~Chapter twenty: The Lady of the Lake~

THEY DID NOT lose them. The guards pursued them onwards, almost catching up several times, until finally they came to a dead-end; namely, the lake of Avalon. They were surrounded on all sides, with no place else to run. Merlin stationed himself protectively in front of Freya, but that was bound to do little good if a guard knocked him out with the hilt of a sword and hauled him back to Camelot to be publicly beheaded.

Or perhaps he would merely run him through right then and there and take Freya back to Uther.

Freya looked at the lake, then back at Merlin, tears shining in her eyes. "Merlin..."

"What?"

"This is where we always end up having to say goodbye, isn't it?" She forced a faint, bittersweet smile through her tears and sniffles.

Merlin blinked back tears of his own, remembering. She had died here, in his arms, and he'd put her on that boat...

That was it! A boat! Merlin had an idea; looking over his shoulder, he scanned the water for any abandoned boats, finding only an unusually lengthened coracle, trapped in a patch of reeds. Using magic, he caused the boat to drift over to them. It was small, obviously built for a child or else a dwarf of some kind, but long enough so that he and Freya could both fit.

As Uther's men rushed forward from all directions save for the lake itself, Merlin hopped into the boat. "Quick, Freya, get in." He took her hand and helped her in after him. "Astyre." His eyes glowed and the coracle began to drift towards the middle of the lake, out of the reach of the guards left behind on land.

"We can't stay on the lake forever," Freya whispered.

"I know," said Merlin. "But Uther's men can't wait on the banks of it forever, either."

"Merlin, we don't have long." Freya looked nervously over the edge of the coracle.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"This boat wasn't made to fit two people," Freya said, swallowing.

It was true; while the boat was certainly long enough for them both to fit comfortably, it wasn't built to hold up the weight of two grown persons. Two small children, easily enough, it could have managed, but even with how slender life in the forest had kept them, Merlin and Freya were too heavy for the structure of the little boat.

"I'll get out," Merlin decided, noticing how low the wood of the boat was going. Soon enough, water would start coming in, if the sides kept sinking at that rate. "I can tread water."

"No, Merlin!" Freya gripped his arm and shook her head. "It's too deep. And this isn't an ordinary lake. You know that. Camelot still needs you, even if Arthur doesn't realize it yet. You have a destiny. It's you we've got to keep safe."

"No, I have to look after you," he insisted, lowering his brow. "Like I promised you I would. Besides, I'm heavier."

"You have looked after me," Freya said, smiling at him tenderly. "Better than anyone else ever has." She kissed him goodbye on the lips. "I love you."

"Freya, don't..." Merlin pleaded. "I beg you..."

She remembered what the Great Dragon had said to her: You too may now have a part to play in this destiny of Merlin's and the new turns it has taken... You must, when the time comes, accept and deal with the true meaning of this and its medium, the way in which it must occur, no matter what the cost... Lady of the Lake... And now, her heart pounding in her chest, feeling as if it was going to break into a thousand pieces because of the way Merlin was looking at her, pleading with her not to leave him, she understood. It was painful, but it must be done. It was the only way to save Merlin and, in another way she was beginning to understand, she thought, maybe just a little, to help Arthur become the king he was meant to be.

Freya flung herself over the side of the coracle.

Merlin lunged and grabbed onto her hands. "No!"

The coracle swayed, water splashed in. Aside from her hands, cramped fingers still clinging lightly to the side, held in place by Merlin, Freya was already entirely in the water.

"Let go," she said softly.

"No..." He shook his head. "I'm not going to lose you again."

"You will never lose me," Freya told him, looking into his eyes. "No matter where I am, no matter what I do or who I see, my loyalty and love will always be on your side. It will lie with you forever."

Feebly, he clung to his fingers, unwilling and unable to let go. "I don't want you to go."

"I'll be all right," she said, breathlessly. "I grew up by a lake, remember? When I was a little girl, I used to play a game with my family, to see who could hold their breath the longest underwater."

"Freya, this isn't-"

"I always won." She smiled at him.

"There has to be some other way. We can go back to the shore, somehow, and fight off..." His voice trailed off; Merlin knew, with increasing and unbearably painful certainty, how hopeless it was. Only one of them could stay in the coracle, the other had to get out and, presumably, sink to the bottom of the lake.

"You were right," she said, "about me not being able to stay out of the water."

"Freya..."

"Don't worry about me," she tried to reassure him, one last time. "I can hold my breath longer than anyone." With that, she let go, her wet fingers slipping out of Merlin's fumbling grasp, giving him no chance either to consent or hold on stubbornly.

"Freya!" he shouted after her, sobbing, looking over the edge at the expanding, ring-shaped ripples as she sank down.

The last he saw of her was her right hand, staying above the water, shimmering like crystal-coloured samite from the reflection of water-droplets on her arm and wrist, and then, just like that, soundlessly, she was gone.

She was a strong swimmer; growing up by a lake, he knew she must be, and Merlin held on, foolishly, for a few minutes before he gave into despair completely, to the hope that she would resurface any moment.

