The Death of Arthur (1/?)
Title: The Death of Arthur (1/?)
Genre: Future!fic, Dark-ish
Pairing: Arthur/Morgana, with a healthy flavoring of Merlin friendship. Gwen/Lancelot.
Rating: PG so far. Not necessarily going to stay that way.
Word Count: 2,932.
Summary: After a long and troubled separation, Arthur, six years King of Camelot, wakes from nearly dying to find himself in Morgana and Merlin’s care. Very loosely based on Thomas Malory and other versions of the legend.
A/N: This is my first Merlin fic, so, er… hello, fandom! Also, am probably mixing up bits of legend, the show, and The Mists of Avalon together in my mind. Magicking fangirl is a fangirl. I tried to keep the future events of the legend and the characterization of the show, so let’s see how that goes. Lastly, I’ve never posted a serialized fic on lj, so if I’m breaking some sort of rule or being a nuisance by cluttering up comms with a chaptered fic, please let me know.
A/N the Second: Also, as you can probably tell from the sloppy, I'm in the market for a beta if anybody knows anybody. <3
-----------------------
“Hearest thou this great voice that shakes the world,
And wastes the narrow realm whereon we move,
And beats upon the faces of the dead,
My dead, as though they had not died for me?--
O Bedivere, for on my heart hath fallen
Confusion, till I know not what I am,
Nor whence I am, nor whether I be King.
Behold, I seem but King among the dead.”
- Tennyson, Idylls of the King
-----------------------
Arthur was really quite sure that he had died.
He remembered being killed with painstaking clarity. One moment there had been nothing in the world but the heat of the flames, absolute silence, and Guinevere’s pleading, soot-stained face. The flames rose, and her dark eyes flashed with fear. Then suddenly there was shouting, the clashing of swords, and her eyes turned from him forever. Lancelot had come: he hadn’t seen him, only the blunt end of a sword, but he had heard his name cried out over the din of the battle. Lancelot was a traitor in a thousand ways; this final cut was no deeper than the others. He was still the best friend and man that Arthur had ever known, save Merlin.
Merlin had been gone for a long time, not long after he and Guinevere had begun to drift apart. Merlin had said there were things he needed to take care of far North, and hadn’t been seen again in Camelot for nearly two years. Arthur had felt bitter, at first, and abandoned. Then he had heard rumors of a gathering of druids and practitioners of the old magic, and had known in his heart that that was where Merlin had gone. He couldn’t blame him much. Camelot’s rare problems had become far too small for a wizard of his power, and once the Queen had fallen from the people’s favor, there hadn’t been much of a court. He didn’t think Merlin had ever quite forgiven him for how things had turned sour with Guinevere, though it was hardly his fault.
After the battle, he remembered only images: a great expanse of water, smooth as glass, biting cold, and a bier covered in frozen flowers. And his image of Lancelot, tight-lipped and shivering on an icy lake shore? Of Guinevere, weeping? Were they conjurations of his mind, his bitter heart, the love he’d always felt should have been purely his? And what of that image of Merlin: far graver than he’d ever seen him, but still so young, his skin glowing translucent white, as if he’d never suffered a day?
Those memories only seemed half-real, as if they’d been placed in his mind by some meddling sorcerer. Arthur shared his father’s suspicion of magic, though not his hatred. How could he? There were people he cherished who were magic, to the very core. Merlin, for one, and Morgana.
Why his mind ghosted past her form, long-lost, was a mystery. But there was a smell in the air- something familiar, like grass and perfumed linen-
Arthur opened his eyes. So he was, definitively, not dead. The room he was in was dim: for his benefit, he imagined, since even the scant glimmers of light that illuminated it were too much for his eyes. He felt as if he’d drank an entire keg of mead the night before; but then, his body ached even worse than his head.
He might well have drank an entire keg of mead. The last night he could remember was a blur; his thoughts were entirely on Guinevere. The men weren’t celebrating, exactly, but they weren’t mourning, either. His cup had stayed full by someone’s thoughtful order. One could hardly be expected to execute one’s adulterous wife cold sober.
