Twenty-Eight [Arthur/Morgana fic]
A rather melancholy post-S2 Merlin fic - I swear the next one will be happy!
------------
Title: Twenty-Eight
Summary: ARMOR one-shot: Arthur reflects on the loss of Morgana, and what might have been.
Rating: K+
Spoilers: Through S2
Words: > 1700
Disclaimer: Characters borrowed, not for profit. Song lyrics in beginning are from Lady Antebellum's "Need You Now."
Twenty-eight
“Can’t stop looking at the door,
Wishing you’d come sweeping in the way you did before;
And I wonder if I ever cross your mind,
For me it happens all the time…”
~~
Arthur was drunk.
It was 11 o’ clock at night, on the twenty-seventh day since Morgana had gone. He didn’t need to write it down, there was no need to keep score marks on the wall, for Arthur knew how long it had been. Her absence was leaving an indelible scar on his very soul.
He had been at the wine for the past three hours, savoring its sweetness and warmth, craving more with each sip he took. While it didn’t - and never could - fill the emptiness inside of him, it numbed the pain like nothing else. So he gulped and gulped, not even counting the number of full goblets he had consumed. It was irresponsible, he knew, to load up on so much alcohol the night before a big training session with his knights. In the morning he would pay for this selfish indulgence, but tonight he just wanted to wallow in a great pool of heart ache.
The door to his chambers was open slightly, it being so late at night that no one was traversing the halls anyway. His rooms were dimly lit by just two taper candles. He liked it dark and somber, his surroundings mirroring the way he felt inside. He had dismissed all of his servants, and even allowed Merlin (who had eyed him suspiciously) to leave early. It was good to be alone, sitting in front of the fire with no company but the bottles of wine. Here he was Arthur, just Arthur; not Arthur Pendragon, honorable, brave prince of Camelot. Day after day since Morgana had left, he had to hold his emotions inside, never wavering from the stoic figure he was supposed to be. Inside he was crumbling without the one person he had been so close to.
He rubbed his forehead, wincing at the throbbing pain that was already starting up. Soon it would get worse - it would hurt like hell, but not as sharp as the misery of grief. Never before had he experienced this sort of pain - feeling hollow and gutted, like the stag he had just taken down in the hunt yesterday. He should be happy - he, the future King of Camelot, had the whole world at his fingertips. The most beautiful women in the kingdom and beyond would be at his disposal if he so wished. But it mattered not, as there was no glory without Morgana. For he would rather be a beggar in the streets, with her by his side, than be a King without her next to him.
Realizing he had emptied the last bottle of wine, with not a drip remaining, he angrily threw it to the floor. The glass shattered into hundreds of pieces as Arthur growled in frustration. Someone else could clean it up, but he wanted more wine, and was too lazy (or too drunk) to go down to the kitchens. Sighing, he buried his head in his hands.
He missed Morgana so much already. He missed seeing her at dinner - her dainty mannerisms with a fork and napkin disguising the fire she held within her heart. Sometimes their eyes would meet, and they held the glance until one of them looked away. It was a staring contest, just as so many things between them ended up a contest. Whenever they made eye contact, it was a little jarring, leaving Arthur feeling exposed and vulnerable. Now it was just he and his father at meals, making small talk if any at all, avoiding the topic that was on both of their minds but too painful to bring up. For he knew his father was also hurting at the loss of Morgana. A vibrant light had vanished from the court.
He missed their casual evening conversations, when she would come bustling through the door of his chambers without even knocking, because she knew he didn’t expect her to. He could be himself around her, there was no one else in the world he felt that sense of comfort and camaraderie with. She could read him, which was both unnerving and comforting in the same way. They talked about every possible topic, from serious matters to courtly gossip. Even though he sometimes pretended to be annoyed by the sight of her, he had always looked forward to (and now greatly missed) their chats.
