Fic: Five Deaths Morgana Foresaw for Herself [Merlin; Morgana/Arthur, Gwen/Arthur, Morgana/Other]
Title: Five Deaths Morgana Foresaw for Herself
Author: angelqueen04
Pairing/Characters: Morgana/Arthur, Gwen/Arthur, Morgana/Other
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Character death (as made obvious by the title)
Spoilers: General spoilers for the first season
Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin or any associated characters.
Word Count: 2,531 words
i.
The people watch, not a sound coming from any of them. Uther speaks, railing that any who dare to use magic will not be spared, no matter who they are. Morgana ignores him, her eyes still intent on studying the crowd.
There. Gwen stands amongst many of the other servants, tears glimmering in her dark eyes. She clasps the hands of two of the servants who flank her, perhaps to gain strength from them or perhaps to keep herself from flinging herself onto the platform to die at her side.
Steady, Gwen, Morgana thinks and then she moves on.
It takes time, but eventually she sees them. Arthur and Merlin stand in the crowd, their heads covered by the hoods of their cloaks. Merlin looks desperate, as though he wishes to do something to stop this travesty.
No, Merlin, stay. One of us must, for Arthur’s sake.
Arthur stands next to the young warlock - for she knows that is what Merlin is - his face whiter than she has ever seen it. He does not stand beside his father today. He has railed against his father since her arrest, decrying Uther’s compulsive thirst for vengeance against magic, or so her guards had whispered to her when no one was there to witness their sympathy for their prisoner. Just as before, however, Arthur’s impassioned words fell on deaf ears. Uther will spare no person who practices the magical arts. The only mercy he gives to the child he raised from a tender age is that he spares her the fires and gives her the axe. He will not spare her life.
Not even if she is the woman his son lov -
There is movement out of the corner of her eye, and Morgana takes her eyes off of Arthur. The executioner is readying himself. She snorts inwardly. Uther has undoubtedly made this man quite wealthy, as his services are almost constantly in use.
The hooded man steps forward and kneels down beside her, asking her forgiveness for what he must do. She musters a small, sad smile and tells him he has it. As he stands, though, she turns to where Uther stands and makes eye-contact with him.
For him, there is no forgiveness, and she says so in a loud voice, so that everyone may hear.
Morgana can hear the axe whistling through the air, coming down to sev -
-
After that dream, Morgana refused to attend any more executions. Whether they were done by the axe or the fire, she would not come. Uther blustered about her showing sympathy to the enemies of the crown, but she promptly retorted that she had no taste for making such bloodshed into a kind of sport in need of spectators.
Arthur intervened between them, pointing out that it isn’t exactly a sight for ladies anyway. She raised her eyebrow at such an excuse, but didn’t object to it. Uther eventually agreed, and dropped the subject.
ii.
Morgana is old, ancient really. She lies in a bed that has been hers for the majority of her life. The physicians say they can do nothing but make her comfortable, to ease her passing. That suits her just fine. She knows her time is fast approaching, and she welcomes it.
Everyone gathers in her chambers. Merlin, old and bent and wearied by time just as she is, sits at her bedside and squeezes her hand in his own gnarled one. Four women, all of which have a combination of her and Arthur’s features in their younger days, follow Merlin in and are accompanied by a slew of younger people. One young man, no more than in his early twenties, wears a thin gold circlet on his head.
“Merlin,” Morgana whispers.
“Yes, milady?” It has not been a title for decades, but an affectionate nickname.
“He hated mornings. Never wanted to rise with the sun.”
It is a simple statement, but a knowing smile appears on his weathered, wrinkled face. “No, he didn’t,” he agrees.
They speak of the past for some time, her marriage, her attempts to do magic with hilarious results, her four daughters, the grandchildren. They do not speak of anything sad. The time for regrets is passed.
Breathing becomes more and more difficult with the passing of the minutes.
She closes her eyes for the last time with the setting of the sun. “Arthur…” slips past her lips like a sigh.
-
After that dream, Morgana found herself watching people more closely than before. She looked at Merlin, trying to see the old man in his youthful, optimistic face. When his eyes sparkled in a certain way, she felt like, just for a moment, she was looking across the years.
