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“I don’t think it went this way!” Merlin protests again, frustration showing clearly on her face. Arthur scoffs, shouldering the crossbow in his hands.
“Yes,” he emphasises slowly, speaking to her as one might to a small child, “it definitely did go this way, Merlin. Stop trying to sabotage our hunts or I’ll start leaving you in Camelot.”
The witch huffs, staying on her path veering away from where the knights are quietly stalking the deer Arthur had spotted.
“I’ll start leaving you in Camelot.” She mutters in a deliberately stupid and childish voice. Arthur rounds on her with a glare and a retort ready on the tip of his tongue, but Elyan’s surprised yelp and Gwaine’s cut off laugh interrupt him.
“Elyan!” Gwaine shouts, rushing forward to the space between two old trees completely overrun with brambles, so thick they make it impossible to see through. The king, turned away as he was, hadn’t caught precisely what happened but prior experience would make him guess the long-haired knight had tried to jostle his knight brother into the thicket, not expecting him to vanish entirely.
Elyan reappears looking a bit dazed just as Gwaine’s hands frantically grasp out to rip at the thorny barrier. The knights startle and Merlin bites back a curse as Gwaine’s hands simply slip through the brambles, disappearing in much the same way Elyan had. He stares at the space where they should be in amazement, no hint of pain on his face.
Elyan, from his place still half obscured by the undergrowth, laughs at the expressions his companions are making.
“You all have to come see this.”
He disappears entirely then, Gwaine eagerly following after him with a bubbling up of giddy laughter. Arthur’s sigh is nothing short of long-suffering as he reaches to unsheathe his sword. Percival and Leon look at each other and then the king, before following suit and cautiously making their way through the obviously magical barrier.
Lancelot, on the other hand, hasn’t taken his eyes off Merlin since Elyan had first disappeared. That, coupled with the glances he had caught of her as she argued to turn away from the direction they were heading, told him that whatever was waiting on the other side of where everyone had vanished was something the young woman was wildly keen to avoid.
“Merlin?” He questions softly, taking a step in her direction. Her gaze pulls reluctantly away from the space between the trees, meeting Lancelot’s with a desperation that strikes ice through him.
“I can’t… I… it’s fine. It’s nothing.” She stammers over the words, hands shaking. She takes a long moment to try and collect herself, inhaling deeply and reaching up to tug at the short inky curls haloed around her head. He takes another hesitant step towards her but stills again when she takes one step back. Finally, her fingers release their hold on her hair and she rolls her shoulders, trying to force away the tension coiling tight in her muscles.
“Let’s go.” She lets out the breath she was holding and moves to walk through the barrier. Lancelot gently reaches out to take her hand and stop her just as she is about to step through.
“Whatever happens, I’m right by your side.”
Merlin’s smile is forced, the curve of her lips marred by a profound sadness that Lancelot is both unsure of yet deeply familiar with.
“I know, Lance.” She squeezes the hand entwined with hers. “Thank you.”
He wants nothing more than to turn and leave with her, leave the others to whatever tragedy is waiting through the trees.
He would too— if he thought she would agree.
Instead, he lets her pull him through the barrier.
When bright sunlight assaults his eyes and he can hear the knights laughing, Merlin simply squeezes his hand one last time and lets go. As his eyes adjust, he takes in the magical scene of a glistening lake, stained blue from the reflection of the bright, cloudless sky, the rippling water framed by snowcapped mountains and ancient pine trees. Shock and awe battle within him at the vision.
Arthur greets them with a clap on the shoulder each, smiling easily.
“No sign of the deer but I think the knights are set on going for a dip.” His sword has been put away already and he seems relaxed, although he hasn’t gone as far as Gwaine, who is already in the process of getting down to his smallclothes.
“It’s no wonder a gem like this was hidden!” He crows, hopping on one foot to get his breeches off. Elyan is laughing and following suit, as is Percival. Leon looks unsure, though his overall posture is as relaxed as Arthur.
It’s impossible to not relax into the energy of the place — the air dances peaceful and light, golden sunlight illuminating the lake in beautiful lacework patterns, even the sounds of the water as it gently caresses the stones on the shore. It all twists together to create something enchanted and mesmerising.
