Fic: A Greater Compliment Than Love (Merlin, PG, 2x02 tag)
This story is slightly ridiculous, but not in a funny-haha kind of way. Bear with me, I'm sure I'll manage porn or fluff sometime this century.
A Greater Compliment Than Love | Merlin | PG | 6k words
After the spring tournament, loose ends meet in a forest clearing, and things begin to unravel. Tag for Merlin 2x02
A Greater Compliment Than Love
“To be trusted is a greater compliment than being loved.”
~ George MacDonald
A hint of winter still burdens the air with the taste of small ice crystals, but the green of new leaves has long since taken possession of the forest. Spring is finally wiping the slate clean and Merlin breathes deeply, free to himself for a couple of hours as he searches out the herbs Gaius needs for his potions. Sunlight streams into the clearing, giving everything a soft glow and promising a warmth the air is not quite ready to deliver.
Gwen sits on a tree stump, colourful silk gowns spread across her lap; she's threading golden yarn through a needle and everything sparkles in the light. She's radiant and for a moment Merlin feels regret. For a while there he'd thought that she was interested in him that way, before they'd fallen into their comfortable friendship like two pieces of a puzzle.
"Hey," he says and smiles as she turns to him. He sets his herb pouch down next to the basket with her mending supplies and sits on the slightly damp grass.
They are quiet for a while, listening to the world around them. Merlin knows there is something on her mind, it radiates from her like the heat off the palace kitchen furnace. He doesn't quite know how to ask, so he sits, a blade of grass between his fingers, and waits.
Her fingers are still, curled into the soft fabric of one of Morgana's dresses, when she says, "He kissed me."
As he processes the words, Merlin feels the bottom drop out of the world. His sight goes white and blurry, every breath burns in his lungs and he can hear the thrumming of his heartbeat in his ears. He thinks, a little hysterically, that this is what it must be like to drown. He remembers them standing so close, the dinner for two, Arthur's little secret smiles all for Gwen.
"Merlin?" Her voice comes from far away and tears at something inside him. He can't even-
"Oh," he says, because he has to say something and he doesn't even know what he's thinking. He wants to get out, run away, be somewhere where he can let the magic out that threatens to consume him. He doesn't think he'll be able to stand, feels queasy like maybe he's about to throw up.
"Merlin, what's wrong?"
Her hands come to rest on his face and he can't tell if the fingers are hot or cold, but they burn. He shakes her off, weakly, and tries to get away, but the grip she gets on his arm is amazingly strong. Blacksmith's daughter. He looks at her and tries to smile, failing utterly. Her gaze is hard, the expression more fierce than he's seen her since Ealdor.
"Merlin," she says, a sound like the jousting lances hitting armor, "talk to me. You're scaring me here. Please, say something."
He shakes his head, just enough to make her face fall. What can he say? His thoughts are racing in time with his heart and he can't- he doesn't even-
"Oh," she says, a mirror of his own breathless exclamation, and her eyes fill with emotion he can't even begin to guess at. The hands drop away and she sits back; Merlin wonders idly if she's flushing with heat like he is, embarrassed and still stinging with whatever revelation he's given without his consent.
She looks at the shimmering fabric, the trees around them, the sky, the grass, but not at him. It hits him that she's hurt, angry, maybe even a little disappointed, and he can't even figure out for what. His fingers clench ineffectually in the grass, dirt collecting under his fingers. Maybe if he can just find the words.
Her voice is shaking when she speaks, that tone he's heard in the dungeon, one time only, and never again. Gwen's no older than he is and for once he can actually believe that. "It's so easy to love him."
Merlin thinks of Arthur stepping on his back, Arthur having him thrown in the cells, Arthur ordering him to steal dinner from the palace, and he thinks hm. He thinks of Arthur's ridiculous smile that is far too rare, his love for Camelot and her people, despite Uther's best efforts, Arthur's joy at winning the tournament, and he thinks yes. All these things rest under his skin, and he thinks oh fuck.
It is easy to love him and maybe that's why he never realized. "He's a right bastard," Merlin says, because he can't deal with this swelling, desperate, painful mess in his chest, the thump of his heart.
Gwen laughs, because it's true, and because they're still friends even with this between them. Their shoulders bump as Gwen leans against him, as Merlin finds himself on the tree stump, pressed close to his best friend. That, too, is a revelation, but it's a welcome one and not that surprising. After Will, he didn't think he could feel like this again, like sharing the world and its grievances with someone who will never judge.
He turns to face her, closer now than they have any need to be, yet right somehow, in the early days of spring, with nothing but air above them. He kisses her, knowing she knows what it's about, chasing the imagined taste of Arthur on her lips. She opens to him like the pages of a well-read book and he smiles against her lips. It's just her, just Gwen, and it feels better than any second-hand kiss from a prince.
Pulling back, he gives her a sheepish grin. "Now we're even," he says, and means it.
Gwen touches her lips, a little wistful smile playing there. "I think you might be better than Arthur, at this, you know."
The gesture is appreciated, and Merlin laughs harder than the comment merits on its own. He needed something like that. "I think he'll be fine," and maybe he isn't even talking about kissing, "you'll just have to teach him."
Gwen's smile turns brittle and flakes off like so much ashes. "I don't think that is going to happen, Merlin. There are rules for men like him, for people like us."
"But he loves you!" Merlin is sure of this, as sure as he can be of anything. Arthur wouldn't just go around kissing anyone, he's a better man than that. Or trying to be. Maybe.
"Merlin," she says, "you truly are the worst servant in the history of Camelot." Her eyes shine with amusement. "There are things a servant can do and sometimes a nobleman or woman may indulge a girl's hopes, but there are worlds between us. It would never work, and I am not going to be his... his..." She makes a vague gesture and Merlin thinks mistress and winces.
"Yeah, I suppose you're right. I just don't think it's fair." He is truly indignant on his friend's behalf, more than he thought possible with that wicked jealousy burning somewhere in his stomach.
Her smile is another revelation. He would do anything to see her happy. Arthur, too. Perhaps it's that easy, after all. An urge rises in him, the magic like fire in his blood, and he wants - he wants to trust her the way he trusted Will, more so even, and the need outweighs everything he's learned, everything he's afraid of, and the knowledge that Arthur should have been the first.
"Gwen," he says, and his voice breaks because he's never done this before, not deliberately. It was always accidents before, bad timing. Life or death isn't hanging in the balance right now, there's no one threatening to kill them, no need to reveal himself for the greater good. Just the spring sun and the sharp breeze and Gwen's confused frown.
His hands shake like the leaves in the canopy above them. "I..." I can do magic. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, dry and swollen. Gwen's fingers find his and hold on, squeezing a little on his gasping breaths. "I want to... I want to tell you something." It's a start.
