"Arise, Sir Vidor, Knight of Camelot. Arise, Sir Caradoc, Knight of Camelot."

Father sheathes his ceremonial sword, gazing at them solemn and austere. "You have been accorded a great honour," he intones, his voice carrying in the acoustics of the Hall of Ceremonies. "But with that honour comes great responsibility. From this day forth, you are sworn to live by the knights' code. You have pledged to conduct yourselves with nobility, honour, and respect. Your word is your sacred bond. You will find no one who better embodies these values than my son, Arthur."

It might just be his imagination, but Arthur thinks he hears a muffled snort from the direction of his manservant. He makes mental note to have the idiot scrub the floors of his chambers later.

Thankfully, Father doesn't hear it, continuing on with his speech. "Follow his example, and you will prove yourselves worthy of your title." He's about to dismiss them to the feast, but a new sound filters into the hall, one that Arthur knows all too well: the sound of blades clashing. Before any of them have the chance to react, the doors of the hall are thrown open. A knight strides in, clad in full armour, sword naked in hand; there's blood on the steel. The court parts for him as he approaches, rippling with murmurs and whispers. The newly dubbed knights quickly form a guard around the King, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, but the stranger pays them no heed. He removes his gauntlet, walks directly to Arthur, and casts it at his feet without a word.

Well, then.

Arthur stoops and picks up the gauntlet before Father has the chance to protest. "I accept your challenge," he says aloud; a bit redundant, as he's already taken up the gauntlet, but there's a ceremony to these things. "If I'm to face you in combat, do me the courtesy of revealing your identity."

The knight nods agreement, then reaches up and pulls off his helm. Except that it isn't a him at all. A spill of blonde hair falls free, and the woman tucks the helmet beneath her arm, staring at him with a clear, steady gaze. "My name is Morgause."

The day is clear and sunny, only a few tufts of white cloud to be seen, yet the King's temper is foul enough that he seems to conjure his own thunderhead.

Morgana knows Uther is displeased with every inch of this situation—a woman challenging Arthur, him being unable to contest the challenge, the potential shame of his son and heir possibly being defeated by a mere woman. So, naturally, she's having a grand time. Merlin had met her before she took her seat and told her of the King's fit of temper, trying to stop Arthur from answering the challenge, and how Arthur had made the offer to withdraw to Morgause and her answering refusal. She wonders why this stranger is so determined to face him, and why she feels some distant flutter of recognition looking at Morgause. It's all entirely strange, but she's learned to relish it.

There's a murmuring as Arthur enters the tourney grounds, walking up to face Morgause. Morgana would rather bite off her own tongue than ever tell him so, but he does cut a very handsome figure in battle dress, deep Pendragon red suiting his colouring, sunlight gilding his hair. It's almost absurd. Out the corner of her eye, she spies Merlin and the soft smile playing at his mouth, and rolls her eyes skyward. She wonders if she ought to tell him he is nowhere near as subtle as he believes himself to be.

"A challenge has been issued and answered," Uther declares, distaste layering every word out of his mouth. "The fight will be to the knights' rules and to the death." He takes his seat. The bell rings.

Within the first full minute of the match, Morgana knows it will not be so easily won. Whoever this Morgause is, she knows how to wield a sword. Perhaps she doesn't match Arthur for strength, but she makes up for it well in speed and grace, able to move swiftly enough to put Arthur off rhythm.

As Morgause presses her attack, a burgeoning sense of alarm swells in Morgana's belly, echoed in the pulse of her blood, until it's all around her like the buffeting of birds' wings. It's rare she ever gets such feelings outside of her dreams, but she recognises it all the same: a warning. Heed this. She knows without knowing that the outcome of this will determine far more than they can reckon, a tipping point of what-might-be into what-will-be.

Gripping the arms of her seat, she stares at Morgause. She knows what a knight's armour looks like. She's seen Arthur in it often enough, has seen Merlin cleaning it. She envisions the leather straps beneath the metal plates, the fastenings holding it in place. When Morgause swings her sword again, Morgana pretends to flinch from the blow, raising a hand to her face, and as the crowd exclaims aloud, she whispers, "Unbinde."

There's a great gasp of awe, and she lowers her hand.

