AN: Dear readers,

Sorry! I came home from my field school to one of those unpleasant weeks when everything just sort of happens all at once and everyone needs you everywhere at the same time. It was a difficult few days right after I returned, and I needed some time to recollect myself, but thankfully I've re-assembled the vestiges of my sanity now. I know I've neglected to respond to some reviews and PMs, but be patient and I'll get to those in a couple days or so.

As regards the rest of my field school, though, I did find my arrowhead-four in fact-among other things. So I had a great time there! I'm settling back into a regular work/life schedule this upcoming week, and I hope I'll get into a regular posting schedule as well. So, hang in there, and thank you for your patience and all of your kind words about my writing. Your encouragement continues to cheer me.

Yours,
Sandyy

"Arthur… Arthur?" Arthur opened one eye to squint at the speaker. Wasn't she just talking to Merlin? He'd lost track of who was where several minutes ago when he stopped to lean his cheek against the cool window pane while his paper printed out, one painstakingly slow page at a time. The flat was a flurry of activity, and it made his head throb with each peak of noise. He had a lot on his mind anyways, and Gwaine and Merlin seemed pretty on top of the discussion about new living arrangements. He didn't really need to be involved.

"Sorry, what?" he mumbled, lifting his head to look at her. To say that he and Gwen had 'broken up' would be an exaggeration. They'd never been officially dating. Thomas Smith represented one of Uther's greatest failings—in the eyes of the media at least. The press viewed the incident with Smith—and later similarly with Aredian and Gaius—as proof that Patroni were unsafe. Arthur was aware that any close relationship between the two families would be difficult for his father, and that thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. Arthur was bound by his father's political careers almost as much as his father himself. And that was perhaps where he and Gwen had parted ways most plainly.

"Morgana." Gwen enunciated the name with a trace of exaggeration, as if Arthur might have forgotten who that was. "I was asking if you'd talked to her lately. Are you awake?" Arthur winced. Guinevere's mouth was drawn in a thin line, and he couldn't tell whether she was annoyed or just plain impatient with him right now. They had gotten along pretty well since they stopped dating, but Morgana remained a touchy subject. "You could at least say something… even pretend that it bothers you…" That was Gwen's last word on the subject, and it remained to plague him every time Morgana and Uther had another row.

"No to both questions," Arthur answered with a sigh. Of course it bothered him when Uther threatened to cut off Morgana's finances, but it also bothered him that Morgana was getting involved with people like the spearheads of the amnesty movement. He wasn't going to choose sides between Uther and Morgana. In his view, neither one of them was 'right'. They were simply two strong personalities clashing. If it wasn't over magic, it would be something else which set them at odds with one another.

"Merlin seems to think she's in some kind of trouble," Gwen said. "He's worried."

"Nothing new on either of those points," Arthur said dryly and clamped the stapler down over a corner of his paper with an air of finality. Somewhere behind him, Gwaine and Merlin laughed at something Lance was saying. Arthur wondered why Gwen had decided she needed to talk to him now. Wasn't it bad form to chat with an ex when your boyfriend was around, he wondered tiredly.

"She's your sister, Arthur," said Gwen.

"Adopted sister," Arthur replied. He brushed past her to get a glass of water from the tap.

"Oh, that makes all the difference. No need to worry what happens to her, then," Gwen responded with biting sarcasm. Arthur braced himself to turn back around, glass in hand.

"What am I supposed to do, Guinevere? She doesn't want my help, and she won't listen to me anyways."

"You haven't even tried," Gwen rejoined. Arthur pinched the ridge of his nose for a moment. He didn't have the energy for this right now. He felt as if his headache was creeping down his back and across his shoulders.

