FOR THE RECORD, Merlin didn't intend to go through Freya's things. When Arthur told him that the castle was a little short on available servants and asked (well, ordered, really) him to attend to the rooms of their noble guests (including those of Mithian and Freya) as well as to the king's chamber and his usual duties, Merlin had meant to do little else aside from stoke up the fire a bit, make sure the floors were cleaned, open a curtain or two, replace the bed linens, and take his leave.

And things went more or less according to plan where Mithian's guest chamber was concerned, at least.

No one had been in there except one of the princess of Nemeth's ladies, who sat in a corner, only half-finished mending in her lap, staring blankly into space, doubtless caught up daydreaming. She snapped to attention when she saw Merlin, blushing and making fast, furious stitches, as if she thought he would report her negligence at her task to Mithian. But, still, she also peeked up curiously at him from under her eyelashes. He was, after all, a servant betrothed to a princess. The very princess she herself served! Who -or what- else was she likely to see that day that would be nearly so fascinating?

"I'll be right out," Merlin assured her, not wishing to disturb her work. She might not have appeared busy, but surely if there was not something she was meant to be doing -some pressing task- he would not have been ordered to clean Mithian's room; not when she easily could have done so.

So, after making sure all was well with Mithian's chamber, he headed for Morgana's old room, expecting this brief chores in there to go equally smoothly. Freya was not likely to be present. She had been in counsel with Arthur less than an hour ago, and she and her water-spirits usually took a walk outside afterwards. It was raining out, but water falling from the sky in torrents never seemed to bother the Lady of the Lake and the spirits of the water as it did everybody else. She seemed to feel no colder in the rain than in the clear winter air. Furthermore, the spirits made sure she never took sick from it, and her body -used to the lake of Avalon- was probably much more immune to water-gotten illnesses than the average person to begin with.

Merlin opened the door and let himself in.

"Freya?" he called, just in case.

No answer.

Shrugging, he went over the fire and made sure it was nice and hot. Perhaps it would not hurt to boil some water over the fireplace while he was at it, should she want a hot bath when she returned. There was already a large tub for bathing, and a suitable bucket, at the far side of the room. He gathered these up and was about to walk back to the roaring fire, when he noticed some of Freya's clothes had been left on the floor.

Two were old dresses of Morgana's. These he hung back up in the wardrobe. The other dress, strewn for some reason over a lumpy bundle near the bedside, was one of the Lady's own. It appeared to be in need of pressing, so he picked it up and put it over his arm. Gwen would have been appalled had any of her gowns (or Morgana's, back when she was her maidservant) ever been this wrinkled. It really was in a pitiful state. Had the water-spirits never heard of ironing? Poor Freya probably mussed up any number of gowns and dresses with the way she rode her horse. Even the way she sat down (not at counsel meetings so much as casually, when she wasn't thinking about impressions) betrayed, to any with keen enough eyes, that her origins had been humble, no matter how much of a princess she looked. The least her spirits could do, along with caring for her health, was keep her clothes in decent repair. But, poor things, perhaps they were doing all they could. Maybe Freya didn't mind and had never told them otherwise. Not all masters (or mistresses) were as demanding as Arthur.

Under the dress, the bundle turned out to be a satchel. The clasp was loose and unfastened. Merlin, unthinking, lifted the top flap. Mostly just bolts of cloth, some small trinkets, including the leather with yellow beads he'd seen Freya wearing before, a gold-rimmed porcelain saucer with the painted depiction of a lake-grown lily pad on it, and something else under the cloth that glittered like the edge of the saucer. Mistakenly believing it was probably a matching teacup, a little curious, Merlin moved the cloth aside.

There was no cup (it had actually broken three years before, but Freya liked the saucer and kept it, so her spirits had put it among her small stash of treasures to be brought to Camelot). Instead, what Merlin discovered was a golden chain.

No. It couldn't be...

