Less than a day's ride from Camelot, Guinevere ordered most of the attending procession on ahead to the castle. Very few of what had already been a small traveling party completed the journey to the lake— accompanying only a single cart. The funeral rites were to be held before sundown.

Arthur now stood alone, facing the very thing he'd been avoiding for the last… week? His sense of passing time had become so disoriented, there was no way to be certain. What had finally driven him there was not his wife's gentle encouragement, or even their arrival at Lake Avalon. It had been Gaius returning his sword.

The physician had bowed and offered the wrapped blade without a word. The sight fractured Arthur's compartmentalization, his heart stuttering.

The weapon used in the trial had been cleaned– excellently. Arthur knew, since under the command of a hammering heart he'd poured over each groove for any hint of blood. The kingsword of legend. The very symbol of his right to rule. Unless, of course, that was another lie. A tall tale to manipulate him.

Even after a third close inspection he had remained dogged by the conviction he'd turn it over to find congealed gore. On its fourth turn, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the polished steel. He had seen accusations there.

Whatever else Merlin had been, anything else he'd done, he'd laid down his life in the defense of Camelot. He'd offered his blood, his pain, his life, for the Kingdom. For his King. If he hoped ever to be worthy of Merlin's choice, if he ever hoped of being a worthy ruler, he had to stop hiding. If he didn't, he'd never be able to trust his own rule. He had to face this.

What exactly "this" was— he still wasn't certain. But his companions had left him alone to figure it out.

Uther's burial had been an event of extravagance. Body prepared using the finest oils, myrrh, and incenses– Arthur's father had been dressed in fine velvet and buttery silks. Adorned in enough riches to purchase a small castle, his body was laid atop a holy altar surrounded by towering marble walls. The finest stone carver in Camelot had been brought in to create a graven image of his likeness, meant to forever watch over his posterity. Eventually, his father was moved into the royal catacombs to rest beside his father, who lay beside his father's father, on and on for generations.

In striking contrast to that spectacle, Merlin's body lay nestled along the open tailgate of an old wooden cart. Reaching out, Arthur's fingers felt the roughness of the humble and threadbare white linen wrapped carefully about the body as he drew the cover down from his face. The young man was wearing a fresh blue cotton tunic. Instead of incense or oil, Merlin lacked any scent at all, his usual aroma of woodsmoke and clove conspicuous only in its absence.

Furrows from Morgana's nails still scored down his cheek, though all traces of blood had been cleaned away. The king hadn't noticed it before— but the tip of one of Merlin's ears had been severed in the duel. True to her word, Dyfed's physician's spell had halted the march of time. Though nearly a week dead his champion's corpse appeared as fresh as the day he'd fallen. Flesh pale as ivory, mottled with nearly healed bruises, that haunting blue tinge to his lips. The spelled chill had steadily faded, as they'd been warned, but hints of unnatural frost still dusted his skin. Clumps gathered on Merlin's eyelashes and in the sweep of raven black hair.

The sight slammed Arthur into a vivid memory: facing the terror of the undead Dorocha. Otherworldly spirits said to kill any mortal with a single touch, freezing them to death on even the slightest contact. Naturally, Merlin had flung himself into the path of one swooping attacker… to protect Arthur. Caught up, the manservant had hung, suspended, before falling to the ground as if dead. Body cold as ice, skin covered in frost, only a shivering pulse had betrayed continued life.

That vision seemed to overlay the present in Arthur's vision, the young servant's appearance eerily similar. So much so that he resisted the urge to feel for that same fluttering beat.

How many times had his manservant saved his life? And… how had he forgotten about that night.

Seeing Merlin lying there, still as the grave, Arthur was confronted with how small the young man was. When he was awake, talking, his personality was so big you forgot. In Arthur's thoughts over the last few days he'd built Merlin up in his head to match the warrior sorcerer who had taken the field as Camelot's Champion. Now, here, he looked so thin, so vulnerable.

He just looks… human.