"No," he agreed. "I'll talk to Morgana when I want a bloody migraine." Arthur almost groaned at the gathering storm he could read in Gwen's expression. He couldn't deal with this. He wanted to shut himself in a dark room and bury his face in a pillow until he felt halfway normal again. "Look," he finished off his glass of water and snatched his paper off the counter before Gwen could formulate an angry response. "Nothing I say will ever be enough for Morgana, unless I denounce my father openly to the press and take up the banner to march alongside her. If you're so worried about Morgana, go talk to her yourself. I have to go turn this in." His empty glass, set askew on the counter, toppled into the sink with a clatter, and Arthur gritted his teeth, as much because of the noise as the fact that Merlin, Lance, and Gwaine stopped to look at him. He tried to ignore Gwen's look, which appeared equal parts surprise and anger. He reached over the counter to snag his keys off the hook by the door.

"Merlin, could you grab something quick for supper tonight?"

"I've brought back food all week, Arthur. You're done with your paper. You can stop by the supermarket this time if you don't want leftovers." Arthur lifted a hand to his face again. The supermarket sounded like hell on earth right now.

"I'll pay for it," he offered. Merlin frowned at him.

"I'm not going to be at the flat tonight. I'm going out with a friend." Arthur held back a groan of frustration and glanced sideways at the American next to Merlin. Gwaine grinned.

"Not me, mate. Merlin's got a lady friend."

"What? Who?" Gwen tore her gaze from Arthur to fix on his dark haired flatmate. The color rose to Merlin's face.

"It's not—We're just—"

"He's got a picture," Gwaine interjected. Arthur let out a long breath and headed to the door with everyone's attention successfully diverted from him.

"I'll just order out," he said to the air, reaching for the handle.

"Arthur." A voice brought him up short. He slowly turned his head back towards the speaker. It was hard to dislike Lance Cabrera. Arthur for one had failed, despite his inclination towards Gwen's new boyfriend. He had won Arthur over before he'd even seen the young med-student together with Gwen—seen the way she smiled around him, and how alike they seemed: cut from the same cloth, really. Arthur sometimes felt like he came from a different world than Gwen when he realized how little she had to live on, even now, and yet Lance—who could barely afford his monthly payments—had offered Gwaine a place to stay indefinitely while Arthur sorted out matters with his father. Arthur made a mental note to talk with Gwen. Perhaps she could get her boyfriend to accept a little payment.

"Are you alright?" Lance asked. He had an open, honest face. His dark eyes were slightly narrowed and searched Arthur's face inquisitively. Arthur pressed his thumb and forefinger to his forehead and sighed.

"Yeah. Just… need a bit more sleep. I'll be fine." Lance's mouth thinned to a line and his brows drew together.

"Alright. Take care," he said. Arthur forced a smile.
"Thanks for putting Gwaine up for a bit."

"Not a problem. I imagine he'll liven things up at my place," Lance chuckled.

"Arthur! Don't you want to see Merlin's girlfriend?" the individual in question called. Gwaine was grinning from ear to ear and holding up a resigned looking Merlin's mobile phone.

"She'll be here when I get back, I'm sure," Arthur said, and he snagged his keys from the hook by the door as he slipped out of the flat. Any other time he might've been happy to heckle Merlin about this girl he'd found, but right now he wanted his errand done as soon as possible… and perhaps get some idea what to do with the problem that had been troubling him all week.

Doctor Sellers lived in his office. Arthur was fairly sure of that now at the end of the semester as the man's door was nearly always open and his light on. Despite his apprehensions about the man, Arthur was drawn to the open door like a moth to flame. The professor's heavy brows, worn features, and particularly his flinty blue-gray eyes stirred a deeply buried recollection each time Arthur saw him. Sellers reminded him of someone he'd seen before, fleeting though the encounter had been. Sellers was a bold man, outspoken for one who had lived through the reign of both The Pure and Uther Pendragon… and it had taken Arthur nearly the entire term to figure it out. Even then he'd doubted himself. He liked the unusual professor, and part of him didn't want to believe what he was seeing. He'd meant to speak with Merlin about this so many times, but Merlin always found a convenient escape from the room when the word 'magic' was aired. And it seemed that his friend and flatmate had other things on his mind now.

