It took eighty-four years, that second time. Arthur tried to be patient. Then he tried to distract himself. Among other things, he spent a great many hours on the practice grounds using only his left hand. This meant that, at least at first, he spent a great many hours losing duel after duel, an experience he hadn't had since he was eight and hadn't enjoyed then, either.

Slowly, though, he began holding his own, then winning occasionally, then winning regularly. Once he was satisfied that he was at least as good with his weaker hand as most knights were with their stronger one, once the challenge was gone, he lost interest in the game. So that was one year.

Quests. Quests were always good. He became friendly with a Sidhe-knight called Gwyn, and the two of them, accompanied by whichever of his other knights he was able to inveigle into joining the fun, spent the equivalent of several decades sporadically chasing after an improbably long list of magical artifacts, including a magical brush and comb that he ended up giving to Gwen as a birthday gift and a boar's tusk sharp enough to shave with.

Training. Tournaments. Hunting. Feasts. Gambling. Anything to make the time pass; anything to keep himself from fretting like an old auntie sitting by the fire fussing about woolly vests and uneaten greens.

It wasn't working. No matter what he tried, the thoughts kept coming back, ambushing him whenever he least expected it. What was happening to Albion while he played with the elves? Had the Saxons been repelled? What was happening to his country?

What was happening to Merlin?

He'd stopped nagging the Lady about his return to earth. She thought that should have been a relief; it wasn't. He looked like what he was—a man driving himself as hard as he could in the hopes of outrunning his own thoughts, and it made her uneasy.

She remembered that expression making her uneasy when she'd seen it in Merlin's face, too.

Freya had been telling him for nearly two centuries that there was nothing she could do to send him back before the appointed time. She hadn't lied. But, she thought, maybe someone else could.

She stepped into the water, swam out a few lengths, until she felt the familiar ecstasy as her body begin to shimmer and dissolve, becoming one with the lake in an indescribable communion with the Power she served. She didn't know who— or, more likely, Who— she was addressing, but she spoke her piece nevertheless.

"You have to send him back," she said. "Soon. He's not going to make it much longer."

It wasn't a voice she heard in answer; in fact, she wasn't even sure it wasn't simply her own imagination asking her, Which one?

"Either of them, really," she elaborated. "What good will they do you if they're grieving themselves to shadows? What could it hurt to send Arthur back to earth for a little while?"

Again that response that she couldn't swear wasn't her own mind playing tricks. It is not yet time. Albion is not currently in need of her king.

"At least let him see what's happening in his absence," Freya bargained. "I could scry for him. Let him see for himself that all is well."

She shuddered with the force of the wordless No that filled her mind. Avalon is for rest and healing. The outside world has no place within its borders.

"But he's not healing! He's—"

It is your responsibility to see that he does.

"But I—"

It is your responsibility.

And not a word more. She surfaced, stepped back on the shore. She was dry, as always, except for her cheeks, which were wet, and not with lake water, either.

There was an old saw to the effect that what the eye didn't see, the heart didn't grieve after. It was a lie.

She knelt by the water's edge, scooped up a handful of water, and gazed into it. She was not permitted to tell Arthur what was happening in his absence. Fine. Nor was she allowed to contact Merlin. So be it. She would watch over Albion, for her own knowledge and benefit, and do her best to guess when the land's need would call her king from his rest. And she would, as best she could without going into specifics, prepare him for what he would find when he stepped onto Albion's beleaguered shore.

Frustratingly, she saw nothing of note. Farmers tended their fields; towns buzzed with activity. The Powers were right, damn it; Albion did not currently need her king. She opened her hands, let the water spill back into the lake, stymied but not defeated. She would scry again the next day, and the next; she could even make the argument that it was her duty, as Avalon's guardian, to be prepared when next her charge was called to the world. Much later, she wondered if, perhaps, she had been intended to be doing this all along, because she made no attempt to hide what she was doing, or why, and yet no one challenged her as she gazed into the waters day after day. And, more importantly, no one objected when, day after day, she put a hand on Arthur's shoulder and shook her head gently, murmuring, 'all is well.' Although no one liked the look of impotent frustration on Arthur's face as she said it, either, Freya least of all.

