Before the Sun Breaks Another Day -- Chapter Twelve
Title: Before the Sun Breaks Another Day
Authors: accordingtomel & adelagia
Summary: Three months after her disappearance, Morgana returns to Camelot with a hidden agenda, but she’s not the only one keeping secrets, and a series of unintended revelations forces her, Merlin and Arthur on an intertwined journey of revenge, redemption and love.
Pairings: Merlin/Arthur, Leon/Morgana (elements of Uther/Morgana, Arthur/Gwen)
Rating: PG-13 (eventual NC-17)
Spoilers/Warnings: Everything up to and including 2x13
Word Count: 4,957
Disclaimer: Not ours. No money is being made. Please don’t sue.
Authors’ Note: Thanks so very much once again to ravenflight21 for the beta/Brit-pick.
Previous Chapters: One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven
CHAPTER TWELVE
Morgause glided through the corridors in silence, crimson silk staining the dull grey of the stone; she didn’t belong. Still, she shimmered along with the confidence of purpose, while behind her, Morgana flitted from shadow to shadow on hushed footsteps, one hand braced over her chest to muffle the pounding of her heart. She should call out to Morgause, she thought, but something kept the words buried in her throat, and that same something made her trail behind in secret.
They were outside, all of a sudden, on the purlieu of the forest, and there was Arthur, dirt smeared across his face, armour dented and chainmail so tattered it could serve no other purpose than purely decorative. His forehead glistened with sweat, but the shine of his sword was brighter.
“Arthur Pendragon,” Morgause crooned softly.
“What do you want?” he asked.
Morgana, standing almost between them, remained unnoticed; she was dimly aware that there was a conversation going on, but it was a murmured blur that couldn’t penetrate the shriek of her own fear, and her heart sank, knowing she was powerless to stop whatever was going to happen next. She shouted anyway, tried to get Arthur’s attention, but his focus didn’t waver.
A smile tipped Morgause’s lips, and she raised a palm towards the earth. It trembled to the call of her fingertips. “Ástandan min næssa gryre.”
There were teeth and claws, horns and spines, and a deafening growl that splintered the trees.
Pleasure danced across Morgause’s face. “Kill him.”
Morgana jolted awake, ringing in her ears the mingled sound of her own cries and the sharp crack of her dressing screen as it flew backwards from her unfocussed gaze and smashed against the wall.
Leon crashed into the room, eyes wild and sword poised to strike, bounding towards Morgana’s bed. “Are you all right? What happened?”
She stared at him in mute horror, her throat raw. The vivid red of Arthur’s death slowly faded from her sight, a lambent pre-dawn glow filtering through the windows easing her vision into reality -- her chambers, her bed, pillows and linen -- but terror refused to loosen its grip on her heart, and she reached out, clutched Leon’s hand. “I don’t -- I saw --” she began, words coming in fits and starts like she was finding them piece by piece. “I saw Arthur. Is he -- Is he -- Please, can you check on him?”
“My lady,” Leon said, kneeling at her bedside. He squeezed her hand, and asked again, softly, “Are you all right?”
“Fine,” she whispered, and searched his face imploringly. “Please, see about Arthur?”
With some reluctance, and obviously not believing that she was fine, Leon rose to his feet. “As you wish. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Morgana watched him go, her heart skipping a beat when he noticed with a slight start the mangled state of her dressing screen, but he made no comment and slipped out of the room. She drew her knees up to her chest, hugging herself tightly. She was no stranger to nightmares, and more terrifying than the images conjured up in her sleeping mind was the fact that she hadn’t yet learned of a way to distinguish dreams from visions. That she had premonitory powers was clear, but whether this was truly a warning about the future, her latent intuition questioning Morgause’s trustworthiness, or merely odds and ends of a troubled sleep, there was no telling.
She drew the back of her hand across her eyes, wiping dry unshed tears. Of course she trusted Morgause; of course she did. Only, unlike most dreams, which wisped away with each waking moment, this one clung to the edges of her memory, its violent imprint seared into her mind’s eye -- the slash of claws and the tang of blood in the air, and Arthur, helpless and dying, and Morgause, smiling, all the while smiling.
She felt as though she might be sick.
Before long, the door eased open again, and Leon let himself in, slightly apologetic, as if he felt he was trespassing. “Prince Arthur is fine. In the pink of health. Though,” he said, one side of his mouth tilting upwards, “not best pleased about being woken this early in the morning.”
Relief flooded through her veins, even as she reprimanded herself for making mountains of molehills, and along with it came a desperate urge to cry. She forced it down, hard.
Leon strode forward suddenly. “You’re shaking,” he said. “Morgana.”
It was his hand on her shoulder that undid her, this human touch, a simple kindness. She was sure she hadn’t imagined him drawing away after witnessing her kiss with Uther, but in spite of whatever he thought of her, here he was offering his warmth again for nothing in return. The knot that had built in her throat multiplied, and burst out of her in a sob so plaintive it startled even her. Instantly, Leon was there, next to her on the bed, slightly stiff and surprised to find a crying girl in his arms, but there all the same, making soothing noises and patting her on the back.
She didn’t know what she was doing -- breaking down like this; coming back to Camelot; trying, nearly single-handedly, to overthrow an iron regime. Compounded by the horrifying vision of Arthur’s death, all her doubts and fears swelled up in that moment, cresting over her self-composure, and came crashing through in tears.
But even among the tumult of emotions fighting for release, there was room for embarrassment, and when she finally managed to rein in the worst of her outburst, Morgana pulled herself slowly from Leon’s arms, grimacing at the wet spot on his tunic in which she’d buried her face.
“I’m sorry, I really am,” she murmured, brushing at it ineffectually, least of all to keep herself busy so as to avoid looking him in the eye and finding something there she didn’t want to see. Pity, maybe. “You must think I’m mad.”
Gingerly, Leon reached out to wipe a fallen tear from the side of her jaw. “Not a bit of it.”
