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Chapter Text

A Kindred soul is destiny-defined, fate in living form. A soulmate if you will; one half of a whole, they’re similar, yet different. 

Merlin and Arthur. Once and Future King and Emrys joined together in fate’s grip; two different pieces, creating the same puzzle. But they are not soulmates, nor kindred souls. They have a great purpose, yes. 

But Merlin and Morgana, are one of a kind, tied by bonds deep in their souls: Magic and its life-giving force. 

“Darkness to their light, hatred to their love.” A person cannot hate without first experiencing love. And that’s what a soulmate is, someone who completes you, and frees you from your chains. The Triple Goddess herself willed it; Morgana’s love is not yet lost, if she can learn to love the light to her darkness, embrace her destiny and cast away her doom.

Morgana tossed and turned, gripping the sheets below her fists in anguish. The candles of her chambers had been snuffed out long since, wicks charred, wax hardened and curtains blowing in the wind. For the last time that night, she startled awake. She couldn’t see her own eyes simmer with the golden threads of Sorcery, nor could she contain her horror as the candle sparked itself as if alive. She had not fully awoken from slumber, but she knew enough to know that the cursed candle hadn’t been lit by conventional means; she couldn’t bring herself to admit such a malison; it became so hard to breathe that each puff of air had burned her insides. To think of learning such a thing breathed death and breeds execution on all who practice such a forbidden art.

Magic. She, The King’s Ward had magic. And with a fearful scream, the flames clambered up her curtains turning them to ashes in front of her eyes. 

“My Lady!” Her Maid Servant, Guinevere; Gwen to her friends, cried. Her eyes scanned the room for anything that could deter the flames. Finally, Gwen’s quick wit allowed her to grab a single pale of water, throwing it on the flame’s wicked assault, and the room went dark. In the silence and pale moonlit shadows; Morgana shook, her eyes stinging with unshed tears, but in the company of her friend's arms, she found the tears free-flowing as she continued her unburdened sobs.

Guards arrived soon after. Merlin and Arthur are among the crowd. Merlin wiped sleep from his eyes and Arthur held his sword firm in his grasp. “Morgana.” Arthur comforted as much as a prince in this situation would allow. “Are you alright? How did this happen?” These were questions she really couldn’t answer and wouldn’t if she could avoid it. It wouldn’t do for the King’s Ward to be an enchantress; she’d probably be hanged.

“I don’t know.” She lied, “My curtains caught fire, it must have been the wind.” Gwen, her sweet friend, placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. 

Arthur looked at them both and nodded, “Are you sure you blew the candle out, Guinevere?”

“Yes, Arthur. I am certain.”

Merlin sent her a comforting and strangely sympathetic smile. “Well. It must have been an accident. I’m sure I could ask Gaius to prepare a calming draft for you, My Lady.”

Morgana smiled sweetly at Merlin. He always was a good friend and a sweet man. A Lover, she’d called him and she grinned as her words rang true. “Thank you, Merlin. I’ll accompany you if you don’t mind. I need another sleeping draft anyway.”

 He bowed. “Of course. After you, My Lady.” He held the door open for her and it closed with a gentle click, as Arthur and the knights continued an unknowingly fruitless investigation. Gwen seemed to silently take her leave as well. She was a dear friend and went above and beyond her duty.

They arrived in silence at Gaius’ Chambers, The Court Physician although getting on in age was as bright as those two decades his Junior. He had a good heart and kind eyes to all those he treated, and his chambers reflected as such. Simple and homely, surrounded by walls of earthy tones, and various large shelves to accommodate his expanding tonics, poisons and other medicines. 

Merlin’s room as his ward was stationed at the back. Bubbling fires cooked either food or herbal remedies and the surfaces which held them became tarred with ash. Morgana sighed in remembrance as she recalled that Merlin often had been the one collecting said herbs when Gaius requested them, and Arthur barely gave the boy room to breathe. 

“Merlin, you have my deep sympathies,” Morgana said, shaking her head as she took a glance at the tomes filled with anatomy that Gaius collected. Merlin didn’t seem to catch onto her point, even raising an eyebrow as a small giggle escaped Morgana’s lips. 

“Why?” He asked, and Morgana only seemed to chuckle more. The despair in her eyes lightened with every glance at Merlin's pouted lips. She was still pale, sickly so. But, her frailty did nothing to disillusion Merlin from the true strength beneath her skin. Her beauty was even less affected, as she remained wrapped up in the terror, both the dream and waking world. 

She shrugged her shoulder. “Dealing with Arthur. I love him like a brother, I do. But sometimes, he acts like a tremendous arse.”

“Morgana!” Merlin shrieked in alarm at her brazen response as he continued to search all the shelves for both the calming draft and the sleeping draft. Morgana smirked at the colour lining his cheeks. For a moment, she’d forgotten the horrors that lay in the dark of her bed-chamber, no matter how comfortable the mattress; she seemed to lose precious hours of rest, even these proposed medicines seemed to succeed so little, dimming it as one would expect and newly made blade to blunt.

But, talking to Merlin lifted such shadow from their place behind her eyes. He’s trustworthy, she caught herself trying to coach her lips to say the words threatening to clog her throat. 

I have magic. Am I evil? 

“Merlin.” He spun around to her quickly. His eyes were gentle and kind just as she knew they would be. She played lazily with the hem of her white nightdress, willing herself to ask the question that had been welling up inside threatening to spill out. 

“Yes, My lady.” He answered, staring into the emerald depths of her eyes. His eyes seemed to coo with sympathy. Or was it pity? Morgana didn’t want to know. The use of her title made her muscles spasm with fear. My Lady. She wouldn’t be a lady for much longer, not if Uther found out, learned who she was, what she was. 

“Can I trust you?” There it was. He seemed puzzled as looked at her, truly saw her. The fear of annihilation buried deep like a brand on her skin. Evil. Witch. The insults continued as he placed the calming draft delicately into her palm, she’d almost crushed it in relief at his answer.

“You can trust me, Morgana, you know you can,” Merlin murmured. 

“What are your thoughts on Magic?” She asked, almost begging for someone to give her some clarity. She wasn’t evil, she couldn’t be. Merlin however seemed to stiffen, his spine so straight Morgana was afraid she’d pushed him away. He must be afraid and why wouldn’t he be? The King’s Ward had asked him a question which would put both their heads on the executioner’s list. 

And then, the silence ended, died. The room filling with erratic breathing. “Please answer me, honestly.” She begged, tugging his shirt sleeve. Gaius wasn’t here, it was just them and all she wanted was someone to admit it. 

“I grew up in Ealdour, magic isn’t illegal there, but it’s too close to Camelot's lands. Bounty hunters used to interrogate the people and hunt the people ‘convicted.’ There was burning, and beheading almost every week. And our King did nothing, he simply didn’t care for a small town on the outskirts. Eventually, neighbours turned against each other and the accusations got more outrageous. And I — was sent here.” Merlin released a regretful breath as his shoulders shuddered. 

“Morgana.” The surprise at him not using her title was enough to cause her to jump. “I don’t believe magic is evil. I believe there is darkness in many things, but there is always light. So, it stands to reason, that if magic has darkness; it must have great beauty too.”

He held his hands up, clasping them together before whispering a simple word, “Blóstmá” A single rose appeared in his grip. Morgana gazed at him, mouth open and speechless. “Magic can be beautiful if you use it right.” Merlin said, pinning the simple flower to her black silky hair.

“We are the same, you and I. How could you be evil when I am not?” Morgana grinned at him, not the false courtly smile she was accustomed to wearing, but a genuine wide grin on her makeup-free lips. 

“I fear I was wrong to believe myself alone. Do you realise this means, Merlin? We are connected in a way no one can break.” 

Chapter Text

The glass of her vanity mirror stared back at her, taunting her with every mask she’d ever worn. Mirrors didn’t lie, didn’t deceive. That’s what she was, a deceiver; her hair perfectly maintained, not a strand out of place, not a fallen curl in sight. In the silence of her chamber, she’d wept into the nightly hours, till dawn broke and shattered the curtain of isolation she’d cultivated. 

She didn’t know whether it was, from joy or sorrow, from pain or hope. Morgana Pendragon, a court lady, stared death in the face. She was unknowingly running towards a cliff, the end of her existence and all she’d known.

That was until, this morning. It seemed normal. Her heart had hammered with fear last night, she gazed at the candle, the object of the previous night’s fear, with neither pain nor fear. She would not burn for what her guardian would perceive as a great violation, a stain on his hatred-filled reign. 

No, Uther wouldn’t find her. Instead, in the quiet of her chamber, the walls she would have once deemed a fancy showcase, were now filled with the smell of freedom, the walls seemed not to stunt her growth, or clip the wings of her femininity for Uther’s use. 

She wore a mask, not for fear of her safety, but for a purpose unknown to herself. 

“Merlin,” She whispered to herself, warmth filling her heart as she glanced thoughtfully at the reminder of last night’s events, its petals, still in bloom. It was not ruffled from her slumber, perfect, beautiful. 

A reminder of the connection she had yet to explore, a single red rose. The stem was thornless, a gesture of kindness, a will to not cause harm she had assumed. Its petals, brought life to her pale face as it shone in the sunlight, a simple flush to her cheeks as it curled comfortably in her midnight hair.

Revealing his greatest secret was never part of the plan; he was sure it also wasn’t part of the destiny, he had let shift his perceptions, his good sense: his magic, a part of his fractured and pressured soul. But, now he had… Free was the word that came to mind. He had someone to share the burdens, tangling in the depths of his heart and mind.

Morgana. 

He was told she was to be evil, a foe and foil to the destiny he had yet to birth by Arthur’s side. But, now was it possible to pull on the threads of the fates and their sticky web? He did not know. All he had forged within himself, every battle, scar and wound; physical or mental, seemed to soothe at the songs coming from her throat.

She was a warrior, and he: her sword.

He had thought at length, pausing his pursuit into the lower town. His job as Arthur’s Manservant was done. Passing the tavern, he grinned. The door opened invitingly welcoming him inside. He knew he shouldn’t, having far too much to do. But maybe just some water will do. Arthur would kill him; and throw him in the stocks; the prince believed he already spent too much time there.  

The tavern chronicles. He’d call his testimony after he hung in the stocks; he’d write, his mentor the court physician, hailing in his ear, his usual scolding, a punishment for his idleness and lack of foresight.

Unfortunately for Merlin, he was usually loose-lipid around the dizzying nectar, housing in the building that held his attention.

He hadn’t planned to stay long, seek refreshment and get out before more trouble, moved his way. It seemed, however, that trouble had already sought him out.

The bards of Albion would sing about his fate for centuries to come. He sat at a nearby table, distracted by the events that flowed around and the roaring of men and women, enjoying their enriched drinks. That was the moment when four of Arthur’s ex-knights decided to make themselves known. 

