Hey everyone! I don't really have anything to say . . . especially since it's one in the morning and I'm completely beat. I hope you enjoy the chapter!

Oh wait! I just wanted to say to all of my reviewers: I love you immensely. You guys keep me going, and every single review puts the biggest smile on my face. *hugs for all!* A quick shot-out to Merwholocked628, It's a crazy-kept secret, and of course my lovely Hikaru for reviewing on every single chapter! You guys rock! Also to all the guests that I can't reply in pms to: *giant hug of love and gratefulness* I'm thinking of starting a guest reply section at the end, I'll probably start that next chapter :D

I LOVE ALL OF YOU GUYS YOU ARE ALL BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE

Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin . . . *ley sigh*

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P.r.o.p.h.e.s.i.e.d.

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C.h.a.p.t.e.r..T.h.r.e.e.

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There was a pit in Merlin's stomach, a never-ending pit, and he wasn't sure it would ever leave. It grew with every step the group took towards Camelot until he could barely move; barely speak, as the panic threatened to overtake him. All his life he had been told of the evils of Camelot, heard bedtime stories warning him of the mad king and the knights with capes soaked in blood. His child's mind had twisted Camelot into a land of nightmares, and he had never really outgrown the image. And now he was going there, to a place no one with magic should have to go, and he felt small and weak and unprepared. His magic was bound, his body was still weak from that blasted stone, and his only hope for escape had turned out to be every bit of the puppet prince Balinor had described. Merlin supposed he couldn't blame Arthur for trying to serve his father, but Merlin had hoped . . .

Well, no point in thinking about it now. Arthur had just seemed different somehow. Even with his magic sealed something deep in Merlin's soul, in his very being seemed to stir near this prince of Camelot. At first it had confused him, this odd soul stirring that hadn't happened this strongly even with Freya, but he soon began to have his suspicions. Merlin had read the legends, and he had been trained his whole life to recognize the signs. The other half of his soul . . . Merlin hoped for both their sakes that Arthur was nothing more than a puppet prince, with no prophecies foretelling his birth.

"We can't be that far away now," Bruce muttered, casting a wary look at their guard. Freya was riding with Percival behind them, and Merlin also sent a worried glance backwards. "What do we do when we get there?"

Merlin opened his mouth to answer, although not sure what to say, and winced as another burst of pain hit him. The agony the shackles were giving him seemed to numb after a while, but every once in a while a bit of the stone's remaining energy shocked his system.

"Merlin?" Bruce looked back over and his eyes clouded with worry. "It's still hurting." He leaned in. "Why the hell haven't you told us?"

"No point." Merlin hissed—his ribs didn't appreciate the talking.

"Damn it[i/], Merlin," Bruce growled. "Just because you're the Emrys doesn't make you invincible! And," he continued as Merlin opened his mouth, "Don't give me any of your crap about appearances. You don't need to be strong for us." His expression softened. "I'm your friend Merlin. I want to know if you're hurt." Merlin's chest tightened, and he nodded deftly. Bruce smiled weakly. "We're not going to be okay. God knows what we're going to face there. But . . ." Bruce nodded over at Percival and Freya. "We'll face it together." Merlin blinked rapidly and nodded. Again Bruce smiled.

"You! Pick up the pace!" Bruce's smile dropped from his face and he kicked his horse. Shining sped up a little and the knight barking orders followed.

"Come on Merlin." Prince Arthur rode up beside him and Merlin quickly regained his composure, allowing his Emrys mask to slide back in place. Arthur huffed. "You don't have to do that, you know."

"Do what?"

"Put on a face." He smiled at the look Merlin shot him. "I'm not daft. I know what you're doing, I've seen it often enough." He scratched his head. "I'm just saying . . . you're not some great, evil . . . monster. So you don't have to act like one."

Merlin's shock lasted only a second before anger seeped in. "Oh, so I'm not a monster? Then why the hell am I wearing these?" He held up his raw wrists in accusation, and felt a brief flash of satisfaction at the stricken look on Arthur's face.

"I—" The prince looked down. "I didn't realize they were hurting."