She met his eyes then, no judgment or condescension to be found, only the plain sincerity she’d always admired about him. Her stomach twisted, not unpleasantly, and, like a slow dawn, she realised that her regard for him extended well beyond just that of admiration. Her gaze darted to his mouth.
“Leon,” she said, softly, and his hand lingered at her neck.
A sharp rap at the door sounded, and Morgana jumped a little, the spell broken and embarrassment back full-bore. She cleared her throat, not quite knowing what else to do.
Leon slid off the edge of the bed, discovering a fascination with his boots. “I should get that,” he said eventually, and scuttled to the door, returning a moment later with a small cup. “I asked one of the maids if she might bring you some tea with a bit of honey in. I thought you might need it. After all the, er, screaming.”
Morgana’s hand lifted to her throat. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to scare you,” she said in a small voice, and, now that she thought about it, a rather hoarse one as well. She accepted the tea gratefully, cupping both hands around it, its warmth seeping through her fingers. “It’s just -- I have these dreams sometimes.”
Her eyes fell on the broken screen involuntarily; he followed her gaze, and she remembered, with no small amount of anxiety, that this wasn’t the first time he’d seen the after-effects of her nightmares. She couldn’t blame a wayward elbow this time for damage done halfway across the room, nor were there any open windows that might have let in a draught. Her heart froze in her chest as she saw him take stock of the same, but as his attention came to rest on her again, there was nothing in his face to indicate suspicion or condemnation, just the same gentleness she knew.
With slight hesitance, he asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”
She did. She wanted to pour everything out -- the ones that kept her awake at night for fear of dreaming them again; the ones that veered down a different path in reality; the ones that never came true at all -- but instead she shook her head. As much as she wanted to trust him, she knew that revealing anything about her true self would only lead to complications, and distractions were the last thing she needed right now, so close to changing everything. He might be sympathetic, given his compassionate nature, but she’d been burned once before in giving her trust to someone she’d thought was a friend. Leon’s loyalty to the crown, while commendable in any other circumstance, would no doubt present problems if she let slip any inkling about her subterfuge, the worst of which was the real possibility that he would think less of her. And that shouldn’t matter a whit, what anyone else thought of her, but with Leon, inexplicably, it did.
“No, it’s all right; they’re only dreams,” Morgana said, forcing a smile. It melted into a genuine one as she added, “But thank you. You’ve been so kind.”
He nodded, a little bashfully, looking out of his depth, and shuffled towards the door. “I should get back to my post,” Leon said, his hand cradling the iron handle. “If you need anything at all, you know where to find me. Get some rest, my lady.”
Morgana tipped her head in thanks, and leaned back against the headboard, watching the door glide shut. She turned her face to the sunrise, bathed in its pink light, and thought about second chances.
After having been awoken by Leon at an ungodly hour early this morning, Arthur had assumed that he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep once more, so it came as a surprise to him when the sound of birds chirping through the tiny crack in the window pulled him from his slumber. Arthur groaned, reluctantly sticking his head above the sheets, mid-morning sun filling the room with its light. He forced himself into a sitting position, swinging his legs around until his feet made contact with the cold stone floor, all the while wondering where Merlin was. Usually he was poking and prodding and ordering Arthur to wake up long before the sun had risen so high, so why had he not done so this morning as well?
In the middle of his reflections, there was a knock from the other side of Arthur’s chamber door.
“Enter,” he called out, brow furrowing in confusion. Since when did Merlin knock? In fact, beyond the first couple of days of his employment in the royal household, Merlin made a regular habit of not knocking. Ever.
Arthur watched expectantly, several clever retorts waiting eagerly on the tip of his tongue, but just as he was about to spill them, he was forced to rein himself in. Merlin was not the one who entered his chambers. Instead, a scrawny blond serving boy was in his place, carrying Arthur’s breakfast on a tray that appeared far too large for him to handle.
“Who are you?” Arthur asked, before he could prevent the words from slipping past his lips.
The boy froze on the spot, glancing hesitantly up at Arthur before hurriedly averting his gaze once more. It was obvious he wasn’t used to being addressed by royalty and had been trained to show proper deference to his prince. The contrast between this boy and Merlin was startling.
“My name is Harold, sire,” he squawked out pitifully, moving to lay Arthur’s breakfast out for him.
Pushing off the bed, Arthur padded slowly across the room. “Harold, do you know where my regular servant, Merlin, is?”
Shaking his head, Harold kept his eyes lowered and attention focussed on the task at hand. “I’m afraid I don’t, my lord. I was just asked to bring you your breakfast and tend to you this morning.”
Arthur frowned. He didn’t like the sound of that, though it certainly wouldn’t be the first time his lazy servant accidentally slept through his morning chores. Still, given Merlin’s recent behaviour and sullen mood, something like worry struck at the back of Arthur’s mind, insistent and pervading, and he couldn’t quite let it go, no matter how many reassurances he tried to give himself.
Taking it upon himself to wash and dress independently -- servants had always assisted him with dressing, but Arthur had grown accustomed to the intimacy he shared with Merlin; the idea of someone else taking over felt oddly wrong to him now -- Arthur excused himself without so much as tossing a second glance at his breakfast. He could eat later.
It wasn’t that he was afraid, exactly. Worry was too strong a word, even. What Arthur felt could only be classified as something slightly more than indifference, but somewhat less than concern. And he wasn’t tracking down a wayward servant, because princes didn’t do things like that, so he’d been told. No, Arthur was merely heading over to speak with Gaius, should anyone question him, and if he happened to inquire about Merlin while he was there, well that was his personal business and of no concern to anyone else, though he wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince himself, or fabricate a believable lie on the off-chance that he might need it. The reality was that Arthur cared about Merlin, plain and simple, and he wasn’t sure why he felt the need to continue to justify his actions.
Throwing the concern aside, Arthur knocked lightly on Gaius’ door before pushing it open and stepping into his workshop.
“Ah, sire,” Gaius said, smiling warmly and gesturing him inside. “I assume you’re here about Merlin?”