She looked at Arthur, not sure what she was looking for, exactly. There was so much to potentially see. When she looked though, she saw her daughters’ noses, or their eyes, or their hair. She saw a quirky smirk that her grandson inherited.
Such a future didn’t seem so bad.
iii.
Grey is sprinkled through Merlin’s black hair, much longer than it was in their younger days. They stand on either side of a creek that runs through a large, desolate moor. In the distance, two armies clash in a murderous fury.
“This has to end, Morgana,” Merlin says, his voice still as deceptively soft and mild as it ever was. “Enough have died already.”
“I couldn’t agree more, Emrys,” she replies.
Silence stands between them, broken only by the savage fighting off in the distance. Then suddenly, there is no silence.
Light explodes between them. Merlin uses his staff as an extension of himself, magic pouring out of him. Morgana does not use additional toys, just her hands and her will. Both have been conduits for her magic before and have saved her life in the past. They will do their best again.
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this!” he shouts to her. “Arthur never wanted this!”
“He inherited his father’s legacy,” she retorts. “His lack of atonement for Uther’s sins wrought this life we now live. One way or another, he must pay a sacrifice for what Uther did!”
Merlin shakes his head. “That’s the dragon talking, Morgana,” he says, shielding himself from a new gust of magic that she flings at him. “Uther paid for his foolishness with his life, and his soul will likely spend millennia paying for the lives he took. It is not for us of the living to judge. Uther’s problems were not Arthur’s.”
“My people deserve recompense!” she shrieks. “Their suffering must be avenged!”
Merlin just stares at her and sighs before raising his staff up high. Lightning crackles and hits the gem.
Morgana sees her death coming, there is no avoiding it. Merlin’s birth was foretold by every magical sect of the last thousand years; they all said he would be the greatest of magic users to ever walk Albion. Still, she does not regret it.
She glares at him spitefully. “It matters not if you kill me, Emrys,” she hisses. “Mordred will play his part today. Arthur will pay -”
An explosion, and then there is nothing.
-
After that dream, Morgana sat at her vanity and gazed long and hard at herself in her mirror. She resented Uther greatly for his persecution of sorcerers and other magic users, that much she had been aware of for some time. The incident with the druid boy - Mordred, she thought, unable to repress a small shudder - had not been the beginning of her hatred for his policies, but they had been the catalyst that forced her and Uther to realize that they stood on opposing sides on the issue.
Did she truly feel though that Arthur must pay a debt for Uther’s sins? In her dream, Merlin had said that such beliefs were ‘the dragon’ speaking through her. She wanted to believe that, because Morgana honestly could not think of any circumstance that would make her believe that of her own accord. She, like so many, sat with almost breathless anticipation, waiting for the day when the crown would finally pass from Uther’s bloodstained hands to Arthur’s golden head.
Though she felt a bit silly, Morgana murmured a promise to herself that she would not listen to any dragons that she came across.
iv.
Morgana chuckles as she runs a brush through Gwen’s dark curls. “This is quite a change, isn’t it?” she asks.
Gwen smiles radiantly at her in the mirror. “I certainly thought so.”
“Well, you best get used to it, Your Majesty,” she teases. “You are the highest lady in the kingdom. The rest of us live to do for you.”
Morgana helps Gwen dress in a beautiful yellow gown that makes her look like she is the queen of summertime. Morgana’s dress, in comparison, is her traditional dark blue, which makes her look like the lady of the rains. When they finally step out of Gwen’s chamber, the line of ladies-in-waiting and guards are already assembled. They curtsy and bow to them, or rather, to Gwen, who nods cordially to them.
Gwen takes her place at the head of the line, with Morgana just behind her, bearing her train in her hands. They walk in procession through the castle until they reach their destination. Arthur, Merlin, and seeming every noble in the land await them in the great hall.
Morgana’s smile does not lift throughout the ceremony as she watches Arthur crown Gwen. His wife she has been for nearly two months, and now she is his queen.
The applause is so thunderous that no one hears the angry shouts until bolts of fire and lightning are unleashed, all aimed in the direction of the royal couple. Then chaos reigns.