Merlin laughed. "Oh they've been hurting, all right. Tell me Arthur Pendragon, have you ever had your entire being, everything that made you up be somehow gone? Because it's no picnic, I can tell you."

Arthur frowned. "What do you—"

"My magic, Pendragon," Merlin growled. "The shackles are binding my magic."

"But I don't see how—"

"—I'm Emrys. I am the most powerful sorcerer of all of time. I don't just use magic, I am magic. It flows through my veins just as blood flows through yours, and now it's gone. It hurts a lot. Top that off with that lovely stone you threw at me—thanks for that, by the way—and you have a whole world of hurt that I would rather be without."

When Arthur met his gaze it was with a somber tenaciousness. "I'm sorry but I can't take them off, any less than I can let you go."

"Why? Because I'll go berserk and destroy you all the moment they come off? Because I'll escape, go back home instead of to your torture chambers?"

"We don't—"

"—Oh you may not, but I assure you, your father has inflicted his fair share of agony on his prisoners." Merlin laughed. "It's almost funny, that such a pathetic, weak man could instill so much fear in the hearts of so many men."

Arthur's eyes flashed. "Careful, sorcerer."

"I'll be as careful as I want to be," Merlin growled. "I'm as much prince as you are, and my fate is going to be the same no matter what I say, so I'm going to shut my goddamn mouth when I want to, than—" He broke off into a coughing fit. His vision blurred a little bit, and Merlin felt himself swaying as he gasped for breath.

Distantly he heard Arthur calling for the knights to stop. "We'll rest here. It's almost dusk anyway."

Merlin wiped his mouth and watched as Arthur dismounted and began to dish out orders to the knights. The prince gave him the warlock a little nod, and then moved on to help Freya off her horse. He handled her gently, making sure she was steady before handing her off to Kay. And Kay didn't flinch when he touched her, only guided the lady to a suitable spot. As Merlin watched, something deep began to stir in his chest, something like hope.

-:-

The water did her good. It was different waters that Freya had set out to bathe in, but water always had this affect on her, a kind of rhythmic feeling that soothed her soul. But this Camelotian spring, it was something else. It struck her like no water ever had, struck deep into her bones. Perhaps it was because she was the lady of the lake and this water was from her home. There was an old folk tale the elders used to tell when she was young, about how all the rivers flowed into Avalon. Freya had known, still knew this wasn't true; all rivers flow into the ocean—that vast, gorgeous creature she had yet to meet. But something in her soul still loved that story, still desperately wanted to believe it.

"Quiet child! Stop your wriggling and listen!" The old nanny settled with a huff and began her story.

"Once long ago there was a lady that guarded the gateway between this world and the next. She had untamable power, beauty that surpassed all others, and a task given to her from the triple goddess herself.

And yet, the lady was sad, for she was lonely all by herself, tending to the gate. One night she cried out to the triple goddess for help. The goddess heard, and loving her daughter, sent a beam of light out to guide companions to her. The spirits of the land, nymphs of rivers and streams, saw the light. Nymphs are curious creatures, and they followed the light to its source, where they were shocked with a beautiful lady, eyes a deep azure blue. The lady gave a great cry of joy, and for ten long days and nights the new friends laughed and danced and told stories under the stars.

But all great things must come to an end. And when the time came for the nymphs to leave, the lady cried and cried. She cried so much that her tears pooled into a lake, the same deep blue of her eyes. Seeing the lake gave the nymphs an idea. "Dry your eyes," they told the lady. "We will never be far from you. From this day forth, all rivers and streams will flow back into your lake, and then we can dance forever."

Time tumbled on, and eventually the lady grew old and died. All the rivers in the land mourned her, along with the triple goddess herself, and for ten days rain fell. But at the end of those ten days the lady's spirit entered the body of a child, and in this way her predecessor was chosen.

For centuries young druid girls have taken the title of Lady of the Lake. And the rivers have kept their promise. No matter how far from the lake her guardian strays, the lady will always find loved ones around her."