Stretching out his sore legs, allowing the liquid to course through his veins and warm him, Arthur closed his eyes. Whenever he did that, he saw her. He knew he wanted her to come back to Camelot, but then what? What exactly did he want? Even Arthur didn’t know. Maybe it was the thought of what might have been that made him so sad. For years he had loved her, deeply, and suspected she felt the same. He regretted not telling her so. The fact of the matter was, too much had already happened, severing many of the ties (but not all) that once held them together. Morgana couldn’t be his bride, his Queen, or even his lover. Gwen, she was kind and nurturing and the kingdom would be happy to see her as Queen. Marrying her would be a sacrifice that no one else could ever appreciate. Morgana would always own his true heart, so why did it matter who he took as a wife?
He even had dreams about Morgana. “I’ll be back again,” she would whisper in his ear, this disappear into a cloud of smoke. Arthur would sit straight up in bed, certain he had truly felt her hot breath against his ear. It was almost as though she possessed magic, and was haunting him. But only the dead could haunt, and Morgana was still alive. Wasn’t she? He hated not knowing how she was, if she was safe, or in peril. But with the bond they had shared for so many years, surely he would know if she was no longer alive. And something burned inside of him, telling him she was still out there, somewhere. That same something innate told him he would see her again someday. Whether that meeting would be good or bad, he couldn’t say. He supposed the longing for her, the throbbing in his heart would probably never, ever subside. Was it the price he had to pay for enjoying so many years in her company?
He wondered if she thought of him at all. If she could see him now, drunk and half dressed and moping, she would probably shout at him. “Stop pitying yourself. You’re a prince, Arthur, now act like it!”, she would say. Morgana wouldn’t want him to feel so sad, she would instead push him to channel the pain as energy, to keep moving forward. And he wanted to make her proud, even if she couldn’t be there to see him shine. For Morgana, he would keep climbing, carrying her in his heart like a favor, and never, ever forget her.
Arthur sighed, settling back into his chair and finally considering going to bed. He needed to get in there before the headache grew worse, and the nausea came on. If he could just hobble over to his bed, he would probably pass out in seconds. It was very late - the fire was slowly dying, and Camelot was completely still.
He held the goblet to his lips one last time, managing to extract a tiny droplet into his mouth. Then he heard it - the rustling of a gown, footsteps approaching. His heart beating fast, he set down his goblet and fixed his eyes on the hallway. Someone was coming! A figure slipped past his doorway - he saw the long, dark hair cascading down the back, a gown of royal blue swishing to and fro.
“Morgana!” The name was so foreign on his tongue, after only a few weeks. He used to say her name multiple times a day, now it felt strange for those syllables to slip from his mouth.
But the figure did not stop, and only moved faster. He could still hear her footsteps and the sweeping gown.
“Stop this instant!” His voice slurred, he leapt up from his chair and stumbled to the open door. Glancing into the hallway, he could see the shadow of the woman disappearing.
Moving as fast as his wobbly legs would allow, he chased her. Not even stopping to grab a torch to light his way, he ran down the black hallway, following the distant sounds of her footsteps.
It was highly inappropriate for Camelot’s treasured Prince to be running through the castle at night, dressed in only breeches and a loose, unbuttoned undershirt. But whatever possessed him - be it wine-infused heartbreak or pure madness - did not care about that. All that mattered was catching Morgana. He felt certain it was her. Had she come back for good? Was she just coming by to collect some things? He would stop her. Yes, he would catch her, take her into his arms, and beg her to stay, to become his queen someday, to promise him she would never, ever leave his side again. No matter how impossible or insane these things might be, he would find a way to make it all happen.
Finally he reached the balcony, and saw that she had gone down the steps and out into the courtyard. Arthur took the steps two at a time as he descended, grateful for the torches mounted on the wall which were probably the only thing keeping him from breaking his neck.
He raced outside, the frigid night air striking him like a sharp blade. As he ran down the main staircase, a memory came to him that was so vivid: Morgana, racing down these same stairs, trying to stop him from going after the questing beast. He hadn’t listened, thinking her just hysterical and imaginative. Now the roles were reversed. He had no shame, his only goal was to stop her. “Wait!” he called hoarsely. “I command you to STOP!”
She had slowed her pace, perhaps from fatigue, perhaps from the shock of the cold, or perhaps she just didn’t care if she was caught. If it was Morgana, he knew that she certainly wouldn’t stop just because he commanded her to. Arthur used this opportunity to move doubly fast, and soon he was only feet behind her.
