Chapter One

In Which the Wheel Turns at Last

Merlin swears to himself that this is the last time. He had thought the same on the trip before, when he had heard that same flare of power somewhere in these woods. But there had been nothing. Again. No matter how many times he felt such power, no matter how many times he let his hopes up once more, Arthur was never to be found. It had been so many years since Camelot, so many deaths of friends and family that it made his heart ache. Sometimes he had thought of giving him up. But if there was even the slightest chance that Arthur would return, only to find no one there to help him, he would consider that his true failure.

He listens quietly from atop his horse. Around him, the closest one at least a dozen feet away, the seven of the Royal Guard search the area. The eclectic mix of their horses' hooves clunking around the woods almost drowns out the sound of the birds singing off in the distance and the little squirrels and rabbits rushing to escape the riders. The air had been warm the previous day, but now carried the crisp wind of the oncoming autumn.

It's fading, he thinks to himself, frowning as he loses the last trace of the other power.

"My lord?"

Merlin gives a sigh, turning to see Ashima riding closer. Out of all of the Royal Guard he has met, she and her family have always had the strongest sense of telepathy. He remembers when he met the first of her bloodline, several hundred years ago in a kingdom that had then been named Bahran, and he had been shocked even then at the powerful empaths her ancestors had been. She looks worried by his troubled expression. As the London chapter's captain of the Guard, she's always been the closest to him. But there's something deeper than just loyalty between them. She is like family to him now, and he knows she regards him in the same way.

He shakes his head, "There's nothing here. We should return."

She nods in understanding, but her warm brown eyes glance over him as though to make sure he's alright before she turns her horse around and gives a sharp whistle. He's not listening when she shouts out the commands to the rest of the Guard. Instead, his eyes travel across the trees and brush, hoping to see the familiar head of golden hair and broad shoulders once more. But Arthur is dead. He has been for over a thousand years now.

Just as he turns to join the Guard once more, it happens again. Except this time it isn't a flare. It's a shriek. He winces as pain curves over the crown of his skull, barely noticing as the others do the same, and all he can hear at the moment is that terrified scream. It's accompanied by the prickle of inexperienced magic so powerful that it makes his hair stand on end. He hasn't felt a magical signature like that since Morgana. The idea makes his blood run cold.

But he can feel the remnants of the subconscious cry even as his head rings only with the silence following the scream. He can feel the person's terror, a paralyzing sort of fear accompanied by an almost animal sense of desperation. And he can't find it in himself to turn away from someone who is in such a dire need of help. On me, he thinks, projecting the thought past his own mind and towards the Guard. He lets his mind travel the path ahead even as he races down it. The thundering of the horses drowns out all else now, but he only needs to feel the hum of the still-lingering magic.

He nearly tramples them in his haste when he finally finds them. They've come to a stream, the water deep enough that it reaches the stranger's knees. Merlin only has a second to take in his unusual appearance. The man is wearing only breaches, his chest uncovered except for several large pieces of gold jewelry, and has a mess of long black hair tied into several tight braids. Two coppery horns protruded from his temples and curl high above his head like those of an antelope, and even those were adorned with hoops of gold. But what catches Merlin's attention was the fact that he is kneeling over something in the water.

The man turns his head as he hears the horses, his eyes black as the night sky in the city, and he throws a hand out towards them with a snarl. All of the Guards are pushed off their mounts and thrown to the ground, the horses running scared at the magic. But the motion must have thrown off the man's balance because Merlin just barely catches sight of a head breaching the water's surface. He can even hear it gasp for air, another scream breaking free before the man pushes it under once more.

"It's a child!" he hears one of the guard shout.

Merlin is the first to get to his feet and he unsheathes Excalibur as he rushes towards the stream. The man is snarling something towards the water, the language harsh and guttural, but he cannot make anything of the foreign words. Small fingers grip the man's arms, tiny fingernails clawing into his pale skin in a last attempt to cause him pain. Merlin pushes the man back with a thought, forcing him away from the child, and he motions for one of the Guard to drag them out of the water. He has his blade trained on the man's throat even as two of the Guard grab him by the shoulders.

He doesn't struggle as the recognition flickers across his expression, and he manages to spit out one word, "Emrys."

Looking back to where Hanna is helping the waterlogged child, Merlin hides his grimace at the name before he returns his attention to the horned man, "What is your name."

"Eldis," the man snaps, glaring at the child over Merlin's shoulder.

"Eldis," he repeats, knowing that it's an uncommon name, even among the Fair Folk. "You are aware that murder of the innocent is prohibited by the law?"