The ripples woke her (had she been sleeping?) and Freya looked up into her lover's eyes. The voices of her past still echoed in her ears, and she wondered listlessly if the river gods would keep her loved ones safe. Wordlessly Merlin reached out a hand to her, and she let him take hers. Their chains fell together in a harsh clanking but Merlin held her hand to his cheek anyway, tilting his head to kiss her palm. Freya allowed herself to be lifted out of the water, to link her hands behind his neck, to tangle them in his beautiful raven hair. Merlin worked his own chained wrists over her head and down to her back, pulling her towards him. Their lips barely touched; again; again; again, and she planted gasping kisses along his jaw, down his neck. He ducked his head and captured her lips with his own, and in that moment Freya was truly free. She didn't feel the pain the manacles were inflicting on her, or the fear of Camelot, or the bruises and cuts from their capture. There was Merlin, and there was her, and there wasn't room for anything in between.

But the moment didn't last forever, despite Freya's deepest desire that it would. Merlin kissed her twice more—once on the lips, once on the forehead—and then he was gone, disentangled from her. Freya shivered in the water, let Merlin's tears run down her forehead and her own down her cheeks, and tried to hold on to the warmth that was suddenly gone.

-:-

Sir Kay was making Merlin laugh. It was the first thing Freya noticed when the guard let her back to the camp. It was a quiet kind of laugh that her beloved was emitting, barely more than a chuckle, but it stunned her into immobility. It took three prods and a shout from the guard to get her moving again.

The guard put her off to the side, near to Merlin, which she was grateful for. She managed to get herself at least to touching distance to Merlin before the guard secured her chains. It was a coincidence, she told herself, that Sir Leon spoke to the guard in whispers afterwards. The man's eyes darted over at her twice during the exchange. She turned her head away.

"And then he turns to me, all red in the face, on his sixth jug of mead at least, and asks where the hell I'd been. And I said . . ."

Freya tuned back into the conversation when the men around the campfire erupted in laughter. Merlin was still smiling, although the mirth was fading from his eyes. Percival was watching the men as well, but with a cold detachment that worried Freya. She was not used to seeing such a hard look on the gentle man's face. Bruce looked to be sleeping, Freya wondered if he really was.

Fingers entwined themselves with hers, and she leaned back into the tree they were sharing. The ropes around her legs were digging painfully into Freya's thighs so she tried to concentrate on the warmth in her fingers instead of the needles in her calves.

"Look at them and their laughter."

Freya started. "Can you still do that?"

"It would seem so."

"Hmm." She frowned. "This has got to be hurting, or at least draining some kind of power source."

"Hush, I can barely feel it."

"But how can we speak like this, with these monstrous things on?"

"I think it's because you're touching me, although I'm trying very hard not to think right now."

Freya looked over at Merlin. His eyes were shut, and beads of sweat were gathering on his forehead. She closed her eyes.

"So what kinds of shocking things are you going to say in the privacy of my head?"

She felt him chuckle. "Oh, you have no idea."

Freya smiled. She felt the edges of her mind getting fuzzy, sleep trying to claim her even as she battled it off. "Tell me a story, Merlin."

"But you've just heard one."

"Not one of their stories. I don't want to hear them anymore." Anger was coming on in a lazy haze, but she pushed it away. She was too tired for it now. "No, tell me something of yours. Remember the one you told me all those years ago? The first time we shared a bed?"

He gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. "I remember."

She was fading. "Tell me that one."

He stroked her hand. "Once upon a time, a long time ago, there was a dragon who loved a princess. This princess lived all by herself, in a cottage woven with nature. She didn't have the crown or jewels or royal blood, but she was fairer than any he had ever laid eyes upon, and he loved her like he loved no living soul . . ."

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"Don't look you enemies in the eye, son. If they can't see your eyes, they can't see your soul. And if they can't see your soul, then they can't break you. They can run a sword through your heart, they can shatter every bone in your body, but if they can't see your soul, they can't break your spirit."

Balinor's advice, as usual, came back too late. From the second Merlin had been captured he'd let his guard down—first with Arthur of all people, then with Kay, and finally with Leon. Why these people—his enemies—could attract him in this way was an infuriating enigma. Arthur was at the core of it, Merlin had decided. Arthur Pendragon, with his impossibly soul-filled eyes, who drew Merlin like no other. Merlin wished he knew why.