The silken hair, the rippling dress, the ivory, petal-soft skin - he could almost touch her. Then he did. Reaching out, he grasped her shoulder with more force than he meant, and again said her name. “Morgana!”
Wrenching from his grasp with a cry, the woman whirled around, and Arthur’s heart sank. It was not Morgana.
It was just a courtier, a woman old enough to be his own mother. He has seen her around court for festivities and banquets for many years, only she usually wore her hair up tightly in a bun. Perhaps it was that, coupled with his foggy brain and desperation, that caused the confusion.
“My Lord?” She seemed rightly horrified by the sight of an inebriated, rumpled prince running after her. She rubbed her shoulder where he had probably left a red mark from his hand.
“I’m sorry, My Lady,” he gasped, humiliated by his mistake. Damn the alcohol, damn his over-active imagination. “I thought you were… I thought you were someone else.”
“Obviously,” she snorted. The offended woman turned and stalked off brusquely, leaving Arthur behind in the courtyard. He wondered if she would tell anyone, or if he should stop her again and make her swear to keep the encounter a secret. But he wasn’t sure he cared enough.
The cold air penetrated his thin nightshirt, and he shivered. He was alone once again. Looking above, he saw a clear sky filled with countless stars. It was beautiful and melancholy at the same time. Even though he was freezing, Arthur stood transfixed. He jumped when the courtyard clock chimed. What time was it? He counted along. One... two... He was acutely aware of how exhausted he was. Six... seven...
The prince of Camelot continued to stand, by himself, in barely any clothing, outside at night in the courtyard, looking at the stars above. Was Morgana awake, wherever she was? She could be a mile away or a thousand miles away, and it didn’t make him feel any closer to her. It was still too far apart.
Nine... Ten...
Where these same stars shining down on her, the moon lighting her face as she slept? The image made his throat swell with emotion. He wondered if she still had nightmares since she left. Was anyone there to soothe her fears? If only he had been there for her, before it was too late.
Twelve... The clock was striking midnight, and Arthur felt a single tear roll down his cheek.
Another day without her had begun.
fin.
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Title: Twenty-Eight
Summary: ARMOR one-shot: Arthur reflects on the loss of Morgana, and what might have been.
Rating: K+
Spoilers: Through S2
Words: > 1700
Disclaimer: Characters borrowed, not for profit. Song lyrics in beginning are from Lady Antebellum's "Need You Now."
Twenty-eight
“Can’t stop looking at the door,
Wishing you’d come sweeping in the way you did before;
And I wonder if I ever cross your mind,
For me it happens all the time…”
~~
Arthur was drunk.
It was 11 o’ clock at night, on the twenty-seventh day since Morgana had gone. He didn’t need to write it down, there was no need to keep score marks on the wall, for Arthur knew how long it had been. Her absence was leaving an indelible scar on his very soul.
He had been at the wine for the past three hours, savoring its sweetness and warmth, craving more with each sip he took. While it didn’t - and never could - fill the emptiness inside of him, it numbed the pain like nothing else. So he gulped and gulped, not even counting the number of full goblets he had consumed. It was irresponsible, he knew, to load up on so much alcohol the night before a big training session with his knights. In the morning he would pay for this selfish indulgence, but tonight he just wanted to wallow in a great pool of heart ache.
The door to his chambers was open slightly, it being so late at night that no one was traversing the halls anyway. His rooms were dimly lit by just two taper candles. He liked it dark and somber, his surroundings mirroring the way he felt inside. He had dismissed all of his servants, and even allowed Merlin (who had eyed him suspiciously) to leave early. It was good to be alone, sitting in front of the fire with no company but the bottles of wine. Here he was Arthur, just Arthur; not Arthur Pendragon, honorable, brave prince of Camelot. Day after day since Morgana had left, he had to hold his emotions inside, never wavering from the stoic figure he was supposed to be. Inside he was crumbling without the one person he had been so close to.