Morgause's armour has come undone, the straps trailing loose over her shoulders, buckles snagging against her chainmail. Suddenly what is meant to be protection has become hindrance. She cannot raise her arms properly.

Arthur changes tack in the blink of an eye, on the offensive rather than defensive, pressing his advantage before she has the chance to recover. Morgause is forced into retreat, awkwardly parrying his strikes. Sidestepping her in one smooth motion, he kicks her left leg out from beneath her. Her sword falls from her hand, and he kicks it well out her reach, shoving her roughly to the ground. Morgause sprawls on her back, and Arthur immediately puts one foot on her sword arm, keeping it pinned as he levels the point of his sword at her throat. "Yield," he orders.

Morgause stares up at him for a long moment; the entire pitch seems to hold its breath. "I yield."

Arthur takes his boot off her arm and sheathes his blade, then holds out an arm to her. She hesitates a moment, then grasps the proffered hand, letting Arthur draw her to her feet. Uther scowls ferociously, but there's a murmuring of approval from the rest of the crowd, and Morgana sees some people nodding.

The thundering pulse of urgency dissipates. The clamour of bronze wings fades.

Exhaling slowly, she relaxes back into her seat, closing her eyes a moment. When she opens them again, Morgause and Arthur have walked to the edge of the challenge ring, the woman knight pausing to speak to him. Hopefully she's accepting her defeat with dignity and thanking him for his mercy. Morgana gets to her feet and makes for the stairs.

She doesn't see Arthur's face go white at Morgause's words.

Arthur might not readily admit it, but he is a creature of habit to those who know him well enough. After what Morgause had said at the tourney grounds, Merlin knows there's only one place the prince will be: the Hall of Portraits.

It's a long, narrow room in the seldom-used north wing of the castle, closed off to most of the servants and guards, and given that Arthur only ever goes there when the King is well-occupied elsewhere, it's fair to say that he's not explicitly permitted to be there, either. He still has a key, though Merlin doubts that he obtained it in an entirely proper way. He only knows of it himsel because he'd followed Arthur after the prince had stalked off in one of his little fits.

The handle turns when he tries it, confirming his suspicion, and he sidles into the room quietly, easing the door closed, careful of the rusted hinges. The exterior wall is full of windows which let in bright spills of spring sunlight, rendered strangely mottled and half-shadowed by the grime-clouded glass. The interior wall is lined and stacked with portraits of the rulers of Camelot, different generations clustered together. At a guess, Merlin would say they went back some 300 years. Arthur's at the far end of it, gazing solemnly up at one in particular—the late Queen Ygraine, his mother.

Her portrait is the only one covered, hung with drapes of sheer black muslin, testament to the perpetual mourning surrounding her presence. The drapes are pushed back for the moment. Merlin comes to stand beside Arthur, gazing up at it.

It's a well-done portrait. She wears a gown of deep blue that brings out the hue of her eyes and a slender gold crown with sapphire points; her pale golden-white hair is coiled up in an elegant, complicated twist, a few locks hanging loose. Her eyes have a look of mischievous humour about them, lips slightly parted as if in the next instant she might laugh or smile. The resemblance between mother and son is unmistakable.

"She died before I ever opened my eyes," Arthur says in a low voice. "I scarce know anything of her."

"Your father?" Merlin suggests.

"He refuses to speak of her. It must be too painful for him. Sometimes…sometimes it's as if she never existed at all. I never even knew I looked like her until I found this place. I followed my father here one day, when I was a boy. Stole his key, made my own." He toys with said key, hanging from a slender chain around his neck. "I still have a sense of her. As though she's part of me."

"She is," Merlin insists gently. "It's the same with me, with my blood-father. I never knew him. My mother doesn't speak of him, either. I only ever asked her once. She wept. I couldn't bring myself to ever ask again after that."

"You had Sir Lionel," Arthur points out.

"I did. And you had my mother." At the surprised and vaguely guilty look the prince gives him, Merlin smiles. "I might be the fool from time to time, but I'm not blind." It had irked him at first, when he was younger, a strange sort of jealousy eating at him, but he'd come to understand it as he got older. In a way, he's almost grateful for it now, glad his mother hadn't been quite so alone in those years they were forced to be apart and glad Arthur had known at least a measure of a mother's love in what he could imagine was a very lonely childhood. "Is that why you're entertaining this idea of finding Morgause again? To see what she knows of your mother?"