There was something very wrong with his leg, he realized with a steadily growing feeling of dread. When he tried to move it, the pain was nearly unbearable, and he could do little to suppress the guttural moan that emerged from his lips.
A door creaked open. A slender figure appeared in the periphery of his vision - a woman, perhaps, but too tall for that - then quickly disappeared. Arthur tried to call out, but his throat was dry, and the attempt painful. He tried to turn his head to look for water, but could barely move his neck. Though his mind raced along familiar paths, this battered body felt alien to him. He was no longer a boy, but eight-and-twenty was far too young to be so frail, and Arthur was not used to feeling weak.
There was movement by the door again, and someone entered, slender still but far shorter than the first. The smell of her hit him all at once, and it was no longer a memory, but real, more like a touch. His lips attempted to form her name, but he could not move his mouth. A low sort of sound emerged from his throat, and by then she had sat at the edge of his bed, looking down at him, her long, black hair a curtain, her bright eyes and pale skin the only thing Arthur could see.
It had been years: seven, in fact. The best and the worst of his life.
“Hush,” said Morgana, her voice shaken and low. The sight of him clearly affected her deeply. Was he that badly off? She had tended his childhood wounds a thousand times over; she had seen him bruised, bloody, with broken bones and split lips-
She clasped his hand tightly in hers, eyes an unreadable storm. Arthur found his inability to speak infuriating. He had at least a thousand questions.
“You must rest, Arthur,” she said finally, releasing his hand. The way her voice curled around the syllables of his name woke something strange in him, some longing for an impossibly simple pleasure: there was a special, childlike innocence her memory had always held for him. Outside his frame of vision, Morgana took a wet cloth and pressed it to his dry lips. Like the Merlin of his visions, she hadn’t aged a day.
“I promise,” she said, meeting his eyes once more. “When I can, I’ll explain everything. But for now, you must rest-“
She pressed her fingertips to his temples, and he thought nothing more.
-----------------------
The murmur of voices woke him. Arthur’s instinct about the figure he had seen in the doorway had been right; it was Merlin, and his voice sounded troubled. It was good to hear it, still. After all the betrayals, and the times that he had been left, to know that Merlin would be at his side, even if he was dying-
“You trust too much in his good nature, Merlin,” came Morgana’s voice, short and angry.
“He didn’t know, Morgana. You must be able to see, he couldn’t have known-”
“He nearly burned her at the stake. She’d be dead now if not for Lancelot-”
“I wouldn’t have let that happen.”
“You overestimate your power!”
There was a pause, thick with tension. Merlin’s voice came steady and quiet.
“You know, Morgana, better than anyone, where I place my faith.”
There was a silence, and then a rustling of cloth. Arthur felt a wetness on his lips and a cool, bony hand - Merlin’s, he imagined - press against his forehead.
“The fever’s gone down. You never cease to amaze me,” Merlin said gently, and Arthur could hear the smile in Morgana’s reply.
“I pray I never shall. Are you satisfied he’s in good hands?”
“I was never in doubt,” answered Merlin, as their voices moved further from his bedside. They continued to talk as they left down the hallway, but Arthur couldn’t make out what they were saying. There was a familiarity between them, now, that he had never before had the slightest inkling of. Morgana had always been fond of Merlin, and he her. This was different: they talked like equals, even colleagues. Could they be lovers? Was he her teacher? Was this where Merlin had been all this time, with Morgana?
It merited much thinking about, but Arthur had already fought sleep for far too long. He felt a familiar dizziness, as if he were rapidly falling, and then slipped back into darkness.
-----------------------
When he woke next, Morgana was there, busying herself with something on a table in the far corner of the room. It felt strange to see her at a serving-woman’s work. He had not noticed the first time he had seen her, but her clothes were simpler, too. Not simple, exactly, and not a peasant’s clothes, but the noble finery she’d favored in Uther’s palace was gone, he suspected forever. She was something other than a noblewoman now.