"It's all right," she says. "You don't have to say it." There's speculation in her voice and that won't do, not at all. This has to stop being a guessing game. He needs to know that he's capable of the words.
He can hear himself as if from far away, echoes from the mouth of a cave. "I can, uhm, no I am... Gwen, I..." He bites his lips hard, tastes the blood and tries to get it all out. He can't look at her when it spills from him, too afraid of the fear or revulsion he might see there. His gaze is locked on their fingers.
What if she hates him for this? What if, after everything that happened - her father, her own imprisonment, all the people that have died - what if after all this she can't forgive him?
Terror seeps into his bones. From that he can draw strength, the high of battle coursing through his veins. "Gwen," he says solemnly, "I'm a sorcerer."
“I love you, and because I love you, I would sooner have you hate me for telling you the truth than adore me for telling you lies.”
~ Pietro Aretino
Arthur is used to searching for Merlin. It's strange that he's grown to accept this as part of his life when any other servant would have been sacked long ago, but Merlin is defying convention every day of his life. It gives Arthur an excuse.
It's little more than chance that Arthur remembers two crucial facts that allow him to find his wayward servant. Merlin has babbled incessantly while dressing Arthur for his lessons with the new recruits. Arthur wouldn't pay more attention to a servant than was necessary to coordinate his own needs, of course, but with Merlin, well. There really isn't any point to the blathering of his manservant, and as such it is certainly beneath Arthur to have listened attentively when Merlin spoke of his excursion to the forest. Or to remember that Merlin liked a particular spot to rest.
His father has made it quite clear that there is to be no more of that delusion of friendship between them and Arthur is tired enough from his healing wounds - his shoulder still requires more attention than it should and aches when the cold winds come from the north - to do as he's told. Maybe it's not all about his father either, but the way Merlin left him when he had felt weak and vulnerable. Thinking. He'd had a lot of time to think and Merlin had hared off to gods knew where.
All through winter they'd been clashing and testing each other without ever saying anything, and Merlin had grown - not bitter, exactly, but somehow resigned. He does what is required of him and calls Arthur "Sire" to his face. It is suitable. Of course it is. If Arthur misses the way things were before, then that's just one more burden he has to carry.
Gwen, too, is one of his burdens - sweet as it is to remember her kiss, the way she smiles when he allows himself to be someone other than Prince Arthur, heir to the throne - he can't allow himself to even think of anything more. His father would certainly not hesitate to have her disappeared if Arthur spoke of affection.
Perhaps some day. He shakes his head a little ruefully, glad that no one is around to see his wistful expression. No, he can't think of anything like it, lest he be so preoccupied with what if that he lets himself get lost. It's in this strange state of want and denial that he comes upon the clearing and his heart stops.
Guinevere sits at the centre like a queen, a fairy queen with gold and silk all around her, crowned by the sun herself, and Merlin is-
Merlin is kissing her.
The world holds not enough air; his chest is too small to contain this feeling. He's never, not once, felt so utterly wounded - not even upon the brink of death with poison setting his body aflame. And the worst thing, the very worst thing is that he can't figure out which one of them he is angry with. Which one of them he wants to tear away from the other.
"No," he says to the tree that his holding his weight, despite the best effort of his legs.
After a long moment of breath that comes too short and a heart that beats too heavy, Arthur creeps forward to hear them as well as he sees them. He needs to know what this is, how long - what if they had been lovers when Gwen was arrested for sorcery? At the time he'd thought his fabrications nothing more than a quick way to get Merlin away from his father with his head still on his shoulders. Had he stumbled upon the truth that time?
Instantly the possibility that Gwen may not have wanted to kiss him, may not have known how to say no to him, churns in his stomach and turns his blood to ice. There are things a knight does and doesn't do; he may not always be the most perceptive when it comes to other people, but there are lines and he has never wanted to force himself on anyone. The thought occupies him until Merlin's voice cuts through the haze.
"Gwen, I'm a sorcerer."
Arthur is suddenly glad for the tree. He slumps against it, his mind a-whirl with the words. Sorcerer. It's ridiculous. Why would Merlin say something silly like that, trying to impress Gwen? That's so idiotic Arthur can almost believe it, except for the echo of Merlin's words that holds not a hint of dishonesty.
Gwen's laugh rings brittle in the deathly silence, tapers out and ends in a gasp of understanding. Arthur can relate. As the shock passes, angry fire takes hold of him. Magic.
To know the heart of one sorcerer is to know them all. Sorcerer's can't be trusted. Magic is evil. Magic.
Merlin. He's been angry with the idiot before, exasperated, bemused and offended, but never this. He wants to wrap his fingers around Merlin's throat and squeeze all the lying words out of him, all the things that Arthur thought meant they were something like friends. He's been so stupid. He's taken Merlin into his confidence. He's shared with him moments of weakness.
He stalks into the clearing, making as much noise as possible. He wants Merlin to see wrath coming. He wants to see the expression on Merlin's face as he realizes that he's fucked up big time. His sword has somehow found its way into his hand, the familiar weight a counter to the chaos in his head.
"Merlin," he growls, a threat he intends to follow through. After all the confusion he's felt, after all the compromises he's had to make, the clarity of his fury is freeing.
"You lied to me."
The words ring true and terrible. His mouth is dry and his eyes are burning. Rage saturates his blood and vibrates in his bones.
Merlin turns at the first sound of his name. The sight of Arthur lights up his face, an instinctual, open smile that falls away to be replaced by shock and dawning horror. Oh yes, Merlin, here comes the judge and the executioner.
"Arthur," he says, but Arthur isn't listening. He's heard enough.
"Kneel." Arthur points his sword at Merlin's chest as he walks. "Kneel before your prince, traitor."
Merlin kneels. It feels strange and wrong to see Merlin like this, for once with not even the hint of disobedience. He should be magicking his way out of here, instead his head is bowed in resignation. It irritates Arthur, this facsimile of repentance or loyalty. Merlin should have-
"What do you have to say for yourself?" He hisses, angry and betrayed. The tip of the sword comes to rest at the base of Merlin's throat, just enough pressure to underline the threat of imminent execution. He wants Merlin to be afraid.
A hand on his arm makes him turn. Guinevere has moved to stand by his side and Arthur realizes how focused he's been, how blind to anything beyond Merlin and his betrayal. He had not seen her move. It's the kind of battle rage that gets people killed and he shouldn't have succumbed to it, not even for a second. He's a better knight than that. He looks at Merlin's bowed head and thinks that he needs to be a better man than that.
"Don't do this," Guinevere says. She's angry, afraid. Disappointed. "My Lord, he has done nothing to you."
If only that were the truth. "He's a sorcerer, Guinevere."