Merlin reacts more quickly than even the highly-trained knights, leaping in front of Arthur and doing everything he can to catch or deflect anything that comes near the king. Morgana is at first stifled by the screaming and hysterical flailing of the ladies around her, but just as she gets clear of them, she sees that while Merlin can adequately protect Arthur, Gwen is a wide open target. It’s a miracle that she hasn’t been hit yet.
A miracle that is swiftly about to end. A ball of dark, malevolent-looking magic flies toward the new queen just before the last magical assassin is knocked to the ground by one of the knights. Arthur shouts, tries to get past Merlin, but Morgana knows he’ll be too late. She is closer.
It happens so quickly that’s over before anyone can even think to do anything different. The magic does not impact against Gwen’s defenseless body, but against Morgana’s. She is thrown back against the queen, knocking them both to the ground.
Morgana’s eyes are wide open, but she can hear no longer hear anything. She sees Merlin and Arthur rushing toward her, feels them gently lift her off of Gwen and onto the stone floor. Their mouths are moving, they are speaking to her, but she doesn’t hear their words.
Then her vision starts to go grey. Morgana blinks, tries to focus on the boys - her boys, now men, she thinks - and Gwen - Queen Guinevere now, but it’s little use. She forces her lips to quirk into a smile, just as her eyes drift shut.
She doesn’t hear them scream her name, over and over again.
-
After that dream, Morgana began experimenting with her magic in secret, looking for ways to shield. She knew she would not regret such a death, protecting Gwen of all people, but if that future was to come to pass, she really wouldn’t mind seeing how her friend would turn out as Queen of Camelot.
She resolutely tried not to feel jealous that Arthur married Gwen and not her. She struggles to remind herself that all things were possible in a future unwritten.
v.
Avalon is so desolate these days and Morgana faintly wonders if this is what it looked like when Merlin first visited it, so long ago. Perhaps the Blessed Isle senses the approaching demise of its mistress, she thinks.
The isle is silent, something Morgana is thankful for. No one is there to speak to her or to try to get her to speak. She is free to sit in silence and remember glories and friends faded by time.
She is the last of the four, which is something of a surprise. Morgana always suspected that it would be Merlin who would outlive them all, would continue down the years to tell their story to children of every succeeding generation, but no. Merlin passed two summers ago, leaving Morgana to be the last.
Morgana coughs violently. The ailment in her chest has been with her for months, mostly as an annoyance, but now, it has taken over her life. Some days she can barely rise from her bed. When it releases its vice-like hold on her, she leans back against her pillows in exhaustion.
She welcomes death. Everyone she loves is already in death’s embrace, and she longs to join them. Merlin, Gwen, Arthur, her father, her mother, her husband, and yes, even Mordred and Uther. Time and extreme old age have taught Morgana to forgive wrongs done to her by others. So many times she had tried to restrain Mordred, and Uther before him, and failed, but that is all done. She merely wants to see them all again, to hold them in her arms and be held by them.
She wants to laugh again.
Morgana doesn’t know when it happens precisely. It seems like at one point she is lying in her bed, old, grey, and shriveled, and in the next moment she is nineteen again, dressed in blue and walking through the sunbathed corridors of a Camelot untouched by strife or sorrow.
She approaches the dining room, where the doors are already open. She hears laughter coming from inside. Her heart fills with hope and she runs the rest of the way.
The first set of arms she flings herself into are her husband’s.
-
After that dream, Morgana gave up trying to determine which dream was real. Perhaps they all were real, or perhaps none of them were. She did not know if she was meant to be Camelot’s queen or to sacrifice her life for Camelot’s queen. She did not know if she was meant to seek Arthur’s death or to follow him and others into it gladly. Perhaps it was none of them, and Uther would be the true instrument of her demise.
The gift - curse - of dreams had been given to her for a reason, but maybe some things are simply meant to be a mystery. Morgana had no desire to know all of the answers.
She looked out her window and saw Arthur and Merlin mounting their horses, a contingent of knights around them. No doubt another hunting expedition. Gwen would be along soon, bearing a tray of food for the midday meal. The sun was shining and the birds sang.
