Merlin, "The Chill of Morning" Uther/Morgana rated PG-13
Fandom: Merlin, BBC series
Title: The Chill of Morning
Characters/Pairing: Uther/Morgana
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None really; implications, descriptions of battle
Word Count: 1,391
Genre: Angst/Drama
Spoilers: Season One
Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin, the BBC One does.
Notes: This is my first Merlin fic.
Summary: After some troubling visions, Morgana wakes one early morning and shares an esoteric moment with Uther.
The Chill of Morning
Morgana never dreamed any more. She slept and saw only terror filled with puppets of blood and meat, littering the ground in pieces as screaming swords foretold the prophecy of destruction.
Sometimes she envisioned Arthur. His blond hair caked with red as an old and tired Merlin held him in his lap, clutching his broken corpse in tears and bemoaning his failures.
But mostly, she saw Uther and how his wickedness crept behind him in the shadows; ready to slay him as his injustices returned. Sometimes she was his killer, and other times she held his arm, watching like a lifeless doll as a dagger struck him from behind. Of all these dreams, Morgana was convinced that Uther would not die on the battlefield where kings were meant. He would die at her side, and whether or not it was by her hand, their fates were secure.
His blood would soak the earth and ruin the hem of her long green dress. Then, the world will take its sacrifice, and history would return to its unwinding motion. Arthur would be king just before the dawn of that day.
She woke from this nightmare, finding a snag in the endless loop and drawing the cold morning air into her lungs. Her bed sheets were disheveled, and she felt her insides whine for release. Slowly she sat up and made her way over to her chamber restroom. When she was done, she looked back at her bed mournfully. Morgana couldn’t go back to that - not to that place where evil and good kings alike died at her feet.
She drew open the curtain slightly and peered out the window. The sun hadn’t even peeked out of the horizon yet, and it was still too early for most people to be awake. Morgana decided to stay up anyway, and she draped her gray shawl over her shoulders. She quietly creaked open her door and surveyed the halls outside. An ominous silence lingered, and as she set one foot in front of the other, the tapping of her feet became the only echoing sound.
She heard nothing for minutes yet continued down the long halls. She tried to think of nothing, willing the residual blood to wash off her memories. She shuddered when Uther’s eyes stared up at her as his soul expired. Grey and glossy, she looked inside the heart she was convinced was so black, and saw nothing.
And Morgana felt guilty for it even though he was not dead.
She walked onward, and the castle seemed so massive and frozen around her without voices and noise to keep it alive. Then, she heard a faint sound coming from the practice rooms. Instantly, she felt drawn to it.
With the door slightly ajar, Morgana peered inside. She inhaled a draught a breath and felt like she had time-traveled. Uther was practicing his sword early in the morning, just as she had witnessed so many times when she’d been a little girl.
He spun around anxiously when she opened the door and strode in.
“Morgana,” he whispered. A moment stretched between them, and Morgana bowed. “What are you doing awake at this time of morning? Couldn’t you sleep?” His sword relaxed at his side, and Morgana wondered idly if he should be so comfortable with her. Her dreams zipped back for a moment, and she shook them aside.
“No,” she answered quietly, turning her gaze from him and studying the swords and equipment in the room. “And I do not want to go back to sleep. Not today.”
She saw him nod slowly from the corner of her eye. Her distance seemed to spur his concern. She turned her gaze back on him, and she looked him over. His body was tense from the work out, and perspiration melded his skin and his flimsy clothes together. Light reflected in a glint on his blade, and she wondered absently how many bloody stories it could tell.
“I apologize if I disturbed you, sire,” she said formally. Uther stiffened.
“No, it’s alright. If you would like to stay…” he offered, she nodded once and stepped out of the way closer to the wall. He didn’t seem bothered by her presence. After all, she had watched him when she was a child. He awed her, mostly because she would watch him like she had of her father, but Uther exercised differently - with his motion of the sword, the way his muscles tensed and the poses his body made. Different, yet experienced. He was poised yet bloodthirsty, noble yet coarse. They way he positioned his feet and struck his sword in the air showed that such muscles were used often, just as his lungs were used to breathing the air.
Morgana blinked when he was finished, and he began putting away his sword and wiping the sweat from his brow. She had said nothing the entire time but found comfort in watching him practice so lively when he had died so miserably in her nightmare. For as ripe in age as he was, it was no doubt that Uther kept fit and ready, sharp and quick-witted like any warrior king would.