Her fingers dig into his arm, hurting even through the thick tunic. "You once defended me against your father, even though you believed I had used magic. And you would not see a boy die for what he cannot help but be." Arthur lets the sword drop, his focus on the things Gwen seems to know about him. His pointed look unearths an explanation. "Morgana and I speak of more than just flowers and dresses. Sire."
His gaze is drawn back to Merlin, who looks up into his eyes like Arthur knows all the answers. They stare each other down, less discourse and more the battle of wills. They aren't sharing an inexplicable connection, just sheer doggedness. The familiarity takes his breath away. Merlin hasn't looked at him like this for far too long, before first snowfall at least. Since the Questing Beast bit him.
"Merlin," he says. The air bears the taste of lightning, the smell of an oncoming storm.
"Arthur, I am yours." There is little of the usual insolence and none of the lies in those words. "My power," he says, waving his hand around, "it's for you. To serve you."
“Meeting you was fate, becoming your friend was a choice, but falling in love with you I had no control over.”
~ unknown
There are times when Gwen feels trapped in the castle, as if the walls themselves are boxing her in, but more than that it's the people who style themselves her friends. As much as she loves Morgana, being friends with her mistress leaves Gwen in a precarious situation with the rest of the servants. The assistant cook is the only woman her age still seeking her confidence. The noblewomen of lower status regard her with jealous attention over Morgana's time and trust.
Merlin aside, she has very little in the way of proper friends, and an unmarried woman with her own household entertaining an unattached man? She would not miss either of them, but it is difficult. And now Arthur, too, who lets himself into her home like he owns it, and her besides, who is brave and abrasive and beautiful and sometimes even noble.
It's good to breathe the air of the forest. The quiet calms her and the intricate work of mending Morgana's dresses keeps her hands busy.
Of course the moment doesn't last, it never does. She's not surprised to see Merlin and his presence is a lot less disturbing than anyone else's might be. They're safe around each other. It strikes her that Merlin is the closest she has to family, now that her father is dead, and the thought of his cold forge, his bare room now turned into a storage area for the neighbouring children still stings.
She hadn't planned on telling Merlin about the kiss, hadn't planned to tell anyone until she could sort out for herself what it meant. Arthur had kissed her, but Arthur does a lot of things when the mood strikes him. In many ways he's still so very childish, even when he shows glimpses of the king he may one day become. Yet, when he smiles, a part of her can do nothing but give in.
When she speaks of the kiss, his face falls. Merlin looks so stricken that she has to wonder if he's having an attack of some sort, and how far is it to Gaius' chambers if they take the back way into the castle - could they make it in time and would she be able to drag or carry even Merlin's admittedly tolerable weight?
And then she understands, truly, what makes him as pale as moonlight - and it hurts. She hurts for herself and for her friend and for everything they might lose because their lives are in so many ways so inextricably linked to royalty. From somewhere they manage to drag up laughter and joy and a little bit of fun at Arthur's expense. It feels like a transgression, but the best kind.
When Merlin kisses her, her heart breaks a little for both of them.
If only they could love each other as much as they love their masters. In that particular way that makes a girl sigh and braid flowers into her hair, that makes boys blush high on their cheeks and even makes princes try to cook dinner. But they had never worked that way, and the trade-off is worth it.
They may not be in love, but there is something else in its place.
"Gwen, I'm a sorcerer."
Trust. She knows without doubt that she is the first person Merlin has ever told this about himself. Oh, she has no illusions that she is the only one who knows, but the words are new and hesitant. She laughs a little nervously, because oh, so many things one can be in Camelot, but not this. Just knowing this puts her in danger and she wants to ask if Merlin is ever afraid. She thinks she would be, trembling all the time, falling over her own words and giving herself away.
When Arthur comes upon them she finds herself frozen, unable to believe that the universe could be so cruel, but not surprised that the reach of the king extends to her own safe space. There is nothing that doesn't belong to Arthur in some way, nowhere he can be entirely unexpected or unwelcome and he knows it.
He orders Merlin to kneel and Gwen is suddenly on her feet, not leaving herself time to consider the consequences. If Merlin is to die here then only after she has tried everything in her power to prevent it. She grabs a hold of her prince, not allowing herself to ruminate on the impropriety, and speaks to a man Arthur isn't quite yet, but could be.
It works. It works! Arthur lowers his sword and turns to Merlin. Time seems to slow as they stare at each other, something volatile and fragile between them.
"Arthur," Merlin says, and something tenses in Gwen, something dreadful. "I am yours."
She drops her hand. Horror crests in her breast and radiates into her limbs; she trembles from it, her breath coming short and flat. She has never had dreams like Morgana, not an inkling of anything like magic in her blood, but she can see the future now, a future won in blood. Arthur reaches out, giving Merlin a hand up, and they are aware of nothing but each other.
Gwen says, "Sire," and somehow it breaks the spell. She feels suddenly every bit of the weight of his station. "It's not my place to speak, but if I may?" She waits for Arthur's nod. "You don't deserve him."
Her memory conjures up the glint of a sword, magical and far too powerful to be in anyone's hands but the true king's - a king who doesn't exist yet. Merlin is a thousand of those swords. Arthur looks at her quizzically, as if her words have yet to begin making sense in his head. Maybe they don't make any sense at all. She turns to Merlin.
"And you," she says, "how can you pledge yourself to him like this? Just a few moments ago you were heartbroken over his thoughtlessness."
Arthur's voice sounds far away when he complains like the petulant prince he pretends to himself he just pretends to be, but Gwen has had enough of boys and their games. There are tears in her eyes, hot and pointless, and for a moment she isn't sure she's still talking about Merlin. "He'll ruin you," she says, "and the worst thing is that he won't even notice, because it's all just ideas for him. Nobility." She flicks a glance at Arthur's dumbstruck expression. "When you live in the lower city, nobility is at best a luxury and at worst the thin veneer over ugly privilege."
"Gwen." It's Merlin, whose face is still pale from the shock of truths and revelations. The pain in his features is so old, as if it were born with him, a ghostly twin walking in step with all his regrets. All the fight goes out of her, all the horror just leaves her empty, and it's in that moment she understands what she's done, who she has talked to and how. It is not done. He may have indulged her in her home, but that's no guarantee he will do so again. She's just talked herself onto the executioner's block.
A hand on her shoulder makes her look up. His eyes are the same as she remembers from her home, a knight's favour in her damp hands, worry mixing with excitement. Arthur smiles. She remembers all the things he's done, she knows the danger inherent in falling for a man who is the king's right hand man, and she can't tell if that overrules the spark of hope she sees when Arthur does something kind despite himself, despite who he is supposed to be.
She can feel Merlin at her side, they're all standing too close for anything like propriety, and her hands are shaking. The forest is full of dangerous creatures and the future stretches uncertain ahead of them and there is power here of a kind that can bring so much misery and death, but for one single, perfect moment she feels safe.