“Mor-” he began to say, but his throat was dry, and his voice sounded wrong, as if his windpipes had been crushed. She was quickly at his side.
“Merlin?” she guessed, as she sat down on the edge of his bed, eyes twinkling. They had always been exceptionally beautiful, but when she was happy, they were breathtaking. If only he could breathe properly. “Why do you want him so badly? Has Merlin been feeding you? Healing you? Bathing you?”
“Bathing me?” Arthur managed to croak. After a moment’s searching at his bedside, Morgana lifted a cup of water to his lips.
“Careful now,” she warned, tipping the cup so that only a few drops spilled into his mouth. He sucked at them greedily, and she tipped it back a bit further. “Not too much!” She pulled the cup away. “You could barely survive a simple cough at present. Your chest was hit hard.”
“By what?” Arthur asked, his voice raspy, but starting to regain some of its former strength. Every time he spoke it became a little easier. “Help me sit,” he said abruptly, feeling like a child as she looked down at him. He had been in far worse places than curtained by Morgana’s hair, but it wouldn’t do at all for the interrogation he had planned. A smile lit her face, with a hint of her old mischief.
“Won’t stand for being lower than anyone, will you, King Arthur?” she teased. He realized with a start that Morgana had never seen him crowned, and never known him as a King. Apparently she knew what had happened to him, if her conversation with Merlin had not been some sort of fever-dream, but it was strange to hear her call him King. He had never been The King with her. That had been his father-
“Come on, then,” Morgana said, pressing a hand to his back and sliding another pillow in behind it. It hurt to move, but another and he would be looking straight at her. He leveled a plaintive look in her direction and she shook her head, that smile peeking out again, then pulled him closer to her, placing another pillow behind his shoulders. His arms hung limply at her waist, but he was so close to her now; that smell was present, almost overpowering, and her hair had brushed his cheek. Morgana pulled away to look at him.
“So bad?” he asked, trying to crack a smile. It hurt his jaw. Apparently his face had been “hit hard” as well.
“Worse than I’ve ever seen you,” she answered, honest and a little amused. “Merlin will be by later. He’s off on… well, he’s off, anyway.”
He’d press on that later. A silence settled between them, and Arthur dimly became aware of their surroundings. The room was not as small as he’d assumed. It was daylight, now, and the windows were large and glass-paned. The floors were smooth stone and thick-carpeted. They were in a castle, then, or some nobleman’s estate. He thought he could taste salt in the air, though that could be whatever they’d been feeding him. Some dried herbs and a mortar and pestle were scattered rather messily across the table Morgana had been sitting at. The disarray smacked of Merlin.
“Where are we?” he asked, breaking the silence. “I thought I- I mean, I remember-”
“Dying?” Morgana interrupted, her face twisting into a sort of grimace. Her eyes grew shadowed now, all trace of their familiar teasing gone. He was sorry to see it go. “By all rights you should be dead, though Lancelot didn’t mean…” she stopped herself, as if she had said too much already. Was it his weakness that stayed her voice, or some new secret?
“I must know what happened, Morgana,” he said firmly, rasping still but all hesitation gone. Something flickered in her eyes, and she slowly nodded.
“I know. You have every right, it’s just- difficult to think of where to begin. As I’m sure you know, it was Lancelot who lead the riders to Gwen’s rescue, and,” her voice caught, “he didn’t mean to kill you, only take her. But his men were overzealous, and your Knights far outnumbered. He always had an- unorthodox way of doing things, and he’s not the most level-headed-” Morgana raised her eyes to meet his for a moment, then looked back down at her hands, which were twisting in her lap. “They thought you were dead. Gods, even Merlin thought you were dead, and his power far exceeds mine. I had a nightmare about you, on your funeral bier, that you weren’t quite dead, and... well, I knew it was more than likely just a wish, but I had him bring you here.” Another pause. She obviously found the memory difficult to recount. Gathering herself, she finished, a little defensive. “I was right. I mean, my vision was true.”