It was a beautiful present. Morgana would enjoy it.
Author: angelqueen04
Pairing/Characters: Morgana/Arthur, Gwen/Arthur, Morgana/Other
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Character death (as made obvious by the title)
Spoilers: General spoilers for the first season
Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin or any associated characters.
Word Count: 2,531 words
i.
The people watch, not a sound coming from any of them. Uther speaks, railing that any who dare to use magic will not be spared, no matter who they are. Morgana ignores him, her eyes still intent on studying the crowd.
There. Gwen stands amongst many of the other servants, tears glimmering in her dark eyes. She clasps the hands of two of the servants who flank her, perhaps to gain strength from them or perhaps to keep herself from flinging herself onto the platform to die at her side.
Steady, Gwen, Morgana thinks and then she moves on.
It takes time, but eventually she sees them. Arthur and Merlin stand in the crowd, their heads covered by the hoods of their cloaks. Merlin looks desperate, as though he wishes to do something to stop this travesty.
No, Merlin, stay. One of us must, for Arthur’s sake.
Arthur stands next to the young warlock - for she knows that is what Merlin is - his face whiter than she has ever seen it. He does not stand beside his father today. He has railed against his father since her arrest, decrying Uther’s compulsive thirst for vengeance against magic, or so her guards had whispered to her when no one was there to witness their sympathy for their prisoner. Just as before, however, Arthur’s impassioned words fell on deaf ears. Uther will spare no person who practices the magical arts. The only mercy he gives to the child he raised from a tender age is that he spares her the fires and gives her the axe. He will not spare her life.
Not even if she is the woman his son lov -
There is movement out of the corner of her eye, and Morgana takes her eyes off of Arthur. The executioner is readying himself. She snorts inwardly. Uther has undoubtedly made this man quite wealthy, as his services are almost constantly in use.
The hooded man steps forward and kneels down beside her, asking her forgiveness for what he must do. She musters a small, sad smile and tells him he has it. As he stands, though, she turns to where Uther stands and makes eye-contact with him.
For him, there is no forgiveness, and she says so in a loud voice, so that everyone may hear.
Morgana can hear the axe whistling through the air, coming down to sev -
-
After that dream, Morgana refused to attend any more executions. Whether they were done by the axe or the fire, she would not come. Uther blustered about her showing sympathy to the enemies of the crown, but she promptly retorted that she had no taste for making such bloodshed into a kind of sport in need of spectators.
Arthur intervened between them, pointing out that it isn’t exactly a sight for ladies anyway. She raised her eyebrow at such an excuse, but didn’t object to it. Uther eventually agreed, and dropped the subject.
ii.
Morgana is old, ancient really. She lies in a bed that has been hers for the majority of her life. The physicians say they can do nothing but make her comfortable, to ease her passing. That suits her just fine. She knows her time is fast approaching, and she welcomes it.
Everyone gathers in her chambers. Merlin, old and bent and wearied by time just as she is, sits at her bedside and squeezes her hand in his own gnarled one. Four women, all of which have a combination of her and Arthur’s features in their younger days, follow Merlin in and are accompanied by a slew of younger people. One young man, no more than in his early twenties, wears a thin gold circlet on his head.
“Merlin,” Morgana whispers.
“Yes, milady?” It has not been a title for decades, but an affectionate nickname.
“He hated mornings. Never wanted to rise with the sun.”
It is a simple statement, but a knowing smile appears on his weathered, wrinkled face. “No, he didn’t,” he agrees.
They speak of the past for some time, her marriage, her attempts to do magic with hilarious results, her four daughters, the grandchildren. They do not speak of anything sad. The time for regrets is passed.
Breathing becomes more and more difficult with the passing of the minutes.
She closes her eyes for the last time with the setting of the sun. “Arthur…” slips past her lips like a sigh.
-
After that dream, Morgana found herself watching people more closely than before. She looked at Merlin, trying to see the old man in his youthful, optimistic face. When his eyes sparkled in a certain way, she felt like, just for a moment, she was looking across the years.