Gwen sneaks an arm around Merlin's waist and leans her head against his shoulder. She is tired. Reflexively his arm comes up around her and they stand snuggled together in front of their prince. Expectant. Hoping.
All Arthur needs to take is one step. No matter how betrayed he may feel, how much he wonders about her affections or Merlin's magic, this is what it all comes down to. One step. She can imagine the feel of his fine hunting leathers under her fingers, can smell the hint of sweat on the curve of his neck.
Merlin's voice sounds deep and desperate in her ear. "Arthur," he says, and it sounds like friendship and equality and all the things the daughter of a blacksmith never dared to dream.
"The inability to open up to hope is what blocks trust, and blocked trust is the reason for blighted dreams."
~Elizabeth Gilbert
When Morgana wakes from the dream, she finds her whole body aching with it. Not a nightmare, no, but somehow worse for the things that it can be. There is truth in her night terrors, no matter what Gaius tells her, and it terrifies her every time. She can't trust her own mind, can't tell which of these are just fantasies of a darker world and which the realities heading their way fast.
Camelot will fall, she's seen it in so many ways, but which of those are true, and which of those are her fault for not preventing them? She's read the story of Cassandra many times, has haunted the library for different translations, has even tried to decipher the original words that look so much like a child's attempt at letters. There must be one that hints at happiness for the woman who knew the end to all the stories.
The magic - she knows it is, she knows it is and yet, oh dear gods let it not be magic - seems to delight in her inability to affect any kind of action that would render the dreams a flight of fancy. One moment she is terrified of a raven, the next she can see what happens when the choices are made differently, by the thief or the knight or the sorcerer, stretching in meandering lines to one horrible focal point of history.
Camelot will fall and Arthur will die and there is nothing, nothing at all that she can do to prevent it. One dream will tell her: this is how the world ends, and this little boy will bring it about. And the next dream will teach her all the reasons why the boy cannot die.
But this dream is different. It is all the more potent for being so mundane, so small in comparison with the rest of her visions. She has it every night for a week, and every night for a week she tries to change the outcome, tries to manipulate an element that will leave her less lonely by the time she wakes up in her well-tended rooms and her soft, expensive sheets.
She hasn't tried to talk to Gwen about the dreams and Gwen hasn't brought up the three day vacation she's requested for personal reasons and there is something strained between them. Morgana wants to say "stay" when Gwen prepares her basket to leave with the mending, as she has done on occasion because the castle stifles her to the point of pain.
Used to be, Morgana's presence was able to dispel Gwen's discomfort, but no more. Gwen now takes her work outside, away from Morgana and the castle walls where her father died because he tried to better himself by trusting the wrong people. They've grown distant even though Morgana feels there is no one closer to her. It stings and makes her wonder if the dreams aren't just a manifestation of her own fears and insecurities.
"Is there anything you need before I go?" Morgana wants to think there is more than just the request in her maid's voice, more than that painful neutrality. She has become nothing but duty to Gwen, when Gwen is the only true friend Morgana has left.
She wants to say "stay" and wrap her arms around Gwen and not let her walk into that clearing, where destiny is waiting like a snake in the grass. Gwen would stay, of course, and perhaps even smile at her, because she's that kind of person. They could talk about the tournament, about dreams and magic and falling. She knows they would be good, for a while, but-
But if Gwen were to stay, Arthur would come upon Merlin alone.
Merlin, who will have thought himself safe in the forest, who may have conjured a ball of energy to entertain himself, who might draw magic itself from the grass and the trees and the spring air around him.
It can't happen. No matter how Arthur might react, no matter if Merlin comes back from that moment, or leaves, or dies, the ripples would run through history and cause unbalance on a scale that may leave Albion in ruins.
Camelot will fall, she knows that, and yet.
The lines diverge again, after Arthur's death, and what comes before matters after, the past is merely the prologue to a greater story, and their lives are simply chapters from the middle of the book. If Gwen were to choose her above all others - and she wishes for nothing more desperately and with less hope - destiny is bleak and heartless. Albion needs Gwen's gentle heart.
More than Morgana needs her, but only just.
She can see what happens, too, as she comes across Merlin heading for the main gates. She could call to him, tell him "Gaius wants you to look at a book in the library" or "Arthur says to tell you to muck out the stables" and Merlin would scrunch his nose at the work but smile brightly at her and trot off to do what she told him, because he's a servant and she's the King's ward and he would never question her motives. Not about simple chores.
And Arthur and Gwen would find each other in the woods, younger somehow as they are stripped of the castle's influence, hesitant and bright and beautiful. They would grow close and Merlin and her would watch and they would all pretend that it's the best thing that could happen, secretly to hide from the king, but so obvious that it hurts every time one looks at either of them and thinks "if only I didn't love you so much".
Perhaps she and Merlin would console each other, grow hard and bitter together. Or perhaps they would fight too, and bring down the kingdom between them.
When Arthur passes her in search of his servant, Morgana could take his arm, hold him back and say, "your father, Arthur. What would your father say?" It would darken his features and he'd pull his arm out of her grip and step back, frowning, but he would stay and think of all the ways he can yell at Merlin when he comes back.
It's the most tempting possibility. Nothing much would change from the way life has been until now. It will be one more secret on her shoulders, one more thing she has locked away inside of her. Arthur and Gwen will allow themselves no more than looks, Merlin less than that, and Morgana will enjoy Gwen's hugs at ever decreasing frequency until something just... gives.
She lets Arthur go, as much as it hurts to think of them out there, the three of them in the woods, making a pact that will lead them through despair and out the other side. She casts herself in the role of the villain and wonders. She's never been able to truly see the outcome of her own fate. Camelot is her home and she loves it fiercely. Would she betray Arthur for any reason?
Her steps ring hollow in the courtyard, and even in the bustling chaos of market day, Morgana feels alone. She's wearing her riding boots. Perhaps her decision has already been made long ago.
The horse she picks is Arthur's. On the stallions back is a freedom of choice she hasn't had in too many years. She could ride until the horse collapses under her weight and the strain of the open road. She could make it to her father's grave within a day, go further north or west to the sea. Somehow she can feel what destiny has in store for her, perhaps it's a half-forgotten dream.
Or she could ride into the forest and complete the circle.
She can't see what is going to happen. They may reject her or they may all turn out to be less than they would promise under the canopy of fresh green leaves. They may be far more than that.
The beat of hooves is steady and calming and reminds her of a time when she had a mother and a father, the footfall of her pony as she rode next to Gorlois, the pure joy of life thrumming in her veins. She remembers what it was like to feel safe.
Her pulse begins to race as she turns the horse on an untrodden path. Destiny lies in wait for them all, but Morgana knows better than most that destiny comes in many shapes and sizes. Camelot will fall, but they can make the best of the way there.