Arthur could have left his term paper in Sellers' box in the main office, but instead he made his way to the professor's doorway and stood, looking at the rim of the professor's black-framed glasses, just visible under a fringe of curly silver hair. A gleam of gentle, pale yellow flashed off the sheen of the lenses, reminding Arthur of the golden glow he'd seen three times now; Michael Collins, the day Merlin saved life; the blue-eyed woman whose spiders nearly made a meal of him; and one other—the only sorcerer Merlin had ever witnessed performing magic who intended no harm to him. Arthur could picture the sharp eyed, gray haired man standing beneath a snow-laden tree in Camelot, his hand protectively placed on a young, frightened Druid boy's shoulder—a boy whom Arthur, knowing of his magic, had willingly chosen to save. He'd done it before—gone against his father's laws. Now, faced with that choice once more, all he could think of was the one opinion he'd managed to wring out of Merlin when he brought up the subject: Maybe it would be easier if we left them alone. If we don't trouble them, they won't trouble us. And after all… what had the silver-haired man done that Arthur should turn him in now?

"Arthur," Professor Sellers looked up from his work and removed his dark-rimmed glasses, smiling in greeting. "Did you find a source for your problem?" he asked. Arthur took a breath. He didn't smile back. Sellers knew him. The question that remained was: did he know that Arthur had recognized him? Surely not, or he wouldn't have stayed around to be reported, would he? Arthur pursed his lips.

"There's nothing remaining in the physical record," he said in answer. "All my sources talk about some mystic lore… something called the 'Old Religion' that sorcerers worshipped until The Pure rose to power and brought in a new practice. There's no evidence of either practice though." The professor's eyebrows rose, and Arthur let himself lean a little against the doorframe, closing his eyes halfway. Damn, his head ached. Maybe this wasn't the time to address his problem. What could he do about it now, after all?

"Did you read the work on burial customs, necromancy, and the veil between the worlds?" Sellers inquired. Arthur opened his eyes wide and stared at the professor.

"You don't believe any of that nonsense do you?"

"Whether or not I believe it is beside the point," Sellers answered. "That is where the evidence lies. A great deal of magical lore surrounds the passage from one world to the next, and it is recorded both in literature and stone."

"Stone?" Arthur blinked.

"Ritual circles, cairns, graves aligned with the cycles of the sun, medallions and talismans engraved with the endless knot or a triskelion—there is ample evidence for magic on record. These are only a few of the traditional markers found in England."

"England?" Arthur said then quickly clamped his mouth shut feeling foolish. He sounded like a mindless echo.

"There are different sects and cultures within the magical community, yes," Sellers said. "Just as there are among those without magic. You would find an entirely different set of artifacts pointing to sorcery in Asia or the Americas. You simply have to be looking in order to find them."

"But..." Arthur tugged on a loose strap on the top of his backpack and began tapping a rhythm on his palm to distract himself from the throbbing ache behind his eyes. "If it was so obvious... Why did no one believe in it then?"

"No one?" The professor inquired. Arthur bit back an impatient sigh.

"Okay… maybe a few people… but people thought they were just superstitious."

"Exactly," Sellers agreed. "There have always been the scant few who believed in it, even among the non-magical community, and as you say they were considered mad for most of history." Yes, I knew that, Arthur groused to himself.

"That's not what I meant," he protested. "It was there the whole time. How did it never come out before? People should have seen it." And yet no one has seen you… The professor chuckled.

"You put too much stock in the perception of your fellow man. We are creatures of habit. We see what we are trained to see. If there is anything you will learn from history, Arthur, it is that at least seventy percent of what we see is what we expect. For the keener minded of us, perhaps thirty is observation. Most of us wrap ourselves in a comfortable cocoon of artifacts: people, things, and concepts that we understand. It is remarkably difficult to imagine, let alone see things outside the shelter we have built for ourselves. Not so long ago in the large scheme of history, people believed the earth was only a few thousand years old."

