AS SOON AS Merlin was off the sacred lands of the Disir, he found the knights of Camelot -and Arthur himself, leading them at the front- waiting for him at the border.
"Here he comes!" cried Gwaine when he saw Merlin approaching.
It was very much the same Merlin they had sent out, save that he carried his coat over his arm and wore a robe fashioned in the Druid style over his usual tunic, scarf, and breeches.
Arthur had a moment of pause. He had said nothing of it, save secretly in pillow-whispers to Gwen, but there had been a number of times during the past fortnight when he had feared he'd made the wrong choice in sending Merlin to the Disir. It had saved Mordred's life, it was true, but at what cost? Yes, he trusted his manservant, valued him, but even he could not possibly be immune to torture or brain-washing, or a number of other things the Disir might do to him. He ought to have abstracted a promise from them, before allowing his servant to go: a more secure, all-encompassing vow that they would not send him back with any bodily or emotional harm. But he thought the Disir would find his requesting such a promise from them offensive, and if one offense had almost taken Mordred's life, surely he did not want to be on their bad side all over again.
And now he saw Merlin coming towards him, looking like a Druid.
One year with Morgause had taken Morgana from him, though sometimes he feared some part of her had been against Camelot in her heart long before then, only needing the push of what their father had done to her, even if she wasn't entirely to blame. Could one fortnight cause him to gain back a very different Merlin? Would the Merlin who had told him there could be no place for magic in Camelot be gone forever?
His face was so serious, Arthur noted, now that he could see his expression.
Supposing he arrived, not to come back to Camelot, but to challenge him in some way? No, he thought better of Merlin than that. Merlin was stronger in his convictions, in his loyalty to Arthur and Camelot, than the king's embittered half-sister had ever been. That was why Arthur had sent him. Not out of cruelty, but out of faith and trust.
Sure enough, when Merlin looked up and met their eyes, his serious expression faded. There was a new, rather lonely, look in his eyes (Arthur decided it must be a bad case of homesickness for Camelot, or else that his eyes were merely in physical pain due to being out in the broad daylight after two weeks in a dark cave), but it dulled a bit when he stopped and smiled at them.
Merlin was so relieved he almost cried. He had not expected to see them all here awaiting his return so eagerly. Arthur did care! Gaius had been right. They would welcome him back, seeing him no differently now.
This was one step closer, Merlin believed, to Arthur accepting magic back into the kingdom and uniting the lands of Albion. The Disir had been wrong to blackmail him with Mordred's life, but maybe now Arthur would see that it wasn't what you learned, what you knew of the old or new ways, but how you used it.
"Hello, Arthur." He continued to grin.
Arthur dismounted from his horse and, to Merlin's great surprise, came over and hugged him. "Welcome back."
"Look at you," laughed Gwaine, alighting from his own horse. "You're as pale as a ghost."
"And dressed like an ancient monk," teased Elyan, though he chose to remain on horseback.
"Sir Leon has brought an extra horse," said Arthur, "for you to ride back."
"Thank you," said Merlin, blinking and swallowing at a lump of warmth in the middle of his throat.
"We've also brought some spiced wine and mead," Gwaine announced, gesturing over at Percival, who held up two large earthenware jugs for Merlin to see.
"Gwaine," snapped Elyan, "Arthur and I both told you this was not a picnic!"
"Man sacrifices himself to save the life of a friend and he doesn't even get a drink when he comes back?" Gwaine retorted, raising his eyebrows. "That's rough."
"That's right," Mordred suddenly appeared, his horse coming out into the clearing from the rear. "I owe you a great debt of gratitude, Merlin."
Merlin felt himself momentarily tense up. He had not known Mordred was with them. Of course he would be, but still... Sobering up, he forced himself to smile as warmly at Mordred as he had at the other knights. Mordred hadn't done anything wrong yet and Arthur was doubtless still extremely fond of him. In fact, in his absence, Merlin now realized they were likely to have only grown that much closer.
"Come," said Arthur, his arm around Merlin's shoulder as he led him to the horse Sir Leon had ready. "Let us ride back to Camelot and put this whole mess behind us."
Merlin felt his heart sink as he got on the horse. Arthur didn't want to take his being the same person returning as a reason to allow magic, but rather to keep ignoring it and hope it didn't hurt those closest to him. It wasn't only he himself who hadn't changed, it was Arthur and Camelot and everything else, too. He was right back where he started.
As they rode along, Merlin grew all the more silent. At first he'd tried to listen to and interact with the knights' cheerful conversation, but after a bit his mind had begun to wander. He wondered what they'd have thought if he'd come back with his lady who'd played the part of the Maiden Huntress with him at Beltane.
