A/N Hi, it's been a while. I'm head over heels in love with Merlin, and I've been tearing through all the good fanfics I could find. But I couldn't help but notice that nobody had written of Merlin visiting Freya for a purpose other than to be healed or to talk to her about his life. I just thought that it would've seemed more in character for him to visit the lake, and just believe her to be there and watching him, the same way people might believe that they have angels watching over them. And I thought that he might remember her, and remember the few things she wanted—a lake, some mountains, somebody to love and to love her. To be safe and to be peaceful. And strawberries.
On the first anniversary of Freya's death, Merlin visited the lake.
This by itself wasn't of much note—after all, he would visit the lake every year on that day, and often in between. But this one time, he had brought something with him.
He brought a gift. Eleven seeds, so small he feared they would simply blow away with the breeze, scattered on some scrap cloth. With the consulting of Gaius' textbooks, Merlin had taken them, dried them, and made them ready to plant.
It had been a hassle to get the seeds so far away without misplacing any of them, and had taken time and consciousness. However, once he arrived, he counted them again, just to be sure, before walking as close as he could to the lake without touching it.
He found a spot of soft soil, although it was slightly too cold for his likings, and buried the seeds, making them tumble off the cloth one by one. After covering them with earth, he placed his hand on the upturned ground, his eyes flashing gold for a moment as he cast a growing spell on them. It didn't appear to do anything at first, but Merlin felt some small spark of life beneath the soil.
He couldn't bear to stand up for some time, so he stayed, kneeling, seeing the glittering of the water and the glorious sun shining on the mountains.
When he finally could rise, he only walked closer to the lake, dipping his hands under the cold water and scooping it up. He carried it, streaming down until his elbows and dripping to the ground, to where the seeds had been buried, and watered the ground. Once, twice.
He could swear that he almost felt something stir.
And then he left the way he had come, on a horse, just as heartbroken as he was before, although now, there was a little quiet serenity to it.
From that day on, he visited the lake religiously, watering the plant once every two weeks like clockwork. Arthur had complained about his absence without fail on every other Sunday night, and the others had let their curiosity wonder. But for once, it didn't mattered what Arthur said. Twice a month, he was there.
By the same time next year, the seeds had grown into something like a small bush, and there were strawberries ripe for plucking on them. After that, he didn't need to come and water it nearly as much anymore, so he came only once a month. His visits became longer, though, and sometimes he would pick a single strawberry and, looking out at the lake, ate it. On some days, he would talk, filling up the silence with his own words, but mostly he just sat. There was a quiet peace to it, more serene than he could describe, and he could feel the strawberries, the wind, the sun, and Freya, all whispering to him and grazing him as light as a kiss.
On some days, he could swear that there was a strawberry missing. He had been sure to plant the bush as close to the lake as possible, but in fear of flooding the plant, had had to place some distance in between. Yet still, some days, he could swear that there was an empty stem he hadn't seen before, curling towards air of where the berry used to be. It wasn't the birds, or a squirrel, or any other woodland creature. Birds pecked until they left a mess of strawberry pulp and juice, while deers ate the strawberry stem and all. No, this was done by a human hand, delicate but strong.
This had gone on for nearly ten years without change. And then came the night.
The night Arthur had lain on a boat and burned. The night Gwaine had left the earth believing himself to have failed.
The next month, he'd returned with the seed of a cherry. Farther away from the lake than the strawberries, he'd planted it, enchanted it and watered it. He watered it twice—once for Arthur, and again for Gwaine.
For many years, there was little change. The tree became taller and the branches thicker, but it wasn't until ten, twenty years down the path that the tree was of a noticeable height, and carried a single, blood red cherry.
And twice a month, he'd come, for a thousand, two thousand years.
And in given time, the cherry tree outgrew every other in the forest. Some had discovered it, and attempted to cut it down, in fear of the havoc it would reap if it were to fall, only to find themselves get a strong urge to let it alone or to find the tree impossible to fell. The strawberry bush stayed there, peacefully by the tree and the lake, its occasional missing strawberries giving hope.
It was prettiest there in spring, when the tree would blossom and the ground stood still. He would sit by the lake, his hand grazing by the water where cherry blossoms floated, and he would close his eyes for spring was when he could feel them.
Freya and Arthur, and Gwaine and Will, and Lancelot and Balinor and even Elyan, if he stayed perfectly silent and perfectly still. And as the years went on, more joined. Gaius and Hunith, the rest of the knights, Gwen, and so many others that he couldn't hope to possibly count. There was Gilli, who had grown up to be a formidable sorcerer fallen while protecting a kingdom he had never thought he would serve—never thought would be worthy of serving. There was Daegal, who Merlin had never forgotten, even after all those years. He could hear his mother, his father and Gaius wistfully recount their years together. He could hear Lancelot, Gwaine, Elyan, Percival and Leon with their teasing and friendly banter. He could hear Gwen, smiling and soothing, and Will, steady and lively.
But most of all, he could feel Freya and Arthur. He could feel them laughing.
And he couldn't help but think of a time when his laughter will join theirs.