"So you're saying... nobody ever discovered it, because they weren't looking," Arthur drew out the word with a hint of sarcasm.

"That's exactly what I'm saying," Sellers agreed with an approving nod. Arthur's expression remained skeptical. "Make of it what you will. There is no other explanation. Magic users took care to hide their craft in the last several centuries, but the record still shows it." Sellers regarded his student with a thoughtful expression then held out his hand again for Arthur's paper. "Let me see what sources you decided to work with. You're a good student. I'm sure your paper will be fine." Arthur suppressed a sigh and straightened up, shrugging his backpack onto his shoulders again.

"Thank you, professor," he allowed a bit reluctantly and handed over the paper.

"Keep it in mind, Arthur," the professor added mildly. "You would be exceedingly foolish to believe that you know everything about your world today." The tone of his voice puzzled Arthur. He stopped and turned back in the doorway.

"Why not? You always tell the class that there's nothing new under the sun," he said.

"There isn't; there are only new concepts and new discoveries to be made. Like magic. The Pure were just a handful of the many sorcerers living among us. There are many others who remain hidden."

"Like yourself," Arthur blurted. He closed his mouth and tensed. Sellers raised his head and his eyes locked on Arthur. And then to Arthur's amazement, the skin around his eyes creased in fine lines of amusement… and he laughed.

"Found an easy way out of taking my final exam, have you, Pendragon?" There was no molten gold sheen of magic in his eyes; no fear; no surprise. Only the poignant change of address. No longer Arthur. He was a Pendragon. Iseldir Sellers held his gaze, and tension crackled in the air between them. The question rose unbidden to Arthur's mind. What will you do, Arthur Pendragon? Ruin another person's life, as you did Brigid Fyr's?

"No sir. I'm not worried about passing your exam." If he was surprised, Sellers didn't show it.

"Good. I'll see you on Tuesday then." His smile returned. "Get some rest, Arthur. You look like you need it."

Arthur wholeheartedly agreed with that sentiment. The cool air outside still did little to sooth his aching head. At this point, he wouldn't even have cared if Uther came storming into his flat threat with threats to disown him. Just as long as he got some sleep…

Merlin drummed his fingers on the screen of his mobile. It was growing late, and the setting sun's thin rays gleamed off the surface of the puddles at Merlin's feet.

Everything alright? he wrote, stopping to lean his knee against a short brick wall at the end of the row of apartments.

Yep. Sorry, almost there. Got off work late. Where are we going? Merlin grinned and answered the text:

No hurry. It's just a 10 min walk. You'll like it. He sat down on the wall beside him as the minutes dragged by and wondered what exactly Freya's idea of 'almost' was.

He'd left Lance and Gwaine in the coffee shop across from campus, chatting over their mugs like two old friends. In the interest of peace for all parties involved, he and Arthur had sought a temporary home for their extra flatmate, and the serious-minded medical student had hit it off remarkably well with their lackadaisical ally of the previous week. But since he left the café, Merlin's thoughts had scarcely touched on Gwaine, or even Arthur's poor humor. Each time he saw Freya, he grew certain that there was something much more twisted going on than he'd at first suspected. The day before, when he'd come looking for Freya, he'd seen Halig—for a name was all he'd wrung out of his inquiries—leaving her flat.

"How did you get involved with him?" Freya always kept her eyes on the ground when he talked about Halig.

"He's not my boyfriend," she'd answered miserably. And that shot Merlin's last theory. This was more than an abusive ex or present boyfriend. He knew something, and Merlin had to tread carefully… because Freya was afraid, and he wasn't going to make things worse for her. She'd been quiet for a long moment before adding, "Sometimes you can't trust people."