Lifting it and blinking in the firelight, Merlin inhaled sharply, his breaths short and desperate. No... He stumbled over to the window and threw back the curtains. He was bewitched, overtired, seeing things in the glow of the orange flames. It was not -it could not be- the same chain Arthur had given him, that he in turn had given away to the Maiden Huntress after Beltane.

Daylight framed the answer. The chain was the one he'd put on the Maiden Huntress upon learning she could not marry him, could not come to Camelot with him.

But that would mean... That would make Freya... No!

How could he have been so blind? Merlin wondered, tears filling his eyes. It all made perfect sense. Her cold, white body -as cold as if she'd come from a pond (or a lake)- writhing like a fish under his... The way she'd known him and he'd known her. How she had been dozing at his feet like a cat -some old habit left over from her Bastet days? Her kindness. Even her beauty. There was no one more beautiful -more like a princess from some lost dream- than Freya in his eyes. Had it not always been that way? Since the day, so many years before, he first laid eyes on her in Halig's cage?

It was no wonder that when he was around Freya, he missed the Maiden Huntress not at all. As he had told her, he loved her as herself best of all, more than he could love a Maiden Huntress chosen by the Disir and commanded to share his bed for a night.

And to think, his lover had gone through everything alone. She had carried this burden all by herself. She had seen him betrothed to another woman, knowing she had a greater claim to him, having brought his only son -even if it was a bastard- into the world...

Deep pity moved him, paining him.

If only she had said something. Anything. If only...

Anger set in, mixing with the pity. She should have said something. Freya had as good as lied to him! What a dunderhead he must have seemed to her when he told her of his son. And her, listening as if unattached to the matter! Never telling him that she was Myrddin's mother.

And what of all that rubbish about being unable to come to Camelot with him? She was no priestess-in-training after all! She was here in Camelot now, wasn't she?

Freya could have come with him. Or, if she really couldn't, told him to wait. He would have announced -to everyone, Arthur included- that his bride, the woman he wished to wed, was coming to Camelot. Everyone would have known he wasn't free to marry another, including Mithian! Of course, they would be distrustful of a woman who had played the Maiden Huntress at Beltane, but... But surely... He could have figured something out.

And why had she never sent him word that she was pregnant? A message, however sparing, that she was having his child would have been no great thing! Did he not deserve to know, not only that he had a son, but who the mother really was? If she had not given Myrddin to Kilgharrah, would he even know of the child's existence at all?

This was wrong. Shaking his head, Merlin dropped the chain on the bed and fast-walked out of the room.

In the doorway, he found himself accidentally confronted by a damp-haired Freya, shivering in her dark blue cloak, and two of her water-spirits entering just as he was leaving.

Their eyes met, the warlock's and the Lady of the Lake's, and they both knew, at once, that the secret was out on both sides.

Swallowing hard, Merlin gently pushed past her and continued down the corridor as quickly as he could, heading for the only place he could think to go: the quarters where he and Gaius lived.

Going into the room, Freya found the chain on the bed. Brushing away a tear, she fastened it around her neck. She was not angry he had gone through her things. There was too much guilt on her own behalf for that. Still, surely he must let her explain... Just as she had been merely afraid to tell him she was a Bastet so long ago, he must know she'd felt the same about Myrddin when she first arrived. When the fear began to subside, it was too late. The guards had come, during her first attempt to tell him the truth, and then she had seen him betrothed to Mithian, taken from her -and, in a way, from Myrddin- forever.

I must go to him. Freya ordered the spirits of the water to stay put. This, she needed to do alone. Her water-spirits wouldn't understand why she had kept the secret of Merlin -of Emrys- being the father of her child from them, just as she had kept it from him. They wouldn't be cross, wouldn't hold it against her, but nor would they possibly be able to fathom her motives.

The walk to the physician's living quarters felt like the longest Freya had taken in all her life.

Finally, though, she arrived and lifted the latch.