"The child is not innocent," Eldis all but snarls.

He is still glaring at the child as though he would like to set them alight with the slightest thought. Merlin glances behind him to look once more. The child looks quite like Eldis, but there is something off about him. His dark hair is shorn, it's length too short to be pulled into braids, and his silken clothing is much less ornate. He, too, has horns – his golden and curved once around the side of his head like that of a ram's. But his skin is a lovely bronze color instead of parchment like Eldis's, and his eyes are not entirely black. They are just as dark, so much so that Merlin cannot make out the pupils, but the whites surrounding them are visible, at least. He can see pointed ears just peeking out beneath the boy's dripping hair.

He's certainly what Eldis is, but not entirely. He almost looks like he could be human. But he also looks like an innocent child. Something about him strikes Merlin as familiar, but he cannot say what exactly, as he has certainly never seen the child before. And he makes a point of not interfering with the affairs of the Fair Folk. As he turns back to Eldis, he is shocked to hear the boy's voice in his head.

Don't let him kill me, Emrys, he pleads. I don't want to die.

The words hit him like a blow, their familiarity haunting. He looks frantically back at the rest of the Guard. They are watching him and Eldis as though nothing has happened yet. The boy is still staring at him, clinging to Hanna's leg as though afraid. Pulling himself together, and telling himself that the boy can hardly be who he's thinking of, Merlin responds.

You can speak to me? he thinks. What did you do to anger him?

The boy shakes his head almost imperceptibly, I don't know. Please don't leave me with them. If he doesn't kill me, they will.

The pleading in the boy's voice is enough to make Merlin cringe. He tries not to think of who he is reminded of, tries to keep that creeping sense of danger buried in his memories, but he can't shake the memory of those pale blue eyes. Instead, he focuses on Eldis in front of him.

"He has human blood," Merlin guesses.

Eldis gives a sharp, humorless laugh, "What does it matter?"

"It would mean that he is subject to the laws of Albion," he continues. "Which, in turn, means that he is under our protection."

He sheathes Excalibur, turning around to walk away, but stops as he hears Eldis laugh. All of the Guard look at the faerie as he does, the sound echoing through the hollow with the low hum of magic, but there is no mirth in his eyes.

"Allow him to live, Emrys, and you seal the fate of not only Albion," he shouts. "But that of yourself and your King, as well."

That catches Merlin's attention. He spins so quickly on the balls of his feet that his cloak swirls around him like in the movies of this modern age. Though he can't see them, he can feel the rest of the Guard tense around him. Eldis doesn't so much as flinch, even as excess magic sparks off Merlin's fingertips like a live wire, but continues to smile morbidly.

"He will walk the same path he walked in his first life," Eldis continues. "Fate's wheel turns and he will not stray. In the end, he will be your King's undoing. And you will, once more, be powerless to stop it."

As the last word leaves his lips, he pulls free of the two Guards' grip and reaches for his belt. His every movement is blurred, as though he moves too quickly for their eyes follow, and Merlin barely has a second to react. Something suddenly barrels into him as he raises his hand in defense and he is knocked to the ground. The collision knocks the air from his lungs, making him feel as though he is being pressed between two stone walls. The hum of magic is reverberating through the back of his mind again, barely noticeable over the sound of the Guard rushing forward.

Eldis is on his feet again and, having reached the child in the distraction, is holding him off the ground by his throat. He cries out at the feel of the faerie's fingers cutting off his breathing, the scream echoing stronger through their minds than aloud. As Merlin pushes himself off the forest floor, the Guard manage to push back the shield of magic Eldis has around him. They are too many for him, but the boy's eyes have rolled back into his head, and Merlin draws his blade instinctively. Whoever this boy is or was, he will not let another person die because of his idleness. Especially not a child.

Hiran wheezes as he hits the ground hard, the stone floor nearly slamming his jaw shut on his tongue. He only has seconds to regain his composure and roll out of the way as an axe slams down where his head had been. The air sings with the resounding ring of the metal slicing into the flagstones. He can see the sweat beading on George's brow as he tries to land a blow, but Hiran has never been an easy sparring partner.

However, George is easily the strongest of the Royal Guard's newest generation. And with the constant strain of keeping up the incantation that allows him to look more human and holding himself back physically, on the Lieutenant's orders, even he's beginning to strain himself. It's taking more effort than usual to keep from getting hurt. He's aware of the eyes of the Guard on him, just waiting for him to slip and lose his temper.