“They usually were,” he replied without thinking, barely able to comprehend what she had said. “What did he mean-” he began, then paused, his mind whirling. “What did Merlin mean when he said I couldn’t have known?”
At this Morgana looked away, back towards the door. He didn’t avert his gaze. Arthur might not have been the best with people, but he had an unerring instinct for the heart of the matter when it came to the important things. After a few moments she looked back to him, a pleading sort of look in her eyes.
“Can you forgive me if I let him tell you? There are… certain matters on which Merlin and I disagree, but here, I think his explanation would be best.”
Arthur didn’t reply immediately, his mind turning in a thousand directions. He had so many more questions for her: where she had been all this time, if the rumors of her power had been true. Had she married? Had children, even? She was far past the age when most women did. And what were she and Merlin up to in this unfamiliar castle?
“You didn’t answer my first question,” he settled on finally. The other questions could wait. He wasn’t going anywhere, and he sensed Morgana wasn’t either. She seemed to let out a breath she’d been holding.
“We’re at my kinsman’s summer estate in Brevyn, by the sea,” she said lightly, settling his blankets over his shoulders with a smile. Morgana had always been quick to collect herself. “Gwyddic was happy to have us here. Magical allies are quickly becoming a valued commodity, even in lands more peaceful than Camelot.”
She sounded proud. She was proud. Was this what she had been working towards? Respect for her kind? Reverence, even? It didn’t surprise him. Uther’s rejection of his ward had broken her heart, and his father had been convinced until the end of his days that the magical threats Camelot faced thereafter were Morgana’s doing. He cursed her name, even sent assassins after her; Arthur could hardly bear to watch it, though he could neither disprove nor contradict him. And now? Could he ask her?
Did it even matter anymore?
“You saved my life,” he said abruptly. Her hands froze where they were, tightening in the blankets at his chest. She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Look at me,” he commanded, and struggled to lift his arm. Morgana’s head was shaking slowly, her eyes still lowered, and she moved her hands to hold his at his sides. “Look at me,” he said again, and she lifted her face, eyes bright with tears. A moment stretched out between them.
“I’m as surprised as you are,” she said finally, haltingly. It was a bad attempt at a joke. He didn’t care. “Merlin’s awfully fond of you, and he’s a friend-”
“Why, Morgana?” he asked. It was easy to forget all the bad blood between them when she was here again, after so long, so little changed. But it was coming back now, all the screaming fits, and fires started, and near-misses with his guard in the forest-
She tried to pull her hands away to wipe at her wet eyes, but he clutched at them, a little clumsily, until they were firmly within his own. That he had stopped looking for her after Uther died seemed impossible to him now.
“I couldn’t let you die, Arthur,” she said, her voice regaining some of its poise. That way she said his name, again- “I didn’t stop caring about you. There were things standing between us I couldn’t explain to you, but I never wished you ill. I know I was not always honest with you, but I hope that you believe that.”
He looked at her closely, at her eyes, and felt her trembling hands, and believed her, no matter what she said about him or what she’d lied before. There had been nothing good in the world for him since his love for Guinevere had died, but here was Morgana again, the one he could recognize, and Merlin, wherever he was, and Arthur could almost believe for a moment that he even felt happy.
At least he no longer felt dead.
“Thank you,” he said, squeezing her hands, then releasing them. She waited a moment and withdrew them from his.
“For what?” Morgana asked distractedly, still caught in whatever emotion had clouded her eyes. He smiled.
“For saving my life, you foolish woman,” he replied, feeling suddenly dizzy again. “Despite all those… things.” Staying awake for any length of time was taxing, but all of this was draining on more than his physical strength. A faint laugh broke Morgana’s reverie, and his eyes stayed open just long enough to catch her truly smiling.
“Besides,” he murmured, sleep overtaking him quickly, “I’ve always told Merlin he had far too much faith in my good nature.”
