered. "What? I don't understand, I thought you..."

"My father has a jester who can do that," Mithian told him. "Make it look like things are appearing out of thin air. I never could figure out exactly how he did it." She wrung her hands pensively. "I used to try to copy him when I was a little girl, but the courtiers always figured out I just had a piece of fruit up my sleeve." She grimaced play-guiltily and shrugged. "I was never like him; he could roll up his tunic sleeves all the way to his elbows and make a loaf of bread appear in his hands. In the end, I think I got discouraged and simply gave it up."

Merlin half-gaped, uncomprehending. It took a moment to sink in. Mithian hadn't actually seen him using magic after all. His back had been to her, so she couldn't have seen his eyes glow, and she mightn't have heard the spell he'd whispered... She was only teasing him, when she said she would keep his 'secret' safe. The princess no more believed him to be a real sorcerer than she believed King Arthur a god or poor old Gaius a knight! She thought he was merely playing at an innocent child's game, like whistling or finger-snapping or ear-wiggling!

Mithian hadn't the foggiest notion Merlin had been born with magic and was hiding it in Camelot all these years.

"So," she pressed, nudging him lightly with her elbow in a friendly manner. "Tell me. How did you do that?"

Merlin looked from the princess to the strawberry in his hands and then back again, willing his mind to come up with an explanation for her.

Finally, reddening slightly at the cheeks and around the ears, Merlin said, "A good magician keeps the magic a secret."

Mithian sighed. "Because, then, it isn't magic anymore?"

Merlin shrugged.

"That's what my father's jester always told me," Mithian admitted. "He said most magic is only tricks and learning it makes them commonplace and not so special anymore. I suppose he was right."

"Strawberry?" Merlin offered, a touch sheepishly, holding it out to her.

Mithian took the strawberry from his hand. "Thank you, Merlin."

Their faces were temporarily closer together than they'd ever been before and Mithian, for a brief moment, found herself wanting to lean in even further and kiss him. Just once, very gently, on the lips. She held herself back, knowing they were not on those terms, years of ingrained decorum and courtly manners lessons keeping her emotions -whatever feelings she was beginning to develop for the manservant of the king she had once been betrothed to- in check.

Also, Gaius came in, and Mithian quickly sat up straight on the stool and put the strawberry in her mouth, pretending to be thinking of nothing in particular. Maybe there would come a time when there needn't be these boundaries between them, but it would appear that it was not yet arrived.

AFTER MITHIAN LEFT Camelot, things in the kingdom gradually seemed to be going downhill.

Even as Camelot was flowering, it seemed to know, at its core, that it would wilt or be swallowed up by weeds, the seeds of which were still being sewn, before its true fated hour.

Its golden age might be shorter lived. The good times, though only just beginning, already forming a path to their bitter conclusion.

Merlin, by this point naturally fully recovered and returned to all his daily tasks, worried constantly about Mordred, for a recent conversation with Kilgharrah had not gone well. The Great Dragon seemed so sure Mordred was a danger to Arthur, his future death, clinging to him like ivy around a tree, and Merlin was honestly beginning to think he was right.

Mordred had done nothing wrong at present, Arthur was quite taken with him and his progress as a young knight, no one having a real reason to hold a grudge against him save pure pettiness and jealousy, but Merlin couldn't get the vision he'd seen of Mordred killing Arthur out of his head. Kilgharrah had warned him before, when Mordred was only a little boy, and he had not heeded him. And now that the boy was older, in spite of his many evident good qualities, Merlin feared him, unable to trust or grow genuinely close to the newest knight, always held back by his secret knowledge of the future. It mattered not that Mordred had been nothing but courteous to him; the warlock could still see, somewhere in his eyes, behind his smiles -even his clear innocence in some matters- the boy who had once looked at him and said, coldly, in his mind, that he would never forgive nor forget. The boy who had been the first person to call him Emrys...

Merlin knew it wasn't entirely fair, his through judgement of Mordred's character, based sorely on a future that had not yet come to pass, which made him sullen and unreachable. Even Gaius failed at trying to coax him out of this dreary mood that had taken hold of him. The nightmares continued, and Gaius went on occasionally offering draughts that were never accepted. It seemed all of Camelot, most especially Merlin, was trapped so completely in its spinning, ever the same, rut, that it could not stop to save itself.

Seeing no way out and getting very little sleep had an unpleasant, embittering effect on Merlin's personality.

It helped not at all that Arthur was so busy fussing over his knights and kingly duties that he had nothing more to say about it than "Oh, cheer up, Merlin!" or "Why is it you always look as if you've seen a ghost these days?" or "You're half-asleep today! Didn't I tell you to polish my armour?" usually followed by his promptly forgetting all about his manservant and whatever it was he was struggling with. He might have thought he was showing a manly kind of sympathy towards him, doing all he could, when the notion that Merlin was genuinely unhappy about something did cross his mind for longer than a fleeting half-second, but, in reality, the king never even got round to flat-out asking what was wrong, nor did he honestly try to get to the root of it. Perhaps he figured it would just blow over soon enough and he'd have his old back-talking, chipper Merlin back and in the meantime he had too many other important things to worry over to bother about one servant -however fond he was of him- behaving sulkily.

Then came the horrible day when the Disir, three seers and soothsayers chosen to be the mouthpiece of the triple goddess at their birth, living their lives to no other purpose save interpreting her word and will, pronounced judgement on Arthur and sent their servant (who'd died in the attempt) out with a special coin, a runemark, to seal his fate, should he not change his ways.

At first, Arthur was all for ignoring it completely. It was Merlin who blanched and feared what it meant for all of Camelot, for the future rising of Albion. Gaius, however, expressed worry aloud when examining the coin, and Arthur, for once, listened.

Oh, he might have pretended not to, but he did. And it ate away at him until, no matter what his beloved Guinevere said to comfort him, that it was nothing to fret about, more than likely just a token given to him by a dying fanatic whose deranged mind could not be understood, he could ignore it no longer.

Rounding up the bravest and most experienced of his knights, Arthur prepared to travel to the dwelling place, a sacred cave in a sacred grove of trees, of the Disir.

Mordred begged to come along, and although Arthur initially turned him down, the young knight ended up getting his way, however reluctant the king was to put him, so young and still in earlier stages of training than most of the other knights, in danger.

The meeting with the Disir could not possibly have gone any worse. In spite of the fact that it was a sacred place, the knights of Camelot did not part with their weapons at the entrance. They felt uncomfortable, vulnerable, maybe even naked coming into a place of potential danger unarmed. The Disir took this as a grave insult to them and their triple goddess, looking out at Arthur and his men with scorn from under the hoods of their cloaks. Their mouths, one of the few parts of them that were clearly visible, were grim-set with coldness and outrage.

"Your knights come to us," they hissed, "with swords ready to be drawn. Worse still, they have trampled over our sacred charms and relics without so much as a second thought. This is a slap in the face to the triple goddess, Arthur Pendragon."

What happened next occurred so quickly that Merlin was never sure exactly who started it. One of the knights had drawn their sword, but it appeared to be in self-defense. Gwaine lunged forward. Before this, Arthur, Merlin was pretty sure, had dropped the runemark coin at the feet of the Disir and demanded an explanation. They had not been pleased then, either, but they had not attacked, as they appeared to at the sign of an unsheathed sword.

Now, Mordred was jumping forward as well, protecting Arthur...

A spear belonging to one of the Disir pierced him, filling him with an ancient magical poison that meant certain death for his 'crime' against them.

Arthur ordered everyone to retreat. No one save Merlin himself, not without a horrified shiver, looked back at the unmoved Disir, highest court of the triple goddess of the Old Religion, collectively watching them all go out from the mouth of the cave.

When it became apparent first that Merlin, and later Gaius, could not cure Mordred, Arthur began to grasp at straws for a miracle. He blamed himself for Mordred's impending death, knowing he should never have let him come along to begin with, leaving him safely behind at Camelot.

There seemed no answer, in the end, but to go back to the Disir. This time, however, he took only Merlin with him and entered unarmed.

Arthur pleaded for them to spare Mordred's life, repenting of any offense his knights might have caused, assuring them it was not his intention.

Merlin stood at his side, listening, silent, thinking only that it would not be such a bad thing if Mordred were to die this way.

If Morgana had died from his poisoning her, all those years ago, she would have been remembered fondly by all who had known her. No one would believe her capable of such evil as she now preformed as a High Priestess in opposition to Arthur's rein as king of Camelot. If the dragon was right and Mordred became anything like she was, not as he was now, before killing Arthur as Merlin had seen him do in the vision... Then again, Merlin would have forever carried the guilt, had Morgana died that way; the guilt for killing her, even though it was only to save Camelot and Arthur... But he wasn't quite that same person now. He grew up and learned the meaning of duty. And his duty was to save Arthur, not Mordred.

Arthur and the Disir argued back and forth. The Disir said he was unfair to those of the Old Religion; Arthur's rebuttal was that they had been unfair to him, judging him, harming his dutiful young knight who'd meant no ill-will, only to protect his king...

Finally, the Disir offered a bargain. "If you mean to make amends, Arthur Pendragon, then give over, for a fortnight, one of your own men at the heart of Camelot, to be re-educated in the ways of the Old Religion. And you must not ostracize this one, for he is one of your own, your sacrifice to the goddess. If you agree to do this thing, you will return to Camelot to find Sir Mordred well again."

Arthur paled. "I can't do that..."

"Then you make no atonement with us and your fate is sealed. You have until the dawn to give us your answer."

THAT NIGHT, ROUND the campfire, Arthur seemed to be regarding his manservant almost mournfully, out of the corner of his eye.

"What should I do, Merlin?" he sighed. "If I agree, I've put an innocent subject of Camelot into their hands. If I refuse, Mordred will die."

Yes, Mordred must die now, there would be time to bring magic back later and perhaps make peace that way with the Disir, when Arthur was safe. Moreover, Merlin didn't feel he trusted the Disir the same way he would have trusted a group of peaceful Druids. The Disir might be of the old ways, of magic, but they seemed very unlike him. Their judgement mattered, but Merlin wished more than anything that Arthur had no part of it. Why couldn't they have been more patient? With time, Merlin was sure Arthur would return magic to the land. He had waited, suffered unspeakably, keeping who he really was a secret for years on end, and the Disir could make demands on him under a time-frame, hardening his heart against them and magic? It was monstrous. And all for the sake, on their end, of their goddess, and, on Arthur's end, Mordred, of all people!

"You have to do what you think is right," Merlin said at last.

"I think," said Arthur, gravely, wincing as if the words pained him, "I should give them what they ask, to save Mordred's life."

"Why?"

"Because, if it was one I trusted to remain loyal," Arthur explained, willing himself not to think of Morgana or his Uncle Agravaine and how they, persons so close and dear to him, had betrayed him, "both he and Mordred would live."

"If the Disir keep their word," Merlin pointed out. "You don't know..."

"If they keep their word about Mordred," Arthur decided, "they have no reason to betray me afterward and not allow the one I send to return to Camelot in a fortnight."

"But," said Merlin, "you're frightened of how they might be changed in that time?"

Arthur nodded. "If they become attached...to the old ways...want to bring back magic... What do you say, Merlin?"

Tears filled his eyes. It pained him more than Arthur could have ever fathomed to say these next nine words. "There can be no place for magic in Camelot."

"Merlin, you know me well," Arthur confessed, his face a mask of guilt all of a sudden. "Do you think I have made my decision?"

Merlin felt a shiver run up his spine, the firelight reflected in the moisture still filling his eyes. "Yes." You choose to save Mordred and chance the outcome of whoever you have to give up in his place.

"I was thinking," Arthur said heavily, "you, Merlin."

Merlin blinked and shook his head. "I'm only a lackey, a maker of beds..."

"Lackeys can be wise," replied Arthur. "I don't ask this lightly."

Merlin knew he could not refuse his king, though it would make things far simpler if only he could; Mordred, at least, would be out of the way. But, alas, he found he could not. He could not stand against the word of the king, and, more than that, he could not bear the helplessness in Arthur's eyes. It still hurt him that, after all these years, after doing everything for Arthur's sake, he was so quick to hand him over to the Disir to save Mordred, yet saying no never so much as crossed the warlock's mind. He must be resigned to what Arthur asked of him. They were older now, the stakes much higher than those of the hapless new servant who had been put in the stocks to cover for an absent Prince Arthur.

So, Merlin nodded and chewed on the inside of his mouth, willing himself to keep the tears back just a little longer, till Arthur went to sleep.

"You've always come back before," Arthur reminded him, thinking Merlin's twisted facial expression was merely filled with fear of the Disir and the fortnight he would spend under their control and guidance, nothing more, eager to cheer him up and comfort himself a bit in the process. "I haven't managed to be rid of you yet."

Merlin tried to smile. He couldn't; his lips stretched blandly, the corners of his mouth still turned stubbornly downwards.

At dawn, they rose up, put out their fire, and Arthur answered the Disir, agreeing to send his own personal manservant Merlin back to them for that fortnight, provided he returned to Camelot to find Mordred well again.

IN CAMELOT, GAIUS tried to help Merlin while he packed to leave. He wasn't none too happy Merlin was going (the education there would likely not be what Merlin needed, not lessons in using his magic for good, more trying to re-shape his thinking or force him to bow to the goddess and show acceptance of the old ways because he was Arthur's sacrifice and representation the whole time he was to be with them). Like Merlin, Gaius wished it was the Druids the young man was being sent to instead. They respected the Disir unquestioningly, as the mouthpiece of the triple goddess, but they were less forceful to those they took in, less fanatical. Being a peaceful people, their goal was not to spite Arthur. The Disir claimed to have no other purpose than to serve the goddess and do as she would want, but part of them would always still be human and thus perfectly capable of resentment.

"You keep yourself safe," Gaius warned him. "If you feel threatened, come back to Camelot early."

"I'm not going to run away, Gaius," Merlin told him. "Arthur's given his word that I'm to stay for the full fortnight and do whatever they ask of me."

"It is an unprecedented request," Gaius protested, unable to figure out what the Disir could possibly be thinking of in their asking for this. "Besides, Mordred is fine now. He's has a miraculous recovery."

"Yes, and I'm not going to return to have Arthur angry with me because my supposed cowardice and stupidity killed his favorite knight."

Gaius caught the flash of resentment in Merlin's eyes. "Merlin! You don't think Arthur is giving you up to the Disir just because he cares more for Mordred than he does for you?"

He sighed heavily. "I don't know." He closed his now fully-stocked pack. "All I know is, after all I've done for him, I was still Arthur's first choice to give up to what he believes is a lost cause."

"Merlin!" Gaius shook his head. "Arthur chose you because he trusts you. Don't you understand? Of all his men, he believes you would come out of this without meaning harm to him or Camelot. He trusts you, of everyone, to remain loyal, no matter what happens -whatever you see- during your stay with the Disir."

He wanted to believe that, but part of him remained unsure if he truly did.

"Merlin." Arthur and Gwen appeared in the doorway of the physician's chambers.

"It's time?" Merlin slung his pack over his shoulder.

"Not quite yet." Gwen walked across the room to him and hugged him goodbye. "We'll see you soon." If she had any reservations about her husband handing Merlin over to the Disir, she didn't say anything about it then. There were tears in eyes, though, and on her cheeks; Merlin could feel them landing on the side of his neck when she hugged him, dampening the inside of his scarf. "You're doing a very brave thing, Merlin. I'm so proud of you. Camelot is proud of you."

"You'll be all right," Arthur said, when Gwen finally pulled away. "Take this." He held out a golden chain. "That way, you can know you go there in the king's name."

Merlin took the chain from Arthur and fastened it around his neck, tucking it under his scarf where it was safely hid. "Thanks."

Sir Leon was in the doorway now. He looked first to Arthur, then, sadly, to Merlin, as if he thought he would never see him again. Then, his eyes flickering dutifully back to the king, he cleared his throat and announced, "The horses are ready, Sire."

Now, it was time.

Chapter Text

THE FIRST WEEK was, to put it bluntly, hell. Merlin was sure he had never been so miserable in any place before this. Not in Camelot, even when Arthur was in one of his moods and made his daily tasks more difficult, or when Gaius got it into his head to make him sit down and learn medicines, herbs, and anatomy by the book. Nor sleeping on the floor back home in Ealdor. In both places, there had been the good and the bad, and Merlin was more or less happy, fairly contented, going about his life in his childhood and his current homes respectively. But being with the Disir, living in a dreary cave, was like a prison, that first week.

The Disir did not like him, as he had come in Arthur's name, and they did precious little to hide this animosity. One of them even rapped his fingers with a staff that, when it cracked against his skin, made his knuckles swell to about ten times their usual size, thinking he was not paying enough attention to her when she was explaining some very dour, slow fact about the triple goddess. That was all right, mostly, as the swelling went down after only an hour or so, no major harm done, just a sharp reminder for him not to let his mind wander so much, but the herbs they gave him to help him see visions in one of the cave's sacred pools were much worse. They gave him a headache, which turned into a bad case of the shakes the next following morning. Merlin felt like a jelly, no control over his own arms and legs. His hands and feet went numb and his throat felt like it was threatening to close up on him. The Disir were, to their credit, slightly more patient when they realized he was not putting on his illness but was genuinely unwell, yet overall they remained harsh instructors.

The only thing he had even to remotely look forward to each day was being sent to his quarters when the lessons were concluded or temporarily halted. These quarters consisted of a large hollowed-out room in the cave, which, although usually kept painfully dark, was not damp or cold (it did have a fireplace, and candlesticks, though the latter were rarely lit), and the bed felt so very like the one back home in Camelot, save for the fact that it was a mite wider in length, that at least twice Merlin woke thinking he was home again and had merely dreamed of his time with the Disir.

By the second week, however, a change had gradually begun to occur. Merlin was never entirely sure if the Disir (perhaps via a message from their goddess) discovered he was the Emrys spoken of amongst the Druids, or even that he had magic, for they never told him one way or the other, but nonetheless they seemed to realize he was not their enemy after all. Yes, in the beginning they had been brutal, but more because they believed him to be an arrogant subject sent grudgingly by King Arthur who would be difficult and oppose their teachings. When they discovered nothing could be further from the truth, that he was no more deliberately absent-minded towards their teachings than he was anything else, they grew, if not fond of him, more respectful. They noticed that he always did as they instructed. Not only that, he seemed to know -and retain, without force- a great deal more of the old ways than they'd expected. When they asked questions, he shared, not only what they'd told him, but what he knew, however limited, from Gaius.

If the Disir had been more human, less focused on their goddess, simply mere Druids, they might have tried to make a pet of him. It would not have been hard. He wanted to please, not to make them angry. But the Disir, maybe out of mercy, upon assessing his character after the first week, decided there was no longer any need for him to learn from them directly. Instead, they brought a Druid man to come in and continue instructing Merlin in the ways of the Old Religion. He was an oldish-man, with an impish face spotted with white fuzz, dressed in the robes of a priest-in-training. Merlin had some notion that the Disir brought him to their cave by way of magical summoning, for he arrived, looking glaze-eyed and dazed in the limited light, animated and willing to help, but sort of sleepy and slow in his movements. It is possible that he thought his instruction of Arthur's manservant (who he at least most definitely did not know for Emrys, for whichever reason) in the dwelling of the Disir only a dream he woke up from each day following his afternoon nap.

Regardless, Merlin liked him a great deal more than the Disir. He was a kindly teacher, one much more inclined to spoil a good pupil. He also had a sense of humour about things, for when Merlin dared crack a joke about this or that old custom, smiling faintly so that the Druid knew he was not serious, he laughed, clearly amused, whereas the Disir became cross. More than that, he was willing to answer any questions Merlin had, rather than just ask his own. In his younger years, he had been a sort of mentor among the Druid children, and he had never thought it fair that the teacher was the only one to ask questions. Even in what he might have took for a dream, he reasoned that fairness should rule the direction of his lessons.

Best of all, the Druid did not make Merlin take any herbs. He seemed contented to teach him about having visions but felt no need to make him actually have one.

This was just as well. Whatever the Disir had made him see, it was not like when he'd looked at the crystals in the Crystal Cave, or the vision he'd had of Mordred killing Arthur; the Disir claimed he cried things out, evidently seeing something, before he took sick, but he had no lasting memory of it.

It seemed the last week would go by quickly now that things were better, and soon he would be back safe and sound in Camelot. Soon he would see Arthur, Gwen, Gwaine, Gaius...everybody... The thought cheered him and put more spring in his step as he traveled from his quarters to the parts of the cave where his lessons (it varied, from day to day, exactly where) took place.

On the day before the last night he would spend there, however, the Disir reappeared. They had not bothered even coming to see him since they brought forth the Druid instructor, but now they came in, looking grave-mouthed under their hoods.

"Merlin," they said.

"Yes?" He had been looking down at a symbol the Druid carved into a rock, now he looked up.

"What do you know of Beltane?" This seemed to come from the third Disir, the one on the far left, yet it still felt as if they had all spoken together somehow.

Merlin blinked. "I know it's a festival, usually held in early May, a tradition of the Old Religion." He knew of it from Gaius, not from his lessons there. "It's supposed to involve a fertility rite. A union of the goddess as the Maiden Huntress and one of the ancient gods as the King Stag, or the Horned One, usually represented by a man and a woman chosen by the High Priestess." Oftentimes, it was the High Priestess herself, or one of her ladies, who played the part of the Maiden Huntress, depending on various factors. The practice was supposedly already growing slightly out of date even before the great purge, though Uther had still hated -and persecuted- any children born out of such a union, suspecting they were more likely to be born sorcerers than children who were not conceived in such a way. Merlin couldn't imagine why the Disir were asking him about it.

"We have questioned the triple goddess," they informed him. "So that we might know who the man was to be this year. We have interpreted her reply." There was a pause. "The one who comes from Camelot and returns the morning after the Beltane Fires are lit. That is her answer."

Merlin paled, swaying slightly as he tried to stand up properly. He nearly fainted. "Me?" he managed, feebly.

"After you play your part, you are free to go. You will have been with us the full fortnight."

"If I refuse?" He felt a ball of anger in his stomach that they could force him to do something like this against his will.

"You would deny the goddess while in the cave of her mouthpiece?" They sounded indignant.

"No, you don't understand," Merlin said, shaking his head. "I can't do this."

"You can," one of them said. "You have not seen the future, Merlin, you know not, at this point, if it will even be such a great sacrifice on your part after all. And if it is, well, many have given up much more than one part of themselves for the sake of the Old Religion. Show Camelot's repentance. Be the King Stag. Then go home."

"This is wrong," began Merlin.

"You are free to go, Merlin," the Disir reminded him. "But if you do, take with you the runemark, return it to your king, and know you have brought the judgement by the goddess around full circle to where you started."

"This was not what Arthur agreed to," Merlin exclaimed coldly.

Though, really, Arthur had more or less given him up into their hands to do as they would, as they saw fit, in re-educating him. There had been no barriers, no hard-and-fast rules. Only that he gave them Merlin for a fortnight in exchange for Mordred's life. And they knew this as well as he did. Arthur knew only a little of what he considered the superstitions of the Old Religion, little to nothing, as likely as not, of Beltane. He could not have seen this coming any more than poor Merlin himself had. Still, that did not keep the warlock from thinking, resentfully, that Arthur had uncaringly given him up to what had put him now in this position.

How could you do this to me, Arthur? More than once, Merlin had had to reach under his scarf and touch the golden chain to remind himself that perhaps Arthur did care what happened to him. Arthur was his friend. The Disir would have him believe Arthur was found wanting, as their goddess judged, but they would not fully take away his faith in the once in future king. Whatever was happening, it was not all Arthur's fault. As a king, he had only been doing what he thought best, what he thought right and just. Gaius wouldn't lie to him, not about something like this: Arthur believed in him, trusted him. Somehow or other, whether he was forced to do this last thing they asked of him in the end or not, he would return to Camelot the same loyal servant who'd left it.

"Retire to your quarters," the Disir ordered. "Eat and drink what is brought for you and wait for the Maiden Huntress. She will come to you."

Merlin was glad enough to obey them about returning to his chambers. He was angry and did not wish to be around the conniving, cold-hearted Disir one second longer than was needed.

A servant of the Disir came in, mutely, and brought him wine, bread, and some herbs to chew.

He considered throwing the herbs into the fireplace and eating only the bread, but decided against it in the end. If there was a way out of being the King Stag, he would find it (perhaps he could reason with the lady they sent in, convincing her to lie for them both, saying it had been done, provided she was not a devout or a fanatic), but he would not risk angering them further than that. No, he would take it in stride and eat the herbs and hope they did not make him sick again.

All the same, he ate the bread first. While he chewed on it, washing it down with the wine, Merlin thought over what he knew regarding the fertility ritual of Beltane. Supposing it was no stranger who came in to be with him tonight? Morgana was a High Priestess. The identity of the King Stag was usually kept a secret, as far as he knew. She would not know it was him. But Morgana was probably too busy trying to figure out how to kill Arthur and take over Camelot again to bother coming herself. Surely she would have sent someone. But, if she hadn't...? If she did come herself...? He was not looking forward to seeing her.

With the last few sips of wine, Merlin took the herbs.

It was a worse result than the last time. No headache or shakes, thankfully, but, instead, his stomach churned like a washerwoman was wringing it out to put out on a clothesline.

Distracted by his stomach and the sudden desire to hurl, Merlin didn't even hear the Maiden Huntress come in.

To be fair, though, she stepped as lightly as if she were walking on water, her footfalls making very little noise.

Merlin clutched his stomach and curled up on his side on the floor.

"At least speak to me so I can know where you are," said a soft, strangely familiar, female voice. The fire had gone down to a few light embers, not enough to see by, so she was having trouble finding him.

Merlin retched, vomiting on the floor.

She heard that and moved towards the sound. "You're ill."

"Lady," he mumbled.

"They've given you too many herbs. You would think the Disir would have seen that you couldn't handle yourself and given you less." She came over to him, knelt on the ground, and put a cool hand on his forehead. "It's all right. I can make you better." She reached under his armpits and lifted him up. Her touch was light but strong. She helped him walk over to his bed. "Shh," she murmured when he let out a light moan. "Sleep. Rest." She gingerly stroked his forehead and softly spoke an ancient prayer, or healing spell, over him. It was a comforting one to Merlin, a thread tying him to more familiar things; he had once heard his father say those same words over a sick and injured Arthur, years before. "Ahlúttre þá séocnes. Þurh- hæle bræd."

Merlin slept. When he woke, his head had cleared, his stomach no longer hurt, and his throat was no longer stinging from the acid in his vomit.

It was always dark in the cave, but somehow Merlin knew he had not slept long, maybe an hour or two at best. It was still the middle of the night, not yet near dawn.

The Maiden Huntress had been kind to him, comforting him and making him better, when she might have been ill-tempered, if she was a devout, angry about Beltane being ruined or interrupted.

Where was she? Was she still here?

Surely, he thought, she would not have just left while I was asleep...

"Hello?" he whispered, a touch hoarsely.

No reply.

When he shifted his foot, he heard a slight rustle in the blankets and felt somebody stir. That was when he realized: the Maiden Huntress had been dozing at his feet, like a big cat, at the end of the bed.

She sat up now.

Still, he could not see her very well. "Why do they always keep this place such a dungeon?" Merlin said, more to himself than to the lady at the foot of the bed. "Forbærnen." His eyes glowed gold and the candlesticks all lit up, giving the hollowed room a bit of light.

Merlin looked away from the candles to the girl on the bed and his expression softened the moment he got a proper look at her.

What he felt, all at once, was hard to describe. The first feeling was relief, for it was not Morgana, he could tell that much. Other emotions coursed through him, though, just as quickly. She was a slight young woman with dark hair and a sweet mouth. Familiar eyes twinkled, reflecting the candlelight, behind a silver beaded mask she wore.

He thought he'd never seen anyone so beautiful.

Her face beamed behind the mask, recognizing him. "Merlin!" she gasped out in a low breath. "It is you." A smile spread across her face. "I never thought... They said it was a man Arthur sent. That's all. I thought I would speak with a knight, convince him to tell the Disir we'd done as they requested, so as not to offend them. I never thought... In a thousand years, Merlin, I didn't expect you. I knew your voice, when you tried to speak to me when you were ill because of the herbs, and suspected a moment ago when you used magic that you could be no knight of Camelot after all, but I wasn't sure..."

Merlin smiled back at her. He couldn't explain it, but it did not surprise him that she knew him -that they knew each other- for he felt certain that they had met before, whether in this life or one before, even if he couldn't place her in this dim cave, impeded a bit by the wavy mask she wore, he knew she was someone he had been waiting for and longing for.

A friend, a lover...

He had been waiting a long, long time for this woman, that was all he knew.

She waited, as if expecting him to cry out her name. He showed signs of recognition, the look on his face was not one of somebody who was looking at a stranger. There were husbands and wives who did not like each other well enough to look at each other that way. But still he did not speak her name. He knew her, but he did not place her.

Freya, she thought, looking into his eyes desperately, it's me, it's Freya!

It was the second time she had healed him, the third time she'd had a chance to repay his kindness to her all those years ago, and, just like the last time, when Mithian appeared and she'd vanished before the princess reached his side, she could not reveal herself. If he had seen her, before Mithian came, and known her, that would have been well. But she couldn't have waited and risked Mithian seeing her just then. As for now, she was only there because of High Priestess, Morgana, who Freya, Lady of the Lake, was not fond of, because she was firmly on the side of Merlin and Arthur, and Morgana, especially after having been a prisoner for two years, was on no side but her own. Morgana would not go herself, and she had meant to send a young frightened Druid girl to be the Maiden Huntress. The Lady of the Lake had taken pity on her and offered to go in her place. Morgana didn't care either way. She'd never met the Lady of the Lake, though she knew of her in passing. The Maiden Huntress was not allowed to tell the Horned One who she was, as she was meant to be the manifestation of the goddess. Freya had not intended to lie with the King Stag, but to disrespect the other ingrained customs of Beltane was asking for trouble. She, too, after all, was a creature of the Old Religion; first as an outcast Druid, then as the guardian of the lake of Avalon. If he had recognized her, as she recognized him, it would have been all right, but she could not speak her name to him tonight, as the Maiden Huntress, nor could she remove her mask so that he might see her full face.

The good thing was, whatever else factored into this, whether he recognized her for herself or not, he remembered her. Loved her still. Freya, in her limited life, first as a cursed Druid on the run, then as Lady of the Lake, might have had little positive experience with men to speak of, but she knew enough to tell that a man did not look at a woman that way if he did not have strong feelings for her.

It was not the cold, wanting eyes of lust, nor the baffled meeting of two children who have just become old enough to know they fancy each other. It was not even, in his stare, the same look almost of bewildered delight in finding someone who was not unlike themselves. They had met before and this was a reunion. It was as if they were two halves that made a whole together. It was as if, right up till the moment the candles lit and their eyes met, they had been amputees, missing a huge part of themselves, severed by the knife of death and forced separation. While the feeling might have rested in them like an ache, as a wounded solider always knows his arm is missing, or else his leg, sometimes even feeling it itch or become too hot or cold though it is not with him. The phantom of what was there -what should be there- still existed. Some might learn to ignore this better than others, but should the lost part be found again, like drops of watery dew, they were bound to splash together and feel wholeness all over again.

After a few moments of waiting for him to speak her name, Freya finally gave up and, instead, stretched out her arm and touched the place on his temple where his injury had been when she saved him from the water last time she'd seen him.

Merlin felt himself blush. She was so near him. Thoughtlessly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as he was sure it was, he learned forward and kissed her on the mouth.

