Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

What happened to you, Morgana?

Spinning and whirling inside his head, the question had struck Merlin’s whole being as Excalibur would have. What happened to you? Chuckling dryly, he felt the answers swing inside his mind, unconjured. Ignorance, fear, hatred happened. Loneliness, trust, betrayal happened. Uther, Morgause, Merlin happened. And guilt, sharp as a blade, was now clutching at the warlock’s heart.

“I’m going to enjoy killing you, Arthur Pendragon. Not even Emrys can save you now.”

Had it not been for the steely hatred held in Morgana’s voice, Merlin would have laughed at the irony of the situation. She truly had no idea who Emrys was, and now that she thought him to be missing, she felt fearless. With no Emrys, no one could hope to defeat her – or so she thought. She must feel like the most powerful woman walking at this instant, and Merlin found himself dreading the feeling. Because it had to be terrible, to be sat up there, alone on the throne, and believe that no one could stop you. To feel unrestrained, magic unbridled, countless lives held in the palms of your hands. One must feel so lonely up there – so terribly lonely, and oh-so-terrible. Merlin did not want to feel that way, ever. The thought of it terrified him more than Morgana herself. For when one was standing so high on the pyramid of power, how could they help but slip? One wrong step was all it took to lose everything, and one hard clutch was all it took to grab the whole world. And while at this instant, Morgana’s eyes were set on Arthur, who knew when they would turn and ask for the world. Morgana was not afraid of her powers anymore… but she was afraid of the one who could be her equal.

She’s scared, he realised. So, so scared. She spits at Merlin the manservant, Merlin the betrayer, Merlin the fool, but cowers at the sole thought of facing Emrys. The love to her hatred and the light to her darkness. Opposites that could not help but collide at every turn, as though attracted to each other in spite of their reverse natures.

And wouldn’t it be easier that way? Light on one side, darkness on the other. Love with affection, trust, loyalty, and hatred married to loathing, deceit and treachery. The angels with Arthur, safe in Camelot, and the demons with Morgana, out in the wild. Only, Merlin was no angel, and he had been the one to dig the grave of Morgana’s demise. The sorceress hated Emrys for no true reason, but her hatred for Merlin – that was a hatred whose roots he could conceive. Merlin had poisoned her, deceived her, and she hated him for it, but he was to blame for so much more than that. And each time he heard of her wrongdoings, or saw a shadow weigh on Arthur’s face, brought by the memory of his sister, guilt came and snarled inside his mind. You did this, it said. And Merlin – Merlin said nothing. As always, the boy kept silent. Waiting for the storm to pass.

But he could not wait forever. This was no mere storm. This has to stop. It can go on no longer. Because, as much as people liked to say that time healed all things, his guilt had not wavered with the years, and for each of Morgana’s sins, it stirred within him. For each sin, it called Merlin’s name through gritted teeth. For each sin, it threw the blame on Merlin’s already heavy conscience. And he’d had enough.

He already had his own sins to atone for, already had his own ghosts to face, and now, he had to suffer from Morgana’s guilt as well? His conscience would crumble, and so would he. And then, how would he ever find himself again? He refused to lose himself to power the way Morgana had, but knew not how to avoid following the same path. All he knew was that if he continued that way, he would not manage. He had to speak out.

“Hleap on bæc.”

Merlin tensed, focusing all of his strength on restraining Morgana’s magic, now flowing through his own veins in a sea of hushed whispers. He didn’t miss the disbelief written on her face for all to see, and thought that he couldn’t even begin to imagine how she must be feeling right now. Lonely, no doubt. Empty, perhaps. Short of magic, while Merlin was full of it, oh-so-full of it, feeling as though his very soul would explode and shatter to a thousand pieces. But he didn’t let go. How could he? If he let go, all would be lost. Morgana said the words once more. She was trying even harder now, and what had first been a cold, detached command was slowly morphing into a pleading call, a call to her magic. The latter which was now stirring within Merlin’s whole being, boiling and kicking against the walls of his mind, trying to reach for her mistress. Merlin’s own magic, however, protested and refused to submit.

And as Morgana’s rage filled her very magic, Merlin felt it waver slightly and reveal something underneath. Distress. Distress of a sorceress whose magic refused to obey her. Distress of a vengeful warrior, betrayed by her own, who, facing Merlin, had let her steely gaze breathe thunder and release unshed tears., and whose trembling lips had screamed, there is no other way, because there was no other way, was there? Distress of a dying lady collapsing in Merlin’s arms, a friend, you poisoned me, with Merlin’s name on her lips – sometimes, his guilt liked to imitate her voice –, and Merlin struggling to meet her eyes, but he owed her that, didn’t he? He owed her that at least. And finally, distress of a girl whose smiling eyes fought to hide the pain underneath, the terror from her nightmares, the terror and the question, what am I? Each time, Merlin had been there. Each time, Merlin had done something for Camelot – and nothing for her. Each time, he had stood by, and watched another part of her die until there was nothing left but hatred and bitterness. People assumed Morgana had gone mad overnight, but Merlin knew better. Her downfall had been one long process, and he had been a witness to every step of it.

The cry of a little girl pierced through Merlin’s soul, splitting it in two. He could feel Morgana there, all around him, wrapping him in her essence, making it harder to distinguish what was him and what was her, and he could feel the hatred, and the bitterness, and, most of all, the terror all around him. And at the same time his guilt awoke, whispering into his ear, you did nothing.

No more, he vowed.

And when once more he saw her expression, similar to that of a startled deer, and yet married to the enraged fierceness of a predator, a dragon perhaps, Merlin had already made up his mind.

No more.

“Morgana,” he called, his voice hoarse and weak. It was also thick with tears, which he quickly erased. It would not do to cry – not so soon.

All of his limbs were aching as the sorceress kept trying to reach for her magic – and could Merlin really blame her for it? –, but he kept on struggling nevertheless. Morgana, mind distraught, being no doubt in a similar state as Merlin, paid him no attention. It was a bit ironic, now that he thought about it. That she should ignore him completely, dismiss his very presence, when, in fact, he was the one keeping her magic prisoner. She truly had no idea. She was reaching for her magic into the depths of her soul, while the culprit was, in fact, standing just a few feet from her.

Merlin doubted she’d even heard his voice; doubted anyone had heard him, for that matter. Everyone’s attention was focused on who they believed to be the most powerful sorceress to ever walk the Earth; there was no reason for them to look at Merlin.

So he took a few steps forward, and tried once more.

This time, his tone was firm. “Morgana.”

The woman he had called friend what seemed like a hundred years ago vaguely looked at him, and the distress he could feel inside of him had nothing to do with the rage he could see in her eyes. A rage directed at him. Her eyes spoke of hatred, while her soul was shuddering. He began to feel uneasy, but held his ground.

“Merlin,” warned Arthur’s voice in his back, and he felt his hand unfold to try and reach him, but Merlin avoided his grip.

You won’t want to hold me when you know.

“Listen to your master, Merlin,” Morgana almost chanted. “I have no time for you right now.”

“Look at me, Morgana,” he said, half-firm, half-supplicant.

Merlin tried not to waver on seeing the raw hatred boiling in her gaze, nothing like the brief vulnerability that had flashed in her eyes during her conversation with Arthur – what happened to you, Morgana –, and he looked back, uncertain of what his own eyes displayed.

“I’m sorry.”

The words were honest. The most honest words he’d said in a long while, probably. As honest as when he had told Arthur that he believed in him, and he guessed his tone must probably be the same as how it was in those moments, because those were the rare times when he could truly be himself. Unguarded.

“You’ll never know how sorry I am.” He almost choked as he felt her magic tighten around him, probably now fed by her desire to use it on Merlin.

“You are right,” she said, smiling tightly at Merlin, but her smile was a wicked one. “I’ll never know, just like you’ll never know how very much I hate you.” She snarled nastily. “But my magic will be more than happy to give you a taste.”

Merlin faintly sighed. He knew the next words wouldn’t be easy to say, nor would they be easy to hear, but he had to say them. She had to know. He owed her that much.

“What magic, Morgana? You can’t reach it. You’re trying, putting all your strength into it, but it’s – it’s distant. Restrained. Out of your grip. The struggle is vain, you won’t reach it. I’m sorry.”

Her expression slightly broke, as she no longer had the force to conjure a smile, and then she looked at Merlin strangely. Something akin to a sob cried in her throat. Her mask of hatred faltered just for an instant, revealing a brief flash of disbelief. Unsurprisingly, she gained control over her features quickly enough to conceal the hurt that would probably follow, and her face asked Merlin a single question.

Are you saying that…?

Yes, Merlin nodded, eyes fixed on Morgana. He didn’t blink. Didn’t look away. Only stared. And watched as an air of understanding dawned upon her face.

And when Morgana’s grip on her magic came back, strong and enraged, Merlin was forced to clutch at his throat with both hands, and he struggled not to fall to his knees. The only man he would ever fall to his knees for was Arthur, and he intended to keep it that way.

“You’re lying!” she spat, her tone full of emotions. “You’re naught but a liar! You think you can deceive me with just a few words? Do not pretend to be more than what you are, Merlin, and by that I mean a traitor and a coward. It doesn’t suit you at all.”

Merlin smiled sadly, knowing what was left for him to do. He’d known it would come to that, deep inside him, from the instant he’d stepped forward and called Morgana’s name. This was something – something he had to do. Something he owed her. He tried to forget who else was in the room – tried to forget about Arthur, and how his gaze on him would change forever. He even tried to forget about the foreign magic kicking inside of him, begging to come out, as his magic answered, no, no. Composing his strengths, Merlin joined both his palms, slightly bowing his head, and whispered a few words… and he conjured a flower.

A small, blue flower, the same colour as the dress Morgana had been wearing when they’d first met. He wondered if she remembered those first days. Probably not. But he – he’d been unable to forget the first day he’d seen them. Arthur, Gwen, Morgana… they were all so young back then. All so full of life. They would never have guessed a day would come when they would wage a war against one another, would they?

