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In retrospect, Morgana wondered if she had let her guard down too low. Though there had been nothing altogether unusual about that night. The feast proceeded as most feasts were expected, with lots of food, and wine, and gossip, and dancing. Morgana didn’t dance, though she was solicited by several nobles and knights, and then some noblewomen after she had turned down their husband. Probably hoping to earn a place at the ear of Camelot’s King, for she was still a Pendragon and Arthur’s sister, no matter how wide and deep the trench of bad blood had become.
But it was not a night for blood and old grudges — at least not then, and not to Morgana. That had to be how she missed it. The it being whatever bastard put it in their head to poison her at Nemeth’s feast celebrating the past years of prosperity, and the freedom of magic. They were ambitious — she would respect that. To poison Nemeth’s Court Sorceress, under the eyes and noses of two great kingdoms, in a seemingly impenetrable fortress surrounded by both Nemeth and Camelot’s best knights and users of magic.
Arthur was prattling around as usual, making speeches, shaking hands, and kissing babies or whatever kings needed to do at feasts. He was doing anything other than sit at the head of the table and look pretty, which he could hardly accomplish even on a good night. It was a shame Arthur was so unfortunate looking, and no matter how much blood and heritage they shared, she had clearly earned all of the best looking bits. She really did not see what Gwen or Merlin saw in him. Not any idea at all.
Morgana scowled as Queen Guinevere twirled around in her lavender gown in the arms of her brother. They shot a fond look back at the head of the table, towards Camelot’s high ranking nobles, where Merlin sat in the Court Magician’s chair, clapping and smiling with just as much fondness, so potent and clear she could practically taste how sickening and sweet it was.
That was the other mystery: or what Gwen could possibly see in someone like Merlin. Really, she thought she taught Gwen a little more self-respect or at least a better taste in partners, after all those years they had known each other…
Over the rim of her goblet, she met Merlin’s gaze from the other side of the banquet table. Her nose scrunched up as he shot her a cheeky grin, which she replied by sticking her tongue out like they were just children. He rolled his eyes and took a drink of his own wine, then made a face. Merlin didn’t agree with most wines; even the finest wines broken out at feasts usually had them pinching their face up and looking all forlorn and disappointed.
Morgana glowered at Merlin. But he ignored her, so she cast out a bit of magic to earn his attention, akin to a flick on the back of the neck. Merlin poked her back, a dull, warm sense that settled above her collarbone. Stop looking around like that, Merlin thought quietly at her. You’re making people nervous.
What, are they afraid I’m going to get up and start murdering people? Morgana snapped back.
It would make this feast certainly more exciting, they replied dryly. Though I think Arthur and Gwen would disapprove. Also, I don’t believe Princess Mithian would care for us to make a mess of her banquet hall. There was a beat, and though Merlin didn’t add it, she heard the implied, amused sense of a word that translated to a sheepish sort of phrase, again.
Don’t get all high and mighty with your little snide reprimands, Morgana picked at her nails. You were the one who started it last time.
There was definitely a heavier push that time as Merlin’s amusement flickered in, broad and encompassing. Their words rolled in like the tide on a beach, rippling across her mind: And I also finished it. Morgana rolled her eyes that time.
You should try dancing, Merlin suggested. Or get up and talk to someone. This feast is for you, after all.
Morgana sipped her wine again. She puckered her lips. Perhaps the last round of wine came from the bottom of the barrel — it was sour and left a tang on her tongue that she didn’t like. No wonder Merlin was making faces. She explained, huffy, I don’t want to do that. I’m fine where I am. And this feast isn’t for me.
Is that so, Merlin replied, and her lips curled up in a snarl as his amusement lapped in, a mightier wave, heavy with salt. And obvious sarcasm. Well, you must be incredibly ‘fine’ and not at all bored to willingly start a conversation with me, Merlin added, but even as the words stung, they were just as quickly swallowed up by something that tasted sharp and clear. Like fresh water from the mountain. Cold and clear and hard; a tart bitter iron. There was a gentle nudge that followed, something that was rolled up with a feeling like biting into an unripe berry; regret, apology. The words hovered a beat behind but didn’t make contact, like Merlin was deliberately holding them back; just teasing, sorry, didn’t mean it that way.