She slid her fingers down from his temple to his cheek and returned the favor. She wondered if a tear would roll down his face as it had the first time they'd kissed in the catacombs under the castle in Camelot.

He pulled away. "Lady, I don't mean..."

What must she think of him? If they had not met before, this would be forward of him. Still, a woman whose name he didn't know, even if he knew her, and she must be feeling... No, she was looking out from behind the mask and into his eyes again, and he understood. There were no secrets between them, they didn't have to hide anything. She knew perfectly well he could not think of her name, also that he loved her, and had not intended to lie with any woman who just so happened to waltz into his quarters at Beltane simply because those crones in hoods ordered him to. And he knew the same of her.

But it was the two of them, by destiny or by serendipity. They belonged to each other. A bond as strong as if they were wed and had been so for years tied them together.

Merlin reached for her again, putting his arms around her.

This time, she kissed him first, locking her wrists behind the back of his neck.

When they eased themselves down onto the bed so that they were no longer sitting up, they did not let go of each other.

Freya had not felt so loved since the day she died on the shores of the Lake of Avalon, Merlin weeping over what that sorcerer and his mother had done to her, wanting nothing more than a way to save her, so innocently unaware that he already had.

She protested not at all when he rolled over on top of her; she even guided his hands to the fastenings on the bodice of her dress.

Feeling her hands over his, Merlin sighed. They were more than merely cool. They were cold. As cold as if she'd emerged from a chilly pond and walked through damp, early spring air. She felt colder in other places too. He kissed her hands, as well as her lips and cheek and neck, and stroked these as he would stroke the fur of a cat, thinking to warm them.

There was no reason, it would seem, to lie to the Disir after all.

MORNING FOR THEM was as dark as the faded night, save for the candles which would have been melted to useless puddles of wax were it not for Merlin's magic keeping them lit.

Freya was still asleep in his arms when he awoke, but at first he was afraid to open his eyes.

Last night had been something out of a fairy-tale; an explorer, peasant or prince, finds a beautiful magic-born woman in a cave and falls in love with her. This was not the stuff of everyday life in Camelot. What if, as in the stories, he opened his eyes to find her gone, or changed into another form? It was not like him, what he had done last night. Had the Disir been so desperate for their Beltane ritual they'd put a spell on him? But, surely, if that were the case, Merlin's own magic would have been strong enough to resist it, or at least know he was being enchanted. The Lamia, for instance, had had no control over him on account of his magic. And it wasn't a love spell he'd felt last night, it was real love. However it had come to pass, he knew it was real; as real as Arthur's love for Gwen, or Uther's love for Arthur's mother Ygraine, the woman whose death had started the great purge... Mad things had happened for the love of a woman before now... Just not to Merlin himself. Except that once, when he had wanted to leave Camelot with Freya, unconcerned about his destiny...

Still, it was with a vague sense of apprehension that Merlin peered down at his sleeping companion.

As if sensing a presence, she jumped, waking in a startled fashion, sitting bolt upright in the bed, her undraped white body almost luminous, like a deep water fish, because of the darkness of the cave even with the candles.

"It's all right. It's me, Merlin." Merlin breathed a sigh of relief, for it was the same masked woman from the night before, his same beautiful Maiden Huntress. She had not vanished or been replaced.

They leaned back on the pillows and rested so close that they were almost nose-to-nose.

He reached over, grasped one of her hands, and fumbled with her fingers, interlocking his own with them.

Freya smiled.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course," she whispered through her upturned lips, eyes half-closed behind her mask.

"Do you think the triple goddess will find it offensive that I like you as you," Merlin asked softly, "more than as the Maiden Huntress?" It was not, he knew, the god and goddess who had had pleasure last night, so much as the warlock and the lady.

"The Disir would find offense from the goddess if you breathed too loudly nearly her shrine." Freya exaggerated, but not much. "I wouldn't worry about it." For her, too, after all, it hadn't been the King Stag she joined herself with, but Merlin, her first and only lover.

Merlin chuckled softly at that. "Come back to Camelot with me." With his free hand, he played with a lock of her black hair, twirling it affectionately around his index finger.

"I can't, Merlin," she whispered brokenly. "I'm not like you. There's no place for me to return to there."

"I know," he said, "that I'm just a servant, we wouldn't have fancy things, or the finest quarters, but I'll look after you, and we'll have food and shelter and blankets." He thought, even, that Gwen no longer had a maidservant of her own since losing Sefa... Surely, if he brought home a wife, she would see the sense in letting his bride take over Sefa's old duties... "That's all we'll need."

"It isn't that."

"Then what is it?"

She swallowed. "I have responsibilities, things I am bound to..." She would be expected back in Avalon that very afternoon... "I cannot just leave them and go to Camelot."

Merlin thought of something. What if she was a sworn priestess in training? Of course, seeing as Morgana was the last High Priestess, she would have a very harsh mistress, but that would be more reason to feel sorry for her than angry or suspicious.

"You are my first," Merlin told her, his voice cracking with sadness. "I will always think of you and miss you."

"You do not know how often I've missed you," Freya assured him. "To know you are still thinking of me, by whatever name, will have to be enough." She kissed his brow. "I'm sorry. I want to go with you more than anything."

He had a notion. "Here." He gave her Arthur's golden chain, fastening it around the back of her neck. "You won't forget me?"

"Never."

"When do you have to go?"

"After breakfast." The servants of the Disir would bring them something before sending them on their way.

"Can we leave here together, at least?"

Willing herself not to cry and spoil their last moments together, Freya shook her head.

Druid robes were left for them, and they covered themselves with these and ate side by side. Occasionally, they would reach across and touch the arm of the other, just to feel that they were still together.

Unwittingly or otherwise, Merlin and Freya were amputees once again.

IN THE KINGDOM of Nemeth, Mithian stood in the throne room, waiting to speak to her father, King Rodor. She knew what he was likely to ask of her, and she had an answer, though perhaps not exactly the one he might be expecting.

"Mithian, daughter," he said, smiling as the doors swung open and he entered the room.

"Father."

"As you've always been very observant," said the king, cutting straight to the point, "I suppose you know that when I sent you to Camelot recently it was not only for a visit between allies."

"Yes, father."

"I trust you have had enough time, since then, to settle back in here at home and think it over?"

Mithian nodded.

"Tell me, then, daughter, is there one at the court of Camelot you fancy above the others?"

Mithian tucked a piece of hair behind one ear. "Yes." She took in a deep breath. "But I mean to ask your blessing before I bring the matter up to anyone there. It is...complicated..." She looked down at her hands briefly, then back up at her father. "He is not a knight."

"I see."

"I believe, though, that it would not be a poor match," Mithian said, holding back any anxiety she was feeling about whether he, too, would see it that way. "Arthur values him and his opinion. He is not titled now, but it would not surprise me to learn, some years in the future, that he has been promoted from the king of Camelot's servant to his adviser."

Rodor's face curled up in pensive apprehension. "Daughter, a servant?"

"But why not?" Mithian pointed out. "Arthur himself married a blacksmith's daughter. It would show we have no ill-feelings about that, not to mention you yourself have said, since we've acquired the disputed lands, it doesn't matter that I marry for title and wealth."

"And this is the king's own personal manservant, you say?"

"Yes."

"It will involve a great deal of travel," Rodor noted. "For you, and for the servant in question. If he is as valuable to Arthur as all that, will he be willing to let him be absent from the court so often?"

"It would not be always," explained Mithian, her expression growing hopeful now that she saw her father was seriously considering it. "And I would go to and from Camelot, too. It would be no bad thing, if there was a chance of expanded comings and goings between Camelot and Nemeth."

"That is true." Rodor could find no flaw in that. "Is the servant interested in you?"

"I do not believe Merlin dislikes me any longer," Mithian laughed. "We have been good enough friends since Arthur and Guinevere were reunited. I haven't spoken to him about it, but I do not think he would object. I know he has no lady at present to speak of. He does not appear to be promised to anybody." Probably, he was too busy running about after Arthur to meet a girl who could be her rival, at any rate. "I think he is fond enough of me."

"Tell you what, child," said Rodor, making up his mind. "In a matter of months, you can travel to Camelot again and ask Arthur about it."

Mithian's smile widened. A tingle of happiness rushed through her veins and made her palms sweat so that she almost wiped them on the skirt of her dress. Things might be changing for the better.

She looked forward, eagerly, with ever-growing hope, to returning to Camelot.

FAR FROM NEMETH, a boat floated atop the lake of Avalon. Soon a portal would open and it would sink under the waves, taking its sole passenger, the Lady of the Lake, back home again.

It was then, away from Merlin and the cave of the Disir, that Freya allowed her tears to fall. She knew she would never stop loving him and yet once more she'd had to refuse his offer to look after her. Her last glimpse of him had been just after breakfast when she'd, still dressed in the Druid robe, gathered up her dress from where it was crumpled at the bedside (she wore no shoes) and turned to leave. His expression was broken, looking at her with tear-filled eyes, as if begging her to change her mind and risk coming back with him.

She should not have lain with him the night before, she thought. Knowing she could not stay with him, it had been wrong, a giving of false hope. Beltane was over and, unless he chanced to have another accident and land in her lake, she wondered if she would ever even see him again, let alone speak to him or hold him, or feel him hold her. That outside of the cave the Beltane fires had been lit and they'd only done what was expected of them was no excuse. Merlin was quite right in saying that it had been them together and not the goddess and her consort.

At least she could be happy that he was going back to Camelot, that the Disir could do him no further harm.

Biting her lower lip, she touched the golden chain Merlin had given her.

Suddenly something sharp hit her, like a thorn blown into her face on the wind. As a cursed Druid, Freya had not had the seer's gift, rarely if ever did she see things that were not there, that had not yet come to pass, that had been but were happening far away, but since she'd become the Lady of the Lake, she had had a touch of it. If it hadn't been for that, her knowledge of Morgause's army of the undead would have been a lot more patchy; she mightn't have known to get the sword at the bottom of her lake back into Merlin's capable hands.

Now she was having another vision, this time of herself.

She was in her palace in Avalon, waited on by spirits of the water... Judging by the light, it was early morning, and she was ill. She vomited into a basin one of them held out for her and whimpered while another spirit clutched her head, trying to soothe her... "It will pass, Lady Freya, it will pass..."

Freya was back in her boat, just as the portal opened and the boat went under. It was then that she knew she was not the only passenger in the boat returning to Avalon.

She carried another back with her.

Chapter Text

AS SOON AS Merlin was off the sacred lands of the Disir, he found the knights of Camelot -and Arthur himself, leading them at the front- waiting for him at the border.

"Here he comes!" cried Gwaine when he saw Merlin approaching.

It was very much the same Merlin they had sent out, save that he carried his coat over his arm and wore a robe fashioned in the Druid style over his usual tunic, scarf, and breeches.

Arthur had a moment of pause. He had said nothing of it, save secretly in pillow-whispers to Gwen, but there had been a number of times during the past fortnight when he had feared he'd made the wrong choice in sending Merlin to the Disir. It had saved Mordred's life, it was true, but at what cost? Yes, he trusted his manservant, valued him, but even he could not possibly be immune to torture or brain-washing, or a number of other things the Disir might do to him. He ought to have abstracted a promise from them, before allowing his servant to go: a more secure, all-encompassing vow that they would not send him back with any bodily or emotional harm. But he thought the Disir would find his requesting such a promise from them offensive, and if one offense had almost taken Mordred's life, surely he did not want to be on their bad side all over again.

And now he saw Merlin coming towards him, looking like a Druid.

One year with Morgause had taken Morgana from him, though sometimes he feared some part of her had been against Camelot in her heart long before then, only needing the push of what their father had done to her, even if she wasn't entirely to blame. Could one fortnight cause him to gain back a very different Merlin? Would the Merlin who had told him there could be no place for magic in Camelot be gone forever?

His face was so serious, Arthur noted, now that he could see his expression.

Supposing he arrived, not to come back to Camelot, but to challenge him in some way? No, he thought better of Merlin than that. Merlin was stronger in his convictions, in his loyalty to Arthur and Camelot, than the king's embittered half-sister had ever been. That was why Arthur had sent him. Not out of cruelty, but out of faith and trust.

Sure enough, when Merlin looked up and met their eyes, his serious expression faded. There was a new, rather lonely, look in his eyes (Arthur decided it must be a bad case of homesickness for Camelot, or else that his eyes were merely in physical pain due to being out in the broad daylight after two weeks in a dark cave), but it dulled a bit when he stopped and smiled at them.

Merlin was so relieved he almost cried. He had not expected to see them all here awaiting his return so eagerly. Arthur did care! Gaius had been right. They would welcome him back, seeing him no differently now.

This was one step closer, Merlin believed, to Arthur accepting magic back into the kingdom and uniting the lands of Albion. The Disir had been wrong to blackmail him with Mordred's life, but maybe now Arthur would see that it wasn't what you learned, what you knew of the old or new ways, but how you used it.

"Hello, Arthur." He continued to grin.

Arthur dismounted from his horse and, to Merlin's great surprise, came over and hugged him. "Welcome back."

"Look at you," laughed Gwaine, alighting from his own horse. "You're as pale as a ghost."

"And dressed like an ancient monk," teased Elyan, though he chose to remain on horseback.

"Sir Leon has brought an extra horse," said Arthur, "for you to ride back."

"Thank you," said Merlin, blinking and swallowing at a lump of warmth in the middle of his throat.

"We've also brought some spiced wine and mead," Gwaine announced, gesturing over at Percival, who held up two large earthenware jugs for Merlin to see.

"Gwaine," snapped Elyan, "Arthur and I both told you this was not a picnic!"

"Man sacrifices himself to save the life of a friend and he doesn't even get a drink when he comes back?" Gwaine retorted, raising his eyebrows. "That's rough."

"That's right," Mordred suddenly appeared, his horse coming out into the clearing from the rear. "I owe you a great debt of gratitude, Merlin."

Merlin felt himself momentarily tense up. He had not known Mordred was with them. Of course he would be, but still... Sobering up, he forced himself to smile as warmly at Mordred as he had at the other knights. Mordred hadn't done anything wrong yet and Arthur was doubtless still extremely fond of him. In fact, in his absence, Merlin now realized they were likely to have only grown that much closer.

"Come," said Arthur, his arm around Merlin's shoulder as he led him to the horse Sir Leon had ready. "Let us ride back to Camelot and put this whole mess behind us."

Merlin felt his heart sink as he got on the horse. Arthur didn't want to take his being the same person returning as a reason to allow magic, but rather to keep ignoring it and hope it didn't hurt those closest to him. It wasn't only he himself who hadn't changed, it was Arthur and Camelot and everything else, too. He was right back where he started.

As they rode along, Merlin grew all the more silent. At first he'd tried to listen to and interact with the knights' cheerful conversation, but after a bit his mind had begun to wander. He wondered what they'd have thought if he'd come back with his lady who'd played the part of the Maiden Huntress with him at Beltane.

Gwaine would have alternatively teased and praised him, and probably flirted with her a bit -jestingly, of course. Mordred might have been nice enough to her, having been a Druid once himself. Elyan and the others, Merlin wasn't so sure about, but the knights as a rule were not discourteous to women-folk, so it probably would have been all right. Arthur would have been a trifle suspicious, no doubt, but he would have learned to accept her. She was so lovely and kind, Merlin could just picture her fitting right on in with them at Camelot. If Arthur wanted proof that all magic-born persons were not bad, he need look no further than the woman Merlin wished he could have brought back with him.

Where was she now? Was she home, or on her way there, wherever her home was? Was she thinking of him, too?

"Don't look so glum, Merlin," Arthur called out over his shoulder at his friend and servant, jolting him out of his thoughts. "Whatever it is, you don't have to worry anymore. It's over. You're safe now."

"Yes, Sire," said Merlin, forcing another smile and nodding as if with enthusiastic relief.

FOR FREYA, IN Avalon, the first few months went by slowly and miserably. She was sick nearly every morning, for longer even than she ought to have been. She was dizzy and largely disinclined to eat or drink anything much, but of course she had to, for the baby's sake. That little thing growing inside of her did not know her nausea or fatigue, it seemed, only constant hunger. When she waned as pale as a sickle moon and wanted nothing but rest behind closed eyelids, the baby wanted more food.

But when those dreadful months were over and gone, Freya's mood and overall health improved. She was well enough, even, to make trips still to the bottom of her lake on the other side of Avalon's portal, to see that all was well, despite her enlarged belly.

Then, when she grew too big for that, too close to her lying-in time, she stayed in her palace.

It wasn't so bad, since she had learned, during her time as the Lady of the Lake, to play the harp (her Druid mother had had a harp in their home by their lake when she was a child, but it was nothing -a feeble, poorly made instrument in comparison of the grandness, size, and quality- to this one in Avalon, and she had never learned it there, too busy swimming and playing as little children are wont to do, too wild and high-spirited to be concerned with the finer arts) and could sit and practice for longer hours.

A few times, she felt the baby jump and kick while she played, and wondered if it would be born a music-lover.

As it happened, it was also while she was playing the harp that the baby decided to come into the world. It was a little too early, her only about midway through her eighth month, but Freya knew almost at once it was not going to wait inside of her any longer.

"Ow." Her fingers let go of the harp strings as if they were on fire and her hands found their way to her belly.

Her water-spirits, the same ones who had looked after her through her morning sickness, were there to attend to her at once. "It's all right, Lady Freya. Come with us. Just keep taking deep breaths."

The birth was not an easy one, the labor longer than expected. Freya, at first rather quiet (especially for a birthing woman), aside from her moans and cries and occasional murmurs, of "Ow," began to scream as loudly as she had back when she'd been a cursed Druid and the change from girl to Bastet used to come over her. It did not hurt quite as badly as that had, but that was little enough comfort.

She had a dim knowledge that she was no longer by her harp but in a bed-chamber in the palace, lying down while the spirits of the water tried to instruct her as best they could in what to do. One of them said something about pushing. Their voices sounded very far away; her eardrums quivered. She was too cold, and wished for more blankets, but could not find the voice to ask them. By the time the words came to her (in something that was not an unintelligible "Ahhhhh!"), it was too late and she was no longer too cold but far too hot. She wanted less blankets by then. Her words, coming out slurred and anxious, said nothing of blankets, however, more like mad ramblings.

Freya, half-aware, along with the pain, that she did not sound right, wondered if she was taken with fever and delirium.

Two of the water-spirits left the chamber and stood outside, whispering while they waited for the spirit in charge of the downstairs kitchen hearth to bring them more hot water and towels.

"Lady Freya will be all right, won't she?" the one whispered to the other, in a low, watery voice.

"I don't know," came the response. "She's having a hard time of it. They say she became our Lady after dying as a cursed one... She would be as good as immortal now, if she weren't prone to illnesses. She doesn't age much, if at all; Ladies of the Lake rarely do. Someone could probably lop off her head and she'd come back to life. But fire or illness, or even this birthing, could still take our mistress out of this life for good if things go poorly."

"We will do what we can for her, though, won't we?"

"Of course! She is our Lady, after all. We are as bound to her as she is to the lake of Avalon. Besides, there is little we cannot cure."

"Yet even with all our knowledge of herbs and curing-lore, I feel... How can I explain it? Almost as helpless as a human, I suppose, when I hear her rambling on like that."

"Well, poor thing, what do you expect of her? She's been better than most women during her pregnancy. Never fussing at us or being overly-demanding. She's very introverted, always has been. And to think she's been carrying around such fears as she's been crying about all this time and never said a word... Well, the dear lady has earned the right to be a bit paranoid and weep if she likes."

"But does she really think the High Priestess Morgana will come and take the babe out of its mother's arms and carry it away to the Isle of the Blessed simply because it was conceived at Beltane?"

"It is not nontraditional for Beltane-born children to be fostered by a High Priestess, but I'm sure Morgana isn't terribly interested in raising a child just now."

"You know Freya is not fond of the High Priestess. She'll never let her take the child."

"If it is a girl, Lady Freya can claim her rights to keep it regardless, because it is her first daughter and her right to raise her to be a lake-guardian as she herself is. Beltane-born or otherwise. If it is a boy, who knows? Fostering, though perhaps not with the High Priestess, might be the kinder option. There is no place for a boy here."

"What of the father?"

"I do not know. The Lady has not mentioned him. Although... I do wonder what on earth possessed her to lie with him in the first place. She left here adamant that she was only going to protect the Druid girl and would return untouched."

"You don't suppose the man who played the King Stag this year was some sort of brutish fiend and he...forced...her?"

"A man who would be bold enough to attempt rape on the Lady of the Lake is a fool."

"But he wouldn't have known who she was, would he?"

"She'd have said something, I'm sure, in spite of her introverted nature, if that was the case."

The door behind them opened and another water-spirit stepped out. "Where are those towels?"

"They've not come up yet."

"I knew perfectly well we should have given her the room downstairs, nearer the kitchen. That would have prevented these delays."

"How is she?"

"A little better. Stronger. The baby is nearly out."

"She isn't still going on about Morgana coming to take her child away?"

"No, she stopped that nearly ten minutes ago. Now she's just crying repeatedly for somebody called Merlin. I'm sure she'll calm down when her fever cools a bit and the child is fully out."

"She will not...?"

"The danger to her, and, I dare say, the child, is nearly passed. They're both as likely to live as anybody else."

A water-spirit came toddling towards them carrying an armful of towels.

"Finally! Let us go back in and finish attending to the Lady."

Weakened and drained, her black hair wet and clinging to her cheeks and the back of her neck and shoulders with perspiration, but back in her right mind and clear-headed once more, Freya heard the sound that gets nearly every new mother's immediate attention: the baby wailing out its first deafening cry.

"Is that her?" she mumbled, her voice croaking, dry from screaming. Somehow, in all the madness, Freya had got it into her head that it was a girl, though nobody had told her one way or the other. "Bring her to me." It was an order, not a request. The Lady of the Lake's arms were stretched out to take the child. "I want to hold her."

"He's right here, Lady Freya." One of the spirits placed the child in her open arms. "It's a healthy boy."

Freya blinked back tears and, bending over like a jackknife, kissed her newborn son's forehead. "A boy."

"Mercy be," whispered one spirit, a mite too loudly, despite the fact that she spoke under her breath. "Did you ever see such large ears on a babe? He certainly didn't get those from his mother."

"He didn't get much of anything from me," Freya noted, clutching the baby with one arm now and letting him grab hold of the index finger on her free hand. "He looks just like his father." It was the first and last thing she ever bothered saying to the spirits of the water about the child's father.

"There's a bit of you around the eyes," one spirit chimed.

Freya nodded, tilting her head and looking down at them again. The spirit was correct.

"Are you going to name the child, or...?" Or would she let some foster-family have the honour, perhaps?

"Myrddin." Freya sighed. "His name's Myrddin."

MITHIAN WAS NOT weary of travel, but she was plenty aware that some of her ladies-in-waiting who had insisted on coming along with her on this venture to Camelot were, so she did not grudge them their constant high-chatter. Better that they should gossip than complain or grumble. Though, really, they needn't have all come with her to begin with; she knew perfectly well at least half of them were only coming because they'd heard about her interest in marrying Arthur's manservant.

Besides, she didn't fully dislike the gossip in itself. It was good to know what was happening throughout the kingdom. One didn't learn how to look after things and be a good leader if one didn't listen and observe what was happening in the world all around them. The purpose was not to condemn this or that person, but to know who needed what and where. She wished some of her Camelot allies had been a bit more observant when Morgana had come in the guise of an old woman; she had done everything to warn then, but was held fast, hands tied. If only one of them could have seen what was happening and done something... But it wasn't their fault. She herself wasn't positive that if she had been in Arthur's place, for all her skills of paying attention to faces and people, she would have known any differently. People, even very clever people, sometimes only see what they expect to, or what you tell them to. It was long over now, anyway.

"Your Highness?" said one of the serving-girls, a dark-eyed buxom young lady who had come of age recently and spoke of weddings and betrothals frequently.

"Yes?" replied Mithian, allowing her horse to slow to a trot, for two of her ladies were lagging behind in pace and needed a moment to catch up.

"What's he like?"

"Who?" She straightened herself up in the sidesaddle.

The girl blushed teasingly. "Your betrothed."

Why am I not surprised she would ask that? Mithian smiled and rolled her eyes. "He isn't my betrothed yet." She hadn't even arrived in Camelot, much less spoken to Arthur or Merlin!

"But he will be, won't he?" The girl smirked coyly and made her horse go closer to Princess Mithian's so that they were ridding along side by side. "I mean, he's a servant. He isn't going to receive a better offer than a princess."

"You would be surprised. Surely you know how it went with Arthur," Mithian reminded her pointedly.

"But that's different," she insisted, her tone prim. "A prince falling in love with a serving-girl who used to wait on his sister is probable. A manservant valuing an offer of another above a princess is less so."

"Don't be condescending." Mithian raised an eyebrow at her.

"Besides, you believe he cares for you, don't you?"

"Of course," said Mithian, shrugging. Why would she waste her time otherwise? Over her shoulder, she called to those lagging behind: "Do you need to stop? Or can you catch up in a few moments?"

"We're fine, Your Highness, don't slow too much on our account."

"Very well." Mithian turned her neck back again so that she could see what was in front of her. "Let me know if you change your minds."

The serving-girl was still at her side. "You still haven't told me what he's like."

Mithian laughed, "There's no need to badger me. You will see him for yourself soon enough."

"At least tell me something," whined the girl, evidently bored out of her mind.

Mithian sighed.

"Is he dark or fair?"

"Hmm, dark. Arthur's the fair-headed one." The girl, she knew, had seen neither Merlin nor King Arthur before, not having been in her service that long.

"Is it much farther?"

Mithian shook her head. "No, it is not." She inhaled deeply, then let the breath out, thinking. "As a matter of fact, we should be in Camelot by early morning tomorrow."

KILGHARRAH WAS NONE too pleased to be summoned, or, rather, sent for. Only a Dragonlord could call a dragon at his bidding, and Merlin was the only one of them left, but other magical creatures -a very few, only those powerful enough- could still try to arrange an audience. Of course, the dragon had no compulsion to come. Unlike when it came to a Dragonlord, he was free to choose whether he came or not. But the call had been persistent, and urgent.

In the end, the Great Dragon decided to see what it was all about.

When it registered in his mind, as he landed, that it was a creature from Avalon, prepared to rise up from the lake and meet him, Kilgharrah thought he had half a mind to have himself a meal of flaming Sidhe, if it was one of their Elders pestering him for no reason. He disliked the Sidhe in general. Nasty, mischievous little things they were. Probably would give him indigestion, too, if he really did get fed up and try to eat a few of them just to convince them to stop making such pests of themselves. For such little creatures, they sure knew how to be powerful and irritating foes when it came down to it!

However, to Kilgharrah's surprise, and mild amusement, it was not a Sidhe that appeared, rising from the lake, but rather a dark-headed woman dressed all in foamy white and pale sunset-pink carrying a mewing bundle of some sort in her folded arms.

A little witch of some kind?

No, not a witch... Not quite a water-spirit, either. Higher than that. A lady. Ah, the Lady of the Lake, guardian of the lake of Avalon. What business could she have with a dragon?

"Hello," he said, sticking out his snout and extending his neck.

Freya nodded. "You're Merlin's dragon."

Kilgharrah tensed up, his brow deeply furrowed. The scales at the back of his neck stuck up, almost bristling, like the fur on a startled or else insulted cat or dog. It was more or less true, of course, but no strong creature likes to be thought of as a thing to be possessed.

"I need you to do something for me." She looked down at the bundle in her arms, peeled back part of the swaddling at the top, and pressed her forehead lovingly against whatever was in it. "I need you to take this child and keep him safe."

Though he did not mean to be cold, for he did not actually dislike the Lady of the Lake, even if she had offended him slightly, Kilgharrah's voice bordered on indifferent, laced with crossness. "Why should I?"

"Because he is a future Dragonlord." Freya looked up at him, tears glinting in her eyes. "He is Merlin's son."

"I am not a wet-nurse, Lady!" he snorted, flinging his snout indignantly.

"There's no place for him here," explained Freya, willing herself not to choke up completely. "I'm giving him to you because I want more for him. He deserves a good life."

The dragon's eyes became solemn and apologetic, more understanding. "If this truly is Merlin's son," (if he could have seen him, under the blankets and swaddlings, he would have had no doubt), "then the child is kin to me. I will see to it that he is protected."

Freya gave the bundle one final squeeze before giving the baby over to the dragon. "Goodbye, Myrddin."

Chapter Text

MERLIN DID NOT intend to creep out of the citadel that night. He was quite comfortable in his bed, exhausted from a long hard day (Arthur had decided to run practice archery drills that involved moving targets, and for some reason those never seemed to end well for Merlin, even though Arthur always was careful -and skilled- enough not to actually maim or injure him), more than ready to doze off and fall into a deep, almost coma-like sleep until the morning (provided he wasn't plagued by the Freya-turning-into-a-tree nightmare again). But then he heard Kilgharrah's voice in his head, calling to him, and, as this was a rare occurrence (usually, he summoned the dragon, very rarely had Kilgharrah attempted to pay him a surprise visit unbidden), he yawned, stretched, and climbed out of bed.

Now the thing was to creep out of the physician's living quarters and down the corridor and into the main square before creeping down into one of the catacombs and out into the open space on the other side of the castle, aiming for the woodland clearing where he assumed Kilgharrah would be waiting for him.

He was almost out the door when he realized it was a chill winter night and only a fool would go out in his sleeping-shift without a cloak or overcoat. His own coat was back in his room, forgotten, and he had no desire to creep past a snoring Gaius all over again to retrieve it. There was no need, really, anyway, since Gaius had left his winter robes on a hook by the door. Merlin thought it would be much easier to just borrow one of those. Unfortunately, as he was looking back over his shoulder at Gaius, to make sure the old man didn't wake and ask him where he was going (Gaius knew he spoke with Kilgharrah sometimes, of course, but he would still protest, no doubt, to his sneaking out at such an ungodly hour and Merlin had no time for that; he wanted to see what this was all about), he didn't see the broom-handle pressed against the robe he pulled on, knocking the broom to the floor with a loud clamor.

Gaius stirred and opened his eyes, but only halfway. He was still mostly asleep, and thought he was dreaming. He snorted something about the state of the room and how he needed it cleaner so he could examine some patient with boils who needed a tonic at once, then rolled over and fell back asleep completely.

Merlin breathed a sigh of relief, threw on the robe, and dashed down the corridor. Soon he would be there and discover whatever it was the Great Dragon wanted.

When he finally made it, panting slightly, his nose and ears red from the cold but the rest of him sweating from running all that way, Kilgharrah looked down at him with his large, gold eyes and said, "About time, Young Warlock. I was beginning to think you were ignoring me."

"Of course not." Merlin shook his head. "I just had some trouble getting out."

"I have something for you." The dragon moved aside, revealing a screaming bundle on the rock behind where he stood.

What on earth? Merlin blinked, puzzled, taking a step forward.

What was this Kilgharrah had brought to him? A baby dragon? No, couldn't be, since a Dragonlord would have had to call it forth from the egg, and as far as he knew Aithusa had been the last egg... A kitten or yowling wolf-pup, perhaps? But why would Kilgharrah want to give him that? Surely the dragon had better things to worry about than some random stray animal whose path he had come across in his travels. Unless he was suddenly trying to be some kind of benevolent hero to mark the near-end of his beautiful race. This was not the dragon Merlin had known and been on-and-off friends with for years; this was an old dragon trying to make himself look good before he died and reached the otherworld or afterlife or wherever!

It was not a puppy, however, but a human baby, crying endlessly, cold and upset that no one was holding or coddling it.

