Chapter 11: Treasured
Merlin stood in a state of shock. Absolutely still, face and body – and magic – firmly controlled.
Staring into the glass exhibit case, aware of the blue carpet beneath his feet, the lighting pitched to be vivid on the items on display, and soft throughout the rest of the room. Aware of the voices of other museum patrons. Aware of Freya's voice, beside and a half-step behind him.
"The deposition of swords, weaponry and other valuables in sacred lakes and rivers was a widespread practice in ancient Britain and amongst the Celtic peoples and Europe." Freya was reading from the sign advertising and explaining the special exhibit the Smithsonian was hosting.
"Ancient British Iron Age weapons found deposited in rivers and lakes are too numerous to count. The highlights of this collection include the well-known Battersea Shield and Waterloo Helmet from the Thames. A third attraction is the lesser-known and controversial Artorius Blade, found in 1993 by fishermen in a lake near Glastonbury in Somerset. Date of origin unspecified due to ongoing conflict. Experts in metallurgy claim 5th century AD, despite the condition of the piece, which seems to contradict such an early date, and certain inexplicable anomalies in the – blah, blah, blah." Freya hummed a moment, clearly skipping to a part she found more interesting.
Certain inexplicable anomalies. Merlin smirked briefly. He imagined the dragon-fire burnishing would prove problematic for a metallurgist. Interesting that something like that would show up in the modern testing of metals – then again, if scientists and doctors could find a DNA link to magic…
"The Artorius Blade was so named by its owner, Halbyon Incorporated, as a tribute to the Arthurian legend –" Freya paused. "Well, if it's named after the stories of King Arthur, why didn't they call it Excalibur? Why Artorius Blade?"
"I expect they would meet considerable resistance if they tried to claim it was Excalibur, or even name it so," Merlin said dispassionately. "Historical experts and legend fanatics and purists. All up in arms." He smirked, but she didn't seem to catch the pun. "Artorius is the Latinized version of Arthur."
"Is this why we came here?" Freya said, gently disapproving. "I thought we were just spending a day in D.C. – you know, getting away from – it all."
Merlin shrugged, a twitch of his shoulders. "You know I'm – something of a fan," he said, reaching to put his hand on the case, in spite of the sign that said, Thank you for not touching the glass.
"Yes I know, that's why we were getting away," Freya said, sighing. "You promised, you know, not to speak of – all this."
"I know," he said softly.
"Still, I guess it's a shame not to even see the sword," she said, lightly tugging at his arm as a not-so-subtle hint for him to move on to the next display.
He read the placard propped on the empty shelf inside the case one more time. Removed from display by owner's request. Our apologies.
"Yeah," he said. "It's a shame."
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Days later, Merlin slammed the door so hard the townhouse seemed to shudder. The Scottie put his nose around the corner to peer nervously down the hallway at him.
"Merlin?" Gaius' voice pulled him further into their shared home, though he went somewhat reluctantly, dreading the conversation he expected and wouldn't avoid. "What is it, my boy? I thought you were bringing Freya to Gwen's baby shower – you were going to spend the morning with Arthur, were you not?"
"Yes, and – impossible," Merlin growled, stalking to the kitchen for a soda from the fridge.
Gaius sniffed the air as he passed the old man, seated on the couch with a large travel book. "What is that – you've been smoking again?" his grandfather said with disapproval.
"No. I mean, just one – okay, two – and I threw the rest of the pack away," Merlin said. The condiments in the door of the fridge rattled as he shut it vehemently.
Gaius looked over his shoulder and over the black rims of his half-glasses. "What is troubling you, Merlin?"
"Oh, take your pick!" Merlin exclaimed. "Shane – Halbyon – Arthur… the sword…"
"Why don't you come sit down, and begin at the beginning," Gaius proposed, folding the travel book shut and laying it on the glass coffee table before him. "And do attempt to apply some logic and coherency, for an old man's sake."
