Chapter 16 – The Isle of Apples

Author's Note: Well, I'm back – after an absolutely ridiculous hiatus due to lack of time, mixed with a bit of writer's block. I reckon that many of my original readers have given up on me but if you're still reading this – or reading this again – then I'm incredibly and humbly grateful. Yes, it's been years! Plural! Crazy! I'd almost decided to let it rest, but I got so many nice messages from you people, asking me to please finish the story – that really means a lot, folks, and it's down to you that I'm doing so now. It's not that I had lost interest in this story – on the contrary. Merlin is forever a part of me and these characters live in my heart, but there was so much going on in RL that I just couldn't find writing time. Plus, this chapter was another major reason I got stuck for so long, for two reasons: firstly, I did a lot of research to stitch together some convincing new Anglo-Saxon incantations, pilfered from various poems, and being the perfectionist I am, I spent way too much time on that; and secondly, this chapter was supposed, originally, to contain some highly emotional exchanges and I wanted both content and tone of those conversations to be as true to our beloved characters as possible, and yet touching with a bit of melodrama. (This is a fanfic, not literature, after all. We're allowed a bit of wallowing!) And that proved to be a real challenge. I wrote and rewrote the scene so many times I lost count but somehow it never sounded right to me until I almost thought I'd just let the whole thing rest, but you readers changed my mind! Your reviews and messages clearly said that people are still enjoying this fic and hoping for a conclusion so I found I owed it to you to try and finish. I'm not sure it is now really the best I could do, but if it's not, it's never going to be, so there. Eventually, though, the first part of what was supposed to be this next chapter grew so much that I had to divide it into three individual chapters; which means that the cool magic you're about to encounter has to wait for Ch. 17, and the melodrama-y stuff I slaved over for so long comes in the one after that, so you'll need to have a bit more patience if you love that kind of thing, sorry! They're both almost done, though, just waiting for their finishing touches. But for now, brace yourself, for a storm is coming…

– Sincerely yours, Hunith's Spirit

Thankfully, the last leg of their nocturnal journey to Avalon remained just as quiet as its beginning had been, even if the going was slow, much slower, in fact, than Merlin had anticipated. An hour or so after they had left the cave, they were caught up in a solid sheet of heavy, steady rain, soaking through their clothes until they were all wet to the skin and going sleeveless like Percival suddenly seemed a very appealing idea. The horses, born and bred in the Camelot stables, were much too well trained to show any reluctance to walk in the rain other than the flattening of their ears and a tucked-in tail, but the ground was soon saturated and slippery, requiring the animals to put thought into every step and more emphasis on safe passage than on speed. The fact that they kept going at all, and without even the occasional stumble, seemed a marvel in a night as dark as this. None of the friends, not even Guinevere, was unaccustomed either to night-time travel nor to rough terrain – let alone rough weather – but this mostly blind trek through pitch-black virgin forests, with the merciless rain giving no sign of intending to let up at any nearby point in the future, and the knowledge that Arthur's fate was in their hands, and their hands alone, for good or ill – this journey was something else. Even from his position at the head of their group, Merlin was perfectly aware the others' unease, each of them dealing with it after their own fashion: Leon riding tall, one hand only lightly holding the reins while the other rested on the hilt of his sword as he was casting his ever watchful eye around; Guinevere, just as tall with her head held high and her mouth set, refusing to give in to her panic, ever reliable in a crisis as long as there was something for her to do; and Percival, the tallest of them all, but crouched slightly into a hulking shape, ready to spring forth and unleash his muscle power at anything or anyone who might dare to obstruct their path. The combined energy of them was palpable to Merlin, solid and gleaming like a protective shield. They were nervous, yes, and so was he himself, to be honest, but it wasn't the paralysing kind of nerves that comes from helplessness, but rather the alert, watchful agitation of soldiers in the night before battle. Merlin hoped it would carry them through the night, and safely unto Avalon; as for what came after, there was no telling and even less use speculating, so for now, he allowed himself to be just glad that he wasn't here alone, that his friends were with him, believing in him, supporting him, and sharing the terrible weight of his responsibility. They were here, he knew, not out of duty but out of love: love for their king, husband, and friend, and for the kingdom that depended on him; but also out of love for a gawky, skinny boy from a backwater village whose destiny, in an unlikely twist, had become so intertwined with theirs ever since he first set foot in Camelot to befriend an arrogant, insecure bully of a prince and, over time, bring forth the hidden kingly qualities in him.

That last bit – the way his friends felt about him – was something Merlin sensed instead of consciously grasped, yet it filled his troubled heart with a light and a warmth no amount of rain or darkness could extinguish.

'I feel that we are making good time, in spite of this foul weather, don't you think, Merlin?' Leon made himself heard from behind, somehow noticing the young man's lighter frame of mind, and not for the first time Merlin thought that Leon, with his sharp observance and quick awareness of the subtlest of moods might have been very receptive for magic, had he been taught in his youth.

'I guess we could be doing worse, yes,' Merlin gave back amiably without turning around, his voice muffled by the scarf he had pulled up as high as possible, as well as by the muted swooshing sound of the falling rain. 'I do hope the horses can keep up this pace for a bit longer though. We don't know how much time we have left and I'd rather not take any chances.' At these words, his gaze wandered to the bump in the upper portion of his jacket, where the raven was snuggled up against his chest. The thin suede leather was as soaked as the rest of Merlin's clothes, but the bird seemed comfortable enough, his black eyes peeking into the soft darkness, alert and unblinking.

'Well, we can't rush it,' Leon said with mild regret, 'but there aren't any better beasts in the king's stables than these. They'll keep up. And dawn isn't far off, at least, and isn't this rain getting lighter, or am I imagining that?'

'Definitely imagining it,' Percival muttered mutinously – and rather audibly – from the rear, making Leon chuckle and eliciting a decidedly unqueenly spluttering burst of laughter from Gwen. Merlin, too grinned into his scarf. He knew that this current mood of cheerful camaraderie was teetering on the edge of hysteria, and yet words failed him to express how grateful he was to his friends for the illusion of normalcy it provided. It grounded him, made this almost impossibly ambitious errand he was going to embarge on seem a bit less mad. He wanted to say something uplifting in return, assure them that everything was going to be fine, but the truth was that he had no way of knowing that, and if he had learned anything at all about himself these past days apart from the anguish in his heart that was Arthur's absence, it had to be that he was done with lies once and for all. His friends had chosen to take this leap in the dark with him and deserved nothing but the truth, so he kept silent and guided his focus back to the way in front of them. And that was the moment his senses finally picked up on the pull of dark water and ancient magic and the earthy, pungent aroma of mud, rotting wood, and waterlilies.

The scent and the powerful memories it evoked in him made him feel lightheaded, sending blurry pictures to his inner eye…

…a wet summer's eve long ago, peaceful, calm, with silver-grey clouds softly covering snow-capped mountains, the lake shimmering softly in the summer twilight…gentle rain falling silently down on the tree tops, dripping from every leaf like tears…the sweet, beautiful face of the girl he had loved, framed by lush green ferns and humble wildflowers he had gathered with his own loving hand, weeping all the while…then another face, just as dear, a dark-haired man's, so handsome, so earnest, his sufferings finally ended, the kind brown eyes looking at him one more time as he lays in the wooden boat ready for his last journey, thanking him…and the most precious face of all, blue-eyed, fair-haired with a hint of arrogance in the strong chin, but ashen and drawn now, the face of a dying man, only his eyes shining as bright and clear as ever, blue like the summer sky over Camelot; the same man laid out for his last journey in his torn and bloodstained knight's attire, hands folded over his sword, lying, lifeless, in another wooden boat, a boat that was gliding with slow, even ripples out onto the lonely lake…Avalon. So many goodbyes I've had to say here. But not this time. Not if I can help it. I've come back for you, Arthur. Not long now. Either way now, not long.

A hand was placed, lightly, on his shoulder, rousing him out of his trance. 'Merlin?' he heard Gwen's soft voice, a cautious note in it. 'Are you alright?'

He looked up, feeling dizzy. Gwen had ridden up to him, reining in her horse by his side; the others came to a halt behind them both. He shook his head to clear it. 'I'm – I'm fine. It's just – it's Avalon. The lake – we're almost there.'

He could see comprehension dawning on Gwen's face, the fear and longing in her eyes as she silently mouthed Arthur's name, and quickly turned to the knights. 'It's not far now,' he told them, trying to make his wobbly voice as firm as possible. 'Half an hour maybe.'

Leon peered doubtfully ahead, but to his by no means untrained eyes, the still dark forest seemed just as impenetrable as before. 'How can you tell?'

Well, what do you think?! Merlin thought testily. 'I just know. Creepy, huh?' Even before he saw Leon's hurt expression, he felt himself flush in shame. Leon was the last person who deserved to get a snappy answer from him. Or from anyone. 'I'm sorry, Leon. I'm – I'm a little jumpy right now,' he said deflatedly.

Sir Leon shook his curly head. Dear heavens, the boy was wound up tight, not that anybody could blame him. This whole crazy situation was tugging quite painfully at his own nerves, too, and that was saying something. 'Don't you fret about it, Merlin. I think we're all on pins and needles right now. Even I, it seems, or I wouldn't have asked such a foolish question. I'm afraid it still takes some getting used to sorcery – to magic. Force of habit. Handy, though, I have to say.' He smiled his fine smile, signalling that he wasn't offended.

Merlin slumped his shoulders, smiling back nervously. 'That it is, yes.'

Gwen laid a hand on his arm. 'It's hard to shake off beliefs of twenty years in a single night,' she said to him, softly.

'Well, the night is over now,' Percival announced, as if that settled the matter. 'And it's stopped raining.'

He was right. The constant drizzle had finally let off, leaving behind the wholesome, resinous smell of wet greenery and muddy earth. During their slow and dismal trek through the dark forest, suspended as they were between euphoric hope and utter despair, it had seemed all but impossible to believe that a new dawn would soon be arriving, so when they lifted their eyes up to the sky, Merlin saw with something resembling wonder that the patch of now almost cloudless sky above the treetops had assumed the colour of lead, streaked already with the soft amber-and-gold beams of the sun rising over what was going to be a brilliant morning. A new day. The world hadn't ceased to exist when Arthur Pendragon left the realm of the living, and to Merlin, that had almost seemed like a travesty, five days ago; now, though, sitting on a wet horse in a cold forest at dawn, soaked to the bones, with the raven's warm little body tucked safely into his shirt, his faithful heart filled with awe in the face of nature's grace, the precious gift of rain and trees and birds and sunshine, day after day after day in a serene and glorious celebration of life. He was part of this, they all were; as long as the sun was rising in the east, he felt, there was hope still, hope beyond their wildest dreams.