Merlin's eyes widened. "Whose baby is that?" Great, just great. Now he was going to have to find whomever his dragon had stolen the poor child from and try to think of a good way to get it back where it belonged without its parents noticing him doing so! This wasn't like Kilgharrah, though, stealing away babies. Maybe he was getting a bit senile.

Sighing, Merlin bent over and picked the baby up, trying to comfort the child. "Shh... It's all right... There, there. I've got you, you're all right."

"He is your son," said Kilgharrah.

Merlin felt the blood drain from his face, realization dawning. "Beltane..." It was more or less the right timing, too. He glanced down at the baby, peeling back the swaddling at the top of his head so as to get a better look. Yeah, it was his child, no doubt about it.

The Great Dragon nodded.

"His mother...?" Merlin swallowed nervously. What if something bad had happened to her?

"She seemed well," Kilgharrah assured him.

"Did she tell you...anything...?" Merlin asked eagerly. If she needed him, if she wanted him to come to her and bring the child, he would go to her without a moment's hesitation.

Really, Merlin would have tried to seek her -his lost other half who had played the part of the Maiden Huntress to his King Stag- out long before now, but he did not know where to find her. Moreover, he was somewhat embarrassed over what had happened between them. Not in a bad way, merely that they had been together in such a manner and he could not for the life of him even think what her name was.

"Only that there was no place for the child with her." The dragon shut his lips tightly.

Merlin closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"She thought he would be better off with me, because of his being the son of a Dragonlord." Kilgharrah shook his wings in a manner that might have been the human equivalent of deep shrug. "But I cannot feed or wash or look after so young a child. If he were but a bit older, and I a bit younger... Maybe... I told his mother I would see to it that he was protected, but, as it stands, the baby needs care. If you deny him, I fear he will not survive."

Clutching the baby and trying to keep him warm, Merlin thought over what he must do. He couldn't bring the baby back to Camelot with him. Running around after Arthur wouldn't give him much time to attend to the baby's needs. Gaius would not be pleased; Merlin could just imagine the look of shock on the old man's face if he walked in on him sitting by the fire, singing lullabies to a Beltane-gotten baby. The knights would be amused, but the boy was only a newly-born babe, he was too young to be a manservant-in-training to any of them...

But there was one place the child would be well and safe and have a mother's care. Or, rather, that is to say, a grandmother's care. And that place was Ealdor.

Tears streamed down his face as he continued to hold his son. The baby was so tiny, and helpless... And somewhere his poor beautiful mother, who'd had him -gone through something like this- all alone was probably heartsick that she could not keep him... "I'll take him someplace safe."

"See that you do, Young Warlock," warned Kilgharrah, raising his brow, "for the Dragonlord is as much a dying race as the dragon itself." He flapped his wings, as if preparing for take-off.

"Wait."

"Yes, Merlin?"

"Did his mother give him a name?"

"She called him Myrddin."

Myrddin...Merlin... She had named the baby after him.

GWEN LOOKED OUT of the castle window and into the main square below. "Arthur, they are here."

Arthur came behind his wife and looked out to see for himself. Princess Mithian, her ladies, and a few Nemeth-bred guards were arriving on horseback. King Rodor had said they would be coming for a visit, so this was no real surprise, but it was one of those days when everything seems to be going wrong; the sort of day on which a king can barely stand the presence of the members of his own court, let alone visitors. The chef, Audrey, had burned a delayed breakfast, then blackened the eye of a maid-servant because she'd been in such a bad temper over the aforementioned ill-fated meal; Arthur's favorite horse had thrown a shoe; Geoffrey of Monmouth was taken sick (Gaius decreed he was not to leave his chambers and to rest in complete peace and quiet) and closed down the royal library for the day so that anyone at court who needed a particular book that was not already in their possession was just plain out of luck for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours; and, to top it all off, Merlin was missing. Again.

"Where the hell is my sorry excuse for a servant?" Arthur muttered under his breath, turning away.

"I asked Gaius," Gwen told him, sighing. "He says he went to wake Merlin several hours before breakfast and found his room empty. He thought he was with you someplace."

"If I find he's at the tavern..." Arthur swore.

"Arthur," chided Gwen, trying to be reasonable, "it's far too early for him to be out drinking."

"Ah. Not if he started sometime last night." Arthur shrugged. "You know how he is. He was once at the tavern for two whole days. Never saw a hair of him until he decided to come back and pretend nothing happened."

"Come, Arthur." Gwen straightened out the collar of the shirt under his tunic. "I'm sure Merlin will turn up soon enough with a perfectly good explanation."

Arthur snorted. Yeah, right. And maybe Gwaine will learn to be serious and not make jokes at every single counsel meeting the knights hold!

"In the meantime," Gwen pressed on, raising her eyebrows pointedly as if to make sure she had her husband's attention, "We needn't be rude to our guests. They've come all the way from Nemeth just to see us. It isn't their fault we're having a bad day here at Camelot."

Arthur sucked his teeth, sighed resignedly, then nodded. "You're right, Guinevere."

She kissed him on the cheek. "Aren't I always?" teased the queen.

He smiled.

"Come, let's go out there and say hello." Gwen took his hand and led him into the corridor.

Below, Mithian was to be disappointed. She was, of course, delighted to see Arthur and Gwen again and receive their warm welcome to Camelot, but there was no sign of Merlin. In fact, the closest thing to a manservant waiting on Arthur was the same undeniably skilled yet painfully dull young man George who'd come with him to Nemeth last time.

Arthur had no idea of the reason for her current visit, though Mithian would not have been surprised in the least if he was under the impression -or suspected, at any rate- that she had come here to seek a marriage with one of his knights or royal counselors she'd taken a fancy to during her last visit. It never occurred to the king to think that Mithian was sorry not to see Merlin upon her arrival. Still, somehow it did not seem wrong that she would ask after him. After all, he had been gravely injured during her last visit, and she'd sat with him practically every day while he recovered. It was only to be expected that she wished to hear news of her friend's current well-being.

"He's gone off somewhere, and nobody's seen him since yesterday evening," Arthur told her, trying -and largely failing- to mask his irritation. "I'm going to wring his neck when he gets back."

Mithian just smiled. She knew perfectly well Arthur would do no such thing, that it was only his way of expressing frustration. At the most, Merlin would get a clout upside the head upon returning and then be ordered to muck out the stables.

The ladies who'd come with the princess whispered and grumbled amongst themselves. Only one of them (a dull, mousy serving-girl whose interest in shiny objects probably would make her a prime candidate for responding enthusiastically to a joke about brass) seemed pleased to see George. The rest of them wanted to see Merlin. Mithian gave them one mildly sharp look, when their whisperings got a mite too loud, warning them to hush. She would not have their chatter reach Arthur's ears prematurely, before she'd spoken with him herself. Furthermore, she wished to spend some time with Merlin first, just to be extra certain he cared for her, prior to saying anything.

"I'm sure whatever's keeping him is important and he'll be back soon," said Mithian graciously.

Arthur's snorted, half-muttered, reply (stifled only because Gwen elbowed him, reminding him of their prior conversation) suggested he thought otherwise, but he nodded politely and did his best to pretend to agree with the princess of Nemeth anyway.

Well though she hid it, especially for the sake of decorum and that of her ladies, Mithian was nearly overcome with excitement. Even if Merlin was away for several more days, she would see him soon enough. Her stay at Camelot was to be a fairly long one; there was no way they would miss each other entirely.

QUITE A FEW heads turned and faces peered from windows when the old sorcerer, known to King Arthur and Camelot as Dragoon the Great but known not at all to anyone who lived beyond the lower town, came toddling through the small village of Ealdor.

Who was this strange old man with his long white beard? And why was he out and about in only his nightclothes and a single robe? Could be a wandering bard of some kind. Perhaps that lumpy bundle he had concealed under the front of his robe was a musical instrument of some sort. Could be a fiddle, or else a hand-held harp.

He might, just the same, be only a senile old coot looking for a warm fireplace and a hot meal...

Well, the villagers saw he was heading for Hunith's house, and knew she was a kindly soul who would not turn the fellow away if he was hungry or in need. She might, if she had material to spare, think even of making him a proper outer-garment. It was fine to forget about him. Surely, if he was all that important, they would have heard something before his coming, however remote their village was.

Hunith was kneading some dough for bread when the front door of her house opened and somebody let themselves in. This was no uncommon occurrence; she was friends with many of her neighbors, and they knew they needn't always knock if she was busy, unable to get the door because her hands were full.

She was just reaching for a clay bowl to let the dough rise in, when she glimpsed her visitor: a tall old man with a long white beard, shutting the door behind himself and looking at her expectantly.

The bowl fell to the floor and shattered; Hunith let out a gasp and took a step backwards.

"It's all right," rasped the old man. "It's only me."

Hunith stared into his eyes. "Merlin?"

Little though he looked like himself in his guise as an old man, Merlin was glad something remained of him in the eyes, otherwise his poor mother mightn't have recognized him. "Hello, mother."

She put her hand to her heart. "You gave me such a fright! For a moment there I thought I was looking at your grandfather!"

"Don't worry, I'm not a ghost come back to haunt you, I promise." He smiled reassuringly. "It's only an aging spell."

She leaned over the broken crockery to kiss his cheek. "If I'd known you were coming, my dear boy..."

He shook his head. "I didn't know I was coming myself until last night."

Kilgharrah had flown him there, and while he'd offered to turn the dragon into a human so he could walk into Ealdor alongside him and not have to wait miles off, looking conspicuous (two old men traveling together would be thought less odd than a single wandering elderly stranger who'd arrived on a dragon), if anyone happened to spy him, that hadn't exactly worked out.

"I like being a dragon," Kilgharrah had snapped. "We are a proud race."

"I'll turn you right back after we visit my mother," Merlin promised.

"Listen, Young Warlock, I know your work," Kilgharrah grunted. "You're not turning me into anything. I will take you to Ealdor, if you ask it of me, but do not try to abuse your power over me and force me to be a thing I am not."

And so Merlin had relented and come to see Hunith alone, hoping nobody would notice the enormous fire-breathing dragon hiding in a far-off wheat-field.

"What's wrong?" Hunith knew her son well. He loved and missed her dearly, as she did him, but he would not have come to her on a whim, using magic to keep his identity a secret, if nothing was the matter.

Before he replied, Merlin's eyes glowed and he murmured an incantation that made the broken pieces of the bowl gather themselves up and drop collectively into the dustbin. The last thing he wanted was for his mother to step on broken shards and hurt herself.

"Son...?"

He drew Myrddin out of the folds of his robe.

Hunith's mouth formed into a stunned O. "Is it...yours...?"

Merlin nodded, ignoring the crick he felt in at back of his old neck.

"Does Arthur know?" she asked.

"No," he croaked out. "Nobody knows. They can't. He was..." He was thankful his beard hid at least part of the blush rising to his cheeks. "I..." He swallowed hard, choked on a piece of phlegm, and coughed. "He's Beltane-gotten, Mother."

"Oh, Merlin..." She looked at him with a mix of pity and disappointment.

"With the way things are now..." He fought back a sniffle. "If he's...like me... If he has magic..."

"I know, Son, I know..." Hunith crooned comfortingly, putting a hand to his old face.

"I'm sorry to ask this of you..."

"No." Hunith reached out and took the baby from his arms. "I'm more than happy to watch over my own grandson."

"The added burden..."

"Nonsense." She smiled down at Myrddin. "This takes me back," she added. "I can remember when you were this small."

"What will you tell everyone?" Merlin asked.

"That he's the child of a cousin whose own village is currently under attack and needs looking after."

Yes, that would do. No one would think of Merlin with that story, however much the child looked like him, especially as the baby had been delivered by an elderly man who, if any were old enough to recall, looked the part of Hunith's late father.

"Thank you."

Hunith sighed. "I had hoped if you ever brought me a grandchild, I'd have a daughter-in-law as well."

"I think his mother may be a priestess-in-training of some kind," Merlin explained. "All I know is she wasn't free to marry me."

"You love her," Hunith noted, a softened understanding expression coming to her face.

"That doesn't matter now. All anyone will care about if they find out is that he was born of the old ways. I can't let anything bad happen to him." Merlin thought of Myrddin's poor mother. He needed to keep her son -their son- safe. It was the only thing left he could give her.

"He'll be safe here," Hunith promised. "No one will harm him as long as he remains under my roof."

"Mother, I have to go." He wished he could stay and speak with her a while longer. Not to mention, his old bones were aching and sitting by the fire for a little while and warming his limbs would have been lovely. "The spell won't hold forever." The villagers would think it odd if Merlin walked out of his mother's house without being seen going into it first. "And I need to get back to Camelot."

"Go," Hunith told him. "Everything will be fine."

"Do you need money, or...?"

"No, we'll have everything we need."

Merlin turned to go, having no further reason to linger.

Myrddin began to howl. Spells do not fool babies who haven't lived long enough in the world to see only what is expected. The child knew his father was both the young Dragonlord and the old man alike, and that he was leaving him with no intentions of coming back. He had not wailed so for Freya, simply because he had been sleepy and over-awed by the Great Dragon. Now he was losing both his mother and father.

It took everything Merlin had in him to walk out and not run back and take his baby from Hunith's arms. He felt like a knife was being thrust and twisted into his heart. Myrddin wanted him. If he left him here now, there was every chance Myrddin would grow up never knowing him, just as he had never known Balinor until shortly before his death...

"I'm sorry, Myrddin," Merlin whispered to himself, reaching up and wiping at his eyes as he left the village. "I'm so sorry."

MORGANA STARED DOWN into a sacred well on the Isle of the Blessed. Someone was calling to her. She swirled the water with the fingers on her right hand and a face began to materialize.

A woman looked up at her from the dark surface of the water. "Morgana."

"Who are you?"

"I'm Freya of Avalon, Lady of the Lake."

"The one who went to Beltane in the place of the girl I sent."

"Yes. I wish to request an audience with you, High Priestess of the triple goddess."

"I do not think it in our interests to meet." Morgana was not sure she trusted the Lady of the Lake, little as she knew her. She was far too ambiguous in her loyalties for her liking; the common belief was even that she sided with Arthur. "What would this audience be in regards to?"

Freya's face was stern. "Arthur Pendragon."

Chapter Text

SETTING FOOT ON the shore of the Isle of the Blessed, Freya was stopped by two priest-like guards in blackened robes. One carried a staff with ancient runes carved into the handle, the other a long spear.

"Whoever you are, this is as far as you go," said the one with the spear.

Freya looked over her shoulder back at the aged ferryman who guided the barge she had arrived in. "You don't need to wait for me. The water spirits will send another boat to take me back to Avalon."

The man blinked, mostly indifferent. He was a mite disappointed that he would not be taking her back, and thus earning another gold coin, though. But, then, Avalon-gold could be tricky. One was never sure it wouldn't turn to dust or ash on you the next day. Freya seemed trustworthy enough (the ferryman would have scoffed at a Sidhe who'd asked of him a ride to the Isle of the Blessed, however the Lady seemed far more respectable), yet he was glad enough to be done with her.

"Did you not hear us?" said the one with the staff. "Strangers are not welcomed here. Go back where you came from."

Freya pulled back the hood of the dark blue cloak she wore and allowed her eyes to flash gold, showing that she had magic. "I'm no stranger. Morgana is expecting me."

"Forgive us, My Lady." The one with the staff bowed deeply, lowering himself to his knees, and pulled the one with the spear down beside him.

Even after all these years, Freya still had trouble keeping a straight face when someone reacted to her with awe simply because she was the Lady of the Lake. It would not do for them to see her laugh here, for any display of emotion save impatience could be thought of as a weakness. She thought of her baby son, and of Merlin, and how she missed them both. That helped keep her facial expression appropriately somber.

"Are one of you going to take me to your High Priestess or not?" Freya did her best to sound commanding. She never had to be bossy with the spirits of the water and was thus unpracticed in making her voice come out domineering.

"At once, My Lady." They got back to their feet and gestured towards a black-and-gold cloth covering over one part of the ruined buildings on the Isle. "This way."

She found Morgana waiting under the covering on a couch piled with red cushions. The now fair-sized white dragon Aithusa was resting beside her, her head in her lap, and Morgana stroked the creature's head and snout tenderly, as if she were a large dog.

"Why didn't you tell your servants I was coming?" Freya demanded.

Morgana shrugged. "It was their failing in forgetting, Freya, not mine. I informed them I was expecting company today. If the habit of keeping trespassers off the Isle has become overly-natural for them, it is no fault on my part. At least we know they can do their job." She lifted her hand up from Aithusa's snout and gestured at a chair across from where she was reclining. "Please, have a seat."

Freya sat.

"Would you like something to eat? Or drink?"

"No, thank you."

"I heard you came to be with child after Beltane."

Freya stiffened. "Yes."

"What became of the babe?"

"I thought he was better off with his father's kin."

Morgana nodded. "Just as well. I've no mind to take a fosterling myself until I sit on the throne of Camelot."

Freya said nothing in reply to that.

"As you know, I was reluctant for us to meet," Morgana told her. "I was led to believe you sided with the man who sits on my throne. I cannot express what a relief-"

"You were not misinformed," Freya interjected. "I do support Arthur."

"How dare you," growled Morgana. Aithusa, sensing the mounting tension, lifted her head. "You've deceived me. Betrayed me..."

"I never said I did not support Arthur Pendragon," Freya reminded her levelly. "I told you I wished to speak of him with you."

"Arthur would see our kind dead. Extinct. Wiped clean off the face of the earth," Morgana growled. "And you would help him! You're a traitor to your kind."

"No." Freya shook her head and looked Morgana dead in the face. "That's you."

"Everything I have done," Morgana insisted, "was to bring magic back to this land."

"No, Morgana, everything you have done has been for your own revenge."

"It is not only me Arthur has wronged-"

"And it is not only Arthur you have wronged."

"What do you mean?" The new thought gave Morgana pause from her seething anger. Clearly she had not expected Freya to say that.

Freya swallowed, inhaling deeply. "You have killed many people. And tried repeatedly to kill others who were lucky enough to escape you. I have watched you, unwillingly, through moments of the seer's gift, attempt, again and again, to kill anyone who stands in your way. One such person was my lover." She stared at her coldly. "He was the only person to show me kindness after my parents died and even those of our own kind cast me out and made me feel that I was nothing but a monster." The first time had been when Morgana allowed her sister Morgause to chain Merlin and leave him to be killed by Serkets. It had gone only downhill from there on out. "And you would take my one joy, of knowing he's alive and well, away from me."

Morgana glanced down and gently nudged Aithusa away. Looking back at Freya, she said, "I did not know."

"There are many things you do not know, Morgana. You are eaten up with bitterness and see no sorrow that is not your own. The Disir sent Arthur the runemark, but it is you they should have judged for crimes against the true meanings of the old ways."

"If I had not granted you safe conduct to and from the Isle," Morgana threatened, "I would strike you down for speaking to your High Priestess so."

"You forget, I am not a chit at your disposal," Freya reminded her sternly. "I'm the Lady of the Lake." By that account, in their different positions, they were as good as equals.

Morgana glowered. "You said you wished to speak of Arthur. So speak of him. Then do not try to see my face again."

"I intend to offer King Arthur an alliance with the old ways. A treaty of peace between Avalon and Camelot."

Flushing, Morgana scoff-cried, "You will do no such thing!"

"I leave for Camelot as soon as possible," Freya insisted. "The winter has already come and even the magical lake of Avalon will be frozen over soon. I don't want to be trapped in my land until the spring thaw."

"You cannot do this," Morgana gasped out. "I won't let you."

"You have no choice. Just as I had no choice in coming here. The tradition of the Old Religion states that I must first seek your blessing before venturing forth from the lake of Avalon. You gave your blessing to the girl you sent to Beltane. As I was going in her place, the blessing fell to me. If you refuse, you will be cursed and your Isle will crumble."

"Look around you!" exclaimed Morgana, waving her arms. "It has already fallen. Any curse you threaten me with..."

"You must grant me safe passage from Avalon to Camelot and give me the blessing of the goddess on this venture, or the ruin you see around you now will be nothing. Not my doing," -Freya, in spite of everything, didn't personally want to bring any harm to Morgana or what she held dear- "but the judgement of the gods against you for violating the ingrained laws of a High Priestess."

Morgana smirked coldly. "Fine. You want to run to Arthur? So be it. Go and make an alliance between our people and the son of the king who began the great purge." She rose from her couch. "But, fail to cement the alliance and I will see to it that, by the laws of our kind, you never see the sun in this world save through the ripples of your precious lake ever again."

Freya stood and lowered her head respectfully. "Thank you, Morgana." She turned to go.

"You know, Arthur will probably have you killed."

Freya paused, standing still now but not looking back at the High Priestess. It wouldn't be the first time... After all, it was his blow that ended my life as a cursed Druid girl by day and Bastet by night. "I know."

"And if he doesn't, if by some madness he accepts you," Morgana warned, "when I come for him, when I take back what is rightfully mine, I will."

Head held high, Freya rolled back her shoulders and strode out of there without another word, as if she -and not Morgana- had been born into the glittering world of nobles, not simply inherited it as a gift after dying.

THE FEASTING HALL in Camelot was ablaze. Fires crackled in the hearth, rich foods and hot drinks littered the long table, everyone was feeling lazy, but in a good way, which enabled them all -servants and masters alike- to recline and relax. There was not much waiting done, for Arthur and the knights were too drowsy and preoccupied to bother giving many orders. Gwen sat close to Arthur, who had his arm around her, his temple leaned lovingly against her hairline and his eyes half-closed.

The king thus engaged, even Merlin had a respite.

And, as it happened, he was spending this unusual break with Princess Mithian, who had come and sat next to him while he crouched absently tossing little twigs and small pieces of lumber-bark and kindling into the hearth and taking sips from an unattended goblet of wine he'd pinched off the table while Arthur wasn't paying attention.

Groaning lightly, Merlin pulled himself down onto a cushion knowing his knees would start to smart if he stayed in that position much longer.

Mithian looked over her shoulder at one of her lady attendants. It was the same dull serving-girl who had shown a spark of dim interest in George when all the other ladies were disappointed Merlin was not present. She was leaning against a pillar, laughing in this sort of har-har-har tittering kind of way while George, standing beside the pillar and polishing somebody's goblet (literally, with a cloth, not drinking whatever was -or had previously been- inside, as Merlin and practically everyone else was doing), whispered something in her ear.

Merlin fought against a chuckle.

Mithian noticed his struggle. "I've seen stranger couples."

Looking over the rim of his goblet, Merlin raised an eyebrow and cocked his head.

"Course, none immediately spring to mind," she laughed.

"Nonsense," Merlin teased. "They're perfect for each other. Love at first sight. And they'll have lots of boring babies who will grow up and make Arthur's life miserable. I've never felt more invested in somebody else's romance until right this moment."

"Oh, that is not true," Mithian scoffed, tilting her head and fighting back a light snort.

"What do you mean?"

"Arthur and Gwen?"

"That..." Merlin protested "...that was...different..."

"Come on, Merlin, you did everything but knock me out, pack up all my things, and send me straight on my way back to Nemeth when you thought I was going to get in their way."

"I knew Arthur still loved her, that's all." He took another sip of wine.

"I'm glad you did." Mithian lowered her eyes, wondering if he would realize she was beginning to attempt to flirt with him. "I like Arthur a great deal. But I believe you saw even then that we -both of us- simply weren't meant to be."

"I feel so bad about being nasty to you back then."

She reached out and touched his wrist, feeling her fingers tingle at the feel of the warmth of his pulse. "It was years ago, long forgotten except in jest."

"Anyway, I'm glad we're friends now," he told her, giving her a kind smile.

"As am I." She looked up into his face again, beaming.

Mithian wondered then, as their eye-contact slowly broke and she found herself gazing back into the fire, what he would think -how she herself would feel, even- if she went on ahead and did something more familiar than a simple touch of the wrist. Nothing so serious, perhaps, as a kiss. Especially not in such a public setting -notwithstanding that no one was really paying attention to them. But she considered resting her head on his shoulder or maybe reaching a little lower than his wrist and trying to hold his hand... It came to nothing, though. There would be time enough for all that later. After things were sorted. A high-born princess had to be patient when it came to these things. Once, she had grabbed onto Merlin and hid behind him in fear, but that was completely different. It had been a moment of terror, not tenderness. She had not so very long to wait now... Now that she was becoming increasingly sure he cared...

Still, if Mithian was honest with herself, she wouldn't have denied that, deep down, she wished, even if only for a second on a fleeting whim, she was not the princess of Nemeth but a simple girl from Camelot's lower town; free to be as bold and open as she so wished, less hemmed in by the constraints of propriety.

No, it was better this way. The right way. She should count herself fortunate, really. After all, it was not every princess who was lucky enough to fall for a servant and still have a potentially strong political match in her hands. And how many kings would have been as agreeable as her own dear father had been? She'd been thinking spoiled thoughts. Nothing worth having was not worth waiting for. Worth earning.

Although the feast itself began to gradually die down, people having already been sleepy early on, there was no proper end to it. No one went on their way or to their chambers. If they fell asleep completely, they dropped wherever they were currently at. Except, that is, for George, who somehow managed to stay on his feet all night, never once betraying any signs of having less than perfect posture even for so much as a fleeing moment of tiredness.

It wasn't until Gwen finally had enough of everybody's oscitant merriment and decided to help a snoring Arthur to bed that Gaius did the same for Merlin, taking one of his arms and lifting the barely conscious warlock to his feet so that he could walk him back to their living quarters.

Mithian, not quite so worn out and full of drink as most of the other guests (Gwaine was totally unreachable, passed out cold in a corner at the far end of the hall, slumping over the hilt of a knife he'd been fiddling with, a half-eaten green apple dropping from his other hand), gave Gaius a hand, taking Merlin's other arm.

He wasn't too heavy, and he did most of the walking himself (even if he didn't actually know he was doing it), so they managed to get him to his bed and drop him there.

"I suppose I had better prepare something for his head, come morning," sighed Gaius, taking Merlin's boots off and placing them on the side of the bed. "Thank you for your help, My Lady."

"You're welcome, Gaius," Mithian assured him. She bent over and put a blanket over Merlin so he wouldn't be cold.

"Though I wonder if it's me you did it for," Gaius noted, eyebrow raised.

Rather than deny it, Mithian shrugged modestly. She had hoped no one would have an inkling before she had a chance to speak to Arthur (and then hopefully to Merlin himself) about the matter, but Gaius was a little like her in that he tended to notice things everyone else missed. He was just one of those clever people that kept the things he noticed largely to himself; so Mithian thought her secret was reasonably safe with the kindly physician. If it had to rest in the hands of anyone in Camelot so prematurely, she was glad it was someone trustworthy.

MY HEAD, THOUGHT Merlin, lifting one hand to his brow as he woke to early morning light, in his room (which he, of course, had no memory of returning to). The world all around him spun as he sat up, then steadied itself. The back of his throat was a little dry, but that -and the overall achy feeling in his head- aside, he was fine.

He scrunched his eyelids and rubbed the back of them with one of his thumbs, yawning.

A rich sound, like a bugle being blown, echoed from outside and in through the castle walls. It was not dissimilar (in style, if not in tone) to the announcement of a royal visitor arriving at Camelot. This was, of course, greatly unexpected. Mithian and her crew were already there. No one else had told Arthur -as far as Merlin knew- that they were coming. Surely, there would have been some warning...

Merlin stood up, dressed quickly, and went for the window with the clearest view of the main square so he could see what was happening.

There was a slender cloaked figure on a white horse. It was clearly a woman, from both her size and the fact that obvious folds of a crimson and purple skirt stuck out in some places from under the cloak. Still, whoever she was, she did not ride sidesaddle, as most visiting ladies of nobility would have. She rode astride. There was something proper and dignified about her -something very regal- like she wished to make a good impression, but she did not seem overly concerned about the state of her dress.

This woman was accompanied by pale, almost ethereal, figures with willowy, undefinable features. They all seemed to be, if not exactly human enough to be called women, definitely of the female variety. That, too, was quite odd. For who ever heard of a noblewoman who traveled without at least a couple of male guards to keep her safe along the way? Not to mention, these female attendants were all on foot and yet seemed to have no trouble keeping up with the horse; their blurred feet waded and glided over the ground more than rightly walked.

The horse came to a stop. Merlin saw then that the horse had no reins and the lady on his back not only rode astride but without any saddle at all. There were no reins to be jerked on to make the creature stop; it stopped as if it simply knew where it was going and why and where its mistress wished their journey to come to an end.

White hands came out from the dark blue folds of the cloak and, reaching up, pulled back the hood.

Merlin gaped, as stock-still and shocked as if he was seeing a ghost. And, to be fair, he almost was. Close enough, anyway.

The woman in the square was Freya.

He couldn't believe his eyes. This had to be a dream he was about to wake up from. But his eyes didn't shoot open and he didn't find himself back in bed. It was real... She was real.

And she was almost exactly how he remembered her, too: very like a princess.

Suddenly Merlin had no control over his legs. Before he knew what was happening, he was running down the corridors as fast as humanly possible. By accident, he tripped over another servant (it might have been George) who was cleaning the floor and ended up flat on his bottom. But then he was up again, running, making his way to the doors and down the stairs, feeling as if he was moving in slow motion. The world was spinning slower. Reaching her was taking forever. And yet he had never been happier. Because she was there. The warlock's only real fear was that he would make it outside to find her vanished.

When he finally stood on those stone steps, though, and looked out into the square, she was not gone. The knights and a number of other servants had come to her side, and Percival was lifting her down from her horse.

Gwaine, who looked rather terrible after last night, appeared to be trying to straighten out his red cape so as to look at least a little more impressive in front of this great lady.

Freya smiled at the knights politely, and thanked Percival for helping her, but she seemed a little distracted, like she was looking for something. Or someone. That was when she saw Merlin standing there.

He felt a childish urge to wave at her and see what happened, but he couldn't make his arms move. Even his legs seemed to be rooted to the spot now; he too busy staring at her to think of walking.

Her smile widened. A silly fear that had gripped her along the way began to dissolve like nothing but a bad dream. While the purpose of the visit to Camelot was to make peace between Arthur and Avalon, there was no doubt about it that Freya's choice to come there then was to see Merlin again -because she missed him even more after having Myrddin and giving him up to the Great Dragon. But she had been thinking perhaps he wouldn't like her anymore. In a moment of passing vanity, it had occurred to Freya that she was far less pretty after having a child, that her eyes had some new dark circles around them from the tiring responsibility of being the Lady of the Lake... Maybe he would take one look at her and wonder why on earth he had loved her so all those years ago.

But with him standing before her, looking at her like that, Freya remembered she hadn't been at her best when they'd first met, either. Dirty, dressed in rags, in a cage... Those things didn't matter to him any more than it mattered to her that he was a servant and she was the Lady of the Lake now. Even if nothing came of this, she would get to see him again, and as herself, not as the Maiden Huntress. That alone was more than enough; that was worth the risk she had taken in standing up to Morgana and coming here.

He took a few steps down, almost reaching her, but before they could properly meet, Arthur and Gwen overtook him. It struck Merlin then that it would seem strange to them if he acted like he knew their unexpected visitor and he was quite at a loss for what to do.

"King Arthur," said Freya, curtsying.

Arthur had a strange feeling that he should know this woman, but couldn't think for the life of him who she was. The daughter of one of Camelot's allies, maybe? There were simply too many of them to remember them all by face and name immediately.

"I'm Freya, Lady of the Lake of Avalon," she introduced herself. "I've come to Camelot to discuss making a peaceful alliance between your people and mine."

"Avalon," Arthur repeated. "I don't know that kingdom."