Their conversations were never usually riveting, so Merlin was content to ignore them while gesturing to the bar-keep. The woman in question kept her trained eyes narrowed and her nose primed for trouble. Handing him the pitcher, she smiled. “Merlin. Wonders never cease, the Prince is here every month, more than once looking for you.” 

The hidden warlock slyly smirked taking a deep sip of the heavenly liquid, “I do like to enjoy the finer things.” He chuckled, his ears listening to the hum of instruments and the chatter surrounding him. 

“I’m sure you do; today is not one of them, I hope.” She raised a parental eyebrow, “I hope.” 

Merlin smiled sheepishly at her unyielding gaze, between her and Gaius. His recklessness was swiftly dealt with. Even if the barkeep was talking to him as one would a child; she was much too sharp for her age to fall for his excuses.

“Always keeping me honest, Adelaide.” He said with a small laugh.

He was about to leave when a sleazy laugh caught his attention, “The Lady Morgana looked exquisite.” Ordinarily, he would have rolled his eyes and continued with his business. A servant scolding a group of knights; no matter how unseemly their conduct, was a quick way of getting beaten - bloodily and brutally.

Being Arthur's Manservant, offered him protection, more than most. But being a Physician’s apprentice, he saw daily how most of the prince’s knights treated those under their care. Bruises, cuts, scrapes. Wounds that wouldn’t look abnormal on a warrior, but on a simple farmer or palace servant, Merlin knew those injuries weren’t normal. Gaius had hung his head. The day a young servant stumbled into the physician’s quarters, he had to pull Merlin away from the woman, the face of solum and smudged beauty. A sweet girl, whose only flaw was being too shy in the face of authority. Merlin had informed Arthur, racing down to his chambers with such haste that he could have been a breeze of wind sweeping through the castle on that warm spring day. Her injuries were vast, bruises of various colours, blood weeping from her head where she had been struck with chainmail. Her shoulders shook with fear with every examination from Gaius’ gentle hands, her pain increasing even as Gaius applied his treatment to the gashes. 

Prevent infection. Merlin believed he’d said. 

“These knights,” Merlin thought with a growl. “Were a scourge, a rot and poison as wicked as hemlock; they needed to wiped from this earth root and stem.” The wind rushed in, barreling through the tavern door as if it were nothing more than a sheet of parchment. The element was relentless, startling the candles which had lit themselves and swayed as if under siege.

“So ripe and trembling with fear.” The oldest knight had hissed calling upon the memory of Morgana’s fearful experience last night while throwing back his meed. His comrades patted him on the back. The building’s tenants straightened, looking at the four knights with disdain. 

The second, his words filled with darkness and poison, laughed as if he had told a joke. His teeth seemed to rot the longer he spoke. “I’d comfort her.” He purred sickeningly.

Merlin clenched his fists, drawing blood which dripped down his palms. “Enough!” He roared at the knights, throwing his chair back as he marched to confront them. The weather floated to his side, expanding his command. The rain poured down upon the thatch, soaking the staw. Lighting shot through the sky, drumming against the ground. The earth trembled and groaned, merlin stared unflinchingly at the knights, power flooding his veins, turning his muscles to flame, and his thoughts to ash.

Two words. One name. One phase: Protect Morgana.

“Have you no honour?” Merlin continued to press his assault, his limbs trembling and aching. He half debated, throwing water upon them, or any liquor Adelaide had to spare. Being raised by a single mother, a wonderful person; Merlin fought the urge to squash them to dust. Revealing his magic now would only drag him before the gallows. 

The third and fourth knights of the group had remained silent, neither making comments about the Lady they had sworn to protect as Uther’s ward. Now they had their swords drawn, in defence of their friend, and brother in arms. The blades pressed close to Merlin's neck, a hair-breath from severing his head. 

“Who are you to talk about honor, boy!” The oldest knight spat, barring his teeth. He had a round face, brown eyes and a receding hairline which became bald around the sides, simply put: Not only was he a coward, a despicable human being; but also one of the ugliest men Merlin had ever met. 

Merlin chuckled, though it bares no laughter. Cold and sharp, gone was humour and sass, now it was anger, darkness, rage.

“Prince Arthur’s manservant, sir. I am sure, he would love to know how you have been talking about the King’s ward, his sister in all but blood. Furthermore, I am sure the King would love to know as well. Arthur dismissed you, remember. The prattle and the rubbish of the guard, I am glad to say I support his decision.”

“Glad you approve, Merlin.” A male voice drawled. 

Silence. Then chaos. 

The Knights turned their heads, reclining them in a stiff bow. “Sire.” Suddenly they were filled with apologies; the wolves had turned into whimpering puppies. 

“Slience!” The Prince commanded cutting their words to ribbons. He perched lazily on the doorframe, dismissing them with a wave. “The way you talk and behave is abhorrent.”

“Sire, we were just defending ourselves.” One of them grumbled, face still close to the floor. They tried to move closer when Arthur commanded them to rise, but the Prince moved away as they tried and failed to blame Merlin for the confrontation. 

He held up his hand, snarling, “Don’t bother. I heard everything. Camelot knights, you are not. You are a stain on the code and all it represents.”

Merlin was grinning now. His time to defend was over, so he sat back leaning against the wooden chair and enjoyed this piece of theatre before him. 

“Your punishment: A duel.” 

Smirking wickedly, they agreed. “May we choose our opponent?” It was their right as knights of Camelot, but Arthur stared at them, unflinchingly. He stood over them, “No you may not, your rights as citizens of Camelot have been suspended, due to the way you have disrespected the Knight’s code.”

It was Arthur’s turn to grin, his white teeth shining from his mouth. He smirked as the knights that had committed this atrocity paled at least two shades, the colour leaving them as their eyes flashed fearfully. 

“Your opponent shall be the person you spoke of so lewdly…The Lady Morgana.” 

“We fight — a woman.”

Merlin laughed at that, Morgana’s skill with a blade rivalled Arthur’s. She was no damsel, nor easy to beat. “I would bow out gentlemen, the further punishment and humilation is not worth it.” He simply said. 

No, Morgana would make sure they never disrespected any woman again.

Chapter Text

Matters of the heart are often treacherous, sown with pitfalls, entering the throne room had often been one of them for Morgana. Her heart was always heaviest here, hammering against the confines of her ribcage. The pigment of her gown, emerald; like her eyes, put her under surveillance by the many vipers clinging to Uther’s words and kissing the ground he walked on. It wasn’t even her most seductive ensemble, but with reluctance, she held those stares of the court wicked or not. 

Morgana trudged up the stairs her breathing laboured as she made each step. In front of her was the man she saw as a father, but a father he was not and in front of him was a woman wearing his ward’s skin. The same complaint look branded her features, a smile on her pink lips and a healthy blush of modesty were all needed to mask her rising fear.

“My Lord,” She curtsied. She had completed the action many times before, a necessary skill for a lady befitting her station and she did it all without much thought. He beckoned her to rise, so she did. Melding her eyes to his own, she was the perfect lady. 

Uther Pendragon, a poison in a fine-fitting dress shirt, met the court with an air of kind words and false promises. His sliver hair was flimsy though it still occupied the whole of his head. His crown was dulled gold, a thick band by standards of royalty and otherwise regal; Morgana couldn’t tell whether that smile was for her benefit or his as she took her place in the smaller chair beside him: The picture-perfect dove of Camalot. She was as much a bluster to his status as the silence that befell the court at his single command. Arthur was seated to his right, embellished in a red cotton dress shirt, brown pants and leather boots. 

“Arthur told me about the incident in the tavern. Of course, the actions of morose and idle men are not usually for the ears of an unavailable king.” He lifted his hand, gesturing to Arthur with a dismissive wave. Arthur bowed his head, though in his eyes Morgana could faintly see the shaded ember of sympathy in his darkened blues when he caught her eye.

Morgana hung her head, her jet-black hair sagging against her facade. Tears pushed against the boundary of her eyelids before being burned away by the spark of her rage. Her Guardian, the man who was supposed to safeguard her. 

Pathetic. Her first pitfall. Her first mistake. To be believed in this kingdom was a rarity, especially for someone with her bone structure. 

The king leaned forward in his chair. “However.” Uther’s hand had been gentle against Morgana’s cheek. Then, without warning; he gripped it, her face. His thumb and palm forced her chin upwards.

A warning bathed in false comfort.

She’d overstepped.

Uther continued, hands clenched as he announced to the court,“Lady Morgana's reputation has been sullied today, let us right these heinous wrongs! Bring forth the suspects!”

Sullied. She’d wear the badge with honour. The word was an insult levied to poison her, yet she remained. Her shaking limbs were held up by faith; she believed Merlin and Arthur, the Prince and Manservant had never steered her wrong. Their testimony spoke truth, their vows unshakeable, their narrative uncontestable.

But the two words, she’d never got to voice still stirred in her throat as she turned to the court with well-practised grace. Thank you. 

Flanked by two Guards; Sir Leon, the most noble thrust the accused in front of the court as the doors burst open. The steel of the shackles sang the lyrics of justice as they fell to their knees. The crowd of courtiers erupted in murmurs, some spitted acid at the men before them, and the other more upper class members concocted vile theories. 

Which one of the four guards she had given her virtue to, was the most common. 

A chuckle rang through her head at that. She eyed the spitful woman, glaring daggers at her. Her expression was moot as she closed her mask.
I would rather sleep with a servant, than any of the rats presented before me.

Facing the crowd with a high head, she caught Arthur’s Manservant staring at her. His blue eyes simmering. A cocktail of both pride and scorn as his stare shifted from her to the chained men in the middle of the room. Still, she distinguished the glimpse of gold as Uther began his lengthy tirade. 

“Citizens of Camalot.” 

Morgana feigned her attention for the most part. Her eyes were far too drawn to the left side of the court. The tapestries that depicted the might of House Pendragon, glanced back at her with each shine of the spring sun. Strange for the house emblem to look so distorted now that she knew the truth. The deception had corrupted so deeply, that those of the working class were enchanted with the idea of Uther’s Valour, even if it was as crooked as the washed-out colour of the magical animal.

He’d imprisoned the people’s hearts hoarding them while swaying them to incriminate their neighbours. 

The suspects standing in front of her were nothing but innocent. So, she sat back, plastering a smile of gratitude on her face. They remained elusive or ignorant to the faces barring down on them. 

Then and only then, did Uther begin the sentence. “You have sinned, in the name of her lady Camalot. My son asked for leniency, your penance shall not be traditional as I am sure you have been told. The Lady Morgana shall be your opponent as you see fit to poison your vows with the cause of tarnishing yourselves and the reputation of the lady before you. She will ensure you have repented, wholly and permanently as according to the will of your king and Camalot. You shall begin preparation at first light.” 