Apparently, something of that sentiment had found its way to his friends' hearts also; they looked at each other, and smiled, their spirits reawakened, and without wasting any more words, and in perfect agreement despite not discussing it, they clicked their tongues and, led by Merlin, set about the last leg of their journey as fast as their tired horses would go.

And then, at last, the trees suddenly gave way to a narrow strip of grass that sloped gently down, and there it was: the lake. Its dark surface was smooth and tranquil at this early hour, undisturbed yet by waterfowl, and not a living soul in sight. The Isle of Apples loomed directly opposite, the slim, needle-like outline of the Tor only just visible through a thin layer of early morning mist. It looked quite beautiful, solemn and remote, like something out of an old wives' tale – which, let's face it, was exactly what it was, only that it wasn't just a tale – and Merlin saw the others gaze at it with a blend of awe and anticipation, picking up on the special atmosphere of the place. He didn't know what he himself had been expecting to feel on his return; maybe another onslaught of memories like he'd had before. Yet now that they were here, after all his impatience and for all the hope the new morning seemed to promise, he found that his main emotion was anxiety, poised to blossom into panic. What if he failed – again? What if they were too late, or if he had got it all wrong, what if he had imagined this whole crazy story because he couldn't bear to be without Arthur, what if Gaius' first reaction had been right all along and he had simply gone mad from grief, clutching at straws?

No. I know I'm right, I know Arthur is not dead. His eyes watered with his anger at himself for being such a ninny, and so lacking in trust, and he brushed at them with the sleeve of his jacket, cursing under his breath when the still soaking wet fabric touched his face.

At a nod from Leon, Percival got down from his horse, handing the reins to Guinevere, and did a quick search of the little clearing and the undergrowth that bordered it – not that it would really have been necessary. The space Merlin had led them, with unerring instinct, was the exact spot where he had laid Arthur to rest, and though it had seemed spacious to him then – vast under the leaden sky, all the air filled with the raw, endless horror and despair of having lost Arthur – it really was just a narrow strip of grass, offering just about enough room for the four of them and their gear.

The horses, smelling the fresh new grass, whinnied softly, so when Percival was satisfied that they were indeed alone, the friends alighted. For once, strange though it felt, Merlin left it to the others to see to the unburdening and watering of the animals. He relieved himself of his soaked jacket, laying it on a large flat stone, and reached inside his shirt for the raven, who looked at him inscrutably with its small black eyes. 'You alright?' he said, setting the bird down on the grass. 'I suppose you'd like to stretch your wings now, wouldn't you?'

The raven craned its neck, and unfolding its glossy wings, made a few soft beats with them, and answered with a dry kraaa that Merlin took as affirmation. An amused smile flitted over his face as he watched the bird stretching its tail and starting to preen its shaggy plumage with rapt concentration. Soon, though, Merlin began to feel the pull of the dark water and turned, almost against his will, towards the lake and the rather bafflingly named Isle of Apples; as far as he could see, no trees, apple or otherwise, were growing on its mossy summit. But then there was no sign of Arthur either, or of the Sidhe people, yet he knew they had to be there. He could sense their peculiar power, hovering at the edge of his perception, and and wondered if he should say or do something, make his presence known in some way. Nonsense, of course; if he could sense them, he supposed it was pretty safe to assume that they could sense him, too.

He gave a little start when Leon stepped up next to him, following his gaze over to the little island. 'What…happens now?' he said, mirroring Merlin's thoughts.

'I'm not sure exactly,' the warlock admitted. 'I…I was so intent on getting here in the first place that I didn't think to ask Gaius how to actually reach the isle, nor did he think to tell me, what with all the confusion earlier…but –' he shrugged, feigning nonchalance, 'we'll find out soon enough. If we're meant to be here, something will present itself. Trust me,' he said with a little forward tilt of his head when he saw Leon's doubtful look. 'That's how these things work. They're going to show themselves, some way or other.' He shrugged, feigning a casual confidence he was by no means feeling, but which seemed to satisfy Leon, who nodded, somberly.

Just as the fair-haired knight made to turn around to help the others set up camp, the raven began chittering nervously at Merlin's feet, and with a few casual beats of its wings landed on the young man's shoulder, hissing and moving its head to and fro, facing the lake. Merlin had just enough time to look over his shoulder to meet Gwen's and Percival's guarded glances before he noticed another sound, slowly drowning out the raven's rasps and hisses: a low, vibrant droning, like the humming of many bees. Merlin turned on the spot, trying to locate the source of the noise, but it seemed to be everywhere and nowhere, enveloping his senses until it was throbbing painfully in his ears. Then, when he thought his eardrums might explode, it stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and he felt his hair being ruffled by a gust of warm wind – odd, for it was as calm a morning as could be, no breeze to ripple the mirror-like surface of the lake. The wind subsided, and Merlin suddenly became aware that his clothes were no longer wet. Not odd, then; magic at work. He heard someone breathe in sharply, and concluded that his friends must have noticed the magical drying, but then Gwen cried out: 'Oh! Look!'

He blinked, gazing at the edge of the water. It was as still and smooth as before, no ripples, but where only seconds before there had only been reeds and a patch of small pebbles descending into shallow water, a small, narrow wooden boat was now waiting, the bow pointing towards the island, the stern just about touching the edge of the grass, ready for departure. It wasn't secured by any means that he could see, but it remained firmly in place, water lapping gently at its sides.

His companions gasped when they, too, saw the boat, and the raven, with a croak, flew up and perched on Merlin's shoulder. 'Yes,' said Merlin, to no one in particular. 'There's our ride.'

In a flash, Gwen was at his side, handing him his satchel. He took it with a nod, pressing his lips together in determination. 'Ready?' he asked.

Nervously, she blew a coil of mahogany hair away from her forehead. 'Not really. But that's not going to stop me.'

In spite of his own nervousness, Merlin couldn't suppress a grin. 'That's the Gwen I know.' He slung his bag over his free shoulder and turned towards the two knights. Percival was leaning on his sword, hunched over in an uncomfortable pose that spoke clearly of his apprehension, but he kept silent, leaving it to the ever eloquent Leon to voice the dispproval which they, all too obviously, shared.

'I don't like this, Merlin, I don't like it at all,' the mild-faced knight said uneasily. 'How can we just let you go there, alone, unarmed? We came with you to protect you as best we can, we shouldn't stay behind twiddling our thumbs.'

Merlin rolled his shoulder forward, adjusting to the raven's weight. 'Well, don't twiddle them, then,' he said in the off-hand, don't-question-the-royal-servant voice he'd always used to fend off nosy questions from other Camelot staff when he had business to do that he didn't care to divulge. He felt he was almost at breaking point, even without this pair of overprotective knights getting all in a dither. Immediately, though, he chastised himself for such uncharitable thoughts. They only wanted to help. Indeed, they had been helping already, lots. Their mere presence was a comfort, a token of faith that meant a great deal to him. That didn't change the fact, though, that the next step of the quest couldn't include them, for their own good. 'It's not like there's nothing to do here. You need to set up camp, tend to the horses, have a fire and some food ready for our return. Heaven knows what state Ar- what state we will be in when we come back. And you also need to keep an eye out for any kind of threat. You know just as well as I that only because we didn't meet any Saxon soldiers on the way, doesn't mean this place is safe to linger in, or that the council didn't send out a search party. I'm going to feel much better knowing that the two of you have our backs.'

Sir Leon bowed his fair head in acknowledgment of both the necessity of the task and the compliment. 'You are right, Merlin, no doubt. But still…I wish there was a way for us to be by your side. It goes against the grain to sit tight here, without an inkling what is going on. We don't know for sure what perils are awaiting you on that island,' he finished uneasily, his kind, handsome face shadowed with worry.

Merlin looked at the knight kindly, hoping the pity didn't show in his eyes. He dearly loved Leon and he knew the way the knight was wired, knew how hard it was for him not to be where the action was so that he could do his bit and – worse – not to be able to protect his queen. This enterprise went against all his instincts, and he was a man who had survived countless perils because as a rule, he listened to those instincts. As for himself, he would have been more than delighted to have both Leon and Percival by his side, but as things stood, that wasn't a possibility. Not this time. It was bad enough that he had to take Gwen to that sinister place, into unknown terrors; he would not endanger them, too, not if he could help it.

As if she had read his mind, Guinevere came to his aid. 'I think we can be pretty sure that it will be dangerous, Leon,' she said softly. 'But you've heard Gaius. It's not really the kind of danger to be taken on with a sword. And as for what's waiting for us there, I can tell you what is. It's Arthur. He needs us – all of us – to do our bit.'

Merlin gave her a grateful look, and she flashed him a nervous little smile, her small jaw firmly set. The raven cocked his beaked face at her, squawking in apparent affirmation.

'She's right. And your bit is to stay here,' Merlin said, holding Leon's eyes, pleading. 'Securing the terrain. Fending off intruders. Making sure this end of the quest runs smoothly, so that Gwen and I can do our bit to save him. And…' he paused, 'and escorting all of us safely back home when – when it's all done and over.' He didn't dare mention Arthur's name in the same breath with the word home – that seemed too much like invoking ill luck – but he knew they all knew what he meant by those three little words. All of us. He looked from Leon to Percy and lowered his voice to almost a whisper. 'I will guard her with my life, you know that.'

Percy nodded briefly at that, and Leon gave Merlin a long look with his clear blue eyes. 'I know, Merlin. And let's face it, she will probably be safer with you than anywhere else.'

Guinevere grinned. 'Oh yes. I've got the supreme weapon – this bumbling little fool of a servant here.' She gave Merlin a cheeky look that reminded him very much of the Gwen of old, the innocent serving girl fooling around with him while waiting her turn at the water pump. He smiled at her. 'Not so bumbling anymore now,' he said almost wistfully.

She chuckled, then said, serious again, 'You never were, weren't you? Not really. And besides, I've got this.' She pulled aside her cloak, revealing her hunting knife girded at her waist. 'I know it won't help me fend off spectres and illusions but I'm not taking any chances. It did serve me well enough the other night. So, no worries, my good knights.'

