Chapter VII: The Lady of the Lake

Arthur Pendragon fell flat on his face.

Merlin, still in his guise as Emrys, fought back a grin, conveniently forgetting that he'd fallen over after his first teleportation too. Perhaps he should have warned the prince, but then again, it ought to have been obvious that he was chanting a teleportation spell. Unless, he realized, Arthur had thought that he was going to pull Excalibur out of thin air or something. Yes, he definitely should have warned him. But it was done, and all he could do now was offer a hand to help him up.

"Where are we?" Arthur demanded, gazing around the dark woods.

"We're in the forest outside Camelot, about ten minutes from the Lake of Avalon," Merlin explained. "Leoht."

Arthur started slightly as the globe of light appeared, but he didn't comment. Instead, he queried, "The Lake of Avalon? That's just a legend."

"You've been there before," Merlin told him. "Think about it, sire. Have you ever been to an area where the land and sky and water all blur together and known that it was not a place for mortal men?"

Blue eyes went wide with realization. "Sophia and Aulfric brought me there."

"Yes." Merlin inclined his head.

The prince's brow furrowed in confusion. "But if it's not meant for mortal men, how did Merlin find it?"

In all honesty, Merlin really had no idea. He could only assume that it was one of the side effects of being Emrys and therefore ridiculously powerful, but it wasn't like he could just say that.

The warlock's hands tightened on his staff, but Arthur didn't notice. Merlin scrambled about mentally, searching desperately for an answer that wouldn't expose him. "…Perhaps it is because he was named for a bird."

Arthur pulled up short. "What?"

"Names are powerful things," the younger man improvised, hoping that he sounded wise and mysterious rather than nervous and confused.

Arthur gaped at him for a few more seconds, but he seemed to accept it. "But what about Sophia and Aulfric?"

"I'll explain on the way there," Merlin told him. "For now, though, hold this." He passed Beothaich over to his prince, who accepted the staff with an expression of vague befuddlement.

"What's this for?" he asked.

"Beothaich was originally created by the Sidhe, who can enter this world through the Lake. Its power will allow you to bypass the enchantments and access Avalon." Probably. He hoped.

"But won't that keep you from getting there?"

Why did Arthur have to pick tonight of all nights to be perceptive and curious? Why couldn't he just be his usual trusting, rather gullible self? Merlin just wanted to go home and take a headache tonic and get some sleep. Was that really too much to ask? "I've had Beothaich a long time," he said, praying that this was the last question.

"Ah."

Arthur held the staff gingerly, but it seemed that Merlin's hypothesis that it would let him get to the lake held water. He wasn't stumbling or straying, though he seemed a bit paler than normal and his eyes flitted constantly.

As he had promised, Merlin told him the (slightly edited) tale of the Tir-mors. Arthur listened without comment, for which the warlock was grateful. He didn't know what he'd say if the prince asked how he'd found the lake without Beothaich.

"I heard you thank me, you know," he said as the lake came into view. "It gave me hope."

"It's beautiful," murmured the prince, completely ignoring his disguised manservant. Merlin would have been slightly offended by that if he hadn't understood completely.

The Lake of Avalon was lovely, just as it had always been lovely. As still as glass, its surface shone silver in the light of the waxing moon, save for where the dark shadows of trees stretched across the water or where white fingers of mist ghosted through the night. A few fireflies darted between the tendrils of mist, lending a bare hint of light and color to the scene. Without them, moonlight and night would have painted the scene entirely in white and black and shades of gray.

There was power here, too, a power which Merlin could feel humming in his veins, could almost hear whispering a welcome. His steps were lighter, more graceful, and even breathing was easier. Though it was night and the moon was nowhere near full, he had no fear of stumbling. He knew the location of every rock and twig and flower around him.

He could feel Arthur's life as well, Arthur, who had stopped in his tracks and was staring at his guide with an odd expression. Merlin quirked an eyebrow in question. Arthur forced a smile. "Nothing. You just look like you belong here, that's all."

"Thank you," Merlin murmured, not at all certain if that was a compliment.

