Greetings Readers! Here is the beginning of my newest (and only modern so far) Merlin fanfiction. I hope that you like it!

Special thanks to CaptainOzone for her impeccable betaing and to jaqtkd for being a sounding board and checking some of my decisions for accuracy.

Warning: Post series 5, some angst

Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin, or any of its characters.

Biting his lip, Merlin watched the boat float smoothly and regally through the water, the waves of grief, frustration, and disbelief crashing within his mind and seeping through his eyes. The arm of his love had long since disappeared beneath the lake, and Merlin felt himself long for her touch…for something solid and real that could ground him to the world that he felt was slipping away.

There had been too many funerals, too much death. Merlin felt, in the confusing burst of rawness and numbness, that his eyes must have burned rust-red from the sight of all of it. When he had buried Freya, he had choked through the words; when Lancelot had been put to rest, he didn't have to speak. As the body of his closest friend floated away he couldn't even think of the words, all his thoughts riveted on the sedate flow of the water.

It was too soon to say goodbye; letting go of his friend forever had felt like a jagged dagger was carving his heart out. But the sensation of his king going stiff and cold in his arms would ache even more. His heart was heavy enough without that additional weight to bear.

His gaze, solemn, wet, and golden, stared resolutely out across the water, unaware of the chaos behind him. The magic flowed out of him, effortlessly, secretly, and the tall dark-haired man stood, awe-inspiring and majestic in his grief as the untamed winds he unconsciously summoned swept about him, his threadbare coat billowing out behind him like a cloak and his hair flying. Across the forest, wolves howled their plaintive cries to the hidden moon and the leaves arose from the ground and tore from the trees and cloaked him in a mantle of green. But Merlin felt none of this, his entire being concentrated in the grieved, golden gaze he cast across the water and the wind rushing by his face –

The hot gust of wind took the old man aback and he stumbled backwards in surprise as the lorry hurtled past, showing its displeasure with an indignant honk and a puff of diesel as it passed out of sight. Taking a slow, steady breath to calm his racing heart, the old man leaned against the fence bordering the road, his grip tightening around the strap of his duffle bag as he straightened the knit cap about his white hair. A group of young men were playing football across the street, and some had seen the lorry nearly run over the old man."Hey," one called out as the others swore in varying levels of vehemence, "you all right?"

"Morons," one of his friends grunted, punching a sweaty fist into his other hand, "think they own the road. Oughta have got the registration plate while we had the chance. You want us to chase 'em down?"

The old man looked at the younger, strident with righteous indignation and the blunt invulnerability of youth, and remembered another man from years ago. He smiled warmly, and with an odd reminiscence, he shook his head. "Never mind that," he assured them, "I'll just need to keep to my side of the road."

He continued on his way to the park, casting a glance behind him every few steps. The young men watched him for a ways, but without another lorry rushing by, they left the elder to his business.

A warmth filled the strong heart of the old man as he walked away. "Selfishness of our youth…ha!" he snorted with amusement to himself as he remembered the message given by the dour-faced newswoman that morning on the telly. People were much the same as the ever were; some good, some bad, and the rest bouncing about from one to the other. People simply were.

The park had changed since he had been there last. The tall wood and steel playgrounds with crunching gravel underfoot had given way to brightly colorful plastic fortresses with soft turf underfoot. When he'd first walked about the perimeter of the pond at the center of the park, he'd had to shed his coat and sit on it to protect his trousers from grass stains. The last time he had visited, he had been sitting on an austere but sturdy wood bench, which had been replaced by some sort of fiberglass contraption, emblazoned with the bright colors of children's drawings. As he placed his duffle bag on the ground, the old man brushed his fingers against the engravings proudly proclaiming the handiwork of the children at the local school and smiled at the board sweep of the wings of the dragon one of the students had drawn.

The old man closed his eyes as the breeze swept over him, remembering the rush of wind at his face, the deep thundering of muscle beneath and around him, the grip of scale and cold blood pulsing below him. He stretched out his arms tentatively, recalling how his heart had dipped and soared as he'd traveled through the air.

"Didn't mean anything by it," a male voice nearly pleaded, and the old man lowered his arms to listen more intently.

"You never mean anything by it," an indignant female voice replied, with a huff in her voice that sounded like she was stalking away, "that's your problem, you you prat!"

"Prat? What do you me- Elizabeth?"

"How long have you been training to be a prat?"

"You can't address me like that."

"Sorry." A cheeky grin, a snarky bow. "How long have you been training to be a prat, my Lord?"

A frustrated thud dropped beside him, shaking him from his thoughts. He looked to the side to see a young red-haired man looking both crestfallen and aggravated as he glared at the disappearing figure of a young woman. "Women," he huffed, "can't figure them out. Bloody puzzles."