All things considered, it was a relief to pretty much everyone when the Lady led Arthur to the shore and cordially invited him to get the hell on the boat and leave her in peace. She phrased it a bit more politely than that, but the meaning was clear, and the amused glimmer in her eyes sapped it of all sting, for it said that she was happier for his sake than she was for her own.

As the boat touched the horizon and vanished, Gwaine, who, with most of the Round Table, had trailed Arthur to the shore to wish him a good journey, turned thoughtfully to the Lady.

"You know, it's hard to post proper watches with only two people, and Merlin never was much good with a sword. Maybe next time I ought to go along with—"

She cut him off. "Sir Gwaine. Don't even start."

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

The gentle rocking of the small boat felt soothing. Arthur knew he was heading into a serpent's nest—he would not be on his way back to earth if the situation was not dire— but he didn't care. Let there be danger. Let there be discomfort, or hunger, or outright pain. Let there be anything the gods chose to throw at him; he could take it. He asked only two things—first, that he could help alleviate whatever catastrophe had befallen his people, and second… well, that went without saying, didn't it? And he was bloody well not going to say it, or even think it. It was too close to sentiment.

Arthur was, at heart, a protector. Perhaps he would have had that drive anyway; it was possible. Probable, even. But a lifetime of having it dinned into his head that he was meant to stand between his people and any and all danger had left its mark. To be Arthur was to be, first, last, and always, a defender.

And it was patently obvious, to himself if no one else, that he had done a piss-poor job of protecting the man who had spent two lifetimes protecting him. He promised himself that he would do better this time.

"How much longer did it take after I died to repel the Saxons?" he asked as the passengerless boat sailed itself away across the lake.

Merlin laughed ruefully. "I wondered how this would work," he said.

"How what would work?"

"Well, this is easier than language lessons, anyway. Or translation spells," said Merlin. "Arthur. Count to ten, all right? And listen to yourself as you do it. The words, not what you think you're saying."

"I'm glad to see you're still making as little sense as ever."

"You're the one who told me not to change. Just do it, okay?"

"Fine," Arthur said with a put-upon sigh. "One. Two. Thr—what in hell? What language am I speaking?"

"Saxon," Merlin said. "It's the common language nowadays. Some of us still speak our language, but everyone knows at least some Saxon. We didn't repel them. They settled here, started families. Most of them are farmers."

Arthur swallowed hard. "We were conquered?"

Merlin's face was expressionless. "Pretty much. Too many of them came here—not just the soldiers, either. It was women and children, too. Towards the end, it was more like they just… had always been here. They married us into submission."

Hearing of the fall of Camelot had been a blow. Nothing could have been worse than that.

Or so he'd thought.

"I'm sorry, Arthur. I… held them off as long as I could."

"You're just one man," Arthur said numbly. "It's not your fault. I know you did everything you could."

Merlin nodded, accepting if not agreeing with Arthur's tacit forgiveness.

"What have you been doing these last few decades? Medicine still?"

"Not the whole time. I fought in the last few battles against the Saxons; that was, oh, a year or two. They took us captive in the end, sent me and most of the other fighters to the tin mines. So that was another eight or ten years. After that—"

"The tin mines?" Arthur knew a little about what the conditions were like there; enough to know that he didn't want to know more. "You let them send you there?!"

"Why not? The war was lost. You were dead. I had nothing else to do but wait. The mines were as good a way as any to pass the time."

Arthur had no particular experience as a cattleherd, but he knew bullshite when he heard it. Virtual slavery in the tin mines was not 'a way to pass the time.' It was a mostly self-inflicted punishment that his warlock had decided he deserved for not being able to singlehandedly hold off wave after wave of invaders. Arthur thought that he was probably lucky that it hadn't occurred to Merlin to lock himself back up in the Crystal Cave, and wanted to be sick.