-----------------------
Next time: More Merlin! Big plans, magic, noblemen who don’t hate sorcery, and Meanwhile, back in Camelot…
Part Two
Genre: Future!fic, Dark-ish
Pairing: Arthur/Morgana, with a healthy flavoring of Merlin friendship. Gwen/Lancelot.
Rating: PG so far. Not necessarily going to stay that way.
Word Count: 2,932.
Summary: After a long and troubled separation, Arthur, six years King of Camelot, wakes from nearly dying to find himself in Morgana and Merlin’s care. Very loosely based on Thomas Malory and other versions of the legend.
A/N: This is my first Merlin fic, so, er… hello, fandom! Also, am probably mixing up bits of legend, the show, and The Mists of Avalon together in my mind. Magicking fangirl is a fangirl. I tried to keep the future events of the legend and the characterization of the show, so let’s see how that goes. Lastly, I’ve never posted a serialized fic on lj, so if I’m breaking some sort of rule or being a nuisance by cluttering up comms with a chaptered fic, please let me know.
A/N the Second: Also, as you can probably tell from the sloppy, I'm in the market for a beta if anybody knows anybody. <3
-----------------------
“Hearest thou this great voice that shakes the world,
And wastes the narrow realm whereon we move,
And beats upon the faces of the dead,
My dead, as though they had not died for me?--
O Bedivere, for on my heart hath fallen
Confusion, till I know not what I am,
Nor whence I am, nor whether I be King.
Behold, I seem but King among the dead.”
- Tennyson, Idylls of the King
-----------------------
Arthur was really quite sure that he had died.
He remembered being killed with painstaking clarity. One moment there had been nothing in the world but the heat of the flames, absolute silence, and Guinevere’s pleading, soot-stained face. The flames rose, and her dark eyes flashed with fear. Then suddenly there was shouting, the clashing of swords, and her eyes turned from him forever. Lancelot had come: he hadn’t seen him, only the blunt end of a sword, but he had heard his name cried out over the din of the battle. Lancelot was a traitor in a thousand ways; this final cut was no deeper than the others. He was still the best friend and man that Arthur had ever known, save Merlin.
Merlin had been gone for a long time, not long after he and Guinevere had begun to drift apart. Merlin had said there were things he needed to take care of far North, and hadn’t been seen again in Camelot for nearly two years. Arthur had felt bitter, at first, and abandoned. Then he had heard rumors of a gathering of druids and practitioners of the old magic, and had known in his heart that that was where Merlin had gone. He couldn’t blame him much. Camelot’s rare problems had become far too small for a wizard of his power, and once the Queen had fallen from the people’s favor, there hadn’t been much of a court. He didn’t think Merlin had ever quite forgiven him for how things had turned sour with Guinevere, though it was hardly his fault.
After the battle, he remembered only images: a great expanse of water, smooth as glass, biting cold, and a bier covered in frozen flowers. And his image of Lancelot, tight-lipped and shivering on an icy lake shore? Of Guinevere, weeping? Were they conjurations of his mind, his bitter heart, the love he’d always felt should have been purely his? And what of that image of Merlin: far graver than he’d ever seen him, but still so young, his skin glowing translucent white, as if he’d never suffered a day?
Those memories only seemed half-real, as if they’d been placed in his mind by some meddling sorcerer. Arthur shared his father’s suspicion of magic, though not his hatred. How could he? There were people he cherished who were magic, to the very core. Merlin, for one, and Morgana.
Why his mind ghosted past her form, long-lost, was a mystery. But there was a smell in the air- something familiar, like grass and perfumed linen-
Arthur opened his eyes. So he was, definitively, not dead. The room he was in was dim: for his benefit, he imagined, since even the scant glimmers of light that illuminated it were too much for his eyes. He felt as if he’d drank an entire keg of mead the night before; but then, his body ached even worse than his head.
He might well have drank an entire keg of mead. The last night he could remember was a blur; his thoughts were entirely on Guinevere. The men weren’t celebrating, exactly, but they weren’t mourning, either. His cup had stayed full by someone’s thoughtful order. One could hardly be expected to execute one’s adulterous wife cold sober.
