"Send me back."

"No."

"Why not?"

"It's not the appointed time. Not yet. You have to be patient a while longer."

"I've been patient," said Arthur. It was not the first time they'd had some variation of this conversation. It wouldn't be the last, either. "I've been more than patient."

It was going to be a very long eternity, the Lady thought. She was aware that he genuinely believed that he was speaking the truth, which made it slightly easier to refrain from boxing his ears. 'Slightly easier,' of course, is not the same as 'easy.' She gritted her teeth. "Your Majesty. It has been decreed, by ones greater than either of us, that you will remain in Avalon for some time yet. So you are merely wasting your breath and my time. The former is, of course, your royal prerogative, but I think we'd both be best served if you did it elsewhere."

"I'd be happy to," said Arthur. "How about in Camelot?"

The Lady made a grumpy noise, then laughed. "Gods. And I'd thought Merlin was exaggerating. Everything he said about you was true."

Arthur made the split-second decision that he didn't actually want to know what Merlin had said about him, and settled for glowering. Which was probably the wiser choice.

"Arthur," the Lady continued. "I understand your frustration. I share it. None of which changes the fact that it is not yet time for you to return. For your sake, for his sake, and for the sake of my own sanity, I would send you back this minute if I could. But I can't. I'm sorry."

Arthur, with very bad grace, accepted that and stormed back to the great hall. Whereupon, seeing his expression and hastily remembering other pressing appointments, a dryad, a small swarm of pixies, two redcaps, a young elf, and the cu sidhe puppy he'd been playing with all excused themselves.

"That was impressive," Morgana drawled from her seat by the fireplace. "I don't think I've ever seen poor Cavall run that fast."

"Which one was Cavall? The boy or the dog?"

"The dog."

"Probably needed the exercise."

"No doubt. So, brother dear, don't tell me; let me guess. You and the Lady had another fruitful discussion regarding your return to Albion."

"Fruitful's one word for it, I suppose. Rotten fruit. Flung in my face. Like I was a prisoner in the stocks."

She took a look around the room, quirked an eyebrow, her voice heavy with sympathy. "Yes, this place is positively dungeonlike."

He dropped onto a chair with an irritated snort. "You know what I mean, Morgana."

She nodded, the mockery dropping away in an instant. "Yes," she said. "I do."

Her appearance in Avalon and her subsequent reintegration into their circle had been neither simple nor painless. For any of them. Some of them had no good memories of her at all to counterbalance the image of the witch; Gwaine, in particular, had been quite colorfully vocal about his completely understandable disinclination to break bread with his murderer. Those were the easy ones. It was, if anything, harder for the ones who remembered the Morgana they had loved. Gwen, the newest arrival, as well as the one who had been both closest to the old Morgana and the most virulently attacked by the dark one, was still not entirely comfortable in her presence; there had been anger, and tears, and pain, and long, agonizing conversations, and confessions, and they were still somewhat mired in the tentative, impotent so-now-what phase that comes between injury and forgiveness.

Arthur and Morgana's reconciliation had been slow; one step forward and three steps back, but they'd had decades to work on it. And, given that even in the good times, they had clashed on more or less an hourly basis, what they had finally arrived at could be, and often was, what one might politely call acerbic. They were both Pendragons, which is to say proud, strong-willed, competitive, bull-headed, and stubborn. They bickered with the concentrated venom—and unabashed love—of the siblings they had always, on some level, considered themselves to be. It worked.

The Morgana who had been brought to Avalon wasn't exactly the woman she had been before her nightmares became more than dreams, but neither was she the sadistic harpy that she had allowed herself to become. Avalon had healed her—was still healing her, and all the rest of them, if truth be told—but some scars never entirely fade.

"I do know what you mean," she repeated. "It's not fair, Arthur. It was never fair. None of it."

"No," he said. "It's not."

"It wasn't fair then, and it's not fair now," Morgana told the flames in the fireplace. "You can say it, you know. I won't be hurt. It's not fair that I'm here and he's not."

"They keep telling us that it's not about what is or isn't fair. Or what any of us deserve," Arthur said, automatically. They'd had that drummed well into their heads after the Lady got tired of listening to the shouting matches regarding Morgana. They had been treated to an encore after the first dozen times trying to reason, cajole, argue, or outright bully the Sidhe into letting Merlin into Avalon. Being told, in the tart, fed up tones of a nurse dealing with a naughty child, that the sole reason any of them had been brought to Avalon was that destiny wasn't finished with them yet and had nothing to do with their personal virtues or lack thereof was not a pleasant experience.

"True but irrelevant," said Morgana. "It doesn't make any of this right."

"Gods. If he ever heard me going on like this, he'd laugh himself sick. And then never let me forget it. I keep trying to tell myself, he's fine. He's the most powerful warlock on earth; he hardly needs me to hold his hand and make him eat his vegetables."

"He weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet and you could count his ribs. I'm still not convinced that he ate anything at all, vegetable or otherwise. Try again."

Arthur snorted again. "Fine. I'm lying and I know it. He's got more power than any ten sorcerers would know what to do with, but he's also got the survival instincts of a depressed mayfly, and he never once in his life saw a problem that he didn't think could be solved by throwing himself between it and the rest of the world. He needs a keeper."

