holiday ficlets | merlin | uther/morgana & merlin/morgana
A few more, Merlin-style!
for vega_ofthe_lyre!--
merlin | uther/morgana | grace is a gift for the fallen, dear
The king falls ill, and the news sweeps the land. Even its dark corners. Morgana would like to watch him die. It’s a pleasure she’s earned. So one night she puts on Arthur’s face and walks right into the castle. Into the king’s bedchamber. The guards bow their obedience and let her pass. Their loyalty is so plain to see. It’s a wonder Arthur has taught them to bow at all, when one considers his grandiose devotion to equality.
Uther is mad with fever. Morgana hasn’t set eyes on him for years. He looks like his own skeleton. She recalls sitting in the stands, watching him vanquish his every pretend foe during tournaments. He would always glance back at her (unnecessarily, smiling a little) to make certain she’d witnessed the victory. Now- why, he’s an old man. She has always called him one; at last he looks it properly. He twists and turns, mumbling, whimpering.
She comes to his side and presses a hand that does not look like hers to his forehead.
“Father,” she says in Arthur’s voice.
He calms beneath her touch.
“My child,” he answers. His bleary eyes open and rest on her. God, the love on his face.
She pulls her hand back, fingers stinging. This is all she needs. To know she’s fooled him one last time. Death will claim him any day; it doesn’t need her help. If it did she would happily lend it.
“Morgana,” he breathes then. Seeing through her at last.
She meets his eyes, frozen. The enchantment slides off her like rain. It’s old magic, the kind that comes at a price and can’t be easily broken. And here stands the prodigal daughter.
“I knew it,” he raves, the madman. He laughs, cries, pathetic in his happiness. “I knew-I knew your soul would find mine.”
As if souls could wander, leaving shells behind them.
In the morning they find him dead. There’s a look of such peace on his face.
For copperiisulfate!--
merlin | merlin/morgana | once and future
“You’ve mellowed in your old age,” Merlin remarks. It’s obviously a compliment. They’re sitting in a Starbucks, looking a great deal like any twenty-something couple sitting in a Starbucks. Morgana is having dangerously passionate feelings about the peppermint mocha she’s halfway finished with. Also, jeans. Jeans are brilliant.
“You’re not nearly as bearded as we’d all hoped you’d be,” she responds.
“I tried that for awhile,” Merlin says. “Didn’t feel it suited me.”
“From what I’ve picked up, the all-powerful old bearded wizard has become a bit of a cliché,” Morgana admits.
“Sorry about trying to kill you,” Merlin says. “All those times.”
Morgana shrugs it off. “Sorry about trapping you in that cave for a bit.”
“Centuries,” Merlin says.
“A bit,” Morgana reiterates airily.
“Of course,” Merlin grumbles. “Somehow that got pinned on Nimueh in the stories, anyhow.”
“Just for once,” Morgana sighs, “I’d so love the proper credit.”
“They really like making you a hideous old crone,” Merlin says. He sounds very innocent, but looks far too delighted for anyone’s good.
Morgana glowers. “Don’t remind me.” She takes another sip of perfection, then asks, more seriously, “Why do you think we’re here, Merlin? Isn’t it a bit odd for us to be, you know, awake?”
“I expect it’ll have to do with Arthur,” Merlin says.
Morgana pulls a face. “Doesn’t it always?”
Merlin laughs, then sobers. He looks very old and very wise for a twenty-something. “We’d best get to work.”
“We’d best,” Morgana agrees, every bit as somber.
Then:
“D’you think we have time to split a muffin first?”
“Blueberry?”
“Pumpkin, obviously!”
“Right,” Merlin sighs. “We’re doomed never to be on the same side, aren’t we?”
“Buy us a muffin, then, nemesis,” Morgana orders cheerily.
for vega_ofthe_lyre!--
merlin | uther/morgana | grace is a gift for the fallen, dear
The king falls ill, and the news sweeps the land. Even its dark corners. Morgana would like to watch him die. It’s a pleasure she’s earned. So one night she puts on Arthur’s face and walks right into the castle. Into the king’s bedchamber. The guards bow their obedience and let her pass. Their loyalty is so plain to see. It’s a wonder Arthur has taught them to bow at all, when one considers his grandiose devotion to equality.
Uther is mad with fever. Morgana hasn’t set eyes on him for years. He looks like his own skeleton. She recalls sitting in the stands, watching him vanquish his every pretend foe during tournaments. He would always glance back at her (unnecessarily, smiling a little) to make certain she’d witnessed the victory. Now- why, he’s an old man. She has always called him one; at last he looks it properly. He twists and turns, mumbling, whimpering.
She comes to his side and presses a hand that does not look like hers to his forehead.
“Father,” she says in Arthur’s voice.
He calms beneath her touch.
“My child,” he answers. His bleary eyes open and rest on her. God, the love on his face.
She pulls her hand back, fingers stinging. This is all she needs. To know she’s fooled him one last time. Death will claim him any day; it doesn’t need her help. If it did she would happily lend it.
“Morgana,” he breathes then. Seeing through her at last.
She meets his eyes, frozen. The enchantment slides off her like rain. It’s old magic, the kind that comes at a price and can’t be easily broken. And here stands the prodigal daughter.
“I knew it,” he raves, the madman. He laughs, cries, pathetic in his happiness. “I knew-I knew your soul would find mine.”
As if souls could wander, leaving shells behind them.
In the morning they find him dead. There’s a look of such peace on his face.
For copperiisulfate!--
merlin | merlin/morgana | once and future
“You’ve mellowed in your old age,” Merlin remarks. It’s obviously a compliment. They’re sitting in a Starbucks, looking a great deal like any twenty-something couple sitting in a Starbucks. Morgana is having dangerously passionate feelings about the peppermint mocha she’s halfway finished with. Also, jeans. Jeans are brilliant.
“You’re not nearly as bearded as we’d all hoped you’d be,” she responds.
“I tried that for awhile,” Merlin says. “Didn’t feel it suited me.”
“From what I’ve picked up, the all-powerful old bearded wizard has become a bit of a cliché,” Morgana admits.
“Sorry about trying to kill you,” Merlin says. “All those times.”
Morgana shrugs it off. “Sorry about trapping you in that cave for a bit.”
“Centuries,” Merlin says.
“A bit,” Morgana reiterates airily.
“Of course,” Merlin grumbles. “Somehow that got pinned on Nimueh in the stories, anyhow.”
“Just for once,” Morgana sighs, “I’d so love the proper credit.”
“They really like making you a hideous old crone,” Merlin says. He sounds very innocent, but looks far too delighted for anyone’s good.
Morgana glowers. “Don’t remind me.” She takes another sip of perfection, then asks, more seriously, “Why do you think we’re here, Merlin? Isn’t it a bit odd for us to be, you know, awake?”
“I expect it’ll have to do with Arthur,” Merlin says.
Morgana pulls a face. “Doesn’t it always?”
Merlin laughs, then sobers. He looks very old and very wise for a twenty-something. “We’d best get to work.”
“We’d best,” Morgana agrees, every bit as somber.
Then:
“D’you think we have time to split a muffin first?”
“Blueberry?”
“Pumpkin, obviously!”
“Right,” Merlin sighs. “We’re doomed never to be on the same side, aren’t we?”
“Buy us a muffin, then, nemesis,” Morgana orders cheerily.