But there was only one more full day of riding; on the next the group would reach Camelot. Merlin couldn't afford affection towards any person of Camelot, soul-filled eyes or not. It just felt wrong, hating these people; he hated how wrong it felt. Merlin let his eyes wander to one of the knights in question. Kay was laughing with Leon, stroking the feathers of his falcon. The bird had been flying back and forth for the whole trip; probably sending messages to Camelot. It fit Kay, having a falcon for a pet. Merlin shook himself and tried to focus on the trek ahead. Mab whinnied softly, and the warlock ran his fingers through her mane. "I know girl. I know."

When the sun started to fade, the group stopped to camp. Leon began to start a fire; Kay helped the prisoners off their steeds. Merlin winced when the knight tried to chain him up. Kay frowned, and Merlin shifted uncomfortably as the knight took in his ragged appearance. Kay undid the chains with a sigh. "Not much point in keeping you in these. You could barely run a quarter league in this condition. Here," The knight moved Merlin closer to the now constructed fire. "You'll need all the warmth you can get."

Merlin knew he was staring, but he could barely get around the shock enough to force out his thanks. Kay chuckled and put a hand on the warlock's shoulder, before moving to untie Freya and Bruce. Percy's ropes were kept intact. For good reason/, Merlin thought wryly. He turned to the fire, wondering if he could lose himself in the wild dance of the flames. It would be easier, he thought, than dealing with his scrambled loyalties.

-:-

Percival growled as the ropes —again—cut deep into his skin. He could barely move like this, which, he supposed, was really the only way to keep him contained. He couldn't look at a single knight of Camelot without his vision turning red. They killed his comrades, his brothers, killed them all without a second thought. Under a flag of peace! He wanted them dead, all of them, he wanted their broken bones in his hands and their blood on his sword. He cared not whether Sir Kay talked to Merlin like he was a normal human, the man had slain at least four warrior of Avalon alone; he cared not whether Leon brought the prisoners soup, the man had sliced through Nate's chest; he cared not whether Prince Arthur seemed more like a lost boy than the commander of murderers;he cared not he cared not he cared not.

Roasted fish roused Percival out of his half-slumber. He sat up and Sir Kay flopped gracelessly next to him. The knight held out a fillet to Percival. "Eat." Percival turned away, trying to push the roar out of his head. He saw the faces of the men murdered and was able to ignore the brief flash of hurt on Kay's face. After a few seconds of silence the man chuckled and shifted to a more comfortable position. "Not a talker then? Shame." Kay leant down to place the fish between them, and Percival saw it as the man's hair slid away from his neck—the scar. An ugly burn blotted the skin on the back of Kay's neck, and Percival suspected that it traveled down farther. A closer inspection of the man's face revealed that the burn snaked up his right cheek as well. Kay smiled sheepishly. "Magic, for all of its wonders, hasn't been kind to me in life."

Forgetting himself in a moment of pity, Percival leaned forward. "What happened?"

"It's quite the story," Kay warned. Percival took the fish and with a shrug, Kay leaned back and began.

"My parents were nobility, of course, Uther wouldn't have knighted me otherwise, but we were from a poorer region of Camelot, and I was very close to the people in the village by our castle. The laws of Camelot are laxer near the borders, and my parents never agreed with some of Uther's laws, so we had a druid tribe living with us." Percival choked on his fish and Kay laughed. "A little unbelievable, isn't it? Anyway, things were going alright for a while, but then—" Kay looked about to say something and then caught himself. "Then I came to squiring age, and I was sent to live in Camelot. That's where I met Leon and Arthur. I had only been there for a few months when I received word that my parents were dead." Percival inhaled sharply, and before he could hold it back, pity flooded him for the man in front of him. Kay swallowed, his expression dark. "A tribe of dark druids had disguised themselves and infiltrated our lands. They killed my parents as revenge for Uther. They called it justice," Kay spat. "It was murder. They burned everything, the crops, the buildings . . . and the people. Sixty-seven dead by the end of the night.