Looking back up at Morgana, Merlin held his breath as he slowly revealed his palms. He felt her eyes follow the movement and knew the exact instant she saw the flower, because she gasped brutally. Quick gasps erupted behind him as well, but he paid them no attention. He looked at Morgana as though there were only the two of them in the room.

“I’d give it to you,” he said, trying a smile, “but I doubt you’d take it. You’d be more likely to set it on fire, wouldn’t you?”

Morgana said nothing, and that’s when he realised the extent of what he’d just done. He had revealed his magic. Morgana knew. Arthur knew. Camelot knew.

Coming back to the reality of the instant, Merlin coughed.

“As I said, I am sorry. But I cannot let you do this.”

And if his voice broke on the last words, no one spoke of it.

Morgana then let out a cry, a cry of anger, of distress, of rage, and the sudden burst of magic that erupted cut Merlin’s breath for a few instants.

“YOU!” she roared. “YOU, A SORCERER! How long, Merlin?”

“I’m a warlock, Morgana. I’ve had it since the day I was born.”

His tone was surprisingly calm given the situation, but his entire being was struggling to contain Morgana’s magic, and as much as he was trying to hide it, it was hard to refrain his entire body from stiffening. Her eyes following Merlin’s short spasms, taking into consideration his protective stance and tense muscles, Morgana suddenly chuckled. Her anger was now reinforced by a feeling of joy whilst facing Merlin’s suffering.

“My magic may be restrained, but it brings me great joy to know that I still have a way to hurt you. All I have to do is try to reach for it…” Following her words, she raised both arms in front of her. Merlin felt Arthur and the others tense behind him, and he tensed as well, but not for the same reasons. “… and look at you, Merlin. Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” In response to her gestures, Merlin had slumped further into himself. Thankfully, he was still standing.

For how much longer, though, he did not know.

He forced himself to remain strong in his posture, head raised, eyes dug into hers as he saw what she had become.

“Does it, Morgana? Does it bring you joy? Does vengeance warm your heart? Looking at you now, I doubt it.”

“Do not speak to me of vengeance!” she screamed. “You do not know the taste of it. You aren’t brave enough for it. You do not have the stomach for it.” Then, surprisingly, a slight smirk found its way upon her lips, and she took a few steps towards Merlin to brush the skin of his cheek with the back of her hand. “Though I have to admit, you did have the stomach for over things. Magic at the very heart of Camelot. You’ll have to admit, there is a funny ring to it. And of all the people he could’ve chosen, he,” she gestured towards a spot above Merlin’s shoulder, Arthur, probably, “picks a warlock for his best friend. Maybe I underestimated you, after all. How you’ve managed to trick him.”

How you’ve managed to deceive him…

“Funny you’re saying this,” Merlin murmured, “given Agravaine recently told me a similar thing.”

Agravaine, whom he’d killed. He gave me no choice.

His guilt sniggered. Is that what you’ll tell yourself tonight, when you try to fall asleep?

Morgana laughed as well, as though echoing his guilt, but her laugh was devoid of mirth.

“Oh, Merlin. Now that I think about it, perhaps you felt as I did when playing the dutiful daughter for Uther, no? I only have one question for you. How?”

“How?” It was all Merlin could say, for his throat was dry.

The memory of Agravaine had upset him more than he’d expected. And Morgana’s smile widened, as if Merlin had said exactly what she’d expected him to say.

“How do you do it? Face him every day, make his bed, act a fool, all the while knowing that if he ever learned of who you truly were, he’d be the first to light the pyre? Play at being his friend,” she spat the word as though it were venom, “when he could just as simply be your executioner? Even a brave boy such as you must have some doubts. Oh, Merlin, you must hate him terribly if you are ready to sacrifice so much for his death. Maybe even more than I…”

Something in Merlin’s gaze must have betrayed him then, because as much as he tried to remain impassive, Morgana’s expression changed all of a sudden, and a laugh, more sincere than the previous one, left her throat. Her hand flew away from his face, as though suddenly disgusted by his touch.

“Oh… but you’re not playing, are you?” She seemed unable to stop laughing. “Now, excuse me, Merlin, but this is simply hilarious. I’m sorry, brother dear,” she added, once more glancing above Merlin’s shoulder. “You’re not playing. Not with him. Oh, god… It must be hard. How do you stand it? Tell me. A warlock serving – loving – the son of the man who orchestrated the Great Purge. How do you stand it?”

Probably lost in memories of Uther, Morgana had slightly loosened her grip on her magic, and Merlin was all too grateful to finally be able to breathe properly. But as she looked like she was about to go into a speech of bitterness and revenge, her eyes landed on the same spot above Merlin’s shoulder, and her face broke into a smile. Merlin closed his eyes, knowing what she had seen. Facing Morgana was something he could do, but turning towards Arthur? He could not. Would not.

“Oh, look at him, Merlin.” Morgana laughed once more, but it was a terrible laugh. She seemed like she had just found in him an endless source of entertainment, and Merlin’s only relief in all that was that at least now her full ire would be focused on him instead of Arthur. “Look at all of them. Their eyes, Merlin, their eyes… My, it must hurt. To have sacrificed so much for someone and be repaid in blood and tears… but this is how it goes, isn’t it? You play nice. You play perfect. And as soon as they hear of what you really are, they turn their backs on you. What do you imagine you will find in his eyes? Come on, give it a guess; oh, don’t look at me like that, Merlin, you perfectly know who I’m speaking about. What are you afraid of finding there? Repulsion? Hatred?”

Merlin swallowed. He’d always wrapped himself in the belief, after each terrible thing he’d survived, that the worst was now behind him, but at this very instant, as he dreaded what was dancing in Arthur’s eyes, he found that he had rarely been so terrified before. He could feel his limbs trembling, but it was not because of Morgana’s magic anymore. By the gods, he was terrified. Whoever was the idiot who’d claimed that revealing one’s secrets lightened one’s heart? He himself had hardly ever felt so heavy, and he feared it would only get worse as the seconds passed.

And Morgana, who rarely ever missed a detail, did not miss his current state.

“Oh, no… it’s fear, isn’t it? That’s what you’re afraid of seeing.” Her eyes were glinting with a triumphant gleam. “Oh, Merlin… isn’t it funny, just a little bit? You conjure a flower and they call you a murderer. Uther burns men, women and children alike, and they call him king. There is an irony to the situation, you’ve got to admit it. The blindness of men will never cease to amaze me. Oh, I’m sorry, Merlin. Did you think Arthur would be any different? Just look at him, Merlin. Look at them. They’re drawing their swords,” she chanted.

Merlin bit his lower lip. Swallowed. Clenched the inside of his sleeve. Tried to breathe properly. Then he wrapped himself in the comfort of all that he knew – the call of the earth rumbling under his feet, the whisper of the air whistling against his ear, the tune of the rain singing out the window, the words of men echoing all around him, all that resulting in the very pure embrace of his magic, a magic made of leaves and feathers and skins and voices, a magic that was Merlin, always would be, carving in his very being the memories of all those he’d known, and admired, and loved, always within him, wrapping Merlin in their essence–

“LOOK AT THEM!”

He didn’t need to. He could already see them. Feel them.

The warmth of Artur’s chuckle. The fondness of his smile. The sharpness of his gaze.

He saw it all. Felt it all. He had no need to look at Arthur, because Arthur was already there, carved in his very essence. Forever. His magic had already adopted the king. Arthur was there.

But Morgana – Morgana wasn’t. Morgana wasn’t, because he’d somehow lost her along the way.

Which was why she was the one he had to keep looking at.

And then – then he’d have too look back. Look back to their history. Look back to where he’d lost her.

So, staring at Morgana through half-shut eyelids, Merlin placidly replied: “I’m looking at you.”

And he was.

And as he looked at her neck, he remembered the poison pouring through her veins. As he looked at her pursed lips, he remembered her false smiles, tinged with fear. As he looked at her eyes, cold and steely, he remembered the surprise, the incomprehension, the betrayal.

And the bitter laugh Morgana released could only make sense, once he had all of those scars displayed in front of his eyes. What wouldn’t have made sense was her being alright. What hardly made sense was him being alright. Was he, really? A bold part of him asked that. He gave no reply.

“You weren’t looking at me all those years ago, though, were you, Merlin?”

Then Morgana was leaning towards him, as though about to tell him a secret, and Merlin waited. He knew he had to hear the words, even though it would hurt. “I remember it, you know.” So do I. “Every second of it, I remember.” I’ve got a hundred-and-ten scenarios where things go differently. “I remember you, handing me that flask. I scarcely remember grabbing it, probably because the gesture came naturally – I wasn’t expecting you to poison me, you see. But what I clearly remember is you, with your back turned on me, while the philtre burned my throat.” This vision haunts my nights. “That, I can remember.” Her eyes, having temporarily drifted to the floor, flew back to Merlin, then to that terrible spot above his shoulder. Merlin forced himself not to look back. To remind himself that no matter how Arthur would react, he’d always have a part of him within himself, a part of what they’d had. “Do you think he’s going to stab you in the back, Merlin? I think that would be funny, given our history. Almost like justice. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Justice, the bitter creature of guilt repeated inside his mind. Unsurprisingly, it agreed with Morgana – but then again, his guilt had never been a huge fan of Merlin.

Justice, it chanted inside his head. And Merlin – Merlin was having a hard time disagreeing.

“Arthur would never stab anyone in the back,” he growled nevertheless. “Sorcerer or not, he never would. No matter how much the person might deserve it. He’s too noble for such a thing.”

“Hm. You may be right. Shame.” Then, as she glanced back at Merlin, Morgana’s lips quirked into an odd sort of smile. “Look at us both. The two persons in the world Arthur would have expected the least to end up being sorcerers. The two persons he once loved the most, turning into what he hates most in this world. You know, Merlin, I can’t really tell whether I mostly hate you… or pity you.”