Merlin shook his head at her in fond exasperation, but Sir Leon, who remembered the steely look in her eyes all too well from their childhood games, found himself thinking that if anyone would be able to accomplish this otherwordly feat, it would be these two extraordinary people, whom he loved. Besides, he'd been a soldier for all his adult life, an officer of the highest rank; he had learned long ago that duty wasn't always in keeping with the yearnings of one's heart. Guinevere herself had been the seed for that particular lesson, but Leon wasn't one for wallowing in old memories. Snapping into full professional mode, he firmly banished both those memories and his concerns to the designated corner of his mind, and straightened himself. 'So be it. My lady, my lord,' he said without the slightest hint of irony, bowing his head sharply to each of them in formal military salute, 'we will keep faithful watch until your return. Good luck to you, all of you,' he bowed to the raven, too, 'and – Godspeed.' He held out his hand to Merlin to shake, but when the warlock reached for it, Leon apparently thought better of it, and pulled the younger man into a hearty embrace, and Merlin, pink-cheeked and flustered, but pleased all the same, hugged him back with a huge grin. Percival followed suit, clapping Merlin – rather painfully – on the back, making the raven let out a testy screech. 'Good luck, lad,' Percival said simply. 'I'd rather be by your side, obviously, but to be honest, I'm not really so keen to set foot in that frightful place.'

Merlin nodded, discreetly turning his wince into a smile. 'Nor I, Percival, believe me. But what can you do?' He smiled his squinty smile, making light of the moment, but flinched when the raven gave a low rasp, took off his shoulder, and silently flew over to the little boat, perching on the side of the bow. 'I think he's telling us to get a move on,' he said with a last nervous look at Leon, who bowed his head in acknowledgement and, as always courteous to a fault, stepped up to the boat to help Guinevere climb in. 'We'll see you soon.'

Gwen said nothing, just looked into his mellow blue eyes, and for a moment they shared the kind of eloquent silence that is only found between people who have known each other since their childhood days, and don't need words to see into each other's hearts.

Another low raven rasp, however, broke the moment, and with a tight nod, Gwen climbed gingerly into the vessel while Merlin checked, for the last time, that the little bottle containing Aithusa's tears was safely tucked into his jacket, and then joined her in the boat, sitting down next to Guinevere. He, too, gave the knights a nod, words failing him for once; then he muttered, 'Astyre,' and the little craft set in motion, causing barely a ripple as it glided, soundlessly, towards the island. The raven unfolded his wings and took off Merlin's shoulder into a steep climb, flying a wide circle over the little boat and emitting a long, drawn croak; perhaps, Merlin mused, he was thinking that if all went well, this was the last time Percival and Leon would be able to see him in his avian form. As if on a cue, Merlin and Gwen turned their heads to catch a last glimpse of the knights. They were standing tall with their heads held high in silent, respectful tribute, watching the boat float away from them, just like Merlin had done at what he'd thought to be Arthur's last journey a few days before, and for a moment the young man had a strange feeling of transition, as if he and Gwen were truly passing into the realm of the dead in their very own funeral boat, with the raven as their spiritual guide. It was a grim and ghoulish idea, even if it was rather fitting – they were here to reclaim Arthur from, as it were, the dead – and he gave an involuntary shudder. This was also the place where he had bid farewell to Freya; he didn't care to have that memory sullied by such macabre notions.

Gwen gave him a sidelong glance. 'Are you alright?' she asked, with a little tremor to her voice. 'You're thinking of how you – how you said goodbye to him here, aren't you?'

He didn't answer her immediately, keeping his eyes on the knights until their figures had vanished behind a fine layer of early morning mist. 'Yes,' he said then, staring into the swirling, hazy air. 'Yes, there's that. But also –' He stopped himself. He had never told Gwen about Freya – nor anyone else save Gaius, for that matter – and now was certainly not the time to do so, yet for some reason, he suddenly wished he had. On impulse, he faced Gwen. 'There was a girl I knew, once,' he said very quietly. 'She…was laid to rest here.'

Gwen looked at him, surprised. Whatever she might have had expected, it clearly wasn't that. 'A girl?'

'I loved her,' Merlin said, surprised himself by the raw pain in his voice.

Guinevere's large brown eyes grew soft. 'Oh, Merlin…' she said. 'I never knew. I – I'm so sorry.'

'Nobody knew. Only Gaius.'

'What happened to her?'

Merlin looked away from her, his eyes skimming the smooth surface of the lake for an echo of the young girl he had known so briefly. 'She was a druid, and through no fault of her own, she had been…cursed. Magically cursed. Forced to transform into a murderous magical creature every knight. She was…she – she died. In Camelot.' Killed By Arthur's hand, he thought. Though in truth by Uther's fear and hatred. 'But during the day she was just a girl, frightened and friendless. She…she had the prettiest smile.' He paused, feeling choked.

Gwen stared, understanding dawning on her face. 'It was – that druid girl, the one that escaped from that horrible trader, wasn't it?' she cried. 'The giant winged panther creature – that was her. I – I remember her. Oh Merlin…' Her eyes were very bright as looked at him. 'I had no idea.'

'She couldn't help killing all those people,' Merlin said quickly, feeling defensive. 'It was the curse.'

Gwen reached out and, gingerly, cupped his cheek with her hand. 'I understand,' she said quietly. 'She was just as much a victim as they were.'

Merlin swallowed, wincing at the solid lump of sorrow that was constricting his throat. 'I often think that if only she had told me the truth instead of trying to flee on her own, I might have been able to help her. I might have found a way to lift the curse. But she took a mortal wound. She died in my arms.'

Gwen stroked his cheek with her thumb, a tear dangling in the corner of her eye. 'Oh Merlin, I'm so, so sorry,' she said again. 'I wish I'd known. Not just about her. About everything – about you. Your magic. The way you had to live, hiding who you really were. I wish I had been there for you. Every day now I learn of more things we didn't know about you – about how hard it has been for you.'

He shook his head, attempting a crooked smile. 'No, that's – that's all in the past. I couldn't save her, for all my magic,' he said thickly. 'Nor Gwaine, or Lancelot. But I will save Arthur, Gwen,' he said, looking her in the eye. 'I will bring him back to you. To us. I promise you.'

Looking back at him, she could see the grim determination in his eyes, but also the terrible sadness, and the guilt of being still alive when so many he had loved were not. For a moment she forgot her preoccupation with her own grief, her own crazy hope, and her kind heart was swelling with compassion. 'Of course you will,' she whispered, still gently caressing his cheek with the back of her hand. 'Of course you will bring him back. If anyone can, it's you.' She paused. 'What…what was her name?'

He swallowed. 'Freya. She…her name was Freya.' He gave her a half-smile, his face looking pale and pinched. 'She was beautiful. Beautiful and kind and good. And so young.' He blinked away a tear. 'We were all so young back then…'

'We are not that old now,' said Guinevere softly. 'Freya.… A beautiful name. I wish I had gotten to know her.'

He gave a her a small smile, but his voice sounded choked when he spoke again. 'You would have liked her, I think. And she you. It's strange…I knew her for such a short time only – just a few days – but it still feels as if I knew her better than anyone else I've ever known – except for Arthur, maybe.'

Gwen's eyes were wide and luminous, as if she could take away Merlin's sorrow just by gazing at him, and her forehead was creased by the sharp little frown that always betrayed her compassion – for her, being compassionate was not just feeling with someone, but trying to find a way to ease their suffering. Smoothing down the young man's dark fringe with her hand for something to do, she said, 'You know, Merlin…maybe it is not my place to say, but – you have come a long way since the day I chatted to you while you were bound in the stock with rotten vegetables in your hair. You – you are one hell of a man, and one of these days some wonderful woman is going to notice that. You…you had to let Freya go, but you will find love again, I know it.'

Her words found their way through the anguish that that had taken hold of the young warlock, here in this otherworldly place where he had his heart bled dry so many times. He blinked, staring into the mist that was rising up in front of them. Love…he wasn't sure if he even still knew what that word meant. Apart from Freya, who lived in the depths of his heart as both a bubble of light and a cold, hard stone, he had never loved a woman, not in that sense, anyway. What did he know about love? The part of him that craved human contact and affection and companionship had been quite happily occupied by his bond with Arthur and the rest of his Camelot family after the brief, mad, wonderful and tragic hell ride that had been his first love. He knew the pain love could bring, oh yes; and he knew about grief, which seemed to be its inevitable companion. Other than that, though? What did he really know?

You know that you love Arthur, your brother in all but in name, his voice of reason told him. That's all you need to know. That's who you are. And now get your lazy bottom moving or he'll yet be joining the legion of your lost loved ones.

But as he gazed into Guinevere's dark brown eyes, a memory lightly skimmed the edges of his mind from he knew not where, of another set of eyes, brown also, but almond-shaped and flecked with gold; bright, intelligent eyes that sparkled mischievously from below a pair of highly arched eyebrows, framed by glossy brown hair with just a hint of auburn, parted tightly in the middle but flowing down to either side of a slender pair of shoulders in gentle waves. A voice, clear and bright and a little wistful floated, unbidden, into his mind. I would give my own kingdom to be so loved. His heart skipped a beat; before the memory really registered with him, though, the raven suddenly stirred and let out a subdued croak. The mist in front of them cleared like smoke blown away from a steaming bowl of soup, and with a dull, crunching sound the bow of the boat bore into a soft, grassy shore. Both Merlin and Gwen gave a start, looking at each other.

'This is it? We're there?' she said nervously.

'Seems like it.' He got to his feet, flinching a little when the raven flew to his now customary seat on his shoulder. 'Ouch! Could you maybe switch sides, do you think? My right shoulder is already sore.'

The raven kept his perch, not heeding Merlin in the slightest, apart from letting out a small, chafing call from his throat.

'Oh, isn't that just like him?' Merlin muttered under his breath, scanning the little craft for a mooring line, or anything else he might use for that end.

'Always the bickering,' Guinevere sighed, but there was a twinkle in her eye as she said it. Gingerly, she bent and picked up a neat coil of silky hemp rope from the floor of the boat. 'Looking for this?'

Merlin took it from her with a curious glance. He could have sworn it hadn't been there a moment ago, but this wasn't the moment to get squeamish about unseen sources of magic – he reckoned that they would be lucky indeed if they encountered nothing more sinister here than a length of rope appearing from thin air. He uncoiled the rope, fed it through the iron mooring ring at the bow and clambered out of the boat. He fastened rope to the conveniently low-hanging bow of a willow, tying an extra strong, magically enforced knot. 'It's probably not necessary but I'll feel much better knowing that it will be safely waiting for us here,' he said in explanation, then held out his hand to Gwen.