There was something very wrong with his leg, he realized with a steadily growing feeling of dread. When he tried to move it, the pain was nearly unbearable, and he could do little to suppress the guttural moan that emerged from his lips.
A door creaked open. A slender figure appeared in the periphery of his vision - a woman, perhaps, but too tall for that - then quickly disappeared. Arthur tried to call out, but his throat was dry, and the attempt painful. He tried to turn his head to look for water, but could barely move his neck. Though his mind raced along familiar paths, this battered body felt alien to him. He was no longer a boy, but eight-and-twenty was far too young to be so frail, and Arthur was not used to feeling weak.
There was movement by the door again, and someone entered, slender still but far shorter than the first. The smell of her hit him all at once, and it was no longer a memory, but real, more like a touch. His lips attempted to form her name, but he could not move his mouth. A low sort of sound emerged from his throat, and by then she had sat at the edge of his bed, looking down at him, her long, black hair a curtain, her bright eyes and pale skin the only thing Arthur could see.
It had been years: seven, in fact. The best and the worst of his life.
“Hush,” said Morgana, her voice shaken and low. The sight of him clearly affected her deeply. Was he that badly off? She had tended his childhood wounds a thousand times over; she had seen him bruised, bloody, with broken bones and split lips-
She clasped his hand tightly in hers, eyes an unreadable storm. Arthur found his inability to speak infuriating. He had at least a thousand questions.
“You must rest, Arthur,” she said finally, releasing his hand. The way her voice curled around the syllables of his name woke something strange in him, some longing for an impossibly simple pleasure: there was a special, childlike innocence her memory had always held for him. Outside his frame of vision, Morgana took a wet cloth and pressed it to his dry lips. Like the Merlin of his visions, she hadn’t aged a day.
“I promise,” she said, meeting his eyes once more. “When I can, I’ll explain everything. But for now, you must rest-“
She pressed her fingertips to his temples, and he thought nothing more.
-----------------------
The murmur of voices woke him. Arthur’s instinct about the figure he had seen in the doorway had been right; it was Merlin, and his voice sounded troubled. It was good to hear it, still. After all the betrayals, and the times that he had been left, to know that Merlin would be at his side, even if he was dying-
“You trust too much in his good nature, Merlin,” came Morgana’s voice, short and angry.
“He didn’t know, Morgana. You must be able to see, he couldn’t have known-”
“He nearly burned her at the stake. She’d be dead now if not for Lancelot-”
“I wouldn’t have let that happen.”
“You overestimate your power!”
There was a pause, thick with tension. Merlin’s voice came steady and quiet.
“You know, Morgana, better than anyone, where I place my faith.”
There was a silence, and then a rustling of cloth. Arthur felt a wetness on his lips and a cool, bony hand - Merlin’s, he imagined - press against his forehead.
“The fever’s gone down. You never cease to amaze me,” Merlin said gently, and Arthur could hear the smile in Morgana’s reply.
“I pray I never shall. Are you satisfied he’s in good hands?”
“I was never in doubt,” answered Merlin, as their voices moved further from his bedside. They continued to talk as they left down the hallway, but Arthur couldn’t make out what they were saying. There was a familiarity between them, now, that he had never before had the slightest inkling of. Morgana had always been fond of Merlin, and he her. This was different: they talked like equals, even colleagues. Could they be lovers? Was he her teacher? Was this where Merlin had been all this time, with Morgana?
It merited much thinking about, but Arthur had already fought sleep for far too long. He felt a familiar dizziness, as if he were rapidly falling, and then slipped back into darkness.
-----------------------
When he woke next, Morgana was there, busying herself with something on a table in the far corner of the room. It felt strange to see her at a serving-woman’s work. He had not noticed the first time he had seen her, but her clothes were simpler, too. Not simple, exactly, and not a peasant’s clothes, but the noble finery she’d favored in Uther’s palace was gone, he suspected forever. She was something other than a noblewoman now.