Pity was a strange choice of words. Few people ever pitied Merlin, probably because few people knew what he’d done and what others had done to him.

“Easy. Hate. I poured poison through your throat, Morgana.” And even though the words hurt, they had to come out – after all, he had hardly ever acknowledged aloud what he had done to her. There had hardly been anyone to listen, save Gaius. So Merlin had just buried this terrible episode of his life as deeply as he could, promising himself never to look at it again. Not the wisest course of action, now that he thought about it. “I would definitely hate myself.”

Morgana chuckled at that, though the chuckle was a short one.

“You’ve always been a funny one, haven’t you? That’s probably why Arthur keeps you so close. One of your endearing qualities, along with your ridiculous loyalty. Tell me, Merlin, was that part of the play as well? Your carelessness in the face of danger? The stupidity of your actions? That self-sacrificing nature of yours?”

“I wish it were,” he muttered. “It would’ve avoided me many a trouble.”

“But you’ve always been clever as well, Merlin. So annoyingly clever. Always there at the right time, one step ahead of Arthur’s enemies. Which is specifically why you infuriate me so. Oh, don’t look at me like that. Did you really think I’d let you deflect that easily?”

Merlin smiled sadly. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

A cruel smile pursed Morgana’s lips as she began to tell Merlin why she oh-so-hated-him. “How do you stand looking at yourself in the mirror? No, tell me frankly, Merlin. When you look at the glass, do you like what you see? Does it make you smile? Want to know what I see, now that I’m looking at you? I see a boy unsure of which side to pick. A boy eager for Arthur’s holy approval. A boy ready to do anything, including betraying his own kind, all to please Uther’s own flesh and blood. You’re betraying your legacy, Merlin. Betraying your very own being. A sorcerer cannot be friends with Arthur Pendragon!” she exclaimed, as though that were some sort of universal rule. Then, taking a few steps towards Merlin, she whispered close to his ear: “If I were you, Merlin, I’d cower in the face of my own hypocrisy. You’re no better than me.”

I know, said Merlin’s eyes.

I know, I know, I know, and yet I never learn.

But Morgana had no interest for what his eyes told her, and as her words rang in Merlin’s mind – you’re no better than me, hypocrisy, hypocrisy –, he could not anticipate her next movements: one second, he was facing Morgana, and the next, he was facing Arthur and the men beside him, the blade of a dagger pressed hard against his throat, almost daring him to breathe in spite of it. His heartbeat, hammering against the cold metal, was surprisingly regular, defying Morgana in its very own rhythm. I’m beating, it said, and I do not care for your blade. I shall carry on beating as I wish.

But while Merlin’s heart showed courage, his eyes could not remain immune to the sight of Arthur facing him, nor could they avoid his gaze forever. So he looked up. Slowly. Indifferent to the blade against his throat, but shuddering at the sole thought of facing Arthur. As his eyes finally reached his king’s, he was surprised to see that Arthur’s weren’t fixed on him, and that they were filled with rage – but a rage that was not directed at him.

“Back off,” he was growling at Morgana, in a tone similar to that of Merlin a few seconds earlier.

It made Merlin shudder. When Arthur would look back at him, would his eyes be filled with the same rage? Would he see some of Morgana in Merlin? Merlin clenched the inside of his sleeve once more, not even attempting to avoid the blade.

Funny thing, fear, wasn’t it?

The touch of death on the skin on his throat did nothing to Merlin, but the idea of seeing fear in the gaze of the man he valued most in this world stirred in Merlin a terror he could not repress. One look from Arthur, Merlin feared, was all it would take for him to crumble.

And should he crumble, then so would Camelot, since Morgana’s magic would triumph and thrive in his defeat.

And so Merlin forced himself to look away, not down at the floor, nor up at the ceiling, but rather on a spot located on the wall, and to forget his feelings at this instant. Feelings would get him nowhere. Now was the time to be strong. Strong for all of Camelot. He could almost hear Arthur’s voice growl in his ear a fierce call, for the love of Camelot, as he had mere minutes earlier, on entering this room. I’m doing this for the love of Camelot too, Arthur, he thought. Please don’t hate me too much. Spare some love for me.

“Now that I have everybody’s attention”, Morgana clamoured, as though that hadn’t already been the case for the last thirty minutes, but then again, the Pendragons always had had a taste for drama, “why don’t you reveal yourself to us, Emrys?”

So this is what it is about, Merlin understood. He could feel Morgana’s wine-tinged breath caressing his cheek at every word, and her fierce grip on him was a clear indicator of her hatred for Merlin. He vaguely wondered what his reaction would have been, all those years past, had somebody showed him what would happen on this fateful day. What both his reaction and Morgana’s would have been, for that matter. He regretted the day when they could both just stand in the same room, her rooms, even, with no feeling but trust and friendship for the other. Regretted the time when he could be serene while standing a few feet from her. It had ended all too quickly.

“Oh, don’t give me those startled deer eyes, Merlin. You know perfectly well who it is I’m talking about.”

And Merlin felt his face harden as he realised that he had yet another secret to reveal.

Chapter Text

Morgana, eyes on Merlin, did not bother to hide her disdain, and even though she now knew that he had magic, she did not consider him a threat. In her mind, he was still Merlin, the silly serving boy. And her words proved as much.

“There is no way a frail thing such as you would alone have and know how to wield the power it would take to stop me. Your body is simply not strong enough for so strong a magic, nor is your traitorous mind. He’s helping you. Emrys’s helping you.”

The name, pronounced with obvious distaste, very obviously stirred fear in Morgana’s whole being. She was terrified at the idea of Emrys hiding there, somewhere, watching her, ready to kill her at any time. She felt observed. Hunted. And now that she understood that Emrys had been protecting Arthur from the start, she knew that all it would take to get to Arthur would be to eliminate this Emrys. Erase him from the painting. It had to be reassuring, to reject all the blame on one sole person – but also terrifying, what with all the prophecies and such about Morgana and him.

And now, Morgana was convinced to hold something against Emrys: Merlin himself. She thought she had the upper hand.

“He’s helping you. Has been, right from the beginning. Using you as his little puppy to protect Arthur… and if there’s one thing I’ve learnt about Emrys, it’s that he does not condone the deaths of innocents. You’re hardly innocent, Merlin, but then again, neither is Emrys. So, Emrys. Either you will reveal yourself at this instant, or your little puppet will die at my hands. Funny thing, how people think a sorceress is powerless simply because her magic has been obstructed. You of all people should know better, Arthur.”

“Let go of him,” said Arthur through gritted teeth.

For a second, Merlin could feel Arthur’s eyes on him – and surprise filled his heart when he realised that there was no hatred to be found in them. There was worry. Shock. Anger, at Morgana. A lot of fear – but not of him; it was fear for him. Arthur’s eyes were on him, and Arthur didn’t hate him.

He doesn’t hate me.

Doesn’t. Hate. Me.

Realising that made Merlin release a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. Arthur didn’t hate him! Didn’t hate what he was – now only remained the matter of who he was. Wouldn’t it be simple to just remain there – remain at the revelation that he was a warlock, and forget all about the Emrys part? To just – remain Merlin. Merlin the warlock, yes. But not Emrys the man from the legends, Emrys known of the Druids, Emrys from the prophecies. Just – just Merlin. Only, there appeared to be something else in Arthur’s gaze – something more. Faith? Something that let Merlin hope that perhaps, just perhaps, Arthur might allow him to be a little bit more than what he was. And Merlin found himself longing for more of that faith, finding he quite liked to taste of it. But was he ready to earn it?

Merlin, all too aware of the startled gazes on him, carrying on avoiding them. And idly, one part of him found itself wishing more and more that there truly were an Emrys hidden somewhere in this room, an Emrys who would be ready to take all the decisions, the good and the bad, and deal with the consequences in Merlin’s stead. Another sorcerer, stronger than Morgana, stronger than Merlin, with a pure heart and the purest intentions, indeed lending Merlin his magic and guiding each of his steps. Yes, he wished. After all, it would rather make sense, and at least Morgana’s ire would find another prey. If only there were another sorcerer –

But there was none.

In this room, there were only Tristan, Isolde, Helios, Arthur, Morgana and him. No all-powerful sorcerer ready to play the part. Just the six of them. No Emrys.

And so Merlin would have to play the part.

Because they were alone. Utterly, indubitably alone.

For the past few years, Merlin had been told that he was Emrys, this warlock whose name meant immortality and whose destiny would be to bring magic back to Camelot for the Golden Age, alongside the Once and Future King, Arthur… but had he ever truly believed it? In Arthur? Yes, always. But in himself? Hardly. Indeed, how could he believe himself worthy of a title he’d never earned, a title created long before his birth and meant to last for eternity? How was he supposed to believe that he was this great figure meant to impact the whole of Albion’s future, when he himself felt so little in comparison to this formidable title? How was he supposed to have faith in a title that had been laid on top of his head at his birth, weighing heavily on each of his actions, similar to an invisible crown, no less heavy than Arthur’s? Merlin had never been taught to be Emrys, though. Had hardly ever been taught how to be a warlock. And yet the title pursued him, as the Druids seemed to see in him something he could not yet perceive, nor conceive. What did they see when they looked at him? He wondered. But the more faith people placed in the name, the heavier it proved on Merlin’s shoulders, and though he knew that such were the ways of prophecies, Merlin had a hard time accepting the name – after all, he’d always had a hard time believing in what he could not see.

And he’d seen what prophecies could do to people. How prophecies had predicted an evil Morgana and precipitated her fall, using Merlin as a mere puppet. Like some sort of paw of destiny. It seemed that the more he attempted to avoid them, the more likely the prophecies became, as though each attempt to draw them further only quickened the process of their happening. And Merlin was so, so sick of it. Because this was his life the gods were playing with. His friendships and loves they were toying with. His magic they were using. Thankfully, at least there was one thing that was still within his grasp: to choose who he would be.