She turned her head away and let the words deflect off of her. But she sent a pointed nudge towards him with something approaching the best approximation of light annoyance. Merlin pushed back, but Morgana flicked off the waterfall of regret pouring off him.
There was a steady force she sensed coming from the head table, several chairs down from Merlin. She didn’t need to turn her head to know Mithian’s gaze fell heavily on her shoulders.
This is why I don’t talk to you, Morgana told him, watching the far table where the court ladies were gossiping and avoiding looking too closely at Morgana. You always make things so sad and serious. And you don’t even do anything when I say something evil anymore. You’ve taken all the fun out of it.
Merlin caught the tiny thread of amusement and grasped hold of it, shaking it, like an eager puppy that had found a special treat. He pushed it back at her with a bell-like tinkling sound that chimed in the recess of her mind. You’re annoying, she added. Stop doing that. Merlin’s gentle nudging continued, a feather-light stroke up her wrist.
Camelot’s royal couple departed from the dance floor and worked their way up towards the table again, to catch their breaths. Gwen stole Merlin’s wine and sipped it while he made a face. Arthur leaned over and dropped his hand heavily on Merlin’s shoulder. The little connection between their minds wavered and then splintered, like a drop of water hitting the surface of a pond; breaking away gently and without pain. Morgana sent one last nudge in his direction, which Merlin batted away with ease.
Gwen leaned from the side over the table and dropped her head to Merlin’s shoulder. She whispered something in their ear, which made them grin, and then she tugged Camelot’s Court Magician to their feet and spun the two of them around. The queen’s hair had come loose around her ears, and the skin on her cheeks shone with a thin layer of sweat, and she seemed incapable of losing her bright smile. Arthur pushed Merlin by the shoulders, his mouth curved into a smirk. Fondness and clear affection shone through his eyes. She was too far away but she imagined it was something like Merlin, the queen has danced me until my feet are ready to fall off, it’s your turn.
Merlin replied with a snarky reply by the look on his face. From Arthur’s surprised guffaw it had to have been a good one, while Gwen tugged at their hands and continued pulling Merlin closer to the floor to dance.
“If you stare any harder at the floor it might catch fire.” Morgana didn’t startle, though she set down her wine with extra force.
Morgana replied, “Merlin is more than capable of putting out any fires that crop up tonight.” When she turned her head, Princess Mithian was smiling. It wasn’t her court smile. This was a small smile. The kind of smile she reserved for privacy. She had commandeered the empty chair beside Morgana, which once belonged to another lady of court. Not that Morgana had a seating partner for very long, as the noblewoman fled at the nearest opportunity.
“Oh, I have no doubt of that,” Mithian said. “But the question I have is — will they put it out or start another fire under your chair? I am not looking forward to repeating our…ah, Beltane incident.” Morgana’s cheeks flushed. There were still ashy scorch marks in the middle of the dance floor from the last time she and Merlin had decided to “settle” things between one another. The dancers swept over it, oblivious, entranced by the music and candlelight offered by the floating chandeliers.
There was probably a scorch mark somewhere under the table, where Morgana sat, though it was several chairs down from her current seat.
She picked up her goblet again and murmured over the rim of her cup, “You should return to your seat, your highness.” Then she added, “It’s improper.”
Mithian held out her hand. Her delicate wrist extended out, with her fingers tracing over the crowds and dancers before their table. “I am only speaking to my Court Sorceress. A respected member of my court.”
“And your court is staring,” Morgana said, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice.
“Perhaps they are staring at me,” Mithian said. “I am their princess, after all. They will always stare.”
Morgana glanced sideways and then back to the front. She pursed her lips and said nothing more, and then Mithian departed after an extended moment, as one of the lords requested her to dance. Morgana set down her wine, her fingers trembling as she cupped it and sipped again. The servant at her shoulder filled her cup once more; then again; and again after that. Morgana lost count after that, and waved off the next offer to top off her drink. She looked deep into the dark wine. So deep and rich. Like looking back from a bowl of blood.
She blinked and looked up. The candlelight had taken on a ghostly quality, blurring and streaking across her vision. Morgana shakily pushed herself to her feet, then dismissed the offer for a companion to walk her to her rooms.