He rubbed his forehead, wincing at the throbbing pain that was already starting up. Soon it would get worse - it would hurt like hell, but not as sharp as the misery of grief. Never before had he experienced this sort of pain - feeling hollow and gutted, like the stag he had just taken down in the hunt yesterday. He should be happy - he, the future King of Camelot, had the whole world at his fingertips. The most beautiful women in the kingdom and beyond would be at his disposal if he so wished. But it mattered not, as there was no glory without Morgana. For he would rather be a beggar in the streets, with her by his side, than be a King without her next to him.
Realizing he had emptied the last bottle of wine, with not a drip remaining, he angrily threw it to the floor. The glass shattered into hundreds of pieces as Arthur growled in frustration. Someone else could clean it up, but he wanted more wine, and was too lazy (or too drunk) to go down to the kitchens. Sighing, he buried his head in his hands.
He missed Morgana so much already. He missed seeing her at dinner - her dainty mannerisms with a fork and napkin disguising the fire she held within her heart. Sometimes their eyes would meet, and they held the glance until one of them looked away. It was a staring contest, just as so many things between them ended up a contest. Whenever they made eye contact, it was a little jarring, leaving Arthur feeling exposed and vulnerable. Now it was just he and his father at meals, making small talk if any at all, avoiding the topic that was on both of their minds but too painful to bring up. For he knew his father was also hurting at the loss of Morgana. A vibrant light had vanished from the court.
He missed their casual evening conversations, when she would come bustling through the door of his chambers without even knocking, because she knew he didn’t expect her to. He could be himself around her, there was no one else in the world he felt that sense of comfort and camaraderie with. She could read him, which was both unnerving and comforting in the same way. They talked about every possible topic, from serious matters to courtly gossip. Even though he sometimes pretended to be annoyed by the sight of her, he had always looked forward to (and now greatly missed) their chats.
Stretching out his sore legs, allowing the liquid to course through his veins and warm him, Arthur closed his eyes. Whenever he did that, he saw her. He knew he wanted her to come back to Camelot, but then what? What exactly did he want? Even Arthur didn’t know. Maybe it was the thought of what might have been that made him so sad. For years he had loved her, deeply, and suspected she felt the same. He regretted not telling her so. The fact of the matter was, too much had already happened, severing many of the ties (but not all) that once held them together. Morgana couldn’t be his bride, his Queen, or even his lover. Gwen, she was kind and nurturing and the kingdom would be happy to see her as Queen. Marrying her would be a sacrifice that no one else could ever appreciate. Morgana would always own his true heart, so why did it matter who he took as a wife?
He even had dreams about Morgana. “I’ll be back again,” she would whisper in his ear, this disappear into a cloud of smoke. Arthur would sit straight up in bed, certain he had truly felt her hot breath against his ear. It was almost as though she possessed magic, and was haunting him. But only the dead could haunt, and Morgana was still alive. Wasn’t she? He hated not knowing how she was, if she was safe, or in peril. But with the bond they had shared for so many years, surely he would know if she was no longer alive. And something burned inside of him, telling him she was still out there, somewhere. That same something innate told him he would see her again someday. Whether that meeting would be good or bad, he couldn’t say. He supposed the longing for her, the throbbing in his heart would probably never, ever subside. Was it the price he had to pay for enjoying so many years in her company?
He wondered if she thought of him at all. If she could see him now, drunk and half dressed and moping, she would probably shout at him. “Stop pitying yourself. You’re a prince, Arthur, now act like it!”, she would say. Morgana wouldn’t want him to feel so sad, she would instead push him to channel the pain as energy, to keep moving forward. And he wanted to make her proud, even if she couldn’t be there to see him shine. For Morgana, he would keep climbing, carrying her in his heart like a favor, and never, ever forget her.
Arthur sighed, settling back into his chair and finally considering going to bed. He needed to get in there before the headache grew worse, and the nausea came on. If he could just hobble over to his bed, he would probably pass out in seconds. It was very late - the fire was slowly dying, and Camelot was completely still.
He held the goblet to his lips one last time, managing to extract a tiny droplet into his mouth. Then he heard it - the rustling of a gown, footsteps approaching. His heart beating fast, he set down his goblet and fixed his eyes on the hallway. Someone was coming! A figure slipped past his doorway - he saw the long, dark hair cascading down the back, a gown of royal blue swishing to and fro.