Keep your magic a secret, some told him, while others said: be Emrys. Only now did he realise what a great mystery his identity remained, even to himself.

One thing was certain, though: Merlin would not let prophecies do to him what they had done to Morgana – he wouldn’t let them turn him into a bitter, hateful warlock, filled in fear by the prophecies he heard. He didn’t care if people claimed he was Morgana’s light to her darkness, her love to her hatred… and he didn’t care if they claimed that he was her doom, or her destiny. He would not let prophecies get in the way of who he wished to become. He couldn’t bear the idea of becoming as distrustful as Morgana, judging people depending on what the prophecies told him instead of what the persons showed him. If there was one thing that he’d learnt about prophecies, it was that there were lots of them… and if he spent his whole life listening to them, then he feared what would become of him. Feared the paranoia that would ensue, and feared what this paranoia could make of him.

He would be Emrys. Alright. He would be him.

But he would be Merlin’s Emrys. Not the Druids’. Not Morgana’s. Not the prophecies’. He would do what was right. To him. And so he would earn the title. It was his title, so it rather made sense that he should be the one to decide what to do with it. And besides, there was no one else to do it – no one but him. And if he didn’t stop walking and pick up his crown, no one else would; or, worse: the wrong people would. Merlin could not take that risk. It had to be him; things had never been more obvious than at this very instant. He had to be Emrys – had to try, at least. He had a choice: to do nothing, be nothing… or to become everything. And so he’d be this Emrys, this legend made flesh. He would do what others would not. Because he had been shaped for this, whether he liked it or not, the gods had shaped him so and his magic was proof enough of it, and now was the time to seize the role. If he did nothing, he would never forgive himself – and so how could he every hope for Arthur to forgive him?

At this instant, Merlin chose to be Emrys. Not for a crown of fame. Not for destiny either. He cared little for any of those things. He barely even did it for himself. He did it because of what he saw, because of what he knew, and loved. He did it for the man standing in front of him, so determined to protect his manservant against Morgana in spite of what he’d just heard. He did it for the city they were in, and for the people to whom it belonged. He did it for the world, for a world ruled by Morgana would be a sorrowful world indeed. And, most of all, he did it for the future he believed in. The kingdom he knew Arthur would create. A kingdom of fairness and justice, of peace and prosperity, where men and sorcerers would live side by side, not afraid of what they were and of what powers the other possessed. A kingdom as just and fair as the man who would lead it himself.

A man who, hopefully, would accept Merlin’s presence by his side.

And as he looked at the man in front of him, the man in whom he placed all his hopes and dreams, as he looked into the eyes of the man he believed in, eyes where he could nearly see himself, Merlin genuinely knew that he’d made the right choice. Arthur’s eyes were shining with unshed tears as he looked back at Merlin, whose own eyes were probably wet as well, and none of them looked away. Merlin tried to convey all the affection and pride he felt in a simple look, and to have his own manservant look at him that way, unguarded, his emotions plain for all to see, seemed to stun Arthur for a few instants. Finally, he didn’t have to hide any longer. He’d always seen Emrys as a burden so far, something that veiled his identity, forced another man’s qualities over his… but at this instant, he felt relieved. Emrys was no longer a stranger to himself, and he had to make sure he would be no stranger to Arthur either. I believe in you, Merlin thought. Know that I believe in you. Then he closed his eyes briefly, apologising in advance for what was to come, and inclined his head slightly. Forgive me. A sad smile played on the edge of Arthur’s lips, sad yet soft. He quickly glanced around them before coming back to Merlin. I wish things were different. Merlin shook his head faintly, paying little attention to the blade against his throat. I don’t. Then he kept his chin held up high, preparing himself for what was to come. And he smiled. Proudly. His gaze brushing the top of Arthur’s head, where he could see a crown nobody else could see, he smiled in acknowledgement of the king he saw. My King, he thought. Then he felt Arthur’s gaze caress his own body, brushing his face, chest and arms… and finally settling on the blue, little flower he was still holding in his hand. Something soft flashed in his eyes, as though the sight of the flower was familiar to him. As though Merlin’s choice of conjuring a flower was no surprise to him, after all, and exasperated him more than anything else. He had a small, teasing smile, meant for Merlin’s eyes only. Merlin could almost hear his voice inside his head complain, you’re such a girl, Merlin. To which he would eagerly reply that there was only pride to be found in being considered a girl, and then tease Arthur, claiming he was merely jealous not to have received a flower, like he’d been all those years ago, when he had been convinced that Merlin fancied Morgana. Meeting Arthur’s gaze, Merlin realised, had given him something he’d been lacking so far: courage. And faith.

Is it you? Arthur’s eyes finally asked. Merlin nodded. It’s me.

King and warlock looked at each other one last time, seeing in the other what others could not, before being brought back to the reality of the instant. A reality Merlin could feel, cold and sharp against his throat. As Morgana tried once more to reach for her magic, Merlin felt his knees shudder, struggling to support his weight, and he gathered the newly found strength that he had to utter the following words.

“You’re right, Morgana.” Somehow, his voice sounded different. Stronger. Fiercer. “Emrys is no innocent man. He’s done things. Terrible things. Set fire to places, forced buildings to crumble. Judged men guilty before they’d even proven so, simply because of the flash of a prophecy, and killed, hurt, betrayed, lied, pretended, deceived. Hundreds of innocents died because of his actions. He’s done things – right or wrong, he’s done them, because no one else would do them in his stead. He’s… failed people, people who believed in him. And poisoned people. People who trusted him. Thought him their friend.” He tilted his head to the side, defiantly meeting Morgana’s unreadable gaze, and clearly said: “But one thing he’s never failed to do, is keep Arthur Pendragon safe. Not safe from betrayal, perhaps, but safe from harm nevertheless. And what you must understand, Morgana, is that Emrys would rather die than allow you to kill this man. He’ll stop at nothing to keep him safe, nothing.” Then, brushing the blade with the tip of his fingers, he softly added: “Now, take that blade away from my throat before I take care of it myself.”

But Morgana said nothing. Kept staring at him, wordless.

Merlin whispered a few words and the blade dissolved into water, cold strands of waters that ran down his chest, smelling like metal, leaving Morgana’s fingers wet and with nothing to hold. Merlin stepped away from her, not missing her stunned gasp, and then turned to face her. Still frozen in the same position, she was repeating the same words, over and over again.

“You’re not him, you cannot be him,” she kept murmuring, sounding delusional. Some part of her probably was.

Merlin suddenly felt a surge of pity flow through him.

“It cannot be you!” Morgana screamed all of a sudden, her magic clutching at Merlin’s throat, probably aiming at making the ground shiver with it.

The warlock held his ground, fists tight, heart breaking at the vision of Morgana breaking under his very eyes. He had to do something. So, kneeling to the floor, he touched it with his hand and whispered, “Sing for me”. He felt the earth’s magic arise and surround them, softly, and though it had nothing to do with what Morgana’s magic would have done – with the way it would have made everything tremble and break and scream, just like her heart.

“I am Emrys, Morgana.”

He saw her take a few steps backwards, seeing in Merlin the figure that had been haunting her dreams for the past few years, but he continued speaking nevertheless.

“I am Emrys. Though I’d rather you call me Merlin.” He tried a smile, but Morgana simply stiffened, so he decided to go straight to the point. “I do not… condone your use of magic. And there are many others who think the same as me. You may not realise it, but your actions are disturbing the ways of things. You may realise the extent of your powers, but not the extent of the consequences of your actions. You have been gifted with great powers, among which the gift of foresight. I call it a gift, but it is true that in your case, it has been a curse. The visions you saw filled you with fear for the future, and fear for what you are. But, be it a curse or a blessing, it’s a part of you. Always has been. Always will be. You have great powers, Morgana. But with these powers comes a responsibility. To the world. To the people. To those who gave you that power. You cannot toy with things that are beyond you. I have tried to do the same once, have played with a power I could not yet conceive, and I got lucky. But everyone’s luck runs out, sooner or later. You cannot carry on doing this, Morgana. You need to prove yourself worthy of the power that is yours, or not yield it at all.”

Morgana scoffed.

“Why should I prove worthy when worthless men like Uther throw our kind to the pyre? Why should I be the one to act with nobility?”

“Because,” and Merlin allowed his magic to go brush Morgana’s cheeks, “it’s always been like that. It’s always been harder for those of us that are a minority. And the task of being noble has always been imparted to us. I’m not saying it’s fair, because it’s not. Nevertheless, we need to show them that our powers do not define us. What defines us is how we choose to act upon them.” He looked at Arthur. “Magic does not corrupt. Magic may change the states of things, but since when does change rhyme with corruption? It does not corrupt.” Then, back at Morgana. “It does not corrupt, but fear, anger, grudges, all of that kept inside and never spoken aloud until it’s too late – that’s what breaks us in the end. What makes us bitter. What devours our entire being. Bitterness consumes us. It consumed you, Morgana. I mean, look at yourself! Your words hardly make sense! You speak of trust and betrayal, but you were one of the first to turn your back on Arthur, your very own blood. You let him down… as I let you down.

He saw her close her eyes.

“You cannot keep all of that bitterness inside of you, Morgana. You do not deserve to harbour it, and Arthur – he doesn’t deserve to be the prey of it either. You see your father in him, but Arthur is not Uther.”

“How can you be so sure of it?” Morgana’s voice was trembling, but her gaze remained unwavering. Her eyes were still closed.

“How?” Merlin smiled softly. “Because I know him. Better than anyone, I think. Better than himself, at times. I know that he will be the greatest king Albion will ever see–“

“You know that because a prophecy told you so!” Morgana objected.