She gazed up at him from her seat in the bow, her face pale and frightened, but she took his offered hand and stepped onto the island, her boots sinking into the deep, lush grass. 'Good thinking,' she said, nodding in approval. 'So, what now?'

They both turned their glances ahead, taking in their surroundings. It was beautiful here, for sure; they had landed on a wide meadow studded with wildflowers, which were like an explosion of colour and most of them, or so Merlin's trained herb-gatherer eye told him, decidedly out of season. At the far end of the meadow the grass gave way to low shrubs and then, gradually, to pines and beeches and silver birches decked in new green leaves – a rare sight indeed so late in summer. But over it all, majestically, rose the narrow circular spire of the tor, its outlines sharply defined against the light-blue morning sky. It was ancient, built the old way, with unhewn stones fitted together so tightly and precisely that they supported each other's weight without the help of any mortar. Ingenious; clearly man-made, not the work of the Sidhe, yet instinct told Merlin that the tor was where they should be heading. He could sense the subtle aura of age-old magic surrounding it.

'That's strange,' said Gwen. 'I'm sure that I didn't see any trees at all from the other shore, and yet here is a whole forest of them.'

'Magical protection,' Merlin said, letting his gaze roam over the whole glorious scene. 'I guess the Sidhe are projecting some kind of illusion to screen their dwellings from view, or maybe what we're seeing now is the illusion, I can't tell.' Either way, he thought, there was something weird about this place. It seemed ordinary enough, featuring much the same kind of vegetation you would find all over Camelot, but all in bloom or else in the first blush of spring, and even if you ignored the unseasonal flowers it all appeared impossibly vibrant, everything so much more vivid than it should be. No real greenery was that green. And the air was alive with birdsong so melodious and so plentiful as if the birds had decided to put on a recital for their visitor's entertainment.

'It's…kind of pretty though, don't you think?' Guinevere said with a doubtful edge to her voice. Merlin couldn't blame her. There was something decidedly wrong about this place. Even the raven seemed affected; crouched into a glossy, compact ball, he huddled desolately into the little hollow space below Merlin's collarbone, making half-hearted little hissing noises. Merlin reached up and absent-mindedly stroked the soft plumage at the bird's neck.

'Too pretty,' he told Gwen. 'Like it's…too much of everything. It makes my skin crawl.'

'Yes…' said Guinevere slowly. 'I know what you mean.'

She seemed very pale; Merlin regarded her with a sinking feeling. 'We have to get moving,' he said quickly. 'We need to reach the tor. Don't ask how I know,' he said with a wry smile, anticipating her question, 'I just do. Let's take the path over there by the beeches.'

She squinted against the sun. 'Path? There is no – oh. That one.' She paused. 'Was that even there before?'

'Easy enough to miss in this light,' Merlin lied smoothly. It hadn't been, he was sure of that. It had just appeared out of nowhere. No point in deliberately spooking Gwen, though. 'Come on.'

'All right. As you wish,' Guinevere said with false cheer. 'This is your domain, isn't it?'

If only, he thought. He'd never felt less at ease than in this luxurious mockery of a forest. It reminded him of the garishly painted wooden backdrops used by the mummers that paid their annual visit to Camelot each Samhain season, transforming the courtyard into a a glittering mythical realm for a couple of nights. He used to love their pantomimes; being stuck in a place that looked like one of their stage sets, though, was eerie and disconcerting. Well, it couldn't be helped. Squaring his shoulders – careful not to disturb the raven – he began to lead the way through the lush grass, which was surprisingly easy to navigate given its length and abundance, and together they stepped onto the narrow path that wound itself, meandering, through the wood.

Once among the trees, the aromatic, resinous smell of pine-needles and old leaves became quite overpowering. Merlin halted, holding his hand out to Gwen. She gazed at him with her eyes wide and Merlin half expected a lecture about how she was a woman, not a helpless chicken, and perfectly capable of walking on her own, but he could literally see her swallow her pride after a fearful glance at the dark roof of the forest over her head, and with a sigh of relief she grabbed his hand. 'That's better,' she said, 'much better. I don't like it here. I feel…like someone is watching us.'

'Someone probably is…someone, or something,' Merlin told her as they both walked on. 'But whoever it is, they won't hurt us. They wanted us to come here – they sent us the boat, right? We're meant to be here. But remember, Gaius said there would be visions, and although I don't think that someone is going to bodily harm us, I'm sure they won't be helping us fight off those visions. We have to get through that on our own.'

'Like a trial, you mean,' said Gwen, edging even closer to him.

'Yes, something like that,' Merlin said, 'or so I would guess. It's a thing of the Old Religion – we have to prove ourselves worthy. We don't know in what form these visions will appear, but you must try to keep them out for as long as possible. So that you can call Arthur's soul.'

She nodded. 'Yes, but how do I do that? Keep them out, I mean?'

Merlin scrutinised her, thinking of the many ways she might be assaulted, and decided to stick to the basics. 'First of all, try to stay calm. You'd better not look around. Look to the ground while you walk, or better still, at your own feet. Here –' he reached for the hood of her cloak with his free hand, pulling it over her head, as far down into her face as it would go. 'The deeper we go in, the stronger the pull of the magic here will probably become. Try and think of something else, something you feel strongly about, a – a happy memory. Pick one and try to picture it in your mind, every detail of it. That way, the part of your mind that is responsive to visions will already be busy with a vision of your own making. And whatever you do, don't let go of my hand. I'm going to try and shield you with my magic, and that will be easier with physical contact.' At least I hope it will, he thought grimly.

'Look to my feet, not around, try to think of something happy, hold on to your hand,' Gwen mumbled obediently. 'Got it.' She looked up. 'Is it even possible to shield someone from these…visions like that?'

'Of course it is,' he said firmly, his cheeks immediately blooming into a tell-tale blush.

She looked up at him from under her hood, grinning. 'You don't know, do you?'

'I know the theory,' he gave back sheepishly. 'I read about it in one of Gaius' books.'

'That's…reassuring.'

He gave her his trademark impish smile, eyebrows quirked. 'I'm the greatest sorcerer ever to walk the earth, according to some people. I think I can say I know what I'm talking about.'

'Some people being Gaius, who dotes on his ward?' Gwen retorted, grinning wider.

'If he dotes on me so much, why does he still make me scrub his floors?'

'He wants to build up your muscles, I suppose,' she said, smiling. 'But really. He adores the very ground you walk on, Merlin. You know that.'

'I do,' he said, suddenly serious again, thinking of his dear old guardian pacing he length of his quarters. He hoped he hadn't been too badly hurt by Robert de Boron's blows and was getting some rest. 'I do. I can't begin to imagine what he's going through right now. He must be mad with worry. And fighting the chain's magic with me wasn't exactly a walk in the meadows. He was exhausted when we left.'

Gwen pressed his hand in sympathy. 'I'm sure he'll be fine, Merlin. He's as tough as old leather, Gaius is. My father always used to say that. Did you know, in the first year after my father died, Gaius used to come to my house once a week and –' She paused and stopped walking, a fixed expression on her face.

Merlin threw her a wary look, icy tendrils of fear tugging at his heart. 'What is it?'

She swallowed, then said, slowly turning her head to face him, 'Nothing. I tripped.'

Merlin raised a disbelieving eyebrow at her. 'Gwen –'

'Alright!' she said, half amused. 'You're resembling Gaius more with every passing day, do you know that?' Briskly, she resumed walking, leading him along. 'It – it really was nothing, though. I just thought I saw my –' my father – over there, by those blackberry bushes…just for a moment…'She threw him a quick, fearful glance. 'It's just this place, it gives you all sorts of ideas – and I'd only now been thinking of my father –'

Merlin's insides clenched. 'Right, let's – let's get a move on.' He tugged at her hand to get her to quicken her pace, and Guinevere complied immediately, clutching his hand as if it was the most precious obejct in the whole wide world.

'It's starting, isn't it?' she asked nervously.

He didn't answer her, but he, too, tightened his grip on her hand.

'Talk to me, Merlin! Is this how it starts?' she said in a frightened voice.

'We knew this was probably going to happen,' he said only, avoiding her gaze. I was hoping it wouldn't happen that fast, though, he thought. Why can it NEVER be easy for me!? 'What we need to do now is to stay calm, and reach the tor, as quickly as we can. Do you feel up to running?'

'If I must.'

'Good. Arthur –' He turned his head towards the raven, who was still perched above his right clavicle. He gently rolled his shoulder, eliciting a nervous croak from the bird. 'Sorry, my friend – you better take to your wings now. This is going to get a little bumpy.'

The raven blinked once, as if in answer, then, with a soft flapping of wings, he took off, hovering a few yards above their heads. Merlin turned back to Gwen. 'Let's hurry,' he told her. She nodded, but then her body stiffened, and she gasped, staring down the empty path, eyes wide with shock.

'Gwen. Gwen,' Merlin called out, softly. 'Gwen, listen to me. Whatever it is, it isn't real.'

With a start, Guinevere came out of her rigid pose, and her gaze cleared as she looked at Merlin with utter relief. 'Merlin! Oh Merlin, I thought you were –' She stopped herself. 'Never – never mind.'

'Are you alright?' he asked, stupidly. She wasn't, of course not, and there was nothing he could do about it, and Guinevere knew that as well as he did. Her face looked dreadfully pale in the greenish, tree-filtered light, but she straightened her back and fixed her soulful brown eyes on the warlock with an expression he could only call indulgent, motherly, almost.

'I'll be fine, Merlin,' she said with more bravery than conviction, and gazing up at the raven, who was flapping about a few yards over their head in narrow, nervous spirals, she added, with feeling, 'We'll all be fine. I know we will.'

Although the slight quiver in her voice tugged at Merlin's heart, he knew better than to contradict her. They didn't have time for rallying speeches anyway, and he doubted that anything he could say would make a difference. So he just nodded, and gave her what he hoped was an encouraging smile. 'Just remember,' he said, making his voice as level and as matter-of-fact as possible. 'Hold on to a happy memory, like a really happy one. Let it fill your mind so there's no room for anything else. And although we're going to run now, always look at your feet, not ahead. You won't need to look where to go, that's my job, just hold on to my hand. Right?'

