A/N: Thanks for the reviews from those 2 special people I will love you forever! :)

By the way, I forgot to mention when this story takes place! Shoot me now. Arthur is king, Morgana is evil, and Lancelot is very much alive (and so is Freya, but that's out of the ordinary).

Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin.


White lips, Pale face
Breathing in snowflakes
Burnt lungs, sour taste.
Light's gone, day's end. - Ed Sheeran's 'A team'

Freya:

She's lost.

It's been hours now since she left the beach and Lake Avalon. The sun has long since sunk beneath the mountains, back to its lair to wait for the night to pass. At first the forest was a maze of trees and branches and hidden ravines. Now, with the light gone, it has become a nightmare. If the moon is shedding its ethereal glow tonight, Freya wouldn't know because the dense trees block out the sky, shrouding the forest in thick darkness. The black is thick and heavy and Freya wants out, but she doesn't even know what direction she's facing anymore. She's lost.

And she's alone.

It took her a few hours to realize that the voice of destiny, as it had called itself, was gone. Not just silent, but its presence is gone from her mind as well. It's not as though the voice would be at all helpful, with its obscure messages and lack of body, but it is the principle of loneliness to miss an extra voice when all is silent. Which is another aspect of the nighttime forest that bothers Freya; the woods are unnaturally soundless. There are no nocturnal creatures about. Or if there are, they are absolutely silent as they creep through the darkness...

Freya quickly beats away that unpleasant thought before her rising panic consumes her. She is lost, she is alone, and she misses Merlin more than ever. After all, she hasn't seen him for three years! (She also hasn't eaten for three years, but that's another unpleasant thought she struggles to ignore as her stomach fights for attention). Merlin is much more important, and three years is a long time. Sure, she had been dead, but even then time passed and people change. He loved her despite her old curse, when she turned into a hideous beast. Would he still accept her now that her curse runs through her veins? What if he doesn't love her anymore? Or worse, what if he loves someone else?

Enough. Freya forces herself to keep her mind clear. She needs to concentrate if she's going to find Camelot, although navigation feels hopeless in this darkness. She takes shuffling steps forward, arms outstretched to prevent any unfortunate collisions with trees or branches. She stumbles often and her feet are cut and bruised from the protruding roots and jagged rocks that trip her up. She's getting nowhere and she knows it, but her legs stubbornly propel her on in jerky steps.

It's cold here, in the woods. The kind of cold that's carried in the air, that leaches the heat out of everything its icy fingers touch. The air gets sharper as it gets colder, painful to breathe in. Freya imagines slowly stiffening as she turns into an ice statue, and that thought spurs her heart into a race, the idea terrifying Freya. She doesn't want to think about death, about what she's been doing for the past three years, but the cold seems to follow her, and what's worse, it's growing colder as her terror mounts, almost as though it's responding. Like it reacts to her.

It is this thought that scares Freya most.

Her arms still searching in front of her, her fingers suddenly strike a hard surface. She rubs her searching hand across it and uneasiness turns her stomach churning. It's a curved surface, the obvious shape of a tree, but the feel of it is all wrong. Where the bark should be bumpy and rough it is smooth. Cold. It's covered in... ice.

No. It can't be. The sun had been shining only hours earlier and the sand at the beach had been warm. Panic once again rises in her throat and she can feel fear, cold fear in her heart.

Freya takes an automatic step back, away from the tree, away from the ice. But the ground, rough only moments before, is suddenly slippery and Freya trips over nothing, falling with a thud onto a frozen earth. This cannot be happening, she thinks, her arm aching where it struck the ice. She curls into a ball, trying to keep warm, but that doesn't help at all. She wasn't warm to begin with.

And as fear consumes Freya's heart, cold seems to devour the forest. There is no escaping it, so Freya waits, huddled on the ground, for frostbite and hypothermia to claim her, but she waits staring into the darkness for a long time. She isn't getting any colder, she's as cold as she can get. Ice runs through her veins. A frozen heart rests in her chest.

Freya slowly rises on shaky feet. She stands still on her patch of ice, listening to her own breathing and the strange stillness of the forest and most definitely not listening to her troubled thoughts. The ice, the cold... it's almost like she knows them. Like she is them.

Like they are one.

She takes one step and her foot slips out from underneath her and she is falling again, first to the ground, where her head slams against the ice, and then she is falling into a darkness deeper than the forest's night.

Merlin:

"Late again, Merlin?"

There is something most unpleasant about an early morning hunting trip, a cheerful king, and a lack of breakfast. Dawn found Merlin preparing packs for the journey and straightening saddles and not eating breakfast. The sun a little higher now finds Merlin rushing to the gates with the forgotten sack of cooking supplies and a still very empty stomach. As he approaches, out of breath and really not that late at all, the king's words bring his head up in a very indignant manner. "I'm hardly late, and the sun's barely even up."