She seemed oddly hostile toward prophecies for someone who hated Emrys so much just because a prophecy had told her that he was her doom. How could she believe in a prophecy that meant her death, and yet deny the prophecy of Arthur’s destiny?

“I also know,” Merlin patiently continued, “that Arthur is a good man. A fair and just man. A man who gives his people hope. A man his knights want to fight for. Arthur isn’t just a man who was born with a crown on top of his head; any fool can be born that way and prove unworthy on the kingdom that was given to him. But Arthur – he’s worthy of that crown, and he will prove to be even worthier of it as the years pass. I’ve seen him let a thief run free because he claimed he had a family to feed. I’ve seen him consume with guilt at the mere thought of his kingdom dying because of a mistake he’d made. I’ve seen him value my life over his on countless opportunities. I’ve seen a unicorn be reborn and come to him, all because he proved to be pure of heart. I’ve seen Arthur allow all of his people a chance to speak out. I’ve seen him gather his loved ones around a table – knights, friends, wife, servant – and meet them there as his equals. I’ve seen Arthur be a better king than Uther could have ever hoped to be. I’ve seen him show compassion, and justice, and courage. Yes, he has made mistakes, but who hasn’t? Arthur has given people hope. He’s given me hope. And each time I look at him, I see not only the man who has made this land a fair and just one, but also the king who will unite all of Albion under the Golden Age. I am as sure of it as I am sure that the stars shine upon us.”

Morgana scoffed, her laugh a cynical one. “We cannot all have your undying faith, Emrys. Not all of us have been raised in tales of the marvellous Albion Arthur will create. Some of us were raised surrounded with the pyres that Uther lightened.”

And Merlin laughed. “I wasn’t raised in any tales, Morgana. I was raised in a farm with my mother and no father. It was a very small village, and do you know what my mother kept telling me? Keep your magic a secret. No one must know. I was raised in the certainty that my magic, that was more than just a part of me, it was me, would forever remain a secret. Raised in the certainty that I would never reveal my true self. To anyone. Only one friend knew about my powers. My only friend.” He looked down at the floor. “And even on his dying bed, he kept my secret.” He swallowed. “I was born with enormous powers and no idea what to do with them. I could move objects before I could even speak! All this power… and no idea what to do with it. All this power, and one strict order from my mother: never to speak of it, to anyone. And around me, a few people who would do anything to keep this secret, including guarding it with their own lives. And then I came to Camelot. My first day in Camelot, I saw an execution. Of a sorcerer, of course. And so my mother’s instructions took sense, all of a sudden. Keep your mouth shut, or you will burn. That’s what it sounded like. Things had always seemed abstract to me, back in Ealdor, but now they were real. I got it.” He blinked, chasing away unshed tears. “But then I met Arthur. That prat, I thought. And I heard the prophecy. Apparently, we were two sides of the same coin, destined to bring magic back to Camelot and establish an era of peace and prosperity for the whole of Albion. I did not believe in the prophecy at first, Morgana. How could I? I’d just seen a man be burnt alive and the whole city watch, children included. I am not some fanatical believer, nor am I strong-willed enough to glimpse a favourable future when nothing around me has given me reasons to do so. When people like you and I have seen the things we’ve seen, it’s hard to believe in the good winning, isn’t it? Hard to believe that one day, these people will accept us, willingly. Hard to believe that one day, we will be free. Just because I have ideals doesn’t mean those ideals never waver, so stop making it sound so simple. It’s not. So at first, no, I didn’t believe in that great kingdom Kilgharrah was describing, nor did I believe in that great king he was telling me about. The reason I kept Arthur safe was not some blind faith in a distant future – it was much simpler than that, really. Arthur did not deserve to die. He became my friend. And then – then I saw, at times, a flash of the king he would be in his actions. His words. His eyes. At times, I could see the king he was bound to become. More and more often, I could see him. That’s when I started believing. That’s when I started having hope. Because I’d finally been given a reason to believe in that beautiful future.”

He saw Morgana swallow, her gaze briefly landing on Arthur before it came back to Merlin, and for a few seconds, it looked as though she were seriously considering his words. But then she shook her head abruptly.

“It’s too late for me,” she murmured. “Too late.”

“But it’s not!” Merlin grabbed both of her hands. “It’s not, Morgana.”

She laughed darkly. “That’s not for you to decide, Merlin.”

“You’re right. It’s not. That’s for Arthur to decide. Arthur, and Gwen, and all the people you’ve wronged. But you’re forgetting that I am Emrys – and what I can forgive, I will forgive. I will forgive your misuse of magic if you give me reason to believe you want to do better. As Merlin as well, I’ll forgive you what I can. And I – I meant what I said earlier. About being sorry. I’ve done many things in my life. Many terrible things. Each time, I chose Camelot – Arthur. But you – you were Camelot too. And nobody protected you. Maybe once, at least once, I should’ve chosen you. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry I didn’t. I’m sorry. As Merlin, I hope you can forgive me one day.” He squeezed her hands and gave Arthur a short look. “Arthur – he asked what had happened to you. I know what happened. I know it, because the same thing might just as easily happen to me if I’m not careful. We all need someone – someone to confide in. Someone who will tell us that we’re not a monster, and I should have been that someone for you. Not being there for you is one of my biggest regrets. Perhaps even my greatest. All those years ago, I should have been here. You claim I am your doom, but I’ve already been it, haven’t I? Not only did I poison you, but I lied to you. I failed you. And my guilt – my guilt hasn’t left me ever since that day. You might live with hatred in your veins, Morgana, but I’ve got guilt. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry I failed you. I’ve made mistakes. My biggest was losing you.”

He then held his breath, but Morgana said nothing, so he finished.

“You call me boy, and you’re right. I am just a boy. Arthur’s just a boy. You’re just a girl. We’re just – just a group of children playing at war. But in the end, we never truly did leave Camelot, did we? And at the end of the day, we end up harming ourselves even more than each other. We’re our own tormentors, and you and I know it better than anyone. We also know how to hurt each other best, because once, we were all best friends. Don’t you wish we could go back to the way things were? If we could, I’d do many things differently. But here we are. A bit pathetic, surely. It’s not childhood anymore, though. There are no such things as angels and demons. Love is married to betrayal and hatred is married to regret. Me? The light to your darkness? Love to your hatred? Seeing that I’ve had a role in your hatred, I have a hard time conceiving things that way. I’ve stopped seeing things in a golden light a long time ago, Morgana. We’ve all grown up. Arthur, Guinevere, you, me. You think you’re the only one whose very conscience has been shattered to a thousand pieces? The only one to have regrets? The only one who’s lying about how she feels? The only one who shivers in face of the mirror? The only one who feels like staying awake at night, if only to shut those nightmares inside her head? The only one who would like her voice to be strong enough so that it would cover that of the ones she’s killed and lost? The only one who’s haunted by more than just the dead? You’re not. Arthur knows. Guinevere knows. Lancelot knew. Gaius knows. We all know. What happened to you?” He smiled sadly, his gaze wavering between Arthur and Morgana before finally looking down at the blue flower in his hands. “Don’t you think the right question would be, what happened to us?”

Instants later, Morgana was gone – but the blue flower, small in the palm of Merlin’s hand, was gone as well. Merlin bit his lower lip, thoughtful. He’d been wondering how long it would take her to realise that her magic had been released.

Chapter Text

Morgana, eyes on Merlin, did not bother to hide her disdain, and even though she now knew that he had magic, she did not consider him a threat. In her mind, he was still Merlin, the silly serving boy. And her words proved as much.

“There is no way a frail thing such as you would alone have and know how to wield the power it would take to stop me. Your body is simply not strong enough for so strong a magic, nor is your traitorous mind. He’s helping you. Emrys’s helping you.”

The name, pronounced with obvious distaste, very obviously stirred fear in Morgana’s whole being. She was terrified at the idea of Emrys hiding there, somewhere, watching her, ready to kill her at any time. She felt observed. Hunted. And now that she understood that Emrys had been protecting Arthur from the start, she knew that all it would take to get to Arthur would be to eliminate this Emrys. Erase him from the painting. It had to be reassuring, to reject all the blame on one sole person – but also terrifying, what with all the prophecies and such about Morgana and him.

And now, Morgana was convinced to hold something against Emrys: Merlin himself. She thought she had the upper hand.

“He’s helping you. Has been, right from the beginning. Using you as his little puppy to protect Arthur… and if there’s one thing I’ve learnt about Emrys, it’s that he does not condone the death of innocents. You’re hardly innocent, Merlin, but then again, neither is Emrys. So, Emrys. Either you reveal yourself at this instant, or your little puppet will die at my hands. Funny thing, how people think a sorceress is powerless simply because her magic has been obstructed. You of all people should know better, Arthur.”

“Let go of him,” said Arthur through gritted teeth.

And as much as Merlin found solace in the thought of Arthur defending him in spite of what he’d just learnt, he couldn’t help doubting his intentions. Did he truly care about Merlin’s life, or did he only want Morgana out of the way so he could deal with Merlin afterwards? After all, Arthur hadn’t said anything else than ‘back off’ or ‘let go’ so far; nothing suggesting real worry over Merlin’s well-being. And at the thought of Arthur simply not caring about him, of Arthur stopping to care, Merlin felt his heart beat faster and faster.

Because he could not bear it. Couldn’t bear the idea of the man he’d done it all for simply dismissing him. The thought made him feel sick.

And the whole situation seemed so absurd – Morgana threatening him with a dagger he could just as easily turn into running water, and Merlin being the one restraining Morgana’s magic and also the one they would expect the less to hold such powers, and Arthur – Arthur, poor Arthur, being betrayed by all those around him, including Merlin. What a sorrowful group they made. And now, Morgana wanted to see Emrys? She’d be disappointed, no doubt. ‘Too young,’ she’d probably say, as many had before her. Many expected Emrys to be old – and to be fair, so did Merlin. How could he carry such an old title when he, himself, was oh-oh-very-young? Why did it have to be him, eh? Why him? Why couldn’t there be another Emrys, hidden somewhere in this room, ready to show up and announce to Merlin that he had, in fact, always been the man from the prophecies? Another sorcerer, stronger than both Morgana and him, with a purer heart than Merlin’s and even purer intentions, ready to take whole control of the situation. Somebody to – to take all of Merlin’s guilt as well.