It's not as though such a thing is unwarranted. He's got more patience than most, a virtue preached by Emrys and taught to him by Ashima, but even he has his limits. It doesn't help that they don't actually see him as a Guard. They see him as Ashima's adopted son, as a Cambion and one of the Fair Folk, as Emrys's inexplicable favorite. He had always been under their protection. But now Ashima is dead and Emrys had long since disappeared. Without either of them, nothing has kept the rest of the Guard from proving what he already had suspected. They see him as beneath them.

He dodges each swing of George's axe, but makes sure to stay within arm's reach of him. All Lieutenant Sands has given Hiran this time is a dagger, and a thinly veiled remark regarding his capabilities, and he wants to be able to attack at any convenient moment. He sees his opening and lunges forward. It's only a split second, but he sees George's smirk too late and realizes it was a feint.

Turning as quickly as he can manage in mid-lunge, he manages to mostly get out of the axe's path. But it's not enough and it slams into the side of his helmet right where his horns had been. He cries out as white hot pain flashes behind his eyes, the impact making it feel as though George has struck his temple with a sledgehammer, and he stumbles back with his eyes screwed shut. Another blow strikes him across the chest and he struggles to stay on his feet.

"Stop!" he gasps, throwing a hand out instinctively. "For the Goddess's sake, stop!"

The words aren't even all the way out of his mouth when he hears George's surprised shout, a sound which is shortly followed by the sound of an armored body crashing into the floor. He senses, rather than sees, the handful of the Guard who had been watching get to their feet and rush forward. Their worry for George lingers in the back of Hiran's mind like music of a radio in a nearby room. Even as the pain in his head starts to fade to a dull ache, he feels someone gripping his arm too tightly and it takes all of his self-control to keep from lashing out.

Memories of Eldis force their way into his mind and he can feel his throat closing up as though he is back in that forest. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears and, though he knows Lieutenant Sands is nearly growling something an inch from his face, but he can't quite see him as though his vision is blurring. His breath is coming too quick and too shallow, but he can't seem to think.

The too tight grip is suddenly gone and he can hear another voice, this one clear and soft and he clings to it like a lifeline. It's a voice he recognizes and trusts.

"Hiran," the voice says. "You're safe. Stay in the present, okay? Tell me what you need."

He tries to get the words out, but his mind is a mess and his tongue has turned to lead. Instead of any intelligible, Hiran gives a rasping sort of breath and shakes his head, but Santiago understands what he needs. Santiago has always known Hiran well enough to handle the moments like this.

"Focus on your breathing," Santiago tells him, taking in audible breaths as if in emphasis. "Focus on me."

Hiran focuses on his friend's words, like he says, on the rhythm of his inhales and exhales. His own are shaky compared to Santiago's, but at least he isn't about to hyperventilate anymore. It takes him a few more minutes, though they feel much longer, to calm down completely. He notices that George is standing right next to Santiago now.

"Better?" Santiago asks him.

Hiran takes one last deep breath, forcing his voice to remain even, "Better. Thanks."

He helps Hiran to his feet – he can't remember when he fell to his knees – and George offers him a weak smile. He knows it's not George's fault that he's awkward during his panic attacks. The three have known each other for years now, but George has always been better with steel than words.

Hiran has barely straightened up when Lieutenant Sands's hands are on him again. Sands isn't a violent man, per se, but he has a temper that is notorious among London's chapter of the Guard. And he seems to grow more agreeable to the use of force when Hiran is involved. Both George and Santiago are protesting as Sands pulls him towards the door, but Hiran shoots them a look and they back off. There's no need for all of them to get into trouble.

He can see the rest of the Guard watching him as he and Sands walk through the doorway. The door slams behind them, a sure sign of the Lieutenant's anger. Hiran doesn't protest when Sands pushes him roughly against the wall across from the door, though it's well within his abilities to do so, and bites his tongue as the Lieutenant brings his face an inch away from his own.

"What have I told you about watching your temper, Suresh?"

It's not really a question, even though it's phrased as one. Sands' tone is harsh and demanding, as though he can intimidate Hiran, and it's obvious that he isn't asking for a response. Hiran gives him one anyway.

"I wasn't angry, sir," he says, almost spitting out the honorific. "George caught me by surprise and I reacted instinctively. He understands."

"Did I ask for your fucking opinion?"

"Well…"

Hiran makes a show of thinking about it, as if not too sure of what the answer is. He knows he shouldn't intentionally antagonize Sands, something which George and Santiago tell him often, but he can't help it. He's put up with the Lieutenant's bullshit long enough to not earn a few free passes.

Sands must not see it that way because Hiran is bent over the next second as he feels the Lieutenant's fist connect with his stomach. He tries to recover quickly, but can only manage to lean against the wall as he looks at Sands.