As though having magic would make someone less human. The thought troubled Arthur, and he tucked it away for closer examination at a later time. Perhaps it was simply a struggle to attribute the being who had wielded such power so easily to… this. This empty, bruised, fragile husk of an unassuming manservant. Who, by all appearances, had devoted himself to Arthur with half a brain and his whole heart.

Teetering, Arthur was forced to steady himself on the edge of the cart. The wood was rough beneath his calloused palm. Tentatively he shifted his hand until it brushed against Merlin's arm. "I don't… I don't know what to say."

A flush of heat spread from the base of his neck to his ears. Though he knew he was alone on the path, he still glanced around self-consciously. What had he been thinking; that he needed to express gratitude? Accuse? Acknowledge? After years of praying to his mother as a child he knew by now… the dead could not hear him. He was only talking to himself.

Leon had been right— Arthur was angry. Merlin had lied to him, tricked him, and the revelation was destabilizing. If he'd ever been certain of anyone it was Merlin. As it turned out, Arthur hadn't known him any better than he had known his own father. The deception left him with doubts about his friend and manservant, doubts he did not want to have. He wanted to believe in Merlin; but he wasn't certain how when he didn't even trust his own judgement.

His own father, Morgana, Agravain, Lancelot, Gaius, Merlin. Everyone he had ever trusted had betrayed him. What did that say, then, about Arthur himself?

"And that is your weakness- you put too much trust in other people. You and you alone must rule Camelot."

"I would rather not rule at all than rule alone!"

"Your whole life I tried to prepare you for the day you would become king. Did you learn nothing?"

"I watched you rule. I learned that if you trust no one you'll always live in fear, your hatred comes from fear, not strength."

He'd been so confident when he'd rebuffed his father's ideology. In the face of this new revelation that confidence seemed as fragile as spun glass. What if that was the deal, the curse, to never really know one another? Perhaps that's what his father had meant, urging his son never to trust. Never to confide. All Arthur seemed to be capable of was erecting an idol of who he believed someone to be, an edifice in his mind, only to have it come crashing down when subverted by the truth. Was anyone ever capable of loving anything more than their idea of who a person was? Did that, in turn, make that love any less real or important?

Not that he had ever loved Merlin.

If one insisted on using such a ridiculous word, then it was not a love of passion. It wasn't quickening heartbeats or hunger or desire.

It was choice made free from infatuation or urgency. Nothing compelled it, nothing demanded it. It was enjoyment of and comfort in each other's presence. It was companionship. It was honesty and conflict and the certainty that, when emotions cooled, you'd always come back together. Or… it had been.

Is that what a family was supposed to feel like?

Arthur's mouth twisted bitterly. The affections of family were a mystery to him. He was certain his father had loved him… in his way. But Uther's legacy was one of rage. Those fires had consumed his sister, and even Arthur had felt their heat sear his insides. Merlin had always been the one to pull him back from those flames.

How was he supposed to find Merlin in this stranger who wore the face and the life of the man he'd considered his only friend? Had Merlin even been his friend? But he had sacrificed himself— for Arthur? It may have been a miscalculation in some grand scheme or was it really possible that Merlin was truly all he had always appeared to be and just… more.

"I don't want to rule, that's Arthur's destiny. Mine is to walk beside him. To protect him."

His father had been wrong about so much. Had his father been wrong about the old ways, too?

Already immersed in the ghostly whispers of the past, Gaius's words from what felt like ages ago drifted across time.

"I'm not the only one seeking to protect you. There are many more who believe in the world you are trying to create. One day, you will learn, Arthur. One day, you will understand just how much they've done for you."

And years before that, standing in a deep, cool grove. A young man's face had peered earnestly up at his dethroned King with steady confidence and devotion.

"Believe in you- I always have."

His own capture, Merlin's supposed slaughter, the duel, the dagger. Watching, helpless, as Merlin died a second time.

"I pledge my fealty, my life, to this purpose."

The sound of a slowly fading heartbeat in his ear.

In the quiet whispers of their tent, her warm body curled into his chest, Guinevere had explained to Arthur how Merlin had been able to keep fighting because his heart was on his right side. That he was a Dragonlord.