It was a consolation to her that at least he moved before her eyes well and alive.
He turned to speak to her, but stilled as she moved toward him in a daze. The visions pulled at her emotions again, and she had very little will to blockade the tears. She heard him gasp, and she reached up her hands and framed his face. She muffled a choked sob, and she bit hard on her words.
She could never say she was sorry about the recent past. Uther must never know that she once plotted to kill him.
She could never say she was sorry for the future. He was not dead yet, even though vision upon vision pointed accusingly at her.
Her hands smoothed out his rugged cheeks, and she watched him close his eyes. He moved closer to her, and she leaned into him softly.
“I’m scared,” was all she could managed to say, which spurred the king to take her into his arms soothingly. She felt the rough leather of his gloves comb gently through her hair, and she leaned against his chest.
Somewhere deep inside her core, she hated this man. She hated him enough to know he deserved to die. Something pulled her back though. She teetered on a cliff. Arthur should be king, and Uther should die so the Old Ways could come back.
But when he held her like this, when he apologized that day in front of her father’s grave, she couldn’t see it through.
She felt the smooth fabric of his gloved hands caress across her cheek and then slowly brush over her bottom lip. He froze for a moment, and he watched her with compassionate thoughts that purified the hollow darkness in his eyes. He leaned down and pressed a light kiss on her lips.
It might have been chaste and even familial, but Morgana felt an auspicious jolt within the nexus of their lips. Something was born there, perhaps a starting point to the end of her childhood and the beginning of her womanhood. For Morgana, it was something more telling. She was beginning to see the king in an evolved way, and it seemed like he felt the same.
He pulled away from her, watching her and looking for a sign of drying tears. He took her arm and pulled her along. “Come on; let us get something to eat.”
She nodded but still felt empty and scared. He led her down the hall, and she followed in pace by his side. Thoughts and visions haunted her, but her body was lulled from her own uncertainty.
Would she be a passive strumpet at his side or would she fill a more aggressive role against him? Signs were muddy, and the answer was probably somewhere in her dreams of blood.
As she felt Uther’s warm arm against hers, Morgana was certain of one thing. She couldn’t just linger around idly and do nothing as darker days rolled upon them. And if she let the king kiss her again, she knew it would plant yet another seed in their grim destinies.
END
Title: The Chill of Morning
Characters/Pairing: Uther/Morgana
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None really; implications, descriptions of battle
Word Count: 1,391
Genre: Angst/Drama
Spoilers: Season One
Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin, the BBC One does.
Notes: This is my first Merlin fic.
Summary: After some troubling visions, Morgana wakes one early morning and shares an esoteric moment with Uther.
The Chill of Morning
Morgana never dreamed any more. She slept and saw only terror filled with puppets of blood and meat, littering the ground in pieces as screaming swords foretold the prophecy of destruction.
Sometimes she envisioned Arthur. His blond hair caked with red as an old and tired Merlin held him in his lap, clutching his broken corpse in tears and bemoaning his failures.
But mostly, she saw Uther and how his wickedness crept behind him in the shadows; ready to slay him as his injustices returned. Sometimes she was his killer, and other times she held his arm, watching like a lifeless doll as a dagger struck him from behind. Of all these dreams, Morgana was convinced that Uther would not die on the battlefield where kings were meant. He would die at her side, and whether or not it was by her hand, their fates were secure.
His blood would soak the earth and ruin the hem of her long green dress. Then, the world will take its sacrifice, and history would return to its unwinding motion. Arthur would be king just before the dawn of that day.
She woke from this nightmare, finding a snag in the endless loop and drawing the cold morning air into her lungs. Her bed sheets were disheveled, and she felt her insides whine for release. Slowly she sat up and made her way over to her chamber restroom. When she was done, she looked back at her bed mournfully. Morgana couldn’t go back to that - not to that place where evil and good kings alike died at her feet.
She drew open the curtain slightly and peered out the window. The sun hadn’t even peeked out of the horizon yet, and it was still too early for most people to be awake. Morgana decided to stay up anyway, and she draped her gray shawl over her shoulders. She quietly creaked open her door and surveyed the halls outside. An ominous silence lingered, and as she set one foot in front of the other, the tapping of her feet became the only echoing sound.
She heard nothing for minutes yet continued down the long halls. She tried to think of nothing, willing the residual blood to wash off her memories. She shuddered when Uther’s eyes stared up at her as his soul expired. Grey and glossy, she looked inside the heart she was convinced was so black, and saw nothing.