Merlin stalked into the living room – and continued on his feet, circumnavigating the room. "Can't sit," he said shortly, taking a swallow of soda.
"Well, pace, then," his grandfather said with a trace of asperity. "You did speak with Arthur?"
"Yeah." Merlin snorted, circling behind the couch.
"And he had news about your friend Shane?"
Merlin took a deep breath, and paused to lean back against the dining room table. This was his one piece of good news – well, good, depending on how you looked at it. "Chance is holding him in protective custody. There's no hard evidence linking him to the crash, after all." Even though Shane was not being allowed visitors, Chance had agreed to pass on a greeting from Merlin.
He hitched himself farther onto the table, leaned forward over his knees, balancing his can. "Here's the thing – Halbyon has provided people with special abilities to various law enforcement agencies, but under the definition of consultant. Nowhere is the fact of extranatural abilities ever put in writing. And even if the existence of such a department within a personnel-supplying company is ever made public, there is nothing that implicates them in the three plane crashes. Even I couldn't say for sure if the other two were deliberate or just – freak accidents where someone with magic lost control in a spectacular way."
"And with Shane?" Gaius prompted.
"Casey sent me a message that they're coming up short on any hard evidence. Can't prove Shane's disappearance was an abduction rather than a voluntary action. Can't prove who totaled his car or why, can't prove unlawful imprisonment or any kind of ill treatment, especially with Shane insisting that he chose to go, and had his reasons. That file is closed – at least Eddie knows where he is, and that he's okay."
"But the message that Shane passed along from Halbyon?" Gaius said.
"Presumably." Merlin made a rude noise. "We know it was a threat, the take-down of the flight deliberate, but good luck proving that in a court of law. Although, as far as I'm concerned, that was more than just a warning shot across Camelot's bow – that was first blood. I'm completely okay with answering in kind."
"Patience, Merlin, yes?" Gaius said. "You must, as ever, gather evidence to support your suspicions before acting."
"Legally and cautiously," he said with no small irritation. "Yes, thank you, Arthur's already made that perfectly clear."
"And he is right," Gaius said. "You must realize, when Arthur was a prince, he could occasionally risk his father's anger and perhaps even punishment to bend the law for the greater good, and as king of course he was in a position to apply the law or not, as he saw fit. The relationship of a lawmaker to his law is a unique thing, after all. But today – things are much different, Merlin. He must not become a law-breaker, there is far too much depending on him for that."
Merlin grumbled.
"And you –" Gaius said, pointing a finger to chastise his grandson, grown man that he was. "You had a very casual view of the law, fifteen hundred years ago, and that attitude seems to be part of your personality in the modern lifetime, also."
Merlin shrugged, not bothering to hide a smirk. "When your very existence is illegal," he said, "and any moment could have you exposed and executed, well… such matters as spying and eavesdropping and – borrowing… don't seem exactly relevant." He took a drink of the soda. Occasionally more serious law-breaking had been necessary – planting evidence, fabricating witnesses… self-defense by deadly force.
"If you are caught," Gaius said, "the consequences will be rather more than a night in the cells or a day in the stocks or a week of ducking guards til Arthur can straighten things out. Consequences for more people than yourself, please be aware."
"If," Merlin said deliberately, "I'm caught."
Gaius' eyebrow lifted. "What exactly did you have in mind, Merlin?" he demanded.
Merlin didn't answer directly. "I did some research," he said, referring to his magically-enhanced hacking skills. "The Artorius Blade was returned to Halbyon when the exhibit reached D.C. – maybe they didn't want to run the risk of any of us seeing it and recognizing it. Which doesn't exactly make sense, you know?"
Gaius studied him. "Arthur is correct in thinking that such an object would complicate the issues between Camelot and Albion," he said. "He has rather enough to do to terminate any talk of a merger, convince the company that you will not become an asset of theirs, without having to negotiate the terms of purchase for the weapon – if indeed the corporation would consider any offer."