Just another thing Merlin had forgotten to mention.

"You're a riddle Merlin."

"A riddle?"

"Yes. but I've grown to quite like you."

Arthur had assumed Merlin would always be at his side, a constant presence he could turn to. A voice to keep him grounded when he began to lose perspective. Merlin had boldly challenged him, tested him, but never in a way to best Arthur or position himself as morally superior. The truth was he couldn't now imagine a life without him.

Arthur's thoughts raced, nine years flashing behind his eyes, heart quickening in his throat. The pale face below him swallowed his entire vision. He pulled at the laces of his shirt to loosen his collar, finding it difficult to breathe normally.

"You were coming back to look for me."

"Alright it's true. I came back because you're the only friend I have and I couldn't bear to lose you."

There was the sensation of something splitting behind Arthur's ribcage. Jerking his eyes up to stare up at the silhouette of trees above them he clutched at his own chest. He was splintering apart.

A voice spoke a name that could have been his, or not. Just a word. Just a noise. Whatever it may have been was drowned out by the flood of memories.

A hand on his shoulder caused him to spin. He found himself locking gazes with Gwaine.

"The boat is ready, sire. Shall I…"

Unable to meet the knight's eyes, his chest filled with heat. "No, I will. Just… I'd like a bit more time."

"I will protect you or die at your side"


The weight of the carefully prepared figure seemed both as heavy as a mountain and as light as air in Arthur's arms. Picking his way, step by step, he moved towards the small crowd waiting at water's edge. The red and orange and yellow trees of the changing season were framed by emerald evergreens, their shimmering reflections dancing together on the surface of the water.

There was no silk, no marble, no incense. Just the scent of pine, a silver-grey sky, and the lapping sound of water caressing the bank.

Lake Avalon was resplendent before them, snow peaked mountains rising high in the distance. Around them the air was still, as though the sky itself held its breath. Small birds flitted from tree to tree, short bursts of lilting song drifting to the unconventional group.

It wasn't a large ceremony: Arthur, Guinevere, Gaius, Leon, Elyan, Gwaine, and Percival were the only ones present. That's what Merlin would have preferred. His manservant had abhorred the fanfare and posturing of ceremony. While, as the king, he couldn't officially agree, the two had often exchanged significant looks at formal events. It had made them more bearable.

All eyes turned upon him now. The forest seemed to tilt around them, so he looked to the sky, nostrils flaring as he took in a steadying breath.

Leon stood to one side, a bow and nocked arrow held loosely in his grip. It was not yet ablaze, although Elyan had knelt to plant a burning torch in the soft earth at Leon's feet. Gwaine and Percival waited beside a small boat. Its barren cavity had been lined with the forest's offerings: leaves and ferns and moss creating a soft bed. Someone had spread a knight's cloak out atop where Merlin was to rest, and the golden dragon of Arthur's family peered up at him from its nest of crimson fabric.

Gently, the king lowered his manservant into the pyre boat. Beneath blue folds of rumpled cotton, the young man's tunic bulged; a promise, concealed within a leather pouch, hanging from around Merlin's neck. The only way he had known how to say goodbye. Arthur folded both the young man's hands over the distortion. It was a sentiment meant for the two of them alone.

Gwaine stepped forward, clearing his throat gruffly. "I don't know how these things are normally done. With your leave, sire, I'd like to say something?"

On his lord's nod, the knight swallowed. Arthur's eyes followed the man's hand, noting the tremor as he lifted a flask to his lips before speaking.

Gwaine stood tall, brows knitting together. "When I first met Merlin- I was doing my best to drown myself at the bottom of a bottle. He never dismissed me as the drunk even I had written myself off as. He… believed in me. Plucked me from the floor of that tavern, put a sword in my hand, and gave me a purpose. He showed himself a true friend."

Unshed tears glinted in the knight's bloodshot eyes, and Arthur could see the care lines carved deep in his forehead.

"I'd never have a friend who could be such an ass."

"Or I one who could be so stupid."

