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."
A/N: I was originally going to call this fic The Warlock's Lady, but I ended up coming up with the current title at the last minute and liked it a little better.