"You wouldn't, Sire," said Freya. "It's a kingdom of magic."

Arthur momentarily recoiled, unsure of whether he should welcome her as a friend or try to protect Camelot from her. The Disir had kept their promise to heal Mordred and return Merlin after a fortnight, but even so he did not think of his experience with them as particularly positive. Since then, the subject of magic hadn't really come up.

"I have heard," Freya told him, "that you swore to treat Druids fairly, in penance for a raid you participated in when you were younger."

How did she know about that? Arthur wondered shortly, before concluding she must have used magic, probably being a sorceress of some kind.

"My parents were Druids, Sire," she explained gently. "So an attempt to mend relations with the Druids is also an attempt to do the same with the people of Avalon."

Although he had no idea what he would do, if he would really accept the alliance, Arthur knew he couldn't leave her standing there all day. She was here now, with her strange-looking serving maids, and something would have to be done with them for the time being. To outright refuse to show hospitality to the Lady of the Lake would be as good, he supposed, as a declaration of war against Avalon and the Druids. An eye must be kept on her, to be sure she was not up to any evil against Camelot, or a spy of Morgana's, but a show of welcoming her would be only decent. Besides, there was kindness in her eyes and her voice. If there was even a remote chance it was genuine, surely it could not be wrong to hear her out. His father would not have thought so, probably would have had her surrounded and ordered her execution to be as soon as possible, but Arthur was not his father, and it was his turn to rule Camelot as he saw fit.

"You are most welcome to Camelot, Lady of the Lake," Arthur told her. "While we discuss negotiations for peace between our lands, you will of course have a room here." He meant, ironically enough, to give her Morgana's old room, simply because it was the most suitable, and Mithian already had the one they usually gave to visiting royal women. Not to mention, Arthur wasn't sure he felt entirely comfortable with a sorceress in the room next to his own, so it seemed to be the only solution. "If there is anything you need, my manservant-" He paused, looking for Merlin. "Merlin," the king hissed up at the steps, "don't just stand there with your mouth hanging open, get down here." Resuming, "My manservant will be at your disposal."

Merlin obeyed and came to Arthur's side.

"Hello," said Freya.

"My Lady," he replied, eyes twinkling.

Struggling to keep their faces straight, they exchanged a little secret smile when Arthur turned to glance at Gwen, wondering what she thought of all this. They must play along, act as strangers meeting for the first time for this brief introduction, even though it might be one of the hardest things they'd ever had to do, but soon enough they would be able to drop the facade and reunite properly.

Mithian came out next, and Freya momentarily tensed up, remembering her as the princess she had avoided after rescuing and healing Merlin.

"This is Princess Mithian of Nemeth," Arthur told her. "She is also our guest at the moment. So, between her and Guinevere, and your own ladies, I'm sure you will not be in want for company."

"I'm sure I will be very happy here, Sire," said Freya, willing her eyes not to flit over to Merlin when she uttered those words.

IN MORGANA'S OLD room, Freya's attendants were unpacking the few things they'd carried with them.

One of them almost stumbled over thin air and dropped a small washbasin and Mithian dashed across the chamber and caught it. "Here you are. Are you all right?"

The water-spirit (for that's all Freya's attendants were) smiled gratefully but said nothing.

"She can't answer you," Freya told her. "The spirits of the water have no voices when they're this far from the lake of Avalon."

"Oh, I see." Mithian nodded understandingly.

"Well, feel free to help yourself to anything in the wardrobe," Arthur said. "Mor-" He stopped. It was not often he spoke causally of her. Then, taking a deep breath, began again. "My sister, Morgana, left most of her dresses behind. If you need anything extra, they're there."

Merlin remembered how he had had to steal a dress from that same wardrobe once for Freya's use. And now Arthur was giving her free leave to any of Morgana's forgotten clothes from back in the days when she had been a king's ward instead of a High Priestess. They sure had come a long way since then...

"Thank you, Your Majesty."

"Well, Lady Freya," said Gwen, taking Arthur's arm and heading for the door, Mithian behind them, "We will leave you to settle in. You must be tired from your long journey."

Freya nodded. "But, if it wouldn't be any trouble..."

"Yes, Lady?" asked Arthur.

"It's a bit cold in here," Freya came up with. "Would your manservant mind terribly staying behind and lighting the fireplace?"

"Not at all," Arthur answered for him. "I'm sure he'll be happy to. See to it, won't you, Merlin?"

"Yes, Sire."

The royals filed out of the room and even the spirits of the water left, silently dismissed by their Lady of the Lake.

Merlin and Freya were alone together.

Laughing and crying at the same time, they ran across the room to each other and met in a tight embrace, neither willing to let go for several minutes.

Chapter Text

IT WAS DELIGHTFUL for the two amputees to become whole again. The experience was all-encompassing, bringing instant happiness; even without the knowledge of all the details on the side of both halves.

They could not stand in the middle of Morgana's old chamber holding onto each other forever, however much they might have wanted to. After a few moments of clinging to her, Merlin had, still in complete joy he only half understood, lifted Freya up slightly and spun her around before setting her back down.

"You need to go," Freya had laughed breathlessly, pushing him away.

Merlin had looked at her pleadingly. "Nobody needs me just yet. I'm sure Arthur can wait a while." His eyes had then shifted, reluctantly, from Freya's face to the still unlit fireplace. "I can pretend I had trouble lighting the fire."

"No, Merlin." Freya shook her head. "Only a fool would believe someone who's lit as many fires as you would have trouble with perfectly good kindling in the middle of a castle fireplace."

"But..."

She'd looked both ways, glancing at the door, making sure it wasn't opening, someone coming in. "Can you come back at midnight, when everyone's asleep? I promise I don't turn into a Bastet anymore. There's nothing for you to be afraid of."

"Freya, I was never afraid of you," Merlin told her. "Bastet or otherwise."

"Yes, I remember." Freya smiled. "Go now. When everyone's asleep we can talk more freely, without having to worry."

Having no choice but to comply, Merlin had turned to go. But, first, he ran back to his Lady of the Lake and kissed her on the lips before dashing out the chamber door.

And Freya stood, eyes shining, so happy she thought she would burst, all of Avalon and Camelot and her entire being simply not large enough to hold such strong emotions, and looked forward to midnight, knowing he would come.

After all, Merlin never let her down.

Sure enough, only a few minutes after the last stroke of twelve, Freya saw the door open and a warlock, dressed as if it were still the middle of the day, looking as if he had made sure not to sleep a wink and miss his chance to creep out of the quarters he and Gaius shared, entered, beaming.

"Did anybody see you?" she asked.

He grinned and shook his head. "No."

"Well, come and sit down next to me." Freya took his hand and led him to the foot of the bed. They both sat on the edge, torsos turned so they were facing each other. "Tell me everything. I want to hear all about how Camelot's been doing."

"What about you?" Merlin whispered excitedly. "When do I get to hear how you've been?"

"I've been fine." Freya waved it off. "It doesn't matter. There's not much to tell. Avalon is beautiful, but it is what it is and rarely changes. I've only really left it once before now."

"At least you finally got your lake," Merlin said.

"Yes," she laughed, remembering how they'd talked of their childhood homes. "It was your doing, mostly. Letting me die there and not here in Camelot, when I asked you to leave me."

"You know I couldn't."

"Merlin, can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Why do you stare at me like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you think I'm a ghost that's about to disappear the moment you turn your head."

Merlin blushed. "I can't help it. Besides, it's not only that."

"What is it?"

"It's just..." He tilted his head, staring at her even more closely in the firelight. "You look the same." All these years, and his lovely Freya hadn't changed a bit.

"Something's troubling you," Freya noticed, seeing a trace of clouded sadness pass over the light in his eyes.

"It's nothing."

"It's not nothing," Freya insisted. "Tell me."

Merlin gave in. "I've been having these...nightmares...about you." He winced. "The man you killed, he chases you. And you turn into an oak tree, by the lake... The tree gets hit by lightning. It's always the same."

She reached out and stroked his cheek. "I wish my healing had the power to stop bad dreams. You don't look as if you've been sleeping well. I shouldn't have asked you to come back here tonight. You need some sleep, at least."

"Sleep?" Merlin snorted, as if it mattered not at all. "Why do I need sleep when I can see you instead?"

"I've missed you."

"Oh, Freya, you have no idea..."

"Is that all, then? Just nightmares?"

Merlin hesitated, but this was Freya. Freya, who he never had to hide things from. Freya who understood everything, every secret... "I have another secret from Arthur. It's not only my magic I have to hide from him now. If anybody in Camelot ever found out..."

"Whatever it is..." Freya began.

Merlin cut her off, needing to get it out before he lost his nerve. "I have a son, Freya."

She knew she ought to look surprised, that her eyes ought to have widened at least a little bit, but she made no effort to appear so. If he thought her unnaturally calm about the matter, so be it.

"Arthur made a bargain with the Disir. I was with them at Beltane and they made me the King Stag. I didn't want to... But when I saw the Maiden Huntress..." His voice trailed off, then picked up again. "I felt as though I knew her." She had definitely known him, at any rate. "Something about her eyes. She was so beautiful and kind, and-"

Freya began to cry. Remembering that night, thinking of the son that had come from it... The son she'd given away to the Great Dragon and would probably never see again... The son Merlin somehow knew about and was telling her of as if it were the most shameful and frightening of secrets. Her love and longing for both of them, her lover and her little baby, overwhelmed her. Merlin's gentle voice, recounting Myrddin's making as if in shy confession to her, did not help Freya's tears to stay in. They streamed down her face uncontrollably.

"Freya." Merlin blinked. "You're upset."

Stubbornly, she shook her head and did her best to wipe the remaining tears away with the back of her wrist. "It's nothing."

Merlin wanted to knock himself over the head with a piece of lumber for being so insensitive. He hadn't meant to praise another woman's beauty and goodness in front of Freya like that, really he hadn't; it was just... Well, it hadn't felt, for some reason, like speaking of another. He wasn't sure why that should be so, but it hadn't. Maybe it was because, by some miracle, now that he was around his lost love Freya, he no longer felt that place Myrddin's mother occupied in his heart tugging at him. When he was with Freya, he no longer missed her.

Whatever the cause of that, realization dawned and he felt terrible. "I'll stop."

"You were telling me about your son," Freya pressed.

He sighed. "Yes. Well, she -the Maiden Huntress- gave him to Kilgharrah, and he brought the baby to me." From there on out, he recounted his little adventure: disguising himself as an old man and bringing Myrddin to Ealdor to be looked after by his grandmother.

Freya did her best to mask her relief. The baby was all right. His grandmother was looking after him. In all likelihood, he would have a good, simple childhood not dissimilar to the ones she and Merlin had both had before things changed -her parents dying, and his mother sending him to Camelot.

"I'm just so scared of Arthur finding out," Merlin finished. "I don't know exactly what Uther told him about Beltane-gotten children, but it couldn't have been anything good."

Tell him, a little voice in Freya's head screamed at her. Tell him it was you!

She wanted to, she knew he'd understand, but it wasn't that simple. In his mind, the woman he'd lain with at Beltane had no connection to her. He remembered that woman as beautiful and unearthly, some lover come to him from a precious, long forgotten life. If he thought her (Freya, unmasked) fair, it was only because he remembered her from all those years before, hiding her in the catacombs and looking after her. He was loyal, and his love, as easily as it was given, was not pulled back with such simplicity. They had that in common. Both would love and remember the other always. Loyalties between them did not shift. Still, how could she confess to him that she was the Maiden Huntress who'd given up Myrddin? Who hadn't even tried to send word from Avalon after discovering she was with child in the first place?

What if he felt some unfair obligation to her because of Myrddin? It wasn't as if sharing the burden of her part of the secret would lessen her own load. For once, she wanted to be the one to protect him.

It didn't mean he could never know. Maybe, if she found the courage, after the alliance between Camelot and Avalon was more than just talk, when all was well and she didn't have to fear failing and being trapped, never to see the world outside of her lake again, then she could tell him. If only she could find the words... The secrets that so easily rolled off of his tongue were far heavier in her own mouth. It was the Bastet problem all over again. She felt it was wrong to keep something that massive from Merlin, who told her everything, but words were held fast by fear.

There was one answer, though. When she was ready, when the time was right, perhaps she didn't need words to explain her role as the Maiden Huntress after all.

Freya still had the golden chain Merlin had given her after that night. She had brought it with her; it was there now, among her few belongings she'd bothered hauling all the way to Camelot.

All she had to do was show it to him, and he would know what it meant.

FREYA STEPPED WHERE she was directed, Merlin's hand on her arm guiding her. "Can I please open my eyes now?" she laughed.

"No, not yet." He shook her arm lightly, since she couldn't see him shake his head with her eyes closed. "Step down here. Careful. Keep moving." He paused after a few steps, stopping her too. "Forbærnen."

Freya heard the faint sound of a burning torch being lit. She no longer felt cold night air blowing into her face; wherever he was taking her must be indoors, and presumably dark. With anybody else, she might have felt frightened. With Merlin, however, she felt perfectly safe and even a little excited.

"All right," Merlin announced, letting go of her arm. "You can look now."

She opened her eyes and saw they were in the catacombs under Camelot; the very same ones he'd hidden her in all those years ago after rescuing her from Halig. And spread out on the floor was a little picnic. There were strawberries, a loaf of bread, ham, cheeses, and some sort of wine in tan-coloured wineskins.

"Forbærnen," Merlin said again. The candles lit, giving their little space enough light so that he could put out the torch he held and take both of Freya's hands in his own, leading her to the edge of the blanket for her to sit. "Hoppaþ nu swicae swá lig flíehen." The candles floated all around them like fireflies.

Freya remembered, and blushed. No one else in the world could make her feel so loved with such gestures. There was simply nobody who cared for her as Merlin did, no one who would have remembered everything about their time together over several years.

When he'd asked her to sneak out with him for a surprise, while she'd known it had to be something special, she had not quite expected this.

"And, I know it's a little pointless, now that Arthur's given you free leave to raid Morgana's old wardrobe," Merlin told her, reaching for something he had left delicately half-folded in a corner, "but I got this for you, anyway." For the sake of old times. Grinning, he let the dress unfurl and held it out so Freya could see it.

"It's beautiful," Freya gasped.

The dress was yellow and white, with little, carefully sewn, bits of golden trimming and embroidery. It was substantial but with a very lacy and delicate feel to the style. The sleeves, which started out solid and close to the arm, flared out into a softer material near where the elbows would be. The skirt was full and as white as a fleck of foam on water.

"That's not from Morgana's wardrobe," she added, thinking back to the peek she had taken into the wardrobe earlier.

"That's because I had it made for you." He shrugged. Then, "Well, I had you in mind, anyway. The seamstresses thought they were making it for Gwen." That was how he'd been able to afford it: basically, Arthur had unknowingly paid for the dress to be made.

Freya stood up and, taking the dress from his outstretched hands, kissed Merlin on the cheek. "Thank you."

When they both sat down again, Merlin asked, "How have the negotiations with Arthur been going?"

She shrugged. "Nothing more than what you've seen for yourself. He's putting it off, I think."

"He's a bit...unsure...about magic," Merlin admitted. "I don't think he worries about betraying all his father worked for so much, not after... Well, I think he's accepted that he has to rule Camelot as he sees fit, not how Uther might have seen it. But then I know he thinks about Morgana." He grimaced. "And how she's only used magic for evil against him and Camelot. Then he sees you -completely different, yet still having magic... Maybe he just doesn't know how to feel."

Freya shook her head. "Arthur has no problem feeling, Merlin. He's a passionate man and a good king. It's thinking that hurts him. It's settling on one idea and declaring it altogether right or wrong, good or bad. He has trouble seeing the gray areas, in life and in people. In learning to be a king, he's learned to fight and to have a good heart that cares for his subjects. But he hasn't learned to think properly."

"And you think I should teach him that," Merlin concluded.

Reaching for a strawberry, Freya said, "I think maybe you're the only one who can."

Merlin swallowed the bread he'd been chewing on while she answered. "Have as many as you want. I can make more appear now, without getting roses by mistake." -Freya smiled at that, and he chuckled- "And, yes, I want to help Arthur... He's just so stubborn sometimes. I know he views me as a friend, but he's never going to fully admit it; certainly not to me. He won't let me teach him anything."

"He learns a great deal from you," said Freya. "But, it's like you say, he's not going to fully admit it."

"I just wish I knew how he'd react," Merlin confessed. "I mean, if I told him the truth about me." He'd probably have me hanged.

"There will never be a moment when there isn't some risk in the truth," Freya pointed out. "But there will be a right time for him to know."

He sighed. "When? I've been pretending so long..."

"There's a difference between protecting yourself and pretending." Freya reached out and squeezed his hand. "I think you've been nothing but yourself since the day you arrived in Camelot. If, when the truth comes out, Arthur can't see that, it's his failing. It isn't yours, Merlin."

"You really believe that?"

She nodded, her expression slightly shy under his gentle, admiring gaze. "Yes."

"I almost wish the negotiations would never end, so you wouldn't have to go." Merlin looked ashamed. He knew it was selfish of him. It should be those who would benefit from the alliance between Camelot and Avalon if Arthur accepted it that he should be caring about, not his own feelings.

"How would you feel about visiting me in Avalon?"

"I thought living mortals couldn't go there."

Freya dropped his gaze. "Not unbidden. But with the new peace between Camelot and Avalon, if the alliance passes... There isn't much place for men, in my part of Avalon, but there are other parts... You might like to see your friend Lancelot again?"

"You've met Lancelot?"

"Yes, once. We're in different parts of Avalon, of course, so our paths don't often cross."

"He's well?"

"He seemed fine when I spoke with him. I liked him because he's the only person in Avalon who misses you as much as I do."

The thought of visiting with Freya in Avalon, and seeing Lancelot again, was a pleasant one. To be with Freya, to see things no other mortal man ever had...

Merlin crashed down from his sky-high happiness, as a new thought struck him. "Arthur needs me here in Camelot." He would never be given leave to go to another realm. One couldn't even be sure how time passed in Avalon, in comparison to Camelot. Arthur, distrustful of magic as he was, would never allow it.

Freya found her courage. "What if I spoke to Arthur about it?" If she could convince the king that Merlin would make a suitable ambassador, to go back and forth from time to time... And maybe she, too, could also come to Camelot again... Yes, all might be well if she could convince Arthur such was in the best interests of the alliance.

But Arthur didn't know about them. Even now they were meeting in secrecy. Not even Princess Mithian, who was arguably tied with Gaius for the most observant person currently at Camelot's court, suspected they had any interest in each other, or so much as exchanged more than a simple greeting at the counsels held for the negotiations. All the same, Merlin trusted Freya. If there was something to be said that would enable them to see more of each other, surely the Lady of the Lake could come up with it!

"Then we can finally be together," Merlin murmured. After all this time...

Freya kissed him on the lips and he pulled her closer and slipped his arms all the way around her. As Merlin stroked her hair and kissed her half-closed eyelids and mouth repeatedly in return, she saw the blurred shapes of the floating candlelight still swarming so lovingly around them from under her lashes. How different, really, was this from the Beltane fires? If he wanted her now, here alone in the catacombs, Freya was not entirely sure she would say no, that she would protest any more than she had in the cave of the Disir, though the fear of having to leave Camelot early with another Myrddin growing in her belly might give her some pause.

However, Merlin seemed contented for the time being with merely kissing and holding her and did not seem to be asking to go any farther.

Freya moaned and pulled away. She had to tell him; she had to find the words. He deserved to know the truth about the Maiden Huntress who'd mothered Myrddin. "Merlin, listen. There's something-"

Suddenly, they heard footsteps and voices coming their way.

Merlin quickly made the now settling candles go out, nudged the picnic supplies into the shadowiest corner, rolled up the dress he'd given Freya under his arm, and, seeing a couple of guards only a few feet away, quickly re-lit the torch, stepping out in front of them.

"It's only the king's manservant," one guard said offhandedly to the other, looking disappointed. Perhaps he'd really thought they were going to catch a criminal lurking about the catacombs.

"What's he doing here?"

"The Lady of the Lake was sleepwalking," Merlin invented, gently pulling Freya out beside him. "I saw her go past, and she seemed a little confused, so I followed her down here to make sure she was all right."

"Thank you, Merlin." Freya did her best to sound like she was addressing a simple servant. "I seem to have lost my way. Could you take me back to my chamber, please?"

"Yes, of course, My Lady." He shrugged at the guards and began to lead her out of the catacombs.

When they reached Morgana's old room again, Merlin asked Freya what it was she had been about to say before the guards interrupted, but she shook her head. After the interruption, she had lost her nerve a little. Fear gripped her. How could she just tell him something like that? Perhaps it would be better to let him know when he came to visit her in Avalon. She couldn't bring herself to blurt it out in a rushed confession now, at any rate.

"It was nothing," Freya said quickly.

"You're sure?" He handed her the rolled up dress.

She nodded. "Yes. Thank you again for everything tonight. You're always so good to me."

"I'll see you tomorrow." He kissed her goodbye and left the doorway as speedily as possible, lest someone see him there with Lady Freya of Avalon like that.

"See you tomorrow," she whispered, almost dreamily, to the empty space in front of the door, shutting it.

ARTHUR WAS ASTONISHED. He blinked in disbelief. "You can't be serious."

"Arthur, be nice," said Gwen, trying not to laugh.

"Merlin," Arthur repeated, raising his eyebrows simultaneously and pointing at his manservant, who stood across the room, sneaking unattended scraps of food off the feasting table. "That man over there?"

Mithian smiled and nodded. "Yes."

"Well, no accounting for taste," he muttered.

"Arthur!" protested Gwen, her eyes flicking over to Mithian apologetically.

"What does your father say about it?" Arthur asked next, folding his arms across his chest.

"If you don't mind, my lord," Mithian told him, "he doesn't."

"He has no objections?"

"None, Sire. He thinks it would be a strong match, if you would be willing to spare him from time to time, so that he can travel to and from Nemeth." Mithian willed herself not to glance shyly at her feet. She had finally done it; she had finally asked King Arthur if he would be willing to support a possible marriage between herself and his manservant.

"I don't know... Merlin's never expressed any interest in wedding anyone." Arthur exchanged a glance with Gwen. "What do you think?"

"I think we ought to at least ask him," said Gwen, looking from Mithian to Arthur and then back again. "He might be happy to have a rest from waiting on you to go to Nemeth every once in a while. Besides, if Mithian cares for him so, perhaps he feels the same for her."

Arthur considered, stroking his chin. It would be no bad thing for Camelot, only tightening the bonds between their kingdom and that of Nemeth. Also, in choosing a servant for a husband, Mithian really was doing them an honour; for he himself had married Guinevere, a blacksmith's daughter... If Merlin liked her, and was willing...

"I also promised one of my ladies," Mithian remembered to add, noticing the serving-girl in question peeking out from behind a tapestry like a little spy, "that I would inquire on behalf of George for her."

"If she wants to take George far away from here and promises never to bring him back," Arthur exclaimed, almost beaming with joy at that news, "then she has my immediate blessing!"

Mithian laughed. "I will let her know, Sire." If she hasn't already overheard...

"And we will speak to Merlin," Gwen promised.

Mithian curtsied and stepped aside, watching as they approached Merlin. She tried to make herself less nervous. It didn't matter if he declined her offer, as he had every right to; they would still be friends, she was sure, regardless of his choice. Still, she could not make herself honestly believe she wouldn't mind, or at least feel saddened, if he turned her down, because she knew perfectly well she truly would mind.

"Merlin," Arthur said, once had reached his manservant's side. "Sit down for a moment. Guinevere and I need to talk to you."

Merlin pulled out a chair and sat. Gwen pulled out a chair as well, but Arthur remained standing.

"There has been an offer made," Gwen announced, "on your behalf."

"What sort of offer?" Merlin wanted to know.

"An offer of marriage," Arthur told him. "A very important visitor here in Camelot has expressed, for reasons I can't possibly imagine, an interest in having you of all people for a husband."

An important visitor... Who could be more important than the Lady of the Lake? Merlin turned his head to look for Freya, who was seated near a harp (whatever Arthur thought of her magic and of Avalon in general, he certainly seemed to like her talent for music when it came time for banquets and feasts), her fingers playing with the strings, warming up for the next song she intended to make come out of the instrument. She looked lovely, wearing one of Morgana's old dresses (the same one, in fact, that Gwen had briefly used when she was kidnapped many years before and forced to impersonate her mistress), her dark hair hanging all loose except for a lock curled around a thin gold band round the upper part of her brow.

The warlock had never been so thrilled in his life. Freya had said she would speak to Arthur, of a way for him to come and visit Avalon, and evidently she had. A marriage, to cement a currently undecided and rocky alliance, was as good a plan as any. And, besides, Merlin wanted to marry her; he had loved her for so long, and missed her...

What he missed then was that Mithian was standing nearby, only a couple of feet away from where Freya sat at the harp, also dressed up royally and looking rather breathtaking for anyone who cared to notice. And Arthur and Gwen naturally thought he was looking at her. After all, he hadn't shown any interest -that they knew of- in Freya.

Thinking he was looking at her, Mithian smiled in his direction. The look of delight on his face had given her hope. Apparently, thus far, Arthur and Gwen's proposition did not make him unhappy.

Merlin turned a bit red. "I can't say I'm exactly surprised."

Arthur's mouth opened a little, hanging slightly agape. "She did not tell me she already spoke to you about this!"

"Only briefly, Sire." There was no doubt about it, Merlin's face was all alight, like a child confessing to his first love.

"You would have to do a lot of traveling," Arthur reminded him. "And I would still expect you to attend to your duties when you're here in Camelot."

"Of course," he agreed.

"I'm happy for you, Merlin," said Gwen, reaching out and putting her hand over his. "You deserve this."

"It's a very good match politically," Arthur pointed out, "but the culture difference doesn't bother you?"

Arthur doesn't know I have magic, too, and that Freya and I are actually more alike than different. Trying to look modest and not crack a secretive little smile on account of this, Merlin answered, as demurely as he could manage, "If it doesn't bother her, it doesn't bother me."

"Very well," Arthur concluded, looking over his shoulder at Mithian (Merlin, of course, thought he was looking at Freya). "If you're serious about this, Merlin, I will announce your engagement here tonight. Are you sure this will make you happy?"

Merlin nodded earnestly.

Gwen stood, pulling Merlin up with her by the wrist.

"Maybe we can also announce George's betrothal tonight while we're at it." Arthur began walking to the front of the hall.

"We haven't even asked him yet," Gwen giggled.

"He doesn't have a choice," snorted Arthur. "Come on, bring Merlin this way."

Gwen pulled Merlin forward so he was standing in front of everyone present at the little courtly feast. A few heads turned in their direction. Mithian found she was holding her breath, and Freya let go of the harp strings, wondering what was happening.

"Friends," Arthur called out, "I am pleased to tell you all, this evening, that my manservant, Merlin, has agreed to wed one of Camelot's dearest allies. We hope for nothing but happiness for them both and continued peace between our kingdoms."

There was some applauding. Gwaine raised his wine goblet and shouted something that, depending on how you took it, was either extremely supportive or bordering on slightly obscene. The other knights also cheered, then quieted down, giving their king a chance to finish.

"So it is with great joy that I announce my manservant's betrothal to Princess Mithian of Nemeth."

Merlin felt the smile on his face tighten, then fade to a grimace, before disappearing completely. For a moment it didn't sink in that he had made a huge mistake, that he'd agreed to marry the princess of Nemeth, not the Lady of the Lake. Then he caught a glimpse of Freya's face before she stood up and, as fast as her feet could take her, slipped out of the hall unnoticed by anyone except himself (everyone else was looking at Mithian). She looked completely and utterly betrayed, her eyes shimmering like she was holding back tears.

Mithian was called over to where they were standing and Arthur linked both of their hands before all the guests.

Moisture filled Merlin's eyes. He could say nothing. To try and correct Arthur, and explain that he had believed he was being betrothed to the lake-lady from the magical kingdom of Avalon, to cement an alliance that was not yet official, before all these people, would cause more problems than it would solve.

Mithian sensed something was wrong, when she saw those bright tears glistening in her betrothed's eyes, but when the cheering grew louder and a signal from Arthur caused Merlin to lift up their linked hands in acknowledgment of their newly-formed engagement, she allowed herself to think that for once her instincts were incorrect and he was merely emotional because he, too, was overwhelmingly happy.

Chapter Text

IF FREYA WERE a very different sort of girl, she might have been inclined to scream and throw things. But that was simply not in her nature. When she shattered, her world splintering all around her, she merely broke rather than exploded. Screaming was something Freya did when in extreme physical pain, such as she had experienced during the birth of her child and when she used to turn into a Bastet. Whereas a betrayal of this kind stunned her more into silence.

That was not to say that she felt no real anger. For, indeed, she felt it all the more keenly because of how deeply her love and desire to justify what had happened ran inside of her.

She had locked herself in Morgana's old chamber and sat down numbly on the bed, pulling her knees to her chest and rocking slowly back and forth, trying -rather in vain- to soothe herself.

For a moment, the tears that lingered in her eyes did not come. They had certainly been there, from the second she heard the announcement proclaiming that Merlin was to wed the very princess who had prevented her from revealing herself to him that day she'd saved his life after he fell into her lake; yet once she was finally in a position to let them fall like rain, the droplets that were so heavy on the other side of the door had all but dried up. It was as though she had held them in just a little too long, and so they had fossilized like footprints deep in the mud of a hopeless dried-up lake in a land without any chance of rain to fall and erase them.

Suddenly, they returned afresh. The rain fell, the tears were back -in her eyes and then down her cheeks in steady streams- as if they'd never left.

Crying, for Freya, was never a loud event. Her sobs were always stifled, her wails well muffled. Partly this came from the time she had spent as a cursed Druid, hiding from people who hated and feared her Bastet-self, but even before then, as a young child, she had not been a very loud crier.

How could he? Freya thought, furious. I might have given myself to him, like at Beltane, in those catacombs without much thought... I was going to speak to Arthur about him coming to Avalon so that we might be together... And all along he's wanted to marry Princess Mithian and cares nothing for me?

But, of course, she could not make herself believe Merlin really didn't care. No one who didn't care would treat her as lovingly as he had. Something must have happened. Perhaps she'd misunderstood his intentions and the mistake didn't lie with him after all. Yet, how did one explain away all those kisses? If he had fallen in love with another, much as it hurt, if only he had told her, she would not grudge him his new feelings, seeing as she had been out of his life for a very long time before now.

The next thought that raced through the Lady of the Lake's mind was uncharacteristically self-righteous. I've borne him a child! What had Mithian ever done that came close to that? What right did he have to set her aside for some princess who had not suffered in horrid labor pains as she had? The thought cooled along with her anger, and rationality returned. He doesn't know Myrddin is my son.

And now he never could.

Freya realized, with a sickening thud, that she could never let him know the truth about Myrddin. Not if he was to marry Mithian. She must make sure the golden chain was well hid among her things, so he didn't accidentally happen upon it, either. As shocking as the announcement had been, as utterly betraying, Freya still felt she knew Merlin and his tendencies. At his core, he was loyal. If he learned that Myrddin's mother was not some unattainable priestess-in-training after all, that he had lain with the Lady of the Lake at Beltane and given her a baby which she had been compelled to send away, he would feel obligated to look after her. And if his heart was truly set on another -on this princess- however broken her own was, Freya would not have him throw his dreams away on her account. She hadn't been willing for him to do so, to thrust his destiny aside, not knowing she was a monster every midnight, years ago when he'd wanted to run away with her, and she was no more willing now.