Instead, he cuffed him. "You idiot. Did it not occur to you to find something a a little less… pointless to do while you wait, all right? Be a physician or something. Or learn another trade. Hell, inflict yourself on some poor unsuspecting knight as a manservant if you must; I don't care. Anything."

Merlin chuckled. "I'll see what I can do," he promised. "For now, though, shall we go save Albion in its hour of greatest need before I go apprentice myself to whoever will have me?"

"Oh, I suppose we might as well," Arthur drawled. "Where have you been living lately?"

"Out of a pack," Merlin said cheerfully. "I got you a horse when I felt the call, so we can go anywhere you like."

Arthur squinted. Picketed a ways off were two bone-racks that he assumed were the horses, because calling them crowbait would have been too kind. He missed the silver-maned unicorns he usually rode in Avalon, almost as much as he still missed the lovely, sure-footed Llamrei that had been his favorite mount back in Camelot. He considered commenting on Merlin's choice of mounts, but decided against it; they were almost certainly the best he'd been able to afford. Or else he'd felt sorry for beasts no one else wanted, softhearted girl that he was. No sense in turning up his nose at the only horses they currently had, either way.

"They'll do for now," he said brusquely. "Maybe we can steal something a little less… pathetic later on."

"Spoken like a true monarch," said Merlin, straight-faced.

"It's not 'stealing' when a king does it," Arthur said, in a lofty tone.

"My point exactly."

Arthur mock-glowered, but couldn't think of a way to argue with that. "Well, what are you standing around chattering for? Let's go!"

"Where are we going?"

"Well, let's see. I've been dead for eighty years, while you've been wandering over the countryside. Which one of us do you think has more up-to-date news about what might be happening?"

"If I tell you the news, I take it that doesn't count as 'chattering,' huh?"

"Merlin…"

The familiar irritated overemphasis on the first syllable of his name seemed to tickle his fancy; he grinned at Arthur, as wide and cheeky as that first day in the marketplace. Arthur relaxed; this was the version of Merlin that felt like home. No grim resignation or overburdened silence, the weight of the world visibly bowing his narrow shoulders. No tin mines for this one. Not yet, and, Arthur prayed, not ever again. "Well… there's been some trouble with Northerners raiding. Shall we go see what that's all about?

"Sounds like fun," Arthur said, and swung himself into the saddle of the better of the two horses, partly from habit, and partly because he knew that Merlin would insist on it.

Merlin mounted the other. "There are a few things in your saddlebags," he said, nodding towards the packs tied to Arthur's saddle. "Nothing much—bedroll, change of clothes, belt knife, that kind of thing—but we can get you anything else you need at the first town we come to. I have a little money."

"Enough for a sword, or do you happen to know of any more swords stuck in stones around here?"

"Funny you should ask," Merlin said. "It was going to be a surprise, but you never could wait for anything, could you? C'mon. This way."

"Wait—you really did stick another sword into a rock?"

"Something like that. What can I say? It's a habit."

And he didn't say another word on the subject as he led Arthur through the woods, to a clearing with a large rock gleaming in the sun. Arthur was fairly sure he recognized the stone, but there was a conspicuous absence of swords jutting out from it, so he couldn't be entirely sure. Merlin dismounted, tossed the reins over a convenient branch, and walked straight past the large stone and towards a smaller cairn in its lee.

"Is that a grave?" Arthur asked, dismounting as well.

"Sure looks like one, doesn't it? But no. Just a marker," said Merlin, beginning to dismantle it.

Arthur knelt beside him, helped him move the stones. "Is there a reason we're doing it this way rather than by magic?"

"More fun," said Merlin, and stuck a branch underneath a particularly large rock, trying to lever it away. The branch broke, and he pitched forward.

Arthur smirked. "You're right. It is more fun this way."

Merlin scowled, and flicked a finger at the stones, all of which obediently rolled away. Beneath them was a sort of screen of woven reeds. He sat back on his heels. "There. All yours."

Arthur lifted away the reeds. Beneath them was a small trench, just big enough for a bundle wrapped in oiled cloth. It was, of course, a sword.

