This was the first time he had returned to the lake since… since he lost her.
He remembered raising his hand, saying farewell.
But he had hesitated.
He knew what he should do, what he had to do, and yet he had paused.
He couldn't.
There were too many memories with her. Memories of her smile, her hair. The way she had smelled of the strawberries she loved so much. The taste of her soft, unsure lips under his.
But he knew his destiny, knew it lay intertwined with that of his friend, her killer. The one person in Camelot he trusted without reservation was killed by the one he was forced to lie to. Maybe someone would find irony in that one day.
A tear fell from the corner of his eye and rolled down his face.
He had hated to see her cry. He wiped her tears away, holding her close and wanting to be closer. He had never wanted to see fear in her eyes again.
There was no hesitation with her. He freed her from her cage, hid her away. He was gentle with her. He trusted her with his secret.
And she had responded in kind. There was a future there. An alternate destiny.
But he would never know it.
He could sit by the lake and dream of what his life could have been: a lake surrounded by mountains, eating strawberries with his wife while their dark-haired children played in the shallows. He would cause the water to form shapes, dragons and castles, as they splashed and he told them of the time the king of Camelot almost killed him with a mace.
But would there be a king of Camelot without him? Would Camelot crumble without its unknown guardian?
She had helped him bear the weight of his inescapable destiny, if only for a little while. She could have borne him through anything and he would have looked after her. She was everything he wanted, everything he needed. And no one knew of her death.
The monster was dead, but so was his angel.
Even visiting the lake, imagining that she could still hear him, was almost too much to bear.
It had been a week since she had died. A week since he held her in his arms, hands and lips exploring, saying the things they were both too scared and shy to say. A week since he carried her, desperately wanting to save her and knowing that he couldn't. A week since he, Merlin, last embraced the girl who meant everything to him.
He had remembered to bring fresh flowers, plucked from the lush fields outside the castle walls. She loved wild things, recognizing in them a kindred spirit. Merlin stared at the bouquet, images of the last flower he gave her flashing trough his mind.
It was a rose.
He had given her a rose as red as her lips.
He stood suddenly, throwing the flowers as far as he could into the lake where he had said goodbye, and collapsed to the damp embankment, racked with silent sobs.
"Come back. Please come back, Freya."