'Right,' she said in a tight little voice. 'Happy memory, look to feet, hold your hand.'

They looked at each other, brown eyes meeting blue; then, on a shared impulse, they broke into a jog, and the raven, fluttering a few feet over their heads, picked up his speed accordingly, flying slightly ahead. Guinevere followed Merlin's instructions to the letter, her gaze fixed at the mossy, needle-strewn ground, while he led the way, one eye on the path, the other one on the raven, keeping up a stream of encouraging talk in an attempt to distract her. 'We can do this, Gwen, I know we can. We've always been good at this kind of thing. Remember how we used to save Camelot every other week, you and I? You kicking my butt and telling me to set things right because if I didn't, who else would? I almost was a little bit afraid of you back then, you know, for all you were my best friend. You were fierce! Remember when we took out the witchfinder, figured it out all on our own? Or that knight Valiant with his snake shield?'

As he prattled on, he focused his inner eye on Gwen, on the warmth of her hand in his, and slowly, carefully, he let a bubbling cloud of pure magic drain from his pores, making it hover about his lanky form like gossamer, powerful and invisible to any other eyes than his own, and once the misty veil felt substantial enough to offer protection, he eased it away from himself and set about weaving a protective net around her. He could see it shimmering faintly on her bronze skin, like gold dust, and thought that the warrior goddesses of old must have looked like this: wild-haired and strong and awe-inspiring, and for the briefest of moments there was a maudlin little twitch of regret in his belly, and a memory of Gwen bending over him as he awakened on his sickbed, kissing his still-feverish lips in sheer joy and relief, and not for the first time, he found himself wondering how it would have been if things had gone different. We love each other like brother and sister now, but there was something else there, once… we might have been happy together…but then again, I could say the same thing about Morgana…so many possibilities back then, so many different paths we all might have taken, and yet it all played out like this, with war and suffering and death and heartache and after all of that, here we are stumbling blindly into danger, on little more than a hunch, destiny's fools –

No, he thought grimly. That line of thinking would get him nowhere. If he was a fool for coming here, so be it; that was a part he had down to perfection. All he knew was that he had to try everything in his power – anything – to save the person he loved above all else in this world, even if it meant being destiny's bitch. And besides, they weren't here on a mere hunch, were they? It was what Gaius would call an educated guess, backed by real, hard evidence: Aithusa's story, the scroll Gaius had found, and the raven itself…all in all that was a hell of a lot more to go on than they'd had on many previous adventures. So he set his jaw and, picking up his mindless prattling again, concentrated his attention on tending to the magical shield he had wrought around Gwen. '…or do you remember the time when we helped Arthur to fight in the tournament, incognito? He was so subdued after that, really humble. He even stopped tossing his clothes on the floor for a few weeks. I always thought it must have to do with something you said to him…'

Gwen managed a weak smile as she ran alongside him. For a while, his approach seemed to work; he babbled on, and although Gwen didn't answer, she kept pace with him, and with the raven taking the lead, they made good way, up the hill through ever denser woodland. Just when Merlin thought that they might actually have a fighting chance of getting Gwen to the tor without any major incidence, the atmosphere of the forest began to change. The light dimmed, and the greens and browns looked more muted than before, somber and imposing. The patches of sunlight that had found their way through the foliage to paint a cheerful pattern of light and shadow onto the ground had disappeared, plunging their surroundings into a primal twilight not unlike the one they had ridden through in the early morning with Leon and Percival, only now it didn't hold the promise of a bright new day to come; it felt sinister, and menacing. The temperature seemed to have dropped, too, and what little Merlin could glimpse of the sky when he directed his gaze overhead looked dark and grim, threatening rain. Thunder rolled in the distance, causing the raven to emit a piercing, nervous caw.

'What's – what's going on, Merlin?' panted Gwen, her gaze firmly downcast, following his instructions to the letter. 'It's so cold all of a sudden –'

'It looks like a storm is rising,' Merlin said tensely, worry gnawing at his gut.

'A storm –? But the weather was fine just a moment ago –'

'No common storm.' He didn't elaborate, and she didn't ask what he meant; she didn't have to. She clutched at Merlin's hand even harder than before as they ran, and when the wind came at them, out of nowhere and solid as a wall, neither of them was surprised by its immediate fierceness. Merlin didn't break his stride, dragging Gwen along, and when she gasped and then uttered a horrible, choking scream, he didn't look at her to ask what was the matter, didn't even blink, just kept running. Gwen's breathing grew laboured, and she was muttering something, though the words were carried away by the vicious wind. It tore at their clothes and at their hair, whipping Gwen's short full coat about with such force that its corners kept hitting at Merlin's hands and chest like the lashes of a whip, but he ran, and ran, practically flying along the path now with Gwen in tow, glad that she was so light on her feet, even now when her muscles were becoming rigid with terror. He couldn't blame her. He could feel it too, see it, even: the onslaught of malign and twisted spirits in the air, their misshapen faces hissing and grinning at him, greedy and powerful. They didn't touch him – couldn't touch him, perhaps – and although they were like wisps of smoke, never keeping their form for long and never to be seen properly, he could tell that they were growing angrier and angrier because apparently, he wasn't easy prey for them.

But Guinevere was, and the spirits or ghosts or whatever it was they were had picked up on that almost immediately. The shimmering golden shield he had put around her was quickly fading under their vicious attack. Gwen's breathing grew ever more laboured, her steps slower and more and more unsteady, and every now and then she let out s shriek of terror. By now Merlin was half dragging, half almost carrying her and briefly toyed with the idea of using a sleeping spell on her, but that would mean that he would either have to really carry her, or move her to the tor with a locomotor spell. And that was too much – he simply couldn't risk wasting his energy on menial magic such as that, when the real task was waiting for him up this hill. The spell of all spells, the most important spell of his life. He had no frame of reference to accurately measure his current powers; they might have been infinitely enhanced during his slumber in the Crystal Cave, but the truth was that he had no idea if and how that really was the case, so his best shot was to save his strength for Arthur. Provided, of course, that they would make it to the tor with Gwen lucid enough to call Arthur. Impossible choices all around, damn his luck! He cast a hasty look around for the raven, but the air was so full of small shadows flitting back and forth that he probably wouldn't have been able to spot the bird even if it was flapping its wings right in front of his face. He didn't unduly worry about that; raven-Arthur was the only one of their party who was in any way entitled to be here at all, and he wasn't a full mortal being anyway in his present form, and thus not a preferred target – Merlin could sense that. He would be fine.

Gwen, though, was another matter. When they were passing through a thicket of brambles that was a bit more sheltered from the elemental forces, Merlin slowed down and turned to her. 'You're doing great!' he cried to her to make himself audible over the howling storm. 'Just great! You must keep it up, just for a little while, can you manage that?'

'I'm – I'm not sure I can –' she panted. 'Don't you see them? All these faces? Faces – creatures – a-and faces of dead people – my parents – Arthur – rotting away – oh Merlin, it's ghastly –'

He pressed her hand, still running. 'I know! I know, dear Gwen, and I do see them but they are just spirits. They can't harm you, not really, not if you don't let them! They are only echoes. We're almost there, Gwen! You have to hold on, for a little while. Whatever it is you're seeing, surely it's not as bad as never seeing Arthur for real again, right?'

'It's – it's not what I'm seeing,' Gwen gave back, forcing out each word, her voice raw with fear. 'It's dreading wh– what I might – be seeing next. It's just like –' She finally lost her footing, and would have taken a bad fall if her arm hadn't been draped over Merlin's shoulder.

Like being tortured in Morgana's mandrake room, Merlin mentally finished her sentence. He pulled her up again, steadying her against his side, and fixed her with his gaze. Her dark eyes were glazed and unfocused, the pupils unnaturally wide. 'No, Gwen!' he said urgently. 'Don't say it. Don't even think of it. It's in the past, it's all in the past. It can't hurt you anymore. And neither can Morgana. This here is different. You hear me?'

But she was by now utterly worn out, and too busy trying not to succumb to the pull of the visions to pay much heed to anything he said. She was slumping against his shoulder, with limbs both too stiff and too weak to be of much use to her anymore. Her hair was billowing wildly about her head, tangled and studded with twigs and leaves, her face contorted into a mask of horror, making her almost look like one of the spirits that were haunting them, and her eyes were wide with dread, fixed on some unimaginable horror only she could see. Her agony was so acute that it seemed to emanate off her clammy skin in waves, burning inside of Merlin's chest as if it was his own. He would have given almost anything to be able to help her, take the pain away, but he didn't dare to take that risk; even so he was giving away precious magic by shielding her. He had to get her to the tor so she could call Arthur; everything else had to wait. So, summoning every inch of ordinary muscle power, he grunted, 'Sorry for this,' and without further ado hoisted Gwen over his shoulder, staggering backwards under her weight, and wishing he had listened to Arthur and practised lifting weights together with him and the knights instead of just watching from the side, wisecracking. Still, he managed it – just about – and after the first few steps he had found his balance. And although the load did make the going somewhat slower, it was less difficult than he had imagined. Actually, his task was a lot easier for her being near unconscious now, dangling limply over his shoulder, almost as if he really had applied that sleeping spell; so he decided to make the best of it and doggedly marched on through the biting wind whipping the branches about, listening to the malevolently hissing voices of a thousand ill-tempered, ill-wishing creatures that populated the air around him.

On and on he trudged down the winding path with his precious burden, one heavy foot after another, gritting his teeth every time Gwen let out a tortured moan or stiffened her limbs in spasms of fear. For him, this second-hand experience was almost worse than being subjected to it himself; it had always been his weakness – Gaius would say strength, he thought with a violent surge of love for the old man – that he couldn't bear to see people suffer, and when those people were loved ones, his anguish on their behalf was like physical pain to him, pushing him to deeds of selflessness which, more often than not, were as foolish as they were brave. Merlin was well aware of that, and he knew he absolutely couldn't let his compassion get in the way of his goal this time. But it was obvious to him that with every step he took, the visions that had Gwen in their thrall were getting worse, throwing her into more and more frightful fits, and carrying her safely became somewhat of an ordeal, to the point that he was afraid of dropping her and causing her serious injury.