"Exactly!" Merlin said. "It's an incredible bargaining chip – why would they try to keep it hidden from the one man who could authenticate it?" He jumped down from the table and began to pace again. He'd dreamed more than once of Arthur and swords – the sword, in an opponent's hand. Arthur wounded, and by a dragon-breathed blade. "If it is his," he said, "we must get it back. I was told, in the wrong hands it could do great evil."
"I agree with you," Gaius said. "If it is in fact the same blade. But Arthur doesn't see it that way, does he?"
Merlin shook his head slowly, at each step, his eyes on the carpet. "He said, it's just a sword. It was forged for Arthur and him alone – Gaius, I promised. I failed that promise once. I can't fail again."
Gaius said perceptively, "You two have quarreled over more than possession of the sword, haven't you?"
Merlin gave a cynical chuckle, and turned at the refrigerator to cross the room again. "Arthur believes that my desire to reclaim that sword is not an ends but a means," he said.
"Ah," Gaius said. "Freya."
"Yeah," Merlin said feelingly. "It's like he sees it as a choice between them – whether I obey his order to forget about the sword for now, or keep pushing for the chance at returning memories allowing her to accept me for who I am." He reached the hallway and turned back.
"It's not a choice between them," Gaius stated.
"Damn right it's not!" Merlin exclaimed.
"Though you do seem to be walking something of a line between them," Gaius continued.
"You know very well what happened when I made it a choice, before," Merlin said darkly, glaring at his grandfather. "Destiny made damn sure I stayed with Arthur, remember? I lost my chance at a wife and family and a normal life, and I just thought – well, I kind of hoped I was going to get to have both, this time." There was a moment of silence in which he didn't look at the old man, until Gaius spoke.
"What will you do if she doesn't remember?"
"Ever?" Merlin shook his head, biting a fingernail as he strode the length of the room again. "I can't believe that. Why would she be returned, along with all of us, only to live like – like Thomas Drake – in complete denial?"
"Merlin," Gaius said, "your assumption about Arthur's sword helping Freya's memory depends on two things – first, that the weapon in question is genuine, and second, that you are able to expose her to it – and neither of those is a sure thing."
"Well – I'm fairly desperate, Gaius," he admitted, kicking at the base of the kitchen counter.
"Glastonbury," Gaius said, and then Merlin did look at his grandfather, coming around the couch to face him. "The lake where the Artorius Blade was retrieved. If it is not the lake of Avalon, you will know that the sword is ordinary. But if it is, might not the lake itself prove a stronger influence on Freya's subconscious than the sword?"
Merlin fumbled at the back of one of the dining chairs and pulled it out to collapse into. "You mean, take her there?" he said.
"Such a trip has the virtue of being completely legal, as well as putting some temporary distance between you and Arthur, placing you and Freya in each other's company all day for several days, as well as indicating the sword's authenticity." His grandfather seemed quite proud of the suggestion, and Merlin himself could admit those possible advantages, and, actually, no flaws, unless it were –
"She wasn't very happy with me when she guessed we'd gone to the museum to check out the sword," Merlin said. "If she realizes I've got ulterior motives for whisking her away on a romantic trip to England, she'll be pissed."
"My boy," Gaius said, giving him a look over his half-glasses, "after all you have faced in your previous lifetime and this, an angry female should be a treat to handle."
"Angry females," Merlin observed, "are only a treat to handle if they can be persuaded to make up."
"Merlin," Gaius said, shaking his head though there was a twinkle in his eye, "Too much information."
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Merlin managed to coordinate the trip in three days. He bribed Cassie to make sure Freya's passport was up-to-date – it was, thanks to her sister's wedding in Cancun the summer they'd met – and to pack her a suitcase of clothes appropriate for April in England. He pled his case with her employer and gained extra days off with no penalty for her.