"You aren't a Guard, Suresh," Sands snarls. "And this is my house. You don't get immunity just because the late Captain thought you were a special snowflake."

Hiran gives a thin laugh, his voice still hoarse when he says, "Well, if I'm not a Guard, then you don't have authority over me, do you?"

Sands pulls his fist back, his free hand gripping the collar of Hiran's breastplate, "You fu-"

"Lieutenant!"

Both freeze at the commanding voice that booms down the hallway. Hiran can see the grimace barely concealed as Sands lets him go and pulls away, obviously deciding that beating a subordinate isn't worth getting into trouble with his superior. Both turn and stand at attention, though they both eye the other as they do, as Captain Michelson approaches.

"Captain," Sands greets stiffly.

"Would you care to explain to me what you are doing with Mr. Suresh here?"

Michelson's tone is calm and quiet, his voice surprisingly soft for a man of his physique. But there is a hardness in his jaw, a severity in his brown eyes, that conveys the fact that he expects an answer and quickly. Hiran wouldn't say that the Captain is a strict man – he never needs to be. There's something about him that makes all of the Guard eager to please him. He doesn't get angry, but his disappointment is enough to make even the most shameless Guard feel humiliated.

"He was disobeying direct orders," Sands manages to say.

"Oh?" Michelson says, looking at Hiran in surprise before returning his attention to the Lieutenant. "Was he attempting to cause severe harm to his fellow Guards?"

"No, sir."

"Was he using unnecessary force during sparring?"

"Well, not-"

"Then I fail to see how his actions would have, in any way, warranted such punishment," the Captain says, cutting Sands short. "Mr. Suresh, come with me, please."

"But, sir!"

"I believe you have a training session to finish, Lietenant," Michelson points out. "Or am I mistaken?"

Hiran can practically hear Sands's jaw snap shut. Sands may not like him, but he's certainly not going to argue with Captain Michelson over him. He nods stiffly, shooting Hiran a glare, and strides back into the sparring room. Hiran debates about whether or not to send the Lieutenant a smirk, but thinks better of it when he sees the Captain's expression.

"Come one, Hiran," he says, though the words are close to a resigned sigh, and he turns to walk back down the hall from where he came.

Michelson is a tall man, reaching well over six feet, and it takes Hiran two steps to keep up with every one of his. It makes him seem even more like a child in this situation. Whether or not the Captain even notices is hard to say, but he doesn't bother to slow down.

"Okay, I may have been using unnecessary force during training, but it wasn't at all my fault," Hiran says, almost skipping to keep up.

"Is it ever?" Michelson sighs. "I understand that Lieutenant Sands isn't particularly fond of your presence on his team, but you could at least try not to antagonize him."

"I don't antagonize him!"

Michelson stops so abruptly, Hiran nearly runs smack into him. As it is, he manages to step on the back of the Captain's boots, but the older man doesn't seem to notice. The pointed look he gets seems to be more related to the conversation they're having.

"What?" Hiran exclaims.

"I was here when Emrys first brought you to us," Michelson points out. "It took two months for you to finally open that month but, once you did, there was nothing we could do to get you to shut it again. And we both know you're a cheeky little bastard."

He starts walking again before Harin can even think of a retort. All that he has said is true, sure, but that doesn't mean he is at fault.

"We also both know that Lieutenant Sands hates me for what I am," Hiran points out. "So do most of the Guard, for that matter."

"Your heritage has nothing to do with it, Suresh."

And there it is: another hint at whatever it is that they are all hiding from him. Though he isn't sure if the newest generation is in on the secret, he can just tell that there is something important that Emrys and the rest of the Guard just aren't telling him. He had seen it in both Emrys's and Ashima's eyes. And he can see it in Michelson's eyes right now. Behind their smiles and kind words, they look at him as though afraid.

"Then tell me what it is!" Hiran shouts, stepping up his pace so that he can walk in front Michelson and stop him. "Because it seems that no matter what I do, it's never enough. So if I did something that was wrong, if there's anything that you know that I don't, just tell me. I've tried and failed enough already."

Michelson looks at him sadly, as though he wants nothing more than to do as he asks, but he doesn't open his mouth. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, his lips pressed into a hard line.

"Just keep your head down and do what Lieutenant Sands tells you," he says at last. "Best be on your way now, Hiran." – he smiles suddenly, an amused glint in his eyes – "I'm sure the dynamic duo are prepared to tear this castle down in making sure you aren't being punished."