Without looking up, Merlin knew she was there. He was sitting on the steps all around where Gaius had a number of bookshelves, his head turned away from her direction.

"Merlin-" she tried.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't see how sharing the burden with you would help either of us."

"No, Freya." Slowly, he turned his head and glared at her. "I had a right to know."

"Merlin, please..."

"No," he said again, his voice stronger, more resolute. "I had a right to know."

She began to weep. Everything would be different in his eyes now, even his memories, once precious, no longer special to him. He was right; she should have told him, interruptions or not, Mithian or no Mithian... Merlin had had the right to know who the mother of his own son was. Now she would be nothing in his eyes but a girl he used to know who'd played little better than a whore to him at Beltane and then lied about it.

He sighed. "Freya, don't cry. Please don't cry." Coming down from the stairs, he walked to her.

"You must hate me."

"You know me better than that."

"I did try to tell you," Freya sobbed. "That night in the catacombs..."

"I know," he whispered gently, unable to stay upset with her when she was like this. "I know."

"I never stopped loving you. When I had to leave you after Beltane, it broke my heart. I didn't think I would be able to come here. But after I had Myrddin... Things changed, Merlin. I needed to come to you. So I got the blessing of the High Priestess by force and-"

"You forced Morgana into letting you come?" Merlin gasped.

Freya nodded. "I left her with no choice but to let me go. But if I fail..." Her voice trailed off, she was crying too hard.

"If you had just sent for me," Merlin told her, his voice cracking, "I would have come to you anywhere. I would have been there for you. If you had just given me even the slightest bit of hope that you were coming to Camelot and we could be together..."

"I make no claims to you over Myrddin," said Freya.

Merlin's expression hardened slightly. "You should, Freya!"

"Should what?" she cried hopelessly. "Tell everyone that you and I conceived a child during a ritual of the Old Religion in the cave of the Disir? Ruin everything in your life here at Camelot for you? You know I can't do that."

Putting his hands over his face, Merlin slumped down onto a stool.

For a moment, Freya did not understand why his shoulders shook so, and what the noise that was coming from him meant. Then she realized. He was crying, too. Just as heavily as she herself was. He loved her, and their son... How could he deal with knowing that, had things gone differently, they might have been a family together?

"Merlin..." She put a hand on his trembling shoulder.

Removing his hands from his face, he looked up at her. "I am so sorry for what I did to you." He had lain with her at Beltane, he had gotten her with child... If, in spite of what he felt, he had not touched her in the Disir's cave, things would be different now.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," Freya told him. She had been fully consenting, and she had had the advantage. He had not known who she was, but she had known full-well his indentity the whole time.

"I just can't get the image of you, heavy with child, all alone in Avalon..." Merlin swallowed. "I can't get it out of my head."

"I was well looked after."

"I should have looked after you."

"You couldn't have."

"I wish I had been there for you."

"Merlin, you were," Freya insisted. "When things were impossible to bear, who do you think I thought of? Who do you think made me strong enough to survive the birth of our son?"

"It's not the same," protested Merlin. "A thought can't hold your hand and tell you everything's going to be all right. A thought can't wrap its arms around you and comfort you when the child inside of you makes you ill."

"For a long, long time," Freya pointed out, "all you had of me were thoughts. Before I gave you Arthur's sword, you thought me dead -gone forever. Weren't they -your thoughts, your memories- some comfort to you? Weren't they better than nothing?"

"Were you scared?"

She nodded.

"Did you call out for me?"

"The spirits of the water say I did."

More tears streamed down his face.

"Merlin..."

"I promised I would look after you, and all I've ever brought you is suffering."

"Merlin! That is not true and you know it!" She thought of her lake... If he had let her die in the catacombs, she might have never become the Lady of the Lake.

He reached for her, pulling her down to him. She ended up in his lap; there was no other space on the stool for her.

"Freya, can I tell you something?"

"Of course."