“The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them.”
~ Ernest Hemingway
A Greater Compliment Than Love | Merlin | PG | 6k words
After the spring tournament, loose ends meet in a forest clearing, and things begin to unravel. Tag for Merlin 2x02
A Greater Compliment Than Love
“To be trusted is a greater compliment than being loved.”
~ George MacDonald
A hint of winter still burdens the air with the taste of small ice crystals, but the green of new leaves has long since taken possession of the forest. Spring is finally wiping the slate clean and Merlin breathes deeply, free to himself for a couple of hours as he searches out the herbs Gaius needs for his potions. Sunlight streams into the clearing, giving everything a soft glow and promising a warmth the air is not quite ready to deliver.
Gwen sits on a tree stump, colourful silk gowns spread across her lap; she's threading golden yarn through a needle and everything sparkles in the light. She's radiant and for a moment Merlin feels regret. For a while there he'd thought that she was interested in him that way, before they'd fallen into their comfortable friendship like two pieces of a puzzle.
"Hey," he says and smiles as she turns to him. He sets his herb pouch down next to the basket with her mending supplies and sits on the slightly damp grass.
They are quiet for a while, listening to the world around them. Merlin knows there is something on her mind, it radiates from her like the heat off the palace kitchen furnace. He doesn't quite know how to ask, so he sits, a blade of grass between his fingers, and waits.
Her fingers are still, curled into the soft fabric of one of Morgana's dresses, when she says, "He kissed me."
As he processes the words, Merlin feels the bottom drop out of the world. His sight goes white and blurry, every breath burns in his lungs and he can hear the thrumming of his heartbeat in his ears. He thinks, a little hysterically, that this is what it must be like to drown. He remembers them standing so close, the dinner for two, Arthur's little secret smiles all for Gwen.
"Merlin?" Her voice comes from far away and tears at something inside him. He can't even-
"Oh," he says, because he has to say something and he doesn't even know what he's thinking. He wants to get out, run away, be somewhere where he can let the magic out that threatens to consume him. He doesn't think he'll be able to stand, feels queasy like maybe he's about to throw up.
"Merlin, what's wrong?"
Her hands come to rest on his face and he can't tell if the fingers are hot or cold, but they burn. He shakes her off, weakly, and tries to get away, but the grip she gets on his arm is amazingly strong. Blacksmith's daughter. He looks at her and tries to smile, failing utterly. Her gaze is hard, the expression more fierce than he's seen her since Ealdor.
"Merlin," she says, a sound like the jousting lances hitting armor, "talk to me. You're scaring me here. Please, say something."
He shakes his head, just enough to make her face fall. What can he say? His thoughts are racing in time with his heart and he can't- he doesn't even-
"Oh," she says, a mirror of his own breathless exclamation, and her eyes fill with emotion he can't even begin to guess at. The hands drop away and she sits back; Merlin wonders idly if she's flushing with heat like he is, embarrassed and still stinging with whatever revelation he's given without his consent.
She looks at the shimmering fabric, the trees around them, the sky, the grass, but not at him. It hits him that she's hurt, angry, maybe even a little disappointed, and he can't even figure out for what. His fingers clench ineffectually in the grass, dirt collecting under his fingers. Maybe if he can just find the words.
Her voice is shaking when she speaks, that tone he's heard in the dungeon, one time only, and never again. Gwen's no older than he is and for once he can actually believe that. "It's so easy to love him."
Merlin thinks of Arthur stepping on his back, Arthur having him thrown in the cells, Arthur ordering him to steal dinner from the palace, and he thinks hm. He thinks of Arthur's ridiculous smile that is far too rare, his love for Camelot and her people, despite Uther's best efforts, Arthur's joy at winning the tournament, and he thinks yes. All these things rest under his skin, and he thinks oh fuck.
It is easy to love him and maybe that's why he never realized. "He's a right bastard," Merlin says, because he can't deal with this swelling, desperate, painful mess in his chest, the thump of his heart.
Gwen laughs, because it's true, and because they're still friends even with this between them. Their shoulders bump as Gwen leans against him, as Merlin finds himself on the tree stump, pressed close to his best friend. That, too, is a revelation, but it's a welcome one and not that surprising. After Will, he didn't think he could feel like this again, like sharing the world and its grievances with someone who will never judge.
He turns to face her, closer now than they have any need to be, yet right somehow, in the early days of spring, with nothing but air above them. He kisses her, knowing she knows what it's about, chasing the imagined taste of Arthur on her lips. She opens to him like the pages of a well-read book and he smiles against her lips. It's just her, just Gwen, and it feels better than any second-hand kiss from a prince.
Pulling back, he gives her a sheepish grin. "Now we're even," he says, and means it.
Gwen touches her lips, a little wistful smile playing there. "I think you might be better than Arthur, at this, you know."
The gesture is appreciated, and Merlin laughs harder than the comment merits on its own. He needed something like that. "I think he'll be fine," and maybe he isn't even talking about kissing, "you'll just have to teach him."
Gwen's smile turns brittle and flakes off like so much ashes. "I don't think that is going to happen, Merlin. There are rules for men like him, for people like us."
"But he loves you!" Merlin is sure of this, as sure as he can be of anything. Arthur wouldn't just go around kissing anyone, he's a better man than that. Or trying to be. Maybe.
"Merlin," she says, "you truly are the worst servant in the history of Camelot." Her eyes shine with amusement. "There are things a servant can do and sometimes a nobleman or woman may indulge a girl's hopes, but there are worlds between us. It would never work, and I am not going to be his... his..." She makes a vague gesture and Merlin thinks mistress and winces.
"Yeah, I suppose you're right. I just don't think it's fair." He is truly indignant on his friend's behalf, more than he thought possible with that wicked jealousy burning somewhere in his stomach.
Her smile is another revelation. He would do anything to see her happy. Arthur, too. Perhaps it's that easy, after all. An urge rises in him, the magic like fire in his blood, and he wants - he wants to trust her the way he trusted Will, more so even, and the need outweighs everything he's learned, everything he's afraid of, and the knowledge that Arthur should have been the first.
"Gwen," he says, and his voice breaks because he's never done this before, not deliberately. It was always accidents before, bad timing. Life or death isn't hanging in the balance right now, there's no one threatening to kill them, no need to reveal himself for the greater good. Just the spring sun and the sharp breeze and Gwen's confused frown.
His hands shake like the leaves in the canopy above them. "I..." I can do magic. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, dry and swollen. Gwen's fingers find his and hold on, squeezing a little on his gasping breaths. "I want to... I want to tell you something." It's a start.
"It's all right," she says. "You don't have to say it." There's speculation in her voice and that won't do, not at all. This has to stop being a guessing game. He needs to know that he's capable of the words.