The court was rendered silent. Mouths open as the many men and women grew more blatant with their comments. The crowd exploded, coming down on the king's command like a rock fall.

  And Uther was not kind. “Slience,” he roared at the chaos as if he had shifted into the very dragon for which his noble house was named. There was silence as the court adjourned, and the situation concluded as the moon rose. Morgana exited, disappearing amid the swarm of people for her chamber. Tomorrow would come, now if only she could sleep.

Merlin was elated. He skipped into his room that night after Arthur had everything he needed for a restful night's sleep. 

Morgana had successfully petitioned to be here own champion, to wear a mask such as this enforced by her ethereal beauty, to win the heart of her Guardian, the man who grew so bent out of shape at the meer rumour of magic. While the very item he would see erased was sat by his side, bundled deep under his ward’s skin, making a home in her blood and heart. 

Hope consumed Merlin as he went to sleep that night; he’d surrendered, his body limp as he closed his eyes and dreamed. 

When night dissipated, and first light came. Merlin was bitting his nails, sweating clinging to his hair, and worry embedded into his frantic heart…

Chapter Text

Fear was an emotion — Merlin was familiar with; He fought with it, engaged in a desperate battle to tame it like a rebellious stead, though the simple truth, fear kept him alive. Hopefully, fear in moderation helped Morgana keep a sensible head attached to her currently tense shoulders. Fear prevented arrogance from funnelling its way into an already broken heart. 

Merlin looked out. The night and starlight glimmered Morgana, bathing her fighting leathers in sliver light. An angel; she was divinity drawing breath, a Queen lacking a birthright. He debated being a spectator. 

The serenade of her magic. A peaceful melody ushered him into her presence to join her in darkness. But the path to the bedrock was fraught with danger, the most dangerous being Morgana herself. 

Merlin had heard her curse. He glanced out the window, glass fogged with his rapidly increased breath. 

Beautiful.  

He tilted his head, peering downward. Morgana was at the left near the practice targets made of staw. Her skin was slicked with dirt and moisture as she swept her midnight hair from her face. 

Her perfect beauty, even marred with the mud stains inked into the fancy fabric of her clothing, bounced off the glow of her features: Her natural features. 

A perfect lady, she was not; she wiped a stain from her nose with the ruined shirt sleeve. To Merlin, however, she looked more radiant in the moon’s purifying glow as he crept to get a closer look. Exiting the castle to the training grounds was almost too easy. 

He crossed the greenery soaked with a day’s rainfall, the grass pricked up like tiny needles, but he ignored their pinch against the cotton of his pants and boots made of leather. He lifted his right foot, the grass crunching and the mud squelched, startling her from the training reverie. 

Snapping her head to the intrusion, Merlin noticed the glint of steel bathed in moonlight, and then he was sprawled on the ground. Morgana looked down at the figure, the blade of her sword against the neck. Merlin chose this moment to speak.

“Morgana, it's me. I yield!”  

Morgana cocked her head at him, the emerald of her eyes widening as she realised whose life she so easily cradled in her grip. 

“Merlin!” Morgana whispered-yelled. “I could have killed you.” 

Merlin grinned, dusting himself off as he stood up. “I would’ve died happy.” That sentence in and of itself wasn’t the correct thing to say as Morgana narrowed her eyes and jabbed her elbow into his previously bruised shoulder. The impact caused Merlin, the stubborn and clumsy servant, to stumble and fall.

Morgana’s cheeks flamed, all the more noticeable under the moon's reflective eyes. “You… You… arse!” 

Merlin stuck out his tongue. “You’re the one who had me at sword point, My Lady. Such Language! The king would be ashamed.”  

She lowered her sword into the holster and giggled, eyes joyfully lit. The flicker of gold in them made Merlin’s magic hum with enlightened euphoria.

Once, he made an enemy of his heart, now, they were allies, joined with the creation of Albion and the forging of a Lightbringer within Morgana.

Light and darkness, danger reared its head in both. Joy could be found in the darkest before dawn; Merlin knew that fear shivered, retreating to the shadows of his clouded subconscious. For now, the laughter and silence are pushed away by the curtain of blackness consuming them like a blanket of soft sleep. 

Morgana yawned, her nose scrunching up as she stretched her limbs. 

Merlin chuckled, taking in the state of her apparel through grass stains and dirt coating her soft feminine skin, even as her unblemished hands brushed the unkept strands of her hair back behind the curves of her ears. Her beauty was never anything but flawless.

Morgana held his stare at the low rumble from his throat. The static of look wormed through him, electric and unrelenting in their connection, the magic boiling over with the bonfire lit in their blood. He held it until his eyes drifted with the fog replacing the faraway warnings of the inappropriate thought. 

“Divine.” He murmured, staring at her pink lips. He ought not to have looked at them. Never mind thinking of caressing them with his own. 

Wrong. So very wrong.

Magic coiled itself, wrapping them in a warm wind as it sprung from Morgana. The very lyrics of the elements answered the summons. The first was a subtle drizzle as the downpour began. Merlin glowered back, sending threads. The blue morphed into gold, hardening as it formed a shield around them. The rain halted its course until it fell heavier, coating the luminous dome in a mountain of dew before it crystalised, sparkling like the finest jewels. 

The protection that Merlin put in place glimmered above them. He offered Morgana his arm, the shirt sleeve, although damp was not unpleasant against the chill of Morgana’s failing leathers, and she shivered. Merlin’s eyes glowed once before the dome crackled, scintillating with rapid bursts of moonbeam as faint heat rushed in. 

“Better?” He asked, letting the spell fall as he neared the cursed gates which had this hour were fraught with guards. 

Morgana nodded, curling into the curve of his shoulder. “Thank you, Merlin.” She whispered against the curve of his ear before putting a respectable distance between them. 

Merlin bowed, “If you would do me the honour of allowing me to escort you, My lady.” He maintained that distance, the mask of a servant present on his stern features. Her brows creased at the question as she nodded her head. 

“Such a gentleman,” She complimented. Merlin squeaked, his cheeks brimmed with rose.  

She slyly smirked as they neared her room, her dainty feet thundering on the stone floor as she quickened her pace, weariness now making the ache in her bones more prominent. She offered Merlin a sultry smile in farewell before throwing her knotted hair behind her and closing the door with a soft click. 

One word entered Merlin’s thoughts as he made the lifeless trek back to Gaius. Tease. 

First light came sooner than expected and between the audience that now surrounded Morgana, Merlin’s heartfelt forlorn and lacklustre as he caught the shadow of her face as she turned to face the crowd. In the light of day, an ordinary person wouldn’t have noticed the faded colour in which Morgana’s eyes have now become; the emerald, the green which seemed to sparkle when she laughed or Merlin showed her magic, appeared dull, smeared like someone had just grabbed a paintbrush and dipped it in death.

It shimmered hitting the light just right that the rims of her pale fingers could have simply passed it off as irritation, but Merlin knew medicine, although not as well as his mentor, this was no simple affliction that painted the hands of the King’s ward: a bruise, a welt plagued her sword hand. Uther, however, paid it no mind as Morgana’s weak veiled smile was unmasked in direction when he raised to his feet in a show of pride. 

Nevertheless, the ward of the King raised a defiant chin as she circled the fighting ring. She would duel, for the woman of this kingdom, the victims tormented by those sworn to protect, and most of all for a most precious right: her freedom.

And the crowd hailed her, whistles and chants of merriment as the first and most vicious of Arthur’s ex-Knights was tossed carelessly into the ring. The older man, wide in stature, seemed bewildered as he took in the smoothness at which Morgana controlled her limbs.

Strike. Block. Strike. The blade cut through the wind like butter, she twirled it like a dancer with a baton. Morgana was smiling, her parries swift and sure, melded with the laser focus of her volatile emotions. It wasn’t until the Knight was forced into the high walls of the audience, bound by the bonds of female hands, his sword outstretched and floppy in his grip that true terror had dawned on the brute. Morgana strolled closer, sword hanging by her side as she shook her head. 

“Let him go.” She commanded the woman who had him restrained for the killing blow. They released him, and Merlin couldn’t help releasing a snort as he looked almost grateful to the woman he spat on less than a day ago. 

This wasn’t for his benefit, nor his pleasure as Morgana snatched a handful of his grey hair, forcing him to his feet even though she was a full head shorter. She arched a brow at the man, teeth bared, and like a gorgon, he was transfixed, paralysed as fear pumped its venom into his trembling appendages.

“Are you sorry?” A question. The audience leaned forward in their seats, even the King stared down at his ward as the man did not utter a fiendish reply. She narrowed her eyes. “I said. Are. You. Sorry.” Her features contorted with rage and she pressed the shortsword to his pale hallow throat. He knelt to his knees as the sword was stripped from him and thrown into the dirt. 

“Yes. I’m sorry. I seek the King’s mercy.” A man reduced to a cowardly worm was nothing short of inexcusable. 

Morgana blinked, the only sign she felt emotion at all. “You’re not at the king’s mercy, you’re at mine!” She spat. And then with a swift slice, the first of many battles was over. Silence reigned over the court as Morgana’s leg sent the man’s knees underneath him.

Snap.

Merlin had heard bones break before, it was inevitable in his line of work, but never had he seen such a shattering. The bone pieced through the skin, protruding at an odd angle as it curved cutting through muscle as the man’s screams echoed bounding off the coliseum to the horror of the onlookers, as blood sprayed the muddy battlefield.

Morgana wore crimson for the first time that day, an appalled look in her eyes. And that’s when Merlin realised it wasn’t the kick that caused such extensive injuries as he took in Morgana’s trembling form. The king also rose, ordering the man dragged from the theatre as if he were nothing more than trash. Merlin watched as glee overtook the king’s tyrannical features, and the man’s comrades stood stunted and ghostly white. 

Morgana had used Magic, in front of the king.

Merlin paled, biting his nails and worry carved itself a carven in his heart as he awaited the King’s speech.

Chapter Text

Morgana dropped her blade from her trembling hand, the tip painted with a scarlet hue. The screams and wails of the crowd fell into insignificant chatter as the air remained buzzing with the vibrancy of life while all that she touched died.  

She knew when she saw Gaius running on the field, his white hair disappearing among the many fleeing spectators. The air was almost tangible with a metallic scent. There was the crackle of falling lungs, the screams of an anguished soul scattered on the wind like ashes as Morgana herself choked on the sin like she had inhaled knives.

She found herself gasping for breath, her lungs spitting out scraps of oxygen in between strangled coughs as she sunk to her knees, leaning on the splintered wood of the tiltyard for support.

Monster! Witch! She could hear them all, the wails of horrified citizens seeking out anyone to blame, however true for this crime. Uther may have silenced the vile gossip as the man she’d fought with was dragged away, his legs hanging from ropes as he was heaved like he meant nothing, trailing behind was a woman, the man’s wife Morgana supposed, but she turned her back as her eyes had scared themselves with sores as the shock finally floated away.