Then he knocked on her door with the plane tickets. She was startled, she was skeptical, she was overwhelmed. She squealed, "Merlin!" when she saw "Heathrow". He was pleased not only that she'd inadvertently used his 'real' nickname, but that the nature of the surprise meant she didn't analyze his motives or the destination.
"You're very brave," she said, as they settled into the middle row of seats on the transatlantic flight, the craft twice as wide as the one they'd taken cross-country. "To get on a plane again so soon."
He tapped the toes of his boots against the laptop in its canvas case under the seat in front of him, thinking of the sleepless night he'd spent with a dual purpose – to perform his own background checks on every passenger on the manifest and to thoroughly exhaust himself so he would sleep for a good chunk of the flight time.
"I believe in destiny," he said.
She snickered a little and elbowed him. "I just hope it's not time to go for anyone on this flight."
"It's time for all of us to go," he told her, checking his watch. "And don't even say the 'D' word."
She attached the cord of a set of earphones to the side of the armrest, which carried a selection of music, and closed her eyes during the safety briefing.
So did Merlin, linking his setting with hers, curious to see what might play.
Patty Loveless. Old country. So darlin' meet me – high… on a hill north of nowhere… We head west to a dream south of somewhere… We can steal a little magic and make it our own…. at the rainbow down the road… Who was the male vocalist for the duet? He couldn't remember.
8:30 pm. Wheels up. Ears trying to stabilize pressure even with the music sifting in. Freya's hand finding his and curling up inside. Hide your feelings… hide your heart… you can hide the fire, but you can't hide the spark… the deck is stacked and you can't fool destiny long…
Her head comfortable against his shoulder, her hair loose and tumbled on his shirt sleeve, smelling of roses. For every long shot… there's a sure one… for every heartache, there's a true love… You can bet on the one that's standing right here…
Please don't be angry, he thought as he dropped his check to rest on the softness of her hair, inhale the scent that was more than her shampoo, that was her. When you find out why, please don't be angry…
They say that, love is foolish… I should know… I'm the kinda fool that never lets go… Just follow your heart and I'll be waiting right there… Merlin drifted to sleep.
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"Jet lag," Freya said, "can be minimized by forcing your body to accept the local time, no matter what you feel like."
Merlin yawned and stumbled behind her through customs, carrying both of their bags, one over each shoulder so the weight balanced out. "So what's local time again?"
"Almost one o'clock," she said.
He squinted up at the fluorescent lights in the airport. "Am or pm?"
She laughed like he'd told a good joke. "We left at 8:30 pm D.C. time," she said. "We flew eleven hours through the night, and gained five more with the time difference. You following me?"
"Of course," he said, shuffling forward in line. How could she manage to fly all night – and all morning, evidently – and still be so fresh and pretty? He was sure he resembled Gwaine on a weekend morning.
"Do you want to eat lunch here at the airport or out in the city somewhere?" she said, and grinned at him over her shoulder. "Fish and chips?" He rolled his eyes and groaned in response, but ended by grinning back.
For the first night, he had them in a decently-priced, decently-reviewed hotel in London. The second and third nights they would spend in Bristol, before returning to London for their flight home. He was quite content to let her fill in the itinerary, planning on getting a little lost on a drive in the countryside, about thirty miles south of Bristol. Glastonbury. Perhaps they could have a picnic lunch on the shore of the lake…
He blinked and steadied himself against a sudden surreal dizziness. That was just jet lag.
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Merlin followed Freya willingly around St. Paul's, and Trafalgar Square.
The next morning, he took a wrong turn in the heart of London, ending up on the M3 instead of the M4, blaming it on the confusion of trying to drive safely on the opposite side of the road than what he was used to.
"Damn colonist," Freya teased him, in her rendition of a London accent.
He laughed and shook his head, trying to keep the confusion of emotions from showing. I am more British than – well, just about everyone. We are. An echo of Arthur's words flitted through his mind – maybe not anymore.