Because he couldn’t continue like that.

And Morgana’s magic, clutching at his throat, heart, soul, and awakening the guilt sleeping inside of him, was proof enough of that. Her magic likes my guilt.

And oh, was he guilty.

His crimes might not be as plain written as Morgana’s, but they were no less real, and those in this room knew so little of it. Only Merlin knew. Only he knew the truth behind the figure of Emrys – only he knew that behind the great shadow of the warlock from the prophecies stood a boy, one broken boy, alone and shivering in company of his guilt. Everyone seemed to have their own ideas of whom Emrys was – the sorcerer who’d killed Uther for Arthur, this man who would be both her destiny and her doom for Morgana, a great warlock mentioned in the prophecies for the Druids, and a name that people insisted on giving him and that he must protect at all cost for Merlin… After all, men did die and suffer around him, all simply to protect his secret. And he knew not what to make of it – because, as some told him to keep it a secret, others complained about his remaining in the shadows. How was he to know what was right?

And if even Arthur didn’t love him anymore, then how – how would anything ever be right again?

And, oh, gods, he was so lonely. So awfully lonely. Morgana’s words came back to him, each feeling like a stab, always deeper. Merlin had already been stabbed in the past, but never like this.

How do you do it?

Face him every day… act a fool… knowing that if he ever learned of who you truly were, he’d be the first to light the pyre?

But you’re not playing, are you? It must be so hard…

How do you stand it?

A warlock serving – loving – the son of the man who orchestrated the Great Purge.

My, it must hurt. To have sacrificed so much for someone… but this is how it goes, isn’t it? You play nice, perfect. They turn their backs on you.

What are you afraid of finding in their eyes? Repulsion? Hatred? Oh, no. It’s fear, isn’t it?

Did you think Arthur would be any different? But he was, he was supposed to be…

And how do you stand looking at yourself in the mirror? Want to know what I see? A boy… a boy… a boy… betraying your legacy… your very own being…

A sorcerer cannot be friends with Arthur Pendragon!

If I were you, Merlin, I’d cower in the face of my own hypocrisy. You’re no better than me.

And the words – the words made him angry, oh-so-very angry. Not because they were false – there was certainly a lot of truth to them.

Not because they were false, but because Morgana – she couldn’t even begin to imagine how Merlin felt. She spoke of hypocrisy and indecisiveness as though Merlin had never thought of it before. How did she think he spent his nights, exactly? Sleeping and dreaming of a nice Albion, a land of equality and fairness? Did she think he went to sleep and woke up with the taste of Albion and prosperity on his lips? With the taste of a better future where he and his kind would be free? No, that’s what he thought of when he looked at Arthur, and also sometimes before going to sleep, because he hoped it would help him dream of this shining future. It never worked. His dreams were much darker than that.

How did she think it went, exactly? Nice and smoothly? Not when Merlin had seen the things he’d seen. Felt the things he’d felt. Lost the people he’d lost. In my mind, there’s a graveyard, and each year, it gets bigger and bigger. And I never forget the names.

Things were not easy. There were not meant to be. And even Emrys doubted sometimes.

What did Arthur see now when he looked at him? He wondered. Morgana had already told him what she saw, but what did Arthur see, exactly? A monster? After all, that was what was to be expected from sorcerers, wasn’t it? To be evil. Maybe he should just tell them what he’d done. Speak aloud what his guilt whispered at him every night. Then leave them to decide whether or not to believe in him.

Because he – Merlin – could no longer believe in himself.

How could he, after all that he had done?

Morgana was continuing to call for Emrys, and Merlin was just now realising how very alone they were. They all expected Emrys to show up, but knew not that Emrys was Merlin. That he was their only hope. And if they did not want him, if they chose to refuse him, then they would have no Emrys. This was all he had to give to this world, after the world had given him so little in return. And if he wasn’t enough – then so be it. Because he had done enough.

Tears were running down his cheeks now, but he swiped them away with his sleeve. Now wasn’t the time for tears. Now was the time for truth. And that began with freeing himself from Morgana’s grip.

“Let go of me,” he snarled at Morgana, practically unable to recognise his own voice.

“What?” Her voice was low, as though she couldn’t believe Merlin had just said that.

“I said, let go of me. Before I take care of it myself.”

She tsked, sounding annoyed, making it sound like Merlin was just wasting her time now. “Merlin boy, you don’t understand how things are–“

The boy was all it took to stir that beast within him – that beast that was made of regret and wariness and hurt and guilt –, and the next second, Morgana’s dagger was no longer hers to wield as Merlin’s magic had redirected it, straight in the direction of Helios’s throat. The blade reached its aim, unsurprisingly, and the man collapsed. Then Merlin tilted his head in a falsely amused gesture, quirking an eyebrow at Morgana’s direction and acting as though he hadn’t just taken a life. After all, it wasn’t the first time such a thing had happened. So why did it upset him so? Stop being so upset! he forcefully told himself. Stop it! It doesn’t matter.

“You were right… People should definitely know better, shouldn’t they?” he said on a cool tone, echoing Morgana’s previous words.

Morgana remained silent, visibly shook, but Arthur did utter a soft “Merlin”.

And Merlin, swiftly turning towards him, shot him a glare. “Don’t. Don’t you dare say it like you’re surprised, because I’ve killed people before, plenty, and it didn’t seem to bother you until now. Why does it matter whether it happens with magic or a sword? The result’s the same. Death. And don’t you dare make it sound like a reproach either, because I’ve seen you do it as well. I know death. So if you’re just going to say my name and imply some bullshit about my innocence being lost, just keep quiet.”

Arthur’s gaze was still on him, undecipherable, and Merlin couldn’t bear to look at it any longer. He was sure there must be fear in it, and he could. Not. Bear. It.

“You fear me, don’t you? I know you do. See, Arthur, I am no knight, but I deliver death quicker than a sword would. One wave of my hand or tilt of my head, and death is delivered. I am a dangerous man. So truly, I get why you fear me. Because magic is evil, right? It has to be. Never mind about me being ready to lay my life down for yours – magic is evil and I am magic, so obviously, I must be evil. It’s logical. And I won’t deny it. Won’t deny the charges. So, what will the sentence be, then? Or are the charges not clear enough? Oh, alright. I’ll even confess to killing a dozen men – and that was just yesterday. Agravaine was among them. Your uncle. Couldn’t believe his eyes. And I – I, believe it or not, but I wanted to spare him. Tried to. Know what he did? Took out his sword, was ready to run me through. So I killed him. Didn’t hesitate. Why did he try to kill me? I don’t – I don’t get it. I warned him not to do this. Why would he – never mind about that. The point is, my magic is great – probably even greater than hers, so obviously, I have to be evil.” He sighed. “And I – I’ve given so much for this. So much of myself. So much of others. And I’m done. I’m sorry, Arthur, but I’m just done. I can’t serve – protect – love a man who hates me, fears me, me and my kind. I probably should, but I’m – I’m just not strong enough for this. I don’t have the strength. I’ve done what I can.”

“Listen to me, Merlin.” Arthur took a few steps forward, resting his hands on Merlin’s shoulders, and he flinched from the contact. Still refusing to meet Arthur’s eyes. “If you won’t look at me, then at least listen. There are lots of things that I don’t understand, but I do know one thing. You’ve been protecting me, haven’t you? One day, I told Father it seemed like I had a guardian angel, and do you want to know what he replied? That I was lucky to have one and was likely to need one once I became king. You’re my guardian angel, aren’t you, Merlin?”

Merlin stepped away, unable to hear the words.

“I’m no angel, Arthur!” he spat back. “Guardian, yes. But no angel. Angels don’t poison, and kill, and betray. Angels don’t have to make the hard choices. I’m no angel, and I’ve finally made peace with that. Arthur, open your eyes! I am the beast from all those stories your father told you about. The – the demon. The incarnation of all that you’ve always believed to be evil. How can you know that, and yet choose to call me angel?” He swallowed. “I’m no angel. And I’ve made peace with that.”

“Have you?” Arthur asked lowly. For some reason, he sounded sad, when he should instead be angry.

Merlin turned abruptly towards him. “Yes! Yes, I have! And if you knew what I’ve done, then you’d agree with me.”

“Then tell me. Tell me.” Arthur was trying to catch his gaze, but Merlin kept on avoiding his.

Stubbornly shaking his head, he said: “There’s no need.”

And struggled not to shed a tear. They don’t want your tears, he thought. They don’t care about your guilt, about your inner demons, about that great graveyard set inside your head. Kill for Arthur, but say not a word of it. Why does it bother you so anyway? People were never meant to find out. You were meant to remain some sort of unknown fighter. Things are better that way. Don’t let them see what’s inside your head. Nobody cares. Why should they?

He took a deep breath, then gulped.

“I’ve done enough.”

Morgana, gaze undecipherable, oddly similar to that of her brother, asked: “Who are you?”

Laughing dryly, he replied: “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I forget to tell? I’m Emrys. Your destiny, your doom, or whatever… That’s me. Hi.”

“How–“

“I don’t owe you any explanation, Morgana. Call me a monster all you like. I don’t care. Just don’t – don’t you lay a hand on him.” He vaguely tilted his head towards Arthur. “Because if you do, I swear, if you do, you’ll see that monster.” He sighed. “Now – now, go. Or die. I don’t care. Frankly, I do not.”

But as he began to walk away, heart heavy but proud to have managed to keep most of his emotions inside, Morgana’s voice called him back.