Tears? Is a murderer remorseful for the kill?

The insults came in troves as Morgana continued her solitary sobs. While the wife’s cries carried like a mournful message, the sun itself shrouded its glimmers, darkening the sky in death’s cloak. For a moment within the canopy of clouds, it lent Morgana peace before the King began.

Uther had launched from his throne, shaking the wine from his goblet. His hands clenched around the wooden claws of his house emblem.

A dragon.  

There weren’t many times in her life when Morgana saw the man who supposedly caged the mythical last dragon, she heard the stories, the legends that the rest were slaughtered upon marching inside Camalot’s haunted walls.

Haunted indeed. As the ghosts from beyond the grave lapped up her weakness like Arthur’s hunting hounds craved meat. 

Morgana trudged, weeding through the lake of blood and grinding little brittle bones under her rain-soaked boots. The one Mercy being the darkness shielding her from Uther’s eye, staring up at fate with zero fear. Her lips tainted with the salt of her tears and her fighting leathers itched, splattered with the remains of a man most would see as deserving of steel.

But, in there lies the lie, steel wasn’t what felled him in the end. In the end, it was an act that would see her hung should the truth ever step out into the light.

Obvious to the struggles of his ward, Morgana’s Guardian gulped his wine addressing the mournful crowd from underneath a tarp drenched with rainfall. 

The lowborn froze, while the king feasts.

Prince Arthur to his credit appeared lost to his father’s bravado as he fell back in his chair. His eyes scanned the crowd for his skinny Manservant, but Merlin in his thin cotton coat and simple assortment remained elusive to the Prince’s vision. 

“Citizens of Camalot, I believe in a kingdom of honour. But for a crime of this magnitude, there is but one sentence I can pass.”

Morgana gasped, pulling her hair free from its tangled braid, Magic. He’s talking about magic!

“There is a sorcerer among you.” Morgana felt her legs quiver as the world around her grew short and dark, her heart thumped against the chains of her ribcage, and her breathing grew deep and shallow. She scratched and clawed at her throat in panic, but the words had left her stranded and alone. 

“Morgana! ” A voice thundered in her glassy vision, Uther’s words lulled to mumbles as she clutched her head, “ Don’t.”  

Don’t what?  

It took a moment, maybe two as Morgana felt herself being thrown into the light once again, no longer standing in the courtyard with the high walls of faces leering at her she was alone in the soggy grass, the wind chiming with bird song.

“Don’t open your eyes, Morgana!” The same voice commanded before the tune of silence assaulted her. 

When she awoke, the familiar aroma of flowers soothed her racing heart. She cracked an eye open, the tiniest speck of light had sparked through a gap in the window. Her ears pricked at the sound, the steady and tranquil flow of running water, as she felt the chill of cloth and the droplets splashing her face. 

Then as her rescuer’s features finally came into view, she was staring at him, gazing into the blues that she knew shimmered like Molton gold. He was sitting on her feather bed, hands submerged in a bucket, his fingers tightening around the cloth as he erased the residue from the rag. She went to sit up, her mind swimming and drowning with questions.

“Merlin! What happened? The duel.” He ran the cloth in the bucket once, and tiny dew drops of water landed back into the water with a satisfying ripple.

Her back landed on the pillows when she tried to resist, her muscles falling out from under her as Merlin continued to apply the compress.

“You fainted, My lady.” He brought a finger to his lips as she was about to ask more questions, jerking his head to the door where she could hear the scuffle of feet on the palace floors, the clanging of metal swords shifting in their holsters signalled to her that it wasn’t a safe hour for honesty.   

He continued to care, sprinting back and forth between stoking the embers of her fireplace and the bucket at his feet. 

“Why are you here, Merlin? Where’s Gwen?” 

Merlin smiled, a glint in his eye. “After you fainted, Gaius suggested I be the one taking care of you, considering my ‘medical knowledge’; we carried you here and since Arthur had been cared for in the hours after the duel, Gwen decided she wanted to be the one to serve him dinner, something about keeping busy until you recovered.”

She snorted, covering her mouth with her hand. “Don’t worry Gwen’s secret is safe with me.” She truly was ecstatic for them, Gwen’s fierceness should temper Arthur’s bull-headed attitude. 

“There is no secret!” Merlin playfully hissed. She took the taunt and raised a defiant brow, Really, Merlin? The look seemed to express.

“No secret.” He whispered, waggling a finger at her, “Now rest.”

She pouted, her lips faked a tremble at the command. “And Uther?” She said, at last, curiousness had gotten the better of her.

“Ordered to stay out of your room, Gaius deemed it necessary.” He gave a curt nod, carrying the bucket towards the corner before opening her chamber door, the door swinging open till she could see the Guards standing at their posts, armour glistening immaculately as Merlin bowed and left.   

The voice came again that night in the throws of her dreams, the first slivers of the connection since she’d experienced her episode. The words were wisps, hovering in and out of existence like her fading consciousness. 

“Goodnight, my lady. Tomorrow we go to the druids.”

Chapter Text

The caves were something Merlin knew vividly, each turn, muscles took of their own accord. The twisting tunnels, the moss coating its mouth, and the river casting its net with every drip into a small deep chasm. Merlin skidded to a stop before the cliff's ridge to meet the great dragon's eyes. Kilgharrah’s snout was a thin line, Merlin shivered as the disapproval radiated through eyes like magma as the rocks and cave walls rumbled with roars. 

He knew. Kilgharriah knew about Morgana…

The words gushed out of him as Merlin’s cheeks flushed with torchlight, hands pinned to the sides. “I won’t abandon her.” Kilgharrah’s head tilted and when he breathed, a cloud of steam rose from narrowed nostrils.

“You know as well as I, the perils of destiny.” Merlin disagreed, knuckles whitening around the torch, the flames, spilling over the kindling like lava. But, the dragon’s stare never wavered. “Young Warlock, it would be better if the witch never knew the extent of her powers.”

“Like me you mean!” Merlin roared, eyes being consumed by smoke and shadow as the torch dimmed to weakened embers. Kilgharrah sighed, lounging as his claws hooked into the stone, splintering it with a simple swipe. 

Pebbles vibrated, falling below the ground as the rough and deep dragon voice echoed in the chamber. “I have warned you once of the pitfalls of fate, none of us can choose this, Merlin and none can escape its grasp no matter how you may wish to with your feelings of humanity pressing down upon you.”

“You say that like it's a curse,” Merlin answered, shoulders deflating. His patience for argument was almost at an end.

The dragon nodded, gold scales glimmering like stardust. “It is. To be human for one such as yourself, The Triple Goddess can be cruel and unfortunate.”

“So that’s it?” Merlin said, treading closer to the dragon. The dragon snapped his mouth shut and refused to comment as Merlin took a glance into the darkness behind him, feeling eyes on the back of his neck as he saw the tunnel illuminated with torchlight. 

Not his. Someone else...

Kilgharriah glanced past him to the entryway and shifted on his back claws before he straightened out and craned his neck, “We are not alone any longer, Young Warlock. Hide yourself! Quickly!”

The light of another lit up the rocks around them. Merlin shifted, sneaking into the shadow of Kilgharrah’s towering form. Merlin’s eyes smoked up with both flame and the golden threads of magic pulsing in his blood. He bent into a crouch, footfalls silent, and gaze set on the interloper. Kilgharriah huffed a warning, his maw filling with the dense clouds of smoke.

“Witch!” The title was a threat Merlin knew well; Kilgharrah’s voice was a narrow hiss as the hallway blackened with thick smog as he widened his jaws, stepped forth crouched on front claws, chains jingled as he prepared to take flight. With a sigh of relief, Merlin rushed to the entrance away from the boundary which separated him and Kilgharrah from the spying eyes of the open world. 

Feminine fingers traced the walls, lips widening with unprecedented joy. Merlin was enchanted. Black hair, glittering like pure night as the strands sheltered her eyes from him. The warlock knew the woman he’d find beneath the shell, green. Life. Love. Morgana. 

“Merlin!” She launched at him with a sharp cry. “Thank the Goddess! I feared I would be lost in this maze forever.” Merlin caught her, peering at her curiously as she tucked a loose strand of her unkempt hair. 

“What are you doing here? And even worse, what are you doing out of bed?” He said that last sentence with a pang of desperation. 

She nudged him on the shoulder, a grin plastering her lips at the horrified state. “Merlin, relax. After you left my room, Gaius visited.” She opened her arms wide and the sheen sleeves of her modest nightgown fluttered in the porous cave. She raised her hand, “I am well, Merlin. Perfect in fact.” She gazed at the walls, the stone pressing her skin, leaving little pimples along her fingertips.”What is this place?” She asked, wandering further into the tunnel. 

Merlin trembled, quivering as beads of sweat ran down his face as he gave chase to catch up to her. Morgana was the witch prophesied to bring Camalot to its knees and a Dragon her Guardian had imprisoned would not a friend make. The smell of soot drifted and hung in the air like a bad omen. 

Gaius will kill me! Arthur will kill me! And Uther… he’ll burn me!

“Morgana! If you go in there, it’s likely to be your end,” Merlin said, drilling the grave warning in with a look at the ceiling. Baked onto it was charred moss. The smell of the surface and offering turned Merlin’s stomach.

“Merlin, tell me.” She pleaded, her throat bobbing as she took in the pale face of Arthur’s Manservant and friend. 

He gulped, tossed and rattled his head. “No,” He replied. “Please Morgana, it’s for your safety.”

***

Morgana 

Safety. Everyone wanted her safe, protected, and unharmed. But life was overrun with danger, the simple truth no matter the strength of her blade, she would always be protected. Where she craved adventure, Arthur roams in her place, a crown on his golden head. The Prince would charge into death’s embrace and Merlin would follow, cut down by loyalty both admirable and equally foolish. 

What loyalty could a soon-to-be king afford when he hunts and destroys the beauty within it?

I tugged on Merlin’s hand, discarding our torches and leaving us with the hum of our magic to save and sustain us. “Merlin. I. don’t. Need. Protection.” He recoiled back from me as if he had been struck, the heat from the cave vapourising as the winds rocked against us and the last of the fire became dying sparks on the cold floor. 

I need the truth.   

Merlin looked at me, eyes a plea against my iron walls. “Tell me,” I repeated. My question went unanswered as much as the echo of running water stopped sinking through the walls. His shoulders rolled and skin paled by two shades compared to the proposal he had just tried to proposition me with minutes ago. 

“It’s the Dragon, the last one. Uther had him imprisoned here for years.” He sighed, “He doesn’t like Uther or you and won’t budge on it! It’s like telling Arthur to stop hunting.” For once in my life I saw the man Arthur didn’t see. Buckling under pressure, the world's weight is too great for one person to bear alone. In time, we stood there, ash lingering on our clothes and hands, the smell and heat of dragon fire branded into the rocks around us to do battle against the chill.  