Still clinging to her knees, already more or less in a fetal position, Freya shifted so that she could lie sideways on the bed and stare numbly at the wall. If she willed them to, the spirits of the water would come and wait on her, even comfort her, but she didn't want them. As irony would have it, the only person she would have wanted comfort from was the very same one who'd inflicted the wound.

She decided she mustn't think of him at all anymore. Everything Merlin had given her, including her chance at a new, better life, brought back as the Lady of the Lake, was wonderful. Part of her was still pleased, in spite of everything, that in her heart she alone at least would know she'd had the honour of bearing a child to the greatest warlock the world had ever known. Except, largely, it was a hollow victory. Little enough joy to sprinkle her remaining life with. Because, of course, when she was with him, Freya had not been thinking along those lines at all. She'd loved him for himself alone; for who he was, not what. So, wonderful, yes, but also gone. Forever.

The Lady of the Lake had to give her lover up.

No, technically, Merlin had already given her up. She was being left.

But the Lady of the Lake would be gracious. She would try not to feel too harshly towards Mithian or Merlin. Also, the negotiation talks with Arthur must continue, no matter how painful it would be to see Merlin waiting on him. Uniting Avalon and Camelot was all she had left now. Freya had taken a risk coming here, and she had lost what she truly came for. The alliance was her last remaining hope that everything she suffered had not been for naught.

There came a knock at the door. Freya didn't bother answering.

"Freya," said a low voice on the other side. Another knock. "Freya. Please. I really need to talk to you."

Merlin. "Please just go." Nothing he could say would change what happened.

"No, Freya," he whisper-hissed urgently through the door, "you don't understand. I can't leave it like this."

Freya swallowed hard and shook her head, biting onto her lower lip.

On the other side of the door, Merlin sighed heavily. Someone was coming; he could hear their footsteps. It was only one of Mithian's serving-girls, carrying an armload of fresh linens, but it wouldn't do for her to overhear Merlin trying to talk to the Lady of the Lake through the chamber door.

So he reverted to speaking, as Druids and persons with magic could, with his mind. Freya had once been a Druid. Surely she could hear him. Freya, I am begging you... Just let me in.

"No," she whispered to herself. No, she would not let him in. She wouldn't see him tonight.

Freya, can you hear me? I know you know I'm still out here. Don't ignore me. I can explain... I can explain everything, I swear. Freya... Freya... Answer me, Freya. Freya!

If he had an explanation, it didn't matter now. He was betrothed. Freya knew if she dared open the door, and saw him face to face, her resolve to be standoffish with him would wane like the waxing of the moon.

Then came the words that were like an arrow piercing her and driving itself deep into her chest, leaving her breathless, unable to pretend she had not heard. I love you, Freya.

What was this power he had over her? She was already rising to her feet and walking to the door as though she had no will of her own. It wasn't magic, nor a curse. Or rather, if it was, it she was cursed only because she felt the same. Only because she loved him a little too much. She couldn't ignore him, couldn't drone out his heartbreaking pleas with the blank numbness in her mind, no matter how hard she might try.

By the time the door opened and Freya stood, her eyes bloodshot and Morgana's old dress wrinkled and hanging on her all wrong, in the doorway, Mithian's serving-girl had already gone past that corridor. It was safer to talk.

Still, Merlin decided it best to let himself into the room and shut the door behind them.

Freya wanted to protest, but she couldn't. Her hands shook, almost violently. She stepped back without a fight. Looking at him was hard, but looking away was impossible. Willing her chin not to tremble, willing herself to be firm -Lady of the Lake, not a scared little Druid girl- she stared up into Merlin's pale, drained face.

In a voice as cold as it could get, the Lady of the Lake said, "Yes, Emrys?" What do you want?

Merlin's expression, already crestfallen, crumbled like pastry. Freya had never addressed him as other Druids, nor with such distance in her tone, as though he were nothing to her but a stranger from an old magical prophecy.

"I didn't mean for that to happen," he said softly.

Freya straightened her back and lifted her chin. "You didn't mean for me to find out that you would rather be a go-between for Nemeth than Avalon?"

"Freya, no." Merlin shook his head. "I thought... When Arthur said an important visitor to Camelot wanted me for a husband... I thought he meant you."

Bafflement flickered across her face. Then disbelief. "Me?"

"I was stupid," muttered Merlin. "I had no idea Mithian even thought of me in that way. I was so sure Arthur meant you. When I realized the mistake, it was too late."

So he had not intentionally betrayed her, setting her aside for Mithian. "Are you still going to marry her?"

"I don't know what to do," Merlin admitted. "If I tell Arthur the truth, and he has to break the news to Nemeth..."

"Mithian would understand," Freya commented gently.

"It isn't Mithian I'm worried about," he told her. "I don't want to hurt her, of course, but she's been in this situation before -with Arthur- and I'm sure she'll react graciously enough. But most of the court -if not all of it- heard Arthur's announcement. He would have to take back his word to all of them. Nemeth, as a political ally, will be offended." He was only a manservant, and yet he would dare jilt their princess after giving his word. And if they learned it was for what they considered a chancy sorceress, not yet a real ally of King Arthur's, of all persons... "What can I say that won't-"

Freya closed her eyes and sighed. "You can say nothing, Merlin," she interjected. This was a terrible mistake, but it had been made. What was done could not be undone. Arthur could not be politically weak on her account; the alliance would be in danger. He would look at her with suspicion for causing tension in Camelot. How could he accept the Lady of the Lake as a friend to his kingdom if she caused any strife, if a breath of a scandal touched her? It must never be known that Merlin believed it was her hand he was accepting.

"Freya..."

"No, if anyone learned it was a mistake-"

"What if we left together?" Merlin blurted out. "If we went somewhere no one knew us..."

"You've grown up, I think, too much for that."

She was right. He had. And Arthur... He knew how much Arthur needed him. And, of course, Merlin had held up their linked hands -his and Mithian's- giving his consent before everyone... How could he turn back on that? "Oh, Freya..."

"You managed years without me, only growing that much wiser and braver in my absence. You'll be all right." Freya hugged him. "We'll be strong, won't we, Merlin? For Camelot?"

The warlock choked back a sob. "For Camelot." They would stand together, and apart, in what destiny would bring. For Arthur, for Camelot, for magic, he must give himself over to another. He needed to go through with his word to wed the princess of Nemeth. Giving up Freya was the greatest sacrifice he had ever -would ever- need to make in hopes of one day bringing back the old ways.

MITHIAN WAS OVERWHELMED, though by her face the average observer wouldn't have known it, as she sat in her guest chambers in Camelot, listening to her ladies-in-waiting talk excitedly of her recent betrothal. (One of their own being engaged to George did not inspire near as much enthusiasm. Mostly because it was, well, George.)

They bombarded her with endless questions. What colour dress did she think she would wear for her wedding? There would be a big cake, wouldn't there? For a honeymoon, would they be in Nemeth or Camelot? Merlin wasn't going to wear those same peasant-type clothes he always did when he was standing by her side at the court of Nemeth when King Rodor was entertaining guests, right?

Most of these, Mithian laughed off good-naturedly. She was in no great hurry to order a dress or cake, but she was sure the dress would be grand enough and the cake big enough to satisfy everybody when the time came. A honeymoon, if there was time and good circumstances for one, could be in either kingdom; it mattered not at all to Mithian, really, so long as they were together. And Merlin's clothes were perfectly fine, in her opinion, but, if necessary, something grander for him to wear during his time in Nemeth, where he would be known more as the husband of their only princess than as King Arthur of Camelot's manservant, could easily be arranged. As it stood, however, none of this was remotely important at the moment. She preferred to just enjoy simply being engaged to begin with. It was not every girl who could marry for the good of her kingdom and be happy with the husband she got out of deal. This, she must not lose sight of amidst all the madness. But she knew all the little details were amusing to others, so her attendants could prattle and giggle about it all they liked with no fear of genuine reprimand from her.

All she said, in reply, when they remembered to let their princess get a word in edgewise, was, "I don't know yet how things will be. It's still being worked out. Besides, George's wedding is set a good while before mine and Merlin's. Arthur's in a hurry to get the man married off."

George's betrothed gave a little self-conscious cough. Perhaps she was hoping someone would ask about her dress and cake. Mithian's wedding, since she was a princess and had so many royal persons that needed to be there or would feel sorely snubbed and take it out in their political relations, would require such a long, long time to plan, after all, whereas hers was more or less imminent. And, to top it off, no one had even commented on the shinny brass ring George had given her after King Arthur publicly stated they were to be married as soon as possible!

Mithian excused herself for some air and stepped out into the corridor. It occurred to her, as she strolled the passageways, that she had not really seen Merlin much at all since the announcement of their betrothal. Which was a pitiful shame, for now that they could be more familiar with each other, now that she might reach out and take his hand with affection and not as a royal touches a servant, he was nowhere to be found. She thought also that she would like, as he was to be her husband, to kiss him for the first time. Nothing would be thought improper about that. A chaste kiss between a two persons who'd been publicly betrothed was more than acceptable, even if someone did chance upon them.

Wasn't this, everything straightened out and official, what she had been waiting for on his account? Wasn't this why she had not been anything more than his friend before asking Arthur about him marrying for the good of the alliance between Nemeth and Camelot?

That was when, as fate would have it, Merlin suddenly came walking towards her. He looked distracted, even a little troubled, but Mithian had long ago noticed that Merlin often looked more serious than other men. She gathered he worried about Arthur a lot. One could never be too careful with a king. Especially one who, beloved as he was by his people, had had as many attempts on his life as Arthur.

"Is everything all right, Merlin?" asked Mithian when he was standing only a foot in front of her.

He forced a smile. "Yes, Your Highness."

She smiled back, warmly, and raised her brow. "You know, we are betrothed now, you can just call me Mithian."

"Mithian," he echoed. He had better get used to it, saying that name with affection and ease, Merlin supposed, since she was to be his wife. But there was something the matter with his tongue. Even though he forced it to do no such thing, to behave aright, it kept wanting to say Freya instead.

"Merlin, would you like to come for a walk with me through the main square?" Mithian offered him a gloved hand.

Nodding, Merlin wrapped his own hand around it and let her lead him out of the corridor.

Mithian suddenly wished she had not put on gloves, even knowing she would be going outside into the cold, just so she could feel his touch. Gloves were inanimate, they could not feel as bare hands did.

They walked together, hand-in-hand, into the square, talking easily back and forth. The pavement shined like silver because of an icy dusting of snow that had fallen the night before. Once, Mithian would have slipped, putting her foot down on a slightly too slick cobblestone, but Merlin caught her, grasping her arm and holding her upright.

After a bit, Merlin mentioned that Arthur would be looking for him soon. In spite of his support of their upcoming marriage, Arthur was not at all the kind to take 'I was out walking with my betrothed,' as an appropriate, reasonably excusable, response to, 'Where the hell have you been?' so, naturally, he had to be heading back in soon.

But before he left her, Mithian finally got her long-awaited kiss.

She was leaning close to his face, when they parted ways, and he tilted his head and complied with what seemed to be expected, pressing his lips against hers.

It was not unpleasant. If he was being honest, Merlin even had to admit to himself that he felt something. Perhaps not what he felt for Freya, and once for Myrddin's beautiful mother who in some ways Freya seemed so alike to she completely took her place in his heart, but something all the same. Married life with Mithian would not be miserable.

Yet there was this sense of betrayal which Merlin could not altogether shake. He and Freya had both agreed this could not be undone, and still... Still, when he opened his eyes and saw that the woman he'd kissed was not his Lady of the Lake, the part of his heart that belonged to Freya and always would ached and he felt as though he'd been punched in the liver.

Up in a window, a curtain swayed. White fingers had let it go. A white face surrounded by dark hair had been looking down at the princess of Nemeth and her newly betrothed sharing their first kiss.

It was the only time since being brought back to life as the Lady of the Lake that Freya truly felt like a ghost. She was, for that moment, not a powerful Lady of Avalon, but a dead Druid girl haunting the castle under which she had once been hidden.

And the dead girl beheld her old lover moving on, and sighed.

Chapter Text

MERLIN BLINKED IN befuddled surprise. What had George just said?

"I know you do not think very fondly of me," he went on, "and that we have had our differences in the past, but I want you to be an usher at my wedding. As well as my best friend."

What differences? George wasn't the kind of person you could actually argue with in the first place, really. Most of his statements were blatantly obvious or else dull to the extent that you either felt nothing towards his comment, save bored annoyance (usually on Arthur's part), or that it simply wasn't important enough to debate over.

In fact, Merlin hadn't felt even the slightest bit threatened by George's perfect presence since he realized there was no way Arthur was ever going to give him the sack and make George his new manservant. If anything, he was pleasantly amused whenever George turned up, as he seemed to irk Arthur to no end. Admittedly, Merlin hadn't ever gone out of his way to include him, either (it wasn't as if, on the rare occasions he really was in the tavern where Arthur thought he spent all his free -and not so free- time, he could bring him along, seeing as he never drank anything stronger than Spanish-imported orange juice so far as he was aware), but still...

All the same, if George wanted to be friends, it was no big deal. Merlin had more important things to worry about than why on earth George would pick him for an usher and a best friend. Besides, it wasn't as if being George's friend would require any effort or massive favors. George was entirely self-sufficient. It was a harder task fetching Gwaine from various taverns on the odd occasion one of the other knights couldn't.

"Yeah," said Merlin, finally, his brow crinkled. "Sure. I look...forward...to that."

George, his back perfectly straight, stuck out his chin slightly. "Excellent. I am pleased we were able to resolve the matter."

"Me too." Merlin smiled awkwardly, wondering why George was looking at him with this expression of vague polite resignation like he was his monetary adviser and they'd just concluded a meeting.

"Good day, Merlin." With that, he turned on his heel and was gone.

But, as out of the blue as that exchange had been, Merlin was not disinclined to be loyal to his friends, no matter how bizarre the start of a friendship happened to be. Which might account for the reason that, on the day of George's wedding, when the knights who were supposed to be there as witnesses started loudly roughhousing about something or other, Merlin stepped out of the aisle-way he was supposed to be escorting George's half-asleep great aunt down (Merlin had tried to inquire as to whether or not the poor old crone looked borderline comatose to anybody else, but had gotten nowhere and finally just decided to get his 'best friend's wedding' over with) and hissed, shortly, "Gwaine, do you mind? My best friend is trying to get married over here!"

"It wasn't me," Gwaine protested, pointing over his shoulder. "It was Percival."

"Yeah, it was Percival," Elyan cut in. "He shoved me."

"Is there going to be an actual feast at this wedding feast?" Gwaine wanted to know. "No offense, but we all know George isn't usually one for merry-making. Poor man needs to lighten up a bit."

"I can't believe Arthur's letting him get married in the throne room," Sir Leon stated.

Merlin sighed, somewhat irritably. "It was the only place to be had on such short notice. And Arthur wasn't willing to postpone."

It had been a long, long day. George might not have been particularly high-maintenance in his demands concerning the terms of their newly declared friendship, but a wedding still required a lot of moving parts. And while it was not so filled with things that needed to be done as Arthur and Gwen's wedding had been, or even as his own to Mithian would eventually be, extra work was still extra work, and it was tiring. Not to mention, he was on the brink of, in all seriousness, asking Gaius his opinion on whether George's unmoving great aunt was even actually alive (Merlin, personally, had his doubts, feeling more like he was dragging or else half-carrying her down the aisle-way and to her seat as part of the ceremony rather than actually escorting her). Add to that the stress of his still struggling with his feelings for Freya. They had kept them hid remarkably well since they'd promised each other they would be strong for Camelot, but naturally they still lingered.

Mordred, who was coming in a little late, straightening out the clasp on his cape and trying to catch his breath, rushed over to his standing place with the other knights.

"Ah, there you are, Mordred." One of the knights slapped him on the back by way of greeting.

Looking around at the dull ceremony, and how solemn and miserable everyone -those that weren't asleep, that is- appeared, even the overjoyed soon-to-be-married pair wearing such serious, grim-mouthed facial expressions, Mordred quickly glanced both ways worriedly and whispered, "Who died?"

"No one yet," Gwaine whispered back. "Though George's great aunt could go any moment now."

"Speaking of which," said Merlin through his teeth, scratching at the back of his neck, "I have to finish helping her to her seat before she falls over."

Out of the corner of his eye, as he turned back to George's great aunt, Merlin caught sight of Freya.

She was standing with Gwen, Mithian, and Mithian's ladies-in-waiting. The spirits of the water were not present, Freya usually allowing them to wade and float about freely whenever she didn't need their services.

This would have unnerved Arthur and other castle-folk, those ethereal spirits having free-rein of the place, if only they weren't so skilled at keeping out of the way. You almost never saw them unless they were with the Lady of the Lake, doing her bidding, and yet at the same time one did not feel haunted by them when they were not plainly visible. There was no sense that they were spying, nor even that they had any interest in the going-ons of Camelot's royalty. Their duty and attention and supernatural energy, they evidently felt, was far better spent on their lake-lady. If she did not need them, or think something concerned them, they did not bother with it.

That they couldn't speak so far from the lake of Avalon only added to the sense that they weren't really there.

One of Mithian's serving-girls had even said, on the occasion that she stumbled across one of the water-spirits accidentally in a narrow corridor, the spirit looked at her as though she were an inanimate object, not a living thing. Merlin, overhearing this, had asked Freya if it were true that her water-spirits did not think anyone in Camelot was alive and could feel things same as they themselves and of course her, their lady. She had answered no. Of course they knew others were alive! The serving-girl was a bit silly, and unaccustomed to magical beings. She would probably think the same of a sorcerer or Druid, no doubt; that they could not feel because they were not like her and looked out from eyes that took in things differently from her own perception.

Freya might have seemed a bit below her station (not that she cared, having once been a Druid) standing there, so publicly, with no attendants, except Gwen was unattended as well. She had not, it seemed, the heart as of yet to replace her old traitorous maidservant Sefa, and Merlin did a thorough enough job (however much Arthur might have denied it) looking after her and her husband both. Besides, because Freya was such a strange guest-presence, her oddness of not being constantly waited on seemed no more out of place than her riding astride on horses rather than sidesaddle. People seemed to expect a 'wild sorceress' to behave in an abnormal fashion. She'd have had to do much worse than turn into a crow even and fly away to startle the court at this point. Merlin suspected at least half of the court was surprised she hadn't already done something like that, or at least attempted to bewitch Arthur for her own gain in their negotiations.

Certainly, attendants or no, she looked as much a princess as Mithian. She was wearing, Merlin noticed, the dress he'd had made for her under the pretense that it would be for the queen. She wore no jewelry except for a frayed band of leather with yellow beads around one wrist.

One of her water-spirits had, using pantomime, suggested that morning she also wear a particular golden chain that was found among her belongings, since it would compliment the colour and texture of her new dress, but she'd refused to wear it, knowing it would be recognized. Shaking her head no as adamantly as she could manage, Freya had ordered the spirit to bury it deeper still within her things.

Merlin forced himself to look away from her and let his gaze fall on Mithian instead. If Freya had not returned to Camelot, he couldn't help but wonder, would he believe himself in love with the princess of Nemeth? That, or I would be thinking, instead of Freya, of Myrddin's mother, and longing for her...

The ceremony was still going. George and his soon-to-be bride both looked equally bland for two lovers who were to be happily married. Arthur really hadn't thought this through. Surely he realized that, even if this girl took George far, far away from Camelot, their doubly dull children could return someday and plague him. But, then, perhaps Arthur thought they would all end up in service to the royal family in Nemeth forever.

Still, the notion of Arthur's plan rebounding on him just as Gwen had thwarted his efforts to have George kidnapped not so very long ago, made Merlin want to laugh for the first time that day. Dollop-head. He bit his lower lip and swallowed, willing himself to keep a straight face, at least until George was finished resiting his painfully long vows.

Arthur winced and, leaning over to whisper to Gwen, said, "I knew I shouldn't have let the man write his own vows."

Gwen rolled her eyes.

"Gwaine!" Elyan elbowed Gwaine, whose head seemed to have flopped down onto his own shoulder. (There was also a light snoring noise coming from him.)

"What? Where?" His eyes opened wide and flickered around anxiously. "I was having the worst dream... We were all at this incredibly boring wedding and..."

Mordred coughed pointedly.

Gwaine, blinking, took everything in again. "Oh." Well, this was awkward. Never mind.

"Does anyone now object, having reason that these two may not be linked in the ancient rite of holy matrimony?" Geoffrey of Monmouth asked.

Arthur started to gesture in a very, 'get on with it' manner with one of his hands, but Gwen reached out and pulled his hand down before anyone -except for Mithian and possibly Freya- could see. He gave his wife a look, but she intertwined her fingers with his and smiled so sweetly up at him. There was nothing he could say against that.

"Speak now or forever hold your peace."

Someone, near the doorway, cried out, "I object!"

"Oh, thank God," muttered Gwaine. "Something's actually happening."

"And you thought this wouldn't be any fun," Elyan teased.

"On what grounds?" demanded Geoffrey.

"Question," Elyan added, still whispering to Gwaine. "Does anyone else think it's a bit...strange...that the court librarian preforms all the marriage and crowning ceremonies?"

"Eh." Gwaine shrugged. "That's royals for you."

"Elyan!" hissed Gwen, scowling lightly at her brother. "Geoffrey is the court genealogist. No one could be more qualified."

"If you say so, Sister."

Arthur shushed them all, trying to hear what was happening.

It was a tall, lanky man so like to George that he could be his father or older brother, and it was hard to tell if he was pleased or not because his expression was just as unreadable as that of his obvious kinsman.

"I regret to inform you all," said the man, "that George is already married."

A few of Mithian's ladies gasped. One of them murmured something about needing her smelling salts. The rest seemed, however much they tried to conceal it -for the bride was a friend of theirs- just as pleased as Gwaine that something remotely interesting was finally happening. Better a good scandal than a painfully lackluster wedding in their view of the matter.

"Whoa. Way to go, George!" exclaimed Gwaine.

A few of the knights nodded in a agreement, laughed boisterously, and started punching one another on the arm.

"Look, I'm as happy for George as the next person," said Mordred, glancing over from his fellow knights to Arthur with an expression of concern. "But I think the king's going to have an aneurysm."

Arthur, George, Mithian's serving-girl who was almost George's second wife (apparently), Geoffrey of Monmouth, and the man who'd made the accusation, all left the throne room together and were speaking loudly in the adjoining antechamber. Or rather, Arthur and Geoffrey were being loud. Everyone else involved was pretty quiet overall.

Gwen decided they should have some entertainment while they waited and asked Freya if she would be willing to play the harp for them all.

Freya agreed, went over to the harp, and began to play.

Most of the knights liked her playing at least as much as Arthur, but Merlin thought, for a fleeting moment, Percival seemed a little more spellbound than the rest of them, gazing over at her as though he'd never seen a beautiful woman before. He recalled that it had been Percival who'd helped Freya down from her horse when she'd first arrived.

If it had been Gwaine, Merlin might not have thought twice about it, for he flirted with most women. But Percival...

No... Merlin made himself see sense. I'm being stupid and jealous. That's all. There was nothing between Percival and Freya. Percival was probably just in awe of the Lady of the Lake same as everybody else at court was.

But if Percival did like her... And she grew fond of him, with time... Surely Merlin couldn't allow himself to keep feeling this way about the matter. He was going to be married soon. And not to Freya. To Mithian. Freya was his friend, always, but he had no rights to her love now. Nor she to his. If anything, he should want to support a possible relationship between the Lady of the Lake and one of Arthur's knights. It would only bring magic closer to the kingdom. A sure step in the right direction.

And yet...

Thankfully, though, it didn't matter. Freya was not interested in Percival. And Percival was not falling in love with her. That was that. There was nothing else to be seen or done in regards to the matter.

SEVERAL HOURS LATER, Mithian walked along the terrace of the castle, her arm hooked through Merlin's. Her serving-girl's wedding had finally been altogether called off until the whole deal with George supposedly already being wed could be sorted. George said he wasn't married, his relative said he was. Basically it was one whole big mess. On the upside, Mithian's ladies-in-waiting considered George far more the romantic hero now that it seemed probable that he actually had a life outside of his work as a stand-in manservant. Though, frankly, the serving-girl he was meant to be marrying that day would probably find him less appealing and wouldn't want him any longer when it came down to it, no matter how delightful his jokes about brass might be.

"She must have been pretty upset," Merlin commented, admittedly feeling a little bad for the poor girl (somebody had to).

Mithian chuckled. "Surprisingly, not nearly as upset as Arthur was." She had taken off the brass ring he'd given her and dutifully pressed it back into his hand muttering something about 'hard luck', but that was about it. Arthur, on the other hand, was quite beside himself.

"Yes," Merlin laughed. "I heard his alleged wife lives here in Camelot. Doesn't look like George will be going anywhere for quite a while." Much to Arthur's dissatisfaction.

"Well, if nothing else," Mithian sighed, "for a wedding no one expected to be eventful, it was certainly a day none of us are going to forget."

Turning his head and look down at her, Merlin smiled.

"I fear our wedding won't be exciting enough to compete with today," Mithian jested, giving his arm a light squeeze. "But I'm glad of that."

Merlin's smile waned almost to a grimace. Mithian had no idea. He wasn't already married, it was true, but he did have a son...

"Merlin," she said gently, noticing his face. "What is it?"

"Nothing." He smiled again and shook his head. "Sorry. I was thinking of something else."

"That's all right."

"It's chilly out today."

"Did you want to go in?" Mithian offered. Arthur's manservant was not under-dressed for the cold air by any means, but he did not wear rich furs such as she was decked out in, either.

"In a little bit."

"Merlin, you know how the Lady of the Lake has been having peace talks with Arthur?"

Merlin felt himself tense up defensively. "Yes." His voice came out a bit stiffer than he meant for it to. "What about it?"

"Do you think he really means to accept her alliance?"

"How can I know the king's mind?"

Mithian cocked her head at him. She wasn't buying that. "You know the king's mind better even than the queen sometimes. Come on, Merlin, a fool could tell that Arthur keeps very few things secret from you."

"Honestly, Mithian, I don't know what he means to do about the Lady of the Lake."

"He hasn't spoken of it?"

"Hardly ever outside of the negotiations themselves."

"Hmm."

"Do you think he..." Merlin stopped. This wasn't Freya he was speaking to. He had to keep that in mind, lest he slip up and say the wrong thing, revealing unwittingly that he wanted magic to be permitted in Camelot. Real magic, not the petty trick magic Mithian believed he did for fun.

"It must be a hard subject for Arthur." Mithian's expression grew pensive. "There's a rumour that Arthur brought in a sorcerer when Uther was dying, and he killed him out of vengeance. I didn't believe it, but looking at Arthur when Lady Freya speaks of magic... You would know. Is it true, Merlin?"

"All I know is that, if there was a sorcerer, he probably did all he could."

"Uther was no friend to sorcerers."

"So that means they all hated him for his ignorance?" Merlin demanded, more harshly than he meant to, his tone snappish.

Mithian recoiled momentarily, taken aback. "Are you angry with me?"

"No, Mithian. Forgive me." He took a deep breath. "It's been a long day. All I meant was, even if Uther was wrong -or right- if they hated him for either and would have killed him for it... Does that make them any better than he was?"

"I've heard Uther was a good man," said Mithian. "He and my father only ever quarreled about land. Never anything more serious."

"You think the sorcerers are the evil ones, then?" Was he engaged to marry a woman who hated what he really was?

"I'm not sure they're real to begin with. They could be frauds."

No, she doesn't hate me... But she does think I'm fake... Does that make it any better, really? "Do you think Freya's fake? Her spirits of the water are real enough."

"There is that," Mithian had to admit. "She doesn't strike me as a pretender. And her spirits, whatever else they are, aren't human. I suppose she, at least, could be a real sorceress."

"What would you have Arthur do?" Merlin was curious as to her opinion on the matter. "Take the alliance, or...?"

"If he wishes to resolve the matter more quickly," Mithian suggested, thinking it over, "he could always offer to have her marry one of his knights."

Merlin felt the blood drain from his face involuntarily.

"Did you see how Percival was looking at her when she played the harp today?"

So she'd seen it, too. It hadn't been his jealous imaginings after all. Hating himself, Merlin muttered, "He's not the one for her."

"Really? I thought they would make a rather sweet pair."

"Percival doesn't talk," he snorted. This was not entirely true, but the man did beat out even Elyan as the naturally most quiet out of all the knights.

It was no bad thing, that Percival was a mild sort of fellow, of course, but Merlin found he could not think clearly. The traits he usually liked best about his friend Percival made him seem, at that moment, a great silent boor unworthy of Freya. Merlin was almost a little afraid of the intensity of the premature resentment he felt towards Percival over this. Some guilty part of his conscience plagued him with a taunt that this was not dissimilar to his unfair dislike of Mordred. What if he hated, not what Mordred was destined -per Kilgharrah's warnings- to someday do, but the favor Arthur showed him now? If he had not seen Percival gazing at Freya earlier, he would not feel so against him. He would think Mithian's comment ordinary women-talk, nothing more weighty. If he did not think there even the slightest chance of Freya ever returning Percival's admiration...

No. He didn't care that Arthur showed Mordred favor, only fearing that Mordred would come to misuse that favor if the tables turned; he had seen it before -with Agravaine and Morgana- and he was not willing to let it happen again. That was all.

Furthermore, that had nothing to do with Freya or Percival.

Percival wasn't a bad sort, but he was so large, and Freya rather a small woman. The big lummox would probably hurt her if...

What the hell is wrong with me? Merlin wondered, disgusted with his own thoughts, shuddering and blaming it on the cold. Who was this dark person inside his head?

"The Lady Freya doesn't strike me as a chatty young thing," said Mithian, half-shrugging.

"She hasn't expressed any interest in Percival."

"She wouldn't confide in you about it," she laughed. Why would the Lady of the Lake speak of a fancy to a near-stranger? Given, Merlin was the sort of person you trusted almost straightaway, but even so the lake-lady had no reason to share her fancies and secrets with the king's manservant.

You would be surprised. Merlin tried to make it sound as if he didn't care. "You need to remember I'm a servant. Another wedding means added work for me." And goodness knew that was true enough. Arthur still worked him to the bone most days. "I'm tired, Mithian."

Her response was sympathetic. "I know, and I'm sorry. I forget sometimes how difficult things must be for you." At least his time with her in Nemeth would be a pleasant respite for him. No one would force him to do any great labor there.

"You won't say anything to Arthur about Percival and the Lady Freya?"

"Not if you don't want me to." He must be very worn out indeed, Mithian thought, to look so visibly distressed and upset at the prospect of another wedding in Camelot. "It was only a passing thought."

I'm a horrible, selfish person, Merlin told himself. Yet, he still felt his sigh of relief vibrating throughout his whole body as he exhaled, and was sure Mithian felt it also. She was too close to him not to sense his immediate and total relaxation.

"Besides," Mithian added, "she is a sorceress and Arthur knows not yet if she can be trusted to begin with."

"Freya can be trusted," Merlin murmured under his breath. There was hardly anyone he trusted more readily than Freya.

"What was that?" Mithian had not understood his mumbled words.

"Nothing. I think I'm ready to go back inside."

"Certainly."

But who else should they have encountered first upon re-entering the main corridors of the castle other than Freya herself.

She was walking towards them, and almost turned around upon catching sight of the happy couple. Freya was in no way discontented that Mithian and Merlin should be happy together -indeed, she was a mite more charitable than Merlin was on her account when it came to their forced separation for Camelot's sake- but that didn't mean there was no hurt in beholding them together unannounced. Caring for him still, she needed to constantly remind herself he was no longer her lover, and she never knew for sure when she would suddenly forget, overjoyed at the sight of him, and have to remember it all -that he was bound and pledged to Mithian now, her betrothed- so quickly again.