The old man chuckled and gathered his coat more snugly about him. "But life would be so dull without the puzzles, wouldn't it?" He leaned forward confidentially and looked the young man in the eyes. "Let me give you a bit of advice when dealing with these puzzles."

The other man leaned forward.

"Find out what you did wrong and apologize," the old man grinned cheekily, "much easier in the long run."

"But I didn't do any-"

"Apologize anyway," he laughed.

The younger man grunted and folded his arms before sighing. "Fine. It's not fair, though. She'll never let me hear the end of it."

"They never do," the old man agreed, a sliver of regret at the back of his eyes, "but it's much better to have them around to tease you than to not have them at all."

The other's eyes grew sympathetic. "You missing your lady?"

"Going to see her actually," the old man confided sheepishly, "but it's been a long time since I've visited last. I'm not sure of my welcome."

"Oh." The young man thumped the elder on the back. "Get her flowers, mate. Best way to deflect the anger – not likely to throw a vase that has flowers in it!"

"I've come prepared," the old man grinned, reaching into his duffel bag and pulling out a small wooden box with a wave pattern carved into the top. As the red-haired man leaned forward with some interest, the elder unlatched the box's clasp and slid the lid open. The younger's eyebrows furrowed and he pulled back, his eyes puzzled.

"Strawberries?" he asked, "Not even chocolate…strawberries?"

The old man picked up a strawberry by the green stem, rotating the red berry and examining with a fond smile. "Her favorites. She always asked for them when I wanted to know what to get her. They weren't as common when we were young, you see?"

"Oh," the other responded, "the War. My gran always tells me about the bloody rationing. Well- the man got up, "-better chase that woman down before she does something stupid."

"And apologize!"

"And apologize," he agreed resignedly. "Thanks, mate. Good luck!"

The red-haired man walked briskly away, his strides breaking into a near run as soon as he felt that the old man could no longer see him. The old man chuckled and shook his head. Another thing that had not changed – love still made people fools. And that some people would go to any lengths to hide that.

The old man leaned back, closing the wooden box and setting it beside him, and with a bittersweet pang, remembered the first time he had given his love strawberries. It had not been during the War, but rather before the War. It had been long before many wars, certainly long before any wars the young man would have learned at school or on his grandmother's knee. The old man did not love war, but whenever the call for arms and God and country rang up, he would always find himself in its midst. He had soared in the air like a hawk with the RAF. He had huddled in the medical tents besides the battlefields, steeped in the smell of blood and sweat, his hands binding up wounds and sewing up gashes with a dexterous skill that his patients would call his magic. And if he often had his eyes obscured while treating them, the soldiers put it down to the dust and dirt and sweat that would sweep into an unprotected man's gaze. His hands had gripped the cold surface of a musket as he hid in makeshift shelters, and had even once wielded a sabre to protect the orphanage he was running. But over the years, none of the wars he had fought, none the loss he had endured—nothing compared to the fear he felt during that one battle…where he had seen his closest friend cut down, even as he checked for survivors amongst the fallen. The old man did not care for war.

Glittering tears in his eyes shone golden before he wiped them away, and the old man continued to sit quietly on the bench as the sun made its downward curl to the horizon. He felt the sun's touch cool on his face and listened as the joyful shouts of children and the rumbles of people playing games on the grass slowly faded away.

When the moon had begun to silver the surface of the pond, and the man found himself all alone, he got up. With a careful glance about him, the old man shouldered his duffle bag on his back and began walking down the hill of the park where the perimeter was lined with tall, well-tended trees. With a slight bowing of his head and a quiet, unintelligible murmur, the old man's eyes glowed gold before he passed through a tree like smoke and vanished.

As he passed through to the other side of the tree, the old man pulled the duffel bag from his shoulder and let it loosely drop from his fingers to the ground. Pressing one hand against the gnarled bark, he took a moment to take in a deep breath and let it out. Just beneath the knotted wood, he could feel the thrum of magic that he had placed there years and years ago. He was idealistic and optimistic at times, a miracle considering the things he had seen, but he was not a fool. As people began to travel farther and farther from their homes, exploring and examining all that was different and strange, there was the increased risk that the lake might be discovered. There was an even greater risk that the discoverers might not understand that the lake and the castle should be left alone. He had not needed a book that night of the casting, for the spell was one of his own, spoken from the nearly unfathomable depths of his magic.