I stilled my arms at my sides, holding firm despite the fear taking hold and beckoning my spine to crumble. Merlin glanced at me, and a moment was all he needed. I had never been reckless, but something about running into danger with the power of magic lighting me up from the inside had me being so. 

“Morgana—” He began before I interrupted, silencing protests before life could be breathed into them. 

“Merlin, I am doing this with or without you.” Jabbing a finger into muscled chest, before reaching up and for the slightest instant, my lips met Merlin’s cheek. My hand was outstretched before him, hope bursting into my chest as I wished and prayed he would take it.  

And he did, steeling himself for battle beside me we strolled into the unknown, numb and with the only certainty being each other and the magic that sizzled up our arms with every brush of skin.

Doom or not. It was destiny to be here.

Kilgharriah’s menacing form drew near, a winged shadow in the dark, and yet a golden light in others. I froze, stumbling closer with limbs that seemed brittle and all too breakable in the presence of the mythical creature. 

“Young Warlock! What is the meaning of this!” The Dragon bellowed, breathing a vortex of heat towards me, sizzling the hair from my skin. 

The cave. His Prison was an opening, casting itself in all directions around us. The only exit that was blocked and sealed, was doused in irony. I looked up, straining my neck towards the ceiling only to find bleak obscurity staring back. His wings, I noticed. Golden and spellbinding were whole, strong and unified. The air blasted toward me vicious like an animal, the attack left me scared with goosebumps. 

“Forgive me.” I bowed, my knees pressed deep into the dirt. The Dragon growled with a snarl that was all teeth. “I know you must have reservations about meeting me. The Ward of Uther Pendragon, but I am here asking you to please accept my apologies for the treatment you have suffered here.”

I barely moved, frozen by fear as the gnarling rescinded. My palms gripped the dirt and stone so hard I thought my bones would snap.

Then, a sound of deep rumbling laughter shook the cave around us, the water was sent rippling in the creek to the left of us. A creek I could only assume was the dragon’s drinking source. 

Laughter. Honest laughter shaded with disdain.  

“Oh,” Kilgharrah chuckled, “It is not about who you are now that garners my hated, Witch! It is about who you’ll become.”

“WHY!” Fury erupted from me and I brought myself onto two feet, brandishing a finger at the dragon who just stared, smoke leaving his enlarged nostrils. When my original scream had lost its sound to the air around us, my voice softened. “I have heard stories about you. Dragons. How they vanished from sight in Uther’s pursuit of a magic-free kingdom. But I always thought you were better than the petty squabbles of humans, you seemed otherworldly, powerful and for the most part untouchable. And that’s all I ever wanted to be valued. So, how have I sinned you, great dragon? For a crime I haven’t yet committed, for a person I haven’t grown to become.”   

The last dragon looked at me, his eyes were warm when they caught Merlin’s face, but when they beheld me, coldness, hate and mistrust misted and consumed them from within. The dragon moved his neck to glare down at me, his mouth opening in an almost grunting fashion. 

“This sin you allude to, Morgana.” He spat out my name as if it were the bitterest poison. “Is the destruction of a Kingdom you now hold so dear, your fate is that of tragedy, loss and loneliness and it is no less than you deserve, for the fate of all Albion rests on the crowning of a king many would see fall, including yourself. Friend or foe, it does not matter. You hold the very destruction of magic itself in your veins and destiny can not be escaped.”

I stumbled back, dizziness hitting me like waves. Merlin yelled my name, but the words were only a whisper in the silent background as everything increased in noise. My vision flickered tears tumbling down my cheeks as one name remained on my lips.

Arthur…  

Chapter Text

“Arthur…” 

She remembered saying the name in the Great Dragon’s cave. Her dreams, passed by her in a blur, but all came true.

And the anguish of a waking nightmare stared back into her third eye.

Uther’s throne room.

The halls were overflowing with a sinister silence. Morgana muddled through the droves of spectators to the heart of the room, where a blonde woman stood on the dais, watching, waiting and smiling.

She could see a knight cloaked in the blackness of death and shadow. The sword raised spread in a wide arc, a metallic scent painting it. 

The people she could recognise flinched back and the candles roared to her attention, their shades swaying against the cold stone.

“No!” She heard herself yell into the chaos, thrusting herself into the heart of the danger, her hand outstretched as if the fickle sparks of her unpracticed magic would pour forth to save her. 

But no sound or spell left her trembling lips. The crowd parted, and Morgana walked through towards the middle. A pang of pained anguish leapt from her throat as the faces of Gwen, her maidservant; Geoffrey, the court genealogist; and even Uther appeared in her teary-eyed vision. Uther looked at the blonde woman with disdain, his crown lopsided as he was forced to his knees. His grey hair gripped in one of the knight's gloved hands as the woman circled the king, eyes shining gleefully.

Shadows danced and surveyed her as she watched Uther be dragged, submitting to the woman's will with a growl of fury, “You have no right to the throne!”

She felt herself shiver as her heart choked her from within, stifling her breath and protests as another figure circled the throne’s arms like a vulture perched before it. A feminine finger brushed against the wood, grinning with impunity.

“No she does not, but I do.” The voice was soft-spoken and the words dripped with the poison of vengeance.

A white gown and an even paler face rose to meet her.

And with that, Morgana’s horrified shrieks became shrouds of smoke to her ears.

Fear became a tangible swirling mist, as the voice of a great dragon entered her thoughts once more.

“You hold the destruction of magic in your veins.”

She was glaring at a shade. They held the same features and wore the same clothes, Everything down to the tilt of her head, a perfect match in likeness.

Hosting a weapon into her grip, Morgana moved to strike, sailing the sword towards the target of the chest in a killing blow. The woman side-stepped dancing from the blade's reach. 

Green met Green, gold met gold.

Morgana’s opponent met her once more. She had an outstretched blade, her a haunted hand.

Morgana sailed through the air, torn from the ground like she weighed less than a feather. The ground broke her fall, but a crack of earth and flesh soon followed. 

The figure whose face she could not see let loose a rueful and dangerous smile.

“Pity,” It breathed, corrupting the steel of her stolen sword with even more darkness. 

Pity, the dragon was right.

Morgana swallowed a pained gasp. The ghost crouched on its knees, seizing her injured arm from her dirty sleeves. 

“We always did like dress up!”

Masks. Dress up?

The mask of the lady, of Morgana le fey.

“No. No. No.” She shook her head. The truth was laid bare in front of her.

Her fault, her destiny.

Her face, her mask.

Merlin’s blue eyes briefly shined a bright gold, comforting her in the spring light. The chilled residue of the night — of her nightmare swirled around them both. Morgana’s skin glistened with a coat of liquid, a dry heave floating from her lips. 

Merlin’s smile was made of the purest sunlight as he handed her a goblet. The water cools her aching throat, though the fruity scent of wine is something she finds herself wishing for.

“You were screaming,” Merlin murmured as he graciously helped her rise from the nest of feathered pillows.

Morgana’s eyes widened. “Screaming?” She said, raising a careful eyebrow. “Gwen would have arrived had I been screaming as you say.” 

Merlin simply looked at her and then touched one finger to her forehead and the realisation dawned on her with the warmth of a sunny day. 

“I was screaming. Mentally?” Merlin nodded his head, swinging his legs so that he hoisted himself and Morgana to a kneeling position.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He asked so kindly that Morgana choked back a sob, both their faces imbued with the lights of dying embers.

He is daylight and dawn. 

He embraced her before the truth of her dreams could bubble over; before the silence sliced away the last of her courage.

And she at last broke down. The tears burned through his jacket like flames on cotton, her skin blistering as she continued to sob until her eyes were red-rimmed. She trembled and shivered but he warmed her with a touch of skin and words of magic and comfort from his lips.

A Lady and a servant, Morgana knew she should let him go, fleeing behind the barriers of his chambers, but she lacked the strength for it. She doesn’t even remember asking him to stay, but he smiled; a grin that burns away all tendrils of fear. 

“Of Course, my Lady,” he whispered. Her magic flowed to his own as the whites of her lace nightgown brushed against his fingers, and the silence drowned the cries of bloodied anguish within as she watched him nod in encouragement beckoning the words from her chapped lips. 

She found her voice caught, fleeting and fearful but eventually, she mutters the word, “ Forbain.”

A tiny flame fluttered in her palm, beating and swirling at the tip like a little heartbeat as it projected its glow into the dimly lit space. She extinguishes it, with a close of her hand as she mutters another chant. Merlin smiles down at her as he shifts to her side, placing a book between them.

They chanted, laughed and smiled into the night until the rising dawn. Magic wraps around them both as neither wishes to leave. 

She laid down next to him, their breath mingling as the room illuminated with thousands of lights shimmering with the intensity of stars. “You can stay for a moment, Merlin. The antechamber is open for you, should Arthur come looking.” She pulled him in closer, their body squeezing together, limbs touching and entangling despite the space in Morgana’s queen-sized bed.

“This isn’t right, My lady.” He lamented as he shifted from bed, his absence creating a cold delve in the mattress as she moved to join him.

 Morgana knows he’s right. Even catching them so close could mean Merlin’s life being snuffed out. But she tugs him back and he sways to meet her, reluctantly moving his head so his eyes are levelled with hers. 

“Merlin,” she said softly, her green eyes smiling at him in the dark as they flashed a shade darker gold than his. The fire bursts to life, and a roaring comforting warm nestles itself inside them.

“I won’t force you. You’re my friend,” she said with conviction as she grasped at his hand, the callous skin rubbing against her softer pale one as magic sang once more and the flames danced creating animals and flowers that fluttered towards her hands at her will. 

The flaming flowers fizzle out as Merlin moves to leave, Morgana giggling as one of her flame butterflies lands on his head, the tiny legs move as sparks fly off them before they hover down to land on Merlin's finger, the animal then flutters to the nearest flower.

The single red rose. Merlin had gifted her the plant the day she’d learned the truth. The red of its petals darkens and flushes with the power of Merlin’s magic, which preserves it. She can see it now, in the hundreds. The golden strands hum with satisfaction as they dazzle with light shimmering in the night like her own personal sun. They expand towards spreading outward like fingers as they coil around her waist and wrist with the softness of silk.

She is home in his magic. Safe.

It hugs her close like she has fallen asleep in his arms. 

Merlin remains, feet planted on her floor not giving an inch even though he should move in the other direction. But he does surge towards her, “You wouldn’t ever force me.” He whispers. His thumbs padded down the side bracing themselves against her blushing cheeks. “You’re far too kind for that.”

She swallowed deeply as his lips remained millimetres away and her skin ghosted over with goosebumps, his fingers traced their gentle patterns as if stretching every detail into memory.

But by the time she fathers the bravery to speak, he presses his lips to her forehead rendering her silent. “But, I do not wish to take such a precious thing from you, not in this condition, not ever.” He comments.