Gaius spoke; voice hoarse from disuse. "He was as a son to me. I never expected such a blessing so late in life."

"Brave, often to the point of foolishness." Said Leon with a wry grin.

Percival snorted at that. "I thought we had really good luck, but now I know better. We had a protector."

"He was a sorcerer, but there was nothing of evil in his heart," said Elyan. His soft voice bore a hard edge. The normally agreeable knight's gaze blazed as it met and held Arthur's, a challenge?

The silence rang, building between knight and sovereign, before it was broken by Guinevere's firm timbre. "He never hesitated to put his life on the line for those he loved. He gave his whole heart, always, to what he believed to be right. No matter the cost."

Arthur gazed down at Merlin, feeling a growing pressure to contribute… something. What might he say?

What words could encompass how precious Merlin had been to him, or how desolate and bewildered the absence of him made Arthur feel? Perhaps he was supposed to say how, when they first met, he'd thought Merlin was a complete idiot. But in the years since he'd come to realize he was the bravest man the king would ever know. How did he articulate that, now Merlin was gone, he felt completely and utterly abandoned. Or that his secrecy had broken his heart.

"He-"began Arthur, voice cracking.

"You're not going to die Merlin, don't be such a coward.

If I do die will you call me a hero?

Probably.

But whilst I'm still alive I'm a coward?

That's the way these things work, I'm afraid. You get the glory when you're not around to appreciate it."

Clearing his throat he said, simply, "He died a hero."

Something pretty and formal and perfectly acceptable and… utterly shallow. Exactly the sort Merlin would have scoffed at.

"Sire!" Barked Percival, sword ringing as it cleared his scabbard. His attention seemed fixed on a point over his king's shoulder.

Turning, Arthur's mouth fell half open. So far from any civilization seeing another person would have been strange enough. But he wasn't certain anything could have prepared him for the sight of a woman, walking out of the glassy lake as calmly as someone else might stroll up a grassy hill.

Though the water pulled her tumble of dark hair into eddies and swirls as she emerged, every part of the unearthly figure remained completely dry. The rosy lips and smooth skin of a youthful face were offset by large, dark, solemn eyes which carried the wisdom of someone three times her age. The gown she wore was fit for a princess, silks in deep purples and blues with a delicate silver clasp about her waist.

Uncertainly Arthur took a step back. Though she appeared unarmed, he knew how little that might mean.

Her eyes landed on him, a gentle smile softening the corners of her mouth. "Peace. I mean you no harm, Arthur Pendragon."

Pausing hip deep in the lake, her gaze slid down to the body in the bed of the small boat. Noticing her attention a fierce protectiveness rose in Arthur, and he stepped forward to place himself between her and the fallen champion. "You seem to have me at a disadvantage, my lady. You know my name, but I do not know yours."

The words were courteous, and a challenge.

The mysterious figure curtsied, spreading her hands out to either side on the lake's surface rather than lifting her skirts. "My name is Freya, and I am merely a handmaiden. I have come, with the Goddess's leave, to fulfill a promise made long ago."

In the brief glance he threw behind him Arthur caught Gaius shifting, a look of understanding dawning on the physician's face. He recognizes the name. "A promise?"

"To Merlin," she said.

Arthur swallowed hard. "Depending on the nature of your promise, I'm afraid it may be too late."

The smile that broke over her face shone as radiant as the midday sun. "No, Arthur. Not this time. Will you trust me?"

Arthur nearly laughed at the absurdity of her request, eyes narrowing. "Trust, you? Why…. What possible reason would I have to ever do that?"

She held out one hand, slender fingers loose and palm up. An invitation. "For him."

"What do you care for the life of a sorcerer?"

For him? The words drummed against the inside of Arthur's ribs. Despite all he did to smother it, hope flared to the beat, a tenacious ember reigniting itself in a bed of cold ash. It beckoned him on in a voice that was reckless and dangerous. Peering into those dark eyes he nodded, once.

"Sire, this is rash!" Cautioned Leon, catching hold of Arthur's shoulder as he bent to gather Merlin's body.