The king and his closest knights are already mounted on their steeds, waiting rather impatiently to leave. Like they enjoy hunting. Cut from the same shiny metal cloth. Merlin throws the extra sack onto his saddle and clambers up gracelessly after it.

"At the rate you travel, we can't afford to be anything but early," Arthur comments casually, before flicking the reigns and urging his horse out of the city gates. He leads the company, and the knights each follow dutifully, Merlin bringing up the rear.

Or at least, he usually brings up the rear. Today Gwaine falls behind, wincing with every jolting movement his steed makes as he rests his head in its mane. Merlin rides up beside him, close enough to hear him chanting, "Never again, never again, never again..."

"Something wrong, Gwaine?" Merlin asks with a smile. It's genuine and curious.

Gwaine groans, bracing his forehead with his palm as he turns his head to look Merlin straight in the eye. He says in a low tone, "Rough night at the tavern. My head is killing me."

Despite his quiet answer, Percival seems to have heard as he calls, "Your own fault! I warned you three times. That's what you get for drinking all night before a hunt."

Gwaine scowls at his back. "It's a lot more complicated than that."

"Oh, I'm sure."

"Hey, next time you should join me Merlin," Gwaine says brightly.

"Oh no," Arthur calls back. "He was in the tavern all afternoon yesterday. I'd be irresponsible to give him any more time off, it might go to his head."

Merlin rolls his eyes. "The only head size we have to worry about is yours, sire."

"I've been noticing the stocks to be rather empty lately, haven't you Merlin?"

"Sort of like your brain then."

"Ugh, they're doing it again," Complains Elyan, and all of the knights agree.

"Say, Merlin wasn't in the tavern yesterday, I'd know." Gwaine's voice is muffled from the mane it's buried into.

"What!" Arthur sounds much more surprised than Merlin thinks is necessary. "Where'd you go then?"

Merlin shrugs, even though he's at the back of the convoy and no one can see him. "Just some errands for Gaius."

"Oh, so you were useful. How unusual."

And this is how it goes for a long time, the morning quickly passing away. Merlin tries to ignore the feelings swirling inside, left over from yesterday. It doesn't help that Arthur decides to go the same route Merlin takes to Lake Avalon, and the woods are all too familiar, and his head is filled with thoughts of Freya. Freya is like a flower. Freya is like my sun. Freya is my heart.

These rogue thoughts ignore Merlin's panicky attempts at distraction. Look at the trees. Dark brown bark, nothing like Freya's wavy dark brown hair of course. Or her chocolate eyes. No, something else, the sky. It is deep blue today, like yesterday, only now grey clouds pepper it with different shades. The sun breaks through, illuminating everything with a soft, golden glow and making the day feel brighter. Sort of like Freya.

His thoughts seem very much against him today.

Thankfully he's interrupted by Arthur's voice. "Everyone, stop." Naturally, the whole party immediately halts. Arthur gets off his horse and walks a few paces to the right, looking around.

"What is it?" Leon asks, keeping his voice low, while the others hold their breath.

Arthur turns around, frowning. "Something's wrong. We've been riding for hours, and I haven't so much as heard a bird chirp."

It is true; now that Arthur points it out, the woods do seem unnaturally quiet. Eerily quiet. Everyone dismounts to join their king, now alert. "Could it be a trap?" Leon asks, instantly next to Arthur.

"Ambush?" Lancelot adds, peering carefully into the trees as though he might have missed fifty odd armed robbers.

"Bandits?" Gwaine groans, still holding his forehead painfully.

Arthur shakes his head, forehead still creased. "No, just look around, it's like the forest is... dead."

"Not the trees," Merlin points out helpfully. At Arthur's scathing look, he adds, "I'm going to be over there." He quickly walks away.

The silence bothers him. It seems to be catching, as the whole party now is unwilling to talk. Even their breaths are quiet, as though they are trying not to break the silent spell. They creep through the forest on foot, leaving their horses behind. There are no creatures in sight, no birds, no squirrels, not even an insect. As they move forward, Merlin starts to notice something else.

He can see his breath.

"Arthur!" he calls, and everyone turns to look at him, the silent spell shattered.

"What is it?" asks the king, moving towards him.

"I can see my breath," Merlin says, and the king gives him another look, clearly disbelieving the significance of this statement so Merlin adds pointedly, "It's summer."

Arthur frowns.

The air in the forest is cool, but still. There's no wind. Merlin shivers, pulling his brown jacket tighter around his body as he folds his arms, wishing for something warmer. The knights' metal armour suddenly seems like it's inviting cold, and Merlin doesn't envy them. It's strange though, this cold. It wasn't like this earlier in the morning, back in Camelot, or even in these woods yesterday. Where did it come from?