"…You do realize that you're no different, don't you?"

"Two sides of the same coin," Arthur said bitterly. "Gods only know what great and glorious purpose is served by creating us as a pair and then leaving him out there to suffer and me to lounge here kicking my heels."

Morgana twisted a lock of hair around her finger and seemed to change the subject. "Arthur… do you remember the sleeping curse?"

Arthur's jaw tightened. "When he poisoned you." She'd brought the subject up a few times.

"Yes," she said. "I've had rather a long time to think about it since coming here. To think about why he did it."

"Morgana—we've been over this. You were the focal point of a curse that would have destroyed Camelot. He had no choice but to—"

"That's just it, Arthur. He had other choices. I don't even mean that he could have chosen to let Morgause and I take the city, giving magic-users like him the freedom they deserved. We both know he wouldn't have done that."

"No, he wouldn't have."

"Right. I mean that he could have chosen to truly kill me. I wasn't a priestess yet, and he was always far more powerful than I. He could have whispered one word and snapped my neck, or run me through when my back was turned. It would have been simple. It would probably have been the safer choice," said Morgana. "If he didn't have the stomach for that, he was a physician's apprentice. He knew, and had access to, at least a dozen quicker, surer poisons. Hemlock is a slow killer, Arthur. He deliberately chose to poison me with something that gave him time to bargain for all our lives."

Arthur gave her a long, slow look, head to toe and back. "…That's not how you've described the incident before this."

"No. It's not. As I said; I've had a long time to think about it. I'm not saying that it was a good plan. It wasn't. I felt betrayed, which in turn made everything I did after that feel justified. A lot of pain would have been avoided, on all sides, if he'd either told me what he had in mind or killed me outright. But the intention, the original plan behind the cruelty… it was a strategy that had worked before, when Uther was enchanted by that troll, or when Anhora tested you, or a half-dozen other times. We were in a situation that could only be solved with a death, and he tried to cheat, tried to save everyone. Even me."

"It didn't work."

"In a way, it did. We survived. He handled the situation in about the worst way possible. Because that was also the only way that kept us all alive. Which meant that we still had a chance to make things right. Our story didn't have to end as it did." She met his eyes. "Arthur… I think that's what they're trying to do now."

He frowned. "I know, Morgana. The Lady said so from the start."

She rolled her eyes. "Not just our story, Arthur. Whoever brought us here, be it the gods, the Sidhe, the Fates… they know that something is wrong, that something has been wrong for a long time, and they desperately want it put right. Why else create a Once and Future King in the first place? They're giving us the only chance they can. In the worst way possible. Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"

"I think so," said Arthur. "They're giving us all a glass of hemlock, which we have to drink with a smile because what seems like malice is, in the long run, our only hope. Does that about cover it?"

"Nearly," she said. "We were given a chance, back then. We were given a lot of chances. We didn't take them. And so I spent most of my adult life feeling betrayed and maltreated. I was angry and frightened and alone and lashing out at the people who had loved me, because I wanted to make them hurt as much as I did. I definitely accomplished that much. It was all I ever did accomplish. We can't let that happen again. You're feeling just as angry and betrayed as I did, Arthur, and that's not a good thing. It doesn't lead anywhere you want to go."

Arthur's lips tightened. "Merlin was just as afraid and alone and maltreated as you were, and—"

"And he still is. You heard Gwen say as much. I can't imagine his life has improved since burying his last friend."

"Are you trying to say that you think he's the danger I'm being sent back to face?"

She actually shuddered. "No. At least, I hope not; we both saw what he's capable of at Camlann. I'm saying that you're the one who isn't alone. The one who isn't being punished. When you go back… he might need you to help him remember what it's like not to be in pain." Her breath caught, and she tried to smile. "Take it from someone who knows. It's a shockingly easy thing to forget. And the world is a very, very dark place once you have."

Arthur thought about his father's last years, his descent into madness. Morgana's had been the last blow, the one that broke him, but she'd only finished a process set in motion years before. Uther had forgotten what it was like not to be in pain the day he buried his queen. And he'd taken that pain and made the world a very, very dark place for a great many people. Including his children.

"I'll make sure he remembers," he said, in the brusque, dismissive tone that meant he was deeply moved and didn't want to show it.

"Not only that. Make sure you remember."

*.*.*

Because the gods have a twisted sense of humor, when the summons came, Arthur was in the mews, trying to coax the goshawk he'd flown that morning to leave his glove and step onto its perch. The bird would have none of it; so far as he was concerned, his indignant feather-ruffling seemed to say, he was happy at Arthur's left hand, he had no intention of leaving, possibly ever, and the king was just going to have to get used to it. Stubbornness, it seemed, was not the sole provenance of featherless hawk namesakes.

Arthur recognized the irony—hard not to, really; a bludgeon to the head would have been subtler—and didn't find it especially amusing. At least he hadn't been flying an actual merlin, he thought; that would have crossed the thin line between 'not funny' and 'twisting the knife.'