Arthur glared at Leon until he let go. The senior knight's counsel was wise, as always. But something deep inside Arthur's intuition urged him on. And, perhaps, there was even a part of Arthur that longed for his own destruction. That believed he'd deserve it.

He met his wife's eyes as he straightened, adjusting his grip to get a more secure hold with the arm around Merlin's back. She nodded her support, and the warmth of her trust in his judgement steeled his nerves.

The bank of Lake Avalon was muddy, seeping up around his boots, sucking at each step. The glacially cold water made goose flesh rise along his body and he clamped his teeth together to keep them from chattering. Undeterred, Arthur kicked past the reeds at the shore, pushing into open water. The bank sloped down gradually, and he plodded out until he stood an arm's length from the mysterious lady of the lake.

The thunder of his heartbeat counted each passing second, limbs shaking as a heavy chill steadily worked its way down to his bones. Freya appeared as though she didn't remotely feel the cold, her arms steady as she held them out for Merlin.

Arthur hesitated, uncertain of her intentions. His entire life he'd heard stories of spirits, unable to move on until their bodies were honored properly. His father had always dismissed the tales as superstition, but it was one reason why desecrating the body of your foe was considered such a grave insult. Was he gambling with Merlin's eternal rest?

Freya saw his reluctance and spoke in a whisper, "All will be well, Arthur. I, too, loved him."

The pools of longing and regret in her eyes tugged at Arthur's heart, even as it filled him with confusion. As far as he was aware— Merlin had barely known what a girl was. Once, he'd watched his manservant pine after Morgana, but that had simply been a crush. The depth of emotion in Freya's eyes implied something different. Something more.

So, Merlin had kept more than magical secrets. Relenting, he followed her silent directions to lower the young man's body into the water of the lake.

Merlin's head fell back as he did so, the sharp angles of his throat bared to the pale sky. Reaching out the mysterious lady tenderly slid her fingers through the drifting black hair. Cupping her hand against the back of his skull she lifted his face from the icy water. Together they held him in place, floating at the lake's surface.

Casting her eyes up to the sky Freya's lips began to move, whispering unintelligible words that brought a gentle glow of candlelight into her irises. As the words wove a tangible thread of power through the air around them, she bent down to touch her forehead to Merlin's. Arthur watched, barely breathing, not daring to guess at her purpose. Tenderly, she pressed her lips to Merlin's in a lingering kiss. A goodbye?

The moment was heart-rending and intensely private. Uncomfortable, Arthur looked away, pulling back slightly. His forearm grazed Freya's elbow and disjointed images slammed into his mind; jet black fur, razor sharp fangs, and slitted feline eyes. Pupils dilating his muscles tensed, heart leaping in response to danger. A slender hand darted out to size his forearm and additional impressions followed— feelings of loneliness, fear, and bottomless despair. Then it was gone. He was again shivering waist deep in the lake, her hand sliding from his arm.

"All is not always as it appears, Arthur Pendragon. Not every enemy you'll face is themselves a villain."

Hesitating, he met her illuminated gaze steadily. The sight of the once brown eyes now ablaze was unsettling. The confusion of the disjointed images and emotions hadn't passed, and he wasn't certain he understood her meaning. But beyond the reactive alarm the sensory ambush had triggered, he detected no threat or hostility from her. What had the visions meant? Were they real? Perhaps those were questions better let go.

Securing a better grip on Merlin, Arthur was careful to avoid touching the sorceress a third time. "What do you need from me?"

The soft glow of the magic swirling in her eyes intensified until they burned like two points of golden flame. "Call his name."


Merlin hoped that, even though he was dead, Arthur would continue on to fulfill his destiny. Since taking the throne Arthur had definitely been making good progress. And yet, despite Merlin's best efforts, he remained a clotpole. Not as prideful as his father had been but nearly as stubborn.

Then again, Merlin also supposed some things could never change and, in fairness, everyone had their faults.

He remembered dying quite clearly. And he was certain that dying had truly been what it was. The moment your soul detached from your body was one it would be hard to ever forget. But… if he were dead, where was he now?