Without further ado, he walks off down the hall once more. It's a dismissal, Hiran knows, and he can do nothing but stand in the middle of the hall and watch as the Captain leaves him with the same evasive answer as everyone else does. It takes all of his self-control to keep from screaming in frustration. However, it doesn't stop the flagstones from cracking under his feet.

Merlin barely notices as the wooden dock creaks beneath his boots. He is too preoccupied with his own thoughts, even the people milling about the market seem like the background scenery of a lackluster dream. The weariness has been taking its toll of late and he isn't bothering with his usual disguise as an elderly traveler tonight.

Why he ever thought he would find so much as a whisper in this miserable little seaside town is beyond him now. Never mind the fact that it is a town of charlatans and fools, where even the largest display of real magic couldn't be recognized by the self-proclaimed sorcerers, the very atmosphere of the place is depressing. Even with the icy temperatures, the rain doesn't freeze as it falls from the grey skies. He tugs the hood of his cloak in a vain attempt to keep from getting wet. But the water comes down at a slant, working its way through the fabric of his clothes so that even his bones feel cold.

All he wants now is to return to his hotel room and fall asleep by the fire. The sooner the morning finds him, the sooner he can leave this wretched place. He tries to stay in the middle of the crowds, even though it is the best place to be trampled, as it means he is out of reach of the 'sorcerers' on the fringes of the docks. Their voices can be heard clearly over the din of the people, desperate and hungry timbres trying to sell phony spells and vials of colored water they call 'enchanted elixirs'. Merlin hasn't felt a single lick of power in the entire town. They're just desperate people hoping to earn their next meal, even if it means conning tourists into emptying their pockets.

The people in front of him are moving aside now, making way as three men and a cart full of linens comes his way. He sighs in resignation as he forces his way through people and out of the way of the cart. It brings him into closer proximity with the merchants and, even though the close proximity of the others trying to escape the cart is detestable, their shouting grates on his nerves.

He is so tired these days.

It isn't the first time he has thought about giving up entirely. He has long since stopped counting the years, his exact age becoming more of how he felt at any given time than an actual measure of anything, and he is beginning to think that Kilgharrah was wrong. Or maybe his old friend had lied to him to make him feel marginally better. But it has been countless centuries and Merlin has not seen even the slightest hint of Arthur or the peril Kilgharrah had warned of.

He tries not to think of Hiran back in London. At least, he assumes the boy is still in London. When he had shared his suspicions with that chapter of the Guard, even though he had also voiced his uncertainties regarding his theory, they had reacted as poorly as he had expected. Even with his express request that they treat the boy with the same respect as they would their comrades, he could sense their uncertainty and the tensions brewing just beneath the surface. He hopes the boy – probably a young man now, he thinks to himself – is alright.

A hand grips his wrist suddenly, and Merlin is ripped violently from his thoughts by a sudden strong sense of magic. How he didn't sense the presence before, he doesn't know, but he has not felt such a strength in many decades. He is pulled through the crowds effortlessly until he finds himself face-to-face with a young woman. She is dressed in a ridiculous costume, much like the colorful and gaudy apparel of the other merchants, but he is struck by the little details he also sees about her. The handful of powerful talismans hanging from her skirts and throat, the tattoos of magical symbols just visible beneath her semi-sheer white shirt, the ageless look to her face matched only by the green eyes of an old soul.

"You have an air of destiny about you," she says, and her voice is so soft that he almost doesn't catch her words.

He blinks at her for a good minute, the more hysterical part of his mind wanting to laugh at her words, but he manages a dry, "Really? I hadn't noticed?"

She changes her grip on his wrist suddenly, the relatively gentle touch becoming painful as her long nails dig into his pulse. He hisses out a curse, though not a magical one, and tries to at least pull free. But she does not let go.

"I would appreciate it if you wouldn't be so cynical, Emrys," she chides, and he gets another hint of the timeless impression she gives off. "The others may not be able to sense it, but my people have always recognized you."

She lets go of his arm long enough to show her own, and he catches a glimpse of the triskele among the other tattoos. A Druid, he realizes. It has been quite some time since he had seen anyone bearing such a mark. With the passing ages, and the wider spread of acceptance of magic, many of the Druids had created families with non-magical partners. Their bloodlines became so intermixed that their culture had become more of a myth than a lifestyle.

"What do you want?" he asks, though his tone is softer now.

She smirks at him, but it is a gesture of amusement rather than derision, "Care to have your future told?"

He scoffs at her, irritated that he had allowed her to draw him into her charade. But when he turns away, intent on returning to his rented room and turning in at last, she grabs his shoulder. There is a gravity in her expression when he looks at her again.