Something had to be done, like it or not. It would serve no purpose if he preserved all his magical power only to arrive at their destination with Gwen unfit to perform her all-important task. So, when they passed another more sheltered spot where an overhanging boulder provided at least some protection from the unleashed elements, he halted and, stooping, lowered Guinevere carefully onto the leaf-strewn ground. He knelt next to her and pulled her to him so her head could rest on his thigh. She stared through him with unseeing eyes, muttering unintelligibly under her breath with her head lolling fitfully from side to side, like someone possessed, or gravely ill. He placed a gentle hand on her brow, and worry clenched at his heart. In spite of the biting wind, her skin was hot and clammy to the touch, her face covered with a fine sheen of sweat, and he doubted that she had any understanding right now of where she was or what was going on. There was nothing for it. He dug his feet into the ground, shutting the sounds of the raging storm firmly out of his mind, and let his mind dip into the wellspring of magic that was ever bubbling and murmuring inside his chest.

'Þú móst sorhléas swefan,' he murmured, amber swirling in his eyes, and almost instantly Gwen's bloodless face regained its healthy light-brown colour and was free of perspiration; and although her muscles were still rigid, her hands clenched shut into the tightest of fists, she began to breathe a little calmer, and only the fact that her lips were soundlessly forming words, tossing her head lightly now and then, told Merlin that she was still battling the visions, if only in her sleep.

He took a moment to breathe deeply, too, to steel himself for the rest of the way. He wasn't sure how long his little charm would hold, not having dared to invest it with his full power, so he thought he had better not tarry. He stooped again, and as gently as he could gathered the sleeping Guinevere up in his arms. As he carefully adjusted her into a more manageable position, his line of sight through the trees shifted for a moment, providing him with a glimpse of open grass and a tall, slate-grey tower less than five-hundred paces away. With an almighty rush of relief, Merlin set in motion again, glad that the journey, at least, was over and the destination reached, whatever might befall them there.

After a hundred paces or so, the forest began to clear; beeches and rowans made way for shrubbery and occasional wildflowers, and after that, the path continued through a wild orchard of small, hardy apple trees, carrying an abundance of ripe fruit that seemed to have not been impacted in the least by the now mercifully lessening storm. Isle of Apples, or Avalon in the Old Tongue. So there was indeed something to the name, he thought as the sweet, pungent apple scent wafted around him, making him feel light-headed, and painfully aware of his hollow stomach. When had he last eaten? He couldn't remember. So much had happened in such a short length of time these past hours that he found it hard to keep track of such mundane things as mealtimes. For a second, dragging his tired feet past those appealingly laden trees, with Gwen growing heavier and heavier in his arms, he contemplated stopping to pluck an apple or two to munch on while he walked, to take the edge off his hunger. Instead, he set his jaw, clutching Gwen even tighter, and forced himself not to look at the apple trees anymore. As hungry as he might be, he knew better than to eat anything that grew here. Who could fathom what dark secrets lay buried in the soil underneath these trees, or from which ancient depths the waters came of which they drank? Not he; and he definitely didn't want to be the one who found out.

Thankfully, after less than a hundred paces – which felt like a thousand to Merlin with his precious weight – the wild orchards gave way to an area of moorland, wild and barren in comparison to the garish meadows like the one they had seen when they first set foot on the island, but just as beautiful, and just as sinister: the short grass just a shade too green, and the growth of heather and juniper and pretty yellow asphodel just a tad too abundant. Even the fluffy heads of the humble cotton grass looked elegant here, their white dots scattered over the darker background of the moor like tiny stars, bobbing slightly under the lessening impact of the wind. Merlin didn't mind the unreal character of the scenery, though. After the oppressive atmosphere of the forest with its army of malign little spirits, every kind of open space was welcome to him, although the most welcome sight was the green, gently rounded mound just a hundred or so yards off, the slate-grey Tor sitting placidly on top of it, watching over the island.

With a sigh of relief, Merlin and stepped onto the grass, heading towards the tower. As soon as he did so, the storm – or what was left of it – let off completely, as if on cue, and the air at once grew unnaturally still and quiet, not a breeze anymore; even Guinevere's fitful gasps had been replaced by calm, peaceful breaths, and her usual healthy, light cinnamon colour was slowly returning to her ghostly cheeks. He let Guinevere slide from his carrying arms until she was more or less on her own feet, slumped limply against him, and supported her with one arm as he gazed to the sky. and when Merlin scanned the air around him, there was not a shadow or spirit in sight, only the dark, familiar shape of the large raven, now flapping placidly overhead. When he saw Merlin looking up, he gave a load croak that clearly was meant to be joyous, and made a steep descent that ended, quite spectacularly, in a perch on the warlock's shoulder.

Merlin chuckled, and patted the raven's glossy dark head. 'Show-off,' he muttered fondly. The raven looked at him, his black eyes as enigmatic as ever, and began to nibble casually on Guinevere's hair, making Merlin chuckle again. The cessation of the wind and the absence of demons were such a relief, so soothing on Merlin's bare-lying nerves that he felt his entire body relax. For a few glorious, grateful minutes he thought that the worst was over, that they had made it, that he would be able to cover the remaining distance to the Tor without further incident, and get down to business. At last.

But, as he might have guessed – or so he thought, wryly, a second later – it wasn't going to be that easy. It never was easy for him, never had been, probably never would.

The raven, cocking his head nervously, sensed it a fracture of a moment before Merlin did: another change of atmosphere, a subtle taste of threat in the air, overly and sickeningly sweet with an unpleasant undertone of too sour, like a vile sort of honey, or of cider apples left too long to ferment. Merlin sniffed, dread filling his heart. He remembered this smell, from a long-ago night when he'd first laid eyes on a Sidhe, on the shores of the waters that were lapping on the grassy edge of this very island. So they were coming.

He tried to steel himself for their arrival, to free his mind of every distractive thought, every shred of fear; briefly, he wondered if he should lay Guinevere on the ground to have both his hands free, too, but the idea of leaving her without his physical protection, meagre as it might be, even for a moment, was not to be borne, so he clutched her firmly against his side. And what would he need his hands to be free for, anyway? He hadn't come to do that kind of fight, wasn't even carrying a sword or any kind of weapon, and anyway if one thing was sure, that was not the way to deal with these enigmatic creatures, the Sidhe. Had he believed so, he would have brought Leon and Percival. But he knew in his heart – and had known ever since he had met with Iseldir and young Gaheris – that this was going to be a different kind of battle, and that he would have to fight it alone; with Gwen's help, yes, but ultimately it would be up to him, and whatever weapon was in his natural arsenal. You have magic! a stunned voice resounded through his head, faraway and distorted, and then his own voice, answering simply and modestly even in his moment of pride: I was born with it.

A sound broke into his fragmented musings, quiet at first but quickly growing louder and louder: the menacing noise of a thousand bees buzzing around their heads, causing the raven to give a loud, equally menacing croak.

'Yes,' Merlin muttered, leaning his head against the raven's, in much the same way he had leaned in countless times to Arthur when they were out scouting, to whisper to him, and in that moment he missed Arthur so acutely that it was like a stab in his heart. Not now, you idiot! he told himself. Your head must be as clear and calm as possible now, or you will never scout with him again. 'Yes,' he repeated, as much for his own sake as for raven-Arthur's, making his voice firm and steady in the hope the sound would help him feel steady, too. 'I know. The same sound that came when the boat appeared. It's beginning, my friend.'

And as if someone – as if they had heard him, there was a sudden whirlwind, blowing through his and Guinevere's already badly dishevelled hair, and raising a cloud of dust so dense that the view of the tor on its mound of green was temporarily obscured. The raven flapped his wings indignantly, and Merlin coughed, careful not to lose his hold on Guinevere, who stirred uneasily in his clasp. But when the dust settled, there was nothing there, nothing and nobody.

'Where are you? Show yourself!' Merlin cried, thinking that slowly but surely he was really getting exasperated, if not downright annoyed by those Sidhe folks' apparent penchant for the dramatic, when suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, there was a movement: a stir of colour, a whisp of misty smoke against the serene background of now cloudless sky and green, green grass. He looked right, and left, turning around as far as holding Gwen would allow him. There was another stirring of air, and another silent, second-brief rushing by of colour, and this time, he thought he could make out a shape: a large bird of some kind, but white, not black like the raven, and more massive. It vanished to his right side, and he turned around proper, desperate to see what it was. 'Stop playing games!' he shouted. 'I'm here to save my friend, as it was foretold! This is no joke to me –'

'Joke to me…joke to me…joke to me…' it echoed back to him, in a hissing sound like a thousand little, gleeful voices.

Again, he turned a little, craning his neck uselessly for a glimpse of what he now was sure to be the Sidhe, taunting him, having their fun with this pathetic mortal whom they must despise, tossed about as he was by a cruel and callous destiny.

Well, no more. No more of that. All these years he had complied with the requirements of a destiny he hadn't even, at first, believed in; he'd not always done it quietly or without resentment, but in the end he'd always gone along with it, no matter how hard it was, or how devoid of reward, or how painful. But he had been destiny's pawn for long enough. This was going to end, today, here and now. He was Emrys, after all; the greatest warlock that had ever walked the earth – supposedly, but he did hold a certain power, that he knew, and he had come here to use that power, to do something nobody had done before; to cheat death itself, and he was not to be deterred by these spiteful creatures of the Old Religion, who obviously had so little purpose left from their allegedly once-great existence that they now amused themselves by toying with people's lives like it all meant nothing. Oh, how angry it made him! It all seemed to come down to this, in the end: Old Religion, new religion, druids and non-druids, wizards and non-magical people, humans and creatures of the otherworld, people of Albion and Saxons, and the endless, senseless strife between the different factions. How futile it all was. How hopeless. Somehow, all the frustration he'd had to endure over the years, all the sorrow and fear and anger over his failure to save loved ones and other innocent people – it all seemed to build up inside him in that moment, stirring in him a wrath he had never before indulged in. It coursed through his veins, burning and stinging like the saline solution he and Gaius used for the cleansing of wounds.

He drew himself up to his full height, and yelled, 'Come forward! Show yourself, and let me see you face to face, or is there too much honour in that for your taste?! Come! Are you afraid of me?! A human? Show yourself, I say – come and face me!' The last words he shouted at the top of his voice, and with his arms held out to either side in challenge of the unseen.

And then, he froze, staring at his own empty arms. Arms that were supposed to be holding Gwen. He turned on his heel, his eyes sweeping the ground, thinking – or trying to believe – that Gwen had slid from his grasp without him noticing it, during the whirlwind perhaps, or that he had laid her down and just couldn't remember he had done it, due to the disorienting effect these strange shores had on all living things, warlock or no; but there was no trace of her, nor of the raven either, as he suddenly realised: his shoulders were empty also. They both seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth.