For a moment, just one, her heart sinks. “Merlin…” Her eyes rim with renewed tears at his kindness and honour. She was right.

He is a Lover. Her Lover.

A weight on Merlin’s heart lifts as he curdles the strength within to leave Morgana’s chambers. The air was cold, with both the breeze and his innate penance for selfishness.

He froze as the door to her chamber closed left with the pieces of truth he didn’t think he could handle.  

Morgana is his doom, and he likes it.  

His mind is swimming by the time he wanders back to Arthur’s chambers, the place; where he is supposed to be. Handfuls of washing, drag across the floor as he rushes to the chambers when a familiar shout permeates the walls. 

“MERLIN!”

When he enters, Arthur is tangled in a dress shirt, his arms floppy as he forces his head through the much too-small gap of the arm holes. The redshirt seems frayed as the little strings of cotton have also unravelled due to the Prince’s force. His pants are on, but they hang half around his ankles. 

Merlin laughs, and the chuckle in his voice echoes in the room, much to the prince’s distaste as he pins Merlin with a glare. Skin glistening with sweat as the fire stirs in the grate, Merlin reaches for the metal and pokes at the coals until the fire dies, dwindling to embers much too easy to blow out, the ashes and fragrance of smoke vacating the room soon after.

“You won’t last a day without me.” Merlin teases, dodging a flailing Arthur who moves to tackle him.

“Merlin!” He shouts again as if that would get his manservant to move any quicker when he’s wiping stray tears from his eyes.

“Calm down, sire.” Merlin moves to rescue the clumsy prince, pulling him free from the offending shirt. The prince looked at it as if burning the item was a possibility.

Merlin pulls the tub into Arthur’s room, filling it with water and with a subtle shine of his eyes the water bubbles to the perfect temperature. Grabbing a comb from Arthur’s grooming station, the Manservant sniggers quietly at the look of Arthur’s hair. Blonde strands stick up like frazzled pieces of string, sticking out at odd angles, but he tamed it like a wild animal, with a firm hand and a swift amount of patience. 

“Your such a buffoon, Merlin.” He said the smirk on his lips was both frustration and mischief as he climbed into the wooden basin. Merlin rolls his eyes, “I’m not the one who needs help dressing himself, sire. ”

“Idiot.”

“Cabbagehead.”

Arthur threw a pillow like a lance, and Merlin ducked away at the second, leaving the pillow to scatter the leagues of parchment on Arthur’s desk all over the floor. 

“Well, now Merlin, it appears you're more of a simpleton than I thought.” Arthur drawled, a finger on his chin as he sarcastically announced Merlin’s new task for the day, organising. 

Merlin sighed, resigning himself to the will of fate who seemed more inclined to be humorous with his approach to destiny and who was he to be ignorant to the call of the old religion. He glanced at Arthur’s messy wardrobe, the repugnant fragrance of Arthur’s socks casting a wide invisible layer of stink over his clean and polished floors. 

“You know, it would be helpful if you would at least attempt to place your socks in the hamper, sire. It would ease the burden of my job.” Merlin joked, talking more to himself than the prince who chatted with the knights about the King’s meeting. As the subtle flicker of his eyes had the socks levitating to his basket, Merlin heard Leon's voice through the door; a noble knight of Camelot shifted his feet, as he gravely uttered the words Merlin had been dreading all morning.

“The King summons you to his council, sire.” Arthur visibly deflated, knowing the harsh truth; this meeting could cancel all trips from the castle.

Arriving with Merlin’s hands bundled with parchment as the chatter and conversations of the court had the prince’s manservant weaving out of the way of other lords and ladies who had yet to offer assistance to his overflowing and tired muscles. 

“Pick up your steps a little Merlin, you look like you have too many drinks at the tavern.” Arthur scolded with a twisted cackle of amusement. The court joined the prince’s jibs at the servant, but even as Merlin shook his head smiling, Morgana’s grin caught his eye as she stopped short while snorting and giggling lightly into her goblet.

Uther raised a chain-mailed hand and the room fell into a steady silence. His face was a scrunched mess of fury, eyes promising vengeance to all threatening his command. “You may remember my ward’s tournament of honour, our noble city has stood strong against the evil blight of magic that plagues this land. Well, I fear that a sorcerer attempted to strike down my ward a few nights past and I cannot allow this sin to stand. Therefore I am left with one option, to close the city to any output until the assassin has been brought before me.”

Merlin’s skin drained of colour, the blood rushing from his head in an instant. He had to get both of them out, he and Morgana before her dreams had Uther screaming and calling enchantments.

The king tightened an unwavering grip on his sword and he rose from the throne with an eye that scanned all innocence for a trace of guilt as gasps of horror filled the room around him, there were ladies of the court, fainting at the mere mention of magic as the room entered into an uproar; Uther Pendragon made one final command, sparing a glance to his frightened ward who gripped the chair she was in so hard the wood cracked, and splinters spayed the floor beneath her.

A solemn and commanding stare appeared on the prince’s face, meeting the twin of his father’s. “I’ll dispatch knights immediately, we will root this sorcerer out.”

Morgana rolled her eyes, standing at the foot of the throne, her dress of dark green stirring at her waist as she ceased her foster brother’s attention. “What makes you so sure that this sorcerer even exists in Camelot, or even exists at all?” She stated, resting her hands on her hips as she circled her head up, her chin defiantly raised against the King, “What makes you so sure you’ll be arresting the right people either, Arthur, honestly, the fire could have been started by the weather for all we know.”

Merlin smirked inwardly. He knew the truth, as did Morgana, but the King would never see what lay beneath his ward's skin, the power she held within her. She alone started the fire as an unpracticed youngling at the art of magic. And he missed it, so blinded by his lies and prejudice that he forgot the truth: Magic was all around.

But regardless the King remained set in his ways, “I will not allow people of magic to live in my Kingdom, Arthur will arrest each of the suspects on our list, until one of them confesses.

Morgana launched herself at the King with a sharp cry of outrage, “So you’ll torment and rip them from their families. Uther Pendragon you are as heartless of a man as you are tyrannical.” She yelled, venom coating every vicious truth with lethal efficiency as she stormed from the room in a flurry of fabric, Gwen hurrying after her.

Uther snarled and raged as the door to the throne room slammed shut in the wake of his ward. People scattered, running and ducking for cover as if they were being hunted by death itself. Uther sprang from the throne room with such force that the cold stone around him almost turned to ice as people parted like the sea to let the furious king through.  

Within the next moment, the Prince fled the council meeting with a small army of knights.

Morgana paced the room, throwing her hands to the sky. Her breathing was an erratic mess as she wandered, sparks from her magic let loose on the walls of the glinting prison of her chambers. No doubt Uther was chasing her through the castle like a wild fox, he never did have any patience or tolerance for those who disagreed. 

“Merlin.” She tried to speak to him, mumbling the words mentally, searching and tugging on the connection between them, a thin rope, a spark — a cinder anything, but it was dulled, silent as the grave.

Weak.  

Useless.

And then, Hope finally answered her plea, “Morgana, I am on my way. Grab a few things, a cloak, horse. And hurry, we are going to save them, We are going to save them all.”

Morgana was a blur, entering the stables; the stable hand was sweeping not that he had very many jobs to do as Merlin did them the most. Singing softly, the boy never noticed the King’s ward slip past, the smell of hay and freshly cleaned bridles had her scanning the choice of tack before, opening the sturdy wooden stall that held her noble and loyal companion.

As white as stars, the mare sent Morgana a soft snort of recognition. She stoked the soft fur of the horse’s muzzle, leading her with a steady hand. They neared the exit just as the shining eyes met them. She could see the trails of power beneath, the silent muse of magic which danced and dazzled, the very earth, the leaves and foliage bowing to him — enchanted by him.  

“What did you do?”

The question was mischievous and accusing and the only answer she received from the manservant in front of her was a childlike smirk.

Morgana giggled. The knights parried and kept trying to hook the cool iron onto what they probably assumed was a sorcerer, but the smoke danced and weaved around them. The steel of their swords, however brutal the swing, was repelled and bouncing off even the misty arms of the spell innocently teased and played with the knights. 

Morgana’s eyes narrowed, a salty scolding smile reaching high on her cheeks, “Merlin!” She whispered-yelled, as yet another bell or clang of steel amounted to nothing much to the huff of a rather perspired knight. “You’re going to kill him.”

Merlin shrugged. A chuckle left his lips as he watched the knight battle with an invisible foe. “He’s not going to die. The spell only lasts long enough to take the attention of the real targets.”

As the words left him, the smoke evaporated without a trace. The knight shook his head, eyes drooping as the drowsiness caused him to lean back and comfortably fall back, blanketed with the cape of Camelot's sigil. 

“Let’s go. Before more arrive I brought the survivors time to leave.”

They made it into the woods, Morgana saddled on the back of her stead while Merlin walked ahead, clearing any natural obstructions with a flash of his eyes or a flinch of his muscles.

“Where are we going?” Morgana found herself asking, an unburdened smile lighting up her face. 

“To find help. I know little to nothing about seers, but the druids might.” He answered, leading the horse to a clearing of wildflowers and herbs which spread as far as Morgana could make out the hills and riverbanks stationed at Camelot’s back. 

An arched eyebrow was Morgana’s response, “Merlin, there’s a raid going on.” She clenched at the reigns, rubbing a hand in her horse’s mane. “What makes you think any druid camp would be stationed out here?”

Merlin turned to her, on anyone else the grin splitting his face could be seen as arrogant, but on such a kind face like Merlin’s, it breathed nothing but his purity. 

“I know people.  

Morgana laughed, wild and free. It appeared even to her; that there were things about Merlin she had not yet discovered. 

Her eyes roamed his back and then circled to return to the horizon before them. Plants hugged her knees, flowers bristling their petals against the cotton of her gown. The smell of nature slipping and diving through the air entered her nostrils as she inhaled deeply, the fragrance warming her like a beam of sunlight or a warm embrace. Her stead seemed content to graze gnawing on the plentiful nature around it. Merlin hooked a fist around a root and pulled, popping the herb free. 

Morgana dipped her head beside him to observe. “What are these for?” The King’s ward gestured a hand to the waiting plants and Merlin slyly smiled. “An excuse.” He simply replied while placing his hands on his knees and lifting himself to two feet, and a hand outstretched for Morgana as she hoisted herself upright.

The flowing ends of her luxury gown had the remains of mud and other dirt stitched into the fabric. She brushed her hand down the middle, smothering the creases as well as she could before wandering back to her horse, the animal pricking its head from the meal before it and snorted at her in greeting. She hooked a leg around the flank, nature receding from her in a petulant manner as she was raised above ground.    