Despite being born with the power of the old religion in his veins, Merlin had never put much thought into the afterlife or its deities. While the triple goddess had haunted his steps through her priestesses, her existence itself and what that might mean had always seemed like distant worries for tomorrow. It wasn't exactly that he was apathetic about the matter, but he'd had quite enough to worry about moment to moment without also contemplating the greater expanse of Gods and eternity. Perhaps that had been foolish, seeing as now he found himself in that eternity, supremely ill equipped.

He had a faint memory of… a light. Golden mist, warmth, a sense of peace. And… his father! Other familiar faces, too. He'd known each. Hadn't he? The more effort made trying to recall the details the hazier they became. Like awaking from a pleasant dream only to have the memory of it leak from your grasp as quickly as if you were trying to hold water.

Only darkness enveloped his consciousness now. There was no way to discern in any definitive way if his eyes were open or closed. This moment of his existence was void of any scents, of all physical sensations. His thoughts seemed to be the only thing remaining to him.

If I can't feel my body that begs the question then, I suppose; do I still have eyes?

Merlin didn't have time to properly entertain the strangely funny idea before sound bloomed within the void. A musical whisper, one sweet voice thickly layered in magic. A jolt of shock rocked him, Freya?

Beginning at his lips the power she spoke seeped like warm honey into each limb, bringing with it an awareness of self. Its slow but steady progression melted away a terrible cold he only became aware of as he experienced its retreat.

Another less gentle vocalization joined the first, swallowing it up like a tidal wave before landing like a clap of thunder across his mind. Its tones were embedded with the baying of hounds and the scream of a summer storm. As the language of the old religion rose in volume the second voice, the only one he could discern now, resonated strangely as if many people spoke at the same time.

"It is time. Although, you may not find life to be a friend, Emrys. As Arthur is the Once and Future King so you are his sentinel. My sentinel. Éower widsiþ gewitan hæfde begunnon."

The ghost of a hand stroked possessively through his hair, the way one might pet a favorite hound. The pleasant warmth intensified until it became uncomfortable. Discomfort morphed to pain as his entire body was barraged with the sensation of being stabbed with thousands of needles. It reminded him of times after he'd sat oddly and his foot would go numb, only intensified a hundred-fold. Merlin fought to cry out, to writhe, only to discover that while he had an awareness of form he lacked any sort of influence over it. So he lay, helpless, still as a statue, silently enduring the pain.

Just when he had begun to wonder if his afterlife was to be one of eternal torment a voice as familiar as his own broke through to him.

"Merlin!"

…Arthur? The needling ebbed away. In its place other sensations emerged, one at a time.

He was… wet? Yes, wet and once more freezing cold, the sensation lapping over him. His limbs began to shiver.

Next returned sound; a disorienting wash of voices and bird song.

And he had to do… something. What was it? Oh yes— sucking in a sudden painful breath, his first in a very long time, Merlin was hit with the scent of pine and lake water and iron and something faintly reminiscent of strawberries.

From above came an exclamation of surprise as a touch dropped from beneath him. Water closed over his head. Senses he'd so recently reclaimed vanished, muffled in cool darkness. Uselessly, he moved limbs which were slow and uncooperative through the water. The touch swiftly returned, and he floundered, grasping weakly at the arms that lifted his upper body from the water once more. Coughing up the mouthful of lake he'd tried to breathe in, Merlin fought and failed to get his own feet under him, feeling like a mostly drowned cat.

Cracking open one eye he reclaimed sight and squinted at the painfully bright world, registering a blurry image of golden hair and blue eyes. "Are you trying to drown me?"

Arms crashed around his shoulders, pulling him in tight for a fierce embrace that crushed the air from his lungs. The rings of Arthur's mail ground uncomfortably into his cheek before the king pulled back. "Merlin! You're- it's you?"

What was going on? A chorus of voices calling his name, people he recognized and cared about. When he tried to seek them out, light stabbed his eyes sending a burst of pain through his head. Shutting them tightly Merlin let out an audible moan. When he made another attempt to stand, the strength in his legs failed sending him falling to his knees in the freezing cold water. Panic edged confusion swirled inside him. What was this?