Hot sweat was running down his temples, and his belly was a hellish pit with a ball of ice inside, freezing and burning him equally as for a moment – just a moment – he thought that he had lost them, that the final chance of redemption had been taken from him before he'd even had the opportunity to try. He turned and turned around, staring wildly about with his hands balled into fists. He wanted to call out their names and run and run and scour every dismal corner of this godforsaken piece of rock, oh, how he yearned to give in to the pressure that was building up inside his chest and burn off some of this horrible fuel by running, as hard and fast as he could. And while he had enough of his considerable wits about him to remember that whatever he was seeing now couldn't be real, that he was now experiencing the influence of the Sidhe spirits, it still was disconcerting. He knew Gwen and the raven couldn't just be gone like that, but he wasn't seeing them, and that meant he couldn't, just now, trust his own senses, and that was something he'd always found it hard to deal with. Growing up in Ealdor with his secret magic, he'd been a pretty lonely lad, so he'd learned to be self-sufficient quite early on, and Gaius' scientific training had only increased this inclination to rely on whatever hard proof his own senses provided him with, and only to resort to intuition or premonition (if he had any) when sensual evidence was exhausted. Which it now definitely was.

But even though his feet were twitching with the urge to run and his head felt like it would explode if he didn't go looking for his friends this second, still he managed to stay put and even – although it took him all of his concentration – to form a rational thought. This isn't real. It's not real. From what he had seen of Gwen's struggle, the apparitions she'd been sent had been random and fractured, following no logic. But the first vision he was now seeing was a coherent thing, playing with cruel precision on his foremost fear – the fear of losing the loved ones who were entrusted to his care – and there was nothing fractured about it. So, he could only conclude – all the while forcing his feet to remain still – that this was an illusion conjured up specially for him. Not a simple torment. A message. A test. A…trial.

As soon as that thought had taken conscious root in his mind, a veil seemed to be lifting from his eyes, and for the briefest moment he could see them again: Gwen in her earth-brown coat, lying on the soft green grass, breathing evenly, and the little black form of the raven keeping watch over her, stalking nervously around, sleek head craned. That was the real world, he knew it instinctively and gratefully, and he was ready to rush towards his friends with a smile of relief, even in the midst of dangers to come – and they would come, he knew that by just the same instinctive certainty. So he didn't move, just stood, unmoving, his unblinking gaze fixed on raven-Arthur and Gwen. His heartbeat decelerated until the pauses in between the beats were dragged out to infinity; all outside sound seemed to cease and then accumulate again inside his ear, concentrating to a heavy drone that seemed at once strange and strangely familiar, until he recognised it as the sound of his own blood being pumped, sluggishly, through his thickened veins. Time itself slowed down, or else suddenly went by so fast that it was hard to tell the difference; it all seemed to be a golden whirl of seconds and hours and months and years and he couldn't tell if he was standing still or going backwards or forwards; time had no meaning anymore. Place had no meaning anymore. He was everywhere, and nowhere; he was Merlin, he was Emrys, he was nobody, he was everyone.

And then, out of nowhere, with a strange, whooshing roar, a sound as unearthly as any that had yet reached his ears, something long and big thundered past him so fast that he barely had time to move aside, jumping for a narrow strip of grass next to him. He turned, trying to get glimpse of the rapidly disappearing object. It seemed to be some kind of vehicle, though unlike any he had ever seen; it was like a giant box of blue metal, rolling on wheels, but not, apparently, drawn by any animal; nothing in the world could go so fast. It had to be magic of some sort; again, unlike any magic that he knew, but clearly powerful and commanding his gaze. He kept watching it as it sped away into the green hills, unable to turn away his eyes. It was so compelling that he almost forgot that this was just another apparition, and it was only by a strange premonition, and the sound of footsteps that finally made him turn around again, and look ahead.

He was standing on a road, made of an unusually smooth stone, without any visible joints or, indeed, visible stones; it looked like one flat, sleek, grey surface – a little bit like the remnants of the old Roman roads that still served as major passageways between the five kingdoms, only this road was much smoother still. However, it wasn't the road that had caught Merlin's attention, but a figure at the far end, a human form that was walking steadily towards himself. An old man, apparently, with the most remarkable long white hair, spilling out from under a knitted cap and flowing and billowing in the breeze. Merlin felt a tingling in his spine as the figure drew near, an eerie feeling of foreboding that refused to be classified as either good or bad, so he gave up trying, and just watched as the old man approach.

He was tall, and didn't in the least stoop, in spite of his apparently considerable age, and dressed in a long, narrow coat of fine blue wool, the cut of which reminded Merlin mostly of a woman's dress; neither knight nor knave would wear such an impractical and constricting piece of clothing. Underneath, he wore more practical grey breaches, and sturdy boots. When the man came closer, Merlin could see that although the coat's fabric was of good quality, it had definitely seen better days; it bore some stains and was becoming threadbare in places. Whoever this man might be, he'd been to places, seen many things, Merlin could tell that. Bad things; sad things, if the droop of his shoulders and was something to go by. He was carrying two satchels not unlike the one Merlin was still carrying, the strap crossed securely over his chest, and he seemed to be carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. When the man passed him by, he didn't acknowledge Merlin, gave no sign, in fact, that he even saw him, and very possibly he didn't. This was just a vision. But Merlin had a very good view of the old man's face, handsome still and not very visibly lined under the bushy eyebrows, old man's brows that made a peculiar contrast to his strikingly blue eyes, clear like the summer sky, like the blue flowers his mother had liked to grow in her garden back in Ealdor. Yet even those beautiful eyes were clouded by sorrow as by a fine mist, and they were trained on something far away, something distant and only half-remembered.

Merlin again turned around to watch the old man walk away, and there was sudden yearning in his chest for Gaius, probably triggered by the man's stunning long white hair; but his breath hitched in his throat with a dim memory of a just as dim reflexion of himself sporting some such hair, the first time he's tried the ageing spell to transform himself into Dragoon the Great.

Mechanically, Merlin's hand went to his head to touch his hair, his face. 'No,' he whispered, his mouth going dry. 'No, it can't be…'

The old man stopped, then, slowly and very deliberately, made a point of not looking at something to his right, then gathered himself and walked briskly on. Merlin, looking after him, turned his head, and only now saw that he was standing on the shores of Lake Avalon, in much the same spot where he had set up base with the knights this morning – a thousand years ago, or so it seemed – only now the tor was no longer the elegant, towering needle it had been before, topped off by a neat little roof. Instead, it was not much more than a ruin, half its former size, stones crumbling, a reminder of how mighty things will fade and die and be forgotten. Just like that man: that forlorn, broken man with the sad eyes. Alone, forgotten, useless, a relic of a world that once had been, and now no longer was.

The scene was peaceful, the water of the lake calm and serene, framed by lush green trees and shrubs and yet Merlin felt a numbness wash over him, a cold that crept into his every bone and filled him with a horror that all the evil little spirits in the forest with Gwen hadn't been able to inspire in him. His hand went to his heart, and he sank to his knees on the grassy shore, looking at the defunct tor, shaken and wondering what the hell he was doing here, trying to bargain with creatures the workings of whose minds he didn't seem to even begin to be able to understand. Why did they send him this message? What did it all mean?

'What?!' he sobbed, addressing the unheeding lake. 'What?! What is it that you want from me, why – why am I here, what do I have to do? Why don't you just tell me and be DONE WITH IT?'

And almost instantly, as if his request had been heard, the view before him faded and coiled and churned until his eyes burned, and he tried to close them only to find that they were closed already, no way to find relief from the terrible burning, and now he saw that the churning, roiling blurs of colour were actually images, images of people and places and things, people he knew – Gwaine and Morgana and Mordred and Kilgharrah and evil Nimueh, trying to kill him – but also people he didn't know, people he had never met and yet of some he knew who they were. He saw Arthur's mother Ygraine giving birth, saw her dying, the infant Arthur clutched against her breast; he saw his own birth, his mother overjoyed, kissing the downy black baby hair on his head and the smile on his own newborn face, making his mother start in awe and wonder and – even then – in fear, fear for his future, he knew. He saw things that had truly happened – ancient wars – Uther in his prime, fighting a righteous battle, freeing Camelot from a tyrant's reign, his face fresh and new and full of hope – he saw a young Gaius with a mane of long, fair hair, at the king's side – and he saw things that had never happened – Morgana regretting her deeds, Mordred begging Arthur's forgiveness, Arthur and Gwen playing with their children – and he saw things that hadn't yet happened – himself weeping at Gaius's grave – his own bridal day, standing in the bright spring sunshine outside Camelot castle in a shower of cherry blossoms, a pretty young woman by his side, dark-haired and graceful and bright of eye, smiling an impish smile – and his mother, wizened and frail, bidding him fond goodbye on her deathbed.

It was as if he was shown the whole of Albion throughout all time, present, past and future; and his own past and future too, and many possible futures that might or might not come to pass. It was as if he was shown everything that ever had been and ever was and ever would be, a swirling, terrible maelstrom of memories that had been and memories to come, and it couldn't be borne, not by anyone and certainly not by him, magic or no. So much grief, so much suffering, even though there always was joy and happiness too, to temper it, but his head was reeling from the sheer effort of trying to see, and also not to see. It was, he realised with a medical detachment that could only mean that his system was in absolute shock, it was driving him mad.

This was it, then. The end. Turned out he couldn't make it, after all, that he wasn't special; the Sidhe visions had proven to be too much, even for him, Merlin, or Emrys or whatever in hell his name was supposed to be, even for the allegedly greatest sorcerer ever to walk the earth. What a load of hogwash. What a pathetic joke. He had failed. Arthur was lost. Either there had never been a riddle to solve, or he was just not man enough to solve it; either way, he had failed. All was lost.

And at last, he let go of it all. At last, here, at the end of the world, at the very end of all his hopes, he finally let himself let go of all hope, and be overcome by the infinite weight of his grief. He had failed, and Arthur was dead.

Darkness. No more images. No; just one image, and it emerges from the darkness and there is no churning and blurring of colour anymore. It begins to move, and it is like a story told with shadow puppets in front of a fire, like the one the travelling actors used to perform on Beltaine evening in Camelot. The vision is very clear, and easy to follow, and Merlin knows that this is the last vision he will see.

