Cry for Me
Title: Cry for Me
Genre: Angst/Tragedy
Rating: T
Warnings: Spoilers, implied character deaths.
Characters/Pairings: Morgana, Merlin, Arthur, Uther, Guin, Morgause, implied Merlin/Morgana.
Disclaimer: I have no claim or ownership over BBC MERLIN. All characters and familiar themes belong to their rightful owners.
She thinks she hears them calling to her in the night, a constant repetition of a name not hers, but, yes, it is.
Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine.
(And she’s not sure why, but for some reason it makes her think of raging fires and cruel apathy unlike any other.)
In the daytime she in unsure of who she is, of who she wants to be. Surrounded by the walls of Camelot it is as if she is no longer a person, but instead a vessel for a name and privileges she does not want. The Lady Morgana, King Uther’s Ward, born to be Queen. It is as if all of Camelot has forgotten that she is not the daughter of Camelot, but instead the orphan child of the Knight Gorlois and the Lady Vivienne.
Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine.
(In the night she knows who she is to be with a certainty that frightens her and, sometimes, she thinks she might have forgotten her past as well. So caught up in the future is she, The Lady Morgana.)
She feels uncomfortable in her own skin now. The tissue pulled taut over her bones, feeling as though it would tear if she were to move and putting a new meaning to the word claustrophobia. Everyone looks to her as if she is more than a mere illusion of power besides the king, their expectations heavy on her shoulders.
Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine.
(She begins to wonder what the point of anything is. When all people see was who you presented yourself as, why try to be a better person when you could pretend to be just as well? A vision of beauty on the outside, so very ugly on the inside. Playing so perfectly into destiny’s hands.)
A druid camp is razed to the ground; the people it sheltered either killed in the chaotic fear of the attack or brought back to Camelot to have their death performed as entertainment for the court and citizens alike.
Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine.
(The name is becoming a comfort, an ease to a strain unseen by others. The feelings that come with it, too, are making home beneath her skin and in her heart. She thinks she should fear this, yet is not sure how to.)
King Uther is many things to her and one that he is not is beloved. She sees his death in her dreams now, often and varying. Sometimes in battle or assassination or an illness too harsh on his aging body. One time, and only once, by Arthur’s hands. She always wakes up with a metallic taste in her mouth and the grief of others heavy on her tongue.
Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine.
(She never screams or cries those nights, leaving many to think she didn’t dream at all. In truth she sits against her pillows and allows the blended emotions of grief and love to seep through into reality. She never knows who they belong to, but she knows with a growing certainty that they are not hers.)
Merlin comes and goes like the waves of the ocean, pulling in and out of her grasp at random intervals. He looks at her like she is a stranger at times, eyes heavy with knowledge beyond his time. He calls out to her at times when they pass, a simple greeting. Once, by mistake she is sure, he calls her Morgaine without seeming to realize it.
Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine.
(Only when he says it she feels wronged somehow, like someone stealing something precious. The name doesn’t feel right like it seems to now, but instead as if it is filled with sin. When he said it she felt like the Old Religion’s equivalent to Eve and while he is no God, she has seen that one day he will be treated as such. A servant one day placed as equals with the King, maybe there was some hope after all.)
Morgause feels like an answer, something to be coveted and sought after. On her arrival in Camelot everything seemed sharper, blurry edges in her vision clearing into focused color.
Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine.
(She looks around the place she has called home for so long and is disgusted, more so than she has ever been.)
She makes a mistake, a fatal one. She trusted the wrong person, she is certain, and now everyone is doomed to die. Not only Uther, not only his reign, but all of Camelot. Arthur and Merlin, as well.
Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine.
(She doesn’t deserve to die for it, though, does she? Maybe mercy has never been practiced in Camelot before if even Merlin believes she does.)
Morgause heals her slowly over the months, helping her regain strength as well as retain magick. She is there for her when the people she viewed as family were not. Perhaps her trust hadn’t been foolish.
Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine.
(She can feel it spreading through her, entering her bloodstream and filling her head. A magick too strong and not strong enough, branding and morphing her beyond recognition. All she can think is moremoremore.)
She enters Camelot for the first time in a year, fake wounds marking her skin and an easy façade placing itself over her. Uther is grateful for her safe return, Arthur relived to have her back, Guinevere thankful and praying, and Merlin searching for redemption.
Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine.
(All she hears are lies spat from venomous tongues, begging her to join them again so as not to make an enemy of her. She tries to feel something more for this place she grew up in, for the stone floors she treaded over and the roads she walked on. For the people that inhabited the kingdom. She fails and, surely, that meant something. As she watched an accused sorcerer being chained to the stake she figures it must mean that the whole of Camelot is rotten to the core. Morgause does not disagree.)
Merlin is begging of her, pleading and practically on his knees. He’s willing to do so much for these people, most of whom he does not know. It is perhaps the most foolish thing she has ever seen and the first thing since her return in Camelot to make her hesitate. His eyes are swelling with tears he would not let fall and his mouth twisting with an emotion too strong, maybe too pure, for her to understand. She has seen such an expression on him before, but never one quite as broken. She used to want to take it away from him, to cure him of the problems that made him feel so world weary. Now…now doesn’t matter. What difference did it make if Merlin saw Camelot as something worth saving? He was a murderer, who was he to decide what was right and wrong?
Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine. Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine. Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine. Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine. Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine. Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine. Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine. Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine. Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine.
(The wind is ripping around her, making her skirts flutter and bringing with it the acrid scent of smoke. Camelot is burning. She throws her head back and laughs.)