Nemeth’s Princess watched as she left. Morgana felt her stare like a weighted target on her back as she stumbled from the hall and down the dark corridors, resting her weight on the wall until she finally reached the door to her chambers.
Camelot’s party departed that morning. Morgana missed their farewells as she awoke blinking blearily at her chamber ceiling and the canopy of her bed with a thousand warning bells ringing through her mind. Arthur wouldn’t take offense to her absence. Probably. She’d committed far more heinous acts over the years; surely this would hardly mar her image anymore than it already was. She had already earned forgiveness that she didn’t deserve for much worse trespasses.
A servant knocked on her door and crept in with breakfast. Morgana moaned and rolled over. She never kept track of her servants — usually she terrified them so much they quit after a fortnight. Gods, she was as bad as Arthur, before he had Merlin. Though it wasn’t like she deliberately went out of her way to make her servants miserable or set impossible tasks on their heads, they were just…wary, and Morgana’s mercurial mood swings typically sent them running back to the steward and begging to be reassigned.
She snapped at the poor girl who tried to open her shades. The light pierced through her head like a lance through her eyes and out the back of her skull. “Just go,” she croaked out, and stuffed her head into her pillow.
At some point she would be required in court. But until then, Morgana planned to sleep. She couldn’t recall if she slept at all that night, and she knew she spent many hours watching her candle burn down to the wick as her eyes burned and her stomach churned fitfully. She must have slept, though it was fitful and restless.
Perhaps she would have better luck now, napping through the morning until someone retrieved her in the afternoon…
Before she met Morgause, before she betrayed Camelot, and before Morgana knew what her dreams represented, she succumbed to wretched nightmares as her anxiety and fear whittled her down.
She hadn’t suffered such nightmares in years. Occasionally some visions slipped through her enchantments, as prophecies of such importance refused to be ignored. But if she did have nightmares — regular nightmares, not visions — she always dreamed of fire.
After a night of overindulgence with the weight of a castle beating down on her head, and after so many hours denying herself sleep, her mind must have returned to that wicked state.
Morgana thrashed helplessly at the ropes tying her down. The flames licked at her ankles as she tugged against them, but the more she fought them, the tighter they became. The ropes squeezed around her chest until she could hardly breathe, and then when she reached for her magic to cut through them, the ropes became chains.
The wood was stacked high; she was tied to the tall column in the center. She was some distance from the faceless crowd of knights and townspeople who gathered to witness her execution. She didn’t remember how she came to be on the pyre, but someone had lit the underlying brush. Smoke poured out from between the cracks.
The city swam in her vision. Stone towers gazed down on her with the full weight of the kingdom’s judgement. Though she knew that line of towers. She would recognize that citadel anywhere. It both lived in her dreams of the best and worst days of her life.
She cried out for Arthur. This was Camelot’s courtyard. Where was Arthur? Why was she on the pyre? Where was Gwen?
“Let me go!” Morgana cried.
Arthur promised her. He would never. He wouldn’t do this to her. The Purge was over, why would he…
Morgana looked up to the balcony and if not for the ropes holding her upright, she would have collapsed right there. King Uther’s grim countenance glared down at her.
“No!” Morgana shrieked, and tugged uselessly at the bonds around her wrists. “Let me go! Please!”
“Today Camelot rids itself of another foul sorcerer,” Uther addressed the crowd. “Lady Morgana, you have been accused of sorcery and sentenced to burn.”
“LET ME GO!” Morgana shrieked. There were so many other things she wished to say; you’re a murderer. I will never forgive you for perverting my father’s legacy — for abusing the friendship of the most honorable man I ever knew. I hate you. I hate you.
But instead she screamed wordlessly and wept as the flames and heat crawled up her ankles and reached her knees. Her screaming was interrupted by coughs, as the smoke filled her lungs, and she stared up at the sky. Her tears sizzled against her cheeks and dried as quickly as she formed them as the heat burned them up too.
Morgana awoke with a bolt, her breath caught in her throat in a choked sob. She struggled for a moment, then took in the familiar sight of her canopy. But she was tied down, and so stricken with the fear from her dream, she struggled against it too. “Let me go,” Morgana panted roughly, her voice rough and hoarse like she had been screaming for hours. “Let me go! Let me go! LET ME GO!”