“So, what, Merlin? All this existential crisis, for what? You poisoned me once and just revealed to being a creature of magic in front of Arthur, that’s all! You’re not the injured party here, Merlin. Plenty of men have been through worse. You’re just escaping from your guilt there! So go on, leave this room! Flee. Do nothing. That’s what you’ve always been doing, anyway, isn’t it?”

Merlin turned abruptly. “Do nothing?” He shook his head. “You really have no idea, do you?” He sighed. “Just go, Morgana. Go before I change my mind.” You don’t want me changing my mind.

He felt weary, and hated the feeling, because he knew that with weariness would come bitterness.

Then, the most surprising thing happened. Arthur laughed. It was a brief laugh, sounding like triumph and disbelief. And his eyes were slightly shining – as though he’d just suddenly figured something out. Merlin didn’t give him the satisfaction of asking what it was he was laughing about.

“She’s right, you know.” Merlin turned at Arthur in disbelief. Was he so mad at Merlin that he was ready to side with Morgana? “You’re hardly the injured party here, Merlin. You did lie to me. And now you’re just walking away, with no explanation?”

“You don’t want to hear the explanations, Arthur!” Merlin cried. “I’m giving you a chance to hate me here. Why won’t you accept it? Me,” he pointed at his chest, “Sorcerer. Like her,” he then pointed at Morgana. “Why is it so hard for you to accept that?” His voice nearly broke there, but Arthur was undeterred.

“So why won’t you harm me, if you’re the monster you insist you are? That – that beast from the stories. That’s just ridiculous, Merlin. If you want me to believe that that’s what you are, you’ll have to give it a better shot than that. Because so far, all I’ve seen you do is conjure a small blue flower and take control of a dagger.”

“You’ve forgetting the part where the dagger came and dug itself into a man’s neck,” Merlin detachedly replied.

He needed to show Arthur that he didn’t care – because he didn’t. He. Didn’t.

“Right. And how exactly does that make you special? I’m sorry to make you pass as ordinary here, Merlin, but I’ve killed men before, too. I’ve picked my fair share of flowers as well. Just saying; stabbing a man in the neck hardly makes you any exceptional.” He shrugged. “What is it you do with your magic, then? Create blue flowers? Not very threatening, is it?”

“Why are you being so damn blind, Arthur? I’ve just told you, I’m no guardian angel! My reality is dark – it’s dark, and dirty and messy, and guess what? As am I! Trust me, you don’t want to see what it’s like,” he tapped at his heart, “in there. Believe me, you don’t.”

“Do not pretend to know my mind, Merlin. Here’s a hint: you don’t.”

“And do not pretend to know what lies within my heart! Because you do not,” Merlin shot back with acerbity. His eyes were glistening with unshed tears. “It’s not golden in there. Far from it.”

“Will you stop playing at being the victim here, Merlin?” Morgana asked, sighing. And Arthur did nothing to correct her. Instead, his eyes were fixed on Merlin, expectant.

“You’re the one doing that!” Merlin exclaimed. “You use your history with Uther as a reason to hate Arthur, as a means to justify your thirst for revenge, but you’ve never considered the fact that Arthur might be different from Uther.”

“We all admire your undying faith in Arthur, Merlin, or should I say Emrys, but not all of us can share it. For most of us, when we look at him, we see Uther. You’ve seen him! He despises those like us. He claims he wants the best for his people, but we’re his people, and do you see him doing anything about it? We will never be his people!”

And while earlier he had been able to keep quiet, now, he just couldn’t. To have Arthur’s honour as a king be so openly questioned… He simply couldn’t let Morgana say those things to him. Yes, Arthur had yet a lot to learn, but he was not his father, and his previous actions as a king had shown as much. Morgana did not deserve that throne. Arthur did. After one glance at Excalibur, shining at his king’s belt, Merlin took a deep breath, about to speak, and he would have seen the triumphant gleam in Arthur’s eyes had he been looking at him. But he was looking at Morgana.

“That’s because he’s been surrounded with the wrong people his whole life. As have you! You’re not the only one who’s suffered from Uther’s influence, Morgana, nor is Arthur the only one who’s been brainwashed by those around him. Morgause did a good job at filling your heart with hatred.” He glanced at his king, then back at Morgana. “And Arthur, he won’t see the good in magic until somebody shows him. Forgive me, but you’ve done little of that so far.”

“And you are to be that person, I presume?” she bitterly asked.

“From what’s just happened, I daresay that’s no longer an option,” Merlin softly replied.

“And yet you still stand beside him.”

“Of course I still stand beside him! There’s no one I’d rather stand with.”

Morgana chuckled darkly.

“Good for you, Merlin. Excellent for you. For my part, however, I cannot help but see some of Uther in him. But then, you supporting him should come as no true surprise; after all, your love for him must blind you from everything else. No?” Then her smile vanished from her face, leaving only pain and cold anger there. “But I – I have seen the sufferings inflicted by Uther to those like us. Nobody told me I was called Emrys and had this great prophecy with him. Not all sorcerers have the chance to be as important as you, Emrys. Not all of us are born as great warlocks, nor are all of us safe in the shadow of a prince. Most of us have suffered at the hands of men, and we see no hopeful future for our kind. You’re a dreamer, and I say it again: good for you. But I – I can’t. Maybe if it had been earlier… but now? There’s too much history. I’ve seen too much. I can’t."

Merlin’s eyes widened.

“Can’t?” he repeated lowly.

Emotion was surging inside his chest and, barely realising it, he had begun pacing back in the room. Clutching at his hair, he found that suddenly, it was all too much.

“Can’t?” he said a second time, his tone louder this time. “Because you think that I can? Do you reckon it’s easier for me, that I never doubt? That I’m this sort of all-powerful and all-knowing warlock who hears of a prophecy and instantly knows what to do with it? Some sort of fanatic, blind to the sufferings inflicted on those of magic, occulted by a prophecy – or – or, or love? Do you think a Druid, some day, just showed up and told me everything about what people expected of me? Everything about the golden age and how to get there? Or, even better, that I was born with all that knowledge clearly written in my heart? The answer is no! All I’ve had, for years, were the words of a dragon and of a few Druids. Words about a Once and Future King who would unite all of Albion, and an Emrys meant to help him get there. That, and a heavy secret to protect at all cost. And you – you say you can’t…” He shook his head, disgusted. “Do you think I never doubt? Of course I doubt! All the time! But not so often in Arthur as in myself!”

He took a few steps towards the window, glancing at the clouded sky outside, and sighed. Whatever image she had of Emrys, it was time to dismantle it… because Merlin couldn’t meet all those crazy expectations, nor could he bear her claiming that being Emrys instantly made his life better. What good were these great powers he’d been given if he could not use them openly? More often than not, he swayed under the weight of it. Great powers he may have, but it was also his task to contain them.

“Have you any idea how tiring it is to have this great prophecy, dragging you up and down, following your every step?” Merlin hissed, feeling several bits of memories flash into his mind. “Do you know how exhausting it is to keep being told of this Emrys, meant to make things better, but to be too busy fighting off Arthur’s magical enemies to make sure that happens? And you’re supposed to make him understand that magic isn’t evil, that magic doesn’t corrupt, but how can you do that when his people keep attacking him with magic, including his very own sister? Magic doesn’t corrupt, look at me, I want to say, to scream at him, but I can’t do that, can I? Because then he’ll see that I’ve been lying to him this whole time, and it’ll be even worse. He’ll never trust me again. And I’ll be – I’ll be proof that the people around him keep betraying him, and I couldn’t bear to do that. I’ll be another one of these people Arthur looks back at with pain and regret, another one of these Morganas and Agravaines. And yet I have to do something, don’t I? And the only proof that magic is good, is my protecting him against other magic-users, only I can hardly reveal myself to him, can I?”

Somehow, Merlin had begun screaming in the middle of his tirade.

So long, he had been forced to keep all of these interrogations confined inside his head, and only now that he said them aloud did he realise how numerous they had been… and heavy.

It now seemed impossible to stop. He’d said a little, and might as well say it all.

“He sees the attacks,” he whispered, eyes briefly flickering to Arthur, “but never the defence. Because that’s how it goes most of the time, isn’t it? Good deeds go forgotten, barely ever noticed, while bad deeds – they’re the ones everyone notices. The ones that people establish as a generality. You’re not a hero, Morgana. You’re not special. You’re common. You and I, we could have – we could have done better. Could have shown Arthur better. But you chose not to. You, Morgana, are disappointingly common.”

His voice probably betrayed the emotions he was feeling, which made sense. After all, he had saved Arthur’s life more times than he could count, each time to hear, at the end of the day, how terrible magic was. And so, at the end of the day, the taste in his mouth had each time been bittersweet. Sweet because Arthur’s life had been spared, and bitter because his would forever remain tinged with secrets.

Good magic was hardly ever noticed, and wasn’t Merlin one of the best placed ones to point that out?

“It is much easier to do bad than to do good, and much more difficult to prove that magic is good than to prove it’s bad!” he exclaimed, feeling his heartbeat uncontrollably quicken. “And you have your responsibility in all of this! You keep blaming Arthur for distrusting magic-users, but you keep proving him right, every single damn time, by using your magic against him! And look at me, Morgana. I have magic, too. I have a responsibility. After all, I’m supposed to be this Emrys, am I not? So how do you imagine I feel when I see those I would like to consider kin use it to harm the man I love? The people I cherish most in this world! You’re not the only one who’s conflicted, Morgana! And your actions – your actions impact the whole of Camelot, undermining its very future – undermining the very future of our kin.”

Finally, he could place words on some of his deepest insecurities.

“And as do mine,” he whispered.

And oh, did it terrify him…

“As do mine…”

He bit his lip, heart beating quickly inside his chest.