Despite the absence of coldness, his breath steamed out in a fog before him, coating him as pulled off his coat and beanie. With a care that was nearly reverent, he bent down to extract the wooden box of strawberries from his duffel bag before straightening and walking slowly to the shore of the lake. He sat down beside the water and, with a casual air, brushed his index finger and thumb across the grassy ground. A mature rosebush sprang up from the golden glowing ground, and the old man perused the dew-rimmed blossoms with care before selecting one and holding it securely. With his other hand, he elegantly wove the air into a gold cloth, which with a flick of his wrist formed itself into a little boat. The old man got to his knees and, after placing the rose gently into the golden boat, pushed the boat out into the water.

The boat traveled leisurely for a few feet before it stopped. Then a slender arm sprung forth from the lake, taking the rose as the boat disappeared into the air. A young, beautiful woman followed the arm, and she smelled the rose with a tenderness on her face that made the old man's heart ache. The young woman turned, her red dress flowing with the grace of the water itself, and she faced the old man. Her brown eyes lit up with joy and she made her way to the shore, stopping when the water came to just above her knees. "Merlin."

The old man pressed forward to the edge of the lake. "Freya."

Freya reached out as far as she could, and the old man edged closer, the water of the lake soaking through the knees of his pants. She reached out her hand for his, and he took it. "Oh, Merlin, it's been so long."

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his head bowed, "I've meant to come back. I just…got distracted."

"As always," she quipped, "you've always been a wanderer – always trying to fix the world." Her hands left his to cup his face. "I've always loved that about you."

The old man leaned forward and kissed her forehead. "Come now," she admonished, "after all this time, you surely can do better than that."

"Sure you want an old man kissing you?" he laughed.

Wordlessly, but with a compassion in her eyes that meant she had heard the sorrow at the back of his voice, Freya swept her cool fingers over his cheeks and face. Like water, the wrinkles and white beard were wiped away, and as she threaded her hands through his hair, the whiteness of his head shortened and became dark. The shadows around his eyes lessened, and his skin became firm and flushed. His eyes, which had been closed through her caress, opened and the gaze he was sending her sent shivers down her spines with its intensity. She let her lower lip protrude in that way he liked and immediately Merlin swooped down and held her in his arms, kissing her with a fervor that sent fire through their blood.

Her hands wrapped about his neck, her fingers toying with the curls of hair that gathered beneath his head, as he ran his hands up and down her back, reveling in its real solidness. The fire soon cooled into a bittersweet longing, but the two did not let go of each other. Instead they held each other securely, treasuring in the warm breath and beloved heartbeat of the other. "I love you," Merlin whispered into her ear and her eyes watered.

"I love you, too," she replied quietly.

"I don't want to leave you for so long," he replied, "I don't deserve to have you waiting for me…"

"As you have waited?" Freya countered gently, pulling back to look at him and flushing as his muscles tightened, clearly unwilling to let heret away. "I have the Lake, Merlin, I can rest and wait for you. I know that you will always return to me. But you," she brushed her fingers over his cheek, "you wait in the world, without rest." Merlin shook his head in the nonchalant way that she remembered him doing when trying to keep her from worrying – a fruitless endeavor. "Merlin," she continued firmly, looking at the stiff expression on his face, "you don't have to be strong all the time."

"Your highness," Leon said tentatively, "you need to rest. The king will be here, I'm sure of it."

"Leon," Gwen said solemnly, not taking her gaze from the window, "there's no need for titles. And," she took a deep breath, her grip tightening on the window ledge, "I fear you are wrong."

Leon swallowed hard and Gaius and Percival, who were standing in the background, stiffened in response to her words.

"Gwen," Gaius ventured, "what do you mean?" He took a few steps forward, noticing the sudden trembling of her knees with concern.

"I mean," her grip tightened and her eyes shut tight, "I think…I think he's gone."

"Gwen…"

She turned to face the others. "I know it sounds strange, but…I can't feel him. Not anymore. I just don't know-"

There was an odd rustling coming from behind the four, and all turned to look at the bedside table. Maps and papers and Gwen's hairbrush fluttered in the strong, strange breeze before falling onto the floor. Something fell to its place with a muffled clink.

With the trembling in her knees intensified, Gwen began to walk nervously to the bedside table, Leon and Percival hovering nearby with their hands extended to her elbows. She sat tentatively on the bed before reaching out for the red, woven bundle. She thought the cloth felt familiar as she pulled it close to her, and began to unwrap the folds of material.

The object fell into her lap with a heavy, final thump. Still holding the familiar red cloth in her hands, Gwen reached down to pick up the metallic object. It was a ring. It was a wedding ring.

It was her husband's wedding ring.