They continued, eventually reaching the outskirts of Camelot. The wind hit their backs nudging them forward, black strands of hair floating and swirling above as the playful spirit of spring coiled around them. Morgana persuaded the horse to stop with a gentle coo. “Come on, Merlin.” She rolled her eyes as he turned his back, almost trudging on despite the uneven breathing and sinking knees that forced him to stop. “Just get on the horse,” she added, a worried frown creasing her face, “We are far enough from Camelot that you don’t have to worry about being seen, just hop on. Don’t make me order you.” Morgana commented, lightly and to her delight, Merlin’s back stilled. 

“Fine.” He relented, jumping on the horse as Morgana moved beside him. 

“Men,” Morgana thought. “ So stubborn.”  

Merlin’s face creased as he took to childishly sticking his tongue out. “You’re practically shouting in my head, my lady.” He groaned at Morgana’s teasing smile.

“Trouble.” He muttered softly into the air as Morgana shoved him, “Hush. Some of us would like to get to the camp sometime today.”

When they arrived, the camp was overrun with the pleasant smiles and gossip of men and women. Merlin entered first, lifting Morgana from the horse with a gentle grasp at nothing lower than her waist when her feet touched firm ground.

The sound of innocent laughter entered the air as children chased each other around the camp, hiding beneath the tarps of tents and running at each other with shoddy wooden practice swords.

Adults laughed, eyes flushing gold with magic. The flames crackled in the small campfire. Bedrolls made of fabric are positioned at every corner. The smell of smoke was mild, not at all-consuming as it coiled and rose disappearing into a landscape of blue sky.

Happiness.

The head druid spotted them and wandered over medallions of crystal swaying with every step he took, his light blue robes flushed with swirls and symbols of his culture. 

Gracefully bowed before them, he tore his hood from his face. Morgana took note scanning the straightness of his spine for a sign of status. The man held himself with the grace of a neighbouring lord, eyes bright with wonder and awe when his gaze landed firmly on Merlin. A sheepish smile and flushed red face had Morgana raising a questioning brow.

“Lord Emrys. It is a pleasure truly!” 

Merlin smiled, “please call me Merlin, no need for the formalities, my friend.”

 He took a gracious step back placing the halo of godhood from himself to Morgana whose eyes littered with the forgotten wonder of innocence as she glanced from the camp to Merlin’s face, a cheeky smile spread wide on her lips.  

“Lord? Merlin, you’ve been holding back on me.” 

The older druid met Morgana’s eyes with a kind smile. “The Lady Morgana, Camelot’s heart. The fates do not speak of you with kindness, my Lady. But rest assured, I believe there is hope yet. Now what can I do for you?”

He beckoned them to the collection of bed rolls, the flames, danced and swayed in the cunning wind as it sheltered them from the mild chill, lighting their faces up with a faint orange glow.

“Sir, you never gave us your name, it is impolite to ask for favours without first knowing someone, please speak,” Morgana said. 

The druid chuckled holding a hand to his heart, almost to the point of stunted silence. “I suppose that is only fair. You honour me, my lady. Not many born within the walls of Camelot possess your kindness. If it pleases you and Emrys you may call me Aglain.”

“Very well Aglain, what do you know about visions?” Morgana gently prodded. 

“You're a seer then, my Lady. I assume Emrys had taught you some things about your gifts.” 

She nodded, then remarked grimly, “Most of all our information was lost during the purge. ”

Gritted teeth seemed to be the Warlock’s only response, nature whipping around them in a fierce frenzy. Aglain sent the younger man a sullen look.  

“Yes, I suppose you would. Unfortunately, Uther left himself blinded to the beauty of such things.” There, in Aglain’s eyes the sandy remains of pity and sadness for the man who put his culture and people to the sword. Heartbroken at the stone-cold eyes of a man so hopeful, Morgana cursed Uther in every language she had been taught. Aglain sighed almost catching the young witch’s pained words as they reflected towards her from the awoken blaze.

“My child,” he pleaded. “Do not lose yourself to despair for me. There is hope in those who look for it. Those lost to the dark shall be buried in its depths.” He raised his head and the crackle of embers became molten whispers. The fabric of his cloak shimmered when he raised his arm, magic spilling from his lips like a mournful melody. A scroll levitated into his waiting grip, hands positioned on either side, it was then when Merlin surveyed him — Aglain; the ache in his heart, the trembling limbs and the pained pang in Emrys’ heart as the old religion cried out around him. 

Burns, blistered welts of old flesh, shone pink in the rageful heat of the sun; stretching from his elbow, the scars shined with heavy memories.

“You're injured!” Morgana cried, reaching to grab the wounded hand with a tender grip.

A sympathetic smile crossed his features, “An old wound, I’m afraid.” He looked into the fire, then to the druids surrounding him as they busied themselves with cooking, sowing and other domestic pursuits.

“This old scar serves as a reminder, a brand on the soul. I have tasted the fury of Camelot, ate the smoke of their prye and suffered at the hands of their steel.” He sat back, a fake smile peeling from his lips at the memory. Morgana’s lips parted with unshed tears. “Grief clouds the judgement, my lady. Even, Uther, evil as you believe him to be, many have had their lives cut down by magic. The fibres of life themselves don’t toil in mortal affairs, there is always a price for changing the threads of a being. I survived that day by the will of the goddess. And I will not tarnish her name by losing myself to the crimson shadows.”A light smile and an even purer heart had Merlin and Morgana pushed to the brink of tears as the air grew stale and taunt with tension. A heartbeat later Morgana’s heart churned, jumping against her ribcage as she recognised the flames, the feelings inside. Vengeance.

“I hope one day, you’ll reap the justice you deserve, Aglain.” Morgana confessed as she took the scroll. A storm of indecision roared inside with the scent of smoked death.

Merlin nodded at that, “One day.” He vowed, thoughts of Arthur steering his mind to the pursuit of Albion.

Aglain grinned freely, talking of the shades of mourning wiped away. “All I ask is that you use these techniques in the goddess’s good name.” He pushed himself to his feet, “You truly are the heroes of Albion. May the knowledge prepare you well.”

“Please stay for our feast.” 

“Of course,” Merlin and Morgana replied with the nectar of addled melancholy. 

Morgana and Merlin observed the curious glances of children as they stared at the two strangers taking little hesitant steps towards them. Morgana smiled first, a laugh breaching her lips as she watched them frolic in the dirt. Merlin soon joined her, eyes lighting with a familiar golden hue as swarms of blue butterflies escaped his clasped hands; their little membrane bodies curved and dived around the hopeful younglings as they gave chase.

Morgana rose from her seat on the bedroll, joining the children in a playful game. Her hands spun threads of pure gold and silver magic as she twirled three times, her toes pointed as she pulled Merlin into a well-oiled waltz. The warlock clumsily followed, spreading his feet and trying to mimic her elegant movements. 

Then in a blur of motion, the world caved in on itself as a child’s voice entered Merlin’s head shouting Emrys. The title of the mouth of an innocent child had Merlin almost fainting with guilt as he stared gazing into the void of blue eyes so like his own.

Mordred.

Chapter Text

Mordred…

At the sight of the young boy, Morgana leapt forward, hair hiding any resemblance of the tears that bubbled below her lashes as she flung herself at the young sorcerer. Everyone looked at the boy. Each druid member smiled and shrugged, even the stiff upper lip of Aglain’s mouth twitched as he walked towards them, his hand outstretched as he ruffled the boy's auburn hair.

Merlin side-stepped them all, fiddling with the hem of his bronze coat as the once roaring campfire flickered and sizzled. Merlin could relight it, with a gentle wave across the kindling flames would once again greet the camp, but he shuffled to his temporary bedroll even as the begging song of nature attempted to soothe him.

Cold and huddled in his thin tunic, even as the fire continued to spit embers. He sat on the edge close to the empty tents; trailing streams of air, nipped and dragged their way to the centre of his shuddering back and shoulders. The remains of Kilgharriah’s speech parroting back to him with every convulsion of his icy limbs.

“The prophecies speak of an alliance, between young Mordred and the Witch Morgana.”  

He supposed that’s what it is to be a hero, unseen and undervalued, a legend he has yet to father, yet at this moment, he finds himself glaring, eyes pinning themselves on an innocent. Morgana frowned, smuggling the boy deeper into the luxury fabric of her red cloak, he ducked from her glare even as her lips puffed out in displeasure.

Still, she coaxed him. Much like a baby animal, he rose to his feet. His hands undecidedly switched from reaching and snapping back to his sides. She nodded slowly at him, her lips prickling up in a grin, “Come on, Merlin. He’s not going to strike you.”

She lowered to Mordred’s height, pulling his cloak back over his bony shoulders as she carefully probed, “You remember Merlin, don’t you Mordred?” She cheerfully smiled at the question as the boy’s response came not from his lips, but from the feathery telepathy they shared.

He says again, in the same cheerful mental voice that originally caught Merlin’s attention, “Hello again, Emrys.” Merlin’s fingers twitched and a roaring whistle of wind shot between them. Magic breathed and danced as fickle and sometimes incontrollable as flame, and Merlin had many thoughts; the boldest was simple, become a villain but be the savior.

But he gazed almost savouring the innocence that the boy in front of him portrayed — such light! It filled and thawed him and destiny for whatever lay ahead might have cracked in front of him as he smiled and said aloud.

“Hello, Mordred.” Snapping his fingers, the wind jolted up again and hugged and playfully tussled the young warlock’s hair as the fire brightened like burning stars and the air was a circus of applause from the now spectating druids. 

“Please call me Merlin.” 

Morgana giggled, green eyes full of fondness as she stepped closer to Merlin so they were shoulder to shoulder. Curiously, the lady of Camalot leaned in closer to the world’s greatest warlock, so close that Morgana’s fragrance, the natural scent of the woods of oak and the perfumed flowers all pleasantly assaulted Merlin’s nose.

An intertwined finger, a brush of hands. A caress of the cheek. 

And a kiss, met the side of Merlin’s face as destiny cleaved itself in two.

“I’m proud of you.” Morgana softly said as the warlock met the eyes of many awestruck children.

His voice was a subtle quivering whisper as she rubbed his shoulder, “I didn’t do it for you, My lady.” He answered.

And she replied with a twinning watery smile, teeth shining as her eyes glossed over with deepening pride.

“I know.”   

Well, not only for you.

Chapter Text

Morgana knew then as she hugged him. The tension lifted from his shoulders, and a smaller dotted smile popped on his face. 

She’d cracked it—him and them. The burden of life as a guardian, the strength of it, hung there on his neck like the hangman’s noose. And he slumped into her, like a jester with his strings cut, a puppet never to disobey, never to venture out into the warmth of freedom past the coldness of his vow. 

It was, and is, destiny. Pulling and cracking the strings like the end of a vicious whipping. 

She thought she’d glanced past his eyes; the walls he erected, Morgana had seen him, looked at him. The sorcerer and the man underneath those golden pools now glowed frosted blue. Only now did she realise the truth. 