Arthur blinked. He hadn’t been expecting that sort of frankness from Gaius, but then again, it wasn’t so surprising, considering with whom he shared quarters. Well, there was no point in denying it now. “Yeah. He didn’t show up this morning and I came over here to haul his lazy arse out of bed.”
The lie sounded ridiculous even to Arthur’s own ears, and the knowing look Gaius gave Arthur only confirmed that neither of them was buying his claim.
Still, Gaius held his tongue on the subject. “I have to apologise, sire. It’s my fault that Merlin did not show up to attend you this morning. He was up half the night coughing and sneezing. By the time he did finally fall asleep it was nearly time for him to wake up again. So I allowed him to sleep and sent another servant to find a replacement.”
Come to think of it, Merlin hadn’t looked all that great last night either, when he’d come to turn down Arthur’s bed and stoke the fire one final time for the evening. “Yes, he seemed as though he was coming down with something yesterday,” he said thoughtfully, nodding. “I think you made the right decision, Gaius. Whenever he wakes, please inform him that I’ve granted him the day off in which to recuperate.”
“Thank you, sire. I’m sure he’ll be most appreciative.” Gaius ducked his head respectfully, and then returned to the supplies on the table, apparently continuing with whatever he’d been working on before Arthur’s interruption.
For a few foolish moments, Arthur considered asking Gaius if he could see Merlin, just to be sure that he was, in fact, all right. It was absolutely ludicrous that this idea should be running through his mind. Of course Merlin was fine. There was no reason to suspect otherwise, and he scolded himself for allowing his emotions to interfere with logic. Maybe there was some legitimacy to his father’s claim that emotional attachment impacted the ability to think rationally after all. Shaking the thought from his head, Arthur forced his legs to carry him over the threshold, heading back to his chambers, already dreading the notion of spending the day without Merlin by his side.
A perfect picture of stealth, Merlin peered out of his room; he’d heard Arthur leave and shut the door to the workroom about five minutes ago, but he couldn’t be too careful if he wanted to get on with the plan that had formulated in his brain ever since the night before, long after his initial talk with Gaius had passed. If he was being honest with himself, it hadn’t so much formulated as gathered into a barely cohesive mess of thoughts, but he had to act quickly, and his fever wasn’t doing much to help his cognitive processes along.
He’d tried to look for Gwen last night before getting Arthur ready for bed, but had only discovered that Morgana had dismissed her early for the night and she’d gone home before he could speak with her. In any case, he wasn’t sure there was anything Gwen could do anymore about Morgana, not the way things were going now. He’d seen Morgause last night, and even without any further information beyond that of her presence, he knew it spelled no end of trouble.
Ignoring the dull tightness all up and down his body that seemed to have coagulated into one giant, Merlin-shaped ache, he pulled off his night clothes and shoved on whatever happened to be lying around until he looked just presentable enough.
No sooner had he stepped out of his room, however, than Gaius looked up from his workbench and uttered a short exclamation of protest. “What are you doing out of bed, Merlin? I thought I told you to rest.”
“I feel much better,” Merlin lied, trying not to cringe at the effect his congestion had on his speech. He wiped his nose hastily.
Gaius lifted an eyebrow. “You don’t look much better. I’ve seen ghosts looking healthier than you do.”
“Trust me; I’m fine. And I’ve got -- you know, chores to do and things.”
“Ah, well, Arthur came by to look for you but once he found out you were sick, he said you could have the day off.”
“That,” said Merlin, “doesn’t sound like Arthur.”
“He cares about you, Merlin. Even if he does only show it once a year,” Gaius said, a small smile tipping the corners of his mouth.
Merlin screwed his face into a thoughtful frown. He couldn’t think about Arthur just now, or about his equivocation about Morgana’s intentions; he hated lying to Gaius, and worse still was being forced to lie to Arthur, but there would be time to deal with that later, hopefully after he’d managed to foil whatever Morgana was doing.
“Well, then, I don’t want to waste it on this piddling little illness, do I?”
“Are you going to stand there and argue with me all day if I don’t let you out?” Gaius asked, already looking well aware of where this was going.
“Yes?” Merlin said, and tried on his most winning smile.
He appreciated Gaius’ concern, really he did. And at any other time -- barring military attacks, magical creatures wreaking havoc, plots to overthrow the king -- he would have been more than happy to remain in bed for the entire day and be fussed over, but he could feel Camelot’s destruction at hand and if he didn’t do something about it, no one else would.
But he couldn’t tell Gaius that after he’d put Arthur to bed last night, he thought he’d seen Morgause in the castle, coming away from Morgana’s room. For one thing, he’d only caught a brief glimpse of her, and for another, there had been no one in the corridor when he’d gone for a closer look. Even at the best of times Gaius had a tendency to keep his impulses in check with that calm, cautious logic of his, sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worse, and this time, Merlin didn’t want to hear all the reasons why he shouldn’t trust what he’d seen. He knew Gaius would find a way to talk him out of it, and he’d listen, even if he couldn’t let go of his suspicions; adding in the fact that he was ill, it would probably all be ascribed to a fevered hallucination and Gaius would get all up in arms about him being unwell and send him to bed again with something foul to drink.
Gaius made a tutting noise and then sighed. “Well, all right, if you must. But not without taking your medicine first,” he said, reaching for a collection of small bottles full of questionable, murky liquid.
Holding his nose, Merlin downed it and did his best not to throw it right back up. “Okay, that’s over with. I’ll be off, then.”
Shaking his head, Gaius waved him out of the room.
Merlin shut the door quietly behind himself and stood in the hallway, still, for a moment so he could gather his thoughts, which had unravelled into loose threads that he was having trouble connecting again. There was first the mild panic that his glimpse of Morgause had been a split-second delusion and he was going off to chase ghosts; but if it wasn’t -- if it wasn’t just an apparition, that meant that Morgana might still be in league with the sorceress, and she was so much more dangerous than Morgana. Merlin had seen her powers first-hand, and they were frankly terrifying; though he’d defeated his fair share of adversaries in his time, he had no idea how well he’d stand up to Morgause if they had to be pitted against one another. And if he was right about her presence, it seemed more than likely that things would end that way.