She looked at Arthur, not sure what she was looking for, exactly. There was so much to potentially see. When she looked though, she saw her daughters’ noses, or their eyes, or their hair. She saw a quirky smirk that her grandson inherited.
Such a future didn’t seem so bad.
iii.
Grey is sprinkled through Merlin’s black hair, much longer than it was in their younger days. They stand on either side of a creek that runs through a large, desolate moor. In the distance, two armies clash in a murderous fury.
“This has to end, Morgana,” Merlin says, his voice still as deceptively soft and mild as it ever was. “Enough have died already.”
“I couldn’t agree more, Emrys,” she replies.
Silence stands between them, broken only by the savage fighting off in the distance. Then suddenly, there is no silence.
Light explodes between them. Merlin uses his staff as an extension of himself, magic pouring out of him. Morgana does not use additional toys, just her hands and her will. Both have been conduits for her magic before and have saved her life in the past. They will do their best again.
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this!” he shouts to her. “Arthur never wanted this!”
“He inherited his father’s legacy,” she retorts. “His lack of atonement for Uther’s sins wrought this life we now live. One way or another, he must pay a sacrifice for what Uther did!”
Merlin shakes his head. “That’s the dragon talking, Morgana,” he says, shielding himself from a new gust of magic that she flings at him. “Uther paid for his foolishness with his life, and his soul will likely spend millennia paying for the lives he took. It is not for us of the living to judge. Uther’s problems were not Arthur’s.”
“My people deserve recompense!” she shrieks. “Their suffering must be avenged!”
Merlin just stares at her and sighs before raising his staff up high. Lightning crackles and hits the gem.
Morgana sees her death coming, there is no avoiding it. Merlin’s birth was foretold by every magical sect of the last thousand years; they all said he would be the greatest of magic users to ever walk Albion. Still, she does not regret it.
She glares at him spitefully. “It matters not if you kill me, Emrys,” she hisses. “Mordred will play his part today. Arthur will pay -”
An explosion, and then there is nothing.
-
After that dream, Morgana sat at her vanity and gazed long and hard at herself in her mirror. She resented Uther greatly for his persecution of sorcerers and other magic users, that much she had been aware of for some time. The incident with the druid boy - Mordred, she thought, unable to repress a small shudder - had not been the beginning of her hatred for his policies, but they had been the catalyst that forced her and Uther to realize that they stood on opposing sides on the issue.
Did she truly feel though that Arthur must pay a debt for Uther’s sins? In her dream, Merlin had said that such beliefs were ‘the dragon’ speaking through her. She wanted to believe that, because Morgana honestly could not think of any circumstance that would make her believe that of her own accord. She, like so many, sat with almost breathless anticipation, waiting for the day when the crown would finally pass from Uther’s bloodstained hands to Arthur’s golden head.
Though she felt a bit silly, Morgana murmured a promise to herself that she would not listen to any dragons that she came across.
iv.
Morgana chuckles as she runs a brush through Gwen’s dark curls. “This is quite a change, isn’t it?” she asks.
Gwen smiles radiantly at her in the mirror. “I certainly thought so.”
“Well, you best get used to it, Your Majesty,” she teases. “You are the highest lady in the kingdom. The rest of us live to do for you.”
Morgana helps Gwen dress in a beautiful yellow gown that makes her look like she is the queen of summertime. Morgana’s dress, in comparison, is her traditional dark blue, which makes her look like the lady of the rains. When they finally step out of Gwen’s chamber, the line of ladies-in-waiting and guards are already assembled. They curtsy and bow to them, or rather, to Gwen, who nods cordially to them.
Gwen takes her place at the head of the line, with Morgana just behind her, bearing her train in her hands. They walk in procession through the castle until they reach their destination. Arthur, Merlin, and seeming every noble in the land await them in the great hall.
Morgana’s smile does not lift throughout the ceremony as she watches Arthur crown Gwen. His wife she has been for nearly two months, and now she is his queen.
The applause is so thunderous that no one hears the angry shouts until bolts of fire and lightning are unleashed, all aimed in the direction of the royal couple. Then chaos reigns.