Merlin was patient, though, and he hoped she would feel that she could trust him if he let her talk in her own time. She needed help, and he wasn't about to give up. Until he understood what Halig held over Freya, he could keep her out of the man's way as much as possible. And he knew a spot Freya would like…

"My home was next to a lake. In the summer, the wild flowers grew on the hills around it, and you could see so many colors reflected on the water when the sun set… It was like heaven." He wondered if the rivers around Oxford looked anything like the ones Freya told him about near her home in Sweden. And what had driven her to England… Perhaps she had a story to tell, like Gwaine, if he only waited until she worked up the courage to tell it.

Merlin looked up from his phone and tilted his head. The sunlight was half hidden behind the buildings, so he couldn't make out any figures, but he heard hurried sounds of feet scuffing against he pavement, then a muffled cry. His heart leapt into his throat.

"Freya?" He slipped his shoulder out from under the bag he'd brought and sprinted towards the noise. "Freya!" The shadows were long, and Merlin didn't dare try to light anything within them using magic. He veered into the little gap between two apartment buildings, following the noises of the scuffle. There were only two figures, and he recognized Freya's attacker from the week before by his stocky figure and short-cropped brown hair. He had an arm tight around Freya's waist, pulling her against him and his other hand was fisted in her hair, keeping her from twisting free. Merlin didn't stop to shout a threat or warning. He lunged for the pair, his magic flaring to life in fierce protection, but even as he did so, he felt a flash of realization. It was humming in the air, clear as day; he wasn't the only one with magic here. He could feel it, but he didn't have time to search for the threat. A split second later, the ground spun out of sight, and he was flat on the cement, dizzy and breathless. What… Merlin rolled over and hauled himself to his feet. His eyes took a moment to focus, and he turned his head, searching frantically. "F-Freya!" he gasped. She froze like a deer before a hunter, and he locked eyes with her as a molten-gold glow faded away to amber brown. My god… Merlin blinked dazedly at her. He'd been lucky. To his left, Halig lay half-slumped against the wall, unmoving.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," Freya sounded close to tears. Merlin stepped forward, and she shrank away.

"What happened?"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry!" she repeated, her voice rising. "I couldn't tell you, Merlin, I just couldn't. Please don't turn me in. I'll leave. It won't happen again, I swear!" Merlin took another swift step forward and she backed up against the wall, shielding her face with her arm.

"Freya!" Merlin stretched out a hand, conscious of her panic, and his fingers brushed her arm with a light touch. "We have to get out of here," he urged. She shivered, perhaps as much from fear as cold. Her jacket lay somewhere behind them on the ground, torn. Merlin reached past her arm and coaxed her face towards his own. "Freya! It's all right. I'm not going to turn you in." Her downcast eyes flitted up to his face. She shook under his touch. "It's okay. You're okay," he insisted in a soft voice. "Come on. You need to get home." Her eyes locked on him, and he took it as permission. He slipped his arm around her shoulders and steered her around towards the apartment, darting frequent looks over his shoulder for fear that someone had seen. But before he left, he snagged Freya's jacket from the pavement and draped it around her shoulders. He had no idea how badly Freya hurt her assailant, and he didn't dare go back to check. A hunch told him that Halig would never speak against Freya, or against anyone in the future. He looked still—too still. They couldn't afford to leave anything here. He turned his head, and his eyes flickered the faintest shade of golden-yellow as he cleaned away any footsteps they'd left from their wet sneakers.

Freya followed Merlin's lead silently until he ushered her into her apartment and shut the door. She pulled away and sank into the couch, burying her face in shaking hands. Merlin crouched beside her.

"Are you alright?" She nodded. "What did Halig make you do? Did he tell anyone else about you?" She shook her head.

"He made me copy notes when he needed money. Just some pounds… but he wanted me to do other things I didn't know how to do…"

"So no one else knows," Merlin pressed. She shook her head, and he relaxed a little.

"Why are you still here?" Her voice, as weak and broken as she looked, made Merlin's throat tighten. "Why aren't you afraid?"