The Lady appeared at the door, and her lips twitched; obviously, she saw more humor in the situation than he did. "Hello, Arthur," she said.

"My Lady," he said politely, still trying to maneuver the stupid hawk onto its perch. The damned thing only screeched at him and held on a little tighter. It's hard to hold on to such things as one's dignity, and temper, while losing a fight with a bird, but Arthur did his best. "How may I be of service?"

"You may accompany me to the shore," she said, matching his formal tones. Then she smiled at him. "I hope you're up for a bit of a boat ride."

"A boat ride?" he repeated, temper forgotten. It didn't seem real. The hawk, finding himself ignored, shrieked his displeasure and flew to the rafters, where he hunched himself into a sulky mass of disconsolate feathers. "I'm going back? Now?"

Hurriedly, Arthur shucked off his hawking gauntlet and tossed it aside. He looked down at himself—he was dressed for hunting, leather and linen and sturdy boots. Good enough; he wouldn't need to waste his time changing clothes. It was more practical than Court garb, anyway, although he spared a moment to wonder if he would be allowed to bring some of his fae-crafted armor and weaponry with him. He decided not to ask, for fear they might not only say no to the request but change their minds about letting him return at all.

"Yes, right now," she said, taking his arm and leading him away. She must have read his next question in his face, because her eyes softened as she answered it. "And yes. We've summoned Emrys. He'll be waiting for you on the lakeshore."

Arthur reined in a very undignified urge to run headlong for the beach, his head pounding with a no more waiting no more waiting no more waiting drumbeat that all but drowned out everything else. Well. Almost everything else. "I'll just go tell Gwen that I'm leaving," he said.

"No need," said the Lady. "She's at the shore."

Arthur's eyes lit up. "She's coming back with me? And the others?"

"No," said the Lady. "Not this time. But I knew you'd want to say your farewells… and I knew what she'd have to say when you get back if you didn't. Not to mention what she'd say to me if I didn't give you the chance."

Arthur chuckled at that, then turned to look at her. "So I am coming back?"

She looked sad. "Yes. I don't know when, so don't bother asking. But you're mortal, Arthur. You'll live, and eventually, one way or another, you'll die. And you'll return to us. That's the only certainty I can offer you."

He took a breath. They were approaching the shore; a small boat was pulled up on the sand. He wasn't entirely sure, but he thought it might be the same one that had brought him here the first time. "It's more than I had the first time. Thank you, my Lady."

She smiled at him, took his face in her hands, and kissed him on the forehead in blessing. "Thank you, Arthur Pendragon, Once and Future King."

Gwen, as promised, was waiting there. Arthur embraced her, suddenly reluctant to let her go. The last time they had done this, after all, had been before Camlann.

She must have been thinking the same thing, because her voice shook a little as she said, "The other times I sent you off to battle, I hoped you'd stay safe and come home to me. This time… this time I find myself hoping you…"

"Die quickly and come home to you?" he teased.

She blushed. "Yes."

"I think that may have been the most romantic thing I've ever heard you say," he said, straight-faced.

That made her laugh, a little hiccupping sound, and there was only love in her eyes as she said, "Go on, then. Save the world. And tell Merlin I said hi, and that he'd better have been taking care of himself. Tell him I said so, in my 'queen' voice. He'll know the one I mean."

"If it made him obey, I want you to teach that voice to me, sometime," said Arthur. "Gods know my 'king' voice didn't have much of an effect on that stubborn idiot. Right, then—I'll put the fear of Gwen into him. Anything else?"

"Be safe," she said. "I can wait as long as I must, so stay alive for as long as you can manage it. Be safe. And keep him safe. If you can. I never could."

"Neither could I," said Arthur, sober again. "But I'll do my best." He stepped into the boat, then hesitated. There was one very important question he'd forgotten to ask. "Lady? Why am I being sent back? What am I going to find when I get there?"

She actually laughed, and launched the boat with a single shove. "You'll find out soon enough," she called as the boat propelled itself across the lake. "Ask Merlin! He might have a few ideas worth listening to!"

Arthur threw caution to the winds. "Why not?" he shouted back. "There's a first time for everything!"

The Lady's silvery laughter followed him across the lake. Through the mist. And to the edge of a lake that would probably seem unimaginably beautiful to someone who had not spent the last century on the shores of Avalon.

Someone was waiting on the beach. Arthur, who suddenly discovered that he hadn't truly believed until that moment that the Sidhe would really let this miracle happen, let out an involuntary bark of incredulous, triumphant laughter as he recognized the lanky, dark-haired boy standing stock still at the water's brim.

He had been waiting for one hundred and seventeen years, three months, one week, and four days. Waiting five more minutes was not an option. To hell with dignity, with kingly reserve, with dry feet—Arthur leapt out of the boat and splashed the last few feet to shore before not so much embracing the smaller man as engulfing him.

Oh, that moment. That perfect moment.

It's all true, Arthur thought, tactfully pretending not to notice that Merlin was actually shaking with emotion. Tomorrow was soon enough for teasing. It's really true. We have another chance. We really can try to make things right. Maybe no one has to get hurt this time…