The only thing that disrupts the peace is the cold presence at his side.
Lancelot glances at Merlin again. Her face has drained of any colour, set into a mask of careful neutrality. Eyes cast down, lips pressed firm, hands balled into fists… if he hadn’t seen the pained desperation twisting across her features before they had stepped through, the knight would struggle to tell if she was angry or agonised.
Beside Lancelot, Arthur looks on with fond amusement as three of his knights charge into the water, Gwaine diving in the moment he’s deep enough, resurfacing to spit out water in Percival’s direction. Percival, who proceeds to dunk Gwaine right back into the water, ignoring his coughing and spluttering.
When his gaze switches to the two quiet companions next to him, the smile slips away. He takes in the same lines Lancelot had noticed the moment before, a bolt of genuine concern lighting up his chest.
“Merlin?” Her gaze flickers upwards, shifting from the ground to stare straight ahead at the lake. She shows no sign of acknowledgement when Arthur reaches for her, hand not quite brushing her arm.
“Merlin?” Arthur tries again, his tone making Leon buckle up the sword belt he had just removed and stand to attention. “What is it? Is it magic?”
She shakes her head and closes her eyes, repeating the breathing and hair tugging she had employed before stepping into the enchantment in the first place.
“It’s nothing.” She finally says, barely audible over the sounds of the knights play fighting in the water.
“It’s safe here.” She adds after a moment of Arthur’s continued scrutiny. He raises an eyebrow at her but she turns away, the line of her body tense and curled inwards on itself. His gaze shifts to Lancelot, who is frowning at Merlin’s turned back. The tanned knight meets his eyes and shrugs in a way that is far too controlled for such a casual gesture — there is nothing to be done.
Arthur struggles for a beat, not sure if he should press his former maidservant further despite Lancelot’s clear reluctance to do so.
The choice is taken from him when Leon’s panicked voice rings out.
“Get out of the water! Get out now, something’s happening!”
The knights are already scrambling as Arthur whips around, wrenching his sword out of its scabbard to face the unknown threat. Amazement stops him dead as he takes in the sight before him, of little pockets of water rising up out of the lake, shimmering and fusing together to form the shape of something— of someone, he realises with a start.
“I think this is one for you, Merlin!” Gwaine calls out with an unsteady laugh, struggling as he is to pull any clothes on over his wet skin. For a minute, there is nothing but the sounds of the knights hastily rearming themselves and falling back to stand with Arthur and Leon. Lancelot has not moved at all, wariness and concern for his friend winning out over any kind of concern for whatever – whoever – is rising from the lake.
When there is nothing to be heard but the lapping of water against weathered stones, the creature speaks.
“Merlin.”
There is no guttural snarl or otherworldly growl. Instead, a woman’s soft voice carries across the open space, the name spoken by the figure with a kind of reverence that the king has never heard before. Arthur doesn’t take his eyes of the unknown threat, slowly moving forwards in a position of defence with his knights around him. His determined focus doesn’t stop him from noting the reaction that hearing her breathed out name gets from the young witch though – her sharp, pained inhale and the heavy rattle of her lungs on her exhale, the low whimper as Lancelot moves to grip her shoulder and keep her standing.
“Freya .” In contrast to the gentle mist of the water creature’s voice, Merlin sounds wrecked, her reply hoarse and ripped up at the seams. It sends a chill through the group, dispersing the easy peace that the air had previously held.
It’s safe here. Merlin’s earlier words echo in his ears and ground the king. Despite his continued hesitancy and inherent distrust when it comes to magic, he feels like there is truth in the statement. Although he may still distrust magic, he trusts Merlin above all else. Especially when it comes to his own safety.
Even as he tries to decide on something to say, something to ask, the figure slowly gains opacity. The water seems to push in on itself, solidifying and revealing a young woman in a white gown, her skin luminescent against the dark of her long, curling hair. Her eyes are as dark as her hair, ancient and young and emotional and closed off all at the same time. They stay fixed to a point behind Arthur and he doesn’t have to look to know they are fixed on his self-appointed court sorcerer.
She appears completely dry despite her watery visage, wading through the depths of the lake to come to a standstill steps away from the shoreline. A smile plays at the corners of her mouth.