When she did not, he succumbed to the numb, empty feeling growing deep inside of him. Tears streamed down his face as he pulled himself away from the edge of the coracle, sitting up in the middle, staring blankly at the horizon.

Nothing seemed to matter anymore. Merlin had lost everything he cared about; both Arthur and Freya, it seemed, were out of his life forever. He did not see how he could get either of them back again. Freya, doubtless, was drowned, and Arthur would never be able, at least as long as Uther had any say in the matter, to welcome him back in Camelot even if he wanted to. He had nothing. Nothing left to live for.

In fit of momentary madness, Merlin almost flung himself out of the coracle and into the water, thinking he would rather die with Freya than go on living as a fugitive on his own. But, then, he was distracted by something unexpected; Uther's men, previously gathered at the shoreline, were leaving. He was alone. Sighing, he allowed himself to lie on the bottom of the coracle in a fetal position, eyes half-closed, drifting aimlessly. He was bitterly cold, going quite numb, outside as well as in, but he didn't care.

And so he stayed, for a few hours, floating.

How much time had gone by, Merlin had no idea; it was only hours, but for him it might as well have been minutes, or days, or weeks, months, even years, and it would have meant precious little to him in the state he was in.

Then there came a voice, from the shore. "Merlin!"

Merlin opened his eyes and sat up in the coracle. He could make out the hazy figure of a prince clad in chainmail standing at the edge of the lake, his hands cupped around his mouth.

He knew that voice. "Arthur?"

"Merlin!" he called again.

"Ar-thur!" he called back, louder.

"Merlin, come ashore!"

Was it safe? What about Uther? The guards weren't there, but could it be a trap? Could they be waiting in ambush somewhere, ready to come out again at Arthur's signal? Would Arthur really do that to him? Could he hate him so much as that?

Merlin closed his eyes and thought deeply. He thought of the first day he and Arthur had met, how he'd thought him such a prat back then; he thought of how he had saved his life and been appointed his manservant; he remembered all that they had made it through together; he remembered how many times he'd saved Arthur's life; and, lastly, he remembered the look on Arthur's face when he had walked in on him and Freya kissing in his chambers.

I trust him, he realized, exhaling and opening his eyes.

Wisely or not, he did, really and truly, after all was said and done, still trust Arthur. He trusted Arthur to do the right thing, whatever that might be. He and Arthur were two halves of a whole; they had a destiny to fulfill, and neither could do it alone. Merlin's betrayal had not ended that. Deep down, Arthur knew Merlin cared about him, had never really meant to hurt him, to make him look the fool. And Merlin had to let himself believe that, whatever else happened, Arthur would remember all the same things he himself had, and spare his life when he set foot on the shore.

"Coming, Sire!" Using his magic, Merlin allowed the coracle to head for land.

Less than a mile away from the shoreline, when Arthur's face became clear to him, Merlin knew there was something he must make sure of before they met up again. He had made up his mind; Arthur did not need to know about his father's infidelity. Nimueh's journal, which happened to be among the few items in his satchel, need never be read by him-or anybody else.

Reaching into his satchel, he pulled out the leather-bound book and dropped it down into the water.

It would stay down there, undisturbed from now on; the past must lie at the bottom of the lake of Avalon, rather than threaten the way Arthur viewed Uther. Nimueh was dead, and Uther, too, was not going to live forever.

In order for Albion to rise, things needed to change. Change could not occur when one clung to the past. Painful as it might be, there were some things better off buried, so that the knowledge of them could not harm future generations.

Merlin wondered, even, if, one day, the Great Purge itself might be buried, so that no one need remember again. Or, maybe, it would be the opposite. Perhaps people would need to know about it to understand why it must never happen again.

Whatever the case, whether the answer to the disastrous past be increasing knowledge or ignorance, he must be ready, begin taking the steps that would frame those of the once and future king in whose shadow he himself would likely walk until his dying day.

When Merlin stepped off the coracle and onto the land, the ground felt as if it were pitching up and down, and he nearly fell face-first, unsteady on his feet, but Arthur caught him.

"Thank you."

Arthur nodded. "You're welcome."

"Am I still under a death-sentence?" Merlin asked.

"It doesn't matter anymore," Arthur said, wearily.

It was then that Merlin noticed Arthur looked tired, like he hadn't been sleeping well, and that his eyes were rimmed with red. "Arthur, what happened?"

"It's my father," he told him.

"Uther," breathed Merlin, eyes wide. "He's not..."

"Dead?" Arthur shuddered. "Thankfully not. But he suffered a bad fever about a week ago, Merlin. It's driven him insane. It's... it's like he's not even there anymore. Or his mind isn't. He's an invalid."

"I am so sorry," Merlin told him sincerely.

"The guards came and reported to me that they found you, but that you went out to the middle of the lake and they couldn't follow." Arthur looked out at the lake of Avalon, then back at Merlin. "When I heard... I decided to come myself."

"You want me to come back to Camelot with you?" Merlin double-checked, as if to be sure.