Arthur opens his mouth as if to argue, then closes it again and glances away. "Is that so wrong?"

"No. Not at all." Taking up his courage, Merlin lays a hand against Arthur's arms, folded tightly across his chest. "I only ask that you think first. What better way to set a trap than to bait it with that which you desire so greatly?"

"You believe she means me harm?"

"Why would she challenge you?" Merlin prompts, remembering what Morgana had told him, the terrible sense of urgency that'd come upon her during the match.

"She could've meant to prove herself," Arthur protests, albeit feebly.

He scoffs. "You saw her fight. She doesn't need to prove anything. If she'd won, do you think she'd have slain you? Or would she have asked a boon of you? She knows you're a man of honour. She'd make you give your word because she knows you'd hold yourself to it. If she means no harm, she'd tell you freely, not bait you."

Arthur's quiet for a long moment, his face turned away. The brittle sunlight filtering through the clouded windows catches on his hair, gilding each strand and making an aureole of it. It's so easy to forget that he's scarce three-and-twenty, a young man. Finally, he lets out a heavy sigh, shoulders dropping. "Let's go before someone comes searching for us," he says quietly. "Fetch your quarterstaff and my sword, and wait for me in the practice field."

Merlin inwardly sighs but nods and makes for the door. That's fair. A few vicious bouts of sparring will take his mind from it as well as anything else. Still, he's hardly looking forward to the bruises he's sure to earn.

Behind him, Arthur gazes at his mother's portrait for one last moment, then closes the muslin drapes and follows.

Morgause departs Camelot the day after her loss.

Merlin can't say that he's exactly sad to see her go. Something about her makes him…anxious. It's not any one particular feeling that he can name, just a general sense of disquiet, the same sensation he gets when standing in places of the dead. Morgana seems just as unsettled by her, though she still seems disconcerted even now. He tries asking her about it, but she waves him off as merely overthinking. Fretting like fishwives, Mother would say of them.

For over a sennight afterwards, Arthur is in a state, moody and irritable. Merlin knows he's only sulking, but he still has to deal with the royal prat's temper, mainly in the form of sparring and bruises.

"Do you think she's…like you? This Morgause, I mean," Leon proposes as they walk through the city towards the lower town. The weather's fair enough for a ride, but there's a dampness to the air which suggests rain.

Merlin shrugs one shoulder; the other is still sore and stiff with it. "Might be. I'd think I'd have noticed, though."

"Not if she can hide herself. She wouldn't be the first." Leon reaches over and taps the centre of Merlin's chest; beneath his tunic lies the burn Nimueh had given him, long healed over into a shiny scar.

Fair enough. Nimueh had been able to conceal her magic from him when they first met, and if she hadn't revealed it to him, she likely would've been able to do it again. Perhaps Morgause has done the same. It might explain why she challenged Arthur so blatantly, using his own sense of honour to lure him out of Camelot rather than try to ensorcell him. "If she is, she gave up the chase easy enough. Now, if she comes back…" He shrugs. "We'll see."

"Hopefully not. I don't know about you, little villain, but I've had enough excitement for a time."

Merlin shoves against Leon's side. "Will you stop calling me that?"

"Well, brother, you—look out!" Leon snatches his arm and yanks him to the side just as a horse-drawn cage rattles past at a sharp clip. He says a handful of unfriendly words Evaine would've washed his mouth out to hear. The cart stops out in front of the Rising Sun, and the large man driving it climbs down, going inside.

The nape of his neck prickles, and Merlin taps his brother's arm. "Look," he murmurs, staring at the cage.

Huddled in a corner of the cage is a young woman in rags, bound in shackles with chains bolted to the floor of the cage. Her dark hair hangs in unwashed tangles, and she has a sunken, hollow look to her. One of her arms, pale and slender, is marked with a triskelion—a Druid mark.

"A bounty hunter," he murmurs. Uther has long since made it known that he will pay a handsome reward for the capture of anyone with magic. Merlin feels nauseous thinking of it; he can't imagine how it feels, being bought and sold like cattle, much less knowing he's just arrived at the abattoir. "Is there nothing we can do?"