And Morgana felt guilty for it even though he was not dead.
She walked onward, and the castle seemed so massive and frozen around her without voices and noise to keep it alive. Then, she heard a faint sound coming from the practice rooms. Instantly, she felt drawn to it.
With the door slightly ajar, Morgana peered inside. She inhaled a draught a breath and felt like she had time-traveled. Uther was practicing his sword early in the morning, just as she had witnessed so many times when she’d been a little girl.
He spun around anxiously when she opened the door and strode in.
“Morgana,” he whispered. A moment stretched between them, and Morgana bowed. “What are you doing awake at this time of morning? Couldn’t you sleep?” His sword relaxed at his side, and Morgana wondered idly if he should be so comfortable with her. Her dreams zipped back for a moment, and she shook them aside.
“No,” she answered quietly, turning her gaze from him and studying the swords and equipment in the room. “And I do not want to go back to sleep. Not today.”
She saw him nod slowly from the corner of her eye. Her distance seemed to spur his concern. She turned her gaze back on him, and she looked him over. His body was tense from the work out, and perspiration melded his skin and his flimsy clothes together. Light reflected in a glint on his blade, and she wondered absently how many bloody stories it could tell.
“I apologize if I disturbed you, sire,” she said formally. Uther stiffened.
“No, it’s alright. If you would like to stay…” he offered, she nodded once and stepped out of the way closer to the wall. He didn’t seem bothered by her presence. After all, she had watched him when she was a child. He awed her, mostly because she would watch him like she had of her father, but Uther exercised differently - with his motion of the sword, the way his muscles tensed and the poses his body made. Different, yet experienced. He was poised yet bloodthirsty, noble yet coarse. They way he positioned his feet and struck his sword in the air showed that such muscles were used often, just as his lungs were used to breathing the air.
Morgana blinked when he was finished, and he began putting away his sword and wiping the sweat from his brow. She had said nothing the entire time but found comfort in watching him practice so lively when he had died so miserably in her nightmare. For as ripe in age as he was, it was no doubt that Uther kept fit and ready, sharp and quick-witted like any warrior king would.
It was a consolation to her that at least he moved before her eyes well and alive.
He turned to speak to her, but stilled as she moved toward him in a daze. The visions pulled at her emotions again, and she had very little will to blockade the tears. She heard him gasp, and she reached up her hands and framed his face. She muffled a choked sob, and she bit hard on her words.
She could never say she was sorry about the recent past. Uther must never know that she once plotted to kill him.
She could never say she was sorry for the future. He was not dead yet, even though vision upon vision pointed accusingly at her.
Her hands smoothed out his rugged cheeks, and she watched him close his eyes. He moved closer to her, and she leaned into him softly.
“I’m scared,” was all she could managed to say, which spurred the king to take her into his arms soothingly. She felt the rough leather of his gloves comb gently through her hair, and she leaned against his chest.
Somewhere deep inside her core, she hated this man. She hated him enough to know he deserved to die. Something pulled her back though. She teetered on a cliff. Arthur should be king, and Uther should die so the Old Ways could come back.
But when he held her like this, when he apologized that day in front of her father’s grave, she couldn’t see it through.
She felt the smooth fabric of his gloved hands caress across her cheek and then slowly brush over her bottom lip. He froze for a moment, and he watched her with compassionate thoughts that purified the hollow darkness in his eyes. He leaned down and pressed a light kiss on her lips.
It might have been chaste and even familial, but Morgana felt an auspicious jolt within the nexus of their lips. Something was born there, perhaps a starting point to the end of her childhood and the beginning of her womanhood. For Morgana, it was something more telling. She was beginning to see the king in an evolved way, and it seemed like he felt the same.
He pulled away from her, watching her and looking for a sign of drying tears. He took her arm and pulled her along. “Come on; let us get something to eat.”
She nodded but still felt empty and scared. He led her down the hall, and she followed in pace by his side. Thoughts and visions haunted her, but her body was lulled from her own uncertainty.
Would she be a passive strumpet at his side or would she fill a more aggressive role against him? Signs were muddy, and the answer was probably somewhere in her dreams of blood.
As she felt Uther’s warm arm against hers, Morgana was certain of one thing. She couldn’t just linger around idly and do nothing as darker days rolled upon them. And if she let the king kiss her again, she knew it would plant yet another seed in their grim destinies.
END