Where that would lead him wasn’t a thought he really wanted to entertain; come the moment, he knew he’d do whatever it took to protect his friends and his home, and it would leave him exposed as a sorcerer and traitor to the crown. After that... Well, then he’d die.
Avoiding the paths Arthur usually took, Merlin strode through the castle as confidently as he could, trying not to look like someone who was about to sneak into Morgana’s chambers and riffle through all her belongings to search for proof that she was in cahoots with Morgause. It was a long shot, by any stretch of the imagination; that there would be anything in there that could pass for incriminating evidence was unlikely in the first place, and that Morgana would be so stupid as to leave it lying around was a gamble of even worse odds.
But boldly going around looking for physical proof of other people’s lies had served him uncommonly well in the past, and perhaps if fortune favoured him this morning, it just might work again. And then again, perhaps it was as Arthur always said, and Merlin was just an idiot.
Still, there was no telling which way it would go unless he actually went ahead with it, and Merlin swallowed his anxiety and carried on, slowing as he neared Morgana’s room, hoping with all his might that she was away. If all else failed, however, he could just pretend he was coming over to tell her about his conversation with Arthur and all the lovely little lies he’d told to keep Morgana’s secrets from Arthur. No doubt she’d be wondering anyway if he had done as she’d said, and if she happened to be in her chambers he’d save her the trouble of tracking him down and threatening him some more.
Luck seemed to be on his side for the time being; Sir Leon was nowhere to be seen, and since he’d been assigned to watch over Morgana during the day, it most likely meant that Morgana had already left her room in his company. In his stead, there was a guard stationed in front of the closed doors to deter any potential intruders; his sword was sheathed, but Merlin knew it would be pointed in his face in a trice if he went about this the wrong way. Thankfully, unlike the knights, Camelot’s sentries weren’t well-known for their quick wit, and Merlin came forwards, smiling as brightly as he could through the haze of his illness.
“Morning, sir,” he said, and received a nod of acknowledgement. “Ah, the prince sent me to find out if the Lady Morgana had risen yet.”
“Set out on a walk about ten minutes ago,” said the guard, bored.
“Oh, good, then I won’t be disturbing her ladyship. Prince Arthur,” he said, putting slight emphasis on Arthur’s name, “wanted me to fetch something for him from her rooms.”
Without fanfare, without so much as looking him in the eye, the guard stepped aside and waved him into the room, swinging the door shut helpfully after he’d crossed the threshold. Merlin was briefly thankful for the man’s lack of investigative skills, but made a mental note that if Arthur was ever put under similar protection, he’d make sure to take up a second line of defence right behind them because the whole lot of them were plainly useless.
Combing the room with a glance, Merlin saw nothing particularly out of the ordinary. Apart from her dressing screen apparently having been moved elsewhere, it looked as much as it ever had; furniture still in the same place, the bed made and pulled and tucked to the point of geometric perfection -- that was Gwen’s handiwork, brushes and mirrors lined neatly on top of the dressing table. Merlin rummaged through the wardrobe, stuck his head under the bed, pulled open every available cabinet and drawer and, with what little time he had, even checked the walls for false stones, but came up empty. The lack of letters from Morgause with instructions on how to kill Uther was disappointing, but Merlin knew he’d never had much chance of finding anything truly helpful anyway.
He snatched up a book at random, throwing a merry, “Found it!” at the guard on his way out, and silently thanked whatever gods were looking out for him that no one had been the wiser. Even though he hadn’t found anything to prove Morgana’s treachery, it still wouldn’t have looked very good for him had anyone found him sneaking about. He walked towards Arthur’s chambers with the day’s chores running through his head, figuring that since he was up and about anyway he might as well make himself useful.
Or at least as useful as a servant could be, assuming that servant didn’t know that the king’s ward was executing some nefarious plan against Camelot and was aided by a known and dangerous sorceress. Merlin set the book down and set to straightening out Arthur’s bed linen, frowning to himself. He had no proof of what Morgana was doing; hell, he didn’t even know what exactly Morgana was doing. If he went to Arthur right now and told him everything he knew, Arthur would likely just cuff him on the ear and say it was to jar his brain into working order again. And that was the best case scenario. He couldn’t very well divulge anything of Morgana’s secrets without putting his own in jeopardy, and he had absolutely no doubt that in retaliation Morgana would spill every detail and milk every last drop of his attempt to poison her.
Merlin gave the sheet a vicious tug, the ache in his muscles still very much present, and he scrubbed his face with one hand, as much to dry it of the sheen of sweat his fever kept giving him as to try to purge the weariness from his person. He sniffled, out of necessity, and smiled wanly to himself, remembering the rare concern Arthur had explicitly shown him the day before; if he saw Merlin now he’d probably accuse him of crying and then demand to know how to fix everything.
Was he being selfish? Cowardly? For self-preservation, to remain in Arthur’s good graces, he would let his suspicions about Morgana go unsaid. But even as it made him feel wretched to keep all this from Arthur, there was a part of him too that wanted to hold on to the information for just a little longer, for just enough time to let Morgana change her mind. He knew there was something still in her that held Camelot and its people dear; he knew she still loved Arthur like family, and he was, perhaps vainly so, counting on that to turn the tide. He’d seen the doubts, the fear in her eyes, the hesitation to take his life, even though he’d tried to take hers. There was still something good in Morgana. If he turned on her now, if he chose to reveal what she was and backed her into a corner -- never mind the consequences for his own future -- she might lose her moral compass for good.
And as much as it made for wishful thinking, Merlin could only hope that she would choose to come round of her own free will. He couldn’t make it so; she wasn’t willing to listen to him and he couldn’t blame her for that, but the Morgana he once knew, underneath the hauteur and icy beauty, brimmed with compassion. She’d once ridden with him to fight a fight that wasn’t hers, once saved a little boy’s life at the risk of her own, and time and again openly questioned Uther’s laws when no one else dared to speak up for the innocent. And maybe, if they were lucky, that Morgana would find her way back.