“Morgana!” The name was so foreign on his tongue, after only a few weeks. He used to say her name multiple times a day, now it felt strange for those syllables to slip from his mouth.
But the figure did not stop, and only moved faster. He could still hear her footsteps and the sweeping gown.
“Stop this instant!” His voice slurred, he leapt up from his chair and stumbled to the open door. Glancing into the hallway, he could see the shadow of the woman disappearing.
Moving as fast as his wobbly legs would allow, he chased her. Not even stopping to grab a torch to light his way, he ran down the black hallway, following the distant sounds of her footsteps.
It was highly inappropriate for Camelot’s treasured Prince to be running through the castle at night, dressed in only breeches and a loose, unbuttoned undershirt. But whatever possessed him - be it wine-infused heartbreak or pure madness - did not care about that. All that mattered was catching Morgana. He felt certain it was her. Had she come back for good? Was she just coming by to collect some things? He would stop her. Yes, he would catch her, take her into his arms, and beg her to stay, to become his queen someday, to promise him she would never, ever leave his side again. No matter how impossible or insane these things might be, he would find a way to make it all happen.
Finally he reached the balcony, and saw that she had gone down the steps and out into the courtyard. Arthur took the steps two at a time as he descended, grateful for the torches mounted on the wall which were probably the only thing keeping him from breaking his neck.
He raced outside, the frigid night air striking him like a sharp blade. As he ran down the main staircase, a memory came to him that was so vivid: Morgana, racing down these same stairs, trying to stop him from going after the questing beast. He hadn’t listened, thinking her just hysterical and imaginative. Now the roles were reversed. He had no shame, his only goal was to stop her. “Wait!” he called hoarsely. “I command you to STOP!”
She had slowed her pace, perhaps from fatigue, perhaps from the shock of the cold, or perhaps she just didn’t care if she was caught. If it was Morgana, he knew that she certainly wouldn’t stop just because he commanded her to. Arthur used this opportunity to move doubly fast, and soon he was only feet behind her.
The silken hair, the rippling dress, the ivory, petal-soft skin - he could almost touch her. Then he did. Reaching out, he grasped her shoulder with more force than he meant, and again said her name. “Morgana!”
Wrenching from his grasp with a cry, the woman whirled around, and Arthur’s heart sank. It was not Morgana.
It was just a courtier, a woman old enough to be his own mother. He has seen her around court for festivities and banquets for many years, only she usually wore her hair up tightly in a bun. Perhaps it was that, coupled with his foggy brain and desperation, that caused the confusion.
“My Lord?” She seemed rightly horrified by the sight of an inebriated, rumpled prince running after her. She rubbed her shoulder where he had probably left a red mark from his hand.
“I’m sorry, My Lady,” he gasped, humiliated by his mistake. Damn the alcohol, damn his over-active imagination. “I thought you were… I thought you were someone else.”
“Obviously,” she snorted. The offended woman turned and stalked off brusquely, leaving Arthur behind in the courtyard. He wondered if she would tell anyone, or if he should stop her again and make her swear to keep the encounter a secret. But he wasn’t sure he cared enough.
The cold air penetrated his thin nightshirt, and he shivered. He was alone once again. Looking above, he saw a clear sky filled with countless stars. It was beautiful and melancholy at the same time. Even though he was freezing, Arthur stood transfixed. He jumped when the courtyard clock chimed. What time was it? He counted along. One... two... He was acutely aware of how exhausted he was. Six... seven...
The prince of Camelot continued to stand, by himself, in barely any clothing, outside at night in the courtyard, looking at the stars above. Was Morgana awake, wherever she was? She could be a mile away or a thousand miles away, and it didn’t make him feel any closer to her. It was still too far apart.
Nine... Ten...
Where these same stars shining down on her, the moon lighting her face as she slept? The image made his throat swell with emotion. He wondered if she still had nightmares since she left. Was anyone there to soothe her fears? If only he had been there for her, before it was too late.
Twelve... The clock was striking midnight, and Arthur felt a single tear roll down his cheek.
Another day without her had begun.
fin.