Merlin was a prisoner. Not held like her. She, a bird in a glinting cage; her feathers were cut and stripped for pleasure. Iron may have christened the bars, but fear—it melded them tight. 

It moulded them both.

“I didn’t do it for you.” His face flushed like blossoms in spring. His hand grazed it, touched it. Gentleness aside, she almost kissed the rosy spot again if only to feel its warmth, the hope that vibrated through him—through them as their hands mingled. 

“Merlin.” No thought, nothing but the pillar of warmth, and a waiting shadow hovered near in her mind. 

The truth was simple. He did it all for him, for Arthur, not only for her, but for the golden prince of House Pendragon. 

Merlin had always believed—lived to serve. Even if it was to make merry with those who would see him scorched. 

“And scorched they would be.” Her lips turned blue as she huddled close, wandering through her senseless almost sleepy murmurs; she’d glanced at Merlin, scanning his scarcely distant face for a touch of hope. She knelt, gazing at Mordred,  the boy, a child with flushed cheeks and sparkles of enthusiasm. 

She held it, then, fisted that frail feeling which quivered like a swarm. Morgana entrapped it in her heartbeat; It thundered, like horses. 

The same that she could feel beneath her feet, vibrating and uprooting the earth: Hooves. A barrage of hooves, thrusting their socks against the squelching dirt. With them came branded smoke, smoke which poisoned her body. She froze. 

Fire. There will be fires.

Sweat cracked from her pores. Shudders dismembered her spine, and the cold, that icy blizzard that consumed her skin, now burned with lethal frostbite.

She sucked in a breath, her chapped lips scraping against her very visceral breathing. It was spring: It should have been. Birds, creatures of new life, scurried around her. Yet, her the child of the noble house of Gorlois was plagued. 

Despair. Sweet and sugary, scented the air, repulsing her nose, as she swayed, tasting bitter berries and fruits on her tongue as if drunk, her mind misted with possibilities. 

The world dissolved into fog, kitted into ripples that threaded themselves behind her eyes. Strings that she’d pluck, tweak and twist like a skilled seamstress. Morgana would thread the needle, stitch her futures, her control. Like water, she would flow and weave spilling her wants into destiny like the river, singing invitations beside her. People, she would enchant. Not with magic but with words; they would flock, lapping up her words like precious liquid.

Many futures. She’d wish for them all.

Dazzled by it, her eyes and ears were consumed by a concert of euphoric bliss. 

Power. She tasted it, independence and influence. 

And then it turns to ashes her mouth. 

Her little gift, a curse.

She’d drown. They all would, crushed by it. A tidal wave.

Small at first, she walked. Sprinted, along a sunlit river. Watching the way the water moves through her fingers; the way it glistens, gifting its droplets to her as if something so moveable was as valuable as diamonds. 

Then, there it was. The surge. Her precious diamonds gave way to crumbs of sand and rushing water, grew warm and thick as she dunked her head. Under the surface, her web of magic, her threads of inspiration grew muffled. 

Blind and blessed in equal measure, her teeth cracked against grit. Against the darkness, she gulped it all down. Tasting not just the minerals, nor her heavenly fill, but the clumping, choking mass of copper and smoke. 

Morgana’s head breached the surface. Her lungs squeezed inside her chest as she swallowed. Air, cluttered and terrible. Her neck strained, craned to its full height as she called for Merlin, her skin grew red, spilling on her pallor like rubies. 

“Merlin,” she said, almost knocked off her feet and to the dirt. “Merlin.” She pulled at his sleeve, watched—and observed, that his head, had not yielded to her calls. His eyes ghosting over with the sheen of a frozen pond.

Her fingers flexed, brushing his brown coat with a desperate hand. Between her rings and jewels of status, stains of rust coated the rims, printed then, on the edge of Merlin’s jacket. 

A gasp of air, mixed with the guttering sound of vomiting as she dry heaved sinking to her knees.

Realisation it seemed, had lifted the miasma from her prophecy-addled mind. 

Morgana tussled her hair. The raven strands grew tangled, twirling into a matted mass. As thin as silk, her clarity grew, transforming from a peephole within her mind to a landscape of red paint. 

The paint covered her now. 

Wasn't smeared paint at all—it was blood. 

She hitched her breath, heart hammering, as the grass, trees and nature itself were pulled, muted and sudden. She clutched at the ground willing it to not leave her, to not forsake her in panic.

But it did. And alone she became.

Her fluttering vision swirled. Light almost slowed, slipping nature into a crawling pace. Flowers, floated their perfumed nectar, bees buzzing at a hover. And the sun cast itself across the curtain of dampened greenery. Feasting, shadows coiled. Their figures—reflections hissed from beneath the blackened shield of a grand oak, swallowing both Merlin and Mordred’s bodies within.

Both blue sets of eyes doubled. Quivering Morgana swallowed her shriek. Her stomach soured with nausea, curdled with a dangerous mix of dread.

Mordred’s hopeful light was snuffed, his torso stretched limply like lines of ink on page. The muscles of the young boy, swayed in the wind like rope. Then hardened, amid the luminous sun.

His eyes.

Those that oozed innocence had grown grotesquely thin, and sharpened until they resembled not eyes at all, but cold finality. Morgana licked the salt from her lips.

And she knew she’d die. Foiled by grief and heartbreak. 

Merlin stared, eyes empty holes of both love and longing. His fingers composed with the force of liquid night sparking with sweltering flames.

For a foolish moment, she felt her heart leap. “Merlin,” she screamed, “get them out, get them all out, please!” Everyone around her was frozen. The survivors at least…

The unlucky were bathed in crimson. Eyes wide, mouth agape with unsaid spells against an unseen enemy. 

Morgana procured the truth. Swords, bred and broken in for battle, and a single cape, soaked with dirt and injustice, shaming the golden dragon, peering at her.

Pendragon. House of valour and honour. 

She’d stumbled. Pleading on her knees, skirts muddy and torn. Merlin’s frame, his ghost looked at her once, sunken with sympathy as she was hurled to her feet, bound in her legs and hands. His ears, deaf to her words as he spoke a final acknowledgement. 

“I blame myself, for what you’ve become.”

A fireball seared her already broken skin; heartbroken, she burned. Embracing the pyre, the symbol, the law until… her teardrops were eaten by flames.

And she awoke. Screaming. 

Chapter Text

Catapulting awake, Merlin seized Morgana by the shoulders. Her cheeks flushed in what would have been an adorable sight, snubbed by sleep. Hands had tangled in the bedroll, at first intending on gently shaking the king’s ward until she roused. Merlin gently shook her against her shoulders, gripping her arms again, watching his fingers slip further from purchase towards the damped fabric at the base.

“Morgana.” Sweetly, he breathed in time with hers, his palms acting as the thread and balm to her racing heart. 

“Morgana, you’re safe.” He promised.

Jolting, tossing and grasping at air, hands fisted. Morgana clenched the sheets; Screams glutted the air, tearing through the tent’s flimy fittings and saturating the forest outside. And then eyes clicked, snapping open; sleep forgotten instantly as Merlin covered Morgana’s trembling hand with his.

Crumpling into Merlin’s lap, Morgana’s screaming ceased.

They’d silenced the battle, but hadn’t beaten the war.  

“Merlin.” Lashes fluttered against her salt-stained skin, continuing to rasp as her hair dripped with sweat, curling the strands at her forehead. “They’re coming.”

“Who?” 

“Beasts. The beasts. Merlin. Poison at their back and hooves their herald. They’re coming, they are coming for us all!”  

Merlin paused, eyebrows furrowed deep. Beasts? The knights weren’t… No. Poison?  

Merlin’s eyes glowed once, and magic unfurled itself at once, surrounding them with light as bright as the heavens. Morgana clenched and unclenched her fingers, eyes clamped tight, whispers of heat, leaping from her tongue-tied mouth.

“The fires! Merlin!” She thrashed, arms flailing as she shot up from Merlin’s lap, eyes bleating with panic, “Smoke. It carries whispers, Merlin. Even magical means will fall into the shadows that bleed in its vicinity: Our vincity, Merlin.”

A frazzled Merlin sat up. Morgana continued to mutter strange garbles, riddles and rhymes that had him thinking of a certain gold beast chained under the walls of Camalot.

“Golden beast,” Merlin pondered, twitching, eyes passing back and forth from the door to their tent, as if the Great Dragon would break free from his chains to roast Morgana in her bed.  

“It will all be ok, Morgana.” His arms found her back, coaxing her back into bed as her body shook, trembling with the force of her visions.

Open eyes glanced not at him, at the fabric of his jacket and the red of his familiar neckerchief. But through him, like he was the air around them, the oxygen they breathed.

Gold again spread through Merlin’s eyes, shoulders still tense, yet even as he bunkered, his eyes never left Morgana; peppered with goosebumps, no matter how much warmth Merlin projected, willed past the drapes of the tent. He sighed again. Sweat slickened his own skin, shrugging off his overcoat to reveal the woollen shirt beneath.

Magic, even his had limits.

Sleep would claim him, if at all.

Mocking morning sunbeams chased away the clouds that threatened the Forest of Ascetir. Smoke from the campfire rose, clambering up to the tree hedges — the beginning of a new day. 

And Merlin braved the morning, first exiting the tent and strolling over to greet Aglain and Mordred. For today, he swept his fingers through the child’s hair before busying himself with his and Morgana’s departure.

Horse loaded and farewells said, Merlin hurried Morgana to her saddle. Morgana startled, crossing her arms. “Merlin!” She yelled, almost falling from the horse, before her fingers gripped the straps of the bridle and her legs fumbled for footing on the stirrups.

“What’s the rush?” She cried, her legs flapping in the saddle, as he took a seat in front of her; the horse bolted instantly, the wind flying through their hair, whistling in their ears. Morgana’s head was thrown mercilessly into Merlin’s back as the horse took a sharp left. 

Merlin’s eyes darted to the shadows under the trees and the shrubs, beneath it.

“Two reasons: One, them.” 

Morgana’s head snapped back as she observed over her shoulder. Her head raised to the sky at once, as the rubble of thunder shot past her ears with a snap.

Not thunder, hooves.

Next, the horse swiftly reared up and cantered faster. She recognised it for what it was as the realisation dawned upon her with ringing steel.

Knights, possibly Uther’s.

“If we leave them, they’ll be slaughtered!” Morgana protested, her fists flying at his back as his eyes narrowed at the field ahead.

Merlin’s eyes snap to hers, fist clenched as his face sinks and his knuckles whiten, “If we turn back… They. Will. Be.” Heavy breathing punctuates each word with precision.

“And they’re our people,” Morgana argued.

Merlin huffs, his fingers tightening around the reins as he bids them to return in the direction they came — to the druids.

To magic itself.