“Mor-” he began to say, but his throat was dry, and his voice sounded wrong, as if his windpipes had been crushed. She was quickly at his side.
“Merlin?” she guessed, as she sat down on the edge of his bed, eyes twinkling. They had always been exceptionally beautiful, but when she was happy, they were breathtaking. If only he could breathe properly. “Why do you want him so badly? Has Merlin been feeding you? Healing you? Bathing you?”
“Bathing me?” Arthur managed to croak. After a moment’s searching at his bedside, Morgana lifted a cup of water to his lips.
“Careful now,” she warned, tipping the cup so that only a few drops spilled into his mouth. He sucked at them greedily, and she tipped it back a bit further. “Not too much!” She pulled the cup away. “You could barely survive a simple cough at present. Your chest was hit hard.”
“By what?” Arthur asked, his voice raspy, but starting to regain some of its former strength. Every time he spoke it became a little easier. “Help me sit,” he said abruptly, feeling like a child as she looked down at him. He had been in far worse places than curtained by Morgana’s hair, but it wouldn’t do at all for the interrogation he had planned. A smile lit her face, with a hint of her old mischief.
“Won’t stand for being lower than anyone, will you, King Arthur?” she teased. He realized with a start that Morgana had never seen him crowned, and never known him as a King. Apparently she knew what had happened to him, if her conversation with Merlin had not been some sort of fever-dream, but it was strange to hear her call him King. He had never been The King with her. That had been his father-
“Come on, then,” Morgana said, pressing a hand to his back and sliding another pillow in behind it. It hurt to move, but another and he would be looking straight at her. He leveled a plaintive look in her direction and she shook her head, that smile peeking out again, then pulled him closer to her, placing another pillow behind his shoulders. His arms hung limply at her waist, but he was so close to her now; that smell was present, almost overpowering, and her hair had brushed his cheek. Morgana pulled away to look at him.
“So bad?” he asked, trying to crack a smile. It hurt his jaw. Apparently his face had been “hit hard” as well.
“Worse than I’ve ever seen you,” she answered, honest and a little amused. “Merlin will be by later. He’s off on… well, he’s off, anyway.”
He’d press on that later. A silence settled between them, and Arthur dimly became aware of their surroundings. The room was not as small as he’d assumed. It was daylight, now, and the windows were large and glass-paned. The floors were smooth stone and thick-carpeted. They were in a castle, then, or some nobleman’s estate. He thought he could taste salt in the air, though that could be whatever they’d been feeding him. Some dried herbs and a mortar and pestle were scattered rather messily across the table Morgana had been sitting at. The disarray smacked of Merlin.
“Where are we?” he asked, breaking the silence. “I thought I- I mean, I remember-”
“Dying?” Morgana interrupted, her face twisting into a sort of grimace. Her eyes grew shadowed now, all trace of their familiar teasing gone. He was sorry to see it go. “By all rights you should be dead, though Lancelot didn’t mean…” she stopped herself, as if she had said too much already. Was it his weakness that stayed her voice, or some new secret?
“I must know what happened, Morgana,” he said firmly, rasping still but all hesitation gone. Something flickered in her eyes, and she slowly nodded.
“I know. You have every right, it’s just- difficult to think of where to begin. As I’m sure you know, it was Lancelot who lead the riders to Gwen’s rescue, and,” her voice caught, “he didn’t mean to kill you, only take her. But his men were overzealous, and your Knights far outnumbered. He always had an- unorthodox way of doing things, and he’s not the most level-headed-” Morgana raised her eyes to meet his for a moment, then looked back down at her hands, which were twisting in her lap. “They thought you were dead. Gods, even Merlin thought you were dead, and his power far exceeds mine. I had a nightmare about you, on your funeral bier, that you weren’t quite dead, and... well, I knew it was more than likely just a wish, but I had him bring you here.” Another pause. She obviously found the memory difficult to recount. Gathering herself, she finished, a little defensive. “I was right. I mean, my vision was true.”