A second touch joined Arthur's, catching Merlin's arm, gently restraining him. "Rest— you're still awakening, you must take it slowly". A small palm covered his eyes, "The magic hasn't finished healing you."

The touch…he turned into it, heart twisting with anguished longing. "Freya?"

Though he had known her for only days, he knew he would have loved her. As crazy as it sounded perhaps he already had. Or maybe what they'd shared was the longing not to go unloved. Either way, Merlin wished he'd had the time to learn her favorite song. He wanted to hear her laugh ring out with abandon and he wanted to be the reason for that sound. Freya had been… the first moment since he'd arrived in Camelot that he'd stopped obsessing about the future. She had also been the last. But for a stolen moment the overwhelming weight of his destiny had slipped away. He'd been ready to abandon everything for the present, and for a person who truly understood him and the loneliness he felt. She'd whispered her secrets into his heart, and there he'd kept them. Moments of candlelight tucked beside her memory, safeguarded for all these years.

"Hello, Merlin."

It was the voice of a love he had never had the chance to know, and a love he missed so desperately. Placing one hand over hers he shifted her palm away from his face. The light still hurt, but he opened his eyes again, slowly, forcing them to adjust until her face came into focus above him. His chin trembled.

"But how? You're still... aren't you?"

"Yes."

"And… I'm?"

"Alive."

"But how?"

Freya briefly glanced over her shoulder, eyebrows furrowing with a flash of regret, "That is a long story, and I'm afraid I haven't much time left."

A sound that was half a laugh, half a sob burst from his chest. At last managing to get his feet planted under him he lurched into her, sloshing through the water. Scooping Freya close, he felt her slender arms go around him in return, lending him a strength her seemingly frail frame concealed. The warm press of her body against his was solid and he buried his face in the tangle of her dark hair, breathing in the sweet scent of strawberries. "It's really you!"

His legs gave out and Freya caught him, laughing, his weight carrying them both to their knees in the water. The cool waves lapped halfway up his chest and he shivered.

Pulling back her eyes captured his, all else fading around them. Emotion closed around his throat as he reached one hand up to lightly brush a strand of hair away from her face. "I'm so sorry... I couldn't protect you."

Freya shook her head and pulled his face down to press their foreheads together. "I didn't understand it at the time, but your place is by Arthur's side."

"I'm afraid those times may be past," said Merlin, miserably.

"Or maybe this is when they truly begin," She whispered back. "I'm glad for this chance to see you, Merlin, but we must part once more."

"You're going to leave again." The idea left him feeling hollowed out and incredibly lonely.

She clasped his hands in hers. "We are no longer of the same world. You understand this, don't you?"

Catching hold of her hands he squeezed them fiercely, a denial of her words. "Will I see you again?"

"When they die, all worthy and noble souls return again to the mists of Avalon. Until your time truly comes Merlin… I shall watch over you."

He grasped her forearms under the surface of the cold lake, pulling her back to him in another embrace as his heart broke anew. "Don't go!"

In the cage of his arms her physical form began to shimmer and fade, ebbing from visibility like sunlight through water. Pulling away she raised her chin and pressed her lips against his. Despite a distinct lack of experience in being kissed Merlin's body responded instinctively, and he bent his head closer, one hand cradling the small of her back while the other trailed lightly down her arm seeking her hand out beneath the waves.

As they separated he found she was more transparent than present. Merlin clutched her in his arms, desperate, "Don't leave me alone!"

"I'll never truly be gone, Merlin. In the flash of light as the sun dips under the horizon, in the breath between waking and dreams, I will be beside you. That's where I'll always love you. Even after the day comes that you're ready to love again."

With those last words she faded completely, and Merlin's arms closed on nothing but water. His breathing hitched as his vision wavered, dimming for a moment. A hand steadied him. Turning, looking up, he saw Arthur.

As his body gave out, pitching him forward into the lake, mailed arms were there to catch him.