He stared into her eyes. "That morning, waking up after Beltane, before I knew you couldn't come to Camelot with me -that I couldn't keep you- when I saw you and knew I hadn't imagined the love we'd felt the night before, was one of the happiest moments of my life."

"Mine too," she whimpered.

Merlin pressed his lips against hers and stroked one of her arms. "You're cold and wet," he murmured, pulling away.

"I didn't dry off properly after my walk," Freya whispered. "That's all."

Their lips met again, this time opening. Freya felt the warmth of his tongue in her mouth and one of his hands moving to the small of her back, clutching her more tightly to him, and moaned softly. His other hand caressed her ankle, rubbing it tenderly where it stuck out from under the skirt of her dress and hung over the side of his lap in a gentle, upwards motion.

For a moment, Freya found she could forget about alliances and negotiations and all that madness. We never truly stopped being lovers... We were only fooling ourselves...

Merlin seemed to be feeling the same. It never occurred to him, in their shared moment of release and bliss, however short-lived, that it was wrong. They were two kids he once knew, not these grown-up dutiful dodders their separation mixed with the influence and the needs of Arthur's court had changed them into: they were the old Merlin and Freya, in the catacombs, blushing and shy and overcome with the joy of finding someone who just understood, someone you didn't have to hide things from...

Whatever wrong the Disir had done Merlin, he realized then that they had done for him one very good thing in the midst of it all. In fact, they had given him -even unwittingly- the thing he wanted most: his lost love back. For selfish reasons, for Beltane. But still it was a gift worth cherishing forever. For all the bad things it had brought, it had come with all the good. That it should have been, of all the women who could have come into him that night to be the Maiden Huntress to his King Stag, Freya... His Freya...

He continued to kiss her all the more passionately, and it seemed to Freya that Merlin was pleased his Maiden Huntress and the Lady of the Lake were both one and the same after all.

Their mutual delight and discovery, brought on by the secrets dissolved between them like a mist clearing, no longer separating them from each other, was ended with one sharp sound that they both did not hear.

It was the faint scape of the latch of the door lifting and someone walking in.

By the time Merlin and Freya were aware of this added presence, it was of course a little too late. Whoever was standing before them had seen. They had seen them together... Freya of Avalon in King Arthur's manservant's lap while he touched and kissed her with no clear intentions of stopping anytime soon... And the lake-lady herself not minding one bit, returning the gestures of love enthusiastically and allowing them to continue...

In the quick second it took for their mouths to break apart and their heads to turn in the direction of the unexpected intruder, Merlin had devised in his mind a number of scenarios.

Two of these, in particular, stood out as the most probable.

Best case: it was only Gaius. Gaius, who knew, before Merlin had, unfortunately, that Mithian fancied him. But also Gaius who was loyal and could be persuaded, perhaps this time, not to sell Freya out to the court because of something that wasn't her fault.

Worst: it was Arthur, come in to demand where the hell his servant was when he needed him, only to find said servant locking lips with the court's guest sorceress and harpist. When he was supposed to be betrothed to Princess Mithian of Nemeth. Oops.

But, the one option Merlin had not considered, not even thought of as a possibility, was the one that turned out to be fatally true.

It was not Gaius, nor Arthur, who stood before them in utter shock.

It was Mithian herself.

MORDRED NEVER SAW it coming. He was out in the forest, only a few feet away from the other knights, when a dark cloth was flung over his head. It seemed to be the inside of a burlap sack. He would have kept struggling as strong arms from unseen kidnappers dragged him off, but there was this overpowering smell within the bag that made him feel woozy. After only a couple of minutes, he was knocked out completely.

Indeed, when he came to again, he found himself in a windowless, almost airless, little cottage, lying on the dirty wooden floor. There was no longer any sack over his head, but it was still difficult to see much of anything clearly.

All around him, there was this constant drip-drip-drip sound.