It was a terrible feeling; like drowning.

However, before she could turn around and hope they had not seen her, Freya suddenly felt a bit weak. Faint, really. She was struggling to stand up. Something to do with Avalon was out of place.

It took a minute, but finally she was able to attribute the disturbance to the fact that one of her water-spirits had left Camelot unbidden. They were meant to stick in the same place as her. The spirits were in no way glued to her side, they served her devotedly mostly of their own will, but she was not accustomed to any of them taking such risks and wandering off quite so far.

Freya felt herself falling into a trance. It was as though she was seeing through the missing water-spirit's eyes. She was in a little village house... A kindly older woman was darning socks... A baby in a cradle opened his mouth to cry out, as babies usually do when they wake up from a nap to find themselves alone and in need of holding.

Myrddin! It was her baby. She seemed to float over to the cradle and lift him up. She could not speak, as voiceless as the spirits of the water, but she held and comforted him and kissed his forehead and cheeks.

When his little eyes closed again, she set him back down.

The woman, who was none other than Merlin's mother Hunith, stood up, surprised that the baby had not screamed for her at the usual hour, and beheld a ghostly pale figure bent over the cradle.

Hunith rushed forward, alarmed, likely thinking it was Death itself come to fetch the baby away. The pale young woman looked like a wraith. But there was something motherly about the figure's eyes when they met her own briefly before she vanished.

If it was an omen of death, one thing was for sure: it was not the baby -not little Myrddin- who was to be the victim.

Freya panted, inhaling too sharply, coming back to herself in Camelot. Had she really somehow traveled to Ealdor?

She wanted to weep. She'd seen him. Her beautiful baby -hers and Merlin's- that she'd given up. Held him in her arms. That woman would be Merlin's mother, no doubt. She had seen a great deal of Merlin in the woman's face, actually. And the woman had seen her, too, she was sure of it.

Why am I leaning so heavily against the wall? She felt an arm reach out and pull her upright.

"Lady Freya?"

"Princess Mithian?"

"What happened?" Mithian asked. "Are you all right, Lady?"

"I felt a little faint," Freya said quickly. "That's all." She felt more than 'a little faint', as it came to her that none of her water-spirits, as her mind counted their presence in the citadel, was unaccounted for. So she had gone there, to Ealdor, somehow, in a half-vision, on her own. Was she turning into a water-spirit herself? Or was it something far worse?

"Merlin, quick, let's help her to her chamber."

"No, I'm fine," Freya insisted, gently shaking off the princess of Nemeth's grip and walking on her own. She did not look back for Merlin, too worried that the anxiety on his face would make her want to confess it all to him. And of course she knew she mustn't. He need never know she was Myrddin's mother.

Once she had gotten to Morgana's old room and shut herself within, Freya leaned her back against the wooden door. Her heart raced with fear.

I played the Maiden Huntress, she thought nervously, her chest heaving up and down rapidly, to Merlin at Beltane. Is it possible that I visited his son a moment ago as the Death Crone?

Back in Ealdor, a wide-eyed, gravely shaken Hunith struggled to soothe her screaming baby grandson who flatly refused to calm down after the wraith of his mother had gone away.

THE FLASH OF the blade was so bright and quick that for a split-second all that could be seen was a flicker of shining silver. Then, for another split-second, there was Freya's face, horrified. The blade -attached, doubtless, to a sword- connected. Crimson. Blood. The Lady of the Lake...her head severed from the rest of her body...lying dead on the cold ground...

Morgana sat up in bed, eyes shooting open, and, throwing back the blankets, raced outside, running along the broken cobblestone of the Isle of the Blessed, frantic.

They'd killed her! The Lady of the Lake, who had gone there in peace, only to make an alliance. Freya was dead. In her dream -her vision- she'd seen a knight's hand-guard, and the sword was in the style of a Camelot-born blacksmith. Arthur would pay dearly for this. What harm had the Lady ever done him? Or anyone? He was as bad as Uther. He was a monster. She felt the poor lake-woman's pain and anguish in death. It was no real mercy, to no virtue for the knights, that it had been over so quickly.

Crying, Morgana collapsed by the side of the sacred well. She pulled herself up and peered down into it, as if hoping to see Freya's face. Reaching in, she swirled the water. Nothing. Not a face, not a glimmer. Nothing at all. There was no more Lady of the Lake.

"Freya...?" she cried softly, her voice gone hoarse. Her fingers gripped the stone around the well so hard they ached and turned white. "Freya? Where are you? What have they done to you?"

Morgana sat bolt upright. Waking for real this time. It had all been only a dream. Freya still lived. Unfortunately. The High Priestess felt nothing but contempt for her dream-self being such a fool. All that crying and feeling badly for Freya, as keenly as if it had been her sister Morgause dying all over again! That was nonsense. Weakness. Somebody else. Someone Morgana had once been, a foolish naive girl who believed Uther Pendragon cared for her. She would have reacted so stupidly. But not Morgana the High Priestess. No, she had grown up. She knew what must be, and what must not be.

If what she'd seen was going to come to pass, so be it! Good. Freya was a traitor to their kind, and she deserved to die. Had she not said, when Freya left the Isle, that if Arthur did not kill her, she would?

Still, for reasons Morgana could not explain, she shivered all that night, not getting any warmer no matter how securely she wrapped blankets around herself, almost afraid to go back to sleep.

She thought of calling Aithusa, but when she, still bundled in blankets and trembling with each step she took, wandered over to where the dragon rested, she saw the creature was fast asleep.

She stroked her head. "Sleep well, Aithusa. Our troubles are over. It is only Freya who has anything to fear."

Chapter Text

FOR THE RECORD, Merlin didn't intend to go through Freya's things. When Arthur told him that the castle was a little short on available servants and asked (well, ordered, really) him to attend to the rooms of their noble guests (including those of Mithian and Freya) as well as to the king's chamber and his usual duties, Merlin had meant to do little else aside from stoke up the fire a bit, make sure the floors were cleaned, open a curtain or two, replace the bed linens, and take his leave.

And things went more or less according to plan where Mithian's guest chamber was concerned, at least.

No one had been in there except one of the princess of Nemeth's ladies, who sat in a corner, only half-finished mending in her lap, staring blankly into space, doubtless caught up daydreaming. She snapped to attention when she saw Merlin, blushing and making fast, furious stitches, as if she thought he would report her negligence at her task to Mithian. But, still, she also peeked up curiously at him from under her eyelashes. He was, after all, a servant betrothed to a princess. The very princess she herself served! Who -or what- else was she likely to see that day that would be nearly so fascinating?

"I'll be right out," Merlin assured her, not wishing to disturb her work. She might not have appeared busy, but surely if there was not something she was meant to be doing -some pressing task- he would not have been ordered to clean Mithian's room; not when she easily could have done so.

So, after making sure all was well with Mithian's chamber, he headed for Morgana's old room, expecting this brief chores in there to go equally smoothly. Freya was not likely to be present. She had been in counsel with Arthur less than an hour ago, and she and her water-spirits usually took a walk outside afterwards. It was raining out, but water falling from the sky in torrents never seemed to bother the Lady of the Lake and the spirits of the water as it did everybody else. She seemed to feel no colder in the rain than in the clear winter air. Furthermore, the spirits made sure she never took sick from it, and her body -used to the lake of Avalon- was probably much more immune to water-gotten illnesses than the average person to begin with.

Merlin opened the door and let himself in.

"Freya?" he called, just in case.

No answer.

Shrugging, he went over the fire and made sure it was nice and hot. Perhaps it would not hurt to boil some water over the fireplace while he was at it, should she want a hot bath when she returned. There was already a large tub for bathing, and a suitable bucket, at the far side of the room. He gathered these up and was about to walk back to the roaring fire, when he noticed some of Freya's clothes had been left on the floor.

Two were old dresses of Morgana's. These he hung back up in the wardrobe. The other dress, strewn for some reason over a lumpy bundle near the bedside, was one of the Lady's own. It appeared to be in need of pressing, so he picked it up and put it over his arm. Gwen would have been appalled had any of her gowns (or Morgana's, back when she was her maidservant) ever been this wrinkled. It really was in a pitiful state. Had the water-spirits never heard of ironing? Poor Freya probably mussed up any number of gowns and dresses with the way she rode her horse. Even the way she sat down (not at counsel meetings so much as casually, when she wasn't thinking about impressions) betrayed, to any with keen enough eyes, that her origins had been humble, no matter how much of a princess she looked. The least her spirits could do, along with caring for her health, was keep her clothes in decent repair. But, poor things, perhaps they were doing all they could. Maybe Freya didn't mind and had never told them otherwise. Not all masters (or mistresses) were as demanding as Arthur.

Under the dress, the bundle turned out to be a satchel. The clasp was loose and unfastened. Merlin, unthinking, lifted the top flap. Mostly just bolts of cloth, some small trinkets, including the leather with yellow beads he'd seen Freya wearing before, a gold-rimmed porcelain saucer with the painted depiction of a lake-grown lily pad on it, and something else under the cloth that glittered like the edge of the saucer. Mistakenly believing it was probably a matching teacup, a little curious, Merlin moved the cloth aside.

There was no cup (it had actually broken three years before, but Freya liked the saucer and kept it, so her spirits had put it among her small stash of treasures to be brought to Camelot). Instead, what Merlin discovered was a golden chain.

No. It couldn't be...

Lifting it and blinking in the firelight, Merlin inhaled sharply, his breaths short and desperate. No... He stumbled over to the window and threw back the curtains. He was bewitched, overtired, seeing things in the glow of the orange flames. It was not -it could not be- the same chain Arthur had given him, that he in turn had given away to the Maiden Huntress after Beltane.

Daylight framed the answer. The chain was the one he'd put on the Maiden Huntress upon learning she could not marry him, could not come to Camelot with him.

But that would mean... That would make Freya... No!

How could he have been so blind? Merlin wondered, tears filling his eyes. It all made perfect sense. Her cold, white body -as cold as if she'd come from a pond (or a lake)- writhing like a fish under his... The way she'd known him and he'd known her. How she had been dozing at his feet like a cat -some old habit left over from her Bastet days? Her kindness. Even her beauty. There was no one more beautiful -more like a princess from some lost dream- than Freya in his eyes. Had it not always been that way? Since the day, so many years before, he first laid eyes on her in Halig's cage?

It was no wonder that when he was around Freya, he missed the Maiden Huntress not at all. As he had told her, he loved her as herself best of all, more than he could love a Maiden Huntress chosen by the Disir and commanded to share his bed for a night.

And to think, his lover had gone through everything alone. She had carried this burden all by herself. She had seen him betrothed to another woman, knowing she had a greater claim to him, having brought his only son -even if it was a bastard- into the world...

Deep pity moved him, paining him.

If only she had said something. Anything. If only...

Anger set in, mixing with the pity. She should have said something. Freya had as good as lied to him! What a dunderhead he must have seemed to her when he told her of his son. And her, listening as if unattached to the matter! Never telling him that she was Myrddin's mother.

And what of all that rubbish about being unable to come to Camelot with him? She was no priestess-in-training after all! She was here in Camelot now, wasn't she?

Freya could have come with him. Or, if she really couldn't, told him to wait. He would have announced -to everyone, Arthur included- that his bride, the woman he wished to wed, was coming to Camelot. Everyone would have known he wasn't free to marry another, including Mithian! Of course, they would be distrustful of a woman who had played the Maiden Huntress at Beltane, but... But surely... He could have figured something out.

And why had she never sent him word that she was pregnant? A message, however sparing, that she was having his child would have been no great thing! Did he not deserve to know, not only that he had a son, but who the mother really was? If she had not given Myrddin to Kilgharrah, would he even know of the child's existence at all?

This was wrong. Shaking his head, Merlin dropped the chain on the bed and fast-walked out of the room.

In the doorway, he found himself accidentally confronted by a damp-haired Freya, shivering in her dark blue cloak, and two of her water-spirits entering just as he was leaving.

Their eyes met, the warlock's and the Lady of the Lake's, and they both knew, at once, that the secret was out on both sides.

Swallowing hard, Merlin gently pushed past her and continued down the corridor as quickly as he could, heading for the only place he could think to go: the quarters where he and Gaius lived.

Going into the room, Freya found the chain on the bed. Brushing away a tear, she fastened it around her neck. She was not angry he had gone through her things. There was too much guilt on her own behalf for that. Still, surely he must let her explain... Just as she had been merely afraid to tell him she was a Bastet so long ago, he must know she'd felt the same about Myrddin when she first arrived. When the fear began to subside, it was too late. The guards had come, during her first attempt to tell him the truth, and then she had seen him betrothed to Mithian, taken from her -and, in a way, from Myrddin- forever.

I must go to him. Freya ordered the spirits of the water to stay put. This, she needed to do alone. Her water-spirits wouldn't understand why she had kept the secret of Merlin -of Emrys- being the father of her child from them, just as she had kept it from him. They wouldn't be cross, wouldn't hold it against her, but nor would they possibly be able to fathom her motives.

The walk to the physician's living quarters felt like the longest Freya had taken in all her life.

Finally, though, she arrived and lifted the latch.

Without looking up, Merlin knew she was there. He was sitting on the steps all around where Gaius had a number of bookshelves, his head turned away from her direction.

"Merlin-" she tried.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't see how sharing the burden with you would help either of us."

"No, Freya." Slowly, he turned his head and glared at her. "I had a right to know."

"Merlin, please..."

"No," he said again, his voice stronger, more resolute. "I had a right to know."

She began to weep. Everything would be different in his eyes now, even his memories, once precious, no longer special to him. He was right; she should have told him, interruptions or not, Mithian or no Mithian... Merlin had had the right to know who the mother of his own son was. Now she would be nothing in his eyes but a girl he used to know who'd played little better than a whore to him at Beltane and then lied about it.

He sighed. "Freya, don't cry. Please don't cry." Coming down from the stairs, he walked to her.

"You must hate me."

"You know me better than that."

"I did try to tell you," Freya sobbed. "That night in the catacombs..."

"I know," he whispered gently, unable to stay upset with her when she was like this. "I know."

"I never stopped loving you. When I had to leave you after Beltane, it broke my heart. I didn't think I would be able to come here. But after I had Myrddin... Things changed, Merlin. I needed to come to you. So I got the blessing of the High Priestess by force and-"

"You forced Morgana into letting you come?" Merlin gasped.

Freya nodded. "I left her with no choice but to let me go. But if I fail..." Her voice trailed off, she was crying too hard.

"If you had just sent for me," Merlin told her, his voice cracking, "I would have come to you anywhere. I would have been there for you. If you had just given me even the slightest bit of hope that you were coming to Camelot and we could be together..."

"I make no claims to you over Myrddin," said Freya.

Merlin's expression hardened slightly. "You should, Freya!"

"Should what?" she cried hopelessly. "Tell everyone that you and I conceived a child during a ritual of the Old Religion in the cave of the Disir? Ruin everything in your life here at Camelot for you? You know I can't do that."

Putting his hands over his face, Merlin slumped down onto a stool.

For a moment, Freya did not understand why his shoulders shook so, and what the noise that was coming from him meant. Then she realized. He was crying, too. Just as heavily as she herself was. He loved her, and their son... How could he deal with knowing that, had things gone differently, they might have been a family together?

"Merlin..." She put a hand on his trembling shoulder.

Removing his hands from his face, he looked up at her. "I am so sorry for what I did to you." He had lain with her at Beltane, he had gotten her with child... If, in spite of what he felt, he had not touched her in the Disir's cave, things would be different now.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," Freya told him. She had been fully consenting, and she had had the advantage. He had not known who she was, but she had known full-well his indentity the whole time.

"I just can't get the image of you, heavy with child, all alone in Avalon..." Merlin swallowed. "I can't get it out of my head."

"I was well looked after."

"I should have looked after you."

"You couldn't have."

"I wish I had been there for you."

"Merlin, you were," Freya insisted. "When things were impossible to bear, who do you think I thought of? Who do you think made me strong enough to survive the birth of our son?"

"It's not the same," protested Merlin. "A thought can't hold your hand and tell you everything's going to be all right. A thought can't wrap its arms around you and comfort you when the child inside of you makes you ill."

"For a long, long time," Freya pointed out, "all you had of me were thoughts. Before I gave you Arthur's sword, you thought me dead -gone forever. Weren't they -your thoughts, your memories- some comfort to you? Weren't they better than nothing?"

"Were you scared?"

She nodded.

"Did you call out for me?"

"The spirits of the water say I did."

More tears streamed down his face.

"Merlin..."

"I promised I would look after you, and all I've ever brought you is suffering."

"Merlin! That is not true and you know it!" She thought of her lake... If he had let her die in the catacombs, she might have never become the Lady of the Lake.

He reached for her, pulling her down to him. She ended up in his lap; there was no other space on the stool for her.

"Freya, can I tell you something?"

"Of course."

He stared into her eyes. "That morning, waking up after Beltane, before I knew you couldn't come to Camelot with me -that I couldn't keep you- when I saw you and knew I hadn't imagined the love we'd felt the night before, was one of the happiest moments of my life."

"Mine too," she whimpered.

Merlin pressed his lips against hers and stroked one of her arms. "You're cold and wet," he murmured, pulling away.

"I didn't dry off properly after my walk," Freya whispered. "That's all."

Their lips met again, this time opening. Freya felt the warmth of his tongue in her mouth and one of his hands moving to the small of her back, clutching her more tightly to him, and moaned softly. His other hand caressed her ankle, rubbing it tenderly where it stuck out from under the skirt of her dress and hung over the side of his lap in a gentle, upwards motion.

For a moment, Freya found she could forget about alliances and negotiations and all that madness. We never truly stopped being lovers... We were only fooling ourselves...

Merlin seemed to be feeling the same. It never occurred to him, in their shared moment of release and bliss, however short-lived, that it was wrong. They were two kids he once knew, not these grown-up dutiful dodders their separation mixed with the influence and the needs of Arthur's court had changed them into: they were the old Merlin and Freya, in the catacombs, blushing and shy and overcome with the joy of finding someone who just understood, someone you didn't have to hide things from...

Whatever wrong the Disir had done Merlin, he realized then that they had done for him one very good thing in the midst of it all. In fact, they had given him -even unwittingly- the thing he wanted most: his lost love back. For selfish reasons, for Beltane. But still it was a gift worth cherishing forever. For all the bad things it had brought, it had come with all the good. That it should have been, of all the women who could have come into him that night to be the Maiden Huntress to his King Stag, Freya... His Freya...

He continued to kiss her all the more passionately, and it seemed to Freya that Merlin was pleased his Maiden Huntress and the Lady of the Lake were both one and the same after all.

Their mutual delight and discovery, brought on by the secrets dissolved between them like a mist clearing, no longer separating them from each other, was ended with one sharp sound that they both did not hear.

It was the faint scape of the latch of the door lifting and someone walking in.

By the time Merlin and Freya were aware of this added presence, it was of course a little too late. Whoever was standing before them had seen. They had seen them together... Freya of Avalon in King Arthur's manservant's lap while he touched and kissed her with no clear intentions of stopping anytime soon... And the lake-lady herself not minding one bit, returning the gestures of love enthusiastically and allowing them to continue...

In the quick second it took for their mouths to break apart and their heads to turn in the direction of the unexpected intruder, Merlin had devised in his mind a number of scenarios.

Two of these, in particular, stood out as the most probable.

Best case: it was only Gaius. Gaius, who knew, before Merlin had, unfortunately, that Mithian fancied him. But also Gaius who was loyal and could be persuaded, perhaps this time, not to sell Freya out to the court because of something that wasn't her fault.

Worst: it was Arthur, come in to demand where the hell his servant was when he needed him, only to find said servant locking lips with the court's guest sorceress and harpist. When he was supposed to be betrothed to Princess Mithian of Nemeth. Oops.

But, the one option Merlin had not considered, not even thought of as a possibility, was the one that turned out to be fatally true.

It was not Gaius, nor Arthur, who stood before them in utter shock.

It was Mithian herself.

MORDRED NEVER SAW it coming. He was out in the forest, only a few feet away from the other knights, when a dark cloth was flung over his head. It seemed to be the inside of a burlap sack. He would have kept struggling as strong arms from unseen kidnappers dragged him off, but there was this overpowering smell within the bag that made him feel woozy. After only a couple of minutes, he was knocked out completely.

Indeed, when he came to again, he found himself in a windowless, almost airless, little cottage, lying on the dirty wooden floor. There was no longer any sack over his head, but it was still difficult to see much of anything clearly.

All around him, there was this constant drip-drip-drip sound.

Gasping in a sharp inhale and staggering to his feet, Mordred shouted out for the other knights. Suddenly it occurred to him that wherever he was, if it was even the same day as he'd been taken, they would be far, far away, unable to hear or reach him. He stopped shouting, feeling foolish, then ran to the first door he could locate. It seemed to be the only one. And it was locked and bolted.

He kicked at it with his foot and pounded on it with his wrists. A jolt ran through him, fear creeping up into his very soul. There was magic in this place. He was a Druid, so he knew magic when he felt it. Something was not right. Something to do with that drip-drip-drip sound coming from above...

A clod of dark muddy liquid suddenly fell from the beams and rafters above his head and landed on his cheek.

Mordred touched it and examined, best he could in the bad lighting, the black gunk. Willing himself not to tremble, he allowed his eyes to drift upwards.

Mandrake roots hung from the beams. Dozens of them.

Nothing I'm about to see is real, he told himself firmly in his mind.

Whoever was responsible was probably an enemy of Arthur, a magic enemy full of leftover hate for Uther, bent on fixing things so there was a traitor within the king's walls. But they would not find him such easy prey. He knew of these things. And if they showed him a bitter, cruel Arthur, he would know, no matter how the roots screamed and made his eardrums shake, it was all a trick. Arthur would never be so cruel as the visions that would be forthcoming.

Perhaps it was Morgana who'd done this. She might want revenge for his stabbing her. Or, more likely, in her sick way, she might want her friend back. Not Arthur, magicless, usurper Arthur in her mind... But Mordred... Mordred she loved unconditionally. Almost as unconditionally as that precious white dragon of hers.

Arthur would never... Arthur would never... Arthur would never...

But it was not a vision of Arthur after all that came to Mordred, glowing white as a willow-the-wisp in the darkness, sneering, his eyes cold with hatred...

Mordred blinked at the vision, already struggling to remember it wasn't really him. "Emrys?"

He saw this ash-white Merlin take a step closer to him, heard him snicker wickedly.

"No... It's not you."

"It might as well be," vision-Merlin taunted. "You know I don't trust you. Especially around Arthur. I won't stand for another magical person around him. One of these days, I'm going to find a way to have you killed. You would keep my secret, but how do you know I would keep yours? Even when you were a child I hated you and wished you dead in the cold ground. I almost didn't come and save you. I almost let the guards find out. Twice. You know this, Mordred."

Mordred swallowed and took a step back. "Stop it. You're not really Emrys. You're an illusion! Merlin doesn't hate me. He doesn't."

Smiling coldly and, for just long enough to be truly convincing, his eyes looking very like the real Merlin's did when he was wary of something Mordred was saying or doing, he leaned forward and whispered, "Yes, Mordred. I do."

Hours or days later (Mordred wasn't sure which), the door to the cottage creaked open as the bolts were undone, the lock turned, and the latch lifted.

A tall, dark man, maybe a year or so older than King Arthur, and an old woman came in. "Mordred?"

He was huddled in a corner, holding his knees.

"Sir Mordred," crooned the woman. "Why, whatever's the matter? Aren't you all right?"

Mordred looked up. "W-who are you?" he stammered.

"We're friends, Mordred," grunted the man. "Druids, like you. We've come to help you."

The old woman came and took his hands, helping him to his feet. "Oh, dear Sir! Look at you! White as a ghost. And nearly faint from hunger, I suppose? Come, eat with us. We're terribly sorry you were left in this wretched place, but there was no other way. It needed to be done."

"Where is Morgana?"

"High Priestess Morgana?" The man looked baffled. Clearly, he'd heard of her but never actually met her, and had no idea what she had to do with any of this. "Did the mandrake roots show you her?"

"No." He shook his head. "Emrys."

"Are you fond of this man? The one our people call Emrys?" asked the old woman.

"No," Mordred said resolutely, his eyes darkening. "You cannot imagine how much I hate him."

Chapter Text

MITHIAN HAD NEVER in her life been so humiliated. Even finding out Arthur did not wish to marry her, still in love with another, unable to forget, willing to go so far as to risk relations with Nemeth so as not to betray his true feelings, had not packed quite so powerful a punch.

Oh, yes, before Arthur explained, before he gave over into her hands the lands that Nemeth and Camelot had been debating over, she had been cross, feeling jilted, no question about it. Rejection hurt. Back then, she would have given up her own kingdom to be so loved. But she'd understood. Once it was all out in the open, pain though it caused her, she understood.

This -Merlin and the Lady of the Lake- she did not -could not- understand.

Arthur had been entirely different. It had been arranged without her whole-hearted consent, though she'd not been unwilling, for the sake of peace between their kingdoms. Finding that she was fond of Arthur -that she genuinely liked him- had been nothing but a pleasant surprise. With Merlin, she had chosen him because she liked him for himself. Her father was pleased with the match, because of his closeness to Arthur, and the likelihood that one day he would be promoted to a higher position, but that hadn't been the main reason for Mithian's wanting to marry him.

If she wanted a husband who would take mistresses rather than have the love for her Arthur had always had for Gwen, there were at least a dozen nobles she might have consented to marry. If she'd known love had no part in the arrangement, she wouldn't have selected somebody she had feelings for. Nearly anyone else would have done. A title, extra gold, anything she desired, however little she needed it, would have been hers for the asking.

But what she had longed for was a good husband who felt for her as she felt for him. Who loved her and would have no other. Mithian had honestly believed Merlin was such a man. Any number of times she had beheld his unwavering loyalty to Arthur and Camelot, and assumed -perhaps, she now realized, naively- that it would extend to her as his future wife.

Now she had seen the unthinkable. Coming in to see him, she had walked in on Merlin with the visiting Lady of the Lake in his lap, kissing her, stopping only because they had realized she was standing there.

Freya jumped off his lap, her face flushed. Her eyes, full of guilt, were unable to look at Mithian straight on.

Merlin rose from the stool and took a few steps towards his angry, teary-eyed betrothed glaring at him with an expression of shock and ultimate betrayal. "Mithian, I-"

Unthinking, Mithian reached out and slapped him across the face before he could finish whatever he was trying to say.

Freya shrunk further back into the room, as if she expected she was next.

There were tears in Merlin's eyes, too.

Mithian's own spilled over, streaming down. She regretted hitting him the minute her hand lost contact with his now flaming cheek. I struck him...

The door creaked. It was still open -Mithian had not closed it, preoccupied with the sight of another woman in her betrothed's arms- and Gaius walked in, blinking at all three of them standing there with blood-shot eyes. "What is going on in here?"

Mithian turned and fled, slamming the door behind her.

"Mithian... Mithian, wait!" Merlin tried calling after her, uselessly.

Of course, waiting was the last thing on Mithian's mind. Part of her was aware, the whole time, that she must not turn tail and run like a coward -not her, a princess of Nemeth! But, alas, she could not bear to stay. Could not bear, it seemed, to hear whatever excuse Merlin could come up with.

It wasn't until she reached her room that she wondered... Was it impossible that Merlin was, perhaps, enchanted, and as such not responsible for his actions? Freya was a known sorceress, after all. Not to mention, a motive for stealing Merlin from her was not altogether hard to fathom. Taking him from Mithian for herself, the Lady of the Lake might be thinking, cleverly, of snatching a future go-between and ally from Nemeth's grasp for Avalon's sake. Except... What kind of lousy, ill-thought love spell allowed its victim to feel guilt, clear as day? If he were infatuated only due to some mere enchantment that had hold over his emotions, would Merlin not have felt justified in what he was doing?

But he barely knew Freya! She was just another of Arthur's guests. Why would he be with her?

At least, if nothing else, Merlin's not wanting Mithian to speak of a possible match between Freya and Percival made more sense now. It was not the hard work he feared so much as another man taking the Lady of the Lake when he wanted her for himself.

How long had this been going on? How could he play her for such a fool?

Mithian, collapsing into a chair before the gilded mirror above the vanity in her guest chamber, saw herself blanch. When Arthur announced our betrothal, and Merlin looked at me, Freya was close by, playing that wretched harp... And his tears, the ones I took to mean he was happy, could it be that he wasn't expecting to be engaged to me that evening? Surely he couldn't have thought Arthur meant to announce his betrothal to the Lady of the Lake! He must have been told it was me... But the more she thought on it, the more it seemed the truth. Once again she was saddled with a betrothed who'd loved another before her and could not forget their dear one.

The only difference was a clean break, for the good of them both, was not possible this time. All Mithian had wanted was happiness, to be married for love, and she had unwittingly trapped both him and herself. She had entangled them in a rocky, miserable future as securely as a fly is caught in the tight, interlocking threads of a spider's silken web.

MORDRED WAS DEEPLY moved by the kindness of the Druid man and his old mother. They provided him with a copper goblet of boiled milk and let him sleep for a bit, realizing at the last minute he was too wearied from his experience with the mandrake roots to eat straightaway, starving though he might be. Then, in the morning, they provided him with a magical feast. There were cold pigeons, meat pies, bread, cheese, a whole cooked honey-glazed ham that smelled utterly wonderful, and even a few tankards of very fine mead.

The man drank, Mordred preferred to focus more on the food.

All the while, they asked him questions about his childhood, which he at first answered with caution, before he remembered they were friends, Druids like himself, and would not likely betray him. They were only concerned and trying to help him. They had, after all, rescued him from that horrid cottage with the mandrake roots. Something terrible... He had seen something terrible, only he couldn't recall now exactly what it was. It didn't matter. He was safe now, and his new friends would protect him.

Perhaps they could even get him back to Camelot.

Except, he was disinclined to return. He knew the knights were decent, and Arthur was fond of him, but that awful, awful Emrys! Always whispering his evil counsel in Arthur's ear, and so subtly that the poor unsuspecting king thought it only the mutterings and half-mad suggestions of a foolish servant...

Somehow, he must rid Camelot of Merlin. His own life hung in the balance, too. Merlin would kill him first. He would probably have already betrayed Mordred's secret to Arthur if he didn't have his own to hide.

Supposing he -Mordred- beat him to it? Arthur would be appalled that his servant had lied to him for all those years... Maybe he would be so angry he wouldn't think twice about his knight who had a Druid's past. He mightn't need to know Mordred could use magic, too. Not if Merlin was dragged off and executed quickly enough.

He must have spoken his last thoughts aloud, for the man and the old woman blinked in surprise.

The old woman shook her head. "No, Mordred, there is another way."

"How can there be?"

"You must not," warned the man, "expose this Merlin's magic to Arthur. It has the risk of rebounding on you; as fatal as a counterstrike. You must be more crafty."

"But what can I do?" Mordred asked. "How can I rid Arthur's court of Emrys for good?"

"What if I told you," croaked the old woman, smiling slowly, "that his magic is not the only secret he has from Arthur?"

"I would say you are probably mistaken," sighed Mordred dismally.

"I am not." Her smile only broadened. "He is betrothed, is he not, to the princess of Nemeth?"

"Yes." Mordred felt a little dizzy. Why was it he could not clearly remember how that came about?

And it wasn't the only bit of his Camelot past that felt fuzzy and made his head ache when he tried to think back on it...