Gwaine would have alternatively teased and praised him, and probably flirted with her a bit -jestingly, of course. Mordred might have been nice enough to her, having been a Druid once himself. Elyan and the others, Merlin wasn't so sure about, but the knights as a rule were not discourteous to women-folk, so it probably would have been all right. Arthur would have been a trifle suspicious, no doubt, but he would have learned to accept her. She was so lovely and kind, Merlin could just picture her fitting right on in with them at Camelot. If Arthur wanted proof that all magic-born persons were not bad, he need look no further than the woman Merlin wished he could have brought back with him.
Where was she now? Was she home, or on her way there, wherever her home was? Was she thinking of him, too?
"Don't look so glum, Merlin," Arthur called out over his shoulder at his friend and servant, jolting him out of his thoughts. "Whatever it is, you don't have to worry anymore. It's over. You're safe now."
"Yes, Sire," said Merlin, forcing another smile and nodding as if with enthusiastic relief.
FOR FREYA, IN Avalon, the first few months went by slowly and miserably. She was sick nearly every morning, for longer even than she ought to have been. She was dizzy and largely disinclined to eat or drink anything much, but of course she had to, for the baby's sake. That little thing growing inside of her did not know her nausea or fatigue, it seemed, only constant hunger. When she waned as pale as a sickle moon and wanted nothing but rest behind closed eyelids, the baby wanted more food.
But when those dreadful months were over and gone, Freya's mood and overall health improved. She was well enough, even, to make trips still to the bottom of her lake on the other side of Avalon's portal, to see that all was well, despite her enlarged belly.
Then, when she grew too big for that, too close to her lying-in time, she stayed in her palace.
It wasn't so bad, since she had learned, during her time as the Lady of the Lake, to play the harp (her Druid mother had had a harp in their home by their lake when she was a child, but it was nothing -a feeble, poorly made instrument in comparison of the grandness, size, and quality- to this one in Avalon, and she had never learned it there, too busy swimming and playing as little children are wont to do, too wild and high-spirited to be concerned with the finer arts) and could sit and practice for longer hours.
A few times, she felt the baby jump and kick while she played, and wondered if it would be born a music-lover.
As it happened, it was also while she was playing the harp that the baby decided to come into the world. It was a little too early, her only about midway through her eighth month, but Freya knew almost at once it was not going to wait inside of her any longer.
"Ow." Her fingers let go of the harp strings as if they were on fire and her hands found their way to her belly.
Her water-spirits, the same ones who had looked after her through her morning sickness, were there to attend to her at once. "It's all right, Lady Freya. Come with us. Just keep taking deep breaths."
The birth was not an easy one, the labor longer than expected. Freya, at first rather quiet (especially for a birthing woman), aside from her moans and cries and occasional murmurs, of "Ow," began to scream as loudly as she had back when she'd been a cursed Druid and the change from girl to Bastet used to come over her. It did not hurt quite as badly as that had, but that was little enough comfort.
She had a dim knowledge that she was no longer by her harp but in a bed-chamber in the palace, lying down while the spirits of the water tried to instruct her as best they could in what to do. One of them said something about pushing. Their voices sounded very far away; her eardrums quivered. She was too cold, and wished for more blankets, but could not find the voice to ask them. By the time the words came to her (in something that was not an unintelligible "Ahhhhh!"), it was too late and she was no longer too cold but far too hot. She wanted less blankets by then. Her words, coming out slurred and anxious, said nothing of blankets, however, more like mad ramblings.
Freya, half-aware, along with the pain, that she did not sound right, wondered if she was taken with fever and delirium.
Two of the water-spirits left the chamber and stood outside, whispering while they waited for the spirit in charge of the downstairs kitchen hearth to bring them more hot water and towels.
"Lady Freya will be all right, won't she?" the one whispered to the other, in a low, watery voice.
"I don't know," came the response. "She's having a hard time of it. They say she became our Lady after dying as a cursed one... She would be as good as immortal now, if she weren't prone to illnesses. She doesn't age much, if at all; Ladies of the Lake rarely do. Someone could probably lop off her head and she'd come back to life. But fire or illness, or even this birthing, could still take our mistress out of this life for good if things go poorly."
"We will do what we can for her, though, won't we?"
"Of course! She is our Lady, after all. We are as bound to her as she is to the lake of Avalon. Besides, there is little we cannot cure."
"Yet even with all our knowledge of herbs and curing-lore, I feel... How can I explain it? Almost as helpless as a human, I suppose, when I hear her rambling on like that."
"Well, poor thing, what do you expect of her? She's been better than most women during her pregnancy. Never fussing at us or being overly-demanding. She's very introverted, always has been. And to think she's been carrying around such fears as she's been crying about all this time and never said a word... Well, the dear lady has earned the right to be a bit paranoid and weep if she likes."