"You're welcome, I suppose," said Arthur, who clearly didn't know either. "So… you threw my sword into the lake?"

When he put it like that, the whole thing sounded a bit ridiculous. "For protection, yes, but also to temper it and give it balance. Excalibur was reforged in dragon fire, and dragons are creatures of the air and the flame. The Sidhe can fly, but they're more beings of earth and water than anything else. The Lake of Avalon helped to balance Excalibur."

"I suppose that magic swords don't rust," Arthur stated.

"The sword will be fine, I promise," Merlin assured him.

Arthur frowned. "But if it's in the lake…."

Something broke the surface of the water and through the misty veil, a shadow across the silver pool. Water gushed down its sides, sending ripples across the lake that seemed to animate the reflections. The images curled and twisted, mist dancing with tree before stilling once again. Now fully emerged, the small wooden boat glided across the water until it was grounded at the shore.

"Shall we?" asked Merlin, wondering where the little boat had come from. He swung himself into the vessel, conjured a light to hang above the prow. The magic was easier than it should have been, even without word or gesture, and when he sat, he was not surprised to discover that the wood beneath him was completely dry.

"Why didn't you just have the boat here to begin with?" Arthur asked as he climbed into it. His eyes were very wide, the whites visible all the way around, and the hands gripping Beothaich were white with strain.

"It's not my boat," Merlin told him.

"It's not?" Arthur froze mid-step, one foot in the boat and one on land.

"It will bring us to where we need to go," Merlin said. He didn't know how he knew that, but know it he did. He felt the truth of the words in his bones. The boat would bring them to the blade. "Come in." He tugged at the prince's arm, helped him enter fully. (Their vessel didn't tip at all as they moved about within it. As with the dryness of the wood, Merlin was not surprised.)

Arthur and Merlin were silent as their vessel floated into deeper waters, Merlin enjoying the magic all around them and Arthur looking rather uncomfortable. Beothaich or no, he ought not be here, and he knew it.

The boat slowed, stopped. Something gathered in the air, a heaviness of anticipation. Mists swirled about them, like fingers grasping. Merlin directed his attention to the source of the surge, Arthur following his gaze.

A woman rose up from the water, her body and raiment dry as dust, a sword gleaming in her hands. She was as lovely as ever, slender and graceful, with golden curls and a golden gown. She was someone Merlin had never thought he would see again.

"Sophia?" Arthur exclaimed.

Merlin's legs tensed as he shifted ever so slightly. The mortal king was under his protection, and she would do well to remember that.

Sophia Tir-mor smiled ever so slightly. "Prince Arthur." She turned her gaze to Merlin, smile widening into a smirk. "Lord Emrys."

(Merlin would not deny it, not then, not there upon the Lake of Avalon. Later, he would wonder what that meant.)

"What are you doing here?" Arthur demanded, clutching Merlin's staff like he was preparing to hit her with it.

"Didn't your warlock tell you?" the Sidhe girl asked, one brow arched in question. "My father and I made a bargain with our kin. Your death would open the Gates of Avalon for me, restoring my immortality and ending my exile."

"You will not touch him," Merlin growled, shifting more obviously so that he stood between the prince and the lady.

Sophia tilted her head, honestly confused. "Why would I? Arthur Pendragon is mortal. He'll be dead within the century."

And Sophia was immortal, had been immortal for a long time. Merlin wondered how old she was. Apparently she was old enough that the thought of waiting decades for Arthur to age and die didn't distress her.

Wait. If Sophia was immortal, then maybe….

"Do you know anything about Cornelius Sigan?" Merlin asked. It was a long shot, yes, but he was starting to get desperate.

"I know that he can be destroyed by this," the immortal replied, looking down at the gleaming blade in her arms. The runes facing up seemed to shimmer with a light of their own. Take me up, they bade. "Whether or not he will be, though, I know not." She stretched out her arms.

Arthur stood, his eyes riveted on the sword. "Excalibur," he murmured quietly, reverently, and stretched out his hand. For a moment he hesitated, his fingers almost around the hilt, but then his gaze hardened and he wrapped his hand around the grip.