The only two things that were clear were that he loved Arthur well enough, who had been good to him, and he hated Merlin -Emrys, an evil man- with every fiber in his being.

"What if I told you our wicked court sorcerer also has a mistress?"

"A mistress?" he echoed, incredulous, sounding a bit like Arthur. "Merlin?"

"Her name is Freya."

"The Lady of the Lake," Mordred murmured, remembering that she was at court. He had secretly wanted Arthur to accept her alliance...for some reason... Oh, his head was spinning again...

"She is," the man told him, "every bit as evil as your Emrys."

"Is she?" He had no hatred for Freya.

"She killed my son," said the old woman coldly.

The man put his hand on her shoulder. "It's all right."

"I loved my son," she choked. "My poor, poor boy."

Mordred felt pity stirring within him. Poor woman. Surely if Freya could do something so heartless, she was no better than Merlin. It was no great mystery, then, why they would desire one another. Evil loved company, did it not?

"It was several years ago," the old woman went on. "I tried to make her pay for her crime. She would have suffered long, from a curse I laid upon her, and then died in the end as likely as not. But Emrys ruined that. It is thanks to him, in part, she -nothing more than a worthless orphan- can live on and style herself as a great lady of Avalon."

"If," added the man, leaning in over the table, "you can expose them both to Arthur, revealing it in such a way that it will be a clear insult to Nemeth, it will be the undoing of both the murderous, so-called Lady of the Lake and Emrys."

"I will have no help," Mordred felt the need to point out. "Arthur is fond of Merlin, little though he'd ever let himself show it. The knights like him, too. And the Lady is not yet their enemy; she's in Camelot as an honoured guest. No one will wish to side against them. Even the queen knows how it is to be accused of such a crime and would take their part and protect them."

"Ah, but you will have help, Sir Mordred," the man reminded him gently. "You will have us. Loyal friends, who rescued you, who can vouch not only that the king's precious manservant is indeed capable of committing such a crime against Camelot's alliance with Nemeth, but also that the Lady of the Lake is a murderess."

"You expect me to bring you back to Camelot with me?" Mordred blinked in surprise. "How can I?"

"Are you the only knight, Sir," said the man, lowering his brow pointedly, appealing to Mordred's pride, "who is not allowed to bring his companions and rescuers to court so that they might be justly rewarded with good food and hot baths, however lowly they might be? For, assist you -one of Arthur's knights- we did. Did we not?"

"Surely the king will not refuse such a generous excuse," added the old woman.

Mordred felt reassured. "Yes, I see. This can be done. I'll bring you to Camelot with me and together we will reveal Merlin's treachery and save ourselves."

"And at last," sighed the old woman, her eyes darkening with emotion, "my beloved son, so unjustly slain and then heartlessly forgotten, will be avenged."

Swallowing hard, knowing how difficult it was to be part of a Druid family, how every loss was a blow to the heart -to the very soul- Mordred reached across the table to pat the old woman's hand. "Your son's killer will be brought to justice, good woman, I promise you."

"Such a boon you would grant me, if you could give me that, good Sir Mordred!"

"And I will. I have sworn to it, and a knight of Camelot is only as good as his word."

He would not betray her. Never did he consider using these Druids as pawns only to rid himself -and Camelot, and Arthur- of Emrys. No, he also must keep up his end of the bargain -he felt this keenly. He needed to get this woman her justice, so that the matter of her son's soul might be put to rest, and so that she would not go out of this world believing that her late son was completely unmarked in life and death. This he would give her, in exchange for the kindness she'd shown him in releasing him from the cottage of mandrake roots, delivering him from the pale shade of Emrys taunting him cruelly every hour on the hour.

MERLIN FINALLY ENDED up going to Mithian's chamber to speak with her about what she'd seen. He'd assumed she would be angry and the door would be bolted shut against his entering, but to his great surprise, it was unlocked and in a soft but stern voice she granted him permission to come in.

The princess was still seated at the vanity. She did not turn to face Merlin as he entered, watching him in the mirror as he came up behind her. "I'm sorry I hit you."

"No, I deserved that." Mirror-Merlin shook his head.

Yes, he probably did, but deserving or not, it still felt wrong, striking somebody she'd believed she loved. "Why did you come here?"

"To talk to you."

Now she turned. "The time for talking is over."

He saw the hurt in her eyes. "Your Highness..."

"For God's sake," she choked out in cold disbelief, "is that all I am to you? A visiting Princess?" Someone to be called 'Your Highness' and be tip-toed around... "I'm nearly your wife!"

"Mithian," Merlin amended.

"Just tell me why." She searched his face pleadingly. "Who is this sorceress to you that she trumps a princess?"

How could he tell her everything Freya was to him? How could he put into words what he felt for the first girl he had ever loved...for the mother of the child no one here in Camelot, save Freya herself, knew he had...?

"You can't answer me that, can you?" Mithian asked wearily.

"Only because I don't know how," Merlin said softly.

"When Arthur announced our betrothal," Mithian needed to know for certain, "did you think it was her you were agreeing to marry?"

Merlin sighed heavily. "Yes," he confessed.

"You love her better than me," she said to that.

"Mithian-"

She cut him off. "Merlin, I'd have to be a fool not to see that." Then, back on the subject, "You love her better than me, yet you chose to say nothing, when Arthur publicly announced our engagement."

"I couldn't," he tried.

"And it's only become worse for the wait." Mithian blinked back tears. "Too much has been set into motion. Even I can't end this now without bringing public shame to the alliance between Nemeth and Camelot." She rose up and walked towards him. "For you to jilt me in this would make Nemeth angry, because in their eyes you're only a serving-boy." I know you're much more than that, but how can they when they've never met you? "But if I left you, Camelot would take offense."

"Arthur would not-"

"I spoke of Camelot at large, Merlin, not of Arthur."

"I don't understand..."

"Gwen, their queen, was a maidservant. If I try to put you aside, the people will think I believe myself too good for you -too good to do what Arthur did and marry a servant."

"Mithian, hurting you," Merlin told her, "putting you in this position, was the last thing I wanted."

"I know that," Mithian murmured, holding back a sob. "I know because you're so nice, Merlin. You never try to hurt anyone. You believe in what's right. That's why I..." Her voice broke off. "That's why I..." She closed her eyes, then opened them again. "You're the nicest person I've ever known. I wish you could have happiness. I wish you didn't have to stand before me now, trying to explain why you were kissing another woman. Most of all, Merlin, I wish that you loved me."

I tried, Mithian... I tried... Under different circumstances, he might have... It was just that he could not forget Freya; all the more so now that he knew she was the Maiden Huntress.

"I had hoped so much," Mithian whispered, "that we would be happy together. That there would be no need..." Her voice becoming clearer, she added, "Merlin, listen, whatever happens, don't be caught with her again. By anyone."

"Things have to change, Mithian," Merlin insisted.

"How can they?" She reached for his hands. "I don't want to see you accused, before our wedding. If it happened, I couldn't help you. I couldn't prevent you from being-"

From being banished, like Gwen was on account of Lancelot. Or worse, sentenced to imprisonment or death. Merlin understood. "But-"

"Merlin, please," Mithian implored him, squeezing his hands. "Set her aside. Forget about her. If you can't, if you intend to shame me and yourself by having a mistress, don't be caught. And tell me no more of it. Ever. Spare me at least that much." Staying with him, knowing his love and passion belonged to the Lady of the Lake instead of her, wasn't she sacrificing far more? "Let me believe on the best of days, that you are loyal to me after all and I don't have to worry about you."

She could not protect him, if he chose Freya. And honestly he did not expect her to. Mithian's kindness in this matter was already pushed beyond any call of duty -any clemency- her feelings for him might move her to show. Yet, all the same, though his heart begged for it, and he knew, without shadow of doubt, that if he was a very little bit younger, living no more than a few years in the past, he would have given it what it wanted, Merlin knew he could not choose Freya and Myrddin. Not unless he ran away, not unless he gave up everything. Which his own conscience -and Freya herself- would never allow. There was no choice to be made, simply because Mithian was not wrong. They were caught, in a web of duty.

Duties, it turned out, were just as troublesome things as destinies.

THERE WAS A great hubbub in the throne room upon the safe return of Sir Mordred, missing knight of Camelot.

With him, he'd brought two persons: a tall, dark man with eyes that Arthur secretly thought were a little shifty and suspicious in nature, and an old woman.

These two, Mordred claimed, had saved him from unspeakable horrors and he wished for them to be rewarded for their kindness and bravery. Hot baths, he spoke of. And a good tuck-in of warm food and something fine to drink.

Shrugging, Arthur agreed. It was no great burden to feed them. And, as they were not royal, simple beds that would not take much preparation would do, though he would see to it they were comfortable. However unsure he was of the man, if he and the woman really had saved his youngest knight's life, he owed them a debt of gratitude.

"My manservant will show you to your rooms," Arthur announced, looking around the faces -mostly the knights, and a few scattered courtiers who had been worried about Mordred's disappearance- in the throne room for Merlin.

He was not, right then, present. Truthfully, he had been hoping Mordred would not return. It would save Arthur, at any rate, if the one destined to kill him was never seen in Camelot again. Not to mention, he was caught up -greatly distracted- thinking of Freya, Myrddin, and Mithian. Everything between the four of them had gone to ruin. Freya, his lover, could be his no more; if he'd believed he had suffered, already giving her up before, he had not known what it really felt like. Now he felt it. Myrddin, safe with his grandmother, would likely never know him or his mother. And Mithian, poor thing, would never fully trust him again. Merlin thought, sadly, that if he could not have happiness for himself, it might have been a nicer thing if he had given happiness to his betrothed. For the first time he truly understood what had moved Freya to keep her role as the Maiden Huntress a secret for so long. Secrets were pesky, bothersome things, but they also protected. And he had not protected Mithian.

When he finally entered the throne room, late, followed by Mithian, Freya, two of Mithian's serving-girls, and one of the spirits of the water, and saw the riffraff Mordred had returned with, he stared as if stricken dumb.

He did not hear Arthur's orders, announced all over again, that he show them to their rooms and see it to they had a bed and bath for the night.

This man, he noted, the blood draining from his face, looked almost exactly like the one from his nightmares where Freya turned into a tree -the one who chased her.

Freya herself was so frightened she nearly fainted, but the water-spirit, coming to her lady's side and gripping her arm protectively, held her steady.

Merlin's eyes darted over to the Lady of the Lake. Freya, you killed him, he said with his mind. How can he be here now?

Mithian pretended she didn't notice the eyes of the lovers meeting.

Freya quivered. He had a brother, Merlin.

So, the old woman... She's the one... The sorceress who...?

Yes, who cursed me to be a Bastet.

Chapter Text

FREYA KNEW SHE was not alone. There was this sense of unrest, and of being watched, stalked like prey, stirring within her as she walked to Morgana's old room.

Merlin would have gone with her -and tried to, none too keen on letting her out of his sight, considering who Camelot's newest guests were- but Arthur insisted he show the old woman -the sorceress- to her guest chamber, George ending up somehow or other being put in charge of her son, the dead man's brother. He'd had no choice but to leave her side and do as Arthur ordered.

Still, it was a struggle. As bad as tearing flesh. All the more so since he wouldn't be able to keep a cautious eye on the man and his mother together, as they were being split up. His faith in George, however good a manservant he might be, to keep the man from wandering off and doing something hazardous, in one way or another, to the Lady of the Lake out of revenge was sorely lacking, if not entirely non-existent.

I'll be all right, Freya had whispered to him with her mind. She didn't mean it, really, still frightened out of her wits, and he knew it, but there was nothing he could do.

Except, maybe, show the sorceress to her room as quickly as humanly possible... Even if what Merlin truly wanted -however dark the notion- was to heartily shove the old hag down a staircase for what she'd done to Freya all those years ago and pretend it was an accident.

Freya tried to reassure herself that she would be fine as soon as she had gotten into the chamber and bolted the door shut behind her. Merlin could not be detained forever. Surely he would come and protect her. She had forgotten, for the time, that she was no longer a helpless Druid girl; that she was the Lady of the Lake, and a force to be reckoned with.

He looked so like his brother...

Mentally urging her hands to stop shaking, Freya went to shut the door.

A boot, stuck in the way, prevented her. "Hello, Freya." The man was standing there, grinning.

"Leave me alone." She lifted her hand, meaning to magically fling him backwards. She was scared she would hurt him unintentionally, perhaps maim him or bring him to death's door rather than merely knock him out as the spell was meant to do, and his mother would be dangerously angry with her all over again, but she was even more scared of him.

He was quicker than she expected. Ducking, he charged into the room, knocking her down onto the floor with brute force just as her eyes started to glow gold.

She started to try and get up, but he grabbed onto her arms and held her down, pinning her back to the floor.

"Get off me!" she demanded. I am the Lady of the Lake, and you are just a foolish Druid man who's spent too long plotting revenge for a crime I did not mean to commit. "King Arthur will not allow you attack his guests in this way."

"When Mother and I are through," hissed the man, "your beloved Arthur won't be able to help you. He will hand you over to justice, which is no less than you deserve."

"What do you want from me?" she murmured. Why attack her now? If he meant to plot against her, biding his time, why was he being so rash?

"You thought yourself too good for my brother," he growled down at her accusingly. "And now look at you. He's dead, and you're parading about in Camelot like a high-born Lady instead of the orphan witch the Druids know you to be."

The Druids only hated her because she'd killed some of them -some of her own- when she turned into a Bastet, unable to control it. And it was his mother, on account of his brother, who had made her so. Besides, at large, the Druid community was more forgiving than this rogue and his sorceress mother, and they respected her as the Lady of the Lake, no longer fearful. All the more so after she had voluntarily taken the place of that girl at Beltane.

Tears of frustration filled Freya's eyes. "I didn't mean to hurt him, but I thought he was going to kill me."

"I wish I could kill you now." Alas, he had a pact with his mother and Mordred. Both Emrys and Freya must be cunningly gotten rid of. He could not, as he suddenly longed to, with deepening desire, let go of one of her arms and reach over to her throat and squeeze until her breath was quite gone. If she was still mortal enough for that...

"Please let me go," Freya begged.

"I will," he simpered. "As soon as I'm done."

Done with what? "I was giving you a chance," she warned him. "I'll call my water-spirits; they will not allow their lady to be mistreated like this."

He spat in her face. "Do you think your pathetic little see-through waiting-women will protect you?"

He was a fool. A disgusting, wicked fool... But that didn't mean she wanted to hurt him any more than she had intended real harm to his brother. All Freya wanted was for him to let her up and go.

"Do you know what it is to have a mother who is so despondent over the death of your sibling she will not let you walk three feet from her side without accusing you of abandoning her, or putting yourself in danger for no reason?" asked the man harshly.

Freya thought, how can I? When my family died? When I would have given anything for the over-protection you hated so deeply?

"Well, my mother was like that, for over a year and a half with me, after you murdered my brother."

"You should be thankful," Freya whispered up at him with surprising gentleness, all things considered, "to have a mother who loves you."

"Witch!" he cried. "Do not try to be nice to me because you're scared!"

She did not deny it, that she was afraid. So what if she was? Wouldn't nearly any woman be, if so attacked?

"Whatever you want to do to me," said Freya, "will not bring your brother back."

"You think I want him back?" he snorted in disbelief. "Now? When it's too late to do any good?"

"I don't know what you want," she admitted. That was what frightened her the most.

"I want to humble you," he told her. "Teach you a lesson against your vixen ways here and now you won't ever forget. After you've been shamed, I know you'll keep silent. Because even if you tell anyone, I'll tell another story. Your word against mine." Then Mother and Mordred can finish their plotting against her, with no further detours from the plan on my behalf, and I will help them.

She had been a Bastet, and a murderess, but Freya knew he was more the monster than she could ever be. "You will let me up and keep away from me after this!" she said, mustering up confidence she did not actually feel. She was the Lady of the Lake; he would not do this to her!

"Not going to say please?" he taunted, lowering himself and trying to force a rough kiss on her mouth.

Screaming aloud would do little good. She tried to... It was hard to muster up so much as a proper squeak... She wanted to scream, as she had when she turned into a Bastet...or when she was giving birth to Myrddin...but the cries would not come out. They caught in her throat and strangled her.

As for magic, she was so frozen with fear she forgot how to use most of it.

That was when it came to her. Her mind. She would use her mind to shout for Merlin to help her. With his magic, he would hear and come.

Merlin, help me! Please! He's attacking me... He's going to hurt me... Come quick! Morgana's chamber! Please!

"Stop that!" The man slapped her across the face so hard a drop of blood fell from her nose. "I'm a Druid, too. Do you think I can't hear that? I heard you whispering with your precious Merlin in the throne room that way, too. I simply thought it best not to draw attention to myself on the matter."

Merlin!

He slapped her again. Then he forcibly pulled up the skirt of her dress. "Still think you're too good for me? Lady of Avalon? Lady of the Lake? Freya, the orphan?"

Merlin ran into the room. The moment he heard Freya calling, he had abandoned the old sorceress in the middle of a random corridor and come running as fast as he could. He knew the old woman was in pursuit (for her age, she was pretty fast), suspecting something was up, but she was a good ways behind. That didn't matter anyway. What mattered was that he got to Freya in time.

When he stood there, panting in the doorway, and saw the man on top of Freya, who was moaning and crying and begging him to let her up, Merlin felt his blood boil. His eyes flashed gold and the man was flung off of Freya, across the room, his back hitting the wall on the other side.

"Freya!" He ran to her, helping her up.

A sob escaped her.

He stroked her face comfortingly, noticing a bruise forming where the man hit her. I never should have left you...

Whimpering, she threw herself into his arms and clung to him, sobbing harder into his chest.

Merlin held her to him tightly. "I'm here... I'm right here. I'll never let him hurt you. I promise," he whispered into her hairline.

One of the spirits of the water came into the room, holding a slender, coral-hilted sword aloft. My Lady! she would have cried out, aghast, if she'd had a voice to speak with in Camelot.

The man was beginning to come to. Enraged, he staggered up to his feet and started to stomp unevenly towards them.

Merlin spun Freya out of his grasp, standing in front of her and the water-spirit protectively.

"Big man, Emrys," he snapped. "Standing up to protect your mistress, are you? Don't fancy sharing her, I take it."

"If you ever attack Freya again," Merlin warned him coldly, "I will kill you."

"What are you going to do? Keep magically flicking me aside like a fly?"

Merlin glared.

"Stop using magic," the man dared him. "Then we'll see what a big man you are. In front of your Maiden Huntress!" As he spoke, he turned his torso and grabbed a sharp-ended fire poker. "Or do you not want her to see how weak you really are without your magic to help you? Think she might regret allowing you to touch her!" Counting on the element of surprise, he charged at Merlin with the poker, aiming to stab him right in the heart.

It was happening so quickly. The magic that Freya could not recall to save herself came back to her at once now that it was Merlin -her Merlin...her King Stag...her lover...her baby's father...her dearest friend- in danger. She would rather kill than see him killed; rather die herself, even, than see him die.

"Þurhdrif hie!" shrieked Freya, her eyes glowing.

The sword flew magically from the water-spirit's hand, sailed through the air, and pierced the man dead-center in the abdomen.

Slipping from his weakening grasp, the poker fell harmlessly to the floor.

"Are you all right?" Freya grabbed onto Merlin's arm.

"Fine," he panted, turning to look at her gratefully. "Thanks to you."

A mournful cry droned out any further thought. Dashing in the doorway, the old woman threw herself down onto her knees by her son's corpse.

Two sons, Freya thought, regretfully. I'm sorry. If only they could have been better persons, more worthy of their mother's endless -almost obsessive- devotion.

"Both my sons!" screamed the woman, glowering up at her with an expression of pure hatred. "You're nothing but a monster! Lady of the Lake or no, I will find means of cursing you again-"

"No," blurted Merlin, thinking only of all the suffering the last curse this woman had put on Freya caused. "It was me. I killed him." With his mind, looking at the sorceress with stern contempt, he added, Any man who would attack an innocent girl forfeit their right not to be killed for her protection.

Freya's eyes widened. "Merlin..." The sorceress was unpredictable. She would not have saved him just for him to face such unbridled wrathful vengeance...

Standing, the old woman came and flicked her hand in Merlin's direction, her eyes glowing. "I curse you, Emrys. Powerful you may be, but each night your own power and love will work against you. It will be as though you were caught between the world of the living and the dead."

"No!" screamed Freya, her voice going hoarse. Words not unlike these had been spoken to a scared Druid girl with blood on her hands once before... No, not Merlin... Anyone but him... Even if it were myself, cursed all over again...

But the woman went on. "To kill you have thirst on this day, and forevermore you shall. Every night, you will blindly thirst for blood. Stronger you grow, weaker all around you. People will hate and fear you."

Slaying the sorceress would do no good. As soon as she began the words, the curse was completed; Freya would have had to of caught on and stopped her much sooner, before the first word died on her lips...

Merlin was cursed. Come midnight, he would be a Bastet.

MORDRED COULDN'T BELIEVE it. How could she? How could the old woman betray him? She was supposed to help expose Emrys and his affair with his mistress, the Lady of the Lake, to Arthur. That was the arrangement. Except, now that Emrys, evil man that he was, had killed her son -a pain Mordred, too, felt keenly, for the man had been a good friend, part of his deliverance from the cottage full of mandrake roots- she wanted to leave as soon as the next day, announcing that she had cursed Merlin and the old plan was off.

"A curse is nothing," Mordred protested, shaking his head. "Arthur must rid Camelot of him officially..."

"You don't honestly think," the woman scoffed, "Arthur will not run Merlin out of Camelot for good when he sees him turn into a Bastet and attack his beloved knights and innocent subjects?"

"It will not be the same," Mordred argued. "Arthur will still think fondly of Merlin, believing him a victim of sorcery. He will not shame him. What you've created is a martyr!"

"It matters not," she grunted, scowling. "Arthur will believe Freya cursed him. Unsafe around others, your Emrys will be run out, chased to the ends of the known earth -if not killed before then. He will suffer alone for the rest of his life, should he survive. As good a punishment as any for killing my last son. And Freya also will be punished. She will never have peace in Camelot. How can the king accept an alliance from a woman who cursed his precious manservant?"

Mordred thought of something. "What I fail to understand, good woman, is why your son was in Lady Freya's room to begin with."

"You dare!" she shouted, pointing angrily. "You dare assign my boy impure motives!"

His hatred for Merlin raged on in his heart, an unfortunate effect of the mandrake roots, but Mordred had no magically implanted hatred for the Lady of the Lake. He had gone entirely by the word of his new friends. For the first time he wondered if the old woman had not bent the truth a little. Surely, she would not have lied to him. Perhaps she, too, did not fully understand... But their plans never called for her son to visit Freya, the woman who killed his brother, unattended. What reason could he possibly have had, save for harming -or privately shaming- her in some way?

Mordred disliked to think such a thing of a friend, though... Surely the poor dead man was too honourable for anything like that...

"Forgive me," he amended. "I know you -and your sons- have suffered at her hands. I was only trying to understand..."

"Then understand this!" she barked. "Nothing matters save that they are disposed of. A new plan is not the end of the world, Sir Mordred!"

"But, my good woman, what if Arthur suspects you have cursed his servant?" The old woman was his last friend who would help him, who wasn't taken in by Merlin's cunning... He dared not risk losing her, however grief-stricken and willing to die she might be, at Arthur's well-meaning but ignorant hands.

"The king does not know I am a sorceress!" she snapped impatiently. Well, nobody ever said knights were clever... But, goodness! Mordred had been a Druid once! Hadn't he a single brain in that silly little head of his? What good was having his mind enslaved to her will by guile, by magic from the mandrake roots, when the man was behaving like he wasn't playing with a full deck?

"But we can't expect him to believe Merlin's own mistress cursed him, can we?"

"You needn't tell Arthur about that now." Triple goddess preserve her from bumbling-minded idiots like this!

"But exposing them... There is still time, if he will not change before midnight."

"Rubbish! That plan is void, I tell you!"

Mordred's head hurt; something was amiss here. "We are missing something."

"I am missing another son!"

"No, no, hear me out." He shook his head. "Arthur is not so stupid... He will figure out that Freya and Merlin were-"

"He hasn't yet! He won't."

Hard to argue with that...

"Now we must let things go as they will."

"Supposing Merlin says something to Arthur, before midnight?"

The old woman shrugged. "And expose himself? He had no more reason to be in Freya's room than my son. She did not even cry out aloud..."

Why would she have cried out at all, aloud or otherwise, Mordred wondered, unless she was being... His head spun again.

"The problem," Mordred realized, "is that this may harden Arthur's heart against magic forever. That is not what we want."

"Isn't it?" She rolled her eyes. "All kings go through trials. If you think he is to welcome our sort, he must first prove himself worthy."

What she was saying didn't make sense, but she was his friend; she would not lie to him. "Fine. Let us say all will be well, best case." Mordred held up his hands. "Can you promise me one thing?"

"What, Sir?"

"The Bastet does not hurt Arthur." He raised his eyebrows. "He's a good king." He saved my life.

How can I promise such a thing? The Bastet knows neither friend nor foe, good man nor bad. What it wants is blood and blood alone... This Druid boy who plays at being a knight of Camelot is mad. Still, it is no skin off my old nose if I agree. In words, anyway. "Yes, yes, whatever you want. I swear to it, Sir."

"All right," Mordred consented. "If you swear to it, I'll keep silent and let things take place as you've willed them."

Really, he thought, he was saving Arthur -and himself- from Emrys. This was no bad deed, no wrong act.

TRYING TO HOLD back tears, Freya did her best to prepare Merlin for the change from human to Bastet. This is all my fault. No matter what he said, no matter how vehemently he insisted it was not, she couldn't forgive herself. He lied to protect me, because he wanted to look after me in spite of everything, and now he's cursed.

Merlin had had to sneak away at a quarter till midnight. He hadn't even told Gaius about what happened. For, although he knew Gaius cared for him and would not shun him, he was afraid. Gaius had once been unwilling to offer Freya any protection, because he believed she couldn't control herself as a killer due to the curse. Biases aside, Merlin was none too keen on revealing that he now -unless the old sorceress was only bluffing, which seemed highly unlikely- was cursed in the same way as the Lady of the Lake had been all those years ago. There would be time to tell him, if they could not find a way to reverse it. But, then, he was a powerful warlock. Surely, eventually, as long as he kept this secret too, he -with Freya's help- could come up with something.

The image that came into his mind, of himself and Freya, secretly tucked away in some corner, going over books of magic, made Merlin think that, in another life, one where Camelot had not been ruled by King Uther who forbade magic and had taught his son to mistrust it at best, he would have been an open court sorcerer, and she, Freya, his apprentice. Gladly, he would have taught her everything he knew, and she would have shared her knowledge, gotten in Avalon, in return.

But the heart of the matter at the moment was not to be lost in day-dreams. It was to deal with the change that would happen presently.

"Freya," Merlin felt the need to interject, "I don't like you putting yourself in danger." He had no idea what he would be like as a Bastet. He believed nothing -curse or otherwise- could possess him to harm one hair on Freya's head, but he didn't exactly want to risk it either.

"What danger?" She shook her head and forced a blithe smile.

"Are you afraid?"

"No." Not for myself. "I'm not."

"Maybe you should tie me up," he suggested.

"With what?" There were few ties a Bastet was not strong enough to break. Most cords or rope would be little enough difficultly to escape from. It was iron cages and chains that were more problematic, and no one in Camelot would give her those, even if she was willing to use them. Her hope was that if she could somehow keep him calm, from rampaging out of fear and killing, just until the hour was past and he could turn back into a human, everything might be all right.

Well, for this one night, anyway.

It was certainly no long-term solution. Especially if Merlin still intended to marry Mithian. The poor princess would probably have a heart-attack if she awoke some night to find her husband transformed into a large, black panther-like creature with wings. That much, at least, Freya did not envy her.

"Your clothes will tear," Freya warned him, "when you change. You should take them off before then if you don't want them ruined."

As he removed his clothing, putting them in a folded pile on the bed, scarf on top, Merlin (and Freya) had no idea that the chamber door was open just a crack and Mithian, whose ladies had seen Merlin come this way and reported it back to her (they had no idea he and the Lady of the Lake were lovers, only thinking it strange that a servant who worked all day and ought to be sound asleep was prowling the corridors when it was nearly midnight), was peering in.

The princess of Nemeth had heard none of their conversation regarding the curse, only just now creeping forward. All she saw was him undressing before the Lady of the Lake.

So, she gathered grimly, she's still his mistress. Merlin isn't going to set her aside. He can't make himself forget about her. I shouldn't have come. It felt better a few moments ago when she could pretend that he was only going to see Lady Freya to bid her farewell; that he would be loyal to her from now on, for the sake of his safety at court if nothing else.

Chapter Text

FREYA WAS RUNNING, barefooted, as hard and fast as her legs would carry her, through the corridors, then outside, and down the stone steps into the main square. It was not hard to imagine she was being pursued, running away from something, rather than towards it, as was really the case.

A broken piece of cobblestone, sticking up in exactly the wrong place, dug deep into the heel on one of her feet and caused it to bleed. Steaming hot droplets of ruby-coloured blood trailed after her from then on out. But the Lady of the Lake paid that no heed. What did it matter? What did anything matter when her lover's life was in danger?

This had all gone horribly, horribly wrong.

At first, she'd seemingly succeeded in keeping Bastet-Merlin calm. Seeing the pain in his face when he changed was, in her opinion, the worst part. That, and hearing his muffled, anguished screams (quieted only because he'd taken his scarf off the pile of folded clothing on the bed and stuffed it into his mouth at the last minute, thinking it would be a rotten thing indeed if someone in the castle heard him cry out and charged into the room just as he transformed). The rest was tolerable.

She'd had no fear for herself, as she reached out and touched Bastet-Merlin's head, stroking it gently. He would do -has done- the same for me; it's still him in there... The sorceress is wrong... It can be controlled sometimes. And we love each other well enough for that. Cursed or not, Merlin's no monster... Maybe I never was, either...

He'd grunted and let out a low, cat-like hiss, unable to speak.

Still, I must concentrate, Freya thought, and keep sending him calming thoughts. She was Lady of the Lake, one with nature, and a Druid born of the old ways -of the Old Religion. No creature of magic without clear, malicious intent and true evil in its heart was her enemy or could do her any harm.

That was when disaster had struck. The chamber door flew open, and Arthur and his knights -including Sir Mordred, who had an odd look on his face that Freya did not like but at the same time almost felt a strange sense of vague pity in regards to- came charging in, all decked-out in full armour, swords drawn. At Arthur's side, the old sorceress -the only figure not wearing any form of protective garments- stood smugly, plucking at a loose thread in her shawl.

She said something quickly, in a very rushed, cracking tone, to Arthur that Freya did not pick up on, and gestured at the huge black animal with its head currently only a few inches away from the Lady of the Lake's lap.

Arthur's eyes widened. "Are you all right, Lady?"

He doesn't know it's Merlin! And he thinks the Bastet means to attack me! "Sire, please-"

"Back up slowly, My Lady," Gwaine interjected, lifting his sword up a little higher. "We're here to protect you. Try not to make any sudden movements."

Bastet-Merlin started, eyes widening with fear at the sight of all the figures clad in chain-mail, pointing their weapons at him. Doubtless, he would be feeling an urge, not only to protect himself, but also to shed the blood of those who had just come in.

No! He couldn't! Freya thought frantically, aghast. These were his friends! If he did this, and lived through it, as she had during her murder of the Druids... There would be no going back; he would never forget, and he would never fully forgive himself. Merlin, don't...

Or one of the knights might try to kill him now... That was worse. Losing him as he'd lost her all those years ago... Freya couldn't bear that. I'm not like you, Merlin. I'm not that brave...