It begins with an image of Kilgharrah in flight, but he is flapping limply and feebly, with the last of his strength; the mighty dragon's last earthly sojourn. His golden scales glitter brightly against snow-capped mountain-tops as he glides lower and lower in unsteady spirals until finally he has reached the ground; a bright, gleaming surface that seems to consist of pure crystal, precious and beautiful. No human soul has ever set foot in this sacred place; it is pure, and pristine, and although there is a solemn, almost sinister edge to this atmosphere, the overall impression is of a place that couldn't be more peaceful. Kilgharrah now walks, on tired legs, past several other dragons who look like they are resting in the crystal ground, dragons of different colour, ruby and opal and emerald and silver; Merlin hasn't known that dragons come in that many colours. The dragons are not resting, though; or rather, they are resting forever in their final abode. This is a dragon's graveyard, and Merlin's eyes now glide over dozens, hundreds of dead dragons, heads comfortably curled up on their paws, hundreds of carcasses that do not rot, but are perfectly and beautifully preserved by sacred, age-old magic, and it is not a sad place, but one of serene and strangely comforting peacefulness.

He now sees Kilgharrah limp up and down the rows of beautiful, glittering bodies until he finds the spot he is searching for. He bows his large snout before two specimens who are golden, like him, and Merlin guesses – no, knows – that these are Kilgharrah's parents. The dragon lies down next to them with a last, incredible effort; he closes his old, golden eyes for the last time, and his long limbs slacken, and his breath leaves him quietly and with the imposing, undisturbed dignity befitting one of his kind. He is, at long last, at rest, and no longer alone in death as he has been, for far too long a time, in life.

Merlin breathes in, deeply, touched and glad amidst his own sorrow: he knows that he has just witnessed what happened to Kilgharrah after their last goodbye. He feels warm tears flowing freely down his cheeks, tears of pure joy and pure grief, tainted by no regret. He is the last dragonlord, and he set Kilgharrah free to make his last journey, just as it should be.

The scene changes; the vision is not over, but now there is a dreamlike, veiled quality to what Merlin is shown. This is not the truth; this is a possible truth, one that hasn't come to pass, shrouded in shadow. It is of Kilgharrah, too, but not in controlled flight; he has been shot down by Morgana's magic, and he is tumbling through the sky in free fall, limbs flailing, falling to his untimely death on unconsecrated earth. Heart pounding, Merlin sees him crash on the ground, rocks tearing great slashes into his scaly skin, green blood pouring forth; he hears his last painful wail, the agony of not being reunited with his loved ones is gleaming in his eyes as life goes out of him with a last anguished cry. Then there are people approaching the body; people with sticks and spears, poking it, warily at first, then with more and more confidence until everyone is beating, thrashing, abusing the body, butchering it, cutting off the beautiful scales, ripping out teeth after teeth, and then they carry away their gruesome loot for good luck or, more likely, to sell it for shiny metal, for working the land is hard and there are always too many mouths to feed and when the gods send you a gift, there is no room for compassion, not when your children's stomachs hurt every evening from sheer hunger.

And so they leave the carcass to rot and for the small rodents to feed on until only the silver bones are left, a sorry, ravished shell, casting eerie shadows in the moonlight.

The vision gradually faded, and with it the clamour and noise and buzzing in Merlin's head; he slowly opened his eyes and found himself still on his knees, but not by the side of the lake. He's kneeling by the sleeping Guinevere, and the raven is perched on a large root next to him, his beady eyes staring at him with their impenetrable gaze. Merlin's lips were cracked and tasted of salt from the tears he had cried and which still were drying on his cheeks. A wonderful calmness has taken hold of him, of the kind that had eluded him for months, if not for years; for he knew now what was coming, knew it with a certainty that felt as if it had always been there, and maybe it had. He knew now what it was he had to do, and although it would be the hardest thing he'd ever have to do in his life, he knew he would do it, and do it with grace.

When the little silent wind blowed around him again, and the buzzing of bees was came and went, he passed his hand briefly and gently over Gwen's face, a gesture of affection and a blessing; then he got to his knees and beckoned to the raven with a graceful gesture of his dark-and-pale head. And when the host of little blue creatures flapped and whirred into sight – more than a hundred small winged figures lead by the Sidhe king with his cruel, face – Merlin stood upright to greet them, the raven perched proudly on his shoulder.

The Sidhe were imposing, in spite of their height, perhaps due to their number. He couldn't have decided if they looked extremely ugly or incredibly beautiful to him, or maybe both; he couldn't even tell which of them were male and which female. Perhaps these were all categories that didn't exist for him. They seemed at once fierce and lovely, foolish and wise, and they were clearly older than any creature Merlin had ever laid eyes on. They hovered and whirred at Merlin's eye level, and their king came forward, crowned with a wooden diadem, and spoke to him magically, without moving his white lips.

You know why you are here, Emrys, he stated.

I know, Merlin gave back in the same way.

It is up to you, said the Sidhe king. We can give you the power to turn back time, to undo what has been done. You can reverse the decision to call your dragon only at the last minute; we can send you back to that exact point in time when you learn that you have to bring your friend to this lake. You can summon your dragon at once, and save your desperate ride through the woods; you will be in time and reach the lake with Arthur still alive so that we can heal him, and he will never have died.

Merlin spoke calmly; collectedly. A single tear formed in one of his eyes. But if I do that, I won't be anywhere near Morgana, who is looking for us. I won't be able to kill her.

No, said the king, his face impassive. You won't be able to kill her. Not then; not yet.

So, Merlin said, the tear slowly running down his face, so she won't find Arthur and me. We will be long gone, safely by the lake. And instead, she will see Kilgharrah on his way to his last resting place. And she will shoot him down.

She will shoot him down, the king confirmed, and the other hundred little voices with him. She will shoot him down, but Arthur will live.

That is your price, Merlin said. Arthur will live, but at the cost of Kilgharrah's unworthy demise, without time to die as is fit for dragonkind.

That is the price. The final, disinterested answer. They wouldn't explain themselves; they would not haggle. This was the price.

The raven cawed, a loud and piercing caw that told Merlin he, too, knew exactly what had to happen now, and approved, of it, in spite of the horrible pain it would bring to so many.

Merlin's chest began to hurt under the weight of what he was about to do. But there was no doubt in his heart, not anymore. Before, lying on his bed in Camelot, he had bitterly regretted his decision not to summon Kilgharrah at once, yes; but now that the moment was there to change it, he found that he wasn't tempted, not for a second. He wouldn't, he couldn't make such a bargain. He wasn't going to trade one friend's life and dignity to the detriment of another, not even one who was at death's door anyway. He was Arthur's friend, and he had sworn to do everything, anything, to get him back; but he also was a dragonlord, the last of the dragonlords, and there was a legacy that came with that responsibility. Betraying that legacy, that holy duty would mean that he wasn't either the man nor the friend that Arthur loved and deserved. I want you to always be you. These words must be his guide, in the knowledge that besides friendship and love, duty was what both he and Arthur prize the most; they were men of duty and honour. I want you to always be you. Those words, right then, were the source of his strength; in a way, they always have been. He wasn't going to betray them. He wouldn't let Arthur down, he wasn't going to change, not even to save Arthur's life, because that price would be too high. He wouldn't be Merlin anymore if he did that.

No, he said quietly.

There was a screeching in his ear, angry, urgent. What did you say?

NO, Merlin repeated, his own head resounding. I'm not going to do it. I'm not changing time. There is no bargain.

The Sidhe king flew up close to Merlin's face, his large, slanted eyes examining him curiously. Then your friend will die, he said with perfect indifference.

Tears were now streaming down Merlin's face, tears of grief and certainty. He has already died, he said. You can't change time. You shouldn't.

This is your answer?

Yes, Merlin gave back, sobbing now. This is my answer.

He didn't know what he had expected to happen. The end of the world as he knew it, for certain; grief and pain and rage, yes, but at least all of it real, all of it part of life, the way it should be, even if it would kill him. He'd expected it to be over.

Instead, the little creatures began to flit about among themselves, flying here in there in dizzying zic-zac patterns, whirring and buzzing of the myriad little wings intensified, filling the wide moor with a high, clamouring noise; or perhaps it was the sound of their voices, conversing excitedly or both, but it was chaos of words and emotions and a strange, age-old power, and after he while he managed to make out individual words and phrases. He did it…can't be…just a human…has been foretold…not possible…kindred spirit…pure of soul…did it, the boy…be blessed…

All around him the Sidhe fairies flitted, and around the raven, too – why was it still here? It should be gone now, Arthur's essence, right? He had condemned him to death. Couldn't they at least get on with it? He searched for Gwen, the guilty thought of him having let her down gnawing through his relief of having at least ended it; but he could not see her, what this the little glittering, blueish transparent wings fluttering about him. His eyes darted about in search of her, and he actually tried to bodily sweep the fairies away to at least protect Gwen, when the Sidhe king spoke, at last, again, in a booming voice now, a bodily voice that seemed too powerful for a creature so tiny, and yet altogether fitting.

'Fear not, young warlock. Fear not. Your queen will be well. All will be well. So will you, and so will the young king. You have proven yourself to be worthy, and so has he, through you. No longer riddled with grief you shall be, Emrys, and he no longer broken. What has been foretold will now come to pass.'

Merlin stood, motionless, the raven on his shoulder still as a statue; too strange, too unreal was all of this, and he had finally reached the point where he could no longer tell what was real and what wasn't, or if he himself was real or just a shadow from times past. He decided that it didn't matter. He started, feeling the raven nibble on his ear as if in goodbye, and when the sound of bees buzzing filled his ears again and a gust of wind came up as before, the raven unfolded his wings and left his perch on the young warlock's shoulder with an elegant lift-off. He hovered over Merlin for a moment, and cawed gently, and then – just like that – there was a blue light glowing around his avian form like an iridescent bubble. Merlin had a brief flashback to another blue bubble, swirling in his own hand, floating, also, through a dark cave, Arthur's beacon to safety. How long ago that had been! The raven floated within the bubble, and the blue light seemed to emerge from it, or else the bubble grew to encompass Merlin and the tor and the grass and the Sidhe and everything else in it, and then there was a flash of blue light, and then only darkness, and words floating through it, spoken in a familiar voice. A voice no longer broken, no longer frail.

I don't want you to change. I want you to always be you.

… TO BE CONTINUED …