"When I spoke of your aura, I did not mean your past, Emrys," she tells him, and he shivers at the unrecognizable glint in her eyes. "You despair now for your lost king, but you may not like what comes with him."

Without waiting for his reply, she turns away and walks back to one of the patchwork tents, gesturing with a hand for him to follow. He thinks about leaving her there, remembering the last time he dared to know the future. But his curiosity gets the better of him and he finds himself trudging after her.

The tent is relatively small, maybe four feet in diameter, and the top of his head almost brushes the sheet that serves as the roof. There is a circular table within, and the woman has somehow slid around to the opposite side without rustling the fabric walls. The space is lit by orbs of light hovering above their heads and frankincense incense burns on the table. She gestures towards the seat closest to him, her eyes turning towards the bags tied to her edge of the table.

The rickety wood of his chair creaks as he takes a seat and wobbles as though threatening to give way beneath him, and the girl chuckles at the alarmed expression on his face. Finally, she pulls three translucent slabs of something from the bag, and Merlin has to stifle a gasp as he recognizes them. The slabs are only about as long and wide as his hands and maybe an inch thick. But he can feel the hum of their power like an electric current.

"The Cards of Andraste," he murmurs, leaning forward to get a better look. "Where did you get those?"

The woman smiles, her lips curling up into a strange grin, "Family heirloom. They will offer you signs, and I shall interpret them, as is the gift passed down through my family. You will not find a more accurate fortune, but it requires a blood price."

"One drop per card," he answers. "I have heard the rumors."

"Do you accept the cost?"

He hesitates, thinking that three drops of blood are hardly a steep price. But, at the same time, there are a number of dark spells that utilize blood. And a spell using his blood could potentially be dangerous.

"Yes," he says at last, surprising even himself.

She nods, pulling a long, thin shiv from another pouch and gesturing for his hand. He offers it hesitantly, watching her carefully as she pulls him closer. He has to bite back a sharp gasp as she quickly pricks his index finger and presses against the puncture wound until blood visibly wells up in a near-perfect sphere on his skin. The druid drops her shiv into a vial of clear fluid, the liquid turning faintly pink as his blood is cleaned from the blade, and gently pulls his hand above the leftmost card.

Merlin watches with interest as she turns his hand over and a single drop of blood falls onto the card. But it doesn't remain on the surface of the crystalline material. Instead, it sinks into the card as though it's made of water, but doesn't lose any of its vibrancy. The blood flows throw the card like spilled ink on parchment, some of the larger splashes of his blood separating as it creates an image within the card. He can't help but lean in further out of curiosity.

The Cards of Andraste are legendary and, more often than not, people have dismissed them as being something of myth and legend. Merlin had often questioned their existence, but it is impossible for him to believe them to be make believe when he himself is something of myth and legend.

The legend was told of the Iceni kingdom and their threats from a province far away on the southern half of the mainland. Their Queen, Boudicca, had sought out a long-forgotten goddess of prophecy and victory after an emperor of the South demanded the absolute surrender of her people. Though what stories had remained of Andraste had been of her darker side, of her patronage over warfare, Boudicca had been desperate for her peoples' freedom. Traveling to the goddess's sacred grove, Boudicca had called upon the goddess in the hopes of an encouraging prediction.

If the myth was to be believed, the goddess had indeed come down in answer of Boudicca's pleas. She had offered the Queen her blessing and a reliable way to foretell the future, so long as war prisoners were offered to her, and an agreement was struck. It was said that Queen Boudicca had won her many battles against the emperor by using the cards to foresee his every move, and some even believe the Queen had become a human incarnation for the Goddess after their agreement.

Merlin is brought back to the present as he hears the Druid inhale sharply. The blood within the card has still at last, its brilliant color contrasting sharply with the cream-colored tablecloth so that the image within the card can be clearly seen. Within the card is the image of a series of stars swirling around in a pinwheel-like shape.

"The wheel of stars," the Druid says. "It is a symbol of time and karma. What you wish for so desperately, Emrys, will come to be. All that once was shall be once more. But be wary, for you may find yourself traveling the same path as before – finding both peace and war. Make the wrong choice and you will be forever trapped in this never-ending circle."

The words are barely out of her mouth when she guides his hand above the rightmost card and presses her thumb into his finger as another drop falls. It takes less time for this one to bloom into the next image, or maybe it's simply because Merlin is paying more attention now than he had been before. This time it was of two figures with their hands clasped. The first was a woman with her hair tied up in braids and a battle ax in her free hand, the second is a cloaked man with skeletal arms and mist curling around his feet.