There was only one thing for it. She must stand between Arthur and his knights and her lover-turned-Bastet. Nothing else would do. So she stood. As long as he wasn't attacking, maybe there was still hope.

"Move aside, Freya," the sorceress said, in a tone that was supposed to sound -she guessed- grandmotherly and concerned. "The king must defend his kingdom against this monster and protect us all."

No, you can't have him! In every other way, she was prepared to give him up. Mithian would have him for a husband. Arthur would keep him as a servant. She herself, upon returning to Avalon, would be lucky to see him upon occasion. She couldn't be his mistress. Or, if she technically already was, because they'd been unable to give up being lovers without realizing it, she couldn't remain so. He belonged to Camelot, and to Albion. The bridge between the old ways and the new. But she was not going to let him go in death. Not like this.

He would not die, not today.

At the sound of the old woman's voice, a deeper growl began to form in Bastet-Merlin's throat. The look on his face was hateful. He had reason enough... What she had done to Freya, and what she had done now to him... His human senses of reasoning were dulled; he was a magical, wild animal till this passed.

No, Freya tried to reach his mind, fight it...

And perhaps he would have, maybe everything would have gone differently, if only the sorceress had not, in a gesture that was supposed to look helpful but was really quite rough, reached out and latched onto Freya's arm, digging her gnarled, talon-like fingernails deep into the Lady's wrist.

She meant for it to look like she was pulling the Lady of the Lake out of harm's way, and it did...

To everyone...

...Except Merlin.

The Bastet pounced and the sorceress, not having enough time to come up with a way to defend herself, was almost instantaneously killed under his weight. His massive paws and powerful jaw clammed down. Crunch. The painful echo of old bones shattering nearly to dust.

If there was any doubt, any hope she could have survived after all, that sound confirmed her quick death.

Freya felt a moment of relief. The woman who had terrified her so, who had cursed both herself and her lover, whose sons had both inspired such unhealthy fear in her, was dead and gone. In the next world, there were probably creatures that could better deal with her than those of this one. That relief, however, was short-lived. For she realized, also, that Merlin had killed, and the knights -not understanding the situation at all- would feel duty bound to drive their swords into him, now more than before.

Mordred rushed forward. "No!" His last friend, the woman who had rescued him -saved him!- gone... Killed by Emrys... "This time you've gone too far! You will pay!" You did this because you hate me!

Bastet-Merlin's thoughts were jumbled. He was barely aware of what he had just done. Something about Mordred's voice rubbed him the wrong way, though.

When Arthur, confused, happened to look in Mordred's direction, and they shared a glance, Bastet-Merlin felt keenly that he needed to protect the king. He wasn't sure why, really. How could he be? It was so hard to remember things properly when under this enchantment. But he knew great harm would come to Arthur by this boy's hands, and that he had tried to have him gotten rid of -in one way or another- before now. And the urge to keep Arthur safe was at least as strong as his need to look after Freya, even in this form.

So, without further ado, no muss, no fuss, it was Sir Mordred the Bastet attacked next.

Arthur, quickly as anything, wielded his sword and dealt the Bastet a blow. It grazed his upper side; one of the Bastet's wings.

A scream erupted and shook the walls with great force. Several eyes turned to Freya, thinking it must have been her, only to find it wasn't. Freya had merely gasped; her own cry was nothing to the booming one that had droned her out. One of her speechless spirits of the water had gotten their voice back, fleetingly, in that moment of distress, as they were floating about somewhere in the citadel, sensed what was happening, and screamed long and loud.

It was distraction enough that Bastet-Merlin escaped Morgana's old room without being stopped by the knights, but naturally they -and Mordred, who was still alive, though one of his legs appeared to possibly be broken, limping along after them- were quickly in hot pursuit.

And Freya was behind them, out-running only the injured Sir Mordred, trying desperately to catch up.

When she finally did, she met a dreadful sight.

Bastet-Merlin was cornered against a stone wall. He might have flown over it, except one of his wings was hanging wrong, still hurt from Arthur's previous blow.

He lifted his head and their eyes met.

Oh, Merlin... Freya opened her mouth, willing herself to scream out, "Don't hurt him!" but no sound was forthcoming, no words died on her lips. They wouldn't have listened anyway.

Arthur lifted his sword, preparing to bring it down, presumably on the Bastet's black, snarling head.

Freya found her voice. Stepping out in front of him, she whimpered, "Please let him go."

For one strange, breathtaking moment, Freya saw Arthur's left eyebrow raise ever so slightly, and thought that the combination of her choice of words and the fact that she was standing in front of a Bastet had triggered his memory -that he remembered her, even recognized her now- but it was fleeting.

Merlin's Bastet eyes shifted from Freya to Arthur and then back again. The one thought that continued to hold him to humanity was how much he cared for them both and would have done anything for either one of them. In his eyes, glazed with fear and an animal's spirit, there was only one current threat to them both. Mordred. Mordred meant great harm to Arthur, and it was he who had brought the wicked sorceress and her son here to Camelot (he remembered that now). The boy was already injured. One last good pounce, one final sinking of the teeth, giving in to the thirst for blood and death he felt pulsing within his Bastet veins, and it would all be over. His Lady Freya and his King Arthur... Safe... For now... Maybe even forever...

Gwaine, thinking the Lady Freya had gone mad, and seeing a less than trustworthy look forming on the Bastet's face, reached out and yanked the Lady of the Lake aside, despite fervent protests on her part, and a great deal of hard weeping.

The Bastet sprung forward. Mordred had caught up now, limping... He would stop him, end this. He would do what he couldn't do as a human: kill directly, not merely leave the questionable one to their apparent death...

But before Bastet-Merlin could maul Mordred and end the beginning of the end once and for all, he felt something sharp driving through his chest. It was a steel blade, the very one forged in Kilgharrah's breath, all those years ago... Arthur's sword...

Human reasoning and clear memory returned to Merlin in a flash. He felt ashamed. What had he been about to do? Kill Arthur's favorite knight! And right in front of him, no less! What would that solve? What good would brutally killing Mordred have done? It could have hardened Arthur's heart against magical beings forever. For the once and future king to live on in such a state, hating things he did not understand, as painful as it was for Merlin to admit it to himself, would be a fate worse even than death.

But it was him -the king's servant- who was dying. Mordred would heal and be all right. Arthur sustained no wound, for Merlin would never have hurt him. And Freya! It was getting so dark... Where was she? He must tell Arthur, must assure him she was not to blame for this...

What Merlin didn't see -or realize- huddled down on the cold ground in a pathetic heap at the wall, shivering, was that it wasn't only his insides that were human again.

He was naked and wounded, and Arthur and all the knights could see -and recognize- him as he was curled up against the freezing stone, laboring for breath.

Arthur's eyes moistened and widened. "Merlin."

A shaking sob escaped him.

"Who did this to him?" demanded Gwaine bitterly.

All the knights' eyes turned to Freya.

She shook her head, biting onto her lower lip so hard she, too, tasted blood.

"She's the only sorceress at court," Mordred pointed out sharply.

Says the Druid boy. Freya clenched her jaw, swallowed hard at the lump in her throat, and looked over at Merlin again.

Merlin moaned and reached to pull the still embedded blade of Arthur's sword out of his bleeding flesh. His fingers went numb and were no good at all, in their last fumbling moments, for that sort of thing.

Arthur was heading to his side when Percival grabbed his shoulder. "Sire."

"What?"

"Sire," Gwaine choked out, speaking for Percival. "His breath has stopped. His chest is no longer moving."

"He's dead," gasped Arthur brokenly, unable to take it in. Merlin wasn't dead... How could Merlin die? His useless servant who survived everything and was always there with some insane opinion when he least -and most- needed it...

The sky flashed blood red in the dark night above them, dry lightning cracking across the gaping black expanse overhead.

Freya threw herself at the comatose Merlin's side before anyone could stop her. They would accuse her now of using magic against him, turn it into a plot against the king, but they would not stop her from giving him one last chance. She would not let his body -whether it was truly alive or dead- be used as mere evidence against magic. No physician -Gaius, or hired man come to Camelot for that purpose, because Gaius could not bear it, too close to the subject in question- would touch him in search of finding physical signs of a heinous curse. The Lady of the Lake loved Emrys too well to let his remains come to that end.

Using magic, she spirited him away. Her eyes glowed as he vanished, hopefully going someplace where -if some flicker of the flame of life still burned in him- he might be healed, naturally or otherwise.

Arthur, seeing what was happening but, of course, not understanding the meaning of it, thinking only that Freya, who had already cursed his manservant and had him killed by the king of Camelot's own hand, was doing something worse to him, cried out, "Seize her!"

The knights clasped her wrists in irons and hauled her away to the dungeons to await her trial. Merlin was already gone, though, and -as they had no idea where- it was too late to do anything much about that.

Mordred gave a slow smirk, as Freya's eyes met his, when the other knights were pulling her past him.

THE THRONE ROOM had never felt so bitterly cold. Somewhere close by, fires were in fact lit, to the benefit of the knights, the courtiers, and the king and queen, but Freya couldn't feel its warmth. She could feel nothing but the iron on her wrists and the growing numbness spreading throughout the rest of her body.

Arthur's face was so drained of emotion and colour that it looked almost gray. His eyes, lackluster with despair, were rimmed with red.

As for Gwen, she would not meet Freya's eyes, nor look in her direction. There was anger in her -probably she was reminded of the death of her father, which had been caused in part by association with a sorcerer- but mostly her hollow form was propped like a queen doll or puppet in the center of her throne. Her mind, her being, was far away, her thoughts with Merlin. Which was not, after all, very surprising. He was her friend, too.

Merlin had never been 'just a manservant'. And Freya knew that better than anybody.

Mithian and her ladies were among the courtiers. She, too, was heartbroken over what had happened. Her hands were folded together, interlocked fingers being wrung repeatedly simply for the sake of having something to do, and her eyes looked straight ahead at the king.

In spite of what she had heard, about Freya being the one who turned Merlin into a Bastet, she did not even once look accusingly at the lake-woman of Avalon, keeping her eyes fixed only on Arthur. All that mattered was what he decided, anyway. Anything else would evaporate into moot nothingness. She, the princess of Nemeth, had almost been a bride and a wife -regardless of the fact that her chosen husband had a mistress- and now she was an almost-widow as well. That was all she knew. Mithian had no other answers. People expected princesses -nobility in general, really- to have the answers for everything, and doubtless some in this very room were disappointed to find she unraveled so easily, but she was only human and had suffered loss same as the king and queen had.

If it were not for the culture difference between us, and the fact that we both loved the same man, separating us from the first, we might have been something like friends. Even with the way things were, the unease between them, Freya held a vain thread of hope that Mithian, at least, would know -if nothing else- that the Lady of the Lake had cared too much for Arthur's manservant ever to have cursed him and brought about his death.

But Mithian, if she wouldn't accuse, she would not vouch either. She felt that neither standing was her place. She needed to act unaware of Merlin's relationship with the Lady of the Lake. The last time she'd seen Merlin had been in Freya's room, undressing, and she was having a hard enough time dealing with that fact when it was her burden alone.

Besides, the princess didn't know for sure that Freya hadn't cursed him. Nobody else, it would seem, could have done it, and the timing would have been about right. Perhaps sorceresses were treacherous and she had turned on him. They could have quarreled, and Freya could have been angry and taken it out in the form of a curse, little though Mithian could believe it of her. Deep down, she knew that was one reason she was not looking at Freya. She seemed too innocent. If she looked at her, she would never believe what the rest of the court had the evidence to prove: that Freya had betrayed them all.

Arthur cleared his throat and spoke. His voice was hoarse and strained yet he did his best to still sound commanding and kingly. His subjects needed to know he was still in control; not everyone would understand how much Merlin -a mere servant- had meant to Camelot's king.

"Lady Freya," he said, taking a step forward, "you stand before us today, accused of two serious crimes. Using magic to harm a subject of Camelot, the results of which led to -as far as we can know- murder."

A tear rolled down Freya's face and she choked back a sob. She wanted to say, "I know! Me too! It's killing me not knowing if he survived, or even where he is, too!" but she couldn't -it was not yet her turn to speak- so she didn't.

"I pride myself on making sure Camelot is a fair and just place," Arthur continued. "I would not hold you accountable for using magic here when I willingly let you in, knowing perfectly well you were a sorceress. It is because you used it to hurt someone innocent, and they died, that these charges are being brought against you. We were in talks for peace, and you betrayed that. You betrayed your own people as well as mine -Avalon same as Camelot- by this act. Do you understand?"

"I understand," she said softly. But I'm not guilty.

Arthur nodded and put his hand to his forehead, needing a moment before he could go on. "Do you have anything to say for yourself? Do you admit your crime?"

"Sire, that curse was not of my doing," Freya told him at last. "I submitted to your justice; I spent the remainder of the night in a cell, mourning Merlin the same as any of you, but I now plead for your mercy and insist on the matter of my innocence. I was only trying to help him. I wish I had managed to explain who the Bastet was before... That's my only regret. That I couldn't warn you in time."

"I don't know if I believe this," Sir Elyan spoke up. "The Lady Freya hardly knew Merlin. She has no reason to mourn him as his friends in Camelot do."

Mithian's lips parted, and she almost told Arthur what Freya really was to Merlin before the whole court.

"We saw her spirit him away," Sir Leon pointed out. "Why would she do so if she was not guilty? If she was not trying to hide something?"

Mithian's mouth clicked shut. She couldn't. She couldn't do it. Telling them would bring more than shame, would do more than blacken Merlin's name, it would cause unnecessary tension between Nemeth and Camelot. And it mightn't even save Freya in the end, all things considered, in which case she would have risked her one of her kingdom's strongest alliances for nothing.

"If she didn't curse him," Gwaine sighed, his tone regretful, for he hated to give testimony against a woman, "then who did?"

"The Old Sorceress," Freya murmured, her eyes shifting to Mordred.

That got Arthur's attention. "What old sorceress?"

Gwen came suddenly to life and leaned forward.

Freya's eyes moved back to Arthur, ready to tell him how Mordred had betrayed him and brought a sorceress and her son into the court with the intention of harming herself and Merlin, how he had not been himself since he returned...

Mordred drew his sword and limped forward. The other knights didn't notice, too busy waiting on Freya to explain herself.

"The one Mor-" she began, but never finished.

In one clean swipe, Mordred's blade sliced through Freya's neck, severing her head from her shoulders.

The flash of the blade was so bright and quick that for a split-second all that could be seen was a flicker of silver. Freya's face, for the one moment it had left to bear an expression, was horrified.

Crimson. Blood. The Lady of the Lake's head rolling on the floor...

The one water-spirit finding a voice and screaming had been a phenomenon, but it was nothing to how, at the aftermath of Freya's unjust beheading, they all had their voices again and their screams shattered the windows, sprays of stained glass blowing into all the startled, horrified faces at court, before they (and the spirits themselves) dispersed and floated out of Camelot forever.

Freya's body and head disappeared. The spirits of the water would never have gone and left her behind.

Arthur looked at Mordred sorrowfully. "Mordred, how could you?"

"She was a sorceress, and untrue to Camelot." He swallowed and leaned heavily on the hilt of his bloodied sword. "A traitor."

"It was not your place to kill her, even if she was guilty." And as she had never gotten to finish speaking on her own behalf, they might never know for sure now. "Mordred, as a knight, it was a dishonourable action. An act of murder." If only it hadn't been Mordred... But Arthur knew he couldn't play favorites. Even if it meant losing Mordred so soon after losing Merlin, pouring salt into an open wound. "I have no choice but to strip you of your title and sentence you, in light of your past loyal service to Camelot, to permanent exile. Your life is spared, provided you go, but you must never return to Camelot, on pain of death."

Mordred's head spun. Exile? Him? But he had done everything for Arthur's sake! Emrys was their enemy! The Lady of the Lake his accomplice! "Your Majesty, please, what I did, I did only for Camelot..." For you...

Arthur closed his eyes and inhaled sharply. "Go, Mordred. Leave now. If you return, you know what awaits you."

How could it be that King Arthur, who he loved so well, who he even had made sure would not be harmed by Emrys as a Bastet, was turning against him in this way? It made him sick. They were not supposed to be enemies. Yet, enemies they now were, as if it was fated. The next time they met, however it happened, it would not be on friendly terms.

And in spite of his feelings for Arthur, Mordred did not intend to be the one who died the next time they saw each other face to face.

ON THE ISLE of the Blessed, one of the priest-guards found Morgana curled up in a ball by the side of the sacred well, her face white and blank.

"My Lady Morgana!"

She looked up wearily from under her lashes. "The Lady of the Lake is dead."

There had been no messengers come to the isle that day, so the guard was understandably puzzled. "How do you know?"

She rose up and rubbed her cold arms. "I felt it." It should have brought her joy, but instead she felt only misery. It was like when Uther died and she knew at once, before Agravaine told her, that their plan to kill him had been successful...

"What will you do now, Lady Morgana?"

She took a determined step forward. "I will go to my dragon. Aithusa hasn't been sleeping well these past couple of days."

Freya didn't matter, it was Aithusa she loved, and it was Aithusa who was still alive.

Chapter Text

EVER SO SLOWLY, Freya opened her eyes, and found herself in strange surroundings. She was wearing a Druid robe over a plain brown dress and was lying in the cool, dewy grass by the shores of a lake.

It was not the lake of Avalon, though this one too was surrounded by the tallest mountains. This was a place she had not seen in many years. But it came to her suddenly that she recognized it at once, only it hadn't full registered.

This was the lake of her childhood home. Everywhere, all around her, wildflowers and light... It was like heaven.

The smell, the fresh air carried in on the soft summer breeze, was sweet as well. With the sun shining so warmly on her face, she could have stayed sprawled out on the ground, safe and sound, forever.

Only something was not quite right...

She couldn't stay here, in this perfect place, she needed to return to the world of the living, of the present rather than the past -even if it should mean Morgana won and she herself was confined to the bottom of the lake of Avalon (that was her lake now) forevermore after this. No one, if there even was another, here would be able to tell her truthfully what had become of Merlin. And, for good or bad, she needed to know.

If you go now, a voice -on the wind or in her head; she never knew which- warned her, you will not return to this place again in your lifetime.

"I know," she whispered to the waves, watching as they turned from the soft lapping waters of summertime to the stormy waves of winter that might crash down and take away all the nearby houses. "I know. But I can't stay. I love it here, but I can't stay." She was not Freya the Druid child anymore, but the Lady of the Lake.

As such, she had a lover and a baby, and a destiny, somewhere to be concerned about. Even if she did stay, and tried to forget, part of her would always know she no longer belonged here.

I choose to go. She closed her eyes. I choose to go back, to leave. I choose life.

A wave the size of a castle wall came, crashed over her, and swept her far, far away, taking her from that place until the true end of her time.

When she came to herself again, discovering she was no longer wet and cold, she woke in a bed-chamber in her palace in Avalon.

Sitting up, feeling the covers fall off around her, she touched her throat. It was smooth, bearing no scar or mark -no sign at all, really- that she had recently been beheaded.

An aging woman with grayed hair came into the room, carrying an armful of linens.

I know you, Freya thought, you're the woman who's almost like a priestess in her own right, though Morgana's considered the only real high priestess left. You serve Alator of the Catha.

This woman was so powerful that she was able to travel between certain realms. Many of these included parts of Avalon. If she were less honourable, she probably would have been privy to many a sedition-filled Sidhe counsel. As it was, she could be trusted, and the majority of the spirits of the water must have left much of the palace in her keeping during their absence, going to Camelot with their Lady. She showed her humility, too, in that she was working almost as a serving-woman, doing common tasks about the place with a sense of kindly duty.

Freya had only met her once before, in the same place she had met Lancelot, as it happened, yet, at seeing her now, she reacted as though the woman were her own mother. There was just something so comforting about her that she couldn't help it.

"Finna," she sobbed.

Finna dropped the linens in an empty chair and ran to the bedside. "My Lady! You've returned."

"Oh, Finna," wept the Lady of the Lake, throwing herself into the startled woman's arms. "I've known such sadness."

"Poor thing," murmured Finna, stroking Freya's hair tenderly. "What happened?"

"Everything and nothing," Freya said, pulling away and fighting back a sniffle. "I failed to bring about the alliance between Avalon and Camelot. King Arthur has a new enemy who was once fond of him. And Merlin..." She choked, unable to go on.

Finna nodded patiently, gently pulling a lock of hair out of Freya's face and tucking it behind her ear. Alator had mentioned a 'Merlin' once before to her, insinuating that he was the same as the one the Druids called Emrys. Somehow she knew without being told -perhaps because she knew the Lady of the Lake was once a Druid herself- that Freya's Merlin was the same man.

"I must go," Freya realized, racing for the chamber door, not knowing how dizzy and unstable she was -just newly come back to life, after all- until she stumbled and Finna had to catch her so she didn't fall.

"Where to, Lady?"

"Sooner or later," Freya explained, "Morgana will know I didn't stay dead, that I'm back in Avalon. She vowed that if I failed in the alliance with Camelot, I would never see the world outside of my lake again."

"But what good will leaving it do now?" Finna asked gently.

"Merlin," she said simply, her voice growing stronger. "Wherever he is, I have to find him."

"Supposing he's...?" Dead and gone?

Freya blinked sadly. "Then all hope is lost for Albion."

The Lady of the Lake spoke the truth; Finna could not argue with that. Emrys was special, had been waited for by Druids for a long, long time... If they lost him now...if they had already lost him...there was no left hope for any of them. "At least allow me to come with you."

Freya thought, why not? She did not know where her water-spirits were. If her death had ended them when they dispersed in horror and carried her remains away from Camelot, they also would reform and come back to Avalon. Only, there was no telling when that would be exactly. In the meantime, if Finna wished to assist her, then so be it.

Only, if the spirits didn't come back very quickly, and Freya herself was gone a while -depending on how long it took Morgana to figure out she was no longer dead- who would be looking after things here at the palace? All parts of Avalon were important and needed their caretakers. Even Lancelot had his duties, last Freya had heard. Finna's greatest help would be if she could stay a bit longer while Freya ventured out -alone, horribly alone- into the world to discover what had become of Merlin.

Indeed, Finna's presence, because she was so powerful, in the world outside of Avalon with Freya, would probably only get Morgana's attention all the sooner. What Freya needed was to buy out as much time as she could. She might find Merlin quickly, but then again she might not. This time, whether he was alive or dead, she mustn't fail altogether. She must not get trapped here never knowing the truth. She would -must- find him somewhere.

"I'm sorry, Finna," Freya told her with a shake of her head. "This is something I need to do on my own. You can't help me, no one can." She grasped her hand. "But if you would stay here awhile..."

Finna nodded. "I will, Lady, I swear. You have my word."

"Goodbye, then."

"I hope we meet again, after your return." And under better circumstances than these.

Freya smiled faintly. "Yes, I would like the chance to see you again."

The Lady of the Lake did not voice her fear to Finna that the winter, the frozen lake itself, would trap her in Avalon before Morgana did, that they were both stuck there for the time being.

When she reached the bottom of the lake, frozen over, she searched for the softest, thinnest, weakest point in the ice and, concentrating with all her might, allowed her eyes to glow gold as she reached out her fist, clenching a sword, and smashed it through the shattering, newly-formed hole in the ice.

On the other side, it looked as though a white hand and arm, unattached to anything else, floating and ghostly, holding a coral-hilted blade of steel, had broken out from under the ice as if to reach for the very heavens themselves.

Painstakingly, Freya dug her way out of the ice, with nothing but her sword and weakening (from exhaustion) magic.

At last she was free. She sucked in too much frigid air at once and coughed hollowly. Flecks of broken ice were scattered about in her dark hair, and she staggered wearily across the firmer parts of the frozen lake to the shore.

SHE DID NOT have far to go. Freya found Merlin's body in the forest, only a short ways from the lake of Avalon.

Nor was it hard to spot him, for his body was the only object in the forest that had a large dragon, looking strangely tired and sickly, as if old age was finally coming upon him, standing next to it.

Trembling, Freya stopped in her tracks.

The Great Dragon's head was bowed. That meant...

"I found him too late," said Kilgharrah, lifting his head and looking over at her.

"This is my fault," whispered Freya, coming forward. "I did this to him."

"No," sighed Kilgharrah. "It was the work of a great evil. It was as much failing of mine as yours, Lady, that we were not able to save him." If only he had listened to me, years ago, and let the Druid boy Mordred die before he could grow up, come close to Arthur, be ill-used by a sorceress, and do this to him. It was not his curse that was the young warlock's undoing; it was his heart.

Freya burst into tears and covered her face with her hands.

The Great Dragon nuzzled her arm comfortingly with his snout. A big, hot dragon-tear that could have filled a bucket rolled down his face and soaked the Lady of the Lake's sleeve.

When she was all cried out, Freya said, hoarsely, "He must have a proper funeral."

"The ground is too hard," Kilgharrah reminded her.

And the Lake is, too. Her eyes settled on an oak tree. "I have an idea."

Using magic to open the tree, Freya placed Merlin's lifeless body inside of it, leaned in and kissed him one last time, then closed it back up again.

"A good choice, Lady," Kilgharrah said softly. "Oaks are sacred to Druids."

"This one more than others," Freya declared brokenly. "Because this one holds the man they waited so long for, their lost hope."

After a moment of silence to pay his respects, the Great Dragon flapped his wings, preparing to leave.

"What will you do now?" Freya asked.

"Before your son Myrddin is old enough to command me," Kilgharrah said dismally, "I may already be gone. I grow weaker. Then there will only be one dragon left."

"Morgana's dragon."

"Aithusa has no reason to leave Morgana for Myrddin willingly, when the time comes."

"You fear this is the end for dragons and their lords?"

He nodded, bobbing his head up and down.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Kilgharrah said. "Rejoice that Merlin's clemency kept dragons in the world a little longer than they would have otherwise been, and that you, too, were the mother of a Dragonlord and thus played your part in the last struggle to save our dying race. That is what you should remember, Lady."

"I will," Freya promised.

"Then farewell, little one of the lake."

"Will we meet again?"

It did not seem likely, and Kilgharrah felt sure Freya knew it as well as he himself did. With one last sad glance, he flew away without answering.

Reaching out and touching the oak tree's bark gingerly with her fingertips, Freya whispered, "Goodbye, Merlin," and turned to leave.

Suddenly, though, when she'd gotten only a few feet away from the tree, there came a knocking from the inside of the trunk. And a muffled exclamation of, "Freya! Freya? Freya?"

He's alive! He wasn't dead -he never was, not even in Camelot when he seemed to stop breathing- only wounded and comatose! She ran back, her eyes glowing, and stuck out her hand.

The tree opened and a white-as-paper but clearly not dead Merlin stumbled out.

He almost felt flat on his face, but Freya caught him.

Their eyes met, as Merlin lifted his head and looked into Freya's face. "Is it really you?" I was in a tree, and you were here, Freya... It seems an echo of my dream -my old nightmare- came to pass in an unexpected way...

She nodded and threw her arms around him, holding him close. I thought you were dead.

Chuckling, he whispered, "You're not going to get rid of me that easy."

Laughing and forcing back a sniffle, Freya pulled away.

"Now," Merlin continued, "this is probably going to sound like a stupid question, but what happened?" He reached up and rubbed between his eyebrows. "Last thing I remember is Arthur...with the sword we gave him..."

"There's much to tell you," sighed Freya. "But, Merlin..." Her tone grew serious. "We don't have long."

Merlin furrowed his brow, confused.

"The hole I created in the ice to come here from Avalon will not stay open forever." She ought to have thought of that sooner, really.

"You're going back?"

"I have to." Freya swallowed. It's where I belong. "You're alive, but you're not recovered from your injuries. If... If you'll come with me..."

"If I'll come with you?" She had to ask? He leaned forward and kissed her lingeringly on the mouth. "Yes." As Gwen would have said to Arthur, "Yes, with all my heart."

BACK IN CAMELOT, a small funeral ceremony was preformed, similar to the one that had been held for Lancelot when he sacrificed himself for Camelot and there had been no body. A high-flaming pyre burned a set of Merlin's clothing, and a sword Arthur had let him use once or twice for protection (however much he'd teased him about not knowing what to do with it) when they were out on a hunting trip.

Mithian stood among the mourners with great sadness in her heart. It occurred to her that, while people saw her as Merlin's betrothed, one of the persons who had the most right to mourn him, she alone knew the truth. That she knew him the least of all. The queen had been his friend for years; they'd been servants together, even. Arthur and Merlin had years of history. Even Freya, who was dead and unmarked in spite of the dishonourable way it came about, must have known him better, must have had a story worth holding onto, had she lived long enough for a moment like this. They might never know if the Lady of the Lake had cursed Arthur's servant or not, but Mithian would always know she had been his lover.

She must have understood him. Mithian lifted her head, closed her eyes and took in a deep breath. She must have known him better than I ever could -as Gwen and Arthur know each other. And that hurt.

The warmth of a gentle but rugged palm wrapped around Mithian's knuckles.

Looking to her side, and peeking out from under her veil, she saw that Gwaine, in a gesture of pure kindness and sympathy, nothing else, no jest or flirting intended, was holding her hand.

THEY HAD SEVERAL wonderful days together, till the spring thaw, when, all too soon, Merlin was fully healed of his wounds and the other side of the lake was no longer inaccessible.

"You could stay," Freya whispered, though she knew he couldn't and it wasn't right even to want him to, all things considered.

They were seated on a stone bench overlooking a garden in a different part of Avalon than Freya's palace was located in. This was actually where Lancelot lived, and they had come for a visit.

However, this was not the first time Merlin had seen Lancelot since coming to Avalon to be healed and looked after by Freya. As soon as he was well enough to travel a fair ways, Freya had arranged for a reunion between the two old friends. And, not long after that, Merlin and Freya had decided to have, though not a proper wedding, a handfasting ceremony linking them together so that no man -in Avalon or the world outside- might ever say either of them were free from each other or bound to another again.

Lancelot (along with Finna and the water-spirits) was a witness at that ceremony.

Both the Old Religion and the laws Uther Pendragon had put into action after the purge respected the rite of handfasting, so it seemed a good idea at the time. Freya had asked Merlin what he would do about Mithian (for even then she'd known Emrys could not stay with her in Avalon permanently), but he'd said, simply, "The man Mithian was betrothed to is dead, Freya. Everyone in Nemeth must have heard by now how Arthur's sword killed me while I was under a curse."

"But when they find you're alive again..."

He'd shaken his head. "My miraculous return from the dead will mean nothing to Nemeth. There would be too many skeptics to make a claim to Mithian's hand as her dead betrothed come back to haunt them, even if I wanted to. She might even have found somebody else by now."

And now, sitting on the stone bench, Merlin wrapped his arm around Freya's shoulder. "As much as I want to stay, there's things I have to set right in Camelot."

"I know," Freya sighed. "And I can't come with you. Morgana has confined me to Avalon as long as the alliance with Camelot is not accepted."

"That won't be your fate," Merlin assured her. "I'm going to talk to Arthur, tell him what really happened, get him to change his mind."

"And if he doesn't believe you?"

"He will." He has to. "And then you'll be free, Freya."

"We both will." She leaned into him, resting her head on his chest, the soft folds of the Druid robe he wore feeling like silk against her cheek.

"For a while, even when we're together in Camelot again, there's still going to be a lot that needs sorting out," Merlin mused. "But I was thinking, whenever we get that settled, maybe we -just the two of us- could make a visit to Ealdor?"

And see Myrddin. Freya smiled lovingly. "I want that more than anything."

-Fin-