Of course, I sought revenge. Leon tried to stop me, but I snuck out in the night and rode for home. The rage I felt when I saw the destruction . . . it was like nothing I have ever felt. I traced the druids for weeks before I finally found them." Kay choked out a laugh. "I don't know what I was thinking. I was no match for any of them. To this day I have no idea why they let me live, but they made sure I returned with a souvenirs from my travels."

After a moment of silence, Percival found his voice. "Why are you telling me this?" Kay sighed.

"I don't know," he admitted. "You seem like a good enough man to tell it to."

"If this is true," Percival asked. "If even after all of that you still don't blame magic, then why are you fighting for Camelot? Why did you attack us?"

Kay hesitated. If he ever intended to answer, or answer truthfully, Percival would never know. In the time between Percival's question and Kay's answer, a twig snapped. Kay was instantly alert, and the man had both daggers drawn before Percival realized what was happening. Suddenly Kay threw the dagger at a bush by Arthur. There was a grunt of pain, a choking noise, and a man fell out, Kay's dagger buried in his chest. The knights all stared at the body, blood pooling from his wound. Then all hell broke loose.

"Bandits!" No sooner had the cry went out then a hoard of men burst through the clearing, falling on the knights faster then they could draw their swords. Kay rolled to retrieve his dagger and was quickly lost in the clashing of steel. Percival watched the battle in stunned silence before leaping into action. Struggling to his knees he fell forward, rolling under brawling men and trying desperately to reach the others. He may been tied up like a pig and stripped of his sword but he was still a knight of New Avalon, and he would reach protect his prince to the last breath.

A body fell beside him, and Percival allowed himself a moment's pause before he was cutting his ropes on the dead man's axe. The steel, blunt as it was, tore through the rope like a knife through butter; Percival snapped the ropes with a grunt and seized the fallen man's sword. The first bandit he met fell with a cry; the first knight met a similar fate, and Percival soon found himself on the outskirts of the skirmish. After a few seconds of frantic searching, he located Bruce and Freya making their way around the battle as well, having made an escape similar to his own. They would be safe, Percy knew, and his mind quickly turned to one thought and one thought alone—Merlin.

-:-

Maybe it hadn't been the best idea to go crawling straight into the skirmish. But when the bandits attacked, Merlin's overwhelmed, pain-addled brain had picked the fastest path away from the bandit dueling Arthur; if that path just happened to lead him to more bandits, was it really his fault? Merlin rolled to the side as another bandit fell on a knight's sword. The shackles on his wrists burned as he did so, and the warlock bit back a cry. Through hazed vision he spotted Freya and Bruce making their escape.

Good.

Merlin doubted that he would be so lucky. His vision was darkening with every desperate lunge for freedom, and he had to keep stopping so he wouldn't pass out. As would be expected, taking breaks on a battlefield wasn't buying him any favors. Merlin hoped that if he didn't make it the others at least would get away. He had the sinking feeling that they wouldn't leave without him. It was foolish, selfish, and dangerous of them, and it was exactly what he would do. So he couldn't give up. He had to get away, for their sake, if not for his own.

Sweat fell into Merlin's eyes and he blinked it away, trying not to panic as his vision blurred as well as darkened. But even through such faulty lenses, he could see that he was almost there. Just a few more feet and he would be to safety, to freedom.

Years later he would wonder why he didn't take the chance. Perhaps it had been fate, perhaps destiny. Perhaps it was something even deeper, something found in the soul. Whether he regretted the decision or not, that was a difficult thing to tell. But the choice had been made, for better or worse, and if there's one rule life enforces with a will of iron it's that we live with our choices. And this choice; it changed his life forever.

Merlin felt the archer before he saw it. Something in his heart jumped, something in his soul screamed. The warlock turned his head to the left, and there it was—a bandit, hidden by the shadows, with an arrow pointed at Arthur Pendragon's back.

He could've run for his life. He could've crawled into that bush; let an unknown archer singlehandedly take out one of Magic's greatest foes. But something in Merlin's soul protested the action with such a tremendous force of will that he was suddenly on his feet, running at the archer even as his head spun. The bandit pulled back the string.