Once out of the buildings and traffic and signs of the city outskirts, Freya reached to put one of her cds into the rental car's stereo system, and sat back to watch the scenery through the windows. Merlin cringed mentally at her choice – the City of Angels soundtrack – and not only because of his inherent male aversion to "chick flicks". This was a movie about a man with a secret identity, struggling to tell the woman he loved who he was.
It was only one hour ago… it was all so different then… There's nothing yet has really sunk in… Looks like it always did…
And then, once he'd told her, once she'd believed him, once he'd chosen to leave his status and skills and become an ordinary human for her, she'd been taken from him. I grieve… for you… You leave… me… He shivered and tried to concentrate on his driving. So hard to move on… still loving what's gone…
The route had the benefit – if it could be called a benefit, after all the roundabouts they had to circle through – of taking them through Glastonbury, north to Bristol. Merlin drove slowly; he couldn't help searching the scenery for any hint, any glimmer, of anything familiar. They say life carries on… life carries on, and on, and on…
Fifteen centuries, he told himself. Trees can change a landscape in one. Hills rise over centers of civilization as structures are built and rebuilt, hills are worn down by time, valleys filled in. Civilization had done its share, too, with buildings and roads and railways.
It's just the car that we ride in… A home we reside in… The face that we hide in… the way we are tied in…
He recognized nothing. Not a twitch, not a suspicion of familiarity. It was like visiting Spokane and being told it was Seattle.
Did I dream this belief? Or did I believe this dream?
He was glad to reach Bristol and surround himself with the 21st century again, steel and glass and concrete.
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Merlin sat alone in the dark. Though it was past dawn and he faced the window, the sky was overcast and the blinds were drawn. The screen of his laptop on the small table in the hotel room had gone black some time since.
It had begun as a simple exercise of curiosity, something to do while he was too unsettled to sleep. Having located the lake on the map, it was a matter of charting distances and directions, remembering and approximating.
And then, double- and triple-checking.
The idea had come to him, if the lake helped Freya or not, it would be worth doing while they were here, to visit Camelot also – the citadel of white stone obviously no longer standing, the vaults cleared and treasures scattered, perhaps even the cavern of Kilgarrah's imprisonment filled in. Or the Crystal Cave. As ambiguous as he felt about the place, the valley of the fallen kings, he figured that or the grove of Breneved had the greatest chance of any place he'd been familiar with, of surviving to the present day, in any form.
Let it out and move on… still missing what's gone…
As near as he could figure it, Camelot was covered now by a residential district, grand old homes and grand old trees. And a golf course.
And if his calculations weren't wildly off, the valley and the cave lay hundreds of feet below barley fields and a dairy farm.
Merlin sat on the edge of the bed he hadn't even turned down – napping once or twice fully dressed atop the coverlet – head in his hands, eyes shut.
The Bristol Post had done several articles over the course of its circulation on that small region, its unusual fertility and the modest yet undeniable success of its many owners over the years. The latest one had been quoted as calling it, "a right nice piece of ground."
Helldamnfire. The birthplace of magic itself – a right nice piece of ground.
What had happened? What the hell had happened? Through the ages, the writings had faded, the books had been lost, the teachings neglected, the adepts put to death by the fanatically suspicious. Magic was all but gone. Magic was all but gone.
He hadn't even made the calculations for Breneved.
What was destiny then? Here he was – Merlin, the greatest damn sorcerer to ever wonder what the hell was in store for him. To protect Arthur, to support and guide and aid him – not only for what he could do, as king, but for who he was, as a man and a friend. And now? A company, even one that provided protection and security for individuals and businesses alike? A consulting team for the National Security Agency, preventing terrorist attacks, saving a number of people merely a drop in the ocean of the billions that had lived and died – of old age, of disease, of violence – through the centuries?
Was it enough?
He didn't hear the door behind him, but sensed Freya's presence as soon as she climbed onto the bed, scooting across the smooth coverlet to cuddle close behind him, her knees on either side of his hips, her arms encircling his ribs, her head laid down on his shoulder.