Not Excalibur, of course. Nothing as special as that. Just a plain, well-made sword in a scabbard of undecorated leather. It was a sword like a thousand others, at least until he picked it up and noticed that it was precisely the correct length and weight for a man Arthur's size, that the grip and quillon were perfectly shaped to his hand, and that the balance was excellent—far better than anything he'd owned during his last lifetime. "How… when did you put this here?"

"About… um… twenty years ago," said Merlin seriously. "Maybe thirty? After I left the mines, I kept remembering the pieces of junk we both had to use during the war. Better equipment might have made a difference. It bothered me, you know? I got to thinking that you'd need something decent when you got back, so I commissioned this from the best smith I could find. I figure I can keep burying it after sending you back to Avalon, and then it'll always be there when you need it, no matter what happens in the meantime."

Arthur swallowed. That was the first time either of them had acknowledged aloud that, yes, he really was going to die, again and again, possibly forever. "Good planning," he said, and buckled it around his waist. "But speaking of better equipment. What ever happened to that staff you used at Camlann? Did you bury that, too?"

"No, Loholt burned it on my funeral pyre," Merlin said, regret clear in his eyes. "It was a shame, too; Sidhe craftsmen aren't exactly thick on the ground. I was never able to replace it."

Aside from the sword in his hand and whatever Merlin had put in those saddlebags, Sidhe craftsmen had made everything that Arthur currently owned. He looked down at the sword and bit his lip, wondering if he couldn't return the favor, one of these lifetimes. "That's too bad," he said.

"Probably better in the long run. At least it didn't fall into the wrong hands; that could have been messy," Merlin shrugged it off. "I've had nightmares about a few of the things we had locked away in the vaults at Camelot turning up out of the blue. I mean, for all I know, Cornelius Sigan found someone to possess after the citadel was looted and he's walking around right this minute planning mischief."

Arthur started. "You don't really think so?"

Merlin glanced up at the sky. "Haven't seen any gargoyles flying about lately, so no, but I've had the nightmares anyway." He grinned at Arthur. "Don't worry; I'll protect you. I took care of him once; I can do it again."

Arthur scoffed eloquently.

They had almost eight years, that second time. Long enough for legends to spread—they were grist for every half-skilled minstrel in the land—and for the monks to begin chronicling their deeds, although it was often anyone's guess as to which group was the more creative. Long enough for 'he's no Arthur' to become idiomatic for a brave warrior, emphasizing that no one could truly be compared to the Once and Future King, and for Merlin to be given the epithet 'marvelous,' which Arthur teased him about mercilessly.

They were good years, all things considered, but they went by too quickly, as good years always do. Arthur wasn't ready to die, when it happened, but he was grateful for one thing. The battle where he fell was a harsh one. And Merlin had been killed almost half an hour before Arthur was, on a different part of the field; neither of them had to suffer through watching the other one suffer. As such things go, that was almost merciful, he thought as he stepped out of the boat and onto the sand. The key word being 'almost.'

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: I made a bit of a pasticcio of Arthurian side characters. Gwyn ap Nudd was a Welsh mythological figure, the king of the Tylwyth Teg and Lord of Annwn, and I intended no offense by downgrading him to a simple faerie knight; I'm trying to keep it very vague as to who, exactly, is in charge of Avalon. The quests I described him accompanying Arthur on are all drawn from the poem 'Culhwch and Olwen,' in which Arthur and his men (including Gwyn) help a young knight fulfill an absolutely insane number of impossible tasks imposed by a giant for the hand of his daughter. The poem as we have it today only describes a few of these quests and the happy ending; presumably at one point all of the tasks had their own section of the poem.

The expression 'he's no Arthur' really did crop up in at least one Dark Ages document, praising a warrior who had done well. Some scholars think it was a later interpolation from a time when Arthur was an established mythic hero, others think it has to be authentic, partially because anyone trying to forge Arthurian history would have been flashier about it. And Merlin really is called 'Marvelous' in a number of sources… which I think Arthur would have found hilarious.