There was a shatter of glass hitting stone; a startled voice cried out. Morgana cried out louder. But her cries stuttered and the ropes binding her weren’t released, no matter how much she fought. She screamed again. She wept. She begged.
“Please, Arthur,” she cried. “Please, don’t, please— I’m so — they’re going to burn me! Help me, help me —”
“Shh, my lady,” said a soft voice, and there was a comforting warm hand at her brow. “You are well. It was only a dream.”
“Princess?” Morgana croaked. Her struggles let up for a beat. “Mithian — I don’t — what’s happening?” She pushed against her bonds — invisible beneath the blankets and sheets, but Morgana knew they were there. Her vision blurred as she blinked up at Nemeth’s Princess. “Please, help me, you have to let me go —”
Mithian was perched on the side of her bed, one hand clasping Morgana’s wrist, and the other stroked the hair around her ears and traced a soothing pattern down her cheek to her ear. “Nobody is trapping you here,” she told Morgana, her voice measured and gentle. “You are alright.”
Morgana nodded. She was too frightened to even feel the curl of shame, embarrassment for the princess to see her in such an awful way. She set her jaw and tried to sit up, but that heavy weight — like ropes — kept her down. She cast a betrayed look up at Princess Mithian, who didn’t react at all, except to squeeze Morgana’s fingers between her own.
“I can’t move,” Morgana gasped out. Then her voice turned sharper. Accusing. “Why can’t I move?”
Mithian glanced behind her and had some sort of silent communication with the servant or whatever attending lady in waiting was at hand. She turned back and adjusted her grip lower to clasp her fingers; hand in hand. “You’ve been very ill,” Mithian told her. “You were poisoned. Something was slipped into something you ate or drank, but the effects didn’t appear until later. We found you in your rooms after you failed to appear for the council meeting.”
Morgana gaped. Her dream of the pyre. Maybe that had been the poison — her visions had been trying to warn her something was wrong. Or perhaps that was what her feverish mind concocted as she tossed and turned incoherently, deeply asleep in her own bed. She cleared her throat and asked, “The feast —?”
Mithian thumbed under her eyes and wiped away the tears that slipped free. Morgana’s throat burned at the gesture. Mithian was always so gentle with her, despite Morgana’s treatment towards her. She was always so cold and dismissive, but the Princess of Nemeth never turned her cheek away from the kittenish scratches Morgana delivered. They were for Mithian’s own good, Morgana reminded herself. It was better that she kept her distance. Mithian apparently disagreed because she wouldn’t be swayed. She was determined to worm her way closer and closer, until she had finally broken through Morgana’s reticent walls.
Mithian said, “That was over two days ago. We sent word to catch Camelot’s party and requested them to return after it became clear it was no ordinary poison. We needed Merlin’s help.”
“Poisoned,” Morgana repeated distantly. Then those words sunk in. “You didn’t.”
“I know you have a complicated relationship with Camelot’s Court Magician,” Mithian said blandly, once again not affected by Morgana’s glare. “But you are dying, Morgana.” Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. Her voice had gone thin and pained around the word dying. “We need them.”
“I don’t need Merlin,” Morgana protested. “Unless you doubt my abilities? Do you think me so weak, Princess Mithian?”
“At magic? Never.” Mithian bent and pressed her forehead to Morgana’s. Her skin was cool compared to the fevered flush of Morgana’s. Sweet relief as Morgana’s blood boiled. Mithian closed her eyes and whispered, “And your mind, your will — it is as strong as ever. But your body, my lady — how will you find the cure if you can’t even lift your head?”
Morgana scowled. Mithian leaned back and smiled, though her eyes were pinched and wet. A knock came from the door, and then the voice of a meek servant calling for the princess. Mithian slipped off the bed and strode for the door. “I have to greet our friends from Camelot,” she said. “I will return shortly. In the meantime, it would be best if you got some rest. You’ve been through quite an ordeal.”
Alone, Morgana glowered at the tapestry hanging above her bed. Her magic swirled unhappily — she couldn’t summon so much as a spark. She attempted to pick up her head, or to lift her hand so she could determine for herself just how extensive the effects of the poison were, but her limbs trembled from the strain and she was forced to give up the attempt, panting and sweating where she was. She hadn’t moved at all. How very irritating.