He can hear himself as if from far away, echoes from the mouth of a cave. "I can, uhm, no I am... Gwen, I..." He bites his lips hard, tastes the blood and tries to get it all out. He can't look at her when it spills from him, too afraid of the fear or revulsion he might see there. His gaze is locked on their fingers.
What if she hates him for this? What if, after everything that happened - her father, her own imprisonment, all the people that have died - what if after all this she can't forgive him?
Terror seeps into his bones. From that he can draw strength, the high of battle coursing through his veins. "Gwen," he says solemnly, "I'm a sorcerer."
“I love you, and because I love you, I would sooner have you hate me for telling you the truth than adore me for telling you lies.”
~ Pietro Aretino
Arthur is used to searching for Merlin. It's strange that he's grown to accept this as part of his life when any other servant would have been sacked long ago, but Merlin is defying convention every day of his life. It gives Arthur an excuse.
It's little more than chance that Arthur remembers two crucial facts that allow him to find his wayward servant. Merlin has babbled incessantly while dressing Arthur for his lessons with the new recruits. Arthur wouldn't pay more attention to a servant than was necessary to coordinate his own needs, of course, but with Merlin, well. There really isn't any point to the blathering of his manservant, and as such it is certainly beneath Arthur to have listened attentively when Merlin spoke of his excursion to the forest. Or to remember that Merlin liked a particular spot to rest.
His father has made it quite clear that there is to be no more of that delusion of friendship between them and Arthur is tired enough from his healing wounds - his shoulder still requires more attention than it should and aches when the cold winds come from the north - to do as he's told. Maybe it's not all about his father either, but the way Merlin left him when he had felt weak and vulnerable. Thinking. He'd had a lot of time to think and Merlin had hared off to gods knew where.
All through winter they'd been clashing and testing each other without ever saying anything, and Merlin had grown - not bitter, exactly, but somehow resigned. He does what is required of him and calls Arthur "Sire" to his face. It is suitable. Of course it is. If Arthur misses the way things were before, then that's just one more burden he has to carry.
Gwen, too, is one of his burdens - sweet as it is to remember her kiss, the way she smiles when he allows himself to be someone other than Prince Arthur, heir to the throne - he can't allow himself to even think of anything more. His father would certainly not hesitate to have her disappeared if Arthur spoke of affection.
Perhaps some day. He shakes his head a little ruefully, glad that no one is around to see his wistful expression. No, he can't think of anything like it, lest he be so preoccupied with what if that he lets himself get lost. It's in this strange state of want and denial that he comes upon the clearing and his heart stops.
Guinevere sits at the centre like a queen, a fairy queen with gold and silk all around her, crowned by the sun herself, and Merlin is-
Merlin is kissing her.
The world holds not enough air; his chest is too small to contain this feeling. He's never, not once, felt so utterly wounded - not even upon the brink of death with poison setting his body aflame. And the worst thing, the very worst thing is that he can't figure out which one of them he is angry with. Which one of them he wants to tear away from the other.
"No," he says to the tree that his holding his weight, despite the best effort of his legs.
After a long moment of breath that comes too short and a heart that beats too heavy, Arthur creeps forward to hear them as well as he sees them. He needs to know what this is, how long - what if they had been lovers when Gwen was arrested for sorcery? At the time he'd thought his fabrications nothing more than a quick way to get Merlin away from his father with his head still on his shoulders. Had he stumbled upon the truth that time?
Instantly the possibility that Gwen may not have wanted to kiss him, may not have known how to say no to him, churns in his stomach and turns his blood to ice. There are things a knight does and doesn't do; he may not always be the most perceptive when it comes to other people, but there are lines and he has never wanted to force himself on anyone. The thought occupies him until Merlin's voice cuts through the haze.
"Gwen, I'm a sorcerer."
Arthur is suddenly glad for the tree. He slumps against it, his mind a-whirl with the words. Sorcerer. It's ridiculous. Why would Merlin say something silly like that, trying to impress Gwen? That's so idiotic Arthur can almost believe it, except for the echo of Merlin's words that holds not a hint of dishonesty.
Gwen's laugh rings brittle in the deathly silence, tapers out and ends in a gasp of understanding. Arthur can relate. As the shock passes, angry fire takes hold of him. Magic.
To know the heart of one sorcerer is to know them all. Sorcerer's can't be trusted. Magic is evil. Magic.
Merlin. He's been angry with the idiot before, exasperated, bemused and offended, but never this. He wants to wrap his fingers around Merlin's throat and squeeze all the lying words out of him, all the things that Arthur thought meant they were something like friends. He's been so stupid. He's taken Merlin into his confidence. He's shared with him moments of weakness.
He stalks into the clearing, making as much noise as possible. He wants Merlin to see wrath coming. He wants to see the expression on Merlin's face as he realizes that he's fucked up big time. His sword has somehow found its way into his hand, the familiar weight a counter to the chaos in his head.
"Merlin," he growls, a threat he intends to follow through. After all the confusion he's felt, after all the compromises he's had to make, the clarity of his fury is freeing.
"You lied to me."
The words ring true and terrible. His mouth is dry and his eyes are burning. Rage saturates his blood and vibrates in his bones.
Merlin turns at the first sound of his name. The sight of Arthur lights up his face, an instinctual, open smile that falls away to be replaced by shock and dawning horror. Oh yes, Merlin, here comes the judge and the executioner.
"Arthur," he says, but Arthur isn't listening. He's heard enough.
"Kneel." Arthur points his sword at Merlin's chest as he walks. "Kneel before your prince, traitor."
Merlin kneels. It feels strange and wrong to see Merlin like this, for once with not even the hint of disobedience. He should be magicking his way out of here, instead his head is bowed in resignation. It irritates Arthur, this facsimile of repentance or loyalty. Merlin should have-
"What do you have to say for yourself?" He hisses, angry and betrayed. The tip of the sword comes to rest at the base of Merlin's throat, just enough pressure to underline the threat of imminent execution. He wants Merlin to be afraid.
A hand on his arm makes him turn. Guinevere has moved to stand by his side and Arthur realizes how focused he's been, how blind to anything beyond Merlin and his betrayal. He had not seen her move. It's the kind of battle rage that gets people killed and he shouldn't have succumbed to it, not even for a second. He's a better knight than that. He looks at Merlin's bowed head and thinks that he needs to be a better man than that.
"Don't do this," Guinevere says. She's angry, afraid. Disappointed. "My Lord, he has done nothing to you."
If only that were the truth. "He's a sorcerer, Guinevere."
Her fingers dig into his arm, hurting even through the thick tunic. "You once defended me against your father, even though you believed I had used magic. And you would not see a boy die for what he cannot help but be." Arthur lets the sword drop, his focus on the things Gwen seems to know about him. His pointed look unearths an explanation. "Morgana and I speak of more than just flowers and dresses. Sire."