The recognition of the cloth came swiftly after, hitting her mind with an intensity that tears started to her eyes. She gripped the ring so tightly it nearly bruised her palm, and her fist tightened around the cloth, seeking comfort in its familiar warmth. "I had wanted…to be wrong."

"Gwen?" Leon asked, edging closer.

Gwen simply held out the silver ring, and all the men in the room understood it in one. With an impropriety that none of them cared to comment on, Leon sat beside her and hugged his queen close as she broke into sobs. Tears came to the men's eyes as they listened to her grief augmenting their own, and Percival placed a warm hand on her shoulder. Gwen reached out to Gaius, and he came closer. She clasped his arm, her grip covered in the red neckerchief, and he held her hand tightly. She relinquished her hold on the cloth and gave him a sympathetic, pained look. "He's all right, though, isn't he?"

The two knights looked puzzled, but Gaius nodded. "I'm sure."

Gwen tried to smile, but it didn't reach her lips. "Good." And then she allowed herself to be swallowed up in grief.

A tear fell into the bowl, distorting the image that Merlin had conjured through scrying, and he hated himself for not being there. He just couldn't muster the energy or the heart to leave the lake, not until the morning. Merlin put the bowl to the side and looked at the boat bobbing on the water, lit by the small fires he had conjured to float in the water.

It was just before lunch the day after her coronation when Gwen heard a knock on the door. She gathered the quilt about her shoulders and stood up from the table where she had been looking over some documents. The servants had been giving her a wide, respectful distance, and the knights had been drawn aside by Leon. Therefore, her mind was racing and alone, and she needed something to take her mind off things. "Come in."

The door pushed open quietly and she looked over, expecting to see a sympathetic-faced maid bearing the lunch tray. Instead, she saw Merlin, standing there bare-necked and solemn-eyed. Gwen's breath caught in her throat, and she stood up, letting the quilt fall to the ground. "Merlin?"

Merlin nodded slowly, his gaze solemn, nervous, and guilty.

Gwen rushed forward, and hugged him, her body shaking with relief and pent up sorrow. He quickly wrapped her in his arms and held her close. "I'm so glad," she said hoarsely, "that you're all right."

She had hoped he would be back, but the neckerchief binding the ring had frightened her beyond the pangs of grief at her husband's death. The neckerchief had seemed so final, like a goodbye, and she had feared she would not see Merlin again.

"You're here."

"Of course, I'm here," he said, tightening his grip, "I wouldn't leave you."

Gwen looked up and her lips twitched into a weak, wavering smile before she broke down in his arms. Merlin held her close, gently rocking her from side to side as her sobs shook his body. They stood together for a long time, long after she had stopped crying, her wails fading into heavy sniffs, and let the realness of the warmth of the sun soak them through. "I'm sorry," he ventured after a time, "that I couldn't bring him back."

"I know you tried."

"I shouldn't have buried him without you there," he continued, "but it…it just seemed like the right place. I'll take you there as soon as I can," he promised, "and I'll do whatever I can to help with anything. Let me know what I can do, let me know when you want to go-"

"Merlin," she said firmly, and he looked at her.

Gwen's face grew compassionate and her eyes looked concerned as she brushed the wayward bangs out of his face. "You miss him too. You don't have to be strong all the time."

The warlock looked at her with surprise before his shoulder began to buckle, almost against his will, and his eyes watered. He struggled with himself a tortuous moment longer, and then he let the tears flow. A deep, rasping sobbing filled the room, and as Gwen guided him towards a chair at the table, tears began to brim at her eyes. She helped him into a chair and then sat down beside him. Hugging her friend tightly about his shoulders, the two of them cried together.

Merlin tried to hide the tears from Freya, but she smiled and brushed them away. "You don't need to hide anything from me," she whispered, "never have to hide anything from me. Including," she smiled, her eyebrow arching, "those strawberries."

With a tear-laced bark of laughter, Merlin reached back and presented the box to her, looking like a knight offering homage to his lady. "For you."

She took a strawberry daintily from the box before setting the box to float on the top of the water. Then with a smooth wave of her arm, the water of the lake curled up to the side of Merlin, forming a chair. She sat down on the chair and reached out for her love, holding him close. "I know it's been hard for you, my love," she said, "but it will be all right."

"So long," he murmured hoarsely, the unshed tears choking his voice, "it's been so long. Will it ever happen?"

"It will," she assured him, "I promise you."

"But when?"

Freya closed her eyes, feeling for her bond to the water, to the seas, to the Earth. "I'm not sure," she replied, "but it feels soon."

"Soon," he repeated, the word echoing in his mind like a mantra.

Soon, soon, soon…

A/N: And that's the first chapter. I hope you enjoyed it!

Thanks for reading and please review. They make me happy!