She took Mithian’s advice in the end — she dozed off again, though her heart raced just before she slipped under, and awoke her again. If she slept, would she dream of the pyre again? Would she find herself back in Camelot’s courtyard if she closed her eyes? So she rested, but she remained stubbornly awake.
There was a soft creak as her chamber doors opened. A flicker of irritation crawled down her spine as she was helpless — she couldn’t even lift her head enough to see who had entered. But it was only Princess Mithian, followed closely by a servant. Mithian sat herself in the chair the servant retrieved. “Camelot’s party is here,” she announced softly. “Merlin is working with our physician — they are working to determine the poison.” Then she accepted the bowl and linen from the servant. Morgana watched as she dipped it into the water, wringing it out, and then placed it over Morgana’s brow.
“I’m sure a princess has better things to do than to care for her kingdom’s heretic,” Morgana said quietly.
Mithian reached for Morgana’s hand. “My duty is to my people. All of my people. And I’m quite fond of my Court Sorceress — don’t speak ill of her, or I’ll have your head.” Her eyes twinkled with the teasing threat.
Mithian changed the wrap above her forehead several more times. When the water grew lukewarm, the servant tending to Mithian stuttered out a few words of magic and it was chilly once more. Morgana shivered as the cooled water dripped behind her hair and pooled under her neck. “Are you cold?” Mithian asked. “You’re still burning up.”
“Fine,” Morgana managed. “Just — tired.”
“Rest, then.”
“I can’t,” Morgana forced out, and closed her eyes so she wouldn’t have to see the pity on Mithian’s face. “My dreams — I can’t. I can’t.” Her throat worked and swallowed the plea that almost escaped. She pursed her lips so it wouldn’t be tempted to free itself.
Mithian squeezed her hand. “Just rest. I won’t leave you. I’ll be here.” Morgana wondered how many hours, how many candles had burned to the wicks since the princess left her chambers. There were deep grey shadows under her eyes, so she imagined it had been a while. As exhausted as she looked, Mithian didn’t request her servant to take her place, and she didn’t stop her careful attending over Morgana’s fever.
The candlemarks burned low. “You still haven’t said,” Morgana began, “why you —” Oh, why was it so hard to say? Why was it such a terrible word, that choked her so?
“Why I care?” Mithian surmised. “You’re not unlovable, Morgana Pendragon, though you seem to believe you are.” Morgana winced.
Mithian removed the compress and dipped it in the bowl. Squeezed the excess water. Returned it to Morgana’s forehead, all in silence. “There was a woman once,” Mithian mused, after a long moment had already passed, and Morgana assumed that it was over. “They said she could see the future to pass. When she came to Nemeth, I was only a child at the time, and magic was not so outlawed as it was in other places.”
Morgana’s lips parted of her own accord and said dumly, “A seer.”
Mithian nodded. “It was a great honor to gain her audience, and she picked me out — not my brother, who was to be king, as it was assumed he would be the only one to have a destiny of any interest.” Her dark eyes bored into her, full of something nameless and sure, and it terrified Morgana down to her core. Mithian asked, “Do you know what she told me?”
Morgana swallowed. “What?”
“She said one day I would one day love and be loved by a dragon,” Mithian continued. “That my destiny was intertwined in the wings and tail of that great and noble creature of magic. But like most prophecy it was assumed to be metaphor, or simply the name of a house, like Pendragon…so when I met Arthur, well. I always thought it meant him. But it wasn’t, in the end. So I thought it was just words, a little story she told me to make me feel interesting.”
Morgana’s traitorous heart fluttered. Mithian fixed her with a long, piercing look, and said at last, “Now I wonder, perhaps she was right.” Morgana’s throat worked, but she could say nothing, and Mithian took her silence as an answer and returned to wiping the water that dripped from the compress and holding her hand.
In the end Mithian was the one who succumbed to the call for sleep. Morgana stayed awake, blinking away the dryness of her eyes and the odd tingling in her lower limbs. She grimaced.