"But does she really think the High Priestess Morgana will come and take the babe out of its mother's arms and carry it away to the Isle of the Blessed simply because it was conceived at Beltane?"
"It is not nontraditional for Beltane-born children to be fostered by a High Priestess, but I'm sure Morgana isn't terribly interested in raising a child just now."
"You know Freya is not fond of the High Priestess. She'll never let her take the child."
"If it is a girl, Lady Freya can claim her rights to keep it regardless, because it is her first daughter and her right to raise her to be a lake-guardian as she herself is. Beltane-born or otherwise. If it is a boy, who knows? Fostering, though perhaps not with the High Priestess, might be the kinder option. There is no place for a boy here."
"What of the father?"
"I do not know. The Lady has not mentioned him. Although... I do wonder what on earth possessed her to lie with him in the first place. She left here adamant that she was only going to protect the Druid girl and would return untouched."
"You don't suppose the man who played the King Stag this year was some sort of brutish fiend and he...forced...her?"
"A man who would be bold enough to attempt rape on the Lady of the Lake is a fool."
"But he wouldn't have known who she was, would he?"
"She'd have said something, I'm sure, in spite of her introverted nature, if that was the case."
The door behind them opened and another water-spirit stepped out. "Where are those towels?"
"They've not come up yet."
"I knew perfectly well we should have given her the room downstairs, nearer the kitchen. That would have prevented these delays."
"How is she?"
"A little better. Stronger. The baby is nearly out."
"She isn't still going on about Morgana coming to take her child away?"
"No, she stopped that nearly ten minutes ago. Now she's just crying repeatedly for somebody called Merlin. I'm sure she'll calm down when her fever cools a bit and the child is fully out."
"She will not...?"
"The danger to her, and, I dare say, the child, is nearly passed. They're both as likely to live as anybody else."
A water-spirit came toddling towards them carrying an armful of towels.
"Finally! Let us go back in and finish attending to the Lady."
Weakened and drained, her black hair wet and clinging to her cheeks and the back of her neck and shoulders with perspiration, but back in her right mind and clear-headed once more, Freya heard the sound that gets nearly every new mother's immediate attention: the baby wailing out its first deafening cry.
"Is that her?" she mumbled, her voice croaking, dry from screaming. Somehow, in all the madness, Freya had got it into her head that it was a girl, though nobody had told her one way or the other. "Bring her to me." It was an order, not a request. The Lady of the Lake's arms were stretched out to take the child. "I want to hold her."
"He's right here, Lady Freya." One of the spirits placed the child in her open arms. "It's a healthy boy."
Freya blinked back tears and, bending over like a jackknife, kissed her newborn son's forehead. "A boy."
"Mercy be," whispered one spirit, a mite too loudly, despite the fact that she spoke under her breath. "Did you ever see such large ears on a babe? He certainly didn't get those from his mother."
"He didn't get much of anything from me," Freya noted, clutching the baby with one arm now and letting him grab hold of the index finger on her free hand. "He looks just like his father." It was the first and last thing she ever bothered saying to the spirits of the water about the child's father.
"There's a bit of you around the eyes," one spirit chimed.
Freya nodded, tilting her head and looking down at them again. The spirit was correct.
"Are you going to name the child, or...?" Or would she let some foster-family have the honour, perhaps?
"Myrddin." Freya sighed. "His name's Myrddin."
MITHIAN WAS NOT weary of travel, but she was plenty aware that some of her ladies-in-waiting who had insisted on coming along with her on this venture to Camelot were, so she did not grudge them their constant high-chatter. Better that they should gossip than complain or grumble. Though, really, they needn't have all come with her to begin with; she knew perfectly well at least half of them were only coming because they'd heard about her interest in marrying Arthur's manservant.
Besides, she didn't fully dislike the gossip in itself. It was good to know what was happening throughout the kingdom. One didn't learn how to look after things and be a good leader if one didn't listen and observe what was happening in the world all around them. The purpose was not to condemn this or that person, but to know who needed what and where. She wished some of her Camelot allies had been a bit more observant when Morgana had come in the guise of an old woman; she had done everything to warn then, but was held fast, hands tied. If only one of them could have seen what was happening and done something... But it wasn't their fault. She herself wasn't positive that if she had been in Arthur's place, for all her skills of paying attention to faces and people, she would have known any differently. People, even very clever people, sometimes only see what they expect to, or what you tell them to. It was long over now, anyway.
"Your Highness?" said one of the serving-girls, a dark-eyed buxom young lady who had come of age recently and spoke of weddings and betrothals frequently.