Continue to Chapter Thirteen
Authors: accordingtomel & adelagia
Summary: Three months after her disappearance, Morgana returns to Camelot with a hidden agenda, but she’s not the only one keeping secrets, and a series of unintended revelations forces her, Merlin and Arthur on an intertwined journey of revenge, redemption and love.
Pairings: Merlin/Arthur, Leon/Morgana (elements of Uther/Morgana, Arthur/Gwen)
Rating: PG-13 (eventual NC-17)
Spoilers/Warnings: Everything up to and including 2x13
Word Count: 4,957
Disclaimer: Not ours. No money is being made. Please don’t sue.
Authors’ Note: Thanks so very much once again to ravenflight21 for the beta/Brit-pick.
Previous Chapters: One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven
CHAPTER TWELVE
Morgause glided through the corridors in silence, crimson silk staining the dull grey of the stone; she didn’t belong. Still, she shimmered along with the confidence of purpose, while behind her, Morgana flitted from shadow to shadow on hushed footsteps, one hand braced over her chest to muffle the pounding of her heart. She should call out to Morgause, she thought, but something kept the words buried in her throat, and that same something made her trail behind in secret.
They were outside, all of a sudden, on the purlieu of the forest, and there was Arthur, dirt smeared across his face, armour dented and chainmail so tattered it could serve no other purpose than purely decorative. His forehead glistened with sweat, but the shine of his sword was brighter.
“Arthur Pendragon,” Morgause crooned softly.
“What do you want?” he asked.
Morgana, standing almost between them, remained unnoticed; she was dimly aware that there was a conversation going on, but it was a murmured blur that couldn’t penetrate the shriek of her own fear, and her heart sank, knowing she was powerless to stop whatever was going to happen next. She shouted anyway, tried to get Arthur’s attention, but his focus didn’t waver.
A smile tipped Morgause’s lips, and she raised a palm towards the earth. It trembled to the call of her fingertips. “Ástandan min næssa gryre.”
There were teeth and claws, horns and spines, and a deafening growl that splintered the trees.
Pleasure danced across Morgause’s face. “Kill him.”
Morgana jolted awake, ringing in her ears the mingled sound of her own cries and the sharp crack of her dressing screen as it flew backwards from her unfocussed gaze and smashed against the wall.
Leon crashed into the room, eyes wild and sword poised to strike, bounding towards Morgana’s bed. “Are you all right? What happened?”
She stared at him in mute horror, her throat raw. The vivid red of Arthur’s death slowly faded from her sight, a lambent pre-dawn glow filtering through the windows easing her vision into reality -- her chambers, her bed, pillows and linen -- but terror refused to loosen its grip on her heart, and she reached out, clutched Leon’s hand. “I don’t -- I saw --” she began, words coming in fits and starts like she was finding them piece by piece. “I saw Arthur. Is he -- Is he -- Please, can you check on him?”
“My lady,” Leon said, kneeling at her bedside. He squeezed her hand, and asked again, softly, “Are you all right?”
“Fine,” she whispered, and searched his face imploringly. “Please, see about Arthur?”
With some reluctance, and obviously not believing that she was fine, Leon rose to his feet. “As you wish. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Morgana watched him go, her heart skipping a beat when he noticed with a slight start the mangled state of her dressing screen, but he made no comment and slipped out of the room. She drew her knees up to her chest, hugging herself tightly. She was no stranger to nightmares, and more terrifying than the images conjured up in her sleeping mind was the fact that she hadn’t yet learned of a way to distinguish dreams from visions. That she had premonitory powers was clear, but whether this was truly a warning about the future, her latent intuition questioning Morgause’s trustworthiness, or merely odds and ends of a troubled sleep, there was no telling.
She drew the back of her hand across her eyes, wiping dry unshed tears. Of course she trusted Morgause; of course she did. Only, unlike most dreams, which wisped away with each waking moment, this one clung to the edges of her memory, its violent imprint seared into her mind’s eye -- the slash of claws and the tang of blood in the air, and Arthur, helpless and dying, and Morgause, smiling, all the while smiling.
She felt as though she might be sick.
Before long, the door eased open again, and Leon let himself in, slightly apologetic, as if he felt he was trespassing. “Prince Arthur is fine. In the pink of health. Though,” he said, one side of his mouth tilting upwards, “not best pleased about being woken this early in the morning.”
Relief flooded through her veins, even as she reprimanded herself for making mountains of molehills, and along with it came a desperate urge to cry. She forced it down, hard.
Leon strode forward suddenly. “You’re shaking,” he said. “Morgana.”
It was his hand on her shoulder that undid her, this human touch, a simple kindness. She was sure she hadn’t imagined him drawing away after witnessing her kiss with Uther, but in spite of whatever he thought of her, here he was offering his warmth again for nothing in return. The knot that had built in her throat multiplied, and burst out of her in a sob so plaintive it startled even her. Instantly, Leon was there, next to her on the bed, slightly stiff and surprised to find a crying girl in his arms, but there all the same, making soothing noises and patting her on the back.
She didn’t know what she was doing -- breaking down like this; coming back to Camelot; trying, nearly single-handedly, to overthrow an iron regime. Compounded by the horrifying vision of Arthur’s death, all her doubts and fears swelled up in that moment, cresting over her self-composure, and came crashing through in tears.
But even among the tumult of emotions fighting for release, there was room for embarrassment, and when she finally managed to rein in the worst of her outburst, Morgana pulled herself slowly from Leon’s arms, grimacing at the wet spot on his tunic in which she’d buried her face.
“I’m sorry, I really am,” she murmured, brushing at it ineffectually, least of all to keep herself busy so as to avoid looking him in the eye and finding something there she didn’t want to see. Pity, maybe. “You must think I’m mad.”
Gingerly, Leon reached out to wipe a fallen tear from the side of her jaw. “Not a bit of it.”
She met his eyes then, no judgment or condescension to be found, only the plain sincerity she’d always admired about him. Her stomach twisted, not unpleasantly, and, like a slow dawn, she realised that her regard for him extended well beyond just that of admiration. Her gaze darted to his mouth.