Gasping in a sharp inhale and staggering to his feet, Mordred shouted out for the other knights. Suddenly it occurred to him that wherever he was, if it was even the same day as he'd been taken, they would be far, far away, unable to hear or reach him. He stopped shouting, feeling foolish, then ran to the first door he could locate. It seemed to be the only one. And it was locked and bolted.

He kicked at it with his foot and pounded on it with his wrists. A jolt ran through him, fear creeping up into his very soul. There was magic in this place. He was a Druid, so he knew magic when he felt it. Something was not right. Something to do with that drip-drip-drip sound coming from above...

A clod of dark muddy liquid suddenly fell from the beams and rafters above his head and landed on his cheek.

Mordred touched it and examined, best he could in the bad lighting, the black gunk. Willing himself not to tremble, he allowed his eyes to drift upwards.

Mandrake roots hung from the beams. Dozens of them.

Nothing I'm about to see is real, he told himself firmly in his mind.

Whoever was responsible was probably an enemy of Arthur, a magic enemy full of leftover hate for Uther, bent on fixing things so there was a traitor within the king's walls. But they would not find him such easy prey. He knew of these things. And if they showed him a bitter, cruel Arthur, he would know, no matter how the roots screamed and made his eardrums shake, it was all a trick. Arthur would never be so cruel as the visions that would be forthcoming.

Perhaps it was Morgana who'd done this. She might want revenge for his stabbing her. Or, more likely, in her sick way, she might want her friend back. Not Arthur, magicless, usurper Arthur in her mind... But Mordred... Mordred she loved unconditionally. Almost as unconditionally as that precious white dragon of hers.

Arthur would never... Arthur would never... Arthur would never...

But it was not a vision of Arthur after all that came to Mordred, glowing white as a willow-the-wisp in the darkness, sneering, his eyes cold with hatred...

Mordred blinked at the vision, already struggling to remember it wasn't really him. "Emrys?"

He saw this ash-white Merlin take a step closer to him, heard him snicker wickedly.

"No... It's not you."

"It might as well be," vision-Merlin taunted. "You know I don't trust you. Especially around Arthur. I won't stand for another magical person around him. One of these days, I'm going to find a way to have you killed. You would keep my secret, but how do you know I would keep yours? Even when you were a child I hated you and wished you dead in the cold ground. I almost didn't come and save you. I almost let the guards find out. Twice. You know this, Mordred."

Mordred swallowed and took a step back. "Stop it. You're not really Emrys. You're an illusion! Merlin doesn't hate me. He doesn't."

Smiling coldly and, for just long enough to be truly convincing, his eyes looking very like the real Merlin's did when he was wary of something Mordred was saying or doing, he leaned forward and whispered, "Yes, Mordred. I do."

Hours or days later (Mordred wasn't sure which), the door to the cottage creaked open as the bolts were undone, the lock turned, and the latch lifted.

A tall, dark man, maybe a year or so older than King Arthur, and an old woman came in. "Mordred?"

He was huddled in a corner, holding his knees.

"Sir Mordred," crooned the woman. "Why, whatever's the matter? Aren't you all right?"

Mordred looked up. "W-who are you?" he stammered.

"We're friends, Mordred," grunted the man. "Druids, like you. We've come to help you."

The old woman came and took his hands, helping him to his feet. "Oh, dear Sir! Look at you! White as a ghost. And nearly faint from hunger, I suppose? Come, eat with us. We're terribly sorry you were left in this wretched place, but there was no other way. It needed to be done."

"Where is Morgana?"

"High Priestess Morgana?" The man looked baffled. Clearly, he'd heard of her but never actually met her, and had no idea what she had to do with any of this. "Did the mandrake roots show you her?"

"No." He shook his head. "Emrys."

"Are you fond of this man? The one our people call Emrys?" asked the old woman.

"No," Mordred said resolutely, his eyes darkening. "You cannot imagine how much I hate him."