“If I crumble, Camelot crumbles,” he said, and he was astounded at how terribly true the words rang coming from his mouth. “Do you know how many times I’ve kept Camelot from falling? I’ve lost count! And I can’t fall! Don’t you understand? I can’t fall, because if I do, everything will collapse with me! And I can’t turn evil either, because then not only will I prove Arthur right about magic, but I’m the most powerful warlock on this Earth, so if I do turn evil – if I do let this power consume me… if I do this, the gods only know what I will do to this world. I have great powers, Morgana. I can – I can make men fly into the air with the mere tilt of my head! I can kill a man with the mere twist of my hand! I can choke a man with the mere force of my fist! Hell, as far as I know, maybe I could even make whole armies fall to the ground!”

The memories kept flashing into his mind, quicker and quicker, and there was nothing he could do to refrain him. Now, he was even beginning to imagine the new things his powers could do.

Taking a deep breath, he continued. “I do not know the limits of these powers, but I have already had a taste of the horrors they can inflict. Do you know how it feels to feel the weight of a whole kingdom, a whole destiny, on top of your shoulders?”

He briefly thought of Arthur, but did not look at him. He felt this was something he must do on his own. Something he owed himself. Something Emrys owed Merlin. This was his due.

“It’s an invisible bag for most, but I can feel it at every step of the way. People tend to forget that Emrys isn’t a god. Before being Emrys, I was a boy! And I’m small, Morgana!” He looked down at his hands, these human hands that contained so great a power. “I’m small, and this power is great! And you – you use the horrors you have seen as an excuse for the wrong you commit, but do you only realise how dangerous this place could become if everyone started doing the same?”

Merlin, pacing back to the middle of the room, only now noticed that his hands had begun trembling. He let them, just as he let his eyes fill with tears.

“Let’s take me, for example.” He let out a nervous laugh. Oh, that example would be rich. “Since the first moment I arrived to Camelot, I’ve lost many friends, a lover, a father, myself. I have been choked, stabbed, shot, burnt, poisoned, knocked out, imprisoned, taken captive, manipulated, enchanted, hunted, and sentenced to death. I have seen betrayals come and go and been forced to step aside and simply watch as they came, because, for all that power that I held, as a manservant in Camelot, I was utterly powerless. Most days, being Emrys was more of a curse than a blessing, since I was being tracked for that title and yet remained unable to bear it with the pride it was due. I have been blessed with the presence of Gaius, who was ready more than once to lay down his life for mine – to risk his reputation and freedom for the protection of my secret. My father – I’ve known my father for one day, give or take a few hours – and then I lost him. He gave me a wooden dragon. It’s the only thing I have left of him – that, and my powers as a Dragonlord. My whole life has been one big ironic play; great powers and yet great powerlessness. For all that I have done, there were many I could not save. My childhood friend – he died, letting everybody believe that he was the sorcerer, and clearing my name. And I – I was there. Powerless. My best friend, too, he stepped into the veil of the two worlds, and I was there. Powerless. There was one girl, she was like me, but also not like me, turned into a Bastet every night, she’d been cursed, and I promised I would save her – I promised. She got stabbed and I was there. Powerless. Died in my arms. I couldn’t prevent the deaths of my friends, when I’ve – when I’ve defeated griffins, Questing Beasts, Faes, Trolls, Goblins… but for Lancelot, for Will, for Freya, there was nothing I could do. Or nothing I would do.” He took a deep breath, feeling guilt and sorrow mix inside his mind. His voice stronger, he continued. “All my life, I have been called names, spat upon by men who thought they were better than me. I’ve also met men like me, men with magic, and had to convince them to spare Uther’s life, all the while knowing how they felt. Many sorcerers have tried to corrupt me in the past, to lure me with the promise of power, thinking me young and inexperienced. When I refused, some of them tried to take my powers for themselves instead. Countless men have tried to kill me before, Morgana; you’re hardly the only one. One day, I was even this close,” he raised his fingers, “to ending up on the pyre. And I saw the people, all around me, staring at me with hatred in their eyes, and contempt, and joy at the idea of – of seeing me burn. I’ve spent a whole night in a cell, and by the window, I could see the pyre get prepared for me. All night, I looked at it. I could already picture myself there… tied up there… powerless… burning… And when I stepped out of that cell in the morning, to have all those people stare at me blankly for some, hostilely for others – children, Arthur, mere children, in what kind of world do we teach our children to cheer when people get burnt? –, when I saw this, it was as though all of my nightmares had come true. You know the nightmares, Morgana, you’ve had them as well, you must have had them. The dreams, the dreams of the pyre, of being tied up there, with the faces of your loved ones being the last thing you’ll ever see, faces filled with disgust, and resentment, and betrayal, and to have the smoke leech at your skin, endlessly, and it hurts, and the smoke, and the dream ends when the fire at last reaches you, you always stay alive long enough for the fire to come, and then finally you wake up to–“

“… to the scent of burnt flesh,” Morgana completed, almost croaking.

Merlin was short of breath. Eyes locked with Morgana’s, reflecting her pain, he nodded. He could feel the eyes of Arthur on the both of them, but didn’t dare look at them.

“To the scent of burnt flesh. I was almost burnt that day. And people just… cheered. They wanted me dead for what I am. They looked at me, and – and what did they see? What could they possibly see that made them want me dead? Their looks… It was terrifying. I set fire to the pyre that day, before running away, but I could just as well have set fire to… well, the people. Uther. Anyone. And it scares me to think that way. But when you’ve lost so much… it’s hard not to become bitter. I do not lack excuses to become bitter, after all. But I am not. Not entirely, at least. I am not, because thankfully, I’ve got reasons to keep faith as well. I believe in Arthur. In the world he will create. In a fair and just Albion. And I can’t let you set fire to that future, because if you do that, Morgana… if you do that, I might just as easily set fire to this world.”

He brushed his cheeks to find them covered with tears, and found that it did not even surprise him that much. His voice was hoarse, broken at times, but he was unable to stop. After having kept silent for so long – it was impossible to keep silent anymore.

And the more he talked, the more he found that he needed Morgana and Arthur to get it.

“I get that you’re terrified. It is terrifying. It’s not just fear, it’s terror, raw terror. Terror of Uther. Terror of the people around you. Terror of yourself. And nobody gets it, nobody gets it unless they go through it themselves. And you can’t tell anyone, can you? Or else, how can you be sure they won’t betray you, or burn with you when people find out? Because ultimately, people will find out. It’s only a matter of time in the end. Each time somebody gets burnt, it reminds you of how lucky you’ve been this far, but also of how fragile your life is. It reminds you that yes, it’s only a matter of time before they catch you too. Ultimately, you will burn – and yet you can’t bring yourself to accept that fact, how can you? That’s something even the human mind cannot conceive. And nobody gets it – nobody gets how it feels to be the monster, or those who do, they die.” He thought of Freya, sweet Freya, who’d made him feel like he was special, without being a freak. Freya, who had looked at his magic with wonder in her eyes. Oh, Freya… “My point is, I know what it’s like to be a warlock in a world that hates magic. I can’t presume to know exactly how you felt back then, but I’ve had a taste of it already. You were good, Morgana. So, so good. People looked at you, and they saw an angel. They called you so, but called your kind demons. There’s no better way to make a monster than to keep calling him one, though, is there? And without intending to, the world made a monster out of you. They call you a monster, so you become one. To live up to their standards. I get it.”

He stepped towards the window once more, this time glancing at his own reflection, and then turned back to Morgana.

“Call me a monster all you like, Morgana. I’ve done terrible things. Things I’m ashamed of. Things I shiver at the thought of. You asked me what I saw when I looked in the mirror. Asked me if I liked it. The truth is, Morgana, what I see there is the least of my concerns. I don’t look in the mirror anymore, and even if I did, it wouldn’t matter. I would hardly have time to think upon it. Hardly have time to mourn all those I’ve lost. Hardly have time to think of my guilt. There are times when it’s hard to handle all those… feelings. I won’t pretend to be an angel. I’ve blood on my hands. Guilt in my heart. Magic in my veins. There are days when the guilt is overwhelming. Days when I think: I can’t make it. I can’t. But then, I look at Arthur, and I remember what I’m doing it all for.” His eyes were now glistening with tears. “Though there are times when even that is not enough.” He swiped the corner of his eyes, refusing to shed another tear. “But it hardly matters. I’ve made choices. Bad ones, good ones. And now, I have to live with the guilt. That’s the way things are. The bargain of life. I’ve dealt with my guilt and my terror, Morgana. Maybe not well – but I’ve dealt with it. Now let me ask you: how have you dealt with yours?”

He shook his head.

“Never mind. It doesn’t matter, does it? Because on the morrow, things will just go back to normal, as they always do. You’ll go back to being Morgana, Arthur’s enemy, who despises Merlin the boy and fears Emrys the warlock. And I – I’ll go back to being Merlin the manservant, while at night, my guilt will get the best of me. We’ll go back to our games, go back to our ridiculous little roles, trying to harm each other as much as we can. Your hatred will still be there – as will my guilt. In the end, you were right, Morgana. We do have too much history. It is too late for the likes of us. In a way, I’m envious of you. At least you don’t have to keep up the appearances anymore.” With a closer look at her, he corrected himself. “When it comes to your hatred, that is. That spark of love that still animates you will be gone soon enough if you continue that way. We’ll each carry on walking our respective ways, then, I guess. Cause we’re all alone in the end. And Emrys – Emrys is no exception.” He sighed and looked down at the flower held in his hand. It had wilted, turning into faded blue petals. The sight of it made him feel sad. “I won’t try to save you, Morgana.”

Then, horrified at what he’d just said, at all the things that he had just revealed, he finally allowed himself one long look at Arthur. Whatever he had been expecting to find in his eyes was absent.

His king’s eyes were instead filled with tears, no small amount of pain, and they said: what happened to you?

And, quite frankly, Merlin knew not what to reply.