“Leon,” she said, softly, and his hand lingered at her neck.
A sharp rap at the door sounded, and Morgana jumped a little, the spell broken and embarrassment back full-bore. She cleared her throat, not quite knowing what else to do.
Leon slid off the edge of the bed, discovering a fascination with his boots. “I should get that,” he said eventually, and scuttled to the door, returning a moment later with a small cup. “I asked one of the maids if she might bring you some tea with a bit of honey in. I thought you might need it. After all the, er, screaming.”
Morgana’s hand lifted to her throat. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to scare you,” she said in a small voice, and, now that she thought about it, a rather hoarse one as well. She accepted the tea gratefully, cupping both hands around it, its warmth seeping through her fingers. “It’s just -- I have these dreams sometimes.”
Her eyes fell on the broken screen involuntarily; he followed her gaze, and she remembered, with no small amount of anxiety, that this wasn’t the first time he’d seen the after-effects of her nightmares. She couldn’t blame a wayward elbow this time for damage done halfway across the room, nor were there any open windows that might have let in a draught. Her heart froze in her chest as she saw him take stock of the same, but as his attention came to rest on her again, there was nothing in his face to indicate suspicion or condemnation, just the same gentleness she knew.
With slight hesitance, he asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”
She did. She wanted to pour everything out -- the ones that kept her awake at night for fear of dreaming them again; the ones that veered down a different path in reality; the ones that never came true at all -- but instead she shook her head. As much as she wanted to trust him, she knew that revealing anything about her true self would only lead to complications, and distractions were the last thing she needed right now, so close to changing everything. He might be sympathetic, given his compassionate nature, but she’d been burned once before in giving her trust to someone she’d thought was a friend. Leon’s loyalty to the crown, while commendable in any other circumstance, would no doubt present problems if she let slip any inkling about her subterfuge, the worst of which was the real possibility that he would think less of her. And that shouldn’t matter a whit, what anyone else thought of her, but with Leon, inexplicably, it did.
“No, it’s all right; they’re only dreams,” Morgana said, forcing a smile. It melted into a genuine one as she added, “But thank you. You’ve been so kind.”
He nodded, a little bashfully, looking out of his depth, and shuffled towards the door. “I should get back to my post,” Leon said, his hand cradling the iron handle. “If you need anything at all, you know where to find me. Get some rest, my lady.”
Morgana tipped her head in thanks, and leaned back against the headboard, watching the door glide shut. She turned her face to the sunrise, bathed in its pink light, and thought about second chances.
After having been awoken by Leon at an ungodly hour early this morning, Arthur had assumed that he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep once more, so it came as a surprise to him when the sound of birds chirping through the tiny crack in the window pulled him from his slumber. Arthur groaned, reluctantly sticking his head above the sheets, mid-morning sun filling the room with its light. He forced himself into a sitting position, swinging his legs around until his feet made contact with the cold stone floor, all the while wondering where Merlin was. Usually he was poking and prodding and ordering Arthur to wake up long before the sun had risen so high, so why had he not done so this morning as well?
In the middle of his reflections, there was a knock from the other side of Arthur’s chamber door.
“Enter,” he called out, brow furrowing in confusion. Since when did Merlin knock? In fact, beyond the first couple of days of his employment in the royal household, Merlin made a regular habit of not knocking. Ever.
Arthur watched expectantly, several clever retorts waiting eagerly on the tip of his tongue, but just as he was about to spill them, he was forced to rein himself in. Merlin was not the one who entered his chambers. Instead, a scrawny blond serving boy was in his place, carrying Arthur’s breakfast on a tray that appeared far too large for him to handle.
“Who are you?” Arthur asked, before he could prevent the words from slipping past his lips.
The boy froze on the spot, glancing hesitantly up at Arthur before hurriedly averting his gaze once more. It was obvious he wasn’t used to being addressed by royalty and had been trained to show proper deference to his prince. The contrast between this boy and Merlin was startling.
“My name is Harold, sire,” he squawked out pitifully, moving to lay Arthur’s breakfast out for him.
Pushing off the bed, Arthur padded slowly across the room. “Harold, do you know where my regular servant, Merlin, is?”
Shaking his head, Harold kept his eyes lowered and attention focussed on the task at hand. “I’m afraid I don’t, my lord. I was just asked to bring you your breakfast and tend to you this morning.”
Arthur frowned. He didn’t like the sound of that, though it certainly wouldn’t be the first time his lazy servant accidentally slept through his morning chores. Still, given Merlin’s recent behaviour and sullen mood, something like worry struck at the back of Arthur’s mind, insistent and pervading, and he couldn’t quite let it go, no matter how many reassurances he tried to give himself.
Taking it upon himself to wash and dress independently -- servants had always assisted him with dressing, but Arthur had grown accustomed to the intimacy he shared with Merlin; the idea of someone else taking over felt oddly wrong to him now -- Arthur excused himself without so much as tossing a second glance at his breakfast. He could eat later.
It wasn’t that he was afraid, exactly. Worry was too strong a word, even. What Arthur felt could only be classified as something slightly more than indifference, but somewhat less than concern. And he wasn’t tracking down a wayward servant, because princes didn’t do things like that, so he’d been told. No, Arthur was merely heading over to speak with Gaius, should anyone question him, and if he happened to inquire about Merlin while he was there, well that was his personal business and of no concern to anyone else, though he wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince himself, or fabricate a believable lie on the off-chance that he might need it. The reality was that Arthur cared about Merlin, plain and simple, and he wasn’t sure why he felt the need to continue to justify his actions.
Throwing the concern aside, Arthur knocked lightly on Gaius’ door before pushing it open and stepping into his workshop.
“Ah, sire,” Gaius said, smiling warmly and gesturing him inside. “I assume you’re here about Merlin?”
Arthur blinked. He hadn’t been expecting that sort of frankness from Gaius, but then again, it wasn’t so surprising, considering with whom he shared quarters. Well, there was no point in denying it now. “Yeah. He didn’t show up this morning and I came over here to haul his lazy arse out of bed.”