His gaze is drawn back to Merlin, who looks up into his eyes like Arthur knows all the answers. They stare each other down, less discourse and more the battle of wills. They aren't sharing an inexplicable connection, just sheer doggedness. The familiarity takes his breath away. Merlin hasn't looked at him like this for far too long, before first snowfall at least. Since the Questing Beast bit him.
"Merlin," he says. The air bears the taste of lightning, the smell of an oncoming storm.
"Arthur, I am yours." There is little of the usual insolence and none of the lies in those words. "My power," he says, waving his hand around, "it's for you. To serve you."
“Meeting you was fate, becoming your friend was a choice, but falling in love with you I had no control over.”
~ unknown
There are times when Gwen feels trapped in the castle, as if the walls themselves are boxing her in, but more than that it's the people who style themselves her friends. As much as she loves Morgana, being friends with her mistress leaves Gwen in a precarious situation with the rest of the servants. The assistant cook is the only woman her age still seeking her confidence. The noblewomen of lower status regard her with jealous attention over Morgana's time and trust.
Merlin aside, she has very little in the way of proper friends, and an unmarried woman with her own household entertaining an unattached man? She would not miss either of them, but it is difficult. And now Arthur, too, who lets himself into her home like he owns it, and her besides, who is brave and abrasive and beautiful and sometimes even noble.
It's good to breathe the air of the forest. The quiet calms her and the intricate work of mending Morgana's dresses keeps her hands busy.
Of course the moment doesn't last, it never does. She's not surprised to see Merlin and his presence is a lot less disturbing than anyone else's might be. They're safe around each other. It strikes her that Merlin is the closest she has to family, now that her father is dead, and the thought of his cold forge, his bare room now turned into a storage area for the neighbouring children still stings.
She hadn't planned on telling Merlin about the kiss, hadn't planned to tell anyone until she could sort out for herself what it meant. Arthur had kissed her, but Arthur does a lot of things when the mood strikes him. In many ways he's still so very childish, even when he shows glimpses of the king he may one day become. Yet, when he smiles, a part of her can do nothing but give in.
When she speaks of the kiss, his face falls. Merlin looks so stricken that she has to wonder if he's having an attack of some sort, and how far is it to Gaius' chambers if they take the back way into the castle - could they make it in time and would she be able to drag or carry even Merlin's admittedly tolerable weight?
And then she understands, truly, what makes him as pale as moonlight - and it hurts. She hurts for herself and for her friend and for everything they might lose because their lives are in so many ways so inextricably linked to royalty. From somewhere they manage to drag up laughter and joy and a little bit of fun at Arthur's expense. It feels like a transgression, but the best kind.
When Merlin kisses her, her heart breaks a little for both of them.
If only they could love each other as much as they love their masters. In that particular way that makes a girl sigh and braid flowers into her hair, that makes boys blush high on their cheeks and even makes princes try to cook dinner. But they had never worked that way, and the trade-off is worth it.
They may not be in love, but there is something else in its place.
"Gwen, I'm a sorcerer."
Trust. She knows without doubt that she is the first person Merlin has ever told this about himself. Oh, she has no illusions that she is the only one who knows, but the words are new and hesitant. She laughs a little nervously, because oh, so many things one can be in Camelot, but not this. Just knowing this puts her in danger and she wants to ask if Merlin is ever afraid. She thinks she would be, trembling all the time, falling over her own words and giving herself away.
When Arthur comes upon them she finds herself frozen, unable to believe that the universe could be so cruel, but not surprised that the reach of the king extends to her own safe space. There is nothing that doesn't belong to Arthur in some way, nowhere he can be entirely unexpected or unwelcome and he knows it.
He orders Merlin to kneel and Gwen is suddenly on her feet, not leaving herself time to consider the consequences. If Merlin is to die here then only after she has tried everything in her power to prevent it. She grabs a hold of her prince, not allowing herself to ruminate on the impropriety, and speaks to a man Arthur isn't quite yet, but could be.
It works. It works! Arthur lowers his sword and turns to Merlin. Time seems to slow as they stare at each other, something volatile and fragile between them.
"Arthur," Merlin says, and something tenses in Gwen, something dreadful. "I am yours."
She drops her hand. Horror crests in her breast and radiates into her limbs; she trembles from it, her breath coming short and flat. She has never had dreams like Morgana, not an inkling of anything like magic in her blood, but she can see the future now, a future won in blood. Arthur reaches out, giving Merlin a hand up, and they are aware of nothing but each other.
Gwen says, "Sire," and somehow it breaks the spell. She feels suddenly every bit of the weight of his station. "It's not my place to speak, but if I may?" She waits for Arthur's nod. "You don't deserve him."
Her memory conjures up the glint of a sword, magical and far too powerful to be in anyone's hands but the true king's - a king who doesn't exist yet. Merlin is a thousand of those swords. Arthur looks at her quizzically, as if her words have yet to begin making sense in his head. Maybe they don't make any sense at all. She turns to Merlin.
"And you," she says, "how can you pledge yourself to him like this? Just a few moments ago you were heartbroken over his thoughtlessness."
Arthur's voice sounds far away when he complains like the petulant prince he pretends to himself he just pretends to be, but Gwen has had enough of boys and their games. There are tears in her eyes, hot and pointless, and for a moment she isn't sure she's still talking about Merlin. "He'll ruin you," she says, "and the worst thing is that he won't even notice, because it's all just ideas for him. Nobility." She flicks a glance at Arthur's dumbstruck expression. "When you live in the lower city, nobility is at best a luxury and at worst the thin veneer over ugly privilege."
"Gwen." It's Merlin, whose face is still pale from the shock of truths and revelations. The pain in his features is so old, as if it were born with him, a ghostly twin walking in step with all his regrets. All the fight goes out of her, all the horror just leaves her empty, and it's in that moment she understands what she's done, who she has talked to and how. It is not done. He may have indulged her in her home, but that's no guarantee he will do so again. She's just talked herself onto the executioner's block.
A hand on her shoulder makes her look up. His eyes are the same as she remembers from her home, a knight's favour in her damp hands, worry mixing with excitement. Arthur smiles. She remembers all the things he's done, she knows the danger inherent in falling for a man who is the king's right hand man, and she can't tell if that overrules the spark of hope she sees when Arthur does something kind despite himself, despite who he is supposed to be.
She can feel Merlin at her side, they're all standing too close for anything like propriety, and her hands are shaking. The forest is full of dangerous creatures and the future stretches uncertain ahead of them and there is power here of a kind that can bring so much misery and death, but for one single, perfect moment she feels safe.