Merlin reacts more quickly than even the highly-trained knights, leaping in front of Arthur and doing everything he can to catch or deflect anything that comes near the king. Morgana is at first stifled by the screaming and hysterical flailing of the ladies around her, but just as she gets clear of them, she sees that while Merlin can adequately protect Arthur, Gwen is a wide open target. It’s a miracle that she hasn’t been hit yet.
A miracle that is swiftly about to end. A ball of dark, malevolent-looking magic flies toward the new queen just before the last magical assassin is knocked to the ground by one of the knights. Arthur shouts, tries to get past Merlin, but Morgana knows he’ll be too late. She is closer.
It happens so quickly that’s over before anyone can even think to do anything different. The magic does not impact against Gwen’s defenseless body, but against Morgana’s. She is thrown back against the queen, knocking them both to the ground.
Morgana’s eyes are wide open, but she can hear no longer hear anything. She sees Merlin and Arthur rushing toward her, feels them gently lift her off of Gwen and onto the stone floor. Their mouths are moving, they are speaking to her, but she doesn’t hear their words.
Then her vision starts to go grey. Morgana blinks, tries to focus on the boys - her boys, now men, she thinks - and Gwen - Queen Guinevere now, but it’s little use. She forces her lips to quirk into a smile, just as her eyes drift shut.
She doesn’t hear them scream her name, over and over again.
-
After that dream, Morgana began experimenting with her magic in secret, looking for ways to shield. She knew she would not regret such a death, protecting Gwen of all people, but if that future was to come to pass, she really wouldn’t mind seeing how her friend would turn out as Queen of Camelot.
She resolutely tried not to feel jealous that Arthur married Gwen and not her. She struggles to remind herself that all things were possible in a future unwritten.
v.
Avalon is so desolate these days and Morgana faintly wonders if this is what it looked like when Merlin first visited it, so long ago. Perhaps the Blessed Isle senses the approaching demise of its mistress, she thinks.
The isle is silent, something Morgana is thankful for. No one is there to speak to her or to try to get her to speak. She is free to sit in silence and remember glories and friends faded by time.
She is the last of the four, which is something of a surprise. Morgana always suspected that it would be Merlin who would outlive them all, would continue down the years to tell their story to children of every succeeding generation, but no. Merlin passed two summers ago, leaving Morgana to be the last.
Morgana coughs violently. The ailment in her chest has been with her for months, mostly as an annoyance, but now, it has taken over her life. Some days she can barely rise from her bed. When it releases its vice-like hold on her, she leans back against her pillows in exhaustion.
She welcomes death. Everyone she loves is already in death’s embrace, and she longs to join them. Merlin, Gwen, Arthur, her father, her mother, her husband, and yes, even Mordred and Uther. Time and extreme old age have taught Morgana to forgive wrongs done to her by others. So many times she had tried to restrain Mordred, and Uther before him, and failed, but that is all done. She merely wants to see them all again, to hold them in her arms and be held by them.
She wants to laugh again.
Morgana doesn’t know when it happens precisely. It seems like at one point she is lying in her bed, old, grey, and shriveled, and in the next moment she is nineteen again, dressed in blue and walking through the sunbathed corridors of a Camelot untouched by strife or sorrow.
She approaches the dining room, where the doors are already open. She hears laughter coming from inside. Her heart fills with hope and she runs the rest of the way.
The first set of arms she flings herself into are her husband’s.
-
After that dream, Morgana gave up trying to determine which dream was real. Perhaps they all were real, or perhaps none of them were. She did not know if she was meant to be Camelot’s queen or to sacrifice her life for Camelot’s queen. She did not know if she was meant to seek Arthur’s death or to follow him and others into it gladly. Perhaps it was none of them, and Uther would be the true instrument of her demise.
The gift - curse - of dreams had been given to her for a reason, but maybe some things are simply meant to be a mystery. Morgana had no desire to know all of the answers.
She looked out her window and saw Arthur and Merlin mounting their horses, a contingent of knights around them. No doubt another hunting expedition. Gwen would be along soon, bearing a tray of food for the midday meal. The sun was shining and the birds sang.
It was a beautiful present. Morgana would enjoy it.