The lie sounded ridiculous even to Arthur’s own ears, and the knowing look Gaius gave Arthur only confirmed that neither of them was buying his claim.
Still, Gaius held his tongue on the subject. “I have to apologise, sire. It’s my fault that Merlin did not show up to attend you this morning. He was up half the night coughing and sneezing. By the time he did finally fall asleep it was nearly time for him to wake up again. So I allowed him to sleep and sent another servant to find a replacement.”
Come to think of it, Merlin hadn’t looked all that great last night either, when he’d come to turn down Arthur’s bed and stoke the fire one final time for the evening. “Yes, he seemed as though he was coming down with something yesterday,” he said thoughtfully, nodding. “I think you made the right decision, Gaius. Whenever he wakes, please inform him that I’ve granted him the day off in which to recuperate.”
“Thank you, sire. I’m sure he’ll be most appreciative.” Gaius ducked his head respectfully, and then returned to the supplies on the table, apparently continuing with whatever he’d been working on before Arthur’s interruption.
For a few foolish moments, Arthur considered asking Gaius if he could see Merlin, just to be sure that he was, in fact, all right. It was absolutely ludicrous that this idea should be running through his mind. Of course Merlin was fine. There was no reason to suspect otherwise, and he scolded himself for allowing his emotions to interfere with logic. Maybe there was some legitimacy to his father’s claim that emotional attachment impacted the ability to think rationally after all. Shaking the thought from his head, Arthur forced his legs to carry him over the threshold, heading back to his chambers, already dreading the notion of spending the day without Merlin by his side.
A perfect picture of stealth, Merlin peered out of his room; he’d heard Arthur leave and shut the door to the workroom about five minutes ago, but he couldn’t be too careful if he wanted to get on with the plan that had formulated in his brain ever since the night before, long after his initial talk with Gaius had passed. If he was being honest with himself, it hadn’t so much formulated as gathered into a barely cohesive mess of thoughts, but he had to act quickly, and his fever wasn’t doing much to help his cognitive processes along.
He’d tried to look for Gwen last night before getting Arthur ready for bed, but had only discovered that Morgana had dismissed her early for the night and she’d gone home before he could speak with her. In any case, he wasn’t sure there was anything Gwen could do anymore about Morgana, not the way things were going now. He’d seen Morgause last night, and even without any further information beyond that of her presence, he knew it spelled no end of trouble.
Ignoring the dull tightness all up and down his body that seemed to have coagulated into one giant, Merlin-shaped ache, he pulled off his night clothes and shoved on whatever happened to be lying around until he looked just presentable enough.
No sooner had he stepped out of his room, however, than Gaius looked up from his workbench and uttered a short exclamation of protest. “What are you doing out of bed, Merlin? I thought I told you to rest.”
“I feel much better,” Merlin lied, trying not to cringe at the effect his congestion had on his speech. He wiped his nose hastily.
Gaius lifted an eyebrow. “You don’t look much better. I’ve seen ghosts looking healthier than you do.”
“Trust me; I’m fine. And I’ve got -- you know, chores to do and things.”
“Ah, well, Arthur came by to look for you but once he found out you were sick, he said you could have the day off.”
“That,” said Merlin, “doesn’t sound like Arthur.”
“He cares about you, Merlin. Even if he does only show it once a year,” Gaius said, a small smile tipping the corners of his mouth.
Merlin screwed his face into a thoughtful frown. He couldn’t think about Arthur just now, or about his equivocation about Morgana’s intentions; he hated lying to Gaius, and worse still was being forced to lie to Arthur, but there would be time to deal with that later, hopefully after he’d managed to foil whatever Morgana was doing.
“Well, then, I don’t want to waste it on this piddling little illness, do I?”
“Are you going to stand there and argue with me all day if I don’t let you out?” Gaius asked, already looking well aware of where this was going.
“Yes?” Merlin said, and tried on his most winning smile.
He appreciated Gaius’ concern, really he did. And at any other time -- barring military attacks, magical creatures wreaking havoc, plots to overthrow the king -- he would have been more than happy to remain in bed for the entire day and be fussed over, but he could feel Camelot’s destruction at hand and if he didn’t do something about it, no one else would.
But he couldn’t tell Gaius that after he’d put Arthur to bed last night, he thought he’d seen Morgause in the castle, coming away from Morgana’s room. For one thing, he’d only caught a brief glimpse of her, and for another, there had been no one in the corridor when he’d gone for a closer look. Even at the best of times Gaius had a tendency to keep his impulses in check with that calm, cautious logic of his, sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worse, and this time, Merlin didn’t want to hear all the reasons why he shouldn’t trust what he’d seen. He knew Gaius would find a way to talk him out of it, and he’d listen, even if he couldn’t let go of his suspicions; adding in the fact that he was ill, it would probably all be ascribed to a fevered hallucination and Gaius would get all up in arms about him being unwell and send him to bed again with something foul to drink.
Gaius made a tutting noise and then sighed. “Well, all right, if you must. But not without taking your medicine first,” he said, reaching for a collection of small bottles full of questionable, murky liquid.
Holding his nose, Merlin downed it and did his best not to throw it right back up. “Okay, that’s over with. I’ll be off, then.”
Shaking his head, Gaius waved him out of the room.
Merlin shut the door quietly behind himself and stood in the hallway, still, for a moment so he could gather his thoughts, which had unravelled into loose threads that he was having trouble connecting again. There was first the mild panic that his glimpse of Morgause had been a split-second delusion and he was going off to chase ghosts; but if it wasn’t -- if it wasn’t just an apparition, that meant that Morgana might still be in league with the sorceress, and she was so much more dangerous than Morgana. Merlin had seen her powers first-hand, and they were frankly terrifying; though he’d defeated his fair share of adversaries in his time, he had no idea how well he’d stand up to Morgause if they had to be pitted against one another. And if he was right about her presence, it seemed more than likely that things would end that way.