Leon grasps his arm tightly. "No, and I beg you to stay out of it. Bounty hunters are dangerous men. Leave it be," he says.

Merlin lets himself be drawn away, Leon's arm a firm anchor around his elbow. As they walk past the cage, the girl's eyes follow them, full of deep, drowning sorrow.

Merlin wakes to the sound of rain drumming on the roof and a hand shaking his arm. "Ohuh? Wha'?" he slurs out, squinting blearily in the flickering too-bright lamp in front of him.

"Get up," Leon's voice whispers, low and strident.

"Leon? What in seven hells…?" Merlin yaws as he sits up, swiping a hand over his eyes; his brother is well-awake, dressed and half-sodden with rain, curly hair slicked down, boot splattered in mud. "What is it?"

"Just…get up, would you?"

Yawning and starting to be irate as well as confused, Merlin climbs out of the bed and follows Leon out of his chambers, coming barefoot downstairs into the foyer. He halts on the bottommost step, staring.

Huddled in the folds of Leon's cloak, looking very small and frail, the Druid girl stands shivering, her dark hair plastered down with water. Deep red burns encircle her slender wrists where the cold iron manacles had scalded her.

He turns to look at his brother, staring at him darkly. "Stay out of it, Merlin. Leave it be, Merlin. Don't get involved, Merlin," he mocks. "Damn it, Leon, what happened to not wanting any excitement?"

"Shut up. Come help me," Leon growls quietly. He pushes past Merlin and walks over to the girl, putting a gentle arm around her shoulders. She looks terrifically small against him.

"In the library. Come on," Merlin mutters. He walks down the corridor into the library, pushing the doors closed behind them. "Byrne." The lamps and hearth burst into life, filling the room with warmth and light; tucked under Leon's arm, the girl's eyes go wide, staring at him in awe and disbelief.

"Sit down by the hearth, dry off a bit," Leon murmurs gently. "I'm going to talk to my brother."

Clutching his cloak tightly to her, she shuffles over to the hearth and sits down on the cushions. Allegra lopes over, sniffing the girl curiously; once satisfied, she flops down beside the girl, dropping her shaggy head in her lap. A small, watery giggle slips out of the girl, stroking Allegra's coat.

Merlin steps out into the corridor and slides the doors of the library shut. Once it clicks shut, he turns and punches Leon in the shoulder. "What in the hell are you doing?"

"Ow," Leon hisses, swatting him back. "I'm helping her, what do you think I'm doing?"

"Bounty hunters are dangerous men, leave it be," he quotes back accusingly.

Leon sighs, sweeping his wet hair back out of his face. "I know, I know, but…" He heaves a sigh, shaking his head. "I kept thinking about her in that cage. I kept thinking that it could very well have been you in there. And she was…so very sad. So sad. I couldn't just leave her there, Merlin, I couldn't. I had to do something." The corner of his mouth quirks in a ghost of a smile. "And you've created your fair share of trouble lately, I imagined it was my turn."

Merlin snorts and covers his face with a hand, biting his lips together on a smile. "Alright," he murmurs. "There's the door in the cellar that leads to the city tunnels. We can hide her down there if need be, since I'm certain that bounty hunter will come looking for her."

"Wait a few days for him to settle, and then I can take her to the Druids," Leon prompts, and Merlin nods in agreement, rubbing a hand over his hair. "Thank you."

"Mm." Folding both arms across his chest, Merlin stares at the closed doors of the library for a moment, then glances back at Leon. "What are you going to tell Arthur?"

"I'm not going to tell him anything."

"What—?"

"What he doesn't know shan't harm him," Leon says firmly, cutting off any further protest. "It's nothing to do with him anyways. Now, I'm going to stay here with her. She's frightened, and I'd rather not leave her alone."

Merlin props both hands on his hips, eyeing his brother critically. "You're going to stay here? What are you going to tell Arthur about that, then?"

Leon smirks. "I'm not. You are. I'm certain you can come up with something."

Unbelievable. "I am liking this less and less," he sighs, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. He's not had nearly enough sleep to deal with this yet. A part of him is relieved to know the girl is safe with them, and yet he has the sinking feeling that this is going to be a great deal of trouble for all of them.