Arthur feels a strange heaviness pressing out from within his skulls, her face pulling at something long-buried in his mind.
“You look older.” The magical woman’s voice is as soft as before, but stronger as well, more present than when she had first appeared. Merlin’s answering laugh is little more than a hitched sigh and Arthur knows from experience that if he did turn to face her, her smile will be forced, her blue eyes made bluer by choked back tears.
“You look the same.” The words are as hoarse as earlier, forced out through half clenched teeth. The woman – Freya – smiles so sweetly, so sadly. A sob wrenches itself from Merlin’s shaking body and without warning, she’s pushing away from Lancelot and half running, half stumbling her way to the water. Gwaine and Arthur both reach out to her, concerned and unsure, but she darts between their hands and keeps going until the water is lapping at her covered feet, rising up at her ankles and sinking into her boots. The cold of it seems to shake something in her and she stops dead, little more than an arms breadth away from her destination.
“Are you— Can I—” Merlin is stumbling over her words again, unsure hands reaching out but not quite touching the water woman. Freya is still smiling that sweet sad smile, one hand rising to gently, oh so gently, touch the tips of Merlin’s fingers with her own. They make contact and those on the shore watch in frozen fascination as the palm of Freya’s still slightly translucent hand slides over the palm of Merlin’s upturned hand.
Both of their fingers reach to grip at the others’ wrist and then Merlin is laughing, embracing the other woman to her fiercely. The hand gripping Freya pulls back so that they rest on Merlin’s shoulder, Merlin’s hand curled around her wrist to keep her in place. Her other hand winds around to press into the small of the woman’s back and hold her close. They laugh together, the happiness bubbling up between them until they settle, foreheads touching, breathing in tandem, Merlin bent forward slightly to meet the smaller girl in her arms.
The scene in the lake is intimate, vulnerable and exposed. The knights shift uncomfortably, knowing they should not be witnessing what lies before them, that it is not for their eyes. Arthur wants to look away, wants to leave, to provide his former maidservant and best friend with some semblance of privacy for what is so clearly a private moment.
But he can’t.
Freya’s face continues to push at something deep in his own mind, a sense of unease and forgetting that thrums out a beat against his temples.
In the end, he isn’t the one to work through the puzzle.
“The Druid girl.” Leon breathes, hesitance wrought in every syllable.
The Druid girl.
The Druid girl.
Of course.
Memories rise to the surface, memories of a girl in a tattered dress, her tear-stained face, her howl of pure agony as her bones rip apart – memories of the terrible beast that had replaced her.
“Merlin…” he starts cautiously, slowly and silently moving forward again with his sword raised.
Merlin doesn’t move.
“Merlin.” Her name has a harder edge to it this time and she stiffens, arms tightening around the druid she holds. Freya does not seem as reluctant, shifting their position slightly so that she may peer over at the king with his weapon drawn and trailing her.
“Hello, Arthur Pendragon.” She greets calmly in an accent that sounds almost similar to Gwaine’s lilt. “I mean you no harm.”
“You’re cursed.” He states bluntly, edging closer with Leon at his back. He doesn’t look to see where the other knights are, but he can sense Lancelot’s displeasure as clearly as he can see Merlin’s.
“I was.” The woman confirms. She slips out of Merlin’s embrace, keeping one hand twined with the witch’s and moving so that they stand side by side facing the grassy bank where Arthur and his knights are.
“But I am no more.” Her gaze shifts then, soft smile aimed up at Merlin. “Now I am free.”
Merlin’s answering smile is tinged with grief, deep etchings of loss on her face that she can’t quite hide away.
“I don’t understand.” Except he thinks he does. He can still see the blood in the courtyard, the stain on the blade of his sword that dripped down the hilt, sticky and hot. He sees the moments before, the stone gargoyle crashing down and preventing him from delivering a final blow.
He had not paid it any mind at the time, used to Merlin’s strange ways. Now, he thinks of seeing her in the courtyard as the beast took flight, the pale cast of her face as she turned and bolted in a similar direction: the days that followed and Merlin’s quiet retreat into herself, her red-rimmed eyes, the murmurs of yes sire where there should have been rude names and snappy retorts.