"I don't see anything to be afraid of," he said. Freya flinched away when he put a hand on her shoulder. "Freya, please... Look at me." The dark haired girl's eyes, wide and fearful, flitted to his face and travelled down to his outstretched hand. Merlin cupped his hand before his mouth, aware that it was trembling, and whispered,

"Forbærne." Merlin held up his hand before her eyes and slowly uncurled his fingers. He watched her face and saw the tiny flame reflected in Freya's eyes as it leapt and danced in his palm.

"You..." She reached out to feel the warmth of the flame. Merlin let it flicker out in its oscillating pattern. Her fingers traced the spot in his palm where the flame had been.

"I'm like you," he said. She blinked at him, and a tear trickled down her cheek.

"You're not like me. No one is like me." Her voice shook. "I can't control it. It just... lashes out. I'm dangerous. I hurt people." Merlin's breath caught somewhere in his throat. Is there something wrong with me? Are they right to be afraid?

"He hurt you first. You were defending yourself," he said firmly, his jaw setting with determination. In some ways, it changed everything… Freya was like him, and it made his insides twist with dizzy excitement. But at the same time, she was still the same girl whose shy smile won him the day he picked her books off the floor in the library—who sat with him on the bench in the park and exchanged tales of home—Sweden and Ireland and all the things they missed, the people they left behind… the girl who surreptitiously stole a strawberry from Merlin's lunch when he wasn't looking and looked so chagrined when he caught her. And how anyone could see her as a monster—as dangerous—was beyond Merlin's imagination. "It's not your fault," he said. "I was like that too when I was younger. No one had taught me to control it. But you can learn. I can help you." Freya shook her head again, blinking away tears.

"I can't stay here… I can't. Something will happen again. Someone will find me."

"Then we'll leave. I'll find a better place," Merlin insisted, leaning forward.

"You can't… Merlin, you have a good life here. My life is… I have to keep moving, always looking over my shoulder… people chasing me."

"I don't care. I don't want to stay here," Merlin said. "Freya…" He tentatively touched her cheek, turning her face towards his. "You really don't understand how special you are… do you?"

"Merlin…" she shook her head slightly.

"I promised I'd help you," Merlin interrupted stubbornly. Freya lifted her head and blinked at him with pained brown eyes. He turned her face towards his gently and squeezed her hand. "We'll leave the country—go somewhere no one knows us… America maybe. Their bill will pass. I'm sure of it." Freya pulled her hand away from his and shook her head.

"They'll send me back. America and Britain still have an extradition agreement."

"Freya," Merlin's voice acquired an edge of intensity. "You've done no crime. What happened was only self-defense. They won't send you back."

"That won't be the way everyone sees it. America won't destroy good relations with him just to protect me," Freya responded softly.

"Sweden then—or Norway. They're not worried about offending Uther Pendragon. You'll be safer away from Britain anyways. I'll teach you how to control this," Merlin caught her hand again and laced his fingers with hers. "And you can teach me the language, right?" That got a tiny laugh out of her.

"They're not quite the same—Swedish, Norwegian," she said. Merlin shrugged.

"You haven't given me an answer yet," he coaxed with a hopeful smile. Freya lifted her eyes to meet his. She brushed the tears from them with her free hand and returned a small, shaky smile.

"I want that more than anything." Merlin's heart soared, and on a moment's impulse, he leaned forward and kissed her.

Merlin didn't leave, even after the light faded and curfew was long past. Freya still shivered from time to time, and he drew her close, and he waited until he felt her breathing even out before he allowed himself to doze. The sirens wailed some time in the middle of the night. Merlin opened one eye and without moving from his place turned the blind slats down to shut out the lights of the emergency vehicles. Freya stirred, and Merlin let his cheek rest against her hair. He didn't know what sort of investigations the Patroni might start after they found the body, or what struggles Freya might face, but Halig wouldn't trouble her anymore… and he would find a way to protect her. Because Freya deserved it… and because for the first time in so many years, he wasn't afraid of himself… There was no need to hide anything—no need to worry what she might. With her, he could simply be who he was.