Smiling a little, his brother claps him on the shoulder. "You begin to understand how I feel in dealing with you when you get into your antics, then," he replies.

It makes him smile despite himself. "It's a good thing I love you, you know that?" Merlin sighs and runs a hand through his hair again. "Alright. Fine. Maiden have mercy on us both. You stay, and I'll manage Arthur. I suppose I can tell him you've taken ill, so don't go wandering about the market. Now, I am going back to bed, or I shan't be awake enough to convince Arthur of the time of day."

He starts to step past, heading for the stairs, but Leon catches him by the arm and tugs him into a brief, slightly damp embrace. "Thank you, villain," he murmurs.

"Call me that one more time, and I won't help you with anything at all," Merlin grumbles as he ascends the stairs.

Leon only laughs.

Come morning, after Merlin leaves for the castle, Leon goes in search of more suitable clothes for the girl. She'd fallen asleep in front of the hearth in the library, Allegra curled up beside her. He'd been loath to move her, so he'd only covered her with his cloak and let her sleep.

Beryl and Elfgifa are both too small to have anything that would fit her, Clory too large, but Leon knows his mother invariably forgets some of her possessions whenever she makes a visit to the city. A search of the wardrobe in the guest chambers turns up a faded blue kirtle, one she wore when gardening; there are faded grass and dirt stains on the skirt and the edges of the sleeves that haven't come out. A little spacious, perhaps, but tighten the stays and it'd suit fine.

He knocks lightly on the door of the library. "My lady?"

"Come in." She's still sitting in front of the hearth, though it'd burned out in the night, still holding his cloak around her shoulders.

"Good morning," he greets, stepping in and closing the door behind him. "Forgive me, but I neglected to ask your name last night."

"Freya."

"Freya. My name is Leon. Ah, here." Leon holds out the kirtle to her. "It might be a bit large on you, but it'll do you better than that," he says, nodding towards her ragged, torn dress, barely preserving decency in places.

"It's lovely. Thank you." She takes it from him and gently strokes a hand over the faded, soft-worn fabric. "Does it…is it your wife's?"

Leon chuckles. "No, no. I'm not wed. It's my lady mother's. She always forgets something whenever she visits. That's the dress she wears when working in the garden."

Her head lifts slightly, a spark of interest coming into her eyes. "A garden? You have a garden here?" she asks.

"Yes, we do. Would you care to see?" He can't take her outside the house, but the garden is walled in and private enough. Nobody would know she was here. Leon thinks on how Merlin is always more himself when out of doors and away from walls made by man; Druids inhabit no cities, only their camps out in nature. Freya nods eagerly, and he smiles. "Well, then. I'll step out and let you change, my lady."

She colours slightly, holding the kirtle closer to her. "I'm not a lady," she mumbles.

Leon only smiles and steps out of the library, closing the doors to give her privacy and waiting in the corridor. A moment later, she steps out in the borrowed kirtle. She's both shorter and slighter than his mother, so the hem of the kirtle covers her feet, the sleeves fall over her hands, and the neckline falls a little off her small shoulders. He offers her one arm as if escorting a courtier to a ball, and she smiles a little, taking his arm and letting him lead her out to the garden. Leon knows he's done the right thing when she takes in a deep breath of fresh air, a true smile coming to her lips. Freya releases his arm and walks over to the nearest section of herb plants, kneeling down on the grass; she runs her palms over the tender tops of the plants, smiling. "It's so lovely," she says happily. She plucks one of the basil leaves and holds it to her nose, inhaling deeply.

"You should see her garden at Silverpine," Leon replies with a chuckle. "The old garden was near this size, but it wasn't to her liking, so she remade one of the courtyards. Hired a mason to pry up all the paving stones and built it all herself from there."

"That doesn't sound like a highborn lady to me," Freya remarks, sounding both awed and amused.

He shrugs one shoulder, sinking down to sit cross-legged and reaching over to tug out a small sprig of weeds. "Mother does as Mother does," he replies. That's what Father had always said of her whenever Leon had wondered why his mother didn't act like other noblewomen: Evaine does as Evaine does, cub. He grins a little more and adds, "She also taught me how to pick locks." Her mouth outright falls open at that. "Is that a Druid tattoo you have?" he asks, nodding towards her arm. It's covered by her sleeve now, but he'd seen it before. "Were you born a Druid?"