"You will do great things with this blade, Arthur Pendragon," Merlin whispered, and knew it for prophecy.

"Yes," Sophia agreed, "he will. But when Sigan has been defeated, Prince Arthur, you must return Excalibur to Emrys. He will keep it safe for you until you ascend your thrones. And if you should perish, on this task or in the days to come, the sword must be returned to the Lake of Avalon. Will you swear it?"

"I swear it," Arthur vowed after only a moment's hesitation.

"Then so mote it be," Sophia said. There was a burbling sound, like a brook running over stones, and she sank down beneath the waves. No ripples marked her passage, and the mists flowed to fill the space where she had stood. If not for Excalibur, Merlin would never have known she was there.

Arthur did not notice. He was still fascinated by the sword in his hands. He gave it an experimental swing (over the water, fortunately, or there might have been problems. It was a small boat), rolled it over his wrist. A grin spread across his face, small at first but quickly widening. He slashed at the air, feinted, parried, stopped. When he looked up, his eyes were shining almost as brightly as the sword. "The balance is perfect," he declared, "and it just feels… it just feels right. Does that make any sense?"

"It does," Merlin assured him, picking Beothaich in his own hands. Arthur grinned again, ruefully this time, at the reminder that his companion also had a unique weapon, one crafted especially for him by the same magicks.

"It feels right," Arthur repeated, more quietly this time. "It's almost enough to make up for…."

The little boat had been moving while they talked, gliding so smoothly that its passengers had barely noticed. Now its hull scraped against the lake's bottom, the prow brushing up against the shore. Arthur and Merlin climbed out. The boat, relieved of its burden, sailed backwards into the mists.

"You're uncomfortable here," Merlin observed.

Arthur grimaced but did not deny it.

"I can bring you home in the same way we arrived," the warlock continued. "If you wish it, of course."

"I do," Arthur said, and shuddered. "Even with your magic, I don't understand how you can stand this place."

Merlin beamed at him. Did Arthur realize what he had just done? Probably not. He was quite oblivious that way. But even if he didn't realize the significance of his answer, Merlin did.

"Bedyrne ús! Astýre ús þanonweard!"

They arrived in the abandoned barracks. Arthur kept his feet; this time, it was Merlin who staggered and stumbled and would have fallen if the prince hadn't caught him. Away from the Lake of Avalon, his exhaustion from the last few days returned all at once. Suddenly it was all he could do to keep his eyes open.

Arthur guided him to one of the cots. "Are you ill?" he asked.

"Just tired," Merlin confessed. "With all the spellbinders your father's been arresting, I haven't gotten much sleep."

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that," the prince muttered. "But for now, I assume you're too tired to do… whatever you were going to do to find Sigan?"

"No," Merlin had to admit. It was really all he could do to keep his eyes open. "It's dangerous to spirit walk when you're too tired."

"Right." Arthur nodded. "Er… when should we meet next?"

Merlin smiled. "I think I'll only have time to spirit walk tomorrow night."

"Why not in the day?" Arthur asked, obviously confused.

"Because I have a job," Merlin explained. At the prince's expression, he added, "Warlock or not, I do need to eat."

The prince's brow only crinkled further. "But I thought you were a druid?"

Merlin touched the iron triskel that clasped his cloak. "I got this from the druids, and I frequently work with them, but I'm a man of Camelot."

Arthur's jaw sagged. "You live in the citadel?"

Oh, he really shouldn't have mentioned that. Gaius would flat-out kill him if he ever learned of it. Wincing and cursing his tiredness (because he was going to blame his exhaustion for his loosened tongue), the warlock admitted, "Yes. Don't bother looking for me, though. This face is an illusion."

Arthur just groaned softly. "Of course it is."

"So Sunday night, then?" the younger man asked, bringing them back onto the original topic. "Is two hours after sunset all right?"

Arthur sighed heavily, rubbed at his temples. "Two hours after sunset on Sunday. I suppose it works as well as anything else."

"Until then."