"How long have you been up?" she asked, her breath making a warm patch on his shirt, just over his spine.
"A while," he said, his voice throaty from lack of sleep and tension. He glanced at the clock. 6:52. "You're up early. We're five hours ahead – it's only ten to two in the morning, at home."
She leaned back from him, began to rub his shoulders. His muscles relaxed in response, enjoying her touch as she soothed out the tension in his neck and back.
Then she said, "I had a nightmare."
She sounded calm, matter-of-fact, and her hands were steady and sure, her thumbs rubbing circles to either side of the vertebrae in his neck. "I should've done this last night," she added. "You were so tense, you hardly said a word. Do you have a headache? You're enjoying the trip, aren't you?"
"I always enjoy being with you," Merlin told her sincerely, his voice somewhat muffled by the front of his own shirt, so far had he let his head hang down. She was rolling her fists in his lower back now – ah, heaven. "What was your dream?"
"Oh, one of those stupid dying dreams," she said. "I don't know if I was sick or hurt or what, but you were holding me in your arms, and we were on the shore of a lake and it was raining, kind of. Nothing hurt, but I could tell that I was dying, it was a little like knowing that you're falling asleep. Don't straighten up like that, it's going to hurt your muscles if you're all tense while I'm doing this."
"Sorry." Merlin managed to calm his reaction. "Go on. Like falling asleep."
"It felt very peaceful, actually, I wasn't afraid at all. What made it a nightmare was the look on your face." Her hands stilled their movement, strayed lightly to his shoulder blades. "I don't think," she added, "that I've ever seen you cry, before. You looked – heartbroken. You were apologizing, and I couldn't figure, because you had nothing to be sorry for. And then I wanted to stay, to come back, to –"
His ipod, connected to the laptop, lit up and activated the computer's speakers. If I could turn back time… if I could find a way…
She smacked him lightly on the back of the head, and he concentrated on muting both devices simultaneously. "I'm being serious," she scolded.
"Sorry," he whispered. I didn't mean to… ye gods, so very serious…
"You said, you wanted to save me." Her hands smoothed down his sleeves, gently but absent-mindedly.
He blinked rapidly, until the tears threatening had subsided. Then he stood and turned, drawing her up on her knees, right to the very edge of the bed, so he could hold her close and tight.
"Mm," she said, nuzzling her face into his neck and kissing him there twice. "You do always make me feel so loved." She squeezed him back, but briefly, and he could hardly bear to let her go when she drew back.
"Freya…" he started, but had no words. He'd promised, after all, not to start this conversation again. Damn promises.
"Come on," she said. "Take a shower and change your clothes. We'll have breakfast and go sight-seeing."
To find the exact location of the lake, Merlin had revisited the news reports and specials of the mid-90's, when the discovery of the Artorius Blade had been fairly big news – especially to the local community - the interest tapering off after experts could not agree on a date of origin or commit to even a guesstimated ownership. And as it had been over twenty years since, it no longer drew the tourist traffic that the town of Glastonbury, the Tor, or other surrounding sites did.
That was good, Merlin told himself. A nice little town – the tourist season had not started in earnest yet, and the festival wasn't until the end of June – and a nice little lake. And the whole area was so loaded with Arthurian references that Freya could not accuse him of intentionally chasing the rumor of a legend. He hoped fervently that she would remember without realizing it – dream the memory, in fact – rather than having her anger at his duplicity block her acceptance.
And, hellfire, what was his plan if she remembered everything? The people the black beast had murdered, the pain of the transformation, the despair of running, hiding, capture. Death at Arthur's hands.
It was a good thing he had Gaius on speed-dial.
They stopped at a café down the street for small crusty rolls of bread, some smoked white cheddar cheese, sliced sausage and cold roast chicken, fruit and flavored water in bottles.