"Why do you ask so many questions?" she demands a touch sharply, her shoulders drawing up.

He sits up a little straighter. "Forgive me, my lady."

"No, I'm sorry," Freya murmurs, rubbing a hand over her arm.

"I understand what it is to keep secrets," Leon reassures. "If you wish, you may ask me anything you'd like."

She's quiet a span of moments, fingers plucking absently at the grass, then asks hesitantly, "Do you have magic? Like your brother does?"

"No, not at all. His gifts are his own. Merlin's…quite singular."

Freya regards him through her lashes, dark eyes intent and solemn. "You aren't frightened of him? Even though his power is greater than you?"

The question is posed in all seriousness, yet Leon can't help but to laugh. "Afraid of Merlin? Maiden's mercy, no. Never," he chuckles. "He is my little brother. There's nothing I fear from him. To be true, I fear for him more than anything else. He possesses a streak of…rash nobility that wills itself out at the worst of times."

A flicker of emotion crosses her face, there and gone before he has the chance to identify it; some of the tension goes out of her body, shoulders relaxing. She reaches over to touch one of the flowering plants, brushing the tiny blooms with a fingertip. "You said your mother has a garden at Silverpine. Where is that?"

"It's my family estate. It's in the neighbouring province, just to the south of here." He points in the direction of home unerringly.

"Tell me about it?"

"Silverpine?" he wonders, and she nods. "Well, it's not a large holding by most standards, but we've never wanted for anything. Near a third of it is wild, mountains and forest. It's kept in sheep, wool and meat, but we also have orchards, apples and pears. I was born there. We didn't come to Camelot until I was of age to become a squire." Leon smiles a little, leaning back on his hands and tilting his head up to look at the sky. "I've always thought it's one of the most peaceful places. The mists come down off the mountains and cover everything, and all the world seems to go soft around the edges. The lake is always cool and clean, and sometimes the waters are so clear you can nearly see all the way to the bottom."

"My home was next to a lake," Freya says quietly. "And mountains, too. In the winter the storms whipped up the water into waves so tall you'd think they were going to crash down and take away all the houses. But in the summer…wildflowers and light."

There's a note of longing in her words, a wistful sorrow that he's heard before. He doesn't ask; he can imagine well enough. "Perhaps once it's safe to take you from the city, I'll bring you to Silverpine."

"Perhaps," she murmurs, a strange tinge of sadness to her voice.

Before he can ask what troubles her, he hears Clory call to him from the kitchens. It's later than he'd realised. She'll have lunch ready for them by now. "Would you care for lunch?" he asks instead, and Freya nods, brightening once more. He rises to his feet, brushes off his trousers, and offers her a hand up. "Believe me, my lady. Once you've tasted Clory's cooking, you'll feel a new person."

Freya lets out a faint laugh as she rises.

Her small hand lingers in his, soft and warm.

Leon doesn't want to believe Merlin's warning.

How could a girl like Freya, so small and sad and kind, become some ferocious beast? How could she be the one to viciously slaughter five people? It makes a nauseating sort of sense when he thinks about it—the Druids turning her away, the cold iron scalding her so badly, the deaths beginning with her freedom—but he can't stand the idea of it. Even when Gaius explains the curse to him, he wishes he could cover his ears, ignore the words.

And then the warning bells begin to ring.

He runs towards the sound of guards yelling and the sound of boots on the ground, heart pounding hard enough to ache against his ribs. Freya screams. The sound goes through him like a crossbow bolt. He comes around the corner just in time to see the Bastet—it isn't Freya, not the girl who'd clapped in delight when Clory gave her strawberries—rear up on its hind legs and lay Hengist out with a single clean swipe of its claws. Arthur shouts orders, and the knights move to surround the creature, swords at the ready. The Bastet roars, claws flashing.

He manages to move again, running forward even though he has no armour, no weapon, not even his dagger. Arthur lunges forward, sword aimed for its breast, but the Bastet swats the blade aside, slashing for the prince. The blow would've torn him open, mail or not, had it landed. Leon gets there first, and he feels the white-hot burst of pain in his arm, the very tips of the beast's claws raking his arm as he heaves Arthur backwards. The Bastet's shriek reverberates in his very bones, and he sees a glimpse of a sword being pulled out of its side in a wash of blood, a knight scrambling back from the answering swipe of claws.