The Druid's grip stiffens on his wrist as she whispers, "Lady War and Lord Death. There are two who stand in your way, who would see your ideals and philosophy of peace destroyed. They are already working against you, operating exactly where you believe to be most protected, but not all is as it seems. Allow them to fool you, and they shall win."

"I've changed my mind," Merlin says, drawing away as he feels the prickle of dark magic against his skin. "This was a mistake."

But her grip on his hand is like iron and the words of magic in his mind have fled as she draws his hand above the central and final card. The entire atmosphere within her tent has changed, eroding from an aura of faux mysticism to a very real sense of danger. The picture within is that of three men, standing in front of a waxing-full-waning moon symbol, and arranged very much in the style of the modern depictions of the Triple Goddess.

"The triad of power," she tells him, gripping his wrist so tight that her nails bite into his skin. "You are familiar with this, Emrys. You will reunite with your counterparts, although they will not be the same, just as you are not the same. Only together can you reunite Albion entirely."

For the first time since she began reading his fortune, she looks up at him. But she is not the same young woman who picked him out of the crowd. Gone is the quietly intuitive girl who had been looking for a meal ticket, in her stead is a wickedly intelligent sorceress hiding among the swindlers, and Merlin can't help but gasp at the sharp grin she gives him. There is a distinctly malevolent glint in her green eyes.

"Who are you?" he demands.

"Rhiannon."

It's the last word he hears before the world goes black.

"You alright, Hiran?"

Hiran looks up from his pint just in time to see Santiago slip onto the barstool beside him and George walking around to his other side. He stifles a groan at the sight of them. They're in one of his favorite bars, a little hole in the wall where both magical and non-magical people actually get along fairly well, and his favorite place to pick up people looking for no-strings-attached sex. His mood momentarily plummets at the sight of his friends, as he had been telepathically flirting with a lovely genderqueer scholar across the bar.

"Fine," he says amiably, never able to stay angry around George and Santiago. "Just getting to know Jay there." – he motions towards Jay with his beer, offering them a wink – "They're into botanical magic and its potential for personalized medicine, especially used towards incurable diseases."

The Guard can say all they want about Hiran's taste in the physical aspects of his one-night stands, but they can't say he sleeps with everyone. He likes people with hopes and dreams and the tenacity to go after what they want. George has said, on several occasions and always against Hiran's objections, that his taste might be because he cannot go after what he wants with his standing among the Guard. Hiran always tells him promptly to shut up. He doesn't admit that George isn't entirely wrong, at least not aloud.

Leave George to be the quiet one who's actually too damn smart for his own good, Hiran thinks as he takes another gulp of his beer.

"First you pick a fight with Sands," George mutters. "Then you go looking for a shag? Do you ever slow down?"

"And miss out on life's many pleasures? Not a chance in the underworld, Mitch."

George scowls at that, allowing Hiran the slightest amount of satisfaction. No one with half a brain calls George by his last name, much less by the shortened form of it, and only Hiran ever gets away with it. It had been the joke of the Guard for weeks. George Mitchell.

"Someone's been watching too much telly," one of the newest gen had said, snickering.

Hiran had winced when he heard it. He couldn't help but wonder if his parents had known what they were doing when they had named George, and what they'd been thinking to do so, or if it was just a really bad coincidence. Being Human had been a bit of a joke among the Guard for its unrealistic portrayal of werewolves, vampires, and ghosts. It was always a guilty pleasure of Hiran's, as he has firsthand experience with all three races that didn't involve swords and tense, diplomatic conversations. He could sit back and admire what the creators had been trying to do. That and Aiden Turner was hot.

"Would you stop acting as if everything is a joke?" Santiago demands, his tone just light enough to convey his concern. "All we're saying is that you should be a little more careful. Some of the staff around the palace are saying that Captain Michelson had to tear Sands away from you, and you know that rumors just make him angrier. We don't want you getting hurt."

If George is the blunt hammer, waylaying anyone with not only brute force behind each swing but also with the observations that no one wanted to acknowledge, Santiago is a doctor's scalpel, cutting to the heart of the matter with the intention of healing a wound. Sometimes Hiran wonders why he had to get the two most annoyingly compassionate Guards as his friends. Other times, usually when he's drunk, he admits that they would never have been his friends were they not compassionate enough to look past the fact that he's not entirely human.

"I'm fine," he assures them, patting both on the back. "Maybe if you'd take some of my advice, pick up a nice girl, you'd stop mooning over Halima."