"Arthur!" Lancelot calls, and this time everyone comes. They gather around Lancelot, who stands before a tree, peering peculiarly at its bark. "Look," he says, awe in his voice.

Arthur moves forward to place his hand against the bark, a sharp intake of breath signalling the contact. Merlin leans in and is shocked to see that the bark is covered in frost.

Or a thin sheet of ice.

Merlin wanders over to another tree, laying his palm against its side. Smooth. Cold. "This one's covered too."

They begin to make their way slowly through the woods, stopping next to tree trunks and fallen branches, touching them finding them all frozen. If anything, as they keep walking the layer of ice is getting thicker. The air is getting colder. The forest is getting quieter.

And Merlin is getting worried.

Cold like this isn't natural, and all of his instincts scream sorcery. One sorceress in particular is pictured in his mind, with long hair black as night and a heart as hard and cold as the air now feels. Morgana is somewhere out there, out here, and Merlin is suddenly not eager to find what lies at the middle of this deep freeze.

But they continue on, because it's Arthur and Arthur isn't afraid of anything. They probably would have kept walking too, if Gwaine hadn't tripped over a frozen log and slipped on the patch of ice behind it. He sucks in a breath that causes everyone to turn. "Sweet mother of -"

"Would you look at that," Lancelot interrupts him in a low tone, staring out at the ice that covers the forest behind Gwaine. Where the ground should be is simply a sheet of ice from here on in.

"Oh, perfect," Gwaine says, getting to his feet and rubbing his elbow, annoyed, as he looks at the slippery terrain.

Arthur vaults the log and lands next to him, almost losing his balance as he slips on the ice. He takes a few sliding steps before he stops and turns around. "Well, what are you lot waiting for?"

They all follow their king onto the ice with varying degrees of reluctance. "This is almost definitely a trap," Elyan mutters darkly, as he slips yet again.

"What happened to hunting?" Leon wonders, his crossbow feeling useless now.

"We're hunting snowflakes now," says Elyan, rubbing his sore backside and looking murderously at the ice. He appears to be judging whether stabbing it repeatedly with his sword will be worth the satisfaction.

Merlin's teeth are chattering. They are moving even slower now, unable to take normal steps and reduced to shuffling along the ice. Gwaine is even on his knees, as having given up on staying upright he slides along on all fours. Merlin still pauses to check the trees, the thick layer of ice unnerving him more than ever as he sees it is inches thick. Definitely not natural. He warily scans the area, searching for signs of sorcery. Signs of Morgana. But the forest is absolutely still.

He looks carefully down, eyes on the ground as he mutters a spell so no one will see the golden flash. Instantly his body heats up, not warm but less cold. He smiles at the ground, and his reflection in the ice smiles back up at him with golden eyes. Maybe Morgana's magic is evil, but that doesn't make it all bad.

Arthur's voice demands his attention suddenly as the king gives a shout. "I've found something!"

Merlin hurries to Arthur, or at least, he hurries as fast as any one can be expected to move on ice. He stops when he rounds the tree behind which Arthur stands, the knights surrounding him. The king is leaning over a figure on the ground, the person curled into a ball on the ice.

"Or someone," says Gwaine, still on his knees and now peering curiously at the figure.

The person wears a dark dress, and Merlin's heart quickens. He would recognize the fabric anywhere, but more than that, he would recognize the figure.

"Lovely dress, do you think she's a noble?" Arthur asks, and for a moment Merlin fears that he will recognize the dress too. After all, it was once Morgana's, but Arthur seems to have forgotten.

"Do you think she's alive?" Lancelot adds, and Merlin notes how pale her skin is, paler than it used to be even. White lips on a pale face, but it is oh so familiar it aches.

She's a young girl, with dark wavy hair and pale skin. Her body looks as though it hasn't aged a day for three years, because it hasn't. He's memorized every part of her and she hasn't changed. She haunts his dreams and his mind, even when he doesn't want her to. She's his sun and his heart and she is lying unconscious on a patch of ice in the middle of the forest.

She's not supposed to be alive.

Merlin reaches forward to touch her skin, placing his hand on her arm. He immediately recoils back; her skin is cold, cold as death. It brings back dark memories from the day on the beach three years ago, when her life had failed her and Merlin had held her until all her warmth had faded. But now, he reaches out again to her wrist, checking her pulse. It's faint, but there.

Impossible.

"Cold as death," Leon remarks, because he has also touched her skin. "How long do you think she's been out here?"

Merlin wonders that too.

The king is talking and the knights are listening, but Merlin can hear nothing but the silence of death as he looks down at the girl he watched die. This can't be happening. And yet it is, and her skin is so cold, colder than when she was dead, but now she is alive.

His Freya, his sun, has come back to him, and despite her cold skin his heart warms.