"NO!" The shriek tore through the clearing, and Arthur turned just in time to see the son of his enemy tackling his assassin to the ground, the arrow that almost destroyed a prophecy thudding into a tree two feet from Arthur's head. Behind him, Kay felled the last standing bandit with a cry, but Arthur had eyes only for the prisoner across the clearing, who currently had the archer in a death-grip. Merlin twisted his chained arms around the archer's neck and pulled, paying no heed to the man's dying gasps. Arthur watched in horror as the warlock strangled the bandit with a fierce determination. Finally the man fell still. With a crazed kind of triumph, Merlin dropped his hands, and met Arthur's eyes. The warlock's arms were shaking. There was something in those blue orbs, something that stirred his soul so tremendously; Arthur couldn't tear his gaze away. He realized that he was crying.

Then Merlin's eyes glazed over and he dropped to the ground.

Kay had gone off to offer food to Percival, which Merlin doubted was the best decision; the knight was taking Nathan's death very hard. The warlock glanced over at Arthur, who was sharpening his sword by the firelight. A question had been building inside Merlin's chest for a while now, one he was a little wary to ask. He had realized lately that he although he had been taught for years about Camelot; he knew little of the minds of its people. Merlin had to admit he was curious. It seemed he and Arthur had this in common; the prince knew little of magic users, but Merlin recognized the wary attraction in Arthur's eyes. Merlin swallowed his fear and forced himself to speak. "What is it about sorcerers anyway? Why does your kingdom hate us so much?

Arthur looked up in surprise, and his eyes darkened. "Magic has caused a lot of destruction in Camelot." Arthur gazed into the fire, and there was a deadness in his face that surprised Merlin. "A lot of people have died."

Merlin chewed on this for a while. "But a lot of sorcerers have died, too."

"I know."

There was no hesitation in the answer, and Merlin found himself once again re-evaluating his opinion of Camelot's prince. He chose his words carefully before replying. "Have you ever thought about the power of desperation?"

"What?"

Merlin took a deep breath. "If you pushed someone over and over, made them live in fear, killed their family, don't you think they would eventually strike back? Have you thought about the desperate father, terrified for his family? Or the wrathful mother, wrecked after her child's death? Or perhaps the orphan who has been twisted by circumstance?"

Arthur didn't say anything, just stared into the fire, hands working the sword like a prayer.

Merlin waited for a few moments, before deciding it safe to go on. "Think about magic . . . like . . . like a sword." That was good. "It's all about the person who uses it. What kind of person is likely to use a sword? To abuse it?" Arthur frowned, and Merlin took that as a signal to keep going. "And what if swordfighting was banned on pain of death? And then you were stuck with this thing inside of you, with nowhere to put it. If you were a decent person, a person who didn't want anyone to get hurt, you would hide it forever."

At this Arthur spoke. "But you can choose to not practice magic!"

"I was born with it, Arthur," Merlin stated calmly. "So was Freya." Arthur's eyes widened.

Merlin cleared his throat. "So if all the good swordfighters were in hiding, why would Camelot still get attacked?" He sighed. "People are people, Arthur. I don't know their intensions—fear, anger, pure evil perhaps—but hostiles are always mixed in with peace-bringers. But then . . . the evil swordfighters would be the only swordfighters Camelot ever saw. It's only natural that your people would make . . . assumptions."

Arthur was reticent. Finally he spoke. "What are you trying to do?"

"Excuse me?"

"I just . . ." Arthur sighed. "I don't understand why you're telling he this."

"Well . . . " Merlin laughed softly. "I guess I haven't given up on you just yet. You're not a lost cause."

Arthur frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't really know . . . prophecies," Merlin mumbled, "and stuff . . ."

"There are prophecies about me?"

"Maybe. Depends on who you are." Merlin tried not to laugh at the look on Arthur's face. "But . . . yeah, yeah there are."

"Why would you even try? Give me a chance, after everything I've done?" Merlin sighed, and Arthur seemed to regret asking the question. "Forget it."

"No . . . it's just . . ." The warlock ran a hand through his hair. "I'm not sure myself. You killed my men. I've been raised to hate you. Every bone in my body should reject you. And yet . . ." He looked up Arthur. "There's something about you, Arthur Pendragon, something that gives me hope. "Hope for us all."

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