Then he drove – slowly, again – to the lake. Freya changed out the cd for another soundtrack. Grosse Pointe Blank – Merlin groaned to himself. When tragedy befalls you… don't let it drag you down… Yet another story of a man hiding a dark secret concerning his identity, bringing the danger of his job home to the girl he loved. Love can cure your problems… you're so lucky I'm around…
Let my love open the door…. it's all I'm living for… Release yourself from misery… there's only one thing gonna set you free… that's my love. That's my love.
He made sure to approach through the town, first, find a place to leave the car, parked and locked, and carried their picnic lunch and the extra blanket borrowed from the top shelf in the closet of the hotel room.
"Are we going to hike up the Tor?" Freya asked. "They say the view is great."
"Maybe later," he said. They sauntered down the paved road, Freya hugging his arm.
"Do you have someplace in mind?" she said eventually. "You've never been here before, have you?"
"Wish we had some horses," he said. He felt odd, emotionally dizzy. Like seeing the name of a living loved one on a weathered gravestone in some random cemetery.
"You've never ridden a horse in your life," she laughed, slipping her hand down to his to tug at it playfully. Then she cocked her head. "Have you?"
Have the horses ready at first light. Go muck the stables. Looking for something missing – I don't know, the horses! You need to feed the horses first. Not without horses – we can't, it's too late. "Not," Merlin swallowed hard and struggled to keep his voice light, "in this lifetime."
His heart thundered as they walked, making it hard to breathe, so high was he on expectation he could not define, even to himself, followed immediately by the crashing low of melancholy nostalgia. Take her to the lake, it sounded so easy.
He hadn't counted on the effect it would have on himself, how many of his own memories were centered here. His feet stopped of their own accord, and a little eerie shiver ran up his spine. Then he turned and looked.
"Are you okay?" Freya said.
The tree-line to their left had broken, revealing the placid silver surface of the water, a couple-yards narrow verge of lawn going right down to the lazy ripples. No sand, just sloping grassy bank. He lifted his eyes – the island, slightly hazy with mist – the nigh-indiscernible mound of rubble marking the base of the tower.
It had been a slightly different approach, possibly further to the south, where he'd seen his first Sidhe. Where he'd killed twice in a matter of heartbeats, scrambled out into the water that pulled so agonizingly slowly against his hurry, diving down into the murk, and again, dragging Arthur back up to light and air. There that he'd first flung the sword – Calesvol, Caliburn, Excalibur, then – at the great dragon's insistence that no hand but Arthur's wield it. Where no mortal man can ever find it… unless the lake had been left unguarded.
"What's wrong? What is it?" Freya asked, catching the bag of their intended picnic as he raised his hand to cover the tattoo on his shoulder, hidden by his shirt.
There, there he'd held her. It was a shock to feel her now, not limp and breathless in his arms, but standing beside him, arguably stronger that moment than he was.
There Lancelot… and here, Arthur.
The memory hit him as if it had happened yesterday. He found himself in foot-deep lake water, Freya's voice a muffled alarm from the grassy bank. There was no boat beside him – no Arthur laid out, cold and still – his hands and arms felt empty, like he'd lost something, and he turned as if maybe the boat was behind him. But he had sent it on, hadn't he, out into the water – don't go where I cannot follow!
His heart cried in an anguish that tore through his throat, and he fell to his knees in the water, feeling the rough pebbles grind and shift under his hands. No! Arthur was alive – with Gwen – with their son, alive and well. Don't cry, young lovers… forget these wide-eyed fears… bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow – there'll be sun…
"Please," she said, from behind him. "Please come out? You're soaking wet, you'll catch cold." Her voice was deliberately soft and gentle, cautious. He was frightening her, maybe.
He closed his eyes and concentrated, reaching out through the water – the antithesis of fire, which he'd always controlled so naturally, yet still part of the magic that filled him – and found nothing. Lake water. Precipitation – evaporation – condensation.