Santiago turns fifteen shades of red, the blush crawling up from his neck all the way to his ears. Not many of the Guard know of his crush on Halima, who is one of the most selfless and not-to-be-fucked-with Guards that Hiran has the good fortune of calling a friend, and Hiran himself wouldn't know if his incubus blood didn't allow him to instinctively know things along that vein. Of course, Halima is just as interested in Santiago. The only thing that keeps them from saying anything is the unspoken law against dating among the ranks. Although he wants nothing more than to be an official Royal Guard, Hiran will admit from time to time that they have some of the dumbest rules he's ever come across. And he lived among the Seelie Court for the first nine years of his life.

George wastes no time in swatting him upside the back of his head, "How many drinks have you had?"

"Why do you care?"

"Because you're only spiteful when you're tipsy."

He gives George a hard glare, "You know it takes a lot to get me drunk."

No one has ever been able to explain that exactly. He supposes it has to do with being a cambion, but he can't exactly test that theory. It did, however, allow him to swindle quite a few new visitors out of their money.

"How many drinks has he had, Lou?" Santiago asks, flagging down said bartender.

Lou, who could be in his fifties or in his two hundreds - which really didn't make a difference when it came to people with magic - and just look younger, gives a half-smirk. He's been serving them since they came in with fake ID's at fifteen, despite probably knowing that they were too young, and was said to have owned the bar since it opened seventy years prior.

"Three shots of tequila, two of Jack, and four pints," Lou answers easily.

He's not exaggerating. Anyone who's spent more than two nights in The Surly Warlock knows Lou's memory is more reliable than the weathermen on television. If he says something, it's most likely an exact fact or, at the very least, something he's heard word-for-word.

"Right," Santiago mutters, taking Hiran by the arm. "Time to go."

"I'm not drunk," he murmurs darkly, but doesn't resist when he's tugged off his chair.

Maybe next time, gorgeous. It's a thought directed towards Jay, but he must be tipsier than he thought because both George and Santiago give something between a laugh and a scoff. Jay looks his way, rolling their dark brown eyes, and sends him a noncommittal, mm-hm.

George stops just long enough to pay Lou for the drinks Hiran had, returning to his friends not three seconds later. They walk out the door and both Santiago and George shiver as the cold night wind hits them. Hiran doesn't feel the cold as deeply as they do, as he can still remember the chill that crept through the woods of his childhood, and wonders if it's getting all that much colder. It's barely into autumn, after all.

When they reach Westminster bridge, Hiran does something he hasn't done in a very long time: he pulls himself onto the handrail and walks along the top of it. George rolls his eyes at the display, but Santiago about has a fit.

"Are you out of your mind?"

"Relax," Hiran tells him. "It's not as though I'll fall."

Mother-hen Santiago. That's what George had called him when they were younger. Both George and Hiran had made an agreement to never call him that aloud, especially after meeting Santiago's four younger brothers, who definitely provided the reason behind Santiago's maternal instincts. It doesn't stop him from constantly fretting over his friends, though.

Hiran is pulled from that train of thought as his eyes catch something among the dark waters of the Thames below. It's just a flicker of movement, a slight disturbance among the water that doesn't belong, and he turns fully on the handrail as he seeks it out again.

"What are you doing?" George asks.

Hiran doesn't look at them as he says, "There's something down there."

"Probably trash," George laughs. "Come on. It's freezing out here."

And there it is again. He only catches the slightest glimpse of it, and then it's gone again, almost as though it is constantly pulled under by its weight. He may not have seen much of it, but he could tell it wasn't trash. He kneels down and steadies himself with one hand gripping the handrail. When he catches a slightly better glimpse, it takes him a minute to convince himself that he really isn't that drunk.

"That's not trash," he announces. "That's a person."

"What?" Santiago exclaims, leaning over the edge and squinting into the darkness.

"Oh, come now," George snaps. "There's no way anyone is taking a dip in the Thames, especially in this weather. You're drunk, Hiran. Let's go home."

As if to emphasize his point, he walks a few steps away. Neither Santiago nor Hiran move an inch as they watch the water. He stops, even turning to look at them, but George is too stubborn to go back and join them.

"Are you certain?"

Hiran can feel Santiago's eyes on him, but he doesn't bother looking in his friend's direction. He's searching for any sign of the person in the river. He may be drunk, but his eyes have always seen more clearly in the dark than his friends, and he's certain of what he saw. And then, he sees it. Hair plastered down to someone's head, their mouth opening wide as if to gasp for air and their arms swinging outward as if looking for purchase in the current. It takes just a second for Hiran to stand up straight and judge the distance.

"Yes!" he says.

And, without waiting for Santiago to say anything in reply, he pushes himself off the bridge and dives into the freezing water.