Gwen sneaks an arm around Merlin's waist and leans her head against his shoulder. She is tired. Reflexively his arm comes up around her and they stand snuggled together in front of their prince. Expectant. Hoping.
All Arthur needs to take is one step. No matter how betrayed he may feel, how much he wonders about her affections or Merlin's magic, this is what it all comes down to. One step. She can imagine the feel of his fine hunting leathers under her fingers, can smell the hint of sweat on the curve of his neck.
Merlin's voice sounds deep and desperate in her ear. "Arthur," he says, and it sounds like friendship and equality and all the things the daughter of a blacksmith never dared to dream.
"The inability to open up to hope is what blocks trust, and blocked trust is the reason for blighted dreams."
~Elizabeth Gilbert
When Morgana wakes from the dream, she finds her whole body aching with it. Not a nightmare, no, but somehow worse for the things that it can be. There is truth in her night terrors, no matter what Gaius tells her, and it terrifies her every time. She can't trust her own mind, can't tell which of these are just fantasies of a darker world and which the realities heading their way fast.
Camelot will fall, she's seen it in so many ways, but which of those are true, and which of those are her fault for not preventing them? She's read the story of Cassandra many times, has haunted the library for different translations, has even tried to decipher the original words that look so much like a child's attempt at letters. There must be one that hints at happiness for the woman who knew the end to all the stories.
The magic - she knows it is, she knows it is and yet, oh dear gods let it not be magic - seems to delight in her inability to affect any kind of action that would render the dreams a flight of fancy. One moment she is terrified of a raven, the next she can see what happens when the choices are made differently, by the thief or the knight or the sorcerer, stretching in meandering lines to one horrible focal point of history.
Camelot will fall and Arthur will die and there is nothing, nothing at all that she can do to prevent it. One dream will tell her: this is how the world ends, and this little boy will bring it about. And the next dream will teach her all the reasons why the boy cannot die.
But this dream is different. It is all the more potent for being so mundane, so small in comparison with the rest of her visions. She has it every night for a week, and every night for a week she tries to change the outcome, tries to manipulate an element that will leave her less lonely by the time she wakes up in her well-tended rooms and her soft, expensive sheets.
She hasn't tried to talk to Gwen about the dreams and Gwen hasn't brought up the three day vacation she's requested for personal reasons and there is something strained between them. Morgana wants to say "stay" when Gwen prepares her basket to leave with the mending, as she has done on occasion because the castle stifles her to the point of pain.
Used to be, Morgana's presence was able to dispel Gwen's discomfort, but no more. Gwen now takes her work outside, away from Morgana and the castle walls where her father died because he tried to better himself by trusting the wrong people. They've grown distant even though Morgana feels there is no one closer to her. It stings and makes her wonder if the dreams aren't just a manifestation of her own fears and insecurities.
"Is there anything you need before I go?" Morgana wants to think there is more than just the request in her maid's voice, more than that painful neutrality. She has become nothing but duty to Gwen, when Gwen is the only true friend Morgana has left.
She wants to say "stay" and wrap her arms around Gwen and not let her walk into that clearing, where destiny is waiting like a snake in the grass. Gwen would stay, of course, and perhaps even smile at her, because she's that kind of person. They could talk about the tournament, about dreams and magic and falling. She knows they would be good, for a while, but-
But if Gwen were to stay, Arthur would come upon Merlin alone.
Merlin, who will have thought himself safe in the forest, who may have conjured a ball of energy to entertain himself, who might draw magic itself from the grass and the trees and the spring air around him.
It can't happen. No matter how Arthur might react, no matter if Merlin comes back from that moment, or leaves, or dies, the ripples would run through history and cause unbalance on a scale that may leave Albion in ruins.
Camelot will fall, she knows that, and yet.
The lines diverge again, after Arthur's death, and what comes before matters after, the past is merely the prologue to a greater story, and their lives are simply chapters from the middle of the book. If Gwen were to choose her above all others - and she wishes for nothing more desperately and with less hope - destiny is bleak and heartless. Albion needs Gwen's gentle heart.
More than Morgana needs her, but only just.
She can see what happens, too, as she comes across Merlin heading for the main gates. She could call to him, tell him "Gaius wants you to look at a book in the library" or "Arthur says to tell you to muck out the stables" and Merlin would scrunch his nose at the work but smile brightly at her and trot off to do what she told him, because he's a servant and she's the King's ward and he would never question her motives. Not about simple chores.
And Arthur and Gwen would find each other in the woods, younger somehow as they are stripped of the castle's influence, hesitant and bright and beautiful. They would grow close and Merlin and her would watch and they would all pretend that it's the best thing that could happen, secretly to hide from the king, but so obvious that it hurts every time one looks at either of them and thinks "if only I didn't love you so much".
Perhaps she and Merlin would console each other, grow hard and bitter together. Or perhaps they would fight too, and bring down the kingdom between them.
When Arthur passes her in search of his servant, Morgana could take his arm, hold him back and say, "your father, Arthur. What would your father say?" It would darken his features and he'd pull his arm out of her grip and step back, frowning, but he would stay and think of all the ways he can yell at Merlin when he comes back.
It's the most tempting possibility. Nothing much would change from the way life has been until now. It will be one more secret on her shoulders, one more thing she has locked away inside of her. Arthur and Gwen will allow themselves no more than looks, Merlin less than that, and Morgana will enjoy Gwen's hugs at ever decreasing frequency until something just... gives.
She lets Arthur go, as much as it hurts to think of them out there, the three of them in the woods, making a pact that will lead them through despair and out the other side. She casts herself in the role of the villain and wonders. She's never been able to truly see the outcome of her own fate. Camelot is her home and she loves it fiercely. Would she betray Arthur for any reason?
Her steps ring hollow in the courtyard, and even in the bustling chaos of market day, Morgana feels alone. She's wearing her riding boots. Perhaps her decision has already been made long ago.
The horse she picks is Arthur's. On the stallions back is a freedom of choice she hasn't had in too many years. She could ride until the horse collapses under her weight and the strain of the open road. She could make it to her father's grave within a day, go further north or west to the sea. Somehow she can feel what destiny has in store for her, perhaps it's a half-forgotten dream.
Or she could ride into the forest and complete the circle.
She can't see what is going to happen. They may reject her or they may all turn out to be less than they would promise under the canopy of fresh green leaves. They may be far more than that.
The beat of hooves is steady and calming and reminds her of a time when she had a mother and a father, the footfall of her pony as she rode next to Gorlois, the pure joy of life thrumming in her veins. She remembers what it was like to feel safe.
Her pulse begins to race as she turns the horse on an untrodden path. Destiny lies in wait for them all, but Morgana knows better than most that destiny comes in many shapes and sizes. Camelot will fall, but they can make the best of the way there.
“The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them.”
~ Ernest Hemingway