Freya is still looking at him with that sad smile on her face.
“It was a fatal wound.” He says finally. From her place by the Druid girl’s side, Merlin closes her eyes and lets out a pained sigh. Freya’s attention shifts to the witch and her smile grows fond and gentle.
“Yes.” Freya agrees easily, squeezing Merlin’s hand. “But Merlin saved me, carried me here so that I could be at peace as I died. She sent me to Avalon, where I became what I am now.”
Merlin’s expression somehow grows more pained, eyes still screwed tightly shut.
“What are you now?” Lancelot questions softly, voicing the thoughts of the others gathered.
Freya’s smile slips into something more solemn, something older and stronger. Her fingers slip from Merlin’s as she stands tall, power radiating off of her watery form.
“I am the Lady of the Lake, guardian of the gates of Avalon, land of eternal youth and the final resting place of heroes.” She intones. Merlin whimpers. Arthur’s mind is blank. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know if there is anything he can say. Everything that had happened over the past few years—Camlann; the death of Mordred at Merlin’s hand; the revelation that Merlin, his endearingly clumsy and infuriating maidservant, was actually Emrys, a magical being of prophecy; his status as Once and Future King; a still very much living and breathing Great Dragon; Morgana’s death (and Emrys as her doom, because gods, that particular secret had hurt)—he had naively thought that life might calm down, that legalising magic and the last remnants of the Saxon forces would be the extent of his sources of stress and concern. Now, standing in front of a lake, looking out at the scene painted of an all-powerful being and apparent lost love of his court sorcerer, he feels that familiar raging tension rising again.
“Why are you here? Why are we here?” The questions cut through the air and throw Arthur completely off balance again. Merlin’s voice comes out harsh and jagged and so foreign to him that he can’t help but stare at her.
She has turned from Freya, anger and grief balling her hands up into fists. The Lady of the Lake reaches for the witch, shifting their bodies so that they are facing each other again. Merlin tries to look away but the smaller woman cups her jaw with both hands and gently guides her into meeting her gaze.
“No more secrets, Emrys.” Merlin scoffs at the words but Freya continues regardless. “I knew you could not do this on your own, could not reveal this without my help. Your king deserves to know and you deserve to be known.”
Whatever resistance Merlin had softens at the last words, wilting away in the shape of her shoulders slumping down, fingers uncurling. Her head tips forward and comes to rest against Freya’s own. Arthur thinks she might have said something, but whatever it was is whispered so softly he doesn’t pick it up.
They stay as they are for a long moment, swaying together in time with the rhythm of the water lapping at their knees, that vulnerable intimacy weaving between them so deeply that Arthur does look away this time.
A whisper in the wind, a ripple in the waters of the lake, a silence that lasts no longer than a heartbeat but stretches on for eternity — and then, Freya is gone.
Merlin’s knees give out and she sinks like a stone into the shallow water, hugging her legs to her and pressing her face into them as a child frightened of the dark would do.
Arthur meets Lancelot’s heavy gaze and thinks that now… now he actually understands. Understands the protectiveness, the loyalty, the unwavering support and gentleness that the knight has always seemed to hold for Merlin. He had been a fool to think he had understood before, that merely hearing about the things Merlin had done, all the trials she had endured, the people she had lost along the way, that any of it could have ever been enough to make him understand the depths of Merlin’s suffering in the name of destiny, in the name of protecting him.
Now, seeing her crumble before him, her heart open and breaking for something she had lost so long ago… now, he understands.
She doesn’t blame you. Nor do I.
He stares out at the clear blue lake, its guardian’s voice echoing in his head and pushing aside everything else. He makes his way to his best friend without thinking, sitting down with her in the cool water, the taught line of her body pressed to his side as she shifts into him.
Time passes inconsequentially.
Her head raises from where she rests it on her knees only to fall back against his shoulder. He slips an arm around her, pressing her more firmly to him, willing her to understand the support he offers without forcing him to break the silence.
Look after her.
He will.
He knows he can’t ease her pain, or even begin to erase all that she has suffered through in her short life, all that went unseen and unheard for so long— but he can do this. He can help her to bear some of the weight that rests on her slim and shaking shoulders.
He can and he will.