A pair of wings open, huge and terrible, and with tremendous buffeting of wind, it takes flight from the courtyard.

"Leon, what—?" Arthur starts, sounding baffled.

He doesn't wait to hear the rest of the question. Ignoring the blood seeping out of his arm, he scrambles to his feet and runs, bolting out of the courtyard and towards the townhouse.

When he flings the door open, sprinting directly through into the garden, he's greeted with the sight of Freya lying in the grass beneath the quickbeam tree, hands clutched over her side; blood runs out between her fingers, thick and fast and dark against her pale skin, near-black in the moonlight. "Forgive me," she sobs. "I tried to tell you. I'm a monster."

"Shh, shh. None of that," Leon rasps out, shedding his jacket and covering her with it. It's already ruined, and he'll never wear it again after this.

"I wasn't always like this." She grasps at his hand, slick and sticky with blood, her eyes pleading. "There was a man. He attacked me. I didn't mean to hurt him, but I thought he was going to kill me. His mother was a sorceress, and when she find out that I'd killed her son, she cursed me to kill forevermore."

He shakes his head quickly, his other hand pressed against her side. "It wasn't your fault. You aren't to blame. You'll be all right." He lifts the edge of the jacket to peer at her side, but it's too dark, and there's far too much blood.

Freya shakes her head. "It's too deep. Please go," she implores.

"No. I won't leave you here." Wrapping his jacket around her, he lifts her up into his arms. She hardly weighs a thing, as if she's made of something less substantial than flesh and bone. There's someplace they need to go.

He doesn't know how they make it out of Camelot without being pursued by anyone; a foggy corner of his mind wonders if Merlin is responsible for that.

Freya stirs in his arms when he finally stops and kneels down on the grass, dew soaking into his trousers. Her bloodless lips curl up the slightest bit. "You remembered," she whispers, gazing at the lake and the faint blue outline of mountains beyond it.

"Of course." He shifts her against him, letting his wounded arm rest against his side. He'd wrapped his shredded sleeve around it as best as possible, already sodden red. He can't bear to look beneath the jacket again at her side. "There must be something I can do to help you," Leon says softly.

"You already have," she murmurs in a thread-thin voice. She rests her head against his shoulder, reaching up to touch his cheek with cool fingers. "You made me feel loved. I never thought I would feel that again."

Leon swallows painfully. "Please...I don't want you to go."

"I'm here," she whispers. "I'll always be here." Freya relaxes against him with an exhale, a last breath as soft as a lover's sigh.

He's not certain how long he sits there, face pressed against her hair as her skin grows cold against him and the blood grows tacky and thick. When a hand touches his shoulder, Leon raises his head slowly, dazed, to see Merlin standing beside him, eyes full of tears; one hand holds a bundle of faded blue cloth, faintly stained with grass and dirt.

Without a word, Merlin sets about collecting armfuls of mast from the forest behind them, tender greening branches, ferns and soft bracken. And flowers. As many flowers as can be found. There's a small boat on the shore, half-hidden in a tall stand of reeds, and he lines the bottom of it with all he's collected. Feeling numb down to his bones, Leon wades into the shallows of the lake and lays Freya in the boat. In the gown, it's impossible to tell she's been so badly wounded. She looks no more than a girl, sleeping. He takes a sprig of yellow flowers and tucks it in her hair behind her ear. Hands on the prow, he wades deeper out into the lake, pushing the boat out onto the waters.

"Wæcce on sæbát bælfýr mæst," Merlin whispers as Leon slogs ashore, beginning to shiver; the boat begins to burn despite the damp and the greenery.

He sits down on the grass, watching it drift further and further out, until the heavy mist swallows the boat entirely, only a faint glow of flame visible.

Merlin lowers himself to the bank at his side; he doesn't ask to see Leon's wounded arm. "The lake is a gateway to Avalon," he murmurs. "The land of eternal youth and beauty. What do you suppose will be there?"

"Wildflowers," Leon whispers, his voice sounding rough and foreign. Tears make hot tracks down his face, dripping onto his arm and stinging in his wounds. "Sunlight. Mountains. And a garden."