“They usually were,” he replied without thinking, barely able to comprehend what she had said. “What did he mean-” he began, then paused, his mind whirling. “What did Merlin mean when he said I couldn’t have known?”
At this Morgana looked away, back towards the door. He didn’t avert his gaze. Arthur might not have been the best with people, but he had an unerring instinct for the heart of the matter when it came to the important things. After a few moments she looked back to him, a pleading sort of look in her eyes.
“Can you forgive me if I let him tell you? There are… certain matters on which Merlin and I disagree, but here, I think his explanation would be best.”
Arthur didn’t reply immediately, his mind turning in a thousand directions. He had so many more questions for her: where she had been all this time, if the rumors of her power had been true. Had she married? Had children, even? She was far past the age when most women did. And what were she and Merlin up to in this unfamiliar castle?
“You didn’t answer my first question,” he settled on finally. The other questions could wait. He wasn’t going anywhere, and he sensed Morgana wasn’t either. She seemed to let out a breath she’d been holding.
“We’re at my kinsman’s summer estate in Brevyn, by the sea,” she said lightly, settling his blankets over his shoulders with a smile. Morgana had always been quick to collect herself. “Gwyddic was happy to have us here. Magical allies are quickly becoming a valued commodity, even in lands more peaceful than Camelot.”
She sounded proud. She was proud. Was this what she had been working towards? Respect for her kind? Reverence, even? It didn’t surprise him. Uther’s rejection of his ward had broken her heart, and his father had been convinced until the end of his days that the magical threats Camelot faced thereafter were Morgana’s doing. He cursed her name, even sent assassins after her; Arthur could hardly bear to watch it, though he could neither disprove nor contradict him. And now? Could he ask her?
Did it even matter anymore?
“You saved my life,” he said abruptly. Her hands froze where they were, tightening in the blankets at his chest. She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Look at me,” he commanded, and struggled to lift his arm. Morgana’s head was shaking slowly, her eyes still lowered, and she moved her hands to hold his at his sides. “Look at me,” he said again, and she lifted her face, eyes bright with tears. A moment stretched out between them.
“I’m as surprised as you are,” she said finally, haltingly. It was a bad attempt at a joke. He didn’t care. “Merlin’s awfully fond of you, and he’s a friend-”
“Why, Morgana?” he asked. It was easy to forget all the bad blood between them when she was here again, after so long, so little changed. But it was coming back now, all the screaming fits, and fires started, and near-misses with his guard in the forest-
She tried to pull her hands away to wipe at her wet eyes, but he clutched at them, a little clumsily, until they were firmly within his own. That he had stopped looking for her after Uther died seemed impossible to him now.
“I couldn’t let you die, Arthur,” she said, her voice regaining some of its poise. That way she said his name, again- “I didn’t stop caring about you. There were things standing between us I couldn’t explain to you, but I never wished you ill. I know I was not always honest with you, but I hope that you believe that.”
He looked at her closely, at her eyes, and felt her trembling hands, and believed her, no matter what she said about him or what she’d lied before. There had been nothing good in the world for him since his love for Guinevere had died, but here was Morgana again, the one he could recognize, and Merlin, wherever he was, and Arthur could almost believe for a moment that he even felt happy.
At least he no longer felt dead.
“Thank you,” he said, squeezing her hands, then releasing them. She waited a moment and withdrew them from his.
“For what?” Morgana asked distractedly, still caught in whatever emotion had clouded her eyes. He smiled.
“For saving my life, you foolish woman,” he replied, feeling suddenly dizzy again. “Despite all those… things.” Staying awake for any length of time was taxing, but all of this was draining on more than his physical strength. A faint laugh broke Morgana’s reverie, and his eyes stayed open just long enough to catch her truly smiling.
“Besides,” he murmured, sleep overtaking him quickly, “I’ve always told Merlin he had far too much faith in my good nature.”
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Next time: More Merlin! Big plans, magic, noblemen who don’t hate sorcery, and Meanwhile, back in Camelot…
Part Two