Where that would lead him wasn’t a thought he really wanted to entertain; come the moment, he knew he’d do whatever it took to protect his friends and his home, and it would leave him exposed as a sorcerer and traitor to the crown. After that... Well, then he’d die.
Avoiding the paths Arthur usually took, Merlin strode through the castle as confidently as he could, trying not to look like someone who was about to sneak into Morgana’s chambers and riffle through all her belongings to search for proof that she was in cahoots with Morgause. It was a long shot, by any stretch of the imagination; that there would be anything in there that could pass for incriminating evidence was unlikely in the first place, and that Morgana would be so stupid as to leave it lying around was a gamble of even worse odds.
But boldly going around looking for physical proof of other people’s lies had served him uncommonly well in the past, and perhaps if fortune favoured him this morning, it just might work again. And then again, perhaps it was as Arthur always said, and Merlin was just an idiot.
Still, there was no telling which way it would go unless he actually went ahead with it, and Merlin swallowed his anxiety and carried on, slowing as he neared Morgana’s room, hoping with all his might that she was away. If all else failed, however, he could just pretend he was coming over to tell her about his conversation with Arthur and all the lovely little lies he’d told to keep Morgana’s secrets from Arthur. No doubt she’d be wondering anyway if he had done as she’d said, and if she happened to be in her chambers he’d save her the trouble of tracking him down and threatening him some more.
Luck seemed to be on his side for the time being; Sir Leon was nowhere to be seen, and since he’d been assigned to watch over Morgana during the day, it most likely meant that Morgana had already left her room in his company. In his stead, there was a guard stationed in front of the closed doors to deter any potential intruders; his sword was sheathed, but Merlin knew it would be pointed in his face in a trice if he went about this the wrong way. Thankfully, unlike the knights, Camelot’s sentries weren’t well-known for their quick wit, and Merlin came forwards, smiling as brightly as he could through the haze of his illness.
“Morning, sir,” he said, and received a nod of acknowledgement. “Ah, the prince sent me to find out if the Lady Morgana had risen yet.”
“Set out on a walk about ten minutes ago,” said the guard, bored.
“Oh, good, then I won’t be disturbing her ladyship. Prince Arthur,” he said, putting slight emphasis on Arthur’s name, “wanted me to fetch something for him from her rooms.”
Without fanfare, without so much as looking him in the eye, the guard stepped aside and waved him into the room, swinging the door shut helpfully after he’d crossed the threshold. Merlin was briefly thankful for the man’s lack of investigative skills, but made a mental note that if Arthur was ever put under similar protection, he’d make sure to take up a second line of defence right behind them because the whole lot of them were plainly useless.
Combing the room with a glance, Merlin saw nothing particularly out of the ordinary. Apart from her dressing screen apparently having been moved elsewhere, it looked as much as it ever had; furniture still in the same place, the bed made and pulled and tucked to the point of geometric perfection -- that was Gwen’s handiwork, brushes and mirrors lined neatly on top of the dressing table. Merlin rummaged through the wardrobe, stuck his head under the bed, pulled open every available cabinet and drawer and, with what little time he had, even checked the walls for false stones, but came up empty. The lack of letters from Morgause with instructions on how to kill Uther was disappointing, but Merlin knew he’d never had much chance of finding anything truly helpful anyway.
He snatched up a book at random, throwing a merry, “Found it!” at the guard on his way out, and silently thanked whatever gods were looking out for him that no one had been the wiser. Even though he hadn’t found anything to prove Morgana’s treachery, it still wouldn’t have looked very good for him had anyone found him sneaking about. He walked towards Arthur’s chambers with the day’s chores running through his head, figuring that since he was up and about anyway he might as well make himself useful.
Or at least as useful as a servant could be, assuming that servant didn’t know that the king’s ward was executing some nefarious plan against Camelot and was aided by a known and dangerous sorceress. Merlin set the book down and set to straightening out Arthur’s bed linen, frowning to himself. He had no proof of what Morgana was doing; hell, he didn’t even know what exactly Morgana was doing. If he went to Arthur right now and told him everything he knew, Arthur would likely just cuff him on the ear and say it was to jar his brain into working order again. And that was the best case scenario. He couldn’t very well divulge anything of Morgana’s secrets without putting his own in jeopardy, and he had absolutely no doubt that in retaliation Morgana would spill every detail and milk every last drop of his attempt to poison her.
Merlin gave the sheet a vicious tug, the ache in his muscles still very much present, and he scrubbed his face with one hand, as much to dry it of the sheen of sweat his fever kept giving him as to try to purge the weariness from his person. He sniffled, out of necessity, and smiled wanly to himself, remembering the rare concern Arthur had explicitly shown him the day before; if he saw Merlin now he’d probably accuse him of crying and then demand to know how to fix everything.
Was he being selfish? Cowardly? For self-preservation, to remain in Arthur’s good graces, he would let his suspicions about Morgana go unsaid. But even as it made him feel wretched to keep all this from Arthur, there was a part of him too that wanted to hold on to the information for just a little longer, for just enough time to let Morgana change her mind. He knew there was something still in her that held Camelot and its people dear; he knew she still loved Arthur like family, and he was, perhaps vainly so, counting on that to turn the tide. He’d seen the doubts, the fear in her eyes, the hesitation to take his life, even though he’d tried to take hers. There was still something good in Morgana. If he turned on her now, if he chose to reveal what she was and backed her into a corner -- never mind the consequences for his own future -- she might lose her moral compass for good.
And as much as it made for wishful thinking, Merlin could only hope that she would choose to come round of her own free will. He couldn’t make it so; she wasn’t willing to listen to him and he couldn’t blame her for that, but the Morgana he once knew, underneath the hauteur and icy beauty, brimmed with compassion. She’d once ridden with him to fight a fight that wasn’t hers, once saved a little boy’s life at the risk of her own, and time and again openly questioned Uther’s laws when no one else dared to speak up for the innocent. And maybe, if they were lucky, that Morgana would find her way back.
Continue to Chapter Thirteen