There was a knock at the door. The servant ducked their head and scurried over to answer it. Morgana’s heart picked up and her ears prickled as she waited. There was a quiet conversation at the door, but it was too far for her to understand. Then footsteps, drawing closer to her bed. Merlin stepped into view behind Mithian’s lady in waiting.
“Hello again, Morgana,” Merlin murmured. Morgana focused all of her energy into glaring.
“Merlin,” she spat. “Come to finish the job, have you?” Merlin blinked. “Poison?” she reminded him. “It’s your specialty, after all.” Her voice came out sharper than she intended and she glanced down at the sleeping princess, who was still slumbering on with her head pillowed in her arms. She winced. But Mithian didn’t stir.
Her attention returned to Merlin. She half-expected him to flinch, or to snap back at her, or maybe their expression would be wiped clear and that stone mask would slide into place.
Merlin did nothing. There was no mask, no flinching, and not a reaction at all besides an elongated blink.
“Sorry,” Merlin said, not at all apologetically. “It’s just a bit hard to take you seriously when you’re all — cuddled up with Princess Mithian. And covered in compresses, all swaddled up in blankets…” He considered her a beat and mused, “You look a bit like this drowned cat I saved once from the moat.”
Morgana snarled at him, though half-way she choked back something that almost turned into a surprised bark of laughter. “Are you going to cure me or not?” she demanded.
“In a moment,” Merlin assured her. “I’m just enjoying this. I never thought I’d see the day, Morgana, but I think you’ve finally met your match. With the gentle Princess of Nemeth, oh — Arthur is going to split his sides.”
“Bastard,” Morgana growled.
“Gwen will approve of course,” Merlin added helpfully. “She really likes Princess Mithian.” He stepped closer to her bed. “It might interest you to know we have found who poisoned your wine.”
Morgana’s hackles were still raised, but she couldn’t deny her curiosity was piqued. A little. “And?”
“Not to worry. I’ve sorted it,” Merlin said dismissively. “And Emrys has already delivered judgement.” As vague as that answer was, Morgana’s mind was already working to pick it apart and was surprised by what she found there. “Once we tracked down who had done it, it was easy to figure out which poison it was and find the cure. Now it’s your turn.” But he smiled as he said it. He peeled back the compress and laid his palm there. Their voice grew a notch deeper as they recited words of ancient magic. The burning in Morgana’s veins flared and she gasped, but then it was gone. The great golden eyes of Emrys peered down at her and she watched as the dark oily poison was pulled from her skin, swirling around like drops of water, and Merlin finished chanting. He withdrew a clear vial and the oil poured into it.
“…thanks,” Morgana muttered.
Merlin grinned, all teeth. “Don’t mention it. Really.” His mind nudged against hers; that makes us even. Consider our debts all fair and squared away.
When I get out of this bed I’m going to kill you, Morgana promised half-heartedly. Merlin flicked his hand at her and a cool slimy feeling crawled up her other hand, the one not clutched in Mithian’s, and she shuddered.
“Sleep well,” Merlin said cheerily. “Tell Mithian I said hello. Arthur is impatient to get back, you know, kept whining all the way here…”
“Not going to say goodbye?” Morgana asked. Mithian finally stirred beside her with a soft groan.
Merlin raised a brow. “If you’re feeling up to it.”
Morgana scowled. Mithian picked up her head and glanced around in confusion. “She’s fine,” Merlin promised her, as Mithian focused on him with a searching look. “Nemeth’s Court Sorceress is in perfect working order. Well. As much as ever, I’m afraid I can’t do much about her personality, that’s pretty much the same —”
“OUT!” Morgana shrieked, and her magic flared out, sending pillows flying after Merlin, who just cackled as he was chased from her chambers. Mithian crawled up onto her bed and Morgana lifted herself up onto her elbows.
“You’re alright,” Mithian breathed out.
“I’m perfect,” Morgana promised, and kissed her. Mithian let out a surprised chirp but she opened her mouth and her hands went to Morgana’s head, smiling against Morgana’s lips.
“When they ask you why you love
the rain, the ocean, the river,
tell them
it is because
unlike the people
who should have
loved you better,
the water was never afraid
to touch you;
even when you were
at your most damaged
and broken.”
- Nikita Gill