He nodded. "I have clothes that need washing and mending and horses whose stalls need mucking out."

"You're pardoning me?"

"I'll find a way," Arthur sighed. "I think I've become far too tired to chop off the heads of everyone who's ever wronged me in one way or another."

"You do look tired," Merlin admitted.

"Where's Freya?" Arthur started to look around for her, having expected her to be with Merlin.

"She's gone," he whispered, nearly choking. "She's..." Dead? Drowned? Went under the water and never came back up? Did all three answers even truly mean the same?

"I'm sorry," Arthur said, folding his arms across his chest and fighting against another exhausted shudder, as though he suddenly felt a chill. "I know what she meant to you."

"There's something you need to know," Merlin said. "Especially now that Uther..."

"What is it?"

"It's Morgana." He hoped he would believe him, hard though it might be. "She's the traitor in our midst. She's been conspiring with Morgause. Now that Uther's taken sick, I think she might try to take the kingdom from you."

"Merlin," snorted Arthur, "don't be ridiculous."

"She has magic, like me, but..." He ground his teeth together, trying to find the right words. "But she hasn't used it for good. She's so bitter. Morgana isn't the same person she used to be. I wanted to tell you, but with everything, and she threatened me... I'm sorry. After Morgause took her, she never needed rescuing. Not really. She played us all. That year we spent looking for her was for nothing; it was no accident we found her. Everything... It was all part of Morgause's plan."

"I've known Morgana all my life," said Arthur flatly. "Why would she do this to me?"

"I know it's hard to believe." Merlin reached out and touched the side of his arm. "But look at me. Do you honestly think I'm lying about this?"

Merlin did look honest; much as Arthur wanted to, he couldn't deny it. He was losing his father to insanity, the last thing he needed was to lose someone else by learning they were playing the traitor. What was the measure of a traitor anyway? Was it someone like Morgana, who Merlin would have him believe deceived him? Or it was it someone like Merlin himself, who'd kept so many secrets from him?

But he had a choice to make. He could show some trust in a friend who had been loyal in all ways but one, or he could deny him, insist he must have misunderstood, or even simply call him a liar to his face.

It was a grievous task, but the prince of Camelot had made up his mind.

"If you're telling the truth," said Arthur, slowly, nodding and starting to walk away from the lake, gesturing that Merlin should come with him, "we will most likely have the fight of our lives on our hands." Morgana had never done anything halfway in her life; if she was going to betray them and take over Camelot, it would be no small movement on her part.

"Can I catch up with you in a moment?" Merlin asked, hesitant to leave the lake of Avalon so abruptly after what had happened.

"You're not going to vanish in a cloud of smoke, or whatever it is you sorcerers do when you want to hide, are you?" Arthur asked, raising an eyebrow.

Merlin cracked a half-smile. "No. Nothing like that. I promise."

"All right," said Arthur. "But don't leave me standing out here in this cold for too long or I may change my mind about letting you back into my service."

"I understand, Sire."

Merlin looked back at the lake, thinking of Freya. As glad as he was to be reunited with Arthur and forgiven for his betrayal, he couldn't help but feel immensely sad over how pointlessly she had died. For absolutely no reason, the world had lost the most beautiful person he'd ever known to have existed in it; twice.

If he was being spared, it likely meant Freya would have been, too. If only they had known, when they first saw those guards, that Uther was an invalid and Arthur, who might be more inclined to show mercy on their behalf, was now in charge...

And what would happen now? Would Arthur really be able to accept that he had magic? Would he trust him, knowing what he really was? Or would he grow resentful or suspicious of him in the future? And what about the near future? What about Morgana? Merlin had no idea how he would ever defeat her.

Once again, hopelessness seized his heart.

That was when a white arm sprung up from the water, holding aloft the finest sword that Gwen's father had ever made, the very sword that had been forged in Kilgharrah's breath and then hidden at the bottom of the lake, where Merlin threw it, to protect it from being used for evil by Uther or by anybody else.

As if by fate itself gently tugging at him and crying out, "Look, look! What do you see?" Merlin knew what the sword would be called when the stories of King Arthur were told, long after all of them had passed on.

Excalibur.

That was what they would call it.

But Merlin would call it something else. To him, it had only one name, and that name was Hope.

Hope that they could defeat Morgana. Hope that Arthur would rise up against everything that put itself in his way and stand firm, as the king he was always meant to become.

Hope, brightest of all, that true love never died. Hope that, very soon, the day would be upon Merlin when he would come back to this lake and Freya, his lady waiting for him beneath the waves, would rise up and give him the sword, knowing that in his hands and Arthur's it had the power to save Albion.

That would be their chance to see each other again. And he would count the moments, the seconds, the breaths he would take in and out, until that moment.

Bright tears still shining his eyes, but no longer all of sadness, smiling a tiny (almost secretive) smile, Merlin watched the hand-Freya's hand-clutching the gleaming hilt of Excalibur-of Hope-as it sunk back under the softly rolling waves of the lake of Avalon.

~The End~