"Yes?" replied Mithian, allowing her horse to slow to a trot, for two of her ladies were lagging behind in pace and needed a moment to catch up.
"What's he like?"
"Who?" She straightened herself up in the sidesaddle.
The girl blushed teasingly. "Your betrothed."
Why am I not surprised she would ask that? Mithian smiled and rolled her eyes. "He isn't my betrothed yet." She hadn't even arrived in Camelot, much less spoken to Arthur or Merlin!
"But he will be, won't he?" The girl smirked coyly and made her horse go closer to Princess Mithian's so that they were ridding along side by side. "I mean, he's a servant. He isn't going to receive a better offer than a princess."
"You would be surprised. Surely you know how it went with Arthur," Mithian reminded her pointedly.
"But that's different," she insisted, her tone prim. "A prince falling in love with a serving-girl who used to wait on his sister is probable. A manservant valuing an offer of another above a princess is less so."
"Don't be condescending." Mithian raised an eyebrow at her.
"Besides, you believe he cares for you, don't you?"
"Of course," said Mithian, shrugging. Why would she waste her time otherwise? Over her shoulder, she called to those lagging behind: "Do you need to stop? Or can you catch up in a few moments?"
"We're fine, Your Highness, don't slow too much on our account."
"Very well." Mithian turned her neck back again so that she could see what was in front of her. "Let me know if you change your minds."
The serving-girl was still at her side. "You still haven't told me what he's like."
Mithian laughed, "There's no need to badger me. You will see him for yourself soon enough."
"At least tell me something," whined the girl, evidently bored out of her mind.
Mithian sighed.
"Is he dark or fair?"
"Hmm, dark. Arthur's the fair-headed one." The girl, she knew, had seen neither Merlin nor King Arthur before, not having been in her service that long.
"Is it much farther?"
Mithian shook her head. "No, it is not." She inhaled deeply, then let the breath out, thinking. "As a matter of fact, we should be in Camelot by early morning tomorrow."
KILGHARRAH WAS NONE too pleased to be summoned, or, rather, sent for. Only a Dragonlord could call a dragon at his bidding, and Merlin was the only one of them left, but other magical creatures -a very few, only those powerful enough- could still try to arrange an audience. Of course, the dragon had no compulsion to come. Unlike when it came to a Dragonlord, he was free to choose whether he came or not. But the call had been persistent, and urgent.
In the end, the Great Dragon decided to see what it was all about.
When it registered in his mind, as he landed, that it was a creature from Avalon, prepared to rise up from the lake and meet him, Kilgharrah thought he had half a mind to have himself a meal of flaming Sidhe, if it was one of their Elders pestering him for no reason. He disliked the Sidhe in general. Nasty, mischievous little things they were. Probably would give him indigestion, too, if he really did get fed up and try to eat a few of them just to convince them to stop making such pests of themselves. For such little creatures, they sure knew how to be powerful and irritating foes when it came down to it!
However, to Kilgharrah's surprise, and mild amusement, it was not a Sidhe that appeared, rising from the lake, but rather a dark-headed woman dressed all in foamy white and pale sunset-pink carrying a mewing bundle of some sort in her folded arms.
A little witch of some kind?
No, not a witch... Not quite a water-spirit, either. Higher than that. A lady. Ah, the Lady of the Lake, guardian of the lake of Avalon. What business could she have with a dragon?
"Hello," he said, sticking out his snout and extending his neck.
Freya nodded. "You're Merlin's dragon."
Kilgharrah tensed up, his brow deeply furrowed. The scales at the back of his neck stuck up, almost bristling, like the fur on a startled or else insulted cat or dog. It was more or less true, of course, but no strong creature likes to be thought of as a thing to be possessed.
"I need you to do something for me." She looked down at the bundle in her arms, peeled back part of the swaddling at the top, and pressed her forehead lovingly against whatever was in it. "I need you to take this child and keep him safe."
Though he did not mean to be cold, for he did not actually dislike the Lady of the Lake, even if she had offended him slightly, Kilgharrah's voice bordered on indifferent, laced with crossness. "Why should I?"
"Because he is a future Dragonlord." Freya looked up at him, tears glinting in her eyes. "He is Merlin's son."
"I am not a wet-nurse, Lady!" he snorted, flinging his snout indignantly.
"There's no place for him here," explained Freya, willing herself not to choke up completely. "I'm giving him to you because I want more for him. He deserves a good life."
The dragon's eyes became solemn and apologetic, more understanding. "If this truly is Merlin's son," (if he could have seen him, under the blankets and swaddlings, he would have had no doubt), "then the child is kin to me. I will see to it that he is protected."
Freya gave the bundle one final squeeze before giving the baby over to the dragon. "Goodbye, Myrddin."