Genre: Angst/Tragedy
Rating: T
Warnings: Spoilers, implied character deaths.
Characters/Pairings: Morgana, Merlin, Arthur, Uther, Guin, Morgause, implied Merlin/Morgana.
Disclaimer: I have no claim or ownership over BBC MERLIN. All characters and familiar themes belong to their rightful owners.
She thinks she hears them calling to her in the night, a constant repetition of a name not hers, but, yes, it is.
Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine.
(And she’s not sure why, but for some reason it makes her think of raging fires and cruel apathy unlike any other.)
In the daytime she in unsure of who she is, of who she wants to be. Surrounded by the walls of Camelot it is as if she is no longer a person, but instead a vessel for a name and privileges she does not want. The Lady Morgana, King Uther’s Ward, born to be Queen. It is as if all of Camelot has forgotten that she is not the daughter of Camelot, but instead the orphan child of the Knight Gorlois and the Lady Vivienne.
Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine.
(In the night she knows who she is to be with a certainty that frightens her and, sometimes, she thinks she might have forgotten her past as well. So caught up in the future is she, The Lady Morgana.)
She feels uncomfortable in her own skin now. The tissue pulled taut over her bones, feeling as though it would tear if she were to move and putting a new meaning to the word claustrophobia. Everyone looks to her as if she is more than a mere illusion of power besides the king, their expectations heavy on her shoulders.
Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine.
(She begins to wonder what the point of anything is. When all people see was who you presented yourself as, why try to be a better person when you could pretend to be just as well? A vision of beauty on the outside, so very ugly on the inside. Playing so perfectly into destiny’s hands.)
A druid camp is razed to the ground; the people it sheltered either killed in the chaotic fear of the attack or brought back to Camelot to have their death performed as entertainment for the court and citizens alike.
Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine.
(The name is becoming a comfort, an ease to a strain unseen by others. The feelings that come with it, too, are making home beneath her skin and in her heart. She thinks she should fear this, yet is not sure how to.)
King Uther is many things to her and one that he is not is beloved. She sees his death in her dreams now, often and varying. Sometimes in battle or assassination or an illness too harsh on his aging body. One time, and only once, by Arthur’s hands. She always wakes up with a metallic taste in her mouth and the grief of others heavy on her tongue.
Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine.
(She never screams or cries those nights, leaving many to think she didn’t dream at all. In truth she sits against her pillows and allows the blended emotions of grief and love to seep through into reality. She never knows who they belong to, but she knows with a growing certainty that they are not hers.)
Merlin comes and goes like the waves of the ocean, pulling in and out of her grasp at random intervals. He looks at her like she is a stranger at times, eyes heavy with knowledge beyond his time. He calls out to her at times when they pass, a simple greeting. Once, by mistake she is sure, he calls her Morgaine without seeming to realize it.
Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine.
(Only when he says it she feels wronged somehow, like someone stealing something precious. The name doesn’t feel right like it seems to now, but instead as if it is filled with sin. When he said it she felt like the Old Religion’s equivalent to Eve and while he is no God, she has seen that one day he will be treated as such. A servant one day placed as equals with the King, maybe there was some hope after all.)
Morgause feels like an answer, something to be coveted and sought after. On her arrival in Camelot everything seemed sharper, blurry edges in her vision clearing into focused color.
Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine.
(She looks around the place she has called home for so long and is disgusted, more so than she has ever been.)
She makes a mistake, a fatal one. She trusted the wrong person, she is certain, and now everyone is doomed to die. Not only Uther, not only his reign, but all of Camelot. Arthur and Merlin, as well.
Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine.
(She doesn’t deserve to die for it, though, does she? Maybe mercy has never been practiced in Camelot before if even Merlin believes she does.)
Morgause heals her slowly over the months, helping her regain strength as well as retain magick. She is there for her when the people she viewed as family were not. Perhaps her trust hadn’t been foolish.
Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine.
(She can feel it spreading through her, entering her bloodstream and filling her head. A magick too strong and not strong enough, branding and morphing her beyond recognition. All she can think is moremoremore.)
She enters Camelot for the first time in a year, fake wounds marking her skin and an easy façade placing itself over her. Uther is grateful for her safe return, Arthur relived to have her back, Guinevere thankful and praying, and Merlin searching for redemption.
Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine.
(All she hears are lies spat from venomous tongues, begging her to join them again so as not to make an enemy of her. She tries to feel something more for this place she grew up in, for the stone floors she treaded over and the roads she walked on. For the people that inhabited the kingdom. She fails and, surely, that meant something. As she watched an accused sorcerer being chained to the stake she figures it must mean that the whole of Camelot is rotten to the core. Morgause does not disagree.)
Merlin is begging of her, pleading and practically on his knees. He’s willing to do so much for these people, most of whom he does not know. It is perhaps the most foolish thing she has ever seen and the first thing since her return in Camelot to make her hesitate. His eyes are swelling with tears he would not let fall and his mouth twisting with an emotion too strong, maybe too pure, for her to understand. She has seen such an expression on him before, but never one quite as broken. She used to want to take it away from him, to cure him of the problems that made him feel so world weary. Now…now doesn’t matter. What difference did it make if Merlin saw Camelot as something worth saving? He was a murderer, who was he to decide what was right and wrong?
Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine. Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine. Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine. Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine. Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine. Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine. Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine. Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine. Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine, Morgaine.
(The wind is ripping around her, making her skirts flutter and bringing with it the acrid scent of smoke. Camelot is burning. She throws her head back and laughs.)