No Sidhe, not even a trace of their ancient, powerful magic. Not a glimmer of the blade into which Kilgarrah had poured a dragon's power and magic. It was not here. It was indeed gone.
"Please?" Freya said again, and some desperation entered her voice. "You shouldn't be in the water."
He shuddered as he pushed himself upright. He turned, water dripping from his fingertips, his sleeves and the legs of his jeans cold and clammy. "Join me?" he suggested, as calmly as he could, as if his actions were completely normal. "Just for a minute? Take off your shoes and socks, roll up your pants."
She looked at him uncertainly. "The water's freezing, isn't it?" she said. He didn't answer, just held out his hand. "Will you promise to come out again, if I do?"
"I promise," he said. There must be something I can do – some way to save you!
Still she hesitated, their picnic in her arms, her eyes darting here and there on the landscape behind him – lake, trees, island. Then she gave him a dainty grimace and sat down, releasing her armful to the ground beside her. She tucked her socks neatly into her shoes and folded her jeans awkwardly up to her knees. Her skin looked pale in the chill of the cloudy day, her dark red toenail polish endearingly absurd.
Then she stepped in. Her eyes widened and she gasped – his spirit soared.
But only for an instant. "Oh my gosh it's frigid!" she said, wading unsteadily to him. "This would be much more romantic in July, I think. There now, are you happy –" She faltered, meeting his eyes.
He let out the breath he'd been holding. He wanted very much to spread out his arms and let gravity pull him backwards, let the water take him down. It would be a relief from what he was feeling.
Now I've brought the lady back to her lake, and – what? What? Damn it to hell. Damn it all to f-
"Marvin," she said, and the pang that shot through every nerve at her voice saying the wrong name made him gasp. "What is it? What's wrong? Please tell me – I can see you're in pain."
"You wouldn't understand," he said, as gently as possible, his heart clenched like a fist in his chest. He thought he mostly kept his expression from betraying his true feelings. For her sake.
"Is it your feet?" she said, looking down at the ripples around their legs. "This water is so cold it hurts –"
"It's not my damn feet," he told her. If he thought it would do any good, he'd tackle her and submerge them both til their lungs were bursting for air, but… He reached out and brushed the backs of his fingers down her cheek. "I love you," he said. "No matter what else, I hope you always believe that."
She waded a step closer, pressed herself to him as she stretched up for a kiss. "If you love me," she said, "get out of the lake." She smiled, but there was still worry behind her eyes. When they stepped up onto the grass, she cast an apprehensive look at the water as she sat to pull her socks back on. "What was that, a panic attack?" she asked.
He picked up their bagged picnic mechanically. "Something like that," he said.
"Has that ever happened to you before?" He pulled her to her feet and helped her balance as she stepped into her shoes.
"Once. About two weeks after I came to D.C. from Seattle."
"Let's go back to the car," she proposed. "Turn on the heater and get dried off. Maybe there's a shop in town where you can get some dry clothes."
A/N: Information on the exhibit comes from Arthurianadventuredotcom. And again, I'm no historian, I don't support one area over another as the actual location for Camelot or Avalon, I'm just going with one possible option from Wikipedia…
I remembered a reviewer mentioning a possibility of visiting the lake as a way of bringing Freya back – I decided to do that by a fountain in the mall in part 1 (Once and Future Destiny), but the image stuck in my head, which resulted in this chapter. I went back to check so I could credit the reviewer, but it was an anonymous guest… but thanks to everyone who voted in that first fic to bring Freya back! This story would not be half as good without her…
PS. A big fat apology for those who may be a heck of a lot more familiar with this area than I am! If there are any glaring errors, please PM me and I'll try to fix it.
Another apology – sorry this is a little later than usual for me, I found I had to rework one of the sections completely, which lost me a day's writing.
And (sorry for the long A/N, a third apology!) some dialogue from ep.1.9 "Excalibur" and 2.9 "The Lady of the Lake."