Merlin teleported directly onto his bed. That was a mistake, as it took far too much willpower to make himself get off it long enough to change out of his incriminating druid clothes. He wanted to sleep right there where he had collapsed, but somehow, he managed to hide the evidence of his nocturnal activities before curling up beneath his blankets.

But the exhaustion was worth it. Arthur had agreed to meet with a spellbinder, accepted a magical sword, even requested magical transportation. Admittedly, that magical transportation had been away from a powerfully magical lake, but the point remained that despite being awkward and uncomfortable, he hadn't been hostile at all towards Merlin-as-Emrys, a warlock and rebel. He'd been downright accepting.

Merlin fell asleep with a smile on his face.

"It's morning, sire," said a voice that did not belong to Merlin. "It's time for you to awaken."

Normally, Arthur would have rolled over and (tried to) go back to sleep. That day, though, he cracked open an eye. No, that was not Merlin. What was this fellow's name, and what was he doing here?

"Who're you?" the prince slurred.

"My name is Malcolm, sire," not-Merlin replied. "Your usual manservant is feeling ill, and I believe that the court physician drugged him into unconsciousness before he makes himself worse."

Arthur sighed. "Of course he has. You're familiar with your duties?"

"Yes, sire. Here is your breakfast." Malcolm-who-was-not-Merlin brandished the heavy plate in his hands. Mm, sausage.

Arthur pushed himself up, an order taking shape on his lips, when he froze. There, lying innocently across his desk, was a beautiful shining sword embellished with runes.

Excalibur.

"Oh, gods," he squeaked. It really hadn't been a dream. He really had met up with a known warlock (who had confessed to about a thousand counts of treason in the hour they'd spent together), gone with him to a magic lake, and acquired a magical dragon sword from the sort-of ghost of a fairy woman who had once tried to use him as a human sacrifice. "I've lost my mind."

Malcolm didn't comment.

But mad or not, Arthur was a warrior at heart. He spent most of the day on the practice field, Excalibur singing in his hands. It felt like the sword made him stronger, lighter, faster. Perhaps it did—he didn't know much about dragon-forged blades, not to mention whatever the Lake of Avalon had done to it.

He made a mental note to ask Emrys about it. Emrys, who lived in Camelot and likely had been born there, whom Sophia had addressed as a lord. That was another good reason to spend time practicing with Excalibur. Without the distraction, he'd go even madder trying to figure out the warlock's identity.

Soon one day was over, then the next, with no sign of Cornelius Sigan. It had been well over a week, Arthur reflected as he climbed the stairs to the eastern barracks. It seemed that the ancient warlock was gone for good.

He said as much when Emrys confessed that he'd spent hours and hours searching Camelot and hadn't found any trace of the spirit. The spellbinder bit his lip, frowning. "Are you familiar with the Crystal of Neahtid?"

"I've never heard of it."

"It's one of the things that I'm going to return once you're king," the warlock explained. Before Arthur could express his indignation, he added, "But that's not important. What is important is what it can do. If a powerful enough spellbinder looks into its depths, he can see glimpses of the future. I had a vision of a raven locked in battle when I looked into it. A Seer friend of mine has had the same vision. Cornelius Sigan is still very much a threat to Camelot."

"If he was, he would have done something already," Arthur argued. "It's been over a week, and the only trouble we've had was an assassin. Cornelius Sigan isn't going to do anything. He can't. He's gone."

That was when the alarm bells started to ring.

Emrys arched a brow. "You were saying?"

Alternate chapter title: "Wherein Arthur Totally Jinxes It"

So why is Sophia the Lady of the Lake and not, you know, Freya? Because even by Merlin standards, "random druidic were-catmonster dies, gains aquatic superpowers" is just bizarre and illogical. Sophia at least has a somewhat plausible reason to be stuck between worlds, and even better, this way I don't have to kill Freya. This IS a fix-it, you know. :)

Next update: September 30. We find out what's up with the bells, and poor Morgana probably STILL won't get her magic lesson. It's been a very eventful week in Camelot, you see.

-Antares